FreezeFrame Part 4 JULY 12, 2261 Morning The War Council meeting was brief. No confirmation of an impending attack on the station had yet been detected, but no word had reached them of action by Clark's people against Mars either. Delenn had divided the White Star Fleet between defense of Babylon 5 and aid to Mars. "How many ships have you sent them?" Stephen Franklin inquired. "Eight White Stars were dispatched," Marcus offered. "White Star 22 is in transit. We've tried to reach her, to send her back, but communications have been unsuccessful. She may be in hyperspace. We'll keep trying." Garibaldi caught up to the Ranger when the group dispersed. "Marcus, you got a minute?" The two men fell into step together as Marcus replied, "How can I help you, Mr. Garibaldi?" "The guy from the other night, Marcus, the one who calls himself Shannon, you said you'd met him on Mars?" The Ranger's response was affirmative and Garibaldi continued. "How did you meet him? Where? And when? And what name was he using?" Marcus stopped abruptly and stared at Garibaldi as the taller man stumbled to a stop and turned to face him. "What prompts this sudden interest? What have you found out?" In the course of a breath, Garibaldi weighed his options. "Nothing I'm sure I believe yet. But it would help me sort things out if I knew how all this started." If Marcus pressed him, he'd decide how much he was willing to share, but for now, perhaps he could slide out of it. The Ranger's silence lingered for an uneasy moment. "Let's go somewhere a bit more private, shall we?" Michael led the way to the observation dome, knowing from past experience that it was rarely in use so early in the day. Alone there, they resumed their conversation. "I was having difficulty recalling the details myself at first," Marcus offered, "but I'm certain I'm right about it now, Michael. It was January, when you were missing. G'Kar took it upon himself to go out in search of you. Did you know that?" He looked to Garibaldi for confirmation, then refocused himself, and continued. "I had tagged along at first. Actually, I'd hoped to keep him out of trouble, but I allowed him to persuade me to follow some other avenues. I still hold myself responsible for his capture." The remorse in the Ranger's eyes startled Garibaldi. Marcus walked to the observation port and stared out at the stars for a moment before he continued. "Some of the intelligence I was following led back to Mars. I made contact with the Resistance there, hoping they might have some information regarding your whereabouts. They were, on the whole, very little help, but this chap was most interested in who I was, and who you were, and why I was looking for you. He had a great many questions to ask, although I must say, very little to share. Of course, shortly thereafter, Mr. Allan and his team found you." Garibaldi listened closely, cross checking against what he had heard from Lyta and from Shannon. "Are you saying Shannon was a member of the Resistance? Or someone else you met on Mars?" Marcus looked up in surprise. "No, the Resistance, for certain. I rather got the impression he had a certain amount of authority." "What name was he using? You said you knew him by another name." "Originally he just used a number, but as we talked more he gave me a name: Cam. Cameron Reynolds." Garibaldi squinted in confusion, took a few steps away from the Ranger, and turned back to face him. "Was there any bad blood between you? You have any disagreements? Why would he act like he doesn't know you?" "I'm certain I don't know," Marcus replied, drawing closer to Garibaldi. "I suppose we had a few sharp words here and there. I got a bit irritated with him, asking all those questions and not coming back with any information, but no one seemed to know anything about your whereabouts, so I couldn't seriously be angry with him. I thought we parted on good terms." "January, you said?" Nothing Garibaldi did seemed to make sense of the information he was amassing. "While I was missing?" "Yes." Garibaldi paced a bit. "Cameron Reynolds?" Marcus nodded and watched while Garibaldi paced a bit more. "Is there a problem, Mr. Garibaldi?" Michael sighed and shook out a little laugh. "I don't know." "Shall I go have a look for our friend, see if I can jog his memory a bit?" Marcus continued. Garibaldi was noncommittal in his reply, unsure whether it would be wise to have Marcus talk again with Shannon, or Reynolds, or whatever his name really was. He wanted time to put all the pieces of this puzzle together, but time seemed to be at a premium just now, and other matters pulled at his attention. He parted from the Ranger and turned his thoughts to more personal concerns. Was it his imagination? The pause between his signal at Sullivan's office door and her open command seemed longer this morning. She was behind her desk when the door slid open, but standing, facing him. Michael's greeting seemed to echo in the silence. "Carly, about this morning..." She lifted her eyes to the level of his, but avoided engagement. "...it wasn't..." "Michael, please don't," she broke in softly. She was looking at him now, full on and undefended. "I'm the one who ought to be apologizing, barging in that way at that hour." She swallowed hard. "I made some unwarranted assumptions. I'm sorry. It won't happen again." Garibaldi's concern became full-scale alarm. He stepped around behind the desk, closer to her. "The only thing unwarranted was jumping to conclusions. Carly, Lyta and I were having a meeting." "Michael!" She closed her eyes, steadied herself. "Look, Michael," she continued in a gentler tone, "we have no commitments to one another. We see whomever we want to see. You don't have to explain anything to me." She stopped, abruptly, Michael thought. He waited but she kept silent. "Say it," he challenged. She regarded him suspiciously. "Say what?" "Whatever it is you're holding back. Say it, and let's have everything out on the table." She considered for a long moment, never taking her eyes from his. Finally she spoke. "I think it's a lousy thing for you to do to Zack." Anger erupted in him, demanding physical release. He spun on his heel, strode back to the door, spun again, and covered the rest of the room in a few long steps. He felt caged and dangerous. He turned to face her, took a long breath to quiet the trembling, and spoke as calmly as he could manage. "The facts, first. Lyta had information she wanted to give me yesterday. I was busy all day, and too tired last night to stay up and talk. So we agree to meet for breakfast this morning. I couldn't haul myself out in time to finish getting dressed before she arrived. That's it. That's all. Nothing happened. "But what I am upset about," he continued, "is that we're having this conversation. Or does all the talk about trust only go one way?" He stepped