Absent Friends Part 2 He broke into a run and dove through the last sliver of space as the door swung closed. Startled, the two Centauri swung around. "Leave, Vir." Garibaldi jerked his head toward the door. "Mis-ter Ga-ri-bal-di!" Londo's ear-piercing greeting was slurred by his luncheon imbibing. "Look, Vir, our old friend Mr. Garibaldi." Vir looked back and forth between Garibaldi and Londo. "Leave, Vir." He did not enjoy repeating himself, and the irritation showed. Londo squinted at the man in the doorway. "It is all right, Vir. You may go." As his aide slid out the door, Londo moved to pour another drink. "Can I offer you something, Mr. Garibaldi?" "How about the truth?" Feigning astonishment, Mollari pressed his hand to his chest. "Save it, Londo. You have information I need." The Centauri studied him. "This information: it is important to you?" Michael found he could not force a sound around the lump in his throat. He nodded. "Yes, I can see that it is." Londo settled down on the couch. "You may proceed." Garibaldi had expected more of a fight. "After the Cap...after the explosion at Z'ha'dum..." "Yes, when you were missing?" "Yeah. You were recalled to Centauri Prime." "That is correct, Mr. Garibaldi. I was named 'Advisor on Planetary Security'." There was a sneer in his voice. "The night you arrived back on Centauri Prime you had a visit from Mr. Morden." "Morden? Absurd, Mr. Gar...." "The truth, Londo." "Who has told you such a thing?" "Friends." "Your friends are misinformed." "The truth." Mollari looked as if he would be sick. "Very well, Mr. Garibaldi." His voice grew weaker with each word. "What of it?" "I want to know what he said. I want every word. What he said. What you said. Every word. Word for word." "It is important to you?" "It is important to me." Londo shook his head. In that moment, he looked to Garibaldi to have doubled his age. "Sit, Mr. Garibaldi, sit. I will do my best." Michael lowered himself to the edge of a chair as Mollari began to recall the conversation. He did not meet Garibaldi's gaze; rather he seemed to be staring off into some far distance, seeing it all again. Listening, analyzing, testing every word, the Chief prodded and challenged. "Yes, yes. 'In the flesh -- what 's left of it.' That is what he said, Mr. Garibaldi." As Londo continued, Garibaldi tried to memorize each line. "He said 'I'm well. My associates tell me I'll be better soon.'" An icy hand gripped Garibaldi by the scruff of the neck. Suddenly he was back in time. 'Captain, we thought you were dead!' ...'I was. I'm better now.' He snapped to, realized he had missed some, and made Londo repeat himself. "Wait a minute, you asked about Sheridan and he said 'which one?' What the hell does that mean: which one?" "I assumed he was referring to the Captain and his wife..." "You assumed -- but is that what he said?" "No, no. He went right on. I was not tormenting him as you..." "What else?" He carved the words into the tablet of his brain. "You know what they say: what goes up must come down." "Seen one Sheridan, seen them all." "Ashes, ashes, we all fall down." There was silence. Michael looked at the Centauri, really looked, and Londo at last met his eyes. Years of memories passed in that gaze. Wordlessly, Garibaldi rose and moved to the door. At the threshold he stopped, head bowed, hands braced against the doorjamb. After a moment, he looked back over his shoulder. "Londo?" Mollari looked up as though surprised to find him still there. "Why?" "Mr. Garibaldi?" "Why didn't you fight me on this?" He spoke with a voice of long ago. "It is good to have friends, Mr. Garibaldi, if only for a little while." = = = He made for the Zocalo to keep his new 'office hours' but the old habits were still in play. On patrol, even now, even though it was no longer his job, he knew it was still his work, his life. He heard every sound, tucking snatches of conversation away to be used later. He saw every player on this five-mile stage, recorded in his mind every detail of their movement and costume, both the familiar and the exotic. The woman there for example, with the ringlets just like... "Karena!" He dodged a dozen pedestrians on the concourse to catch up to her. "Karena! When did you come aboard?" It irritated him to hear that she had shuttled up from Epsilon 3 and had been on station nearly a full day without his knowing. Not that she had to account to him for her actions, but he was accustomed to being aware of who came and went and when and why, being alert to everything that happened on station. Now that was slipping away from him. He did not like the feeling. "I've got to arrange quarters down in Grey Sector", she was saying, "and take care of a few other things. Can I meet you later?" They agreed upon a time and place, and he watched her walk away. In that moment, she was metaphor for most of what mattered in his life. = = = Though the background hum of voices in the Zocalo was raucous, it was not what kept Lyta from hearing the vendor's sales pitch. She was waiting, watching, listening, with her senses and