The Agent Gambit (29 page)

Miri was not shaking anymore, though she was exceedingly cold. "Nonsurvival functions? Like, maybe, dreaming? Or sex-drive?"

He closed his eyes, nodding. "Or music. Or the very faintest of-paranormal talent." He opened his eyes. "The night we met was the first time I had made music in nearly four years."

She tipped her head. "If you didn't have it and now you do-does that mean the Loop's bust? Or-is it a machine or something in your head? What'd they do?"

"What they did-" he shrugged. "I am fairly certain it is not a physical artifact implanted in my brain-that would be inefficient, since the tissue tends to reject an implanted machine eventually." He drank, considering the problem.

"I believe that it must be more like a-master program, superimposed-" He stopped, aware of something akin to anger building in him, except that it was a thing of surpassing coldness, rather than flame.

"Superimposed and overriding," Miri continued, eyes focused tightly on his face, "that set of programs named Val Con yos'Phelium."

He did not reply. They had both found the correct conclusion.

"Val Con?"

"Yes."

"I don't much like your bosses."

His smile flickered briefly. "Nor I."

"But it's bust now, right?" she insisted again.

Was it? he asked himself. He was immediately answered by the flare of an equation, elucidating the latest figures for his survival. Thirty-day CPS was at .06 now.

"No."

"What then? Something's got to be causing-oh." She closed her eyes and reopened them immediately. "The drive."

He drank the last of his wine and stared at the writhing bottle for a moment before setting it aside. "It seems likely. Apparently I've enough ability to balance everything-that which was originally mine and that which has been forced on me-when the ship is in drive and every electron in my head is firing twice.

"Even more. I was never able to see with wizard's eyes so well that I could have picked up the image of the keypad and the pattern of the lock."

She finished her own bottle and put it down. "What's going to happen?"

"The ship will continue to labor yet awhile and then it will rest." He looked up at her, smiling slightly. "Do you feel better?"

"Better. Beat up. Knocked down. Stomped on. And rode over. But definitely better. What now?"

He rolled to his feet, remembering at the last instant not to offer her his hand. "I suggest we gather food and whatever else we can use from what is stored, while I have extra eyes to see with."

THE JUNTAVAS HIT
planet brief hours after Port clearance, despite the high rates of cumshaw required for such speed. Once on-world, money was spent with astonishing open-handedness for the purchase of clearance lists, ships parked, new arrivals, visas issued, and papers filed.

"They ain't here," Jefferson said some hours later, throwing the last fan of printout from him in disgust.

"Whaddya mean, they ain't here? Where else would they be? Maybe they hit and Jumped out again-you check that?"

Borg Tanser, second-in-command of the project, was a tight, smallish man, given to nagging; he was a good gunman and a quick thinker in a jam, and Jefferson was fortunate to have him along. He reminded himself of that now.

"We checked. No Clutch ships in or out of system for nearly six months. They ain't here. And they haven't been here." He shook his head. "Beats hell out of me."

"Yeah? Well, how's this, then? Let's split the team. Half checks the planet inside-out. Other half takes the ship and backtracks. Could be they're hanging a Jump or two back, waiting for the heat to cool."

Jefferson thought about it, reaching for the printouts and stacking them neatly together. "Yeah-we'll run it that way. The boss was real anxious to have both of 'em. Impolite, they were."

But Tanser was not a man known for his sense of humor. He snapped to his feet, nodding sharply. "Okay, then, I'll take the crew and get out of here. See ya." He was gone.

"See ya," Jefferson said absently. He sat for a moment, staring sightlessly at the stacked sheets, then pushed away from the table and went over to the bouncecomm to make his preliminary report to the boss.

MATTHEW LOOKED UP
from his study of the latest data and regarded the two Clutch members expressionlessly.

"I am very sorry, sirs, but Mr. Hostro has given orders that he is not to be disturbed for any cause. I will be happy to give him a message-"

"I have no message to leave," Edger interrupted. "My business with Justin Hostro is of an urgent nature and will brook no further delay. Please allow him to know that I am here and must have speech with him now."

"I am very sorry, sir," Matthew repeated, "but I am not allowed to disturb Mr. Hostro for any cause."

