Mid-Flinx (Pip and Flinx)

by Alan Dean Foster

  Bateleur nodded approvingly. “A regrettable but probably wise decision.”

  “In fact,” his visitor added, “it looks like I’m going to have to leave Samstead itself now.”

  “I see. Do you need help in booking passage?”

  “No, thank you. I’ve already made arrangements.” Flinx wasn’t about to divulge to anyone, not even the sympathetic Father Bateleur, that at the ripe old age of twenty he was the master of his own KK-drive vessel.

  Rising to leave, he found himself hesitating. “Padre, what can you tell me about the nature of evil?”

  Chapter Three

  Bateleur’s heavy white eyebrows rose. “In what sense is the question posed, my son?”

  Flinx settled back into his chair. “Well, for example, what does the Church say about it? I’ve never been what you’d call a disciple.”

  “As you may know, that doesn’t matter. People come and go within the Church as their spiritual needs require. As to evil, that is what occurs when sapient creatures who understand the difference between good and bad intentionally do the latter. It’s not nearly as complex a matter as philosophers once made it out to be.”

  “But what about evil in a physical sense, padre?”

  “A physical sense . . .” Bateleur pondered uncertainly. “Are you asking if there is a way to quantify evil?”

  “Yes, that’s it exactly!” Flinx responded eagerly.

  Bateleur punctuated his response with delicate gestures. “That’s something theologians have debated since sapients first huddled in caves and developed organized religions. I’m still not entirely sure I understand your question.”

  Once released, the words spilled from his visitor. “I mean, can evil be real in the physical sense? Can it have physical properties, like light or energy? I’m no physicist, but I know that everything is composed of particles and waves. There are strong forces and weak forces, colors and flavors, directions and sensations.” He leaned forward so intently that Bateleur was momentarily taken aback.

  “Could some combination of forces or particles constitute that which we have always referred to as ‘evil’?”

  “Interesting notion. I suspect I’m even less the physicist than you, my young friend. But speaking theologically, these days we tend to regard evil as an embodiment of immorality, not an actual presence.”

  “What if it’s not?” Flinx pressed his host. “What if it’s a combination of forces, or particles? What if there’s such a thing as an evil wave-form? Wouldn’t it explain a lot, about how people are influenced and why seemingly rational beings commit inexplicable acts?”

  “Be nice if that were the case,” Bateleur admitted. “Then someone could build an ‘evil-meter’ or some such similar device. It would be a great help in my line of work. But I’m afraid I simply don’t have the specialized knowledge necessary to respond intelligently to your question. I suppose anything that hasn’t been overtly disproved is theoretically possible. Tell me, my son: what led you to this intriguing line of speculation?”

  “I’ve seen it,” Flinx informed him tersely. “Or sensed it, anyway.”

  There. Whatever happened now, he’d shared what he’d experienced with another person. Even if the padre decided he was insane, it felt good to have it out.

  No question that it led Bateleur to speculate on the stability of his visitor. That was part of his job. “I see.”

  “It’s out there,” Flinx went on. “That way.” Raising his right hand, he pointed. As a melodramatic gesture, it was decidedly understated.

  “You don’t say. People commonly tend to think of evil as lying in this direction.” Smiling, Bateleur tapped the floor with a foot.

  “What I’m referencing has nothing to do with archaic, traditional concepts of Hell. I’m talking about an actual physical presence that’s pure distilled evil. Do you have access to star charts?”

  “This is the United Church. Of course we have charts.” Turning, Bateleur made the request of the nearest monitor, then pivoted the screen so Flinx could see it as well.

  “How’s this?” the padre asked when the screen came to life.

  “No.” Flinx contained his impatience. “That’s just the immediate stellar vicinity around Samstead. You need to pull back by several orders of magnification.”

  Bateleur nodded agreeably and directed the monitor to comply. After a moment he glanced expectantly at his visitor.

  “No, no. Farther out. Much farther.”

