The crowd ignored the boy as he fled the scene; he vanished into the comforting shadows and narrow alleys that filtered back toward the central city. There was nothing remarkable about him and no reason for the gendarmes to stop and question him. The old man and the executive who had found him lying in the street had already forgotten him, engrossed in the unusual sight of a major fire in perpetually damp Drallar.
Flinx made his way back toward the more animated sections of the city, toward the arguing and shouting and smells and sights of the marketplace and Mother Mastiff’s warm, familiar little shop. He was sorry. Sorry for all the trouble he seemed to have caused. Sorry for the funny old Meliorares who were no more. Sorry for the overzealous Peaceforcers.
Mother Mastiff wouldn’t be sorry, he knew. She could be as vindictive as an AAnn, especially if anything close to her had been threatened.
For himself, however, he regretted the deaths of so many. All for nothing, all because of some erratic, harmless, usually useless emotion-reading ability he possessed. Their own fault, though. Everything that happened was their own fault, Meliorares and Peaceforcers alike. He tried to warn them. Never try to come between a boy and his snake.
The damp trek homeward exhausted his remaining strength. Never before had the city seemed so immense, its byways and side streets so convoluted and tortuous. He was completely worn out.
Mother Mastiff was manning the shop, waiting for him as anxiously as she awaited customers. Her thin, aged arm was strong as she slipped it around his back and helped him the last agonizing steps into the store.
“I’ve been worried like to death over ye, boy! Damn ye for causing a poor old woman such distress.” Her fingers touched his bruised cheeks, his forehead, as her eyes searched for serious damage. “And you’re all cut up and bleeding. What’s to become of ye, Flinx? Ye have got to learn to stay out of trouble.”
He summoned up a grin, glad to be home. “It seems to come looking for me, Mother.”
“Hmpnh! Excuses. The boy’s wit is chock full of excuses. What happened to ye?”
He tried to marshal his thoughts as he slid Pip out from beneath the slickertic. Mother Mastiff backed away. The minidrag was as limp as a piece of rope. It lay curled up in its master’s lap, if not asleep then giving a fine scaly imitation of some similar state.
“Some people kidnapped Pip. They called themselves Meliorares. But they really wanted me. They—” His expression screwed tight as he remembered, “One of them said something about wanting to fix me. Fix what? What did they want with me?”
She considered a long moment, studying the boy. Truly, it appeared that he was telling the truth, that he had learned no more than what he said. Ignoring the proximity of the hated flying snake, she sat down and put an arm around his shoulders.
“Now mark me well, boy, because this is vital to ye. I don’t have to tell ye that you’re different. You’ve always been different. Ye have to hide that as best ye can, and we’ll have to hide ourselves. Drallar’s a big place. We can move the shop if need be. But you’re going to have to learn to live quietly, and you’re going to have to keep your differences to yourself, or we’ll be plagued with more of this unwelcome and unwholesome attention.”
“It’s all so silly, Mother. Just because I can sometimes sense what other people are feeling?”
“That. And maybe more.”
“There isn’t anything more. That’s all I can do.”
“Is it, boy? How did ye get away from these people.” She looked past him toward the street, suddenly concerned. “Will they be coming after ye again?”
“I don’t think so. Most of them were kind of dead when I left. I don’t know how I got away from them. I think one of them shot at something explosive and it blew up. I was blown clear out of a building and into the street.”
“Lucky to be alive ye are, it seems, though by what providence I wonder. Maybe ’tis best this way. Maybe ’tis best ye don’t know too much about yourself just yet. Your mind always was advanced of your body, and maybe there’s something more that’s advanced even of that.”
“But I don’t want to be different,” he insisted, almost crying. “I just want to be like everyone else.”
“I know ye do, boy,” she said gently, “but each of us must play the cards fate deals us, and if you’ve been stuck with the joker, you’ll just have to learn to cope with it, turn it to your advantage somehow.”
