by Sharon
Slowly, she let the gun fall to the mud. Gritting her teeth, she knelt at the man's side, avoiding as much of the blood as she could, and opened his pouch, snatching at the few plastic coins loose in the bottom.
The woman's pouch had more money in it. Miri took it all, cramming it into the pocket of her trousers with the quarter-bit she'd earned that day.
She went back for the shirt, but when she bent to retrieve it, she began to shake. She started up, staring at the two corpses, her stomach churning. Gagging, she leaned over and threw up, then braced herself against the wall and shook some more.
Suddenly she heard excited voices, no doubt drawn by the gunfire, though in this part of town it was hardly a sound to wonder at.
Pushing away from the wall, Miri ran.
* * *
SHE WOKE, sweat-drenched and shaking.
Gods, but it had been a long time since that particular bogeyman had come back to haunt her. She forced herself to lie still in the wide, soft bed and breathe deeply until the shaking stopped. Then she rolled gently to the floor and padded across to the walldesk.
The clock told her it was morning. Latish morning. Arms crossed tightly over slight breasts, Miri went into the bathroom and turned on the cold water in the shower.
* * *
A VOICE CRIED out and woke him. He lay still, listening to the echo of the sound.
It had been his voice. The word: "Daria!"
Daria? A name, certainly. He lay quietly in the vast softness of the bed, eyes closed, waiting for his memory to provide the rest of it.
It was a time in coming. He dreamed so seldom, and he'd had to learn so many names . . . .
Daria dea'Luziam.
He weighed it in his mind, brows drawn together over closed eyes. But nothing else surfaced.
Irritated, he rolled sideways, snapping to his feet the instant he opened his eyes, and strode to the bathing area to splash cold water on his face.
Too much wine and too little sleep, he thought, rubbing dry with a towel. Much too little sleep. He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror above the sink and frowned into the face frowning there.
Daria?
Her image arose, finally, before his mind's eye: A slender woman his own height, dusky hair short and curling, eyes a vivid sapphire, laughing. Older than he, though not by so much.
The face in the mirror tightened and the frowning eyes widened slightly.
One year older, to the very day—she'd been eighteen to his seventeen. It was forbidden that those of the graduating class take lovers from the junior classes, but there had been ways, and they had found them. They had made plans. She would pass her Solo—the final testing—and spend the year before he passed his gaining Single Scout experience. Upon his graduation they would become a team. Such things were not unknown. And who better? She was at the head of her class, as he was at the head of his.
On the day she had departed for the Solo, she had kissed him, laughing, promising a triumphant return on their birthday, half-a-year distant.
But she had not returned on their birthday, and a search of the sector to which she had been sent eventually yielded a few random shards of metal and plastics which were thought to once have been components of a Scout ship.
Val Con shook his head sharply; he leaned close to the glass and looked into the depths of his own eyes.
You loved her! he accused himself. And you scarcely recall her name?
The eyes in the mirror returned his gaze, lucent and green.
After a time, he turned away and went to ask the valet for his clothes.
Chapter Eleven
IT FELT GOOD to be back in leathers, Miri reflected, yanking the scarf tight around her arm. She stood for a long moment, looking at the jumble of items on the counter before her: a polished stick, a blue and silver necklace, and a ring in the shape of a snake.
Hesitantly, she plucked up the necklace, folded it, and put it with the other treasures hidden in her pouch. The ring she slid back onto her left hand, smiling slightly, then she carried the stick with her into the bedroom.
She was nearly to the door when she caught sight of the wrongness and spun, knife flicking open, body ready to fight. When she saw that it was only a tray, holding a coffee pot, a cup, and a covered plate, reposing peacefully on the desk, she relaxed somewhat.
She frowned at herself, shaking her head, eyes moving from breakfast tray to door.
Locked. She had locked the door last might, and the telltale on the jamb informed her that it was locked right now.
Room service does not come into locked rooms.
Knife held ready, she approached the tray and looked cautiously down at its contents.
