Voices b5-1

by John Vornholt

  “Too bad,” said Garibaldi. A Psi Cop floated overhead, and Garibaldi flicked a long arm up and punched the man in the stomach. The Psi Cop groaned and rolled over.

  The chief smiled at Mr. Gray. “There’s a lesson in this—it’s not good to be overconfident.”

  “I never am,” Gray replied somberly.

  The first rays of sunlight brought the slate-colored clouds to life, and they looked like the underbellies of a herd of buffaloes, slowly stampeding across the sky. Talia could see their woolly heads, their massive horns, their hooves, and the steam which shot from their nostrils. The crest of rugged mountains to the north was like a fence that penned them in, with the sun chasing them from behind.

  Talia watched, fascinated, as the fiery dome of the sun rose over the desert floor. The vast desolation of this land was both frightening and soothing. It reminded her too much of her present life—drained and shot to hell, but filled with a strange promise of light that could chase away the darkness.

  Deuce was asleep in the sand of the dry wash, clutching his briefcase and his PPG pistol across his chest. She could easily wrench one or both away from him now, but what good would that do her? Where could she go without Deuce and his friends, whoever they were? She did steal a few sips of his water, though, after she found a canteen hidden in his duffel bag. With Deuce’s well-developed sense of self-preservation, he had failed to mention that he had any water.

  Talia climbed out of the wash and watched the sun thaw the dew off the flat leaves and thistles of the plants which grew along the wash. It had been a long time since she had seen a sunrise on Earth, and the woman couldn’t help but to feel a bit sad and homesick. She fought the temptation even to think about going to see her family. They would be watched. They would be hounded by newspeople, police, and the curious. Her family was undoubtedly going through hell, and that was just more incentive, if she needed any, to clear her name.

  The distant mountains were taking on a reddish hue, and they reminded her of all the lakes, plains, and forests of this magnificent planet. Talia wondered if she would ever see those natural wonders again. She had thrived on an artificial satellite in a distant part of space, so maybe she could thrive anywhere, without her friends and family. Maybe she could be an expatriot of Earth. In truth, Talia wanted to join the migration of clouds across the sky, just a nebulous being who never had to worry about people, death, or detention cells.

  She didn’t know how long she stood there, watching the ragged horizon, before she saw them. At first, it seemed they were just another copse of misshapen trees in the distance, but the black specks kept coming closer. It was their unerring march through the wilderness that made her certain they were coming for her and Deuce. But who were they? What were they?

  As the specks drew closer, she decided they were Hovercraft. She counted four of them, small ones. Talia supposed that a Hovercraft was a good vehicle for this type of terrain, which was treacherous but mostly flat. She heard some footsteps crunching the sand behind her, and she turned to see Deuce. He was drinking from his canteen, and he offered it to her without comment. She took a long drink this time. They were saved, so to speak, and there was no reason for Deuce to hoard his water any longer.

  Talia glanced at the criminal, and he shook his head. “No, they’re not like me. And they’re not like you. Unless you lived about five hundred years ago, they’re unlike anybody you’ve ever met. This is their home. Don’t make fun of them, okay?”

  Talia shook her head. She was not in any position to make fun of anybody, especially people who would consider this wilderness their home.

  With reluctance, she removed her white linen gloves and folded them in the pocket of her jumpsuit.

  Chapter 14

  From his duffel bag, Deuce took out a pair of banged-up but good binoculars and handed them to Talia. She nodded her thanks and put the lenses to her eyes to study the approaching party. The four Hovercraft were clipping along at a good rate of speed, spewing up dust clouds behind them, and she realized with a shock that the pilots were all women!

  As she looked closer with the binoculars, Talia decided that they weren’t necessarily women but people with very long hair that whipped in the wind. Two of them were barechested, and she could see their bronze skin glistening in a halo effect created by the morning sun at their backs. It wasn’t until she saw the stylized eagles painted on the noses of the Hovercraft, and the feathers flapping from the roll bars, that she felt certain who they were. In this wilderness, it made sense.

  Indians, she thought aloud.

