Voices Page 8

  The longer he was around them, the more Gray liked the alien rhythms and voices of Babylon 5. It made him feel more normal to know that he couldn’t read the minds of most of the people here. To them, he was just another alien.

  So he circled the corridors where she had to cross, hoping he wouldn’t miss her when his back was turned. Perhaps she would get a bite at her favorite restaurant between shifts. She was working a double shift, he was certain, until all the conference attendees were safely aboard the station, where they became somebody else’s problem. That was the way Susan worked, making sure there were no lapses on her watch. She hated all of them with a passion, but she would guide their ships to safety as if they were carrying her own mother.

  The thought of Susan’s mother brought Gray up short. That was the root of her hatred for Psi Corps, and was there anything he could do about it? Would it do any good to apologize? Or to tell Susan how lousy it made him feel to be tarred with the same feather as the Psi Police? Was there anything at all he could say that would erase her years of pain and hatred? No. Not as long as he wore the Psi Corps insignia on his lapel.

  What was he doing this for? Why couldn’t he come to his senses and forget about Susan? There were plenty of women who would welcome a man with his prestige and career potential, women who would consider him a catch. Well, maybe.

  The problem was, Harriman Gray had always wanted the wrong thing, the thing he couldn’t have. He had wanted to be a soldier, before his psi abilities had manifested themselves. After that path had been taken away from him, he had wanted to serve the military in a liaison capacity, going home every night to his tidy apartment. Instead, he was shunted from one high-level assignment to another, each one more surreal than the one before it. Now he loved a woman who hated him. Sheesh, thought Gray, maybe he was more neurotic than Bester. While he considered giving up and joining his colleagues at the casino, he caught a glimpse of a gray uniform dashing into the sweets shop. His heart leaped as quickly as his feet, as he hurried into the shop after her.

  “I’ll take one of those,” said Ivanova, pointing to a dark confection.

  “Susan,” he said.

  Her back stiffened, and she refused to turn around. “Are you following me?”

  “Yes,” he admitted. “I don’t suppose you’re going to the reception later on?”

  “No.”

  “That’s why I had to follow you.”

  Susan sighed and finally turned around to look at him. He was reminded of the way his big sister used to look whenever she was annoyed with him.

  “You know, Harriman, by the captain’s orders, I’m not supposed to be talking to you. Or any of your friends.”

  “I know,” Gray admitted. “I’ve read all the travel advisories. ‘Do not visit Down Below or the Alien Sector. Do not travel alone. And do not speak to Commander Ivanova.’”

  She smiled in spite of her herself. “I hope there’s a suitable punishment for doing so.”

  “Speaking of punishment,” said Gray excitedly, “did you hear that Ambassador G’Kar beat the stuffing out of a reprehensible Psi Cop named Hoffman? In front of everybody!”

  Ivanova smiled. “No, I didn’t hear that. We’re all doing our part to make this an enjoyable conference.”

  She grabbed her pastry and waited for Gray to get out of her way. “Excuse me, I’ve only got about five minutes before the next transport is due.”

  “Please eat,” insisted Gray. He rushed to pull out a chair at an empty table. “It’s all right, I’ll do all the talking.”

  Ivanova shrugged resignedly and set her snack on the table. “I can push my own chair in.”

  “Of course,” said Gray, sitting across from her. “I just wanted to tell you - I’m thinking of quitting my job as a military liaison and going into commercial practice.”

  “That’s nice,” replied Ivanova with her mouth full of cake.

  “Yes, maybe I can even get assigned to Babylon 5.”

  The officer looked puzzledly at him and swallowed. “We already have a resident telepath.”

  “Ah,” said Gray, “Ms. Winters may be leaving.”

  Ivanova frowned. “Really? I was just getting to know her. Why would she leave?”

  “Better offer.”

  “How do you know this?” she asked suspiciously.

  Gray smiled. “Let’s say, a gathering of telepaths is not the best place to keep a secret.”