  “That’s the whole galaxy we’re looking at now, with the Magellanic Clouds off to the lower left,” Bateleur informed him. “You said that you saw, or sensed, this presence yourself?”

  “That’s right.” Having come this far, Flinx saw no point in holding back any longer. Let the padre think him mad if he wished. Regardless, they would play the scenario out to the end.

  Bateleur surprised him by chuckling softly. “For such a young man, you’ve been around quite a bit.”

  Flinx looked up out of bright green eyes. “Padre, you don’t know the half of it.”

  Bateleur directed the monitor to remove the view by several orders of magnitude yet again.

  “That’s better.” Flinx studied the image. “Can you rotate the field about forty degrees to the east? I know you can’t change the perspective.”

  “Not working with distances like this.” He complied, until Flinx felt he was looking at a section of sky he recognized.

  “There! That’s the place.”

  “The evil place?”

  “No, no.” Flinx shook his head restlessly. “The location isn’t evil. It’s what’s occupying the location. What’s out there.”

  Bateleur considered the monitor. “I’m sorry, my son, but it doesn’t look any more evil to me than any other section of the cosmos.”

  “I’ve seen it!” Flinx was insistent. “I—I’ve been there. Not physically, of course. Mentally. I’m still not sure how it was accomplished, but I know it wasn’t a dream. It was completely real, even to the jolt I felt just before achieving full perception.”

  “That’s certainly very interesting. I hope you won’t mind, my son, when I say that I think you have a very vivid imagination.”

  “Yes.” His guest sighed, having expected that reaction sooner or later. “I suppose I do. But will you at least admit that my basic idea has some merit?”

  “Let’s just say that I’m open to anything I can’t disprove,” Bateleur replied kindly. “You must understand that until now I never had occasion to consider evil as a function of unidentified subatomic forces.”

  “I know. It was a shock to me as well.” Rising, Flinx extended a hand. Bateleur took it firmly. “You said something about a back door?”

  “Yes.” The padre came around from behind the desk and started to put a reassuring arm around his guest’s shoulders. A hiss from Pip caused him to reconsider. “You strike me as an unusually independent and resourceful young man, but even though we’ll see you safely out of here, don’t forget about or underestimate Jack-Jax Coerlis.”

  Flinx nodded appreciatively. “I won’t, I promise.” Out in the hall he loomed over the stocky churchman.

  “Your accent immediately marked you as offworld,” Bateleur commented. “You have no drawl at all. Where do you call home?”

  A fair question. “Moth. It’s capital city of Drallar.”

  “I’ve heard of it. A freewheeling sort of place, I believe. Not as receptive to the Church as some others.”

  “I like the freedom it affords its citizens,” Flinx replied.

  “I will pray that you maintain it, my son.” They turned down another corridor. “What ship will you be departing on?”

  “I don’t recall, padre.” Flinx lied readily, with the skill of many years practice. “The information’s in my baggage.”

  “And your destination? No, forget that I asked.” The older man waved diffidently. “It’s none of my business.”

  “That’s all right. I don’t mind telling you that
I’m heading home.” They passed more offices and, as they descended a ramp, a noisy children’s crèche.

  That much wasn’t of a lie, he mused. He was going home. Not today, perhaps, or tomorrow, or even next month. Not, in all likelihood, for some time. But eventually.

  “I wish you a safe journey, young man. I hope you will have no more trouble.”

  “I can deal with it. I’m used to dealing with it. I’ve had to grow up very fast, padre.”

  There was something so ineffably sad in the young man’s voice that Father Bateleur was moved to ask him to remain, to talk more, to come to his home and sup with his family. Despite the young man’s outward confidence and evident brilliance, it was clear to Bateleur that his guest was seriously in need of comforting and reassurance. Something within him was crying out for help, and try as he might, Bateleur had no idea what it might be.

  He didn’t have the chance to offer further. They were already at the back door and his visitor was bidding him good-bye. As expected, the rear serviceway was quite deserted.

