They always seemed in a hurry. They walked with shoulders square, arms close to the body and usually in front of them, their faces masks of neutrality. But just when you were tempted to think of them as automatons, someone would explode in a burst of laughter, or hurl a stream of obscenities at a car that had come too close, or stop to scold a child. He was starting to think about supper when he turned a corner and was greeted by shouting.
A woman stood in front of a small hotel-the Hotel Marceau. She was petite, perhaps thirty-five, with pale skin and curly brown hair chopped just below her ears. Her stance was defiant, one hand on her hip and the other shaking in front of her as a fist.
Her voice was defiant, too. She apparently didn't go in for the short skirts of the day-she wore denim pants and a T-shirt.
"...not another cent from me , you hear? Five customers you've chased away from me this week. You say I must pay to protect my business. But when I pay, you ruin it anyway."
For all of her defiance, Bester could feel fear beneath the surface. It was no mystery where that came from. She was shouting at five men, most teenagers, but one of them was an older brute who bore a massive scar on one cheek, a crooked nose, and putty-pale skin. He leveled a thick finger at her.
"You pay us because I say to. And I'll tell you another thing-I'm used to better treatment than this from my friends. You are my friend, aren't you, cherie? Because now that I think about it, you haven't been all that friendly to me."
Bester couldn't help it he uttered a single, dark laugh. He had seen death and deceit on a cosmic scale, waged wars of empire, battled alien races that possessed godlike powers. Watching these stupid normals, fighting over their little scrap of turf, struck him as unutterably ridiculous.
His laugh got their attention.
"What the hell are you laughing at?" the big fellow grunted.
Bester shook his head and kept walking. The question wasn't worth answering. If they didn't understand how absurd they were, they wouldn't notice it just because he pointed it out.
"Yeah, that's right, old man," the fellow called.
"You just keep on walking. Nothing to see here."
Bester was planning on doing just that. For a few short hours he had forgotten how much he hated normals, but his mood had done an about-face. Now he remembered. The woman was stupid for standing up to men she had no power against, and if they beat her, or raped her, or killed her, it would make no difference to him. Or to the world at large. If she had been a teep, then he might have helped.
Though given what the rogues and the new-and-improved Psi Corps had done to him, he didn't particularly care for his own kind either. All his life he had worked for his people, his telepaths. He had saved them more times than they knew, yet in the end they had turned against him, pitched in with normals.
He was a man without a people, now-orphaned, divorced, exiled. Maybe that was why he had felt so free. He no longer felt the slightest responsibility to anyone or anything except himself. And none at all to this stupid woman. Still, he paused, to see what would happen. It was like watching a train wreck. The bravos had turned their attention back to her, though one of the younger ones noticed he had stopped, and was glaring at him.
"Be a smart girl, Louise. Pay me my money."
"Or what? Are all of you big brave men going to beat me up? Tear up a few of my rooms? Go ahead, then. I can't stop you. You can take, but I won't give you anything anymore."
"That mouth you got ain't doing you any favors," the man warned.
"Best you put it to some better use. I got some ideas about that..."
"When Mars has oceans."
"Ooh!" one of the younger boys said.
"She told you, I think."
The big man turned on his smaller companion.
"Shut up," he demanded, and then he noticed Bester, still watching.
"I thought I told you to keep walking, you old scab."
"The zoo was closed today," Bester replied.
"I didn't get to see the ape house, so I'm making do."
The big man blinked as if he didn't understand, then strode menacingly toward Bester.
"You ain't from around here, I don't think. Cause if you were, you wouldn't still be standing there. And you sure as hell wouldn't be mouthing off to me."
Bester smiled.
"Please know, I find you truly terrifying. The fact that it only takes five of you to threaten such a dangerous young woman-well, it puts me in awe. I wouldn't dream of crossing you."
The man grabbed him by the collar and lifted, his face reddening. Bester glanced down at the fist knotted in his shirt.
