Trouble Magnet

by Alan Dean Foster

  Shaeb felt lost. It was not a feeling with which he was comfortable. “You know the operative?”

  Theodakris moderated his glee. “He’s not an operative. Not in the sense you’re thinking of, that is. I encountered him not long ago while engaged in my normal routine of perusing and analyzing daily police reports. He plucked a kid from the arms of our benevolent authorities by convincing the very thranx visitors who were holding him to let him go. Then he vanished. I’ve been torn ever since with trying to decide whether to seek him out.”

  Shaeb folded his arms across his chest. “It is apparent that I lack the information that would allow me to make sense of what you are saying.” He gestured at the systematically recycling images. “My interest in him is straightforward. What is yours, that you should take such an interest in an unknown? And if he is not a rogue operative, then what is he?”

  “Ah,” murmured Theodakris, appearing for the moment as if he were completely alone in the room, “what indeed? There are many things I wish I could tell you, my friend. Much that you would find of interest, and some that would shock you.”

  Shaeb’s gaze narrowed. He had been called many things by many people, friend as well as foe, but never shockable. “Try me.”

  “I can’t.” Despite the gravity of the situation, the senior analyst could not keep from chuckling. “I can’t tell anyone. To do so would be to invite full mindwipe.”

  Now the master of the Underhouse Shaeb was intrigued. “Would I be wrong in inferring that others besides myself have an interest in detaining this independent?”

  For some reason, this query caused the senior analyst to burst out laughing again. “My dear Piegal, you have no idea!” Wiping first one eye, then the other, Theodakris pointed at the shifting image. “Unless I have utterly misjudged things, and as an analyst of some small skill I believe I have not, the young man is an offworlder named Philip Lynx. He commonly goes by the sobriquet Flinx. That peculiar flying creature you see darting in and out of the projection is from a world called Alaspin. It is commonly known as a minidrag, or ‘miniature dragon,’ though the name is purely descriptive and not in any way scientific. It has the capability to spit a distance of several meters and with great accuracy a venom that is highly corrosive and inordinately toxic.”

  Shaeb was nodding, storing the information as effectively as if it were being committed to a subox. “That would partially explain how this person and one adolescent companion were able to overcome those in charge of holding the three incarcerated scrims. But only partially.” He eyed the analyst. “Though you say he is no operative, this Flinx person must have comparable abilities.”

  “You have no idea,” Theodakris reiterated. With a surprisingly acerbic snigger he added, “As a matter of fact, if the limited information available on this particular subject is to be believed, no one has any idea.”

  Shaeb liked straightforward explanations. He wasn’t getting any. “That doesn’t help me, Shyvil. I am not paying you to be obscure.”

  “Believe me, I’m not.” Smile and accompanying laughter went away with a suddenness that would have shocked anyone but Shaeb. “I’ve got some advice for you that isn’t obscure. Leave this one alone. Swallow your pride, absorb your losses, and forget about him. From what very little I have been able to learn about him over the course of perusing many years of the most intermittent and questionable reports, contact with him is markedly unhealthy.

  “There was a time, long ago, when I would have responded differently. But time passes, life progresses, obsessions fade. That’s why I decided, after some serious private agonizing, not to follow up on my initial inclinations.” He gazed at the recycling images with what could almost have been considered longing. “Believe me, my interest in him far exceeds yours, yet I know without hesitation that it is in my own best interest to ignore him.”

  Seeking clarification, Shaeb only found himself further bemused. “I do not grasp the fullness of what you are saying, but this I know: I cannot ignore him. He has cost me self-respect and cred. Apparently there are certain unknowns involving this youth that you have decided to let go. I cannot.”

  Even though it had by now run through the same sequence of enhanced recordings dozens of times, Theodakris found he could not take his gaze off the projection. “Okay. Then instruct your people to shoot him on sight. Don’t try to bring him in for questioning or a lingering revenge. Kill him from a distance. As great a distance as possible. Because if my suppositions are correct, you won’t get the chance to do so from close up.” Now he did take his eyes off the shifting images, long enough to meet his guest’s gaze. “I will say it one more time. You have no idea, Piegal, what you’re up against.”

