Xenopath - [Bengal Station 02]

by Eric Brown

  He is staring through the window at the voidships, the voice reported. He is drinking beer and waiting for his sandwich to toast. When he crosses the kitchen again, and busies himself with extracting the sandwich from the machine, then that is the time to move. Retrieve the shield in silence and return to the sofa when I tell you to do so.

  Sukara nodded. Okay.

  He is about to move, the voice said, and Sukara saw him pass across the kitchen and out of sight again. She heard him open the toaster, and then the voice in her head said: Now!

  She moved. She sprang from the bunker and dashed across the room, heart pounding. She grabbed the shield, flooded with elation, then froze at the sound of footsteps from the kitchen.

  The killer’s shadow, cast by the light from the window, appeared at the door.

  It was as if, then, Sukara lost control of her own movements. She froze, but a fraction of a second later she was moving again, rolling across the carpet towards the bunker and over the edge. She hit the cushion, closed her eyes and lay very still, breathing hard.

  She knew that the voice in her head had taken control of her, and she felt at once alarmed and relieved.

  He heard you , the voice said. He came to the door to listen again, but he did not notice that the shield was no longer on the carpet. It is okay, Sukara. He has returned to the kitchen.

  She slipped the mind-shield into her pocket and arranged herself on the cushions so that she could see across the lounge to the kitchen door.

  Will he notice that I’ve moved a little? she wondered.

  As far as he is concerned, the voice said, you are dead. He will not notice that you have moved.

  Reassured, Sukara lay and waited for the killer to appear.

  And then, she thought, what do we do when he comes back in here?

  We lie very still. We wait. At some point he will put down his pistol—then, we make our move.

  Does he have the pistol on him now?

  He placed it on the worktop while he prepared his food.

  Sukara nodded. She considered what the voice had told her, then thought: How did you enter my head?

  A hesitation, then: I came from Pham, and before Pham another human, one who had visited Mallory.

  And why did you come to Earth?

  In a bid to help my people, who are being killed by the government of Mallory.

  And you can move from head to head at will?

  Most of the time, yes.

  Sukara considered that. So... she thought, why don’t you just enter the killer’s head now and make him stop what he’s doing?

  She felt what might have been a smile in her mind. Because the assassin is shielded, Sukara. We cannot enter shielded minds.

  She nodded. Tough, she thought.

  But do not worry. We will prevail.

  She thought of Jeff. She wanted him in her arms. When she had him back, she told herself, she would never let him go again.

  She heard movement, footsteps in the kitchen. The killer appeared in the doorway, then stepped into the lounge carrying a sandwich in one hand and the pistol in the other. Sukara half shut her eyes and watched the blurred shape of the killer as he crossed the lounge.

  He pulled a chair into position to the left of the sliding door, sat down, and began eating his sandwich. Holding the pistol on his lap. He hadn’t even given Sukara a single glance.

  She opened her eyes fully and watched him.

  He was sitting between Sukara and the door with his back to her. She could easily leave the bunker, sneak up on him and... She looked around for a handy, heavy object with which to crack his skull.

  The only thing to hand was a flower arrangement beside the bunker, which would hardly double as a cosh.

  Be patient, Sukara.

  But he has a pistol and we have nothing! How will we stop him!

  Leave the logistics to me, the voice said. Be ready, that is all I ask of you.

  Sukara smiled. I’m ready, she thought.

  The killer lounged in the chair and finished the sandwich. She wondered what kind of person would calmly kill someone, then fix themselves a meal and sit patiently waiting to kill someone else. And he had killed others, too, taking the lives of whoever he was paid to kill... She thought back two years to when she’d shot Osborne. She had had to do that then, in order to save Jeff’s life, but even so she had felt inescapable waves of guilt in the aftermath. But how could this man kill and keep on killing people and live with the knowledge that he had extinguished so many innocent lives?

  The thought made her so angry that, if she were able to, then, she would have shot the bastard dead without a second thought.

  The irony was not lost on her, and she smiled.

  He is preparing to move to the bathroom, the voice said. We must be ready.

  Sukara nodded, her pulse racing.

  The killer stood and stretched, the pistol in his extended right hand. He turned and headed for the bathroom door. Sukara watched him through half-closed eyes.

  He stepped from the lounge, closing the door behind him.

  Get up, commanded the voice.

  Sukara moved from the bunker, amazed at how well she felt, considering that fifteen minutes ago she had been dead. She crossed the room towards the bathroom door and paused, looking around.

  There, said the voice.

  In a wall recess stood a metal statuette, an elephant with its trunk raised. She grabbed the animal by the trunk, surprised at how heavy it was. All the better, she thought.

