Voices

Chapter 5

“Unhand him!” cried Malten. With a grunt, a hooded alien gave the telepath a right cross to the jaw, and Malten dropped to the grimy floor of the tunnel. Emily threw her body over him, screaming.

Talia did as she had been trained in self-defense classes, which was to attack the vulnerable spots, and she lashed out with a kick to the shin of the nearest attacker. She hit hard armor and nearly broke her toe.

But Garibaldi was fighting back. At least he had grabbed the knife-hand of his attacker and was holding him at bay. “Access tube!” he yelled. “About ten meters down! It’ll take you up!”

The thug pressed his knife to Garibaldi’s throat, but the chief shoved him back with a loud groan and staggered to his feet. The two of them traded blows, and Garibaldi caught one in the stomach. She saw him drop to his knees.

The telepath was still on her feet, so she was the first one to be moving toward the hatchway ten meters away. It was right where Garibaldi said it was, near the floor, and she grabbed the wheel and twisted. Maybe it was her adrenaline, but the hatch sprang open at her touch, and the crawl space beckoned.

“Come on!” she yelled.

The attackers were menacing Malten and Emily with their knives, but the telepaths managed to scramble to their feet and stagger down the corridor. Talia shoved them into the tube, and they scurried like groundhogs into the darkness. She took one glance back at Garibaldi.

A hooded alien had him by the throat and was shaking him like a dog shakes a toy. The other two advanced on him with their knives.

“I’ll handle them!” croaked Garibaldi. He was reaching for his PPG.

Talia shook her head and fled in desperation. The hatch clanged shut behind her, and one of the aliens rushed to bolt it behind the fleeing telepaths. The alien holding Garibaldi dropped him and roared a hearty female laugh. She pushed back her hood to reveal her spotted cranium, jutting jaw, and the thick ridge of muscles around her neck.

Na’Toth laughed. “These are the ones who have all of you shaking?”

Garibaldi stood up with a groan and rubbed his jaw. “Hey, Na’Toth, that’s not the way it was supposed to work! After you scared the hell out of us, Talia was supposed to rush to my arms, trembling, and I blast my way out of here. You weren’t supposed to beat the crap out of me!”

Na’Toth couldn’t stop laughing, and her two fellow Narns joined her in the merriment. “I’m sorry,” she apologized, trying to restrain herself. “You see, I take favors such as this very seriously. Excellent sport, Garibaldi, thank you for contacting me.”

“I do owe you one,” the chief admitted. He dabbed his sleeve at his bloody lip. “Do you think that will keep those jokers out of here?”

“Yes,” answered the Narn. “They have no stomach for stronger foes. Oh, Ambassador G’Kar and I will be attending the reception. Please inform the captain.”

“I will,” muttered Garibaldi. “Well, I’d better go after them and at least describe how I blasted my way out of here.”

“She is attractive,” Na’Toth conceded, with a hint of womanly envy.

“Oh, Talia?” Garibaldi shrugged. “She’s crazy about me.

“I can see that,” the Narn answered drolly.

Garibaldi rubbed his lower back. “I think I’ll avoid that rabbit hole and go back the way I came. Maybe I can catch another fight.”

“That was a good place to pass signals,” Na’Toth remarked. “I will see you in several hours.”

Garibaldi limped down the tunnel and waved. “Thanks.”

By the time the weary security chief reached the main corridor, stooping under the slimy ducts, he didn’t feel like going anywhere but to bed.

He tapped his link. “This is Garibaldi to all on-duty personnel. If anyone reports me as being missing or in trouble, please tell them I am out of trouble. I am still Down Below, but the situation is under control. Garibaldi over.”

The security chief was strolling back toward the makeshift fight arena, still probing his swollen lips, when a furtive figure bumped into him. The bump caught him in a tender rib, and he groaned and grabbed the little man.

“Ratso, what’s the matter with you?”

The grubby derelict glanced around and winced. “Let go of me, Chief! I’m in a hurry!”

Garibaldi tightened his grip on the man’s raggedy collar. “If you’re in a hurry, then somebody’s about to be ripped off or mugged. What’s the hurry, Ratso?”

The little man sulked. “I’m not gonna tell you.”

