For Love of Mother-Not (32 page)

One of the elderly women screamed. The Peaceforcer cursed her overanxiousness and took aim at the source of her embarrassment. As she pointed her weapon at Pip, all the fury and pain and anguish crashed together inside Flinx’s head.

“Pip! No!” he yelled, rushing the woman. The other Peaceforcer moved to cover his companion. Pip darted toward the rear of the storage room. The woman’s gun tracked the minidrag as her finger started to tighten on the trigger.

Something happened. Cruachan’s eyes were still open. A smile of satisfaction appeared on his face. Then he died.

Night descended unexpectedly.

Flinx was floating inside a giant bass drum. Someone was pounding on it from both sides. The rhythm was erratic, the sound soul-deafening. It hurt.

Something was resting on his chest. I am lying on my back, he thought. He raised his head to look down at himself. Pip lay on the slickertic, bruised but alive. The flying snake looked dazed. As consciousness returned with a vengeance, the narrow tongue darted out repeatedly to touch Flinx’s lips and nose. Content, the minidrag ceased its examination and crawled from chest to shoulder. Flinx fought to sit up.

There was something wrong with his balance. It made the simple act of changing from a prone to a sitting position into a major operation. Two things he noted immediately; it was cold, and rain was soaking his face. Then his vision cleared and he saw the old man bending over him.

For an instant the fear returned, but this was no Meliorare. It was a kindly, unfamiliar face. The oldster was dressed very differently from the Society members. There hadn’t been anything shabby about their attire. This stranger was a refugee from a simpler life.

“Are you all right, boy?” He looked over his shoulder. “I think he’s all right.”

Flinx looked past the old man. Several other strangers
were gathered behind him. It occurred to Flinx that he was the center of their concerned curiosity. Strong arms reached toward him and helped him to his feet. There were comments about the flying snake riding his shoulder.

A younger man stepped forward. “You okay?” He searched Flinx’s face. “I’ve had a little medical training.”

“I’m not—I think—” Funny, his mouth wasn’t working right. He swallowed. “What happened?”

“You tell me,” said the unsmiling young man. He was dressed neatly, much more so than the oldster who had first examined Flinx. A yellow-and-green-striped slickertic covered what Flinx could see of a brightly colored business suit.

“I’m a factotum for the Subhouse of Grandier. I was just coming down to check on the arrival of a recent shipment from Evoria.” He turned and pointed. “That’s our warehouse over there. I nearly tripped over you.”

“Me, too,” the oldster said, “though I’m no factotum for anybody ‘cept my own house.” He grinned, showing missing teeth.

Flinx brushed wet strands of hair from his eyes and forehead. How had he gotten so wet? He couldn’t remember lying down in the street. He couldn’t remember lying down at all.

Now that those around him had quieted, the roar that had filled his ears since he had regained consciousness assumed deafening proportions. Sirens sounded in counterpart.

A couple of blocks away, flames shot skyward from the top of a warehouse in defiance of the steady, light rain. A fire-control skimmer hovered off to one side, its crew spraying the flames with fire-retardant chemical foam. It combined with the rain to knock the blaze back into itself.

“Anyway,” the younger man next to Flinx continued as they both watched the dying inferno, “I was just entering our office over there when that building”—he nodded toward the flames—”blew up. If I remember aright, it was four or five stories tall. There are only two left, as you can see. Top three must’ve been incinerated in the first seconds. There’s charred debris all over the streets. Knocked me right off my feet, just
like you.” Flinx’s gaze roved over the crowd that had gathered to watch the unusual sight. Large fires were rare in Drallar.

“Somebody’s let themselves in for a nest o’ trouble,” the oldster muttered. “Storing explosives or volatiles inside the city limits. Bad business. Bad.”

“Someone told me they felt it all the way to the inurbs,” the younger man said conversationally. “I wonder what the devil was stored in there to cause an explosion like that? Piece of building went past me like a shot. It’s stuck in our front door, no less, if you want to see it. As I was getting up, I saw you lying there in the street. Either something mercifully small hit you or else you got knocked out when your head hit the pavement.”

“I didn’t see him get hit,” the oldster said.

