by Sharon Lee
“You said she’s on detached duty,” Miri broke in. “Maybe she decided to quit the judging business?”
Greenshaw Porter shook his head. “No’m. Judges put themselves on detached duty at will. They have discretion. Only Judges tell another Judge what to do. Or how to do it.”
She threw a glance at Val Con. “Sounds a lot like being a scout.”
“Perhaps,” he returned, and looked to the Juntava. “Has my cousin been seen since Judge Natesa exercised her discretion?”
“Nossir. Both were in a dust-up—gunplay, unidentified deaders—then went off-grid simultaneous. Neither one resurfaced.”
Gods, if it didn’t scan like a Departmental “dust up”, Val Con thought. And never think that an Agent was less than the match of a Sector Judge, no matter how hard she was to kill.
As for Pat Rin . . . Let it be known that Pat Rin was not an idiot. Let it further be known that he was a wizard with his pistols, and that he had once killed a man. And against whatever the Department might wish to inflict upon him—from mere death to menticide—he would hold no defenses whatsoever.
He looked up at the Juntavas courier.
“I am hardly in a position to trade fairly with the High Judge,” he said carefully, feeling Miri drawing closer to his side. “However, I would be honored, were the Juntavas to allow me to know the time and the place where my cousin and Sector Judge Natesa were last seen.”
Greenshaw Porter nodded. “I’m cleared for that. I have the report from Housekeeping. I’m cleared to share that, too.”
“Thank you. That would be most helpful.”
“I’ll transfer it from my ship. Need a comm address.”
Val Con recited the code for the unit in their upstairs rooms.
The courier repeated the address, nodded and bowed once more in the Terran mode.
“I’ll asap that. I’m on-planet until tomorrow mid-day. Aid-and-comfort is in force until I lift.”
“Thank you,” Val Con said again. “I do not believe it will be needed.”
***
REN ZEL STIRRED, stretched, smiled, opened his eyes—and stifled a curse. The clock across the room was adamant: three minutes until the start of his shift on the bridge. He rolled out of bed, realized abruptly that he was fully clothed and not a little rumpled; his boots showing smudges of what might have been grass stains. To appear on-shift so . . . He looked again at the clock. Two minutes until he was wanted on the bridge—and far worse to be late than untidy.
Ren Zel ran.
***
THEY READ the reports from the Juntavas together, Miri sitting on the arm of the chair, her hip against his shoulder.
There was a short bio of Sector Judge Natesa, accompanied by an image of a slender lady of good countenance, dark-skinned and sloe-eyed, her hair a silky black cap ’round her neat head.
Miri gave a low whistle, and leaned forward to tap the screen over the bio. “This girl can cook, boss. No wonder they miss her.”
“She appears competent in the extreme,” he agreed, scrolling down through a surprising number of missions completed on behalf of the Juntavas, most at the upper echelons of power.
Sector Judges might well be able to declare themselves on detached duty at will, but it appeared that Judge Natesa had been happy in her work, and had only thrice previously removed herself from duty—twice on recuperative vacations and one comprehensive disappearance, from which she reappeared within a relumma.
“First class pilot,” he murmured, going through the remainder of her accomplishments, “master shooter; explosives expert. Yes—a lady of many competencies.”
Who had very competently disappeared, so the next, extremely brief report stated, on Day 289, Standard Year 1392, from a Juntavas maintained yard, after filing the appropriate intention with her office.
Gods, so long ago? Val Con shivered and hit the key for the next file.
The report from Housekeeping, prepared by order of Sector Judge Natesa, was admirably detailed, listing descriptions of the dead, contents of pockets, wallets, pouches; types and numbers of weapons. A blue evening jacket, well-splattered with blood, but whole, was noted, and a square of cleansilk, its virtue destroyed by the blood.
“Note the guns,” he murmured. “Note the other items inventoried . . .”
“Picks, garrotes, pipettes of acid, poison.” She sighed. “You’re thinking the Department.”
