Voices b5-1 Page 4

  Sheridan nodded thoughtfully. “I would suggest you remember one thing, Ms. Winters—when you’re up-front, they’ll shoot at you first.”

  Talia nodded curtly and stared down the walkway at the closed air-lock. On the eve of this important conference, she didn’t need to hear ominous warnings from her Station commander. On the other band, it was evident that they wouldn’t be here if terrorists hadn’t bombed that Martian hotel. Was Sheridan trying to tell her the same thing Garibaldi had been trying to tell her? Keep it safe. Keep it low-key.

  Talia had been thinking just the opposite. She wanted to show the world that Psi Corps was more than a few failed cases of telepaths gone rogue, or sleepers getting depressed. Psi Corps meant commerce, diplomacy, military preparedness, and, yes, a more efficient government. Telepaths had their place everywhere, in every endeavor. That was the message she wanted the conference to spread.

  But maybe Sheridan was right. Talia often ignored the backlash against Psi Corps as being mere jealousy from the mundanes. Perhaps it was more ingrained than that—perhaps people really did want to stop them. Although she didn’t agree with Captain Sheridan, she would heed his warning. The affair would be low-key, manageable, without controversy. Maybe it would even be slightly boring.

  Sheridan’s link chimed, and he lifted his hand to answer it. “Yes?”

  “Captain,” said Ivanova, “transport Freya has just docked. Your party should be disembarking any moment.”

  “Thank you, Commander. Any word from the ambassadors about our invitation?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Sheridan out.” He lowered his hand, looked at Talia, and shrugged. “I did invite the ambassadors to attend the reception tomorrow night. But I never know what they’ll do. If you would like to talk to them …”

  Talia shook her head and smiled. “No, Captain, let’s keep it low-key, shall we?”

  He nodded. “I agree.”

  The air-lock opened, and a man in a black uniform strode off the dock and down the walkway. He was followed by a slight man, who looked expectantly around the docking area, as if he was looking for someone. A handful of other passengers followed, and a few of them were also wearing Psi Corps insignia. None but Mr. Bester wore the black uniform of the Psi Police.

  “Captain Sheridan,” said Bester as he produced his identicard. “Congratulations on your new command.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bester.”

  The security guard nervously finished with Mr. Bester and sent him on his way. “Ms. Winters,” said the Psi Cop with a nod.

  She smiled. “Mr. Bester.”

  Talia was waiting for Bester to scan somebody, anybody, because he hardly needed any preparation. He did it with as much effort as it took to brush the lint off one’s sleeve. Plus, he had the authority to cut corners, which usually meant that he took what information he needed, from wherever it was in people’s minds. But the famed Psi Cop was on his best behavior; he waited patiently for the other members of his party to be checked through.

  “Mr. Gray, how are you?” Captain Sheridan called to the young man in a chummy tone.

  The military liaison stopped looking around long enough to smile. “I’m fine, Captain, thank you. Let me also congratulate you on your new post. Everyone at headquarters is pulling for you.”

  Bester looked at the telepath with amusement on his ageless face. “Come now, Gray, not everyone. You were thinking about a certain general, for instance.”

  Gray bristled. “I don’t believe I was. Excuse me, Captain, but where is Commander Ivanova?”

  “Busy,” snapped Sheridan. “You won’t be seeing much of her, I’m afraid.”

  Talia looked away from the flustered Mr. Gray to see who else from Psi Corps had arrived on the Freya. There was a small, dark-skinned woman, who fumbled with her identicard. Instead of her making the guard nervous, the guard was apparently making her nervous. Behind her, waiting patiently, stood a tall man with a professorial air to him, no doubt helped by his graying goatee. He looked older than the last photograph she had seen of him, but there was no mistaking the profound intelligence in his sad, dark eyes.

  “Mr. Malten?” she asked.

  He smiled apologetically but boyishly. “Pardon me, but I’m terrible with names. Isn’t that an awful thing for a telepath to admit?”

  “Not at all,” she said, extending a gloved hand, “because we’ve never met. I’m Talia Winters, resident telepath on B5.”

