The backstreet was old and blissfully deserted. It was remarkable how much truly ancient construction had survived the centuries. The crumbling brick wall on his right had to date from no later than the twenty-first century, at least. A pile of primitive non-degradable containers formed a small talus slope to his left, overflowing their collection bin.
From the vicinity of the bin, something moved. He sensed the threat before he saw its owner—a small, stocky bundle of inimical energy whose black eyes glittered in the faltering light. The man’s skin was as brown as Flinx’s, and in his right hand he held a weapon of indeterminate parentage.
Two more armed individuals emerged from a dark doorway, a lean whip of a woman from behind the container bin, and another from the shadows up ahead. Turning to leave, Flinx found the way back to the main street blocked by a trio of stimstick-smoking youths whose thin smiles did nothing to illuminate the darkness or their sour personalities. The police he had turned into the alley to avoid might still be within shouting distance, but calling for help would mean having to answer their questions. If they ran a check on him, they would identify him as the individual wanted in this morning’s incident at the Surire hub.
“My-o, he’s a glimmer one.” The woman with the whipcord body, much of which was on unapologetic display, eyed him approvingly. Her torso was maybe twenty, her eyes ten years older.
“Your cred, visitor.” The stocky man who had stepped out from behind the bin motioned nervously in Flinx’s direction. His sedate squirming was a consequence not of unease but of the drugs in his system. “Clothes, ident, everything. Right now.” He gestured sharply at the ground.
“Hait.” Another, even younger woman was grinning. “Let’s see wot you got, boy-o.” Her emotions and those of her companions stank of predation.
Traveling with weapons was a good way to attract the immediate attention of the authorities. They inevitably marked the bearer as worthy of closer attention. So Flinx disdained guns and vibraknives and similar mechanisms of extermination. That did not mean he was unarmed. There were a lot of them, though, and the alley was narrow.
He started backing up the way he had come. The police whose attentions he needed to avoid should be elsewhere by now. “I’m going to leave. I need what little I have, and you don’t. Please, don’t try to stop me.”
“Hi-o, he’s polite as well as pretty.” Stepping forward, supple muscles visible within the webwork of her outfit, the tall young woman produced a sharply finned dart. She juggled it easily in one hand, flipping it in casual circles. “After I waft him out, can I play with what’s left?”
Her stocky companion grunted. “Just get it over with.” Peering past Flinx and the three mougs behind him, he tried to scrutinize the distant street. “I hate it when they don’ cooperate.”
The woman’s grin widened. “I like it.” The dart paused in her hand, held casually in throwing position. Flinx wondered what chemical cocktail it contained.
“Don’t throw that.” His voice was composed, unruffled.
The woman’s smile faded slightly. She wanted him to be afraid, and though tense, he clearly was not frightened. It unnerved her more than she cared to show. Maybe Marvilla was right. Time to get it over with. Business first, play-o later.
Reading her rising emotions, Flinx knew that despite her indifferent attitude and the fact that she was looking at her male companion and not in his direction, she was preparing to throw the dart. As the synchronous emotional outbreak began to rise within her, he threw himself to one side, into the pile of discarded plasticine containers. Cool from lying in the dark alley, their accumulated bulk masked his body signature. Seeking human heat, the flung dart whizzed through the space where he had been standing. He heard the startled oath from one of the three mougs who blocked the outlet as the dart struck home. There was a brief, crude flare of panic from the youth, then nothing as the illicit pharmaceuticals shut down his system. Paralyzed, he crumpled to the ground.
As Flinx had hurled himself sideways, something small, winged, superfast, and angry exploded from within the folds of his shirt. Brightly hued and reptilian of aspect, it was in the woman’s face before she could draw a second dart from its holder. Emitting a startled scream, she stumbled backward, tripped, and fell on the half-exposed dart she was holding. With a moan, she reached down to pull it free of her left buttock, only to crumple onto her side as the soporific cocktail of enhanced animal tranquilizers it contained took effect.
