by Timothy Zahn
We reached the car to find Smith’s door was closed. I half expected him to jump out into the corridor as we passed and try his sales pitch on me again, but the door stayed shut. Either he’d gone to bed, or else he’d given up on me. Either suited me fine.
I ushered Bayta into her compartment and then continued on to my own. I hung my jacket on the clothes rack for a quick cleaning, then settled down on the bed with my reader and the complete guidebook to Bellis I’d picked up at Terra Station before Bayta and I had left. As Humans we were going to look out of place enough among all those chipmunk-faced Bellidos. There was no point in looking like tourists, too.
I’d been reading for an hour, and was just thinking about taking a quick shower and getting ready for bed, when a piercing scream from the corridor knifed through the wall.
TWO
I was at the door in two seconds flat, slapping at the release even as a small, sane part of my mind warned that this was not a smart thing to do. There were probably at least a couple of Modhran walkers aboard, and uncorking a pitiful scream was a time-honored way of enticing a victim into a trap.
But the sane part of my mind wasn’t winning many arguments these days, and it didn’t win this one, either. Reminding myself that the Spiders were very good about keeping weapons off their Quadrails. I stepped out into the corridor.
Standing a couple of paces inside the car’s rear vestibule was the lady politician who’d passed us in the dining car earlier. Her mouth was open, her lungs filling for a reprise of her scream, her hands scrabbling at the corridor walls as if trying to find something to hold on to.
Her wide eyes were staring down at Mr. Smith’s battered body, sprawled on the corridor floor barely two meters from my door.
“What happened?” I demanded as I dropped to one knee beside Smith. He was still wearing the traveling suit I’d seen him in earlier, now badly rumpled. The front of his jacket was rising and falling feverishly with short, shallow breaths.
“I don’t know,” the woman managed. “I was—I think he fell—” Abruptly she turned and disappeared back into the vestibule.
I sent a brief hope skyward that she could hold on to her dinner long enough to reach the restroom at the front of the first-class car behind us, then put her out of my mind. Gingerly, I opened Smith’s jacket, trying to remember my Westali first-aid training. His shirt, I saw, was peppered with small bloodstains, a ghastly contrast to the diamond fastening studs.
The door to Bayta’s compartment slid open, and I glanced up to see her gazing out at us, her eyes wide. “Whistle up a conductor and have him find a doctor,” I ordered. “Then get the LifeGuard.”
“The conductors have been alerted,” she said as she stepped gingerly past me and over Smith’s body and hurried toward the bright orange box set into the corridor wall near the front of the car.
“Make it a trauma specialist if they have a choice.” I called, hoping at least one of the Spiders was close enough for Bayta’s telepathic link with them to work. Carefully, I unfastened the diamond studs and opened Smith’s shirt.
One look at the bruise pattern and oozing blood was all I needed. The lady with the excellent lungs might think he’d gotten this way tripping over his own feet, but I knew a professional beating when I saw one.
And then, to my surprise, his eyes fluttered open. “Who—?” he rasped, bits of blood flecking his lips as he spoke.
“It’s all right.” I soothed, the small sane part of my mind noting the banal stupidity of that comment. Traveling through interstellar space, hours away from a real medical facility, he was probably a goner. “It’s Compton. Who did this to you?”
“Know what’s . . . really funny?” he asked, his swollen eyes fighting to focus on my face.
I grimaced. Why did so many badly injured people get stuck on inessentials? “The Marx Brothers,” I said. “Who did this to you?”
“He hates you,” Smith gasped. “Funny thing is, that was . . . even better than Lo . . . Losutu’s rec . . . recommenda . . .”
“Recommendation,” I finished for him. wondering which of the collection of people who hated me he was referring to. Not that it mattered. “I’m glad my reputation is so solid. Now who did this?”
He shook his head weakly. “Never saw . . .” Abruptly, his right hand jerked upward and clutched at my sleeve. “Lynx,” he croaked.
Lynx? “His name’s Lynx?” I asked.
