The Domino Pattern

TEN

“Hold still,” Witherspoon ordered as he gently pulled on the back of my right ear and eased the tip of his viewer into the labyrinth within.

“You just watch where you’re poking that thing.” I warned, wincing as his touch sent my ears’ background throbbing onto a new and more exciting rhythm.

“Courage. Compton,” Kennrick admonished, glancing around the otherwise deserted first-class bar as he took a sip of his brandy.

Normally this sort of examination would have been held in the dispensary. But the dispensary was more than a little crowded at the moment. Besides, the dispensary didn’t serve brandy, which Kennrick apparently liked a lot.

It also didn’t serve yogurt, which I didn’t like at all, but which my gut badly needed to help replenish its supply of helpful bacteria. “I’m saving my courage for when he pokes something in your ear,” I told Kennrick, taking a last bite and setting my spoon on the table beside my empty bowl.

“In that case, feel free to yell in agony,” Kennrick said agreeably.

“I never scream in front of the help,” I said, gesturing toward the server standing a couple of paces behind Witherspoon. The Spider, I knew, was here to keep an eye on Witherspoon’s medical bag.

Kennrick, I was pretty sure, was here to keep an eye on me.

Witherspoon let go of my ear. “Other side, please,” he instructed.

I swiveled my chair around, putting my back to Kennrick and the table. “We have got to be the saddest lot of travelers in Quadrail history,” Kennrick mused as Witherspoon dug his viewer into my other throbbing ear. “Give us a drum and a couple of fifes and we’d be right at home in a Western Alliance historical painting.”

“It’s worse back in the dispensary,” I reminded him.

“They were included in my list,” he said, his voice grim. “Damn it all. I still can’t believe this is happening.”

“You mean the fact that your contract team is falling over like dominoes?” I asked.

“And the fact that the Spiders haven’t lifted a leg to stop it.” he growled. “I thought they were supposed to keep weapons off their damn trains.”

“What weapons?” I countered. “Like you said earlier, cadmium’s found in any number of gadgets used all over the galaxy. And people bring antiseptic sprays onto Quadrails all the time.”

“Sprays strong enough to penetrate all the way into Filiaelians intestines?”

“I’ll admit that’s a new one.” I conceded. “The point remains that up to now nothing that’s been used has qualified as a standard weapon.”

“They’re supposed to screen for nonstandard weapons, too,” Kennrick growled. “You about done there, Doc?”

“Almost.” Witherspoon said. “And I think our energies would be better spent in figuring out how we can prevent this from happening again instead of trying to assign blame.”

“Hear, hear,” I said. “Actually, that’s the main reason I wanted the two of you here while Dr. Witherspoon checked me over. I thought it was about time we all had a nice quiet conversation together.”

“You wanted me here?” Kennrick asked. “The conductor said it was Dr. Witherspoon who sent for me.”

“It was,” I agreed. “A quiet conversation is the reason I let him do it. Doc? What’s the verdict?”

“No permanent damage that I can see,” Witherspoon reported, putting the viewer back into his bag and pulling out a packet of QuixHeals. “But both your eardrums are going to be tender for a while.” He grimaced, his fingers digging briefly beneath his shirt collar to gingerly touch the back of his neck. “As will your neck,” he added. “A few days on QuixHeals and you should be mostly back to normal.”

“So what did you want to talk about?” Kennrick asked.

“Obviously, what’s been going on aboard this train,” I said. “Dr. Witherspoon has a theory.”

The sudden change in conversational direction caught Witherspoon by surprise. “I do?” he asked, sounding bewildered.

“Of course,” I said. “You think I did it.” It was Kennrick’s turn to be caught flatfooted. “You?” he demanded.

“That’s right,” I said, watching Witherspoon closely. Under our dual gaze, he was starting to look a little squirmy. “Di-Master Strinni may have died with his hands making the sign-language symbols for F and C. Dr. Witherspoon thinks they’re my initials.”

“Ridiculous,” Kennrick said. “Sorry, Doc, but it’s ridiculous.”

“Why?” Witherspoon countered. “We know nothing about Mr. Compton. Who he is, who he’s working for, or what he’s doing on this train.”

