In Valen’s Name
Part 1



Michael Garibaldi hovered near the dark-haired woman, the only good thing he had 
ever found on Mars.  As they cleared customs and headed for the private ship 
that would transport them to Earth, he marveled at the power wealth could wield.  
In the normal day-to-day red tape that was Mars colony, it would have taken a 
day to arrange transport to Earth; with all the damage that Sheridan's war had 
caused, two.  Add the confusion that had followed the announcement of the new 
Alliance and the prospect of independence, and travel slowed to near standstill.  
Lise Hampton Edgars bypassed all that.  A squadron of lackeys cleared the way 
for her, and for her entourage.  Michael Garibaldi didn't like being an 
entourage.

This trip to Earth had a dual purpose for them and the fragmented conversation 
they attempted as they settled in for the trip made it clear that each of them 
saw a different goal as primary.  Michael tried hard to shake off his own 
musings and join his mind and heart to his lover's concerns.  She needed his 
help to find Franz and her daughter.  If Michael's investigative skills could 
locate them, Lise had a chance now to regain custody.  It would no doubt mean a 
long court battle, probably a nasty one, but with the wealth and prestige of 
Edgars Industries behind her, she had a serious chance at last.  

He realized suddenly that she had stopped talking, that she was staring at him, 
bemusement in her glance.  "I said, do you know anyone?"

Michael blinked like a man too suddenly awakened from a dream.  "I'm sorry.  
What?"

"I'm going to need a good lawyer.  Do you know anyone?"

"Lawyer?  No, not offhand.  I'm sorry.  Maybe someone at the party will know."

"You were thinking about that again, weren't you?  Michael, I've never seen you 
so distracted, so worried.  It's just a party, for heaven's sake.  Cake and 
champagne for the newlyweds.  Why are you making such a big deal of it?"

"Just the first time I've seen John's father since..."  His eyes darted around 
the passenger compartment, his mind seeking a new topic of conversation, his 
heart an escape route.  "Actually," he said, looking at her again, "it wasn't 
that I was thinking about.  It was the custody proceedings."  He bit his lip and 
made himself continue.  "I was thinking that it would probably be better if I 
made myself scarce once I've found Franz."

"Made yourself scarce?  What are you saying, Michael?"  Lise's jaw tightened.  
"Michael, I need you."

Garibaldi laid his hands on her shoulders and made a soft shushing noise.  "I 
didn't mean it like that.  Sweetheart, no, listen to me.  It would be better, 
better for you, for your case, if I stay out of sight.  If I'm with you, Franz 
will use me as a weapon against you.  My reputation is not the best, you know."

"Michael, I need you there.  I can't face this alone.  Please, don't ask me to 
do that."

"Honey, I'm here.  I'm here for you.  But if I'm seen with you, if Franz finds 
out we're together, he'll throw everything he can drag up at me, and by 
association, at you.  I'll become his reason for not letting you have custody."

"What can he do, Michael?  There were no charges against you."

"He doesn't need charges.  He'll use anything.  He'll cast suspicion, and that's 
all he needs to do.  You'll have a better chance if I stay out of sight until 
it's over."

Lise shook off his hands and rose from her chair.  "It's happening all over 
again."  

"Lise?"  As Michael followed her, he struggled to sort the emotions tumbling 
within him.  Regret.  Apprehension.  Impatience.  "Nothing is happening all over 
again," he whispered, trying not to allow his voice to grow defensive.  "I'm 
just saying that it might be better if we weren't seen together too much until 
after you've gotten custody."

"Where will you go?"  She asked without looking at him.  "Where will you be 
while we're not being seen together?"  He could hear the hurt when she spoke.

"I don't know.  I'll ...  I don't know.  Back to Mars maybe, or ...  "

She faced him now and in her face, he could see her battle with the pain of 
memory.  "Or back to Babylon 5?"  she asked.  

Startled, Michael squinted at her.  "The station?  No, I wasn't ...  "

"I hate that place, Michael.  I'm sorry, I know you don't like it when I say 
that.  But I can't help it; it's true.  That place has always come between us."

"Lise, honey, come on.  Babylon 5 ...  you know what that job meant for me."

"What I know, Michael, is that we had a good life on Mars all those years ago, a 
good life, until Sinclair came along and started filling your head with all his 
crazy philosophy.  We could have been happy, but you had to run off with him, 
had to be part of his grand ideals on Babylon 5."

Unwilling to hear these words yet again, Garibaldi turned his back on his lover 
and stared out the view port.  "Then Sheridan came along," she continued, 
standing close beside him, "and first it was the Shadow War, and then the 
rebellion.  What next, Michael?"

She backed away from him suddenly, open-mouthed.  "That's it, isn't it?  Is this 
party really about: planning the next campaign?"

"Lise!"  He resented the accusation, though a part of him wished it were true.  
"Come on, it's not like that."

"Isn't it, Michael?" Her eyes brimmed with tears now, and he reached out to 
comfort her, pushing his own emotions out of the way.  "Michael, I need you, " 
she murmured to his chest.  

"I know.  I'm here," he crooned into her hair.  "I didn't mean to upset you, 
honey.  I just wanted to do what was best for you, for us.  "

"Don't go back there, Michael.  Please?"  Lise pulled back to look into his 
face.  "Promise me you won't go back to Babylon 5, Michael?  Promise me you'll 
never go back there again."

"Lise!  I can't ...  That's crazy!"  She pushed herself out of his arms. 

"We're together, Michael, finally together.  If you go back there, if you get 
involved with them again, they'll pull us apart."  

Garibaldi squeezed his eyes shut as he drew her back into a hug again.  He 
swallowed hard against the emotions competing for his attention.  "It's OK, 
Lise.  It's OK."  He was afraid to try saying more.  

"I couldn't stand to lose you again, Michael," she whispered as she twined her 
arms around him.  "I won't let Sinclair and Sheridan take you away from me."

