“But not impossible.”
“It seems like nothing’s impossible where these children are concerned. The sooner we take this one into custody and turn him over to the psychosurgeons, the better I’ll like it. Give me a good clean deviant murder any time. This mutant-hunting gives me the shivers.”
“He’s not a mutant, Rose,” her companion reminded her. “That’s as inaccurate as me calling him a monster.” He glanced toward the rear of the mudder. Their passenger was gobbling food from their stores and ignoring their conversation. “We don’t even know that he possesses any special abilities. The last two we tracked down were insipidly normal.”
“The Meliorares must have thought differently,” Rose challenged. “They’ve gone to a lot of trouble to try and catch this one and look what’s happened to them.”
They were well into the forest now, heading south. The ruined camp was out of sight, swallowed up by trees and rolling terrain behind them.
“Some big native animals did them in,” her companion said. “A maddened herd that had nothing whatsoever to do with the boy or any imagined abilities of his. So far, his trail shows only that he’s the usual Meliorare disturbed youth. You worry too much, Rose.”
“Yeah. I know. It’s the nature of the business, Feodor.” But their concerns haunted them as night began to overtake the racing mudder.
The woman manning the communications console was very old, almost as old and shaky as the small starship itself, but her hands played the instrumentation with a confidence born of long experience, and her hearing was sharp enough for her to be certain she had not missed any portion of the broadcast. She looked up from her station into the face of the tall, solemn man standing next to her and shook her head slowly.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Cruachan, sir. They’re not responding to any of our call signals. I can’t even raise their tight-beam frequency anymore.”
The tall man nodded slowly, reluctantly. “You know what this means?”
“Yes,” she admitted, sadness tinging her voice. “Nyassa-lee, Haithness, Brora—all gone now. All those years.” Her voice sank to a whisper.
“We can’t be sure,” Cruachan murmured. “Not one hundred percent. It’s only that,” he hesitated, “they ought to have responded by now, at least via the emergency unit.”
“That stampede was terrible luck, sir.”
“If it was bad luck,” he said softly. “History shows that where the subject children are concerned, the unknown sometimes gives luck a push—or a violent shove.”
“I know that, sir,” the communicator said. She was tired, Cruachan knew; but then they were all tired. Time was running out for them and for the Meliorare Society as well as for its noble, much-misunderstood goals. There had been thoughts, years ago, of training new acolytes in the techniques and aims of genetic manipulation pioneered by the Society, but the onus under which they were forced to operate made the cooperation of foolish younger researchers impossible to obtain, thanks to the unrelenting barrage of slanderous propaganda propagated by the Church and the Commonwealth government.
Curse them all for the ignorant primitives they were! The Society was not dead yet!
Haithness, Nyassa-lee, Brora—the names were a dirge in his mind. If they were truly gone now, and it seemed that must be so, that left very few to carry on the Work. The conflict within him was strong. Should he press on or flee to set up operations elsewhere? So many old friends, colleagues, great scientific minds, lost; was this one subject worth it? They still had no proof that he was. Only graphs and figures to which the computers held. But the computers didn’t care. Nobody cared.
There was nothing to indicate that the subject had been in any way responsible for the unfortunate stampede that had destroyed the camp together with their hopes. Of course, it was quite possible that the subject had perished along with the others, Cruachan mused. If not, if he decided to pursue this one to a conclusion, then there could be no more external manipulation attempted. They would have to confront the subject directly, as they had years ago tried to do with the girl.
It was a long, roundabout course to their next “safe” station. Cruachan was not at all confident of working through another several years of hiding and seeking out another promising subject. If the long arm of the Peaceforcers had not caught up with him by then, time and old age were liable to do the job for the government. They had come a long way together, he and his associates. A great effort; many lives had been expended to keep the project alive. He and his few remaining colleagues had to follow this case to its conclusion.
“Thank you, Amareth,” he told the woman waiting patiently at the console. “Keep the receiver open just in case.”
“Of course, Dr. Cruachan, sir.”
Turning, he headed slowly toward Conference. Halfway there, his step picked up, his stride became more brisk. This won’t do, he told himself. As president of the Society, it was incumbent upon him to set an example for the others, now more than ever. By the time he reached the meeting room and strode inside, his initial despair at the reports from below had been replaced by icy determination.
Half a dozen elderly men and women sat waiting for him. So few, he thought, so few left. The last of the Society, the last supporters of a great idea. Their upturned faces all silently asked the same question.
“Still no word,” he said firmly. “We must therefore assume that doctors Brora, Haithness, and Nyassa-lee have been lost.” There were no outward expressions of grief, no wails or cries. They waited expectantly for him to continue, and their quiet vote of confidence redoubled his resolve.
“I recommend that we proceed with the attempt to regain control of Number Twelve.”
“We have reason to believe that MO operatives are now working in this region,” an old woman said from the far side of the comfortable room.
“What of it?” another woman asked sharply. “They’ve always been two steps behind us, and they always will be.”
“I wish I was as positive of that as you, Hanson,” the first woman said. “The longevity of the Society is the result of foresight and caution, not contempt for those who hold us in contempt.” She looked up at their leader. “You’re sure about continuing to operate here, Cruachan?”
