Babylon 5 11 - Psi Corps 02 - Deadly Relations - Bester Ascendant (Keyes, Gregory)

by Bester Ascendant (Keyes, Gregory)

  People would remember this forever. When he was a Psi Cop if they ever let such a laughingstock become a Psi Copwith twenty years behind him, people would still point at his back and snicker, remembering him with birds, birdshit, and peanut butter all over him. How could he ever be effective like that? Bey had ruined his future.

  At eight oclock, he didnt go to his cell. Instead he broke into a run, fell down because his legs were clumsy and stiff from standing all day, but got back up. It was just beginning to rain, a cold October drizzle dripping over the mountains that soon became a downpour. He felt as if it were becoming steam as it hit his skin, so feverish his anger seemed.

  He knew where Beys office was. He found it and pounded on the door. His fury made him a giant, but he was beginning to lose height when the door finally swung open.

  Sandoval Bey looked at him mildly. Mr. Bester, I believe you should be in your room now. The watch will be wondering where you are.

  Why are you doing this to me? Why? This is worse than anything the director would have done.

  Beys eyes crinkled, and he suddenly bellowed a laugh. Mr. Bester, he said, in some ways you are pitifully naive.

  Sir, how can I everI mean, if I dont have any respect, how can I

  Come in, Mr. Bester. I dont want anyone to see you standing in the hall.

  Al stepped in, and Bey shut the door behind him. In an instant, everything seemed to change. He suddenly saw himself, wet, covered in birdshit, standing in the office of one of the most powerful men in Psi Corps.

  Now, Mr. Bester. You broke the trust of the Corps. You have been given a lenient punishment, considering. What is your complaint?

  My complaint is thatthat Why does my punishment have to be soso

  Public?

  Al just stood there trembling for a moment. Sir, I thought you were my friend.

  A peculiar expression passed over Beys face then.

  Al, he said softly. I am your friend. Im trying to save your life.

  Sir?

  Mr. Bester, I have done many scans of the dead and dying. I have likewise, in my time, come upon the scene of a death, many times so close on the heels of the reaper that I could still feel the trace of the dead person, their last thoughts, echoing away. When I come upon the body of someone who has slit their own wrists, swallowed handfuls of pills, hung themselveswhen I come upon a suicide, Mr. Bester, do you know what thought I find most often, hanging in the air, glowing for me to see?

  No, sir.

  This will show them. This will show them . He paused and rested his lambent gaze on Al. Does that sound familiar, Mr. Bester? It should.

  Sir, I have never considered

  Suicide is a frame of mind, Mr. Bester, not an act. It is a deluded, contemptible state.

  Al was beginning to feel cold. He was starting to shiver. He saw how his pursuit of Brazg and Nielsson might look like an attempt atSir, I realize I made a mistake, but

  It isnt about one mistake, Mr. Bester. Its about your life. Ive been watching you.

  Sir?

  You are an outstanding student. Too outstanding, really. In seven out of the last ten training exercises, you exceeded safe tolerances.

  I strive for excellence, sir.

  Why?

  Because the Corps deserves only the best.

  The Corps deserves cadets who live to pay it back for their training, who dont end up dead or as mewling idiots in a hospital ward. That is where you are headed, Mr. Bester. You have no friends. You run, you practice martial arts, you drill unsupervised in your spare time. All solitary activities. And this is how youve lived, as far as I can tell, for your entire short life.

  I dont really get along with others very well, sir.

  No, you dont. Thats exactly the problem. Mr. Bester, a Psi Cop has the hardest job in the world. He has to hunt down his own people. For their own good, yes, but hunt them he must, and sometimes kill them. His own people, and they hate him for it because they do not understand. The normals who benefit from his work do not understand him either, of courseat the best they tolerate him, see him as one sort of smelly animal useful only for ridding them of even smellier ones. At worst, they fear and loathe him.

