Strange Music

by Alan Dean Foster

  Still lying on the deck, she looked up at him. “Save your compliments for the vermin, whose lineage you share, and as for honoring me, you cannot give what you do not possess.”

  He eyed her thoughtfully, then nodded, drew back his right foot, and kicked her square in the throat. Gasping and coughing, she clutched at herself and rolled over, away from him. He had not been lying when he’d told her he knew something of Larian anatomy.

  “That will quiet you, for a day or two anyway, and I will have peace, albeit temporary. Let the pain and discomfort put you in mind, set you to thinking, about what far worse could happen, if you succeed in your efforts, your ongoing efforts, to make me lose my temper, and choose satisfaction over reason.”

  He left her like that, prone on the floor and clutching at her paralyzed vocal cords. He was rubbing the deep mark around his neck as he stepped out into the passageway—just in time to encounter Zkerig coming the other way. The Tralltag noted the chain burn on the human’s neck and the now-deactivated vibraknife clutched in his right hand, merged a thought or two in his mind, and pulled back his lips.

  “I see that you have quieted, the dangerous carnivore in her prison, though perhaps not without, some small gracelessness?”

  Decidedly not in the mood for the Tralltag’s mockery, Vashon took a step toward him. Zkerig’s expression tightened and one three-fingered hand dropped toward his own far more primitive but still quite effective blade.

  Vashon caught himself. More than needing Zkerig, he was obligated to serve beside the Tralltag, just as the soldier was compelled to tolerate the human in his midst. Fighting among themselves would serve the interests only of the Firstborn.

  “How much longer, my good friend, until we sight, the roofs of Minord?”

  “Not long, as the stridemaster calls it, for the crew is as anxious, is as hopeful for that sight, as you and I. The weathercaller predicts nothing incompatible, no more than the ordinary misting, with but an occasional light shower, to raise our moods.”

  The usual rotten weather, you mean, Vashon thought to himself. He could tolerate intense sunlight or pouring rain more easily than he could the seemingly perpetual gloom that enveloped most of Largess. Even crossing the polar ice caps would have provided a break from the atmospheric dreariness. But there was no money to be made at the poles, forcing him to restrict his activity to the populated parts of this world.

  “And what of what we discussed, in the time before, our unpleasant guest, ceased her shrieking?”

  Glancing briefly at the door to the prisoner’s cabin, Zkerig wondered exactly what had transpired behind the now-closed portal. No matter. The Firstborn was still alive, or Vashon would have said otherwise. As to the burn mark around the human’s neck, Zkerig could only speculate. The mental images thus conjured proved an enjoyable diversion.

  “The roofs of Minord, the pleasures of its Great City Hall, the nuzzling of females and the delights of good food, all await us. None of these will your pursuer experience, none will he be allowed to report, nothing of you will he see or be able to question, for he will never reach Minord, much less walk its streets. I have dealt with, by means of rhynet communication, all that is necessary, to ensure this result.”

  Ordinarily Vashon might have complimented the Tralltag on his efficiency, or at the very least acknowledged it. But he was not in the mood. He was still puzzled as to why the authorities would send only a single pursuer after him. In fact, he was a bit miffed that no more was thought of the disruption he had caused to the established Larian order. Why just one? He did not voice his ongoing concern aloud to Zkerig. Not only because his thoughts were now focused elsewhere, but because it hurt to talk—much less singspeak.

  12

  ■ ■ ■

  It wasn’t the rain so much as the lack of sunlight, Flinx reflected. There was plenty of rainfall on Cachalot, but there were also many days of consistent sunshine and clear skies. And it was warmer, much warmer. On Largess, the cool temperature combined with the dampness to eat into your bones, like an invasive mold. He envied Pip, snug in her insulated metal tube. When she emerged to exercise her wings, it was in a refreshed and warmed condition. He was not wholly miserable, but there was no question that the persistently dismal climate was beginning to affect his mind-set.

