For Love Of Mother Not

by Alan Dean Foster

  “Thank you, Amareth,” he told the woman waiting patiently at the console. “Keep the receiver open just in case.”

  “Of course, Dr. Cruachan, sir.”

  Turning, he headed slowly toward Conference. Halfway there, his step picked up, his stride became more brisk. This won’t do, he told himself. As president of the Society, it was incumbent upon him to set an example for the others, now more than ever. By the time he reached the meeting room and strode inside, his initial despair at the reports from below had been replaced by icy determination.

  Half a dozen elderly men and women sat waiting for him. So few, he thought, so few left. The last of the Society, the last supporters of a great idea. Their upturned faces all silently asked the same question.

  “Still no word,” he said firmly. “We must therefore assume that doctors Brora, Haithness, and Nyassa-lee have been lost.” There were no outward expressions of grief, no wails or cries. They waited expectantly for him to continue, and their quiet vote of confidence redoubled his resolve.

  “I recommend that we proceed with the attempt to re- gain control of Number Twelve.”

  “We have reason to believe that MO operatives are now working in this region,” an old woman said from the far side of the comfortable room.

  “What of it?” another woman asked sharply. “They’ve always been two steps behind us, and they always will be.”

  “I wish I was as positive of that as you, Hanson,” the first woman said. “The longevity of the Society is the result of foresight and caution, not contempt for those who hold us in contempt.” She looked up at their leader. “You’re sure about continuing to operate here, Cruachan?”

  “More so than ever,” he told her. “We have too much invested in this Number Twelve not to continue.” He proceeded to recite the long list of factors responsible for his decision.

  When he finished, a thin little man seated in the far corner of the room spoke out sharply in an incongruously deep voice. He had an artificial leg and heart, but the look in his eyes was as blindly intense as it had been fifty years earlier.

  “I concur! The promise still lies here. If the subject is still accessible-“

  “We have no reason to believe he is not,” Cruachan half lied.

  “-then we have a chance to get to him before the MO insects do. As Cruachan says, we must balance the potential here against our own intensifying infirmities.” He kicked the floor with his false leg.

  “Very well,” said the old lady who had raised the specter of Commonwealth interference. “I see that most of you are of a mind to continue with our work here. I must confess that I cannot muster an argument against Dr. Cruachan’s many good points. But we now have a new problem to overcome which will not be solved by a vote.

  “Is it true that the last report from the camp places the subject in proximity to an Alaspinian miniature dragon?”

  Cruachan nodded slowly. “The presence of the catalyst creature close to the subject was alluded to, yes.”

  “Then how are we to proceed? Besides acting as a magnifying lens for any latent Talent the subject may possess, this particular animal is deadly in and of itself. If it has formed an emotional bond with the subject, it will be a much more dangerous opponent than any dozen MO officers.”

  Cruachan waved her worries aside. “I’ve given the matter proper consideration. The snake will be taken care of, I promise you. If we cannot neutralize a mere reptile, then we have no business pretending to the ideals of our Society.”

  “It is not a reptile,” a man near the back put in. He was glassy-eyed because of the thick contact lenses he was forced to wear. “It is reptilian in appearance, but warm blood flows in its veins, and it should more properly be classified as-“

  “I don’t give a damn what Order it fits into,” Cruachan broke in impatiently. “The beast will be handled.” His brows drew together at a sudden thought. “In fact, if such a mental bond now exists, it is likely stronger than that which ties the subject to his adoptive parent.”

  “Another chance for external control!” a woman exclaimed.

  “Yes. Instead of presenting us with a new threat, it’s possible this creature may be our key to subject control. So you all see how seeming difficulties may be turned to our advantage.”

  “Too bad about Haithness and the others,” one of the old men murmured. “I’d known Haithness for forty-five years.”

  “So did I,” Cruachan reminded him. “We must not let her and Nyassa-lee and Brora down. If, as now seems likely, they have sacrificed themselves for the cause, they provide us with still another reason to press onward. As we shrink in numbers, so must we grow in determination.”

