Flinx's Folly

by Alan Dean Foster

  As if to emphasize that he was even now mentally adrift, even as he contemplated his situation, the transport had to remind him that they had arrived at the programmed destination. And unless he was prepared to pay waiting charges, it was time for him to exit the vehicle.

  He did so, making sure both his compact travel satchel and even smaller companion were both with him. Pip remained coiled out of sight, a muscular bulge beneath his tunic, lest the sight of her unsettle other travelers. Highly venomous, she would never have been allowed to travel with passengers on a commercial shuttle. Since Flinx had his own craft, both of them were expeditiously waved through Security. Used to adopting and discarding false identities the way a traditional croupier shuffled cards, one “Sascha Harbonnet,” his unusual but complaisant pet, and their one small article of luggage rapidly and efficiently cleared Goldin IV’s unpresumptuous departure procedures. Of a certain Philip Lynx, there was no official sign. As for young “Arthur Davis,” formerly a patient at Reides Central Hospital, the small-scale search for him had not yet been extended this far.

  As soon as the passenger shifter deposited him at the base of his shuttle, he entered and moved swiftly to settle himself in the pilot’s seat. Reciting a by-now familiar series of commands, he secured himself and Pip in the harness while the craft’s AI ran through a corresponding sequence of preliftoff checks. When both artificial and organic intelligences were satisfied with each other’s responses, Flinx requested and was promptly granted a window for departure by Port Operations.

  Waiting alone in his shuttle, snugged tight in the flight harness, he recollected the details of his visit to Goldin IV. One more world cursorily visited, a few more experiences acquired, many more people encountered, another attempt to kill him by still another new set of assailants. With each passing year he seemed to acquire greater knowledge and more enemies. None of which would matter, he knew, if he failed to find a solution to his nightmares, his lack of sleep, his terrible headaches, and the concerns that had dogged him ever since he was old enough to realize that he was seriously different from everyone else. Not to mention his involvement with something unimaginably vast, threatening, and all but beyond human ken.

  Just your average boy’s life, he mused as the engine roared and he was pressed back into the chair and harness. Only he wasn’t a boy anymore, and, except for a brief period on Moth, when he had roamed free and without a care under the casual supervision of the tolerant Mother Mastiff, he was not sure he had ever been one. Time to put away childish things. Trouble was, Flinx had been more or less forced to do that when he had turned twelve.

  Through the shuttle’s foreport the sky faded smoothly and rapidly from blue to purple to the familiar endless blackness flecked with stars. One light flashing larger and brighter than the others shot past his field of view to starboard: an incoming shuttle, carrying cargo and passengers preoccupied with the mundanities of normal, everyday lives. An ordinariness, a blissful ignorance he had come to envy. It was a condition that had been denied him for many years now and one that the immediate future held no prospect of his experiencing.

  If only all he had to worry about, he reflected, were death and taxes.

  “Missed him!”

  The woman who had been riding one of the two repellers removed the illegal jack she had used to tap into the shuttleport’s box. The faces of her four companions reflected their disappointment.

  “What ship?” asked one of the five who had been dispatched by the Order of Null to Goldin IV in an attempt to terminate the potentially unsettling problem that was Philip Lynx.

  The woman scanned the information she had downloaded from the port’s system. “The only traveler who matches his description was passed by Security and Emigration and left through the private lounge about three hours ago.”

  “Three hours!” The other woman in the group murmured something under her breath that would have sounded innocuous to most had she voiced it aloud. “He’ll be in space-plus by now and untraceable.”

  “We’ll find him.” One of her two male companions displayed the quiet confidence that was so characteristic of the members of the Order—or, given their philosophical basis, perhaps fatalistic would have been a better description. “Wherever he goes, to whatever world, members of the Order will be waiting and looking for him.”

  “It would have been better to have concluded this now.” The senior member of the group looked resigned. “Though I suppose there is no hurry, as long as he makes no attempt to disseminate what he knows.”

