The Agent Gambit

by Sharon Lee

  "Have you a problem, Miri Robertson?"

  "Yeah. I do. The problem is that I don't know why you're helping me. Your logic don't hold up. If you were Connor Phillips, why can't you be him again, find a ship, and go away? You can get out of it! The Juntavas don't know who you are-what kind of description can they have? That you're short? Skinny? Dark?" She moved her shoulders to throw off some of the tension.

  "The clincher is that you're with me. Without me they look-" She spread her arms. "-and they look away."

  The equation had formed in his head, showing him how he might get away, her death balancing his escape. She knew much about him and could be a danger. In fact, he thought, if I-no! He forced the Loop back and down, refusing to know how useful she would be, dead.

  Setting his empty glass aside, he began to read the breakfast selections.

  She studied his profile, but saw nothing more than polite interest in the information imparted by the selection grid.

  "Well?" she demanded.

  He lifted a slender hand to select an egg dish, then glanced at her. "I think that last night's reasoning is sound. The Juntavas may have an imperfect description of me. Or they may have a photo image. I cannot afford to ignore that possibility."

  Another equation showed itself, this one concerning not her death, but her betrayal. It noted that it was an approximation; the odds were good that her life would buy his own from the Juntavas.

  The long lashes dropped over his eyes and he turned back to the panel, choosing hot bread and a fruit. Gathering the plates from the dispenser, he moved back to the table and took the seat across from Miri.

  She got up silently, selected a slightly stronger brew of Terran coffee, and returned to her chair.

  "So where does that leave me? Instead of wanted by the Juntavas, I'm a political prisoner of Liad, right?"

  He shook his head, attention seemingly more than half occupied by slicing a ripe strafle into two equal portions. He offered her half. When she made no move to take it, he placed it on the table by her hands."Where does that leave things?" she insisted, an edge in her voice.

  "I think," he replied, swallowing a mouthful of eggs, "that it leaves things where they were in the beginning. We are thrown together. We wish to live. Already each of us has brought something useful to the task of surviving. If we are fortunate, we shall live through the experience. In fact, we make our own fortune simply by doing what must be done, as it needs to be done."

  He took a bite of bread, frowned as he reached for the glass that wasn't there, and combed a hand through his forelock, sighing.

  "Mutual survival being the goal, I think you should tell me about these people-the man who owes you money and the friend who keeps your things-so that we may plan usefully."

  He pushed back his chair and went to ask the chef for more milk.

  Miri drank coffee, acutely aware of the weight of the gun in her pocket. She understood about mutual survival: it was why so many of the Gyrfalks had partners. Trust wasn't something that came easily to her; still it was obvious that her companion knew what he was doing in a tight spot.

  "Okay," she said slowly. "The man who owes me money-that's Murph. Angus G. Murphy. The third. He was in my unit in the Merc. Decided he couldn't take all the killing." She smiled at the man across from her. "Thought there'd be lots of glory and romance. Anyhow, he wanted out, and it was safer to have him out, if he felt that way about it."

  Val Con ate, watching her face as she spoke.

  "So, I lent him most of his severance money," Miri continued, "with the understanding that he'd pay it back with interest in three Standards. Been damn near four."

  She leaned farther back in the chair, leaving the untouched fruit between them like a challenge. He did not appear to see it.

  "Murph is recalcitrant?"

  "Absent," she corrected. "Address listed in the poploc. Nobody home." She shook her head. "I didn't have time to buttonhole all the neighbors. Somehow, from the way I remembered him, I figured he'd be home." She sipped her coffee.

  "The friend who's keeping my things is Liz. Friend of my mother's, first. Lives closer to where we met than where we are now. Plan is to call her, make sure she's home and gonna stay there so I can drop by and pick up my box."

  "And then pursue the search for the absent Murph?"

  "Say!" she said, opening her eyes wide and smiling. "You've got almost as many smarts as a real person!"

  To her surprise, he laughed-a sound oddly at variance with his tightly controlled face and unemphatic voice. There was joy in his laugh. Miri filed that information away with the echoes of the music he'd pulled from the 'chora.

