FreezeFrame Part 3 JULY 11, 2261 Morning The morning meeting of the War Council was uneventful. From Ivanova came reports of continuing troop build-up around Mars, and the group agreed that all information they could acquire on those movements should be relayed to the Resistance. But beyond that, it remained quiet. Too quiet. He made his way to the Zocalo when they recessed, turning his mind again to the list of clients whose cases he had undertaken. A few new ones waited near his office, calling his attention to more ordinary concerns for an hour or so. Those dealt with, his mind turned again to the myriad of questions for which he had no answers. Instantly, he heard again Lyta's warning and refocused on his clients, pulling out his organizer to make notes. On the periphery of his field of vision, Garibaldi noted the approach of a figure in black. He looked up as Zack Allan halted beside his table. "Just wanted to let you know, Michael, everything's taken care of." The older man rose, a half-smile speaking his gratitude, as Allan continued. "I'll get the report to you as soon as it comes in." With a handshake, they parted, Zack heading for his quarters to get some sleep. Michael stretched cramped muscles and considered his options. He hadn't slept either, and the kafe wasn't doing much to raise his energy level at this point. He could probably use some sleep himself, but he doubted his mind would let him rest. Push those thoughts down, Lyta had said. Don't broadcast. So...now what? Garibaldi considered the needs of his clients and the resources available, but his stomach broadcast a need for food, and the resources here were limited. He headed across the Zocalo toward a little shop on the edge of the marketplace. The eggs were Minbari temshwee eggs, but they served breakfast all day. The restaurant was crowded when Garibaldi arrived, and he questioned whether he had the patience to wait for a table. His eyes searched the room for signs of a table empty or about to empty, until a gentle baritone sounded his name. "Garibaldi!" the call came again. "Mr. Garibaldi, will you join me?" Over Michael's shoulder, at a small table in the corner, Daniel Shannon gestured toward an empty chair. A working lunch hadn't been in his plans but Michael Garibaldi was not a man to miss an opportunity. He slipped into the offered seat with a word of gratitude. "I just sat down. Haven't even ordered yet. Would you like to see a menu?" Shannon chattered as Garibaldi composed himself. "No, thanks, I'm fine," Michael replied. "So, you found a place to stay?" "I did, thank you, and thank you again for your offer," Shannon replied. The conversation halted while a Centauri waitress took their order. After her departure, the silence grew awkward. Shannon opened his mouth to speak just as Garibaldi began. Amid laughter and apologies, the sandy-haired man encouraged, "please, Mr. Garibaldi, you first." "It's Michael," Garibaldi offered. "I was just going to ask if you'd decided where you're heading. You said last night you were considering your options." "Nothing certain yet. I've always dreamt about seeing Minbar someday. I've heard it's beautiful. So maybe that's my next stop, but I'm not sure. There are some people I want to talk to first, if I can track them down." Their waitress interrupted again, this time to set plates before them. Both men focused immediately on solving the pressing problem of hunger. After a few moments, Shannon spoke again. "Michael, I feel as though I ought to explain my behavior last night." Garibaldi looked up from his breakfast, searching the golden eyes across the table for a hint of what was coming. Shannon continued, "I didn't mean to offend your friend. I suppose it is possible we did meet somewhere sometime, but the moment he mentioned Mars, well, I guess I got frightened." "Frightened?" Garibaldi asked. "You make it sound like you're a fugitive." He watched closely for a reaction. Shannon offered back a laugh that Michael thought was forced. "No criminal record, if that's what you mean," he said with a smile, shaking his head. He didn't continue immediately and both men turned to their kafe. Garibaldi sipped at the lukewarm brew and waited. In a few moments, Shannon spoke again. "Things are getting very tense on Mars, Michael. Even before the Valhalla blew up, people were edgy. It's as if you're being watched at every turn. Now, well..." "Well what?" Garibaldi nudged. Shannon drained his cup. "Could we talk about this somewhere else, Michael? Somewhere more private?" They settled the bill quickly, exiting the tiny eatery with Garibaldi in the lead. There was scant conversation until they entered Michael's quarters. "Thank you," Shannon offered intensely as the door closed behind them. He turned in a slow circle, surveying the quarters, coming round again at last face to face with Garibaldi. "Michael, I couldn't talk in front of your friend last night. I don't know if he can be trusted or not, but the word is you can be." Garibaldi said nothing, fixed his companion with a hard stare, and waited. Shannon paused a moment longer, then nodded as though he heard Garibaldi's challenge, and continued. "Since the Valhalla arrived at Mars colony, security's been stepped up everywhere, in every way," he offered. This was not stunning news and they both knew it. "And there's been a dramatically increased presence by PsiCorps." The investigator's mind raced to try to connect the Corps to the Valhalla. Or to Shannon. "So the teeps are having a convention," Garibaldi cracked as he crossed to the kitchen counter. "You got some problem with that?" Shannon closed the gap between them. He wasn't laughing, and his eyes held a angry fear that echoed in his voice. "Michael, the Corps has always been on Mars. They have a facility there." That fact was better known to Garibaldi than probably Shannon realized, but he said nothing. "But this is different, Michael," Shannon continued. "These are PsiCops. Lots of them." Michael worked to mask his reactions until he figured out just what that meant. "You sure you're not just getting a little paranoid, Dan? I know those black uniforms can creep you out..." "They're not in uniform." The interruption hit Michael's train of thought like a brick and turned it abruptly in a new direction. "And how the hell do you know they're PsiCops if they're not in uniform?" The challenge came with a new edge of suspicion. The amber eyes did not seem troubled and Shannon nodded slightly, as though he had been expecting this. "Michael, this is why I didn't want to talk in front of your