by Sharon Lee
Miri straightened. "Show-off."
Grinning, he flipped stops, adjusted frequencies, and slowed the lines she had shown him until they were obviously an introduction.
Miri turned toward the audience and begun to sing.
She sang well, he conceded, adjusting the 'chora to fill the spaces her voice left within the song. She did not have remarkable range, it was true, but she knew the limits of her voice, and the song she had chosen, with its overstated lament of the problems encountered by Programmer Dooley, fit her abilities perfectly.
The song ended at an even dozen verses, which he also appreciated.
The Clutch members sat motionless at the oversized table; Edger's eyes were glowing.
Val Con adjusted the stops and began the introduction to that ever-popular ballad of the spaceways, "Ausman Overboard." Miri laughed and nearly missed her first line.
The party lasted until very early the next morning.
CHAPTER SIX
THE STAFF OF the hyatt in Econsey were even more impressed with the members of Edger's group than the staff at the City House, where they'd spent the previous night, had been. Of course, the Clutch had been staying at City House for several weeks-it was possible that the novelty had worn off.
A suite of rooms, arranged in a six-pointed star around a spacious common room, was provided. An omnichora, the stammering manager explained, was standard equipment in this apartment.
The suite was pronounced adequate, and the manager was requested to guide Handler and Sheather to the kitchens, where they could arrange the details of comestibles while Edger and Selector made a preliminary tour of Econsey's import shops.
Miri stared at Val Con and cleared her throat. "I'm gonna try the comm-net for Murph's registration," she said, jerking her head at the door to her bedroom.
He nodded wordlessly and drifted toward the 'chora.
MURPH'S NAME WAS readily regurgitated by the net; the comm connected her with his hyatt's front desk immediately.
"Mr. Murphy and his guest have rented one of our island hideaways for a few days," the smiling young man at the Archipelago told her. "They should be back on the mainland-let's see . . . Yes. Tomorrow afternoon. Would you like to leave a message for him?"
"No, thanks," Miri said through gritted teeth. "My plans ain't fixed yet. I'll give him a call back when I know what I'm gonna be doing. I just thought, if he was free tonight . . . " She let it trail off, and the young man dimmed his smile by a kilowatt or two in professional sympathy.
She thanked him and broke the connection, seething.
Spinning slowly on her heel, she surveyed the bedroom. It was not, she thought, as luxurious as the apartment rented by Connor Phillips in Mixla City, though the private comm built into the desk was a nice touch. And the bed was enormous.
The bathing room offered a choice of wet or dry clean, as well as a sunroom; the valet was in a room of its own, flanked by floor to ceiling mirrors. On whim, because any occupation was better than thinking up ways to ruin Murph's nature, she called for the valet's catalog.
A low whistle escaped between her teeth as the pictures began to form in the screen. Hot damn, but you're in the wrong business! she told herself. A person didn't get rich being a soldier-not unless she got real lucky. And personal bodyguards didn't get rich either, unless the boss died grateful-of natural causes. Miri puzzled briefly, trying to figure out what line of work one could get into and afford to dress in the clothes offered by the hyatt's valet.
Sighing, she hit CANCEL. There was one thing for sure-any gimmick that let a person dress like that was not a gimmick that a mercenary from a ghetto world was likely to fall into.
That thought touched another, and then her fingers were working the catch on her pouch, pulling at the false wall. The enamel work of the disk was nearly blinding in the spotlights of the valet chamber, but extra illumination did not make the marks more meaningful.
She stood for a long moment, frowning down at the thing. Then, with a sharp nod, she went in search of her partner.
* * *
THE MANAGER OF the second shop was appreciative. She turned the one knife they carried with them for such purpose-their "sample" Edger called it-this way and that, letting the light illuminate and obscure the crystal blade in artistic series.
"It's beautiful," she breathed, laying it with gentle care on the velvet pad she used for showing off fine pieces of jewelry. "I'm quite sure I could sell a few hundred every year. Why don't we start with an immediate shipment of fifty? In six months I'll have a better idea of how they're moving and be able to reorder." She looked up at the larger of the two aliens, who seemed to be the boss of the venture. "Will fifty percent up front and fifty percent on delivery be satisfactory?"
