Trouble Magnet (24 page)

Within the table, the information pellet Shaeb had handed over was a rotating blur, spinning at an incredible speed. Precisely focused light extracted information from within. Data was channeled, transshipped, compared. As an adjunct to the search that was being run, a one-third life-sized image of the subject appeared as a separate projection above another part of the supremely functional table. Plainly compiled from several sensor sources, it was occasionally less than flawless. The portrayed individual was shown standing, speaking, and moving. So was a certain unidentified small flying creature.

Something jarred Theodakris’s attention, as if he had been slapped by an invisible hand, hard. His hands stopped working the panel. Hurriedly, he waved it aside, shoving sharply to his right the virtual instrumentation that was partially blocking his view of the projection. Periodically refreshing itself, the hovering image was of a lanky young man with red hair and green eyes. Occasionally the serpentine flying creature darted in and out of the projection.

Though the senior analyst said nothing, his perceptive visitor immediately noticed the change. “Something about this distasteful scrim intrigues you?”

“Intrigues me?” Leaning back, Shaeb slapped both palms down on his thighs. “Oh, this is too wonderful, Piegal! Too marvelous to believe! You see, I have for some days now been debating whether to seek out this very individual myself. And here you have brought him to my notice anew!” His tone turned suddenly, and unexpectedly, solemn. “Why, it’s almost as if this individual and I were somehow bound together by a disdainful Fate.”

Shaeb felt lost. It was not a feeling with which he was comfortable. “You know the operative?”

Theodakris moderated his glee. “He’s not an operative. Not in the sense you’re thinking of, that is. I encountered him not long ago while engaged in my normal routine of perusing and analyzing daily police reports. He plucked a kid from the arms of our benevolent authorities by convincing the very thranx visitors who were holding him to let him go. Then he vanished. I’ve been torn ever since with trying to decide whether to seek him out.”

Shaeb folded his arms across his chest. “It is apparent that I lack the information that would allow me to make sense of what you are saying.” He gestured at the systematically recycling images. “My interest in him is straightforward. What is yours, that you should take such an interest in an unknown? And if he is not a rogue operative, then what is he?”

“Ah,” murmured Theodakris, appearing for the moment as if he were completely alone in the room, “what indeed? There are many things I wish I could tell you, my friend. Much that you would find of interest, and some that would shock you.”

Shaeb’s gaze narrowed. He had been called many things by many people, friend as well as foe, but never shockable. “Try me.”

“I can’t.” Despite the gravity of the situation, the senior analyst could not keep from chuckling. “I can’t tell anyone. To do so would be to invite full mindwipe.”

Now the master of the Underhouse Shaeb was intrigued. “Would I be wrong in inferring that others besides myself have an interest in detaining this independent?”

For some reason, this query caused the senior analyst to burst out laughing again. “My dear Piegal, you have no idea!” Wiping first one eye, then the other, Theodakris pointed at the shifting image. “Unless I have utterly misjudged things, and as an analyst of some small skill I believe I have not, the young man is an offworlder named Philip Lynx. He commonly goes by the sobriquet Flinx. That peculiar flying creature you see darting in and out of the projection is from a world called Alaspin. It is commonly known as a minidrag, or ‘miniature dragon,’ though the name is purely descriptive and not in any way scientific. It has the capability to spit a distance of several meters and with great accuracy a venom that is highly corrosive and inordinately toxic.”

Shaeb was nodding, storing the information as effectively as if it were being committed to a subox. “That would partially explain how this person and one adolescent companion were able to overcome those in charge of holding the three incarcerated scrims. But only partially.” He eyed the analyst. “Though you say he is no operative, this Flinx person must have comparable abilities.”

“You have no idea,” Theodakris reiterated. With a surprisingly acerbic snigger he added, “As a matter of fact, if the limited information available on this particular subject is to be believed, no one has any idea.”

Shaeb liked straightforward explanations. He wasn’t getting any. “That doesn’t help me, Shyvil. I am not paying you to be obscure.”

