by Sharon
AGENT OF CHANGE
A Liaden Universe® Novel
Sharon Lee and Steve Miller
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are fiction or are used fictitiously. That means the author made it all up.
AGENT OF CHANGE Copyright © 1988 by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author. Please remember that distributing an author's work without permission or payment is theft; and that the authors whose works sell best are those most likely to let us publish more of their works. A paper version of this book is included in Partners in Necessity from Meisha Merlin (http://www.MeishaMerlin.com/), available in bookstores.
ISBN 1-58787-009-6
Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
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www.baen.com
First Baen Ebook Published January 2007
Shield of Korval by Angela Gradillas.
Chapter One
Standard Year 1392
THE MAN WHO was not Terrence O'Grady had come quietly.
And that, Sam insisted, was clear proof. Terry had never done anything quietly in his life if there was a way to get a fight out of it.
Pete, walking at Sam's left behind the prisoner, wasn't so sure. To all appearances, the man they had taken was Terrence O'Grady. He had the curly, sandy hair, the pug nose, and the archaic black-framed glasses over pale blue eyes, and he walked with a limp of the left leg, which the dossier said was a souvenir of an accident way back when he'd been mining in the Belt of Terado.
They stopped at a door set deep into the brick wall of the alley. Up in front, Russ raised his fist and struck the heavy kreelwood twice.
They waited, listening to the noises of the night city beyond the alley. Then the door opened silently on well-oiled hinges, and they were staring down a long hallway.
As he stepped over the threshold, Pete gritted his teeth and concentrated on the back of the man before him. The man who was not Terrence O'Grady. Maybe.
It was in no way a remarkable back: slightly stoop-shouldered, not quite on a level with Pete's own. Terrence O'Grady, the dossier noted, was short and slender for a Terran, a good six inches below the average. This made him a valuable partner for bulky Sam, who handled the massive mining equipment effortlessly, but was not so well suited to exploring the small gaps, craters, and crevices where a rich vein might hide.
Sam and Terry made money in the Belt. Then Terry quit mining, bought himself some land with atmosphere over it, and settled into farming, child raising, and even politics.
Eight years later Sam got a bouncecomm from Terry's wife: Terrence O'Grady had disappeared.
Sam went to talk to wife and family, as an old friend should; he asked questions and nosed around. No corpse had been found, but Sam declared Terry dead. He'd been too stubborn a dreamer to run out on all of them at once. And, given Terry's luck, someone would have had to kill him to make him dead before old age.
Sam said Terry had been murdered three years ago.
But recently there had been rumors, and then this person here—wearing a dead man's face and calling himself by a dead man's name.
Pete shook himself as they rounded a sharp corner and barely avoided stepping on the prisoner.
"Look sharp!" Sam whispered harshly.
They turned another corner and came into a brightly lit, abandoned office.
The man who was not Terrence O'Grady nearly smiled.
From this point on, he knew the layout of each of the fourteen suites in this building, the voltage of the lighting fixtures, the position of doors and windows, the ambient temperature, and even the style and color of the carpets.
Within his mental Loop, he saw a number shift from .7 to .85. The second figure changed a moment later from .5 to .7. The first percentage indicated Chance of Mission Success; the second, Chance of Personal Survival. CMS recently had been running significantly above CPS.
His escort halted before a lift, and both numbers rose by a point. When the lift opened onto an office on the third floor, the Loop flickered and withdrew—the more imminent the action, the less precise the calculations.
* * *
THE DESK WAS beautiful, made of inlaid teak and redwood imported from Earth.
The man behind the desk was also imported from Earth and he was not beautiful. He had a paunch and an aggressive black beard. Soft hands laced together on the gleaming wood, he surveyed the group with casual interest.
"Thank you, gentlemen. You may stand away from the prisoner."
Russ and Skipper dropped back, leaving the man who was not O'Grady alone before Mr. Jaeger's desk.
"Mr. O'Grady, I believe?" Jaeger purred.
