Running from the Deity (10 page)

What could he do? In the face of desperation, he was reminded of his own difficult childhood. These poor Dwarra were intelligent like himself, capable of the same depth of feeling as he was. Maybe he couldn’t track down an ancient wandering sentient weapon, and maybe he could or could not in some as yet unknown, unfathomable way influence a looming galactic cataclysm. But he
could
speed the knitting of a broken bone or the healing of damaged neural connections, or answer a young male’s query as to the true nature of what lay beyond his world. He could, and did, do all of these things because he had always, at heart, had more compassion than common sense.

When informed (politely) that he valued his solitude at night, his hosts had not been affronted. Instead, they had rapidly fashioned a separate sleeping place for him in one of the upper barn lofts, where the cooling breezes off the nearby sea made for the most pleasant sleeping conditions. This despite the fact that they believed his preference in climate dangerously chilling, something Storra was at pains to mention whenever the opportunity arose. In this the Dwarran female was more diplomatic than Mother Mastiff would have been. His adoptive mother would simply have told him to shut up and throw on another blanket.

The slimmer bodies of his Dwarran hosts were more comfortable inside their well-insulated home. They slept vertically, in squatting position, their upper bodies sunk as far as possible into the lower, swathed in multiple layers of cloth. In contrast to them, he found the peninsula’s sometimes bracing climate downright salubrious.

On this particular evening only Storra was present, having just brought him the nighttime meal she had expertly prepared, when the
Teacher
chose to make contact with its owner. She looked on in fascination as he plucked the com unit off his belt and acknowledged the call. He could have ignored it, waiting until she left, but he had already broken so many laws regarding contact with a species of her level of accomplishment that he barely thought twice about responding.

“Repairs are proceeding smoothly and on schedule,” the ship informed him courteously.

“How much longer?” Flinx ignored the captivated, wide-eyed stare of the female Dwarra standing at the top of the rough-hewn wooden stairs that led to his sleeping area.

“As I said, on schedule. With proper facilities, I would be done by now. But I have only on-board tools to work with. Do you wish me to repeat the schedule of work that needs to be done?”

This time, the ship was not being sarcastic. “I remember it, better than I care to. If there is any change, let me know.”

“Always.”

The transmission ended, Storra could not restrain herself from asking, “Ebbanai and I thought you came alone among us.”

“I did. I mean, I am.” A pile of furled wings and bright colors, Pip dozed nearby on a pile of raw, unstripped seashan. He carefully snapped the compact communications unit back in place on his utility belt. “That was my ship I was talking to.”

Storra was understandably confused. “Your vessel talks to you? But it sounds so much like a person. As if it had a mind of its own.”

“It does,” he told her. “Sometimes too much of a mind of its own.”

Her Sensitives strained toward him, as if by making contact she would be able to grasp what he was saying. “How can a machine have a mind of its own? My loom has no mind. The new steamcraft some of the watermasters are said to be building do not have minds of their own.”

“There are machines more complex than you can imagine, Storra.” He dug into the food she had prepared. As always, it was plain-tasting and filling, much like the countryside from which the ingredients that had gone into it had been harvested. So far he had encountered nothing in the way of local produce that threatened to upset his digestive system.

“As you are more complex than I can imagine, Flinx.” She backed toward the stairs. The Dwarra possessed an excellent sense of balance and considerable confidence in their footing. Not surprising, he mused, when gravity was light and one was equipped with two pairs of forelegs.

“I’m not all that complex,” he countered as she retreated. “Confused sometimes, but not complex.” It was a comforting lie he did not even believe himself.

She paused at the top of the stairway that led down to the floor of the barn. “I would like to see your ship sometime, Flinx.”

“I’ll consider it,” he told her. In fact, he had already considered it.

Helping injured natives was one thing. Allowing them to explore the interior of a Commonwealth starship, and a uniquely advanced one at that, was simply not in the offing. Not that someone like Storra was likely to take anything but astonishment away from such a visit. She did not possess sufficient references to allow her to understand what she was seeing. What would a tenth-century human, for example, make of a modern timepiece? Or something like the needler holstered at his side? But he saw no reason to disappoint her by turning her down cold.

No one but Ebbanai had seen the
Teacher
. With a little effort, the net-caster could probably find its camouflaged location again, but as far as Flinx knew his host had given no indication he intended to try to do so. Showing disbelieving visitors a large pile of sand and claiming it was a vessel that had come from the sky was not likely to enhance the net-caster’s reputation among his neighbors.

