Sharon Lee - Steve Miller - Liaden Universe 2 - Agent of Change

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Agent of Change by Sharon Lee and Steve
Miller
CHAPTER ONE
STANDARD YEAR 1392
The man who was not Terrence O'Grady had come quietly.
And that, Sam insisted, was clear proof. Terry had never done anything quietly in his life if there was a
way to get a fight out of it.
Pete, walking at Sam's left behind the prisoner, wasn't so sure. To all appearances, the man they had
taken was Terrence O'Grady. He had the curly, sandy hair, the pug nose, and the archaic black-framed
glasses over pale blue eyes, and he walked with a limp of the left leg, which the dossier said was a
souvenir of an accident way back when he'd been mining in the Belt of Terado.
They stopped at a door set deep into the brick wall of the alley. Up in front, Russ raised his fist and
struck the heavy kreelwood twice.
They waited, listening to the noises of the night city beyond the alley. Then the door opened silently on
well-oiled hinges, and they were staring down a long hallway.
As he stepped over the threshold, Pete gritted his teeth and concentrated on the back of the man before
him. The man who was not Terrence O'Grady. Maybe.
It was in no way a remarkable back: slightly stoop-shouldered, not quite on a level with Pete's own.
Terrence O'Grady, the dossier noted, was short and slender for a Terran, a good six inches below the
average. This made him a valuable partner for bulky Sam, who handled the massive mining equipment
effortlessly, but was not so well suited to exploring the small gaps, craters, and crevices where a rich vein
might hide.
Sam and Terry made money in the Belt. Then Terry quit mining, bought himself some land with
atmosphere over it, and settled into farming, child raising, and even politics.
Eight years later Sam got a bouncecomm from Terry's wife: Terrence O'Grady had disappeared.
Sam went to talk to wife and family, as an old friend should; he asked questions and nosed around. No
corpse had been found, but Sam declared Terry dead. He'd been too stubborn a dreamer to run out on
all of them at once. And, given Terry's luck, someone would have had to kill him to make him dead
before old age.
Sam said Terry had been murdered three years ago.
But recently there had been rumors, and then this person here – wearing a dead man's face and calling
himself by a dead man's name.
Pete shook himself as they rounded a sharp corner and barely avoided stepping on the prisoner.
"Look sharp!" Sam whispered harshly.
They turned another corner and came into a brightly lit, abandoned office.
The man who was not Terrence O'Grady nearly smiled.
From this point on, he knew the layout of each of the fourteen suites in this building, the voltage of the
lighting fixtures, the position of doors and windows, the ambient temperature, and even the style and
color of the carpets.
Within his mental Loop, he saw a number shift from .7 to .85. The second figure changed a moment later
from .5 to .7. The first percentage indicated Chance of Mission Success; the second, Chance of Personal
Survival. CMS recently had been running significantly above CPS.
His escort halted before a lift, and both numbers rose by a point. When the lift opened onto an office on
the third floor, the Loop flickered and withdrew – the more imminent the action, the less precise the
calculations.
The desk was beautiful, made of inlaid teak and redwood imported from Earth.
The man behind the desk was also imported from Earth and he was not beautiful. He had a paunch and
an aggressive black beard. Soft hands laced together on the gleaming wood, he surveyed the group with
casual interest.
"Thank you, gentlemen. You may stand away from the prisoner."
Russ and Skipper dropped back, leaving the man who was not O'Grady alone before Mr. Jaeger's desk.
"Mr. O'Grady, I believe?" Jaeger purred.
The little man bowed slightly and straightened, hands loose at his sides.
In the depths of his beard, Jaeger frowned. He tapped the desktop with one well-manicured finger.
"You're not Terrence O'Grady," he said flatly. "This readout says you're not even Terran." He was on his
feet with a suddenness surprising in so soft an individual, hands slamming wood. "You're a damned geek
spy, that's what you are, Mr. – O'Grady!" he roared.
Pete winced and Sam hunched his shoulders. Russ swallowed hard.
The prisoner shrugged.
For a stunned minute, nobody moved. Then Jaeger straightened and strolled to the front of the desk.
Leaning back, he hooked thumbs into belt loops and looked down at the prisoner.