friend. Or in the restaurant. Michael, I'm a telepath. I was trained by the Corps but...well, let's just say I couldn't accept everything they wanted to teach me. I went rogue. In that sense, Michael, yes, I am a fugitive. "I've been on the run, been hiding from the Corps. That's why I had to get off Mars. I don't know why there are so many PsiCops there suddenly, and no, Michael, I'm not vain enough to think they're all after me, but I don't need uniforms to know who they are." Shannon stopped then, still calm, and met Garibaldi's eyes with a trusting gaze. For his part, Michael was seriously agitated, but resolved not to betray that emotion, at least, not until he made some sense of all this. "What's your rating?" he demanded, the words clipped out through a tight jaw. Shannon's voice was soft and even. "I'm a P12, Michael." "You're a PsiCop." "I was a PsiCop, yes." "You got even one remotely plausible reason why I should believe anything you tell me?" The man smiled. "No." Garibaldi studied figure before him. He could discern no hostility, no trepidation, no mistrust. It worried him. "How do I know you're not sending to me?" "I'd do a better job," Shannon replied, an impish giggle tickling the corners of his mouth. "You find this funny?" Daniel Shannon tried hard to look serious. "I'm sorry, Michael. It's just that you are exactly as I was given to expect." His smirk faded as he continued. "I considered not telling you. I was told how you feel about telepaths, and I knew your first thought would be that I was in your head. "I'm not, Michael, for what it's worth. Not now, not ever. I don't scan people without their permission. That's one of the rules the Corps pays lip service to that I do accept. I don't suppose there's any way to prove that to you, but it is the truth." "So why did you tell me?" "Because you asked, and I'm not going to lie to you. Because you need to understand why I'm running, and who I'm hiding from. Because I don't want to become an issue between you and someone you trust." Michael felt the jolt of anger and fear surging up his spine and across his shoulders. His voice, when he spoke again, was coldly modulated. "You're going to sit down and we're going to start at the beginning. You're going to tell me everything. You're going to answer all the questions." "And then?" "Then we'll see. Sit down." Shannon took a seat on the sofa and waited while Garibaldi paced a bit. "Where shall I start?" He asked after a time. Garibaldi froze abruptly and spun to face him. "You're going to start at the beginning. I want to hear about the Corps. I want to hear when and why and how you went rogue. I want to know why you're here, where you're going, what you know, who you know, who you're working with and who you're working for. And when we're done I'll decide if -- maybe -- I believe any of it." Even as he spoke the words, Michael Garibaldi questioned the wisdom of this course. Daniel Shannon had been right: his first thought was that the telepath had scanned him, was scanning him even now. A corner of his mind was back checking what Shannon might have been able to get from him last night, this morning, now. He listened to the man before him speak of his childhood and his training, but he heard Lyta Alexander's warning. What had he broadcast? The silence interrupted him. Shannon had stopped talking, and Garibaldi realized he hadn't registered what had been said. He looked at the golden figure on couch, hoping for a clue to what response was expected from him. "Michael?" The voice asked permission, and took Garibaldi's silence as assent. "You are broadcasting." Anger surged again through the older man's body, but a long ago warning from Ivanova about strong emotion allowing telepaths entry echoed in his mind. He pulled the emotion back, quieted his voice. Only the tremor betrayed him. "Beg pardon?" "You were worried about whether you were broadcasting, and you are. I've been trying to ignore it. I don't want to invade your privacy. But it's definitely there." A small muscle vibrated along the left side of Michael Garibaldi's jaw and the water blue eyes darkened to a stormy sapphire. "What have you heard?" It was a demand, not a question, each word bitten off the sentence as it escaped his lips. The younger man shook his head. "Not exactly heard, more seen, just a barrage of images flying by. Your mind has been working so fast. Not fear exactly, but a concern, a worry that things are going to go horribly wrong. And you feel responsible, so responsible, for everything." "Specifics. I want to know specifically what you got." "I was trying not to..." "Don't play with me!" Garibaldi gulped air down to quiet the anger. Shannon was silent for a moment, resting forearms on knees, head bowed low. "Michael, will anything I say matter? If I tighten down my focus and pull up details of what I got from you last night and today you'll be angry because I know those things. If I can't give you specifics, you'll contend that I'm withholding what I know. If I make up gibberish, you'll know I'm lying. So why should we ride this carousel?" He was right of course, and Garibaldi's anger was only heightened by his inability to do what the telepath could: see inside and know if the words were true. "Will you submit to a scan?" Michael demanded of the man before him. Shannon's head jerked up. "The Corps?" Panic rose with his voice and fired through his eyes. "I can't, Michael." He stood and turned toward Garibaldi pleadingly. "Michael, I'd rather you just shoot me, if that's the choice. I'd take my own life before I'd let the Corps take me back." "Nobody's going to turn you in." Having made the promise, Michael wondered if it was a sound one. "If I could bring in somebody to scan you, somebody I trust, would you allow it?" "Are you sure she won't call in the bloodhounds?" "She?" Garibaldi challenged. "A redheaded woman," Shannon replied, a bit embarrassed by his own bluntness. "You've been thinking about her. I expected she was the one you wanted to ask." "And if she is?" "Michael, it's not being scanned that I object to. If that would put your mind at ease, that's fine. But not by the Corps, or by someone who will alert the Corps." Garibaldi crossed to the Babcom unit and placed a call to Lyta Alexander. The conversation was brief, Garibaldi asking that Lyta meet him at his office, a puzzled Lyta agreeing. When the screen went black, Garibaldi turned again to Shannon. "You're going to wait here. Skip out, and I'll know I can't trust you." The other man signaled his understanding and Garibaldi departed for the Zocalo. JULY 