Deadly Relations: Bester Ascendant (34 page)

Chapter 7

Bester shook off the lingering nightmare that clung to his back-brain.

“Very good, Byron. That was well done.”

“Thank you, sir.” He beamed. “Though I suspect you let me win.”

“I didn’t let you win. I offered you an opening, true, but it’s an opening that very few would have noticed. I don’t give praise unless it’s deserved - surely you know that about me by now.”

“So they tell me. Can we go ‘round again? I’m still having trouble with that middle series of blocks.”

“Best rest up. In eight hours we’ll catch up with the Blip, and I don’t want you all worn out.”

“Does that mean I’ll be going along?”

The eagerness in his voice was palpable.

“Yes, I think you’re ready.”

“I don’t feel ready.” Bester considered for an instant. “There are ways of preparing, other than scan-block drills. How would you like to watch a movie?”

“A movie?”

“An old-style vid.”

“Sounds fun, but…”

“There is a point to this, I assure you. It’s called Rashomon…”

As he watched the black-and-white images play across the screen, Bester felt an odd sort of peace. He had wondered, once when he was the “statue of the day”—how many different roles he would play in life. Now, as his years advanced, he had a sort of answer, but not one he had ever imagined as a boy.

He had been the child, the prodigy of Cadre Prime. He had been the apprentice - had he failed Bey or had Bey failed him? It didn’t matter, it had failed. He had been the young lover, another failure. He had been, for a short time, the husband. Yes, he was still married, but he was no longer husband in any real sense, hadn’t been for decades. Father?

Well, there was a man who counted him his father, but that was as far as it went. He wasn’t so foolish or self-damaging as to take all of the blame for those failures-Cadre Prime, Bey, Montoya, Alisha - all of them shared the failures, and there had been less visible hands at work in his life as well. Yet still, no matter how he rationalized it, he had passed briefly through roles but never lived them, never owned them, never been anything Human. Only the efficient hunter, the cop.

But now, imperceptibly, it seemed, he had grown into another role, one he might at last do well at. He had never quite been child, brother, son, lover, husband, or father. But the young people under his command - well, to put aside false modesty, many of them worshiped him. He had respect, and adulation. He had a chance with them, a chance to create a kind of legacy.

When he looked at Byron, he saw him through the same eyes that Bey had seen him through, all those years ago. Perhaps all of the failures, all of the trials, had brought him to this one moment, this one role he would finally fill perfectly - that of mentor. A risk, perhaps - the risk of failing again-but it seemed worth it. It made him feel paradoxically young.

“Turning, sir,” Ysidra Tapia said, from the pilot’s station.

The ship vibrated subtly, and the view changed. Byron gave a soft gasp of admiration. Besides the three of them, the bridge was empty - it would be some time before a full complement was needed.

“Your first time this close to Jupiter?” Bester asked.

Byron nodded, his features betraying awe.

“It’s magnificent. What a bloody magnificent planet.”

“Yes it is.”

“I mean, I’ve seen vids, and holographs, but still…”

“Wait until you see it from lo,” Bester said. “That close, there’s nothing but Jupiter. You can lose yourself in it, watching a tiny whirl in a storm, and then realize that that little spiral could swallow all of Earth. An eddy so insignificant that if you looked away, you could never find it again. It tends to create a certain… perspective.”

Just then, Jupiter was the apparent size of a grapefruit. They were falling toward the king of gods at many klicks per second, but the scale of things dwarfed their speed. They ate up thousands of kilometers without any perceptible change in the gas giant. Still, you couldn’t escape the feeling that once Jupiter had you, it would never let you go. And Jupiter had them. It would take more thrust than was needed to escape the surface of the Earth to climb back even this far out of the hole Jupiter’s mass had dug around them.

“You are keeping track of our target as you appreciate this grandeur, I hope.”

“Oh, yes - I’ve still got him on the optical telescope. He comes and goes on the other sensors.”

“Of course. Using Jupiter’s EM as a screen is a game as old as criminals in space.”

“It’s good we got the optical lock on him before we went too deep into the field.”

“Yes. Have you tried to touch him yet?”

“He’s too far away, isn’t he?”

“You never know, when you have line of sight. It’s a funny thing. Give it a try.”

