Final Reckoning: The Fate of Bester (14 page)

“I came up here once, as a little girl,” Louise told him.

“I haven’t been here since. It’s a shame, really.”

She squeezed his hand.

“I’ve had a wonderful day. It’s been a long time since I felt like being silly.”

“Is that what this is?” Bester replied.

“I’m not even sure I know the definition of the word.”

“Probably you don’t. You take life pretty seriously. Too seriously, I think.”

“This was my idea.”

“I know. But it’s funny - I’ve wanted to do something like this for a long time. It’s almost as if you read my mind.”

“Ha. I wish I could. I never know what you’re thinking.”

But of course, he had. Why should he feel guilty about that? But he did somehow. It felt like cheating.

“Oh, I think you do, sometimes.”

She squeezed his hand again, and they were silent for a few moments. And in the midst of a glowing, quirky contentment, he felt someone try to scan him. His smile froze on his face, and he looked around slowly, searching the crowd. After a moment he found him. It was Ackerman, the same fellow he had seen on the train platform. And Ackerman was thinking ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod…

“Louise, dear,” Bester said, “I’m getting tired. Would you mind terribly if we got a bite to eat and went home?”

“Home sounds good,” she replied.

“I can fix us a sandwich.”

Bester tried to hide his agitation. Ackerman had recognized him this time, of that he was perfectly certain. As he went by, Bester lifted his surface thoughts. He probed just a little deeper and found an address.

Home sounds good. Louise’s thoughts rang in his head, but with a bitter edge. Alfred Bester, it seemed, was never to have a home.

Chapter 2

“Going somewhere, Justin?” Bester asked softly.

The bent figure froze, stopped shoving things into a suitcase, and straightened slowly. So it is you, he ‘cast.

“Shh. Talk to me, Justin. How long has it been? Seven years?”

The old man turned, slowly, to face him.

“About that long. I’m surprised you remember me, Mr. Bester.”

“You were a good man. Loyal to the Corps. Believe me, I noticed people like you.”

He looked back down at the half-packed suitcase.

“You look like you’re in a hurry. Can I help’?”

“You followed me?”

“Yesterday you practically cast where you were staying. I didn’t think you’d mind an old friend paying you a visit.”

“N-no, of course not. Can I… ah… offer you something to drink?”

“Water would be nice,” Bester replied.

“Just a tall glass of cool water.”

“Sure.”

Ackerman went off to the kitchen. Bester quietly closed the door behind him and went and stood in the window. The hotel overlooked the Bois de Vincennes, a large public park. A group of children in school uniforms were playing soccer on the lawn, supervised by a couple of nuns. Ackerman returned with the water.

“There you go, sir.”

“No need for the ”sir” anymore, Justin. I’m a civilian now, just like you. Trying to live a quiet life, just like you.”

“Yes, s… Mr. Bester. That’s all I want.”

“Are you on the run?”

“No, sir. I served two years in prison, and then they let me out on parole. I’ve been out for almost a year.”

“I’m sorry that happened, Justin, but at least it’s behind you now, isn’t it? I wish I could say the same.”

He looked up and smiled.

“But I imagine they would give me more than two years, don’t you?”

“I… think so, Mr. Bester,” Ackerman said, very carefully.

He was still holding the water out. Bester took it and drank a little.

“It was a terrible thing, the war. Not something I ever thought would really happen. I never believed I would see our people divided like that, turning on each other like a pack of starving dogs. And even later, in the hearings-some of my oldest and dearest friends sold me out, testified against me. Made deals to spare themselves. Tell me, you personally oversaw the execution of at least five of our prisoners of war. How did you manage to get only two years?”

“Mr. Bester, please…”

Bester raised an eyebrow.

“Come, now. I’m just curious. I’m not accusing you of anything.”

“I… I know.”

“Relax, Justin. I didn’t come here to hurt you. Just to talk. To see what your intentions are.”

“What do you mean?”

“A lot of people would like to know what you know at this moment. A lot of people would pay very well for the information only you possess. You’ve just been released from prison. You must be a little down on your luck. You must be tempted just a little - to do what so many of my colleagues have already done.”

