by Timothy Zahn
There were several Halkas in evidence, some of them playing cards, others conversing or snugged down for sleep. I zigzagged my way slowly through the car, looking at each of them in turn. Halkan faces were difficult for human eyes to distinguish between, but I’d had some training in the technique, and I was eighty percent sure that none of these were the ones I was looking for. Certainly there wasn’t anyone dressed the way my visitors had been.
I’d made it halfway through the car, and was starting to pick up my pace toward the rear door, when a human voice cut through the general murmur. “And Yandro makes five.”
I froze in my tracks, my eyes darting that direction. An older man in a casual suit was sitting a couple of seats to my right, his face half in shadow from his reading light, his lips curled in a sort of half smile as he gazed up at me. “Come, now,” he said reprovingly. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your own catchphrase.”
For another second I stared at him, my mental wheels spinning on their tracks. Then my mind edited in the missing mustache and beard, and it abruptly clicked: Colonel Terrance Applegate, Western Alliance Intelligence. Once upon a time, one of my superiors. “It wasn’t my catchphrase,” I said stiffly, and started to move on.
“My apologies,” he said, holding up a hand. “A poor attempt at humor. Please, sit down.”
I hesitated. As far as I was concerned, tracking my two Halkas was way higher on my priority list than reminiscing about the bad old days. Especially with one of the people who had made the last of those days so bad in the first place.
But on the other hand, we were on a Quadrail, and aside from the restrooms and first-class compartments there weren’t a lot of places aboard where anyone could hide. And I had to admit a certain curiosity as to what a midlevel Westali officer’s rear end was doing in a first-class Quadrail seat. “An extremely poor attempt, Colonel,” I told him, stepping through the maze of chairs to an empty one at his side. Swiveling it around to face him, I sat down. “So how are things at Westali?”
“About the same, or so I hear,” he said. “And it’s Mr. Applegate now. I resigned my commission eight months ago.”
I looked significantly around the car. “Looks like you traded up.”
He shrugged, retrieving a half-full glass from his seat’s cup holder. “Debatable. I’m working for the UN.”
“How nice for you,” I said, keeping my voice neutral. I’d never been able to prove it, but I’d long suspected there had been UN pressure behind Westali’s decision to sack me. “And you’re already up to whatever rarefied level gets you expense chits for first-class Quadrail travel?”
“Hardly,” he said dryly. “I’m just here to hold the hands of those who are.”
“Don’t tell me you’re back on bodyguard duty.”
“Don’t laugh,” he warned, his lips smiling but his voice only half joking. “I could still take on five of you young whelps and beat you to a pulp.”
“I’m sure you could,” I said, deciding for once in my life to be diplomatic.
“But, no, I’m actually more of a consultant,” he went on. “Deputy Director Losutu is on his way to talk with the Cimmaheem about buying some starfighters, and he wanted a military expert along to check them out.”
So Biret Losutu was here, too. This just got better and better. “Isn’t that a little risky, politically speaking?” I suggested. “I thought the UN’s official stance was that Terran-built starfighters are as good as anything else on the market.”
Applegate snorted. “And you and I both know what a piece of Pulitzer-Prize-winning fiction that is. But then, the UN hardly invented the art of hypocrisy.”
I thought of all the crocodile tears shed on my behalf as I was summarily kicked out of my job, some of those tears coming from Applegate himself. “I don’t suppose they invented the art of political spindrift, either.”
“Fortunately, that won’t be necessary in this case,” he said with a wry smile. “The Cimman fighters are slated for duty at Yandro and New Tigris. We both know how many people will see them there.”
“There’s still the hole that much money will leave in the UN’s budget,” I pointed out. “Somebody’s bound to notice.”
“Maybe,” he conceded. “But you know what they say: A billion here, a billion there, and pretty soon you’re talking about real money. Anyway, we’re only talking about half a trillion for the eight fighters we’re looking at, unless we decide to go with something bigger. That’s what I’m here to help decide.” He took a sip of his drink, eyeing me over the rim of his glass. “But enough about me. What are you doing here?”
“Nothing much,” I said. “A little sightseeing.”
“Really.” His eyes flicked to the door I’d come through a minute earlier. “Who died and left you the fortune?”
“It’s business sightseeing,” I said. Fortunately, I’d already worked out a cover story, though I hadn’t expected to need it this early in the trip. “I’ve been hired by a big travel consortium to scope out new vacation packages to pitch to jaded tourists.”
“Ah,” he said with a knowing look. “And, of course, a proper scoping requires proper accommodations?”
“Just part of the job,” I agreed. “Unfortunately, we also cater to the less than obscenely wealthy, so I’ll be switching to second- and third-class seats not too far down the line.”
Applegate grunted. “A pity,” he said. “I gather you’re skipping New Tigris and Yandro and starting your survey with the Jurian Collective?”
“What makes you think I haven’t already checked them out?” I countered.
“Two things.” He lifted up a finger. “One, because we both know there’s nothing at either place that would entertain a tourist for fifteen minutes.” He smiled wryly as he raised a second finger. “And two, because I saw you get on at Terra Station.”
I blinked. “You were there?”