Garibaldi said nothing more.  It would do no good, he knew, to try to dispute 
it.  Lise's beliefs were inflexible.  Jeff had always come between them, one way 
or another, and perhaps John too, in a way.  He could reassure Lise that he had 
no plans.  That much was true.  But somehow he couldn't shake the feeling that 
she was right.  Something was calling him, something he needed to do.  He 
couldn't name it yet, but he could hear it.  And the voice was Jeff Sinclair's.

= = =

The day was not what he had hoped for.  John Sheridan had pictured this 
gathering taking place on a warm sunny afternoon, in the shade of the apple tree 
behind his parents' farm house.  Instead, a cold, late autumn rain beat down, 
stripping the last leaves from the trees and promising that winter was not far.  
Sodden rubble bled sooty rivulets where once the barn and storage sheds had 
been, but parts of the main house were still usable.  Like so much of ISN's 
disinformation, the report that the house had been burnt to the ground had been 
exaggerated and unfounded.  There was damage, to be sure, but the Sheridans had 
already begun to rebuild.  

The merrymakers crowded into the living room, toasting Sheridan and his bride 
repeatedly, and recollecting the pleasures of their friendships.  They felt 
Marcus' absence, none of them more than Susan, but the stories they shared were 
ones of joy and of glory.  They talked much and laughed more, and John smiled to 
see Delenn sitting beside his mother, cooing over his baby pictures.  

The group dissolved into twos and threes, quiet conversations catching up on old 
news, sharing new jokes.  Sheridan laid a hand gently on a broad back, and 
whispered an invitation.  No one seemed to notice as they moved into the den.  

It was awkward at first, to be sure: the uncertain silence, visibly searching 
for words to cover roiling emotions.  But in time the discomfort began to 
dissipate, and in its place crept something John Sheridan had at one point 
despaired of ever knowing again, with this man: the knowledge of friendship.

"How are you, Michael?"  Sheridan's voice was so soft Garibaldi almost didn't 
hear him.  

The one-time security chief looked over from where he sat on the couch.  "Not 
sure," he murmured honestly, feeling his face coloring slightly.  "Getting used 
to this."

The former captain nodded, and his face creased in a rueful half-smile.  "Me, 
too.  It's -- been a long time."

Another silence, then Sheridan ventured.  "It looks like everything's going to 
be OK.  A lot of changes, but still, everything as it should be, don't you 
think?"  Sheridan tried to grin.  "Welcome home, Michael.  It's good to have you 
back -- the real you," he added, his smile crumbling.

Michael offered back a fleeting, half-hearted grin.  "It's good to be me again," 
he said softly.  Garibaldi made a restless movement, crossing and uncrossing his 
legs.  His eyes met Sheridan's only for a moment, before darting away again.  
That one moment had been enough.

How must it feel, Sheridan wondered, to know that you had been responsible for 
so much?  Even unwittingly, even unwillingly, as it had been.  The abysmal pain 
in those blue eyes answered him.  And there was nothing he, Sheridan, could say, 
to ease that horror, to lessen the pain he saw in Michael Garibaldi's quickly 
averted gaze.  It was time for another tack.  

"I was thinking," Sheridan said crisply, "about what happens next.  I know we 
haven't talked about this, Michael, but there hasn't really been time, until 
now.  I've, well, I've got a proposal for you."

Garibaldi plastered a calm look on his face, and met Sheridan's gaze steadily.  
"OK.  Shoot."

Sheridan winced, and tried to keep the immediate look of remembered pain from 
reaching his features.  "If you don't believe me, then shoot me."  Garibaldi's 
pasty white face, the utter, exhausted calm in the blue eyes.  The reassuring 
feel of the PPG in Sheridan's own tense hand.  "But I'm telling the truth.  Ask 
Lyta.  She scanned me.  She'll tell you it's true.  And if she doesn't, you 
won't have to shoot me.  I'll do it myself."

He hadn't shot him.  A few hours before, Lyta had seen, and through her eyes, 
Sheridan saw as well the extent of the tampering that had been done to 
Garibaldi's mind, the depth of his helplessness, and his terrified, furious 
anger.  It was all true, all too true.  

"I know there are a lot of questions right now," Sheridan began carefully, after 
he had composed himself once more.  "Where do we go?  What do we do?  With all 
the things that have been going on the past few weeks, we're all trying to make 
sense of our lives.  But I've been doing some thinking, and I want you to hear 
me out.  Will you do that?"

He ignored the discomfort in Michael's acquiescence, and launched into his 
speech: the new role of the Alliance, his post as president, the need for a new 
kind of organization.  "I need you there, Michael," Sheridan said finally.  "I 
need Michael Garibaldi.  Your talent, your passion, your insight."  In 
Garibaldi's eyes the new President could see that he had heard the words that 
were not said, words like 'trust' and 'loyalty.'

The post Sheridan offered him was an administrative one, clearly invented, 
clearly John's effort to concoct something Michael would agree to.  Most of it 
was vague, left to be shaped as the Alliance took form, but as before Michael 
was to be liaison to the Rangers.  For a moment, he thought he heard Jeff's 
voice.

Sheridan was leaning forward with his forearms on his knees, awaiting the reply 
he expected.  "What do you say, Michael?  Are you with me?"

"I can't."

The flat, dull words made Sheridan freeze in place.  "What?"  he asked in a 
shocked whisper.  "Michael, you ...  "

"I appreciate it, Ca ...  John," Garibaldi interrupted softly.  His smile was 
kind.  "More than I can say.  But right now ...  I just can't do that."

"Why not?"  Sheridan shook his head, bewildered.  "You don't have to worry.  
It's all set.  I'll just ...  "

"No, John."  Abruptly, Garibaldi rose and crossed to the window, turning his 
back on his former CO, staring up at an angry sky.

This time Sheridan waited, not saying anything at all.  The silence was 
uncomfortable.  And not just for himself: Garibaldi looked desperate to be 
someplace else.  But it worked, finally.  "I don't know what to say," the former 
security chief whispered slowly, eyes averted.  "I appreciate the offer.  But 
here ...  " he made an aimless gesture, not just at the room, but more broadly.  
"Here's just not right.  Not any more.  At least, not now."