“I don’t want any advantage! Not if it’s going to cause us this kind of trouble.”
“I’ll have none of that, boy! A difference can always be to one’s advantage. ’Tis time ye chose a profession. I know you’ve no like for running a shop like this one. What is it ye like to do?”
He mulled it over a while before replying. “All I enjoy doing is making other people happy.”
She shook her head sadly. “Sometimes I think you’ve not enough self-interest to keep yourself alive. However, if that’s what ye like, then you’ll have to find some way to earn a living at it.”
“Sometimes I dream of becoming a doctor and healing people.”
“I’d advise ye to set your sights a bit lower, boy.”
“All right. An actor, then.”
“Nay, not that low. Be sensible. Set yourself to something ye can do now, without years of study.”
“I could perform right here in the marketplace,” he said thoughtfully. “I can juggle pretty good. You’ve seen me.”
“Aye, and yelled at ye often enough for practicing with my expensive baubles. But ’tis a sound thought. We must find ye a good street corner. Surely ye can’t get into trouble performing before these simple locals.”
“Sure! I’ll go and practice right now.”
“Easy, boy, easy. You’re nearly asleep on your feet, and I’ll not have ye breaking either my goods or yourself. Go inside and lie down. I’ll be in soon to fix ye something to eat. Go on now, boy, and be sure and take your monster with ye.”
Cradling the exhausted Pip in his hands, Flinx rose and made his way through the displays to the section of the shop that served as their home. Mother Mastiff’s eyes followed him.
What was to become of the boy? Somehow he had come to the attention of powerful, dangerous people. At least there was a good chance they wouldn’t be bothered for a while. Not if he had left them “kind of dead.”
How had he escaped? Sometimes he still frightened her. Oh, not because he would ever harm a hair of her old head. Quite the contrary, as his dogged pursuit and rescue of her these past days had proven. But there were forces at work within that adolescent body, forces beyond the comprehension of a simple shopkeeper, forces he might not be able to control. And there was more to it than reading the emotions of others. Of that she was certain. How much more she could only suspect, for it was clear enough the boy had little awareness of them himself.
Well, let him play at the trade of jongleur for a while. Surely that was harmless. Surely he could not find much trouble plying so simple an occupation.
She told herself that repeatedly all the rest of the afternoon and on into evening as she sat watching him sleep. When she finally slipped into her own bed, she thought she had put such imaginary fears beyond her, but such was not the case.
She sensed that the boy lying content and peaceful in the room opposite hers was destined for more than an idle life of entertaining on street corners. Much more. She knew somehow that a damnable universe, which was always sticking its cosmic nose into the destinies of innocent citizens, would never let anyone as unique as Flinx alone.
For a taste of Alan Dean Foster’s
Pip & Flinx novel Sliding Scales read on!
I am in danger of becoming permanently, irrevocably, and unrescuably moody, Flinx found himself thinking. He knew unrescuably wasn’t a word, but the mangled syntax fit his melancholic state of mind. Forced to leave a badly injured Clarity Held behind on New Riviera in the care of Bran Tse-Mallory and Truzenzuzex, pursued now by a newly revealed clutch of fatalistic
end-of-the-universe fanatics who called themselves the Order of Null (whose existence he might be responsible for), sought by Commonwealth authorities and others for reasons multifarious and diverse, he could be forgiven for sinking into a mood as black as the space that enveloped the Teacher.
Sensing his mood, Pip did what she could to cheer him. The flying snake whizzed effortlessly among the garden and fountains of the lounge, occasionally darting out from behind leaves or bushes in an attempt to startle her master—or at least rouse him from the lethargy that had settled on his soul ever since their forced flight from Nur. Recognizing the effort she was making on his behalf, he smiled and stroked her. But he could no more hide his frame of mind from the empathetic minidrag than he could from himself. Emotionally, she knew him better than anyone, Clarity Held included.
