Lee, Sharon & Miller, Steve - Liaden Books 1-9

by Liaden 1-9 (lit)

  She pointed at the door. "Scram. Get out. Begone. Leave." The gun was back in her hand. "Last chance."

  He bowed his head and came to his feet with swift fluidity – to find her standing, her gun steady on his gut.

  A most business-like lady, indeed, he thought with a smile. "You wouldn't have a shuttle schedule, perhaps? My information seems out of date."

  She frowned. "No. Just get moving, tough guy. Schedule's carried in every infobooth in this rathole." The gun moved infinitesimally toward the door. "I'm tired of your company, accazi?"

  "I understand," he murmured. He bowed as between equals. Then he was through the door and out, seeking location, listening to the night.

  In a moment he had his bearings; the heavy glow to the – east, it was – that was the shuttleport. It was rather farther away than it had been before he'd taken his impromptu nap; he thought he was close to the area where Terrence O'Grady had rented his second apartment.

  The sounds from behind the door spoke of someone efficiently in motion. He recognized the movement pattern of a person with no time to waste, acting with rapid, purposeful calm, and his respect for the red-haired woman increased.

  He turned his attention to the street. Halfway down the block two men stood beneath a street lamp, heads together. From the breezeway to his right came the sound of two unhurried sets of footsteps: friends strolling.

  He left his shadowed wall and went down the street at a brisk walk, a man with a destination, but without urgency.

  The men under the streetlight seemed to be discussing the betting on a sporting event, comparing official odds against their own notions. He passed with barely a glance, heading for the blue glow of an infobooth at the end of the block. Another pair of companions passed him, walking arm-in-arm toward the building he'd recently left.

  He went on, and presently his ears told him that a set of quiet footsteps paced his own silent ones. The Loop flickered into being, diagramming the chances of an imminent attack – .98 surety. His outlook for survival over the next ten minutes was .91.

  The infobooth loomed to his right, its blue dome light making garish ghosts in the evening mist. He turned firmly in that direction, quickening his pace. The escorting steps quickened, as well, attempting to overtake him.

  He reached the door and fumbled with the catch. A hand fell on his shoulder and he allowed himself to be spun around. His hands moved with deadly precision.

  The man dropped without a sound. Val Con went to one knee, made sure that the neck had broken, and was on his feet, running back the way he had come.

  He streaked by the abandoned streetlight and dived for the deeper shadow the light created, smelling clean night air and a touch of heavy cologne.

  They were grouped in a rough semicircle before the building, emulating the approach that had been so disastrous earlier. One pair was near the fence by the alley, while three more stood wide, farther from the light. The shifting shadow of the man who wore cheap cologne was at the door itself, in position to either slay her as she left, or surprise her if she ran.

  Val Con did not think she would run.

  He dropped to one knee, waiting for the watchers to take action, hoping that the woman had anticipated this much trouble and prepared another exit. Perhaps she was already in another safe place and would laugh if she knew he had returned.

  Would she have sent him out to die – to be a diversion while she escaped? He wondered and then forgot, for the door opened and she stepped out.

  He flashed to his feet, running soundlessly.

  She closed the door and the assassin in the shadows moved. Something – a noise? a motion in the dim light? a thought? – betrayed him an instant too soon and she dove, hitting the ground on her shoulder and rolling. Her gun flashed up too late. The man was nearly on top of her –

  He gasped, dropping his weapon and clutching at his throat with clawed hands as she continued her roll, gun coughing twice in quick succession, counting a pair of slow-moving men among the dead. Distantly, she heard three sharp cracks and knew without doubt that three more lay dead nearby.

  To the right, two dead; to the left, three huddled lifelessly against a fence as a fourth stood upright, hands held out at waist level, palms toward her.

  She stood warily in the shocking quiet and motioned him over with a wave of her gun.

  "Hey, tough guy." Her voice was a raspy whisper.

  He came, hands empty at his sides, and walked within grabbing distance. She stepped back, then laughed and took a half-step toward him.