“He’s annoyed that I pointed out he’d been with two of the victims before they died.” I stage-whispered to Kennrick. “Actually, with Givvrac, we’re now up to three out of four.”

“And who knows how many of them you dealt with?” Witherspoon shot back. “You or your Spider friends.”

“Easy, Doc,” Kennrick soothed. “You’ve got the wrong end of the stick here. Whatever Mr. Compton is now, what he was was Western Alliance Intelligence.”

Witherspoon drew back a little, his eyes narrowing. “Westali?”

“That’s right,” I confirmed.

“You know this for a fact?” Witherspoon asked.

“I do,” Kennrick confirmed.

“How?”

A muscle twitched in Kennrick’s cheek. “He was—”

“I was involved in an operation at the law office where he was working a few years ago,” I jumped in.

Witherspoon’s wary look shifted to Kennrick. “Was Mr. Kennrick the target?” he asked pointedly.

“No,” I said. It was mostly true. “And to answer your next question, I left the service voluntarily.” That was also mostly true, though I certainly wouldn’t have volunteered to resign if I hadn’t been pressured to do so. “I can give you references, if you still want to check up on me after we reach Venidra Carvo. Won’t do you much good right now, though.”

“I’ll get the list from you later,” Witherspoon said, visibly relaxing a bit. “Did di-Master Strinni know about your history? Is that why he left us your initials?”

“We don’t even know that they were initials, let alone mine,” I reminded him. “They could have stood for First Class, Fried Chicken, or even Feeling Crappy. If he knew Human sign language at all, which we still haven’t established.”

“It’s not impossible,” Kennrick said. “I’ve seen a number of non-Humans using Human sign language over the years. Business people especially—some companies like to have a way of communicating in private across crowded rooms. I don’t know about di-Master Strinni specifically, though.”

“Maybe Master Tririn will know,” I said. “In the meantime, now that my pedigree’s been established, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“I’ve got one of my own first,” Kennrick said. “Are you operating under the authority of the Spiders on this?”

“They’ve asked me to investigate the deaths, yes,” I said.

“Is this a one-time thing, or does your association with them predate this particular trip?” he persisted. “The reason I ask is because Pellorian Medical’s policy is to always cooperate with the authorities, even if that cooperation leads to the disclosure of confidential company information. But that only applies to authorities with genuine credentials, not some thrown-together posse of rent-a-cops.”

“I could probably order the Spiders to throw you off the train,” I offered. “Would that that qualify as adequate authority?”

“I’d say so,” Kennrick said. “Sorry, but murders or not, Dr. Witherspoon and I still have to cover our own rear ends here. What do you want to know?”

“Let’s start with the obvious,” I said. “Do you know of anyone who might have had it in for your contract team?”

“Or Shorshians and Filiaelians in general,” Witherspoon put in. “Don’t forget, there are two other Filiaelians being treated back there.”

I shook my head. “Collateral damage. The members of your team are clearly the targets.”

“But that’s ridiculous,” Witherspoon objected. “We’re a medical group. Why would anyone want to attack us?”

“Because you’re a medical group whose decisions will affect the distribution of millions of dollars,” I said.

“There’s your proof of Westali training,” Kennrick commented dryly. “First instinct of every government type is to assume it’s about money.”

I shrugged. “That’s because nine times out of ten it is.”

“Maybe this is the once out often that it isn’t,” Kennrick said. “Dr. Witherspoon’s right—when you’re dealing with Filiaelians and Shorshians, it’s just as likely to be about avenged honor.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Which, I’ll point out, Usantra Givvrac also mentioned.”

“Fine,” I said, giving up. To me. it was obvious this wasn’t a revenge killing. That kind of murderer usually wanted everyone to know that honor had been satisfied, which meant killing his victim in a very obvious way. Something else had to be at the root of this, though I still had no idea what.

But Kennrick and Witherspoon were clearly not yet ready to let go of the revenge straw. I might as well humor them and get it over with. “What do you know about the late members of your group?”

“Not much,” Kennrick admitted. “Doc?”

