Mid-Flinx (5 page)

“Such fictions rarely include discussions of the nature of subatomic matter.”

“All right, a couple of dozen stories, then. The numbers mean nothing, just as the interview signifies nothing.”

“Shikar, did you ever hear of the Meliorare Society?”

He blinked. “The renegade eugenicists who were wiped out a few years ago? Sure. Everybody in the department remembers that one. What of it?”

Father Sandra tapped the hardcopy. “You remember some trouble involving a radical antidevelopment group on a colony world called Longtunnel?”

Banadundra nodded slowly. “I think so. It was properly taken care of, wasn’t it? I don’t follow colonial politics.”

“If the computer correlations are correct, this young man was present there as well. He became involved with the group. Also with a gengineer working for a company called Coldstripe. Her name,” Sandra checked the printout again, “was Clarity Held. At the conclusion of the confrontation she filed a report of her own with the appropriate regulatory authorities. It includes mention of a young man whose description closely matches that of Father Bateleur’s interviewee.”

“You’re losing me, Misell.”

“When the last known adherents of the Meliorare Society were destroyed, it was on a world called Moth.”

“Never been there,” he told her. “Heard it’s an interesting, wide-open sort of place.”

“I sweated correlation. Not easy when you’ve got the whole Commonwealth to cover. There are records of a young man named Philip Lynx. Credit tallies through a trading concern called the House of Malaika, a few other ancillary notations. Not much.”

“I take it you’ve drawn some conclusions?”

She leaned forward earnestly. “Look, Shiky. We’ve got a young man who’s on Moth and in the general vicinity when the last of the Meliorares are put down. A niece of one of the last Meliorare practitioners, a woman named Vandervort, is on Longtunnel working with Coldstripe and has contact with what may be this same young man. She died in the confrontation, by the way. Now this person shows up on Samstead. I haven’t checked travel records—I’m not a detective—but for such a young man, he seems to have uncommon resources. Far more than his credit records on Moth would suggest.”

“Are you suggesting this is someone who’s trying to carry on the work of the Society?”

“No. He’s much too young. But if there’s any kind of connection at all, I think it’s worth following up. What I’ve got right now is a fascinating young man with a blurry past, a tenuous but distinctive link to the Society, and an inexplicable tie to an unreleased astronomical discovery.”

Banadundra made a face. “If you can pull all that together into something sensible I’ll nominate you for the Obud Prize myself.”

She reached out and caressed his cheek. “I don’t want any nominations for any prizes. You’re my prize, Shikar. What I want is your help accessing the history of the Meliorares.”

Concern crossed his dark face. “There’s a Moral Imperative seal on those records. There are still mindwiped participants walking around. Access is above both, our classifications.”

“We can at least try. If nothing else, we can pass what I’ve found out on up the ladder.”

“What’s our justification?” he wanted to know. “That there still might be adherents to the Society’s philosophy running around loose? Or that we’re researching the nature of evil? Or is it strictly an astronomical problem? What you’ve formulated here would be a conundrum for the Devil himself.”

“That is a concept which may be involved as well.”

He looked for a smile, frowned when he didn’t see one. “Better back up a step or two there, woman. You’ll be sent down for instability.”

“I assure you, Shiky, I’m talking straight physics. Philosophy’s only tangential to what I’ve been looking into. But,” she added, “it may be an
important
tangent. I need you to back me in this.”

“Subatomic properties?” he asked hesitantly.

She raised a hand, palm facing him, and replied solemnly. “Subatomic properties. Give me no forces and I’ll draw you no lies.”

He took a deep breath. “All right, Misell. Just be careful what you say to people.” After a moment’s thought he added, “Maybe this kid’s trying to start a new religion. Happens all the time.”

“I wouldn’t think so. Not after reviewing the copy of Father Bateleur’s interview with him. He doesn’t strike me as the messianic type at all. Much more inwardly focused. As far as religion goes, I don’t think he’s trying to explicate any of the traditional ones, either. I think
he’s
convinced he’s on to something. Whether it actually is anything more than a coincidental personal hallucination is one of the things I’d badly like to find out.

