The Agent Gambit (10 page)

"Orders can be difficult, can they not?" he said, sitting down again before the 'chora. "I came to this world because there was a man who was a great danger to many, many people of different sizes and shapes. A man who thought anyone whose heartbeat and blood failed to match his own was a geek-worthless-and who killed and tortured the hopeless.

"I was
ordered
here, but having seen the man act, I believe that
I
did what was proper. The reason I was ordered here, I think, is that a vendetta claim would have been sufficient to stop an investigation of my further motives, had something gone awry." He paused, then went on more slowly.

"After all, spy or Scout, I am a volunteer, am I not? I have already agreed to go first, to make the universe safe. A Scout or a spy-it is the same thing. I am an agent of change in either case. Expendable-too useful a tool not to use.

"Sometimes," he continued softly, "tools are programmed to protect themselves. This 'chora, for example, can be moved about within the hyatt with no difficulty. Yet, if we attempted to move it off the grounds, it would start howling, or perhaps it would simply not function all." He looked at her carefully. "The 'chora may not even know what it will do when the boundary is crossed-some circuits are beyond its access. Tools are like that, sometimes."

Miri nodded warily. "But
people-"
she began and chopped off her words as the door cycled to admit Handler and Sheather.

"It has been arranged," Handler told them, "that we shall all six dine in the so-called
Grotto
located belowstairs in this establishment. There is said to be music, which our elder brother will find pleasing, and there is also dancing, which we thought might be pleasing to our human friends. And," he said, voice dropping to what Miri thought must be intended as a whisper, "the form of the Grotto may be pleasing to all of us, since it is a likeness of a cavern system found elsewhere on this planet. We have bespoken the table for eight of the clock, and we hope that there will be sufficient time before the celebration for you to refresh yourselves, adorn yourselves, and be ready. We would not wish the event to begin with unseemly haste."

The humans exchanged a glance, and Val Con bowed.

"We thank you for your thoughtfulness. Six hours is more than adequate for our preparations. We shall be ready in the fullness of time."

"That is very well, then," Handler said. "If you will excuse us, we shall take our leave so that we may make analyses and also prepare for the evening. It does bode to be a time of some discussion."

The humans bowed their thanks and acknowledgements, Miri attempting to copy Val Con's fluid style and finding it much harder than it looked. The Clutch adjourned to their own quarters.

Miri sighed. "Well, I don't know how much adornment I'll be doing, though the refreshment part don't sound too bad. Maybe I can order a fancy new shirt out of the valet." She was talking to herself, not expecting an answer; Val Con's reply made her jump.

"You can't go like that, you know," he told her seriously. "Not into the most exclusive resort on the planet."

"Yeah, well, I can't go in any of the clothes the valet's peddling, either! Have you looked at the prices on those things? I could mount an invasion of Terra for the price of a pair of shoes. I'm here to pick up my money, remember? It's gotten so I gotta water my kynak so I can have a second drink. I sure can't go into debt to finance something I'll wear once in my life!"

Val Con tipped his head, brows bent together in puzzlement. "You would be very conspicuous in what you are wearing now," he said simply. "And Edger has said that the expense of the trip is his, since he counts a debt owed me, and because he had not thought to come to Econsey to research the local need for knives. Even if he wished not to extend his cognizance to you, I might pay-"

"No." She frowned stormily. "That ain't the way I do things. I can just stay in my room, beg off that it's a holy day or something."

"Now that would be an insult, after Handler went to the trouble and thought of arranging a place where we can all eat and enjoy." He paused, seemingly studying the air.

"It would be best not to wear a gun." As he spoke, he opened his pouch and brought out a slender polished stick, something like a Drumetian math-stick.

"Perhaps you could wear your hair to accommodate this." With a flick of the wrist, the stick separated, becoming the handle of a thin, deadly-looking blade, smoothly sharp along the curved edge, wickedly serrated along the other.

Another wrist-flick and the slender dirk was merely a polished stick: knife to ornament. He reversed it and held it out.

Miri hesitated. "I ain't a knife expert-just about know how to use a survival blade."

"If anyone gets close enough to grab you," he said, all reason, "pull it out, flip it open, stick it in, and run. It is not likely you will be pursued." He extended it further. "Simplicity itself, and a precaution only."