“I am. The jacket is . . . distressing. Pat Rin often wears blue.”
“Yeah, but there’s no pellet holes in this one. Whoever was wearing it probably ditched it on account of it ain’t polite to wear bloodstains on the street.” Miri said sensibly. “Unless you got a match further up?”
He shook his head, unrelieved. Death was certainly preferable to the living agonies the Department was capable of inflicting. Kin might wish a clean death for kin, against so terrible an alternative.
“No,” he said, aloud. “No, he is not listed among the dead.”
“But that ain’t making you feel any better.” She frowned down at him. “In fact, it’s making you feel worse.”
He met her eyes. “I would not willingly remand my direst enemy to the Department’s care, much less kin.” He sighed. “Even kin scarcely known.”
She blinked, then turned back to the screen, leaning forward to manipulate the keys, scrolling back up through Natesa’s last filed contact with her office.
“She don’t say anything about him being with her,” she muttered. “Shit, she don’t even say why she was in it in the first place.”
“Aid and comfort,” Val Con said, staring over the screen, seeing Pat Rin as he had last seen him, years ago: a creature of grace and poise, assuredly, with a needling wit and a languorous manner which could be put on and dispensed with in the flicker of an eyelash.
Vulnerable; so very vulnerable, did he fall into the hands of the Department. Which would, almost certainly, remake him into a bomb.
“What?” Miri turned to stare at him, her eyes wide with alarm. “What’s wrong?”
He took a breath, trying to think it through, to get past the horror, to put himself in the place of the Commander, sworn to bring the Department’s Plan to fruition. Which Plan included Korval’s annihilation.
“Miri . . .”
“Don’t say it—I think I just got the download.” She closed her eyes, and in his mind’s eye Val Con saw a blurring spin of color—redyelloworangegreenblueviolet—followed by a warming sense of calm.
“OK. So the Department might’ve got Pat Rin, either at this massacre, here, or sometime real soon after, and the Judge might be on the lam to save her skin, she being no dummy in a big way. And if the Department’s got Pat Rin, they’re gonna rework him.” She bit her lip.
“How long’s it take?”
He moved his shoulders, snapped to his feet and stalked down the room. “Eternity.” He came to the window and stopped, staring out over Erob’s nighttime gardens. The silence at his back was tangible. He sighed.
“Forgive me, cha’trez. The length of the process depends in large part upon the reserves of the candidate. Certainly, if the Department has had Pat Rin in their care for nearly two relumma, they will have completed their work long since. Especially as they will not be constructing an Agent of Change, but something far simpler.”
“Q-ship. Got it. But we’re forewarned.”
“Not all of us,” he said, turning from the window. “Pat Rin’s foster-father and true-mother have the duty of protecting the clan’s children. I do not believe either would deny him entrance to their safeplace.” He reached up and pushed his hair out of his eyes. “Jelaza Kazone would admit him. Anthora would perhaps understand that there was something amiss—but she might not understand it in time to prevent him killing her.”
“OK.” Miri stood up, showing him palms in the gesture of peace. “OK. This is all might-have. We don’t know where Pat Rin is. He might be holed up cozy on an outworld, waiting for the all-clear.”
&
nbsp; “True. Though that might-have does not tell us why the Sector Judge has run away.”
“Might’ve taken a lover. Might’ve needed time out. Might’ve got drunk, fell down and broke her neck. We don’t know she’s hiding because of the business in the warehouse. We don’t even know that she’s hiding.”
“And we do not know that she isn’t.”
Silence.
“Another might-have,” Val Con said, slowly, hating it, and gods, if it were true . . .
“Go.”
“The Department has acquired both Korval’s child Pat Rin and Juntavas Sector Judge Natesa.”
She blinked at him. “She’s Agent material.”
“Indeed she is. More, she has access to the highest levels within the Juntavas. The Commander might put such a tool to very good use.”
“I bet he could.” She shook her head. “We still got no proof.”