“I think there are enough interesting coincidences here to intrigue the department. Both this Philip Lynx and what he told Father Bateleur are worth taking a closer look at. At the very least someone of higher rank than a metropolitan padre ought to do an in-depth interview with our well-traveled young man.”

“This is obviously important to you, Misell.”

“Then you’ll get to work on obtaining access to those records?” she asked eagerly.

He sighed. “I suppose. I’m not sure I’ll get anywhere, love, but I’ll try.”

She bent, and he rose on tiptoes to kiss her.

Chapter Four

The ride in the commercial taxi out to Tuleon’s northern shuttleport was uneventful. The sky was overcast, the air moist and warm, the scenery pleasant. While not having completely returned, Flinx’s talent was flickering in and out, periods of emotional rush alternating with calm and quiet.

A short-circuit in my brain,
he rhymed,
which I work on in vain
. Together with the condition that inspired it, the little ditty had stuck with him for years. He couldn’t shake either of them.

Following his instructions, the taxi circled the port twice. He was grateful that it was fully automated and he didn’t have to answer questions from a querulous driver. There was no sign that he was being followed, and while not conclusive, the additional circumnavigation added to his confidence.

Instead of stopping at one of the passenger debarkation lounges, the vehicle halted midway between those hectic terminals and the cargo depot. With his Ident fully in order, no one questioned his progress, though he did draw the usual curious glances. He was very young to be traveling by private craft. It was assumed he was the scion of one of the wealthy Houses. If challenged by some overzealous official, he could call on his friendship with the House of Malaika, but such confrontations were infrequent. Since the beginning of civilization, bureaucrats were reluctant to impugn the wealthy, especially if the latter seemed to know what they were doing.

Climbing into an empty, four-person port bubble, he punched in the appropriate pad coordinates. The compact maglev transport accelerated down a tunnel, speeding beneath the green belt that separated the terminals from the pad itself. The actual launch area occupied an open plain several kilometers from the port proper.

Moderating its horizontal velocity, the bubble entered a vertical shaft and began to ascend. At the surface it deposited him on open tarmac. There, he was surrounded by shuttles of varying size, each snugged neatly within the artificial crater of a landing site.

Fat cargo craft were sucking modular transport containers from multiple shafts flanking their sides. With safety tube deployed, a passenger shuttle was unloading nearby, the dome of an arrival center having sprouted from the nearest receiving shaft. When the last passenger had disembarked, the center would automatically be deflated, rolled up, and secured in a protective bunker.

No such elaborate facilities were provided for Flinx, nor did he require any. He simply walked over to his waiting shuttle, communicated the requisite security code, and waited while a simple lift descended from the craft’s underside.

“All systems functioning,” the shuttle informed him once he was aboard. “Minor discrepancy in the port lift engine. Eighty percent efficiency.”

Have to get that fixed someday, he told himself. “Fueling status?”

“Complete,” replied the shuttle via its vorec interface.

Flinx settled into the pilot’s chair, Pip resting comfortably on his shoulder. Spread out before him were the manual controls, whose proper function had and probably always would remain a mystery to him. Flight navigation and ship operation were matters better left to computers, a state of affairs with which he was quite content and had no desire to challenge.

“Back to the
Teacher
.” He adjusted his harness. The shuttle’s AI had no difficulty interpreting the routine nontechnical instruction.

“Please secure yourself, sir,” the melodious artificial voice requested. “Is there any baggage to come aboard?”

“No.” Flinx checked his harness. Except for occasional visits to more distant regions of Samstead, he’d been living out of the shuttle. It knew that, but had been programmed to offer the reminder.

Instruments set flush into the smooth contour before him came alive. He was familiar with the colors if not the functions. A low rumble began as first the starboard, then the port VTOL engines came to life.

“Port Authority has cleared for departure. Lift in ten seconds,” announced the shuttle in its pleasant male baritone. Next week Flinx might change it to high thranx, or seductive female. The tone of his mechanical companions depended on his mood, and the
Teacher’s
voice library was extensive.

At the appointed time the stubby craft rose noisily into the air, its internal guidance system in constant contact with every other active shuttle and aircraft in the vicinity. Collisions were all but nonexistent.

At two thousand meters the rear engines took over and the VTOLs shut down. Gentle pressure pushed Flinx back in his seat as the scramjets shoved the ship high into Samstead’s relatively unpolluted upper atmosphere.