"You know, Mr…. O'Grady," he said conversationally. "There seems to be a conviction among you
geeks – all geeks, not just humanoid ones – that we Terrans are pushovers. That the power of Earth and
of true humans is some kind of joke." He shook his head.
"The Yxtrang make war on our worlds and pirate our ships; the Liadens control the trade economy; the
turtles ignore us. We're required to pay exorbitant fees at the so-called federated ports. We're required
to pay in cantra, rather than good Terran bits. Our laws are broken. Our people are ridiculed. Or
impersonated. Or murdered. And we're tired of it, O'Grady. Real tired of it."
The little man stood quietly, relaxed and still, face showing bland attention.
Jaeger nodded. "It's time for you geeks to learn to take us Terrans seriously – maybe even treat us with a
little respect. Respect is the first step toward justice and equality. And just to show you how much I
believe in justice and equality, I'm going to do something for you, O'Grady." He leaned forward sharply,
his beard a quarter-inch from the prisoner's smooth face. "I'm going to let you talk to me. Now. You're
going to tell me everything, Mr. O'Grady: your name, your home planet, who sent you, how many
women you've had, what you had for dinner, why you're here – everything." He straightened and went
back around the desk. Folding his hands atop the polished wood, he smiled.
"Do all that, Mr. O'Grady, and I might let you live."
The little man laughed.
Jaeger snapped upright, hand slapping a hidden toggle.
Pete and Sam dove to the left, Russ and Skipper to the right. The prisoner hadn't moved at all when the
blast of high-pressure water struck, hurling him backward over and over until he slammed against the far
wall. Pinned by the torrent, he tried to claw his way to the window.
Jaeger cut the water cannon and the prisoner collapsed, chest pounding, twisted glasses two feet from his
outflung hand.
Russ yanked him up by a limp arm; the man staggered and straightened, peering about.
"He wants his glasses," Pete said, bending over to retrieve the mangled antiques.
"He don't need no glasses," Russ protested, glaring down at the prisoner. The little man squinted up at
him.
"Ah, what the hell – give 'em to him, then." Russ pushed the prisoner toward the desk as Pete
approached.
"Mr. Jaeger?" he ventured, struck by an idea.
"Well?"
"If this ain't O'Grady, how come the water didn't loose the makeup or whatever?" To illustrate, Pete
grabbed a handful of sandy curls and yanked. The little man winced.
"Surgery?" Jaeger said. "Implants? Injections and skin-tuning? It's not important. What's important – to
him and to us – is that the readout says he's a geek. Terry O'Grady was no geek, that's for sure." He
turned his attention to the prisoner, who was trying to dry his glasses with the tail of his saturated shirt.
"Well, Mr. O'Grady? What's it going to be? A quick talk or a slow death?"
There was a silence in which Pete tried to ignore the pounding of his heart. This was a part of the job that
he didn't like at all.
The little man moved, diving sideways, twisting away from Russ and dodging Skipper and Sam. He
hurled a chair into Pete's shins and flung himself back toward the desk. Sam got a hand on him and was
suddenly airborne as the little man threw his ruined glasses at Jaeger and jumped for the window.
Jaeger caught the glasses absently, standing behind his desk and roaring. The former prisoner danced
between Russ and Skipper, then jumped aside, causing them to careen into each other. He was through
the window before Pete caught the smell of acronite and spun toward the hallway.
The explosion killed Jaeger and flung Pete an extra dozen feet toward safety.
CHAPTER TWO
Dripping, he kept to back streets, passing silently through the deepest shadows. Sirens shrilled distantly in
the west, but he had not seen a police car for several blocks.
He ghosted down a side street and vanished into a dark vestibule. Two minutes later he opened the door
to his apartment.
The telltales had not been altered, and the little man relaxed minutely. The landlord had seen nothing odd
in his story of needing a place for "an occasional night out, for when a man wants a little variety." He'd
been more interested in the prospect of earning a few untaxed bits.
The lights came up as the man crossed into the bedroom. He pulled the shirt over his head, unlaced the
belt from his waist, and headed for the bathroom.
He let the water run in the shower as he stripped off boots and trousers. Naked and shivering slightly, he
opened the box by the sink and fished out three vials.
The Loop showed a gratifying .9 on the CPS now that the mission was a success. He sighed and upped
the odds by opening the first vial.