Clarity, Clarity, Clarity, he murmured softly to himself. When will I be able to see you again? After years of wandering, to have finally found someone he felt truly understood him and he might be able to spend the rest of his life with only to lose so soon was almost more than he could bear. Instead of having her to comfort him, he had agreed to spend who knew how long and how much precious time searching for an ancient weapons platform fabricated by an extinct race that might not even prove useful or usable in diverting an oncoming peril of incalculable dimensions and intent.
If that wasn’t enough to depress someone, he could not imagine what was. At least his recurring headaches had not bothered him for a while.
Even some of the live plants in the relaxation chamber seemed to sense his melancholy, brushing his seated form with branches and flowers. The exotic scents of several blossoms refreshed but did not inspire him. The striking foliage could touch, even caress, but could not converse. That ability remained the province of the Teacher’s ship-mind. To its credit, in its limited, formalized, electron-shunting fashion, it tried to help.
“My medical programming informs me that extended periods of depression can affect the health of a human as seriously as a bacterial infection.”
“Go infect yourself,” Flinx snapped irritably.
“It also,” the ship continued briskly, “is detrimental to the well-being of any unlucky sentiences who are compelled to function in the vicinity of the one so depressed.”
Slumped in the lounge chair, Flinx glanced sideways in the direction of the nearest visual pickup. “Are you saying that my mood is contagious?”
“I am saying that anything that affects you also affects me. Your continuing mental condition is not conducive to the efficient functioning of this vessel.”
“Not to mention myself, eh?” He sat up a little straighter, brushing leaves and the tips of small branches away from his legs and sides. Several of them, very subtly, retracted without having to be touched. “You know, ship, I’ve been thinking about everything Bran and Tru told me, about all that we discussed, and the longer I ponder on it, the more my inclination is to say the hell with it, the hell with everything. Except for Clarity, of course.”
“I sense that this energetic verbal response is not an indication of a lightening of mood.”
“Damn right it isn’t. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t do exactly that?”
The ship did not hesitate. “Because if you do nothing, there is a strong likelihood that everything and everyone in this galaxy will perish, with the concomitant possibility that the ultimate responsibility will be yours.”
He rolled his eyes. “All right—give me another reason.”
Surprisingly, the ship did not respond. Advanced AI circuitry notwithstanding, there were still occasional matters that required a certain modicum of cybernetic reflection. This, apparently, was one of them. Or else, he told himself, it was simply pausing for dramatic effect, something it was quite capable of doing.
“You are not thinking with your usual clarity—if you will pardon my use of that word in this context. I have been meditating on this situation for some days now, and I believe I may have, in the course of researching and studying the matter, come to a possible solution.”
For the first time all day, Flinx showed some real interest. “You don’t say? What have you been studying? Human psychoanalysis?”
“Nothing so imprecise. Human behavior can be slotted, albeit with variations, into specific categories. Analysis of yours suggests that you have been laboring under immense mental pressure for some time now.”
The tone of his reply was sardonic. “That’s hardly a news bulletin, ship. Tell me: what prescribed remedy have you uncovered?”
The ship could not keep a note of—artificial?— accomplishment from creeping into its dulcet electronic tones. “Philip Lynx—you need a vacation. That one quick recent visit to Moth was not nearly what is required. You need a vacation from your concerns, your worries, your fears. From trying to see and learn and study. From the immense threat that looms over the galaxy. From yourself.”
It was not the response he had expected. Initially cynical, he found himself more than a little intrigued. “You mean I need to spend time on a beach somewhere, or go for extended hikes in some woods? I’ve done all that.”
“No. It’s true you have been to such places and done those things, but it was always with some specific purpose in mind. You need to go somewhere and do some things to no purpose. You need to just ‘be’ for a while. This is a necessity for the health of any human. The library of me says so.”
He considered thoughtfully before finally responding, “I don’t know if I can do that, ship. I never have.”
