by Sharon Lee
The Agent Gambit
BY SHARON LEE & STEVE MILLER
* * *
Baen Books by Sharon Lee & Steve Miller
The Liaden Universe®
Fledgling
Saltation
Mouse and Dragon
Ghost Ship (forthcoming)
The Dragon Variation (omnibus)
The Agent Gambit (omnibus)
The Fey Duology
Duainfey
Longeye
by Sharon Lee
Carousel Tides
* * *
THE AGENT GAMBIT
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
Agent of Change copyright © 1988 Steve Miller & Sharon Lee. Carpe Diem copyright © 1989 Steve Miller and Sharon Lee. Introduction © 2011 by Sharon Lee & Steve Miller.
Liaden Universe ® is a registered trademark.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
A Baen Book
Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
www.baen.com
ISBN: 978-1-4391-3407-8
Cover art by Alan Pollack
First Baen printing, January 2011
Distributed by Simon & Schuster
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lee, Sharon, 1952-
[Agent of change]
The agent gambit / by Sharon Lee & Steve Miller.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-4391-3407-8 (trade pbk. : alk. paper)
1. Liaden Universe (Imaginary place)--Fiction. 2. Assassins--Fiction. I.
Miller, Steve, 1950 July 31- II. Lee, Sharon, 1952- Carpe diem. III. Title.
PS3562.E3629A7 2011
813'.54--dc22
2010042807
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
INTRODUCTION
If The Agent Gambit is your first taste of the Liaden Universe®, welcome, and welcome to the club, because the two novels here effectively represent the way the authors came to the story.
At the time we wrote the first books in the series our lives revolved around cats, writing–and around chess–since Steve was President of the local chess club, a voting member of the United States Chess federation, and a working USCF tournament director. We sometimes couched our work in chessic terms, looking at variations of story ideas, using opening combinations of characters or ideas, and even as gambits–in chess, a kind of opening move or set of moves that has some risk and a lot of potential upside.
Our first intimation that there was a game afoot came back in 1985 or so when Sharon spent all day at the typewriter and came up with one sentence: The man who was not Terrence O'Grady had come quietly. Essentially a gambit: the story action is initially seen through the eyes of a minor character in the first short chapter, only getting to our protagonist's view in the second chapter. If that opening didn't grab the reader, they wouldn't buy the book. Thankfully, readers liked it.
We've shared the follow-up story to that sentence appearing elsewhere any number of times, but essentially we took the next 24 hours off from the mundane world and, agreeing there was more than short story or novel in this sentence, charted out seven books. What most concerns us here is not all seven, but these two: Agent of Change and Carpe Diem.
Agent of Change was written first, and it embodied (we hoped!) the essentials as we saw them: action, adventure, romance, and honor. While we envisioned a spy story and a hero who might move at the highest levels, we only nodded in passing at what spy stories looked like in 1985–there were gadgets (we wanted a science fiction book, right?) and there were spaceships. And along with the spy story tropes and the regency romance tropes (for we were playing as well as writing!) there was also a mix of hints from the back story we knew and the front story we wanted to write. Those complexities came in part from the use of language (we hope you'll be patient with adding a few words to your vocabulary) and from odd societies seen from the inside, where the reader once in awhile must take our word that this is how it works. Please enjoy, and understand that many of those little references to songs, or jokes, are on purpose.
We finished Agent of Change where it ends now, though the original opening chapter or two were edited and rewritten heavily once the book was sold. It took several years for the first Liaden novel to find a home, though, and in the interim, we went on, having left (as you first timers will discover) our two main characters in a bit of a pickle.
Going on was Carpe Diem, which is also in the book or file in front of you. Without putting too many spoilers into the intro, let us say that our main characters had thought themselves comfortable, and then discovered that they were not, and could not be, as things were developing. For one thing, they were located on a world far from where either of them wanted or needed to be. For another thing, there was the problem of having two strong-willed people with various sorts of battle trauma to deal with. We still played with words, added more about the rest of the clans and had fun.
Carpe Diem works with a number of our usual themes: honor, romance, adventure–but it also explores deeper questions–like how do soldiers break training and become human again, and what happens when man needing breakfast faces a broken toaster.
Baen will be releasing two more Liaden Universe® reprint omnibi: the previously mentionecd Korval's Game (including Plan B and I Dare) and The Crystal Variation (including Crystal Soldier, Crystal Dragon, and Balance of Trade). These next five novels are mostly adventure and Space Opera, with three of them following after the original seven-book story arc we'd started with. All are character-driven; all were fun to write and, we hope, fun to read.
In addition to the reprints which include the already issued The Dragon Variation, Baen has-or-will-be publishing four more Liaden Universe® novels: Fledgling, and Saltation, the story of Theo Waitley; and Mouse and Dragon, the sequel to Scout's Progress, as well as Ghost Ship, the direct sequel to both I Dare and Saltation.
If this is your first encounter with a Liaden Universe® book- welcome. If you're an old friend, stopping by for a revisit-we're very glad to see you.
Thank you.
Sharon Lee and Steve Miller
Waterville Maine
September 2010
AGENT OF
CHANGE
A Liaden Universe® Novel
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 remar
kable 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 skintuning? 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 wa
s 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.
