Heads And Tales



Misty wraiths sauntered on spiral staircases built of predawn light.  Within the 
molasses brick shelter, she leaned against the frosty window frame and watched 
them climb up from the murky surface of the marsh, as miniature tendrils of 
steam from her teacup mirrored the motion.  Lyta Alexander shivered, though the 
mug was warm in her hands and the fire blazed in the hearth.  It was a rugged 
place the telepaths had come to, hard living and low tech.  She drew the 
chenille robe tighter round her. 

The tea slipped warmly down her throat, its honeyed tannin heightening her 
senses.  As the wind rattled branches against the window, from across the swamp 
a blaze of flame called her eyes.  The pain of the memory it carried mingled 
with its warm familiarity.  She sighed, not entirely sure why.  

If Earth's seasons had any meaning here, she would measure this as late summer.  
Most of the native foliage was in full flower.  One large shrub, its branches 
spreading broadly all about, showed the fiery colors of autumn's impending 
death.  One vibrant plant would die too soon.  Each year she watched it happen 
again: that same branch on that same tree yielded its greenery to the blazing 
hues that presaged death, long before its fellows, long before its time.  Every 
year she remembered. 

In the first days of the telepaths' settlement on this rugged planet, Lyta 
Alexander had been their closest thing to a governor.  Her powers, her 
connection to Byron, her unfailing passion, had cast her as their leader, 
although when the hostilities were over she would have preferred to fade away.  
Even a utopian society needs structure and until routines of governance were 
established, her power marked her as leader.  Although the Alliance officially 
granted the telepaths this home world at the end of the war, there were 
diplomatic skirmishes for years afterward, and Lyta was the closest thing to a 
diplomat they had.  Her temperament was not well suited to the role, but she had 
"history" on nearly every dignitary in or out of the Alliance. 

Now, she thought, as she slowly dressed in the fabrics their looms produced and 
the layers the climate demanded, she had become more a monument than a minister.  
She was grateful to be free of the political responsibilities, tired as she was 
of all that wrangling, but the homage with which she was treated made her feel 
more relic than respected elder.  And she was, if she faced facts, old.  The 
first strands of silver rippling through her fiery hair might have been 
charming, but as she ran the brush through them now she acknowledged that the 
grey locks overwhelmed the red.  The effect only emphasized the weariness in her 
eyes. 

She checked the day's schedule, more out of habit than the expectation of 
anything new.  For a time, she had been provided with a secretary to handle her 
appointments, but as her commitments dwindled, it seemed pointless.  They did 
have a communications network now, so most scheduling was automatic.  The rest 
she could handle by herself.  

Today's agenda was like that of most other days.  She could spend some early 
morning time tending her garden.  A few flowers hid in there, but most of the 
soil was turned to producing food.  Trade with other worlds was still limited; 
it was best that they be as self-sufficient as possible.  She was expected at 
the Trade Commission meeting later in the morning.  If it were typical, nothing 
would be accomplished.  Her only other appointment was in the early afternoon.  
A colonel.  What did EarthForce want with her now?

There was a pleasure in watering and weeding that she wouldn't have imagined, 
some connection to a distant past.  The day's harvest was generous: tomatoes, 
mustard greens, and corn.  She set them on the table while she washed up, 
pleased at the way their shapes and colors made an impromptu centerpiece.  

Time allowed for leisurely walk to the city plaza before the meeting.  Arriving 
early, she did not enter the building but chose a seat on a bench in the plaza.  
She drew a small journal from her bag, and recorded the morning's thoughts.  
Writing was a habit she had learned from G'Kar, one of the many debts she owed 
him. 

She wrote about the garden and about the people who scurried in and out of the 
governance hall on this crisp, windy morning.  How had they managed to create a 
bureaucracy so quickly?  She wrote about hopes and hardships.  She did not 
mention the tree.





