Might as well try the first, he decided. Slipping down the narrow space separating Mother Mastiff’s shop from the vacant structure next to it, he soon found himself in the alleyway. It was damp and dark, its overall aspect dismal as usual.
He cupped his hands to his mouth, called out, “Pip?”
“Over here, boy,” said a soft voice.
Flinx tensed, but his hand did not grab for the knife concealed in his boot. Too early. A glance showed that his retreat streetward was still unblocked, as was the section of alley behind him. Nor did the individual standing motionless beneath the archway in front of him look particularly threatening.
Flinx stood his ground and debated with himself, then finally asked, “If you know where my pet is, you can tell me just as easily from where you’re standing, and I can hear you plainly from where I’m standing.”
“I know where your pet is,” the man admitted. His hair was entirely gray, Flinx noted. “I’ll take you to it right now, if you wish.”
Flinx stalled. “Is he all right? He hasn’t gotten himself into some kind of trouble?”
The little man shook his head and smiled pleasantly. “No, he isn’t in trouble, and he’s just fine. He’s sleeping, in fact.”
“Then why can’t you bring him out?” Flinx inquired. He continued to hold his position, ready to charge the man or race for the street as the situation dictated.
“Because I can’t,” the man said. “Really, I can’t. I’m just following orders, you know.”
“Whose orders?” Flinx asked suspiciously. Suddenly, events were becoming complicated again. The speaker’s age and attitude abruptly impacted on him. “Are you with the people who abducted my mother? Because if you’re trying to get revenge on her for whatever she was involved in years ago by harming me, it’s not going to work.”
“Take it easy, now,” the man said. A voice Flinx could not hear whispered to the speaker from behind the door.
“For heaven’s sake, Anders, don’t get him excited!”
“I’m trying not to,” the elderly speaker replied through clenched teeth. To Flinx he said more loudly, “No one wants to harm you or your pet, boy. You can have my word on that even if you don’t think it’s worth anything. My friends and I mean you and your pet only well.” He did not respond to Flinx’s brief allusion to his adoptive mother’s past.
“Then if you mean us only well,” Flinx said, “you won’t object if I take a minute to go and reassure—”
The speaker took a step forward. “There’s no need to disturb your parent, boy. In a moment she’ll have her shop open and the crowd will ensure her safety, if that’s what you’re concerned about. Why alarm her needlessly? We just want to talk to you. Besides,” he added darkly, taking a calculated risk, “you don’t have any choice but to listen to me. Not if you want to see your pet alive again.”
“It’s only a pet snake.” Flinx affected an air of indifference he didn’t feel. “What if I refuse to go with you? There are plenty of other pets to be had.”
The speaker shook his head slowly, his tone maddeningly knowledgeable. “Not like this one. That flying snake’s a part of you, isn’t it?”
“How do you know that?” Flinx asked. “How do you know how I feel about him?”
“Because despite what you may think of me right now,” the speaker said, feeling a little more confident, “I am wise in the ways of certain things. If you’ll let me, I’ll share that knowledge with you.”
Flinx hesitated, torn between concern for Pip and a sense of foreboding that had nothing to do with his peculiar Talents. But the man was right: there was no choice. He wouldn’t chance Pip’s coming to harm even though he couldn’t have said why.
“All right.” He started toward the speaker. “I’ll go with you. You’d better be telling the truth.”
“About not wishing to harm you or your pet?” The smile grew wider. “I promise you that I am.”
Try as he might, Flinx couldn’t sense any inimical feelings emanating from the little man. Given the erratic nature of his abilities, that proved nothing—for all Flinx could tell, the man might be planning murder even as he stood there smiling. Up close, the speaker looked even less formidable. He was barely Flinx’s height, and though not as ancient as Mother Mastiff, it was doubtful he would be much opposition in a hand-to-hand fight.
“This is my friend and associate Stanzel,” the man said. An equally elderly woman stepped out of the shadows. She seemed tired but forced herself to stand straight and look determined.
“I don’t want to hurt you, either, boy.” She studied him with unabashed curiosity. “None of us do.”
“So there are still more of you,” Flinx murmured in confusion. “I don’t understand all this. Why do you have to keep persecuting Mother Mastiff and me? And now Pip, too? Why?”
“Everything will be explained to you,” the woman assured him, “if you’ll just come with us.” She gestured up the alley.
Flinx strode along between them, noting as he did so that neither of them appeared to be armed. That was a good sign but a puzzling one. His stiletto felt cold against his calf. He looked longingly back toward the shop. If only he could have told Mother Mastiff! But, he reminded himself, as long as he returned by bedtime, she wouldn’t worry herself. She was used to his taking off on unannounced explorations.
“Mark me words,” she would declaim repeatedly, “that curiosity of yours will be the death of ye!”
If it didn’t involve striking against Mother Mastiff, though, then what did these people want with him? It was important to them, very important. If not, they wouldn’t have risked an encounter with his deadly pet. Despite their age, he still feared them, if only for the fact that they had apparently managed to capture Pip, a feat beyond the capabilities of most.
