Sharon Lee - Steve Miller - Liaden Universe 4

/* /*]]*/

Scanned by Unsung Hero.

Proofed by Highroller.

Made prettier by use of EBook Design Group Stylesheet.

Plan B by by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller

For the Friends of Liad:

lisamia keshoc.

We are in your debt.

Here we stand: An old woman, a halfling boy, two

babes; a contract, a ship, and a Tree.

Clan Korval.

How Jela would laugh.

—Excerpted from Cantra yos'Phelium's Log Book

LIAD

DEPARTMENT OF INTERIOR COMMAND

HEROQUARTERS

There was time, but neither night nor day.

Time. Current time on twenty planets was counted along the digital displays in the long left wall. The light

was impartial, unchanging. Shadowless.

In addition to the silent, steady chronometers, the room contained a desk upon which sat two

screens—one large, one small—a keypad, some few files of hard copy, a stylus. Behind the desk was a

chair; in the chair was a man.

Those who owed allegiance to the Department, to the Plan, addressed him as "Commander" or, formally,

"Commander of Agents." That was enough.

Commander of Agents touched his keypad, advancing the file displayed upon the larger screen.

Blindfolded and questioned—if any would dare it—he could easily have recited the entire contents of the

file. He perused it without reading it, as another might shuffle and deal hand after hand of Patience, mind

wrestling a problem light-years beyond his busy fingers.

The immediate problem was threefold, the sections named thus: Clan Korval, Val Con yos'Phelium, Tyl

Von sig'Alda.

Clan Korval. The Department of Interior had long been aware of the danger presented by Clan Korval,

that maverick and most oddly successful of clans. The Department of Interior had taken measures—bold

measures—in the past, with an eye toward nullifying Korval's menace. The culmination of these measures

was the recruitment of Korval's young nadelm into the Department and the subsequent redesign of that

same Val Con yos'Phelium into an Agent of Change.

That stroke, brilliant and necessary, had produced uncalculated results. Korval became aware of the

Department. And, being Korval, measures—bold measures—had been taken. The Department found its

name spoken in public places; long-stable funding sources came under scrutiny, several dummy accounts

were unmasked and summarily closed by the Masters of the Accountants Guild, the funds returned to the

Council of Clans.

Not satisfied with such unseemly commotion, Korval moved again—and more boldly yet. The clan

vanished— ships, children, servants, and pets—all, all gone from Liad.

Not quite all.

Commander of Agents touched his keypad. One of the line direct remained upon Liad: Anthora,

youngest of the adult yos'Galans, who had prudently moved to the ancient and formidable Jelaza Kazone,

Korval’s first base of planetary operation, and was living there retired. For now.

Commander of Agents advanced the file, eyes looking beyond screen and data. Korval was out there

somewhere. Who knew what they might do? Or when?

The Commander considered the probability that they had gone entirely, leaving behind one too odd to

understand her peril. Were Korval to abandon Liad and accept sanctuary from Terra, the balance long in

favor of Liaden trade missions and Liaden expansion would be at risk. The children of yos'Galan were

half-Terran. Mongrels. They might well go to kin.

The Commander was not one to feel qualms. The various actions against Korval, including fomenting

revolution on the world of Korval's oldest trade partner, were necessary to reduce Korval's influence and

bring about the true ascendancy of Liad.

The recent revolt had not been an entire success, for Korval's old ally and sometime bedmate had

prevailed. Still, it would be a generation before the economy of the planet healed, and the political

conflicts would take a dozen dozen relumma to settle.

More, there was rumor that one string not yet strung to the bow of the alliance was now gone. The

Commander allowed himself a faint smile: fight them over and over, covertly, and even Korval must fall.

They had almost been eliminated twice now.

The Commander blinked. This time, perhaps. On his watch.

This nearly open flight was unfortunate, and unexpected. That Korval searched for their missing

delm-to-be was certain. To allow them to locate and reclaim Val Con yos'Phelium would be an error. A

very serious error.

A most successful Agent, Val Con yos'Phelium. There was that in the madcap Korval genes that inspired

its members to excellence, whatever course they might chart. Before the adjustment of his loyalties, Val

Con yos'Phelium had ridden the mandate of his genes to a certain pinnacle of achievement: Scout

Commander, First-In. A man of infinite resource, a pilot from a clan that bred for pilots; intelligent,

flexible and—after suitable training—exquisitely deadly, he had among his armament the greatest of all an

Agent's weapons, the Probability Loop.

