Trouble Magnet (2 page)

“Granted.” The ship sounded relieved. “Visaria, then. Do you wish upon arrival to enter into an announced orbit?”

Rising from the chair, he placed his cup in the appropriate receptacle and started back toward the ship’s lounge. “If the folks who run the place are as cagey as you suggest, I don’t see how we could sneak in unobserved. If it’s as crowded as you say, I don’t imagine we’ll need to. And if it’s as shady even on the sunward side, I’m sure we can convince the appropriate authorities to take a pass on any detailed arrival and entry formalities.”

As its master left the command chamber, the
Teacher
set about negotiating the necessary alterations to the appropriate dimensional mathematics, with an appropriate kick in the right direction. It worked flawlessly, efficiently, rapidly.

But insofar as it was capable of contemplating the consequences of the impulsive course change, it was not pleased.

Habitable worlds were like tolerable people, Flinx mused as the
Teacher
decelerated through normal space toward Visaria. Viewed from a distance, they all looked similar. Draw closer, and individual features made themselves visible. The lines of a continent on a planet; the lines of character in a person’s face. Canyons and crevices, rills and revelations, some carved by wind and water, others by life and experiences. He had encountered both weathered worlds and weathered people. It was no different with sentient nonhumans. One simply had to study the different physical features to learn what they signified.

Move in closer still and fine detail became apparent. With worlds, individual streams. With people, streams of consciousness only he could perceive. Mountains and forests, cities and roads and seaports. Shifty or straightforward eyes, digits or tentacles reaching for handshakes or weapons. To isolate such features, one just had to know how and where to look. Surviving both worlds and individuals was a matter of leavening alertness with knowledge. He had been born with plenty of the former, and through circumstance had been force-fed an abundance of the latter. In this he was not really all that different from his fellow sentients. In one other highly significant way he was.

Worlds whispered to him.

Inhabited worlds, mostly, though his Talent had grown sensitive and sharp enough to allow him to perceive the emotions of less intelligent orders of beings. It did not matter whether the worlds he visited were dominated by his own kind, or by the insectoid thranx, or the aggressive AAnn, or even more outré sentients such as the Vssey. If they possessed an inner emotional life, their feelings encroached on him. Through practice and time, he had gained the ability to shut out some of the emotive shouting of others. But not all of it, and not always. Just as he could not predictably control his ability to perceive the feelings of others, so he could not always completely banish them from his Meliorare-altered mind. That was why he often chose to avoid worlds that were crowded with intelligent life. That was why he was deliberately choosing to immerse himself in one now.

At this distance, the murmuring of millions of minds exerted only the gentlest of pressures on his thoughts. Only millions, because while it was developing rapidly, Visaria was still a colony world. Should he find himself overwhelmed, there would be extensive open spaces where he could rest his mind. Aware that the immersion he was about to willingly subject himself to bordered on the masochistic, he found that he was starting to feel a little nervous. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all. Perhaps he should direct the
Teacher
to halt some distance away from Visaria, in the outer, quieter reaches of its six-world system, while he meditated further on his decision.

No. He had chosen this course with forethought and intention, and would not renegotiate with himself now. Coiled on his lap as he relaxed in the forward command chair, Pip glanced up at him curiously, unable to decide whether her master was unsettled or merely being his usual intensely thoughtful self.

“Are you all right?”

Always watching, the ship-mind. Ever attentive to his needs—even when he didn’t voice any.

“I’m fine. Situation?”

“Cutting orbit of outermost moon, of which there are three: one Lunarian, two small and irregular. We have been under non-hailing-system tracking for some time now. Initial demands for identification preparatory to assignment of orbital position have been received. I anticipate shortly follow-up requests demanding proportionately more significant information.”

Flinx nodded to himself. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Respond with, oh, description of minor outsystem cargo. Low value, nothing likely to arouse curiosity even here.” He rose from the chair. “If the specs on Visaria are accurate, the last thing we want is for local authorities to take an interest in our nonexistent cargo with an eye toward appropriating a share of it.”