Storra was talking to him again. “Whatever you are, you have been a blessing to the afflicted.”

“Speaking of the afflicted, while I’m happy to help people as long as I’m here, I expect to be leaving before long. I wouldn’t want anyone to have to go away disappointed on my account. As, for example, by having someone else, say an unnamed third party, encourage them to come here seeking my help only to find me gone.”

When he spoke the last, he wanted to meet her eyes. But she had already started down the stairs. So he settled for probing her feelings. As was often the case, much more so than when he probed her mate, her emotions were a complex, hard-to-penetrate jumble. There was concern for him, excitement that probably stemmed from his apparent agreement to consider her request to see his vessel, plus overtones of contentment and concern. What he could not do was isolate and identify their root causes. Was she concerned because he had spoken of leaving, or for some other reason? And if the first, why?

At the moment, he was too tired to care.
Blessing to the afflicted
she had called him. Nonsense. Doing good deeds was a way to simultaneously underpin his humanity and alleviate boredom while providing an unmatched opportunity to study the dominant local life-form of the Arrawd system. The way she had phrased it made what he was doing sound almost like a religious experience. Weary as he was, he didn’t bother to explore the possible ramifications of his own observation.

He should have.

By the following week it was difficult to say which was being put to more use: his limited store of knowledge, or the medicinal supplies and devices he always carried with him whenever he was out and about on an alien world. Finding itself in daily use, the beam-healer needed constant recharging from the storpak he carried. Eventually, even the pak ran down. This required a trip to the
Teacher
to recharge them both, as well as to replenish his other supplies.

Clearly fearful he might not return, Ebbanai and Storra did everything they could to prevent him from going. He reassured them that as long as honest individuals in need of his aid remained at the homestead, he would return to help them to the best of his limited abilities. He did not add that he might as well do so because he couldn’t leave anyway until his ship had completed its necessary self-repairs.

Through the storm of emotions that boiled inside his hosts he could perceive how hard it was for them not to follow. He was gratified when they did not do so. Pip served as his eye in the sky, circling high above as he followed a deliberately circuitous path back to the camouflaged
Teacher
. She could not talk to him, of course, but by reading her emotions he could tell if anything out of the ordinary was active in his immediate vicinity yet outside the range of his own perception. Thankfully, his hike back was as uneventful as the weather: clear skies mottled with gray-white clouds, and a shifting, cooling breeze flowing from east to west off the nearby sea.

The
Teacher
was as he had left it: a high ridge of rippling beach “dunes” whose concealment was all the more effective since real, blowing sand had by now covered parts of the ship’s expertly camouflaged exterior. Always seeking to improve on its own efforts, the vessel had responded by adding imitation shoots and sprigs of local vegetation to its outward appearance. One had to admire the result. Without the tracker attached to his belt, he would have been hard put himself to find it again. That it was well hidden from any wandering locals he had no doubt.

He luxuriated in its familiar interior. Even some of the plants in his relaxation lounge seemed affected by his visit. Small vines and creepers twisted toward his feet and legs when he took his ease among them that afternoon. He felt equally at home in their presence. Something about the imported greenery that decorated the lounge always seemed to relax him.

Of course, he had been relaxed ever since he had first set foot on this world. His ability to simply shut out the babble of sentient emotion surrounding him whenever he felt like it was not only unique to Arrawd, but bordered on the addictive. If only he could do the same on places like Earth, or New Riviera, or Moth, or any of the other inhabited worlds he had visited, his life would be far less stressed and very different.

And still, after the many days he had spent here, not a single headache. Not one. For the first time in his adult life, he was free of such pain. Nor did it seem to matter whether he was utilizing his Talent to scrutinize the feelings of the Dwarra around him or not. In the absence of such pain, and the constant worry attendant on when it might strike, it was as if he had been given a new outlook on life.

He could not keep himself from thinking about the possible ramifications. Could he possibly live here? It was the only world he had found where he could dwell among other sentients free of the intermittent cerebral assaults that threatened not just to inconvenience, but to kill him. He could still assist Bran Tse-Mallory and Truzenzuzex in their quest to understand and hopefully find a way to counter the oncoming evil that threatened galactic stability. Perhaps he might even persuade Clarity Held to join him. The climate was accommodating, the local food tolerable if bland, the natives he had met thus far sociable and welcoming.

