Babylon 5 12 - Psi Corps 03 - Final Reckoning - The Fate Of Bester (Keyes, Gregory)

by The Fate Of Bester (Keyes, Gregory)

  "Mr. Garibaldi. Stop. Stop it. That's not him."

  That was Thompson, tugging at his elbow. Garibaldi suddenly realized he had the PPG pointed in the man's face, and that the man was gibbering in French.

  "You sure, Thompson? Could he be screwing with me?"

  "No. I'd know. I promise you. Put your gun away."

  "Yeah," Garibaldi said.

  "Yeah. I guess I oughta do that."

  He released the man, who backed quickly away, shouting. They had drawn a small crowd, now - a disapproving one. Man. I'm really letting this get to me, he thought. He put the gun back in his pocket.

  "Sorry, folks, show's over," he said, as jovially as he could manage.

  "Just a little mistake."

  He drew a deep breath.

  "Are you okay?" Thompson asked.

  "Yeah. Damn. Poor guy."

  From long habit, he scanned the street carefully. Getting shot in the back once in his life was plenty, thank you, and Bester was still out there, wasn't he? It would be just like him to send out someone matching his physical description, to create a distraction. He wished, now, he had questioned the fellow. He laughed, suddenly.

  "Now that's paranoid," he said.

  "What?"

  "Hmm? I was just imagining Bester, when he was three, secretly manipulating the genes of some other kids, making Bester-look-alikes and smell - alike. Planting them all over the world."

  He broke off again.

  "It's the waiting. It's getting to me."

  A man in a magazine stand shouted something at him, probably for him to get moving. Garibaldi realized that people were still keeping their distance-who wouldn't, after all? He was a crazy man who'd been waving a gun. Crazy men with guns probably weren't good for this guy's business.

  "Hey, sorry" he said, producing a few credits.

  "I'll buy something."

  Then he remembered Girard's comment from the day before.

  "Ah, which paper does that movie critic write for?"

  The man looked as if he was going to pretend he didn't speak English, but apparently decided an answer might get Garibaldi to go away all the more quickly.

  "All of them have movie critics."

  "You know the one. The ''need-to-know-basis'' guy."

  "Oh. Book critique," he said.

  You idiot Marsie-American-non-Frenchman was only implied, but Garibaldi heard it, nonetheless.

  "Here."

  He handed Garibaldi a paper. He found the column as he was walking back toward the building. No picture. That was suspicious.

  "It's in French."

  "Of course," Thompson said.

  "You want me to read it to you?"

  "You know French?"

  "No. But I thought I would offer anyway. Yes, of course I can read French. I'll translate it for you."

  Garibaldi handed him the paper. Thompson studied it for a few moments, then cleared his throat and began reading.

  "There are moments in literature, rare and wonderful, that stretch us as human beings, push us beyond our ordinary boundaries of thought and experience. A Gift of Gratitude is a novel filled with such moments. Unfortunately, the boundaries pushed and the epiphanies experienced by the reader are in no way intended by the author. Anyone who reads often has experienced the banal, the saccharine, the self-indulgently lachrymose, but never to the extent we experience it here. Through these pages we step beyond the ordinary to a sort of fiber-banality we never could have imagined, in our most sedentary dreams, ever existed."

  Thompson stopped to chuckle.

  "Jeez, this guy's a riot."

  "That's Bester," Garibaldi said.

  "Jesus K. Copernicus. That's Bester."

  At that moment he noticed someone coming up from the right, fast. He turned, reaching for the PPG.

  "Michael Garibaldi? It is you."

  It was a pretty young woman in a mini-suit. He had never seen her before in his life.

  "What?" he said.

  "Mr. Garibaldi, could you tell us what the altercation a few moments ago was about? What's a hero of the Interstellar Alliance doing accosting citizens on a Paris street?"

  That's when he noticed the news-taper floating over her left shoulder and it all snapped into place.

  "Hey, hey, hey! Turn that thing off!"

