FreezeFrame Part 1 Personal Log: Michael Garibaldi July 7, 2261 It's getting tense around here -- well, tenser than usual anyway. Every indication we've got from Earth tells us Clark's altogether mad. He's got no principles left, no concern for anyone or anything. No respect for the innocents, if there are any innocents left in this thing. "Thing." It doesn't even have a name yet. It's not a war, although it will be soon, if everything goes the way it's headed. Sheridan doesn't want to go against our own people, but there's no stopping it now. We're going to have to take a stand. If we move against Clark, it'll get ugly. There won't be any winners, only survivors. Everything's in place now, everything we can do is done. The League worlds are committed to the Army of Light, and the Rangers are at the ready. We're in contact with Mars Resistance. They're looking for independence, but John's more than willing to promise them that in payback for their help. I just worry if the promises -- his or anyone else's -- mean anything anymore. Not that I don't trust John. There's no one I believe in more completely. It's just...what can any of us promise anymore? What can we pretend to know about the future? None of us has any control anymore. We're all just along for the ride. Thanks to Sullivan, we're in touch with the Resistance on Earth too. They're coming through with important information, inside stuff. It's almost spooky what they're getting hold of. It makes me itchy sometimes. Too damn good. If I hadn't met them, talked with them myself, I don't think I'd trust it. But trust is about all we've got left. Trusting. And waiting. Something's going to happen. Something ugly. Sometime soon. And all we can do is wait. JULY 9, 2261 Early morning Michael Garibaldi strode quickly through the corridors of Blue 12. He had an appointment in just a few minutes, but if he hurried... He signaled at the office door. The response was muffled, distracted, typical. Michael leaned into the room as the door swung open and smiled at the sight before him: Carly Sullivan, brown bangs fluttering in her eyes, pen clenched between her teeth, stood surveying the document-strewn table. She looked his way, removing the pen to smile a welcome. "Michael!" "Hey!" He smiled back. "How about dinner tonight? My place?" "Sounds great." Her eyes spoke mischief. "How can I help?" "Just be there at nineteen hundred. I've got to run. Later!" He heard her chuckle as the door slid closed. JULY 9, 2261 Early afternoon He had to fight to straighten his back as the chair slid away from the table he called an office. His eyes searched the Zocalo for a chrono. Well past midday, and time for him to get moving if he was going to follow up a few leads and still have time to fix dinner. The former security chief wove his way through the crowds and joined a trio of Narns waiting for the transport tube. They preceded him when the car doors finally opened, announcing their destination. Garibaldi had just begun to state his own when the Ranger's voice reached him. Marcus Cole threw a hand out to stop the door of the transport tube. "Mr. Garibaldi!" He was breathless, having sprinted across the Zocalo. "Glad I caught you." Garibaldi exited the little cabin with a quick word of apology to the petulant group of Narns, and the Ranger allowed the car to continue. "Marcus, what's up?" "I am sorry, Michael, but we've got a code 7R, and the Captain asked that I find you and bring you along." JULY 9, 2261 Afternoon His resignation as Chief of Security had put an end to Garibaldi's participation in the War Council meetings. Still, this room held some uncomfortable memories of the days just before he resigned, when his relationship with Sheridan was tense and distrustful. The Vorlon ambassador. The "fall on my sword" crack. The memories made Garibaldi shiver. In the days since he had regained his memory, since he and Sheridan had reconciled, the Captain had begun to consult with him again, privately, informally. Sometimes it was about the Rangers, sometimes about Mars. More and more now, it was about Earth Resistance. As Jeremy Alcott had requested, Garibaldi was their liaison to the command staff of Babylon 5. While Carly Sullivan was generally his conduit for information, she stayed in the background. This was his first time back in the War Room, his first Council meeting since he resigned. Why did John want him here? He hung back as the others took their seats around the table. "You all know what's been happening at Proxima and the outer colonies," Sheridan began. "I called you together because it appears that Clark may be planning a strike against Mars. We need to get clear on our information, determine exactly what we can conclude from it, and decide what response, if any, it warrants." His back pressed against the stair rail, Garibaldi studied the solemn faces around the table. They all knew where this path led. It was only a question of how soon they would get there. "I've asked Mr. Garibaldi to join us..." Sheridan broke off. "Michael, please, have a seat." He gestured to an empty chair. "I've asked Mr. Garibaldi to join us because he has a link to the Resistance on Earth which may be critical in the