Absent Friends
Part 1


He bent his neck back until the top of his head touched the wall and winced as 
he felt the tension in his body.  Hunching his shoulders, he rotated his head in 
a languid circle, felt the cords of muscle burn down his back.  He whistled out 
a weary sigh as the transport tube whispered to a stop.   

Michael Garibaldi drove his hands into his pockets and heaved himself away from 
the wall as the doors opened on the crew quarters.  He wondered why no one had 
questioned his keeping these quarters after his resignation, but right now he 
was too tired to follow the thought.

"Evenin', Chief!"  The voice was undeniably nasal and impossibly cheerful.  
"Workin' late?" 

Garibaldi nodded at Zack Allan.  "Sort of."  He fought the gnawing urge to 
request an update on station security.  It wasn't his responsibility or his 
right, not anymore.  Allan might persist in calling Garibaldi 'Chief' but it was 
Zack who ran security for the station now, and from all Michael could tell, did 
it well.  His confidence in the kid had been well founded.  Hiring him, moving 
him up, were probably some of the smartest moves he made as Chief of Security.   

 Former chief of security, he corrected himself.   

Zack was chatting away, Michael realized.  "Chief, are you OK?  I mean, I know 
the Doc says you're healthy, but -- don't take this the wrong way -- lately, you 
don't look so good.  Can I..."

"I just need some sleep."  Michael cut off the offer of help.  "Too many nights 
working late."  He turned to face the door of his quarters.   

"Michael?" 

Zack's voice halted him.  The kid never called him by name.  He looked back to 
where the young man stood.

"Is there anything I can do?"

He smiled, shook his head, and opened the door.  Stepping forward into the 
shadows, he waited to feel the door brush closed behind him.  The darkness 
caressed him, oozing in between him and the cares of the day.  With the 
blackness around him, he was safe, at least for a little while.  He closed his 
eyes, deepening the darkness still a bit more, and drew a long breath.  The 
fragrance on the air made his head swim.  Exotic, ethereal, elusive, it seeped 
into his body and his mind, yet when he searched for it, he could not find it.   

He was startled that the sweet spicy aroma endured.  What had she said it was?  
Ylang?  Neroli?  Aw, nuts, it didn't matter now.  When Delenn had given him the 
scented oil, promising it would quiet his mind and help him rest, he had been 
skeptical, yet he found it worked.  Reading the map in his mind, he navigated 
through the enfolding darkness to the bedside table, lit the warming candle, and 
added a bit more oil to the diffuser.  The tiny light ricocheted about the room, 
magnifying itself into mammoth shadows.

He and the bed sighed in unison as he dropped down and kicked off his shoes.  A 
shower, he thought, might wash this day away, a hot shower.  He thought of 
Karena and for a moment, his heart ached.  The emollient oils and velvet 
darkness embraced him again.  In a few minutes... he thought, leaning back, 
surrendering.

= = =

Seren sat cross-legged on a meditation cushion.  She let the images of those she 
was concerned about float one by one past her inner eye: Michael...  Marcus...  
Ivanova...  Sheridan...  Draal...  Delenn...  Lennier...  Zack...  The 
Rangers...The station...  The cause...She lifted her hands and guided a cloud of 
air redolent with sandalwood and geranium to herself.  Drawing the intoxicant 
into her body and spirit she watched as a panoply of possibilities played 
themselves out before her.

Her breath pulsed in rhythm with the undulant energy of the Great Machine; her 
body was electrified, her mind quick, keen, and supple.  Her awareness darted 
about, within and without herself, as if caroming off the walls of the shrine.  
Your imagination, she thought, the intensity of the moment...Let it go.  She 
slowed her breathing.  No!  There!  She felt the contact again.  Just another 
seeker come to meditate, that's all you sense.  Let it go.  She raised her 
hands, palms up, in front of her and drew them to her heart, but the sense of 
another presence would not be blocked.  Perhaps she was needed.   She calmed her 
mind, and carefully, reverently, rose from her cushion.  She turned to see who 
had come to join her.  The Shrine was empty.   

= = =


Good Morning!  It is oh-five-thirty Earth Standard Time.  You have the following 
messages:...

He tried to remember who had jumped him.  There must have been several of them 
for him to be this sore.  He unfolded his aching body from the fetal pose in 
which he woke, sat up in the bed, and tried to orient himself.  He was fully 
dressed except for his shoes.  Aw, damn!  It had been more than a few minutes 
since he contemplated that shower.  He swung his feet over the edge of the bed, 
commanding himself to stand, and stumbled over his cast off shoes.  Steadying 
himself on the bedside table, he unbuttoned his shirt, shrugged it off his 
shoulders, let it slide down his arms, and headed toward the shower.  Ambushed 
by yesterday, with more of the same likely today.   

