Night Train to Rigel (5 page)

“Yes,” she said, taking another sip of her lemonade and getting to her feet. “And don’t worry. I won’t tell the Spiders about… you know.”

“Thank you,” I said, standing up as well. Actually, I didn’t much care whether or not the Spiders heard about my crisis of confidence. My main reason for having this conversation somewhere other than in my compartment was to see if there would be any obvious fuss on the Spiders’ part when I moved out of range of their little Saarix booby trap.

But there hadn’t been any such reaction, or at least none I’d been able to see, which left me basically where I’d started. Maybe all the fuss would happen later.

Still, the conversation had given me at least a partial handle on Bayta. That was worth something.

And at the very least, the iced tea had been good.

Eight hours later, right on schedule, we pulled into Yandro Station.

I had set the compartment’s display window to show a dit rec of travel through the Swiss Alps, mostly because west-central EuroUnion trains and this kind of intrigue just seemed to go together. Now, as we angled downward from the main Tube into the station, I shut down the dit rec and turned the window transparent.

All the Quadrail stations I’d ever been to had looked pretty much alike, all of them variations on the same basic theme. Yandro’s was no exception, the variation in this case being the number and distribution of the support buildings. Only two of the thirty tracks spaced around the cylinder carried trains that actually stopped here, all others merely passing through on their way to more important places. Ergo, only two of the tracks had passenger stations and cargo loading cranes built alongside them.

Considering the minuscule level of traffic involved, even that was overkill. I found the old frustrations rising again like stomach acid as we pulled to a halt and I saw there were only six passengers waiting to board. At a trillion dollars to put in the station, Yandro’s colonists were going to have to sell a hell of a lot of fancy lumber to ever earn back that investment.

At the far edge of my view, I saw Bayta striding across the platform toward one of the two maintenance buildings, trying not to look too much like she was hurrying. She disappeared inside and I checked my watch, hoping she was doing the same. A fifteen-minute stop wasn’t very long, and for all their professed willingness to cooperate I doubted the Spiders would go so far as to make the train late for us.

Bayta apparently didn’t have any illusions in that regard, either. She emerged from the building with ninety seconds to go and crossed the platform in a sprint that would have done an Olympic runner proud. Even then, I wasn’t sure she’d actually made it aboard until she arrived at my compartment two minutes later, still breathing a little heavily. “All set,” she said as she dropped onto the curve couch. “The stationmaster will pass on the request. The data should be ready by the time we reach Kerfsis. It’ll be delivered to our compartment on the next train we take.”

“Good,” I said, checking my watch, now set to our particular Quadrail’s internal time. It was just after ten in the evening of the Spiders’ standard twenty-nine-hour day, with nine more hours to Kerfsis Station. Enough time for a good night’s sleep plus breakfast before we arrived.

I was just wondering if I should go to the bar first for a quick nightcap when the door chime sounded.

I looked at Bayta. “You expecting someone?” I asked in a low voice.

She shook her head, the comers of her mouth suddenly tight. “It’s not a Spider,” she said.

The chime came again. I thought about sending Bayta back to her own compartment, decided there wasn’t enough time to unfold the wall without the delay looking suspicious. “Washroom,” I ordered her, standing up and crossing to the door. I waited until she had disappeared into the cubicle, then touched the release.

It was a pair of Halkas: flat-faced, vaguely bulldoglike beings who could talk a man’s leg off at twenty paces and had a passion for Earth-grown cinnamon. “Whoa,” the shorter of them announced, his breath thick with the distinctive burnt-acetate smell of their species’ favored intoxicant. “This isn’t Skvi. It’s a Human.”

“I believe you’re right,” the taller one agreed, leaning forward and squinting as if having trouble focusing on me. “Interesting snouts on this species.”

“Can I help you?” I asked, stepping into the doorway just in case they had it in mind to come in without waiting to be asked.

The shorter one waved a hand, his hollow double-reed claw sheaths whistling like a distant oboe with the gesture. “We seek a friend,” he said. “A fellow Halka. Our apologies for the disturbance.”

“No problem,” I said, smiling genially as I gave his eyes a quick but careful look. “I hope you find him.”

“If he is here, then we shall,” he intoned solemnly, pulling his lips back in a smile which made his face look even flatter. Taking his companion’s arm, he turned and continued unsteadily down the corridor, tapping his claws rhythmically against the side wall as if trying to make sure it didn’t get away from him.

