"Doesn't matter. What happens if he doesn't take this?"
"Oh - first euphoria, heightened senses, faster cognition. Like being on a stimulators. That's followed by hallucinations and seizures, and finally the collapse of the nervous system."
"Any other treatment?"
"Not that I know of. The mutant cells are resistant to gene tampering. You can insert a replacement sequence to try and normalize them, but within weeks they return to the state they started in. We think they somehow code their genetic information in non-DNA form in the neural net itself-another good indication that they are engineered. In fact, in that way, they resemble the Drakh plague. You can't kill them all and replace them with normal cells, either, because in the meantime the neurons they keep alive, functioning, and supporting would die. Besides, there aren't enough people who have this to make the research worthwhile, and it doesn't seem to be communicable."
"But if the man using this inhibitor takes this medication every-how often?"
"Once a month."
"Once a month, he's okay?"
"Yes. The drug is a hundred percent effective, when used on schedule."
"Yes!" Garibaldi said.
"That's great. Thanks, Drennan."
The fellow nodded, but he'd turned away. Apparently the whole conversation had already been forgotten in favor of whatever he was working on. Garibaldi left the lab whistling.
"One of your own damn bugs bit you, Bester. Serves you right. And now I've found your little trail of breadcrumbs. When I find you, you're gonna wish the wicked witch had just eaten you."
But at that a thought dampened his spirits, if only a little. Bester was sick. What if he couldn't get the treatment? What if he was dying? No. Nothing could beat him to the punch-nothing. Garibaldi took comfort in knowing something about his enemy, and that included one very important fact: Bester wanted to live. And nobody and nothing got between Bester and what he wanted.
In that one way, he and Bester were alike. Here was something he could trace, something Bester had to have.
At last he had a real lead.
Chapter 7
"Always dark clothes," Louise said, her voice somehow laughing and complaining at the same time.
"I'm a winter," Bester replied, checking the price tag on a gabardine suit.
"Even in winter it isn't always nighttime. What about this?"
She held up a deep burgundy jacket with a flaring collar. Big collars had come back in style while he had been gone, apparently.
"Not me," he replied.
"So you ask me to come shopping with you, and now you disregard all of my advice."
"I didn't ask you to come shopping with me," Bester replied, mildly.
"Well, you should have. You have terrible taste. You dress like a gangster."
"Maybe I am a gangster."
She put her chin between her fingers.
"Yes. That would explain why Jem has been so nice to me for the last several weeks. You put the squeeze on him, as they say."
Bester shrugged.
"Maybe he was just intimidated by my massive physical presence."
"And your black clothes. Come, just let me select one outfit for you."
He cocked his head and looked over at her.
"Okay. On one condition."
"No more painting?"
"That's not it."
"What then?"
"You let me pick one outfit for you. And pay for it."
Her mouth dropped open as she realized that she had been trapped.
"Pick it, yes, though I warn you I won't wear black. Pay for it - I can't"
"Yes you can. You haven't bought anything new since I met you. I insist."
She looked as if she were preparing another objection, but then she arched one eyebrow.
"I pick out any outfit for you, and you will wear it?"
Uh-oh.
"Within reason. And given my conditions."
"Done," she said, grabbed him by the hand, and started pulling.
It was his bad hand, the clenched one. She had never mentioned it, never asked about it, never touched it-until now. He actually felt a blush coming on. In the Corps, you always wore gloves, except when you were alone-or intimate.
He had a sudden flash of Elizabeth Montoya, the first woman he had slept with. Another telepath. They had just passed a field test, and they were drunk, and they had started kissing. When they got to the hotel room, she had stripped off his gloves and kissed each finger, digging her tongue between them to the soft junctures, sucking insistently on the tips...
It was such a powerfully erotic memory that for a moment nothing existed but the remembered sensations and the warmth of Louise's fingers on his crippled hand. It had been that hand, too, that Liz had kissed, long before the accident that had robbed him of its use.
He shook himself out of it, and worried. Had he actually gone into a fugue state? Had he missed a dose of his medication? No, he had taken his last shot less than two weeks ago. He was fine. It was just the hand.
The hand...
Normals made fun of it. He had seen vid comedies lampooning telepaths and their "hand fetish."
But then, they always made fun of what they didn't understand, and what they could never, never have. They could never know what it meant to feel both sides of pleasure.
Louise wasn't like that. She didn't judge. Sometimes he thought he could tell her who he was, tell her everything, and she would somehow make a place for it.
He didn't think that very often, because he knew it wasn't true. No matter how much better she was than the average normal, no matter how understanding, no one could ever understand him, or the things he had done. No one.
He blinked. They were standing in front of a rack of clothes. Very bright clothes. Shimmering clothes.
"Within reason," he reminded her.
Moments later, he was looking dubiously at himself in the mirror. The slacks were okay-a sort of dark chocolate, some material from Centauri Prime that resembled shantung silk. The jacket - wasn't a jacket. It was a sort of dressing gown, loose, flowing, with wide sleeves, and it hung halfway down his calves. It was a smoky brown, but almost-paisley curls of subdued gold and rust shimmered and vanished in the light.