There was a whole new planet to explore, and if boredom set in, the
Teacher
would always be available to carry him to other worlds. It was also conceivable that the Commonwealth authorities who sought to question him would ignore him even if they could find him. Not only was Arrawd technically outside Commonwealth jurisdiction, but any forces sent to detain him would themselves be in violation of the regulations governing contact with Class IVb worlds.

He had come to Arrawd to find raw materials for fixing his ship. He had not expected to find himself in a situation that might help him to fix himself. Albeit more than a little far-fetched, the prospect was definitely something to consider.

As a puzzled Pip mused on the current curious state of her master’s mind, the endless wanderer seriously considered the possibilities attendant on turning himself into a real immigrant.

CHAPTER

7

Ebbanai and Storra’s joy at his return was unbounded. Their skin flaps fluttered uncontrollably as they caught sight of him coming down the path toward the house. The surge of gratefulness he felt from them was submerged by the flood of thankful expectation from the crowd of hopefuls camped out all around their home. Flinx had to smile to himself as Pip adjusted herself on his shoulder. To look at the throng of stumbling, imploring, forlorn natives while simultaneously perceiving their emotions, he thought absently, one would almost think some weird kind of alien messiah had returned to them.

Re-installed in his basic but comfortable upper-level quarters in his hosts’ barn, he resumed dispensing his ministrations, his efforts bolstered by the fresh supplies he had brought with him from the
Teacher
. He was more than content—a condition with which he was generally unfamiliar. According to the
Teacher
’s AI, necessary repairs were progressing smoothly and on schedule. Meanwhile, his endless curiosity was being sated by the constant flow of information about the new world on which he presently found himself, and by its eager, grateful inhabitants. Couple that with the longest continuous period of mental peace he had experienced on a civilized world since his childhood, and it struck him that for a change he was not merely tolerating his surroundings, but actually enjoying them.

Though the Dwarra were entirely alien, the reaction to successful treatment of a sick or badly wounded sentient was generally the same irrespective of species. Gratitude and hosannas were heaped upon him in a steady stream. That the majority of supplicants were poor only made their thankfulness that much more heartfelt (the analogy assuming some sort of relevant circulatory pumping mechanism). One especially common injury involved young Dwarra whose quartet of forelegs had not yet fully matured. Apparently, the pace of development of the two upper legs exceeded that of the four lower into which they branched, resulting in a plague of breakage among the lowermost youthful limbs. If not set properly while the individual was young, such injuries resulted in serious consequences as the individual matured. Judicious application with his recalibrated beam-healer caused damaged bones to knit properly and with unprecedented speed.

Eye repair was another area where the simple tools he carried for personal first aid turned out to be capable of working small miracles among the locals. The joy he was able to generate by restoring full sight to the near-blind was unbridled.

It was a wonderful way to spend time while waiting for the
Teacher
to conclude its repairs. He had never been able to seek help for his own singular condition out of fear of alerting the authorities to it or, worse, to his location. He had been forced to flee the one hospital he had recently been compelled to spend time in when a couple of its practitioners had become suspicious of, and interested in, his unique mind. He could not allow that kind of probing. And by not being able to allow it, he had closed himself off from any kind of advanced medical help either for his devastating headaches or for the modified neurological condition that gave rise to them.

Ministering to others served to alleviate the depression that was always close at hand. He had at his disposal the means to do for the natives of Arrawd what no one could do for him. It was very likely he couldn’t do anything to rid the future of the vast incoming evil he encountered in periodic dreams—or whatever such episodes actually were—but here he could at least help needy individuals. That they were not human made no difference to him. Sentience was everything; appearance meant nothing. That was a lesson humankind, spreading outward into space, had learned once and for all as a consequence of the Pitar-humanx war.

He knew himself well enough to know that his activities were not purely altruistic. He derived pleasure from helping the Dwarra who came to see him. If that was an indication of selfishness, however slight, so be it. The genuine pleasures to be had from his nomadic, confused existence were few enough. The good feelings rubbed off on—or rather were perceived by—Pip. So relaxed had she become enveloped in the constant air of benign emotion that she spent most of her time sleeping, only occasionally rousing herself to check out a newcomer or hunt for the small, furtive creatures that infested the barn.

