The Agent Gambit (31 page)

"The Loop," Miri asked, hoping. "It's gone? Or busted?"

"No . . . . Still there. Not, I think, broken. But it may have been programmed to lie to me-do
you
understand?" he asked her suddenly. "They took so much-so I would survive, they said. Surely it's important to survive? My music, my dreams-so
much
-and all to give life to a thing that lies . . . ." He rubbed his hands over his face. "I don't understand . . . ."

Miri laid a wary hand on his arm; his eyes were on her face instantly, noting uncertainty and strain.

"Yes."

She bit her lip. "What's-wiped-please?" Her voice was small and tentative, most un-Mirilike.

He shifted slightly, bumping a leg against the fallen guitar. Awkwardly, he retrieved it and cradled the splintered neck. "Ah, poor thing . . . ."

Looking up, he half-smiled. "Wiped is . . . " He shook his head, keeping a wary eye out for phantom equations. "A machine was made in answer to the thought that it would be-convenient-if, instead of impersonating someone, an agent could
become
that person. It was thought that this could be accomplished by-smoothing out the agent's own personality and overlaying a second." He saw nothing. The screen behind his eyes was blank. "When the mission was done, the second personality would be removed and the agent allowed to reemerge."

He paused for breath. Miri was watching his eyes closely, the line of a frown showing between her brows.

"It didn't work out very well. The only thing the machine did was eradicate, totally, the prime personality. No other personality could be grafted on to what remained. Nor could more conventional learning take place. The person was gone, irretrievably, though the body might live on to a very respectable old age."

A shudder shook her violently and she bent her head, swallowing hard and screwing her eyes shut against the sudden tide of sickness.

"Miri." Warm fingers brushed down her cheek, then slid under her chin, gently insisting that she raise her face. She gave in, eyes still shut, and after a moment felt him brushing away the tears.

"Miri, please look at me."

In a moment she opened her eyes, though she couldn't manage a smile.

His own smile was a better effort than the last; he shook his head. "It would be wisest not to mourn me until they bring the body before you."

"They bring me a zombie, I'll shoot it dead!"

"I would appreciate it," he told her gravely.

She dredged up a lopsided grin, looking closely into his tired eyes and grim face and hoping that this last little scene was the final drama his unnamed bosses had engineered. It had been ugly enough-and, potentially, deadly enough. What if he'd been in a shoot-out or one of the other tight spots he seemed prone to when that damned-panic-had hit?

Murder by extrapolation? She shook the thought away. "How are you now?" she ventured, aware that he had dropped his hand and twined his fingers lightly around hers.

He smiled. "Tired. It is not every day that one dies and lives to tell the tale."

She grinned and squeezed his hand. "Wanna get up? Or should I get you a blanket?"

"Up, I think." But that was easier said than done. Somehow, they both managed to rise; they stood close, leaning against each other.

Val Con moved, surprising them both as he hugged Miri to him and dropped his face to her hair, murmuring something that did not sound like Terran or Trade. Holding her away, he looked seriously into her cautious face.

"There are many things for us to talk about-but there are many things I must first say to myself, to hear what the answers may now be. I require time-perhaps a day, perhaps two-by myself. I will take food, find another room to be in . . . ."

She stiffened. "Ain't no reason to run away from me-"

He laid light fingers over her lips, cutting her off. "Not
away
from you. But think: Twice in two days I have frightened us both-badly. I must take time-while there is so much time-to find the man I am, now that there are two I am not." He unsealed her lips and touched her cheek. "It is something we both should know, I think."

Not trusting her voice, she nodded.

"Miri Robertson." There was a glimmer of ritual in his voice. "Consider please if you wish to become my partner-to remain my partner. We will speak in a few days."

Quickly, he bent and kissed her forehead, then released her and turned to gather food for his time away. The broken guitar he left on the map table. One day, he vowed, he would repair it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

FOR THE FOURTH time
Miri sneaked back to the bookroom after having peeked in at her partner. She felt like a spy herself after having agreed that he should have his time to himself. But, despite her great joy at having all the marvels of Edger's library at her command, she discovered in herself a need to be sure that Val Con was all right.