He nodded. “Came in along the diplomatic route via Rome and Elfive,” he said. “Damned torchliner ran late, too—we nearly didn’t make it. Why, shouldn’t I have been there?”
“No, of course you should,” I said, feeling some professional annoyance with myself for not having noticed him. Global awareness was something field agents were supposed to cultivate. “I didn’t mean it that way. Was Losutu there with you?”
“No, he and the Cimman sales reps came on at New Tigris,” Applegate said. “They’d been out there looking over the system.”
“And where were you exactly?” I persisted, still not believing I could have missed spotting him.
“I was already at the platform when your shuttle came in,” he said with a knowing smile. “Relax—even Westali field training fades away over time. Besides, you were busy glaring at the Spider who walked off with your luggage. Did you get it back, by the way?”
“Yes,” I assured him, glancing around the car. This was not a line of conversation I wanted to pursue just now. “And I really should get going.”
“Why?” Applegate asked, waving me back down as I started to get up. “Oh, sit—sit. You’re not worried about Losutu, are you?”
“What, worry about a man who once said he wished I would just go away or die or something?” I reminded him darkly.
Applegate snorted. “Oh, please. Losutu talks a blustery day, but he has way too big a turnover in enemies to worry about some minor two-year-old political embarrassment. In fact, once he finds out you’re aboard, chances are he’ll invite you for a drink.”
“Why? Does the bar serve hemlock?”
“Hardly,” Applegate said, his smile fading as he turned serious. “Off the record, Frank, Director Klein’s been having trouble with the Western Alliance Parliament over a couple of his proposals. It could be that a former Westali agent like yourself might be able to suggest ways of soothing their fears and getting them on board.”
“Isn’t that why you’re here?”
He shrugged. “It never hurts to get a second opinion.”
“Ah,” I sa
id, feeling the cynic in me rising to the surface. “Besides which, there’s a chance that the handful of Alliance reps who jumped on my bandwagon back then might be favorably influenced if I came out with a ringing endorsement of the Directorate’s proposals?”
Applegate’s lips puckered. “I see you’ve lost none of your trademark tact.”
“You go with your strengths. I take it this Cimman starfighter deal is the bone of contention?”
“One of them, yes,” Applegate said. “But I really ought to let Losutu brief you on that himself.”
I nodded as a memory suddenly clicked. The two Cimmaheem in the corner table when Bayta and I had dropped in a few hours ago for our tea and lemonade. The human who’d been sitting with them … “That was you having the quiet chat over a bowl of skinski flambé, wasn’t it?”
He smiled. “You see? You haven’t lost it completely. Yes, I invited our colleagues for an informal strategy session while Losutu was working on his report. I would have come over and said hello, but you seemed to be having a rather serious conversation of your own.”
My stomach tightened, then relaxed. With the bar’s acoustic design, there was no way he could have eavesdropped on us. All he would have seen was me having an intimate tête-à-tête with a young woman. Knowing him, he was bound to have instantly jumped to the wrong conclusion. “It was interesting,” I said, keeping my voice neutral.
He lifted an eyebrow roguishly. “I’ll bet it was.” His eyes flicked over my shoulder. “And productive, too, I see,” he added, lifting a finger. “Miss?” he said, raising his voice a little. “He’s right here.”
I half turned and looked around the seat back. Bayta was coming toward us, a frown clearing from her face as she spotted me. “There you are,” she said, sounding relieved as she came up. Her eyes flicked to Applegate, back to me. “I was starting to get worried.”
“No need,” I assured her, gesturing to Applegate. “I ran into an old associate, that’s all.”
I was facing Applegate as I said that, with Bayta only in my peripheral vision. But even so, I caught the sudden stiffening of her body. “You’re one of Mr. Compton’s friends?” she asked, her voice suddenly guarded.
“Mr. Compton?” Applegate repeated, a touch of amusement in his voice. “Hmm. I may have jumped to the wrong conclusion on this one.”
“This is Bayta,” I told him. “She’s my assistant and recordist.”
The minute I said it I wished I could call the words back. Bayta’s formal demeanor had unfortunately ruined our best choice of cover story, namely that of a romantic relationship, leaving a business relationship as the only other option.
The problem was, Applegate had seen us on the Terra Station platform going our completely separate ways. The last thing I wanted was for him to remember that and start wondering.
But it was too late now to come up with a better story. All I could do was ignore the inconsistency and hope he would simply assume we’d been doing independent studies for our mythical travel consortium. “Bayta, this is Mr. Terrance Applegate,” I continued the introductions. “Formerly a colonel in Western Alliance Intelligence; currently an advisor with the UN Directorate.”
Bayta nodded. “Pleased to meet you,” she said, her voice still wary.
“Likewise,” Applegate said. “Well, it’s been pleasant, Frank, but it’s been a long day and my eyes are starting to fall asleep.”
“Of course,” I said, standing up. “By the way, you didn’t happen to see a couple of Halkas pass through here a minute or two ahead of me, did you?”
“No, but I wasn’t really paying attention,” he said. “Is it important?”
