by Eric Brown
He showered—still able to admire the view thanks to the transparent walls—dressed and then got through to Vizzek and arranged to meet the telepath.
He took the elevator from his room and stepped out on to the central concourse situated in the body of the scimitar column. The edifice was as wide as the boulevard far below, and its curve so obtuse at this point that he was unable to discern the gradient: restaurants, galleries, and VR bars flanked the concourse. Hendrick boarded a down-chute and minutes later stepped out into the glare of the double suns. He paused and looked up, wondering which amongst the hundred silver dewdrops was his own suite.
On the way to the café recommended by Vizzek, he passed tourists from around the Expansion. Other than at high summer in Paris, he’d never seen such a racial mix as here. He recognised many off-worlders from their exaggerated couture, hairstyles, tattoos, or somatic addenda. A man from the colony of Attraxia, Sirius IX, wore ’borg ancillaries, while a woman sported a thick pelt of grafted fur currently popular on Deneb II. He noticed a group of tourists from Hajipur, Acrab V, their skin dyed a dozen shades of blue, each one denoting a different caste.
One thing that united all the diverse tourists along the boulevard, however, was their excitement about the impending arrival of the slower-than-light starship. Talk was of nothing else, in the three or four languages he understood. Holo- and VR-displays, flanking the thoroughfare, advertised the various orbital tours on offer to greet the materialisation of the starship into space-norm. It would be a momentous day, covered by media companies from all over the Expansion, and a part of Hendrick was sorry that he wouldn’t be around to watch the arrival of the ancient vessel.
He wondered at the reaction of the colonists aboard the slow-ship when, resuscitated from coldsleep at journey’s end and assuming they’d be arriving on a pristine Earth-like world, they discovered that humankind had spread via Telemass far from Earth and now inhabited much of the spiral arm.
He followed Vizzek’s directions from the main boulevard to the beach and found the Lucky Cat Café on the golden sands. Impossibly blue sea lapped at the shoreline. The telepath stood up and waved at him from a table by the rail.
“Sleep well?” Vizzek asked.
“Like the proverbial log. You?”
The telepath smiled. “I’ve been awake for the past twenty hours.” He consulted his wrist-com. “And I’m not due to sleep for another ten.”
“Don’t tell me,” Hendrick said as he ordered fruit salad and coffee, “telepathy confers insomnia?”
Vizzek laughed. “No, it’s much more mundane than that. My home planet, Nova Sofia, runs on a 30-30 hour day-night cycle, and over the centuries the colonists have adapted.”
“I’ll never cease to be amazed at how humans change to suit local conditions,” Hendrick said.
He glanced at Vizzek and noticed something. The connected minds symbol no longer adorned the young man’s left temple.
Vizzek noticed his gaze. “I’ve covered it up. I don’t like to advertise the fact of my ability. You’d be surprised at how prejudiced some people can be.”
“Is that legal? Covering it, I mean.”
“No, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take.” Vizzek turned his attention to the oceanic view and sipped his coffee.
Hendrick finished his fruit salad and accessed his wrist-com. He called up information on the planet of Crammond, Groombridge IX, and for the next ten minutes read all about the vast agricultural world. It was a colony without industry other than that allied to the production and processing of grain crops, with no major cities but hundreds of scattered townships. He wondered why Maatje’s contact, a medic specialising in alien diseases, should sequester himself on such a backwater world. Or perhaps Crammond was just a convenient rendezvous point from which they would move on.
He questioned Vizzek on that point, but the young man frowned and shook his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t know. I scanned Maatje and Hovarth for less than a minute. I didn’t catch everything.”
“I’m eager to be away from here, I must admit. I feel as if I’m wasting my time.”
Vizzek indicated a nearby pier, which extended its salted, sun-warped timbers into the calm blue sea for almost half a kilometre. “Fancy a stroll? There are buskers from all over the Expansion, and many of them are excellent. The music will take your mind off things.”
