Night Train to Rigel q-1

by Timothy Zahn

  “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.”

  “Yeah, I hope so,” he said with a touch of humor. Small wonder; in the cramped spaces available in here, they couldn’t come at him more than a couple at a time, numbers he and his nunchaku should be able to deal with quite handily.

  “Watch it anyway,” I said, glancing back at the emergency medical kit set against the wall in front of the restrooms. “Director, grab the oxygen cylinder out of that kit, will you?”

  “All right,” he said, retracing his steps to the kit and retrieving the cylinder.

  McMicking had reached the far end of the car by the time Losutu rejoined us. “All clear,” he called back. “Whatever he’s planning, looks like he’s planning it somewhere else.”

  The next car was the same: the remains of a few Spiders, no sign of enemies. Again, McMicking headed forward, nunchaku at the ready, while Losutu paused at the medical kit to pick up another oxygen tank.

  He had just popped the kit open when the restroom doors at the front of the car swung open and two burly Halkas leaped out.

  “Compton!” Losutu gasped, trying to run backward and instead bumping his leg into one of the seats and tumbling off balance into the aisle. “Compton!”

  Swearing under my breath, I dropped the stretcher’s leash control and sprinted toward him. But the Halkas got there first. One of them grabbed him by his jacket and hauled him to his feet, spinning him around to face me as he wrapped an arm around his throat. “Stop, or he dies,” he snarled.

  There was no time to think, no time to pause and try to figure out what the Modhri was up to. I kept going, my momentum carrying me forward; and as I reached them I shot a hand forward, grabbing Losutu by the temples and slamming the back of his head hard into the face of the Halka behind him.

  The Halka staggered back in shock and agony, his grip loosening around Losutu’s neck. The other Halka gave the little twitch I was starting to associate with sudden shared pain in the group mind; and then I was on him, slamming my forearm and elbow hard against his neck. He staggered back as well, and I returned my attention to the first alien, gripping the hand still resting against Losutu’s throat and twisting it around, pushing against the joint to topple him backward onto the floor between the two restrooms. Another blow to the second Halka’s throat, a hard kick to the first’s midsection as he tried to scramble to his feet, and it was over.

  “You all right?” I asked Losutu as I helped him to his feet. “It’s all right,” I added to McMicking as he skidded to a halt beside me.

  “I think so,” Losutu said, his eyes wincing over his mask as he rubbed the back of his head. “I wasn’t expecting you to do that.”

  “Neither was the Modhri,” I said, guiding him back down the aisle to where Bayta and the stretcher waited. “There are definitely some drawbacks to fighting with untrained labor.”

  “Like missing golden opportunities,” McMicking grunted, gesturing toward the far door. “They should have charged while we were distracted.”

  “That wasn’t the point of this exercise,” I said grimly. “Or didn’t you notice that the Halka was very careful not to bump Losutu’s oxygen mask?”

  “I get it,” McMicking said, nodding. “Cute.”

  “What’s cute?” Losutu asked.

  “They were hoping we’d use up more of our Saarix to free you,” I told him, picking up the leash control and getting the stretcher moving again. “Two cars to go. Any bets on where they’ll be waiting?”

  “I say they’ve got both of them stocked,” McMicking said as we reached the far door. “Remember, they don’t know how much Saarix we’ve got left.”

  “Good point,” I said. “Maybe we can use that.”

  “How?” Losutu asked.

  “You’ll see,” I said. Pushing open the door, I rolled the stretcher through into the vestibule. McMicking moved to point position and opened the door into the next car.

  Once again, they were waiting for us, a silent line of aliens completely filling the aisle, with others standing in the seating areas ready to take their places if necessary. The four Juriani in front were carrying a large piece of twisted metal, a misshapen sphere and three segmented poles pointed at us like spears. It took me a second to realize it was what was left of a Spider.

  “What now?” Losutu muttered.

  In answer, I held out my hand. “Hello, Modhri,” I called. “Before you do anything rash, you and I need to have a little talk.”

  TWENTY-TWO:

  For a moment there was no response. I watched as a series of expressions flicked across the faces of the assembled crowd, then faded away into a stony mass glare. “What have we to talk about?” the first Juri in line called back.

  “I want to offer you a deal,” I told him.

  “Frank?” Bayta murmured uncertainly.

  “Quiet,” I told her. “I know what I’m doing.”

  The Juri clicked his beak. “You think you have anything left to bargain with?”

  “Sure,” I said. “You see, I can let you win this round. Or, I can make it a complete waste of your time and energy.”

  The Juri cocked his head slightly. “Explain.”

  I gestured to the still-smoldering stretcher. “I have enough Saarix-5 to destroy every walker you have between here and the rear of the Quadrail,” I said. “You’ve seen the stuff in action. You know what it can do.”

  “Even if you kill them all, you will still die,” he reminded me.

  “I know,” I said. “The point is, so will you.”

  A ripple ran through the assembly. “You see the problem,” I went on. “If this mind segment dies now, without passing on the information that we have the data chips, you’ll never quite be able to relax.” I gestured toward the crowd. “In fact, I suspect that’s why you started attacking us so aggressively in the first place. You suddenly woke up to the fact that we were heading straight for the Peerage car and JhanKla’s private coral outpost. If we destroy all the walkers and the coral, this mind segment is history.”