  "If you could just answer a few questions..."

  "How do you people do this? What, do have some kind of pneumatic tubes under the sidewalk, that just shoot you up wherever there's trouble?"

  She motioned, and the red transmission light went out on the taper.

  "To tell you the truth, Mr. Garibaldi, I've been following you, hoping for an interview. You were spotted at the airport, and I got the assignment. This is better than I hoped for. What's going on here? I thought you had retired from military service, but you're still carrying a PPG."

  "Look, you don't know what you're messing with here. You could screw everything up. Just please - hold off, and I'll make sure you're there for the big story. And when I say big, I mean Jupiter-sized."

  "Ah, well, we were live, Mr. Garibaldi. I already got you chasing that man, too. It's been on the air."

  The red light came back on.

  "So if you could just answer questions..."

  "Oh, jeez," Garibaldi muttered.

  "I'm on vacation. Lemme alone."

  She followed him to the building, where he at least had the satisfaction of slamming the door in her face.

  A second later, though, he changed his mind. After all, his cover was already blown, wasn't it? If Bester didn't already know he was in town, he'd have to be deaf, dumb, and blind.

  It was time for plan B, then. He went back down the stairs and found her-as he knew he would-still waiting.

  Chapter 9

  Bester glanced at the clock and put down his pen. In an hour, the courier would be at the hotel. He should head that way-it wasn't as if he was getting anything done, anyway. All he was really doing, in staring at his notebook and gripping his pen, was avoiding the decision he was going to have to make soon.

  Or thought he was. Things had been remarkably quiet since his talk with Lucien. That could be a good sign or a bad sign. He switched his notebook to news mode, another thing he had taken to doing every few minutes. So far, it had been an exercise in paranoia, but that didn't mean it wasn't a sensible precaution.

  Which point proved itself instantly, because there was Michael Garibaldi's face, not nearly as big as life, but as ugly as always. Bester had set the device to search certain news items first, using keywords like Bester, Psi Corps, Jemelah, Telepath(s)-and of course, Garibaldi.

  He keyed the story on, saw a brief video of Garibaldi attacking some fellow on the street, a fellow he couldn't help noticing resembled Alfred Bester more than a little bit.

  "Oh, no," he said.

  He recognized the place, too. Not far away. And Garibaldi not only had a PPG but some kind of link on. People didn't just wear links-telephones, yes, or collar phones. That was a police link.

  I'm coming for you.

  Well, so he was. And he was close. Bester closed his eyes, trying to sort it all out, squeeze down the rising panic and the flood of attendant emotions. It was survival time, now. They must have linked him to Jem, somehow, maybe even to Ackerman's murder. It had just taken longer than he thought it would.

  Fine. By now they would be showing his picture to people like Lucien. No-he checked the time on the story he had just seen. Only ten minutes ago. What else was queued up?

  Just as he was wondering, his own face appeared in the priority column. An old picture, from back during the hearing. Probably the most famous picture of him, in full Psi Corps uniform, gloves and all. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

  He keyed the story, kept it on mute mode, and watched the words scroll out.

  Paris. Police have revealed that Alfred Bester the fugitive war criminal indicted for numerous crimes against humanity, may be at large in Paris. He is apparently living-and writin
g-under the name of Claude Kaufman, a name that will be familiar to readers of Le Parisien. This recent picture was taken in the offices of Le Parisien only weeks ago.

  Anyone with any information on the whereabouts of this man is urged to come forward. Michael Garibaldi, CEO of the Edgars-Garibaldi pharmaceutical empire, is offering a one-million-credit reward for information leading directly to his capture. This is in addition to the one million offered by the high crimes tribunal.

  Alfred Bester's story is a long and lethal one, and it begins in Geneva- He switched it off. He knew the popular version of his life well enough. He had to assume they knew where he lived, or would in a very short time. On the way out of the cafe he tossed his credit chit to a beggar who hung out every day on the corner.

  "Buy yourself a hot meal and some new clothes," he said.

