In Valen’s Name
Part 6



= = =

Garibaldi's step was lighter as he made his way back toward the docking area.  
The weight he had been carrying around was gone now; Navain had been right.  Now 
he could do it, he could finish the training.  Couldn't he?  Whatever problems 
you may have in the training, Navain had said, will solve themselves if you 
attend to the real work.  He was right, wasn't he?  And Stephen was wrong.  All 
those reasons Franklin had given him for not doing this, all the reasons why 
this was a bad idea: he was wrong, wasn't he?
 
He stopped at the intersection of two corridors.  He had come here to put the 
burdens down.  Doubt was just another burden.  Garibaldi turned his steps toward 
Medlab 1.  Might as well have a talk with Stephen right now.  

The office door was open when Michael arrived, and he swung himself around the 
door frame without bothering to knock.  He hung there, frozen in place by the 
shock of the sight before him.  This was not real, could not be real, could not 
be happening, not here, not like this.  

"Well, Doctor, it's about ...  " The figure in black turned, tugging impatiently 
on one black leather glove.  The sight of Garibaldi poised in the doorway seemed 
to shock him.  Had he let himself slip, been so lost in his thoughts, he hadn't 
paid attention to the background noises?  Had he felt Garibaldi's approach, but 
assumed it was Franklin?  Hoped it was Franklin bringing news of his lover?

The surprise was immediately suppressed, except for the dilating pupils in the 
furtive black eyes, eyes that darted quickly to note where the exits were.  
Garibaldi's practiced eye caught it, but even that barely perceptible fluster 
soon disappeared.
 
"Mr. Garibaldi! What a surprise!"  Alfred Bester's eyes narrowed as he focused 
on the speechless figure before him.  "Who would have thought that I'd be seeing 
you again so soon?  And here on Babylon 5 of all places?"

Rage flared in Michael Garibaldi as he recognized that look: Bester was scanning 
him.  "I take it you've met Captain Lochley?"  the telepath sneered, his eyes 
dropping to Michael's right hand.  

It was the left that did the damage: a limb erupting out of focused fury as 
Garibaldi launched his whole body across the room at the little man squinting 
into his brain.  The bones in that fist rattled as they contacted jaw, the skin 
split and began to bleed, and every fiber of Michael Garibaldi's being screamed 
"NOT AGAIN!"  The words escaped his mouth as well, but he choked on them as he 
watched the teep reel back, and realized he could not follow.

"What's the matter, Mr. Garibaldi?"

"Bester.  You son of a --"

"Now, now, Mr. Garibaldi.  Is that any way to greet an old friend?"  

Bester had straightened and was rubbing the spot on his jaw where Michael's fist 
had made contact.  Every thought in Garibaldi's mind revolved around choking the 
breath out of the animal who had fucked with his mind, but his body would not 
comply.

"Struggle if it makes you feel better, Mr. Garibaldi, but you won't be able to 
move until I release you."  Bester circled him slowly, until, face to face 
again, he said softly, "You didn't really think I'd just stand here and let you 
flail away, now did you?  Good god, man, you could've killed me!"

"Let -- me -- go."  Michael's demand was made as much on himself, on the force 
of mind that paralyzed him, as on the sneering telepath who activated the force.  

"All in good time, Mr. Garibaldi.  I have business here on Babylon 5," he 
explained, his saccharine smile fading into a ruthless scowl, "business I don't 
intend to have you, or anyone else, interfere with."

"What?  Like you interfered with me?"  Garibaldi spat out, his jaw set hard in 
rage.  

"Interfered, Mr. Garibaldi?  Is that how you see it?"  Bester asked, eyes wide 
in feigned surprise.  "I would have said 'borrowed'.  My associates and I 
borrowed you for a while.  Not unlike someone contracting for your services as 
an investigator."

His inability to follow as the telepath moved about the room infuriated Michael 
even further.  "You made me into a god damned robot," he raged, willing the 
words over his shoulder.  

His tormentor moved to stand in front of him.  "Now you see," he scolded, "it's 
that attitude that gets in the way of our doing business by more conventional 
means."

"You grabbed me and forced your way into my head," Garibaldi fired back, his 
searing gaze never leaving those dark eyes.  "That's not a contract.  That's 
rape."

"Mr. Garibaldi!! How painfully graphic!!"  Bester furrowed his brow, shook his 
head with distaste.  Taking a few steps away, he turned to look back at the 
immobilized man.  "What exactly do you think happened to you?"  He paused a 
moment, then supplied his own answer.  "We recognized your ...  talents.  We 
helped to develop them.  Yes, it was to our advantage to do so, but who doesn't 
look out for their own advantage?  "

"What's this 'our'?  Don't you mean 'my'?"  Garibaldi's lip curled in a sneer.