He worked the smelly purple goo into his sandy curls, wincing when he pulled knots, nose wrinkled in
protest. Carefully, he coated both eyebrows and resealed the tube with relief.
He looked at the second vial with loathing. Leaning toward the mirror, he stared into the wintery blue
eyes beneath the purple eyebrows for a dozen heartbeats before taking up the dropper-topped bottle
and reluctantly breaking the seal. He administered two quick drops to each eye, hand steady, breath
hissing between his teeth.
Tears ran down his cheeks as he counted and blinked. After his vision cleared, he bent to the mirror
again, reaching a probing finger into his mouth. From inside each cheek came a curve of flexible material;
he worked the caps from his teeth and spat them out before beginning on the brace that had squared his
chin. That out, he gingerly adjusted ears and nose, pleased to see the normal shapes reappear.
He carried the last vial into the shower with him. The contents of this were green and sticky and even
more foul smelling than the other chemicals. He rubbed the goo over every bit of skin, trying not to
breathe as he coated his face. On the count of five he stepped into the dash of steaming water, gasping at
the ache in cheeks, chin, and nose.
Ten minutes later he was toweling himself dry: a slender young man with straight dark hair and green eyes
set deep in a high-cheeked, golden face. He finger-combed his hair and went quickly into the bedroom,
shoulders level, carriage smooth and easy.
He dressed in dark leather trousers and vest, cloth shirt, and high, soft boots; ran the wide belt around his
waist and checked the bolstered pellet gun. The most important blade he slid into his left sleeve; the
throwing knife went into the sheath at the back of his neck. The belt pouch contained sufficient funds and
convincing papers; he snapped it shut and looked around.
Terrence O'Grady's papers and the depleted chemicals were disposed of with a hand incinerator. He
bundled up the used clothing, but a wary glance at the smoke detector convinced him to dispose of the
clothing differently.
Another quick tour of the tiny apartment satisfied him that all was in order. It was time to move on, if he
intended to catch the late shuttle to Prime Station.
He dropped tenbit on the counter for the landlord to find, gathered up his bundle of clothes, and turned
out the lights.
Three blocks closer to the Port he stepped firmly through a pool of light, to all appearances a night-guard
or a shuttle-ape on his way to work. The clothes had been scattered in three separate alleys, and he felt
confident that, on such a world as Lufkit, they would not remain ownerless long.
The night was very quiet; the street he walked, empty. Abruptly, he chose a side street. His hunch had it
that things were unnaturally quiet in the area. Noting that the vehicle parked at the far end of the street
bore a strong resemblance to a police cruiser, he melted into the shadows and turned down the next
alley, striking diagonally for the Port.
The way was twisty and unlit, the glow from the Port cut off by towering warehouses. Relying on his ears
and an excellent sense of place, the little man proceeded soundlessly, if not quickly.
He froze at the first sound of pellet fire, sorting echoes and waiting for a repeat. It came. There was more
than one shot: a fusillade, coupled with shouts. He drifted toward the ruckus, hand on gun.
The alley twisted once more and widened into bright spaciousness, showing him a loading dock and five
well-armed persons protected behind shipping containers and handtrucks. Before the dock a red-faced
woman held a gun to the throat of a Terran, using his body as a shield between herself and the five
others.
"Please guys," the hostage yelled hoarsely. "I'll give you my share – I swear it! Just do like she – "
One of those behind the containers shifted; the hostage stiffened with a throttled gasp, and the woman
dropped him, diving for the scant cover of a wooden crate. Pellets splintered it, and she rolled away, the
fleeing hostage forgotten, as one of the five rose for a clear shot.
The little man's gun spat once, and the assassin slumped over his erstwhile concealment, weapon sliding
from dead fingers.
"Over there!" one of the hidden men screamed. "There's someone – "
A pellet whined over the little man's shoulder and he jumped for cover, swearing alike at reactions and
hunches. At the dock, the woman had come to her feet, accounting for another of her opponents with
casual efficiency. The little man found himself the recipient of an assassin's sole attention and calmly put
three holes through the container sheltering her. There was a scream – and then nothing.
Suddenly, the two remaining assassins were up, rushing the red-haired woman and firing wildly. She
dodged behind a container and fired, but they came on, though a red stain had appeared on the lead
man's sleeve.
The little man took careful aim. The leader dropped. Half a heartbeat later, the woman's shot accounted
for the last of the five.
