by Eric Brown
Vaughan climbed uneasily to his feet, hung-over, his head throbbing. The monk called to him in Thai, waved at him not to leave. The old man hurried over to Vaughan and pressed something into his palm, patting Vaughan’s fingers shut around the gift like a magnanimous uncle. Vaughan watched the monk scurry across to the funeral parlour, and only when the holy man passed from sight did he open his hand.
A small vial, containing a portion of Tiger’s ashes...
Vaughan moved towards the edge of the ghats and climbed down the deep steps until he was standing before the slow swell of the ocean.
He unscrewed the lid, then scattered the grey ashes into the sea. When it was empty, he tossed the vial in after them. He stood and watched the ashes turn the colour of the brine and disappear, and then he climbed the steps and crossed to the upchute.
He rose to the fourth level and walked the rest of the way to his apartment. Ten minutes later he opened the door, closed it behind him, and locked out the world.
He pushed his armchair into position before the window that comprised the entire out-facing wall, then slumped into the chair and stared out at the two-tone view, the blue of the sea and the lighter blue of the dawn sky.
He reached out, and from the table took the bag of red powder, the rhapsody, that had killed Tiger. He opened the bag and stirred the contents with a finger. It would be so easy to take the drugs in a glass of beer and end it all, to go the way of Tiger.
Then he considered what Jimmy Chandra had discovered, and what Weiss might be doing, and as ever he postponed the decision to terminate his existence. He had a sudden flash vision of the minds he’d read back in Canada, and the truth that experience had given him. Anything but that, he thought to himself. He could get lower, he knew from experience, much lower than this. He was in the situation he was in now through his own stupid mistakes. He should never have allowed Tiger to get close to him—he should never have allowed himself to get close toher.
But it would never happen again. He told himself that he would allow no one to penetrate his defences from now on.
Vaughan replaced the rhapsody on the table, lay down on his bed without undressing, and slept.
* * * *
SEVEN
THE PRIDE OF VANDERLAAN
Vaughan stood on the windswept deck of the spaceport, his stomach knotted with apprehension as he waited for the freighter to complete its transfer from the void.
It was all very well planning to board the ship in the comfortable safety of Nazruddin’s, but the fact of what he was about to do—the danger he might face aboard the ship—only became real as the time to act approached.
As he watched, the Pride of Vanderlaan appeared briefly to the south of the ‘port, a grey ghost in the darkness, and then disappeared. For fifteen seconds it flickered like an image on ancient film, before it mastered the slippage and appeared finally, solid and substantial, in this reality. The ship engaged auxiliary burners and moved in slowly across the sea, a wasp-like shape garish with the silver and electric blue company colours.
Across the ‘port the loudspeaker system relayed orders, the bored woman’s voice duplicated in Vaughan’s earpiece. “Okay... twenty-three hundred hours. This one’s ahead of schedule. Coming in due south, estimated docking: four minutes, Berth twelve prepare lines. Hauliers at the ready. Emergency services on stand-by. Class-3 freighter out of Verkerk’s World, Vega, terminates at the Station. It’s all yours, boys and girls. Out.” The drawl clicked off abruptly, the silence immediately replaced by the dull drone of the freighter’s engines.
Vaughan stood beyond berth twelve, an oval crater of raised steel flanges. Fuel lines, coloured cables and leads, turned the berth into a snake pit. The freighter swung in over the superstructure of the terminal building, its stanchion legs braced akimbo, landing lights sequencing along its sleek flank. Behind lighted lozenges of viewscreens, crew-members could be seen chatting casually around tables or leaning against the rails and staring out with the relaxed postures of travellers at journey’s end.
Around the berth, one by one, ‘port authority vehicles drew up: a fire truck, an ambulance, a tanker to siphon off unused fuel, and three or four other specialist juggernauts. Their personnel climbed down, stood around in bored cliques, chatting and mopping their faces in the relentlessly humid night. Vaughan could not help but read their thoughts, just as he would have overheard music played loud. Without concentrating, he caught only fragments of verbalised cognition from a nearby engineer: Last one this shift, thank Allah. Home... Parveen... Then non-verbal thoughts of security, warmth, sex, and accompanying mental images.
His handset chimed. He accessed the call. “Jimmy?”
Chandra’s smiling face looked up at him. “Mission accomplished.”
“You took your time.”
“Weiss was a bastard. He kicked up a fuss when I hauled his flier down and demanded to see his papers. Called the odds—you know these big shots. He nearly gave me an excuse to arrest him for abusive behaviour to a police officer. He’s in interrogation now and demanding a solicitor. He’s here for a good three, four hours. Hope that gives you long enough. Catch you later.” The screen blanked.
The first job would be to assess the level of security around the ship, and then put his plan into action. He doubted that Weiss would have overlooked the possibility that he would not always be on hand to shunt his telepaths to other duties; he would have posted guards.