"I'm flattered, Mr. Garibaldi, but even I couldn't have managed it alone.  My 
associates among the Shadows, and my colleagues in PsiCorps, were all interested 
in your ...  talents.  But look how well it turned out.  We got the virus and 
the antidote.  You got the lonely widow."

"You bastard!"  The rage in him was so immense that he trembled in spite of 
Bester's hold on him.  "I swear I'm going destroy you -- you and everyone and 
everything in your life -- just like you did to me."  

The telepath's snide patina dropped away, revealing the coldness, the cruelty, 
the barrenness of the man, and for a moment, just a moment, Garibaldi thought he 
saw something else.  Was it fear?  

"Your empty threats don't frighten me, Mr. Garibaldi.  You're not going to do 
anything I don't let you do."  He turned to look over Franklin's desk, to stare 
at the consoles beyond.  "Besides, there's only one person left who means 
anything to me," he said softly.  When he turned back to Garibaldi there was 
rage in his eyes.  "And I swear to you, if any harm comes to her, what you've 
been through thus far will look like a picnic in the park."

Garibaldi's pulse raced at the recognition of his enemy's vulnerability.  
"Thanks for telling me," he said icily.  "I'll keep that in mind."  

The man in black snorted his next breath, then his demeanor reset to arrogance.  
"Oh please, Mr. Garibaldi.  I would have thought better of you.  A man like you 
-- willing to sacrifice everything for the woman he loves! I should think you'd 
be more understanding!"  He moved to stand in front of Michael, infuriatingly 
close.  "But then, " he hissed, "you and I know what's really in that brain of 
yours, don't we?"

"Fuck you!"

Bester shook his head, wrinkling his brow, and mouthing a tsk-tsk.  "There's 
that anger again, Mr. Garibaldi, that rebellious nature.  You really need to 
work on that."

"Let me go and I'll show you anger.  It's one of my 'talents.' "

"Not just yet, Mr. Garibaldi, though I must say it's rather rude of Dr.  
Franklin to make us wait so long, don't you think?  I'm afraid I'm going to have 
to go off and look for him.  But you can wait here.  By the time the Doctor 
returns, you'll probably be back to normal.  Although there's very little chance 
that anyone's going to believe another 'the telepath tampered with me' story.  "

Michael's eyes narrowed as he came to the understanding.  "That's what you 
really want, isn't it?  You want to set it up so no one believes me.  You want 
to drive a wedge between me and the people I care about.  You want me to be as 
alone as you are."

"Mr. Garibaldi! Really! Don't you think you're overreacting just a bit?  We both 
know how suspicious you can be, but please, I'm just doing my job.  There's no 
reason to be hurtful."

"Aw!"  Garibaldi's singsong taunted the telepath.  "Did I hurt your feelings?  
Because I see you for what you are?"

Fire danced in Alfred Bester's brown eyes as he spun on the frozen figure of 
Garibaldi.  "And just what am I, Mr. Garibaldi?"  he sneered.  "Just what do you 
think you see?"

Garibaldi's jaw tensed as he squinted into the Bester's eyes, twin tunnels, 
dark, forbidding, endless.  He wanted to fire back the most scathing labels he 
could find, to rip the man apart, to leave his soul bleeding.  His rage was a 
being in its own right, his hatred ready to explode through his skin.  He knew 
Bester was in his head, knew the words were redundant, but he needed to say 
them, and he needed them to be the most vicious words he could find.  

In that moment, it felt to Michael Garibaldi as if the telepathic link with 
which Bester held him was a two-way connection, as if the teep's mind, his soul, 
was as visible to him as his was to Bester.  What do you see?  Grab it and use 
it as a weapon against the monster.  What do you see?

A solitary figure, a dark form in a dark world.  The outsider, the outcast, his 
hatred of 'normals' built from a lifetime of rejection, exclusion, bitterness.  
The strange one, turning to the Corps for what he couldn't find elsewhere, but 
even within the Corps, disconnected, distrusted, and distrusting.  The Corps was 
mother; The Corps was father.  Alfred Bester was an abandoned child.  

Advancing, pushing himself forward, upward, making himself prominent, standing 
out, but standing apart.  Trusting no one above him, caring for no one beneath 
him.  Willing to sacrifice a squadron of his Black Omega pilots to achieve his 
own ends.  And his goals focused, centered on one person: the lover on whom all 
his hopes of happiness hung.  Turning his back on the family the Corps had 
provided him, searching instead for the woman forbidden to him, taken from him, 
lost to the horrors of Shadow technology.  

