Agent of Change (21 page)

Val Con grinned. "I guess I'm wasting my time."

"Yours to waste, boy. It just does seem—uhp! Here we go."

They moved down the slender alley, out into the main thoroughfare, and down to the port—not so much marching as walking in rhythm, as a unit.

Short of the port gate, they stopped, and the sounds of an altercation came to them faintly. The sounds of weapons being armed was rather louder and Val Con felt himself draw taut. Where was Miri?

Winston dropped a light hand to his arm. "Just relax. It's only Higdon throwin' one of his tantrums. Man's got the rottenest temper this side of Yxtrang. Just ain't happy 'less he's feelin' mean. I don't know how he keeps his unit, and that's a fact—you gotta think about more'n bonuses and pillage-right when you sign on,
I
think. 'Course, there're lots of people around, an' every one of 'em's got their own idea 'bout what's right—" He paused, and the sound of safety catches being clicked back into place reached their ears.

"Now we'll get on."

They made their way through the gate, across the field, up the ramp, into the shuttle, and down a hall, where they had to find something to grab onto—standing room only.

Val Con stopped by a strap set too high in the wall and braced his legs. Shortly, the ship clanged as the hatch closed, the lights dimmed, and he heard the subsonic whine as the engine gyroscoped into full power

"You okay, boy?" Winston asked.

"I'm fine."

The shuttle lifted.

Val Con moved with the rest of the troop through Docking Tunnel 6, Level E, and into the main corridor. He touched his companion's arm.

"I leave you here," he said. "Thank you for your care."

Winston grinned. "Son, I don't want Sergeant Redhead wastin'
me."
He slapped the Liaden gently on the shoulder. "Be good now." He went on with the rest as Val Con dropped out of line and slid into DownTunnel Sirius, which accessed Levels F through L.

The DownTunnel was a slow, easy float, designed for tourists, not spacers. He drifted to F Level, snagged a loop, and rolled lazily into the corridor beyond. Docking Bay 327 was to the left and around the curve of the Station's wall; he set off at a light bound, savoring the slight reduction in gravity.

She was not at the entrance to the dock. He frowned, checking his inner clock. Seven minutes had passed since they'd hit.

Fair enough—he had told her fifteen.

Back against the corridor's inner wall, positioned so that he could watch the hall in both directions, as well as the entrance to Number 327, he settled in to wait.

According to Winston, the mercenaries were to rendezvous at Dock 698, halfway around the station on Level E. From there, they would board private transport and be en route to Lytaxin within twenty minutes of hitting Prime Station.

He frowned again, groping after some faint sense of importance attached to the planet's name. Lytaxin?

Footsteps sounded beyond the curve of the wall and he stiffened, hand flicking to gun. With a grating effort of will, he relaxed back against the wall and a moment later exchanged a casual nod with a woman in the uniform and utility belt of an electrician. The sound of her steps faded to nothing in the other direction, and he strained his ears to catch the slight clues of Miri's approach.

She wasn't coming. He was certain of it, though no numbers appeared to support the certainty. She'd thrown back in with Suzuki and the Gyrfalks: The mercs were her safety; she wouldn't believe the Juntavas would hunt her there.

Then he was running, streaking down the corridor, looking for an UpTunnel to Level E—and finally the numbers began, flickering and flashing like lightning before his mind's eye.

A mistake, Miri! he cried soundlessly. And the harm done only too clear.

He sighted an UpTunnel, grabbed the loop, and rolled inside, giving an extra kick to send himself rising faster; he ignored the loop at E level, tucking and rolling, spacer-style, and running on the bounce.

Val Con ran, dock numbers flashing by and the equations flickering, flickering. At Dock 583 a load 'bot was jammed cross-corridor, while three humans yelled instructions at each other. He pulled more speed from somewhere, kicked, rose, slapped the top of the 'bot with both hands, flipped, and hit the corridor beyond, running. The shouts were meaningless sounds, far behind.

Sixteen minutes.

Access Tunnel 698 was empty, though he heard voices ahead. The mercs were still in the holding room, then.

He was three feet into the room before a cry went up; and two more before the first of them moved to block him. He sidestepped, twisting, then parried an arm that came from nowhere, slapped aside a knife—

Seventeen minutes and the numbers within danced maniacally before his mind's tired eye.

A gun appeared in a hand before him; he scooped it away, spinning, into the crowd of bodies. There were fewer bodies now—he could see his goal and forced himself to slow the pace at which he moved toward her.

A large obstacle dropped into his path; he dodged, only then recognizing the blockage as something called "Jason." His goal was half a yard ahead, watching him inscrutably. He called her name as heavy hands fell on him and his arms were twisted behind his back.

"Suzuki!" Eighteen minutes.

"I hear," she said in her soft voice. "What do you want?"

"I must speak to Miri. She is in great danger if she stays with the unit."

He was breathing deeply, Suzuki saw, but not painfully, as might a man who had been moving so quickly and doing so much. He stood within Jason's grip as if it were too small a thing to regard, as if he barely knew he was restrained. His eyes were a bright and lucid green.

She shrugged. "We are all of us here in great danger. It is the nature of our business."

"A different danger. A danger that threatens the entire troop. The Juntavas would make little, do you think, of killing several others with the person they wished to destroy? And even if they proved squeamish, how could you be sure that the next soldier you hire is not an assassin hired to kill Miri?" He leaned forward infinitesimally in Jase's hold. "You cannot protect her against the Juntavas, Suzuki. Not if you must ever sign on another soldier or share quarters with another unit."

"And
you
can protect her?"

"Perhaps."

An aide appeared at Suzuki's shoulder.

"Commander? I—there's been a delay. We leave within the hour, not immediately, as planned."

Suzuki nodded absently, eyes still on the man whom Jase held captive. Or did he? Was it not rather, she wondered, that he suffered Jason to hold him, that she might feel secure and so hear him speak?

"If she chooses not to hear you?" she asked him. "If she comes with the unit, which is her right and her privilege?"

"She dies within the Standard, even if she never sees action. I swear to you that it is true."

There was a long silence, during which blue eyes measured green. He was insane, Redhead had said. Certainly he was to be feared . . . .

"Allow me to speak to Miri," he said, and the measured voice sounded only sane. "I beg you, Suzuki."

And he was not a man who begged, whatever else he was.

Suzuki drew a breath. "Let him go, Jason."

There was a fractional pause before she was obeyed. The little man took as much notice of his freedom as he had of his captivity.

Suzuki raised her voice. "Redhead!"

"Here." And she was at her commander's shoulder, gray eyes blazing on his face.

"Can't you tell when you've been ditched, you scruffy midget? I gotta spell it out for—"

"Redhead."

Miri chopped off in mid-curse, eyes snapping to Suzuki's face. "What?"

"Hear him. It may be that he is truly insane, as you have said. This does not mean that he lacks information or that he holds less than your best interest next to his heart."

"Providing he has one." Her eyes were back on his. "Talk."

"Stay with the Gyrfalks and die within the Standard. True and certain. On my Clan."

Her brows rose, but she said nothing.

He flung his hands out, palms upward. "Miri, please. Take the ship—alone, if you fear me. But you cannot stay with the Gyrfalks and live."

"Odds?"

"None," he told her, flatly. "Point nine-nine-nine guarantee that you will be dead within the Standard. The Juntavas has this reputation." He drew a deep breath. "Take the ship, Miri."

"Odds if I do. Alone." Her eyes were hard on his.

"Point six against five Standards' survival."

"If we take the ship together?"

"Even odds over five Standards."

A brief silence.
"Your
chance of survival, if I take the ship alone. Figure it for five, if you gotta."

He opened his mouth—then closed it, brows pulling tightly together.

"There are no odds over five Standards. Point eight against my surviving nine months."

Her eyes widened slightly. "And if you go with me?"

"Over five Standards, sixty per cent against survival." He shook his head. "Miri, take the ship."

"If I leave you, you'll die!" she yelled. "Didn't you
hear
yourself?"

"I heard."

"Then
why?"

He moved his shoulders. "When a man is insane, does he require another reason?"

