by Sharon Lee
"One gun," she repeated. "In the belt."
"Second gun," he instructed, still snapping. "Sleeve pocket, right-hand side. Also the belt itself is a weapon, in that it contains a device by which he may call for aid."
It was there-now she could see the flat outline of a pellet gun in the pocket of his right sleeve. It would be a more serviceable weapon, she thought absently, than the pretty toy in his belt. She picked up her glass and tossed back the rest of her wine, heaving a huge sigh.
"I apologize," she said as he refilled her glass. "And I'll arrange to get my eyes checked in the morning."
THERE WERE TO be fireworks over the ocean at midnight.
When the meaning of this announcement had been made clear to him by his youngest brother, the musician, there was nothing for it but that Edger must attend. Here was yet another manifestation of what he was pleased to name the Art Ephemeral: Only think of something made but that it may unmake!
Selector and Sheather had no interest in this display of art and made known their joint desire to walk about the city and see what wonders unfolded. This decided, they took their leave of the rest of the party, who each had another glass of whatever it was they were drinking, to pass the time until midnight.
"Would you bear me company tomorrow morning, brother?" Val Con asked Handler. "I've an errand to run, and your assistance would be valuable to me."
Handler inclined his head. "I am at the service of my brother's brother."
"An errand, young brother?" Edger asked. "Of an artistic nature, perhaps?"
Val Con laughed. "Hardly. It only seems to me that Miri and I will soon require transportation and I wish to arrange for it before the moment is upon us."
"My brother is wise. But know that our ship, which is at dock at the so-named Station Prime in orbit about this planet, is at your command, should you have need." He paused, his large, luminous eyes on the small form of his brother. "You are an honored member of the Clan, Val Con yos'Phelium Scout. Do not forget."
Val Con froze in the act of placing his glass on the table, then completed the action slowly. "You are too generous. I am made glad by your goodness and thank you. But I do not think we will need to commandeer your ship, Edger."
"Nonetheless," the T'carais said, quaffing beer, "remember that it is yours at the speaking of a word, should the need arise."
"I will remember," his brother promised softly.
"It is sufficient," Edger announced. "Now then, who accompanies me to this fireworks display?"
"I shall, elder brother," Handler offered, finishing off his beer in a swallow.
Miri smothered a yawn. "I'm sorry, Edger, but I'm so tired I'm afraid I'd go to sleep in the middle and fall into the ocean."
"Ah. But that would not happen," Edger told her, "for your brothers would surround and protect you. If you are very tired, however, it would be wisdom to return to your room and sleep. That is, unless you long to see this wonder?"
"Fireworks? I seen fireworks before. Guess I can miss this batch."
"Have you so, indeed? We will have to compare observations upon the morrow, if you would honor me?" He heaved his bulk to a standing position, extending an arm to steady Handler, who appeared to have drunk one beer too many.
Miri stifled another yawn and grinned up at the hugeness of him. "Sure, we'll talk fireworks tomorrow. Why not?"
"It is well. Young brother, what will you?"
Val Con stood to help Miri ease back her chair and winced imperceptibly when she ignored the arm he offered. "I will go with Miri back to the rooms, I think," he told Edger. "I am tired, also."
"We will look forward to seeing you upon the morrow, then. Sleep deeply. Dream well."
Miri watched as Edger and Handler wove their majestic way across the crowded floor. That they did not bump into and seriously maim some innocent merrymaker, she noted, was not so much due to the elegance of their progress as it was to the vigilance of those same merrymakers. She grinned at her companion.
"Drunk as judges, as they say in my hometown."
"Why judges?" he wondered, allowing her to precede him around the table.
"Where I come from, Tough Guy, the only people dumb enough to be judges are drunks."
They threaded a less spectacular route through the bright swirls of people, arriving at the South door at the same time Charlie Naranshek came through the gateway of the two bars, on the second leg of his round.
"Aw, now, Roberta, you're not going to leave without one more dance, are you?"
