Voices, стр. 4

“27 Perish in Mars Hotel Bombing!” exclaimed the banner headline in the Universe Today newspaper.

Talia Winters paused in her stroll down the mall to stare at the newspaper displayed on the newsstand of a small gift shop. The statuesque blonde only had to glance at the first few paragraphs to know that her all-expenses-paid trip to Mars was in serious jeopardy.

The report began:

Talia Winters looked away, wondering if the problems on Mars would ever end. She had an appointment, so she couldn’t dwell on her own little problems. With a sigh, she continued her stroll down the main corridor.

As usual, beads turned to watch Talia, but she paid them no attention. She was a beautiful woman, with sleek blond hair, an intelligent face, and a long-legged body wrapped in a tailored gray suit. Her P5 psi-level was only average, but her classy presence at a meeting or negotiation was as much in demand as her telepathic abilities. Even when both sides were friendly and had no intention of lying to one another, Talia brought an aura of professionalism and importance to the meeting. And she knew it.

However, her confidence was at a low ebb this particular day. Not only was she upset about the conference on Mars having to be postponed, in all likelihood, but she was mystified by the client she was going to see.

Talia was accustomed to not understanding the intricacies of every business deal—that was normal. In those cases, she would merely concentrate on trying to decide if the opposing party was sincere and truthful. Did they want to make a deal for mutual gain, or were they running a scam for their own personal gain? On most occasions, she didn’t need to know the difference between a Brussard hydrogen scoop and an ice cream scoop.

This client was different. Not only didn’t she understand Ambassador Kosh or his negotiating partners, but she often didn’t understand the purpose of their meetings. For a telepath, being in the dark was the most irritating sensation in the universe. She had hoped to ask for opinions about Kosh from her colleagues at the conference, but now that was off. No conference, she thought glumly, and nothing to look forward to but a mind-bending encounter with Ambassador Kosh.

The attractive telepath finally reached the small cafe on Red-3. It was a local place, frequented by residents of the Red Sector looking for refreshments that were simple and quick. Why Kosh liked it so much, she didn’t know; his ambassadorial quarters in the Alien Sector were on the other side of the station. 

But she had a theory as to why he called the time they often met the Hour of Scampering. Briefly, between shifts, the cafe on Red-3 did turn into a pick-up bar, especially for the people who lived there and were headed home. Even Earthforce personnel felt comfortable on Red-3 during the Hour of Scampering.

Talia sauntered in and stopped. Kosh always stood out like a statue in the park, covered with a tarp to keep the birds off. He was right there at his usual chest-high counter. Rather his ornate, bulky encounter suit was there—no one on the station had any idea what he looked like under it. Talia envisioned Kosh to be big, because a weakling could never carry that enormous suit around. She had no proof that he was big, but that was her theory.

The suit had a collar, carved from a gorgeous marblelike stone, and the collar was bigger than most of the tables in the restaurant. A mountain of rich fabrics cascaded off this neckwear, including a breastplate festooned with lights. The breastplate looked like an affectation, until one witnessed a precision instrument issue from it to perform some intricate operation. The breastplate also housed Kosh’s communicator, which translated his musical squiggles of a voice into standard Interlac.

She took a deep breath and strode up to his table. “Pleasant Hour of Scampering, Ambassador Kosh.”

“To you, Ms. Winters.” The enormous head-gear nodded. It looked like an artistic rendering of a viper’s head, without eyes or orifices. All the orifices were on his collar, and they were constantly revolving, sucking, expelling. 

“Has your guest been detained?” asked Talia, looking around for the other half of this meeting.

The notes twinkled, and the lights flashed. “She is here,” answered the communications device. The immense headgear nodded toward the other corner of the counter.

“She is?” asked Talia, shaking her blond hair. Then she winced and put her hand to her head. “Don’t tell me, your friend is invisible?”

Kosh nodded.

Talia tried to smile, but her fingernails drummed the countertop. “Isn’t that special, an invisible friend. Look, Ambasador, I’m a licensed commercial psychic, not an escort service. If you want to ask me for a date, I may not even charge you. You don’t have to pay my top rate just to get me out for a drink. Especially during the Hour of Scampering.”

