The Agent Gambit Read Online Free PDF Page A

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 repeated, 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."
    After a moment, she nodded and went off to the right. As she reached the bedroom door, she turned back to look at him.
    "Good night." She was gone before he could reply.
    He sighed as the door closed, and took a deeper sip of wine. He should go to sleep, as well.
    Instead, he snapped to his feet and moved to the window as a free man would, gazing out as if he were safe and had no enemies to watch for.
    The street was brightly lit and empty; a fledgling breeze tossed an occasional bit of plastic trash about.
    It's good, he thought, that this place has not been found. I need a rest, need not to be O'Grady or Phillips or whoever. I need time to be-me.
    He raised a hand to comb fingers through the lock that fell across his forehead, and in a moment of aching clarity recognized the gesture as one of his own. Unexpectedly, the Loop loomed in his vision, blocking out the street before him. CMS was .96. CPS flickered and danced, then flashed a solid .89 the instant before it faded away.
    He swallowed wine and again stroked hair away from his eyes. Val Con yos'Phelium, Clan Korval; adopted of the Clan of Middle River . . . . He thought every syllable of his Middle River name, as if it were a charm to hold thoughts at bay.
    The face of Terrence O'Grady's wife intruded, sharpening and fading to the echo of the battering music from the bar he and Miri Robertson had been in.
    He drank the rest of the wine in a snap that did it no justice. How many faces had he memorized, how many men had he been, in the last three Standards? How many gestures