The Third Lynx

by Timothy Zahn

  “I want to talk about the way you’ve been behaving toward her,” Bayta said, still frowning.

  “I’m just trying to be civil,” I said. “Just because you don’t like her—”

  “You’re trying to be civil?” she interrupted.

  “Civil, friendly—whatever,” I tried again. If Morse hadn’t blabbed, could she somehow have heard about the kiss from one of the Fibibibi who’d been in the lounge? “We need to earn her trust if we’re going to get to Stafford and the Lynx.”

  “Frank, what are you talking about?” Bayta repeated. Her puzzlement, I noted uneasily, had edged into irritation. “I’m talking about the way you’ve been ignoring her practically since we got on the torchliner.”

  I swallowed. Uh-oh. “Oh,” I said.

  “Is that what you call being friendly?” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Or is there something I don’t know about?”

  “Nothing that’s any of your business,” I said. Even to my own ears it sounded lame.

  Apparently, it sounded exactly the same to her. “Really,” she said, her tone dipping below the frost line. “Shall I go ask Mr. Morse what he thinks of that?”

  Silently, I cursed myself, Morse, Bayta, and the universe at large. But there was no way out. Letting Morse frame the details of Pyotr Gerashchenko’s murder had turned Penny against us for days. I didn’t dare let him frame the details of this one, too. “Okay, fine,” I bit out “I kissed her, okay? Is that a crime?”

  I’d expected Bayta to stare at me in disbelief, or explode in anger, or at the very least launch into a lecture on proper decorum. Instead, she twitched backward, her breath catching in her throat, her expression that of someone who’s just been slapped hard across the face.

  Slapped across the face by a friend.

  It was so unexpected that it took me a couple of seconds to find my brain and then my voice. But by then, it was too late. Bayta was already on the move, brushing past me and making for the door. “Bayta!” I called, spinning around.

  Again, I was too late. Bayta was out of the stateroom, the door sliding shut behind her.

  My first impulse was to run after her, to try to explain that it wasn’t as bad as it sounded. But she hadn’t looked like someone who was ready to listen to explanations.

  Besides, maybe from her point of view it was as bad as it sounded.

  I spent the rest of the evening alone in my stateroom. Between Penny, Morse, and Bayta, suddenly the Modhri was starting to look like the least of my problems. I hoped that by the time we made planetfall tomorrow morning everyone would have calmed down.

  But I wasn’t really expecting it.

  FOURTEEN

  We touched down at the main Ghonsilya spaceport outside Portline a little after six in the morning, torchliner time, which had been gradually adjusted during the past few days to match that of the local spaceport. We’d already gone through one set of customs formalities at the transfer station outside the Tube, but the local groundsiders wanted a crack at us, too, and we spent two hours running through their particular collection of bureaucratic hoops. Finally, we were released to make our individual ways to the other end of the terminal where we could catch one of the various planes, trains, or suborbital transports that would take us to our final destinations across the planet.

  Morse’s count had been correct: there were indeed four Halkas who joined us aboard the Magaraa City transport. I wondered briefly if the Modhri realized how they would stand out of a crowd of the thinner, more delicately featured Tra’ho’seej, then put the question out of my mind. That was the Modhri’s problem, not mine.

  Morse wasn’t speaking to me much, basically limiting his conversation to necessary information exchanges. All of those were short and formal. Bayta wasn’t speaking to me at all. Penny, in contrast, was almost chatty, though most of her conversation was of the casual cocktail-party variety. Usually I had little patience with that sort of thing, but I recognized it here as a cover-up for her nervousness about what might await us.

  She also was showing a new penchant for hanging on to my arm as we walked. It would probably have made Bayta even quieter if she hadn’t been at absolute zero already.

  Off we all went for a fun-filled excursion together.

  The suborbital transport took three hours to get across the Ghonsilya landscape, which when added to the local time zone change put us on the ground again just after local sunset. At my suggestion we parked our luggage in the depot storage lockers, with the idea that we’d pick it up later after we’d figured out what our long-term plans were going to be. We took the subway to the neighborhood of the art museum that had been burgled, and a few minutes later disembarked into the gathering dusk.

