by Timothy Zahn
“You were brought in cold,” the Chahwyn reminded me.
“And you damn near ended up regretting it,” I said bluntly. “You can’t count on being lucky twice in a row.”
“Bayta will know whether or not he can be trusted,” he said. “You will be returned to—”
He broke off, his head turning sharply toward Bayta. Her eyes, I noted, had now risen to his.
And as they stared at each other in rigid silence, I had the eerie feeling that a battle was taking place.
I gave it about half a minute before I decided I’d been left at the kiddy table long enough. “Excuse me,” I spoke up. “I hate to break in on a private conversation, but I think I can demonstrate that you need me, and not just some random leftover Intelligence hack.”
With an effort, the Chahwyn pulled his gaze away from Bayta. “There is nothing more you can say,” he said, an edge of annoyance audible beneath the music of his voice. Probably as close to actual violence as a Chahwyn could get. “We’ll regret losing—”
“Yes, you said that already,” I growled. “A word of advice: take a good look at the nine-pack of Lynx, Hawk, and Viper sculptures that were dug up on the Nemuti planet Veerstu a couple hundred years ago.”
“The Spiders have already concluded such a study,” the Chahwyn said. “It has been delivered to you.”
“Yes, I read it,” I said. “Now I’m telling you to do one.”
The eye-ridge tufts twitched. “What exactly do you expect us to find?”
“I don’t know,” I said patiently. “That’s why I want you to do the study.”
“You must at least have a theory.”
I’d already spun Unpleasant Theory Number One for Bayta, the idea that the Modhri might be planning to barter the Nemuti collection for a new homeland. Time to trot out Unpleasant Theory Number Two. “I’m simply wondering if there might be something in the sculptures—some rare mineral or enzyme or something—that would allow Modhran coral to grow in something besides arctic-temperature water.”
I heard Bayta’s breath catch. I couldn’t blame her. If the Modhri could create a homeland without that restriction, the oceans of the galaxy would literally be open to him. He could go to ground, and we wouldn’t find him again in a thousand years of trying.
“We will search the records,” the Chahwyn said. His voice was still melodic, but I had the feeling that some of the air had gone out of his tires, too.
“I suggest you do it fast,” I said. “So . . .?”
I held my breath. But no soap. “You will be returned to your Quadrail and your service will come to an end,” he said. “As already stated.”
I grimaced. Apparently he wasn’t authorized to reverse Elder decisions just because I’d just done them a major service. Again.
The Chahwyn looked at Bayta, and I wondered if we were about to get a rematch of their earlier staring contest. But he then shifted his eyes back to me. “You have one week to return to Terra Station,” he continued. “There you will surrender your travel document to the stationmaster.”
My handy little diamond-dust-edged first-class unlimited-use Quadrail pass. I’d been hoping he would forget about that. “One week’s not much time,” I said, stalling.
“It’s more than enough,” he countered. “One week.” With that he stood and walked back to the rear of the room. A door opened, and he disappeared.
“I’m sorry,” Bayta murmured.
“Don’t be,” I assured her grimly. “It’s not over yet.”
We headed back to the baggage car in silence. One week, the time limit whispered through my mind. One week left of freedom among the Quadrail’s interstellar travelers and the lurking and conspiring Modhri mind segments. One short week.
It might just be enough.
Five minutes later we were on the move. “What did you mean that we need you and not someone else?” Bayta asked.
“Does it matter?” I countered. “They’ve made up their minds.”
Bayta’s eyes were steady on me. “I don’t want another partner, Frank,” she said quietly.
Unbidden, unwanted, a lump rose into my throat. Bayta had made it clear that she considered me her friend, though I still wasn’t ready to make such a commitment myself. “You’ve got at least one more week to be stuck with me,” I assured her. “What do you think of this latest dollop of irony?”
“Which irony is that?”
“Hardin’s little hate-mail campaign,” I said. “Or had you forgotten Künstler’s dying words?”
