"Oh, that I understand, Sophie. If I'm caught, I doubt I can stop them from finding out whatever they want to. I would never turn in an associate, but they have ways. Yes, if I'm caught, I doubt very much that I shall stand trial alone.
You and I know that everything we did was justified, but in any conflict, the winners have the privilege of writing its history. We did not win, you and I, and history does not look kindly on us."
"Are you threatening me, Mr. Bester? That isn't very gracious, considering all I've done for you. And as you know, I am not wanted by the tribunal. Unlike yourself, I didn't commit any acts that can be construed as war crimes."
Bester broadened his smile a bit.
"Ah, truth," he said, taking his glass and studying the play of light in the burgundy fluid.
"It's all so... relative. Once I was a patriot, an example of everything that was good about the Corps. Now they say I am the most terrible criminal who ever lived. And who better than me to tell them who the other criminals were? After all, I was the evil mastermind."
"You wouldn't."
"Sophie, I want to go to Earth. Get me there with a secure identity. Get me through or around this quarantine. I'm asking nicely, right now. But as I said, I'm weary, and cranky, and I'm tired of cheap off world wine. Once I'm there, I doubt very much that you will see or hear from me ever again. Oh, the occasional postcard, maybe..."
He thought she would relent there, but she went for another round.
"I've heard you still have the black ships," she said.
"The ones EarthGov and the Corps couldn't admit existed. What about them?"
"Your information is a little outdated," Bester countered coldly.
Then he softened his voice.
"Sophie, you were a good intern. And I was good to you, wasn't I? Wasn't I there for you when things got tough at Kerf?"
Her eyes darted about, like those of an animal seeking escape. But there wasn't any, not from him, and she knew it.
"Very well," she said at last.
"I'll do what I can."
"I knew you'd see things my way."
"Mr. Bester, you have a way of making certain there's no other way to see them."
He nodded condescendingly.
"Another thing," he said as he rose.
"I'll need a supply of choline ribosylase - untraceable, of course."
Her face suddenly transfigured, and he felt a hint of pity.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"I didn't know."
"Save your sympathy for someone who needs it, Sophie," he replied, more brusquely than he intended.
Not much later he retired to his room, but found that he wasn't tired enough for sleep. He decided to take a walk. After all, he had never been to the Maui colony, and if things went well he would never be back.
He selected a suit of black silk twill and a caudric shirt the same color, fastening the top button with a brass-colored over-cap. He studied himself for a moment in the floor-length mirror. His hair was almost white, as was his beard, though his eyebrows still kept a reddish brown tinge. His face seemed to have more lines each time he looked at it, but all in all he looked pretty good for a man of eighty-two.
Except for his hands, which jarred him every time. Pink, gloveless-naked. He flexed his right hand, the good one. When he was a teenager, he'd had nightmares now and then that he was out in public, without his gloves.
Telepaths didn't wear gloves anymore, so he couldn't either, not without being noticed. It made him feel dirty. But, he mused, one adapted.
A few moments later he stepped from Sophie Herndon's rambling abode onto a quiet street. A few natives were out walking, too. The air was cool but not cold, very pleasant except for the faint smell of the sea-fishy, but subtly different from any ocean on Earth. Maui was mostly water-from space you couldn't really see anything else. From what he had seen of it, it was rather charming. It had character.
The original settlers had been mostly Polynesian romantics, bent on recapturing a lost past. Of course you couldn't really do that. And children rarely inherited their parents' infatuations, especially when it meant living in grass houses on a planet somewhat chillier, even at the equator, than Earth.
Still, the architecture had certain South Sea touches, and the streetlamps resembled paper lanterns made in fanciful shapes, a legacy of the second wave of mostly Chinese immigrants. The people seemed pleasant enough and minded their business. Not a bad place to settle for a while. Until they found him again.
Maybe Sophie was right. Maybe going to Earth was too dangerous. The street took him to a dockside stretch, and as he walked up that, he felt the tickle of minds around him. Somewhere near, tentative lovers were embracing. A man on a boat was silently cursing his mangled nets. An old woman was remembering that the nights had been warmer when she was a girl.
