Voices - Vornholt John - Страница 28
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“I didn’t do that bombing,” she said, as if that made any difference to a man like him.
“I know,” he said, dabbing his eyes. “You were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“You know who did it?” she asked accusingly.
Deuce leveled the weapon at her again. “Lady, you were in the wrong place yesterday, and you’re still in the wrong place. Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies.”
Talia was fairly certain that Deuce was going to kill her, just as soon as she stopped being amusing. But they weren’t alone—wherever they were. Somebody was piloting this ship, and somebody had made a deal with Kosh to take her and deliver her somewhere. She and Deuce were not in a vacuum.
Irrationally, Talia made a lunge for the switch box, trying to get out. Deuce leaped to his feet right behind her and knocked her down with a vicious punch to the shoulder.
“Stupid bitch!” he muttered. “Don’t you know what those signs say?”
Talia lay crumpled between the two crates, holding her throbbing shoulder. She just stared at him, waiting to see if he would kill her.
“I guess you don’t know,” he muttered, jerking his thumb at the strange letters. “This here is a methane-breathers’ ship. We’re in a self-contained cargo container with its own atmosphere. In this case, it’s set for oxygen. If you had opened that hatch, we’d be rolling on the floor, bug-eyed and suffocating, in about a minute.”
“I’m sorry,” said Talia, sitting up. “I’ve never been a fugitive before. I guess I’m not too good at it.”
Deuce shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe what he had gotten himself saddled with. He sat on the edge of a crate and just looked at her.
“Lady, the problem is, you can’t do nothin’ for me, and I can’t do nothin’ for you. You’re poison, all the way around.”
“That’s not true,” Talia insisted, shifting around to see him. “I won’t ask you any more about the bombing—I don’t care what you had to do with it. But I know you can get me a fake identicard and a new name, and some clothes. Maybe that’s why my friend put me here with you.”
Deuce rubbed the stubble under his chin. “Your friend must be awfully well connected to know my comings and goings. Yeah, I could arrange those things.” He smiled at her. “What could you do for me in return?”
Talia wiped her face with her forearm and tried to think. “Isn’t there something in your line of work that could use a telepath?”
The criminal leaned back and considered the offer. “There might be. But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re poison. By now you have Psi Cops, Earthforce, regular cops, and all the school crossing—guards looking for you. I’m small potatoes compared to you.”
“Okay,” she promised, “I’ll leave whenever you say you want me to go.” She couldn’t believe she was making promises to a petty gangster, who had in some way arranged the bombing. What could she find out from him? She didn’t want to think what it would take to gain his confidence.
“I’m going to regret it if I don’t plug you now,” said Deuce with all sincerity.
“Commander?” said the communications officer at the command center. “A Mr. Gray wishes to speak to you. He says it’s the last time, and it will only take a moment.”
Ivanova looked down from her station with a sour expression. As there was nothing pressing her for perhaps the next thirty seconds, she picked up a headset and put it on.
“Patch him through,” she ordered.
“Is this Susan?” asked an uncertain voice.
“It is, Harriman. What do you want?”
“To say good-bye. I’m leaving on a transport for Earth in fifteen minutes with Mr. Garibaldi.”
“So I heard,” said Ivanova. “I don’t know whether to wish you luck or not. I don’t believe Talia Winters is guilty.”
Gray replied somberly, “Whether she is or not, it’s better we find her than Mr. Bester. This escape of hers doesn’t look good, but we all know there’s more to this affair than meets the eye. Garibaldi and I will get to the bottom of it. And, Susan …”
“Yes?”
“I’m determined to do something that will win you over.”
Ivanova finally smiled. “That I would like to see. Take care of yourself, and Garibaldi.”
“Thank you, Susan. Good-bye.”
Ivanova took off the headset and laid it on the console. Garibaldi and Gray were such an odd pair, she thought to herself, maybe they really would do something useful. The way it was going, they couldn’t mess things up much more than they already were.
“I’m sorry,” said a synthesized voice, “Ambassador Kosh is indisposed.”
“Well, you get him disposed right now!” growled Captain Sheridan.
“I’m sorry,” said the voice, “Ambassador Kosh is indisposed. Please contact the ambassador at a later time.”
Sheridan banged on the intercom outside the Alien Sector and cursed. Yelling at a computer voice wouldn’t really do much good, he told himself, and he had no desire to storm Kosh’s inner sanctum. Mainly, he had no desire to see the squidlike Vorlon warships come out of the jump gate and turn Babylon 5 into dust.
