by Timothy Zahn
“Yes, and yes, and we haven’t got a choice,” I told them, touching the control to opaque the window. “If we just go back out onto the platform, the rest of the walkers will be right on top of us. Can you open the door, or can’t you?”
“No,” Bayta said, still clearly struggling to catch up with me. “But a Spider might be able—”
“Get one to the car door right away,” I ordered, scooping up my carrybags. “And it’s not the three of us, Korak Fayr, just Bayta and me. Considering the number of walkers aboard, your team’s going to need you here.”
He gazed at me, and I braced myself for his protest. But to my relief, he merely nodded. The fewer people involved in this kind of stunt, the better the chances it would work, and we both knew it.
From beneath us came the multiple thud of brakes releasing, and the Quadrail started to move. “Very well,” Fayr said, lifting his arms with the wrists crossed in a Belldic military salute. The flourish ended with his hands on his upper set of guns; and suddenly he drew them, flipping them around so that their grips faced me. “Here,” he said. “You may need these.”
There wasn’t time to ask what on Earth I might want with a set of plastic toy guns. I stuffed them inside my jacket, nodded a quick good-bye, and made for the corridor.
I wondered if I would ever see him again.
There was a conductor waiting when we arrived at the outer door. The Quadrail was already going too fast for comfort, but it was still picking up speed and any delay would only make it worse. “Bayta?” I called.
She didn’t reply; but a second later the corridor suddenly filled with a swirling slipstream of air as the door reluctantly irised open. I tossed out my carrybags, grabbed Bayta’s, and threw it after them. Then, wondering whether this was the stupidest thing I’d ever done in my life or merely one of the top ten, I grabbed her wrist and jumped.
We hit hard, the next few seconds becoming a swirl of confusion and dizziness and agony as we tumbled and rolled along the station floor. Eventually we came to a halt with me on my back and Bayta lying half on top of me. “You all right?” I asked, doing a quick inventory of my own bones and joints. My knees were aching fiercely, as was my left shin and elbow, and every bit of exposed flesh felt like I’d caught a bad sunburn. But nothing seemed sprained or broken.
“I think so,” she murmured back. With a muffled groan, she started to get to her feet.
“No—stay down,” I said, grabbing her forearm and pulling her back down. Beside us, the Quadrail was still roaring along, still picking up speed. The last baggage car shot past, and I watched as the train angled up the slope and disappeared into the darkness of the Tube. The usual light show from the Coreline faded away, and only then did I cautiously raise my head a few centimeters to assess our situation.
If I’d planned this whole thing deliberately, I couldn’t have done a better job of it. We were in one of the service areas of the station, similar to the one we’d back-doored our way into at the Sistarrko Station after our mad-dash escape from Modhra I. Two sets of tracks away, a large service hangar sat conveniently just opposite us. Barely three meters past the spot where we’d ended our tumble was a crisscrossing of tracks that would probably have left us with multiple broken bones if we’d landed there instead of where we actually had.
Most important of all, the passenger platforms and all those brooding walkers were a good kilometer and a half away.
“What now?” Bayta asked.
Abruptly, I realized I was still holding her pressed beside me. “We need to get aboard another train and get out of here,” I said, letting go of her arm. “Any chance of talking the Spiders into rigging a private train and bringing it out here to pick us up?”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “There’s a certain amount of momentum needed to get up the slope and through the atmosphere barrier. It usually requires the entire distance from the platform for a train to make it.”
“Even if the train consists of just an engine and a single car?”
“Even then.” She hesitated. “And even if we could, I’m not sure it would do any good. The walkers would surely see the train stop, figure out what had happened, and send warning messages ahead. We’d just have to face the same trouble at the next station. Unless,” she added thoughtfully, “we don’t stop at any other stations.”
“No, that wouldn’t help,” I said, shaking my head. “We still have to go through those stations, even if we don’t stop there. The walkers would message ahead and have their buddies either destroy the rails or throw debris onto the tracks. Maybe even throw themselves.”
“That can’t be,” she insisted. “Surely he wouldn’t waste all those walkers just for revenge.” She gazed down the tracks toward the platform, at all those Halkan Peers still milling around. “Unless this isn’t about revenge.”
I sighed. “It was staring us in the face as far back as when we were melting the sub free,” I told her. “That was where the Modhri should have thrown everything he had to try and keep us from getting off Modhra II and within range of his homeland coral beds on Modhra I. But he didn’t.”
“Yes, you mentioned that at the time,” Bayta said, her voice dark.
“And then afterward, after we got away, we were locked into a Quadrail train for four days,” I went on. “If it was vengeance he was after, why didn’t the walkers get together to hit us then?”
“Not enough time to organize?”
“That was what I thought, too,” I said. “Right up until we got to Jurskala and saw the number of walkers he’d gathered here.”
I waved a hand toward the distant platform. “The fact of the matter, Bayta, is that he didn’t particularly care whether we destroyed the Modhra coral beds or not. Not until someone got into the harvesting complex and realized we’d taken their records.” I took a deep breath. “Their export records.”
She stared at me, her eyes suddenly gone dead. “Oh, no,” she breathed.
