Mid-Flinx (Pip and Flinx)

by Alan Dean Foster

“Sources and friends.” A small whistling sigh escaped the Counselor Second. “You are not under arrest or restraint, so I cannot compel you to elaborate. Is this to be my reward for coming all this way, and saving you from the attentions of the AAnn in the bargain?”

  “I’m telling you the truth, sir.”

  “I do not doubt that. What I doubt is that you are telling me all of it.”

  “Ask me any question and I’ll try to answer it.”

  “I would rather you were obtuse than clever. It is less slippery. You’re a very interesting young human, Philip Lynx, and I think you are worthy of deeper questioning. Anyone who can spark my staff to debating whether or not evil has mass and propounding equations to prove such a theorem is deserving of deeper questioning.”

  “Come with me to the Home-tree, sir, and I’ll show you answers to questions you haven’t even thought of. The Home-tree is where the locals live. It’s quite a place, one that a person of science like yourself can’t but find fascinating.”

  “You want me to travel to where the local humans live?” Druvenmaquez indicated the greenery visible through a port. “Through that?”

  A dark brown vine had crept over the left side of the port. Tonight, as it did every night, the shuttle’s field cleansers would scrub and scrape clear the rock in the immediate vicinity of its landing struts. For now, though, the vegetation was feverishly trying to colonize this strange new structure. As it did every night.

  “There’s so much here to study, sir.” Flinx leaned forward earnestly, pleased to have succeeded in turning the conversation away from himself, even if only temporarily. “For example, these people do something called emfoling.”

  “Emfoling?”

  “I’ve spoken with their shaman, who is their priest and repository of what scientific knowledge they still remember. It means ’empathetic foliation.’ They believe they have the ability to sense what the plants around them are experiencing.”

  “The plants, you say? Impossible, of course, but an entertaining contribution to human mythology.” He hesitated. “Can you promise to lead me to this Home-tree alive and with all my limbs intact?”

  Flinx smiled. “It’s not a good idea to promise anything on this world, sir. But my escort is an excellent one, and I’ve made it back this far without coming to any harm. As you must already know, the climate here suits the thranx better than it does humans, so you should be even more comfortable on the journey than I. There is some climbing involved—”

  The Counselor started. “Climbing! You know that we are not very skilled climbers.”

  “Nothing you can’t manage, sir,” Flinx hastened to add. “Especially with a little help. And along the way, you and I can talk.”

  Druvenmaquez considered carefully. “A personage of my position—this will have to be cleared with the ship—I admit you tempt me, Philip Lynx. You have interested me ever since I first encountered the report of your meeting with Father Bateleur.”

  Scratching the dozing Pip under her chin with one hand, Flinx reached out with the other to clasp one of the Counselor’s delicate truhands. “Then come with me, sir, and we will talk of green places where life abides and black spaces where less than nothing can exist. And maybe does.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Teal, Enoch, and the others were taken aback by the sight of the Counselor. With his eight limbs and compound eyes, feathery antennae and fused vestigial wing-cases, he was unlike anything they’d ever seen before. They were even more astonished when he addressed them in perfect symbospeech. His pleasant body odor went a long way toward muting concerns.

  Flinx assured them that the thranx were the best friends that humankind had ever had, and that both species had been working closely together for some eight hundred years. But it was only after the furcots had completed a thorough examination of the new arrival and pronounced themselves satisfied that Enoch and the other hunters agreed to take Druvenmaquez along with them on the journey back to the Home-tree.

  The Counselor’s fears soon faded. As Flinx knew he would, the elderly thranx quickly adapted to the hot, humid climate and proved surprisingly adept in the tangle of vegetation. Since he could not pull his body weight up a vine, there were places where he required some assistance, but with furcot muscle and human skill available to help, such temporary obstacles were easily and quickly overcome.

