Odd Girl Out

by Timothy Zahn

  “I see,” Rebekah said. “Though once he does that, he’ll be able to get through both vestibule doors, right?”

  “Actually, once he’s got even a small hole or crack to let the pressure out he can get through both doors,” I said. “But I figure it’ll buy us a couple of hours.”

  “Meanwhile, he’s got a coral outpost out there,” Bayta murmured.

  “It won’t help him any,” Rebekah said.

  “I don’t think Bayta was referring to your coral, Rebekah,” I said. “She was thinking about the fact that if this mind segment wants to, he could turn the entire train into walkers.”

  Rebekah’s face went rigid. “Oh, no,” she breathed. “But he wouldn’t do that. Would he?”

  “He did it once before,” Bayta said grimly. “It nearly killed both of us.”

  “But not quite,” I pointed out. “But I don’t think he will. Not this time. He already has plenty of walkers aboard for what he needs, and creating a bunch of new ones won’t really gain him anything.”

  “Unless he does it just to spite us,” Bayta said.

  I shook my head. “The Modhri doesn’t seem to care that much about spite or revenge. He has a pretty good soldier mentality, actually, which is one of the things that make him so dangerous. He’s too focused on his mission of galaxy domination to bother with petty distractions.”

  “That might be true for the Modhri as a whole,” Rebekah said. “But remember, all we have aboard this train is a single mind segment.”

  “And you hurt him pretty badly back there,” Bayta agreed. “The way Mr. Braithewick looked at you . . . Standing orders notwithstanding, he might decide to bend the rules a little.”

  I hesitated, gazing at their faces, at their eyes filled with fear and compassion for all the innocent people riding our train. In theory, of course, they were right. A single mind segment, especially one that was out of touch with all the other mind segments, had a certain degree of autonomy. If it was out of touch long enough, as it would be on a long Quadrail trip, it could conceivably drift away from whatever the overall Modhran party line was at the moment.

  In fact, that could be the very same mechanism that had caused the drastic change in Rebekah’s batch of coral when it came under the influence of her group of rogue symbionts. If so, I could see why the Modhri was so afraid of them, and why he was going to such lengths to find and destroy them.

  Should I tell them the truth? Bayta would have to be told eventually, I knew. And it might help alleviate at least this one concern for both her and Rebekah.

  But this was something the Modhri definitely didn’t want getting out . . . and he still might decide to take a prisoner for questioning. “I doubt the Modhri’s discipline is nearly that lax,” I said instead. “Personally, I think we’ve got better things to worry about than having the whole train rise up against us.”

  I turned back to the vestibule. “That should be long enough,” I said. “Let’s give it a try.” Mentally crossing my fingers, I pressed the door release.

  Nothing happened. I tried again, and once more just for luck. The door was indeed locked up tight. “Perfect,” I said briskly. “That should hold him for a bit.”

  “We need to hold him longer than just a bit,” Bayta warned, giving me one of those thoughtful looks she did so well. She was smart enough to realize I’d deflected her concern without genuinely addressing it, but she was also smart enough to know when I was telling her to drop a subject. “It’s still several hours to the next station.”

  “True enough,” I said, looking at the stacks on either side of the vestibule door. Both were composed of oversized crates with machinery labels on them and double layers of safety webbing. Not a chance in the universe the three of us would be able to knock those over. “Scavenger hunt time. What I want is a crate with a vertical side-sliding panel instead of the usual top-opening lid. It also needs to be on the bottom of its particular stack. First one to find me a crate like that wins a prize.”

  “What kind of prize?” Rebekah asked.

  “I’ll think of something,” I said. “You two head back; I’ll check the ones up here.”

  The crate I’d described for them was important, but it wasn’t actually my first priority. As soon as the two of them were out of sight, I headed to the side toward the spot where the Jurskala Spider contingent was supposed to have loaded my special crate.

