Flinx's Folly Page 2

  In response to the emotion underlying the tech’s reply, Pip thrust her pointed tongue several times in his direction. Then she twisted to eye her master concernedly as Flinx suddenly bent double, both hands holding the sides of his head.

  The engineering tech was distressed. “Hey, friend—you all right?”

  Little bolts of lightning were shooting through Flinx’s skull and invisible demons were squeezing his eyes in heavy wooden vises. He struggled to steady his breathing long enough to respond.

  “No, I’m—I’m not.” Fighting the pain, he forced himself to look up and meet the other man’s gaze. “I’m subject to— I get terrible headaches. I never know when they’re going to hit.”

  The tech made a sympathetic clucking sound. “That’s rough.” Flinx could sense his concern was genuine. “Migraines, hmm?”

  “No, not migraines.” Though far from gone, the agonizing pain was starting to subside. “Something else. Nobody really knows what causes them. It’s been speculated that the cause of mine may be—inherited.”

  The tech nodded. Reaching out, he grazed a contact with a fingertip. “I’ve notified your attending physician. Somebody should be here shortly.” He closed his toolkit. It promptly self-sealed, the security strip making a slight bulge around the case’s equator. “I hope you feel better. This place has a good reputation. Maybe they can come up with something to fix those headaches.” Then he left the room.

  There is nothing that can be given for my headaches. Flinx fought back the tears the pain squeezed from his eyes. Maybe a few whacks with a scalpel would cure him. Maybe a complete lobotomy. And though thankfully no more frequent, the headaches had been increasing in intensity. He stopped rubbing his temples and let his hands fall to his sides. This last attack made his head feel as if it were going to explode. That it had been triggered by his dream he had no doubt.

  A few more like this, he thought, and he wouldn’t have to worry about possible future courses of action. A nice, clean, quick cerebral hemorrhage would free him of all obligations, real or perceived.

  Lifting her triangular, iridescent green head, a worried Pip began to flick her tongue against his cheek. As always, the slight tickling reminded him of better times, more innocent times. As a child on Drallar, living with the redoubtable Mother Mastiff, he had owned very little. Certainly he had never dreamed of having his own starship. But as a child he’d had freedom, of both body and mind. No longer. Any tincture of innocence had long since been washed away by the experiences of the past ten years.

  The AAnn wanted the secrets of his ship. The Commonwealth government wanted to talk to him and perhaps study him. Any surviving remnants of the outlawed eugenicist Meliorare Society would want to make use of him. Several still unidentifiable, vaster somethings seemed to want him to confront a threat on a galactic scale. And all he wanted was to be left alone, to learn who his father was, and to explore a tiny bit of the cosmos in peace and quiet.

  Peace and quiet. Two words, two conditions that had never applied to him. For Philip Lynx they remained little more than abstract philosophical concepts. His erratic ability to perceive, to read, and sometimes to influence the emotions of others—often against his will—assured him of that. When his head wasn’t full of pain, it was full of the emotions of those around him.

  He could sense two of them now, advancing in his direction. They exuded concern mitigated by an underlying coolness. A professional empathy, he decided. Based on what he sensed, he knew Pip would react calmly to the arrival. But he kept a hand on the flying snake anyway, as much to reassure her as to ensure the safety of his visitors.

  Seconds later, the opaqued doorway lightened to admit a middle-aged woman and a slightly older man. They smiled, but their emotions reflected a curiosity that went beyond the usual interest in a patient.

  “How are you feeling, young man?” The woman’s smile widened. A wholly professional expression, Flinx knew. “I’d call you by your name, but your bracelet is locked and you had no other identification on or within you.”

  “Arthur Davis,” Flinx replied without hesitation. “You are . . . ?”

  “Your attending physician, Dr. Marinsky.” Shifting her illuminated work pad to the other arm, she indicated the white-coated man standing next to her. He was trying hard to keep his attention focused on Flinx and not on the coiled shape resting atop his shoulder. The three red stripes of rank on his right sleeve identified him as a senior surgeon. “This is Dr. Sherevoeu.”

