Voices - Vornholt John (читать хорошую книгу .TXT) 📗

“Unhand him!” cried Malten. With a grunt, a hooded alien gave the telepath a right cross to the jaw, and Malten dropped to the grimy floor of the tunnel. Emily threw her body over him, screaming.

Talia did as she had been trained in self-defense classes, which was to attack the vulnerable spots, and she lashed out with a kick to the shin of the nearest attacker. She hit hard armor and nearly broke her toe.

But Garibaldi was fighting back. At least he had grabbed the knife-hand of his attacker and was holding him at bay. “Access tube!” he yelled. “About ten meters down! It’ll take you up!”

The thug pressed his knife to Garibaldi’s throat, but the chief shoved him back with a loud groan and staggered to his feet. The two of them traded blows, and Garibaldi caught one in the stomach. She saw him drop to his knees.

The telepath was still on her feet, so she was the first one to be moving toward the hatchway ten meters away. It was right where Garibaldi said it was, near the floor, and she grabbed the wheel and twisted. Maybe it was her adrenaline, but the hatch sprang open at her touch, and the crawl space beckoned.

“Come on!” she yelled.

The attackers were menacing Malten and Emily with their knives, but the telepaths managed to scramble to their feet and stagger down the corridor. Talia shoved them into the tube, and they scurried like groundhogs into the darkness. She took one glance back at Garibaldi.

A hooded alien had him by the throat and was shaking him like a dog shakes a toy. The other two advanced on him with their knives.

“I’ll handle them!” croaked Garibaldi. He was reaching for his PPG.

Talia shook her head and fled in desperation. The hatch clanged shut behind her, and one of the aliens rushed to bolt it behind the fleeing telepaths. The alien holding Garibaldi dropped him and roared a hearty female laugh. She pushed back her hood to reveal her spotted cranium, jutting jaw, and the thick ridge of muscles around her neck.

Na’Toth laughed. “These are the ones who have all of you shaking?”

Garibaldi stood up with a groan and rubbed his jaw. “Hey, Na’Toth, that’s not the way it was supposed to work! After you scared the hell out of us, Talia was supposed to rush to my arms, trembling, and I blast my way out of here. You weren’t supposed to beat the crap out of me!”

Na’Toth couldn’t stop laughing, and her two fellow Narns joined her in the merriment. “I’m sorry,” she apologized, trying to restrain herself. “You see, I take favors such as this very seriously. Excellent sport, Garibaldi, thank you for contacting me.”

“I do owe you one,” the chief admitted. He dabbed his sleeve at his bloody lip. “Do you think that will keep those jokers out of here?”

“Yes,” answered the Narn. “They have no stomach for stronger foes. Oh, Ambassador G’Kar and I will be attending the reception. Please inform the captain.”

“I will,” muttered Garibaldi. “Well, I’d better go after them and at least describe how I blasted my way out of here.”

“She is attractive,” Na’Toth conceded, with a hint of womanly envy.

“Oh, Talia?” Garibaldi shrugged. “She’s crazy about me.

“I can see that,” the Narn answered drolly.

Garibaldi rubbed his lower back. “I think I’ll avoid that rabbit hole and go back the way I came. Maybe I can catch another fight.”

“That was a good place to pass signals,” Na’Toth remarked. “I will see you in several hours.”

Garibaldi limped down the tunnel and waved. “Thanks.”

By the time the weary security chief reached the main corridor, stooping under the slimy ducts, he didn’t feel like going anywhere but to bed.

He tapped his link. “This is Garibaldi to all on-duty personnel. If anyone reports me as being missing or in trouble, please tell them I am out of trouble. I am still Down Below, but the situation is under control. Garibaldi over.”

The security chief was strolling back toward the makeshift fight arena, still probing his swollen lips, when a furtive figure bumped into him. The bump caught him in a tender rib, and he groaned and grabbed the little man.

“Ratso, what’s the matter with you?”

The grubby derelict glanced around and winced. “Let go of me, Chief! I’m in a hurry!”

Garibaldi tightened his grip on the man’s raggedy collar. “If you’re in a hurry, then somebody’s about to be ripped off or mugged. What’s the hurry, Ratso?”

The little man sulked. “I’m not gonna tell you.”

“Listen, buddy, don’t mess with me. I’m in a real lousy mood. Who’s in trouble?”

The little man whispered, “It’s me who’s in trouble. Deuce is back on the station.”

“Deuce?” muttered Garibaldi. That was not good, and the timing was even worse, with Psi Corps squirming all over the place. “Are you sure?”

“Does a packrat have puppies? Of course, I’m sure.”

“Why now?” asked Garibaldi. “Doesn’t he know we have a warrant out for him? Why would he risk it?”

