Clarity looked at him sharply. She turned toward him just in time to see the woman point the pistol she was holding at the medtech and blow his head off. Not off, precisely. More into glutinous blobs of flesh and bone. In any event the effect was the same. The headless body remained standing for a moment, blood spurting from the severed neck like some perverted fountain. Then it collapsed in a broken heap, not unlike the sunfoils.
Clarity did not scream. Some time ago, Flinx had introduced her to something that was genuinely worth screaming about: the very incarnation and manifestation of evil and annihilation whose approach these people sought to facilitate. So the explosive, messy demise of the man who had been standing next to her did not stagger her. Only filled her with emptiness.
“You didn't have to kill him,” she observed in dismay. “He was just a medtech who liked me. You could have let him go. He didn't believe in you even when I explained who you are and what you're about.”
“He saw us,” replied the rotund speaker through his amplifier card. “He saw faces. You are going to disappear, and it was apparent that he was enamored enough of you to follow up on your disappearance. Above nearly all else, we of the Order value our anonymity. Sometimes distasteful steps must be taken to preserve it.”
As the two suited figures reached the net and began working with the folds, Scrap kept spitting at them, trying to bring them down. His aim was impeccable, but the caustic venom could not penetrate the multiple layers of the military visors. As the man working the net had foretold, after a while the minidrag's store of venom grew exhausted. At that point they were able to handle the fighting, squirming serpentine shape without concern. Manipulated by four strong hands, Scrap was maneuvered into a transparent double-walled box whose airholes were offset to prevent him from spitting his toxin outside. Clarity had her wrists fastened behind her and her ankles secured with flexible straps to a small horizontal crossbar. Thus bound, she could walk but not run.
The forward cabin was large enough to accommodate all six of the boat's occupants. None struck her as experienced sailors, but on central Nur's placid and cultivated waters oceangoing skills were hardly a requirement for operating a watercraft. The boat's integrated automated systems handled any required seamanship, leaving its passengers free to enjoy the experience.
A large triangular sprowel had been thrown over Clarity's shoulders. As the thousands of filaments of the specially treated quasi-animate hydrophonic material reacted to the water on her skin and began to warm and dry her, firm hands guided her toward one of the boat's consoles. Beyond, through the craft's curving foreport, she could see the shoreline and in the distance the familiar profile of the rehabilitation facility where she had spent so many months and subsequent visits convalescing, healing, and recovering. For all that she could presently access, its facilities might as well have been situated in a different star system.
Poor Barryn, she found herself thinking. If she'd had any inkling the Order was still interested in Flinx, she would have shunned the medtech from the first day he had paid any serious attention to her. It had been his misfortune to become infatuated. With a start she remembered what Flinx had once told her: people who found themselves swept up in his orbit often came to an unpleasant end. Exactly that had happened to the well-meaning Tambrogh Barryn. Now it appeared that the same was to be true of her.
Having put away the no-longer-needed amplifier, the deceptively innocent-looking man spoke to her as his hands brushed over the quaint manual controls on the console.
“I'm sure by now you're wondering what has happened to the singular pair of guardians who have been looking out for you these past many months. We're about to find out.” His smile was almost regretful. “As I said previously, sometimes steps must be taken.”
Even if she could have broken free of her captors there was nowhere to run, and she could not swim with her wrists and ankles bound. She could only stand and watch and listen as the speaker contacted the first of the Order's two specialized assassination squads. Outwardly she was as calm and composed as anyone in her situation could be. Inside she was as frightened and scared as anyone in her situation should be.
If not exactly reassuring, the first words to echo through the cabin at least did not send her into a panic.
“What of the old thranx?” the portly man inquired of the image of a slender female shape that materialized above the console.
The attractive woman sounded peeved. “We had him surrounded in Claris Park, but he ran into a drainage conduit. We have both ends blocked. Eventually he'll have to emerge, and we'll be here. Of course, we're not waiting on that eventuality. We are presently assembling the appropriate materials to allow us to go in after him. One way or the other, the matter will be settled before tomorrow morning.”
“Compliments and blessings.” The speaker adjusted the controls. This time the image that appeared in the cabin was that of a young man who looked to be barely out of his teens—except for his eyes, which looked older than the rest of him.
“Salutations, passerby.” Like his tone, the youth's expression was gloomy.
The speaker noted both immediately. “The esteemed researcher gave you trouble?”
The younger man's reply was remarkable for its impassiveness. He might as well have been reciting a grocery list. “You might say that. Six of the Order tried and true—dead. As to the target I can report nothing conclusive. He may be dead within the shop. Or possibly wounded and on the way to hospital. I don't know because we as yet have been unable to get one of our own inside to inspect the wreckage. The shop owner and his staff are reportedly traumatized and under constant police and medical watch. The police have also, not unexpectedly, sealed off the location and are proving uninformative. There is a lockdown on the scene that applies to the general media as well. As soon as we have more precise information it will be communicated.”
Following a further brief exchange the speaker signed off. It was only when he turned to the eldest of the boat's passengers that Clarity realized for the first time that the man with whom she had been conversing was not the leader of the group.
