The Third Lynx (4 page)

She shook her head. “I can’t,” she said. “All the compartments are booked.”

I scowled at the nearest Spider as he strode purposefully across the station on his seven slender legs, his central metallic globe reflecting the colors of the Coreline’s light show. As recently as a few months ago. the Spiders had made a point of keeping a double compartment open for us on all trains in our vicinity.

Still, to be fair, we
had
been heading the opposite direction. “Can you pull rank or something?” I asked.

“There’s nothing left,” Bayta said with the impatient tone of someone who’s already answered the question. “They were all booked three weeks ago.”

I frowned. “By our fifteen nervous Bellidos?”

“They—” She broke off. “Actually, yes, they were,” she continued, her impatience fading away. “There’s one Juri who’s continuing on from Misfar, but the rest are all new Belldic passengers.”

And all of them heading to a Nemuti world. “What about ordinary first-class seats?” I asked. “Can you get us a couple of them?”

“You mean… just
seats
?” she echoed warily. “With walkers aboard?”

“Does that really make a difference?” I countered. “You know as well as I do that if they really want us a compartment door isn’t going to hold them for long.”

She swallowed. “I suppose not,” she said in a low voice.

“Don’t worry, the Modhri’s not going to throw away any of his walkers just for a little revenge,” I soothed. “With his homeland wrecked, he can’t afford to waste any of his resources without a damn good reason, and that includes his walkers. As long as we don’t bother him, I don’t think he’ll bother us.”

“You assume.”

“Okay, yes, I assume,” I conceded. “But either way, this is too intriguing to pass up.”

She nodded, still looking unhappy at the prospect of sharing a Quadrail car with an unknown number of Modhran walkers. “All right. We have seats.”

“Good girl.” I glanced at my watch. “As long as the Spiders are tracking down our mysterious Daniel Mice anyway, they might also see what they can find about this Nemuti Lynx. It’ll be fairly obscure—I already searched my encyclopedia and came up dry.”

“Mine didn’t have anything, either,” Bayta confirmed. “I doubt anyone here will know. Can they put the information in a data chip and deliver it to us somewhere down the line?”

“That should work,” I said. “But make sure they put a high-priority stamp on it. This is no time to be flying blind.”

“They’ll get it to us as quickly as they can,” she assured me.

I looked back across the station at the train we’d just left, where a pair of drudges were crowding close beside the door of the first-class compartment car. Morse was there, too, standing off to the side. Lady Dorchester near him. Even at this distance I could see they both looked stiff and unhappy.

And as we all watched, the Spiders maneuvered a covered stretcher out through the door and onto the platform.

No weapons were allowed aboard the Spiders’ nice, clean, safe Quadrail. So someone had simply beaten a middle-aged man to death.

Whoever was playing this game, they were playing it for keeps.

Of the twelve civilizations served by the Quadrail system—people-groups which the Spiders liked to refer to as empires—seven had been riding the rails since the beginning. The rest of us had dribbled into the club over the centuries since then, with Humans being the most recent to join, three decades ago.

Our people-group, of course, consisted of Earth and four pathetic little colony systems, while at the other end of the spectrum the Shorshians had literally thousands of worlds to call their own. Nevertheless, to the Spiders we both qualified as galactic empires.

A lot of Humans tended to strut a little over that alleged equality. I had no idea what the Shorshians thought of the whole thing. Probably they just accepted it as one of the Spiders’ peculiarities and ignored us as best they could.

The Spiders had a lot of peculiarities, and a lot of secrets. I knew more about them than most people, and even I didn’t have anything close to a complete picture. All I really knew was that the Spiders were being directed from behind the scenes by the Chahwyn, a below-the-radar alien race who had survived the galaxy’s rebellion against the Shonkla-raa.

I also knew that, strictly speaking, the Quadrail was a fraud.

A benevolent fraud, perhaps, but a fraud nonetheless. The trains, the thousands of light-years of four-railed track, the whole damn Tube system—none of it had anything to do with the light-year-per-minute speeds the galaxy was privileged to enjoy.

The effect was due solely to the Coreline that ran down the center of each Tube. Lurking inside the light-show window dressing the Spiders had set up was some kind of exotic quantum thread. An object moving parallel to the Thread at close range picked up terrific speed, with that speed increasing the closer to the Thread the object got.

That was how the message cylinders that carried the galaxy’s information managed to travel so much faster than the trains themselves. Once out of the station and away from prying eyes, an outgoing train would kick its cylinder up into the loose mesh that surrounded the Coreline, where it zipped along until kicked back down to another train coming into the next station along the way.

A cynically minded person might assume the Spiders maintained the fraud in order to rake in the money the rest of us had to pay for interstellar transport. But there was more to it than that. A lot more. With the Tube severely limiting access to the Thread’s vicinity, the Spiders could maintain tight control over everything that traveled between the stars. Specifically, they could restrict war-class weapons, limiting such transfers to legitimate governments, and then only in order to beef up the defenses at those governments’ own colony worlds.