“Probably not,” I said, privately giving up the hunt. By now the Halkas had had plenty of time to change clothes and go to ground, and I didn’t feel like searching the entire Quadrail for them. I would just have to keep my eyes open and wait for them to surface again. “They seemed a little drunk when they came pounding on my door, and I wondered if someone should alert the conductors.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Applegate advised. “I’ve never yet seen a drunk Halka get violent. And they’re not going to crush anyone to death if they pass out on top of him, like Cimma might.”
“True,” I said. “Good night.”
Bayta didn’t speak again until we were back in the privacy of our compartment. “Is this Mr. Applegate a friend of yours?” she asked as I locked the door behind us.
“Hardly,” I said. “He was one of my superiors at Westali.”
“An acquaintance?”
I shook my head. “Given that he was one of the people who voted to kick me out, I wouldn’t even put him that high on my list.”
“More of an enemy, then?”
“Not really that, either,” I said, wondering why Bayta was beating this particular horse to death. “Let’s just call him one of life’s little disappointments.”
She seemed to mull that one over for a minute. “All right,” she said. “Are you planning to go out again tonight?”
“Just in the unconscious sense of the word,” I said, hanging up my jacket and checking my watch. A little over eight hours to Kerfsis. Still enough time for a decent stretch of sleep, but no chance now for the leisurely breakfast I’d envisioned. “I’m going to bed.”
“All right.” For a moment her eyes searched my face. “Those two Halkas weren’t really drunk, were they?”
I hesitated, the heavily ingrained Westali secrecy reflex briefly kicking in. There was so little I really knew about Bayta. “No,” I told her. “I don’t think they were looking for any friend, either.”
“Were they looking for us?”
“They weren’t still chiming doors when I got out into the corridor thirty seconds later,” I said. “Draw your own conclusions.”
She looked over at the door I’d just locked. “Would you mind terribly if I left the wall open while we slept?”
“As long as you don’t snore,” I said, going to the luggage rack and pulling down the larger of my carrybags. In point of fact, I’d been trying to find a way to suggest that myself.
After all, if she knew about the Saarix-5 booby trap, it was a good bet that I’d be safe as long as she wasn’t demanding an airtight wall between us.
And if she didn’t know about it, at least whoever wanted to kill me would get a two-for-one deal. For whatever comfort that was worth.
SIX
The traffic at Kerfsis Station, though light by Jurian standards, was still far more impressive than that of any of the human stations we’d passed through, including Terra. A good sixty of us filed off the various cars of our Quadrail, with an equal number on the platform waiting to board. Most were Juriani, but there were a handful of other species as well. Bayta and I were the only two humans in sight.
We were heading across the platform toward the first-class shuttle when I spotted a pair of Halkas emerging from one of the third-class cars at the far end of the train. They were too far away for me to see the subtleties of their faces, but their rolling gait definitely reminded me of my late-night visitors. Taking Bayta’s arm, I angled us through the crowd in their direction.
“Where are we going?” Bayta asked. “We’re supposed to take the first-class shuttle.”
“I know,” I said, picking up my pace a little.
But either the Halkas spotted me on their tail or else they were in a hurry of their own. Before we’d covered even half the distance, they reached the third-class shuttle and disappeared down the hatchway.
“We need to take the first-class shuttle,” Bayta repeated, more emphatically this time.
For a moment I toyed with the idea of ignoring protocol and staying with the Halkas instead. But the Juriani were sticklers for their particular rules of etiquette and protocol, and they looked very disconcertingly down those hawk beaks of theirs at anyone who dared to break those rules. Bayta and I were first-class passengers, and we belonged on the first-class shuttle, and there would be genteel
hell to pay if we tried to hitch a ride elsewhere. It didn’t seem worth that kind of grief, especially since all the passengers would be regrouping a few minutes from now anyway in the transfer station’s customs area. “Right,” I said, and turned us back toward our shuttle.
Like everyone else in the galaxy who could afford them, the Juriani used Shorshic vectored force thrusters for their artificial gravity. That meant an actual stairway inside the shuttle, which meant I could hang on to my carrybags instead of handing them over to an automated system that would leave my hands free to maneuver down a ladder. Considering what had happened to my luggage the last time they’d been out of my sight, I was just as glad to be able to keep track of them this time.
I’d been looking for signs of the Spiders’ sensor array as I climbed into the Tube back at Terra Station. I looked just as closely now as I went down the stairs into our shuttle, with no better success. Wherever the Spiders were hiding it, they were hiding it well.
The Jurian sensor system, in contrast, was at the complete other end of the subtlety scale. As our three shuttles glided toward the transfer station, we passed beneath a pair of compact battle platforms, each with a massive sensor array and a matched set of docked starfighters standing ready in case of trouble.
Fortunately, there wasn’t any. Our shuttle docked with the station, and a few minutes later we filed into the entrypoint lounge. “Are we going through?” Bayta asked, craning her neck to look over the crowd at the customs tables at the far end.
I studied the wide exit doorways in the wall behind the tables. There were almost certainly layered sets of fine-scan sensors up there, and I wondered briefly whether they would be good enough to pick up the Saarix hidden in my bags.
Fortunately, we weren’t going to have to find out just yet. “No need,” I told her. “We’re not staying, remember?”