The End of the Matter (12 page)

After a last backward glance at the body, Flinx hurried to catch up with the Indian. “What about your friend?”

Pocomchi didn’t look back at him. “He’ll lie there until the place closes. First the management will run their drunk crew through to help out those able to walk. Then they’ll come through again and sweep up the incapacitated.

“Habib would like that, when they find out he’s more than drunk. First they’ll panic—probably think it’s something toxic that’s snuck into their siphon mixture. Then they’ll locate the real source of death, electrocution, and go crazy trying to find the malfunction in their simie machinery.

“When that doesn’t turn up anything,” he concluded bitterly, “a few credits will change hands and they’ll give him a proper, if circumspect, burial. The Church will make sure of that.”

They were almost around the grove of elms when the trees became a pair of enormous mushrooms. Flinx found himself slowing, putting out a restraining hand. “Don’t you think maybe . . . ?”

Pocomchi shook his head curtly. “Balthazaar would never have come back if any kind of threat remained. Nor would your drag, I suspect.”

Flinx murmured agreement. It was not the time to argue—and he settled for letting the Indian round the corner first. When nothing sent him reeling back in his death throes, Flinx moved to join him.

There were two bodies on the ground. One was clad in a yellow-green dress suit, the other in a casual coolall. Flinx had a bad moment, but it gave way to what he expected to feel when Pocomchi put a foot under one corpse and flipped it over. The dress suit fell aside, revealing a familiar skin-tight blackness beneath.

Barely restrained anger gave way to puzzlement as Pocomchi checked the heads. A floppy green hat fell aside to show a black-and-crimson skullcap beneath. “Qwarm,” he muttered with a frown. “We’ve had no dealing with them. Habib and I hadn’t discovered anything worth killing over, nor have we offended anyone that badly. Qwarm are expensive. Why would anyone want to have us killed?”

Something clicked, and he jerked his head up to see Flinx staring patiently back at him. “You. Why do the Qwarm want you dead?”

“Not me,” the youth explained, pointing behind him. “It’s Ab they want. Though they want me too because I got too curious about why they wanted Ab.”

“I’m not sure I’m following you, Flinx.”

By way of an answer, Flinx pointed at the two awkwardly sprawled, venom-scarred bodies. “If two of their members,” he explained, “hadn’t reacted without thinking, I might not be involved with them at all. Habib might still be alive.” He gestured loosely at the corpses. “So might they.”

Pocomchi’s reply was laced with contempt. “What do you care about a pair of soulless murderers like these?”

“They’re humanx,” Flinx responded quietly.

Pocomchi grunted eloquently. Then he raised one foot over the body he had overturned and brought it down with a hard, twisting motion. There was a cracking sound, as of shattering plastic. Kneeling, the Indian tore open the back of the black shirt. Several square plastic cases were linked together around the assassin’s waist. A thin but heavily insulated cord ran from one case to a tiny, childish-looking plastic gun lying on the floor.

“Supercooled dense battery pack,” Pocomchi explained, examining the arrangement. He touched a small switch on the cord before picking up the toy gun by its insulated handgrip. “Delivery terminal,” he declared. “Fires a small needle attached to a wire.”

Flinx had heard of this weapon but had never seen one before. But then, there were many ways of killing, and the Qwarm undoubtedly knew most of them.

“The wire rolls onto a spool inside the handgrip,” Pocomchi was telling him evenly. “It serves two functions: to deliver the lethal charge and to guide the needle to its target. A good man with one of these”— he hefted the little weapon easily—“isn’t stopped by any kind of shielding. If you’re good with the guide system, I understand, you can shoot around several corners. An opponent wouldn’t get a shot at you, or even a clear look. Or a chance . . . to fight back.”

Flinx knew Habib had been electrocuted instantly. Then why . . .?

He found himself walking out from behind the mushrooms, to look across a newly born brook. On the far side, Ab had an artificial yellow-and-pink flower in one hand. A big blue eye was bent close, studying the petals.

“I don’t understand,” Flinx muttered, half to himself.

“I don’t understand either,” snapped Pocomchi. Then he became aware that Flinx was staring, and not referring to the killing that had just taken place.

