Mid-Flinx (Pip and Flinx)

by Alan Dean Foster

  Flinx extended an arm. Pip immediately darted down to curl her body around her master’s bicep. Her head remained up and alert, her wings still spread.

  Ignoring his apoplectic employer, the big man looked anxiously back at Flinx. “What now?”

  “Keep flushing the site. As soon as possible, apply an antibiotic sealant. And see that he gets five cc’s of a general neurotoxin antivenin once a day for a week. Just to be safe. Bluorthorn and Tan-Kolenesed both work.”

  The big man nodded nervously. He was afraid now. Angry, but afraid.

  “Never mind that now!” An enraged Coerlis flung an empty platter against the nearby wall. It bounced and clanged noisily to the floor. “Get him.” He whirled to face Flinx.

  “But Mr. Coerlis, sir—”

  The disgusted merchant waved indifferently at the injured Peeler. “He’s not dying! The thing doesn’t have any fangs. It can’t bite, it can only spit.” The uninjured heavy hesitated, uncertain what to do next.

  “That’s true.” Flinx turned and headed toward the exit.

  He sensed the three of them moving to pursue. He could simply have taken cover and unleashed Pip with a flick of his wrist. Without any emotional restraint on his part she would surely kill all three of them.

  But Coerlis was a citizen of some substance, and his sudden, violent death would draw attention of a kind Flinx had worked hard to avoid. On the other hand, so to speak, a little seared skin should pass unnoticed.

  Once clear of the restaurant, he glanced quickly in all directions before choosing the right-hand path. The paved service road narrowed rapidly. Olenda was not only the capital, it was the oldest city on Samstead. Roads tended to follow the casual meanderings of the Tumberleon and its tributaries rather than some imposed, arbitrary grid pattern. Side streets as often as not led to narrow closes, quaint cul-de-sacs, or dead-ended atop high stream banks. He ought to be able to lose himself without too much of an effort.

  Zoned and fully fueled, the Teacher’s shuttle awaited his arrival at the city’s eastern shuttleport. But while he was anxious to escape Coerlis’s unbalanced attentions, he wasn’t about to let the smug maniac run him off a planet he’d grown rather fond of. Tuleon was a big place. There was room enough for both of them. Besides, the young merchant and his bodyguard needed immediate medical attention. Coerlis might be irrational, but he wasn’t stupid.

  Their emotional auras persisted behind him as he jogged along. That fit Coerlis’s mental pattern, but Flinx was still confident he could lose them. Pip slithered up his arm to assume her favorite perch on his shoulder.

  Where could he go? Not the local police depot. Coerlis was likely to have influence there. Tuleon was urbanized but hardly urbane, and Flinx had learned early on that large amounts of credit had a way of fogging Truth’s vision. You might not be able to break laws by hammering on them with money, but subtle circumvention was another matter entirely.

  It felt as if they were gaining on him. Flinx knew that Coerlis’s ireful persistence could result in the man’s death, something he would still prefer to avoid. He was familiar with the type. Coerlis wouldn’t rest now until the perceived insult had been avenged. It had passed beyond being a simple question of whether or not he would obtain ownership of a flying snake.

  Obsession, Flinx knew, was often one of the first steps on the road to madness. He knew because there was always more truth in emotions than in words.

  Still running easily, he turned up a gently sloping side street. Maybe they’d continue straight, believing he was headed for the waterfront and a faster means of escape. It would be a logical assumption. The occasional passing pedestrian glanced in his direction, drawn to him more by his height and haste than the almost invisible minidrag coiled securely about his shoulder. Samstead was not a fast-paced world. It was unusual to see anyone running in the center of the capital.

  He passed entrances to office towers and residential complexes, knowing he’d have to present appropriate identification to gain entry to the smallest of them. Tuleon might be a relatively easygoing metropolis, but crime was not unknown within its boundaries.

  The meretricious facade of a hotel beckoned. Too obvious, he decided, and ran on. He needed someplace less conspicuous. In ancient times a bank would have afforded some safety, but such things no longer existed. Money and credit were largely abstract components of computer storage space, to be manipulated electronically. That was a refuge he could not enter.