"Quite satisfactory, " Edger replied politely. "But it appears that I have not made myself perfectly clear. I am mortified to display such a lack of proficiency in your language. The case is this: 'Immediately,' as I understand you to mean the word, is not possible. It takes a space of time to encourage knives to grow in the desired form for the proper edge to be induced, for handles and sheaths to be formed and grown . . . ."
The manager frowned. "How long?"
Edger waved a hand. "For such a knife as that, do we notify those at home this day-twenty of these Standard Years."
"Twenty-" She swallowed and stared down at the lovely thing resting on the velvet. "What if you were to-ah, encourage-a smaller knife? Say one half as large as this? How long would that take?"
Edger considered. "Perhaps fifteen years. Some effort, you understand, cannot be hastened, though there is a saving in time due to the fact that the knife need not be encouraged to grow so large."
"There's nothing you can do to hurry the process a little? I mean-twenty Standards . . . " The bell rang in the front of the shop, announcing the arrival of another customer. Two customers, she saw around the curve of the silent turtle's shell, both well-dressed and cultured.
"Excuse me," she murmured to Edger and moved a bit down-counter. "Yes, sir? Is there something in particular you'd like to see?"
The older of the two smiled and flipped a hand. "Nothing particular. A birthday gift for my daughter. I'd like to look around, if you'd care to finish with those gentles."
She smiled and nodded. "Please take all the time you need. And if I can be of any assistance . . . ." The phrase drifted off as she walked back to Edger and Selector.
"You must understand that it's not possible for a-a human-to wait twenty Standards for the filling of an order. Are you certain," she asked Edger very earnestly, "that there is nothing you can do to speed the process up?"
Edger moved his massive head from side-to-side in the gesture that he understood to mean negation. "I regret not. Were we to attempt such a thing-as has been done in the past, when knives were encouraged at a lightning pace-perhaps three Standards from thought to blade . . . " He sighed a huge sigh. "Such knives are flawed. They do not withstand the rigors we of Middle River Clan demand of our blades.
"That one before you-it will not shatter, no matter the provocation. Excluding, I should say, massive trauma, such as one would expect in the wreck of a land vehicle or collision of asteroid and starship. A flawed blade will shatter and be only dust upon the second strike against ordinary stone. We cannot, as craftpersons proud of our work, encourage a blade ahead of its time, knowing that it will perform as poorly as that."
He motioned, and Selector stepped forward to return the sample to its sheath of soft vegetable hide.
"Well," the manager said, putting her bravest face on it. "I'm sorry. I would've loved to have had some of your knives in the shop." She dredged up a smile. "Thank you for your time."
Edger inclined his head. "Our time has been well given. My thanks for the gift of your own." He and Selector turned-carefully, in this place crammed with fragile things-and started for the door.
"Your pardon, Gentles," the elder of the two well-dressed men said. Edger paused. Behind him, Selector
paused also, there being no place to go with his brother blocking the aisle.
The man made a slight bow, as would a resident prince upon greeting another traveling through his country. "My name is Justin Hostro. I could not help overhearing your conversation just now. Much that you have said interests me, and I believe I see a way in which we both may prosper. I would be very happy, were you to have time to walk with me to my place of business, so that we may discuss the matter more fully."
Edger was pleased. Forsooth, a human of beautifully polished manner and splendid turn of phrase. Further, one who wished to learn more fully of the knives of Middle River. He inclined his head.
"My brother and I are happy to learn your name and would be pleased to discuss our craft with you. Let us, as you say, walk to your place of business and speak."
Justin Hostro bowed once more. "I am delighted by your willingness. If I might beg the favor of an instant, while I complete the purchase of a gift for my only daughter?"
"It is well," Edger replied. "My kinsman and I shall await you and yours without."
