"True," Cruachan admitted, studying the figures, "but it's clear that his development has been much slower. We should have plenty of time to cope with any maturing Talent and make certain it is safely contained, for the child's benefit as well as our own, of course."
"Of course," Haithness agreed calmly. "I am curious to know how you propose to accomplish that. You know how volatile a Talent can become if stressed."
"Yes, the girl gave us an impressive demonstration of that, didn't she?" Nyassa-lee's fingers brought forth fresh information from the console.
Another call sounded from across the room. "Brora says he's now convinced that the new arrivals at the port have nothing to do with the agricultural station. They have not stopped by the Agri section of government house; they are gathering instead in the subterranean quarter."
"Tell Brora to speed things up," Cmachan replied. "I definitely want the installation broken down by midnight."
"Yes, sir," the communicator responded briskly.
"You didn't answer my question," Haithness reminded the tail man. "How are we going to handle this one? If we try direct control as we did with the girl, we risk the same consequences. There is no way of predicting how a subject may react."
"Remember that the girl was still in infancy when we encountered her. We wrongly mistook her age for harmlessness. There was no reason to appeal to in her case-she was too young. I never expected that to work against us."
"It doesn't matter. The important thing is that he is still unskilled in the use of his Talent. That is also what makes him dangerous." Haithness indicated the figures on the screen. "Look at those. Undisciplined or not, we must handle this Number Twelve with extreme caution. We need a check of some kind, something strong enough to mute any juvenile emotional reactions."
Nyassa-lee glanced back and up at her colleague. "But we cannot wait."
"I agree with you there. This may be our last chance to gain control and direction over a subject with such potential. We don't want to waste our chance."
"I am aware of the considerations and risks," Cruachan assured them both. "I do not intend that we should try, as we did with the girl, to gain control directly. Instead, we will try to obtain control over someone who exercises control over the subject. Is there anyone who fits the requisite pattern?"
Nyassa-lee turned back to her keyboard. There was a pause before she replied, "One. It appears that the subject was purchased from government control by an elderly woman. She has raised the boy as her own."
"Surrogate mother," Haithness murmured. "That's good. It is virtually made to order. We could not hope for a stronger emotional bond."
There was no warmth in the voice of Haithness. Only one thing mattered to her: the success of the experiment.
Time was running out for the Society, she knew; they had no way of knowing when the authorities might close in on them forever. They needed a success _now,_ and this boy might be their last chance.
"I see one possible drawback," Cruachan said while pondering the information glowing on the screen. "The woman in question, the surrogate mother, is of an advanced age, though apparently healthy." He nudged Nyassa-lee, who obediently made room for him on the edge of the chair.
Cruachan fingered controls and frowned when the in-formation he sought did not appear on the screen. "No detailed medical information on her. It could be difficult."
Haithness shrugged indifferently. "It does not matter what her condition is. We have to proceed regardless."
"I know, I know," Cruachan replied impatiently. "Our course is set, then. We will not go from here to Loser's World in hopes of relocating subject Number Fifty-six. Instead, we will establish standard mobile operations aboard the ship. Once we are certain we have escaped pursuit, we will plot course for this Moth. Then we should have enough time to proceed as planned."
"It will be necessary to isolate the subject from the mother." Haithness was thinking out loud. "Given the nature of the subject's observed Talents, if our information is accurate, it may be that within a limited geographical area he might be able to trace our activities. We will naturally need an uninterrupted period with the surrogate," she hesitated only briefly, "to persuade her to co-operate with us." A thin smile did little to alter her expression.
Cruachan nodded. "That should not be difficult to arrange. Fortunately for us, Moth is lightly populated. Technology is not unknown, but the level varies widely according to location. We should be able to establish our-selves and the necessary equipment at a sufficient distance from the metropolis where the subject and his parent are living to ensure our privacy and standard security."
The communicator turned from his instrumentation and interrupted them without hesitation. "Brora reports that at least half of the newly arrived agricultural experts are armed."
"That's that, then," Cruachan murmured with a resigned sigh. Another hurried move, another dash to still another strange world.
"Nyassa-lee, make certain that this information is transferred to ship storage. Haithness, you-"
"I know what needs to be done, Cruachan." She turned from him and calmly began transferring data from main storage to a portacube.
The communicator leaned back in his chair and frowned at his instruments. "I won't have time to break down much and move it out to the shuttle."
"It doesn't matter, Osteen," Cruachan assured him. "We have some duplicate equipment already aboard. I don't like abandoning more than we have to any more than you do." He indicated the expensive electronics with which the room had been paneled. "But we don't have a choice now. Regardless, something promising, truly promising, has come to our notice. After all these years, it appears that we have relocated one of the most promising of all the subject children."
"That's good news indeed, sir." Osteen was one of the few young men in the Meliorare Society. Cruachan would have prefered a man with more vision as prime communicator, but such individuals were scarce. Osteen at least was loyal and efficient. It was not his fault that he was intellectually inferior to the Society's original membership. But then, such a collection of visionary minds was not likely to join together again in Cruachan's lifetime, he knew.