“We have no proof,” he repeated, looking not at her, so much as through her. “We do, however, owe the High Judge some info.”
He came back to himself with a visible start and moved across the room to the comm unit. Miri sighed and went over to pour them each a glass of wine.
DAY 52
Standard Year 1393
Department of Interior Headquarters Liad
COMMANDER OF AGENTS was not one to allow the natural losses of warfare to overly dismay him. It was understood that there would be casualties—even, many casualties—as the Plan unfolded and the Department met with the resistance of small minds and imbedded interests. Thus, while he did not view his losses lightly, the Commander was able to maintain the dispassion necessary to ultimate success in those instances when the Department was momentarily thwarted.
The loss of a ship of the Department and four full Agents of Change on the planet Lytaxin—that was a different matter entirely. Very nearly, in fact, could the Commander be said to be—angry.
The ship had reported Val Con yos’Phelium on-board some time after the fourth Agent’s implanted monitor went off-line. The ship itself had exploded some few minutes after lift-off. Commander of Agents was not so naive as to believe that Val Con yos’Phelium had died with the vessel.
So: Four Agents, lost on Lytaxin. One Agent, lost on Interdicted World I-2796-893-44, his ship captured and then destroyed. Three more Agents lost to the bitch half-breed . . .
Lost thus far: eight Agents and two ships. And what profit did the Department show from so great and widespread an expenditure?
Sand and ashes. Val Con yos’Phelium remained at liberty; Anthora yos’Galan slept secure behind the formidable walls of Jelaza Kazone.
Commander of Agents rose from behind his desk. He paced his office from end to end and side to side. At the beginning of his fourth pass, he checked, and deliberately called to mind the calming exercise he had first been taught as an Agent-in-Training, many years ago.
Slowly, he brought his heartbeat down, normalized his breathing, bled off the unneeded adrenaline. When he had done, he stood yet another few heartbeats, eyes closed; meditative.
Eventually, he opened his eyes and returned to his desk, ordered the hardcopy which he had in his agitation flung down, and set it to one side while he accessed his screen.
Alas, that ill news stalked the hour, the latest in the form of a memorandum from the financial department chair. Another of the Department’s bleed-off funds had been uncovered, the program destroyed by the Masters of the Accountants Guild.
Commander of Agents flicked through the report, until he found the name of the Master in charge of the investigation.
dea’Gauss.
Very softly, Commander of Agents sighed.
dea’Gauss. Korval’s man of business.
Commander of Agents extended an arm and touched the switch on his console.
“Commander?” His second’s voice betrayed an edge of startlement.
“That matter we wished to place before the Council of Clans.”
“Yes, Commander. We have been awaiting the most appropriate moment.”
“So we had. I advise you that the moment has arrived.”
“Yes, Commander.”
“On another matter—I will wish to meet with a squad leader in . . .” He glanced over at the chronometered wall. “In fifteen Standard minutes, in the Level A meeting room. That is all.”
“Yes, Commander.” The connection light went out.
DAY 31
Standard Year 1393
Surebleak Spaceport
VILLY BENT OVER the table, black pick held delicately, hook properly extended, between thumb and forefinger, eyes narrowed in concentration.
The pick hovered over the jumbled pile of brightly colored sticks, flicked out and deftly flipped a silver from the tangle onto the counting cloth. The boy took a careful breath, and the pick stabbed out again, three times, placing a red, an orange and a blue stick next to the silver on the cloth.
Pat Rin, viewing the performance with an expert’s eye, saw the tell-tale quiver of a purple stick three layers down in the tangle, but Villy, in pursuit of the gold, either ignored the tremor or had determined that boldness would win the day.
He extended the pick, delicate—so delicate—touched the gold stick . . . lifted it . . .
“Oh, sleet!” he exclaimed as the sticks broke from their self-described formation and went rolling and tumbling every-which-way. He looked up, shamefaced.
“Sorry, sir.”