Little by little he stretched out the tension.  As he showered, dressed, and 
straightened the room, he bent then arched his back, rolled his shoulders, 
rotated his arms, and began to feel signs of life in his body again.  He 
considered breakfast but was already restless.  "Open."  He stepped out into the 
corridor, and she handed him a mug.   

 "Thank you, Commander!"  He lifted the cup and stopped short, incredulous.  He 
stared at Ivanova.   "This is coffee!"

"I thought you might need it.  Word was you had a rough day yesterday."

Understatement.  "How did...?  Never mind."  He knew better.  The day something 
happens on this station and Ivanova doesn't know about it...

He sipped the hot brew, moving toward the transport tube, chatting with Susan.

"You've been putting in long hours, Michael.  You need to take better care of 
yourself."  Ivanova didn't look at him when she spoke.   

"And there's something new about that?"  Garibaldi teased.  Susan smirked and 
shrugged.  "There are a lot of folks looking for a lot of things, Susan.  It 
makes me feel good to know I can help."

"What about you, Michael?"  She gave him a sidelong glance.  "Have you found 
what you're looking for?"

"Happiness?"  It was Garibaldi's turn to shrug.  "It's all relative."  They 
stopped in front of the transport tube and Ivanova hit the signal.  "Your shift 
doesn't start for an hour," he said, changing the subject, "why are you in so 
early?"

"Ah," she sighed, "I've got a staff meeting later that's going to eat my whole 
morning.  I've got to get a jump on the paperwork."  The doors before them slid 
open.

Michael smiled as they stepped into the car.  Susan probably still kept longer 
hours than he did.   Ever the perfectionist.  They stood together listening to 
the hum of the transport's motor and the awkwardness of their silence.  Finally, 
Ivanova's shaky whisper broke though.  

"Have you been able to remember anything, Michael?"

Garibaldi pushed down the irritation that was triggered with every repetition of 
that question.  He knew the answer frightened her as much as it did him.  He 
knew too, by the tone of her voice, that her concern was genuine.  He forced a 
half-smile.

"Nothing yet, Commander, but when I do, you'll be the first to know.  Hell," he 
grinned, "you'll probably know before I do."  He handed her the empty mug as she 
stepped out of the transport tube.  


In the marketplace in DownBelow, he moved from stall to stall, browsing through 
the goods but looking at the browsers.  Ostensibly, and if anyone asked, he was 
here in the hope of recovering missing items for some of his clients.  He soon 
spotted what he was really looking for, and worked his way in that direction.  
He wove between the pears and the apples at the fruit stand and slipped into an 
alley-like corridor behind the shop.  

The farther down the corridor he moved the darker and danker it grew.  When the 
stench assaulted him and vision seemed impossible, he considered turning back.  
The snap of a Minbari fighting pike removed the option.  

He raised his hands to show that he had no weapon.  The pike nudged him forward, 
then left into an access panel.  Inside the storage locker, he stopped, waiting 
for his shepherd to guide him.  He heard the access panel slam then the whoosh-
click as the pike folded in on itself.  He lowered his arms slowly, and turned.  

The Ranger gave a deep bow.  "I have what you wanted, Mr. Garibaldi."

= = =

"If there's nothing else..." Ivanova rose from her chair.  "Thank you, all."  
She nodded dismissal at the assembled department heads.  Another staff meeting 
over.  Routine.  Uneventful.  A welcome change from what had been going on 
around here.  

"Excuse me, Commander?" 

She knew the voice and it made her uneasy.  She turned to face the head of 
Operating Systems and Artificial Intelligence.  "Yes, Ms. Sullivan?"

"Commander, I didn't want to bring this up in the meeting, since it's not 
official business, but there is a project I'd like to take on, with your 
permission." 

Ivanova studied the woman speaking to her.  If she could force herself to be 
objective, she would have to admit that Ms. Sullivan was short: not petite, 
since that suggested a delicacy the woman did not possess.  She was short, 
especially next to the statuesque Ivanova.  Yet, when one was in her presence it 
was difficult to notice that.  

"A project, Ms. Sullivan?"  How old is she?  Ivanova wondered.  She made a 
mental note to check the personnel files.  

Sullivan was a rarity on the station: a civilian in the leadership of a key 
department.  She had volunteered for the post, asked for it, and the command 
staff had been given to understand by EarthDome that this was someone good 
enough at what she did to pick and choose her position.  

"I'd like to take another crack at getting the artificial personality on line."  
Sullivan barely paused for breath.  She knew this wasn't going to be an easy 
sell, and she could already see the horror in the executive officer's eyes.  "I 
know it was a nightmare the last time out, but the concept behind it is sound, 
and now that things are a little quieter I believe that I can refine the 
program."

Ivanova's head was rocking steadily side to side by the time she raised her hand 
to cut off the OSAI officer's speech.  "Nightmare doesn't begin to describe it, 
Ms. Sullivan!  If you will remember, it took days to purge that monster from the 
system, and you are seriously going to stand here and suggest that we restart 
it?"