"See? Not so bad."
"I... where would I wear this?"
"You're a writer now! It's all the rage. Voltaire had a coat almost exactly like this."
"That was five hundred years ago."
"It's back in style. It's the literati uniform. Surely you've noticed."
In fact, he had. Young men dressed like this in the coffeehouses, and the look had somehow irritated him. It seemed pretentious. But part of him had to admit that on him, it didn't look half bad.
"Well... I suppose I could wear it around the hotel. It looks like something you would wear to breakfast."
"You'll see. It will grow on you."
"Okay," he said.
"Okay, you win. And now it's my turn."
Louise went through the women's section rather nonchalantly.
"This is nice," she said, fingering a practical denim jumper.
"And this," a modest suit.
Bester nodded at each. She was trying to fool him into buying her something cheap and practical. Her thoughts betrayed her, however.
He wasn't scanning her, of course, but people leaked feelings, and when she saw the evening gown, he felt a sudden surge of desire from her. For an evening gown of the times, it was modestly cut, but the fabric was Centauri tersk, a material once reserved only for Centauri women of noble birth. The Centaurum had fallen on hard times, however, and they were, in many ways, a practical people.
Tersk was as thin and iridescent as a film of oil. It was affected by body heat and chemistry, so it never looked the same on any two women. And it was expensive. He chose the nicest of the things she pointed to, a navy blue dress.
"Thank you," she told him when they were done.
"I can wear it to the opera next we
ek."
"A bargain is a bargain," he replied.
"Do you want to get something to eat? There's a nice bistro around the corner."
"No, I'm afraid I have business to attend to. I'm meeting with my editor in half an hour."
"Very well, then. See you this evening. I'm making the etouffee again - perhaps I can manage to get the roux right, this time."
"Well... ", he said dubiously, "...good luck."
She hit him lightly over the head with her wallet.
"That, for you, monsieur connoisseur."
"See you this evening."
* * *
Jean-Pierre barked a little laugh.
"The plot staggers like an epileptic in shock? Don't you think that's a bit much?"
"Not at all," Bester replied, sipping his espresso.
"Well, far be it for me to censor my most popular critic."
"Me?"
"Well, you certainly draw the most response from our readers. Half of them think you're a genius, the other half hate you with a raging passion. A good balance for a critic."
"I aim to please."
Jean-Pierre took a drag on his clove cigarette and exhaled grey plumes from his nose, a fragrant Chinese dragon.
"This isn't a criticism, just an observation-I've noticed you never review anything favorably. Don't you like anything?"
"Sure I do. Hymns for the Damned was one of the best books I've read in ten years."
"But you didn't review Hymns for the Damned."
"Exactly. Why should I review something I liked? What's the use in that?"
"You're an odd man, Kaufman. Are you certain you weren't born in Paris?"
"As certain as I can be of something I don't remember, I suppose."
Jean-Pierre nodded absently and stubbed out his smoke in a small jade ashtray.
"I have some good news, of sorts. We're increasing our circulation. The magazine is selling better than we hoped. I have to admit, I am of two minds about it. We've begun to attract attention."
"I'm sure that's what you wanted."
"Yes, but we are beginning to get... offers."
"Of what sort?"
"Publishers are asking us to review certain books."
"Ah. And to take a certain stance in those reviews."
"An insidious business, yes? But I started this magazine to tell the truth, not to pander to commercial interests."
"Good for you," Bester said, dryly.
"Still, it might be worth it to... compromise a bit, if it means we can expand our readership."
"Not to me," Bester said.
"I like doing this. I don't have to do this, and I won't if I can't do it my way."
"Yes, of course, I agree with you completely. Completely. I would never ask you to give a favorable review to a book you didn't feel deserved it. But if you were to be presented with a book and liked it..."
"No. I've just explained that to you. The object of the critique is to improve literature. Nothing was ever improved by applause."
"What do you mean?"
"Fear of failure, fear of criticism, fear of rejection-those are the only things that writers are accountable to. Praise makes people weak. Why improve if you think you are doing things right?"
"You've never heard of positive reinforcement?"
"I've heard of it. I've also heard of unicorns and minotaurs. Do you think any sort of evolution works by positive reinforcement? It is the eliminative process of natural selection that makes biological evolution work-positive traits are only positive in the sense that they aren't negative. The same is true in literature. We can cut away the chaff, but we can't improve the quality of genius in good writers simply by feeding their egos. Nothing works like that. It's a simple fact."
"Well. Magazines don't get printed without money. That is another simple fact."
Bester shrugged.
"Whether or not the magazine is printed is your problem, not mine."
"You've had other offers?"
"A few. I won't take them unless you force me to."
Jean-Pierre pulled out another cigarette and lit it with a Nam touch-wand.
"I give up. I suppose a critic must be incorruptible."