I nodded. “He was already gone from Modhra when we hit it, Bayta. Not all of him, certainly, and I’m sure Fayr’s people hurt him terribly when they wiped out the coral that was left there. But he’s moved enough of it to establish himself a brand-new homeland.
“Only this time we don’t know where it is.”
It seemed like a long time that we lay there, each of us wrapped in our own thoughts. “What about the records?” Bayta asked at last. “He must think we can locate the new homeland that way or he wouldn’t be trying so hard to stop us.”
“Possible, but I doubt it,” I said. “Fayr couldn’t even track the stuff bound for the Estates-General, and the homeland data will be scrambled a lot more. My guess is that he simply doesn’t want to take the chance.”
“We can still try,” she said, a spark of renewed spirit sifting in through the despair in her voice. “And the first thing we have to do is get out of here.”
“Absolutely,” I agreed, an idea starting to work its way through my still-throbbing skull. “You think you can get the Spiders to bring a few items to that hangar over there?”
“If they can get hold of them, yes,” she said. “You have a plan?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Think back to The Lady Vanishes, that Hitchcock dit rec drama we watched with Rastra and JhanKla. Remember how they smuggled that other woman aboard the train?”
“They had her wrapped up as if she’d been in an accident,” Bayta said slowly. “But there isn’t supposed to be anyone except Spiders at this end of the station. If the Modhri sees someone coming from here, won’t he suspect something?”
“Right, which is why we won’t be coming from here.” I nodded toward the hangar. “First thing to do is crawl over to that hangar and get out of sight. Once we’re inside, whistle up a couple of drudges to retrieve our bags. After that, here’s what we’re going to need.…”
The trick, as always, would be in the timing.
There was every chance that the Modhran mind segment on the Bellis Loop train would quickl
y figure out that Bayta and I were no longer aboard, and probably be rather miffed about it. But by that time he would be well out of communication range of the Modhran mind segment still here in Jurskala Station. He would have to wait until the next stop, four hours away, before he could send a message back this direction.
At the moment, the rest of the walkers here were probably preparing to head home, believing whatever rationalizations they’d come up with to explain why they’d come here in the first place. Once the other mind segment alerted them, though, the hunt would be on again.
But an hour before that message could get here there would be a Quadrail leaving on a direct shot to Earth. If we could get aboard that train without anyone fingering us, we could be gone while the Modhran segment here was still trying to figure out where on Jurskala Station we might be hiding.
At first blush, that looked like a pretty serious if. We had limited time, limited resources, and the limited changes of clothing in our carrybags, plus whatever the Spiders could scrounge for us. And it was probable that any human male/female combination would automatically come under at least casual scrutiny.
But just as Halkas were difficult for humans to distinguish between, the reverse was also true. That would make the job much easier than if we were trying to slip past a group of other Humans.
As to the Modhran parasites inside them, I still remembered Falc Rastra’s own colony taking control of him long enough to shout don’t shoot it to the Jurian soldiers in the Kerfsis interrogation room. Referring to me as it rather than him implied that the Modhri didn’t see us as much more than organic autocabs. A minimal bit of deception on our part ought to be adequate, provided we didn’t call attention to ourselves by strolling in from the Spider end of the station.
Fortunately, we wouldn’t have to.
The maintenance skiff they brought for us was small and cramped, designed mainly for transporting repair materials while drudges hung onto the outside. It normally wasn’t pressurized, but the Spiders had plenty of oxygen cylinders lying around to replenish the slow leakage through the atmosphere barriers at the ends of the stations. We had loaded a couple of them into the skiff with us, just in case, and the soft hissing added to the basic eeriness of the situation as the Spiders maneuvered us around the station. I’d specified that we use the hatchway closest to our departure platform; and with exactly fifteen minutes remaining until our Quadrail arrived, the skiff locked itself against the outside of the station.
I looked at Bayta, wrapped in a sterilizer gown and strapped to a self-powered medical stretcher. Her face was completely covered in white bandages, a false beak pressing up against them from the center of her face above the breather mask connected to the stretcher’s own medical oxygen tank. More makeshift prosthetics under the swathing disguised the shape of her forehead and chin, while others padded out her shoulders and created three-toed claws at her feet. “Ready?” I asked.
Her answer was a soft grunt around the oxygen mouthpiece, and I felt a pang of sympathetic edginess. To have to pass through a group of enemies was bad enough; to have to do so totally blind and strapped to a rolling table had to be a hundred times worse.
But we had no choice. The Modhri would be looking for a pair of humans, and only with her face and body completely covered could we transform her from a woman into a badly injured Juri.
I ran a hand carefully over my hair, darkened and slicked back with a few drops of motor oil, and smoothed out the slightly scraggly mustache I’d thrown together out of tack sealant and some bits of Bayta’s hair. That, plus the protective smock we’d taken from one of the emergency medical kits, would have to do for me. “Okay,” I said. “Here we go.”
I touched the hatch release. It slid open, the station’s hatch did likewise behind it, and I looked up to find a pair of drudges looming over us. “Quickly, now,” I said in my best dit rec medical professional’s weighty yet compassionate voice, standing upright and gesturing down into the skiff. Behind the Spiders, a small crowd had gathered, clearly curious as to what the two drudges were up to. “But carefully,” I added, stepping up out of their way. “Don’t jostle him.”