her psi abilities, and she really didn't care if the silk-like fabric just in from Minbar was perfect with her red hair. She was counting on the fact that most everyone passed through here, guessing that a single woman might pick up a few things for dinner after work or stop by for a drink to relax. She spotted what she wanted and moved out into the crowd, the vendor's shouts following her, but ignored. It was just a few strides before Lyta found her target. "Ms. Sullivan! Good to see you again." Lyta felt panic rising in her, squeezing her lungs, closing her throat. What was she doing here? This woman could be a P12 for all she knew! She tried to focus. "Please, it's Carly." She extended her hand. Lyta hesitated to accept the handshake. It was both an opportunity and a danger. She finally reached out just as Sullivan began to withdraw. They fumbled the connection a few times before finally making contact. The OSAI officer laughed, a mixture of amusement and embarrassment. Lyta held the grip as long as she dared. "I've been thinking about your project all day," Lyta steered the conversation with a half-truth. "That's quite an undertaking. The artificial personality drove people mad last time." "I do realize that," the OSAI chief responded, "but I really do believe it can be made to work. Were you on station when it was restarted? I certainly would appreciate hearing your experience, if you have time to talk a bit." "I need a cup of coffee," Lyta said. At least that's true. "Can we go somewhere?" = = = A more improbable pair he had never seen. Garibaldi accepted a glass of water from the bartender, and gestured toward a table at the center of the room. "What's that about?" With a shrug the young woman replied, "They just came in. I don't know where they hooked up, but they're doing more talking than drinking, and it's all technobabble." With the trained eye of a security agent Michael studied them. Lyta, drinking coffee. Lots of it from the looks of things. The waitress just refilled her cup without even asking. . Focused. Concentrating hard. She's orchestrating this. You can see it. She's throwing out questions like a talk show host. What's she up to? Damn it. I warned her about that woman. And she's nervous - - no, frightened. And Sullivan. Doing most of the drinking. Doing most of the talking. Not surprising, on either count. There's your technobabble. What's Lyta up to? "Chief, are you all right?" the bartender's voice broke through to him. "Fine, I'm fine, " he assured her. "How are you doing tonight?" He turned to the bar, his back to the table, and tried to put it out of his mind. Had he not promised to meet Seren here, he would have left. But Lyta was a competent, resourceful woman. He couldn't let himself act like an overprotective big brother. He tried to make small talk until he felt a hand on his shoulder. "Been waiting long, Michael?" Seren smiled as he turned to her. "Not long, " he answered. "All set?" Seren spoke an affirmation and Michael signaled that they would like a table. He cringed as he realized the only one available was next to Lyta and Sullivan. As they were shown to the table, Seren paused and Michael looked on with a weak smile as she greeted the telepath. Lyta gestured toward the other woman at the table. "Karena, this is Carly Sullivan, our OSAI head. Carly, this is Seren - Karena to her friends." They exchanged a hello. "I believe you know Mr. Garibaldi, " Lyta added. Garibaldi and Sullivan nodded, although not at each other. Settling down at the vacant table, Michael resolved to block everything else out and enjoy Karena's company, but he could not escape the counterpoint of conversations. "It should be the end of the hibernation cycle soon. How is the katapa?" "...capable of making decisions and determining policy...." "Draal is well. You heard that someone got into the Great Machine?" "...won't destroy the current operating system...." "Any news from Earth since the blockade?" "...completely subvert it.... " "How are you, Michael?" "...In order for Sparky to take control, we'll have to kill the current system - - take it completely down...." "How about the garden?" = = = The garden was peaceful when Michael and Seren arrived. He was relieved to see that they were alone. She repeated her question. "How are you, Michael?" He fitted his face with his best "I'm fine" smile and turned to look at her. He knew it wouldn't work. "I'm scared, Karena." His eyes were focused on her but his gaze was inward. "I've got to remember. I've got to find a way to remember, and it scares the hell out of me." She let her fingers trail along his upper arm. "You have some memories, don't you?" "A few seconds. A flash. A couple of words." He started to turn away, then looked back at her. "Hell, I don't even know if it's real." She wasn't sure if he was ready to hear the words spoken. She waited to see if he would say anything more, then put it as a question. It would be better if he said it first. "What's at the heart of your fear, Michael?" He turned back to look at her. She knew the answer, he