Шарон Ли - Agent of Change

He shadow-smiled, sighed, and came back. "All right."

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he stroked the coverlet and glanced at the woman who already lay curled, eyes closed.

"Miri?"

Her eyes flicked open. "Yeah?"

"Thank you for your care. I was—trapped—in my thoughts . . . ."

"No problem. Used to have to do it three-four times a year. Part of the joys of being a sergeant. Now go to sleep, okay? And turn off the light, if you can figure out how it works."

He laughed softly. "Yes, Sergeant," he murmured. He waved a slim hand over the flat plate set high in the wall above the bed. The light dimmed to two glowing bulbs, one red and one blue, miming alien moons.

He lay atop the coverlet, staring at them, afraid to close his eyes . . . .

"Go to sleep, kid," Miri grumped at him.

Obediently, Val Con closed his eyes.

And slept.

* * *

HE WOKE, UNSURE of what had called him back, and lay listening, eyes closed. Silence—no. The sound of someone breathing in sleep, nearby. His right arm was numb and appeared to be pinned.

He opened his eyes.

There was Miri, face drowned in sleep, head resting on his right arm, one hand beside her cheek, fingers clutching his sleeve.

He felt a surprising twist of something sharp in the center of his chest—painful, yet not painful. He clamped his teeth to contain the gasp and took several deep, slow breaths. The sensation became less sharp, though it remained, warm and cold together.

He had never seen her face at rest before; he noted the slim brows that curved above the lightly lashed eyes, and the spangle of freckles across her nose, spilling here and there onto her cheeks. Her full mouth was smiling faintly, as if what she dreamed pleased her.

Beautiful Miri, he thought and was surprised at the thought, even as he extended a hand to stroke her cheek.

Six hours before, he had tried to kill her.

He snatched his hand back, fist clenched, and flung his mind away, seeking that which had awakened him.

The ship has ceased its labor.

He shifted slightly. "Miri."

She stirred, lashes flickering, and tried to settle her head more firmly on his arm.

"Miri," he repeated. "Wake up."

The gray eyes flicked open, regarding him softly for the space of a heartbeat before they sharpened. "Why?"

"The ship has stopped, and I require the use of my arm."

She frowned, released his shirt, and twisted to a sitting position with a cat's awkward grace. "Stopped? Are we there?"

"No," he said, trying to rub feeling back into his numb arm. "The ship rests after eight hours in drive, Watcher said. It is out of drive now, which means we have four hours in normal space to recalibrate and measure and make necessary adjustments." A needling sensation signaled the return of utility to his arm; he swung his feet over the edge of the bed and dropped lightly to the floor.

Miri surveyed the room. The psychedelic effects seemed to have stopped while they slept, and she thanked the gods for their favor. She slid across the bed and jumped down

"Well, what're we waiting for? Are we going to the control room or ain't we?"

* * *

SHE STARED AT the navigation tank for several minutes before she walked over to the board and sat astride one of the benches, facing her partner.

"Val Con?"

He flicked a glance at her, then returned to the board. "Yes."

"Umm—I ain't a pilot or a navigator, so maybe I'm missing something, but—ain't that the same star pattern we were in when this tub went into drive?"

He sighed and straightened a little on the bench to ease his back. "No, not exactly. We are actually four light-years from Prime." He bent forward to check a dial and moved his eyes to her face again, half-smiling. "Or, put another way: We've just reached Terran short-Jump."

"What!" She stared at him, suddenly suspicious. "You're laughing at me."

He held up his hands. "No—or at us. Clutch ships are slow—rather like Clutch people. I don't remember how it is exactly that their drive works—one of those things people make you study but there isn't any real use for it . . . ." He pushed three knobs in sequence, glancing up at the tank. "But it does work on an entirely different principle than Terran or Liaden ships—Electron Substitution Drive. For whatever good a name may do."

"Like saying you understand how a Terran ship works because of the Congruency Flaw," she agreed, frowning absently at the tank. "Boss, it's gonna take us a hundred years to get out of the sector."

"Not quite. Three or three-and-a-half weeks to Volmer, assuming Watcher has coded the destination properly."

"What I said." She tipped her head. "You don't remember anything about how this drive works—just that it's different?"

"I do sometimes forget things," he murmured.

"Just don't seem like you, somehow." She stood. "I'm going to the bookroom. Unless there's something useful I can do here?"

His attention on the board, he shook his head. She left, shrugging and trying to ignore the flare of irritation she felt.

Chapter Seventeen

IT HAD TAKEN some time to get things sorted out. Happily, the victim's fingers had been retrieved intact and there was an excellent chance that they would be successfully replaced. The incisions, the doctor told Mr. Ing over the comm, had been almost surgically precise.

That out of the way, it had taken rather longer than Ing had hoped, though no longer than he had expected, to coax information from the young Clutch person seated on the other side of his desk, seriously taxing the structural integrity of the sturdiest chair available on the Station. Finally, however, Ing had the short-form name of a kinsman.

The blur on his screen became the head and shoulders of another Clutch person. "Yes?" it inquired.

Ing inclined his head. "May I have the honor," he began in Trade, "to speak with he who is named in the short form Twelfth Shell Fifth Hatched Knife Clan of Middle River's Spring Spawn of Farmer Greentrees of The Spearmaker's Den, The Edger?"

The big eyes blinked. "You are, please?"

Extremely brief, for Clutch. Ing began to entertain hopes of putting it all neatly to bed in another three or four hours. "This person is called Xavier Ponstella Ing, Dayside Supervisor Prime Station Municipality of Lufkit."

The person on the screen inclined its head. "I shall inform the T'carais. Please do not sever the connection." The screen was abruptly empty of Clutch persons, displaying instead an abstract design in blue, green, and orange.

Ing glanced over the comm at his prisoner. "Perhaps," he tried, "it would be well for you to come here, where your kinsman will be able to see you and where you will be able to speak with each other more easily."

There was a pause long enough to let Ing wonder if his words had been understood. Then the youngling levered himself out of the chair and came around the table, shuffling, to stand behind Ing's shoulder.

On the screen the abstract was replaced with the countenance of yet another Clutch person. This one was old, Ing saw: his shell nearly covered his shoulders.

"I am he with whom you requested speech, Xavier Ponstella Ing. To save your time, it should be said immediately that, among humans, I have no objection to the name Edger," the big voice rumbled through the speakers, picking up some static. Ing adjusted the gain and bowed his head profoundly.

"This person is most often addressed as Ing," he said. "I'm afraid there has been an altercation on Prime between your kinsman, whom you left to watch your vessel, and a human." He paused, but Edger seemed willing to hear him out completely.

"I am not sure how it came about," he continued, "for the human was in shock from his injuries when aid arrived, and your kinsman appears to have less than a good command of the trading tongue. The short of it is that your kinsman seems to have bitten two fingers from the hand of a human person on this station. This is a criminal offense—it is called Assault and Battery—for which we have punishments. Since this incident involves your kinsman, however, I would not presume to punish him without your knowledge and consent." Ing hoped the old boy was a reasonable sort.