Voices

Chapter 8

Talia stiffened her back as she strolled across the Blue-16 cafe. Part of it was the touch of Arthur Malten’s bare hand on her wrist. Why wasn’t he wearing gloves? she wondered. Probably just another example of his well-known penchant for rebellious behavior.

She wanted to tell Arthur that she hadn’t made her decision yet—but then she was dazzled by the sights, sounds, and voices of a roomful of influential telepaths. Many of them turned to look at her and Malten, and the attention was alluring in its own right.

Did she really want to bury herself on a station full of alien life-forms and alien concerns? Or was this where she belonged—with her peers, in the midst of important decisions that affected the entire Earth Alliance? These were the people who made the Senate and Earthforce jump, the ones chosen by natural selection to lead.

She put on her most placid smile as Arthur steered her toward Mr. Bester. He was surrounded by his usual black-suited band of sycophants, with a handful of military and commercial telepaths in attendance as well.

When Bester saw Talia and Malten approach, he smiled expectantly, the scorpion waiting for the beetle to come closer.

“Good evening, Mr. Bester,” said Talia.

“Good evening, Ms. Winters, you look lovely.” He glanced with disinterest at her escort. “Hello, Malten.”

“Hello, Mr. Bester,” said the tall man. He gestured around at the gayly decorated cafe, jammed with people. “Don’t we owe Ms. Winters a debt of gratitude for pulling all of this together so quickly?”

“Yes, we do,” agreed Bester.

Talia shook her head politely. “Captain Sheridan, Mr. Garibaldi, and the entire staff of B5 are the ones who did it. I merely asked them.”

Bester smiled. “Don’t underestimate your powers of persuasion, Ms. Winters.” He glanced at Malten. “I’ve seen them at work.”

Malten bristled slightly but kept a polite smile on his face. “I think we all realize how valuable Ms. Winters is. Although Babylon 5 is an important post, it’s rather removed from the action. There are many of us who feel that Ms. Winters is being wasted here and could better serve Psi Corps in another capacity. Closer to Earth.”

Bester shrugged. “She would make a wonderful rogue-hunter, but with a P5 level, what can we do?” Several of the Psi Cops chuckled.

“We could use her in the Mix,” said Malten.

Bester continued to smile, but he looked more threatening than friendly as he fixed his dark eyes on the entrepreneur. “One would almost think, Mr. Malten, that you were trying to get a monopoly on all the talented commercial telepaths.” His eyes narrowed. “Getting greedy is not a good idea.”

Well, thought Talia, this conversation was certainly going downhill. “I see Ambassador G’Kar,” she said, “and I wish to hear his side of the incident, which I missed. If you’ll both excuse me.”

Walking off, she heard Malten hiss to Bester, “That was uncalled for!”

Talia took a deep breath and decided not to bother G’Kar after all. He could be a bombastic sort, and she didn’t really want to hear a blow-by-blow account of some bar fight. Despite the cheerful dance music that was playing, Mr. Gray looked lonely, standing by himself at the bar. So she headed his way.

“Hello, Mr. Gray,” she said, grabbing a seat at the counter. As an afterthought, she added, “Do you mind if I sit here?”

He blinked at her from his dazed reverie. “Not at all, please have a seat. Are you having a good time?”

Distastefully, she set her glass of wine on the counter. “It’ll be better after I get a new drink.”

Gray twisted his hands nervously. “Ms. Winters, you’ve spent more time among aliens and even regular humans than I have. Can I ask you something?”

She smiled at him. “Certainly.”

“Can a telepath and a nontelepath love each other?”

Talia smiled, thinking about Garibaldi. “I’m sure it happens all the time, on a superficial level. Whether a telepath and a mundane could stay together for sixty years and watch their grandchildren grow up, I don’t know. I would think the odds are against it. On the other hand, I haven’t seen many nontelepathic couples stay together for a long time either.”

She motioned around the room. “Don’t you find it amazing that so many of our kind are either single or divorced? We’re all lone wolves.”

“Yes,” said Gray worriedly. He took a seat beside her and lowered his voice. “When I signed up for Psi Corps, I didn’t know it would preclude living a normal life. They told me they would bring out my abilities, not kill everything else.” His shoulders slumped. “I suppose, as long as one party is telepathic, there will always be distrust.”

