Night Train to Rigel

way. “Don’t jostle him.”

They reached in a pair of legs each and carefully retrieved the stretcher. I helped guide it up, some of my tension easing as the hatch closed beneath it. Any of the gawking bystanders who got a good look in there would have instantly spotted that it wasn’t a normal medical shuttle. But the drudges’ long legs had kept the crowd back far enough and long enough, and now that particular danger was past.

I touched the control at the stretcher’s side, unfolding its wheeled legs. “Thank you,” I said to the Spiders as they set it down onto the station floor. “I can take it from here.” Pulling the leash control from its clip, I started toward our platform, the stretcher rolling beside me.

The crowd, still staring in fascination at the spectacle, parted in front of us like the Red Sea in front of Moses. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a couple of Peerage robes wandering in our direction, and forced myself not to speed up.

“What happened?” a short Juri on the sidelines asked, stepping close to the stretcher and gazing down his beak at Bayta, as if trying to glean through the bandages whether it was someone he knew.

“Acid accident,” I said, waving him back. “Please—keep your distance. He’s had terrible burns and his immune system is very weak.”

“Shouldn’t you take him to the transfer station?” someone in the crowd suggested. “It has the nearest hospital.”

“We’ve just come from the station,” I said. “This is a job for specialists.”

“Surely there are specialists on Jurskala?” someone else chimed in.

“Please,” I said between clenched teeth. Why couldn’t these people gawk in silence like every other accident crowd? “Just make room—”

“Thank God you made it,” a relieved voice cut me off, and a business-suited man stepped boldly to the other side of the stretcher.

I opened my mouth to tell him to back off— “I got your message, and I’ve been in contact with the office,” he went on before I could speak. “They’re collecting the specialists—should be ready by the time we arrive. And they repeat that absolutely no expense should be spared.”

I stared at him, a nondescript man with midlength hair and cleanshaven face… and then, abruptly, I got it. This was not some random raving lunatic, or even a bizarre case of mistaken identity.

The man facing me across the stretcher was Mr. Chameleon himself, Bruce McMicking.

My sudden confusion wrapped around my tongue, striking me momentarily speechless. Not that it mattered. McMicking’s own spiel was already in full gear. “How bad is it?” he asked as we wheeled our way onto the platform. “They told me it was mostly hydrochloric, but that there were some other chemicals involved.”

“Yes, there were,” I said, finding my voice at last. Down at the far end of the station, I could see the laser light show of the approaching Quadrail. “That’s what did the most serious damage. Once the skin was broken and the parichloric and fluoro-di-monistak got in—well, you understand.”

“Yes, of course.” McMicking hissed under his breath. “Parichloric. What a terrible, terrible thing.”

The Quadrail roared down the track and came to a halt in front of us. McMicking and I kept up the pseudomedical jargon until the flow of departing passengers finally ended. Then, as the crowd continued to keep a respectful distance, we rolled the stretcher through the door and into the first-class compartment car. Two conductors were waiting at our door, and with their help we got the stretcher inside.

I stood over Bayta’s swathed form, making soothing noises for the benefit of any passengers passing through the corridor until the Spiders tapped their way out, closing the door behind them. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” I said, opaquing the window and turning to face McMicking. “But what the hell are you doing here?”

He shrugged. “Protecting Mr. Hardin’s investment, of course.”

I glanced down, wondering how much Bayta could hear in there. “I thought he fired me,” I said, lowering my voice.

“He decided to give you one more chance,” McMicking said, eyeing me curiously as he pulled my watch, reader, and credit tag from his pocket and dropped them onto the bed. “So you are in trouble with the Halkan Peerage.”

“With the Peerage and every other upper-class business and political leader in the station,” I told him. Unfastening the straps that held Bayta to the stretcher, I started to undo the bandages around her head. “And I thought I told you to get Mr. Hardin out of here.”

“He’s on his way,” McMicking assured me, watching in fascination as Bayta began to emerge from her cocoon. “He went across to the transfer station with the rest of our people to check on some of his investments in the system. He’ll stay another day or two, then head home.” He lifted his eyebrows. “I trust whatever trouble you’ve stirred up will be over by then?”

“Don’t worry, the trouble will be following me,” I said. “Thanks for the assist, but you’d better get going.”

“I appreciate the warning,” he said. “Hello, there,” he added as I finished pulling the bandages clear of Bayta’s face.

Bayta’s eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat. “It’s all right,” I told her quickly “He helped us get past the walkers out there.”

“Name’s McMicking,” McMicking introduced himself calmly. “A colleague of Mr. Compton’s.”

Bayta’s eyes shifted to me. “A colleague?” she asked, her tone suddenly ominous.

“More like second colleague, twice removed,” I said. “He works for Larry Hardin, one of Earth’s men of wealth.” I gave McMicking a warning look. “I’ve had some dealings with Hardin in the past.”

McMicking, as I’d expected, had no trouble picking up on the cue. “That’s right,” he confirmed easily. “I happened to notice your quick departure from your last train, and figured you were in trouble.”

“How did you know we’d come back in this way?” Bayta asked, her expression still tight.

“I didn’t, exactly,” McMicking said with a shrug. “But I spent ten years as a bounty hunter before I started working for Mr. Hardin. I know a little about how fugitives think.” He favored me with a thin smile. “Especially clever ones like Mr. Compton. How about telling me what’s going on?”

I could feel Bayta tense up as I continued unfastening her bandages. Fortunately, I’d already worked up a story, one that McMicking might actually believe. “It’s basically a blackmail and extortion scheme,” I said. “One that’s sucked in most of the top people across the galaxy.”

“Our people haven’t heard anything about this,” he said, eyeing me closely.

“It’s been going on very quietly,” I explained. “And so far Humans and the Confederation seem to have been ignored. But that’s about to change; and when they do come for us, I guarantee Mr. Hardin will be one of the first on their list.”

McMicking’s eyes narrowed. I had his full attention now. “Let them come,” he said, a soft menace in his voice. “We’ll be ready.”

“You may not even know it’s happened,” I warned as a small additional spark of inspiration struck. Applegate had been content with half the Modhran story. Maybe McMicking would be, too. “They make their conquests through a highly addictive chemical found in Modhran coral.”

He frowned. “Coral?”

“Goes in through small scratches in the skin,” I said. “One touch, and they’ve got you.”

He snorted. “You need to touch it? Coral? You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Their agents are very persuasive.”

“Not that persuasive,” he countered with a sniff. “I can’t imagine anyone speaking well of grabbing a chunk of coral.”

I stared at him, a sudden tingle at the back of my neck. I can’t imagine anyone speaking well of grabbing a chunk of coral …

And with that, the rest of the pieces fell into place.

That was it. God above, that was it.

“So what are they after you for?” McMicking continued. “You get on someone’s list of the rich and famous when I wasn’t looking?”

“Hardly,” I said mechanically, dragging my mind back to the conversation at hand. “Some of us made a mess of their main base a couple of days ago. They’re not happy about that.”

There was a tap at the door. “You expecting anyone?” McMicking asked, his voice suddenly taut as he stepped