Sheridan remained still for a long moment, but Garibaldi said nothing else.  Had 
he really thought it could be otherwise?  It had been simplistic of him to think 
Michael could just pick up again as though nothing had happened.

"What will you do?"  He was almost afraid to ask the question but it was the 
only one that mattered.

"I don't know, John," Garibaldi answered, and for a time Sheridan thought he 
would say nothing more.  Michael stood by the window, staring out at the 
landscape scarred by fire and bathed by rain, but John thought his eyes saw 
across the galaxy.  "Lise wants me to stay with her," he said at last, softly 
and without inflection.  He looked at Sheridan now, head cocked to one side.  
"But I can't.  There's something I have to do, John."  

Sheridan watched a new energy suffuse his old friend, light returning to the 
blue eyes, a familiar fidget in the muscular frame.  "What is it, Michael?"  he 
asked, grinning in spite of himself.  "What do you have to do?"

"I don't know."

Sheridan shook his head in confusion.  "Michael, you just said ...  "

"I know, I know ...  " Garibaldi laughed at his own expense, then sobering, he 
went on.  "I just have the feeling that I've got unfinished business, something 
I need to attend to, but I can't put a name to it.  At least not yet."

"Michael, you're welcome here until you figure it out.  Stay on with me, help me 
get this new Alliance working.  When you know what it is you need to do, then 
you'll go."

Garibaldi smiled, but Sheridan saw it as a sad smile.  " I appreciate the offer, 
John, I really do.  Maybe someday, if you still want me."

Sheridan prodded.  "Forget everything else, just be my liaison to the Rangers," 
he suggested.  "Sinclair entrusted you with that.  How can I do less?"  

Michael Garibaldi stared at him, just stared.  For a long time, he stared and 
said nothing.  The gaze seemed to Sheridan to go right through him, to see him 
and yet see beyond him.  When Garibaldi finally spoke it was an awed whisper, 
words as much a revelation to himself as to anyone else hearing him.  "That's 
what I want."  

Sheridan's head snapped back and he blinked in astonishment.  His mouth opened 
and closed once before any words would come out.  "You've got it, Michael.  The 
job is yours."

"No," Michael said, coming round from his reverie, "no, John, I don't mean the 
job.  I mean ...  " The full effect of how preposterous the idea was hit him 
hard and made the words stand still in his throat.  Even as he forced them out, 
he braced against the derision he expected.  "I mean the Rangers."

"You've got it, Michael.  It's not a problem.  You'll be our liaison to the 
Rangers, and ...  "

"No, John."  Gently, Michael laid a hand on Sheridan's arm.  "I want to join the 
Rangers.  That's the business I need to finish."

"Join?  You mean, go through the training?  The uniform, the pin, the whole 
business?"

Garibaldi laughed at his companion's bewilderment.  "The whole business, John, 
yes.  At least I think so.  I ...  just now ...  I don't know if I can explain 
it."  He paced up and down in front of the sofa.  "Jeff put the information 
about the Rangers in my hands not long after he became involved with them.  He 
trusted me with them.  The Rangers have always been a special part of my life, a 
special part of my friendship with Jeff.  But it always felt awkward, felt wrong 
somehow.  I was connected to them, but I wasn't one of them.  And I think now, I 
need to be."  He stopped tramping back and forth and looked at Sheridan.  "Am I 
making any sense?"

John Sheridan's hazel eyes sparkled with the laughter only barely suppressed.  
"Would that matter?"  he asked, a chuckle escaping.  Garibaldi shook his head.  
"Michael, if joining the Rangers is what you need to do, then I'll back you any 
way I can.  I won't pretend I understand this impulse, but I'll support whatever 
decision you make.  Just promise me you won't forget: the job offer stands."

A handclasp sealed the promise and a call from the other room drew them back to 
the group.  Sheridan joined Delenn, shepherding her through the very human 
rituals surrounding wedding cake.  Michael hung back on the edge of the group, 
wondering what he would say to Lise.  

= = =

The nagging rain had stopped by the time he joined Franklin for lunch the next 
day.  The air of celebration lingered from the previous afternoon, and the 
doctor's mood was jovial.  Stephen initiated some good-natured verbal sparring 
before they had even ordered their lunch, and his old friend gave as good as he 
got, but Franklin sensed that Michael really didn't want to play.  

"So, any leads on Franz?"  Franklin asked after their meal arrived.  

Garibaldi seemed momentarily startled.  "Oh, yeah, actually ...  the guy's not 
going to be hard to find.  He's moved around.  Hasn't exactly kept in touch.  
But he's not trying to hide.  He's got no reason to.  He's got custody, 
everything's on his side.  No, we'll get him.  We just started looking for real 
this morning and we've already got some solid leads."

"That should make Lise happy, no?"

"Oh, yeah.  She should be able to start the paperwork in a couple of days."

"So what is it?"

"What's what?"

"Michael, you've got something on your mind.  Now are you going to spend our 
whole lunch brooding, and make me pull it out of you, or are you just going to 
tell me?"

A smile spread over Michael's features as he considered how well Franklin knew 
him.  "You're more of a scold than my third grade teacher, you know that?"  
Garibaldi teased.  "Next thing you'll be telling me I need to change my diet."

"Well, now that you bring it up ...  " Franklin began, eyeing the plate in front 
of his friend.  

They laughed together, a laughter that felt good to Michael, a laughter too long 
gone.  "What is it, Michael?"  Franklin asked again, his voice hushed and 
tender.

Garibaldi stared at his fork.  "Don't exactly know.  I ...  " He laid the 
utensil down, fidgeted with his glass, snuck a peek at the concern in Stephen's 
eyes.  

"Michael, are you all right?  Physically, I mean ...  " 

"Oh.  Yeah.  No.  I'm fine.  All healed up.  It's not that."

"Then what?"

