Agent of Change (28 page)

Now, with the beat of the drive calling forth multiple songs of sensuality from body and mind, it was very worrisome, indeed.

There was an inward flicker, and hanging before his mind's eye was the equation showing him how he might take her to his own—though not their mutual—pleasure. CMS wavered between .985 and .993.

Go away! he snarled silently, and it faded, leaving a taste of metal in his mouth.

A position of less jeopardy was required. Stretching his legs, he came alongside her, which put them both in greater safety—he hoped. She looked up at him, grinning, allowing a glance of the sweet curve of her throat down to what lay hidden by the lacing of the snowy shirt.

He slammed to a halt, eyes closed and teeth gritting. Wrong again, he thought. This is getting to be a habit.

Her hand was warm on his arm, and he snapped his eyes open to find her standing closer than he liked, yet not close enough, looking up at him. Sympathy seemed at war with laughter in her face.

"Little bit of lust never hurt anybody."

He shook his head, as if the motion would clear his brain. "It's been a long time."

"With a face like that? Don't lie to your grandmother." Laughter triumphed over sympathy. "Bet the galaxy's full of green-eyed kids."

"Countless numbers," he agreed. "None of them mine."

"Real waste," she murmured, slipping closer until her hip touched his. Slowly, seeming to take as much pleasure in the sensation as he did, she slid her hands up his arms to his shoulders. "It'll give us something to concentrate on."

His hands of themselves had settled around her waist, holding lightly; he noted that he was trembling. Yes, he thought suddenly, with the surety of a well-played hunch, with no taint of drive-effect attached. Yes and yes and—

No.

Easing back a fraction, be searched her face and found what he sought in the soft curve of her mouth and deep in her eyes. It had been there for a while, he realized with startling clarity, yet she had no notion. For all her life, Miri had played single's odds, and if she could deny what she was feeling before it was conscious, dismiss it as drive-induced pleasure . . . .

He pulled back another inch. "Wait."

She stiffened, mouth tightening. "Guess I'm as bad as Polesta, huh?" Hurt showed on her face—but also relief.

"Oh, Miri . . . ." He dropped his face to her warm, bright hair, rubbing cheek and forehead in its wonderful softness, rumpling her bangs and half unmooring her braid. His retreat was timed to a millisecond; and taking his hands from around her waist required more disciplined timing than the throw that had not broken Polesta's back.

"Well—" Her mouth twisted, and she half-turned away.

He caught one small hand and waited until she turned again to look at him. "When the drive goes off," he said.

She frowned. "What?"

"When we are again in normal space, let us speak of this." He tipped his head, half-smiling. "Don't be angry with me, Miri."

The ghost of a laugh eased the tightness of her face as she pulled her hand away and moved on. "You're a mental case, my friend."

"Watcher."

"Yes, T'carais?"

"Extend to our kinsman Selector my regret for any inconvenience I may cause him by requiring you to accompany me to the place where Justin Hostro conducts business."

"Yes, T'carais."

"Say also to our kinsman that, should he have heard nothing from us—either by comm or by our return to this place—within three Standard hours, he must inform my brother the T'caraisiana'ab of this event, instructing him in my voice that he is to act as he knows is proper in the case, always keeping in his thoughts that Justin Hostro has been adjudged by our failure to return guilty of capturing the knives of four of our Clan."

"Kinsman?"

"Such may overstate the case," Edger said more gently. "But when one deals with the Clans of Men it is well to be prepared for ill-thought action. Do as I have asked. We depart in fifteen of these things named minutes."

THE MEAT HAD been easy, the pillage of no great worth. But the kill had put fresh heart into the crew, and Commander Khaliiz, satisfied that the luck of the hunt had changed, gave the order to take the ship into the underside of space.

"Which way now?" Miri asked at the branching of the corridors.

Val Con considered it with his new sense of clarity and gestured to the right. "There."

