Patrimony (Pip and Flinx)

by Alan Dean Foster

  The performance floor was lit by effervescent luminants whose shapes morphed from those of naked men, to naked women, to unclothed creatures whose assorted pulsating extremities and orifices repulsed rather than interested him. Making a face, he pushed and shoved his way through a drifting chartreuse chanteuse. Her disembodied head continued to croon at him in some obscure Terran tongue that was equally melodic and incomprehensible long after he had walked on past. Disappointed, the light fixture recongealed rapidly behind him.

  Distracted by the luminant, which if he had lingered would have tried to sell him something, he failed to see the pair of Tlel who were in the process of crossing his path. As he stumbled into them, one straightened and thrust its eyeband in his direction.

  “Forgiveness is made, since yu are so clearly inhibited by ingestments.” It added something deeply laryngeal in its own language.

  “Go forgive yurself!” Halvorsen growled warningly as he sought to go around the couple. He added something colorful in unaccented Tlelian.

  The pair looked genuinely shocked. If they had simply bagged their outrage and continued on their way, the exchange would have ended there. But being duly stunned by Halvorsen’s response and sufficiently concerned that they somehow might have offended, they persisted. Both scuttled sideways to block his path.

  It was surprising that the fury of emotions Halvorsen was generating was not enough to whisk them aside. “Get out of my way.”

  “There was no call fur that language, no call at all,” the male declared straightforwardly. “We cannot demand, but can only request, an appropriate apology.”

  “Apology?” Very slowly, Halvorsen turned to fully confront the native. Its odor filled his olfactory sense to overflowing and threatened to leave him dizzy. “I’ll give yu an…” Before he could finish, the Tlel did something. It was the wrong thing.

  He put his hand on Halvorsen.

  Or rather, dozens of soft, gripping cilia fastened themselves to the human’s thick upper right arm. It was a gesture intended to simultaneously reassure and restrain, an indigenous means of physically punctuating the request for an apology. Another time, another place, Halvorsen might well have interpreted it appropriately. Doubtless he still would have responded with harsh language. Given his current mental condition and emotional state, it was not surprising that in this particular instance he reacted physically.

  By Halvorsen’s standards it wasn’t much of a shove. But in his moderately impaired state, it was more forceful than he might otherwise have intended it to be. Furthermore his right hand, the one that pushed, instinctively assumed a fighting position: fingers drawn back, heel of the hand thrust forward. More by misfortune than intent, it struck the politely protesting Tlel at its most vulnerable point.

  The thin neck snapped like a twig. Instantly the male’s eyeband darkened. The flattened head flopped loosely to one side. Though Halvorsen had lived on Gestalt for some time, the female was making sounds he had never heard before. It struck him that he had just killed. Not, as was commonly the case, for something honorable such as money, but out of foolish anger. However briefly, he had lost control. Knowing that upset him far more than the actual killing.

  It was an accident, pure and simple. He could claim, rightly, that the native had put its cilia on him first. He could claim, wrongly, that it had done so roughly and with hostile intent. He had only been defending himself. Looking around wildly, he fought to clear his mind. They were alone on the luminant-infested corner of floor. There did not appear to be any other witnesses.

  So he killed the female.

  The prim and proper Tlel-loving authorities might accept a plea of self-defense and they might not. What they were certain to do was fatally delay his attempt to collect on the debt due him from the Order of Null. He could not afford that. In addition to the repair work being done on his skimmer there were other arrears outstanding. He was not the only disagreeable self-employed entrepreneur on Gestalt. Before long, others to whom he was in hock would come looking for him. He had been counting on the Null payment to take care of that. He had been counting on the Null money to take care of a great many things.

  No, he had no time to waste, especially on explaining his actions as they concerned the now deceased pair of Tlel. Hastily he cleaned the scene, wiping away or removing anything that might be traced back to him. Surely any investigation would not last long. They were only natives, after all. Stinky, smelly, gag-inducing natives. Two fewer of them made for a cleaner world.