His life devoted now to the quest to find her, to rescue her, at any cost.  And 
the cost, again and again, was the infuriating need for cooperation with 
Sheridan and his people, dependence on normals.  He was determined to believe, 
to prove the superiority of telepaths over mundanes.  Yet he could not 
accomplish his objectives without them.  So he used them.  He used the mundanes 
of Babylon 5 to divert the ship that carried Carolyn's cryotube.  He tried to 
use them again to go back to Z'ha'dum in search of the technology that would 
free her, might have succeeded if it hadn't been for the Alexander woman.  He 
used Garibaldi to uncover the plot against telepaths.  

He used them, used them all, but the rancor gnawed at him.  Control.  He was 
obsessed by the need to control, but as long as he needed them, he sacrificed 
some of that control.  It enraged him, made him feel impotent, exposed, in front 
of them.  Them with their loyalty, their friendship, their ideals.  

"Just what do you think you see?"  The dare came again.

Michael Garibaldi saw a bitter, stubborn, frightened, suspicious man.  He 
answered softly, the venom of the previous moment neutralized by pity and fear.  
"Everything I could become, if I let you drag me down with you."

Pain cracked Alfred Bester's facade of patronage, recognition shaming him into 
visible emotion.  "You can go to hell, Mr. Garibaldi," he choked, and pushed 
past Michael toward the door.  

"Been there," Garibaldi answered softly, his words causing the figure in black 
to stutter in his stride.  

"What the hell ...  ?"  It was Sheridan.  Michael could not turn to see, but he 
knew that voice.  

"John!"  Michael called out, but even his voice refused to respond to him as the 
telepath tightened his hold.

"Michael! What happened here?"  Garibaldi's eyes sought for Sheridan, but he 
could make no answer.  The pale man turned on the telepath.  "Let him go!"  The 
demand had overtones of threat.  

Garibaldi closed his eyes.

Beater feigned indignation.  "I beg your pardon, Mr. Sheridan.  I am merely 
protecting myself from Mr. Garibaldi's unprovoked attack."  

The accused man drew a slow breath, eyes still closed.  

"Cut the crap, Bester," Sheridan snorted angrily.  "I know you too well.  Let 
him go.  Or are you too much of a coward?"  Both men knew what was implied in 
that taunt.

Garibaldi slowly emptied his lungs.  

"The man has made threats against me.  I don't intend to allow him to act on 
them."  Bester's voice was emotionless.  "You call it cowardice.  I call it 
self-preservation."  

Michael inhaled deeply.  

"That was the only thing you were ever good at, wasn't it?"  John sneered.

Exhale.  

"You needn't be petty, Mr. Sheridan.  Your dear friend will be back to himself 
shortly, as soon as I'm safely off the station."  He fidgeted with one glove as 
he moved toward Sheridan.  "And then, you can go back to your pathetic little 
lives, full of trust and joy and love."  

Garibaldi inhaled.  

Bester stood opposite Sheridan, staring icily into the hazel eyes.  "Just 
remember: he's mine.  Always has been.  Always will be."

Michael Garibaldi exhaled, the full force of his life energy concentrated in a 
focused act of will.  The telepath staggered as if struck as Garibaldi spun to 
face him, the single syllable "NO" bellowing out of him.  There was panic in 
Bester's face when he realized Michael had broken his hold, terror when he 
realized he could not reestablish it.  He pressed back against the wall 
anticipating Michael's attack.

Garibaldi sneered as he stepped up to face the man in black.  "I've had 
fantasies about what I was gonna do when I caught up with you.  Very detailed.  
Very painful.  And probably too good for you.  I should take you apart, piece by 
piece, but I'm not gonna do that.  I'm gonna do something that may just be 
worse.  I'm gonna press charges, Mr. Bester.  I'm gonna make you stand in a 
court of law and have the world know exactly what you are and what you did."

Bester tried to lay the mantle of diffidence over his fear though no one was 
fooled.  "What chance do you think you'll have?  It's your word against mine, 
Mr. Garibaldi.  You can't prove a thing."

"I can."  The voice came from the doorway, the portal blocked by the bodies of 
Stephen Franklin and Lyta Alexander.  "I'll testify to the results of the scan I 
performed on Mr. Garibaldi, and to what I observed here," Lyta hissed, her stare 
icy, her smile smug.  