A curl of coffee-scented steam rose from the spout of the pot, and a breakfast of egg, roll, and broiled meat lay beneath the cover.
The note had been wedged between pot and cup.
She picked it up between thumb and forefinger—a single sheet of pearly hotel paper, folded in half, with her name written across it in a bold black backslant.
Frowning, she unfolded it, flipping the knife closed absently and thrusting it through her belt.
"Miri," the strong black characters read. "I have gone with Handler to procure a car and anticipate returning during the midafternoon. I will then accompany you on your visit to Murph and we will be on our way this evening. Enjoy your breakfast." At the bottom of the page marched several angular letters from another alphabet, spelling out what might have been his name.
Miri began to swear. She started in Liaden, which seemed appropriate to the occasion, switched to Terran, Aus-dialect, and moved methodically through Yarkish, Russ, Chinest, and Spanol. She flung the crumpled note to the tray, then shook her head and splashed coffee into the cup.
She drank while she paced, fuming; when she finished the cup, she clattered it back into its saucer. "Damn him to hell," she muttered, which left something to be desired as the climax to what had gone before. Turning her back on the cooling breakfast, she stamped to the door.
Edger and Sheather were standing near the 'chora, chatting loudly in their own tongue. Upon seeing her, Edger cut off his comment and raised a hand.
"My youngest of sisters! Good morning to you. I trust you slept well and profitably?"
"Well," she told him, smiling, "I slept. And you?"
"It is not yet time for us to sleep," Edger said. "Though it must be near, for I grow a bit yawnsome. Perhaps next month we will sleep for a space."
Miri blinked. "Oh." There was a movement to her right, and she turned to see Sheather shuffling forward, head bent at an uncomfortable-looking slant. He offered her something with his left hand.
She took it, wondering. It seemed to be a leather envelope of some kind, long and very thin, black like her leathers, but of a wonderful softness.
"For the blade you wore last evening," Sheather mumbled in his shy way. "It is my understanding that blades of that manufacture are metal, which is a substance much prone to rusting and edge-damage. It is important to protect it from such trauma. I regret that I was unable to offer you this last evening, but the youngest of my brother's brothers did not admit us to his thoughts.
"Please do not think us lacking in courtesy," he continued, "or suppose that we lament our brother's choice. It only sometimes comes about that the hastiness of human action leave us at a loss." He bowed his head even lower, in what Miri suddenly understood as an effort to make himself shorter than she. "We wish you great joy and long, warm days."
She felt a sting in her eyes, touched, though parts of this speech were somewhat confusing. "Thank you, Sheather. I'm—grateful. You and your brothers are very kind and I can't imagine you lacking in courtesy."
"Thank you," Sheather replied, "and know that we look upon the flame of your being with awe and much affection." He straightened finally and backed away, nearly knocking over the omnichora.
Miri pulled the stick-knife from her belt. It slid easily into the soft sheath, which she hung o
n her left side, wondering as she did so if it was proper to cross-draw a knife.
"My sister?" Edger said. She turned to him with a smile. "My brother?"
He inclined his head. "It would honor me, were you to bear me company to the place of Justin Hostro's business. We are to collect our portion in advance this day, which is why I go hence. I would have you accompany me because it is clear that you are an accurate judge of humans, where it is very possible that I may not be.
"My brother, whom you call Handler, has raised the question of purpose for these flawed knives Justin Hostro would purchase. He quite properly asks what being deliberately orders flawed tools, stating that he will have none but? My brother is concerned by this behavior and feels that perhaps Justin Hostro is a thief, who will seek to cheat us of our purchase price."
Miri eyed him. "You want me to tell you whether this guy's a crook?"
"That," Edger replied, "is the essence."
She shrugged. "Do my best."
"It is sufficient. Let us go."
* * *
CHARLIE NARANSHEK WAS not happy. He had expended a quantity of energy and lost quite a bit of sleep convincing himself that he did not have to report sighting the Kid and Turtle Gang by reason of the fact that be had not been on duty when the sighting occurred.
