The Agent Gambit

by Sharon Lee

  "And with you, old friend." She cut the connection, slapped the go-stud, and hit the sequence: Jump!

  Leaning back in her chair, she blinked at the Jump-grayed screens and caught herself on the edge of a reminiscent chuckle.

  An entire year on Liad, she thought, resuming her tirade. And then what? Return to the Scouts, ready-eager-to go out again; wanting nothing better than to fling myself out into the vast Uncharted, for the glory of Liad and a much-needed rest . . .

  "Scout Lieutenant, First In, Shadia Ne'Zame," her orders had read, "upon return to active duty will, for the next three months Standard, occupy herself with observation of Interdicted Planets (list appended), tagging for pickup any and all flotsam of a possibly technological nature, listening and noting significant cultural advances or declines . . ."

  "The garbage run?" she had demanded of the captain behind the desk.

  He had shrugged elaborately. "Somebody has to do it." His comm had chimed then, and he had turned away, leaving Shadia to stew and finally walk away. Orders were orders, after all . . .

  And now Clonak ter'Meulen and his sheer nonsense, with orders to report to Aux 'quarters when the garbage run was finished. Faint hint of some action there. Shadia allowed herself a smile and wondered if he would be on Nev'lorn, after all.

  SHALTREN:

  Cessilee

  "Aged Ones, I regret most deeply that I have found no cause to change my opinion." There was no artwork upon the walls here, and the conference table was of unadorned steel. Grom Trogar folded his hands upon the cold surface and met the eyes of the one called Edger.

  "I see," that person boomed gravely. "And have you gathered further facts, Grom Trogar? Have you spoken with Justin Hostro, your kinsman, and demanded of him a fuller accounting?"

  "I have all the information I require from Justin Hostro. I repeat that the decision of the Juntavas remains unchanged."

  The words clashed upon Sheather's ears like crystal crying out under intolerable stress, and at his side, the T'carais sighed, most gently.

  "In that wise, I, T'carais of the Knife Clan of Middle River, demand to be heard by the full council of Elders of Clan Juntavas. Satisfaction has not been gained; our talks describe circles, encompassing nothing. The lives of my sister and my brother, brief or long, are of far too much importance to hang upon your whim."

  Grom Trogar smiled. "Aged One, you speak at this moment to the highest authority possible within the Juntavas. There is no Council of Elders: My voice speaks the final law." He spread his hands flat on the cold tabletop. "You have no recourse."

  There was a pause, very brief, as Clutch measure such things.

  "Grom Trogar," Edger said, and Sheather blinked in solemn amazement at the patience that the hastiest of their Clan could bring to bear, "it appears you consider us fools. Am I an eggling, to believe that a Clan which spans worlds has at its nexus one individual, whose solitary judgment-"

  The intercom chimed overhead, and the receptionist's light, hasty voice skated above Edger's bass rumble. "Mr. Trogar? I am sorry to disturb you, sir, but the delegation from Stelubia has arrived."

  "Thank you." Grom Trogar pushed back from the table and bowed with heartfelt irony to the two Clutch members, who were much worse than children. Oh, much worse than fools! "Aged Ones-indulge me. This business is quite urgent and will be but a matter of moments. Pray remain here, and we will continue our discussions when I return."

  He was gone then, as if their permission were assured, the door opening and closing behind him with a snap.

  The spirit of his sister rising in his heart, Sheather rose, went to the door, laid his hand against the mechanism, and then took it away. "Brother, the door is locked."

  "Yes," the T'carais said, with great sadness. "I felt that it might be."

  VANDAR:

  Springbreeze Farm

  "What a beautiful morning!" Zhena Trelu exclaimed in surprise. The sun glittered, achingly bright, off the snow on the scuppin-house roof; the sky was cloudless and deeply blue; the iced shrubbery shivered in the very slightest of breezes. Such a day was a gift in midwinter.

  Zhena Trelu pulled on a heavy sweater and a skirt instead of the trousers she usually wore around the house, combed her hair, and left the bedroom with a positive spring in her step, already compiling a list in her head.