  "Thanks," she said, and her voice was stronger. She slid her gun away and nodded at the single assassin.

  "What's with him? Thought for sure he had me. Then he just falls over!"

  Val Con moved past her and knelt by the dead man, avoiding the pooling blood. She came and stood by his shoulder, bending forward with interest.

  He turned the man over and pulled the hands from the sticky throat.

  "Knife," he murmured, slipping it from its nesting place and wiping it clean on the dead man's shirt.

  "Not even a laserblade," she said, wondering. "Unusual toy, ain't it?"

  He shrugged and slid the blade into its neck sheath. "Quiet."

  She wrinkled her nose at the dead man. "Messy." She felt him tense beside her and shot a glance at his face. "More company?"

  "You seem to be a popular young lady." He offered her his arm. "I suggest you have dinner with me," he said, smiling. "We can lose them."

  She sighed, ignoring his arm. "Right. Let's move."

  A moment later the dead had the street to themselves.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The bar-grill was near the shuttleport, a smoky, noisy place crowded with grease-apes, shuttle-toughs, fuelies, and any number of local street-livers. Two women played guitars, providing music of the driving, inane variety and eating and drinking their wages between sets.

  The red-haired woman settled a little more comfortably against the wall, hands curved around a warmish mug of local coffeetoot, watching her companion watch the crowd. They had arrived here via the appropriation of three robot cabs, as well as several private cars. As self-appointed lookout, she was sure they'd lost their pursuers, but apparently the man beside her was taking no chances.

  "Now," he murmured, eyes on the room, "you may begin by telling me your name, and continue down the list."

  She was silent, drinking 'Toot, and he turned to look at her, his face smooth, green eyes expressionless. She sighed and looked away.

  Two fuelies were rolling dice at a corner table. She watched the throw absently, automatically counting the sides as they flashed.

  "Robertson," she said in a cracking whisper. She cleared her throat. "Mira Robertson. Retired mercenary soldier; unemployed bodyguard." She flicked her eyes back to his face. "Sorry 'bout the bother." Then she paused and sighed again, because this was much harder to say – something she did not say often. "Thanks for the help. I needed it."

  "So it seemed," he agreed in his accentless Terran. "Who wishes you dead?"

  She waved a hand. "Lots of people, it seems."

  The green eyes were back on hers. "No."

  "No?"

  A muscle twitched near the corner of his mouth. He stilled it and resumed his constant survey of the bar.

  "No," he said softly. "You are not stupid. I am not stupid. Hence you must find another way to lie to me. Or," he added, as one being fair, "you might tell the truth."

  "Now why would I do that?" she wondered and drank some more of the dreadful 'Toot.

  He sighed. "You owe me a debt, I think?"

  "I knew you were gonna bring that up! You can forget that stuff right now, spacer. You're the Liaden in this skit. Terrans don't count coup."

  She almost missed his start; she snapped her eyes to his face, only to find him expressionless, watching the patrons of the bar.

  "What?" she demanded.

  "It's nothing." He shifted his shoulders against the wall. "A better reaso
n, then. Whoever wishes to kill you most likely has us linked by now, and so hunts us both. Is my new enemy one individual with the means to buy service? Or a group, most of whom we have dispatched already? Can I safely go off-planet, or will I find assassins around my Clan fire when I return home?" He paused. "Your danger is my danger. Your information may save my life. I wish to stay alive. It is dishonorable for a soldier not to know the enemy!" He turned his head to look at her, one eyebrow askance. "Is that reason sufficient?"

  "Sufficient." She drank off the rest of the 'Toot and set the mug on the table. Eyes on the cracked blue plastic, she resettled against the wall.

  "Half a Standard ago I left the Merc," she began, voice perfectly even. "Felt like I wanted to settle down, I guess, learn about one world… relax… Got a job as a bodyguard on this place called Naome. Lot of rich paranoid types go there to retire. All of 'em got bodyguards. Status symbol."

  "Anyhow, I was hired the third day on the Lists by a man who called himself Baldwin. Sire Baldwin. Paid me three months in advance. To demonstrate good faith." She shook her head.

