The Domino Pattern Read online

  And the reason I’d thought I was paralyzed was that my wrists, ankles, and forehead were taped to that selfsame seat.

  I looked downward as far as I could. There were at least four windings of tape around each of my wrists, possibly as many as five or six. I couldn’t see my ankles or, obviously, my forehead, but I had no reason to suspect my assailant had been any less generous there than he had with my wrists.

  Experimentally, I tried twisting my arms, hoping I could break free. Nothing. I tried the same move with head and feet, with the same lack of results. At this rate, I’d be pinned here like a prize butterfly until lunchtime tomorrow.

  My gut gave one of its now all-too-familiar rumbles. The thought of lunchtime, or of food in general, was almost painful. I listened to the fresh growling, trying to figure out if this was the same problem as before or if my assailant had decided to go ahead and poison me while he had the chance. It certainly felt like I was dying from the inside out.

  I stiffened, the sudden tightening of my stomach muscles adding a fresh burst to the intestinal turmoil lower down. There it was, damn it—so obvious I should have fallen over it. Dying from the inside out …

  And then, outside my canopy, I heard something. I strained my ears, and the sound resolved itself into a set of quiet footsteps and the equally quiet but very distinctive tap-tap-tap of a Spider.

  It was Bayta. It had to be. Clearly, I’d been gone long enough to arouse her misgivings and she’d grabbed a Spider to come looking for me. Feeling a surge of relief, I opened my mouth to call to her.

  Only to discover that my friend with the tape had thoughtfully taken the time to gag me, too.

  I heaved my shoulders back and forth to the sides, trying to shake the seat enough to catch Bayta’s notice. But it was anchored solidly in place, and I doubted I was getting up enough momentum to even disturb the canopy. I tried grunting through the tape over my mouth, but even to my own ears the muffled sound sounded pretty pathetic. Looking in all directions, I searched for inspiration.

  And then, my gaze fell on the music controls by my left hand.

  It was a long shot, I knew. Quadrail audio systems were heavily focused, precisely to prevent everyone else in the car from being disturbed by someone else’s music. I would have to crank it up to eardrum-damaging levels for anyone out there to even hear it.

  But it was a risk I had to take. If I didn’t get Bayta’s attention now, it could be hours before one of the other passengers wondered why this particular traveler was sleeping in so late, and got curious enough to investigate. There were already at least three Fillies out there in serious medical trouble, with possibly more to come. Unless I got out of here, and fast, we were going to have more deaths on our hands.

  Cranking the volume all the way up, I set my teeth and touched the switch.

  It was like sitting front-row-center at a live concert where each musician had made a bet with all the others that he could get the most sound out of his instrument. I left the music on maybe a quarter of a second before switching it off again, and even with that short an exposure it felt like the my ears were coming off at the lobes.

  But I couldn’t stop now. I fired it up another quarter second, and then another. Then, bracing myself, I turned it on for a full second.

  This time, it felt like the top of my head was joining my ears in their attempt to vacate the premises. I gulped a breath, fired off another full second, and another, and then thankfully returned to three more of the shorter quarter-second bursts of agony.

  Bayta had had a sheltered upbringing among the Chahwyn, and had been playing a determined game of intellectual catch-up since then. Still, somewhere along the line, surely even she had learned the significance of a classic SOS.

  I was midway through the third repeat, and was wondering if my ears were starting to bleed yet, when the canopy was pulled open, and I saw Bayta’s worried face looking down at me.

  In the brief time I’d been away, the dispensary had become an emergency room.

  Witherspoon was sitting on one of the fold-out seats along the side wall, pressing a cold pack against the back of his head, his posture that of a man who had just gone three rounds with a bulldozer. Two Fillies were twitching in obvious discomfort on fold-out slabs on the other side of the room. One of them turned his head as Bayta and I entered, and I saw it was my friend Rose Nose, the one who’d pulled me out of the scuffle with Strinni earlier in the afternoon, just long enough for Kennrick’s ribs to get cracked instead of mine.