Everyone had warned him that Ambassador Kosh marched to his own drummer, but everyone had also said that contact with the advanced Vorlons was worth the occasional misunderstanding. However, in some of Kosh’s actions there was no misunderstanding, just a willful disregard for convention. Of course, being unconventional meant being alien, thought Sheridan, and there was no doubt that Ambassador Kosh was alien.
He turned to go, and he nearly bumped into Lennier, Delenn’s aide. The Minbari jumped sprightly to get out of the way.
“Excuse me, Mr. Lennier,” said Sheridan, “I’m sorry. Did I step on your foot?”
“It’s fine,” said Lennier. “I keep forgetting, human hearing is not very good, and I should clear my throat when I approach.”
“Well, if you’re waiting to see Kosh, he’s not receiving visitors.”
“No,” answered the Minbari, “I was waiting to see you, Captain Sheridan.”
The captain shrugged. “I have a few minutes. But I warn you, it hasn’t been a good week. So I hope you or the ambassador don’t have some terrible problem.”
They walked slowly down the corridor, and Lennier replied, “We have no complaints, but I’m very aware of your problem. This propensity toward violence is most regrettable.”
Sheridan bristled slightly, knowing that was a gibe. He had seen the Minbari in warfare, close up, and he knew they could be as violent as anyone.
“Can you get to the point?” he asked bluntly.
Lennier stopped and gazed at him. “I may have some information for you.”
“If it’s about the bombing,” said Sheridan, “I’m listening.”
Lennier grimaced with minor embarrassment. “I became rather well acquainted with one of the attendees, a Mr. Barker. I gather he is a well-placed military liaison.” The Minbari smiled. “He considers himself an expert on Minbari affairs, and he is indeed a wealth of information. Most of it over a decade old.”
Sheridan waited patiently. He had learned a few things in his life, and one of them was that the Minbari could not be hurried. Whether you were listening to a story or setting up a counterattack against them, they would take their time doing whatever they were doing.
“At the reception,” said Lennier, “Mr. Barker had a considerable number of refreshments, and he took me into his confidence. At the time, what he said to me sounded bizarre, but considering the events of yesterday, his remarks were eerily precognitive.”
“What did he say?” Sheridan almost screamed.
“He said that he wasn’t worried much about Mr. Bester and the Psi Cops, because they were going to be aced out. That was the exact phrase he used, ‘aced out.’ I asked him who would take their place in the pantheon of Psi Corps, and he said the commercial sector would come out on top, because they had the money behind them. Mr. Barker wasn’t too happy about this one way or another, you understand. He envisioned the military getting the short end of the stick either way.”
Lennier cocked his head and frowned. “He said that Bester was history, which at the time seemed mere wishful thinking. But the next day, Bester was almost history, wasn’t he? And the suspected bomber is from the commercial sector.”
“Yes,” said Sheridan thoughtfully. “Everybody wants to blame Martian terrorists, but what is B5 to them? That’s been bothering me this whole time. Thank you, Mr. Lennier, you’ve given me something to think about.”
“Can I ask one thing in return?”
“Sure,” said the captain, fearing the worst.
“Can you explain to me what that means, ‘getting the short end of the stick.’ A stick has only two ends and is joined at the middle—how can one end be shorter than the other?”
Sheridan sighed. “Actually, it means getting the short end when you draw sticks—I think. Why don’t you walk with me to my office, and we’ll figure it out.”
Garibaldi gave a pained grin and held out his hand. “After you, Mr. Gray.”
The slim telepath nodded his thanks and hoisted his flight bag onto his shoulder. Garibaldi followed several paces behind him on their way through the air-lock and onto the transport Starfish. It was the essential red-eye flight with about half the seats empty, and most of the other seats occupied by people who would soon be dozing.
The only passengers who looked wide awake were six black-suited Psi Cops sitting in the first row. They gave Garibaldi a look of unbridled malice as he walked past them with Gray, and he tried not to look their way.
The telepath stopped in the middle of the passenger cabin and asked, “Is this one all right?”
“No,” growled Garibaldi, “in the back.” He almost asked Gray if they had to sit together, but that would have been a churlish thing to ask in a half-filled cabin: Later on, he would claim to be tired, then he would head off in search of some privacy and elbow room.
They sat in the next-to-last row. Behind them a Centauri was already snoring, his hair sticking up from his pillow like a row of porcupine quills.
Gray opened up his briefcase and took out a stack of transparencies, dossiers, and photographs. Garibaldi couldn’t help but watch the telepath arrange these materials in meticulous order. Then the telepath looked expectantly at Garibaldi and asked, “What have you found out?”
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