The End of the Matter (15 page)

Arrows continued to fall around them as they staggered, exhausted, toward the catacomblike entrance. One bolt whizzed past so close that it slit Flinx’s shirt under his left arm. Glancing down and over, he saw that the point had nicked the skin and he was bleeding slightly.

Just ahead, several figures ducked down into tall grass. Emerald eyes glinted malevolently at them.

“It’s no good,” Flinx wheezed, defeated. “They’re ahead of us now.”

“How many?” the big man asked, crouching alongside Flinx and swinging the rifle around.

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” Flinx panted, wondering if he would be able to stand again with Pocomchi’s weight on his back. Next to him, Ab imitated his posture and offered a hopeful verse. Flinx was not comforted.

“Little devils know how to fight, how to hide themselves. If they ever get organized, they’ll run the prospectors
and
the scientists off Alaspin.” Flinx, in spite of his near-total exhaustion, found time to be curious. But the big man apparently felt he had said nothing remarkable.

“Got to chance it, lad,” the man decided.

“Chance it, fance it, dance and prance it,” agreed Ab excitedly.

“We can’t stay here and we can’t go back.” He started to rise. “I’ll go first. That’ll give you a little time . . . and some shieldin’, if you can stay back of me. If we can just—”

Popping sounds came from ahead of them. Several fist-sized globes of red fire emerged from above the dark doorway in the temple.

Glancing higher, Flinx thought he could see a figure moving about in a long, narrow gap in the green stone. From that position it fired a weapon which produced the energy globes.

Where each ball struck there was a small explosion. Flames leaped briefly skyward, only to disappear and leave a man-sized pillar of light-brown smoke in their wake. Those Otoid blocking the approach to the temple broke and fled—those who were still able to. Red spheres pursued them.

“That’d be Isili,” Flinx’s blocky savior declared. “I thought for sure she’d be down in the diggin’s. Lucky for us she heard the commotion.” He rose to his full height. “She’ll cover us. Come on.” He started for the towering entrance, running with lumbering, pounding strides that reminded Flinx of the herd of toppers he had flown over only a couple of days ago.

Every muscle in his body strained, but he still found himself falling farther and farther behind. Any second now, he expected the sharp, exquisite pain of a metal point to penetrate his legs or lower back. But every time an Otoid raised itself for a clear shot at the fugitives, or moved to pursue, a cottony-crimson globe of energy would touch it, and both would vanish in an impatient gout of flame.

Then, as he was tottering down carved stone steps, he realized that he was descending into the temple. The steps gave way to a level rock floor. Something thundered behind him. He experienced a moment of panic, but it was only a makeshift wooden door slamming shut across the temple entrance.

His eyes rapidly became accustomed to the slightly dimmer illumination in the modest chamber. Small, independently powered lamps were hung from the ceiling, mounted on rock outcroppings.

They reached the end of the entrance tunnel and emerged into a brightly lit cleared room. Here the surrounding walls were embellished with row upon row of magnificent carvings, mosaics of metal and stone alternating with deeply etched friezes depicting scenes from ancient Alaspinian social and religious life.

Flinx had little time to appreciate the sculpture as he sank, exhausted, to the floor, barely managing to set Pocomchi down gently. Ab strolled over to a pile of excavated stone and commenced examining some of the pieces.

Taking the stone steps three at a time, the man who had led him to at least temporary safety mounted to a gallery which ran around the top level of the chamber. The ornamental banister which bordered the gallery was also made of carved stone. It was a good three stories above the chamber floor.

Flinx saw him approach another figure, indistinct in the distance, and talk briefly. Then he turned and shouted down to Flinx. A slight echo shadowed his words.

“Relax, feller-me-lad! They’ve given up for now. They’ll count their losses, remove the eyes from their dead, and ceremony for a while. Then they’ll decide what to do.”

“Surely,” Flinx called up to him, “they won’t attack a position as well defended as this temple?” The thick stone walls were making him confident. “Not with the kind of weapons you have,” he finished, with a gesture toward the rifle the man had leaned against the nearby wall.

