Xenopath - [Bengal Station 02]

by Eric Brown

  The youth trotted between the hissing machines, zigzagging across the factory floor towards a raised, glassed-in gallery area. Metal steps climbed to the entrance, marked with the factory owner’s self-important title: Ranjit Jamal Prakesh, Director, Manager.

  His guide indicated the steps and departed.

  Vaughan climbed, already sweating and exhausted by the intolerable heat. He knocked and opened the door without waiting to be invited in, the conditions on the factory floor imbuing him with indignation.

  He expected the office to be air-conditioned, but only an ancient ceiling fan laboured vainly against the humidity.

  A fat, moustachioed Indian in his fifties lolled in a swivel chair, his huge bare feet propped next to a flickering computer screen at least ten years out of date.

  Vaughan sat down and showed his ID. “Prakesh? I’m Vaughan. Kapinsky Investigations. I’m working on a police case and I think you can help me.”

  Wide-eyed, Prakesh pulled his feet from the desk and sat up, buttoning his shirt, which had been open to reveal a bulging Buddha belly.

  “Mr Vaughan. Of course, of course. You will find R.J. Prakesh always willing to aid the forces of law and order.” He beamed betel-stained teeth and said, “How can I be of assistance, Mr Vaughan?”

  Vaughan flipped a pix of Pham across the desk. “I’m trying to locate this kid. I know her first name. Pham. I understand she worked here?”

  Prakesh studied the picture. Vaughan considered activating his implant and quickly reading what Prakesh knew about the kid, but held off. He’d see what he could get verbally, first.

  Prakesh returned the pix. “Indeed, Mr Vaughan. Phamtrat Kuttrasan. She was one of my favourites, a very good worker. No trouble. Quiet and respectful. Very good girl.”

  “When did she go missing?”

  “Three days ago, after a night shift. Very distressing, Mr Vaughan. I run a fair factory here. I treat my boys and girls well. Good pay and hours. I have many orphan children work for me, Mr Vaughan. Street-kids with no home and no prospects, other than R.J. Prakesh. I give them shelter, work and food.” He leaned forward. “Please tell me, she is in trouble?”

  Vaughan shook his head. “She witnessed a crime. I need to question her about what she saw.” He glanced at the pix of Pham before returning it to his wallet. “What can you tell me about Pham? Did she have a family, relatives?”

  “Sad story, Mr Vaughan. Her mother and father, they were killed in dropchute accident three years ago, when Pham was four. Her uncle, he could not look after her, so she came here begging for work. Mr Vaughan, I’m a successful businessman, but I also have a heart. I am not an exploiting monster. I took her in, trained her how to use the Siemman’s press. For three years she worked with no problem. Then—” Prakesh opened fat fingers in an exploding gesture. “Then phooffl! She disappears.”

  “This uncle. Do you have his address?”

  “I do not, Mr Vaughan. The truth to tell, I did not know that she had an uncle until yesterday.”

  Vaughan leaned forward. “Yesterday?”

  “At noon yesterday, the uncle comes looking for Pham. He is most upset when I tell him that Pham left her dorm and has not come back.”

  Vaughan nodded, sensing that he was onto something. Pham had told Abdul that she had no family, had no one in the world. “Can you describe the man, Mr Prakesh?”

  “Most certainly. It was strange you see, although he was a Thai, like Pham, he was not at all like a Thai, if you understand me.”

  “I’m not sure that I do.”

  “He was big, Mr Vaughan. Tall and broad, like a Westerner.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Simply that he was looking for his niece, Phamtrat Kuttrasan. He too had a picture of her. He was most concerned about her safety.”

  “He didn’t leave you an address, a contact number?”

  Prakesh shook his head. “I suggested that he should do this, but he told me that he would be in touch if he needed to ask further questions. I must say, Mr Vaughan, that he struck me as very odd.”

  Vaughan recalled the surveillance cam above the door to the factory. “Do you still have yesterday’s surveillance recording? I take it he entered the factory from the front?”

  Prakesh said, “Indeed, Mr Vaughan. We keep recordings for a week.” He propelled his bulk in the swivel chair across the room and accessed a com-screen.

  Seconds later he had called up a grainy image of a tall, smooth-faced Thai.

  “Can you print out a copy of the image of his face?” Vaughan asked.

  “No sooner said than done!” Prakesh obliged.

  If his suspicions were correct, and this Thai was indeed the killer of Robert Kormier, then how had he traced Pham to the factory?

  Prakesh pulled a glossy pix of Pham’s alleged uncle from the printer and passed it to Vaughan.

  He stared at the image. There was indeed a disparity between the man’s smooth Thai features, his angular cheekbones and merciless eyes, and his broad shoulders.

  Prakesh was saying, “To aid your investigations, Mr Vaughan, would you care to inspect the dorm where Pham lived? I am very proud of the living conditions of my charges. I will give you a conducted tour.”

  He decided to accept the offer, if only to build a better picture in his mind of the girl he was seeking. “Lead the way.”