“More so than ever,” he told her. “We have too much invested in this Number Twelve not to continue.” He proceeded to recite the long list of factors responsible for his decision.
When he finished, a thin little man seated in the far corner of the room spoke out sharply in an incongruously deep voice. He had an artificial leg and heart, but the look in his eyes was as blindly intense as it had been fifty years earlier.
“I concur! The promise still lies here. If the subject is still accessible—”
“We have no reason to believe he is not,” Cruachan half lied.
“—then we have a chance to get to him before the MO insects do. As Cruachan says, we must balance the potential here against our own intensifying infirmities.” He kicked the floor with his false leg.
“Very well,” said the old lady who had raised the specter of Commonwealth interference. “I see that most of you are of a mind to continue with our work here. I must confess that I cannot muster an argument against Dr. Cruachan’s many good points. But we now have a new problem to overcome which will not be solved by a vote.
“Is it true that the last report from the camp places the subject in proximity to an Alaspinian miniature dragon?”
Cruachan nodded slowly. “The presence of the catalyst creature close to the subject was alluded to, yes.”
“Then how are we to proceed? Besides acting as a magnifying lens for any latent Talent the subject may possess, this particular animal is deadly in and of itself. If it has formed an emotional bond with the subject, it will be a much more dangerous opponent than any dozen MO officers.”
Cruachan waved her worries aside. “I’ve given the matter proper consideration. The snake will be taken care of, I promise you. If we cannot neutrali
ze a mere reptile, then we have no business pretending to the ideals of our Society.”
“It is not a reptile,” a man near the back put in. He was glassy-eyed because of the thick contact lenses he was forced to wear. “It is reptilian in appearance, but warm blood flows in its veins, and it should more properly be classified as—”
“I don’t give a damn what Order it fits into,” Cruachan broke in impatiently. “The beast will be handled.” His brows drew together at a sudden thought. “In fact, if such a mental bond now exists, it is likely stronger than that which ties the subject to his adoptive parent.”
“Another chance for external control!” a woman exclaimed.
“Yes. Instead of presenting us with a new threat, it’s possible this creature may be our key to subject control. So you all see how seeming difficulties may be turned to our advantage.”
“Too bad about Haithness and the others,” one of the old men murmured. “I’d known Haithness for forty-five years.”
“So did I,” Cruachan reminded him. “We must not let her and Nyassa-lee and Brora down. If, as now seems likely, they have sacrificed themselves for the cause, they provide us with still another reason to press onward. As we shrink in numbers, so must we grow in determination.”
Murmurs of assent rose from around the conference room.
“We will not abandon this subject,” Cruachan continued forcefully. “He will be brought under our wing by whatever means is required. I call for a formal vote for proceeding.”
Cruachan was gratified to see the decision to continue confirmed unanimously. Such decisions usually were; dissent had no place in an organization bent to such a singular purpose.
“Thank you all,” he said when the hands dropped. “Remember, this Number Twelve may hold the key to our vindication. We should proceed with that hope in mind. From this moment on, our entire energy will be devoted to gaining control over him.” He turned toward the doorway.
“We have to hurry. If the MOs find him first, they will ruin him for our purposes.”
The group dissolved in a rush of activity and fresh resolve that was matched in intensity only by the desperation that gave it life.
15
The city stank of human and other beings, of animals and exotic cooking, of resins and building materials old and new, all affected by the eternal dampness that permeated organic and inorganic materials alike. But it was all flowers and spice to Flinx. The transport car hissed to a halt outside the paneled exterior of the little bar and with the little credit remaining to him, he paid the machine. It responded with a mechanical “Thank you, sir” before drifting off up the street in search of its next fare.
Mother Mastiff leaned heavily against him as they made their way inside. Her ordeal had left her feeling her age, and she was very tired. So tired that she did not pull away from the snake riding high on Flinx’s shoulder.
Once inside, Pip uncoiled from its perch beneath the slickertic Lauren Walder had provided and made a snakeline for the bar itself. This place he knew. On the counter ahead sat bowls of pretzels, tarmac nuts, and other interesting salty delicacies that were almost as much fun to play with as to eat.
Flinx had deliberately brought them back to the marketplace via a zigzag, roundabout course, changing transports frequently, trying until the last moment to travel with other citizens. Try as he might, he had been unable to see any indication that they had been followed, nor had the minidrag reacted negatively to any of the travelers who had looked askance at the exhausted youth and the old woman with him. Still, it was this caution that prompted them to visit this bar before returning to the shop. It would be wise not to go home alone, and Small Symm, the bar owner, would be good company to have around when they again set palm print to the front-door lock. To some degree his physical talents matched those of Flinx’s mind.
As giants go, Small Symm was about average. He had been a friend of Flinx since the day of the boy’s adoption. He often bought interesting utensils from Mother Mastiff for use in his establishment.
An enormous hand appeared and all but swept the two travelers into a booth. At the long metal bar, patrons nervously moved aside to allow the acrobatic flying snake plenty of access to the pretzels.