  By the time he stepped out of the transport pod halfway across the city, he felt much better about the annoying inconvenience to which he had been subjected. The authorities would conduct an investigation. Finding nothing, they would hypothesize. Only the clan to which the deceased belonged were likely to press for an extended inquest. By that time Halvorsen would be long gone from the city. He would do nothing to conceal his departure, of course. Nothing would be more certain to draw attention to himself than to try slipping out of Tlossene or offworld while a murder investigation was under way.

  He could, however, reasonably be excused for making another trip to the northlands. A slow, unhurried journey. Relaxing, even. Nothing out of the ordinary for someone such as himself. He was not fleeing, exactly. Not hiding out, quite. Simply finishing a job he had begun earlier.

  If he did not finish it, to the satisfaction of his clients, then the entire effort would turn out to have been for nothing. The tracking, the hunting down, the chase, the fight, and his subsequent survival—all for nothing. An unforgivable waste of time. Halvorsen had done many things in his life, but wasting time could not be counted among them. He would return with all the proof the cheery scions of Null demanded.

  As he cautiously and methodically worked his way back to his residence, he did his best to stay inconspicuous. Snow that was falling more heavily helped to mask his movements. Meanwhile, in the absence of credit, he had his anger to drive him onward. He made something of a game of it, trying to decide whom he hated more: his quarry, who had been inconsiderate enough to fight back and to die somewhere chill and distant, or the otherworldly mooncalves who by refusing to pay him had set him on his present path.

  He did not wrestle overmuch with the distinctions that existed between them. There was plenty of time and energy with which to hate them both, he reassured himself.

  CHAPTER 12

  It was possible that none of them saw the danger because of the storm. Had the expedition been intended as a hunting party, they would have found or fashioned shelter and squatted down inside to wait until the weather improved. Flinx certainly would have been amenable. Though he was in a hurry, as always, to get where he wanted to go, his present need was not so desperate that he could not have stood a delay of a day or so. He would have been content to hole up in a cave or beneath some trees until the snow stopped. Instead it was Vlashraa and the others who insisted on continuing forward with the gaitgos. He was glad they were the ones who made the decision to keep going.

  He was not sure he could have dealt with the result had the consequent calamity been his fault.

  They were passing through a narrow, scree-framed canyon. Riding on the back of Zlezelrenn’s gaitgo and freed from the need to concentrate on the route ahead, Flinx was able to study the imposing rock walls at leisure. Despite the steepness of their slopes, they looked solid and stable enough. Clumps of thick, gnarled growths in shades ranging from cobalt to cyan clung tenaciously to ledges and other places where sufficient soil had accumulated. Periodically, he paused to wipe blowing snow from his face and eyes. Among his possessions lost in the river with the drowned skimmer were a pair of photosensitive protective goggles. How he wished for them now.

  Might as well wish for a synsteak with flash-frozen dirla curls and steamed green vegetables, he told himself. Surfing the bitter cold, the blowing snow only bothered his eyes. The rest of his face was now too numb to feel much. In contrast, from the neck down he was reasonably warm, thanks to the output
of the integrated thermothreads that formed part of the weave. Also, the walls of the storage compartment served to shield his lower body from the wind. In contrast with her master, Pip was not suffering from the weather. Inside his clothing and smooth against his bare skin, multiple minidrag coils lay unwound against his waist and chest. Not for the first time, Flinx envied his companion her exceptional flexibility. At least one of them was comfortable, he mused.

  Somewhere in the general vicinity of his waist, need clashed with determination. It was not that hunger was gnawing at him so much as the knowledge that his body needed fuel to fight the cold. The sooner they made camp, the sooner he would be able to warm the inside of his body.

  That wouldn’t be for a while yet. Despite the snow, the line of mechanical walkers and their Tlel drivers were making good progress. Probably pushing themselves to get through the pass, he told himself. Once clear of the canyon walls, it would be much easier to find a campsite out of the wind.

  Then he heard the rumble.

