"Foster, Alan Dean - Flinx 1 - For Love of Mother-Not" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

Over a table in a room far to the north, he realized suddenly.
What do I do? he thought frantically. He could not lie down on that table, beneath those waiting tentacles. But if he hesitated, what might they do to Pip out of impatience and anger?
Unexpectedly, as his thoughts were tied in knots and he tried to decide what to do next, a sudden surge of emo- tion burst into his brain. There was hate and a little fear and a self-righteous anger that bordered on the paranoiac. He looked up at Cruachan. The older man smiled pleasantly down at him, then frowned as he saw the expression that had come over the subject's face. "Is some- thing wrong?"
Hinx did not reply, methodically searching every face in the room. None of them seemed to be the source of the feelings he was receiving. And they were getting steadily stronger, more intense. They came-they came from- He looked sharply toward the main entrance.
"Nobody move!" snapped a determined voice. The couple who burst through the door, having quietly circum- vented the lock, were complete strangers to Flinx. A middle-aged pair dressed like offworld tourists, each holding a gun bigger than a pistol and longer than a rifle care- fully balanced in both hands, they surveyed the startled occupants of the storage chamber.
Flinx did not recognize their weapons. That was un- usual. His learning expeditions through the marketplace had made him familiar with most personal armament. But these were new to him. As new as this couple. They looked unrelentingly average. There was nothing average about the way they moved, however, or gave commands or held those peculiar guns. The Meliorares certainly seemed familiar with them.
"MO Section, Commonwealth Peaceforce," the man barked. "All of you are under government detention as of this moment." He grinned crookedly, almost savagely. "The charges against you, the specifics of which I'm sure you're all quite familiar with, are many and varied. I don't think I have to go into details."
Flinx started gratefully toward them. "I don't know how you people found me, but I'm sure glad to see you."
"Hold it right there." The woman shifted her weapon toward him. The expression on her face assured Plinx she was ready to shoot him if he took so much as another half step toward her. He froze, hurt and confused.
There was something new there, partly in her eyes but also in her mind: not so much fear as a kind of twisted hatred, a loathing. The emotion was directed squarely at him. It was so new, so alien and sickening, that he didn't know how to react. He knew only that his would-be saviors held no more affection for him, and perhaps even less in the way of good intentions) than this insane society of Meliorare people.
His confusion was being replaced by anger, a frantic fury born of frustration and despair, compounded by helplessness and desperation. Through no fault of his own, de- siring only to be left alone, he had become the focal point of forces beyond his control, forces that extended even be- yond his world. And he didn't know how, couldn't begin to think how to deal with them.
Through all the confusion came one lucid realization: he wasn't as grown-up as he had thought.
Near the back room the man named Westhoff had gone unnoticed by the Peaceforcers. He did not linger. Putting aside the control box he commenced a cautious retreat, utilizing crates and containers to make good his escape.
Pressure removed, the button he had been holding down rebounded.
"Over against that empty packing and away from the consoles. All of you," the woman commanded them, gesturing meaningfully with her gun. Rising from their seats and showing empty hands, the Meliorares hurried to com- ply with her order.
"Anybody touches a switch," the other Peaceforcer warned them, "it'll be the last thing he ever touches."
The woman threw Flinx a hard look. "Hey, you too. Move it." Revulsion emanated from her. Disgust and pity washed over Flinx in waves. She was broadcasting them all. Flinx tried to squeeze the degrading emotions out of his mind.
"I'm not with them," he protested. "I'm not part of this."
"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 bedone 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 ar- rivals. 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, mal- formed 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. "Don't!"
The Peaceforcer reacted instinctively to the unexpected charge. A brief burst of high-intensity sound struck the leader of the Meliorares. His stomach exploded through his spine. No sound had come from the gun. There had been only a slight punching noise when the burst had struck home.
One of the elderly women screamed. The Peaceforcer cursed her overanxiousness and took aim at the source of her embarrassment. As she pointed her weapon at Pip, all the fury and pain and anguish crashed together inside Flinx's head.
"Pip! No'." he yelled, rushing the woman. The other Peaceforcer moved to cover his companion. Pip darted toward the rear of the storage room. The woman's gun tracked the minidrag as her finger started to tighten on the trigger.
Something happened. Cruachan's eyes were still open. A smile of satisfaction appeared on his face. Then he died.
Night descended unexpectedly.
Flinx was floating inside a giant bass drum. Someone was pounding on it from both sides. The rhythm was erratic, the sound soul-deafening. It hurt.
Something was resting on his chest. I am lying on my back, he thought. He raised his head to look down at him- self. Pip lay on the slickertic, bruised but alive. The flying snake looked dazed. As consciousness returned with a vengeance, the narrow tongue darted out repeatedly to touch Plinx's lips and nose. Content, the minidrag ceased its ex- amination and crawled from chest to shoulder. Flinx fought to sit up.
There was something wrong with his balance. It made the simple act of changing from a prone to a sitting posi- tion into a major operation. Two things he noted immediately; it was cold, and rain was soaking his face. Then his vision cleared and he saw the old man bending over him.
For an instant the fear returned, but this was no Meliorare. It was a kindly, unfamiliar face. The oldster was dressed very differently from the Society members. There hadn't been anything shabby about their attire. This stranger was a refugee from a simpler life.
"Are you all right, boy?" He looked over his shoulder. "I think he's all right."
Flinx looked past the old man. Several other strangers were gathered behind him. It occurred to Flinx that he was the center of their concerned curiosity. Strong arms reached toward him and helped him to his feet. There were comments about the flying snake riding his shoulder.