Xenopath - [Bengal Station 02]

by Eric Brown

  Khar interrupted her thoughts.Turn left and walk along the street towards the open area bordering the edge of the Station.

  She turned and strolled along the street, hitching her teddy-bear backpack onto her shoulders. Khar had suggested she have a shower at a communal washing block before she set off, and then buy a new set of clothes. She was dressed now in a brand-new pair of blue trousers, a white blouse, and real leather sandals instead of her old, worn flip-flops.

  She said, “Does the person you’re trying to find know that you’re coming, Khar?”

  No.

  “So it’ll be a surprise?”

  Khar did not reply immediately. It was a while before he said, The man is an enemy of my people. I need to find him, watch him, before we approach.

  “And then?” Pham felt her heart beating fast.

  And then I must consider the best, and safest, course of action.

  “Khar,” Pham said after a while, “the man you’re trying to find, he has something to do with what is happening to the people on your planet, right?”

  The mind-smile from Khar, again.Pham, for a seven-year-old orphan with no formal education, you are perspicacious.

  Pham laughed. “And what does that mean?”

  He told her.

  She smiled. “Thanks—so, I’m right, ah-cha?”

  Ah-cha.

  She paced on, along the deserted sidewalk, staring towards the end of the street and the gates of what looked like a park. She said. “So... this person is working with the telepath?”

  Yes.

  She fell silent. She was thinking that, as Khar could read her thoughts, he would know what she was thinking: that the situation was more dangerous than Khar had told her it might be.

  She smiled to herself as he responded to that. Pham, I will be careful, okay? You might find this hard to believe, but I have become close to you over the past two days.

  “Close? You’re sitting in my head!” She laughed. “But thanks anyway.”

  They came to the gates. She stopped and stared through the bars. The green area beyond the gates and the perimeter fence was a kind of park. She saw men riding around in little buggies. From time to time they climbed out, took sticks from the buggy, and stroked the grass with them. Then they climbed back into the buggies and drove off, stopped, climbed out again and stroked the grass.

  “What are they doing?” she asked.

  It is a very popular game with the rich of Earth. It is called golf.

  She watched more closely, and this time saw that the men were hitting tiny white balls across the grass.

  “It isn’t as exciting as skyball,” she said. “So what now?”

  You will not be allowed through the gates. Turn left and walk along the fence.

  She did as instructed. Trees grew inside the green area and obscured the view of the players. From time to time she could glimpse buggies going back and forth, and men hitting the small white balls towards poles with flags on top. It looked like a crazy game to Pham.

  Now, Khar said, climb over the fence.

  She looked over her shoulder. The golf area was next to a parking lot full of big shiny air-cars and ground-effect vehicles. She could see no one looking her way.

  Quickly she dug her fingers through the diamond-mesh fencing, crammed her toes into the gaps, and hauled herself up. Seconds later she swung over the top and jumped down into the grass, ducking behind a bush and breathing hard.

  “Now what?”

  Move to the edge of the fairway.

  “What’s the fairway?” she asked.

  The mown area where the buggies and the players are. Make sure you aren’t seen.

  “Ah-cha.” She crept forward and ducked behind a bush next to the fairway. One part of her was excited. The other part, the little kid just up from the depths of the Station, wondered if all this was real. Was she really sneaking through the open grass on Level One, with an alien in her head?

  She peered through the leaves of the bush at a passing buggy.

  “How do you know this guy will be here?”

  Khar said, Every Sunday at eleven, he plays a round of golf, alone. It’s the only time his bodyguards leave his side.

  “How do you know all this?”

  A hesitation, then the voice in her head said, Kormier, the man killed in the amusement park. I obtained the information from his mind.

  Pham thought about this, then said, “Were you hiding inside Kormier’s mind, before he was shot?”

  Khar replied, That is correct.

  Pham nodded, and then said, “And if the man comes along today?”

  We just watch. Later, when we find the safest location in which to apprehend him.

  “And then what?”

  Silence. Then Khar said,There! Stop...

  “What is it?” Pham felt her pulse quicken.

  The buggy to your left, coming into view from the ninth hole...

  “That’s him?”

  That is him.

  Pham stared. The driver of the buggy was a big Westerner with a big face and wavy silver hair. He looked rich and overfed, and Pham didn’t like the look of his thick lips.

  Despite what Khar had said, the man was not alone. In the seat beside him was another Westerner, not as big as the first man.

  “Khar, I thought—”

  I’m sorry.

  “What?” Pham said in panic.

  The buggy had stopped. The dark Westerner jumped out. He swung around madly, as if looking for something, someone. He pulled a laser from his jacket and cried out to the silver-haired Westerner in a language Pham didn’t understand.

