Шарон Ли - Agent of Change

He cracked his gun, sighed, and reassembled it. He had to move soon, even if nothing— Across the room, there was an empty click: The man stationed near the door was temporarily out of ammunition.

Val Con moved.

He put his last two pellets into the man who had aspired to marksmanship, and lodged his throwing knife in the throat of his companion, who was so foolish as to rise above his cover to take aim. Reversing his gun, he used it as a club, smashing toward the shooting hand of the one survivor.

The man saw it coming and dodged—but lost his gun as it slid out of wet fingers. Val Con flipped the spent gun to his right hand and brought Edger's blade to his left; glittering and sharp and deadly, it flashed in toward the other's belly.

The man jumped back, rolling, and came up with a length of metal pipe in his hand.

Val Con slid to the left, but the Juntava was quick and swept out with the pipe, keeping him from the door.

Val Con dove forward, parrying with the gun—but the pipe shifted, snaking sideways and twisting, and the gun spun out of nerveless fingers as he danced clear, his face stinging where jagged metal had sliced it.

The Juntava sensed the advantage of his longer reach and swung the pipe again. Reaction threw Val Con's left hand up to ward off the blow, crystal blade in his grip.

And his opponent leapt back, swearing, his advantage negated: The knife had shorn away nearly a third of his weapon.

* * *

SHE COULD SIT down here and pick them off all day long and far into the night.

As a tactician, Borg Tanser admired her for it. As force leader, he hated her for the three men dead at the mouth of her snug little hallway. There were other alternatives, of course. For example, they could just leave and evacuate the air from the wreck.

He considered the various angles to that and decided against. The bounty was higher—a lot higher—if she was delivered alive. If only he could come up with some way of luring her out of that damn cul-de-sac!

Suddenly Tanser froze, head snapping back toward the holding bays. The gunfire had stopped. He crept several feet down-corridor to be sure.

Silence. And no hail from the men he'd left to take out the boyfriend.

Dropping back to the mouth of the corridor, he spoke into the ear of his Second and moved off with rapid caution, gun at the ready.

* * *

THE MAN SCREAMED as the blade sheared through the muscle and tendons of his upper arm, but he managed an awkward spin that sent him out of range and bought him time to take his weapon into his other hand.

Val Con flipped his blade, catching it by the point. It was not a throwing knife, but when one had no choice...

The explosion and the pain were simultaneous—he was spun half-around with the force of the blast. He loosed the blade at the man who stood, gun in hand, in the doorway, before blackness claimed him. He never felt the second blow as the pipe cracked across his skull.

* * *

MOREJANT STOOD OVER the fallen boyfriend, pipe still at the ready, his arm bleeding badly. Tanser threw him a clamp from the kit on his belt.

"Where's Harris and Zell?"

"Dead." Morejant rasped, seeming loath to relinquish his guard over the figure on the floor. "Would've had me in another minute—sure glad you come along." He bent over the body, peering, then straightened and looked at Tanser.

"Boss, I think he's still breathing. You wanna finish 'im off?"

Tanser's attention was on the knife buried to the hilt in the steel wall two inches from his head. He levered it free and whistled softly: the crystal was unmarred, the edge unbroken. He thrust it in his belt.

"Boss?" Morejant repeated

"Naw." Tanser holstered his gun and came forward. Leaning over, he got a grip on the back of the boyfriend's collar and heaved him up to hang like a drowned kitten, blood dripping off the front of his shirt and pooling on the floor.

"Wrap yourself up," Tanser snapped at the staring Morejant, "and get a gun. We're gonna talk to the Sergeant."

* * *

THEY'D BEEN HANGING back for the last fifteen minutes—still there, but out of range. Every so often one of them would lob a shot inside, just to see if she was awake, she guessed. She didn't bother returning the favor.

The lull in activity had given Miri the opportunity to reload her gun, check remaining ammo, and think deeply on the inadvisability of disobeying a superior officer, not to mention straying one step from her partner's side when it looked like they were in for a hot time.

None of these thoughts were particularly comforting, nor were they useful. She banished them and shifted position; her attention was abruptly claimed by a movement at the mouth of the corridor.

Miri raised her gun, waiting for the man to get into range. But all he did was heave the bundle he carried in his arms forward, so that it struck the floor and rolled, well inside her range.

She sat frozen, gun still steady on the figure at the mouth, eyes on the man who lay too still, legs and arms every which way, graceless.

No, she thought. Oh, no, Val Con, you can't be...

"Sergeant?" boomed the sitting duck at the top of the hall.

She did not raise her eyes. "What the hell do you want?" she asked, her voice flat with hatred.

"I just wanted to tell you, Sergeant, that he ain't dead yet. We'll fix that, though, if I don't see your gun and your belt tossed up here within thirty-five seconds."

She licked her lips. "How do I know he ain't dead now? Take your word for it?"

"That's your gamble, Sergeant, not mine. You got another fifteen seconds."

Jamming the safety up, she snapped to her feet and hurled the gun with all her strength.

It hit a foot short and skidded to a stop against Tanser's left boot. A moment later, belt and pouch repeated the maneuver.

Tanser laughed. "Temper, temper. Now, you just walk on out here like a good girl—real slow. Don't want you to trip and get yourself shot 'cause somebody thought you were tryin' something fancy. We lost five men between you and the boyfriend, Sergeant. Proud of yourself?"

"Hey," Miri said, stepping carefully over Val Con's body. Blood was a darker stain on the dark shirt; there was no way to know if he was breathing. "Everybody's got an off day now and then."

Chapter Twenty-Three

TANSER HIMSELF FORMED part of the guard that took her across to the Juntavas ship. With his own hands he shoved her into the holding cell and set the lock.

Miri made a quick circuit of the cell: metal platform welded to the wall, sanitary facilities stark in one corner, a panel that looked like a menuboard. She approached this, asked it for water, and was surprised when it provided a pitcherful, chips of ice circling lazily within. She drank deeply.

Suddenly the door slid open, admitting a gaunt man with a wrap of healtape around his right forearm, dragging a limp, dark figure by its collar.

The man hauled his burden inside, apparently oblivious to the trail of red in its wake, and dumped it at Miri's feet.

"Sorry, Sarge, but we only got this one cell, so you gotta share. Wouldn't fret too much though," he confided, "'cause like as not the boyfriend'll bleed to death pretty soon and you'll have the place to yourself again."

If he had hoped for a show of emotion, he was disappointed. Frowning, his eyes fell on the still, dark bundle and he drew back, aiming a kick at undefended ribs.

Her foot intercepted his, bootheel clipping ankle neatly and painfully. Morejant nearly fell, then caught himself and spun back to find her between him and the man on the floor, death in her eyes.

Snarling, he turned away to leave.

"Hey, hero."

"What?" He turned back, hackles rising at the look on her face.

She waved at the boyfriend. "What about a medkit? Happens I ain't in favor of my partner bleeding to death."