Voices b5-1

by John Vornholt

  “One carat,” she said. “Gem quality.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” answered the pawnbroker, reaching for his scanner. He passed the diamond under the light beam for a few seconds, glanced at the readouts, and nodded. “Yes, it’s top quality. Nothing like that left on Earth. Where did it come from?”

  “Do you want it, or not?”

  “Eight hundred credits.”

  She tried to stay calm. “I want to sell it, not a loan.”

  “Same price either way.”

  “I think it’s worth more than that,” Talia said slowly.

  “Then go somewhere else.”

  She took the jewel off the velvet, but he called out to her before she could put it in her pocket. “Eight-fifty, no more.”

  She looked at him and thought how weary and dirty she was. At least with some money she could get a bath. This was robbery, anyway, but at least she would die or be captured with some money in her pocket.

  “Yeah,” she said, “eight-fifty.”

  “All right,” said the man, “if you’ll hand me your creditchit, I’ll add it to your account.”

  She shook her head and looked down. “I don’t have any credits. That’s why I need to sell the diamond.”

  “All right,” said the man, eager to conclude the deal any way he could, “give me your identicard, and I’ll make you a creditchit. That’s one of our services. It adds only one per cent.”

  Another rip-off, she thought, but beggars can’t be choosers. At least she had an identicard. She handed it to the man, and he disappeared with both the card and the diamond.

  She looked around the pawnshop, and she couldn’t remember whether she had ever been inside a pawnshop before in her life. She imagined they hadn’t changed in hundreds of years, with an odd assortment of jewelry, collectibles, small electronics, musical instruments, anything that was easy to carry and might be worth a few credits. There were also four teller windows for the various financial services that the shop offered.

  “Here you go, Ms. Nelson,” he said, returning her identicard and a new creditchit. “Thank you for coming in.” She finally let out a breath and glanced at the two cards. It seemed for a moment almost that she was a real person again, even if she did have someone else’s identity.

  “Thank you,” she said. “If I wanted a bullet train or shuttle to the east coast, where would I find it?”

  “There’s a U-rail at the corner that will take you to the bullet station. The trains leave frequently, so that would be the quickest way.”

  “Thank you,” she said, feeling a bit woozy but straggling out the door. If it had been possible, she would’ve stretched out on the sidewalk and gone to sleep. No, she told herself, you’re a shark. Gotta keep moving. Keep moving.

  This was more like it, thought Garibaldi, surveying the nondescript skyscraper. It was the kind of silver monstrosity that housed a thousand families at once, and it already felt more comfortable to him than all that open space. The gate had a security lock, but so many people went in and out that anyone could time his approach to slip in with other tenants. Garibaldi did exactly that and slipped in with a family of Sikhs wearing turbans and white robes.

  “Home on leave?” asked the patriarch of the group.

  “Yes,” said Garibaldi, “going to see my dad, Ronald Trishman. Do you know him?”

  The family shook their heads in unison and headed for the escalator. Garibaldi checked his address keeper as if he were looking for the apartment number, but he hit the index screen as soon as they were out of sight. He found Ronald’s apartment number on the forty-sixth floor, west wing, and he took a combination of escalators and high-speed elevators to get there.

  It was getting late, he reminded himself. This was a planet, and they didn’t live on a twenty-four-hour clock like he was used to, with no particular day or night. He had better not sound threatening when he asked for Ronald, or he might end up talking to regular cops after all.

  He stopped in front of the correct door, found Trishman’s name under the doorbell, and buzzed. A small viewer built into the door beeped on, and he could hear sounds of the apartment’s built-in security coming alive. He buzzed again, figuring armed guards would be summoned if Ronald Trishman didn’t answer the door soon.

  Finally a puzzled face squinted at him from the viewscreen. “Who the hell is it?”

  He lowered his head apologetically. “I’m extremely sorry to bother you. I’m Michael Garibaldi, security chief of Babylon 5. We spoke today.”

  “Well, good God, what do you want at this hour?”

  “We’re extremely worried that Emily Crane may be in physical danger.”