Her brother, walking at her shoulder, spun quickly and neatly, his eyes locking with Charlie's. She turned more slowly, grinned, and shook her head.
"Charlie, I'm beat! Exhausted. Done in." She waved a tiny hand at the noisy crowd. "Whyn't you go find yourself a live one?"
"Am I gonna see you again?" he asked, putting as much schmaltz as he could manage into the question.
She laughed and took her brother's arm, turning him with her toward the door. "If you look hard. Take care of yourself, Charlie."
"You do the same, Roberta," he told the empty doorway, and turned back to finish his beat.
CHAPTER NINE
A COFFEE POT and a tea pot, with attendant pitchers, bowls, spoons, and cups, had been set out with a plate of biscuits on the table by the two softest chairs in the common room. Miri laughed when she saw them and moved in that direction.
"Whoever said there ain't guardian angels is a filthy liar," she said, pouring herself a cup of coffee. "Want some?"
He nodded. "Tea, please, though."
"Coffee ain't good enough for you?" she demanded, switching pots and juggling cups.
"I don't really like coffee," he said, taking the chair with the best view of the door. He accepted his cup with a smile.
"You, my man, are a maniac." She sank into the chair opposite, sighing deeply. "How much did we drink?"
He regarded his tea doubtfully, judged it too hot to drink, and set the cup on the table. "Three bottles between us."
"Three! No wonder I'm acting like a lackwit know-nothing. Oh, my aching head tomorrow-or is it tomorrow, now?"
"In a few minutes." He sharpened his gaze upon her face, picking out the tight muscles around her eyes, the smile held in place by will, not pleasure . . . .
As if she felt the intensity of his study, she moved her head sharply, tossing her hair behind a bare shoulder. "You and me gotta talk."
"All right," he said amiably. "You start."
The full mouth flickered into a grin, then straightened. "I ain't going to Liad, Tough Guy. Straight dope. No lies. I like who I am. I like how I look. I don't want to be somebody else." She took a sip of coffee, made a face as she burned her tongue, and set the cup on the table.
"I know that probably sounds crazy to somebody's got three or four identities going at once-but, hell, I'm just a dumb hired gun. And that's what I want to stay. So thanks, but no thanks, for the generous offer. I appreciate it, but I can't approve it."
He sat at ease, eyes on her face, hands loosely draped over the arms of the chair, ankles crossed before him.
After a time, she leaned forward. "Ain't you gonna take your turn?" she asked softly.
He lifted a brow. "I was waiting for the rest of it."
"You were," she said, without any particular inflection. She sighed. "Okay, then, the rest of it is this: I'm grateful for your help-which has been substantial and timely. I know I would've been a deader if you hadn't come along. I owe you a life, and I can't pay except to give you yours by splitting. Now.
"So, tomorrow I'll get my cash from Murph and then I'll walk out, easy and slow, with nobody the wiser. I don't need a car, so you can let poor Handler off the hook. And I sure don't need a spaceship, so Edger can relax." She picked up her cup, took a less scalding swallow, and continued.
"I think that-with your help-the Juntavas is off the trail for the time being. I should be able to get off-world before they know I'm missing. I can handle it from here, okay? I've play
ed singles odds my whole life long and I've managed to make it this far . . . ."
In the chair across from her, he had closed his eyes. As she let her voice drift to silence his lashes flicked up and he sighed.
"Miri, if you follow your plan as outlined, your chance of getting off-world is less than two percent. One chance in fifty. Your chance of being alive this time tomorrow is perhaps point three: thirty percent-three chances in ten. Your chance of being alive the day after falls by a factor of ten."
"So you say!" she started, anger rising.
"So I say!" he overrode with a snap. "And I say because I know! Did I tell you I was highly trained? Specially trained? One of the benefits is the ability to calculate-to render odds, if you will-based on known factors and subconsciously and unconsciously noted details, extrapolating on an immense amount of data I have noted. If I say you will likely be dead tomorrow evening if you leave without my aid, believe it, for it is so."
