Шарон Ли - Agent of Change

"Then strangle him," Morejant advised her. "Only one we gotta keep alive is you. Why haul more weight than we need?"

She shifted position and he jumped, scuttling through the door and slamming the lock in place.

* * *

THE TECH CLEARED the malfunction inside of five minutes and went away with her fee in cash and a fifteen percent tip for a job well done.

No sooner had she gone than the bouncecomm chattered and whirred and lit up the green light that was Tanser's crew acknowledging receipt of the message.

Jefferson sighed and turned away, intent on soothing his frazzled nerves with a few swallows of local brew—and spun back, nerves fraying even more.

The bounce-comm chattered and rattled merrily, purple eye lit: Stand By For Message Incoming . . . .

* * *

"Borg?"

"Yah?" Tanser looked up from his meal to find Tommy holding out a sheet of hardcopy.

"Message from Jeff," the pilot said. "Just come in. Thought it might be hot."

Tanser put down his fork and took the sheet. "Thanks."

A minute later, he swore loudly and pushed back from the table, leaving the dining hall at a determined half-run.

* * *

IT WAS DARK and cold and it hurt to breathe the air. It was bad air: he could feel the pain of it sliding in and out of his lungs like knives. He should stop; it was wrong to breathe such air. Yet another wrong added to a long list of them . . . .

Drifting there in the cold and dark, it seemed that he moved away from the necessity of air, for the pain receded somewhat. Drifting still more, he perceived himself above a tunnel of even greater darkness than that in which he traveled. This new tunnel seemed to be lined with dark fur, promising warmth, and the diamond tips of the fur glittered and beckoned like stars.

Yes, he thought. I should go there, where there is warmth and stars and good, sweet air to breathe . . . .

It seemed to him that he drifted nearer this place of warmth and stars, and he was content.

Suddenly a flare of living fire crossed the darkness and the moment was lost—he was drifting upward, toward lightening blackness and the pain that cut at him like crystalline knives . . . .

* * *

MIRI HAD DONE what she could with water and a makeshift bandage torn from her shirt. The pellet had entered and exited cleanly, barely nicking a lung. With a medkit, he would have mended without trouble in a couple of days. But with only water and cloth, he would die. There was no way to stop the slow, stubborn flow of blood.

Wearily, she rubbed a bloody hand across her cheek and used her damp scarf to dab at the gash across his face. Not a serious wound, though it would have scarred—she killed that thought instantly.

His brows twitched, and she froze as he passed a tongue across dry lips. "Who?"

"Miri."

"Not dead?" His lashes fluttered, as if he were struggling to lift their great weight.

"Not yet," she told him, somehow keeping her voice light and easy. Gently, she brushed the hair from his eyes. "You got a little beat up, though. Just lie there and rest, accazi? Don't try to talk. We'll talk later, after you rest."

He had won the battle with his lashes and was watching her face, his green eyes lucid. "Poor liar, Miri."

She sighed and shook her head. "Think I'd be better, wouldn't you? Guess I ain't practiced enough lately."

Something flickered across his face—a smile, perhaps; it was gone before she was certain. "Is there any water?"

She helped him drink from the second pitcher, the already-soaked bandage absorbing more than he swallowed, and eased him back. He captured her hand and wove their fingers clumsily together, then closed his eyes and lay still, so she thought he'd passed out.

"Where?"

She sighed. "Juntavas ship."

"Forgive me . . . ."

"Only if you forgive me," she snapped. "I didn't go back to the pod. Useless damn thing to do. Can't pilot it."

"I know." He paused, and she saw the ghost of the ghost of a smile. "Miscalculation . . . .."

She was wondering how to answer this when the lock jiggled. Rolling, she was on her feet between Val Con and the door when it slid open.

"How's the boyfriend, Sergeant?" Borg Tanser stepped cautiously into the room, medkit in one hand, pellet gun in the other.

"What's it to you?"

"Boss wants both of you alive," Tanser said. "New rules. Was just you. Seems Scout Commander Val Con yos'Phelium owns some stock now, too." He threw the box in a sharp underhand, and she caught it without a flinch.

"Well, whaddya waiting for, Sergeant?" He waved the gun. "Patch him up!"

* * *

THE PILOT BLINKED at the screen, swore, and upped mag. The big asteroid—the Clutch vessel—was behaving in a most peculiar manner, stuttering across the screen, phasing in, phasing out—in, out, in, out—going somewhere . . . .

Gone.

Tommy rubbed his eyes and hit the inship, demanding strong black coffee, on the bounce.

Then he looked back at the screen. Gone, all right.

Sighing, he cleared the board and began to run check calibrations. It seemed like a good idea.

* * *

JEFFERSON GAVE A couple of minutes' frowning thought to the newest message from the boss before keying in the relay to Tanser, adding a rider that he should hang where he was until things were settled. It didn't seem like a good time to be out of touch with each other.

* * *

SHIRTS WERE PROVIDED, as was a pad and blanket for the bed, and the menuboard supplied Miri with a hot meal. Val Con had passed out sometime during her ministrations with the medkit and hadn't come round yet. She carried her second mug of coffee over and sat on the edge of the bed, watching him breathe.

His chest rose and fell with the rhythm of sleep; his breathing was no longer labored or shallow. The pulse that beat at the base of his throat was a little rickety, but hardly dangerous—nothing a day's rest wouldn't cure.

It had taken her over an hour to stop the bleeding from the pellet wounds, with her sweating and swearing, and Tanser holding the gun and snarling at her not to botch the job.

She'd had a go at patching the gash on his face. The pipe had just missed his eye, slicing diagonally across the high line of the right cheek. She'd done her best; the scar would be even, anyway, and it would fade in time from angry red to pale gold.

His lashes fluttered and his eyes were open, his wide mouth curving in a soft smile. He moved his hand to touch her knee.

"What are you thinking?"

She blinked. "That I love you," she said and dropped her hand over his. "Stupid damn thing, but what're you gonna do?"

"Accept it?" he guessed. Then he said more softly, "I may now tell you the same—that I love you—and you will believe me?"

"Yeah," she said, staring, "I guess so." She laughed. "Saving me from my lust to keep me for my love? Melodrama, Star Captain!"

"Scout Commander is sufficient," he murmured, shifting slightly. "How does one obtain dinner here?"

She finished her coffee and grinned at him. "One tells the nurse—that's me—that one is hungry. Then one is served something healthy. Like soup."

He sighed, closing his eyes. "In spite of this I feel I should inform you that I am very hungry."

Miri stood up. "Okay, pal, but remember: You asked for it!"

Chapter Twenty-Four

JUSTIN HOSTRO LAID aside the three-page printout that was Borg Tanser's report and sat, his hands in a pyramid before him, his eyes on the gash in his desk.

Both were alive; though the man had taken some damage, it appeared that he would mend. So the letter of Edger's bargain was met. The problem now remained of how to exact punishment and yet make it appear that the hands of the Juntavas were clean. So might he yet come out of this with his life and his business intact.