Trouble Magnet

by Alan Dean Foster

  CHAPTER

  13

  Aboneh saw that Piegal Shaeb was not happy. Two meters tall, a hundred and a half kilos wide, and hat in hand, he approached the small, narrow desk behind which his master was working. The arc of dun-colored fabric nearly vanished beneath the massive, nervously twisting fingers.

  “Mr. Shaeb, sir. I, uh, I have a report.”

  The master and controller of the Underhouse of Shaeb looked up. Though his vision was preternaturally enhanced, the result of several sophisticated and highly expensive surgeries, his eyes remained small and unimpressive. Just like the rest of him. It was what he represented that was intimidating, not the man himself.

  Stretching on tiptoes, Piegal Shaeb would barely have come up to Aboneh’s sternum. He could have had his legs artificially lengthened, but the process was painful and anyway, he preferred the anonymity conferred by standing slightly below average height. He was slender but not skinny, and the average dog import on the street was more muscular. His brown hair was of medium length, flyaway, and thinning. Taken together, face and body were a combination no one would look at twice. This lack of physical attractiveness and distinction troubled Shaeb only occasionally, and was more than compensated for by access to cred, power, and the knowledge that he could have almost anyone on Visaria killed for a price.

  Looks aren’t everything.

  The true nature of the master of the Underhouse was reflected in the subservient tone and posture of the much larger Aboneh, who could have snapped the other man like a twig had he been so inclined and irretrievably stupid. Aboneh was neither. Along with fear, there was mutual respect between master and servant. That did not relieve Aboneh from the burden of being the bearer of bad news.

  Half a dozen constantly changing vits hovered above the desk, shaping a small, glowing, ghostly crescent between Shaeb and his visitor. Aboneh would have had difficulty controlling one. His master was simultaneously manipulating the content of six. Aboneh was in awe.

  Shaeb was not. He spoke without looking up from any of the projections. “You said you have a report. Report, then.”

  Aboneh realized he could not put it off any longer. “The surviving scrawn from the South Zone warehouse incursion? The three scrim youths?”

  Still Shaeb did not look up. “What about them?” The tiniest hint of a humorless smile caused the corners of the thin, almost lipless mouth to tic upward. “I trust they are still in possession of their magnetic personalities?”

  Aboneh swallowed. “They’re gone, Mr. Shaeb, sir.”

  The Underhouse master continued studying his half a dozen readouts for another minute or so. Then he drew a hand across his desk, palm facing down, traveling from far left to far right, as if slicing through an imaginary torso. As his fingers passed through the vit projections they vanished, one after another. When the last had disappeared, he carefully placed both palms on the desk—first the left, then the right—and finally looked up to meet the uneasy gaze of his hulking visitor. His voice was very subdued and utterly controlled.

  “What do you mean, precisely, when you say they are ‘gone’? I am going to assume, and to hope, that in utilizing that verb you are referring in a semi-colloquial fashion to the fact that they have passed on?”

  “Uh, no, Mr. Shaeb, sir. I came here in person soon as the word was passed up. They’re gone. I mean, they’ve gone away. Somebody came and broke them out.”

  “I see. Not a semi-colloquialism, then.” Rising slowly and methodically, the left hand ascended, moved to its right, and lowered slowly to come to rest atop the back of the right hand. “Somebody came and broke them out. What does Wu Corsk have to say about this noteworthy but displeasing development?”

  Aboneh’s words came a little faster. “Wu’s dead. So are the Vetris sisters. So is Aradamu-seh, that mercenary from Fluva. You know—the one who liked to stand out in the rain all the time?”

  Piegal Shaeb’s tone hardened ever so slightly. “I am familiar with the idiosyncratic proclivities of the Sakuntala. All dead, you say? Three good people, and one costly import?”

  Aboneh was nodding understandingly. “Holding facility was pretty bad bunged up, too. Fissure in one wall. Holes in—the ceiling.”