It was, after all, one of the silliest things he'd ever heard of. Turtles weren't desperate characters, just slow and funny. And the kids were just that—kids. A little bill-and-coo for brother and sister, maybe, but that wasn't the kind of thing the local force covered. Especially with a couple like this, who were from off-world.
Armed and dangerous. Sure. Somebody at Mixla 'quarters was having their little joke.
Having thus battered his conscience into submission, Charlie fell asleep, to be awakened moments later by his alarm. He stumbled through the morning routine, got to the station in time to pick up his partner and their cruiser and eased on down to the merchant's quarter to start the daily round.
As they turned the corner from Econsey into Surf, passing a snack bar and an amusement center, his partner suddenly sat up. "Hey, look at that!" he cried, pointing.
Charlie looked—and swore.
For there was a turtle coming out of the office of Honest Al's Rental Cars, with Al himself at his side. And trailing a few steps behind, in dark leathers and shirt, gun holstered efficiently on the right side of the belt, was brother Danny.
Still swearing, Charlie punched up the comm and called in the report.
* * *
MIRI TOOK A deep breath of salty air and grinned up at Edger. "Nice day."
The T'carais paused to cast an eye skyward and test the air in a mighty inhalation. "I believe you may be right," he conceded. "The sky is bright and the air is fine, though not so fine as the air at home. But that is expected, and one would be churlish to deny other planets their days of prettiness, simply because they are not home."
She laughed and stretched her legs to more or less match his stride. "It might be a good idea," she commented, "to tell Mr. Hostro I'm your aide. If he's a fatcat, he'll figure that to mean 'bodyguard' and you'll gain some points."
"A good plan," Edger decided. "For it has come to my attention that it is profitable to proclaim one's consequence loudly when there is money involved."
Miri grinned and then wrinkled her nose as her elbow bumped the unaccustomed protuberance on her belt. "Edger?'
"Yes, my sister?"
"Edger, I ain't trying to be rude, but I think I better ask, 'cause I'm confused. Maybe I should've asked Sheather, but he's so shy . . . ."
"It is true," Edger said, "that my brother Sheather does not put himself forward as much as is perhaps desirable as one who would stride galaxies, but he is a thoughtful and meticulous individual, who seeks always to do what is proper." He looked down at her with luminous eyes. "Does our gift not please you?"
"Oh, no, it pleases me very much! But see—I don't know why I'm getting a gift at all and I'd hate for there to be a misunderstanding between us. 'Specially when it's so easy to open my big mouth and ask a question and hear what you got to say."
"My sister is wise," Edger announced as they rounded a corner and nearly bowled over two bejeweled ladies walking hand-in-hand in the opposite direction.
"Know then," he continued, not at all discomfited by the ensuing scramble, "that we have made you a gift to demonstrate our joy for and concurrence with our brother's choice of lifemate."
Miri blinked. "Which brother is that?"
"The youngest of my many, he whom you call Tough Guy."
"Right." She considered it. "Edger, did Tough Guy tell you he was going to—ah—marry me?"
"Alas, he did not, which I do not feel is like him. But I am persuaded that the matter slipped his mind, for he has no doubt been preoccupied with his art, planning, perhaps, his next composition." They rounded another corner, this time without incident.
"We were only made aware last evening, when it was seen he had given you the knife-within-a-stick, which he carried when first he came to us," he continued. "And then also was I assured that he had meant no insult by failing to speak, since he had chosen first to wed in our manner, with the gift of a blade. His own people, I believe, exchange gemstones or jewelry, which he gave later, in our presence."
"Hmmm. Is it okay for a person to take a lifemate without telling anybody they were going to? Even the person they were going to marry?"
Edger considered it. "I have heard of such things among humans," he said after a time. "But I am certain that my brother would not behave in such a manner, for he is kind and would wish to make certain his attention was not repugnant."
She stopped, staring up at the bulk of him. Edger stopped as well, creating an effective block to traffic. People detoured around them.