“I’ve heard,” the young giant said by way of greeting, his voice an echo from deep within a cavernous chest, “that you were back. Word travels fast in the market.”
“We’re okay, Symm.” Flinx favored his friend with a tired smile. “I feel like I could sleep for a year, but other than that, we’re all right.”
The giant pulled a table close to the booth and used it for a chair. “What can I get for the two of you? Something nice and hot to drink?”
“Not now, boy,” Mother Mastiff said with a desultory wave of one wrinkled hand. “We’re anxious to be home. ’tis your good company we’d make use of, not your beverages.” She turned quiet and let Flinx do the majority of the explaining.
Small Symm frowned, his brows coming together like clouds in the sky. “You think these people might still be after you?”
She almost started to say, “ ’tis not me they’re after,” and just did manage to hold her tongue. She still believed it was too soon to reveal to Flinx everything she had learned. Much too soon. “Unlikely but possible, and I’m not the type to tempt fate, the unkind bastard.”
“I understand.” Symm stood, his head just clearing the ceiling. “You would like some friendly companionship on your way home.”
“If you could spare the time,” Flinx said gratefully. “I really believe that we’re finished with these people.” He did not explain that he thought they were all dead. No need to complicate matters. “But we’d sure be a lot more comfortable if you’d come with us while we checked out the shop.”
“I’ll be just a moment,” Symm assured him. “Wait here.” He vanished into a back room. When he returned, it was in the company of a tall young woman. He spoke softly to her for a minute, she nodding in response, then rejoined his visitors. He was wearing a slickertic not quite large enough to protect a medium-sized building.
“I’m ready,” he told them. “Nakina will watch business until I return. Unless you’d rather rest a while longer.”
“No, no.” Mother Mastiff struggled to her feet. “I’ll rest when I’m back home in my shop.”
It was not far from Small Symm’s place to the side street where Mother Mastiff’s stall was located. With Symm carrying her, they made good time.
“Seems empty,” the giant commented as he gently set the old woman on her feet. It was evening. Most of the shops were already shuttered, perhaps because the rain was falling harder than usual. In the marketplace, weather was often the most profound of economic arbiters.
“I guess it’s all right.” Mother Mastiff stepped toward the front door.
“Wait a minute.” Flinx put out an arm to hold her back. “Over there, to the left of the shop.”
Symm and Mother Mastiff stared in the indicated direction. “I don’t see anything,” the giant said.
“I thought I saw movement.” Flinx glanced down at Pip. The flying snake dozed peacefully beneath the cover of the slickertic. Of course, the snake’s moods were often unpredictable, but his continued calm was a good sign. Flinx gestured to his right. The giant nodded and moved off like a huge shadow to conceal himself in the darkness next to the vacant shop off to the left. Flinx went to his right—to starboard, as Lauren might have said. It had taken him awhile to forgive her for leaving—and Mother Mastiff for letting her leave—while he was still sound asleep. He wondered what she was doing, yet the memory of her was already beginning to fade. It would take somewhat longer to escape his emotions.
Mother Mastiff waited and watched as friend and son moved off in opposite directions. She did not mind standing in the rain. It was Drallarian rain, which was different somehow from the rain that fell anywhere else in the universe.
Flinx crept warily along the damp plastic walls of the shop fronts, making his w
ay toward the alley that meandered behind their home. If the movement he thought he had spied signified the presence of some scout awaiting their return, he did not want that individual reporting back to his superiors until Flinx had drained him of information.
There—movement again, and no mistaking it this time! It was moving away from him. He increased his pace, keeping to the darkest shadows. The stiletto that slept in his boot was in his right hand now, cold and familiar.
Then a cry in the darkness ahead and a looming, massive shape. Flinx rushed forward, ready to help even though it was unlikely the giant would need any assistance. Then something new, something unexpected.
Nervous laughter?
“Hello, Flinx-boy.” In the dim light, Flinx made out the friendly face of their neighbor Arrapkha.
“Hello, yourself.” Flinx put the stiletto back where it belonged. “You gave me reason to worry. I thought we were finished with shapes in the night.”
“I gave you reason to worry?” The craftsman indicated the bulk of Small Symm standing behind him.
“I’m sorry,” Symm said apologetically. “We couldn’t see who you were.”
“You know now.” He looked back toward Flinx. “I’ve been watching your shop for you.” Symm went to reassure Mother Mastiff. “You know, making sure no one broke in and tried to steal anything.”
“That was good of you,” Flinx said as they started back toward the street.
“It’s good to see you back, Flinx-boy. I’d given you up not long after you left.”
“Then why have you kept watching the shop?”
The older man grinned. “Couldn’t stop hoping, I guess. What was it all about, anyway?”
“Something illegal that Mother Mastiff was involved in many years back,” Flinx explained. “She didn’t go into the details. Just told me that revenge was involved.”
“Some people have long memories,” Arrapkha said, nodding knowingly. “Since you have returned well and safe, I presume that you made a peace with the people who kidnapped your mother?”
For Love of Mother-Not Page 22