For Love of Mother-Not

by Foster, Alan Dean;

  "Well, it won't get any warmth or affection from me," Mother Mastiff grumbled, "but if you're determined to keep it . . ."

  "I think," Flinx added, throwing fuel on the fire, "he would become very upset if someone tried to separate us."

  Mother Mastiff threw up her hands, simultaneously signifying acquiescence and acceptance. "Oh, Deity, why couldn't ye stumble over a normal pet, like a cat or a saniff? What does the little monster eat, anyways?"

  "I don't know," Flinx admitted, remembering the hunger he had sensed the night before and resolving to do something about it soon. He had been hungry himself and knew more of the meaning of that word than most people. "Aren't most snakes carnivorous?"

  "This one certainly looks like it," she said.

  Reaching down, Flinx gently ran a forefinger along the edge of the snake's mouth until he could pry it open. The snake opened one eye and looked at him curiously but did not raise any objection to the intrusion. Mother Mastiff held her breath.

  Flinx leaned close, inspecting. "The teeth are so small I can't tell for sure."

  "Probably swallows its food whole," Mother Mastiff told him. "I hear that's the way of it with snakes, through this _be_ no normal snake and I wouldn't care to make no predictions about it, much less about its diet."

  "I'll find out," Flinx assured her. "If you don't need me to help in the shop today--"

  "Help, hah! No, go where ye will. Just make sure that creature goes with ye."

  "I'm going to take him around the marketplace," Flinx said excitedly, "and see if anyone recognizes him. There's sure to be someone who will."

  "Don't bet your blood on it, boy," she warned him. "It's likely an offworld visitor."

  "I thought so, too," he told her. "Wouldn't that be interesting? I wonder how it got here?"

  "Someone with a grudge against me brought it, probably," she muttered softly. Then, louder, she said, "There be no telling. If 'tis an escaped pet and a rare one, ye can be sure its owner will be stumbling about here soonest in search of it."

  "We'll see." Flinx knew the snake belonged right where it was, riding his shoulder. It felt right. He could all but feel the wave of contentment it was generating.

  "And while I'm finding out what he is," he added briskly, "I'll find out what he eats, too."

  "Ye do that," she told him. "Fact be, why not spend the night at it? I've some important buyers coming around suppertime. They were referred to me through the Shopkeeper's Association and seem especial interested in some of the larger items we have, like the muriwood table. So ye take that awful whatever-it-be," and she threw a shaky finger in the direction of the snake, "and stay ye out 'til well after tenth hour. Then I'll _think_ about letting the both of ye back into my house."

  "Yes, Mother, thank you," He ran up to give her a kiss. She backed off.

  "Don't come near me, boy. Not with that monster sleeping on your arm."

  "He wouldn't hurt you. Mother. Really."

  "I'd feel more confident if I had the snake's word on it as well as yours, boy. Now go on, get out, be off with the both of ye. If we're fortunate, perhaps it will have somehoming instinct and fly off when you're not looking."

  But Pip did not fly off. It gave no sign of wishing to be anywhere in the Commonwealth save on the shoulder of a certain redheaded young man.

  As Flinx strolled through the marketplace, he was startled to discover that his ability to receive the emotions and feelings of others had intensified, though none of the isolated bursts of reception matched in fury that first over-powering deluge of the night before. His receptivity bad increased in frequency and lucidity, though it still seemed as unpredictable as ever. Flinx suspected that his new pet might have something to do with his intensified abilities, but he had no idea how that worked, anymore than he knew how his Talent operated at the best of times.

  If only he could find someone to identify the snake! He could always work through his terminal back home, but requests for information were automatically monitored at Central, and he was afraid that a query for information on so rare a creature might trigger alarm on the part of curious authorities. Flinx preferred not to go through official channels. He had acquired Mother Mastiff's opinion of governmental bueaucracy, which placed it somewhere between slime mold .and the fleurms that infested the alleys.

  By now, he knew a great many inhabitants of the marketplace. Wherever he stopped, he inquired about the identity and origin of his pet. Some regarded the snake with curiosity, some with fear, a few with indifference. But none recognized it.

