Voices

by John Vornholt

  “Yes,” said Talia rather proudly. “Ambassador Kosh of the Vorlons. We invited him to the reception tomorrow night, and I hope he’ll attend.”

  Garibaldi added, “But all we ever see of him is his encounter suit. It’s up to you if you want to stroll through the sector, but you won’t see anything unless we bang on people’s doors.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” said Talia. “I only come down here when I have an appointment.”

  The small telepath, Emily Crane, looked up at the storklike Mr. Malten. “I don’t want to d-disturb the residents.”

  “Neither do I,” answered Malten, placing the breathing mask back on the shelf. “But I don’t expect to be shortchanged out of our tour of Down Below.”

  “Of course not,” said Garibaldi. “What do you want to see? There’s smuggling, stolen gear getting stripped down, a bunch of derelicts nodding out. You name it, we’ve got it.”

  “All of it.” Arthur Malten smiled.

  Talia winced and Emily screwed her eyes shut as a hairless behemoth belted some scaled creature and sent him flying over shipping crates and crashing into broken shelves, long since looted. As the grubby crowd of derelicts screamed their approval, the hairless thing went slobbering after its prey and commenced the beating anew. The babble of the bettors was insane, sounding like quadraphonic bedlam inside Talia’s mind, and she would have left if the men hadn’t been enjoying it so much.

  “What do they bet?” asked Malten.

  “Just about anything,” shouted Garibaldi over the din, “credits, goats, dust, passage out of here! Passage out of here will settle almost any debt.”

  “I c-can’t stand this,” muttered Emily into Talia’s shoulder. “It’s barbaric.”

  “I agree!” Talia replied. “We must leave this terrible place at once.”

  Suddenly, there was a disgusting cracking sound, followed by howls of rage and joy, in equal measures. Talia averted her eyes from the sights on the other side of the room and found herself looking at Garibaldi. Even he was preferable. To her, Garibaldi looked more like a criminal than most of the criminals - crude, shifty, wolfish, a man who prowled instead of walked. On occasion he said something funny, but those occasions were not as numerous as he believed. She would have to be out of her mind to get too friendly with him, yet he obviously liked her. It was hard to hate a guy who drooled whenever he saw you.

  The bedlam had died down to a roar, and she was able to hear him say, “This is not a terrible place for Down Below. This is a nice place. You see a fight, and they serve you some flavored antifreeze and take your money. What more do you want?”

  Then he smiled and rubbed his chin. “Oh, I forgot, you folks can’t gamble.”

  “Isn’t that a silly regulation?” asked Malten. “I don’t see any way we could determine the outcome of this primitive sport, so what would be the harm in betting on it?”

  “It would be wrong,” said Emily simply.

  Malten smiled. “Yes, I suppose so. But we don’t know anything about some of these species, do we? They could be far more telepathic than us, yet no one tells them they can’t gamble. I think it’s a ridiculous rule. Everybody knows who we are, and they can let us play at their own risk.”

  Garibaldi frowned. “Can’t you be horsewhipped by Mr. Bester for saying stuff like that?”

  The private telepath snorted a laugh. “I’ve been saying stuff like that for a long time, only nobody listens. I’ve worked for thirty years to have telepaths accepted as just another professional class, no different than doctors or pilots. Do you think I like to see Bester and his crowd ruining all my work?”

  Talia shifted uncomfortably on the crate where she was sitting. She tried to change the subject. “These fistfights - they can’t possibly be legal.”

  “No,” admitted Garibaldi. “We could shut this place down, but the fights would just spring up ten minutes later in a manufacturing bay, or a cargo bay. We haven’t got the manpower to patrol all of the station. Down Below was used a lot during the construction of the station. Then funds ran out, and it was left unfinished. People get stranded on B5, or kicked off the crew of their ship, or just dumped here, and there’s nowhere else for them to go.”

  He shook his head in amazement. “I don’t understand this place either, but we’ve had social engineers through the station who say that Down Below is normal. If it hadn’t grown organically from poor planning, we would’ve had to invent it. If you have order, they say, you also have to have chaos.”

