FreezeFrame Part 2 JULY 10, 2261 Evening "Hey, Michael! Come on in!" Carly Sullivan headed back to the stove as soon as she had greeted him. "I wasn't sure if you got my message. I'm glad you came," she called over her shoulder. "Dinner will be ready in a minute. You want some iced tea?" "No thanks." Sullivan turned to the hard flat voice. Michael Garibaldi's back still brushed the door. No mirth danced in the ice blue eyes and the look on his face stole away her smile. "Michael?" She set a spoon down on the counter and came round to his side. "You're not here for pot roast, are you?" She tried to judge if there was still room for humor. There wasn't. "No." He tried to keep his tone neutral, emotionless. He failed. She studied him with concern but not fear. "OK, Michael. What can I do for you?" "You can tell me the truth." She startled a bit at that, but he saw no irritation in her eyes. "I've never given you anything but the truth, Michael." Her voice was soft, undefended, a little hurt. "Never." "How do I know that?" he challenged. Her eyes searched his face, trying to understand. "OK, Michael," she said at last, "if you have any cause to think otherwise, lay it out." "I just think it's a little strange that you come to me with this unexplained stay-away message a few hours before an EarthForce cruiser gets blown out of the sky." "Michael, I gave you what I got from Jeremy..." "Who has conveniently dropped out of sight." Sullivan stood open-mouthed against the kitchen counter, studying the man in her doorway, trying to make sense of the challenges he threw at her. "He has been difficult to reach, yes. I think I may be able to make touch with him tonight. That's one of the reasons I called you. "Michael, what's this really about?" she asked at last. "If you're accusing me of something, come at me straight." Garibaldi considered the request a moment. "Let's start with PsiCorps." Sullivan didn't flinch. "What about them?" "Explain to me why you spent the day at PsiCorps headquarters in Geneva just before you shipped out here." The dark-haired woman's gaze did not waver, but Garibaldi's practiced eye saw a tiny tremble shake her frame. "Officially? I was undergoing testing to determine if I had the psychological stamina for a deep space assignment." "And unofficially?" "Clark and his people wanted to know why I wanted this assignment, and the Corps wanted another look at my gift." "And just what did you tell them?" "I never told them anything. They didn't ask directly, and I wasn't going to offer. I just let them do their thing and tried to keep my mind clear so there was certainly nothing for them to pick up on a scan." "You telling me you blocked PsiCops?" "No, Michael. I can't block. I'm not a telepath. All I can do is to keep my mind quiet and my energy contained. I can try not to let any critical information get to where a surface scan can find it. If they had wanted to do a deep scan, there would have been no way to stop them. But they didn't." "How do you know?" She was quiet for a moment. "I would have known." He stepped forward, unwilling to have the question dismissed. "How would you know? How could you know?" She looked away from him for the first time now. "Because I remember, Michael. I remember what it feels like. I'd know if that nightmare were happening again." She turned to the counter, found a glass there, and took a few sips of water. "I was ten the first time," she said without turning back. "I was starting to be noticed in school -- 'too bright for my own good' was the way they described it -- and my gift was starting to show itself. People could feel my energy from a distance and it was frightening them." She looked up at him again, relieved to find some trace of compassion in his eyes. "I didn't understand it, couldn't control it, and was too innocent to realize I should hide it. The school officials told my parents that they had to take me to be examined by the Corps. "My people were poor, Michael. My parents had no education. The school said you must, so they did. I was ten years old. They wouldn't let my parents stay with me, wouldn't explain to me what they were doing, or why. They treated me like some kind of lab rat. "And they invaded my mind. Two of them. I remember screaming and fighting, but they strapped me down. They ransacked my mind. I tried to hide from them, to push them out, but they just kept ripping away every barrier I put up. There was nowhere, no way I could get away from them." She faced him again, pulling herself up straighter. "I cried for three days. I didn't talk again for a month." An edge of defiance crept into her voice. "I'd know if they did a deep scan, Michael. I remember." He could see the pulse pounding at the base of her neck, the tremor in her hands. And in his own. He swallowed but the lump in his throat didn't move. "You said 'the first time'..." She took a deep breath, nodded. "They came after me again when I was in college." Her eyes drifted off to the memory. "It was... a little easier. At least I knew what to expect." A flame of compassion flickered in his eyes, but his voice remained icy. "Why did they bring you in this time if they weren't going to scan you?" She shook her head. "They did some surface scans, went through the motions of testing. Remember, Michael, I asked for this post. You knew that?" He nodded. "I had a reputation that carried some clout, but that by itself wouldn't have been enough. I had to ask Roger to get me assigned here. I think that he personally was glad to be rid of me, but Clark's people were suspicious. I had tried to keep a low profile, but Roger certainly knew my politics. They wanted to see what they could pull out of me, but ultimately, they couldn't push too hard because Roger wanted me gone." "And does Roger's eagerness to be rid of you also explain your other source of income?" "Income?" "The Sullivan Foundation." Carly laughed now, squeezed her eyes shut, and shook her head ruefully. "The Foundation's not Roger's money, Michael. It's Sean's. Bob Vogel -- our best man - was Sean's attorney. After the funeral, he told me that Sean had worried his father would contest anything he left to me. So they put everything into a foundation, with a provision that makes me an officer of the foundation for life. I get a 'salary' every month." She drew a long breath, and then another, pushed her fingers back through her hair and tried to shake off the emotion that accompanied the memories. "Michael," she said with a sigh, "I'll tell you whatever you want to know, but why now, suddenly? What's happened?" Garibaldi considered that question. He walked over to the vid unit, fingering the crystal inside his pocket. His eyes squinted tightly as he looked back at her. "How long have you been with the Resistance?" She thought a moment. "Almost four years." "And how long have you known Jeremy Alcott?" She started. "Is this about Jeremy?" "Answer the question." "Michael, I've known Jeremy going on