"Why the hell should I?"
He closed his eyes and took a very deep breath. "You should believe it," he said, and each word was distinct, as if he were following a ritual, "because I have said it and it is true. Since you seem to demand it, I will swear it." His eyes snapped open, captured and held hers. "On the Honor of Clan Korval, I, Second Speaker, Attest This Truth."
That was a stopper. Liadens rarely mentioned the honor of their Clan: it was a sacred thing. To swear on the honor of the Clan said they meant business, down-and-dirty, one-hundred-percent-business, no matter what.
And the eyes that held hers-they were angry, even bitter; they were bright with frustration, but they told no lie. She flinched, the weight of his meaning falling onto her all at once. He truly believes you're gonna be dead tomorrow if you leave this menagerie, Robertson.
"Okay, you said it, and you believe it," she said, making a bid for some thinking time. "You'll understand if I find it a little hard to believe. I never met anyone who could foresee the future." It was scarcely an apology, nor did it appease him.
"I do not foresee the future. I merely take available data and calculate percentages." His voice was steel-edged and cold. "You are not a 'dumb hired gun,' I think, and I am puzzled by your insistence on behaving like one."
The crack of laughter escaped before she could stop it.
"Count score for Tough Guy," she directed some invisible umpire, then grew serious again. "You mind if I play with your odds-maker for a couple minutes? Just to satisfy myself? I might not be dumb, but I sure am stubborn."
He picked up his cup and settled back in the chair. "Very well. You may."
"What are the chances of Edger turning us in?"
"None whatsoever," he said immediately. "To be as exact as the calculations go, it is more likely that I would turn us in than Edger would-the answer closely approximates zero."
"Yeah?" she said, brows rising. "That's good to know. Edger's easy to be fond of, the big ox." After a short pause, she asked, "What were the chances I could've killed you, the first time we were together?"
He sipped tea, watching the numbers appear on the scoreboard behind his eyes, then tried to relay the data dispassionately.
"If you had tried while I was unconscious, on the order of point ninety-nine: approaching surety. After I regained consciousness, before you returned my gun, and assuming that your own survival was a goal: perhaps point one five-fifteen chances in one hundred. Assuming your own survival was not a prime consideration, the odds would have approached point three-nearly one third chance of success."
He paused, sipped more tea, looked at the figures his head developed for him, and continued the analysis.
"Once you returned my weapon to me, your chance of success dropped to something close to point zero three, if you wished me dead, no matter what. Three percent, by the way, is a significantly higher chance than most soldiers would have against me, but you have speed, as well as excellent sense of location and hearing. Also, I do not believe that you would underestimate me because of my size, as other opponents have done."
He might have gone on-the figures did interest him. He found that her chance of surviving the first Juntavas attack had been as high as twenty percent, had he not shown up. The chance of her living through the second wave was much lower.
"Wait," she said, interrupting these discoveries. "That means you let me hold you. Why?"
"I did not wish to kill you. You were not a threat to my mission, nor to myself, nor to any of the projects I have been trained-"
"I'm obliged," she said, cutting him off. She poured coffee and settled back carefully, cup cradled in her fingers, her gray eyes on his face. "What odds that Charlie guy could have killed me down on the dance floor?"
He sighed, closed his eyes, and added several conscious variables to the equations.
"Discounting Edger and his kin, who are more aware than many people credit, and recalling that the weapon is new to you, but that you are a skilled soldier and he a mere policeman or security guard . . . During the time I was not in the room there was a point four chance of him wounding you, a point three chance of your being severely wounded or incapacitated, and a point two-or twenty percent-chance that an attack would have succeeded. All of these are first attacks with a handgun. With the Clutch present, he would have had no opportunity to follow up."
He opened his eyes, drank tea, and closed his eyes again, concentrating. It had been a long time since he'd done full odds this way.