"He's what?" She heard her voice crack and swallowed.
"My brother's heart is gentle," Edger said, his big voice surprisingly quiet. "He would hurt no being, nor thing, that was not his sworn enemy. Nor would he willingly cause distress. I have seen him to weep with one whose mate lay slain and comfort in his arms a babe nearly larger than himself. It is not possible that he would wed you without your knowledge and goodwill."
There was a long silence during which Miri kept her eyes closed and concentrated on breathing. Crazy, crazy, a voice in her head repeated. Crazy as the six of diamonds.
Edger's voice rumbled over her head and she opened her eyes to look up at him.
"And have you not found him so?"
She extended a hand and captured two of his three fingers. "I guess I don't know him that good," she said seriously and shook her head slightly, as if to clear it. "Thanks, Edger. I'm glad we could talk."
He inclined his massive head, allowing his fingers to remain within her grasp. "I, also," he said.
* * *
"That's our boy!" Pete yelled, slapping the chief's shoulder.
The other man nodded and cut back into the net. "That appears to be him, Officer. Do not, repeat, do not approach the suspect. He is highly dangerous. We will be sending specialists from Headquarters. I want you to keep track of him, if it's possible without showing or risking yourselves. And find out where that turtle's staying. It's possible the girl's waiting there."
"Yes, sir," Charlie said, struggling manfully to keep his fume under wraps. "When do you think your specialists will be here, sir?"
"Three hours, at the outside," the chief said. "I'd get on the net to your Station commander and set up the timetable. You keep track of that boy. What'd you say they were doing?"
"They appear to be renting a car, sir. It might take 'em awhile, though, if they're looking for something the turtle can fit in, too."
"Right. Over—ah, Officer?"
"Sir?"
The chief considered Charlie's face rather more carefully than Charlie wished he would. "Just don't let them get in the car and drive away, Officer, okay? We want to clean this up fast, before the boy hurts somebody else." The chief leaned c
loser to the screen. "Just so you know—Charlie, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir." Charlie restrained himself from hitting the cutoff toggle and gave the chief his best wide-eyed wonder look.
"Well, Charlie, I know you're thinking that this boy doesn't look like much. Shows how deceptive looks can be. He's responsible for the deaths of five people in a robbery in Mixla City. Lined 'em up and shot 'em—just like that." He snapped his fingers. "One of 'em was a little girl—eight years old, Charlie."
Charlie made appropriate noises, which wasn't really necessary, since his partner was making enough for both of them.
"So be careful, but keep a line on him. Remember that he's a Liaden—don't have to tell you how slippery that bunch is, do I?" The chief nodded at the screen. "Carry on, officers." He touched the disconnect.
Pete whistled in admiration. "Wish I'd thought of that."
The chief grinned, leaned forward, and punched the line for Econsey 'quarters. "Pretty good, wasn't it? A little atrocity goes a long way, Peter." He frowned at the busy signal from the board, cleared the number, and tried again.
"Better get your guys ready. Fifteen of the best ought to do it. I'll add twenty Mixla cops and twenty from Econsey." The line was still busy and he punched the disconnect. "Have 'em here in an hour. Can do?"
"Can do."
* * *
THE THIRD CAR had possibilities. The little guy was leaning over the engine; the slender hand hooked around the edge of the fender was all that kept him from tumbling headfirst into the workings. With the other hand he tested connections, checked fluid levels, and poked at the various brain-boxes. This went on for some time, while Honest Al and Handler waited, Al trying not to wring his hands.
Finally he was through, having ascertained whatever it was he had been trying to ascertain. He slid off the fender and rubbed the palms of both hands down leathered thighs.
"The engine is sound," he said, speaking over Al's head to the turtle, "and of a strength sufficient to our purpose."
"Oh, yes," Honest Al broke in eagerly. "It's one of the earlier models, when there was a demand for speed and size. It's not as new as the other two vehicles we discussed, but certainly a very fine piece of equipment."
