The Agent Gambit (22 page)

"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.

Clenching his loathing to himself, Watcher went to open the door.

SHOULDER TO SHOULDER
and silent, they walked Level E's long hallway.

At the DownTunnel, Miri stepped in first, floated down, and rolled out. Half a second later, Val Con also rolled into the corridor, using the loop and not hurrying. He landed on the bounce and tottered, catching himself not quite instantly.

She frowned, slanting a look at his face as they went on.

He looked bad, she decided. The skin was stretched tightly over his cheekbones, and his eyes looked as if they were too far back in his head; there were lines engraved around the generous mouth, and his shoulders slumped slightly.

"You okay?" It was the first either had spoken since leaving the mercs.

He spared her a sharp green glance. "I'm tired."

Very tired, he thought, forcing himself to keep her pace. Well, there was only a little farther to walk and a few moment's talk with Edger's watcher before he could rest-would rest. It was imperative that he rest . . . Shutting that thought away before the rhythm sapped the strength he had left, he lifted a hand to point.

"There."

"Let's go." She turned with him into the entrance tunnel. "What's this one's name?"

"He Who Watches, Edger called him."

"Watcher?" she wondered, brows knit.

Val Con shrugged. "It should do," he said. "I've never met him."

"Oh."

The hatch was before them, the summoner set dead center. Val Con reached up and pressed it, fighting the desire to lean forward and let the opaque crystal of the hatch hold him up.

Time passed. Miri reached past his shoulder and hit the summoner again. "What if he's asleep?" she muttered.

There seemed to be no reason to answer, for which he was grateful. Words were blurring in and out of focus, as if his mind were unable to deal with the process of converting sound to meaning.

The hatch began silently to rise.

When the opening was wide enough to accommodate them, they stepped through into the room beyond, where a Clutch person somewhat smaller than the smallest of Edger's entourage awaited them. He moved his hand on a control board set in the solid rock wall and the hatch slid down and sealed.

The Clutch person bowed-and Miri clamped her jaw on a gasp. No shell! she thought and then saw that she was wrong: a very small shell sat high like a knapsack between his shoulders. Maybe he was a kid.

Completing his bow, their host began to speak sonorously in what she recognized as Clutch speech. He had barely gotten into the first syllables of what could have been a first word when Val Con moved.

He bowed-not as deeply as he bowed to Edger, or even to Sheather, barely a heavy nod of head and shoulders-and cut across the other's speech.

"No doubt," he said in Trade, "the T'carais has informed you that we are in great haste. There is no time for the exchanging of names or other formalities. Please take us to the control room and show us what we must know."

Watcher froze, outrage warring with loathing in his soul. Regretfully, he put both aside. His T'carais, as the soft creature before him said, commanded. His was to endure and obey.

"As you will," he returned, dropping the jagged shards of the language called Trade from his tongue with what he hoped was seemly haste. "The control compartment is in this direction." He turned to lead the way, not looking back to see if they followed.

The control room was about the size of the Grotto, Miri thought, or maybe even bigger. It was hard to be certain because of the way the controls faced the large crystal suspended on the far wall. Star patterns were depicted within the crystal and Miri looked at it harder, giving herself a sharp mental shake.

Navigation tank, dummy, she told herself. Pay attention.

She pivoted slowly, taking in the rest of the area. A large table sat near the wall opposite the navigation tank, flanked with upholstered benches. Cubbyholes were cut into the wall to one side and in back-most were sealed, but a couple were open and empty-and two large cartons were pushed into the corner. Stenciled on the side of one was FRAGILE and on the other, THIS END UP.

The wall to her left was blank, though she thought a closer inspection would reveal more storage bins, and a wide shelf was built out from it at what might have been convenient sitting-height for Edger.

She frowned and continued her pivot. The room wasn't completely symmetrical; her mind kept trying to insist on the proportions she was most comfortable with, and the effort to really look at what she was seeing made her a little queasy. She tried to concentrate on the walls themselves, noting that they seemed to be made of seamless rock, rather than matched plate steel, and frowned harder.

From behind her she heard the rumble of Watcher's voice and the broken-edged sound that was Val Con's reply. She went quietly to the control board and leaned over her partner's shoulder.

"This is the recalibration device. When the ship is at rest you will remeasure and realign. Comfort requires it. If
this
has occurred, you must also recalibrate, utilizing this device-so."

Val Con nodded. "How often does the ship rest?"

"The ship rests four hours for every eight that it labors."

The man took a deep breath, forcing the air far down into his lungs and closing his eyes to better see the mental picture. The initial procedure was
thus.
To recheck, measure and align, one waited until the ship was at rest and made required adjustments
so.
The ship returned to labor when its rest was done, with adjustments or without them. He nodded and opened his eyes.

"Very good," he said, pushing aside that part of him that wondered what the sounds meant. "We must now set our course."

"Where is it that you wish to go?" Watcher inquired around the terror he felt. Only let it not be years!

"Volmer. Planet Designation V-8735-927-3 . . . "

Behind him, Miri shifted. "That's a Liaden planet! I told you, Tough Guy, I ain't going to
Liad
and I ain't going to any world
controlled
by Liad!"

From somewhere he brought forth a last shard of patience and lucidity and made it her gift. "It is a planet of the federated interests of Liad, Terra, and Clutch." His voice was nearly even. "From it we can depart to any of the fourteen prime points. I know that you will not go to Liad."

She wasn't convinced. "I don't like it, and I ain't-"

But his patience was gone and time was running out. "Be silent!"

She blinked-and shut up.

Watcher was pushing at the pastel crystal buttons, lighting and extinguishing them in a pattern that looked random to her nonpilot eyes. After a time, he stood away from the board.

"Your destination has been set," he said. "You will arrive in approximately three weeks, ship time. Of course, you will have to recalibrate your chronometers at journey's end. When you disembark, assuming you have no further need for this vessel, you will press this." He pointed to a large red disk set by itself on the right side of the board.

"You will have sufficient time after you have depressed the disk to exit the ship before the return journey begins." Was it possible that they would not ask, he wondered, hope beginning to stir.

Three weeks? Miri frowned, laboriously working out the sector designation in her head. No. He was translating the time units wrong somewhere. The trip shouldn't take more than two days. Oh, well, he was just a kid. As long as he had the destination coded right, they would be okay.

Val Con pushed himself away from the board and made the slight bow once again. "I thank you for your assistance. I-" He paused, his intention clear and glowing within his mind.

"I would that you say to my brother Edger," he began, forming each word in his head before speaking it, "that, should it come to his attention that I have lived-less long-than others of my kind, it would-please-me that he extend to this, his sister Miri, all honor and-and aid-that he would have made mine, had I-lived-to return to him, as I had promised." He paused to review this. It seemed to contain the germ of his desire.

"Say also to my brother," he continued, the words coming more and more slowly, "that I have been honored and enriched by his acquaintance and that my-love-goes with him in his endeavors." It was insufficient, he knew, but he could go no further. Edger would understand.

Watcher stared at the small, soft, swaying thing before him. He almost understood why his T'carais so honored the creature. Then the red-furred one reached out its many-fingered hand to the one that had spoken; Watcher's stomach turned and the moment was gone.

"These things shall be said to my kinsman, the T'carais." He bowed. "I will signal you when I have reached the end of the tunnel. You will then press the disk that is blue, as you have been shown, and your journey will begin."