11, 2261 Afternoon "Really?!" Lyta Alexander was truly incredulous. "I know, I know," Garibaldi interrupted, "but I do. I want you to do this scan for me, but..." Garibaldi paused, glanced down awkwardly. "Mi - chael!" The name was drawn from her slowly by the same force of resentment that drew her up from her chair. "I will not do an illegal scan. Don't you dare even ask me." "It's not illegal exactly." Garibaldi rose to block her retreat. "Let's just say it's...off the record." The telepath halted but she did not sit back down. "Just what does that mean?" Garibaldi stepped closer to her, dropping his voice to confidential tones. "The person you'd be scanning will give permission. Provided PsiCorps never hears anything about it, or him." "Garibaldi, what are you getting into? Are you crazy?" The fiery haired, fiery tempered woman ignored his attempts to shush her. "Lyta, please..." Michael Garibaldi had the most annoying ability to be charming. The door to Garibaldi's quarters swooshed open to reveal a dark and empty room. "Damn him!" The words exploded from Michael before the door had dropped back into place. "Lights!" The squint that crinkled Lyta Alexander's eyes was not from the sudden burst of illumination in the little apartment. She stood rigid in the doorway, staring into the room. Garibaldi slammed a fist down on the counter. "Damn! I should have known better than to trust him." "I'm here, Michael." The voice floated softly toward them from the figure silhouetted in the bedroom doorway. He nodded toward Lyta. "Good Afternoon." Garibaldi was startled and not altogether comfortable. "Lyta, this is Daniel Shannon. Mr. Shannon, Lyta Alexander." "That's not your name." Lyta's statement was directed at Shannon. "No, not the name I was born with, but it's the one I use now." Michael remembered the first conversation with Marcus, but there were other questions more important than Shannon's real name. "Lyta has agreed to do the scan." Shannon nodded and moved closer to the redhead. "Under the conditions we discussed?" "You're a rogue," she observed with a tinge of astonishment in her voice. "Yes," he replied. "I'll agree to the scan, and I won't give you any resistance, any blockage, provided I have your word that you won't turn me in." Lyta was quiet for a long moment. "I know what it is to be a blip," she whispered finally. "Lyta?" Michael's hushed tone spoke concern. "You OK?" He moved closer to her, and she seemed to awaken from a dream. "Are you ready to do this, Michael?" she asked, looking up at him now for the first time since arriving in his quarters. At his request, she began to scan the telepath, an occasional nod her only report to Garibaldi. Michael meanwhile studied the man on the couch. He wasn't sure what he was looking for exactly. Some discomfort or distress, some sign of the tension that meant Shannon was trying to deceive. The rogue sat quietly, his glance moving from Lyta to Michael and back, his eyes occasionally closing in what seemed to Garibaldi a moment of remembrance. When Lyta was persuaded that Shannon was cooperating, Garibaldi began his questions. He asked about Mars, the PsiCorps facility there, and Shannon's claims of an increased presence. He pressed the man on how he recognized the PsiCops who were not in uniform, and what he had heard inside their heads. He demanded to know what the Corps had to do with the Valhalla, why they showed up on Mars instead of EarthForce troops. The answers were not as satisfying as he had hoped. Shannon's answers seemed reasonable although Michael and Lyta had agreed not to challenge his veracity during the questioning. Michael would get a full report from Lyta afterward. There wasn't all that much here though. Shannon was outside the Corps, and while he might recognize PsiCops, a man on the run couldn't stop to scan them. Garibaldi moved to one last question. "What did you get out of my head?" Shannon didn't flinch at the demand, although Lyta did. The rogue moved his glance to her, lingered there a moment, then looked back to Garibaldi. "Ms. Alexander has told you what you are broadcasting," Shannon answered gently. "I asked you. What you heard." The rogue sighed, nodded, and shifted in his seat. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, and closed his eyes. After a moment he spoke. "You know already about the image of the explosion, the image of President Clark in the middle of it. There are others. Of people mostly. I don't know who most of them are, but you're carrying a lot of emotion about them. Doubt, suspicion -- but conflict too about that. Anxiety about your own reactions. Two men, one bearded, a big man, the other pale and slender. And a woman..." Shannon's eyes opened and flew questioningly to Michael's. "I don't want to get too personal." Garibaldi was irritated to feel himself blush. "What else?" he demanded, eager for a change of subject. Shannon shook his head. "Well, you don't trust me, of course, but I figured that was too obvious to bear mention." A few more brief exchanges brought the conversation to a close. As the three rose, Shannon asked Garibaldi's permission to leave, and having received it, offered his farewells. "Ms. Alexander," he said, bowing slightly in Lyta's direction, "it's a pleasure to meet you. I hope our paths will cross again." Lyta glanced nervously at Shannon's outstretched hand, and hesitantly accepted it. Their eyes met, lingered for a moment, and swept up in a shy smile. Shannon turned to Garibaldi and offered the same handshake, this time to a far more reluctant companion. "Michael, I don't scan without permission," Daniel's whisper reminded him. Finally, Michael accepted the proffered greeting, and Shannon took his leave. With the door closed behind the rogue, Michael turned to Lyta. "Well, how much of that was the truth?" "All of it, Michael," she answered. "He never lied to you." Garibaldi's intuition heard a but. "What? Lyta, something's bothering you. What is it?" She shook her head. "Michael, he's a very strong telepath," she began. "Hell, Lyta, yeah. He's a P12. He was a PsiCop." The redhead was shaking her head more vehemently. "Michael, he may be rated P12, but he's stronger than any P12 I've ever encountered. That man's very powerful, and..." "Was he projecting? Is he trying to manipulate us?" Michael interrupted. "No, that's the strange thing, Michael," she said, starting to pace. "He wasn't at all aggressive. And no defensiveness either." She stopped and turned to face him. "Michael, we all resist to some extent, even a scan we've agreed to. It's natural; it's a