The Third Lynx by Timothy Zahn
Morse’s scanning eyes found me. I raised my eyebrows in wordless question, got a subtle thumbs-up in wordless response.
“The Lynx.” Gargantua said.
“Certainly.” Turning back around, I nodded to the stage. “It’s right there.”
He looked that direction, the wrinkles in his snout deepening. “Where?”
“Right there,” I said again, pointing. “Peeking out from behind that green and blue landscape painting. See it?”
He turned startled eyes on me. “You entered it in the auction?”
“You got it,” I said. “Lot one hundred thirty-five, I believe. Afraid you’re going to have to make an evening of it—late donation, you know. Anyway, the point is that all you need to do is wait for it to come up, buy it, and it’s yours.”
He looked back at the stage. “We agreed to a straight trade.”
“I changed my mind,” I said. “Mr. Stafford spent a lot of money coming here, and I thought he should at least get some of it back. Besides, it was your fault the museum was damaged. It’s only right that you help pay to put it back together.”
“I see,” he said, sounding calmer. “Only half the monies collected go to the museum. How will the Human Stafford receive his share?”
“That’s the best part,” I said. “We’ll have a couple of hours to get safely hidden away before you take possession, just in case you have something nasty up your sleeves—”
“I have given you my word.”
“And as I said before, I’ve seen how well you keep it,” I reminded him. “Meanwhile, the museum will hold our share until we’re ready to come get it.”
He cocked his head to the side. “Our share?”
“I’m charging a small commission for services rendered,” I said. “Not that that’s any of your concern. Do we have a deal?”
Gargantua looked at the Lynx again. “Take the other Humans and go,” he said.
“Good,” I said, standing up and motioning for Bayta to do the same. “See you around.”
His eyes glittered. “Absolutely,” he promised.
“What’s going on?” Penny asked as Bayta and I reached her and Morse.
“We’re getting out of here,” I said, watching the two oathlings out of the corners of my eye as I took her arm. Neither was paying any attention to us. But then, I doubted either had the faintest idea that he was on guard duty. “Your luggage still back at the transport depot?”
Morse nodded. “The Halkas wouldn’t let us go get it.”
“Good enough,” I said. “It can stay there until we’re ready to leave the planet. Come on—your friend Daniels waiting.”
“Her fiancé Daniel,” Morse corrected pointedly as the four of us headed for the nearest exit.
I grimaced as I glanced sideways at Penny’s profile. Out of sight, out of mind, and over the past day I’d almost been able to bury my feelings for her. Now, with her right here beside me. they were flooding back with a vengeance.
Even knowing how it was hurting Bayta, they were still flooding back with a vengeance. It was like high school all over again. “Whatever,” I said to Morse. “Regardless, we need to make tracks.”
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“You’ll see.”
There was a line of autocabs pulled up beside the curb. We piled in and I gave the vehicle the address of the Artists’ Paradise. “What about the Lynx?” Morse asked as we set off through the evening darkness.
“We’re leaving it here,” I told him.
“The hell we are,” Morse bit out. “That’s evidence in a grand theft case. Possibly also a homicide.” “Sorry, but I made a deal,” I said.
“With whom?” Morse countered. “The gang, or Stafford?”
“Pick one,” I said. I’d also nearly forgotten how annoying Morse could be.
The autocab let us out at the Paradise’s main entrance, and I led us inside. Halfway down the tunnel, I found that the five Tra’ho’seej juvenile delinquents had taken up their old posts. They seemed considerably more subdued than they’d been the previous night. “Evening,” I greeted them. “I trust we’re not going to have any trouble from you?”
[No,] the leader said, his ears twitching nervously. [But he’s gone.]
“What?” I asked, letting my voice drop half an octave.
[He’s gone,] the Tra’ho repeated, holding out a data chip. [He said to give you this.]
Wordlessly, I pulled out my reader and plugged in the chip.
