by Sharon
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, vi
sibly 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."
He sighed. "You should trust me because Miri sent me here. You must judge whether she would do so—besotted as she must be with my beauty—were I a danger to you."
She laughed. "A little temper, is it? You'll need it." She sobered abruptly. "What kind of trouble's she in, she needs to send you at all? Why not come herself?"
"It is not the kind of trouble it is safe to know by name," he said carefully. "It is only ... trouble."
"Ah. So we all get in that kind of trouble once, now, don't we?" There was no particular emphasis; he thought she spoke to herself. Yet she continued to stare at him until Val Con wondered if he were growing another head.
"You're going with her when she leaves? Eh? To guard her back? She called you her partner."
"Eldema, when we go, we go together. I think it very likely that we will outrun the trouble. Lose it entirely." There was no flicker of the Loop, giving the lie to this piece of optimism, for which he was grateful.
She nodded suddenly, then reached to the overflowing table at her side and produced a black lacquer box from amidst a pile of tapes. It was a double hand's width of his small hands wide and twice that long—too odd-shaped to fit comfortably into pocket or pouch.
Liz frowned and fumbled further on the table, locating a less-than-new cloth bag with a drawstring top. She slid the box inside, drew the string tight, and handed him the sealed package.
He stepped forward so claim it, slipping the string over his shoulder.
"Thank you." He bowed thanks. When it became apparent that she had no more to say to him, he turned to go.
He was nearly to the hall when she spoke. "Liaden!"
He spun in his tracks, quick and smooth. "Eldema?"
"You take care of Miri, Liaden. None of your damn tricks. You just take the best care of Miri you can, as long as you can."
He bowed. "Eldema, it is my desire to do just that."
He turned on his heel and was gone.
Liz sighed. She had had nothing else to say, except—but the girl knew that. Didn't she?
She heard him work the lock; heard the door open and close, gently.
After a while, for old times' sake, she went to make sure he'd locked the door on his way out.
* * *
MRS. HANSFORTH WAS excited. It had been years since she'd received a ship-to communication, but still the circuit was as she remembered it: a little scratchy, with occasional odd delays and the constant feeling that the mouth wasn't quite saying what it looked like it was saying.
Of course, it was disappointing that the beam wasn't meant for her, but disappointment was outweighed by the excitement of the event and the chance to gossip.
Yes, she told the dark-haired and serious young lady in the screen, she knew Angus quite well. A nice boy, not given to wild parties or exceptional hours. And his fiancée was a lovely girl. It was really a shame he wasn't in town to receive the message himself . . . .
Where? Oh, with the students off at the University, he and his fiancée had taken several weeks to go to Econsey. They'd wanted some time alone and hadn't had the calls forwarded. Surely, they couldn't have been expecting . . . .
Hadn't known she was going to be in-system? Oh, such a shame ... But Mrs. Hansforth got no further; after all, this was ship-to, and such things were fabulously expensive. The serious young lady said something about some research Angus had done in his traveling days. Well!
Mrs. Hansforth asked the young lady to leave a message, and was so sorry to find that she'd only be on planet for a few hours. The chance of reaching Angus in that time did seem very small . . . .
Perhaps on the return trip there would be time, Mrs. Hansforth heard. Or perhaps Ms. Mylander would be able to beam ahead next time. But research—you know how it does tak
e one about . . . .
Mrs. Hansforth agreed, though she'd never been off-planet, herself.
When the connection was cut, Mrs. Hansforth was sorry. But, still, a ship-to! Why, Angus must be more important in his field than she had realized. Imagine!
* * *
MIRI LEANED BACK in the chair, flipping switches and smiling slightly. Engineering the delay hadn't been hard at all—simply a matter of bouncing her signal off seven different satellites and across the single continental landline about three times. Her new partner had called the unit "adequate." She wondered if understatement was his usual style.
Now, sipping some exquisite coffee, she considered the information gathered. Not much, but maybe something. Flipping another series of toggles, she tapped "Econsey" into the query slot.
The door cycled at her back and she was up, spinning, hand on the gun in her pocket, as Val Con entered, a blue drawstring bag slung over one shoulder. He stopped just inside the room, both eyebrows up and a look of almost comic horror on his face.
She pouted and took her hand off the gun. "You don't like my makeup!"
"On the contrary," he murmured. "I am awestruck."
He slid the string off his shoulder and held the bag out. She nearly snatched it away from him, plopping crosslegged to the floor by the 'chora. The box was out in a flash, and she ran her pale fingers rapidly over the shiny black surface before cradling it in her lap and looking at him.
"How'd Liz do?"
"On the whole, I'd say she came off better than I did," he returned absently, staring at her as he drifted forward to sit on the 'chora's bench.
The hair. Was it really possible to twist, torture, and confine one head of hair into so many unappealing knobs and projections? But for the evidence before him, he would have doubted it. She'd also smeared some sort of makeup on her face, imperfectly concealing the freckles spanning her nose, and done something else to her eyes, making them seem larger than usual, but exquisitely lusterless. The color of her cheeks had been chosen with an unerring eye to clash with the color of her hair, and the blue on her lips was neon bright. Every piece of jewelry—and there was far too much of it—vied with the other for gaudery. He shook his head, lost in wonder.