  The guard motioned Malten through as quickly as he could, so that he could complete their handshake. The distinguished telepath was beaming. “I was hoping I would run into you right away, Ms. Winters! May I present my associate, Emily Crane. She’ll be assisting you this week.”

  The small, dark-skinned woman held out her gloved hand, and Talia took it. “Very p-pleased to meet you,” stammered Emily.

  Talia smiled. “Likewise.” If it hadn’t been for the Psi Corps insignia on Emily Crane’s collar, Talia would never have guessed she was a telepath. She barely seemed the type who could tie her own shoelaces.

  “Yes,” said Malten, “I’m turning Emily over to you. You’ll find her quite a whiz with newsletters, press releases, and such. I always find that a conference goes better when there are plenty of newsletters to keep everyone abreast of changes. Don’t you?”

  “Oh, yes,” agreed Talia.

  Malten smiled proudly at the tiny woman. “Emily’s real job is chief copywriter for our firm.”

  Our firm, Talia repeated to herself. It was amazing how blithely Malten could refer to Earth’s biggest and most prestigious conglomerate of commercial telepaths. The Mix, as it was known across the galaxy, had offices in virtually every corner of the Alliance, and on some nonaligned worlds.

  Talia turned to Emily. “I’ve been reading about telepathic copywriting. How does that work?”

  “Well,” said Emily, “say the client has an advertising campaign in mind, but they c-can’t express it in words. Or it’s only half-formed in their minds. We d-do a scan. We learn what they really want, even when they don’t know what they really want.” She grinned, happy to have gotten that speech out.

  “Yes,” said Malten, “we started out thinking we could do the finished ads in-house, but it turned out to be more cost-effective to contract our services directly to the ad agencies. By the end of the year, we’ll have seven branch offices doing nothing but this.”

  “You’ll have to c-come to my panel,” Emily added. “We’ll d-do a demonstration.”

  Malten gave both women a gentle push down the corridor. “Looks like they’re leaving us behind.”

  Talia turned around to see Captain Sheridan, Mr. Bester, and Mr. Gray walking briskly down the corridor about fifty meters ahead of them. All of a sudden, none of those three men seemed very important to Talia, not when the man beside her was pioneering the invasion of telepathy into everyday life and business.

  “They’re just going to look at security grids and the like,” said Talia. “But I know a great place where we can get a Jovian Sunspot.”

  Arthur Malten laughed. “I presume we can pick up our luggage from customs later tonight. Lead on!”

  Needing the computer consoles, Garibaldi turned the briefing room into his temporary headquarters. For the umpteenth time, he rubbed his eyes and squinted at his screen. “Come on, Baker, are you going to tell me that you need four guys around the clock on one lousy access port?”

  “That’s the primary access port for Green-12,” answered Baker. “If we’re going to seal it off, but let the VIPs through, we’ve got to have lots of eyes.”

  “I’ll give you two guys,” growled Garibaldi, “and that’s only because one of them might have to go to the bathroom.”

  Seeing the young woman’s crestfallen face, the chief added, “After we get most of these jokers through their arrival and customs, we can free up some people. I’ll give you backup as soon as possible.”

  Baker smiled. “Thanks, Chief”

  “One more
thing,” said Garibaldi, “that is a crucial spot, and your people can’t leave it for anything. I don’t care if they have pee running down their legs, or bug-eyed monsters are eating everyone in sight, they cannot leave that post.”

  Baker swallowed nervously. “Is it true they can make us see things that aren’t there? Put suggestions in our heads?”

  Garibaldi nodded glumly. “I imagine they can. We won’t have much control over the people at this party—all we can do is keep other people from crashing it. I mean, if somebody from Psi Corps flips out and decides to blow up his buddies, we’re in a world of trouble.”

  That thought was strong enough to put an end to all conversation in the briefing room. After a moment, Garibaldi waved wearily to the half-dozen subordinates who were still with him. “Go to bed. That’s an order.”

  “Good night, Chief. ‘Night,” they muttered as they quickly filed out.