"That's expensive material," he said, calmly.
The man pulled back his other fist, and Bester watched it, unblinking. He could kill the fellow, of course, without lifting a finger, but not without arousing suspicion. Still...
"Put him down, Jem," a new voice said.
"Put him down right now." Bester couldn't see who was talking.
Jem could, however, and his face set in a sort of sullen resignation. He hesitated for a moment, then lowered Bester back to the street.
"There ain't nothin' goin' on here, Lucien," he grunted.
"Not a damn thing."
"I'll be the judge of that."
Al turned slightly, so that he could see that the new voice belonged to a policeman, a stocky fellow in his early forties.
"Have you got a complaint?" the policeman asked Bester.
Bester smiled at Jem, then turned back to the policeman.
"Yes. This man doesn't smell good at all. Other than that, everything is just fine."
The cop looked him up and down, made a disgusted noise.
"Louise?" he asked.
She hesitated for a moment.
"No," she said.
"See?" Jem said.
"So why don't you go bother someone else?"
"Why don't you?" the policeman said.
"Run along." Jem glared at him, then shrugged.
"Come on, boys. We've got business elsewhere, anyhow."
He directed a nasty look at Bester.
"Nice to meet you, grandpa," he said.
"Too bad you're just passing through."
"It is a shame," Bester agreed.
"I'll miss your stimulating conversation."
As he watched them leave, he sent out tendrils of psi, just enough to know their signatures, to recognize them in the dark. The cop, meanwhile, was confronting the woman.
"Louise, I can't do anything for you unless you make an accusation."
"You know l can't do that, Lucien. I have to live here. And suppose you managed to arrest Jem and his bunch and keep them-not that I think you could, but just suppose. Another bunch would just move in, and they would take care of me in advance, so I wouldn't repeat my mistake with them."
"Then pay them what they ask. Otherwise-well-I can't be here twenty-four hours a day."
"I know that, Lucien," she said.
"Though I could be here more than I am," he hinted.
"I know that, too." She sighed.
"You know I'm grateful, Lucien, but I'm just not... "
She suddenly noticed that Bester was still there.
"What are you waiting for? Do you want some of my money, too?"
"No."
"I don't know who you are, but you shouldn't have gotten involved. They're like sharks, those men. A little blood and then the frenzy. Why you want to commit suicide, I don't know, but go do it someplace else."
Bester shrugged.
"Listen," the cop said to him.
"You could help, here. I know Jem was attacking you. Louise is being stubborn, but you don't live around here. If you could swear out a complaint, I could get these guys off of the street. I think you were trying to help Louise, but if you really want to help"
"I had no intention of helping her," Bester said.
"I was just walking around, looking for a place to stay. This is a hotel, and I was looking at it. The gen
tleman in question simply mistook what I was interested in. You don't really think an old man like me thought he could handle those fellows, do you?"
The cop cocked his head skeptically.
"You didn't look too worried to me."
"I don't worry much, anymore. I've discovered that the universe dumps on you when it wants to. Being upset about it doesn't help a bit."
The cop rolled his eyes in disgust, but Louise quirked a reluctant little smile.
"Have it your way, then," the officer said.
"Louise, I'll see you later. Alive, I hope."
"Good-bye, Lucien," Bester took that as his sign to leave as well, but he hadn't turned the corner when Louise's voice floated after him.
"It's ten credits a night, or five a day if you plan to stay for more than a week."
He turned, slowly, really looked at the hotel for the first time. It had a small cafe-just a room with a few tables and chairs, it seemed-and three stories. The building looked nineteenth-century, maybe early twentieth.
"Does that include meals?" he asked.
"Meals are a credit extra, and you can't complain about what 1 make."
He walked a few steps toward her. He was, after all, feeling tired, and his juvenile buoyance of an hour earlier had defiantly reversed itself. The Alfred Bester hunters were combing the universe to find a man who liked the finest things. The apartments he had abandoned were spacious, capaciously furnished with art, provisioned with good wine and brandy. Who would ever think to look for him in a crumbling hotel in the Pigalle?