  The chief looked meaningfully at Talia. “Does that make sense to you?”

  “I think chaos can be avoided,” she replied.

  “It makes sense to me,” said Malten. “I want to see more.”

  Garibaldi led them into a grungy corridor and sniffed the air. “If I’m not mistaken, down this way we have people sifting through garbage. I don’t know how they reroute it down here, but they do.”

  Emily crinkled her nose. “P-people steal garbage?”

  “Yes,” said Garibaldi with a reassuring smile. “But they don’t keep all of it, just the good stuff.”

  “I think we can pass on that,” said Mr. Malten. “What’s down this corridor?”

  “A shanty camp. Do you want to see it?”

  “Yes,” answered Malten forcefully.

  Talia hung back, but she couldn’t hang back too far as Garibaldi led them briskly through a scene of both despair and amazement. Aliens of every description - with jutting jaws, fins, segmented limbs, hairy pelts, or compound eyes - commingled with humans. Adults, children, old people, the dying - they all had a haunted look on their faces as they stared at the visitors. The shanties had been cobbled together from old crates, stolen panels, sheet metal, shelves, and whatever else might stand up.

  “We give them fresh oxygen,” said Garibaldi. “That’s about all they get from us, although the Minbari run a soup kitchen. We can go there next.”

  Talia couldn’t decide which was worse, the sense of despair or the smell of the place. To her surprise, the voices she heard in her head were not demanding, begging, or insistent. Some were resigned and helpless, others were angry at their plight and their well-dressed visitors, and a few were clearly insane. It was a mixture, like any bunch of people, and she knew that some of these unfortunates would scrape their way out of here. Others would sink even deeper until there wasn’t a trace of them left.

  A thuglike woman stepped in front of Mr. Malten and glared at the telepath. “Hey, buddy, got some chewing gum?”

  “No,” said Malten, taken aback.

  She sneered, “You want to buy some?”

  “Beat it, Martha,” growled Garibaldi. “You know that chewing gum is illegal on the station.”

  He hurried his party along.

  “Top quality!” the woman called after them. “Real sugar!”

  “I doubt that,” said Talia.

  Emily Crane shuffled along beside her, holding a handkerchief over her nose. “I’d like to leave now,” she sniffed.

  “So would I,” agreed Talia. “We’re not going to let the attendees run loose down here, that’s for sure.

  “All the more reason to see as much as we can,” said Malten. “One or two more stops, please.”

  “It’s your play,” said Garibaldi. He halted in front of a long tunnel that was rather badly lit. “This way is a shortcut to that Minbari soup kitchen.”

  Talia looked doubtfully at him. “A dark, deserted tunnel?”

  “It’s not deserted,” said Garibaldi. “I see someone moving around down there. And I can’t help it if people keep stealing the light fixtures.”

  Talia peered into the gloom. There did seem to be vague shapes moving through the passageway. She wished she hadn’t asked Garibaldi for this VIP tour, but now she had to trust his instincts.

  “Come on,” said Malten, stepping into the entrance. “There are four of us, Mr. Garibaldi is armed, and we can always protect ourselves telepathically.”

  “Only a
gainst humans,” Talia added.

  The foursome started moving down the tunnel, and Garibaldi and Malten had to stoop where smaller ducts crossed overhead. The ducts were seeping a foul-smelling liquid, and Talia dashed under each one. She stumbled, and her hands brushed against the sticky walls. For once she was glad to be wearing gloves for a reason other than to avoid skin contact. When Talia found herself shoving Emily Crane in the back to hurry her along, she told herself to calm down. They were still on Babylon 5, her home base, just in an unfamiliar part of it.

  However, Garibaldi’s talk about chaos had made her nervous. She didn’t like the idea of chaos, and she suspected Mr. Malten wouldn’t like it either, if he were actually confronted by it. This was precisely why the control offered by Psi Corps was so important. It could make order out of chaos. She hoped.

  Talia noticed that the vague figures at the other end of the tunnel were not at the other end anymore. And they weren’t vague anymore. They were three large, hooded figures, and they were rapidly walking toward the party of genteel telepaths and one security officer. There would be a confrontation, Talia could feel it. For one thing, they barely had room to squeeze past each other in the confines of the tunnel.

