by Timothy Zahn
I opened it up and carefully read through the contents. Twice. Then, sitting down on the curve couch, I stared at the bloodstained carpet and waited for Bayta to wake up.
And as I sat there, I thought distantly about the many phrases and similes and mental images we used every day without really thinking about them. Never again. Not me. I’d seen the contents of Asantra Muzzfor’s folder.
I knew now what the Gates of Hell truly looked like.
I’d fallen into a light doze when I was jolted awake by a soft moan. I tensed; but it was only Bayta, stretching carefully on the bed across the compartment from me. “Sorry,” she apologized, gingerly touching her face where Prapp had hit her. “I guess I was more tired—”
“We’ve got trouble,” I interrupted her.
Her hand froze against her skin. “I’m listening,” she said, her voice back to its usual calm.
I took a deep breath. “We were wrong,” I said. “Or at least, I was. Tell me, what do the Chahwyn know about the Shonklaraa?”
“You know most of it,” Bayta said, frowning. “They were a slaver race who conquered most of the galaxy’s sentient peoples almost three thousand years ago. They held that power for a thousand years, at which point their subjects staged a coordinated revolt and destroyed them.”
“You’re almost right,” I said. “But there’s one small detail you and everyone else has gotten wrong. Shonkla-raa isn’t a race. It’s a title. Specifically, an old Filiaelian title.”
Her eyes widened. “The Shonkla-raa were Filiaelians? But then—?”
“But then why haven’t they conquered everyone again?” I finished for her. “Simple. Because the Shonkla-raa was a specific Filly genetic line, and that line was destroyed in the revolt.”
“The Filiaelian obsession with genetic engineering,” Bayta said, nodding slowly. “They’ve been trying to re-create the Shonkla-raa.”
“Some group of them has been, anyway,” I agreed. “Only they’re not trying anymore.” I held up Muzzfor’s folder. “They’ve done it.”
Bayta stared at me, the blood draining from her face. “Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes,” I confirmed. “But it gets worse. Remember why the Modhri was created in the first place?”
“He was a weapon,” Bayta said, the words coming out mechanically, her eyes staring out at a horrifying future. “A last-ditch infiltrator and saboteur.”
“Which was also designed to be under Shonkla-raa control.” I nodded back toward the coach car two cars behind us. “What did you think of the demo?”
She shivered. “All that because he couldn’t get Logra Emikai to kill you earlier?”
“All that because he had to deflect me away from Kennrick,” I corrected. “So that he and the others could get off the Quadrail without me ever seeing these papers.” I shrugged. “And probably also because he’d figured out Kennrick was the killer and wanted to get the murder technique for himself and his buddies.” I grimaced. “Remember, a few days ago, when you pointed out that the Modhri hasn’t got any purpose? Well, he’s got one now. The sword’s on the shelf, and the swordsman’s all set to pick it up again.”
For a long minute neither of us spoke. “What are we going to do?” Bayta asked at last.
“I don’t see that we’ve got much choice,” I told her. “We have to take them down.”
Bayta stared at me in disbelief. “Frank, it took the whole galaxy to stop the Shonkla-raa the last time. And they didn’t have the Modhri to help them then.”
“I didn’t say it would be easy,” I conceded. “But we have a couple of advantages they don’t know about.”
She barked out a sound that was midway between a chuckle and a sob. “Like what?”
“One: we don’t have a whole galaxy’s worth of them to deal with this time,” I said. “With luck, they’ve only got a few thousand up and running.”
“Only a few thousand?”
“And they don’t have all the warships and weapons they had back then, either,” I said. “Number two: they may be really good fighters—and they are,” I added, rubbing my ribs. “But they don’t know about the new defender-class Spiders. As much as you and I may disagree with the whole defender concept, it’s a wild card we ultimately may be glad we’ve got.”
Bayta shivered. “If they don’t save the Quadrail only to destroy it,” she murmured.