The short, white-bearded senior to whom the speaker now deferred looked physically feeble. Despite the best efforts of modern medicine, he suffered from curvature of the upper spine. He had a long, lined, unyielding face that reminded her of a petulant camel. One hand rested on the rounded hilt of a cane fashioned from a dark copper alloy. Familiar as she was with the fanatical organization that had abducted her, she would not have been surprised to learn that the walking stick contained within its cylindrical body several self-propelled and highly volatile projectiles.
“Orel?” Along with the speaker, the attention of every acolyte on the boat was focused on the cane bearer.
The old man grunted softly. “The thranx is contained. The man is dead, injured, or on the run. There is nothing to be gained by delay. Events are put in motion. We should proceed.”
A general sigh rose from the assembled members of the Order; an exhalation of contented decay. Resting both hands on the top of the cane, one on top of the other, the Elder blinked across at Clarity.
“Since you know who we are, you know that we must deal with the anomaly who calls himself Flinx. We are bound to do this. We have no choice. Personally, I wish it could be otherwise. While the Order anticipates and welcomes the Purity that is coming, sometimes there is groundwork we dislike having to lay. The interference aura that has been blocking your communit will be deactivated. You will contact him and supply him with a location we will provide where he can find you.”
“So you can kill him,” she responded tightly.
The old man nodded resignedly. “Yes. So we can kill him.”
“And then you'll kill me.”
His response was a shrug. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Your fate remains a matter of some controversy. Once the anomaly has been eliminated, the matter of your continued existence essentially becomes moot.”
“Don't play with me,�
�� she growled defiantly. “You killed poor Tam just because he could maybe identify some of you later. Why should I think you'll do any different with me?”
Casting an eye in the direction of the speaker, the Leader shook his head slowly. The latter looked abashed. “Poor tactics,” the old man murmured as he turned back to Clarity. “Once this Philip Lynx is dealt with, there may be some leeway in options. I can of course promise nothing until then.” And then, quite unexpectedly, his creased and furrowed visage broke out into an unmistakable leer.
Ever since she and Barryn had been seized, Clarity had felt a certain degree of fear. This was the first time she had felt as if she was going to lose her breakfast.
“I'm not going to call Flinx,” she declared rebelliously. “If you contact him, I'm not going to say anything.” She strove her hardest to make the glare she bestowed on the vile Elder actually sear his flesh. “I'm most especially not going to tell him to travel to any coordinates you provide!”
The hoped-for force of her glare had absolutely no effect on the old man. “Yes you are,” he demurred gently. Turning, he nodded at the semicircle of acolytes.
A young woman came toward Clarity. In her severe and unadorned fashion, the true believer was almost pretty. She was holding something in her right hand. A device.
“Hold her,” she instructed her associates. Ready hands moved to restrict Clarity's freedom of movement. Her muscles contracted as she tensed. The device was pushed forward.
Out in the middle of the lake her shrieks went unheard except by a few startled, long-necked pinsoir gliders and a helplessly writhing, securely caged Scrap. While their volume was muted by the cabin's soundproofing, the pitch of the recurrent screams was shrill enough to make the broad-winged fliers veer off to the west and give the source of the frightful noise a wide berth.
According to the readback the call-in was coming from Clarity's communit. But the visage that took shape above his wrist was not that of Flinx's beloved. Instead, he found himself gazing back at the countenance of a pleasant-faced, slightly rotund middle-aged man. Confused, he switched the image from full dimensional to flat.
“Who are you? And where's Clarity Held, the owner of the unit you're calling from?”
“All will be explained,” the man replied soothingly. “My name is not important. All you need to know about me is that more than a year ago you tried to kill me at a regional shuttleport. You did succeed in killing or injuring several of my close friends and associates. Of course, we were at the same time trying to kill you, so it would be futile to waste time debating the situational ethics. At least, we feel so. We were not at all certain we would have the chance to kill you again. We thank you for returning to New Riviera so that we might have the opportunity to realize our earlier intentions.”
Delivered in a calm, all but tranquil tone, this was such a dumbfoundingly frank declaration that Flinx found himself momentarily speechless. When he did finally manage to reply, it was to repeat the name he had already spoken.
“Clarity.” This time his tone was ominous instead of uncertain.
“Certainly,” the man responded briskly. “It is implicit that you will do nothing in the absence of confirmation.”
The image rotated as the other communit's visual pickup was realigned. It was plain from the way the viewpoint shifted that the unit itself was being held loosely and was not presently on someone's wrist, least of all that of the portly individual who had greeted Flinx.
Very soon the scene steadied. It was clear and, as verified by his own unit, natural and unaltered. Clarity sat in a chair in the center of the image. Her arms were secured behind her. She looked—bad. Her hair was a mess, the very modest amount of makeup she utilized daily was blurred and streaked in spite of the fact that contemporary cosmetics were designed to prevent such distortions, and her eyes were red and swollen from crying. Her clothes were distressed. It was obvious she had been seriously mistreated. There was no blood, no visual evidence of anything as primitive as breaking or cutting. Whoever had abused her was too subtle for that. Her captors' methods were efficient, not prehistoric.