“And when both are telepathic,” Talia added, “it’s too intense to last long.”

“So all we have is each other,” said Gray, “and we can take very little solace in that.”

“None,” answered Talia.

She looked up and saw Arthur Malten headed their way, a peeved look on his face. She grabbed Gray’s gloved hand. “Would you like to dance?”

He beamed with surprise. “Thank you, I would.”

They escaped to the dance floor moments before Malten caught up with them. Talia could see him by the bar, sulking. She guessed that Mr. Bester had turned down his request to have her reassigned. Drawing on her usual optimism, Talia wondered if this wasn’t for the best. The conference had barely started, and people were fighting over her. She supposed that was good, although it felt rather vulgar to be fought over like a head of cattle.

Mr. Gray was actually an accomplished dancer; he didn’t step on her toes, and he kept a respectful distance. Talia used the roving platform of the dance floor to survey the other attendees at the reception.

Garibaldi and Sheridan, both of whom looked like they were at a wake, gave in to moments of polite laughter followed by long periods of somber realization. Of the ambassadors, G’Kar had the biggest following, and most of them were military telepaths. Apparently, bashing a Psi Cop could make you very popular with the military. Londo had brought an attractive Centauri woman with him, and they had quite a retinue of telepaths following them from one hors d’oeuvre table to another. The Psi Cops gravitated around Bester, and the commercial telepaths had broken up into small groups and couples. Hmmm, thought Talia, if she could find Emily Crane, perhaps she could introduce her to Mr. Gray. But the small woman in the peach dress was not in her line of sight.

On her second pass around the dance floor, Talia was glad to find Arthur Malten talking to Ambassador Delenn. The Minbari would be a good distraction for him, keeping his mind off matters that were up in the air. Up in the air was right where she wanted to leave those matters.

“Thank you for coming,” said Captain Sheridan. “It was a pleasure. We are pleased to have you here. Think of us during the appropriations. Have a good conference.”

To his credit, thought Talia, he managed to say the same thing a hundred times without sounding like a broken soundchip. She was reduced to a simple smile as the conference attendees filed out of the reception on Blue-16. They’d closed the place down, at the preset hour of 23:00. Almost no one had left early, save for Ambassador Delenn, and the proprietor of the cafe was tallying up the bar tab with a smile on his face.

“Detail two,” said Garibaldi, “escort as many of these folks as you can to their quarters. We don’t want them wandering off to other parts of the station.”

“Technically, they could go to the casino,” said Talia.

Garibaldi scowled. “Do everything but read them bedtime stories,” he told his people, “I want them in bed. I’ll go with you.”

The security chief and his officers took off after a knot of attendees who had halted in the corridor to study their door keycards. Soon those who needed help were taken underwing, and no one was left in the cafe except the workers, tidying up. Talia yawned, and Captain Sheridan looked at her sympathetically.

“I feel the same way,” he admitted. “The conference business is not for me—too much conversation. But I think it’s been successful, so far.”

Talia nodded. “Captain, they are having a grand time. For this group, they were doing handstands they were so happy. Some of these people never feel welcomed anywhere, and you put them at ease. After a few rough spots, the ambassadors fit in very well, too. Although I was disappointed that Ambassador Kosh didn’t come.”

The captain shrugged. “Well, you know Kosh.”

Talia shook her head and laughed, because both of them knew that was a very dumb remark.

“I’ve got to get to bed,” said Sheridan. “My mind is a jumble. I suppose a few hundred telepaths will do that to you. Good night.”

“Good night, Captain.”

Talia watched the captain go, feeling good about shutting the place down, being the one to turn out the lights. Despite a few personality conflicts, this was a successful conference so far. Of course, she reminded herself, this was only the first official function out of two hundred and sixteen panels, seminars, luncheons, and meetings. So there was plenty of time for something to go wrong. But each day without incident was a feather in her cap. Now Psi Corps knew who she was and what kind of territory she had, and B5 was more than an acronym to them.

She stepped down to the corridor level and took a slow stroll toward the exit. All things considered, it was good to know that there was an upward path for her in the commercial sector. But what price did those paths have? It wasn’t just the obvious pitfalls that had her worried, but the hidden ones, the ones worked out between Malten and Bester while her back was turned.