  Then he saw the building, a stark triangle whose bladed crest topped out at a modest six stories. The familiar emblem, hourglass-on-globe on a field of green, was emblazoned over the always unlocked entrance. Gratefully lengthening his stride, he ascended the curving ramp and entered.

  Once inside, he slowed to a respectful walk. The sanctuary was empty save for a couple of elderly supplicants. One was on her knees before the altar, praying before a brilliant depth depiction of swirling nebulae and galaxies. The reality injection was two stories tall and rendered in exquisite, awe-inspiring detail. In conjunction with the subdued, concealed illumination, it imparted to the vaulted sanctuary an air of eternal peace and reassurance. Natural light fell from tinted windows high overhead.

  He’d visited the sanctuaries of the United Church before, though never to attend formal services. No doubt there were several dozen similar sites scattered throughout the city. He was tempted to settle into one of the comfortable seats. At this point even the several thranx body lounges looked inviting. But he decided to move on. The sanctuary itself was too open.

  Without warning, the persistent fury he identified with Coerlis vanished. That was his damned talent, flickering in and out like a short in his brain. He eyed the entrance uneasily, unable to tell now if Coerlis and his minions were still pursuing or if they’d taken a different turning. The warning wail of emotion in his mind had winked out, and strain as he might, he knew there was no way he could simply turn it back on.

  He glanced down at Pip. Have to keep an eye on her now, he knew. Unlike his own erratic abilities, hers were the result of natural evolution. She was on permanent alert. The trouble was, she was not intelligent enough to sort out hostility directed specifically at him. Detection usually went hand in hand with physical proximity, by which time it was often too late to run. But unless his talent reasserted itself, she was all he had to warn him of Coerlis’s possible presence.

  He looked to his left. If tradition held, there would be a row of library reading rooms there. He could lock himself inside, but while providing privacy and some security, that would also eliminate all avenues of flight. This wouldn’t do, he told himself. He was too exposed in the open sanctuary.

  Choosing a hallway off to the right and adopting the attitude of one who knew what he was doing, he abandoned the worship center. Small glowing letters hovered before successive doors, rising or descending as he approached until they were exactly at eye level. Some identified individuals, others specific departments.

  Avoiding the lift, he took some fire stairs two at a time until he reached the third floor. There he turned down another hall. It was quiet and very few workers were about, as befitted the contemplative nature of the structure’s owner.

  He’d passed several open doors without incident when a voice from within one office slowed him.

  “You look anxious, my son. And tired.” Flinx hesitated. “May I be of any assistance?”

  Flinx glanced back the way he’d come. The corridor was still deserted. Suspecting the outcome, he strained internally. Nothing. The emotional nova that had been Coerlis might as well never have existed. For the moment, his empathic palette remained precariously blank.

  The man standing just inside the portal was much shorter than Flinx, and older. Disdaining a depilatory, he revealed a skull bare save for an elfish fringe of white curls. These continued around his face to form a pair of thick muttonchop whiskers. His self-pressing aquamarine uniform was spotless.

  A glance at Pip showed her eyes shut. Flinx cons
idered. He’d been running for quite a while and needed to stop and rest. This seemed as likely a place as any. The jovial, stocky padre was regarding him with friendly curiosity, and regardless of what he decided, some sort of response was clearly in order.

  “I’m running from a confrontation. I try to avoid fights when I can.”

  The kindly visage beamed back at him. “Fighting is a good thing to avoid. Won’t you come and sit a moment? You look like you could use a rest.”

  “Thank you. I think I will.”

  The padre’s office was awash in the usual ecclesiastical paraphernalia. There were the twin monitors on his desk, assorted homey holos and flatscale representations on the walls, a box of spherical drive files on the floor in one corner, and a back wall vid of boreal forest dominated by an energetic, flowing stream that smelled of humus and damp morning. It was designed to relax and reassure, and Flinx allowed himself to fall under its cleverly constructed spell. Even more satisfying was the comfortable, old-fashioned chair to which the padre directed him.

