The Legacy of Alfred Bester

NOTE: This story is written as an epilogue to the Psi Corps series by J. Gregory Keyes. Characters and Places are the property of JMS, Babylonian Productions, and so forth.

James shook his head. "I just don’t understand."
The two people at the small, round lunch table looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to go on. One was a middle aged genetic researcher whose name he had not caught. They’d been having lunch together for three weeks almost, since the day after Bester’s death, and he felt too embarrassed to ask now. The other was a surprisingly young history professor at the Major Academy. That one’s name was Mark Hastrock. James knew that because he’d named him himself. James Hastrock worked as a guard in Teeptown’s maximum security prison which held many of the telepathic war criminals. "Understand what?" his son prompted.
"Mr. Bester’s last words." The geneticist straightened and focussed on him with an uncomfortable intensity, as he always did when Bester’s name came up. The man reminded him of somebody, but he couldn’t place who.
"What did he say?" The geneticist’s voice was almost breathless.
Someday, James would ask what the man’ interest in the criminal was, but for now he’d answer the question. "Still remember it like it were yesterday. He’d asked for audio on the ceremony revealing the Dexter statues. Afterwards, he’d started, I don’t know, coughing? Crying? I was sure he was dying. Now, looking back, I think he was laughing, strange as that sounds. I asked him if anything was wrong and he said, mind, these are his exact words, I can’t forget them, ‘It’s nothing. Just the universe.’ He said that kind of thing sometimes, and often stopped there, but that time he went on, not that what he said next made any more sense. ‘Don’t believe anyone when they tell you irony is just a literary convention, James. It’s a universal constant, like the coefficient of gravity.’ And that was the last thing he ever said. He rolled over, went to sleep with this funny little grin on his face, and never woke up. His hand relaxed, and he went to his grave with that same smile still in place. What did he find so amusing that he could finally let go of life in peace?"
"There was no clue in his memoirs?" Mark asked.
"Read them twice, but nothing. That man was nuts, but I think he really believed he didn’t do anything wrong during the war. Scary thing is, I can almost see where he’s coming from, too. Nothing on why that statue might have been ironic, though; he died before he could comment on it in his book."
The geneticist was staring at a spot somewhere beyond James’ left shoulder. "Fiona, Matthew, and Stephen Dexter. Stephen Walters," he murmured. A startled expression crossed his face, and, even as a P2, James felt the sudden surprised wonder radiate briefly from his companion. Then he looked back at James. "No mention of them in his memoirs?"
James shrugged. "Some, but only as a historical note. They existed. Bester caught Stephen Walters on Mars. That kind of thing."
The geneticist turned his attention to Mark. "How old would Stephen Dexter be now?"
The history professor shrugged. "Oh, I’d say, not quite a hundred. More than eighty, for certain. Why? He’s long dead."
"Dead, certainly. I’m not sure how long, though, if my hunch is right."
Mark raised his eyebrows in surprised curiosity. "Oh? How long do you think he may have been dead for?"
"Three weeks." James and Mark stared at him, speechless. He did not seem to notice. Instead, he rose from his seat and hurried from the cafeteria without saying good bye, something he did fairly frequently.
James looked at his son for several moments before breaking the silence. *You don’t think he thinks Bester was Stephen Dexter, do you?* He ‘cast.
*Well it would certainly be ironic.*

Benjamin Reich Bester sat down at an AI and inserted a small black chip. He did not know where it came from originally, but that hardly mattered as long as he knew how to operate it. Ben did. The little device did its dirty work, confusing the security of the AI. He typed in several codes, and brought up the DNA sequences of Matthew Dexter, Fiona Temple, and Alfred Bester. Both Matthew and Fiona had been in the reeducation camps, and the Corps had managed to get their genes on file before their escape. Bester’s was easy to find; he’d already checked it once to see if his mother told truth or lie when she said he was really Bester’s son. Bester said no. Actually, Bester had never spoken to him. But the DNA disagreed with his father’s silent denial.
The Dexters were a good match, both P12s, genetically compatible. He ran an analysis, then sat back to await the results. It didn’t take long. The AI beeped, and Ben leaned forward. He drew in a sharp breath. Suspicion was one thing, confirmation quite another. There was a 98% chance that Alfred Bester was truly the son of Fiona and Matthew Dexter. Stephen Kevin Dexter. That meant Fiona and Matthew were Ben’s grandparents? Huh.
A timid knock sounded on his office door. He cleared the screen of anything Dexter-related, and palmed the black chip back into its little pouch in his sleeve. "Enter!" he called as he pulled up his regular work, so it appeared he had been working. The door slid open, revealing a boy of five years of age. Ben smiled broadly. "Hey, kiddo, what brings you here?"