question of privacy. We have things in our heads we'd rather not have people know, ugly things, embarrassing things. We don't want people in there. "But he just let me walk in. Anywhere." Garibaldi thought he saw her shudder. "Michael, there are things..." Her sentence was interrupted by the chirp of Michael's link. "Sorry," he offered her, as he hit the device. "Garibaldi, go." "Michael, Zack. I have the... uh, documents we discussed. Can you come down and pick 'em up?" "I'll be right down, Zack, thanks. Garibaldi out." Michael was already fidgeting when he turned back to Lyta. "Look, I'm sorry, Lyta, but I've got to see about this." "Michael, we need to talk..." "And we will. Soon, I promise. I really appreciate your doing the scan, and we'll talk about it," Garibaldi said as he coaxed Lyta out the door. "I'll look for you, as soon as I can. I just really have to get to this. I'm sorry, really." A flabbergasted Lyta Alexander stood in the corridor outside Garibaldi's quarters, babbling at the retreating figure. He waved as the transport tube doors closed. JULY 11, 2261 Late Afternoon Michael Garibaldi turned smartly into the Station House, nearly colliding with Zack Allan as he did so. A startled Allan recovered quickly, laying a hand on Garibaldi's back, and ushering him into the office. With the door safely closed behind them, the two men faced each other, and Allan fumbled inside the black and grey tunic of the Army of Light, bringing forth a slim folio of documents and handing them over to Garibaldi. Michael accepted them hungrily, paging through, scanning, even while inquiring, "Anything? Did they turn up anything we can use?" "There wasn't a lot there, Michael. They did everything they could, but it's pretty thin." Garibaldi tucked the report into the inner pocket of his jacket. "I'll go through these more carefully, but we've got a meeting at 1700, and I'd better get moving." He faced his successor and regarded the young man with affection. "Thanks, Zack. I really appreciate this." As the younger man smiled back, it startled Michael to realize that a maturity had crept into Zack's face without his notice. "Any way I can help, Michael," Allan replied, extending a hand. "And thank you. It means a lot to me." They shook hands silently, and Garibaldi moved toward the outer office. Zack Allan followed him, making small talk as he went. "Hey, Michael, you seeing anybody?" The question jumped out of a forest of babble and made Garibaldi stop and stare. "I just thought, you know, I was thinking about inviting a lady to dinner, and I thought maybe, if you wanted to invite somebody, we could make it a foursome." Michael Garibaldi began to smile. "I don't know, Zack. Maybe. It's hard to make plans right now, with everything so tense. But who's the lady?" Allan blushed a bit. "I was gonna ask Lyta. I mean, she'll probably say no, but, hey, what the hell, right?" "You sure you wouldn't rather be alone with her?" Garibaldi asked with more than his usual tact. "Actually," the security chief answered, "I'd be grateful for the company. I get ...ya know, all nervous and kinda tongue-tied around her. I've been trying to get up the courage to ask her out but I'm scared I'm gonna wind up sitting there staring all night." Michael laughed in spite of his intentions. "Well, look, Zack, why don't you talk to Lyta and set up your dinner. Then give me a call, and let me know when, and I'll see if I can rustle up a date." Garibaldi took his leave after accepting Allan's thanks and made his way toward the War Council meeting. Allan wandered back into his office, debating the relative merits of extending the invitation over the com unit or in person. He dropped into the chair behind his desk and cursed. Jumping up again he called out as he ran. "Michael!" He barreled through the outer office of the station house and caught hold of the doorframe to avoid tumbling into the hallway. "Michael!" There was no sign of Garibaldi. "Damn!" The security chief went back to his office. JULY 11, 2261 Early Evening The 1700 War Council meeting replayed previous conversations while John Sheridan's frustration became ever more obvious. "Nothing from the military channels?" he demanded of Ivanova. She sighed before responding, as much in frustration as embarrassment. "There's activity, but nothing we can make out as significant. Some troop movement, but that's been true for some time, and it doesn't seem that they're massing troops in any location." Sheridan's scowl was that of a man who sensed something not right. "Marcus?" The Ranger showed no emotion. "Nothing of significance from any of the Ranger posts. White Star 22 has moved away from Mars and is heading toward Io. We'll ask her to monitor traffic through the jump gate, though there's been nothing out of the ordinary thus far." The chirp of Sheridan's link forestalled another burst of frustration. "Sheridan," he barked as he hit the device, "go!" Lt. Corwin's voice suggested they view the ISN feed and in a moment, viewers were on and the group assembled was watching President Morgan Clark address the people of Earth and its colonies. He spoke of sadness and outrage at the lost of EarthForce personnel in the unprovoked attack on the Valhalla. "A thorough investigation has now been conducted and I wish to assure all of you that the people responsible for this heinous crime will be punished. It is a tragedy that the good citizens of Mars colony should have to endure in their midst a traitorous faction willing to slaughter innocent men and women to draw attention to their anarchistic aims. I promise you these assassins will be found and brought to justice. The reign of terror they have perpetrated on the people of Mars ends now..." Another chirp broke the rapt attention of the group. Michael Garibaldi hit the button on his link, and whispered into it. "Garibaldi. What is it?" Corwin's voice sounded again, apologetic in its tone. "I'm sorry, Mr. Garibaldi, but we've got a call for you and the gentleman is demanding to be put through." Several faces around the table looked to Michael with the same curiosity evident in his face. "Can you take a message? Who is it? Tell him I'll call back." "He won't give a name, sir, and he's insistent that he has to talk to you now." Sheridan caught Garibaldi's eye and jerked his head toward a door in the back wall. "I'll take it in the Captain's office," he told Corwin as he rose from his seat. "Thanks, John," he whispered as he passed the station commander. He could still hear muffled bits of Clark's speech as the office door closed and he ordered