  Strinni’s body, which had been on the diagnostic table when I’d left, was nowhere to be seen. In its place, lying ominously still on the treatment table as Aronobal worked feverishly over him, was Usantra Givvrac.

  “Whatever you’re doing, stop it,” I said, wincing as the sound of my words assaulted my sore ears. “It won’t work.”

  “Compton!” Witherspoon exclaimed, looking up at the sound of my voice. “Are you all right? Someone hit me—”

  “Save it,” I cut him off. “You need to get a load of gleaner bacteria from somewhere and inject it into his intestines.”

  “What?” Aronobal asked, frowning down her long nose at me.

  “Are you deaf?” I bit out. “Their gleaner bacteria’s been wiped out. The unneutralized waste is backing up and flooding their systems—that’s what’s making them sick.”

  “Impossible,” Aronobal insisted. “What could they possibly have eaten that could have done so much damage?”

  “They didn’t eat it, they inhaled it,” I said, disengaging myself from Bayta’s supporting arm and making my slightly unsteady way to the table. “I took a sample earlier from one of the train’s air filters and found traces of antibacterial sprays.”

  “You can’t kill a Filiaelian’s gleaner bacteria that way,” Witherspoon said. “Everything they inhale is filtered through the respiratory system—”

  “So is everything Humans inhale,” I interrupted him. “But Bayta and I are both feeling the effects of something on our own gut flora. Whatever this stuff was our killer was spraying around, it digs deep and packs one hell of a punch.”

  Witherspoon looked at Aronobal. “Is this reasonable? Or even possible?”

  “Do you have any other treatment to suggest?” Aronobal countered. “Very well, Mr. Compton. If your companion will ask the Spiders to find some Filiaelian volunteers, we’ll try your suggestion.”

  “No,” a weak Filly voice said.

  It took me a second to realize the voice had been Givvrac’s. “No what?” I asked, looking down at him.

  “No need to find volunteers,” he said, his eyes nearly closed, his nose blaze gone so dark now as to be nearly black. “My contract team—Esantra Worrbin, Asantra Muzzfor, and Asantra Dallilo. They will provide what is necessary.”

  “Works for me,” I said, looking over at Bayta. “Can you get the Spiders on it?”

  She nodded. “Already done.”

  “Compton?” Givvrac murmured.

  I looked back down at him. “Yes?”

  “My final wish,” he said softly. “Find this murderer.”

  “I will,” I promised, wondering distantly if Filly law listed any penalties for failing to deliver on a deathbed promise. “But you’re a long ways yet from any final wishes,” I added. “Half an hour, and you’ll be as good as new.”

  “Find the murderer, Mr. Compton,” Givvrac repeated, his voice trailing off into a whisper. “And kill him.”

  I looked at Bayta, then at Witherspoon, then at Aronobal … and there was something in the Filly doctor’s eyes that warned there were indeed penalties for reneging on such a promise. “If it’s within my power,” I said, looking back at Givvrac, “I will.”

  His eyes closed, and he gave a microscopic nod. “Then will honor and justice be served,” he murmured.

  Five minutes later, he was dead.

  TEN

  “Hold still,” Witherspoon ordered as he gently pulled on the back of my right ear and eased the tip of hi
s viewer into the labyrinth within.

  “You just watch where you’re poking that thing,” I warned, wincing as his touch sent my ears’ background throbbing onto a new and more exciting rhythm.

  “Courage, Compton,” Kennrick admonished, glancing around the otherwise deserted first-class bar as he took a sip of his brandy.

  Normally this sort of examination would have been held in the dispensary. But the dispensary was more than a little crowded at the moment. Besides, the dispensary didn’t serve brandy, which Kennrick apparently liked a lot.

  It also didn’t serve yogurt, which I didn’t like at all, but which my gut badly needed to help replenish its supply of helpful bacteria. “I’m saving my courage for when he pokes something in your ear,” I told Kennrick, taking a last bite and setting my spoon on the table beside my empty bowl.

  “In that case, feel free to yell in agony,” Kennrick said agreeably.