Byron nodded. He closed his eyes, relaxed the muscles of his face, then opened them again. He concentrated on the distant dot for a few moments, then, with a soft grunting noise, tightened his lips. Sweat broke out on his brow.

“Easy, Byron,” Bester cautioned. “Don’t strain yourself. I only said to try. It’s always worthwhile to try.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I couldn’t get anything.”

“It’s too far, or he’s blocking, or both,” Bester told him. “Don’t worry. We’ll get him.”

While Jupiter stayed roughly the same apparent size, the dot in the optical scope grew quickly, gaining definition. It was an old ship, a modified asteroid tug more than fifty years old Bester was surprised it was flying at all. Certainly it had no chance of out-distancing his state-of-the-art craft. Or of outfighting it. When they were within a hundred klicks, it opened its single weapons port and fired two missiles. After they shot those out of space, it fired on them with a mining laser.

“What now?” asked Tapia, at the weapons console.

“I want him alive, of course,” Bester murmured. “See if you can get the idiot to answer another hail. If you can’t, try a pinpoint strike at the laser. That hull won’t take much of a pounding.”

“Right…”

The hail failed again, so Bester ended up watching, tight-lipped, as Tapia drew the wicked scalpel of their own laser cannon across the other ship.

“I think that gets it, sir. His hull still looks good.”

“Perfect. Well done, Ysidra.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Well, Byron, are you ready to fly a Starfury?”

Byron’s grin was more eloquent than any other answer he could have given. Bester watched Byron’s Starfury as it grappled the tug and reeled it in.

“Omega 7 to Omega 1. He’s still not responding. Could he be dead? Or unconscious?”

Bester considered that.

“It’s possible,” he allowed. “Cover me. now, while I grapple.”

A few moments later, the task done, he returned his attention to the ship. A funny feeling swept over him.

“Okay,” Byron said, over the headset. “I’m preparing to go EVA, so I can force the hatch.”

“Hang on, just a second, Byron.”

He stared at the battered ship, willing himself to see beyond-wrong approach. He opened his mind, instead, as if listening to a city. As in some of his earliest drills, he started filtering the voices out, one by one. When he had pared it down to just himself and Byron, he still had no sense that there was anyone on the ship. Frowning, he called Tapia on a secure channel, so Byron couldn’t listen in.

“Sir?”

“Ysidra, who planted the tracking device on this ship?”

“Let me see - that would have been Zee.”

“Where did he do it?”

“On Ceres, sir. We guessed that our Blip would come through there, and Zee left this ship where it would be “available“ to him.”

“Yes, yes, I remember the plan.”

Something was wrong. Bester had arranged things very carefully - or so he thought. He’d needed an excuse to visit the asteroid belt, so he could interrogate Jackson, and another excuse to go to Jupiter. He’d set things up so that a certain Blip would find his way to Ceres, steal a ship with a tracking device, and flee toward Io. A delicate plan, but so far, so good. But what if…

“Find Zee. Check with him. I want to know the serial number and configurations of the ship he wired.” “That might take a few moments.”

“We’ve nothing but time.”

Which wasn’t true, of course. He had someplace to be in under ten hours, and a narrow window in which to be there. But his instincts… Well, they wouldn’t have stopped him when he was twenty. Maybe it was just old age and paranoia. Of course, for him, the distinction between paranoia and common sense was rather pointless. But if someone knew what he was up to right now-the wrong someone—that could be very, very bad.

“Sir?”

It was Tapia, and she sounded a little funny.

“Yes?”

“Zee’s been missing from Ceres base for two days now.”

“Ysidra, move the transport away, now, go.”

He punched over to Byron’s frequency.

“Byron, cut loose and hit your thrusters.”

“What? Sir, what’s…”

“Do it!”

He cut his own, hit thrusters, and spun around, then engaged all four ion jets at once. With the sudden g-force, directionless space acquired an up-and-down-his back was down, the ship was down, the stars were up, far away. And so it was below him that a flower of light opened its petals, from below him that a thousand shards of hull metal spattered onto his own hull, into the straining Copeland engines. His own weight seemed to wrap around him like a hand, squeezed impossibly tight, and then mercifully loosened. Direction vanished again, and he was merely tumbling through the void. A band tightened across his chest and eyes, blood thundered in his ears, and he almost lost consciousness. He almost lost his breakfast, too, but he kept it down.

