In Valen’s Name
Part 2




= = =

Garibaldi's paces measured the little room.  He had found his billet and dropped 
his bag on the bed, grateful that at least it wasn't one of those damn Minbari 
beds.  Now, with the commitment made, he tried to take stock of the place.  And 
he paced.  

North to south.  This was to be home, his home, for the next three months.  
South to north.  He realized he was counting.  East to west.  A table and chair, 
a chest, some book shelves, the bed.  West to east.  The count was unchanged.  
And a window: a view of the city sparkling in the light of Minbar's two moons, 
the City of Sorrows.

Through sundown and moon rise he had fretted and fussed around his new quarters.  
They were pleasant enough, he had to admit: a private room, a shared bath.  
Simple.  Comfortable.  Efficient.
Now the night was well on, and he should unpack.  He was staying, after all, not 
visiting.  No living out of a suitcase.  Settle in.  Make the commitment.

He hadn't brought much.  The bag Lise had packed for him was the bag he had 
brought from Mars to Earth, anticipating a trip of only a few days.  He opened 
the case, pulled out a handful of things to transfer to the chest.  Opening it, 
he found clothes already inside: Marcus' clothes.  Setting down his own 
belongings, he lifted the grey waistcoat, let it unfold, tried to imagine 
himself in the uniform of the Ranger.  It was not a pretty image.  Maybe if he 
left now ...  

He paused to wonder when the outfit had been placed there, and by whom, and how 
it happened to be of an appropriate size.  The Ranger, Navain, had said he was 
expected, had given him a room number without a second thought.  A sudden chill 
raised goose bumps on his arms.  He hurriedly folded the vest and thrust it back 
into the chest, returning to his unpacking.  Settling the rest of his gear 
consumed only a few minutes; a few minutes more and his footsteps once again 
echoed in the little chamber.  

Garibaldi turned to the bookshelf.  Minbari language.  History of the Rangers.  
Culture and tradition, Minbari and Human.  Philosophy.  The story of Valen.  
This wasn't going to be easy, he thought, sighing.  

He didn't have to stay here.  He could take a walk.

Michael made his way out of the barracks, out to the compound, lengthening his 
strides and inhaling deeply of the night air.  Maybe he could relax enough, tire 
himself out enough, to get some sleep.  

He tried to orient himself, to get his bearings within the facility.  Much of 
the property was given over to training fields, open grounds and courses, 
separated one from the other and from the surrounding hillsides by fragile 
looking fences.  He passed close by what looked like an obstacle course.  This 
probably wouldn't be unlike his Earth Force training.  He guessed there would be 
survival skills, and surveillance exercises as well.  

At the far end of the camp, the ships were moored, and two small buildings stood 
on what looked like robotic foundations.  Those, he thought, smiling faintly at 
his memories, would be the simulators.  Well, he had plenty of experience as a 
pilot.  That shouldn't be a problem.  

He passed an enclosed area with ominous looking signs, all in Minbari.  He 
couldn't read them, but he could guess this was the target range.  What kind of 
weapons, he wondered?  But it didn't matter.  Time and practice.  Given time and 
practice he could master any weapon.

Now this might not be so easy, he thought as he discovered the martial arts 
center.  The Minbari were renowned for their strength and their skill in those 
arts.  They were not to be trifled with.  And his forty-year-old body wasn't 
looking forward to taking all those falls.  

He stopped to look up at the classroom building in the center of the compound.  
He hadn't made a very good schoolboy all those years ago.  How could he begin a 
whole new set of studies now?  

To his left the three temples stood, their surfaces luminous in the moon glow.  
Minbari religion gave him the creeps.  He wasn't fond of any religion, wasn't 
too sure what he believed, but the Minbari and their endless rituals ...  well, 
he'd try to respect it, but he sure wasn't going to delight in it.  

Delight, respect, compassion: the three qualities the Rangers were to embody.  
He had always believed respect had to be earned.  As for delight, well, there 
hadn't been much of that lately.  They had salvaged things.  It hadn't turned 
out too badly.  But delight?  No, not for a while now.  And compassion.  Passion 
he understood.  Compassion sounded ...  well, something in his eye-for-an-eye 
code of justice just couldn't buy into it.  

What the hell was he doing here?

He turned right, and saw, there ahead of him, a solitary building.  Valen's 
home.  The residence of the Entil'Zha.  Jeff's house.  He tried to picture 
Sinclair here, tried to imagine him in this setting.  Would Jeff really welcome 
him here?  

The house was dark, as he knew it would be, as it should be.  These quarters 
belonged to the Entil'Zha, that title belonged now to Delenn, and she was not 
here.  He moved closer, drawn to the place, wanting, just for a moment, to be 
near it, to feel its ghosts.  Timidly, he approached the entrance, his feelers 
out for anyone who might catch him sneaking around where he sensed he should not 
be.  

Gingerly, he laid the flat of his hand against the door and wondered how many 
times Jeff's hand had rested here.  Tell me I'm doing the right thing.  You knew 
I'd be here, eventually.  You knew.  Did you also know that I'd be scared 
shitless?  It's your place, Jeff, your work.  I'm not sure I can do this.  I'm 
old, Jeff.  I'm too damn old, and I'm so damn tired.  Tired and scared.  I'm 
scared I'll let you down, I'm scared I'll blow it.  Why aren't you here?  Why 
did you go, and not tell me how to do this before you left?

Damn it! He couldn't cry on the Entil'Zha's doorstep.  He let his head drop 
forward to rest on the door beside his hand, then jumped back as the door 
yielded under the pressure.  He spun to see if he had been observed, but no, he 
was alone.  He caught his breath, wiped his eyes, and coaxed the door closed.  
He should get some sleep.