  Ivanova set her fork on her plate and just stared at him. “Harriman, if you’re trying to get an assignment on B5 just to be close to me, you’re wasting your time. Having a strained conversation like this, every now and then, is the best you could ever hope for.”

  He looked down, deeply wounded. “That’s rather cold, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is,” she admitted, standing up. “I’m sorry, but I don’t want to lead you on.”

  Gray countered, “There’s something else. I like being here on Babylon 5! I feel comfortable in this place, like a regular person, not a freak or a snoop.”

  Susan opened her mouth, as if she were about to say something, but she finally just shook her head and walked off. When she was gone, Gray slammed his fist on the table.

  Despite the cruelty and finality of her words, a voice in his head told him that she was still the one for him. Who should he listen to, if not his own heart? If not his own voice?

  “Susan,” he muttered to himself, “if a strained conversation is all I’ll ever get, then I’ll take it.”

  Talia Winters slumped away from the viewer and rubbed her eyes. She had looked at everything on the data crystal ten times, and it still didn’t make much sense. It was a lot of bogus figures that didn’t add up correctly, a lot of statistics on job creation for telepaths that definitely favored the commercial sector, some pie charts that attacked military spending, and the request for a new research and development center. She didn’t know how any of this would coalesce into a convincing argument for the needs of commercial telepathy.

  Of course, she told herself, this was just raw data. You had to have it, because sometimes logic alone wouldn’t work - there had to be numbers to plug in, charts to pull up. When it came down to it, she felt the strongest argument was that commercial telepaths were the only segment of Psi Corps who managed to pay for themselves. Bester and all his top-secret budgets were a total drain, and so was all the psychic-weapon research the military did. However, she doubted whether either one of them liked to be reminded of this.

  And none of these charts or statistics addressed the real problem - that Mr. Bester and his ilk decided who got what in Psi Corps. What kind of argument could overcome that reality?

  A knock sounded on her door, and Talia looked up with a start. As she pressed the button to open it, she called out, “Come in.”

  Emily Crane stumbled into the room. She was wearing high-heeled shoes and a peach evening gown with a single strap. It didn’t look half-bad on her, thought Talia. If she could get accustomed to asserting herself, she had promise.

  “What are you d-doing?” Emily asked accusingly. “You should be getting ready for the reception.”

  “Oh, sorry,” said Talia, glancing at the clock over her screen. “I’ve been studying this data crystal you put together about the budget. Now I sort of wish you were going, because I don’t think I’ll be familiar with this by tomorrow morning.”

  “Do you think I am?” asked Emily. “You know the things to say. We can back it up later in a memo.”

  “All right,” sighed Talia. “I don’t think I can read any more of this crystal tonight, anyway.

  “Then g-give it to me,” said Emily, stepping carefully toward the viewer. “I have some updates for a few of those charts. I don’t think you’ll need to show them anything, but I’ll give it back to you before the meeting, just in c-case.”

  She drew the crystal out of its slot and tucked it down her bra. “What we want is the research center. The rest is all smoke and m-mirrors.”

  �
�Thanks,” said Talia. “I guess I had better get dressed now.”

  Emily nodded and hobbled out the door. After it shut, Talia thoughtfully pulled off her gloves. It felt good to have her fingers free, and she used them to unzip her skirt and let it fall to the floor. She stretched her fingers and pushed back her hair as she moved languidly toward the shower.

  Garibaldi was having a wonderful dream. He was in the shower, with the water cascading all over him. This obviously was not on Babylon 5, he decided, because the water on B5 mostly dribbled. Anyway, he was in the shower, cleansing himself, and he knew that when he stepped out, the four hundred telepaths from Psi Corps would all be gone. It would be just the usual two hundred and fifty thousand dregs of humanity and aliens. He could hardly wait!

  He turned off the shower and jumped out, already dry. He liked this shower. And he strode through a dreamworld of laughing, cheerful people, raising glasses and toasting him for ending the horror of the Psi Corps conference. There was Londo, grinning in his snaggletoothed way.

  “I got the tape on them!” claimed the Centauri, lifting his glass.

