“Oh, please let me kill them,” begged Deuce. “Who would miss them? Even their mommas probably don’t like them anymore.”
Talia shot him a glare, and Deuce frowned disgruntledly and began to back toward the shuttlecraft. “Well,” he said, “we are offering you gentlemen a great deal today—that perfectly good Hovercraft for this beat-up old shuttlecraft of yours. Now you just go northeast, and you’ll get to civilization. I wouldn’t go the other way, because we stole that Hovercraft from some folks, and they might shoot first and ask questions later.”
Talia jumped into the shuttlecraft and kept her hand on the button to shut the hatch after Deuce.
“You got my briefcase?” asked the gangster.
“Yeah.”
He nodded and jumped aboard. Talia quickly closed the hatch, and they scrambled into seats in the cockpit.
“Do you know how to fly one of these?” asked Talia.
Deuce laughed. “You think I never stole a shuttlecraft before? This is a hobby of mine.”
Before she even had a chance to fasten her seat belt, he jammed the thrusters, and the little craft started to buck and shake. It wasn’t a smooth takeoff, but they were soon in the air, with the dusty desert fading away beneath them.
Talia sighed and slumped back in her seat.
“Don’t panic,” said Deuce, “but you, uh, got a scorpion in your hair.”
Talia panicked anyway—she screamed, yanked the wig off, and threw it on the floor. The startled scorpion tried to hide, but it was out of its element on the cold metal deck of the shuttlecraft. She took her shoe oft’ to throw it at the arachnid.
“Don’t kill him,” said Deuce. “I’ll take him with me to Guadalajara.”
“Guadalajara,” echoed Talia. “I need to go to Boston.”
“Then I guess this is where you and I part company.” To emphasize his determination, Deuce drew his PPG and aimed it at her.
“Can you let me off somewhere? A town, I mean.”
“I’d have to let you off on the outskirts. You might have quite a walk.”
Talia shrugged, too worn out to question whatever fate had in store for her next. “I haven’t got any money,” she added.
“Damnation,” muttered Deuce, “what do I look like, a credit machine? This whole trip was only supposed to cost me one diamond, and now it’s already cost me—“
“Four diamonds,” she completed his sentence. “But you got a shuttlecraft out of it, and you wouldn’t have gotten that without me.”
“Yeah,” Deuce conceded, putting his weapon away. “I guess you paid your debt. Hand me my case.”
She handed him his briefcase, and he put the craft on autopilot as he rummaged through it.
“Here’s a one-carat diamond,” he said. “That should get you wherever you want to go. You know, you really should’ve let me kill those Psi Cops. As soon as they get to a link, everybody on Earth will know you’re here.”
“I know,” said Talia somberly. She took the diamond from him and tried to smile. “Thank you.”
“You’re a tough one,” said Deuce admiringly. “If we ever run into each other again—say, at my hanging—will you tell them I’m not totally bad? That I once did a favor for somebody, and let two Psi Cops live.”
Talia gave him a real smile. “I will. I once heard somebody on B5 say that nobody is what they seem. I never knew what that meant before, but now I know—we have lots of people inside of us. Good, bad, right, wrong, it all gets blurred together. I’ll never forget that you helped me, Deuce.”
He smiled boyishly, and for a moment she could see the little kid who had put a firecracker in a teacher’s wastebasket. Was that the moment he had gone bad? If it hadn’t been for that incident, or if it hadn’t been for the bombing, might they both be upstanding citizens now instead of fugitives on the run? She didn’t know. She would never know.
“Phoenix coming up,” said Deuce.
It was almost dark by the time Deuce landed the black shuttlecraft behind a grain elevator on the outskirts of the sprawling city.
“No time for long good-byes,” he said, opening the hatch. “This is busy airspace around here.”
Talia straightened her wig and her beret and made sure she had her only two possessions, the diamond and Emily Crane’s address. She had thought about taking one of the extra PPGs, but shooting it out with the authorities was not really her style.