"Not immediately, no!  What I'm proposing is that we modify the program using 
information from the last experience, then test, and continue to refine it in a 
very limited environment.  When we are satisfied with those tests we can 
gradually extend it into the wider system."

Nearly stammering in disbelief, Ivanova tried to understand why she always felt 
as though this woman had the upper hand on her.  "May I remind you that the 
information from the last experience includes the fact that Mr. Garibaldi took a 
PPG to the system?  No, Ms. Sullivan, I cannot authorize this.  It's madness."

Sullivan started to counter, but Ivanova stared her down.  "No, Ms. Sullivan."  
Pulse racing, heart pounding, the commander held her ground.

The OSAI officer dropped her gaze to the floor, closed her eyes, and drew a long 
breath.  When next they made eye contact Ivanova was startled to realize that 
her mind and body were quiet, as a ship suddenly becalmed.  She strained to hear 
the question put to her.

"Commander, if I were able to download the artificial personality program to a 
stand alone system, would you object to my experimenting with it on my own 
time?"

Oddly, she could find no objection.  Sullivan thanked her, and took her leave.  
I won that one!  Susan thought.  At least I think I did...

= = =

Garibaldi shifted his weight.  He had been perched on the edge of a crate for 
over an hour now listening to the Ranger's report, shuffling through the packet 
of papers he had received, turning the data crystal over and over in his hand.  
Questioning his contact, asking him to repeat himself, Michael tried to record 
mentally all that the young man was telling him.  

Even as he did, he was moving, racing ahead in his mind.  Where do I go next 
with this?  How can I confirm that?  Do I believe it?  What the hell is in these 
crates?  What does this information really mean?  He felt the old familiar 
tension creeping back into his body, stood, stretched and paced a bit.  The 
swish of a cape told him that his contact had changed position to face him.

He looked again at the Ranger, and saw at last the strain and fatigue in his 
face.  Something stirred in him that he could only describe as paternal, and he 
knew he wasn't comfortable with that word.  He was startled to realize that he 
did not know the young man's name.  He asked.

"Akirai."

Garibaldi studied the man: close cropped black hair, skin of walnut brown, 
straight slender nose, a delicate mouth, and immense hazel eyes.  He wondered 
what Akirai's story was, how he came to be a Ranger, how he came to be here now.  
It would not be proper to ask.  But this he knew: it had been a long time since 
this young man had eaten and longer still since he had slept.  He wished he 
could offer him something, give something in return for the risks Akirai had 
taken.  But they could not be seen together.  Even a paranoid like me sometimes 
has a reason to be afraid....

"Akirai, you look tired."  Garibaldi smiled as he recognized the solution.  "I 
want you to go down to Grey 17.  Some people there'll see to it you get 
something to eat and a place to sleep.  Don't worry -- I would trust them with 
my life.  Tell them I sent you.  You do like breen, don't you?"

= = =

Alone in the transport tube, Michael patted his pocket to make sure the papers 
and the data crystal were safe.  What had been required to bring this to him?  
There was no way he could express his gratitude to the Rangers for their courage 
and sacrifice, and especially to those among the Rangers who risked this 
assignment.  He recognized that they did so out of a personal loyalty.  Sheridan 
and Delenn commanded the Rangers, and he was pretty certain neither of them 
would have ordered this.  But Sinclair had entrusted knowledge of the Rangers 
first to Garibaldi, back before Sheridan understood what it was all about, back 
before...  

He shook off the rage rising in him.  Sinclair had asked him to look out for the 
Rangers, and over time, they had come to know and trust him.  Now they were 
willing to trust again, and to help him.  His thoughts went to Jeff.  Thank you, 
old friend.

He strode out to the Zocalo at a brisk pace.  It felt good to move freely.  He 
blanched as an image of the cell flashed in his head and he felt again the 
restraints on his arms.  

"So now we have something in common."  Lyta Alexander fell into step beside him, 
her long legs matching his stride.  

Momentarily disoriented, he could only look at her quizzically.

"Freelance work," Lyta elucidated, seeing the question in his face.  "Now we're 
both in the private sector."

"Well, yeah..." Get a hold of yourself, man.  "There is that."

"Perhaps we can be helpful to one another?"  She threw him a sidelong glance.

"We'll see."  He suspected her intentions were good, but this...well...  he 
wished he had not had to involve the Rangers.  He would not involve anyone else, 
especially not a teep.

He bid Lyta good-bye and turned into his 'office'.  The waiter, seeing him 
settle down at his usual table, brought the water.  The next few hours passed 
quickly in conversations with a string of clients, some bringing new quests, 
some checking back for their answers.  When the last had left, his body spoke 
up, demanding food.  An arched eyebrow in the right direction brought a menu and 
a refilled glass.