I stepped back into the compartment and touched the control. The door started to close; and as it did so, I quickly leaned my head back out again.

The two Halkas were still walking away from me. But there was no longer any sign of staggering or wall-tapping. Just as there hadn’t been the pupil dilation of a real Halkan high.

Fake drunks. And by inference, a fake errand.

I pulled my head back again before the door could close far enough for the automatic safeties to kick in, letting it slide shut in front of me. “Who was it?” Bayta asked, coming out of the washroom.

“A couple of Halkas looking for a friend,” I told her as I snagged my jacket from the clothes rack. “You didn’t happen to notice anyone following you when you got back onto the Quadrail just now, did you?”

Her forehead creased. “I don’t know—I wasn’t really watching. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I said as I punched the door release. “Don’t wait up.”

The two Halkas were already out of sight, having either passed through the car’s rear door or else gone into one of the other first-class compartments along the way. Not especially feeling like ringing door chimes at this hour, I continued to the end of the car and pushed the release. The door slid open, and I crossed the swaying vestibule into the first-class coach car beyond.

Late evening it might be by the Spiders’ clocks, but you wouldn’t have known it from the activity level. The card games were still going strong, several of the chairs having been repositioned as old conversation circles had broken up and new ones formed. The overhead lighting had been dimmed to a soft nighttime glow, but with each seat sporting its own reading light the only difference was that the brightness started at chest height instead of up at the ceiling. A few of the passengers were dozing in their seats, sonic neutralizers built into their headrests suppressing the commotion around them.

There were several Halkas in evidence, some of them playing cards, others conversing or snugged down for sleep. I zigzagged my way slowly through the car, looking at each of them in turn. Halkan faces were difficult for human eyes to distinguish between, but I’d had some training in the technique, and I was eighty percent sure that none of these were the ones I was looking for. Certainly there wasn’t anyone dressed the way my visitors had been.

I’d made it halfway through the car, and was starting to pick up my pace toward the rear door, when a human voice cut through the general murmur. “And Yandro makes five.”

I froze in my tracks, my eyes darting that direction. An older man in a casual suit was sitting a couple of seats to my right, his face half in shadow from his reading light, his lips curled in a sort of half smile as he gazed up at me. “Come, now,” he said reprovingly. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your own catchphrase.”

For another second I stared at him, my mental wheels spinning on their tracks. Then my mind edited in the missing mustache and beard, and it abruptly clicked: Colonel Terrance Applegate, Western Alliance Intelligence. Once upon a time, one of my superiors. “It wasn’t
my
catchphrase,” I said stiffly, and started to move on.

“My apologies,” he said, holding up a hand. “A poor attempt at humor. Please, sit down.”

I hesitated. As far as I was concerned, tracking my two Halkas was way higher on my priority list than reminiscing about the bad old days. Especially with one of the people who had made the last of those days so bad in the first place.

But on the other hand, we were on a Quadrail, and aside from the restrooms and first-class compartments there weren’t a lot of places aboard where anyone could hide. And I had to admit a certain curiosity as to what a midlevel West-ali officer’s rear end was doing in a first-class Quadrail seat. “An extremely poor attempt. Colonel,” I told him, stepping through the maze of chairs to an empty one at his side. Swiveling it around to face him, I sat down. “So how are things at Westali?”

“About the same, or so I hear,” he said. “And it’s
Mr
. Applegate now. I resigned my commission eight months ago.”

I looked significantly around the car. “Looks like you traded up.”

He shrugged, retrieving a half-full glass from his seat’s cup holder. “Debatable. I’m working for the UN.”

“How nice for you,” I said, keeping my voice neutral. I’d never been able to prove it, but I’d long suspected there had been UN pressure behind Westali’s decision to sack me. “And you’re already up to whatever rarefied level gets you expense chits for first-class Quadrail travel?”

“Hardly,” he said dryly. “I’m just here to hold the hands of those who are.”

“Don’t tell me you’re back on bodyguard duty.”

“Don’t laugh,” he warned, his lips smiling but his voice only half joking. “I could still take on five of you young whelps and beat you to a pulp.”

“I’m sure you could,” I said, deciding for once in my life to be diplomatic.

