by Eric Brown
The women stood up, crossed to Vizzek and towered over him. She glanced at where Hendrick had backed up against the window, hands raised.
“It’s okay,” she said. “Don’t piss yourself.”
He stared at her. “What the hell . . . ?”
The woman had a long, aquiline face—striking rather than stunning—high cheekbones and full lips. She twisted them into a wry smile as she read his mind. “You’ve got it wrong, Hendrick. Our young friend here had you good. And don’t worry, he isn’t dead. He’ll be out for an hour, then he’ll be fine, apart from the headache.”
Hendrick said, “If you wouldn’t mind explaining . . .”
The woman sat against the wall, her long legs drawn up to her chest. “Where do you want to start?”
He gestured towards Vizzek. “Is he . . . ?”
“He’s a telepath, but low grade. Look, there’s some beer in the cooler. Grab a couple and we’ll talk, right?”
Watching her, his eyes on the stunner which she laid—with a sweet smile at him—on the bare boards beside her, he moved to the cooler and pulled out two beers. He passed one to the woman and snapped open the second. He returned to the bunk, sat down and took a long chug of ice-cold beer.
“Yes, your ex-wife hired Vizzek. Grammakis back at the station is his accomplice. They play the tourists who come here. The scams they don’t know aren’t worth knowing.”
She shook her head at his next, unvoiced question. “No—Maatje, Hovarth and your daughter didn’t Telemass to Crammond. That was all part of the story Maatje gave to Vizzek—which isn’t his real name, by the way—to draw you away from Tourmaline.”
“So they’re . . . ?”
“Still here? I think so.” She took a long swallow of beer and went on, “Vizzek would have gone through the charade, fleeced you for the couple of thousand, then when you got to Crammond he’d’ve stunned you and taken your wrist-com. The only reason he changed his plan now was that he knew I was on to him, and that sooner or later I’d track him down.”
“So that story . . . ?”
“About my being in Maatje’s employ? Another lie, Matt. I’ll give the kid this, he’s a fast thinker. And my name’s Mercury, by the way. Mercury Velasquez.”
Hendrick smiled and raised his beer. “Well, I think I owe you.”
The telepath tipped her tricorne mockingly. “I tagged you both back at the pier, read his scam and the fact that you were going along with it like a new-born, and I had to do something.”
“He was convincing. And when the clerk at the station confirmed—”
“Yeah, that was real good,” She interrupted. “But don’t be bashful. We all make mistakes, even hunky ex-cops out looking for their dead daughter.”
He looked away.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to mock.” She chugged her beer. “So, what are your plans now?”
“I’m back to square one, aren’t I? Maatje’s might still be on Tourmaline, but it’s a big planet. I wonder . . .”
Mercury shook her head. “No, that story Vizzek told you about Maatje seeing a medic on Crammond, it was just an invention.”
“I thought it was too good to be true.”
Mercury winced, staring at him. In a soft voice she said, “I’m sorry, Matt. I really am. No one should have to go through what you’ve faced over the past few years. Look,” she went on, “I think I can help you.”
“You’re not the first person who’s said that lately.”
“With the difference being that I’m not pulling a scam.”
He took another swallow of beer, eyeing her suspiciously. “So . . . how can you help me, and why would—?”
“Why would I want to? Because I feel for you. I’d really like you to get even with your ex, and I’d like to help you get your daughter back. And how can I help you?” She nodded at Vizzek’s unconscious form. “I read something in his head, something he read from Maatje when she hired him.”
Hendrick sat up. “Where—?”
“No, not where they were heading,” Mercury said. “But Maatje was due to meet someone on Tourmaline in a couple of days. The name of her contact meant nothing to Vizzek, but . . .”
“But it means something to you, right?”
Mercury smiled at him. “Hey, you’re cutting in like a real tele-head.” She nodded. “Yeah. They were due to meet someone called K’ransa.”
