Шарон Ли - Agent of Change

"Superimposed and overriding," Miri continued, eyes focused tightly on his face, "that set of programs named Val Con yos'Phelium."

He did not reply. They had both found the correct conclusion.

"Val Con?"

"Yes."

"I don't much like your bosses."

His smile flickered briefly. "Nor I."

"But it's bust now, right?" she insisted again.

Was it? he asked himself. He was immediately answered by the flare of an equation, elucidating the latest figures for his survival. Thirty-day CPS was at .06 now.

"No."

"What then? Something's got to be causing—oh." She closed her eyes and reopened them immediately. "The drive."

He drank the last of his wine and stared at the writhing bottle for a moment before setting it aside. "It seems likely. Apparently I've enough ability to balance everything—that which was originally mine and that which has been forced on me—when the ship is in drive and every electron in my head is firing twice.

"Even more. I was never able to see with wizard's eyes so well that I could have picked up the image of the keypad and the pattern of the lock."

She finished her own bottle and put it down. "What's going to happen?"

"The ship will continue to labor yet awhile and then it will rest." He looked up at her, smiling slightly. "Do you feel better?"

"Better. Beat up. Knocked down. Stomped on. And rode over. But definitely better. What now?"

He rolled to his feet, remembering at the last instant not to offer her his hand. "I suggest we gather food and whatever else we can use from what is stored, while I have extra eyes to see with."

* * *

THE JUNTAVAS HIT planet brief hours after Port clearance, despite the high rates of cumshaw required for such speed. Once on-world, money was spent with astonishing open-handedness for the purchase of clearance lists, ships parked, new arrivals, visas issued, and papers filed.

"They ain't here," Jefferson said some hours later, throwing the last fan of printout from him in disgust.

"Whaddya mean, they ain't here? Where else would they be? Maybe they hit and Jumped out again—you check that?"

Borg Tanser, second-in-command of the project, was a tight, smallish man, given to nagging; he was a good gunman and a quick thinker in a jam, and Jefferson was fortunate to have him along. He reminded himself of that now.

"We checked. No Clutch ships in or out of system for nearly six months. They ain't here. And they haven't been here." He shook his head. "Beats hell out of me."

"Yeah? Well, how's this, then? Let's split the team. Half checks the planet inside-out. Other half takes the ship and backtracks. Could be they're hanging a Jump or two back, waiting for the heat to cool."

Jefferson thought about it, reaching for the printouts and stacking them neatly together. "Yeah—we'll run it that way. The boss was real anxious to have both of 'em. Impolite, they were."

But Tanser was not a man known for his sense of humor. He snapped to his feet, nodding sharply. "Okay, then, I'll take the crew and get out of here. See ya." He was gone.

"See ya," Jefferson said absently. He sat for a moment, staring sightlessly at the stacked sheets, then pushed away from the table and went over to the bouncecomm to make his preliminary report to the boss.

* * *

MATTHEW LOOKED UP from his study of the latest data and regarded the two Clutch members expressionlessly.

"I am very sorry, sirs, but Mr. Hostro has given orders that he is not to be disturbed for any cause. I will be happy to give him a message—"

"I have no message to leave," Edger interrupted. "My business with Justin Hostro is of an urgent nature and will brook no further delay. Please allow him to know that I am here and must have speech with him now."

"I am very sorry, sir," Matthew repeated, "but I am not allowed to disturb Mr. Hostro for any cause."

"I understand," Edger said. "Therefore shall I interrupt him." He turned, moving around the comm station with a speed astonishing in someone so large, paused at the locked door long enough to extend a hand and push the panel—which screamed in protest—along its groove and into the wall, then stepped royally across the threshold into Hostro's office, Watcher at his back.

Justin Hostro was behind his rubbed steel desk, absorbed in a sheaf of papers. At the scream of the forced door, he looked up. At the advent of Edger, he stood.

"What is the meaning of this intrusion?" he demanded. "I left strict orders not to be disturbed. You will forgive me, I know, when I say that I have urgent business—"

"I, also, have urgent business," Edger said. "And it must be settled with you in this time and place." He moved over to the only Clutch-sized piece of furniture in the room, signing to Watcher with a flick of the hand to stay by the door.

Justin Hostro hesitated a heartbeat before sitting down also and folding his hands atop the desk with a creditable semblance of calm. "Very well, sir, since you are here and have disturbed me, let us settle your urgent business."

"I have come to speak with you," Edger announced, "concerning the proper bloodprice owed by our Clan for the damage we have done to Herbert Alan Costello."

"Costello?" Hostro frowned. "It is of no matter, sir; we shall take care of his expenses. I am sorry, however, if he has offended you."

"Ours was the error," Edger said, "and ours the payment. Our Clan is honorable. We pay what is owed."

"My clan is also honorable," Hostro snapped, striving to keep hold of his fraying temper, "and we take care of our own. Pray think no more of the matter, sir. The Juntavas shall care for Herbert Alan Costello."

"The Juntavas? This is the name of your Clan, Justin Hostro?"

"It is. A very powerful clan—one that spans planets and star systems. We count our members in the hundreds of thousands and we care for each of them, from the lowliest to the most high."

"Ah," Edger said. He inclined his head. "This gladdens me, Justin Hostro. It is true that I have not previously heard of your vast Clan—and I beg pardon for my ignorance. Happily, you have enlightened me and we may now deal together properly. Do you not feel that this is correct?"

"Of a certainty," Hostro agreed, forcing his hands to relax from the clench he had abruptly found them in.

"Know then, as an Elder of your Clan, that it has come to my attention that your kinsman, Herbert Alan Costello, has offered threats of physical harm—and perhaps termination—to three of my own kin." He waved a huge hand, indicating Watcher.

"That this my kinsman did grave harm to Herbert Alan Costello is not forgiven, and shall in the fullness of time be punished. However, the threat of danger was offered before he struck, which circumstance alters the punishment that must be meted. I ask," he concluded, "if you have knowledge of the nature of the disagreement existing between your kinsman and the two of my Clan who are not present."

Hostro took a deep breath and let the rein on his temper out just a bit. "If one of those with whom you claim kinship is the woman known as Miri Robertson, then I must tell you that Costello was acting in accordance with my instructions to him that she be detained, and also her companion, if he still traveled with her."

"Ah. And, if one Elder may ask it of another, in the interest of an equitable solution after fair judging: Why did you so instruct your kinsman?"

"The woman is declared outlaw by my Clan and has recently, along with her companion, been responsible for the deaths of some of my kinsmen—as well as causing discontent between my clan and the—Clan of policemen." Briefly, he considered the pellet gun in the top drawer of his desk; recalled the ruined door and sat still.

Edger was puzzled. "Was Miri Robertson then a member of your Clan? I would know the laws she has broken, that she adds 'outlaw' to her name while her life is made forfeit. Surely one or the other were sufficient punishment?"