  “What?” muttered the older man. “Why would you come here? Oh, what the hell, I’ll let you in. I’ll wake up all the neighbors if I don’t.”

  He heard clicking sounds, and the door slid open. Garibaldi smiled to himself as he ducked inside. Trishman was wearing an expensive bathrobe and slippers; all he lacked was a pipe.

  “Listen,” said the receptionist, bustling around nervously, “if we’re going to talk, I’m going to make some tea. Do you want some?”

  “No, thanks,” said Garibaldi, “you go ahead. I never liked tea much.”

  He heard Ronald knocking about in the kitchen, making a terrific amount of noise. The old man must’ve been nervous, thought Garibaldi, and he wondered if he knew something about the Mix’s big ambitions. He took a seat on the sofa, marveling at the size of the living room, which was decorated tastefully all in white.

  After living on Babylon 5 for a year, rooms in even the dinkiest apartments looked huge. This room even had a tinted picture window that gazed upon a small window of ocean between two similar apartment towers. It wasn’t a thrilling view, thought Garibaldi, but it was better than a bulkhead.

  After a few minutes, Ronald Trishman came back with a tray, a teapot, and two cups, as if he was still hopeful Garibaldi would try some tea.

  “I made enough for four people,” he said, “so you’re welcome if you want some.” Trishman leaned forward and asked in a gossipy way, “Now, what is this about Ms. Crane?”

  “We just want to make sure she’s safe, but we can’t find her.”

  “Isn’t she at home?” asked Trishman.

  While Garibaldi was trying to decide how to finesse that question, Trishman clicked his fingers and added, “No, of course she wouldn’t be at home. She’s on her way to Mars or maybe she’s there by now.”

  “Mars,” repeated Garibaldi without much surprise. That figured. “Are you sure?”

  The older man shrugged and said, “That’s my job. A receptionist knows who’s in town and who isn’t.”

  Okay, thought Garibaldi, he had gotten what he had come for. Now if he got anything else it would be gravy. “Do you know anything about a bill before the Senate that would place the Mix in charge of Psi Corps?”

  The old man’s eyes twinkled. “No. Do tell?”

  Garibaldi started to say more, but then he realized that his job was to ask the questions, not answer them. Let this guy pontificate. “Is Mr. Malten around your office a lot?”

  Trishman shook his head. “Not an exceptional amount. Perhaps half a dozen times a year. Surely you can’t suspect him of doing anything wrong.”

  “Well,” said Garibaldi, “putting a bill before the Senate isn’t doing anything wrong. I suppose changing Psi Corps wouldn’t be all that wrong either.”

  “Then you’re with us,” said Trishman with satisfaction.

  “Wait a minute,” said the security chief. “We’re not talking about a political debate—we’re talking about two fatal bombings! If you know anything about this, I expect you to tell me.”

  “I think you know about as much as I do,” said the old man, rising and taking his cup to the kitchen. “Do you want to spend the night?”

  “What?” asked Garibaldi.

  “It’s the middle of the night, Mr. Garibaldi. This is not the time to go running around knocki
ng on doors. Don’t they have night where you come from?”

  “Is that a rhetorical question?” asked the security chief. He yawned and decided that he was getting tired. He had to meet Gray in the morning, in all likelihood to fly to Mars. No, he didn’t have a hotel room; it just hadn’t occurred to him to get one. On the other hand, could he trust this guy?

  “I don’t think so,” he said, rising to his feet. “So are you in favor of the Mix taking over Psi Corps?”

  “Instead of the other way around, like it is now?” asked Trishman. “Who wouldn’t be? That doesn’t mean I know anything about how this takeover is going to happen. I don’t.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” said Garibaldi. “Do you know where Ms. Crane is staying on Mars?”

  Trishman smiled. “I’m afraid not. You’re welcome to that couch, or not. But I’m going back to bed.”

  Garibaldi felt as if he had been dismissed, so he moved to the door and pressed the panel to open it. As he strode out, he was looking over his shoulder to say good night, when strong hands gripped his arms and shoulders. They dragged him back into the room.