"May I see the room first?" he asked.
Chapter 3
Bester passed a forkful of chicken thoroughly to his mouth and chewed. He sensed someone watching him, and glanced around. It was the hotel owner, Louise.
"Well?" she asked.
"How is it?"
They were alone in the little dining room, though a young couple had been there when he arrived. Business did not seem brisk.
"I can't complain," he replied. She nodded.
"It's one of my better dishes."
"No-I mean I can't complain. You told me so this afternoon."
She folded her arms and looked down at him.
"You don't like it?" she asked.
"I certainly didn't say that."
"What's wrong with it?"
He looked up at her with his "thinking cap" face.
"Well... I'm not com plaining, mind you-but for chicken I might have made the roux a shade or two lighter. And I would have chopped the onions much finer."
"I see."
"But I'm not complaining," he said, eating another bite.
She looked at him severely for a second or two.
"You didn't tell me how long you're staying," she said at last.
"Oh, at least a week. Maybe more."
"Very well. But if you stay only six days, I will charge you the ten credits a night, you understand?"
"Perfectly," Al replied.
"Well... well," she finished and went back into the kitchen.
A second later, she popped back out.
"And don't blame me if Jem and his gang come back and give you a beating. You saw what the situation is. You understand?"
"Yes," Bester replied again, wondering when she would leave him alone to finish his meal in peace.
"Good."
This time she stayed in the kitchen. He could hear the pots and pans banging around as she did dishes. Did she really work here all alone?
Outside, the streets faded to purple, and then the lights came on, puddles of yellow in the dark.
What was he doing here? What was he going to do? Given medical technology and his own good health, he could easily live another thirty years-a small lifetime. He had planned to spend those years guiding the Corps toward its destiny, mentoring younger telepaths, righting all of the wrongs that had plagued his kind. He'd had a mission, and certainty, and had never considered retiring.
For the past several years, running had taken the place of his mission, but he could only run so long. If this worked-if he managed to hide here on Earth, indefinitely-he had to find something to do, or he'd go crazy. But what?
His papers said he was a businessman, a midlevel sales manager for an engine coolant manufacturer that had gone belly-up during the Drakh crisis. Pretty obscure, and he had been briefed about his fictional job, but seeking a similar position was out of the question. First, because he didn't want to be a salesman; second because any check of his references was unacceptably risky.
So what to do? He picked at the chicken.
There was no hurry.
* * *
Sometimes Garibaldi thought his desk was too big. Any desk you could play regulation Ping-Pong on had to be too big, right? Especially on Mars, where every inch of space had to be paid for in oxygen, in power to heat it, in the cost of the dome that kept both of those in and the UV rays out. Hell, his desk was bigger than the bedrooms in some low- rent housing.
Like many things, the desk had come with the office, a legacy of the late William Edgars. When Edgars had sat behind the desk, there had been almost nothing on it. It had been a stark reminder that he was a man with so much wealth, he could afford to pay for as much unutilized space as he cared to have.
Garibaldi could afford it, too, but he had grown up on Mars, taking one-minute showers and sleeping almost standing up. It irked him, that desk, but some perversity made him keep it, maybe as a reminder of where his power and wealth had come from, of what it could do to him if he wasn't careful. A bottle wasn't the only thing that could trap a soul. Of course, he had Lise to remind him of those things.
Lise, who had also come with the office. Nope, he wasn't going there. That way lay, if not madness, at least stupidity. He'd behaved stupidly enough with Lise to lose five wives, and by some miracle she still loved him. Let that rover lie.
The desk. He had spent years filling it up with odds and ends. A bigger workstation, models of starships and motorcycles, a Duck Dodgers helmet, a hologlobe of Mars. So now it was a big desk covered with junk, and whenever anyone he really wanted to talk to came in, he dragged himself out from behind it and sat on the front edge. He didn't like that distance between him and his friends, and he liked it even less between him and his opponents.