Lyta could only wonder why she was included in this trade commission, since she 
rarely played any active role.  Still, there was a certain amusement in watching 
a group of telepaths engage in politics.  Lying was essentially impossible, when 
everyone could read everyone else.  Even negotiation, any sort of bargaining, 
was difficult, when everyone else at the table could be inside your head.  No 
one would do that, of course.  It wasn't ethical.  It wasn't polite.  Lyta had 
amused herself at many a boring meeting by peeking in on who was scanning whom.  
The most amusing fiction was the pretense that none of it was happening.  

This commission meeting was, in some sense, actually productive.  After a 
blazing argument between the isolationist leader and the resident pragmatist, 
there was a resolution to explore options for trade with Earth.  Was that why 
the EarthForce colonel wanted to see her?  Was he lobbying for this deal?  
Perhaps, now that it had passed, he would cancel. 





She walked home through the market square, stopping here and there to chat and 
at the baker's to buy a loaf of bread.  That little detour meant she approached 
her house now from the garden side.  Startled, she stopped to study the figure 
moving about the yard.  Dressed in black, he walked slowly up and down between 
the planting blocks, pausing here and there, seeming only to observe.  That 
visual information did not identify him so Lyta reached out with her mind.  She 
had only an instant of contact before the blocks snapped up, but there was a 
memory on the edge of that moment. 

He turned to face her as she approached the garden.  A man of average build and 
uncertain age, he gave an impression of nervousness, and Lyta wondered if that 
sense came from purely physical clues.  A shiver born in the memory of long-ago 
horrors ran through her as she realized the black garb he wore was a uniform.  
Not the familiar and frightening one of memory, this uniform was a flight suit, 
adorned with military insignias.  

"Ms. Alexander?" he inquired softly as he stepped toward her.  Cautiously, Lyta 
nodded in reply.  "I'm John Matheson.  I'm sorry.  I arrived a bit early." 

Breath returned to Lyta Alexander's lungs as she recognized her afternoon 
appointment.  "I'm sorry to keep you waiting, Colonel," she said, moving past 
him to unlatch the door.  "Please come in."

"Please don't apologize.  It's my fault," he said as he followed her inside.  
"And it's John, please."

She thought it odd he didn't smile when he said that, but found herself liking 
him just the same.  "Please come in, John."

"I've been enjoying your garden.  I hope you don't mind."  He surveyed the room 
from just inside the doorway as she set the bread down on the table beside the 
morning's harvest and threw off the cape she wore.  

"Of course not," she replied automatically, then remembered telepathic contact 
minutes earlier and the blocks she had felt from him.  She regarded him with a 
newborn suspicion.  "May I take your coat," she asked, gesturing to the garment 
folded over his arm.  He thanked her, then helped her to hang it beside her own 
wrap. 

Leading the way to the little sitting area, she motioned him to a chair.  "Now, 
how can I help you, Colonel?  Is this about the trade agreement?"

He smiled at last, and shook his head.  "No, Ms. Alexander, I'm not here on 
official business."  Averting his eyes, he swallowed hard.  "Lyta," he spoke her 
name as he met her eyes again, "you probably don't remember but we met once, 
many years ago."

She reached back in her mind, trying to find the memories he had stirred in her.  
He shifted in his chair, turning his right shoulder toward her, showing the psi 
embroidered on his sleeve.  "Are you with the Metasensory Agency, Colonel?" she 
asked, fighting back her anger.  Another smile, broader this time, spread across 
his face.  Irritation and affection warred within her.  

"No," he said softly.  "I'm regular EarthForce, assigned to the EAS Powell.  I 
was formerly first officer on the Excalibur."  He followed her glance to the Psi 
patch on his shoulder.  "And yes, I'm a telepath, trained by PsiCorps.  In fact, 
that's how you and I met."

He reached out, gently, tentatively, with his mind, dropping his blocks, 
inviting her to do the same.  She allowed him entry, although she didn't need 
the images he was sharing with her.  She remembered him now.  John, the young 
telepath at PsiCorps headquarters, the one who had faked the administration of 
the sleepers, who had allowed her to execute her escape and the destruction of 
the Corps' headquarters. 

