Orphan Star (14 page)

“What if there isn’t anything like that,” Sylzenzuzex asked, her face paling as the ship pulled away from the orbiting fortress. “There’s a whole world down there, bigger than Hivehom, bigger than Terra.”

“There’ll be someplace developed,” he assured her. His confident tone belied the uncertainty in his mind.

There was. Only they didn’t locate it—it found them.

“What ship . . . what ship . . . ?” the speakers crackled as soon as they entered parking orbit. The query came in perfect symbospeech, though whether from thranx or human throat he couldn’t tell.

Flinx moved to the pickup. “Who’s calling?” he asked, a mite inanely.

“What ship?” the voice demanded.

This could go on for hours. He responded with the first thing that sounded halfway plausible. “This is the private research vessel
Chamooth
on Church-related business, out from Terra.”

There, that wasn’t a complete lie. His abduction of Sylzenzuzex certainly constituted Church-related business, and he had been led here by information in Church files.

A long pause followed while unseen beings at the other end of the transmission digested this. Finally: “Shuttleport coordinates for you are as follows.”

Flinx scrambled to record the information. His ruse had gotten them that much. After they landed . . . well, he would proceed from there. The numbers translated into a position on a fairly small plateau in the mountains of the southern continent. According to the information, the landing strip bordered an enormous lake at the 14,000-meter-level.

Sweating, muttering at his own awkwardness, Flinx succeeded in positioning the ship over the indicated landing spot with a minimum of corrections to the autopilot. From there it was a rocky, bouncing descent by means of autoprogrammed shuttlecraft to the surface.

Sylzenzuzex was talking constantly now, mostly to herself. “I just don’t understand,” she kept murmuring over and over, “there shouldn’t be anything down there. Not on an edicted world. Not even a Church outpost. This just doesn’t make any sense.”

“Why shouldn’t it make sense?” Flinx asked her, fighting to keep his seat as the tiny shuttle battled powerful crosswinds. “Why shouldn’t the Church have business on a world it wants to keep everyone else off of?”

“But only an extreme threat to the good of humanx kind is reason enough for placing a world Under Edict,” she protested, her tone one of disbelief. “I’ve never heard of an exception.”

“Naturally not,” Flinx agreed, with the surety of one who had experienced many perversities of human and thranx nature. “Because no information is available on worlds which are Under Edict. How very convenient.”

The shuttle was banking now, dipping down between vast forested mountain slopes. A denser atmosphere here raised the treeline well above what existed on Moth or Terra. Tarns and alpine lakes were everywhere. At the higher elevations, baby glaciers carved tentative paths downward—even here, near the planet’s equator.

“Commencing landing approach,” the shuttle computer informed them. Flinx stared ahead, saw that the plateau the ground-based voice had mentioned was far smaller than he had hoped. This was not a true plateau, but instead a broad glacial plain ice-quarried from the mountains. One side of the plateau-plain was filled with a narrow lake that glistened like an elongated sapphire.

As the shuttle straightened out they rushed past a sheer waterfall at least a thousand meters high, falling to the canyon below in a single unbroken plunge like white steel. This, he decided, was a magnificent world.

If only the shuttle would set them down on it in one piece.

His acceleration couch trembled as the ship fired braking jets. Ahead he could now make out the landing strip that ran parallel to the deep lake. At the far end, a tiny cluster of buildings poked above the alluvial gravel and low scrub.

At least the installation here—whoever was manning it—was advanced enough to include automatic landing lock-ons. Built into the fabric of the landing strip itself, they hooked into the corresponding linkups in the belly of the shuttle. The completion of this maneuver was signaled by a violent lurch. Then the landing computer, somewhere below them, took over and brought the shuttle in for a smooth, safe setdown.

Sylzenzuzex stared out the side port on the left even as she was undoing her straps. “This is insane,” she muttered, gazing at the considerable complex of structures nearby, “there can’t be a base here. There shouldn’t be anything.”

“Some anythings,” he commented, gesturing toward the pair of large groundcars which were now moving onto the field toward them, “are coming to pay their greetings. Remember now,” he reminded her as he calmed a nervous Pip and headed for the access corridor leading to the hatch, “you’re here because I forced you to come.”