up closer to the desk. "No commitments? OK, no, no papers signed, no rings exchanged, no engraved announcements. But I thought you knew me well enough to know that what counts with me is the day to day decisions, the actions, not the ceremonies. Excuse me, but I thought we did have a commitment. I do, anyway. "And I resent the fact that you think I would screw over a friend." Their eyes held one another in the silence. Her jaw twitched and she bit her lower lip, then looked away from him, down at the desk. Garibaldi fought the urge to move closer to her. "I'm sorry," she said with a sigh. "You're right. I'm acting like an idiot." She looked up at him again for a moment and stepped around the desk, moving closer to him. "Damn it, Michael, nothing's ever easy for us." He opened his mouth to respond but she waved away his comment. "No, I know, I'm not trying to make excuses. There is no excuse for the way I acted today. I'm sorry -- sorry for behaving so irrationally, so jealously, and sorry for insulting you that way." He took her hand. "You're the one who's always asking me to trust. What the hell happened?" She shrugged, looked away. "Some demon somewhere inside me. The one that remembers every time you've been uncertain about me, and throws those memories up to me as evidence that we'll never have a solid relationship." Sullivan moved away from him now, feigning the desire for a fresh cup of kafe. He dropped into one of the chairs in front of her desk. "I'll have one too, thanks," he said as he propped his feet up on the desk. Her glance was dubious, but she filled a second mug and carried it to him. As she sat down, he reflected aloud. "Evidence, huh? Well, let's consider the evidence then." He paused to drink, letting the warmth soothe him and the bitter taste stir him. "There have been a number of times when I've had doubts about you. On how many of those occasions did I ultimately decide not to trust you?" She answered his challenge with a half-smile. "None." He dropped his feet to the floor with a thud, and leaned forward in his chair. "And as a general rule, who do I have doubts about?" An embarrassed smile spread over her face and she nodded. "Everyone, I know..." "Wrong!" he snapped. "I'm a paranoid bastard, I don't deny that, but I start from the assumption that no one is on the level. I don't trust anyone; it's easier that way. But a few people, a very few, are worth wondering about, worth maybe, just maybe, taking a chance on." He sat back. "You're suggesting I'm among the elite?" she inquired, smirking. "Top of the list." His smugness was as endearing as it was infuriating. He grinned broadly, leaned forward again. "We still on for dinner tonight? 1900?" She matched his grin. "I'll be ready. You picking me up?" "I will come by your place a little before 1900," he said, standing. "We have a table reserved at the Fresh Air restaurant, which of course will not be ready at 1900, but we will hang out in the bar until a fashionable hour, and then we will eat a sumptuous meal which you will neither have to cook nor clean up." He moved toward the door, stopping to kiss her on the forehead. "And then," he whispered, "perhaps we can see about exorcising some of your demons." Her laughter followed him down the hall. JULY 12, 2261 Afternoon The Zocalo was bustling when Garibaldi reached his office. There was a comfort in commonplace activities, talking with clients, settling cases. Still, perhaps it was the energy of the place, perhaps his own edginess, but he couldn't quite relax, couldn't really put the affairs of the last few days out of his mind. Standing to shake hands with a departing client, an effusively grateful Centauri, he stretched, and yawned, and considered his next move. He scooped his organizer up from the tabletop, snapping it shut with a satisfying click. It took a while to push through the crowds on the Zocalo, but a short jog got him to the transport tube just before the doors closed. The space inside the car was shared by a Minbari and two Lumati. Garibaldi nodded a greeting and pressed himself against a wall. He was the last to leave the cabin, covering the distance to his quarters in a few long-legged strides. He entered his access code, slipped inside before the door was fully open, called for lights and shucked his jacket as he crossed to the computer station. He requested a record search on the name Marcus had given him. "All public records. Reynolds, Cameron." He didn't expect to find much, but he let the computer run its searches, and put the kettle on to boil. By the time he had brewed a mug of tea, he had a report back. It was not a lot, a very few, very standard entries, but it was more than he had expected. He had imagined that Cameron Reynolds was as much an alias as Daniel Shannon, but here was a birth record, school documents, a license. It wasn't much of a report but it was what you'd find for the average citizen. But Cameron Reynolds -- or Daniel Shannon -- wasn't an average citizen. He was a telepath, that much Lyta had confirmed, possibly a PsiCop, and there was no indication of that special ability in any of these records. Garibaldi was fairly certain these were planted. He ran a search on the Shannon name, just out of curiosity, expecting even less this time. To his surprise, records did come back: birth, schooling -- advanced degrees, Michael noted -- a pilot's license, military records. This was serious forgery. Whoever had faked these records knew exactly what he was doing. Neither set of records, even if he had believed them, told Garibaldi anything of substance about the telepath who called himself Daniel Shannon. Somewhere the truth was lurking, the real records on the real man. Unless...the paranoia spoke up again...unless whoever planted these records also wiped the real ones. Michael paced awhile, considering that one, sipping at lukewarm tea. No, if Shannon were going to wipe records the first ones he would have cleared would have been Cameron Reynolds. The truth was in there someplace; he just needed a name to call it forth. A name. He scribbled down the two names the telepath had used, played with initials, anagrams, variants, waiting for a brainstorm. His mug was empty, he noted, and as he moved to the stove to brew a fresh cup, he took note of the time. He'd need to shower and change before the 1700 meeting and the big date. Garibaldi froze in place, the kettle poised to pour. The clank of the pot landing back on the burner made him jump but he left the empty mug on the counter and returned to the console. "Display birth record. Reynolds, Cameron." He read it carefully. "Display birth record. Shannon, Daniel." Garibaldi nodded, muttering softly. It wasn't much, but it was a place to start. "Computer, display all birth records, Mars Colony, September 6, 2231." It was a gamble. Shannon might have been born