Night Train to Rigel q-1

by Timothy Zahn

  “I can try,” I said. “Where are you going?”

  “I can’t pronounce it,” he confessed, pressing a folded and dog-eared piece of paper into my hand. “Here’s the name.”

  I opened the paper. But there wasn’t any station name written there, pronounceable or otherwise.

  Tlexiss Café. Now. Mc.

  I took a second, longer look at the man… and only then did I see past the whiskers and the slightly disheveled hair and the overall air of harmless helplessness.

  It was Bruce McMicking, bodyguard and general trouble-shooter for multitrillionaire industrialist Larry Cecil Hardin.

  My boss.

  “It’s right there,” I said between suddenly dry lips as I pointed to a random line on the schedule. McMicking here… and Bayta stranding right beside me. This was not good. “Track Five in thirty-five minutes.”

  “Thank you, sir,” he said. Plucking the paper out of my hand, he turned and made his uncertain way out through the other bystanders.

  Fayr and Bayta were still waiting for my decision. “Fine, we’ll do the Loop,” I told them. “You two go make the reservations. I need to check on something—I’ll meet you at the platform in twenty minutes. Hang on to my carrybags, will you?”

  I headed away before either of them could object, passing two of Fayr’s commandos on my way out of the crowd. One of them gave me a questioning gesture; I motioned for him to stay with Fayr and Bayta. If McMicking was here, there was a chance Hardin was, too, and I didn’t want even the Bellidos to see us together.

  McMicking was about fifty meters ahead of me, walking with a sort of shuffling step that fit the rest of the persona he’d adopted for the occasion. I followed, keeping my distance, marveling again at the chameleonlike abilities of the man. I’d seen him in person three times now, and never did he look exactly the same twice. He changed his hair and beard like other people switched socks; whether he saw that as part of his job or whether it was some strange psychological quirk I didn’t know.

  The Tlexiss Café was one of the half dozen restaurants serving the Jurskala Station. Unlike the others, it boasted an open-air section dressed up with trellises and arbors like something you’d find in a EuroUnion countryside. McMicking led the way between a pair of potted bushes, pausing just inside to wait for me to catch up.

  “Compton,” he greeted me as I came up to him. The quavering uncertainty was gone from his voice and his manner as if they’d never been there. “Mr. Hardin would like a word with you.”

  “Of course,” I said, trying to sound calm. So Hardin was here. Bracing myself, I stepped between the bushes and into the café.

  It wasn’t a normal mealtime by the station’s clock, but eight of the twenty tables were nevertheless occupied by a variety of beings sipping or eating various drinks and foodstuffs. Seated at the far end beneath an arching latticework arbor laced with delicate purple vines and brilliant red and purple flowers was Larry Cecil Hardin.

  Even by Earth’s perpetually starstruck standards, Hardin stood head and shoulders above the crowd. He’d started life as an inventor of high-end precision optics and optical switches, had taken up a business role in order to market his creations, and had managed to hit a couple of economic waves that had made him a more or less overnight billionaire. Never one for laurel-resting, he’d kept at it, and after another few business cycles and a few more small but timely inventions he hit the one trillion mark. After that, there’d been nowhere to go but up.

  No one actually knew how rich he was, except possibly Hardin himself, and he wasn’t talking. But that didn’t stop the media from speculating on it. And Hardin played the game right back at them, inviting them in to see his planes and cars and antique motorcycles while at the same time playing it all very coy and modest.

  The irony of it, at least for me, was that there were at least eight men and women in the Confederation who were richer than he was. But he was the one the media had latched onto, so he was the one everyone knew. A place like Jurskala Station, where humans were barely even noticed, let alone lionized, was probably an interesting change of pace for him.

  Hardin was the sort who liked to get in the first word. Perversely I decided to beat him to it. “Mr. Hardin,” I said, nodding as I sat down uninvited across the table from him. “This is a pleasant surprise. How did you find me?”