“Don’t count on being safe tomorrow,” the man advised him pleasantly as he descended the stairway. He indicated the gun as he reached the floor. “Any reasonable humanx wouldn’t want to tangle with a Mark Twenty, but these aren’t reasonable or human or thranx, lad. They’re primitives, and primitive folk always have more courage than brains. Besides, each of ‘em probably thinks that if he dies in battle the gods will favor him in the afterlife. At least,” he amended himself with a modest wink, “that’s my theory.”

“Are you an anthropologist?” Flinx asked him uncertainly.

A great, roaring laugh filled the room, rattled around the engraved walls, and filled each niche and hollow with monumental delight. While the man enjoyed Flinx’s question, the youth took the time to note the piles of supplies stacked neatly in various spots around the room. There was also an oversized mattress, a cell charger, and a compact autochef complete with moisture condenser. All signs indicated that here was an efficient, organized, long-term camp.

“Not me, young feller-me-lad,” the man finally replied after regaining control of himself. “I’ll claim science as a hobby, not a trade.” Turning, he shouted up toward the high gallery and waved at the figure standing by the long window there. “Come on down, Isili! Sunset’s on. You know they won’t trouble us any more today!” Lowering his voice, he spoke conspiratorially to Flinx. “Isili’s the scientist. Me, I’m just a menial . . .” He stopped, frowning.

“What’s the matter?” Flinx watched as the man walked over to him and continued on past. He saw him bend over Pocomchi and realized that the guide had not said a word since they had reached safety.

“He’s asleep?” he inquired hopefully.

The big man rolled the slight Indian over onto his stomach. The action revealed two broken shafts sticking out of the narrow back. With an angry grimace, the white-haired giant plucked both arrows free, then gently turned the Indian over onto his back. Flinx saw blood on the small miner’s lips.

“Hey, grubber-man,” the huge man inquired gently, “how do you feel?”

Pocomchi’s eyelids twitched, his eyes opened. “How should I feel?” He turned his head and looked back up at the concerned face above him. “How did I get here?”

“The lad carried you.”

Pocomchi raised his head slightly and smiled at Flinx. “Thanks, Flinx. Waste of time, I’m afraid.”

On all fours, Flinx crawled over to sit next to the limp form of the man who had brought him this far. Pocomchi took in the expression on the young face. He shook his head slightly, and winced at the pain the effort caused him.

“Not . . . your fault,” he assured Flinx. “My own . . . carelessness. Should have sensed them.” He forced out a smile. The gesture was nearly beyond his rapidly fading capability.

“Anything I can get you?” the big man asked gruffly.

“How about . . . a shot of Tizone?” Flinx started. Tizone was so illegal that few people even knew it existed. The giant could only grin faintly.

“Sorry, grubber-man. Would I could.”

“Thanks anyway.” Pocomchi’s voice was that of a ghost now, the syllables poorly formed. Within him life had shrunk to a soap bubble’s consistency.

“I’m going to join Habib anyway,” he rasped, staring across at Flinx. “I’m not religious, but the sanctimonious fool is there, I can feel him.”

“Give him my best,” Flinx choked out. “Though that’s not much to give anyone, these days.”

“Not . . . your fault,” Pocomchi repeated. His eyes closed. His lips moved, and Flinx had to lean close to hear. “If . . . you ever see Balthazaar again . . . give his neck a scratch for me.”

“Two scratches,” Flinx assured him, in a tone scarcely more audible than the Indian’s.

The soap bubble popped, the spirit in the small body fled, and the third person who had been good enough to aid Flinx since his arrival on Alaspin was now just so much meat.

Slowly Flinx climbed to his feet, arranged his jumpsuit, and glared at the silently watching giant. “As soon as it gets dark, I’ll make a run for the skimmer. Maybe they’ll all be ceremonying, like you said, and I’ll be able to slip through. You’d better not try to stop me. People seem to die in my vicinity.”

Pursing his lips, the big human examined Flinx appraisingly. “Well, now, that’s quite a speech, feller-me-lad. But, frankly, you don’t look like much of a jinx. You’re just a little bitty feller. And I’m about as unsuperstitious as they come. Besides, after they get through arguing and partying, they might just decide that they don’t want any more of my Mark Twenty or Isili’s popper.”

Flinx paused. “You really believe that?”

“Nope,” responded the man, turning to face the gallery above, “but it’s a nice thought. Isili,” he shouted again, “quit your gawking at the greenery and come meet our guest! Bet you the Ots don’t even bother with us again.”