  He struggled, but there were three of them. They took him by surprise and squirted some stuff in his face that made him swoon. Garibaldi staggered backward, losing his senses, but he managed a lucky swing that caught one of them in the stomach and doubled him over. The other two were still in his face, and one of them squirted him again with the sedative. Garibaldi windmilled his fists in the air, but he wasn’t connecting.

  He was slipping, falling, going where no one could reach him.

  Chapter 18

  The lure of the bullet station and immediate passage to Boston was strong, but the lure of a bed and a shower was stronger. When Talia passed a homey, old-fashioned hotel before she reached the station, she couldn’t stop herself from going in and pressing the buzzer on the check-in counter. It was the middle of the night, but she hoped she would still be able to get a room.

  A kindly older lady finally appeared. “What can we do for you, miss?”

  “A single,” she said. “Do you have one?”

  “Yes, my dear, only sixty credits for a single. Interested?”

  Talia found herself nodding before she even thought about it.

  “Fine. I’ll need your creditchit and your identicard.”

  Talia passed them over, thinking that was the second time she had used the fake identicard. She only had two more times. But she was so dirty and weary that she would risk facing a million Psi Cops to be clean and rested. Tomorrow would be time enough to get to Boston, she told herself, time enough to confront Emily Crane, clear her name, and get her life back.

  She dragged herself to the room and ripped off the dirty clothes and the wig. Talia felt like throwing the entire outfit away, but she doubted if she would get very far naked. In the shower, she let the lukewarm water run over her hair and body, and she watched a river of sand snake from her feet to the drain. She was too weary to even adjust the water to make it warmer, although she had the strength to rub some shampoo in her hair.

  When she staggered out of the shower, she collapsed into the droopy bed with beads of water still clinging to her back. She fell immediately into a sleep that was so deep it was beyond dreams.

  * * *

  Garibaldi, however, was having a dream. A nightmare, to be exact. In this dream, people were tying his hands behind his back, tying his feet together, and stuffing a gag in his mouth. He wanted to wake up, but he couldn’t open his eyes. It wasn’t until he began to squirm against his bindings that the dream turned really ugly. Someone slapped him across the mouth, knocking him to the floor, and his eyes bugged open. Unfortunately, the dream didn’t end—he was still bound and gagged.

  He was also still in Trishman’s white living room, only the older man was not in sight. Instead, there were two brawny young men, well dressed in suits. One of them was standing over Garibaldi, glowering at him. Ah, yes, he thought, that was the guy he had punched in the stomach. Well, why was he upset? He wasn’t the one bound and gagged, lying on the floor with a drugged-out hangover.

  The man looked like he wanted to slap him again, when a woman’s voice intruded. “Don’t even think about it.”

  Garibaldi craned his neck as best he could to see who had entered from the bedroom. Lo and behold, it was Emily Crane! Only she wasn’t dressed in her usual frumpy outfit but in a sleek gray jumpsuit, with her hair pulled back severely. He tried to ask her how her trip to Mars had been, but everything he said came out a mumble.

  “Get him back on the couch,” ordered the woman. The two goons complied and lifted him back into a semicomfortable position.

  “Mr. Garibaldi,” she said, “if you promise not to cry out, I will remove the gag.”

  He nodded. Crying out wasn’t really his style, but he was looking forward to kicking the crap out of these guys at the first opportunity. She snapped her fingers, and the gag came off.

  “That was a quick trip to Mars,” he croaked.

  “Don’t blame Ronald for lying,” she said, sitting beside him on the couch. “Or for calling us. We only have another twenty-four hours before we can put our plan into effect, and then we stage a bloodless coup of Psi Corps. Don’t you want that—to get rid of Bester and his ilk?”

  “Sister, right now, your ilk doesn’t seem much better.” One of the goons moved forward with his fists balled, and Garibaldi winced, awaiting the blow.

  But Emily Crane waved the man off and looked back at Garibaldi. “Do you see why we have to keep you quiet for twenty-four hours, until the bill is passed and signed? Your detective work was quite good, but we can’t let years of planning go down the drain to save one telepath.”

