Patrimony (Pip and Flinx)

by Alan Dean Foster

  Also, he had something else in mind.

  “Open rear canopy!” he bellowed, directing the command to the skimmer’s AI.

  Well behind him, a frightened and shaky Bleshmaa flashed her horizontal ocular in his direction. “Open? What fur du such a thing, Skua Mastiff?”

  “Call me Flinx,” he yelled back. If he was going to die, he resolved, he did not want to do so with a lie lying on someone else’s lips. Even a nonhuman’s. Even one who had no lips. “I’m not through fighting back!”

  Though it briefly demurred, the skimmer’s AI finally opened a small section of the rear canopy. Screaming cold wind promptly rushed in to fill the skimmer’s interior. As he stumbled toward the rear of the passenger compartment, Flinx drew his pistol. Inside his jacket, an agitated Pip bumped and twisted against his chest. Unable to unfold and spread her wings, she kept her movements restrained. He knew his companion. Sensing the threat to her master, she would immediately detect the opening in the canopy and zoom out to attack their pursuer. Fast as she was, however, she would quickly be left behind by both speeding craft. Having nearly lost her on several previous occasions on other worlds, he had no intention of losing her here.

  Turning to watch the human, an uncomprehending Bleshmaa fought to keep her balance while clearly wondering what her apparently daft offworld employer had in mind.

  “Cannot confront skimmer-mounted weapons with handgun! Target is tuu far away! Pleaseplease, come back and close canopy!”

  “I’m a pretty good shot,” Flinx shouted back at her. “We have to try something.”

  She was right, of course. At this range and under current conditions, with both craft swerving and bobbing madly, the best pistol shot in the Commonwealth could not hit the skimmer that was shadowing them. Besides which, before it would allow itself to come within range of a hand weapon, its own much heavier armament would blow their own craft to bits.

  If it was fired, he thought determinedly. No doubt whoever was controlling the weapons could not imagine a scenario under which the larger craft would close the gap between them without making use of such an advantage. Flinx, however, could.

  “Reduce speed!” he yelled in the direction of the skimmer’s console.

  Mad he surely was, Bleshmaa must have decided. “Order countermanded!” she gargled hastily in quite serviceable terranglo.

  “Reduce speed!” Flinx repeated, as forcefully as he could. “I am the renter of record here!” The AI should recognize his voice, not Bleshmaa’s, and should respond accordingly.

  Cilia crawled over his lower left arm. “This is matter uv dying, not commerce protocol!”

  “That’s why you need to trust me.” He shrugged her off. “If you have a better idea, I’m listening.” Squinting into the cold air and over the slightly bulged stern of the skimmer, he struggled to level his pistol. Precise aiming would have to wait. At present and though he knew it was right behind them, he could not even see the pursuing craft.

  “Complying,” the AI responded. “Reducing speed. At this time I feel it is appropriate to point out that certain damage is covered by the insurance option that you elected to take at the time of renting. Damage not covered under the present circumstances includes…”

  Flinx ignored the AI’s recitation of what expenses were covered and which he would be responsible for in the event of the skimmer’s destruction. The craft was only following preprogrammed procedure, he knew. As a distraction, it was negligible. It did not prevent him from continuing to hold his weapon aligned with the rear of the vehicle. It did not prevent him from half closing his eyes and concentrating.

  It did not prevent him from projecting.

  Beneath his jacket, Pip’s coils relaxed as she detected her master’s efforts. With only two other sentients in the immediate vicinity, Flinx had no difficulty focusing on the one who was behind the imminent threat. In the swirling, almost freezing atmosphere at the stern of the skimmer it was hard to hold the pistol steady. The weather did not, however, affect the feelings he cast forth as sure and accurate and true as any explosive projectile.

  Secure in his harness, safe from the violent jolts and swings his craft was abiding, a confident and patient Halvorsen suddenly sat bolt upright and blinked. As his skimmer suddenly and unexpectedly closed on its target, he knew he should be firing one or more of its integrated weapons. Instead his hands hovered, palms facing downward, fingers trembling slightly, several centimeters above the pertinent controls. Nor despite straining his brain could he find the right words to activate them using verbal instructions. Had he been wearing an induction headband, it was doubtful that at that moment he could have summoned the will to put forth even a mental command.

