Deadly Relations: Bester Ascendant (22 page)

Al held up his hands in a shrug.

“Something’s going on. They might just want us out of the loop so they can grab credit for the bust themselves.” “Durst and McCleod, you mean.”

“Or the local office. If they get credit for a successful hunt without the aid of hotshot outsiders, they might be able to resist future investigators being sent here.”

“But even that implies they have something to hide.”

“You catch on quick, Mr. Andersen.”

They got off the tube car in New Harappa, a settlement of about six hundred people. A billion or so years ago, when Mars was young and wet, rushing water had carved a canyon almost a quarter of a mile deep. When the water flew off into space as ions, or locked itself beneath the planet’s skin, the fossil of that flood remained. Its narrow, almost sheer walls served as a reminder of how active the planet once was, and how silent and still it had been ever since.

Until now, of course. Today the polar ice caps were being melted, and carefully engineered microorganisms bred and metabolized in soils that made Antarctic permafrost seem hospitable.

The canyon had been roofed over with the same macromolecular glass that the domes were made of. Its soil had been chewed by machines, cut with organic compounds, seeded with bacteria, planted in peanuts, potatoes, and vetch. Wells had been drilled to find where the last of the once plentiful water rested in crystalline form. The settlement would then quicken it to liquid and vapor and component gases.

The town perched above them, vertical, dug into the red cliffs, built on ledges. Exotic and striking, it seemed Middle Eastern, somehow, or like the ancient pueblos of North America that Al had only seen in photographs. He didn’t have time to gawk, however.

“We want to go there,” he said, pointing to a spot halfway up the right side.

“There should be an elevator down this walkway.”

At first glance, New Harappa seemed to be laid out like a termite mound, a chaos of tunnels, but in reality it wasn’t that hard to navigate. Elevators and steep-angled stairs had street names-sidewalks running along the cliff face were avenues. All were glassed in - Marsies had a well - earned historical mistrust of canyon roofs and domes.

Al and Erik rode an elevator up Easy Street to Lowell Avenue and went quickly from there toward number 12, the address Durst and McCleod had torn from Cheo’s mind. Al led the way, with Erik a few paces behind. He slowed when he identified number 11 and was just turning to give Erik final instructions when a bolt of superheated helium scorched past his ear.

Chapter 3

Al’s reflexes took him down in a shoulder roll. His PPG was already out, and he brought it whining to life, its muzzle scenting wildly for a target as he spun on his stomach to face the direction of the attack.

A second shot tortured another protest from the air, and then a third. Al felt a mind wishing to kill him, pointed at it, fired the PPG. Erik was on his belly, shooting.

Al’s brain was meanwhile assembling the whole picture from fast-motion glimpses. Erik had fired first, over Al’s shoulder, at a man stepping into the avenue from a recessed foyer.

Probably Erik had actually felt him-the Swede was good at that, scenting impending mayhem. It was Erik’s shot that had galvanized Al into his evasive maneuver, and it was a good thing - because there really were people behind them. Al and Erik were caught in a cross fire, two behind them, two in front still on their feet, and one down from Erik’s first strike.

Al’s first shot hit the shoulder of one of those coming up behind them. The fellow staggered into the transparent avenue wall, and Al fired again. The burst of plasma hit the glass two feet in front of the man. Like the fluid it was, the PPG shot deformed a bit and slid on into him. Rapidly cooling, the helium was still hotter than the boiling point of lead, and the unfortunate fellow got it full in the face. The other two were taking careful aim at Al.

I’m not here.

He hit them with the glyph of the empty avenue, hard, and hoped they weren’t teeps. They weren’t. They looked uniformly astonished, whipping their heads about.

Mundanes!

Al shot one in the heart and the gun hand off of the other. He spun, came up in a crouch - and found himself confronting Erik’s PPG.

Each took a step to the left, sweeping the corridor. All three on Erik’s side were down.

“Keep me covered,” Al said.

The man whose hand he had shot off was climbing to his feet, breath coming in hiccups. Al shot him in the back of the knee, then in the other. The bursts of plasma seared through tissue and tendon, scorching the bones beneath.

“You could have cuffed him,” Erik noted.

“This is quicker. There may be more.”