  By our own internal biological clocks, of course, it was only lunchtime. Travel could be very wearing on the stomach.

  “What’s your plan?” Morse asked quietly as he. Penny, Bayta, and I walked along a street lined with small shops and quaint-looking houses, our four silent walkers running a wide screen formation around us a few meters away.

  “I thought we’d try something outrageously clever and give the nearby hotels a call,” I said, pulling out my comm and keying for a local directory.

  Morse snorted under his breath. “And here I thought you’d be looking for a trail of bread crumbs.”

  Penny half turned toward him, her eyes glowering. But whatever crushing retort she’d been preparing to offer on my behalf, she never got to it. As I lifted the comm the biggest of the four Halkas, whom I’d privately dubbed Gargantua, moved in from his place in the screen formation and plucked it from my grip. “No,” he growled.

  I was actually perfectly willing to let him have the comm. Stafford hadn’t been traveling aboard the Quadrail under either his own name or the Daniel Mice moniker Künstler had gasped at me, and I doubted he would go back to one of them here. That made a hotel survey pretty much useless.

  Of course, Modhri already knew the Stafford name was a bust, since he would certainly have done a survey of his own the minute our walker escort got close enough to the planet for their Modhri colonies to meld with the locals and sound the alert. My suggestion had been pure red herring, designed to make Morse and the walkers think I knew something that they didn’t.

  Which, technically speaking, I did. But that wasn’t the point. The point was to keep the Modhri thinking in the wrong direction, and if taking my comm away made him feel safer, he was welcome to it.

  Unfortunately, Morse didn’t know any of that. He apparently thought I was about to reveal Stafford’s traveling identity, and figured it was therefore the right time to try to lose our escort. Slipping his hand inside his jacket, he turned toward Gargantua.

  It was a complete waste of effort. The Modhri had easily anticipated the move. Two of the other Halkas moved in even before he completed his turn, and in typically perfect coordination one of them threw his arms around Morse’s shoulders to trap his hand inside his jacket while the other reached inside and twisted the gun out of his hand.

  Penny gave a little gasp as she jerked back from the sudden fracas. The fourth Halka was ready, catching her shoulders to discourage any thought of flight and relieving her of her own comm. She started to give him a withering over-the-shoulder look, but midway through her eyes seemed to catch on something behind my back. “Frank?” she breathed.

  I turned. Somewhere along the line, the four Modhran walkers who’d accompanied us from the Ghonsilya spaceport had picked up reinforcements. Twenty reinforcements, to be precise, all of them Tra’ho’seej. They were arranged in a loose but very deliberate guard ring around us about thirty meters away.

  They didn’t look like guards, of course. They were grouped in casual-looking twos and threes at corners or loitering silently as individuals in the various shop doorways around us. Most of them were dressed in the expensively embroidered clothing and multiple earrings of upper-class citizens, while the rest had the severe half-shaved heads and contrasting flowing topcuts of oathlings w
ho’d taken the vow of government service.

  Apparently, the Modhri had turned out most of his local mind segment in honor of our visit.

  “Frank?” Penny repeated, more urgently this time.

  “It’s all right,” I soothed, studying the newcomers. They were making no move to approach, but were merely continuing with their conversations or private meditations. The Modhri would have maneuvered them here through his usual technique of quiet and reasonable suggestions, but was apparently holding off on the more drastic and riskier step of taking direct control of their bodies.

  Playing it low-key . . . and it was going to cost him. Whispering subtle instructions in their ears had gotten the Tra’ho’seej here just fine, but it was highly unlikely that the hosts’ rationalizations could have been made to stretch to the extent of bringing weapons along on their innocent evening group stroll. Twenty walkers were bad enough, but twenty armed walkers would have been a hell of a lot worse.

  Of course, Gargantua and his buddies did have at least one gun now—Morse’s—plus whatever hardware they might have brought with them from the Quadrail lockboxes. Morse and I would just have to deal with that as best we could.