days ahead." Michael moved around the table to take the offered chair at Delenn's right, across from Marcus, who acknowledged him with a nod. Franklin, on Garibaldi's right, leaned in to whisper, "Good to have you back, Michael." The meeting went on without further interruption. Marcus brought reports from the Rangers of Earth Force ship movement from the outer colonies. "We know they're coming in, but do we know it's Mars they're heading for?" Franklin questioned. "They could just be heading for home." "We've been able to monitor some communications," Ivanova offered sheepishly. Such eavesdropping was against regulations, but no one in this group was going to bust her for it. "We know that several large troop transports have orders to Mars." "Now that may mean there's a new action afoot," Sheridan interjected, "but there's already a military presence on Mars, and -- to play devil's advocate for a minute -- they could just be bringing in replacements, a change of shift." "They would never do wholesale reassignments!" Ivanova objected. "New crews mean retraining and readjustment. You don't do that in a situation where you're trying to keep tight control." "So we figure these are reinforcements, additional troop power?" Franklin looked for nods of agreement. "But why?" "I spoke this morning with a gentleman who had just come from Mars," Marcus offered. "The Resistance has heard some whispers of a strike is coming, but they have nothing specific, and there have been no incidents that might provoke retaliation." "The fact that the Resistance exists is enough to provoke Clark," Garibaldi pointed out. He turned to Sheridan. "You're trying to be logical about this, but you're dealing with someone who isn't. Clark doesn't make sense." "I know, Michael," John agreed. "That's why I was hoping you might have some intelligence from Earth Resistance." Quickly Garibaldi replayed conversations of the last days and weeks. If he had heard anything that seemed significant he would have reported it to Sheridan immediately, but sometimes the odd piece of information, the off-hand comment jumped out when given a new context. "Nothing solid, John," he said at last. "There was a new battle cruiser commissioned last week, a complete refit of the Hyperion class. The rumor is that they've packed her with new and more extensive weaponry, improved targeting and sensors, and a more effective defensive shielding, without sacrificing launch bay space. She's still carrying a full complement of fighters. And word was Clark handpicked her Captain. "We also hear that Senator Hidaki dropped everything and hauled butt backed to Geneva for behind-closed-doors talks with Clark. Given Hidaki's position on the Free Mars movement and his support for Clark's declaration of martial law, that could be significant." "Could be, but it's not enough." Sheridan, who had remained standing throughout, now began to pace. "I can make inquiries," Garibaldi offered, "go back to my sources and see if they've got anything new." "I do fear we're under some time pressure," the Ranger cautioned, as the Captain leaned forward to rest his fingertips on the tabletop. "If this is meant to be a strike against Mars, they won't linger over it, and the ships we're watching should be in range in a few days." "How long do you need, Michael?" From the look on Sheridan's face, Garibaldi knew what the answer had better be. "I can make some calls. Give me a few hours." Sheridan straightened. "All right then. We'll reconvene here at 2200 hours. And let's all rattle our sources between now and then. We need all the information we can get." JULY 9, 2261 Late Afternoon He signaled repeatedly for the transport tube, his impatience ever more obvious. As soon as he heard the car approach Garibaldi positioned himself in front of the doors, and the instant they began to open, he pushed forward into the embrace of an exiting Pak'ma'ra. The resulting exchange was not one of the diplomatic highlights in the history of the station. He announced his destination, and fidgeted as the cabin moved along. An audible sigh announced his realization that the car was about to make an intermediate stop. Garibaldi straightened, took a step backward, and tried to conceal his impatience. The doors opened to admit two Drazi and a human female. "Carly!" Garibaldi reached between the Drazi to grasp Sullivan's elbow. She muttered apologies as Garibaldi drew her to the back of the car. "I was on my way to your office. We need to talk." They both glanced over at the Drazi and dropped their voices to whispers until the tube stopped at Blue 12. Exiting the car to the accompaniment of the Drazi's snorts, they hurried down the corridor to Sullivan's office. "What's the problem, Michael?" Carly asked as the door slid closed. "The Rangers brought in some information. It looks like there are EarthForce ships moving toward Mars, and Sheridan's worried that Clark is planning a strike. Right now, it's all 'looks like' and 'might be.' John wants a report back on anything we can find." Sullivan nodded and looked thoughtful. "Anyone check with Mars Resistance?" "The Rangers had some contact and Marcus is talking to a courier here on station. But we need to