Trouble Magnet Page 2

  The melancholic master of the Teacher smiled. “Yes, that should bore Customs adequately. Speaking as a onetime thief myself, I know that even the most avaricious thieves find it hard to get themselves worked up at the prospect of stealing vegetables.”

  Ever efficient, the Teacher’s resourceful response to the inquiries of the planetary arrival authority elicited a response that was reassuringly insipid. As predicted, naught interest was shown in either the battered, undersized cargo vessel or its outsystem “cargo” of nondescript compacted vegetable product. As adroit as his ship, Flinx took a few moments to study up on the imaginary consignment. He would not take the chance of being caught out should some eager immigration interviewer, be it man or machine, request actual details about the makeup of his shipment.

  He dressed appropriately in his usual simple, dun-colored, two-piece work attire and service belt. The garb was utterly unadorned, devoid of so much as a simple insignia or integrated impression. Combined with a pair of worn, comfortable, slip-on flexboots, his outfit clearly stamped him for anyone to see as that ubiquitous traveler known as No One in Particular. From the time he had been old enough to choose his own clothes, it had been his favored identity. By the time he had finished securing the contents of a small travel pack and taking extra time to ensure that his medipak was fully stocked, planetary authority had assigned the Teacher orbital coordinates.

  Familiar with its owner’s preferences as well as his desire never to waste time, the ship’s smaller shuttle commenced release procedures even before Flinx and Pip had settled in on board. By the time he had locked himself in braceplace and had secured Pip nearby, the tiny craft was pushing away from its dock in the Teacher’s bulbous underbelly. It did not deploy the compacted delta wings at its stern. There was no need until the time came to enter atmosphere.

  Following a steady stream of high-speed broadcast directions, it commenced deceleration parallel to the surface of the glowing, cloud-streaked planet below. Flinx’s shuttle was only one of several dozen that were either arriving, departing, or awaiting clearance. Settling himself into the compression seat, he declined the opportunity to chat with ground-based orbital control. The cautions that had protected him as a youthful thief had retained their validity as he matured: keep as low a profile as possible, both technologically as well as personally, and avoid attention.

  The greeting voice that provided final approach and arrival instructions to the shuttle’s sub-branch of the Teacher’s ship-mind also chose to address the small landing craft’s occupants. The speaker made no effort to mask her boredom with the procedure.

  “Attention freehold cargo carrier Remange: be sure you follow all vectors and instructions to the letter, or you’ll lose your place and be denied a landing slot. You don’t want to have to abort and reapply from orbit, and I don’t want to have to go over basics with you again.”

  Flinx kept his voice as even, if not as jaded, as that of the woman on the other end of the surface-to-ship communicator. “Understood.” Thrusters angled the shuttle sharply down and to starboard. “Complying.”

  Wings deployed as the compact craft approached atmosphere. Diffused light flashed briefly through the narrow foreport. As with a bicycle crossing a rutted road, bumps and jolts rattled ship and passenger as it entered Visaria’s outer airspace. Communication and conversation between ship and ground ceased. It was time for electronics to converse, taking control of calculations too complex for mere organics to optimally manipulate.

  Bursting through the underside of a heavy cloud layer, the shuttle continued to slow. The view forward was of extensive stretches of undeveloped native forests and desert; the latter familiar, the former startlingly rich in oranges and reds. This was not a world on which the magic of photosynthesis held sway. As the shuttle continued to descend, it passed over a vast valley that looked as if it had been chewed up and spit out by some mud-hungry giant. Possibly a mine, Flinx mused. Records indicated that Visaria was rich in the minerals and metals that formed the basis of its hastily industrialized society.

  Though he could have released it, he allowed the compression seat to continue to constrain him: always a sensible decision when coming in for a landing at a previously unvisited port. Equipment whined softly while instrumentation on the console in front of him flickered and winked. Though he could have assumed manual control, crowded urban shuttleports were no place to practice one’s touchdown technique. Better to let ship and port control handle the details while he relaxed and took in the scenery.