Looking at the menu, not reading it, Garibaldi wondered what would quiet his 
hunger.  He knew the bill of fare by memory, and he could do better, but he 
suspected that it was not the need for food that was gnawing at him.  He 
felt...what?

"Mr. Garibaldi?"

A look of distaste hardened his features before he even lifted his head to look 
at her.  He drew back his shoulders and angled his torso in the chair, putting 
more distance between them.  His eyes were steely, his lips pursed a bit.

"Ms. Sullivan."  One eyebrow moved up as his head tipped down.

"May I sit down?"

"I'd rather you didn't." 

"I've come to ask for your help."

"You can't afford me."  He censored the rest.  For the sake of his own dignity, 
he would not get profane.

"Not like that..." She was not insulted; in fact she seemed amused.  

Is she that arrogant, he wondered, or that stupid?  "Not like anything, Ms. 
Sullivan.  No way, no how, no."  He flashed a mocking grin.  "Have a nice day."

She sat down anyway.  Arrogant, he decided.

"Mr. Garibaldi, will you at least hear what I have to say?" 

He felt something -- a tug on an emotional sleeve.  Oh no, lady, you're not 
gonna bulldoze me.  He turned his attention to the menu.

"I've taken on a project..."She apparently doesn't notice I'm ignoring her.  
"...one that is not going to make me popular..." You got that right, lady.  
"...and I want your input..." Input this:...  he repressed the imprecation.  
"...because you are the one person probably most offended by it." That tears it!

"You know what offends me, Ms. Sullivan?  You offend me.  The fact that the 
station's limited air supply is wasted on the likes of you offends me.  Your 
projects offend me, your requests offend me, your input offends me, your life 
offends me."  He had leaned more than halfway across the table, and now he was 
literally in her face.  He sat back.  "It's time you were leaving, Ms. Sullivan.  
The airlock is that way."

Trembling from the rush of adrenaline, he hoped he didn't look as shaken as he 
felt.  Why wasn't she leaving?  A chill rattled back and forth across his body, 
moving gradually down from his shoulders to his seat, like a pinball gone 
berserk.  Get a grip!  For a moment, he could have sworn he felt someone's arms 
around his shoulders, a gentle, compassionate caress.  It would have been 
welcome if it had been real.  Am I losing it? 

He looked over to where Sullivan still sat.  Her eyes, fixed on him, spoke of 
pain and hope.  Her voice embraced him.

"I understand, Mr. Garibaldi."

= = =

Taldenn looked on from the back of the shrine as Seren meditated.  His role, it 
seemed to him, had a certain inherent irony.  He was there to see that she was 
not disturbed, but she was there because she was disturbed.  This was not her 
regular meditation time; she had abandoned her study to come to the Shrine.  
Lately she had seemed troubled, more troubled than usual.  He did not know the 
reason, although he had suspicions.  He only wished he could be of more help.  

Seren did not stir from her pose on the floor when she spoke.  "It's all right, 
Taldenn.  Let her come." 

The young Minbari leapt to attention.  Had he been distracted?  Quickly he bowed 
in Seren's direction as she rose and turned, then he too turned to greet the 
visitor.  Puzzled, he looked back at Seren.  "Tezah?"

Seren walked slowly from the Shrine, and Taldenn fell in behind her.  He would 
ask no further questions.  Before leaving, he added a bit of incense to the 
burner for the guest he could not see.

= = =

It took four tries to get the transport tube to stop at Grey 17.  When he 
finally arrived, Akirai was uncertain -- about the place in general -- but more 
specifically, about how he would know Garibaldi's friends.  Tentatively, he 
approached the cluster of people in the foyer.  Their conversation, though 
quiet, seemed intense.  

"Excuse me, please...?"  As the knot of bodies untied itself, he realized he did 
not know the rest of his question.

"How can we help you, Ranger?" 

He was startled to see that the man speaking to him wore, as he did, the Ranger 
uniform.  The dark-haired man with the enormous eyes thrust out a hand.  "I'm 
Marcus Cole.  These are my friends." 

Akirai clasped the hand and nodded his respects to the others.  

"What brings you to Grey 17?"  Marcus asked.

Were these the people he meant?  "Mr. Garibaldi sent me."

One might have thought he had yelled 'fire'.  Every soul in the foyer closed on 
him, demanding to know what was wrong.  Once he had convinced them that the 
Chief had been well when they parted, he found himself the focus of attention.  
He had finished an ample meal, and was sitting back with tea and brownies when 
Brother Theo brought word on where he could bed down.  

"There now, we've got you all settled."  The monk pulled up a chair and poured 
himself a mug of tea.  "So, how do you know Mr. Garibaldi?" 

"I just completed an assignment for him -- collecting some information."  Theo 
made to refill the young Ranger's cup, but he waved it off.  "Friends, thank you 
so much.  I don't remember the last time I ate this well."