  He glanced back at the gaping doorway.

  “Privacy?” inquired the padre. When Flinx nodded gratefully, his host murmured into a vorec designed to resemble a tulip. Immediately a real door, much more reassuring than the usual flimsy privacy curtain, closed off the office from the hall.

  In return for this largesse of surcease, Flinx knew he was expected to talk, or at least to make casual conversation. No more than that. A proper padre would put no pressure on him to pray or do anything else. One of the attractions of the United Church was that it was a very low-key organization. It offered help and asked nothing in return except that supplicants act rationally. Not necessarily sensibly, but rationally.

  “I am Father Bateleur, my son.” He nodded in the direction of Flinx’s occupied shoulder. “An interesting pet. Is it dangerous?”

  “Watchful.”

  “Those who wander beyond the sanctuary usually have a reason for doing so.” The older man smiled expectantly.

  “There were some men chasing me.” He caressed the back of Pip’s triangular head, and one pleated wing unfurled partway, quivering with pleasure. “One of them wanted to buy her.”

  “Her?” Bateleur smiled. “How do you sex such a dangerous animal?”

  “In my case, by dumb luck. She had babies. Anyway, I told this man I wouldn’t sell. I couldn’t. She’s been with me most of my adult life.”

  “No offense, my son, but you don’t look old enough to me to have had much of an adult life yet.”

  “I’ve had to grow up fast. I’ve lived sooner than most people.”

  “Not faster?” The padre pursed his lips. “Interesting way of putting it.” He folded his hands on his lap. “These men who wanted to buy your pet: they were very insistent.”

  “The disagreement escalated beyond discussion of price. A couple of them got hurt. Pip would have killed them if I hadn’t restrained her.”

  “I see.” The padre glanced involuntarily at the coiled minidrag. Flinx sensed no fear in the man, which could have been a consequence of a steely constitution, or the fact that his talent was still inoperative. When Pip didn’t return the stare—always a good sign—Flinx allowed himself to relax.

  “Restraint is a sign of confident intelligence. How many of them were there?”

  “Three.”

  “Three,” murmured the older man, as though the number held some unique significance for him. “It’s good that you came here.”

  “He’s apparently well-known in the community,” Flinx went on. “Wealthy, not a lot older than me. Jack-Jax Coerlis?”

  Bateleur nodded without hesitation. “The House of Coerlis is one of the oldest mercantile enterprises on Samstead. The father passed away not too long ago; a noteworthy death. I myself have had no personal contact with the family. They live outside the city, beyond the boundaries of my parish. There are stories about the heir which do nothing to flatter the reputation of the clan. He’s rumored to be something of a hothead.”

  “Try homicidal maniac.” Flinx smiled pleasantly.

  “So you had a run-in with young Coerlis. You did well not to kill him. While he may be personally unpopular, the family has powerful friends in Tuleon and elsewhere.”

  As if on cue, the door slid open. His arm still wrapped in the bloodstained tablecloth, Jack-Jax Coerlis stood in the portal, panting heavily. A round red spot showed on his neck where he’d received an antivenin injection. A small electronics pak dangled from his other hand: the device he had doubtlessly utilized to pick the door seal.

  Bateleur’s tone and expression were appropriately disapproving. “You are violating the sanctity of the office, my son.”

  Swiveling in the chair, Flinx saw the two heavies hulking large behind Coerlis. Peeler’s arm was similarly bandaged. Both men were straining to see into the room. Though he concentrated hard, for all his effort Flinx drew a trio of emotional blanks. There was no predicting when his sensitivity would return, but he didn’t really need it at the moment. Anyone could tell what all three men were feeling from their expressions.

  Though confirmation was hardly necessary, Pip provided it. Suddenly she was awake and alert, both wings half spread, ready to rise from his shoulder. With a hand, Flinx held her back. There were no guns in evidence. Only a complete fool would try to enter a church with weapons drawn.