For the second time, she was confused by what she'd seen: Val Con standing in the center of the large room, moving slowly, eyes closed. He would stop for a minute, two minutes, three-and then she'd realize that he'd done a half-turn in that time. His movements had been sinuous and twisting, like a dance, but so
slow,
as if he were Edger imitating a flower growing.

In the midst of this, he would suddenly run or jump or sit to relax or concentrate, and then get up and try the same thing again. Or maybe not
quite
the same thing.

That there was method here, she was certain. She refused to think that it could be madness, as well.

To pass the time, she did more ordinary calisthenics, making sure her body was in shape to fight, to act, when this time of fairy-tale safety was over.

And the books! She worked her way through the High Liaden grammar, then devoured, in rapid succession, a small book of poems by someone named Joanna Wilcheket, a rather longer volume illuminating the intricacies of a team game called bokdingle-which she thought sounded more like pitched battle than a game-then learned the proper way to veri-date Qontikwian tree carvings. She finished up with a history of some place called Truanna, which had self-destructed back in Standard 250.

She spent an entire rest period wandering through a Terran dictionary, wondering at all the words she'd never heard of-and this was her milk tongue! An hour was given to an adventure novel by an ancient Terran writer; her sides hurt from laughing when she finished, but she searched the shelves for more.

Hiking through the ship, she noticed that the weird effects of the drive seemed much less distracting at the ship's stern, where the cargo holds were. The bookroom wasn't too bad, once she adjusted. The control room was worst.

She filed that away to mention to Val Con.

The ship's labors ended and began again. At the end of three days, Miri was worried, visions of him lying rigid and trapped intruding between her and the words in the reader-but then she caught sight of him working very hard, doing exercises she was familiar with.

That's okay, then, she thought in relief, and continued on her way to the pool.

THE SHIP WAS
between labors, and Miri woke. Stretching, she realized that this wasn't what had awakened her; it was the crisp smell of breakfast hanging in the air, odors tantalizingly close to coffee and-
coffee?

She sat up on the shelf-sleeping in the library had become a habit; it was too depressing to sleep all alone in one of the Clutch's big beds-and, weaving her hair into a single loose braid, she considered what her nose was telling her.

Coffee, she decided. She went to investigate.

Val Con was sitting crosslegged before a portable camp-stove in the center of the wide hallway, watching the entrance to the bookroom. A pan on the left burner held meat and pancakes; on the right steamed a ceramapot of dark, brown coffee.

"Good morning, cha'trez."

"Morning," she returned, staring at him from the doorway.

"You will join me for breakfast, I hope?" He waved a hand at the places set, camp fashion, with plates, cups, disposable napkins, and utensils.

"Is that
real
coffee?" she asked, coming closer.

"You tell me, my friend. The pack said something like 'Certified Brazilian,' I believe."

She grinned and pushed a cup at him. "Pour, dammit."

"Yes, Sergeant," he murmured, nodding at the pad he'd laid out for her to sit on.

She folded her legs and sat, studying his face. He turned, offering her the full cup, and lifted an eyebrow.

"Have you a problem, Miri Robertson?"

She took the cup. Gods, but real coffee smelled so good!

"You look-different," she told him.

"Ah." His shoulders dipped in the gesture she never quite understood. "I am sorry."

"I ain't." She sipped, closing her eyes to savor the taste and to buy herself time. Different, yes. Alive? His eyes were vividly green; his face in general was less haggard, less-prisoned.

She opened her eyes to find him watching her and smiled. Yes. It was as if his energy filled him joyfully now, rather than pushing him on past endurance.

"Where'd you get the goodies?" she asked, indicating the meal cooking on the small stove. "I thought we decided there wasn't any coffee."

"I was not-thinking properly," he explained, "when we looked before. Edger is nothing if not thorough, and so I looked for camp sets. He'd seen me use them when I stayed with the Clan." He grinned.