knew she knew, and he knew why she was asking. "I'm scared that they played with my mind." Who? How? Why? A whirlwind of questions was unleashed with that statement, and he had answers for none of them. She closed the space between them and took his arm. As they began to walk, he laid his hand over hers. "You can't keep trying to do this alone, Michael." "I know what you're getting at, but I can't do that, Cath. I can't let Lyta into my head. Not after what happened to Talia." His tone was adamant. "Maybe it's not a telepath you need," she suggested softly. He stopped and turned toward her. "What do you mean?" "Michael, there are two obvious possibilities for your inability to remember. One is that someone has wiped your memory, and if that's the case, only a telepath can help you. If that's it, you're going to have to decide whether or not you can trust Lyta." He shook his head. "I don't think I ever can -- not enough." "Then we need to hope it's the other possibility." His eyebrow arched into a question. "Michael, it may be emotional trauma. You may be blocking the memories because they're too frightening or too painful. It's a natural response." He wanted to flee. "I tried to talk to Steven about it, but he just brushed it aside -- said my memory would return in time." "It's not a med issue." "Then what?" He knew the answer. "Am I going crazy?" Seren wasn't sure if the question was for her. "As long as you're still lucid enough to ask that, you're no crazier than the rest of us." He laughed when it hurt. "You need someone to show you how to face whatever's there, Michael, someone to help you find the courage, to share strength with you...." He smiled down at her. "Volunteering?" She returned the smile but there was a sadness in it. "There are a great many people who love you, Michael -- more than you realize. You need to choose. You need to decide who can help you take that risk." On the breeze was the fragrance of a moment half-remembered. He walked away from her, as if to follow it. "Karena?" He did not turn. She only nodded, but somehow he knew. "There was one moment, one piece of a memory..." He wasn't sure if he should go on, could go on. "I was in a cell...I...I felt... like ...it was all lost." His back was to her, but Seren could see the torment in his body. "And then..." A shiver vibrated through him and he turned to look at her. "And then I felt something -- someone. I wasn't alone there." He shook his head. "I mean, there wasn't anybody there, but I felt someone there. I..." He broke off, helpless to explain. His eyes asked if she understood. "Did it frighten you?" "That was the weirdest part. I felt.... I was charged, ready to take anyone on. I knew I could fight back, believed I could win." His body was straighter, lighter, more resilient than the moment before. "And....?" He opened his mouth to speak, lifted his hand to gesture. And stopped. "I don't know... It's gone...That's all I can get... I..." Helpless again. "Someone was there with me." "Who?" "You?" It was truly a question. She shook her head. "I was thinking of you, Michael, praying for you. We all were. You were in my meditations...but, no, it wasn't I. I think I'd know." She wasn't sure he wasn't crying. "But more important, I think you know..." He started to shake his head. "...or you can know, if you'll let yourself." He stared at a leaf, tracing the veins with a single finger. She took his arm. "Be attentive to that memory, Michael. Dwell in it until you recognize that presence, until you can name it. You may find the help you need." = = = He waited to feel the door brush closed behind his heels, leaned back against it, and let the darkness embrace him. Where to start? "Lights -- low." He blinked as the room came into focus. Tea. Carefully this time. He had just set the kettle to boil when the door chimed. "Yeah. Come!" Lyta strode in so quickly she had to duck to clear the door. "Lyta, what the hell were..." The slap of a packet on the tabletop cut him off. "What's this?" he asked, looking down to her challenge. "Do your homework, Mr. Garibaldi." And with that she was gone. = = = He surrendered and stood up. Clearly there would be no sleep tonight. The voices in his head would not allow it. Someone was there with me... I was. I'm better now... I'm scared that they played with my mind... It is important to you? Be attentive to that memory, Michael... It is good to have friends, Mr. Garibaldi, if only for a little while... I've got to find a way to remember... Seen one Sheridan, seen them all... Do your homework, Mr. Garibaldi. He had forgotten about that one. What was Lyta so incensed about? He poured a cup of tea and took it to the table. The heels of his hands he pressed onto his eyelids and, lacing his fingers, ran his hands back over his head. He winced as they grazed the swelling. Gingerly, he checked the size. Definitely a Minbari. OK. Homework. He dumped the contents of the packet onto the table, and began to sift through. His heart, his stomach, and his body sank, as he understood what was before him. Definitely