  It was his own fault. He was the one who had felt a desire to do something new, to break away from the comfortable daily routine to which he had become accustomed on his new watery homeworld. The opportunity had come with Sylzenzuzex’s arrival and request. In truth, he hadn’t really pondered deeply enough all the possible ramifications. After saving quite literally everybody and everything, surely helping an obscure sentient species wouldn’t require him to tax himself, or strain his now more refined but still occasionally unpredictable talent. Secure in his homelife with Clarity, on a world devoid of most threats, he had forgotten that one could be made dead as effectively by a club as by a Krang.

  Boredom, he mused, was an inherent condition of the human consciousness, which existed to remind us that occasionally we must look over a shoulder to see if there’s anything hungry creeping up on us from behind.

  At least the weather was only depressing and not dangerous. He did not have to wear an exosuit or dodge periodic downpours of lava. But he could not escape the feeling that something small and ticklish was taking root inside his clothing, fueled by the constant moisture and a landscape rich with flourishing, albeit often stunted, varieties of alien life.

  As they crossed the next wide inlet, it was almost a relief to see the elderly Larian in the sinking boat. He was in no danger, of course, Larians being as comfortable in the water as out of it. But he was plainly at risk of losing his entire catch, a possibility that was causing him unmistakable distress. At the stern of his craft one rusting metal trap was already partly submerged. From his vantage point high up in his brund’s saddle, Flinx saw that the trap was crammed with two-meter-long writhing creatures. Each was about as thick around as his thigh, with an even larger head, and short fins at its back end.

  Flinx had never seen a terrestrial eel in his life, but the description “eel-like” was one common to terranglo. The swarming creatures in the trap had surprisingly small, bright red eyes. Large finlike hearing organs folded flat against the sides of their skulls. Their skin was smooth and devoid of scales and their flesh looked deceptively soft and mushy. As they twisted and coiled among themselves, their broad hearing organs repeatedly opened and snapped sharply shut against the sides of their necks, generating wet, smacking sounds.

  With the boat continuing to sink lower and lower into the salt water, its owner’s gestures grew more and more frantic. Slowing his mount, Flinx called over to Wiegl.

  “The poor old guy is going to lose his whole catch; we should try and help him, to make it to shore, to salvage his efforts.”

  Leaning forward in his harness, the guide contemplated the minor aquatic disaster unfolding off to their left. “A hunter’s luck is a hunter’s luck, be it good fortune or ill, and none including us, should attempt to interfere with that destiny.”

  Flinx brought his mount to a complete halt, forcing an irritated Wiegl to do likewise. As he cast his talent outward the only emotion he could perceive from the elderly fisherman was rising anxiety.

  “It does not speak well of you, Wiegl, that you would ignore the entreaties of one of your own, when the slightest of detours, would result in doing good.”

  The guide emitted a low note, belching on perfect pitch. “Then speak ill of me, whoever might, whoever will, as I am not charged, with doing ‘good,’ but only with helping you, catch up to your own possible demise.”

  Flinx smiled at him. Wiegl’s feelings were as straightforward and honest as his speech. “Then help me to delay that, by helping another, who might one day have occasion, to speak well of my kind, to speak well of Wiegl-kind also.” Having by now mastered the necessary commands, he turned his brund toward the sinking boat and urged the tall walker to ad
vance against the slight outflowing current.

  Warbling an unmelodic curse, Wiegl brought his own brund around to follow that of his employer, singing a warning as he did so. “So we’ll tow him to shore before he sinks; before he loses his pitiful catch, before what he drew from the sea returns to it. But watch your walking, over-fingered, and keep even your extra digits, well out of reach.” One webbed hand gestured at the sinking boat and the metal trap. “Those are gowrie he has caught, and though they are good to eat, they think the same of you, and will not hesitate, to demonstrate their own appetites, if offered a chance—or a stray limb.”

