"I'll have to think about it."
For whatever reason, his medication hadn't shown up in his secure postbox. The one thing he really needed from what remained of his network, and it hadn't come. It was three days late now. What could have happened? The people involved simply couldn't betray him-he had too much on them, and in some cases, in them.
In another week, things would start to get bad. He would start leaking, telepathically. Louise, if no one else, would find out what he was. She might even be able to handle it, but would she be able to handle it when he lost his mind and began the agonizing process of dying? Would she be able to handle having to spoon-feed him like a baby, change his pants'? He wouldn't put her through that, no matter what, not that she would do it anyway. No, he would end up in the hospital, where eventually a routine DNA check would slip past his insiders in the Metasensory Division of the EABI. Then the hunters would come. But of course they wouldn't find much, would they?
It was just a delay, nothing more. The ampoules would arrive tomorrow, and everything would be fine.
* * *
When two more days passed with no sign of his medication, he did something he did not want to do. He went to a pay phone and dialed a certain number. That connected him to an AI in Sweden, which in turn up-linked him to Mars, and finally to the off-world colony of Crenshaw's World. Supposedly, at each node there was only a two-percent chance of being traced either way, and through three transfers he should be safe no matter what.
The call took a long time to connect. Finally, someone answered the phone.
"Hello."
He stood stock-still. He didn't answer. He knew the voice well enough, but it wasn't the one he had expected.
"Bester? Is that you? You know who this is, don't you?"
It was Garibaldi.
"Fin coming for you, Bester. I'm coming for you, you son of a bitch."
Bester hung up.
* * *
Jem made a stuttering sound when he opened the door to find Bester standing there. It took him several seconds to compose himself enough to invite Bester in.
"I haven't been giving Louise a hard time," he rushed to say.
"In fact, I've been keeping trouble away from her and givin' the other hotels in the neighborhood more trouble so she'd get more customers. Just like you said."
"I know, Jem, and I'm very pleased. That's not what I came here for."
"No?"
"No. I need some help with something, something right up your alley."
"Oh. Uh - sit down, if you mind?"
"I don't mind if I do," Bester replied, taking a seat in an overstuffed armchair.
"Mind if I get a drink?"
"Not at all."
"You want one?"
"It's a little early in the day for me."
Jem poured himself a tumbler of scotch, then sat on the couch, rolling the glass between his palms.
"What's the deal?" he asked.
"It's pretty simple, really-a little breaking and entering."
"Where, what, and when?"
Jem's voice was smoothing out now, growing more confident now that they were talking about something he knew how to deal with.
"A pharmacy downtown, the big one on the Boulevard St.-Germain."
"I know the place. It's pretty tough. During the plague there was a rumor that they had a cure, but only the rich were getting it. After a few break-ins they screwed security down good. What do you need? I can probably get it on the black market."
"Not this. And it's the only place in Paris that has what I want."
There were four people in Paris besides himself who suffered from his condition-he'd checked that before coming. He had even acquired their names and addresses, against just this sort of eventuality. His original contingency plan had been to simply go to their houses and take their doses if he needed them. That was before Garibaldi got involved. The drug was made by a rival company, but Garibaldi must have discovered Bester's condition somehow and tracked down Bester's supplier. That complicated matters considerably.
The number of people who needed the inhibitor were few enough that a man with Garibaldi's resources could have tracked them all down. If one of them turned up dead, or had to apply for another dose, it would attract attention. So far, Garibaldi didn't - couldn't - know where he was. His contact on Crenshaw's World couldn't have given up his location because he didn't know it.
But if he took the serum from one of the other telepaths in Paris, Garibaldi would know where he was, probably within days, certainly in under a month. Hitting the pharmacy itself was safer, more oblique. Pharmacies got robbed all the time. The trick was simply to make certain no one could tell why it had been hit.
"I need you to torch it, too."
"Why?"
"That's on a need to know basis, Jem, and you don't need to know. How about it?"
"Sure thing, Mr. Kaufiran. I'll do it."
"Actually, we'll do it. I need to be there."
Jem absorbed that with clear surprise, but didn't say anything. He took another gulp of his drink and stared down into the amber fluid.
"What did you do to me, Mr. Kaufiman?" he asked, in a small voice.
"I tried... I tried to tell my buddies, but I couldn't. Sometimes I try to think about killing you, too..." he winced, suddenly "...but I can't even think about it. And the dreams I have... I keep dreaming I'm dead, that I'm just this walking hole in the air.
I haven't asked please in my whole life. Never, not even to my old man. But I'm asking now. Please. Je vous en prie. I'll do whatever you say. Anything. But just-can't you make the dreams stop?"
Bester tilted his head.
"You'll do anything I say, no matter what, or it'll get worse, and worse, and worse, until you can't stand to even blink. You know that. I don't have to do anything for your obedience. As far as you are concerned, I am God, the only thing in the universe that really matters."
"Please."
He was weeping. Bester reached over and patted Jem's shoulder. The big man flinched.
"I'll consider it, after this job. Consider it, mind you."
"Okay," Jem said, and finished his drink. His eyes didn't seem to hold much hope.