The little man bowed slightly and straightened, hands loose at his sides.
In the depths of his beard, Jaeger frowned. He tapped the desktop with one well-manicured finger.
"You're not Terrence O'Grady," he said flatly. "This readout says you're not even Terran." He was on his feet with a suddenness surprising in so soft an individual, hands slamming wood. "You're a damned geek spy, that's what you are, Mr.—O'Grady!" he roared.
Pete winced and Sam hunched his shoulders. Russ swallowed hard.
The prisoner shrugged.
For a stunned minute, nobody moved. Then Jaeger straightened and strolled to the front of the desk. Leaning back, he hooked thumbs into belt loops and looked down at the prisoner.
"You know, Mr. ...O'Grady," he said conversationally. "There seems to be a conviction among you geeks—all geeks, not just humanoid ones—that we Terrans are pushovers. That the power of Earth and of true humans is some kind of joke." He shook his head.
"The Yxtrang make war on our worlds and pirate our ships; the Liadens control the trade economy; the turtles ignore us. We're required to pay exorbitant fees at the so-called federated ports. We're required to pay in cantra, rather than good Terran bits. Our laws are broken. Our people are ridiculed. Or impersonated. Or murdered. And we're tired of it, O'Grady. Real tired of it."
The little man stood quietly, relaxed and still, face showing bland attention.
Jaeger nodded. "It's time for you geeks to learn to take us Terrans seriously—maybe even treat us with a little respect. Respect is the first step toward justice and equality. And just to show you how much I believe in justice and equality, I'm going to do something for you, O'Grady." He leaned forward sharply, his beard a quarter-inch from the prisoner's smooth face. "I'm going to let you talk to me. Now. You're going to tell me everything, Mr. O'Grady: your name, your home planet, who sent you, how many women you've had, what you had for dinner, why you're here—everything." He straightened and went back around the desk. Folding his hands atop the polished wood, he smiled.
"Do all that, Mr. O'Grady, and I might let you live."
The little man laughed.
Jaeger snapped upright, hand slapping a hidden toggle.
Pete and Sam dove to the left, Russ and Skipper to the right. The prisoner hadn't moved at all when the blast of high-pressure water struck, hurling him backward over and over until he slammed against the far wall. Pinned by the torrent, he tried to claw his way to the window.
Jaeger cut the water cannon and the prisoner collapsed, chest pounding, twisted glasses two feet from his outflung hand.
Russ yanked him up by a limp arm; the man staggered and straightened, peering about.
"He wants his glasses," Pete said, bending over to retrieve the mangled antiques.
"He don't need no glasses," Russ protested, glaring down at the prisoner. The little man squinted up at him.
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"Ah, what the hell—give 'em to him, then." Russ pushed the prisoner toward the desk as Pete approached.
"Mr. Jaeger?" he ventured, struck by an idea.
"Well?"
"If this ain't O'Grady, how come the water didn't loose the makeup or whatever?" To illustrate, Pete grabbed a handful of sandy curls and yanked. The little man winced.
"Surgery?" Jaeger said. "Implants? Injections and skintuning? It's not important. What's important—to him and to us—is that the readout says he's a geek. Terry O'Grady was no geek, that's for sure." He turned his attention to the prisoner, who was trying to dry his glasses with the tail of his saturated shirt.
"Well, Mr. O'Grady? What's it going to be? A quick talk or a slow death?"
There was a silence in which Pete tried to ignore the pounding of his heart. This was a part of the job that he didn't like at all.
The little man moved, diving sideways, twisting away from Russ and dodging Skipper and Sam. He hurled a chair into Pete's shins and flung himself back toward the desk. Sam got a hand on him and was suddenly airborne as the little man threw his ruined glasses at Jaeger and jumped for the window.
Jaeger caught the glasses absently, standing behind his desk and roaring. The former prisoner danced between Russ and Skipper, then jumped aside, causing them to careen into each other. He was through the window before Pete caught the smell of acronite and spun toward the hallway.