tap every channel. I thought I'd start with Trevor." She bobbed her head in agreement. "Why don't you do that and I'll get to Jeremy? I'll make as many other calls as I can without attracting the attention of C&C, but all the reports get funneled to Jeremy, so he's the key." "We need to move fast. Sheridan wants a report back by 2200." "Does that mean dinner's off?" Her smile reassured Garibaldi that her feelings were not hurt. "Let's say still on," he smiled back, "just not as elegant as I originally planned...if that's OK?" "I don't need elegance, Michael. I enjoy your company. And your cooking." She dropped her suit jacket on the back of the desk chair. "Let me try to raise Jeremy." She made a sour face, and touched a few buttons on the computer console. "I'm not exactly sure where he is at the moment, but I'll track him down." Raising her head, she smiled slowly. "And I'll see you at nineteen hundred." JULY 9, 2261 Early Evening Garibaldi made straight for DownBelow. It was a most annoying complication of his line of work that informants rarely had permanent addresses. All you could do was check the usual places, and hope. Luck was with him this afternoon, and he found the burly man he knew as Trevor before reaching the bar that was his regular haunt. Together they moved through the dingy corridors until they found a fleeting privacy. Garibaldi pressed the man for news, emphasizing the need for anything he knew of military activity. Impressed by Michael's intensity, Trevor thoughtfully reviewed all that he had heard on recent visits to Earth and Mars. "Michael, you know the military isn't our primary focus. We do get some stuff, but..." Clearly, the man wanted to cushion Garibaldi's obvious disappointment. "Yeah, I know," Michael interrupted, "but check around, will ya? We've got a tip that something's about to go down." Trevor nodded his assent. "If I get anything, is it safe to reach you on the com channels?" The paranoia that was Garibaldi's ever-present companion weighed the alternatives. He knew how easy it was to eavesdrop on the Babcom, but he couldn't exactly invite Trevor up to his quarters either. "Look, if you come up with anything before 2200, head to the Station House. Tell them...I don't know, tell them I roughed you up and you wanna file charges. They'll roust me and we can take it from there." The two men parted with a signal of understanding. Trevor moved away, devoured by the shadowy crevices of the DownBelow corridors. Garibaldi headed for the Marketplace. JULY 9, 2261 Evening This was not going to be the meal he had in mind this morning, Garibaldi thought as he keyed in the access code to his quarters. No time now to stuff and bake and simmer and sauce. He had found fresh peas though. Fresh peas always spoke of spring, even if seasons had little meaning out here. He'd improvise. The com unit was blinking to signal waiting messages. Warily, he called for the list. Most could wait but the one from Sullivan he called up immediately. /Michael, I made the call we talked about, but he wasn't in. I tracked him, but he's not taking calls. That in itself is odd. Will let you know as soon as I have something. / Garibaldi ordered the unit off and considered the message as he washed up. Carly was obviously disturbed by the difficulty in reaching Jeremy, but that was still at the level of instinct. He assembled ingredients on the counter and thought back to his meeting with Jeremy Alcott. /I apologize, Mr. Garibaldi, but I had another appointment this evening that required the tux./ What kind of circles did this guy move in? Michael started shelling peas and wondered about Jeremy Alcott. Mars Resistance was laced with aliases and code names. Why would the people from Earth be any more willing to reveal themselves? Shaking off his paranoia, Michael set a pot of water to boil and heated a sauté pan. He took his frustration out by pounding the chicken breasts flat, then ran through all his contacts as the meat browned. Who else might have information? Unsuccessful, he grumbled at the rice as he stirred. When the door signal chimed, he slammed the lid down on the pot and snarled the open command. Carly Sullivan stood in the doorway, clutching a bottle of mineral water in one hand and a bunch of flowers in the other. She answered Garibaldi's irritated glare sheepishly. "I'm sorry. I know I'm early." Michael couldn't help but laugh as he waved her in with the wooden spoon still in his hand. "Come on in. I'm sorry. I don't do waiting well." She smiled now as she crossed to the kitchen, sniffing appreciatively. "I came early because I didn't want to keep you waiting," she said as she offered him her parcels. "I finally got hold of Jeremy. Sort of." "Sort of?" Garibaldi asked, after muttering his thanks and stashing the water in the cooler. He looked at the flowers with chagrin. "You shouldn't have." Sullivan pulled a vase down from the cupboard and reclaimed the flowers. "He took my call, but wherever he was, he couldn't talk." She arranged the little bouquet and set it on the table. "His end of the conversation was mostly yes and no, until I mentioned EarthForce ships near Mars." She turned to face the man chopping vegetables, and the look on her face froze him. "What?" he barked, his knife poised over a mushroom. "Michael, I've never heard Jeremy sound quite so frightened. 