Шарон Ли - Agent of Change

Her fist hit the table as she snapped to her feet "With your hands, you cashutas! You never went for one of those damn things, and it's my belief you won't!"

She sat as suddenly as she had stood, swallowing hard in a throat gone dry, eyes fixed on the shine and glitter that was a silver snake holding a blue gem fast in its jaws. "I don't believe you'll kill me," she said. "I won't believe it."

He waited for her to look up, then spoke with utmost gentleness. "Miri, how many people have I killed since first we came together?"

She rounded her eyes. "Weren't you counting?" A sharp shake of the head followed. "Those were strangers. In self-defense. War conditions. And last night was a special case. You were out of your head—battle shock. I've seen it before. Knew you'd come out of it like a tiger fightin' a cyclone. My mistake was thinking I could get out of range in time. So we screwed up and we're alive to argue about it. Some people have all the luck."

"Miri—"

"No!" she yelled. Then she continued more calmly. "No. I don't wanna hear any more about it. The only way to convince me you'll kill me is to do it, accazi? I think you're the craziest person I ever met—and that's a compliment considering what you've managed to get done while quietly going bats. And I think the thing responsible, the thing that's making you so bats, is that damn— estimator —sitting in your head talking to itself.

"People ain't ciphers, and situations with people in 'em are by definition random, subject to chance, mischance, and happy circumstance. You can't calculate it." She rubbed her hands over her face and took a deep breath. "You derail that thing and you'll be sane as a stone; chuck this damn job and get one playin' the chora somewhere ritzy . . . ." She let her words trail off and rubbed at her face again.

He waited, watching her.

"Aah, I talk too much." She pushed to her feet, waving a hand at the pile between them. "Here's the deal: You point me in the direction of food and I'll make us something to eat, okay? And while I'm doing that, will you for Great Panth's sake get rid of this stuff?"

Chapter Eighteen

VOLMER.

The price of obtaining that single word had been high, but orders had been to spare no expense. Upon being told what his money had bought, Justin Hostro nodded and issued more expensive orders yet.

A ship. Two dozen men of the first rank. Weapons. All to be assembled immediately and sent forthwith to Volmer.

Matthew bowed and saw that all was done as ordered.

* * *

IN THE END, he relaced his shirt, pulled on his boots and stood to wrap his belt around his waist. From the weapons pile he pulled back Clan knife, throwing knife, gun. Rediscovering in himself the strong distaste that he'd felt as an agent-in-training for the pins, doodads, and acid, he pushed those aside; he hesitated briefly before reclaiming the creditcard and wire.

Taking the pile of discarded junk to the far side of the room, he opened a compartment in the seemingly blank wall, piled everything inside, and shut the door. At the control board, he touched two knobs in sequence, nodding in satisfaction at the slight vibration that followed.

Miri glanced up from her labors with dinner as he returned to the table. "What'd you do?"

"Spaced it. I never liked them." He shrugged. "The first time I saw that little pillow filled with acid I nearly lost my last meal." He perched on the edge of the table, watching her.

She put the cover over the bowl that would eventually contain a mushroom soufflé, picked up two nearby mugs, and handed him one, waving at the bowl.

"Dinner takes about forty-five minutes to reconstitute. I hope you like mushroom soufflé a lot, 'cause that's all that's in that box. An' I hope the wine's okay, 'cause the other case is full of nothing but." She grinned. "Sorry 'bout the stemware—came with the kitchen."

"It looks fine to me." He sipped, one eyebrow lifting in appreciation.

"I was afraid it was gonna be real good," Miri said wistfully.

"It is good," he said, puzzled. "Taste it."

She sipped gingerly, then sighed. "Yeah. Trouble is, stuff like this tastes so fine you want to keep drinking it. Kind of ruins your mouth for kynak."

"Liz said you like fine things," he murmured.

"Liz said," Miri corrected sharply, "that I got no sense about beautiful things. That I think pretty can't hurt as bad as ugly. It's an old line." She glared at him.

He endured it, sipping.

After a moment, she shrugged. "Edger says you're gentle and good. So what?"

His face tightened with the unexpected bolt of pain. "Certain people have thought so . . . ."

"Yah." Her tone was disbelieving.

She did have some reason to doubt that, he thought. Who, indeed, might have thought such a thing?

"Edger," he began, suddenly needing to hear the names of those who loved him. "Shan, Nova, Anthora—"

"Relatives," she jibed.

"Daria—" Too late, he clamped his mouth on that name.

Miri raised her brows. "Daria? Who's that? Your first grade teacher?"

"We were lovers."

"And then she discovered your true nature."

He took a large swallow of wine and looked into the depths of the mug. "She died," he said clearly.

"Yeah? You kill her?"

He gasped, head snapping up, eyes sharp with outrage. His mouth twisted and he forced himself to take slow, deep breaths. "No," he told her. "I had not yet reached the place where I might slay what I love."

Slapping the mug to the table, he slid to his feet and walked out.

Miri stood for a long time, breathing—only breathing. When she was sure of herself again, she picked up the mug and went to find him.

* * *

HE WHO WATCHES was ushered into the presence of his T'carais by four human guards and roundly ignored while that exalted person offered them food and drink. They refused, politely enough, if briefly, saying that duty required them to return to port immediately they had relinquished Watcher to his kinsman's custody.

Thus they took their leave, and Edger at last turned his attention to the son of his sister's sister.

"Have you an accounting of your actions to lay before me?" he inquired in Trade.

"Kinsman," Watcher began in their own language.

"No." Edger waved a hand. "We shall speak in the tongue known as Trade, since you require practice in its use." He motioned permission to speak. "You may proceed with your accounting."

"Kinsman," repeated Watcher in the barbarous shortness of the language called Trade. "I am ashamed that I allowed myself to become so unnerved by the behavior of the persons to whom you found yourself indebted to the extent that they might claim the use of—of our ship—that I offered violence to a creature—a being—so much weaker than myself—"

"Cease."

Watcher obeyed and stood silent, striving to maintain personal dignity while the T'carais stared at him.

In the fullness of time, Edger spoke again. "It would perhaps be instructive for you to tell me further of the persons who came and claimed our vessel for their use. Do so."

"They came together, T'carais: one dark-furred, the other bright; both very small. The dark one interrupted me as I began to introduce myself, saying it was in too much haste for the exchange of names and that I must instruct it—"

"The proper syllable is 'he' in this instance, as the person you speak of is a male of the human species. The brightly-furred companion is a female of the same species and shall be referred to as 'she' or 'her' in accordance with rules of grammar applied to this tongue. Continue."

Watcher clenched himself in mortification—to be instructed so, as if he were an eggling!—and took up the thread of his tale.