  She moved to the bathroom door, beside which stood a tall unit holding glasses and drinks. Sukara positioned herself on the other side of the unit, so that it was between herself and the bathroom door.

  She should, she realised, be more frightened than she felt. She was curiously calm. Are you helping me? she asked.

  I am doing what is necessary to prevent further deaths, said the voice.

  She wondered if it said this to lessen her guilt at what she was about to do, and then she wondered if she would feel any remorse at bludgeoning the killer.

  The bathroom door opened and the killer stepped into the lounge.

  Sukara moved from behind the unit.

  She raised the statuette above her head, conscious of its heft, the damage it would do.

  At that second, just as she was about to propel the elephant on its downward swing towards the blonde head of the killer, he turned, suddenly aware.

  She cried out and swung the statuette.

  The blow caught the side of his forehead. The killer dropped to his knees.

  For a fraction of a second, Sukara hesitated.

  Then the thing in her head took control.

  As if watching the actions of her body from a remove, she was aware of launching herself towards the killer, striking him again across the side of the head and then stamping down hard on his wrist as he fell to the floor.

  She wrested the pistol from his grip and staggered away across the lounge.

  She felt the control of her body return to her as she stood, shaking, facing the killer as he pulled himself upright.

  She levelled the pistol.

  The killer stared, and understanding came to him. Blood trickled down his face, and Sukara could not bring herself to feel the slightest compassion. He reached out, smiling, almost placatory—as if seeking exoneration for his deeds to date.

  Sukara found herself wanting to ask him how he could take innocent lives and live with himself, but at the same time all she wanted to do was to pull the trigger and kill the bastard.

  Tell him, the voice said, to deactivate his implant.

  Faltering, Sukara said, “Deactivate your implant!”

  The killer smiled. “What? And let the alien into my head? I’d rather die.”

  He advanced at step, a hand outstretched. “I know I can’t appeal to the alien, but you, Sukara, do you know what it is to take a life?”

  Sukara managed a smile. “You tried to kill me, and my baby. You are... evil. Don’t
you think you deserve to die?”

  “There is no such thing as evil,” the man said. “Merely those who are weak, and those who are strong.”

  Sukara stared at him through sudden tears. “And I am strong,” she said.

  The killer moved, dived towards her, and at that precise second Sukara blacked out.

  * * * *

  TWENTY-NINE

  HOMECOMING

  Vaughan stood in the observation nacelle as The Spirit of Olympus materialised over the Bay of Bengal.

  His relief at having escaped Mallory in one piece had soon turned to frustration. For two days he had slept, stared out into the grey of voidspace, or read in a bid to occupy his thoughts.

  As soon as he reached the Station he would contact Kapinsky, bring her up to date on events on Mallory, and together they would attempt to locate the street-kid, Pham.

  The ship stuttered from voidspace. Ahead, rising from the calm blue waters of the ocean, as solid as an anvil, was Bengal Station. Vaughan felt an odd sense of homecoming.

  As the ship approached, he looked along the sheer, kilometre-high western fa ç ade of the Station, trying to pinpoint the long viewscreen of his apartment. He thought he saw it—a tiny silver lozenge among thousands of others, and wondered what Sukara would be doing there. It was seven in the morning, Indian time, and Su would be getting up and fixing breakfast. He smiled as he considered the look on her face in an hour or so when he walked through the door.

  The ship slowed and came in over the edge of the Station. Down below he made out Himachal Park, reduced to the size of an architect’s model, with early risers out for a morning stroll. The spaceport was as busy as ever, with ships arriving and departing in a constant flow. The Spirit of Olympus decelerated, inching towards a docking ring and finally connecting with a peal that reverberated throughout the length of the ship.

  Vaughan shouldered his holdall and made for the exit. As he shuffled from the vessel, a ‘port security team boarded, the telepaths amongst them scanning the minds of the alighting passengers.

  At customs he made for the Station Nationals channel, showed his ID to a tired officer, and stepped out onto the vast floor of the arrivals terminal. He paused to tap Kapinsky’s code into his handset.

  Her sharp face appeared after a long delay. She looked tired. “Vaughan. I was trying to get some sleep.”

  “It’s eight in the morning, Kapinsky.”

  “I just got back from India. I’m beat.”

  “Okay, but we need to meet. I’ve learned a lot. I’m seeing Sukara for an hour or two, but I’ll be at the office around midday, okay?”

  Kapinsky nodded. “I need my beauty sleep, Vaughan. But okay, I’ll see you then.”

  He decided to walk home. It would take about ten minutes. The alternative, a train to the nearest ‘chute station, would take longer at this time of day.