“Ascend and circle,” he ordered the shuttle.

“I am compelled to mention that climbing in such a fashion involves an unnecessary expenditure of fuel.”

“Do it,” he reiterated. The craft complied.

Now he could make out the great winding water snake that was the Tumberleon, its major tributaries, and the sprawl of the capital. The geometric patterns of farms and ranches quilted the surrounding terrain in green and brown patches.

As the ship continued to spiral upward, the vast blue reaches of the Chirapatri Sea came into view, darker in hue than the endless ocean of space toward which he was climbing. A metallic flash to the east marked the razor path of a shuttle descending toward Peridon, the capital’s harbor city.

Turquoise to azure to cerulean to purple and lastly to black, the change in the sky shade delineated increasing altitude as sharply as any instrument. The pressure of his harness lessened along with the maternal pull of the planet, and he was soon resting in zero g. No shuttle was big enough to support a posigravity generator, nor was any needed.

Lights falling like golden teardrops marked the path of a pair of shuttles descending in tandem, probably cargo craft from the same parent vessel. As his own ship rotated, the
Teacher
hove into view; an elongated ovoid of modest proportions from which protruded a cylindrical shaft. The other end of the column terminated in a bulge to which was attached a huge parabolic dish shape: the Caplis generator and KK-drive field projector.

Though not a large vessel and in no way outwardly imposing, in one important respect it exceeded the capability of any other vessel in the Commonwealth. Its secret remained hidden beneath an unremarkable exterior.

The scramjets having long since been silenced, attitude jets took over and carefully maneuvered the shuttle into the docking bay that gaped in the side of the interstellar craft. Confident that the shuttle’s instrumentation was communicating silently and efficiently with the much larger AI on board the
Teacher
, Flinx paid no attention to the maneuvers. He was luxuriating once more in the emotional vacuum of space. Here there were no throngs to crowd him, no silent screams of agonized individuals to spark another of his innumerable headaches. It was a place of peace in which his talent was neither a blessing or a curse, a place where he could look forward to an extended period of relaxation and mental ease.

It was
quiet
.

Once the shuttle had been secured in its braces, the exterior door slid shut and the bay was pressurized. As posigravity powered up, Flinx felt weight returning. He released himself from the flight harness and slid out of his seat. On his shoulder Pip stirred in her sleep.

It was good to be back in the familiar confines of the
Teacher
. Within the designated living areas, he’d added what homey touches he could: live plants to supplement the artificial ones, bright colors, a ragged bedspread from Mother Mastiff’s pack-rat jumble of a domicile on Moth. There were enterprises and individuals specializing in vehicular decor who could have transformed the interior into a space-traversing palace, but Flinx was reluctant to allow strangers on board his vessel, for all that its singular secret was well-camouflaged and concealed. The result was that the ship exhibited a cool functionality which was wholly in keeping with his own personality.

The posigravity field was reassuring. Not quite one g, but sufficient to keep him attached to the floor. Beyond emptying his duffel and dumping dirty clothing into the sanitizer, there wasn’t much else to do. He ate an indifferent meal before moving up to the control room.

Two small ports revealed the view aft, while the fore port displayed a halo of stars around the drive parabolic. Lazy blue light rose from Samstead’s atmosphere, the sensuous arc of the planet glowing like porcelain on fire. It was time to bid that beauty farewell, as he’d been compelled to do with so many beautiful things throughout his life.

“Activate drive. Prepare for system departure.”

“Very well, sir,” replied the
Teacher
. A subtle vibration impregnated the deck underfoot. That was expected.

What followed was not.

“We are being hailed, sir.”

Flinx pursed his lips. A customs vessel, or perhaps a nearby ship noting the activation of his drive and seeking clarification of intentions. Easy enough to find out.

He flopped into the pilot’s seat. “Acknowledge.”

The com screen off to his left cleared immediately. He tensed. The face displayed was all too familiar.

“I’m sure you thought I’d given up by now.” The edgy yet disciplined voice was also familiar.

“No.” Flinx’s tone was resigned. “But I’d hoped you had. You said that you own a whole zoo. Why this unreasonable obsession with my pet?”