“We’ll just have to make sure that doesn’t happen, either,” I said grimly. “And finally—” I lifted the folder again. “We know where they are.”
Bayta sat up a little straighter. “Their location’s in there?”
“I think so,” I said. “It’s clear now that it wasn’t a coincidence that Aronobal and Emikai were on Earth at the same time that Givvrac’s contract team was at Pellorian Medical. My guess is that the attack on Terese German and her subsequent pregnancy were already planned, and that whoever’s in charge of the Shonkla-raa decided the Pellorian Medical thing would be good cover. They then maneuvered Muzzfor onto the team so that he could monitor the others while they brought Terese German to Filly space.”
“But why?” Bayta asked. “What do they want with her?”
“Something disgusting, I have no doubt,” I said. “But whatever the why, the where is a space station called Proteus.”
Bayta frowned. “That doesn’t sound like a Filiaelian name.”
“It isn’t,” I agreed. “The station actually has thirty different names, one corresponding to each of the Twelve Empires’ official languages. Apparently, it was designed to be the jewel of Filiaelian diplomatic glory and finesse.” I tilted my head. “Want to take a guess as to where this multispecies crown jewel is?”
She frowned; and then, her face cleared. “The Ilat Dumar Covrey system,” she said. “Where those six Modhran Filiaelians we ran into on New Tigris had come from.”
“Bingo,” I said. “Muzzfor had a new set of tickets and passes made out for himself, Aronobal, Emikai, and Terese. I assume he was planning to spring the package on them at Venidra Carvo.”
“And we’re going to follow them there?”
I turned the folder over in my hand. “Actually,” I told her, “I had something a bit different in mind.”
TWENTY-THREE
We found Terese and the two Fillies waiting on the far edge of the Venidra Carvo Station, their luggage gathered in a pile around them. “Good day, Dr. Aronobal; Logra Emikai; Ms. German,” I greeted them as Bayta and I came up. “If I may say so, you all look a little lost.”
“Well, we’re not,” Terese spoke up, giving me one of those glares she did so well. “So go away.”
“Actually, I think you are,” I said. “I’m afraid the guide you’re expecting won’t be joining you.”
“What do you mean?” Aronobal asked, frowning down her long nose at me.
“I’m sure you heard that there were four final victims of the murderer Kennrick shortly before he himself was killed a couple of weeks ago,” I said.
“Yes, we heard,” Aronobal said darkly. “A tragic occurrence.”
“Very tragic,” I agreed. “Even more so as it turns out that one of them was supposed to contact you here and give you the tickets to your final destination. Specifically, Asantra Muzzfor.”
Aronobal jerked her head at that. “Asantra Muzzfor? Are you certain?”
“He told me so himself, before he died,” I assured her. “Here are your tickets.” I pulled out the tickets I’d gotten from Muzzfor’s folder and passed them out.
Aronobal peered at the destination on her ticket. “These are for Kuzyatru Station.”
“Never heard of it,” Terese said, frowning at hers.
“In English, it’s called Proteus,” I told the girl. “You may have heard of it by that name.”
“Well, I haven’t,” she growled. “No one said anything about going to a space station. I thought I was going to some big clinic on Dojussu Sefpra Major.”
“That was my understanding, as well,” Aronobal seconded.
“Maybe you’ll be going there after you visit Proteus,” I said. “All I know is that these tickets are made out in your names, and that I was asked to deliver them to you.”
“You were asked by Asantra Muzzfor?” Emikai asked, an odd expression on his face.
“Yes,” I confirmed, looking him straight in the eye. “I was with him when he died. He also asked me to accompany you to Proteus, to make sure you got there safely.”
“There is no need for that,” Emikai said firmly. “I will watch over them.”
“I’m sure you will,” I acknowledged. “And I certainly imply no slight on your capabilities. But I promised Asantra Muzzfor I would go with you, and I would ask that you permit me to honor that promise.”
