Subar stared at him. “Bystanders? What about me getting hurt?”
“I was also curious,” Flinx continued matter-of-factly, “to know who took your friends and who wanted all of you back.”
Subar remembered. “Piegal Shaeb,” he moaned. “Why couldn’t it have been some small-time smuggling setup? No wonder they found our priv place so fast.”
Despite Subar’s obvious alarm, Flinx was not intimidated. He had just finished dealing with the likes of Lord Dominic Rose on Repler. If Subar’s reaction was to be believed, on Visaria it was apparently this Shaeb individual who floated some weight. It was the way of things. On small worlds, small-time lawbreakers assumed an importance all out of proportion to their actual significance. Though he did not know this Piegal Shaeb personally, he was self-evidently one more smear on the general worth of humanity. One more reason not to sacrifice his own future on its behalf.
Subar knew nothing of what was meandering through his tall friend’s mind, however. He knew only that he was still alive and that his continued freedom was due to yet another exhibition of this strange offworlder’s unplumbed abilities. Notwithstanding, something continued to puzzle him.
“You used a gun. You used a murk bomb. You used your pet. Why didn’t you just—affect them? The way you did Chal and Dirran at the priv place.” He did not ask why Flinx didn’t repeat the feat he had performed at the building where Zezula and the others had been held captive. Obviously, the release of that kind of energy in such a confined space would be impossible to exploit without risk to the person propagating it.
“There was a humanoid robot among our captors,” Flinx explained. “Very expensive, very effective, difficult to identify. Those who picked us up were taking no chances. What I can sometimes do is only effective on sapient organics. Automatons are immune.” Reaching down, he stroked the sinuous shape now sequestered beneath his shirt. “They’re generally immune to Pip’s venom, too.”
Now that his breathing was coming more easily, Subar felt comfortable slowing his stride. “At least they sized us out on the street. That means if there are more of them, they don’t know where we’re staying.”
Flinx was less sanguine. “If that ordinary pursue crew could track us to this neighborhood this quickly, there will be others close behind them. We can’t stay here any longer.” He maintained his constant scan of their immediate surroundings. “We’re going to have to move,” he added distastefully. That was a pity. He had grown fond of the hotel, if not Malandere itself.
Subar looked up at him, entreating. “You’ll help us, won’t you? At least till we can replant somewhere else.”
There was no reason for him to do so, Flinx knew. He owed nothing to this adolescent and his friends. Nothing at all. He had been planning to forsake Visaria in a day or two. High in orbit, the waiting Teacher beckoned. He longed for its familiar surroundings; for the knowledgeable, reassuring voice of ship-mind; for the compliant, accommodating surrounds of the landscaped central lounge. He had come to this outpost world to take the measure of humdrum humankind and had found it wanting. There was no reason for him to remain a day longer, even if his life was not in danger.
Except that he remembered a certain adolescent youth on an even more isolated world called Moth. One who had suffered similar unsought attention and had survived only through perseverance, luck, native intelligence, and his own determination. That and a certain raw, powerful, inexplicable Talent that he would just as soon have been rid of. On more than one occasion, that sorely disadvantaged youth had endured only through the help of others. Other mundane humans.
Looking down at the imploring yet manipulative face staring up at him, he was not at all certain that this Subar deserved such help. But he felt that at least one other local did. There was no reason to inform Subar of this, of course. The youth would either discover it for himself, or remain the poorer for not doing so.
For all the dangers he had survived and all the obstacles he had overcome, his adolescence on Moth had been one of unending excitement and revelation. It all seemed so long ago.
Maybe, he told himself in a momentary flash of candor, what he really wanted was for at least a day or so to relive that exhilarating time—however irrational and retrograde such a desire might be.
Certainly the ever-prosaic ship-mind of the Teacher would think that was the case.
CHAPTER
14
If Piegal Shaeb had been unhappy before, his reaction upon receiving the latest information concerning the small group of youths who had insulted, robbed, and defied him now verged on the apoplectic.
He did not make his feelings visible, of course. There was no screaming, no ranting and raving. It was not his way. Shaeb was a shut Shell, a world unto himself. Only a certain firming around the mouth and at the forehead, a barely perceptible tension in his words, betrayed that anything was out of the ordinary. Even his closest associates would have been hard put to remark any difference.
Inside, however, Shaeb was incensed. More than revenge, more than retribution, a correction was in order. Harmony had to be restored. In order for that to happen, he needed to learn precisely and without possibility of equivocation exactly what the hell was going on.
Street scrawn did not blatantly scrim one of his properties and get away with it. One of their slightly older friends did not penetrate a secure facility, kill all those on duty, and free the perpetrators of the original outrage. It made no sense. For yet another time he called forth the dimensional clarifications based on the sensor recordings that had been taken from the building where the holding cell had been located. They portrayed, in as much detail as possible, an unidentified young man; a much shorter younger one; a slender young woman; and the taller intruder’s distinctive winged pet. Not a single weapon was in evidence.
