• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

Casting an eye in the direction of the speaker, the Leader shook his head slowly. The latter looked abashed. “Poor tactics,” the old man murmured as he turned back to Clarity. “Once this Philip Lynx is dealt with, there may be some leeway in options. I can of course promise nothing until then.” And then, quite unexpectedly, his creased and furrowed visage broke out into an unmistakable leer.

Ever since she and Barryn had been seized, Clarity had felt a certain degree of fear. This was the first time she had felt as if she was going to lose her breakfast.

“I'm not going to call Flinx,” she declared rebelliously. “If you contact him, I'm not going to say anything.” She strove her hardest to make the glare she bestowed on the vile Elder actually sear his flesh. “I'm most especially not going to tell him to travel to any coordinates you provide!”

The hoped-for force of her glare had absolutely no effect on the old man. “Yes you are,” he demurred gently. Turning, he nodded at the semicircle of acolytes.

A young woman came toward Clarity. In her severe and unadorned fashion, the true believer was almost pretty. She was holding something in her right hand. A device.

“Hold her,” she instructed her associates. Ready hands moved to restrict Clarity's freedom of movement. Her muscles contracted as she tensed. The device was pushed forward.

Out in the middle of the lake her shrieks went unheard except by a few startled, long-necked pinsoir gliders and a helplessly writhing, securely caged Scrap. While their volume was muted by the cabin's soundproofing, the pitch of the recurrent screams was shrill enough to make the broad-winged fliers veer off to the west and give the source of the frightful noise a wide berth.

According to the readback the call-in was coming from Clarity's communit. But the visage that took shape above his wrist was not that of Flinx's beloved. Instead, he found himself gazing back at the countenance of a pleasant-faced, slightly rotund middle-aged man. Confused, he switched the image from full dimensional to flat.

“Who are you? And where's Clarity Held, the owner of the unit you're calling from?”

“All will be explained,” the man replied soothingly. “My name is not important. All you need to know about me is that more than a year ago you tried to kill me at a regional shuttleport. You did succeed in killing or injuring several of my close friends and associates. Of course, we were at the same time trying to kill you, so it would be futile to waste time debating the situational ethics. At least, we feel so. We were not at all certain we would have the chance to kill you again. We thank you for returning to New Riviera so that we might have the opportunity to realize our earlier intentions.”

Delivered in a calm, all but tranquil tone, this was such a dumbfoundingly frank declaration that Flinx found himself momentarily speechless. When he did finally manage to reply, it was to repeat the name he had already spoken.

“Clarity.” This time his tone was ominous instead of uncertain.

“Certainly,” the man responded briskly. “It is implicit that you will do nothing in the absence of confirmation.”

The image rotated as the other communit's visual pickup was realigned. It was plain from the way the viewpoint shifted that the unit itself was being held loosely and was not presently on someone's wrist, least of all that of the portly individual who had greeted Flinx.

Very soon the scene steadied. It was clear and, as verified by his own unit, natural and unaltered. Clarity sat in a chair in the center of the image. Her arms were secured behind her. She looked—bad. Her hair was a mess, the very modest amount of makeup she utilized daily was blurred and streaked in spite of the fact that contemporary cosmetics were designed to prevent such distortions, and her eyes were red and swollen from crying. Her clothes were distressed. It was obvious she had been seriously mistreated. There was no blood, no visual evidence