  It was, thankfully, right where it was supposed to be, sitting on top of a short and easily climbable stack of other crates. I pried open the top, made sure my special cargo was inside, then closed it again. The crate had been a vital part of Plan A, and it was going to be an equally important part of Plan B.

  It would probably be necessary even if we had to go to Plan C. Whatever Plan C might end up being.

  I was back down on the floor, prowling among the crate islands, when Rebekah won the hunt.

  “What’s in it?” she asked as I worked the safety webbing up and away from the bottom of the crate. It would have been faster to cut it, but this particular webbing I wanted left intact.

  “Typically, side-opening crates contain one of two types of items,” I told her. “Either machinery designed to be rolled out at its destination, or stuff that’ll flow out into a bin or other container when you pull up the panel. Hold this webbing up, will you?”

  She reached up and got a grip on the webbing, keeping it out of my way. “Which is it in this case?” she asked.

  “No idea, but I’m hoping it’s the former,” I said. Popping the catches, I got my fingertips under the bottom of the panel and pulled upward.

  I would have been happy with pretty much anything. As it was, I was quietly ecstatic. Packed inside its molded foam spacers was a beautifully restored classic Harley-Davidson motorcycle. “Bingo,” I said.

  “We’re planning on riding somewhere?” Bayta asked, looking confused.

  “Like where?” I countered, getting a grip on the front wheel and pulling. For a moment the bike resisted, then reluctantly rolled toward me, its spacers mostly coming along with it. “Besides, it won’t be fueled up.”

  “Then why do we want it?” Rebekah asked.

  “Because this is no longer a classic motorcycle,” I told her as it came free. “This is a neatly organized collection of spare parts.”

  I gave the clutch grip an experimental squeeze. “A collection of spare parts,” I added quietly, “that can be turned into weapons.”

  Bayta and Rebekah exchanged looks. “I see,” Bayta said, her voice sounding uncomfortable.

  Small wonder. For seven hundred years the Spiders had gone to extraordinary lengths to keep weapons off their Quadrails. Now here I was, proposing to create an arsenal out of something that had sailed right through their filters. “It’s not a big deal,” I told her. “In the real world, almost anything can be turned into a weapon if you work at it hard enough.”

  “I suppose,” she said. “It just makes the whole no-weapons thing seem rather futile.”

  “Hardly,” I assured her. “Keeping guns and knives and plague bacteria off the trains is what’s kept the peace through the galaxy for the past seven centuries. Let’s not throw out the heirloom silver just because there’s a little tarnish on it here and there.”

  “You’re right.” She took a deep breath. “What do you want Rebekah and me to do?”

  “Right now, nothing,” I said. “With only one multitool among us, this is going to be pretty much a one-man job. You and Rebekah can go find yourselves a nice place to sit down and relax.”

  “What about my prize?” Rebekah asked, a hint of the ten-year-old girl once again peeking through. “You said there would be a prize if I found you the right crate.”

  “That I did,” I agreed, bracing myself. Someone was really going to hate me for this.

  He would just have to get in line. Reaching to the Harley’s right-hand mirror, I snapped it off. “There you go,” I said, handing it to Rebekah. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”
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  She gazed at it a moment, then looked up at me again. “Thank you,” she said gravely.

  And with that, the ten-year-old was gone again. “You’re welcome,” I said. “Now scoot, both of you. I’ll let you know when I need you again.”

  I had never taken a motorcycle apart before, and the very first thing I discovered was that my multitool wasn’t much of a substitute for a proper mechanic’s kit. Many of the parts came off with difficulty, or thoroughly mangled, or both. Other components never did give up their death grip on the bike, despite the force, ingenuity, and threats I threw at them.

  One thing was crystal clear, though: this particular bike would never run again. I hoped the owner had popped for the full-coverage insurance.

  Somewhere midway through my work, I heard the first faint thudding sounds from the other side of the vestibule. The walkers had made it past our crate barrier and were tackling the pressure-locked door.

  Our time was running out.

