Xenopath - [Bengal Station 02]

by Eric Brown

  Convinced that he was deluding himself, but curious nevertheless, he climbed from the Bison and crossed the track, climbing through blue grass and tumbled scree towards where the khaki rump of the creature was shuffling on up the cutting.

  The gap was wider than he first thought, easily wide enough to admit the Bison. He followed the beast, though its strides had taken it far up the cutting, and found that the pass opened out into a greensward—or rather bluesward—which ran aslant between a tumble of boulders below and the flanks of rocks above.

  By now the leader of the herd had crossed the clearing and was moving through another cutting, though this time it did not turn to encourage his pursuit... if indeed it had originally.

  Vaughan paused and considered his options. He was no doubt anthropomorphising the creature’s actions, but what did he have to lose?

  He returned to the Bison, started it up and left the track. It bucked over the uneven ground, rocking him in his seat, as he approached the cutting. He slowed, and the truck scraped through with centimetres to spare on either side. Minutes later he emerged on the bluesward and accelerated across the sloping ground towards the far rocks. The next five minutes would determine whether he had deluded himself.

  This pass was wider than the last, and longer, and when it ended the Bison emerged into a dazzling wash of dying sunlight and Vaughan was amazed to find himself on what was obviously a man-made track, rougher than the one he had left but a track nevertheless... which meant that, at some point in the past, it must have led somewhere.

  He followed it, the Bison pitching back and forth. The track climbed, then levelled out and paralleled the lie of the valley to his right, hidden though it was by a fold in the hills.

  Of the creatures—his unwitting helpers?—there was no sign.

  He travelled for two hours through the gradually dimming light, and at one point came to a high crest in the track that afforded a vantage point over the hills to the valley. He stopped the Bison and stared out. Far below, and behind him now, was the dazzling line of light that was the laser cordon.

  He continued on his way, and the track fell away down the hillside. At last, in darkness now and the vehicle’s powerful headlamps lighting the way, the track joined the original road. Vaughan accelerated, hardly daring to believe that he had bypassed the military checkpoint, and an hour later he came to the highway leading to his destination. A couple of kilometres further on a sign declared that Lincolnville was just fifty kilometres distant.

  The highway climbed, wound through the foothills, and less than an hour later Vaughan came to a collection of weatherboard dwellings, strung out along a single main road, and a sign welcoming him to Lincolnville, population five hundred. There was no sign, he was relieved to see, of any military presence.

  Half a dozen four-wheel drives were pulled up outside the town’s only hotel-cum-bar. Vaughan parked the Bison beside them, shouldered his holdall, and made for the plinth of steps to the hotel’s veranda.

  He was about to push through the double doors when he stopped. He dropped his bag and considered his handset. So far on his journey south, he had yet to come across an unshielded mind. He wondered if the citizens of Lincolnville likewise had something to hide.

  He activated his implant, and instantly knew the answer.

  Mind-silence, except for the confused emotions of a newborn baby on the second floor of the hotel.

  Vaughan entered and found himself in timber-panelled lobby. The place had the appearance of something from a Wild West holo-movie set.

  To the right was a door leading to a small bar, occupied by half a dozen men and women.

  A Nordic blonde girl in her teens, obviously surprised to see him, appeared behind the reception counter.

  He asked for a room for tonight, and if he could buy a meal. He was in luck as far as accommodation went, but the kitchen was closed. He took a small room on the second floor, fetched a meal from the Bison, and ate it while staring out of the window at the darkened main street and the looming shape of the mountains to the south. They were shadowed and dark against the starscape, and gave Vaughan the impression of dour hostility. Tomorrow, first thing, he would be heading further south, towards Campbell’s End. He pushed the thought to the back of his mind.

  Melancholy, he went down to the bar and ordered a local beer—thin and insipid compared to his regular Blue Mountain. It was late, and he was the only customer.

  He took his beer to a table near the window and stared out.

  Minutes later, snow began to fall, reminding him of Canada.

  The girl’s question startled him.

  “I said,” she repeated, “are you with the military?”

  “Excuse me?”

  She was wiping the table next to his, camouflaging her shyness with a truculent stare.

  “You a soldier?”

  He smiled. “No. A tourist?”

  She shook her head. “A tourist? Then how you get through the roadblocks?”

  He considered his reply. “I’ve been in Preston for a few days. Last night I camped in the hills.”

  She seemed reluctant to believe him. “So you’re nothing to do with what’s going on in the valley? You’re not with the S-L forces?”

  He smiled again, trying to reassure her. “What is going on?” he asked.

  She resumed her polishing with renewed vigour. “You’re a tourist, so you don’t need to know, do you?”

  “Still, I’d like to know.”

  She stopped and looked at him. “How do I know you’re not an S-L spy?”