  The big white man ducked down in the buggy, wrapping his head in his arms,

  He knows you’re here! Khar said. Very well. Get back to the fence and climb over. Run through the car park. There’s a ‘chute station on the next street. I’ll guide you. Now run!

  The Westerner—the telepathic killer, Pham wondered?—was still turning, laser sweeping the fairway. He focused on the rough grass where Pham was cowering.

  Pham took off. Putting the bush between her and the Westerner, she ran like the wind, dodging trees and bushes and arriving at the fence in seconds. She had no memory of climbing over—but a second later she was on the other side and sprinting through the car park.

  The first laser shot smashed the windshield of a flier about a metre from Pham—the second hit the tank of a ground effect vehicle, and the resulting explosion almost knocked her off her feet. She kept running, glancing over her shoulder to see a great blooming cloud of oily black smoke obscuring the golf course. There was no sign of the killer, who would have to take a detour around the fire to get to her.

  She had gained a few seconds.

  Left, Khar ordered as she sprinted from the parking lot. She streaked down the street. The advantage of being in a rich area like this was that there was no one on the streets to get in her way, or to try to stop her.

  Seconds later she came to a ‘chute station.

  The cage was open. Pham was about to launch herself into it when Khar said, No! He will expect you to take the ‘chute. There’s an air-taxi rank across the road. Take a taxi south.

  Pham looked around madly. Sure enough, a dozen shiny fliers lined the far side of the street.

  Pham ran across to the first one and hauled open the door. She climbed into the back seat just as the Westerner emerged from the car park and sprinted towards the closing gate of the downchute cage.

  “Central Station,” Pham said.

  The Westerner collided with the gate, gripped it, and stared down at the descending cage.

  The flier lifted with a roar, turning on its axis and presenting Pham with a grandstand view of her pursuer, who was shouting crazily now and kicking the gate.

  Pham found herself almost crying with relief as the flier banked and screamed south towards safety-

  I’m sorry, Pham, Khar said.

  This time it was Pham’s turn to give him the silent treatment, eve
n though she knew that Khar would be able to read the anger in her mind, as well as the irrepressible surge of excitement.

  * * * *

  SIXTEEN

  DENNING

  Vaughan hired a beat-up Benz air-car and for the next three mornings parked it on a tree-lined street in the select Mizrabad district of Level One. All the residences along the street were set in extravagant acreages of garden and lawn, and boasted a variety of architectural styles, from ultra modern dome-dwellings as low-slung as watch glasses to retro Twentieth Century ranches. Denning’s residence was relatively modest, a split-level Mediterranean villa set at the back of a sloping lawn.

  His air-taxi arrived at 9:44am. The vehicle swooped down to the street, parked at the kerb and sounded its horn, once. Seconds later Denning hurried out, a tall figure in a high-collared business suit, carrying a softscreen scroll and a slim briefcase. Vaughan took an instant dislike to the man, something cloned and corporate in his immaculate appearance. He watched the air-taxi power up and climb, heading north towards the Scheering-Lassiter headquarters. The thought of abducting Denning sent his pulse racing.

  On the second day, the air-taxi arrived at 9:43. This time Denning emerged accompanied by a short, blonde European woman that Vaughan knew, from Kapinsky’s records, was his wife. They slipped into the back of the vehicle and set off.

  On the third morning, Denning emerged from the villa alone and set off to work.

  At nine the following morning Vaughan was in Kapinsky’s office, going over the details of the abduction. “So you’re happy driving?” she asked him.

  Last night Kapinsky had hired a Tata limousine, identical to the taxi that picked Denning up every day. She’d given false ID to the company and had worn a chu.

  “I’m fine,” Vaughan said. “I’ll get there at three minutes before quarter to ten.”

  “I’ve arranged for his regular limo to be delayed for a while.” She smiled at his enquiring glance. “A contact of mine—he’ll stage a small crash before take-off.”

  “And you’ll be waiting on the landing pad of the Mitsubishi building?”

  “Ready and waiting with my scalpel and synthi-flesh. Denning won’t suspect a thing. We’ll take his wallet and softscreen and he’ll assume he’s been rolled.”

  She indicated the chu case on the desk. “Its default program is a European male in his early thirties. This is the spray.” She tossed him the canister. “A two second blast straight into his face’ll be enough to keep him under for at least thirty minutes. You’ll need these, too.” She passed him a pair of surgical gloves.

  “Anything else?”

  Kapinsky was staring at him, shaking her head.

  “You do realise we’ve been paid, and paid well, for this case already? We’re effectively working for nothing here—absolutely no reward—and running the risk of landing ourselves in big trouble?”