  Behind me, McMicking made a soft noise in the back of his throat. But Hardin didn’t even twitch. “There’s only one exit from the Grakla Spur,” he said calmly. “Once I knew you’d been there, it was a simple matter of having my people check all inbound Quadrails until you showed up.”

  “Of course,” I said. “I hope you didn’t come all this way just for me.”

  “I had other business to attend to,” he said, his eyes and voice cooling a few degrees. “Tell me, did you think I wouldn’t notice if you slipped off to a high-class resort for a few days?”

  So he’d taken time out of his busy schedule to keep up-to-date track of the credit tag he’d given me. I’d been afraid of that. “That was business,” I said.

  “My business?”

  “Of course,” I said striving for snow-pure innocence. “What other business could I be on?”

  “I don’t know,” he countered. “Maybe something having to do with that dead man at the curb the night you left?”

  I looked up at McMicking, a piece clicking into place. “So that was you standing over the body as I was leaving,” I said.

  He inclined his head in an affirmative. “You should have told me about that in advance,” he said. “It could have been handled much more quietly.”

  “I didn’t know in advance,” I said, looking back at Hardin. “What, you think I killed him?”

  “You tell me,” he invited. “All I know is that there seem to be an extraordinary number of dead bodies in your wake. First the kid in New York, then those two Halkas at the Kerfsis transfer station—”

  “Those weren’t my fault, either,” I interrupted.

  “Of course not,” he said. “And now I’m hearing reports of some sort of disturbance at that resort you were just at?”

  I hesitated, wishing I knew exactly what those reports had said. Had they mentioned a pair of Humans, or just Fayr and his Bellidos? “That wasn’t really my fault, either,” I hedged.

  “Of course not,” Hardin said. “You know, Compton, when I hired you I thought it was understood that you were to keep a low profile. Is this what you consider a low profile?”

  I spread my hands, palms upward. “I know, and I’m sorry,” I apologized. “Sometimes things happen that are out of anyone’s control.”

  Hardin exhaled heavily. “I’d like to believe that, Frank,” he said. “But the damage has already been done.” He held out his hand. “I’ll take that credit tag now, and all the equipment I gave you. I trust you can find your own way home?”

  I stared at him. “You’re joking,” I said. “You came all the way out here just to fire me?”

  “As I said, I have other business out this way,” Hardin said, his hand still outstretched. “Finding you was just an extra bonus. My credit tag?”

  “I am making progress,” I insisted. Oddly enough, it was even true.

  “I’m sure you are,” he said. “But I’m starting to wonder whether it is, in fact, the progress I hired you to make. You see, even while you’re running up bills at fancy resorts, I’ve noticed you’re not using my credit tag to pay for your Quadrail travel.”

  I suppressed a grimace. I should have known he’d spot that, too. “I’d have thought you’d be pleased that I’d found a way to save you a little money.”

  “What pleases me is to have someone who’s supposed to be in my pocket actually stay there,” he said. “When a person starts climbing out on his own, he gets assisted the rest of the way. My credit tag and equipment?”

  I grimaced. But there was nothing for it. “Fine,” I said, fishing the credit tag out of my pocket. Ignoring his outstretched hand, I droppe
d it on the table between us, then added my watch, reader, and gimmicked data chips to the pile.

  “Thank you,” he said, pulling everything to his side of the table. “Good day, Mr. Compton.”

  For a long moment I considered pressing my case. I still needed all those items, especially the credit tag. And though Hardin had no way of knowing it, I could guarantee he would never, ever find another investigator with my current qualifications.

  But I knew it would be just so much wasted breath. And in the meantime, I had more important things to worry about than my professional pride. Standing up, I turned my back on him and headed back across the cafe, trying not to think about the long and expensive torchliner trip from Terra Station to Earth that I no longer had the funds to pay for. Maybe I’d wind up going to the Bellidosh Estates-General with Fayr, after all.

  I was nearly to the café exit when I discovered McMicking was still at my side. “What do you want?” I growled.

  “Just escorting you back to your platform,” he said mildly. “Why? Don’t you like my company?”