the com unit on. A pale haggard face under soft blond hair looked back at him, blue eyes nearly frantic. "Jeremy! What's wrong?" "Michael, I'm sorry. I tried Carly. I can't raise her anywhere. And I don't have much more time. I had to get through to you." "Take it easy. You found me. What is it?" "Michael, Clark's speaking right now. It's on ISN." "We've got it. We heard. He's going after Mars Resistance." "That's the official line, yes, but Michael, that's not all of it. He's going after you too. He's not going to announce it, but he's got a strike against you in the works." "You sure? When? How? We don't see troop movement to support it." "I can't get details. I'm trying, and if I do, somehow, I'll get them to you. Hidaki wasn't in on it, so I don't have an easy source, but I heard Clark myself talking about his 'little surprise' for Babylon 5. Michael, he's coming after you." Garibaldi studied the man on the viewer. He was tired -- the bags under his eyes even more pronounced than when he spoke to Carly -- probably by now downright sleep deprived. He was emotionally agitated to the point that he was having trouble remaining coherent. And Michael still hadn't decided if he could be trusted. "What about the outer colonies? What about Earth?" Alcott shook his head. "As far as I can make out, nothing yet. I've got our people on alert anyway, just in case, but it looks like he's only going after Mars and Babylon 5 right now. Michael, I can't hold this connection. If I can get anything else, I'll pass it to you somehow. Be careful." The viewer went dark. For a few moments, Michael Garibaldi stared at the black screen, seeing nothing until his own reflection in the glass shocked him back to the here and now. He turned and walked back to the War Council room, where the viewers showed President Clark just leaving the podium. As ISN returned to their studios for the babbling of commentators, Sheridan ordered the viewers off. Garibaldi's glance traveled from colleague to colleague, registering fear in every face. "Can we do anything to help the folks on Mars?" Franklin asked, an edge of despair in his voice. "I suspect we'll have to wait for them to tell us," Ivanova reflected, her passivity mirroring the helplessness they all felt. Marcus looked to Delenn. "Would it be possible for us to move some White Stars to the area?" "You might not want to do that." Garibaldi's voice trembled as he spoke, and his eyes studied the carpet. He was not happy with what he was about to do, but to withhold this information was too dangerous. "Michael?" Sheridan turned to look back to the doorway where Garibaldi lingered. "What's happened?" The former Security Chief fidgeted the hands still in his pockets and walked slowly to the edge of the table. He raised his head, looking to the upper level of the War Room, then dropped his eyes again to his colleagues around the table. "I've gotten some information. I don't know how reliable it is, but ignoring it would be too great a risk. My source tells me that Clark plans to come against us as well as against Mars. We may want to think about our own protection first." "He said nothing of Babylon 5 in his public address," Delenn observed. Ivanova was out of her chair. "That wouldn't stop Clark," she noted. "Who have you talked to, Michael? What are they telling you?" Garibaldi looked to Sheridan, the glance between them recalling an earlier conversation. "If this information is correct," Sheridan suggested, "we need to take action for our own defense, and quickly. But we should also consider the possibility that it may not be true, and consider what the consequences will be." Ivanova scowled. "I can't believe we wouldn't have picked up some indication if Earth Force ships were on their way here. Even if they were running silent, there would have been some sign." "So," Sheridan queried, "you don't buy the report?" "Maybe your source is just nervous, Michael," Franklin proposed, "worried that an attack will come." Garibaldi shook his head but Sheridan interjected before he could speak. "Let's consider for a moment that this report might be false. What happens if we accept it and it's not true?" "We sit on our hands while the Resistance movement on Mars is annihilated by Clark's troops." Garibaldi had not lost his ability to voice the collective pessimism. Marcus Cole broke the silence. "I fear there may be nothing of substance we can do to help our friends on Mars at this point. Even the White Stars may not be able to reach them in time to provide anything more than aid to refugees." "If Mr. Garibaldi's source is correct," Delenn said at last, "the danger to Mars remains, and an equally grave fate awaits Babylon 5." She looked to Sheridan. "We are no use to them dead." "All right, people," Sheridan demanded, his tone impelling his colleagues to action, "we can't let this demoralize us. That would just be playing into Clark's hands. For now it seems the wiser course of action to assume that the report Mr. Garibaldi has received is true. Susan, we'll take steps immediately to provide for station defense. Put everyone on standby. Make sure the shelters are ready. At the first sign of trouble, I want civilians protected." Ivanova nodded all the while, itchy to execute those orders. "But we can't ignore the people on Mars. Even if Marcus is right, even if we can't get there in time to prevent this, we'll provide whatever aid we can. Delenn, Marcus, will you arrange to get as many White Stars as we can spare in there to help?" They dispersed moments later to prepare for the battles ahead. JULY 11, 2261 Evening Michael Garibaldi called for lights as the door to his quarters dropped closed behind him. He realized, as he simultaneously felt and heard the low rumble, that he had not eaten since he joined Daniel Shannon for a late breakfast. He should eat something, he knew, but sleep was far more attractive. He shucked his jacket off, loosened a few buttons on his shirt, and called for messages. Three messages awaited him, none bearing any priority stamp. He ordered reverse chronological playback -- most recent message first -- as he dropped down on the couch to kick off his shoes. Carly Sullivan's face appeared in profile, then turned toward him. "Hi, Michael. I just wondered if you'd heard anything about that package I dropped off this morning. I'll be in my office until late. Let me know." The viewer went dark for a moment while the next message was cued up. Garibaldi rose and retrieved his jacket, fishing the report from the inner pocket. When his attention returned to the com unit, Lyta