Orphan Star (9 page)

“Why that last?” he inquired. Her expression was grim.

“Your acquaintance should not have had access to your records. Those are between you and the Church. Yet it seems someone managed to gain permission to see them. You’re going to be asked some hard questions later, if you are this Philip Lynx.”

“And if I’m not?”

“You’ll be asked questions anyway—only you won’t be looking at anyone’s files.” She smiled pleasantly. “It’s not your wrongdoing, it seems . . . though someone is going to lose his robes. The lower grades are always vulnerable to bribery, especially when the request is for seemingly harmless information.”

“No need to worry about that,” Flinx told her. “About the only thing I’m sure of in this galaxy is that I’m me.” He grinned. “Whoever that is.”

She did not return the smile. “That’s what we’re going to find out.”

Once Flinx’s identity was established, through various checks, the girl became friendly once more. “It’s late,” she observed when the identification procedures had concluded. “Why don’t you wait and begin your retrieval in the morning? There’s a dormitory for visitors and you can share cafeteria food with the staff, if you have the money. If not, you can claim charity, though the Church frowns on direct handouts.”

“I can pay,” Flinx insisted.

“All right.” She pointed to the far corridor. “Follow the yellow strip on the floor. It’ll take you to the visitors’ bureau. They’ll handle things from there.”

Flinx started toward the hallway, looked back. “What about the retrieval? How do I begin?”

“Come back to this desk tomorrow. I’m on duty ten to six all week. After that you’d have to hunt to find me again. I have to transfer to another manual task, but for the rest of this week, I can help you. My name’s Mona Tantivy.” She paused, watched Flinx’s retreating form, then called to him as he entered the corridor. “What if the name Philip Lynx doesn’t match up with the child born in Allahabad?”

“Then,” Flinx shouted back to her, “you can call me anything you want. . . .”

Chapter Six

The cubicle they assigned him was small and simply furnished. He spent an hour washing off the dust of days, and a pleasant surprise awaited him when he exited the shower—his jumpsuit had been taken away and cleaned. It was a good thing he had taken Pip into the bath with him.

Feeling uncomfortably clean, he was directed to the nearest food service facility and soon found himself mingling with a crush of aquamarine robes and suits.

The facility itself was a surprise, decorated with local shrubs and fountains, its lushness in stark contrast to the spartan exterior of the building. It was divided into three sections by semipermeable paneling.

One section was adjusted to the midtemperate zone climate most favored by humans, while the area farthest from the door was almost misted over from the heat and humidity favored by the thranx. The eating area in between was by far the largest. Here the two environments blended imperfectly, to form a climate a touch warm and damp for humans, slightly dry and cool to the thranx, yet suitable to both. All three areas were crowded.

He was thankful for the presence of several humans and thranx who wore something other than the Church color; it made him feel considerably less conspicuous.

The smells of recently prepared food were everywhere. While a few of the aromas were exotic, they couldn’t compete with the incredible variety of odors always present in the marketplace in Drallar. Even so, he found himself salivating. He had had nothing to eat since his brief breakfast in the city early that morning.

A short time after placing his order with the auto-chef he was rewarded with a flavorful steak of uncertain origin and an assortment of breads and vegetables. But when he inquired again about the rest of his order, a small screen lit up:
No intoxicants of any sort, however mild, are permitted in Depot commissaries.

Flinx swallowed his disappointment—a poor substitute for the beer he had ordered—and settled for iced shaka.

Pip was curled about his shoulder once again. The flying snake had aroused a few comments but not fear. The creatures in the facility—they ranged in age from less than his own to elders well over a hundred—were peculiarly indifferent to the possibility of the minidrag suddenly spewing corrosive death.

Flinx took a seat by himself. His ears were no larger than normal, and his talent no sharper than usual, but his hearing was well trained. To survive in Drallar, one had to utilize all one’s senses to the utmost. Listening to the conversation around him in the food service facility, they served to satiate his curiosity.

To his left a pair of elderly thranx were arguing over the validity of performing genetic manipulation with unhatched eggs. It had something to do with the scorm process as opposed to the oppordian method, and there was much talk of the morality of inducing mutation by prenatal suggestion in unformed pupae.

Hunting for something less incomprehensible, he overheard an old woman with two cream-colored stripes on her suit sleeve lecturing a group of acolytes: two human, two thranx. A hydrogen atom was emblazoned above the stripes.

“So you see, if you check the research which has been performed on Pluto, Gorisa, and Tipendemos over the last eight years, you’ll find that any additional modifications to the SCCAM weapons system must take into account the stress limitations of the osmiridium casing itself.”

A bite of bread and yet another wisp of conversation, this from a middle-aged man behind him with a lush white beard: “Production levels on Kansastan and Inter-Kansastan in the Bryan Sector suggest that with proper preatmospheric seeding, food grain production can be increased as much as twenty percent over the next three planting years.”

