Agent of Change by Steve Miller, Sharon Lee Page A

her mother, and she'd be happy knowin' it was off Surebleak—and me, too." Her eyes sharpened suddenly.

    "You knew," she said, and it was surety, not accusation.

    He nodded. "I knew as well as I could, for whatever difference it might make. I was surprised to find that you did not know, and that you thought yourself so Terran." He offered her a smile. "Look at you. Everyone knows Liadens are short, small compared with other humans; that the heartbeat is a fraction off, the blood count a trifle different . . . ."

    She shrugged, and the smile she returned him was real. "Mutated within acceptable limits. Says so in my papers."

    "Exactly my point," he murmured. "Because it makes no real difference. No reasonable difference. I have it that we are all the same seed: Terran, Liaden, Yxtrang."

    "Yxtrang, too?" She was onto the other point before he could nod. "You have that officially?"

    He ran a finger over the smooth enamel work of Erob's badge. "My father did. He had access to the best of the genetics data, and to—other—information. In fact, he gave the information to the Terran Party."

    "He what?" She was staring at him. "The Terran Party? What'd they do, laugh at him?"

    He moved his shoulders against the sudden tension. "They tried to assassinate him."

    Air hissed between her teeth, not quite a whistle. "They would, you know. Especially if they thought it was true. But you said—they tried."

    He glanced down, took up the disk, and turned it over in his hands. "They tried ... He was walking with my mother—his lifemate, you understand, not a contract-wife. She saw the man pull the gun—and she stepped in front, pushing my father aside." He turned the badge over and over in his hands, light running liquid over the many colors. "She was hit instead. They'd used a fragging pellet. She had no chance at all."

    "So," she said after a long moment, "you do have a vendetta against Terrans."

    His brows twitched together in a frown. "No, I don't." He flipped the badge lightly to the padding. "What good would a vendetta against Terrans do? Because one man with a gun did as he was ordered? Perhaps—probably—he thought he was protecting his family, his Clan, his planet, all of them, from some horrible destiny. I would think that the death of one man would be a cheap price to end such a threat, then and there."

    He flexed his arms and leaned back. "A vendetta? Anne Davis, who took me as her own, raised me as her own—she was Terran, though my uncle, her lifemate, was Liaden." He glanced up, half-smiling. "You and I could be partners were you full Terran; there is nothing between our people that makes us natural enemies. No. No vendetta."

    He picked up Erob's badge and offered it to her.

    "I think," he said slowly as she took the disk from his hand, "that there is little purpose to thinking things like 'the Liadens,' 'the Clutch,' 'the humans,' or even 'the Yxtrang.' I think the best way to think—and talk—is in particulars: 'Val Con,' 'Miri,' 'Edger.' If you need to think bigger because some things take more people, it might be wise to think 'Erob,' 'Korval,' 'Middle River'—a group small enough that you can still name the individuals; a group small enough that you can, in time, know the individuals, the parts of the Clan. Where is the threat in 'Handler,' 'Edger,' 'Terrence'?"

    She stood holding the Clan sign loosely, puzzlement shadowing her gray eyes.

    "You didn't learn that in spy school," she told him flatly.

    He looked down and began to stroke the keys of the 'chora.

    "No," he said, very softly. "I don't think I did."

    She clicked open her pouch and dropped the Erob-link within, her eyes on the top of his head as he sat bent over the keyboard once more.

    "So how come you're a spy and not a Scout?"

    The Loop flared and he was up, hands flat on the keyboard, primed to stop the deadly danger of her; he saw disbelief flash across her face even as her body dropped into a crouch, ready to take his