“Of course,” Aronobal said distractedly, looking around. “Very well, then. Do you happen to know which track our new train will be taking?”
“Number Eighteen,” I said, pointing across the station. “Just follow us.”
With Bayta beside me, I started toward our new track. I’d gone only a couple of steps when I felt a soft but insistent grip on my upper arm. “Keep going,” I told Bayta as I allowed the hand to slow me down. Terese and Aronobal passed me by, Aronobal giving me barely a glance, Terese ignoring me completely. As their trailing luggage rolled past me I came to a halt. “You have a question?” I asked quietly, turning to face Emikai.
For a moment he didn’t speak, his hand still gripping my arm. “They will wish to know exactly how Asantra Muzzfor died,” he said at last. “Those who now employ me.”
“And I’ll be glad to tell them,” I assured him.
“Will you?” he countered. “Even if they assign a portion of the blame to you?”
“Why would they do that?” I asked, keeping my voice and expression calm. There was no way, after all, for Emikai to know the truth about what had happened to Muzzfor. “I had nothing to do with his death.”
“You are the same species as the killer,” Emikai pointed out. “That may be enough.” His eyes flicked ahead to Bayta and his two companions. “There is no need for you to escort us. It would perhaps be better for you to go about your own business.”
“My business is the protection of innocent people,” I said. “I have an obligation to see Ms. German safely to Proteus.”
Emikai’s eyes bored into mine. “Very well,” he said. “If you are truly determined, I will not forbid you to accompany us.”
“Thank you,” I said.
I started to turn away, turned back as his hand darted up again to grip my arm. “But remember,” he added. “I too am a protector of my people.”
“Indeed you are,” I said softly. “Don’t worry. I won’t forget.”
Turn the page to continue reading from the Quadrail series
ONE
The Filiaelian facing me was a bit bigger than most of those of his species, a couple of centimeters taller than I was and about ten kilos heavier. There was a sheen of sweat on his long, horse-like face, and the dark eyes boring out at me had a deadly earnest expression to them.
The expression, and the face, shook briefly as the hand gripping my throat slammed my head and back hard against the display window of my first-class Quadrail compartment.
From my right came a muffled gasp, and my eyes flicked in that direction. Bayta, my companion and partner in this quiet war I’d joined nearly two years ago, was standing across the room watching us, her eyes wide, one hand gripping the edge of the partially open divider that separated the halves of our double compartment.
I shifted my attention back to the long Filly face bare centimeters from my own. Logra Emikai had once been a cop, genetically engineered for loyalty to the rulers of his species. He had probably also been engineered for strength, agility, and God only knew what else.
The hand around my throat tightened a little. “Well, Mr. Compton?” he asked softly.
His other hand was wrapped around my right biceps, effectively putting that arm out of action. But I still had my left. Nodding my head forward, pressing my chin hard against the top of his hand, I cocked my left arm at my hip and drove a short jab into his upper arm just above the elbow.
Abruptly, the pressure on my throat went slack. I grabbed Emikai’s half-paralyzed hand, twisted it hard at the wrist, and swiveled on my left foot to bend the arm over, forcing him to bow forward at the waist. “Well, Logra Emikai?” I countered.
“Better,” Emikai said approvingly. “Much better.”
“Thanks,” I said, letting go of his hand. “I take it I hit the nerve junction properly that time?”
“Indeed,” he confirmed as he straightened up, massaging his right upper arm where I’d hit it and shaking his right hand where my chin had pressed into another sensitive spot. “But you should free your right arm from my left before attempting to turn me over. Otherwise I might pull you over with me.”
“Yes, but it might also give you enough time to get your balance back,” I pointed out. “Anyway, if this had been a real fight, I’d have followed up with a kick to your torso.” I snapped a short kick to the area around his heart, stopping my foot a couple of centimeters short of his body. “Right about there.”
