Agent of Change (20 page)

She hit the floor six feet away with a sound like an infant earthquake. Val Con took a deep breath as a man separated himself from the now-silent crowd and went to the inert warrior. After some cajoling, including a few brisk slaps to the face, Polesta was gotten to a sitting position, though she still seemed rather groggy.

Val Con drifted back to the bar, people slipping out of his way, and settled his back against the solid plastic at Miri's right hand, ignoring Jason's gape. He felt drained—almost exhausted—and wondered briefly why this should be so. The throw had used very little of his own strength, trading as it did on his opponent's momentum.

Miri shifted at his side, and he looked up at her face.

"Pulled your punch." It was a statement, not a question.

"You
wanted me to rehabilitate myself," he reminded her, hearing the snap in his voice. He held out a hand. "Give me some of that stuff."

She gave him her glass, and he drank what was left, properly. He drew a hard breath and let it explode out of him.

"Awful, ain't it?" she said, taking back the empty and handing it to Jase, who raised his eyebrows. She jerked her head slightly; he assumed a martyred look and went in search the bartender.

The crowd had split into other patterns now. Across the room, Polesta's partner had managed to get her to her feet. Suddenly, she pushed away from him and started purposefully, if unsteadily, toward the bar.

"Where is he? Run away, eh? Thinks it's done, does he? I'll—"

Her partner jumped in front of her, hands on her shoulders, heels braced. She shook like a mastiff and he held on; he continued to hold on even when she raised her fist—and lowered it.

"Well?" she yelled at him. "I'm insulted. And I should take it, eh? Be meek. Be mild."

The man shook her, though she did not appear to feel it. "Polesta, the Sergeant was right. You're drunk. You made a mistake. He showed you it was a mistake. It's all over, okay? No harm done." He glanced over his shoulder, catching the green gaze of the man at Redhead's right.

"A mistake," he repeated, urgently.

"A mistake," Val Con agreed gently. "No harm done."

Some of the dreadful tension left the man; he returned his attention to Polesta, pushing at her shoulders. "Come on. Let's get some coffee and something to eat. We're due to move in another hour. You'll lose your kit again if you don't sober up some before then . . . ." Talking so, he led her away to claim a table near the back of the room.

Val Con took the glass Miri put in his hand and finished off half in a swallow.

"I think you're right," he said.

"About which?" she asked, noting with approval that his face once more had the proper depth of color and that his shoulders had loosened up a little.

He put the half-empty glass on the bar and twisted his head to grin up at her. "I need a haircut."

She grinned back. "Maybe. Might grow it a little longer, instead, and tie it up with a ribbon, like Jase."

"No, thank you," he began, but then the subject of this conversation was with them and he cut off what he'd been about to say.

"What say we all grub together," Jason boomed "We got a little over an hour before we shuttle out—"

Miri reached up and captured an ear. "Before you what?"

"Shuttle out. Did you think we were going to stay on Lufkit, my small? No wars here—Now, darlin', don't twist it off, I'm attached to it. Part of a matched set, as they say."

She released him and slid to the floor. "Where's Suzuki?"

"It's what I've been telling you, love. You and your partner have been invited by Senior Commander Rialto and Junior Commander Carmody to dine with them in the admittedly limited elegance of the back dining room of this establishment, there to talk over old times and weep into our kynak."

"Tough Guy—"

He was at her shoulder. "Let us, by all means," he murmured, "dine with Suzuki and Jason."

IT'S POSSIBLE, Val Con thought, leaning back in an unsteady plastic chair and sipping carefully from a steaming mug, that the only reason people drink kynak is because even coffee tastes good afterward.

He set the mug back on the table and sighed very gently. Across from him, Suzuki smiled.

"I have not yet thanked you for saving Polesta's life," she said in her soft voice.

His brows twitched together. "Saving her life?"

"That kill has four moves, does it not?" She didn't wait for his nod. "All who watched saw that you executed but three—and so Polesta lives. I am thankful for that because she is one of the unit's strongest fighters—a berserker. It is unfortunate that the traits that make her so valuable in action cause her to be such a trial when we have been inactive." She paused to drink coffee.

"I admire the skill with which you were able to subdue her," she continued. "I would not have thought it possible, short of killing, which is why I believe Redhead would not fight."