The Loop allowed an Agent to calculate odds of mission success and personal survival. To some extent,

it served as a predictor of coming action, and as a strategy program. There were, of course, certain other

mandates implanted, as well as a self-destruct subroutine. These mandates and subroutines were

provided to ensure that an Agent remained loyal to his mission, to the Department, and to the Plan. It

should not be possible for an Agent of Change to break training.

And, yet, there was evidence—disturbingly strong evidence—that Val Con yos'Phelium, delm genetic of

a clan that seemingly valued random action just slightly less than piloting skill, had broken training.

So. Agent of Change Tyl Von sig'Alda had been dispatched on the trail of a rumor, to seek Val Con

yos'Phelium along the ways of an interdicted world, to offer transport to the home world, to debriefing

and recalibration. Had the Agent merely come against mischance, these things would be accepted. Had

he suffered severe mischance, Agent sig'Alda was to bring his Commander a body, a skull, sections of

vertebrae—proof. An Agent was no such thing to be carelessly left lying about the galaxy, after all.

Especially no such Agent as Val Con yos'Phelium.

Commander of Agents came to the end of the file and closed it with a flick at the keypad. He leaned

back in the chair which conformed to his body's shape, and briefly closed his eyes.

Agent sig'Alda had been gone some time. It was understood that ransacking a low-tech world for one

man—or one corpse—might consume time. The Commander was prepared to wait some small time

longer, before loosing another Agent to the search.

Commander of Agents opened his eyes, seeking the smaller second screen.

This screen showed a sector map. Marked plainly on the map was Interdicted World 1-2796-893-44,

where Tyl Von sig'Alda sought Val Con yos'Phelium. An amber light near the world marked the location

of sig'Alda's ship, as reported by the concealed pin-beam locator beacon. Some time ago, the beacon

had reported that it was on world and Commander of Agents had allowed himself hope.

Alas, the ship lifted very soon, thence to dawdle in orbit now several more days, so the scent that had

enticed Agent sig'Alda to the planet's surface must have proved false.

Commander of Agents moved his eyes to the chronometered wall. He was due in conference very

shortly, where another portion of the Department's Plan would be reviewed.

Korval's links with outside interests were being attended to, carefully. It was the Commander's thought

that Korval had dwindled to the point of being too few to attend to their own security. Thus a test case. It

would do Korval no good, should Dutiful Passage fall.

Hands on the armrests, the Commander pushed his chair back, glancing to the beacon screen—and

freezing.

For the beacon's light was no longer the placid amber indicative of a stable position. It blazed green on

the star map, its glow eclipsing the world called "Vandar" by its natives, the pre-Jump coil-charge

smearing the telltale into a blur. Coordinates appeared at the bottom of the screen, the beacon phased

from green to turquoise, then flared into nothing as it and the ship around it entered Jump.

Commander of Agents reached forth a hand and tapped a command into his keypad. The home system

of the interdicted world melted from the screen, replaced by another map, this with a ship route limned in

red.

Commander of Agents leaned back in his chair, and allowed himself to believe that all was well.

Tyl Von sig' Alda was Jumping for Waymart.

And from Waymart it was but two Jumps to Headquarters.

STANDARD YEAR 1393

VANDAR ORBIT AND JUMP

She was quick, canny, and careful, a former mercenary master sergeant with the battle wisdom of a

hundred combat encounters behind her.

He was not without resources, trained first as a scout and then as an Agent, but the knife nearly

penetrated his guard, so smoothly did she manage the thing. He snatched her wrist as it snaked past,

shifted balance for the throw—and ended the move in an ignominious twisting breakaway as she broke

his grip and rode the attack forward.

She danced back to the metal wall, gray eyes intent, muscles coherent; poised, not stressed; the sweat

bathing her face the residue of physical exertion, rather than strain.

She let him regain stance, she allowed him time for orientation, time to conceive and launch an attack;

uncommon courtesy from so deadly a battle-mate. He feinted with a move out of L'apeleka, saw the grin

flit across her face even as she shifted balance in proper response to the phrase.

He danced another half-phrase of the Clutch discipline, choosing a subtle variant beyond her current level

of attainment. He was not really surprised when she moved smoothly in response, timing perfect as a

heartbeat. His mental Loop, residue of his days as a full Agent of Change, indicated her chance of besting

him in this encounter was nearly seventeen percent—four times higher than it had been half a year ago.