  “Excellent,” replied Garibaldi with a big grin.

  “Well done, Mr. Garibaldi,” said Captain Sheridan, patting him on the back. “You’re an asset to this station.”

  “Asset,” muttered Garibaldi, thinking he had been insulted.

  Then he saw Talia, who was dressed exactly as he was, which was not at all. “I’m taking a shower,” she remarked, but her naked body floated past.

  He wanted to follow her, but more people were pulling him along, raising their glasses to him. Without warning, the security chief bumped into someone he wanted to see in real life, but not someone he wanted to see in a dream. It was Deuce, the grubby kingpin of Down Below.

  “Aw, Garibaldi,” drawled Deuce, “you didn’t have to get rid of them. I would’ve done it for you.” He laughed and stepped back into the shadows.

  Then it was Lennier, underfoot as usual. The peaceful Minbari held up a wad of cash. “We came to an understanding,” he explained.

  Ivanova walked somberly beside him, deep in thought. “Could you love a telepath?” she asked. “Could you really love one of them?”

  “I love Psi Corps!” he replied, which seemed to be the right answer. Everybody smiled at him.

  And the last being at the end of the line was Kosh, the Vorlon ambassador. The mountain of marble and fabric moved directly into his path and cut off his escape.

  “Where have all the Martians gone?” asked the Vorlon in his strange combination of musical notes and synthesized voice. Kosh peered at Garibaldi with a tubelike telescope that issued from his stomach, and added, “Long time passing.”

  “They are all gone!” cried Captain Sheridan, raising his glass. “Here is to Mr. Garibaldi and his remarkable solution to the problem of Psi Corps.”

  Since everyone else stopped to look at him and lift their glasses, Garibaldi did likewise. Only he wasn’t holding a glass - he was holding a block of wires with globs of dirty plastique. The detonator ticked menacingly!

  Garibaldi gasped and tried to throw the bomb away. As it left his hands, it turned into a seering blast of white light and a monstrous KA-BOOM!

  The last thing Garibaldi saw was Bester howling with laughter - then he mercifully woke up, clutching his blanket in his sweaty hands. Garibaldi’s link was blaring, and his personal computer seemed to be shrieking at him, too.

  “Okay, okay!” he growled. “I’m up.”

  “Twenty-hundred hours,” said the computer.

  He tapped his link, and the captain’s voice sounded, “Garibaldi, this is Sheridan. Everything is under control, but I just wanted to make sure you didn’t oversleep.”

  “No danger of that,” croaked Garibaldi, smacking his lips to get the weird taste out of his mouth.

  Sheridan answered, “Glad to hear it. I’m at Blue-16 now and it’s already filling up. We’ve had some would-be gatecrashers, but the only outsiders we’ve invited are the ambassadors and their aides. So access has been fairly easy to control.”

  Garibaldi didn’t like hearing the captain sound so nervous, especially after the dream he had just had. “Fifteen minutes,” he promised. “Thank you for the rest, Captain, I’m a new man.”

  “We could use some new men,” said Sheridan glumly. “Excuse me, Mr. Bester has arrived.”

  Talia Winters took a drink of her Centauri wine and smiled at Ambassador Delenn. The Minbari female looked as small and fragile as a porcelain doll, but Talia knew there was a tough, hard-nosed politician under that demure exterior. A member of the Grey Council and an early backer of Babylon 5, Delenn understood the importance of the station as few others did.

  “My aide and Mr. Barker seem to have hit it off,” remarked Delenn, looking with satisfaction at Lennier and a stout military man. They were leaning into each other, involved in an animated conversation that excluded all others.

  “Well, they should,” remarked Talia, “they both hate your warrior castes.”

  Delenn’s smile faded only a little as she looked up at the taller women. “You don’t seem yourself tonight, Ms. Winters. Is there something on your mind?”

  Talia pushed back a strand of yellow hair, which perfectly accented her black evening dress. Her white, shoulders gleamed like a spotlight above the black décolletage.

  “You’re right,” she admitted. “I’m agonizing over a decision. In fact, it’s a whole bundle of decisions all wrapped up in one knot.”

