Алан Дин Фостер - Relic

A stunned Ruslan leaned back in his seat, which rocked slightly at the sudden weight shift. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You could start by denying it.” Fingers continued to play with the backpack’s straps.

“Fine, no problem. I deny it. Utterly and completely.”

“I’ve seen the way you look at her sometimes.”

“Pahksen, I’m older than both of you put together.”

“No. You’re just old.” Satisfaction and frustration competed for dominance in the youth’s rejoinder.

“Okay, sure: I’m old. Doesn’t that satisfy you, then?”

“No, it doesn’t. Because while you’re old, you’re not too old. I know—I checked the records. So I know you’re not too old to have sex, or even to reproduce. You’re healthy enough. I’ve wondered for years now why Cherpa won’t have anything to do with me, why she doesn’t like me. It’s so obvious I feel like a complete idiot for not seeing it before. She won’t have anything to do with me because she’s waiting for an invitation from you .” His tone hardened. “If it hasn’t been accepted already.”

What could he say? Ruslan wondered. How could he respond? He needed to convince Pahksen once and for all that his bizarre fantasies were nothing more than that—the imaginings of a disturbed, unsettled mind that lacked self-confidence. A mind perhaps more disturbed and unsettled, he suddenly realized, than anyone had suspected. The Myssari would not have noticed. Not even the specialists among them were sufficiently attuned to human psychology. With only three examples to choose from, they could hardly be blamed for that.

But there was someone who could be held to account: Ruslan himself. How had he missed the signals? How had he ignored the signs? Judging from the intensity of Pahksen’s stare and the crisp, certain timbre of his voice, this had been building up in him for some time.

It was good it was out in the open now, though, Ruslan told himself. A symptom revealed was a symptom that could be treated. The first step was to straightforwardly refute the youth’s claims. This had been done. The next was to deal with his baseless obsession. In order to do so effectively, the patient would have to understand the need for, as well as participate willingly in, his own therapy.

“I’ve denied your unfounded suspicions, Pahksen. I’ll do whatever you think necessary to reassure you further. And I’d prefer not to bring Cherpa into this.”

The youth nodded. “We’re in agreement on something, then. I don’t want her to know about this, either. As to its resolution, I’ve already constructed what I think will be a believable scenario that will resolve everything.”

Feeling better now that the problem was out in the open and that Pahksen appeared to have worked out a way to deal with it, a relieved Ruslan nodded approvingly. “That’s most encouraging. What did you have in mind?”

Leaning forward, Pahksen rummaged in his pack until he brought out the neural neutralizer. An uncomprehending Ruslan stared at the weapon as the younger man calmly explained.

“I’m going to kill you.”

“One shot from this will cause all the electrical activity in your body to cease.” Pahksen held the weapon firmly in both hands: a necessity since it was designed to be gripped by three sets of Myssari fingers. “Your brain will cease to function and your heart will stop. It will be quick and there should be very little pain.” His mouth twisted slightly. “I’m a survivor, not a sadist. It’s very Myssari in its way. They’re real problem-solvers.”

A stunned Ruslan chose his words carefully, aware that any one of them might be his last. “They’re also exceedingly civilized. What you intend is not… polite.”

Pahksen shrugged again. As he did so the muzzle of the neutralizer wavered slightly—but not enough for Ruslan to rush the younger man. The distance between them was too great, and despite his increased size and corresponding loss of conditioning, Pahksen’s reflexes were still those of a young man who had been forced to survive alone on a world emptied of humans and populated by dangerous creatures. His tone remained bitter.

“You want Cherpa for yourself. I can see that she’s waiting for you and that’s why she won’t have anything to do with me. The solution is pretty straightforward.”

Ruslan did not take his eyes off the muzzle of the gun. “How do you think she’ll look at you when it’s made known that you’re responsible for my death?”

“Won’t happen.” The younger man was utterly self-assured. “As I told you, I’ve put together a sequence of events that will convince anyone you took your own life.”

“Why would I do that?” Stall, Ruslan told himself, stall, stall, in the hope that he could come up with something to change the troubled young man’s mind.

“You’re old. You’re tired. You’re bored. There are plenty of commonsense reasons. You want Cherpa and me to carry on the species without your interference, even if it’s unintentional. Don’t worry—I’ve worked everything out in great detail. I think you’d be proud of me.”

“I am proud of you, Pahksen. You’ve adapted very well both to a new world and to Myssari supervision. Don’t throw all that away on behalf of a false conviction. There are only three of us left. There’s no reason to reduce that by a third.”

“You mean by a turd. With you removed from the picture, Cherpa will have no one else to talk to, no one else to confide in, except me.” Once again the tip of the neutralizer shifted as its wielder waved it for emphasis. “The Myssari won’t care. You think they care about you? All they’re interested in is their human studies, and they want more humans to study. Well, Cherpa and I will give them a handful to study. And if she’s still unwilling after you’ve been removed from the scene, then I’ll just explain to the Myssari that a certain amount of force is sometimes required in order to ensure successful procreation. I’m willing to bet they’ll take my side of the argument. Anything to produce offspring to commence repopulation of their favorite nearly extinct species. If she needs someone to confide in and she continues to shun me, she can always talk to that stupid doll of hers!” He spat to one side. “That’s a piece of rag that needs to find its way over a cliff at the first opportunity.”

On the word “opportunity” the beleaguered Ruslan saw his last chance. Having tensed his muscles while Pahksen ranted, he now threw himself forward. The suddenness of the gesture caused the hovering chair to heave him outward and away from its comforting curve.

He felt a brief sting in his left shoulder as he slammed into the seated Pahksen. Trying to balance the seating needs of two individuals, the disc on which Pahksen had been reposing began to rock and swerve wildly, threatening to dump both men to the ground. Desperately gripping Pahksen’s wrist with both hands, Ruslan sought to wring the neutralizer free from the younger man’s grasp. Untrained in matters such as personal combat, all he knew to do was hang on as tightly as he could while keeping the muzzle of the weapon pointed away from him.

A far more toughened survivor, Pahksen had a much better idea what to do. But he was in poor shape, his survival days from Daribb many years behind him. Additionally, the rocking, contorting, hovering seat constituted an awkward platform on which to try to execute any kind of close-combat maneuver. As they fought for possession of the gun on the violently gyrating disc, Ruslan knew that whoever finally wrested control of the weapon would be the only winner.

It was then that he had a small epiphany.