twelve years." It was not what he had expected to hear, but he recovered quickly. "How well do you know him? What do you know about him?" "Whoa, Michael. What's this about?" "Don't you wonder about why he's been so hard to reach? And why the hell couldn't he talk when you got hold of him yesterday?" "Michael... what is this about?" He pulled the data crystal from his pocket and held it up for her. "ISN report this morning." He pushed the crystal into the reader and barked the play command. "That's Hidaki," she observed as the vid began to play. A moment later, Garibaldi snapped out the command. "Computer, freeze image." "Oh shit." Garibaldi crossed to where she stood staring at the screen. "Can I take that to mean I don't need to isolate on the gentleman in the upper left quadrant?" he hissed over her shoulder. She spun to face him. "Who else knows about this, Michael?" "Damn it, you don't get it, do you?" "Michael, have you shared this with the command staff? Who knows about this?" "No one, damn it!" Relief shuddered through her. For a moment, she closed her eyes, and when she looked up at him again, she was composed. "Yes, Michael, I knew. OK?" She dropped down onto a floor cushion, and for just a moment, focused on the candle flames that danced in the deep blue globe on the table before her. "How did you think we were getting our information? Didn't it occur to you that we had someone on the inside?" Michael Garibaldi's mind chased after a dozen different possibilities all at once. None of them was comforting. "Why didn't you tell me?" "You didn't ask." He glared at her, but she held fast. "Michael, no one ever lied to you. Jeremy's made it his business to be invisible. There are only about a dozen people who even know the name Jeremy Alcott and half of those have never been face to face. That meeting the two of you had was extraordinary. What were we supposed to do, hand you his resume?" "How do you know he can be trusted?" "What?!" "He works for Hidaki. Hidaki works for Clark. How do you know it's not a trap?" "Michael, I've known Jeremy for twelve years." "How long have you known Joshua?" Her body sagged. "I should have known you'd do your homework." She shook her head, stood, and walked a few steps away from him. "We met in college, in a political science class. We were on opposite sides of an issue -- every issue, in those days. Josh was a conservative. I was a liberal. I supported Free Mars. He was Earth First. Pick an issue -- we argued about it." "And suddenly he's on our side?" "Not suddenly at all, Michael. And not our side versus their side. He realized what we all realized: that there were forces in EarthGov who were distorting and destroying the principles we believed in. That things were going on that were unethical, immoral and illegal. "We don't agree on much, Michael, and I doubt we ever will. But I respect him and he respects me, and we both recognize that the evil Clark represents is bigger than political party or economic status. Jeremy's no traitor, Michael. And he's not a liar." "Now wait," Garibaldi mocked, hands held up in front of him, "lemme see if I've got this. Your old college classmate, the one you never agreed with about anything, sees the light one day, so you bring him into the Resistance, and now he's the top man, but he's working for a Senator who's in Clark's hip pocket and you don't have a problem with that. Have I covered everything?" "I didn't bring him in, Garibaldi. He brought me in." She picked a small photo up from her desk. "He introduced me to Sean, did I tell you that? They were squash partners." She laughed and set the photo down again. "Where I grew up, we never heard of squash. We played stickball. "They'd play a couple of nights a week, and sometimes on the weekend. Afterwards, Josh would come for dinner. Sean was caught in the whole publish- or-perish thing, so most nights he'd go off to work on his latest paper, and Josh and I would talk. That's when he recruited me. "Michael," she sang soothingly as she came close to him, " I understand how you must have felt when you saw him with Hidaki, but Jeremy is no double agent. I promise you that." "He can fool Hidaki, but not you. Is that it?" Garibaldi sneered at her. "He can lie his way into the confidence of one of Clark's top men, but he'd never tell you anything but the truth." "Michael, he worked for Hidaki before he worked for the Resistance. Hell, he interned in Hidaki's office while we were still in school." "Shame he doesn't trust you as much as you trust him." Her brow furrowed. "What?" "Left you a little out of the loop on this one, didn't he?" "This one? What one?" "The Valhalla, Carly. Or have you forgotten that a hell of a lot of people died this morning?" "Now you just hold on, Garibaldi. There are some things I won't take, even from you. Are you trying to suggest that we blew that ship? How dare you?" She stalked away from him. "Damn it, Michael. Will you be sensible for just a moment? That couldn't have been accomplished without a major assault. It had to take months of planning, and dozens of people. Jeremy couldn't keep that a secret from me. Or from you. We would have heard about it from someone, from lots of someones. That was not our operation." "Then just whose was it?" "It had to be Mars Resistance." "No way." Garibaldi was in her face. "And just how did he know there was something to stay away from if he wasn't part of the plan?" "I don't know," she answered harshly, "but I've got a date to talk with him tonight at 2100, and I'll be delighted to ask him." She didn't sound delighted. "If you want to stay around for that conversation, fine." Sullivan stalked into the kitchen and started slamming things. Garibaldi stood in the living area, glaring down at the three flames, listening to his pulse pound. He rammed his hands down into his pockets and, just for a moment, gave serious consideration to the possibility that he hadn't had his emotions quite as well under control as he thought. The sudden quiet in the kitchen caught his attention. He took another risk. "That dinner invitation still good?" She spun toward him with a carving knife in her hand, the fury in her eyes freezing him. And then they laughed. Bursting, snorting, choking guffaws and helpless, wheezing giggles punctured the overweening tension. She launched a damp sponge at his head; he ducked and made a juggling catch. "You," she gasped, "can set the table." He wiped the table and started some music playing while she bustled around the kitchen. He set out the plates and silver she passed to him, and drew close to her just before she sat down. "I'm sorry. I don't know what got in to me." "No, Michael, it's all right." She shook her head. "They're questions you have every right to ask, questions I always knew you'd get round to asking sooner or later. I just didn't expect them tonight. I didn't see it coming." She motioned him into a chair. "I took you back to some painful memories. I'm sorry." She