Night Train to Rigel

by Timothy Zahn

  “Which is why you were asked to investigate it.”

  “What I’m trying to say is that the whole thing has me completely flummoxed,” I said. “Frankly, I’m not even sure where to start.”

  She started to reach out toward my hand, resting on the table. Midway through the gesture she seemed to think better of it and let her arm fall instead into her lap. “The Spiders wouldn’t have hired you if they didn’t think you could do it.” she said.

  Encouraging words, and with some genuine concern behind them. The compassionate type, then, only she was afraid to show it?

  Perhaps. Still, I couldn’t quite shake the impression that she was more like an observer watching a dit rec drama unfold than one of the people actually in the middle of the action. “Thank you,” I said humbly. “I just hope you’re right.”

  “I am,” she said firmly. She glanced around the room, as if making sure no one was close enough to hear us, and leaned a little closer across the table. “But why go to Kerfsis? Do you suspect the Juriani?”

  “Not really,” I said as a Spider arrived with our drinks. I handed Bayta her lemonade and took a sip of my iced tea. It was strong and sweet just the way I liked it. “It’s more likely that one of the Fillies’ neighbors will be the ones making the trouble,” I continued. “Serious grievances typically ferment close to home. Mostly, I want to see if the Jurian entry procedures have changed any in the couple of years since I’ve ridden the Quadrail.”

  She took a sip of her lemonade, her eyes fluttering with clear surprise at the tang. Her first experience with the drink? “May I ask why?” she asked.

  I nodded upward toward the bar’s slightly domed ceiling. Spread across it was a glowing map of the galaxy and the Quadrail system. “Here’s the problem,” I said. “The Fillies are all the way across the galaxy, about as far from Earth as you can get. Even if we take express trains the whole way, that’s still nearly two and a half months of travel. We simply don’t have the time to go there and start working our way back.”

  “We have four months.”

  “No, the Fillies have four months,” I corrected her “We, on the other hand, do not… because the Fillies aren’t going to be the first ones attacked.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that whoever these warmongers are, they’d have to be insane to take on the Fillies first crack out of the box,” I said. “Filly soldiers are genetically programmed for loyalty, their overall defense network is second to none, and depending on who’s doing the counting, their empire is either the biggest or second biggest in the galaxy. Would you try out a brand-new attack plan on someone like that?”

  Her lips compressed briefly. “I suppose not.”

  “Following that same logic, the test subject is likely to be one of the newer, younger, and therefore less dangerous races,” I continued. “If we limit ourselves to those who’ve joined the galactic club in the last two hundred years, that means the Juriani, the Cimmaheem, the Tra’ho’sej, and the Bellidos.” I took a sip of my tea.”And, of course, us.”

  For a minute the only sound was the muffled background hum of a half dozen different conversations and the click-clack of the Quadrail’s wheels beneath us. Quadrail dining cars, I remembered from previous trips, were acoustically designed in such a way that the volume and intelligibility of a conversation dropped off sharply half a meter away from the center of the table. It made for considerably more privacy than one would expect just from looking at the layout, which was why I’d been willing to talk about this here at all. “And whoever they decide on,” Bayta said at last, “they’ll need to make their test at least a couple of months before the Filiaelian attack.”

  “Right,” I said. “Which basically means any time from now on.”

  She took another sip of her lemonade. “All right,” she said. “But if it’s entry procedures you’re interested in, wouldn’t we do better to go straight to Jurskala?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “A homeworld station—any homeworld station—will be too crowded for us to get a really good look at their setup. A regional capital like Kerfsis should have all the same stuff, but without all the busyness. We’ll take the shuttle out to the transfer station, look around a bit, then come back, pick up the next train, and move on.”

  “To where?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “I’m guessing our warmongers will want a test subject a little more advanced than us or the Tra’ho’sej. That leaves the Juriani, Cimmaheem, or Bellidos.”

  She pondered a moment. “The Bellidos might be a good choice,” she offered. “They’re farther out on the arm than the Terran Confederation, which makes them even more isolated.”