Bayta’s eyes widened. “Is that what he meant by ‘he hates you’?”
“What else?” I said. “Given the circles a man like Künstler traveled in, I should have thought of Hardin right from the start.”
“They must not have gotten along very well,” Bayta murmured.
“Hardin’s an ambitious multi-trillionaire, Künstler’s a rabid collector, and neither type likes losing,” I said. “Your basic cookbook recipe for making enemies. Maybe I wasn’t so far off with that crack about getting stopped on the street for autographs.”
“I’m sure Mr. Hardin has friends, too,” Bayta said diplomatically.
“And we’ll do our very best to avoid them,” I said. “Anyway, the point is that Hardin’s round-robin diatribe is at least partially responsible for getting us onto the trail of the Lynx in the first place. That’s the kind of intangible asset the Chahwyn aren’t taking into account.”
Bayta shrugged. Clearly, she didn’t see much benefit in having a trillionaire for an enemy, either. “What are we going to do?”
“I still have a week of free Quadrail travel,” I reminded her. “That should be more than enough to get us to Ghonsilya and find Fayr. The next move will depend on what he has to tell us.”
“What about Mr. Stafford and the Lynx?”
I ran the question a couple of turns around my brain. Should I tell her, or not?
Not, I decided. “If we’re lucky, we’ll be able to pick him up along the way,” I said instead. “The line out of Ian-apof should take us to Ghonsilya with only one or two train changes.”
“I suppose we can do that,” Bayta said, and I could see in her face that she was wondering what I would do if I was on Ghonsilya when the time limit on my pass ran out. Quadrail traffic, even back in third class, didn’t come cheap.
I didn’t blame her for her unspoken concerns. I was wondering about it, too. “In the meantime,” I went on, “we’ll see about taking a crack at the Hawk the walkers are sitting on.”
Bayta gave me that patented strained look of hers again. But she was apparently too drained by the encounter with the Chahwyn to argue the point. “We’ll see,” she said instead. Lowering herself to the floor, she put her back against a stack of crates and closed her eyes.
I sat down, too, and did likewise.
Because there was another reason the Chahwyn might want to reconsider firing me. A very important one.
But I wasn’t ready to let Bayta in on that secret, either. Not yet.
Especially since I might be wrong.
An hour later we reconnected with our train. As far as I could tell as we worked our way forward, no one had missed us.
The server Spiders had, of course, long since cleared away our half-empty glasses from the table where we’d left them. I ordered us two more drinks, lemonade for Bayta. iced tea for me. “Where were we?” I asked as we settled into our chairs. “Right—I was asking about the separation wall’s default settings.”
“And you were talking insanity,” she said. “The Modhri would never have put the Hawk on board unless he had enough walkers here to protect it. If we try to steal it, we might trigger the same thing that happened on our trip back from the Sistarrko system.”
“I doubt it,” I said. “Remember, there he had a source of Modhri coral to work with. I doubt he has anything like that here. Besides, who said anything about stealing the Hawk?”
She was still frowning at me when the server tapped up and
delivered our drinks. “You want to break into the compartment and not steal it?” she asked at last.
“Of course not,” I said, putting some dignity into my voice. “Stealing’s against the law. So if there’s a power glitch do the wall locks stay on or go off?”
For a moment she continued to stare at me. Then, her eyes flattened as she consulted with the experts. “They’d go off,” she said. “But the wall would still stay closed.”
“Not a problem, provided the Modhri inside doesn’t notice the power glitch,” I assured her. “And provided we’re already on the other side of the wall.”
“Which would mean breaking into the other half of that compartment.”
“Possibly,” I said. “Let’s find out first which compartment the Hawk’s in, and who has the other half.”
Neither bit of information proved difficult to collect. As with every Quadrail, conductor Spiders were continuously roaming the aisles, and a few minutes of silent interrogation and cross-checking on Bayta’s part did the trick.
