Voices

by John Vornholt

  “Come in,” said Captain Sheridan, wiping the crumbs off his lip with his linen napkin.

  The door of his quarters opened, and a crumpled Garibaldi slouched inside. “Good morning, sir.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Garibaldi. Breakfast?”

  “No, thank you, sir. I don’t believe in eating breakfast unless I’ve actually slept.” He looked at the captain’s sumptuous tray. “Well, maybe a piece of toast.”

  Sheridan stood and buttoned his jacket. “Feel free to finish it, Mr. Garibaldi. The melon is quite good. I had an urgent message from Ms. Winters last night, and she said that you were in some terrible danger Down Below. Yet when I checked, there was no report of an incident, just a cryptic note from you. I didn’t see any report in my download this morning either.”

  Garibaldi chuckled. “Well, sir, when people ask for a guided tour, you want to liven it up for them. You know, like when you go on a Wild West stagecoach ride, and a couple of bandits rob the stagecoach.”

  Sheridan frowned. “I didn’t know we offered that service, Mr. Garibaldi. Nor was I aware that you were the recreation director of this station. If you would like that job, perhaps it can be arranged.”

  Garibaldi stuffed a strawberry into his mouth and considered the offer for a moment. “Don’t tempt me, sir.”

  The captain shook his head. “I know this conference presents many problems for you, but we have to go by the regulations whenever possible. I’m pretty sure there’s a regulation against mugging visiting dignitaries.”

  Garibaldi wiped his mouth on the captain’s napkin. “Captain, did you happen to see the download of the first issue of the conference newsletter?”

  Sheridan rolled his eyes. “Yes, I did.”

  “That Emily Crane wrote a great editorial, didn’t she? In strong language, she warned her friends against going anywhere near Down Below or the Alien Sector. Said their telepathic abilities would be useless if they got into any trouble down there. It even scared me.”

  “Granted,” said Sheridan, “your little stunt worked to our advantage, but no more of that. We’ll be under close scrutiny for the way we handle this, and I want it by the book. Is that understood?”

  Garibaldi stood to attention. “Yes, sir, understood. I just wanted to show Psi Corps that there are parts of this station beyond their control. The fact is, we do have a major problem Down Below.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’ve seen a fellow named Deuce mentioned in a number of reports.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Sheridan. “I’ve read the ombud’s list of charges against him. Murder, extortion, smuggling, endangering the station - a nasty character. And a fugitive.”

  “And he’s back. That’s not what I’m worried about, because Deuce was bound to come back sometime to check his enterprises. But why now? Could it be because of this conference? Believe me, Deuce wouldn’t be against taking money from terrorists.”

  Sheridan asked, “You’re sure he’s back?”

  “I’ve got a passenger from a tramp freighter who just sort of disappeared after he came aboard yesterday.”

  “Can’t we find him?” asked the captain.

  “With what resources? I’ve got everyone on my staff committed to the conference. And Deuce is The Man down there. Even if we didn’t have this conference to worry about, we might not find him.” Garibaldi sighed and rubbed his eyes. “At this point, I don’t think I could find anything but a bed.”

  The captain’s link sounded, and he lifted his hand. “This is Captain Sheridan.”

  “Ivanova here,” came the familiar voice. “The Glenn is docking in bay six. The manifest says they have fifty-three Psi Corps members aboard, and Mr. Bester has requested that you greet them personally. He also wants Garibaldi to be present to answer questions about security.”

  Garibaldi winced and grabbed the last piece of toast.

  “I’ll tell Mr. Garibaldi,” said the captain. “We’re on our way.”

  “Oh,” said Ivanova, “another transport arrives with twenty-seven VIPs at 8:40, another one with thirty-eight at 9:21. A heavy cruiser with nineteen military telepaths arrives at 10:58, and two transports …”

  “I will stay in the docking area,” Sheridan assured her. “Have the work crews vacated Blue-16?”

  “Yes, sir. Although they say the paint is still wet.”

  Sheridan nodded somberly. “We can take them to the casino for a couple of hours, give them lunch.” He looked at Garibaldi and smiled encouragingly. “Very wise to have halted gambling there. We’ll get through this, people. Remember, you love Psi Corps!” “We love Psi Corps,” Garibaldi muttered with disbelief.