She smiled now and spoke aloud.  "You followed your dream, John.  You said you 
had always wanted to be in EarthForce." 

"That's part of the reason I've come," he noted.  "I wanted to thank you.  Maybe 
it wasn't a direct cause and effect, but you are part of the reason telepaths 
now serve in EarthForce, part of the reason I was able to go after my dream."

"A lot of people fought to open those doors, John," she answered.  "I was 
just..." She paused to find an apt analogy.  "I was just a focal point for their 
energies."

Matheson leaned forward, arms on knees.  "I know the sacrifices that were made, 
Lyta, believe me."  He was quiet for a time, and though she listened to see if 
he were sending, she sensed she shouldn't eavesdrop on these thoughts.  

"I didn't leave the Corps after the explosion," he said finally.  "I played by 
the rules, right to the end.  I served with PsiCorps until the organization was 
dissolved.  I stayed clear of Bester and the other renegades.  I was 'a good 
telepath.'  When the new rules came down, I was 'rewarded' by being allowed to 
enter EarthForce.  I was one of the first, and believe me, they watch-dogged us 
in ways you wouldn't believe.  And even when the watchdogs were bending the 
rules, I was watching every step."

She waited, eyes, ears, and mind open to him, through a long silence.  Finally 
she spoke.  "I hear regret in your voice."

"I never told anyone, never said a word about what I had done for you.  After 
the explosion, it was too confused, too chaotic.  No one seemed to be in charge 
at first, and when the chain of command finally was re-established, everyone 
seemed to have forgotten that I had been involved.  They never asked me 
anything, and I never offered."

She was confused by his confession.  She wanted to reach out to him 
telepathically, to understand what he was feeling, and though he wasn't 
blocking, she did not feel free to enter his mind.  She was not forbidden, but 
not invited either.  It would be too...intimate. 

"So you feel guilty because you never confessed what happened?" she asked.  "But 
why tell me?  Why not just go to the Metasensory Agency and tell them?"

His eyes jumped to hers and a smile teased at the corners of his mouth.  "I'm 
not sure they don't already know," he said.  Seeing Lyta's wide-eyed stare, he 
hastened to apologize.  "I'm sorry.  I guess I'm not making a lot of sense."  
Embarrassed, Lyta realize she was shaking her head from side to side.  

"I kept that secret all these years, but you know how hard it is for us to ever 
really have secrets.  I've always wondered if someone picked it up in a scan.  
In the beginning, Metasensory demanded that telepaths in EarthForce be scanned 
twice a year, and some of those scans were brutal.  I'd tried to bury that 
memory, but I always wondered if they would find it, and what would happen if 
they did.  I've always been nervous, but I've never felt guilty.

"I tried to at first.  I felt as though I ought to feel guilty.  I told myself I 
had a responsibility to confess, for my own conscience, for the good of the 
corps, for the memory of the people who died in that explosion. 

"But I didn't.  I didn't confess, and I didn't feel guilty.  I was sorry people 
had died, but when I thought about what would have happened if I had just 
followed orders, I realized people would have died that way too.  And either 
way, they were my people, our people.  Telepaths in the corps or telepaths 
outside the corps, but still telepaths, like me. I thought a lot about whether I 
should leave the Corps, if what I had done by helping you made me a rogue too. "

"But you didn't leave."

He shook his head.  "No.  Maybe I should have but..." His voice trailed away and 
he looked to her with pleading eyes.  

She touched his mind ever so gently, not intruding, just a reassurance, and 
found a grateful welcome.  Still, he spoke aloud. 

"I'm someone who needs order and discipline.  I want structure.  I need that.  
It's not comfortable for me to work outside the system."  She nodded her 
understanding.

"So I stayed.  I told myself I could be a voice for reason with the Corps, but 
things got so ugly.  And then suddenly the Corps was gone and there were 
opportunities that had never been there before.  There was a chance at the 
dream. 