  Murmurs of assent rose from around the conference room.

  “We will not abandon this subject,” Cruachan continued forcefully. “He will be brought under our wing by what- ever means is required. I call for a formal vote for proceeding.”

  Cruachan was gratified to see the decision to continue confirmed unanimously. Such decisions usually were; dissent had no place in an organization bent to such a singular purpose.

  “Thank you all,” he said when the hands dropped. “Remember, this Number Twelve may hold the key to our vindication. We should proceed with that hope in mind. From this moment on, our entire energy will be devoted to gaining control over him.” He turned toward the doorway.

  “We have to hurry. If the MOs find him first, they will ruin him for our purposes.”

  The group dissolved in a rush of activity and fresh resolve that was matched in intensity only by the desperation that gave it life.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The city stank of human and other beings, of animals and exotic cooking, of resins and building materials old and new, all affected by the eternal dampness that permeated organic and inorganic materials alike. But it was all flowers and spice to Flinx. The transport car hissed to a halt outside the paneled exterior of the little bar and with the little credit remaining to him, he paid the machine. It responded with a mechanical “Thank you, sir” before drifting off up the street in search of its next fare.

  Mother Mastiff leaned heavily against him as they made their way inside. Her ordeal had left her feeling her age, and she was very tired. So tired that she did not pull away from the snake riding high on Flinx’s shoulder. Once inside, Pip uncoiled from its perch beneath the slickertic Lauren Walder had provided and made a snake- line for the bar itself. This place he knew. On the counter ahead sat bowls of pretzels, tarmac nuts, and other interesting salty delicacies that were almost as much fun to play with as to eat

  Flinx had deliberately brought them back to the market- place via a zigzag, roundabout course, changing transports frequently, trying until the last moment to travel with other citizens. Try as he might, he had been unable to see any indication that they had been followed, nor had the minidrag reacted negatively to any of the travelers who had looked askance at the exhausted youth and the old woman with him. Still, it was this caution that prompted them to visit this bar before returning to the shop. It would be wise not to go home alone, and Small Symm, the bar owner, would be good company to have around when they again set palm print to the front-door lock. To some degree his physical talents matched those of Flinx’s mind.

  As giants go. Small Symm was about average. He had been a friend of Flinx since the day of the boy’s adoption. He often bought interesting utensils from Mother Mastiff for use in his establishment.

  An enormous hand appeared and all but swept the two travelers into a booth. At the long metal bar, patrons nervously moved aside to allow the acrobatic flying snake plenty of access to the pretzels.

  “I’ve heard,” the young giant said by way of greeting, his voice an echo from deep within a cavernous chest, “that you were back. Word travels fast in the market.”

  “We’re okay, Symm.” Flinx favored his friend with a’ tired smile. “I feel like I could sleep for a year, but other than that, we’re all right.”

  T
he giant pulled a table close to the booth and used it for a chair. “What can I get for the two of you? Some- thing nice and hot to drink?”

  “Not now, boy,” Mother Mastiff said with a desultory wave of one wrinkled hand. “We’re anxious to be home. ‘Tis your good company we’d make use of, not your beverages.” She turned quiet and let Flinx do the majority of the explaining.

  Small Symm frowned, his brows coming together like clouds in the sky. “You think these people might still be after you?”

  She almost started to say, “Tis not me they’re after,” and just did manage to hold her tongue. She still believed it was too soon to reveal to Flinx everything she had learned. Much too soon. “Unlikely but possible, and I’m not the type to tempt fate, the unkind bastard.”

  “I understand.” Symrn stood, his head just clearing the ceiling. “You would like some friendly companionship on your way home.”

  “If you could spare the time,” Flinx said gratefully. “I really believe that we’re finished with these people.” He did not explain that he thought they were all dead. No need to complicate matters. “But we’d sure be a lot more comfortable if you’d come with us while we checked out the shop.”

