Voices

Chapter 2

“27 Perish in Mars Hotel Bombing!” exclaimed the banner headline in the Universe Today newspaper.

Talia Winters paused in her stroll down the mall to stare at the newspaper displayed on the newsstand of a small gift shop. The statuesque blonde only had to glance at the first few paragraphs to know that her all-expenses-paid trip to Mars was in serious jeopardy.

The report began:

Talia Winters looked away, wondering if the problems on Mars would ever end. She had an appointment, so she couldn’t dwell on her own little problems. With a sigh, she continued her stroll down the main corridor.

As usual, beads turned to watch Talia, but she paid them no attention. She was a beautiful woman, with sleek blond hair, an intelligent face, and a long-legged body wrapped in a tailored gray suit. Her P5 psi-level was only average, but her classy presence at a meeting or negotiation was as much in demand as her telepathic abilities. Even when both sides were friendly and had no intention of lying to one another, Talia brought an aura of professionalism and importance to the meeting. And she knew it.

However, her confidence was at a low ebb this particular day. Not only was she upset about the conference on Mars having to be postponed, in all likelihood, but she was mystified by the client she was going to see.

Talia was accustomed to not understanding the intricacies of every business deal—that was normal. In those cases, she would merely concentrate on trying to decide if the opposing party was sincere and truthful. Did they want to make a deal for mutual gain, or were they running a scam for their own personal gain? On most occasions, she didn’t need to know the difference between a Brussard hydrogen scoop and an ice cream scoop.

This client was different. Not only didn’t she understand Ambassador Kosh or his negotiating partners, but she often didn’t understand the purpose of their meetings. For a telepath, being in the dark was the most irritating sensation in the universe. She had hoped to ask for opinions about Kosh from her colleagues at the conference, but now that was off. No conference, she thought glumly, and nothing to look forward to but a mind-bending encounter with Ambassador Kosh.

The attractive telepath finally reached the small cafe on Red-3. It was a local place, frequented by residents of the Red Sector looking for refreshments that were simple and quick. Why Kosh liked it so much, she didn’t know; his ambassadorial quarters in the Alien Sector were on the other side of the station.

But she had a theory as to why he called the time they often met the Hour of Scampering. Briefly, between shifts, the cafe on Red-3 did turn into a pick-up bar, especially for the people who lived there and were headed home. Even Earthforce personnel felt comfortable on Red-3 during the Hour of Scampering.

Talia sauntered in and stopped. Kosh always stood out like a statue in the park, covered with a tarp to keep the birds off. He was right there at his usual chest-high counter. Rather his ornate, bulky encounter suit was there—no one on the station had any idea what he looked like under it. Talia envisioned Kosh to be big, because a weakling could never carry that enormous suit around. She had no proof that he was big, but that was her theory.

The suit had a collar, carved from a gorgeous marblelike stone, and the collar was bigger than most of the tables in the restaurant. A mountain of rich fabrics cascaded off this neckwear, including a breastplate festooned with lights. The breastplate looked like an affectation, until one witnessed a precision instrument issue from it to perform some intricate operation. The breastplate also housed Kosh’s communicator, which translated his musical squiggles of a voice into standard Interlac.

She took a deep breath and strode up to his table. “Pleasant Hour of Scampering, Ambassador Kosh.”

“To you, Ms. Winters.” The enormous head-gear nodded. It looked like an artistic rendering of a viper’s head, without eyes or orifices. All the orifices were on his collar, and they were constantly revolving, sucking, expelling.

“Has your guest been detained?” asked Talia, looking around for the other half of this meeting.

The notes twinkled, and the lights flashed. “She is here,” answered the communications device. The immense headgear nodded toward the other corner of the counter.

“She is?” asked Talia, shaking her blond hair. Then she winced and put her hand to her head. “Don’t tell me, your friend is invisible?”

Kosh nodded.

Talia tried to smile, but her fingernails drummed the countertop. “Isn’t that special, an invisible friend. Look, Ambasador, I’m a licensed commercial psychic, not an escort service. If you want to ask me for a date, I may not even charge you. You don’t have to pay my top rate just to get me out for a drink. Especially during the Hour of Scampering.”

Kosh nodded insistently toward the empty space at the counter. “Her name is Isabel,” said the synthesized voice.

“Invisible Isabel,” Talia muttered. “Okay, Ambassador Kosh, that’s it. I don’t need any more commissions from you. You’ve jerked my chain for the last time.”