She charged.

Training took over and his hands flashed out, faster than thought. The knife spun away as he caught both

her wrists this time and took her with him into the somersault, both aware of the constraining walls.

She twisted and broke half free. He countered, snaking around and pinning her flat against the metal

floor, one hand tight under her chin.

"Yield!" he demanded, trying not to see how easily his fingers encircled the fragile column of her throat.

She sighed slightly, considering him out of calm gray eyes. "Sure," she said. "What the hell."

He laughed, taking his hand from her throat and rolling away to prop hip and elbow against the cold

deck. "Not quite the attitude I might expect from a seasoned mercenary."

"No sense gettin' killed," Miri said reasonably, grabbing his free hand and laying it over her breast. She

squirmed a little, as if to settle more comfortably against the deck plates. "That's better."

"Fraternizing with the enemy?" inquired Val Con.

"Taking a little rest with my partner," she corrected him sternly. "Liadens and Terrans ain't enemies—they

just don't get along too good."

He opened his green eyes very wide. "Don't we get along, Miri?"

"Yeah, but see," she said earnestly, reaching to touch his right cheek and the scar that marred the smooth

golden skin, "we're crazy. And that's besides you being a scout and having this funny idea about how

Liadens and Terrans and for-space-sake Yxtrang are all from the same stock."

"It is true," Val Con allowed, feeling her heartbeat through the breast nestled in his palm, "that scout

training may have identified those characteristics that are classified as 'crazy' and honed them to a fine

degree. However, the hypothesis of the common root of the three human races is from my father's

studies." He smiled. "So you see that insanity is hereditary."

"Yeah, all you do is believe it." She stretched suddenly and sat up, face abruptly serious. "Tell you what,

boss: I think I'm cured."

He rolled over onto his back, crossed his arms behind his head and considered the other thing inside his

head—a precious gift, balancing the Loop's distasteful, inevitable presence.

Legend said that lifemates had often been linked this way, soul to soul, not quite sharing thought, but

rather sharing intent; joying in a knowledge of each other that went deeper than any kin-tie. That he and

Miri should be so linked, now, when Liad's wizards were on the wane and lifemates were merely in love,

was wonderful past belief.

"Boss?"

"Eh?" He started and smiled at the ripples in the song that was Miri in his head; smiled at the frown of

concern on her face. "Forgive me, cha'trez. I was thinking." He stretched and sat up next to her. "I

believe your estimation is correct, however: you certainly fight as if you are cured."

"Huh." She shook her head. "You need somebody around can really give you a workout."

"So? You very nearly had me. Twice," he added thoughtfully. "Miri."

"Yo."

"Where did you learn the response to that Clutch move?"

"The second one?" She shrugged. "Seemed the only logical way to go, given how you shifted…" Her

shoulders dipped, upper body sketching the essence of the move. "Yeah…"

"Ah."

She glanced at him suspiciously. "Ah, is it? What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, Miri," he said meekly; and grinned in shared joy when she laughed.

"So, partner, seeing as we both agree I'm cured, how 'bout you bust this tub outta orbit and we get a

move on."

"It must certainly be my first wish to please my lady and my lifemate," Val Con said, coming to his feet

and offering-her a hand in graceful Liaden courtesy. "But I wonder if you can suggest where it is we

should get a move on to?"

"Had to ask, didn't you?" She rose lightly, gripping his fingers for the pleasure of contact rather than

because she required assistance. "Let's go up front and get some tea." She led the way, hand stretched

behind her to his as they moved through the narrow corridor to the control cabin.

"Family of yours is on the lam, right? When's this Plan B thing go outta force?"

He hesitated. Miri considered herself Terran, though she carried a Liaden house-badge among her

dearest treasures, and had agreed, perhaps too hastily, to share life with a Liaden. She had not been

raised to the tradition of clan-and-kin, and the first eight months of their mating had been spent on an

Interdicted World, learning to survive and prosper in a culture alien to them both.

"Plan B," he began slowly, feeling his way along thoughts that seemed to shift nuance and urgency as he

tried to convey them in Terran. "Plan B may be called into effect by delm or first speaker in the instance

of—imminent catastrophic damage to the clan. It is thus not established lightly, nor do I think it—goes

out of force—until the dangerous situation has been resolved. I believe this may be its first use."

