Flinx Transcendent

by Alan Dean Foster

  If the Elder was telling the truth, deactivating four simple mechanical switches would be enough to completely eliminate the danger to the immobilized, imprisoned Clarity. Except Flinx could not reach them. Nor could she.

  How to neutralize their captors and free her? Engaging them in combat would not secure her release. Even if he did strike, all one of them had to do was shoot or strike hard at the foam casing to set off the sensitive material and kill them all.

  There was nothing he could do. Nothing, it seemed, except stall for time by complying with their request. Their eagerness grew palpable as other members began to edge nearer to the human who had perceived the Purity.

  “Tell us of the holy place.” The rotund speaker was pleading even as he brandished a lethal handgun in Flinx's direction.

  “Speak to us of the coming cleansing!” Hands outstretched, palms upward, a woman beseeched the tall young man in their midst whom she was sworn to kill.

  “What is it like? … Does it have shape and form? … Can you do more than sense its presence? …”

  The cluster of killers was pathetic in their zeal. Their expressions, their importunate stares, their forthright emotions hung eagerly on whatever he might say even as he could perceive their desire to witness his demise. Even the Elder exhibited unfeigned emotion. Looking forward to and dedicating themselves to the pending death of every living thing in the galaxy, they were desperate to know the particulars of the onrushing instrument of destruction whose arrival they had devoted themselves to facilitating.

  “Why should I?” Folding his arms across his chest, Flinx regarded the closing circle coolly. “Clarity's right. When you've heard everything you want to hear from me, you'll kill us both.”

  The Elder's expression darkened and his lips trembled slightly as he spoke. “You said that you would tell us everything if we brought you to this woman.”

  Flinx shrugged indifferently. “What can I say? Maybe the prospect of imminent death has affected my memory.”

  Keeping his pistol trained on Flinx at all times, the portly speaker came up beside the Elder and whispered into his ear. The older man listened, nodding occasionally, until his associate had finished. Then he turned back to Flinx.

  “We will make you a proposal. If you will tell us what we wish to know—everything that is of interest to us concerning the cleansing—we will allow both of you to live. But not to go free. I am sure you understand that we cannot let you go free so long as we feel that you may pose a threat, however slight it may be, to the triumphant approach of the Purity. So we will allow you to live out your natural lives together, in each other's happy company. But only if you agree to do so under our constant supervision.” Leaning both hands on the top of his cane, he eyed Flinx intently. “Under the circumstances, I am sure you can see that this is an offer that is more than fair. Certainly it presents you with a better prospect than death at our hands.”

  It would, Flinx thought, if you weren't lying through your biochemically regenerated teeth. Able to read the emotions of those around him, Flinx knew immediately and without question that the Elder, the speaker, and their fervently impatient colleagues had absolutely no intention of carrying out or implementing any such seemingly benign proposal. As soon as he was finished talking, they would kill him, and Clarity thereafter. This realization handed him his first weapon for the clash to come.

  They did not know that he knew.

  He snuck a furtive glance in Pip's direction. She was wholly preoccupied with trying to find a way into the toxin-resistant box in which Scrap was imprisoned. If he called to her or shouted an order she would likely respond, but he held back. There were too many guns in the room. Too many of the Order for her to take out at once.

  Some of the small tools on his belt, like the cutter, could double as weapons. But they had taken that before allowing him inside. It seemed they had left nothing to chance. Except Flinx himself.

  To provide cover for his furious planning he started to talk, giving a simplified depiction of his essence traveling through space, his mind-self covering immense cosmic distances in a direction that had only been made known to him years ago. They listened raptly but did not lower their weapons or their guard. While a part of him rambled on with no particular attention to detail or accuracy, the rest of him concentrated on projecting a single dominating, overpowering emotion. Trapped in dangerous surroundings he would typically have tried to project an overriding fear, or perhaps unbridled confusion. He was afraid that the fanatical members of the Order would not respond adequately to the first or wholeheartedly to the second.

  So, since they worshipped death and annihilation, he projected life.

  Feelings that underscored the beauty of existence, the fulfillment to be had from simply existing, the joy and wonder of continuing consciousness poured out of the tall redhead to inundate the chamber in an emotive flood of intense, all-consuming, ardent delight at the sheer ecstasy of being—each emotion carefully and consciously counterpointed with what the loss of life really meant.

  They resisted—he could feel them resisting the projection—but his choice of emotions had taken them completely by surprise. Perhaps anticipating the same kind of emanations of hatred or fear, panic or alarm, that he had projected on their colleagues in the course of the fight at the shuttleport more than a year ago, they were not prepared for an emotional plea for life. As the emotive antithesis of everything the Order stood for, it hit them hard, each and every one. “One by one, they began to fall to the ground in ecstatic reverie.”

  Only just conscious of what was happening as his colleagues began to slump to the ground, the speaker tried to aim his pistol at Flinx. Caught up in a surge of support for continued existence and happiness the likes of which he had never encountered or imagined, he failed to get off a shot. Instead, he fell to the floor like the rest of the acolytes and lay there, trembling with the thrill of knowing how good, how important, and how sheerly true the simple pleasure of being alive could be.

