Final Reckoning: The Fate of Bester (28 page)

They had actually been a good team. That had been when he first realized how useful Garibaldi could be to him. But now he had no one, just the silence, the claustrophobic, sticky silence. And the terrible knowledge that if death found him now, he might not even feel it coming. He had to remind himself to keep looking back over his shoulder.

How could normals live like this? Why didn’t they just shoot themselves, become as dead as the world they inhabited?

Garibaldi’s legs buckled as he stepped out onto the sidewalk. The initial shock was wearing off, and his injury was really starting to hurt. Bester wasn’t anywhere in sight. Which way? If he made the right choice now, he stood a chance of catching the bastard. If he chose wrong, it was all over.

Superstition at least as old as ancient Rome won out. He went left, the sinister direction. And as he entered the alley, he caught a glimpse of a Human silhouette against the next, dimly lit street, running, favoring one arm.

Yes. His legs tried to fail him again, but damn that. He remembered the last time he had tried to kill Bester, the sickeningly helpless feeling of wanting to pull the trigger, trying to pull the trigger-and being totally unable to do it. There Bester had stood, laughing at him, that stupid smirk on his face, talking to Garibaldi as he might to a little child. He explained that he had “Asimoved” him, put a little subroutine in his head that wouldn’t allow him to harm Bester, or permit him to come to harm.

Eventually, Lyta had been the key to his release. They had struck a bargain. He had helped her rogue telepaths, and she had removed the block. Good old Lyta. Good old scary-as- hell-there-at-the-end Lyta. Her death was another thing he owed Bester for. But who was counting?

He was. It was what kept him going, when his body told him to just lie down. For Sheridan, and the torture he had endured. For Talia, dead even though her heart was probably still beating, somewhere. For himself. For himself. For himself. It worked. His arm jangled like a live wire, but he picked up the pace.

Girard rubbed his mouth. The tape hurt coming off. The young man who had untied him didn’t look like he was in good shape. He had left a trail of blood on the way in.

“We have to do something about your leg,” the young woman with him said.

Girard remembered the man-he was EABI. The woman he had never see before. The young man sat down heavily.

“I won’t argue,” he grunted. The tape was still lying where Bester had left it. It would do for the moment, until he could get an ambulance here.

“What’s your name, son?” he asked.

“Diebold, sir. Benjamin Diebold.”

“I think he saved my life,” the woman explained.

“He pushed me out of the way.”

“That was Bester, wasn’t it?”

Diebold gasped, as Girard cut his trousers away with his pocket knife.

“Yes.”

“But we got orders to break the cordon…”

“I know. Hold still.”

Diebold said something else, but Girard didn’t hear. A sudden flash exploded in his head. Two men, running. Old enemies. Garibaldi chasing Bester No question what will happen when they meet. There will be no arrest, no capture, no trial, no prison. One of them will die, or both.

“Bester!”

Garibaldi’s shout sounded strangely tinny, depthless. Words were the tips of icebergs, and Bester was used to seeing the mountain that lay beneath the waves, the really dangerous mass of emotion and cognition that thrust words up for the ear to hear. Normals talked and wrote of being able to “hear” anger or desperation in a voice, but like the parable of the blind men describing an elephant, they had no idea what they were talking about.

He didn’t care what Garibaldi was thinking, per se - he could guess that well enough. But it would help to know how badly his foe was injured. He did seem to be favoring one arm.

Bester stopped, turned, aimed, and squeezed off a shot.

Green fire answered him, but missed by a yard, and he ducked around a corner.

Something cold and wet struck him on the cheek, and he turned the weapon up toward the sky. Another drop of water hit his forehead.

It was raining.

Bester remembered a duel he had read about. A young man had challenged an older. They had started with swords, but when it became clear to the other fellow that the young man was no match for him, he had thrown down his rapier in disgust and suggested something different. So the two got into a carriage, each tying a hand out of the way so that they couldn’t use it. Wielding knives in their free hands, they fought while the carriage was driven around and around a park.

Bester seemed to remember both men had died. Probably Garibaldi would be happy with that. Bester was starting to think it would satisfy him, too. After all, how much longer before the other hunters came? The gunfire and smell of blood would bring them running back. With his psi he might have been able to deal with them. Not now.

