by Timothy Zahn
A flicker of genuine surprise replaced his frown. “What do you mean, so? You were there. In fact, you were running the raid.”
“Hardly,” I said. “Senior Investigator Hartwell was the agent in charge. I was just one of the people she pulled in for rabbit-hole duty.”
“Really,” he said, again searching my face. “Well, you and your people missed one.”
“You?”
“Yes,” Kennrick said. “Not that I was anyone you actually wanted, of course.”
“Of course not,” I said. “You were just one of the dupes DuNoeva was using as cover for his operation.”
“Not exactly the way I would have put it,” Kennrick said sourly. “But basically correct.”
“So why did you run?” I asked. “I’m assuming here that you did run.”
“Of course I ran,” he growled. “I didn’t want to spend six months and a mountain of attorneys’ fees defending myself from false charges.”
“Charges like assaulting a couple of federal officers?” I asked pointedly.
He seemed to draw back a little. “What are you talking about? I never assaulted anyone.”
“Somebody did,” I said. “The men we had watching the east door were taken out sometime during the raid. One of them was DOA, the other died a few hours later without regaining consciousness.”
“Hey, that wasn’t me,” Kennrick protested. “That was the door I left by, but I swear there was no one there when I went through.” His eyes flicked around us, as if he was suddenly remembering where we were. “But I don’t have to care what you think, do I?” he said. “You don’t have any jurisdiction here.”
Which begged the question of why he’d been evading me for the past two weeks and why he’d beat such a hasty exit from the dispensary just now. Maybe fugitive habits simply die hard. “Actually, I don’t have any jurisdiction anywhere,” I said. “I left Westali quite a while ago. Who’s your Shorshic friend?”
The sudden change of subject seemed to throw him off-track. A slightly confused expression rolled across his face before his brain caught up with him. “He’s a business associate,” he said. His eyes flicked over my shoulder, as if he was suddenly remembering why he’d dragged himself out of bed at this ungodly hour in the first place. “Part of a contract team my employer brought to Earth for some consultations. I need to get back to him and the others.”
“Certainly,” I said. Stepping aside, I gestured him back toward the dispensary.
Warily, he slid past me. I let him go, then fell into step beside him. “This employer being …?” I asked.
He threw me a sideways look. “Pellorian Medical Systems,” he said. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
“What kind of consultations?”
“We were discussing genetic manipulation equipment and technique,” he said impatiently.
“Ah,” I said. That explained the four Fillies he’d been shepherding back at Homshil, anyway. The Filiaelians were enthusiastic proponents of genetic engineering and manipulation of all sorts, on everything up to and including themselves. Especially including themselves. “And so now, like a good host, you’re walking them home?”
He didn’t answer, but merely picked up his pace. I sped up to match, wondering if he would try to get through the dispensary door before me.
We were nearly there when the question became moot. Bayta appeared in the doorway, her face grim. “No need to hurry,” she said quietly. “He’s dead.”
The Human doctor’s name was Witherspoon. “Well?” I asked as he scrubbed his hands in the dispensary’s cleansing sink.
“Well, what?” he countered. His voice was tired and bitter, with the frustration of a professional healer who’s just lost one.
But through the frustration I could also hear an uneasiness that I suspected had nothing to do with possible malpractice charges. “What did he die of?” I asked.
He looked up at me from under bushy eyebrows. “You a relative of the deceased?” he asked, an edge of challenge in his tone.
“My name is Compton,” I said. “I do investigations for the Spiders.”
“What kind of investigations?”
“Investigations they need me to do,” I said. “Was he poisoned, or wasn’t he?”
Witherspoon looked at the server still standing silently across the room, then back at me, then over at the other side of the room, where Kennrick and the other two Shorshians were consulting in low voices with the Filly doctor. “He was definitely poisoned,” he said, lowering his own voice. “The problem is that Shorshians are highly susceptible to poisons, and there are a thousand different ones that can create symptoms like this. Without an autopsy, there’s no way to know which one killed him.”