But something, an attitude perhaps, marked these people as different from the usual run-of-the-mill marketplace cutthroats. They were different from any people he had ever encountered. Their coolness and indifference combined with their calm professionalism to frighten him.
The alley opened onto a side street, where an aircar waited. The old man unlocked it and gestured for him to enter. As Flinx started to step into the little cab, he experienced one of those mysterious, unannounced bursts of emotional insight. It was brief, so brief he was unsure he had actually felt it. It wiped out his own fear, leaving him more confused and uncertain than ever.
He might be afraid for Pip and perhaps even a little for himself, but for some unknown reason, these two outwardly relaxed, supremely confident individuals were utterly terrified of him!
16
Cruachan studied the readouts carefully. The section of the old warehouse in which they had established themselves was a poor substitute for the expensively outfitted installation they had laboriously constructed far to the north. He did not dwell on the loss. Years of disappointment had inured him to such setbacks. The machines surrounding him had been hastily assembled and linked together. Wiring was exposed everywhere, further evidence of haste and lack of time to install equipment properly. It would have to do, however.
He was not disappointed. In spite of all their problems, they appeared on the verge of accomplishing what they had intended to do on this world, albeit not in the manner originally planned. It seemed that the presence of the Alaspinian immigrant was going to turn to their advantage. For the first time since they had placed themselves in orbit around the world, he felt more than merely hopeful. His confidence came from Anders’ and Stanzel’s last report. The subject, accompanying them quietly, seemed reluctantly willing to cooperate, but had thus far displayed no sign of unexpected threatening abilities.
While a potentially lethal act, the taking of the subject’s pet had turned out far more successful than the attempted adjustment of the subject’s adoptive parent. Cruachan now conceded that that had been a mistake. If only their information had included mention of the catalyst creature in the first place! He did not blame the informant, tho
ugh. It was likely that the minidrag came into the subject’s possession subsequent to the filing of the informant’s report.
He felt like an old tooth, cracked and worn down by overuse and age. But with the semisymbiotic pet now under their control, the subject would have to accede to their wishes. There could no longer be any consideration of attempting to influence the boy externally. They would have to implant the electronic synapses intended for his parent in the lad’s own brain. Direct control posed some risks, but as far as Cruachan and his associates could see, they had no other choice. Cruachan was glad the case was nearing conclusion. He was very tired.
It was raining harder than usual for the season when the little aircar pulled up outside the warehouse. Flinx regarded the place with distaste. The section of Drallar out toward the shuttleport was bloated with stark, blocky monuments to bad business and overconsumption, peopled mostly with machines—dark, uninviting, and alien.
He had no thought of changing his mind, of making a break for the nearest side street or half-open doorway. Whoever these people were, they were not ignorant. They had correctly surmised the intensity of his feelings for Pip, which was why they had not bound him and carried no arms.
He still couldn’t figure out what they wanted with him. If they were not lying to him and truly meant him no harm, then of what use could he be to them? If there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was unanswered questions. He wanted explanations almost as badly as he wanted to see Pip.
They seemed very sure of themselves. Of course, that no weapons were in evidence did not mean no weapons were around. He could not square their fear of him with the absence of armament. Perhaps, he mused, they were afraid of him because they feared he might reveal what he knew of the kidnapping to the local authorities. Maybe that was what they wanted from him: a promise to remain silent.
But somehow that didn’t make much sense, either.
“I wish you’d tell me what you want with me,” he said aloud, “and what’s going on.”
“It’s not our place to explain.” The man glanced at his companion and then said, as if unable to suppress his own curiosity, “Have you ever heard of the Meliorare Society?”
Flinx shook his head. “No. I know what the word means, though. What’s it got to do with me?”
“Everything.” He seemed on the verge of saying more, but the old woman shushed him.
The building they entered was surrounded by similarly nondescript edifices. They were off the main shuttleport access-way. Flinx had seen only a few people about from the time they had entered the area. No one was in the dingy hallway.
They rode an elevator to the third floor. His escorts led him through broad, empty corridors, past high-ceilinged storage rooms filled with plasticine crates and drums. Finally, they halted before a small speaker set into the plastic of an unmarked door. Words were exchanged between Flinx’s escort and someone on the other side, and the door opened to admit them.
He found himself in still another room crammed full of bundles and boxes. What set it apart from a dozen similar rooms was the right-hand wall. Stacked against it was an impressive array of electronics. Empty crates nearby hinted at recent and hasty unpacking and setup. The consoles were powered-up and manned. Their operators spared curious glances for the new arrivals before returning their attention to their equipment. Save for their uniformly grim expressions, they looked like retirees on a holiday outing.
Two people emerged from a door at the rear of the room. They were soon joined by a third—a tall, silver-haired, ruggedly handsome man. He carried himself like a born leader, and Flinx concentrated on him immediately. The man smiled down at Flinx. Even though he was close to Mother Mastiff’s age, the man held himself straight. If he was subject to the infirmities of old age, he did a masterful job of concealing them. Vanity or will? Flinx wondered. He sought the man’s emotions and drew the usual blank. Nor could he feel anything of Pip’s presence in the room or nearby.