Coerlis shrugged imperceptibly. “I don’t have an Alaspinian minidrag. And your ship is a lot closer than Alaspin. Why don’t you just come on over in your shuttle? Or if you prefer, I’ll send someone over to you. It won’t take but a few minutes. Your internal systems will confirm that I’m very nearby.” As Flinx moved to check, Coerlis added, “Where’d you steal that ship? It looks new.”

“I didn’t steal it. It’s mine.”

“Yours?” Coerlis didn’t laugh. “You don’t have to lie to me. I can find out the truth anytime I want.”

“It was a gift,” Flinx informed him quietly.

Coerlis’s eyebrows rose. “Someone must think highly of you.”

Flinx had to smile as he thought of the Ulru-Ujurrians and their fanciful permutations of physics, logic, reason, and matter. “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure if they do, but a gift from friends it was.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s not your ship I want. The House of Coerlis isn’t hurting for transport. Take the craft I’m aboard right now, for example. Latest drive and navigation technology, or so I’m told. Very responsive, very efficient. I really ought to get off Samstead more often, but I’ve a lot of business to attend to. That’s why it upsets me to have to spend so much time on something as minor as our mutual enterprise. It’s wasteful. I hate waste.

“While you’re checking on my location you might as well have your instrumentation confirm something else about my vessel. It’s armed. She’s no peaceforcer, but she’s lethal enough to make me feel secure. Also confident.”

“How did you follow me?”

“It wasn’t hard.” Coerlis sounded matter-of-fact rather than boastful. “If you’re looking for an individual who’s reasonably distinctive in appearance, and you saturate your search area with enough people, you can find anybody. As soon as you were spotted it was easy to set professionals in your wake. I have resources.

“Once your intent was clear, I boosted before you did. After that it was simply a matter of having ground control track your shuttle. I was prepared to delay and board a commercial craft, but this is better. Privacy facilitates commerce.” He shrugged anew. “Such things aren’t difficult to manage. All it takes is money.”

Another screen showed Coerlis’s vessel orbiting behind and slightly below Flinx, gaining on the
Teacher
with its drive silent. “How do I know you’re really armed?”

“I’ve no reason to lie to you. I’ve a belt-mounted energy weapon and a couple of older-model but quite adequate projectile launchers. Not enough to threaten a small peaceforcer, but more than enough to reduce you to scrap.”

“Do that, and you don’t get your new pet.”

From her favorite perch on a tree sculpture fashioned of metallic glass fibers Pip looked up curiously. Since her master was projecting no fear, she relaxed.

Tired, Flinx thought. So tired. And not a little fed up. How could he contemplate doing anything for humanxkind if humanxkind wouldn’t leave him alone?

“All right. If it’s that important to you  . . . I can’t believe you’d really use spatial weaponry in close orbit around an inhabited world.”

“At this range? Why not? Ships have ‘accidents’ all the time. A small electrical interrupt, someone fiddling with the wrong control; easy enough to explain an incident away. Money mutes any complaint. But why should any of that be necessary? Do us both a favor: save me credit and yourself your life.”

Flinx couldn’t sense directly what the other man was feeling, but he had a reasonably good idea: the small sensation of triumph, the juvenile feeling of satisfaction, self-elevation at the expense of another. It was all so discouraging and predictable.

“I’ll get my shuttle ready,” he told the other man. “You’re still going to pay, of course.”

“Certainly.” Coerlis smiled as widely as he could. “Why make trouble? If you have friends with resources enough to give you a ship like that, they might come looking for me if anything happened to you. I don’t want the aggravation; just the flying snake.”

“I’m secured for changeover. It’ll take a couple of minutes to prepare for an exchange of shuttles.”

“I’ll wait.” Coerlis was more than agreeable. “Meanwhile don’t think about trying to boost. We’re much too close for you to try a run. If you don’t believe me, check with your computer.”

Flinx had no idea how accurate or efficient Coerlis’s weapons systems were. He doubted they were any more effective than his own, but he had no intention of surprising the merchant by selectively destroying a portion of his vessel, for example its drive components. Such activity would be detected by orbital monitors and the
Teacher
would be permanently identified and marked for attention by Commonwealth and Church authorities.