“Yes, that would put a normal opponent into the dust,” Emikai agreed. “But bear in mind that a professional fighter might have had his heart sac strengthened against such attacks.”
I grimaced. He was right, of course. A Filly pro might boast a strengthened heart sac, some extra bone in his fists, and enhanced brow ridges to protect his eyes, and might even have gone to the effort to have his more vulnerable nerve junctions surgically moved to entirely different locations. With the Filiaelian passion for genetic manipulation, a Filly with sufficient money and patience could remake himself into almost anything he or his doctor could imagine.
Which was precisely why we were in this mess to begin with.
I turned to Bayta. “How did it look?” I asked.
“Painful,” she said, her eyes smoldering as she looked at Emikai. In her opinion—which she hadn’t been at all shy about sharing with me over the past few days—our sparring sessions were way more realistic than they needed to be. Certainly more realistic than she liked.
“Pure illusion,” I assured her. Actually, my various bruises and strained muscles were in full agreement with her. But once upon a time I’d been a Western Alliance Intelligence agent, and Emikai and I both knew that the only way to learn hand-to-hand combat techniques was by actually practicing them. “Do we have time for one more?” I asked her.
“I don’t think so,” she said, a little too quickly.
“How long do we have?” I asked.
Her lip twitched. She really did hate these sessions. “Forty-five minutes.”
“So plenty of time.” I turned back to Emikai. “I want you to try the throat lock you put me in back on the super-express train.” I turned my back on him. “I think I’ve come up with a counter.”
His right arm snaked around my neck, his left arm linking with it, his left hand pushing my head forward against the forearm already pressed against my throat. His left foot slapped lightly against the back of my left knee, just hard enough to break my balance and send me to my knees on the floor. He followed me down, maintaining his grip, leaning forward and half over my shoulder.
That was how it had worked the last time he’d pulled this move on me. This time, I had something new to bring to the table. My knees had barely hit the floor when I threw myself forward, pulling Emikai off balance and tumbling over on top of me. As my chest hit the floor I rolled onto my left side, bringing my right elbow up into a shark-fin angle.
And as he belatedly let go of my neck in an effort to break his fall, his torso slammed onto my extended elbow.
In a real fight I would have kept the elbow extended, letting its impact send a shock wave through his heart sac and hopefully ending the fight right there. In this case, since Emikai wasn’t an actual enemy and I furthermore didn’t want to lug his twitching c
arcass all the way back to third class, I let my arm fold back down again, with the result that instead of bouncing off my elbow in agony he merely landed full length on top of me.
Fortunately, his extended arms took most of his weight, with the result that we both merely oofed in unison instead of having the air knocked out of us. “Impressive,” he said, rolling off and standing up again. “Aside from the obvious difficulty that if it succeeds you’ll be trapped beneath your opponent.”
“True,” I agreed, getting to my feet and massaging my throat where he’d been gripping it. Maybe Bayta was right about Emikai being a bit on the enthusiastic side. “Given that the alternative is to be comfortable but dead, it seems worthwhile.”
“A definite point.” He paused, tilting his head thoughtfully to the side. “Since we speak of death, what do you intend to tell the director and santras of Proteus Station about Asantra Muzzfor? They will want answers.” He eyed me closely. “More complete answers, I hope, than those you have given to me.”
“What an odd question,” I said, hiding my mild surprise. It had been over four weeks since Muzzfor died his violent death aboard the super-express Quadrail traveling from the other end of the galaxy, and nearly two weeks since Emikai and I had begun these occasional sparring sessions. Not once in all that time had the Filly asked me for details on exactly how Muzzfor had died.
Now, with our train forty minutes from journey’s end, he was suddenly bringing up the subject? “I intend to tell them the truth, of course.”
“Good,” he said as he retrieved his tunic from where he’d laid it on my bed. “The director and santras would not take well to being lied to. By you, or by anyone else they choose to question.”