Miri snorted. "That waste of time? Best thing anybody could do would be put her away. She's bats, Suzuki."

"Valuable, nonetheless. As you well know. I did not say you would come out the loser in such an encounter, my friend, but that you would not take from me what you know I consider essential to the unit." She laid a hand on Miri's arm. "You chose your partner wisely."

Miri laughed and picked up her mug, forestalling the need for an answer.

"Besides," Jason commented, "Polesta's probably so mad now she'll take on the other side all by herself when we hit Lytaxin. Give the rest of us a paid vacation." He shook his head at the little man, both admiring and envious. "My lad, you are
fast."

"Best remember it," Val Con returned, retrieving his mug and finishing off the contents.

Jason laughed and turned away. "So, then, Redhead, what about signing back on, taking that promotion we offered you? Lytaxin'll be a job o'work—I won't lie to you, my small—and we'll be in sore need of you. I don't doubt you've found civilian life a trial—and travel's expensive when the client's not paying." He held out a large hand. "What about it, Redhead? A lieutenant's badge and the chance to get shot at first? You'll not turn it down?"

Miri looked at Suzuki, who nodded. "We would welcome you back. You know that. We cannot offer your partner what he has not earned, but he is a skilled fighter and we would be happy to add him to the roster. There is no reason why he should not be at your shoulder."

No, Val Con thought, the equation flaring like iced lightning. No, it's a bad solution, Miri!

She touched Jason's and Suzuki's fingers lightly. "Ask me later," she told them. "I'm glad you want me back." She tipped her head. "Favor?"

Suzuki nodded. "If it is within our power."

Miri glanced at her partner; he was wearing his no-expression expression, and her stomach tightened a little as she turned back to Suzuki.

"We need to get to Prime without publicizing it," she said. "Port's got some kind of damn check going. We can't pass it—you can ask why, but it's a long story." She paused, waiting for the question.

Suzuki drank coffee. "You want us to sneak you through the checkpoint and onto Prime?"

"Yeah."

The Senior Commander of the Gyrfalks shrugged. "I see no reason why it cannot be done," she said, looking at her Junior.

Jason grinned hugely and leaned precariously back in his chair to stretch. "Piece o'cake."

"See to it, then." She glanced back at her friend. "Other favors?"

"No—yeah. Can the Treasury afford to buy some jewelry? I need cash, not geegaws."

Suzuki's eyes dropped to touch the snake-shaped ring and rose again, quizzically. Miri laughed.

"Other jewelry. Everybody's entitled to
one
geegaw."

"Well, let's go find Ghost and see what she says." Suzuki pushed away from the table and laid her hand on Jason's shoulder in passing. "Want to start getting everyone together? It's time."

"Nag, nag," he muttered, coming to his feet. "I'll just take Tough Guy with me, shall I? Have him ride up with Yancey's bunch."

Val Con rose slowly. "Miri."

He hesitated, then shrugged irritably. "Dock 327," he told her. "Level F. Meet me there, fifteen minutes after we hit."

She turned away, taking Suzuki's arm. "Sure," she said.

"How long," Daugherty demanded, "is this going to go on?"

"Until they tell us to stop?" Carlack hazarded.

"Which could be in the next twenty years. Or maybe not."

Daugherty had been on duty since early morning, just ten minutes short of finishing her shift when the order had come through: All Personnel to Man Port Access Yards Until the Present Emergency Has Been Resolved. She had cause to be bitter, Carlack thought, but none at all to be dramatic.

"The Chief of Police thinks they'll have 'em before the night's out. They're desperate criminals, I heard on the band. Every cop on-world's looking for 'em, so they've gotta try and get off. The Chief was real sure they'd try it as soon as they could."

Daugherty said something uncomplimentary regarding the Chief of Police's personal habits. She added, after a moment's further consideration, a rider that hinted at a far more accurate knowledge of anatomy than of practical genetics.

Carlack sighed and considered sending down for more coffee and some sweet rolls.

"Oh, blessed Balthazer," Daugherty whispered, but it didn't sound like a prayer.

Carlack looked up. "What?"

"Mercenaries," she snapped, on her way to the door. "Hundreds and hundreds of mercenaries, coming in the wrong damn gate!"

