by Timothy Zahn
“I’ll think about it,” Thorwald said. “Good-bye, Jonathan.”
He looked at Quillan. “Is that right? Do I say good-bye?”
“You can,” Quillan said. “Rey, break contact. How was it?”
He watched as Rey gave the little shudder he always did as he cleared the connection. “Pretty clear,” the boy said, rubbing at his lips. “The other … he didn’t seem completely on track today.”
“What does that mean?” Thorwald asked, frowning.
“The contact wasn’t as sharp as it should have been,” Quillan explained. “At least, in Rey’s estimation.”
“What could cause that?”
“The other telepath might have been distracted.” Quillan looked at the clock. “Or tired—it is only four a.m. at McCade’s ranch. Any misfires, Rey?”
“No,” Rey said hesitantly. “I don’t think so.”
“Misfires?” Thorwald asked.
“As Rey listens to what I’m saying, the other telepath hears it through his ears and brain,” Quillan explained. “Rather like hearing an echo, I expect. The other telepath then repeats the message back to McCade, and it’s Rey’s turn to hear the echo as he speaks.”
“That’s why there was that pause before the other end answers,” Thorwald said, nodding. “McCade had to get the message relayed, and then answer.”
“Correct,” Quillan said. “Misfires are when the other telepath doesn’t repeat the message exactly the way it was sent. Usually it’s only a dropped word here or there, and usually it’s just carelessness or a case of someone using sentences too long or complicated for the telepath to handle.”
“But if it’s not?”
“Then it could be the first sign of a burned-out telepath,” Quillan said bluntly. “At which point, that particular Old Boy is advised that it may soon be time to upgrade his equipment.”
He patted Rey on the shoulder. “Fortunately for McCade’s wallet, it sounds like his mouthpiece is holding up just fine.” He shifted his hand, squeezing the collar around Rey’s neck in the proper place. “That’ll be all, Rey.”
“Yes, sir,” Rey murmured, his eyes starting to glaze over as the TabRasa trickled into his bloodstream.
“Go take a nap,” Quillan added. “Chair: Rey’s bedroom.”
The chair turned and rolled across the room. “Trouble?” Thorwald asked as the door opened and passed the chair and its dozing passenger out of the office.
“I don’t know,” Quillan said slowly. “It occurs to me that there’s another possibility for that sub-par connection just now. That it may not be McCade’s telepath who’s tired or distracted.
Quillan got up from his chair. “Help yourself to my cigars, or anything else you want. I’ll be back soon.”
Rey woke abruptly, with the disorientation that always came after a dose of TabRasa. After three years he was used to it, but it was never entirely comfortable.
Still, there were worse things in life. Much worse things. He could certainly put up with it for the remaining seven years of his contract.
And when he had finished, Mr. Quillan would give him back his legs and his face, and he would get the bonus money he’d been promised.
And his parents and siblings would finally be able to get off that dirt-scrabble Central American farm and have the kind of financial security that had never been more than an impossible dream for anyone in his village.
For a minute he let himself enjoy that thought. Then, bidding his family a silent goodbye, he began searching for the edge where memory ended and this most recent gap began.
Yes; the library. The piano. Beethoven.
Susan.
He let her image hover in front of his closed eyes, tracing every line and curve in his memory. Making sure that, no matter how much TabRasa Mr. Quillan gave him, he would never, ever forget that face. That face, or that smile.
That smile that had promised she would be back …
With a start he opened his eyes and looked over at his clock, then grabbed for the arm of his chair. Less than an hour had gone by since the library, which meant she was probably still cleaning somewhere in the house. If he could figure out where, he could at least explain to her that he hadn’t just casually run out on her.
He wasn’t supposed to talk to anyone except his caretakers, he knew. But surely Mr. Quillan would understand this one time. Surely he would.