It occurred to him to wonder, as he approached the barracks, if there was a 
curfew, a time when the place was locked up.  He'd make a wonderful impression 
if he got locked out of the barracks his first night here.  His fears were 
calmed when the door he was headed for opened and a young Minbari exited, 
pausing to hold the door open for Michael.  

"Nice night for a walk," Garibaldi said with a nod that was greeting and thanks.  
The Minbari did not answer, but gave a slight bow, and walked on.  Michael had 
no idea if the man spoke English, and less idea of how to greet him in Minbari.  
He looked after the silent figure, wondering if he would ever be able to 
communicate in even one of the dialects of Minbar.  It was then he noticed the 
pack the Minbari carried.  "Are you leaving?"  he asked incredulously, releasing 
the door.  

The stranger stopped, started, stopped again.  He looked back at Garibaldi and 
nodded.  "Yes," he said softly, "it was a mistake to come."  He hitched his pack 
back up on his shoulder and began to walk again.

Michael's long strides caught him up to the young Minbari easily.  "Isn't it 
kind of early to make that decision?"

"No," his companion replied, neither looking up nor breaking stride.  

"You wanna explain that one?"  Garibaldi asked, when it finally became clear 
that the other had finished, not just paused.

"I am neither warrior nor scholar.  I am not prepared for what is required 
here."

"Someone must think you are, or you wouldn't have been accepted," Michael 
snapped back.  The trainee made no reply.  "You must think you are, or you 
wouldn't have asked."  

They stopped then and looked at each other.  Michael thought they were a study 
in contrasts: Minbari and Human, short and tall, light and dark, young and ...  
well, they had very little in common, he thought.  Except maybe their fear.  
"One circuit of the compound," Michael proposed, "then if you still want to 
leave I won't stop you."  

They fell into step together, introducing themselves, trading stories.  The 
young worker-caste Minbari, whose name was Jhevnak, blazed to life as he talked 
about coming to Tuzanor to protect his people against those who would destroy 
them.  Garibaldi had seen this fire before, working with so many Rangers, all of 
them so dedicated to the cause, to The One.  He tried to explain how he had come 
to be here, but he did not hear the fire.  

They found themselves back at the door to the barracks and halted, remembering 
their bargain.  "You should sleep, Michael," his companion admonished him.  "I 
have heard that Humans find it difficult to adjust to our shorter day."

It saddened Garibaldi to realize that this sounded like goodbye.  This one might 
have the heart of a Ranger; Michael had hoped he would reconsider.  But a 
promise is a promise.  "Yeah, well, good night, then."  He opened the door to 
the barracks.  "And good luck to you."

"To us both, in Valen's name," Jhevnak said as he followed Garibaldi inside.

= = =

Jhevnak had been right about the shorter day.  Garibaldi thought he had scarcely 
settled down to sleep when the wake-up call came.  He showered quickly and 
turned to the first hurdle of the day: dressing.  

His EarthForce uniform had felt strange at first, he told himself, and the Army 
of Light uniform was a gift from Delenn, yes, but itchy! He thought of Zack, and 
smiled.  Perhaps he could get used to this too, but the cowl neck shirt felt odd 
after years of high-collared uniforms. He pulled on the trousers.  Fasten then 
zip.  Are you smiling, Jeff?  Forcing his feet into the boots, one by one, he 
tried to decide why the right one reminded him of Londo, and the left of G'kar.  
Finally he drew on the waistcoat and secured its belt, his thoughts flying again 
to Marcus, his heart heavy in remembrance.  

Like so many Rangers, Marcus died too soon, and that enraged him.  Somewhere 
within him there was a ferocious defense of life, all life, and to see a 
courageous and honorable life cut short made his whole body clench in anger.  
But Marcus -- there was more to that.  He had not died fighting the Shadows, or 
the PsiCorps, or Clark's evil.  He had not died in battle.  Was it noble 
sacrifice or suicidal arrogance that claimed him?  Michael still wasn't sure.  
But right now he felt like his head had been transplanted onto Marcus' body, or 
a middle-aged version of Marcus' body, and he could only hope it came with some 
of the Ranger's courage.

Their day began in the classroom.  Minbari language first, Adronato, the dialect 
of the Religious caste.  Garibaldi was pleased to find his memory sharp; 
vocabulary would come rapidly.  He was enough of a mimic to manage 
pronunciation, and he smiled as he recognized phrases he had heard Delenn and 
Lennier exchange.  When phrases began to combine into sentences, his self-
satisfaction evaporated.  Every grammatical rule of Adronato was exquisitely 
logical, clear as the crystal from which the temples were carved.  But every 
sentence he tried to form could be governed by any one of a half dozen or more 
different rules, chosen according to the situation.  It was, Michael thought 
with frustration, a language for diplomats.  Perhaps it was that diplomacy that 
kept his classmates from laughing aloud, but each time he spoke he sensed he 
embarrassed himself again.  

It felt better to move out to the obstacle course.  While age could seem a 
handicap, Michael knew he had kept in shape, and he had the advantage of 
experience.  He watched several other candidates take their turns on the course 
before pushing himself full out through his own run.  He was pleased with it, he 
thought a bit breathlessly, when he was done.  He spotted one of the trainers 
near the finish line.  

"What's my time?"  he called out, trying not to pant.  He scanned the group of 
candidates on the field, trying to guess at the strongest competitors.  

"Time?"  the trainer inquired expressionlessly.

"Yeah.  My time.  How long did it take me to run the course?"

"It took ...as long as it took," he replied, regarding Garibaldi as though this 
were the oddest question he had ever heard.  And then he turned back to watching 
the candidate on the course, and Michael knew the conversation was over.