The explosion killed Jaeger and flung Pete an extra dozen feet toward safety.
Chapter Two
DRIPPING, HE KEPT to back streets, passing silently through the deepest shadows. Sirens shrilled distantly in the west, but he had not seen a police car for several blocks.
He ghosted down a side street and vanished into a dark vestibule. Two minutes later he opened the door to his apartment.
The telltales had not been altered, and the little man relaxed minutely. The landlord had seen nothing odd in his story of needing a place for "an occasional night out, for when a man wants a little variety." He'd been more interested in the prospect of earning a few untaxed bits.
The lights came up as the man crossed into the bedroom. He pulled the shirt over his head, unlaced the belt from his waist, and headed for the bathroom.
He let the water run in the shower as he stripped off boots and trousers. Naked and shivering slightly, he opened the box by the sink and fished out three vials.
The Loop showed a gratifying .9 on the CPS now that the mission was a success. He sighed and upped the odds by opening the first vial.
He worked the smelly purple goo into his sandy curls, wincing when he pulled knots, nose wrinkled in protest. Carefully, he coated both eyebrows and resealed the tube with relief.
He looked at the second vial with loathing. Leaning toward the mirror, he stared into the wintery blue eyes beneath the purple eyebrows for a dozen heartbeats before taking up the dropper-topped bottle and reluctantly breaking the seal. He administered two quick drops to each eye, hand steady, breath hissing between his teeth.
Tears ran down his cheeks as he counted and blinked. After his vision cleared, he bent to the mirror again, reaching a probing finger into his mouth. From inside each cheek came a curve of flexible material; he worked the caps from his teeth and spat them out before beginning on the brace that had squared his chin. That out, he gingerly adjusted ears and nose, pleased to see the normal shapes reappear.
He carried the last vial into the shower with him. The contents of this were green and sticky and even more foul smelling than the other chemicals. He rubbed the goo over every bit of skin, trying not to breathe as he coated his face. On the count of five he stepped into the dash of steaming water, gasping at the ache in cheeks, chin, and nose.
Ten minutes later he was toweling himself dry: a slender young man with straight dark hair and green eyes set deep in a high-cheeked, golden face. He finger-combed his hair and went quickly into the bedroom, shoulders level, carriage smooth and easy.
He dressed in dark leather trousers and vest, cloth shirt, and high, soft boots; ran the wide belt around his waist and checked the holstered pellet gun. The most important blade he slid into his left sleeve; the throwing knife went into the sheath at the back of his neck. The belt pouch contained sufficient funds and convincing papers; he snapped it shut and looked around.
Terrence O'Grady's papers and the depleted chemicals were disposed of with a hand incinerator. He bundled up the used clothing, but a wary glance at the smoke detector convinced him to dispose of the clothing differently.
Another quick tour of the tiny apartment satisfied him that all was in order. It was time to move on, if he intended to catch the late shuttle to Prime Station.
He dropped tenbit on the counter for the landlord to find, gathered up his bundle of clothes, and turned out the lights.
Three blocks closer to the Port he stepped firmly through a pool of light, to all appearances a night-guard or a shuttle-ape on his way to work. The clothes had been scattered in three separate alleys, and he felt confident that, on such a world as Lufkit, they would not remain ownerless long.
The night was very quiet; the street he walked, empty. Abruptly, he chose a side street. His hunch had it that things were unnaturally quiet in the area. Noting that the vehicle parked at the far end of the street bore a strong resemblance to a police cruiser, he melted into the shadows and turned down the next alley, striking diagonally for the Port.
The way was twisty and unlit, the glow from the Port cut off by towering warehouses. Relying on his ears and an excellent sense of place, the little man proceeded soundlessly, if not quickly.
He froze at the first sound of pellet fire, sorting echoes and waiting for a repeat. It came. There was more than one shot: a fusillade, coupled with shouts. He drifted toward the ruckus, hand on gun.