  Mr. Bester, no one is strong enough to handle that on their own, and especially not someone with the mind of a suicide. Ill show them ! Who will you show, Mr. Bester? The only people you have who might love you, support you through all of that, keep you sane, make you feel as if you have accomplished something the only onesare your brothers and sisters in the Corps. You need them, Mr. Bester, as badly as you need the ability to block a scan. How did it feel at the inquiry, when I was suddenly behind you, supporting you? When the adults on the board secretly encouraged you?

  It felt good, sir. But not as good as defeating the railroad cop, all by myself , he added, in silent defiance.

  Did it strengthen your resolve, make you feel as if you could face anything?

  I suppose, sir.

  You suppose. Sit, Mr. Bester. He motioned toward a padded leather chair. Sit. The damp wont hurt it. You love the Corps, but that isnt enough. You must love those in the Corps, and they must love you. You must love the Blips you hunt. You must love the world you live in, Mr. Bester. You must broaden your passions. You must find art, and music, and poetry that stirs your soul as much as duty. Duty in and of itself is weaker than you think, Mr. Bester. It can betray you. It almost betrayed you in front of the review board. He paused. Do you understand this? Do you understand any of it?

  Im not sure, sir.

  You have appetites, Mr. Bester. You want to show that you are the best, in the vague hope that someone will like youor be sorry they didnt pay more attention to you earlier. It is a logic that defeats itself, that assures that the thing you want most will always elude you. Do you know what you really want, Mr. Bester?

  I want to be a good Psi Cop.

  The blow came so fast it seemed like Beys hand merely materialized on his face. It stung, all the way to his soul.

  Thats for lying, Bey snapped. His face was very dark. You presume to know what makes a good Psi Cop? Do you? You know nothing. The Psi Cop who died because of you was a good Psi Cop. I trained him. He had friends, people that loved him. He is mourned. Will anyone mourn you, Mr. Bester?

  I dont think so, sir, he said, face flushing hot. I dont reallyHe broke off.

  You were going to say you dont care, werent you? But that isnt true, is it?

  Sir, dont His throat was constricting. The last few days suddenly seemed piled upon him like so many rocks, but above those a whole mountain was crumbling.

  How was the trip with Cadre Prime, Al?

  I thoughtthey only took me with them because What was happening to him?

  Because I told them to, as a matter of fact. But you hoped, didnt you? Hoped that you would belong?

  Ive never belonged, sir. Ive only ever belonged to the Corps. I dont understand why youre so mad at me. I dont understand why the director said those things, called me a traitor, because I love the Corps. I dont understand ANY OF IT! He was shouting now, and hot, salty tears etched streams down his face. It seemed as if the bones in his chest were melting and squirting up through his eyes.

  Bey stared at him for a moment, then sighed. He laid a hand on Als shoulder and squeezed.

  Al didnt want to. It felt stupid and stiff and weak, but that simple Human gesture burst the dams behind his eyes, and though he still did not understand why, he wept uncontrollably, gritting his teeth. He couldnt remember another person touching him with kindness, with care, in so very, very long. It hurt terribly. He couldnt trust it, didnt Bey see that? It was stupid to trust, stupider to need. Bey was just another kind of Grin, subtler. His face was his mask.

  But his tears didnt know that, and he wept for what seemed a long time. The older man made no move, just kept his hand on his shoulder, neither drawing him nearer nor pushing him away.

  Dont worry, Bey told him. Dont worry. It will be all right. Now go back to your room. Ill make
it seem as if I sent for you, to reprimand you. Go.

  Once back in his room, Al no longer knew what he felt. He felt as if a gulf had been torn through him, and it was filling with waters he did not recognize in the slightest.

  He lay on his back and tried to contemplate Geneva again.

  And a touch came, feather-light. He knew that one of the walls must have a disguised window. Before that had made him feel like a fish in a tank, but now it was suddenly, oddly comforting.

  You were wondering about perspective the other day , the voice said.

  Dr. Bey?

  Yes.

  Sir, what

  When the children came by, you were wondering if you would one day see the same situation from all perspectives.