Raising his pistol, the leader of the pack took aim at his girlfriend’s assailant. Or tried to. In the dimly lit alley it was difficult to focus on anything so small, particularly when it seemed to be moving in every direction at once. The shot misfired. The minidrag’s response did not. A few droplets of incredibly caustic venom struck the man in his right eye. Dropping his weapon he staggered backward, slammed into the brick, and sat down, clawing at the eye from which a thin stream of corrosive smoke was rising.
Rolling to his feet, Flinx assumed a defensive posture with the bin at his back. The two mougs who were still conscious had drawn weapons of their own, as had the man and his companions who had been loping toward him from the other end of the alley. Pip sped back to hover protectively above her master, slitted eyes alert, still full of piss and poison.
Glancing backward, one of the mougs suddenly paused and muttered something to her mate. Holstering her weapon, she broke into a run. Flinx watched as they passed right by him. Joining the surviving pack members, they fled up the alley.
He lowered his hands. Pip descended toward him but remained airborne and alert. A lone figure was coming up the alley toward them, advancing at a leisurely pace. Flinx searched for the sheen of a police uniform.
The old man was solidly built but not tall. White stubble covered his squarish face, indifferent to depilatory and fashion. His lower jaw protruded as if he suffered from some incurable orthodontic contraction. Like the facial stubble, his hair was entirely white and combed back over his high head, to pause at the collar of his rough, natural cotton shirt. A small communicator was visible hanging from his waist, and he wore a finger-sized reader/probe above one ear. His back was only slightly bent. He might have been 70, or 170.
Halting a safe distance from Flinx, he flourished a grandfatherly smile and surprisingly good teeth. One thick, callused finger jabbed at the air above the younger man’s head.
“Call off thy winged devil, sonny. The street slime have all run away.” He nodded in the direction of the dead pack leader and his twitching, silent girlfriend. “Them that could, anyways.”
Flinx searched for the glint of a weapon. “They ran from you, but you’re not armed.”
“Only with my reputation.” The old man chuckled with amusement. “Afraid old Cayacu would hex ’em. I would, too. Eight against one—not righteous.” He shook his head disapprovingly. “What’s thy name?”
The subject of the old man’s query almost started to say Philip, but hastily corrected himself. “I’m Flinx. The one with the wings is Pip.” As he spoke, the flying snake settled back onto his shoulder, remaining vigilant and visible. In this new arrival she sensed no threat.
“She be a one, too.” The oldster chortled a second time, then beckoned with a broad gesture. “Thou’rt the one hub security’s looking for, aren’t thou? Come with me.”
Straining, Flinx tried to appraise the elder without speaking. Like Pip, he perceived no threat. “Why should I go with you? So you can turn me in for the citizen’s reward?”
“I don’t need the government’s credit. Thou’rt a strange one. I like strange things.” He indicated the far reaches of the alley into which the surviving pack members had fled. “They knew that. That’s why they ran.” Aged but still bright brown eyes met those of the younger man. “You know what a shaman be, sonny?”
Flinx frowned. “Some kind of witch doctor?” He stared. “In this day and age?”
“What day and age be that?” The deeply lined, weathered face overflowed with
wisdom and good humor. “Shamanism never goes out of style, sonny. No matter how advanced the technology, no matter how grand the accomplishments of hard science, there’ll always be them for whom mysticism and magic transcend knowledge. Never forget that for many folk, it’s always easier to believe than to think.”
“Then you’re a self-confessed fraud.” Flinx had always been too forthright for his own good.
“Didn’t say that.” The old man chuckled. “Come on, sonny. Let’s get thee out of here.” He turned to leave.
Flinx continued to hesitate. “You still haven’t given me a compelling reason for going with you.” On his shoulder, Pip was finally relaxing, her tiny but powerful heart pounding like a miniature impulse drive.
Cayacu looked back. “Because I can get thee to wherever it be thou wantst to go. Assuming, that is, that thou hast someplace thou wantst to go. Or perhaps thou wouldst prefer to stay here?”
The younger man eyed the constricting walls of the alley, the dead and unconscious bodies that littered the ground. “I do have a destination, and this isn’t it.”
