Final Reckoning: The Fate of Bester (10 page)

“I tried to get her to go, but she wanted to see the end of the flick. Not that she made it, anyway. Here, help me put her to bed.”

Lise nodded, closed the front door of the apartment carefully. Mary had fallen asleep with her head in his lap, her mouth slightly open. He eased his arms under her and lifted her off of the couch. She stirred, and one eye came open.

“I wanna watch the rest of the movie,” she said, sleepily.

“You did,” he said.

“You made it, champ. Now me and mom are going to put you in bed.”

“Mom?”

“Right here, sweetie.”

Lise bent and planted a kiss on her four-year-old forehead.

“Did you have a good day?”

“Yeah. We played baseball. And then we went for a walk outside.”

“Oh, you did?”

Lise’s voice edged back toward the danger zone.

“Heh,” Garibaldi said.

“Wasn’t that going to be our little secret, sport?”

“Oh-yeah.”

“Common, let’s put you to bed.”

He carried her into the next room, her room, with its Red Sox posters; her mobile of jeuf, an airborne sort of lava lamp that was a Minbari thing-a present from Delenn, probably meant for meditation rather than to amuse a child; stuffed animals; model starships; a scattering of click-bricks on the floor. She was already in her pajamas, so he eased her into the bed and under the covers.

“Good night,” he said, giving her a kiss on the forehead.

“Tell me a story.”

“I need to talk to mom right now.”

“Just a short one.”

“Ah, well. Okay. Once upon a time, there was this little girl named-umm, Mary. She lived in Olympus Mons, and one day her mom sent her down to the market with three credits to buy some Swedish meatballs for dinner…”

“Yuck!”

“And you know, even though Swedish meatballs are considered one of the most perfect foods in the known universe, that’s exactly what the little girl said. And so while she was going to the Swedish-meatball vendor’s stall, this weird… looking alien came up to her. He was all covered with black feathers, and had an orange bill…”

“…like Daffy Duck.”

“Yeah, a lot like that. Only with big ferlarls.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t interrupt daddy.”

“And he said,

”Hey kid, I’ve got something a lot better than Swedish meatballs.”

And so the little girl said,

”Like what? And I’ve only got three say.”

”They sent her to bed without supper, because that’s what they did back then.”

…Well, she snuck out the air lock and planted the seed, and the next morning there was this huge plant, a boom-boo, growing so high in the sky it went all the way up to Phobos…”

He had barely gotten the little girl to the garden of the giant sloth-man when Mary’s breathing evened out. Once he was sure she was asleep, he stopped, kissed her on the forehead again. Lise bent over and kissed her, too.

“Isn’t she beautiful, Lise?” he breathed.

“I never imagined…”

“Yes. And you’re good with her. I never imagined.”

They stood there, looking silently at their child for a moment, before she tugged on his hand.

“C’mon. We need to talk.”

“First of all, I thought we agreed on no more trips outside, not till she’s older.”

“But Lise, she wanted to. She begged all day. And this is Mars-kids need to learn how to handle themselves outside early. What if the dome ruptures?”

“A suit rupture is a thousand times more likely.”

She made a face.

“I know you’re right. But it’s so dangerous.”

“I’m careful. You know I wouldn’t ever let anything happen to her.”

She nodded and reached to squeeze his hand.

“Okay. We’ll talk about that later. Right now I want to talk about this.”

She tapped her notepad, held it up so he could see the display.

“Oh, yeah. I was going to tell you about that.”

“It would have been better if you had told me before. We’re supposed to make decisions like this together.”

“Yeah, Lise, I know, but… “

“I mean, I don’t get it. There are fewer than two hundred prescriptions written for this stuff. It costs four times as much to produce it as consumers pay for it, even with the subsidy. It lost money for Tao-Johnson—they wouldn’t have produced it if it wasn’t mandatory, and they hadn’t had the bad luck to develop it. Now we own it, so we take the loss. Do you know something I don’t? Is there about to be an outbreak, or something?”

“No. But believe me, it’s worth the investment. To me, it is. And I’m sorry I didn’t bring it up with you, because…”

“This has something to do with Bester, doesn’t it? A medicine for telepaths. That has Bester written all over it.”

