Agent of Change Read Free

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.

    She grinned. "How's the brain-box?"

    "I'll live." He sat up slowly, noting with surprise that the knife was still in his sleeve.

    "Interesting theory."

    He regarded her blandly, noting the set of her shoulders and the deceptively gentle motion of her hands as she braided her hair, and recalling her efficiency during the fire-fight. The Loop indicated that he could take her—if he had to. But he'd have to kill her to be sure; she meant business, and no simple rush to disable would suffice.

    He let the calculation fade, mildly astonished to find that he was disinclined to kill her.

    Sighing aloud, he crossed his legs in deliberate reflection of her pose and rested his arms along his thighs.

    She grinned again. "Tough guy." It seemed a term of admiration. She finished her braid, put a knot at the end, and flipped the length behind her shoulder, one slender hand coming to rest on her gun.

    "So, tell me, tough guy, what's your name, what're you doing here, who do you work for?" She tipped her head, unsmiling. "Count of ten."

    He shrugged. "My name is Connor Phillips, Cargo Master, formerly of free-trader Salene. Presently I am between berths."

    She laughed, slid the gun free, and thumbed the safety.

    "I got a weakness for a pretty face," she said gently, "so I'm gonna let you try it again. But this time you tell me the truth, tough guy, or I blow the face to the fourteen prime points and you along with it. Accazi?"

    He nodded slowly, eyes on hers.

    "Go."

    "My name—" He stopped, wondering if the blow to the head had scrambled his brain. The hunch was so strong . . . .

    "My name is Val Con yos'Phelium. I am an agent for Liad. I am here because I have recently finished an assignment and was hurrying to catch the shuttle when I happened by a loading dock where there was a lone woman and some others having a disagreement." He lifted an eyebrow. "I assume the shuttle has lifted?"

    "Quarter hour ago." She stared at him, gray eyes expressionless. "An agent for Liad?"

    He sighed and tipped his hands out, palms up, in his own gesture. "I think you might call me a spy."

    "Oh." She thumbed the safety, slid the gun back home, and nodded at him. "I like that one. I like it a lot." Yanking his weapon from her belt, she threw it to him, then jerked her head at the door. "Beat it."

    His left hand flashed out, snagging the gun. As he slipped it into its holster, he shook his head.

    "Not a return introduction? Who you are, what you do, for whom?" He smiled suddenly. "The headache I suffer for you . . . ."

    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