  “Right, but at the moment we’re heading the wrong direction,” I reminded her. “Rather than spend time backtracking, we might as well continue on and check out the Juriani and Cimmaheem.”

  “There are a lot of worlds out there,” she murmured, looking down at her glass.

  I nodded agreement, taking another swallow of my tea as I let my gaze drift around the bar. There were Jurian foursomes occupying two of the tables, with a scattering of Shorshians and Bellidos taking up most of the rest of the space. In the far corner two Cimmaheem sat across from a lone human, their features obscured by the swirling blue smoke of a traditional skinski flambé as a hardworking vent fan kept the fumes from bothering anyone else in the room. “We can look through the system listings along the way and see if we can figure out what sort of test area our attacker might like,” I said. “But no matter how you slice it, we’re talking a lot of search area.” I raised my eyebrows. “I just hope you and I aren’t the only team on the job.”

  “What do we do if we find them?” she asked, ignoring the gentle probe. “The attackers, I mean?”

  “That’ll be the easy part,” I said. “All your Spider friends have to do is shut down Quadrail service to those worlds.”

  There was something about the way she took her next breath. Nothing obvious, but still noticeable. “Maybe,” she said.

  “What do you mean, maybe?” I asked, frowning. “It’s their train system, isn’t it? Why can’t they classify someone as persona non grata and refuse to stop at their stations?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe they can. I just don’t know.”

  I studied her face, trying to read past that neutral expression. On everything else, she seemed so certain about what the Spiders could or couldn’t or would or wouldn’t do. Now, suddenly, she wasn’t sure if they could shut down a few Quadrail stations?

  Because if the Spiders couldn’t do that, maybe they weren’t the ones in charge of the system after all. And that was not something I wanted to hear right now. “Well, however they want to deal with it is their problem,” I said. Even to my own ears it sounded pretty lame. “Our job is just to figure out the who and where.” I yawned. “And it’s probably time we got a little rest.”

  “Yes,” she said, taking another sip of her lemonade and getting to her feet. “And don’t worry. I won’t tell the Spiders about… you know.”

  “Thank you,” I said, standing up as well. Actually, I didn’t much care whether or not the Spiders heard about my crisis of confidence. My main reason for having this conversation somewhere other than in my compartment was to see if there would be any obvious fuss on the Spiders’ part when I moved out of range of their little Saarix booby trap.

  But there hadn’t been any such reaction, or at least none I’d been able to see, which left me basically where I’d started. Maybe all the fuss would happen later.

  Still, the conversation had given me at least a partial handle on Bayta. That was worth something.

  And at the very least, the iced tea had been good.

  FIVE

  Eight hours later, right on schedule, we pulled into Yandro Station.

  I had set the compartment’s display window to show a dit rec of travel through the Swiss Alps, mostly because west-central EuroUnion
trains and this kind of intrigue just seemed to go together. Now, as we angled downward from the main Tube into the station, I shut down the dit rec and turned the window transparent.

  All the Quadrail stations I’d ever been to had looked pretty much alike, all of them variations on the same basic theme. Yandro’s was no exception, the variation in this case being the number and distribution of the support buildings. Only two of the thirty tracks spaced around the cylinder carried trains that actually stopped here, all others merely passing through on their way to more important places. Ergo, only two of the tracks had passenger stations and cargo loading cranes built alongside them.

  Considering the minuscule level of traffic involved, even that was overkill. I found the old frustrations rising again like stomach acid as we pulled to a halt and I saw there were only six passengers waiting to board. At a trillion dollars to put in the station, Yandro’s colonists were going to have to sell a hell of a lot of fancy lumber to ever earn back that investment.

  At the far edge of my view, I saw Bayta striding across the platform toward one of the two maintenance buildings, trying not to look too much like she was hurrying. She disappeared inside and I checked my watch, hoping she was doing the same. A fifteen-minute stop wasn’t very long, and for all their professed willingness to cooperate I doubted the Spiders would go so far as to make the train late for us.