'Don't go near that,' he said. 'Stay far away.' Michael, he scared me." Garibaldi set the knife down, perplexed by the message. "Did he say why? Don't go near what? Does he know what's going down?" Sullivan shook her head. "I couldn't get anything else out of him. As I said, he didn't seem to be in a position to talk. I'm going to try him again in a little while, and I took the liberty of forwarding my calls here in case he tries to reach me. I hope you don't mind?" With a confused shake of his head, Garibaldi turned his attention back to the stove. He deglazed the sauté pan with some alcohol free wine, added the mushrooms, a bit of chicken stock, some parsley and green onions, and set the chicken to simmer. A pinch of this herb and that went into the rice, and he slapped Sullivan's hand away from the raw peas before he reclaimed the wooden spoon. "You can set the table," he instructed, flipping open a cabinet. She followed orders while he browned some bacon and tossed in the peas and some chopped scallions. "Could it have been some kind of coded message?" Michael asked, his mind still on Carly's report. She considered that as she rescued the mineral water from the cooler and filled the glasses. "I don't know. That's not his habit. And given how much we work together, I think I'd be able to read it if that were the case." They elbowed one another playfully at the stove as she investigated each of the pans and he squeezed some fresh lemon over the chicken. "Mind if I try Jeremy one more time before we eat?" she asked as he concocted a mustard-laced dressing for the peas. Garibaldi's response was encouraging, and she moved to the com unit while he set the meal on the table. The first call went unanswered; the second linked to a message center. Carly left only a name before signing off. They tried to turn the conversation to lighter topics as they ate, but found themselves returning repeatedly to talk of Mars, of EarthForce and of the Resistance. In between Michael's apologies for the improvised nature of the meal, Sullivan praised his cooking and ate with a gusto that made him smile. He had just risen to clear the dishes when the door signal chimed. Michael's questioning look got only a shrug of response from Sullivan. The door slid open at his command, revealing a young security agent. "I'm sorry, Mr. Garibaldi, but I'll have to ask you to come down to the station house. There's a gentleman down there who claims you roughed him up." "What?" Sullivan approached from behind Garibaldi. "That's not..." Michael spun toward her and made shushing sounds. "It's OK," he said soothingly. Turning back to the door, he continued, "This has gotta be some kinda mistake, but we'll get it straightened out." To Sullivan, who was beginning to understand that he expected this visit, Garibaldi suggested, "why don't you wait for me here? Maybe try that call again. I'm sure this won't take long." "Yeah," Sullivan replied warily. "You always manage to leave me with the dishes, Garibaldi." His laugh lingered as the door closed behind him. JULY 9, 2261 Night Down at the station house, the two men played their parts as planned, Trevor accusing, Michael denying, Trevor threatening, Michael countercharging. Zack Allan stood by for a few moments, listening to them argue, but Garibaldi noted that the expression on his face quickly changed from exasperation to something else. The kid was actually catching on to the fact that this was an act. Maybe there was hope for him as an investigator after all, Michael thought. More important, maybe there was hope for him as a friend. "Aw right! That's enough!" Allan shouted over them. "Look, I don't know what went down between the two o' you, and I don't think I wanna know, but this is gonna get settled." He turned to the security agent that had summoned Garibaldi. "Show the gentlemen into room two and give them their privacy," Zack instructed with an edge of sarcasm. "Now," he explained to the two men before his desk, "for the next ten minutes, we ain't listening -- I need at least that much of a rest -- but we'll be watching. You got that long to settle this peacefully. Then I send my people in there to start the paperwork. And don't think I won't lock you both up!" For the next few minutes the securecam on room two showed two agitated contestants in a shouting match. They kept their distance, the table between them, but their wild gestures, dramatic facial expressions, and occasional table thumping caused the security agent watching the monitor to turn away with a chuckle of resignation. Zack Allan did not turn away. He watched as the two men began to quiet, as they leaned across the table, not in anger but to bring themselves into whispering range. He watched until finally they shook hands, and Garibaldi turned to bang on the door. Allan himself went to open it. Trevor began as soon as the door slid open. "Thank you, Mr. Allan, I'm sorry to have bothered you. I've decided not to press charges after all." "Yeah, whatever," Allan mumbled. "Michael?" Garibaldi raised his hands in front of