Aboriginal Science Fiction, Issues 57–58 — page 66: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

that spread around its base. More legs than a frig- gin’ millipede, Flannery thought as he glanced at them. Like thick, encrimsoned veins, pumped full of juice, they provided it with the means to lift from the ground and move, immensely ver- satile and strong. His heart pounding with excitement, Flannery stepped forwards, unslinging his backpack to reach inside for his equip- & ment. Between the Help-plant’s base . and its limbs was a cluster of densely , packed warts. These, he had already fie learned, were the plant’s young, still “ j attached to their parent. Anytime now . they would part themselves from it, slither to the ground, and become indi- y viduals of their own, miniature Help- ((% plants that would grow to maturity within two to three years. “Fullgor, old son, full marks. It’s brilliant, brilliant!” Flannery could have danced a jig, had his legs not been as tired as they were after all the trekking they’d done today to get here. Fullgor stalked forward till he stood before the plant. He waved Flannery towards him. “This — Help-plant’s young,” he said, reaching out and plucking one of the “warts” from its trunk. Hair-like tendrils wriggled from the part that had been con- nected to the plant. Curious, Flannery looked down at it as the Queldonian slowly handed it to him, its stalk held carefully between two of his huge, leathery fingers. Flannery held his own hand out for it. Landing on his palm with a soft squelch, it settled at once into an upright position. A moment later Flannery gasped as a hot pain shot through his hand. “It’s stabbed me! The little bastard’s stabbed me!” He shook his hand, feeling the stinging agony swell beneath the skin on the palm of his hand. It must have cut straight through the glove covering his hand and pierced him, he thought. Was it inject- ing poison? Aghast, he stared at the thing in terror. It wouldn’t budge from his hand however hard he shook it. He raised his other hand to sweep the thing off when Fullgor reached out and grabbed his wrist in a grip as hard as iron. “No,” the Queldonian told him firmly. Flannery struggled, but the alien was too strong. “What are you doing to me, you treacherous bas- tard? What d’you think you're playing at?” Panic-stricken, he felt sweat on his face as the pain in his hand spread, moving up his arm, as the blood within his veins seemed to boil. Fullgor produced a communicator. He flicked it on with his thumb and spoke into it. “What are you playing at, Fullgor?” } + ge 66 Aboriginal Science Fiction — Summer 1998 ©1110 CesyorgetscOUN ~~ The Queldonian merely glanced at him, blinked, then broadened his mouth yet again. Flannery was certain that the bastard was grinning at him now. More than certain, in fact! Angry, Flannery reached to the pouch on the front of his jacket for the blaster hidden in it. Whether Queldonians were telepathic or not, Flannery did not know, but the next instant, even as his fingers touched the gun, the creature swung its communica- tor down on his wrist, snapping the bones instantly. Flannery screamed. “Wait,” Fullgor told him. Looking up, Flannery saw a cruiser appear above the jungle, heading their way. =a, Its jets hummed as it hovered for a moment, (ama, then slowly descended towards them, set- ! tling nearby. “Who the —” Flannery began to groan, when the cruiser’s canopy slid open.’ “MacIntyre! What the friggin’ hell are you doing here? I thought you’d be dead.” The old spacer grinned at him as he climbed out of the cruiser and strolled towards him, his grizzled face the picture of health. Flannery could hardly believe it. When he’d last seen him on Guerdion Major he’d been near death, his third liver transplant all but useless — and not enough money left to try for another. “Surprised?” MacIntyre asked, needlessly. Flannery glanced round at Fullgor. “You're in on this, aren’t you? You're in with MacIntyre?” Fullgor swung his head in assent. “Partners,” he said. “That’s right,” MacIntyre confirmed. “Old Fullgor an’ myself are partners. From far back. Years we spent searchin’ round Queldon fer Help- plants. Years! The Droid Corporations did a good job in killin’ ’em off. Almost too good, in fact. Many a time we were all but ready to give up. It was only our conviction that somewhere we’d find one that kept us goin’. An’ we did find one at last.” He nod- ded at the Help-plant. “It took us half a lifetime, but eventually, right here, we found it all right.” “But” — Flannery glanced at the “wart” on his hand — “why this?” MacIntyre shrugged. He took out a pipe from his baggy shirt and lit it. “There are some things not many people know about Help-plants.” He puffed at his pipe in contemplation for a moment while Flannery squirmed in Fullgor’s tight grip. “They’re clever bastards, Help-plants. Brilliant learners. But they have to be taught.” MacIntyre paused. “There’s only one way they can be taught. Or trained, if yer like. Domesticated. Their young have to be nurtured in their last few weeks on a host that can pass on the knowledge they need.”