Ratso winked, or maybe he twitched, it was hard to tell. “We’ve got ‘em all here, don’t we? Like, this is the center of the universe. If you were one of those crazy Martians …”

Garibaldi nearly lifted the man off his feet. “Deuce is helping the terrorists?”

“Sshhh, sshhh!” cautioned the derelict, pressing his fingers to his lips. “I’ve told you too much already. I gotta protect myself! Deuce might be settling some old debts while he’s here.”

“How did he get in? A forged identicard, what?”

But the raggedy man slipped out of his grasp and scurried down the corridor, tossing furtive glances over his shoulder.

Garibaldi scowled. With the attendees due to start arriving in only a few hours, the bulk of his staff were getting their last chunk of sleep before the crush. He had no idea who he could order down here to look for Deuce. Garibaldi would normally do a job like that himself, but he couldn’t even assign himself to it. Martian terrorists and the crime king of Down Below—that was a bad combo.

He tried to imagine why the terrorists would need Deuce. Deuce was an expert at smuggling stuff into the station and out again, often in a different form. His loansharking had won him an army of desperate couriers who would do almost anything for a meal and a few credits off their debt. Why did the terrorists want Deuce? What could Deuce get into the station that they couldn’t?

A bomb.

But not the kind of bomb that had wiped out earlier Babylon stations, thought the chief, not the big ka-boom that Ivanova joked about so fatalistically. Deuce wouldn’t want to blow up his playground and ruin everything. The terrorists would probably settle for some kind of bombing that would be more a symbol than an absolute disaster. But with four hundred psi freaks running around, it wouldn’t take much to turn the conference into an absolute disaster.

In fact, thought Garibaldi, if the terrorists had Deuce and his underground network, they wouldn’t even need to show up! They could press the button from afar, so to speak. Security would have to look at every single person on the station, not just telepaths and new arrivals, but even the everyday scum.

The security chief looked up from his thoughts and noticed several of the denizens of Down Below watching him. They turned away quickly when he saw them, but that didn’t make their scrutiny any less troubling. They knew. Like everyone else in the Alliance, this rowdy crowd of malcontents and misfits had no love lost for Psi Corps. Hell, for all he knew, some of them could be rogue telepaths hiding out down here. His current orders were to protect Psi Corps, and that pretty much pitted him against everyone else in the Universe.

Well, so much for the idea of getting any sleep tonight. The captain had been right about one thing—this was your basic nightmare.

“Come in,” said Captain Sheridan, wiping the crumbs off his lip with his linen napkin.

The door of his quarters opened, and a crumpled Garibaldi slouched inside. “Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning, Mr. Garibaldi. Breakfast?”

“No, thank you, sir. I don’t believe in eating breakfast unless I’ve actually slept.” He looked at the captain’s sumptuous tray. “Well, maybe a piece of toast.”

Sheridan stood and buttoned his jacket. “Feel free to finish it, Mr. Garibaldi. The melon is quite good. I had an urgent message from Ms. Winters last night, and she said that you were in some terrible danger Down Below. Yet when I checked, there was no report of an incident, just a cryptic note from you. I didn’t see any report in my download this morning either.”

Garibaldi chuckled. “Well, sir, when people ask for a guided tour, you want to liven it up for them. You know, like when you go on a Wild West stagecoach ride, and a couple of bandits rob the stagecoach.”

Sheridan frowned. “I didn’t know we offered that service, Mr. Garibaldi. Nor was I aware that you were the recreation director of this station. If you would like that job, perhaps it can be arranged.”

Garibaldi stuffed a strawberry into his mouth and considered the offer for a moment. “Don’t tempt me, sir.”

The captain shook his head. “I know this conference presents many problems for you, but we have to go by the regulations whenever possible. I’m pretty sure there’s a regulation against mugging visiting dignitaries.”

Garibaldi wiped his mouth on the captain’s napkin. “Captain, did you happen to see the download of the first issue of the conference newsletter?”

Sheridan rolled his eyes. “Yes, I did.”

“That Emily Crane wrote a great editorial, didn’t she? In strong language, she warned her friends against going anywhere near Down Below or the Alien Sector. Said their telepathic abilities would be useless if they got into any trouble down there. It even scared me.”

“Granted,” said Sheridan, “your little stunt worked to our advantage, but no more of that. We’ll be under close scrutiny for the way we handle this, and I want it by the book. Is that understood?”

Garibaldi stood to attention. “Yes, sir, understood. I just wanted to show Psi Corps that there are parts of this station beyond their control. The fact is, we do have a major problem Down Below.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ve seen a fellow named Deuce mentioned in a number of reports.”

“Yes, of course,” said Sheridan. “I’ve read the ombud’s list of charges against him. Murder, extortion, smuggling, endangering the station—a nasty character. And a fugitive.”