“Didn’t think so.” The oldster beckoned again. “Come and chat with a jaded old man. The authorities tolerate individuals like meself, but they disapprove of what I do. It gives me pleasure to thwart them.” He shook his head. “Eight against one,” he muttered softly. “Best get thy pet out of sight.”
It was not the oldest skimmer Flinx had ever seen, but it was close. Cayacu drove it out of the city center and into the suburbs, heading for the sea. As soon as they reached the beach, they turned north, the vehicle wheezing and rattling in the darkness, the half moon hanging motionless over the Pacific, giving the water the sheen of rubbed steel. Soon they were out of the city altogether and leaving the highly developed resort area behind. Since they were traveling north, the direction he needed to go, Flinx saw no reason to comment on the route his host was taking.
Occasionally the ancient, battered vehicle lost power so severely that it bounced off the ground, dimpling the grassy track that was the main road leading north. Eventually, the shaman parted with the avenue altogether and turned seaward once more, following a narrow path that snaked through rock and sand. In the absence of irrigation, the terrain had reverted to its natural amalgam of gravel, sand, and gritty soil. It would remain so for hundreds of undisturbed kilometers up the coast.
A few lights appeared in the distance. Simple, carefully maintained homes hugged the south bank of a small river. Where it emptied into the sea, snowy egrets patrolled the water’s edge, far outshining the shore birds one would expect to encounter in such a place. The birds were sleeping now. A few heads glanced up, a few sets of wings fluttered, as the grinding, coughing skimmer faltered past their resting place.
Cayacu brought it to a halt in a covered port that was attached to an unprepossessing single-story structure of self-adhering tile and faux stone. North of the village, a high promontory thrust out into the sea. Bathed in the light of the half moon, the beige-colored sandstone was tinted gold. Small waves caroused perpetually on the nearby beach.
Gesturing for his guest to follow, the shaman hauled himself out of the malodorous skimmer and unlocked the front door of the house. Stepping across the covered porch, Flinx followed his host inside. Pip had been asleep for some time, and there was no sign of pursuit or police. Making an effort, he tried to approximate his minidrag’s state of mind. No threats radiated from the compact, cozy structure he was being asked to enter.
The lighting within was suppressed, but sufficient for him to descry his surroundings. It occurred to him that he was very tired. Nevertheless, the decor was sufficiently interesting to spark both interest and wakefulness. From the preserved caimans grinning toothily at him atop rustic shelves to the bottles of unidentifiable solutions that glistened beneath, the outer room was a cornucopia of traditional folk medicine ingredients and occult appurtenances. Eyes plucked from an assortment of animals gazed dully from a wide-bottomed glassine cylinder while amputated birds’ feet bound like a sheaf of scaly wheat protruded from a canister like so many customized antique umbrella shafts.
“Mouth dry?” Cayacu inquired. When Flinx nodded the affirmative, the oldster murmured to a wall. Grime and peeling projection paper slid aside to reveal a gleaming, thoroughly modern food storage unit. At Flinx’s request, it dispensed a tall, chilled glass of passionfruit-orange-guava juice. He drank thirstily.
The shaman was sweeping selected objects from his extraordinary collection into a sack. When he was through, he lit a stimstick and beckoned for his guest to follow. Exiting the house, they strode down a street sealed with transparent paving material that allowed the sand, rock, and crushed seashells underneath to show through. Most of the buildings they passed were silent and dark. From a few seeped the lights and the sounds of tridee entertainment.
Leaving the tiny community behind, they followed the course of the small river before effecting a crossing on a string of inconspicuously linked stones. Disturbed, a pair of sleeping egrets eyed them owlishly, irritated at the nocturnal interruption. Overhead, the half moon continued to lavish its light on the nearby beach, giving the incoming waves an ethereal touch of fluorescence.
Reaching the sandy promontory, they entered a narrow cleft in the stone and began to climb. It was a short, easy ascent, and Flinx soon found himself standing atop the peninsula. Behind them flickered the few lights of the town. Hidden behind a bend in the coast, the extensive resort strip of Tacrica lay far enough away not to be visible, though the glow of its lights lightened a portion of the southern sky.
