Authors: Alan Dean Foster
Flinx’s nightmares. The blackness that had touched her and left her trembling uncontrollably. “What does such a hostile enormity have to do with poor Flinx?”
“He is the Key,” it/they responded without hesitation.
In the nothingness that surrounded her, she felt lost in the multiple, vast presence. She had heard that before, from Flinx. Now she was hearing it again. “How can Flinx be the key to anything? He’s just one frightened, lost, confused human.”
“He is the Key,” she was told again, more forcefully this time. “How, we do not know. When, we do not know. Where, we do not know. But he is the Key. That we
do
know.”
“How can you be so certain? You don’t sound very certain.”
“We are deeply struck by the implausibility of it. There is much we do not know. But him we do know. Everything is changing. Nothing is stable. He is changing, too, in ways even we do not know and cannot predict. In the midst of such immense ignorance the last thing that is needed is a complication.”
“Me,” she heard herself replying.
“You,” the consciousness concurred with infuriating certitude.
“I won’t abandon him. You can’t make me.” This last was said with more determination than confidence. “I’m the only friend he’s got. He’s as much as told me so. So if you somehow force me to leave him now, then whatever else you are, his friend you’re not.”
“True,” came the somewhat surprising communal response. “We are not his friend. Not in the way you define such an association. Yet he is needed. This thing that needs to be done cannot be done without him.”
“What thing?”
“We are not certain. Not how, when, or where. Only that it needs to be done, and that the doing of it needs him.”
“For something vast and powerful you’re maddeningly imprecise.”
“Do we not wish it were otherwise? Do you think we are comfortable with this and content with the options? Do you think we enjoy what we must do to ourselves, to others, to the human called Flinx? No pleasure is taken in this. No joy is to be found in it. There are times in existence when things must be done for the doing of them, without extraneous considerations. This is one of them. Now and later. Here and elsewhere.”
“I don’t care. I won’t forsake him. He’s my
friend
.” Considering her present condition, she was as defiant as she could be. “You can’t make me.” Silently terrified of having thrown down the gauntlet, she waited for the threatening contradiction that she was sure would be forthcoming. It was not.
“We will not.” Not, we cannot, but—we will not. “If you would be a friend to all and not just to one, do not try to divert him from what must be done.”
“But he doesn’t know what must be done, and he doesn’t know how to do it. Neither do you.”
“Entropy educates. Time tells. With every great precession, knowledge grows. The moment will come when we know what is to be done, and how, and where. At that instant, so will he. If you are present at that time, you must try to help and not interfere.”
“How can I interfere when I don’t know what’s going to happen or how it’s going to happen?”
“You will know. If you are present at that moment, you will know. We will all know, simultaneously and together.” The presence began to diminish. “When that time comes, remember this: you chose your way.”
She sat forward with a start. Something small and damp was tickling her face. Reaching up with one hand, she gently nudged the anxious flying snake’s head aside. “It’s okay, Scrap. I’m okay.” Reaching down, she discovered that despite the hired transport’s efficient climate control system, she was sopping wet with perspiration.
The vehicle had come to a stop. Peering out, she saw that they were in front of Flinx’s hotel. How long they had been sitting there she did not know. It was still night outside, just as it was night within her. But the latter brightened as her awareness strengthened. She directed the transport to display a heads-up chronometer. It was very late.
A piteous moan emerged from the figure slumped in the seat alongside her. Pip was crawling all over her master, desperately trying to wake him. Clarity fumbled in her purse before extracting a scented cloth. As she dabbed his forehead and face with the length of cooling fabric, his eyelids fluttered and eventually rose. Divining her intent, Pip drew back to one side.
For a terrifying instant, Flinx saw something dreadful beyond his ken. Then he recognized her.
“Clarity.” Reaching up with one hand, he drew the tips of his slightly trembling fingers down her cheek. Despite his condition and what he had likely just gone through, his voice was strong. “I—I had another bad dream.”
Nodding understandingly, she continued to mop his brow. “I know. I did, too.”
