Mid-Flinx (3 page)

“I haven’t been doing any snooping,” Flinx protested mildly.

“Of course you have!” Dark eyes glittered as Coerlis convinced himself he’d regained the conversational high ground. “Not that it has anything to do with the business at hand.”

Flinx shrugged mentally. It had been worth a try. Though he doubted its appeal to someone like Coerlis, there was one more thing to be tried.

“At least you knew your father.”

This admission appeared to please Coerlis rather than spark any sympathy. “You didn’t? That’s tough.”

It was also, Flinx concluded resignedly, probably the last chance to end the confrontation peaceably.

“Didn’t know my mother, either. I was raised an orphan:”

Coerlis’s expression remained flat. “You don’t say. It’s been my experience that the cosmos doesn’t give a shit. Better get used to it.

“All that matters now is our business together. Dead parents don’t enter into it. Four hundred. That’s my last offer.”

Flinx stiffened, knowing that Pip wouldn’t have to look to him for directions. She knew what he was feeling the instant he did himself.

“Try to understand. You’re not making the connection. I never knew my mother or father. An old lady raised me. She was my whole family. Her—and this flying snake. I had a sister once, too. She’s dead also.”

Coerlis’s smirk widened ever so slightly. “With a run of bad luck like that you can probably use the money.”

Flinx met the dark gaze evenly. “One more time: she’s not for sale.”

Coerlis inhaled an exaggerated breath as he ran the fingers of his left hand through his curly black hair. “Well, I guess that’s that. If she’s not for sale, she’s not for sale.” He smiled reassuringly.

Flinx was unconvinced. Alone among those in the dining room, only he could sense the near-homicidal fury that was mounting within the other man. Compared to the emotions boiling inside Coerlis, the mixture of anticipation and eagerness Flinx sensed in the two heavies was negligible.

He felt rather than saw the sudden movement of the big man standing behind his chair as a rush of adrenaline sparked an emotional surge in the man’s brain. At the same time, Peeler’s hand slid deep inside his open jacket and Coerlis reached for his own concealed weapon. Raising his legs, Flinx put his feet on the edge of the table and shoved, sending himself and his chair smashing backward into the figure behind him. Jarred off balance, the big man stumbled backward.

Patrons screamed and parents shielded children. The more alert among them dove for cover beneath their tables. One elderly couple, eschewing temporary salvation, staggered as best they could toward the exit.

The big man behind the chair recovered quickly and threw both arms around his quarry as the younger man rose. Flinx offered no resistance. Removing the needler from his jacket, Peeler aimed it with practiced ease. At the same time, Coerlis threw his open jacket over the table, pinning Pip beneath. Grinning broadly, he carefully gathered the material together, bundling his prize tightly within.

Chapter Two

“Got ‘er!” Breathing hard, Coerlis gazed triumphantly at Flinx. “Wouldn’t want to leave you thinking I was some kind of thief.”

“We both know what you are.” Flinx spoke quietly, unresisting in the heavy’s grasp.

For an instant Coerlis’s expression flickered, like a video image subject to momentary blackouts. Then the smile returned. “If you’ll give me an account number I’ll see that payment is forwarded. Four hundred. I’d be grateful, if I were you. At the moment, it strikes me that your bargaining power is severely reduced.”

“I told you. She’s not for sale.”

Holding the bundled jacket securely, Coerlis made a show of pondering this last remark. “Maybe you’re right, boy. Maybe I haven’t been paying attention. I guess in spite of everything, I can’t buy her after all. What that says to me is that you’d prefer to make her a gift. Oh, don’t worry. She’ll be well looked after. I take good care of my zoo. Even have two vets on permanent staff.”

“Mr. Coerlis, sir?” Peeler’s eyes were dilating.

“Not now, Peeler,” growled Coerlis impatiently. “Can’t you see I’m in the midst of delicate negotiations?”

“But sir—” The big man started to explain himself. He didn’t have time.

Smoke was rising from the middle of Coerlis’s heavy jacket. He barely had time to gawk at the widening hole in the center before he screamed and flung the bundle aside, shaking his right arm violently. A few wisps of smoke curled upward from the back of his hand. Flesh curled away from the source like the peel off a potato.

Stumbling backward, Coerlis banged into another table, sending silverware and plates clattering to the floor. With his left hand he grabbed the standing pitcher of ice water in the center and dumped the contents over his smoking hand. Unbeknownst to him, this action saved his life by flushing away the corrosive before it could get into his bloodstream.

Emerging from the steaming hole in the jacket, wings fully unfurled and buzzing like the grandfather of all hummingbirds, a pink, blue, and green blur erupted toward the ceiling. Flinx took advantage of the diversion to break free of the stunned heavy’s grasp. Meanwhile Peeler was trying to divide his attention between the angry, buzzing reptilian shape hovering overhead and the moaning, unsteady form of his master.

Coerlis shakily wrapped a linen napkin around his injured hand, making a crude bandage. His pain almost overrode his rage. “Shoot him, you idiot!” With his good hand he pointed at Flinx. “Shoot them both!”