The top of the promontory was absolutely barren of life, as were the small hillocks that dotted the otherwise flat surface. When Flinx remarked idly on the apparent regularity of the protrusions, the old shaman chuckled.
“That’s not surprising, sonny. They be mud pyramids, heavily eroded by many centuries of rain and wind.” He gestured grandly, as if they had just stepped into an ornate parlor. “This site be called Pacyatambu. You be standing on the ruins of a sixth-century Moche city that was once home to some fifty thousand people.”
A surprised Flinx examined his surroundings anew. Now that he had been enlightened, the outlines of the pyramids became more defined, their sides increasingly vertical. His imagination filled in the silent emptiness with a vision of a busy marketplace, meandering nobles, farmers bringing in food from the fields, fishermen hawking their catch. Brooding priests invoked from a high balcony, and brightly painted frescoes suffused the city with a riot of color.
Sixth century—a.d., not a.a. With one foot, he stirred the sands beneath him. So very long ago. Had ancestors of his once lived here, content in their ignorance, happy in their subsistence existence? In all likelihood, he would never know—just as he still did not know his true parentage. But these sands and the secrets they contained, they too were a part of him, whether he liked it or not.
In that wild and windswept place he felt for the first time the hoary history of humankind in a way he never had previously. Not on Moth, not here, not on any of the worlds settled and otherwise that he had trod upon in his short life. For the first time he sensed fully what it meant to be a human being, all of whose ancestors had come from the third planet circling the unremarkable star called Sol. Despite the disdain he had shown for it all his life, he understood now what others meant when they spoke of Earth as home, even those several generations removed who had been born on other worlds.
In front of him, Cayacu had spread an antique homespun cotton blanket out on the ground. Atop this he was arranging the contents of his sack; tiny vials and plasticine containers, an old dagger, ancient bits of broken pottery, bones animal and human, dried plant material, archaic electronic components, a pair of burned-out storage chyps, and more. When he was finished, he sat down cross-legged next to the blanket, facing the sea. Wind snapped the tips of his wavy white hair as he closed his eyes and began to chant.
Uninstructed, not knowing what else to do, a hushed Flinx
sat down nearby and watched. Occasionally the shaman would emerge from his self-induced trance to reach out and touch this or that object on the blanket. Once, he leaned forward to rearrange a pair of ancient computer chyps and a preserved salamander. A lone gull cried, its voice breaking. Beneath Flinx’s shirt, Pip slept contentedly.
Picking up a container and opening the top, the chanting Cayacu dipped his fingers into the contents and flicked them in his guest’s direction. Charged water splattered the younger man’s face, and he flinched slightly. The shaman repeated the gesture, then resealed the container. Moments later the ceremony came to an abrupt end.
Beaming, Cayacu uncrossed his legs and rose, reaching down to rub feeling back into patriarchal muscles. “You will be all right from now on. I have consulted the spirits, and they have assured me of thy safety.” He tapped a shirt pocket. “Also, the tracer alarm I set on thy broadcast image has remained silent. That tells me that the police still have no idea where thou be.”
Flinx had to grin. “So you rely on technology and not magic after all.”
Cayacu shrugged as he gestured toward the cleft through which they had accessed the entombed city. “Let’s just say that I prefer me eclipses total, sonny. I thought, though I have known thee only briefly, that thou would find this place of interest.”
“Very much so.” Flinx was not ashamed to admit that he had been moved by the experience. “Thank you for bringing me here. I think I may have made a kind of personal connection that had previously been denied to me.” As they walked out of the ancient city, he indicated the looming mounds. “Why hasn’t this place been excavated?”
“There be innumerable ruins in this part of the world,” the shaman explained. “Far more than there is money to explore them. There be work here for hundreds of archeologists for thousands of years. Using the very latest and best equipment, they prefer to hunt for the most spectacular sites, those that are burdensome with unlooted gold and silver and gemstone artifacts. Places where people merely lived, like Pacyatambu, be very low on the list of localities to be explored.”
Reunion Page 6