"Now, why don't you be a good little boy and go check out the pharmacy? Everything-floor plan, guards, security equipment. I'll give you two days to get all of that together, then I'll meet you back here and we'll make our plans. Okay?"
"Okay. I'm right on it."
"Good boy. I'll see you in two days."
Chapter 10
Bester's skin itched, and the light played games with his eyes. He found it more difficult than ever to sit still, and Byron's voice was louder in his head. So were strange voices, floating m from the street like unpleasant and unwanted fumes. He told himself it would be okay. Tonight he would speak to Jem again, and in a few days he'd have the inhibitor. If not... if not, he would do what he had to. Find one of the other teeps, take their dose, and leave Paris.
The thought of being on the run again, beneath cold and unfamiliar stars, hurt more than he thought it would. For a terrible instant, he actually thought he would weep. He was losing control of his emotions, not a good sign.
"You seem sad today," Louise observed, from her place at the easel.
The sound of her voice soothed him, but it also highlighted his dilemma. Soon he would start leaking, telepathically. Soon she would know what he was, maybe even who he was. Would she hate him then? Probably. Definitely, Byron mocked.
"I'm just feeling sorry for myself. A common failing in the old."
"You aren't that old-but I must say, you do seem rather alone in the world, Mr. Kaufman. Don't you have any family, any friends?"
The Corps is mother, the Corps is father. We are the children of the Corps, Byron interjected, in a snide tone.
"Not anymore," Bester said wearily.
"What about you? Don't you have family?"
"I had a pretty big family," Louise said.
"Three brothers and three sisters. I was the middle child."
"Where is this big family of yours?"
"Well, it's not so big now. Dad suffered a heart attack six years ago. My youngest brother, Pierre, was on the Victory when the Drakh took her out. Jean and Francois immigrated to Beta Colony years ago. Mom is remarried and lives in Melbourne; we talk on the phone but it's been two years since I saw her. One of my sisters, Anne, fought with Sheridan against Clark, and my oldest sister was in Clark's personal guard. They haven't spoken since, and after one attempt at making peace between them, I haven't spoken much to them, either."
"That leaves a sister."
"Ah. I stole her boyfriend and made him my husband."
"Oops."
"Yes. I keep hoping she'll forgive me-you'd think she'd see by now that I did her a favor. But I'm not going to beg."
"I'm sorry to hear ail of this."
"Don't be. I still love them, and I think they all still love me. You never really lose family-you just misplace them now and then. But I've learned that it isn't smart to count on them, either. A lot of people from big families never really learn to be independent. I did, and I'm glad. The rest will work out, eventually."
"And now you seem sad."
"Sad, yes. Depressed, no. And you dodged my question, I think. About your family."
"I had a big family, too," Bester said, and to his surprise he realized it wasn't exactly a lie.
"I had a brother-Brett. We were always rivals, I guess, always trying to one-up each other. In a way, I think I was closest to him, of all my siblings."
He watched the clouds in the sky beyond the window. He thought he could see faces in them, Milla, Azmun, and yes, Brett. The kids from his cadre, the ones he had grown up with. What were they, if not siblings?
"Brett's been dead for many years. I still miss him, even though it sometimes feels like he's looking over my shoulder. Our parents..."
The Corps is mother, the Corps is father
"...our parents were tough, but fair. Pretty old school."
He smiled, but behind his eyes a memory flashed so vividly that for a moment he didn't see Louise, or the clouds, or anything else. Instead he saw fire and smoke, a rogue stronghold on Mars almost half a century ago.
The leader of the rebel telepaths was dying at his feet. A man who claimed to have held Bester as a baby, to have known his real parents. Matthew and Fiona Dexter, the kingpins of the underground until they were killed in 2189, the year he had been born.
He shot the rogue for saying that, shot him until the fist holding the gun clenched permanently, into a useless, dead...
"C'laude? What is it? What's wrong?"
He blinked. Louise was watching him with a look of concern in her face.
"Nothing. I... just a memory."
"Must have been some memory. Are you sure you're okay?"
"I... yes. Don't worry about me. You just keep painting."
"I can't. I'm not seeing what I want to-that thing in you I wanted to capture. I think it's never been farther from your face."
"I'm sorry to disappoint you."
"I'm disappointed in myself, not in you. But I'll find it eventually."
"May I see the painting?"
"Not until it's done. Old tradition. Still, we're done for the day, I think."
"Now I'm disappointed," he blurted, and was instantly sorry he had done so.
She didn't answer, though he thought he felt a mental blush from her. The air seemed to dance, and not in a good way. He was getting worse. He had to see Jem.
"I'm not sure we can do it," Jem explained.?
"Why?"
"They went the whole nine yards and made it a smart building. Anybody goes in there gets detected by motion, sniffers, and sound. Sends an alarm to the security company and the cops. The response time was only six minutes last time somebody tried to get in, and it could be even quicker.
The whole thing is run by an AI, so there's no way to fool it. It's wireless and has its own power supply, so there are no lines to cut. Plus, there's a live guard. Even if we get the job done fast enough, it'll take records of us-the damn thing is lousy with eyes and sniffers, and most of him are probably hidden."