Pilot training began in the simulators, White Star simulators.  That was one 
hell of a ship, and with all that had gone on back at the station, he hadn't 
gotten to log any time in one, so this was a treat.  If this simulation was true 
to the reality, this ship would practically fly itself.  All he needed to do was 
learn the controls.  He wondered when they'd get to the real thing.  

It was hard to leave the comfortable familiarity of the pilot's seat, especially 
when he contemplated the next class.  He wasn't even quite sure how to name it.  
Philosophy, maybe?  But no.  

Delight.  Respect.  Compassion.  He had heard this speech before.  But a class?  
They were going to have a class in Delight?  Michael's irreverent wit sprang to 
life, and he blushed involuntarily as he wondered how the others might react to 
such thoughts.  He remembered teaching Delenn that limerick.  And he laughed.  

It was the wrong moment.  Obviously, the instructor had just said something 
profound, something he had not heard, and now all eyes were on him.  He tried 
desperately to remember enough of this morning's Adronato lesson to apologize to 
the Minbari trainer.  

"That is very kind of you, Michael," Sech Navain responded with a small bow, 
"but apology is not necessary.  We are here to learn delight and it is obvious 
you have found that treasure.  Will you share it with us?"

Garibaldi was deeply relieved that the response had come in English, because 
there was no way he was going to talk himself out of this one in Minbari.  
Navain didn't let him off the hook easily, even in English, but eventually, he 
moved on.  

The class moved as well, out of the classroom, out of the building, into the 
hills around the camp.  Navain led, at a brisk pace Michael noted, and 
encouraged them to find delight in the sensory experience of this place.  After 
his earlier screw up, Michael wanted to behave himself.  He tried to focus on 
what Sech Navain was saying.  He looked, really looked, at the blazing orange of 
the tiny flowers curling in and around the crystalline rocks, but his brain 
would only embrace one image: Ferdinand the Bull.  And he felt quite bullish 
himself.  

= = =

They returned to the compound for the midday meal.  Breakfast had been a quiet 
affair, with both Minbari and human food available, and real coffee, which 
Michael had found an pleasant surprise.  He worried that this meal might be one 
of those endless Minbari rituals and he was already feeling very much out of 
place.  Mercifully, there was no ceremony, just a simple meal: edible, honest 
food and cool, refreshing drink.  Tray in hand, Michael scanned the dining hall.  
There were plenty of empty seats, but as his eyes searched even beyond them, he 
realized he was looking for a place to hide.  

"Michael?"  It was Jhevnak.  "Will you join us?"  he asked, gesturing toward a 
table around which a group of young people, Human and Minbari, male and female, 
were settling down to their meal.  

"Looks like you're already pretty well full there," Michael answered, hoping his 
panic was not plain in his voice.  

"Not at all," came the reply.  "Please, we would be honored."

Awkwardly, reluctantly, Michael agreed.  Following Jhevnak to the table, he 
prayed his discomfort had not offended the young Minbari.  The group arranged 
themselves to make space for Garibaldi and Jhevnak, and the Minbari introduced 
Michael to each of the trainees around the table.  "Adronato is not the native 
language for any of us, Michael," Jhevnak went on to explain, "and we thought 
that if we took our meals together, it would provide us an opportunity to 
practice."  

"Yeah," chuckled the young man beside Garibaldi, as he raked back a shock of 
straw colored hair, "at least this way we'll all make the same mistakes."  There 
was laughter around the table, punctuated by calls of "In Adronato, please," an 
admonition that would be repeated throughout their lunch, as they struggled to 
converse within the strictures of their brief exposure to the language.  They 
laughed a lot during that meal, Michael realized, as the group began to 
disperse.  

After a time Jhevnak excused himself, leaving the young man with the straw 
colored hair , Michael, and a Minbari woman to finish sipping their tea.  "Is it 
true, Michael," she asked in softly accented English, "that you knew Entil'Zha?"

Michael wondered if it was just her unfamiliarity with English that made her 
choose past tense.  Edgy at the thought that someone was sharing information 
about him, he tried to sound casual, but not too casual.  "Delenn?  Yes, ..."

"Satai Delenn as well?"  she interrupted.  Garibaldi stopped, startled.  

The young man at his elbow leaned closer.  "We wondered if you knew Ambassador 
Sinclair."  

Now Garibaldi was decidedly uncomfortable.  "Yes."  There was a familiarity 
about the paranoia he was feeling now, a bitter recognition of an old ghost.  "I 
worked for Sinclair."  He didn't want to be rude, but it took all his control to 
make that minimal response and keep his voice low and even.  "Where did you hear 
that?"  

"Jhevnak told us you came from Babylon 5," the woman said with some 
embarrassment.  "Is that where you met Satai Delenn as well?"  

Michael nodded and tried to swallow down the lump of tension in his throat.  
"You said 'Entil'Zha.' Delenn is the Entil'Zha."  Michael looked from one to the 
other.  "Isn't she?"

"Of course."  The golden hair sagged down over his eyes as the young man's head 
bobbed in response.  "It's just ...well, there was Valen, and then for a 
thousand years, there was no Entil'Zha, and then Sinclair ..."  He trailed off 
as though unable to find the words to finish the thought.

"No Entil'Zha for a thousand years?"  Garibaldi stared in disbelief.  "Who 
commanded the Rangers?"

"Anla'shok Na," came the response from across the table.  "Ranger One.  The 
position of Ranger One passed down, but no one bore the title of Entil'Zha until 
..."  

Until Jeff, thought Garibaldi.  Valen.  And Jeff Sinclair.  "I guess I need to 
learn a bit more about the history of the Rangers, " Michael offered, tipping 
his head to one side and arching an eyebrow at his companions.

"It's our next class," the blond laughed.


