The Domino Pattern

Which meant that it was Kennrick, not me, who caught a swinging Shorshic forearm squarely across the left side of his rib cage.

There was too much noise for me to hear the crack of breaking ribs, if there actually was such a crack. But even over Strinni’s paranoid gaspings and Rose Nose’s admonitions I had no trouble hearing Kennrick’s strangled grunt as the arm sent him flying across the room again. He slammed hard into the floor, and this time he didn’t get up.

But his sacrifice hadn’t been for nothing. The rest of the car’s passengers had finally broken out of their stunned disbelief at Strinni’s bizarre attack, and even as I continued to struggle with my self-appointed Filly protector a Juri and a Tra’ho moved in from opposite sides and tackled the berserk Shorshian.

Even then Strinni didn’t give up. Still ranting, he continued to stomp around the floor, trying to throw off his attackers the way he’d disposed of Kennrick. But Bayta was still hanging on, and neither the Juri or Tra’ho was giving way, either, and Strinni began to stagger as he burned through his adrenaline-fueled energy reserves.

And then Witherspoon was on his feet again behind the clump of people, reaching past Bayta’s head to jab a hypo into the back of Strinni’s neck.

For another few seconds Strinni didn’t react, but kept up his bizarre unchoreographed four-person waltz. I finally got past my guardian Filly and headed in, balling my hands into fists as I aimed for a couple of pressure points in the Shorshian’s thighs that ought to drop him once and for all.

But even as I cocked my fists for a one-two punch, Witherspoon’s concoction finally reached Strinni’s motor control center. His legs wobbled and then collapsed beneath him, and he and the others fell into a tangled heap.

I looked at Witherspoon. “If this is so weak he can barely walk,” I said, still panting, “I’d hate to see what frisky looks like.”

“We need to get him to the dispensary,” Witherspoon said grimly. He was breathing a little heavily himself. “Can I get some help in lifting?”

“No need,” Bayta said, pushing herself out of the pile and getting carefully to her feet.

I looked toward the rear of the car. A pair of conductor Spiders had emerged from the vestibule and were hurriedly tapping their way toward us. “Everyone off and out of the way,” I ordered. “The Spiders can carry him.”

“He doesn’t like Spiders,” Rose Nose reminded me. With the excitement over, his eyes were starting to calm down.

“He’s unconscious,” I reminded him. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

From across the room came a rumbling groan. I looked in that direction to see Kennrick pulling himself carefully up from the floor, one hand on the nearest chair armrest, the other pressed against his side where Strinni’s arm had slammed into him. “You okay?” I asked, stepping over to offer him a hand.

“Oh, sure—I do this every day,” he gritted out. “What the hell was that all about?”

“You tell me,” I said, looking back as the two Spiders picked up the unconscious Strinni, each of them using three of their seven legs to form a sort of wraparound hammock. “This sort of thing happen often?”

“If it does, it’s been the galaxy’s best-kept secret.” He winced as I helped him the rest of the way to his feet. “I’ve never heard di-Master Strinni even raise his voice in an argument.”

“Except maybe with Spiders or Filiaelians,” I said, easing Kennrick to the side as the Spiders maneuvered their burden past us toward the forward vestibule and the dispensary four cars ahead.

“Well, that was just plain crazy,” Kennrick said firmly. “We have four Filiaelians right here on his contract team. Ow!”

“Sorry,” I apologized. “How bad is it?”

“Like I’ve been kicked by a cow.” He smiled wanly. “And I worked summers on a dairy firm, so I know exactly what that feels like.”

“You need help getting to the dispensary?” I asked. Bayta was disappearing through the vestibule door, and I could see Witherspoon’s shock of white hair just in front of her. “I can get a Spider if you want.”

“No, I can make it.” he said. “Just give me a hand.”

“Sure,” I said, getting an arm around his shoulders. “Easy, now.”

“You see?” Rose Nose said sagely as we passed him. “I said that was no way to behave toward one who is ill.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll try to remember that.”

SEVEN

Three of Kennrick’s ribs had been slightly cracked in the fight, fortunately not badly enough to require a cast or even a wrap. His side apparently hurt like hell, though. Witherspoon gave him a bottle of QuixHeals and another bottle of painkillers and ordered a regimen of rest and sleep. Kennrick allowed that he could probably manage that and toddled off toward his compartment.

Strinni’s case, unfortunately, wasn’t nearly so easy to fix.

“I’ve run the blood scan twice,” Witherspoon said as he gazed down at the Shorshian now securely strapped to the diagnostic table. “We’ve got not one, but two different poisons that have invaded his system. The first is a relative of printimpolivre-bioxene, which the analyzer lists as a sort of combination hallucinogen and paranoic.”

“That certainly fits his performance just now,” I agreed. “Is that the sickly-sweet odor I caught when he was trying to crush in my ribs?”

“Probably.” Witherspoon’s throat tightened. “The other poison appears to be a heavy metal. Probably the same cadmium that killed his two colleagues.”

“How surprising.” I murmured. “Are we in time to do something about this one?”

“I don’t know,” Witherspoon said. “I’ve got him on a double dose of Castan’s Binder, which should be able to bond to the metal still in his bloodstream. But if too much has already gotten into his deep tissues—” He shook his head.

I looked at Bayta. She was gazing down at Strinni’s closed eyes, absently massaging her right wrist. “Bayta, is there anything the Spiders can do?” I asked.

“Nothing that Dr. Witherspoon isn’t already doing,” she said. “I was just wondering if we should wake him up. Maybe he knows who did this to him.”

“That would definitely explain why they slipped him a Mickey,” I agreed.

“A Mickey?” Witherspoon asked, frowning.

“A Mickey Finn,” I explained. “Knockout drops, usually.”

“Yes, I’m familiar with the term,” Witherspoon growled. “But I’m the one who gave him the sedative.”

“I was referring to the hallucinogen,” I said. “Maybe the poisoner was afraid di- Master Strinni knew something important, so he made him go berserk in the hope that we’d go ahead and knock him out ourselves, thereby saving himself the trouble.”

“I suppose that’s possible,” Witherspoon said. “One problem: I believe printimpolivre-bioxene is on the Spiders’ prohibited list.”

I looked at Bayta. “Is it?”

“All hallucinogenic chemicals are supposed to be there,” she confirmed. “Unless it was already in di-Master Strinni’s system, it shouldn’t have gotten past the sensor screening.”

“It definitely wasn’t in his system,” Witherspoon said. “Like the heavy-metal poisoning, printimpolivre-bioxene’s effects would have shown up very quickly. Within hours, most likely. Certainly long before the two weeks we’ve been traveling.”

“This is starting to sound like a locked-door murder mystery,” I said. “So what about Bayta’s suggestion that we wake him up?”

“I don’t know,” Witherspoon said, rubbing his shoulder where Strinni’s first attack had landed. “I’d prefer to let