The first shooter had stepped from the foyer of apartment 12. Covered by Erik, PPG held in both hands, Al kicked the slightly open door with the side of his foot. McCleod sat against the wall, one side of his uniform drenched in blood. He tried to raise one arm weakly - the one still clenching his side arm.

“Keep it down,” Al growled.

“No, you put yours down.”

It was Durst, to his left. He hadn’t noticed her. AI kept the weapon aimed.

“Kill me, and my friend kills you. Probably I’ll kill McCleod, if he isn’t already dead. Why don’t we just calm down and talk this over?”

“Because I don’t trust you,” Durst explained, tightly. “You don’t trust me? That’s very funny, Ms. Durst. I’m just doing my job. I can’t imagine what you’re doing. Withholding information…”

“Not very well, it seems.”

“Attempting to murder Mr. Andersen and myself.”

“I’ve done no such thing.”

“Please. Your men, then.”

“You idiot. They aren’t my men. Who do you think shot McCleod?”

“Not me, that’s all I can be certain of,” Al replied.

“Drop your gun.”

“No. I…”

Al hit her with a mind-flash. She was almost ready for it and almost strong enough to resist. She even managed to finger the PPG contact, but too sluggishly to hit Al as he dropped straight to the floor. Erik was a whirlwind spinning past him. By the time Al got up, the younger cop had disarmed the stunned Durst.

“Now,” Al said, smoothing out his uniform. “Where is Chandler?”

“There,” Durst managed, pointing.

Al followed her direction and saw a light-haired man sprawled on a couch.

“Dead?”

“No. Shocked out. Will you let me help McCleod?”

“Mr. Andersen, will you see to Mr. McCleod?”

“On it.”

“So these men attacked you, then us, you say?”

“It would seem.”

“Do you think we’re safe for the moment? Don’t block.” She didn’t.

“I think so.”

He didn’t think she was good enough to fool him. She was telling the truth.

“Okay. I’m putting this up.”

He slid the PPG into its holster.

“You’re going to tell me what’s going on, now… right?”

Durst nodded.

“Right.”

She sat down heavily, rubbed her eyes with one hand, then rested her forehead on her fists and her elbows on her knees. She spoke to the floor.

“Things are different on Mars,” she said. “It’s a frontier. Things get rough. A lot of bad people end up here. Someone has to keep order.”

“And that someone is you. That’s fine. I have no objection to that.”

“We’re more respected here than on Earth. Marsies don’t care much if we get a little rough, a little heavy-handed-as long as in the end we protect them from the bad guys.”

“I’m with you so far. Sounds like a nice place, one I might come to like. So why are people shooting at me?” He plucked his shirt.

“See? Same uniform.”

“Because for Marsies, a lot of the bad guys are back on Earth. Earth sent you.” “Psi Corps sent me,” Al corrected.

“I’m sure you know the difference.”

“Barroom Autonomous doesn’t, however.”

“The terrorist organization?”

“Some are terrorists - most are businessmen, scientists, average citizens. Whatever you may have heard on Earth, most Marsies are in favor of independence. Most don’t advocate violence, but you know how that goes.”

“Those dead men outside weren’t firing rhetoric at us.”

“Or us,” Durst snapped.

“Because we were trying to find your rogue telepaths.” “Uh-huh. Tell me about that.”

“There are Blips on Mars. Mostly we look the other way because they help the cause. They…”

“Wait. You just made a logical leap that I find hard to follow. Last I heard, Psi Corps had no position on Mars independence.”

Durst nodded.

“That is correct.”

“But the local office does? Is that what you’re saying?”

“I’m saying we’re only effective here because people see we aren’t harming that cause. Mr. Bester, there are only forty of us.”

“This song I’ve heard sung before. Is Uhl with Barsoom Autonomous?”

“Not officially.”

“Which means “yes“. Who else?”

“Most of her officers.”

“But not you?”

“Sir, the Corps is mother and the Corps is father. McCleod and I were protecting the Corps.”

“You wanted to find the underground before we did, because you knew if we waded through to them we would find all of this out” “Yes, sir. And disgrace the Corps.”

“Wrong. Uhl and anyone else who ignores a Blip for reasons of local politics has forgotten what their job is. The Corps would take pleasure in dealing with them, and setting an example. They deserve what they get.”