  "Why don't you ask Makepeace?" one of the vendors eventually suggested. "He's traveled offworld. Maybe he'd know."

  Flinx found the old soldier sitting on a street corner with several equally ancient cronies. All of them were pensioneers. Most were immigrants who had chosen Moth for their final resting place out of love for its moist climate and because it was a comparatively cheap world to live on, not to mention the laxity of its police force. On Moth, no one was likely to question the source of one's pension money. For several of Makepeace's comrades, this was the prime consideration.

  The other aged men and women studied the snake with nothing more than casual interest, but Makepeace reacted far more enthusiastically. "Bless my remaining soul," he muttered as he leaned close--but not too close, Flinx noted--for a better look. Pip raised his head curiously, as if sensing something beyond the norm in this withered biped.

  "You know what he is?" Flinx asked hopefully.

  "Aye, boy. Those are wings bulging its flanks, are they not?" Flinx nodded. "Then it's surely an Alaspinian miniature dragon."

  Flinx grinned at the old man, then down at Pip. "So that's what you are." The snake looked up at him as if to say. I'm well aware of what I am, and do you always find the obvious so remarkable?

  "I thought dragons were mythical creatures," he said to Makepeace.

  "So they are. It's only a name given from resemblance, Flinx."

  "I suppose you know," Flinx went on, "that he spits out a corrosive fluid."

  "Corrosive!" The old man leaned back and roared with laughter, slapping his legs and glancing knowingly at his attentive cronies. "Corrosive, he says!" He looked back at Flinx.

  "The minidrag's toxin is, my boy, a venomous acid known by a long string of chemical syllables which this old head can't remember. I was a soldier-engineer. Biochemistry was never one of my favorite subjects. I'm more comfortable with mathematical terms than biological ones. But I can tell you this much, though I never visited Alaspin myself." He pointed at the snake, which drew its head back uncertainly. "If that there thing was to spit in your eye, you'd be a kicking, quivering mess on the ground inside a minute--and dead in not much more than that.

  "I also remember that there's no known antidote for several of the Alaspinian toxins, of which that minidrag of yours wields the most potent. A corrosive, neurological poison--aye, who wouldn't remember hearing about that? You say you know it's corrosive?"

  Flinx had an image of the dissolved end of the broomstick, the metal melted away ike cheese before a hot blade. He nodded.

  "Just make sure you never get to know of it personally, lad. I've heard tell of such creatures being kept as pets, but it's a rare thing. See, the associational decision's all made by the snake. The would-be owner has no choice in the matter. You can't tame 'em. They pick and choose for themselves." He gestured toward Flinx's shoulder. "Looks like that one's sure settled on you."

  "He's more than welcome," Flinx said affectionately. "He feels natural there."

  "Each to his own," an elderly woman observed with a slight shudder. Affirmative nods came from others in the group.

  "And there's something else, too." The old soldier was frowning, struggling to remember long-dormant knowledge."What you just said about it feeling 'natural' there reminded me. They say those flying snakes have funny mental quirks all their own. Now me, I wouldn't be able to say for certain if that's so--I'm only relating hearsay, didn't read it off no chip. But
the stories persist."

  "What kind of stories?" Flinx asked, trying not to appear overanxious.

  "Oh, that the snakes are empathic. You know, telepathic on the emotional level." He scratched his head. "There's more to it than that, but I'm damned if I can remember the rest of it."

  "That's certainly interesting," Flinx said evenly, "but pretty unlikely."

  "Yeah, I always thought so myself," Makepeace agreed."You wouldn't have noticed anything like that since being around this one, of course."

  "Not a thing." Flinx was an expert at projecting an aura of innocence; in this case, it glowed from his face, not his mind. "Thanks a lot for your time, Mr. Makepeace, sir."

  "You're more than welcome to it, boy. Old knowledge dies unless somebody makes use of it. You watch yourself around that thing. It's no saniff, and it might could turn on you."

  "I'll be careful," Flinx assured him brightly. He turned and hurried away from the gaggle of attentive oldsters.Makepeace was rubbing his chin and staring after the youngster as he vanished into the swirling crowd. "Funny. Wonder where the little flying devil came from? This is one hell of a long way from Alaspin. That reminds me of the time ..."

