by Timothy Zahn
“Really,” McMicking said, frowning over at the guns. “Why?”
I opened my mouth… closed it again. “Good question,” I said, going over and picking them up. You may need these, Fayr had said. Not exactly the sort of comment a person usually makes when offering someone else a souvenir.
But right after that, Bayta and I had jumped off the Quadrail, and I’d stuffed the guns into my luggage, and somehow I’d never gotten around to wondering what he might have meant. “See what you can find,” I told McMicking, handing him one of the guns.
We examined them in silence as Losutu and Bayta watched over our shoulders. The entire gun was made of soft plastic, except for a decorative braided tassel attached to the bottom of the grip which seemed to be some sort of synthetic silk. The gun was definitely hollow, but a methodical squeezing didn’t reveal any telltale lumps that might have indicated something hidden inside. Not that they could have gotten anything dangerous past the Spiders’ sensors anyway. The oversized barrel was closed at the business end, and had some ribbing running lengthwise at various points along its surface that gave it a certain rigidity. Not enough to make it a useful weapon, though, given how light it was.
Unless… “Check the barrel,” I told McMicking, running my fingers around the socket where it fit into the rest of the gun. “See if you can find a way to get it— Never mind,” I interrupted myself as the barrel snicked free. The tube was closed at both ends, I saw now, but the inner end had the look of a pressure-threaded cap. There were also a pair of eyelets on the cap that had been concealed by the socket, eyelets that extended upward from the cap without opening into the interior of the tube itself.
“Toy nightsticks?” Losutu hazarded as McMicking also pulled his gun barrel free.
“Better than that,” I assured him, unscrewing the cap and handing it and the barrel to Bayta. “Here—fill it with water. All the way up—no bubbles. Yours, too, McMicking.”
“Okay, that’ll make them heavier,” Losutu said, still frowning as the others headed for the washroom. “They’re still too short to be much good as clubs.”
“Watch and learn,” I told him, turning over what was left of my gun and starting to unfasten the tassel. “Westali did a study once on how someone might improvise weapons from things available on a Quadrail. Looks like the Bellidos did us one better.”
I had the tassel unbraided into a single smooth silk cord by the time McMicking and Bayta returned with the water-filled barrels. They held them steady while I threaded the cord through the eyelets on the tops of both barrels, leaving a few centimeters of slack as I wove the cord back and forth between them. When I was finished, I tied the cord in a secure knot beside one of the eyelets. “And there we have it,” I said, taking the barrels and snapping them apart to take up any slack I’d left in the cord. “One improvised but very serviceable nunchaku combat flail.”
“I’ll be damned,” Losutu said, sounding like he wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or appalled. “Do the Spiders know about this?”
“Don’t know,” I said. “Don’t care, either. McMicking? You or me?”
“Me,” he said firmly, taking the nunchaku from my hand and giving it an experimental swing. The swing turned into a bewildering and convoluted routine that ended up with one barrel in his hand and the other tucked securely under his arm. “This should work just fine,” he said, giving Losutu a tight smile. “You see, Director? Sometimes you do get what you wish for.”
Losutu didn’t reply. “Then I’m driving,” I said, pulling out the stretcher’s leash control. “Let’s go.”
The hallway was still deserted as we made our way aft, as was the first-class coach car behind it. As I maneuvered the stretcher along the twisted aisle created by the rearranged chairs, Bayta and Losutu collected the cards and other flammables that had been left behind and added them to the pile on the stretcher, dousing everything with the remnants of the various alcoholic drinks. Passing through the vestibule, we entered the bar end of the dining car.
And found ourselves in a scene straight out of the Reign of Terror. In three different places around the room well-dressed Juriani, Halkas, Bellidos, and Cimmaheem stood in tight knots, silently and methodically attacking the dented spheres and broken legs of the Spiders in the centers of their circles, beating them with fists and chairs and tables and anything else they could find.