The encounter suit seemed to rise up a few centimeters and pause in the air, commanding her attention. “Scan her,” ordered the voice.

Talia swallowed. It would only take a second, she thought, and then she could leave and collect her paycheck. Scanning an imaginary person wasn’t as bad as talking to one, she supposed. Could there really be someone there?

She had heard of cloaking suits, but she had also heard that they weren’t very effective at close quarters. Thus far, Talia hadn’t heard any other voices in this quiet corner of the room, and she was certain that Invisible Isabel was nonexistent. But she took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on the blank space at the end of the counter. Kosh would know if she faked it, even for a pointless purpose. Many of the other scans she had performed at his request had been pointless, although perhaps not as pointless as this.

Scanning something nonexistent proved to be more difficult than anticipated, and Talia had to concentrate to shut out the other voices in the room. If Isabel were invisible, she reasoned, then her psychic voice would be the only thing there was to pick up of her. Eliminating every voice in the room would prove that she was correct, and that Ambassador Kosh was crazy. At least that was Talia’s rationale as she began her scan.

One by one, Talia isolated each voice in the room, determined who possessed the voice, and eliminated it. It took a lot of concentration, and she found herself shifting her eyes from one person to another. That Narn gone, that Antarean, that Centauri, those tourists, the two security officers, the waiter, the bartender—one by one she knocked them all out of her mind—until there was just her, the massive suit that was Kosh, and one other.

There was one other voice in the room.

As soon as Talia isolated the voice, it was gone. She looked back at Kosh, startled. “What happened to her? Where did she go?”

The Vorlon shook his head-gear. “Gone.”

That was not what Talia wanted to hear, and she was shaken. Had there been someone, or hadn’t there? She had done a fifteen-minute scan that had given her a tremendous headache, but it was inconclusive.

She pointed a manicured finger at Kosh. “I’m thinking about raising my rates on you.”

“Your rates are not the problem,” remarked the Vorlon.

No, she thought, that was the truth. Playfully she said, “I would like to meet Invisible Isabel again.”

“When the time is right,” answered Kosh. “You will be very busy.”

Talia sighed and put her elbows on the bar. “No, I don’t think so. I cleared my schedule for a conference on Mars, but now it’s not going to happen. C’est la vie.”

“Tous les jours,” answered Kosh.

The young woman gave the Vorlon ambassador a friendly smile. “Today was better than most of the scans I do for you, although I couldn’t say why. What happened?”

The twinkling notes sounded, and the Vorlon bowed his bulky suit. “Our business is concluded.”

Without another word, the mountain of armor and fabric glided out of the room.

A tall, balding man in an Earthforce uniform strolled jauntily down the corridor toward the briefing room. He began to whistle. The worst thing he could imagine happening had happened, and he had lived through it! His best friend, the man who had gone out on a limb to make him the security chief of Babylon 5, was gone. But Michael Garibaldi still had a job.

The security chief couldn’t believe it, but it was finally sinking in. Jeff Sinclair was gone, but he was still here. If anyone had told him a month ago that Jeff would be leaving and he would be staying, he would’ve laughed in his face. Jeff was the war hero, the handpicked savior of the Babylon project, and Garibaldi was a broken-down drunk, bouncing from job to job, coasting into the sewer. It was all thanks to Jeff that he’d gotten the job in the first place, and he was certain that if Jeff ever left, he would be handcuffed to his trunk. Would a new commander, a complete stranger, want to keep him on as chief of security? Not bloody likely.

Yet here he was! Sinclair had wanted him to stay on B5, and, miracle of miracles, so had Captain Sheridan. The captain had reviewed his reports and found his conduct and actions to be acceptable. Not great, mind you, but acceptable. According to Captain Sheridan, there was always room for improvement.

The captain had made it clear that Garibaldi served at his pleasure, to be replaced at a moment’s notice. But Garibaldi had been replaced so many times in his career, he figured he was on probation for the rest of his life, anyway. Having it official didn’t matter.

Hell, thought Garibaldi, I’m still here! Wasn’t there a song with that title? He tried to remember the words.

“Mr. Garibaldi,” said a no-nonsense female voice.

He turned to see an attractive brunette woman in an Earthforce uniform striding to catch up with him. He stopped and waited.

“Hi, Susan.”

“Please,” she whispered, “we’re on our way to a briefing. Let’s try to show some decorum. Call me Commander.” She raised an eyebrow. Ivanova’s eyebrows were famous for what they could do to people.