  There wasn’t much to see. There usually wasn’t in the vicinity of a major shuttleport, whose operators preferred to retain the open space surrounding it for future expansion—and to contain debris from the occasional failed landing attempt. Just before touchdown, he did get a glimpse of Malandere. Visaria’s nominal capital and largest city loomed on the northern horizon. Even at a distance, it looked bleak and nasty. But, he told himself, it was only a glimpse.

  The shuttle’s landing was smooth and error-free. Taking command of the little vessel, port control eased it into an empty parking place among dozens of other similar vehicles. Nearly all were larger and more impressive than his, which was just how he liked it.

  It was a very short walk to the lift that took him down to one of several subterranean transport levels. In that brief time when he was walking between shuttle and corridor, he noted that despite being of comparatively recent vintage, Malandere’s main port was already showing signs of upkeep neglect and heavy wear. Too much growth too fast, he reflected, where haste took precedence over proper planning.

  A tsunami of emotion washed over him as he allowed the moving walkway to carry him toward Arrival and Immigration. It was mostly human, but like a thick pudding blended with bits of nuts and flavor chips, there were also sparks of alien feeling. Thranx for certain, which was to be expected. A surge of anxiety that might have been Quillp. Something sensuous distinctly Tolian, a faint touch of Astuet, and a flurry of no-nonsense Deyzara completed the emotional flood. But as to be expected, the great majority of feelings that ebbed and flowed all around him were those of fellow humans.

  Fellows, inasmuch as he was human himself, he thought cynically.

  Though occupying an extensive underground chamber, Arrival and Immigration had the air of a section that was never finished, whose layout was a hodgepodge of add-on electronics and hurriedly improvised subrooms. Directed through the maze, he found himself in an alcove occupied by a single public servant who wore a look that matched the jaded tone of the woman who had addressed him prior to atmospheric insertion. The man, who was middle-aged, underweight, and anxious to be anywhere but here doing anything but this, barely glanced up at him. In contrast with his lackluster personality, his shaved skull glowed with an ornate inlaid tattoo of fantastical mythical creatures battling for control of the word ALICE.

  An initial quick glance was followed by a longer one. A flicker of interest showed in the man’s hitherto dull eyes. “Interesting animal. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen one like it before.” A soft hum indicated that a privacy screen had been activated, enclosing the alcove in a bubble of solitude.

  Reaching up with his left hand, Flinx ran his fingers along his companion’s back and across the pleated pink-and-blue wings that were folded against her flanks. “Pip’s an Alaspinian minidrag. An empath.”

  Ignoring the forms, information spheres, and hovering displays that swarmed his desk, the bureaucrat cocked his head slightly to one side as he studied the flying snake.

  “Empath, eh? I’ll be sure to think only happy thoughts, then.” He grinned humorlessly. Curled around Flinx’s neck and left shoulder, Pip stared back at him out of unblinking eyes. The mixture of hostility, envy, and fear she sensed from the man in front of her was no reason for excitement. Fortunately for him, she chose to ignore him.

  Turning to one of the several displays projected by his desk and drifting above it, he stroked his fingers through hovering controls. Manicured eyebrow
s drew together.

  “According to this, your pet ranks impressively high on the danger scale.” Flinx felt fresh fear bubble up in the man’s mind. “Really high,” he finished, turning back to face the tall young man standing before him.

  Flinx did his best to shrug off the other man’s concern while simultaneously putting him at ease. “Pip only responds when she senses that I’m being threatened. She’s extremely perceptive and has never made a mistake.”

  The bureaucrat was eyeing the serpentine shape fretfully. “I infer, then, that she has previously acted in defense of your person?” Flinx nodded. “For a shield pet, she’s not very big.”

  “No, she’s not,” Flinx agreed unperturbedly. “My feeling is that with any weapon, speed and agility are more important than size.”