His face spasmed with pain. “Nemuti Lynx,” he said. “He wanted . . . third Lynx. Daniel—Daniel Mice—” He broke off, his face spasming again.
“Okay,” I said. The Nemuti part, at least, I understood. The Nemuti FarReach was one of the Twelve Empires, with territory stretching across a few thousand light-years near the galaxy’s central core area. The Lynx part I didn’t have a clue on. “Did Daniel Mice do this?”
He closed his eyes, and with one final heave his chest went still.
I swore under my breath as his hand dropped limply away from my sleeve. “Bayta!” I snapped as I rolled Smith onto his back and started to check his windpipe for blockages.
And suddenly the Quadrail became a cheap kaleidoscope as I was grabbed by the front of my shirt, hauled to my feet, and thrown violently backward down the corridor.
I slammed to the floor at Bayta’s feet, hitting hard enough to see stars. Bayta gave a little gasp as I grabbed a piece of floor and pushed myself upright again. Blinking to clear my vision, I looked back down the corridor.
Trouble was definitely on its way, striding toward me in the form of the biggest Halka I’d ever seen, two meters of short brown fur, back-jointed legs, and muscle. His flat bulldog lace was simmering with righteous anger, his nostrils making little purling sounds, his short claws extending whitely from their fingertip sheaths. Behind him, the Intelligence man I’d seen in the dining car was hurrying toward Smith’s body, the lady politician trailing shakily behind him.
“Easy,” I said, taking a step back and holding out my hands toward the approaching Halka. “We’re just trying to help.”
The Halka kept coming. “What you do to this Human?” he demanded.
“We didn’t do anything,” I said, taking another step back and hoping I could talk some sense into him before Bayta and I ran out of corridor. “We’re trying to get the LifeGuard.”
“Then get on with it.” the Intelligence man called, his unexpected British accent carrying an extra edge of authority as he knelt beside the body. “Make sure it’s set for Human. You—sir—out of his way, please.”
The big Halka rumbled something, but obediently stepped to the side of the corridor. Taking the orange box from Bayta. I punched the button marked “Human” and hurried back down the corridor.
The Intelligence man had gotten Smith’s head in position by the time I arrived. Up close, I could see that he was in his mid-twenties, a few years younger than my own thirty-two, with light brown hair and the smooth, unweathered skin of someone who preferred the indoor life. His pale blue eyes brushed over me like radar painting a target as I knelt down beside him. “Get the arm cuff on,” he ordered as he unlimbered the breather mask and oxygen tank. He took a quick look to make sure the mask had configured to Human facial shape, then fastened it over Smith’s face.
I got the cuff in place around Smith’s right jacket sleeve. “Ready,” I said.
He punched the start button. There was a brief hum that shifted into a soft chugging sound as the respirator kicked in. “You know how to read this?” he asked, peering at the LifeGuard’s display.
“Green is good; red is bad,” I said. “For anything more complicated, we’ll need a Spider.”
He grunted. “I think they’re all off hunting up a Human doctor,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Compton,” I said. “Yours?”
“Morse,” he said. “What’s your relationship with him?”
“Haven’t got one,” I said.
“Really?” Morse asked, turning his blue eyes on me again. “You
were having a rather intense conversation earlier in the dining car.”
“He invited himself to our table to offer me a job,” I said.
“What kind of job?”
“Unspecified,” I said. “Also unaccepted. End of story.”
“Did he give you a name?”
“Smith.”
Morse grunted. “So what happened here?”
“I heard a scream and found him bleeding in the corridor.”
“Did you move him?”
“I rolled him onto his back to clear his windpipe,” I said. “Nothing more.”
Morse let out a hiss between his teeth and glanced over his shoulder at the vestibule. “Where the hell’s that doctor?”
“They probably had to go all the way back to third to find one,” I said. “Unless you know any working doctors who can afford first-class Quadrail seats.”
“Not many, no,” he conceded, his eyes shifting pointedly to my neat but hardly expensive suit. “Speaking of affording things, may I ask what you’re doing up here?”