“That’s her,” Grond said, nodding across the solarium at one of the three maids polishing the brasswork around the flower pots. “Name’s Susan Baker; came on about three months ago. A little standoffish, the housekeeper says, but she has no complaints about her work.”
“What about her attention to Rey?”
“Probably the last month or so,” Grond said. “That’s when he started acting strange. Making excuses all the time to go downstairs.”
Quillan nodded, studying the girl. About eighteen years old, thin, dark hair, plain mousy face. Not at all attractive, to his way of thinking. “But she’s never talked to him?”
“No, sir.” Grond was positive. “At least, not on my watch. Hasn’t even gotten within four meters. All she’s done is smile.”
Mentally, Quillan shook his head. Such a lot of fuss and bother over so very little.
If it was, indeed, a lot of fuss and bother. “Go get her,” he ordered, stepping to one of the chairs beside the curved windows and sitting down.
A minute later she was standing in front of him. “Yes, sir?” she asked tentatively.
For a moment Quillan just gazed up at her. Sometimes letting an underling squirm under a direct glare could squeeze out a glimpse of a guilty conscience.
But she just stood there, looking puzzled. “I understand you’ve been trying to meet my nephew,” he said.
She frowned a bit harder. “Your nephew, sir?”
“The boy in the wheelchair,” Quillan amplified. “Recovering from a serious accident. Weren’t you told when you arrived here that if you saw him you weren’t to speak to him?”
“Yes, sir, I was,” she said. “But I haven’t spoken to him.”
“You’ve smiled at him,” Quillan said, making the words an accusation.
Again, nothing but more puzzlement. “I smile at everyone,” she protested, her face looking more mouse-like than ever. “I was just trying to be friendly.”
“I don’t want you to be friendly,” Quillan said firmly. “Not to him. The psychological aspects of the accident have been far more severe than even the physical damage. He needs time to work it all through.”
“I understand, sir,” she said. “But …”
“But?” Quillan echoed, making the word a challenge.
“Wouldn’t it be better for him to mix with other people?” she asked, the words coming out in a rush. “To see that he can be accepted just like he is?”
Quillan raised his eyebrows. “Are you telling me that my thousand-dollar-an-hour psychologists don’t know what they’re talking about?” he asked pointedly.
She actually winced. “No, sir,” she said in a low voice.
“Good,” Quillan said. “I would hate to think I’d been wasting all that money when an unschooled cleaning woman had better advice to give. You’re to stay away from him. You’re not to talk to him, or look at him. You’re especially not to smile at him. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” she said, bobbing her head.
“Good,” Quillan said. “Then get back to work.”
“Yes, sir,” she said again. In that peculiar gait people have when they’re trying not to look like they’re hurrying, she hurried away.
Grond stepped to his side. “Sir?”
“I don’t know,” Quillan said thoughtfully. “She seems such a pathetic specimen to be distracting our terminal.”
Abruptly, he came to a decision. “Give her a mon
th’s severance and get her out of the house,” he said, standing up. “Right now. Tell her we’ll collect her things from her room and send them on to her at the Ares Hiltonia—set up a room there for her. You pack her bags yourself, and make sure to look everything over carefully while you do.”
“Yes, sir,” Grond said. “What exactly am I looking for?”
“Anything that might suggest she’s more than the waste of skin she appears,” Quillan said. “A camera, perhaps. Nothing electronic gets into this house that I don’t know about, but it’s possible to make a purely mechanical camera.”
“If there’s anything there, I’ll find it,” Grond promised. “You want her just out of the house?”
Quillan rubbed his lower lip as he gazed across at the girl’s back. Grond was right. She was almost certainly harmless; but on the other hand, Rey was a multi-million-dollar investment. There was no point in taking the risk. “You just give her that month’s severance,” he said. “I’ll call Bondonavich and have him get whoever handled Estevez to take care of her more permanently.”
Grond’s lumpy forehead wrinkled. “You’re going to have Rey send the order for her to disappear?”