Unless ... unless the Society could put forth a shining testament to their noble ideals in the person of a single successful subject. This boy, perhaps, might be their vindication. They had to get to him quickly. During the past several years, they had had less and less time in which to work as the Commonwealth closed in on the remnants of the Society. Their survival rate did not bode well for the future: natural attrition was beginning to damage the cause as much as government interference.
The three of them, along with the sharp-eyed Brora, who had sounded the latest warning, represented the largest surviving group from the original membership. The trust of all who had perished devolved upon them, Cruachan thought. They must not fail with this boy.
And he must not fail them.
Chapter Four
Loneliness had never bothered Flinx before. He knew what it was, of course-the condition had been with him all his short life. In the past, he'd always been able to distance himself from its pain, but this feeling-this empty aloneness-was different from any loneliness he'd ever experienced before. It was a physical reality, stabbing at him, creating an ache in a mysterious, new part of his brain. It was different not only from his own loneliness but from the aloneness he'd occasionally sensed in others via his unpredictable Talent.
In fact, the experience was so radically new that he had nothing to compare it with. Yet it _was_ loneliness; of that he was certain. Loneliness and something else equally intense and recognizable: hunger. A gnawing, persistent desire for food.
The feelings were so bright and uncomplicated that Flinx couldn't help but wonder at their source. They beat insistently on his mind, refusing to fade away. Never before had such emotions been so open to him, so clear and strong. Normally, they would begin to fade, but these grew not weaker but stronger-and he did not have to strain to
hold them at bay. They kept hammering at him until his mind finally gave in and woke him up.
Flinx rubbed at his eyes. It was pouring outside the shop, and the narrow window over the bed admitted the dim light of Moth's multiple moons, which somehow seeped through the nearly unbroken cloud cover. Flinx had rarely seen the bright rust-red moon called Flame or its smaller companions, but he'd spent his years of study well, and he knew where the light came from.
Slipping silently from the bed, he stood up and pulled on pants and shirt. A glow light bathed the kitchen and dining area in soft yellow. Across the way, ragged snores came from the vicinity of Mother Mastiff's bedroom. The loneliness he sensed was not hers.
The feeling persisted into wakefulness. Not a dream, then, which had been his first thought. The back of his head hurt with the strength of it, but though the actual pain was beginning to fade, the emotion was still as strong as it had been in sleep.
He did not wake Mother Mastiff as he inspected the rest of the kitchen area, the bathroom, and the single narrow closet. Quietly, he opened the front door and slipped out into the stall. The shutters were locked tight, keeping out weather and intruders alike. The familiar snoring provided a comforting background to his prowling.
Flinx had grown into a lithe young man of slightly less than average height and mildly attractive appearance. His hair was red as ever, but his dark skill now hid any suggestion of freckles. He moved with a gracefulness and silence that many of the older, more experienced marketplace thieves might have envied. Indeed, he could walk across a room paved with broken glass and metal without making a sound. It was a technique he had picked up from some of Drallar's less reputable citizens, much to Mother Mastiff's chagrin. All a part of his education, he had assured her. The thieves had a word for it: "skeoding," meaning to walk like a shadow. Only Flinx's brighter than normal hair made the professional purloiners cluck their tongues in disapproval. They would have welcomed him into their company, had he been of a mind to make thievery his profession. But Flinx would steal only if absolutely necessary, and then only from those who could afford it.
"I only want to use my ability to supplement my in-come," he had told the old master who had inquired about his future intentions, "and Mother Mastiff's, of course."
The master had laughed, showing broken teeth. "I understand, boy. I've been supplementin' my income in that manner goin' on fifty years now." He and his colleagues could not believe that one who showed such skill at relieving others of their possessions would not desire to make a career of it, especially since the youth's other prospects appeared dim.
"Yer goin' into the Church, I suppose?" one of the other thieves had taunted him, "t'become a Counselor First?"
"I don't think the spiritual life is for me," Flinx had replied. They all had a good laugh at that.
As he quietly opened the lock on the outside door, he thought back to what he had learned those past few years. A wise man did not move around Drallar late at night, particularly on so wet and dark a one. But he couldn't go back to sleep without locating the source of the feelings that battered at him. Loneliness and hunger, hunger and loneliness, filled his mind with restlessness. Who could possibly be broadcasting twin deprivations of such power?
The open doorway revealed a wall of rain. The angled street carried the water away to Drallar's efficient under-ground drainage system. Flinx stood in the gap for a long moment, watching. Suddenly an intense burst of emptiness made him wince. That decided him. He could no more ignore that hot pleading than he could leave an unstamped credcard lying orphaned in the street.
"That curiosity of yours will get ye into real trouble Someday, boy," Mother Mastiff had told him on more than one occasion. "Mark me word."
Well, he had marked her word. Marked it and filed it. He turned away from the door and skeoded back to his little room. It was early summer, and the rain outside was relatively warm. Disdaining an underjacket, he took a slickertic from its wall hook and donned it; thus suitably shielded from the rain, he made his way back to the stall, out into the street, and closed the main door softly behind him.
