Deadly Relations: Bester Ascendant (6 page)

Maybe they were his parents, his biological ones-he knew other kids had them. Milla’s even came to visit, though not very often anymore. He had asked about his own, once, and was told they had been killed when rogues bombed Teeptown. Maybe his infant mind remembered them, or maybe he had made them up, or lifted them from another kid. Whoever they were or had been or had never been, they were gone now. There was nothing in the night sky but stars, nothing in his dreams but silence.

Part 2. Antitheses

Chapter 1

The back-fist snapped to within an inch of his face, but Al didn’t blink. He had known before Jackson flung it out that it would never connect.

The reverse punch was another story; that was the real attack, and Jackson drove it at Al’s solar plexus with every ounce of his considerable strength and weight. Al wasn’t there, though. He stepped aside and p-cast his next move: a ridge-hand to the back of his opponent’s head.

Jackson caught the thought Al meant him to - and twisted to avoid the blow he knew was coming. Al dropped into a crouch, both palms flat on the floor, extended his back leg like a boom, and spun. Since he was turning to avoid a blow to his head, Jackson’s first indication of this came when his feet were clipped neatly from beneath him. A head taller and twenty pounds heavier than Al, he made a satisfying thud as he landed on the mat.

“Halt!”

Sensei Kaplan called, stepping onto the mat. Jackson was struggling to his feet. Al could feel his frustration and hostility, and hoped the match would go on; Jackson lost all control of his strategy when he was like this. But Kaplan ended the match.

“Take note,” he said.

“Mr. Bester used the minimum motion necessary. He fought the battle where it really takes place - in the mind. He won before he began his attack. Mr. Jackson is a bigger man, but his mind is weaker.”

He gazed around at the group - all second - year students in the Minor Academy.

“Attention. Class dismissed.”

They all bowed in unison. Jackson glowered at Al before walking off, and Al answered with a thin smile. He could afford to be generous.

“Nice match, Al,” said Raphael, a wiry young man with luminous black eyes.

“Thanks.”

He paused for an instant, trying to think how he might expand on the other’s overture. It was an instant too long.

“Raphael,” called Susan, from across the room.

“How about some lunch?”

“Sure. See you tomorrow, Al.”

“See you.”

He shrugged mentally. He had a class next hour anyway, and Raphael probably knew that. Probably that was why he didn’t ask Al along for lunch. Probably.

Al headed for the showers. He didn’t have time for a lot of socializing, anyway. Standing in the Minor Academy was absolutely critical, if he wanted to get into the MetaPol prep classes in the Major. That was just three years away. Al was so deep in thought he almost bumped into Julia in the hall. He caught her signature just about the time he found himself face-to-face with the deep brown of her startled eyes.

“Oh-hi, Al,” she said.

“Hi, Julia.”

Her face had narrowed, her features sharpened, though at fifteen the curves evident beneath her gold-and-umber uniform still hesitated between girl and woman.

“How-how are things?”

“Pretty good,” she allowed, her eyes straying around the white, almost antiseptic hall, as if searching for someone else in the hurried mass of students.

“How about with you? I heard that you won the Karges award last year.”

“Yes, I guess I did.”

“I’m not really surprised. You were always the best in the cadre. We were wondering about you the other day…”

She trailed off, probably just realizing that she had said “we.”

He knew, of course. The Minor Academy was large. But not that large. He had often noticed Julia, Milla, Brett, Azmun, Ekko, and most of the others from the cadre having lunch or playing soccer on the quads.

“Have you decided yet?” he asked.

“Which school you might end up in?”

“Oh, well-yeah, I’m looking at the business school. Guess I’ll be a busybody, like you always said. And you? You still want to be a Psi Cop?”

Al nodded.

“Yes.”

“Well - good luck at that. It won’t be easy.”

“Thanks. I…”

As with Raphael, he wanted to say something else, but he wasn’t sure what. It was a distinctly unpleasant feeling.

“I have to get to class,” Julia said. “I guess I’ll see you.”

“Yeah. Me too. Well, nice running into you.”

He flashed her a smile he didn’t feel, then started off.

“Hey, Al?”

He turned, surprised to find her still regarding him.

“Yes?”

“I… some of the old Cadre Prime is going on a hike, up in the Alps. Sort of an unofficial reunion. You’re welcome to come, if you want.”