I nodded and turned to Bayta. “Where can we set up for an autopsy?” I asked her.
“Wait a minute,” Witherspoon protested before Bayta could answer. “Even if I was practiced at non-Human autopsies, we don’t have the kind of equipment aboard to handle something like that.”
“How about just a biochem autopsy?” I asked.
“That takes almost as much equipment as the regular version,” he said. “Not to mention a truckload of specialized chemicals and reagents.”
“A spectroscopic test, then?” I persisted.
“Mr. Compton, just how well equipped do you think Quadrail trains are?” he asked, his patience starting to crack at the edges.
“Obviously, not very,” I conceded. “Luckily for us, I happen to have a spectroscopic analyzer in my compartment.”
“Right,” Witherspoon said with a sniff. He took another look at my face, his derision level slipping a notch. “You are joking, aren’t you?”
The conversation between Kennrick, the Filly, and the two Shorshians had faded away into silence. “Not at all,” I assured the whole group. “I trust you at least know which tissue samples would be the most useful?”
“Yes, I think so,” Witherspoon said, still staring at me. “You have a spectroscopic analyzer? In your compartment?”
“I use it in my work,” I explained. “Do you have the necessary equipment for taking the tissue samples, or will the Spiders need to scrounge something up?”
“The Spiders have sampling kits,” Bayta put in.
“I also have a couple in my bag,” Witherspoon said, gesturing to the cabinet where a traditional doctor’s bag was sitting on one of the shelves. “May I ask what kind of investigations you do that you require a spectroscopic analyzer?”
“Show me the medical relevance of that information and I may share it with you,” I said. “Otherwise, let’s get on with it.”
Witherspoon’s lip twitched. “Of course.” He looked over at the Shorshians. “But I’ll need permission for the autopsy.”
Kennrick, who’d been staring at me in much the same way Witherspoon had been, belatedly picked up on the cue. “Master Bofiv?” he asked, turning to the taller of the two Shorshians. “Can you advise me on Shorshic law and custom on such things?”
[It is not proper that such be done by strangers,] Master Bofiv said, his Shishish sounding harsher than usual here in the dead of night. Or maybe it was the presence of the recently deceased that was adding all the extra corners to the words.
“I understand your reluctance,” Kennrick said, giving a respectful little duck of his head. “But in a case of such importance, surely an exception can be made.”
“And indeed must be made,” I put in.
[We cannot grant this permission,] Bofiv said. [We are not kin, nor of similar path.]
“What about di-Master Strinni?” Kennrick asked. “I believe he and Master Colix were of similar paths.”
The two Shorshians looked at each other. [That may perhaps be proper,] Bofiv said, a little reluctantly. [But the approach is not mine to make.]
[Nor mine,] the other Shorshian added.
“I understand, Master Tririn,” Kennrick said, nodding to him. He looked over at me. “It was Mr. Compton’s idea. Mr. Co
mpton can ask di-Master Strinni.”
[That is acceptable,] Bofiv said before I could protest.
I grimaced. But there was no way out of it. Not if we wanted to find out what had killed the late Master Colix. “Where’s di-Master Strinni now?” I asked.
“He has a seat in first class,” Kennrick said. “I’ll take you there.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Bayta, you might as well wait here.”
“I could—” she began, then broke off. “All right,” she said instead.
I gestured to Kennrick. “After you.”
We left the dispensary and headed down the darkened, quiet corridor toward the front of the train. “Thanks so very much for this,” I murmured to him as we walked.
“My pleasure,” he said calmly. “I still have a business relationship with these people. If they end up being mortally offended at someone, I’d rather it be you than me.”
“Can’t fault the logic,” I had to admit. “What exactly is this similar path thing Bofiv mentioned, and how come he and a di-Master are at the same place on it.”
“It’s a religious thing,” Kennrick said. “The Path of something unpronounceable and untranslatable. Very big among the professional classes at the moment.”
