by Sharon Lee
"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 begun 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.
He did not have to go far to find them. At the main hall, he stopped, staring while the two of them sauntered forward, apparently intending to leave by the front entrance, as if they were not already dead.
Grom Trogar strode up to them, planted his legs wide, and glared, secure in the knowledge of the weapon that rode against his heart.
"Stupid reptiles!" he cried, oblivious to the six who had followed him out of his office; oblivious, as well, to the others summoned by the alarm system: security guards, unit managers, emergency personnel. "So you value your lives as little as that! You come onto my planet, into my city, dare to bargain with me for the lives of a Terran bitch and a Liaden Scout! You repudiate my judgment, question my power! You have greatly overstepped, Aged Ones. And now we shall see the price to be paid."
"Grom Trogar," the one called Edger rumbled, "you are obviously in a haste so great that it is harmful. You do not understand the meaning of the words you speak. We will allow you time to compose yourself and call together a Council of Elders, then we shall return to talk further. In reason and calmness—"
"Silence!" the man roared, riding his rage like a fire-crested wave. Was he a child to be so instructed? No! He was Grom Trogar, the ultimate voice of the mightiest network of power and wealth in all the galaxy!
"This ceases to be amusing, Aged One. Know that there is no Council of Elders to heed your ridiculous bargains, nor shall I create such a thing to placate you. Know also that the entire Juntavas shall be charged with hunting down Miri Robertson and your filthy, murdering Scout of a brother. And when they are found, I promise you that it will take them quite a long time to die. It will be amusing, I think, to have a Scout beg me for death. Almost as amusing as it will be to kill you, Aged One. This feud is between you and me—and you cannot win it."
Sheather shifted, perceived his brother's sign, and regained stillness, though there was something pricking him to attention that made his hand long for his blade . . .
"Grom Trogar," Edger repeated, "you are in harmful haste. Perhaps you are even ill. You cannot mean that you desire a personal feud between you and me. Consider yourself; consider what the blades of Middle River have already wrought within this place. A duel between us two is sheerest folly. Reconsider your words. We will return in some days and have calmer speech." He inclined his head and turned aside, meaning to detour around the man.
The weapon flared as Grom Trogar brought it from beneath his jacket; it hummed as he thumbed it to life and brought it up, aiming for the vulnerable spot, where neck met shoulder armor.
It is true that the members of the Clutch are often slow. But not always slow. Grom Trogar screamed once before his body understood that it was dead and slumped to the floor beside the evil, humming thing, his blood already pooling about it.
Edger turned to look long at his brother Sheather, then turned again to study the pitiful, soft man impaled upon the glowing crystal blade and the gun humming to itself in the growing pool of red.
Not a sound came from the humans all around.
"What say you, brother?" Edger asked gently.
Sheather bowed his head. "In defense of the T'carais I did strike. The weapon—the weapon, brother! It was no clean thing he sought, decided between two, with honor, with justice. Only to slay . . ." His sister's voice whispered in his heart; he stopped himself and raised his head to look into the eyes of his T'carais and his eldest brother. "If I have been in error, I do accept the penalty. Strike surely, brother!"
As T'carais, Edger made the sign of negation; as eldest brother, he added the sign of honored esteem. "Retrieve your blade. The blow was rightly dealt, in defense of T'carais and Clan." He raised his luminous eyes to the still-silent, watching humans.
"As for the weapon . . ." Edger sang a song consisting of seven notes, three of which human ears were not capable of hearing.
Grom Trogar's blood steamed where it pooled about the weapon as the power pack ruptured, leaked energy. There was a flash! of pinpoint light, a snap! of sound—and the weapon was molten metal, mixing with liquid red.
Finally, from the humans all about came a stir, a sound—a drawing close together and a drawing a
little apart. One stepped forward to bow.
"I am called Sambra Reallen, Chairman Pro Tem," she said softly. "How may I serve you, Aged Ones?"
VANDAR:
Springbreeze Farm
Hakan drove with the same casual intensity that characterized his guitar-playing. His eyes and hands worked together, and Val Con found that portion of himself which measured such things gauging the other man's reaction times.
They were approaching a patch of ice that had caused Zhena Trelu considerable anxiety on the way in, but Hakan did not even seem to notice that it was there. They were over and past it, with only the barest hint of instantly corrected skid.