He smelled something cooking, and his stomach reminded him he hadn't eaten in a while. The lights of a restaurant appeared ahead, welcoming, and on impulse he entered. Inside, it was warmer, in temperature and in mood. The walls were of polished, reddish wood-or, no, maybe coral, or whatever passed for it here. Candlelight provided the only illumination.
A girl at the door asked him to remove his shoes and showed him to a long, low table with mats on either side-no chairs. He sat cross-legged, an act his bones protested a bit. There were others farther down the table, who nodded at him as he sat. He nodded back. The girl brought him a sweet, mildly alcoholic drink that tasted like sake with a green-tea aftertaste. It wasn't bad, so he took a few sips.
"Something to eat?" she asked, in lilting Anglic.
"Please," he replied.
"Whatever's good."
She nodded and left, but returned a few moments later with a young man, whom she seated across from him.
He figured it was probably the custom here to seat together strangers who came in alone. But he wanted to be by himself. He smiled at the young fellow, and was just about to say so, when all the hairs on the back of his neck prickled up.
The man was wearing a Psi Corps badge. No, that wasn't right. It looked like the old badge, but there was no Psi Corps anymore. This badge merely identified a telepath who was working professionally within some other organization.
"I--ah-guess this is how they do it here," the fellow said hesitantly.
He couldn't be more than twenty, a square-faced boy with auburn hair and an infectious smile. He was wearing an EarthForce uniform. Bester felt nothing alarming in his surface thoughts. Could this be a coincidence? He didn't really believe it. Carefully, carefully, he tightened his blocks while at the same time extending his senses.
"My name is Derrick Thompson," the fellow offered.
"Nice to meet you," Bester replied.
"I'm Fred Tozzer."
"It's good to meet you, Mr. Tozzer. Are you a native?"
Still not even a whiff of deception. It would take more than a P12 to hide that from him.
"No, actually," he replied.
"I'm a tourist."
"Where from?"
"Oh, Mars originally, but I suppose you could call me a citizen of... name is the galaxy. I've traveled all of my life, and now that I'm retired, I find that I can't break the habit."
"What brought you to Maui?"
"Oh, I heard the fish was good."
Derrick laughed politely.
"And you? I assume you aren't from around here."
"Nope. Earth, Kansas City. You might have guessed from my uniform that I'm in EarthForce. I'm stationed here, on the base at Bue Atoll. Right now I'm on leave and thought I'd take in the sights."
"You must be pretty disappointed to be seated with an old man rather than a young girl. And me not even a local."
He shrugged.
"I have a girl already, so this'll keep me out of trouble. I-ah-saw you staring at my psi badge. Telepaths don't make you uncomfortable, do they? I won't take offense if you want me to sit elsewhere."
"No, not at all, it's just-well, I'm an old man. I'
m not used to seeing that badge on that uniform. And I haven't been back to Earth since before the-crisis, did they call it?"
"Yep. Well, things are different now. Better. Before the crisis there were a lot of things we weren't allowed to do. Be in EarthForce, for instance. Now the world is wide open."
The waitress arrived with their food, one big bowl and two small plates.
"That looks like boiled shrimp," Al said.
"It is. They farm it off the coast."
"I was hoping for something native." Derrick smiled.
"You want a bowl of plankton? The native life is all microscopic. Anything big enough to see came from somewhere else. But you'll find the shrimp has a unique taste, since they feed on the native stuff" Al tried one.
It was unique, if not exactly good. A bit sulfury, like the yolk of a boiled egg. Derrick smiled at his expression.
"Takes a little getting used to. How long are you staying?"
"A few days."
"And where next?"
"I'm not really sure. Just playing it by ear."
"Well, that must be the life."
He lifted his cup.
"To seeing the universe."