filled a plate and handed it to him. "We all have painful memories, Michael. That's how we recognize one another: by the scars." Dinner was punctuated with silences, broken by questions Michael told himself he shouldn't ask. "You know he's working for Hidaki, and you have no doubts about him?" She considered it. "No." "You've never questioned him?" Again she looked thoughtful. "No." "Why not?" She laughed out loud, and reached out to touch his cheek. "What?" he asked innocently. "You're good for me, Michael. I need your skepticism. I trust too easily." He blushed a little but waved a finger at her in a mock scolding. She smiled at that, then answered his question seriously. "I know how much information has come to us because he was there, and I've never seen anything to make me think information was going the other way." "Never?" "Never." He shook his head and gave a sigh of amazement. "Doesn't it bother you that you haven't been able to reach him?" Michael asked as they cleared the table after the meal. "Doesn't that mystery message worry you at all?" "Of course it does, Michael. I've been going crazy trying to get hold of him." "And what's tonight?" "He left a message for me this afternoon: a number and a time to call." "How do you know you're not walking into a trap? What if the channel's not secure? How do you know he's alone?" "Michael! If I thought like you I'd be exhausted all the time," she laughed. "I will make sure the channel's secure. And as to whether he's alone...I trust him, Michael. That's all I can do. Hell, he could have Clark himself in the room, out of sight. There'd be no way for me to know. All I can do is trust." Garibaldi rolled back his cuffs and started on the dishes. "The channel out of here may be secure, but what about his end?" "Michael," she chastised him as she brought him the last few items, "I didn't get this job because of my good looks. I've got some bots that can check the channel all the way down." "Well, be sure you run them. And keep running them." "Does that mean you're not going to stay around?" "As far as he knows, I'm not here." "As far as he knows? You're saying you want me to lie to him?" He rinsed the platter and handed it to her to dry. "Yes." "Michael!" "If he knows I'm here, he'll be on his guard. I want to see him, hear him, when he thinks it's just you." "I do not find that flattering, Mr. Garibaldi." She scowled at him as she set the platter back in the cupboard. "But I'll humor you. It's almost time. I'm going to make sure I've got a channel." Garibaldi left the rest of the dishes in the sink and dried his hands. Moving to stand beside the com unit where she worked, he scanned the room for any sign that might betray his presence. He picked up his jacket from the chair and moved it into the bedroom, out of sight, then scanned the room again. "OK, I've got a secure channel." "Run your bots as soon as you connect. And keep running them. At random intervals." Michael took position just beyond the bedroom door, where he could observe without being observed. "Yes, mother," Sullivan chanted as she consulted her notes to place the call. The connection was quickly made, and a familiar face appeared in the viewer. "Lu?" No tux tonight, Michael noted. The blond looked rumpled and haggard, his collar open, shirtsleeves rolled. "Yeah! Hi! How are you?" Her fingers moved across the keypad. "That your bot?" His eyes darted nervously away for a moment. "Uh-huh. We're clear." She nodded at him. "Josh, where are you? This number is familiar." "The safe house we used last year for that general from the African confederation. Are you alone?" "Why? Are you worried?" she dodged the question. "I hoped Michael would be with you. Lu, is he all right? Your people didn't get caught in this, did they?" "Josh, take it easy. Caught in what? And are you all right?" "I don't know, Lu. I think it may be time for me to get out. This one is just too sick. Hidaki knows I'm upset about it. I don't know if I can play the game this time." "Slow down, Josh. Start from the beginning. What's going on?" "Is that you?" "Yeah, Josh, relax. I'm keeping my bot active, just to be sure the channel's secure. It's OK. Now tell me what's going on." "You heard about the Valhalla, didn't you? ISN carried the reports." Carly remembered Michael's data crystal. "Yeah, we saw the reports." She felt a little sick as she heard herself ask the next question. "Is that what you meant when you told me to stay away, Josh? Did you know that was coming?" She felt sicker when she heard the answer. "Yeah. I did. I'm sorry I couldn't explain, but Hidaki was in the next room. Giving you that much was risky, but I couldn't let you walk into that one." "How did you know it was going down, Josh?" She forced the question out. "Did you order the attack on the Valhalla?" His head rocked from side to side. "The Valhalla wasn't attacked, Lu. Not from outside anyway. Clark put the Valhalla on a suicide mission." "Get out!" Garibaldi caught the words just before they escaped his lips, realized he had been so drawn in to the drama of the conversation that he was losing his objectivity. He tried to take stock. Jeremy Alcott certainly looked shaken, sounded distraught about the news he was delivering, but Michael was still enough of a cynic to consider that it might be an act. He listened carefully to the rest of the message. "It was a fait accompli when Clark called Hidaki in. Ed was shocked himself, I think, but he's going along with it. It gives him an excuse to come down hard on the Marsies." "Do they know, Josh? Have they been warned?" "I sent warnings that a crack down was coming, but I didn't tell them why, or how I knew. Lu, I can't let the truth of this get to too many people. Only Hidaki and two others in EarthDome have the real dope on this. If there's any kind of leak, it'll trace right back here." "I understand." "They're not going to stop with the Marsies, Lu. They'll come after us too, and the outer colonies, and probably Babylon 5 and the renegade ships. They'll claim conspiracy, and play it for all the scare they can get out of it." "What do you want us to do from here?" "I wish I could tell you I had a plan. Tell Michael. He needs whatever information we have. Let him use his own judgment about how much to tell the others. "I don't know when I'll be able to make contact again, Lu. Hidaki's been at Clark's side since he got called into this thing. We've been sleeping in the office, ordering in food. I got away tonight by insisting on a chance to shower and get some clean clothes." He glanced at his chrono. "And I better get moving, before they get suspicious." "You stay calm. Keep your wits about you. You'll get through this." "Christ, Lu! He blew up one of his own ships. The man is mad. I know I can't do anything to arouse suspicion, but this has gone too far. I have to get out of here, before I turn into one of them." Garibaldi listened to their good-byes, then waited for the viewer