That classroom session was not too bad, Garibaldi thought --as classes go -- but 
weapons training was a more familiar, more comfortable experience.  He examined 
this sidearm carefully, disassembling and reassembling it with the habitual ease 
of years of training.  Over his years in EarthForce and in security work, 
Michael had checked out on a variety of weapons.  There were some differences 
here, he thought, testing the heft of the weapon in his left hand, but nothing 
he couldn't handle.  He was a good shot, better than many, but never fancied 
himself a marksman.  It would feel good to have the time to sharpen his skill.  

There was a certain irony, Garibaldi thought, in the fact that they went from 
weapons training to meditation.  Why, he wondered as he tried to fold himself 
into a cross-legged posture on the floor, didn't anyone meditate in a chair?  Or 
stretched out on the couch?  Why not standing over the stove, stirring a nice 
pot of marinara?  No, stop.  Too soon to think about dinner.  Why did it always 
have to be on the floor?  As if reading his thoughts, the master began to speak 
about being rooted, grounded.  Great, now the master was in his head, and it was 
already too damn crowded in here.  

He was being asked to focus on his breathing, to be conscious of each inhalation 
and each exhalation.  As long as they keep coming in pairs, Michael thought.  
His own voice inside his head chastised him; something well buried recognized 
the need in him.  Michael Garibaldi had always been a man of action, had prided 
himself on that.  Now his own soul was telling him he needed this stillness.  He 
closed his eyes and slowly filled his lungs.  

Quieting the mind, concentrating only on the breath ...  
Was his mind quiet, Michael wondered?  
There were so many voices fighting for his attention ...  
Only on the breath ...  
	Inhale ...  
	Exhale ...  
		Inhale ...  
			Should he hold the breath longer?
		Exhale ...  
	Inhale ...  
	Exhale ...  
		Was he doing this right?
Quieting the mind ...  
Just relax ...  
	Inhale ...  
		Oh hell! Was he supposed to be in sync with the others?
Just relax ...  
How can I relax when I feel so freaking out of place?

He heard the trainer's voice again, a distant drone.  
"Some find that counting helps them to focus."
OK ...  
	Inhale, one, exhale ...  
	Inhale, two, exhale ...  
	Inhale, three, exhale ...  
		Should the count be after the exhale?  
			Damn it!
	 ...  four, exhale ...  
			Cursing in mediation class -- good work, Michael ...  
		What was he up to?
		Damn ...  
	Inhale, one, maybe he should just count.  
	Two ...  
	Three ...  
	Four ...  
			Wonder what number the others are up to?  

His frustration broke loose and he shook himself in exasperation.  A gentle hand 
settled on each of his shoulders, and he froze.  Nailed.  

"Begin again."  A soft voice from behind him, a voice clearly not meant to reach 
the whole group, a voice he thought he knew, instructed him.  "Be aware first of 
your body."  He tried to rearrange himself but everything seemed to hurt.  
"Focus on the discomfort, each area, one by one.  Acknowledge it and release 
it."  Slowly, soothingly, the voice guided him back down into a state of 
relaxation, drew his attention back to his breathing.  The soft, familiar voice 
kept the other voices at bay until, slowly drawing down another long breath, 
Garibaldi realized what it meant to find his center.  As each breath cleansed 
him, calmed him, soothed him, he felt it, felt the energy coalescing there in 
the core of his being.  And he realized that the voice had stopped, the gentle 
hands no longer rested on his shoulders.  He did not need them now, he knew, but 
he wished he could speak his thanks.  And he knew who owned that voice.  


It struck him as no accident that martial arts training followed meditation.  
Flowing from the focused energy, faced with a quiet spirit, the moves came 
easily, felt natural, accomplished their task.  This was not entirely new for 
him, of course; his EarthForce training had included several forMs. Anticipation 
had proved accurate in one respect: he knew already that he would ache tonight.  
There was a pleasure in the process, however, that he did not remember in his 
earlier training.  Delight, he thought wryly -- they're getting to you, Michael.  


Allowed just a bit of time to clean up before dinner, Michael tried to assess 
the day.  He scrubbed his hands with a mindfulness of the afternoon's work, 
washing away the traces of honest labor.  There had been no insurmountable 
obstacles, and even some satisfaction, yet he doubted this would be typical.  
His stomach gave a rumble as he dried himself with the small white towel, and a 
smile came to him at the thought of how good it would be to have some ossobuco 
right now, the way he had made it the last time Stephen came to dinner.  But he 
wasn't on kitchen duty; he had other concerns.  And evaluating his prospects 
here, he found it difficult to shake off a sense of foreboding, but perhaps it 
was just that he sensed what dinner would be like.

It was the meal he had dreaded.  From the time they entered the dining hall, 
until finally they dispersed, every moment, every movement, every mouthful 
seemed governed by Minbari ritual.  He found himself seated amongst unfamiliar 
faces, nameless strangers, but there was little time to get acquainted as he 
policed his actions, struggling to observe what felt to him stilted traditions, 
for fear of offending.  But offending whom, he wondered?  More than half of his 
table mates were Humans, as awkward as he about these rubrics.  What if they 
just stopped all this, shared a meal, and got to know each other?  What would 
happen if he cracked a joke, or skipped a step, or mangled a phrase?  What could 
they do to him?  

Garibaldi's eyes wandered about the room as he realized that he felt trapped, 
bound by rite, caged by ceremony.  He was searching, he knew, not only with his 
eyes but with his heart, with the breath that seemed stuck half in and half out 
of his lungs, searching for a way out, for an escape.  Been running all your 
life, Michael.  Why stop now?  His eyes found Jhevnak, who returned his glance, 
just for a moment, with a smile and a tiny nod.  Garibaldi returned to the 
ritual, feeling just a little ashamed.