Warily, the man came out from his cover, beginning to salute the woman.
The blow that knocked him unconscious took him entirely by surprise.
One had gotten away, which was not good.
The red-haired woman came back down the alley and stooped to run probing fingers over the dark head
and touch the pulse at the base of the slim throat. She froze, counting the rhythm for a full minute, then
settled back on her heels, hands hanging loosely between her knees.
"Ahhh, damn."
She stared at the dark lump of the stranger, willing him to come to, pick up his gun, and go away.
No luck today, Robertson, she said to herself. Man saved your life. You gonna leave him here?
Cursing herself for a seven-times fool she scooped up the fallen weapon and stashed it in her belt. Then
she bent to get a grip on the stranger and heaved.
Thank the gods for robot cabs, she thought sometime later, letting her burden slide to the shattered tile
floor. Thanks be, too, for sheer, dumb luck – the street had been empty when the cab pulled up, and had
remained empty while she maneuvered the man's body across the walk and into the building.
She sighed now, stretching back and shoulder muscles and acknowledging in advance the stiffness she'd
feel tomorrow. She hadn't expected such a little guy to weigh so much, though at that he was bigger than
she was. Everybody was bigger than she was.
Bending, she worked the catch on the man's pouch and pulled out a sheaf of papers. She whistled
soundlessly at the verification of the obvious and refolded the sheaf, eyes on his unconscious face.
She saw high cheeks curving smoothly to a pointed chin, a generous mouth, straight brows above the
shuttered eyes, thick, glossy hair tumbling across a smooth golden forehead – a boy's face, though the
papers claimed thirty Standards for him. Liaden citizen. Damn, damn, damn.
She replaced the papers and snapped the pouch, then moved a safe distance away, folded her legs, and
sat on the floor. Absently, she unpinned the braid wrapped around her head and began to unweave it,
eyes sharp on the still figure of the man.
Very likely, he told himself, your skull is broken. More likely, his money was gone, as well as his gun and
his knives – which was a damned nuisance. If his Middle River blade were lost, he'd have a hard tale to
tell. Still, he thought, keeping his eyes closed, having a chance to wake up is more luck than a man with a
broken skull and no brains at all should expect.
He opened his eyes.
"Hi there, thrill-seeker."
She was sitting cross-legged on the blasted tiles, weaving her copper-colored hair into one long braid.
Her leathers were dark, like his own; her white shirt was loosely laced with silver cord. A black scarf
was tied around one forearm, and the gun strapped to her thigh looked acceptably deadly.
She grinned. "How's the brain-box?"
"I'll live." He sat up slowly, noting with surprise that the knife was still in his sleeve.
"Interesting theory."
He regarded her blandly, noting the set of her shoulders and the deceptively gentle motion of her hands
as she braided her hair, and recalling her efficiency during the fire-fight. The Loop indicated that he could
take her – if he had to. But he'd have to kill her to be sure; she meant business, and no simple rush to
disable would suffice.
He let the calculation fade, mildly astonished to find that he was disinclined to kill her.
Sighing aloud, he crossed his legs in deliberate reflection of her pose and rested his arms along his thighs.
She grinned again. "Tough guy." It seemed a term of admiration. She finished her braid, put a knot at the
end, and flipped the length behind her shoulder, one slender hand coming to rest on her gun.
"So, tell me, tough guy, what's your name, what're you doing here, who do you work for?" She tipped
her head, unsmiling. "Count of ten."
He shrugged. "My name is Connor Phillips, Cargo Master, formerly of free-trader Salene. Presently I am
between berths."
She laughed, slid the gun free, and thumbed the safety.
"I got a weakness for a pretty face," she said gently, "so I'm gonna let you try it again. But this time you
tell me the truth, tough guy, or I blow the face to the fourteen prime points and you along with it. Accazi?"
He nodded slowly, eyes on hers.
"Go."
"My name – " He stopped, wondering if the blow to the head had scrambled his brain. The hunch was so
strong…
"My name is Val Con yos'Phelium. I am an agent for Liad. I am here because I have recently finished an
assignment and was hurrying to catch the shuttle when I happened by a loading dock where there was a
lone woman and some others having a disagreement." He lifted an eyebrow. "I assume the shuttle has
lifted?"