"And now, " Marcus completed the thought for him, "you would like some sleep."

When Akirai agreed, they wished him pleasant dreams and sent him off to his 
bunk.  As soon as the young Ranger was out of earshot, they huddled.  

Brother Theo squinted into the distance as though some answer were hiding there.  
"Marcus, does this sound plausible to you?  A Ranger working for Garibaldi?" 

"The Chief has been the Rangers' contact here on the station for a long time.  
'Working for Garibaldi' may be too strong, but I doubt there's a Ranger in the 
area who wouldn't be willing to do him any favor."

"And would you want to speculate on what kind of information he was gathering?" 
the monk asked.

"Perhaps we worry too much," Marcus suggested.  "He's tired.  He resigned.  He's 
doing the work he wants to do.  Perhaps we ought just respect that and let him 
alone."

"Are you going to tell me the Rangers are helping him find lost property?"  
Brother Theo's challenge left Marcus without a response.  "Marcus, do you think 
Akirai would talk to you -- you know, Ranger to Ranger?  Tell you what 
information he brought the Chief?" 

Marcus winced.  "No.  And it wouldn't be fair of me to ask."  His voice softened 
as he turned to the white-haired monk.  "I know you're worried.  We all are.  
But..."

"I'm sorry..." Theo offered, and the Ranger acknowledged the apology with a nod.  

"So where are we?"  Marcus asked.

"On our way to bed." the Brother stood, and spoke with a Superior's wisdom.  
"It's late, and this is getting us nowhere.  We'll be there if Mr. Garibaldi 
needs us.  That's all we can do."

= = =

"Off."  Garibaldi removed the data crystal from the reader and squeezed it in 
his fist until it dug into his palm.  He closed his eyes, tried to clear his 
head, quiet his mind, organize his thoughts.  Sleep tried to drag him down.  

Shaking it off, he opened eyes and hand, tossed the crystal up, and caught it 
again.  He crossed to the table and set the crystal on top of the bag from which 
he had taken it.  He surveyed the documents strewn across the table as he 
extricated his mug from their midst.  He threw back a deep draught...of air.  

Staring into the bottom of the empty mug with the look of one betrayed, Michael 
wondered to do next.  It's late....  No, by now, it's early.  He needed sleep, 
but he was far too restless to sleep.  He needed to be sharp, alert, for what 
was ahead of him.  More tea.  

Lifting the kettle from the stovetop with one hand, he turned on the water with 
the other, and thrust the pot into the water stream.  It would have worked 
better had he taken the top off the kettle.  He dropped the kettle with a 
resounding clatter, and tried simultaneously to reach forward to turn off the 
faucet and to jump back out of the spray which was soaking him.  He slipped on 
the wet floor, tried to grab the sink for balance, smacked his head on the edge 
of the counter, and landed sitting in the puddle on the floor.  

Sharp... he thought.  Alert...  Good...  Real good.  He scrubbed his hand over 
the throbbing spot on his skull.  Terrific!  By morning, I'll look like a 
Minbari.  He laughed out loud at the image.

Carefully he lifted himself out of the puddle and found a mop.  When the floor 
was safe, he wiped up sink, stove, and environs, replaced the kettle on the 
stove, and improvised an ice pack.  To sit down in his present condition would 
leave a record on the cushions, and his wet clothes were clinging to his body in 
ways that were increasingly unpleasant.  He set the ice pack aside and began to 
strip off his clothes.  He went 0 for 5 on shots at the hamper.  Sharp.  Really 
sharp.

He dropped back on the bed and lay there staring at the ceiling.  Maybe I should 
try to sleep.  He closed his eyes.  You work for us, only for us.  He opened his 
eyes.  He had so little memory of those missing weeks.  Three or four brief 
flashes.  He closed his eyes.  Program initiated.  He opened his eyes.  He 
wanted to remember and yet he didn't.  He needed to but he couldn't.  He closed 
his eyes.  Tell us what you remember.  He opened his eyes.  

He rolled off the bed onto his feet, and returned to the table.  One by one, he 
lifted and examined the papers spread there: memos, scribbled notes, full sheets 
and tattered scraps.  One by one, he arranged them in a stack, and when the last 
was in place, eased the stack into an envelope, and carefully closed it.  He 
returned the data crystal to its bag, and taking bag and envelope, walked toward 
the closet.  Nearly there, he placed his treasures on the bedside table.  From 
the closet, he withdrew a box, which he laid on the bed.  He lifted the top, and 
as the Egyptian god of frustration looked on, he tucked the data crystal and the 
papers into the folds of his command staff uniform.  

I need to sleep.  His head was throbbing.  Where did I put the ice?  Looking 
around for it, he spotted instead Delenn's scented oil.  Worth a shot.  He 
filled and lit the burner, then stretched out on the bed.  He drew one deep, 
slow breath after another, afraid to close his eyes again.  The few seconds of 
memories he had were saturated with terror.  Except...  