  Flinx nodded politely. “Where am I, and how did I come to be here?”

  Her concern became more personal, less professional. “You don’t know? You don’t remember anything?” He shook his head. “You are in the postemergency ward of Reides City General Hospital. You are one of a group of twenty-two apparently unrelated and unconnected pedestrians who were in the main city shopping complex when you were knocked unconscious by an as-yet-unidentified agent.”

  Flinx eyed her uncertainly. “Agent?”

  She nodded somberly. “Witnesses report that all of you were going about your respective business. Then, suddenly and without warning, the lot of you collapsed to the floor. Every one of the afflicted, yourself included, was brought here in a comatose state from which you are only recently emerging. No one remembers anything.” Her attention shifted to the neurosurgeon. “His reaction is the same as that of the others. No difference,” she said to Dr. Sherevoeu. She looked back at the patient. “You don’t remember smelling anything, or feeling anything?”

  “No, nothing.” What he did not tell her was that he had not been unconscious. Not in the medically accepted sense. His body had been stilled, but his mind had been active—elsewhere. “What about the other shoppers? Are they all right?”

  “There was some general panic, as you can imagine.” Marinsky did her best to sound reassuring. “No one knew what was happening. When it became clear that only you and the other twenty-one were affected, those who had been running away came back to try and help. Some of the afflicted had struck their heads or antennae when they fell—bumps and bruises but nothing serious. There don’t appear to be any aftereffects, either. A number have already been discharged to the care of friends and relatives.”

  He eyed her questioningly. “Then I can go, too?”

  “Soon,” she assured him soothingly. “We’d just like to check one or two readouts first, maybe ask you a couple of questions. Dr. Sherevoeu is our chief neurologist.”

  With skill born of long practice, Flinx concealed his initial reaction. He could not hide it from Pip, however. The flying snake stirred uneasily, and he stroked her to calm her.

  “A neurologist?” Affecting innocence, he looked from one physician to the other. “Is something wrong? You said that when they fell, some people hit their heads.”

  “There is no evidence of hematoma or any other immediate damage.” The neurosurgeon’s tone was meant to be casual and reassuring, but Flinx could clearly sense the eagerness underneath. The man was intensely curious about something, and Flinx didn’t think it was the color of his hair. “But in your case there are certain other—anomalies. Scans indicate they are well established and not of recent origin. Very curious, very.” He studied the screen of his own pad. Flinx badly wanted to have a look at it. “If even half these readouts are accurate, you ought to be worse than ill. You should be dead. Yet to all appearances you are as healthy as anyone in this building, myself and Dr. Marinsky included. According to your other readings healthier than most, I should say.”

  “At first I thought some, if not all, of the readings in question might be due to equipment malfunction,” Marinsky explained, “but that possibility has been ruled out.”

  Flinx remembered the engineering tech. Sitting on the gurney, he struggled to remember what had happened to him. He had been walking in the shopping complex, enjoying the displays, watching the other strollers while trying to mute the torrent of feelings that surged around him. Practice had given him some success at doing so.<
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  Then the headache had come: a sharp, brutal pain. No buildup, no warning, as was sometimes the case. No time for him to use the medication he now always carried with him. The pain had put him down. Then the dream. Whether whatever was responsible for it had triggered the headache by making contact with him or whether the timing was coincidence he did not know. But he did know one thing with a fair degree of certainty. He knew what had happened to the twenty-one innocent and unaware fellow strollers who had gone comatose simultaneously with him.

  He had happened to them.

  CHAPTER

  2

  This was not the first time his budding ability to project as well as receive emotions had touched those around him, but it was the first time he could remember having unconsciously and unintentionally affected so many uninvolved, utterly innocent bystanders. Assailed by the terrible pain in his head, he had apparently involuntarily emitted a blast of emotion reflective of his condition at that pivotal moment. The output had been restrained—none of those close to him had suffered any serious damage, been killed, or been moved to kill themselves.

