by Timothy Zahn
So why—and where—were we stopping?
Carefully, I lifted my head and opened my eyes all the way. When I’d gone to sleep there had been six other passengers besides me in the car. All six had disappeared.
Or perhaps not. No one was visible, but in front of the stack of crates on my right, in the narrow space leading to the exit, I caught a slight movement of shadow. Someone, apparently, was standing by the car’s door.
The Bellido?
I slid sideways out of my seat, my heartbeat doing a nice syncopation with the click-clack of the wheels, and started forward. Theoretically, the Spiders didn’t permit weapons aboard passenger Quadrails. But theoretically, there weren’t any stops between Earth and New Tigris, either.
I’d covered about half the distance to the door when, with the usual muffled squeal of brakes, we rolled to a halt. The shadow shifted again, and I crouched down behind the nearest seat as the figure stepped into view.
It wasn’t the Bellido. It was The Girl.
“Hello, Mr. Compton,” she said. “Would you come with me, please?”
“Come with you where?” I asked carefully.
“Outside,” she replied, gesturing to the door beside her. “The Spiders would like to speak with you.”
THREE
The door opened, and because I doubted I really had a choice, I followed her out onto the platform.
At first glance it seemed to be your standard, plain-vanilla Quadrail station. But the second glance showed that there was not, in fact, anything standard about it.
For one thing, there were only four sets of tracks spaced around the inside of the cylinder instead of the usual thirty. The station itself was far shorter than usual, too, probably only a single kilometer long. Finally, instead of the standard mix of maintenance and passenger-support buildings, the spaces between the tracks were filled with purely functional structures, ranging in size from small office-type buildings to monstrosities the size of airplane hangars, with whole mazes of extra track leading between them and the main lines.
“This way,” The Girl said, setting off toward one of the smaller buildings.
I watched her go, my feet momentarily refusing to move. I could think of only one reason the Spiders would possibly want to talk to me, and it wasn’t a particularly pleasant thought.
And for them to have been willing to stop a whole train to do so made it that much worse. I glanced back over my shoulder, wondering what they were going to tell the rest of the passengers.
They weren’t going to tell the rest of the passengers anything for the simple fact that there weren’t any other passengers. The rest of the Quadrail had vanished. My car, conveniently emptied of all its occupants except me, plus the baggage car behind it, stood together on the track in front of another engine that had apparently pushed us here.
“Mr. Compton?”
I turned back. The Girl had reached the building and was standing expectantly beside the door. “Right,” I said, forcing my feet to move. She waited until I caught up with her, and together we went inside.
Beyond the door was a small room as drably functional as the building’s exterior, its furnishings consisting entirely of three chairs set in a triangle arrangement facing each other. One of the seats was already occupied by an amazingly fat middle-aged man dressed in shades of blue and sporting a contrasting skullcap of gray hair. Standing behind him was a Spider midway in size between a conductor and a drudge. A stationmaster, possibly, though this one seemed slightly bigger and didn’t carry the usual identifying pattern of white dots across its sphere.
“Good day, Mr. Compton,” the man greeted me gravely. His voice carried an oddly bubbling quality, as if he were talking half underwater. “My name is Hermod. Please, sit down.”
“Thank you,” I said, stepping forward and settling into one of the two remaining chairs as The Girl took the third. “Do I get to know where I am?”
“You’re in a maintenance and storage facility off the main Tube,” he said. “Its actual location is not important.”
“I thought all maintenance work was done in the stations themselves.”
Hermod’s massive shoulders shrugged slightly. “Most of it is,” he said. “The Spiders don’t advertise the existence of these other facilities.”
“Well, this should certainly make up for that,” I pointed out. “Or don’t you think New Tigris is going to wonder when their incoming Quadrail comes up two cars short?”
“Give the Spiders a little more credit than that,” Hermod said dryly. “They would hardly have gone to all this trouble to speak privately with you and then let something so obvious ruin it. No, you’ll be rejoining the rest of the train well before it reaches New Tigris.”
“Ah,” I said, making a conscious effort to sit back in my chair as if I were feeling all relaxed, which I definitely was not. So not only did the Spiders want a chat, they wanted a very private chat. This just got better and better. “So what’s this all about?”
“The Spiders have a problem,” Hermod said gravely. “One which may well determine the future of the entire galaxy. They thought you might be able to help them with it.”
“What makes you think that?” I asked, feeling sweat popping out all over my body.
“You’re a well-trained observer, investigator, and analyst,” he said. “Trained by one of the best, in fact: Western Alliance Intelligence.”
“Who sacked me over a year ago,” I reminded him, passing over for the moment the question of whether Westali really was one of the best.
“But not for lack of ability,” Hermod reminded me right back. “Merely for—what did they call it? Professional indiscretion?”
“Something like that,” I agreed evenly. That was what the dismissal papers had called it, anyway. Professional indiscretion, like I’d been caught stealing hotel towels or something. I’d sparked a major furor in the press, been responsible for a handful of political scapegoats having their heads handed to them in the hallowed halls of the United Nations, and earned myself the permanent loathing of both the secretary-general and the Directorate in the process.