  The security chief might have sat frozen in the position lie was in all night long, just worrying, too tired to move. But the lack of oxygen and sleep made him yawn. That yawn was enough to make him stand up, stretch his arms, and reach for his jacket.

  Just when he was about to escape to his own quarters, his link buzzed. “Security,” he muttered into the back of his hand.

  “Mr. Garibaldi,” said a voice. “It’s me, Talia.”

  Oh, Lord, thought the chief, the ice queen. “What can I do you for, Ms. Winters?”

  “I’m down in Red-3, with a couple of friends. I was wondering if you could take us on a little tour of the Alien Sector. Maybe Down Below.”

  “What?” snarled Garibaldi. “Didn’t we just agree that your friends were not supposed to go down there?”

  “Aw, come on,” said Talia. “The conference hasn’t even started yet, and these are real VIPs.”

  No kidding. VIPs. Garibaldi knew he was going to get tired of hearing that real fast. On the other hand, it was Talia Winters. Late at night, in a party mood. Maybe he would get lucky.

  “Red-3, you say?” He yawned and checked the PPG weapon hanging on his belt. “Order me a cup of coffee—I’ll be right there.”

  And so it begins, thought Garibaldi, as he buttoned his collar and slouched out the door.

  Chapter 4

  “That’s it for me,” said Ivanova with a sigh. “The station is yours, Major Atambe.”

  Her replacement nodded and assumed the command post in front of the main viewing port of C-and-C. The docking bays were quiet—only two ships were preparing to depart for the jump gate, and the station was secure. Ivanova paused at the doorway and looked back.

  “When is the next transport from Earth due in?”

  Major Atambe punched up the shipping register. “Oh seven hundred,” he replied.

  She nodded. “I’ll be back then. Wouldn’t want to lose any of our VIPs, would we?”

  Ivanova strode through the doorway and toward the lift that would take her to her humble quarters. She was thinking about her bed, her most prized possession in the universe. It wasn’t a remarkable bed—just a standard-issue single bed, extra firm—but it represented her sanctuary, her escape. No matter what madness was swirling all around her, she could always collapse into that bed and find peace in immediate slumber.

  Ivanova began thinking about a remarkable vacation she had planned, if only she could get away with it. In this dream vacation, she would lie in bed as much as she wanted. The link, the alarm clock, the computer, anything that might wake her up would be banished deep into her sock drawer. Perhaps a waiter would come, at her bidding, to bring her bonbons and other snacks, but otherwise she would do nothing but sleep. If she woke up, she would look around to content herself that she was still safely in bed, then she would roll over and go back to sleep.

  She chuckled to herself. What had her grandfather always said? “You can get a Jewish woman to do anything in bed but wake up.” Her grandmother, she recalled, had never learned to make matzo ball soup in sixty-three years of married life.

  Well, thought Ivanova, she had never learned how to make matzo ball soup either. Unfortunately, there was no one around to make it for her.

  “Susan,” said a voice.

  She stopped dead in the deserted corridor, as a feeling of dread crept up her backbone. A figure stepped out of the shadows but made no movement to come closer.

  “Hello, Susan,” said Mr. Gray, a smile tugging at his thin lips.

  “Gray,” she snapped. She strode past him.

  He ran after her. “Susan, please, I just want to talk to you!”

  “I’m not allowed to talk to you. Captain’s orders.” She pushed the button and waited for the lift.

  Gray waved his hands desperately. “Susan, I don’t want anything from you, really.”

  “Then go away.” Where was that stupid lift?

  The door opened, and she stepped in. To her disgust, Gray followed. Now they were alone in the narrow confines of an elevator car.

  “Deck eight,” said Ivanova, then she lifted the link to her mouth. “If you persist in harassing me, I will call security.”

  “Harassing you?” muttered Gray. “All I said was hello!” He stared straight ahead at the door, as if he didn’t care to speak to her again either.

  “Hello,” she said disgruntledly.

  “I just wanted to tell you about my new apartment,” said Gray. “In Berlin.”

  Ivanova looked at him. “Berlin. I’m impressed. I didn’t pick you as being the avant-garde type.”