He closed his eyes.  He struggled to remember that one moment.  It crept in to 
his mind, had to be coaxed to come, cajoled to stay.  But it was vivid, making 
his skin tingle, just as it had then.  The exotic fragrance intruded on his 
consciousness and he inhaled it gratefully.  

A rush of power stirred him.  Easy.  It's just your imagination.  He slowed his 
breathing, relaxed into the mattress.  He closed his eyes.  It's just the 
memory.  

It was the memory and it was not.  Now, as then, he felt stronger, braver, 
calmer.  Now, as then, he was not alone.  

= = =

Lyta wondered if she should have made an appointment.  This was odd enough, 
without showing up unannounced and uninvited.  No, she'd have had to explain why 
she wanted the appointment and that could have undermined her plan.  She 
signaled at the door.  

"Come!"  The voice sounded muffled.

The door slid back and Lyta stepped inside the small office.  A desk, data 
console and screen and a rolling chair filled the space to the right.  On the 
left was a table littered with documents and books.  Directly before her, two 
simple chairs, and between them, pen clenched between her teeth, stood Sullivan.

She removed the pen before asking, "Can I help you?"

Lyta searched for a tone that would hide her uneasiness.  "No, but perhaps I can 
help you."

Sullivan smiled, a smile Lyta liked.  She said nothing, so Lyta went on.

"I hope you won't think me too forward in approaching you like this, but I was 
on the Zocalo yesterday, and noticed you in conversation with Mr. Garibaldi."  
Her inflection lifted the statement into a question.

She had the woman intrigued; she could see that.  And Sullivan was still 
smiling.

"Yes," the dark-haired woman confirmed, but offered nothing more.

"Forgive me, but, well, from what I saw I'd venture that your business dealings 
are not going...  smoothly."

"That's not entirely a fair statement..." The OSAI officer's demeanor was wary 
now.

"Well," Lyta knew she needed to move on this, "please let me introduce myself.  
I'm Lyta Alexander, I'm a commercial telepath, and I think I may be able to help 
you."  She watched Sullivan relax.  

"I'm sorry...Ms. Alexander, was it?"  She smiled as Lyta nodded confirmation.  
"I do recognize you, and though I guess we've never met officially, I know who 
you are and what you do.  I appreciate the offer, but that won't be necessary.  
Thank you anyway."  She began to turn back to the documents on the table.

Lyta tried to judge the right counter move.  "Although I'm no longer affiliated 
with PsiCorps, Ms. Sullivan, I am quite experienced in all sorts of business 
dealings and I'm confident that, if you will trust me with the problem...."

With a wry smile, Sullivan turned to face her, looking up into Lyta's eyes.  
"I'm sorry, Ms. Alexander, but you see, I wasn't there to engage Mr. Garibaldi's 
services.  So there is no 'problem' to discuss."

No prob...Not there to...Lyta wasn't sure she had processed it correctly.  "I 
beg your pardon?"

Sullivan chuckled at Lyta's bewilderment.  "I'm sorry, Ms. Alexander.  I didn't 
approach Mr. Garibaldi to contract for security services.  I have no business 
dealings to enlist your aid with, but I will certainly keep you in mind if I 
ever do need a telepath."  She stepped behind her desk.  "Do you have a card?"

Lyta knew the woman was just being polite, but there was a gentleness in the 
voice that made her want to believe it.  Fumbling in a pocket for her business 
card, Lyta wondered if she could take a risk.

"If you'll forgive my saying so, the way Garibaldi reacted to you yesterday 
might make some people think you were in danger."  She felt confident the Chief 
would never get violent, but she needed to try to shake the story out of 
Sullivan.

Whoa!  Did you see her fumble?  As the OSAI officer took the card Lyta had 
proffered there was a moment of hesitation.  What had spooked her?

Sullivan's brown eyes moved down to the card in her hand, but Lyta didn't think 
that she was seeing it.  When she spoke, the sadness was crushing.  "Mr. 
Garibaldi doesn't like me very much..."

She looked up at Lyta, visage and voice reset to a cool, professional image.  
"...but that's nothing new, nor is it about to change.  I have no concerns for 
my safety, however.  Mr. Garibaldi is the most honorable of men."

Lyta decided to edge a little further out on the limb.  "Would I be out of line 
to ask what you were talking about to set him off like that?" 

"I had gone there to ask for his help with a project I'm working on."

"You always ask people who don't like you for help?"  Do I hear this limb 
cracking?

An embarrassed smile spread over Sullivan's face, and Lyta thought she blushed a 
little.  Sullivan shook her head.  "Not usually, no." 