  “Didn’t expect us to follow you this far, did you?” Coerlis was grinning unpleasantly. “We just waited to see where you’d turn in. Called ahead for a courier to air-deliver the antivenin you so thoughtfully recommended. Peeler and I are feeling better already.

  “We’ve been checking rooms. Fortunately, it’s still too early for services and the place isn’t busy. City parish, you know. Most people work.”

  Father Bateleur slid open a drawer on his right. “I must ask you to leave or I will have to call for assistance.”

  Coerlis eyed him contemptuously. “Call anyone you want, padre. We’ll be gone before they can get here.”

  Bateleur spoke into a concealed pickup. “Father Delaney, Father Goshen, could you come here, please? We are experiencing an incident.” He turned back to the intruders. “Really, my son, this sort of thing is not good for one’s hozho. Not to mention your blood pressure.”

  “Your concern touches me, padre.” Coerlis turned back to Flinx, gesturing at the minidrag. “Remember: she’s real fast, but this room is pretty cramped.” Stepping inside, he made space for the two heavies. Both men drew compact needlers. “They’re set to stun, and I don’t think she’s faster than a needle beam.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Flinx replied calmly. “You won’t touch her, and she’ll end up killing all three of you.”

  “You underestimate Peeler and Britches. Before, they had no idea what to expect. Now they do, and they’ll react accordingly. Of course, there’s always the possibility that I’ll have to kill you to keep you out of the way. Are you willing to take that chance?”

  “Life is the taking of calculated chances,” declared a voice from the hall. “The universe throws dice with predictable regularity.”

  “Please put your weapons on the floor,” requested a second voice. “Carefully.”

  The two padres had come up silently behind the intruders. One was even bigger than Peeler, and both gripped projectile weapons, one of which was aimed, directly at the back of Coerlis’s head.

  “Why, padre.” Coerlis spoke to Bateleur without turning. “This hardly seems in keeping with the tenor of a sanctuary.”

  The older man’s smile was wan. “This isn’t a sanctuary; it’s an office. Do as Father Goshen says.”

  The two heavies complied. Bateleur looked satisfied. “Now then, my sons, you may leave the building wiser and, I pray, somewhat chastened in spirit.” He steepled his fingers in front of him.

  “Otherwise,” rumbled Father Goshen softly, “we will be most regretfully compelled to preside over the releasing of your immortal souls.”

  “What?�
� Peeler sounded as unhappy as he looked.

  “I’ll blow your head off.”

  The other man needed no further clarification.

  For the barest instant Coerlis hesitated, and Flinx feared he was going to try something truly stupid. Then he smiled and gave a little shrug. “Sure, why not?” Eyes cold and flat as a shark’s glanced Flinx’s way. “I’ll be seeing you.”

  Bateleur nodded. “Father Goshen, Father Delaney, would you show our visitors the way back to the street? Unless they wish to remain in the sanctuary and pray. Properly supervised, of course.” Peeler grunted derisively.

  “With pleasure.” Using his gun, Father Delaney prodded the nearest intruder in the back of his neck. “Move it!”

  As soon as the uninvited visitors and their escort had departed, Father Bateleur rose and shut the door, this time latching it manually from the inside. Back in his chair, he smiled once more at Flinx.

  “It would seem you have made an enemy, young man.”

  “He wouldn’t be the first.” Flinx immediately regretted the comment, then discovered he didn’t really care. He was tired, so very tired. Tired of secrets and of searching, of inexplicable mysteries that seemed to lie teasingly forever beyond his ken. It would be wonderful to have someone to confide in besides the aged Mother Mastiff. So much of what he wanted to say and share was beyond the comprehension of her caring yet simple self.

  There were Bran Tse-Mallory and the Eint Truzenzuzex, but he hadn’t seen the philosopher-soldiers in years and didn’t even know if they were still alive. It was hard to envision either of them dead. Both man and thranx were a force of a nature.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you, my son?” Bateleur seemed earnest enough. “If not, there is a concealed and secure rear exit to the church which you may make use of whenever you feel the time is right. Will you be staying much longer in our city?”

  “I don’t think so,” Flinx told him. “Not under the circumstances.”