For Love of Mother-Not Read online

  “I didn’t mean funny ha ha.” She turned back to the controls. “I’m going to set us down. This skimmer really isn’t equipped for the kind of night-tracking we’re doing. Besides, I don’t know about you, but it’s late, and I’m worn out.”

  Flinx was exhausted too, mentally as much as physically. So he did not object as Lauren selected a stand of trees and set the skimmer down in their midst.

  “I don’t think we need to stand a watch,” she said. “We’re far enough from the camp so that no one’s going to stumble in on us. I haven’t seen any sign of aerial patrol.” She was at the rear of the skimmer now, fluffing out the sleeping bags they had brought from the lodge.

  Flinx sat quietly watching her. He had known a few girls—young women—back in Drallar. Inhabitants of the marketplace, like himself, students in the harsh school of the moment. He could never get interested in any of them, though a few showed more than casual interest in him. They were not, well, not serious. About life, and other matters.

  Mother Mastiff repeatedly chided him about his attitude. “There’s no reason for ye to be so standoffish, boy. You’re no older than them.” That was not true, of course, but he could not convince her of that.

  Lauren was a citizen of another dimension entirely. She was an attractive, mature woman. A self-confident, thinking adult—which was how Flinx viewed himself, despite his age. She was already out of pants and shirt and slipping into the thin thermal cocoon of the sleeping bag.

  “Well?” She blinked at him, pushed her hair away from her face. “Aren’t you going to bed? Don’t tell me you’re not tired.”

  “I can hardly stand up,” he admitted. Discarding his own clothing, he slipped into the sleeping bag next to hers. Lying there listening to the rhythmic patter of rain against the canopy, he strained toward her with his mind, seeking a hint, a suggestion of the emotions he so desperately wanted her to feel. Maddeningly, he could sense nothing at all.

  The warmth of the sleeping bag and the cabin enveloped him, and he was acutely aware of the faint musky smell of the woman barely an arm’s length away. He wanted to reach out to her; to touch that smooth, sun-darkened flesh; to caress the glistening ringlets of night that tumbled down the side of her head to cover cheek and neck and finally form a dark bulge against the bulwark of the sleeping bag. His hand trembled.

  What do I do, he thought furiously. How do I begin this? Is there something special I should say first, or should I reach out now and speak later? How can I tell her what I’m feeling? I can receive. If only I could broadcast!

  Pip lay curled into a hard, scaly knot near his feet in the bottom of the sleeping bag. Flinx slumped in on himself, tired and frustrated and helpless. What was there to do now? What could he possibly do except the expected?

  A soft whisper reached him from the other sleeping bag. Black hair shuffled against itself. “Good night, Flinx.” She turned to smile briefly at him, lighting up the cabin, then turned over and became still.

  “Good night,” he mumbled. The uncertain hand that was halfway out of his covering withdrew and clenched convulsively on the rim of the material.

  Maybe this was best, he tried to tell himself. Adult though he believed himself to be, there were mysteries and passwords he was still unfamiliar with. Besides, there was that surge of pity and compassion he had detected in her. Admiring, reassuring, but not what he was hoping to feel from her. He wanted—had to have—something more than that.

  The one thing he didn’t need was another mother.

  13

  He said nothing when they rose the next morning, downed a quick breakfast of concentrates, and lifted once again into the murky sky. The sun was not quite up, though its cloud-diffused light brightened the treetops. They had to find Lauren’s herd soon, he knew, because the skimmer’s charge was running low and so were their options. He did not know how much time Mother Mastiff had left before the source of fear he had detected in her came to meet her.

  Perhaps they had been hindered by the absence of daylight, or perhaps they had simply passed by the place, but this time they found the herd in minutes. Below the hovering skimmer they saw a multitude of small hills the color of obsidian. Black hair rippled in the morning breeze, thick and meter-long. Where one of the hills shifted in deep sleep, there was a flash of red like a ruby lost in a coal heap as an eye momentarily opened and closed.

  Flinx counted more than fifty adults. Scattered among them were an equal number of adolescents and infants. All lay sprawled on their sides on the damp ground, shielded somewhat from the rain by the grove they had chosen as a resting place.