  Flinx glanced down at his shoulder. "So you're poisonous, hub? Well, anyone could have guessed that from the little demonstration you gave with Mother's broom this morning. If you spit in my eye, I'll spit in yours."

  The snake did not take him up on the offer. It stared at him a moment, then turned its head away and studied the street ahead, evidently more interested in its surroundings than in its master's indecipherable words.

  Maybe miniature dragons don't have much of a sense of humor, Flinx mused. Probably he would have ample opportunity to find out. But at least he knew what his pet was. Glancing up beyond the fringe of the slickertic hood, he wondered where the snake's home world lay. Alaspin, old Makepeace had called it, and said it was far away.

  The morning mist moistened his upturned face. The cloud cover seemed lighter than usual. If he was lucky, the gloom would part sometime that night and he would have a view of Moth's fragmented ice rings, of the moon Flame, and beyond that, of the stars.

  Someday, he thought, someday I'll travel to far places as Makepeace and the others have. Someday I'll get off this minor wet world and go vagabonding. I'll be a free adult, with nothing to tie me down and no responsibilities. I'll lead a relaxed, uncomplicated life of simple pleasures. He glanced down at his new-found companion. Maybe someday they would even travel to the snake's home world of Alaspin, wherever it might be.

  Sure you will, he thought bitterly. Better be realistic, like Mother Mastiff says. You're stuck here forever. Moth's your home, and Moth's where you'll spend the rest of your days. Count yourself fortunate. You've a concerned mother, a warm home, food ....

  Food. Surely the flying snake was hungrier than ever. "We'd better get you something to eat," he told Pip, who gazed up at him with fresh interest.

  He checked his credcard. Not much money there. Not that there ever was. Well, he could manage. Trouble was, he had no idea what Alaspinian minidrags liked to eat. "I wonder what you'd settle for," he murmured. The snake did not respond. "If it's live food only, then I don't think there's much I can do to help you. Not on a regular basis, anyway. Let's try here, first."

  They entered a stall well known to Flinx. Most of the booths and tables were unoccupied, since it was between mealtimes. As it developed, finding suitable food for the minidrag turned out to be less of a problem than he had feared. Much to Flinx's surprise, the flying snake was omnivorous. It would eat almost anything he set in front of it, but raw meat seemed to be a special favorite. Flinx cut the meat into small chunks, which the snake gulped down whole. Flinx helped himself to an occasional bite. When times were bad, he and Mother Mastiff had existed on far less savory items.

  Pip was fond of any kind of fruit or berry, though it shied away from vegetables. Something else they had in, common. Flinx thought. Oddly enough, the snake would even lap up milk. Flinx was sure he could supply enough variety to keep his pet both happy and alive. Maybe it would even eat table scraps. Perhaps that would weaken Mother Mastiff's antagonism. As be experimented further, he discovered that the snake was particularly fond of anything with a high iron content, such as raisins or flakes of guarfish. Had he been a biochemist equipped with a field laboratory, he might have learned that the minidrag's blood contained an extraordinary amount of hemoglobin, vital to transport the oxygen necessary to sustain the snake's hummingbirdlike flight.

  When Pip had swollen to twice his normal diameter, Flinx stopped trying new foods on his pet. He relaxed in the booth, sipping mulled wine and watching the lights of the city wink to life. It wouldn't be too bad to live out his life on Moth, he admitted to himself. Drallar was never dull, and now he had a special companion with whom to share its excitement.

  Yes, the flying snake had filled a definite void in his life as well as in some mysterious, deeper part of himself. But he still longed for the stars and the magical, unvisited worlds that circled them.

  Be realistic, he ordered himself.

  He waved to some acquaintances as they strolled past the restaurant. Older men and women. Sometimes Mother Mastiff worried that he preferred the company of adults to youngsters his own age. He couldn't help it. It wasn't that he was antisocial, merely that he chose his friends carefully. It was the immaturity of those his own age that drove him into the company of adults.

  A fleeting emotion from one of those to whom he had waved reached back to him as the group rounded a corner, laughing and joking in easy camaraderie. Flinx snatched at it, but it was gone. He sat back in his booth, the wine making him moody. Better to have no Talent at all, he thought, than an unmanageable one that only teases.

