John Vornholt - Voices

Baker swallowed nervously. “Is it true they can make us see things that aren’t there? Put suggestions in our heads?”

Garibaldi nodded glumly. “I imagine they can. We won’t have much control over the people at this party—all we can do is keep other people from crashing it. I mean, if somebody from Psi Corps flips out and decides to blow up his buddies, we’re in a world of trouble.”

That thought was strong enough to put an end to all conversation in the briefing room. After a moment, Garibaldi waved wearily to the half-dozen subordinates who were still with him. “Go to bed. That’s an order.”

“Good night, Chief. ‘Night,” they muttered as they quickly filed out.

The security chief might have sat frozen in the position lie was in all night long, just worrying, too tired to move. But the lack of oxygen and sleep made him yawn. That yawn was enough to make him stand up, stretch his arms, and reach for his jacket.

Just when he was about to escape to his own quarters, his link buzzed. “Security,” he muttered into the back of his hand.

“Mr. Garibaldi,” said a voice. “It’s me, Talia.”

Oh, Lord, thought the chief, the ice queen. “What can I do you for, Ms. Winters?”

“I’m down in Red-3, with a couple of friends. I was wondering if you could take us on a little tour of the Alien Sector. Maybe Down Below.”

“What?” snarled Garibaldi. “Didn’t we just agree that your friends were not supposed to go down there?”

“Aw, come on,” said Talia. “The conference hasn’t even started yet, and these are real VIPs.”

No kidding. VIPs. Garibaldi knew he was going to get tired of hearing that real fast. On the other hand, it was Talia Winters. Late at night, in a party mood. Maybe he would get lucky.

“Red-3, you say?” He yawned and checked the PPG weapon hanging on his belt. “Order me a cup of coffee—I’ll be right there.”

And so it begins, thought Garibaldi, as he buttoned his collar and slouched out the door.

“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.