  “I never scream in front of the help,” I said, gesturing toward the server standing a couple of paces behind Witherspoon. The Spider, I knew, was here to keep an eye on Witherspoon’s medical bag.

  Kennrick, I was pretty sure, was here to keep an eye on me.

  Witherspoon let go of my ear. “Other side, please,” he instructed.

  I swiveled my chair around, putting my back to Kennrick and the table. “We have got to be the saddest lot of travelers in Quadrail history,” Kennrick mused as Witherspoon dug his viewer into my other throbbing ear. “Give us a drum and a couple of fifes and we’d be right at home in a Western Alliance historical painting.”

  “It’s worse back in the dispensary,” I reminded him.

  “They were included in my list,” he said, his voice grim. “Damn it all. I still can’t believe this is happening.”

  “You mean the fact that your contract team is falling over like dominoes?” I asked.

  “And the fact that the Spiders haven’t lifted a leg to stop it,” he growled. “I thought they were supposed to keep weapons off their damn trains.”

  “What weapons?” I countered. “Like you said earlier, cadmium’s found in any number of gadgets used all over the galaxy. And people bring antiseptic sprays onto Quadrails all the time.”

  “Sprays strong enough to penetrate all the way into Filiaelian intestines?”

  “I’ll admit that’s a new one,” I conceded. “The point remains that up to now nothing that’s been used has qualified as a standard weapon.”

  “They’re supposed to screen for nonstandard weapons, too,” Kennrick growled. “You about done there, Doc?”

  “Almost,” Witherspoon said. “And I think our energies would be better spent in figuring out how we can prevent this from happening again instead of trying to assign blame.”

  “Hear, hear,” I said. “Actually, that’s the main reason I wanted the two of you here while Dr. Witherspoon checked me over. I thought it was about time we all had a nice quiet conversation together.”

  “You wanted me here?” Kennrick asked. “The conductor said it was Dr. Witherspoon who sent for me.”

  “It was,” I agreed. “A quiet conversation is the reason I let him do it. Doc? What’s the verdict?”

  “No permanent damage that I can see,” Witherspoon reported, putting the viewer back into his bag and pulling out a packet of QuixHeals. “But both your eardrums are going to be tender for a while.” He grimaced, his fingers digging briefly beneath his shirt collar to gingerly touch the back of his neck. “As will your neck,” he added. “A few days on QuixHeals and you should be mostly back to normal.”

  “So what did you want to talk about?” Kennrick asked.

  “Obviously, what’s been going on aboard this train,” I said. “Dr. Witherspoon has a theory.”

  The sudden change in conversational direction caught Witherspoon by surprise. “I do?” he asked, sounding bewildered.

  “Of course,” I said. “You think I did it.”

  It was Kennrick’s turn to be caught flatfooted. “You?” he demanded.

  “That’s right,” I said, watching Witherspoon closely. Under our dual gaze, he was starting to look a little squirmy. “Di-Master Strinni may have died with his hands making the sign-language symbols for F and C. Dr. Witherspoon thinks they’re my initials.”

  “Ridiculous,” Kennrick said. “Sorry, Doc, but it’s ridiculous.”

  “Why?” Witherspoon countered. “We know nothing about Mr. Compton. Who he is, who he’s working for, or what he’s doing on this train.”

  “He’s annoyed that I pointed out he’d been with two of the victims before they died,” I stage-whispered to Kennrick. “Actually, with Givvrac, we’re now up to three out of four.”

  “And who knows how many of them you dealt with?” Witherspoon shot back. “You or your Spider friends.”

  “Easy, Doc,” Kennrick soothed. “You’ve got the wrong end of the stick here. Whatever Mr. Compton is now, what he was was Western Alliance Intelligence.”

  Witherspoon drew back a little, his eyes narrowing. “Westali?”

  “That’s right,” I confirmed.

  “You know this for a fact?” Witherspoon asked.

  “I do,” Kennrick confirmed.

  “How?”