Raising her head from his shoulder, Pip straightaway began searching for the source of her master's sudden distress. That it was nowhere to be sensed only served to unsettle the minidrag further.
“You're from the Order of Null.” The accusation emerged from between clenched teeth. The allusion to multiple killings and the shuttleport location also fit the time frame the caller had cited. There was no doubt in Flinx's mind who he represented. The other man proceeded to confirm it.
“We are of the Order of Null.” More than a touch of self-importance tinged the terse correction as Flinx's view of Clarity was once more replaced by the face of the implacable speaker. “We have neither the need nor the desire to kill your partner. Her location will be provided to you. You will come there now, immediately, without detour or hesitation. If you bring another soul with you, if you attempt to contact anyone for misguided assistance, if you try to notify the authorities down to and including the city sanitation department, we will cut her throat. Even as we speak, you are being watched and your personal communications are being monitored. You will not attempt to utilize them in any way, shape, or fashion. That extends to and includes the need for you to shut down any emergency beacons or locators.” Flinx did not bother to look around. “Your subsequent movements and actions will be recorded to the best of our abilities. These I assure you are extensive.”
Another voice reached Flinx via the remote aural pickup. Though dimmed by distance, its source was unmistakable.
“Don't do it, Flinx!” Clarity was yelling. “They'll kill me anyway after they kill you. Call the police and … !”
Her words were interrupted by a sharp sound. She fell silent. Flinx fought hard to keep his breathing steady. There was nothing he could do from the opposite end of a communications link. He could not reach through the tiny pickup and clutch the self-righteous speaker by the throat.
“Don't hurt her,” he swallowed, “any more. I'll do whatever you ask.”
“Of course you will.” The speaker's voice brimmed with confidence. “You're a young man in love. Your heart and your hormones command your brain. You are convinced that you will somehow rescue her and avenge her treatment—none of which, I assure you, exceeded that which was necessary to advance the cause of this conversation. Who knows? Perhaps you will succeed. Perhaps subsequent to your arrival here we will somehow find a way to reach an accommodation satisfactory to all.” His voice dropped slightly.
“Regardless of future developments, one thing is certain. If you do not start this way the instant this communication is terminated, the woman Clarity Held will be dead within minutes. We know that you have certain perceptive abilities. That you attempt to use them in the service of preventing the inevitable arrival of the cleansing is regrettable. Possibly you can somehow employ them to convince us that you are right and we are wrong. You are certainly welcome to try.”
You have no idea, an incensed Flinx thought, what I am capable of and how I am going to try.
But he could not do it standing there in the lobby, ignoring the occasional curious glances of other patrons of the hotel where he had been staying since his return to Sphene.
“Give me the coordinates,” he snarled at the communit.
While they were being downloaded he surreptitiously scanned the lobby's other occupants. That woman supposedly gazing into her private entertainment wraparound. The young couple chatting by the entrance. The preoccupied entrepreneur striding quickly toward the lifts. None stood out as agents of the Order. None were marked by suspicious emotions. Was he really being closely watched or was the threat nothing more than a clever ploy? It was a chance he could not take. No doubt his enemies knew that as well.
There was little he could do, in fact, beyond double-checking the coordinates that had been entered into his communit.
He did not have to announce his departure to the human
clerk working the front desk, but it was a reasonable move. As long as he kept the encounter brief, even someone assigned to watch him was unlikely to think he might be using the opportunity to contact the authorities. As he approached the desk Flinx did his best to shield what he was doing with his communit from possible prying eyes.
“I'm in twenty-twenty.” As he mumbled to the attentive clerk, he slipped a fragment of dull black memory no bigger than a fingernail paring out of his communit and onto the countertop. “Please hold this for a friend who will come to pick it up.”
Before the clerk could respond with a question or reply Flinx had spun on his heel and was heading for the exit. If his actions were being monitored he dared not risk lingering at the counter to explain further. Any extended conversation might raise the suspicions of the Order's malign agents—assuming any were actually present. With Clarity's life at stake it was a chance he could not take. Just the hasty passing of the memory splinter he had furtively slipped out of his own communit constituted taking a big risk. But he felt he had to do something. If the Order was indeed monitoring his communications, he could not chance trying to contact Tse-Mallory or Truzenzuzex directly.
Notwithstanding the blunt orders he had been given, he could have delayed. He could have tried to stall, could have waited to see if they would contact him again to voice their impatience. If only it were not the life of his love that hung on such decisions. Despite the speaker's threat, Flinx didn't think they would kill her out of hand even if he was a little late. If they wanted him badly enough they would be hesitant to throw away their bait. But again, he could not take that chance.
Anyway, patience had never been one of his virtues.
He had not heard from his mentors all morning. With luck they would check in with him soon. When he failed to respond, he knew they would follow up in person. The hotel would be one of the first places they would look for him. By the time they arrived, any agents assigned to monitor his movements would have long since left to follow in his wake. Failing to find him at the hotel, Tse-Mallory and Truzenzuzex would routinely query the staff. The memory splinter Flinx had left behind would be handed over to them. Bran and Tru would react accordingly.
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