Peeler’s reactions were excellent, but no match for a predator of Pip’s quickness. As the muzzle of the needler shifted in her master’s direction, she dove straight at its wielder. Knowing what was coming, Flinx did his best to project an air of compassion. He was only partially successful.

Waving wildly at the darting, weaving flier, the big man tried to bring his pistol to bear. Pip’s mouth opened, jaw muscles contracted, and from a groove in her upper jaw a needle-thin spurt of poison shot forth. Because of Flinx’s emotional intervention it struck Peeler on the back of his gun hand instead of square in the eyes.

Letting out a surprisingly high-pitched shriek, the gunman dropped his weapon and clutched at the wrist of his injured hand. The caustic toxin ate into his flesh.

“Need to wash it off quick,” was Flinx’s calm advice. He glanced back at the heavy who’d been restraining him. “Better help your buddy. If the poison gets into his bloodstream, it’ll kill him.” He turned back to Peeler. “He’s not paying attention.”

“Get him, you imbecile!” Tears were streaming from Coerlis’s eyes, and his injured arm was trembling uncontrollably.

“I . . .” The big man came to a decision. Ignoring his master, he snatched up two pitchers of water from a pair of nearby tables and hurried to assist his associate. As their quarry backpedaled, the two men combined efforts to douse the steaming wound.

Flinx extended an arm. Pip immediately darted down to curl her body around her master’s bicep. Her head remained up and alert, her wings still spread.

Ignoring his apoplectic employer, the big man looked anxiously back at Flinx. “What now?”

“Keep flushing the site. As soon as possible, apply an antibiotic sealant. And see that he gets five cc’s of a general neurotoxin antivenin once a day for a week. Just to be safe. Bluorthorn and Tan-Kolenesed both work.”

The big man nodded nervously. He was afraid now. Angry, but afraid.

“Never mind that now!” An enraged Coerlis flung an empty platter against the nearby wall. It bounced and clanged noisily to the floor. “Get
him
.” He whirled to face Flinx.

“But Mr. Coerlis, sir—”

The disgusted merchant waved indifferently at the injured Peeler. “He’s not dying! The thing doesn’t have any fangs. It can’t bite, it can only spit.” The uninjured heavy hesitated, uncertain what to do next.

“That’s true.” Flinx turned and headed toward the exit.

He sensed the three of them moving to pursue. He could simply have taken cover and unleashed Pip with a flick of his wrist. Without any emotional restraint on his part she would surely kill all three of them.

But Coerlis was a citizen of some substance, and his sudden, violent death would draw attention of a kind Flinx had worked hard to avoid. On the other hand, so to speak, a little seared skin should pass unnoticed.

Once clear of the restaurant, he glanced quickly in all directions before choosing the right-hand path. The paved service road narrowed rapidly. Olenda was not only the capital, it was the oldest city on Samstead. Roads tended to follow the casual meanderings of the Tumberleon and its tributaries rather than some imposed, arbitrary grid pattern. Side streets as often as not led to narrow closes, quaint cul-de-sacs, or dead-ended atop high stream banks. He ought to be able to lose himself without too much of an effort.

Zoned and fully fueled, the
Teacher
’s shuttle awaited his arrival at the city’s eastern shuttleport. But while he was anxious to escape Coerlis’s unbalanced attentions, he wasn’t about to let the smug maniac run him off a planet he’d grown rather fond of. Tuleon was a big place. There was room enough for both of them. Besides, the young merchant and his bodyguard needed immediate medical attention. Coerlis might be irrational, but he wasn’t stupid.

Their emotional auras persisted behind him as he jogged along. That fit Coerlis’s mental pattern, but Flinx was still confident he could lose them. Pip slithered up his arm to assume her favorite perch on his shoulder.

Where could he go? Not the local police depot. Coerlis was likely to have influence there. Tuleon was urbanized but hardly urbane, and Flinx had learned early on that large amounts of credit had a way of fogging Truth’s vision. You might not be able to break laws by hammering on them with money, but subtle circumvention was another matter entirely.

It felt as if they were gaining on him. Flinx knew that Coerlis’s ireful persistence could result in the man’s death, something he would still prefer to avoid. He was familiar with the type. Coerlis wouldn’t rest now until the perceived insult had been avenged. It had passed beyond being a simple question of whether or not he would obtain ownership of a flying snake.

Obsession, Flinx knew, was often one of the first steps on the road to madness. He knew because there was always more truth in emotions than in words.

Still running easily, he turned up a gently sloping side street. Maybe they’d continue straight, believing he was headed for the waterfront and a faster means of escape. It would be a logical assumption. The occasional passing pedestrian glanced in his direction, drawn to him more by his height and haste than the almost invisible minidrag coiled securely about his shoulder. Samstead was not a fast-paced world. It was unusual to see anyone running in the center of the capital.

He passed entrances to office towers and residential complexes, knowing he’d have to present appropriate identification to gain entry to the smallest of them. Tuleon might be a relatively easygoing metropolis, but crime was not unknown within its boundaries.