to go dark before stepping out into the main room. Staring down to where her hands still rested on the Babcom keypads, Sullivan spoke without any attempt to look at him. "You heard?" Michael crossed to stand beside her. "I heard," he said softly. "Are you OK?" "Michael, we have a madman in power. Are any of us OK?" She shook herself out of her stupor without waiting for an answer. "What now, Michael?" She examined his eyes. "What are you going to do with what you heard?" Garibaldi shook his head. "I'm not sure what to do, Carly. I can't just sit on information like this," he said, pacing toward the bedroom, "but I can't drop this in the War Room without a lot of questions about the source and reliability of my information." He faced her from across the room. "And you don't trust Jeremy." It was a statement, not a question, and one he didn't contest. "There are too many questions." "Are there any answers that would matter?" Garibaldi considered that challenge for a moment. "If we could prove what Jeremy's telling us, confirm it from some other source..." "You heard what he said. Only a handful of people know the truth." "Then maybe some of us have to find the truth." He stepped up to the com unit, and asked to be patched through to Sheridan, audio only. As he waited for the connection, he turned to her. "We need to put some of our friends on Mars to work. Can you reach anyone?" Before she could answer, Sheridan's voice crackled through the speaker. "Sheridan here. What's up, Michael?" "I need a word with you, Captain. In private." "I'm on my way to my office now. Meet me there. JULY 10, 2261 Late Evening The office door stood open when Michael arrived, and the Captain waved him in, although Zack Allan commanded the CO's attention. Garibaldi hung back while Sheridan signed off on the last few matters his Security Chief had brought him. Handing a final report back to Zack, Sheridan stood, and both black-uniformed men turned to face Garibaldi. Small talk flew as Sheridan came around the desk. Zack began to take his leave, then halted, reaching down into a pocket. "Almost forgot, Michael. Your link came through," he said, holding a small case out to Garibaldi. "Wish I'd gotten it to you sooner. I was tryin' to reach you earlier tonight." Michael took the case, and opening it, removed the link and applied it to the back of his hand. The familiar contact stirred pleasure and pain. "Me?" he asked with surprise and some concern. "About what?" Zack's eyes darted to Sheridan, and Michael's followed. On Allan's face was the look of one who had spoken when he shouldn't. "It's all right, Zack," Michael nodded, "I have no secrets from the Captain." For an instant, each of them wondered if that was true. Allan was still visibly uncomfortable, but he answered Michael's question. "That guy, the one from the station house last night?" Garibaldi nodded. "He came through Customs tonight, headed for Io. We tried to get hold of you, stalled him as long as we could. Figured you might want to know." Puzzled by the news, Garibaldi offered his thanks as the younger man took his leave. "Problem, Michael?" Sheridan asked as Michael mentally chewed over this bit of news. With a start, Michael responded. "That? Aw, no. Just curious. It'll keep. Thanks for seeing me, John." "Sit down, Michael." Sheridan motioned toward the couch. "What's up?" Garibaldi perched on the edge of the couch and shifted uncomfortably. "I got some information tonight, John. If it's true, it's one helluva piece of news." "Doesn't sound like you entirely trust it." A sigh escaped Michael as he considered. "No, I guess I don't." He gestured helplessly, then sighed again. "John, the source is one I would have trusted completely a few days ago, but something's happened to make me question. It may be nothing, just my paranoia kicking in again. Or it could be everything coming down around our ears. "But the information...well, if there's any chance at all that it's true, I can't just sit on it. But I didn't want to bring it to the whole council without knowing if it was solid." "All right, Michael. I learned a long time ago to trust your instincts. So what's the news?" John Sheridan's face went ashen as Garibaldi recounted Jeremy's message. "Michael, do you realize what you're saying? You're talking about the President of the Earth Alliance sending hundreds of people to their deaths for...for a fraud?" Sheridan's voice was choked by the nausea sweeping him. His body spun out of the chair. "Good god, Michael. I know Stephen Jennings. I can't believe he'd take a suicide assignment. Not without ... a cause." "I know, John. I know. I couldn't believe it either." He too came to his feet and followed Sheridan's pacing. "But the source...a couple of days ago I would have said unimpeachable. And maybe it is. I just don't know right now." "Well, you had damn well better find out!" Sheridan turned to face him. "What am I supposed to do with this if we don't know whether it's true?" Garibaldi sucked a draft of cool air down to the burning in his chest. "I'm trying to get verification, see if we can prove or disprove by other means." He looked away, then back at Sheridan, a sad fear darkening his eyes. "If it were anyone else, John...He's been good to us before." "Michael, who? And how well placed? This is a wild story. If it doesn't come from..." "Well placed. Very well placed," Garibaldi said. /Maybe too well placed. / He didn't say that. "You remember when Clark was putting saboteurs aboard, and we got the list?" To Sheridan's nod, he added, "same source." "All right, Michael," the commanding officer said with a sigh, "I'll have some discreet conversations with other members of the War Council, but I'm not making this official until we have some other proof, so get moving on whatever it is you're planning to do." "Aye, Captain." Garibaldi started for the door. "Michael?" At the sound of Sheridan's voice, Michael stopped and turned. "I hope you're wrong." Garibaldi considered for a moment. "If it's true, we know we can never trust our government again. If it's not, we know we can't trust our friends." He tucked his hands into trouser pockets. "I'm not sure what to hope for." JULY 10, 2261 into July 11, 2261 Wee Hours The half-hush that passed for night had settled over the station when Michael Garibaldi found himself at the intersection of two Blue Sector corridors. He stopped, uncertain which arm of the cross to follow, realizing only after examining each that he had no destination in mind. It was past midnight as they kept time on board. He should head back to his quarters and get some sleep. Still, he knew from experience that it was only when Earth Standard Time started its count anew that the alien sector, and the illicit night spots in the bowels of the station, really came to life. A tour of the bars now might root out some information. He could go back to Sullivan's, try to talk through what they had heard tonight from Jeremy. If he believed