With an irritated wave of a hand he replaced the view floating in the room with the one that showed the aftermath of the trio’s intrusion: fleeing captives, holed wall, dead underlings. Separating the two views there was only the mysterious flash and its accompanying concussion. How had the insufferable transposition from view one to view two been accomplished? People he paid to shed light on such things had come up with lame explanations at best. A concealed pulse or sonic weapon could have hurled the Sakuntala through the wall and the human operatives into the ceiling. Neither, however, offered a credible explanation for the mysterious flare.
Identification of the youthful tall intruder had so far proven impossible. There were no records of him in any Shell sybfile anywhere on Visaria. Therefore he was either a genius at identity masking, or possibly a visiting offworlder. Though not yet ready to discard any explanation, Shaeb found himself leaning toward the former. At least it offered some rationale for the stranger’s association with the other young scrims. For an offworlder to inexplicably take their side made no sense at all.
But then, he reminded himself for the umpteenth time, nothing about this nasty and hard-to-resolve matter made any sense.
Even if the tall youth was some kind of rogue professional, his taking the side of the imprisoned youngsters was difficult to rationalize. Unless, Shaeb told himself, the other youth had somehow managed to gather together enough cred to hire a pro. Still, it was a bold (or reckless) professional who would take the cause of a bunch of street scrims against the Underhouse of Shaeb. Unless he had been kept in the dark about whose interests he was contesting. That possibility, at least, made a strained if contorted kind of sense.
If it also constituted the actual explanation, Shaeb decided, then it might be possible to make contact with this independent operator and explain to him the unfortunate error he had made. That done, any sensible professional would seek to correct his mistake by turning in, or selling back, his younger employers to the offended Shaeb. Gazing at the projections, such thoughts made him feel better. He had come up with a course of action that could be pursued.
But before the young unknown independent could be inveigled, he first had to b
e identified and contacted. So far, Shaeb’s underlings had been unable to accomplish this. A consequence, he told himself with a resigned sigh, of having to rely on the labored mental exertions of fools.
Time would probably resolve the situation. It usually did. But he was impatient as well as irate. The vile scrawn were not the only ones who had access to superior outside help.
A second wave of his hand banished the projections from the desk. Speaking aloud, he addressed the inner sanctum’s omnipresent AI. “I’m going out. If anyone inquires, I am indisposed until tomorrow morning.”
“Very good, Piegal,” the AI responded. “Will you be requiring transport?”
“Yes. Solo and discreet, please.”
“No escort? You are always a target, Piegal.”
“I know that,” he replied touchily. “I will not go out without being suitably masked.”
“As you desire.” The AI was programmed to be compliant, not querulous. Unlike some of its cybernetic brethren.
The residence occupied the top floor of a presumptuous twenty-story structure in one of Malandere’s best residential neighborhoods: home to well-to-do merchants, heads of municipal and planetary departments, vit personalities, successful artists, and more. The cream, such as it was, of Malanderean and to a lesser extent Visarian society.
Having been informed of the imminent arrival of his circumspectly anonymous visitor, the owner had instructed his residence’s AI accordingly. The apartment AI proceeded to communicate directly with the incoming vehicle. Identification, security arrangements, and arrival protocol thus having being performed without the interpolation of slow-moving organics, Piegal Shaeb’s transport was admitted to the subterranean garage without delay or incident.
Ascending the center of the building via one of its multiple lifts, the visitor’s personal path proved as smooth and uneventful as that of his vehicle. Once at the top, the lift’s door opened into a spacious living area steeped in knowledge and good taste. The internally lit, climate-controlled wall of precious real books was proof enough of the owner’s preferences. Holding a softly humming glass of golden, frothy liquid in one hand, he flicked back the oversized sleeve of his richly embroidered silket and advanced to greet his guest.
“Good day, Piegal,” he offered courteously.
“I wish it were so, Shyvil.” Exiting the lift, Shaeb pushed past the Malandere Municipal Authority’s senior situations analyst and into the living area, where he appropriated unbidden a seat on a lounge upholstered with the glossy dark blue skins of several rare Visarian animals.
Bemused and curious in equal measure, Theodakris settled himself into the chair opposite. Below, to his right and to the left of his visitor, green space and mathematically interlaced waterways were visible through the floor-to-ceiling transparent wall. The elegant landscaping formed part of the private parkland that separated one multistory residence building from its equally expensive twin.
“I’m sorry you’re not having a good day.” Theodakris smiled encouragingly. “My place is secured. You can remove that sprayon if you like.” He appreciated his guest’s prudence in masking his face and true identity for the purpose of the call. Having the image of a visiting Piegal Shaeb recorded for posterity by the building’s multiple security sensors could, at some time in the future, possibly prove counterproductive. Both men were great believers in preventive preemption. It was a caution they had discrete reasons to share.
Impatient as usual, Shaeb waved off the offer. “I am fine, thank you. Quite used to wearing different faces.”
“Both in person and in business.” Theodakris smiled a second time.
“It is business that brings me here now,” Shaeb informed him.
Theodakris gave a slight shrug as he sipped at his drink. The golden froth purred. “I didn’t think it was a social call. Not at this time of day. What can I do for you, Piegal?”
The master of the Underhouse of Shaeb reached into a pocket and removed a tiny sphere. Leaning forward over the free-form table hewn from a single crystal of pale green sphene, he handed it to his host. “For a start, identify someone for me.”