“Believe me, I’m not.” Smile and accompanying laughter went away with a suddenness that would have shocked anyone but Shaeb. “I’ve got some advice for you that isn’t obscure. Leave this one alone. Swallow your pride, absorb your losses, and forget about him. From what very little I have been able to learn about him over the course of perusing many years of the most intermittent and questionable reports, contact with him is markedly unhealthy.

“There was a time, long ago, when I would have responded differently. But time passes, life progresses, obsessions fade. That’s why I decided, after some serious private agonizing, not to follow up on my initial inclinations.” He gazed at the recycling images with what could almost have been considered longing. “Believe me, my interest in him far exceeds yours, yet I know without hesitation that it is in my own best interest to ignore him.”

Seeking clarification, Shaeb only found himself further bemused. “I do not grasp the fullness of what you are saying, but this I know: I cannot ignore him. He has cost me self-respect and cred. Apparently there are certain unknowns involving this youth that you have decided to let go. I cannot.”

Even though it had by now run through the same sequence of enhanced recordings dozens of times, Theodakris found he could not take his gaze off the projection. “Okay. Then instruct your people to shoot him on sight. Don’t try to bring him in for questioning or a lingering revenge. Kill him from a distance. As great a distance as possible. Because if my suppositions are correct, you won’t get the chance to do so from close up.” Now he did take his eyes off the shifting images, long enough to meet his guest’s gaze. “I will say it one more time. You have no idea, Piegal, what you’re up against.”

Shaeb could not be intimidated. Annoyance, however, was something even he was subject to. “Operative or something else, he’s just one youth.” He waved a hand dismissively. “The flying creature can be contained, or otherwise dealt with.” He shifted in his chair as if preparing to leave. His tone was intolerant. “You have no other information for me?”

“I’ve told you what I know,” Theodakris replied, “and that includes information that’s not available on any Shell. At least, not on one that’s accessible to any but a very few Commonwealth citizens. Consider yourself privileged.”

Rising, Shaeb felt otherwise. “You won’t help me resolve this matter?”

Theodakris did not stand. “I’ve done what I can and more than I should. I’m telling you, Shyvil, avoid this young man as you would a drug-resistant plague.”

“Why?” Shaeb stared hard at the senior analyst. “Tell me precisely, why?”

Theodakris’s gaze fell. “I wish I could, but I don’t know the right answer myself. From the tiniest dribs and drabs of information I’ve been able to acquire over the years—call it a perverse hobby—this Flinx is like a wandering black hole. No one ever sees exactly what he does, or how, but the consequences of his passing are all too evident for those with eyes capable of seeing.”

Shaeb hesitated, finally asked, “You called it a ‘perverse hobby.’ What is your ongoing interest in this offworlder?”

The senior analyst looked up. “I can’t tell you that, either, Piegal. Not for all the cred on Visaria. I can’t tell anyone.”

With a soft grunt, the Underhouse master started for the lift. “Maybe if I bring him before you secured and bound and dump him on the floor at your feet with his lethal pet fried to a crisp and served up on a platter, you’ll feel more articulate. That will put an end to it.”

“An end to it?” The expression that came over Theodakris’s face as he repeated his guest’s comment was conflicted. There was much there to see: fear, interest, uncertainty, and, most strangely of all, an almost perceptible yearning, as if for something valued and gone. “I’ve lived the last fifty years of my life assuming there had already been an end to it.” He gestured toward the projected hovering image that was proving persistent in more ways than one. “The universe, my friend, is full of surprises. One just doesn’t expect one of this magnitude, on an otherwise fine day in midyear, to be dumped unexpectedly in one’s lap.” Turning to face his retreating guest, the senior analyst then voiced the most unanticipated comment of the entire visit.

“You know, I’ve had an interesting life.”

Taken aback, Shaeb could only mumble a quick thank-you and good-bye. He left Theodakris still seated in his wonderfully sinuous chair, still staring at the same projection he had already viewed over and over.

The senior analyst, Shaeb decided, was turning senile with unexpected rapidity. All this inane and directionless muttering about unexplained events from long ago. As much as he liked Theodakris personally, the Underhouse master had no room within him for misplaced empathy.