  This was appalling. Next time, an uncontrolled eruption of his maturing ability might cause permanent brain damage to blameless bystanders, perhaps even children. He had no idea what he was ultimately capable of, and there was no one who could tell him. Controlling his abilities while he was conscious and aware was difficult enough. How was he going to mitigate their consequences when he had no control?

  He was losing it. How could he possibly help mysterious, unknown entities combat some monstrous extragalactic threat when he couldn’t even control himself?

  Guessing at the internal struggle her patient was going through by reading his rapidly changing expressions, a compassionate Marinsky started toward him, only to halt when Pip extended herself several centimeters in the doctor’s direction. “Are you still feeling all right, Arthur?”

  Flinx nodded. “I was just thinking of all those other poor people. What happened to us?” He kept his attention focused on Marinsky, avoiding the neurosurgeon’s intense stare.

  “We really have no idea.”

  If she was telling the truth, and he sensed that she was, it meant that no one had connected the mass blackout to him. They were curious about what they saw inside his head. That was all. No one had any idea he might be responsible for what had happened. Not knowing his true identity, they would have been unable, even if so inclined, to find him by searching the greater Commonwealth box. If he stayed here much longer someone might think to try and match his readings with those on file. But it didn’t matter because he had no intention of hanging around.

  “We would like to run some tests. With your permission, of course,” Sherevoeu added hastily.

  Flinx faked interest. “They wouldn’t hurt, would they?”

  To his credit, the neurosurgeon looked shocked. “Oh, no, no! Absolutely not. They would involve nothing more invasive than what you have already experienced—more external scans, mostly, utilizing more specialized instrumentation capable of greater precision, to acquire information for analysis and evaluation.” He smiled. “It’s my profession, you know. Wouldn’t you like to know if you’re in danger from the condition we’ve already observed and learn if we can help you?”

  “Of course. Who wouldn’t?” Flinx already knew that surgery for his condition was not an option. The physical changes his brain had undergone were too tightly integrated, too interwoven. Attempting to isolate or remove them would kill him as surely as a ceremonial AAnn skinning blade.

  “You really think you can help me?”

  The two physicians exchanged a look. It was Marinsky who finally replied. “Dr. Sherevoeu is the finest neurosurgeon on Goldin four. If anyone can do anything for you, he can.”

  “But I don’t feel sick.” The game, he knew, had to be played to the end.

  “As I said before, outwardly you are in excellent health.” Sherevoeu did not want to alarm this potentially fascinating patient. “It’s just that in looking inside your head, we’ve seen some things, some anomalies, that we feel would be beneficial to study in more detail.”

  Apparently indifferent, Flinx shrugged. “Go ahead and look, then. How long are you going to need me to stay?”

  Greatly relieved at the patient’s acquiescence, Sherevoeu consulted his pad. “Just a day or so. Can you do that?”

  Flinx nodded. “I’m on break from work anyway. But not too much today, okay? I’m pretty tired.”

  “Yes, of course.” Flinx could sense the two doctors were completely at ease now. Sherevoeu continued, “It will take time to authorize and prepare the necessary procedures anyway. If you are willing, we can run one or two simple preliminaries in a few hours.” He smiled afresh. “If it goes well, perhaps we can even have you out of here by tomorrow evening.”

  Flinx flashed a carefully wary expression. “This isn’t going to cost me anything, is it?”

  Both doctors chuckled softly. “No, Arthur. Since we’re running these tests to satisfy our curiosity, any expense will be borne by the facility. You should consider yourself lucky. You’re going to get a very expensive full cerebral and neural checkup, courtesy of the good folks of Reides General.”

  How kind of them, Flinx mused silently, as he let the gurney’s padded back support cuddle his spine. How utterly altruistic. “Sounds like a good deal to me.”

  The pair of unsuspicious physicians departed, more than a little pleased with themselves. They were already discussing the nature of the first tests they were going to run before they were completely through the chamber’s sound-muting wave portal.

