by Timothy Zahn
I spent most of those days in my compartment, coming out only for meals, exercise, and occasional flybys of my primary suspects. Most of the compartment time was devoted to reexamination of the spectroscopic data I’d taken from the air filters and the bodies. But it was all just wheels spinning in mud. If there was anything in there aside from the bald fact of the cadmium poisoning, I reluctantly concluded, it would take someone better trained than me to spot it. All I could do now was wait for the other shoe to drop.
Two nights after the journey’s midpoint, it finally did.
I had just taken off my shoes in preparation for bedtime when the divider opened and Bayta hurried into my compartment. “The Spiders say Dr. Aronobal is calling for you,” she said tautly.
“What’s the problem?” I asked, grabbing my shoes and starting to put them on again.
“They don’t know,” she said. “They just say she needs to see you right away. She’s in the second/third dispensary, staring at the medications in the drug cabinet.”
“Maybe she’s thought of something relating to the murders,” I suggested, finishing with my shoes and standing up. “I’ll be back soon. Feel free to eavesdrop via the dispensary’s server.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked, frowning as she started for the door. “I’m coming with you.”
“No, you’re staying here,” I corrected, getting to the door first. “Aronobal asked for me, remember?”
Her face had gone very still. “You think it’s a trap, don’t you?”
That was, in fact, exactly what I was thinking. “I just think she might feel more comfortable talking to me alone,” I lied.
I reached for the door control, paused, and instead dug into my pocket. “Here,” I said, handing Bayta the kwi. “This won’t do me any good out there.”
She took it, her eyes going even darker. “Frank—”
“Besides, if there’s a problem and I have to fight, I’d rather you be here and not right in the middle of things where I have to worry about you,” I cut her off. “I’ll be back soon.”
I escaped into the corridor before she could come up with a suitable retort.
The corridors of the compartment cars were deserted, most of the other passengers probably having turned in for the night. The first-class coach car just beyond had the same settled feel about it, though there were still a few reading lights showing.
I went past the dining car and its usual contingent of late-night diners and drinkers, then trekked through the storage, shower, and exercise/dispensary cars into the next coach car. I walked through it and into the first-class entertainment car, where reflected flickers of light showed that a few viewers were still finishing up their dit rec dramas and comedies, and entered the next coach car. One more, and I would finally be finished with first class.
After which would come the long walk through second class and then finally to third. After all this, I told myself darkly, Aronobal had better have either one hell of a significant breakthrough to offer, or else have one hell of an innovative ambush to spring.
I was nearly to the end of the last first-class coach when I heard a quiet voice call my name.
I looked around. The only passenger anywhere nearby who should even know my name was Osantra Qiddicoj. He was slumped in his seat, his eyes closed, apparently sound asleep.
And then, as I watched, his eyes opened. “Go back,” he said, his voice soft and raspy.
I felt a sudden tightness in my chest. Qiddicoj’s open eyes were slightly unfocused, his long jaw slackened, and even in the dim light of the compartment I could see his rose-colored nose blaze had gone a little darker.
Which meant that it wasn’t Qiddicoj who was speaking to me.
I took a deep breath. For the past three weeks I’d been wondering whether the Modhri had a presence aboard our train. Occasionally, way back in the back of my mind, I’d also wondered if he might have something to do with our rash of mysterious murders.
Now, at least the first of those two questions had been answered. “Hello, Modhri,” I said. “I’ve been wondering when you would pop up.”
“Go back, Compton,” the Modhri said again. “He’s in your compartment car.”
“Who is?” I asked. “What are you talking about?”
“He was hiding in one of the shower stalls,” Qiddicoj’s voice rasped, a sense of urgency creeping into his voice. “He waited until you’d passed, then moved forward. He has a device with which he hopes to gain access to your compartment.”
The tightness in my chest went a little tighter. The double compartment, where I’d left Bayta waiting all alone. “Who is he?” I demanded. “What does he look like?”