And what exactly did they want with her interspecies experience? While it had commercial applications galore, it also had military applications. She didn’t want to become an experiment gone awry, like the only man she had ever loved. Nor did she want to become a spy against alien races, such as the Minbari. She had to tread very carefully, eyeball everything, and get it all in writing.

Talia wasn’t particularly surprised when she felt his presence waiting for her around a bend in the corridor. He was being sweet again, trying to be apologetic. He would make it up to her, he promised, for those several awkward moments. All his fault, he assured her. Talia smiled and was about to tell him to buzz off for the night, because she really was tired.

“Arthur,” she began, rounding the corner. But it wasn’t Mr. Malten.

It was Mr. Bester. She glared at him, and he smiled at her.

“That is anatomically impossible,” he said. “But a popular sentiment.”

Talia sputtered, “You … you pretended to be …”

“Yes, I know,” Bester conceded. “It is very difficult to work around a corner, and the signal is weak—but I can do it, if I know the person. The advantage, as you saw, is that you can pretend to be someone else.”

“I don’t appreciate that,” said Talia.

Bester’s smile faded. “Now you sound like your boyfriend, always whining. This is the big leagues the two of you want to play in, so you had better come ready to play ball.” He smiled at her. “Do I make myself clear?”

Talia swallowed. “Okay, what do you want to approve my reassignment to the Mix? If that’s what I decide to do.”

Bester licked his lips. “We shouldn’t talk about this out here in the corridor. My room is right down there.”

Talia smiled. “I know exactly where your room is, and there’s a recreation room even closer. It’s perfect for talking. Or a quick game of Ping-Pong.”

“Of course,” said Bester with a disgruntled expression. “Lead on. I could use some recreation.”

The room was empty, and Talia had to wipe her gloved hand over the wall panel to activate the lights. As she had specified, the Ping-Pong table had four new paddles and a package of balls; there was a chess set on one of the card tables, and decks of cards on the other two. In the corner was a compact weight-lifting machine with a video screen for instruction.

“How are you at Ping-Pong?” she asked.

“I react very quickly,” answered Bester. “I used to be quite good. But that wasn’t the game I had in mind.”

Talia sat at one of the card tables and opened up a deck. “Isn’t it odd, but everywhere you look there are invitations to gamble. You would think members of Psi Corps would be above temptation, but it comes after us just as much as anyone.”

“It is the resistance that makes us strong,” answered Bester, making a fist to dramatize his point. He took a seat opposite her and smiled. “Again, that is not the game I had in mind.”

“How much will it cost me to work for the Mix?” asked Talia point-blank. “And leave Mr. Malten out of the equation.”

“That is wise to leave Mr. Malten out,” said Bester with approval. “He started the Mix, but now it has outgrown him. It could perform as well without him as with him.”

Talia stared evenly at the Psi Cop. “So it has to be something I can pay for, on my own. How much?”

Bester leaned forward and asked hoarsely, “How badly do you want to go?”

Talia smiled. “Not that badly.” She leaned back in her chair. “Is there an economy rate?”

Bester laughed. “You still haven’t found the game I want to play yet. I want to play show-and-tell.”

“How do you play that?” asked Talia suspiciously.

“It’s very simple,” said Bester, reaching into his jacket pocket. “I show you a picture of your Uncle Ted—that would be Theodore Hamilton—and you tell me where he is.”

Bester tossed a photo of a rakish man with long blond hair onto the table, and Talia was stunned by the juxtaposition of her Uncle Ted and Mr. Bester. One was a ne’er-do-well lady-killer, and the other was, well, Mr. Bester. She laughed with both relief and amazement.

“I can get into the Mix by telling you about my Uncle Ted?” she asked puzzledly.

“You don’t have to tell us anything about him, except where he is.”

Talia looked helplessly at the Psi Cop. “I think, when I last saw him, I was about fourteen years old. He was just headed for Mars.” She peered at Bester. “Oh, I see—this has something to do with Mars.”

“You really don’t know what he’s been doing for the last two years?” asked Bester incredulously.

She shook her head. “I haven’t had much contact with Mars.” Talia wanted to say that her uncle would never become a Martian revolutionary, but that wasn’t true. It probably was something the old romantic would do, especially if there were women involved.

“I would guess that he’s been blowing things up on Mars,” she said.

“Worse than that, Ms. Winters. Your Uncle Ted has been explaining the separatist position in a very clear way, and people are starting to listen to him. He’s popular, and the colonists are hiding him. We’ve been trying to find him for two years.”