Fine. If Garibaldi wanted a duel, he would give it to him. If nothing else, Bester would kill the man who had brought him so much misery. He ducked into a recessed doorway and waited.

The rain started as a few isolated drops, but within seconds it was hammering the avenue in undulating sheets. Garibaldi bit back a string of colorful expletives. Telepaths could hear you better when you spoke out loud, right? Or was it just more clearly? Whatever, Bester had more of an advantage than ever. Garibaldi was half-blinded by the rain, and the telepath would be able to feel him coming.

He took the next corner a little more cautiously, but he didn’t want to slow up too much. Water was running into his eyes. Squinting, he did a slow pan of the street with the PPG, wishing he’d had time to stop and collect some night goggles. But of course, if he had, Bester would be gone.

If he wasn’t already. He was nowhere to be seen. Had he had time to make the block? It didn’t seem so, but adrenaline, pain, and the weird susurrus of the rain were doing funny things to time. Prickles crawled across his scalp. He was here someplace, wasn’t he? Masking himself, screwing with his mind. An invisible man.

The hand holding the PPG was shaking. It might have been shock from his wound, it might have been that little voice in his head that reminded him that Bester always, always won. He’s smarter than you, the voice said. He’s always one step ahead. Feeling like a blind man surrounded by snipers, he flattened against the wall, his heart hammering.

Bester, blinded by the downpour, didn’t notice Garibaldi until he was a few feet away. Tightening his jaw, he stepped out from the door, found his target-a vague man shape in the dark and wet and pulled the trigger.

Someone stepped quickly from a doorway. Garibaldi didn’t think at all. His finger squeezed the contact of the PPG. The result was spectacular, and not at all what he expected. A green ball of fire seemed to explode in front of him as the rain refracted the coherent plasma into sudden incoherence. Murderous heat singed his eyebrows, and a dragon’s tongue licked his hand. He dropped the PPG and hurled himself to the side. Rain. He knew the damn stuff was dangerous. He blinked his eyes, trying to clear them.

A wave of steam and cooling plasma slapped Bester like the palm of a sun god. He lost his weapon in a moment of agony. He might have even blacked out for a second.

When he managed to look up, through the spots in his eyes, he saw Garibaldi rising up between him and the next streetlamp. With an inarticulate cry, Bester scrambled to his feet and launched a punch with his good arm. His face felt scalded. Maybe he was already dying.

The fist connected, but all wrong, and he nearly broke his wrist. Still, Garibaldi grunted and fell back. Bester dropped and swept, and had the almost religious satisfaction of feeling the impact, of seeing Garibaldi leaving the ground, hearing the meaty thud as he struck pavement. He kicked out again, catching Garibaldi in the ribs, and again.

The third kick met only rain. Garibaldi was in motion again, back on his feet, advancing. They circled each other warily.

“Still a loser, aren’t you, Garibaldi?” Bester sneered.

“What’s the matter, do you need a few snorts of Dutch courage?”

He had to keep the ex-security officer off balance, mentally and emotionally. Garibaldi had a greater reach and was three decades younger than him.

“Or are you just too dumb to know when you’re outmatched, with or without the booze?”

Garibaldi laughed harshly.

“I’m not the one running like a jackrabbit. That would be you.”

“I’m not running anymore,” Bester returned.

“I’ll admit I’m in a hurry, but I figured if you wanted me so bad, I could do a favor for an old friend. Especially one with whom I’ve been so… intimate.”

“Don’t even try to play that,” Garibaldi said.

“You’re caught. Admit it. I’ve got you.”

“You and what army? Oh yes, you do have an army, don’t you? You didn’t have the guts to come after me on your own. Afraid I’ll turn your mind inside-out again?”

“They aren’t here now. It’s just you and me.”

“You know why you hate me so much, Mr. Garibaldi? It’s not anything I’ve done to you, like you pretend. It’s because I know too much. I’m the only one who knows how dirty you are in there, in your private little hell. I’ve seen it all, and you can’t stand the idea of anyone walking around who has even had a peek at it.”

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t make you anything you weren’t. In fact, I had to do remarkably little to turn you against Sheridan. You always resented him. You resent anyone who’s stronger than you, with more strength of character than you. Like Sheridan. Like me.”