  As if in deliberate slow motion, Shaeb’s hands exchanged places; the right one slid to one side and rose, only to descend onto the left with all the grace and technique of an expensive mechanism. “Four employees dead, facility damaged, detainees at liberty. Do we have any information on what assaulting force perpetrated this specific outrage?”

  Aboneh nodded again, less enthusiastically this time. “Corsk let them in. Some concealed recording sensors were damaged during the breakout, but there’s enough visual information to piece together what happened. This young guy—doesn’t look much older than the detained scrims themselves, just taller—arrives with the last uncaught kid in tow, and a girl looks to be about the same age. Tall young guy and Corsk discuss turning the scrug over for the reward. Everything seems to be skying fine. Then there’s kind of a pause—hard to figure out from the recordings exactly what’s going wrong—then a detonation. Everything goes white for a second, then nothing. Sensors are all flashed, except one. Just functional enough to show the tall guy leaving, along with everybody else. No sign of Corsk, the mercenary, or the sisters. They were found later, when one of our people couldn’t get feedback from the place and went over to check on it in person.”

  He exhaled heavily at the memory, then went on. “The Sakuntala was implanted in a wall in the holding room. Wu and the sisters were—they’d been shoved through the ceiling, headfirst. Took a crew with tools to chop them out. Besides crushing their skulls, the impact compacted every vertebra in their spines. All the nucleus pulposus had been squeezed out from between the bones, like cheap food paste.”

  Shaeb digested this information. “That’s certainly interesting, and bespeaks a line of attack worthy of follow-up, but it remains incidental to the larger picture. The integrity of the Underhouse has been violated. Our reputation has been sullied. This affront to our dignity and standing must be mended. I have a reputation to maintain. If word of this is allowed to propagate and appropriate retribution is not promptly delivered, business will suffer.”

  Now on top, the right hand rose and tangoed through the air over the desk. A single rectangular vit image appeared. Shaeb’s fingers tickled the projection. “We will post a significant bounty. The one for this interfering outsider, evidently a friend or acquaintance of the liberated scrims, will be of such a magnitude that every heavy levy between the poles will drop whatever he or she is doing to focus on finding him. The other scrawn, including the remaining youth to have so far escaped our attention, must also be detained and appropriately dealt with. I did not come into control of the Underhouse by leaving business unfinished.”

  “No sir, Mr. Shaeb, sir.”

  “Our own people will of course involve themselves. It would be a positive if we could manage this recovery in-house.” This time his smile was wider, and more genuine. “A bounty earned is a bounty saved.”

  “I’ll see to the details myself, Mr. Shaeb, sir.” The hulking underling turned to leave.

  “One more thing, Aboneh. It is not necessary to use my name every time you address me. A simple ‘sir’ will suffice.”

  “Yes, Mr. Shaeb, sir.” Aboneh exited the unpretentious office, trying his best not to move too quickly or to show his relief.

  Behind him, Piegal Shaeb pondered as he dropped his right hand back onto the desk. Leisurely, he covered it with his left.

  One is attended by idiots, he reflected. That thought mulled, he raised both hands in unison and restored the desk’s six projections. There was a great deal of business to attend to, disturbing interruptions notwithstanding. The escape of the odious scrawn was annoying, the deaths of four valued subordinates painful. The latter could be absorbed while the former would be dealt with. It was only a matter of time before an inelegant state of affairs was suitably resolve
d.

  One as yet unidentified meddling young man in particular was going to pay rather harshly for his involvement.

  Slipping the two battered and abused girls together with the equally beaten-up and mutely grateful Sallow Behdul into his hotel suite had not been difficult. Caring for them, even for a short while, required additional concern and more stealth. Everything from sprayskin to quick-healing medications could have been ordered and sent up, but that would have alerted even an automated supplier to the curious request. The same was true for food, even if it was applied for in-house. Knowing from recent experience on Repler as well as previous encounters just how the types who had mistreated Subar’s friends operated, Flinx understood that the less attention they attracted to his room, the better.

