Шарон Ли - Agent of Change

"It can stay here, you know. Might slow you down if you need to get a move on."

"That's so," Miri said. "But I'm going on the Grand Tour. No telling—"

"When you'll be back," Liz finished for her. "Okay, send your partner around. Description? Or do I just hand it over to the first slob says they're here for Redhead's box?"

She grinned. "Short, I guess. Skinny, maybe. Brown hair—needs to be cut. Green eyes. Male." She bit her lip and looked Liz full in the face. "Liaden."

But, to Miri's surprise, Liz only nodded. "I'll be watching for him. Take care of yourself, girl." Her image faded.

Miri turned away from the comm to see Val Con behind her, positioned so that he could see the screen, yet not be seen himself. He had exchanged his coverall for dark leathers and dark shirt. A worn belt was around his waist; equally well-used boots were on his feet.

He did not appear to be armed.

Miri opened her mouth, remembered the primitive little blade that had saved her life, and closed her mouth without comment.

"Your friend expects me."

"You heard it." She hesitated. "Make sure nobody follows you there, okay? Liz and my mother..." She moved her hands, shapelessly. "Liz is all the family I got."

His smile flickered into being. "I will be careful." He gestured, enclosing the apartment in a hand-sweep.

"This is a secure place. There is no need for you to leave. No need for you to let anyone in. I let myself out and let myself back in. You are free to search for Murph via the comm. It is scrambled and traceless."

She tipped her head to one side. "You're telling me I'm safe?"

He half-smiled, shoulders dipping in a gesture she was unsure of. "Forgive me," he murmured, "but, yes, I think so."

She grinned, shaking her head as she turned back to the comm.

"Just get me that box without getting killed, okay? I'll have Murph nailed by the time you get back."

"Okay."

She turned in time to see the door to the hallway closing behind him.

* * *

THE CALL TO the residence of Mr. Angus G. Murphy III was less than satisfying. Mr. Murphy's direct-comm had been temporarily disconnected, the visual told Miri, and messages might be left at another number. She dialed that number, found it to be an answering service, and broke the blank-screen connection instantly.

"Don't call me, I'll call you," she muttered, frowning. It would be best if he didn't know she was on-world.

Well, it would have to be the neighbors, then, though she disliked that tack. With her luck, the next-door neighbor would be a local Juntavas boss, with her picture on his desk. She could blank the screen, of course, but who would give info to a blank screen?

Blank screen was out, she decided. But her own face was also out.

She snapped forward in frowning study of the commboard. Fancy, she decided, after a few minutes. Sire Baldwin had had no better in his palatial home. Leaning back and letting her eyes rest on the understated luxury of the room around her, she was reminded that money and taste were very different matters. After all, look at the lovers Baldwin would bring home.

Suddenly grinning, she bounced to her feet and ran to her sleeping quarters.

Standing before the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the valet-room, she let down her hair and combed it straight. A few moments later the valet supplied a quantity of glittering jeweled pins and nets to confine the whirls, knots, and bunches the copper-colored mass had assumed. Likewise, she obtained cosmetics, gilded earbobs, rings of eight different sizes and metals, and a necklet of glazed silver flowers.

After some thought, she decided the coverall was just right for the occasion, but she unsealed the neck seam a little farther—and a little farther again, after consulting the mirror. She grinned at her reflection, paused to add just a dash more emphasis under each eye, and headed back to the comm.

* * *

SHE CHOSE A firm with its single office in the most prestigious of high-rent facilities. Setting her face into what she hoped was simpering unease, she punched up the code.

"Mylander and Zanthal Collections," the receptionist told her.

Miri stretched her mouth in a closed-lip smile. "Good afternoon," she said in her best Yark accent. "I'd like to talk to somebody about—'bout this guy, see? He owes me a bundle an' won't pay."

The receptionist blinked, then recovered. "Why, surely. I'm certain that our Mr. Farant would be delighted—"

"Naw," Miri said. "Naw. Look, honey, this is—delicate, y'know? You got a woman up there can talk to me?" She stretched her mouth into the unsmiling rictus again. "Girl stuff, honey. You know."

The receptionist swallowed. "Well, there is Ms. Mylander."

"Aw, geez," Miri protested. "Not the boss herself?"

"Not exactly," the receptionist admitted, shakily. "Ms. Susan Mylander is Ms. Lavinia Mylander's granddaughter."

"Oh! Well, hey, that's great! I'd be real pleased to have a little girl-talk with Susan, honey. You just tell her Amabel Gleason's on the screen, okay?"

"Certainly, Ms. Gleason," the receptionist said, falling back on the comforts of training. "If you'll hold just one moment—" The screen offered an abstract in soft pastels to soothe Miri's eyes while she waited. She moved a hand, pushed two keys, and settled back into an attitude of watchful expectation.

The screen cleared after a time sufficient for the receptionist to have located Ms. Mylander and imparted all the details of her caller's manner, with embellishments. Miri performed her smile for the dark young woman in sober business attire.

"Ms. Gleason?" the young woman asked. Her accent was the cultivated drawl of the elite.

Miri ducked her head. "Ms. Mylander, it really is nice of you to talk to me and everything. I just didn't know where to turn, y'know, and when that pretty young lady who answers your phone said you were in—" She fluttered her jeweled hands, rings flashing. "Some things you just gotta talk to another woman about."

"Indeed," the other woman said. "And just what did you wish to speak with me about, Ms. Gleason?"

"Well, Ms. Mylander. I—could I call you Susan? I mean, you're so friendly and everything—" Miri leaned forward, jumpsuit gaping.

The woman in the screen took a deep breath. "If it makes you feel better, Ms. Gleason, by all means call me Susan."

"Thanks. So, Susan, there's this guy, y'know," Miri waved her hands again, rolling her eyes. "There's always a guy, ain't there? Anyway, we date for awhile and he likes me and I like him Okay—I mean, he's got some money, an' a steady job on the shuttle as a grease-ape. Don't mind buying a girl a few presents, taking her out to nice places . . . ." Miri shrugged, taking her time about it. "Asks me to marry him—standard hetero contract; progeny clause says he'll take care of any kids we have while we're married, even if we don't re-up." She paused.

"I am familiar with the standard co-habitation/progeny contract, Ms. Gleason. Did you sign it?"

"Well, yeah, we did. I moved into his place. 'Bout three months later, shows I'm pregnant. I figure everything's okay, 'cause of the progeny clause—" She broke off, bowing her head sharply and raising a hand to wipe at her eyes. "Bastard walked out on me."

There was a short silence. Miri raised her head again, bravely displaying her smile.

"I don't quite understand, Ms. Gleason, what this has to do with Mylander and Zanthal," Susan Mylander said with professional puzzlement.

"I'm gettin' to that," Miri said, visibly getting a grip on herself. "It's that he left. Contract had three years to run. I have the baby and he says forget it, contract's no good, 'cause it ain't his kid!"

"Is it?" Ms. Mylander asked, staring in what seemed to be fascination.