The alley twisted once more and widened into bright spaciousness, showing him a loading dock and five well-armed persons protected behind shipping containers and handtrucks. Before the dock a red-haired woman held a gun to the throat of a Terran, using his body as a shield between herself and the five others.
"Please guys," the hostage yelled hoarsely. "I'll give you my share—I swear it! Just do like she—"
One of those behind the containers shifted; the hostage stiffened with a throttled gasp, and the woman dropped him, diving for the scant cover of a wooden crate. Pellets splintered it, and she rolled away, the fleeing hostage forgotten, as one of the five rose for a clear shot.
The little man's gun spat once, and the assassin slumped over his erstwhile concealment, weapon sliding from dead fingers.
"Over there!" one of the hidden men screamed. "There's someone—"
A pellet whined over the little man's shoulder and he jumped for cover, swearing alike at reactions and hunches. At the dock, the woman had come to her feet, accounting for another of her opponents with casual efficiency. The little man found himself the recipient of an assassin's sole attention and calmly put three holes through the container sheltering her. There was a scream—and then nothing.
Suddenly, the two remaining assassins were up, rushing the red-haired woman and firing wildly. She dodged behind a container and fired, but they came on, though a red stain had appeared on the lead man's sleeve.
The little man took careful aim. The leader dropped. Half a heartbeat later, the woman's shot accounted for the last of the five.
Warily, the man came out from his cover, beginning to salute the woman.
The blow that knocked him unconscious took him entirely by surprise.
* * *
ONE HAD GOTTEN away, which was not good.
The red-haired woman came back down the alley and stooped to run probing fingers over the dark head and touch the pulse at the base of the slim throat. She froze, counting the rhythm for a full minute, then settled back on her heels, hands hanging loosely between her knees.
"Ahhh, damn."
She stared at the dark lump of the stranger, willing him to come
to, pick up his gun, and go away.
No luck today, Robertson, she said to herself. Man saved your life. You gonna leave him here?
Cursing herself for a seven-times fool she scooped up the fallen weapon and stashed it in her belt. Then she bent to get a grip on the stranger and heaved.
* * *
THANK THE GODS for robot cabs, she thought sometime later, letting her burden slide to the shattered tile floor. Thanks be, too, for sheer, dumb luck—the street had been empty when the cab pulled up, and had remained empty while she maneuvered the man's body across the walk and into the building.
She sighed now, stretching back and shoulder muscles and acknowledging in advance the stiffness she'd feel tomorrow. She hadn't expected such a little guy to weigh so much, though at that he was bigger than she was. Everybody was bigger than she was.
Bending, she worked the catch on the man's pouch and pulled out a sheaf of papers. She whistled soundlessly at the verification of the obvious and refolded the sheaf, eyes on his unconscious face.
She saw high cheeks curving smoothly to a pointed chin, a generous mouth, straight brows above the shuttered eyes, thick, glossy hair tumbling across a smooth golden forehead—a boy's face, though the papers claimed thirty Standards for him. Liaden citizen. Damn, damn, damn.
She replaced the papers and snapped the pouch, then moved a safe distance away, folded her legs, and sat on the floor. Absently, she unpinned the braid wrapped around her head and began to unweave it, eyes sharp on the still figure of the man.
* * *
VERY LIKELY, HE told himself, your skull is broken. More likely, his money was gone, as well as his gun and his knives—which was a damned nuisance. If his Middle River blade were lost, he'd have a hard tale to tell. Still, he thought, keeping his eyes closed, having a chance to wake up is more luck than a man with a broken skull and no brains at all should expect.
He opened his eyes.
"Hi there, thrill-seeker."
She was sitting cross-legged on the blasted tiles, weaving her copper-colored hair into one long braid. Her leathers were dark, like his own; her white shirt was loosely laced with silver cord. A black scarf was tied around one forearm, and the gun strapped to her thigh looked acceptably deadly.