"Imminent catastrophic damage to the clan," Miri repeated, gray eyes sharp on his face. "What's that

mean? Who's the enemy? And how do we get past them and connect with your family?" She frowned,

chewing her lower lip. "I take it you want to connect up?"

"I—yes." Such clear knowledge of his own will was still unsettling to him, who had only shaken off the

mind-twisting Agent training with the help of Miri and the luck. "It is possible that the danger is the

Department of Interior," he said. "After all"—he waved a slender hand at the neat little ship enclosing

them—"the Department managed to locate us and send an Agent after, and we were most wonderfully

lost."

"Much good it did them," Miri commented, meaning the Agent, dead at the Winterfair on the far-below

surface.

"Much good it very nearly did us," Val Con retorted warmly, meaning the wound she'd taken and the

Agent's too-near success in completing his mission.

"Yeah, well…" she shifted, reached to take his hand again. "You talked to your brother Shan, you

said…" and that made her uncomfortable, he could tell from the subtleties of her mind-heard song.

"I am not," he said gently, "an expert at speaking mind-to-mind. In fact, the whole exchange must have

been on Shan's skill, without anything at all from me. I can't even bespeak you, Miri, as closely as we are

linked."

"Tried it, have you?" She grinned briefly. "But didn't your brother tell you what kind of danger?"

"Just that Plan B was in effect…"

"Moontopple," Miri muttered and Val Con laughed even as he shook his head.

"Things were rather confused at the time, recall. The Agent was hunting me, you and I were separated,

Shan was talking inside my head—and very annoyed he was, too! We hardly had time to set up a

rendezvous before contact was cut."

"So you did set up a meeting!" Approval lightened her face. "Where?"

He took a deep breath and looked her steadily in the eyes. "At the home of your family, Miri."

"My fam—" She stared at him, dropped his hand and backed up, shock rattling the constancy of her

song. The back of her knees hit the edge of the co-pilot's chair and she sat with a slight bump, eyes still

wide on his face.

"Look, boss," she said finally, "I ain't got a family. My mother's dead—died my second year in the mere.

And if Robertson ain't dead he oughta be, an' I don't wanna be the one does the deed."

"Ah." Sorrow touched him: Clan-and-kin, indeed. He perched on the arm of her chair. "The family I

meant was Clan Erob."

Her hand dropped to the pouch built into her wide belt. "Clan Erob," she said huskily, "don't know me

from Old Dan Tucker. I told you that."

"Indeed you did. And I told you that Erob would not shun you. You have—what? Twenty-eight

Standards?"

She nodded, wariness very apparent.

"So," said Val Con briskly. "It is high time for you to be made known to your clan and to make your bow

to your delm. Now that you are informed of your connection, you would be woefully rude to ignore these

duties."

"And besides, you told your brother to meet you there, so that ends that. Might just as well go there, first

," Miri glared at him. "I just hope you know where it is, 'cause I sure don't."

"I know exactly where it is," Val Con said, taking her hand and smiling at her.

Miri sighed, though she did return the pressure of his fingers. "Why don't that surprise me?" she asked.

"No," Miri said flatly, teacup clenched tight in a hand gone suddenly cold.

"Cha'trez…"

"I said no!" She glared at him over the cup-rim. "This is your idea, Liaden, not mine. You wanna visit a

buncha strangers and claim favors, you take sleep-learning to find out how!"

"I already know how," Val Con snapped. "And the case is, my lady, that you will be claiming not favor,

but rightful place, based on kinship. Proof will be properly offered, in the form of—"

Miri slammed the cup down. "A piece of enamel-work my grandma most likely swiped from some poor

sot in an alleyway somewhere, along with everything else in his pockets!"

"… a gene test," Val Con finished, as if she hadn't spoken.

She took a hard breath against the upset in her stomach.

"Don't need to talk to get a gene test done. Comes to that, I can talk, some. You taught me Low Liaden.

No reason why you can't teach me enough High so I don't embarrass you."

"Miri—" He sighed, raising a hand to stroke the errant lock of hair out of his eyes. Miri bit her lip,

knowing as plain as if he'd spoken that he'd noticed her upset inside his head, just like she could see his

frustration inside hers. And he'd figured out she was far more upset than she should be, given the request,

given the partnership, given the love.

"It is not a question," he said now, "of shaming me. We are lifemates, Miri: I am honored to stand at your

side. But there is this other thing, when one is lifemated—would you send me into battle without insuring

that I knew the field as well as you?"