“Sir, I think you might be surprised. My orders were explicit - locate the underground before you did and-ah, pacify it”

“But your orders were from Uhl.”

“No, sir. Uhl probably tipped BA to ambush us here. We tried to hide our activities, but apparently we failed.”

“You’re talking nonsense. Geneva sent me, so your orders didn’t come from there. If they didn’t come from Geneva, and they didn’t come from Uhl, who does that leave?”

“It leaves Department Sigma.”

For a moment Al was stunned into silence.

“Department Sigma?”

“Yes. McCleod and I were both placed here by the department”

“Can you verify that?”

“I think you know what a stupid question that is, Mr. Bester - if you’ll pardon my saying so.”

“What were you supposed to do when you found the underground cell?”

“Contact the department. They were going to send reinforcements.”

“All the way from Earth?”

She averted her eyes and said nothing. Oh, he thought. So the rumors must be true. Of a secret base on Mars, one which few even in the high command knew of. Even across interplanetary space, the director maintained a tight grip. He nodded thoughtfully.

“Mr. Andersen, how is Mr. McCleod?”

“He’ll live, I think.” Al looked back at Durst.

“Did you get anything out of him?”

He motioned toward the unconscious telepath.

“Yes. He lives out here, but he goes into the city twice a week to get supplies for the underground and arrange contacts. He makes his money helping out gamblers, certain businessmen, and politicians. They rotate them in and out of here - it’s his turn right now, but in another week he was going to switch with someone else.”

“Does he know where the main base is?”

“Yes. But I can’t get it out of him.”

Bester quirked a sharkish grin.

“Let me see what I can do,” he whispered.

There was not, unfortunately, much left of Chandler when Al got through. Reeducation would be able to do something with him - possibly even return him to full sentience, make him a working human being. But however that turned out, he would never again be Thurston Chandler. It upset Al more than he thought it would. Yes, the underground was misguided, and criminally so. Directly or indirectly they had cost him the only two people he had ever loved, and for that they would pay until they didn’t exist anymore. But still, they were his own kind. Still, they were telepaths. They should all be on the same side - the mundanes were the real enemy. He brushed the unwelcome remorse off, treating it as a distraction.

“Here’s the deal,” he told Durst.

“I know where the rogues are. You know how to contact the reinforcements we may need. I suggest we work together.”

“And McCleod?”

“We put him in an infirmary. He can’t travel.” She nodded reluctantly.

“Can we obtain an ATV, without the order going straight to Uhl?”

“I think so,” Durst replied.

“Good. Because I’m ready to get this over with.”

Night on Mars. A few high, thin ribbons of cloud frosted some of the stars, but most were almost as clear and sharp as the constellations seen from the vacuum. Phobos was the ghostly skull of a moon, dim, irregular. The smaller Deimos had sped around the horizon some hours earlier. Durst was asleep, and Al confirmed it with a brief touch. REM sleep had a signature all its own, almost impossible to fake. Dreams drifted from her like vapor, but he ignored them.

“Why are you so hot for this one, Al? I mean, you have a reputation for busting rogues, but what you did to Chandler - you really want these guys, don’t you?”

Al nodded.

“When I was a kid - when I was just in the Minor Academy - I used to hang out around the West End precinct, check the hunt and capture lists. Underground leaders come and go, but there are a few - ever heard of Stephen Walters?”

“The Black Fox. The traitor Psi Cop.”

“He was never actually a cop-he was in covert ops. Not even a P12. But of all the underground leaders, he’s the only one who’s survived from before the purge of ‘89. It’s all about him, Erik. If it weren’t for Stephen Walters, the resistance would have died with Fiona and Matthew Dexter. It would have all been over thirty-three years ago. Just think what we could do if we weren’t burdened with having to hunt our own kind - if we weren’t divided. We were so close.”

And Bey would still be alive, he added silently, because them would have been no underground for him to sympathize with. And Liz would still be mine because she wouldn’t have tried to go Blip, not without the underground out there, urging her, promising her something impossible…

“So, yes,” he went on, in a low voice, “I’m hot for this one. Walters has set the cause of the telepaths back a century. It’s time for the legend of the Black Fox to end.”