Theodakris took the sphere. Positioning it over the center of the table, he murmured a coded command. A hole opened in the center of the translucent slab. Irregular in outline, it looked like a melting mouth. Accompanied by a barely audible hum, the sphere sank within.
Settling back in the chic and extremely expensive chair fashioned from plaited metal, Theodakris looked across the table at his guest. “The customary ‘consulting fee’ will apply.”
“Together with the usual concomitant favors; yes, I know.” Shaeb neither leaned back nor relaxed. In fact, the usually controlled Underhouse master looked as stressed as Theodakris had ever seen him. Something serious was afoot. The senior analyst went so far as to set his glass aside.
“Since your visit is not social, I presume your need for advanced identification is a matter of some urgency.”
Shaeb nodded. There was no need to hide anything from the senior analyst. It was not possible, anyway. “One of my local ventures recently suffered a hostile intrusion. Numerous articles of considerable value were taken. Subsequently, attempts were made to market them.”
Theodakris did not try to conceal his surprise. “I’d think your reputation would be enough to protect your interests.”
Shaeb offered a diffident wave. “The boosters were almost as youthful as they were clever. In the end, they were undone by a combination of hubris and inexperience. It apparently never occurred to them that any fence on Visaria capable of moving the kind of goods they stole would also have contact with me. It was not difficult to pick them up. Under appropriate questioning, the survivors speedily divulged every detail of their plot.” He paused. “One has to admire their audacity, however ultimately fatal it would prove to be.
“Only one member of the group, the youngest, succeeded in escaping incarceration. Everything being under control and the merchandise recovered, I put it out of my mind.” Shaeb’s immobile expression shifted ever so faintly into a frown. “Then something unexpected happened. I dislike the unexpected. It disrupts routine.”
“A kindred sentiment,” Theodakris declared.
“The three surviving scrims were freed by the youngest member of their group, acting in concert with a single outsider. I am tending more and more to believe that he is an offworlder, though I as yet have no proof of that.”
“The reason being,” Theodakris concluded, “that no local professional would go up against you.”
A nod, no less languid than the frown that accompanied it. “Common sense aside, there are rogue operators who occasionally are too broke, too indifferent, or too unsane to act rationally. This was no ordinary operative, however. Despite his apparent youth, unmistakable in the sensor recordings”—the Underhouse Master gestured at the hole in the table—“he somehow succeeded in overcoming a quartet of my best people, including one very expensive alien mercenary. So I am doubly plumbed—by the loss of four valued subordinates as well as that of those who committed the original violation.” Thin lips tightened perceptibly. To anyone who knew Shaeb, it was the equivalent of a wild-eyed scream.
“I want the at-large scrims back, to face the justice due them, and I most especially want this unknown operative.”
Though he could sympathize with his guest’s restrained fury, Theodakris still thought him overwrought. “Slacken, Piegal. Anyone as proficient at his art as you depict should be known. If he’s not in the city files, he’ll be described elsewhere in the planetary Shell.”
Voicing a command brought forth a virtual panel in front of his chair. Sitting up straight, the senior analyst leaned forward and began weaving his hands through the glowing, brightly colored configurations. Recognizing him, they responded.
Shaeb looked on with interest. Though he had made ample use of Theodakris’s connections in the past, he had never been present when the senior analyst was actually at work.
; “It seems foolish to wonder, but I presume this particular search cannot be traced back to you.”
Peering at his guest through the hovering virtual as he worked, Theodakris smiled. “I wouldn’t enter secure sections of the Visarian Shell unless I could ensure privacy through misdirection.” He gestured at the hovering panel he was working with. “I set up this line a long time ago. No one will even be able to tell that the sybfiles in question have been accessed.”
Within the table, the information pellet Shaeb had handed over was a rotating blur, spinning at an incredible speed. Precisely focused light extracted information from within. Data was channeled, transshipped, compared. As an adjunct to the search that was being run, a one-third life-sized image of the subject appeared as a separate projection above another part of the supremely functional table. Plainly compiled from several sensor sources, it was occasionally less than flawless. The portrayed individual was shown standing, speaking, and moving. So was a certain unidentified small flying creature.
Something jarred Theodakris’s attention, as if he had been slapped by an invisible hand, hard. His hands stopped working the panel. Hurriedly, he waved it aside, shoving sharply to his right the virtual instrumentation that was partially blocking his view of the projection. Periodically refreshing itself, the hovering image was of a lanky young man with red hair and green eyes. Occasionally the serpentine flying creature darted in and out of the projection.
Though the senior analyst said nothing, his perceptive visitor immediately noticed the change. “Something about this distasteful scrim intrigues you?”
“Intrigues me?” Leaning back, Shaeb slapped both palms down on his thighs. “Oh, this is too wonderful, Piegal! Too marvelous to believe! You see, I have for some days now been debating whether to seek out this very individual myself. And here you have brought him to my notice anew!” His tone turned suddenly, and unexpectedly, solemn. “Why, it’s almost as if this individual and I were somehow bound together by a disdainful Fate.”
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