  Shaeb could not be intimidated. Annoyance, however, was something even he was subject to. “Operative or something else, he’s just one youth.” He waved a hand dismissively. “The flying creature can be contained, or otherwise dealt with.” He shifted in his chair as if preparing to leave. His tone was intolerant. “You have no other information for me?”

  “I’ve told you what I know,” Theodakris replied, “and that includes information that’s not available on any Shell. At least, not on one that’s accessible to any but a very few Commonwealth citizens. Consider yourself privileged.”

  Rising, Shaeb felt otherwise. “You won’t help me resolve this matter?”

  Theodakris did not stand. “I’ve done what I can and more than I should. I’m telling you, Shyvil, avoid this young man as you would a drug-resistant plague.”

  “Why?” Shaeb stared hard at the senior analyst. “Tell me precisely, why?”

  Theodakris’s gaze fell. “I wish I could, but I don’t know the right answer myself. From the tiniest dribs and drabs of information I’ve been able to acquire over the years—call it a perverse hobby—this Flinx is like a wandering black hole. No one ever sees exactly what he does, or how, but the consequences of his passing are all too evident for those with eyes capable of seeing.”

  Shaeb hesitated, finally asked, “You called it a ‘perverse hobby.’ What is your ongoing interest in this offworlder?”

  The senior analyst looked up. “I can’t tell you that, either, Piegal. Not for all the cred on Visaria. I can’t tell anyone.”

  With a soft grunt, the Underhouse master started for the lift. “Maybe if I bring him before you secured and bound and dump him on the floor at your feet with his lethal pet fried to a crisp and served up on a platter, you’ll feel more articulate. That will put an end to it.”

  “An end to it?” The expression that came over Theodakris’s face as he repeated his guest’s comment was conflicted. There was much there to see: fear, interest, uncertainty, and, most strangely of all, an almost perceptible yearning, as if for something valued and gone. “I’ve lived the last fifty years of my life assuming there had already been an end to it.” He gestured toward the projected hovering image that was proving persistent in more ways than one. “The universe, my friend, is full of surprises. One just doesn’t expect one of this magnitude, on an otherwise fine day in midyear, to be dumped unexpectedly in one’s lap.” Turning to face his retreating guest, the senior analyst then voiced the most unanticipated comment of the entire visit.

  “You know, I’ve had an interesting life.”

  Taken aback, Shaeb could only mumble a quick thank-you and good-bye. He left Theodakris still seated in his wonderfully sinuous chair, still staring at the same projection he had already viewed over and over.

  The senior analyst, Shaeb decided, was turning senile with unexpected rapidity. All this inane and directionless muttering about unexplained events from long ago. As much as he liked Theodakris personally, the Underhouse master had no room within him for misplaced empathy.

  It was clearly time to begin cultivating a new source of information within the Justice Ministry.

  Nothing in the hotel suite Flinx and his new acquaintances had been forced to abandon in haste was irreplaceable. Always a light traveler, he had left
behind nothing that could not be bought anew elsewhere, on another world if not on Visaria, or reproduced by the engines of profound manipulation that were available to him on the Teacher.

  Sallow Behdul, of all people, turned out to have a relative outside the city who reluctantly agreed to give them shelter until the tumult surrounding their raid, subsequent capture, and eventual escape died down. Having spent the majority of his life on other worlds and in cities, it was a new experience for Flinx to find himself on an actual farm.

  Like all such modern facilities, that of Behdul’s cousin was fully mechanized, regulated, and kept in continuous adjustment by a vast array of instrumentation. Food animals received precise amounts of nourishment coupled with the appropriate vitamins, minerals, and supplements. Hundreds of years of genetic fine-tuning had created creatures designed to produce the maximum amount of protein from the least amount of input. The latter took the form of fodder that had been just as proficiently manipulated. There were also extensive fields of food plants, several of which were unknown to Flinx.