There was a long silence in which, as Stephen watched, Michael Garibaldi chewed 
his teeth.  Whose expression was that?  Stephen couldn't remember, but it fit: 
the fidgeting jaw, the half-opened, closed-again mouth, the hard swallows.  
Finally, Michael got some words out.  "Stephen, I ...  there's something I have 
to do ...  on Minbar."  He watched for a reaction.

"Minbar?"  Franklin's brow was knit in confusion.  "Why Minbar?  What do you 
have to do?"

Garibaldi dropped his eyes to his plate, staring for a long time at the remains 
of his lunch.  "I think ...  " He looked into the eyes of his old friend.  "I 
need to become a Ranger."  

"A Ranger?!"  Franklin's voice cracked with astonishment, and Garibaldi laid a 
hand on his arm and shushed him as nearby patrons turned to look.  More quietly, 
the doctor continued, "Michael, what are you talking about?"

Michael felt calmer to have the words out.  "I want to join the Rangers, 
Stephen.  I think I'm supposed to do this."

"Supposed to?  What the hell does that mean, Michael?"

"I can't explain it, Stephen.  I just feel it.  Like something was calling me.  
I need to do this."

"Michael, what exactly are we talking about here?  You want to work with the 
Rangers?  I'm sure Sheridan would ...  "

Garibaldi cut him off with a gesture of the hand.  "No, Stephen, not like that.  
I talked to John and yeah, he'd let me be his liaison to the Rangers, but that's 
not what I'm talking about.  I want to be a Ranger myself."

"Why?"  Franklin demanded, hunching forward over the table.  "Michael, the 
Rangers were supposed to fight the Shadows.  The Shadow War is over.  Their 
mission has been accomplished.  The Shadows are gone.  What's the point of it 
now?"

Garibaldi laughed.  "Come on, Stephen, you can do better than that.  The Shadows 
may be gone officially, but they've got friends who stayed behind.  And you 
heard Delenn's speech: the Rangers have a mission to create the peace.  All the 
member races can send candidates to the Rangers.  Don't try to paint it as an 
idea that's outlived its usefulness."

Franklin gave an embarrassed smirk.  "All right, you're right, but Michael, I 
still don't see the point.  You were the first one of us to know about the 
Rangers.  You've been working with them for years.  What's changed all of a 
sudden?  You think you have to prove something?  Trust me, Michael.  You don't.  
Your friends respect you.  The Rangers respect you.  You have nothing to prove."

"Maybe not, Stephen."  The response came more slowly, in a voice barely floating 
up from the deep places within himself that he searched out now.  "Sometimes I 
think you're right.  Sometimes I think I've got a hell of a lot to prove.  But 
that's not what this is about.  It's ...  something else."

"Michael, the Rangers are soldiers.  A different army maybe, but soldiers just 
the same.  You've done that.  You were a GROPO, damn it.  What are you going to 
learn?  You going to go through basic training again with a bunch of raw 
recruits?  Michael, you'd be busting heads and taking names inside a day."

Garibaldi nodded, his gaze shifting slowly from Franklin's face to the passersby 
outside the window.  "Yeah.  You're right."  

"Michael! Don't humor me!"  Franklin bristled at his friend's half-hearted 
response, and his petulance did recapture Garibaldi's attention.  "Michael, do 
you realize what you're talking about?  Do you know Marcus said that you can't 
become a Ranger until you learn to think in Minbari?  Michael, have you ever 
tried to learn Minbari?  Do you remember what you went through trying to 
translate the Book of G'Quon?"

"I do.  Stephen, you're right.  The whole idea's crazy, I know."

"Do you know what the Rangers' training is like?  The kind of physical demands 
it makes?  Michael, you're not a kid anymore."  

" I know.  You're right.  Really, Stephen, I mean it.  You're right."

"Well good."

The silence that followed was filled with the jostling jitters of unspoken pleas 
and the electric energy of trust almost conferred.  They both fussed with their 
utensils, eating nothing, until Franklin spoke again.  

"You need to do this, don't you?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"I'm not sure."  Several long moments later, he answered Franklin's unwavering 
stare.  "Jeff ...  I don't know how to explain it.  The Rangers were his gift to 
me, his last gift before ...  " His head shook away memories.  "Somehow, I need 
to touch that again.  I'm sorry.  I know I'm not making any sense."

They sat together in silence a while, and then Franklin rubbed his forehead and 
pressed his eyes tightly closed.  "I asked Marcus once about the Ranger 
training, asked him what they had taught him," he said at last.  "I've never 
forgotten his reply.  

"Delight ...  Respect ...  Compassion ...  That for your actions to be pure they 
must proceed from direction, determination, patience, and strength.  

"He said he was still working on patience."

Michael's eyes wrinkled in a smile, and a flush of familiarity washed his face.  
Franklin smiled too, but quickly sobered and continued.  

"They taught him how to live, how to breathe, how to fight, and how to die....  
"

"Yeah.  I know."  Breathlessly, Garibaldi signaled for the check.

Franklin was determined not to let the man be casual.  He leaned across the 
table as he continued.  "And they taught him terror...  how to use it ...  and 
how to face it."  

Michael Garibaldi said nothing, did nothing, for a long time.  Finally he spoke, 
a whisper barely audible.  "Terror?"  He stared into Franklin's eyes.  "Been 
there," he said with a tiny nod.  His gaze didn't waver from Stephen's eyes 
during the ensuing silence, and the tightening in his jaw told Franklin not to 
pursue.  Finally, Garibaldi shook his head, an almost invisible pulsing.  "Done 
that."  

Long strides carried Michael Garibaldi out of the restaurant and into the 
street; Stephen Franklin galloped to catch up.  "Michael!"  The older man halted 
at the breathless salute, and turned to face his companion.  "Michael, I'm sorry 
...  "

"No, Stephen, look, I'm the one who should apologize.  I come at you with this 
crazy idea and then I lose it when you try to talk some sense into me.  I'm 
sorry."