Alexander was speaking. "Michael, please be in touch with me. We need to continue the conversation we were having this afternoon. It's not as simple as you think it is. Please, I think you need to hear this. Call me." Garibaldi swore softly. Nothing seemed to be simple any more. The remaining message was a little easier to deal with. Zack Allan was pulling his jacket on as he spoke. "Michael, tomorrow night, dinner, 1900. Is that good for you? I was thinking we might really do it up and go to the Fresh Air, but hey, you know more about restaurants than I'll ever know, so I'll trust whatever you say. Let me know, OK?" A long sigh fled from Michael Garibaldi as his shoulders slumped. Sleep clearly wasn't in the cards, at least not yet. Well, two out of three of his messages required that he talk to Carly. He sighed again and jammed his feet back into his shoes. After quick consideration, he left the jacket behind, rolled his shirtsleeves, and wandered down to Sullivan's office. She was at her desk when he arrived and although the door had been standing open, she ordered it closed behind him. "Hi!" she said as she rose. "You hear anything yet?" Garibaldi waved the documents Zack had passed to him earlier in the day. "Haven't had a chance to really read them yet, " he explained, and looked questioningly toward a chair. "Sit!" she replied, nodding. "I'm not even going to ask if you want kafe. I can tell just by looking at you that you need kafe." She refilled her own mug and one for him, brought them over to the desk, and handed him one as she sat down. "So what do we have?" Garibaldi drew a long draught of the bitter liquid. "What I need is sleep," he muttered. "But...well here..." He handed her two sheets. "See what's in there, and I'll check these." He turned his attention to the documents still in his hand. Sullivan settled down to study the documents he had handed her. "They didn't have a lot to work with," she murmured between sips of kafe. "We'll be lucky to get anything." "Well," Michael observed, "the shearing of the metal indicates the ship blew from the inside, as opposed to being hit by an external force or projectile. Of course, we don't know where on the ship this debris came from, so we could be looking at a secondary explosion." "Aha! Chemical says there were traces of an explosive." Sullivan spoke without looking up. "The bad news is, it was an extremely common type." "That's no surprise," Michael said as he went back to his reading. "Use anything exotic and you're just asking to be traced." "Geez, Michael, we owe the folks in the lab big time for this. They even went looking for DNA traces." She shifted in her chair to face him. "This is odd." Garibaldi looked up. "What?" The brunette was shaking her head, squinting as she slowly reread the notations. "They actually were able to find traceable strands of DNA, and they ran the records to identify them." She looked up at him. "They don't match to any EarthForce Personnel." Garibaldi made a sour face. "You said they didn't have much to go on. I don't know how reliable DNA testing would be." He shook his head. "I don't know if I'd put much stock in that. Could the chemicals present contaminate the tests?" "Don't know," she mumbled. "Not my field. I suppose you're right though. What else have you got?" Garibaldi turned his attention back to the final sheet. "Metallurgy." He read in silence for a moment. "What the...?" She leaned over his shoulder. "What?" "The Valhalla was a brand new ship, just commissioned." "Yes, and?" "Do you recycle parts when you build a new ship? Use pieces of an old one?" "Not usually," Carly replied, her brow now tightly furrowed. "What have you got, Michael?" "Metallurgy says the debris shows wear and stress that would date it as at least 7 years old." Sullivan's head jerked back and she blinked in surprise. "How is that possible?" Garibaldi rose, dropping the sheets on Sullivan's desk, and crossed the little office to where the pot of kafe sat steaming. He looked back at her as he refilled his cup. "Chemicals wouldn't contaminate this testing. Would the force of the explosion cause extraordinary stresses that would give the appearance of age?" "You're stretching, Michael." She pushed herself out of the chair and joined him at the brewer. "So why do you find old metal in a new ship?" he asked as she topped off her cup. She turned away from him, paced toward the desk, turned and stared at him, her head tipped to one side. "Do we even know what we're looking at here? Maybe it's not the ship at all. Maybe it's ...I don't know...somebody's old beloved footlocker!" Michael jumped back to avoid the cascade of liquid that erupted from his mug as he began to laugh. "Obviously, you were never in EarthForce," he chuckled. She regarded him with mock annoyance. "No, I wasn't. And your point is...?" "You carry your gear, Ms. Sullivan. You go for lightweight on everything. No one's used metal since...well, before my dad's tour, for certain." He moved closer to her, and perched on the edge of her desk. "Hell, they don't even use metals in the ship construction except where they have to. Keep the weight down, save fuel, all that." "So you figure this is the fuselage?" She watched him nod. "So why..." Sullivan's question was interrupted by the chime of the com unit. Excusing herself, she accepted the call. Michael moved away from the desk to allow her some privacy, but turned back at the sound of Ivanova's voice. The call was brief, a simple statement of Ivanova's wish to see Sullivan in the Commander's office, and Carly's acquiescence. "Michael, I'm sorry..." she began as soon as the viewer went dark. Garibaldi shook his head. "No, it's OK. We're not getting anywhere with this, and I've got things to do too. I'll walk with you, if you don't mind," he said, draining his cup. "I've got to talk to Zack." She smiled her approval and preceded him to the corridor. "That reminds me," Garibaldi continued, "you free for dinner tomorrow?" "Zack reminds you to ask me about dinner?" she teased. Michael chuckled. "He's asked Lyta, and he was hoping we'd double with them." "As in dinner out? A meal with you where I don't have to cook or do dishes? I'm there!!" Garibaldi nodded, his smile broadening. "Go ahead. Sass me. See where this gets you." "Into trouble, no doubt," she laughed. They had reached the transport tube and stopped to wait. Garibaldi hit the signal button impatiently. "Speaking of trouble, what's Susan after you for?" His turn to tease. Sullivan laughed openly and shook her head. "Lord knows." Then she winced. "Oh geez, I hope she