  It started slowly. A steady whisper that rose swiftly to an ominous growl. Zlezelrenn heard it, too. His flattened head turned sharply to the left and tilted back, the glistening eyeband focusing on something heard more than seen. Recalling the previous attack on the column, Flinx’s breath came a little faster as he fought to peer through the falling snow. This time there was no sign of a plunging, ravenous ressaugg. No exotic alpine predator threatened the line of travelers. No raiding party of maniacal GrTl-Keepers had been lying in wait to ambush their philosophical opposites. Only Nature, in her purest Gestaltian guise, had chosen to attack. He did not detect any hostile emotions behind the gathering avalanche because there were none to detect. There were only steep slopes, wind, damp, and too, too much accumulated snow on the heights directly above the column of gaitgos.

  Grinding hoots of alarm rose from the line of travelers. There was no chance to escape the swelling cascade by reversing direction: the pass was too narrow and the opposite slope too steep to be negotiated in time. Flinx was slammed roughly backward and nearly out of the modified cargo compartment as a desperate Zlezelrenn demanded full speed from the vehicle’s compact engine. Nothing Flinx had undergone since they had left Tleremot compared to the violent mechanical leg action and severe jolting he experienced now as Zlezelrenn and the others desperately tried to outrun the avalanche. Far from being able to ask questions or offer suggestions, it was all Flinx could do to hang on and keep from being thrown out. Pip was sufficiently startled to spread her wings and take to the chilly air, keeping pace directly above the pounding gaitgo.

  Pushed ahead of the cascading snow, freezing-cold air ripped at the exposed skin of his face. He ought to have turned away from it. He did not. What froze him in place was not the ambient temperature but the sight that was roaring toward them. It looked like half a mountain was racing at incredible velocity straight toward the machine on which he was riding. The immense wall of pink snow bore down on the frantic expedition like a bloodstained flare. There was no place to run, no place to jump. No place to hide. Above him, the minidrag suddenly rose higher, ascending into the flurry of falling flakes and out of sight.

  “Pip!” he shouted, trying to make himself heard above approaching thunder that shook the ground. Incongruously, he suddenly found himself thinking of Midworld—hot, steamy, and tropical, where a mountain of snow wouldn’t last an hour. The thought was a refuge of wishful thinking.

  It was his last one before the full force of the avalanche hit.

  It felt as if a trio of that distant green world’s helpful, lumbering, bearcat-like furcots slammed into him simultaneously. As the wind was knocked out of him he felt himself being ripped out of the cargo compartment, over the side of the gaitgo, and away from the fast-moving vehicle. Stunned by the unrelenting ferocity of the snow, he could only clutch and scrabble futilely at the cold pink mass that enveloped him. It was not unlike being caught and spun by a big ocean wave, except that he could breathe a little.

  He had no idea how long he tumbled or how many times he was rolled. It might have been seconds or it could have been minutes. Eventually, thankfully, the avalanche slowed, then stopped, its energy spent. He and the snow came to a halt simultaneously. The deafening roar that had a moment earlier been all-pervasive vanished. It was absolutely, totally, utterly silent—as still and quiet as the vacuum of space outside the Teacher.

  Little by little, his respiration steadied. He swallowed a couple of times. Then he called out: first Zlezelrenn’s name, then Vlashraa’s. There was no answer, no response. Taking in measured breaths he started to rise, only to find that he could not.

  He was buried.

  Slowly, breathe slowly, he told himself. Panic and fast breathing will only use up more rapidly whatever air has been trapped with you. He had never suffered from claustrophobia. That was fortunate, because the gap between his face and a solid wall of snow was only a few centimeters wide. In the complete absence of light, he had to estimate the distance using his fingers.

  He had come to rest on his side. Trying to turn onto his back, he found that he could not. He was encased in a frozen loose-fitting straitjacket, and the weight pressing down on him was oppressive. His lost service belt held several devices that he could have used to cut through or melt away the icy prison that now surrounded him. More wishful thinking. Entirely too much of that going on, he decided decisively.