= = =

He bolted from the dining hall when finally the ceremonies ended, grateful for 
the cool night air and the open space of the compound.  Once around the compound 
before I hit the books, he thought, groaning inwardly at the thought of 
wrestling with Adronato grammar.  Once around.  And then if you want to leave I 
won't stop you.  

As he stretched his legs into longer and longer strides, Garibaldi swung his 
arms first pendulum-style then in big lazy circles, working out the tensions of 
the day, feeling for the muscles that would complain.  He fell into a brisk walk 
and noticed the change in the rhythm of his breath.  It felt good to move, free 
of structures and confinement.  His pace quickened, and quickened again to an 
easy jog.  As his arms began to pump he wondered if such behavior would be 
frowned on by the Minbari, but as he became aware of someone approaching him, he 
realized he didn't care.  

A glance over his left shoulder showed him the young man from the lunch table -- 
Andrew?  The blond pushed to catch up to Garibaldi.  "Mind some company?"  he 
asked.

"Not at all.  Drew, right?"  Michael watched the young man nod and fall into 
step beside him.  "But I should warn you, I don't know that we won't get in 
trouble for this."  

Drew laughed.  "Wouldn't be the first time.  So what do you think?"

"About what?"

"The first day.  The whole thing.  Is it what you expected?"

Michael pondered the question.  What had he expected?  "I don't know ..."  There 
was more to the answer but he couldn't find it yet.  "You?"

"To tell you the truth, it scared the hell out of me."  Garibaldi threw him a 
questioning look.  "It's the military stuff I guess, "he explained.  "I was 
never in EarthForce.  I can handle the classroom stuff, the meditation, but the 
weapons and the pilot training ...  I think I may be in way over my head."

For the first time, Michael saw how very young his companion looked.  Was he 
even old enough for EarthForce?  Did he understand what he was committing 
himself to here?  

"Drew, if you don't mind my asking ..."  Michael began.  

"Twenty seven," he interjected.  "And yes, I know I don't look it."  He laughed 
when Michael looked over.  

"Sorry," Michael offered sheepishly.  

"It's all right.  I'm used to it, " Drew answered.  "All this is old hat for you 
I suppose?"

"Uh, no, " laughed Garibaldi, shaking his head ruefully.  "And could we stay 
away from the word 'old'?"  They laughed together, though Drew blushed a bit, 
and then Michael continued.  "What is it that frightens you?"

For a moment or two the only sound was their rhythmic breathing.  "I guess, " 
the younger man spoke at last, "it's the feeling that I'm playing catch-up, that 
everyone else knows all this already, and that no matter how hard I work, I'll 
never be as good."

"As good as what?"

"As good as everyone else, as good as I'm supposed to be."

"How good are you supposed to be?"  He smiled as he prodded his young companion, 
but when the young man's eyes met his, his demeanor changed.  "Is that what it's 
about?  Being as good as someone else?  Or being better than everyone else?  Is 
this some sort of contest?"

The young man never looked away.  Michael stopped, as did Drew beside him, both 
of them bent over, gulping air.  "There's nothing here you can't learn, but it 
can't be about competition.  Excellence, yes.  Personal best, sure.  Full out, 
all the time, absolutely.  But not to measure ourselves against one another.  We 
need each other, need to know we can rely on one another, trust one another.  
You can't do it alone out there.  It doesn't matter who was the best, if you're 
dead."  

The young man looked chastened.  "I guess I'm used to competition."  An 
embarrassed smile spread over his face.  "I'm good at it."

Garibaldi picked up the grin.  "Well if it's competition you want, see if you 
can beat the old man back to the barracks," he challenged.  

"Not even open to question," taunted the younger man, and they both sprinted for 
the door.  Drew would win this one, but that was all right.  Michael's mind 
wandered back to the obstacle course.  

= = =

The days fell into a rhythm, a pattern of expectation that carried him along in 
the comfort of familiarity, though the material grew more difficult, the 
challenges bolder, the standards higher.  The classroom studies -- in history, 
philosophy, culture -- were going better than he had expected.  He was more 
focused, better able to concentrate than he had anticipated.  Only the Adronato 
continued to be a problem.  

He could see his progress on the target range and in martial arts as well.  It 
showed in his body: he was leaner, stronger.  Whether because he was taking 
fewer falls or because his body was more resilient, he no longer had to spend 
his evenings working out the pain in his muscles and joints.  They would begin 
soon to work with the pike -- denn'bok, he corrected himself.  

But for now there was meditation.  This one he would have written off most 
easily before he began his training, but surprisingly he found himself looking 
forward to this island of stillness in each day's river of activity, a chance to 
breathe, literally and figuratively.  Still, he thought, as the trainees 
assembled for the session, somehow he had expected more -- more what, he didn't 
know -- but more.  

That vague dissatisfaction was pushed aside as Sech Ardret, the master who 
supervised the meditation class, motioned for them to remain standing.  Pitched 
to no one in particular, Ardret's voice wandered through the group.  Michael 
sometimes thought Sech Ardret realized only as an afterthought that they were 
listening to him, but nonetheless he strained to hear.  The master spoke of 
every situation being sacred, every action a meditation.  Gradually Garibaldi 
understood what was being asked of them.  Ardret led them out, across the 
compound and into the hills.  They were to make the walk a meditation, focusing 
on each step, on the ground beneath their feet, the beauty around them, the 
breath moving in and out of their bodies.  

Michael felt an irritation rising in him, a resentment pushing its way to the 
surface.  He remembered the first day with Sech Navain, wandering around these 
hills, feeling awkward and out of place.  He tried to focus on his breathing, to 
put the rest out of his mind.  He closed his eyes, and immediately tripped over 
a stone in the path.  Righted and wide-eyed, he was surprised to realize that he 
felt cheated, robbed of something he felt he needed, and deserved.  He wanted 
time to meditate, to reconstruct himself in middle of the day.  He wanted, he 
realized, to be primed and ready for the denn'bok.  This was a waste of his 
time.