“Really,” I said, frowning. Major changes in alien religious alignments were one of the things Human intelligence agencies worked very hard to keep tabs on. “I don’t remember any briefings on that.”
“It really only took off in the past couple of years,” Kennrick said. “A lot of Shorshians call it a cult and look down their bulbous snouts at it.”
“What’s your take?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I’m just a lowly Human. What do I know?”
Di-Master Strinni’s seat was near the center of the rear first-class car. Unlike the seats in second and third, those in first could be folded completely flat for sleeping, with extendable canopies instead of the far less roomy cylindrical roll-over privacy shields that were standard in the lower classes. Strinni himself hadn’t bothered with the canopy tonight, but was merely lying asleep with his inner eyelids closed against the soft glow of the car’s night-lights and the scattered handful of reading lamps still operating.
I’d never had cause to try waking a Shorshian from a sound sleep, and it turned out to be harder than I’d expected. But with Kennrick’s encouragement I persisted, and eventually the inner eyelids rolled back up and Strinni came fully conscious.
He wasn’t at all happy at being woken up out of his sleep. But his annoyance disappeared as soon as he heard the grim news. [You believe this not merely a random tragedy?] he asked after I’d explained the situation.
“We’re not sure,” I said. “That’s why we need to test some tissue samples.”
[Might there be a Guidesman of the Path aboard?]
“No idea, di-Master Strinni,” Kennrick said.
“I could ask one of the conductors,” I offered.
The inner eyelids dipped down. I was just wondering if he’d gone back to sleep when they rolled up again. [No need,] he said. [If there was one, that truth would have been made known to me.]
Kennrick and I looked at each other. “So is that a yes?” I suggested.
[No,] he said flatly. [You may not cut into Master Colix’s flesh.]
I braced myself. “Di-Master Strinni—”
[The subject is closed,] he cut me off. He settled back in his seat, and once again the inner eyelids came down.
This time, they stayed there. “What now?” Kennrick asked.
I frowned at the sleeping Shorshian. Without some idea of what had knocked Colix off his unpronounceable Path, our options were going to be severely limited. “Let’s go talk to his traveling companions,” I said. “Maybe they’ll have some idea of who might have wanted him dead.”
The crowd in the second/third dispensary had shrunk considerably by the time Kennrick and I returned. Only Bayta, Witherspoon, and Master Tririn were still there. And Colix’s body, of course. “Where’d everyone go?” I asked as Kennrick and I joined them.
“Dr. Aronobal—she’s the Filiaelian doctor—went off to work up her report on the death,” Bayta said. “Master Bofiv wasn’t feeling well and returned to his seat.”
“Well?” Witherspoon asked. During our absence, he’d laid out a small sampling kit, complete with scalpel, hypo, and six sample vials.
“Sorry,” I said. “Di-Master Strinni wouldn’t give his permission.”
[Did you explain the situation?] Tririn asked.
“In detail, Master Tririn,” Kennrick assured him.
“Unless there’s a Guidesman of the Path around to supervise, we aren’t allowed to cut into Master Colix’s body,” I added.
“Are we sure there isn’t someone like that aboard?” Witherspoon asked.
“We’d have to ask the Spiders,” I said, looking at Bayta.
She gave me a microscopic shrug. “I suppose we could make inquiries,” she said.
Translation: she’d already asked. Either there wasn’t a Guidesman aboard or else it wasn’t something the Spiders routinely kept track of.
“Speaking of Spiders,” Kennrick said, “where’s the one that was here earlier?”
“He’s gone about other duties,” Bayta said. “Did you want him for something?”
“As a matter of fact, I did.” Kennrick pointed to the drug cabinet. “I notice that none of those bottles are labeled.”
“Actually, they are,” Bayta said. “The dot patterns along the sides are Spider notation.”
“If a passenger needs something, the Spider prints out a label in his or her native language,” Witherspoon explained. “Saves having to try to squeeze a lot of different notations onto something that small.”