  All of this was protected and nurtured beneath billowing sheaths of organic polymers whose opacity and thickness was adjusted according to the prescribed seasonal programming. Too much sunshine would burn the crops; too little, starve them. It was the same with the animals. Behdul’s cousin reacted with appropriate horror when Flinx wondered aloud why he simply could not do away with the floating polymer swathes. Doing so would mean, Tracken Behdulvlad explained, exposing his precious flocks and crops to the vagaries of the atmosphere. Such a thing was alien to progressive agriculture.

  “Kind of pretty.”

  “What?” Turning from his contemplation of the sunset as viewed through several translucent polymer puffs, Flinx saw that Zezula had come up behind him. Her injuries were healing quickly, though red blotches on her exquisite features still showed where the oppressive metal squares had adhered.

  She nodded in the direction of the blurred, setting sun. “Pretty. The scenery out here. But dull. I can’t believe that people actually choose to live like this.”

  He offered up a cordial smile. On his shoulder, Pip dozed deeply. “Fortunately for you and your friends, some do. Somebody has to cultivate the food to feed a planetary population, since not everybody has access to synthesizers.”

  She nodded. “I’ve eaten a lot of synthetics, but I never really cared for them. Growing up in Malandere, I never gave much thought to where food came from. I was only ever worried about getting enough of it.”

  He found himself feeling sorry for the girl. On another world, in other circumstances, she might have had hopes of receiving a better education, or of becoming a vit personality, or perhaps exploring hitherto unsuspected artistic depths. Not only had Visaria’s largest city beaten her down, but it threatened to become an inescapable trap. So, for that matter, had Drallar, the difference between them being that he had made it out and, at least so far, she had not.

  She moved closer. “I grew up worrying about everything. That’s the way it is in the city.”

  For a moment he wondered if his Talent was functioning. Because while her words and attitude, down to the posture she affected, said one thing, her emotions shouted something else entirely. Presenting herself as winsome and worried, inside she radiated a confidence and self-assurance that bordered on the bold. It began to dawn on him that he was witnessing yet another example of human duplicity. Even though Subar was nowhere to be seen, the present situation was one from which he now sought to disengage himself. Preferably without giving his abilities away.

  So instead of coolly informing her, Your mouth says one thing but your emotions say another, he replied as distantly as he could without being rude. “Everybody worries about their life. I’m sure you’ll make something of yours.”

  She nodded and edged still closer. On his shoulder, Pip stirred but did not awaken. Her hand rose to grip his upper left arm. It glided downward, past elbow and forearm, and would have grasped his fingers had he not used them to suddenly scratch at the side of his face.

  “I’m sure I’ll make something,” she murmured.

  What he sensed within her simultaneously attracted and repelled him. He felt at once sorry for her and disgusted at her behavior. If he referred to it bluntly, she would no doubt deny it, perhaps even mention it to Subar. Though it mattered not at all in the greater scheme of things if she did so, Flinx felt a sort of kinship with the youth. Enough so that he did not want to see him hurt, if it could be avoided.

  So instead of pointing out that he could tell she was after power and control and not just the pleasure of his company, he stepped away from her.

  “I’m sorry, Zezula. I’m bespoke for, myself.”

  She smiled and nodded as if she understood, but if emotions were combustible, she would now be a raging spire of flame. No one takes kindly to rejection, he knew, no matter how civilly framed.

  “Her name’s Clarity,” he added in hopes of dampening the furious blaze within her. To change the subject, he raised an arm and pointed. “The sun’s almost down.”

  “Tshas,” she muttered. Her tone was neutral but her carefully concealed emotions indicated she hoped that the solar furnace in question would land on his head. “A special moment to share.” While projecting nothing but loathing for him, she brushed aside his demurral and edged toward him with an eye toward re-establishing their previous proximity.