SENIOR COMMANDER HIGDON was in a foul mood. This was not necessarily a bad thing; certainly, it was not unusual. A methodical man and a high stickler, he did not relish being delayed, nor did he allow the considerations of mere civilians to outweigh the obligations of the lowest soldier in his troop. He so informed the two models of civilianhood who had dared stop him as he entered the port gate at the head of his unit, demanding that all wait, line up, and show papers.

Commander Higdon did not approve of papers.

Daugherty gritted her teeth. "Police orders, Commander. No one to shuttle out without showing papers and being cleared. There are desperate criminals on the loose and the police think they'll try for the shuttle. Chances of catching them once they're on Prime go way down. If they manage to get on a spacer, they'll never be brought to justice."

"And a good thing that would be, too!" the Commander said with obvious relish. "Society is killing off all its good stock—its 'criminals'! Hunting them down and killing them off. We'll be a society of cows, if the police and the lawmakers have their way. Ought to hunt
them
down and nail their hides to the shed! To hell with all of 'em." That settled to his satisfaction, he turned to his Junior to relay the march order.

"Be that as it may," Daugherty pursued, "we've got our orders and we're going to do our job. How do we know you haven't got those crooks mixed in with your outfit, there?"

"I wish I might!" Higdon returned. "Can always use a good fighter. As for your orders—to hell with them, too. I've orders of my own, and a deadline to meet, and I'm afraid I have the means to convince you that my necessities are the more pressing." He raised his hand.

There was a large sound in the night—the sound, Daugherty realized suddenly, of many, many pellet guns being brought to ready.

She opened her mouth, not at all sure of what she was going to say—and was saved by the appearance of a smallish round-faced woman in standard leathers who marched up to the maniac at the head of the line.

"What in the name of all that's damned is the hold-up?" she demanded. "We've got a schedule to keep, Higdon."

"This civilian and I were just discussing that, Suzuki," he said. "She seems to think we're required—that each and every one of us is required—to show papers before boarding shuttle for Prime."

"What?" The woman turned to Daugherty, who wished briefly that she'd never been born. "We are expected. We have a private shuttle. We are short on time. We take our own chances. No more delays." She walked away.

Higdon raised his eyebrows at the two before him. The man, he saw, was decidedly pale. The woman was made of sterner stuff, but she was obviously well aware of her personal inadequacy in the face of an armed and at-ready unit of seasoned mercs.

She stepped aside, dragging the man with her. "Okay, Commander. But I'm required to inform you that we will report your infringement to the Chief of Police."

Higdon laughed and brought his hand down. Safeties were snapped on and firearms returned to holsters. In good time, the Junior gave the order to march.

Line upon line of them marched across the field to the private shuttle, entering the hatch in good formation. In a much shorter time than one might imagine, the last of the mercs had entered the hatch; the door was sealed and the shuttle lifted.

Daugherty, who had been on the line with the nearest police unit, reported this fact. The cop on the other end looked bored.

"It's not real likely the mercs are hiding 'em," she told Daugherty. "The Chief's got 'em figured as loners. I'll let him know they wouldn't stop for the check, but it probably ain't worth a fuss. They've had this lift scheduled for the last ten days. No surprises."

YANCEY, IT TURNED out, was the slender brunette Jason had been with earlier in the evening. She grinned at Val Con, spoke a word of admiration for his skill, and handed him over to a man with bluish-black skin and a shock of bright orange hair.

"Tough Guy's your partner 'til we hit Prime, Winston. Don't let anybody break him."

He jerked a thumb at his charge. "Him? Better he makes sure nobody breaks me!"

Yancey laughed and went away, and Winston tapped Val Con on the arm. "C'mon, youngster. Gotta pick up my kit and get in line."

They did so, waiting in line rather longer than Val Con liked, though he spent a good deal of time craning his neck around tall Terrans, looking for a short, slender figure.

"Sonny," Winston told him finally, "you can leave off worryin' about Sergeant Redhead. First of all, she's the toughest somebody in this whole damn unit—that's counting Polesta. Second of all, Suzuki'd skin alive whoever let somethin' fatal happen to her; and then Jase'd stomp'em to a grease spot."