“I don’t know,” the Modhri said. “He’s wearing a hooded robe that obscures his features and his build.”
So our baggage car intruder hadn’t flushed his disguise down the toilet after all. The thrifty type. “What does he want?” I asked.
“How should I know?” the Modhri retorted. “Perhaps the deaths of us all. Do you wish to stop him, or not?”
I cursed under my breath. If this was a trick to get me to miss my appointment with Aronobal, the doctor could likely be facing some death of her own.
But Aronobal wasn’t my responsibility, and on a personal level I didn’t really care what happened to her. Bayta was, and I did. “You have any walkers up there?” I asked.
“I have an Eye in the bar and one in the first coach car,” the Modhri said. “That’s how I saw the intruder making his way forward.”
There were a dozen other questions I needed to ask, starting with how this intruder thought he could get though a Spider-designed lock and ending with why the Modhri was giving me this warning in the first place. But those questions could wait. “Let me know if he starts back or goes to ground somewhere,” I said.
I was ten cars back from our compartment car. I retraced the first nine cars’ worth of steps at a dead run, slowing to a quieter and more energy-conserving jog for the last one. A well-dressed Juri in that first coach car watched me as I came through, his eyes bright and preternaturally aware. Almost certainly he was the walker the Modhri had mentioned, and I raised my eyebrows in silent question as I passed him. He gestured toward the car ahead in silent response. I nodded, and slipped through the door into the vestibule.
I crossed the vestibule, taking in huge lungfuls of air as I did so to try to restore my blood oxygen level after my mini-marathon run. I got to the front and reached for the door control.
And paused, my memory flicking back to the trip wire the intruder had left for me in the baggage car. This guy was a professional, and professionals didn’t set themselves up for key jobs in the middle of exposed corridors without taking precautions against unexpected company.
Which meant there was probably a booby trap waiting on the other side of the door.
It wouldn’t be a trip wire. That was fairly certain. I was the unexpected company he would be most worried about, and he would assume I wouldn’t fall for the same trick twice.
On the other hand, given the lengths he’d already gone to in order to keep anyone from seeing who he was …
It was a gamble, but I had no time to think it through any further. Squeezing my eyes tightly shut and holding my breath, I hit the door release.
And as I charged through, a burst of cold air threw a choking cloud of dust squarely into my face.
I bellowed with feigned surprise, the sharp exhalation serving to blow the powder away from my nose and mouth. A simple talcum powder, I gathered from the taste. Simultaneously, I threw up my left forearm over my face, hopefully hiding the fact that my closed eyelids had protected me from the blinding effects of the powder. I staggered a couple of steps forward, feeling wildly around with my right hand as I watched the floor in front of me beneath the concealment of my left arm.
He fell for it like an egg from a tall chicken. Three seconds later a pair of feet entered my truncated field of view as he hurried toward me,
clearly intent on putting me down for the count.
Instantly, I shifted my hands and body into fighting stance. I caught a glimpse of a billowing cloak and a dark-filled hood, then caught one of his outstretched arms at the wrist, levered it at the elbow, and turned his forward motion into a backward arc to slam his back hard onto the corridor floor.
With the average opponent, that would have ended the fight right there. But this one was tougher than average. Even as his shoulders hit the floor he was twisting his torso around, swinging one leg in a horizontal sweep straight at my ankles.
I managed to get one leg out of his way, but I didn’t have the time or the balance to get the other one clear, too. His leg caught me just above the ankle, and I toppled over, the move forcing me to let go of his wrist so that I could use both hands to break my fall. Luckily, he was similarly unable to get his sweeping leg completely out of my way, and I landed partially on top of it, hampering his effort to regain his feet.
We made it back to vertical at about the same time, with me making sure I ended up standing between him and the door to the rear of the train. “Had enough?” I asked, still panting a little.