on Earth, or one of the colonies. He might be looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack, but Shannon and Reynolds shared a birth date and a birthplace. It was the only data common to the two sets of records. It was worth a try. The search produced a more manageable list than he had anticipated: fewer than 125 records and more than half of those female. Assuming Shannon hadn't done anything drastic along the way, he was looking at less than 60 names. What then was the key? What would tell him which of these boy babies of thirty years ago was the man he had asked Lyta to scan? The answer was so obvious it pummeled him. "Computer, cross reference this list with PsiCorps rosters, active and..." He wondered what the correct word might be. "...retired." "Authorization required." The computer's alert brought a curse from Garibaldi. He rubbed at the tension in the back of his neck while he wondered which of the pirated codes he had stored away for such circumstances might get him past this obstacle. He stared at the display screen. It was a risk. "Authorization:" he paused, memory sending shudders through him, "alpha omega thirteen beta." He watched, astonished, as the computer went to work. A half-formed memory from his captivity, nonsense syllables he remembered without knowing why, had in fact gotten him in the door. He brewed another cup of tea. The computer was still processing the records when he returned to the console. Impatient, he carried his tea with him into the dressing area, and started to lay out clothes for the evening. Charcoal grey slacks, soft enough to be comfortable, trim enough to... He smiled wickedly and sipped at his tea. White shirt. The one with the embroidered placket, white on white. French cuffs on that. Where were the cufflinks? He rummaged in the wooden box in the top drawer, rejecting the onyx, settling on the lapis instead. He glanced toward the console. Still working. Which jacket then? He took down a royal blue, held it between his chest and the mirror. She was right, it did bring out his eyes. But tonight, no. Something elegant but understated. He returned the jacket to the closet, noting out of the corner of his eye that the computer had finished its work. He walked back to the console. On September 6, 2231, Mars colony added two new teeps to the future ranks of PsiCorps. One, Harvey Middleton, earned a P6 and went on to work happily as a commercial telepath on Mars. The other was a P12, a PsiCop. Hector and Lourdes Cameron had named their son Reynaldo. JULY 12, 2261 Evening Michael Garibaldi sounded the chime on Carly Sullivan's door at 1845 hours, and scarcely had time to administer a straightening tug to the black jacket he wore before the portal swung wide. He ducked inside and smiled broadly when he saw her: barefoot in the middle of the room fumbling with an earring. "I'll be ready in two seconds," she promised, retreating to the bedroom. Brazenly, he followed her, watching the scarlet poppies undulate as the black chiffon on which they were printed followed her movements. He hadn't seen this dress before; red was definitely her color. She slipped into her shoes, turning to smile at the figure braced against the doorjamb, and scooped up a tiny bundle of gold and crimson stones from the nightstand. "I..." She spoke as she played the jewels round her neck. "...am..." She brought the halves of the clasp together, fumbling among the curling strands of deep brown hair set loose for this special occasion. "...damn!" She muttered as the released necklace dropped into her cleavage. Retrieving it before the giggling Garibaldi could offer, Sullivan began the process again. Michael moved up close, slipping behind her, whispering, "need some help with that?" She shivered as he lifted her hair off her neck. "Higher with the left." He breathed instructions into her ear, sounding like he were guiding a new pilot through a first docking maneuver, except...that voice, that tone, as he murmured "good" and let her hair tumble free, that voice on the com system could cause accidents. It took only a few minutes to reach the Fresh Air Restaurant, and true to Michael's prediction, their table was not ready. Zack and Lyta arrived just as Garibaldi finished that inquiry, and the four found an unoccupied corner of the bar to wait. Garibaldi surveyed his protégé. Not bad. Navy slacks, a silk shirt in a subdued but intriguing print, and a camel hair jacket. Michael tried to remember the last time he'd seen Zack out of uniform, a mental exercise he quickly abandoned. They chatted easily round the table, more easily than Garibaldi would have imagined. Most was small talk, the recounting of one or the other's day, a bit of catching up on memories. When they were shown to the their table in the main restaurant, conversation turned to food: the evening's menu, and when their order had been placed, talk of favorite dishes and recipes. "I can't believe how much I'm enjoying actually cooking again," Lyta remarked. "The entire time I worked for the Vorlons, I lived on carry-out food and sandwiches." "You mean there's something else?" Zack teased. Garibaldi winced. "Don't tell me you're still eating pizza every night of the week!" "Nah!" Zack laughed. "Nowadays I don't even get dinner more than a couple of nights a week." He and Garibaldi exchanged a bit of shop talk while their meal was delivered, managing to cut it short before their companions' eyes glazed over completely. Zack turned to Lyta, seemingly to say something, but much to Michael's amusement, the young security chief was so charmed by the sight of his companion that the thought fled him. Garibaldi smiled. She did look stunning, her pale white skin draped with an emerald green silk that accentuated her eyes. "So, Lyta," Garibaldi began, taking pity on his tongue-tied friend, "what do you make of the President's latest speech?" "I had the feeling as I watched that he was lying about something." "I didn't think telepaths could read people over the broadcast channels," Carly observed. "We can't," Lyta laughed. "I've just gotten so accustomed to politicians lying that I guess I start from that assumption." "Geez, I'd like to think there are some good guys left in the government. If not, what're we fighting for?" "It's a tough job to hold office and hold on to your honor," Carly commented. "Too many compromises along the way. But yes, I think there are some good guys. I hope there are." "Names, Sullivan," Michael teased, "we want names." There was good-natured laughter around the table. "OK, Mr. Cynical," Carly replied with a smile, "how about Senator Antilna? She's not untarnished, I admit. She's struck a few deals in her time, but I think on the whole, she's honest and trustworthy." Garibaldi chewed that over mentally as he chewed his food. "Come on, Michael, I think she's got you." Zack