Night Train to Rigel

I looked back at the Halkas. “They’re well dressed, and their fur shows signs of having been recently scissor- trimmed,” I said. “That puts them at least midlevel on the social scale, possibly a little higher, Do we know how they were traveling?”

“First-class,” Rastra said. “Yet they arrived at the transfer station aboard a third-class shuttle.”

Busksha rumbled in his chest. “Such fraud is the hallmark of thieves and other social outsiders. Why did you inquire of them in the entrypoint area?”

“As I told Falc Rastra, I had a brief conversation with them concerning a recreation area in the Halkavisti Empire,” I said. “I wanted to find out where exactly it is.”

“His current position is to search out such places,” Rastra added.

“I see,” Busksha said. For a moment he studied me, then twitched a shrug. “Then let us go and ask them.”

It was typical interrogation technique, I knew: Put supposedly unconnected people together and watch for a reaction. Unfortunately, showing myself to the Halkas and thereby proving I was on to them wouldn’t have been my first choice of action here.

But having come this far, I could hardly back out now. “Thank you,” I said. “Bayta, you stay here with Falc Rastra.”

Busksha led the way out the room’s side door and five paces down a short corridor to a similar door in the interrogation room. I watched the Halkas’ flat faces carefully as we went inside, but there were no signs of surprise or recognition that I could detect. “You have a new questioner,” the major said briefly, and gestured me forward.

“Good day,” I said, stepping past him. “You may not remember me, but we met on the Quadrail.”

“We met with no Humans,” one of them said, looking contemptuously up at me. “We do not associate with Humans.”

“You were rather inebriated at the time,” I told him. “You may not remember.”

“I am never so inebriated,” he insisted.

“Nor am I,” the second Halka put in.

But even as he said it, his brow fur creased uncertainly. So this one wasn’t so sure.

“You can account for every minute of your journey aboard the Quadrail?” Busksha asked. Clearly he’d caught the twitch, too. “There are no gaps?”

“Only while we slept,” the first Halka said truculently.

“Or when you sleepwalked?” I suggested. “Because you did speak to me outside my compartment door right after we left Yandro.”

The two Halkas exchanged looks. “No,” the first insisted again. “We would never associate with a Human that way.”

“Fine,” I said. “So what were you doing in the secure baggage compartment?”

“You have rights of Jurian prosecution?” the first Halka demanded contemptuously.

“You will answer his question,” Busksha said gruffly. Jurian protocol, I knew, made allowances for this kind of guest questioner, whether the Halkas liked it or not. And the major knew as well as I did that the more irritated the prisoner, the less likely he was to think straight.

The Halka shot a glare at Busksha, then made a visible effort to pull himself together. “We were looking for our luggage,” he said. “I needed to retrieve an item.”

“You couldn’t wait for it to clear customs?” I asked.

“It is my luggage,” he insisted.

“It was inside our baggage area,” Busksha countered.

“Is our luggage not ours?” the Halka insisted. “Have you a right to keep it from us?”

“While still outside customs?” I asked, frowning. This was about as weak and pathetic a defense as I’d ever heard.

The Halka seemed to realize it, too. “We have rights,” he muttered, his righteous indignation fading away.

“I’m sure you’ll have all you’re entitled to,” I said. “How did you get into the baggage area?”

“It was unlocked,” the second Halka spoke up. Something seemed to flicker across his eyes—“But tell me, Human. How is it you come to question us?”

There didn’t seem much choice but to trot out my cover story again. “I wanted some information from you,” I said. “While we were aboard the Quadrail you mentioned a vacation spot in the Halkavisti Empire, a place with outdoor sports, a magnificent view—”

And right in the middle of my sentence, the second Halka reached casually up into his sleeve, pulled out an elaborately decorated knife, and lunged at me.

If I hadn’t so utterly been taken by surprise I might have died right there and then. But the sheer unexpectedness of the attack froze my brain completely, freeing the way for Westali combat reflexes to take over. I twisted sideways, taking a step back with my right foot and scooping my left arm down and forward. My wrist caught the Halka’s forearm, deflecting the blade past my ribs and throwing him off balance. Grabbing his wrist with my right hand, I slashed the heel of my left hand into the crook of his elbow while simultaneously bending his arm back toward his face.

It was a maneuver that should have sent the knife arcing harmlessly over his shoulder as his entire arm went numb. But either I missed the pressure point I’d been aiming for or else someone had redesigned Halkan physiology while I wasn’t looking. The knife stayed gripped in his hand; and with a flash of horror I watched the point zip a shallow cut through the fur of his right cheek.

And suddenly I was in very, very deep trouble. The fact that the Halka had been the aggressor was no longer relevant. I’d been the one to draw blood, and the full weight of Jurian justice protocol was about to come down on top of me.

I let go of the Halka’s arm and stepped away from him. But it was too late. Both guards had drawn their lasers, one of them covering the Halkas, the other bringing his weapon to bear on me.

“Don’t shoot it!”

It took me a second to identify the voice as Rastra’s, coming from a speaker in a corner of the interrogation room. The guard hesitated; then, to my relief, he joined his partner in pointing his weapon at the Halkas.

The door burst open and Rastra charged in, Bayta a step behind him. “Are you all right, Mr. Compton?” he asked anxiously. His expression seemed oddly puzzled, as if he couldn’t believe I would do such a thing aboard his station. Shifting his attention to the Halkas, he gestured to the guards. “Take them to the cells,” he ordered. “They are to be charged immediately with theft and assault.”

“What about the Human?” Busksha demanded.

Rastra’s cheek scales crinkled. He knew the protocol on this far better than I did. “He is blameless,” he told the major anyway. “The Halka’s own hand held the knife that drew his blood.”

All things considered, it was a pretty weak loophole. But it was apparently strong enough. Busksha still didn’t look happy, but he touched his fingertips together in a gesture of acceptance. “Very well,” he said. Shifting his glare to the Halkas, he gestured sharply toward the door. “Come.”

For a moment neither of the aliens moved. Then, almost delicately, both of them collapsed onto the deck.

Rastra unfroze first. “Summon the medics,” he snapped as he moved forward and knelt down beside them.

“No need,” I said, staring down at the crumpled aliens as a sickly sweet odor wafted through the room. They were dead, without a mark on them, and with no one having touched either one.

No one, that is, except me.

SEVEN:

“The protocol is clear,” Busksha insisted, pacing around the interrogation room like a caged tiger. “He was involved in the death of two sentient beings.”

“The protocol is not clear,” Rastra countered. He didn’t look any happier than