Even as the tall senior was shaking his hand and mouthing platitudes, Flinx was searching for the most likely escape route. There seemed to be only one exit: the door through which he had entered. He had no idea where the door at the far end of the room led, but suspected that freedom was not one of the possibilities.
“What a great pleasure to finally meet you, my boy,” the old man was saying. His grip was firm. “We’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to arrive at this meeting. I would rather not have had to proceed in this fashion, but circumstances conspired to force my hand.”
“It was you, then”—Flinx gestured at the others—”who were responsible for abducting my mother?”
Cruachan relaxed. There was no danger in this skinny, innocent boy. Whatever abilities he might possess remained dormant, awaiting proper instruction and development. Certainly his attitude was anything but threatening.
“I asked him,” the man who had brought Flinx from the marketplace reported, “if he’d heard of the Society. He said no.”
“No reason for him to,” Cruachan observed. “His life has been restricted, his horizons limited.”
Flinx ignored that appraisal of his limitations. “Where’s Pip?”
“Your pet, I assume? Yes.” The tall man turned and called out toward the rear doorway. The section of wall containing the door creaked as hidden winches pulled it aside. Beyond lay still another of the endless series of storage chambers, packed with the usual containers and drums and crates. On a table in the forefront stood a transparent cube, perhaps a meter square, topped with several small metal tanks. Hoses ran from the tanks into the cube.
To the left of the table stood a nervous-looking old man holding a small, flat control box. His thumb was pressed hard against one of the buttons set in the box. His eyes shifted regularly from the cube to Flinx and back to the cube.
Pip lay in the bottom of the cube, coiled into itself apparently deep in sleep. Flinx took a step forward. Cruachan put out a hand to hold him back.
“Your pet is resting comfortably. The air in the cage has been mixed with a mild soporific. Westhoff is regulating the mixture and flow of gases even as we speak. If you were to try anything foolish, he would increase the flow from the tanks before you could possibly free your pet. You see, the cage has been weld-sealed. There is no latch.
“The adjusted normal atmosphere inside the cube will be completely replaced by the narcoleptic gas, and your pet will be asphyxiated. It would not take long. All Westhoff has to do is press violently on the button his thumb is caressing. If necessary, he will throw his body across it. So you see, there is nothing you could do to prevent him from carrying out his assignment.”
Flinx listened quietly even as he was gauging the distance between himself and the cage. The elderly man holding the control box gazed grimly back at him. Even if he could somehow avoid the hands that would surely reach out to restrain him, he did not see how he could open the cage and free Pip. His stiletto would be useless against the thick pancrylic.
“You’ve made your point,” he said finally. “What do you want from me?”
“Redemption,” Cruachan told him softly.
“I don’t understand.”
“You will eventually, I hope. For now, suffice for you to know that we are interested in your erratic but unarguable abilities: your Talent.”
All Flinx’s preconceived ideas collapsed like sand castles in a typhoon. “You mean you’ve gone through all this, kidnapping Mother Mastiff and now Pip, just because you’re curious about my abilities?” He shook his head in disbelief. “I would have done my best to satisfy you without your having to go through all this trouble.”
“It’s not quite that simple. You might say one thing, even believe it, and then your mind might react otherwise.”
Crazier and crazier, Flinx thought dazedly. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Just as well,” Cruachan murmured. “You are an emotional telepath, is that not correct?”
“I’m sensi
tive sometimes to what other people are feeling, if that’s what you mean,” Flinx replied belligerently.
“Nothing else? No precognitive abilities? Telekinesis? True telepathy? Pyrokinesis? Dimensional perceptivity?”
Flinx laughed at him, the sound sharpened by the tension that filled the room. “I don’t even know what those words mean except for telepathy. If by that you mean can I read other people’s minds, no. Only sometimes their feelings. That other stuff, that’s all fantasy, isn’t it?”
“Not entirely,” Cruachan replied softly, “not entirely. The potentials lie within every human mind, or so we of the Society believe. When awakened, further stimuli, provided through training and other means, can bring such abilities to full life. That was the—” He paused, his smile returning.
“As I said, someday you will understand everything, I hope. For now, it will be sufficient if you will permit us to run some tests on you. We wish to measure the probable limits of your Talent and test for other possible hidden abilities as yet undeveloped.”
“What kinds of tests?” Flinx regarded the tall man warily.
“Nothing elaborate. Measurements, electroencephalotopography.”
“That sounds elaborate to me.”
“I assure you, there will be no discomfort. If you’ll just come with me …” He put a fatherly hand on Flinx’s shoulder. Flinx flinched. There should have been a snake there, not an unfamiliar hand.
Cruachan guided him toward the instruments. “I promise you, give us twenty-four hours and you’ll have your pet restored to you unharmed, and you’ll never have to go through this again.”
“I don’t know,” Flinx told him. “I’m still not sure of what you want from me.” It seemed to him that there was an awful lot of instrumentation around for just a few simple tests, and some of it looked almost familiar. Where had he seen that tendriled globe before?
For Love of Mother-Not Page 24