"I grabbed at it.  Maybe I should have been thinking about someone or something 
bigger than myself, but I just took my shot at EarthForce.  There were only two 
of us in that first class.  'Pioneers,' they called us.  'Lab rats' was what is 
felt like.  From EA regulars who weren't pleased to have us, to Metasensory 
officials who were assigned to be sure we weren't 'misusing' our powers, there 
was somebody in my face every minute of every day. 

"I still played by the rules.  There were so many times I could have passed a 
test or carried out an order so much easier with a little bit of psi, but no."  
A sardonic laugh escaped him.  "See, telepaths were welcome in EarthForce as 
long as they didn't think or act like telepaths.  You still had to wear the Psi 
patch -- they tried to sell it as a proud symbol of your specialty, but it was 
still just a marker to alert normals to your presence.  Psi was never anyone's 
specialty; in fact, you had to forget you were a telepath, deny who you were.  

"And ever six months some character from headquarters would show up to scan you.  
Officially, they were supposed to be checking to make sure you were observing 
the rules, but once they were inside your head, they went looking for ... for 
all sorts of crap.  Strategic information about the missions you were on, 
political and personal information about your crewmates, old memories..." 

His voice faded away but Lyta could sense that the replay of that memory 
continued in his mind.  She touched him again, to see if she was still welcome, 
and he made no move to block her.  Carefully, she slipped inside his mind, and 
instantly recoiled from the searing pain.  The memory of those scans ripped at 
his mind more violently than any actual scan Lyta could remember.  She steeled 
herself and moved into the memories with him, hoping that the sharing might 
somehow ease the pain.  She saw the faces of all the agents of MSA who had 
invaded his mind, shared his cynical amusement at their artifice of all using 
the name Jones.  He named some of them, and others she recognized and supplied 
with names; only a few Joneses remained.  

She felt a shift in his mental posture, a relaxation with her presence in his 
mind.  He switched the memory from the quick replay of faces and places and 
sensation to a slower, more detailed remembrance.  With him, she felt the 
prying, the digging for knowledge he didn't want to share.  Together, they 
looked at where those scans had gone, what they had sought, and what they had 
found. 

/ They never found it.  /  The thought, sparkling with wonder, might have 
belonged to either of them, or both of them.  In all the scans, there was no 
indication that John's memory of their first meeting was ever touched.  / What 
were they looking for?  / Lyta asked, trying to make sense of memories he had 
shared with her. 

/ They were interested in the Excalibur,  -- the ship itself -- in Gideon, and 
in the medical research, / he replied. 

/And in...Garibaldi?  / She was startled by the patterns taking shape in her 
mind.  /In Edgars Industries?  / 

Matheson drew back slightly from their mental link, and spoke aloud.  "Yeah, I 
always figured that was part of the interest in the ship.  Mr. Garibaldi was 
involved with the original design and construction."

Lyta's eyes narrowed.  "And Edgars Industries owns one of the major 
pharmaceutical houses, the one most likely to get the rights to any subsidiary 
developments from the Excalibur's mission."

Jerking back his head, he squinted at her.  "Is that significant?  I mean, lots 
of people were looking to profit on the mission, most notably IPX.  Why would 
Metasensory care whether Edgars was making a buck?"

She rose and started to pace.  "There are just... there are so many pieces here 
that might fit together, might be pointing to..." She felt chilled suddenly, and 
drew her cardigan closer around her body.  "John, would you like some tea?"

He accepted the offer with thanks, rising and moving toward the kitchen area of 
the one-room dwelling.  "You said things fit together, Lyta," he reminded her as 
she set the kettle to boil.  "What did you mean by that?"

She shook her head.  "It's not altogether formed in my own head yet.  Give me a 
few minutes?"  He acknowledged the request telepathically, and she realized, as 
she carried a tray to the table, that it was the first time he had initiated 
mind communication without asking her permission. 