Bester smiled.
"I'm not incorruptible. I'm so corrupt nothing you can offer me is tempting."
"Well, it works out the same, yes? Very well. There are others who will write the sort of review we need."
"I'll take them to task."
Jean-Pierre frowned.
"This is not your magazine, Mr. Kaufman. I still decide what gets printed and what doesn't"
"I'm sure you do. And I know you'll make the right decisions."
He smiled in such a way as to cast doubt upon that.
* * *
He made a stop on the way home. When he arrived, the hotel's little cafe was full.
Business had been good since Jem and his boys had moderated their behavior.
The etouffee was better this time, and the wine Louise brought out was almost exquisite. He suspected special treatment-it looked like the house wine on the rest of the tables.
He finished his meal and went to work on his next review, there in the cafe. There was something about the place, something that felt more like home than anyplace had since he had fled his apartments on Mars. Perhaps it was the fact that he had helped restore the dining room. The personal investment.
It was late before dinner was done. Louise came out of the kitchen, brushing her hands on her apron.
"May I join you?"
"Of course."
He pushed his Al back. Louise poured herself a glass of red wine and sat down with a sigh.
"Ah, it feels good to be off of my feet."
"Long day?"
"A madhouse. All of the rooms are full!"
"Well, that's good, isn't it?"
"Very good." She frowned.
"I left your new outfit in your room. I thought you said you would wear it around the hotel."
"Oh, I just went up long enough to get my AI. I'll wear it tomorrow, I promise."
"Well, I'll let it pass this once. Anything interesting happen to you today?"
He told her about the conversation with lean-Pierre, and she nodded.
"I had no notion that you were so idealistic," she said.
"It has nothing to do with idealism," Bester replied.
"I don't have it in me to write that sort of thing. It would be like a monkey trying to do ballet, or a horse singing opera."
"Speaking of opera," she said, taking another sip of the wine, "I think I mentioned I'm going next week. I'll wear the dress you bought me. I was wondering if you liked that sort of thing."
"Dresses? They don't look so good on me. My calves are a little thick."
"Opera, you idiot."
"Ah. Unfortunately, I have things to do that night. I can't go."
"Oh."
"But, I did remember you mentioning it. And it occurred to me that the dress I got you today was no good for the opera."
"It's perfect."
Bester shook his head and reached into the sack by his chair.
"No," he said.
"This is perfect."
He set the box on the table. Louise looked at it, then back up at him.
"What's this?"
"Open it."
She put her wineglass down and took the wrapping from the box, then removed the lid, then gasped.
"I saw you looking at it," he explained.
It was the gown of Centauri tersk, glimmering faintly in the candlelight.
"Mr. Kaufnan, I can't... "
"You can and will. You can't return it-I made certain of that. And I won't."
"But... no, it's too extravagant. When will I wear it?"
"At the opera."
"Yes, but I go only once a year!"
"Well, perhaps you should go more often."
She stared at the material, touching it lightly with her fingers, watching it change colors.
"
I don't - I..."
A tear slipped from one of her eyes, a small ruby in firelight. Bester cleared his throat.
"Anyway. I think it's time I turned in. I've had a long day, too."
"No one has ever given me anything like this," she said.
"Well, someone should have," he said, quietly.
"Good night."
"Good night, Mr. Kaufman," she said, very softly.
"And thank you."
It didn't sound right. It sounded like she was thanking someone else.
He suddenly, powerfully wanted to hear her say his name. Bester. Al. Alfie...
"What's wrong?" she asked.
He smiled.
"Nothing. I was just reminded of an-old friend of mine."
"You seemed sad."
"My friend has passed on. He would have liked to have seen you in that dress. It would have made him happy. He liked beauty."
"It will not look as good on me as it looks by itself. It's fantastic."
He hovered for an instant, thinking to correct her, to explain that it was picturing her in it that led him to buy it.
* * *
He decided against it, and left her there. It took him a long time to fall asleep. Once, he had lost his soul-not figuratively, but literally. He had been much younger, and had volunteered to perform deathbed scans. These were often necessary in the case of a victim of a violent crime, who might know the face of his killer, or of a mortally wounded rogue who could reveal where his comrades were hiding out. It was hard and dangerous, following someone into death. Most telepaths could only stand to do it once. A few had done as many as four.
He had done eight.
Eight times, and each time a part of him had died with them. Finally, when he slipped beyond the final doorway they all passed through, he had looked into his own heart and had seen nothing there. Nothing.
But then, decades later, there had been Carolyn, and now...
So he lay there, listening as Louise came up the stairs, as the door to her room closed softly. Lay there wondering; if a man lived long enough, could he grow a new soul?
Chapter 8
"Michael, what the hell is this?"
Lise Hampton-Garibaldi demanded.
"Shhh. I just got her to sleep!"
"Oh."
Babylon 5 12 - Psi Corps 03 - Final Reckoning - The Fate Of Bester (Keyes, Gregory) Page 7