Franklin laid a hand on Garibaldi's back and urged him into motion.  Together 
they walked through the noontime crowds, turned off into a vest pocket park.  As 
the city's noises faded, Franklin spoke again.  

"You're going to do it then?"

Garibaldi nodded.

"Have you talked to Delenn yet?"

"Tomorrow."

"Have you told Lise?"

"Not yet."

Franklin whistled softly, but said nothing.  

"Stephen?"  

The two men stopped and turned to face each other beneath the bare branches of a 
sturdy maple.  

"Stephen, I can't explain it, but I know this is important.  I have to do this."

"I know, Michael.  Just promise me you won't let pride hold you there if you 
find out it's a mistake.  Don't let your stubbornness get you hurt.  I've 
patched you up too many times."

Garibaldi smiled, warmed by his friend's concern.  "Not to worry, Doc.  I won't 
do anything stupid.  And if I do bail, I'll even let you say you told me so."

"Just go easy on yourself, Michael.  Just go easy."

Their farewell became an embrace before the two parted, Franklin to grab his 
bags and catch a ship back to Babylon 5, Garibaldi to return to finding the 
father of Lise's child.  He thought a lot about Lise that afternoon, and about 
the news he would have to share with her.

= = =

He fidgeted while waiting for someone to answer the door.  His palms were 
sweating, and he wiped them hurriedly on his jacket before forcing his hands to 
hang loosely at his sides.

The door slid obediently open, and he blinked at the serenely composed features 
of Delenn.  "Mr. Garibaldi," she pronounced formally.  "Please.  Come inside."

"Ambassador."  He followed her into the room, the space that served as her 
office and her quarters here aboard the White Star.  He had calculated carefully 
to be certain that his shuttle would rendezvous with the White Star promptly, 
making him neither early nor late for his appointment with her.  Once aboard 
however, he was so fascinated by the technology of the ship, he had nearly 
wandered off, forgetting the purpose of his trip.  He had barely made it on 
time.  

Delenn's quarters here on the command ship were as he had expected they might 
be: both welcoming and oddly daunting.  More casually furnished than the usual 
ambassador's showpiece.  Couches, chairs that looked invitingly comfortable.  
Indirect lighting glowed in recessed sconces, and candles flickered on the few 
scattered low tables.  There was a scent in the air, indefinite but haunting: 
like sandalwood, mixed with lavender and something else he didn't recognize at 
all.

"Please, make yourself comfortable," Delenn said, her voice still even and very 
unreadable.  She made a graceful gesture at a couch.  "Would you care for some 
tea?  Or coffee, if you prefer."

"Tea's fine, thanks."  

He felt like an idiot, perching on one of Delenn's delicate couches like a 
visiting ogre, all too certain he was going to break something before he managed 
to escape.  After what felt like at least an hour, Delenn reappeared, carrying a 
tray with two horribly fragile-looking cups of tea.  He took his with a nod of 
inarticulate thanks, and silently begged his hands not to shake.  He sipped 
without tasting, and waited for Delenn to be seated.

"How are you, Mr. Garibaldi?"  Her soft words made him freeze.

He took a deliberate moment to set the teacup on the table in front of him, 
before composing himself to meet her steady gaze.  "I ...  fine, Ambassador," he 
replied as stoutly as he could.  "Thank you."

Her look didn't waver, but she said nothing else.  After a moment, he thought 
about screaming.  What do you want me to say?  I'm sorry I arranged to have your 
fiancé kidnapped and tortured?  

Garibaldi took a deep breath.  "I guess I should explain why I'm here, Delenn."  
His voice shook shamefully, but there was nothing for it.  "I appreciate your 
seeing me."

"We have not had the opportunity to talk since John's return," the Minbari 
replied in a soft voice.  "There has been so much to do, and so much ceremony.  
But I have been concerned, Mr. Garibaldi.  John has told me of what was done to 
you.  Is there anything I can do that will ease your path in any way?"

He blinked at her, too startled to try to cover his astounded reaction.  His 
voice clouded, and he cleared his throat hard.  "Thank you," he continued more 
formally.  "I'm OK, really."

She gave him a slow nod.  "I am certain that you are."  She took a measured sip 
of her tea, and looked up at him once again.  "I understand you will not be 
returning to the station."

"No.  No, I don't ...  I don't think that's what I should do right now."

"Where will you go?"

Garibaldi cleared his throat again, sucked in a long breath.  "That's what I 
wanted to talk to you about, Delenn."  The rest of the words seemed to get 
stuck.  He took a sip of tea.  When he looked up, Delenn was regarding him 
quizzically.  

"Delenn, since you are the Entil'Zha, I thought you would be the person to ask."  
Just get to it, Michael, the voice in his head screamed.  "Delenn, I ...  what I 
...  I mean, would you ...  " He sighed in exasperation at his own cowardice.  
"Entil'Zha, would you consider me as a candidate for the Rangers?"

Michael was shocked to see no surprise in Delenn's face.  "Do you realize what 
you are asking, Michael?"  she inquired calmly.  When Garibaldi nodded, gulping 
on his tea and his anxiety, her face softened into a smile.  "The Rangers swear 
an oath, Michael.  It is not something to be entered into lightly.  You have 
been close to the Rangers, a good friend, but you must not be too casual.  Of 
all people, you must realize the depth of the commitment."

The lump in Garibaldi's throat made him wonder if he had swallowed the tea cup 
with the tea.  "Delenn, " he choked out, "I do realize how serious this request 
is, and it's not one I make casually."  He set his cup down gently.  "I've 
thought about this, about what it will mean.  And I've done everything I can 
think of to talk myself out of it.  But I can't.  

"If you're going to ask me why I want to be a Ranger, " Garibaldi went on, 
abandoning his seat, "I'll tell you right now that I don't have a good answer.  
I've tried to explain it, for myself, for other people, and I can't put together 
anything that really makes sense.  I just know I'm supposed to do this."  

She was smiling when he looked over, but still she said nothing.  Embarrassed to 
realize he had been pacing, he sheepishly returned to his seat.  When he was 
still again, she spoke.  