"Huh?" She shook her head. "Likely get you killed, holding back information. And I'd have to give you

everything I had, 'cause you never know beforehand what's gonna be important."

"Exactly." He leaned forward, holding her eyes with his. "We speak of the same situation, cha'trez.

Liadens… Liadens are very formal. Very—structured. There are six ways to ask forgiveness—six

different postures, six distinct phrases, and six separate bows—and none of the six is what a Terran

would call an apology. Apologies are—very rare." He pushed at his hair again, leaning back.

"You speak Low Liaden—adequately. You have some High Liaden from book-study—enough to get

by, I think, if we merely work together on your accent. But language is such a small part of

communication, Miri! It is as if I gave you pellets, but failed of giving you the gun."

She closed her eyes; opened them. "You studied this Code-thing, right?"

"Right." He was watching her, very wary. "I grew up in the culture; studied the Code through

sleep-learning to correct my understanding of nuance; took what I had learned and shaped it in keeping

with my own melant'i. Your melant'i is not mine, Miri. I cannot teach you how to present it. But your

lifemate may counsel you on how best to guard it."

"Is there a book?" She was conscious of her breath— shortened and half-desperate—of blood pounding

in her ears and sweat on her palms. "Can I study it out of a book, and then you and me can work on the

accent?" Does it have to, HAVE to be sleep-learning, gods?

"The—book—is actually several volumes," Val Con said softly; "several large volumes. I used to stand

on them to reach the top shelf in my uncle's study, when I was a child."

"Must've been an easier way up than that," Miri said, half-grinning.

"There was," he said repressively; "but I was forbidden to climb the bookshelves. My uncle was quite

clear on the point."

She laughed. "That uncle of yours had his share of trouble."

"It is true that Shan and I tended to embrace—inappropriate—necessities," he murmured; "but Nova was

quite well-behaved as a child." A ripple of the shoulders. "Mostly."

Miri choked back another laugh. "What about the baby? Anthora? She as bad as the rest of you, or did

your uncle get some sleep?"

"Ah, well, Anthora has always been Anthora, you see. Her necessities are often on another plane

altogether." He tipped his head, green eyes very bright. "What distresses you, Miri?"

"I—" Hell, hell, HELL and damnation! Memory triggered and for an instant she was in the stifling

cubicle in Surebleak Port, fourteen, brain-burned and reeling; and the tech was telling Liz, "I'm sorry,

Commander. Doesn't look like she can take sleep-learning."

"Miri?" The fingers brushing her cheek were warm; out of the present, not the past. "Cha'trez, please."

"I can't." She swallowed; focused on his face. "Can't, boss, get it? Liz took me to a Learning Shop in

Surebleak Port to tack on Trade before we left planet. Damn near killed me. Tech said—said I couldn't

take it. Sleep-learning. Found out later that—defectives—can't take the—strain on their brains." She

managed a wobbling grin. "I know I'm not supposed to tell you I'm stupid…"

"Nor are you defective." He stroked her cheek, her forehead; lay his fingers lightly along her lips and then

let them drop, eyes troubled. "Tell me, were you given a physical before you took the program?"

She shook her head. "Just plugged in and left alone. It started to hurt—I remember screaming, trying to

rip the wires out—"

He frowned. "Why not use the dead-man switch?"

"What dead-man switch?"

Anger, jolting as an electric shock—his, not hers; then his voice, very calmly. "A dead-man switch is

required in all sleep-learning modules. Lack of the switch would cost a Learning Shop its license to

operate."

Miri closed her eyes, suddenly very tired. "So, who checks licenses on Surebleak?"

Silence; then a sigh and the warmth of his fingers closing around hers. "Let us go to the 'doc, cha'trez."

She stood quietly at his shoulder while he made the inquiry, in Trade, so she could read it: MIRI

ROBERTSON : PROGNOSIS FOR SLEEP LEARNING.

The autodoc took its time answering, lights flickering while it consulted its data banks. Miri Robertson

will insert her hand into the unit, it directed, a small slot opening to the right of the keypad.

Miri stuck her left hand in as far as it would go, felt the tingle; heard the chime and saw the words. Miri

Robertson WILL WITHDRAW HER HAND.

The slot closed and the screen cleared. More lights flickered. Then: Recuperation nearing completion.