The Vanderlaan came in over the berth and turned slowly on its axis, lowering itself gradually to the deck. Muscular, ramrod stanchions took the impact and the ship dipped a quick, hydraulic curtsy.
Minutes later the ramp came down, hitting the deck with a clang like a bell tolling the hour. Two big Sikhs in the light blue uniforms of a private security firm ascended the ramp and positioned themselves on either side of the exit.
Vaughan scanned. The men had been hired by Weiss and instructed to let not a living soul aboard the freighter. Weiss had used some vivid language to get his message across, and the guards had taken notice. They were tensed-up and vigilant, as if expecting a terrorist strike at any second.
He strolled casually around the freighter. From the minds of the ‘port workers gathered in the berth beneath the ship he detected not the slightest flicker of suspicion at his presence. He paused on the lip of the berth, staring down at a group of three engineers as they accessed the emergency exit cover.
One engineer was consulting a screader, reading off a reference number to his deputy. Vaughan scanned.
Twenty minutes should see this through—small ship, no maintenance work reported. Where’s that damned code?
The engineer found it on his screader, and Vaughan memorised the code.
A roadster veered around the ship and headed towards Vaughan. He felt the power of the driver’s mind, the thoughts strengthening as the car drew up alongside him. Fuck Weiss having me do his running about. What the hell’s he doing... should be here by now. Don’t like these damned sneaking teleheads... unnatural. Don’t trust the bastards.
The security officer leaned through the roadster’s open window, an olive-skinned southern European. “Vaughan—just got word from Director Weiss. Don’t bother with this ship—just cargo, anyway. He wants you to go over some files at terminal three.”
If the bastard’s reading me... Followed by nebulous images of violence.
“Fine. I’ll make my way over now.”
“Look, don’t ask me why... Weiss told me to make sure I delivered you there.” Don’t know what you done wrong, telehead, but Weiss doesn’t trust you. Thoughts of uneasiness, the desire to be elsewhere. Can’t say I blame him...
Vaughan climbed into the roadster, doing his best to ignore the miasma of unease leaking from the driver, the irrational urge to strike out at Vaughan because of what he was. As the car set off, he leaned forward and disengaged the augmentation-pin. He had no desire to be corrupted by the thug’s primitive mindset.
“Relax,” he said. �
��I’m no longer scanning.”
The officer glanced across at him, smiled uneasily. “Hey, no sweat. I can handle the idea of ‘heads. Just doing your job, after all.”
Vaughan smiled. He recalled the words of a fellow psi-positive at the Ottawa Institute ten years ago, “Prepare yourself for a lonely life, bud. No one likes a telepath.”
The officer dropped him off at terminal three. Vaughan climbed from the car and began walking towards the building, and the officer watched him all the way. Just carrying out orders.
He entered the office and, ignoring the three clerks busy at their screens, crossed to the bank of terminals ranked beneath the windows overlooking the deck. He accessed the report files he’d been completing over the past week and feigned diligence. From time to time he glanced over the screen and watched the activity in the glare of halogen lights around the freighter.
The numerous service teams performed their duties and departed; the bowser finished first, sucking the excess fuel from the tanks and then trundling off across the ‘port, lights flashing. Teams of engineers came and went, disappearing beneath the underbelly of the freighter to perform their routine checks. Technicians swarmed over the carapace of the ship, expertly utilising the purpose-built footholds in the sloping flanks.
As he watched, a shuttle beetled out from the terminal building beneath him and zipped across the deck, pulling up before the ramp and waiting patiently. Minutes later the crew disembarked, ten men and women in the stylish black and silver uniforms of the Vega Line. They boarded the shuttle and it looped around the ship and headed back towards the terminal.
Vaughan stood and stretched, then casually left the office.
He strolled across the deck, heading away from the Vegan freighter. To his right, the officer’s roadster was parked outside the security wing of the terminal building. Vaughan increased his pace, putting the bulk of a voidliner between him and the terminal.
He turned and made his way towards the freighter. As he walked through the humid night, he slipped his pin from its case and inserted it into his skull console. Although he often strolled around the deck between jobs, and his presence here tonight would not be considered amiss, he nevertheless felt self-conscious—as if the few engineers and security guards he passed were aware of his intentions. Swift scans told him that their thoughts were as banal as ever.
He approached the freighter, becalmed now in the aftermath of its landing. He made sure that he went unobserved—it was not within his remit to board ships through their emergency exits. The coast was clear. There was no one in the vicinity, other than a team of engineers busy working on a nearby ship, and they were too engrossed in their work to notice him.
He hurried to the lip of the berth and descended a ladder into the shadowy pit beneath the belly of the freighter. He paused, regaining his breath and his composure. That was the first stage of the operation successfully completed. All that remained now was to board the ship. He scanned, probing behind the sleek curved lines of the freighter. He detected a single mind, too high up in the ship to be read with any clarity.
