"Actually, once he's got even a small hole or crack to let the pressure out he can get through both doors," I said. "But I figure it'll buy us a couple of hours."
"Meanwhile, he's got a coral outpost out there," Bayta murmured.
"It won't help him any," Rebekah said.
"I don't think Bayta was referring to your coral, Rebekah," I said. "She was thinking about the fact that if this mind segment wants to, he could turn the entire train into walkers."
Rebekah's face went rigid. "Oh, no," she breathed. "But he wouldn't do that. Would he?"
"He did it once before," Bayta said grimly. "It nearly killed both of us."
"But not quite," I pointed out. "But I don't think he will. Not this time. He already has plenty of walkers aboard for what he needs, and creating a bunch of new ones won't really gain him anything."
"Unless he does it just to spite us," Bayta said.
I shook my head. "The Modhri doesn't seem to care that much about spite or revenge. He has a pretty good soldier mentality, actually, which is one of the things that make him so dangerous. He's too focused on his mission of galaxy domination to bother with petty distractions."
"That might be true for the Modhri as a whole," Rebekah said. "But remember, all we have aboard this train is a single mind segment."
"And you hurt him pretty badly back there," Bayta agreed. "The way Mr. Braithewick looked at you …Standing orders notwithstanding, he might decide to bend the rules a little."
I hesitated, gazing at their faces, at their eyes filled with fear and compassion for all the innocent people riding our train. In theory, of course, they were right. A single mind segment, especially one that was out of touch with all the other mind segments, had a certain degree of autonomy. If it was out of touch long enough, as it would be on a long Quadrail trip, it could conceivably drift away from whatever the overall Modhran party line was at the moment.
In fact, that could be the very same mechanism that had caused the drastic change in Rebekah's batch of coral when it came under the influence of her group of rogue symbionts. If so, I could see why the Modhri was so afraid of them, and why he was going to such lengths to find and destroy them.
Should I tell them the truth? Bayta would have to be told eventually, I knew. And it might help alleviate at least this one concern for both her and Rebekah.
But this was something the Modhri definitely didn't want getting out …and he still might decide to take a prisoner for questioning. "I doubt the Modhri's discipline is nearly that lax," I said instead. "Personally, I think we've got better things to worry about than having the whole train rise up against us."
I turned back to the vestibule. "That should be long enough," I said. "Let's give it a try." Mentally crossing my fingers, I pressed the door release.
Nothing happened. I tried again, and once more just for luck. The door was indeed locked up tight. "Perfect," I said briskly. "That should hold him for a bit."
"We need to hold him longer than just a bit," Bayta warned, giving me one of those thoughtful looks she did so well. She was smart enough to realize I'd deflected her concern without genuinely addressing it, but she was also smart enough to know when I was telling her to drop a subject. "It's still several hours to the next station."
"True enough," I said, looking at the stacks on either side of the vestibule door. Both were composed of oversized crates with machinery labels on them and double layers of safety webbing. Not a chance in the universe the three of us would be able to knock those over. "Scavenger hunt time. What I want is a crate with a vertical side-sliding panel instead of the usual top-opening lid. It also needs to be on the bottom of its particular stack. First one to find me a crate like that wins a prize."
"What kind of prize?" Rebekah asked.
"I'll think of something," I said. "You two head back; I'll check the ones up here."
The crate I'd described for them was important, but it wasn't actually my first priority. As soon as the two of them were out of sight, I headed to the side toward the spot where the Jurskala Spider contingent was supposed to have loaded my special crate.
It was, thankfully, right where it was supposed to be, sitting on top of a short and easily climbable stack of other crates. I pried open the top, made sure my special cargo was inside, then closed it again. The crate had been a vital part of Plan A, and it was going to be an equally important part of Plan B.
It would probably be necessary even if we had to go to Plan C. Whatever Plan C might end up being.
I was back down on the floor, prowling among the crate islands, when Rebekah won the hunt.
"What's in it?" she asked as I worked the safety webbing up and away from the bottom of the crate. It would have been faster to cut it, but this particular webbing I wanted left intact.
"Typically, side-opening crates contain one of two types of items," I told her. "Either machinery designed to be rolled out at its destination, or stuff that'll flow out into a bin or other container when you pull up the panel. Hold this webbing up, will you?"
She reached up and got a grip on the webbing, keeping it out of my way. "Which is it in this case?" she asked.
"No idea, but I'm hoping it's the former," I said. Popping the catches, I got my fingertips under the bottom of the panel and pulled upward.
I would have been happy with pretty much anything. As it was, I was quietly ecstatic. Packed inside its molded foam spacers was a beautifully restored classic Harley-Davidson motorcycle. "Bingo," I said.
"We're planning on riding somewhere?" Bayta asked, looking confused.
"Like where?" I countered, getting a grip on the front wheel and pulling. For a moment the bike resisted, then reluctantly rolled toward me, its spacers mostly coming along with it. "Besides, it won't be fueled up."
"Then why do we want it?" Rebekah asked.
"Because this is no longer a classic motorcycle," I told her as it came free. "This is a neatly organized collection of spare parts."
I gave the clutch grip an experimental squeeze. "A collection of spare parts," I added quietly, "that can be turned into weapons."
Bayta and Rebekah exchanged looks. "I see," Bayta said, her voice sounding uncomfortable.
Small wonder. For seven hundred years the Spiders had gone to extraordinary lengths to keep weapons off their Quadrails. Now here I was, proposing to create an arsenal out of something that had sailed right through their filters. "It's not a big deal," I told her. "In the real world, almost anything can be turned into a weapon if you work at it hard enough."
"I suppose," she said. "It just makes the whole no-weapons thing seem rather futile."
"Hardly," I assured her. "Keeping guns and knives and plague bacteria off the trains is what's kept the peace through the galaxy for the past seven centuries. Let's not throw out the heirloom silver just because there's a little tarnish on it here and there."
"You're right." She took a deep breath. "What do you want Rebekah and me to do?"
"Right now, nothing," I said. "With only one multitool among us, this is going to be pretty much a one-man job. You and Rebekah can go find yourselves a nice place to sit down and relax."
"What about my prize?" Rebekah asked, a hint of the ten-year-old girl once again peeking through. "You said there would be a prize if I found you the right crate."
"That I did," I agreed, bracing myself. Someone was really going to hate me for this.
He would just have to get in line. Reaching to the Harley's right-hand mirror, I snapped it off. "There you go," I said, handing it to Rebekah. "Don't spend it all in one place."
She gazed at it a moment, then looked up at me again. "Thank you," she said gravely.
And with that, the ten-year-old was gone again. "You're welcome," I said. "Now scoot, both of you. I'll let you know when I need you again."
I had never taken a motorcycle apart before, and the very first thing I discovered was that my multitool wasn't much of a substitute for a proper mechanic's kit. Many of the parts came off with difficulty, or thoroughly mangled, or both. Other components never did give up their death grip on the bike, despite the force, ingenuity, and threats I threw at them.