The Domino Pattern

“Charges like assaulting a couple of federal officers?” I asked pointedly.

He seemed to draw back a little. “What are you talking about? I never assaulted anyone.”

“Somebody did,” I said. “The men we had watching the east door were taken out sometime during the raid. One of them was DOA, the other died a few hours later without regaining consciousness.”

“Hey, that wasn’t me,” Kennrick protested. “That was the door I left by, but I swear there was no one there when I went through.” His eyes flicked around us, as if he was suddenly remembering where we were. “But I don’t have to care what you think, do I?” he said. “You don’t have any jurisdiction here.”

Which begged the question of why he’d been evading me for the past two weeks and why he’d beat such a hasty exit from the dispensary just now. Maybe fugitive habits simply die hard. “Actually. I don’t have any jurisdiction anywhere,” I said. “I left Westali quite a while ago. Who’s your Shorshic friend?”

The sudden change of subject seemed to throw him off-track. A slightly confused expression rolled across his face before his brain caught up with him. “He’s a business associate,” he said. His eyes flicked over my shoulder, as if he was suddenly remembering why he’d dragged himself out of bed at this ungodly hour in the first place. “Part of a contract team my employer brought to Earth for some consultations. I need to get hack to him and the others.”

“Certainly,” I said. Stepping aside, I gestured him back toward the dispensary.

Warily, he slid past me. I let him go, then fell into step beside him. “This employer being …?” I asked.

He threw me a sideways look. “Pellorian Medical Systems,” he said. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“What kind of consultations?”

“We were discussing genetic manipulation equipment and technique,” he said impatiently.

“Ah,” I said. That explained the four Fillies he’d been shepherding back at Homshil, anyway. The Filiaelians were enthusiastic proponents of genetic engineering and manipulation of all sorts, on everything up to and including themselves. Especially including themselves. “And so now, like a good host, you’re walking them home?”

He didn’t answer, but merely picked up his pace. I sped up to match, wondering if he would try to get through the dispensary door before me.

We were nearly there when the question became moot. Bayta appeared in the doorway, her face grim. “No need to hurry,” she said quietly. “He’s dead.”

———

The Human doctor’s name was Witherspoon. “Well?” I asked as he scrubbed his hands in the dispensary’s cleansing sink.

“Well, what?” he countered. His voice was tired and bitter, with the frustration of a professional healer who’s just lost one.

But through the frustration I could also hear an uneasiness that I suspected had nothing to do with possible malpractice charges. “What did he die of?” I asked.

He looked up at me from under bushy eyebrows. “You a relative of the deceased?” he asked, an edge of challenge in his tone.

“My name is Compton,” I said. “I do investigations for the Spiders.”

“What kind of investigations?”

“Investigations they need me to do.” I said. “Was he poisoned, or wasn’t he?”

Witherspoon looked at the server still standing silently across the room, then back at me, then over at the other side of the room, where Kennrick and the other two Shorshians were consulting in low voices with the Filly doctor. “He was definitely poisoned,” he said, lowering his own voice. “The problem is that Shorshians are highly susceptible to poisons, and there are a thousand different ones that can create symptoms like this. Without an autopsy, there’s no way to know which one killed him.”

I nodded and turned to Bayta. “Where can we set up for an autopsy?” I asked her.

“Wait a minute,” Witherspoon protested before Bayta could answer. “Even if I was practiced at non-Human autopsies, we don’t have the kind of equipment aboard to handle something like that.”

“How about just a biochem autopsy?” I asked.

“That takes almost as much equipment as the regular version,” he said. “Not to mention a truckload of specialized chemicals and reagents.”

“A spectroscopic test, then?” I persisted.

“Mr. Compton, just how well equipped do you think Quadrail trains are?” he asked, his patience starting to crack at the edges.

“Obviously, not very,” I conceded. “Luckily for us, I happen to have a spectroscopic analyzer in my compartment.”

“Right,” Witherspoon said with a sniff. He took another look at my face, his derision level slipping a notch. “You are joking, aren’t you?”

The conversation between Kennrick, the Filly, and the two Shorshians had faded away into silence. “Not at all,” I assured the whole group. “I trust you at least know which tissue samples would be the most useful?”

“Yes, I think so,” Witherspoon said, still staring at me. “You have a spectroscopic analyzer? In your compartment?”

“I use it in my work,” I explained. “Do you have the necessary equipment for taking the tissue samples, or will the Spiders need to scrounge something up?”

“The Spiders have sampling kits.” Bayta put in.

“I also have a couple in my bag,” Witherspoon said, gesturing to the cabinet where a traditional doctor’s bag was sitting on one of the shelves. “May I ask what kind of investigations you do that you require a spectroscopic analyzer?”

“Show me the medical relevance of that information and I may share it with you,” I said. “Otherwise, let’s get on with it.”

Witherspoon’s lip twitched. “Of course.” He looked over at the Shorshians. “but I’ll need permission for the autopsy.”

Kennrick, who’d been staring at me in much the same way Witherspoon had been, belatedly picked up on the cue. “Master Bofiv?” he asked, turning to the taller of the two Shorshians. “Can you advise me on Shorshic law and custom on such things?”

[It is not proper that such be done by strangers,] Master Bofiv said, his Shishish sounding harsher than usual here in the dead of night. Or maybe it was the presence of the recently deceased that was adding all the extra corners to the words.

“I understand your reluctance,” Kennrick said, giving a respectful little duck of his head. “But in a case of such importance, surely an exception can be made.”

“And indeed must be made,” I put in.

[We cannot grant this permission,] Bofiv said. [We are not kin, nor of similar path.]

“What about di-Master Strinni?” Kennrick asked. “I believe he and Master Colix were of similar paths.”

The two Shorshians looked at each other. [That may perhaps be proper,] Bofiv said, a little reluctantly. [But the approach is not mine to make.]

[Nor mine,] the other Shorshian added.

“I understand. Master Tririn,” Kennrick said, nodding to him. He looked over at me. “It was Mr. Compton’s idea. Mr. Compton can ask di-Master Strinni.”

[That is acceptable,] Bofiv said before I could protest.

I grimaced. But there was no way out of it. Not if we wanted to find out what had killed the late Master Colix. “Where’s di-Master Strinni now?” I asked.

“He has a seat in first class,” Kennrick said. “I’ll take you there.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Bayta, you might as well wait here.”

“I could—” she began, then broke off. “All right,” she said instead.

I gestured to Kennrick. “After you.”

We left the dispensary and headed down the darkened, quiet corridor toward the front of the train. “Thanks so