Patrimony (Pip and Flinx)

by Alan Dean Foster

  Time to rest.

  Was he still moving downslope? Was the nearby grumbling that of the river that had swallowed his skimmer so long ago, or did the rising rumble exist only in his ears, in his head?

  He straightened slightly and strained his eyes against the muted daylight. Ahead he could see only alien flora, rock outcroppings, scatterings of half-melted snow that bled pink. But with his erratic Talent still apparently functioning he thought he perceived something else. Something new.

  Emotion. Not human—even in his seriously debilitated condition he was certain of that—but arising from a sentient source. It was off to his right, away from the river that had served as his guide ever since the crash. He tried to bring some coherency to his thoughts. What kind of guide had the river been? Cold and indifferent. He could continue to follow it, but for how much longer?

  The faltering feeling came again, not filling his mind so much as teasing it. Was that anxiety he perceived? Or determination? It was often difficult to be sure he was interpreting alien emotions correctly. In his present situation, however, it was not vital that he infer them accurately: it was only important that they were.

  The river could guide him, but it could not save him. Reaching a decision, he turned to his right and started in the direction of the emotions he was convinced he had detected. He had gone less than half a kilometer when they began to grow noticeably stronger, validating his choice. He had not quite completed the first kilometer in their direction when his shivering legs finally gave out, and he collapsed.

  He had been fortunate most of his life. That luck stayed with him at least in some small measure when he fell. Instead of the hard ground to either side, he landed in a patch of soft snow that lay directly in front of him. This time when he tried to get up, he only managed to raise his torso slightly off the ground. When his arms refused to obey him and finally gave out, his resultant slump was utter and complete, as much mental as physical.

  It was not so much that he minded dying, he realized as he lay there unmoving. He just did not want to die in a cold place.

  Pip tried fluttering in front of him, beating at his face with her wings. When that failed to rouse him, she landed on his back, slithered forward, and used her pointed tongue to flick rapidly and repeatedly at his face. He tried to generate the kind of emotions necessary to reassure her, but in his enfeebled state managed to project only a weak smile. Bit by bit the air around him, the snow and soil beneath, seemed less cold than they had when he had first fallen.

  She stayed with him for almost an hour, warming his face with her coils, licking at him repeatedly. Except for the slow rise and fall of his chest, he did not move. Finally she rose, circling above him as she gained height. She hovered there for a while, watching, looking down. Then she turned and glided away to the west, the chromatic blur of her wings diminishing rapidly among the blue growths.

  Overhead, a single pale yellow shape settled into the crown of an indigo trunk. Sporting dozens of tapering, centimeter-wide wings, it trained eyes like black ball bearings on the prone, motionless figure far below. Rafts of needles protruding from its four gripping feet flexed expectantly. Within its spade-shaped jaws, small razors dripped acidic saliva. As it sat staring fixedly downward, it was joined by another of its kind. The pair fussed for a moment, each reluctant to make room for the other. They were swiftly joined by a third, then two more. All focused their single-minded attention on the still-breathing but unmoving shape below. They were in no hurry.

  They had time.

  CHAPTER 8

  With long, slender arms the length of his body, Zlezelrenn did not have to bend over to adjust the bottom of his leggings. Prehensile cilia coiled around the rear straps and tugged them tight. While the leggings that covered his lower limbs were striped and swiped in the traditional patterns of his clan, the fabric of which they had been fashioned was wholly artificial. In fact, the material had not even been woven on Silvoun. The colorful synthetic textile had been imported from some far-off world in the sky whose name Zlezelrenn did not know. Its alien origin did not matter to him. While Elders among his sociel decried the loss of ancient crafts, the younger Zlezelrenn and his contemporaries delighted in the many choices introduced fabric had made available. They lasted longer than his ancestors’ attire, held their colors better, were cheap and easy to customize, and, unlike treated valask hide, were impervious to water rot. He still championed the weaving of valask-hide apparel by others, however. Traditional textiles were very popular with tourists.