  Meri and Corvill were in the kitchen ahead of her, as usual; Cory was seated in a chair, shoulders hunched, as his wife worked on his hair with comb and scissors.

  "Sit up!" she said in Benish as Zhena Trelu went across to the stove for a cup of tea. "How can I see what to do when you hunch? I should cut your head off, yes?"

  "My hair is fine," Cory protested weakly.

  Meri snorted. "Very fine. So fine you don't see to play." She bent until her nose nearly touched his. "You look like Borril," she whispered loudly.

  "No!" Cory recoiled in mock horror.

  The girl stepped back, eyeing him consideringly. "No," she agreed finally. "Borril's much prettier." She came close again and put a small hand under his chin, coaxing his head up. "I promise it not hurt. I do it very fast."

  Sighing, he allowed his head to be raised, though he screwed his eyes shut with exaggerated tightness. Grinning, Meri wielded comb and scissors, trimming the lock that fell across his forehead back to touch the straight brows. A few more deft snips took care of the ragged sides, though she left his hair long enough to cover his ears, to Zhena Trelu's dissatisfaction. It really ought to have been another two inches shorter; and a mustache would have been a great improvement.

  Meri stepped back, nodded, and moved a hand to rumple his thick, shiny mop. "I think you live."

  He opened his eyes and raised his hands to feel his new haircut. Meri leaned across the table and yanked the toaster toward him.

  "Look!" she directed. "Honorable, I am. My word is good." Cory regarded his reflection in the toaster's side, then looked up with a grin. "Thank you, cha'trez. Not Borril now?"

  "Very pretty now," she assured him, smiling, and moved across the room to put the scissors and comb away inside the dish closet. "Good morning, Zhena Trelu."

  "Good morning, Meri." She sipped her tea, eyes on the beautiful, bright day outside the kitchen window. "Children," she said, "a day like this needs to be used. I'm going in to town to pick up some supplies, maybe stop at the library . . . There's some stuff it sure will be nice to have, when the weather turns serious." She brought her gaze back to the kitchen and the two young people before her. "Cory, I'm going to need you to carry things."

  "Yes, Zhena Trelu," he murmured, setting the toaster carefully back in its accustomed place.

  She sipped tea, knowing that her next words would disappoint Meri. The child did love books. But the truck had a limited amount of space, and the list in her head had grown to alarming proportions. Her shopping trip had begun to look like an all-day affair.

  "Meri, dear, I'm afraid you'll have to stay home this time. There won't be enough room in the truck." Not looking at the girl, Zhena Trelu hurried on. "You tell Cory what you want from the library, all right? And if the two of you need anything else." She finished her tea and set the cup in the sink to be washed. "I'll be ready to leave in a couple minutes, Cory." She went off down the hall to get paper and pencil.

  Miri looked at her husband. "She really does like you best."

  "Not so," he replied, standing and stretching. "It is only the labor of my muscle-bound body she desires. You she perceives as intellectual." He bowed profoundly. "What will you have from the library, O sage?"

  She grinned. "Oh, you know, whatever looks good-oops!" She brought fingers to her forehead. "Nearly forgot. You better take back the ones I got last time." She was already on her way out of the kitchen.

  Grinning, he wandered over to the stove and poured himself a cup of tea. Miri's reading habits were amazing: science, gardening, murder mysteries, poetry-he had forgotten half the subjects covered by the last batch of books she had foraged. She had read each with se
rious concentration; gods alone knew how she managed to keep track of it all. His own tendency was to pick one or two subjects at a time and read through the levels available until he felt himself to have a clear fundamental understanding of the principles involved. Fiction had been a pleasure of his youth, sharply curtailed by school and then by duty.

  He turned as she came back into the room, arms full of books, including the six he had borrowed. "You forgot!"

  He sighed. "Forgive me, cha'trez. But you forget how very old I am-memory is the first to go, I am told."

  She laughed, dumping the collection on the table, then turned and looked at him seriously. "You need gloves, boss. Tell Zhena Trelu so, okay? She wants you to fetch and carry, your hands oughta be warm."

  "And you?" he asked. "I do not recall that you have gloves."