  Delenn cocked her head. “One should never make a decision hastily. Or alone. I am not much for mingling at parties, and I would be happy to give you my full attention.”

  Talia swallowed. “All right, I’ve been offered a new assignment, probably on Earth, with a very big firm. They say they want me for my interspecies experience, but I got that experience working here. In other words, I’d like to take this opportunity, but I don’t want to leave B5. Does that make sense?”

  “Perfect sense,” answered Delenn, taking a demure sip of her tea. “If this firm is who I think it is, there may be a solution. Why don’t you open up a branch office for them on B5? Then you can fall under their umbrella while staying with us.”

  Talia chuckled, then grew somber. “I thought of that. Unfortunately, my physical presence is required for some aspects of this deal.”

  Delenn smiled knowingly. “Ah, that is often the case. Although you are the one who has to make the decision, my opinion is that B5 will remain a most advantageous base for your career.”

  Talia looked down at her drink. The greenish liquid seemed to mimic her murky thoughts, and she wanted to throw it out and get something clean.

  But a thought touched her mind, a sweet one, and she looked up to see Arthur Malten, now dressed in a very conservative dark-blue suit. Even his eyes were smiling.

  “You look lovely tonight, Talia,” he said. He turned to Delenn and bowed. “Do I have the pleasure of addressing Ambassador Delenn?”

  “You do,” she replied.

  “Arthur Malten,” he announced. “Of the Mix. I have spoken to many of your colleagues.”

  “Yes,” said Delenn, “and we must talk about the proposed branch office you wish to open on Minbar.” She smiled at Talia. “But not tonight.”

  “Yes,” said Malten, grabbing Talia’s hands through her black velvet gloves. “I’m afraid I must take Ms. Winters away for a moment. Mr. Bester is here, and he’s in a very good mood, granting favors left and right.”

  “Right this moment?” asked Talia hesitantly.

  “No time like the present,” Malten replied. “At least that’s what I’ve always heard.”

  “Haste makes waste,” countered Delenn. “Isn’t that also one of your proverbs?”

  Malten glanced at the Minbari. “I’m very decisive,” he told the ambassador. “When I see what I want, I go after it. I’m patient, too, if need be.”

  “An admirable trait,” said Delenn. “It is easy to be decisive, difficul
t to be patient.”

  But Malten was already whisking Talia Winters away.

  CHAPTER 8

  Talia stiffened her back as she strolled across the Blue-16 cafe. Part of it was the touch of Arthur Malten’s bare hand on her wrist. Why wasn’t he wearing gloves? she wondered. Probably just another example of his well-known penchant for rebellious behavior.

  She wanted to tell Arthur that she hadn’t made her decision yet - but then she was dazzled by the sights, sounds, and voices of a roomful of influential telepaths. Many of them turned to look at her and Malten, and the attention was alluring in its own right.

  Did she really want to bury herself on a station full of alien life-forms and alien concerns? Or was this where she belonged - with her peers, in the midst of important decisions that affected the entire Earth Alliance? These were the people who made the Senate and Earthforce jump, the ones chosen by natural selection to lead.

  She put on her most placid smile as Arthur steered her toward Mr. Bester. He was surrounded by his usual black-suited band of sycophants, with a handful of military and commercial telepaths in attendance as well.

  When Bester saw Talia and Malten approach, he smiled expectantly, the scorpion waiting for the beetle to come closer.

  “Good evening, Mr. Bester,” said Talia.

  “Good evening, Ms. Winters, you look lovely.” He glanced with disinterest at her escort. “Hello, Malten.”

  “Hello, Mr. Bester,” said the tall man. He gestured around at the gayly decorated cafe, jammed with people. “Don’t we owe Ms. Winters a debt of gratitude for pulling all of this together so quickly?”

  “Yes, we do,” agreed Bester.

  Talia shook her head politely. “Captain Sheridan, Mr. Garibaldi, and the entire staff of B5 are the ones who did it. I merely asked them.”