  "The best course," he said, "is for you to call your friend Liz and explain that you will need your things. Explain also that you will not be coming yourself but will be sending an associate-"

  "Wrong."

  He shook his head. "Consider it. The risk is less-they may know me; they do know you. And in the time it takes me to accomplish the errand you may be profitably employed in locating Murph." He waved his hand toward the common room.

  "The comm is quite adequate. The planet is at your disposal."

  She stared into the dregs of her coffee, considering it. Her own life was one thing, but to gamble Liz on the feeling that an undoubtedly deadly stranger meant her well? A Liaden stranger, just for fun. Liadens were known for playing deep: it seemed a source of racial pride. Miri closed her eyes.

  Judgement call, Robertson, she said to herself. You trust him at your back or you don't.

  She opened her eyes. "Liz hates Liadens."

  The straight brows pulled together, his mouth nearly twisted, and he thumped the half-full glass on the table.

  "It seems that all the galaxy hates Liadens," he said. He pushed his chair back to balance on two legs, taking a sharp bite out of his strafle.

  Somehow, that decided it. Miri rose, deposited her cup in the clean-up slot and headed to the big room.

  "I'll call her," she said over her shoulder.

  Liz was at home. She was also unhappy to learn that Miri would be sending her "partner," rather than coming to collect the box herself.

  "Since when have you had a partner, anyway?" she wanted to know, brown eyes shrewd. "You always played single's odds."

  "Times change," Miri told her, trying to sound as if they had.

  Liz snorted, eyes softening. "How much trouble you in?"

  "More'n last week, less than next. You know how it goes."

  Liz did know; she'd been a mercenary herself, after all.

  "It can stay here, you know. Might slow you down if you need to get a move on."

  "That's so," Miri said. "But I'm going on the Grand Tour. No telling-"

  "When you'll be back," Liz finished for her. "Okay, send your partner around. Description? Or do I just hand it over to the first slob says they're here for Redhead's box?"

  She grinned. "Short, I guess. Skinny, maybe. Brown hair-needs to be cut. Green eyes. Male." She bit her lip and looked Liz full in the face. "Liaden."

  But, to Miri's surprise, Liz only nodded. "I'll be watching for him. Take care of yourself, girl." Her image faded.

  Miri turned away from the comm to see Val Con behind her, positioned so that he could see the screen, yet not be seen himself. He had exchanged his coverall for dark leathers and dark shirt. A worn belt was around his waist; equally well-used boots were on his feet.

  He did not appear to be armed.

  Miri opened her mouth, remembered the primitive little blade that had saved her life, and closed her mouth without comment.

  "Your friend expects me."

  "You heard it." She hesitated. "Make sure nobody follows you there, okay? Liz and my mother . . . " She moved her hands, shapelessly. "Liz is all the family I got."

  His smile flickered into being. "I will be careful." He gestured, enclosing the apartment in a hand-sweep.

  "This is a secure place. There is no need for you to leave. No need for you to let anyone
in. I let myself out and let myself back in. You are free to search for Murph via the comm. It is scrambled and traceless."

  She tipped her head to one side. "You're telling me I'm safe?"

  He half-smiled, shoulders dipping in a gesture she was unsure of. "Forgive me," he murmured, "but, yes, I think so."

  She grinned, shaking her head as she turned back to the comm.

  "Just get me that box without getting killed, okay? I'll have Murph nailed by the time you get back."

  "Okay."

  She turned in time to see the door to the hallway closing behind him.

  THE CALL TO the residence of Mr. Angus G. Murphy III was less than satisfying. Mr. Murphy's direct-comm had been temporarily disconnected, the visual told Miri, and messages might be left at another number. She dialed that number, found it to be an answering service, and broke the blank-screen connection instantly.

  "Don't call me, I'll call you," she muttered, frowning. It would be best if he didn't know she was on-world.

  Well, it would have to be the neighbors, then, though she disliked that tack. With her luck, the next-door neighbor would be a local Juntavas boss, with her picture on his desk. She could blank the screen, of course, but who would give info to a blank screen?

  Blank screen was out, she decided. But her own face was also out.