The message was very brief. Compton: I can’t wait this out. I thought I could, but I can’t. You can have my share of the auction money—I just want out. See you when I see you.
It was signed Daniel S.
“Terrific,” I growled, handing the reader to Morse and Penny. “Just terrific.”
“He can’t do this,” Morse growled. “He’s still under suspicion for grand theft.”
“Maybe he doesn’t realize that,” I said.
“Or maybe he does,” Morse shot back. “Maybe that’s why he ran.”
“He didn’t even mention me,” Penny murmured.
I looked at her, my heart aching in sympathy with the quiet pain in her voice. I wanted to tell her the truth, but of course I couldn’t. “He didn’t know you were here,” I lied instead. “I never told him.”
“Time stamp’s only three hours ago,” Morse pointed out, handing back the reader. “If he’s headed for the spaceport, we might still be able to catch him.”
“Worth a try,” I said. “Let’s see if our autocab’s still there.”
Unfortunately, it had already driven off. “Doesn’t matter,” I said. “The subway’s not far.”
I set off at a brisk walk. “Wait a minute,” Penny said as she worked to keep up with me. “Shouldn’t we call the spaceport first?”
“And say what?” I countered, pulling up the torchliner schedule on my reader. “We have no authority to ask them to hold him.”
“I could start extradition proceedings,” Morse offered, sounding doubtful. “But that would take time.”
“Way too much time,” I agreed. “Besides, the police may still be mad at me over that hotel incident. We’d do better to keep our heads down.”
“I could try to call him,” Penny offered. “I know his comm number.”
“Except that the Halkas never gave us back our comms,” Morse reminded her. “We’d have to find a public.”
“No time for that now,” I said, handing Morse my reader. “If I’m reading these schedules right, we’re going to reach the spaceport with less than an hour to book passage on that torchliner and get ourselves aboard.”
“We’re leaving?” Penny asked. “We don’t even know if Daniel’s aboard.”
“The next one doesn’t leave until tomorrow,” Morse told her as he flipped through the schedule. “Compton’s right—he’ll definitely be making for this one. But we should be able to book our staterooms on the way from one of the comms in the suborb.”
“Good idea,” I said. “Ms. Auslander can also try calling Mr. Stafford from there. The trick will be to catch the next suborb before it leaves. Otherwise, we won’t make that liner.”
“Then let’s stop talking and hurry,” Morse said.
Luck, and the express subway schedule, were with us. We made the depot with fifteen minutes to spare, grabbed our luggage and got tickets for the suborbital transport to Portline, and were soon arcing our way through the darkened Ghonsilya sky.
Penny insisted on trying to call Stafford before we did anything else. But there was no answer. Either his comm was off or else he’d lost it sometime during his residence at the Paradise. She tried a dozen times before reluctantly agreeing to stop long enough to call the torchliner station about booking passage. There were, as I’d expected, several staterooms still available, and her credit tab was healthy enough to reserve four of them for us. Brushing off Morse’s promise to try to get ESS to reimburse her for at least his part of the fare, she resumed her effo
The flight took three hours, during which time we passed from the early evening of Magaraa City to the midafternoon of Portline. The torchliner was already in the middle of flight prep, but we had time to sign in and get settled before it lifted.
The staff was, of course, not at liberty to give out the names of other passengers. Morse suggested trying to tap into their computer, but since none of us knew what name Stafford was traveling under there wasn’t much point in that. So instead, the four of us settled in to keep a close watch on the dining rooms and public areas. Sooner or later, he would have to come out of his stateroom.
Only he didn’t. We were two days out when even Morse was forced to accept the conclusion that Stafford wasn’t aboard.
“This is all your fault,” Penny bit out, glaring at me across the dining-room table. “You’re the one who said he’d be on this torchliner.”
“You saw the message,” I reminded her, fighting to stay professional about this. It wasn’t easy, what with her anger and sense of betrayal hitting me like high-radiation solar wind. “What other assumption could we have made?”