  “Very well, I agree,” the Juri spokesman spoke up. “You may return to your compartments to await your deaths in peace.”

  “Such a generous offer,” I said dryly. “Fine, but we need to get something from the baggage compartment first.”

  Another ripple went through the crowd. “No,” the Juri said flatly.

  I shrugged. “Okay by me.” Reaching to the lower rack, I found the carrybag Bayta had already blown and pulled it out. “Here,” I said, hiding the damaged handle with my hand as I held it aloft for the Modhri to see. “You want to pass this back to the middle of the room where it’ll work the fastest? Or shall I just throw it back there myself?”

  “Wait,” the Juri growled. “What is it you want from the baggage car?”

  “My pinochle deck,” I said with exaggerated patience. “What do you care what we want? We’re going to die anyway, right?”

  Again he paused… and suddenly I felt Bayta grip my arm. “Frank—that Spider,” she whispered urgently. “He’s still alive.”

  I focused on the tangle of metal the Juriani were holding. “You’re kidding.”

  “No,” she insisted. “He’s dying, but he’s still alive.”

  And the Spiders were the ones who could control the Quadrail. If we could get it back to our first-class compartment, maybe we wouldn’t
have to do a Wild West crawl along the top of the train after all.

  “Very well,” the Juri said. “You may pass.”

  The crowd began to shuffle out of the aisle into the seat areas. “Hold it,” I said. “If you think we’re just going to walk your gauntlet, forget it. Everybody back to the second baggage car and stay there. And I mean everybody.”

  “I have given my word,” the Juri protested.

  “Like I’m going to trust that,” I said pointedly. “Come on, move it. And leave that thing right where it is,” I added, pointing at the crumpled Spider. “It looks way too much like a weapon for my taste.”

  Silently, the Juriani hoisted the Spider up onto the tops of the seats beside them, then joined the rest of the walkers in backing up toward the rear door. I watched as they filed out, alert for any last-second tricks. The door closed behind the spokesman, and I heard Losutu mutter something under his breath. “I don’t like this,” he said. “They gave in way too easy.”

  “Agreed,” I said, returning the carrybag to its rack. “McMicking?”

  “I’ll check it out.” Gripping his nunchaku warily, he started slowly down the aisle, checking between the rows of seats for hidden surprises. “All clear,” he called when he reached the end. “Let’s move before he changes his mind.”

  I nodded and moved the stretcher forward, stopping as I came alongside the dying Spider. “Director, you want to give me a hand with this?” I asked, getting a grip on the deformed sphere.

  “What are we doing with it?” Losutu asked, gathering the legs together and cradling them over his forearms like a bundle of firewood.

  “We’re taking him with us,” I said, starting forward again. “Bayta says he’s still alive.”

  “Can he stop the train?” Losutu asked.

  “Not from here,” Bayta told him. “But if we can get him to the engine, either he or I will be able to control it.”

  “Come on, come on,” McMicking said impatiently, eyeing the Spider as we arrived at the door. “You really want to bother with that thing?”

  “Might come in handy,” I said. “Let’s swivel him around.”

  A minute later we had the spider turned around so that it was resting on the top of the stretcher, its legs pointed forward. “Okay, open up,” I told McMicking. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

  I’d fully expected to find the crowd of walkers waiting in this, the last passenger coach before the baggage cars, ready to charge us the second we stepped inside. It was with a definite feeling of anticlimax that the door opened to show nothing but rows of empty third-class seats.

  “Too easy,” McMicking muttered, eyeing the apparently deserted car. “He’s planning something.”

  “I know,” I said. “Check the washrooms.”

  He stepped to one of the doors and yanked it open. A quick look inside, and he closed that door and opened the other. “Clear.”

  “No choice but to go for it,” I told him. “You first—watch yourself. Bayta, have the Saarix ready.”

  McMicking started down the aisle, again checking each row as he passed. I kept us a couple of paces behind him, not wanting to let any of our group get too far ahead or behind.

  We were halfway down the car when two Halkas suddenly leaped up from the row just ahead of McMicking and hurled themselves at him. McMicking staggered the first one back with a nunchaku blow across the top of his head, then danced back a step and turned to the second.

  And as he did, the entire rear of the car erupted with Modhran walkers, three crammed into each side of each row. Each group had a piece of broken Spider; and in their usual perfect unison, they hurled them at us.

  Their primary target was McMicking, who was instantly buried beneath a pile of debris. Reflexively, I grabbed Bayta’s arm and yanked her down behind the partial protection of the stretcher, stifling a curse as a section of Spider leg flew past and caught me squarely across the back. “Do it!” I snapped.

  I didn’t have to give the order twice. Even as another round of flying objects slammed into the chairs all around us, I heard the sizzle-pop as she triggered the second carrybag handle. I held her tightly to me, hoping that McMicking had managed to keep his mask on.

  The missiles stopped flying, and the commotion stilled. Cautiously, I looked up.

