It wouldn't be easy ferreting out the identity of the field agent who'd
saved his bio-father's life twelve years ago. It wasn't supposed to be
easy--ideally, it would be impossible--and Nevan was sure he owed his
own life, perhaps several times over, to the Imperial safeguards he was
trying to break. More, he understood why those safeguards wouldn't be
relaxed even to allow an ex-agent to search out a still-active one--but
he had what he considered two excellent reasons to do exactly that.
The first was that his bio-father had died, and had wanted Nevan to
give the anonymous agent his personal weapons: two forearm throwing
knives, a belt knife, and a needler. The one he had sworn fealty to
had agreed that his father's wish made it a matter of honor that he
try, and had given him permission--but on condition that he use only
his own training and skills, taking no advantage of the fact that he
was sworn to one of the most powerful people in the Empire. Nevan was
certain in his own mind that if he failed, she would see that the agent
got the weapons intended for him, but his thakur's overt reason for
agreeing was that it would make a good test of IntelDiv's security. If
he were arrested, she would have him released and commend the people
who had done it; if he got through, she would have security procedures
tightened. Neither paid serious attention to the fact that if he were
caught under certain circumstances she would have no chance to protect
him; he would be shot on sight.
Nevan thought that perfectly reasonable. He was a Sandeman warrior,
after all, and his thakur was an Irschchan; risks were a normal part of
life for both of them, to be accepted and even savored for the spice
they added.
He had done all he could here, in the Records Section; he lowered his
mind-shield and reached out. *Thakur?*
Her answer was prompt, and he smiled to himself, enjoying the cool
clarity of her mind-touch. *What results, thakur-na?* she asked.
*About what we expected. Kelly told me the agent was Logistics Officer
at a base on Piper's World during the Traiti counter-attacks there, but
he never told me which base, and the description he gave fits five of
them. I was able to eliminate two of those because the Logistics
Officers were female--but that still leaves three. I'm going to have
to go under cover to find the right one.*
He "heard" the amused purr that was the Irschchan version of a laugh.
*A return to the field work you enjoy so must be a terrible sacrifice,
my Nevan.*
Nevan let his thoughts lapse into High War Speech, chuckling. *Nay,
Thakur, as thou knowest well--save that it does mean I must conceal thy
mark, lest it identify me and make thy object in this attempt no true
test.*
*Aye, but it should not be for long.*
*And I knew when I swore that I might have to do it,* Nevan agreed.
*Until my success or failure, then.*
Three days later he was far from Terra, the violet-flower tattoo on his
cheek concealed by synthiskin, in a small Kanchatka-class courier ship.
That was a definite luxury for a private individual, though not
unreasonable for a Sandeman warrior who'd done well securing private
employment and wanted more--who was, in short, a very good, very
expensive hired killer. There weren't many, granted; killing for its
own sake wasn't highly regarded on Sandeman, especially if anything
more honorable was available, but there were enough to make his cover
plausible.
This, he had decided, was going to be fun.
* * * * *
A couple of days later, he was less sure. He'd come away from the
Palace Complex with as much solid data as he'd ever had starting a
mission, and with as much enthusiasm, but he'd begun feeling less than
comfortable about this one. Part of it was because he was pursuing
someone he would probably like to have as a friend; the unknown agent
didn't deserve to be hunted, though Nevan had to reluctantly concede
that it was probably the best way to accomplish his thakur's mission.
The other part was that he couldn't seem to decide whether or not he
really wanted to catch his target. He wanted to make sure the weapons
were delivered, yes, and since his chosen lady wanted a good test of
IntelDiv's security, he had to want it too--but he wasn't happy about
what those desires implied: It was almost inevitable that he'd have to
use some of a field agent's less savory skills. He'd used them before,
often enough, and without qualms--against the Empire's enemies. He had
never used them against people who had done nothing to deserve such
treatment, and he didn't really want to.
He didn't have any choice, though. He would do whatever proved to be
necessary to accomplish his objectives.
* * * * *
Three weeks, five planetfalls, and almost 1500 light-years of routine
checking later, Nevan discovered his quarry's name: Kiyoshi Owajima.