"There is approximately an eight years' supply of camp sets in the second storage compartment. Terran sets, so it seemed safe to assume there would be coffee."

She stared at him. "Not thinking properly? I'd like to know why not! You couldn't have had anything else on your mind."

He laughed as he turned the meat and the flapjacks.

She took another sip of coffee. "Val Con?"

"Yes."

She frowned slightly, watching his face. "How are you, my friend?"

"I am-well. Not very well. Nor even completely well. There was much-damage done, with little care taken. It was not expected that I would live quite so long." He shook his head. "I will have to work hard, to be certain that all heals rightly."

She hesitated. "I-needed to make sure you were okay, so I-spied-on you. That
slow
stuff you were doing-is that to make sure that all-heals rightly?"

He nodded. "It is called
L'apeleka
-a Clutch thing. It is-" He paused, eyes half-closed, then laughed softly, spreading his hands, palms upward. "The best I can do in Terran is that it is a way of-reaffirming oneself. Of celebrating proper thought."

"Oh." She blinked at him.

He laughed fully. "Forgive me, cha'trez, but Terran will not bend so far. I
do
know what
L'apeleka
is and I am certain that I could explain it to you, but you must tell me which you desire to learn first-Low Liaden or Clutch?"

She laughed, then sobered. "The Loop?"

"Exists." He looked at her closely. "The Loops are tools, Miri. They do not demand a course of action, only elucidate it."

She drank coffee. "But
you
ain't a tool."

His face hardened momentarily. "I think not." He turned his attention to the pan as she watched.

Funny, she thought, she felt warm, though she hadn't felt cold before. And she felt comforted. She wondered if she'd been sad without realizing it.

He divided the contents of the pan evenly between the two plates.

He did look well, she decided. Sure of himself, not just sure of what he could do.

Offering her a plate, Val Con tipped an eyebrow at her cup. "More coffee, cha'trez? It would be a shame to waste what is in the pot."

"Never happen." Laughing, she held it out for a refill. "Thanks, partner."

"So it runs that way?" He looked at her speculatively as he picked up his own plate. "I had thought the question not properly asked." He paused, watching her as she began to eat.

"And the other?" he asked softly.

She frowned, puzzled. "What other?"

"Ah,
that
question was not asked so well," he murmured, seemingly to himself. Picking up his fork, he began to eat.

Miri shook her head and returned to her breakfast, savoring tastes, smells, and silent comradeship.

Val Con ate his own meal with relish, his eyes on her. She had rested, he saw; the lines of strain that had been in her face since they'd met were gone, and she seemed easier within herself, as if she, too, had reaffirmed who she was. Her eyes, when they rested upon him, were unguarded. He hugged that small warmth to him and dared to hope.

In a short time, he set his plate aside and leaned back to watch her where she sat, her back against the wall and the cup cradled in her hands.

"Breakfast was fine." She smiled at him. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he replied. "Miri?"

"Yo."

He shifted, and brought his gaze to meet hers. "Only if
you
wish it, Miri . . . ."

She set the cup down, giving him her whole attention. "Okay."

"It would please me very much," he said, choosing each word with care, "to allow the-fact-of our marriage to endure."

She blinked. She blinked again and broke his gaze, looking down and groping for her cup.

Val Con held his breath.

"You got a family and stuff, doncha?" she asked, head bent. "They probably wouldn't be . . . overjoyed . . . about you marrying somebody who-somebody like me. 'Specially when you don't-" She swallowed, hard. "Partners are lovers, sometimes."

Slowly, he let his breath go. "There are," he told her softly, "several answers to be made. The first is that whom I wed is
my
choice, not the choice of the Clan." He paused, then dared to add,
"I
wish us to be wed."

Her shoulders twitched, but she did not look at him. After a moment, he continued. "It is unlikely that I will return to Liad, cha'trez."

Her eyes flicked to his, warm with pity. "You mind?"

"I mind," he admitted. "But I feel certain I would mind being dead much more." He smiled. "Understand that it is no great bargain I offer you: A short, skinny man with only the money in his pouch and a certain ability on the 'chora to recommend him-"