As for the Dwarra he aided, they proffered an endless stream of gratitude, and nothing more. It would never have occurred to him to ask for some kind of remuneration for the services he continued to freely dispense. It was in that regard that certain other individuals displayed considerably less restraint, and more foresight.

Ebbanai was relaxing at the small, unprepossessing gate he had constructed midway along the turnoff to his ancestral homestead. Squatting there, alone, with only the sky and fields of seashan that flanked the main road for company, one could grow bored very quickly. On the other hand, it was much easier work than net-casting at night for elusive marrarra. And with each passing day, the unpaved road between Sierlen and Barazoft saw more and more traffic taking the unmarked, previously unheralded turnoff.

Just now a large wagon was easing its way down onto the sandy track that led to his home. It was a solid, well-built vehicle, with raised, gilded carvings on its flanks that bespoke the attention of skilled woodworkers and much money. Drawn by a trio of hulking tethets yoked in single file, the wagon was clearly the conveyance of choice for a prosperous merchant or family. Wealth could be inferred not only from the fine manufacture of the conveyance itself, but from the worked and polished golden metal that capped the trimmed horns of the protesting tethets, as well as from the beautiful designs that had been shaved into their brown, black, and white fur. His suspicions, and hopes, were confirmed when the driver brought the elegant transport to a halt in front of the crude but unavoidable gate. An attendant hopped down to open the wagon’s side door.

It required only a single step for the two adult occupants to descend to the road from the vehicle, which was built low to the ground. Circular upper and conical lower attire billowing around them in the sea breeze, they approached the waiting Ebbanai with anxious expressions on the faces of both the male and his mate. The richness of their raiment matched that of their transportation. Ebbanai would have to work most of a year to afford one such flattering outfit. Perhaps Storra had laboriously woven some of the cloth from which these very garments had been fashioned, he mused. On closer inspection he decided not. The fabric was of too fine a thread, and woven from a much more expensive material than seashan.

The female’s attire, he speculated thoughtfully, would look even better on his own estimable mate.

Ordinarily, the pair who now confronted him would affect a superior air, especially if they by chance happened to encounter him in town. Here, and under very different circumstances, the situation was reversed. It was they who deferred, almost submissively, to the humble net-caster. While the female spoke, her mate kept casting glances beyond the gate, as if some vast wonderment or apparition might at any moment appear on the horizon.

“You are the one called Ebbanai?” she inquired respectfully.

“I am.” It was to Ebbanai’s credit that while circumstances would have allowed him to assume an air of arrogance, such a condition was so foreign to his self-effacing nature that he did not know how to go about doing so.

“You are the one who determines access to the Visitant?”

Ebbanai responded with the sweeping gesture of magnanimity he had developed and refined over the preceding days. “The Visitant is very busy, and has an agenda of its own.”

She looked at her mate, apprehension and concern writ large in her lean, rangy face. “Will it see us?”

Ebbanai affected an air of indifference, his skin flaps lying loose against his body. “Perhaps. Which of you is the supplicant?”

“It is neither of us. Our offspring.” Turning, she called softly toward the wagon.

A Nurset appeared. Stunted and broad of shoulder and hip, with an extra gripping flange growing from the tip of each forearm, the raisers of Dwarra young comprised a distinct subspecies of the dominant sentients. More than anything, they resembled squashed-down versions of those they served. The relationship was more symbiotic than master–servant. Without the Nursets, the Dwarra could not raise their young properly. Similarly, without the intelligence and abilities of the Dwarra, the Nursets could not long survive on their own.

This particular well- but severely dressed Nurset was, unsurprisingly, carrying a young Dwarra on its broad back. Uncharacteristically, however, the youngster was not gripping the Nurset in the traditional manner. Instead, it was held in place by an elaborate brace. The instant Ebbanai caught a glimpse of the offspring’s face, the reason for the adults’ visit, as well as their grave concern, became immediately clear.

Their offspring was brain-damaged.

As to the severity of the problem Ebbanai could not speak. This might be one of those cases where even the talented alien biped could do nothing. But Ebbanai did not voice his reservations. He had long ago overcome any compunction against doing so. Besides, in all honesty, he had already seen his honored guest Flinx work miracles, had watched it accomplish feats of medicine beyond the skills of Metrel’s most revered physicians. Who was he, a simple caster of nets and collector of baryeln gryln, to say what the alien could and could not do?