She moved back to Lyta's side of the desk and gestured Lyta toward a chair.  
Settling into the other herself, she reached up to push her hair back off her 
face.  As her hand ruffled through, the soft brown cascade fluttered down into 
the exact position from which it had come.  

"I tend to be something of a perfectionist," she explained.  "I want -- need -- 
what I do to be able to measure up to the standards of my toughest critic.  
Usually, that's me."  She smiled ruefully.  "For this particular project, 
however, that would be Mr. Garibaldi."

Now Lyta was the one intrigued.  "What's the project?"

"I want to retrain Sparky."

"Sparky?"  Lyta asked the first in a series of questions.  Somewhere in the 
midst of Sullivan's explanation, Lyta remembered that she was here on a mission.  

= = =

If one is in the right frame of mind, every action can be a meditation.  She 
focused on the sensation of the floor panels beneath her feet as she stepped, 
stepped, stepped rhythmically down the passageway.  Matching the tempo of her 
breathing to that of her tread, she drew the air deep into her lungs.  A spasm 
of coughing seized her.  

She had forgotten how foul the air could be on the station concourses.  Calming 
herself, she dug in the pocket of her robe for her identicard and moved to the 
checkpoint.  She extended the card to the Security Officer, and then dropped 
back her hood.

"Good Afternoon, Mr. Allan."

It was a shade somewhere between ripe raspberries and Bordeaux wine that infused 
Zack's face.  "Ah...Seren...I...ah...about...I mean...."

She smiled.  "Hi, Zack."

"Yeah.  Hi."  Slowly, the color drained from his face.

He processed her paperwork and searched for small talk.  "You need quarters?"

"I'm sure I can find something in Grey Sector."

"Yeah.  Right.  Of course...Gee, I'd call the Chief for you but, well, since he 
resigned, you know, he's not on the link."

"That's quite all right.  Perhaps I'll be able to visit with him before I 
leave."

"You're not here to...?"  Zack blushed again.

"If there's nothing else, Sergeant?"  Seren accepted her identicard back.  
"There is someone I must find."

= = =

The bartender saw him coming and flipped up a tall glass, hit it with bit of ice 
and a long pour of the clear liquid.  

"There's your water, Chief."  She set the glass before him.  "How ya doing 
today?"

"Thanks."  Garibaldi took the glass from the bar, and turned to face the room.  

Odd, she thought.  The Chief always had at least a 'hello' when he stopped in.

It was early for the hard stuff, even in a place like Babylon 5.  The bar wasn't 
even completely set yet.  Just a few of the regulars were beginning to drift in 
for lunch.  Clearly, the Chief didn't want to talk, so the bartender went back 
to her work.  She was checking stock in the coolers at the far end of the bar 
when Lyta arrived.  

"Welcome, Ms. Alexander.  Can I get you something?"

"Thanks," Lyta smiled, "but I'm working."  She looked down at Garibaldi.  
"What's with the Chief?"

"I don't know."  The young woman behind the bar shook her head.  "He hasn't said 
a word since he came in.  Just stands there staring."

An explosion of laughter from one of the tables turned both the women's heads.  

"Londo's up to his old tricks, I guess."  The bartender rolled her eyes.

Lyta shivered.  "I hope not.  I sincerely hope not."

As a waitress arrived with an order, Lyta sauntered down the bar and stood next 
to Garibaldi, mimicking his pose.

"Hi!"

"Hi."

"Working?"

"Yup."

"Ask you a question?"

"Just did."

Lyta could not suppress the giggle.  The Chief watched her out of the corner of 
his eye, and struggled to remain dead pan.  He sipped at his water as Lyta 
turned sideways to the bar to face him.  She tilted her head down, leaned in a 
little closer.  She wasn't sure she wanted to have this conversation in public.  

"Maybe it's none of my business, Michael..."

"Probably not...."  Neither his posture nor his gaze wavered.  

"...but I happened to see you with Ms. Sullivan yesterday, and you went at her 
pretty hard." Even as she spoke it, she wondered if she should.

Michael's jaw tightened, but he made no response.

OK, she thought.  Who wants to live forever?  "What the hell did she do to set 
you off like that?"

Garibaldi spun toward her, so suddenly that she jumped back as if dodging a 
blow.  There was fury in his eyes.  

"Do your homework, Lyta." 

"What?  What homework?"

"Just what do you know about our dear Ms. Sullivan?"

"Well, I've only met her briefly but..."

Garibaldi didn't give her time to finish.  "The name Sullivan ring any bells 
with you?  How about President Clark's right hand man, golf partner and favorite 
fat checkbook?"

"Michael, it's a common..."

"Yeah, it is, so I did a little checking.  See, I wondered why this hotshot who 
can choose her post and name her price would want to work for EarthForce rates.  
But it's OK..." His voice was dripping sarcasm.  "...because she's got a little 
something on the side.  Seems every month she gets a few credits from the 
Sullivan Foundation.  Guess who?"

