In a hospital that blankness would doubtless wear off, he thought. Though it was almost as if she had been mind- wiped, and not selectively, either. She looked like a walking husk of a human being. Flinx turned away from her, uncomfortable without really knowing why, as she was put in a hospital skimmer. The vehicle rose above the crowd and headed downtown, siren screaming.
Still he fought to reconstruct those last seconds in the warehouse. What had happened? That unfortunate woman had been about to kill Pip. Flinx had started toward her, protesting frantically, and her companion had started to aim his own weapon at him. The weapons themselves functioned noiselessly. Had the woman fired? Had the man?
The instrumentation that had filled the storage chamber required a lot of power. If the Peaceforcer had missed Flinx, perhaps deliberately firing a warning shot, the bolt might have struck something equally sensitive but far more volatile than human flesh. As a rule, warehouses did not draw much power. There might have been delicately attuned fuel cells in the room. The shot might have set them off.
Or had one of the Meliorares-perhaps the one who had fled from Pip's cage-set off some kind of suicide device to keep his colleagues from the disgrace of an official trial? He felt much better as he considered both reason- able explanations. They fit what had happened, were very plausible. .
The only thing they failed to explain was bow he had landed two blocks away, apparently unhurt except for a raging headache.
Well, he had been moving toward the door, and explosions could do funny things. The streets of the industrial district were notorious for their potholes, which were usually full of rain water. And he was soaked. Could the force of the explosion have thrown him into one deep enough to cushion his fall and cause him to skip out again like a stone on a pond? Obviously, that was what had happened. There was no other possible explanation.
His head hurt.
Local gendarmes were finally beginning to show up. At their arrival Flinx instinctively turned away, leaving the crowd behind and cradling Pip beneath his slickertic. He was glad that he hadn't been forced to use his own knife, felt lucky to be alive. Maybe now, at last, external forces would leave him and Mother Mastiff and Pip in peace.
He thought back a last time to that final instant in the warehouse. The rage and desperation had built up in him until he had been unable to stand it any longer and had charged blindly at the Peaceforcer about to kill Pip. He hoped he would never be that angry again in his life.
The crowd ignored the boy as he fled the scene; he vanished into the comforting shadows and narrow alleys that filtered back toward the central city. There was nothing remarkable about him and no reason for the gendarmes to stop and question him. The old man and the executive who had found him lying in the street had already forgot- ten him, engrossed in the unusual sight of a major fire in perpetually damp Drallar.
Flinx made his way back toward the more animated sections of the city, toward the arguing and shouting and smells and sights of the marketplace and Mother Mastiff's warm, familiar little shop. He was sorry. Sorry for all the trouble he seemed to have caused. Sorry for the funny old Meliorares who were no more. Sorry for the overzealous Peaceforcers.
Mother Mastiff wouldn't be sorry, he knew. She could be as vindictive as an AAnn, especially if anything close to her had been threatened.
For himself, however, he regretted the deaths of so many. All for nothing, all because of some erratic, harmless, usually useless emotion-reading ability he possessed. Their own fault, though. Everything that happened was their own fault, Meliorares and Peaceforcers alike. He tried to warn them. Never try to come between a boy and his snake.
The damp trek homeward exhausted his remaining strength. Never before had the city seemed so immense, its byways and side streets so convoluted and tortuous. He was completely worn out.
Mother Mastiff was manning the shop, waiting for him as anxiously as she awaited customers. Her thin, aged arm was strong as she slipped it around his back and helped him the last agonizing steps into the store. "I've been worried like to death over ye, boy! Damn ye for causing a poor old woman such distress." Her fingers touched his bruised cheeks, his forehead, as her eyes searched for serious damage. "And you're all cut up and bleeding. What's to become of ye, Flinx? Ye have got to learn to stay out of trouble."
He summoned up a grin, glad to be home. "It seems to come looking for me, Mother."
"Hmpnh! Excuses. The boy's wit is chock full of excuses. What happened to ye?"
He tried to marshal his thoughts as he slid Pip out from beneath the slickertic. Mother Mastiff backed away. The millidrag was as limp as a piece of rope. It lay curled up in its master's lap, if not asleep then giving a fine scaly im- itation of some similar state.
"Some people kidnaped Pip. They called themselves Meliorares. But they really wanted me. They-" His expression screwed tight as he remembered, "One of them said something about wanting to fix me. Fix what? What did they want with me?"
She considered a long moment, studying the boy. Truly, it appeared that he was telling the truth, that he had learned no more than what he said. Ignoring the proximity of the hated flying snake, she sat down and put an arm around his shoulders.
"Now mark me well, boy, because this is vital to ye. I don't have to tell ye that you're different. You've always been different. Ye have to hide that as best ye can, and we'll have to hide ourselves. Drallar's a big place. We can move the shop if need be. But you're going to have to learn to live quietly, and you're going to have to keep your differences to yourself, or we'll be plagued with more of this unwelcome and unwholesome attention."