She paused in the doorway. “Bye.”
“Good luck,” drawled Deuce. “You’ll need it.”
Talia jumped out of the craft and ran for cover as he shot the thrusters. A second later, the shuttlecraft and Deuce were gone, and she was alone again, surrounded by darkness and crickets. It felt soothing, like the darkness was a natural place for her these days. She saw the arcing lights of the city in the distance, and she found her way to an overgrown road and began walking.
Michael Garibaldi stood alone on the bridge, looking at the lights of Boston Harbor as they glinted off the black water. He had rushed back to Boston, for what? His efforts to find Emily Crane’s home address had gone for naught, and he had no friends in the local police department to help him. The last thing he wanted to do was to try to explain all of this to a local cop—commercial telepaths pretending to be Martian terrorists in order to blow up Psi Cops on a space station several light-years away. You had to be there. Plus, they would keep him tied up in the squad room for days, making statements, checking statements.
With Malten having already skipped to Mars, Emily Crane was the only lead he had. Despite Gray’s opinion that she wouldn’t skip, he didn’t trust her. As long as Talia was at large, they couldn’t move against Crane, but she wasn’t in the clear. If Talia showed up, protected and talking to the right people, Crane was in serious trouble. If only he could corner her at home, he reasoned, maybe he could throw enough fear into her to get her to confess to the police. But how could he get her unlisted address?
He snapped his fingers just as a barge announced its approach through the black waters with a woeful moan. Maybe he should go see the receptionist at the Mix office—what was his name? It had been right there on his nameplate: Ronald Trishman! A receptionist, even a sour one like him, was likely to have a listed address. Garibaldi dashed to the end of the bridge and into a bar along the waterfront.
The smell of booze was inviting—it always was—and the sight of all the Iowlifes made him feel right at home, but Garibaldi had chosen another poison tonight. He went to the viewer and waited for a large guy with tattoos all over his arms to finish talking to his kids somewhere in Australia, then he grabbed the link before anybody else could. He punched up the information index and entered Ronald Trishman’s name.
There were two Ronald Trishmans, but that wasn’t bad for a city the size of Boston. The security officer jotted them both down in his electronic address book. It wasn’t all that late, about 22:00, so he decided to pay these two Ronald Trishmans a call. One of them was bound to know where Emily Crane lived.
He knew the first one was wrong as soon as he got off the autotaxi. The place, called Flag Hill, was far too ritzy, a collection of townhouses built to look old but really quite elegant, with bay windows and a neo-colonial look. Well, he thought, maybe Ronald slummed by working as a receptionist.
He buzzed the outer door, and a sleepy woman’s voice answered his call. “Yes?”
“Excuse me,” said Garibaldi, “I need to speak to Ronald for a moment.”
“He’s taking a bath. What is it? Who are you?”
“I work with him at the Mix.”
“Mix?” she asked. “He’s a doctor.” She rang off.
When Garibaldi got back to the street, he saw that his autotaxi had taken off. Well, he supposed, maybe he hadn’t tipped it enough. He looked around the maze of dark streets and townhouses, all of it coated with a halo of city lights. After the sweltering closeness of Babylon 5, Boston seemed like an immense wilderness park, far too large to make sense out of and filled with exotic humans. He wondered what that said about his life—that Londo, G’Kar, and their alien brethren seemed normal compared to this mass of humanity.
The security chief had a pretty good sense of direction, and it was a pleasant night, so he decided to walk. He knew the second Ronald Trishxnan lived up some street named Beacon, and he wasn’t far away from there. He would ask directions as he went. Within about three blocks, the oak trees thinned out to a standard urban sprawl of office buildings and shops, and he wasn’t the only pedestrian anymore. The others looked better dressed, more affluent, and he felt like a soldier home from leave in his uniform. As he drew closer to a casino, his attention was snagged by a row of screens in the window.