"Quarter hour ago." She stared at him, gray eyes expressionless. "An agent for Liad?"
He sighed and tipped his hands out, palms up, in his own gesture. "I think you might call me a spy."
"Oh." She thumbed the safety, slid the gun back home, and nodded at him. "I like that one. I like it a lot."
Yanking his weapon from her belt, she threw it to him, then jerked her head at the door. "Beat it."
His left hand flashed out, snagging the gun. As he slipped it into its holster, he shook his head.
"Not a return introduction? Who you are, what you do, for whom?" He smiled suddenly. "The headache
I suffer for you…"
She pointed at the door. "Scram. Get out. Begone. Leave." The gun was back in her hand. "Last
chance."
He bowed his head and came to his feet with swift fluidity – to find her standing, her gun steady on his
gut.
A most business-like lady, indeed, he thought with a smile. "You wouldn't have a shuttle schedule,
perhaps? My information seems out of date."
She frowned. "No. Just get moving, tough guy. Schedule's carried in every infobooth in this rathole." The
gun moved infinitesimally toward the door. "I'm tired of your company, accazi?"
"I understand," he murmured. He bowed as between equals. Then he was through the door and out,
seeking location, listening to the night.
In a moment he had his bearings; the heavy glow to the – east, it was – that was the shuttleport. It was
rather farther away than it had been before he'd taken his impromptu nap; he thought he was close to the
area where Terrence O'Grady had rented his second apartment.
The sounds from behind the door spoke of someone efficiently in motion. He recognized the movement
pattern of a person with no time to waste, acting with rapid, purposeful calm, and his respect for the
red-haired woman increased.
He turned his attention to the street. Halfway down the block two men stood beneath a street lamp,
heads together. From the breezeway to his right came the sound of two unhurried sets of footsteps:
friends strolling.
He left his shadowed wall and went down the street at a brisk walk, a man with a destination, but without
urgency.
The men under the streetlight seemed to be discussing the betting on a sporting event, comparing official
odds against their own notions. He passed with barely a glance, heading for the blue glow of an infobooth
at the end of the block. Another pair of companions passed him, walking arm-in-arm toward the building
he'd recently left.
He went on, and presently his ears told him that a set of quiet footsteps paced his own silent ones. The
Loop flickered into being, diagramming the chances of an imminent attack – .98 surety. His outlook for
survival over the next ten minutes was .91.
The infobooth loomed to his right, its blue dome light making garish ghosts in the evening mist. He turned
firmly in that direction, quickening his pace. The escorting steps quickened, as well, attempting to
overtake him.
He reached the door and fumbled with the catch. A hand fell on his shoulder and he allowed himself to
be spun around. His hands moved with deadly precision.
The man dropped without a sound. Val Con went to one knee, made sure that the neck had broken, and
was on his feet, running back the way he had come.
He streaked by the abandoned streetlight and dived for the deeper shadow the light created, smelling
clean night air and a touch of heavy cologne.
They were grouped in a rough semicircle before the building, emulating the approach that had been so
disastrous earlier. One pair was near the fence by the alley, while three more stood wide, farther from the
light. The shifting shadow of the man who wore cheap cologne was at the door itself, in position to either
slay her as she left, or surprise her if she ran.
Val Con did not think she would run.
He dropped to one knee, waiting for the watchers to take action, hoping that the woman had anticipated
this much trouble and prepared another exit. Perhaps she was already in another safe place and would
laugh if she knew he had returned.
Would she have sent him out to die – to be a diversion while she escaped? He wondered and then
forgot, for the door opened and she stepped out.
He flashed to his feet, running soundlessly.
She closed the door and the assassin in the shadows moved. Something – a noise? a motion in the dim
light? a thought? – betrayed him an instant too soon and she dove, hitting the ground on her shoulder and
rolling. Her gun flashed up too late. The man was nearly on top of her –
He gasped, dropping his weapon and clutching at his throat with clawed hands as she continued her roll,
gun coughing twice in quick succession, counting a pair of slow-moving men among the dead. Distantly,
she heard three sharp cracks and knew without doubt that three more lay dead nearby.
To the right, two dead; to the left, three huddled lifelessly against a fence as a fourth stood upright, hands
held out at waist level, palms toward her.
She stood warily in the shocking quiet and motioned him over with a wave of her gun.