“TabRasa is a wonderful invention,” Quillan reminded him. “You just get her out of my house.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hunching his shoulders once, Grond headed across the solarium. Giving the girl one last look, Quillan headed for the door.
No, Rey wouldn’t like it. Not at all. But by the time he realized what was going on, the call would be in progress and there would be nothing he could do about it.
And the boy would certainly get over it. TabRasa was indeed a wonderful invention.
She wasn’t in the library. She wasn’t in the main hallway, either, or the kitchen, or the dining room.
Where could she be?
Sitting in the middle of the hallway, Rey looked around him at the various directions he could go, his heart pounding uncomfortably. He wasn’t even supposed to be down here alone, never mind giving himself a tour of the house this way. So far the only servants he’d seen were all at a distance, and as usual none of them had given him a second glance. But sooner or later, if he kept at this, he was bound to bump squarely into someone.
And then what? Would he compound his disobedience by asking where Susan was?
At this point he didn’t really know what he would do. All he knew was that he needed to find her. Turning the chair around, he headed down the main hallway. Somewhere back here, he had heard, was a stairway that led down to the servants’ quarters.
He had just rounded a corner off the main hallway when an older man emerged from the theater room. “Rey!” he said with surprise. “What are you doing here?”
Rey froze. Someone was talking to him! And not just someone, but a man he’d never seen before in his life. Some guest of Mr. Quillan’s?
But whether or not Rey knew who he was, it was clear he knew who Rey was. “You’re not supposed to down here alone,” the man growled, striding toward him. “Where’s your caretaker?”
“I—I don’t know,” Rey managed. “He’s not—”
“Get yourself upstairs,” the man snapped. “Right now.”
“Yes, sir,” Rey said automatically. “Chair—”
He stopped short as a face suddenly seemed to appear before his eyes, pushing aside his mental picture of Susan. “Yes, I’ll get him,” he murmured in response to the silent call, pressing the signal button underneath his chair’s armrest.
“What is it, a call?” the man asked, glancing around. “Come on, we’d better get you to his office.”
“He says it’s very important,” Rey murmured. “Vitally important.”
“What’s vitally important?” Mr. Quillan’s voice came from somewhere behind him.
The man looked up over Rey’s shoulder. “He’s got a call from someone,” he said. “I thought you said he’s not supposed to be down here alone.”
“He’s not,” Mr. Quillan said grimly, coming around the chair into Rey’s line of sight and glaring down at him. “Rey, what are you doing here?”
“Vitally important,” Rey repeated. “Must talk to you. Now.”
“Damn,” Mr. Quillan muttered. He glanced around, gestured toward the door across from the theater room. “Chair: Conference Room One. It’s secure enough,” he added to the other man as the chair started rolling, “and faster than getting him upstairs to the office. This just better be damn urgent.”
A minute later they were in the conference room. Mr. Quillan checked the monitors built into the table, then dropped into one of the chairs. “All right, we’re secure,” he said. “This is Quillan. Who is this?”
As if it were being carried down a long hollow tube, Rey heard a man’s voice in the distance. This is McCade.
“This is McCade,” he repeated.
We’ve got a problem.
“We’ve got a problem,” Rey echoed.
Or rather, you do. I’ve just learned Enforcement has planted a spy on you—
“Or rather, you do,” Rey said. “I’ve just learned Enforcement has planted a spy on you—”
Named Susan Baker.
“Named Susan Ba—”
Abruptly, Rey faltered, her face springing into sharp new focus in front of his eyes. Susan Baker? Susan?
“What?” Mr. Quillan snapped, bounding up out of his chair. “Susan what?”
“Baker,” Rey stammered. “I—Mr. Quillan—”
But the other wasn’t even listening. “Grond!” he shouted into his remote as he sprinted toward the door. “Stop her! Don’t let her get out of the house!”
He slammed the door open and was gone. What’s happening? the voice echoed through Rey’s mind.