"You're the boss." She followed him down the indicated hall, grimly looking at the tricksy walls, which was not a good idea. Her eyes slid to Val Con, ahead of her. In some ways, that was not much better an idea, though it offered a more pleasing aspect than the walls. Vividly, she recalled the warmth and the slim strength of him and his hands curved with promise around her waist—and bit her lip hard enough to draw blood as she strove to keep her walk even, though she was shaking with desire.

He'd stopped and was bent close to the wall, seeming to study something. Though how anybody could study
anything
in the present sense-storm was more than Miri could fathom. She leaned against the opposite wall and waited.

Val Con had put his hands against the wall and seemed to be trying to square something off. After a few minutes of effort, he shook his head and straightened.

"What's up?" she asked.

"This is the storeroom we want," he said, not turning to look at her. "But it's locked, and I can't see the keyplate properly—it keeps running and shifting."

This was absurd! There was food and drink and music on the other side of the door—he knew it! To be thwarted now by something so minor as an inability of physical eyes to perceive—

The answer formed just behind his eyes, in the space reserved for Loop phenomena, and hung there, glowing, its aura strongly reminiscent of hunch. The keyplate configuration was clear. He thought of the pattern he saw, and the door slid open, untouched.

He stood staring.

"I didn't know you could do that," Miri commented from across the hall.

"I can't," he said and stepped forward. The open door to the storeroom was not an illusion. He walked through.

A moment later, Miri pushed away from the support of the wall and went after him.

That proved to be a mistake. The moment she crossed the threshold, odors of every kind assailed her: spices, wood-shavings, wool, mint, musk. Added to the visuals and the textual and the need, it was too much. Much too much.

She sat down hard on the first thing that looked like it might be real. Arms wrapped in a tight hug around her own chest, she hunched over, eyes closed, shaking like a kid in a fever.

She would never make it. Eight hours? Impossible!

"Miri. Miri!"

"What?" The word was a hoarse gasp.

"Put out a hand and take this.
Miri.
Put out a hand and take this. Do it now."

Obviously, she was not going to have any peace until she did what he said. She managed to get one arm unwrapped and, after a hard struggle, opened her eyes.

Val Con sat on the shifting floor at her feet, holding out an open bottle of wine. She took it from him, blinking.

"Now what?"

"Drink."

"Drink? Out of the
bottle?"
Her laughter sounded shrill in her own ears, but any joke was better than none.

"It was difficult enough finding wine without wasting time looking for glasses," he said repressively. "Drink."

She shook her head. "Always telling me what to do. No
reasons,
just—"

"Alcohol depresses the senses," he said. "Drink your wine."

"You go to hell!"

He drank. "I suppose," he murmured pensively, "I could pour it down your throat."

"Bully." But she took a pull, drinking it like kynak, not for taste, but to get drunk.

After a time she paused for breath, grinning and shaking her head. "And I had you figured for a kid from the right side of town."

He lifted a brow. "As distinct from the left side of town?"

"As distinct from the wrong side of town." She paused to gulp more wine.
"I'm
from the wrong side of town—no money, no prospects, no education, no brains."

"Ah. Then you figured correctly. Clan Korval is very old; we've had a great deal of time to amass wealth. Quite likely money accounted for the excellence of my education, which made it easier to qualify for Scout training." He took a long drink. "I don't think brains are the sole property of people from the—right side of town, however."

"Yeah?" She leaned forward, which was taking a risk, even though the shakes had largely departed. "Why'd you say no, back there?"

Both brows raised. "Enlightened self-interest. The drive is still engaged."

"Could've fooled me." She sat back and drank deeply. "How'd you pull that gimmick with the door?"

He took a slow swallow and set the bottle on the bucking floor at his side. "When I became halfling it was seen that I had an ability to—pick up objects—without physically touching them. Within my Clan, such abilities are not unknown. However, testing found my talent too insignificant to train, though I was given instruction in its control, so it would not affect my normal activities.

"The talent neither grew nor disappeared, merely remaining at the same level into my adulthood. I played with it occasionally, but it was too much of an effort to use seriously. By the time I had reached forth with my mind and brought a cup to myself from across the room, I could have walked the distance, picked the cup up in my hands, sampled the contents,
and
been much less tired." He paused to retrieve his bottle and drink.