The meretricious facade of a hotel beckoned. Too obvious, he decided, and ran on. He needed someplace less conspicuous. In ancient times a bank would have afforded some safety, but such things no longer existed. Money and credit were largely abstract components of computer storage space, to be manipulated electronically. That was a refuge he could not enter.

Then he saw the building, a stark triangle whose bladed crest topped out at a modest six stories. The familiar emblem, hourglass-on-globe on a field of green, was emblazoned over the always unlocked entrance. Gratefully lengthening his stride, he ascended the curving ramp and entered.

Once inside, he slowed to a respectful walk. The sanctuary was empty save for a couple of elderly supplicants. One was on her knees before the altar, praying before a brilliant depth depiction of swirling nebulae and galaxies. The reality injection was two stories tall and rendered in exquisite, awe-inspiring detail. In conjunction with the subdued, concealed illumination, it imparted to the vaulted sanctuary an air of eternal peace and reassurance. Natural light fell from tinted windows high overhead.

He’d visited the sanctuaries of the United Church before, though never to attend formal services. No doubt there were several dozen similar sites scattered throughout the city. He was tempted to settle into one of the comfortable seats. At this point even the several thranx body lounges looked inviting. But he decided to move on. The sanctuary itself was too open.

Without warning, the persistent fury he identified with Coerlis vanished. That was his damned talent, flickering in and out like a short in his brain. He eyed the entrance uneasily, unable to tell now if Coerlis and his minions were still pursuing or if they’d taken a different turning. The warning wail of emotion in his mind had winked out, and strain as he might, he knew there was no way he could simply turn it back on.

He glanced down at Pip. Have to keep an eye on her now, he knew. Unlike his own erratic abilities, hers were the result of natural evolution. She was on permanent alert. The trouble was, she was not intelligent enough to sort out hostility directed specifically at him. Detection usually went hand in hand with physical proximity, by which time it was often too late to run. But unless his talent reasserted itself, she was all he had to warn him of Coerlis’s possible presence.

He looked to his left. If tradition held, there would be a row of library reading rooms there. He could lock himself inside, but while providing privacy and some security, that would also eliminate all avenues of flight. This wouldn’t do, he told himself. He was too exposed in the open sanctuary.

Choosing a hallway off to the right and adopting the attitude of one who knew what he was doing, he abandoned the worship center. Small glowing letters hovered before successive doors, rising or descending as he approached until they were exactly at eye level. Some identified individuals, others specific departments.

Avoiding the lift, he took some fire stairs two at a time until he reached the third floor. There he turned down another hall. It was quiet and very few workers were about, as befitted the contemplative nature of the structure’s owner.

He’d passed several open doors without incident when a voice from within one office slowed him.

“You look anxious, my son. And tired.” Flinx hesitated. “May I be of any assistance?”

Flinx glanced back the way he’d come. The corridor was still deserted. Suspecting the outcome, he strained internally. Nothing. The emotional nova that had been Coerlis might as well never have existed. For the moment, his empathic palette remained precariously blank.

The man standing just inside the portal was much shorter than Flinx, and older. Disdaining a depilatory, he revealed a skull bare save for an elfish fringe of white curls. These continued around his face to form a pair of thick muttonchop whiskers. His self-pressing aquamarine uniform was spotless.

A glance at Pip showed her eyes shut. Flinx considered. He’d been running for quite a while and needed to stop and rest. This seemed as likely a place as any. The jovial, stocky padre was regarding him with friendly curiosity, and regardless of what he decided, some sort of response was clearly in order.

“I’m running from a confrontation. I try to avoid fights when I can.”

The kindly visage beamed back at him. “Fighting is a good thing to avoid. Won’t you come and sit a moment? You look like you could use a rest.”

“Thank you. I think I will.”

The padre’s office was awash in the usual ecclesiastical paraphernalia. There were the twin monitors on his desk, assorted homey holos and flatscale representations on the walls, a box of spherical drive files on the floor in one corner, and a back wall vid of boreal forest dominated by an energetic, flowing stream that smelled of humus and damp morning. It was designed to relax and reassure, and Flinx allowed himself to fall under its cleverly constructed spell. Even more satisfying was the comfortable, old-fashioned chair to which the padre directed him.

He glanced back at the gaping doorway.

“Privacy?” inquired the padre. When Flinx nodded gratefully, his host murmured into a vorec designed to resemble a tulip. Immediately a real door, much more reassuring than the usual flimsy privacy curtain, closed off the office from the hall.

In return for this largesse of surcease, Flinx knew he was expected to talk, or at least to make casual conversation. No more than that. A proper padre would put no pressure on him to pray or do anything else. One of the attractions of the United Church was that it was a very low-key organization. It offered help and asked nothing in return except that supplicants act rationally. Not necessarily sensibly, but rationally.

“I am Father Bateleur, my son.” He nodded in the direction of Flinx’s occupied shoulder. “An interesting pet. Is it dangerous?”

“Watchful.”

“Those who wander beyond the sanctuary usually have a reason for doing so.” The older man smiled expectantly.

“There were some men chasing me.” He caressed the back of Pip’s triangular head, and one pleated wing unfurled partway, quivering with pleasure. “One of them wanted to buy her.”