  “You don’t know me very well, do you?” asked Gray. “Did you think all telepaths lived in some medieval dungeon somewhere?”

  “Yes.”

  Gray chuckled. “Oh, some of them do. Most of us live out of a suitcase, in army barracks, or metal boxes like this one.

  The lift door opened, and Gray waited expectantly. Ivanova stepped out, stopped, and lifted her shoulders in a tremendous sigh.

  “Please, Susan,” Gray pleaded, “stop thinking of me as the enemy. You know I didn’t choose this path—I wanted to be a soldier. I’ve got a career, and I’m trying to get somewhere in the channels that are open to me, just like you. I’m all alone, just like you.”

  The young telepath lowered his head. “Maybe it was a mistake trying to see you. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

  He turned to go, and Ivanova reached out her hand. But she couldn’t bring herself to touch him. “Your place in Berlin,” she asked, “is it anywhere near the Free University?”

  He turned excitedly. “Yes, it is! It’s about ten blocks away, and I can take the U-Bahn, or walk. I love walking around Berlin. I know many people find it depressing, because the whole city is like a museum to the destructive power of war. But what can I say, I’m a war buff.”

  Ivanova shrugged. “Whatever turns you on. I went there on a summer study program to research the dadaists.” She headed down the corridor, and Gray scurried along beside her.

  “That’s a fascinating period,” he admitted, “although the dadaists are a bit extreme for my tastes. There are some interesting comparisons between the dadaists and the performance artists of the late twentieth century. Wouldn’t you say?”

  Ivanova frowned in thought. “I’m not sure. In both cases, their aim was to shock the bourgeoisie and the accepted art establishment. But the dada movement was more of a collective effort, and performance art was very individualistic. I read about one woman who would take a Zima bottle and put it …”

  Gray suddenly grimaced and put his hands to his head.

  “What is it?”

  He slumped against the wall and motioned for her to look behind them. Ivanova turned to see a small man in a black uniform standing at the end of the corridor. He smiled and strode toward them.

  “I knew I would find you here, Mr. Gray,” said Bester. “With the Lieutenant Commander.”

  “Stop that scan on him!” commanded Ivanova.

  But Gray was already regaining his composure. “It’s all right,” he said hoarsely.

&nbs
p; “It’s not all right,” snapped Ivanova. The fiery officer glared at Mr. Bester. “None of what you do is all right. You act like telepathy is some giant leap in evolution, but the way you use it is just the same old crap. Control! That’s what it’s all about.

  “Where I come from, we’ve seen the czars, the Bolsheviks, the secret police, and we know all about you. You just want to tell people what to do with their lives, and to hell with them if they have other ideas!”

  Bester took a deep breath and squinted at her. Ivanova braced herself for perhaps a scan, but Harriman Gray stepped between them.

  “That’s enough, Mr. Bester,” said Gray, trembling but jutting his jaw. “As of now, you can forget about me ever being your assistant. I don’t like the way you operate. Unannounced scans were not part of the job description.”

  “My boy,” said Bester like a favorite uncle, “don’t take it personally. It’s just a way we have of shortcut communications. Instead of you briefing me about your whereabouts, I just take a quick peek. I hadn’t realized telepaths in the military were so sensitive to these shortcuts.”

  The Psi Cop looked at Ivanova and smiled like a cobra. “Besides, I see you are attending to personal business. As for that other matter, there’s plenty of time to make a decision. I hope you both have a pleasant conference. Good night.”

  Bester swiveled on his heel and walked briskly down the corridor.

  “Some shortcut,” sneered Ivanova. “All one-way.”

  Gray whirled around and stared at her. He was clearly shaken, but he managed to say, “You were quite magnificent.”

  Ivanova was too drained to take in any more. “I’m sorry, Mr. Gray, but I’ve got to get some sleep. And I think the three minutes I promised you are up.”

  “Please,” he begged, “a large favor. Would you call me Harriman and let me call you Susan?”

  She stared at him with amazement, then softened and nodded. “All right, but only when we’re alone. Around other people, let’s be formal.”

  Gray beamed with pleasure. “Does that mean we’re friends?”