"We must not stand in the way of destiny."  The Minbari's eyes danced with a 
delight Michael didn't understand.  "How soon can you begin?"

Garibaldi was speechless.  He had expected to have to argue his way in, had more 
than half expected to lose.  "I guess ...  a couple of weeks, I guess.  I mean, 
I'm just about done with what I need to do on Earth, and then ...  "

"Excellent.  As soon as you can organize your affairs, you may travel to Minbar, 
to the city of Tuzanor.  The Rangers' training camp sits in the hills above the 
city.  When you arrive, you will go to the administration building, to the 
office of the Entil'Zha.  I will not be there, but I will send word for them to 
expect you."

Garibaldi stared at her, amazement in his eyes, and a laugh flitting around his 
mouth.  "John put you up to this, didn't he?"  Michael asked, his smile 
widening.

"John?"  Delenn seemed bewildered.  "I do not understand."

"He told you I was going to ask you about the Rangers.  He told you to humor me, 
to play along, and get me to Tuzanor.  He's going to be there, waiting for me, 
isn't he?"  He was grinning broadly now, his blue eyes sparkling.  

Delenn rose from her chair, her brow furrowed, a frown wrinkling her lips.  "Mr. 
Garibaldi, allow me see if I understand.  You think that I have invited you to 
Tuzanor in order to cooperate with John in some sort of humorous prank?  Is that 
correct?"

Garibaldi stood as well, and stepped closer to the delicate Minbari.  "Yes, 
Delenn.  John knew I was going to come to talk to you."

"And your request?  Is it also part of this joke?"

"No! " he protested sharply.  "Delenn, I'm absolutely serious.  I understand 
John thinks the idea is crazy.  So does Stephen.  But Delenn, I'm serious about 
this.  Please, believe me."

"I do, Michael," she replied gently.  "I do not wish to disappoint you, but John 
has said nothing to me about your request."  The soft grey eyes looked up at 
him.  "Will that be a problem?"

Garibaldi shook his head.  Through pursed lips, he whispered a barely audible 
"no."  

"Good," she nodded.  "Then you still wish to be considered?"  She took her seat 
again, and refilled the teacups.  Michael sat perched on the edge of the 
opposite couch, and they sipped their tea.  

Garibaldi set his cup down carefully.  "Delenn, " he said earnestly, "I am 
serious.  Will you accept me as a candidate?"

"It is already done."  Delenn nodded again.  

"Will you excuse me for a moment, Mr. Garibaldi?"  she asked, setting her own 
cup on the table.  
She disappeared into the adjoining room, taking his answer for granted, and he 
had time to drink the rest of his cooling tea, relishing the strange, lemony 
flavor, before she reappeared, carrying a small box.  With a flourish, she held 
it out to him.

"What's this?"  Garibaldi asked suspiciously, staring at her.

Her smile was infinitely patient.  Infuriatingly so.  "Take it, please."  

Michael accepted the wooden container, gingerly lifting the lid.  Inside, set 
carefully on the velvet lining, was a Ranger badge.  Jeff's.  

"When Ambassador Sinclair's personal effects were returned to his family, it did 
not seem wise to include this.  His brother would not have recognized it, and 
there would have been questions, questions we could not have answered.  It 
seemed best to hold this aside.  I think he would have wanted you to have it."

"Delenn, I can't accept this.  It was entrusted to you."

"At the time, yes, but this memento of Ambassador Sinclair's has perhaps a 
greater significance to you.  He valued your friendship deeply.  I imagine he 
would be pleased to have you care for it."

The simple token of a life stirred more memories than Michael was ready to face.  
Gently he closed the box and extended it to Delenn.  "Thank you, but I can't 
accept this.  I appreciate the thought, Delenn.  Jeff and I, well, it was a 
special friendship.  But this is yours."  

Delenn hesitated.  When she finally accepted the little casket she said, "I will 
hold this for you.  Perhaps one day, you will feel differently."

Garibaldi left the box in her hands.  "Maybe, " he said.  He needed to escape, 
or at least change the subject.  "Is there anything else, Delenn?  Anything I 
need to do?"

"No, Michael, nothing more.  You need only to report to Tuzanor."  She stood, 
and Garibaldi followed suit.  

"Thank you, Delenn," Garibaldi whispered as they walked to the door.  "Thank you 
for everything."

Delenn gave a slight bow as the door opened.  "May your path be a smooth one, 
Michael, " she said, her hand over her heart.  She extended her hand toward 
Garibaldi.  "In Valen's name."

= = =

The Edgars compound made him uncomfortable.  He tried to tell himself it was 
just a collection of buildings, that William Edgars was gone now, that this was 
just Lise's house.  But the place still made him edgy.  Even the fact that this 
Edgars compound was on a different planet from the one that held so many 
memories did nothing to ease his anxiety.  He didn't like it here.

When Garibaldi arrived back at the Earth version of the Edgars compound, he 
found the house bustling, and his bag packed and standing in the front hall.  
How the hell had she found out?

His check of several rooms finally located Lise in the study, just concluding a 
call to Jerusalem.  Michael smiled at the sight of her, in spite of his anxiety, 
and opened his arms to embrace her as she ordered the viewer off and turned to 
him.  "Michael!  Where have you been?"  She greeted him with obvious concern.  

Garibaldi's arms dropped to his sides when it became clear she was not moving 
into his embrace.  He wasn't sure how to answer her question, but Lise did not 
pause to allow him a response.  "I've been trying to reach you all day.  My 
lawyers have started proceedings and I've found us a small estate just outside 
Jerusalem.  It will need some work, but we can take up residence there until the 
custody hearings are over.  Are you ready to go?  Our flight is waiting.  I had 
your things packed."

Watching her, listening, he felt a jumble of emotions.  The woman who had once 
seemed so helpless was certainly in control now.  He thought he should be proud 
of her, of her competence, her confidence.  The woman he had been ready to risk 
everything for was only half-aware that he was there.  He felt hurt, frightened, 
and a little sick.