  “A sound philosophy.” The man smiled. “But you can’t bring a lethal, toxic animal onto Visaria. Not even as part of a commercial venture, much less one that’s just a personal favorite. Unless you have the appropriate permit, of course.”

  Though he thought it excessive, Flinx paid the bribe. He haggled over the amount only because it was clearly expected of him. It was all right for the bureaucrat to dismiss him as young and inexperienced. It would not do to have the man think of him as outright ignorant. So he played the game for the several minutes of his life that it wasted, and was rewarded with the requisite “permit” allowing him to maintain Pip on his person for the duration of his stay on Visaria. Under no condition was he being granted consent to sell the minidrag or give it away. That he would as soon give up his own life as that of his lifelong companion was an admission that would have been wasted on the covetous public servant.

  From the time Flinx entered the alcove until he left, his interrogator never once bothered to ask him about his ship’s “cargo.” The bribe was the point of the interview, Flinx realized. If not obtained on account of Pip, he was sure that his questioner would have found another reason to bring up that minor matter. As he made his way in the direction of the port exit, following the hovering indicators that showed the way to public transportation, he felt more confident than ever in his decision to come to this world.

  He had only been on its surface for a very short time, had only interacted with one of its residents, and had already encountered the kind of grubby attitude and approach to existence that was likely to convince him he would only be wasting his own short, precious life if he chose to devote it to preventing the future extinction of his fellow so-called civilized beings.

  CHAPTER

  2

  The public transport that was available to take travelers from the shuttleport into the city proper was of similar style, design, and ill-maintained decrepitude as the spontaneous sprawl of urbanization it served. Like much of the shuttleport’s infrastructure, it had been constructed with an eye more toward utility than toward standardization. Even Flinx’s untrained eye was able to see that the system had been cobbled together from bits and pieces of systems existing elsewhere, rather than being designed and built as a unified whole. It was undoubtedly the cheaper, as well as quicker, option. Get transportation up and running fast, worry about aesthetics and economy of scale later.

  Even the transfer elements themselves were antiquated throwbacks, consisting of public modules designed to convey twenty or more people at a time instead of allowing for individual transport to separate destinations. Unlike on Terra or Hivehom, he found himself forced to share space with several fellow travelers. Of course, private transport into the city was also available as an option from the port, but that would have meant providing personal identification, if only in the form of an alias, to the automated vehicle selected. Disdaining luxury in favor of obscurity, he chose anonymity over comfort. Besides, utilizing public transportation over private offered the chance to encounter the denizens of Malandere sooner rather than later.

  That potential was about to be realized. His head was already starting to hurt.

  There were four of them. The biggest was as tall as Flinx and much heavier. What the others lacked in stature they made up for in swagger. Their attire consisted of cobalt-blue singlepiece slip-ons festooned with symbols stained black. Highly local in origin, the meaning of these was more alien to Flinx than High Thranx. Scalloped, sleeveless uppers allowed ample arm to protrude. Flashing from where they had been surgically embedded in the exposed flesh of arms and shoulders, a multitude of tiny pins, loops, and hooks carried forward and accentuated the motifs inscribed on the dark blue suits. One squat fellow in his midtwenties sported a circlet of chromed hypoallergenic metal that crowned his skull like the rim of a metal cap.

  Their emotions were as florid as their appearances. Without even glancing in their direction, Flinx could sense the approach of open hostility, anger, expectation, fury, and exactly the kind of atavistic bloodlust he had anticipated encountering on this world. A few more such encounters would solidify his budding resolution to forget about looking for the Tar-Aiym artifact, return to Clarity Held, and live out the remainder of his life in as much peace and isolation as he could manage. Civilization would have to find another savior. But he was not at that point. Not yet.

  Meanwhile, there was the quartet presently confronting him to be dealt with.

  “Tall and skinny.” The nearest of the four was looking the seated traveler up and down. The noninvolved occupants of the fast-moving vehicle huddled at the far end of the transport, doing their best to ignore the confrontation. They reminded Flinx of so many frightened rabbits trying to hide at the back end of their burrow. He supposed he couldn’t blame them. One more small weight to add to his sinking opinion of humankind in general.

