The Third Lynx (24 page)

I was awakened by a hand shaking my shoulder. “Compton?” Morse’s voice called from somewhere in the distance. “Come on, snap out of it.”

I blinked open my eyes. Everything around me was dim, which meant the car’s lights had been lowered to their usual nighttime setting. That must mean we were about to come into Bildim Station. I lifted my wrist to check my watch.

It was only then I realized I wasn’t sitting in my nice, comfy

third-class seat amid the smells and sounds of dozens of Humans and aliens. I was, instead, standing amid the crates and trunks in one of the baggage cars, facing a stack of dark blue boxes safety-webbed to the side wall.

I snapped fully awake. “What the
hell
?”

“I was about to say that myself,” Morse growled. “When did you start sleepwalking?”

“I don’t sleepwalk,” I told him, looking around. I was in a baggage car, all right. The front one, I tentatively identified it. “What happened?”

“As I said, you were sleepwalking,” Morse said. “I heard you mumbling, and when I looked back to see what the problem was you were lumbering down the aisle like Frankenstein’s latest science project.”

A cold chill ran up my back. “Thought virus,” I muttered.

“Come again?”

“Thought virus,” I repeated. “It’s a technique used by the enemy for planting suggestions in a person’s mind.”

“You mean like a hypnotic drug?” Morse asked, frowning.

“Similar, but a lot easier to deliver,” I said. “Remember that Cimma who talked to us as we were heading back to our seats earlier? It didn’t click at the time, but his hair didn’t fit his supposedly lower-class status.”

“Of course it did,” Morse said, frowning with concentration. “I remember. It was hanging completely loose.”

“Yes, but it had the kinking of having been recently braided,” I said.

“You’re right,” Morse murmured. “Bloody hell. But what does that have to do with this?”

“You were there on Ghonsilya,” I said. “You saw how most of the enemy’s soldiers were from the upper and ruling classes.”

Morse muttered something under his breath. “I was hoping they were just playing fancy-dress to throw the cops off the track.”

“No, they were real,” I assured him.
“And
the Cimma called me friend, four or five times at least. Friendship helps lower emotional barriers and gives the thought virus better access to the victim.”

Morse hissed between his teeth. “You ready yet to tell me what the hell is going on?”

“Later,” I said. “Right now, I need to figure out what I’m doing here. What happened after I came in?”

“You walked straight to this stack of crates and stopped,” Morse said. “You were staring at the labels when I decided enough was enough.”

I studied the stack of crates. All of them had destination labels for the same world, some place in the Cimmal Republic I’d never heard of. So did all the crates in the two stacks on either side of it. “Interesting,” I said, pulling out my multitool. “Let’s see what’s in them.”

“Easy,” Morse warned, suddenly cautious. “This is illegal even by the Spiders’ rules.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t hurt anything,” I said. Selecting the pry bar, I slid it beneath the lid of the top crate, digging into the plastic near one corner. With a twist of my wrist, I popped the lid half a centimeter up.

And as the train clattered around a curve and the car lurched, a spoonful of water rolled through the gap and trickled down the outside of the crate.

I touched a finger to it. It was cold water.
Very
cold water. The kind of water Modhran coral liked to live in.

I looked at the three stacks of crates. Suddenly this was feeling like a very unhealthy place to be. “Let’s get out of here,” I muttered, letting the lid back down and taking a careful step back.

“What is it?” Morse asked.

“Tell you later,” I said, taking another step back and turning around. I half expected to see the Cimma and an entire group of walkers watching in silent anticipation of me pulling a Sleeping Beauty and jabbing my finger on the sharp coral. One scratch was all it would take to put me on the track to joining them.

But there was no one there. Having wound up his puppet—me—the Modhri had apparently just turned me loose.

I jerked as Morse suddenly gripped my upper arm. “Not later,” he said flatly. “Later has become now. My life’s on the line here. So are Mr. Stafford’s and Ms. Auslander’s.”

“I suppose,” I conceded. “All right. As soon as we hit Bildim and I can get a compartment and some privacy, we’ll talk.”

We reached Bildim, swapped out the usual assortment of passengers, and started up again. There were no compartments available, but Morse and I were able to get seats in the first-class car directly behind the compartment car.

And as we pulled out into the permanent twilight of the Tube, he and Bayta and I settled into Bayta’s compartment and I told him the whole story. Or at least as much of the story as it seemed advisable to tell him.