Bester raised his cup. They clinked and drank. As the night wore on, Derrick and Bester talked of the places they had been and the things they had seen. Bester had more stories, of course, and Derrick listened with fascination. Bester kept buying the younger man drinks but sipping his own, so that by the time the place closed, Derrick was more than a little tipsy. They left together, ostensibly to find someplace that was still open.
Derrick stopped outside, stood swaying slightly and looking at the stars.
"Not a single familiar constellation," he murmured.
"It's the way I like it. Like you, huh? I guess we're two of a kind."
"Actually," Bester said
"I wouldn't mind seeing the Big Dipper again. It's been a while."
Derrick didn't seem to notice the remark. They continued up the dockside walk.
"Y'know," Derrick said,
"I have to tell you, you seem awfully familiar to me. Like maybe we've met before. What's that called? Dej'a you?"
He chuckled at his own joke.
"No, it just means you've seen my picture. I'm rea lly Alfred Bester, the notorious war criminal."
Derrick laughed at that, then became serious.
"That's not funny, really. Bester is the worst of the worst, everything that was bad about the old Psi Corps..."
He stopped, suddenly, eyes widening as he turned to look at Bester.
"Oh, shit! You are him."
Bester nodded sadly and struck hard and fast, blowing through the young man's drink-deadened guards as if they weren't there. Derrick collapsed, and Bester dragged his limp form to a nearby bench.
A man and woman, walking some thirty feet behind them, stopped.
"Is he okay?"
"He'll be fine. He's had a touch too much to drink."
"Can you manage him?" Bester smiled.
"It's the story of my life. I'm always the baby-sitter. But thanks for your concern."
The two walked on, seemingly satisfied.
When they were gone, Bester went to work, snipping out the parts of Derrick's memory that included him. But he didn't erase them. Instead, he walled them up, buried them. In time, the memories would return-first Bester's face, then their conversation. And in that, as carefully as one might set down a bird's egg in a pile of glass shards, he placed a destination. When he was certain everything was right, he called a cab and had Derrick taken to his hotel.
In a week or so, Derrick would remember he had been attacked, and like a good little soldier he would have himself scanned so his brave new Corps could learn all of the facts. One thing they would learn was that Bester was headed out of Human space altogether, things finally having got too hot for him. It amused him to think of the hunters, certain that in his old age Bester had finally slipped up.
He went back to Sophie's house, pleased with himself. He could still find the opportunity in any situation. And now he was sure-he had what it took. Dangerous or not, he was going home.
Chapter 2
"Oh-Paris in spring," Bester said to the cab driver.
He meant for it to sound cynical, and maybe it did, but to his own surprise, he didn't feel that way. It was lovely, the green track along the Champs-Elysees, the blossoms and golden sunlight, and the sky of that peculiar blue that-impossibly- didn't exist anywhere else on Earth, much less on any other planet.
But what made Earth home was its smell. Spaceships and stations, no matter how much they strove to duplicate planetary atmospheres, always smelled like the inside of a can. Planets each had their own peculiar complex of scents- different incidental gases that mixed in different proportions. Scent was the most primal and least intellectual of the senses, triggering instincts older than the Human race as inexorably as it did childhood memories.
A whiff could bring back a buried memory more vividly than could any other sense. That had been a useful thing for him to know, as a Psi Cop.
Yes, Paris smelled like Earth, and it smelled like Paris. Suddenly he was fifteen again, seeing, smelling, feeling the city through the astonishment and wonder of the boy he had been, so long ago.
It felt almost like happiness. The cabbie, however, was unimpeded by such sentiment. He had caught Bester's original intent.
"Ah, yes, the spring. When great flocks of silly birds descend on the city with their cameras and their 'which-way-is- this' and their 'je-ne-comprends-pas.' My favorite time of year, to be sure."
"I would think it a lucrative time of year."
"Yes, yes. I make lots of money. But when should I spend it? When should I enjoy it? In the dreary months, when no one wants to come here? When I am old enough to retire?"
"Yes, I can see you've drawn a very sorry lot in life," Bester said.