  “I’ll be just a moment,” Symm assured him. “Wait here.” He vanished into a back room. When he returned, it was in the company of a tall young woman. He spoke softly to her for a minute, she nodding in response, then rejoined his visitors. He was wearing a slickertic not quite large enough to protect a medium-sized building.

  “I’m ready,” he told them. “Nakina will watch business until I return. Unless you’d rather rest a while longer.” “No, no.” Mother Mastiff struggled to her feet. “I’ll rest when I’m back home in my shop.”

  It was not far from Small Symm’s place to the side street where Mother Mastiff’s stall was located. With Symm carrying her, they made good time.

  “Seems empty,” the giant commented as he gently set the old woman on her feet. It was evening. Most of the shops were already shuttered, perhaps because the rain was falling harder than usual. In the marketplace, weather was often the most profound of economic arbiters.

  “I guess it’s all right.” Mother Mastiff stepped toward the front door.

  “Wait a minute.” Flinx put out an arm to hold her back. “Over there, to the left of the shop.”

  Symm and Mother Mastiff stared in the indicated direction. “I don’t see anything,” the giant said.

  “I thought I saw movement.” Flinx glanced down at Pip. The flying snake dozed peacefully beneath the cover of the slickertic. Of course, the snake’s moods were often unpredictable, but his continued calm was a good sign. Flinx gestured to his right. The giant nodded and moved off like a huge shadow to conceal himself in the darkness next to the vacant shop off to the left. Flinx went to his right-to starboard, as Lauren might have said. It had taken him awhile to forgive her for leaving-and Mother Mastiff for letting her leave-while he was still sound asleep. He wondered what she was doing, yet the memory of her was already beginning to fade. It would take some- what longer to escape his emotions.

  Mother Mastiff waited and watched as friend and son moved off in opposite directions. She did not mind standing in the rain. It was Drallarian rain, which was different somehow from the rain that fell anywhere else in the universe.

  Flinx crept warily along the damp plastic walls of the shop fronts, making his way toward the alley that meandered behind their home. If the movement he thought he had spied signified the presence of some scout awaiting their return, he did not want that individual reporting back to his superiors until Flinx had drained him of in- formation.

  There-movement again, and no mistaking it this time! It was moving away from him. He increased his pace, keeping to the darkest shadows. The stiletto that slept in his boot was in his right hand now, cold and familiar.

  Then a cry in the darkness ahead and a looming, massive shape. Flinx rushed forward, ready to help even though it was unlikely the giant would need any assistance. Then something new, something unexpected.

  Nervous laughter?

  “Hello, Flinx-boy.” In the dim light, Flinx made out the friendly face of their neighbor Arrapkha.

  “Hello, yourself.” Flinx put the stiletto back where it belonged. “You gave me reason to worry. I thought we were finished with shapes in the night.”

  “I gave you reason to worry?” The craftsman indicated the bulk of Small Symm standing behind him.

  “I’m sorry,” Symm said apologetically. “We couldn’t see who you were.”

  “You know now.” He looked back toward Flinx. “I’ve been watching your shop for you.” Symm went to reassure Mother Mastiff. “You know, making sure no one broke in and tried to steal anything.”

  “That was good of you,” Flinx said as they started back toward the street.

  “Ifs good to see you back, Flinx-boy. I’d given you up not long after you left.”

  “Then why have you kept watching the shop?”

  The older man grinned. “Couldn’t stop hoping, I guess. What was it all about, anyway?”

  “Something illegal that Mother Mastiff was involved in many years back,” Flinx explained. “She didn’t go into the details. Just told me that revenge was involved.”

  “Some people have long memories,” Arrapkha said, nodding knowingly. “Since you have returned well and safe, I presume that you made a peace with the people who kidnaped your mother?”

  “We concluded the business,” Flinx said tersely.

  They returned to the street, where Small Symm and Mother Mastiff waited to greet them.