  When they finally reached the Home-tree, after a journey in which the Counselor’s initial apprehension was rapidly replaced by wonder, he was greeted with the same astonishment originally displayed by Teal, Enoch, and the hunters. The children in particular viewed him with a wide-eyed mix of disbelief and uncertainty, which he did his best to overcome.

  For his part, Druvenmaquez marveled at the skill and determination with which these lost humans had adapted to an unremittingly hostile environment. His openness and appealing natural fragrance soon saw him trailed by a mob of laughing, gesticulating children and their bumbling but equally fascinated furcots. Granted the freedom of the Home-tree, he was soon a common sight as he moved easily between dwelling and work site, his compact optical recorder always at the ready. From time to time he would pause in his studies to contact the orbiting Commonwealth peaceforcer Sodwana, using the relay on Flinx’s shuttle to boost the signal from his hand transmitter.

  “An astonishing place,” he told Flinx, “settled by remarkable people. I believe they can be helped and studied simultaneously. Care will need to be taken. I will see to it myself.”

  Flinx smiled at the Counselor. “I know you will, sir.” He hesitated. “I was wondering if you might know the whereabouts of an acquaintance of mine? The Eint Truzenzuzex?”

  Antennae twitched. “That old fraud? Of course I know of him. He’s as much a legend as a fraud. Our society isn’t as tolerant of eccentrics as is that of humans. Some say his stature exceeds his legend. Never having touched antennae with him. I myself cannot say. As to his whereabouts, I have no idea and doubt few do. You say you know him?”

  “From my larval days, yes. I was just wondering.”

  Druvenmaquez sniffed of a bouquet that was growing directly upon the Home-tree’s heartwood. “There has been much wondering going on here lately, young human. We in Science want to know more about your dream. The Sodwana did not come all this way to providentially rescue you from the attentions of curious AAnn. We—I—would like some explanations.”

  “I’m not sure, sir, that I know the questions.”

  “Don’t be circuitous with me, young human!” The Counselor waggled a truhand at him, and Pip raised her head to follow its metronoming movements curiously. “Humans are only just beginning to explore the full potential of their minds—with our help, of course.”

  Flinx looked away, his voice flat. “You want to take me back for study.”

  “We want to know how you know what you know.”

  “I told you: it came to me in a dream.”

  “That’s fine. Dreams are a legitimate subject for study.”

  “Am I under formal detention?”

  The Counselor drew back in horror, which the thranx could express eloquently through body language. “What a notion! You have committed no crime. But having placed yourself in danger, it would not be out of line to say that you may regard yourself as being in protective custody.”

  Flinx turned back to the Counselor. “I fled from the human Coerlis’s unwanted attentions. I avoided the AAnn. If I choose not to comply with your wishes and remain here, there’s nothing you can do about it. You’ll never be able to remove me forcibly from this world.” The confidence with which he delivered these words surprised him.

  The old thranx was eyeing him closely. “I will not dispute that because I do not have the information at hand with which to do so. It would be far better, far more agreeable, if you would consent to cooperate. We seek only knowledge.” He shrugged. “There may be none to gain. As you say, there may be nothing more here to look at than a dream. A dream of physics and ultimate ethics.”<
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  Flinx found himself torn. “Believe me, sir, there’s a lot going on I’d like to know more about myself. I just don’t want to end up like a smear on a slide.”

  “Would you feel more at ease if at all times you remained aboard your ship and myself and my staff on board the Sodwana?”

  Flinx’s expression narrowed. “That would satisfy you?”

  “I did not say that. But I want to work with you, not against you, young human. It would be a beginning, and perhaps it would suffice.”

  “I’m not sure I’m ready to leave here yet.”

  “I can understand that. I am not certain I have any desire to depart immediately myself.” A truhand and foothand gestured in tandem. “There is so much here to learn! The forest is home to a billion secrets.”

  You can’t imagine, Flinx mused silently.