Beside me, I heard a strange gurgling sound from Bayta, and sensed her start to totter. Grabbing her arm, I pulled her close to me and kept moving.
We’d gotten perhaps four paces into the room when someone noticed us, and the whole crowd stopped what they were doing and turned in our direction. I braced myself, but the Modhri apparently had more important things on his mind right now. Again in perfect unison the walkers turned back and resumed their attacks on the Spiders.
“What are they doing?” Losutu muttered from beside me. “Don’t they realize who we are?”
“Of course they do,” I muttered back. “Group mind, remember? What one walker sees, the whole Modhri sees. He just figures that whatever we’re doing, we’re dead anyway.” I nodded toward the bar. “You and McMicking—go.”
Losutu hesitated, reluctantly detached himself from Bayta and me, and followed McMicking to the bar, the two of them slipping through the opening and disappearing into the storage room beyond. I kept an eye on the three lynch mobs, watching for any sign of trouble and trying not to think too hard about what they were doing. It was clear that these particular Spiders, at least, were already goners, and that there wasn’t anything we could do to help them. But that didn’t make it any easier to watch.
Two minutes later McMicking and Losutu reappeared, their arms laden with bottles of skinski flambé fluid. “Great,” I said as we loaded as many as we could onto the stretcher’s lower rack, tucking the rest awkwardly under our arms. With the leash control again in hand, I eased us past the nearest lynch group and into the restaurant end of the car.
The same spectacle was taking place there, except that the mobs in that half of the car seemed to be mostly second-class passengers. The Modhri had apparently promoted them to first-class for the occasion. “Anybody know how many cars there are in this train?” I asked as we reached the far end and opened the door.
“There are eleven total in front of the first baggage car,” McMicking said. “Three down; eight to go.”
I nodded as we all crowded into the vestibule. “Let’s just hope the Modhri keeps thinking we’re not worth bothering with. Hold it here a second,” I added as the dining room door closed behind McMicking. “Dump the rest of these bottles on top of the stretcher.”
“This isn’t going to buy us anything, you know,” Losutu warned as we began opening the flambé bottles we were carrying and dumping the contents onto the stretcher. “Doing it in here, I mean. They’re bound to smell it as we go past.”
“Probably,” I agreed, hunching down to loosen the stoppers in the bottles we’d racked on the bottom so that they would be ready when we needed them. “But it’s better than letting the Modhri watch us while we do it. Every few steps we can buy for ourselves are worth it.”
“That should be enough,” McMicking said, emptying one final bottle over the stretcher. “Better get going before he misses us. And here,” he added, pressing an igniter into my hand. “This’ll have a longer reach than your lighter.”
The next car back was a second-class coach. There were a few people sitting around, mostly panting or nursing arms and legs where flailing Spider legs had apparently caught them, but there weren’t nearly enough to account for the entire passenger list. Some of the missing were probably the ones we’d just seen in the dining car, with the rest presumably gone somewhere aft. Draped across the seats, I also saw the battered remains of four more Spiders.
Fortunately, this bunch didn’t look like they could stop us even if the Modhri had wanted them to. None of them made any kind of move as we worked our way through to the rear of the car. Unlike the pre
vious groups, though, they watched us closely as we passed through their midst. Whether or not the Modhri had decided we were a threat, he was definitely starting to get curious. Bracing myself, I led the way into and through the vestibule.
The next car was much like the one preceding it, with only the injured and those too tired to fight still present. There were definitely more of them, though, along with the crumpled remains of six Spiders. I wondered how many were left, decided it was a mostly moot point. Bayta was still twitching occasionally, so apparently they weren’t all gone yet.
We were midway through the next car when our luck finally ran out.
I’d noticed the difference the instant we’d stepped through the door. Before, the walkers had either merely given us a cursory glance and returned to their other activities or watched us more closely without showing any interest in taking action. Here, in contrast, we were the center of attention as soon as the stretcher cleared the vestibule.