He sat up straighter. “I projected on you again? Clarity, I’m so sorry.” His other hand absently stroked the back of Pip’s head and neck.
“It was different this time. My dream, I mean. I don’t think we had the same experience. At least, nothing horrible touched me. It was more in the nature of a conversation.” She managed a weak smile. “And my head doesn’t hurt.”
He stared hard at her. “This isn’t possible. What you’re describing is nothing like what I dreamed.” He looked away. “Mine was the same as usual. Soaring outward, searching, finding, and perceiving, then rushing back into myself and waking up. You said your dream was like a conversation.” Seeking answers he searched her face, but found only beauty. “Who were you conversing with?”
“Something doesn’t want me to be with you, Flinx.” Carefully, she refolded her inadequate cloth and resumed patting him down. “It—they—told me so in no uncertain terms. But they won’t try to prevent me from being with you, either. The decision is up to me.”
“They?”
“I think it’s the same they who keep forcing these dreams on you. It’s all bound up with the mysterious phenomenon that’s coming this way. You and the ancient device, the green color, and the warmth you told me about. And now, it seems, me too.”
Turning in his seat, he grabbed her shoulders and gazed into her eyes. “You can’t be involved, Clarity. It’s my nightmare, not yours.”
She smiled regretfully. “Nightmares, it appears, can be shared, Flinx. Besides, as the voices in my head said, the choice is up to me. I told you I would try to help you. I’m not backing away from that because of a bad dream or two.” They were rather more than that, she knew, but it made no difference to her. Theirs was a friendship she had determined would endure. One that no ethereal entities would be allowed to rend asunder.
He nodded slowly, gratefully. Then he put his long arms around her and squeezed, holding her tight. Tight enough so that even rampaging galactic horrors, even intrusive dreams, could not fit between them. Enfolded in his strong arms, she found that her fear, like a bad dream, faded away.
CHAPTER
11
As on every other developed Commonwealth world he had visited, Flinx was able to order everything he needed to restock the
Teacher
by working his way through the Nurian shell, accessing specific supply hubs as needed while simultaneously maintaining a certain degree of anonymity. Eventually, however, there inevitably came a moment when he had to present himself in person at the port where his shuttle was based. Ordering tens of thousands of credits’ worth of goods was one thing; taking possession of them was something else—especially when the goods were intended for shipment offworld. That meant completing export forms.
The functionary standing on the other side of the counter at Sphene’s main port was representative of his type: busy, preoccupied, and phlegmatic, with a thin mouth pursed in a perpetual pout—though being a citizen of Nur, his tan was better than most of his ilk. With Pip asleep on his shoulder, Flinx waited patiently for the bureaucrat to finish what he was doing.
“Export codes?” The clerk did not look up from his readout. Flinx responded with a series of numbers that had to be recited in person. He waited while they were slowly checked.
Halfway through inputting the sequence, the port clerk frowned to himself. He enlarged the readout. “You are Philip Lynx?” he asked, finally looking up.
Flinx had already forwarded his personal ident information. “Want to do a retina scan?” A mind-wave reading would be more definitive, Flinx knew, but he could not allow that. A retina scan had always been sufficient.
“That won’t be necessary. I was asking rhetorically.” He looked back at his readout. “Quite a load of stores for one man.”
“It’s not just for me. It’s for an entire ship.” Of course, he was the only passenger on that ship, but there was no need to volunteer
that
bit of information.
“Oh, a whole ship. Well then, well then,” the man muttered, as if that explained everything.
The clerk resumed processing the formalities that would result in the release of Flinx’s goods, already warehoused and awaiting transfer to his shuttle.
The clerk hesitated. “I hope you don’t mind—I’m just naturally inquisitive—it’s part of my job to react to such things as pique my curiosity.” He gestured at the readout Flinx could not see. “This one item here. I don’t understand it.”
At the official’s urging, the readout rose and floated over to Flinx, who eyed the manifest warily. “What part do you find confusing?”