a Minbari. Always in threes. Official records from earth. Clips from ISN reports. Pirated copies of PsiCorps documents. And Lyta's notes on a scan, a voluntary scan. Your friends are mistaken. The truth. = = = He found her in her office. "Ms. Sullivan?" It seemed to him that the sound of his voice frightened her, a messenger expected but dreaded. Her shoulders, lifted by the power of a calming breath, drew her up to look at him. "Mr. Garibaldi." "Can I sit down?" The pause lasted more than long enough to make him wish he hadn't asked. "Please..." She nodded to the empty chair, and he sat, willing himself stay. Motionless, studying the desktop, she said nothing more. "Ms. Sullivan..." At last, she looked at him. "...I came to apologize...." "There's no need, Mr. Garibaldi." He could not stay in the chair. "The things I said to you, the way I acted..." "...were based upon what you believed to be the truth. No one can fault you for that." He realized he was pacing. He turned to face her. "I was wrong about you." Her eyes drilled into his, searching for truth and for trust. "Yes." When she spoke, it was with great sadness. "You were." Suddenly she looked away, momentarily embarrassed. Never before had he seen her lose her composure. "But that's really not important." She tried to recover. "Yeah, it is. I love bein' right. Maybe too much. But I wasn't right. I let myself be fooled. I didn't dig deep enough." He held his arms out from his sides, palms forward, hands slightly raised -- a gesture somewhere between a shrug and a plea. "The way I treated you was wrong -- would have been wrong even if what I believed had been true. I was a jerk. I'm sorry." There was nothing more he could say. Too proud to ask forgiveness, too humble to expect it, he turned to leave. "Mr. Garibaldi?" He looked to where she sat. She stood and turned to face him, still needing to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. "If there is anything to forgive, it is forgiven. I'm not angry with you -- I never have been. I'm sorry about the way things have been for us. I would have liked it to be different." She moved away until the desk was between them, then turned to face him again. Where, damn it, where were all the easy jokes, all the quick comebacks he was known for? "You probably won't believe this..." Tentatively she raised her eyes to his. "...but you were the reason I came to Babylon 5." He didn't, but she spoke now with an assurance he would not challenge. "This station -- and all it represents -- depends on you, survives because of you. Your friends -- on the command staff, down in Grey Sector, among the Rangers, everywhere -- they know that, and because they do, there is nothing they won't do to help you. You're very lucky to have them." "I know." His voice was choked. She studied him again, until the fire in her eyes had warmed her voice. "They're not the only ones who believe in you, Mr. Garibaldi." In the light of that faith he stood a little straighter, stepped a little quicker, felt a little braver. He was ready to fight back now, and he knew, now, he could win. = = = The air was rich with orange and sandalwood, and the sweet honey light of a dozen candles softened the corners of the room and the edges of the day. Scarcely audible, a flute danced around an ancient Japanese melody. On a tumble of overstuffed cushions, she sat in meditation. It had become a ritual for him now, a small comfort in an uncomfortable universe: the brush of the door against his heels as it winked shut, the warm bathing of scent still clinging to the air, the soft robe of darkness enfolding him. He tried to blow the day's cares out with his breath, but he knew he had a promise to keep. "Lights! Low." He set the kettle to boil and straddled a chair. She turned her sight inward, gathering her life into a fireball in the center of her body. She looked on as that energy drifted slowly to every cell of her body and every sorrow in her mind. Only when the healing was complete did her energy move outward. He had promised that tonight he would try to remember, try to reconstruct the missing weeks. As he poured his tea he thought the idea must be preposterous. Doc was right; his memory would come back when it was ready. Why force it? But he had promised. Lacing his fingers around the warmth of his tea mug, he let his eyelids block out distraction. He turned his mind back to the dreamlike fragments, shards of a prism, reflecting the light back to blind him, like the shattered crystal of Seren's statue. Now, as then, if he held on too tight, he would draw blood. He filled his lungs, searching for the peaceful perfume. He snorted at the assault of a dank and dusty odor, the cold smell of stone. He could remember the cell, a cistern of fear, a well of rage. He could feel the cold and the chill of the unwelcoming air on his flushed, feverish skin. The odor of his own body, a primitive, almost savage aroma, told him how long it had been. The sinews burned in his arms as he fought against the restraints. The chair beneath him bit into his flesh, cold