Patrimony

by Alan Dean Foster

  Continuously adjusting itself to his stabilizing body temperature, the physiosensitive blanket beneath which he was presently reclining backed off another fraction of a degree. His entire body was numb—but for a change it was just from fatigue, not from cold. Blinking once, he turned slightly to his left on the padded couch to examine his unexpected but welcome new environs. His muscles protested even this modest exertion.

  The room was larger than it needed to be. Taking the shape of a gently curving dome reflecting unmistakable Tlelian influences, the ceiling was high enough to accommodate the tallest visitor. Lined with irregularly shaped gray and green tiles, its means of support was cunningly concealed. Some of the tiles had been randomly silvered so that they shimmered like mother-of-pearl. Indirect light from hidden sources enlivened these with sparkle. Sealed portals off to left and right doubtless led to other rooms.

  Directly across from where he was lying, a crackling blaze filled a traditional triangular Tlel stone fireplace. Though its function was likely more decorative than necessary, he welcomed the supplementary heat. Everything else in the room shouted contemporary technology. The presence of the wood fire was more a testament to the owner’s aesthetic tastes than to any need.

  Replication artwork of a high order decorating the walls indicated that he was in the presence of someone who possessed a measurable degree of cultural sophistication as well as good taste. In addition to copies of famous works drawn from the history of human creativity there were also a few striking Tlel originals. A pair of large, comfortable chairs were angled toward the fireplace, extending an invitation to contemplate the wood fire blaze that, in its primitive fashion, constituted a work of art in itself.

  As he let his attention skim over his surroundings, Flinx recalled the circumstances that had brought him to this place. Most recently, he remembered little beyond being picked up off the snow, carried a short distance, and unceremoniously dumped onto some form of transportation. This had been followed by an indeterminate period of unexpectedly smooth riding. The steady, gentle vibration had combined with his advanced state of fatigue to put him almost instantly to sleep. How long he had reposed in that state of blissful insensibility he did not know. Now fully awake and aware once more, he was immediately cognizant of more than just his physical surroundings.

  First and foremost, he sensed the presence of another sentient. Reaching out, Flinx probed for emotions. He touched on them without difficulty or opposition. At present they were diverse and nonspecific. What was more important was that they were indisputably human.

  Try as he might, he could not keep his heart from racing as a figure appeared in the right-hand doorway and entered the room. He was just as Rosso Eustabe had described him: tall, though not as tall as Flinx, with dark eyes to match his close-cropped black hair. Well-built beneath his pale yellow, loose-fitting, one-piece winter garb. Skin almost the same shade of olive as Flinx’s own, though it was impossible to tell if the color was natural or the result of cosmetic enhancement. A neatly trimmed white spade beard ran from beneath his nose to end in a point below his chin. Eustabe hadn’t mentioned a beard. Possibly an oversight on his informant’s part, or perhaps a recent addition.

  It would be more than just slightly ironic, Flinx reflected as he stared, if the man who had rescued him turned out to be his own father.

  Walking over to the fire, the man used a small manipulator to adjust the position of several blazing logs. Fire-weakened wood crumbled in on itself, allowing a shower of sparks to escape up the flue. Primitive sight, primitive sound. Turning, the man noticed Flinx gazing back at him. Without hesitation the older man reached down, picked a pistol up off a table that was blocked from Flinx’s view by one of the chairs, and calmly aimed its business end at the lanky figure occupying the couch.

  Looking to her master for direction as she sensed a surge in emotion, Pip barely lifted her head. If Flinx’s feelings were not roiled, there was no reason for her to be alarmed. Closing her eyes, she resumed her nap.

  Her perception was not mistaken. Flinx saw no cause for alarm. If the man wanted to shoot him, he could easily have done so when Flinx lay semi-conscious at his feet somewhere out in the snow. Nor did his host’s emotions betray any hint of overt hostility or aggression. There was wariness, yes, but that was perfectly understandable. He knew nothing of the lean and unblinking visitor lying on the couch. Had their situations been reversed, Flinx would have been equally cautious, though he would not have been so quick to bring a gun into the equation.

