Шарон Ли - Agent of Change

The pause lengthened. Stifling an impulse to touch her shoulder, Val Con tried a soft "And?" When a second "And?" brought no response, he snapped his voice like fingers in her face.

"Miri!"

She started and looked at him, face wry. "It was a doublecross. A bamboozle. Baldwin called the house staff together, from the cook to the upstairs maid. Told us we were being invaded. That we'd have to fight.

"The whole staff fought—and most of 'em had never carried a gun before! We refused Baldwin's buddies entrance, and when they insisted, we insisted right back. Bad, seeing untrained people fight that way ... When it was sure we couldn't hold it, I went off loyally looking for my boss so I could perform my last duty—I was his bodyguard, wasn't I?" She shrugged and drank some 'toot.

Val Con looked at her.

"Don't you see? Gone. Bolted. Flew the coop. Left us to fight and die. I think five of us got away. Means fourteen didn't. Gardener didn't. Maids didn't. Cook—I don't know. He looked pretty bad, last time I saw him." She moved her shoulders again in a gesture that was not quite a shrug.

"Don't know who else they might've tracked down, but I was his bodyguard, all legal and certified and recorded. Took 'em about two hours to get on my trail."

She looked hard at nothing for a couple of minutes, then took another slug of her drink. "I came here 'cause there's a man who owes me money and a friend who's keeping some—things—for me. I better take everything. Not sure I'll get back in this Quarter again . . . ."

The man beside her was quiet. She relaxed deliberately, her thoughts touching people she'd known as she sipped the 'toot for something to do and wondered where she might spend the night, now that she had one to spend.

The bench creaked, and she looked up into decisive green eyes.

"You come with me," he said in the tone of someone who has weighed odds and reached a decision.

"I do what?"

He was fishing in his pouch. "You come with me. You will need new papers, a new name, a new face. These will be provided." He raised a hand to cut off protest.

"Liadens count coup, remember? The debt runs in two directions."

He scattered a handful of Terran bits on the table to pay for the meal, then rose and moved off, not waiting to see if she followed.

After a moment, she did.

* * *

THE CAB DEPOSITED them before a modestly lit whitestone building in the affluent side of town. The door to the lobby swung open on silent hinges, and Val Con moved across a wilderness of Percanian carpet, his reflection keeping pace in the mirrored walls.

Miri paused just inside the door, mistrusting the light. Cursing herself for more of a fool, she set off across the carpet and arrived at her companion's shoulder as he removed his finger from the keyslot and said "Connor Phillips" into the receptionist's mike.

The desk hummed as a slot slid open and a large, ornate key emerged. Val Con crooked his left index finger in the loop and half-smiled at her.

"Two floors up," he murmured, moving toward the bank of sliding doors.

Miri trailed by half a pace, letting him summon the lift, enter it before her, and exit the same way when it stopped.

This hall was somewhat dimmer than the lobby and he paused, listening, she thought, before moving on. His head swung to the left and to the right, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as he used the ridiculous key on the second door on the left.

The door sighed open and lights came up in the room beyond as they stepped through. Miri stopped just over the threshold, hand dropping to her gun.

The door sighed shut behind her.

Halfway into the room, the man turned to look at her, one eyebrow raised, empty palms up. "I won't hurt you." He dropped his hands. "I'm too tired."

She stayed where she was, surveying the room.

Before her, a large double window showed the city night; a pillowed couch sat to one side, opposite two soft chairs and a table. To her right was an omnichora, its keyboard covered against dust. Beyond that, surrounding a closed door, were floor-to-ceiling shelves lined with tape boxes, and a comm unit—an oasis of practicality.

To her left were more shelves, filled with tape boxes interrupted here and there with figurines and bric-a-brac. Beyond the unit bar and its two upholstered stools was another closed door, and past that, through an elliptical archway, she caught the shine of kitchen tile.

"Pretty fancy for a cargo master."

He shrugged. "It was a profitable ship."

"Um." She gestured vaguely behind her. "That the only way out?"

He tipped his head at the windows, moved to the right, pulled open the door, and waved her inside.

A bedroom—with a sleeping platform adequate for the demands of a small orgy—connected to a bathroom that included wet and dry cleaning options and a valet for care of clothes. There were no windows.

She stepped out and the man guided her across the central room to the second door and a suite that was a mirror twin to the right-hand bedroom.

In the kitchen there was a small, high window, and another door.

"Beyond is a service corridor, which empties into another, which ends in a staircase, which—"

"Gets me to the cellar?" she guessed.

He smiled, moving back into the big room. "Would you like something to drink?"

"Would I. And then a shower. And then about twelve hours' sleep. Or maybe sleep and then shower—kynak," she said to his lifted brows, naming the mercenary soldier's drink.

He frowned at the display. "The bar appears to be understocked," he apologized. "I can offer Terran Scotch?"

"Scotch?" she repeated, voice keying upward.

He nodded, and she sat gently on one of the stools.

"Scotch'll be fine," she told him. "Don't put ice in it. A religious experience shouldn't be diluted."

He punched the button, then handed her a heavy glass half full of amber liquid.

Eyes closed, she sipped—and was utterly still before exhaling a sigh of soul-satisfaction.

Val Con grinned and punched in his own selection.

"What's that?" Her eyes were open again.

He swirled the pale blue liquid in the delicately-stemmed goblet. "Altanian wine—misravot."

"Limited selection on this model, ain't it?"

"It's not so bad, for a rental unit."

"Well," she conceded, playing it straight, "but when you go to buy, remember it's things like these cut-rate bars they try to stick you with every time. Put 'deluxe' on it in gold letters and stock it with grain alcohol."

"I will remember," he promised solemnly, moving around the bar and heading for the window. He stopped before he got there, settling instead into a corner of the couch and nearly sighing as the cushions molded themselves to his body. He sipped wine and did sigh. His head hurt abominably.

Miri moved behind him. He let his head fall back on the cushion. Glass in hand, she bypassed the couch at a cautious distance, circled the chairs, and approached the window from the side. Standing back, she looked out at the street, now and then tossing Scotch down her throat with well-practiced smoothness.

Tired, he thought suddenly. No way to know how long she's been running. And I'm too tired for any more questions. He half-closed his eyes. The effort of trusting another person was not best made in the teeth of headaches and exhaustion.

She turned from the window, surprise flickering over her face as she saw him lounging half-asleep on the cushions, long lashes shielding green eyes, throat exposed.

She sees me vulnerable, he thought, and the phrase struck something within his aching skull. He moved his head and opened his eyes.

"I'm beat," she said quietly. "Where's to sleep?"

He waved a hand. "Choose."

After a moment, she nodded and went off to the right. As she reached the bedroom door, she turned back to look at him.