“Maybe he decided at the last minute he didn’t want to leave without his share of the auction money,” Bayta offered.
“Or else he knew we would read his note and go charging off like a pack of idiots,” Morse growled. He was clearly with Penny on the plan to drop all the blame for this into my lap. “He probably went to ground in Portline to wait for the next torchliner.”
“So that we could be waiting for him when he reached the Tube?” I scoffed. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Maybe he thought we’d turn around and go charging back to Ghonsilya as soon as we hit the transfer station,” Morse said. “Thereby being conveniently out of position when his actual torchliner came in.”
“Only we won’t be doing that, I take it?” I said.
“Bloody right we won’t,” he said firmly. “There’s only one way out of this system, and that’s through the transfer station. I’m prepared to set up camp there and wait all month if I have to.”
“Well, best of luck to you,” I said. “You want Bayta and me to escort Ms. Auslander back to Earth?”
“I’m not going back without Daniel,” Penny said firmly. Her eyes softened a little as she looked at me. “You aren’t going to leave us, are you?”
And with that, all three sets of eyes were on me: Penny’s pleading, Morse’s unfriendly, Bayta’s merely watchful. “I guess we’ll see,” I said. It was a lame answer, but it was the best I could come up with.
Because I knew that by the time we reached the transfer station I very likely wouldn’t have any choice as to whether I stayed or not.
TWENTY
We reached the transfer station four days later, tying up at our dock ten minutes ahead of schedule. The disembarkation listing called for our particular grouping to exit about an hour after docking, and at Morse’s suggestion we spent the time in the aft observation lounge, where we’d at least have a view of something besides the station hull.
I studied Penny’s face as we sat there, wondering if she was thinking about what had happened between us the last time we were in one of these aft lounges together. But it was clear that her thoughts were on Stafford, with me running a distant second.
If I was even in the running at all. Whatever that kiss had meant to me, I was starting to suspect it had meant a great deal less to her.
The transfer station was busy today. Docked a safe distance away from us was a small-capacity torchferry, presumably making its run from one of the asteroid mining regions scattered throughout this part of Ghonsilya’s outer system. Farther down were a pair of the even smaller torchyachts, plus a third currently maneuvering away from the station at the low-power drive setting necessary to keep from frying everything within reach of its heavy-ion plasma exhaust. For a minor system, Ghonsilya seemed to have a lot of traffic.
Finally, the lounge’s speaker called our disembarkation grouping. Gathering our luggage, we joined the line of passengers passing through the hatchways, walked down the entry corridor, and emerged in a large and crowded reception room. Fifty meters directly ahead I could see a row of customs tables with a line of passengers at each, with the doors into the main part of the transfer station just beyond them. A little ahead and to our right was a group of Tra’ho’seej I didn’t recognize from our flight, possibly some of the passengers from the torchferry.
And eight people ahead of us and two lines to our left, freshly disembarked from their rented torchyacht, were Fayr and Stafford.
Stafford was in front, with five Tra’ho’seej and a Nemut between him and Fayr. He was wearing the same plain, nondescript clothing he’d had on at the Paradise, but at least he’d taken the time to get the outfit cleaned during the torchyacht trip. Fayr, in contrast, was resplendent in upper-class clothing, as befit a Bellido wearing four handguns in a matched set of double shoulder holsters.
Stafford had two carrybags rolling alongside him, plus a heavy-looking backpack. Fayr had a single carrybag—an expensive one, naturally—and a long, flat shoulder case for his Rontra 772.
I watched Penny and Morse as we settled into position in our own line, wondering if either of them would recognize Stafford. The odds were low, I knew. Only a little of the younger man’s face was visible at our angle, even less with all that extra hair and beard obscuring it. Between the hair and the clothing, he looked more like a wilderness wanderer than a rich college student. Still, it was a concern, and I kept my eye on Morse and Penny in hopes of stifling any cry of recognition before it got started.