Garibaldi smiled and leaned down. “Tell me, Commander, how come when I had a friend running the station, I was relaxed about it. Now that you’ve got a friend running the station, you’re all uptight.”

“He’s not my friend,” she whispered, “just my former CO. And I’m worried about you, not me.”

“Well, don’t be,” said Garibaldi with confidence. “What could Captain Sheridan possibly tell us that would spoil this beautiful day? I mean, the worst thing that can happen has already happened, right? Jeff is gone, but I’m still here, and you’re still here. The station is still here. No ka-boom.”

“Yet,” added Ivanova grimly.

Garibaldi grinned. “And Captain Sheridan has had a salutary effect on the other races. I love the way he’s not trying to make friends with them, or coddle them. They hate his guts, but they think you and I are great!”

Ivanova cleared her throat, put her hands behind her back, and strode toward the briefing room. She waited for the door to open, then charged in, followed by a grinning Garibaldi.

The captain was already there, leaning over a computer screen. He looked as handsome and distinguished as always, thought the security chief. Garibaldi was about the same age as Sheridan, around forty, but he didn’t think he would ever be able to look as distinguished as that, even if he had all his hair. The junior officers saluted, and Sheridan snapped off a salute of his own.

“Commander, Chief, have a seat.”

“Are we expecting anyone else?” asked Ivanova, slipping into a chair at the conference table.

Sheridan smiled. “I believe we will have one more before too long, but essentially it’s the two of you I want to see. I brought you down here because we have several consoles at our disposal; and I think we may be looking up schedules and personnel files long into the night.”

Garibaldi started to say something sarcastic, like “Great!” Then he remembered that this wasn’t Jeff Sinclair. He folded his hands and waited patiently.

“I’ve just been talking with Senator Hidoshi,” the captain began. “And a most interesting opportunity has come our way. You must have heard about the hotel bombing on Mars?”

“That made no sense,” muttered Garibaldi. “Who are these Free Phobos people? I never heard of them. Almost everyone they killed in that blast was just a working stiff, most of them from Mars!”

Ivanova shot him a glare at his outburst, and Sheridan stiffened his back and cleared his throat. “Mr. Garibaldi, you have served on Mars, I take it?”

The chief lowered his head and scratched behind his ear. “Yeah, for about a year.”

“Then you know,: said Sheridan, “the problems of Mars are very complex. Ivanova and I served together on Io, far removed from most of the difficulties, and that was bad enough. The thing is, the infrastructure of Mars is so fragile that we can’t really wage war there. We can’t wipe out the terrorists, so they have all the advantages. They can destroy targets—and the Royal Tharsis was a very astute target—but if we destroy anything, we’ll kill thousands and create a mess that will never be cleaned up.”

“In other words,” said Garibaldi, “we could win it, but there wouldn’t be anything left to take home.”

“Precisely,” agreed Sheridan. “So let’s not get too riled up about Mars, because the Senate will just have to suck it up and find a political solution. In one small way, though, we can help.”

“What is that, sir?” Ivanova asked brightly.

The captain wiped a speck of lint off the table. “Did you know that Psi Corps was planning to hold a conference at the Royal Tharsis? And now they can’t.”

“Yes?” answered Ivanova, suddenly very grim.

Garibaldi wasn’t about to say what he thought of that. It was hard to hate someone who made Psi Corps squirm.

“Anyway,” said Sheridan cheerfully, “We have a chance to thumb our noses at the terrorists. We can make sure that Psi Corps has their conference—right here on B5!”

Ivanova squirmed in her seat. “How many telepaths are we talking about, sir?”

“Only about four hundred.”

Garibaldi’s elbow dropped off the table, and he very nearly hit his jaw on it. “But, sir, in a few days—four hundred guests. I’m not sure the station can accommodate …”

“Housekeeping informs me there’s no problem,” said Sheridan. “We’ve been remodeling Blue-16, and we simply step it up in the next forty-eight hours and get those rooms ready.”

Ivanova looked truly stricken now. “Are we talking about Psi Cops, like Bester? Or commercial telepaths, like Ms. Winters?”

Sheridan crossed his arms and stared at his subordinates in amazement. “Who do you think we’re talking about? The four hundred highest-ranking telepaths in Psi Corps, that’s who! No, they’re not Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, but they’re a damned important bunch of people.”

“But why do they want to come here?” asked Garibaldi suspiciously.