  I didn’t, but since he already knew that there wasn’t much point in saying so. “He’s making a mistake, you know,” I said instead, trying one last time.

  “That’s possible,” he agreed. “Happens to all of us. Speaking of mistakes, you haven’t been kicking dust at the Halkan Peerage lately, have you?”

  I looked sideways at him. “Why do you say that?”

  “No reason,” he said. “I’ve just been noticing there are a lot of Halkas out here in those three-colored robes the Peerage always wears.”

  “Really,” I said, my throat tightening. I’d been assuming that if the Modhri wanted to make a move, he would use the local Juriani to do it. It had never occurred to me that he might nudge a group of Halkas into coming down to Jurskala for the occasion. “Maybe it’s a convention.”

  “Or not,” he said, and I could feel his eyes on me. People like McMicking had a keen sense of atmosphere, and he was clearly picking up my sudden tension. “I count at least five different color combinations, with five to ten Halkas in each group. This have anything to do with that resort incident Mr. Hardin mentioned?”

  “Could be,” I conceded, craning my neck over the crowd. I could see Bayta and Fayr ahead at our platform now, both of them looking around for me.

  And McMicking was right. There were a lot of Halkan Peers here. “Thanks for the heads-up,” I told him. “I can make it the rest of the way on my own.”

  “It’s no problem,” he assured me.

  “It is for me,” I countered tartly. “I don’t want my friends to see us together.”

  “Ah,” he said with a knowing smile. “Of course not.”

  “And if you’re smart,” I added, “you’ll get Mr. Hardin out of sight and onto the next train back to Earth.”

  The smile faded. “Just what kind of trouble are you in?” he asked quietly.

  “Nothing that concerns you anymore,” I said. “Now get out of here. I mean it.”

  He held my eyes a half second longer. Then, with a curt nod, he turned and melted back into the crowd. Trying to watch all directions at once, I made my way to the platform.

  “There you are,” Bayta said, her tone halfway between relieved and accusing as I came up beside them. “Where have you been?”

  “Scouting the territory,” I said. “We’ve got a problem. The entire Halkan Peerage seems to have come by to see us off.”

  Fayr’s eyes flicked over my shoulder, and I saw his whiskers stiffen. “Any ideas?” he murmured.

  “I suggest we take the next Quadrail as planned,” I said. “They can’t all get tickets before it arrives.”

  “Perhaps,” he said slowly. “It will be as safe as we’re likely to get.”

  His eyes met mine, flicked to Bayta and then back to me. “Agreed,” I said, giving him a microscopic nod in return. Two warriors, taught from the same handbook, understanding each other. “Let’s do it.”

  NINETEEN:

  Three minutes later, the Quadrail pulled into the station and began discharging its passengers. Two minutes after they were off, Bayta and I were in my compartment.

  “Don’t get comfortable,” I warned her as I dropped my carrybags on the bed and crossed to the window. We were on the side the train was loading from, and I felt my stomach tightening as I spotted all the tricolored robes climbing aboard.

  And not just in first class, either. A number of them were getting on in second and third class, too, as far back as I could see. Places where a Halkan Peer usually wouldn’t be caught dead.

  There was a multiple tap on the door, the distinctive rhythm I’d set up earlier with Fayr. Bayta opened the door and he slipped inside, locking it behind him. “It doesn’t look good,” he warned.

  “No kidding,” I said. “You told us earlier that Modhran colonies can take over their hosts’ bodies if they want to. Any idea how long they can hold them that way?”

  “None,” he said. “As far as I know, it could be indefinitely.”

  “But the longer the host is under control, the more likely he is to realize afterward that something strange has happened,” Bayta added. “The Modhri might be able to pass off a few seconds’ blackout as daydreaming, but he’d have a harder time covering up one that lasts longer than that.”

  “In that case, there must be a lot of pretzel-twist rationalization going on out there,” I said. “They’re piling in all the way back to third.”

  “Planning on having his revenge during the trip,” Fayr rumbled. He fingered his plastic status guns, undoubtedly wishing he had the real ones instead. “He therefore arranges his walkers so that there will be no safe haven for us anywhere aboard.”