"Lise," he said softly, crossing to the desk where she was sorting through 
papers, "I told you, I think it would be better if I didn't go with you."  

Her dark hair slapped against her shoulders as her head snapped up to stare at 
him in horror.  "Michael! Please, don't start that again.  I need you to be with 
me.  I need you beside me.  I thought we had settled that."

"Lise ...  " His reached out to embrace her, but she dodged his touch.  

"Don't do this, Michael.  I don't want to hear this.  Your place is here, with 
me."

There was no easy way to tell her, that Garibaldi knew.  "There's something I 
have to do.  It will only take a few months."

"A few months!  Michael!  Do you realize what you're saying?  Do you know what 
the next few months will be like?  We'll be in court.  You know it could get 
ugly.  I need you here."

"Lise, I know, I do, but this is important to me," he pleaded, taking hold of 
her shoulders.  "Please, can't we just talk about this?"

"It always important, Michael."  Jaw tight, she fought her tears.  "There's 
always a reason to leave, and it's always important.  It was important when you 
went chasing off to Babylon 5 after Jeff Sinclair.  It was important when you 
had to fight Sheridan's wars."  

The tears overcame her resolve.  "I don't know what the latest hero's quest is, 
Michael.  And I don't care what crazy new plan Sheridan has.  All I know is I 
want you with me.  And I resent the fact that your 'work' and your 'friends' 
have always been more important to you than I am."

"Lise!  That's not true!  It's not fair!"  Michael searched frantically for a 
way to make her hear him.  

Her voice was harsh.  "Isn't it, Michael?"  She shook herself loose from his 
grasp, and continued, her tone cutting.  "It's time you chose between me and 
your heroes."  

She slammed a last handful of documents into a portfolio.  "Our flight is 
waiting."

Michael watched her walk through the hallway and out the front door.  After a 
moment he followed, pausing in the foyer to collect his bag.  Lise was right.  
He had a choice to make.

= = =

He had told Delenn next week, and he didn't know if showing up early would be a 
problem, but as his ship docked on Minbar, he figured he could always spend a 
few days seeing the sights.  His first look at the Minbari home world left him 
awed, all Delenn and Lennier's descriptions of its beauty doing nothing to 
prepare him for its magnificence.  It was unlike any world he had visited, an 
ethereal vision in which natural and constructed blurred together.  He wanted to 
see more of this.

His ship had left Earth the same day he spoke to Delenn.  He hadn't tried to 
contact Lise while in transit, and he wasn't sure if he would now that he had 
reached Minbar.  She would be furious that he had not gone with her, and hearing 
where he was, and why, would probably make it worse.  No, it might be better to 
give her time, to let her cool down.  Then maybe.

Maybe not.  

Michael Garibaldi shook himself hard to rid his mind of that dread and his body 
of the lethargy of a long flight.  He straightened his clothes and gathered up 
his bag; when the debarkation announcement came, he was ready to move.  

On most planets the customs area was a madhouse, a restless, raucous surge of 
sentients struggling to communicate.  Here it was different.  The Minbari's 
sense of decorum, of ritual, of tranquillity, pervaded even this place.  There 
were still crowds, long lines of beings from many planets, but the wait was 
orderly, the voices hushed, and from time to time, Garibaldi even saw a smile.  
When he had cleared the screening process, he went in search of passage to 
Tuzanor.  

It was easy enough to arrange transportation, and the trip itself was shorter 
than he had imagined.  A part of him regretted not having spent time in the 
capital, but he promised himself he would return and get to know the city, one 
day, as soon as he could.  But not today.  Embarrassed as he was to admit it, he 
knew he needed to get to the Ranger camp, to commit himself to this, before he 
lost his nerve.  

As he made his way through the streets of Tuzanor he was struck as much by the 
warmth of her inhabitants as by the beauty of the city herself.  This was the 
place the Minbari called The City of Sorrows, a jewel on the landscape, devoted 
to welcoming pilgrims.  It felt good to be here.  

He could see the camp on the hillside above the city, and wondered about 
security around it.  Had Delenn's message reached Tuzanor yet?  Would he be 
expected?  Accepted?  Welcomed?  Garibaldi shifted his bag to the other shoulder 
and began his climb.

The gate of the camp looming up ahead of him was startling, catching him by 
surprise, sooner than he expected it.  Perhaps it was the beauty of the place 
that had lulled him, made him unaware of how far he had come.  Garibaldi halted, 
ostensibly to adjust his pack once again, and looked back toward the city.  He 
had indeed come farther than he realized.  And now, he thought, turning again to 
the gates of the camp, he was here.  No security was in evidence: gates open, no 
guards, no reception area.  Michael Garibaldi walked in.  

He scanned the compound, trying to find the administration building, trying to 
find the feel of the place.  Eerily quiet, the camp almost seemed uninhabited, 
until Garibaldi realized it was late day, evening for the Minbari, whose day was 
significantly shorter than Earth's.  The day's work was probably over; the 
residents at dinner, or off for the night.  How late was it, by Minbari time?  
Would anyone be in the office now?

He had come this far; he might as well try.  Garibaldi settled on what looked 
like an administration building and headed for it.  If no one was around, he'd 
head back to Tuzanor, find lodging for the night, and come back again in the 
morning.  But he had to try first.  

Inside the building, he did find a few souls about: Rangers who answered his 
questions in English, and directed him to the Entil'Zha's office.  No one seemed 
surprised by his inquiries or by his arrival at this hour.  He followed the 
directions he'd been given and found the office, its door standing open.  

Garibaldi knocked and the Minbari Ranger standing behind the sleek metal and 
glass desk uttered a single syllable without looking up.  From the tone, Michael 
guessed it was Minbari for 'come in,' but he couldn't be sure, and hesitated to 
intrude.  He wondered if he should say something, or knock again, somehow 
indicate his lack of familiarity with the Minbari language.  He remembered what 
Stephen had said about learning to think in Minbari.  