  Talia Winters sat down to breakfast in the newly opened cafe on Blue-16, and Arthur Malten sat across from her, looking dapper in a checked suit with patches on the elbow. Befitting its location, the decor was mostly blue, with a bit of burnt orange. It wasn’t so bad, thought Talia, except for the faint smell of paint.

  “I feel so guilty,” said Talia, “leaving Emily with all that work. Are you sure we shouldn’t be greeting people as they arrive?”

  “And deprive Mr. Bester of all his fun?” Malten smiled and poured some coffee for them. “Don’t worry, Talia, we’ll have plenty of time to hobnob at the reception, and all weekend.”

  “Besides,” he said cheerfully, “this may be my only opportunlty to get to know you, before I get dragged off to breakfast meetings and high-level discussions.”

  “As for me,” said Talia, stirring her coffee, “I’ll have plenty of panels to attend, but no high-level discussions.”

  “That’s a pity,” answered Malten. He stroked his graying goatee. “Babylon 5 is a backwater, you know. I realized that last night, after that ugly incident. You could do much better than this.”

  Talia sighed. “Mr. Malten …”

  “Please call me Arthur.”

  “Arthur, you should know that I’m only a P5. I’m lucky to have this assignment.”

  “Nonsense,” said Malten angrily. “Your success on B5 has shown that psi ratings are worthless when it comes to judging aptitude for a given job.”

  He lowered his voice. “That’s why I’m against giving so much power to a class of telepaths who have nothing going for them - except that they’re P12s and P11s. Being P12 doesn’t mean you’re well adjusted, have common sense, or good communication skills. In most cases, it means you’re neurotic as hell.”

  Talia shifted in her seat, once again nervous with this sort of talk. All of this was easy for Mr. Malten to say. He was a P10 himself and the founder of the biggest conglomerate of private telepaths in the Earth Alliance. Although the Mix was created under the internal security act of 2156, which meant the corps had technical jurisdiction over it, the Mix was relatively independent; he didn’t have to kiss up to Psi Corps for choice assignments.

  Malten smiled apologetically. “I know what you’re thinking. It’s true, I’ve carved out my own niche. But in the commercial world, we’re not so wrapped up in who’s got the biggest number. We look at long-term results. Talia, you’ve got proven interspecies skills which we could use in the Mix.”

  The young woman blinked at him in amazement. She didn’t even see it coming! After all, B5 already was her dream job - to get a chance to leap up another rung so soon was beyond her expectations. And what a rung this was - the top! It seemed too good to be true. There had to be a catch.

  “I - I don’t know what to say,” she answered honestly. “I don’t know what Psi Corps will say.”

  The scholarly telepath patted her hand. It was leather on leather, but his touch tingled her skin for a moment. “Let me worry about Psi Corps,” he assured her. “We have a great opportunity ahead of us. We’re going to take telepathy into every corner of this universe, not as an object of fear and control, but as a valuable service. We’ll say, ‘Let telepathy be on your side, not just the other guy’s.’”

  “It sounds wonderful,” Talia said truthfully. But she felt a
pang of regret over the idea of leaving B5 so soon. It had barely been a year, and she was finally building up her practice. Despite her loyalty to Psi Corps, she was used to being her own boss, a lone operator. Sort of like Garibaldi. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be one of thousands of telepaths in a gigantic firm with hundreds of branch offices.

  “In the meantime,” said Malten, reaching into his pocket, “I would appreciate your attendance at one of those high-level discussions I was talking about. It’s a secret budget meeting.”

  He set a data crystal on the table. “Ms. Crane put some information together about the budget. I rely on her, but she’s essentially a writer and researcher. She’s not at her best when there’s a debate, and this could become a fiery one. You and I will have to defend the needs of the civilian sector against Mr. Bester and the military. Will you come?”

  Now Talia was afraid her jaw was hanging open. If a job offer had been a shock, the invitation to a high-level budget meeting was a two-by-four to the head. “Why me?” she asked. “I can’t argue these points like you can. In fact, I’m not even sure I agree with you.”