  So these were the fabled Demichin Devilopes!—awesome and threatening even in their satiated sleep. Flinx’s gaze settled on one immense male snoring away between two towering hardwoods. He guessed its length at ten meters, its height when erect at close to six. Had it been standing, a tall man could have walked beneath its belly and barely brushed the lower tips of the shaggy hair.

  The downsloping, heavily muscled neck drooped from between a pair of immense humped shoulders to end in a nightmarish skull from which several horns protruded. Some Devilopes had as few as two horns, others as many as nine. The horns twisted and curled, though most ended by pointing forward; no two animals’ horns grew in exactly the same way. Bony plates flared slightly outward from the horns to protect the eyes.

  The forelegs were longer than the hind—unusual for so massive a mammal. This extreme fore musculature allowed a Devilope to push over a fully grown tree. That explained the devastated trail that marked their eating period. A herd would strip a section of forest bare, pushing down the evergreens to get at the tender branches and needles, even pulling off and consuming the bark of the main boles.

  The Devilopes shifted in their sleep, kicking tree-sized legs.

  “They’ll sleep like this for days,” Lauren explained as they circled slowly above the herd. “Until they get hungry again or unless something disturbs them. They don’t even bother to post sentries. No predator in its right mind would attack a herd of sleeping Devilopes. There’s always the danger they’d wake up.”

  Flinx stared at the ocean of Devilope. “What do we do with them?” Not to mention how, he thought.

  “They can’t be tamed, and they can’t be driven,” Lauren told him, “but sometimes you can draw them. We have to find a young mare in heat. The season’s right.” Her fingers moved over the controls, and the skimmer started to drop.

  “We’re going into that?” Flinx pointed toward the herd.

  “Have to,” she said. “There’s no other way. It ought to be okay. They’re asleep and unafraid.”

  “That’s more than I can say,” he muttered as the skimmer dipped into the trees. Lauren maneuvered it carefully, trying to break as few branches and make as little noise as possible. “What do we need with a mare in heat?”

  “Musk oil and blood,” Lauren explained as the skimmer gently touched down.

  Up close, the herd was twice as impressive: a seething, rippling mass of shaggy black hair broken by isolated clumps of twisted, massive horns, it looked more like a landscape of hell than an assembly of temporarily inanimate herbivores. When Lauren killed the engine and popped open the cabin door, Flinx was assailed by a powerful odor and the steady sonority of the herd’s breathing. Earth humming, he thought.

  Lauren had the dart rifle out and ready as they approached the herd on foot. Flinx followed her and tried to pretend that the black cliffs that towered over them were basalt and not flesh.

  “There.” She pointed between a pair of slowly heaving bulks at a medium-sized animal. Picking her spot, she sighted the long barrel carefully before putting three darts behind the massive skull. The mare stirred, coughing once. Then the head, which had begun to rise, relaxed, slowly sinking back to the surface. Flinx and Lauren held their breath, but the slight activity had failed to rouse any of their target’s neighbors.

  Lauren fearlessly strode between the two hulks that formed a living canyo
n and unslung her backpack next to the tranquilized mare. Before leaving the skimmer, she had extracted several objects from its stores. These she now methodically laid out in a row on the ground and set to work. Flinx watched with interest as knife and tools he didn’t recognize did their work.

  One container filled rapidly with blood. A second filled more rapidly with a green crystalline liquid. Lauren’s face was screwed up like a knot, and as soon as the aroma of the green fluid reached Flinx, he knew why. The scent was as overpowering as anything his nostrils had ever encountered. Fortunately, the smell was not bad, merely overwhelming.

  A loud, sharp grunt sounded from behind him. He turned, to find himself gazing in horrified fascination at a great crimson eye. An absurdly tiny black pupil floated in the center of that blood-red disk. Then the eyelid rolled like a curtain over the apparition. Flinx did not relax.

  “Hurry up!” he called softly over his shoulder. “I think this one’s waking up.”