Bester leaned urgently across the table. “We want him.”

“I haven’t a clue where he is,” she answered, shaking her head. “And why would you want him, Mr. Bester? He’s not a telepath, rogue or otherwise.”

Bester smiled and answered, “That is on a need-to-know basis, and you don’t need to know. But now you know the cost to get into the Mix—on your own terms, without Malten’s help. Once you’re in there, you can use him or not, as you wish. I believe this is a price you can meet, Ms. Winters, and it won’t compromise your high ideals.”

“Mr. Bester,” she protested, “I haven’t seen my Uncle Ted in something like fifteen years. How can I help you?”

“Come now, you’re family. You can go to Mars or Earth, ask around, show some concern. Say you only want to say hello to your beloved Uncle Ted before the bad guys get him. Give him a hug for old times’ sake.”

Bester winked. “Surely, you learned a long time ago to read your mother’s mind, without her knowing it. This is her brother we’re talking about. Find out where he is.”

Talia tried not to throw up, but she did start to gag on the idea of scanning family members without them knowing it. She stood weakly from the table and swallowed down the bile. “I’m not feeling very well, Mr. Bester. I really don’t think I can be any help finding Ted Hamilton. Good night.”

“The offer won’t be on the table forever,” warned Bester. “Good night.”

Talia Winters slammed the door behind her and leaned against the wall for support. How could it be that talking to Mr. Bester always made her feel dirty? She couldn’t avoid him—she would see him at the budget meeting in just ten hours—but she should refuse to discuss anything of a personal nature with him.

Then again, she had asked for it. With ambition and desire came the price. Even in the workaday world of the mundanes, it was no different. Talia had let herself be lured into this insane game, and she shouldn’t panic just because the stakes got high. She could always drop out.

And she would. Tomorrow, right after the budget meeting. She’d go back to being the only resident telepath of Babylon 5 so far, and be thrilled with it.

Talia headed for the main checkpoint, and she felt relieved to see Garibaldi and two of his officers, hanging out, looking edgy but better than they had earlier.

“Good evening,” she said.

“Hello, Ms. Winters,” the younger one said.

Garibaldi smiled at her. “We took a vote—we all like your outfit. I wouldn’t want you to think it was just me.”

“Thank you,” she said wearily. “I haven’t got any witty repartee left. Good night.”

“I could walk you home,” offered Garibaldi.

“Nope,” she said, heading away from Blue-16. Then she stopped. “How did you get away from those aliens last night?”

“Oh, that,” answered Garibaldi with a shrug. “I shot one in the foot, and I slugged another one. Then I ran like hell.”

“There were three of them,” said Talia.

Garibaldi rubbed his nose in thought. “Well, the third one came after you, but I guess you moved pretty fast.”

“Yeah,” the telepath agreed. “I’m moving fast these days. Good night.”

“Good night.”

Garibaldi lay in his bed, still thinking about his disturbing dream from earlier that day. His sense of duty kept prodding him to go Down Below and turn over every mattress and garbage can until he found Deuce. But he would have to get really lucky, or Deuce would have to want to be found, for that to work. With four hundred telepaths on the station, Garibaldi didn’t feel really lucky, and he didn’t think Deuce wanted to be found.

For one thing, Deuce was keeping very quiet. There had been no reports of beatings or murders, no jump in robberies or threats. Nobody had been caught transporting unusual contraband or stolen goods. And Deuce had not been spotted in any of his usual haunts, by any of several informers that Garibaldi had hired. Whatever Deuce’s business on B5 was, he was keeping it low-key, just like they were frying to keep the conference low-key. Unfortunately, Deuce was doing a better job of it. He rolled over in his bed and tried to get comfortable. It was no good. There were too many things around here that should not mix—Deuce, Bester, Martian terrorists, aliens who didn’t give a hoot about Psi Corps, telepaths who didn’t give a hoot about aliens. Even Captain Sheridan and Talia Winters had looked bagged by the stress, and if it could get to them, it could get to anyone. Come to think of it, neither Bester nor Gray looked too good either, Garibaldi decided. A feeling of paranoia was eating at all of them.

Worst of all, the conference proper didn’t really start until tomorrow! He pulled the pillow over his head and tried to go to sleep.