“Listen, buddy, don’t mess with me. I’m in a real lousy mood. Who’s in trouble?”

The little man whispered, “It’s me who’s in trouble. Deuce is back on the station.”

“Deuce?” muttered Garibaldi. That was not good, and the timing was even worse, with Psi Corps squirming all over the place. “Are you sure?”

“Does a packrat have puppies? Of course, I’m sure.”

“Why now?” asked Garibaldi. “Doesn’t he know we have a warrant out for him? Why would he risk it?”

Ratso winked, or maybe he twitched, it was hard to tell. “We’ve got ‘em all here, don’t we? Like, this is the center of the universe. If you were one of those crazy Martians …”

Garibaldi nearly lifted the man off his feet. “Deuce is helping the terrorists?”

“Sshhh, sshhh!” cautioned the derelict, pressing his fingers to his lips. “I’ve told you too much already. I gotta protect myself! Deuce might be settling some old debts while he’s here.”

“How did he get in? A forged identicard, what?”

But the raggedy man slipped out of his grasp and scurried down the corridor, tossing furtive glances over his shoulder.

Garibaldi scowled. With the attendees due to start arriving in only a few hours, the bulk of his staff were getting their last chunk of sleep before the crush. He had no idea who he could order down here to look for Deuce. Garibaldi would normally do a job like that himself, but he couldn’t even assign himself to it. Martian terrorists and the crime king of Down Below—that was a bad combo.

He tried to imagine why the terrorists would need Deuce. Deuce was an expert at smuggling stuff into the station and out again, often in a different form. His loansharking had won him an army of desperate couriers who would do almost anything for a meal and a few credits off their debt. Why did the terrorists want Deuce? What could Deuce get into the station that they couldn’t?

A bomb.

But not the kind of bomb that had wiped out earlier Babylon stations, thought the chief, not the big ka-boom that Ivanova joked about so fatalistically. Deuce wouldn’t want to blow up his playground and ruin everything. The terrorists would probably settle for some kind of bombing that would be more a symbol than an absolute disaster. But with four hundred psi freaks running around, it wouldn’t take much to turn the conference into an absolute disaster.

In fact, thought Garibaldi, if the terrorists had Deuce and his underground network, they wouldn’t even need to show up! They could press the button from afar, so to speak. Security would have to look at every single person on the station, not just telepaths and new arrivals, but even the everyday scum.

The security chief looked up from his thoughts and noticed several of the denizens of Down Below watching him. They turned away quickly when he saw them, but that didn’t make their scrutiny any less troubling. They knew. Like everyone else in the Alliance, this rowdy crowd of malcontents and misfits had no love lost for Psi Corps. Hell, for all he knew, some of them could be rogue telepaths hiding out down here. His current orders were to protect Psi Corps, and that pretty much pitted him against everyone else in the Universe.

Well, so much for the idea of getting any sleep tonight. The captain had been right about one thing—this was your basic nightmare.

“Come in,” said Captain Sheridan, wiping the crumbs off his lip with his linen napkin.

The door of his quarters opened, and a crumpled Garibaldi slouched inside. “Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning, Mr. Garibaldi. Breakfast?”

“No, thank you, sir. I don’t believe in eating breakfast unless I’ve actually slept.” He looked at the captain’s sumptuous tray. “Well, maybe a piece of toast.”

Sheridan stood and buttoned his jacket. “Feel free to finish it, Mr. Garibaldi. The melon is quite good. I had an urgent message from Ms. Winters last night, and she said that you were in some terrible danger Down Below. Yet when I checked, there was no report of an incident, just a cryptic note from you. I didn’t see any report in my download this morning either.”

Garibaldi chuckled. “Well, sir, when people ask for a guided tour, you want to liven it up for them. You know, like when you go on a Wild West stagecoach ride, and a couple of bandits rob the stagecoach.”

Sheridan frowned. “I didn’t know we offered that service, Mr. Garibaldi. Nor was I aware that you were the recreation director of this station. If you would like that job, perhaps it can be arranged.”

Garibaldi stuffed a strawberry into his mouth and considered the offer for a moment. “Don’t tempt me, sir.”

The captain shook his head. “I know this conference presents many problems for you, but we have to go by the regulations whenever possible. I’m pretty sure there’s a regulation against mugging visiting dignitaries.”