  He wouldn't be using Kaufman's credit again. If the bum used it, it would at least pull the search in the wrong direction for a few minutes. Minutes and seconds would be crucial now.

  Garibaldi thought he had him trapped, but as usual, Garibaldi had made a mistake. He hadn't meant to be noticed by reporters, that much was certain. That's why Bester's face was everywhere, now-though the pieces of the trap weren't all in place, and now Garibaldi would be desperate.

  His telephone blipped.

  "Yes."

  "Mr. Bester? This is Sheehan. They're on to you."

  "Tell me something I don't know. Is the Bureau involved yet?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Are you with them?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Have they located my residence?"

  "The hotel? Yes ."

  "Okay. This is what I need you to do."

  * * *

  The Psi Cops had changed their name, the color and cut of their uniforms, and some of their tactics, but they were still unmistakable when they arrived. They came in a pack, eight of them, dripping arrogance.

  "Well," Garibaldi said, as they swept out of the elevator and into the search headquarters.

  "That took longer than I thought it would."

  They didn't waste any time with pleasantries-another thing that reminded him of the bad old days. The leader was a woman, perhaps thirty-five, very professional looking, with closely cropped brown hair. She wore a lieutenant's insignia.

  "Michael Garibaldi, you are under arrest," she said.

  The other teeps were fanning out briskly into the adjoining rooms, except for a hulking fellow who might have been a Viking if he had been born in an earlier era. He was a lieutenant, too, but there was no question which of the two officers was in charge.

  "You don't say? What's the charge?"

  "Criminal obstruction of an ongoing investigation."

  "I think if you'll check out my clearances..."

  "Oh, we will. For the moment, however, you may consider yourself my prisoner. If you could hand over any side-arms, please, and your link."

  "You're arresting me, with Bester out there?"

  Her eyes flared.

  "Did you really expect to capture a telepath of Bester's power and training without us? Thanks to you, we almost lost him."

  "Almost? You mean..."

  "We have confirmed sighting at Gare du Nord. A team of hunters is on it right now."

  "Why haven't I heard about this?"

  "Just who do you think you are, Mr. Garibaldi? I don't care who you were, or who your friends are. At the moment you are a private citizen, with no jurisdiction in this matter whatsoever."

  "Funny. You guys didn't take that attitude when I was supplying you with funds and weapons during the war. You seemed to think I had a legitimate interest in these matters then."

  She ignored that and turned toward Girard.

  "I don't know how he managed to bully you into this," she told the Frenchman, "but there will be a full investigation of your department by an independent authority, I can assure you."

  "I don't doubt that," Girard replied.

  He sounded doleful but not exactly repentant.

  "As of now, I have EA authorization to take control of this mess. I want all of your men and equipment off the streets, now."

  "That's insane," Garibaldi snapped.

  "You don't have him, yet."

  "We will. I suggest you start being concerned about yourself. Call your lawyer. Monsieur Girard, I suggest you consult with your department. I think you'll find that the order to stand down is already in the system."

  "Look," Garibaldi said, "if you really think I trust you guys..."

  "I don't care what you think, Mr. Garibaldi, or who you trust. You're done here. Your link and your gun-this is the last time I'll ask."

  "This is a mistake."

  The Viking-Garibaldi mentally dubbed him "Thor"- raised his own weapon.

  Garibaldi hesitated for a long moment. Something wasn't right here. But then he sighed, took out the PPG, unhooked his link, and handed them over.

  "Thank you. Please take a seat, somewhere. I'll want to question you in a moment."

  * * *

  Bester watched until he was sure all of the men staking out the hotel were gone, along with their equipment. By that time it was dark, and keeping to the shadows, he moved quietly into the building, glyphing himself as a no presence.

  He was a little worried-he hadn't seen anyone who looked like a courier. They might have been scared off by the surveillance, or they might have been captured. Or, if they were smart, they were inside, registered as a guest. He had to take the chance that the courier was in there. It would be too difficult to get replacement papers at this late date.