  He paid the modest bill, slipping his card into the table's central pylon. Outside, the evening rain had begun. Pip rode comfortably on his shoulder beneath the slickertic, only its head exposed. It was sated, content. Ought to be after all you ate, Flinx thought as he gazed fondly down at his pet.

  Rain transformed the brilliant scales of the snake's head into tiny jewels. The moisture did not seem to bother the snake. I wonder, Flinx thought. Is Alaspin a wet world, also? I should have asked old Makepeace. He'd probably have known. People lucky enough to travel learn every-thing sooner or later.

  Suddenly a stinging, serrated burst of emotion--hammer blow, unexpected, raw--doubled him over with its force. It was like a soundless screaming inside his head. Flinx was feeling the naked emotion behind a scream instead of hearing the scream itself. He had never experienced anything like it before, and despite that, it felt sickeningly familiar.

  A bundled-up passer-by halted and bent solicitously over the crumpled youngster. "Are you all right, son? You--" He noticed something and quickly backed off.

  "I--I'm okay, I think," Flinx managed to gasp. He saw what had made the man flinch. Pip had been all but asleep on his master's shoulder only a moment before. Now the snake was wide awake, head and neck protruding like a scaly periscope as it seemed to search the night air for something unseen.

  Then the last vestiges of that desperate, wailing cry vanished, leaving Flinx's head xxxaching and infuriatingly empty.Yet it had lingered long enough for him to sort it out, to identify it.

  "Listen, son, if you need help, I can--" the stranger started to say, but Flinx did not wait to listen to the kind offer. He was already halfway down the street, running at full speed over the pavement. His slickertic fanned out like a cape behind him, and his boots sent water flying over shop fronts and pedestrians alike. He did not pause to apologize, the curses sliding off him as unnoticed as the rain.

  Then he was skidding into a familiar side street. His heart pounded, and his lungs heaved. The street appeared untouched, unaltered, yet something here had been violated, and the moment of it had touched Flinx's mind.Most of the shops were already shuttered against the night.There was no sign of human beings in that damp stone canyon.

  "Moth
er!" he shouted. "Mother Mastiff!" He pounded on the lock plate with his palm. The door hummed but did not open--it was locked from inside.

  "Mother Mastiff, open up. It's me, Flinx!" No reply from the other side.

  Pip danced on his shoulder, half airborne and half coiled tight to its master. Flinx moved a dozen steps away from the door, then charged it, throwing himself into the air sideways and kicking with one leg as Makepeace had once shown him. The door gave, flying inward. It had only been bolted, not locksealed.

  He crouched there, his eyes darting quickly around the stall. Pip settled back onto his shoulder, but its head moved agitatedly from side to side, as if it shared its master's nervousness and concern.

  The stall looked undisturbed. Flinx moved forward and tried the inner door. It opened at a touch. The interior of the living area was a shambles. Pots and pans and food had been overturned in the kitchen. Clothing and other personal articles lay strewn across floor and furniture. He moved from the kitchen-dining area to his own room, last-ly to Mother Mastiff's, knowing but dreading what he would find.

  The destruction was worse in her room. The bed looked as if it had been the scene of attempted murder or an uncontrolled orgy. Across the bed, hidden from casual view, a small curved door blended neatly into the wall paneling. Few visitors would be sharp-eyed enough to notice it. It was just wide enough for a man to crawl through.

  It stood ajar. A cold breeze drifted in from outside.

  Flinx dropped to his knees and started through, not car ing what he might encounter on the other side. He emerged from the slip-me-out into the alley and climbed to his feet. The rain had turned to mist. There was no hint that anything unusual had occurred here. All the chaos was behind him, inside.

  Turning, he ran two or three steps to the north, then stopped himself. He stood there, panting. He had run long and hard from the street where the scream had struck him, but he was too late. There was no sign that anyone had even been in the alley.

  Slowly, dejectedly, he returned to the shop. Why? he cried to himself. Why has this happened to me? Who would want to kidnap a harmless old woman like Mother Mastiff? The longer he thought about it, the less sense it made.