  Deuce chuckled. “Well, real Indians wouldn’t think so. Those are Bilagaani, as they call themselves. White Indians.”

  Talia nodded. She had heard of the White Indians, people who had forsaken their own culture to emulate the culture of another race that had flourished five hundred years earlier. They were shunned as pariahs by actual Native Americans, at least those who were trying to maintain their culture. Many Native American tribes had gotten rich and conservative from gambling enterprises around the turn of the millennium, and they had given up any effort to maintain their culture. The White Indians had picked up where they left off, often moving into deserted Indian villages.

  “Don’t be fooled,” said Deuce. “This ain’t a game to them. They take it real seriously, especially the religious parts. Some of them were born and raised this way, so they don’t know any different. Others have come along, bringing their big-city skills with them.” Deuce smiled. “Those are the ones I like.”

  The grubby criminal motioned at the vast desert. “They live out here where nobody else will live, and nobody pays them much mind. So they do little favors for people like me.” He smiled at Talia. “People like us, I should say. You’re a much bigger criminal than I am.”

  She glared at him, and the man laughed. “I won’t tell them who you are. But there should be a big reward for you by now. Better watch your step.”

  Talia nodded somberly. After another twenty minutes, the four Hovercraft came shooting out of a gully, skimming over the crusty sand. She could hear the hiss of their powerful propellers. Unlike wheeled vehicles, thought Talia, these did little to disrupt the ecosystem, other than blowing the sand around. The Hovercraft looked like blunt-nosed racecars, with roll bars and a combination spoiler/solar panel in the rear of each vehicle. The fanciful eagles and coyotes painted on the craft did much to make them look authentic, but the people driving them only succeeded in looking strange.

  The Bilagaani stopped their vehicles and turned off their engines, and the Hovercraft settled into the sand. One by one, the drivers got out, stretching their legs. There were no cries of greeting, no rush to shake hands with Deuce and Talia. In fact, there was a deliberate reserve in their actions, as if a rushed greeting would be unseemly. Their hair, driven into ratty knots by their journey, hung to their waists. They were wearing moccasins and thick flannel pants tied with drawstrings; two of them wore crudely sewn shirts made from the same material. From their necks hung leather pouches, and there were short knives strapped to their arms.

  One of the bare-chested Bilagaani was a tall, muscular man with chestnut-brown hair. He was the kind of character, thought Talia, who existed mainly in fiction—romantic, handsome, although caked with dirt and sweat. The other bare-chested Bilagaani was a middle-aged woman with brown hair, and her breasts were as tanned as the rest of her. The third one was an older man with white hair, and the fourth one looked like a boy.

  Finally, it was the man with white hair and a creased face who approached them and held up his hand in greeting. “Brother Deuce,” he said, “I hope all goes well.”

  “Brother Sky,” said the gangster, “it is well to see you again.”

  Talia felt the others staring at her, and she stared right back. After her adventures of late, she was certain she was just as grungy and disreputable-looking as the rest of them. She could feel the caked blood in her scalp and on her forehead. And she felt bare without her glove
s.

  “What is your name, child?” asked Brother Sky.

  Deuce shrugged. “She don’t talk, and I don’t know what her name is. But I would like to make some arrangements for her.”

  Sky smiled benignly, showing several missing teeth. “We will double your fee.”

  “What?” squawked Deuce. “You had to come out here, anyway! How can you double it?”

  “Very well,” said Sky, “we can leave her here, to feed Brother Coyote.”

  “All right,” muttered the gangster. “But she needs everything I’m getting—new identicard, passage east.”

  Sky held up his hands in a token of peace. “The Creator will provide.” He turned to the handsome one. “Make our peace with the land for this intrusion.”

  The young man leaped down into the wash and took only a few strides to reach the half-buried cargo container. He gathered up the parachute and stuffed it into the hole in the top of the container. Reverently, he took his pouch off his neck, opened it, and faced the east. As he spoke words in a language which Talia didn’t recognize, he took bits of dried vegetable matter from his bag and tossed them into the wind. Everyone watched silently as he repeated this procedure facing the south, the west, and the north. Then he returned the pouch to his neck and climbed out of the wash.