  “Two things, Kapinsky. We’ll get to the bottom of what Scheering’s covering up on Mallory, and it’s my guess that it isn’t anything nice. And if we find out the identity of the assassin and stop him, we’ll be saving a few lives into the bargain.”

  Kapinsky grunted. “Get real. Some other assassin’ll be more than willing to take on the workload.”

  “Okay, so we’ll be saving one life in particular.”

  The Australian squinted. “And who’s that?”

  “The kid, yeah? Pham, the girl who saw the killing in the amusement park. The assassin wants her dead, and the sooner we can nail the assassin...

  She was smiling. “You’re a regular white knight, Vaughan. She’s a street-kid. The assassin would be doing her a favour.”

  “Christ, you’re a heartless bastard, Kapinsky.”

  She shrugged. “You still think the killer wants her dead for something he read in her head?” She said this with what he chose to interpret as a patronising smile.

  “Well, I don’t think Pham saw him that night. So yeah, I think he wants her dead for some other reason.”

  When he thought of Pham, the danger she was in, he realised how powerless he was to find her and save her from the assassin. She was one tiny street-kid among millions on the Station. The only heartening factor was that the assassin would find her difficult to trace, too.

  “Okay, Vaughan,” Kapinsky said. “You ready for this?”

  “See you in thirty minutes.” He quit the office and rode the upchute to the parking lot on Level One.

  The Tata limousine stood alone, its silver carapace resplendent in the tropical sun. Vaughan slipped into the driver’s seat and wedged the canister of anaesthetic between his thighs. He slipped on the surgical gloves and opened the chu case.

  He turned on the chu and held it before him. A hollowed face, as if the skull had been sucked from it, stared back at him with dark holes where the eyes should have been.

  Carefully he pulled the chu over his head and arranged its features, taking time to align the eyes and lips to his own.

  Then he checked himself in the rear-view mirror, and the transformation was little short of miraculous. A stranger stared back at him, fair where he was dark, pale-skinned compared to his swarthiness and permanent five o’clock shadow. He smiled, and the expression on the face was nothing like his own, even though the holographic capillaries of the chu covered his own musculature. Feeling confident in the disguise, he checked his handset. It was approaching 9:30—time he was setting off.

  He powered up the air-car and hauled it into the air. It was a quiet time of day, and the air traffic above the Station was minimal. He inserted the vehicle into a eastward air-lane, a great curving swathe of pale blue light beamed from aerial beacons, the thrust of the turbos pressing him back into the padded seat. He slowed and peeled the vehicle into a southbound air-lane, heading for Mizrabad.

  The odd thing was, he felt less apprehensive than he had yesterday, watching Denning and looking ahead to today. If he kept his nerve and thought through each situation as it came up, nothing could go wrong. He’d gone through the scheme again and again with Kapinsky, and he was backed by the best devices money could buy. It was only a matter of time before Denning was in the back of the car, his mind laid bare to their probes.

  At 9:40 he overflew the spacious gardens and seemingly toy houses of the Mizrabad district and came in to land at the end of Denning’s street. He waited two and a half minutes, counting off the seconds on his handset, then gunned the turbos and crawled along the kerb until he was sitting outside the villa.

  At precisely 9:43 he sounded the horn once, and waited, fingering the canister of anaesthetic and looking through the side window towards the side entrance of the villa.

  A minute elapsed without any sign of Denning. Another minute ticked by, and Vaughan considered what he might do if Kapinsky’s man failed to delay the bona fide limousine much longer. He glanced in the rear-view mirror: if he saw an air-taxi approaching, he would power up and get out of here, pick up Kapinsky and begin planning again from scratch.

  He sounded the horn again, for longer this time.

  Seconds later the side door of the villa opened, and Vaughan let out a breath.

  Then he saw who was approaching the car down the drive, and he cursed out loud.

  It was Denning’s wife. He could always start up and head off, but some instinct counselled him to go through with the charade.

  The woman pulled open the passenger door and ducked to stare in at him. “My husband’s working at home today—he did call to cancel the car.”

  Vaughan smiled. “Word never got back to me. No worries—”

  “But I’m heading north. If you’d give me a minute...?”

  “No problem,” Vaughan said, cursing his luck.

  As she hurried into the villa, he sat back and went through all the options. When she emerged again, carrying a bag, he knew exactly what he was going to do.

  “Where to?” he asked as she slipped into the back seat.

  “New Mumbai. The Hindustan roof-park will be fine.�
��

  He nodded and powered up, easing the car into the air and slipping into a blue northbound lane. The Hindustan building was only a kilometre from where he’d arranged to meet Kapinsky. He’d drop the woman off then make the short hop to the Mitsubishi building and tell Kapinsky what he’d planned.