“Doesn’t mean anything, as fast as stuff was flying.” The executive looked at Flinx. “I’ll bet you never even felt it.”

“No,” Flinx admitted, still terribly confused. “I didn’t. But I’m okay now.”

“You’re sure?” The man looked him over. “Funny. Whatever it was that knocked you down must have whizzed right past. I don’t see any bruises or cuts, though it looks like your pet got a little banged up.”

“Can do you like that,” the oldster said. “ ’Nother centimeter and maybe you’d have a piece of metal sticking out of your head. Conversation piece.” He chuckled.

Flinx managed a weak grin. “I feel all right now.” He swayed a moment, then held steady.

The executive was still studying the minidrag coiled around Flinx’s left shoulder. “That’s an interesting pet, all right.”

“Everybody thinks so. Thanks for your concern, both of you.” He staggered forward and joined the ring of spectators gawking at the obliterated building.

Slowly, reluctantly, his brain filled in the blank spaces pock-marking his memory. Third floor, he’d been up there, and the Meliorares … Yes, the Meliorares—that was their name—were getting ready to run some tests on him. Then the Peaceforcers had broken in, and Pip had gotten loose, and one of them had been ready to shoot it, and the head Meliorare—
Flinx couldn’t remember his name, only his eyes—had panicked and rushed the Peaceforcer, and Flinx remembered screaming desperately for the woman not to fire, not to hurt Pip, not to, not to—!

Then he had awakened, soaked and stunned in the street, an old man bending solicitously over him and Pip licking his mouth.

His hand went to the back of his head, which throbbed like the drum he had dreamed of being imprisoned inside. There was no lump there, no blood, but it sure felt like something had whacked him good, just as the executive had surmised. Only the pain seemed concentrated
inside
his head.

People were emerging from the burning warehouse: medical personnel in white slickertics. They were escorting someone between them. The woman’s clothes were shredded, and blood filled the gaps. Though she walked under her own power, it took two medics to guide her.

Suddenly, Flinx could feel her, for just an instant. But there was no emotion there, no emotion or feelings of any kind. Then he noticed her eyes. Her stare was vacant, blank, without motivation. Probably the explosion had stunned her, he thought. She was the Peaceforcer who had been about to shoot Pip.

In a hospital that blankness would doubtless wear off, he thought. Though it was almost as if she had been mindwiped, and not selectively, either. She looked like a walking husk of a human being. Flinx turned away from her, uncomfortable without really knowing why, as she was put in a hospital skimmer. The vehicle rose above the crowd and headed downtown, siren screaming.

Still he fought to reconstruct those last seconds in the warehouse. What
had
happened? That unfortunate woman had been about to kill Pip. Flinx had started toward her, protesting frantically, and her companion had started to aim his own weapon at him. The weapons themselves functioned noiselessly. Had the woman fired? Had the man?

The instrumentation that had filled the storage chamber required a lot of power. If the Peaceforcer had missed Flinx,
perhaps deliberately firing a warning shot, the bolt might have struck something equally sensitive but far more volatile than human flesh. As a rule, warehouses did not draw much power. There might have been delicately attuned fuel cells in the room. The shot might have set them off.

Or had one of the Meliorares—perhaps the one who had fled from Pip’s cage—set off some kind of suicide device to keep his colleagues from the disgrace of an official trial? He felt much better as he considered both reasonable explanations. They fit what had happened, were very plausible.

The only thing they failed to explain was how he had landed two blocks away, apparently unhurt except for a raging headache.

Well, he
had
been moving toward the door, and explosions could do funny things. The streets of the industrial district were notorious for their potholes, which were usually full of rain water. And he was soaked. Could the force of the explosion have thrown him into one deep enough to cushion his fall and cause him to skip out again like a stone on a pond? Obviously, that was what had happened. There was no other possible explanation.

His head hurt.

Local gendarmes were finally beginning to show up. At their arrival Flinx instinctively turned away, leaving the crowd behind and cradling Pip beneath his slickertic. He was glad that he hadn’t been forced to use his own knife, felt lucky to be alive. Maybe now, at last, external forces would leave him and Mother Mastiff and Pip in peace.