He was silent for a long minute after I’d finished. Apparently his standard
bloody hell
was inadequate to cover this one. “And you can prove all this?” he asked at last.

“Prove
may be too strong a word,” I conceded. “But Deputy Director Losutu can certainly vouch for the parts he was involved in. You can talk to him when we get back.”

“I’ll do that,” he said, a hint of challenge in his tone. “In the meantime, we have Ms. Auslander as a hostage to these things—”

“This
thing, singular,” I corrected.

“Right,” he growled. “Group mind. Even the bloody grammar is scrambled with this thing. As I was saying, our first priority has to be getting Ms. Auslander away from him.”

“Agreed,” I said. “We’ll have a couple of hours at Trivsdal Station when we change Quadrails for Laarmiten. I’ll just wander the platform muttering
message for Modhri
until someone takes notice.”

“Sounds like the opening of that classic Hitchcock dit rec drama
North by Northwest
,” Morse commented. “A mistaken connection with the telegram boy launches the hero into danger and intrigue.”

“Yes, I remember,” I said. “Let’s hope life doesn’t end up imitating art. Anyway, once a walker comes forward I’ll tell him about the change in plans.”

“What if he can’t get the message to the walkers holding Ms. Auslander in time?” Morse asked. “Or what if the Modhri doesn’t go for it? He’s bound to be suspicious about you resetting the rendezvous for the system where he’s collecting the rest of the sculptures.”

“That’s his problem,” I said. “Both are his problem, actually. If he wants the Lynx badly enough, he’ll just have to play by our rules.”

“Or else write up a set of his own,” Morse warned. “The thing with you and the coral back there looks suspiciously like a recruitment effort.”

“He’s tried to get me to touch coral before,” I said. “I’m not worried about it.”

“Maybe you should be,” Morse said, standing up. “Anyway, conspiracy stories make me thirsty. Join me?”

“Maybe later,” I told him. “Bayta and I first need to discuss some of the details of the Laarmiten plan.”

“And to talk about me, no doubt,” Morse said, smiling slightly. “Fine. I’ll be in the bar or my seat if you need me.”

With a nod to each of us, he left the compartment. “He’s right, you know,” Bayta told me. “Maybe you
should
be concerned.”

“What, about the Modhri sleepwalking me to the baggage car?” I shook my head. “That was never about me touching the coral.”

“Mr. Morse seems to think it was.”

“Mr. Morse is wrong,” I said flatly. “He said himself that I was just standing there staring at the crates when he snapped me awake. I hadn’t even gone for my multitool yet to try to open one of them. And when I did, I could barely get a corner of the lid open. I’d have had to cut the safety webbing and pull down a crate full of water and coral, and I
know
I wouldn’t have stayed asleep through all that. No, I think all the Modhri wanted was for me to know what was in there.”

“But why?” Bayta asked. “Was it a threat? A warning?”

“Neither,” I said grimly. “I think he was offering me a trade.”

“A
trade
?”

“You see, I now have two choices,” I said. “I can go to Laarmiten and make the exchange for Ms. Auslander, with whatever scheme he suspects I’ve got lurking up my sleeve. Or I can leave that task to Stafford and Morse, played straight with no tricks, while I follow this colony to wherever he’s sending it.”

“Why would we want to follow the coral?”

“Because moving this much coral at once implies it’s going somewhere important,” I said. “It’s possible he’s started some new campaign and decided he needs a bigger baseline presence there.”

Bayta was silent a moment. “We know where the crates are headed,” she said slowly. “We could stay with Mr. Stafford and send word ahead to the Spiders to watch the crates. They could let us know whether they leave the Tube and go into the system or whether they’re transferred onto a different Quadrail.”

“Actually, we
don’t
know where they’re headed,” I said. “That’s the point. All we know is what their current labels say. Unfortunately, there’s nothing to stop the Modhri from sending a team of walkers back there the minute we’re off this train and changing the labels, maybe even moving the crates somewhere else in the car. No, if we want to see where the coral’s heading, we’ll have to sit on it the whole way.”

“So what do we do?”

I shrugged. “I don’t think we’ve got a choice,” I said. “Finding out where they’re moving this outpost would certainly be interesting. But if the Modhri’s got a trick of his own up his sleeves I don’t want to be the one to tell Stafford that his girlfriend has slipped through our fingers again.”