“I know that Master Colix and Asantra Dallilo have worked together on other projects in the past,” Witherspoon said. “So have Usantra Givvrac and di-Master Strinni. Maybe they managed to offend someone along the way.”

“Except that Asantra Dallilo is still alive,” I pointed out.

Kennrick grunted. “Give it a few hours.”

“He could be right,” Witherspoon rumbled. “Do you think we ought to put the rest of the contract team under guard?”

“Whose guard would you trust?” I asked. “Yours and Mr. Kennrick’s?”

“Or yours,” Witherspoon suggested.

“Or the Spiders’?” Kennrick countered.

“I doubt the Spiders have anyone to spare for escort duty,” I said, passing over the fact that they wouldn’t be much use as guards anyway. “As for me, I don’t work for you.”

“What if we hire you?” Kennrick asked.

“You couldn’t afford me,” I assured him. “Next question. I’d like your reading on where each of the recently deceased stood vis-á-vis this deal with Pellorian Medical.”

“Didn’t Usantra Givvrac give you all that earlier?” Kennrick asked, frowning.

“He gave me his take on the lineup,” I confirmed. “I want to hear yours.”

Kennrick shrugged, wincing as the movement shifted his injured ribs. “I’ve always assumed that all four Filiaelians were for the deal, along with di-Master Strinni and probably Master Colix.”

“Leaving Master Tririn and the late Master Bofiv as the only two opposed?” I asked.

“Right.” Kennrick grimaced. “But since Usantra Givvrac said it was actually four to four, I obviously miscounted somewhere.”

“So it would seem,” I agreed. “Was that the way you saw things, too, Dr. Witherspoon?”

“More or less,” he said. “I wasn’t so sure Usantra Givvrac was on our side, but I was counting on the other three Filiaelians.”

“So who else in the group is against us?” Kennrick asked.

“That’s unimportant at the moment.” I said. “So by your reckoning—”

“Why is it unimportant?” Witherspoon put in.

“Give me a minute and you’ll see,” I told him. “So by your reckoning, the victims were three for Pellorian and one against?”

“Compton—” Witherspoon began.

“Yes,” Kennrick said, holding a quieting hand toward the doctor.

“Just making sure,” I said. “Now, the important question: have either of you discussed any part of this with anyone outside Pellorian Medical since the contract team arrived on Earth?”

The light seemed to dawn in Kennrick’s eyes. “I get it,” he said, nodding. “Unfortunately, no, we haven’t. Well, I haven’t. I assume Dr. Witherspoon hasn’t, either.”

“What do you mean, unfortunately?” Witherspoon asked. “Why is it unfortunate?”

“Because if we’d told someone about the team, and that someone was relying on our count, it might show up in the pattern of killings,” Kennrick told him.

“Exactly,” I said. “It’s important to get into a murderer’s head, but sometimes it can be enough to get into his eyes. If we can figure out how he sees things, we may be able to backtrack him. So, Doctor: did you discuss the contract with anyone outside Pellorian’s walls?”

“Absolutely not,” Witherspoon said firmly.

“How about on the torchliner from Earth to Terra Station?”

“Again, no,” Kennrick said. “Ethics aside, loose talk like that can get you fired on the spot.”

“How about discussing the matter with the rest of the contract team when you thought you were in private, but where someone might possibly have been able to eavesdrop?”

“I—” Kennrick broke off, turning a suddenly uncertain look on Witherspoon. “Well, actually, I don’t really know,” he said slowly. “Torchliner acoustics aren’t as well designed as a Quadrail’s. And the four Shorshians and I did have several mealtime discussions together.”

“Did you ever take straw votes at these discussions?” I asked.

“They never did while I was present,” Kennrick said. “But they might have done so after I left. They never talked about things like that in front of me.”

“Or me,” Witherspoon seconded.

“Understandable,” I said. “I’ll try asking Master Tririn about it in the morning.”

“I’m sorry, but this still doesn’t make sense,” Witherspoon said. “If it’s about whether the contract succeeds or fails, shouldn’t the killer be eliminating only the team members who are opposing him?”