  He cradled his puronn lightly against his left arm, the grasping cilia lightly fondling the trigger at the far end. The five other members of the hunting party trailed behind him, their eyebands alert for telltale movement among the rocks and trees, the sensitive specialized hairs on their flat, disc-shaped skulls attuned to the slightest rise in feral flii. An intermittent breeze caused their inscribed transparent vests to flutter around them. The weapons they bore were a far cry from the primitive slingstones and jabsticks employed by their ancestors. Like his leggings, their weapons were also imported.

  Life on Silvoun had changed in significant ways ever since it had agreed to join the vast multispecies galactic authority that called itself the Commonwealth. His kind had adapted more easily and successfully than many others to that all-embracing, system-spanning authority. Even on their homeworld, the Tlel were not numerous, and they were by nature nonconfrontational. They represented no threat to the largely benign control exerted by the Commonwealth’s two dominant species, the hairless mammalian humans and their partners the insectoid thranx. The Tlel did not even particularly mind that when discussed elsewhere, their homeworld of Silvoun was usually referred to as Gestalt, a name bestowed on it by its well-meaning but initially uninformed human discoverers.

  Silvoun, Gestalt, Zlezelrenn—names were unimportant. What mattered in life was boon companions, a sated digestive system, entertaining art and inspiring music, spiritual fulfillment, intellectual discourse, respect for one’s Elders (if not for their clothing) and for tradition. That was why he and five other members of his sociel were out hunting in weather that, judging by a glance at the sky, was threatening to turn bad. They did not need to hunt. No Tlel needed to hunt for food any longer. The galactic economy that had arrived with the Commonwealth had flooded Silvoun/Gestalt with a steady and sometimes bewildering variety of manufactured goods, foodstuffs included. The larder in his own dwelling was well stocked with processed provisions, including introduced exotics that had been tested and approved as safe for consumption by his kind. These would be prepared to order by machines designed to accomplish in minutes what had taken his primitive ancestors entire days to render edible. Like many (though not all) of his friends and relations, Zlezelrenn did not mourn for the Old Days. The “Old Days” might epitomize greater adherence to tradition and family life. They also meant disease, starvation, and war.

  Hunting, however, was another matter. So ingrained was it in Tlelian life, so much a part of his people’s customs, that someone who did not participate in the time-honored endeavor was not considered to be wholly Tlel. No native would have seen any contradiction in the traditional Tlel respect for life and the need to hunt it to sustain tradition. Live and let live was the Tlelian way—except when it was time to kill.

  Personally, Zlezelrenn enjoyed the activity. It was bracing to be outdoors, tracking the forest’s abundant wildlife utilizing ancient techniques, killing something that you and your friends would then skin, butcher, and eventually consume. It was even better to do so using modern weapons. Some Elders complained that this diluted the respect that ought to be accorded the prey. Zlezelrenn and his friends would have argued that their own possible deaths by goring, trampling, or biting would have left them in positions to deny the prey any respect whatsoever.

  They tracked, and camped, and traveled in the Old Way. But when it came to facing down a charging chasinx or kasollt, it was unarguably better to be holding a puronn instead of a slingsto
ne.

  A cold gust caused his vision to momentarily darken as it brushed his eyeband. Though his vest was tight around his tapering torso and he had not shaved in a cycle, he found himself wishing he had let his fur grow even longer. It was, after all, the season for it. Then there was the matter of his most recent full-body dye job. Streaking, he decided, did not become him quite as much as the fast-talking village stylist had insisted it would. He vowed that next time he would abjure all bright colors in favor of his usual taupe.

  Though he picked up the movement almost as soon as he perceived the first hint of flii, he recognized neither. Visually, the creature seemed more dream than reality. Its flii pattern was as erratic as it was alien to his experience. Finding himself awash in uncertainty, his instinctive reaction was to raise the puronn. Behind him, the unsettled murmuring of his companions indicated that they, too, had detected the airborne anomaly.