  I looked out again at the crowd. A lot of the Peers had gotten on our train; but there were a lot more still hanging around on the nearby platforms. “No,” I said. “This is way too elaborate for simple revenge.”

  “Then what is it about?” Fayr asked.

  “I have an idea,” I said. “But I may be wrong, and we sure as hell don’t have time to discuss it now. Grab your bag, Bayta—we’re getting off.”

  “We’re what?” Bayta demanded, her eyes widening.

  “We’re splitting up,” I explained, thinking hard. Unfortunately, with that many walkers still wandering the station, following my plan of hopping off the train as it pulled out wasn’t going to gain us anything.

  We were going to have to play it a little trickier.

  “My team will remain aboard and deal with the walkers here, while the three of us switch to a different train,” Fayr told her. “A classic deception—”

  “Which isn’t going to work,” I cut him off. “Bayta, can you get the door open while we’re moving?”

  Her eyes widened still further. “The door to the outside?”

  “We’re going to jump?” Fayr demanded, sounding as surprised as she did.

  “Yes, and yes, and we haven’t got a choice,” I told them, touching the control to opaque the window. “If we just go back out onto the platform, the rest of the walkers will be right on top of us. Can you open the door, or can’t you?”

  “No,” Bayta said, still clearly struggling to catch up with me. “But a Spider might be able—”

  “Get one to the car door right away,” I ordered, scooping up my carrybags. “And it’s not the three of us, Korak Fayr, just Bayta and me. Considering the number of walkers aboard, your team’s going to need you here.”

  He gazed at me, and I braced myself for his protest. But to my relief, he merely nodded. The fewer people involved in this kind of stunt, the better the chances it would work, and we both knew it.

  From beneath us came the multiple thud of brakes releasing, and the Quadrail started to move. “Very well,” Fayr said, lifting his arms with the wrists crossed in a Belldic military salute. The flourish ended with his hands on his upper set of guns; and suddenly he drew them, flipping them around so that their grips faced me. “Here,” he said. “You
may need these.”

  There wasn’t time to ask what on Earth I might want with a set of plastic toy guns. I stuffed them inside my jacket, nodded a quick good-bye, and made for the corridor.

  I wondered if I would ever see him again.

  There was a conductor waiting when we arrived at the outer door. The Quadrail was already going too fast for comfort, but it was still picking up speed and any delay would only make it worse. “Bayta?” I called.

  She didn’t reply; but a second later the corridor suddenly filled with a swirling slipstream of air as the door reluctantly irised open. I tossed out my carrybags, grabbed Bayta’s, and threw it after them. Then, wondering whether this was the stupidest thing I’d ever done in my life or merely one of the top ten, I grabbed her wrist and jumped.

  We hit hard, the next few seconds becoming a swirl of confusion and dizziness and agony as we tumbled and rolled along the station floor. Eventually we came to a halt with me on my back and Bayta lying half on top of me. “You all right?” I asked, doing a quick inventory of my own bones and joints. My knees were aching fiercely as was my left shin and elbow, and every bit of exposed flesh felt like I’d caught a bad sunburn. But nothing seemed sprained or broken.

  “I think so,” she murmured back. With a muffled groan, she started to get to her feet.

  “No—stay down,” I said, grabbing her forearm and pulling her back down. Beside us, the Quadrail was still roaring along, still picking up speed. The last baggage car shot past, and I watched as the train angled up the slope and disappeared into the darkness of the Tube. The usual light show from the Coreline faded away, and only then did I cautiously raise my head a few centimeters to assess our situation.

  If I’d planned this whole thing deliberately, I couldn’t have done a better job of it. We were in one of the service areas of the station, similar to the one we’d back-doored our way into at the Sistarrko Station after our mad-dash escape from Modhra 1. Two sets of tracks away, a large service hangar sat conveniently just opposite us. Barely three meters past the spot where we’d ended our tumble was a crisscrossing of tracks that would probably have left us with multiple broken bones if we’d landed there instead of where we actually had.