  "I'll keep," she began. But Zhena Trelu was already calling down the hall for Cory to come along.

  Sighing, he poured out the last of his tea and set the cup in the sink. He pulled his jacket from its peg and shrugged it on as he came back to Miri's side. Seriously he measured her fingers against his own before dropping a kiss on her palm.

  "I will see what may be done," he said. "Keep well, cha'trez-and mind you protect Borril from strangers."

  She laughed and hugged him as the truck's asthmatic horn wheezed peevishly at the back stairs. Val Con gathered up the books and dashed out the back door, letting it slam behind him.

  Miri drifted to the window and watched the truck make its careful way down the drive and turn cautiously into the road. Borril groaned from his rug by the stove-the only sound in the house.

  "Work to do, Robertson," she said against the silence. Then she smiled. Zhena Trelu was gone; there was no reason that the radio in the parlor should not be turned up as loud as possible.

  Encouraged by that thought, she made her soundless way down the hall. Kneeling on the ottoman, she turned the control until it clicked and waited for the machine to warm up.

  The announcer's voice gabbled into existence, and Miri strained her ears for the sense of it. Something about-Bassilans? and armies? The professional whine of the newsman's voice, along with the crackle of static, defeated her. She twisted the numbered dial: Voices talking. Voices singing. Voices, voices-music. She stopped turning the dial and listened. Music, indeed, and of a variety that could claim kinship with the type of music Hakan made. Good enough, she decided, and upped the volume.

  Then she was on her way back to the kitchen, rolling up her sleeves in anticipation of washing the dishes.

  Zhena Trelu drove with precision unmarred by confidence. The last snow had been some days earlier, and the road was clear. There were, however, occasional patches of ice on the surface, and Zhena Trelu navigated the truck over each as if one wrong breath would buy them disaster.

  Val Con considered the side of her face, decided that talking would only make her more nervous, and directed his attention to the day.

  It was fine, though very cold, and he was briefly, intensely, grateful for the warmth of the clothing he wore. Liad was a warm place, after all, though he had been on worlds far chillier than Gylles in midwinter, and he found he preferred being warm to being cold.

  The truck slowed; apparently Zhena Trelu was even more distrustful of the covered bridge than of the occasionally icy road. He hardly blamed her. The wooden structure rattled and groaned unnervingly, no matter what the season, seeming to threaten imminent collapse. But, once again, the truck made safe passage and, beyond the bridge, leapt ahead at nearly twenty-five miles an hour.

  Val Con shifted on the seat squinting as a sunbeam, deflected by an icicle, stabbed into his eyes. On a rise to the right, a cluster of cows grazed the scant, winter grass; though they looked even less like the animals he had learned, as a child, to call "cows" than Borril looked like a dog.

  Come home.

  Startled, he considered the thought. Go home? But surely-

  Home. The thought was insistent, strongly flavored with hunch. Danger at home.

  The breath caught in his throat then, and he sent his awareness to touch the spot that still sang, untroubled: Alive-and-well . . .

  And yet his hunch; always played, never in error: Danger. Danger at home.

  Zhena Trelu turned the truck onto Main Street, and Val Con forced himself to breathe deeply, to consider both messages dispassionately. It was true that one could be in danger and yet be alive-be well.

  The truck pulled to the curb, and Zhena Trelu turned off the switch and removed the keys.

  "Zhena Trelu," he said quickly, almost breathlessly. "We must go home. Now."

  She stared at him. "We just got here. There's a lot to do before we go home." Her face softened somewhat. "Meri's all right, Cory. Like as not, she's pleased to have the house to herself for the day."

  "Meri is all right," he agreed, keeping his voice even and firm. "But there is danger at home, and she must not face it alone."

  The old lady's face grew stern. "Poppycock," she decided, opening her door.

  "Zhena Trelu," he began again, strongly tempted merely to take the keys from her.

  "No!" she snapped, getting out of the truck and glaring at him from street level. "Now stop wasting my time, Cory. The faster we get everything done, the faster we'll be able to go home." She slammed the door.

  Wincing at the sound, Val Con worked the handle on his side, slid to the ground, and closed the door gently. Turning left, he began to run.