  As Prakesh hauled himself from his seat and waddled towards the door, Vaughan tapped the access code into his handset and winced as the full force of the businessman’s mind hit him in a wave.

  Contending with an overlaid set of memories and emotions, Vaughan stood and followed Prakesh from the office. As they wended their way between the crashing machines, he worked at filtering out the bright minds of the kids around him and concentrated on the Indian’s fiery cerebral beacon.

  The first thing that hit him was the realisation— surprising him—that Prakesh was a good man.

  He had taken the Indian’s high-flown sentiments about his charges, his altruism and concern for their welfare, as so much hot air. But R.J. Prakesh, Vaughan found, genuinely did care for the kids he employed in his factory. He ran a profitable business, yes, but he paid his children well, offered good holidays, and ensured that their working conditions were the best possible in the circumstances.

  He slipped through Prakesh’s recent memories, came upon his meeting with Pham’s “uncle” yesterday.

  It had taken place in the office, Prakesh seated in his swivel chair, the Thai in the seat Vaughan had occupied minutes ago.

  Something about the man had profoundly unsettled R.J. Prakesh, and it was more than just the disparity between the Thai’s features and his soma-type.

  Vaughan had a better picture of the Thai now, a whole body image, an impression of how the man moved and gestured—and he knew that there was something very wrong in the man’s demeanour. It was as if the Thai were an actor, playing a part, and playing it badly.

  The man spoke Hindi fluently, without a trace of an accent—but his hand gestures were those of a Westerner mimicking a Thai.

  Vaughan went through their dialogue, and again sensed something not quite right about the man.

  Then he had it, and the realisation sickened him.

  Again and again the man questioned Prakesh about the girl, Pham—where she might be now, had she mentioned leaving, where might she go if she were to venture topside?

  And, again and again, the man anticipated Prakesh’s replies—hardly giving him time to answer.

  Suddenly, Vaughan knew why. It was a technique—barraging a subject with questions in order to guide the subject’s mind—that he had used again and again when mind-reading criminals in his old job at the spaceport.

  Pham’s supposed uncle, the killer of Kormier and no doubt of Travers too, was a telepath.

  Which would explain how he had traced Pham to the factory. While chasing her from the amusement park the other night, he had read her mind.

  Sweating, he deactivated his impl
ant and enjoyed the ensuing mind-silence.

  They had reached the dorm without Vaughan being aware of the fact. Prakesh was saying, “As you will be aware, the rooms here are all fully air-conditioned. Cramped, yes—space is at a premium down here. But I like to think that my children can rest in comfort and security.”

  The rooms were spacious, and lined with caged bunk-beds three high. Some held sleeping children, and all were personalised with posters and possessions as varied as teddy bears, holo-units, toy guns...

  Prakesh led the way to a bunk in the corner and indicated the lower berth.

  The scant possessions were pitiful: a battered black doll with one eye missing, a battered holo-unit, and at the foot of the bed a pile of folded T-shirts and shorts. Vaughan smiled at the poster stuck to the wall: it was of the Bengal Tigers’ star forward Petra Shelenkov.

  He noticed a corner of notepaper sticking out from beneath the pillow.

  He pulled it out and read the childish Thai script: Dear Mr Prakesh, Thank you, but I must go up to see the sky and the Tigers and everything else up there. I will be back one day when I am rich and happy. Don’t worry, I will find a safe place to sleep. Signed,Pham.

  Vaughan stared at the note, then passed it to the businessman.

  Only then did it hit him.

  His pulse quickened and he cursed himself for being so slow.

  Prakesh looked up. He thumbed something from his eyes. “The airborne pollutants down here are annoying, Mr Vaughan. I must attend to the filter system—Mr Vaughan?”

  Vaughan reached out and took Prakesh’s pudgy hand in a fierce shake. “You’ve helped considerably, Mr Prakesh. I’m sure I’ll find Pham soon. I’ll be in touch, okay?”

  He hurried off, leaving the fat Indian staring after him as he made for the exit.

  He had been a blind fool. As soon as he realised that the Thai was a telepath, he should have made the connection.

  If the Thai had read Pham’s mind as he chased her from the park, then he must have read her intention to spend the night in Ketsuwan Park.

  Vaughan quit the factory and followed the signs to the nearest upchute station.

  * * * *

  After the congested hell of the lower levels, Level Three seemed an oasis of space and calm. From the ‘chute station he caught a southbound shuttle to Ketsuwan, an affluent residential area bordering the exclusive outer edge. The Park, a five hundred square metre area of lawns and gardens—like some vision of old England transplanted in space and time—was lighted by a series of mirrors and daylight halogens and gave the exhilarating impression of existing in the open air.

  Couples and families strolled across the manicured lawns, street-kids played kabadi and soccer between the trees. Vaughan, aware of the bulk of the pistol under his jacket, made a quick circuit of the park, on the lookout both for the Thai telepath and for Pham. There were about ten entrances to the park, and he was unable to keep them all covered at the same time.