him and waggled them a bit. The gesture and the accompanying head shake, pursed lips, and downward glance, told Zack that his predecessor considered the matter closed. "You can go then," Zack said, stepping into the room to clear the doorway. Trevor slipped out, and Michael made to follow. "Not you, Michael." Zack Allan's voice was harder than Garibaldi remembered it. Michael's protégé wasted no time when the door slid closed. "Aw right, Michael, what's goin' on?" Garibaldi's preliminary attempts to feign innocence were half-hearted and quickly dismissed. "Zack, look, you know I've got sources all over the station. This guy had some information for me, needed to reach me. I'm sorry we scammed you, but we needed to make contact. It won't happen again." Michael's most charming smile did nothing to soften Zack's glare. "And what's so important, Michael? What are you working on that couldn't wait?" Garibaldi's gaze darted about, searching the room, looking anywhere except Zack's eyes. "Aw damn it, Michael! You never have trusted me, have you?" The truth of Zack's taunt shocked and shamed him. In that instant, Garibaldi made a decision. "You still got the audio off?" JULY 9, 2261 Late Night Promptly at 2200, Garibaldi entered the War Room. Most of the others were already assembled; only Ivanova slipped in behind him. They took their seats quickly, and without prologue, Sheridan called for reports. Michael listened carefully to Franklin and Ivanova. There was not a lot of new information, only bits and pieces tagged on to what they already knew. Taken together, it confirmed an Earth Force troop build-up on Mars. What was still missing was a motive. Delenn asked softly if the Rangers had anything to add. "Nothing of substance," the bearded man across from Garibaldi replied. "White Star 22 sent back a rather odd report, but we don't fully know what to make of it. They say they've noted increased traffic around Mars, much of it in and out of an area known as Syria Planum." Worried glances were exchanged by those round the table who remembered Dr. Mary Kirkish. "Michael?" Breaking the frightened silence, Sheridan turned to his former Security Chief. "Anything to add?" He wished he had more. He had left the station house later than planned and barely had time to poke his head back into his quarters before leaving again to get here on time. It probably made no difference -- Carly hadn't been able to reach Jeremy anyway -- but he would have liked to talk through all their information with her once. "More signs of increased Earth Force troop presence, I guess. That new battle cruiser, the Valhalla, has taken up station. Captain's name is Jennings." "Steven Jennings?" Sheridan looked up sharply. Checking his notes, Garibaldi nodded confirmation. "I know him," John offered. "A good soldier, smart, honest, loyal as they come, definitely by-the-book." "A couple of things that seemed odd," Garibaldi continued, "though we don't really know what to make of them. On the way to Mars, it appears the Valhalla was testing her jump engines. We hear that she jumped into hyperspace, then jumped right back in at nearly the same location. No word on why." There was chatter at the table about what that might mean, possibilities proposed, considered, and rejected. Sheridan cut it off. "Michael, anything else?" Garibaldi squirmed a bit in his chair. "We got one tip, a warning actually. Told us to stay away. Far away." "Far away from what?" Ivanova demanded, irritated. "At the mention of troop build-up on Mars," Michael explained, "our source snapped out that warning. He was in a tight spot and we couldn't hold the contact. We're trying to reestablish." He looked up at Sheridan, who still stood at the head of the table. The Captain seemed perplexed. "Well, if you get anything else, Michael..." "You'll be the first to know, Captain." Sheridan took a seat finally, and reviewed what they did know about the Mars situation. "Based on our current information, I don't think we can take any action. We have no hard evidence of illegal actions by Clark's forces and no indication that Mars Resistance is engaged in activities that call for our support. I don't like the whole thing. It smells bad. But if we move based on hunches we'll only lend credence to Clark's charges that we're spoiling for a fight." Sheridan's glance swept the table, checking for agreement before he continued. "Let's keep close to anyone and everyone we've got whose in touch with the Mars situation. And until further notice, plan on meeting here twice a day. Let's say 0800 and 1700." John stood again. "If there's nothing else...?" JULY 9, 2261 Nearly Midnight There was note waiting for him when he got back to his quarters, propped up against the vase of flowers. /No luck on that call. Still trying. Come by for dessert if you're not too tired. / He smiled and set it back on the table. JULY 10, 2261 Early Morning He had taken the 'scenic route' to and from Sullivan's quarters, winding through the areas of the station that had a reputation for turning up information. The first pass had been unproductive, but on the return trip, Garibaldi found Trevor deep in conversation with a courier he knew to be well placed in