Garibaldi wiped his mouth on the captain’s napkin. “Captain, did you happen to see the download of the first issue of the conference newsletter?”

Sheridan rolled his eyes. “Yes, I did.”

“That Emily Crane wrote a great editorial, didn’t she? In strong language, she warned her friends against going anywhere near Down Below or the Alien Sector. Said their telepathic abilities would be useless if they got into any trouble down there. It even scared me.”

“Granted,” said Sheridan, “your little stunt worked to our advantage, but no more of that. We’ll be under close scrutiny for the way we handle this, and I want it by the book. Is that understood?”

Garibaldi stood to attention. “Yes, sir, understood. I just wanted to show Psi Corps that there are parts of this station beyond their control. The fact is, we do have a major problem Down Below.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ve seen a fellow named Deuce mentioned in a number of reports.”

“Yes, of course,” said Sheridan. “I’ve read the ombud’s list of charges against him. Murder, extortion, smuggling, endangering the station—a nasty character. And a fugitive.”

“And he’s back. That’s not what I’m worried about, because Deuce was bound to come back sometime to check his enterprises. But why now? Could it be because of this conference? Believe me, Deuce wouldn’t be against taking money from terrorists.”

Sheridan asked, “You’re sure he’s back?”

“I’ve got a passenger from a tramp freighter who just sort of disappeared after he came aboard yesterday.”

“Can’t we find him?” asked the captain.

“With what resources? I’ve got everyone on my staff committed to the conference. And Deuce is The Man down there. Even if we didn’t have this conference to worry about, we might not find him.” Garibaldi sighed and rubbed his eyes. “At this point, I don’t think I could find anything but a bed.”

The captain’s link sounded, and he lifted his hand. “This is Captain Sheridan.”

“Ivanova here,” came the familiar voice. “The Glenn is docking in bay six. The manifest says they have fifty-three Psi Corps members aboard, and Mr. Bester has requested that you greet them personally. He also wants Garibaldi to be present to answer questions about security.”

Garibaldi winced and grabbed the last piece of toast.

“I’ll tell Mr. Garibaldi,” said the captain. “We’re on our way.”

“Oh,” said Ivanova, “another transport arrives with twenty-seven VIPs at 8:40, another one with thirty-eight at 9:21. A heavy cruiser with nineteen military telepaths arrives at 10:58, and two transports …”

“I will stay in the docking area,” Sheridan assured her. “Have the work crews vacated Blue-16?”

“Yes, sir. Although they say the paint is still wet.”

Sheridan nodded somberly. “We can take them to the casino for a couple of hours, give them lunch.” He looked at Garibaldi and smiled encouragingly. “Very wise to have halted gambling there. We’ll get through this, people. Remember, you love Psi Corps!” “We love Psi Corps,” Garibaldi muttered with disbelief.

Talia Winters sat down to breakfast in the newly opened cafe on Blue-16, and Arthur Malten sat across from her, looking dapper in a checked suit with patches on the elbow. Befitting its location, the decor was mostly blue, with a bit of burnt orange. It wasn’t so bad, thought Talia, except for the faint smell of paint.

“I feel so guilty,” said Talia, “leaving Emily with all that work. Are you sure we shouldn’t be greeting people as they arrive?”

“And deprive Mr. Bester of all his fun?” Malten smiled and poured some coffee for them. “Don’t worry, Talia, we’ll have plenty of time to hobnob at the reception, and all weekend.”

“Besides,” he said cheerfully, “this may be my only opportunlty to get to know you, before I get dragged off to breakfast meetings and high-level discussions.”

“As for me,” said Talia, stirring her coffee, “I’ll have plenty of panels to attend, but no high-level discussions.”

“That’s a pity,” answered Malten. He stroked his graying goatee. “Babylon 5 is a backwater, you know. I realized that last night, after that ugly incident. You could do much better than this.”

Talia sighed. “Mr. Malten …”

“Please call me Arthur.”

“Arthur, you should know that I’m only a P5. I’m lucky to have this assignment.”

“Nonsense,” said Malten angrily. “Your success on B5 has shown that psi ratings are worthless when it comes to judging aptitude for a given job.”