  “So it was you, Arrapkha. Ye ignorant fleurm, worrying us like that.” She smiled. “Never thought I’d be glad to see ye, though.”

  “Nor I you,” the woodworker confessed. He gestured toward Flinx. “That boy of yours is as persistent as he is foolhardy. I did my best to try and convince him not to go rushing off after you.”

  “I would have told him the same,” she said, “and he would have ignored me, too. Headstrong, he be.” She al- lowed herself a look of pardonable pride. Flinx was simply embarrassed. “And fortunate it is for me.”

  “Old acquaintances and bad business.” Arrapkha waggled an admonishing finger at her. “Beware of old acquaintances and bad business and deeds left unresolved.”

  “Ah, yes.” She changed the subject. “Been watching the old place for me, eh? Then I’d best check the stock care- fully as soon as we’re inside.” They both laughed.

  “If you think it’s all right for me to leave,” Small Symm murmured. “Nakina has a bad temper, and that’s not good for business.”

  Mother Mastiff looked thoughtful. “If our friend here insists he’s kept a close eye on the shop . . .”

  “I’ve watched and watched,” Arrapkha insisted. “Unless they’ve tunneled in, no one’s gone inside since your boy left to look for you.”

  “No tunneling under these streets,” she observed with a grin “They’d hit the sewers.” She looked back up at their escort. “Thank ye, Symm. Ye can rim back to your lovely den of iniquity.”

  “It’s hardly that,” he replied modestly. “Someday if I work hard, perhaps.”

  Flinx extended a hand, which vanished in the giant’s grasp. “My thanks, also, Symm.”

  “No trouble. Glad to help.” The giant tamed and lumbered away into the night.

  The three friends moved to the front door. Mother Mastiff placed her right palm against the lock plate. It clicked immediately, and the door slid aside, admitting them. Flinx activated the lights, enabling them to see clearly that the stall area was apparently untouched. Stock remained where they had left it, gleaming and reassuringly familiar in the light.

  “Looks to be the same as when I left,” Mother Mastiff observed gratefully.

  “Looks to be the same as it did ten years ago.” Arrapkha shook his head slowly. “You don’t change much, Mother Mastiff, and neither does some of your stock. I think you’re too fond of certain
pieces to sell them.”

  “There be nothing I’m too fond of not to sell,” she shot back, “and my stock changes twice as fast as that pile of beetle-eaten garbage ye try to pass off on unsuspecting customers as handicrafts.”

  “Please, no fighting,” Flinx implored them. “I’m tired of fighting.”

  “Fighting?” Arrapkfaa said, looking surprised.

  “We’re not fighting, boy,” Mother Mastiff told him. “Don’t ye know by now how old friends greet one an- other? By seeing who can top the other’s insults.” To show him that she meant what she said, she smiled fondly at Arrapkha. The woodworker wasn’t a bad sort at all. Only a little slow.

  The living quarters they found likewise untouched: in total chaos, exactly as Flinx had last seen it.

  “Housekeeping,” Mother Mastiff grumbled. “I’ve always hated housekeeping. Still, someone has to get this place cleaned up, and better me than ye, boy. Ye have no touch for domesticity, I fear.”

  “Not tonight, Mother.” Flinx yawned. His initial sight of his own bed had expanded until it filled the whole room.

  “No, not tonight, boy. I must confess to being just the slightest bit tired.” Flinx smiled to himself. She was on the verge of physical collapse, quite ready to go to sleep wherever her body might fall, but she was damned if she would show weakness in front of Arrapkha lest it damage her image of invincibility.

  “Tomorrow well put things to rights. I work better in the daytime, anyway.” She tried not to look toward her own bedroom, waiting on Arrapkha.

  “Well, then, I will leave you,” the craftsman said.

  “Again, it’s good to see you back and healthy. The street wasn’t the same without you.”

  “We monuments are hard to get rid of,” Mother Mastiff said. “Perhaps we’ll see ye tomorrow.”