Mars Resistance. Michael listened with interest. Still, when they convened in the War Room at 0800, Jeremy Alcott remained elusive, and that was beginning to worry him. John wasted no time calling the group to order and Michael immediately offered up what he had heard this morning. "My sources say there's been an awful lot of traffic to and from the Valhalla since she took up station. You can only do so many inspections, even on a shakedown cruise, but I can't get any lead on what else that might be about." "Mars Resistance is taking a wait-and-see position. They're itchy. They don't like this anymore than we do, but they're sitting on it," Franklin offered. "They have no action planned?" Susan asked. "Nothing?" Stephen and Marcus exchanged glances. "If there is anything afoot," Marcus offered, "no one is talking about it." Ivanova winced and shook her head. "That can't be! I don't believe they're just going to sit there and do nothing while Clark moves in all his firepower." Garibaldi joined Marcus and Franklin in the defense of their information, as adamant in their position as Susan was in hers. Delenn's eyes widened as the discussion grew heated. Sheridan was opening his mouth to cut the conversation off when his link chirped. "Sheridan, go." "Captain," the voice of Lieutenant Corwin crackled with urgency and apology, "there's a report on ISN you may want to see." Sheridan ordered viewers on, and the group shifted position for a better view. They caught just the end of it, the repetition of the story lead. "The Valhalla, commissioned just last week and newly arrived at Mars Colony, was destroyed overnight by an explosion whose cause remains unclear." "Off!" Sheridan's order unmasked the sickened, sickening silence that hung over the War Room as each member of the group confronted what they had just heard. The Captain's hand trembled when he touched his link. "Lieutenant Corwin, monitor and record the ISN feed. And signal me if any new information comes in." On Corwin's acknowledgment, Sheridan turned back to the conference table, pushing out a long breath to steady himself. "We should not have been blindsided by this. This was a major assault, and while I'll reserve judgment until we have more information, I'm inclined to think it was a major mistake. But we should have known it was coming, should have seen it coming." Garibaldi felt the trembling along his spine, the one that tightened his neck and jaw, and drew his chin down toward his chest. He knew that shiver only too well, that one that said 'you screwed up again, Michael.' What the hell had he missed? No one offered the Captain excuses or apologies, and even Sheridan seemed reluctant to speak. "All right," he said finally, "we start over. There's going to be hell to pay for this one. We've got the ISN feed. Susan, monitor all EarthForce channels. Marcus, anything the Rangers can bring us will be more than welcome. Stephen, you get in touch with the people on Mars and you tell them that if they expect our support they had better not ever try a stunt like this again. Clark will answer this -- probably hard and fast. We have got to be ready." He turned his back on the table and took a few steps away. "We'll meet again at 1700," he said without looking back, "unless someone gets something that warrants immediate attention." Sheridan faced them now. "If that happens, link in and we'll put out a code 7R. That's all." They filed out in silence. "Michael?" Garibaldi halted reluctantly. "We need to be able to reach you if we have to call a code. Maybe we should get you back on the link. But meanwhile, make sure someone knows where to reach you, huh?" Relief replaced dread as Garibaldi listened. "Will do, Captain," he answered softly as John laid a hand on his shoulder. JULY 10, 2261 Morning Michael Garibaldi parted from his old friend near the turbo lift and made his way back to his quarters. He called for lights, ordered the ISN feed on, put the kettle on to boil, and took down a mug. When the tea had been set to steep, he adjusted the shower and started to strip down. Shoeless and shirtless, he wandered back to the table for a sip of his tea. ISN was rerunning the bulletin of the explosion. Though several different reporters made appearances on screen, there was little information beyond the one-sentence summary that they had heard earlier. A string of politicians and military leaders provided sound bytes about outrage or justice, but facts were in short supply. Garibaldi shook his head in disgust. This madness was never going to stop and there didn't seem to be much he -- or anyone else -- could do about it. He turned his attention back to the shower. As he tossed his cast off clothes into the hamper, his peripheral vision caught... "Computer, freeze image." The screen was occupied by Senator Hidaki, mouth open in mid-harangue. On his way to yet another closed door meeting with Clark, the Senator had decided to respond to the press. His staff, arrayed behind him, tried to hide their discomfort. "Isolate upper left quadrant." The video split in fourths, and most of Hidaki disappeared. An eye, an ear, and a shoulder remained, and over that shoulder, the face of an aide. The man looked