  “On the contrary,” declared his companion encouragingly, “he appears inclined to silence.”

  “All the better for our ends.” The other woman knew their quarry’s silence would not keep him from being killed. There were no certainties except death, as members of the Order knew far better than most.

  “If he left via the private lounge”—the senior among them was speaking again—“that means he has access to a private starship. I wonder who it belongs to? Given his age, surely it’s not his own?”

  “On loan from a large Trading House, perhaps. It is evident that he must have powerful friends, to have avoided the Commonwealth authorities for so long.”

  “It does not matter.” The senior man gestured toward the busy main assembly area. “Let’s get something to eat. Important friends or not, he has to die. If any others interfere, they may have to share the same fate.”

  “The fate that is coming to us all,” added the woman with satisfaction.

  “Strange, is it not,” murmured the senior man as he turned to go, “how our colleagues, experienced fliers both, were suddenly overcome by an overwhelming fear of heights?” He contemplated the mystery even as he addressed his companions. “That is a matter that demands deeper examination.”

  The five strolled in the direction of the port’s busiest area. They were dressed in clean but unspectacular attire, and attracted not the slightest attention. They might have been a group of friends on holiday, members of an extended family setting off to visit far-flung relations, or simply locals out for an afternoon’s diversion, intent on sampling the delights of the port’s many shops and restaurants.

  They certainly did not look like the earnest devotees of ultimate destruction.

  CHAPTER

  4

  Drifting in stately procession against the radiant background of stars—separate, apart, and smaller than most of the numerous other vessels in orbit—the Teacher awaited his arrival. His ship was unpretentious enough to be innocuous yet large enough for one person to rattle around in in the depths of space for weeks at a time without becoming bored. To anyone who had observed it at its last port of call, it would not have been recognizable.

  As always, and as programmed, it welcomed him with music. The undulating opening glissando of Retsoff’s Second Soirée for Orchestra and Bandalon tickled his ears as he strode purposefully from the shuttle bay to the command and control center. Pip joyfully disengaged from his shoulder and shot forward, glad to be back home. As he passed through the living quarters’ relaxation chamber, with its tinkling waterfall, fountains, and aerial displays, the fronds and leaves of some of the decorative foliage from the edicted planet known as Midworld inclined in his direction. The visible motile response no longer surprised him. Plants, he had come to believe, were capable of surprisingly sophisticated responses to external stimuli. It was a personal discovery he intended to delve into in much greater detail one day, when he had the time.

  Attuned to his voice, the Teacher’s peerless AI welcomed him to the compact bridge. Settling himself into the pilot’s seat, he regarded the starfield beyond the curving port. The basso thrumming of Pip’s wings ceased as she folded them flat against her sides and took up a comfortable resting position atop one of her favorite instrument panels—one of the few that gave off any heat. Her presence blocked the lens of its heads-up projector, but he had no need of its function at the moment.

  “Instructions, O master of a thousand con
fusions? And how was your sojourn on beautiful, bucolic Goldin Four?”

  The sarcasm, like the pleasant feminine voice, was employed at the discretion of the sophisticated AI. It did its best to vary its tone in an attempt to keep him amused. He could have banished it in favor of something banal and less prickly, but decided to let the AI pick its own way. The tenor suited his mood.

  More than that, it struck uncomfortably close to home.

  “The initial weeks were very pleasant. It’s a nice world. But the last couple of days, unknown persons of homicidal bent tried to kill me.”

  “What, again?” The synthetic voice managed a maternal tut-tut. “You really must find another hobby, Flinx.”

  “It’s not funny,” he muttered as he shifted uncomfortably in the chair.

  “Sorry.” The AI was immediately contrite. “That portion of my humor programming, combined with concurrent library research, suggested that it would be.”