  "He needed help, okay. I worked for him five – six local months. Used to wonder once in awhile what he used to do that made him need so much protection now…"

  She let her voice drift off as the waiter came and refilled the cups, hers with more 'Toot, Val Con's with tea.

  "And?" he prompted as soon as the waiter was away.

  She shrugged. "Turned out Sue Baldwin had been somebody else before. Somebody who'd worked for the Juntavas. You savvy the Juntavas, tough guy?"

  "Interplanetary crime net," he murmured, eyes on the room. "Drugs, gambling, prostitution, contraband." He flicked his eyes to her face. "Bad trouble."

  "You're the one wanted to know."

  "Yes. What happened next?"

  "He got tired of the work, I guess. Resigned without paying his severance money. Took some cash and some confidential info – guess a man's gotta eat…"

  "It was the people from his old unit I'd been protecting him from. They'd tracked him down and were asking for 'restitution.'" She took a swallow of 'Toot that she didn't want, then shook her head.

  "Baldwin told 'em to come ahead, that he was tired of hiding out and wanted to make everything square. He invited 'em to come to the house on Naome."

  She paused, staring into the depths of the mug.

  The pause lengthened. Stifling an impulse to touch her shoulder, Val Con tried a soft "And?" When a second "And?" brought no response, he snapped his voice like fingers in her face.

  "Miri!"

  She started and looked at him, face wry. "It was a doublecross. A bamboozle. Baldwin called the house staff together, from the cook to the upstairs maid. Told us we were being invaded. That we'd have to fight."

  "The whole staff fought – and most of 'em had never carried a gun before! We refused Baldwin's buddies entrance, and when they insisted, we insisted right back. Bad, seeing untrained people fight that way… When it was sure we couldn't hold it, I went off loyally looking for my boss so I could perform my last duty – I was his bodyguard, wasn't I?" She shrugged and drank some 'Toot.

  Val Con looked at her.

  "Don't you see? Gone. Bolted. Flew the coop. Left us to fight and die. I think five of us got away. Means fourteen didn't. Gardener didn't. Maids didn't. Cook – I don't know. He looked pretty bad, last time I saw him." She moved her shoulders again in a gesture that was not quite a shrug.

  "Don't know who else they might've tracked down, but I was his bodyguard, all legal and certified and recorded. Took 'em about two hours to get on my trail."

  She looked hard at nothing for a couple of minutes, then took another slug of her drink. "I came here 'cause there's a man who owes me money and a friend who's keeping some – things – for me. I better take everything. Not sure I'll get back in this Quarter again…"

  The man beside her was quiet. She relaxed deliberately, her thoughts touching people she'd known as she sipped the 'Toot for something to do and wondered where she might spend the night, now that she had one to spend.

  The bench creaked, and she looked up into decisive green eyes.

  "You come with me," he said in the tone of someone who has weighed odds and reached a decision.

  "I do what?"

  He was fishing in his pouch. "You come with me. You will need new papers, a new name, a new face. These will be provided." He raised a hand to cut off protest.

  "Liadens count coup, remember? The debt runs in two directions."

  He scattered a handful of Terran bits on the table to pay for the meal, then rose and moved off, not waiting to see if she followed.

  After a moment, she did.

  The cab deposited them before a modestly lit whitestone building in the affluent side of town. The door to the lobby swung open on silent hinges, and Val Con moved across a wilderness of Percanian carpet, his reflection keeping pace in the mirrored walls.

  Miri paused just inside the door, mistrusting the light. Cursing herself for more of a fool, she set off across the carpet and arrived at her companion's shoulder as he removed his finger from the keyslot and said "Connor Phillips" into the receptionist's mike.

  The desk hummed as a slot slid open and a large, ornate key emerged. Val Con crooked his left index finger in the loop and half-smiled at her.

  "Two floors up," he murmured, moving toward the bank of sliding doors.

  Miri trailed by half a pace, letting him summon the lift, enter it before her, and exit the same way when it stopped.