  She didn’t want to pry into their minds, but she had to know what the three strangers were thinking as they strode briskly toward them. She could see them clearly now, even in the dim light, and she tried to hear their voices.

  Talia gasped. Their minds were cold and alien! They were not human!

  “I know,” said Malten, hearing the alarm that was sounding in Talia’s head.

  “Just pay them no mind,” Garibaldi suggested, although he didn’t sound like his usual, cocky self. Talia noticed that his hand was resting on his PPG weapon.

  The security chief quickened his step to get out in front of the others. He waved jauntily as the first hooded figure drew abreast of him. “Top of the mornin’!” he called.

  The alien never stopped moving as he slammed his shoulder into Garibaldi and crushed him into the bulkhead. A huge knife flashed under the dark robes, and Emily screamed.

  The other hooded thugs rushed toward the telepaths, knives gleaming in their gloved hands!

  CHAPTER 5

  “Unhand him!” cried Malten. With a grunt, a hooded alien gave the telepath a right cross to the jaw, and Malten dropped to the grimy floor of the tunnel. Emily threw her body over him, screaming.

  Talia did as she had been trained in self-defense classes, which was to attack the vulnerable spots, and she lashed out with a kick to the shin of the nearest attacker. She hit hard armor and nearly broke her toe.

  But Garibaldi was fighting back. At least he had grabbed the knife-hand of his attacker and was holding him at bay. “Access tube!” he yelled. “About ten meters down! It’ll take you up!”

  The thug pressed his knife to Garibaldi’s throat, but the chief shoved him back with a loud groan and staggered to his feet. The two of them traded blows, and Garibaldi caught one in the stomach. She saw him drop to his knees.

  The telepath was still on her feet, so she was the first one to be moving toward the hatchway ten meters away. It was right where Garibaldi said it was, near the floor, and she grabbed the wheel and twisted. Maybe it was her adrenaline, but the hatch sprang open at her touch, and the crawl space beckoned.

  “Come on!” she yelled.

  The attackers were menacing Malten and Emily with their knives, but the telepaths managed to scramble to their feet and stagger down the corridor. Talia shoved them into the tube, and they scurried like groundhogs into the darkness. She took one glance back at Garibaldi.

  A hooded alien had him by the throat and was shaking him like a dog shakes a toy. The other two advanced on him with their knives.

  “I’ll handle them!” croaked Garibaldi. He was reaching for his PPG.

  Talia shook her head and fled in desperation. The hatch clanged shut behind her, and one of the aliens rushed to bolt it behind the fleeing telepaths. The alien holding Garibaldi dropped him and roared a hearty female laugh. She pushed back her hood to reveal her spotted cranium, jutting jaw, and the thick ridge of muscles around her neck.

  Na’Toth laughed. “These are the ones who have all of you shaking?”

  Garibaldi stood up with a groan and rubbed his jaw. “Hey, Na’Toth, that’s not the way it was supposed to work! After you scared the hell out of us, Talia was supposed to rush to my arms, trembling, and I blast my way out of here. You weren’t supposed to beat the crap out of me!”

  Na’Toth couldn’t stop laughing, and her two fellow Narns joined her in the merriment. “I’m sorry,” she apologized, trying to restrain herself. “You see, I take favors such as this very seriously. Excellent sport, Garibaldi, thank you for contacting me.”

  “I do owe you one,” the chief admitted. He dabbed his sleeve at his bloody lip. “Do you think that will keep those jokers out of here?”

  “Yes,” answered the Narn. “They have no stomach for stronger foes. Oh, Ambassador G’Kar and I will be attending the reception. Please inform the captain.”

  “I will,” muttered Garibaldi. “Well, I’d better go after them and at least describe how I blasted my way out of here.”

  “She is attractive,” Na’Toth conceded, with a hint of womanly envy.

  “Oh, Talia?” Garibaldi shrugged. “She’s crazy about me.

  “I can see that,” the Narn answered drolly.