“Yep. You got it. That’s one of the things I love about you, Lise, always on the ball.”

“Never mind the flattery. I’m vaccinated. Explain.”

“It’s a medicine he needs to live. Only a few people in the whole universe take it-and I still can’t find him. Somewhere out there, someone is being supplied with this, but they don’t need it. They send it to somebody, and they send it to somebody, who sends it to a Swiss bank, or something. I don’t know how he gets it. But it’s the only lead I have, and it wasn’t taking me anywhere.”

“So you bought the monopoly rights to produce it.”

“Yes.”

“How does that help?”

“I own the supply. I can cut it off.”

“Michael! What about the rest of the people who have to have it to live? You wouldn’t kill all of them just to get Bester! I know you! I know you’re obsessed with this man, but…”

“No, Lise, calm down. I’m not gonna let anyone die. But I can claim that our people have discovered possible side effects and insist that anyone who uses the stuff submit to an examination before their next dose. Then somebody shows up, we test ‘em, find they don’t have the disease, and we know he’s our link to Bester.”

“Michael, I thought this was over. I mean, after the war, and all of the death, the hearings…”

“It’s not over until Bester is someplace he can’t hurt anyone, ever again. I owe it to Sheridan, to Lyta, to the thousands he destroyed. Have you ever seen footage of the reeducation camps, Lise? Have you? I owe my daughter a world without him in it. And yeah, I owe it to me.”

“Michael, I love you. I’m on your side. But Bester’s your new bottle, your new addiction. It’s not healthy.”

“Lise, I’ve let most of what was bad about my past go. My life is here, now, with you and Mary. Except for this one thing.

I can’t get past him, I can’t get around him. Not if he’s still out there, still free, laughing at all of us. I can’t. The only way out is dead straight through him.”

She stared at him for a long, hard moment, before her face finally softened. Her shoulders relaxed, and she put her arms around him and leaned into his neck.

“I know,” she breathed.

“Just be careful. I’ve lost you too many times. I can’t bear the thought of losing you again-not to the real Bester, not to your obsession with him. And I don’t want you hiding things from me, like you used to try to hide your empties when you’d been on a bender. If you do this, we do this. Understand?”

“Aye, aye.”

“Fine.”

She kissed him, first tenderly, then playfully, then with awakening passion. He kissed her back, trying to force the leering face of Bester out of his mind.

Chapter 9

Bester wiggled his fingers slightly, so that the point of his swords described a small circle. His opponent, a much younger man whose name he had forgotten, rapped at his bell guard. Bester took two quick retreats, then beat sharply and feinted toward the foot. As he had expected, the boy parried instead of retreating. Of course-he was fencing an old man, wasn’t he? He was sure to be quicker.

But it’s better to be right than quick, Bester mused.

In fencing, precision is everything. Bester put the defending blade in a bind and drove the point into the fellow’s shoulder. His jacket flashed a bright green.

“Rats!” the fellow shouted.

It sounded like American English. Bester took off his mask.

“Nice bout, Mr…”

“Nary. Thanks.”

“I’m guessing you normally fence foil.”

“Yeah.”

Bester shook his head.

“A young man’s sport. All of that jumping and lunging.”

They shook hands.

Bester wiped a little sweat from his brow. When he had been in the Corps, he had followed a fairly strict exercise regime. Sure, a good Psi Cop wasn’t often called on to possess physical dexterity, other than marksmanship, but he had learned early that when those times did come, it was usually a matter of life and death. So he had practiced various martial arts, run a few miles every day.

His years in exile had softened him in that way, as they had toughened him in others. It just hadn’t seemed worth the trouble. Now, though, he was suddenly conscious of those few extra pounds and wanted the harder muscles of youth back. He had tried his old routine, but found it depressed him. His new life needed a new regimen. He had fenced in the academy and been quite good. Fencing other telepaths had been useful for developing strategies of mental blocking, sending false signals, and so forth-but after the academy he had thought of it as a sport, with no practical application. Well, that was his life now-a life without practical application.

