by Sharon
In the kitchen there was a small, high window, and another door.
"Beyond is a service corridor, which empties into another, which ends in a staircase, which—"
"Gets me to the cellar?" she guessed.
He smiled, moving back into the big room. "Would you like something to drink?"
"Would I. And then a shower. And then about twelve hours' sleep. Or maybe sleep and then shower—kynak," she said to his lifted brows, naming the mercenary soldier's drink.
He frowned at the display. "The bar appears to be understocked," he apologized. "I can offer Terran Scotch?"
"Scotch?" she repeated, voice keying upward.
He nodded, and she sat gently on one of the stools.
"Scotch'll be fine," she told him. "Don't put ice in it. A religious experience shouldn't be diluted."
He punched the button, then handed her a heavy glass half full of amber liquid.
Eyes closed, she sipped—and was utterly still before exhaling a sigh of soul-satisfaction.
Val Con grinned and punched in his own selection.
"What's that?" Her eyes were open again.
He swirled the pale blue liquid in the delicately-stemmed goblet. "Altanian wine—misravot."
"Limited selection on this model, ain't it?"
"It's not so bad, for a rental unit."
"Well," she conceded, playing it straight, "but when you go to buy, remember it's things like these cut-rate bars they try to stick you with every time. Put 'deluxe' on it in gold letters and stock it with grain alcohol."
"I will remember," he promised solemnly, moving around the bar and heading for the window. He stopped before he got there, settling instead into a corner of the couch and nearly sighing as the cushions molded themselves to his body. He sipped wine and did sigh. His head hurt abominably.
Miri moved behind him. He let his head fall back on the cushion. Glass in hand, she bypassed the couch at a cautious distance, circled the chairs, and approached the window from the side. Standing back, she looked out at the street, now and then tossing Scotch down her throat with well-practiced smoothness.
Tired, he thought suddenly. No way to know how long she's been running. And I'm too tired for any more questions. He half-closed his eyes. The effort of trusting another person was not best made in the teeth of headaches and exhaustion.
She turned from the window, surprise flickering over her face as she saw him lounging half-asleep on the cushions, long lashes shielding green eyes, throat exposed.
She sees me vulnerable, he thought, and the phrase struck something within his aching skull. He moved his head and opened his eyes.
"I'm beat," she said quietly. "Where's to sleep?"
He waved a hand. "Choose."
After a moment, she nodded and went off to the right. As she reached the bedroom door, she turned back to look at him.
"Good night." She was gone before he could reply.
He sighed as the door closed, and took a deeper sip of wine. He should go to sleep, as well.
Instead, he snapped to his feet and moved to the window as a free man would, gazing out as if he were safe and had no enemies to watch for.
The street was brightly lit and empty; a fledgling breeze tossed an occasional bit of plastic trash about.
It's good, he thought, that this place has not been found. I need a rest, need not to be O'Grady or Phillips or whoever. I need time to be—me.
He raised a hand to comb fingers through the lock that fell across his forehead, and in a moment of aching clarity recognized the gesture as one of his own. Unexpectedly, the Loop loomed in his vision, blocking out the street before him. CMS was .96. CPS flickered and danced, then flashed a solid .89 the instant before it faded away.
He swallowed wine and again stroked hair away from his eyes. Val Con yos'Phelium, Clan Korval; adopted of the Clan of Middle River . . . . He thought every syllable of his Middle River name, as if it were a charm to hold thoughts at bay.
The face of Terrence O'Grady's wife intruded, sharpening and fading to the echo of the battering music from the bar he and Miri Robertson had been in.
He drank the rest of the wine in a snap that did it no justice. How many faces had he memorized, how many men had he been, in the last three Standards? How many gestures had he learned and then cast off, along with the names and faces of lovers, parents, children, and pets?
How many people had he killed?
He tuned sharply from the window, moving blindly across the room, seeking the omnichora.
The light on the keyboard came up as he touched the pressure plate. He found the echo of the bar music in his head, picked it up in his fingers, and threw it into the 'chora with a will, driving out the face of the woman who was not his wife and replacing it with the vision of the song.
His fingers fluttered up and down the scales an instant, then found the harsh beat again and filled the room with it, the sound echoing in his throbbing head. His hands fumbled, then recovered. He captured the rhythm with his right hand and began to weave melody around it with his left. He increased the tempo, found a suggestion of an older rhythm, moved into that there . . . .
His right hand left the beat for a moment, switching stops and ranges, intensifying sound. The images drew back from him. The names of the dead he'd known and the faces of those who'd died nameless lay back down, battered into restless submission, into uneasy sleep, by the force of the music.
There came another recognition, almost lost in the music's swirl: this was a talent that belonged to Val Con yos'Phelium, learned and nurtured from joy, not from need.
The driving beats slowed into others; he played what his fingers found and realized that he was playing a lament from a planet he had visited in his early Scouting days. He added to it; he dropped it to its sparest bones, and slowed it even more. He reached an end of it and found that his hands had stopped.
The sound remained in the room for a few moments more as the 'chora slowly let the dirge go, then he dropped his head against the stopfascia, drained. Emotionless.
Bed, he thought with crystal clarity. Rest. Go now.