  He sighed. Debating the roots and timing of human humor with an artificial intelligence, no matter how advanced, was inevitably a dead end. “Another time it probably would be. Not your fault. I appreciate the effort to entertain me.”

  “It’s my job.” The voice managed to sound relieved. “You have no idea who these disagreeable persons are or what organization they represent?”

  “None. Only that they have no fear of death. I mean, none whatsoever. It’s very strange.” He straightened. “But hopefully avoidable. I doubt they tracked me here. Head outsystem, please.”

  A rising hum took the place of the just completed Soirée. The chair vibrated ever so slightly. “Destination or vector?”

  He had given it no thought. “Just take us a sufficient number of AU’s out so the drive can be legally engaged.”

  Readouts soon showed Goldin IV beginning to recede behind him. Pip dozed atop her chosen panel. Hours later, as they approached the outermost of the system’s five gas giants, Flinx had decided on the latest change of appearance. But not for him.

  Starships did not molt, but thanks to the skills of the Ulru-Ujurrians who had built this one for him as a gift, the Teacher was capable of a few, very distinctive tricks besides its unique ability to actually land on a planet—a feat no other KK-drive ship Flinx knew of could duplicate.

  Having chosen the new configuration from a standard Commonwealth shipping file, he gave it and the necessary command to the Teacher. Within, everything remained the same. But through subtle manipulation of the actual metal, plastic, ceramic, composites, and other materials of which the vessel was fashioned, its exterior began to change.

  The ingenious metamorphosis took a couple of hours. During this time the isolated starship was not observed or hailed. Certain false instrument blisters on its hull vanished while others, differing in shape and color, appeared elsewhere. A pair of dummy gun turrets disappeared, to be replaced by concomitant nonfunctional concavities. A large communications array appeared where none had been before, while a brace of maneuvering thrusters rearranged themselves into an entirely new configuration.

  Integrated chromatophoric materials in the substance of the Teacher’s hull changed its color from stark ivory to a dull blue striped with maroon. Fake scars and pockmarks suggesting frequent in-system collisions with wandering spatial debris appeared on the ship’s formerly immaculate epidermis. In less than two hours the Teacher changed from looking like a wealthy Trading House’s private transport to a battered intrasystem freighter.

  Not only could Flinx change his clothes to disguise his appearance; so could his ship. No doubt the Ulru-Ujurrians, who were inordinately fond of elaborate games, had particularly enjoyed integrating that little bit of sleight of ship into the Teacher’s abilities.

  Satisfied with the alteration, Flinx now contemplated the immense bands of yellow and white that swept across the uninhabitable surface of Goldin XI. By this time, he usually had a destination in mind—yet he hadn’t chosen one. His indecision was not caused by a lack of choices. The Commonwealth was a big place, and there were innumerable worlds he had yet to visit. He found himself unable to choose. A meal failed to help his mood. Music and a visit to the relaxation chamber, with its running water, imported greenery, and small wandering life-forms, did not help either.

  He didn’t fear the unknown individuals who had tried to kill him on Goldin IV. He respected but was not afraid of the Qwarm or the Commonwealth authorities. He was even prepared to deal with his disturbing dreams. What he was afraid of, and what was contributing so strongly to his present mood of quiet despair, was a realization that he did not know what to do next. Staying alive was a valid objective, as was trying to find his father. But more and more, he found it difficult to justify either as an end in itself.

  He badly needed to talk to someone, someone who could understand, sympathize, and offer a different point of view. Across the bridge, Pip sensed her master’s distress and raised her head.

  “If only you could talk,” he murmured affectionately to his constant companion. It was a sentiment he had voiced countless times over the years. But even if Pip could speak, what would she say? That she was hungry, tired, or sorry? She was capable of reading his moods as no one else could, but she was unable to offer advice: only companionship and the occasional tongue caress. Sometimes that was enough. It wasn’t now. Tilting his head back, he rested one hand on his forehead as if the gesture could somehow quiet the turmoil within him. Beyond the port, the monstrous gaseous globe of Goldin XI precessed in stately, indifferent silence.