“It’s Ab . . . my alien,” Flinx told him eventually. “That needle hit him. I
saw
it hit him. I heard it. The charge went into him, and he doesn’t show any sign of it. I’ve heard of natural organic grounders before, nervous systems which can shuttle enormous voltages harmlessly through their own bodies—but never in an animal, always in plants.”

Pocomchi shrugged. “Maybe your Ab is a plant imitating an animal. Who knows? All that should matter to you is that he was immune to this particular kind of murder.”

Flinx was looking around nervously now. “This means they know I’m on Alaspin. I’ve got to move.” He started off to his right. “Are you coming, Pocomchi? I could use your help.”

The Indian laughed sardonically. “You’re a fine one to be asking for my help, young dragon lord. You’re marked for dying. Why should I go anywhere with you? I can think of a dozen simpler ways to commit suicide.”

Flinx stopped. He stared hard but unthreateningly back at Pocomchi. “I need to find the man you told me of, even though he’s probably just another false lead. You’re the only one on Alaspin I know who could find him for me. I don’t expect you to come with me out of friendship. I’ll settle for hiring you. Why should you go anywhere with me? Why not?” he finished, rather heartlessly. “You have other immediate prospects?”

“No,” Pocomchi whispered blankly, “no other immediate prospects.”

“But money isn’t sufficient reason for you to come with me,” Flinx went on relentlessly. “So I’ll give you a better reason. I’d be very surprised if they don’t try to kill Ab and me again.”

Pocomchi rose and brushed at his pants to wipe off imaginary sand. “That’s no reason.”

“Think, Pocomchi,” Flinx urged him. “It means that you and Balthazaar will have a chance to meet some more Qwarm.”

The Indian glanced up at him, uncomprehending for a moment. Then his expression tensed with the realization of what Flinx was telling him. “Yes. Yes, maybe we will have a chance to meet some of that kind again, I’d like that.” He nodded slowly, forcefully. “I’ll go with you and guide you, Flinx.” Turning, he spat on the two limp bodies and started to murmur in a guttural, alien tongue.

Flinx reached out, took Pocomchi’s unresisting arm, and tugged him toward the exit. The man allowed himself to be led, but never ceased his muttering, which was directed at the two corpses they were leaving behind.

They crossed the small brook. In midstream it turned into a river of molten lava. Flinx felt gentle heat swirling around his legs, when they should have been burned to cinders. But he took only the barest notice of the effect. His mind was full of thoughts unconnected with the sensory gluttony provided by the simiespin machinery.

“Come on, Ab!” he shouted behind him. Blue eyes focused on him. With a good-natured singsong having something to do with vultures and fudge, the alien followed the two men across the glowing pahoehoe. By the time they reached the simiespin exit, Pocomchi had recovered enough to pay for his stay with his own credcard, though from time to time he would resume his muttering.

Finally they were on the street outside. Flinx started back toward his hotel, Pocomchi walking alongside.

The last remaining light of the Alaspinian evening was fading to an amber luminescence. Expecting a new kind of destruction to stab at them from behind every crate and barrel, from every rooftop and floater, Flinx found his gaze shifting constantly at imagined as well as real movements.

A hissing cry sounded suddenly—a reptilian wail. Both men paused. Behind them, a leathery winged shape rose into the sky. It passed over their heads, soaring on brilliantly hued wings as it lifted into the sunset. For a minute it paused there, above and slightly ahead of them, circling as it climbed. A dream-dragon out of a childhood fairy tale, its colorful diamond pattern caught the fading sun.

Abruptly it gave another short cry; it had reached a decision. Wings pushing air, it shot off in the direction of the setting sun. Light and distance combined to obscure Flinx’s view of it in a very short while.

Both men resumed walking. “I wondered what Habib’s minidrag would do,” Flinx murmured thoughtfully. “I always wondered what a tame minidrag would do if its master died.”

“Now you know—they turn wild again,” Pocomchi elaborated. “Hazarez was a good snake.” He eyed the sun, which had swallowed the last sight of the shrinking dark dot. “Balthazaar will miss Hazarez, too.”