  Despite the rapidly increasing proximity of the target, he did not fire. Not because something had suddenly gone wrong with his skimmer’s weapons systems, nor because his quarry was out of range, but because he had, inexplicably, undergone a sudden change of heart. For someone oft accused of not possessing one, the abrupt shift in sentiment was striking.

  His fingers quivered as he sought to depress one of several contact points that would send death in various high-tech forms streaking toward the other craft. Why do such a thing? he found himself thinking. Isn’t there enough misery in the universe? We all of us are going to die soon enough. Even Norin Halvorsen was going to die. Probably in some wretched, depressing hole somewhere, sick and alone, with no one to murmur a kind word or two over his decaying bones. Taking up space better reserved for neutral neutrons, wasting oxygen, contributing nothing to a society of fellow sentients—that was what his life had come to. That was the pitiful summation of his miserable existence. What he had believed passed for enjoyment was nothing more than the instinctive utilization of various primitive stimulations designed to numb his nerve endings. In striving to survive, he had done little more than anesthetize his soul.

  He started to sob. A small, submerged part of him was screaming, shouting its outrage, trying to revive the cool calculating killer that reveled in professional accomplishment, expensive liquor, and cheap women. Normally dominant, this segment of his character had at present been reduced to a small squeak buried beneath a tsunami of despair. Had Halvorsen been able to identify the source of this anguish and gloom he might have had a chance to fight back, to resist it. He could not. He could only suffer beneath the weight of a crushing despondency the likes of which had not affected him since the earliest days of his unspeakably dismal childhood.

  If he was not going to fire, the professional, calculating part of his mind that still functioned insisted, then he needed to back off. Or at least to change course or commence evasive maneuvers of his own. But he failed to issue the necessary orders to implement those actions as well. All he found himself able to do was sit in his harness and sob a steady stream of melancholy whose source remained a mystery to him.

  That source was looming rapidly larger as the pursuing skimmer drew steadily closer to its decelerating target. Standing straight and tall and exposed to the elements in the rear of that craft was a singular slim figure. Staring unblinkingly into the approaching cockpit of the second skimmer, it was holding something tightly in both hands.

  A gun. A hand weapon of a style that was known to Halvorsen but had been modified with a flourish that was new to him. It was not a large gun, but it did not have to be.

  Move! a part of him shouted frantically. Shoot back, dive, climb, do something—or the skinny son-of-a-bitch is gonna etch you a new hairline. Lower down. Wonderingly, Halvorsen found himself wrestling with his own unresponsive body, trying to find the missing will to make his impassive limbs function. Desperation and fear proved strong enough to finally force one hand downward, toward the skimmer’s console and the weapons controls embedded there.

  At the same time, Flinx fired.

  His shot struck Halvorsen’s skimmer just as it started to climb. Penetrating the plexalloy canopy, the beam missed its weeping target. It did, however, pass through a portion of the
craft’s control console. A number of critical connections were instantly severed, melted, or fused. Rising from the console, smoke began to fill the interior of the pursuing skimmer. As a consequence of this damage, it took evasive action by banking away from its quarry far more sharply than its pilot would have preferred. But not before getting off a single blast of its own.

  Subsequent shots went completely wild. Unleashed more with frustration than skill, every one of them went wide. Air was seared, tree-like growths were incinerated, but none came anywhere near the rented skimmer—except for the first one. As he ducked reflexively, Flinx’s carefully wrought emotional outpouring was jolted by the attack. One consequence of this was that he projected even more strongly on his pursuer than he had intended.

  Rattled to the core of his being by the potent emotional projection, Halvorsen tore himself out of his harness with a cry of utter despair. Fully intending to end it all by cracking the skimmer’s canopy and flinging himself outside, he was saved only by the smoke that was now filling the interior. Coughing and choking, he was unable to see his damaged instruments or voice the necessary command. Instead, he stumbled several times before collapsing to the deck. Alternately weeping and coughing, he lay helpless, his right thumb jammed in his mouth, his legs drawn up against his chest in full fetal position.