  Of course, he had Pip.

  Though the man’s voice was genial enough when he finally spoke, his tone was clipped, and the gun constituted a rather severe form of punctuation. “What are you gaping at? Who are you, what are you doing out here alone, and what do you want?”

  “I wasn’t alone.” Flinx chose to answer the easiest part of the question first. “I was with friends. Tlel friends. I was traveling with them.”

  Behind the man, the blaze in the fireplace popped noisily. The muzzle of the pistol did not waver. “I didn’t see any Tlel.”

  Flinx swallowed. “Avalanche got them all. In the canyon. My friends, their gaitgos, nearly all the supplies, everything. They were—good people.”

  His host grunted softly. “The Tlel are like any other sentient species. Some good, some bad. I’ll grant that on balance they seem happier than most. Which is something, when you consider how inhospitable is a good chunk of their home planet. Well as they’ve adapted, Commonwealth membership has still been a godsend to them. Right from first contact they were smart enough to recognize the potential benefits, accept them, and run with them.” He gestured meaningfully with the pistol. “Decent little civilization they’ve built up here.”

  “I’ve seen that they’re very welcoming of settlers, which is unusual,” Flinx commented.

  “Yes. Most intelligent species dislike the idea of having other sentients living permanently among them. Not the Tlel. In that, they’re a lot like the thranx.”

  While the small talk was stimulating, there was one thing Flinx felt he could not put off any longer. “Thank you for saving my life.”

  “Somebody needed to. You were doing a pretty piss-poor job of it.” The older man nodded to himself. “Though if you were traveling with Tlel it explains how you made it as far as the pass. I’m sorry about your friends. Lucky for you I was out checking traps.”

  “Traps?” Flinx blinked. Pip opened her eyes.

  “The Tlel aren’t the only sentients on this world who take hunting seriously. Call me atavistic, but there’s something soul-satisfying about bending Nature to one’s purpose.”

  Flinx wondered what lay behind those black eyes besides cool self-control. “Bending—or twisting?”

  His host frowned. “There’s a difference?” When Flinx did not respond, the man continued. “Anyway, once I put a dozen or so kerveks out of their squabbling misery the rest scattered quickly enough. I dumped you on the crawler and brought you back here.” With his free hand he indicated the dozing minidrag. “Your pet there gave me a bit of a start when it peeked out from under your shirt. Since it ignored me, I ignored it, and we got along fine for the remainder of the trip back.”

  Reaching down, Flinx stroked his pet’s iridescent spine. Folded against her sides, her wings quivered slightly. “Her name’s Pip. She sensed you meant me no harm.”

  “I suppose she must have.” Flinx’s host did not realize that his young guest was being literal. “How are you feeling? You can’t stay here, of course. I place quite a high value on my privacy.”

  “Sorry to have intruded.” Where another might have been offended, Flinx kept his tone carefully neutral. “I feel okay. Better than I expected to after half freezing to death.” Reaching up, he rubbed the back of his neck.

  “Better than you have any right to. I pumped two ampoules of Refreshain into your gut. That should keep your system going until this evening, by which time the transport I’ve arranged for you is due t
o arrive and take you away. Since I don’t know where you came from or where you’d prefer to go, I took the liberty of designating Tlossene as a destination. From there you can arrange transportation to any point on the planet.” His expression did not vary. “You can pay? If not, the government has an emergency fund that can be tapped for evacuating stranded backcountry travelers.” Reaching down, he picked up a tumbler from the same concealed table as the gun and swallowed some of the metallic container’s contents.

  “You’ve only answered a third of my question.”

