Timothy Zahn - The Domino Pattern

There was a lesson in there somewhere, but at the moment I couldn’t be bothered. The Modhri could have run away when I’d wrecked Muzzfor’s Pied Piper whistle, but instead he’d sacrificed his life to protect mine. I was not going to just sit back and let him die.

I was still talking soothingly to him when the LifeGuard’s lights went red. I punched the start button again, but it was pure, useless reflex. Qiddicoj was dead.

And then his eyelids fluttered. “Compton,” he whispered.

“I’m here, Modhri,” I said.

“A new bargain,” he whispered. “In return for saving your life. Learn the truth of what happened here.”

I nodded. “Bet on it,” I said grimly.

The eyelids fluttered again and went still.

For a minute I continued to kneel over the body, until the LifeGuard’s lights again went red. Taking a deep breath, wincing at the ache in my throat, I got tiredly to my feet. “You have made yet another bargain with the Modhri,” Sarge said.

“Doesn’t count as a bargain,” I said, crossing to where Bayta was still lying unconscious. “I’d already promised that to myself.”

I lowered myself to the floor beside Bayta, carefully touching the side of her neck. Her pulse was slow but strong, and her chest was moving up and down with steady breathing. There was an ugly handprint on the side of her face where Prapp had slapped her, but it didn’t look like anything was broken.

“Shall I move her to one of the seats?” Sarge asked.

“I’ll do it,” I told him. Getting an arm under her neck, I carefully lifted her head and shoulders up off the floor.

For a long moment I gazed into her face, my eyes tracing all those familiar features. My partner, my ally, my friend …and I’d nearly lost her.

Thought virus , the warning whispered through my mind. Too close, and we would both be dangerously vulnerable if one of us was ever infected with a Modhran colony.

I felt my lip twist. The hell with thought viruses.

Leaning close, I kissed her.

Her lips were softer than I’d imagined they would be, probably because I’d so often seen them pursed or stiff with disapproval over something I’d said or done. Her scent was subtle and exotic, with an equally subtle taste to her lips. I got my arm around behind her and held her close, savoring the kiss even as I shivered with what had almost happened to take her away from me.

And then, suddenly, I felt a slight change in the feel of her muscles. I opened my eyes.

To find her eyes were also open. Looking straight back into mine.

I jerked back, a sudden flush of embarrassment and guilt heating my face and neck. “Uh …” I floundered.

“Yes,” she said, and I could sense some of the same embarrassment in her own voice. “Uh …I think I’m all right.”

“Are you sure?” I asked, trying to shift my hands to a more professional grip on her arms. This sort of thing wasn’t supposed to happen. Especially since neither of us wanted it to.

“I think so,” she said. For another moment, her eyes held mine. Then, she tore her gaze away.

And I felt her stiffen. “Frank,” she gasped.

“Yeah,” I said grimly, following her stricken eyes to the four bloodied bodies scattered around the car. “Not a pretty sight, is it?”

“What hap—?” She broke off, and I had the impression Sarge was feeding her the entire blow-by-blow.

I looked at the bodies again, perversely glad for the distraction they provided, and wondered if Bayta would want to talk later about that impulsive kiss. Part of me hoped she would. Most of me hoped she wouldn’t.

“But it doesn’t make sense,” she said into my thoughts. “Why did Asantra Muzzfor do that? How did he do that?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But I know where to start looking. You up to a little walk?”

“Of course,” she said. She got a grip on my arms, which were somehow still wrapped around her, and together we got her to her feet. “Where are we going?”

“Kennrick’s compartment,” I said. “From the way Muzzfor was talking, I think there’s something in there he assumed we’d already found. Something he thought was worth killing us for.”

“Something in Mr. Kennrick’s lockbox?” she suggested.

“That’s the logical place to start,” I agreed, tightening my grip on her arm as she wavered a bit. “Can you make it, or do you want to wait here?”

“I can make it,” she said grimly. “You think we’ll be able to open it?”

“Depends on how good Emikai’s bypass mimic really is,” I told her. “Easy, now—let’s go.”

Prapp’s attack, plus the ordeal that had preceded it, had apparently taken more out of Bayta than she’d realized. Emikai’s mimic was still only midway through its work on Kennrick’s portable lockbox when she went over to the bed to lie down. By the time I pulled the lockbox lid open, she was fast asleep.

The box was well stocked, mostly with papers but also with a couple of collections of data chips. Some of the papers had belonged to Givvrac, the ones I skimmed consisting of notes and observations from the contract team’s time on Earth. Other papers were Kennrick’s, and I made a point of putting those aside for later study. Each of the other members of the contract team had also made donations to the stack, and I was nearly to the bottom before I found a small, sealed folder with Muzzfor’s name on it.

I opened it up and carefully read through the contents. Twice. Then, sitting down on the curve couch, I stared at the bloodstained carpet and waited for Bayta to wake up.

And as I sat there, I thought distantly about the many phrases and similes and mental images we used every day without really thinking about them. Never again. Not me. I’d seen the contents of Asantra Muzzfor’s folder.

I knew now what the Gates of Hell truly looked like.

I’d fallen into a light doze when I was jolted awake by a soft moan. I tensed; but it was only Bayta, stretching carefully on the bed across the compartment from me. “Sorry,” she apologized, gingerly touching her face where Prapp had hit her. “I guess I was more tired—”

“We’ve got trouble,” I interrupted her.

Her hand froze against her skin. “I’m listening,” she said, her voice back to its usual calm.

I took a deep breath. “We were wrong,” I said. “Or at least, I was. Tell me, what do the Chahwyn know about the Shonkla-raa?”

“You know most of it,” Bayta said, frowning. “They were a slaver race who conquered most of the galaxy’s sentient peoples almost three thousand years ago. They held that power for a thousand years, at which point their subjects staged a coordinated revolt and destroyed them.”

“You’re almost right,” I said. “But there’s one small detail you and everyone else has gotten wrong. Shonkla-raa isn’t a race. It’s a title. Specifically, an old Filiaelian title.”

Her eyes widened. “The Shonkla-raa were Filiaelians ? But then—?”

“But then why haven’t they conquered everyone again?” I finished for her. “Simple. Because the Shonkla-raa was a specific Filly genetic line, and that line was destroyed in the revolt.”

“The Filiaelian obsession with genetic engineering,” Bayta said, nodding slowly. “They’ve been trying to re-create the Shonkla-raa.”

“ Some group of them has been, anyway,” I agreed. “Only they’re not trying anymore.” I held up Muzzfor’s folder. “They’ve done it.”

Bayta stared at me, the blood draining from her face. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes,” I confirmed. “But it gets worse. Remember why the Modhri was created in the first place?”