Which was probably why Stafford was nearly to his customs table before I spotted the Tra’ho oathling standing quietly among a group of armed guards in the far corner of the room.
An oathling I’d last seen in Magaraa City outside the Fraklog-Oryo Hotel.
I looked sideways at Bayta, found her looking tensely back at me. She’d obviously spotted him, too, probably before I had. Morse and Penny, in contrast, still seemed oblivious to this new threat.
But then, he wasn’t a threat to either of them.
Stafford had moved up to the table and opened his backpack, revealing a strange half log, half sculpture hybrid that looked like that odd breed of rough-hewn folk art so dearly beloved by sentimental tourists. The customs agent was frowning as Stafford gestured and talked, most likely explaining it was kiln-fired clay and not real Ghonsilyan wood. The agent cut him off, peering at his sensor display, and gestured for the next bag to be put on the table. A minute later, with the procedure completed, Stafford packed up his last bag and strode off through the doors into the station. The customs agent beckoned, and the next Tra’ho in line moved up to the table.
I looked back at the oathling. His eyes were still searching the crowd, having missed Stafford completely. Now all the kid had to do was get aboard one of the shuttles and get to the Tube before the balloon went up. Fortunately, with this much traffic the shuttles were likely to be running pretty continuously.
And then, as I watched the oathling out of the corner of my eye, his drifting gaze abruptly locked on to my face.
I forced myself to stand still, waiting tensely for him to sic the guards on me. But no cry was given, no signal passed. Apparently, the Modhri had decided to play it cool.
And it suddenly occurred to me why. Back during our private parley in the art museum, I’d hinted that I had concealed weapons that the Spiders permitted me to carry aboard the Quadrail.
I’d spun the story mainly to try to obscure Fayr’s role in our rescue. But the Modhri had apparently taken the conversation seriously. He was therefore waiting to make his move until after I hit the customs tables, hoping their scanners would pick up any such weaponry and deprive me of it.
Ahead, the Nemut directly in front of Fayr moved up for his turn under the microscope. “Morse?” I murmured.
“What?” he said distractedly.
“Whatever ha
I had his full attention now. “What are you talking about?” he demanded quietly.
“Just get them to safety,” I said. I started to drift to the side.
Morse caught my arm. “Don’t even think about it,” he warned. “Whatever it is.”
“We don’t have a choice,” I said. “See that oathling over there, the one with all the mobile firepower? He’s looking for me.”
“What, over the hotel thing?” Morse scoffed.
“No, over the fact that the Lynx I gave the art museum to auction off was a fake.”
Morse’s grip tightened. “A what?”
“One of Stafford’s friends in the artists’ colony sculpted it for me,” I told him. “It was late enough in the auction schedule that the gang wouldn’t have gotten hold of it and learned the truth until we were already off planet. Obviously, they lasered a message ahead.”
“So how did the oathling get here before we did?”
“They probably sent him off right after Bayta and I gave the rest of you the slip,” I said. “They would have wanted one of their own here as backstop in case I managed to get off Ghonsilya with the Lynx.”
“Are you saying you have it with you?”
In answer, I nudged my larger carrybag with my foot.
Morse hissed softy between his teeth. “This won’t be easy.”
“No kidding,” I said. “Just stay clear, wave your badge around if necessary, and get the women to the Tube.”
The Nemut sealed his last bag and strode off through the doors, and it was Fayr’s turn. The customs agent was obviously familiar with Bellidos; even as Fayr stepped forward, he reached down and pulled a pair of Quadrail lockboxes from beneath the table, one for the handguns, the other for the Rontra in its case.
Stepping out of line, I started toward the row of tables, walking with a determined but casual gait that I knew from experience tended to slow people’s reactions. For a half-dozen steps no one even seemed to notice me, and for another two they remained frozen out of sheer puzzlement as to what I was doing. By the rime the oathling in the corner recovered from his own paralysis and snapped an order I was nearly there.