by Timothy Zahn
He grimaced. “Fine.”
The bar was reasonably crowded, but we were able to snag a two-person table and a spare chair. “So what exactly is your problem with the Spiders?” I asked after we’d ordered our drinks and the server had left.
Kennrick’s eyes shifted to Bayta. “Actually, this particular conversation is probably more for Bayta than for you,” he said. “She’s the one who seems to have an in with the Spiders.”
“I’m listening,” Bayta said evenly.
“I want to ask them a favor.” Kennrick seemed to brace himself. “I wondered if they’d be willing to accept some of the responsibility for the four deaths.”
Bayta stiffened. “What?”
“Just as a formality,” Kennrick hastened to assure her. “A public relations thing. I just want something that’ll deflect a little of the blame away from Pellorian.”
“And onto the Spiders?”
“It’s not a big deal,” Kennrick insisted. “The victims’ families or organizations aren’t going to bring the Spiders to court or anything. I’m just trying to salvage something out of this mess.”
“And why do you think the Spiders should be giving you that cover?” I asked. “What have they done to deserve taking that kind of PR hit?”
“What has Pellorian Medical done?” Kennrick retorted. “Nothing, that’s what. But you can bet your pension someone’s going to try to blame us anyway.”
“Not if we catch the murderer first,” I said.
He snorted. “If there even is a murderer,” he growled. “As far as I can see, this whole mess can be explained by purely natural causes.” He looked pointedly at Bayta. “Or rather, unnatural causes.”
“Meaning?” I asked.
“Meaning food poisoning,” he said bluntly.
“How do you explain someone poisoning their food without them noticing?” I asked.
“I’m not convinced anyone did,” Kennrick said. “I’m thinking the cadmium was in the food to begin with.”
“Quadrail food isn’t contaminated,” Bayta said flatly.
“Then it must have been in the air,” Kennrick persisted. “Food and air are the only ways to get something into a person’s system.”
“Really?” Bayta said icily. “As it happens—”
“As it happens, we’ve already checked the food and the air,” I interrupted, gripping Bayta’s knee warningly under the table. “However the cadmium got into their systems, it wasn’t because of anything the Spiders did wrong.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Kennrick said. “But they can’t tap-dance their way out from under liability for Usantra Givvrac’s death. They’re the ones who let in whatever that damn antibacterial spray was that ended up killing him.”
“People carry antibacterial sprays aboard Quadrails all the time,” I reminded him. “This is the first time in seven hundred years that it’s caused a problem.”
“Do we really know that?” he asked. “Or do we just have the Spiders’ word for it?”
He looked at Bayta, clearly challenging her to respond. I gripped her knee a little harder, and she remained silent. “Right,” Kennrick said, turning back to me. “So here’s the deal. Either the Spiders voluntarily step up to the line and accept some of the responsibility, or I’ll step them up to that line myself.”
“By spreading rumors?” I asked.
“By spreading truth,” he said. “Slanted a little, maybe. But truth just the same.”
“You could start a panic,” I warned. “With the train still over three weeks from Venidra Carvo, that would be a very bad idea.”
“Like you walking around talking about murder isn’t just as bad?” Kennrick countered.
“Yes, but I’ve got facts on my side,” I pointed out. “All you’ve got is innuendo.” I cocked an eyebrow. “And a fair chance of getting locked up somewhere if the Spiders decide you’re scaring the passengers.”
“They’d better not,” Kennrick bit out. “If they even think about—” He broke off. “Look. I’m trying to be reasonable about this. I really am. But I’m between the rock and the grinder here, and my whole future is on the line. All I want is for the Spiders to acknowledge that they might maybe have a little responsibility for what’s happened. Just enough to lift some of the weight off Pellorian. Come on—what can it hurt?”
“Okay, you’ve presented your case,” I said. “Was there anything else?”
There was a flicker of something in Kennrick’s eyes. Maybe he didn’t like being talked to like he was my underling. “No, that’s it,” he said.