away from the camera, captured in profile. "Enhance." The quality of the image improved, if only marginally. "Identify." The computer worked on that for a moment then returned a name, Joshua Andrews, a name that meant nothing to Michael Garibaldi. But the face, that face meant something. And that face in that place meant trouble. Garibaldi showered quickly, but not before he set the computer on a record search for the name Joshua Andrews. He wrapped himself in a robe, brewed a fresh cup of tea, and looked through the information retrieved. There wasn't a lot. The usual stuff: birth record, degrees conferred, a stint in Earth Force. And security clearances. Pretty damn high level ones. Intrigued, Garibaldi poked around a bit, to see if he could outsmart the computer's search routines and turn up something else. His efforts yielded nothing. Draining the last of his tea, he headed toward the bed where he had laid out clean clothes. Halfway there he stopped, turned back to the computer, and set it on another search. He dressed carefully, the rhythm of routine events soothing his mind. He checked his organizer. There were several appointments scheduled today, but he should still have time to do some research before they reconvened. Finally, ready to leave, he checked the computer for search results. This name yielded absolutely nothing. JULY 10, 2261 Late Morning Garibaldi moved slowly through the Zocalo. He had time before his first appointment, and there was often much to learn by watching the parade of sentients through this marketplace. This was not what he wanted to be doing of course. What he wanted was to have a confrontation about his discovery, to watch the eyes, to listen for strain in the voice when the explanation came. If, in fact, there was an explanation. He groped in his pocket for the data crystal on which he had recorded the image and felt the flush of blood rising at the back of his neck with the surge of emotion. Not yet, not while the feelings still had such sway. He had to get control of this first. When he could be rational, then, they would talk. On the far side of main corridor Garibaldi spotted Marcus engaged in conversation. The other party was obscured by a pillar, but from the hands that gestured now and again, Garibaldi concluded it was a man. He clearly was taller than Marcus, since the Ranger looked up steadily. Marcus' expressive eyes betrayed concern, compassion, and a kindness, almost a tenderness, which startled Michael. For a moment he considered sharing his discovery with the Ranger, but their relationship had never been one to admit of confidences, only a professional acquaintance. Garibaldi felt the flush at his neck again, and, startled, stopped to name the emotion. He studied the Ranger for a moment. Yes, if he were honest, he was jealous of the time Marcus had spent with Sinclair, angry that the Ranger and not he was there with Jeff on Babylon 4 at the end. He jumped at the touch of the hand on his shoulder. "You all right, Chief?" the security agent asked. "You're staring into space." Garibaldi felt an odd shiver run through him as he realized he had been wholly unaware of the man's approach. Not good for someone in his line of work. "Fine, no, I'm fine." He forced a laugh. "What? You didn't see her?" he joked. "You gotta pay attention." When the man started to laugh, Garibaldi patted his shoulder and slipped away to his office. The first of the day's clients arrived soon after, the series of appointments tying up several hours during which Garibaldi struggled against his own impatience. With the last consultation finally completed, he tucked his organizer into his inner jacket pocket, and resolved to make a run through DownBelow again. The crush of people in the corridor that led to the transport tube moved against him. He struggled through the throng, breaking free of the current about ten feet before the tube door. He straightened his jacket as he walked the last few steps. "Michael!" That voice was unmistakable. Garibaldi's hand dropped from the signal as he turned to face Zack Allan. "We gotta talk." Garibaldi glanced around him. Privacy was at a premium here. "Can this wait? I was on my way to..." "Medlab, and I think you better hurry." Allan had already signaled for the car, and as the doors opened, he laid a hand on Garibaldi's shoulder to urge him in. The young security chief called the destination and seized the moment of privacy to explain himself to Michael. "Some of my people broke up a fight a little while ago. If you can call it that. Three on one. The guy's in pretty bad shape but I think you're gonna wanna talk to him. He's from Mars. Seems the three I got down the station decided 'his kind' were responsible for that ship exploding. They were all EarthForce once upon a time, had friends on that ship." Allan accompanied Garibaldi out of the lift and down the corridor to Medlab, stopping just outside. He gestured toward the treatment area. "You better hear what he's saying, Michael, while he can still talk." Garibaldi strolled quietly into Medlab, hands deep in his pockets. He smiled and nodded greetings at a couple of techs bustling about. A nurse inquired as to whether he needed treatment