“In theory, sure,” I said. “In actual practice, focusing exclusively on his opponents would be about as clever as taking out a full-page ad announcing his intentions. He’ll need to muddy the water by killing at least one of his own side.”

“Which fits the current situation exactly,” Kennrick murmured.

“So you think he wants to defeat the contract?” Witherspoon asked.

“Possibly,” I said, eyeing Kennrick. He was gazing off into space, a thoughtful look on his face. “But we’ve got a long way to go before we start jumping at that kind of conclusion. Something else, Kennrick?”

“I don’t know.” Kennrick said slowly. “I was just wondering if Dr. Witherspoon might be right about this being a revenge thing, only the killer was only after one of the victims, not all four of them. Is it possible that he killed the others just to make his real target less apparent?”

Witherspoon hissed between his teeth. “Good God.”

“It has been done before,” I agreed. “But again, without knowing anything about the victims’ backgrounds, that theory won’t get us very far.”

“Probably not,” Kennrick conceded. “I just thought I should mention it.”

“Consider it mentioned,” I said. “Let’s switch gears a minute. Dr. Witherspoon, can you tell me anything about what happened earlier back in Osantra Qiddicoj’s coach car?”

“Not really,” Witherspoon said, fingering his neck gingerly. “I was following you to his seat when something hit me. The next thing I knew, your friend Bayta and a conductor were standing over me, trying to get me to wake up.”

“Did you hear anything before you were hit?” I asked. “The sound of the vestibule door opening behind you, stealthy footsteps, heavy breathing—anything?”

Witherspoon shook his head. “He could have materialized out of thin air for all I know.”

“Did you see or hear anything odd alter you woke up?”

“Again, no,” Witherspoon said. “Bayta and the conductor helped me back to the dispensary—and took Osantra Qiddicoj in there, too, of course—then went back to look for you.” He grimaced. “And before you ask, I have no idea why anyone would want to attack me.”

“Maybe it wasn’t you he was after, Doc,” Kennrick suggested, eyeing me speculatively. “Maybe he wanted Compton, and you were just in his way.”

“That is a thought,” Witherspoon agreed, giving me a speculative look of his own. “After all, you were the one who figured out what was wrong with the Filiaelians. If he wanted Usantra Givvrac dead, you were the one he needed to shut up.”

“Except that at the time no one knew I had the answer,” I reminded him. “Including me.”

“The attacker still might have thought you were getting close,” Witherspoon said.

“Or maybe you had something he wanted,” Kennrick said suddenly. “You still have those tissue samples from Master Colix and Master Bofiv?”

“I assume they’re still in my room,” I lied, shifting my elbow slightly against my chest to press reassuringly against the vials in my pocket. The samples from the air filter and Givvrac’s drink were indeed an obvious target for the killer to go after, which is why they’d been the first thing I’d checked when Bayta and the Spider got me out of that chair. “Any of your stuff gone, Doc?”

Witherspoon shook his head. “If it is, it’s nothing important.”

“What do you mean, if it is?” Kennrick asked, frowning. “Haven’t you checked your pockets and your bag?”

“Of course I have,” Witherspoon said. “My pockets haven’t been touched, and he made a mess of my bag when he was looking for tape to tie up Mr. Compton with.”

I focused on the medical bag still silting in the middle of our table. “What kind of mess?” I asked carefully.

“A mess kind of mess,” Witherspoon said with a touch of impatience. “Everything got moved or shifted around, with vials and pill cartridges and all dumped in the bottom. That sort of thing.”

“He dumped everything in the bottom while he was looking for tape?” I asked.

“Yes,” Witherspoon said, frowning. “What’s your point?”

I looked at Kennrick, saw the light starting to dawn there. “Doc, no one throws a bunch of vials around when they’re looking for a roll of tape,” I said. “He wanted something else in there.”

“Kindly credit me with a little intelligence, Mr. Compton.” Witherspoon growled. “I’ve checked on all my painkillers and other potentially dangerous drugs. They’re all still there. I doubt anyone would go to this much effort just to steal a packet of QuixHeals.”

“So let’s find out what was worth this much effort.” I reached over and opened the bag. “Inventory. Now.”