Jeremy, or Joshua, or whatever his name really was. If he believed in Carly. Somehow, he was going to have to decide whether to follow the intuition that doubted Alcott or the instinct that trusted Sullivan. And in typical Garibaldi fashion, he wanted a rational explanation for the choice. The ever-skeptical former security chief chuckled aloud at his own ruminations and the realization that he had been standing motionless in the hallway for some minutes. He looked again down each of the paths before him, absently scratching the back of his hand. The chilly sheen of the metal under his fingers pulled his attention back to the crossroads. Garibaldi's eyes played over the link on his hand but his gaze was off in memory of the earlier conversation. On an impulse, he tapped the device. Scarcely waiting for acknowledgment, he requested Zack Allan's location. "Mr. Allan is on the Customs Concourse." The reply was polite, efficient, and emotionless. Michael Garibaldi executed a quick about-face and made his way to the transport tube that would take him to the debarkation area. The trip took only moments, the doors of the cabin opening on a nearly deserted corridor. Zack Allan stood with his back to Garibaldi's view, observing the few passengers straggling through the checkpoint. Michael drew up on Allan's right. The security chief noted his presence, turned, and greeted him with an apology. "Aw hell, Michael, I'm really sorry. I did everything I could to stall." Garibaldi nodded in acknowledgment, knowing Allan's reference was to Trevor. "Not a problem, Zack. I appreciate your keeping an eye out. What exactly happened?" "We spotted him in Customs earlier tonight," Allan explained. "I know, it's not like we hadn't seen him before, but it felt fishy to me, so soon after ... well, you know..." Garibaldi nodded again, and smiled just a little as the young man continued. "...so I had my guys stall him and we tried to call you. Sorry we couldn't raise you. His transport was leaving, and, well, we had no excuse." On the edge of his vision, Garibaldi noted the movement of someone in the shadows, a form obscured but recognized. "Where did you say was he going, Zack?" Trevor didn't spend all his time on station. Why didn't this feel like a coincidence? The dark figure moved closer, but Garibaldi's attention stayed focused on Zack. "The transport was headed to Io, Michael. His papers were in order. I was really stretching it even trying to detain him. But like I said, it smelled bad. And, ya know, he was awful itchy to get out of here." Something cold and hard took up residence in Garibaldi's gut. "Did he say why? What was the reason for the trip?" The familiar figure spoke but Michael's right hand snapped up to freeze the expression. "His identicard say he's a trader, Michael, and he claimed it was a business trip. He said... aw, what the hell was it? He said..." Zack squeezed his eyes shut to focus the memory and slowly repeated Trevor's words. "He was going to Io because he heard they might have some new imports and if they were what he thought they were, there might be a market for them here." Satisfied that the retelling was accurate, Allan opened his eyes and laughed. "You ever hear such bull?" Garibaldi's eyes narrowed, squinting, staring, seeing nothing, as the words echoed in his mind, trying to make sense of themselves. A hand settled on Michael's still upraised arm, and again the voice intruded. "What is it?!?" Garibaldi barked, spinning to face Marcus Cole at last. Annoyance and apology mingled in the Ranger's visage; Zack's embarrassment was obvious. Garibaldi dropped his eyes and his voice as he mumbled a "sorry." He composed himself with a breath and looked to bearded man again. "What can I do for you, Marcus?" "May I have a word with you, Michael?" Garibaldi followed his glance to Zack. The security man stepped back, and kept the irritation in his face from reaching his voice as he offered, "I'll leave you two..." Garibaldi's hand reached out to Zack's shoulder to halt his retreat. "It's OK, Marcus," Michael murmured, giving Allan the trust he had demanded. "What is it?" The Ranger seemed unsure for a moment but proceeded. "I came down to have a look, as you likely did, because this ship was reported to have called at Mars. See what I could see." Zack, Michael noted, was nodding. "One of the first blokes off was a chap I recognized. Met him on Mars a while back." "You get hold of him?" Garibaldi asked. "What'd he say?" "Odd, that. Acted as if he didn't even know me. It was some time ago, but we had enough contact that he ought to have remembered me. Acknowledged none of it, and seemed in quite a bustle to get somewhere. I tried to follow discreetly but I'm afraid I've lost him." "You want me to have my people to bring him in?" Zack asked. "No," Garibaldi shook his head pensively, "thanks, Zack, but we probably shouldn't get too many people involved, and besides, even under Clark's law, it's not a crime to be unsociable. No, we'll have to talk to him about his manners ourselves. You got a description, Marcus? Or a name?" "Check the passenger manifest," Allan suggested, leading the way toward the Customs House. By the time the other men arrived in the office, he had the first of the passengers on the display, and as soon as Marcus could view it comfortably, he began to page through the listing. "Hold!" the Ranger called when a dozen faces had flown by. "Yes, that's he. That's not the name I know him by, but that's the man. I'm certain." "All right, we've got a face," Garibaldi observed, studying the features on the display, "and the name he was intending to use on station, although he may change plans if he thinks you've made him." "There's nothing leaving for a couple of hours," Zack offered, "and I'll be here when the next ships go out. If he tries to slip off station again, I'll make sure he says goodbye to you first." Marcus smiled and offered his thanks. "Which way was he headed when you saw him last?" Michael asked the Ranger. "I'd venture to Brown Sector, though I can't be more specific than that. Lost him in a crowd near the transport tube." "I should have a look around down there anyway," Michael volunteered. "I'm not going to catch up with my man tonight." Garibaldi turned back to Allan. "Thanks, Zack," he offered, his mind on its way to Io. "Thanks for trying." The three men took their leave, Allan settling down to a stack of paperwork, Garibaldi headed for the seedier parts of the station. With not a small measure of irritation, he noted Marcus Cole keeping pace with him. "We can cover more ground if we split up," Michael observed, trying to keep his voice neutral. "You're right, of course," the Ranger replied, "and in all likelihood, anyone seeing us together would be too suspicious to talk with us. Though no one's been talking about much of anything in DownBelow these last few days. Eerily quiet, don't you think? Of course, there are a number of people quite shaken