  Bearing Wiegl’s warning in mind, Flinx continued to guide his mount toward the submerging boat. Its owner had retreated from the bow and was now struggling with the large trap. Where his hazardous catch was concerned, he either did not possess the same caution as Wiegl or else he knew exactly where to put his long fingers to avoid having them nipped off. Flinx could sympathize with his desperate efforts to try to keep the trap intact and on board until the two brund-mounted strangers could throw him lines with which to tow him to shore.

  An unexpected sensation teased Flinx’s talent. The oldster’s initial apprehension had abruptly given way to one of satisfaction, even glee. It was more pronounced than might have been expected even from one anticipating assistance. Stronger; an almost forceful delight. Flinx found himself wondering if he might have misinterpreted his initial perceptions. It was harder to be certain when analyzing alien as opposed to human emotions. Unquestionably, the elderly fisherman had been feeling apprehension when Flinx had first reached out toward him. But sensing apprehension was not the same thing as understanding the reason behind it. Had the oldster been apprehensive because he feared the two travelers were not going to help him, or for some other, as yet unknown, reason?

  Partial explanation came in the form of a sudden lurch from the sinking boat. Observing the craft’s rocking, it became apparent to Flinx that it had not, in fact, been sinking, but had been deliberately filled with just enough water to convey that appearance. As for its owner’s wrestling with the oversized trap, it was now obvious that he was not doing so in order to keep it on board, but to dump it into the water. As it slid into the inlet, one sidewall dropped down and outward. Immediately, the several dozen gowrie packed inside began swarming out. But not to freedom.

  With commands deftly enunciated in singspeech, their captor sent them racing directly toward the two helpful travelers and their mounts.

  “Herder!” As sung by Wiegl, the single word was both recognition and warning. Immediately, he turned his brund toward the far shore and urged it onward. Realizing as well as now sensing the deception, Flinx commanded his own mount to follow. Perceiving her master’s sudden distress, a sleepy but rapidly awakening Pip emerged from the open end of her tube, coiled around the top, and proceeded to search for the danger that was threatening him.

  While the brund could cover impressive distances with each stride, their long legs were constrained when in water and so they moved more slowly while wading. Like so many torpedoes, the several dozen gowrie were on them in scarcely a minute. Gaping mouths revealed jaws set with double rows of suckers. One after another, the squirming creatures clamped on to the legs of Flinx’s mount. Unable to penetrate the brund’s armored lower legs, the multiple suckers did no damage, but the accumulating weight of so many attackers began to slow both of the tall striders.

  All this they did in response to the commands issued by the now-no-longer-panicky old fisherman in the no-longer-rapidly-sinking boat.

  Responding as they had to the attack of the pack of nocturnal grynach, the two brund flared their sharpened leg scales. But the gowrie were quicker to react to the defensive maneuver, and their slender, twisting bodies harder to surprise. While several did suffer lethal perforations and others multiple wounds, the majority managed to avoid the brund’s usually lethal response.

  Soft flesh rippled on their flanks as their flexible bodies extruded appendages that were short, flexible, and strong. Responding to their master’s commands, the surviving predators, reduced now to less than half their original number, utilized these to begin ascending the legs of the two brund. Aware now of the location of the tall walkers’ slashing scales, the slithering assailants succeeded in avoiding them even as the brund continued to flex and flash the defensive weaponry that was integrated into their lower limbs.

  Activating his vibraknife, Flinx peered over the side of his saddle to see a pair of the powerful climbers working their way toward him. As he looked down he could see that a remarkable transformation was taking place inside their mouths. A xenologist would have been fascinated. Having no time to be fascinated, Flinx was merely appalled.

  Not only were the upper and lower jaws of the gowrie able to rotate forward and backward; when in one position they flaunted suckers, and while turned inward they displayed double rows of sharp teeth. The arrangement of their rotating jaws was constantly changing, one moment showing suckers and the next, teeth, depending on which array might most profitably make contact with prey. While Flinx had no intention of becoming the latter, the small vibraknife did not offer much in the way of a defense. Against one of the creatures, maybe; against several of them simultaneously, very little. So he would have to invoke something that had proven successful on other, similar occasions.