Pilot material, this one, Val Con thought.
"Hakan," he said quietly. "I have said there is danger at home. Maybe it is not only danger for Miri; I do not know. It could be danger for you, too. I think that we should stop before . . ."
Hakan slowed the car, changed gears before they were fully out of the dipping curve, and accelerated again, shaking his head. "Not to worry. I said I'd take you home, didn't I? I'll help you, too. You say there's trouble, and I believe it—you've got such feeling about things." He glanced over, smiling. "I never had a chance to play with anybody who catches things so quickly—not just the notes, but the full spirit of the music. I think you live life that way, too. So I think you know that something's wrong."
Val Con frowned. "I have just said that I don't know," he reminded softly, but Hakan cut him off with a wave of his hand.
"Look, if Miri's hurt herself somehow, I had the medic course when I was in the militia. And I was in the volunteer fire department until the politics bored me out of it. I can help, whatever trouble."
"And will you take orders from me?" Val Con asked. "Will you do as I say, without talking, if there is a big danger?"
"You're the boss," Hakan said. Val Con clamped his mouth on a gasp. The other glanced at him. "You'd help me, wouldn't you? If it was Kem?"
"Yes . . ."
"Well, there you are," Hakan said.
Val Con rolled down the window in the door, letting the sharp air wash against his face, then reached out and touched that special place in his mind: Alive-and-well.
The covered bridge loomed—then quickly they were through it, boards rattling and car shaking, at a pace Zhena Trelu would have considered sheerest folly.
"You have been in the militia," Val Con murmured. "Have you been to war?"
"No. Hasn't been a war in these parts for a long, long time. I helped out after the explosion at the fireworks factory in Carnady, though. Folks said that was a lot like a war."
Val Con shifted, growing uneasier as the farm came closer. His mind was demanding reactions from him—weapons, fight, even kill—and he took a deep breath, consciously imposing calm while he took inventory. Edger's blade rode secure in his sleeve. He bent and slipped the throwing blade from the top of his work boot.
If Hakan noticed the knife, he said nothing.
"Do you have any weapons at all, Hakan?"
"You're really serious, huh? Yeah. I got a half-and-half there in the back, somewhere under everything."
Val Con turned in his seat, groping among guitar cases and sheet music.
A half-and-half, it turned out, was a large-bore weapon with a small-bore weapon overtop.
"It isn't much." Hakan's voice was unusually serious. "I've got a few shot shells, and there should be plenty of—"
"Explosives?" Val Con demanded, eyeing the shell meant for the larger bore.
Hakan choked a laugh. "No, shot shells—for birds and varmints at close range. The rifle has more range, but it's only for plinking, really . . .though I guess you could hurt somebody."
Val Con hefted it, understood the loading and firing. "Recoil?"
"Well, the shot . . ."
Stupid thing, Val Con thought. "Keep it for you," he said to Hakan.
They heard a sound: something uncommon over the sound of car and wind.
"Slow down," Val Con murmured, but Hakan had already done so.
The sound came again.
"Guns!" Hakan snapped, jamming the speed back on.
"Rapid-firing guns. Hakan, this may be very bad. You will listen, and you will do as I say. When we are close to the house. I will get out. If you see that I go no closer, or if I wave at you—go back to Gylles! Go back, but burn the bridge behind you. Burn it, Hakan, and tell the people that there is war here!"
They topped the last small hill, and Hakan cut the power to the engine, letting the car drift through the little clump of trees and into the farmyard.
Val Con finished loading the half-and-half, flipped the safety off, and laid it on the seat.
Four bodies in dirty uniforms lay in a group before the porch; two had been shot in the back.
Hakan gripped the gun, his good-natured face grim and a trifle pale. "Miri?"
"In the house, I think," Val Con said. He was gone in an instant, slipping noiselessly from the passenger seat and closing the door without a sound.
Hakan put the car in gear, let it drift back the few yards to the road, and pulled the keys out of the ignition. Guns clattered, shockingly close, and he froze, but the sound died away to nothing. Cautiously he opened the glovebox under the driver's seat and took out his militia cap.
The cap firmly on his head, it occurred to him to wonder if a militia corporal and a knife-wielding foreigner would be enough to stop an invasion force.