  Assuming it was still Morse and I and not just I. Judging from the look he was giving me as the Halkas continued frisking him I wouldn’t have bet large sums of money on it. “Lovely move, Compton,” he growled acidly. “Lovely non-move, rather.”

  “Sorry,” I apologized. “But I try not to start fights when I’m on the short end of ten-to-one odds. Little rule I have.”

  His glare slipped a little, his eyes flicking away from me. From the sudden change in his expression, it was clear he hadn’t yet noticed our new outrider collection. “Bloody hell,” he muttered.

  “At the very least,” I agreed. “I suggest we not make any sudden moves.”

  The Halkas finished their search without coming up with anything else and took a step back. “You through?” I asked, addressing Gargantua for convenience.

  “For the moment,” he said, eyeing me closely. “There will be no more trouble?” His eyes flicked significantly to Penny.

  I followed the look. The Halka who’d taken Penny’s comm had shifted his grip pointedly from her shoulder to the back of her neck. A squeeze, followed by a good solid twist, and she would die the way her friend Pyotr had. “Understood,” I told Gargantua, a shiver running up my back. “Come on. We start at the art museum.”

  For the first time since I’d walked into the dit rec viewing room at Ian-apof the Modhri seemed genuinely startled. “Why?” Gargantua asked.

  “Who’s the detective here, you or me?” I countered. “You want the Lynx, or don’t you?”

  His eyes burned into me, but he nodded. “Lead the way,” he said, gesturing me forward.

  We set off again. Penny walking close beside me on my right, Bayta a bit farther away on my left, Morse bringing up the rear, the Halkas flanking, and the oblivious Tra’ho walkers wandering along more or less in formation. Half a kilometer directly ahead, I knew from the city maps I’d studied on the flight, our street dead-ended at the grounds of the art museum where the Viper had been stolen. Much closer than that, only a couple of blocks ahead, in fact, I could see the marquee of the Fraklog-Oryo Hotel.

  Where Fayr’s message had said he would be waiting for us.

  I could feel Bayta’s tension as we moved closer. She was onto the plan now, and preparing herself for action.

  Or rather, she was onto half of it. I had the feeling she wasn’t going to like the other half.

  We were twenty meters from the hotel entrance when I stopped. “Look, there’s no reason we all have to go there,” I told Gargantua. “Why don’t we leave the others here and you and I can go alone?”

  Gargantua eyed me suspiciously. “Is the Human Stafford there?” he asked.

  “Possibly,” I lied. “If he is, all the more reason for us not to spook him by bringing a crowd. Besides, together we may be able to do the trade right there and then.”

  “What trade do you mean?”

  “The obvious one,” I said. “If he has the Lynx with him, you’ll let Penny, Bayta, and Morse leave and join us. Once I see they’re alone and unharmed, you can have the Lynx, and all of us will walk away. All of us plus Mr. Stafford, of course.”

  Gargantua flicked a measuring glance at Morse. “I accept,” he said.

  I had expected nothing less. Suspicious or not, he had more than enough eyes in place to risk lengthening my leash a little. “Then let’s get on with it,” I said.

  “You can’t leave us here,” Penny said, her voice tight. “What if they—?”

  “They won’t hurt you,” I assured her, taking her hand and giving it a squeeze. Morse and Bayta, I noticed peripherally, didn’t miss a bit of the byplay. “Just hang in there. I’ll be right back.”

  Gargantua and I started off again, leaving the others standing in the middle of the walkway like abandoned orphans. We walked in silence until we were at the level of the hotel entrance. “Oh, there was just one other thing,” I said, stopping suddenly.

  Automatically, Gargantua stopped and turned to face me. “What?” he asked.

  Smiling sweetly, I buried my fist in his abdomen.

  The sheer surprise of it froze him in place. I took advantage of the moment to hit three more of the most painful and incapacitating Halkan nerve centers I could reach, dropping him into a quivering heap on the walkway.