  Half closing his eyes as he gazed down at the two expectant carnivores, he concentrated on projecting fear.

  Perhaps the most elemental of all emotions, it struck the pair hard. Low as they were on the local evolutionary scale, his effort still had an effect. Both of them hesitated, suddenly confused and uncertain. Seeing this, their puzzled master redoubled singspeaking commands from his location on the now-stabilized boat. Caught between obeying their master’s directives and reacting to the inexplicable terror they now felt, the gowrie could not decide whether to continue climbing or release their grip and drop to the safety of the water below. Having previously observed the consequences of his efforts at emotional projection, Flinx might have felt sorry for them, were they not hell-bent on stripping the flesh from his bones.

  An off-pitch scream split the air. Unlike Flinx, Wiegl had nothing with which to defend himself other than spear and sword. He was slashing at a striking gowrie even as his mount started to go down under the weight and assault of at least a dozen of the writhing monsters. The wounded, moaning brund toppled forward like a falling tree.

  Torn between defending himself and his own mount against attack and going to the aid of the desperate guide, Flinx realized there was only one possible solution. It meant exposing himself to an imminent peril in order to deal with one that lay farther away but was at the moment by far the more threatening. With Wiegl’s life at stake he did not hesitate.

  Turning away from the pair of climbing gowrie whom he had managed to momentarily paralyze with indecision, he shifted his focus to the elderly Larian in the distant boat. That was the source of the real danger. That was the entity who intended him ill, who meant to murder, who exuded the desire to assassinate. And the old Larian was going to kill him, no matter what Flinx could do, because he was safe across the water, untouchable in his craft, clear of the ongoing battle, away from the—

  A sound like that of a miniaturized autonomous aircraft was briefly heard as something small and brightly winged zoomed past Flinx’s ear. As he retreated from the edge of the saddle to back up against the neck of his wailing, frantic mount, Flinx watched Pip shoot across the open water. The old fisherman, who was something more than a simple fisherman, flinched as the minidrag shot past him. Pip circled the boat once and then paused, hovering above its single occupant. Picking up a sword, the elder took a wild swing at the iridescent alien flying creature.

  One of the gowrie came clambering over the side of the saddle to snap at Flinx’s legs. Drawing his knees up toward his chest, he held the humming vibraknife out in front of him, waving it defensively back and forth. Not recognizing either the so
und or its potential, the gowrie took a curious bite at it and was rewarded with having the front half of its face neatly severed. As blood spouted from between its eyes and its upper jaw, it jerked convulsively backward. That caused its companion to hesitate, it being intelligent enough to recognize the small shiny object in Flinx’s hand as being seriously dangerous.

  Another gowrie was clambering up the other side of the brund and starting to work its way across the saddle there, the one that held supplies.

  A shriek that bore no relation to singing, in Lari or any other known language, reverberated across the water from the wooden boat. Keeping the vibraknife between himself and the predator in front of him, Flinx strained for a better look. He located the boat again just in time to see its sole occupant clawing at his face as he fell backward into the water.

  Unexpectedly deprived of their master’s commands and badly unsettled by Flinx’s projection of fear, the two gowrie who had reached his saddle reacted by reverting to instinct. Turning on its badly wounded counterpart, the uninjured one began snapping and biting at it while the wounded one fought back with a ferocity that belied its injuries. Blue gowrie blood stained Flinx’s shoes, his clothing, splashed his face. Each one’s jaws buried in the other’s flesh, they spun and contorted until they tumbled over the flexible side of the saddlery, plunging toward the water below while locked in a mutually murderous embrace.

  Bereft of direction or command, other similarly befuddled gowrie were releasing their grips and falling away from the legs of Flinx’s mount like so many leeches from a bloodless quarry. As his brund steadied itself, now freed from the encumbering weight of its assailants, Flinx was once more able to move freely within the saddle.