He stood and she was there, the stranger who had saved his life, standing at the open door to the bedroom, red hair loose, vest and gun gone, shirt unlaced. Her gray eyes regarded him straightly. He did not recognize the expression on her face.
She bowed slightly, hands together in the Terran mode.
"Thank you," she said, and bowed again, turning quickly to enter her room.
"You're welcome," he said, but the door was closed.
He walked carefully across the room to the second closed door. He did not remember passing through or lying down to sleep.
Chapter Four
MIRI WOKE AND stretched slowly, eyes focusing on the clock across the room. Ten hours and change had passed since she'd lain down to sleep. Not too bad. She rolled out and headed for the shower.
Half an hour later, sun-dried and refreshed, she pulled her gun from beneath the pillow, slipped it into the deep pocket of the coverall the valet had supplied, and went in search of protein, carbohydrates, and ideas.
What she found first in the kitchen was coffee! Brewed from real Terran bean, this beverage sat steaming at her right hand as she ordered food and then dialed up the mid-morning local news on the screen set into the table.
The lead story bored her. Something about an explosion at local Terran Party headquarters. One man killed, two injured, one Terrence O'Grady sought in the apparent bombing. An image of O'Grady appeared—it bored her, too, and she hit the REMOVE key in search of something useful.
Transport crash. No lives lost. Robotics Commission to convene today . . . . REMOVE, she said to herself and punched the key.
She took a sip of coffee, savoring it as much as she had the previous night's liquor. Some people get the right jobs, she thought. Scotch and coffee . . . .
She canceled three more articles in rapid succession, then paused to scan the brief story about six bodies fou
nd in an alley in the warehouse district. Juntavas work, police speculated.
A little farther on she stopped the text to read about a rash of vehicle thefts, including four robot cabs. All the cabs had been found in a lot at the spaceport, engines running, memories wiped. She smiled—he hadn't told her where he'd sent them—and hit REMOVE. The paper scrolled across the screen, through Obits and into Classified, as she continued with breakfast.
Juntavas work.
It was unfortunate that anyone had connected the incident to the Juntavas. If she'd been found dead by herself, it would just have been an unsolved murder. Something was going to have to be done about her not being found dead in the near future.
The tough guy seemed to think he had the pat answer for that. A quick and total overhaul, courtesy of Liad: new papers, new name, new face, new life. Good-bye Miri Robertson. Hello—well, did it matter?
Somehow, she admitted to herself, it does. She finished her coffee, leaned to place the cup on the table, and froze, eyes snagging on a familiar phrase.
* * *
WANTED: CARGO MASTER. Expd only, bckgrd with exotic handcrafts, perfumes, liqueurs, xenonarcotics. Apply Officer of the Day, Free Trader Salene. No xenophobes, no narcoholics, no politicians. Bring papers. All without papers stay home.
* * *
SHE WAS STILL staring at the screen when Val Con entered the kitchen a full two minutes later.
"Good morning," he told her, moving to the chef panel and making a selection.
Miri leaned back in the chair, eyes on the screen. "Hey, you. Tough Guy."
He came to her elbow. Without looking up, she waved her hand at the ad. Arm brushing hers, he bent forward to see, exhaling softly as he straightened, his breath shivering the gossamer hairs at her temple. He sat on the edge of the table and took a sip of milk, swinging one leg carelessly off the floor. She noted that the pockets of his coverall were flat. Gunless.
He raised an eyebrow.
She hit the table with her fist, clattering the empty coffee cup, and glared up at him.
"Who are you? The question was gritted out against clenched teeth. She felt her heart pounding and forced herself to relax back into the chair.
He drank some milk, his eyes steady on her face. "My name is Val Con yos'Phelium, Second Speaker for Clan Korval. I work as an agent of change. A spy."
She pointed at the screen. "And that?"
He shrugged "A tissue of lies tears much too easily. There must be meat and bone beneath." He paused to sip his milk. "I came to this world as Cargo Master on Salene. My papers said I was Connor Phillips, citizen of Kiang. When Salene took orbit, Connor Phillips had an argument with the Chief Petty Officer and as a result of this sudden feud tendered his resignation, effective off-loading of all local cargo. In the meantime, for the sake of ship's morale, he rented this place while he searched for a more convivial berth. And so we have this comfortable refuge in a time of stress." He offered her a smile. "Not too bad a sort, Master Phillips."
She closed her eyes. Every time you get the world by the tail, she thought, you gotta remember there's teeth on the other end.
"Where'd a spy learn to play the 'chora like that?"
His brows twitched together in surprise, and he answered carefully. "My kinswoman, Anne Davis, taught me. It gave her joy to see that I had the talent, when none of her own children did."
"Your kinswoman." She wasn't sure she'd meant it as a question, but he answered it.
"Yes. My—is it aunt? The wife of my father's brother?"
"Aunt," she agreed, puzzled by this lapse in his smooth command of Terran.
"More," he said thoughtfully. "She was my—foster-mother. After my mother died I went into her home, was raised with her children."
"Is this any more—or less—real than Connor Phillips?" she demanded. "Do you really know who you are?"
He looked at her closely. "If you are asking if I'm insane, which of the answers I may give will comfort you more? I know who I am, and I have told you. Even when I am on assignment, I know who I really am."
"Do you? That's comforting." She said it without conviction, aware that she was tensing up again.
"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?"
"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.