  “We’re not finished here yet,” Lauren replied, stoppering the second bottle and setting to work with a low-power laser. “I have to close both wounds first.”

  “Let nature close them,” he urged her, keeping an eye on the orb that had fixed blankly on him. The eyelid rippled, and he feared that the next time it opened, it would likely be to full awareness.

  “You know me better than that,” she said firmly. Flinx waited, screaming silently for her to hurry. Finally, she said, “That’s done. We can go.”

  They hurried back through the bulwark of black hair. Flinx did not allow himself to relax until they sat once more inside the skimmer. He spent much of the time trying to soothe Pip; in response to its master’s worry, it had developed a nervous twitch.

  Despite the tight seal, the miasma rising from the green bottle nearly choked him. There was no odor from the container of blood.

  “The green is the oil,” she explained unnecessarily. “It’s the rutting season.”

  “I can see what you have in mind to do with that,” Flinx told her, “but why the blood?”

  “Released in the open air, the concentrated oil would be enough to interest the males of the herd. We need to do more than just interest them. We need to drive them a little crazy. The only way to do that is to convince them that a ready female is in danger. The herd’s females will respond to that, too.” She set to work with the skimmer’s simple store of chemicals.

  “You ought to be around sometime when the males are awake and fighting,” she said to him as she mixed oil, blood, and various catalysts in a sealed container. Flinx was watching the herd anxiously. “The whole forest shakes. Even the tallest trees tremble. When two of the big males connect with those skulls and horns, you can hear the sound of the collision echo for kilometers.”

  Five minutes later, she held a large flask up to the dim early-morning light. “There, that should do it. Pheromones and blood and a few other nose-ticklers. If this doesn’t draw them, nothing will.”

  “They’ll set off the alarm when they cross the sonic fence,” he reminded her.

  “Yes, but by that time they’ll be so berserk, nothing will turn them. Then it won’t matter what they set off.” She smiled nastily, then hesitated at the thought. “My only concern is that we find your mother before they start in on the buildings.”

  “We’d better,” Flinx said.

  “There should be enough confusion,” she went on, “to distract everyone’s attention. Unless they’re downright inhuman, the inhabitants of the camp aren’t going to be thinking of much of anything beyond saving their own skins.

  “As to getting your mother out fast, I think we can assume that she’s not in the hangar area or the power station or that central tower. That leaves the two long structures off to the west. If we can get inside and get her out before whoever’s in charge comes to his senses, we should be able to get away before anyone realizes what’s happening.

  “Remember, we’ll be the only ones ready for what’s going to happen. A lot will depend on how these people react. They’re obviously not stupid, but I don’t see how anyone could be adaptable enough to react calmly to what we’re going to do to them. Besides, I don’t have any better ideas.”

  Flinx shook his head. “Neither do I. I can see one difficulty, though. If we’re going to convince this herd that they’re chasing after an injured Devilope in heat, we’re going to have to stay on the ground. I don’t see them following the scent up in the air.”

  “Quite right, and we have to make our actions as believable as possible. That means hugging the surface. Not only would tree-level flight confuse the herd, air currents would carry the scent upward too quickly and dissipate it too fast.”

  “Then what happens,” Flinx pressed on, “if this idea works and the herd does follow us back toward the camp and we hit a tree or stall or something?”

  Lauren shrugged. “Can you climb?”

  “There aren’t many trees in Drallar free for the climbing,” he told her, “but I’ve done a lot of climbing on the outsides of buildings.”

  “You’ll find little difference,” she assured him, “with the kind of motivation you’ll have if the skimmer stalls. If something happens, head for the biggest tree you can find. I think they’ll avoid the emergents. The smaller stuff they’ll just ignore.” She hesitated, stared sideways at him. “You want to wait a little while to think it over?”

  “We’re wasting time talking,” he replied, knowing that every minute brought Mother Mastiff closer and closer to whatever fate her abductors had planned for her. “I’m ready if you are.”

  “I’m not ready,” she said, “but I never will be, for this. So we might as well go.” She settled into the pilot’s chair and thumbed a control. The rear of the cabin’s canopy swung upward.