“Traveling legally and minding my own business,” I said.
“Are you paying for your compartment yourself?”
“I have a rich uncle,” I said, pointedly running my eyes down his own suit. “What’s your excuse?”
He eyed me a moment as if wondering if he should challenge my conclusion. “I’m here on business,” he said instead.
“You have one hell of a generous boss,” I said. “You want to get Smith’s wallet, or should I do it?”
Morse gave me a measuring look, then slipped a hand inside the bloodied suit coat, probing one side’s pockets and then the other. “Not here,” he said. “Hopefully, it’s in his compartment and not in someone else’s pocket.”
The LifeGuard gave a soft beep, and the display lights went solid red. “Damn,” I said.
“Keep it going,” Morse said, pushing the start button again. “At least until the doctor gets here. What’s your business in the Bellidosh Estates-General, Mr. Comp-ton?”
“What’s your reason for asking?” I countered. Maybe a little too tartly, but my back was aching where I’d hit the floor and I was getting tired of the interrogation.
“I’m attempting to establish some facts,” Morse said. “You were found here on the scene, remember.”
“Your lady friend was here first,” I reminded him.
“The lady couldn’t have done this by herself.”
“Maybe she had help.”
“Maybe I’m looking at it,” Morse said, letting his voice go deep and ominous.
The LifeGuard beeped, and again the red lights came on. “You want to try for three out of three?” I asked. “Or shall we let the grim reaper have him?”
Morse’s answer was to hit the start button again.
Mentally, I shook my head. I knew the quality of the Spiders’ medical equipment, and if the LifeGuard said the victim was dead, he was dead. All Morse was going to accomplish by running the cycle again was to cover his own rear in case of an inquiry. “No, by all means let’s run it again,” I said. “We don’t want to look like we’re doing nothing when the doctor gets here.”
Morse’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t think I like your attitude. Mr. Compton.”
“Then let me get it out of your face.” I offered, standing up and starting back toward my compartment door.
Morse was faster, jumping to his feet and inserting his shoulder between me and the door. “Certainly,” he said. “After I have a look inside.”
He was half a head taller than I was, and probably better muscled. The mood I was rapidly sliding into, I didn’t care. “When hell freezes over or the Spiders elect you king,” I told him. “Get out of my way.”
“I don’t think so,” Morse said, extending an arm across the doorway to block it. “The victim was definitely beaten in the privacy of a compartment. It’s only an assumption that it was done in his compartment.” He raised his eyebrows. “And we have only your word that you hadn’t arranged an after-dinner meeting with him.”
“All very true,” I agreed. “Tell me again why that means I should let you grub around my compartment.”
“Because I’m entitled,” he said. Pulling out a wallet, he snapped it open to reveal the gold-and-platinum badge and matching ID card of the EuroUnion Security Service. “Special Agent Ackerley Morse, ESS,” he said quietly, his voice gone suddenly very formal. “You, Mr. Compton, are under suspicion of murder.”
There was only one Human doctor aboard, and the Spiders did indeed have to haul him all the way up from third class. By the time he arrived, I’d allowed Morse a quick look at my compartment.
Technically, I didn’t have to. Inside a Quadrail Tube the only laws or regulations that applied were those of the Spiders. But Morse had clearly latched on to this theory that I’d enticed Smith to his doom, and letting him into my compartment seemed the simplest way of defusing it.
Sure enough, and to his obvious disappointment, he didn’t find any bloodstains or other telltale signs of mayhem.
The doctor fussed over Smith’s body a few minutes before pronouncing him dead. One of the conductor Spiders opened compartment eleven, and with his help Morse carried the body inside.
There we did find blood. Lots of it.
“Cause of death was massive trauma and internal bleeding,” the doctor told Morse as he covered the dead man’s bruised face with the bed’s blanket. “There may have been an underlying heart problem, as well. No way to tell without a full autopsy.”
