“You really don’t know what he’s been doing for the last two years?” asked Bester incredulously.
She shook her head. “I haven’t had much contact with Mars.” Talia wanted to say that her uncle would never become a Martian revolutionary, but that wasn’t true. It probably was something the old romantic would do, especially if there were women involved.
“I would guess that he’s been blowing things up on Mars,” she said.
“Worse than that, Ms. Winters. Your Uncle Ted has been explaining the separatist position in a very clear way, and people are starting to listen to him. He’s popular, and the colonists are hiding him. We’ve been trying to find him for two years.”
Bester leaned urgently across the table. “We want him.”
“I haven’t a clue where he is,” she answered, shaking her head. “And why would you want him, Mr. Bester? He’s not a telepath, rogue or otherwise.”
Bester smiled and answered, “That is on a need-to-know basis, and you don’t need to know. But now you know the cost to get into the Mix—on your own terms, without Malten’s help. Once you’re in there, you can use him or not, as you wish. I believe this is a price you can meet, Ms. Winters, and it won’t compromise your high ideals.”
“Mr. Bester,” she protested, “I haven’t seen my Uncle Ted in something like fifteen years. How can I help you?”
“Come now, you’re family. You can go to Mars or Earth, ask around, show some concern. Say you only want to say hello to your beloved Uncle Ted before the bad guys get him. Give him a hug for old times’ sake.”
Bester winked. “Surely, you learned a long time ago to read your mother’s mind, without her knowing it. This is her brother we’re talking about. Find out where he is.”
Talia tried not to throw up, but she did start to gag on the idea of scanning family members without them knowing it. She stood weakly from the table and swallowed down the bile. “I’m not feeling very well, Mr. Bester. I really don’t think I can be any help finding Ted Hamilton. Good night.”
“The offer won’t be on the table forever,” warned Bester. “Good night.”
Talia Winters slammed the door behind her and leaned against the wall for support. How could it be that talking to Mr. Bester always made her feel dirty? She couldn’t avoid him—she would see him at the budget meeting in just ten hours—but she should refuse to discuss anything of a personal nature with him.
Then again, she had asked for it. With ambition and desire came the price. Even in the workaday world of the mundanes, it was no different. Talia had let herself be lured into this insane game, and she shouldn’t panic just because the stakes got high. She could always drop out.
And she would. Tomorrow, right after the budget meeting. She’d go back to being the only resident telepath of Babylon 5 so far, and be thrilled with it.
Talia headed for the main checkpoint, and she felt relieved to see Garibaldi and two of his officers, hanging out, looking edgy but better than they had earlier.
“Good evening,” she said.
“Hello, Ms. Winters,” the younger one said.
Garibaldi smiled at her. “We took a vote—we all like your outfit. I wouldn’t want you to think it was just me.”
“Thank you,” she said wearily. “I haven’t got any witty repartee left. Good night.”
“I could walk you home,” offered Garibaldi.
“Nope,” she said, heading away from Blue-16. Then she stopped. “How did you get away from those aliens last night?”
“Oh, that,” answered Garibaldi with a shrug. “I shot one in the foot, and I slugged another one. Then I ran like hell.”
“There were three of them,” said Talia.
Garibaldi rubbed his nose in thought. “Well, the third one came after you, but I guess you moved pretty fast.”
“Yeah,” the telepath agreed. “I’m moving fast these days. Good night.”
“Good night.”
Garibaldi lay in his bed, still thinking about his disturbing dream from earlier that day. His sense of duty kept prodding him to go Down Below and turn over every mattress and garbage can until he found Deuce. But he would have to get really lucky, or Deuce would have to want to be found, for that to work. With four hundred telepaths on the station, Garibaldi didn’t feel really lucky, and he didn’t think Deuce wanted to be found.
For one thing, Deuce was keeping very quiet. There had been no reports of beatings or murders, no jump in robberies or threats. Nobody had been caught transporting unusual contraband or stolen goods. And Deuce had not been spotted in any of his usual haunts, by any of several informers that Garibaldi had hired. Whatever Deuce’s business on B5 was, he was keeping it low-key, just like they were frying to keep the conference low-key. Unfortunately, Deuce was doing a better job of it. He rolled over in his bed and tried to get comfortable. It was no good. There were too many things around here that should not mix—Deuce, Bester, Martian terrorists, aliens who didn’t give a hoot about Psi Corps, telepaths who didn’t give a hoot about aliens. Even Captain Sheridan and Talia Winters had looked bagged by the stress, and if it could get to them, it could get to anyone. Come to think of it, neither Bester nor Gray looked too good either, Garibaldi decided. A feeling of paranoia was eating at all of them.
Worst of all, the conference proper didn’t really start until tomorrow! He pulled the pillow over his head and tried to go to sleep.
Chapter 9
“Yes, ma’am,” said Garibaldi pleasantly, “we’ve got to open up your briefcase and look inside.”
“I d-don’t know why you should,” muttered the short, dark-skinned woman. But she started to unlatch her case, anyway.
Garibaldi calmly took the case and set it on the table. As most of the contents were folders of transparencies, brochures, and business cards, he didn’t empty it onto one of the bins set aside for that purpose. But he did feel around on the bottom to come up with four smaller objects: her identicard, a creditchit, a dictaphone, and a data crystal.
He held the data crystal out. “What is this?”
The woman put her hands on her hips and gave him a quizzical stare. “Are you saying you don’t know what it is?”
“No,” said Garibaldi, dropping the crystal and the other objects back into the case. “Just wanted to make sure it was yours. Officer Baker will search your person.”
Huffily, the woman stomped on, and a female officer took charge of her.
Garibaldi sighed and looked up to find the cadaverous female Psi Cop.
“Uh, good morning,” he said warily. “Did you have a pleasant evening?”
She grinned evilly. “Yes. Trixie and I stayed up all night, talking about the good old days. I never laughed so hard in my life.” She winked at him. “We were experimenting a lot in those days.”
“I’ll bet,” admitted Garibaldi. He pointed to her bag. “Can you open it, please?”
“Gladly.” Without hesitation, the black-uniformed cop opened her handbag. “You are doing a fine job, Mr. Garibaldi. If anything happens, I know it won’t have been your fault.”
As he checked her bag, he whispered, “What do you think is going to happen?”
She held her regal chin up and sniffed. “It’s just something in their air, isn’t it?”
“No, that’s fresh paint,” said Garibaldi. “Thank you.”
“You will pat me down personally, won’t you?”
He winked at her. “Maybe the last day.”
With a deep-throated laugh, the woman moved on. Garibaldi went through the same routine with dozens of telepaths, all of whom offered various levels of resistance. However, many of them seemed to feign their anger; they secretly welcomed the overt demonstration of security, even if it did suggest that Psi Corps didn’t entirely trust its own members.