Hendrick finished his coffee and they strolled along the beach towards the pier. Inland, the Telemass Station towered on its tripod of tubular stilts. An incoming transmission streaked through the stratosphere, a brilliant bolt of pure white light terminating on the deck—yet another influx of tourists come to Tourmaline for Starship Day.
They climbed onto the pier and strolled along the rattling boards. Buskers performed at regular intervals, the pier’s length showcasing a comprehensive selection of music from colony worlds far and near. Hendrick’s taste in music was unsophisticated; he preferred soft, slow, soothing melodies—mood jazz from the colonies of Aldebaran—as opposed to anything loud and fast. His parent’s religion proscribed the excesses of music, and he had grown up in a quiet household. To this day he was lukewarm towards the art, and his innate conservatism made him uneasy with public displays of musical appreciation, like dancing. It was one of the many things that Maatje had held against him, but as far as he was concerned it was part of his nature which he could do nothing about and which she had gladly bought into when they married.
He considered his bitterness towards his ex-wife, and was glad that Vizzek was no longer able to read his thoughts.
They passed small ensembles and solo singers, and paused now and then to listen for longer. Hendrick was taken by a soprano from Sendermain, an albino girl of perhaps ten, dressed like an angel, with an achingly beautiful face and disconcertingly silver pupils. Her voice soared, touching something deep inside him. They moved on.
Beside him, Vizzek snapped his fingers to the beat of a drummer from Barnard’s Star, then fell into an uninhibited jive-walk which Hendrick found embarrassing. Maatje would have snapped at Hendrick and told him to lighten up.
He tried to shut thoughts of his ex-wife from his mind, frustrated that even now, years after she’d walked out, the memory of her had the power to unsettle him.
Vizzek pointed to a bar set up at the end of the pier and suggested they take a drink.
Hendrick ordered a local fruit juice unfamiliar to him, while Vizzek opted for beer. The closest band was playing a selection of alien melodies from the stars of Orion, soothing whispers and wisps of sound that were easy on the ear.
At one point, along the foreshore, a franchise advertising orbital tours projected a virtual display into the sky. Tourists gasped in admiration as the image of an ancient starship, as ugly as a deep-sea fish with bulging forward viewscreens and barbel antennae, powered along the coast.
“I wonder if that’s a true representation of the actual ship?” Hendrick asked.
Vizzek shook his head. “No one knows what it might look like. It set off so long ago that all records are lost.”
Hendrick sipped his juice, sweetness followed by an acid aftertaste, and looked at the young telepath. “What would you have done had I not happened along?”
“Work-wise, you mean?” Vizzek thought about it. “I would have prayed that there’d be work left for the likes of me after all the A-Grade telepaths had cleaned up.”
Hendrick contemplated the image of the slow-moving starship. “What kind of work are they hoping to get?”
“They’re chancers, for the most part. They’re here on the make, like everyone else. Some no doubt hope to get themselves hired by the big corporations who are here to buy the services of the colonists.”
“The services?”
“Of course. Think about it, Matt. The colonists are over five hundred years old—that is, they come from an age lost in time, pre-Telemass, pre-Expansion, prealmost everything we take for granted in the modern age. They’re a valuable insight into a lost
way of life, and many people want to buy into that. Companies, of course, are wise to the potential market, and want to sign the colonists up to lucrative media deals.”
“The poor bastards,” Hendrick murmured. “They thought they were the cutting-edge explorers breaking new ground, and they’ll wake up in a teeming Expansion to find themselves no more than circus freaks.” He found the idea of the imminent media feeding frenzy somewhat nauseating.
“And then there are the descendants of the starship colonists,” Vizzek went on, “who have come here to meet their great-great-multi-great grandfathers and grandmothers. I’ve heard that there are even one or two individuals from five hundred years ago who said goodbye to loved ones when they boarded the starship.”
Hendrick looked at the young man, wondering if he were joking. “You’re kidding, right?”
“That’s what I’ve heard, Matt.”