"Hey, tough guy." Her voice was a raspy whisper.
He came, hands empty at his sides, and walked within grabbing distance. She stepped back, then
laughed and took a half-step toward him.
"Thanks," she said, and her voice was stronger. She slid her gun away and nodded at the single assassin.
"What's with him? Thought for sure he had me. Then he just falls over!"
Val Con moved past her and knelt by the dead man, avoiding the pooling blood. She came and stood by
his shoulder, bending forward with interest.
He turned the man over and pulled the hands from the sticky throat.
"Knife," he murmured, slipping it from its nesting place and wiping it clean on the dead man's shirt.
"Not even a laserblade," she said, wondering. "Unusual toy, ain't it?"
He shrugged and slid the blade into its neck sheath. "Quiet."
She wrinkled her nose at the dead man. "Messy." She felt him tense beside her and shot a glance at his
face. "More company?"
"You seem to be a popular young lady." He offered her his arm. "I suggest you have dinner with me," he
said, smiling. "We can lose them."
She sighed, ignoring his arm. "Right. Let's move."
A moment later the dead had the street to themselves.
CHAPTER THREE
The bar-grill was near the shuttleport, a smoky, noisy place crowded with grease-apes, shuttle-toughs,
fuelies, and any number of local street-livers. Two women played guitars, providing music of the driving,
inane variety and eating and drinking their wages between sets.
The red-haired woman settled a little more comfortably against the wall, hands curved around a warmish
mug of local coffeetoot, watching her companion watch the crowd. They had arrived here via the
appropriation of three robot cabs, as well as several private cars. As self-appointed lookout, she was
sure they'd lost their pursuers, but apparently the man beside her was taking no chances.
"Now," he murmured, eyes on the room, "you may begin by telling me your name, and continue down the
list."
She was silent, drinking 'Toot, and he turned to look at her, his face smooth, green eyes expressionless.
She sighed and looked away.
Two fuelies were rolling dice at a corner table. She watched the throw absently, automatically counting
the sides as they flashed.
"Robertson," she said in a cracking whisper. She cleared her throat. "Mira Robertson. Retired mercenary
soldier; unemployed bodyguard." She flicked her eyes back to his face. "Sorry 'bout the bother." Then
she paused and sighed again, because this was much harder to say – something she did not say often.
"Thanks for the help. I needed it."
"So it seemed," he agreed in his accentless Terran. "Who wishes you dead?"
She waved a hand. "Lots of people, it seems."
The green eyes were back on hers. "No."
"No?"
A muscle twitched near the corner of his mouth. He stilled it and resumed his constant survey of the bar.
"No," he said softly. "You are not stupid. I am not stupid. Hence you must find another way to lie to me.
Or," he added, as one being fair, "you might tell the truth."
"Now why would I do that?" she wondered and drank some more of the dreadful 'Toot.
He sighed. "You owe me a debt, I think?"
"I knew you were gonna bring that up! You can forget that stuff right now, spacer. You're the Liaden in
this skit. Terrans don't count coup."
She almost missed his start; she snapped her eyes to his face, only to find him expressionless, watching
the patrons of the bar.
"What?" she demanded.
"It's nothing." He shifted his shoulders against the wall. "A better reason, then. Whoever wishes to kill you
most likely has us linked by now, and so hunts us both. Is my new enemy one individual with the means
to buy service? Or a group, most of whom we have dispatched already? Can I safely go off-planet, or
will I find assassins around my Clan fire when I return home?" He paused. "Your danger is my danger.
Your information may save my life. I wish to stay alive. It is dishonorable for a soldier not to know the
enemy!" He turned his head to look at her, one eyebrow askance. "Is that reason sufficient?"
"Sufficient." She drank off the rest of the 'Toot and set the mug on the table. Eyes on the cracked blue
摘要：

/*/*]]*/ScannedbyGinevra.ProofedbyHighroller.MadeprettierbyuseofEBookDesignGroupStylesheet.AgentofChangebySharonLeeandSteveMillerCHAPTERONESTANDARDYEAR1392ThemanwhowasnotTerrenceO'Gradyhadcomequietly.Andthat,Saminsisted,wasclearproof.Terryhadneverdoneanythingquietlyinhislifeiftherewasawaytogetafight...

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