Deadly Relations: Bester Ascendant by J. Gregory Keyes Page B

to do. He had two options-he could descend the escalators into the underground, or exit up to the street. If he chose the wrong direction, he would certainly lose any chance that remained of finding Lara Brazg.
    He glanced at the torrent of people passing into the depths below the city and shuddered. He could not go that way, not right now. He came out of the station on the Rue de Lyon, a narrow, bustling cobblestone street surrounded by dirty grey buildings that looked as if they should have crumbled long ago. It had just rained, and a peculiar stench mingled with the tang of wet stones, a stink made of a thousand stinks, as if somehow, impossibly, the city remembered open sewers, burning diesel and petrol, the sulfur of ancient gunfire-every chemical that had ever oozed or diffused on it since the beginning of time.
    It was another alien scene, more threatening by far than the countryside-and yet somehow thrilling, as well. More exciting still was his glimpse of Lara Brazg, vanishing around a curve. This time, better prepared, he telescoped a tight, tunnel-like probe in her direction and got it, an impression of her mind as individual as a fingerprint, or perhaps more appropriately, as a scent to a bloodhound. He wished he could risk a light scan, to maybe catch where she was headed if he lost her again, but he couldn’t.
    A teep of Brazg’s abilities would never notice him tracking her, but anything more blatant might set off some alarms in her head. Al hurried up the street, on the hunt again. He followed her sign, crossed a deeply recessed canal on a small iron footbridge. To his faint surprise, the canal vanished into a vaulted tunnel not far to his right, running underneath a broad plaza.
    An emerald pleasure boat arabesqued with gilded lilies was just passing beneath the arch. He stared into it for a moment, but had no sense that she had gone there, either on the boat or the narrow footpaths flanking the waterway.
    He looked around for street signs, and realized, with the surprise of a tourist who happens upon a place he’s heard of, that it was the Place de la Bastille, where once had stood the city’s most famous prison. It was gone now, the square now dominated by the looming Opera Bastille, itself nearly three hundred years old.
    The plaza seemed to have been built over the canal. Where once the prisoners of the French kings had languished, vendors hawked trinkets and souvenirs, and tacky shops and cafes looked inward to the July Column with its gilded statue of Liberty.
    A small cluster of Centauri tourists-dressed in immaculate and ornate garb, and accompanied by what looked like an armored guard with a sword-picked their way through the shops. It was hard not to be distracted by them-he had never seen a live extraterrestrial before - but he tried to keep his mind on the task at hand.
    Nonetheless, once again the Blip had vanished from sight. But not from mind. She was here, somewhere-he could feel her. He stood for a while trying to sort her out of the colorful crowd of tourists and entrepreneurs. He managed the roar better this time - people were farther apart, but more, he was quickly adapting to the new conditions.
    He caught the catlike thoughts of a pickpocket, moving up on unsuspecting marks; the passion of two young lovers; the hatred an old woman harbored for holiday season and the locust-like swarms of gawkers it brought. The slightly odd feel of the Centauri minds, their amused disdain at almost everything they saw.
    Still he couldn’t pinpoint Brazg. She was still, cocooned, probably in one of the buildings. And he must look a little suspicious, he realized, standing in the open, staring like this. He walked around the edge of the square, and when he thought he felt her strongest, he took a seat at a small sidewalk cafe. He tried to cultivate a relaxed appearance, to separate his expression and body language from his purpose.
    He nearly jumped out of his skin when a fluid male voice said, “What