With a sigh he searched for his patience.  He quieted his breathing again but 
kept his eyes open, cast down, locked on the path a pace or two ahead of his 
feet.  He tried not to see it, to escape all of this, to flee to the quiet place 
inside, but again and again the resentment intruded.  By the time they returned 
to the camp he was restive and jittery.


He shook his head to clear all that away as he moved to his place for the 
martial arts class.  One by one the trainees were presented with the denn'bok, 
the traditional fighting pike, and for once, the ritual seemed fitting to 
Michael.  When they had each received a weapon, Sech Durhan silently 
demonstrated the opening of the pike, a motion which each of them instinctively 
copied.  The air crackled with the sound of three dozen metal staves snapping to 
their full length and the energy of three dozen barely suppressed giggles.  
Navain should be here to see delight, Michael thought.

The mood quickly became serious.  Two teachers, Durhan's assistants, 
demonstrated a few basic offensive and defensive moves as the master explained.  
Quickly they partnered off and Garibaldi found himself facing the young Minbari 
woman who had first asked him about the Entil'Zha.  Michael grasped the pike 
firmly, arms at shoulder width, and signaled for her to take the offensive.

She thrust forward with her right hand, threatening to bring the pike down 
toward Michael's left shoulder.  He raised his weapon to parry, turning his body 
slightly to left as he did.  A blinding pain rocketed from his rib cage to his 
brain as the other end of her pike slammed into his right side.  Before he could 
again find air for his lungs, she had angled it downward, rapping him sharply 
behind the knees and dropping him full on his back.  

When his eyes focused again he rose, pretended to believe he was not hurt, and 
signaled his readiness to begin again.  They exchanged a few light strikes and 
Michael was grateful for the sense that she was allowing him to catch his 
breath.  Suddenly she thrust one end of the pike in a stabbing motion, sending 
Michael backwards off balance.  He tried to block with an upward thrust, but her 
weapon slid over his and into his gut.  She drew back as he doubled over in 
pain, and dropped him with a strike across his back.  

He rose again, more slowly this time, but it made little difference.  One of 
Sech Durhan's assistants coached him, and the master himself observed, though he 
said nothing, but still Michael became far too well acquainted with the floor.  
He pushed himself back into the drill after each fall, reminding himself that it 
was a learning process, focusing on his form.  He vowed he would not let his ego 
get in his way but fall after fall after fall without any successful reply began 
to sting him.  Someone had said this was not a competition, he remembered, 
fighting down a blush.

By the time they were dismissed to prepare for dinner, there was not a spot in 
Garibaldi's body that did not ache.  He was bruised, with several welts already 
bright purple, and bloodied, where a blow had opened his eyebrow.  If he carried 
himself slow and straight this evening, it was less out of respect for the 
ritual than because he could scarcely move at all.  

It was tempting then to beg off when, after dinner, Drew sought him out for the 
jog which had become a nightly routine for them.  He had battled his vanity that 
afternoon; he opted now to indulge it just this once.  They set off on their 
usual circuit with Garibaldi determined not to let the younger man see how badly 
he was hurting.  He failed.  

"Rough day?"  Drew asked without making eye contact.  Michael seemed to be 
limping, and his breathing was ragged.

"Parts of it."  The blond slowed the pace a bit, and Garibaldi was embarrassed 
but appreciative.  "Thanks."  He wanted to shift the attention away from 
himself.  "You?"

Drew shrugged.  "Not bad.  Excited about the denn'bok."  

Just thrilled myself, Michael thought.  They ran for a while in silence.  "Want 
to talk about what happened?"  the younger man asked at last, and Garibaldi 
couldn't help but laugh.

"Not really, no."  Drew didn't press him but the question stayed with Michael.  
What did happen?  Why had he failed so miserably today?  "I don't know what 
happened, " he said aloud after a long silence.  He had always been able to hold 
his own in a fight, any fight.  "I felt like I was stuck in slow motion.  I 
could see the attack coming.  I knew what I should do.  I knew how to do it.  
But before the message could get from my brain to body, I was down again."  He 
shook his head to clear away the memory and the disgust.  

"You talk to the trainers?"  his companion asked, and Michael nodded.  "What did 
they say?"

"Move faster," Michael answered wryly, and they both winced.  

"You have the technique, the form?"

Garibaldi shook his head.  "In theory, yeah.  I have trouble staying vertical 
long enough to put it into practice."  It hurt when he laughed.

"Do you want to have another go at it?"  Drew asked, glancing over at his 
running partner cautiously.  With a smile he added, "I'll go easy on you."

They were coming to the end of their circuit.  Grateful for small mercies, 
Michael stopped to catch his breath.  "You'll understand, I hope, if I say not 
tonight?"  That made them both laugh.  "But thanks, " Michael said more 
seriously, "I appreciate the offer."

"Any time.  Heading in?"

Garibaldi straightened and shook his head.  "Nah.  I think I'll take another 
lap.  Slowly.  I've gotta work some of this out before I stiffen up.  You go 
ahead."

They said good night, and Michael began to walk, gently stretching out arms and 
legs, neck and back.  What had happened today?  The rest of the day had been 
ordinary enough, except for the meditation session.  Could that have made so 
much of a difference?  He was startled to realize how much he had come to look 
forward to that daily time of meditation, and how cheated he felt by the loss of 
it today.  

Night's triumph over day turned the walls of the temples to mirrors, the rising 
moons reflecting in the shimmering crystal panels.  Garibaldi stopped and 
studied the sight: four moons on Minbar tonight.  Substance and image, reality 
and illusion.  Sometimes it was hard to know which was which.  