  Yes, sir.

  Was there some point to that speculation?

  Yes, sir.

  What was it?

  Im not sure, sir. Im still thinking about it . Actually, he wasnt. The thought had come and gone. Bey probably knew that, and he was suddenly sorry he had lied.

  Good. There is something I want you to see.

  Suddenly, a section of wall came to life. It flickered in stark shades of grey and black, sputtering white sparks streaking like comets. Then images appeared, as colorless as the beginning pyrotechnics. A half-destroyed buildingancient Japanese, maybe, and some men, talking. A title came up, in English and in Japanese.

  RASHOMON

  Blinking wearily, Al sat on his narrow bunk and began to watch.

  He thought about the film all the next day. The premise was actually quite simple: a rape and a murder, seen from four points of viewa bandit, a woman, her husband, a woodcutter. They all agreed on a few factsbut in the end, the stories were all very different, each altered to put the teller in the best light. As it turned out, even the murder victimthe husbandwasnt a reliable witness when his spirit was called up from the dead. Only the woodcutter who seemed to be merely an observerhad anything approaching an objective view.

  And yet the film cast doubt on even his version of the story, leaving Al with the frustrated revelation that he could never know for certain the truth of what had happened.

  If a telepath had been there, to scan everyone, would it have helped? Maybe not, because the characters seemed to have convinced themselves that things really happened the way they said they did. It would make it very difficult, at best, to investigate the matter. And the telepath would be like the woodcutter, a seemingly objective observer who really wasnt. Couldnt be.

  Obviously, at some level of reality, there was only one set of events that really happened.

  But no observer could be objective.

  He certainly couldnt be, standing, looking foolish, humiliated, and angry. He could see the story only from his own point of view, the point of view of the victim.

  In Rashomon , it was arguably the victims story that in the end proved most doubtful.

  And so, since he had nothing better to do, and since he was tired of looking through the eyes of a victim, he tried to imagine himself from the point of view of his tormentors. In a general sense, that was easy. He found he could understand the childrenafter all, he had once stood in their placeand he found, quite surprisingly, that this dissolved much of his anger toward them.

  The older students were different. He had never been in their place. When he was older, he had simply ignored the statues on the parade ground. He hadnt been interested in them. It was thus harder for him to imagine what an academy student, who should have better things to do, would gain from the experience of taunting a helpless fellow.

  Of course, he didnt have to imagine, entirely. He gleaned clues from their surface thoughts, from the surface thoughts of their friends. Little Rashomon images to sift through, to piece together into biographies.

  It was hard at first, because he fought understanding themhe would have rather despised thembut once he learned a certain simple truth, he quickly got into the spirit of it.

  Fatima Cristoban, for instance, the woman who had taunted him so cruelly two days ago, was a later, hadnt come into her psi until she was thirteen. Raised as a normal, she missed the mundane world, was uncomfortable in the academy, and had a deep dislike for anyone who grew up in a cadre, especially Cadre Prime.

  One day Brett and the others passed in the distance and waved at him. Fatima was thereputting lipstick on him, actuallyand she noticed them. The thin compression of her lips was perfectly consistent with the sudden spike of anger in her surface thoughts.

  No, it wasnt just him Fatima hated.

  Jeffer Powylles. He wished he had the guts to do what Al had done. On another level, he knew he would never have the guts, and if he couldnt, then nobody should exist who did.

  Jiri Belden. He liked helpless things. It made him feel less helpless.

  The simple truth was that the joke was on them . Each thing they did, each insult, was simply another clue for Al to puzzle at, another instrument he could use to dissect them.

  Nothing could be very threatening, once dissected. They became his victims; not he, theirs. He had the power of knowing them, and that was a terrific power, indeed.

  At night, Beys lessons continued. They werent like any lessons he had ever experienced before. Bey would present him with a vid, or a short story, or a poem, or a painting. The significance of the selection often escaped Al for a day or more. But in the end, each piece was like a distorted mirror, reflecting some thought of his own, a thought carried to conclusions he himself would have never reached, and sometimes could not agree with. He argued with Joyce, Nietzsche, Heinlein, Voltaire, Card, Blake. Bey had a particular fondness for great thinkers from the past. He argued with Bey, too.