"It's all so silly, Mother, lust because I can sometimes sense what other people are feeling?"
"That. And maybe more."
"There isn't anything more. That's all I can do."
"Is it, boy? How did ye get away from these people." She looked past him toward the street, suddenly concerned. "Will they be coming after ye again?"
"I don't think so. Most of them were kind of dead when I left. I don't know how I got away from them. I think one of them shot at something explosive and it blew up. I was blown clear out of a building and into the street."
"Lucky to be alive ye are, it seems, though by what providence I wonder. Maybe 'tis best this way. Maybe 'tis best ye don't know too much about yourself just yet. Your mind always was advanced of your body, and maybe there's something more that's advanced even of that."
"But I don't want to be different," he insisted, almost crying. "I just want to be like everyone else."
"I know ye do, boy," she said gently, "but each of us must play the cards fate deals us, and if you've been stuck with the joker, you'll just have to learn to cope with it, turn it to your advantage somehow."
"I don't want any advantage! Not if it's going to cause us this kind of trouble."
"I'll have none of that, boy! A difference can always be to one's advantage. 'Tis time ye chose a profession. I know you've no like for running a shop like this one. What is it ye like to do?"
He mulled it over a while before replying. "All I enjoy doing is making other people happy."
She shook her head sadly. "Sometimes I think you've not enough self-interest to keep yourself alive. However, if that's what ye like, then you'll have to find some way to earn a living at it."
"Sometimes I dream of becoming a doctor and healing people."
"I'd advise ye to set your sights a bit lower, boy."
"All right. An actor, then."
"Nay, not that low. Be sensible. Set yourself to some- thing ye can do now, without years of study."
"I could perform right here in the marketplace," he said thoughtfully. "I can juggle pretty good. You've seen me."
"Aye, and yelled at ye often enough for practicing with my expensive baubles. But 'tis a sound thought. We must find ye a good street corner. Surely ye can't get into trouble performing before these simple locals."
"Sure! I'll go and practice right now."
&n
bsp; "Easy, boy, easy. You're nearly asleep on your feet, and I'll not have ye breaking either my goods or yourself. Go inside and lie down. I'll be in soon to fix ye something to eat. Go on now, boy, and be sure and take your monster with ye."
Cradling the exhausted Pip in his hands, Flinx rose and made his way through the displays to the section of the shop that served as their home. Mother Mastiff's eyes followed him.
What was to become of the boy? Somehow he had come to the attention of powerful, dangerous people. At least there was a good chance they wouldn't be bothered for a while. Not if he had left them "kind of dead."
How had he escaped? Sometimes he still frightened her. Oh, not because he would ever harm a hair of her old head. Quite the contrary, as his dogged pursuit and rescue of her these past days had proven. But there were forces at work within that adolescent body, forces beyond the comprehension of a simple shopkeeper, forces he might not be able to control. And there was more to it than reading the emotions of others. Of that she was certain. How much more she could only suspect, for it was clear enough the boy had little awareness of them himself.
Well, let him play at the trade of jongleur for a while. Surely that was harmless. Surely he could not find much trouble plying so simple an occupation.
She told herself that repeatedly all the rest of the after- noon and on into evening as she sat watching him sleep. When she finally slipped into her own bed, she thought she had put such imaginary fears beyond her, but such was not the case.
She sensed that the boy lying content and peaceful in the room opposite hers was destined for more than an idle life of entertaining on street corners. Much more. She knew somehow that a damnable universe, which was al- ways sticking its cosmic nose into the destinies of innocent citizens, would never let anyone as unique as Flinx alone.
End
DON'T MISS THE CONTINUING ADVENTURES OF FLINX AND PIP IN;
THE TAR-AIYM KRANG
ORPHAN STAR THE END OF THE MATTER and
BLOODHYPE
About the Author
Born in New York City in 1946, Alan Dean Foster was raised in Los Angeles, California. After receiving a bachelor's degree in political science and a Master of Fine Arts in motion pictures from UCLA in 1968-69, he worked for two years as a public relations copywriter in a small Studio City, California, firm.
His writing career began in 1968 when August Derleth bought a long letter of Foster's and published it as a short story in his biannual Arkham Collector Magazine. Sales of short fiction to other magazines followed. His first try at a novel. The Tar-Aiym Krang, was published by Ballantine Books in 1972.
Foster has toured extensively through Asia and the isles of the Pacific. Besides traveling, he enjoys classical and rock music, old films, basketball, body surfing, and karate. He has taught screenwriting, literature, and film history at UCLA and Los Angeles City College.
Currently, he resides in Arizona with his wife JoAnn (who is reputed to have the only extant recipe for Barbarian Cream Pie).
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Author: Alan Dean Foster Title: For Love Of Mother-Not Original copyright year: 1983 Genre: Science Fiction Version: 1.6 Date of e-text: 11/28/00 Source: Prepared by: Comments: Please correct the errors you find in this e-text, update the version number and redistribute
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