He lowered his voice. “That’s why I’m against giving so much power to a class of telepaths who have nothing going for them—except that they’re P12s and P11s. Being P12 doesn’t mean you’re well adjusted, have common sense, or good communication skills. In most cases, it means you’re neurotic as hell.”

Talia shifted in her seat, once again nervous with this sort of talk. All of this was easy for Mr. Malten to say. He was a P10 himself and the founder of the biggest conglomerate of private telepaths in the Earth Alliance. Although the Mix was created under the internal security act of 2156, which meant the corps had technical jurisdiction over it, the Mix was relatively independent; he didn’t have to kiss up to Psi Corps for choice assignments.

Malten smiled apologetically. “I know what you’re thinking. It’s true, I’ve carved out my own niche. But in the commercial world, we’re not so wrapped up in who’s got the biggest number. We look at long-term results. Talia, you’ve got proven interspecies skills which we could use in the Mix.”

The young woman blinked at him in amazement. She didn’t even see it coming! After all, B5 already was her dream job—to get a chance to leap up another rung so soon was beyond her expectations. And what a rung this was—the top! It seemed too good to be true. There had to be a catch.

“I—I don’t know what to say,” she answered honestly. “I don’t know what Psi Corps will say.”

The scholarly telepath patted her hand. It was leather on leather, but his touch tingled her skin for a moment. “Let me worry about Psi Corps,” he assured her. “We have a great opportunity ahead of us. We’re going to take telepathy into every corner of this universe, not as an object of fear and control, but as a valuable service. We’ll say, ‘Let telepathy be on your side, not just the other guy’s.’”

“It sounds wonderful,” Talia said truthfully. But she felt a pang of regret over the idea of leaving B5 so soon. It had barely been a year, and she was finally building up her practice. Despite her loyalty to Psi Corps, she was used to being her own boss, a lone operator. Sort of like Garibaldi. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be one of thousands of telepaths in a gigantic firm with hundreds of branch offices.

“In the meantime,” said Malten, reaching into his pocket, “I would appreciate your attendance at one of those high-level discussions I was talking about. It’s a secret budget meeting.”

He set a data crystal on the table. “Ms. Crane put some information together about the budget. I rely on her, but she’s essentially a writer and researcher. She’s not at her best when there’s a debate, and this could become a fiery one. You and I will have to defend the needs of the civilian sector against Mr. Bester and the military. Will you come?”

Now Talia was afraid her jaw was hanging open. If a job offer had been a shock, the invitation to a high-level budget meeting was a two-by-four to the head. “Why me?” she asked. “I can’t argue these points like you can. In fact, I’m not even sure I agree with you.”

Malten smiled. “Do you want an honest answer?”

She nodded.

“Because you’re beautiful, and you’ll be a distraction.” He pointed to the crystal. “And I expect you to read what’s on there and remember the statistics better than I do. Besides, you’re practical proof of what I’m talking about. If you can be a success in this depot for aliens, it just proves that commercial applications can succeed anywhere!”

Talia took a deep breath and pushed a streak of blond hair off her cheek. It still felt as if she had been bludgeoned by a two-by-four, but she picked up the data crystal and put it in her handbag.

“I’ll be there,” she promised.

At that same moment, a hand encased in a grimy glove with the fingers cut off at the knuckles placed a similar data crystal on top of a dented filing cabinet. A cat jumped out of one of the drawers, rocking the cabinet and nearly knocking the crystal to the floor.

Careful! whispered a voice in his head. If we lose that, we lose all.

“We’re not going to lose it,” purred Deuce in a jaded Southern twang. “I just wanted to show it to you, because a deal’s a deal.” It looks like any crystal, the voice said.

Deuce lifted the data crystal to eye level and studied it. “That’s the beauty of it, ain’t it? One of a kind. Speaking of crystals, you got the diamonds?”

The voice answered, Yes, and Deuce was told to look down at the floor. He saw a black briefcase in the dim light of the storage room and smiled. As soon as he set the crystal back on the beat-up cabinet, a gloved hand snatched it away.

“You’ll need this, too,” said Deuce, pulling a remote control device out of his coat pocket. “You know how to operate this?”

Yes.