  If only she knew, he thought distastefully as he worked to disentangle himself from her grasping hands, how clearly he saw the truth of her feelings even as she sought to ply him with touches and words. Tomorrow for certain, he told himself, he would leave this place. He had done more for these youngsters, some of whom were clearly more worth helping than others, than he had ever intended to do. As was often the case with those he encountered on other worlds.

  Without a doubt his determined resistance to her advances, or for that matter resistance from any member of the opposite sex, was something she was not used to. “Am I so unpleasant to look upon?” she queried him as they struggled gently. “This woman you speak of isn’t here now. I am. Even the United Church makes allowances for distance.”

  He shoved one of her arms down. Another came up, reaching for him with persistence. “We’re not as far apart as you think.”

  “Oh no?” Her eyes, which were as striking as the rest of her, flashed at him. “I bet I can make you forget her. Even if she’s on the other side of Visaria. Even if she’s on another world, far away and remote.” Zezula’s moist lips were parted, inviting, her arms extended and open to him. She wanted to possess him, and him to possess her.

  But as only he could sense, not in equal degree.

  CHAPTER

  15

  Lal, Dir, and Joh had arranged themselves in a perfect crescent in front of Shaeb’s desk. They did not particularly like the man whom they worked for, but they tolerated him. The feeling, they were certain, was mutual. In contrast with their attire, which was loose fitting and baggy, their expressions were taut, and not from stress. In fact, as they stood waiting on the Underhouse master, their facial muscles hardly seemed to move at all. Reaching up, Lal carefully adjusted the lens that covered one eye.

  Shaeb looked away from the projection he had been studying. Though they were technically in his employ, he knew it was better for business not to keep these three waiting. That suited him fine. He did not like to waste time on pleasantries.

  “We are going hunting.” A rare smile creased his narrow visage. “That should appeal to you, I would think.”

  Dir replied for the three of them. “Normally it would, but we have work to do.”

  Shaeb was not dissuaded. “This is part of your work.” He turned to Joh. “You remember the youths who gassed you and your fellow sentinels at the warehouse?”

  Joh gestured broadly. Rather too broadly, but the only one present to witness the peculiar movement was Shaeb, who was already familiar with it.

  “I never forget a professional emb
arrassss—a professional embarrassment.”

  Resting his elbows on the desk, Shaeb steepled his fingers in front of him. “Would you like not only to rectify it, but to be able to do so in a pleasing manner?”

  The operative called Joh looked at his colleagues, then back toward the desk. “Speaking for myself, I would savor the opportunity.”

  Lal spoke for the first time. “Our activities are circumscribed by care and necessity. We should not get involved in a way that puts our other work here at risk.”

  “I am aware of your concerns and your individual interests.” Shaeb leaned forward slightly. “The location where the hunting expedition is to take place lies well outside the city limits. The risk of encountering problematic bystanders is minimized.” He was mildly amused. “At the conclusion of the hunt, you might even have the opportunity to taste the fruits of your labors.”

  Lal sounded uncertain. “We do not like fruit.”

  Joh made a strange sound, one that might have caused the unprepared to jump. “It is an expression.” His gaze was focused on the placid figure of Shaeb. “I would be allowed to take pleasure in the flavor of those who embarassss—who humiliated me?”

  The voice of the Underhouse master was accommodating. “Though such a resolution is hardly to my personal taste, I have no objection to you indulging your own. Should circumstances reach that point, my own objectives will obviously have been achieved.”

  The three operatives exchanged looks, leaving it to Dir to respond. “You are unusually nonjudgmental, Piegal Shaeb.”

  A thinner twitch of a smile this time. “I am interested in results. I myself have already been embarrassed three times by these youthful caronis. A fourth embarrassment must not be allowed to eventuate. They have somehow enticed an offworld professional into aiding them.”

  “Ah,” murmured Lal. “That makes it interesting.”