  “Father,” he said, “we should return here and break down this container. There are things we can use.”

  Sky nodded. “Yes, my son. That is well.” The old man motioned toward his Hovercraft. “Deuce, you will ride with the boy, as he is lighter. Your friend will ride with me.”

  The old Bilagaani studied Talia for a moment. “You will need a name, at least for the period you stay with us. Since you come from the sky, I will call you Rain.”

  Talia nodded and smiled. She liked the name Rain.

  Boston was a strange city, thought Garibaldi, as he and Harriman Gray rode an autotaxi through the financial district. Mixed among the gleaming skyscrapers with mirrored surfaces were these old gray buildings with bay windows and skylights. The autotaxi shuddered up a steep hill, and they got a glimpse of the sparkling ocean and a sleek ocean liner at the dock. Then they plummeted down the other side of the hill and entered a grimy tunnel that looked as if it had been built at the dawn of time. The whole city seemed a dichotomy, thought Garibaldi, both modem and ancient, clean and dirty, with the usual big-city feature of way too many people.

  They emerged from the tunnel, and the robotic car jerked sharply around a corner, following an invisible track in the street. Gray was thrown against Garibaldi by the centrifugal force.

  “Sorry,” said the telepath, straightening his shoulders.

  “Why are you sorry?” asked the security chief “You’re not driving. We did tell this thing to go double-time.”

  Gray sighed and flicked on the viewer on the dashboard. He flipped stations until he found some news, and Garibaldi wasn’t surprised to see a photo of Talia Winters.

  “… whose whereabouts are still unknown,” said the newscaster. “The commercial telepath has been implicated in the recent bombing on station Babylon 5. She made good her escape three days ago and has not been sighted since. In addition to being wanted by authorities for the bombing on Babylon 5, Talia Winters has been declared a rogue telepath by the governing body of telepaths, Psi Corps.”

  “What?” growled Garibaldi. “I thought Bester was going to lay off for several days!”

  Gray shrugged. “Maybe he woke up from his surgery in a bad mood.”

  “If you have any knowledge of the whereabouts of Talia Winters, please contact your local police or Psi Corps office.”

  Garibaldi flicked off the viewer. “Sheesh,” he muttered. “If she lives through this, it’ll be a miracle.”

  “I don’t believe our chances of finding her first are very good.”

  “Yeah, but we’re the only ones who know that she might be coming after Emily Crane. It’s a long shot, but it’s worth a try.”

  The vehicle came to an abrupt stop in front of one of the behemoth skyscrapers, not one of the charming stone buildings. Gray and Garibaldi looked at one another to see who would be the first to draw his creditchit.

  “Your expense account has got to be better than mine,” observed Garibaldi.

  The telepath sighed and ran his card through the slot. “Thank you,” said a synthesized voice. The doors opened, and they stepped out.

  “Floor thirty-eight,” said Garibaldi, looking at his electronic address keeper.

  Garibaldi’s Earthforce uniform and Gray’s Psi Corps insignia got them past the security guards in the lobby without any problem, even though they didn’t have an appointment. Garibaldi and Gray had agreed not to alert Emily Crane that they were coming; they wanted to surprise her and judge her reactions for themselves. Even though the rest of the universe thought Talia Winters was guilty, Garibaldi was going to prove them wrong. He just hoped he could do it before Bester and his goons got ahold of her.

  The receptionist of the Mix office on floor thirty-eight was a dour-looking older man. At least he looked dourly at the two uniformed men as they approached his desk. His nameplate read: “Ronald Trishman.”

  “Hello, officers, what can I do for you?” he asked, while grabbing a keypad and trying to look busy.

  Garibaldi tried to be charming but businesslike. “Does Emily Crane work here?”

  “Who are you gentlemen?”

  “I’m Michael Garibaldi, Security Chief of Babylon 5, and this is Mr. Gray, Psi Corps military liaison, currently under assignment to Mr. Bester. You’ve heard of him, right? We would like to see Emily Crane.”

  “Do you have an appointment?” asked Ronald Trishman, showing his displeasure.

  “No.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll need an appointment.”

