Flinx's Folly (16 page)

“That’s true.” Raptor face looked pleased. “Pick him up. The sooner we’ve finished, the sooner the second half of the payment is credited to our accounts.”

Lifting Flinx onto the delivery cart proved no more than a minor inconvenience to the two professionals. Man mountain eased the protective cover back over somnolent man and minidrag.

“Thought about where to take him?”

Raptor face nodded. “Kerwick campground, I think. It’s accessible but still enough off the beaten track so that we can let him scream all he wants without having to worry.”

His companion nodded tersely. As far as he was concerned, the hard part of the job was already completed. The rest was mere repetition of work they had done before.

As they guided the cart down the hallway he raised one corner of the cover. “Looks like a nice enough guy.”

“They all do.” All business, raptor face locked down the delivery cart’s cover. “Probably is a nice guy, too. Like you said, not our problem. We’ll leave enough of the underlying maxillary structure so it can be reconstructed.”

Man mountain adjusted his rented uniform as they directed the cart around a corner and down another hallway, heading for the nearest service lift. “Over a woman, the stoink said. It’s always over a woman.”

Raptor face sniggered, then added something obscene. “After seeing this guy, I can understand stoink’s concern.”

“Well, he won’t have anything to be concerned about when we’ve finished.” Man mountain took pride in his work.

It was another dream. Strange, Flinx mused, how one could be dreaming and still be aware of the fact. He told himself to wake up but the request was not honored by his nervous system. Pip was nearby, he sensed, so he was not afraid, even though something told him the minidrag was also unconscious.

No, not unconscious, he corrected himself. Asleep. There was a difference.

This time there was no blackness, no all-encompassing, cosmos-spanning evil. After all, when he dreamed, it was not always about that. With his thoughts focused on Clarity Held and not wholly on the serious, carefully thought-out replies she gave to his questions, he felt as if he were floating on a field of flowers. Each delicate petal combined to support a small portion of his weight. From a physical standpoint it was impossible, of course. This, however, was a dream.

Clarity, Clarity, he thought. How could he have left her all those years ago, even in search of himself? How could he not? Unstable as he was, dangerous even, if he cared deeply for anyone the least he could do was visit them only intermittently. Otherwise, there was no telling what frightful effect he might have on someone’s life.

Trouble was, he
wanted
to have an effect on the life of Clarity Held, and for her to affect his. He just wasn’t sure how to go about it without harming her. If he could no longer fully control his abilities, he did not have the right to ask anyone to commit herself to him. Who would want to live with a mutated biological time bomb like him? Why, even as he was remembering in this dream the time they had spent by the lake, the sunshine and forest of flower trees and small, inadvertent physical contacts, he might be projecting his feelings, just as he had in the shopping arcade in Reides. If that were so, at least he was not projecting cosmic evil. What he might be projecting instead he did not know and could not imagine, except to realize with slim certainty that it would not be harmful.

In any event, there was nothing he could do about it. That kind of control over his mind was not within his province. He was asleep, dreaming, and he could not wake himself up. He remained calm and quiet, dreaming of blossoms and soft ground cover and what he might feel about Clarity Held.

He awoke on a bench in Sphene’s justly famed Crystal Park. Surrounded by reflected light and rainbows, laughing children, and contented parents, he sat up and struggled to recall what had happened to him. He’d been in his hotel room—he remembered that. There had been a delivery. A package. Had he opened it? Yes. Then what? Nothing.

No, that was not quite true. He didn’t remember falling asleep, but he did remember dreaming. This one had been positively amorous. A nice change from the frequent and disturbing nightmares. He didn’t even have a headache.

Pip lay dozing at one end of the bench, lying on an old sack. Frowning, he moved toward her and inspected her makeshift bed. Though the artificial fibers were unusually tough, a minidrag-sized hole was visible near the bottom. Had she been inside? If so, the experience did not seem to have unsettled her. She lay coiled and composed in the sun, her pleated wings folded flat against her flanks.