  Bayta apparently didn’t have any illusions in that regard, either. She emerged from the building with ninety seconds to go and crossed the platform in a sprint that would have done an Olympic runner proud. Even then, I wasn’t sure she’d actually made it aboard until she arrived at my compartment two minutes later, still breathing a little heavily. “All set,” she said as she dropped onto the curve couch. “The stationmaster will pass on the request. The data should be ready by the time we reach Kerfsis. It’ll be delivered to our compartment on the next train we take.”

  “Good,” I said, checking my watch, now set to our particular Quadrail’s internal time. It was just after ten in the evening of the Spiders’ standard twenty-nine-hour day, with nine more hours to Kerfsis Station. Enough time for a good night’s sleep plus breakfast before we arrived.

  I was just wondering if I should go to the bar first for a quick nightcap when the door chime sounded.

  I looked at Bayta. “You expecting someone?” I asked in a low voice.

  She shook her head, the comers of her mouth suddenly tight. “It’s not a Spider,” she said.

  The chime came again. I thought about sending Bayta back to her own compartment, decided there wasn’t enough time to unfold the wall without the delay looking suspicious. “Washroom,” I ordered her, standing up and crossing to the door. I waited until she had disappeared into the cubicle, then touched the release.

  It was a pair of Halkas: flat-faced, vaguely bulldoglike beings who could talk a man’s leg off at twenty paces and had a passion for Earth-grown cinnamon. “Whoa,” the shorter of them announced, his breath thick with the distinctive burnt-acetate smell of their species’ favored intoxicant. “This isn’t Skvi. It’s a Human.”

  “I believe you’re right,” the taller one agreed, leaning forward and squinting as if having trouble focusing on me. “Interesting snouts on this species.”

  “Can I help you?” I asked, stepping into the doorway just in case they had it in mind to come in without waiting to be asked.

  The shorter one waved a hand, his hollow double-reed claw sheaths whistling like a distant oboe with the gesture. “We seek a friend,” he said. “A fellow Halka. Our apologies for the disturbance.”

  “No problem,” I said, smiling genially as I gave his eyes a quick but careful look. “I hope you find him.”

  “If he is here, then we shall,” he intoned solemnly, pulling his lips back in a smile which made his face look even flatter. Taking his companion’s arm, he turned and continued unsteadily down the corridor, tapping his claws rhythmically against the side wall as if trying to make sure it didn’t get away from him.

  I stepped back into the compartment and touched the control. The door started to close; and as it did so, I quickly leaned my head back out again.

  The two Halkas were still walking away from me. But there was no longer any sign of staggering or wall-tapping. Just as there hadn’t been the pupil dilation of a real Halkan high.

  Fake drunks. And by inference, a fake errand.

  I pulled my head back again before the door could close far enough for the automatic safeties to kick in, letting it slide shut in front of me. “Who was it?” Bayta asked, coming out of the washroom.

  “A couple of Halkas looking for a friend,” I told her as I snagged my jacket from the clothes rack. “You didn’t happen to notice anyone following you when you got back onto the Quadrail just now, did you?”

  Her forehead creased. “I don’t know—I wasn’t really watching. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I said as I punched the door release. “Don’t wait up.”

  The two Halkas were already out of sight, having either passed through the car’s rear door or else gone into one of the other first-class compartments along the way. Not especially feeling like ringing door chimes at this hour, I continued to the end of the car and pushed the release. The door slid open, and I crossed the swaying vestibule into the first-class coach car beyond.

  Late evening it might be by the Spiders’ clocks, but you wouldn’t have known it from the activity level. The card games were still going strong, several of the chairs having been repositioned as old conversation circles had broken up and new ones formed. The overhead lighting had been dimmed to a soft nighttime glow, but with each seat sporting its own reading light the only difference was that the brightness started at chest height instead of up at the ceiling. A few of the passengers were dozing in their seats, sonic neutralizers built into their headrests suppressing the commotion around them.

  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 West-ali 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.”