  For a moment the shared pain rippling from Gargantua into and through the Modhri mind segment sent the rest of the walkers quivering. But it didn’t hold them for long. A glance behind me showed that two of the other Halkas were on the move, charging toward me at full speed. Behind them, ten of the twenty Tra’ho’seej were closing their circle to bolster the fourth remaining Halka guard as the Modhri dropped his earlier subtlety and took direct control of their bodies. The rest of the Tra’ho’seej were spreading out, clearly planning to cut off my escape no matter which direction I decided to run.

  And in that same quick glance I saw the fourth Halka draw a gun and press the muzzle into the side of Penny’s neck.

  Another shiver went through me to see her in danger that way, as it was clearly intended to. But I had no choice. Without Fayr we were all dead, and I had to alert him to the fact we were here. Jumping over Gargantua’s twitching body, I sprinted to the hotel door and ducked inside.

  The lobby was tastefully dark and quiet, its walls and end tables adorned with a wide variety of small paintings, sculptures, and other art works. A handful of Tra’ho’seej were seated in the various overstuffed chairs and couches, apparently in deep contemplation of the culture arrayed around them. All of them looked up with varying degrees of shock or outrage as I sprinted through their midst to the check-in desk and its self-service computer terminals.

  I was still punching keys when Gargantua’s two Halkan buddies caught up with me.

  I’d fought against walkers enough times to have a fair idea of the sort of tactics the Modhri favored. This mind segment was no exception. The first Halka came at me with arms spread wide, ready to take the brunt of my attack and then immobilize me with a bear hug, leaving his partner free to mete out whatever punishment the Modhri decided I’d earned.

  Naturally, I had no intention of playing it that way. Waiting until the last fraction of a second, I dodged to my right toward one of the unoccupied couches. The second Halka had anticipated the move, angling past the first in an attempt to cut me off. I reached the couch ahead of him, and as he jabbed a fist at me I ducked down and rolled over the couch back, landing on the cushions and continuing my roll off the couch and onto the floor.

  The Halkas were already onto the change of plan. The first continued with his forward motion, probably aiming to circle around the far side of the couch, while the second braked and reversed to go around the near side. Two more seconds, and they would have me neatly corralled.

  Or so they thought. Rolling back up to my feet, I killed my ow
n momentum; and as they came charging around the ends I dived again for the couch, jumping on the cushions and leaping over the back.

  At this point most normal opponents would probably have cursed or spat or otherwise shown some annoyance. Not the Modhri. He fought in silence, his Halkan walkers merely reversing direction in response to my move. I took a long step toward one end of the couch, and as the nearest Halka again reached for me I scooped up the delicate metal work sculpture from the end table and threw it into his face.

  I was still dodging and sparring when the police finally arrived.

  The hotel manager was livid.

  [Payment from the criminal,] he kept repeating over and over in Seejlis as the cops cuffed my hands behind me, the normally fluid Tra’ho language sounding a lot less melodious than usual. [Payment in art and in money.]

  The cops made the sort of soothing noises cops everywhere in the galaxy make to outraged victims and marched me out into the street.

  Where I found myself smack dab in the middle of a jurisdictional dispute.

  It was a beaut, too, as near as I could decipher from the rapid-fire argument going on. On the one side was the chief cop on the scene, who had me dead to rights and clearly wasn’t interested in handing me off to anyone else. On the other side were two of the government oathlings I’d just run out on, whose Modhran controller was equally adamant that I not be locked up where I couldn’t help him find Stafford and the Lynx.

  Of course, the oathlings had no idea of why they were fighting so hard to keep me out of jail, and it was weirdly amusing to watch the mental and verbal gymnastics they were throwing themselves into to make their point. Still, words and arguments were their profession, and I gave them five to three odds of winning.

  I hoped they would, too, for the cops’ sake. From the look on Gargantua’s face as he gazed at me from one of the knots of gawkers it seemed likely that if the cops took me away their friends guarding the jailhouse might not survive the night.