“Well—it’s this dirt. Compacted aerated high-grade humus mixed with other components but basically—dirt. What do you do with dirt on such a small starship?”
The tall man leaned on the counter and smiled confidingly. “It’s all business. There are valuable live plants on the ship. Specialty trade items. I need to do some transplanting.”
“You don’t strike me as the gardening type.”
“I’m not. I told you. They’re trade items.”
“You didn’t perchance try smuggling any of these trade items onto New Riviera? There are very strict penalties for such things.”
“You just said I don’t strike you as the gardening type. Do I strike you as the brainless type?” On his shoulder, Pip lifted her head and yawned. In the bright office illumination, her small but sharp teeth glinted like shards of pearls as she stared attentively at the clerk.
The functionary suddenly lost all further interest in such banal items as dirt. Flinx departed with his full clearance approved. Now he could supervise the loading of his supplies. Then it would be time to have a long talk with Clarity Held. One whose subject matter promised to be even more serious than usual.
As he left the building housing Customs, he found himself wondering how he knew that the plants aboard his ship
were
in need of transplanting. Maybe he simply had more of a green thumb than he suspected. Or perhaps he had been emfoling in his sleep. But as the official had pointed out, it only involved dirt.
She awoke to the dulcet
ptwee-ptwerr
of the iridescent-winged
sila languet
, one of the most euphonious of all the inhabitants of New Riviera’s takari forests. The cheerful vivacity of the song contrasted forcefully with the murkiness that swathed her thoughts. Not only did she not know where she was, she had no idea how she had come to be there.
She was in some kind of small building with walls made to look like actual wood. Outside, through the air barriers that took the place of old-fashioned windows, she could see blossom-laden trees, a cerulean sky, and the occasional bright yellow-green corkscrew bush. In addition to the arresting song of the sila languet, the crescendoing
mutter-mutter
of colusai climbers filtered in from outside. Neither harmony was particularly reassuring.
Especially since her wrists were secured behind her and her ankles were bound together.
Nothing restrained the rest of her, however. Swinging her legs to her left and pushing with arms and shoulders against the back of the couch on which she lay, she managed to work herself into an upright position. That allowed her to see across the room. Beyond the faux-rustic furniture and particulate-scrubbing fireplace was a kitchen equipped with replicated appliances from humanity’s past. Behind the plastic-and-ceramic façades were modern devices, she was sure. On a table sat a large, transparent box perforated with tiny holes.
Inside the box, Scrap moved slowly, as if drugged, while peering anxiously in her direction.
What had happened? The last thing she remembered was going through some recent deliveries. The final item had been a box embossed with the malleable logomot of a famous, elegant perfumery headquartered in the southern city of Quescal. There had been an accompanying letter: something about sampling a new fragrance and hoping to solicit her professional opinion. She remembered opening and reading the letter. She remembered opening the package and . . .
She did not remember anything after that.
Had someone struck her from behind? Nothing hurt, except her bound wrists. They throbbed slightly. She hadn’t opened any perfume. Had there been something else in the package? Whatever had put her down and out had apparently done the same or something similar to Scrap. More ominous, the presence of the minidrag-proof container suggested the actions of someone familiar with the flying snake’s abilities. As she knew, that information was limited to a small circle of her acquaintances. Which was not to say that someone outside that orbit could not have acquired such information.
She rose from the couch and was hopping toward the kitchen table with an eye toward freeing the minidrag when the front door opened. Most of the doorway was blocked by a familiar figure.
“Bill! Thank Deity you’re here!” Hopping around, she fluttered the tips of her fingers. “I don’t know what happened. One minute I’m opening packages and the next, I’m waking up on that couch. Where are we?”
Ormann walked over to the kitchen table and sat down on a chair. Inside the transparent container, the flying snake thrust its head in his direction. The emotions it was reading from Ormann were more cautious and hopeful than openly aggressive. It would not have mattered anyway. Ormann had ordered the container constructed from material that was impervious to the minidrag’s corrosive poison.