  A muscle twitched in Kennrick’s cheek. “He was—”

  “I was involved in an operation at the law office where he was working a few years ago,” I jumped in.

  Witherspoon’s wary look shifted to Kennrick. “Was Mr. Kennrick the target?” he asked pointedly.

  “No,” I said. It was mostly true. “And to answer your next question, I left the service voluntarily.” That was also mostly true, though I certainly wouldn’t have volunteered to resign if I hadn’t been pressured to do so. “I can give you references, if you still want to check up on me after we reach Venidra Carvo. Won’t do you much good right now, though.”

  “I’ll get the list from you later,” Witherspoon said, visibly relaxing a bit. “Did di-Master Strinni know about your history? Is that why he left us your initials?”

  “We don’t even know that they were initials, let alone mine,” I reminded him. “They could have stood for First Class, Fried Chicken, or even Feeling Crappy. If he knew Human sign language at all, which we still haven’t established.”

  “It’s not impossible,” Kennrick said. “I’ve seen a number of non-Humans using Human sign language over the years. Business people especially—some companies like to have a way of communicating in private across crowded rooms. I don’t know about di-Master Strinni specifically, though.”

  “Maybe Master Tririn will know,” I said. “In the meantime, now that my pedigree’s been established, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “I’ve got one of my own first,” Kennrick said. “Are you operating under the authority of the Spiders on this?”

  “They’ve asked me to investigate the deaths, yes,” I said.

  “Is this a one-time thing, or does your association with them predate this particular trip?” he persisted. “The reason I ask is because Pellorian Medical’s policy is to always cooperate with the authorities, even if that cooperation leads to the disclosure of confidential company information. But that only applies to authorities with genuine credentials, not some thrown-together posse of rent-a-cops.”

  “I could probably order the Spiders to throw you off the train,” I offered. “Would that that qualify as adequate authority?”

  “I’d say so,” Kennrick said. “Sorry, but murders or not, Dr. Witherspoon and I still have to cover our own rear ends here. What do you want to know?”

  “Let’s start with the obvious,” I said. “Do you know of anyone who might have had it in for your contract team?”

  “Or Shorshians and Filiaelians in general,” Witherspoon put in. “Don’t forget, there are two other Filiaelians being treated back there.”

  I shook my head. “Collateral damage. The members of your team are clearly the targets.”

  “But that’s ridiculous,” Withers
poon objected. “We’re a medical group. Why would anyone want to attack us?”

  “Because you’re a medical group whose decisions will affect the distribution of millions of dollars,” I said.

  “There’s your proof of Westali training,” Kennrick commented dryly. “First instinct of every government type is to assume it’s about money.”

  I shrugged. “That’s because nine times out of ten it is.”

  “Maybe this is the once out of ten that it isn’t,” Kennrick said. “Dr. Witherspoon’s right—when you’re dealing with Filiaelians and Shorshians, it’s just as likely to be about avenged honor.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Which, I’ll point out, Usantra Givvrac also mentioned.”

  “Fine,” I said, giving up. To me, it was obvious this wasn’t a revenge killing. That kind of murderer usually wanted everyone to know that honor had been satisfied, which meant killing his victim in a very obvious way. Something else had to be at the root of this, though I still had no idea what.

  But Kennrick and Witherspoon were clearly not yet ready to let go of the revenge straw. I might as well humor them and get it over with. “What do you know about the late members of your group?”

  “Not much,” Kennrick admitted. “Doc?”

  “I know that Master Colix and Asantra Dallilo have worked together on other projects in the past,” Witherspoon said. “So have Usantra Givvrac and di-Master Strinni. Maybe they managed to offend someone along the way.”

  “Except that Asantra Dallilo is still alive,” I pointed out.

  Kennrick grunted. “Give it a few hours.”

  “He could be right,” Witherspoon rumbled. “Do you think we ought to put the rest of the contract team under guard?”

  “Whose guard would you trust?” I asked. “Yours and Mr. Kennrick’s?”

  “Or yours,” Witherspoon suggested.

  “Or the Spiders’?” Kennrick countered.