  “Follow this for several blocks. You’ll come to a door which opens into the lower level of a major financial complex downtown. It’s always crowded there and you should be able to lose yourself easily. I’d keep your pet under cover to avoid attracting attention, but I suppose you’re used to doing that.” Flinx nodded.

  “If you change your mind and see your way to staying awhile longer,” Bateleur added, “my wife and I have room in our home. It sits on an island upstream and—”

  “Thanks,” Flinx replied warmly, “but I need to be on my way. I’m more comfortable when I’m moving around.”

  Bateleur found himself watching the tall youth until the shadows enveloped his lanky form. Then he shut the door and started back to his office, barely acknowledging the greetings and comments of colleagues and coworkers along the way. As he walked, an unaccustomed contentment flowed through him, the mental equivalent of sunning oneself beneath a heat lamp. Once, he looked around sharply, but there was no one there.

  Taking a left turn, he found himself in the sanctuary. There he knelt and began to pray. Not only for the continued safety of his recent visitor, as he’d promised he would do, but for guidance.

  When he was done he returned to his office and activated the nearest monitor. It automatically saved to memory everything that transpired within range of its pickup. There was the young man’s arrival, the ensuing confrontation with the hostile Coerlis and his minions, and his visitor’s subsequent eccentric dissertation. Bateleur had to smile as he saw for a second time the young man insisting he had visited a place impossibly far away.

  What was intriguing was that instead of speaking in generalities, his visitor had chosen and chart-sequence-searched a specific point in the sky. The honestly deluded were not usually so precise.

  As an amusing curiosity, Bateleur referred it to local Church headquarters, which in turn dutifully catalogued and filed it via space-minus tight beam to Church science headquarters in Denpasar, on Terra. There it shuttled around in the company of a hundred thousand similar low-key reports, passing the notice of a number of researchers who understandably ignored it.

  Except for a certain Father Sandra. She picked it out of a large study file, did some cross-checking on the accompanying visuals, and decided to share the result with Father Jamieson, with whom she’d had an ongoing relationship for nearly a year.

  “Shiky, I’ve got something here I’d like your opinion on.”

  Shikar Banadundra turned to smile up at her as she handed him the hardcopy. He took a moment to flip through the folder, frowned, scanned it a second time more carefully.

  “You sure about this, Misell?”

  “Of course not, but a lot of it checks out. The resolution on some of the old visuals is pretty bad. The computer says there’s a good chance it’s a match. I had to do some scrambling around.”

  “Voiceprint?”

  “Only the new interview with this Father Bateleur on Samstead. Unfortunately, there isn’t anything similar in the earlier references.”

  “Pity. Can you get enough enhancement to do a retinal match?”

  She shook her head sorrowfully.

  Banadundra eyed the hardcopy afresh. “That’s not very encouraging.”

  “I think the interview itself is encouraging. He’s supposed to be dead.”

  “He may be. Computer opinion or not, this is pretty inconclusive.” He concentrated on the last page of the report. “I don’t see anything remarkable here. This individual had a run-in with a small-time local merchant. So what?”

  She pulled a page from the folder. “What do you think about this business of physically measurable evil existing in a specific cosmic location?”

  Banadundra shrugged. “Mildly interesting from a theological point of view. I don’t see that it has anything to do with our division.”

  “I ran a follow-up. For hundreds of years it was generally supposed there was nothing in that location. That it was a big, fat, empty space, a vast section of sky devoid of nebulae, stars, or interstellar hydrogen. Just a lot of dark matter.”

  “So?”

  “Most theories of universal creation call for a relatively even distribution of matter throughout the cosmos. This place is an anomaly. A big one. No quadrant of space that big is supposed to be that empty.”

  “Again: so?”