He wasn't sure which he was seeing today, but it didn't matter. He sat on the edge of the desk and watched him enter. The fellow walked in just a boy in EarthForce uniform, like so many Garibaldi had seen die. Except for the psi patch. That put everything out of kilter. A lot of things didn't work for him: mousse made out of fish, cats on a space station, zero-g synchronized tumbling, pink T-shirts... telepaths in EarthForce.
"Lieutenant Derrick Thompson, sir," the boy said.
"Don't call me sir," Garibaldi said.
"This isn't the military, and I'm not in the chain of command."
"What should I call you then?" Thompson asked.
"Oh, Lord Zeus or Mr. Garibaldi will do. Have a seat."
Thompson did, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
"You're wondering why you suddenly find yourself in my office, aren't you?"
"The thought had crossed my mind. If you'll pardon me, Mr. Garibaldi, you say you aren't in the chain of command, but I sort of wonder about that."
Garibaldi smiled tightly.
"Let's just say I have a lot of friends-or people who like to think they're my friends-and leave it at that, okay?"
Thompson nodded.
"Let's get something right out in the open, Thompson. I don't trust you. Not that I don't want to-from your record you seem like a good kid, hardworking, disciplined, dedicated. No one you've served under has anything bad to say about you, which is surprising, and no one who has served under you has anything bad to say about you either, which is impossible. "Now, I'm not a trusting sort of guy, though under ordinary circumstances I might turn my back on you now and then, for a second or two. But-I don't trust you. Bester has been in your head, and that makes you a thre
at. And I think I can say with confidence that EarthForce sees it that way, too. You can stay in fifty years and you'll still be a lieutenant. They'll stick you behind a desk and quietly hope you go away."
Thompson's face went almost the color of his hair, brick red. "You think I don't know that, s-Mr. Garibaldi? You think I wanted this to happen to me?"
"I want to know why you didn't recognize Bester. You went to the academy, when you were a kid."
"Mr. Garibaldi, I went in when I manifested, when I was twelve. In those days there wasn't much of a choice. It was only three years later that the crisis changed things. I never met Mr. Bester during that time."
"You never saw a picture of him? You couldn't sense that he was a telepath?"
"Sure, I saw pictures of him-I even thought he was a little familiar looking when I met him. But he had a beard, and he wasn't in uniform, and-I just wasn't expecting to meet a war criminal on leave on Maui. It's a big universe, Mr. Garibaldi, and if you move around in it, you see people you think are other people, you know that. And he didn't act like a monster. He was funny. He seemed like a nice guy."
"Until he cored out your mind."
Thompson nodded miserably.
"But he didn't do a perfect job. I started remembering, and the second I did, I authorized recovery scans. Those hurt, Mr. Garibaldi, especially when someone of Bester's power puts guards in against scans."
"Yeah, I'm sure it did hurt. But see, here's the part I can't figure out, the part maybe you can help me with. Bester is evil. No argument from me there. He's probably one of the five most evil sons of bitches in the last two centuries. He's cold, and manipulative, and he has no more soul than the Great Whoozits gave a piranha. But what he isn't, is sloppy. If he thought you were a threat he would have killed you, or burned your brain into a fragging pile of slag. He wouldn't have done the half-ass job he did on you unless he had a reason to."
"Maybe he didn't have time. Or maybe he's getting old. There were rumors he was nearly killed during the telepath crisis, that he lost the use of most of his power."
"Yeah? A rumor and two credits will get you a cup of coffee. I don't believe it-I know some of the things he's done since then. And I don't believe he screwed up on you. Now, I know you're awfully concerned about what I do think, aren't you?"
Babylon 5 12 - Psi Corps 03 - Final Reckoning - The Fate Of Bester (Keyes, Gregory) Page 3