chided. "All right," Michael conceded, "I'll give you Antilna. That's one." "Fernandez would get my vote," Lyta offered. "He was Santiago's protégé, and everyone thought he'd fold and run after the assassination, but he's stayed in there and taken up Santiago's causes. I think the man has courage and integrity." "What about Hidaki?" Zack asked. Garibaldi's choking fit was hardly subtle. "Hidaki?" Garibaldi asked in amazement when his breath returned. "Hidaki is in Clark's hip pocket!" "I know it looks that way lately, Michael, but I remember the guy when he was a local politician, and my dad used to talk about when he was a judge. The guy had a reputation for being fair, for hearing all sides of an issue and doing what was right. I remember a speech he gave one time. He got on the com channels and explained to his district why he wasn't going to vote the way people wanted him to. I disagreed with him, but he explained it as a matter of conscience, and I respected the guy for it. It didn't make him popular, but you knew he had principles. Hell, I disagree with the guy on a lot of issues, especially Mars, but I think he's got a backbone." Garibaldi was unconvinced. Lyta studied Zack a moment. "What do you think Clark will do on Mars? I mean, there was a lot of rhetoric there," she continued, looking now to Sullivan and Garibaldi, "but do they really know who is and isn't Resistance? And what will they do to them?" Sullivan shook her head. "The most frightening part of the whole thing, I think, is that Clark sees enemies in every quarter. I don't think he can actually identify Resistance members, but I don't think he cares. He's going into Mars to establish a police state. People will be disappeared; property will be seized or destroyed. He'll find a way to persuade himself there's a threat. We can only hope that enough people see through the lies." "Enough people to do what?" Zack asked. "That's the part of this whole thing that scares me most. What exactly can we do? And how will we know when we win?" Their server came to inquire about dessert, sidetracking the conversation from universal to far more local concerns. The foursome agreed to adjourn to Sullivan's quarters for coffee, calling for their check. Carly turned to chat with Lyta while Allan and Garibaldi settled the bill. "Well," Michael proposed finally, "shall we?" Two links sounded in tandem as they started to rise followed by two masculine voices muttering expletives. The women forced smiles as Michael and Zack responded to the pages sotto voce. "Mr. Allan," Ivanova's voice crackled through, "we are on alert, effective immediately. Move your people to their stations. Level 1 alert." "Michael, Code 7R. Now." Sheridan's tone left no room for questions. The two men looked at each other, then, embarrassed, at the two women beside them. "Go!" Sullivan chided them. "You two have responsibilities. We're quite capable of getting ourselves home. In fact, we'll still go back to my place. If you get clear, you can meet us there." Zack stepped closer to Lyta. "I'm really sorry," he whispered. She smiled, fondly, shyly. "It's OK. There will be other times." She flushed a bit as she spoke; Zack blushed brightly. "You'd better go," she urged. When the two men had said their good-byes, Lyta and Carly strolled out to the concourse, and found themselves in front of the transport tube. As Sullivan signaled, Lyta posed a hesitant question. "Are you allowed to say what this emergency is?" The dark haired woman regarded her companion quietly. "Why don't we hold that question for over coffee?" she said at last. "I suspect it's not the only one you want to ask." Lyta's look was startled, quizzical, but the arrival of the tube cut off the subject. They waited quietly as the car made its various stops, accepting and discharging passengers. As the car slowed to a stop and the doors slid open, the women stepped into the corridor leading to Sullivan's quarters. A tall, slender figure clad in the same sandy shades that lit his hair and eyes jumped back to let them pass. He bowed slightly, one arm outstretched to prevent the doors from closing. "Good evening, ladies," he said softly. "Don't you look lovely!" Lyta and Carly acknowledged the greeting with nods, half-smiles, and curious glances at one another. "Do you know him?" Lyta asked as Sullivan coded the door open, and led the way inside. "The gentleman at the tube?" Carly answered with a question, heading for the kitchen. She turned to Lyta and smiled devilishly. "I thought he was talking to you. Coffee?" "Thanks," Lyta answered, taking station at the other side of the counter. Carly started a pot of coffee brewing. "I'm going to be an optimist and brew a full pot. Maybe the guys will get here before it turns to sludge." The redhead shrugged. Sullivan moved to the table, pulled out a chair, offering Lyta a seat with a wave of her hand. She poured two mugs of the fresh brew and brought them to the table, setting one before the telepath, keeping the other for herself. As she took a seat beside Lyta, Sullivan spoke softly. "Lyta, I haven't let many people on the station get close, but you reached out to me at a difficult time. You probably know me better than anyone here does, except maybe Michael, and I have you to thank for my relationship with him. So, ask your questions. And if I can possibly answer them, I will." Gratitude and affection shone through the telepath's shy smile. "I'm not sure I know where to start. The current emergency I guess. What really is going on?" "Twenty five words or less?" Carly joked, waiting for Lyta's scolding glance. Sobering, she continued. "Those reports we were talking about at dinner? Clark's retaliation for the explosion of the Valhalla?" The telepath nodded, and took a sip of her coffee. "We have intelligence that suggests that Clark may be planning to move against us as well. I assume that's why Michael and Zack were called. They've probably spotted ships approaching." "You're saying we're under attack?" "We're not yet, but we may be soon." "But we didn't attack the Valhalla," Lyta protested. "Did we?" "No." Sullivan drank deeply. "Carly! What's the 'but?' What are you holding back?" Sullivan shook her head. "We didn't have anything to do with it, Lyta, but as best we can tell, neither did the Mars Resistance. We're trying to figure out who did. We've got some leads, but no proof. And Clark being who and what he is, even if we had proof, it probably wouldn't matter." "Is that why..." Lyta broke off the exclamation. Sullivan regarded her with caution. "Is that why what?" Lyta sighed, sipped her coffee. "I picked up some images..." Her voice trailed away. "I'm sorry." "No, no, no!" Sullivan brushed it aside. "I wouldn't want you to violate anyone's privacy." They were quiet for a moment. "You said you had leads?" Lyta asked. Carly nodded. "A