and hard. Colder and harder still was the voice echoing off the rock, rebounding off the walls. You work for us, only for us, only for us,...only for... only.......... Pulsing, her life energy moved outward, concentric circles of golden light. Radiating from an undiminished source, healing rippled away, the color of dawn. It moved inexorably on, washing over obstacles, wearing away resistance, breaking through barriers. GROPO again, on a forced march of pacing, he fired back slug after slug. The wounds too fresh, the pain too great, to force himself to remember was too dangerous. Weeks had become months, months filled with unrest and fear; the memory had receded. The voice was never manifest; there was no face in the window. Was there a face in the mirror? His feet pushing into the floor, the small of his back pressed against the wall, a tripod in search of stability, he slid down the wall into a crouch, and resting his head in his hands, he looked again into the darkness. Tell us what you remember. Rage rose in his throat. Too savage to be contained in words it fired out in seething snorts of air, a song of fury to the rhythm of his fists on the door. ...you're not being entirely truthful.... The sickening shear of metal signaled that the chair would no longer restrain him. Once shackle, now weapon, it crashed and clanged, tolling out his desperate need to escape the questions, to fly to the answers. He had to reach what he remembered, what they wanted him to admit he remembered, what he could not remember. The wall between without and within crumbled, immersing her in the universe, immersing the universe in her. She inhaled the living light, brilliance that created and consumed her. Generous enough to release abundance, she received the gift of limits. With limits came focus and concentration and compassion. The power of her faith, the energy of her love, the passion of her hope shot through the darkness like a laser. Hammering against his chest, his heart would not be tamed by him. Neither could he force his breath to fill his lungs. Each muscle trembled, oblivious to his willed control, obedient only to the adrenaline driven terror of remembrance. A mistake this was, a fearful, formidable error. Too much, too much this asked of him; too much, too much was laid on him. The choir of voices in his head began to chant the litany of the last few days. A puzzling polyphony beat upon his consciousness. "I'm well. My associates tell me I'll be better soon." "Captain, we thought you were dead" "I was. I'm better now." "Sheridan? Which one?" "Seen one Sheridan, seen them all." "Hell, I don't even know if it's real." Scraping, clawing, tumbling over one another to get out, memories recently formed assaulted him, stood between him and the remembrance running always away from him, resting just beyond his reach. The most honorable of men, he would keep his promise. Be attentive to that memory, Michael...I'm scared.... you can know, if you'll let yourself...What's at the heart of your fear...I felt something -- someone...Dwell in it until you recognize that presence... I wasn't alone there...until you can name it...but I felt someone there...Coaxing forth the memory of that one moment of hope he began again. The cell. The chair. The voice. Again and again, the voice, driving him, pushing him, prodding him. The rage. The fury of his fear. ...what I might do if I ever let go... The burning breathlessness of his rampage. The sickening, satisfying splintering and shattering as he vented his fury on the vault which held him. The acrid odor, slapping him hard across the face. The choking cloud, an oily, burning fog, cutting off his air, cutting off his sight, cutting off... Darkness. Someone was there with me. As each time before it ended in blackness. Dwell in it. He rested in the arms of that darkness, letting it embrace him.... they played with my mind...Black on black, it began to reveal itself...I let myself be fooled....a darkness neither empty nor silent....to take control, we'll have to kill the current system...The voice....Sheridan? Which one? The cold smell of stone. Closing in. Opening up. The voice. Voices. Dwell in it...until you can name it... The joints in his shoulders screamed and his head bobbed helplessly. His legs burned as they dragged endlessly across the cold stone. What do you remember? A tunnel, a passageway. I need to be alert. Opening now, a larger chamber. I wasn't alone there. Voices...to take control, we'll have to kill the current ...Lifted, he felt the cold slab accept his body. Secured to it, he fought through the fog in his mind. Who are you? His body betrayed him, offering no allegiance to his brain. His head fell to one side.... We have something in common...Voices. Which one? Activity all around him. Sheridan? He burst into a run like a beast springing to chase quarry. Through the table he charged, sending it spinning, launching his teacup into a cockeyed flight, crash landing it on the floor. Out the door, barking at passerbys, never breaking stride, he ran. With one goal, one