"I understand," Edger said. "Therefore shall I interrupt him." He turned, moving around the comm station with a speed astonishing in someone so large, paused at the locked door long enough to extend a hand and push the panel-which screamed in protest-along its groove and into the wall, then stepped royally across the threshold into Hostro's office, Watcher at his back.

Justin Hostro was behind his rubbed steel desk, absorbed in a sheaf of papers. At the scream of the forced door, he looked up. At the advent of Edger, he stood.

"What is the meaning of this intrusion?" he demanded. "I left strict orders not to be disturbed. You will forgive me, I know, when I say that I have urgent business-"

"I, also, have urgent business," Edger said. "And it must be settled with you in this time and place." He moved over to the only Clutch-sized piece of furniture in the room, signing to Watcher with a flick of the hand to stay by the door.

Justin Hostro hesitated a heartbeat before sitting down also and folding his hands atop the desk with a creditable semblance of calm. "Very well, sir, since you are here and have disturbed me, let us settle your urgent business."

"I have come to speak with you," Edger announced, "concerning the proper bloodprice owed by our Clan for the damage we have done to Herbert Alan Costello."

"Costello?" Hostro frowned. "It is of no matter, sir; we shall take care of his expenses. I am sorry, however, if he has offended you."

"Ours was the error," Edger said, "and ours the payment. Our Clan is honorable. We pay what is owed."

"My clan is also honorable," Hostro snapped, striving to keep hold of his fraying temper, "and we take care of our own. Pray think no more of the matter, sir. The Juntavas shall care for Herbert Alan Costello."

"The Juntavas? This is the name of your Clan, Justin Hostro?"

"It is. A very powerful clan-one that spans planets and star systems. We count our members in the hundreds of thousands and we care for each of them, from the lowliest to the most high."

"Ah," Edger said. He inclined his head. "This gladdens me, Justin Hostro. It is true that I have not previously heard of your vast Clan-and I beg pardon for my ignorance. Happily, you have enlightened me and we may now deal together properly. Do you not feel that this is correct?"

"Of a certainty," Hostro agreed, forcing his hands to relax from the clench he had abruptly found them in.

"Know then, as an Elder of your Clan, that it has come to my attention that your kinsman, Herbert Alan Costello, has offered threats of physical harm-and perhaps termination-to three of my own kin." He waved a huge hand, indicating Watcher.

"That this my kinsman did grave harm to Herbert Alan Costello is not forgiven, and shall in the fullness of time be punished. However, the threat of danger was offered before he struck, which circumstance alters the punishment that must be meted. I ask,"he concluded, "if you have knowledge of the nature of the disagreement existing between your kinsman and the two of my Clan who are not present."

Hostro took a deep breath and let the rein on his temper out just a bit. "If one of those with whom you claim kinship is the woman known as Miri Robertson, then I must tell you that Costello was acting in accordance with my instructions to him that she be detained, and also her companion, if he still traveled with her."

"Ah. And, if one Elder may ask it of another, in the interest of an equitable solution after fair judging: Why did you so instruct your kinsman?"

"The woman is declared outlaw by my Clan and has recently, along with her companion, been responsible for the deaths of some of my kinsmen-as well as causing discontent between my clan and the-Clan of policemen." Briefly, he considered the pellet gun in the top drawer of his desk; recalled the ruined door and sat still.

Edger was puzzled. "Was Miri Robertson then a member of your Clan? I would know the laws she has broken, that she adds 'outlaw' to her name while her life is made forfeit. Surely one or the other were sufficient punishment?"

"She hired herself as bodyguard to one who was himself outlawed, slaying in this capacity many of my kin. Her life is ours to take, though she was never a member of the Juntavas."

"She is not your kin, Justin Hostro, yet you pass judgment and seek to mete punishment?" Watcher looked at the T'carais worriedly: he did not like
that
note in the old one's voice.

"That is true," Hostro said.

Edger moved his massive head back and forth. "You baffle me, Justin Hostro. It is not so that we deal among Clans. Let me be plain, that there be no tragic misunderstanding between us: The woman Miri Robertson and the man Val Con yos'Phelium are adopted of the Clan of Middle River's Spring Spawn of Farmer Greentrees of the Spearmaker's Den. It is true that they are young and sometimes over-hasty in their actions. Possibly, they have wronged you in some manner. As Elders of our Clans it is our purpose to determine what harm has transpired and what balance may be made. My Clan is an honorable Clan; we pay what is owed. We are a well-traveled Clan and as such have found it good to allow other peoples their customs.