A rippling, slightly brittle voice called back to them, “You’re dreaming if you think that, Skua.” But the figure put the weapon down and descended the stairs.

Trying to force Pocomchi’s death and what he thought was his responsibility for it from his mind, Flinx studied the woman intently as she approached.

She was about a twentieth of a meter shorter than he was. Her skin was a rich olive hue, much like his own, but other features pointed to a different ethnic heritage. Terran-Turkish, he decided, taking in the doll-like face with its amber eyes, the too-wide mouth, and the natural waterfall of sparkling hair that looked like pulled filaments of pure black hematite.

She returned Flinx’s stare for a moment, then ignored him. “They’ll be back,” she assured her associate, in that soft voice. Yet each word had an edge to it, suggesting that every consonant had been filed to a fine point before being uttered. What he could sense of her mind was as hard as duralloy.

Pretty she was, but not in a commercial sense. It was the kind of beauty which would appeal to the man with a taste for the exotic. Flinx thought of her as a rare dish. It might give you an upset stomach or you might remember it as uniquely satisfying for the remainder of your days.

He suspected that, beneath the jungle suit, her body was as wiry and tough as her thoughts. He nodded mentally. There were blatant differences in size, sex, appearance, and much else between her and the giant. But mentally there was a similarity of process and purpose, and that was undoubtedly what had joined them together.

Of the obvious differences, one was that she did not share the big man’s desire to protect Flinx. “You’ve brought us a lot of trouble,” she told him candidly. “We haven’t had any trouble with the Otoid until now.”

“You’re also the first visitor we’ve had in weeks,” her huge partner countered, “and welcome, lad.”

First visitor . . . then they hadn’t seen the bodies of the three Qwarm, Flinx mused. No point in mentioning them. He was already unpopular with the woman. The announcement that he and Ab were being chased by the brotherhood of assassins wouldn’t exactly help change her attitude toward him.

She noticed Flinx’s live companion for the first time, and her expression became one of distaste. “What’s that grotesque thing?” At the moment, Ab was singing something about Usander, crystalware, and Peter the Great.

Once again Flinx had to explain his ward. He finished gratefully, “I can’t say much except to thank you for my life, both of you.” The woman didn’t look at him as she muttered something inaudible. Flinx indicated the motionless form of Pocomchi. “I know my friend would have been too. If it hadn’t been for you, Mr. Skua . . .”

“September,” the white-maned giant corrected him, “Skua September.”

“If not for you, I’d be dead and eyeless out there some place.”

“Would have been better all around,” the woman murmured, stalking over to the food supplies and viciously cracking the seal on a carton. She pulled a tube free, took a seat on a smooth stone, and sucked at the liquid inside the transparent plastic. Her gaze traveled from Flinx to September.

“Would have been better if you’d left them. Now we’ll probably all die. Oh hell,” she concluded, not looking at either man. “I guess I’d have done the same thing, Skua. I’m going up for another look.”

September shook his head. “Isili, I told you, the Otoids will not attack during—”

“Since when did you become an expert on the Otoid?” she snapped back. “Nobody’s an expert on the Otoid. I don’t think they’ll attack at night either, but it’s not completely dark out yet.” She climbed the stairway and reassumed her position at the long window above the gateway. Her gaze was turned outward, the pulsepopper cradled efficiently under one arm.

“Women!” September murmured softly, his expression unreadable. A hundred shades of meaning were encompassed by the single noun. He turned a bright smile on Flinx. “Would you like something to eat, feller-me-lad?”

By way of reply, Flinx indicated Pocomchi’s body.

“What, not squeamish are you, lad?” wondered the giant disapprovingly.

“No, but don’t you think we ought to bury him?”

“Sure,” September agreed, walking over to the recently opened case of food. He removed several small, brightly colored cubes, dumped them into his mouth, and chewed. “You pick him up,” he mumbled around the mouthful of organic slag, “and carry him outside. I’ll toss you our smallest excavator through the doorway. Isili and I will do our best to cover you while you dig him a grave. I guess there’s always a chance you’ll make it back inside.”

Flinx didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he walked over to stand next to the food case. “Despite your untimely sarcasm, I’ll have a couple of those concentrates.”