Flinx frowned as he considered this intense babble, but it wasn’t the absence of theology in the discussions that troubled him. He really couldn’t judge, but even to his untrained ears it seemed that a lot of very sensitive matters were being freely discussed in the presence of non-Church personnel. Whether that proved the Church was inefficient or only typically humanx he could not decide. Though security wasn’t his problem, it troubled him nonetheless as he finished his meal.

He was still troubled the following morning, as he made his way back to the desk in the entrance chamber. Mona Tantivy was on duty, and she smiled when she saw him approach. Traffic was moving briskly through the chamber now as Church personnel bustled from one corridor to another and through the double-glass entranceway.

“Ready?” she asked.

“I’d like to get this over with as soon as possible,” he said, in a sharper tone than he intended. Flinx, aware he was trembling slightly, resolutely calmed himself.

The woman pursed her lips reprovingly. “Don’t act as if you’re going to be inoculated or something.”

“In a sense that’s just how I feel,” he replied grimly.

And it was. Flinx had grown up with a deficient image of self. If he found no remedy here, he would likely carry that cross with him forever.

The woman nodded slowly, pressed a switch. A few minutes later a fortyish human with a build like a wrestler came out of the near corridor. His smile was identical to Tantivy’s, and he projected the same desire to aid and be helpful. Flinx wondered if this attitude was natural or if that, too, was part of the Church course of instruction: Advanced Personality Manipulation through Traditional Facial Gesticulation—or something similar.

Angrily Flinx thrust his instinctive sarcasm aside. All that mattered was seeing what he had come for.

“My name’s Namoto,” the blocky oriental said, introducing himself with smile and handshake. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Lynx.”

Flinx put up a restraining hand. “Let’s not call me that until we prove it. Just Flinx, please.”

The smile didn’t fade. “All right, whoever you be. Come with me and we’ll see if we can find out who you are.”

After what seemed like twenty minutes of walking through hallways and featureless corridors, Flinx was thoroughly disoriented. “It’s hard to believe that the Church records of every human being in the Commonwealth . . .”

“. . . and of every thranx,” Namoto finished for him, “are all stored in this small building, but it is true. Information storage is a thousand-year-old science, Flinx. The art of document reduction has been developed to a high degree. Most of the records in this building would be invisible under a standard microscope. Our scanners and imprinters work with much finer resolutions.” He paused before a door that looked no different from a hundred already passed.

“We’re here.”

The single word engraved in the translucent door said simply,
Genealogy.
Behind this door were the early histories of billions of humanx lives—though not all of them. There were still those who did not wish to be documented by anything other than their own epitaph, and a few of them achieved this.

On the other hand, Flinx had been undocumented his whole life, and he was tired of it.

“There could be a large number of Philip Lynxes still alive,” Namoto suggested as he keyed the door, “although because of certain colloquial sociological connotations, it is a less common name than many.”

“I know what it means,” Flinx snapped. Pip shifted uneasily on his master’s shoulder at the sudden flare of mental violence.

The room was enormous. Mostly it consisted of seemingly endless aisles alternating with rows of enclosed metal that stretched from floor to ceiling. No row appeared different from its neighbor.

Flinx was led to a row of ten booths. Two were occupied by researchers, the rest were empty. Namoto sat down before the single large screen in the walled booth and gestured for Flinx to sit next to him. Then be pressed both thumbs to a pair of hollows set in the screen’s side.

A light winked on beneath them and the screen lit up. Namoto leaned forward, said, “My name is Shigeta Namoto.” He relaxed. There was a pause; the machine hummed, and a green light winked on above the screen’s center.

“You are recognized, Padre Namoto,” the machine intoned. “Awaiting requests.”

“Report results of previous night’s search on one human male named Lynx, Philip. Hold alternate spellings till directed.” He turned, whispered to Flinx, “For a start we’ll assume the name on the slaver’s record was correct.”

“Possible place of origin,” he told the machine, “Allahabad, India Province, Terra.” The Padre looked over at his anxious companion. “How old are you . . . or do you know?”

“Mother Mastiff tells me I should be about seventeen, though she can’t be sure. Sometimes I feel like I’m seven hundred.”

“And sometimes I feel like I’m seven,” the massive Churchman countered pleasantly, returning his attention to the machine.

“Age approximation noted,” the device stated. “Results of search appear.”

Namoto studied the list. “I was right . . . it’s not a common name. There are records of only three Philip Lynxes having been born and registered at Allahabad within the last half century. Only one of them fits your age bracket.” He addressed the machine once more.

“Further information desired.”

There was a brief hum, then the screen lit brightly with the legend: transferring allahabad terminal. Then a moment later: transfer completed . . . code length.

Namoto gazed at the numbers following. “Doesn’t seem to be much information at all. I hope it’s worth . . .” He paused, suddenly concerned. “Are you all right, Flinx? You’re shivering.”

