Voices - Vornholt John - Страница 8

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“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.

“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?”

“Don’t count your luck,” she said. Ivanova turned to go, but she halted after one step. “I’m glad to hear you won’t be that schmuck’s assistant. Good night.”

“Good night, Susan,” he said softly.

“For humans,” said Garibaldi, handing out the breathing masks, “the Alien Sector is always something of a disappointment. You can’t see a damn thing, and if you could see, you wouldn’t want to. We keep trying to improve it, and the one thing we want to avoid is making it look like a zoo. So, if a bunch of closed doors in murky, unbreathable air is your idea of a good time, let’s go.”

“Surely, it’s got to be more interesting than that,” said the tall one, Mr. Malten.

Garibaldi shook his head. “Not really. Most of the folks down here have special food, drink, and atmosphere requirements, so they don’t go out much. Ms. Winters can tell you. She’s got a regular client in here.”

“Yes,” said Talia rather proudly. “Ambassador Kosh of the Vorlons. We invited him to the reception tomorrow night, and I hope he’ll attend.”

Garibaldi added, “But all we ever see of him is his encounter suit. It’s up to you if you want to stroll through the sector, but you won’t see anything unless we bang on people’s doors.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Talia. “I only come down here when I have an appointment.”

The small telepath, Emily Crane, looked up at the storklike Mr. Malten. “I don’t want to d-disturb the residents.”

“Neither do I,” answered Malten, placing the breathing mask back on the shelf. “But I don’t expect to be shortchanged out of our tour of Down Below.”

“Of course not,” said Garibaldi. “What do you want to see? There’s smuggling, stolen gear getting stripped down, a bunch of derelicts nodding out. You name it, we’ve got it.”

“All of it.” Arthur Malten smiled.

Talia winced and Emily screwed her eyes shut as a hairless behemoth belted some scaled creature and sent him flying over shipping crates and crashing into broken shelves, long since looted. As the grubby crowd of derelicts screamed their approval, the hairless thing went slobbering after its prey and commenced the beating anew. The babble of the bettors was insane, sounding like quadraphonic bedlam inside Talia’s mind, and she would have left if the men hadn’t been enjoying it so much.

“What do they bet?” asked Malten.

“Just about anything,” shouted Garibaldi over the din, “credits, goats, dust, passage out of here! Passage out of here will settle almost any debt.”

“I c-can’t stand this,” muttered Emily into Talia’s shoulder. “It’s barbaric.”

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