Which meant that anyone who wanted to make trouble on someone else’s turf would end up going against warships with the military equivalent of popguns. With the Tube in place, and the Spiders controlling the Tube, interstellar war was impossible.

With the Tube gone, all bets would be off. Anyone would be able to build warships and troop transports and self-guiding weapons and send them zipping along the Thread to the next empire down the line.

And they would. I knew enough about alien psychology, and more than enough about the Human version, to know that if interstellar travel was open and unrestricted we would soon have the sort of massive power struggles that had plagued Earth for most of its history. The Thread had enabled the Shonkla-raa to enslave most of the galaxy, and the Spiders and Chahwyn were determined not to let it happen again.

They’d been doing a pretty good job of it, too, until the Modhri showed up.

The first-class car Bayta and I found ourselves in was identical to all the others I’d seen during the months I’d been working with the Spiders. The seats were large and comfortable, with automatic cushion adjustments that could accommodate the full range of passenger rear ends. Each seat had its own reading light, drink holder, and music system, plus an eyeshade and sonic neutralizer for when the occupant grew tired of the genteel party atmosphere that usually pervaded first class and wanted to get some sleep. The chairs here were also mobile, and could be moved around to create conversation or game circles, swiveled for a view of whatever was playing on each of the car’s display windows, or just moved off into a corner for reading or quiet contemplation.

The passenger roster was also pretty typical of what I’d seen before, consisting of the rarefied upper crust of a variety of the galaxy’s species. In second and third class, travelers tended to segregate themselves by species. Not so in first. Juriani and Halkas, Bellidos and Pirks, Humans and Cimmaheem—we were all just one big happy family.

Of course, for the passengers the Modhri had co-opted, the family metaphor was literally true.

But if the Modhri mind segment I assumed was riding our train recognized Bayta and me, he apparently decided to play it cool. There were no obvious stares or scowls from any of the passengers, and certainly no attempts to make any trouble. In fact, aside from a few curious looks at our nonrarefied-upper-crust clothing, the rest of the car’s occupants pretty much ignored us.

As for the fifteen Bellidos who’d arrived at Bellis Station under armed escort, they seemed to be keeping to their compartments one car forward.

Still, there was one amenity even a first-class compartment lacked, and that was personal food service. As the hours crept by. in ones and twos, the reclusive Bellidos began passing through our car on their way to the first-class dining car just behind us. Lounging in my seat, my legs propped up comfortably and my reader nestled in the crook of my elbow just for show, I took careful mental notes.

The first stop on our way back toward Human space was the Greesovra system, one of the Belldic regional capitals, seven hours out from Bellis. A few of our car’s passengers, mostly Bellidos, got off there, to be replaced by a slightly more varied group of new arrivals. With a Spider conductor standing the usual watch at each of the train’s doors, Bayta was able to confirm that all the passengers in the first-class compartments stayed put.

I’d hoped those seven hours would be long enough for the Spiders to do the Nemuti Lynx and Daniel Mice research I’d asked for. But the train pulled out of Greesovra Station without word being passed to Bayta that any such data chips were waiting to be picked up.

Three hours later we reached Dyar. the train’s final stop in the Bellidosh Estates-General. Again, there was some shuffling of passengers, though not as much as we’d seen at Greesovra. Again, not a peep from the Spiders about my data requests.

But I’d made some progress of my own with our mysterious Gang of Fifteen, as I’d privately dubbed them. The stripe patterns of Belldic faces were fairly easy for Human eyes to distinguish between, and over the past ten hours most of the Bellidos had made at least one trip back to the dining car.

All of them, that is, except two.

“The conductor says they’re in compartments two and three,” Bayta said as we had some dinner of our own in one of the dining car’s back comers.

“Is that where the two carryout meals we saw ended up?” I asked.

“There weren’t any Spiders in the car at the time, so I don’t know for sure,” Bayta said. “But it’s a safe assumption.”

I cut off another bite of steak and popped it into my mouth. It was a very good steak, though I couldn’t for the life of me identify which animal it had come from. Travel might be broadening for the mind, but it could be very confusing for the taste buds. “Did those two have any special luggage?”

“There were four standard rolling carrybags between them,” Bayta said. “One of them was also carrying a shoulder bag.”

With something inside he hadn’t wanted to risk letting get even a meter away from him? “Is there any way the Spiders can get them out of there?”

“You mean
force
them to leave their compartments?” Bayta asked, looking shocked that I would even make such a suggestion. “No, of course not.”

“I’m not asking the Spiders to declare open war on them.” I said patiently. “I just want them out for a few minutes so I can see what they’re carrying.”