  Pulling aside the blanket, Flinx sat up and swung his legs off the side of the couch. As he met the other man’s gaze Flinx tried to fathom what, if anything, was going on behind those ebon pupils. All his life he’d tried to imagine the possibilities of the moment that now loomed immediately before him: the ramifications, the import, the potential emotional resonance. Strangely disconnected, he felt as if he should be feeling something else, something more. Hope, joy, anger, relief, sadness, fear, desperation. Love.

  Instead, he felt nothing beyond an abiding hope. That was, he decided, eminently reasonable and rational. The individual standing before him might be nothing more than just another émigré artist; timidly introverted at best, violently antisocial at worst. While Flinx realized that his emotions might jump the gun to make certain assumptions, the rational part of his mind would not. Could not. The time for resolving the two was—now.

  “My name is…” Astonishing himself, he hesitated briefly. “…Flinx.”

  Brows drew together as the other man frowned at him. “Flinx? Just one name? That’s unusual.”

  Flinx nodded. “You ought to know—Anayabi.”

  As expected, this revelation sparked the first stir of deeper emotion within his host. “I thought there must be something awkward involved to motivate someone like yourself to travel out this way. Can we now assume that at least a part of your journey involved coming to see me?”

  “Not a part,” Flinx corrected him. “All of it.”

  The hand holding the gun steadied. “How do you know my name, where I live? What do you want with me, Mr. Flinx?”

  “Not Mr. Just Flinx. If anyone should be calling someone mister, it’s me.”

  His host was growing visibly impatient. “You’re not making sense. I don’t much care for people who are deliberately mysterious.”

  “I’m not trying to be mysterious.” Flinx took a deep breath. “I’m looking for my father. Without going into a lot of detail right away, I have reason to believe you—might be him.”

  Anayabi was one of those rare individuals who always seem to be ready for anything—but it was obvious he was not ready for that. His expression betrayed his surprise and confusion as clearly as did his emotions. After a long, incredulous pause, he finally managed to articulate a reply.

  “You lay out in the cold too long. You can only hope the damage isn’t permanent.”

  “If it is,” Flinx replied slowly, “maybe you can find a way to fix me. To improve me.”

  Still the other man refused to bite. Or maybe, Flinx mused, the bait he had extended had no attraction for his host. Having come this far at the sacrifice of time, money, and a sorrowfully large number of now deceased friends, he was not about to give up meekly.

  “My real name is Philip Lynx. I am an unmindwiped, unreconstructed, surviving experiment of the outlawed, edicted eugenics association that called itself the Meliorare Society. One of at least two known such survivors. My mother was a Terran lynx named Ruud Anasage. My father—my father is known to me only as the sperm donor. I’ve been looking for him, trying to discover his identity, for a very long time. Research leads me to believe that you could possibly be him. Research, and the dying testimony of citizen Shyvil Theodakris of Visaria. Whose real name, whose Meliorare name, was Theon al-bar Cocarol.”

  Visually, Anayabi’s expression did not change. Verbally, he responded straightaway with, “All of that means nothing to me.” Emotionally—emotionally, he convulsed. It was as potent a conflicted upwelling of sentiments as Flinx had ever perceived. Beyond subterfuge now, he challenged the other man’s denial head-on.

  “You’re lying.” Having slithered down to his lap, Pip was now wide awake and alert, her attention focused exclusively on the man holding the pistol.

  Anayabi let out a snort of disgust. “I save your life, and ten minutes after regaining consciousness you’re calling me a liar.” He made a show of checking a chronometer. “The sooner that transport gets here and you’re gone, the better I’ll like it. And you can be sure I’ll think twice about picking up the next fool I find stumbling around in this country.”

  Having confessed, however concisely, his personal history, Flinx saw no reason to hold back now. His whole life had been pointed toward, had been leading up to, this confrontation.

  “I know that you’re lying because I can read your emotions. That’s my Talent. Experiment Twelve-A’s Talent. I’m an Adept.”