“I’m sure it does,” Kennrick said. “But that also means none of the rest of us has any idea what’s actually in any of them.”
Bayta frowned. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean we don’t actually know that the drugs Dr. Witherspoon and Dr. Aronobal injected into Master Colix were actually helpful,” Kennrick said. “It could easily have been just the opposite.”
“Are you accusing the Spiders of deliberately causing him harm?” Bayta asked, a not-so-subtle challenge in her tone.
“Maybe,” Kennrick said. “Or else someone might have sneaked in here while the Spider was absent or distracted and changed some of the labels.”
I stepped around the body on the table and went over to the drug cabinet. I’d noted earlier that the doors were glassed in; up close, I could see now that it wasn’t glass, but some kind of grained polymer. Experimentally, I gave it a rap with my knuckles, then tried the latch.
The door didn’t budge. “That would have to be one hell of a distracted Spider,” I said, turning back to Kennrick. “Besides, wasn’t Master Colix showing symptoms of poisoning before they even brought him in here?”
“Symptoms can be counterfeited,” Kennrick said. He looked at the body on the table. “Or faked.”
“You mean Master Colix might have faked his own poisoning so as to get brought in here so he could get pumped full of something lethal from the Spiders’ private drugstore?” I asked.
“Well, yes, if you put it that way I suppose it sounds a little far-fetched,” Kennrick admitted. “Still, we need to cover all possibilities.”
I turned to Tririn. “Did Master Colix have any addictions or strange tastes?”
[I don’t truly know,] Tririn said, a bit hesitantly. [I wasn’t well acquainted with him.]
“You were business colleagues, correct?”
[True,] Tririn said. [But he had only recently joined our contract team.] He ducked his head to Kennrick. [I would say that Master Kennrick probably knew him as well as I did.]
“And I only met him a couple of months ago,” Kennrick put in.
Mentally, I shook my head in disgust. Between di-Master Strinni, Kennrick, and Tririn, this was about as unhelpful a bunch as I’d run into for some time. “
How about Master Bofiv, then?” I asked. “Did he know Master Colix?”
[I don’t know,] Tririn said. [I believe di-Master Strinni knew him best.]
I looked at my watch. I’d already had to awaken Strinni once tonight, and I wasn’t interested in trying it again. “We’ll start with Master Bofiv,” I decided. “Where is he?”
“Four cars back,” Kennrick said. “I’ll take you.”
“Just tell me which seat,” I said, taking Bayta’s arm and steering her toward the door. “You should stay with Master Tririn.”
“I’m going with you,” Kennrick said firmly. “These people are my business colleagues. Whatever happened to Master Colix, we need to resolve it before it poisons relations between us.” He winced. “Sorry. Poor choice of words.”
“I’ll stay here with Master Tririn,” Witherspoon volunteered. “There may be a couple of tests I can do that don’t involve cutting.”
“I’ll stay, too, then,” Bayta said. “I’d like to watch.”
I eyed her. Her face was its usual neutral mask, but there was something beneath the surface I couldn’t quite read. Probably she didn’t like the idea of the body being left alone with a couple of strangers with no Spider present. “Fine,” I said. “Come on, Kennrick.”
THREE
Second-class seats weren’t as mobile as those in first class, but they were movable enough to allow families and friends to arrange themselves into little conversation and game circles. Those circles usually remained into and through the nighttime hours, which gave a cozy sort of sleeping-bags-around-the-campfire look to those cars when everyone set up their privacy shields.
Not so in third. In third, where the seats were fixed in neat rows of three each on either side of the central aisle, the rows of cylindrical privacy shields always looked to me like the neatly arranged coffins from some horrible disaster.
“He’s down there,” Kennrick murmured, pointing.
I craned my neck. Master Bofiv was in one of the middle seats to my right, his seat reclined as far as it would go, his privacy shield open. “I see him,” I confirmed. “Quietly, now.”