  Lone men stood out among the couple and families. Vaughan stared at them, discounting them one by one. It was almost impossible to keep a watch on everyone entering the park, and on this occasion his tele-ability would be of no use, as telepaths wore mind-shields as a matter of course.

  He stopped at a chai stall by a southern entrance to the park, bought a mug of spiced tea and a plate of mixed bhaji and pakora. Wolfing down his first meal since that morning, he eyed the kids begging food from the stallholder.

  Discarding his mug and plate, he tapped the startup code and his implant kicked into life.

  He moved from the group, wincing, as the flares of a dozen minds cascaded into his consciousness. He worked at winnowing through the thoughts and emotions of the kids and the stallholder, accessing their short-term memories for an image of the skinny, Tiger T-shirted Pham.

  He found nothing and moved off, making a circuit of the park, then crossing it, still scanning. He sorted through individual minds, one after the other, discarding hopes and dreams, fears and anguish, love and hate. He didn’t allow himself to dwell long in any one mind: that way might lead to disorientation, to the sympathetic identification with individual psyches to the detriment of his own sense of self. He’d worked with teleheads in the past who’d suffered identity trauma from empathising too readily with subject personalities. Vaughan skipped, butterfly-like, hoping to come upon an image of Pham.

  He stopped. Something connected in his head, the answer to his earlier inkling that his reasoning had been flawed. Impatiently he killed his implant. Basking in mind-silence, he concentrated on his own thoughts. His logic had been skewed by the natural assumption that the assassin wanted Pham dead because she had witnessed Kormier’s killing.

  He sat on the nearest bench and thought it through.

  Why would the assassin want to eliminate Pham? There was no way that, from where she had been crouching in the mouth of the ghost train, she could have made out the assassin firing from over twenty metres away, on a dark night. She had seen Kormier killed—but would that have been enough to set the assassin on her trail?

  Why would the assassin want to kill her? He had obviously read her mind immediately after the shooting, and then had elected to shoot her.

  For some reason —that was the question at the heart of Vaughan’s consideration.

  If Pham had not seen the killer, then what had he to fear from her continued survival?

  Perhaps it was not that she had witnessed the killing, but something that the assassin had read in her head which made it imperative he locate her?

  Or, perhaps, he was wrong—the killer simply feared that Pham had seen him, feared she might be able to identify him, and had reasoned that she had to die.

  Frustrated, both by inability to fathom the killer’s motive, and the fact that he was getting nowhere in trying to find the kid, Vaughan activated his implant again and set off on another circuit of the park.

  One hour later, he got the break he’d been looking for.

  It was after nine, and the lights were dimming. The kids who had been playing among the trees had either drifted away or settled down in the bushes,-their minds small points of fire in the gathering twilight.

  Vaughan was considering whether to quit and go home, or contact Sukara and tell her he’d be an hour or so late, when he read something in the mind of a six-year-old Indian girl nesting in a stand of frangipani. She had spoken to Pham about fifteen minutes ago, told her that the stallholder by the eastern gate would soon be giving away leftover food.

  Galvanised, Vaughan jogged across the grass, making for the dark shape of the eastern archway silhouetted against the lights of the level beyond.

  He could see the stallholder, packing up his poly-carbon cart. A couple of kids were standing close by, munching on puri and deep-fried chilli peppers.

  One of the kids was Phamtrat Kuttrasan.

  Her mind was ablaze. He caught only a second of it—a few memories of the factory, the adventure of rising through the levels, and then the frightening night in Kandalay amusement park—and then, as if sensing his presence in her mind, she looked up, across the intervening twenty metres, and saw him advancing. Her mind took fright.

  She ran. She barged through the knot of kids by the gates, and Vaughan lost his grip on her cerebral signature. It became confused with the other minds in the vicinity.

  He called out in bad Thai, “Pham, wait! I can help you!”

  She darted through the gate, into a long boulevard that flanked the park, and he gave chase. He scanned ahead, attempting to read her intentions, but intervening minds scrambled her signal. He gave up scanning, concentrated on running after her instead.

  She turned a corner, into a narrower corridor packed with late-night shoppers, a diminutive barefoot girl with the natural athleticism of her age.

  He ran around the corner, scattering shoppers, provoking angry cries, and sprinted in pursuit. He could not see her now, obscured as she was by the milling citizens. Her fiery mind signature was drawing f
arther and farther away by the second, until it merged with the overriding mind-hum of the Station, and then was lost.

  Vaughan came to a panting halt, braced his arms on his knees and breathed hard.

  Not giving up yet, he continued along the corridor at walking pace, scanning minds, coming up with nothing. She might have darted down any one of a dozen tributary tunnels, might be a kilometre away by now.

  He returned to the park, read the minds of the kids there, the girl who had spoken to Pham earlier—but they knew nothing of her intentions for the future. She was just another waif and stray, a playmate for the evening, soon absorbed into the mass of seething humanity on the Station.