  The Counselor laid the four chitonous fingers of a truhand on Flinx’s forearm. “Consider what I have said. My concern in this is with astronomics. Yours seems to be with evil. If there is any kind of a cojoining here that extends beyond the bounds of metaphysics, is it not worth pursuing? You certainly thought so when you spoke with Father Bateleur.” The fingers squeezed gently. “When you are ready, I hope you will speak as freely with me.”

  He turned and ambled away, heading for a group of women who were cooperatively weaving a large green blanket. The thranx were fascinated by any aspect of human society that seemed to mimic their own.

  Leaving the Counselor to his studies, Flinx wandered deep in thought until he found himself standing by his favorite place within the protected bounds of the Home-tree.

  A knobby gall grew from the inside of one of the immense growth’s subsidiary trunks, forming a flat platform that overlooked a downward-arcing branch some two meters in diameter. The upper surface of the rogue branch was concave, forming a deep groove that ran all the way to the end. The pale green palm-sized leaves that were common to the Home-tree sprouted from the bottom of the branch and both sides, but not from the surface groove.

  Children had made the aberrant offshoot into a playground. Starting at the top, they settled themselves into the natural furrow and embarked on a winding, spiraling, slip-sliding descent of some twenty meters. Where the branch finally grew too narrow to accommodate their speeding forms, it had been sawn off. Dark, congealed sap showed where the cut had healed over.

  Shooting out the bottom of this natural chute like a dart from a snuffler, they slammed into a thick pile of transplanted khoumf plants, both the rose-hued and yellowish varieties. With each impact a puff of delicious perfume filled the air, whereupon the laughing, giggling children would scramble back to their feet and clamber fearlessly back up into the heights of the tree for another run.

  As in everything else, they were accompanied by their individual furcots, who partook of the activity with a roly-poly dignity that always made Flinx smile. Several adult furcots were always on hand to keep watch, presiding over the frenetic proceedings with silent dignity.

  I feel comfortable here, he thought to himself. As comfortable as Pip, sleeping soundly on his shoulder. Could he cooperate with Druvenmaquez enough to satisfy the senior thranx without revealing the secret of himself? That would be the ideal resolution to his present situation. Druvenmaquez was a Counselor Second, and Flinx didn’t delude himself into believing he was cleverer than the thranx academician. Only more aware.

  There was so much he wanted to know! Exploration of what he knew and what he thought he knew would be so much easier and advance so much faster with seasoned help. But he would have to be very careful.

  The all-pervasive warmth he had sensed ever since touching down washed over him; relaxing, calming, reassuring. Emfoling? Or something less, or something more? Since his arrival he’d suffered not one headache, not even a warning throbbing. It was the longest such stretch of cerebral calm he could remember since childhood. This place was good for him. For his head, for his thoughts, for his body, and—if it existed—for his soul.

  Thousands of light-years distant something abominable shifted and roiled in the absence of stars. It was the antithesis of logic and light. If it would only remain where it was, where it had always been, it would be a simple matter to erase it from his thoughts.

  Cold and clear, the unflinching memory lived within him. There was movement out there. In the vicinity of that immeasurable distant horror, matter was stirring. Matter—and other things.

  Leaning forward, he rested his head in his hands, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. All six feet in the air, a young furcot was swooping down the slide on its back, its rear end forming a blunt and not particularly aerodynamic projectile. Laughing deliciously, a little girl was riding it, clinging to its plump green belly. Flanking the chute, her friends cheered her on, while their furcots maintained a certain juvenile decorum that was absent in their human counterparts. The children’s cheers were as loud for the furcot as for the girl.

  What he really wanted, he realized as he observed the carefree play, had not changed. To find out all he could about his origins, and to be left alone. Easy enough to do save for one complication.

  His damnable sense of responsibility.

  If he was right in any measure about what lay out there, at the limits of perception, then long after he was dead and dust, this world and all its wonders would be in dire jeopardy along with every other he’d visited, as well as all those he had not.