“But, no, I’m actually more of a consultant,” he went on. “Deputy Director Losutu is on his way to talk with the Cimmaheem about buying some starfighters, and he wanted a military expert along to check them out,”

So Biret Losutu was here, too. This just got better and better. “Isn’t that a little risky, politically speaking?” I suggested. “I thought the UN’s official stance was that Terran-built starfighters are as good as anything else on the market.”

Applegate snorted. “And you and I both know what a piece of Pulitzer-Prize-winning fiction
that
is. But then, the UN hardly invented the art of hypocrisy.”

I thought of all the crocodile tears shed on my behalf as I was summarily kicked out of my job, some of those tears coming from Applegate himself. “I don’t suppose they invented the art of political spindrift, either.”

“Fortunately, that won’t be necessary in this case,” he said with a wry smile. “The Cimman fighters are slated for duty at Yandro and New Tigris. We both know how many people will see them
there
.”

“There’s still the hole that much money will leave in the UN’s budget,” I pointed out. “
Somebody’s
bound to notice.”

“Maybe,” he conceded. “But you know what they say: A billion here, a billion there, and pretty soon you’re talking about real money. Anyway, we’re only talking about half a trillion for the eight fighters we’re looking at, unless we decide to go with something bigger. That’s what I’m here to help decide.” He took a sip of his drink, eyeing me over the rim of his glass. “But enough about me. What are
you
doing here?”

“Nothing much,” I said. “A little sightseeing.”

“Really.” His eyes flicked to the door I’d come through a minute earlier. “Who died and left you the fortune?”

“It’s business sightseeing,” I said. Fortunately, I’d already worked out a cover story, though I hadn’t expected to need it this early in the trip. “I’ve been hired by a big travel consortium to scope out new vacation packages to pitch to jaded tourists.”

“Ah,” he said with a knowing look. “And, of course, a proper scoping requires proper accommodations?”

“Just part of the job,” I agreed. “Unfortunately, we also cater to the less than obscenely wealthy, so I’ll be switching to second- and third-class seats not too far down the line.”

Applegate grunted. “A pity,” he said. “I gather you’re skipping New Tigris and Yandro and starting your survey with the Jurian Collective?”

“What makes you think I haven’t already checked them out?” I countered.

“Two things.” He lifted up a finger. “One, because we both know there’s nothing at either place that would entertain a tourist for fifteen minutes.” He smiled wryly as he raised a second finger. “And two, because I saw you get on at Terra Station.”

I blinked. “You were
there
?”

He nodded. “Came in along the diplomatic route via Rome and Elfive,” he said. “Damned torchliner ran late, too—we nearly didn’t make it. Why, shouldn’t I have been there?”

“No, of course you should,” I said, feeling some professional annoyance with myself for not having noticed him. Global awareness was something field agents were supposed to cultivate. “I didn’t mean it that way. Was Losutu there with you?”

“No, he and the Cimman sales reps came on at New Tigris,” Applegate said. “They’d been out there looking over the system.”

“And where were you exactly?” I persisted, still not believing I could have missed spotting him.

“I was already at the platform when your shuttle came in,” he said with a knowing smile. “Relax—even Westali field training fades away over time. Besides, you were busy glaring at the Spider who walked off with your luggage. Did you get it back, by the way?”

“Yes,” I assured him, glancing around the car. This was not a line of conversation I wanted to pursue just now. “And I really should get going.”

“Why?” Applegate asked, waving me back down as I started to get up. “Oh, sit—sit. You’re not worried about Losutu, are you?”

“What, worry about a man who once said he wished I would just go away or die or something?” I reminded him darkly.

Applegate snorted. “Oh, please. Losutu talks a blustery day, but he has way too big a turnover in enemies to worry about some minor two-year-old political embarrassment. In fact, once he finds out you’re aboard, chances are he’ll invite you for a drink.”

“Why? Does the bar serve hemlock?”

“Hardly,” Applegate said, his smile fading as he turned serious. “Off the record, Frank, Director Klein’s been having trouble with the Western Alliance Parliament over a couple of his proposals. It could be that a former Westali agent like yourself might be able to suggest ways of soothing their fears and getting them on board.”

“Isn’t that why
you’re
here?”

He shrugged. “It never hurts to get a second opinion.”

“Ah,” I said, feeling the cynic in me rising to the surface. “Besides which, there’s a chance that the handful of Alliance reps who jumped on my bandwagon back then might be favorably influenced if I came out with a ringing endorsement of the Directorate’s proposals?”