but with a word of thanks, Michael declined the offer, explaining he had just come to visit. No one questioned him further, and when the last of the techs moved away from the treatment bed, Garibaldi softly greeted the beaten man lying there. Michael couldn't tell if it was the beating he had taken or the painkillers he'd been given, but the man could scarcely focus. Still, there was recognition there. He knew this man, though he had no idea of his name. Only a few hours ago, he passed information about the Valhalla to Michael and Trevor. Now the battered man struggled to speak. "...didn't..." Garibaldi spoke calmly, soothingly. "Didn't what? Didn't start the fight? Hell, I didn't think you were that stupid." No smile flickered in the man's face. He tried to shake his head. Garibaldi leaned closer to catch the words, and saw the man summon his strength. "We didn't blow it. I swear." The labored whisper faded and the man seemed to fade away with it. "We who?" Garibaldi questioned, trying to hold the man in consciousness. "What do you mean 'blow it'?" "Valhalla," the man murmured, beginning to doze. "Not ours." Realizing what he was hearing, Garibaldi frantically tried to get clarification and confirmation before the man slipped away from him. "Mars Resistance did not blow up the Valhalla. Is that what you're telling me?" The man's head bobbed in what could be a nod or simply encroaching sleep. "Yes." "Who then? Who's responsible?" Too late. Garibaldi straightened, staring down at the sleeping figure as he considered this news. If Mars Resistance had not destroyed the Valhalla, who had? He remembered Jeremy Alcott's warning. Had Earth Resistance orchestrated this? They claimed not to be interested in the military. And why keep it secret? Unless... Garibaldi fingered the data crystal in his pocket. Unless someone was playing a dangerous game. JULY 10, 2261 Late Afternoon Garibaldi settled in to his chair in the War Room for their 1700 meeting still itchy from an unsuccessful tour of seedier side of the station. The fact that his colleagues had no more success than he was not consolation. Somewhat reluctantly, he shared what he had heard from the man in Medlab. As he expected, Stephen was annoyed that he had been 'bothering' a patient, but all of them were speechless at the report. Except Ivanova. "What?!" Susan spat out the word, her eyes wide with disbelief. "He says Mars Resistance didn't take out the Valhalla," Michael repeated. "He's lying!" Ivanova protested. "Who else has means and motive?" "I don't think the Resistance has the means," Stephen countered. "They were looking for help from us. You said yourself, Captain, that was a major assault. I don't think they have the resources." "Agreed," Sheridan stated. "And as for motive," he continued, "well, somebody's going to have to go some to convince me there is a motive for an attack like this." Marcus spoke up. "The question remains, however: who is responsible?" Garibaldi felt the pulsing in his neck and his lungs seemed half their former size. The silence around the table echoed the silence in DownBelow. Something was very wrong but he couldn't lay his hunches out here. He needed proof, needed something certain. But if he waited, what else might go wrong? "Something's not right here," Sheridan said at last. "Susan, is there nothing on the com channels?" "We're monitoring all the standard communications channels," Ivanova assured them, "and a few we're not supposed to know about. It's eerie, Captain. There hasn't even been a mention. It's like it didn't happen." The conversation of the next few minutes accomplished nothing more than that of the previous half-hour. Finally, Sheridan dismissed them until 0800, but with the usual admonition: link in a code 7R if anything turns up. "Michael," Sheridan called after him, "I asked Mr. Allan to arrange a link for you. He should have it by morning. Pick that up from him, will you?" "Aye, aye, Captain." With a mock salute, Garibaldi left the War Room. JULY 10, 2261 Early Evening He called for lights and messages as soon as he got back to his quarters. There were responses to a few of the calls he had put out, but very few, and even those contained no information of any use. And there was a message from Sullivan. / Michael, I was seized by the urge to cook pot roast. Why don't you come for dinner and save me from leftovers? There's gravy too. / He still couldn't fit the pieces together. The little bit he did know -- or thought he knew -- about what happened on Mars, what happened to the Valhalla, those bits didn't make sense. A new ship, one that seemed to be important to Clark, gets sent to Mars, for reasons unknown, as part of what appears to be a major troop build-up, also for reasons unknown. Shortly after it arrives, it's blown to ashes, and no one knows how, or by whom, and no one is making claims of responsibility -- not even braggart's false claiMs. And Mars Resistance is flat out denying it. There's been no retaliation by Clark's forces. Nearly twelve hours later EarthDome hasn't even issued a formal statement. Garibaldi felt in his pocket again for the data crystal. Maybe it was time to have that talk. He got cleaned up for dinner.