The boy trotted several steps into the room, then climbed onto the chair opposite Ben’s desk. From the chair, he clambered onto the desk, scattering some data crystals that the geneticist was able to catch before they rolled off the surface. Sitting back on his heels, the child smiled. "Just wanna say hi, Daddy." *Whatcha doin’?* He ‘cast, switching between spoken and psi without thinking about it.
*Finding out who you great-grandparents were.* The wisdom of informing a chatty kindergartener about this was questionable, but the boy was a Bester. Ben was sure he could keep a secret if he had to.
*Yeah?* The boy’s enthusiasm was less than all-encompassing, but there was true curiosity in his mindvoice.
*Daddy’s Daddy’s Daddy was Matthew Dexter, and Daddy’s Daddy’s Mommy was Fiona Temple Dexter. You know who Matthew and Fiona Dexter are, right, Linc?*
Linc’s eyes darted toward the window, through which, if the blinds had been open, one should be able to see the new statues on a clear day. *Yup.* Ben waited a minute, letting his son think it through. It had taken Ben a few minutes, too. *I’m related to them?* Linc eventually added, wonder in his mindvoice.
*Have to promise not to tell anybody, Lincoln, can you do that?*
*Why?*
*‘Cuz Daddy’s not supposed to know, and you’re not supposed to know. If someone finds out, the Grins -* he cut himself off. There were no more Grins. But the old threats from his own childhood were the first to come to mind. It was better this way; the Grins were the way of the past, the way of Al Bester’s era. He didn’t want to threaten his son, there had to be other ways to show the necessity for silence in this. *If someone finds out, people will treat us different.*
Linc frowned. *Might stop ‘em from botherin’ me ‘bout Grandpapa Bester.*
*That’s the problem, kid. Grandpapa Bester the Psi Cop is Stephen Dexter the hope of the Rogues. It would confuse people if they found out, and make Stephen’s name darker. He wouldn’t just be a lost innocent baby anymore. D’you understand what I’m saying, Linc?*
The boy thought about it. Ben watched the young round face as he concentrated and tried to puzzle out what his father was talking about. *Think so,* he ‘cast finally. *Grandpapa’s secret.* Odd how those two words encompassed everything and nothing of what Ben had been trying to explain.
*Grandpapa’s secret,* he repeated solemnly to his son.

Ben set his lunch tray down beside Mark Hastrock’s and slid into his seat. Both Mark and James looked at him expectantly. “What?” Ben asked after a moment of silence.
"Is he?" Mark demanded. "Is Bester -" he couldn’t say it, so he ‘cast it. *Is he Stephen Dexter?*
Ben had considered long at hard how to answer that. He’d known they would after yesterday’s performance. He’d let his excitement and shock get out of hand, and he said things he definitely should have kept to himself. James was only a P2, and Mark was only a little stronger, a P4. Neither would notice a P12's light surface scan. James still firmly believed that Stephen Dexter died 92 years ago. Mark had already nearly accepted Ben’s hypothesis and was awaiting only final confirmation that Stephen Dexter died 3 weeks ago. Neither had spread the theory to anyone.
Ben realized he had forgotten to mention his last name when he introduced himself to them. Mark knew him only as Ben, while James had forgotten his name completely. Ben found it vaguely amusing. Perhaps this was how one should make friends. Leave out part of one’s name during the introduction. Jenny had died during the war (though six years after the theoretical end, he considered that train ‘accident’ an extension of it), as had many his friends. The rest he had lost to prison, relocation, retirement, or embarrassment. His co-workers treated him cooly, and nobody had seemed eager to make his acquaintance since Alfred Bester’s role in the war became public.
His mother sued for and received her divorce, and had promptly married the man she’d been seeing for as long as Ben could remember. Alisha Bester was now Alisha Dawson. She and her new husband moved far from Teeptown, where nobody knew whose wife she had been.
Lincoln was probably getting the worst of it. His current future occupation of choice was a cop, which only made it worse. He’d already cycled through geneticist and songwriter, so Ben wasn’t sure how long this goal would hold, but it definitely worried Linc’s teachers. The other kids teased him or avoided him, mostly. They knew who his grandfather was. When he was allowed to join their games, he was the War Criminal and they played the EABI agents. He said he was good at it, and getting better every game. It took Ben an hour to explain that being a War Criminal wasn’t a job he could have when he grew up.
Ben stabbed at a piece of potato. "No,"he answered aloud. "I found the real genetic matches of his parents. They were Corps, killed by a Resistance bomb shortly after his birth. Gulliver Bester was his father, Emily Rocher was his mother." Neither name existed until this moment, but the story was common. Mark and James would not research deeper. James had already forgotten the names - apparently he was very bad at that sort of thing. Funny that, he could remember a prisoner’s exact words three weeks later, but he couldn’t hold on to a name for even a minute. Mark filed the names away as trivia and might or might not remember them next week. He was disappointed and faintly surprised, but he never doubted Ben’s words.
