by Ann Wilson
Produced by Al Haines
+------------------------------------------------------+ | This work is licenced under a Creative Commons | | Attribution-Non-Commercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 | | Licence. | | | | https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/ | +------------------------------------------------------+
AMBUSH
A Terran Empire vignette
by Ann Wilson
Copyright (C) 1992 by Ann Wilson
Palace Complex, 2578 CE
It wouldn't be easy ferreting out the identity of the field agent who'dsaved his bio-father's life twelve years ago. It wasn't supposed to beeasy--ideally, it would be impossible--and Nevan was sure he owed hisown life, perhaps several times over, to the Imperial safeguards he wastrying to break. More, he understood why those safeguards wouldn't berelaxed even to allow an ex-agent to search out a still-active one--buthe had what he considered two excellent reasons to do exactly that.
The first was that his bio-father had died, and had wanted Nevan togive the anonymous agent his personal weapons: two forearm throwingknives, a belt knife, and a needler. The one he had sworn fealty tohad agreed that his father's wish made it a matter of honor that hetry, and had given him permission--but on condition that he use onlyhis own training and skills, taking no advantage of the fact that hewas sworn to one of the most powerful people in the Empire. Nevan wascertain in his own mind that if he failed, she would see that the agentgot the weapons intended for him, but his thakur's overt reason foragreeing was that it would make a good test of IntelDiv's security. Ifhe were arrested, she would have him released and commend the peoplewho had done it; if he got through, she would have security procedurestightened. Neither paid serious attention to the fact that if he werecaught under certain circumstances she would have no chance to protecthim; he would be shot on sight.
Nevan thought that perfectly reasonable. He was a Sandeman warrior,after all, and his thakur was an Irschchan; risks were a normal part oflife for both of them, to be accepted and even savored for the spicethey added.
He had done all he could here, in the Records Section; he lowered hismind-shield and reached out. *Thakur?*
Her answer was prompt, and he smiled to himself, enjoying the coolclarity of her mind-touch. *What results, thakur-na?* she asked.
*About what we expected. Kelly told me the agent was Logistics Officerat a base on Piper's World during the Traiti counter-attacks there, buthe never told me which base, and the description he gave fits five ofthem. I was able to eliminate two of those because the LogisticsOfficers were female--but that still leaves three. I'm going to haveto go under cover to find the right one.*
He "heard" the amused purr that was the Irschchan version of a laugh.*A return to the field work you enjoy so must be a terrible sacrifice,my Nevan.*
Nevan let his thoughts lapse into High War Speech, chuckling. *Nay,Thakur, as thou knowest well--save that it does mean I must conceal thymark, lest it identify me and make thy object in this attempt no truetest.*
*Aye, but it should not be for long.*
*And I knew when I swore that I might have to do it,* Nevan agreed.*Until my success or failure, then.*
Three days later he was far from Terra, the violet-flower tattoo on hischeek concealed by synthiskin, in a small Kanchatka-class courier ship.That was a definite luxury for a private individual, though notunreasonable for a Sandeman warrior who'd done well securing privateemployment and wanted more--who was, in short, a very good, veryexpensive hired killer. There weren't many, granted; killing for itsown sake wasn't highly regarded on Sandeman, especially if anythingmore honorable was available, but there were enough to make his coverplausible.
This, he had decided, was going to be fun.
* * * * *
A couple of days later, he was less sure. He'd come away from thePalace Complex with as much solid data as he'd ever had starting amission, and with as much enthusiasm, but he'd begun feeling less thancomfortable about this one. Part of it was because he was pursuingsomeone he would probably like to have as a friend; the unknown agentdidn't deserve to be hunted, though Nevan had to reluctantly concedethat it was probably the best way to accomplish his thakur's mission.The other part was that he couldn't seem to decide whether or not hereally wanted to catch his target. He wanted to make sure the weaponswere delivered, yes, and since his chosen lady wanted a good test ofIntelDiv's security, he had to want it too--but he wasn't happy aboutwhat those desires implied: It was almost inevitable that he'd have touse some of a field agent's less savory skills. He'd used them before,often enough, and without qualms--against the Empire's enemies. He hadnever used them against people who had done nothing to deserve suchtreatment, and he didn't really want to.
He didn't have any choice, though. He would do whatever proved to benecessary to accomplish his objectives.
* * * * *
Three weeks, five planetfalls, and almost 1500 light-years of routinechecking later, Nevan discovered his quarry's name: Kiyoshi Owajima.So far he'd had to resort to nothing more drastic than reading andcasual conversation, but learning he was after Owajima left him bothdisgusted at the gods' whimsical ordering of things and positive thatthings would be getting unpleasant rather shortly. He'd never metOwajima, though he'd wanted to, and when Nevan had left IntelDiv onswearing fealty to Ranger Losinj, Owajima had taken over the top fieldagent rating. Owajima was no Sandeman, but IntelDiv rumor had himclose; he was supposed to have been a Kai-school ninja before joiningthe Corps, and his exploits since hadn't done anything to contradictthe rumor. Nevan scowled at that; he hated having to depend on rumor.Doing that tended to get agents killed--but unless you worked in theclassified section of Personnel Records or knew the agent personally,rumor was all you'd have on one. And in Owajima's case, as in Nevan'sown, there wasn't even much rumor.
* * * * *
Kiyoshi Owajima concealed a scowl when he finished decoding hisinformant's message and read it. He had a pursuer, it seemed--aSandeman warrior named Vance DarLowrie, and the informant was convincedDarLowrie was one of the rare, expensive, and fearsome Sandemanfree-lance assassins. That conviction was strengthened by the fact thatDarLowrie had his own ship, the Last Resort, and it was registered tohim personally rather than to Clan Lowrie. The Sandeman would neitherconfirm nor deny that occupation, of course, but the simple fact thathe was attempting to trace an IntelDiv field agent lent still furthercredence to the informant's conclusion.
Owajima would have liked more information, but it seemed prudent to acton the informant's suspicions. The Sandeman had filed a flight planfor Olathe, where Owajima had spent some time and built up arespectable net; that seemed most promising. It was unfortunate,Owajima thought, that he was unable to investigate DarLowrie himself;that would have to wait until he was finished with the final touches onhis present case, a matter of a day or two.
Still, he could begin making preparations. He would be entitled to aleave after this mission, and he had planned to take it at home onNippon-Ni; that was now an even better idea. His contacts on his homeworld made his networks elsewhere, good as they were, seem likechildren's clubs--and it should not be difficult at all to permitDarLowrie to "discover" those intentions. It would undoubtedly beunpleasant for the one he discovered them from, since it was unlikelyDarLowrie would believe information he obtained too easily.
That, however, was not a serious problem; a number of his Olathenetwork owed him enough that he could call on them even for such aservice. It would take DarLowrie perhaps a week to
reach Olathe,another week and a half to get to Nippon-Ni; that would give Owajimatime to make adequate preparations, then visit with his family forseveral days. He smiled to himself, transmitted the necessarymessages, and returned his attention to his immediate mission.
* * * * *
Nevan entered the Lucky Bull, a medium-priced bar near the Olathe Cityspaceport, and ordered a glass of chocolate milk before finding a tablenear the rear of the main room. In the early days after Annexation,he'd heard, bars had carried alcoholic beverages almost exclusively,and Sandemans were made fun of for drinking only the non-alcoholicvariety, but by the time he'd started frequenting bars as an excellentsource of information, the sweet high-energy beverages Sandemanspreferred were as normal as alcohol.
If he had Owajima figured correctly, someone at one of his last two orthree stops should have been in his