“His fiancée.”

“Whatever.” I glanced at my watch. “I need to find Fayr and bounce this latest change of plans off him. Any idea where he’s sitting?”

Bayta shook her head. “Second class somewhere,” she said. “I didn’t spot him when I was heading back to third to get you.”

“He’s probably changed his facial stripe pattern again,” I said, standing up. “I’ll find him.”

“There is one other possibility,” Bayta said from behind me as I turned toward the door. “Instead of starting a new campaign, it could be the Modhri has found a new prospective homeland and is starting to move his coral there.”

“That’s definitely a possibility,” I agreed.

“I just wanted to make sure you understood the full implications here,” she said.

I turned back to face her. “Are you suggesting we just throw Penny to the wolves?” I asked.

Her lip twitched. “I’m still wondering how your feelings for her might be affecting your judgment.”

Somehow, I’d never noticed before how much quiet pain there was behind her eyes when she talked about Penny. It sent a ripple of guilt through me. “Any feelings I might or might not have for Ms. Auslander have nothing to do with my decision,” I said. “Okay?”

“If you say so.”

“I say so,” I said. “I’ll be back later.”

I headed out into the corridor, some lingering guilt and shame heading out with me.

Because I’d lied to her. My feelings for Penny did indeed have a lot to do with the new plan.

In fact, in a way, they had everything to do with it.

The next two and a half days went by slowly. Stafford and Bayta stayed mostly in their compartments, while Morse and I suffered, mostly in silence, through the boisterous company of our first-class car. I could tell that Morse was now looking at our traveling companions with wary eyes, wondering which of them might be Modhri walkers.

If
he believed my story, that is. The other possibility was that he was simply wondering which of his fellow passengers he might be able to call on for assistance if and when the time came for pinning me to the floor and fitting me with a straightjacket.

I didn’t see Fayr at all after that single talk with him. Presumably he was having a fine time of his own back in second class. Though of course not quite as good a time as the first-class crowd was having.

I did have a couple of long conversations with Stafford in the privacy of his stateroom. He still blamed me for losing his fiancée at the Ghonsilya transfer station, and in general didn’t seem to like me very much. Fortunately, he seemed able to put those feelings aside while we discussed possible strategies for getting her back. If Künstler
had
been grooming him to take over his business empire, I reflected, he’d chosen his successor well.

As for the Modhri, whatever mind segment he had aboard stayed quiet and kept to himself.

Trivsdal, like Homshil, was a node station where several Quadrail lines came together, and as Bayta, Morse, Stafford, and I trooped off the train we found ourselves amid a teeming crowd of interstellar travelers. “What now?” Stafford asked as we found a relatively safe corner off the main walkway beside a waist-high planter filled with aromatic flowers.

“Bayta will go and get our tickets,” I said. “You and Agent Morse will stay here and watch the luggage.”

“What about you?”

“I’m going to look around,” I told him. “We’ve got three hours before the next Claremiado Loop train, and it’s possible Ms. Auslander and her escort will arrive here before then.”

“If she does, we’ll do the trade here,” Stafford said firmly, sliding his backpack off his shoulder and onto the ground. “Frankly, I think this new plan of yours stinks. There’s no reason for all of us to go all the way to Laarmiten.”

“Objection noted,” I said. “And we do the trade where I say we do it. Watch the luggage closely.”

“Don’t worry, we will,” Morse assured me.

I made my way into the crowd, watching for the fancy or official clothing that was most likely to mark Modhran walkers. Two platforms away I spotted a pair of Halkas dressed in their Peerage’s distinctive tricolor layered robes and headed over. “Message for the Modhri,” I murmured as I walked past them. “Message for the Modhri.”

Neither of them so much as looked at me. Shifting direction, I made my way toward a group of well-dressed Juriani a dozen meters away. “Message for the Modhri,” I murmured again. “Message for the—”

I broke off as a sudden hoarse cheer came from behind me. I spun around just in time to see a group of Shorshians hoist a flailing and clearly protesting Morse and Stafford up onto their shoulders and march off in an impromptu parade across the station.

I hurried toward them, dodging between and around the other passengers, many of whom had paused to watch the spectacle. But the Shorshians were moving briskly, and by the time I reached the planter where I’d left them the whole crowd had traveled another twenty meters onward.

And all our luggage had disappeared.

“The Shorshians do so love a parade,” a voice said from beside me.