thought, he ran. With rage and terror screaming in his mind...Sheridan! = = = "Can you hear me? Open your eyes... Do you know who I am? Come on! ...Stay with me...Talk to me now...Do you remember what happened? Open your eyes! Look at me!" The immensity of the effort required to comply with those orders was only one of the many things that fascinated him. With complete concentration, he managed to will his neck muscles to hold his head steady. Control of his eyelids was harder; they had their own plans. After several slow motion blinks he managed to focus his eyes on the face from which the voice emanated. Franklin continued to talk to him. "Captain, can you see me? Do you know my name?" "Stephen?" Sheridan was growing more confused. He relinquished control of his neck in order to look around him. His head rolled about the pillow like a ball bearing in a funnel, but he was able to name the place as Medlab. "Stephen, what happened?" "We were hoping you could tell us that." Over the doctor's shoulder now he could see Delenn, obviously frightened. "Delenn?" He willed his hand to reach out to her, but it did not respond. She came to his side and stroked his hair. Gradually, his body began to feel like his own. He repeated his question. "What happened? How did I get here?" "We're still trying to piece it all together. You collapsed, and the indications are that your neural patterns were abnormal, over-stimulated in all likelihood. Exactly what caused it, well, ... we were hoping you could tell us that. In fact, Zack is anxious to get a statement from you, as soon as you feel up to it." "Collapsed? Neural patterns? Doc, what are you talking about? And what does Mr. Allan have to do with this?" Franklin and Delenn exchanged looks of concern. "What's the last thing you remember, Captain?" Franklin asked. Sheridan rocked his head from side to side to shake off the fog. "I was on Z'ha'dum.... with this alien who called himself Lorien..." Delenn's concern escalated to panic. She looked to Franklin for answers. "He told me to let go... to stop holding on to life." "Do you remember coming back to the station?" Franklin tried to maintain a clinical demeanor. "Coming back? No!" Sheridan looked confusedly around him. "I mean, I'm here, obviously, so I guess I did, but no, I don't remember. How long have I been unconscious?" "Several hours." Franklin replied. "Several hours? Stephen, the trip from Z'ha'dum takes several days." Delenn questioned Stephen with her eyes. At his nod, she turned to Sheridan and placed a hand on his shoulder. "John, you and Lorien returned to Babylon 5 several months ago." Sheridan laughed aloud. "What? That's ridiculous! I'd..." He searched their faces, but found only a mirror of his own confusion and concern. "Stephen, what happened to me?" Slowly, as calmly as they could, they told him of his return to the station with Lorien, and the events since. "No. Stephen, this is not possible. How could I have done all that and not remember?" "John." Delenn placed a hand on his shoulder to quiet him. "And how did I get here?" Nothing he was hearing made any sense. "Medtechs found you unconscious in your office, after a call from security." "And?" He was growing angry. "Come on, Stephen, this isn't funny." "I'm sorry, Captain. Maybe you should talk to Zack about what happened today." "Why Zack? And why should I believe any of this? Stephen, I went to Z'ha'dum on what I knew was a suicide mission. By some freak accident, I survived the blast. By some miracle, I survived the fall. But I was trapped there. There was no way out -- believe me, I looked. Just Lorien going on about being between tick and tock, telling me to let go of life." He looked at Delenn, and his voice softened. "I guess I gave up. Everything was going black. All I could think about was ...how much I love you." As she smiled and clasped his hand, a tear traced her cheek. Sheridan turned back to Franklin. "Now I come to in Medlab and you're trying to give me some half-baked story about how I came back from the dead, assassinated the Vorlon ambassador, raised a new army -- none of which I remember -- and I'm just supposed to believe that?" "Captain, we'll run some more tests, try to find out what happened, why your memory is impaired, but I assure you, I'm telling you the truth." Sheridan looked to Delenn, who nodded, and back to Franklin, who mirrored the gesture. "You should rest now. Later we'll run some tests, and then maybe you'll feel up to talking with Zack." "Why Zack? Will somebody please tell me who died and left Zack in charge?" = = = Stephen and his team had run every test Sheridan could imagine, but even the Commanding Officer's squawking could not hurry the results. He had been ordered to rest, and he had seriously tried to, but the strange stories he had heard would give him no peace. Back from the dead...months he couldn't remember... and now they claimed Garibaldi had resigned as Head of Security. Anyone who knew Michael knew that couldn't be true. "Capt'n?" Sheridan turned to the voice at the door and stared in disbelief. Zack Allan in a command uniform. If this was some kind of joke, it had gone too far. "Mr. Allan, good evening. It is evening, isn't it?" "Yes, sir. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions, Capt'n? If you're too tired, I can come back another time." He gestured to the door, indicating his willingness to leave. "No, that's all right, Zack. I just don't know how much help I can be. In fact, I'd like to ask you a few questions." "Fire away, Capt'n." "What happened today, Zack?" "Jeez, Capt'n, I wish I had an answer for that one. Alls I know is, a call went out for a med team to report to your office, and when they got there, you were out cold." "Was I alone? Who made the call?" "The call came from one of my security people -- although Lyta was the first one on scene, it looks like." Sheridan started. "Lyta Alexander? Why was she in my office? And what does she say about all this?" "Yeah, we asked her that, but before she can tell us anything, the Chief pushes his way into the station house and insists that everything is his fault and if we're gonna question anybody it should be him. He doesn't want the lady to say anything, says she was just working for him." "Are you saying I got caught in the middle of some kind of security operation Mr. Garibaldi was running?" "I ain't saying nothing, Capt'n. Since the Chief resigned, I don't pretend to know what he's doing. Alls I know is I got Mr. Garibaldi in one holding cell and the Ms. Alexander in another, and now people are coming up from Grey 17 and starting to go weird on me, and telling me they were in on it too, but nobody will tell me what 'it' is." Sheridan lay back in the bed and tried to sort it out. "Let's see if Doctor Franklin thinks I'm fit to discharge, Zack. I think I'd like to be personally involved in this investigation." = = = It had taken some fast talking, a little bit of rank-pulling, and a promise to take it easy, but Sheridan had persuaded the Doc to release him. He sent first for Garibaldi. The incongruity of Garibaldi being escorted to his office by two armed security agents stunned him. The guards' unwillingness to leave them alone shocked him. Ultimately, they stepped outside. "Michael, what's going on here?" "Captain?" "Don't play cute with me, Michael. You claim responsibility for what happened, so take that responsibility and start by telling me exactly what did happen." "Release Lyta." "What?" "I'll take full responsibility -- whatever charges you want to file -- no contest. Just let her go." "Mr. Garibaldi, what the hell is going on around here? You're trying to cut a deal, offering to cop a plea, and I still don't know what happened." Garibaldi studied the man on the other side of the desk, searched his eyes for a sign, but made no response. "Michael?" There was fear in his voice, fear not of what might be said, but of what might never be said. "Please?" "I asked Lyta to scan you. It was deep. That's why you lost consciousness." Anger struggled with incredulity. "You had me scanned?!" Anger won out. "What was it you wanted so badly to know, and couldn't just ask me?" Garibaldi stared at the floor, weighing his answer. "Did you have her wipe my memory? Is that why I can't remember any of these things people tell me I did?" "No, no wipe." "Then why?" Betrayal replaced anger. "Michael, I thought you were my friend." At those words, Garibaldi's eyes leapt to Sheridan's face. Slowly, a smile trembled in the Chief's eyes. "Maybe it did work," he muttered under his breath. "What worked?" Sheridan was glaring at him. Garibaldi started to pace, and to talk. "It wasn't what I wanted to know, but what I finally realized I knew. See, the Sheridan who came back from Z'ha'dum, back from the dead -- he assembled this great fleet, and took out the Vorlon, but -- something, somehow, just wasn't right. But anytime I tried to talk about it, everybody said I was acting strange. I wasn't myself. And I wasn't -- I couldn't remember what happened to me in those weeks I was missing, and it was scarin' the hell outta me. I was terrified that somebody had played games with my mind. That's why I resigned -- I figured I was some god damn time bomb, and I didn't wanna be near any critical systems when I blew. But it still bugged me, ya know, 'cause I knew that you -- that Sheridan wasn't the man I knew, the man..." He stopped and turned to face the Captain. "Do you remember the conversation we had before you left for Z'ha'dum?" A wary Sheridan softened a bit at that memory. "Of course." "You were right: we didn't trust each other in the beginning. We earned one another's trust and respect in a lot of hard days, but that day, when you asked me to load those weapons for you, when you took me into your confidence on what had to be the most terrifying decision...Yeah, we were friends." "Were?" "The John Sheridan who went to Z'ha'dum was my friend, but the John Sheridan who came back -- I didn't know him. It got me crazed. Everybody's celebrating! The Captain's back! He's alive. Sheridan's back from the dead. Except I know -- this guy is