If their new acquaintance tarried longer than the requested instant, it was not by so significant a time that either Edger or Selector noted the delay. Justin Hostro and his companion rejoined them quickly, the companion bearing a large and ornately wrapped box.
"Ah!" Edger exclaimed. "What delicacy you show in your choice! What supremacy of color-the so-bold yellow, how subtly tamed by the soberness of the black ribands! It is my belief that your daughter will be well pleased with such a gift."
The man carrying the object of this acclaim stopped dead, blinking at his leader. But Justin Hostro merely laid his hand upon Edger's forearm and turned him gently down the street, murmuring, "Now, it does my heart good to hear you say so, for I see you have a discerning eye. I had had qualms, I will admit it. Perhaps the yellow was too bold? The black too severe? But that it draws such praise from you-I am content."
Shaking his head, Mr. Hostro's companion fell in with Selector, and thus they each followed their leader down the street.
* * *
CMS WAS AT .90, CPS at .82. Val Con adjusted the stops on the 'chora as his fingers found an intriguing weave of sound, and the numbers in his head faded away.
Shrouded in the music, he did not hear the scant sound she made entering the room, nor did body-sense warn him of her nearness. The thud of disk to padded 'chora top was unexpectedly loud.
Trained reflexes stilled his startled reaction as his eyes snapped first to her face, then to the disk, and back to her face.
"Hello, Miri."
"What is it?" she demanded, voice harsh, finger pointing.
He dropped his eyes obediently and considered the bright design, hands folded in his lap as he sought the proper words, the correct inflection. It is heritage, he thought. It is home.
"It is a House Badge." He lifted his eyes again to hers, keeping his voice gentle and smooth. "The sign indicates Clan Erob, which is a House that chooses to seat itself elsewhere than upon Liad. They are respected Traders." He moved his shoulders. "It is what I know."
"There's writing on the back of it," Miri told him, her voice less harsh, but still carrying that edge he mistrusted.
He picked up the disk, flipped it in long fingers, and sighed.
"It is a genealogy. The last entry is incomplete. it reads: 'Miri Tiazan, born in the year named Amrasam.'" He let the badge fall gently back to the padding and looked up at her. "That would be approximately sixty-five Standards ago."
"Tayzin," she muttered, giving the name a Terran inflection. "Katalina Tayzin-my mother. Miri Tayzin-grandmother, I guess. Mom might've named me for my grandmother-she never said. Just that her mother'd died in 1358, back during the Fevers, when the fatcats . . . " She let her voice drift off, shaking her head.
"Didn't tell me a lot of stuff, looks like. When I told her I'd joined up with Liz's Merc unit, she gave me that thing there. Told me it'd belonged to her mother, and she'd be happy knowin' it was off Surebleak-and me, too." Her eyes sharpened suddenly.
"You knew," she said, and it was surety, not accusation.
He nodded. "I knew as well as I could, for whatever difference it might make. I was surprised to find that you did not know, and that you thought yourself so Terran." He offered her a smile. "Look at you. Everyone knows Liadens are short, small compared with other humans; that the heartbeat is a fraction off, the blood count a trifle different . . . ."
She shrugged, and the smile she returned him was real. "Mutated within acceptable limits. Says so in my papers."
"Exactly my point," he murmured. "Because it makes no real difference. No reasonable difference. I have it that we are all the same seed: Terran, Liaden, Yxtrang."
"Yxtrang, too?" She was onto the other point before he could nod. "You have that officially?"
He ran a finger over the smooth enamel work of Erob's badge. "My father did. He had access to the best of the genetics data, and to-other-information. In fact, he gave the information to the Terran Party."
"He what?" She was staring at him. "The Terran Party? What'd they do, laugh at him?"
He moved his shoulders against the sudden tension. "They tried to assassinate him."
Air hissed between her teeth, not quite a whistle. "They would, you know. Especially if they thought it was true. But you said-they tried."
He glanced down, took up the disk, and turned it over in his hands. "They tried . . . He was walking with my mother-his lifemate, you understand, not a contract-wife. She saw the man pull the gun-and she stepped in front, pushing my father aside." He turned the badge over and over in his hands, light running liquid over the many colors. "She was hit instead. They'd used a fragging pellet. She had no chance at all."