“Edible plant matter en masse is usually a sufficiently bland manifest to put forward.” This time there was no sarcasm in the ship-mind’s voice. “A quantity of easily traded but undistinguished varieties unobtainable locally and insufficiently exotic to command elevated prices.”

The melancholic master of the
Teacher
smiled. “Yes, that should bore Customs adequately. Speaking as a onetime thief myself, I know that even the most avaricious thieves find it hard to get themselves worked up at the prospect of stealing vegetables.”

Ever efficient, the
Teacher
’s resourceful response to the inquiries of the planetary arrival authority elicited a response that was reassuringly insipid. As predicted, naught interest was shown in either the battered, undersized cargo vessel or its outsystem “cargo” of nondescript compacted vegetable product. As adroit as his ship, Flinx took a few moments to study up on the imaginary consignment. He would not take the chance of being caught out should some eager immigration interviewer, be it man or machine, request actual details about the makeup of his shipment.

He dressed appropriately in his usual simple, dun-colored, two-piece work attire and service belt. The garb was utterly unadorned, devoid of so much as a simple insignia or integrated impression. Combined with a pair of worn, comfortable, slip-on flexboots, his outfit clearly stamped him for anyone to see as that ubiquitous traveler known as No One in Particular. From the time he had been old enough to choose his own clothes, it had been his favored identity. By the time he had finished securing the contents of a small travel pack and taking extra time to ensure that his medipak was fully stocked, planetary authority had assigned the
Teacher
orbital coordinates.

Familiar with its owner’s preferences as well as his desire never to waste time, the ship’s smaller shuttle commenced release procedures even before Flinx and Pip had settled in on board. By the time he had locked himself in braceplace and had secured Pip nearby, the tiny craft was pushing away from its dock in the
Teacher
’s bulbous underbelly. It did not deploy the compacted delta wings at its stern. There was no need until the time came to enter atmosphere.

Following a steady stream of high-speed broadcast directions, it commenced deceleration parallel to the surface of the glowing, cloud-streaked planet below. Flinx’s shuttle was only one of several dozen that were either arriving, departing, or awaiting clearance. Settling himself into the compression seat, he declined the opportunity to chat with ground-based orbital control. The cautions that had protected him as a youthful thief had retained their validity as he matured: keep as low a profile as possible, both technologically as well as personally, and avoid attention.

The greeting voice that provided final approach and arrival instructions to the shuttle’s sub-branch of the
Teacher
’s ship-mind also chose to address the small landing craft’s occupants. The speaker made no effort to mask her boredom with the procedure.

“Attention freehold cargo carrier
Remange:
be sure you follow all vectors and instructions to the letter, or you’ll lose your place and be denied a landing slot. You don’t want to have to abort and reapply from orbit, and I don’t want to have to go over basics with you again.”

Flinx kept his voice as even, if not as jaded, as that of the woman on the other end of the surface-to-ship communicator. “Understood.” Thrusters angled the shuttle sharply down and to starboard. “Complying.”

Wings deployed as the compact craft approached atmosphere. Diffused light flashed briefly through the narrow foreport. As with a bicycle crossing a rutted road, bumps and jolts rattled ship and passenger as it entered Visaria’s outer airspace. Communication and conversation between ship and ground ceased. It was time for electronics to converse, taking control of calculations too complex for mere organics to optimally manipulate.

Bursting through the underside of a heavy cloud layer, the shuttle continued to slow. The view forward was of extensive stretches of undeveloped native forests and desert; the latter familiar, the former startlingly rich in oranges and reds. This was not a world on which the magic of photosynthesis held sway. As the shuttle continued to descend, it passed over a vast valley that looked as if it had been chewed up and spit out by some mud-hungry giant. Possibly a mine, Flinx mused. Records indicated that Visaria was rich in the minerals and metals that formed the basis of its hastily industrialized society.