“I’ll see if the Spiders at Bellis Station can give you access to an examination room,” Morse said. He’d found Smith’s wallet in an evening jacket in the sonic cleaning rack and was sorting through it. a frown creasing his face.
“I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to help you with that.” the doctor said as he cleaned his hands. “I’m on my way to a conference on Bellis, and I’m already running late.”
“I can order you to assist,” Morse warned him.
“No, you can’t,” I said. “He hasn’t committed any crime, except possibly to annoy you.” I gestured the doctor toward the door. “Thanks for your help. Enjoy your conference.”
“Thank you.” he said, glowering briefly at Morse as he closed his bag. “I’ll leave a report with one of the conductors before we reach Bellis.”
He stepped to the doorway. The conductor standing watch from the corridor tapped his seven-legged way to the side to let him pass, then resumed his silent vigil. “Thank you so very much,” Morse growled, unloading a standard-issue ESS glare at me with both barrels. “You have any idea how important a timely autopsy is in collecting and preserving evidence?”
“Absolutely,” I assured him. “I also know it’s no less important than a close examination of the crime scene. You probably aren’t going to get that, either.”
Morse looked around the room as if suddenly remembering where we were. “You’re right. I’ll need the Spiders to detach the car.”
“Good luck.” I said. “Unfortunately, this train has a schedule to keep, and that schedule includes a compartment car pulling out with the rest of it. If they’ve got a spare at Bellis they can throw in on the spur of the moment, you might get lucky. Otherwise, forget it.”
Morse threw a hooded glare at the conductor in the doorway. “There should be agreements to cover this sort of thing,” he muttered.
“There should be free beer and onion rings at every roadside pub, too,” I said. “You don’t always get what you want.”
“Look—”
“Meanwhile, what we do have is twenty-two hours until we reach Bellis and a couple of carloads of first-class passengers,” I interrupted him. “We should probably start with interviews in the next car back. See if anyone remembers who’s been coming in and out of this one.”
“We should probably start?”
“You’d rather do it all yourself?” I shrugged. “Fine—you’re the one with the badge. Have fun.”
I
started to turn away. As I did so his hand snaked out to catch my arm, a look of sudden recognition on his face. “Compton,” he said, making the name a curse. “Frank Compton? Damn—I knew you looked familiar.”
“You’re one hell of a detective,” I said, twisting my arm out of his grip.
“And you’re one hell of a bloody bastard,” he shot back.
I blinked. Even Losutu hadn’t reacted this strongly the first time I’d met him after the Yandro embarrassment. “So I’ve been told,” I said. “What does Yandro mean to you, anyway?”
His forehead furrowed slightly, then cleared. “That’s right,” he said, still growling. “You were involved with the Yandro thing, too, weren’t you?”
“It’s been a busy few years,” I said, frowning in turn. If he hadn’t been talking about Yandro, what had he been talking about? Nearly everyone who knew me at all knew me because I’d tried to blow the whistle on the UN’s Yandro colonization scam. “But this isn’t about me,” I added, gesturing to the wallet in his hand. “Did our mystery guest have a real name?”
For a couple of seconds Morse continued to stare at me. Then, almost reluctantly, he dropped his eyes back to the wallet. “According to this, his name was John Smith.”
I cocked an eyebrow. At least he’d told the truth about that. “Really?”
“Really,” Morse said, his voice odd. “Or it was Kevin Abrams, or Emile Dorfmann, or Homer LaGrange.”
“Come again?”
“Four IDs; four credit tabs,” Morse said. He held up a handful of cash sticks. “And just over a million dollars in cash.”
“Interesting,” I said. “Sounds like he was expecting to be on the buying end of the business transaction he mentioned.” I pointed toward the wallet. “May I?”
He hesitated, then handed it over. I sorted quickly through the contents. “At least we know he wasn’t murdered for his cash or credit tags,” I said, handing it back.
“Unless there used to be more than just four of the latter,” Morse countered. “Maybe someone was hoping to pick up a new identity.”