Garibaldi was favoring his arm - and badly.

“Don’t even say your name in the same breath as his.”

“You know it’s true. Congratulations, by the way - I see you’ve had my Asimov removed. Lyta? Of course, Lyta. Only she would have been strong enough. Funny, Mr. Garibaldi, how your bigotry takes a backseat when it serves your own interests. Letting another dirty telepath into your mind must have been…”

Garibaldi lunged, and Bester was ready. After all, he had been living and fighting with only one arm for almost half a century. Garibaldi, for all of his size and training, was clumsy. Bester sidestepped, snapped a hard jab into Garibaldi’s wounded shoulder. The ex-security chief choked out half a scream, which cut off when Bester snapped a vicious knife-hand into the base of his skull. Garibaldi dropped to the pavement.

“What, did you think this would be easy, Mr. Garibaldi? You have to work for revenge. I could tell you things…”

Garibaldi was on his hands and knees, coughing.

Bester kicked him as hard as he could, angling his toe up to catch the solar plexus. Garibaldi felt ribs crack and tasted blood in his mouth. Stupid. He’d been stupid. Again.

If you let Bester talk, you lose, he thought grimly.

He could feel your fears, play you like a harp, know your every intended move. His words would soften you up, and then he had you. He felt rather than saw the next kick coming, and he took it, only this time he curled around it, caught the foot. Bester tried to twist away, but Garibaldi held on. Clawing for the rest of the leg. Somewhere, he found a hidden reserve of strength, and yanked.

Bester fallen down.

They got back to their feet at the same time. This time, Garibaldi didn’t let him talk. He lowered his head and charged like a bull, letting his reflexes do the fighting rather than his brain. Bester hammered at his broken shoulder, and he felt the sickening scrape of bone against bone. But he didn’t care anymore. Now that he had his hands on the teep, Garibaldi wasn’t going to let go.

The wall stopped them both, but Bester took most of the punishment. The telepath’s hand came up, clawing at Garibaldi ‘s eyes, but he slammed him into the wall again. Then he unwrapped his arm and dealt Bester an uppercut. Hitting him felt good. He did it again, for good measure, with all of the strength that he could muster.

Bester kicked him in the crotch. It hurt, of course, but he really didn’t care what happened to his body anymore. All he could see was Bester’s face; all he could hear were his taunts. He got a good handful of hair and cracked Bester’s head against the wall again, again, again. The telepath moaned and slid to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

Garibaldi, swaying, stepped back. He walked a few feet to where he had dropped the PPG. The rain had slackened, but he wiped the muzzle thoroughly, and to be sure, he placed it against Bester’s head.

The telepath’s eyelids flickered open. They had ended their brawl near a streetlamp, so it was light enough to make him out, but his eyes were black, like holes in space. Like Lyta’s in all her unholy glory.

“Go ahead,” Bester murmured.

“It’s what you want. But you know I’m right. I know how sick you are inside, and you can’t stand that.”

“You are right,” Garibaldi said.

“You’re always right, aren’t you? But you don’t know me anymore, not like you think you do. Yeah, maybe on the inside I’m a bastard-we all are, one way or another. Maybe I can’t blame it all on you. Maybe I do have to shoulder some of it. I’m willing to try. But you - you were responsible for the death of thousands. Millions, for all I know. And you don’t have any remorse at all.”

“No,” Bester said, quietly.

“I don’t. There are things in my life I regret, but none of them would mean anything to you. And listen to yourself. All you’re doing is trying to work yourself up to killing me, to justify it. Just do it, you pitiful gutless coward.”

Garibaldi’s finger trembled on the contact.

“I don’t need to justify it,” he said, softly.

“I can do it because I want to.”

He counted five, then squeezed the trigger - or tried to. He found that he couldn’t.

“Who has you Asimoved now, Mr. Garibaldi?” Bester asked, mockingly.

Garibaldi didn’t let his weapon waver.

“You owe me, Bester. You owe it to me to die like the dog you are. No, strike that, I like dogs. But as much as you’ve hurt me, as much as you’ve wronged me, there are a thousand others who you owe more. I’m not going to deny them, just to satisfy myself. I thought I could, but I can’t. Your life belongs to everyone you’ve screwed, not just to me.”