  The first afternoon’s expedition, to procure the minimum necessary medicants, went without difficulty. Though his perception was flashing in and out like a tridee’s on–off sensor, he caught no intimation of enmity aimed in his direction. The same was true when he and Subar hazarded an evening jaunt to buy food for everyone.

  Even though it was late morning when the two of them went out to purchase a few necessary items they had not been able to find the previous day, the former captives were all still sound asleep. As she had on the previous day, Ashile agreed to remain behind in the room to keep an eye on Subar’s slowly recovering friends. Her sentiments as she contemplated the sleeping, beat-up form of Zezula left Flinx wondering if leaving the slender adolescent in charge would find them minus one survivor the next time he and Subar returned. He doubted Ashile would push her hidden feelings to that extreme, though. Despite her rough-hewn exterior, there remained an integrity there he had not encountered elsewhere on Visaria.

  He would not be surprised, however, if at some point they returned to find Zezula unexpectedly a bit more banged up than her companions, and healing less swiftly than would otherwise be expected.

  Rain had been predicted for the morning hours. That was fine with Flinx. Residents would be utilizing covered transport, with fewer out walking. The life support store he and Subar had shopped the previous day and night was only a few blocks from the hotel. The shop front was typically compact, erected over the much larger supply facility located belowground. As he made his purchases from a tridimensional display in the shop above, fresh food, medicines, clothing, and other selected items would be ordered, inventoried, individually packaged, and shipped upward to arrive in their appropriate take-out containers.

  Their charged clothing kept them dry as he and Subar strolled up the main street through the downpour in the direction of the shop. They were halfway there when Flinx perceived a distinctive intensification of inimical intentions. Riding on his shoulder beneath his shirt to stay dry, Pip sensed it, too. Poking her head out, she began searching in several directions for the source of the rising hostility. A jaunty Subar strode along beside them, unaware that their immediate environs had undergone a subtle change perceptible only to Flinx and his pet.

  The large private transport that cut them off approached so quickly, not even Flinx had time to change direction. A second vehicle pulled in behind them, cutting off any possible retreat. The few other pedestrians out walking in the rain gaped and hurried to back up or cross over to the other side of the avenue. Because of the shower and the time of day, there weren’t many of them. The majority of Malandere’s commuters were already at work.

  That included the quartet of armed figures who bolted from the first transport to quickly surround the two young men.

  “Get in,” one snarled threateningly. “There’s more cred to be quilted if we bring you in alive—but if you push back, we’ll have to eval for the second option.”

  Standing next to Flinx, an alarmed Subar was whispering urgently, “Do something, Flinx! Do whatever it is that you do. Do it now!”

  Coming toward them, a woman with an irreparable scar running down her neck jammed a small but lethal pistol in his solar plexus. “Shut up. No talking.” As the younger man gasped for breath, she stepped back and gestured toward the lead transport. “Keep your hands where I can see them. Move.”

  Bewildered, cornered, with no place to run and not knowing what else to do, a stunned Subar followed a complaisant Flinx into the transport. Immediately, the other three figures piled in behind them, settling into the rear seats. A fifth man was seated forward at the manual controls. Looking pleased, he inputted a command. The transport began to move. A glance backward showed that the second vehicle was following close behind.

  Seated in the center rear seat, the wiry older man who gave the appearance of being in charge had pulled a communit and was speaking into it. “Yarl, we got him. The stray kid, too. Double cred due.” His tone was one of complete satisfaction. “No sign of the others. Not to concern. We’ll get the location out of these two faster than post-meal farts.” Closing the communit, he leaned forward and grinned unpleasantly.

  “You two really think you could just go out for a midday stroll when every scrim and scrug in Malandere is panting for your knobs? Did you think nobody’d be out hunting just because it’s raining? You ought to be flattered—you’re each singly worth a month’s makings.”

  Showing interest and careful to keep his hands in view, Flinx turned his head slightly so he could see the speaker. “Your paramount must want us very badly.”

  The speaker frowned. “My crew is independent from Shaeb’s. If it wasn’t, there’d be no reward coming. We’d be working on salary.”