One of his pockets started ringing before he could add any garnish to his story or switch topics. He pulled out his phone, and switched it on. "Ben here, go," he said into it, and saw James mouth his name.
"This is Mr. Thrapple again. I have Lincoln in my office."
Ben wished he was alone as he was the last two times the principal had called. He’d known his luck wouldn’t hold out. "He wasn’t fighting this time, was he?" There had been a very long talk after that. Ben was not looking forward to another one.
"Not physically," the principal answered. Ben was visibly relieved. "But he was arguing with his teacher in a very disrespectful manner. Very reminiscent of," Thrapple lowered his voice almost to a whisper, "Him." Everyone knew who Him was.
"Linc is not his grandfather," Ben said wearily, "Linc never met his grandfather. I never met my father. Mr. Thrapple, until I hear specifics that Linc does not deny I will not believe my son is acting like Alfred Bester, even if his name does happen to be Lincoln Powell Bester. I will be there in five minutes." He snapped his phone closed without saying good-bye, and looked at his two companions. "Yes, I’m His son. Benjamin Reich Bester. If you’ll excuse me, I have to explain to a biased man that a five year old boy can cause a little bit of trouble without it being an indication of a pathology gene." There were definitely times in his life when he wished that Jared Dawson had been his father.
From behind him, he heard James mutter, "Knew he looked like somebody else I knew." Tomorrow, he’d find out if they would let him stay at their lunch table.

"Daddy?" Linc’s heels clunked against the legs of the kitchen chair. "How come Mr. Thrapple donen’t like me?"
Ben set the sauce pan on the back burner and turned the appropriate dial to Low. "Mr. Trapple doesn’t dislike you, Linc. It’s just that in the two months since you started school, you’ve been sent to his office five times for misbehaving. He doesn’t like people to misbehave."
Linc shifted in his chair such that he ended sitting on his heels. "You’re not mad, are you, Daddy?"
Ben began filling another pot with water, then looked back at his son. "No, I’m not mad. But I think you should try harder not to upset your teacher. No fighting, no yelling, ok?"
Linc frowned, a surprised and hurt look on his face. "I didn’t yell." Injured innocence. Ben had made good use of the expression during his own childhood and even during the war.
The pot being nearly full, he shut off the water. "Mr. Thrapple said you were brought to his office today for arguing."
"Don’t hafta yell to argue," he argued, keeping his voice level and conversational.
Ben was impressed by the boy’s insight. Linc flushed with pleased pride as he picked up his father’s emotion. "How do you know so much, kid?" Ben asked him fondly as he put the pot of water onto the front burner. He spun that dial to High.
Surprisingly, Linc looked at his hands guiltily. "Been watching vids," he mumbled.
A mental alarm went off in Ben’s mind. "What vids?"
He changed position in his seat again, this time scrunching into a little ball. "The ones ‘bout Grandpapa. He argues quiet."
There were Bester vids and then there were Bester vids. If he’d been watching the kind villifying Alfred Bester, Ben would have some explaining to do, but if he’d been watching the other kind, there could be serious repercussions. "Where did you find these vids?" he asked cautiously.
"Your ‘puter. Are you mad at me now?"
Ben closed his eyes and tried to breathe. "No, I’m not mad, Linc." That was truth, he was too scared to be mad. Security vids of interrogations Alfred Bester had participated in. Personal logs by Alfred Bester. Security vids of meetings Alfred Bester had attended. Even a few home vids that Alfred Bester had appeared in. ISN reports that mentioned Alfred Bester, both interviews and bulletins. The collection had taken decades to compile. It should had been protected by three separate passwords. "How did you find them?" He remembered the sauce suddenly, and began stirring it with a wooden spoon.
Reassured that his dad wasn’t mad, Linc uncurled from his ball. He leaned forward, putting his elbows and forearms on the table. It slanted toward him as he put most of his weight on it. "Used the little black thingy."
That scared Ben more than that his son had been watching Grandpapa’s vids. Shadow tech. In Linc’s hands. "I don’t want you ever using that, Linc."
Big brown eyes met Ben’s. "Why, Daddy? You use it."
"It’s a grown-up thing. I’ll tell you about it some day, but now you have to promise not to touch it or tell anyone about it." He hated the hypocrisy, but he did not want Linc involved. Not with Shadow tech. Not yet. "Grandpapa’s secret,"he added on impulse.
Linc clearly did not want to give up his security clearance, but he eventually nodded. "Ok. I promise. Grandpapa’s secret." They seemed to be magic words to the boy. He did not ask what Grandpapa had to do with the black chip. Ben wasn’t sure if he should be worried or relieved by the lapse.