"So," she said after a long moment, "you do have a vendetta against Terrans."
His brows twitched together in a frown. "No, I don't." He flipped the badge lightly to the padding. "What good would a vendetta against Terrans do? Because one man with a gun did as he was ordered? Perhaps-probably-he thought he was protecting his family, his Clan, his planet, all of them, from some horrible destiny. I would think that the death of one man would be a cheap price to end such a threat, then and there."
He flexed his arms and leaned back. "A vendetta? Anne Davis, who took me as her own, raised me as her own-she was Terran, though my uncle, her lifemate, was Liaden." He glanced up, half-smiling. "You and I could be partners were you full Terran; there is nothing between our people that makes us natural enemies. No. No vendetta."
He picked up Erob's badge and offered it to her.
"I think," he said slowly as she took the disk from his hand, "that there is little purpose to thinking things like 'the Liadens,' 'the Clutch,' 'the humans,' or even 'the Yxtrang.' I think the best way to think-and talk-is in particulars: 'Val Con,' 'Miri,' 'Edger.' If you need to think bigger because some things take more people, it might be wise to think 'Erob,' 'Korval,' 'Middle River'-a group small enough that you can still name the individuals; a group small enough that you can, in time, know the individuals, the parts of the Clan. Where is the threat in 'Handler,' 'Edger,' 'Terrence'?"
She stood holding the Clan sign loosely, puzzlement shadowing her gray eyes.
"You didn't learn that in spy school," she told him flatly.
He looked down and began to stroke the keys of the 'chora.
"No," he said, very softly. "I don't think I did."
She clicked open her pouch and dropped the Erob-link within, her eyes on the top of his head as he sat bent over the keyboard once more.
"So how come you're a spy and not a Scout?"
The Loop flared and he was up, hands flat on the keyboard, primed to stop the deadly danger of her; he saw disbelief flash across her face even as her body dropped into a crouch, ready to take his attack, a trained opponent, growing deadlier by the instant-
"Miri." His voice cracked and he swallowed air; he raised a hand to push the hair from his forehead and exercised will to
banish the Loop from consciousness . . . . "Miri, please. I would-like-to tell you the truth. It is my intention to tell you the truth."
He saw her make the effort, saw the fighting tension drain out of shoulders and legs as she straightened and grinned shakily.
"But I shouldn't push my luck, right?"
"Something very like," he agreed, pushing the hair on his forehead up again. It fell back immediately.
"You really do need a haircut."
The adrenal rush had left him drained, a little shaky, but curiously at ease. He flashed a quick grin. "I find that suggestion hard to take seriously from someone whose own hair falls well below her waist."
"I like it long."
"And you a soldier!"
"Yeah, but, you see, my commander told me never to cut it. Just following orders!"
He laughed and found within himself an urge to talk, to explain-to justify.
"Orders can be difficult, can they not?" he said, sitting down again before the 'chora. "I came to this world because there was a man who was a great danger to many, many people of different sizes and shapes. A man who thought anyone whose heartbeat and blood failed to match his own was a geek-worthless-and who killed and tortured the hopeless.
"I was ordered here, but having seen the man act, I believe that I did what was proper. The reason I was ordered here, I think, is that a vendetta claim would have been sufficient to stop an investigation of my further motives, had something gone awry." He paused, then went on more slowly.
"After all, spy or Scout, I am a volunteer, am I not? I have already agreed to go first, to make the universe safe. A Scout or a spy-it is the same thing. I am an agent of change in either case. Expendable-too useful a tool not to use.
"Sometimes," he continued softly, "tools are programmed to protect themselves. This 'chora, for example, can be moved about within the hyatt with no difficulty. Yet, if we attempted to move it off the grounds, it would start howling, or perhaps it would simply not function all." He looked at her carefully. "The 'chora may not even know what it will do when the boundary is crossed-some circuits are beyond its access. Tools are like that, sometimes."