  A moment in time passed during which a great deal was said even though nothing was spoken. After, Anayabi did not so much crack as subside. When his lips finally parted again, the voice that emerged was altered from what had gone before. It was still firm, still resolute, but at the same time subdued. The same held true for his emotions. Voice and feelings and posture pooled to put Flinx in mind of a prizefighter who had taken one too many punches, was barely able to stand within the fighting cube, and could do nothing more except wait for the final blow to land.

  “Theon Cocarol.” Anayabi was slowly shaking his head. “Hadn’t thought of him in—years. Many years.” From staring into the distance, he now looked up and across at his guest, seeing him in an entirely new light. “Dead, you say?”

  Flinx nodded. There was nothing to be gained and possibly much to be lost by going into detail concerning the means and manner of the other surviving Meliorare’s recent passing. “He told me that he knew where my father was. Gestalt, he said. That was all the information on the matter I managed to get out of him before he died. So I came here, did my best to initiate a search based on some preconstructed paradigms, and interviewed a lot of potential candidates. Too many, in retrospect.” He sat a little straighter on the couch. “Then you came to my notice.”

  He expected the inquisitive Anayabi to inquire how that singular revelation eventuated. Instead his host eyed him with fresh curiosity. “You really are who you claim to be, aren’t you?” Flinx nodded, just once. “Then you’re not a peaceforcer or other government or Church agent, here to arrest me? You really are just on some kind of insane quest to try to find your paternal parent?”

  Flinx replied softly, “Insanity has nothing to do with it. If you could read my emotions the way I can read yours, you wouldn’t be asking that question or couching it in such terms.”

  Sitting down in and swinging around on one of the large chairs, Anayabi rested the pistol on his right thigh. For a long time he just sat staring at the tall young man seated across the room from him. Occasionally, he would shake his head and an odd expression would momentarily transform his features. Emotional resonance aside, Flinx was unable to tell if this was a grin or a grimace. Anayabi’s corresponding feelings likewise remained ambiguous.

  “Maybe I can’t read your emotions, Twelve-A, but I can see your solemnity and I can sense your desperation. It’s all true, then. You knew Theon. You are familiar with a certain significant amount of your personal history. You know about the Society. And you’re sharp enough and smart enough to have found me.” He shook his head more strongly. “I didn’t think anyone would ever find me here, in the northlands of an unimportant incorporated world like Gestalt.”

  “I wouldn’t have either,” Flinx told him, “if not for Cocarol.”

  The placidness went out of Anayabi’s voice, to be replaced by the steel Flinx had encountered earlier. His host’s voice dropped to a growl. “Theon always was one to favor the grand gesture. The old bastard could have done me a favor by keeping his dying mouth s
hut.”

  “Maybe he wanted you to see that one of your experiments had survived the Commonwealth crackdown.”

  “Maybe, maybe…,” Anayabi muttered. “So you’re an empath—you can read emotions. I can’t recall what the specific objectives were for the Twelve line. It was all so long ago…”

  “Not so very long.” Flinx’s voice was taut, barely controlled. “Only twenty-seven years.”

  “Twenty-seven years,” Anayabi echoed more calmly. “An empathic Adept. What do you know.” His emotions shifted in a way Flinx did not like. “There should be more. Or at least something else. Tell me, of what else are you capable?”

  “Nothing, insofar as I know,” Flinx lied. He lied without hesitation and without thinking. It was easy. He’d been doing it ever since he was old enough to realize that he was different. “Answer my question. I have to know. Are you my father, Anayabi of the Meliorares?”

  The man who years ago had fled to out-of-the-way Gestalt in order to avoid the relentless hounding of Commonwealth justice sat pondering silently. When he finally deigned to reply, his words were accompanied by a slight nod.

  “Yes, Philip Lynx. Twelve-A. I am your father.”

  Flinx’s heart missed a beat, his thoughts going momentarily and uncharacteristically blank. Before he could respond, Anayabi continued.

  “One of them, that is. In a manner of speaking. After a fashion of science.”

  From unguarded elation, Flinx was plunged into a vortex of bewilderment. “I—what are you trying to say?”