  “Climb into the back. When I give the word, you uncap the flask and pour out, oh, maybe a tenth of the contents. Then hold it out back, keep it open, and pour a tenth every time I say so. Got it?”

  “Got it,” he assured her with more confidence than he felt. “You just drive this thing and make sure we don’t get into an argument with a tree.”

  “Don’t worry about that.” She gave him a last smile before turning to the control console.

  The skimmer rose and turned, heading slowly back toward the somnolent herd. When they were just ten meters from the nearest animal, Lauren pivoted the craft and hovered, studying the scanner’s display of the forest ahead.

  Violent grunts and an occasional bleating sound began to issue from the herd as Flinx held the still tightly sealed flask over the stern of the skimmer. He looked around until he found a piece of thin cloth and tied it across his nose and mouth.

  “I should have thought of that,” she murmured, watching him. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t you want one?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I’m up here, and the wind will carry the scent back away from me. I’ll be all right. You ready?” Her hands tightened on the wheel.

  “Ready,” he said. “You ready, Pip?”

  The flying snake said nothing; it did not even hiss in response. But Flinx could feel the coils tighten expectantly around his left arm and shoulder.

  “Open and pour,” she instructed him.

  Flinx popped the seal on the flask as Lauren slowly edged the skimmer forward. Even with the improvised mask and a breeze to carry the aroma away from him, the odor was all but overpowering. His eyes watered as his nostrils rebelled. Somehow he kept his attention on the task at hand and slowly measured out a tenth of the liquid.

  A violent, querulous bellow rose from several massive throats. As the skimmer slipped past a cathedral-like cluster of hardwoods, Flinx could see one huge male pushing itself erect. It seemed to dominate the forest even though the great trees rose high above. The metallic red eyes were fully open now, the tiny black pupils looking like holes in the crimson.

  The Devilope shook its head from side to side, back and forth, and thundered. It took a step forward, then another.
Behind it, the rest of the herd was rising, the initial uncertain bellowing turning to roars of desire and rage. A second male started forward in the wake of the first; then a third took up the long, ponderous stride. At this rate, Flinx thought, it would take them days to reach the camp.

  But even as he watched and worried, the pace of the awakening herd began to increase. It took time for such massive animals to get going. Once they did, they ate up distance. Not long after, Flinx found himself wishing for the skimmer to accelerate, and accelerate again.

  The herd was bearing down on the weaving, dodging craft. Lauren had to avoid even the smaller trees, which the herd ignored in its fury to locate the source of that pungent, electrifying odor. She turned to yell something to him, but he couldn’t hear her anymore.

  Trees whizzed by as Lauren somehow managed to increase their speed without running into anything. Behind them sounded a rising thunder as the noise of hundreds of hooves pulverizing the earth mixed with the crackle of snapping tree trunks and the moan of larger boles being torn from their roots.

  Red eyes and horns were all Flinx could see as he poured another tenth of the herd-maddening liquid from the flask, drawing the thunder down on the fragile skimmer and its even more fragile cargo.…

  There was nothing in the small operating theater that had not been thoroughly sanitized. Mother Mastiff had no strength left to fight with as they gently but firmly strapped her to the lukewarm table. Her curses and imprecations had been reduced to whimpered pleas, more reflex than anything else, for she had seen by now that nothing would dissuade these crazy people from their intentions. Eventually, she lost even the will to beg and contented herself with glaring tight-lipped at her tormentors.

  Bright lights winked to life, blinding her. The tall black woman stood to the right of the table, checking a palm-sized circle of plastic. Mother Mastiff recognized the pressure syringe, and looked away from it.

  Like her companions, Haithness wore a pale surgical gown and a mask that left only her eyes showing. Nyassa-lee plugged in the shears that would be used to depilate the subject’s skull. Brora, who would execute the actual implantation, stood off to one side examining a readout on the display screen that hung just above and behind Mother Mastiff’s head. Occasionally, he would glance down at a small table holding surgical instruments and several square transparent boxes frosted with cold. Inside the boxes were the microelectronic implants that he would place in the subject’s skull.