"But at least you have a ready audience to inflict your angst on, whenever you choose."
"You are offended by my opinions? Monsieur, there is quick relief for that. I can put you out here, on this sidewalk..."
"Yes, why don't you do that."
The driver's mouth dropped open for a second.
"Monsieur? We are still very far from your hotel."
"I know the city-well enough to know you're taking a somewhat roundabout route. I prefer to walk."
"Very well."
They were only a block or so from the Place de la Concorde. Bester paid the cabbie with his forged chit and got out. The cabbie drove off, complaining loudly to himself about crazy tourists. Bester took a deep breath. He had only a small shoulder bag that contained his forged documents and a hand computer.
His only clothes were a black leather jacket, black gabardine slacks, and a yellowish brown shirt.
He felt-free.
He started walking, back up the Champs-Elysees, toward the Arc de Triomphe. He had made reservations at a hotel, but suddenly he didn't particularly care if he went there or not. It was morning, and the whole day lay before him.
There was a sense he had not indulged in yet, the best of all. He found a bench lightly shaded by trees, then closed his eyes. And felt the mind of the city. It was in Paris, as a boy, that he had made an important discovery. Each city, he discovered, has its own psionic fingerprint, a combination of thoughts and conversations and interactions of all of its citizens, emerging into something as distinct and complex as a fine vintage of wine.
He recognized it. An odd thing, really-how many people living in the city today had been alive when he was fifteen? Not many. And yet it was the same, as if the city were a Human body, retaining continuity and integrity even though the individual cells that had made it up one year before were mostly dead and replaced.
Oh, it was a bit different, the mind of Paris. Somehow, inexplicably more vital, more alive than ever. Younger. He started walking again, and vaguely heard someone whistling. He had gone fifteen steps before he realized that the whistli
ng was coming from him. Now, this is going too far, he thought. I can't lose all my perspective, not if I want to survive. Nonetheless, a few minutes later he was whistling again. He stopped at a crepe shop and got one of the pancake like desserts filled with hazelnut paste. He felt very much like a tourist, but he didn't really care. He topped the snack with espresso, and then continued on. Hemlines were up, he noted-way up.
He seemed to remember reading somewhere that that tended to happen after wars and crises, and humanity had certainly had plenty of those lately. Clothing in general was flashier, more colorful than he remembered. The stereotypical Parisian beret, rare when he had last been here, seemed ubiquitous, though he suspected those who were wearing them were mostly tourists, or those pandering to the tourist trade.
He had the same skepticism about the antique feel of the city-that it was tourist-driven. Oh, Earth in general, and Paris in particular, were conservative, in terms of technology. But Paris actually seemed to have stepped backward in time since he had visited it last. One had to concentrate to see what was being hidden-the phones and personal computers woven invisibly into shirt collars, the electronic-ink displays in shop windows that mimicked disposable paper signs, the police hovercraft that looked like ground cars until they almost apologetically took to the sky.
He wondered if the pretense was some gestalt decision on the part of Parisians or more specifically the result of legislation. If the latter, it wouldn't be the first time that well- meaning laws had been passed to make sure Paris remained Paris. As if it could ever be anything else. He imagined the city snickering at such efforts.
He left the broad avenue and wandered deeper into the heart of the city, gradually working uphill toward the Sacre Coeur. By midday he found himself in the Pigalle, which had once been the red-light district and still had something of its old reputation. Here, where few tourists went, was found the real life of the city.
He passed a small, run-down cafe where two grizzled old men were playing checkers. Children, just out of school, playing soccer, reluctantly parted to let the occasional delivery truck through narrow streets-some still cobblestone-bordered by brick buildings pitted by centuries of rain. The residents of the Pigalle were a genetic cross section of Earth. For centuries, immigrants from every corner of the globe had settled in Paris, and Paris, in her own inexorable way, had made them Parisian.
Babylon 5 12 - Psi Corps 03 - Final Reckoning - The Fate Of Bester (Keyes, Gregory) Page 2