  Alone, Flinx took a moment to study his surroundings. Multiple scanners continued to monitor his vitals. If he left the room and passed out of their range, alarms would sound at a central station. Then there was the matter of the hospital ident and tracking chip attached to his right wrist. The longer he waited and debated, the sooner a tech or two would show up to transfer him to another room deeper in the hospital complex, relieve him of Pip and his clothes, and prepare him for the first battery of tests. Tests he had no intention of undergoing. He had spent a good part of his adult life avoiding such tests. He had no intention of letting curious researchers, even on this minor colony world, start poking and probing him now.

  Swinging his legs off the gurney, he settled Pip around his upper arm, stood, and walked out of the chamber. A medtech was heading away from him, moving down the corridor. Making no attempt to avoid contact or conceal his presence, he headed in the opposite direction. Within moments he had located the floor’s main monitoring station.

  “Afternoon,” he said politely to the woman seated before the console.

  “Hi.” She smiled at him. “You’re one of the people they brought in from midtown, aren’t you? How are you feeling?” She eyed Pip curiously, as did everyone who saw the flying snake.

  “Not too bad.”

  “Funny goings-on.” She fiddled with a report, the letters changing on the page as modulated electric charges guided by her fingertips flowed through the malleable writing surface. “We’ve already discharged more than half the people who were brought in, including the two thranx.”

  He nodded knowingly, as if he had already been told everything she was saying. “Not me. A couple of the doctors want to run some more tests.”

  She glanced at his wrist, then at a readout on the console. “You’re the one in four-twelve. Yes, I see that they’ve got you set up for a whole battery of scans. First one at four o’clock.” She looked back at him. “We have an excellent pet-holding facility here. While you’re being examined we’ll take good care of your— What did you call it?”

  “Alaspinian minidrag. I’m thinking if I’m going to get any exercise before my tests I’d better get it in now.” Turning his head, he nodded up the corridor. “I’m going to take a short walk. Be right back. Is there a cafeteria?”

  Her tone was professionally solicitous. “Down on the first floor. Just ask any
employee for directions. You weren’t told to fast before the tests?”

  “Nobody said anything.” The ident tab seemed to be burning against his wrist, but in reality only his mind.

  She checked his status file. “Nothing in here says you can’t have something to eat and drink,” she informed him cheerily. “You don’t have to check back in here when you’re done. Just go back to your room and wait for them to come for you.”

  He nodded. He had no intention of checking back in or waiting for anyone. “See you in a little while,” he assured her fallaciously.

  Heading for the lift, he knew that in a few minutes she would have put the brief encounter with the tall patient completely out of her mind. Hospitals were like that. If queried later, she’d remember the conversation. And he had no doubt that she would be queried about it. But by that time he expected to have vanished into the depths of Goldin IV’s busy capital city.

  As he exited the lift on the first floor, he headed not for the cafeteria but for the main hospital entrance, the sleeve of his tunic concealing his ident tag. At the front desk he asked for directions. Not to the cafeteria but to a bathroom. Once inside he pulled back his sleeve to expose the tag. Selecting a remarkably compact and expensive piece of equipment from the row of instrument pouches that lined his belt, he passed it efficiently over the tag. When it buzzed softly, he locked in the reading, transferred it to another device, and then touched the device to the tag. Like a newly metamorphosed butterfly unfolding its wings, it promptly popped free of his wrist.

  At the front desk again, he inquired the location of the cafeteria. There, he used his credcard to purchase a drink, a piece of cake, and a large sandwich. Finding an empty, isolated table, he sat down and ate half the sandwich while Pip enjoyed the salty snacks that came with it, stalking the animated bits of food as they bounced around their activating plate. Making sure no one was watching, Flinx then shoved the ident tag into the remainder of the sandwich, rose, and strode calmly through the dining area, past the front desk, and out the main hospital doors. In less than a minute he was on board public transport heading toward downtown Reides. Behind him and receding farther with every second, the ident tag continued to insist to every monitoring device in the hospital that the young male patient from chamber 412 was still in the cafeteria, enjoying a late lunch.