  “That’s a nice try,” said Garibaldi. “Tell her she can talk to us or the Psi Cops. It’s her choice.”

  The receptionist swallowed and touched a commlink panel on his desk. “Ms. Crane, there are two gentlemen here to see you. One is the security chief of Babylon 5, and the other is a telepath working for Mr. Bester. They say you can talk to them or to the Psi Cops.”

  “Please send them b-back,” came the answer.

  “Room two twelve,” said the man. He buzzed open the door to the inner chamber, and Garibaldi was there in two strides, with Gray rushing to keep up.

  When they found room 212, Emily Crane stood waiting for them in the doorway, a look of concern on her plain face. She was wearing a brown suit that was too long for her diminutive height, and it didn’t do much to enliven her personality either.

  “Hello,” she said simply. “Come in.”

  She ushered them into an office that was a considerable contrast to her appearance. It had striking furnishings of a Frank Lloyd Wright influence, with ornate fractals carved into her Mayan-styled desk, conference table, and bureau. Emily Crane seated them in comfortable chairs decorated with a Mayan pattern in blood red.

  Gray managed a smile and was the first to speak. “We’re sorry we have to bother you, Ms. Crane, but there’s a matter we have to clear up.”

  Garibaldi crossed his legs and smiled benignly. They had decided in advance that Gray would do the questioning, because he was a fellow telepath. She might open up more for him. If he faltered, Garibaldi would step in and play good cop/bad cop. He was looking forward to being the bad cop.

  Ms. Crane said nothing and waited for Gray to go on. Garibaldi realized that talking was not her strong suit, and she was going to do as little of it as possible.

  “I’m assigned to Mr. Bester,” said Gray, “and he is convinced that Talia Winters is guilty of the bombing on Babylon 5. She claimed to have certain items in her handbag, but her recollection does not match the recollection of the security officer who searched her on the way in.”

  Gray smiled rather charmingly. “This may seem like a trivial matter, but we need this information for the sake of completeness—to know exactly what was in h
er bag. Did you give Ms. Winters a data crystal sometime that morning?”

  “Which morning?” asked Emily Crane. “We were passing a data crystal back and forth—m-myself to Mr. Malten and Ms. Winters. It was a very hectic t-two days.”

  Good dodge, thought Garibaldi. It wouldn’t be easy to tie Emily Crane to this, especially with Talia on the loose, unable to testify and looking more guilty every minute. He had to remind himself that he was the only one in the entire universe Talia had told about Emily Crane.

  “We’re talking about the morning of the bombing,” answered Gray. “After you had passed through security.”

  Garibaldi sat up with a start. He knew that he had seen Emily Crane before, but he hadn’t remembered exactly when. Now he knew! He had checked her through himself that morning—in fact, he had held the bomb in his hand! That was twice he had held the bomb, if you counted his dream.

  When he turned back, he found Emily looking at him in a strange way. She was scanning him!

  “Stop it!” he barked. “You just answer the question, all right. Did you hand her that data crystal, the one I let you take through security?”

  “No,” she answered haughtily. “If you want to try to prove I did, good luck.”

  Garibaldi lost it and jumped to his feet. Leaning over her desk, he shouted at her, “You killed five of your own kind! And now you’re going to let an innocent woman hang for it! I thought I had seen every kind of monster in Psi Corps, but, sister, you take the cake!”

  Gray was holding his shoulders, restraining him more in symbol than reality. “We’ll get her for it,” he said with a sidelong glance at Emily Crane. “Remember, we can place her at the hotel bombing, too. We’ll get her for that one, if not this one.”

  Now Emily jumped to her feet and pointed toward the door. “Get out!” she demanded.

  While he was leaning over her desk, Garibaldi made a point of studying everything on it. Amid the billing statements, electronic gadgets, and printouts was one thing that caught his eye—a disposable transparency, the kind that self-destroyed after a brief period. It bore the logo of the Senate and several warnings of a classified nature. It seemed to be from the chairperson of the armed forces committee, a strange thing for a commercial telepath to be concerned about. He couldn’t read more than that, but he did catch the number of a bill that was apparently under consideration.