The Agent Gambit by Steve Miller, Sharon Lee
Authors: Steve Miller, Sharon Lee
Tags: Fiction, General, Science-Fiction, adventure, Science Fiction - General, Fiction - Science Fiction, Space Opera, Science Fiction, Space Opera, Modern & contemporary fiction (post c 1945), Science Fiction - Adventure, General & Literary Fiction
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color of her cheeks had been chosen with an unerring eye to clash with the color of her hair, and the blue on her lips was neon bright. Every piece of jewelry-and there was far too much of it-vied with the other for gaudery. He shook his head, lost in wonder.
She caught the headshake and smiled a ghastly smile that consisted only of bending her sealed lips and creasing her cheeks.
"You do think I look nice, doncha?"
He folded his arms on top of the 'chora and nestled his chin on a forearm. "I think," he said clearly, "that you look like a whore."
She laughed, clapping ring-laden hands together. "So did the woman at the collection firm!" She sobered abruptly, slanting lusterless eyes at him. "Your face was wonderful! I don't remember the last time I saw somebody look so surprised." She shook her head. "Don't they teach you anything in spy school?"
He grinned. "There are some things that even spy school cannot erase. I was raised to be genteel."
"Were you?" She regarded him in round-eyed admiration. "What happened?"
He ignored this bait, however, and nodded toward the comm. "Murph?"
She sighed. "On vacation with his fiancée in some place called Econsey-southern hemisphere. That's what I know. I was gonna see what else the comm knew when you came in and insulted my hairdo."
"Econsey is situated on the eastern shoreline of the southern hemisphere," he told her, singsonging slightly as he read the information that scrolled before his mind's eye. "It sits at the most eastern point of a peninsula and is surrounded on three sides by the Maranstadt Ocean. Year round population: 40,000. Transient population: 160,000, approximate. Principal industries: gambling, foodstuffs, liquors, hostelries, entertainment, exotic imports." He paused, checking back, then nodded. "Juntavas influenced, but not owned."
Miri stared at him; whatever expression may have been in eyes and face was shielded by the makeup.
"Mind like that and it's all going to waste."
Irritation spiked from nowhere and he frowned. "Will you go wash your face?"
She grinned. "Why? You think it needs it?" But she rolled to her feet, box in hand, and headed for her room. Behind her, Val Con flipped open the cover and touched the keyboard plate.
In the bathroom, Miri stripped the rings from her fingers and the bobs from her ears, jangling them along with the necklet and hair jewelry into the valet's return box. A glance at the readout showed that her leathers were at long last clean and the jumpsuit joined the gaudy jewelry. She closed the lid, hit the return key, and turned to the sink.
It took longer to scrape the gunk off her face than it had to put it on-the eyeshadow was especially tenacious-but a clean face was eventually achieved and, moments later, a braid was pinned in a neat crown around her head.
Her leathers slipped on smoothly, sheathing her in a supple second skin; she stamped into her boots, tied the knot in the arm-scarf, and carried the belt with its built-on pouch back to the sleeping room.
Sitting on the edge of the tumbled platform, she picked up the lacquer box and spun it in her hands like a juggler, hitting each of the seven pressure locks in unerring sequence. There was a click, loud over the soft drift of 'chora music from the other room. Miri set the box down and raised the lid.
Opening the belt-pouch, she pushed at the back bracing wall until she coaxed the false panel out, and laid it aside.
From the box she took a key of slightly phosphorescent blue metal, a thin sheaf of papers, a badly-cut ruby the size of a Terran quarter-bit, a loop of pierced malachite, and a gold ring much too big for her finger, set with a cloudy sapphire. She stowed each item in the secret space in the pouch. Then she removed the last object, frowned, and sat balancing it in her hand.
The room's directionless light picked out a slash of red, a line of gold, and a field of indigo blue. She flipped it to the obverse, and light skidded off the polished metal
She caught the headshake and smiled a ghastly smile that consisted only of bending her sealed lips and creasing her cheeks.
"You do think I look nice, doncha?"
He folded his arms on top of the 'chora and nestled his chin on a forearm. "I think," he said clearly, "that you look like a whore."
She laughed, clapping ring-laden hands together. "So did the woman at the collection firm!" She sobered abruptly, slanting lusterless eyes at him. "Your face was wonderful! I don't remember the last time I saw somebody look so surprised." She shook her head. "Don't they teach you anything in spy school?"
He grinned. "There are some things that even spy school cannot erase. I was raised to be genteel."
"Were you?" She regarded him in round-eyed admiration. "What happened?"
He ignored this bait, however, and nodded toward the comm. "Murph?"
She sighed. "On vacation with his fiancée in some place called Econsey-southern hemisphere. That's what I know. I was gonna see what else the comm knew when you came in and insulted my hairdo."
"Econsey is situated on the eastern shoreline of the southern hemisphere," he told her, singsonging slightly as he read the information that scrolled before his mind's eye. "It sits at the most eastern point of a peninsula and is surrounded on three sides by the Maranstadt Ocean. Year round population: 40,000. Transient population: 160,000, approximate. Principal industries: gambling, foodstuffs, liquors, hostelries, entertainment, exotic imports." He paused, checking back, then nodded. "Juntavas influenced, but not owned."
Miri stared at him; whatever expression may have been in eyes and face was shielded by the makeup.
"Mind like that and it's all going to waste."
Irritation spiked from nowhere and he frowned. "Will you go wash your face?"
She grinned. "Why? You think it needs it?" But she rolled to her feet, box in hand, and headed for her room. Behind her, Val Con flipped open the cover and touched the keyboard plate.
In the bathroom, Miri stripped the rings from her fingers and the bobs from her ears, jangling them along with the necklet and hair jewelry into the valet's return box. A glance at the readout showed that her leathers were at long last clean and the jumpsuit joined the gaudy jewelry. She closed the lid, hit the return key, and turned to the sink.
It took longer to scrape the gunk off her face than it had to put it on-the eyeshadow was especially tenacious-but a clean face was eventually achieved and, moments later, a braid was pinned in a neat crown around her head.
Her leathers slipped on smoothly, sheathing her in a supple second skin; she stamped into her boots, tied the knot in the arm-scarf, and carried the belt with its built-on pouch back to the sleeping room.
Sitting on the edge of the tumbled platform, she picked up the lacquer box and spun it in her hands like a juggler, hitting each of the seven pressure locks in unerring sequence. There was a click, loud over the soft drift of 'chora music from the other room. Miri set the box down and raised the lid.
Opening the belt-pouch, she pushed at the back bracing wall until she coaxed the false panel out, and laid it aside.
From the box she took a key of slightly phosphorescent blue metal, a thin sheaf of papers, a badly-cut ruby the size of a Terran quarter-bit, a loop of pierced malachite, and a gold ring much too big for her finger, set with a cloudy sapphire. She stowed each item in the secret space in the pouch. Then she removed the last object, frowned, and sat balancing it in her hand.
The room's directionless light picked out a slash of red, a line of gold, and a field of indigo blue. She flipped it to the obverse, and light skidded off the polished metal
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