  "Cory!" Zhena Trelu yelled at his fleeing heck. "Corvill Robersun, come back here this instant!" But he gave no sign that he heard.

  Zhena Trelu stood for a moment, bosom heaving, anger warring with worry. It was not really like him, she acknowledged, to just run off like that. Anger flared.

  "What do you know what's like him or not?" she grumbled to herself. "Let him run all the way home. Teach him a lesson."

  So saying, she turned her back on the truck and the man who was running away and marched across the street to Brillit's.

  Tomat Meltz looked up when the entrance bell rang and frowned at the short, long-haired foreigner his son had taken up with.

  "Hakan!" the little man called, with no regard at all for the proper way to behave in a place of business. "Hakan, are you here?"

  "See here, young man," Zamir Meltz began in his best speech-before-Assembly voice.

  "Cory?" Hakan appeared out of the back room like a conjuring trick, mustached face glowing. He held his hands out. "Cory, I was just trying to call-we got the job!"

  "What?" The little man brushed this aside with a frown. "Just trying to call-who answered?"

  "Huh?" Hakan blinked, joy diminishing visibly. "Nobody answered, Cory. You're here, aren't you?"

  "Miri." It was nearly a whisper. "Miri is home alone." He looked up sharply and found his friend frowning at him in puzzlement.

  "Hakan, please . . ." He extended a hand and grabbed the other's sleeve. "There-I feel that there is danger at home. Miri is alone. Hakan-drive me home."

  The pause was less than a heartbeat. "Right. Let's go." Hakan dived back into the storeroom and reemerged seconds later, car keys in one hand, jacket in the other. The little man was already pulling the outside door open.

  "Hakan!" Tomat Meltz snapped. "Just where do you think you're going? You're paid to help in this store, and the business day has just begun. If you think you can go running off on some-on some skevitt chase-"

  "See you later, Dad," Hakan called as he charged through the door on his friend's heels. "I'm going to drive Cory home."

  Tomat Meltz stood staring at the place where his son had been, then shook himself and walked carefully over to the door. He opened it to the roar of acceleration: Hakan was driving Cory home.

  Zamir Meltz closed the door, walked back to the counter, and resumed his accounting. He was smiling, just a little.

  SHALTREN:

  Cessilee

  The Stelubia Delegation were not sufficiently impressed. Worse, they had apparently beg
un preliminary negotiations with that upstart of an O'Hand, who thought himself so safe in his rat's nest on Daphyd. Well, let him continue to think so yet a while; a lesson would shortly be forthcoming. But first Stelubia had to be secured.

  Grom Trogar smiled and settled his dark glasses more firmly on his nose, aware of the comforting pressure of the weapon against his ribs, beneath his jacket.

  "It is true," he acknowledged thoughtfully, "that the Juntavas has many detractors, all busily crying out that our power is failing, that even now we are ripe for the plucking. You will have noticed, I am certain, that the few attempts to pluck us have been checked, the ringleaders . . . punished." He smiled again, though none of the other six around the table joined him.

  "It will perhaps be instructive for you to consider the individuals now held by the Juntavas, awaiting our disposal. I offer this instruction because it would sadden me, gentles, most deeply, if you were tricked into making a decision of alliance that might prove-painful-to all parties concerned."

  He touched the appropriate disk on the panel before him, and the large screen to his left lit, showing the interior of the specially reinforced metal room with its metal table and chairs, in which was-

  Nothing else at all.

  Grow Trogar gaped. The proportions of the hole in the farther wall were quite modest, considering the size of the largest of the two escapees-a sharp-edged rectangle showing a glimpse of the hallway beyond. The steel sheet that had once been part of the wall had been pulled to one side and laid upon the floor, as if those who had cut it away had expended some care to insure that none would trip over it and injure themselves.

  He was on his feet, moving through the door of his office and sweeping past the receptionist's desk. Tricked! They had tricked him! Well, it would be their last trick. A sad pity, indeed, that a being might reach the exalted age of eight or nine hundred Standards and yet be unable to recognize a man who will not be bested.