"Then it vanished. I—" He took a breath, reviewing sequences in his mind. Yes, the timing was correct. There was much there that required Balance . . . . "I believe that the—energy—generated by certain nonsurvival functions is what fuels the Loop."

Miri was not shaking anymore, though she was exceedingly cold. "Nonsurvival functions? Like, maybe, dreaming? Or sex-drive?"

He closed his eyes, nodding. "Or music. Or the very faintest of—paranormal talent." He opened his eyes. "The night we met was the first time I had made music in nearly four years."

She tipped her head. "If you didn't have it and now you do—does that mean the Loop's bust? Or—is it a machine or something in your head? What'd they do?"

"What they did—" he shrugged. "I am fairly certain it is not a physical artifact implanted in my brain—that would be inefficient, since the tissue tends to reject an implanted machine eventually." He drank, considering the problem.

"I believe that it must be more like a—master program, superimposed—" He stopped, aware of something akin to anger building in him, except that it was a thing of surpassing coldness, rather than flame.

"Superimposed and overriding," Miri continued, eyes focused tightly on his face, "that set of programs named Val Con yos'Phelium."

He did not reply. They had both found the correct conclusion.

"Val Con?"

"Yes."

"I don't much like your bosses."

His smile flickered briefly. "Nor I."

"But it's bust now, right?" she insisted again.

Was it? he asked himself. He was immediately answered by the flare of an equation, elucidating the latest figures for his survival. Thirty-day CPS was at .06 now.

"No."

"What then? Something's got to be causing—oh." She closed her eyes and reopened them immediately. "The drive."

He drank the last of his wine and stared at the writhing bottle for a moment before setting it aside. "It seems likely. Apparently I've enough ability to balance everything—that which was originally mine and that which has been forced on me—when the ship is in drive and every electron in my head is firing twice.

"Even more. I was never able to see with wizard's eyes so well that I could have picked up the image of the keypad and the pattern of the lock."

She finished her own bottle and put it down. "What's going to happen?"

"The ship will continue to labor yet awhile and then it will rest." He looked up at her, smiling slightly. "Do you feel better?"

"Better. Beat up. Knocked down. Stomped on. And rode over. But definitely better. What now?"

He rolled to his feet, remembering at the last instant not to offer her his hand. "I suggest we gather food and whatever else we can use from what is stored, while I have extra eyes to see with."

THE JUNTAVAS HIT planet brief hours after Port clearance, despite the high rates of cumshaw required for such speed. Once on-world, money was spent with astonishing open-handedness for the purchase of clearance lists, ships parked, new arrivals, visas issued, and papers filed.

"They ain't here," Jefferson said some hours later, throwing the last fan of printout from him in disgust.

"Whaddya mean, they ain't here? Where else would they be? Maybe they hit and Jumped out again—you check that?"

Borg Tanser, second-in-command of the project, was a tight, smallish man, given to nagging; he was a good gunman and a quick thinker in a jam, and Jefferson was fortunate to have him along. He reminded himself of that now.

"We checked. No Clutch ships in or out of system for nearly six months. They ain't here. And they haven't been here." He shook his head. "Beats hell out of me."

"Yeah? Well, how's this, then? Let's split the team. Half checks the planet inside-out. Other half takes the ship and backtracks. Could be they're hanging a Jump or two back, waiting for the heat to cool."

Jefferson thought about it, reaching for the printouts and stacking them neatly together. "Yeah—we'll run it that way. The boss was real anxious to have both of 'em. Impolite, they were."

But Tanser was not a man known for his sense of humor. He snapped to his feet, nodding sharply. "Okay, then, I'll take the crew and get out of here. See ya." He was gone.

"See ya," Jefferson said absently. He sat for a moment, staring sightlessly at the stacked sheets, then pushed away from the table and went over to the bouncecomm to make his preliminary report to the boss.

MATTHEW LOOKED UP from his study of the latest data and regarded the two Clutch members expressionlessly.