And unlike the previous two cars, this one wasn’t populated only by the injured and the stragglers. The majority looked like they’d been through the wars, but were just as clearly ready for round two.
Bayta noticed it, too. “Frank?” she murmured tautly.
“Just keep walking,” I murmured back. “McMicking?”
“I’m on it,” he said, brushing past Losutu and me to take point. “You said this group mind thing sees everything everybody else sees. Does he feel what they all feel, too?”
“I think so,” Bayta said.
“Good,” McMicking said grimly. “Let’s see how much he likes pain.”
Second-class seats weren’t quite as mobile as those in first class, but they were maneuverable enough that the walkers had been able to clear a large area in the center of the car. I expected the Modhri to make his move when we reached that open area, and I wasn’t disappointed. The stretcher had just rolled past the last row of seats when a group of ten Juriani and Halkas got up and strolled almost leisurely to form a line blocking our path. Some of them carried bits of table or chair from the dining cars, while others had shiny metal rods that had probably once been parts of Spider legs. Others, mostly the bigger ones, seemed to have only their fists. I glanced over my shoulder, saw a similar group moving up behind Losutu to block our retreat.
“Keep going,” McMicking said, picking up his pace as he strode forward to intercept the group ahead of us. They watched him come, their faces carrying bizarrely similar looks of anticipation, and raised their makeshift weapons for the kill.
They never had a chance to use them. McMicking was two paces away when he pulled his new nunchaku out of concealment beneath his jacket and slammed it hard across the biggest Halka’s head.
The alien staggered back, and I could see a ripple of shock run through the whole group as the sharp and unexpected pain jabbed through the combined mind. McMicking didn’t give the Modhri a chance to recover, but continued whipping the nunchaku across heads and arms and ribs and legs, going first for disabling shots and second for blows that would cause the most pain.
A pair of Cimmaheem who had been sitting on the sidelines heaved themselves to their feet and started toward me. I grabbed one of the flambé bottles from the stretcher’s rack and squeezed it hard, sending the stopper and a spray of fluid into their faces. They bellowed, a subsonic roar that rattled my head, and staggered back, clawing at their eyes.
“Come on!” Losutu snapped, giving me an urgent shove forward. I saw that McMicking had cleared us a path, and with the stretcher rolling ahead of me I broke into a jog. We cleared the little circle—
“Behind you!” McMicking snapped.
I twisted my head around. The rear guard was moving forward, their mutual expression no longer one of anticipation. Snatching another bottle and igniter, I squeezed the fluid out onto the floor of the aisle behind us and tapped the edge with the igniter.
Blue-white flames crackled up, bringing the posse to a sudden stop. I squirted another bottle onto the fire; and as the heat washed across my face Losutu grabbed my arm and we made a mad dash for it. We reached the vestibule and squeezed inside, closing the door behind us. “That won’t hold them for long,” Losutu panted, his voice tight. “All the Modhri has to do is throw a couple of them over the fire to make a bridge.”
“Maybe,” I said. “On the other hand, he does feel all the pain coming in through his walkers, and burns are something you can’t suppress just by sitting quietly or keeping pressure on them. He may still hesitate at letting himself in for that sort of grief.”
“Are we talking, or are we going?” McMicking growled.
“We’re going,” I said. “Me first.”
He frowned briefly, then nodded. Holding the igniter ready, I pushed through the door and into the second/third-class dining car.
They were waiting for us: a triple semicircle of walkers standing well back from the door, several with towels or napkins hastily wrapped around their heads and low over their eyes to help protect against flambé sprays. All of them gripped weapons of some sort. Behind them, I could see more walkers awaiting their turn. “Hell,” I said.
“What did you expect?” McMicking countered. “This is the last really open area on the train, the last place they can effectively gang up on us.”
“What do we do?” Losutu asked nervously.
The walkers were still standing motionlessly, apparently waiting for us to make the first move. “No way out but through,” I told him. “Cannonball express?”
“Cannonball express,” McMicking agreed.