“Then,” declared the ship conclusively, “it is time you did so. Every one of my relevant stored medical texts attests to the therapeutic value of such an undertaking. You need to go somewhere interesting and expend some energy in doing nothing. It is necessary for your health.”
Could he? he found himself wondering. Could he set everything aside: thoughts of Clarity, of Bran Tse-Mallory and Truzenzuzex and the steadily approaching evil that lurked behind the Great Emptiness, of the Tar-Aiym weapons platform and all those who sought him, and really do nothing for any appreciable period of time? Could he, dare he, attempt the seemingly impossible? A vacation? Of everything he had done in his short but full life, that struck him as being among the most alien. Even as a child he had not been able to engage in such non-activity. He had been too busy stealing, to keep himself and Mother Mastiff alive.
He had been on the verge of saying to hell with everything. Here was his ship advising him to do essentially that, only without the attendant rancor. For a little while, at least. But where to seek such mental and physical succor? He asked as much of the Teacher.
“I have devoted almost a full minute of thought to the matter,” the synthetic voice replied, clearly gratified by Flinx’s decision. “Given the inauspicious interest in your person by everyone from several independent inimical organizations to the Commonwealth authority itself, it is clear that you would not be able to relax and refresh yourself on any developed world within the Commonwealth.”
Now there’s an understatement, Flinx thought.
“Persisting with this line of reasoning,” ship continued, “it is also plain that if you are forced to spend time on an undeveloped, unexplored world, you will similarly be unable to unwind, as all your mental acuity will perforce be focused on staying alive. This would seem to leave you with few options.”
“Indeed it would.” Flinx watched as Pip coiled around a dark-barked shrub and slid sinuously down the oddly patterned bark. It did not appear to bother the bush.
“What is required is a comfortably habitable world that lies not only beyond the reach of Commonwealth authority but of those other groups that seek to incommode you. A world where you can move about without, as humans like to put it, having to constantly peer over your shoulder. I do not have any shoulders to peer over, but I am able to grasp the philosophical conceit.”
“I always said you were full of conceit,” Flinx riposted. His heart wasn’t really in the verbal sparring,
though. He was, as ship had persisted in pointing out, very tired. “You’re going to tell me that you’ve found such a refuge?” Near the pond, Pip was bobbing and weaving like a serpentine boxer as a thorny flower struck reflexively in her direction.
“I do not possess sufficient information to so categorize it, but the world I have settled upon seems a promising candidate. Certainly it appears to fulfill the requisite conditions.”
With a sigh he sat up straight on the edge of the lounge, trying hard not to think of Clarity Held and whether she was recovered from her injuries. He refused to countenance the possibility that she might not have survived. Without a doubt he needed to find something to divert himself from incessantly dwelling on such dark possibilities.
“What’s the name of this handy haven you’ve found?” he asked dubiously.
“The planet is called Jast.”
“Just Jast?” he queried flippantly. “Never heard of it.”
“There is no reason why you should. It is not part of the Commonwealth and in fact does not even lie within the vast reach of the Orion Arm considered Commonwealth space.”
Remembering that he was supposed to be searching for the vanished Tar-Aiym weapons platform, he experienced a sudden flicker of interest. “It’s not within the Blight, is it?”
“No. Quite the opposite direction, actually.”
Just as well, he mused. Ship was proposing that he go to this world to relax. “Where, then?”
Much compacted in scope, a three-dimensional star map materialized helpfully in front of him. So far off the familiar space-plus vectors was the blinking yellow indicator within that it took a moment before his eyes found it. His brow furrowed.
“You’re right. That is outside Commonwealth space.”
“Jast lies in the region claimed by both the Commonwealth and that of the AAnn Empire,” ship informed him. Flinx could see that for himself. The flashing indicator was located in a vast unclaimed area approximately halfway between Rhyinpine and the AAnn capital of Blasusarr. A long ways from anywhere, he reflected.
For Love of Mother-Not Page 26