“But how would that be possible?”
“These individuals were rich, okay? They utilised the same coldsleep technology that kept the starship colonists in hibernation. They slept away the centuries, and awoke when the ship materialised so that they could be reunited with their loved ones.”
Hendrick scanned the crowds promenading along the pier and wondered if, amongst them, were citizens from half a millennium ago.
He turned to Vizzek. “So you class yourself as a chancer, here on the make?”
The young man shrugged. “Sure, why not? I admit it. It’s a hard life, even for a telepath.”
“I would have thought that the opportunities for making money, eavesdropping on people’s secrets . . .” He shrugged. “You could make a killing from dipping into the contents of people’s minds, right?”
Vizzek bridled, and Hendrick knew he’d hit a nerve. “I don’t work like that, Matt. What I do is all legal and certified, okay? I might be a chancer, but everything I do is legit.”
Hendrick held up both hands. “Merely making an observation, Karol.”
The young man took a sip of beer. “Anyway, when I said life is hard, I wasn’t just referring to the financial side of things. It’s hard mentally, too, you know?”
Hendrick nodded. “I can appreciate that.”
“You’ve got no idea what it’s like, reading the minds of most people. Some of the things I’ve . . .” He shook his head. “You’re open to all the psychosis and neurosis out there, and sometimes it’s hard to disassociate yourself from it. Sometimes . . . after a period immersed in a mind you’d rather have nothing to do with, you come out with a shattered sense of self-identity. Thoughts, views, and beliefs are infectious, Matt. Sometimes I think my ability has cursed me, you know?”
“You could always quit, and throw away your ferronière.”
Vizzek grinned. “And then there are the times when I think I’m blessed. When I come across good minds, when I share the thoughts of lovers, the eternally optimistic.”
Hendrick stared at the telepath, then ventured, “And what is it like to be in a relationship? It must be hard for your lover, knowing that you’re reading their intimate thoughts. Hard for you, too.”
Vizzek coloured. “Relationships are hard. After my wife left me . . . Well, I’ve had relationships, but they don’t last. Even when I promise not to use my ability, and keep that promise, I can’t but help having a heightened awareness of my partner’s emotions, which isn’t easy. I tend to keep my liaisons short-term.” He stopped, as if embarrassed.
“I understand,” Hendrick said. “Hell, it’s hard enough for non-telepaths.”
Vizzek looked at him. “What about you?”
Hendrick sipped his juice. “Didn’t you read that in my head, earlier?”
“I didn’t go too deep. But I couldn’t help pick up something about a girl on Avoeli.”
Hendrick felt himself colour. “She was the first for years, and it was never meant to last. She had a lover.”
“And there was no one before her, nothing serious?”
Hendrick was uneasy with the conversation. “Maatje was my last meaningful relationship. After she walked out . . .” He shrugged.
“Yeah, when something like that happens” Vizzek stopped, staring across the pier at a group of tourists.
Hendrick was alerted by something tense, alert, in Vizzek’s body language.
He glanced across at the tourists; they seemed non-descript, just another gaggle of well-dressed holidaymakers having a good time. One of their number, however, stood out. She was a tall, angular woman in her forties, dressed in a form-fitting black trouser-suit and sporting a rakishly angled tricorne. When she glanced across at Hendrick and Vizzek, he noticed a tiny sigil tattooed on her left temple.
Vizzek said, “Let’s go.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I said let’s get out of here.”
They stood and hurried from the bar, Hendrick turning to take one last look at the woman.
“Just keep walking,” Karol said as they merged with the crowds, “and act as if nothing has happened, okay?”
“What has happened?”
He glanced at Vizzek. The young man was sweating. He hissed his reply, “She was scanning. She’s onto us.”
“Onto us?” Hendrick echoed. “I don’t get it.”
“Maatje hired her to keep a look out for you.”
“How can you know that?” He stared at the telepath. “You’re still reading, right? You said you’d deactivate your ability . . .”