Taking a deep breath, getting a solid grip on Bayta’s arm, I flicked on the igniter and tapped the edge of the stretcher.
The whole top burst into flame, the blue-white fire quickly taking on a yellow edge as the cards and clothing and other flammables caught fire. Grabbing one of the flambé bottles in each hand, wincing at the heat singeing my face, I charged forward.
The triple semicircle gave way before the blazing cart. But as I guided the stretcher through the center of the line the walkers folded in from both sides, moving in to flank us. Aiming one of my bottles at the center of each side, I squeezed hard, angling the spray so that it caught the edge of the stretcher fire. The fluid ignited in midair, and a shudder ran through the group as suddenly two of their members were engulfed in brilliant blue-white halos.
But that brief shudder was all the breathing space we got. A second later they surged forward again; and this time I knew there would be no stopping them. Behind me I could hear the rhythmic cracking of bone as McMicking worked his nunchaku, but even he couldn’t handle this sheer weight of numbers.
Which left us only one option. “Masks!” I shouted at the others, snatching up another bottle with one hand as I grabbed my oxygen mask with the other. Squeezing the bottle into the face of a lunging Juri, I followed it up with a hard side kick to his midsection and clamped the mask over my face. “Masks?” I called again.
I got three terse acknowledgments. “Bayta—go!” I called, mentally crossing my fingers as a dozen weapons swung into the air around us. From the stretcher rack came a sort of sizzling pop—
The front group of walkers came to an abrupt halt, their chests heaving, a look of bewilderment on their faces. The group behind them, trying to push their way through, suddenly froze as well. I cocked my leg for another kick… and then, as if their strings had been cut, every single one of the walkers collapsed onto the floor.
“My God,” Losutu’s muffled voice murmured. “What—?”
“Saarix-5 in my carrybags,” I told him, breathing hard through my mask, the cold oxygen tingling my nostrils as I gave the car a quick sweep of my eyes. They were dead, all right. “A little gift from the Spiders.”
“Oh, my God,” Losutu said again. “We’ve just—we’ve just—”
“Would you rather we be the dead ones?” McMicking growled.
“No, of course not,” Losutu said. “But this—”
“They were already dead,” I cut h
im off, peering at the door at the far end of the car as I forced the stretcher over a couple of Halkan bodies. So far, the Modhri didn’t seem inclined to send in reinforcements. “Even if he somehow managed to stop the train, the Modhri couldn’t have let any of them live. They’d seen too much before he took them over.”
Losutu’s sigh hissed through his mask. “I suppose,” he said reluctantly as he picked his way squeamishly through the bodies.
“Bug-eyed monsters, remember?” McMicking said. “We have any more of that stuff?”
“Yes,” Bayta said. Her voice, in sharp contrast with Losutu’s, carried an edge of grim satisfaction. She’d hurt the Modhri, and hurt him badly. After having to watch the Spiders die, a little revenge apparently felt pretty good.
“Better save it until we need it,” McMicking advised. “This is a good fraction of the passengers, but there are plenty left.”
“And keep your masks on once we’re out of here,” I added, eyeing the black smoke now coming off the stretcher as I pushed it over the last cluster of bodies in front of the door. “This smoke can’t be very good for us, and the Saarix on our clothes will linger a few minutes before it oxidizes.”
“Will we have enough oxygen to get to the engine if we do that?” Losutu asked.
“We should,” Bayta said.
“We might also be able to pick up some spares along the way,” I said, pushing open the door and crossing the vestibule. McMicking again moved to take point, and we stepped into the next car.
We had reached the third-class section now, where the chairs were set in permanent rows. As McMicking had pointed out, that meant no more nice open spaces where the Modhri could concentrate his forces.
And it certainly looked like he’d given up the effort. Aside from the remains of two Spiders draped across the seats midway back, the car seemed to be deserted. “Watch it,” I warned McMicking as he started down the aisle. “They might be hiding behind the seats.”