  Once again, the Saarix had done the trick. The walkers were dead.

  And our last trump card had now been played.

  “Don’t just stand there,” McMicking’s muffled voice called from beneath a pile of twisted metal. “Get me out of here.”

  Bayta and I squeezed around the stretcher and got to work, and a minute later we had him free. “You all right?” I asked as I helped him to his feet.

  “I’m fine,” he grunted, shaking his arms experimentally as he bent down to retrieve his nunchaku. “That second Halka was kind enough to take some of the impact for me.”

  “Nice of him,” I said, looking back. Losutu was just coming down the aisle toward us, his eyes frowning over his mask. “Come on, Losutu, shake a leg.”

  “I was checking the medical kit,” he said, his voice tight. “The oxygen tank and mask are gone.”

  “Terrific,” I said, my stomach tightening as I did a quick survey of the bodies draped across the seats and lying in the aisles. Other than ours, there were no masks in sight.

  “We didn’t get around to checking the kit in the last car, either,” McMicking reminded me. “That means they could have two of them.”

  “Three, if there’s one in the Peerage car,” I said. “I wonder what he’s done with them.”

  “Nothing good,” McMicking growled. “The sooner we’re out of here, the better.”

  “Definitely,” I agreed. “You want me to take point for a change?”

  “No, I’ve got it,” he said, setting his nunchaku into fighting position again and moving ahead. “You might need to ditch the stretcher, though.”

  I studied the narrow aisle and the mass of bodies lying in our path. He had a point. “Bayta, is our Spider still alive?”

  “Yes, barely,” she said.

  “You and Director Losutu grab it,” I said, manhandling the big oxygen cylinder off its rack and hoisting it up on the seat back next to me where I could get into the straps. “McMicking?”

  “Looks clear,” he called from the rear door.

  “Okay.” I got my arms into the straps and settled the cylinder onto my back. “Go.”

  There was no one waiting for us in the baggage car. At least, not visibly. “Stay sharp,” I warned the others as I looked around.

  “I’m on it,” McMicking said, moving forward and peering between the stacks of safety-webbed crates. “Where exactly are these hatches?”

  “There,” Bayta said, pointing upward as she and Losutu eased the Spider onto the floor. “We might have to move some of the crates to make steps.”

  “Or we could climb the webbing,” I suggested, craning my neck to look at the hatch. It was pretty big, and Bayta had already said it was heavy. “Any idea how we’re going to get it open?”

  “Maybe we can use this,” Losutu suggested, lifting the pointed end of one of the Spider’s legs.

  “Might work,” I agreed. “If we can get it up there—”

  “Compton?” someone called from the far end of the car. “Frank Compton?”

  I spun around. That voice… “Falc Rastra?”

  “Yes,” Rastra called. “Please—I’m unarmed. I just want to talk.”

  “No,” McMicking said before I could answer.

  “Absolutely not,” Losutu seconded. “It’s a trick.”

  He was almost certainly right, I knew. Still… “Come out where we can see you,” I called.

  There was a moment’s pause, and then Rastra stepped out from between two stacks of crates at the far end of the car. “I’m unarmed,” he said again, holding his hands out as he took a step toward us. “You’re making a big mistake.”

  “I do that all the time,” I assured him.
“I’m used to it.”

  “No, I mean it,” he insisted, taking another step forward. “The Modhri isn’t the evil, villainous creature you seem to think.”

  “And all this comes from personal experience?” I asked, slipping the oxygen tank off my back and setting it down on the floor.

  “Actually, it does,” he said, taking another step forward. “I’ve lived with part of him inside me ever since I was promoted to Falc.”

  “What a coincidence,” I said, walking up behind McMicking. “I’ve lived with a whole bunch of him for the past hour myself. Can’t say I recommend the experience.”

  “What did you expect?” Rastra countered. “You’re siding with people who are trying to destroy him.”

  I reached McMicking’s side. “Go back to the others,” I ordered him quietly. Behind his back, out of Rastra’s sight, I slipped my multitool from my pocket and extended the blade. “If this is a diversion, that’s where the main attack will come.”

  “You want me to just take him out and be done with it?” he murmured back.

  “No, I don’t want you getting that far away,” I said, transferring the multitool to my right hand and covering the blade with my fingers. “I can handle him if there’s trouble.”

  McMicking nodded and backed away. “They’re trying to destroy him because he’s trying to take over the galaxy,” I called to Rastra, lifting my right hand and resting it casually against the nearest stack of crates. Just around the corner where Rastra couldn’t see, I slipped the blade beneath the safety webbing and started to cut. “On a more personal level, he was trying to take over me.”

  Rastra clicked his beak reprovingly. “He was trying to help you become part of a community,” he corrected. “Be honest, Compton—how long has it been since you truly felt yourself to be part of anything important?”

  “That’s beside the point,” I said, sliding my hand casually up the corner of the boxes, slicing through the webbing as I went. I cut the strands as far up as I could conveniently reach, then shifted the knife to point down and started working on the lower ones. “Besides, I’ve never thought of slavery as much of a social club.”