“Fine,” I said. “We’ll take your request under consideration. In the meantime, I trust you’ll keep your private rumor mill shut down.”
His lip twitched. “For now,” he agreed. “But only for now. And only if there aren’t more deaths.”
“Fine,” I said again. “Nice talking to you.”
Bayta stirred as if preparing to get up. I again squeezed her knee, and she subsided. I also stayed put, and after a few seconds Kennrick got the message. “Right,” he said. “See you later.” He picked up his drink and strode out of the bar, heading forward toward the upper-class sections and their better selection of drinks.
I watched until he had disappeared from view. “Nice guy,” I commented, letting go of Bayta’s knee and taking a sip of my iced tea.
“If he thinks the Spiders are going to take any responsibility for this, he’s crazy,” Bayta said stiffly. “Why didn’t you let me tell him about the hypo marks?”
“Partly because it wouldn’t have done any good,” I said. “He could claim those marks came from the medical treatments Witherspoon and Aronobal gave the Shorshians before they died.”
“The doctors would say otherwise.”
“They could say otherwise,” I corrected her. “The question is, would they? Especially Witherspoon—don’t forget that as a fellow Pellorian employee he’s in the same leaky boat as Kennrick. But the more important reason not to mention the marks is that Kennrick doesn’t need to know about them. Information is leverage in this game, Bayta. Never give people more of it than they need.”
“Even if it means letting someone get away with murder?”
“A temporary situation only,” I promised. “Patience is a virtue.”
Her eyes were still burning, but she reluctantly nodded. “I know.”
“Good,” I said. “Meanwhile, what’s happening with our mystery guest?”
She gazed off into space. “He’s gone into a restroom,” she said. “Three cars ahead, the car just behind the second/third dispensary.”
A bad feeling began to rumble through me. “How long ago was that?” I asked.
“About ten minutes.”
The bad feeling grew stronger. “Has anyone come out during that time?”
“Two Filiaelians and a Human,” Bayta said, a dark edge starting to come into her voice. “Oh, no. You don’t think—?”
“Yes, I think,” I growled. “Can you get a mite into the ceiling over that restroom?”
“It won’t help—he won’t be able to get into the lighting or ventilation grilles,” Bayta said tightly. “I could have a conductor go in and take a look.”
“Don’t bother,” I said, trying not to sound as angry as I felt. Damn stupid non-initiative-taking Spiders. “If by some miracle he hasn’t flown the coop, that would just tip him off. If he has, it’s already too late, and having a conductor charge in there would just start all the rest of the passengers wondering.”
“I suppose,” Bayta said, sounding miserable. “I’m sorry, Frank. I should have told the Spiders to alert us at once if he went out of sight.”
“Yes, you probably should have,” I agreed, a little more sharply than I should have. “But even if they had, you could hardly have said anything. Not with Kennrick sitting right there listening.”
“But I could at least have let you know something was wrong,” Bayta said. “We could have made an excuse and gotten away.” She grimaced.
“I did warn them he might take off his cloak and hood and so to pay particular attention to everyone’s shoes.”
“And did they?”
“Yes,” she said. “But they insist none of the passengers who came out were wearing the same style of shoes as our attacker.”
“He was probably wearing oversilks,” I said. “Very thin, very light covers you can wear over other clothing. A good quick-change artist can get them off in seconds, even faster if he’s got them tear-threaded to a magician’s pull. He can then either flush everything down the toilet or else drop the pull into his pocket and stroll innocently back to his seat. The cloak and hood were probably made of the same stuff.”
“Sounds very neat,” Bayta said sourly.
“Very neat, and very fancy,” I agreed. “And it tells us something new about him.”
“That he’s a professional?”
“No, we knew that from the trip wire,” I said. “What we know now is that he knows about our chummy connection with the Spiders.”
She frowned. “We do? How?”