“No,” Justin said, emphatically.

“I just want to forget it - forget all of it. No offense, Mr. Bester. I always admired you, even when the others started talking against you. I always thought you had it right, about the normals, about the rogues - about all of it. Whatever you may think, I didn’t witness against you. Okay, I gave some people up, but not you. You can look at the court records.”

“I’m not interested in revenge,” Bester told him.

“Even if they did coerce you into some sort of betrayal, I wouldn’t really blame you. I haven’t tried to take revenge against anyone who betrayed me. I understand their choice. I don’t agree with it. I think it stinks, really, but I understand it. Let it be on their consciences. I’m done with it. What I’m concerned about is the future, not the past.”

“Me, too,” Ackerman said.

“Me, too, Mr. Bester. Like I said, I just want to forget it all-you included. And I want the world to forget me.”

“Well, we’re the same, then, Justin. So what can we do about it? How can I give myself peace of mind, where you’re concerned?”

“I swear to you, Mr. Bester, I won’t tell. I won’t tell anyone.”

“I believe you mean that. But don’t they check up on you? Isn’t that part of the new process, they monitor your activities to make sure you haven’t been ”abusing” your abilities? Make sure you’ve been good and not evil little telepath boys and girls?”

“Ah - yes.”

“And so what if they find me in there, in your head when they start digging? Good intentions or not, the end result might be the same for me.”

“They won’t. I won’t let them.”

“Again, I think you believe that. But I can’t depend on it. You wouldn’t, if you were in my shoes, would you?”

“I guess not.”

“See? I knew you were reasonable.”

“Please don’t hurt me. I’ll go someplace no one can find me. I’ll…”

“All I want to do,” Bester said, “is make a few alterations in your memory. Take me out of there. You know my reputation - you know I’m a pro. You won’t feel a thing, and you won’t miss it when it’s gone.”

He paused.

“It’s not the only solution I can think of, but it’s the best one for both of us. Think about yourself. If they found out you have been hiding me, just how long do you think your parole would last?”

Ackerman sat down on the stiff-backed chair and put his head in his hands.

“I’ll do it,” he said.

“I’ll do anything you say. I want to help.”

Bester put his hand on Ackerman’s shoulders.

“You’re one of the good ones, Justin. I knew I could count on you. And I appreciate it.”

He took his time, carefully cleaning any memory of himself from Ackerman’s mind. Then he put the other telepath into a sound sleep and carefully wiped everything that might leave fingerprints or significant traces of DNA. Then he departed, his head pounding from the exertion. He bought Louise some roses on the way home.

That afternoon, he sat for her again. The painting was nearer completion.

“Are you seeing what you want, now?” he asked, as she dabbed and made little satisfied sounds.

“Yes.”

“You knew what it was all along, didn’t you? That what you saw in me was me seeing you.” She blushed.

“No. Not at first.”

“You were so-alive. So vital. It woke me up, made me alive, too.”

“I can’t believe you were ever otherwise.”

“I was. My life has had its disappointments, Louise. I was tired of feeling-feeling anything. Because you can’t feel joy without opening to the possibility of pain. It’s hard to risk that, when you’ve had a… disappointing life. Wake to your feelings, that is.”

She came over and kissed him.

“Well. I’m glad you did.”

“Can I see it yet?”

“Not quite. There’s a little more to do. But soon. And promise me you won’t peek while I’m gone.”

“Gone? Where are you going?”

“Oh, I thought I told you. I’m going to Melbourne to see my mother, and my sister, Helen. That’s the one I stole the husband from. I think it’s time I finally set things right between us.”

“What brought this on?”

“You. Us. I want to move on with my life, Claude, and I want to do so with you. I’ve had some disappointments, too, and there are too many things I’ve left tangled up. I want to unsnarl a few. I think… I think it will be better for us. You deserve someone whole.”

“You are whole.”

He wanted to tell her that she didn’t need her family, not when she had him. That it would only make things harder. One of her sisters had been in Clark’s guard. Odds were good that she’d seen Alfred Bester, at least once or twice. But he couldn’t say that to her, because he knew she was right. Reconciling with her sister was best for her, and he wanted what was best for her, even if it opened a little hollow place in him. After all, he was used to hollow places. He could bear it.