"I think I can solve that problem," Bester said.
"How?"
"With this."
He held out a small black chip, about the size of a book of matches.
"What's that?"
Bester tumbled the object between his fingers. It was one of the things that had gotten him to Earth through the tight security and quarantine. A bit of Shadow technology that Psi Corps had been able to copy and make use of.
"Have you ever read Descartes?"
"Uh, no."
"You should broaden your mind, Jem. It's good for you. He said, ''I think, therefore I am.''"
"Yeah, I've heard that."
"You understand it?"
"I guess so."
"It was part of a larger point Descartes was making. I know I exist, but how do I know anyone or anything else does? Can I really trust the information I receive from my senses? Maybe not. It could all be an illusion, or a delusion. I might be imagining all of it."
"I know the feeling," Jem said.
"What's this got to do with the security system?"
"Just this. The building is an artificial intelligence that examines the information provided by its sensors, decides what it has seen, heard, smelled, and then acts upon that data. This device..." he held up the black chip "...can map the Al's system, then impose its own logic. In effect, it will make the AI unable to act upon the data it receives-because the AI won't ''believe'' it."
"You're going to screw with the computer's head."
"Exactly."
"I've heard of that kind of thing. Usually it doesn't work- the computer recognizes it as a virus or whatever."
"This isn't a virus. It can perfectly mimic the Al, which won't recognize that any foreign intervention is involved. The internal alarms won't go off, and the ''OK'' signals will go out just as before."
"I guess I'll take your word for it." Bester smiled.
"As in so many things, Jem, you don't have a choice."
The street was quiet enough at two in the morning, but Paris was never truly quiet. In the distance, ground-car horns blared voices rose in protest, anger, and joy, adding to the background noise that was building in his head.
The April rain was a godsend. Oh, it was miserable and cold, winter having its last say, but it drew a beaded curtain across the world. In the rain, people put their heads down and hurried to wherever they were going. People missed things, in the rain.
Bester found that he liked it. Years-maybe decades, now that he thought about it-had passed in his life without him ever feeling a drop on his cheek. The closest thing to rain that Mars ever got was a subtle condensation, a frost. Nothing like this, this smell of wet pavement, of the air itself being washed clean.
Jem seemed less happy. He hunkered against the downpour. He was probably one of those people who tried to calculate whether he would get wet faster running or walking. As if it mattered, Bester mused. As if a tiny bit more or less wet could make a difference.
A car passed, and the rain became gems, falling in slow motion, white-hot metal, dripping...
Get a grip, Bester, he thought.
Just a little longer, and this particular problem will be solved.
What then? Byron asked.
Will you go somewhere else and pretend not to be a monster?
"Shut up," he muttered.
"Eh?" Jem asked.
"Nothing."
"Well, we're here. This is the back door I was telling you about."
"Oh."
He fumbled the black chip out of his pocket, touched one of the contacts. Almost immediately, a green light flicked on.
"That's got it," Al said.
"You can open the door now."
Jem opened his heavy black bag and pulled out a bulkhead drill. He stuck it ag
ainst the lock and turned it on, pulsing bursts of coherent X rays in rapid cycles. Rain began to hiss against the door as the metal heated up. A few moments later, Jem pushed it open. It went with a sigh, the loudest sound either of them had made so far.
Al pulled a Colt 9 mm from his coat pocket and made sure the silencer was in place. Not the PPG he was used to, but those were hard to come by on Earth. In space they were great, because the phased helium plasma they fired could wreak terrific havoc on flesh and bone without punching a hole through a bulkhead. But PPGs were expensive, generally limited to security and military personnel, and in the end no better for killing quickly than a slug thrower. Less so, in fact, in many ways.
As they ghosted into the building, Bester concentrated and probed for the guard, but came up with nothing. That was odd. His senses should be heightened by his condition, not dulled.
Maybe that was the problem. The city was practically shouting at him. The gentle murmur and cadence of minds- which had once so intrigued him-had, in the past few days, become a loathsome racket. What was that line from Poe?
Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad?
Yes, if he didn't get the serum soon, he would end as the protagonist of that story, screaming madly about some imaginary telltale heart...
He shook his head to clear it, and scanned again. This was no time for slip-ups. Still nothing. Maybe the guard had the night off.
Jem could move with admirable grace when he wanted to, like some sort of big cat. And Bester, of course, had the benefit of long years of practice, from that first time he had gone after Blips, on his own, when he was only fifteen. That had been in Paris, too... He caught it, then, the sudden feeling that someone was walking on his grave.
And the almost forgotten sensation of brushing across someone's blocks. Blocks. Blocks. The guard was a telepath.
Of course. Telepaths could do almost anything these days, couldn't they? The possibility had never occurred to him.
"Hold it. Hold it right there."
No. It had never occurred to him, and as a consequence, the telepath guard was right behind them.
Babylon 5 12 - Psi Corps 03 - Final Reckoning - The Fate Of Bester (Keyes, Gregory) Page 9