“The Jurian in compartment seven is the one who hasn’t been outside since we left Jurskala,” Bayta said. “The connecting compartment is occupied by another Jurian, a diplomatic consul.”
“We can work with that,” I said. “I don’t suppose we’re lucky enough for one of Penny’s friends to have the compartment across the corridor from him.”
“No,” she said. “But Giovan Toya, one of the group, is two down from it. Will that help?”
“Not really,” I said. “But that’s okay. We’ll just have to do it on the fly.”
“How?” she asked.
“Just leave it to me,” I said, patting her hand. “Order me another iced tea, will you? I need to go find Morse.”
Morse was not amused. Not even close.
“You have got to be joking,” he growled when I’d finished outlining my plan. “You’re talking about breaking and entering. That’s a felony. Two felonies.”
“One: there won’t be any breaking involved,” I corrected. “You’re going to get him to leave; I’m going to get inside before the door closes. So no breaking. Two: the Quadrail is under Spider jurisdiction. Human and Jurian laws don’t apply.”
Morse snorted. “Somehow, I don’t think the consul will see it that way.”
“And three,” I added, “this may be the key to nailing down this whole Nemuti sculpture mystery. Possibly including the key to Rafael Künstler’s murder.”
His lip twitched at that one. No doubt he still thought I was involved with Künstler’s death. “It’s still lunatic,” he insisted. “Why would a ranking Jurian diplomat get himself involved in theft and murder?”
“Why does anyone get involved in that sort of mess?” I countered, looking quickly for a reason that didn’t require me to mention the Modhri. “Greed, blackmail, bad judgment, even just being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Pick one.”
“Wrong place and rime certainly seems to be my problem these days,” Morse muttered.
“A quick look inside his compartment, and I’m done,” I promised.
“And that’s all you’re doing?” he asked, gazing hard at me. “Fair is fair, Compton. I’m sticking my neck out here, far enough to look backward down the Chunnel. I need the whole story.”
“You have it,” I assured him, stifling a twinge of conscience. He didn’t have the whole story, of course. He barely had the first page. But I couldn’t give him all of it. Not yet. “I get in, I look for the Hawk, and I get out.”
“And you promise that this is it?” Morse persisted. “That if the Hawk’s not there you aren’t going to want to work your way through all the rest of the compartments?”
“Scout’s honor,” I said. “If the consul hasn’t got it, the entire theory department’s back to square one.”
For a moment he continued to measure me with his eyes. Then, he shook his head. “Losutu had better be right about you,” he said. “All right. Tell me what you want me to do.”
We waited until late in the Quadrail’s night schedule, hoping to increase the chances that the Hawk’s courier would be sleeping. Whether the Modhri colony inside him would also be asleep, unfortunately, was anyone’s guess.
Morse didn’t know about that part, of course. My rationale to him was that the late hour would catch the Jurian consul in the other compartment in a half-awake state where he might be more easily manipulated.
It was a few minutes after one o’clock when Morse carefully positioned himself in front of the consul’s door and touched the chime button.
A minute went by. Nothing. Morse glanced over at Bayta and me as we leaned against the corridor wall five meters farther forward, pretending to be engaged in a heartfelt conversation. I nodded toward the door, and Morse keyed the chime again. Another half minute went by, and then the door slid open and a Jurian face leaned out. eyes blinking groggily above his beak. “What is this you do, Human?” he demanded.
“My name’s Morse,” Morse said, holding up his ID wallet. “Terran Confederation EuroUnion Security Service. We have a situation two cars back that requires the assistance of a Resolver.”
“I am not a Resolver,” the Juri said. But I could hear the growing interest in his voice. All Jurian diplomats had at least a modicum of Resolver training, and a lot of them had ambitions in that direction. Getting called in to fix a social problem aboard a Quadrail would be a nice step toward that goal.
“I was misinformed,” Morse said, playing it with a perfect mix of respect and regret. “My apologies.”