lead, anyway. One source, telling us who was responsible." "How good is the source?" It was a nervous laugh, awkwardly hollow. "That depends on who you ask." "Michael doesn't trust him," Lyta supplied. Sullivan looked into the telepath's eyes, but only shrugged. "But you do. And that's..." She frowned hard, wrinkling her forehead until her eyes squinted. She looked Carly Sullivan hard in the eyes. "What is Michael afraid of?" Sullivan met her gaze, held it, silently considering. Firmly she planted her coffee mug on the table top, rose, and went to her desk. She opened a drawer, delicately extracting a data crystal from a collection arrayed there. She held it up for Lyta to see. "Michael recorded this from an ISN broadcast the day before yesterday." It locked into the reader with a click, and on order, began to play. Sullivan ordered the audio off, letting the images move by in silence. "Computer, freeze image." "Oh my god!" Lyta Alexander rose slowly from her chair and drew closer to the vid screen. "I don't believe it." Sullivan looked back at her companion with a bit of surprise. "You recognize him?" She nodded. "I think so." Her eyes moved to Sullivan's face. "Can you isolate on him?" Carly called the command. "Isolate upper left quadrant." Lyta giggled as the computer adjusted the image. "Right, Carly, upper right quadrant." Sullivan stared at her. "Right?" Her confusion was obvious. "Who are you looking at?" "No one in this image," Lyta replied, gesturing toward Jeremy Alcott's profile. With a glance to the vid screen, she added, "I have seen this face, now that I look at it. Is he someone I should know?" Carly studied her companion a moment, sighed, and ordered the video back to the original image. She didn't answer Lyta's question. "Who was it you were looking at?" Lyta approached the screen, tapped it with a finger. "This one," she said. "Can you focus on him?" In a moment or two, the video had zoomed in on the face Lyta indicated, bringing it into focus. Lyta nodded. "That's him. What the hell is he doing there?" The dark haired woman moved to stand close behind her. "Who is he?" "Evan Lomeda," the telepath replied. "We were in training together." Sullivan laid a hand on Lyta's shoulder. "He's a telepath?" The redhead turned to face her, nodding. "A strong one. I figured him for a P10, if not better. And as loyal a member of the Corps as they could ever hope for." She looked over her shoulder at the vid, then back at Sullivan with obvious apprehension. "He's out of uniform." Sullivan's glance moved about the room, unseeing. She turned away from the red- haired woman and wandered back to the table, her train of thought becoming audible. "Why would Hidaki want a telepath on his staff?" She lifted the mugs and carried them to the counter. Lyta drew closer, accepting a refilled cup from the woman. "Or," Carly continued, "why would PsiCorps want a telepath in Hidaki's office?" JULY 12, 2261 Night You could hear the crackle of tension in the air the moment you entered the War Room, Garibaldi thought as he watched the group assemble. You saw it in the faces, in that minute pause as each of them came round the corner. Sheridan called the group to order even as he came through the office door. Ivanova slipped into her seat while he made his opening remarks. "I'm sorry to call you all back in tonight, but as of now, the station is on alert. Susan, will you give us status?" Sheridan gave a small bow toward his executive officer, and took a seat. The Commander shifted in her chair. "Two pieces of information have reached us in the last few hours, causing us to upgrade the station status. The first is confirmation of action by Clark's troops against a Resistance cell on Mars. This report has come back to us from two different sources, and the accounts match in all significant details. EarthForce troops have been sent, in force, to a community center which Clark's people had labeled as a Resistance stronghold. They came in firing, before even announcing themselves. They shot anyone who tried to flee, and arrested those who survived. The building was burned and the resources of the organization which ran the center were seized." Silence pressed down on the group, a growing weight. Ivanova continued. "The other intelligence is less clear cut, but does seem to support the information you received yesterday, Michael. One of the White Stars dispatched to Mars reported in. While they were in hyperspace, their sensors picked up what appeared to be an EarthForce cruiser headed this way. Based on their information, we thought we'd have company by now, but so far, they haven't jumped in. We've gone to a level 1 alert in all quarters." Sheridan nodded in her direction, and took over. "Instrumentation is not highly reliable in hyperspace, so we can't be sure how accurate that report may be, but combined with what we heard last night, it seemed to counsel caution. We've increased the number of fighters on patrol outside the station, and all crews are ready to launch at any moment. The White Star fleet is out of sight, but ready to jump. Station security has been increased and civilian shelters are ready." The Captain looked from one to another around the table. "Any other concerns?" Stephen Franklin leaned in to the table. "Have the other White Stars reached Mars yet? Can they lend any aid?" "They are not there yet," Delenn said sadly. "Their Captains have been instructed to make best speed, but also to approach the planet with caution. We do not know that there will not be ships waiting to intercept us, nor do we wish to provoke a battle that might not otherwise occurred by giving the appearance of an attack force." Her eyes darted to Sheridan's. "We do not wish to have a misunderstanding start a war." "May I suggest that we not leap to judgment about the ship approaching the station either," G'Kar advised. The others looked to him quizzically. "A ship may be about to come through the jumpgate, but we should not assume that it is attacking. Have not some EarthForce ships joined in the rebellion?" "G'Kar's right. We don't know what ship she is or why she's coming. Let's not do anything stupid -- either by assuming they're hostile or by letting our guard down. I would like more information. Michael, is it possible for you to go back to your source?" Garibaldi felt an icy claw grab his gut from the inside and drag down. His lungs felt hardened but he forced out a reply. "I don't know," he said, shaking his head. "I can try, but... Let's just say it hasn't been an easy connection to make." Sheridan acknowledged the hesitation. "I understand, Michael. I know there have been problems with this source, but if you can raise any more information it would help." "You got it," Garibaldi replied with more enthusiasm than he felt. JULY 12, 2261 Late Night On the counter in Carly Sullivan's