  “According to the updated file of Papers, Astronomy, being prepared for general distribution, a couple of months ago a team based on Hivehom found a source of strong radiation deep within the region. They can’t see it, of course. It’s hidden by all the dark matter. But they’re convinced it’s there. From what I was able to make of it, there may be some unique electromagnetic properties involved.”

  Banadundra smiled. “Like evil?”

  “I have no idea. What intrigues me is how this young man,” and she tapped the hardcopy, “knows about it.”

  “We don’t know that he does.”

  “He claims to know about something out there. You read the printout. He says he’s been there. Just not physically.”

  “Right.” Banadundra’s smiled widened. “His ‘soul,’ or whatever, went there. Or maybe he died and went there and came back.”

  “Thranx researchers don’t release experimental data until they’re sure of their results. No one is conversant yet with the conclusions of this particular research group. They haven’t appeared in the general scientific literature, and this preliminary report has only just been passed along to the Church’s Science Department. How did this person Father Bateleur talked with, whoever he is, find out about it?”

  Banadundra was growing impatient. He had other work to attend to. “I don’t know, Misell, but if he actually does know anything, I find it easier to believe that he had contact with this thranx group than that he traveled a couple of million light-years by some kind of wacky astral projection, or whatever. A search of the tabloid media would probably yield a thousand similar stories.”

  “Such fictions rarely include discussions of the nature of subatomic matter.”

  “All right, a couple of dozen stories, then. The numbers mean nothing, just as the interview signifies nothing.”

  “Shikar, did you ever hear of the Meliorare Society?”

  He blinked. “The renegade eugenicists who were wiped out a few years ago? Sure. Everybody in the department remembers that one. What of it?”

  Father Sandra tapped the hardcopy. “You remember some trouble involving a radical antidevelopment group on a colony world called Longtunnel?”

  Banadundra nodded slowly. “I think so. It was properly taken care of, wasn’t it? I don’t follow colonial politics.”

  “If the computer correlations are correct, this young man was present there as well. He became involved with the group. Also with a gengineer working for a company called Coldstripe. Her name,” Sandra checked the printout again, “was Clarity Held. At the conclusion of the confrontation she filed a report of her ow
n with the appropriate regulatory authorities. It includes mention of a young man whose description closely matches that of Father Bateleur’s interviewee.”

  “You’re losing me, Misell.”

  “When the last known adherents of the Meliorare Society were destroyed, it was on a world called Moth.”

  “Never been there,” he told her. “Heard it’s an interesting, wide-open sort of place.”

  “I sweated correlation. Not easy when you’ve got the whole Commonwealth to cover. There are records of a young man named Philip Lynx. Credit tallies through a trading concern called the House of Malaika, a few other ancillary notations. Not much.”

  “I take it you’ve drawn some conclusions?”

  She leaned forward earnestly. “Look, Shiky. We’ve got a young man who’s on Moth and in the general vicinity when the last of the Meliorares are put down. A niece of one of the last Meliorare practitioners, a woman named Vandervort, is on Longtunnel working with Coldstripe and has contact with what may be this same young man. She died in the confrontation, by the way. Now this person shows up on Samstead. I haven’t checked travel records—I’m not a detective—but for such a young man, he seems to have uncommon resources. Far more than his credit records on Moth would suggest.”

  “Are you suggesting this is someone who’s trying to carry on the work of the Society?”

  “No. He’s much too young. But if there’s any kind of connection at all, I think it’s worth following up. What I’ve got right now is a fascinating young man with a blurry past, a tenuous but distinctive link to the Society, and an inexplicable tie to an unreleased astronomical discovery.”

  Banadundra made a face. “If you can pull all that together into something sensible I’ll nominate you for the Obud Prize myself.”

  She reached out and caressed his cheek. “I don’t want any nominations for any prizes. You’re my prize, Shikar. What I want is your help accessing the history of the Meliorares.”

  Concern crossed his dark face. “There’s a Moral Imperative seal on those records. There are still mindwiped participants walking around. Access is above both, our classifications.”