The intruder didn’t reply. His hood, which I could see now had been wired to stay firmly in place around his head, had nevertheless slipped enough during the tussle to reveal the tip of a Filly nose. “I didn’t think so,” I went on. “You know, you’re taking this contract thing way too seriousl—”
Without warning, he leaped forward, his hands grabbing my left shoulder and shoving sideways in an attempt to push me far enough out of the way for him to get past. I was ready for something like that, and responded by grabbing one of the arms and trying a repeat of my earlier aikido move.
Unfortunately, this time he was waiting for it. He spun around on one foot as I made my grab, the movement twisting my arm instead of his and breaking my grip. With his escape path now open, he made a break for the door.
He got exactly one and a half steps before I slammed a kick hard into the back of his leg, once again sending him sprawling.
I leaped for him, hoping to pin him down long enough to get a wrist lock on him. But he was too quick. He bounced up off the floor and spun around, and as I grabbed his left wrist he gave me a shove with his free hand that threatened to break my hold and send me to the floor in my turn.
But I wasn’t giving up, either. I hung on grimly, overbalancing him and bringing him tumbling after me. With the alternative being to let him land on me full-weight, I brought my left leg up and planted it into his lower torso. As I hit the floor I straightened my leg, executing a stomach toss of the sort so beloved of early dit rec thrillers and so nearly impossible to pull off in the real world.
Apparently, my opponent had never heard of this one. The toss actually worked, and he went sailing over my head to once again slam onto his back on the floor. Rather surprised myself at the move’s success, I nevertheless had the presence of mind to execute the proper follow-through, using the momentum of my backward roll to somersault over him into a position where I would be sitting on his chest with my knees pinning down his upper arms.
Then again, maybe he had heard of this one. I was still in mid-somersault when he rolled over onto his side, giving a hard sideways yank to the hand I still had on his wrist. Pulled off my planned trajectory, I landed off balance. He twisted my wrist as I hit the floor, breaking what was left of my grip. I grabbed for the arm again, missed, and he bounded to his feet, heading for the rear of the car. Still off-balance, I threw myself at his feet, and by sheer luck got one hand on his ankle. He stumbled, nearly fell, and half turned. As I tried to get a grip with my other hand, out of the corner of my eye I saw his arm windmill as if he was throwing something at me.
An instant later, a patch of something black slapped across my face.
I inhaled sharply from the sheer surprise of it. That was a mistake. The stuff was some kind of clingcloth, of the kind sported by teenaged show-offs, and inhaling against the thing merely sucked the last bit of remaining air from beneath it and plastered it that much tighter against my skin. I tried exhaling, but I didn’t have enough air to do more than temporarily puff out the middle of the cloth.
And with that move I was now completely out of air. I let go of the intruder’s ankle, scrabbling with both hands to try to get a grip on the edges of my new blindfold. Clingcloth was legally required to be porous enough to breathe through, but my current oxygen needs were far greater than any level the regulators had anticipated. If I didn’t get the damn stuff off, and fast, I was probably going to pass out.
Someone grabbed my arm. I shrugged violently against the hand, my fingernails still trying to locate the edges of the clingcloth. “Hold still,” Kennrick’s voice came in my ear. The grip on my arm vanished, and I felt another set of fingers pulling at the edges of my face. “Mm!” I grunted, jabbing a finger down the corridor. I could get the clingcloth off by myself—what I needed Kennrick to do was get to my assailant before he could escape from the car and melt back into the Quadrail’s general populace.
Only with my mouth covered, I couldn’t say that. “Mm!” I tried again.
“Relax, it’s covered,” he said. His fingernails worked their way under the cloth and pulled it away from my face.
I blinked, gasping for breath as I looked around. On both sides, compartment doors were beginning to open as other passengers looked to see what all the noise and commotion was about. Between me and the far end of the car I could see that Bayta had also emerged from her compartment. She was facing away from me, but as I refilled my lungs I saw she was backing toward where Kennrick and I still huddled on the floor. She glanced behind her to double-check my position, then veered a little to her left and dropped down on one knee beside me.