  He shouldered his holdall and set off for the exit. Later he’d try to work out with Kapinsky how to go about locating the street-kid, Pham. Of course, there was always the possibility that the killer had found her while he’d been away, in which case they would face the almost impossible task of trying to work out where the Hortavan might have transmitted itself to—always supposing that there had been an unshielded mind in the vicinity when its host was killed.

  Vaughan tried not to think about that.

  He was about to step through the exit when he heard a small voice behind him.

  “Mr Vaughan! Mr Vaughan!”

  He turned.

  A skinny Thai waif in a Tigers’ T-shirt and baggy red shorts smiled timorously at him. “Mr Vaughan! Khar said that I had to find you. He said that he would help you.”

  “Pham?” he said, incredulous.

  She nodded, her big eyes wide beneath her jet fringe. “Khar said I shouldn’t go back to your apartment. He said I’d be in danger. I had to come here, find you.”

  Vaughan shook his head, trying to take in her words. “Khar is...?” he began, then tapped the code into his handset and activated his implant.

  Her small mind flared, along with the background mind-noise of a thousand other citizens, and Vaughan concentrated. The Hortavan xenopath, Khar, had ridden her mind until a day ago. After that, she’d had no contact with it.

  Yesterday the Hortavan had warned her against entering the apartment, where for the past five days she’d lived with Sukara.

  Alarm hit him with a sickening rush. He took her hand. “Come with me!”

  “Ah-cha.”

  He hurried from the ‘port, the little girl running at his side in order to keep up. The contents of her mind filled his, her thoughts and emotions, dreams and desires. Dominant in her mind was how wonderful the past few days had been, living in the plush apartment with Sukara. Vaughan found himself holding back tears. He scanned for the alien in her mind, but found nothing.

  He shut down his implant as they headed for the nearest ‘chute station.

  “The alien in your mind, Pham—has it left?”

  She looked up at him as she jogged along. “Khar has gone?”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “I thought he was being quiet.”

  “Do you know when it might have left you?” he asked as they boarded a downchute cage with a couple of businessmen and dropped to Level Two.

  She shook her head.

  But why had Khar warned her against entering the apartment, Vaughan thought as they exited the ‘chute cage and hurried along the boulevard towards Chittapuram. What if the killer had traced Pham there, had forced entry and...

  Sukara!

  Fear exploded through him. He ran, then remembered Pham. She was stumbling after him. He scooped her up, slung her onto his back and jogged along the corridor towards his apartment.

  It seemed farther away than he recalled from his leisurely strolls with Sukara, and for some reason the corridors were crowded this morning. The journey seemed to take an age.

  Five minutes later he approached the last observation viewscreen before their door, and paused. He lowered Pham to the floor and stood her against the viewscreen. “Stay there until I call you, okay?”

  She nodded, once. “Ah-cha,” she said obediently.

  He took a deep breath, trying to control his heartbeat as he hurried along the corridor. He stopped outside the sliding door to his apartment, wishing that he had never given Sukara the mind-shield so that he might read her now, reassure himself that she was okay.

  His hand shaking uncontrollably, he fumbled with his key-card and swiped the door open.

  He stepped inside, a solid block of incipient grief frozen in his chest.

  He saw the dead Westerner first. He lay on the floor on his back, a hole the size of a fist in his chest.

  And then he saw Sukara. She lay in the sunken sofa, her eyes closed. In the middle of her forehead was the small, round entry point of a laser. Grief ripped painfully through him—followed, instantly, by a voice in his head.

  Do not worry, Vaughan. Sukara is well. The assassin killed her, but I healed her.

  Groggily, Sukara opened her eyes, stared up at him, and smiled. She reached into her pocket, pulled something from it, and tossed it across the room.

  “Activate your implant, Jeff, for me.”

  He almost fell into the bunker and pulled her into his arms.

  He had sworn he would never read her mind, but now he activated his handset. The alien in her head withdrew, as if curling itself up, and instantly her mind flared, and Vaughan was rocked by the force of her emotions. He read her love for him as she wrapped her arms around his neck and sobbed.

  Later he fetched a blanket from the bedroom and draped it over the killer’s corpse, then stepped from the apartment and looked along the corridor. He called Pham’s name, and her head peeped around the corner of the observation gallery. He signalled for her to join him.

  She ran along the corridor. “Is Sukara...?” she began.

  Vaughan smiled and gestured through the door, and Pham sped
in and launched herself at Sukara. Vaughan followed her and closed the door behind him.

  He held Sukara and the street-kid while they cried tears of relief and Vaughan marvelled at the purity of his wife’s mind.