“Look,” Vizzek went on, staring straight ahead, “it was for the best, okay? I have to keep alert. If I hadn’t been scanning, I might never have picked up on the bitch.”
Hendrick glanced over his shoulder. There was no sign of the woman amid the crowds of tourists. “What does she want?”
“I . . . I didn’t catch that. But my guess is that she’ll do her best to stop us leaving Tourmaline.”
“Okay, I suggest we split up.”
“No. My place is nearby. We’ll go there, wait a while.” Vizzek glanced behind him. “With luck she might not follow us.”
Hendrick was sweating. “How close is your room?”
“Just along the boulevard, above the Burmese restaurant . . .” He gestured ahead, and Hendrick made out an open-fronted café serving oriental food, all steaming woks and sweating chefs.
He cast a quick glance over his shoulder. His heart kicked. “She’s about a hundred metres away. The best thing would be to split up and meet behind the Burmese place, okay? If we shake her, we go on up.” A thought occurred to him. “How far away does she have to be to pick up our thoughts?”
“Fifty metres, tops. Okay, let’s split up.”
Hendrick slipped down a sidestreet, hurrying along with a crowd of holidaymakers from one of the African-settled colony worlds. A hundred metres further on he chanced a backwards glance. There was no sign of the tall, black-clad telepath. He blew with relief and made his way around the block to the Burmese restaurant.
At the corner he leaned casually against the timber frame of the building and glanced up and down the street. The telepath’s distinctive tricorne was not in evidence. He cursed Maatje for perhaps the hundredth time since arriving on Tourmaline.
“Matt!”
Hendrick turned. Vizzek was behind him, gesturing Hendrick to follow him up a rickety flight of stairs to an upper-storey verandah. With a last look up and down the street, he turned and hurried after the telepath.
The room was a cheap timber sweatbox with a rickety bunk in one corner, a table and chair in the other, and a rumbling cooler next to a window overlooking the boulevard. Vizzek closed the door behind him while Hendrick crossed to the window, twitched a lace drape to one side and peered out.
“I think we made it,” he said, turning.
The telepath was holding a small pistol in his right hand. “I don’t think we’ll be needing that,” Hendrick said.
“I’m sorry,” Vizzek said. “I’m very sorry, Matt.”
Hendrick swallowed, staring across the roo
m at the young man as Vizzek raised the pistol and pointed it at his chest.
FOUR
“I DON’T GET IT . . .” HENDRICK SAID.
“I’m going to stun you, that’s all.”
Hendrick laughed. “You’re joking, right? This is some kind of stunt?”
“You asked if I were a chancer, Matt, and I admitted I was. You don’t know how hard it is for an uneducated street-kid from Nova Sofia. You have to take your chances when they come.”
“Look, if its money you want.”
“I want more than just money. For a start, give me your wrist-com.”
“I get it,” Hendrick said, angry and resentful. “My ID, right? You’ll take my wrist-com, stun me, and by the time I come round you’ll be light years away.”
More than the anger at Vizzek’s betrayal, and his own gullibility, he realised that in all likelihood the story Vizzek had given him about Maatje Telemassing to Crammond had been a fabrication. And the Grammakis girl at the station? Was she Vizzek’s sidekick, in on the scam?
If so, then that meant he was back to square one. Maatje might be anywhere by now.
“Just unstrap your wrist-com and give it to me, or I’ll stun you and take it.”
“Okay, okay . . .” He made to unfasten the com, taking his time. When it was free, he’d move towards Vizzek, and if he judged he could act before the telepath raised his pistol . . .
The young man smiled and was about to speak when the door behind him burst open and a voice yelled, “Drop it!”
Vizzek swung around. The woman in black, all angular legs and elbows, dropped into a crouch, a weapon in her outstretched hand.
Vizzek fired. The woman rolled, dodging the pulse, and came up with a single shot. The pulse lifted the telepath off his feet and slammed him against the wall. He slid to the floor, unconscious.