Шарон Ли - Agent of Change

She stepped back, surveying the logistical problems. Several approaches seemed to guarantee certain death, assuming that this patient recovered with the quick completeness of the patients she'd treated in the past.

Probably he'd recover much, much faster.

In the end she decided for a kick to the shoulder, hoping the spin would have her out of range before he snapped out of it.

She tried calling his name and shaking him again, just in case the gods had had a change of heart, then took a deep breath and kicked out, spinning as she connected, moving to the left—

The impact hit her with the force of an enhanced bullwhip, smacking her and rocking her; her left arm was a dead thing, hanging useless in the socket. He was coming and she dodged; she knew he would grab her and as he threw her she began to roll, going with it, eating momentum with each revolution, trying to stay tucked with the arm that was dead—and slammed against the far wall, breath exploding out of her in a cry.

Far away, she heard a sound that might have been her name.

Tired, she thought carefully. He was tired. That was why she was still alive.

"Miri!"

She pried her eyes open and rolled awkwardly to sit against the wall, arm still numb. He was kneeling at her side, close enough to touch, and the muddy agony was gone from his face.

"I'm okay," she said, willing it to be so.

The horror eased from his face, but a tightness around the eyes remained. "Forgive me . . . ." He let his voice fade away, shaking his head.

She tried a grin, to which he responded not at all.

"Hey, everybody makes mistakes," she said. She eased herself against the wall, gritting her teeth as sensation began to return to her arm, and laid her good hand on his sleeve. "How 'bout getting me a drink of water, friend?"

He rose and moved away. She leaned back and closed her eyes, trying to gauge from the quality of the pain whether or not her arm was broken.

Some obscure sense nudged her and she opened her eyes to find him kneeling beside her again, wordlessly offering a mug.

The water was cold, which felt luxuriously good on a raw throat. She set the empty mug on the floor at her side, and the grin she offered him this time was nearly real. "Thanks."

He did not reply; the horror was a shadow lurking far back in his eyes. "Miri, how can you be my friend?"

"Well," she allowed, shifting her shoulders, "it is more of a challenge some days than others."

But he was having no part of humor. She sighed and moved her arm, flexing the fingers. Not broken, then.

"You should have taken the ship without me," he told her.

"I don't waste my friends," she snapped. "And you were standing there, risking bloody mayhem because you figured me at less than a Standard and you had less—and didn't care!" She shook her head. "Tell me why you did that—why you saved my life this past three or thirteen times. No reason for you to be my friend!

"And I lied to you," she added, after a moment. "Tried to run out and leave you to die."

"You did not know. And it is reasonable that my life expectancy be shorter than yours. You go into battle, fight an enemy pointed at you as you are pointed at him, collect your fee, and move on. Should you meet an old adversary in a bar a Standard or ten or twenty hence, what would ensue?"

"Huh? I'd probably buy him a drink, and then he'd buy me one, and we'd be cryin' into our third about the good old days."

"Exactly. Were I in the same position, however, my old acquaintance would immediately renew hostilities. With every assignment, I add one or two such enemies. Sooner or later, my luck will be down, while the luck of a person I wronged in the past will be up, and I will die. As such things go, I am on the wrong side of the wager—three years is a long time for a spy to live."

"You're telling me you're waiting to be gunned down?" She eyed him in disbelief.

He shook his head. "No. I was chosen to be who—what I am now because I am a survivor. I fight when there are no odds at all in my favor. I manage to stay alive, somehow, some way. It's a good trait in a Scout. Apparently it is essential in a spy." He tipped his head. "You still have not told me why you brought me with you, when you fear me, when you could have come alone."

"I told you: I don't waste my friends. Even a friend who's crazy, or who could kill me."

"No!" His reply was too sharp, too quick.

Miri raised her eyebrows. "No? Well, you're the oddsman." She laid her fingers lightly on his forehead. He flinched away and she shook her head. "I don't think they did you any favor, putting that thing in your head. No wonder you're crazy."

She shifted again, raising her arm above her head. She felt as good as new, except for an ache high in the shoulder and another that spoke of bruised ribs when she breathed deeply. "Help an old lady get up?"

He stood and bent, settled his hands about her waist, and lifted her easily to her feet.

Fighting dizzy nausea, she made a grab for his arms and dropped her head forward against his shoulder. He held her patiently, and she suddenly noted how good his hands felt on her, how soft his shirt was and how warm, with the warmth of the skin beneath.

She pushed away and he let her go, though he stayed at her side as she walked across the room to the table, which was getting bigger and smaller in a rhythm she could almost hear.

"I think we both better get some solid, old-fashioned sleep," she told him. "Sleeping rooms down that hall. I'll show you."

She turned, staggered, and would perhaps have fallen, except he was there, hand on her elbow. The instant she was steady he withdrew his support and she turned to look at him fully.

Horror still lurked in his eyes. She was suddenly struck with a fear that it would never leave them.

Reaching out, she tucked her arm through his, pretending not to feel the slight withdrawal. "Maybe we'll do better if we lean on each other, huh?"

He did not answer, though he let her hold onto him and thus force him along the hallway.

She glanced at his face. "Val Con yos'Phelium, Second Speaker for Clan Korval."

"Yes."

"Who's First Speaker?" she asked, firmly ignoring the kaleidoscopic hijinks the walls and floor were indulging in.

"My sister Nova."

"Yeah? What's Second Speaker do?"

He almost smiled. "What the First Speaker commands." There was a slight pause before he elaborated. "Second Speaker has no power, except if the First Speaker is unable to perform her duties. In that situation, the Second Speaker takes these upon himself until the First Speaker is again able or until another has been chosen."

"How do you choose a First Speaker?" Miri persisted. "By age? Nova's older than you?"

"Nova is younger, a bit. Shan is eldest. He had been First Speaker after—after Uncle Er Thom died. But he is a Trader, you see, so he trained Nova for the task and then refused Second, saying he would be off-world too often." His voice was almost back to normal. "Nova is best choice for First: she is on Liad most of the time and is a Rememberer, which is an aid when speaking for the Clan before the Clans."

"You ain't on Liad much, are you? How come you drew second slot?"

He actually smiled. "It gives Nova just cause to complain that I am so seldom at home."

She laughed and nodded at a shimmering doorway. "Here we go."

They entered and he allowed her to lead him to the bed, finally retrieving his arm as she sat, feet swinging high off the floor. He turned to go.

"Val Con."

One eyebrow tilted as he looked back; the horror was still there.

She waved at the bed. "You're beat too, remember? That's what started this whole thing. And this bed's big enough for all the Gyrfalks to sleep on and not be crowded." She grinned. "Your honor's safe with me."