“But not physically,” she countered. “I told you before, I can’t lie.”

“The Horse Head,” he murmured, looking skyward. “Be evasive then. Ah, do what you think best. I’m no more going to convert you to reason than you’re going to convince me to enter your Church.”

Flinx activated the automatic lock, and it began to cycle open. If the atmosphere outside had been unbreathable, despite the information in the Galographics records, the lock would not have opened. As the door plug drew aside, a rippled ramp extended itself, sensors at its far end halting it as soon as it touched solid ground.

Pip was stirring violently, but Flinx kept a firm hand on his pet. Apparently the minidrag perceived some threat again, which would be natural if, say, this was indeed a Church installation. In any case they couldn’t take on an entire party which was presumably armed. It took several minutes before lie succeeded in convincing his pet to relax, regardless of what happened next.

Flinx took a deep breath as he started down the ramp. Sylzenzuzex trooped morosely behind, lost in morose thought. Despite the altitude, the air here was thick and rich in oxygen. It more than counteracted the slightly stronger gravity.

Snow-crowned crags rose around the valley on three sides. Except for the glacial plain they now stood on, the valley and mountain slopes were furred with a thick coat of great trees. Green was still the predominant color but there was a substantial amount of yellow-hued vegetation. Their branches rose stiffly skyward, no doubt to be fully spread by the winter snowfall.

The temperature was perfect—about 20°C. At least, it was as far as Flinx was concerned. Sylzenzuzex was already cold, and the dry air did nothing to help the flexibility of her exoskeletal joints.

“Don’t worry,” he said, trying to cheer her as the groundcars drew near, “there must be quarters provided for thranx personnel. You can warm up soon.”

And explain your story to the local authority in private if you wish, he added silently.

His thoughts were broken as the first big car pulled to a halt before them. As he waited Flinx kept a tight grip on Pip, holding the tense minidrag at the wing joints to prevent any sudden flight. Yet despite the minutes he had already spent calming his pet, Pip still struggled. When he finally settled down, he coiled painfully tight around Flinx’s shoulder.

People began to emerge from the groundcar. They did not wear aquamarine robes of the Church, nor the crimson of the Commonwealth. They did not look like Commonwealth-registered operatives, either, and they were carrying ready beamers.

Seven armed men and women spread out in a half-circle which covered the two arrivals. They moved with an efficiency Flinx did not like. As the second car arrived and began to disgorge its passengers, several members of the first group broke off to run up the ramp and disappear into the shuttle.

“Now listen . . .” Flinx began easily. One of the men in the group waved his beamer threateningly.

“I don’t know who you are, but for now, shut up.”

Flinx complied readily, as Sylzenzuzex—frozen now with more than the cold—stood behind him and studied their captors.

Several minutes passed before the pair who had entered the shuttle re-emerged and shouted down to their companions: “There’s no one else aboard, and no weapons.”

“Good. Resume your positions.”

Flinx turned to the squat, middle-aged woman who had spoken. She was standing directly opposite him. She had the face of one who had seen too many things too soon and whose youth had been a time of blasted hopes and unfulfilled dreams. A vivid scar ran back from a corner of one eye in a jagged curve to her ear, then down the side of her neck to disappear beneath her high collar. Its livid whiteness was shocking against her dusky skin. She flaunted the scar like a favorite necklace. He noticed that her simple garb of work pants, boots, and high-necked overblouse had seen plenty of use.

Taking out a pocket communicator, she spoke into it: “Javits says there’s no one else on board and no weapons.” A mumble too soft and distant for Flinx to understand issued from the compact unit’s speaker.

“No, instruments don’t show any automatic senders aboard, either. Has the ship in orbit responded again?” Another pause, then, “It looks like there’s only the two of them.”

She flipped off the unit, stuck it back in her utility belt and regarded Flinx and Sylzenzuzex. “Does anyone know you’ve come here?”

“You don’t expect me to make it easy for you, do you?” Flinx responded, to divert attention from Sylzenzuzex as well as to answer the query.