Groggily, still fighting dizziness and double vision, he ran through his systems, looking for something that worked. The first thing he noticed was that he was about to explode. His instruments-those still functioning-warned him the ion suppression tines on the drives had melted and crumpled in, but the engines were still on. He cut them, but odds were that wouldn’t be good enough.

“Ysidra? Ysidra, are you there?”

Static.

“Byron?”

He should jettison. But if he did that, and both the transport and Byron were disabled… He gritted his teeth, watched the instruments. Things were starting to cool down now, though he wasn’t nearly out of the danger zone. Well. Someone had tried to kill him. That struck him as funny, and he started to chuckle. He was still chuckling when he heard Byron’s voice in his head.

Mr. Bester? Are you okay?

Hello. Byron. Yes. What about you? I’ve lost two engines, but I think I’ll be fine.

Are you - laughing?

Yes.

May I ask why?

The universe is full of irony Byron. Never forget that. He paused. I’ll explain it to you, someday. Can you see the transport?

Yes, sir. I’ve got Ysidra on the com. But we couldn’t raise you. My systems are pretty badly damaged. In fact, now that I know you guys are okay, I’m jettisoning…

He paused.

How smart was that? What if Ysidra, Byron, the rest what if they were in on it? Well, then he was doomed. Screw it.

He jettisoned.

Have Ysidra send someone out to reel me in, he p-cast.

They’re already on their way.

What do you think happened?

Our friend was never on the ship. It was a trap. The rogues are more vicious than I ever imagined, Byron p-cast, shimming self-righteous indignation.

Bester sighed. For all of his good qualities, Byron was a bit naive. Still, at the moment there was no point in disabusing him of the notion. Besides, there was some very small chance that the attempt had been made by the underground. Certainly that’s who would officially end up taking the blame. But Bester-he knew better. That’s why he laughed.

Synchronicity.

Ganymede was a ruined jade, cracked and spalled white as if the gods had used it in a few too many cosmic games of marbles. Bester liked her blemished beauty. Ganymede was a dark woman with many secrets.

They were dropping toward one of those secrets just now.

“They’re asking for clearance, sir.”

“Put them on.”

A voice came through, edged with the constant crackle that colored all transmissions near Jupiter. The static, however, couldn’t hide the crisp Manchester accent.

“I repeat, identify your selves.”

“Mr. Drew, this is Alfred Bester What seems to be the problem? You’ve identified my ships, I’m certain, and we sent the security codes.”

“But, Mr. Bester, this is highly irregular. I was not informed that you would be arriving.”

“My crew and I have been in hot pursuit of a Blip, Mr. Drew. It’s been a very hard ride. We in effect lost two Starfuries and our transport is damaged. We need repairs, not to mention hospitality. So I hope you don’t mind if we impose on you a bit. We are, after all, family.” He forced out a laugh. “Unless you have some sort of standing orders against me in particular…”

“Oh, no, Mr. Bester. Of course not. I’m clearing you to land right now. Welcome to Ganymede.”

“Thank you,” Bester replied.

“A Psi Corps base on Ganymede?” Byron said. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s on a need-to-know basis,” Bester said. “…and I didn’t need to know. Yes, I think I’ve heard that a few times now, thank you, Mr Bester.”

“There isn’t much to it, is there?” Byron noticed, as they shucked off their EVA-suits.

The chamber that lay beyond the inner lock was cramped and severe, with low ceilings and passageways leading off that were somehow-despite their angularity-more reminiscent of tunnels in an anthill than of Human architecture. A duple of normals in EarthForce uniforms watched them suspiciously. A third man - also in uniform but wearing a Psi Corps badge - waited for them to collect themselves, then stepped forward.

“It’s not a very old base, or a very important one,” said, in the now-familiar accent. “I’m Charles Drew. Welcome to the icehouse.”

He chuckled as he said it.

“Thank you,” Bester said. “I like what you’ve done with the place.”

“Yes, well, it’s spare of necessity. We’re a hardened facility - sunk down into the water-ice crust. It requires a certain architectural economy.”