  Was that his concern? Did he owe anything to a civilization that had failed to protect him even before he’d been born? What he was now was the result as much of calculation as copulation. An experiment gone awry, an experiment that had outlived the experimenters.

  It was a great deal to expect someone who had not yet turned twenty-one to cope with.

  How long could he keep his secret from the likes of the Counselor Druvenmaquez, from Commonwealth Authority, and from the United Church? There were always aliases, always surgery. More lies to live. There wasn’t a day when his headaches, which was the nervous system lying to itself, didn’t remind him of his singular status. That is, until he’d arrived here.

  Turning to his left and looking down, he considered the triangular, slightly iridescent skull reposing on his shoulder. “How about you, Pip? What do you think?”

  The reptilian head rose a centimeter or so. The flying snake couldn’t reply verbally, but a deeper pulse of warmth washed through Flinx. So different, he reflected, and yet so mentally attuned.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Rising, he abandoned the gall-seat and strode to the top of the slide-branch. The adult furcot resting there glanced at him out of all three eyes. No words passed between them. Only understanding.

  Decisions of great import were not to be taken lightly. That much he had learned from Truzenzuzex and Bran Tse-Mallory.

  Plopping himself down in the chute, urged on by the children, watched by dozens of deep green eyes, he let out a whoop as he launched himself forward on the slick wood, letting his weight and momentum carry him forward. Abandoning her master, Pip rose into the air and followed effortlessly, a bewinged pink and blue halo that shadowed his accelerating progress downward.

  Down, into the beckoning green depths.

  Alan Dean Foster has written in a variety of genres, including hard science fiction, fantasy, horror, detective, western, historical, and contemporary fiction. He is the author of the Star Wars® novel The Approaching Storm. He is also the author of numerous nonfiction articles on film, science, and scuba diving, as well as the novelizations of several films, including Star Wars, the first three Alien films, and Alien Nation. His novel Cyber Way won the Southwest Book Award for Fiction in 1990, the first science fiction work to ever do so.

  Foster’s love of the faraway and exotic has led him to travel extensively. He’s lived in Tahiti and French Polynesia, traveled to Europe, Asia, and throughout the Pacific, and has explored the back roads of Tanzania and Kenya. He has rappeled into New Mexico’s fabled Lechugilla Cave, eaten
panfried pirhana (lots of bones, tastes a lot like trout) in Peru, white-water rafted the length of the Zambezi’s Batoka Gorge, and driven solo the length and breadth of Namibia.

  Foster and his wife, JoAnn Oxley, reside in Prescott, Arizona, in a house built of brick that was salvaged from a turn-of-the-century miners’ brothel. He is presently at work on several new novels and media projects.

  Visit the author at his Web site at www.alandeanfoster.com.

  Books By Alan Dean Foster

  The Black Hole

  Cachalot

  Dark Star

  The Metrognome and Other Stories

  Midworld

  Nor Crystal Tears

  Sentenced to Prism

  Splinter of the Mind’s Eye

  Star Trek® Logs One-Ten

  Voyage to the City of the Dead

  . . . Who Needs Enemies?

  With Friends Like These . . .

  Mad Amos

  Parallelites

  THE ICERIGGER TRILOGY:

  Icerigger

  Mission to Moulokin

  The Deluge Drivers

  THE ADVENTURES OF FLINX OF THE COMMONWEALTH:

  For Love of Mother-Not

  The Tar-Aiym Krang

  Orphan Star

  The End of the Matter

  Bloodhype

  Flinx In Flux

  Mid-Flinx

  Reunion

  THE DAMNED

  Book One: A Call to Arms

  Book Two: The False Mirror

  Book Three: The Spoils of War

  THE FOUNDING OF THE COMMONWEALTH

  Phylogenesis

  Dirge

  Diuturnity’s Dawn

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  www.randomhouse.com/BB/ebooks.html.

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  www.delreydigital.com.