"Your fire is dying," he said aloud.  "May I?"  She thanked him, and while she 
brewed a pot of tea, he rebuilt the fire to a hearty crackle. They sat, elbow to 
elbow, at the little table with the morning's harvest in the center.  There was 
an awkward moment's silence after the tea was poured, until Lyta spoke. 

"So, do you still play by the rules, John?"

"Of course..." he replied.  /...not.  /  

She sputtered a giggle into her tea, amused as much by the mixed modes of 
communication as by the response itself.  He smiled too and then continued 
aloud. 

"In time, there were more telepaths in EarthForce, and because of the 
quarantine, fewer Metasensory people to make the rounds checking up on us.  The 
checks became annual, then occasional.  When the cure was finally found, there 
was so much excitement making sure that it got to everyone, that EarthGov lost 
interest in us.  We stopped getting visits from Mr. Jones, and gradually we were 
able to relax.  

"Oh, I still observe the basic rules.  I've never scanned anyone without 
permission, but I'm a lot faster to use what I hear in the background noise 
nowadays."

"John, you said that thanking me was part of the purpose of this visit.  I guess 
I still don't understand the rest.  Why did you come?  And why now?"

"The last part is the easier part to answer.  The Powell was out this way, and I 
had leave time coming.  I figured if I didn't seize the opportunity now, I might 
never get another chance.  You see, I'm retiring from EarthForce soon, Lyta." 

"Retiring?  Or giving up?" 

He didn't answer right away.  "I'm not entirely sure myself," he said finally.  
"When I was growing up, I wanted to be in EarthForce and I thought it was 
terribly unfair that I was barred from that because I was a telepath.  I said 
that one had nothing to do with the other.  When I finally got to EarthForce, 
and was compelled to behave as though I wasn't a telepath, I realized it's not 
so easy to separate the two."

"It's never easy to deny who you are."  Gentle words but woeful, they were 
spoken as much for herself as for him.  He studied the soft swag of her hair as 
her head tipped down over her teacup and tried to will himself to see the eyes 
hiding behind it.  He reached out this time, just as gently, mind to mind, 
asking entry, offering comfort.  She showed him a hundred memories in a moment, 
memories of Vorlons and violence and victories, of Babylon 5 and Bester and 
Byron.  He cradled her mind in his own, trying to give back a measure of the 
compassion she had given him.  

"That's the other reason I came, Lyta," he whispered when finally her mind went 
quiet.  A slender hand, marked with the calluses of years of gardening, drew 
back the veil of hair from her eyes.  She studied him, a stare piercing enough 
to make him squirm, and though she formed no words with voice or mind, she let 
him feel the curiosity that stirred in her. 

He shifted in his seat and made to sip from the now empty cup.  She refilled his 
mug as he spoke.  "I wanted to tell you about Byron.  I knew him, years ago.  
Not well, but..." Mentally, he thanked her for the tea, and he paused to take a 
long, warm swallow.  "We knew each other in training.  He was a few years ahead 
of me, but he wasn't the kind who would just keep to his own cadre.  We had 
several long talks, good talks, full of honest questions, and now and then some 
answers."

The mix of honesty and humor made her smile.  She thought about how short their 
time together had been and how little she had known about his life, and in the 
quiet of her mind, she heard John's understanding.  

"I wanted you to know what he was like then, Lyta, who he was.  People know he 
was part of the Omega Squadron.  Bester never missed a chance to talk about how 
Byron 'betrayed' him.  But he wasn't just some jack-booted bloodhound who 
suddenly did a one-eighty and went rogue.  It wasn't that simple."

/It rarely is, / she thought, and he smiled in acknowledgement.  "All I know of 
his past," she said aloud, "is the little bit that came out with Bester."  Even 
the sound of his name made her angry, and she felt John's compassion. 

"I understand," he said.  "He came aboard the Excalibur at one point, and he 
was, if possible, even more arrogant than I remember him from training.  But 
it's more than that.  The man's..." He searched for a word sufficiently vile.