  Almost as if it was reading their intentions, the strange flying creature that had surprised the hunting party promptly ducked behind the central bulge of a trio of large, linked, cerulean huluds, worming its way into their festering hoop of cauliflorous blossoms.

  Zlezelrenn’s companions gathered around him. In a prelude to shooting, energetic discussion ensued. This was accompanied by much waving of long arms, fluttering of cilia and chin appendages, and contentious phraseology.

  “I have never seenseen anything like it,” declared an astonished Hluriamm as she checked her gun to make sure it would be ready to fire on a moment’s notice.

  Vlashraa extended an arm in the direction of her fellow sociel’s weapon. “Nono, we cannot shoot! It is clearly a spirit creature and must therefur not be harmed.”

  Half raising her puronn, Hluriamm stepped forward and took aim at the cluster of bright flowers where the creature had taken refuge. “If it is a spirit creature, then ur simple weapons will not be able tu harm it. If it is not a visitor frum ur ancestors’ hypothesized spirit world, then it is fair game—whatever it is or wherever it comes frum.” She raised the puronn the rest of the way. “Easy enough tu find out.”

  Elder among them, Klerjamboo placed a slim forearm on the barrel of the female’s weapon, applying just enough weight to ruin her aim. “Tuu easy by half, tu slay that which we du not understand.”

  “Then yu agree with me,” Vlashraa said earnestly, “that we should not attempt tu kill it.”

  “No, I did not saysay that.” Ever courteous, Klerjamboo was quick to correct the younger female. “I implied that we should try tu understand it.” He gestured with his own somewhat smaller and lighter weapon. “Then we can kill it.”

  While the discussion around him grew more animated, a curious Zlezelrenn continued to focus on the place where the unfamiliar apparition had disappeared. As long as it remained concealed within the dense cluster of hulud blossoms, he could not see it. But its strange flii was as clear and discernible to him as if the creature were wrapped around his neck.

  Could it wrap around his neck? Might it possess other, even more threatening capabilities? Visibly alien, its potential remained as mysterious as its origins. Which led to the most interesting and equally obvious question of all.

  What was it doing here, in an isolated river valley of the Anuvu Range? Was it possible it had been lost by its owners and had subsequently flown here all the way from Tlossene, the only nearby place where one could reasonably expect to encounter exotic offworld creatures? If so, why it had chosen to travel all the way to these northern mountains and this valley? Many places much closer to Tlossene would offer more hospitable surroundings to an abandoned offworld animal. Such questions only added up to more questions, none of which would be answered if they simply shot the thing.

  As she sensed a surge in its flii, Vlashraa began gesturing excitedly. “It’s coming out—there it is again!”

  Hesitantly, the creature had emerged from the cover of the huluds and was flying toward them. Its wings beat in a fashion Zlezelrenn had never seen before, so fast that they were little more than a gaudy blur. Everyone was looking to Elder Klerjamboo for a hint on how they should proceed. Holding his fire, the Elder scrutinized the slender flier as it halted to hover before them, seeming to sit on the wind. After a moment it turned and zoomed back toward the cluster of trees from which it had just emerged. Reaching these, it pivoted in midair and came back. It repeated this maneuver several times.

  “It wants us tu follow it,” Zlezelrenn heard himself saying. He wiped cold moisture from his eyeband. It was beginning to snow. They had to make a decision.

  Nlowwnee spoke up, his speech as clunky as his aim. “It is said that those whu follow spirit creatures may follow them tu their deathdeath.”

  Zlezelrenn could barely hide his disdain. “What are yu, some kind of primitive? This is the six thousand and twelve cycle uv the Raised Aborning. The Tlel are become a modern folk, members of galactic civilization. There are no such things as spirit creatures.”

  As an angry Nlowwnee started forward, Klerjamboo stepped between them. The specialized hair-like receptors on his head parted, half focusing on the intemperate speaker, the other half on the heftier hunter who was ready to make a bracelet of Zlezelrenn’s eyeband.