  The rhythmic banging had been going on for probably half an hour by the time I decided I’d stripped everything I could from the bike. The front fork and rear shock absorbers would serve nicely as clubs, the wheel rims could be used as throwing disks, and I’d worked a section of the exhaust pipe into an arm protector for my left forearm. I’d also collected enough bolts and nuts to make for a couple of good barrages with the slings I’d constructed from the rubber of the tires.

  As the final touch, I cut some long pieces of safety webbing and attached the remainder of the bike frame to the crate stacks on either side of the vestibule, leveled at the center of the doorway. With Bayta’s help, I hauled the machine back and up, securing it high off the floor with more webbing fastened with a quick-release knot. The first walker to come through that door was going to be in for a very unpleasant surprise.

  And after that, there was just one more thing to do.

  “I can’t,” Rebekah protested, staring into the now empty crate that had once housed the Harley. “Please don’t make me.”

  “You have to,” I told her firmly. I could understand her reluctance—the crate wasn’t shaped like a coffin, but it didn’t have much more than a coffin’s worth of space inside. But it would be light-years better than being out in the open when the walkers broke through the door. “The Modhri wants to get his hands on you. We don’t want him to. It’s that simple.”

  “Trust us, Rebekah,” Bayta said, her voice low and earnest. “We’ll be back to get you. I promise.”

  I winced. Unfortunately, there were only two ways that we would be able to keep that promise: if we won the imminent fight, or if the Modhri captured us alive and made us talk. I wasn’t counting too heavily on the first, and I didn’t much want to dwell on the second.

  Maybe Rebekah was thinking about the two options, too, and their respective odds of becoming reality. “All right,” she said reluctantly. “If I have to.” Bending over, she eased herself into the crate.

  I gave her a couple of seconds to settle herself in as best she could, then slid the panel down to close her in. “Start moving those foam spacers somewhere else in the car,” I instructed Bayta as I smoothed the safety webbing back into place along the side of the crate. “I’ll give you a hand as soon as I’m finished here.”

  The crate’s appearance was back to normal, the foam spacers were on the other side of the baggage car, and we were in position at the door when the Modhri finally broke through.

  The first in line was a Halka, probably the biggest walker the Modhri had available at the moment. He came charging through the door, faltering a bit in obvious surprise to find the floor in front of him clear of crates or other obstacles. His eyes flicked upward, the Modhri clearly wondering if one of the nearby stacks was about to come down on top of him.

  He was still standing like that when the Harley frame swung in from in front of him and nailed him squarely in the chest.

  With a grunt of agony he fell backward into the doorway, slamming into the next Halka in line. Before they could untangle themselves I was on them, hammering at both heads and every limb I could reach with my fork club. The longer I could keep them trapped in the vestibule, where they had limited freedom of movement, the better.

  But the same lack of space that hampered the Halkas also limited the amount of power I could bring to bear with my club. The Halkas shrugged off my blows with surprising ease, regained their mutual balance, and started back out at me.

  “Frank!”

  Bayta called. I dropped into a low crouch as a swarm of nuts and bolts came flying into the lead Halka’s face. He snarled something, the snarl followed immediately by a bellow as I swung my club backhand across his knees. He fell forward, landing full-length with a resounding thud, and instantly rolled onto his side as he clutched at his knees.

  One down. God only knew how many to go.

  Bayta’s second salvo, and my second kneecapping, took out the second Halka, dropping him on top of the first. But the third walker in line was a much smaller and quicker Juri. Instead of trying to bull his way through the doorway as the first two walkers had, he leaped up onto the suspended bike’s front fender, grabbed the safety webbing rope tied to the handlebars, and swung himself onto the floor on the far side of the double heap of Halkas. I jabbed my club at him over the bike’s saddle, but I was only able to deliver a glancing blow to his back before he skipped out of range.

  I had just slammed my club across the face of the next Juri in line when the escapee ran around the wounded Halkas and hurled himself at me.