  Malten smiled. “Do you want an honest answer?”

  She nodded.

  “Because you’re beautiful, and you’ll be a distraction.” He pointed to the crystal. “And I expect you to read what’s on there and remember the statistics better than I do. Besides, you’re practical proof of what I’m talking about. If you can be a success in this depot for aliens, it just proves that commercial applications can succeed anywhere!”

  Talia took a deep breath and pushed a streak of blond hair off her cheek. It still felt as if she had been bludgeoned by a two-by-four, but she picked up the data crystal and put it in her handbag.

  “I’ll be there,” she promised.

  At that same moment, a hand encased in a grimy glove with the fingers cut off at the knuckles placed a similar data crystal on top of a dented filing cabinet. A cat jumped out of one of the drawers, rocking the cabinet and nearly knocking the crystal to the floor.

  Careful! whispered a voice in his head. If we lose that, we lose all.

  “We’re not going to lose it,” purred Deuce in a jaded Southern twang. “I just wanted to show it to you, because a deal’s a deal.” It looks like any crystal, the voice said.

  Deuce lifted the data crystal to eye level and studied it. “That’s the beauty of it, ain’t it? One of a kind. Speaking of crystals, you got the diamonds?”

  The voice answered, Yes, and Deuce was told to look down at the floor. He saw a black briefcase in the dim light of the storage room and smiled. As soon as he set the crystal back on the beat-up cabinet, a gloved hand snatched it away.

  “You’ll need this, too,” said Deuce, pulling a remote control device out of his coat pocket. “You know how to operate this?”

  Yes.

  CHAPTER 6

  Garibaldi still hadn’t managed to escape from the docking area. He was assaulted from all sides. “Excuse me, Mr. Garibaldi,” sneered a cadaverous-looking woman in a black uniform. “These arrangements are simply not acceptable. I can’t possibly share a bathroom with somebody!”

  “The person in the next room is another woman,” explained Garibaldi, checking the manifest and room assignments on a handheld computer. “You see, Blue-16 is crew quarters, and we haven’t got unlimited water or space. The only doors that open to the bathroom are from your two rooms. You just lock the other door when you’re using it and leave it neat, and …” He waved his hands. “Pretend you’re at summer camp.”

  The older Psi Cop batted her eyelashes at him. “It’s my security I’m thinking about. I don’t know if you know this, young man, but I’m a VIP on the Mars Colony. The terrorists would like my head.”

  A dozen snappy comebacks competed for attention in Garibaldi’s mind, but he didn’t use any of them. “Lady,” he said slowly, “everybody here is a VIP. A VIP and half a credit will get you a cup of coffee. We threw this shindig together for Psi Corps in two days, and we’re not the Ritz-Carlton on our better days - the least you could do is be gracious about it and sleep where we tell you.”

  The lady Psi Cop snapped to attention. “I see that your overriding concern is for our safety, and that’s enough for me. Who is my bathroommate, if I may ask?”

  Garibaldi checked his miniature screen. “That would be Ms. Trixie Lee.” He blinked at the name in remembrance. “Didn’t she used to be a stripper?”

  “Yes, she was. It will be good to see her again.” The woman smiled slyly. “I was a stripper, too, at one time. It’s good training for a Psi Cop. Their minds are rather blank when you’re right in front of them, and you can …”

  Garibaldi laughed nervously. “Yes, well, enjoy your stay. We are serving refreshments in the casino. Just follow the signs.”

  “Casino?” said the woman, impressed. “Surely, we wouldn’t break the taboo on gambling?”

  “Surely not,” answered Garibaldi. “The games are shut down.”

  The woman lifted a heavily mascaraed eyebrow. “Mr. Garibaldi, do you consider strip poker to be gambling?”

  “Yes,” he answered, pushing her along. “Next?”

  Before he could prepare himself, Mr. Bester was in his face, oozing niceness. “Mr. Garibaldi, this is my colleague, Mr. Becvar. He has a security matter he needs to discuss with you, and I would appreciate it if you could accommodate him.”

  Garibaldi smiled obsequiously. “We aim to please.”

  With that, Bester left him with a handsome, dark-haired man who spoke with a Spanish accent. “Mr. Garibaldi,” he said, lowering his voice, “have you heard of the Shedraks?”