While Garibaldi puzzled all this out, the Ranger looked up, and seeing the man 
still in the doorway, said in English, "May I help you?"  

The subtle edginess Michael had been feeling became for one moment a wave of 
terror, sending him reeling until he forced his voice to obey him.  "Yes, thank 
you.  I'm Michael Garibaldi ...  "

"Michael! "  A look of mingled surprise and pleasure warmed the Minbari's 
features and his voice carried an animation uncharacteristic of his race.  "We 
have been expecting you."

The surprise was Garibaldi's now.  Delenn must have moved quickly; he had been 
concerned that her message might not have reached the camp yet.  

"Please come in, Michael, " the Ranger continued.  "I trust your journey was a 
pleasant one."

"Yes, thank you," Garibaldi answered, crossing the threshold and stepping closer 
to the desk, though feeling a bit ill at ease.  "This is my first visit to 
Minbar," he offered.  "It's very beautiful."  

"Thank you," the Ranger flashed a half-smile, "and welcome.  In time I hope you 
will come to feel at home here."  The Ranger gave a slight bow, and Michael 
caught himself instinctively returning it.  "How can I help you, Michael?"  the 
Minbari inquired.  

Hadn't he just said Michael was expected?  Cautiously, Garibaldi explained.  
"Delenn instructed me to report when I arrived.  This is the Entil'Zha's 
office?"

"Yes, Michael, it is.  Why did Delenn send you to us?  Why have you come to 
Tuzanor?"

Was this another Minbari ritual?  Were there certain things he was supposed to 
say, supposed to do?  Delenn could have warned him.  He straightened a bit, 
tried to look dignified, took his cue from the Ranger.  "I've come to Tuzanor to 
train as a Ranger."

"Do you understand what you are proposing?"  The voice came from behind him.  

As Garibaldi turned, the Ranger who had first welcomed him now greeted an aged 
Minbari, also dressed in the Ranger uniform.  "Good evening, Sech Ardret.  This 
is Michael Garibaldi."  

The elder scrutinized Michael.  "So, you are the one we have expected.  Why has 
your decision taken so long?  Do you truly have the heart for what you ask to 
undertake?"

"Sech Ardret, I don't make this request lightly.  As for how long it's taken..." 
Michael didn't really know how to finish that sentence.  Was Ardret referring to 
his age?  To his years working with the Rangers before coming to this decision?  
" ...  I make no excuses.  I've only recently understood that this is what I'm 
called to do.  If that's a mark against me, I accept it."

"All trainees begin on an equal footing."  Michael had not realized there was an 
inner office until the figure emerged.  "You will not begin at a disadvantage," 
this third Ranger said as he approached Garibaldi, "nor should you expect any 
special treatment because of your patronage."  A match for Michael in height, 
the Minbari was stockier, sturdier in build.  

"Sech Durhan, " the first Ranger intervened, a glint in his eyes that Michael 
thought might be annoyance, "no one was suggesting anything like that."

"Please," Garibaldi interrupted, "I don't mean to be rude, but it isn't fair to 
characterize Delenn as my 'patron.'  I only went to her to ask permission, and 
I'm grateful that she gave it, but she knew nothing about this until then."  If 
he fell on his face here, he wasn't going to take her down with him.

"Then you have the Entil'Zha's permission?"  the first Ranger asked.  

Garibaldi found himself more confused as this conversation went on.  "Yes.  I 
spoke with Delenn a few days ago.  She said she would send word."  He was early.  
He had told Delenn next week, but ...  "You said you were expecting me."

"We have been, for quite some time, " replied Ardret.  

Quite some time?  Michael started to question the statement, but Durhan 
interjected.  "You have been expected, and because of it, much will be expected 
of you.  Let us hope you are all that was promised."  Garibaldi stood in open-
mouthed silence as Durhan and Ardret bowed and left the room.  

The Ranger who remained came out from behind the desk.  "You seem confused, 
Michael."

"I am."  He searched the Minbari's face, not knowing what he hoped to find.  
"What did Delenn say about me?"

The Ranger shook his head.  "We have had no message from Delenn."

"Then why did you say I was expected?"

"Because you were.  Entil'Zha Sinclair left word of his friend from Babylon 5 
who looked after the Rangers, his friend who would one day come to complete his 
own training."

Garibaldi paled at the Ranger's words, and his head shook from side to side.  
"That's not possible.  Jeff and I never talked about any such thing.  He 
couldn't have known."

"Apparently, he did, Michael.  He left word with the master teachers that you 
would come.  He did not say when you would come, only that you would.  Clearly, 
he was right."

Garibaldi's head was spinning, searching through the memories of his 
conversations with Jeff for any hint that the Commander might have foreseen this 
turn of events.  He almost didn't hear the Ranger begin to speak again.

"The training you are about to undertake is challenging, Michael, physically and 
mentally demanding.  You will train as a soldier, but more than that.  

"Each Ranger must embody three characteristics: delight, respect, and 
compassion.  These will be at the core of your training.  

"If you complete the training, you will speak the oath every Ranger swears.  
Those are not idle words.  We have a great respect for ritual -- one you may not 
entirely embrace -- but do not allow yourself to mistake that vow for empty 
ceremony.  We live for The One.  We die for The One.  Do not speak the words 
unless you speak from your soul."

"I understand."  Michael's apprehension grew with every breath.  

"Now, " the Ranger said, "you must be fatigued from your journey.  You will find 
your room on the second floor of the barracks building across the compound: room 
212.  You will rise at dawn, and your training will begin immediately after the 
morning meal.  You will follow a demanding schedule, so you will want to rest 
while you can.  If there is nothing else ...  "

"Nothing, thank you, ...  " Garibaldi realized he did not know the Ranger's 
name.  

"Navain, " the Minbari said softly, seeming to read Michael's mind.  "I am Sech 
Navain."

"Thank you, Sech Navain," Michael said with a small bow.  "Good night."

Navain placed a hand over his heart then extended it to Garibaldi.  "In Valen's 
name."