And as she moved out of my line of sight, I saw that my assailant had not, in fact, escaped. He was lying in the middle of the corridor, his hooded cloak flapping like a wounded bird as he writhed in agony.
“You all right?” Bayta asked anxiously, her eyes flicking to me and then back to the thrashing Filly. Gripped in her hand, I saw, was the kwi I’d left with her.
“I’m fine,” I assured her, still breathing hard. “Nice work.”
“And then some,” Kennrick put in, his voice sounding stunned. “Special relationship with the Spiders, huh?”
I focused on him, to discover that he was gazing at the kwi.
Terrific. “Nothing special about it,” I said, putting an edge on my tone, acutely aware of all the other eyes and ears gathered around us. “She got in a good gut punch, that’s all.”
Kennrick tore his gaze from the kwi and locked eyes with me. A flicker of something went across his face—“Ah,” he said. “Right.”
I held his eyes a moment longer, just to make sure he’d gotten the entire message, then looked back at the Filly. “Want to make any bets as to which of your three Filly friends is inside that hood?” I asked as I levered myself back to my feet. “My guess is that it’s Esantra Worrbin.”
“No bet,” Kennrick said grimly. “Let’s find out.”
We headed down the corridor, and I noticed in passing that there was a small gray box lying on the floor beside my compartment door. I reached the Filly and leaned over him. “You going to cooperate?” I asked politely. “Or do we need to make sure you’ll hold still?”
The Filly didn’t answer. But he was clearly in no position to give any serious resistance. Straddling his torso, I slipped my hands inside his hood, found and disengaged the stiffening wires that had held it in place, and threw it back.
It was a Filly, all right. But it wasn’t any of the contract-team members, as I’d assumed. It was, instead, Logra Emikai: barstool warmer, protector of Human maidens in distress, and attempted briber of Spider agents.
“Huh,” Kennrick grunted from my side. “I guess I should have taken that bet.”
“Hilarious,” I growled, grabbing one of Emikai’s arms. “Come on—help me get him into my compartment.
He has some explaining to do.”
FIFTEEN
Emikai was pretty heavy, and his legs still weren’t functioning all that well. But between Kennrick, Bayta, and me we got him into my compartment and seated more or less comfortably on the curve couch. Our next task was to remove his cloak and search for any other goodies or semi-weapons he might have on him. We confiscated another patch of clingcloth, a squeeze bulb filled with talcum powder like the booby trap he’d set up on the vestibule door, and, for good measure, the extra unlimited first-class pass that we’d known was wandering loose on our train.
We also confiscated the gadget he’d left lying by my door.
“So what now?” Kennrick asked when we’d finished our frisking.
“We start by calling in a couple of Spiders,” I said. “Bayta, I need a conductor and two mites. Have them wait out in the corridor until I need them.”
She nodded, her eyes unfocusing as she sent the message.
I watched Emikai closely during the silent communication, searching for signs of surprise or interest. But there was neither. Clearly, he already knew all about Bayta’s special relationship with the Spiders.
“They’ll be here in a few minutes,” Bayta reported.
“Thank you,” I said. “So, Logra Emikai. How are you feeling?”
“I have been worse,” he said stiffly.
“I’m sure you have,” I said, looking him over. His convulsions had mostly ceased, but he was still twitching occasionally from the aftereffects of the kwi. I wondered which of the three pain settings Bayta had used, but I wasn’t about to ask that question with Kennrick standing there listening. He knew way too much already. “I suppose we should first offer you the easy way. Would you care to make a statement as to what the hell you’ve been up to lately?”
For a moment Emikai gazed at me, possibly trying to decide which lie would be the most believable. “Several days ago I asked you for information about the air filter analysis you claimed you would be performing,” he said. “You never returned with that information.”