Witherspoon grimaced. “Fine,” he said. “But I can tell you right now that we’re not going to find anything significant.”

“Five bucks says I will,” I said nudging the bag a little closer to him.

For possibly the first time that day, I was right.

Bayta was alone in the dispensary, sitting on one of the foldout seats and gazing wearily at Usantra Givvrac’s body, when the Spider and I finally returned. “You all right?” I asked, peering at her as the Spider crossed the room and put Witherspoon’s bag back under lock and key.

“I was just thinking about this afternoon, in the bar,” she said. “When you told me that putting off a conversation usually meant that person will be the next to die.”

I winced. “I’m sorry I said that.”

“I’m sorry he’s dead.” Bayta paused. “The killer’s not finished yet, is he?”

“Doesn’t look like it,” I conceded. “You listened in on our inventory of Witherspoon’s bag?”

She nodded again. “There’s a hypo missing.”

“Right,” I said. “Inevitable, I suppose, in retrospect. The three basic ways of delivering poisons are inhalation, ingestion, and injection. With the first two mostly off the table, that leaves only the last.”

“What do you mean, mostly?” Bayta asked.

“We still haven’t totally eliminated the possibility that someone added the cadmium to the Shorshians’ food after it was delivered.” I said. “Did you check with the servers, by the way, on whether Colix and Bofiv always used the same reaches for the common dish?”

“They didn’t,” Bayta said. “All three Shorshians switched off between galla bread, prinn scoops, and rokbi sticks, with no particular pattern the servers noticed.”

“So no one could have poisoned the reaches, at least not if he was targeting specific victims,” I concluded. “That leaves our killer with a choice of poisoning the common dish—or, rather, half the common dish, since Tririn wasn’t affected—or two separate individual dishes. And all that without anyone at the table noticing. Not impossible, but pretty damn difficult.”

“Unless Master Tririn himself is the killer,” Bayta said slowly. “According to Usantra Givvrac, he was one of the four members of the team opposed to the contract with Pellorian Medical. Three of the four victims were for the contract.”

“True,” I agreed. “But that runs us immediately into another problem. Two problems, actually. If he was trying to stack the vote in his favor, Master Colix’s death already accomplishes that. So why keep killing? Especially since the second death. Bofiv’s, evens up the vote again?”

“It doesn’t make sense, does it?” Bayta admitted.

“Not yet,” I conceded. “A bigger problem with Tririn is that you’ve already proved he hasn’t been up to first class since we left Homshil, which means he had no access to Strinni or Givvrac.”

Bayta winced. “Actually, that might not be true,” she said reluctantly. “It occurred to me—a little late, I’m afraid—to ask the conductors about unlimited first-class passes. They tell me eight passes came aboard the train, but only seven of the holders are actually riding in first class.”

I stared at her. “Oh, hell.”

“I’m sorry.” Bayta apologized. “I should have asked about that sooner.”

“Not your fault,” I told her. So someone else had the same ability we did to flit back and forth between classes without a single locked door or raised eyebrow. Terrific. “If Spiders were smart enough to volunteer this stuff on their own instead of having to be asked—” I broke off. “Never mind. Water under the bridge. Very interesting water, too.”

“Because it shows that the killer had everything planned in advance?”

“And because it shows he has some serious financial backing,” I said. “I don’t suppose there’s any way of finding out who has this eighth pass?”

Bayta shook her head. “If it wasn’t used to board, the conductors won’t have that information.”

“Who would have it?” I persisted. “The stationmaster back at Homshil?”

“Yes, he would have been the one who informed the conductors about the eight passes in the first place,” she said. “But there’s no way to get a message back there until we reach Venidra Carvo.”

“Why not?” I asked. “There must be a few of your secret little sidings scattered along the way. Can’t you shoot the Spiders a telepathic message as we pass, like we did on our last trip back to Earth? They could then load the request onto a message cylinder and send it back to Homshil via one of their tenders.”

“It won’t be easy,” Bayta said doubtfully. “We don’t get very close to the Spiders when we pass a siding. That’ll make the contact difficult. We’re also going much faster then we do when we pass through a station, so we won’t be able to send anything very long or detailed.”

