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

From his duffel bag, Deuce took out a pair of banged-up but good binoculars and handed them to Talia. She nodded her thanks and put the lenses to her eyes to study the approaching party. The four Hovercraft were clipping along at a good rate of speed, spewing up dust clouds behind them, and she realized with a shock that the pilots were all women!

As she looked closer with the binoculars, Talia decided that they weren’t necessarily women but people with very long hair that whipped in the wind. Two of them were barechested, and she could see their bronze skin glistening in a halo effect created by the morning sun at their backs. It wasn’t until she saw the stylized eagles painted on the noses of the Hovercraft, and the feathers flapping from the roll bars, that she felt certain who they were. In this wilderness, it made sense.

Indians, she thought aloud.

Deuce chuckled. “Well, real Indians wouldn’t think so. Those are Bilagaani, as they call themselves. White Indians.”

Talia nodded. She had heard of the White Indians, people who had forsaken their own culture to emulate the culture of another race that had flourished five hundred years earlier. They were shunned as pariahs by actual Native Americans, at least those who were trying to maintain their culture. Many Native American tribes had gotten rich and conservative from gambling enterprises around the turn of the millennium, and they had given up any effort to maintain their culture. The White Indians had picked up where they left off, often moving into deserted Indian villages.

“Don’t be fooled,” said Deuce. “This ain’t a game to them. They take it real seriously, especially the religious parts. Some of them were born and raised this way, so they don’t know any different. Others have come along, bringing their big-city skills with them.” Deuce smiled. “Those are the ones I like.”

The grubby criminal motioned at the vast desert. “They live out here where nobody else will live, and nobody pays them much mind. So they do little favors for people like me.” He smiled at Talia. “People like us, I should say. You’re a much bigger criminal than I am.”

She glared at him, and the man laughed. “I won’t tell them who you are. But there should be a big reward for you by now. Better watch your step.”

Talia nodded somberly. After another twenty minutes, the four Hovercraft came shooting out of a gully, skimming over the crusty sand. She could hear the hiss of their powerful propellers. Unlike wheeled vehicles, thought Talia, these did little to disrupt the ecosystem, other than blowing the sand around. The Hovercraft looked like blunt-nosed racecars, with roll bars and a combination spoiler/solar panel in the rear of each vehicle. The fanciful eagles and coyotes painted on the craft did much to make them look authentic, but the people driving them only succeeded in looking strange.

The Bilagaani stopped their vehicles and turned off their engines, and the Hovercraft settled into the sand. One by one, the drivers got out, stretching their legs. There were no cries of greeting, no rush to shake hands with Deuce and Talia. In fact, there was a deliberate reserve in their actions, as if a rushed greeting would be unseemly. Their hair, driven into ratty knots by their journey, hung to their waists. They were wearing moccasins and thick flannel pants tied with drawstrings; two of them wore crudely sewn shirts made from the same material. From their necks hung leather pouches, and there were short knives strapped to their arms.

One of the bare-chested Bilagaani was a tall, muscular man with chestnut-brown hair. He was the kind of character, thought Talia, who existed mainly in fiction—romantic, handsome, although caked with dirt and sweat. The other bare-chested Bilagaani was a middle-aged woman with brown hair, and her breasts were as tanned as the rest of her. The third one was an older man with white hair, and the fourth one looked like a boy.

Finally, it was the man with white hair and a creased face who approached them and held up his hand in greeting. “Brother Deuce,” he said, “I hope all goes well.”

“Brother Sky,” said the gangster, “it is well to see you again.”

Talia felt the others staring at her, and she stared right back. After her adventures of late, she was certain she was just as grungy and disreputable-looking as the rest of them. She could feel the caked blood in her scalp and on her forehead. And she felt bare without her gloves.

“What is your name, child?” asked Brother Sky.

Deuce shrugged. “She don’t talk, and I don’t know what her name is. But I would like to make some arrangements for her.”

Sky smiled benignly, showing several missing teeth. “We will double your fee.”

“What?” squawked Deuce. “You had to come out here, anyway! How can you double it?”

“Very well,” said Sky, “we can leave her here, to feed Brother Coyote.”

“All right,” muttered the gangster. “But she needs everything I’m getting—new identicard, passage east.”

Sky held up his hands in a token of peace. “The Creator will provide.” He turned to the handsome one. “Make our peace with the land for this intrusion.”

The young man leaped down into the wash and took only a few strides to reach the half-buried cargo container. He gathered up the parachute and stuffed it into the hole in the top of the container. Reverently, he took his pouch off his neck, opened it, and faced the east. As he spoke words in a language which Talia didn’t recognize, he took bits of dried vegetable matter from his bag and tossed them into the wind. Everyone watched silently as he repeated this procedure facing the south, the west, and the north. Then he returned the pouch to his neck and climbed out of the wash.

