For Love of Mother-Not - Alan Dean Foster [107]
“I’m afraid that you are, boy, whether you like it or not,” she told him. “You’ve caused a lot of trouble. But don’t worry.” She tried to smile. The result was a discomfiting parody. “Everything’s going to be all right. You’re going to be fixed up so you can live a normal life.”
A buzzer suddenly roared to life on one of the unattended consoles, filling the room with insistent discordance. Cruachan stared dumbly at it, then at Flinx, then at the Peaceforcers.
“For heaven’s sake, don’t threaten him!”
“Threaten me?” Flinx was almost crying now, ignoring Cruachan’s sudden terror, the buzzing, everything, as he spoke to the female Peaceforcer. “What does he mean, threaten me? What did you mean when you said you’re going to have me fixed up? I’m fine.”
“Maybe you are, and maybe you aren’t,” she replied, “but these Meliorares,” she spat the word out, “seem to think otherwise. That’s good enough for me. I’m no specialist. They’re the ones who’ll decide what’s to be done with you.”
“And the sooner the better,” her companion added. “Did you call for backup?”
“As soon as we were sure.” She nodded. “It’ll take them a few minutes to get here. This isn’t Brizzy, you know.”
Flinx felt unsteady on his feet as well as in his mind. Where he had expected rescue, there was only new hurt, fresh indifference. No, worse than indifference, for these people saw him only as some kind of deformed, unhealthy creature. There was no understanding for him here in this room, not from his ancient persecutors or these new arrivals. The universe, as represented by organizations illegal and legitimate, seemed wholly against him.
Fixed, the woman had said. He was going to be fixed. But there was nothing wrong with him. Nothing! Why do they want to do these unnamable things to me? he thought angrily.
The pain and confusion produced results unnoticed by the anxious antagonists facing each other across the floor. Prodded by the powerful emotions emanating from his master, half-awakened by the thinning quantity of soporific gas entering its cage, the flying snake, awoke. It did not need to search visually for Flinx—his outburst of hurt was a screaming beacon marking his location.
The snake’s wings remained folded as it quickly examined its prison. Then it rose up and spat. In the confused babble that filled the opposite end of the room, the quiet hissing of dissolving pancrylic went unnoticed.
“Let’s get them outside.” The male Peaceforcer moved to his right, separating from his companion to stand to one side of the entrance while she moved to get behind the shifting group gathered in the middle of the room.
“Single file now,” she ordered them, gesturing with her gun. “All of you. And please keep your hands in the air. No dramatic last-minute gestures, please. I don’t like a mess.”
Cruachan pleaded with her. “Please, we’re just a bunch of harmless old scholars. This is our last chance. This boy”—and he indicated Flinx—“may be our last opportunity to prove—”
“I’ve studied your history, read the reports.” The woman’s voice was icy. “What you did is beyond redemption or forgiving. You’ll get just what you deserve, and it won’t be a chance to experiment further on this poor, malformed child.”
“Please, somebody,” Flinx said desperately, “I don’t know what you’re talking about! Won’t somebody tell me—?”
“Somebody probably will,” she told him. “I’m not privy to the details, and explanations aren’t my department.” She shuddered visibly. “Fortunately.”
“Rose, look out!” At the warning cry from her companion, the woman whirled. There was something in the air, humming like a giant bumblebee, moving rapidly from place to place: a pink and blue blur against the ceiling.
“What the hell’s that?” she blurted.
Flinx started to answer, but Cruachan spoke first, taking a step out of the line and toward the Peaceforcer. “That’s the boy’s pet. I don’t know how it got out. It’s dangerous.”
“Oh, it is, is it?” The muzzle of the short rifle came up.
“No!” Cruachan rushed toward her, the console buzzer screaming in his ears.