Then he thought what Cory must have thought: Miri's in there! Car keys in pocket, half-and-half held ready, the militia began to infiltrate.
Val Con stood invisibly in the shaded underbrush that Zhena Trelu called shrubbery, listening. From the house came the sound of voices speaking excitedly in an unknown language; nearer at hand was a whimpering noise. Blade in hand, he moved toward the smaller sound.
A bloody bundle of cloth—No! His eyes closed in protest, even as he reached for the glowing part within: Alive-and-well, alive-and-well. He let the song and the brightness have his attention for a full minute before putting it aside.
Viewed through calmer eyes, the bundle was fur, not cloth: Borril lay wedged between a thickly needled bush and the side of the house. His tail beat raggedly against the ground; his bloody head was propped against the wall.
Val Con fingered his throwing blade, keeping very still; he heard the voices of many men from inside the house and the sound of gunfire, close. Hesitantly, almost retching in revulsion, he reached into his own mind, located the switch he had never wanted to use again, and thought the Thought . . .
He receded from himself, fear burning away like fog as he gained the distance taught by the instructors of agents. His current mission was not some remotely patriotic killing of an anti-Liaden fanatic: his mission was to save Miri. He struggled mentally to open that walled-off portion of his mind, then nearly reeled as the programs ran his thoughts, stretching and erasing him . . .
STATEMENT OF MISSION OBJECTIVE: Preserve Miri Robertson from attacking military forces and drive forces from base.
LIMITATIONS: None
MISSION PRIORITY: Ultimate
ACCEPTABLE DAMAGE TO AGENT: Priority Override
PAIN THRESHOLD: Disallow
FULL AUTOMATIC: Yes
ANALYSIS LOOP: Chance of Mission Success: .37
GO: Go
In the initial training, each phase had taken hours to fulfill, then minutes, then seconds. Now it was simply the time it took to make the decision, to think the Thought: PRIORITY GOAL ACCEPTED.
He was more than pilot-fast, more than mercenary-accurate, more than berserker-deadly. He was again fully an Agent of Change. He blinked.
Dog and bush blurred just slightly out of focus; Val Con blinked again—yes. The creature before him had a good chance of survival, if it managed to live through the firefight. The wounds were not themselves mortal, though extended loss of blood could kill it. Alive or dead, it was not essential to the mission.
He slipped away, angling toward the
house and the low window that looked out from the so-called formal dining room. Glass glittered in shards on the earth before him; the window frame itself was smashed and twisted. A soldier, his neck broken, lay just inside the room.
Analysis indicated that the kill had been made by Miri Robertson. Val Con went through the twisted frame; he heard a sound as his feet touched the floor; he spun and threw.
The guard moved before he died, making quite a bit of noise as blood welled into his throat.
"Kwtel?" a voice called from the next room.
Val Con ran to the body, pulled the clumsy sidearm from the dead grasp, found the safety switch, though he did not know if it was engaged or not, jerked the blade free, and spun to face the door.
"Kwtel?" the voice demanded again, louder and accompanied by the sound of several pairs of heavy boots moving across carpeted floors.
The first soldier's head came through the doorway.
Click!
That one, too, died by blade, but he fell before another, who was armed and began to fire instantly.
Val Con dove for the scant cover of the wooden dining table, yanked the safety to the proper notch and fired, shuddering with the recoil.
Screaming, the enemy dropped to the floor, hands at his face. Val Con fired again, and the noise stopped.
He damned himself briefly for poor shooting. Chance of Personal Survival showed as unknown for the action, seventy-five percent for the next minute. From the floor above came the sound of many feet, then a short burst of gunfire.
Retrieving his knife, he slipped down the hallway. The radio in the front parlor was playing, loud in the shocking stillness.
The kitchen was empty. He was turning to go when a familiar electrical click sent him diving across the room to snatch the receiver up before the bell sounded.
"Hello? This is Athna Brigsbee—"
"Shut up!" he snapped. "Emergency and danger! Send—"
"Cory? Will you tell me what's going on? I never, in—"
"Shut up, Brigsbee! Call army; call militia—enemy invasion!" As he spoke, the ugly sound of heavy automatic weapons began outside the house, answered by an odd snap-snap-snap barely louder than a pellet pistol.