wasn't trying to get hold of me this afternoon." Michael's quizzical look prompted her explanation. "I was out of the office for several hours today -- which is why I'm working late." The transport tube slid its doors open in front of them as several memories connected themselves in Michael's brain. He followed the woman into the cabin, indicated their destination, and asked with a forced casualness about the reason for her absence from the office. "I'd heard a rumor that some tunnel rats from Mars had been queuing up for Stephen's clinic. I slipped out to see if I could find anyone with any information for us." She shook her head. "Took longer than I expected. Oh hell, if she was looking for me, she's going to be pissed." "I don't think that's it," Michael muttered. It was time to make decisions about trust again, and he still wasn't sure he was making the right choices. "You know about Clark's announcement today?" "That he's going after the Resistance on Mars? I heard the news reports. Missed the actual speech." "I had a call from Jeremy today. He said he couldn't reach you." She spun to face him. "Jeremy? What's wrong?" "He says Clark is planning to strike at us too. We can't confirm, but John's making preparations just in case." He shrugged. "Susan's probably going to brief you." "You told the War Council?" He nodded. "Did you tell them the source of your information?" "No." He shrugged again. "John has some clue, but no, I didn't talk about it." The car doors opened and the couple stepped out into the corridor where their paths would diverge. "Michael, I've got to go now, but we'll talk more, please?" He agreed halfheartedly and turned toward the station house. Zack Allan was pleased to hear Garibaldi confirm that their dinner plans for the following evening were in place. Allan had already been briefed on the possible threat to the station, and some conversation about it passed between them, a nervous edge noticeable in both their voices. Garibaldi stifled a yawn, apologized, and suggested that he'd better get some sleep. Allan started to walk him to the door, then halted with an exclamation. "Damn, Michael! I almost forgot again. I've got the stuff you wanted analyzed. I didn't wanna leave it hanging around in official storage in case anybody started asking questions. I forgot to give it to you last time." He moved to a corner of the office shielded from clear sight by his desk, and hoisted what looked to be a piece of luggage, soft canvas and zippers, a rich wine in color. He placed it up on the desk as Garibaldi returned to collect it. Michael had seen the strain in Zack's face and heard the thud as the case hit the desk; still he was startled by its weight when he hefted it. "Geez, how did Carly get this to you?" he asked as he adjusted the carrying strap on his shoulder. Zack chuckled. "Well, she had it on one of those wheeled luggage carriers," he explained, "but she did take it off there and put it up on my desk, and I tell you, she didn't have a problem. I was stunned when I went to lift it. Does she work out or something? That case is nearly as big as she is." Garibaldi smiled as that image coalesced in his brain. He could see her now -- or not see her -- disappearing behind the bag as she hoisted it. Another image flashed in his brain too quickly to be named, a subliminal image planted in just a few frames of a vid. He was too tired to chase it. Michael shifted his weight to balance the bag and took his leave of Zack. The com unit was blinking with messages again when he arrived back in his quarters. He set his burden down in an out of the way corner and contemplated ignoring the message signal and going directly to that incredibly attractive looking mattress. Guilt and need struck a compromise. Michael Garibaldi called for messages as he sprawled across the bed. A single message was waiting, from Lyta again. He winced as it began, argued with himself for its duration, and finally returned the call, audio only. The guilt he felt for not getting up and going to see Lyta was easily counterbalanced by his nearly giddy exhaustion. He had to get some sleep. Surprise was clear in Lyta's voice when she answered the signal. Garibaldi began with an apology. "Lyta, I'm sorry the video's off. I'm just beat and I need to get some sleep. I know you wanted to talk more about this afternoon." The conversation with Daniel Shannon had been this afternoon, hadn't it? He was starting to blur the events of the last few days together. "Michael, you need to hear this. Can you come here now? Or I can come there if you'd rather." He had kicked off his shoes and was stripping off his shirt when she asked the question. He grimaced, knowing she would not be pleased by his response. "Lyta, I've got to get some sleep. I'm barely even lucid at this point. If I sat with you now, I wouldn't make sense of what you were telling me. Look, can't we talk about this over dinner tomorrow night?" "Dinner?" He heard alarm in her voice. "Michael, I think this conversation needs to be a bit more private." He sensed he should not argue. "All right. Why don't you meet me at my office, say 1800?" There was a pause, a silence in which Michael Garibaldi sensed a steely determination. "Tomorrow morning. Breakfast." He shifted uncomfortably on the bed. "I've got a meeting at 0800." "Fine, I'll bring breakfast. 0700." He groaned softly and hoped she couldn't hear it. "All right. 0700 at my office." "No, Michael. I'll come to your quarters. 0700 tomorrow. Sleep well." He entered a wake-up time of 0630 and was asleep moments later. JULY 12, 2261 Early Morning Michael Garibaldi growled at the synthesized voice that called him back to wakefulness at 0630. He rolled onto his back, opening his eyes just enough to survey the evidence of last night's exhaustion. He had drawn the comforter up around him sometime during his dreaming, having never really gotten into bed the night before, and now the covering was skewed and bunched and twisted. Discarded clothes lay here and there, wherever they had fallen, and those not discarded now clung to his body in a most uncomfortable fashion. He weighed the merits of a shower against the possibility of a few more minutes' sleep. By the time he had thrown his cast-off clothes in the hamper and slipped into the shower Garibaldi had rationalized the choice. It wouldn't do to have Lyta arrive and find him dozing. Nor would it do to have her find him in the shower, he thought as he pushed himself through the morning routine. He dried himself quickly and pulled on briefs and trousers, then paused to set a pot