  She smiled pleasantly. “I’m hopeful you’ll come around to our way of thinking. In twenty-four hours, after you see all that we’ve accomplished, you might want to forget about your investigation. The public is happy with Martian terrorists as the bombers—why can’t you be?”

  Garibaldi wasn’t going to argue with the lady, because the alternative to agreeing with them was probably winding up as fish food in the harbor. “What are you going to do with me?” be asked.

  Emily Crane got up, strode to the picture window, and looked out at the sleeping city. “Maybe we should move Mr. Garibaldi while it’s still dark outside. If something happened to him here, it would reflect badly on Trishman. Gag him, untie his feet, and keep a PPG in his back.”

  The thugs untied the rope around Garibaldi’s ankles and hauled him to his feet. They shoved the foul-tasting rag back into his mouth, but he was willing to give up his voice in exchange for having his legs free. His hands were still tied behind his back, but he could kick, he could run! He saw one of the goons pull a PPG out of his jacket pocket, and he felt the metal in his back. Maybe he wouldn’t kick or run right now, thought Garibaldi.

  Emily Crane opened the door and checked the corridor to make sure it was clear, then she motioned for them to follow her. Garibaldi stumbled out, sandwiched between the two thugs, one of whom had a PPG in his back. The only reason they were letting him walk, he decided, was to keep from having to carry his dead body. Nevertheless, he couldn’t think of any way to get away from them, and he behaved himself all the way down the elevator and the escalator.

  In the street, he told himself, maybe someone would see this obvious kidnapping and call the cops. But there was no one in the street in these dead hours just before dawn, nothing but a silent row of electric-powered vehicles. If he ran, thought Garibaldi, he was trying to decide how many meters he would get before the guy with the PPG drilled him. He figured three.

  Suddenly, a strange voice seemed to speak in his head. It told him to duck! Garibaldi had nothing to lose, so he pretended to trip. He stumbled to the pavement a split second before a PPG blast ripped the head off the man behind him. The other goon was drawing his weapon when three blasts from entirely different directions turned his midsection a fiery orange. The two pieces of him fell to the g
round.

  Emily Crane ran for it, and her short height let her elude the first shots directed at her. Then two black-suited Psi Cops jumped out of the bushes directly in front of her. As she stumbled away from them, begging forgiveness, they executed her.

  Strong arms picked Garibaldi off the pavement and guided him to a black shuttlecraft that awaited them in an adjacent parking lot. They tossed him in like a bag of potatoes, the hatch slammed shut, and the thrusters blasted the craft off the ground and into the black night.

  “Hold still,” said a familiar voice, and Garibaldi felt hands untying the ropes at his back. Once his hands were free, he ripped off the gag and rolled over to greet his saviors.

  The first thing he saw was the relieved and smiling face of Harriman Gray. Behind him, swathed in bandages and holding a cane, sat Mr. Bester. The only other person in the shuttlecraft was the pilot, and she was concentrating on getting them through the skyscrapers of Boston.

  “It would be polite to say ‘thank you,’” suggested Bester.

  “Yes, thank you,” croaked Garibaldi. “You … you wasted them. Damn it, Emily Crane was the only one who could clear Talia Winters!”

  “Rogue telepaths,” said Bester. “All perfectly legal, although I doubt if we’ll claim credit. Actually, you owe your life to Mr. Gray here. He got worried about you last night and contacted my office. When I spoke with him, he told me all about Emily Crane and the Mix. We just managed to get a tail on her before she came over here with her friends. We’ve been hoping you would come out soon.”

  Garibaldi touched his partner’s arm. “Thanks, Gray.”

  The young telepath looked a bit sheepish. “I wasn’t planning to tell Mr. Bester last night, but I got worried about you.”

  The security chief looked out the cockpit window at the vanishing lights of the city. “Did you warn me to duck?” he asked.

  Gray nodded, and Garibaldi cleared his throat, thinking about what would have happened to him if he hadn’t ducked. He lifted his hand, and it was still shaking.