“No,” Bayta said firmly. “There’s nothing they can do.” Her cheek muscles tightened. “Not
will
do.
Can
do.”

I grimaced. But she was probably right. The Spiders had been genetically engineered to be passive, just like their Chahwyn masters, which was why the whole group of them were forced to rely on less civilized beings like Fayr and me to handle the rough stuff for them.

Still, it was that same lack of aggression that had kept them from simply taking over the galaxy and everything in it after the Shonkla-raa were destroyed. It was, I supposed, a fair enough trade-off.

But it did mean Bayta and I were pretty much on our own. “New question, then,” I said. “Is there any way
we
can get them out of there? Maybe create some sort of disturbance, like a fake fire or something?”

I’d thought she’d hit her top scandalization level with my last suggestion. I’d been wrong. “Are you
serious
?” she demanded, her eyes going even wider. “There’s never been a fire of any size on a Quadrail train. Ever.”

“I’m aware of the Spiders’ enviable safety record,” I said. “But this is war, remember?”

“If
they’re walkers,” she countered. “We don’t know that for sure. They might just be nervous businessmen or couriers.”

I glared across the bar at a petite serving Spider making his way between the tables. Catch-22. Unless and until I could prove the Gang of Fifteen were an immediate threat to us or the Spiders or the Quadrail, Bayta wouldn’t support any drastic action against them. And without drastic action I probably couldn’t get her that proof.

I would just have to do something clever.

Taking another bite of steak, I pulled out my reader and called up our schedule. From Dyar to the Human colony of Helvanti was seven hours, four of which had already passed. That left me three hours to talk Bayta into the scheme starting to take shape in the back of my mind.

The mood she was in, I suspected it would take every minute of those three hours to pull it off.

Helvanti had been the first of Earth’s colonies, the original colonist survey teams having headed into the system nearly twenty-five years ago and the official Quadrail station being commissioned and built four years after that.

Unlike humanity’s other three colonies, though, Helvanti was actually thriving, its people doing a brisk business in rare metals, exotic woods, even more exotic spices, and possibly the finest chocolate in the galaxy. Still, it was definitely a minor stop, and we were only scheduled to be in the station for fifteen minutes.

It had taken me an hour to talk Bayta into my plan. Now she had fifteen minutes to do likewise to the stationmaster.

As far as I could tell, as I looked back and forth through the display window beside me, she was the only one of us getting off here, with only a single young Human couple coming aboard back at the third-class end of the train. That was about the traffic volume I would expect for Helvanti. I watched Bayta disappear inside the stationmaster’s office, then checked my watch and started my mental countdown.

The minutes ticked by, the platform outside settling into the character of a dit rec western ghost town. With four minutes yet to go the conductors got back on the train, though the doors themselves remained open. I kept one eye on my watch, the other on the stationmaster’s office door, and started trying to figure out what I would do if Bayta didn’t make it back in time.

With two minutes left on the clock I finally saw her emerge from the office and head toward the Quadrail at a dead run.

I exhaled a silent sigh of relief. Helvanti Station wasn’t very big, and even at a casual walk she should make it with half a minute to spare.

I’d relaxed too soon. Bayta had reached the halfway point when a pair of well-dressed Juriani and a massive pear-shaped Cimma suddenly entered my line of sight, heading across the platform from one of the cars farther back. Chatting animatedly among themselves, apparently oblivious to their surroundings, they moved directly into Bayta’s path.

She tried to swerve, but it was too late. Even as I watched the four of them came to a confused face-to-face halt and launched into one of those in-unison sidestepping farces that looks hilarious in a well-done stage comedy.

Only in this case there was nothing even remotely humorous about it. Their last-minute appearance tagged the three of them as Modhri walkers, with the clear intent of making sure Bayta didn’t make it back onto the train.

Trapping her in one of the loneliest places in the galaxy.

There was no time for planning or even conscious thought. Even before the full ramifications of the situation had sifted completely through my brain I was on my feet, weaving madly through the maze of chairs as I raced for the car’s door. I came within an ace of tangling myself in the conductor’s legs as I dodged around him; and then I was outside, sprinting across the platform toward the macabre do-si-do still going on.

One of the Juriani half turned, but he had no time for more than a startled gasp before I slammed my shoulder into him, bouncing him in turn off his companions and finally throwing off their rhythm. My hand darted past the Cimma to grab Bayta’s wrist, and I turned us back toward the train.

Only to see that it was already in motion.

I tried anyway, nearly dragging Bayta off her feet as I pulled her toward the train. But we were too late. The doors were closed, and there wasn’t nearly enough time for Bayta to get a conductor to open one of them. Swearing viciously under my breath, I gave up and slowed to a halt.

The Gang of Fifteen, and whatever it was they were carrying, were gone.