And all they’d had the guts to call it was professional indiscretion.
But I let that one pass, too. “There are plenty of other ex-Westali people around who are as good as I am and a lot more respectable,” I said instead. “So again: Why me?”
Hermod’s forehead wrinkled. “Your reticence puzzles me, Mr. Compton,” he said. “I would think that, considering your present circumstances, you’d jump at the chance for employment.”
My present circumstances. On the surface, an innocent enough expression. Nearly as innocent, in fact, as professional indiscretion.
Did he and the Spiders know about my hew job? It was hard to imagine how they could, not after all the paranoid-level convolutions we’d gone through to keep it secret.
On the other hand, it was equally hard to imagine how they could not know. Their messenger had been right there, after all, right outside the New Pallas Towers the evening the whole thing had been finalized.
But there was no hint of any such secret knowledge in Hermod’s face or body language. There was no anticipation I could detect, no sense of the hunter waiting eagerly beside his trap as the prey wanders toward the tripwire. There was nothing there, in fact, except an almost puppy-dog earnestness set against a background of distant fear and unease. If he did know about me, he was being damn coy about it. “So my present circumstances aren’t as good as I might like,” I said. “How about some information instead of flattery?”
His lips puckered. “There are many mysterious places in this galaxy,” he said. “One of them, which the Spiders have dubbed the Oracle, sits a short distance from a siding similar to this one. Occasionally, Spiders passing through the area see visions of future events.” He gestured at the Spider standing over him. “Five weeks ago, this Spider saw the future destruction of a Filiaelian transfer station.”
I sat up a little straighter in m
y chair. Filly transfer stations were among the biggest and best-protected in the galaxy. “How sure are you that it was a Filly station?”
“Very sure,” Hermod said, his voice darkening. “Because there were the remains of two gutted Sorfali-class warships drifting alongside it.”
I threw a look at the Spider. “Your friend’s been hallucinating,” I said flatly. “Filly soldiers are genetically programmed against rebellion or civil war.”
“I never said it was a civil war,” Hermod countered, his voice going even darker. “The attack came from somewhere outside the system.”
I looked over at The Girl’s expressionless face. If this was a joke, no one was laughing. “Now you’re the one hallucinating,” I told Hermod. “You can’t smuggle weaponry through the Tube. Certainly nothing that could take out a Sorfali. You know that better than I do.”
“It seems impossible to the Spiders, as well,” Hermod agreed. “Nevertheless, that is what he saw. And since the Oracle’s past visions have subsequently proven valid, the Spiders have no choice but to assume this one may, too.” His eyes locked onto mine. “I trust you don’t need me to spell out the implications.”
“No,” I said, and I meant it. There were twelve empires spanning the galaxy, or at least twelve species-groups the Spiders officially recognized as empires. A few of them, like the five worlds of our pathetic little Terran Confederation, weren’t worthy of the name; others, like the Filiaelian Assembly and Shorshic Domain, were the genuine article, consisting of thousands of star systems spread across vast reaches of space. Historically, at least on Earth, powerful empires seldom bumped into each other without eventually going to war, and from what we knew of alien psychology there was no reason to assume anyone out there would react any differently if they had a choice.
Only in this case, they didn’t. The only way to cross interstellar distances was via Quadrail, and there was simply no way to stuff a war machine into a group of Quadrail cars. The only exception was interstellar governments, who under very special and very strict transport conditions were allowed to ship the components of planetary defenses through to their own colonies.
Which meant that anyone who wanted to make war against his neighbor would find himself facing as much military nastiness as the intended victim had felt inclined to set up. In a Quadrail-run galaxy, defense was king.
But if someone had figured out how to take out not only a transfer station but a couple of warships along with it, cozy peacefulness and stability were about to come to a violent end. “Was there anything else in this vision?” I asked. “Any idea which of the Fillies’ stations it was, or who might have been involved?”
“Neither,” Hermod said. “But he did see that the Filiaelian warships carried both the insignia of the current dynasty and the one scheduled to come to power in four months. We can therefore assume the attack will take place sometime during the transitional period.”
Four months. This just got better and better. “That’s not much time.”
“No, it’s not,” Hermod agreed. “The Spiders will, of course, give you all the assistance they can, including unlimited use of the Quadrail system.”
I felt my eyes narrow slightly. “Including access to places like this?” I asked casually, gesturing around me.
“Yes, if you need them,” he said, frowning a bit. “Though I can’t think why you would need that.”
“You never know,” I said, my heartbeat starting to pick up a little. Suddenly this was becoming more than just interesting. “How exactly do I get all this unlimited access? Pass key? Secret handshake?”
“You begin with this,” he said, nodding to The Girl. Right on cue, she dug a small folder out of her belt pouch and handed it to me. It was the same sort of folder I’d taken off the dead kid in Manhattan, except that instead of being made of cheap plastic this one was a high-end variety of brushed leather.