The look on the female’s face was heartbreaking, her grief profound. Out here, on the outlying Pavjadd Peninsula and far from her fine home, she was not a member of some rich and powerful family; only a mother seeking relief for her broken offspring. Ebbanai looked away, feigning indifference. Under Storra’s prodding he had become business-like, but he could not render himself unfeeling. He was relieved the female did not try to twine Sensitives with him. He was not sure how he would have handled the ensuing torrent of emotion.

“Can the Visitant do anything for such a—a problem?”

“I don’t know. It’s not for me to say. It can only try, I suppose.”

“
Will
it try?” reiterated the edgy male from nearby.

Ebbanai’s Sensitives thrust out to the sides of his head, an indication of ambiguity. “One can but ask. Such efforts are tiring for it. And it is a complicated creature, one who requires much attention and care.”

The net-caster did not have to hold out a hand. The packet that the anxious male placed in the gripping flanges of Ebbanai’s second left hand was more than adequately weighty. “A good beginning for you, I am certain,” he assured the fretful couple by way of response. Stepping back, he pushed on the counterweight and swung the gate aside. Rejoining the wordless Nurset and its drooling, head-lolling burden, the female re-entered the extravagant wagon. Her hesitant mate lingered a moment longer.

“I know that we have to approach the vestibule on foot. That much was explained to us.”

“Yes,” Ebbanai acceded. “It is necessary to demonstrate your humbleness, your need.” He gestured past the male. “You must also leave your transportation in a designated place, a proper distance from the bar—from the vestibule, so as to further indicate your status as mere hopefuls.” He hesitated briefly. “That will not be a problem for you?”

“No, no,” the male assured him hurriedly. “Nothing is a problem, so long as the Visitant agrees to see our offspring.”

Ebbanai gently hefted the heavy packet. “I think there will be no problem for you. Once you reach the place, my own mate will direct you further. I wish—I hope that the Visitant can help your offspring. There are no guarantees. Its knowledge is vast, but not infinite.”

“We know. We have heard,” the male murmured. “For our offspring, there is no other hope. Everything else has been tried.” Once again, his anxious gaze roved past the gate. “Now this being has come among us, and we have been given another chance where for so long there seemed to be none. That is all we ask for.”

That is all you are likely to get, Ebbanai thought—but he did not say it as he stood aside to let the stylish travel wagon rumble past. With both the turnoff and the main road empty once again, he entered the little covered shelter he had built to keep off the sun. Removing a single panel from the simple wooden floor exposed a four-handled portable metal cistern of the kind used to carry gryln syrup to market. Into this he carefully deposited the heavy money packet the male had handed him in hopes of securing access to the Visitant.

Have to move this tonight,
Ebbanai thought to himself. The cistern was nearly full, and soon would be too heavy to lift.

Noble Essmyn Hurrahyrad eyed his fellow members of the consecrated tripartite Kewwyd that ruled the expansive territory of Pakktrine Unified, and brooded. Flood conditions had prevailed throughout the western part of the country for several eight-days now, there had been a mutiny in the law enforcement forces of the province of Meydd that had been costly to deal with in both time and money—and now, this.

“There are no gods.” Noble Kechralnan looked up from where she was squatting at the end of the third point of the gemstone-inlaid, three-pointed star table. “There are only the Dwarra, the Nursets, and the lesser creatures.” Tilting her head back, she spread both arms and all four forearms wide, grasping flanges open to the high ceiling of the fortress meeting room and by implication all that lay beyond its intricately frescoed ceiling.

Noble Peryoladam begged to differ, albeit not vociferously. Much more excitable than her counterparts, she was bright and efficient—both qualities that had contributed to her stellar ascension to the ruling triumvirate that was the Kewwyd. But she was still unsure of herself in many things, and tended to defer to the more experienced Kechralnan in areas where she had less expertise.

No reason for her to do so now, Hurrahyrad felt, since no one
had
any expertise on the topic presently under discussion.

“I do not feel we should dismiss these rumors out of hand,” he insisted, waving his gleaming metal prosthesis. He had lost the first right forearm as a youth. In a battle with the scions of Jebilisk, his war tethet had been slain under him, and in falling had crushed the missing limb beyond repair. As a result he had lost in addition to the forelimb itself two of his eight gripping flanges. But the prosthesis that had replaced the missing limb was excellent for jabbing with, either for stabbing an opponent or to emphasize a point. He used it thusly now.