Uncomfortable as he was with Minbari religion, he had avoided the temples, but 
just now they looked somehow inviting.  He wanted a quiet space, a place away, 
to think, and yes, to meditate.  He approached the smallest of the three 
temples, hoping he was not violating some sacred rule by entering.  

The temple was a simple space, lit now only by moonlight.  Garibaldi took only a 
few paces toward the center of the soaring structure before easing himself onto 
a bench.  He felt a little like an interloper and wished he could disappear into 
the shadows, but there was a peace here, a stillness that he needed.  He closed 
his eyes, and turned his focus to his breathing.  

He was not sure how long he sat there like that, quietly inhaling the moonlight, 
thinking -- just for a little while -- not at all.  When at last he opened his 
eyes, he thought the sight another trick of reflection.  There before him across 
the room sat another figure in meditation.  As his eyes adjusted to the light he 
began to recognize Sech Navain.  

A flush of embarrassment went through him as he quickly looked around for 
others, but there were none, only himself and Navain.  He was certain the master 
had not been there when he arrived, nor had Michael heard him enter.  Could he 
slip away as quietly and not disturb Navain's meditation?  

Silently he rose from the bench.  "I am sorry if I have interrupted your 
meditation, Michael," the older man said, his eyes still closed.  He spoke in 
Adronato, and Michael prayed he would not mangle the reply.

"And I, if I have disturbed you, Sech Navain."  Garibaldi bowed slightly even 
though the teacher could not see him.  

"Your Adronato is improving," Navain added, looking at him finally.  

Michael bowed again.  "It is kind of you to say so, master."  Had he put that 
together right?

Navain chuckled.  "A little," he said in English, and Garibaldi blushed in the 
darkness.  He sensed it would be rude of him to leave, or even to ask to be 
dismissed, but he desperately wanted to flee this place now.  Besides, he 
rationalized, it was late, and there was study still ahead of him.

"How is your training progressing, Michael?"  Navain spoke now in English, 
neither rising from his seat nor inviting Garibaldi to resume his.  

"Well, sir, thank you."

"You are happy here?"  Michael's breath froze.  How was he supposed to answer 
that?  The silence served as answer enough.  "Yet you remain," Navain said at 
last.  The barest "yes" fought its way out of Michael's throat, though he was 
not sure it had been a question.  "Perhaps," the teacher said as he rose, "you 
need to ask yourself why."  And with that, he was gone.  

= = =

Michael Garibaldi returned to the barracks and the work that awaited him there, 
trying to focus on the calm self-control the meditation had given him.  The 
studies of that night and of the days and nights that followed were often 
interrupted by the memory of that exchange with Navain.  It irritated Michael to 
realize that Navain had been able, with a few words, to undo what he had 
accomplished in his meditation.  Yet you remain.  Did he only imagine the sneer 
in those words?  The Minbari underestimated Garibaldi's determination, his 
stubbornness, his plain meanness, if he thought that would get rid of Michael.  

Each of Navain's classes became a trial.  The whole notion was impossible for 
Garibaldi to take seriously.  Artificial exercises and hokey stories were not 
going to teach him, or anyone else, about delight, respect, or compassion.  That 
wasn't the stuff of classroom study; that came from life experience.  You live 
with people, work with them, and you see the integrity, the courage, the talent, 
the competence.  That's where respect comes from.  And you see the pain and the 
suffering and you learn compassion.  What about delight?  He didn't really "get" 
that one: why does a Ranger need to be concerned about delight?  

Out of courtesy, if not true respect, Michael tried not to show his distaste for 
Navain's classes.  He went through the motions of participation, said as little 
as he could manage, attempted to look attentive even though his mind was often 
far away.  Navain did not attack him openly, and for that he was grateful.  He 
had feared the showdown of the first class might be precursor to other battles, 
but it had not happened.  He could survive this, although he could not shake the 
feeling that Navain wanted to drive him out.  


There were temporary escapes, however, and pilot training was one he had come to 
cherish.  Sessions in the White Star simulators were a fascination for him.  
They rotated through the various stations, learning each system and set of 
controls in turn, and Michael grew increasingly competent and increasingly awed 
by the exquisite design of the machine.  Simulations were interspersed by air 
time in small single pilot fighters.  It was good to be strapped into that seat 
again, free in space, partnered with a reliable and responsive ship.  Garibaldi 
felt at home here, more himself than in any other part of the training.  

He was startled to realize how much time had passed since his arrival.  Six 
weeks -- no, more, even after adjusting the Minbari-Earth time differences -- 
had slipped by, leaving him more than halfway through the training.  It was hard 
to mark the passing days: ritual and routine and the simple busyness of the life 
here tended to blur it all together.  There were few special events to set apart 
one day from another, but there, Michael thought as he crossed the compound 
toward the simulators, was one.

On the path from the Entil'Zha's residence to the administration building, 
bracketed between Sech Durhan and Sech Ardret, walked Delenn.  What brought her 
to Tuzanor, Michael wondered?  She was Ranger One, of course.  Perhaps this was 
a routine inspection.  But the looks on the faces of the teachers as they 
whispered to her suggested otherwise.  

Another trainee, also seeing the petite Entil'Zha, motioned to her colleagues 
and whispered "Satai Delenn!"  It struck Michael that he wasn't sure how he 
should address Delenn now.  It had always been "Ambassador" or simply "Delenn."  
Should it now be "Ranger One?"  Or "Entil'Zha?"  Or was it "Mrs.  Sheridan?"  
With a smile, Michael entered the simulator.