"But know, Justin Hostro, that whatever wrong they may have done you, the knives of these two are not yours to take. If they are judged after deliberation to deserve death, their own kin shall deliver that punishment, not the Clan of the Juntavas. Is this thing clear to you?"

"The Juntavas," Hostro snapped, "is a mighty Clan. We take what we will, as we see fit. Including the knives of the kin of the Spearmaker's Den."

Majestically, Edger rose from the chair. Watcher dropped his hand to his blade.

But the T'carais inexplicably stayed his hand. "You are of the Clans of Men," he boomed, "and thus hasty. Hear me further: In our history was there a Clan that meted judgment to a member of the Spearmaker's Den, against all tradition and without justice. Two persons from our Clan were thus dispatched to construct balance with this renegade family." He paused, taking the half-step that put him at the edge of Hostro's desk.

"The name of that Clan is not now written in the Book of Clans," he said slowly. "Nor is that combination of traits any longer available to the gene pool. Think, Justin Hostro, before you take the knives of any of the Spearmaker's Den."

Hostro did not speak. Wipe out an entire family? And he had claimed the Juntavas as family-countless thousands, yes. But those of the Clutch lived two thousand years and more . . . .

"Have you heard me, Justin Hostro?" Edger asked.

"I have heard you."

"It is good. However, it has come to my notice that those of the Clans of Men have memories shorter even than the span of their years. Allow me to leave you a reminder of our talk." The Clanblade was then in the hand of the T'carais, flashing down-to slice clean into the steel of Hostro's desk and stand there, quivering.

Justin Hostro managed to stare calmly at this for a moment before raising his eyes to Edger's.

"As Edger for my Clan, Justin Hostro, I know that our blades are worthy-the youngest no less than the eldest." He reached forth a hand, plucked the knife from its nesting place, and returned it to its sheath.

"Think on what we have spoken of, Justin Hostro. I shall return to you in one Standard hour and you may tell me what you have decided, so that we may talk further. Or begin to feud." He turned toward the door. "Come, Watcher."

Abruptly, they were gone, leaving Mr. Hostro to gingerly finger the razor-edged gash in his desk.

ONE JUMP BACK
from Volmer, a dead ball of dust circled a cold sun, bands of rubble marking the orbits of what had been three-or even four-additional worlds. The sensors reported nothing else.

Borg Tanser gave the order to initiate second Jump.

CHAPTER TWENTY

THEY EMPTIED
A box containing dehydrated escargot and filled it with dried eggs, vegetables, a quarter-wheel of cheese, dried fruits, and tea. There was, to Miri's vast disappointment, no coffee.

"What's wrong with Edger, anyhow?"

Val Con grinned. "Possibly he did not expect you-and I don't like coffee."

"Don't know why you didn't take him up on that offer and stay," she said, shaking her head. "I'd sure hang onto anybody took that much care of
me."

He bent to add a package of cocoa and another of dry milk to their supplies. "I didn't become a Scout in order to stay in one place all my life."

Miri shut up. She knew she was on dangerous ground and she wasn't feeling up to any danger just then. "See any bread?" she asked.

He straightened, frowning at the boxes piled high on all sides. "I don't think-" The frown lightened, and he pointed at a carton by her right hand. "Will crackers do?"

"Suits." She pried open the top, hauled out a metal tin, and handed it to him, trying to not see that yellow and turquoise sparks were raining over her hand. "That okay for awhile?"

"It seems to be enough food for a day or two," he said dryly. "Do you mind waiting here a moment? There is something else . . . ."

"No problem." She waved him off, retrieving the bottle they had been sharing from beside a case of sardines. "But if I'm drunk when you get back, you gotta carry me home."

He grinned. "A fair bargain," he said, and then the towering boxes swallowed him.

Miri settled on the floor next to their supply box and closed her eyes, wine bottle forgotten in her hand. The ship had been in drive for-what? Four hours? There were only another four to live through. You're that tough, ain't you? she said to herself.