kitchen, a shallow pool of bitter liquid turned to tar in the bottom of the carafe. Two women huddled at a table marked by the rings and drips of the endless cups of coffee which had fueled their conversation. The door chime startled them back to the present. Zack Allan looked nervous and very tired when Sullivan admitted him. "I'm sorry. Did I wake you?" he whispered. "No, Zack. It's fine," Carly smiled. "Come on in." Lyta rose from the table, the sight of her erasing the fatigue lines in Allan's face. The couple greeted one another in hushed but awkward voices. "Make yourself at home, Zack," Carly said. "Can I get you some coffee?" Allan ripped his eyes from the redhead and looked around as though surprised to find Sullivan there. "Oh yeah. Coffee would be great. Thanks." His gaze went back to Lyta. Carly considered the dregs of coffee. "I'm going to make a fresh pot. You two get comfortable. Put some music on if you like." Conversation lagged. "So, Zack," Carly called across the counter, "the station all buttoned up?" The question set Zack into report mode, giving Sullivan time to get another pot of coffee brewing. 'Deploying personnel' and 'heightened customs screenings' might not be romantic murmurings, but at least they were talking. Carly rinsed the used mugs and placed them on a tray, along with one for Zack. Forcing optimism, she added one for Michael, and carried the tray to the living area. The couple was still standing. "You know," Sullivan teased as she set the tray down on the table, "curling up on cushions may not be to everyone's liking, but there are chairs, guys. You could sit down." Lyta smiled mischievously, crossed to the big blue easy chair, and snuggled down, one leg tucked beneath her. As Carly lit the candles scattered here and there around the room, she giggled to see Zack Allan fold his lanky frame down on to the floor cushions beside Lyta's chair. "I'll get that coffee," she said with a smile. The door chime diverted her from that quest. "Hi, Michael. Come in, say hello, sit down. I just made fresh coffee." Only then did he appear to notice the presence of the other couple. He shot a jittery glance at Carly before moving into the living area. "Everything under control, Chief?" Zack asked, old habits giving Michael back his title. Garibaldi pouted his lips, nodded reassuringly, and greeted Lyta. He was about to settle himself into a chair when Sullivan's voice halted him. "Before you do that..." He froze, and looked at the woman who held a coffeepot aloft. "...could you put some music on? Please?" Garibaldi forced a smile. "I hope you all haven't been sitting around waiting for me," he commented as he moved toward the console. Zack Allan shook his head, then looked back and forth between the two women. "I just got here. You two haven't been waitin' up for us, have you?" Sullivan distributed mugs. "We had a lot to talk about," she said, sending Lyta a cryptic glance. As the mellow jazz started, Carly kicked a floor cushion closer to the table, but before she could sit, Garibaldi gripped her left elbow, freezing her in place. "Before you do that...?" he said softly although the irritation was clear in his voice. He looked to the other couple. "Would you excuse us for a moment?" Confusion was clear in Allan's face and distress in Lyta's. Zack shifted and half rose. "Geez, I'm sorry. Do you want me to go?" he asked. Michael regarded the young man with a ferocious determination. "No." He looked back at Sullivan. "I trust you, Zack." The comment was a dagger he wasn't sure he regretted throwing at her. "Sit down, Michael," Sullivan said softly. Still standing, Garibaldi answered coldly. "I've been trying to make a call for the last two hours with absolutely no success." Carly angled her body toward his now, the nearness forcing her head to tilt back to meet his eyes. "Jeremy?" Garibaldi glanced at the other couple, then nodded. Her left hand gently stroked the tense muscles in his upper arm until he released his grip. "It's OK, Michael. Sit, drink your coffee, and tell me where you've tried." She dropped down onto a floor pillow and held a mug up to him. With another glance at Zack and Lyta, Michael perched on the edge of a chair and unsmilingly accepted the offered coffee. "I've tried personal and business access repeatedly." He tried to strip some of the emotion from his voice. "I get nothing but voice messaging." "Why do you need him?" she asked. Michael looked from Carly to Lyta, who nodded, swallowed down a bit of embarrassment. "I had a lot of images, Michael. Carly's told me enough tonight for me to make sense of them all." An irritated Garibaldi's gaze moved to Zack Allan, long arms and legs tucked round him on the cushion, like a specimen of human origami. Michael did trust him, although sometimes he wasn't sure why. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. "Sheridan wants more complete information on what Clark is planning," Michael said at last. "We received a report of a cruiser headed this way, but it ought to have been here by now." "You think they're trying to decoy us?" Zack inquired, listening intently to Michael's report. "Get us to attack first?" Garibaldi considered the question. "Maybe, we don't know what Clark may be up to." He turned back to Sullivan. "But our friend Jeremy does. Or at least he pretends to." "We could try the safe house, I suppose," she speculated, "but it would be dumb luck if we caught him there." "I'll settle for whatever luck I can get," Garibaldi retorted. "Try it." Sullivan excused herself to find the access code, and Garibaldi turned at last to his coffee. "Michael?" Lyta's voice was gentle and concerned. "I wasn't trying to invade your privacy, but with so many things coming together, I needed to talk it through with someone." "Whadda ya mean, coming together?" Zack asked innocently. "Telepaths pick up a lot of background noise. Most of it is just a hum. Even what you actually hear is random bits of information. It doesn't stay with you, because it's not connected to anything. "But sometimes, you get thoughts or feelings that someone's broadcasting or something you pick up in a scan and -- chink! -- pieces fit together. Usually, it's because the people fit together, but this time there didn't seem to be any connection, and it was spooky." Sullivan turned from the com unit, shaking her head. "No response, Michael, sorry. I left a message." She took a seat again, curled up at Garibaldi's feet. "We can try again, but there's other information I think you should hear first." Lyta Alexander slid to the edge of her seat and leaned toward the man across the table. "Michael, Carly let me look at that ISN clip. I recognized one of Hidaki's aides. Michael, he's a telepath." "I thought the Corps wasn't allowed to get involved in government," Zack interjected. "Not exactly." Lyta turned