How had he ended up here? Was sleepwalking a condition now to be added to the involuntary projection of his thoughts? Even on tranquil New Riviera the authorities still maintained a system of surveillance devices to protect the public safety. Perhaps one of them had recorded some of what had happened to him.

Rising, he called to Pip. With a spread and flutter of blue-and-pink wings, she settled securely around his right shoulder. A couple of children exclaimed and pointed. He had no time to let them ooh and ahh and pet the minidrag. He had a citywide security system to break into.

Ormann sensed something was wrong when there was no message for him, encrypted or otherwise, when he returned home that night. Nor did one arrive the following day. He called Clarity to inquire with forced pleasantries what she might be doing that evening, only to be told that she and her friend were once again having dinner. Concealing his disbelief, he learned that she had talked to him during her lunch break.

So the redheaded bastard was still around and apparently in excellent health. For the rest of that afternoon Ormann brooded in his office, hardly attending to work, wondering what the hell had gone wrong. The two men he had engaged had been recommended to him as the best at their business. If they had failed, who could he try next?

More important,
why
had they failed? And what had happened to them? Clarity had hinted on more than one occasion that there was more to her friend than was apparent. The reference now took on ominous overtones. Had his employees neglected to use proper care in handling the minidrag?

Greater than his shock at learning that Philip Lynx was still functional and healthy was Ormann’s response when he learned that raptor face and his companion were unharmed.

He managed to track them down and confront them at an infamous (for Nur) slothzone hangout where he had been told they could usually be found. There they were, in fine fettle and visibly unscathed, sitting in a back booth guzzling fancy concoctions paid for with his money. Perhaps he should have approached with more caution, or addressed them in a more conciliatory tone, but he was too angry.

“Took him apart, did you? Really beat him up? With what? Pillows?”

Raptor face swiveled his narrow, predatory visage around to confront Ormann. It appeared the hired killer was pleasantly intoxicated. “Hello, Bill.” He gestured toward the seat opposite. “Won’t you join us?”

“I’d rather take any explanations standing, thanks.”

“You’re too tense, Bill,” man mountain murmured solicitously. “You should get out more, have some fun.” Then he did something that shocked Ormann even more than the earlier news that his red-headed nemesis had survived unscathed. Man mountain giggled.

Reaching up with one lethal, steel-corded hand, raptor face patted his immense companion gently on the cheek. “Now, Emunde, don’t tease the poor man. He’s obviously a basket of frustration.”

Ormann swallowed. Hard. “You didn’t do what you were paid to do. It doesn’t look like you laid a hand on the kid. What the hell happened? It was the flying snake, wasn’t it? It drove you off. Or,” he continued, throwing caution aside, “it frightened you off.”

“We couldn’t hurt that nice young man.” Man mountain pushed out his plump lower lip. He almost looked as if he were going to cry. “I feel bad enough about dragging him halfway across town. We left him and his pet in a nice place, though. I’m sure he’s all right.”

“Oh, he’s just fine.” Ormann’s tone was tight enough to crack. “Too fine.” He looked from one jovial killer to the other. “What happened?
What did he do to you?
”

“Do?” For just an instant, a hint of his original murderous character passed over raptor face. “Why, he didn’t do anything, Bill.” His smile was beatific. “Emunde and I, we just suddenly realized that we were wasting our lives with what we were doing, that we didn’t want to hurt people anymore, and that we were missing out on so many of the joys of life. And don’t worry—we’ll refund your fee.” He raised his glass. “Sure you won’t join us in a drink?”

Something had happened to these two men. Something strange and inexplicable. In ways unknown, it was the fault of Clarity’s friend. It had to be. Creatures like these two did not simply go all spineless and silly overnight. He corrected himself. Something had not happened to them. Something had been
done
to them.

But what? It made no sense. It made even less sense than Clarity’s incomprehensible attraction to a man younger than herself whom she hadn’t seen in six years.

The evening of wonders was not quite over. Raptor face held up his glass. “Be of good cheer, Bill Ormann. We’ll send you an invitation to the wedding.” And with that, he put his arm around as much of man mountain’s waist as he could encompass and squeezed affectionately.