by this explosion. Shocked into silence, perhaps. And the mourners are about other things, aren't they? I spoke with someone just this morning who lost a loved one when the Valhalla blew. Devastated!" It was obvious to Garibaldi that his first approach had not worked. He stopped and waited for the Ranger to notice. Two steps later Marcus halted and turned back. "Marcus," Garibaldi began, cringing at the condescension in his own voice, "we're not going to get anywhere if we stay together." Adjusting his tone, he continued. "You're right, nobody's talking, and they're definitely not going to loosen up if we walk in looking like a posse from an old vid." The Ranger's eyes seemed to lose focus as though he were seeing beyond Michael. /I didn't say anything difficult yet, / Garibaldi thought, astonished by the reaction. "Marcus? You understand we need to split up?" "There he is!" the Ranger breathed in a whisper. "What?" Garibaldi snapped. "Don't turn around!" the Ranger ordered. "He's behind you, the man from the ship." "Does he see you?" "No, he's talking with a woman, an older woman." "Let him be, Marcus. And keep talking." As Marcus obediently droned on, Garibaldi gradually angled his body until he too could see the man the Ranger knew from Mars and the silver-haired woman with whom he spoke. Many of the station's homeless claimed a bit of space in this part of the station, a warm place to make a bed, a niche to stash a few precious belongings, but none of the trappings of a makeshift home were here in evidence. Michael and Marcus maintained the pretense of their own conversation while they observed the man and woman. He crouched, huddled close to her, and at times, he seemed moved by her words. Their conversation was intense, but not prolonged. In time, though they could not hear the words, Michael and Marcus saw the body language that spoke of leave-taking. The man stood and dropped a burgundy satchel from his shoulder, placing it on the floor before the woman. She accepted it gingerly, as though receiving a fragile treasure, though the parcel looked nearly her match in size and weight. Somehow, she lifted it, and gently hugged it to herself. Garibaldi found himself swallowing against a lump in his throat, startled to realize that in these few moments of watching, his imagination had cast the two as mother and son and had filled that valise with mementos of a life disrupted by the current troubles. He pushed the thought away, tuned in again to his cynic's perception. Two people exchanging a package. In a section of the station not known for above-board transactions. And one of the players already acting suspiciously. Michael turned to suggest a next step to his companion but found only a blur as the Ranger brushed past him. Before Garibaldi could counsel otherwise, Marcus had intercepted the man again. "...meeting like this. Are you sure we've not met before? You do look familiar! Mars, I believe, about..." "I'm sorry," the man said softly, his voice even. In his face, Garibaldi saw surprise but not distress. "I think you're mistaken." Marcus was wasting his time if he thought this guy was suddenly going to change his story. He wondered just what Marcus meant when he said they had met. "Marcus," he called out, approaching the two men, "you gonna introduce me to your friend?" "That seems a problem..." Marcus began but Garibaldi cut him off. Thrusting a hand out to the stranger he said, "Michael Garibaldi." "Daniel Shannon," his target replied, accepting the handshake. Michael noted the name agreed with the passenger manifest. "But I'm afraid the gentleman and I..." He nodded toward Marcus. "...are not acquainted, though he seems to think so." "I'm just sure," Marcus persisted. "Perhaps it wasn't last year, but..." "Marcus, come on. Mr. Shannon's going to think we're crazy. Knock it off." Turning back to Shannon, he continued. "I'm sorry if we've bothered you, Mr. Shannon. Can we make it up to you, buy you a drink or something?" Before long, Shannon had hesitantly agreed to accept a drink and the three were settled into an only slightly less than deafening corner of a raucous barroom. Shannon kept his cool, though Michael and Marcus peppered him with questions. "So, Dan, -- you mind if I call you Dan? -- what brings you to Babylon 5?" Garibaldi continued without waiting for a response. "Not a whole lotta people wanna be here since we honked off the President." Shannon cultivated a half-smile. "Clark's not too fond of us these days either," he said softly, not looking at either man. He took a swig of his beer before responding to Michael's question. "Actually, I'm not sure where I'm going to wind up but I decided Mars wasn't a healthy place to be. So I headed out, and I figured from here I could explore my options." "I beg your pardon, but..." Marcus' question was interrupted by the bartender's last call, as Garibaldi tried to conceal his sigh of relief. Instinct told him this was not the moment to try to pin Shannon down. "You got a place to stay, Dan?" Garibaldi asked as they moved toward the exit. Marcus tried to interrupt, but Garibaldi placed his body between Shannon and the Ranger. "You can crash in my quarters, if you need a bed." "I wouldn't put you out, Mr. Garibaldi, but I appreciate the offer," Shannon replied. "I'll be fine, thanks. It was a pleasure meeting you both." He nodded toward the Ranger before signaling a farewell and heading down the concourse. Marcus was livid. "May I ask why you let him leave? Do you realize how many unanswered questions there are, how many inconsistencies?" Exasperation skewed Garibaldi's face. "He's not suddenly going to turn around and say 'yeah, I lied.'" He faced the Ranger now. "He's holding to his cover story, whatever his reasons. What we need to do is find out why, and what he's doing on station. Meanwhile Zack will see to it that Shannon doesn't leave the station without our knowing about it, so I'm going to get some sleep." Marcus was still sputtering when Michael turned the corner that put him out of sight. The former security chief made his way quickly back to his quarters. He could catch a few hours sleep, and a shower, before the 0800 meeting. It wasn't much but it was better than nothing. He called for half-lights before the door was fully closed behind him and headed straight for the bed, dropping his jacket on the nearest chair. His shirt was unbuttoned and pulled loose from his trousers and he was starting to kick off his shoes when he noticed the message alert. Cursing softly, he called for a replay. There was one message, audio only, from Carly Sullivan. /Michael, I need to talk with you as soon as you get this. Come by my place, please? Don't worry about the hour. I'll be up. / With another expletive, Garibaldi jammed his foot fully back into the shoe, but by the time he had crossed the room again and exited to the hallway, he had shifted from annoyance to concern. He had left Sullivan just after her conversation