“We’re liable to miss a lot more,” Flinx assured his companion, “if we don’t get off these streets before dark. The Qwarm prefer two sets of clothing: black cloth and night. I’ve got a few little things in my room I want to collect. Then we can rent a floater and get out of the city.” He increased his pace, calling back over his shoulder, “Get a move on, Ab—I’m in a hurry!”

Four legs working effortlessly, the blue-green alien complied without any indication of strain.

Darkness owned that corner of Alaspin by the time they reached the modest hotel Flinx was staying in. His room pass keyed the transparent doorway. Panels slid aside, admitting both men and Ab to the unpretentious lobby.

Flinx headed straight for the lift; his rooms were on the third floor. Pocomchi and Ab trailed close behind, so close that when Flinx halted as if shot, the Indian nearly ran into him.

“Flinx?” Pocomchi inquired softly, alert now himself.

An amorphous, oppressive something had fallen like a thick curse over Flinx’s thoughts. For a moment he had difficulty classifying the source. Then he knew. The mental stench of recent death permeated the entire building.

He told himself it might merely be a lingering aftereffect of the simiespin experience, a sort of mental hangover. It could also be the result of his often-morbid imagination. But he did not think so. He was trying to rationalize away his fear of what must have taken place here.

Instead of taking the lift, he tried to lean in the direction where the brain-smell was strongest. It led him toward the opposite side of the lobby. Mirable’s quarters and office were here.

When he placed his palm over the call contact, he heard a reassuring buzz within. But no one came to open the door or check on the caller. He repeated the action, with the same result.

He tried to tell himself she could be out of the building. That must be it. His bill was paid for two more days in advance, but it would only be polite to leave a message explaining his sudden departure.

Picking the light stylus from its holder in the wall, he inscribed his good-bye on the electronic message screen. Then he pushed the transcribe button. When she returned, her presence would activate the screen machinery. His light images would be turned into voice and played aloud for her.

Replacing the stylus, he turned to leave. Pocomchi caught him and nodded at the doorway: “Listen.”

Flinx obeyed. He heard something, then realized it was the message he had just left. That meant Mirable had to be in her apartment.

Why didn’t she respond?

Experimentally, he placed a hand on the door and pushed. It slid back a few centimeters into the wall. That didn’t make sense either. If she was within, surely she would have set the lock. Even on a relatively crime-free world—let alone a boisterous planet like Alaspin—such a device was standard equipment, built into the doorway of every commercial establishment.

The door continued to slide back under his pressure. He peered inward.

A voice called from behind him, “What’s going on, Flinx?”

“Shut up.”

Pocomchi was the sort of man who had broken limbs for less than that, but something in Flinx’s manner induced him to comply without protest. He contented himself with watching the hotel entrance and the lift doors, while keeping an eye on Ab.

Shoving the door all the way into the wall, Flinx noticed a dark spot near its base. A thin stain indicated that a fluid-state switch had been shattered. That tied in with the broken lock mechanism.

Slowly he walked into the room. Internal machinery detected his body heat and brightened the chamber in greeting. It was decorated with the sort of items one might expect to be chosen by a woman whose dreams were rapidly leaving her behind. The flowers, the little-girl paraphernalia, a few stuffed animals on a couch, all were nails desperately hammered into a door against which time pressed relentlessly.

Then he saw the leg sticking out from behind the couch. The trussed body of Mirable lay naked beyond. Most of the blood had already dried.

A vast coldness sucked at him as he kneeled over the rag-doll shape. One eye stared blankly up past him. He put a hand up and closed it gently. The other eye was missing. A look of uncomprehending, innocent horror was frozen on her face. About that he could do nothing.

Why she had shielded him, as she apparently had, he could not imagine. Whether out of some strange loyalty or the like, or out of pure stubbornness, she had not talked immediately. That would please ordinary criminal types, but not the Qwarm. True sadism was not a luxury professionals could afford, and they had done a professional job on her. But he did not understand why they had killed her. It was almost as if her obstinacy had irritated them.

Quickly he left the room and the body, surrounded by now-dead dreams. He almost expected to see Pocomchi and Ab lying dead across each other. But both were standing there, Ab mumbling amiably to himself and Pocomchi waiting silently. The Indian said nothing.

Flinx’s gaze went immediately to the lift. He did not think anyone had seen them enter the building; if they had, he would not be standing here now.