“Then we’ll just have to be clever.” I said, trying to kick a few of my comatose brain cells back to life. “What if we give all the conductors aboard the same message and have them line up along the length of the train? Hell, let’s give it to the servers, mites, and twitters, too. Maybe between all of them we can get enough of it across to make sense.”

For a moment Bayta was silent, either thinking it over or consulting with the Spiders. “It might work.” she said at last. “No guarantees, but it might.”

“No guarantees expected.” I assured her. “When will we pass the next siding?”

“In about six hours,” she said. “It’ll still take a while for a message cylinder to get from there to Homshil Station, though. And of course the only way to get the information back to us will be though a tender, and depending on where they have to send it from—”

“Yes, yes, I get it,” I cut her off. “But even limited information will be better than nothing. Let’s figure out the shortest way to phrase the message and then start rehearsing the Spiders.”

“All right,” she said, running a critical eye over me. “But I can do that. You’d better get to bed.”

“I’m on my way,” I promised. “One other thing.”

I hesitated, wondering if I really wanted to do this. During my last private conversation with a Chahwyn Elder I’d promised that I would hold on to their new secret as long as I could. Not just because he hadn’t wanted Bayta to know about it, but also because I agreed with him that the truth would be a troubling shock for her. Besides, at the time I’d made the promise there wasn’t any particular reason she needed to know.

But circumstances had changed. We were locked aboard a super-express Quadrail, four weeks from our destination, with a shadowy killer who’d made an art out of sneaking death past the Spiders’ sensors. We needed reinforcements, and we needed them now. “Along with the unlimited-pass information,” I said, “I want you to put in a request for a couple of the Chahwyn’s newest class of Spider.”

“There’s a new class?” she asked, frowning. “When did you hear about this?”

“When we were delivering Rebekah to her friends,” I told her. “There was a Chahwyn aboard the tender, and he and I had a little chat.”

Bayta’s face had gone very still. “You never told me about that,” she said.

“I was asked not to,” I said, wincing. The hurt in her eyes was radiating at me like a heat lamp on a bad sunburn. “There was some concern about your possible reaction to the new Spiders.”

“But you’re telling me about them now,” she said slowly. “That means you think I need to know. Because we’re in danger, or because the train’s in danger. We’re alone against a killer—”

She broke off, her face suddenly stricken. “Oh, no.” she said. “The defenders?”

I blinked. “You know about them?”

She closed her eyes, a wave of pain crossing her face. “The Chahwyn Elders have talked about the idea for years,” she said, her voice tight. “Since long before you were brought in to help us.”

“Really,” I said, trying very hard not to be annoyed and not succeeding very well. Here I’d been walking around with tape over my mouth for a solid month, worried that I’d let something slip. And now I find out Bayta had known the essentials all along? “Why didn’t you tell me about them?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she shot back, opening her eyes again to shoot a glare squarely between my eyes. “As far as I knew, the Elders were still just talking about the idea. You knew they’d actually created some of them.” The glare suddenly evaporated. “I thought you trusted me,” she said in a suddenly quiet voice.

“I do trust you, Bayta.” I said, once again wanting to reach out and take her hand. Once again, I resisted the impulse. Thought viruses …“I was told to keep it quiet, and I’m sure you were too. It’s the Elders’ fault, not yours or mine.”

“I suppose,” she said. But I could still hear the quiet hurt in her voice.

“But I’m glad it’s out in the open,” I continued, searching for a way to deflect her mind away from thoughts of distrust or betrayal. “I gather you don’t think much of the project?”

“Of course not,” she said. “It would change the character of the Spiders forever. I don’t want that.”

“Unless they only make a few of them.”

“You really think they’ll stop there?” she countered. “With the Modhri threat the way it is? I’ve read about arms races, Frank. They never stop. Ever.”

“Not until one side or the other goes down, anyway,” I conceded. “Maybe the Elders don’t think they’ve got any other choice.”

“Of course we have a choice,” Bayta said, her voice suddenly the color of despair. “We can end it. We can retreat back to Viccai and end everything.”