“Because the only reason to wear a disguise out of the baggage car is if he thought we might have a partner watching for him. But if he was assuming a Human partner, he should have pulled his quick-change as soon as he was out of sight inside the first vestibule.”
“How is that better than changing in a restroom?”
“Because that way he could either have continued forward out of the vestibule and plopped down into the first available seat, or he could have reversed direction and headed back the way he’d come,” I told her. “Either way would have given him a good look at our presumed partner, who would be hurrying after him. The restroom change, in contrast, gives a normal pursuer a chance to settle into an empty seat of his own, which makes that pursuer harder to identify when the quarry does emerge.”
“Only he did change in the restroom,” Bayta said slowly, tracking through the logic. “Because he knew the Spiders didn’t have to actually follow him in order to keep track of him?”
“Exactly,” I said. “The vestibule change is useless if your tracker has watchers on both sides of the gap who can instantly compare notes. Since comms don’t work inside Quadrails, the only ones who can do such an instant comparison are Spiders.”
“All right,” Bayta said. “How does that help us?”
“Because it shortens the suspect list from the entire train down to seven individuals,” I said. “Witherspoon, Kennrick, and Aronobal, plus by extension the three remaining Fillies and one remaining Shorshian of the contract team.”
“Plus everyone in the car where we disassembled the air filter,” Bayta reminded me. “They all saw us talking to the Spiders.”
I shook my head. “People talk to Spiders all the time. The key here is that after I tripped over his little booby trap our friend knew we could still get a message ahead of him. That means your special relationship with the Spiders, and that means one of those seven people I mentioned.”
“Along with any secret allies any of them might have,” Bayta said. “You did say he might have an accomplice.”
“I did say that, didn’t I?” I admitted, grimacing. Seven suspects had been such a nice, neat, manageable number. “Still, there’s a good chance the primary murderer’s ally or allies will also be from our same suspect pool.”
“But you can’t promise that.”
I snorted. “I can’t even promise we’ll make it to dinnertime before someone else snuffs it.” I drained the last of my iced tea. “Come on. Break’s over—time to get back to work.”
“Where are we going?” Bayta asked as she took a last sip of her lemonade and stood up.
“It’s time we got to know the rest of the suspect list,” I said. “Let’s go talk to some Fillies.”
We found the three Fillies right where we’d left them, with their seats formed into a circle and a hand of cards dealt out in front of them. This time, though, they were actually playing. I was wondering if we dared interrupt them when one of them looked up at us. “You are Mr. Compton?” he asked.
“I am,” I acknowledged. “And you?”
“Asantra Muzzfor,” he said. “Fourth of the Maccai contract team.” His eyes seemed to cloud over. “I correct: second of the contract team.”
With the late Usantra Givvrac and di-Master Strinni having been the team’s original first and second ranking members? Probably. “My condolences on your loss,” I said. “May I inquire as to which is your new first?”
“I am he,” one of the others spoke up, his voice dark and unfriendly. “Esantra Worrbin.”
“I greet you, Esantra Worrbin,” I said. I shifted my eyes to the third Filly. “And you must therefore be Asantra Dallilo.”
“I am,” Dallilo said.
“Do you wish something of us?” Worrbin asked in that same unfriendly tone.
“A moment of your time only,” I assured him.
Worrbin tilted his head. “We are otherwise occupied,” he said.
“I would speak with him,” Muzzfor said, setting down his cards. “Perhaps he has further information on Usantra Givvrac’s death.” He rose to his feet. “If you would accompany me to the dining car, Mr. Compton?”
“Reseat yourself, Asantra Muzzfor,” Esantra Worrbin growled, leaning a little on the asantra part as if to remind Muzzfor of his lower status in the group. “Very well, Mr. Compton. You may speak.” He cocked his head in challenge. “Concisely.”