Lyta gulped for air as Michael gulped his water.  The empty glass banged down on 
the bar.  She weighed what he had told her, but his reaction still seemed out of 
proportion.  She told him so.

"Michael, there are very few 'good guys' in our world, but I've never seen you 
get this enraged by someone's politics."  She waited, but he offered nothing.  
"There's something else, isn't there?"

He was staring out at the room again, his blue eyes steel in stone.  For a while 
he said nothing, and Lyta was just about to give up.

"People get ready to take a new job, what do they do?"  He proposed his own 
answers.  "Take a little vacation, pack up the old place, straighten out the 
paperwork, visit friends?"

Lyta felt herself nodding.  There was a cold calmness in him now that was more 
frightening than the anger.

"Wanna guess what Ms. Sullivan did just before she shipped out here?"  He didn't 
look at her, but waited for her to shake her head.  "How about a visit to 
PsiCorps headquarters?"

Lyta felt as though a chasm had opened beneath her, dropping her down through a 
pit of possibilities, all of them terrifying.  She grabbed hold of the bar to 
stop her free-fall.  I was talking with this woman.  I liked her.  Lyta 
remembered the morning's conversation.  How could I have missed it?  What could 
she have pulled out of my head?  Will she turn me in?  What is she doing here?

"Michael, I..."

"Later."  And he was gone.  

= = =

The door chime was unusual but not unexpected.  She crossed to stand close 
before calling "open!"  The figure on the other side of the portal returned her 
hesitant smile.  

"I'm..."

"Seren.  Yes, I know.  From the Shrine."  She waved her guest in.  

"Thank you for seeing me."  The woman's bright eyes danced over the room then 
lit upon her hostess.

"I'm sorry to make you come all this way.  I never meant to frighten you."

"I wasn't afraid.  More curious.  A little concerned."

"Please?"  Another wave, toward the living area.

At the offer, Seren folded herself down among the cushions.  

"Tea...?"

"Thank you."

In silence they filled the cups and drew the first warm sips.

"How long has it been this way?"  Seren asked at last.

"As long as I can remember -- to some extent or another.  It's gotten stronger -
- and a little more controllable -- over time."

"You understand it then?"

"Yes."  A nod.  "No."  A shake of the head.  "I know what is.  I don't 
understand why.  Or why me."

"It's quite powerful -- to reach the Shrine from here."  Seren's tone hovered 
near a question.  

"When I'm focused, yes.  In meditation I have a tremendous reach."

"You can direct it?"

"To an extent, again, with concentration." 

A silence fluttered between them and Seren inhaled the steam from her teacup.  
Along with it came the scent of oranges and cinnamon and pine.  Her favorites.

"I'm sorry.  I never meant to intrude."  The woman apologized again.

"No..."

"I try...not to...push in....not to go...where I'm not ...welcome.  
Sometimes..."  She sighed.  "...it's hard."

"It can be sensed?"

"Yes.  People don't always understand.  But they know...they feel it."

"Can you send?  Or just receive?"

"Neither..." The answer came quickly.  "Both..." A pause.  "Neither..." She 
shrugged, smiled ruefully.  "It's not like that."

"What is it like?"

"It's hard to explain."

They shared the tea and the silence.  

"You know sometimes you meet someone and like them instantly?"

Seren smiled.  "Or dislike them?"

"Yes.  And you can't give a single concrete reason, but you know it."

"Yes."

"We -- everything alive -- we all have an energy in us and around us, and we 
experience one another's energy.  We bump into each other, overlap each other."

"Embrace one another?"

Was that a blush?

"My energy field would seem to be larger and more powerful than the average 
person."

It had the sound of an apology.

"When I overlap someone, I can sense their energy and they can sense mine.  
Sometimes emotions, because they color the energy.  But not thoughts, not 
memories."

Seren knew it would hang between them until it was asked.

"And PsiCorps?"

A smile.  

"They hate it."

It was a look of triumph.  

"Three times they've tried," she continued.  "The first time when I was ten, 
then again in college.  The last time just before I came out here.  Every test 
they can think of.  And they come up empty."

"You can block?"

"No.  I don't try to.  There's nothing there.  It's not a 'gift', not a gene, or 
a mutation.  Not even a chemical change.  What I have, every living being has.  
I just have more of it.  The Corps can't label it or classify it, so they don't 
know what to do with it."

There was a delightful feistiness here.

"Bugs the hell out of them," she added.  

They joined in a laugh.  When it was quiet, Seren went on.

"And Michael?"

"You noticed?"

"It always came back to Michael.  Every time I sensed you, somehow, Michael was 
involved."

"He has no idea."

"This has been said of him."

They laughed again, like co-conspirators.

"How long?"

"Since before I ever met him, if that's possible."

"With Michael," Seren mused, "anything is possible."

= = =