to the security chief. "The Corps charter prohibits telepaths from holding office, or from endorsing a candidate." "We know they ignored that one," Garibaldi threw in. "This is something else," Lyta continued. "This guy is no commercial telepath. And he's not in uniform, not wearing the badge. Michael, I don't think Hidaki knows he's a telepath." Garibaldi looked from Lyta to Carly, concern evident in his face. "Yeah, I know, Michael." Carly answered the unspoken fear. "If the Corps is infiltrating Hidaki's office, where else are they?" "Shit!" Michael's brow furrowed, his eyes unfocusing a bit as he remembered. "Lyta," he asked, "when you scanned Shannon did you pick up anything about when he went rogue?" "Shannon?" Zack asked. "The guy Marcus was after?" Michael and Lyta nodded simultaneously. "Marcus was after?" Carly looked up suddenly. "Why?" "If you're asking if he really was a rogue, Michael, the answer is yes. No question." "I believe you. But when? When did he leave the Corps?" Lyta shook her head. "I don't know. It wasn't something I was looking for... I..." "An impression even," Garibaldi prodded. "A long time ago? Just recently?" "Michael!" Zack reproached him, springing to protect Lyta. "Take it easy!" "What's so important about the time, Michael?" Sullivan laid a calming hand on his arm. Garibaldi took a long breath, apologized, and spoke to the woman at his feet. "Marcus met Shannon on Mars, back in January. Said the guy was a member of the Resistance." "So," Zack concluded, "he went rogue sometime before January. Wait a minute! Rogue? Shannon's a teep?" The other three nodded. "But Marcus never mentioned that," Michael pointed out. "He never said a word about the guy being a blip. And Shannon was using a different name -- phony, but so is Shannon. What if..." "If he was still in the Corps," Lyta finished for him, "undercover, infiltrating, the way Evan seems to be in Hidaki's office. That would explain all the knowledge of the Resistance that I saw during the scan." "You seriously think PsiCorps is into all this stuff?" Zack asked, somewhat rhetorically. "But why?" No answers were forthcoming. After a moment, Carly looked to Lyta. "You're sure that Shannon has truly gone rogue? No chance that he's trying to infiltrate the station?" A visible shiver rippled down the telepath's body. "Right now, I'm so frightened I could suspect anyone of lying about anything, but I didn't feel any blocks, any deceit at all when I scanned him. And he let me see things, things I think he would have kept hidden if he were trying to deceive us." Garibaldi looked again at Sullivan, his head tilted to one side, an angry confusion in his eyes. Carly laid a hand on his knee. "What?" she whispered. He shook it off, and focused as Lyta spoke again. "Maybe Shannon can give us some insight into what the Corps is after in all this?" "If he's still on the station," Garibaldi reflected. "He was, earlier this evening," Carly noted, with a glance to Lyta. "He passed us at the transport tube." Allan's long legs unfolded and carried him to a standing position. "Let me try to track him down. I'll get back to you." Lyta reached up to squeeze his hand. "I should go too," the telepath said, "I've got a client in a few hours." She stood, as did the others. "If there's anyway at all I can help, please call me." "We will, Lyta," Carly assured her. The four said their good nights. Alone with Sullivan, Michael decided there was no point in not being direct.. "Carly, how do you know Shannon? More important, how does he know you? Lyta saw personal information about you inside his head." "Can we have this conversation on the way to your quarters?" she asked as she turned off the coffeepot and extinguished the candles. "There's a chance Jeremy returned your calls." On the way, he asked again. Sullivan's reply came in questions. "You know Shannon isn't his real name?" He nodded. "And you know he was a PsiCop?" Another nod. "You remember you asked me about the trip to PsiCorps headquarters before I shipped out here?" He remembered. Garibaldi keyed the access code for his quarters and waved her inside. "He was there, Michael," she explained as he brought the lights up. "He had a file on me, he interviewed me, and he administered some of the testing. I knew it was weird for a PsiCop to be doing that. Maybe they figured that he could scan me without my knowing it or that he could get more from a surface scan." The blinking of the message announcement diverted Garibaldi's attention. A single message recorded just ten minutes earlier, showed Jeremy Alcott saying, "I'm at the house. I'll stay as long as I can." Carly retrieved the access code for the safe house, and quickly they placed the call. The image of Jeremy Alcott was frightening. Noticeably thinner, he looked gaunt and exhausted. No animation could fight through the fatigue to reach his voice, except the fear. Carly drew up close to Michael at the com unit, and together they greeted the haggard man. "It's good to see the two of you. Are you OK? What's happening there?" "Nothing yet," Michael explained. "I was trying to reach you to find out if you knew anything more. You had to cut off so quickly last time." "I'm sorry. I've tried to find out exactly what Clark's planning but..." The blond hair fell down in his face as he shook his head. "It's weird. He's got people around him who have just arrived in the last year, and he doesn't seem to want to talk to anyone else. Or listen to anyone else. Even Hidaki is having trouble getting time with him." The face on the vid screen disappeared for a moment behind graceful, manicured hands. He scrubbed his fingertips over his eyes, only making them a little more bloodshot. As his hands dropped, he shook his head. "I'm sorry I can't get you anything more. The inner circle's getting tighter and tighter, and if you say anything, somebody questions your loyalty." "Who, Josh?" Carly spoke up. "Who is the inner circle? And who's questioning your loyalty?" He sighed. "I don't think the names would mean anything to you, Lu. Most of them are new." "Humor me," she said humorlessly. "Clark's drawing in tight with three people..." He supplied names, names Michael noted for later. "Evan's the ball buster in our office. Always whispering in Hidaki's ear, challenging anyone who complains or questions. He's giving orders suddenly, and the old man's letting him. He's the primary reason none of us has had a decent night's sleep in the last month. There's always some crisis, some emergency." "What's his name, Josh?" Sullivan prodded. "Evan?" Alcott nodded. "Evan Lomeda. He's making me nervous, Lu. We got into a hell of an argument the other night, and he said something... maybe I'm just getting paranoid and reading too much into it, but I've got a sick feeling he's made me." Michael grimaced, then nodded toward Carly's