  I ducked back, swinging furiously back and forth to try to keep him at bay. But this was a walker, and none of the normal instincts for self-defense applied. He took three punishing swipes across the head and torso before I managed to put him down for good.

  But by then it was too late. My forced inattention to the doorway had allowed in three more walkers, two Halkas and a Juri.

  And in that handful of seconds I was suddenly on the defensive.

  “Bayta—retreat!” I shouted as I ducked into the maze of narrow passageways between the stacks. Over the clacking of Quadrail wheels I could hear the thudding of heavy Halkan feet as the walkers took off after me down the passageway. “Rebekah, get on top of the crates and hide!” I added.

  There was no reply from either of them. But then, I hadn’t expected any. Rebekah was hidden away in her crate, as safe as she would be anywhere, with no reason to go anywhere else. As for Bayta, she knew perfectly well what my coded retreat order really meant. I passed a distinctive pair of stacks and braked to a sudden halt, turning around and raising my club as if I had decided to make my stand right then and there.

  And as the line of walkers charged toward me, the first Halka hit the trip line that had magically snapped up to knee height between the stacks.

  He hit the floor with an even more impressive crash than those of the two I’d laid out by the vestibule. The Halka immediately behind him was going way too fast to stop, and landed full-length on his companion’s wide back.

  The Juri behind them didn’t even try to slow down, but merely charged up onto the downed Halkas’ backs and leaped at me like a gymnast coming off a springboard. He got a crack across the side of his rib lattice for his trouble, and another across the back of his head as he hit the floor in front of the Halkas. I stepped to the Halkas and gave each of them a crack on the head to keep them quiet.

  Bayta was still crouched by the side of one of the crates, gripping the end of the safety webbing trip line. She dropped the line and jumped to her feet as I came up to her, and together we headed off into the maze.

  We had just completed the second zig of a planned three-zigzag maneuver when the Modhri nailed us.

  It was a well-planned and well-executed attack. The walkers, mostly Juriani and Bellidos, came at us from three different directions, three assault lines of three aliens each, all of them charging ahead with the by-now familiar disregard for their own personal safety. Bayta and I fought them off as best w
e could, the confined fighting space around us becoming even more cramped with every fresh body that staggered and then fell stunned or unconscious at our feet.

  Fortunately, like most of the beings the Modhri had chosen to infect with himself, these walkers were from the upper classes; rich, powerful, up in years, and not in particularly good fighting trim. Even with their numerical advantage Bayta and I held our own, keeping our attackers back as we steadily whittled them down. I managed to clear out one of the lines of attackers, opening up an exit vector, and grabbed Bayta’s arm with my free hand. “Come on,” I panted, pushing her behind me as I turned to cover our retreat.

  And without warning, something slammed into me from above, bouncing the back of my head off the nearest stack of crates and shoving me to the floor.

  The next few minutes were a blur of hands and bodies and movement. By the time the haze lifted from my mind, I found myself back in the relatively open area by the baggage car’s forward door and the suspended Harley, sitting on the floor with my back to one of the stacks of crates. There was a Juri towering over me on either side, and a line of Halkas and Juriani and Bellidos staring silently down at me from three meters away. Halkas, Juriani, Bellidos, and one lone Human.

  Braithewick.

  I took a careful breath, checking out the state of my chest as I did so. There was some serious bruising down there, but it didn’t feel like anything was broken. “Well, that was fun,” I said casually, focusing on Braithewick’s sagging face. “Round One goes to you. Shall we set up for Round Two?”

  “Where is the Abomination?” he asked.

  “That’s hard to say,” I said. “I think I may have misplaced it.”

  Braithewick cocked his head, and from my left came a muffled gasp.

  I turned that direction, craning my neck to look around the Juri standing guard on that side. Bayta was two stacks down, being pressed against the safety webbing by a pair of seriously bruised Halkas. One of them was gripping her right forearm with one hand and bending her hand back at the wrist with his other. “Leave her alone,” I growled. “You want to torture someone, torture me.”