They reached in a pair of legs each and carefully retrieved the stretcher. I helped guide it up, some of my tension easing as the hatch closed beneath it. Any of the gawking bystanders who got a good look in there would have instantly spotted that it wasn’t a normal medical shuttle. But the drudges’ long legs had kept the crowd back far enough and long enough, and now that particular danger was past.
I touched the control at the stretcher’s side, unfolding its wheeled legs. “Thank you,” I said to the Spiders as they set it down onto the station floor. “I can take it from here.” Pulling the leash control from its clip, I started toward our platform, the stretcher rolling beside me.
The crowd, still staring in fascination at the spectacle, parted in front of us like the Red Sea in front of Moses. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a couple of Peerage robes wandering in our direction, and forced myself not to speed up.
“What happened?” a short Juri on the sidelines asked, stepping close to the stretcher and gazing down his beak at Bayta, as if trying to glean through the bandages whether it was someone he knew.
“Acid accident,” I said, waving him back. “Please—keep your distance. He’s had terrible burns and his immune system is very weak.”
“Shouldn’t you take him to the transfer station?” someone in the crowd suggested. “It has the nearest hospital.”
“We’ve just come from the station,” I said. “This is a job for specialists.”
“Surely there are specialists on Jurskala?” someone else chimed in.
“Please,” I said between clenched teeth. Why couldn’t these people gawk in silence like every other accident crowd? “Just make room—”
“Thank God you made it,” a relieved voice cut me off, and a business-suited man stepped boldly to the other side of the stretcher.
I opened my mouth to tell him to back off—“I got your message, and I’ve been in contact with the office,” he went on before I could speak. “They’re collecting the specialists—should be ready by the time we arrive. And they repeat that absolutely no expense should be spared.”
I stared at him, a nondescript man with midlength hair and clean-shaven face … and then, abruptly, I got it. This was not some random raving lunatic, or even a bizarre case of mistaken identity.
The man facing me across the stretcher was Mr. Chameleon himself, Bruce McMicking.
My sudden confusion wrapped around my tongue, striking me momentarily speechless. Not that it mattered. McMicking’s own spiel was already in full gear. “How bad is it?” he asked as we wheeled our way onto the platform. “They told me it was mostly hydrochloric, but that there were some other chemicals involved.”
“Yes, there were,” I said, finding my voice at last. Down at the far end of the station, I could see the laser light show of the approaching Quadrail. “That’s what did the most serious damage. Once the skin was broken and the parichloric and fluoro-di-monistak got in—well, you understand.”
“Yes, of course.” McMicking hissed under his breath. “Parichloric. What a terrible, terrible thing.”
The Quadrail roared down the track and came to a halt in front of us. McMicking and I kept up the pseudomedical jargon until the flow of departing passengers finally ended. Then, as the crowd continued to keep a respectful distance, we rolled the stretcher through the door and into the first-class compartment car. Two conductors were waiting at our door, and with their help we got the stretcher inside.
I stood over Bayta’s swathed form, making soothing noises for the benefit of any passengers passing through the corridor until the Spiders tapped their way out, closing the door behind them. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” I said, opaquing the window and turning to face McMicking. “But what the hell are you doing here?”
He shrugged. “Protecting Mr. Hardin’s investment, of course.”
“He decided to give you one more chance,” McMicking said, eyeing me curiously as he pulled my watch, reader, and credit tag from his pocket and dropped them onto the bed. “So you are in trouble with the Halkan Peerage.”
“With the Peerage and every other upper-class business and political leader in the station,” I told him. Unfastening the straps that held Bayta to the stretcher, I started to undo the bandages around her head. “And I thought I told you to get Mr. Hardin out of here.”
“He’s on his way,” McMicking assured me, watching in fascination as Bayta began to emerge from her cocoon. “He went across to the transfer station with the rest of our people to check on some of his investments in the system. He’ll stay another day or two, then head home.” He lifted his eyebrows. “I trust whatever trouble you’ve stirred up will be over by then?”
“Don’t worry, the trouble will be following me,” I said. “Thanks for the assist, but you’d better get going.”
“I appreciate the warning,” he said. “Hello, there,” he added as I finished pulling the bandages clear of Bayta’s face.
Bayta’s eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat. “It’s all right,” I told her quickly. “He helped us get past the walkers out there.”
“Name’s McMicking,” McMicking introduced himself calmly. “A colleague of Mr. Compton’s.”
Bayta’s eyes shifted to me. “A colleague?” she asked, her tone suddenly ominous.
“More like second colleague, twice removed,” I said. “He works for Larry Hardin, one of Earth’s men of wealth.” I gave McMicking a warning look. “I’ve had some dealings with Hardin in the past.”
McMicking, as I’d expected, had no trouble picking up on the cue. “That’s right,” he confirmed easily. “I happened to notice your quick departure from your last train, and figured you were in trouble.”
“How did you know we’d come back in this way?” Bayta asked, her expression still tight.