of kafe to brew. Shaving could wait. He only needed to be presentable. He noted as he pulled a shirt from the closet that his body still felt damp. Indeed his arms seemed to stick in the sleeves, and he was still tugging at the garment when the door chime sounded. Garibaldi called the open command automatically, then blushed at the state of his undress. He fumbled hurriedly to try to button up his shirt as Lyta strode in, altogether too cheerfully, with an assortment of pastries and a carafe of juice. His embarrassment passed quickly as it became clear that Lyta was as single-minded as ever. They set the table and sat down, and she began without prompting. "Michael, I started to tell you yesterday that he --what name is he using?" Garibaldi supplied the information and she went on. "Shannon is a very powerful telepath, far stronger than any P12 I've known. And he was completely undefended, which is strange and rather frightening. He let me go anywhere I wanted, Michael, look at anything in his mind." Garibaldi listened again to her words, but like the day before, could not see what was upsetting to the woman. "You think he was manipulating you? That he was sending to you?" She shook her head. "No. But Michael, he was answering your questions, truthfully, yes, but he wasn't volunteering anything. He knows a lot that he's not talking about, Michael. And he let me see that. I don't understand why. Why would he let me see it if he's not going to tell you?" Michael fidgeted in his chair. This was a little too teep-ish for his liking. "What kind of stuff, Lyta?" She went quiet for a moment, took a long drink of her kafe. "He knows about Mars Resistance, things only an insider would know, and..." "Lyta! Inside the Resistance? He was a PsiCop." "I know, Michael, but I'm telling you he had inside information on Mars Resistance -- names, places, plans. He's really looking for someone, a group of people. He's never met them. He's following a rumor. I think they're telepaths, Michael. I think he's looking for rogues." "You think he's a bloodhound? You think he's tracking the railroad?" She shook her head. "No, he's not hunting. He's trying to find them because he thinks they can help him." Garibaldi's skin tingled as his paranoia shifted into high gear. "If he's as strong as you say..." "I know what you're thinking, Michael, but I don't think so. There was no sign that he was trying to deceive in any way." "Does he have information that could be dangerous to us?" Michael asked. "He doesn't mean us any harm, Michael, although I wouldn't go so far as to say he's on our side. I don't think he would deliberately do anything to harm us, but I get the feeling he'll do anything to protect himself, and with the information he has..." "What, Lyta? What does he know?" "He knows about your time in captivity, Michael, about what was done to you and how you got back here." Garibaldi froze, staring at her over the rim of his cup. "He knows where the Captain was, and what happened to him. He knows about the telepaths in cryo." "How does he know these things?" Garibaldi interrupted. "Has he been reading us?" The telepath's head rocked vigorously side to side. "He's telling the truth about not scanning. And about trying to ignore what you were broadcasting." She paused and studied Garibaldi's face. "For a PsiCop he got pretty impressive ethics. "Michael, I can't tell how someone knows what they know, whether they learned it first hand or someone told them. But I can tell when they're lying, and Daniel Shannon -- or whatever his name is -- was telling us the truth." Whatever his name is. Garibaldi opened his mouth to ask Lyta for Shannon's real name, but halted as he remembered Marcus. He looked at Lyta. "Marcus claims to have met this guy on Mars, but Shannon doesn't acknowledge it. What's with that?" "I confess I went looking for that. That's how I know he was so undefended. There's no attempt to deceive, Michael, and I can't find Marcus in his head, not before the last couple of days anyway. It's possible they did meet, and Shannon really doesn't remember. None of us can keep everything in our heads. I can only read what he knows." "Tell me about what you saw when I asked him about the broadcasting. He knew what you had told me. Did he get that out of my head?" "I can't really tell how he knows, Michael, but if I had to guess I'd say he got the image from you and the fact that I told you about it from me. That jumped into my head when you asked the question, and I was connected to him." She shrugged. "The two men he had were just images, and I don't know them, so I have to assume he got them from you. Do you know who they are?" Garibaldi nodded. "And the woman?" Lyta Alexander shifted in her chair. For the first time in their conversation, she looked uncomfortable. Her eyes lingered on the plate in front of her for an awkwardly long time then rose to meet his. "Carly Sullivan," she said flatly. Garibaldi felt his face begin to color. "Michael, he knows..." "Yeah, OK, Lyta...." Michael tried to interrupt, to shift the conversation off the more intimate matters in his life. "Michael, no." Her voice was adamant. "He knows about your relationship with Carly, Michael, yes, but there's more than that. A lot more. He knows things about Carly, details of her life, things from her childhood..." The door chime interrupted her account, drawing an expletive from Garibaldi. He called the open command as he rose from the table. Carly Sullivan slipped in with a bag in hand. "Morning, Michael! Running late?" she asked as she took in his shoeless, half-shirtless state. She smiled at his embarrassment. "Oh," the glee fled her voice when she saw Lyta at the table. "I'm sorry. Good morning, Lyta. I'm sorry." She put her focus back on Michael. "I should have called. I just thought I'd bring some croissants. Quick breakfast." She backed away from Michael's outstretched arms. "Maybe another time. I can see you're busy. Good to see you, Lyta. Have a good day." The door slid open to allow her exit and though Michael followed her into the hallway, he found no words to halt her retreat. Helplessly he watched her turn the corner then made his way back to the breakfast table. "Michael, I'm sorry." Lyta rose from her chair. "I don't know what to say." Garibaldi brushed aside her apologies although his thoughts were not fully present. Silently, he began to clear the table. Lyta took the cue to leave, struggling to find words to cover the awkwardness. Michael walked with her to the door, softly bid her goodbye and thanks, and went back to finish dressing.