  This hall was somewhat dimmer than the lobby and he paused, listening, she thought, before moving on. His head swung to the left and to the right, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as he used the ridiculous key on the second door on the left.

  The door sighed open and lights came up in the room beyond as they stepped through. Miri stopped just over the threshold, hand dropping to her gun.

  The door sighed shut behind her.

  Halfway into the room, the man turned to look at her, one eyebrow raised, empty palms up. "I won't hurt you." He dropped his hands. "I'm too tired."

  She stayed where she was, surveying the room.

  Before her, a large double window showed the city night; a pillowed couch sat to one side, opposite two soft chairs and a table. To her right was an omnichora, its keyboard covered against dust. Beyond that, surrounding a closed door, were floor-to-ceiling shelves lined with tape boxes, and a comm unit – an oasis of practicality.

  To her left were more shelves, filled with tape boxes interrupted here and there with figurines and bric-a-brac. Beyond the unit bar and its two upholstered stools was another closed door, and past that, through an elliptical archway, she caught the shine of kitchen tile.

  "Pretty fancy for a cargo master."

  He shrugged. "It was a profitable ship."

  "Um." She gestured vaguely behind her. "That the only way out?"

  He tipped his head at the windows, moved to the right, pulled open the door, and waved her inside.

  A bedroom – with a sleeping platform adequate for the demands of a small orgy – connected to a bathroom that included wet and dry cleaning options and a valet for care of clothes. There were no windows.

  She stepped out and the man guided her across the central room to the second door and a suite that was a mirror twin to the right-hand bedroom.

  In the kitchen there was a small, high window, and another door.

  "Beyond is a service corridor, which empties into another, which ends in a staircase, which – "

  "Gets me to the cellar?" she guessed.

  He smiled, moving back into the big room. "Would you like something to drink?"

  "Would I. And then a shower. And then about twelve hours' sleep. Or maybe sleep and then shower – kynak," she said to his lifted brows, naming the mercenary soldier's drink.

  He frowned at the display. "The bar appears to be understocked," he apologized. "I can offer Terran Scotch?"

  "Scotch?" she rep
eated, voice keying upward.

  He nodded, and she sat gently on one of the stools.

  "Scotch'll be fine," she told him. "Don't put ice in it. A religious experience shouldn't be diluted."

  He punched the button, then handed her a heavy glass half full of amber liquid.

  Eyes closed, she sipped – and was utterly still before exhaling a sigh of soul-satisfaction.

  Val Con grinned and punched in his own selection.

  "What's that?" Her eyes were open again.

  He swirled the pale blue liquid in the delicately-stemmed goblet. "Altanian wine – misravot."

  "Limited selection on this model, ain't it?"

  "It's not so bad, for a rental unit."

  "Well," she conceded, playing it straight, "but when you go to buy, remember it's things like these cut-rate bars they try to stick you with every time. Put 'deluxe' on it in gold letters and stock it with grain alcohol."

  "I will remember," he promised solemnly, moving around the bar and heading for the window. He stopped before he got there, settling instead into a corner of the couch and nearly sighing as the cushions molded themselves to his body. He sipped wine and did sigh. His head hurt abominably.

  Miri moved behind him. He let his head fall back on the cushion. Glass in hand, she bypassed the couch at a cautious distance, circled the chairs, and approached the window from the side. Standing back, she looked out at the street, now and then tossing Scotch down her throat with well-practiced smoothness.

  Tired, he thought suddenly. No way to know how long she's been running. And I'm too tired for any more questions. He half-closed his eyes. The effort of trusting another person was not best made in the teeth of headaches and exhaustion.

  She turned from the window, surprise flickering over her face as she saw him lounging half-asleep on the cushions, long lashes shielding green eyes, throat exposed.

  She sees me vulnerable, he thought, and the phrase struck something within his aching skull. He moved his head and opened his eyes.

  "I'm beat," she said quietly. "Where's to sleep?"

  He waved a hand. "Choose."