Sleep-learning ALLOWED FOR MAXIMUM THREE-HOUR SHIFTS, NOT exceeding three shifts

per day; minimum break shifts two hours. Supplements suggested after each learning shift to insure

recuperation at current satisfactory rate. Dispensed below.

"I suggest," said Val Con softly, "that you are better nourished than you were at fourteen. I also suggest

that this module is properly tuned and equipped." He slipped the supplement pack out of the dispensary

and handed it to her. "An Agent is too valuable to lose to brain-burn; a failed mission far too high a price

to pay for faulty machinery."

She stared at him; turned to look at the module, complete with dead-man switch, open and ready to

receive her.

"Three hours?" It seemed like three centuries.

"It is the most efficient block of time," Val Con said gravely, and stroked her hair. "Miri, I swear that you

are in no danger."

She looked at him, remembering the pain and the burning and the terror. "It's really that important?" But

of course it was that important. He was her partner. It was his responsibility to see she had what she

needed to survive; what she needed for them both survive.

"OK," she said, and suddenly, desperately, reached up to kiss him. He hugged her tight.

"I will be watching," he murmured. "Malfunction triggers an alarm on the pilot's board. Use the switch, if

you feel any discomfort."

"Right." She stepped back, stuck the vitamin pack in her pouch and went over to the module. She lay

down and took a grip on the switch. Val Con lowered the lid.

The connectors slid out of the mattress and out of the canopy, stinging a little as they pierced her. Miri

closed her eyes against the starless black overhead, and let the program take her.

A two-toned chime was going off insistently in her left ear, gradually gaining volume. Miri opened her

eyes and sat up, blinking in bleared confusion at the nest-like unit, its black dome lid raised.

Right. Learning module.

She struggled out of the nest and took a couple of deep breaths, head clearing rapidly. Behind her the

chiming changed from a two-note chiding to a one-note demand. Frowning, she turned, saw the slip of

paper sticking out of the slot near the timer and yanked it free.

The chiming stopped.

Miri frowned at the paper. The words blurred out of focus; steadied: Absorption rate 98% overall.

Feedback accurate 99.8%. Self test consistent 98.4%.

Miri shook her head, remembered the packet of vitamins in her pouch and went to get something to wash

them down with.

Val Con was coming toward her as she entered the bridge and she froze, mind presenting a good dozen

ways to address him; combinations of bows and salutations branching off into a veritable jungle of

possibilities, none seeming more right than another. The combination for greeting a senior officer

presented itself and she grabbed it, executing the bow in barely proper time.

"Sir," she said, remembering to straighten before speaking, and to speak with the inflection of respectful

attention, "I have completed my session with the Instructor."

Both brows shot up before he returned her bow, briefly, and with subtle irony. Miri was dismayed;

recalled that one might accept idiosyncrasies of style, so long as they did not cross the line of what one's

own melant'i would tolerate.

"Ma'am," Val Con said, senior to junior, though with an undefinable under-inflection, which seemed to

echo the irony of his bow, "I am delighted to find your time with the Instructor so fruitfully spent.

However, I believe that the length and—intimacy—of our relationship might allow you use of my name."

"Yes, certainly…" But that combination did not arise and the more she scrambled to find a mode that

would allow it, the more confusion rose. She lost the timing of the conversation, shattered cadence and

art, was adrift in an echoing sea of inflection.

"Miri."

She looked up at him, helpless to choose from the endless and proliferating possibilities; unable to define

herself, since she could find no way to define him.

His hand closed over hers. "Miri. Stop worrying at it, cha'trez. Let it find its level and settle."

The Terran words wrenched her out of confusion; she sagged against him, suddenly aware that she had

been holding herself at full attention.

"I don't guess I learned how to just use somebody's name," she muttered.

He hugged her. "That's Low Liaden. 'Val Con-husband,' remember? Eh? And 'Val Con-love.' Much

nicer to hear from you than 'sir.' I thought I was in black disgrace."

She snorted a laugh. "Worried you, too."

"Certainly."

She laughed again and pulled away, shoving the piece of paper under his nose.

"Came out of the machine. Any idea what it means?"

"Ah." He slipped it from her fingers; read it with a nod. "On many worlds it would mean that you are a

genius, Miri. The module is set up to test gain and chart the student's recall. A defective person, for

Sharon Lee - Steve Miller - Liaden Universe 4 - Plan B

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: