Agent of Change Read online

  Miri glanced at her partner; he was wearing his no-expression expression, and her stomach tightened a little as she turned back to Suzuki.

  "We need to get to Prime without publicizing it," she said. "Port's got some kind of damn check going. We can't pass it—you can ask why, but it's a long story." She paused, waiting for the question.

  Suzuki drank coffee. "You want us to sneak you through the checkpoint and onto Prime?"

  "Yeah."

  The Senior Commander of the Gyrfalks shrugged. "I see no reason why it cannot be done," she said, looking at her Junior.

  Jason grinned hugely and leaned precariously back in his chair to stretch. "Piece o'cake."

  "See to it, then." She glanced back at her friend. "Other favors?"

  "No—yeah. Can the Treasury afford to buy some jewelry? I need cash, not geegaws."

  Suzuki's eyes dropped to touch the snake-shaped ring and rose again, quizzically. Miri laughed.

  "Other jewelry. Everybody's entitled to one geegaw."

  "Well, let's go find Ghost and see what she says." Suzuki pushed away from the table and laid her hand on Jason's shoulder in passing. "Want to start getting everyone together? It's time."

  "Nag, nag," he muttered, coming to his feet. "I'll just take Tough Guy with me, shall I? Have him ride up with Yancey's bunch."

  Val Con rose slowly. "Miri."

  He hesitated, then shrugged irritably. "Dock 327," he told her. "Level F. Meet me there, fifteen minutes after we hit."

  She turned away, taking Suzuki's arm. "Sure," she said.

  * * *

  "How long," Daugherty demanded, "is this going to go on?"

  "Until they tell us to stop?" Carlack hazarded.

  "Which could be in the next twenty years. Or maybe not."

  Daugherty had been on duty since early morning, just ten minutes short of finishing her shift when the order had come through: All Personnel to Man Port Access Yards Until the Present Emergency Has Been Resolved. She had cause to be bitter, Carlack thought, but none at all to be dramatic.

  "The Chief of Police thinks they'll have 'em before the night's out. They're desperate criminals, I heard on the band. Every cop on-world's looking for 'em, so they've gotta try and get off. The Chief was real sure they'd try it as soon as they could."

  Daugherty said something uncomplimentary regarding the Chief of Police's personal habits. She added, after a moment's further consideration, a rider that hinted at a far more accurate knowledge of anatomy than of practical genetics.

  Carlack sighed and considered sending down for more coffee and some sweet rolls.

  "Oh, blessed Balthazer," Daugherty whispered, but it didn't sound like a prayer.

  Carlack looked up. "What?"

  "Mercenaries," she snapped, on her way to the door. "Hundreds and hundreds of mercenaries, coming in the wrong damn gate!"

  * * *

  SENIOR COMMANDER HIGDON was in a foul mood. This was not necessarily a bad thing; certainly, it was not unusual. A methodical man and a high stickler, he did not relish being delayed, nor did he allow the considerations of mere civilians to outweigh the obligations of the lowest soldier in his troop. He so informed the two models of civilianhood who had dared stop him as he entered the port gate at the head of his unit, demanding that all wait, line up, and show papers.

  Commander Higdon did not approve of papers.

  Daugherty gritted her teeth. "Police orders, Commander. No one to shuttle out without showing papers and being cleared. There are desperate criminals on the loose and the police think they'll try for the shuttle. Chances of catching them once they're on Prime go way down. If they manage to get on a spacer, they'll never be brought to justice."

  "And a good thing that would be, too!" the Commander said with obvious relish. "Society is killing off all its good stock—its 'criminals'! Hunting them down and killing them off. We'll be a society of cows, if the police and the lawmakers have their way. Ought to hunt them down and nail their hides to the shed! To hell with all of 'em." That settled to his satisfaction, he turned to his Junior to relay the march order.

  "Be that as it may," Daugherty pursued, "we've got our orders and we're going to do our job. How do we know you haven't got those crooks mixed in with your outfit, there?"

  "I wish I might!" Higdon returned. "Can always use a good fighter. As for your orders—to hell with them, too. I've orders of my own, and a deadline to meet, and I'm afraid I have the means to convince you that my necessities are the more pressing." He raised his hand.

  There was a large sound in the night—the sound, Daugherty realized suddenly, of many, many pellet guns being brought to ready.

  She opened her mouth, not at all sure of what she was going to say—and was saved by the appearance of a smallish round-faced woman in standard leathers who marched up to the maniac at the head of the line.

  "What in the name of all that's damned is the hold-up?" she demanded. "We've got a schedule to keep, Higdon."

  "This civilian and I were just discussing that, Suzuki," he said. "She seems to think we're required—that each and every one of us is required—to show papers before boarding shuttle for Prime."

  "What?" The woman turned to Daugherty, who wished briefly that she'd never been born. "We are expected. We have a private shuttle. We are short on time. We take our own chances. No more delays." She walked away.

  Higdon raised his eyebrows at the two before him. The man, he saw, was decidedly pale. The woman was made of sterner stuff, but she was obviously well aware of her personal inadequacy in the face of an armed and at-ready unit of seasoned mercs.

  She stepped aside, dragging the man with her. "Okay, Commander. But I'm required to inform you that we will report your infringement to the Chief of Police."

  Higdon laughed and brought his hand down. Safeties were snapped on and firearms returned to holsters. In good time, the Junior gave the order to march.

  Line upon line of them marched across the field to the private shuttle, entering the hatch in good formation. In a much shorter time than one might imagine, the last of the mercs had entered the hatch; the door was sealed and the shuttle lifted.

  Daugherty, who had been on the line with the nearest police unit, reported this fact. The cop on the other end looked bored.

  "It's not real likely the mercs are hiding 'em," she told Daugherty. "The Chief's got 'em figured as loners. I'll let him know they wouldn't stop for the check, but it probably ain't worth a fuss. They've had this lift scheduled for the last ten days. No surprises."

  * * *

  YANCEY, IT TURNED out, was the slender brunette Jason had been with earlier in the evening. She grinned at Val Con, spoke a word of admiration for his skill, and handed him over to a man with bluish-black skin and a shock of bright orange hair.

  "Tough Guy's your partner 'til we hit Prime, Winston. Don't let anybody break him."

  He jerked a thumb at his charge. "Him? Better he makes sure nobody breaks me!"

  Yancey laughed and went away, and Winston tapped Val Con on the arm. "C'mon, youngster. Gotta pick up my kit and get in line."

  They did so, waiting in line rather longer than Val Con liked, though he spent a good deal of time craning his neck around tall Terrans, looking for a short, slender figure.

  "Sonny," Winston told him finally, "you can leave off worryin' about Sergeant Redhead. First of all, she's the toughest somebody in this whole damn unit—that's counting Polesta. Second of all, Suzuki'd skin alive whoever let somethin' fatal happen to her; and then Jase'd stomp'em to a grease spot."

  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.

  Chapter Fifteen

  PRIME STATION.

  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.