  It was a peculiar kind of learning. It filled him with a strange excitement. He began to see ways he could use it, too. It started to make some of the things he had already learned make a certain sort of sense.

  On the tenth day of his punishment, he saw a girl approaching him, her dark, bobbed hair bouncing with her ambitious stride. She looked to be about his own age. She was pretty, but not entirely conventionally soher mouth was wide, her eyes black in the bright sun. He began composing her biography, and then understood that she wasnt really approaching him at all, but merely walking in his direction.

  That was actually too bad. He had looked forward to picking her apart. Maybehe tightened his control, touching on her surface thoughts, not a real scan. She seemed deep in thought, and probably wouldnt notice a very slight

  She stopped, rather abruptly, and her gaze darted to his. Blocks shut out everything. She cocked her head thoughtfully.

  Well, he had her attention, anyway. He felt an embarrassed flush color his face and wished he could control his body as well as he could his mind. She came toward him, sauntering almost.

  She was planning something now, or wanted him to think she was. She was slim, her arms long and coppery. Her gaze stayed fastened on his. He thought briefly of a cobra, swaying toward its prey. Her lips were slightly quirked. He tried to put himself in her place, to see the scene as she saw it, but came up blank.

  She stepped up on the podium with him, cocking her head this way and that as he noticed they were the same height. He could smell her now, a scent with some flower in it.

  She kissed him on the lips. Twice. The second time she took his lower lip between hers and stretched it, so that the contact lingered sensuously. His knees actually buckled. Her eyes flashed dangerously, and then she abruptly laughed. She walked away, still laughing. It took every ounce of willpower he had not to turn his head and follow her.

  Biography? His mind was blank. About this girl, he didnt know one damn thing, exceptshe was fire inside, combustion thinly disguised by skin.

  He would like to know a lot more.

  But she didnt show up the next day, or indeed for the next four. But Bey did, on the fourteenth day. He came across the green, smiled conspiratorially, and said, Your time is up, Mr. Bester. You may rejoin the animate.

  Thank you, s
ir. He paused awkwardly. Sir?

  Yes?

  Thank you for everything.

  You are quite welcome, Mr. Bester. Good day. He placed his hands behind his back and started away.

  Sir? Al said again.

  Yes, Mr. Bester?

  I was wonderingcould weahtalk sometime? Face-to-face?

  Of course, Mr. Bester. Why dont we meet in my office, tomorrow, about 0600?

  Thank you, sir.

  Go on, Mr. Bester. You have a lot of catching up to do. Fourteen days will set you back considerably, and exams are only a month away.

  Ill manage, sir.

  Im sure you will. Ill see you tomorrow.

  * * *

  chapter 8

  « » Al looked forward to his meetings with Sandoval Bey. He never knew what the older man was going to say, but it was almost always something interesting, offering a perspective he hadnt considered. Beys thoughts had mass, inertiathey were bodies in motion. Sometimes they entered Als brain like bullet trains, sometimes like stealthy thieves, but they always seemed to find a place.

  He liked Beys office, with its odor of coffee and cigar smoke, shelves packed with books, some with crumbling spines, some so new he could still smell the ink. He liked the Gauguin print with its wide-eyed beasts and cavernous jungle. He liked the faint baroque interplay of Bach or Telemann that underscored most of their conversations, or the occasional, surprising days when instead it was Wagner oron one startling occasionthe wild discords of Stravinsky.

  This one started a riot when it was first played in Paris, you know, Bey had murmured that day. He had been a little strange, subduedand yet somehow more tautthan usual. Al later discovered that Bey had been forced to kill a Blip that morning.

  He was curious about Beyhe wanted to know everything about him, but he took things as they were revealed, relishing the small details and broad strokes as he built his portrait of the man.