A check of the rotation schedule left Michael startled.  He was in the center 
chair.  Although he knew they each took a turn in command, he'd been too 
preoccupied learning the engineering and operating systems of the White Star to 
think about that role.  He approached the big chair, amazed by the almost giddy 
nervousness he felt.  Orders for the simulated mission had been left on the 
command chair.  Picking them up, he slowly sat down.  

The mission seemed straightforward enough: reports of attacks on a small colony 
by what may be Shadow ships.  Investigate, lend aid as appropriate.  Michael 
assumed there would be some surprise, some test of their reactions.  Expecting 
unpleasantness was part of his nature.  He pushed himself back into the chair 
and called for status.  

His crew reported in, each station in turn indicating nominal functioning.  
Garibaldi ordered launch, directing navigation to set course for the coordinates 
of their simulated destination.  He shifted his weight uncomfortably in the 
command chair, and caught himself glancing over his shoulder.  Realizing that he 
had half expected to find a frowning Sheridan there, he chuckled, but squirmed 
again, still ill at ease.  

Navigation announced that they were approaching their target, ready to jump out 
of hyperspace.  Garibaldi gave the confirmation, and called for a view of the 
target.  He leaned forward to study the image forming before him.  

Only a sudden grab to the arms of the chair kept him from hitting the floor.  
The blast shook the ship violently, and all hands scrambled to stay on station.  
Garibaldi called for evasive maneuvers, then a damage report.  The ships on his 
viewer were definitely Shadow ships and there were three of them.  He had walked 
into it.  Now what?

Tactical announced that one of the larger ships had locked weapons on them.  He 
tried to evade.  Another ship picked up a lock.  He ordered weapons targeted, 
but he knew he was outgunned.  He wasn't going to win a shooting battle.

"What's the status of the colony?"  Scans reported minimal damage planetside, 
none of it recent.  Maybe they placed some value on not destroying this place.  
Garibaldi decided to see if he could turn that to his advantage.

"Take us down, into the atmosphere.  Over fly the colony."  Maybe the Shadows 
would hold fire to avoid damage to the surface.  But then what?

They dove down toward the planet with one of the Shadow ships in pursuit.  The 
other two kept station, and Michael tried to calculate whether he could turn and 
fire fast enough to take one of them out.  He needed to try to even the odds a 
little.  

The call from tactical was nearly drowned out by the blast from one of the ships 
at station.  They managed some evasion, but damage reports were up, and he had 
wounded.  He ordered repairs, then cursed as the call of planet side damage came 
back.  Maybe he should just try to run, but he couldn't open a jump point in the 
atmosphere.  He ordered a hard come-about, an acrobatic maneuver more suited to 
a Starfury than to the White Star, but she held together for him.

His throat raw with fear, his heart pounding, Garibaldi directed his crew to 
take the White Star right at the two Shadow ships above them.  The third was 
still in pursuit.  If they fired on him again, perhaps he could get them to do 
one another some damage.

Another blast hit them.  More casualties, and reports of serious damages, some 
which they would not repair.  Systems were beginning to fail.  

"Can we jump?"  he called.  The response did not please him.  He still had jump 
capability, but in their weakened condition, it was not advisable.  It would not 
be the first ill-advised move he had made.  Hopefully it would not be the last 
either.  

As they approached the pair of Shadows, they were forced to dodge an increasing 
rain of fire, and they were ever less able to do so.  Casualties mounted; damage 
reports were dire.  Just a little closer.  

"Initiate jump on my mark."  The warning of the danger to themselves was 
repeated, but Michael saw a jump as his only hope now.  And if he could get 
close enough, maybe the energy of the jump point opening would do the Shadows 
some damage.  "MARK!"

There was a roar as the jump engines kicked in, and the White Star lurched 
forward beneath them.  Garibaldi was slammed back into the command chair, and 
held there as the ship began to shudder violently.  With flaring sparks and 
acrid smoke, instruments shorted out, as system failures cascaded through the 
ship.  Helm fought for control but with minimal response.  The energy of the 
jump point wrenched the hull, and Michael could feel the craft beginning to 
shear.

In a moment the simulator went dark.  The remainder of the session was spent on 
the analysis, though Michael thought autopsy might be more apt.  The ship was 
destroyed, all crew members dead, minimal damage to the Shadow vessels, but 
significant new damage to the colony planetside.  

Michael heard little of the analysis.  His mind entertained only one thought: 
another Garibaldi screw up.  And this time, no survivors.  No rescue, no 
forgiveness.  They were all dead.  And next time, if there was a next time, it 
might not be a simulation.  Real people.  Real ships.  Real dead.  

To have to spend the next hour listening to Navain prattle on about delight was 
an absurdity that left Michael enraged.  He battled his fury through the rest of 
the morning, sitting silently through lunch, his jaw clenched so tightly he gave 
up trying to eat.  Later on the weapons range he realized his hands were 
trembling from the pent-up anger.  He tried to get some control in the 
meditation session, but every time he closed his eyes, he was back in the 
simulator.  And then there was martial arts.  

They began with basic throws, taking turns throwing and being thrown, while 
Michael struggled not to hurt his partner with the force of his rage.  After a 
time, they moved to the denn'bok training.  There had been for Garibaldi no 
improvement over that first embarrassing day.  Intellectually, he understood 
what was needed; practically, every drill was a humiliation for him.  Today was 
no different.  Repeatedly, his opponent, a young woman from Proxima 3, dropped 
him with just a few blows, blows he saw coming but could not block.  And he 
couldn't touch her, couldn't touch any of them.  Despite all the openings he 
could spot, he couldn't strike, not fast enough or sharp enough to go any good.  

And this little one, Michael thought, was deceptively strong for her size.  He'd 
have some brilliant souvenirs of this drill, he thought just before everything 
went dark.  When Garibaldi revived, it was, mercifully, time to stop for the 
day.