He blinked.

“Sure,” he said “That might be fun.”

She smiled, a bit shyly.

“Saturday? We’re going to meet out by the Grabber, about seven in the morning.”

“Okay. Okay, I’ll be there.”

She hurried off, and he went on to statistics, wondering why his step felt a little lighter. He made it through class, and managed to absorb a moderate amount of what Professor Diebold said. When the buzzer sounded, he headed, as usual, down to the West End MetaPol station.

The MetaPol Central Station was in the administrative complex. Students weren’t barred from the area, but they were discouraged from it unless they had a specific assignment. The West End office was smaller, more intimate, and much more accessible. There were usually only six cops stationed there, and three of them were on assignment at any given moment. A long-boned man with a heavy, angular face one shade lighter than ebony greeted him with a fierce, somewhat disconcerting smile.

“Ah, Mr. Bester. And how are you on this fine day? Come to make your usual rounds?”

“Yes, sir, Lieutenant Van Ark. Do you mind?”

“Not at all. But… I’ll let you in on a little something.”

“Sir?”

“We don’t call each other by rank. That’s for Normals. We teeps, we know who we are.”

“Oh. But on the vids…”

“Well, Yes. But a lot of Normals watch vids, stuff like John Trakker. They feel more comfortable with titles and ranks and that kind of thing, so we leave them to their illusions.”

“Got you,” Al said It made sense.

“So what do I call you?”

“Mr. Van Ark will do.”

“Okay. Mr. Van Ark.”

Van Ark chuckled.

“How long have you been coming in here anyway, Mr. Bester? Four years now? You follow these Blips like some kids follow baseball or soccer.”

“Yes, sir. When I become a Psi Cop, I want to know who they are.”

“When? Not if? You’ve certainly got no problem with confidence, Mr. Bester. Anyway, it’s good to see a youngster taking such an active interest. You’re a good example. Still…” he widened his hands expressively “…you’re in hem every day, rain or shine! Don’t you ever just take a day off? Fly a kite, take a girl on a picnic? When you get to be my age, you’ll regret it.”

Al reflected-very carefully, very controlled - that when he got as old as Van Ark, he intended to have a much higher rank than lieutenant, whether the title was spoken or not “I’m going hiking this weekend,” he remarked, to cover any hint of his reaction.

“Hah. Sounds like more work to me. But to each his own.”

Then he glanced at his computer screen.

“Well, the monitors are there, if you want to look.”

It seemed to Al that the big man had adopted a devilish look on his face.

“Wow,” Al said, his eyes widening as he scanned down the list of names.

“They got Kashiwada, D’Amico, and Enoch. They’ve been on the hunt lists forever.”

“Enoch since before you were born,” Van Ark observed.

“All at the same time, too, it looks like. This morning. Hey, and there’s Deitz, too.”

He frowned at the screen.

“Something’s up, isn’t it? Something big.”

Van Ark’s laughter boomed for a few beats.

“Well. I shouldn’t be telling you this before it hits the vids, but I will if you swear to keep it quiet”

“The Corps is mother, the Corps is father,” Al observed “I would never betray the Corps.”

Van Ark lowered his voice a bit.

“They just hit a big underground cell in the United Islamic Nations-Kazakhstan, I think. The reports are still coming in. That’s where they got those three.”

“Can I see some more of it? Some of the reports?”

“Sure. Provided your oath of silence covers this, too.”

“It does.”

Van Ark reached his indenticard over and slid it through a slot.

“Okay,” he said. “You have access. Have fun.”

Al nodded, and Van Ark moved to a seat nearby. What appeared before him was a precis of the strike, a list of Blips suspected to be at the site, and then a progress report. It was only level 4, of course, so all of the really nifty details were missing-sources, casualty reports, detailed tactical information and the like.

Nonetheless, it was instructive to compare the projected list against those registered captured. Enoch and Kashiwada they had expected to find; D’Amico had been a bonus. Those were the big boys. On the second tier he recognized Klassen, Brazg, and Nielsson, all of whom had been on the general hunt lists for more than five years. Of these, only Klassen seemed to have been captured in today’s raid. Did that mean that Brazg and Nielsson had slipped through the Corps’ fingers, or that they had never been there in the first place? Interesting.