  Only the planning that was the hallmark of an astute professional saved him. Badly damaged, his craft sought instructions on how to proceed. When none were forthcoming, and perceiving that its master was at present unwilling or unable to respond accordingly, the skimmer’s advanced AI reverted to the installed programming that was designed to deal with just such an emergency. Reversing course, with speed and maneuverability reduced, it headed home.

  That greatly-to-be-desired option was not available to Flinx’s craft. At close range, Halvorsen’s final, agonized shot had severely damaged not only the craft’s instrumentation, but also its power and propulsive systems. Fighting with the manual controls, barking desperate commands in a harried mixture of Tlelian and terranglo, and despite her best efforts, Bleshmaa was unable to halt its sudden, sharp descent.

  The plunge threw Flinx off his feet. Yanking open his jacket, he let Pip out. Freed, she immediately took to the air inside the compartment. She did not try to escape out the opening that still gaped in the rear of the canopy. The hostile mind that had been threatening them was now distant and moving rapidly away. The real and present danger was not one that could be dealt with by her singular abilities.

  Rolling over, Flinx struggled to his feet and staggered forward to rejoin the frantic Bleshmaa. Devoid of the elaborate backups that were built into the Teacher’s skimmer, the simple rental craft was finding it impossible to cope with the damage Halvorsen’s weaponry had inflicted on its vital components. Never far below, the flaring crowns of the great Gestaltian forest loomed steadily larger through the transparent canopy.

  “Pull up, pull up!” As Flinx threw himself back into his seat’s harness, there was no response to his verbal directive. The skimmer’s AI was dead, leaving them entirely on manual control. He looked over at Bleshmaa. “We’re going down—find a flat place to land!”

  Even as he voiced the appeal he could see that he might as well wish for the smooth tarmac of a shuttleport and for its own master AI to take control of their damaged craft and automatically bring it in to a safe, gentle touchdown. The surface below was as thickly forested as any field of ripe grain. Where bare ground showed through, mounds of naked rock thrust sharp stone fingers skyward. Directly ahead, a soaring cliff marked the far side of the valley through which they were rapidly descending. Crumbled scree at its base promised a landing even rougher than that offered by the thick forest below.

  As he became convinced they were going to slam into the granite rock face, Bleshmaa’s cilia executed a frenetic dance on a pair of control contacts. The mortally wounded skimmer shuddered, fell—and turned to the left. Left, left, ever so slowly, until he was certain it was going to impact the snow-streaked black rock ahead.

  Then more valley appeared, cut by white froth. He barely had time to register the abrupt change in terrain when Pip let out a violent hiss somewhere aft of his right shoulder, there came the terrible high-pitched shriek of splintering composite, and the light went away from his eyes.

  Only for a moment. It was soon replaced by diffuse sunshine, the crackling and moaning of disintegrating structure, and an entirely new sound: that of rushing, churning water. Cold it was, and pouring excitedly into the interior of the downed skimmer where portions of the plexalloy canopy had been snapped away. Already it was over his ankles and climbing energetically up his legs. Nor was it the only thing in motion. The skimmer was still moving: erratically, intermittently, but continuously forward. Loud crunching and grinding noises came from below. He could feel the recurring impacts beneath his feet as the splintering craft was systematically torn to pieces by the rocks over which it was being dragged.

  Bleshmaa had managed to set them down on the only relatively flat surface for kilometers around—smack in the center of one of north Gestalt’s innumerable raging rivers. The grating sounds he was hearing came from the skimmer sliding and banging over the unyielding, uneven riverbed.

  The craft slewed suddenly sideways. A fresh incoming torrent struck him in the face. Swallowing some, he choked on the icy flow, shook it off, released himself from his seat’s harness, and began battling his way toward the nearest breach in the canopy. Having no idea how deep the river was, he knew he had to get out before the skimmer filled completely with water. Hovering above him now, immune to such land-bound perils, an anxious Pip hissed encouragement.