  She snapped forward in frowning study of the commboard. Fancy, she decided, after a few minutes. Sire Baldwin had had no better in his palatial home. Leaning back and letting her eyes rest on the understated luxury of the room around her, she was reminded that money and taste were very different matters. After all, look at the lovers Baldwin would bring home.

  Suddenly grinning, she bounced to her feet and ran to her sleeping quarters.

  Standing before the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the valet-room, she let down her hair and combed it straight. A few moments later the valet supplied a quantity of glittering jeweled pins and nets to confine the whirls, knots, and bunches the copper-colored mass had assumed. Likewise, she obtained cosmetics, gilded earbobs, rings of eight different sizes and metals, and a necklet of glazed silver flowers.

  After some thought, she decided the coverall was just right for the occasion, but she unsealed the neck seam a little farther-and a little farther again, after consulting the mirror. She grinned at her reflection, paused to add just a dash more emphasis under each eye, and headed back to the comm.

  SHE CHOSE A firm with its single office in the most prestigious of high-rent facilities. Setting her face into what she hoped was simpering unease, she punched up the code.

  "Mylander and Zanthal Collections," the receptionist told her.

  Miri stretched her mouth in a closed-lip smile. "Good afternoon," she said in her best Yark accent. "I'd like to talk to somebody about-'bout this guy, see? He owes me a bundle an' won't pay."

  The receptionist blinked, then recovered. "Why, surely. I'm certain that our Mr. Farant would be delighted-"

  "Naw," Miri said. "Naw. Look, honey, this is-delicate, y'know? You got a woman up there can talk to me?" She stretched her mouth into the unsmiling rictus again. "Girl stuff, honey. You know."

  The receptionist swallowed. "Well, there is Ms. Mylander."

  "Aw, geez," Miri protested. "Not the boss herself?"

  "Not exactly," the receptionist admitted, shakily. "Ms. Susan Mylander is Ms. Lavinia Mylander's granddaughter."

  "Oh! Well, hey, that's great! I'd be real pleased to have a little girl-talk with Susan, honey. You just tell her Amabel Gleason's on the screen, okay?"

  "Certainly, Ms. Gleason," the receptionist said, falling back on the comforts of training. "If you'll hold just one moment-" The screen offered an abstract in soft pastels to soothe Miri's eyes while she waited. She moved a hand, pushed two keys, and settled back into an attitude of watchful expectation.

  The screen cleared after a time sufficient for the receptionist to have located Ms. Mylander and imparted all the details of her caller's manner, with embellishments. Miri performed her smile for the dark young woman in sober business attire.

  "Ms. Gleason?" the young woman asked. Her accent was the cultivated drawl of the elite.

  Miri ducked her head. "Ms. Mylander, it really is nice of you to talk to me and everything. I just didn't know where to turn, y'know, and when that pretty young lady who answers your phone said you were in-" She fluttered her jeweled hands, rings flashing. "Some things you just gotta talk to another woman about."

  "Indeed," the other woman said. "And just what did you wish to speak with me about, Ms. Gleason?"

  "Well, Ms. Mylander. I-could I call you Susan? I mean, you're so friendly and everything-" Miri leaned forward, jumpsuit gaping.

  The woman in the screen took a deep breath. "If it makes you feel better, Ms. Gleason, by all means call me Susan."

  "Thanks. So, Susan, there's this guy, y'know," Miri waved her hands again, rolling her eyes. "There's always a guy, ain't there? Anyway, we date for awhile and he likes me and I like him Okay-I mean, he's got some money, an' a steady job on the shuttle as a grease-ape. Don't mind buying a girl a few presents, taking her out to nice places . . . ." Miri shrugged, taking her time about it. "Asks me to marry him-standard hetero contract; progeny clause says he'll take care of any kids we have while we're married, even if we don't re-up." She paused.

  "I am familiar with the standard co-habitation/progeny contract, Ms. Gleason. Did you sign it?"

  "Well, yeah, we did. I moved into his place. 'Bout three months later, shows I'm pregnant. I figure everything's okay, 'cause of the progeny clause-" She broke off, bowing her head sharply and raising a hand to wipe at her eyes. "Bastard walked out on me."