The next morning, Ben walked his son to school as usual. Routine broke when he accompanied the boy into the building and followed him to the school nurse’s office. The door was open, but Ben knocked on the wall anyway. The woman seated in front of an AI unit turned around and smiled at them. "Hi," Ben said.
"Hello, yourself," she said, friendly. "What can I do for you?"
Ben looked down at the top of his son’s head nervously, then met her eyes again. "I’m Benjamin Bester. Linc and I have an appointment with the psychologist."
"Oh, yes, I am Dr. Schlick, if you’ll join me in the back room?" Was her sudden distance a result of his name or his relegation to patient status?
"Certainly." He shooed Linc through the indicated doorway. Dr. Schlick followed and ordered the door closed behind them. He hefted Linc onto the paper-covered patient’s table. The five year old’s feet automatically began swinging, clunking into the drawers under him. Ben took an orange plastic chair that was sized for someone rather smaller than even his short frame. The doctor took the green adult-sized chair. "Linc," Ben said warningly, catching an ankle before it bumped the table again. The boy managed to stop by pulling his legs into a cross-legged position.
"Benjamin and Lincoln Bester," the doctor said, flipping through a manila folder. She glanced quickly toward Ben, "You’re His son?"
Ben knew what she meant, but the question annoyed him for some reason. "No, Linc’s my son."
Schlick appeared taken aback for a moment, before smiling, "I suppose I deserved that. But this is relevant to the session; your father was Alfred Bester, Mr. Bester?"
"Dr. Bester," Ben corrected his title, "I have a degree in genetics. To answer your question, yes, Mr. Alfred Bester was my biological father. I believe you already knew that," he inclined his head toward the folder.
She nodded thoughtfully, then asked clinically, "Have you ever considered changing your name, Dr. Bester?"
"May I ask what business that is of yours, Dr. Schlick?"
"You may," she looked at Linc who was playing with a pen and a tongue depressor he’d found somewhere. She turned back to Ben. "I believe it is the power of your surname that is causing Lincoln to draw more than his fair share of negative attention."
Ben pinched his lips together briefly. "I already figured that out. Dr. Schlick, Bester is my name. It is my son’s name. This war that pitted telepath against telepath, that destroyed my father’s life, was fought to bring us freedom, to allow us to be judged as people, not as the Corps. Yes, Al Bester was a war criminal, but though we share a name and quite a few genes, Linc and I are not him. The war was pointless if we are judged as Besters rather than as people. As a point of integrity, I cannot change my name, or my son’s, just because one man sullied it. Just because it would make our lives a little easier, a little more friendly. We have a right and a duty to prove Besters can do good as well as evil."
Dr. Schlick looked both surprised and impressed by his speech. After a moment, she broke the tense silence. "Well, just as long as you know, despite your idealism, you will both be treated more harshly because of your name." Ben nodded. He’d known that even before Al Bester had been declared a war criminal, back when he was still a respected, if somewhat feared, Psi Cop. The psychologist smiled at the five year old. "Linc," she said, drawing his attention away from the pen.
"Yeah?"
"What’s you’re opinion of your teacher?"
He shrugged. "Dunno."
"Do you like her?"
He shrugged again. "Not really."
"Why’s that?"
"She don’t like me."
"Why’s that?" she repeated.
He shrugged yet again. "She gets mad at me a lot. She thinks I like making trouble."
"Do you?"
Linc shook his head. "Nu-uh. When I get in trouble I gotta go see Mr. Thrapple and he really don’t like me. Daddy said that he just don’t like people bein’ bad, but he really don’t like me."
"He’s scared of you, Linc," Ben said softly. "Doesn’t mean he doesn’t like you."
Linc spun toward his father, surprise on his face. The sudden movement sent the pen and the tongue depressor flying to the floor as the paper cover spun with him. "Scared of me?"
"Scared of Grandpapa, anyway. He’s scared you’ll be like him."
"Oh." He looked down at where his ‘toys’ had fallen. Ben picked them up wordlessly, and placed them beside his son. The doctor followed the exchange intently. "So is that why I’m not supposed to use -" he cut himself off and mimed locking his lips closed. "Grandpapa’s secret."
"Yes," Ben said curtly, then looked at the doctor, "I trust everything said here is protected under patient confidentiality?"
"Yes, of course."
Ben nodded, "Now I have to go to work, and Linc needs to go to class before he gets in trouble again." The excuse was true, but it was equally transparent as an escape.
"You will return this afternoon for a longer session?"
Ben hesitated, though he could think of no appropriate reason to dodge the request. Neither he nor Linc had much on their social planners. "I’ll come at 1600," he said in resignation.