Rey didn’t answer. Swiveling his chair around, he started toward the door.
A hand grabbed at his shoulder. “No you don’t,” the other man bit out. “Where do you think you’re—?”
The last word came out in a strangled gasp as Rey slammed his elbow with all the strength he could manage into the man’s abdomen. Maneuvering the chair around the table and potted trees, he rolled out the door.
They were all there, down by the bend in the hallway: Quillan, Grond, and Susan. Grond had a grip on Susan’s arm, holding it bent behind her back. Her face—that wonderful, kind face—was twisted almost beyond recognition with pain and fear.
“Stop!” Rey shouted. Or at least, he tried to shout. Instead, the words came out as barely a squeak. Susan’s eyes flicked to Rey’s face, a wordless plea there …
And with a sudden blaze of anger, Rey sent the chair rolling toward the trio at full speed. Words weren’t going to stop Grond now, he knew. From somewhere in the distance he could hear the warbling of some kind of alarm—
And then, to his astonishment, five men charged into view around the corner of the hallway. Grond barely had time to snap a warning before three of them leaped at him, wrenching Susan’s arm out of his grip and wrestling him to the floor. One of the others pushed warningly at Quillan’s chest, while the last hurriedly pulled Susan away from the confusion. “You all right?” Rey heard him ask.
“I’m fine,” she breathed, looking over at Rey again. “There’s Rey,” she added.
“Right,” the man said briskly, beckoning Rey toward him. “Rey? Come on over.”
Rey let the chair coast to a halt where he was, staring at them in confusion. Did Susan know these people? What were they doing here? Who were they? “It’s all right, Rey,” Susan called, smiling weakly as she rubbed her arm. “Don’t worry. These are the good guys.”
Quillan snorted loudly. “And they’d better enjoy themselves while they can,” he said. “You’ve leaned way over the mark with this one, Winslow. Way over. By this time tomorrow you’ll be on suspension, pending charges of gross misconduct.”
“No, I don’t think so,” the man beside Susan—Winslow—said calmly. A dozen more men appeared around the corner, all of them dressed in police uniforms, and strode purposefully past Rey. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw them start checking the rooms. “Come on, Rey, join the party,” Winslow added. “It’s all over. Really.”
Hesitantly, Rey nudged the chair forward. “Let’s run through the formalities, shall we?” Winslow said, turning his attention back to Quillan. “Archer Quillan, you’re under arrest for stock manipulation, illegal business practices—”
He paused dramatically. “And obstruction of justice and accessory after the fact in the murder of Securities Enforcement agent Juan Estevez.”
Quillan snorted again. “And you’ll be awaiting a full psychiatric examination on top of it,” he said scornfully. “You couldn’t make charges like that stick to the floor.”
Winslow smiled. “You might be surprised,” he said. “You see, we finally have a witness to all this sludge-water manipulation you and your trillionaire buddies have been indulging in. Someone who can quote your words exactly. Yours, and Jonathan McCade’s, and Sergei Bondonavich’s. Everything you’ve said on your cozy little Old-Boy Network for the past month, in fact.”
“You are insane,” Quillan insisted, looking at Susan and then Rey. “There’s not a thing either of them can tell you. I’ve made sure of that.”
“Who said I was talking about either of them?” Winslow countered, shifting his eyes toward the corner. “Julia?” he called, raising his voice. “It’s safe—come on in.”
He looked back at Quillan. “We knew we couldn’t get anything from the inside,” he said. “Between TabRasa and electronic countermeasures, you had all those bases covered.
“And so we arranged for you to deliver the information outside the house. To us.”
“You’re bluffing,” Quillan said flatly. “Nothing has left this house.”
“Ah, but it has,” Winslow said. “We figured that with all this paranoid secrecy, you’d probably have Rey locked away someplace where he would be starved for human contact. So we provided him with a friendly face. A face that, hopefully, he would always have hovering at the edges of his mind.”