with Jeremy Alcott. Had they made contact again? Was there new information? Was there trouble? He'd gotten a couple of buttons done up on his shirt and rolled his sleeves enough to stop them flapping by the time he sounded the signal on Carly's door. He could smell coffee brewing the moment he stepped inside. Carly Sullivan came from the bedroom to greet him, lost in the folds of an oversized robe of sapphire blue terry, a towel wrapped turban style round her head. A few tendrils of wet hair escaped to trail down her neck. "Thanks for coming, Michael. Coffee?" She filled two mugs without waiting for affirmation. "Is everything OK?" he asked as he joined her at the counter. "I'm sorry to keep you up." "Not a problem," she replied, offering one of the cups to him. "I haven't been waiting long. I see you're not sleeping either." He drew a long, slow draught of the bitter brew. "You don't work a lot of 9-to- 5's in my business." The hot liquid warmed his whole body, somehow soothing and reviving him simultaneously. "What's up?" "Michael, I know you're not officially security anymore, but do you have any access to lab facilities? What do you know about forensic analysis?" "Whoa-ho-ho!" Garibaldi sang out, sputtering in his coffee. "That's a hell of an opening line! What've you got?" She drank deep before she answered him. "You said we needed to find proof of what Jeremy told us, some kind of hard evidence to confirm his story?" She waited for his nod. "Would analysis of debris from the explosion provide the kind of evidence you need?" "It might," Garibaldi allowed, "but even if EarthForce did an analysis and found that evidence, you can be sure it would be disappeared pretty quick." "I go back to my original question: you have any access to lab facilities?" She raised her eyes from her coffee cup to his incredulous face. "You have access to debris?" he asked slowly, warily. At her nod, he barked, "how? And where?" Their mugs clinked against one another as they both set them down. "It's not a lot, Michael. It may not be enough. It was snagged as the Valhalla exploded, by a ship already on its way out of Mars' space. My source would rather have it kept quiet. If I go through channels to get the lab work done, there's no way to know who might get wind of it." Garibaldi considered her question. "Officially, I've got nothing, but officially isn't what we want right now. I've got some friends, some people who will do me favors. Where is the stuff now?" Michael asked. Sullivan tugged the towel from her head, letting her hair tumble down around her face. She brushed an errant lock from her eyes. "It's safe. Can you set things up and let me know when and where to deliver?" "I'll get right on it." Michael Garibaldi studied the woman who turned back to the coffeepot. The gears of an eventful night whirred slowly in his brain, dropping into their proper places with a clink. "Who'd you get it from, Carly?" he asked softly, an edge of suspicion in his voice. She turned her back to him and refilled the mugs. "Sometimes, Michael, names are not a good idea." "Damn it, Carly!" "Michael, from a source who has good reasons for wanting to stay invisible. Why can't you handle that?" "'Trust me, Michael!' Is that it?" Garibaldi snarled his disgust. "Why the hell should I trust you when you clearly don't trust me? Maybe you need to go though channels on this one, Ms. Sullivan. But I wanna be there when you try to tell them where you got the stuff." "I'll do that if I have to, Michael, and you're welcome to watch. I will not identify my source on this one. I gave my word." Their eyes locked for a moment, each of them searching the other for signs of weakness, for a break in resolve. Finally, Garibaldi set his mug down on the counter and turned to leave. He was only a step from the door when Sullivan banged down her cup. "Michael!" He stopped but didn't turn. "I gave my word and I can't go back on that. I go on duty at 0900. If I haven't heard from you by 1000 I'll start the process through official channels." The door to Carly Sullivan's quarters slid open for a moment and closed again. JULY 11, 2261 Early Morning The steam in Michael Garibaldi's shower was only in part from the hot water. The rest was a manifestation of his mood. It seemed there were questions of trust at every turn lately, and he didn't have satisfactory answers to any of them. It had been nine hours since he had heard Jeremy Alcott's claim about the fate of the Valhalla, and he was no closer to determining its truth. Unless... The debris Sullivan had might contain the key to knowing if Alcott were telling them the truth. Or, his cynic's voice chimed in, it might be just another piece of Alcott's deception. Or Sullivan's. Did he trust either of them anymore? /Try to be logical about this, / he told himself as he dried and dressed. /What's the game? Let's suppose Jeremy is working for Clark. Why would Clark want us to have this particular piece of information? /Would he expect us to go public, accusing him of ... of what exactly? All right, let's say we did come out with this, told anybody who would listen that Clark is blowing up his own ships, then what? He denies it, makes us look stupid, or crazy, at least with the people who believe him. And the fence sitters. What does he gain? Does Clark care about public opinion? / Still musing, Garibaldi grabbed his jacket and left his quarters. Somehow, the argument just didn't have enough weight. He searched for other options as he waited for the transport tube. Clark had to be looking for more than approval. /Was this some kind of trap, meant to flush them out into the open? Hell, how much more open could they be? They'd declared independence, EarthDome knew exactly who was in charge, and they couldn't exactly hide. They were a five- mile long sitting duck. / The car whooshed to a stop in front of him, breaking his depressing train of thought. As the doors opened, he turned his mind to the meeting coming up in a couple of hours. He had nothing new to report, and he doubted any of his colleagues had fared any better. He smiled for a moment at the redheaded figure with whom he shared the cabin. "Morning, Lyta! You're up early. Or late." Garibaldi tried to look ashamed when the telepath shot him a chiding look, but in a moment, she smiled with him. A soft greeting returned to him, and they stood in silence for just a moment before the car stopped again. Lyta Alexander stepped toward the opening door, then halted and turned. "Michael, can we speak frankly?" The doors closed again, shutting them up alone together in the car, which began to move toward Garibaldi's destination. At Michael's cautious nod, Lyta continued. "Michael, I would never scan you without your permission -- never. I hope you know that." "I hear a 'but.'" Garibaldi prodded. "Michael, you're broadcasting like crazy. Your mind is going a mile a minute and it's taking me a lot of energy to block it. I'm trying to mind my own business