“I’d ask you to go with me, but it would just complicate things. I hope you don’t mind.”

She must have seen something in his face, then.

“I’m not being presumptuous, am I? I mean, I know we haven’t known each other for that long, but I think we’re… I mean, I think we have some sort of a future.”

A future. Would she follow him from planet to planet, if he had to run again? Could he ask her to?

But that was what he wanted. He wanted it, the brass ring he had never even been able to see before, never imagined existed. The chance to really be happy, before the end.

He deserved it. He took her hand.

“I’m glad for you,” he said.

“Go see your sister, get this off your chest. And we’ll go forward from there.”

She kissed him, sweetly, on the lips.

“Thank you, Claude. I knew you would understand.”

“Well, I must congratulate you, Mr. Kaufman.”

Jean-Pierre stood over him, adjusting his fashionably pointless eyeglasses.

“I’m sure you must,” Bester replied, sipping his coffee.

He hadn’t noticed Jean-Pierre enter Le Cheval Heureux. The normally sleepy cafe was full today, nearly bursting with tourists-an unusual but occasional event.

“But is there any particular compulsion to do so, this time? Or is it just your general admiration for me overflowing?”

“Don’t play coy with me. You know Le Parisien has started running your column.”

“Believe me, Jean-Pierre, my interest in playing coy with you could not be observed even at the quantum scale. I haven’t heard anything about this.”

“No? Well, it’s true.”

He dropped a paper in front of Bester.

“They ran this today.”

“This is my review of Farther Clouds.”

“Yes, so it is. The one we published only a few days ago.”

“I never gave them permission to run that.”

“Well, I certainly didn’t,” the younger man said, icily.

Louise had left the day before, and Bester had been feeling more and more uneasy ever since. Now his disquiet took a sharp dig at the inside of his ribs. Le Parisien had a circulation of six million, not just in Paris, but in Quebec, Algeria-on Mars. It could have been worse. They could have run his picture beside the column. Of course, they didn’t have one to run…

“We’ll see about this,” he said.

“Where are their offices?”

Simon de Grun was a round man made of round parts, and even in an impeccably tailored suit he looked like an overdressed balloon. He smiled at Bester and offered him a black cigarette tipped with gold.

“No, thank you,” Bester said.

“I would much rather discuss plagiarism.”

“Got your attention, didn’t it?” de Grun said, lighting his own smoke and taking a satisfied drag.

“I’ve been trying to contact you, you know. Your present publisher wouldn’t supply me with an address or a phone number.”

“He doesn’t have them. I value my privacy.”

“But I take it he also did not pass my messages along to you.”

“No, I don’t believe that he did.”

“It’s very simple, Mr. Kaufman. I like your column. Paris likes your column.”

He opened a desk drawer, removed an envelope, and passed it to Bester.

“There’s a chit with two thousand credits in there. You’ll get one of those each and every time I publish one of your reviews - and I plan to publish one every time you write one. I daresay that’s a better deal than you have with that pretentious little rag you’ve been working for. Not to mention the fact that many of our readers buy their issues on real paper. Think of it, Mr. Kaufman - to see your name in ink, like Faulkner or Liu.”

Bester stared at the envelope.

“You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not. You have bite, Mr. Kaufman. You have style, and a vicious streak a mile wide. The response to your first column in our publication was astonishing, even better than I expected.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

He felt totally disarmed. As a child, there was nothing he had wanted more or worked harder for than the admiration of his peers. In time, he had gotten beyond that, and the work itself had become more important than the praise. Yet the praise had continued. There was a time when every young Psi Cop wanted nothing more than to be Alfred Bester. He had become comfortable with his accomplishment, with excellence.

It was only after the sea of respect he floated on had vanished that he’d understood just how much it had buoyed him up, how much weight it had taken off his feet.

Now, for the first time in years, he felt some of that lightness again. And the funny thing was how wholly unexpected it was. lie hadn’t sought praise-it had found him of its own accord. Of course, they didn’t know who he really was, but that made it all the more delicious.