Hendrick shook his head. “Can’t say it rings any bells.”
“It’s an alien tag. Specifically, a Krinthian name. They’re a race of humanoids from a world orbiting Dzuba. They keep to themselves, for the most part. But when they travel, they do so in clan groupings. And it just so happens that I know that a clan of these critters booked chalets on a remote island in the southern ocean.” She tapped her connected-mind sigil. “Comes in useful, Matt. I read the thoughts of the travel agent who handled their bookings. The image of the aliens stuck in her mind like the equivalent of a bad smell.”
“They’re that ugly?”
“Let’s just say . . . distinctive, hm?”
Hendrick contemplated the last inch of his beer, swilled it back and said, “So if I go to this island . . . ?”
“If we go to this island,” she corrected, “then we might find Maatje.”
He stared at her, considering what she’d said. “What does Maatje want with the alien?”
“I’ve no idea.” She paused. “You were wondering earlier if she was here on Tourmaline with a plan in mind, or if it was just a stopping-off place to shake you from her tail. Well, now it looks as if she came here for a reason. You know she had Samantha with her in a suspension pod?”
He nodded, feeling a sudden, renewed sense of purpose.
She pre-empted him again: “Yes, we should set off right away. There’s a place near the station where we can hire a flier. This island’s a thousand miles away, but a flier can make the trip in about six hours.”
“Why—?”
“I have a couple of days to kill before the starship arrives, and like I said, I want to see you get even. And no, I don’t want payment for my services, okay?”
Mercury pushed herself up the wall and gazed down at Vizzek. “After what he’s done to you, Matt, I’d give him a good kicking and turn him over to the cops.”
“The odd thing is, I liked the guy. So he betrayed me . . .” He shrugged. “He didn’t get what he wanted, so I’ll call it quits.”
She stared at him, wide-eyed. “You really mean that, don’t you? You don’t feel any animosity towards him.”
He pointed to Vizzek’s wrist-com. “I should check in case he has Maatje’s com-code.”
“She didn’t give him her code,” Mercury said. “I checked earlier.”
They left the shack and stepped into the dazzling sunlight. As they turned onto the boulevard, Hendrick began asking her what she intended to do when the starship arrived.
“There are some things I like to keep to myself, Matt, okay?”
“That’s fine by me. Wish there were things I could keep to myself,” he said, glancing at her. “I don’t suppose you’d consider taking off your ferronière?”
She laughed. “And that’s another lie he fooled you with, Matt. Ferronières are old tech. These days it’s controlled by a simple mnemonic. I recite a line and the software in my head closes down my ability.”
“Just like magic?”
“Just like magic.”
He glanced at her. “So, would you switch it off now for a while—for my peace of mind?”
She twisted her full lips, considering. “Well, seeing as you asked me so nicely, go on, then. I’ll recite the mnemonic.”
“Which is?”
“Abracadabra.”
He shook his head, smiling. Despite his residual, niggling suspicion, he was beginning to like this damned annoying woman.
“Abracadabra,” she said. “There, I can’t read a single thought you’re thinking.”
He wondered why he didn’t believe her.
<
br /> FIVE
THE FLIER SKIMMED ON AUTOPILOT OVER A CALM blue sea stretching without interruption to the vast curve of the horizon. High above, Alpha Reticuli A burned, twice the size of Sol.
Mercury had slept on the reclining pilot-seat for the past three hours. Hendrick stared at her, wondering why he should trust the telepath after Vizzek had so very nearly fleeced him. He wondered if it was because she was a woman, and attractive, and seemed so genuine.
He took in her long body, the rise of her breasts. The galling thing was that she would be privy to his every thought, his suspicions as well as his fantasies, the next time she read his mind.
He turned away, tried to shut out his uneasiness, and stared down at the beaten aluminium surface of the ocean.
Mercury woke up a little later, stretched and smiled at him. “Have you considered what to do when you’ve tracked Maatje down?” she asked.