  There was a short silence. Miri raised her head again, bravely displaying her smile.

  "I don't quite understand, Ms. Gleason, what this has to do with Mylander and Zanthal," Susan Mylander said with professional puzzlement.

  "I'm gettin' to that," Miri said, visibly getting a grip on herself. "It's that he left. Contract had three years to run. I have the baby and he says forget it, contract's no good, 'cause it ain't his kid!"

  "Is it?" Ms. Mylander asked, staring in what seemed to be fascination.

  Miri wriggled her shoulders. "I think so. 'Course, there's a problem with it being so close to the time we signed and all. I didn't know he was gonna propose contract and-well, I ain't dead, y'know, Susan. An' grease-apes work the shuttle two weeks on, two weeks off."

  "I'm still not sure I understand why you need a collection agency, Ms. Gleason."

  "He owes me money," Miri cried, voice rising. He signed a contract said he'd pay for any of his brats I had while we were married. Could've been his as much as anybody else's. An' we were married." She took a deep breath and let her voice even out a little. "He owes me a bundle of cash. An' he says he won't pay. That's why I need a collection agency, Ms. Mylander. To get my money for me."

  "I-see." Ms. Mylander paused. "Ms. Gleason, I'm afraid that you do not need a collection agency at this point. What I advise you to do is engage legal counsel. If you speak to a lawyer, and he deems it proper for you to bring suit against your husband for breach of contract, wins the case for you and has your husband ordered to pay you a specified sum, and if your husband then refuses to pay that sum, Mylander and Zanthal will be happy to assist you." She steepled her fingers under her chin. "You must really engage counsel first, though, Ms. Gleason, and abide by the judgment of the courts as to whether your husband is responsible for your child or is liable for voiding the contract. We are not able to help you with those matters."

  "Oh," Miri said, bright mouth turning down at the corners. She forced another horrible smile, though her face was beginning to ache. "Well, that's fine, then, Susan. I know a couple lawyers. Real go-getters." She bent to the screen once more and reached out as if to touch the other woman's hand.

  Ms. Mylander was made of stern stuff. She did not flinch from the impossible caress, though her mouth tightened.

  "Thanks an awful
lot for your help, Susan," Miri cooed, and hit DISCONNECT.

  She laughed for five minutes, leaning back in the embracing cushions and howling, tears running out the corners of her made-up eyes. When she was sure she could navigate, she went to the kitchen for a cup of coffee.

  Resuming her seat in front of the comm, she began to edit her tape.

  LIZ ANSWERED THE DOOR herself and stood looking down at him.

  Val Con made the bow of youth to age, straightening to find her still frowning at him from her height.

  "I am here," he said softly, "for Miri's box."

  Wordless, she pulled the door wider and let him in. After making sure the locks were engaged, she led him down a short, dark hallway to a bright living room. He stood in the entranceway as she moved to what seemed the only chair-indeed the only surface-not piled high with booktapes.

  "Come here, Liaden." It was a command, delivered harshly.

  He made his soundless way across the room and stopped before her, hands folded loosely.

  She surveyed him silently and he returned the favor, noting the dark hair shot with gray, the lines about mouth and eyes, the eyes themselves, and the chin. This was, he saw, a person used to command, who knew command as responsibility.

  "You're here for Miri's box."

  "Yes, Eldema," he said gently, giving her the courtesy title of the First Speaker of a Clan.

  She snorted. "Tell me Liaden: Why should I trust you?"

  He raised his brows. "Miri-"

  "Trusts you," she cut in, "because you're beautiful. It's a fault comes with growing up where nothing's beautiful and everything's dangerous-real different from sunny Liad."

  He stood at rest, waiting.

  Liz moved her head sharply. "So, you grow up on a world like Surebleak, manage, somehow, to get off, finally encounter beauty. And you want to give it every chance. You don't want to believe that a pretty rat's still a rat. That it'll bite you, just as sure." She clamped her mouth into a straight line.

  Val Con waited.

  "I don't care if you got three heads, each one uglier than the next," she snapped. "I want to know why I should trust you."