“Perhaps,” Arrapkha agreed. He turned and left them, making certain that the front door locked behind him.
Once outside, Arrapkha drew his slickertic tight around his head and shoulders as he hurried back to his own shop. He had no more intention of turning his friends over to the authorities, as he had been instructed, than he did of cutting the price of his stock fifty percent for some rich merchant. He would not hinder the police, but he would do nothing to assist them, either. He could always plead ignorance, for which he was famed in this part of the marketplace.
So tired; they looked so tired, he thought. It was the first time he could remember Mother Mastiff looking her age. Even the boy, who, though slight of build, had never before seemed exhausted by any labor, appeared completely worn out. Even that lethal pet that always rode his shoulder had looked tired.
Well, he would give them a few days to get their house in order and regain their strength. Then he would surprise them by taking them to Magrim’s for some tea and tall sandwiches and would tell them of the mysterious visit of the two Peaceforcers to their little street. It would be interesting to see what Mother Mastiff would make of that. She might welcome the interest of the authorities in her case-and then again, she might not. Not knowing the details of her history, Arrapkha could not be sure, which was why he had elected not to help those offworld visitors.
Yes, he decided firmly. Wait a few days and let them rest up before springing that new information on them. No harm in that, surely. He opened the door to his own shop and shut it against the night and the rain.
One day passed, then another, and gradually the shop again assumed the appearance of home as the mess the kidnapers had made was cleaned up. Comfortable in such familiar surroundings, Mother Mastiff regained her strength rapidly. She was such a resilient old woman, Flinx thought with admiration. For his part, by the second day he was once again venturing out into his familiar haunts, greeting old friends, some of whom had heard of the incident and some of whom had not, but never straying far from the shop lest even at this late date and in spite of his beliefs some surviving members of the organization that had abducted Mother Mastiff return, still seeking their revenge.
Nothing materialized, however, to give any credence to such anxieties. By the third day, he had begun to relax mentally as well as physcially. It was amazing, he thought, as he settled in that night, the things that one misses the most during a long absence. Odd how familiar and friendly one’s own bed becomes when one has had to sleep elsewhere....
It was the hate that woke Pip. Cold and harsh as the most brutal day winter could muster on the ice world of Tran-ky-ky, it shook the flying snake from a sound sleep. It was directed not at the minidrag but at its master.
Pink and blue coils slid soundlessly clear of the thermal blanket. Flinx slept on, unaware of his pet’s activity. Several hours remained until sunrise.
Pip rested and analyzed. Examining the minidrag lying at the foot of the bed, an observer might have believed it to be a reasoning being. It was not, of course, but neither was its mental capacity inconsequential. Actually, no one was quite sure how the mind of the Alaspinian miniature dragon worked or what profound cogitations it might be capable of, since no xenobiologist dared get close enough to study it.
Blue and pink wings opened, pleats expanding, and with a gentle whirr the snake took to the air. It hovered high over its master’s head, worried, searching, trying to pin- point the source of the unrelenting malignancy that was poisoning its thoughts. The hate was very near. Worse, it was familiar.
There was a curved roof vent that Pip had appropriated for its own private comings and goings. The snake darted toward it, the wings folding up at the last second to allow the slim body to slip through the curving tube. Nothing much bigger than a mouse could have slipped through that vent. With wings folded flat against its muscular sides, the minidrag made the passage easily.
Pip emerged atop the roof into the light, early-morning rain. Up that way the bate lay, to the north, up the alley. Wings unfolded and fanned the air. The minidrag circled once above the shop, paused to orient itself, then buzzed determinedly into the opening nearby where the alley emerged into cloudlight.
It braked to a halt and hovered, hissing at the mental snarl that had drawn it.
“Over here pretty, pretty,” coaxed a voice. “You know who hates your master, don’t you? And you know what we’ll do to him if we get the chance.”
The flying snake shot through the partly open doorway into the hate-filled room beyond. Two humans awaited it with deadly calm. Never would they have the chance to harm the minidrag’s master. Never!