"Vicious," Lyta supplied.  "He's vicious.  He didn't care whether the telepaths 
had a colony on Babylon 5.  He just wanted to destroy Byron.  He wouldn't stop 
until he killed him."  Matheson jumped back from the flames of rage in her mind, 
passion beyond emotion, fury cultivated into murderous steel.  He shifted the 
subject to escape his discomfort.  

"I just wanted you to know that Byron didn't start out as a Bester clone.  
Things were different then, and Bester's reputation was better, but even then, 
Byron had his doubts. Do you remember the signs in the PsiCorps training 
facility?"

"How could I forget?  'Trust the Corps.'  'The Corps is Mother; the Corps is 
Father.'  They were everywhere you looked."

"He and I talked about them, late one night.  He said they were the single 
greatest source of his doubts about the Corps. If an idea was sound, he said, 
there was no need to sell it that hard.  The ones that said 'Obey' worried him 
the most.  We talked a long time about the dangers of mindless obedience.  

"I asked him once why he joined the Omega Squadron.  He didn't answer me at 
first, and when he did, it wasn't at all the answer I expected.  Most of the 
squadron was there out of personal loyalty to Bester, but he didn't even mention 
that.  He said he had dreamed of being a fighter pilot.  As a little boy, he had 
heard stories about the war, about the Battle of the Line, and he fantasized 
about piloting a Starfury.  He was heartbroken when he learned that telepaths 
weren't welcome in EarthForce."

/Just like you.  /  He smiled at her observation. 

"I remember he looked at me a long time, and then he said, very softly, 'this is 
the closest I'll ever get to my dream.'  He joined Omega because it was his only 
chance to fly."

"And then Bester demanded the obedience from him," she said, her jaw tight.

Matheson spoke softly.  "Bester told him that the price of the dream was to give 
up who he was." 

"He couldn't do that."

"No." / Sometimes the dream is too dear.  /

"Is that why you're retiring, John?  Is the dream too dear?"

"Not so much dear as disappointing, I think."  He rose, moved to the fireplace, 
and aimlessly prodded the fire with a poker.  "When you dream about something, 
you imagine that it'll be soaring, exhilarating.  But EarthForce, at least the 
way it's been for me... well, it didn't soar."

He faced her now, backlit by the blaze.  "The saddest part is that there were so 
many times when I know I would have been a better soldier if I had just been 
free to be who and what I am."

She rose and he crossed to meet her, breaking out of the corona of the hearth.  
"And when you retire, John, what then?  Where will you go?"

"I haven't quite worked out those details yet."  He shrugged, but worry's 
creases siphoned the smile from his eyes. 

"You know you're welcome here," she offered, and instantly knew his gratitude 
and his reluctance. 

/ A little bit too far outside the lines.  / They shared a smile at the common 
thought, before Matheson checked his chrono.  

"I should go.  I've taken up enough of your time."

"Nonsense.  I've enjoyed the visit.  Why don't you stay for dinner?  It's 
nothing special, but no one's died from my cooking."

"I wish I could, but I do have to get back to the Powell.  Thank you for seeing 
me, Lyta."

"Thank you for coming, John.  I appreciate the memories you shared, but most of 
all, I'm glad to have the chance to know you."  She stepped closer, and took his 
hand in both of hers.  "I've never properly thanked you, John, for what you did 
in that cell in Geneva.  A simple thank you doesn't feel like enough.  But I 
want to thank you most of all for taking the harder road."  

He rattled his head as though it might knock sense into the words.  "The harder 
road?"

Slowly, her head pulsed up and down.  "We took the easy way, John.  We fought to 
get here, yes, but we moved away from the normals and all their misconceptions 
and suspicions, and we created a homeworld where telepaths only have to deal 
with other telepaths.  You stayed among the normals.  You worked within their 
institutions.  And you reminded them -- and us -- that 'telepath' and 'normal' 
are just two more artificial categories into which we try to force the infinite 
diversity of humanity.  You and I, Byron, Bester -- all telepaths.  Could you 
paint us with one brush?"