Pat Rin raised an eyebrow. “Not entirely. Indeed, I see that you have been working. Your touch is much improved. Now, you must sharpen your eye. Attend me.”
He swept the twenty-four brightly colored sticks up in a practiced motion, tamped them, placed them on end in the yellow-tiled circle which had been set into the table-top for just this purpose—and let go.
Obedient to gravity, the sticks fell, creating a satisfyingly complex multi-colored tangle.
“So,” he said, receiving the black pick from Villy. “We have a dreadful mess, here, do we not? I will wager you twenty cash that all of those sticks may be extracted and placed on the cloth while disturbing no other in the formation. Have we a bet?”
Villy shook his head. “I know better than to bet against you.”
“Youth today,” Pat Rin mused aloud, while his eyes traced the intricate pattern created by the sticks; “lack the adventurous spirit.” It was, he decided, a difficult fall. He could easily see his way clear to acquiring sixteen, even eighteen, of the twenty-four. The rest . . . well.
“Only twenty cash?” a rich voice asked from near at hand. “Why not a wager worthy of your skill?”
Calmly, he looked up and met Natesa’s amused black eyes.
“What would you wager, my lady?”
“Let us consider.” She tipped her head to one side, a finger over her lips as she ostentatiously considered the matter.
“I know,” she said at last. “If you miss the twenty-four, I will have the Sinner’s Carpet out of Ms. Audrey’s house.”
“Ah, will you?” He looked at her appreciatively. “And what is my prize, should I succeed?”
She smiled at him, slow and seductive. “Why, something very nice.”
He laughed.
“Done,” he said, fingering the pick into the proper hold. “Attend now, child,” he said to Villy; “this may be the last time you see me play.”
He looked down to the bright jumble, and let the room fade out of his consciousness, until it was only himself, the sticks, and the necessity to win.
The pick flashed out.
The first eight were simple liberations, after which the challenge began in earnest.
Quickly, he proceeded, dexterously avoiding anchor-sticks and rolling traps, while with every cunning infiltration of the pick another stick fell to the counting cloth.
It came at last to three, lying one against the other.
Pat Rin reversed the pick, inserted the flat tail in the whisker-wide space between the yellow stick and the blue, rolled the yellow
, reversed the pick, and caught the stick in the hook to flip it, with a showy snap of the wrist, to the cloth.
The blue stick was likewise appropriated, and then the final orange, delivered to the cloth in a toss that sent it spinning high, turning over three times on its descent to the cloth.
Pat Rin placed the pick on the cloth next to the sticks, and smiled at Villy.
“That is how it is done, do you see?”
The boy shook his head. “I see that I’m gonna hafta practice a lot more.”
“I did not say it would be easy, working in the casino,” Pat Rin reminded him. “Perhaps, you would rather Sheyn took the sticks table?”
Sheyn was Villy’s chief rival in popularity at Audrey’s house, and though the rivalry was mostly friendly, still Villy would not easily bear having a task taken from him and given to the other boy.
“Nossir, Mr. Conrad! I’ll practice.”
“Good,” said Pat Rin, stepping back from the table. “I will return later today.”
He walked away, Natesa at his side.
“So,” he said to her softly. “When may I collect my winnings?”
“Youth today,” she said, calmly, “lack patience.”
“Ah, but I am far beyond my youth. What you choose to see as impatience is merely the necessity of man with too few hours left him.”
She looked at him gravely. “Yes, exactly so.”
“I was certain that you must see it eventually,” he murmured, allowing her to proceed him through the door and into the port proper.
The day was cool and bright—Surebleak high summer—and the port itself displayed a gratifying amount of activity. Work was going forth on several collaborative efforts, notably the duty-free shop—boldly named The Planetary Cooperative—and situated in the space formerly occupied, according to the ancient signage, by a Learning Shop; a fresh fruit, vegetable, and flower stall; and no less than two repair stations. Individual efforts included a beverage bar, featuring local fruit ciders; and a pastry shop. And, of course, the casino.