He found the emergency exit cover and tapped the entry-code into the lock. The cover sighed open, extruding steps.
He climbed into a small, darkened compartment. At his presence, sensors activated and a hatch above him slid open. Low lighting came on, illuminating a corridor. He hauled himself into the ship and stood. He was in the working end of the freighter: the corridor was spartan, uncarpeted. He set off in the direction of where he judged the cargo hold to be. First, he would inspect whatever goods the ship was hauling; later he would investigate the source of the distant mind-noise in the crew-cabins high above.
The cargo holds were situated on either side of the corridor. He pressed the sensor panel on the hatch to his left, and the hatch eased open to reveal a small, dimly lit hold, empty but for hauling trolleys and lifting equipment. He closed the hatch and crossed the corridor, palming the sensor on the opposite hatch. The dull steel cover slid open and Vaughan saw that this hold was occupied.
He stepped into the vaulted chamber, poorly illuminated by sporadic strip-fluorescents. A bulky, oval case stood in the centre of the bare steel floor. The case was the approximate size of a flier, shoulder high at the rear, sloping to around waist high where Vaughan stood. It seemed to be constructed of some brass or copper-like material, engraved with an intricate pattern of spiral and curlicue striations. He walked around the case; the random design of whorls was repeated on every facet, and nowhere could he make out a seal, lid, or hatch.
The most remarkable aspect of the casing, however, was the fact that it was shielded. When he scanned, he detected the signature static that denoted a powerful mind-shield. He touched the cold surface of the case; laid his cheek against the inscribed patterning surface. He scanned again, read nothing.
He backed off a pace, contemplating the case and wondering what it contained. If Weiss was transporting illegal immigrants to Earth from Vega, why do so like this? Why not just have them travel as foot passengers?
Animals, then. Was Weiss smuggling some proscribed species of fauna to Earth—but, if so, why?
There had been two earlier freighters Weiss had warned him off. Vaughan wondered how many shielded containers Weiss had successfully smuggled into the Station.
He recalled the mind situated high above him. As he hurried from the cargo hold and took the elevator to the upper-decks, it occurred to him that he should have felt pleased that he had uncovered the illegal operation—satisfied that a hunch had hit the jackpot. Instead, he experienced a subtle uneasiness at the discovery and its ramifications.
As the elevator climbed, the contents of the mind above him came into focus. He realised that it was the mind of a child, a young girl, and that she was distressed.
The lift door opened on to the third floor. A red tiled corridor dwindled into the distance, archways opening on to other passages at regular intervals. He set off at a jog along the main corridor. The cerebral signature became louder as he ran, then modulated almost imperceptibly: he had passed the turning down which the kid was located. He retraced his steps, took the turning. The mind cried out.
Help—someone please help me!
Even as he moved towards the girl, something told him to ignore the cry and leave the ship now. He tried to analyse the desire. The cry was human, in need of help, and yet his initial impulse was to run.
He arrived at an archway leading into a bedchamber. The girl was in the room, hiding in a storage unit.
Vaughan stepped into the room, crossed to the stack of units. He touched the control panel on the unit, and the door whirred open. A young girl, perhaps ten years old, hugged her shins and stared at him. She had straight, dark hair, brown eyes. Her resemblance to Holly struck him like a blow.
He probed and found her name: Elly Jenson.
He knelt before her, trying to block her sudden surge of fright, and held out a hand. “Please, don’t be frightened. I can help.”
She whispered, “Who are you?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll get you out of here. Please, trust me.”
He probed, and her mind entered his in a kaleidoscopic whirl of fragmented images. He sorted through them, discarding extraneous thoughts and memories, picking out only what he needed to know. He shared her fear, her memories of life on Verkerk’s World. He identified the image of her father, and read her incomprehension at why he had allowed her to be taken away. He relived the day two strangers came to her father’s house and took her, and shared with the girl her bewilderment when her father tried to explain that she had been Chosen, and must go.
He reached out for the girl’s hand. She flinched at his touch, but did not pull away. She watched him with wide eyes, wanting to trust him and yet fearing to do so.
“I’m not with the people who took you,” he said. He sensed that part of her confusion was that she did not know where she was. She had been told that she was going to Earth, but her young mind had been unab
le to encompass the idea.
He said, “You’re on Earth now. You came through the void from your world. I want to help you.”
“Please, take me home. Can you take me home?” The words were clean and sharp with the ice of Scandinavian intonation. “Please, take me away from here!”
He thought through the situation, considered his options. He could always take her from the ship, back through the emergency exit, then contact Chandra and deliver her into the care of the police.
He wondered if the presence of the shielded container and Elly Jenson aboard the freighter was anything more than a coincidence.
He scanned her again, tried to read the whereabouts of the people who had escorted her to Earth. He read a name—Freidrickson—caught the image of a man in the black and silver uniform of the Vega Company.