  Grim-visaged, he started digging. Lying on his side, he clawed with his hands at the imprisoning wall on his immediate right. Though heavy, the snowfall had not yet solidified around him. It was critical to get out before it became too compacted to work.

  He did not slow or pause even though the cold began to penetrate his gloves. Occasionally, he would get rid of a tiny bit of the snow by swallowing it. Not only did this procedure open up another handful of space, but the cold meltwater helped to refresh him as well. Hot chocolate or Parian syrup would have been more welcome, he thought. What body heat leaked out through his clothing melted a little of the snow beneath him, providing slightly more room in which to work and enough space for him to slightly move his legs. As he dug with his hands, he kicked and shoved with his feet, compacting the snow under his boots.

  You weren’t going to waste any more calories on wishful thoughts, he admonished himself. Not even on imagining drinks that were hot, warm, thick…

  Stop it, he told himself.

  As soon as he had managed to excavate a small cavity in front of his face, neck, and chest, he altered his angle of attack and began digging upward. He knew he was tunneling in the right direction only because he could perceive a small emotional presence somewhere overhead. The anxious and vital directional beacon that was Pip alternately strengthened and faded in his mind. He could envision her diving restlessly back and forth above the settled snow, able to sense the presence of her longtime companion but unable to see him. It would be better for him if she settled down on the surface directly above him and remained in one place, but he had no way of telling her to do so, and he was not about to waste any energy on pointless shouting.

  He did not know how long he scraped and clawed at the imprisoning snow. Much longer than it had taken it to entomb him, anyway. Though he made good progress at first, the lack of food together with the increasing buildup of carbon dioxide inside the cavity he had excavated combined inexorably to slow him down. He was nearly vertical within the avalanche now. Thankfully, the snow overhead was now packed solid enough that it did not collapse on top of or around him. Suffocation was a bad way to die. But though he reached as high as he could to dig and pulled away more and more of the frigid roof over his head, each handful he drew downward and shoved toward his feet exposed only more of the same.

  What if he was buried too deep? What if there were meters of the heavy, smothering wet stuff above his head instead of centimeters? First to go would be the ability to dig; then he would lose consciousness. If his Tlel friends were looking for him, could they even find him? The avalanche
had swept him not only out of Zlezelrenn’s gaitgo but also an unknown distance down and possibly across the canyon. How far did their ability to perceive another individual’s flii extend? If they were searching for him, they might not even be looking in the right area.

  It was getting difficult to breathe. Hard as he fought to regulate his respiration, his lungs kept shouting for more air. Soon they were demanding it, then screaming for it. Survival quickly became a race between how fast his hands could pull away the snow over his head and how long his lungs would continue to function before collapsing: a battle between desperation and suffocation.

  The former was not enough to overcome the latter. Utterly exhausted, he lay trapped within a drift of unknown depth, the remaining air around him polluted by his own exhalations. Through sheer force of will he thrust his right arm upward yet one more time, made it scoop another handful of pure cold. But he didn’t have the strength to pull it down and shove it beneath his feet. As the snow clasped in his cupping fingers began to melt slightly, the small rivulets tickled his fingers beneath the glove, tickled and teased and…

  That wasn’t water, he told himself. Whatever was caressing his fingers was solid and dry.

  The realization was enough to summon forth his last reserves of strength. Shoving his hand down, he dumped the snow and reached up again. Once more something that was neither snow nor water ran back and forth over his questing fingers. Forcing back his head, compacting snow behind it, he looked upward. Something twisting and worm-like kept flicking in and out of a hole no bigger than his thumb.

  Pip’s tongue.

  It took another agonizing half an hour for him to fully extricate himself from the massive snowbank. The first thing he did was allow the half-frozen Pip to snuggle down inside his jacket and inner shirt. She was shockingly cold, but he did not for a moment consider denying her the body heat her serpentine form was stealing. Lying on his back on the beautiful, lethal pink snow, he realized that the fast-moving storm was ending, trailing away to the south. He also realized something else.