  Flinx whisked the name with his lips. “Shaeb.”

  Next to him, Subar’s face went white. “Oh God, no. Piegal Shaeb. That must be who’s behind the storage facility we boosted!” All boldness fled; the youth was absolutely terrified. “If Chal had known that, he never would have motioned the scene!”

  “You didn’t know?” Their inquisitor found this vastly amusing. “What a bunch of dumb scrawn. Soon to be dead scrawn. If you’re lucky.” He sat back, his tone turning indifferent. “Not my symp. Your fate is my team’s cred.” Something caught his attention. His expression contorted. “What’s that moving under your shirt?”

  “My pet,” Flinx told him simply.

  “Yarl?” The man in charge looked at the scarred woman seated next to him. “Maybe it’s a young curlint. I like curlints. I bet Shaeb will let me have it.” He leaned forward again. “I can’t do bosk for you, scrug. Sooner or later, you’re already dead. But if you behave and cooperate in helping us find the others, maybe I can save your darling. Let’s see what it looks like.”

  “Sure,” replied Flinx agreeably. Reaching up slowly and deliberately, he unfastened the front of his shirt.

  The man’s eyes popped as the flying snake launched directly into his face. His yelp of surprise was followed by a grating scream of pain as the minidrag’s tiny but potent squirt of venom caught him center on his left eye. Both flanking underlings pulled weapons. One hasty, wild shot blew a hole in the roof of the transport. Shouts and curses filled the interior as the operator swiveled around in the driver’s seat.

  Covering his head, Subar dropped to the floor. More shots sizzled the internal atmosphere. Several came from the gun Flinx had drawn from its place of concealment in his right boot. It was of a type and manufacture the frightened Subar did not recognize. Gleaming and compact, it looked like something that had been manufactured for use by a nonhuman species. A thranx, for example.

  Behind them, the second transport had gone off auto and was pulling up alongside. The opaqued window rolled up to reveal a pair of armed, anxious passengers. As they were considering whether to fire on the lead vehicle and risk the chance of hitting their own colleagues, Flinx chucked something from his duty belt in their direction. It was very small.

  The cloud of gas that enveloped the second transport was anything but inconsequential, however. When the vehicle emerged from the dark vapor that had engulfed it there was no sign of its occupants, who had collapsed out of sight within. Its frontward sensors kept it from sl
amming into the buildings immediately ahead. Swerving to the right, it veered away from the lead craft. Unless internal control was manually or orally re-established, Flinx surmised, it would revert to automatic and to its previous directional programming.

  As would the transport in which he and Subar were now the only surviving passengers. Leaning forward, he calmly directed his words toward the control console pickup. Given the character of their would-be abductors, he doubted the instrumentation would be individual-specific. He was right. The vehicle responded promptly to his request to pull over to one side of the avenue and stop. As it did so, he slipped his trim weapon back into its custom, camouflaged boot holster.

  Stepping out into the diminishing rain, he started back the way they had come. Not having had time to accelerate onto a high-speed corridor, the two transports had not traveled uncomfortably far from the hotel. Though his mind was working furiously, he still had room to acknowledge Subar’s stumbling presence alongside him.

  “What…?” The younger man flinched as a brilliantly hued winged shape shot past him to brake to a landing on Flinx’s shoulder. It promptly burrowed down beneath the taller youth’s open shirt. “You had a gun.” He nodded in the direction of the offworlder’s service belt. “You had a murk bomb. Why—why didn’t you use them before they made us get into the transport?”

  Flinx’s attention was on the avenue, on the pedestrian walkway, on the sky that was visible through the rain and between the tall buildings that surrounded them. One of the reasons he was still alive was because he had learned that no moment is safe, no location secure. But he took the time to answer.

  “They were all too tense, too on edge. Expecting us to resist or run, they were ready to shoot if either of us so much as coughed the wrong way. It was necessary to relax them.” With a nod he indicated an arm-in-arm couple passing close by, their youthful loving visages lost in each other. “I didn’t want any bystanders to get hurt.”