Night Train to Rigel

“It’s not slavery,” he insisted, his voice calm and persuasive. “I’m sure the Spiders and Bellidos told you differently, but it really isn’t. The Modhri never interferes with your actions except when absolutely necessary. Like on the Kerfsis transfer station—remember? That was him calling to the soldiers, reacting faster than I could, telling them not to kill you.”

“I remember,” I said. “I believe ‘don’t kill it’ were his precise words. Shows you how highly we stand in his estimation.”

“He was rattled,” Rastra said, some frustration starting to creep into his voice. “Are you going to base your judgment on a single hasty word? Especially a word that saved your life?”

“So what should I base it on?” I countered, feeling fresh sweat starting to gather beneath my collar. We needed to get moving, but we couldn’t very well start climbing to the ceiling with Rastra standing there watching us. The second the Modhri realized what we were doing, he would throw everything he had left against us.

“Base it on what he can give you,” Rastra said. “Insights you couldn’t get anywhere else. Information your peers don’t have, courtesy of a mind that is everywhere and sees everything. Most importantly, base it on the promise of ultimate peace.”

I frowned. “Peace?”

“What need will there be for conflict when friends of the Modhri sit across every boardroom table and diplomatic pedestal across the galaxy?” he said. “Finally, and forever, we’ll all be in true harmony with each other.”

“Sounds like heaven on earth,” I agreed. “And all due to our mutual cooperation with the Modhri?”

He clicked his beak again. “Exactly.”

I shook my head in mock amazement. “You’re good,” I told him. “You’re very good. Every other time I’ve heard you, you’ve sounded like the gloating would-be conqueror from some dit rec drama. I see now that you can also play the Earnest Friend Of Mankind role.”

“What are you talking about?” Rastra said, the scales around his beak creasing. “This is me, your old friend, Falc Rastra.”

“My old friend was Tas Rastra, Modhri,” I corrected. “And as far as I can see, all that’s left of that friend is his body.”

A look of consternation flashed across Rastra’s face. “Compton— Frank—listen to me.”

And in that instant, the Modhri sprang his trap.

From behind me came the sudden rustle of cloth against plastic, and I spun to see JhanKla’s guard-assistant YirTukOo roll off the top of one of the stacks and drop to the floor between Losutu and Bayta, one of the missing oxygen masks covering the lower half of his face. His left hand slapped Losutu across the side of his head, dropping him to the floor, while his right went the other direction, backhand-ing Bayta across her face as well and sending her staggering backward. He stepped over Losutu’s crumpled form as McMicking leaped to the attack—

There was a scuffle of movement behind me, and I twisted around to see Rastra charging toward me, fastening a mask of his own over his beak as he ran. Swearing under my breath, I slashed my knife at the remaining strands of mesh and then jabbed the blade solidly into the side of one of the crates.

And as Rastra finished sealing his mask and stretched out his hands, I got a firm grip on the multitool and threw my full weight to my left.

The crate I was pulling on shifted partway out through the hole I’d cut in the mesh; and with the crates above it suddenly unbalanced, the entire stack collapsed, sending the boxes tumbling out into the aisle. I got a glimpse of startled Jurian eyes as Rastra was buried under the avalanche, then wiggled my knife free and headed back to the others.

Up to now I hadn’t seen McMicking have any real trouble with anything the Modhri had thrown at him. But either fatigue had taken its toll, or else the metal hailstorm in the previous car had shaken him up more than either of us had realized. Even as I sprinted back to help, YirTukOo ducked beneath the swinging nunchaku and slapped his closed right hand hard across McMicking’s face. McMicking staggered two steps backward and tripped over the broken Spider, his nunchaku clattering against the nearest stack of boxes as it fell from his hand. Clenching my teeth, I shifted my knife around into stabbing position and picked up my pace. YirTukOo saw me coming and lifted his hands into combat stance, and I could imagine a smug smile beneath his mask as he waited for me to reach him.

Only in that frozen moment of time I saw something he didn’t. Filling my lungs, I sent a bellow of challenge through my oxygen mask to echo off the ceiling.

A bellow that covered up any noise Bayta might have made as she came up behind the Halka and threw herself onto his shoulders. Wrapping her arms tightly around his neck, she dug both knees hard into his back and pulled.

It was probably the last thing YirTukOo had expected, that someone he’d hit that hard would already be back on her feet, and the shock of it paralyzed him a fatal half second too long. He started to grab for her arms, realized that I was already too close, and tried to get his hands back into a defensive posture.

Before he could, I was on him.

There were very few weak spots in Halkan physiology, and even fewer that could be reached by a knife as short as mine. Unfortunately for him, I knew all of them. Two quick and precise jabs, and it was over.

“You okay?” I asked Bayta as I shoved the Halka’s body off her and lifted her to her feet. The whole right side of her face above her mask, I saw, was a solid red mass where the back of his hand had connected.

“I think so,” she said, a little shakily. “What about the others?”

“I’m all right,” Losutu grunted from the floor behind her. He started to pull himself to his feet; and then, abruptly, he froze. “Oh, no,” he breathed. “Look.”

I followed his pointing finger to YirTukOo’s right hand. In it, still held loosely by the dead fingers, was a small lump of coral.

I felt my stomach tighten as I replayed the fight through my mind’s eye. He’d hit Losutu with his left hand—no danger there. With his right he’d hit Bayta, but with a backhanded blow that should have kept her clear.

And then he’d hit McMicking.

There was a muffled groan from behind me, and I turned to see McMicking push himself to his feet. “Cheap shot,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his head as he retrieved his nunchaku. “Cheap damn lucky shot. What happened?”

“Bayta and I got him,” I said, peering at his face. There was a touch of red just above the left side of his mask, right at the end of a long scratch across the mask itself.

“Looks like most of it hit the mask,” Bayta murmured hopefully from beside me.

“Yeah,” I said heavily. “But not all of it.”

“What are you talking about?” McMicking demanded, reaching up a finger to touch his cheek. He pulled it away, his eyes going flat as he saw the smear of blood. “Hell,” he said, very quietly. “Is this what I think it is?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “It could have been just his hand that got you.”

“I doubt it,” he said with a sigh. “Well, that’s it. You’d better get going. Want me to help you get the hatch open first?”

“You’re not staying behind,” Losutu said firmly. “I won’t have it.”

“You don’t have a choice,” McMicking said, just as firmly. “I’m one of them now. Or I will be soon enough.”

“But not for days or weeks,” Losutu said. “Isn’t that right, Compton? We’ve got time to get him to a hospital.”

“A hospital won’t do him any good,” Bayta said, her voice tinged with sadness. “The doctors wouldn’t even know what to look for.”

“What about your Spider friends?” I asked, wondering why I even cared. McMicking was nothing more than an employee of someone I also happened to be working for, after all. “Would they know how to help him?”

She hesitated. Just a split second, but long enough. “No,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“But he still has those days or weeks, right?” I persisted. “Even if we can’t help him, we can take him back with us.”