"Once I re-entered the room his chance of wounding you dropped to about one chance in twenty-perhaps four point nine percent."
"Think a lot of yourself, doncha?" She frowned and leaned forward a bit in the chair. "But, Tough Guy, what're the odds he would have?"
He moved his shoulders, unaccountably irritated. "Insufficient data. I don't know who he is or why he asked you to dance. He was armed with a hidden weapon, and although he is not a young man he is in good shape, has quick reflexes, and excellent eye use: a trained guard of some kind. That does not make him a murderer, it is true. But, in your precarious position, adding anything to the odds for the other side is very foolish."
"But," she insisted, "he could have asked me to dance because he thought I was cute and he wanted to dance."
Val Con nodded and poured himself some tea.
"You don't think so," she said. "Why not?"
"Something . . . a hunch, you'd call it."
"I see. And a hunch is different than that damn in-skull computer?"
He nodded again, pushing at his hair. "Hunches saved me a lot of times-perhaps my life-when I was a Scout: guesses, made with minimal information, or just feelings. The Loop is different-it takes a definite course of action or concern to trigger it. A hunch might simply make me uneasy of a certain cave, or wary of thin ice . . . It's not something I can see behind my eyes, plain and certain."
"Sure," she murmured. "It's obvious." She threw back the rest of her coffee as if it were kynak and sat the cup down on the table with a tiny click.
"Well, then," she began again. "Do you remember when we started our souls on the way to damnation by burning up that imported brandy?"
He nodded, smiling.
"How safe were we? The TP was all around, waiting for you . . . ." She was watching him very closely, Val Con saw; he was puzzled.
"Once we reached the lobby, there was virtually no chance that we would be recognized. Pete didn't know who he was looking for-a faceless voice on the comm? The last time we'd met in person I'd had a blond head, blue eyes, and glasses on my face. You and I could have walked across the lobby without danger, I believe. No one would have stopped us. In fact, they would have been happy to have us out so quickly."
"But you knew Edger and his gang were going to be there."
He laughed. "I had no idea that Edger was within light-years! That was coincidence, neither deducted nor felt. It is also why the Loop is not one-hundred-percent accurate: I could trip on a piece of plastic trash and break my neck."
"Well, that's a rel
ief," she said, and he could see her relax. "I was starting to think you were superhuman, instead of just souped-up." Her mouth twisted. "Tough Guy?"
And what was this, he wondered, when things had been easing between them? "Yes."
"What are my chances-now-of killing, maiming, or just plain putting you out of commission on any average day? Do you have enough information to run that one?"
He did, of course: The equation hung, shining, behind his eyes. He willed it away.
"You have no reason to do any of those things. I have helped you and desire to continue helping you."
"I'm curious. If I had to," she persisted, eyes on his face. "Indulge me."
The equation would not be banished. It hung, glowing with a life of its own, in his inner eye. He combed the hair back from his face. "I do not wish to kill you, Miri."
"I appreciate the sentiment, but that ain't an answer."
He said nothing, but leaned over to place his cup gently upon the table, keeping his eyes away from hers.
"I want those numbers, spacer!" Her voice crackled with command.
He lifted an eyebrow, eyes flicking to her face, and began to tell her the facts that she needed to know before the figures were named, or acted upon.
"The data is very complex. You have much less chance now than before, I believe: I am too familiar with your balance, your walk, your eye movement, your inflections, and your strength for you to surprise me by very much. The fact that you have asked this question reduces your chances significantly. That you have seen me in action, know of the Loop, and are esteemed by me increases your chances-but not, I think, as much as they have been reduced." He drew a deep breath, let it out slowly, and continued, keeping his voice emotionless.
"So, the answer is that you would have, in a confrontational situation, approximately two chances in one hundred of killing me; three chances in one hundred of injuring me seriously. In a nonconfrontational situation your chances are much higher than before: I trust you and might err.