“Father,” he said, “we should return here and break down this container. There are things we can use.”

Sky nodded. “Yes, my son. That is well.” The old man motioned toward his Hovercraft. “Deuce, you will ride with the boy, as he is lighter. Your friend will ride with me.”

The old Bilagaani studied Talia for a moment. “You will need a name, at least for the period you stay with us. Since you come from the sky, I will call you Rain.”

Talia nodded and smiled. She liked the name Rain.

Boston was a strange city, thought Garibaldi, as he and Harriman Gray rode an autotaxi through the financial district. Mixed among the gleaming skyscrapers with mirrored surfaces were these old gray buildings with bay windows and skylights. The autotaxi shuddered up a steep hill, and they got a glimpse of the sparkling ocean and a sleek ocean liner at the dock. Then they plummeted down the other side of the hill and entered a grimy tunnel that looked as if it had been built at the dawn of time. The whole city seemed a dichotomy, thought Garibaldi, both modem and ancient, clean and dirty, with the usual big-city feature of way too many people.

They emerged from the tunnel, and the robotic car jerked sharply around a corner, following an invisible track in the street. Gray was thrown against Garibaldi by the centrifugal force.

“Sorry,” said the telepath, straightening his shoulders.

“Why are you sorry?” asked the security chief “You’re not driving. We did tell this thing to go double-time.”

Gray sighed and flicked on the viewer on the dashboard. He flipped stations until he found some news, and Garibaldi wasn’t surprised to see a photo of Talia Winters.

“… whose whereabouts are still unknown,” said the newscaster. “The commercial telepath has been implicated in the recent bombing on station Babylon 5. She made good her escape three days ago and has not been sighted since. In addition to being wanted by authorities for the bombing on Babylon 5, Talia Winters has been declared a rogue telepath by the governing body of telepaths, Psi Corps.”

“What?” growled Garibaldi. “I thought Bester was going to lay off for several days!”

Gray shrugged. “Maybe he woke up from his surgery in a bad mood.”

“If you have any knowledge of the whereabouts of Talia Winters, please contact your local police or Psi Corps office.”

Garibaldi flicked off the viewer. “Sheesh,” he muttered. “If she lives through this, it’ll be a miracle.”

“I don’t believe our chances of finding her first are very good.”

“Yeah, but we’re the only ones who know that she might be coming after Emily Crane. It’s a long shot, but it’s worth a try.”

The vehicle came to an abrupt stop in front of one of the behemoth skyscrapers, not one of the charming stone buildings. Gray and Garibaldi looked at one another to see who would be the first to draw his creditchit.

“Your expense account has got to be better than mine,” observed Garibaldi.

The telepath sighed and ran his card through the slot. “Thank you,” said a synthesized voice. The doors opened, and they stepped out.

“Floor thirty-eight,” said Garibaldi, looking at his electronic address keeper.

Garibaldi’s Earthforce uniform and Gray’s Psi Corps insignia got them past the security guards in the lobby without any problem, even though they didn’t have an appointment. Garibaldi and Gray had agreed not to alert Emily Crane that they were coming; they wanted to surprise her and judge her reactions for themselves. Even though the rest of the universe thought Talia Winters was guilty, Garibaldi was going to prove them wrong. He just hoped he could do it before Bester and his goons got ahold of her.

The receptionist of the Mix office on floor thirty-eight was a dour-looking older man. At least he looked dourly at the two uniformed men as they approached his desk. His nameplate read: “Ronald Trishman.”

“Hello, officers, what can I do for you?” he asked, while grabbing a keypad and trying to look busy.

Garibaldi tried to be charming but businesslike. “Does Emily Crane work here?”

“Who are you gentlemen?”

“I’m Michael Garibaldi, Security Chief of Babylon 5, and this is Mr. Gray, Psi Corps military liaison, currently under assignment to Mr. Bester. You’ve heard of him, right? We would like to see Emily Crane.”

“Do you have an appointment?” asked Ronald Trishman, showing his displeasure.

“No.”

“I’m afraid you’ll need an appointment.”

“That’s a nice try,” said Garibaldi. “Tell her she can talk to us or the Psi Cops. It’s her choice.”

The receptionist swallowed and touched a commlink panel on his desk. “Ms. Crane, there are two gentlemen here to see you. One is the security chief of Babylon 5, and the other is a telepath working for Mr. Bester. They say you can talk to them or to the Psi Cops.”