I turned. It was one of the two Halkas I’d tried my telegram-boy routine with a few minutes earlier. Only now his eyes and expression were those of the Modhri. “Nicely done,” I complimented him. “How’d you get that many walkers here so quickly?”

“Oh, only two are my Eyes,” the Modhri said, nodding toward the procession. “The others are merely bystanders caught up in the excitement of the moment.”

“Leaving the rest of your walkers to make off with our luggage,” I said. The Shorshians had finished their tribute now and were lowering Morse and Stafford back to the floor. “What exactly was this moment of excitement, if I may ask?”

“You may,” the Modhri said magnanimously. “An elderly Shorshian walking stiffly with a cane dropped his ticket. One of your fellow Humans reached down and picked it up for him.”

“A simple thank-you would have been sufficient.”

He shrugged. “As I say, Shorshians enjoy a parade.”

“So I see,” I said, watching Stafford and Morse trying to force their way through the still lingering crowd of onlookers. Clearly, both of them knew a setup when they’d been caught in the middle of it. “So much for you keeping your word.”

“The Human female will be delivered to you here once my Eyes have left with the Lynx,” he assured me. “I have no further need of her.”

“Actually, you might as well have her delivered to Laarmiten,” I said. “That’s where we’re going next.”

I turned to find the Halka staring hard at me. “Laarmiten?” he asked almost casually.

“Regional capital of the Nemuti FarReach,” I said helpfully. “Population eight hundred million, major exports foodstuffs, gemstones—”

“I know of it,” he interrupted. “The Lynx is not in your carrybags.”

It was a statement, not a question. Apparently, his walkers had finished their search of the stolen carrybags. “That’s right,” I confirmed anyway. “Never was, actually. I trust you’ll be returning the luggage to us, by the way. It’s four more days to Laarmiten and a couple of changes of clothing would be nice to have.”

“We were to make the exchange at Terra Station,” the Modhri reminded me.

“And I’ve changed my mind,” I said. “Now we’ll be doing it at the Laarmiten transfer station.”

I could see the wheels turning behind those dark eyes. Once out of the Tube and in the transfer station, we would have access again to weapons and any other Spider-forbidden items I might want to bring to bear. “You plan something foolish,” he said. Again, it wasn’t a question.

“Maybe,” I said. “But that’s not your problem. Your problem is that you want the Lynx, and I still have it.”

He hissed softly, an eerily chilling sound I’d never heard a Halka make before. “Very well,” he said. “The Laarmiten transfer station.” His eyes glittered. “Make very sure you have the Lynx.”

He turned and strode away. I watched his back, and caught the moment of subtle change of stance as the Modhri relinquished his control. I wondered how the Halka would rationalize this particular blackout.

A moment later, Stafford and Morse made it through the last line of people. Stafford looked flushed and anxious, Morse looked just flat-out furious. “Bloody hell,” he said as he looked at the spot where the luggage had been. “Bloody,
bloody
hell.”

“Relax,” I calmed him. “It’ll all be returned.”

“Except the Lynx, of course,” he bit out. “I imagine they’ll be keeping
that
.”

I looked at Stafford. His face was still flushed, but I could also see a hint of grim satisfaction there. “Oh, I don’t think so,” I said.

“What are you talking about?” Morse asked, looking around as if the thieves would have been stupid enough to be still hanging around.

“He means he called it, straight down the line,” Stafford told him. “Right down to them hitting us here in the station. I hate to admit it, Compton, but you’re not bad at this.”

“You mean, for a washed-up has-been?” I suggested.

“Something like that.”

“Wait a minute,” Morse said, frowning. “If the Lynx wasn’t inside that log sculpture—” He broke off, a flash of sudden understanding on his face. “It
is
inside the sculpture, isn’t it? It’s that—what did you call it? That chameleon effect.”

“Actually, the sculpture is what we call the diversion effect,” I said. “We pulled the Lynx out of the log before I had Mr. Stafford recarve the surface.”

“So where
is
it?” Morse asked, looking at Stafford.

Stafford shrugged. “No idea,” he admitted. “For all I know it could still be somewhere on Ghonsilya.”

“Don’t worry, it’ll be at Laarmiten in time for the exchange,” I assured him. “Anyway, I hope you enjoyed your moment of adulation. Let’s go find Bayta and see what kind of tickets she was able to get.”