A thin stream of venom spewed from the roof of the flying snake’s upper jaw and struck toward the nearest of the vicious bipeds. It never reached the man. Something was between him and Pip, something hard and transparent. The venom contacted it, hissed in the still air as it started to eat at the transparent shield. Startled, the two monsters seated behind the shield flinched and began to rise.
But the door opening on the alley had already slammed shut behind the minidrag. Suddenly, a strange, sweet smell filled the room. Wingbeats slackened and grew weak. Twin eyelids fluttered and closed. The flying snake flopped about on the floor like a fish out of water, wings beating futilely against the plastic as it gasped for breath.
“Be careful,” a distant voice warned. “We don’t want to overdose it. It’s no good to us dead.”
“I’d sooner see it dead and take our chances with the subject,” another said.
“We need every hold we can manage, including the possibility raised by this little devil.”
The voices faded. Soon the flying snake had stopped moving. Long minutes passed before a man dared to enter the sealed room. He was dressed head to toe in a protective suit. His eyes were anxious behind the transparent visor. With the long metal prod he carried he poked once, twice at the comatose minidrag. It jerked convulsively in response to the touches, but otherwise displayed no sign of life.
The man took a deep breath and set the long prod aside as he bent to pick up the thin body. It hung limply in his gloved hands as he inspected it.
“Still breathing,” he declared to the people pressed close to the transparent wall.
“Good. Get it in the cage quick,” said the shorter of the two observers. Her companion was studying the hole where the venom had finally eaten through the protective shield.
“I’d like to see a molecular breakdown on this stuff,” he murmured, careful to keep his fingers clear of the still-sizzling edges of the ragged gap. “Anything that can eat through pancrylic this fast . . .” He shook his head in disbelief. “I don’t see how the venom sacs can contain the stuff without dissolving right through the creature’s jaw.”
“You’d need a toxicologist and biochemist to explain it, if they could,” said the woman standing next to him, like- wise taking a moment to examine the hole. “Perhaps there’s more to it than just a straightforward poison. The snake’s mouth may hold several separate sacs whose con- tents mix only when it’s spraying someone.”
“Makes sense.” The man turned away from the shield that had nearly failed them. “We better get moving. The subject may awaken any minute now. Be sure you keep the monster thoroughly narcotized.”
“Is that necessary?” She frowned. “Surely the cage will hold it.”
“That’s what we thought about the wall. The cage is tougher, but we don’t want to take any chances. I don’t want our guest spitting his way free while we’re asleep in our beds.”
“No, we sure as hell don’t.” The woman shuddered slightly. “I’ll take charge of it myself.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.” Cruachan smiled to him- self. He was intimately familiar with the theories that at- tempted to explain the special bonds that could spring into being between a catalyst creature such as the minidrag and one of the Talented. Certainly the link that existed between this creature and the boy known as Number Twelve was as
powerful as any of the imperfectly recorded cases he had studied. It was not unreasonable to suppose that it could be stronger than the affection bond between the boy and his adoptive mother.
They came at him without warning during his final period of REM sleep, when he was defenseless. They sprang into existence out of emptiness, laughing at him, tormenting him with feelings and sensations he could not define or understand.
Nightmares.
Someone was twisting a wire around his brain, com- pressing it tighter and tighter until it seemed certain that his eyes would explode out of his head and fly across the room. He lay in his bed, twitching slightly, his eyelids quivering, as they did their work on him and took ad- vantage of his helpless, unconscious mind.
“This batch was worse than most; twisting, abstract forms, dark swirling colors, and himself somehow in the middle of them all, racing down a long, ominous corridor. At the end of that corridor lay his salvation, he knew, and almost as important, answers. Understanding and safety.
But the faster he ran, the slower he advanced. The floor that was not a floor dissolved beneath his feet, dropping him like some relativistic Alice down a rabbit hole of space-time distortions, while the far end of the corridor and its promises of light and comprehension receded into the wastes overhead.