  “Shedraks?” repeated Garibaldi, shaking his Head. “Sorry, that’s a new one on me.”

  Mr. Becvar pointed to an air shaft. “They come in through the air ducts, and they strangle a person in his sleep. I insulted them when I was on Tyrol III, and they have been following me ever since, waiting to get me alone.”

  He grabbed Garibaldi by the collar. “I am not making this up!”

  “No, of course not,” said the security chief, calmly removing Becvar’s gloved hands. “How do we stop these … these Shedraks?”

  “The air vents,” the man answered. “You must plug them up, do you understand?”

  The chief consulted his handheld device. “Let me see what room you’re in, Mr. Becvar.” He paused a moment. “Oh, that’s excellent! You have room 319, which is one of the quarters equipped with special baffles on the air vents. We can close those from central command!”

  Mr. Becvar groaned with relief “Oh, I am so glad.”

  “And I’ll have my people keep an eye out for Shedraks here at the dock,” Garibaldi assured him. “Are you okay with sharing a bathroom?”

  The man shrugged. “As long as there are no air vents.”

  “We’ll close them up, too.” Garibaldi pretended to make a note. “Just follow the signs to the casino, and have a good time, Mr. Becvar.”

  The handsome man nodded and shuffled off, glancing worriedly at the air vents over his head.

  Bester sidled up to Garibaldi. “Thank you, Mr. Garibaldi. Mr. Becvar had an unfortunate assignment several years ago, and he suffers some aftereffects. If you can believe it, he is a brilliant instructor on blocking techniques. He works at our center at Syria Planum. I understand you know about that facility?”

  “Doesn’t everybody?” asked Garibaldi cheerfully.

  Bester’s face darkened. “No, they do not. I would advise you to keep that information to yourself.”

  “I don’t know why a training facility on Mars should be such a big deal.”

  Bester scowled. “Everything about Mars is a big deal. I need your assurance on this matter.”

  “Okay,” said Garibaldi, “I won’t mention it again.”

  Bester nodded curtly. “That is wise. Oh, hello, Mr. Pekoe, welcome to the conference!”

  Garibaldi breathed a sigh of relief as Bester moved off to greet an Asian
contingent of telepaths. Captain Sheridan stepped next to him and smiled.

  “How is it going, Chief?”

  “I love Psi Corps.”

  “Have they asked you to do anything you can’t handle yet?”

  Garibaldi considered the question for a moment. “Actually, they have, but I’m not going to give them the satisfaction of knowing it.”

  Sheridan patted him on the back. “You’re doing a fine job, Garibaldi. Opening the casino to them was a stroke of genius. I think that’s the key to our success, to keep them busy.”

  “The casino was Ms. Winter’s idea,” admitted Garibaldi. “I wonder where she is?”

  “I hope she’s enjoying herself,” answered Sheridan. “She’s an attendee at this conference, remember that. We’re the hired help.”

  As Talia Winters and Arthur Malten dallied outside Emily Crane’s quarters, Talia lifted her mouth to meet his. She worked around his goatee and moustache to give him a kiss that she hoped showed interest, but not too much interest. Malten was divorced, she knew, and he could do more for her career than anyone she had ever met. Nevertheless, she had to go slowly.

  Talia decided to detach her mouth before their thoughts started intermingling, and she pushed him away gently. She was blocking for all she was worth, and so was he. That was good. It showed a healthy amount of distrust on both their parts. She wasn’t sure she could handle another full-blown relationship with a fellow telepath. The last one had nearly torn her apart.

  “I have to get to work,” she said. “Don’t you have some sort of high-level discussion to go to?”

  He smiled boyishly. “I suppose I should go to the casino and see some old friends. Will you be there later?”

  “That’s my plan,” she answered, “after I check out the arrangements on Green-12. If I don’t make it, I’ll see you at the reception.”

  “Fine.” Malten bent to kiss her again, and the door slid open. Emily Crane peered out, not hiding her shock and disapproval.

  “Excuse me,” she said, starting to close the door. Her hand fumbled around on the unfamiliar wall panel, trying to find the right button.