“Not so hastily, Mr. Morse,” the Juri said, lifting a hand to block Morse’s departure. “Perhaps I can still assist.”
“I wouldn’t want to disturb you,” Morse said.
“It would be my honor to assist,” the Juri said. “Permit me a moment to garb myself.”
He stepped back into the room and the door slid shut. Morse looked back at me, his eyebrows raised questioningly. I nodded encouragement as I straightened up from the section of wall I’d been leaning against and prepared for action. I’d spent an hour practicing this maneuver in one of Penny’s friends’ compartments, but it was still going to take perfect riming to pull it off.
Morse nodded back and gave one last look at my rolled-up belt peeking from between his feet, looking for all the world like a large black snail or nautilus shell. Most people, I knew, seldom looked down unless there was some actual reason to do so. I hoped the Juri was like most people.
The door slid open again and the Juri stepped out into the corridor, nattily attired now in full diplomatic regalia. He must really want that promotion to Resolver. “Take me to this conflict,” he ordered Morse.
“This way,” Morse said, gesturing toward the rear door. As he did, I left Bayta and started walking casually toward them.
The Juri glanced incuriously at me as he stepped past Morse and headed aft. Morse fell into step beside and slightly behind him as the compartment door started to slide closed.
And as I reached the spot where Morse had been standing, I gave the coiled belt a gentle sideways nudge with my foot, sending it unrolling across the corridor and dropping its tip neatly across the path of the sliding door.
Quadrail compartment doors had built-in safeties that were supposed to make sure they didn’t close on someone in the process of passing through. But those sensors were clustered midway along the panel. Way down at the bottom, there was nothing but the backup pressure sensors designed to stop the door’s movement before it exerted any significant pressure on a Jurian back claw, Shorshian tail, or Human toe.
The key was that, unlike the main safeties, the pressure sensors would merely stop the door and wait there for further instructions.
The Juri fell for it, of course. There was practically no way he couldn’t have. He’d heard his door closing, he hadn’t heard the soft whoosh of it reopening, and the only person who’d been nearby as it closed—me—hadn’t even broken stride as I walked along behind the two of them at the corner o
f his sight.
I made sure to keep walking with them all the way to the end of the car. There I courteously allowed them to go into the vestibule first.
As soon as they’d vanished behind the door, I did a one-eighty and hurried back to the compartment. I had maybe ten minutes now while Morse searched in vain for the alleged travelers whose alleged confrontation had sent him looking for diplomatic smoothing in the first place.
Bayta was waiting, her throat muscles working nervously. “See?” I said. “No worries.” I reached into the narrow gap between door and jamb, and as my fingers triggered the safeties, the door gave its little whoosh and slid open again. I ushered Bayta inside, scooping up my belt from the floor as I followed.
The Juri’s compartment had the almost pathological neatness I’d come to expect from ambitious rank-climbing members of the galaxy’s various diplomatic corps. His personal items were precisely positioned, with the clothing hanging in the cleaning rack actually laid out in descending spectrum order of basic color. If the Hawk had been in here. I reflected, I would probably have found it filed alphabetically in his luggage.
“Douse the lights,” I murmured to Bayta as I stepped to the back of the compartment and the wall switch that controlled the collapsing divider wall.
The room went dark. A moment later. I sensed the movement of air that meant she’d joined me. “You ready?” I asked.
“As ready as I’m going to be,” she said. “Wait—the window.”
“Right.” Reaching over to the control, I opaqued the window, cutting off the last bit of faint reflected glow from the Coreline overhead. Moving back to the wall, I pressed my ear against it.
Nothing. Still, given the Spiders’ soundproofing and the clickity-clack of the wheels below me, the courier would have to have a live-spec music party going in there for me to hear anything. “Okay,” I murmured to Bayta. “Glitch number one: now.”
With the room’s lights out, there was no obvious indication that we’d just suffered a quarter-second power flicker. “Ready glitch number two,” I said, and pressed the wall release.