  Of them all, the strongest resistance came from the Elder. More deeply indoctrinated in the philosophy of the Order than any of his presently helpless brethren, he stumbled forward and tried to swing his cane at the volatile foam encasing Clarity. Flinx had no trouble concentrating on and sustaining his life-affirming projection while knocking the old man's attempt aside. Thwarted in his effort, the Elder too finally succumbed to the tall young man's remorseless emanation of contentment.

  Flinx surveyed the chamber with satisfaction. Wallowing in the joy he empathetically projected, every member of the Order now lay sprawled on the polished stone floor, each caught up and ensnared in a personal paroxysm of bliss that stemmed from the sheer joy of being. So powerful and focused was Flinx's projection that he felt confident the effects would persist for a good twenty or thirty minutes after he drew back into himself.

  Though she had seen what he could do and knew what he was capable of, Clarity still found herself staring in amazement at the man who had come back for her.

  “Flinx? What did you do to them?”

  Bending to pick up the first of many hand weapons that had been set aside and forgotten by their owners, he smiled softly. “I challenged their thinking. And in so challenging it, I changed it. For the better, I think. It probably won't last. By the time the effect wears off, the most zealous among them, at least, will begin to recover their beliefs.” He looked over to where she sat encased in her volatile, dirty gray prison.

  “By then I expect you and I and Pip and Scrap will be long gone from this place. By tonight we should be well away from this entire world.”

  Without warning, something struck his right hand hard and hot. Flinching in pain and surprise, he drew his fingers back quickly from the pistol they had been reaching for and looked around to his left.

  “Flinx …!”

  Clarity's shout of his name was warning enough, but it was unnecessary. He had already located the new threat. As soon as he recognized and identified it he reali
zed that the members of the Order, being aware of his unique abilities but ignorant of their extent, had anticipated their own potential inadequacies in dealing with him. So in the event their quarry somehow managed to overcome them despite their careful preparations, they had organized a backup.

  The Qwarm was a brute, even for a member of the Assassin's Guild. Taller than Flinx, he outweighed the younger man by fifty kilos or more. Muscles bulged beneath the tight black suit he wore. The death's-head belt, the form-fitting skullcap covering the shaven pate, the crimson insignia: all served to identify the professional killer on sight. The black composite pistol he gripped almost disappeared in his huge fist. Flinx recognized the type. It fired a very focused, very narrow heat beam. Set to blister and not to kill, the perfectly aimed single shot had caused Flinx to pull back sharply from the pile of weapons he had commandeered from the members of the Order.

  A loud humming filled the air. Alarmed, Flinx whirled and tried to warn Pip off—too late. Drawn away from Scrap's prison by the new threat to her master, she had soared ceilingward before launching herself at the Qwarm.

  An ordinary assailant she would have taken out easily. There was nothing ordinary about the Qwarm. Reacting to her attack with lightning-like reflexes, the assassin raised his weapon. A desperate Flinx projected fear in the man's direction. It had no effect.

  Like all the elite of his specialized, dedicated criminal Guild, the veteran Qwarm had trained himself until he was literally emotionless. Unable to feel anything, he did not respond to the emotions Flinx flung at him.

  In all the years they had been companions, in all the brawls and scrapes and battles they had fought, Flinx had never seen anyone fast enough to intercept Pip with a weapon. That record was broken as a needle-thin beam from the assassin's gun ripped through her right wing. Though the shot missed her body, the partial loss of lift caused her to spiral to the ground. She landed hard, but alive and still full of fight. But she had landed too far away from her foe to reach him with her venom. Within his transparent prison a hysterical Scrap beat in a frenzy at the impervious walls.

  As the Qwarm turned implacably back toward Flinx, Clarity cried out a fresh warning. Her alarm was hardly necessary. Flinx and his assailant were the only figures in motion within the circular chamber.

  He studied his adversary. The man was big, powerful, and agile. Completely hairless, he looked to be about fifty. The suggestion of age was in itself unsettling. Unlike in popular fiction where professional killers tended to be youthful and attractive, the successful ones, the truly dangerous ones, were ordinary in appearance and lived to a respectable age. The handsome and reckless tended to die young. That this Qwarm was still alive and healthy told Flinx all he needed to know about his opponent's skill level.

  He continued to try to force the issue emotionally, projecting a full and varying range of sentiments at the looming executioner. Fright, panic, alarm, loss, despair, friendship—empathetically, he ran the full gamut of feelings in his attempt to somehow, in some way, reach his assailant. Nothing had any effect. A walking emotional void, the Qwarm felt nil.

  Flinx steeled himself. He was quick, long of limb, and in good condition. If he could get in underneath the killer's first shot, he could strike upward to deflect the arm holding the pistol. There was a distinctive thranx fighting move Truzenzuzex had taught him long ago that just might catch a human assassin, even a professional, off guard. But before Flinx could launch himself forward, the Qwarm did something entirely unexpected.

  Moving slowly and deliberately, the assassin put his weapon aside, setting it down on a nearby padded bench. Then he straightened and eyed his target. And waited expectantly.