He thought back a last time to that final instant in the warehouse. The rage and desperation had built up in him until he had been unable to stand it any longer and had charged blindly at the Peaceforcer about to kill Pip. He hoped he would never be that angry again in his life.

The crowd ignored the boy as he fled the scene; he vanished into the comforting shadows and narrow alleys that filtered back toward the central city. There was nothing remarkable about him and no reason for the gendarmes to stop and question him. The old man and the executive who had found him
lying in the street had already forgotten him, engrossed in the unusual sight of a major fire in perpetually damp Drallar.

Flinx made his way back toward the more animated sections of the city, toward the arguing and shouting and smells and sights of the marketplace and Mother Mastiff’s warm, familiar little shop. He was sorry. Sorry for all the trouble he seemed to have caused. Sorry for the funny old Meliorares who were no more. Sorry for the overzealous Peaceforcers.

Mother Mastiff wouldn’t be sorry, he knew. She could be as vindictive as an AAnn, especially if anything close to her had been threatened.

For himself, however, he regretted the deaths of so many. All for nothing, all because of some erratic, harmless, usually useless emotion-reading ability he possessed. Their own fault, though. Everything that happened was their own fault, Meliorares and Peaceforcers alike. He tried to warn them. Never try to come between a boy and his snake.

The damp trek homeward exhausted his remaining strength. Never before had the city seemed so immense, its byways and side streets so convoluted and tortuous. He was completely worn out.

Mother Mastiff was manning the shop, waiting for him as anxiously as she awaited customers. Her thin, aged arm was strong as she slipped it around his back and helped him the last agonizing steps into the store.

“I’ve been worried like to death over ye, boy! Damn ye for causing a poor old woman such distress.” Her fingers touched his bruised cheeks, his forehead, as her eyes searched for serious damage. “And you’re all cut up and bleeding. What’s to become of ye, Flinx? Ye have got to learn to stay out of trouble.”

He summoned up a grin, glad to be home. “It seems to come looking for me, Mother.”

“Hmpnh! Excuses. The boy’s wit is chock full of excuses. What happened to ye?”

He tried to marshal his thoughts as he slid Pip out from beneath the slickertic. Mother Mastiff backed away. The minidrag was as limp as a piece of rope. It lay curled up in its
master’s lap, if not asleep then giving a fine scaly imitation of some similar state.

“Some people kidnapped Pip. They called themselves Meliorares. But they really wanted me. They—” His expression screwed tight as he remembered, “One of them said something about wanting to fix me. Fix what? What did they want with me?”

She considered a long moment, studying the boy. Truly, it appeared that he was telling the truth, that he had learned no more than what he said. Ignoring the proximity of the hated flying snake, she sat down and put an arm around his shoulders.

“Now mark me well, boy, because this is vital to ye. I don’t have to tell ye that you’re different. You’ve always been different. Ye have to hide that as best ye can, and we’ll have to hide ourselves. Drallar’s a big place. We can move the shop if need be. But you’re going to have to learn to live quietly, and you’re going to have to keep your differences to yourself, or we’ll be plagued with more of this unwelcome and unwholesome attention.”

“It’s all so silly, Mother. Just because I can sometimes sense what other people are feeling?”

“That. And maybe more.”

“There isn’t anything more. That’s all I can do.”

“Is it, boy? How did ye get away from these people.” She looked past him toward the street, suddenly concerned. “Will they be coming after ye again?”

“I don’t think so. Most of them were kind of dead when I left. I don’t know how I got away from them. I think one of them shot at something explosive and it blew up. I was blown clear out of a building and into the street.”

“Lucky to be alive ye are, it seems, though by what providence I wonder. Maybe ’tis best this way. Maybe ’tis best ye don’t know too much about yourself just yet. Your mind always was advanced of your body, and maybe there’s something more that’s advanced even of that.”

“But I don’t
want
to be different,” he insisted, almost crying. “I just want to be like everyone else.”

“I know ye do, boy,” she said gently, “but each of us must play the cards fate deals us, and if you’ve been stuck with the joker, you’ll just have to learn to cope with it, turn it to your advantage somehow.”

“I don’t want any advantage! Not if it’s going to cause us this kind of trouble.”