“I’m fine . . . it’s a lot cooler in here than outside, that’s all. Hurry up.”

Namoto nodded. “Decode transfer.”

Flinx’s hands tightened convulsively on his thighs as each word was printed out.

LYNX PHILIP . . . TRUE NAME . . . BORN
533
A.A,
2933
OLD CALENDAR IN THE SUBURB OF SARNATH, GREATER URBAN ALLAHABAD, INDIA PROVINCE, TERRA.

There was a pause during which nothing further appeared on the screen. Flinx turned to Namoto, almost shouting.

“Is that all?”

“Gentle, Flinx . . . see, more comes.” And the printout continued again.

NOTES ADDITIONAL: RECORDS OF ASSISTING SEMI-PHYSICIAN AND MONITORING MEDITECH INDICATE PRESENCE OF UNUSUALLY HIGH BIRTH AURA IN R-WAVE MATERNITY CHAMBER READINGS . . . NO UNUSUAL OR ADVERSE REACTION FROM MOTHER . . . R-WAVE READOUTS INDICATE POTENTIAL OF POSSIBLE ABNORMAL TALENTS, CLASS ONE . . .

DELIVERY NORMAL . . . NO R-WAVE REACTION ASCRIBABLE TO TRAUMA . . . MONITORS POSTOPERATIVE CHECK NORMAL . . . INFANT OTHERWISE NORMAL AND HEALTHY . . .

MOTHER AGED
22
 . . . NAME : ANASAGE . . . GRANDPARENTS UNKNOWN. . . .

Namoto did not look at Flinx as the readout concluded: father unknown, not present at birthing. . . .

Flinx fought to relax. Now that this ordeal was over he wondered at his tension. What information there was told him little—and as for the last, well, he had been called a bastard before and far worse than that. But all this new information still did not tell him if Lynx was a lineal name, or one applied solely to him at birth. Without that—or additional information—he might as well not have bothered.

“Any information,” he asked in a soft monotone, “on the postdelivery status of the . . .” the word came surprisingly easy now, “mother?”

Namoto requested it of the machine. The reply was short, eloquent.

MOTHER DECEASED . . . OFF-PLANET,
537
A.A . . . ADDITIONAL DETAIL AVAILABLE. . . .

“Explain the . . .” Flinx began, but Namoto hushed him.

“Just a minute, Philip.”

Pip stirred nervously as his master bristled in reaction.

“Don’t call me that. It’s Flinx, just
Flinx.”

“Grant me the minute anyhow.” Namoto used a small keyboard to instruct the machine manually. There was a low whine from sealed depths. A tiny wheel of millimeter-wide tape, so narrow as to be almost invisible, was ejected from an almost invisible slot. At the same time the screen lit for the last time.

PRINTOUT OF DELIVERED INFORMATION ACCOMPLISHED . . . SECONDARY INFORMATION WITHDRAWN TEN STANDARD MONTHS TWO WEEKS FOUR DAYS PRIOR THIS DATE. . . .

Namoto’s gaze narrowed. “Someone’s been tampering with your file, all right.” To the machine, “Identify withdrawing authority.”

UNABLE TO COMPLY . . . AUTHORITY WITHDRAWN IMMEDIATELY SUBSEQUENT TO INFORMATION WITHDRAWN. . . .

“Neat,” was all Namoto said. “Your acquaintance wanted to make certain no one else had access to whatever information he stole.”

A red-tinged image grew in his mind—Challis! The merchant had fooled him even at the point of imagined death. He had confessed to the Flinx simulacrum where he had obtained his information on Flinx, without finding it necessary to add that the critical information was no longer there.

What he had left in the Church archives was just enough to satisfy any casual inspector and to prevent any cancellation alarms from being activated.

And Flinx doubted that Challis was awaiting his return back in the capital. So he would have to start his hunt all over again—with no hint of where the merchant had fled to this time. A quiet voice nearby was speaking to him.

Namoto had keyed the machine release and was offering him the tape. “Here’s a copy of what the thief left in the archive.” Flinx took it, his movements slow and stunned. “I’m sorry about the rest, whatever it consists of. I suspect if you want to know the contents you’re going to have to find your acquaintance again and ask him some direct questions. And when you do, I’d appreciate it if you’d contact the nearest Church authorities.” The padre was not smiling. “Theft of Church records is a rather serious offense.”

“This tape—and the one that was stolen—is a many-times-enlarged duplicate of the archive original. Any microscopic scanner will play it back.” He rose. “If you want to see it again use the machine in the booth two alcoves over. I’ll be at the monitor’s desk if you want me for anything.”

Flinx nodded slowly as the padre turned, walked away.

Challis!
Thief, would-be murderer, casual destroyer of other’s lives—next time he might let Pip kill him. The Commonwealth would be a little cleaner for the absence of . . . Something burned his shoulder and nearly yanked him from the chair.