but if there's anybody else on station with any kind of psi ability, you'd better hope they're ethical." Garibaldi fired out an order to stop the tube, using his old security authorization. He made a mental note to get on Zack's case when he realized it had worked.. He reached out to steady his companion. "I'm sorry, didn't mean to startle you. Lyta, what are you getting?" "I was trying not to listen, Michael." "Yeah, but you must have gotten something, or you wouldn't have said anything." The redhead was reluctant, but Garibaldi persisted. "Something about Clark, Michael, and trusting people, not trusting them, wanting to trust them. And..." she hesitated. "And what?" Michael asked, propping a hand under her elbow. She twisted away from him. "It wasn't a thought, Michael, as much as an image. I kept seeing a ship blowing up. And Clark's face in the fireball." She looked at him now and Garibaldi tried not to let his face reveal any more than she already knew. "Why am I 'broadcasting' as you call it?" he queried. The telepath shrugged. "Some people just do -- that's the way they are -- but I've never noticed it from you before, Michael. Certainly not like this. It's probably the emotion. You're angry and hurting. And scared." Michael Garibaldi was, in that moment, just a bit more frightened to hear it all named and to realize how much she knew about him. "Can I stop it? Is there a way to control it?" "Getting the whole situation under control would be good," she offered, with just a trace of sarcasm in her voice. Michael gave her the dubious look the comment deserved. "I didn't think so. You have to keep those thoughts buried as much as you can when you're out in public, Michael. Deliberately think about something else." Her words triggered memory. /All I can do is try not to let any critical information get to where a surface scan can find it. / "Michael!" his companion nearly shouted at him. "Are you trying to make it worse?" Garibaldi snapped back to the here and now, locked his mind onto the clients who were currently engaging his services, and thanked Lyta for her help. He set the car back on its way and went down a mental list of what needed doing for those clients. Lyta smiled. "Better, Michael. Can you sustain it?" "I guess I'll have to," he replied, wondering where one looked for a missing Drazi deity. "Michael," Lyta approached him again after a moment's quiet. "I hope you won't think I'm just trying to drum up business, but I could help you sort some of it out. You've got a lot of questions about who you trust, whether you believe what people are telling you. I'm trained to help with that kind of thing." She laid a hand on Michael's arm as he began a gracious 'we'll see.' "I know you don't trust telepaths, Michael. Frankly, I don't know many people who do. But I can help. And I'd like to, if you'll let me." The cabin doors opened and Garibaldi stepped out. "I'll think about it," he said softly. A few strides down the corridor took him to the station house. As he expected, Zack Allan was already at his desk. Or was that still at his desk? "You been here all night?" Garibaldi asked as he tapped on the open door. Allan looked up from the pile of reports on his desk. "It feels that way. How the hell did you keep up with all the paperwork, Michael?" The older man chuckled philosophically. "Smoke and mirrors," he replied, "but what with the embargo, you probably can't get those anymore." Allan stood, stretched, and came around the desk. "You don't look so good yourself, Michael. What's up?" Quickly, Garibaldi filled his protégé in on the events of the overnight. "We found Shannon in DownBelow, and he is using the name on the passenger manifest. Daniel Shannon. We chatted him up but he's staying cool. I figured we'd let him relax a little and then have another go at him. If you could keep an eye out in case he tries to leave the station...?" "Not a problem, Michael. Done." Allan assured him. "Anything else?" Garibaldi shook his head. "No, that's it." He turned toward the office door, looked at Zack, and hit the lock mechanism. "You have monitors on in here?" When the younger man had assured him they had full privacy, Michael began again. "Zack, I need a favor, a big one." He waited only long enough for Allan to nod. "I need some lab work done, by people we can trust, people who won't ask questions. And I need it fast." Zack fired off a few names, names Michael recognized as specialists who had worked for security during his tenure, men and women known for high principals and excellent work. People he trusted. Michael indicated his approval. "Thanks, Zack. How fast can we move?" "Shift changes at 0900, but I can rouse them now if you want." "No, let's not draw attention. Get them on it when they come on shift, but ask them to step on it, OK?" Allan nodded. "Fine, Michael, but step on what? What do you want analyzed?" For a moment, Michael Garibaldi paused to wonder if he had made the right decision, but having made it, he plunged ahead. "By 0900, you'll hear from Carly Sullivan. She'll give you that information." Garibaldi checked his chrono. He had time to contact Carly before the meeting, if he hurried. His long strides neared a run in the corridor of Blue Sector. The door to Sullivan's quarters opened as he approached, and the dark-haired woman stepped into the hall. Garibaldi jogged to a halt. "Ms. Sullivan," Michael began formally, glancing around the corridor to see if they were alone. "I'm glad I caught you." She responded with equal formality, and Michael noted the dark circles under her eyes when she looked at him. "Mr. Garibaldi," she nodded. "What can I do for you?" They were not alone, and she made no move to reenter her quarters. Michael stepped aside to let two Narn security agents pass. He chose his words carefully. "I just spoke to Zack. He's off-duty." He hoped Carly would understand that to mean this was off the record. "I told him to expect to hear from you by 0900..." A trio of maintenance techs nodded a greeting as they passed. "I said you'd arrange ... delivery." Carly studied him. "I can handle that," she said after a moment, "if we understand one another." Garibaldi looked sheepish. "It's as you wanted it." "I'm glad," Sullivan responded, "but that wasn't what I was asking." She keyed the access code for her quarters and waved him into the darkened room, following and calling softly for the lights. Michael turned to face her in time to see the door slide closed. "Carly..." "Michael, there's only one question we need to settle." He lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "Carly, I..." Stepping deeper into the room, he began to pace. "Carly, I want to tell you I trust you without question. I really want to. But I can't, I..." He faced her again. "I can only tell you that I'm making the choice to trust you this time." He found a smile in her face. "From you, Michael, that's all I can ask. Go to your meeting. I'll make touch with Zack."