She sucked in a deep breath and released it, then stepped to Suzuki and hugged her, catching the kiss on her lips. As she strode past the tall man and the small one, her fist flashed out to strike the larger in his treelike arm.

"Take it easy, Jase."

Val Con stood, watching her go. At the door she turned around.

"Let's move it, Tough Guy. I ain't got all day!"

He followed her then, weaving his way through the silent mercs. At the door, he, too, turned.

"Jason!" His left hand flashed, throwing underhand.

Reflex extended Jase's arm; he snagged the spinning thing and swore.

"What is it?" Suzuki demanded, coming close.

He held it out. "My survival blade. Damn little sneak had it out o' my belt."

Suzuki lifted a shoulder. "Well, then, maybe she
does
have a chance."

"But she said he's crazy!"

"Isn't everyone?"

IT HAD PROVED impossible to check out the mercenaries. First of all, there were just too damn many of them. Second of all, none answered questions, no matter how delicately put, except maybe to snarl an obscenity or show a sudden gun or laserknife in a hand trained to use it.

The other avenues of questioning normally open to him were closed in this instance: Mercenaries took unkindly to the murder of any of their number, and it was hardly in Costello's best interest to allow a soldier he had questioned under "persuasion" to stay alive.

So, though he disliked it, he sent a terse report of his failure on an extremely tight beam to the surface of Lufkit. He added that Lytaxin was the destination of the troops, more to show that he had the best interests of the organization at heart than because he believed it possible that the boss did not already possess the information. Odds were fairly certain that he had already alerted his contacts in Lytaxin's sector. It was just that he had had his heart set on stopping them before they'd gotten out of Lufkit's jurisdiction. A matter of pride. Bosses had a lot of pride.

Ah, well, Costello thought, there's just so much one man can do.

His board chattered to itself for the space of time it took the message to reach its counterpart on-world, and Costello extended a pudgy hand to cut the power. He stopped short, eyes disbelieving on the bright purple knob that had just lit: Stand By For Instructions Incoming. What the
hell?

HE WHO WATCHES was in a dilemma. He had obeyed the commands of his T'carais and made ready the vessel for occupancy by humans, even to removing a container of beverage and another of foodstuffs from the nether hold and placing them where they could be easily seen, by the map table in the control room.

Certain things had been taken from their places and put into containers which were then moved to the storage facility attached to the docking area. The temperature of the water that flowed in the pools had been lowered to the normal blood temperature of humans, and the lighting had been adjusted so that their eyes might not take harm from journeying too long in dimness.

The temperature of the atmosphere within the vessel had been lowered—except, of course, in the Room of Growing Things—and the oxygen-nitrogen mix adjusted. All this had Watcher done, correctly and in great haste, as commanded by the T'carais, and now all was in readiness, waiting upon the arrival of the humans.

Wherein lay Watcher's dilemma.

Watcher loathed humans. They were soft. They were little. Their high voices squeaked across the ears like nails across a slateboard. They were forever rushing hither and yon, stopping neither for pleasantries nor protocol. It was no wonder, Watcher thought, that they died so soon after they were born. They were without cause or benefit to the universe, and Watcher regarded them—individually and as a species—with the fascinated horror of a man phobically afraid of spiders.

The T'carais had left further instructions, which Watcher was unable to fulfill until the advent of these humans. The instructions included demonstrating the drive and the ship's controls, as well as aiding in the setting of whatever course the humans deemed appropriate. He was also to instruct them in the proper way to activate the autopilot so that the ship would return in its time to Lufkit Prime Station and He Who Watches.

Well and good. It would not be easy to be in the close proximity to humans necessitated by the teaching of the controls, but he was confident that he could do it. Edger had further instructed—and there lay the horror at the core of the dilemma—that, should it be requested by these humans, He Who Watches was to accompany them wherever they wished to go and to serve them as he was sworn to serve the brother of his mother's sister, the T'carais.

The thought of a time to perhaps be computed in months in the company of humans—even one human—caused Watcher to experience distinct feelings of illness, to the extent that he actually considered not opening the hatch when the summons let him know that they had, indeed, come. But steadying him was the thought of the punishment that would be his when it became known that he had refused the order of the T'carais.