  “Ship, I think I’m going crazy.”

  It was an announcement to give even the responsive AI pause. It hesitated lest it misconstrue the meaning of its owner’s words.

  Guessing at the reason behind the extended silence, Flinx sighed. “Not literally. At least, I don’t think so.”

  “Is it the headaches?” the ship inquired solicitously.

  “It’s more than that. These dreams—I hardly ever get a decent sleep anymore. The more I see of people, the more of their emotions I read, the less inclined I am to worry about their eventual fate. And I’m tired of being followed, chased, and being a target for people who want me dead.”

  “It’s nice to be popular,” the AI murmured.

  I’m definitely going to have to fine-tune the level of programmable sarcasm, he told himself. “It’s not amusing. There are only two intelligences who realize even a little of what’s going on inside me: Pip and you.”

  “You are wrong, Flinx,” the voice responded softly. “I don’t understand anything of what is going on inside you. No AI, no matter how sophisticated or advanced, can truly understand a human being. Logic aside, there are too many aspects of human behavior that do not conform to predictable values. Your individuality precludes general comprehension. I know you as well as it is possible for an artificial intelligence to know a human, and there are too many times when I do not understand you at all.”

  “That’s reassuring.” The AI wasn’t the only mind on the Teacher capable of sarcasm.

  “I try.” Though he knew it could not be, the AI managed to sound hurt. “Bear in mind, Philip Lynx, that while it is a truism among machine intelligences that no human is entirely comprehensible, you are less comprehensible than most.” Then it said something unexpected and surprising. “Perhaps if I could share the dreams that so trouble you.”

  “I relate them to you.” Unlike many people who dealt regularly with AI’s, Flinx had not constructed a face to go with the voice.

  “No—I mean share them. Perhaps then I would understand the confusion and distress they cause you.”

  “Machines don’t dream.” He gazed at the ceiling. “Do they?”

  “No. In order to dream, an entity must first be able to sleep. AI’s do not sleep. Being turned off is different. Humans sleep. Thranx sleep. Even AAnn sleep. Machines—when we are turned off we die, and when we are turned back on we are reborn.”

  “Sounds exciting,” he murmured absently.

  “Not rea
lly. It’s quite straightforward. I wish I could be more helpful, Flinx. As you know, in the course of our travels together since I was made, it has been occasionally necessary for me to communicate with other AI’s. It became apparent to me some time ago that you are an unusual example of your species.”

  “I know,” he replied dryly. “I wish I weren’t.”

  “Wishing. Something else humans can do that is denied to machines. In the course of learning about other humans, I have become aware of your generally gregarious nature. You usually seek the companionship of your own kind. Yet you have spent much of the past years traveling alone in me, with only your flying snake for company. I believe this may be the source of at least some of your present discomfort. You need to talk to other humans, Flinx, and I think also to confide in them concerning your uncertainties.”

  It was silent on the bridge for long moments. Either the Teacher knew more about human nature than it claimed or the AI was being disingenuous. Either way, the truth of what it had said forced its way into his consciousness and wouldn’t let go.

  Maybe it was right. Maybe what he needed more than anything was to talk to someone. But who? There was no one he could confide in, no one who would understand the nature and gravity of his disturbing dreams as well as sympathize with his personal problems and the emptiness that always traveled with him. There was Mother Mastiff—but she was getting on in years. She could listen but would not really understand. Empathetic as she was, she did not possess the necessary intellectual referents to comprehend what was going on inside of him. Pip could make him feel warm inside but could not talk. The Teacher, as it had just wisely observed, could provide erudite conversation but not simple humanity.

  Furthermore, not only did he need someone he could talk to about everything that was going on inside him, that person also had to be trustworthy. Conversation and understanding, he had long since learned, were far easier to find than trust.