  In one respect Flinx was fortunate. Any other opponent, any ordinary aggressor, would simply have tried to shoot him down where he stood. A professional, however, functioned according to a different code. The most professional of all their kind, the Qwarm followed strict rules of combat. If Flinx had been armed he would likely already have been shot. In contrast, by standing defenseless before a highly trained senior Guild member he acquired a certain degree of innocence. That would not grant him mercy, but according to the rules of the Guild it would allow for opportunity, slim as that might be. He was still going to die. The only difference was that it would be by the Qwarm's actual instead of metaphorical hands.

  As he had throughout his life, he would take whatever chance was offered. He had received instruction in hand-to-hand combat from Tse-Mallory and Truzenzuzex. If he could not overwhelm his overmuscled executioner, maybe he could surprise him.

  If you are out-sized, you counter with speed, he had been taught. Without waiting for a formal invitation, he threw himself at his assailant. Arms extended in front of him, the waiting Qwarm dropped into a fighting crouch. Beneath the gleaming black and crimson skullcap there was no eagerness in his countenance, no disdainful grin on his face. He was just doing a job. Guild convention required that it be consummated in a way that would take slightly more time than originally anticipated. No matter. The end would be the same.

  At the last instant Flinx spun in midair parallel to the floor and kicked out, first with his right leg, aiming for the assassin's groin, second with his left, in an attempt to make contact with the blunt bridge of the man's nose. Neither strike was compassionate. Both were intended to disable or kill. In a fight for his life and Clarity's there were no rules. One could not lose gracefully. You won, by any means possible. Or you died.

  Demonstrating extraordinary agility for one so massive, the Qwarm dropped onto his back. One scything hand blocked Flinx's first strike. The second kick passed over its intended nasal target as the assassin thrust sharply upward with both feet to strike the younger man solidly in his solar plexus.

  As the air whooshed out of him Flinx found himself flying through the air. He landed hard on his back, fighting for breath. He would roll fast, kip to his feet, and attack again before the Qwarm could regain his …

  Hands in striking position, the assassin was already standing over him.

  How had he recovered so quickly? Flinx had barely hit the floor before the killer was looming over him. He readied himself as best he could to block the expected leg thrust or punch. Lying prone, he was vulnerable to all that and more.

  Empathetic projecting had failed. Hand-to-hand combat had failed. What other weapons did he have available to him? He unleashed a stream of words. Already aware that emotion would have no effect on his designated assassin, he kept his voice steady and rational. Pleading, crying, begging, would weigh no heavier on the Qwarm in verbal form than they had emotionally.

  “If you kill me,” Flinx declared as calmly as he could, “then any descendants of yours, the entire Guild, and every living creature is going to die when something unimaginably vast and malevolent sweeps through this corner of the cosmos.”

  Perceiving no need to hurry, the assassin considered this most peculiar plea for clemency. “The unlikeliness of what you put forward aside, it does not sound to me like something a stripling like yourself could influence.” A hand drew back, gathering force to strike a killing blow.

  Flinx did something he had never done before in his life. He boasted.

  “I am civilization's last hope.”

  Coming from a beaten young man lying on the polished floor of an exurban residence on the fringes of the city of Sphene, this was such a blatantly outrageous declaration that the senior Qwarm was disposed to pause, if only to deliver a final assessment.

  “You do not look to me like the last hope of anything except yourself.” The killing hand tightened.

  Lying on his back gazing up at the assassin, his chest heaving, out of time and ideas, Flinx tried one last tack. Knowing what he did of the Qwarm he had little hope it would work, but he had to try.

  “Whatever the Order is paying the Guild, I'll triple it. I have access to resources far beyond what you can see or imagine.”

  “He's telling the truth!” From her body jacket of explosive
foam, Clarity pleaded with the killer. “About having money and about saving the galaxy.”

  The Qwarm allowed himself a single sigh. “I am sorry. I do not believe the latter. As for the first, you should know that the Guild's reputation is built on a cherished tradition of fulfilling each and every contract to the letter of the respective agreement. Even if I were personally attracted to such an offer, as a member of the Guild I could never agree to it. Were I to do so, my own brothers and sisters would hunt me down and swiftly put paid to any such idiosyncratic escapade.” The killing hand rose higher. “Consider yourselves fortunate I was hired to dispatch you quickly and efficiently, and not to make your passing linger.”

  The fist started to descend toward Flinx's face, almost faster than the eye could follow. He barely had time to close his eyes. Encapsulated in explosive, Clarity screamed. Slithering toward the combatants, a grounded Pip desperately spat venom that landed more than a meter short of its target. The Qwarm's precise, methodical killing strike struck home.

  And just brushed Flinx's left ear.

  A heavy weight depressed his chest. His breathing had stopped, but not as a consequence of the assassin's blow. The man had collapsed on top of him and it was his great weight that was inhibiting Flinx's respiration. To the left of his head, the murderous strike had cracked the stone floor. Clarity was still screaming. Gasping and choking on her own anguish she stopped only when, grunting with the effort, he rolled the heavy body off to one side and slowly sat up.