  “The observation is unnecessary,” the Elder declared. Eyeband bright, Nlowwnee continued to glare at Zlezelrenn. “Spirit creatures emit no flii,” Klerjamboo continued. “This one does, therefur it cannot be a visitor frum ur ancestors’ spirit world. It is a normal being made uv meat and fluid, albeit one notnot frum Silvoun.”

  Though clearly disappointed at the Elder’s analysis, Vlashraa was forced to agree with his logic. “It seems extraordinary tu encounter it here.”

  “I was thinking the same.” Slipping his puronn into the long, narrow holster strapped across his back, Zlezelrenn focused on Klerjamboo. “Du we let it go—or du we follow?”

  The Elder consulted the sky. There was little wind, which meant the approaching storm would be slow moving. It would be inconvenient to move about in such weather, but not especially dangerous.

  “Not being an expert in offworld biology, Zlezelrenn, I cannot say fur certain which would ultimately prove tu be the wiser course. But I see no harm in doing so fur a little while. We might learn something. And,” he added as an aside to the stymied Hluriamm, “if it proves tu be expedient, we can always shoot it later.”

  To Zlezelrenn, at least, the validity of this decision was soon confirmed. Though it could easily have done so, the alien visitant never flew out of view. It would wing its way ahead of them only to pause in midair or linger on a branch until they caught up again. Then it would resume its course.

  “It seems tu know exactly where it is going,” Vlashraa pointed out.

  Huffing to keep up behind her, Hluriamm was less sanguine. “You ascribe Tlelian motivation tu a creature about which we know nothing. I, fur one, have no intention uv following it interminably. What will yu say if it crosses the Balamm?”

  “We will not cross the Balamm,” Klerjamboo assured her. “If the creature does so, we will turn back. Crossing the Balamm would put us in the territory of the Tl-racouuy.”

  Not even Zlezelrenn would go that far to satisfy his curiosity about the outlandish visitor. Like a number of other gr-sociels, the Tl-racouuy were Revisionists who rejected many of the new ways. Conflict between such social groupings was not inevitable, but was best to avoid whenever possible. For himself, he could never be an associate of such a strictly conservative and conformist gr-sociel. Nlowwnee, now, would be a ready candidate except that he was a blood member of the same group as Zlezelrenn and the other members of the hunting party.

  Such philosophical and social conflicts had always raged among the Tlel. Instead of bringing the adherents of different gr-sociels together, the advent of the Commonwealth and everything it had brought to Silvounian society had only added another layer to traditional Tlelian squabbling. Though exasperated by this unexpected development, Commonwealth officials were prevented from interfering
by regulations governing interspecies contact and by the strictures of their United Church.

  The hairs on his head were all inclined forward as Zlezelrenn tracked the airborne alien’s flii. The shock he experienced when they detected a second flash of otherworldly energy was profound. It was as strong a burst of flii as he had ever encountered. He had no idea what could generate such a flare-up. Superficially, it reminded him of the erratic flii of those few humans he had personally encountered. Only this was far more powerful.

  Without warning, it faded almost to nothingness, then flared again. Though its origin was undeniably organic, it was as if it were being controlled by a switch, like a piece of electrical equipment. From the writhing of facial appendages and twisting of mouths among his companions, it was clear that they were suffering from identical perceptions.

  “If this nu being I detect is not a spirit creature,” declared Vlashraa, “then it surely must be one whose spirit is tormented by them.”

  “The second certainly seems tu be in distress.” Klerjamboo had lengthened his stride, his bound foot-pads leaving slushy imprints in the leisurely accumulating snow. His younger companions were hard-pressed to keep up with the Elder. “If that is the case, we must help it, even if it is an alien.”

  “Better tu shoot both,” Hluriamm grumbled as she struggled to maintain the pace. No one commented aloud, but Klerjamboo threw her a look that had the effect of forestalling any further comments.