questioning glance. "Josh, listen to me." Sullivan stepped closer to the com unit, her voice resonant with the urgency of the message. "We have reason to believe that Evan Lomeda is a telepath, a PsiCorps spy. He may be trying to provoke you and to wear you down, to make it easier for him to get inside your head. There may be others like him around Clark. You have to be careful. Protect yourself and the movement." "Oh shit. Are you sure? How did you find out?" "I can't go into that now. Josh, get some sleep. And something to eat. You look horrible, and you're going to be a sitting duck if you let this guy break down your defenses." "Jeremy?" Garibaldi moved in close behind Sullivan. "Was Lomeda the source for any of the information you passed us?" The blond shook his head vigorously. "On the contrary. Evan's as tight-lipped as they get." "All right," Garibaldi replied, "take the lady's advice then. Get some sleep. But try to keep in touch, OK? We need to share whatever information any of us can find." As the viewer blinked off, Sullivan articulated what both she and Garibaldi were thinking. "What now?" Michael sighed and shook his head. "Don't know. He slid his suit jacket off and hung it over the back of a kitchen chair. "Ask you another question?" He waited a beat for her to nod. "You didn't seem surprised or nervous to hear that the PsiCop who examined you was on station." He hefted a large burgundy satchel out of its spot in the corner. "That have anything to do with this?" JULY 13, 2261 Early Morning Michael Garibaldi studied the ceiling, memorizing the pattern of the tiles in the ruby light of the emergency lamps. The wake-up call would come soon, and he'd probably be sleepy as soon as it did. But for now... He slipped his left hand upward again, letting silken strands sort themselves between his fingers, carrying a lock of soft brown hair up to where the light played on it, rolling it between his fingertips, watching it fall softly back in place. The figure molded warmly against his left side stirred and spoke. "Are you ever going to get some sleep, Michael?" Carly Sullivan mumbled. Garibaldi smiled. "Doesn't look that way." He kissed the top of her head and shifted his body until they were face to face. They had talked until the wee hours. About Shannon. About Jeremy. About themselves. Talked this time, Michael remembered with a smile, without arguing. It had felt good to drop all the defenses and just share what they knew and who they were, and why. Finally, in the wee-est of the wee hours, they had in fact exorcised those demons. Twice. Michael's fingertips followed the curve of Carly's back. Third's the charm. Sullivan's arms encircled his waist and she nuzzled into the ticklish curls of hair on his chest. "Michael?" He grunted a response. "Do you think I'm being gullible? Trusting Jeremy? Accepting Shannon's story?" He ran his hands up and down her back as he considered the question. Adjusting his leg over hers, he drew a long breath that sparkled with the scent of her shampoo. "Yes. You said yourself, you trust too easily. I suspect too easily. I see potential enemies. You see possible allies. That's who I am and who you are. If you'll be open to the possibility that my paranoia has validity, I'll try to stay open to your intuitions about people. Even if they do scare the hell out of me." She tickled him then, and he jumped. Laughing, they wrestled together for a moment. He pinned her hands to the bed, and looked into her eyes. "And from now on, will you please tell me when you're going to go undercover? I worry about you." "I will. I'm sorry, Michael," she said again. "When I got word from Mars Resistance that a courier was on the way, I expected a routine hand off. I didn't expect to recognize the guy as a PsiCop, and he sure as hell didn't expect me to confront him." "Do you realize what might have happened? If he was a spy -- if he is a spy -- and had decided to feel threatened?" She laid a finger on his lips. "Shhh. I know. We're waking up old ghosts." Garibaldi smiled wickedly. "Time for another exorcism?" he whispered as he kissed her neck. The third's the charm. JULY 13, 2261 Morning A quick jog down the hall brought Michael Garibaldi alongside the familiar figure. "Captain! Good morning. Have a word with you?" Together, they continued to the War Room. "What's up, Michael?" Sheridan asked with a smile. "I did manage to get hold of my source last night, sir, but he had no more information to give us." His voice dropped to a confidential level. "John, if you've got some time, I'd like to give you a full briefing on that whole situation." Concern registered in the Captain's eyes. "Can you stay on after the meeting?" he asked as they took their places at the table. Garibaldi nodded. The meeting was brief. Status was unchanged although concern was escalating. Michael wondered for a moment if Clark's plan was to drive them all crazy with the tension. /Sounds like a PsiCorps trick, / he heard himself thinking. He wondered when he had begun to equate PsiCorps with Clark. "Why would Clark send a cruiser out here and then leave it sitting in hyperspace?" Franklin was asking. "She may be part of a larger strike force which is assembling in hyperspace before jumping in," Ivanova suggested. "That intelligence from the White Star was nothing more than luck. Ordinarily, it's a great place to hide because sensors are nearly worthless in hyperspace." /Telepathy is amplified in hyperspace. / The voices in his head were especially active this morning, Garibaldi noted. Marcus sounded a bit testy. "Maybe there's a bloody game of hide-and-seek going on in there. We still can't reach White Star 22." "The one that left Mars for Io?" Susan asked. The Ranger nodded sullenly. "I am sure there is a reason for their silence," Delenn said softly, her eyes begging Sheridan to change the subject. "Do we know yet who is responsible for the destruction of the Valhalla?" the Captain asked obligingly. He looked from one to another around the table. Garibaldi considered. He could talk about the testing on the debris, but what would he say? That it came out weird? "This is the damnedest situation!" Sheridan was saying. "All right, people. That's it for this morning then. 1700 unless we call a code." Garibaldi stood and turned to face the Captain. "Go ahead into my office, Michael. I'll be right there." Garibaldi had gone only a few steps when he stopped, turned back, and loped up the stairs to catch the Ranger by the arm. "Marcus, do me a favor?" Curious gray eyes looked up at him. "Find Zack Allan, and set up a time today when the three of us can meet. I'll come down to the station house as soon as I'm done with the Captain." He didn't wait for acknowledgment and the Ranger offered none. Garibaldi fell in to step beside Sheridan and together they exited to the Captain's office.