“I have a writ from Earth, demanding the return of my daughter. Unfortunately that writ doesn’t cover Tourmaline.”
“So?”
“So I’ll play it by ear, if and when we find Maatje. I could always try to take Samantha without Maatje knowing, if possible.”
Mercury torqued her lips into a dubious grimace. “That might stir up legal complications here on Tourmaline.”
“So what do you suggest?”
“Like you said, we’ll play it by ear.”
He gazed out at the limitless ocean. “What do you know about this alien Maatje was due to meet, the Krinthian?”
She tapped her wrist-com. “I did a little research earlier. The Krinthians are classed as Level 3a sentient humanoids, which in plain English means they’re a non-industrial, non-technological race; they’re agrarian, and pacifistic. They were discovered by a Terran exploration team three centuries ago, but never left their homeworld until a century ago, when the advent of Telemass technology made interstellar travel easy and relatively cheap.”
“And you said you’ve no idea why Maatje might want to meet this alien?”
“That’s right,” she said. “But I’ve learned that the Krinthians act as . . . I suppose the word is ‘intermediaries’. You see, many of their kind are empaths—not telepaths as such, but they possess an ability that allows them to act as excellent go-betweens—facilitating relations between races who might not be on speaking terms.”
“So why might Maatje seek them out?”
“Well, the Krinthians also act as . . . I’m not sure there’s an English term for it . . . as honestbrokers, or introductory agents. Their word for it translates literally as ‘facilitators’, which doesn’t really hit the mark. They’re used by people who wish to make contact with some of the more insular or truculent alien races out there.”
“So . . . could it be that Maatje wants to make contact with an insular alien race?”
Mercury shrugged. “Always possible, I suppose. We’ll find out in time, with luck.”
He looked at her. Mercury was no longer wearing her tricorne. She had her hair in a long jet ponytail that fell to the small of her back.
“I’ve just realised something,” he said.
She looked up from her wrist-com. “What’s that?”
“You’re allowing me to finish all my questions. Which means that either you’re not reading me, or you wish me to believe that that’s the case.”
She tipped her head to one side, closed one eye and regarded him. “Like I told you. I turned off my ability back at the capital.”
“And you haven’t read me since then?”
She sighed. “Why are you normals always so damned suspicious? Look, mind-reading isn’t exactly fun, you know—even reading the minds of decent people like you.”
“Vizzek said it was hell,” he said.
“Vizzek? He was a low-grader, remember? And all that crap about the torment of being a telepath . . . He picked that up from bad holo-dramas. My facility to switch the ability on and off makes things easier. I read when I want to, and the rest of the time I’m just a normal human being, right?” She pointed at him. “And I’m no voyeur. I don’t eavesdrop on people all the time. If we’re going to make a success of the next few days, we need to trust each other, okay?”
He stared at her. “Sure,” he said. He took a drink of juice, then asked, “How long have you been a telepath?”
“Ten years. I had the cut on my thirtieth birthday.”
He shrugged. “I know this is a silly question, but why?”
She considered the question, then smiled at him. “It pays well. Pays very well. I was working as a historical researcher at a university on Nova Cadiz, specialising in twenty-second century politics. I was undergoing my annual medical when tests showed that I was psi-positive, and that if I had the cut I might make an A-Grader.”
“So you volunteered?”
“Like a shot. I was sick of writing treatises on politics five hundred years out of date. The opportunities open to good telepaths were endless, so I had the operation.”
“You’re an A-Grader?”
“Not that I boast about it. An accident of nature, is all it is.”
“Do you work for a company, or . . . ?”
“I’m a freelancer. I was indentured to Omega-Corp for three years, until I paid off what I owed them for financing the cut. Then I struck out on my own, working when I wanted to and doing my own thing between times.”
“Your own thing?”
“I love art,” she said. “I paint. I specialise in alien landscapes, so I travel a lot.”
“You sell your work?”