She looked from the knife to his face; when she finally accepted the thing, she took it gingerly, as if she much preferred not to.

"I," she announced, "am being bullied."

"Undoubtedly."

"Lazenia spandok,"
she said, rudely.

His eyebrows shot up. "You speak Liaden?"

"Well enough to swear and pidgin my way through a battle plan. And if ever anybody was a managing bastard, you are. In spades." She turned toward her room, experimentally flipping the hidden blade out and in.

Behind her, he murmured something in Liaden. She whirled, glad the blade was closed.

"That ain't funny, spacer!" The Trade words crackled with outrage. "I ain't a young lady and I don't need you to tell me to clean up my talk!"

"Forgive me." He bowed contrition and dared a question. "Where are you going?"

"To refresh and adorn myself. I've only got about five hours or so, after I decide what shoes to wear."

And she was gone, leaving him to wonder at the sudden bite of bereavement and at the impulse that had led him to address her in the intimate mode, reserved for kin. Or for lovers.

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE DOOR CLOSED
with a sigh that echoed her own, and she spun, flipping the stickknife onto the desk.

Nasty little toy, she thought, wrinkling her nose as her hand dropped to the grip of the gun on her leg. Just as deadly, surely, but somehow-cleaner? More straightforward? Less personal, maybe?

She shifted slightly, then caught sight of herself in the bed mirror and stuck her tongue out.

Miri Robertson, Girl Philosopher, she thought wryly.

Ilania frrogudon . . . .
The echo of Tough Guy's murmuring voice contradicted her and she froze, biting her lower lip.

Liaden was an old language, far, far older than the motley collection of dialects that passed for a Terran language, and divided into two forms: High and Low. High Liaden was used for dealing with most outsiders, such as coworkers, strangers, nodding acquaintances, and shopkeepers. Kin were addressed in Low Liaden-long-time friends, children . . . But
never
a person considered expendable.

Yet at least twice he'd begun the motions that would have killed her, automatically, efficiently. She might have brushed her death a dozen times with him already; it had taken her time to realize what the mask of inoffensive politeness he sometimes wore was meant to conceal.

His other face-the one with the quirking eyebrows and luminous grins-was the face of a man who loved to laugh and who called heart-music effortlessly from the complex keyboard of the 'chora. It was the face of a man who was good to know: a friend.

A partner.

She moved to the bed and lay back slowly, imposing relaxation on trained muscles.

"A Scout ain't a spy," she informed the ceiling solemnly. "And people ain't tools."

She closed her eyes. Scouts, she thought. Scouts are the nearest there is to heroes . . . . And he'd said
First-in
Scout. The best of the best: pilot, explorer, linguist, cultural analyst, xenologist-brilliant, adaptable, endlessly resourceful. The future of a world hung on his word alone: Would it be colonized? Opened to trade? Quarantined?

Miri opened her eyes. "Scouts are for holding things together," she clarified for the ceiling. "Spies are for taking things apart."

And that babble he'd given her about tools!

She rolled over, burying her head in the basket of her crossed arms, and relived the moments just passed, when she'd known he was coming across the 'chora at her.

Gods, he's fast! she marveled. Suzuki and Jase would give a year of battle bonuses to have that speed for the old unit, never minding the brain that directed it.

Never mind the brain, indeed. She wondered why he'd checked himself those times she'd seen her death in his eyes. She wondered why he'd trusted her with that deadly little blade, why he'd spoken to her . . . And she wondered, very briefly, if he truly were crazy.

It seemed likely.

The thing to do with crazy people is get lots of room between you and them, she said to herself.

She rolled to her knees in the center of the great bed, bracing her body for the leap to the floor. Time to flit, Robertson. You ain't smart enough to figure this one out.

"Leave!" she shouted a moment later, when she'd moved no further. Damn Murph and the money. Damn the Juntavas and their stupid vendetta. Damn especially a sentence spoken in a language that might have been her grandmother's but never had been hers.

Yes, and then? Damn the man who had twice-no,
four
times-saved her life?

You're a fool, Robertson, she told herself savagely. You're crazier than he is.

