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

“It’s connected to the bombing on Babylon 5,” explained Garibaldi. “So tell us about it.” The chief sat down on the silk sofa, crossed his long legs, and waited.

The clerk sighed and went to his well-stocked bar. “I need some sustenance first. You want one?”

“Sure,” said Gray.

“I gave up sustenance,” answered Garibaldi.

Marlon collected his thoughts while he mixed the two drinks. He looked very serious as he delivered Gray’s drink and took a seat beside Garibaldi on the sofa.

“It’s like this,” he began, “a lot of people hate Psi Corps.”

“That’s not exactly a news flash,” said Garibaldi.

“Yes, but they really hate them, especially the Psi Cops and the intelligence groups. Only they’re too afraid to say anything. I’m talking about senators here! You should see some of the things Psi Corps does to them—blackmail, intimidation, threats—it’s terrible!”

Marlon took a gulp of his drink. It smelled like a martini to Garibaldi, a strong one, too. The clerk continued, “It’s a secret proposal so far, but there’s a bill under consideration that would privatize Psi Corps. Under the guise of saving money, this bill would take Psi Corps out of the military—which doesn’t control it, anyway—and make the governing body of telepaths a completely civilian office.”

He took another drink and went on, “Even though a lot of the same telepaths would still be around, the Senate hopes this will cut their ties to their allies, kill all their secret intelligence gathering, and basically neutralize them. All the good stuff they’re doing, they can keep doing as a civilian entity that answers directly to the Senate. As far as the public is concerned, nothing changes—Psi Corps just becomes private instead of military. In reality, a lot changes.”

Gray interjected a question. “This sounds like quite a windfall for somebody. Who would take over Psi Corps once it’s privatized?”

Marlon shrugged. “Who else? There’s only one firm of private telepaths that’s big enough—the Mix.”

Garibaldi and Gray looked at one another. They didn’t need to be reminded who Emily Crane’s employer was—the Mix.

“Does Arthur Malten know about this?” asked Garibaldi.

“Are you kidding?” scoffed Marlon. “He’s been lining this up for years, going to all the senators who have been harassed by Psi Corps and making secret deals. When he has enough votes, and that may be soon, this bill will miraculously jump out of committee and go to the floor in the dead of night. It will be passed immediately, before Psi Corps has a chance to stop it. The president will sign it in his pajamas. When Psi Corps wakes up the next morning, Malten will be in charge.”

“Does this mean that Malten’s a good guy?” asked Garibaldi.

Marlon laughed cynically. “Hell no, he’s doing it for the money. With the Psi Corps budget to play with, he stands to make a fortune! It’s risky for Malten, but the Mix is already as big as it’s going to get under Psi Corps. This is Malten’s chance to grab everything.” The young clerk drained his martini.

Gray cleared his throat and asked, “If you wanted to get away with this, would it be a good idea to kill Mr. Bester?”

“Well,” answered Marlon, “they say the only way to kill a rattlesnake is to cut off its head. As long as Bester and his cops have carte blanche to deal with the telepaths as they want, he’s in charge.”

The clerk stood and went to the bar. “Harriman, would you like another one?”

“No, thank you,” said the somber telepath. Garibaldi felt sorry for him. No one ever liked to hear about internecine warfare in their own ranks. This was telepath killing telepath for personal gain and power. Garibaldi might be content to let them kill each other off, but they were killing innocent people in the crossfire—twenty-six of them at the Royal Tharsis Lodge—and they were casting the blame on Mars separatists, who didn’t need more grief.

Gray turned to Garibaldi and said puzzledly, “But Mr. Malten was in the explosion.”

“He could’ve been wearing body armor. As I recall, he didn’t have a scratch on him, but his nerves were so shot that he had to leave B5 right away.”

With determination, Harriman Gray rose to his feet. “I’m sorry, Marlon, we’d like to stay, but we should really see Mr. Malten as soon as possible.”

“No need to rush off, then,” said the clerk. “Malten is on Mars.”

“How do you know that?” asked Garibaldi.

“He sent the senator a message from there just this afternoon. He’s been letting us know his whereabouts in case we have to move fast on the privatization bill. These bombings are making everyone nervous, and that’s actually playing into his hands. They’re afraid that Bester is going to mount a real crackdown when he gets back on his feet. Say, you don’t really think Malten is behind the bombings?”

“Keep that under your hat,” ordered Gray. “We’re following up leads, that’s all.”

“But I thought you had the bomber. What’s her name, the blond woman who’s been all over the news. They say her uncle is a terrorist.”

Garibaldi shook his head with frustration. They had no shortage of suspects anymore, but they still had a shortage of evidence, and a more serious shortage of official cooperation. If only Talia hadn’t run for it, all of this could’ve added up to some kind of a defense for her.

Where are you, Talia? he asked himself. What are you doing to get yourself out of this mess?