  The edges of the fissure in the plexalloy were not sharp, and he was able to grasp both sides with his bare hands. Outside and beyond, a riverbank lined with twisted blue growths any one of which would have stood out starkly in a park on Nur or Earth or Kansastan was gliding past at an uncomfortably swift pace. Gripping the broken canopy tightly, he prepared to pull himself out and swim to shore. A sudden realization stopped him.

  Where was Bleshmaa?

  Cursing silently, he paused in the opening to look back. Because of the rising, rushing water it was difficult to see anything inside the damaged, rapidly submerging skimmer. He shouted, trying to make himself heard above the river’s roar. When no response was forthcoming, he growled silently one more time, then plunged back inside.

  She was halfway out of her harness. It was all that held her upright. It was not necessary to be familiar with Tlelian biology to realize that she was unconscious. In the absence of any eyes to see closed, her limp limbs and utter nonresponsiveness, both verbal and emotional, were proof enough. Wrestling the alien body out of the seat as icy river swirled and surged around them, he slung the flaccid form over his left shoulder. It was surprisingly heavy.

  By now the skimmer had sunk far enough so that water merely poured through the multiple gaps in the shattered canopy instead of rushing in furiously. While it was easier now to make his way outside and onto the intact portion of the sinking craft, the constant damp cold was beginning to overwhelm the ability of his special clothing to counteract it. After all he had been through in his short but hectic life, after defeating menaces both sentient and unthinking, it was sobering to think that he might die from something as primordially austere as hypothermia.

  For the moment, swimming to shore was out of the question. The skimmer was banging and bouncing its way down a succession of Class V rapids that were disturbingly broad in extent. Setting his escort’s body down alongside him, Flinx studied the near shore. Better to pick a spot, however daunting it appeared, and swim for it than wait for the skimmer to sink completely or break up beneath them, leaving him no choice when to make the attempt. Though a good swimmer, he knew that white water and cold would combine to rapidly sap his remaining strength. Once committed he would have to swim hard and fast, as it would be impossible to return to the skimmer. Glancing up, he could only envy Pip. Riding t
he air currents above the river, she effortlessly kept pace with the helpless, sinking transport.

  Whether because it was too low on the emotional scale to be noticed, or because he was cold, tired, and preoccupied, Flinx failed to notice the diving jaslak. As a consequence, he also missed its unique style of attack, whereby it did a complete revolution in the air in order to maximize the impact of the lump of solid bone contained in its tail. Though it missed Flinx’s head and struck his shoulder, it still hit him hard enough to knock him down and dizzy. Feeling himself sliding off the skimmer’s broken, sloping canopy, he fought to hang on and keep from slipping into the river.

  Both eyes focused on the injured potential prey, a second jaslak came diving headlong out of the sky. Trailing its bone-heavy tail behind a pair of broad furry wings, it dove straight at the struggling Flinx. Usually one blow from the club-like tail sufficed to knock a quarry off a rock or out of a tree, but this strange animal floating downstream was larger than the flock’s usual prey. It was clear that it would take several blows, precisely directed, to render it insensible. Only then could all the members of the flock safely descend, to land on the body and pick clean the damp flesh with their protruding, incisor-laden jaws.

  Taking careful aim, the second jaslak spun—and howled in mid-flip as a thin but potent stream of toxin struck not one but both eyes. In acute pain, it brought its wings to its face as it fell toward the river, plummeting harmlessly past a still-dazed Flinx as he pulled himself back up onto the skimmer alongside the motionless Bleshmaa. Still in its service belt holster, his pistol would make short work of his aerial attackers—once he was out of the water and his head had cleared enough for him to activate the weapon and take aim.

  As their comrade splashed into the river and was swallowed by the roaring, boiling foam, other jaslaks folded their wings to their sides and plunged to the attack. It was likely they had never before encountered another flying creature as swift and nimble as the Alaspinian minidrag. Agile as an oversized hummingbird, Pip danced circles around her stymied assailants. Two crashed thuddingly into each other, sending both tumbling into the water, snapping and yowling as they fell. Struck by a second spurt of the flying snake’s venom, another dropped screaming to smash against a protruding boulder.