"Yeah, well, it's a job," she said aloud, shoulders sagging slightly. "Keeps me busy."

She kicked into a somersault, snapping straight to her feet as the roll flipped her over the edge of the bed. On her way to the bathroom, she paused at the desk and picked up the little wooden stick. So easy to hide . . . She thought of Surebleak and the one or a dozen times in her childhood when such an instrument would have been welcome protection. Memory flashed a face she hadn't seen in years and her hand twitched-the blade was out, silent and ready.

"Aah, what the hell," she muttered and closed the knife, carrying it with her into the bath.

Sometime later, bathed, robed, and damp-haired, she called up the valet's catalog again. She frowned at the first selection, trying to place what was different, and nearly laughed aloud in mingled outrage and amusement.

No price was displayed.

All right, she thought, beginning the scan. If that's how he wants it. I hope I bankrupt him.

It took her longer to realize that she was trying to figure out which clothes might please him, which clothes might make him receptive to an offer to share that immense bed with her this evening.

"Pretty, ain't he?" she asked her reflection sympathetically, then sighed. Pretty and dangerous and fast and smart and crazy as the six of diamonds. She cursed herself silently, wondering why she hadn't recognized the emotion before. Lust. Not just simple lust, of the passing-glance variety, but lust of the classic Lost Week on Moravia kind.

Looking around her-and back at the clothes in the valet's tank-she wondered if he might be interested in a Lost Week sometime. Then she cursed herself some more. Since when did she have a week to lose?

CONNOR PHILLIPS'S SERVICE record,
reluctantly provided by
Salene,
included a holo, which was duly copied and sent around to cops, firefighters, and disaster crews present at the "fire" at the Mixla Arms.

Sergeant McCulloh stepped forward immediately. "Yeah," she told Pete, "I seen him. Redhead kid, him, an' four turtles all left together." She corrugated her forehead in an effort to aid memory. "Said his name was something-or-nother-yos-something. Geek name. Dunno hers. 'Nother geek. Talkin' Trade with the turtles-something about all traveling together for a couple days . . . ." She shrugged broad shoulders. "I'm real sorry, Mr. Smith. Coulda kept the whole bunch right then, if I'd known."

"That's all right, Sergeant," the Chief of Police said, forestalling Pete's frustrated growl. "Now, did you overhear anything that might have indicated where they were going?"

The sergeant shook her massive head. "Nossir. Only that they should all go together."

"Well," the chief said, "that's quite a bit of help, actually. Four turtles and two humans traveling together? They'll be easy to spot." He smiled at his subordinate. "That will be all, Sergeant. Thank you for coming forward with that information. You've been very helpful."

"Yessir. Thank you, sir. Thank
you,
Mr. Smith." The sergeant whirled on her heel and marched out of the room, shutting the door crisply behind her.

"Great," Pete swore. "All we got to do, I guess, is put out an all-points on four turtles and two geeks and wait till we get a report."

"Actually," the chief said, leaning back in his chair, "that's close. We send out a picture and a note to report any combination of turtle and human. Instructions to observe and report to Mixla Headquarters. Under no circumstances are they to be taken."

"What!" Pete stopped in mid-pace, staring at the other man.

The chief shook his head. "Think about it. The boy's inventive-got himself a nice little diversion there: limited property damage, no risk to life-and if he's linked to the O'Grady incident, like you think, he's probably a tad dangerous." He propped his foot up on the desk top.

"Turtles occupy a very ticklish diplomatic niche. We can't afford to make them mad. And they will be mad, if they count the boy as a friend and some poor joke of a cop comes to arrest him." He shook his head. "The girl's an unknown, but it's a good idea to assume she's as dangerous as the boy-and the turtles are her friends, too."

Pete blinked thoughtfully. "So we wait till they're spotted and nailed, then hit 'em with everything we got so fast the turtles got no time to yell 'ho!' We can say 'sorry' later."

The chief nodded. "Exactly."

"Flawed blades."
Edger was saying when Miri entered the room in the early evening. "And only flawed blades, my brothers! All that we have now-warehoused, do you recall, Sheather? Nearest the river?-and all that thrice-accursed cavern can spawn! Who could have imagined such a thing?"