I winced, glancing at the open dispensary door. We really shouldn’t be talking about things like this in the middle of a crowded train. But the Spider who’d dropped off Witherspoon’s case was standing just outside in the corridor, clearly on guard against eavesdroppers.

As well he should be. The Quadrail was essentially a fraud, the reality of its magic a closely kept secret I’d stumbled across on my first mission for the Spiders. The Tube and trains were nothing more than window dressing for the exotic quantum thread that ran down the center of the Coreline. Traveling close to the Thread was what allowed a vehicle to travel at speeds of a light-year per minute or better, the actual speed depending on how close the closest part of the vehicle was to the Thread. Anything inside the vehicle, connected to it, or even just touching it ran at the same speed, with no tidal or other nasty effects to deal with.

The problem the Chahwyn had faced when hoping to restart interstellar travel after the defeat of the Shonkla-raa was that you didn’t need a train for the Thread to do its magic. You could just cozy up to it with a torchliner or torchyacht or even a garbage scow, and you’d be off to the races.

Which would have been fine if the Chahwyn could have trusted everyone in the Twelve Empires to stick with torchliners and garbage scows. Unfortunately, they couldn’t. That was how the Shonkla-raa had conquered the galaxy in the first place, sending their warships along the Thread to the galaxy’s inhabited systems, destroying or enslaving everything in their path.

And if the Threads secret became common knowledge, there was no reason to believe someone else wouldn’t take a crack at replicating that achievement. Hence, the Quadrail, with its limited points of entry, its massive station-based sensor arrays, and its strict no-weapons rules.

But if the galaxy ever got a whiff of the truth, it would be all over. “You can’t be serious,” I said to Bayta. lowering my voice despite the presence of our Spider watchdog. “You destroy the Tube and the Quadrails, and someone’s bound to figure out the secret.”

“I said we end everything, Frank,” she repeated, her voice weary in a way I’d never heard it before. “Everything. Including the Thread.”

I felt my jaw drop. “You can destroy the Thread?”

She nodded. “You already know we can ravel off pieces of it—that’s how we create loops and spurs. It’s thought that if we ravel the Thread too many times, its mass will drop below a critical level and it will simply evaporate.”

I felt a chill run up my back. “And what about the people who would be trapped off their worlds? How would they get home?”

“They wouldn’t,” Bayta said. “But exile is better than becoming slaves to the Modhri.”

Except that most of the worlds where the new exiles would find themselves already had a Modhran presence, and a lot of those worlds also had at least one Modhran coral outpost. The Quadrail would be gone, but the Modhri would go merrily on his way, making slaves of anyone who crossed his path. The only difference would be that he would have to settle for being a whole lot of small, isolated, local despots instead of a single, vast galaxy-wide despot. I couldn’t really see what difference that would make for his thousands of small, isolated, local groups of slaves.

Clearly, the Chahwyn who favored this approach hadn’t thought it through. Just as clearly, this wasn’t the time for a discussion of that shortsightedness. “Fortunately, we’re a long way from that kind of irrevocable decision,” I said instead. “Let’s focus on the here and now. We’ve got a plan. Let’s get it started and see where we go from there.”

“All right,” Bayta said. Her voice was still tired, but maybe a couple of shades less dark than it had been. “You go ahead. I’ll be in later.”

“Not too much later,” I warned. “You’ve been up as long as I have, and there’s time for at least a few hours of sleep before we pass that siding.”

“I won’t be long.” she promised. “Good night.”

“Good night.” I headed toward the doorway, stepping past the Spider into the corridor.

And paused. On any normal Quadrail. with a contingent of Spiders wandering around and the station sensors having successfully blocked out all weaponry, I wouldn’t have thought twice about leaving Bayta to wander the train alone.

But this was hardly a normal Quadrail. Not anymore.

And she was too important to risk letting our unknown assailant get a crack at her. Too important to our survival aboard this damn train. Too important to our war against the Modhri.

Too important to me.

“On second thought, you can set up your Greek Chorus from inside your compartment,” I said, gesturing to her. “Come on—we’ll go together.”