“Funny boy.” The woman took a deliberate step forward, raised the beamer back over her left shoulder. Pip stirred and she suddenly became aware that the minidrag was not a decoration.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Flinx told her softly. She eyed the snake.

“Toxic?”

“Very.”

She didn’t smile back. “We can kill it and the both of you, you know.”

“Sure,” agreed Flinx pleasantly. “But if you swing that beamer at me, then both Pip and I are going to go for your throat. If he doesn’t kill you I probably will, no matter how fast this ring of happy faces moves. On the off chance we don’t, then I’ll be dead and your superior will be damned displeased at not having the chance to question me. Either way, you lose.”

Fortunately the woman wasn’t the type to act without thinking. She stepped back, still keeping her beamer trained on him. “Very funny boy,” she commented tightly. “Maybe the Madam will let me have you after she’s finished asking her questions. Act as smart as you like. You’ve got a short future.” She gestured sharply with the beamer. “Both of you—into the first car.”

They walked between the beamers. Flinx tensed in readiness as he entered the large compartment, saw to his disappointment that two armed and equally tense people were awaiting him inside. No chance of jumping for the controls, then. He climbed in resignedly.

Sylzenzuzex followed him, having to squat uncomfortably on the bare floor because the car was equipped only with human seating, which would not accommodate her frame. Several of the armed guards followed. To Flinx’s relief, the squat woman was not among them.

A low hum rose to a whine as the groundcar lifted. Staying a meter above ground, it moved toward the nearby buildings, the second car following close behind. As they came nearer, Flinx could see that the complex was built at the edge of the forest. In the distance he could just make out several additional structures hugging the mountainside, high up among the trees.

The cars pulled up before a steeply gabled five-story building. They were escorted inside.

“The buildings here are all slants and angles,” Flinx commented to Sylzenzuzex as they made the short walk from car to entranceway. “The trees already show that the snowfall here must be tremendous in winter. And this is the local equivalent of the tropics.”

“Tropics,” she snorted, her mandibles clacking angrily. “I’m freezing already.” Her voice dropped. “It probably doesn’t make any difference, since we’re likely to be killed soon. Or hasn’t it dawned on you that we’ve stumbled onto a very large illegal installation of some kind?”

“The thought occurred to me,” he replied easily.

Taking a lift to the top floor, they came out into a corridor along which a few preoccupied men and women moved on various errands. They were not so absorbed that they failed to look startled at the appearance of Flinx and Sylzenzuzex.

The group made one turn to the left, continued almost to the end of a branch corridor, then stopped. Addressing the door pickup, the squat woman requested and received permission to enter. She disappeared inside, leaving the heavily guarded twosome to wait and think, before the door slid aside once again.

“Send ‘em in.”

Someone gave Flinx a hard shove that sent him stumbling forward. Sylzenzuzex was introduced into the room with equal roughness.

They stood in a luxurious chamber. Pink-tinted panels revealed a rosy vista of lake and mountains, landing field and—Flinx noted with longing—their parked shuttlecraft. It seemed very far away now.

A small waterfall danced at one end of the room, surrounded by carpets that were more fur than fabric. Thick perfume scented the air, clutched cloyingly at his senses. Behind them the door slid silently shut.

There was another person in the room.

She was seated in a lounge chair near the transparent panels, and was clad in a light gown. Her long blond hair was done up in a triple whirl, the three braids coiled one above each ear and the last at the back of her head. At the moment she was drinking something steaming from a taganou mug.

Scarface addressed her with deference. “They’re here, Madam Rudenuaman.”

“Thank you, Linda.” The woman turned to face them. Flinx sensed Sylzenzuzex’s surprise.

“She’s barely older than you or I,” she whispered.

Flinx said nothing, merely waited impassively and gazed back into olivine eyes. No, olivine wasn’t right—gangrenous would be more appropriate. There was an icy murderousness behind those eyes which he sensed more strongly than the drifting perfume.

“Before I have you killed,” the young woman began in a pleasant liquid voice, “I require answers to a few questions. Please keep in mind that you have no hope. The only thing you have any control over whatsoever is the manner of your death. It can be quick and efficient, depending on your willingness to answer my questions, or slow and tedious if you prove reluctant. Though not boring, I assure you. . . .”