  He showed her his ID. “See. Earth citizen.”

  She peered at it, then looked at him dubiously. “But then a S-L spy would have cover, wouldn’t he?”

  He took a sip of beer, considering his next words. “Someone told me that everyone around here carries mind-shields? Is that right?”

  She moved to the next table, and Vaughan thought she was refusing to reply. Then she said, “Carry them? We’re implanted, mister. Everyone on Mallory.”

  Vaughan nodded. “Is that a government edict?”

  “Huh?” Incomprehension showed in her Scandinavian eyes.

  “Is it a law that everyone on Mallory should be implanted?”

  “Everyone over the age of ten, yes,” she said. She thought about it, then went on, “S-L don’t want telepaths from Earth learning all about them, do they?”

  “All about them?”

  The girl decided she’d said enough, wished Vaughan good night and told him that the bar was closed now. If he wanted another beer he could help himself.

  He did just that, and sat in the darkened barroom considering the events of the day. High above the mountains was a spread of stars in an alien arrangement, and he wondered where Sol might be.

  He realised he was seventy light years away from Earth, and Sukara.

  * * * *

  NINETEEN

  THE TELEPATH

  Pham spent the night under the banyan tree in Gandhi Park, and in the morning sat on her blanket and wondered what to do next.

  Since being chased by the laser killer yesterday, she had been unable to rouse Khar. At first she thought that he might be sulking, or that he was so ashamed of nearly getting her killed that he couldn’t bring himself to speak to her.

  Now she wondered if he had left her in the night, flown from her head and lodged in someone else’s.

  If he had done that, then she was both upset that he had left without saying goodbye, and a little afraid now that she was alone. Khar had helped her since she had arrived on the upper decks. Okay, he’d got her into trouble yesterday, but he had won her money and kept her company and filled her head with interesting thoughts. And, to be truthful, there was something exciting about being chased by a killer. It was like something from her favourite holo-movies.

  “Khar,” she said now. “Why aren’t you talking?”

  The silence stretched, then the familiar voice sounded in her head. I am communing.

&n
bsp; She smiled to herself, relieved that he was still there. “Communing? Who with?”

  It would be better if you did not know that.

  “Ah-cha,” she said. She was quiet for a while, then said, “I’ve decided I’m going to look for Abdul today.”

  Do you know where to find him?

  “He told me he begged on Chandi Road. I’ll look there.”

  Very well, Pham.

  “Okay, so I’ll leave you to your communing, Khar.”

  He did not reply.

  She stuffed her blanket into her teddy-bear backpack, hitched it onto her back and left the park.

  She had missed Abdul since hurrying away from the starship a couple of days ago. She wanted to explain why she had left so quickly, and apologise. She was sure Abdul would understand. It was strange, but she’d only met him two or three times, and then only for a few hours each time, but she felt as if she had known him for years. She thought of his smile, his big staring eyes... He was like the brother she had never had.

  She took the upchute two levels to the upper deck, then caught the train to Chandi Road.

  The long, wide road that ran parallel to the spaceport was solid with a noisy, colourful river of humanity. It was as if a skyball stadium was constantly emptying spectators out into the street. Pham wondered where each citizen was heading. All of them were going about their own private business, spending perhaps minutes on the road before leaving it, their places taken by other pedestrians.

  Pham pushed through the crowd, heading for Patel’s Sweet Centre where she had first met Abdul. He’d told her that his begging patch was between Patel’s and a restaurant called Nazruddin’s. She was sure to find him somewhere along the street.

  She had to cut across the crowd flowing along the length of the road, and it was like swimming against a great surging torrent of water. She was carried way past Patel’s by the time she emerged from the press and jumped out onto the sidewalk, catching her breath in the quiet space between the stall of a chai vendor and a paan kiosk.

  She looked up and down the sidewalk, scrutinising the kids hurrying along its length, their hands outstretched towards the well-dressed citizens promenading before the expensive shop-fronts. Most of the time the kids were ignored, but now and then a man or woman tossed a small denomination note their way, to keep them quiet. Sometimes fights broke out among the street-kids as they fought for notes that fluttered to the ground.

  Pham watched them and thought of Abdul living like this, and the idea made her unhappy.

  She walked towards Patel’s. She was still wearing the smart clothes she had bought yesterday, and she earned hostile glances from the street-kids who thought she was a little rich kid out shopping.

  The odd thing was, while part of her hated the life these kids were living, relying on baht from fat, bored rich people, another part envied the fact that the children existed in one big family. It might not always be a happy family, but at least they had each other to talk to, to play with, to share their problems with.

  She would like to be part of that family, but not if it meant living on the spaceship and working for Dr Rao.