The captain shook his head puzzledly. “I thought you would welcome this as a golden opportunity, which it is. It’s a chance for us to show everyone that B5 is past her growing pains, that we’re a suitable place for a high-level conference. You know, everybody thinks we’re a jinx! Psi Corps is doing us a favor by coming here.”

Garibaldi glanced at Ivanova, but the commander’s lips were clamped tight. He knew that she had decided to withhold comment about Psi Corps for the moment.

He gingerly held up his finger. “Sir, it’s just that, in the short time we’ve been open, Psi Corps has shown unusual interest in us.”

“Nonsense,” snapped Sheridan. “Psi Corps shows unusual interest in everybody. But what are we going to do about it? Make them mad, so they show even more interest? The next time the Senate considers our appropriations, it would be very nice to have Psi Corps in our corner. Besides, all telepaths are not cut from the same cloth as Bester. Our own Ms. Winters is highly respected, and so are hundreds of other private telepaths. And, Chief, unless you lied in your report, Harriman Gray saved your life.”

“Yes, he did,” admitted Garibaldi. He appealed to Ivanova. “Are you going to say anything here, or do you want Bester and four hundred of his friends to show up tomorrow?”

The second-in-command sat up in her chair. “Captain,” she began, “if I may speak freely.”

Sheridan sighed. “Mr. Garibaldi has no problem speaking freely, so why should you?”

“I have a revulsion to Psi Corps,” she declared. “It’s personal. I have never let this interfere with my duty, except for the fact that I will not submit to a scan, for any reason. I’m sure this will hamper my career advancement at some point, but I will not let it interfere with my duty.”

Ivanova took a deep breath and concluded, “I will get all of their ships in safely and assist in the Psi Corps conference however I can. I will do my best to put the station in a good light. However, if one of those buggers tries to scan me, I will rip his lungs out.”

Garibaldi nodded in agreement. “Yeah, and it’ll take five guys to pull her off. And another five guys to arrest her, then all those doctors in medlab. Do we really want to risk it, sir?”

Sheridan rubbed his eyes. “I have sympathy for your feelings, but they can’t stand in the way of this opportunity. Therefore, Commander, you will be restricted to quarters during the duration of the conference, except for your normal hours of duty. In fact, Commander, you are under orders not to talk to the attendees. If they don’t like that, you can talk to them just long enough to tell them to come see me.”

“Uh, sir,” asked Garibaldi hopefully, “could we arrange it so that I don’t have to talk to them either?”

“I’m afraid not, Chief. They’re going to be paranoid about security, especially after this Mars thing. To put it bluntly, it’s going to be a nightmare for you. I could requisition some outside security to help you, but I don’t want to risk it. We don’t know who they might send.”

“No, that’s okay,” said Garibaldi, his shoulders drooping. “Hundreds of paranoid Psi Cops, just what I always wanted. I don’t suppose there’s any way you could be talked out of hosting this shindig?”

“Well,” said the captain, “if you had offered reasoned arguments against it, I might have listened. If your only objection is that you hate Psi Corps, that’s not unusual enough.”

Sheridan tapped the link on the table console. “Captain Sheridan to Ms. Talia Winters.”

“Captain!” said her startled voice a moment later. “I was just about to call you! Did you hear about the conference? Isn’t it wonderful!”

The captain surveyed the long faces of Ivanova and Garibaldi. “Oh, yes, we’re jumping up and down here. You are supposed to make an official request, I believe, on behalf of Psi Corps.”

“Oh, I’m so relieved to hear you say you will accept! I had the silly notion there might be some problem.”

“Of course not,” said Sheridan magnanimously. “We’re down in the briefing room now, and perhaps you’d like to join us and get the ball rolling. Oh, Mr. Garibaldi wonders how many of the attendees will be actual Psi Cops, like Mr. Bester.”

“About a hundred or so.”

Garibaldi buried his head in his hands.

“The theme is commercial applications,” Talia added. “I’ll be right down to tell you all about it!”

“I look forward to it,” answered Sheridan. “Out.”

The captain looked grim as his gaze traveled from Ivanova to Garibaldi. “An advance team from Psi Corps is already on its way to help coordinate, and the rest will follow in the next day or two. Listen, people, for the next six days, you love Psi Corps. And your mission in life is to make sure they have the best conference they ever had. Do you understand?”

Garibaldi and Ivanova just looked at each other and sighed. “Yes, sir,” they muttered.