He woke up with a silent start and glanced rapidly around the room. Only after he convinced himself of its reality did he begin to relax.
It was the right room, his room, the one he had lived in most of his life: tiny, spartan, comfortable. The patter of morning rain was music on the roof, and faint daylight filtered through the window above his bed. He swung his legs out clear of the blanket and rubbed both throbbing eyes with his fingers.
The fingers abruptly ceased their ministrations, and he looked back to the bed. Something was wrong.
“Pip?” The flying snake was not coiled in its familiar position at the top of the pillow, nor was it underneath. Flinx pulled back the blanket, then bent to peer under the bed. “C’mon boy, don’t hide from me this morning. I’m worn out, and my head is killing me.”
“There was no familiar hissing response to his confession. He prowled the room’s meager confines, at first puzzled, then concerned. At last, he stood on the bed and shouted toward the air vent overhead.
“Pip, breakfast!”
No comforting hum of brightly hued wings reached him from beyond. He found a piece of wire and used it to probe the vent. It was clear to the outside.
He left his room and frantically started an inspection of the rest of the living quarters. Mother Mastiff stood by the convection stove, cooking something redolent of pepper and less exotic spices. “Something the matter, boy?”
“It’s Pip.” Flinx peered beneath recently righted furniture, moved bowls, and dropcloths.
“I gathered as much from the hollering ye were doing in your bedroom,” she said sardonically. “Disappeared again, has he?”
“He never stays out through morning when he takes a solo night flight. Never.”
“Always a first time, even for monsters,” Mother Mastiff said, shrugging and concentrating on her cooking. “Wouldn’t upset me if the little nastiness never did come back.”
“Shame on you. Mother!” Flinx said, his tone agonized. “He saved my life, and probably yours, too.”
“So I’m an ungrateful old Yax’m,” she snorted. “Ye know my feelings toward your beast.”
Flinx finished inspecting her room, then resolutely stormed back to his own and began dressing. “I’m going out to look for him.”
Mother Mastiff frowned. “Breakfast ready soon. Why bother yourself, boy? Likely it’ll be back soon enough, more’s the pity. Besides, if it has got its slimy little self stuck someplace, you’re not likely to find him.”
“He could just be in the alley behind the shop,” Flinx argued, “and I can hear him even when I can’t see him.” “Suit yourself, boy.”
“And don’t wait breakfast on me.”
“Think I’ll starve meself on your account? Much less on account of some devil-wing.” She had long ago given up arguing with him. When he made up his mind about some- thing-well, one might as well wish for the planet’s rings to be completed. He was a dutiful-enough son in most ways, but he simply refused to be restricted.
“It’ll be here when ye get back,” she said softly, checking the containers and lowering their ambient temperatures fifty degrees. “Ye can warm it up for your shiftless self.”
“Thanks, Mother.” Despite her contorting attempt to avoid him, he managed to plant a hurried kiss on one leathery cheek. She wiped at it, but not hard, as she watched him dash from the shop.
For an instant, she thought of telling him about what she had learned days ago up in the forest. About those strange Meliorare people and their intentions toward him. Then she shrugged the idea off. No, they were well clear of the horrid folk, and from the glimpse she had of their camp, they would not be bothering her boy ever again.
As to what she had learned of his history, it would be better to keep that secret for a few years yet. Knowing his stubborn impulsiveness, such information might send him running off in all sorts of dangerous directions. Much better not to say anything for a while. When he reached a reasonable age, twentythree or so, she could let on what she had learned about his background. By then, he would have taken over management of the shop, perhaps married. Settled down some to a nice, sensible, quiet life.
She tasted the large pot, winced. Too little saxifrage. She reached for a small shaker.
“Pip! To me, boy!” Still no blue and pink flash enlivening the sky, still no rising hum. Now where would he get to? Flinx mused. He knew the minidrag was fond of the alley behind the shop. That was where he had first encountered the flying snake, after all, and to a snake’s way of thinking, the alley was usually full of interesting things to .eat. For all the minidrag’s aerial agility, a box tumbling from the crest of a garbage heap or a rolling container could easily pin it to the ground. Flinx knew that no stranger was likely to get within ten meters of a trapped snake.