Kosh nodded insistently toward the empty space at the counter. “Her name is Isabel,” said the synthesized voice.

“Invisible Isabel,” Talia muttered. “Okay, Ambassador Kosh, that’s it. I don’t need any more commissions from you. You’ve jerked my chain for the last time.”

The encounter suit seemed to rise up a few centimeters and pause in the air, commanding her attention. “Scan her,” ordered the voice.

Talia swallowed. It would only take a second, she thought, and then she could leave and collect her paycheck. Scanning an imaginary person wasn’t as bad as talking to one, she supposed. Could there really be someone there?

She had heard of cloaking suits, but she had also heard that they weren’t very effective at close quarters. Thus far, Talia hadn’t heard any other voices in this quiet corner of the room, and she was certain that Invisible Isabel was nonexistent. But she took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on the blank space at the end of the counter. Kosh would know if she faked it, even for a pointless purpose. Many of the other scans she had performed at his request had been pointless, although perhaps not as pointless as this.

Scanning something nonexistent proved to be more difficult than anticipated, and Talia had to concentrate to shut out the other voices in the room. If Isabel were invisible, she reasoned, then her psychic voice would be the only thing there was to pick up of her. Eliminating every voice in the room would prove that she was correct, and that Ambassador Kosh was crazy. At least that was Talia’s rationale as she began her scan.

One by one, Talia isolated each voice in the room, determined who possessed the voice, and eliminated it. It took a lot of concentration, and she found herself shifting her eyes from one person to another. That Narn gone, that Antarean, that Centauri, those tourists, the two security officers, the waiter, the bartender—one by one she knocked them all out of her mind—until there was just her, the massive suit that was Kosh, and one other.

There was one other voice in the room.

As soon as Talia isolated the voice, it was gone. She looked back at Kosh, startled. “What happened to her? Where did she go?”

The Vorlon shook his head-gear. “Gone.”

That was not what Talia wanted to hear, and she was shaken. Had there been someone, or hadn’t there? She had done a fifteen-minute scan that had given her a tremendous headache, but it was inconclusive.

She pointed a manicured finger at Kosh. “I’m thinking about raising my rates on you.”

“Your rates are not the problem,” remarked the Vorlon.

No, she thought, that was the truth. Playfully she said, “I would like to meet Invisible Isabel again.”

“When the time is right,” answered Kosh. “You will be very busy.”

Talia sighed and put her elbows on the bar. “No, I don’t think so. I cleared my schedule for a conference on Mars, but now it’s not going to happen. C’est la vie.”

“Tous les jours,” answered Kosh.

The young woman gave the Vorlon ambassador a friendly smile. “Today was better than most of the scans I do for you, although I couldn’t say why. What happened?”

The twinkling notes sounded, and the Vorlon bowed his bulky suit. “Our business is concluded.”

Without another word, the mountain of armor and fabric glided out of the room.

A tall, balding man in an Earthforce uniform strolled jauntily down the corridor toward the briefing room. He began to whistle. The worst thing he could imagine happening had happened, and he had lived through it! His best friend, the man who had gone out on a limb to make him the security chief of Babylon 5, was gone. But Michael Garibaldi still had a job.

The security chief couldn’t believe it, but it was finally sinking in. Jeff Sinclair was gone, but he was still here. If anyone had told him a month ago that Jeff would be leaving and he would be staying, he would’ve laughed in his face. Jeff was the war hero, the handpicked savior of the Babylon project, and Garibaldi was a broken-down drunk, bouncing from job to job, coasting into the sewer. It was all thanks to Jeff that he’d gotten the job in the first place, and he was certain that if Jeff ever left, he would be handcuffed to his trunk. Would a new commander, a complete stranger, want to keep him on as chief of security? Not bloody likely.

Yet here he was! Sinclair had wanted him to stay on B5, and, miracle of miracles, so had Captain Sheridan. The captain had reviewed his reports and found his conduct and actions to be acceptable. Not great, mind you, but acceptable. According to Captain Sheridan, there was always room for improvement.

The captain had made it clear that Garibaldi served at his pleasure, to be replaced at a moment’s notice. But Garibaldi had been replaced so many times in his career, he figured he was on probation for the rest of his life, anyway. Having it official didn’t matter.