It was clearly time to begin cultivating a new source of information within the Justice Ministry.

Nothing in the hotel suite Flinx and his new acquaintances had been forced to abandon in haste was irreplaceable. Always a light traveler, he had left behind nothing that could not be bought anew elsewhere, on another world if not on Visaria, or reproduced by the engines of profound manipulation that were available to him on the
Teacher
.

Sallow Behdul, of all people, turned out to have a relative outside the city who reluctantly agreed to give them shelter until the tumult surrounding their raid, subsequent capture, and eventual escape died down. Having spent the majority of his life on other worlds and in cities, it was a new experience for Flinx to find himself on an actual farm.

Like all such modern facilities, that of Behdul’s cousin was fully mechanized, regulated, and kept in continuous adjustment by a vast array of instrumentation. Food animals received precise amounts of nourishment coupled with the appropriate vitamins, minerals, and supplements. Hundreds of years of genetic fine-tuning had created creatures designed to produce the maximum amount of protein from the least amount of input. The latter took the form of fodder that had been just as proficiently manipulated. There were also extensive fields of food plants, several of which were unknown to Flinx.

All of this was protected and nurtured beneath billowing sheaths of organic polymers whose opacity and thickness was adjusted according to the prescribed seasonal programming. Too much sunshine would burn the crops; too little, starve them. It was the same with the animals. Behdul’s cousin reacted with appropriate horror when Flinx wondered aloud why he simply could not do away with the floating polymer swathes. Doing so would mean, Tracken Behdulvlad explained, exposing his precious flocks and crops to the vagaries of the atmosphere. Such a thing was alien to progressive agriculture.

“Kind of pretty.”

“What?” Turning from his contemplation of the sunset as viewed through several translucent polymer puffs, Flinx saw that Zezula had come up behind him. Her injuries were healing quickly, though red blotches on her exquisite features still showed where the oppressive metal squares had adhered.

She nodded in the direction of the blurred, setting sun. “Pretty. The scenery out here. But dull. I can’t believe that people actually choose to live like this.”

He offered up a cordial smile. On his shoulder, Pip dozed deeply. “Fortunately for you and your friends, some do. Somebody has to cultivate the food to feed a planetary population, since not everybody has access to synthesizers.”

She nodded. “I’ve eaten a lot of synthetics, but I never really cared for them. Growing up in Malandere, I never gave much thought to where food came from. I was only ever worried about getting enough of it.”

He found himself feeling sorry for the girl. On another world, in other circumstances, she might have had hopes of receiving a better education, or of becoming a vit personality, or perhaps exploring hitherto unsuspected artistic depths. Not only had Visaria’s largest city beaten her down, but it threatened to become an inescapable trap. So, for that matter, had Drallar, the difference between them being that he had made it out and, at least so far, she had not.

She moved closer. “I grew up worrying about everything. That’s the way it is in the city.”

For a moment he wondered if his Talent was functioning. Because while her words and attitude, down to the posture she affected, said one thing, her emotions shouted something else entirely. Presenting herself as winsome and worried, inside she radiated a confidence and self-assurance that bordered on the bold. It began to dawn on him that he was witnessing yet another example of human duplicity. Even though Subar was nowhere to be seen, the present situation was one from which he now sought to disengage himself. Preferably without giving his abilities away.

So instead of coolly informing her,
Your mouth says one thing but your emotions say another,
he replied as distantly as he could without being rude. “Everybody worries about their life. I’m sure you’ll make something of yours.”

She nodded and edged still closer. On his shoulder, Pip stirred but did not awaken. Her hand rose to grip his upper left arm. It glided downward, past elbow and forearm, and would have grasped his fingers had he not used them to suddenly scratch at the side of his face.

“I’m sure I’ll make something,” she murmured.

What he sensed within her simultaneously attracted and repelled him. He felt at once sorry for her and disgusted at her behavior. If he referred to it bluntly, she would no doubt deny it, perhaps even mention it to Subar. Though it mattered not at all in the greater scheme of things if she did so, Flinx felt a sort of kinship with the youth. Enough so that he did not want to see him hurt, if it could be avoided.