A soft chuckle escaped him before he leaned in to kiss her cheek.  As she opened 
the door for him, a chill blast of wind tugged it from her hand.  "Your coat!  
You'll need that with our weather."  She pushed the door closed again and took 
his coat down from the hanger.  The aged black leather was soft under her 
fingers as she held it open for his arms, and as he cinched the trench around 
him and raised the ample hood, she realized that the coat reached his ankles.  
"Not exactly standard issue," she noted, "unless EarthForce has changed a lot."

In the shadows of the hood, his eyes crinkle in a smile.  "No, not standard at 
all.  A gift from a friend."  His words stopped and for a moment, Lyta felt 
blocks around his mind.  Sadness flooded her when he let them fall.  

"Galen was a technomage," he explained.  "He wasn't officially part of the 
Excalibur's crew, but he spent a great deal of time with us.  It's funny, 
because when we were on the Excalibur, we really weren't friends.  I was never 
really sure if he could be trusted.  He was much closer to Gideon, and to 
Dureena.  But... well, things don't always turn out the way you expect.  

"I was with him when he died, held him in the last moments.  He said he wanted 
me to have the coat, to remember him.  He said... he said that we were two sides 
of the same coin, he and I.  Technomage and telepath.  Just as we came to our 
abilities because of intervention by the Vorlons, they owe their power to the 
Shadows, and both of us labor under the burden of that knowledge.  That's the 
price we pay for being extraordinary."

"There's always a price."

"Yes," he agreed.  "Every dream comes with a price tag, and we have to decide 
how much we're willing to pay."  He stepped to the door.  "Be well, Lyta, and 
thank you."

"Go in peace, John."  She opened the door for him again, holding it securely 
this time.  As he stepped out into the garden, she voiced an idle curiosity.  
"John, how did Galen die?"

"The old crank said the Excalibur killed him," Matheson laughed.  Sobering, he 
explained.  "In the early stages of the search for a cure, we came upon a 
nanovirus which our medical team was able to adapt.  The variant shielded the 
recipient from infection by the Drakh plague for 48 hours of exposure.  It freed 
us to do some important research, research that ultimately led to the cure. 

"But apparently the virus mutated in Galen's system, and caused a slow growing 
infection.  There was no cure."

"I'm sorry."  Her words were feeble, but Matheson acknowledged them with a nod, 
and took his leave.  She stood a while in the doorway, watching him walk back 
toward the town and his future.  Then she shut the door, and stood by the fire, 
warming herself and reviewing the conversations of the day. 

The comm system crackled to life the moment her hand touched the panel, and the 
connection she requested was quickly made.  "Michael Garibaldi, please," she 
asked the young woman who answered.  "Lyta Alexander calling."

Only a moment passed before Michael appeared, greeting her warmly but with 
concern.  "What's up, Lyta?" he asked once pleasantries had been exchanged. 

"Michael, it was a division of Edgars Industries that developed the cure for the 
plague, wasn't it?"

"Developed?  No.  The folks on the Excalibur and Stephen's team on Earth get all 
the credit for development.  Our people just picked it up for mass production," 
he explained.  "Why?"

"Did you do any testing on it?  Counterindications?  Side effects?  Anything 
like that?"

"Sure.  Stephen's people ran the tests, and our people did them all again.  It 
came through clean.  Amazingly so, in fact.  They couldn't turn up a side 
effect."

"Even in long range studies?" she asked.

"As long range as we could manage," he replied.  "Time was not a luxury afforded 
to us.  But we've had no reports of complications, Lyta.  What are you getting 
at?  Have you heard something?"

Her eyes drifted off the viewer, to the window, and out across the swamp to 
where a single tree blazed fiery orange.  "Were any of your test subjects 
telepaths, Michael?"


Heads and Tales		1