  Garibaldi rubbed his lower back. “I think I’ll avoid that rabbit hole and go back the way I came. Maybe I can catch another fight.”

  “That was a good place to pass signals,” Na’Toth remarked. “I will see you in several hours.”

  Garibaldi limped down the tunnel and waved. “Thanks.”

  By the time the weary security chief reached the main corridor, stooping under the slimy ducts, he didn’t feel like going anywhere but to bed.

  He tapped his link. “This is Garibaldi to all on-duty personnel. If anyone reports me as being missing or in trouble, please tell them I am out of trouble. I am still Down Below, but the situation is under control. Garibaldi over.”

  The security chief was strolling back toward the makeshift fight arena, still probing his swollen lips, when a furtive figure bumped into him. The bump caught him in a tender rib, and he groaned and grabbed the little man.

  “Ratso, what’s the matter with you?”

  The grubby derelict glanced around and winced. “Let go of me, Chief! I’m in a hurry!”

  Garibaldi tightened his grip on the man’s raggedy collar. “If you’re in a hurry, then somebody’s about to be ripped off or mugged. What’s the hurry, Ratso?”

  The little man sulked. “I’m not gonna tell you.”

  “Listen, buddy, don’t mess with me. I’m in a real lousy mood. Who’s in trouble?”

  The little man whispered, “It’s me who’s in trouble. Deuce is back on the station.”

  “Deuce?” muttered Garibaldi. That was not good, and the timing was even worse, with Psi Corps squirming all over the place. “Are you sure?”

  “Does a packrat have puppies? Of course, I’m sure.”

  “Why now?” asked Garibaldi. “Doesn’t he know we have a warrant out for him? Why would he risk it?”

  Ratso winked, or maybe he twitched, it was hard to tell. “We’ve got ‘em all here, don’t we? Like, this is the center of the universe. If you were one of those crazy Martians …”

  Garibaldi nearly lifted the man off his feet. “Deuce is helping the terrorists?”

  “Sshhh, sshhh!” cautioned the derelict, pressing his fingers to his lips. “I’ve told you too much already. I gotta protect myself! Deuce might be settling some old debts while he’s here.”

  “How did he get in? A forged identicard, what?”

  But the raggedy man slipped out of his grasp and scurried down the corridor, tossing furtive glances over his shoulder.

  Garibaldi scowled. With the attendees due to start arriving in only a few hours, the
bulk of his staff were getting their last chunk of sleep before the crush. He had no idea who he could order down here to look for Deuce. Garibaldi would normally do a job like that himself, but he couldn’t even assign himself to it. Martian terrorists and the crime king of Down Below - that was a bad combo.

  He tried to imagine why the terrorists would need Deuce. Deuce was an expert at smuggling stuff into the station and out again, often in a different form. His loansharking had won him an army of desperate couriers who would do almost anything for a meal and a few credits off their debt. Why did the terrorists want Deuce? What could Deuce get into the station that they couldn’t?

  A bomb.

  But not the kind of bomb that had wiped out earlier Babylon stations, thought the chief, not the big ka-boom that Ivanova joked about so fatalistically. Deuce wouldn’t want to blow up his playground and ruin everything. The terrorists would probably settle for some kind of bombing that would be more a symbol than an absolute disaster. But with four hundred psi freaks running around, it wouldn’t take much to turn the conference into an absolute disaster.

  In fact, thought Garibaldi, if the terrorists had Deuce and his underground network, they wouldn’t even need to show up! They could press the button from afar, so to speak. Security would have to look at every single person on the station, not just telepaths and new arrivals, but even the everyday scum.

  The security chief looked up from his thoughts and noticed several of the denizens of Down Below watching him. They turned away quickly when he saw them, but that didn’t make their scrutiny any less troubling. They knew. Like everyone else in the Alliance, this rowdy crowd of malcontents and misfits had no love lost for Psi Corps. Hell, for all he knew, some of them could be rogue telepaths hiding out down here. His current orders were to protect Psi Corps, and that pretty much pitted him against everyone else in the Universe.

  Well, so much for the idea of getting any sleep tonight. The captain had been right about one thing - this was your basic nightmare.