Ormann stumbled blindly out of the slothzone, seeing nothing. Not the gyrating softiques, nor their human counterparts. Not the spinning silver-eyed ecdysiasts boasting their unnatural virtual accoutrements or the citizens who lapped up the sight of them.

Outside, the cool night air gradually drew him out of his stupor. Heading toward transport, he considered his next step. In Philip Lynx he was clearly confronting something far more subtle and dangerous than he had believed. Before he could devise a method for dealing with him, he had to know more precisely what he was up against. How to go about acquiring that knowledge?

He could try to pry it out of Clarity. Reticent as she was about the young man’s background, he didn’t think gentle questioning would lead to much information. He could try to force it out of her. While he had little doubt that could be accomplished, by others if not by himself, it might drive her even closer to Lynx. He could challenge Lynx directly, hopefully while not in the presence of his irritable minidrag.

Slow down, he told himself. You’ve been patient this long. There’s still time. She’s not running off with him tomorrow. Do some serious research. You set professionals on him too soon, without knowing enough about him. Now enlist the aid of professionals of a different kind.

Whether in business or society, it was always prudent to learn a competitor’s weaknesses before attacking. Ormann’s jealousy and irritation had caused him to act in haste. That wouldn’t happen again, he vowed. The next time he took action, it would be with sufficient information to ensure success.

Meanwhile, he would continue to smile and act the chivalrous, mature protector to Clarity while extending the hand of politeness to her friend. Biding one’s time was as vital to the success of any endeavor as moving to accomplish it. It might take more time and effort than he had hoped, but the end was worthwhile. Clarity was too good a catch to surrender to some mumble-voiced postadolescent from . . . from . . .

It occurred to him that he did not even remember from what world his competitor hailed. Just acquiring such personal details might in itself lead to a means for getting rid of him. Ormann began to see possibilities that looked even more promising than simply having his rival beaten to a pulp.

But how had Lynx escaped from the now-outlandishly transformed thugs? Did Clarity know how it had been done? If so, could he obtain at least that information from her? If the redhead was somehow responsible, it would be vital for Ormann to learn what had happened.

Some kind of drug, perhaps. What if Lynx had somehow managed to counteract the effects of the special package? But that didn’t explain the sea change that had overwhelmed the two killers.

As he reached his private transport and activated the door, Ormann was convinced he knew the source of the fiasco, if not the actual cause. He would not be denied Clarity. Not after all the work he had put into acquiring her and certainly not by some creepy, attenuated upstart from offworld.

It was just a matter of time.

The woman Ormann was buying dinner for was attractive, slim, dark-eyed and honey-voiced. When he hinted that he might be interested in more than just hiring her to do a little specialized research for him, she put him in his place quickly. “Mr. Ormann—you can drop the false Cavelender name now, I don’t work for anyone whose true identity I don’t know—you should understand that if you intend to use my services, I prefer to keep my professional and personal interests separate.” She smiled around the stimstick that protruded like a small smoking stiletto from her full lips. “You’re not my type, anyway.”

“No?” Manufacturing a small smile to go with the small talk, he peered at her over his glass. Rainbow-hued liquid swirled within, effervescing Mozart. “Why not?”

“You’re underhanded and oily. Nothing personal.” The stimstick smoked pungently, redolent of jasmine and byyar.

If calling someone underhanded and oily wasn’t personal, he mused as he fought to keep instinctive rising anger under control, what was? He concealed his reaction by taking a long, slow draft of his drink.

“Calling someone underhanded sounds strange coming from a professional prober like you.”

She laughed softly. She was without question the most attractive felon he had ever encountered. Doubtless her appearance facilitated her work, which consisted largely of gaining access to information and places that would otherwise have been denied to her. And to her clients, he reminded himself.

“I prefer to think of myself as a subtle seeker after truth. And please—spare me the jokes about penetration. I’ve heard them all, boredom squared.”