With a nod from the lieutenant he called up their individual files, wondering if their histories would provide a clue. Lara Brazg was thirty and had been born in Canada. She had registered with Psi Corps at the age of fourteen, a P5, and gone on the sleepers. Disappeared at twenty-one. She was implicated in two assassination attempts and one package bombing, and had kidnapped at least two teeps from reeducation facilities.

A classic type A Blip, she might even be a good person who had been led astray, brainwashed by some highly organized and cynical underground.

Her type could be shown the truth, saved, reeducated, and end up a useful member of the Corps. It had happened more than once. In her picture she looked pretty, a dirty blonde with a face smudged by fight freckles.

Portis Nielsson was a different story. Born in the UK, he was a year younger than Brazg, but had a much longer rap sheet. Several felonies: two murders during a holdup, one count of manslaughter from a bar fight in Madrid, numerous petty and two grand theft indictments. He had spent six years in jail as a juvenile, but had never tested positive for telepathy. Toward the end of his stay, the prison psychologist nevertheless had become convinced that Nielsson had psi abilities, but simply did not have the mitochondrial marker-not that unusual; after all, thirty percent of telepaths lacked it.

En route to a reeducation facility, Nielsson had escaped and had been at large ever since. In the past four years, his criminal activities had shifted focus to underground-related offenses.

Nielsson looked like a type C Blip, a sociopath who had found an organization to validate him. While any teep could be brought around by reeducation, Nielsson’s type - a born criminal, used to abusing his powers-was the toughest to change. His photo seemed to confirm that even on the vid screen, his eyes-cast malice, and his square jaw was set in an intractable smirk.

“A nasty customer,” Van Ark remarked, walking up behind him. “You’d be pressed to find even a mundane as ruthless as that one.”

“The cops will get him,” Al said.

“You’ll be interested in another little tidbit I picked up, too,” Van Ark said, a bit conspiratorially.

“What’s that, sir?”

“Stephen Walters has resurfaced.”

Al scrunched a skeptical face.

“He’s been dead for twelve years.”

“That’s what we thought, but he was clever. He should be, he’s the only Psi Cop to ever go rogue…”

“…only after he was mind-blasted and reprogrammed by the Dexters,” Al reminded him.

“Ah-yes,” Van Ark replied.

“Anyway, those bits of him they found at the blast site in Nicaragua must have been cultured tissue, because they just found some strands of his hair in this UIN raid”

“But not the man himself.”

“No.”

“Couldn’t the hairs be pretty old?”

Van Ark wagged his head.

“Living skin cells attached. Walters was there.”

“Wow. The legend lives.”

“Looks like it.”

Al squared his jaw.

“I almost hope he hangs in there until I’m a cop. I’ll get him.”

“Mr. Bester,” Lieutenant Van Ark said, “I would never put it past you.”

Al thought about rogues as he ran, a little later. He was trying to push his run to ten kilometers at six minutes a klick. He was on the third klick-always the worst-so he pushed himself faster and tried to occupy his mind with something other than the pounding of flesh and bone against duracrete.

Why would anyone go Blip? What did they hope to gain? Oh, men like Nielsson were easy to explain - they were just criminals using fellow criminals to help them stay out of jail. But what about the others? What could they possibly hope to find that Psi Corps couldn’t give them?

He tried to picture himself, outside the Corps, a later, raised like a normal. Say he was twelve when he got his psi - what would he do out there in the mundane world? Take the sleeper drugs? That way he could hide his abilities, keep leading the life he was accustomed to - except that Normals would find out, through personnel records, or official files.

He couldn’t get a job or even get housing without disclosing his nature, and the Normals would still hate him, sleepers or no. Or he could join Psi Corps, get a free education, room, board, job placement, protection from mundanes, the company of others like himself.

So rogues didn’t want the sort of life Normals had, and they didn’t want the opportunity to hone their powers to the utmost, to live and work as telepaths. They don’t want to be Normals and they don’t want to be teeps. What do they want?

Well, they blew things up. Maybe that’s all there was to it. They just wanted to cause trouble. There were certainly people like that. He mulled it over more, but he seemed to have hit a wall. The answer was probably something pretty obvious, he mused. The problem was, you didn’t want to go around asking questions like this about Blips-not if you wanted to be a Psi Cop. You were supposed to catch them, not understand them.