  The front office and cafe were dark and quiet when he entered, but he immediately felt Louise's presence, and his guts knotted up. He wasn't looking forward to this part.

  "Claude?"

  She was sitting in her usual place, a large envelope in front of her.

  "Or should I call you Alfred? Or Robert?"

  "Louise..."

  He stopped. The impact of her saying his real name was almost staggering.

  "Were you going to tell me about this? Or were you just going to leave without saying good-bye?"

  "I was going to say good-bye."

  "Really? Or were you just coming for these papers?"

  "How did you get those?"

  "A boy came by with them. The men watching the hotel tried to take them, but I insisted they were mine. Your courier had a choice of giving them to me or to the police. He wisely chose to give them to me."

  She didn't sound angry. She didn't sound anything.

  "I know you don't believe me," he said, softly, "but I do love you. I had hoped this was all behind me. I had hoped to spend the rest of my life here."

  "This is why you wanted to leave yesterday. Why didn't you tell me? You know I would have gone."

  "You - would have?"

  "Of course, you stupid fool."

  Now she did sound angry.

  "Do you think I didn't suspect something like this? Do you take me for a complete idiot? I don't care what you've done, or who you've been. Whatever you were like then, I know who you are now. You're not the same man they're talking about on the videos. You're a good man, a loving man. I..."

  Her voice caught.

  "I don't understand all of this. I don't know everything that's happening. But I do know I love you, and I think... you need me."

  He realized he hadn't moved a muscle. He unfroze and walked slowly over to the table and lowered himself into a chair. Her eyes were red-she had been crying. He reached out to touch her cheek, and she didn't stop him.

  "You don't know what you're saying," he said, softly.

  "You don't know what it's like to run from world to world, having to leave everything at a moment's notice. I couldn't ask you to do that."

  She raised her chin defiantly.

  "I think you were going to. What changed your mind?"

  "Reality. It's not make-believe anymore, Louise. This is the real thing. I fought a war. I fought it for good reasons
, and I'm not ashamed of anything I did. I wish I had won, but I didn't. Now I'm just a reminder of everything they want to sweep under the rug. They'll hunt me until they catch me, or I die."

  "They can hunt us together, then. I want to go with you."

  And there it was.

  Once he had been briefly stranded in hyperspace, floating in that miasma that the human eye perceived as red but which serious studies proved ought to have no color at all. In hyperspace, telepathic power extended toward the infinite, and he had felt like an expanding star, as if his mind was becoming everything and nothing.

  He felt like that now. Of all the reactions he had imagined from Louise, this wasn't one he had dared. And yet here it was, the simple, elegant answer to everything.

  "You do love me," he sighed, reaching to touch her face again.

  "I do," she said, taking his hand.

  "I want to stay with you, be with you."

  He gripped her fingers, knew it was the truth. He also knew it would never work. She loved him, yes. But could he count on her? When it fully sank in that he had really done the things he was accused of, would she truly understand? How could she? She was a normal. When it really hit her that she would never see her family again-this family that she was rediscovering, her love for them just reawakening-how would she feel then? When she understood that in harboring him, in going with him, she was becoming as much a criminal as he, that her only doorway to a normal life would be his capture and conviction, what would she do?

  It might be days, or hours, or months, but she would turn on him. She had to. She was in love with him, but love wasn't rational. And it was fragile, so very fragile. But if he left her here, they would question her. They would scan her. She knew his new identity, she knew where he was headed.

  "Okay," he said, softly.

  "You can go with me. I love you, Louise."

  He bent over to kiss her, savoring the feel of her lips, the emotions that spoke through them, the surge of joy and relief. He wasn't going to leave her, not like everyone else... She went rigid, when he started, and then she struggled.

  "Claude... Claude... something's wrong..."

  She didn't know yet that it was him doing it, but then, in an instant, she guessed, and her eyes widened like a child's, full of betrayal and incomprehension.