For Love of Mother-Not - Alan Dean Foster [89]
“That’s odd,” Mother Mastiff commented. “He’s not the talkative kind, that boy.” She went quiet for a while, watching the forest slide past below. Flinx slept on, enjoying his first relaxed sleep in some time.
“ ’Tis an awful lot of trouble you’ve gone through on his behalf,” she finally declared, “especially for a total stranger. Especially for one so young.”
“Youth is relative,” Lauren said. “Maybe he brought out the maternal instinct in me.”
“Don’t get profound with me, child,” Mother Mastiff warned her, “nor sassy, either.” Ironic, that last comment, though. Hadn’t she once felt the same way about the boy many years ago? “I’ve watched ye, seen the way ye look at him. Do ye love him?”
“Love him?” Lauren’s surprise was quite genuine. Then, seeing that Mother Mastiff was serious, she forced herself to respond solemnly. “Certainly not! At least, not in that way. I’m fond of him, sure. I respect him immensely for what he’s managed to do on his own, and I also feel sorry for him. There is affection, certainly. But the kind of love you’re talking about? Not a chance.”
“’Youth is relative,’” Mother Mastiff taunted her gently. “One must be certain. I’ve seen much in my life, child. There’s little that can surprise me, or at least so I thought until a few weeks ago.” She cackled softly. “I’m glad to hear ye say this. Anything else could do harm to the boy.”
“I would never do that,” Lauren assured her. She glanced back at Flinx’s sleeping form. “I’m going to drop you at the lodge. My assistant’s name is Sal. I’ll make some pretense of going in to arrange your transportation and talk to him. Then I’ll take off across the lake. I think it will be better for him that way. I don’t want to hurt him.” She hesitated. “You don’t think he’ll do anything silly, like coming after me?”
Mother Mastiff considered thoughtfully, then shook her head. “He’s just a little too sensible. He’ll understand, I’m sure. As for me, I don’t know what to say, child. You’ve been so helpful to him and to me.”
“ ‘Revenge,’ remember?” She grinned, the lights from the console glinting off her high cheekbones. “He’s a funny one, your Flinx. I don’t think I’ll forget him.”
“Ye know, child, ’tis peculiar,” Mother Mastiff muttered as she gazed out into the clouds and mist, “but you’re not the first person to say that.”
“And I expect,” Lauren added as she turned her attention back to her driving, “that I won’t be the last, either.”
The mudder circled the devastated encampment several times before leaving the cover of the forest and cruising among the ruined buildings. Eventually, it settled to ground near the stump of what had been a central tower.
The woman who stepped out was clad in a dark-green and brown camouflage suit, as was the man at the vehicle’s controls. He kept the engine running as his companion marched a half-dozen meters toward the tower, stopped, and turned a slow circle, hands on hips. Then they both relaxed, recognizing that whatever had obliterated the installation no longer posed any threat. No discussion was necessary—they had worked together for a long time, and words had become superfluous.
The man killed the mudder’s engine and exited to join his associate in surveying the wreckage. A light rain was falling. It did not soak them, for the camouflage suits repelled moisture. The field was temporary, but from what they could see of the encampment, they wouldn’t be in the place long enough to have to recharge.
“I’m sick of opening packages, only to find smaller packages inside,” the man said ruefully. “I’m sick of having every new avenue we take turn into a dead end.” He gestured toward the destruction surrounding them; crumpled buildings, isolated wisps of smoke rising from piles of debris, slag where power had melted metal.
“Dead may be the right description, too, judging by the looks of things.”
“Not necessarily.” His companion only half heard him. She was staring at a wide depression near her feet. It was pointed at one end. A second, identical mark dented the ground