  “Offworlder.” The second speaker was missing his lower lip. Whether the half-finger length of flesh had been lost to violence or fashion Flinx could not tell. “Snap him in half, not half trying.”

  “Easy, Jolo,” declared the first speaker. The man extended an arm ornamented with jiggling, decorative metal implants. “Give us your bag and we’ll leave you your eyes.”

  A small, winged shape slid out from where it had been concealed inside Flinx’s shirt and hissed. The expectant fingers drew back quickly.

  “Toy pet,” rumbled the biggest of the four. He reached out sharply. “Twist its little head off.”

  Pleated wings unfurled as Pip took to the air. Startled, the four drew back slightly. Two of them started to reach for weapons. The one with the embedded head rim was quickest. Opening her mouth slightly, Pip spat in his direction. A slender stream of venom struck him just above the right eye.

  Smoke started to rise from the shaved skull. A drop of toxin dripped downward into the eye, which also began to smoke. Screaming and clawing at his face and head, the man stumbled backward, bouncing off a seat and the inner wall of the transport. The second time, he fell to the floor, kicking and clawing at himself. In less than a minute he lay still, except for a few final twitches of both lower legs. His right eye was gone, melted away. So was part of the flesh and bone had that formed the enclosing socket and part of his forehead. A section of the ornamental metal rim that encircled his skull had been dissolved through.

  Hands had paused halfway to weapons. The smell of fear-sweat now permeated the section of the transport vehicle where the offworlder sat. His three remaining antagonists began to back away. Occupying seats halfway down the transport, they formed a little knot of their own: distant from Flinx, separate from the other passengers. No one moved to check the damaged, motionless body lying on the floor.

  Her agitation giving way to more moderated alertness, Pip settled herself back down on her master’s right shoulder. Her eyes never left those of the three would-be assailants—nor they hers.

  Throughout the entire compelling, shockingly brief confrontation, Flinx had not moved or said a word. He did not address his assailants when he finally exited the transport. They, wisely, said nothing to him.

  The heart of old Malandere was not all that old, because the city and colony themse
lves were not that old. It was, however, as run-down and decaying as a metropolitan area of its age could be. Every building, every street screamed neglect. Wealth had been wrung from the rocks of Visaria. Fortunes that had gone elsewhere, leaving the descendants of those who had toiled to extract it and refine it with little but the leftovers. More evidence of humanity’s disdain for itself, Flinx decided as he made his way along what passed for a main avenue. If the majority of the species did not and would not care for its brethren, why should he?

  Too early to render judgment, he told himself. He’d just arrived. Only one attempt had been made on his person. The decision he needed to make should not be rendered in haste, no matter what he was feeling. Visaria was entitled to time to solidify his opinion one way or the other.

  So far its prospects of convincing him that altruism should be an important component of the rest of his life were less than promising.

  It started to rain. As a colony world, Visaria could not afford to maintain the infrastructure necessary to manipulate its meteorology. Engulfed by a surfeit of emotional misery ever since he had exited the transport, Flinx saw no need to suffer the added discomfort of being both cold and wet. Ads for a variety of side-street hotels clustered around him, competing for his attention. Settling on one, he followed it around a corner. The place looked quiet, isolated, and the service lobby was halfway clean. The automated concierge accepted his cred without question, not even asking for an identity check. One recommendation for AIs as administrators, he reflected as he took the lift to the floor where his room was located, was that as a general rule they did not ask for bribes.

  The room was like the rest of the establishment; semi-clean, compact, utilitarian. The omnipresent tridee offered a varied selection of entertainments. He chose the news. Local content was salacious, sensationalized, and aimed at an audience devoid of higher interests. Irritated and tired, he verbally isolated the surround imagery, ordering it to restrict itself to the far corner of the room. From the street outside and the building enclosing him, emotion was pouring in. His head was beginning to throb.