And instead of the copper-edged ticket of a third-class Quadrail seat, this one held the diamond-dust-edged tag of a first-class, unlimited-use pass, something I’d never seen before except in brochures. “Nice,” I said. “How long is it good for?”
“As long as you need it,” Hermod said. “Assuming, of course, that you take the job. Will you?”
I angled the ticket toward the light for a better view, my brain spinning with the possibilities. If they were on to me and this whole thing was a trick, then whatever answer I gave him wouldn’t matter in the slightest. Whatever I did or said, I was already sunk.
But if they weren’t on to me and this offer was legit, then I was being offered a gift on a platinum platter.
Of course, if I took the job I’d also be morally obligated to put some actual effort into it. Four months wasn’t a lot of time to figure out who was planning to start an impossible interstellar war and find a way to stop it.
Still, this was way too intriguing to pass up. And despite the old saying to the contrary, it was surely possible for a man to serve two masters. “Sure, why not?” I said, tucking the folder into my inner jacket pocket. “I’m in.”
“Excellent.” Again, Hermod gestured to The Girl. “This is Bayta. She’ll be accompanying you.”
I looked at her, found her looking back at me with her usual lack of expression. “Thanks, but I work alone,” I told him.
“You may need information or assistance from the Spiders along the way,” Hermod said. “Only a few of them can communicate with humans in anything more than a handful of rote phrases.”
“And, what, Bayta speaks their language?”
“Let’s just say she knows their secret handshake,” Hermod said with a faint smile.
I suppressed a grimace. I didn’t want company on this trip, particularly company who might have come off a mannequin assembly line. Still, I should have expected that the Spiders would insist on assigning me a watchdog. “Fine,” I said. “Whatever.”
“One other thing,” Hermod said. “The messenger who delivered your ticket was supposed to accompany you here. Did he happen to mention why he had chosen not to do so?”
I hesitated, but there didn’t seem to be any point in lying. “I’m afraid choice had very little to do with it,” I said. “He died at my feet.”
Bayta inhaled sharply, and the whole room suddenly went very still. “What happened?” Hermod asked.
“He was shot,” I said. “Multiple times, actually. Someone was very serious about getting rid of him.”
“Did you see what happened?”
“All I know is that he was already bleeding when I found him,” I said, choosing my words carefully. If they already knew about me, mentioning the New Pallas Towers wouldn’t be telling them anything new. But if they didn’t know, I certainly wasn’t going to be the one to point them that direction. “Considering the shape he was in, I’m surprised he made it as far as he did.”
“He knew the importance of his mission,” Hermod said soberly. “Do you know what kind of weapon he was shot with?”
“Snoozer and thudwumper rounds,” I told him. “Fortunately, they didn’t need to escalate to shredders.”
“Human ordnance, then?”
“Yes, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” I said. “Terra Station’s very particular about keeping alien weaponry out of the system.”
“Except at the various nonhuman embassies on Earth and Mars,” Bayta said. Her face, which had gone rigid at my announcement of the kid’s death, was back to an expressionless mask. “I understand embassy guards are permitted to carry and use equipment that would otherwise be interdicted.”
“True,” I said. “Which means using one to commit a murder would be about as clever as leaving a sheet of the ambassador’s personal stationery pinned to the body. As I say, the choice of weapon doesn’t tell us anything. Forensics might have had better luck if they got around to putting him through the sifter.”
“Why wouldn’t they have?” Hermod asked, frowning. “He was a murder victim.”
“He was also a man
with no ID, credit tags, or apartment key,” I said. “Dit rec mysteries notwithstanding, in the real world we’ll be lucky if they even stored away his ashes after the cremation.”
Hermod sighed. “I see. Well … thank you, Mr. Compton. And good luck.”
Neither Bayta nor I spoke again until we were settled into the Quadrail car, me in my original seat, her in the one behind me. “I presume you aren’t planning to gas me for this leg of the trip?” I asked, swiveling around to look at her as we started moving.
A flicker of surprise touched her eyes. “You knew about that?”
“It was pretty obvious,” I said. “I don’t suppose it ever occurred to you or Hermod that all you had to do was ask me in for a chat?”
“We needed to keep the conversation a secret,” she said. “A conductor came in shortly after we left Terra and told the rest of the passengers that there was extra space in the main third-class area two cars up and that as a result they’d all been upgraded. We needed you asleep so he’d have an excuse to leave you behind until later.”
“Again, you could have just asked me.”
“It was thought it would look more realistic if you didn’t know what was going to happen,” she said. “That was why the ticket was made out to Yandro, too.”
“That part certainly caught my attention,” I said sourly. “I take it we’re not actually going there, then?”
“Not unless you want to. At any rate, the bags the Spider took from you at Terra Station are waiting in the front car in a first-class compartment that’s been reserved for us. We can move up there as soon as we’re back with the train.”
Not just a first-class ticket, but a compartment, as well. They were definitely rolling out the red runner here. “Nice,” I commented. “Any chance of similar accommodations if and when we change trains?”
“Of course,” she said, as if it were obvious. “There’ll be an empty compartment kept available for our use on all Quadrail trains in our vicinity for the next four months.”