  The double shop-front of Patel’s was an Aladdin’s cave full of a hundred different kinds of Indian sweets, piled in pyramids and ziggurats and cones like exotic multicoloured temples.

  Pham slipped into the shop and bought a selection of barfi in a big bag, then stepped out onto the sidewalk and looked for Abdul.

  He was not among the kids rushing up and down outside Patel’s and neighbouring shops. She wanted to ask them if they knew where he was, but shyness stopped her approaching the scruffy, ragged urchins. She hurried along the sidewalk towards Nazruddin’s, hoping that Abdul had not decided to take a holiday today.

  He was not outside Nazruddin’s, so she walked further along the road, and then back again. She consoled herself by stuffing delicious barfi into her mouth, and washing it down with a cup of spiced ginger chai from a roadside stall.

  There was no sign of Abdul along his usual patch, so the only thing left to do was to ask one of the street-kids if they knew where he was.

  She stood beside the chai stall, watching the kids. Some of them looked rough, as if they’d rather punch her in the face than answer her questions. But one young girl caught her eye and smiled shyly.

  Pham smiled in return and offered her the bag of barfi. The girl, a Tamil by the shape and colour of her small, dark face, nodded and dipped a hand into the bag.

  “I wonder if you can help me,” Pham asked the girl.

  The Indian nibbled the barfi like a mouse, jogging her head from side to side.

  Pham went on, “I’m looking for a boy called Abdul. I don’t know his last name. He works around here.”

  The girl’s eyes widened, as if in alarm. “Abdul? Abdul Mohammed?”

  “I don’t know—he has only one arm.”

  “Ah-cha! That is Abdul Mohammed. You haven’t heard?”

  Pham’s stomach heaved. She felt sick. “Heard what?” she asked in a whisper.

  “Someone beat him up. Many broken bones. Almost killed him.”

  Pham felt dizzy. “Who? Who did this?”

  “A Westerner. He asked Abdul questions.”

  “Where is Abdul now?”

  “Dr Rao treated him, but he was injured very badly. Dr Rao took him to hospital.” The girl considered for a second, then took Pham’s hand. “Come. I will take you.”

  Her heart beating wildly, Pham gripped the kid’s sticky hand and followed her along the sidewalk and down a side street. They passed through crowded alleys, deafened by the cries of street traders and the jet engines of passing air-cars.

  Five minutes later they came to a small Ayurvedic clinic with a big red cross flashing on and off outside. The girl pointed across the road. “Abdul is in there, ward three.”

  Pham hesitated, part of her oddly reluctant to face Abdul now that she knew where he was. She turned to the girl, slipped a ten baht note into her hand, then hurried across the road and into the hospital before she changed her mind.

  A Thai nurse in a brilliant white uniform smiled at her from behind the reception desk.

  “I have come to see Abdul Mohammed,” Pham said. “Ward three.”

  The nurse pointed through swing doors and along a corridor. “Through there, and it’s the first door on your right.”

  Pham moved slowly towards the door and pushed it open. The thing was, if the Westerner who had beaten up Abdul was the laser killer looking for Pham, then why had he assaulted Abdul and asked questions? He was telepathic, after all: why hadn’t he simply read Abdul’s mind?

  She felt a sudden wave of relief. Perhaps the man who beat him up had nothing to do with the laser killings.

  Perhaps Abdul would be glad to see her.

  She approached the door on the right and eased it open timorously, peering in at the beds.

  Only one of the four beds on the small ward was occupied, but Pham did not recognise the boy stretched out on the white sheets, his legs encased in silver machines. His face was bruised and swollen, his eyes closed.

  Pham felt tears sting her eyes and trickle down her cheeks. She backhanded them away and stepped towards the bed.

  Abdul heard her and opened his eyes.

  “Pham!” he said in a small voice. “You shouldn’t... you’re in danger!”

  Pham ran forward and gripped the boy’s right hand. “Abdul, I’m sorry!”

  He grinned, and despite the bruises that made him look like a different person, she recognised him from the grin. “Not your fault. I took you to the amusement park, after all.”

  She smiled through her tears. “What happened?”

  “Yesterday, Dr Rao came to me in the spaceship. He said someone was looking for you—he said that this person would be looking for me, also.”

  Pham opened her eyes wide. “The laser killer,” she said in a small voice.

  “Ah-cha. Anyway, Dr Rao gave me a small metal disc. He called it a m
ind-shield. He said I should keep it on me at all times, and that it would stop a telepath from reading my mind—stop a telepath from reading where you might be.”

  “But what happened?”

  Abdul shrugged, smiling sadly. “He found me. He must have read other kids’ minds, and found out where I was. Last night, I was begging near the spaceport when I saw this guy... The way he was looking at me. I knew something was wrong. So I ran.”

  “But the killer caught you, ah-cha?”