So far he'd had to resort to nothing more drastic than reading and
casual conversation, but learning he was after Owajima left him both
disgusted at the gods' whimsical ordering of things and positive that
things would be getting unpleasant rather shortly. He'd never met
Owajima, though he'd wanted to, and when Nevan had left IntelDiv on
swearing fealty to Ranger Losinj, Owajima had taken over the top field
agent rating. Owajima was no Sandeman, but IntelDiv rumor had him
close; he was supposed to have been a Kai-school ninja before joining
the Corps, and his exploits since hadn't done anything to contradict
the rumor. Nevan scowled at that; he hated having to depend on rumor.
Doing that tended to get agents killed--but unless you worked in the
classified section of Personnel Records or knew the agent personally,
rumor was all you'd have on one. And in Owajima's case, as in Nevan's
own, there wasn't even much rumor.
* * * * *
Kiyoshi Owajima concealed a scowl when he finished decoding his
informant's message and read it. He had a pursuer, it seemed--a
Sandeman warrior named Vance DarLowrie, and the informant was convinced
DarLowrie was one of the rare, expensive, and fearsome Sandeman
free-lance assassins. That conviction was strengthened by the fact that
DarLowrie had his own ship, the Last Resort, and it was registered to
him personally rather than to Clan Lowrie. The Sandeman would neither
confirm nor deny that occupation, of course, but the simple fact that
he was attempting to trace an IntelDiv field agent lent still further
credence to the informant's conclusion.
Owajima would have liked more information, but it seemed prudent to act
on the informant's suspicions. The Sandeman had filed a flight plan
for Olathe, where Owajima had spent some time and built up a
respectable net; that seemed most promising. It was unfortunate,
Owajima thought, that he was unable to investigate DarLowrie himself;
that would have to wait until he was finished with the final touches on
his present case, a matter of a day or two.
Still, he could begin making preparations. He would be entitled to a
leave after this mission, and he had planned to take it at home on
Nippon-Ni; that was now an even better idea. His contacts on his home
world made his networks elsewhere, good as they were, seem like
children's clubs--and it should not be difficult at all to permit
DarLowrie to "discover" those intentions. It would undoubtedly be
unpleasant for the one he discovered them from, since it was unlikely
DarLowrie would believe information he obtained too easily.
That, however, was not a serious problem; a number of his Olathe
network owed him enough that he could call on them even for such a
service. It would take DarLowrie perhaps a week to reach Olathe,
another week and a half to get to Nippon-Ni; that would give Owajima
time to make adequate preparations, then visit with his family for
several days. He smiled to himself, transmitted the necessary
messages, and returned his attention to his immediate mission.
* * * * *
Nevan entered the Lucky Bull, a medium-priced bar near the Olathe City
spaceport, and ordered a glass of chocolate milk before finding a table
near the rear of the main room. In the early days after Annexation,
he'd heard, bars had carried alcoholic beverages almost exclusively,
and Sandemans were made fun of for drinking only the non-alcoholic
variety, but by the time he'd started frequenting bars as an excellent
source of information, the sweet high-energy beverages Sandemans
preferred were as normal as alcohol.
If he had Owajima figured correctly, someone at one of his last two or
three stops should have been in his target's network, and contacted
him. Even if, as Nevan thought probable, Owajima was working on the
Bracei case, he'd make time to have a presumed assassin investigated.
That was why Nevan had made no secret of his last destinations,
following his flight plans precisely as he'd filed them. That, and the
fact that a Sandeman hired killer shouldn't display the subtleties and
precautions that would mark him as having had Imperial training of any
sort, particularly a field agent's training; the two simply didn't go
together.
A tall man in Marine service dress with captain's bars approached
Nevan's table, carrying a drink. "Mind if I join you, warrior?" he
asked.
"If you wish, Captain."
The other sat, looking him over; Nevan returned the scrutiny, waiting.
"I'm Kim Johansen, of SecuDiv," the Marine said at last. "You're Vance
DarLowrie, just in on the Last Resort?"