Might as well try the first, he decided. Slipping down the narrow space separating Mother Mastiff’s shop from the vacant structure next to it, he soon found himself in the alley-way. It was damp and dark, its overall aspect dismal as usual.
He cupped his hands to his mouth, called out, “Pip?”
“Over here, boy,” said a soft voice.
Flinx tensed, but his hand did not grab for the knife concealed in his boot. Too early. A glance showed that his retreat streetward was still unblocked, as was the section of alley behind him. Nor did the individual standing motionless beneath the archway in front of him look particularly threatening.
Flinx stood his ground and debated with himself, then finally asked, “If you know where my pet is, you can tell me just as easily from where you’re standing, and I can hear you plainly from where I’m standing.”
“I know where your pet is,” the man admitted. His hair was entirely gray, Flinx noted. “I’ll take you to it right now, if you wish.”
Flinx stalled. “Is he all right? He hasn’t gotten himself into some kind of trouble?”
The little man shook his head and smiled pleasantly. “No, he isn’t in trouble, and he’s just fine. He’s sleeping, in fact.”
“Then why can’t you bring him out?” Flinx inquired. He continued to hold his position, ready to charge the man or race for the street as the situation dictated.
“Because I can’t,” the man said. “Really, I can’t. I’m just following orders, you know.”
“Whose orders?” Flinx asked suspiciously. Suddenly, events were becoming complicated again. The speaker’s age and attitude abruptly impacted on him. “Are you with the people who abducted my mother? Because if you’re trying to get revenge on her for whatever she was involved in years ago by harming me, it’s not going to work.”
“Take it easy, now,” the man said. A voice Flinx could not hear whispered to the speake
r from behind the door.
“For heaven’s sake, Anders, don’t get him excited!”
“I’m trying not to,” the elderly speaker replied through clenched teeth. To Flinx he said more loudly, “No one wants to harm you or your pet, boy. You can have my word on that even if you don’t think it’s worth anything. My friends and I mean you and your pet only well.” He did not respond to Flinx’s brief allusion to his adoptive mother’s past.
“Then if you mean us only well,” Flinx said, “you won’t object if I take a minute to go and reassure-“
The speaker took a step forward. “There’s no need to disturb your parent, boy. In a moment she’ll have her shop open and the crowd will ensure her safety, if that’s what you’re concerned about. Why alarm her needlessly? We just want to talk to you. Besides,” he added darkly, taking a calculated risk, “you don’t have any choice but to listen to me. Not if you want to see your pet alive again.”
“It’s only a pet snake.” Flinx affected an air of indifference he didn’t feel. “What if I refuse to go with you? There are plenty of other pets to be had.”
The speaker shook his head slowly, his tone maddeningly knowledgeable. “Not like this one. That flying snake’s a part of you, isn’t it?”
“How do you know that?” Flinx asked. “How do you know how I feel about him?”
“Because despite what you may think of me right now,” the speaker said, feeling a little more confident, “I am wise in the ways of certain things. If you’ll let me, I’ll share that knowledge with you.”
Flinx hesitated, torn between concern for Pip and a sense of foreboding that had nothing to do with his peculiar Talents. But the man was right: there was no choice. He wouldn’t chance Pip’s coming to harm even though he couldn’t have said why.
“All right.” He started toward the speaker. “I’ll go with you. You’d better be telling the truth.”
“About not wishing to harm you or your pet?” The smile grew wider. “I promise you that I am.”
Try as he might, Flinx couldn’t sense any inimical feelings emanating from the little man. Given the erratic nature of his abilities, that proved nothing-for all Flinx could tell, the man might be planning murder even as he stood there smiling. Up close, the speaker looked even less formidable. He was barely Flinx’s height, and though not as ancient as Mother Mastiff, it was doubtful he would be much opposition in a hand-to-hand fight.
For Love Of Mother Not Page 23