Though he could have released it, he allowed the compression seat to continue to constrain him: always a sensible decision when coming in for a landing at a previously unvisited port. Equipment whined softly while instrumentation on the console in front of him flickered and winked. Though he could have assumed manual control, crowded urban shuttleports were no place to practice one’s touchdown technique. Better to let ship and port control handle the details while he relaxed and took in the scenery.

There wasn’t much to see. There usually wasn’t in the vicinity of a major shuttleport, whose operators preferred to retain the open space surrounding it for future expansion—and to contain debris from the occasional failed landing attempt. Just before touchdown, he did get a glimpse of Malandere. Visaria’s nominal capital and largest city loomed on the northern horizon. Even at a distance, it looked bleak and nasty. But, he told himself, it was only a glimpse.

The shuttle’s landing was smooth and error-free. Taking command of the little vessel, port control eased it into an empty parking place among dozens of other similar vehicles. Nearly all were larger and more impressive than his, which was just how he liked it.

It was a very short walk to the lift that took him down to one of several subterranean transport levels. In that brief time when he was walking between shuttle and corridor, he noted that despite being of comparatively recent vintage, Malandere’s main port was already showing signs of upkeep neglect and heavy wear. Too much growth too fast, he reflected, where haste took precedence over proper planning.

A tsunami of emotion washed over him as he allowed the moving walkway to carry him toward Arrival and Immigration. It was mostly human, but like a thick pudding blended with bits of nuts and flavor chips, there were also sparks of alien feeling. Thranx for certain, which was to be expected. A surge of anxiety that might have been Quillp. Something sensuous distinctly Tolian, a faint touch of Astuet, and a flurry of no-nonsense Deyzara completed the emotional flood. But as to be expected, the great majority of feelings that ebbed and flowed all around him were those of fellow humans.

Fellows, inasmuch as he was human himself, he thought cynically.

Though occupying an extensive underground chamber, Arrival and Immigration had the air of a section that was never finished, whose layout was a hodgepodge of add-on electronics and hurriedly improvised subrooms. Directed through the maze, he found himself in an alcove occupied by a single public servant who wore a look that matched the jaded tone of the woman who had addressed him prior to atmospheric insertion. The man, who was middle-aged, underweight, and anxious to be anywhere but here doing anything but this, barely glanced up at him. In contrast with his lackluster personality, his shaved skull glowed with an ornate inlaid tattoo of fantastical mythical creatures battling for control of the word
ALICE
.

An initial quick glance was followed by a longer one. A flicker of interest showed in the man’s hitherto dull eyes. “Interesting animal. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen one like it before.” A soft hum indicated that a privacy screen had been activated, enclosing the alcove in a bubble of solitude.

Reaching up with his left hand, Flinx ran his fingers along his companion’s back and across the pleated pink-and-blue wings that were folded against her flanks. “Pip’s an Alaspinian minidrag. An empath.”

Ignoring the forms, information spheres, and hovering displays that swarmed his desk, the bureaucrat cocked his head slightly to one side as he studied the flying snake.

“Empath, eh? I’ll be sure to think only happy thoughts, then.” He grinned humorlessly. Curled around Flinx’s neck and left shoulder, Pip stared back at him out of unblinking eyes. The mixture of hostility, envy, and fear she sensed from the man in front of her was no reason for excitement. Fortunately for him, she chose to ignore him.

Turning to one of the several displays projected by his desk and drifting above it, he stroked his fingers through hovering controls. Manicured eyebrows drew together.

“According to this, your pet ranks impressively high on the danger scale.” Flinx felt fresh fear bubble up in the man’s mind. “
Really
high,” he finished, turning back to face the tall young man standing before him.

Flinx did his best to shrug off the other man’s concern while simultaneously putting him at ease. “Pip only responds when she senses that I’m being threatened. She’s extremely perceptive and has never made a mistake.”

The bureaucrat was eyeing the serpentine shape fretfully. “I infer, then, that she has previously acted in defense of your person?” Flinx nodded. “For a shield pet, she’s not very big.”