Шарон Ли - Agent of Change

"The Electron Substitution Drive utilized by the members of the Clutch takes advantage of the ability of an electron to appear in a new orbit before leaving its original orbit." Huh? "This means that Clutch ships move along in a series of physical 'burps' of about one light-day, always making sure that there is room for it where it is going before it leaves where it is."

Miri closed her eyes and scrubbed her hands vigorously over her face before reading that last bit one more time.

"This method of travel," the book continued, "is extremely efficient of energy as it utilizes the mass available around the ship to aid propulsion. It is this aspect of the drive that accounts for the Clutch's navigation through densely populated starfields, rather than attempting to avoid these, as do Terran and Liaden vessels. The Electron Substitution Drive is also much, much slower than the other two drives we've discussed, but time is rarely of the essence to Clutch people . . . ."

Working with the forward, she scanned the rest of the book quickly, looking for reports of side-effects of the Clutch's goofy drive. She found nothing. Apparently humans didn't ride in Clutch ships. Which made sense, in a way: Why take three weeks when another ship can make the trip in two days?

She shook her head and leaned back. That was another problem with being so short-lived, she guessed. One had to risk one's life for a chance to live more. She wondered what the psychedelics were like for Edger.

Pushing the reader to one side, she stretched and fished in her pouch for a ration stick, then stopped with her fingers on the seal-rip. There's supposed to be real food somewhere on this tub, she thought. Tough Guy—Val Con—probably he knows where.

She rolled to her feet and headed leisurely for the control room.

* * *

IT TOOK A LITTLE over half an hour to line up a special shuttle and guard. Watcher would be escorted on the shuttle from Prime to Econsey Port, and in the truck that would bear him from there to the hyatt where his kin awaited him. He should, Ing told Watcher, be with Edger within the next planet day.

Watcher bowed his head, as was proper when addressing an Elder-in-Charge, and spoke as politely as he was able, though the tongue called Trade barely lent itself to courtesy. "Thank you for your care of me. I regret the inconvenience."

"Well, I regret it, too," Ing said frankly. "But it's done now, and you'll have to take your punishment. Just take what's coming to you and then shape up, okay? Nothing like this needs to ever happen again."

Watcher murmured that there was no doubt much in what Elder Ing said. Watcher would devote thought to his words.

Ing left it at that and showed the kid to a holding area where he would be guarded by a nervous security woman until the transport personnel showed up to claim him.

* * *

TAKING THE LEFT hand hallway from the library, rather than the right, Miri bypassed the swimming pool and came instead to a garden. Plants hung in pots, climbed trellises, and crept along the ground, surrounding artistic little clearings and comfortably shaped benchstones. It was a pleasant place, except that the light was a little dull and the temperature rather more sultry than Miri, bred on cold Surebleak, could like. Still, she lingered for a time, inspecting some purple and yellow flowers creeping along the floor, and studying a cheery red cluster of fruit on a trellis-climbing vine. She wondered idly if these were grapes and what sort of wine they'd make.

Eventually she moved out of the garden, going down a short corridor that intersected the hallway of the sleeping rooms, which in turn led very quickly to the control room.

Val Con was not in the control room. No reason why he should be, she allowed, with the facilities of a ship this size at his command. Still, she was irked and, spying the pile of—things—on the table, worried.

She approached the table cautiously and stood with her hands behind her back, frowning as she sorted the items by eye.

Well, there was his gun. And that was surely the throwing blade he'd shown her in the alley outside her hideout—how long ago? But that was only the cord from his shirt, and the flat metal rectangle looked for all the worlds like a creditcard, and those were his boots . . . .

He entered the room silently at her back and she turned on the instant, eyebrows up.

"What've you been doing to your face?" she asked. "It's all red."

He smiled and came over to the table. "Edger's soap is sand. I'm pleased to have skin left of any color."

She surveyed him without comment: hair damp, face slightly abraded, shirt unlaced, sleeves rolled up revealing more abrasion on his arms, and she wondered about the force he'd used with the soapsand. He was beltless and barefoot. She flicked her eyes to his face and discovered no trace of last night's horror. He returned her gaze calmly, his eyes a clear and bottomless green.

Breaking that gaze, she waved her hand at the pile on the table. "Cleaning house?"

"These are weapons, Miri. I want you to hide them, please."

"How come I get all the fun jobs? And why? And even if I do, boots ain't weapons, friend. Neither is a belt, except under certain exceptional conditions I'm willing to risk. Man shouldn't walk around with his shirt unlaced—ain't genteel. And you oughta keep the creditcard—never know when you're gonna need cash."

He picked up the black cord that had laced his shirt, slid it through his fingers, and allowed his hands to go through the proper motions.

"Garrote."

The creditcard he used to shave a curl of rock from the wall behind him. He offered her the shaving.

"Guillotine."

He flipped the belt to reveal the inside surface and its three distinct layers.

"Explosives, electronic picklock, sawblade."

He laid the belt down and pointed.

"The right boot has an explosive charge built into the heel, as well as a climbing spike that extrudes from the toe. The left has the climbing spike and a manual picklock in the heel."

He sat, abruptly drained, and waved a hand to include the jumble of wires, pins, and metal doodads.

"Whatever the moment demands. Push a pin behind an ear; drive a piece of wire into an eye—death. Or—"

"I get the picture," she interrupted and then stood for a long, silent time, surveying the pile. Something caught her eye and she pulled it to her.

A black sheath of the finest suede, enclosing and caressing the blade within. The handle was made of something that gleamed like polished obsidian, yet was warm to her touch.

Gently, she curled her hand around it and pulled the blade free.

It glittered in the light, catching and dispersing rays—a live thing, she would swear it, made all of green crystal and black.

With reverence she slid the blade back into its nest—the fit was not proper for her hand, and she knew that the knife had been made for one grip alone. Silently, she held it out to him.

His hand jumped forward, clenched, then dropped.

"Edger gave you this." It was not a question. "Let's keep it simple, kid: You kill me with the knife Edger gave you, and I won't argue that I didn't need killing." She pushed it at him. "Take it!"

Hesitantly, he obeyed, running his fingers over the handle in a caress.

Miri turned sharply, flinging her hands out. "And all the rest of it, too! Put it on, put it back, throw it out— I don't care! It don't make sense to hide 'em, so I won't." And she suddenly sat, breathing a bit too hard and hanging on tight to her temper.

"Miri, listen to me. I can kill you—"

She snorted. "Old news, spacer."

He shook his head. "I-can-kill- you. At any time. I—believe you may be right and that I am—walking on the knife's edge." He paused to even his breathing. He had to make her understand! "You might take your gun out to clean it, and I would react only to the gun—not the cleaning—and you would die. Last night, I very nearly did kill you—"