A few lights like hibernating will-o'-the-wisps glowed faintly from behind unshuttered shop fronts on the main avenue where the idling wealthy night-cavorted in relative safety. On the side street where Mother Mastiff plied her trade, only a rare flicker of illumination emerged from be-hind locked shutters and windows.
As water cascaded off his shoulders, Flinx stood there and searched his mind. Something sent him off to his right. There was a narrow gap between Mother Mastiff's shop and that of old lady Marquin, who was on vacation in the south, and by turning sideways, he could just squeeze through.
Then he was standing in the service alleyway that ran behind the shops and a large office building. His eyes roved over a lunar landscape of uncollected garbage and refuse: old plastic packing crates, metal storage barrels, honeycomb containers for breakables, and other indifferently disposed of detritus. A couple of fleurms scurried away from his boots. Flinx watched them warily. He was not squeamish where the omnipresent fleurms were concerned, but he had a healthy respect for them. The critters were covered in a thick, silvery fur, and their little mouths were full of fine teeth. Each animal was as big around as Flinx's thumb and as long as his forearm. They were not really worms but legless mammals that did very well in the refuse piles and composting garbage that filled the alleys of Drallar to overflowing. He had heard horror stories of old men and women who had fallen into a drunken stupor in such _places-_ only their exposed bones remained for the finding.
Flinx, however, was not drunk. The fleurms could inflict nasty bites, but they were shy creatures, nearly blind, and greatly preferred to relinquish the right of way when given the choice.
If it was dark on the street in front of the shop, it was positively stygian in the alley. To the east, far up the straightaway, he could make out a light and hear intermittent laughter. An odd night for a party. But the glow gave him a reference point, even if it was too far off to shed any light on his search.
The continuing surge of loneliness that he felt did not come from that distant celebration, nor did it rise from the heavily shuttered and barred doorways that opened onto the alley. The emotions Flinx was absorbing came from somewhere very near.
He moved forward, picking his way between the piles of debris, talking his time so as to give the fleurms and the red-blue carrion bugs time to scurry from his path.
All at once something struck with unexpected force at his receptive mind. The mental blow sent him to his knees. Somewhere a man was beating his wife. No unique circumstance, that, but Flinx felt it from the other side of the city. The woman was frightened and angry. She was reaching for the tiny dart gun she kept hidden in her bed-room dresser and was pointing its minuscule barrel at the man. Then it was the husband's turn to be frightened. He was pleading with her, not in words that Flinx could hear but via an emotional avalanche that ended in an abrupt, nonverbal scream of shock. Then came the emptiness that Flinx had grown to recognize as death.
He heard laughter, not from the party up the alley but from one of the lofty crystal towers that reared above the wealthy inurbs where the traders and transspatial merhants made their homes. And there was plotting afoot; someone was going to be cheated.
Far beyond the city boundaries in the forest to the west: happiness and rejoicing, accompanied by a new liquid sensation of emergence. A baby was born.
Very near, perhaps in one of the shops on Mother Mastiff's own street, an argument was raging. It involved accounts and falsification, waves of acrimonious resentment passing between short-term partners. Then the private grumblings of someone unknown and far away across the city center, someone plotting to kill, and kill more than one time, but plotting only-the kind of fantasizing that fills spare moments of every human brain, be it healthy or sick.
Then all the sensations were gone, all of them, the joyful and the doomed, the debaters and lovers and ineffectual dreamers. There was
only the rain.
Blinkmg, he staggered to his feet and stood swaying un-steadily on the slope of the alley. Rain spattered off his slickertic, wove its way down the walls of the shops and the office building, to gurgle down the central drains. Flinx found himself staring blankly up the alley toward the distant point of light that marked the location of the party. Abruptly, the emotions of everyone at the party were sharp in his mind; only now he felt no pain. There was only a calm clarity and assurance.
He could see this woman anxiously yet uncertainly trying to tempt that man, see another criticizing the furniture, still another wondering how he could possibly live through the next day, feel laughter, fear, pleasure, lust, admiration, envy: the whole gamut of human emotions. They began to surge toward him like the storm he had just weathered, threatening the pain again, threatening to over-whelm him-STOP IT, he ordered himself.
Stop it-easy.
By careful manipulation of a piece of his mind he hadn't even been aware existed before, he discovered he was able to control the intensity of the emotions that threatened to drown him-not all of which had been hu-man, either. He had felt at least two that were bizarre, yet recognizable enough for him to identify. They were the feelings of a mated pair of ornithorpes. It was the first time he had sensed anything from a nonhuman.
Slowly, he found he was able to regulate the assault, to damp it down to where he could manage it, sort out the individual feelings, choose, analyze-and then they were gone as suddenly as they had struck, along with all the rest of the blaze of emotion he had sucked in from around the city.
Hesitantly, he tried to focus his mind and bring back the sensations. It was as before. Try as he might, his mind stayed empty of any feelings save his own. His own-and one other. The loneliness was still there, nagging at him. The feeling was less demanding now, almost hesitant. The hunger was there, too.
For Love of Mother-Not Page 5