He wrote literary critiques, he bought young women dresses, he fenced. He was in Paris-why not? And fencing normals was satisfying. Years as a Psi Cop had taught him to read body and facial language without scanning, but if he really needed to, he could pick up their strategies without them noticing. He didn’t feel bad about it-men with long arms didn’t feel bad about having more reach, after all. But he was careful. Though he hadn’t met any other telepaths who used the fencing, you never knew when one might come in. Another P12 might just notice him using his abilities, even at a very low level.

He was done for the day, he decided. He said good-bye to the maitre d’armes, a knotty old man named Hibnes, and hit the showers, where he enjoyed the feel of hot water on his abused muscles. They were tightening up, he noticed with pleasure. He was leaner and felt years younger than when he had arrived on Earth. Paris almost seemed to be aging him backward. Yes, it had been right to come here. Perfect. That became more obvious with each passing day.

He took a roundabout way back to the hotel. He never followed the same route twice-having a routine an enemy could pick up on was a bad idea, and some habits shouldn’t die. After all, it wasn’t paranoia when people really were out to get you. And there was a whole universe of people out to get Alfred Bester, all of whom would give anything to know where he was at the moment.

Today his walk took him through the Bois de Boulogne, finally bringing him to the Metro station at Boulogne-Pont de St.-Cloud. He stood waiting for the train as the platform filled up.

He remembered Louise in the dress, how it clung to her contours. She looked embarrassed, but her surface thoughts told a different story. She knew she looked good in it. That had been last night. He hadn’t seen her this morning, and he wondered idly if she had met someone at the opera and gone home with him. Or maybe Lucien, the cop, had finally talked her into going out with him. He found he didn’t like that thought much. Maybe he should have gone with her. But he didn’t want to be obvious, a pathetic old man chasing a younger woman. Of course, he could just read her mind, find out what she did think of him. But with Louise, that seemed somehow wrong, a violation.

No, he said to himself. That’s not it.

You’re just afraid of what you’ll find. That she likes you and pities you, but has no interest in you as a man.

He felt a sudden anger. That was the ghost of Byron, taunting in his head. What made him even more angry was that it was probably true. A train arrived, but it wasn’t his. He stood there, frowning, some of his good mood dissipated.

And he caught someone watching him, felt a telepathic touch. He jerked his head around, and a face jumped out of the crowd. An older face, pale, snub-nosed, weak-chinned. He recognized it in an instant-he had always had a good memory for faces.

A telepath. What was his name? Askern? Ackeron? Ackerman. He had worked at one of the reeducation camps… The fellow looked away. Bester managed a light scan, one he knew would be undetectable to a telepath of Ackerman’s feeble abilities. Bester looked familiar to Ackerman, but the fellow hadn’t placed him. The beard made a big difference. Bester started pushing through the crowd, but the man was boarding the train. By the time Bester got there, the doors had shut.

Ackerman hadn’t recognized him, he was sure. He hadn’t. He suddenly realized his hands were shaking.

“What’s wrong?” Louise asked.

“You look like a ghost” Bester settled wearily into his chair.

“Maybe I am,” he said, bleakly.

“Well, if you want to talk about something…”

“How was the opera?” he cut in.

“It must have been a long one. I never heard you come in.”

Her face darkened.

“You were here, eh? I thought you had something to do last night. I thought that’s why you couldn’t come with me.”

“I lied. I hate opera.”

“You’re still lying. I’ve heard you playing it in your room.”

“Louise…”

Her face softened.

“I’m sorry,” she said, with an odd abruptness.

“It’s none of my business, and I’m sorry. Just as it’s none of your business that I came in late, yes?”

“Yes,” Bester replied, nodding, feeling somehow relieved. She stood for a long moment, unspeaking. It should have been uncomfortable, but it wasn’t.

“Will you come with me? I want to show you something.”

“Of course.”

He stood, his legs feeling a little light. His medication was a day late, but it couldn’t be that-he still had a week before he would become symptomatic. He wasn’t worried about that. Maybe just old age.

He followed Louise from the cafe and up a flight of stairs, all the way to the upper loft of the building. Bester had asked about it once, about why she never rented that space out, but she had tersely changed the subject.