not my friend. I don't know who he is. He looks like Sheridan, sounds like Sheridan, but ...he's not. "I don't have a lot of friends. I don't trust very many people -- not enough to let them into my life. You hurt my friend, take away my friend, I get mad. That's why I was so ticked at you." "I was told we haven't been getting along." " I knew something was wrong, -- nobody would listen to me because I was so spooky -- well, almost no one --but I couldn't make any sense out of it until I broke through to my missing memories. " He looked at Sheridan, and, for a moment, he hesitated. "If you don't want to hear this..." The anger was gone from the Captain's face, he carried his body without tension, and his eyes offered the Chief a welcome. "Go on, Michael." "I finally was able to remember -- some of it anyway -- not all of it yet -- and when I did I saw you there." "Where?" "I don't know exactly. Not yet. I was in this cell most of the time, but --at the end, I think -- they gassed me with something, something that was supposed to knock me out, but it didn't put me completely under -- I could hear things, see things. They had me on this slab, and I looked over and you were on the next slab." "Michael, you were hallucinating." "I thought that at first too. But there were people around us -- some PsiCops, and others, I couldn't recognize -- and they were talking about which one of us to use, talking about an implant. At first I figured that was it -- PsiCorps planted something in my head and then wiped my memory and that's why I can't remember and why I'm freaking out -- but then I heard something else. And it probably wouldn't have clicked for me without something Sullivan said." "Sullivan?" "Carly Sullivan - OSAI?" Sheridan's eyes widened. Michael's feelings about Ms. Sullivan were no secret. "It was just something I overheard. She was talking about wanting to bring the artificial personality back up..." Horror swept over Sheridan's face. "... and I heard her say that she would have to kill the old personality, before a new one could take root. And then I remembered the stories of Z'ha'dum, how Lorien had encouraged you to give in to death, and in my memory I could hear these voices, talking about which of us to use, and saying you were going down, and I realized that PsiCorps had both of us, that they had played with our minds. Me they trapped in that cell, you they trapped in the image of Z'ha'dum. They wore us both down, tried to get us to give in to death, so that we'd take their implant..." "And when I gave in to death, they implanted me with a new personality?" Michael nodded. "You wanna say I'm crazy, I won't argue with you." He shrugged. "You wanna charge me -- I won't fight it. But there was somebody walking around in John Sheridan's body who wasn't the John Sheridan I knew, wasn't the man I trusted. I talked Lyta into doing the scan, trying to break through and find the real Sheridan. We both knew it was illegal, unethical, whatever, but she did it for me. I talked her into it. I'm the one responsible, and I'll take whatever consequences come with it. Please, let her go?" "You're telling me that I can't remember the last three months because it wasn't really me? It was a PsiCorps implant? "Yes, Captain." "But Lyta's scan destroyed the implant and restored me to my old self?" "I hope so." "And you took it upon yourself to orchestrate this whole thing?" "Yes, sir." The two men looked at each other for a very long time. There were no more words, and the questions and answers they needed now were too big for words anyway. Sheridan tapped his link. "Patch me through to Mr. Allan." "Zack here, go." "Mr. Allan, release Ms. Alexander, please. There will be no charges filed against her." "Yes, sir, Capt'n!" Garibaldi whistled his relief, and offered a word of thanks to Sheridan. The Captain closed the space between them. "I intend, Mr. Garibaldi, to hold you fully responsible." "Yes, sir." Garibaldi lowered his eyes. There before him was Sheridan's outstretched hand. His eyes jumped to Sheridan's face, searching for an explanation, finding a familiar smile. "Michael, I honestly don't know how much of this I believe, but there's plenty of time to sort it all out. The one thing I'm sure of is you. I trusted you to 'pack my bags' for Z'ha'dum. I guess I can trust you to take care of any extra baggage I brought home with me." The two men laughed, a warm, familiar laugh. Michael clasped the hand Sheridan offered him. "Welcome home, Captain." They talked a long time, standing there, right hands clasped, left hands caressing the other's shoulder. They spoke of Garibaldi's memories returning and Sheridan's memories gone, of what had happened and what might yet happen, of those they cared for and those who cared for them, of gratitude and of regret, of hopes and of fears. They built a picture of the days past and a plan for the days ahead. And when at last they parted, Michael realized that the voices in his head were quiet, all save one: It is good to have friends, if only for a little while. Absent Friends 32