“I’m doing okay. My art is handled by a gallery in Barcelona.”
“I’d like to see it sometime.”
“But you’re not the artistic type, Matt.”
“No, I’m not. But I’d still like to see your work.”
She tapped her wrist-com and projected a slideshow of images onto the windscreen of the flier. For the next ten minutes Hendrick admired a succession of vivid alien worlds, exotic panoramas replete with strange flora, multiple moons and gorgeous sunsets.
“They’re beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
The show ended, and after a silence Hendrick asked, “You have a family?”
She peered at him. “A family? Do you mean, am I married?”
He nodded.
“I was, but I’ve had no one for a while.”
“Vizzek did say that telepaths found relationships difficult to sustain, but I suppose he got that from a bad holo-drama, too?”
“He might have, but it’s true. There’s the trust thing, for starters. And the inequality.”
He repeated the word. “Meaning?”
“Well, a relationships between normals is relatively equal, right? I mean, neither can really know what the other is thinking. But with telepaths . . . even if I deactivated my ability most of the time, there’s always the temptation to . . .”
“To try to confirm that your lover really loves you?”
“Crude, but it’ll suffice. Also, if you can read the most intimate thoughts, emotions, and memories of someone, then you’re not going to like everything about that person. I mean, everyone has their secrets, right? So it’s hard to really fall in love.”
“You could just deactivate your ability from the outset with a person, surely?”
She fell silent, staring down at her hands hanging between her knees. “I suppose you could, but . . . Matt, that’s impossible. So I have this ability, and I need to know about a man, right? I need to know that they’re not psychotic, or brutal, or whatever . . . so whenever I meet someone, I always read them . . . and most times I don’t like what I see in there.”
She stopped and looked away from him, and he saw that she had coloured.
He said, “It must be hard. It’s hard enough for us non-telepaths, most of the time. Me and Maatje . . . it was great to start with. I’d found the one person I knew I loved, and would love forever. Call me a romantic fool. Then when she found someone
else . . .”
She murmured, “I read you pain, Matt. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not saying I wasn’t to blame. She was driven from me, was looking for someone else, because of who and what I was, of course. She hated my apathy, my silences, my inability to express my emotions, or so she told me.” He shrugged. “Christ, I wasn’t perfect, but I don’t think I deserved what she did. And the hell of it, Mercury, was that she didn’t give me the chance to change. She tired of me, wanted out, and then she met someone and I was history.”
He stopped talking, realised he was shaking, and then lightened the mood by laughing. “Listen to me, telling you everything you’ve probably already read when we first met.”
She looked down at her hands. “Not everything, Matt.”
He turned and looked through the side-screen. On the brilliant blue shield of the ocean far below he made out a string of islands, differing from the South Sea Islands of Earth in that they were adorned by eruptions of thin, whip-like growths which terminated in crimson polyps. Dwelling domes scintillated amidst the undergrowth and small pleasure craft kicked up feathery wakes in the surrounding ocean.
She glanced at her wrist-com. “Fifteen minutes and we’ll be there,” she said. “I called ahead before we set off and booked a dome. Thing is, they only had one available, a double. You don’t mind sharing a bed?”
He swallowed. “No . . . So I passed your initial vetting?”
She tipped her head to one side and regarded him. “I wasn’t prying, Matt. I had to read you when I realised that Vizzek was pulling a scam.”
“And you realised I wasn’t a psychopath, or violent?” he asked, and wondered what she made of his residual suspicion.
She looked away and murmured, “I liked what I saw. You’re a decent person, Matt. You deserve better than . . .”
“So you pitied me?”
“No. Yes. I mean, I empathised with you.” She shrugged. “I like the person you are—the result of your upbringing, your education, your failed relationship with the artist, Kat Nordstrom, and even your marriage.” She smiled. “You’re very old-fashioned, in many ways. Reserved, diffident . . .”
“Blame my parents for that,” he said.