“Of course,” I said, letting my gaze drift across them as I took a moment to organize my thoughts. Like many upper-class Fillies, especially those of the santra classes, these three showed the subtle and not-so-subtle differences spawned by their species’ penchant for genetic manipulation. Muzzfor in particular seemed to have been the recipient of a number of treatments, sporting an odd-shaped nose blaze, an interesting speckled eye coloration, and the kind of extra-large throat Filly high-opera singers often got to extend their vocal range. Dallilo’s customized body had extra-thick hair, flatter ears, and a two-tone blaze that shaded a dark brown into a lighter tan.
Esantra Worrbin, in contrast, seemed to have skipped all external improvements except the long, slender fingers prized by the artist and surgeon classes. Judging from the extra-large glass of the god-awful Filly drink dilivin resting in his seat’s cup holder, I guessed he’d also opted for a strengthened digestive system. Given Givvrac’s fate, that might turn out to have been an especially wise use of his money.
“You of course know about the tragic deaths of Usantra Givvrac and three of the Shorshians on your contract team,” I said. “My question for you is simple and twofold. First, do any of you know any reason, professional or personal, why anyone would wish any of those four people dead? And second, do you know any reason how anyone would profit, financially or in terms of honor, from any of their deaths?”
“Well and concisely stated,” Worrbin said with somewhat grudging approval. “It appears Humans can be efficient, after all.”
“We’re individuals, just as are the members of the Filiaelian Assembly,” I reminded him.
He snorted, his eyes pointedly flicking back and forth between Bayta and me. “With such minor genetic variants? You don’t even approach asantra class.”
“That’s all right,” I assured him. “We like ourselves just the way we are.”
“Then why does Pellorian Medical seek Filiaelian genetic manipulation equipment?” Dallilo put in. “If you don’t seek to improve yourselves, what do you seek?”
“You’d have to ask Mr. Kennrick or Dr. Witherspoon about that,” I told him, ducking a question that I sensed could only get me into trouble. “I know too little about the contract to either support or oppose it. I seek merely to find the murderer and bring him to justice.”
“Then look to Mr. Kennrick,” Worrbin said. “If there was indeed murder, I have no doubt he is the one you seek.”
“Nonsense,” Muzzfor put in before I could respond. “Mr. Kennrick is a fine Human.”
>
“Nonsense doubled and returned,” Worrbin retorted. “I am convinced he seeks to destroy the contract from within for his own ends. That leaves him alone with a motivation for murder.”
“That’s very interesting,” I said. “What are these private ends you speak of?”
“How would I know?” Worrbin retorted. “He is a Human, with motivations beyond the understanding of civilized beings.”
“Then what makes you think he’s trying to sabotage the contract?”
“Because he displays incompetence at every turn,” Worrbin said with a contemptuous sniff. “He deliberately ignores the finer points of dealing with superior peoples.”
“His slights are not deliberate,” Muzzfor insisted. “He is merely ignorant of proper procedure.”
“And yet you stand ready to defend him?” Worrbin challenged.
“Competent or not, he is only a Human.” Muzzfor looked sideways at me. “No offense to you personally, Mr. Compton.”
“No offense taken,” I assured him. First we’d had Master Tririn back in third class, whose profession of surprise at my understanding of alien ways had carried an implied dig at Kennrick, and now we had Esantra Worrbin singing the same tune. Either Kennrick had an outstanding knack of rubbing people the wrong way, or he really wasn’t very good at his job.
Which brought up a possibility I hadn’t thought of before. “Do any of you happen to know whose idea it was for Mr. Kennrick to represent Pellorian Medical to the contract team?” I asked the Fillies.
“That is hardly information we would have been given,” Worrbin pointed out.
“True,” I said. “But there was a chance you might have been so informed.”
“Then you agree with Esantra Worrbin?” Dallilo put in. “That Mr. Kennrick or someone in league with him seeks to destroy the contract?”
“It’s a possibility that can’t be ignored,” I said. “Especially given that three of the four deceased were in favor of the contract.”
“Mr. Kennrick would never be a party to such a conspiracy,” Muzzfor said firmly. “I know and understand this Human. He truly seeks only what is best for his corporation.”