"Security's on the way."  Franklin's assurance cued the team's entrance.  The 
agents escorted Alfred Bester to an all too familiar cell in the brig, but not 
before he turned to glare at Sheridan and Garibaldi.  "This isn't over, 
gentleman.  You've made a terrible mistake here today.  But then, you may not 
live to regret it."

"Get him the hell out of here," Franklin bellowed, then turned his attention to 
Garibaldi's physical condition.

"I'm fine, Doc."  Michael muttered impatiently.

"You'd better be," Franklin replied.  "You've got your training to finish."  His 
grin was all Michael needed to see to put any remaining doubts to rest.  "Good 
luck with it, Michael."

They laughed over a handshake as Michael took his leave.  In the hallway outside 
Medlab 1, he found Lyta and Sheridan.  Thrusting forward a hand, Garibaldi 
offered the redheaded telepath his thanks.  

"Believe me, Michael," Alexander laughed, "this is my pleasure.  That man is 
slime."

Garibaldi's face became serious.  "Lyta, were you helping in there?"  he asked.

Lyta studied him for a moment.  "Does it matter?"  She didn't wait for a reply.  
"Take care, Michael."

= = =

Left alone in the corridor outside Medlab, Garibaldi and Sheridan felt their way 
through the silence to a place of comfort and understanding.  

"John," Garibaldi spoke first, "what happened in there, what he said ...  "

"Was bullshit, Michael.  We both know that."  Sheridan's eyes were serious.  

"Don't believe him, John," Garibaldi pleaded.  

The President smiled.  "Never have, Michael."

"It could've been real, John," Michael said as a shiver ran through him.  "I 
felt so guilty, so angry, so alone.  That's how he held on to me, by driving me 
away from all my friends, by isolating me, and making me believe I was worthless 
and incompetent."  So many memories stirred with those words.  "He might have 
been able to hold on to me if it hadn't been for you, all of you, all my 
friends."

"Michael, are you ever going to learn to go easy on yourself?"  Sheridan chided.  
"Your constant worrying about what might happen makes you one hell of a Security 
Chief, but a major pain in the ass."

Garibaldi laughed but a sting of memory cut through the joy.  "Do all my COs 
think I'm a pain in the ass?"  It was a not altogether rhetorical question.

"I don't know," Sheridan teased, "but all your friends do."  

Michael laughed again, this time secure in the implied affection.  "How the hell 
did you get here, anyway?"  he asked as they walked toward the lift.  

"I came looking for you," Sheridan replied.  "You were no sooner out of my 
office than I got a message from Delenn.  You know we're setting up headquarters 
of the Alliance on Minbar?"

"Yeah, at Tuzanor was what I heard."  Inside the little cabin, Garibaldi called 
for the Customs concourse.

"That's right.  Turns out we need to be there to check things out in a few days, 
so I called down to Customs to see if I could catch you, ask you to stay a 
couple of days and travel back with us.  When they said you weren't there, well, 
I decided to put that damn tag to good use.  I had Zack locate you.  When he 
said you were in Stephen's office, I figured I'd come down, and we could gang up 
on you."

"Did you call Stephen and Lyta?"  

"Not me.  Can't take credit for that," Sheridan answered, "though I'm glad they 
showed when they did."

"I'll say."  The two men stepped out of the lift and moved through the bustling 
concourse.  

"So, will you stay?  It'll just be a couple of days.  We'll take a White Star 
back to Minbar, probably faster than any transport you can get."  Sheridan waved 
a hand toward the Departures board.  

"John, I appreciate the offer, but ...  well, I'm anxious to get back, and ...  
I promised Lochley I wouldn't stay any longer than necessary.  I've probably 
overstayed my 'welcome' as it is."

The lanky figure of Zack Allan approached.  "Michael, are you OK?  I got a 
report ...  "

"I'm fine, Zack.  I'm gonna press charges ...  "

"Notice the tense on that, Mr. Allan."  The voice of Elizabeth Lochley intruded.  
"No charges have yet been filed, and until and unless they are, your agents have 
no business detaining Mr. Bester."

The realization of what they were hearing left the three men speechless.  
Sheridan recovered first.  "Captain, do you have any idea of the threat that man 
poses ...  ?"

"Mr. President, you're beginning to make me think Garibaldi's paranoia is 
contagious.  Let's not get carried away."  She turned her gaze to Michael.  "I 
take it you're leaving?"

Garibaldi sighed and nodded.  "Not to worry, Captain.  I'm going."

"Good!"  Lochley nodded toward Zack.  "You can remove the surveillance bracelet 
as soon as he clears Customs."

Allan made no attempt to hide his scowl.  "Yes, ma'am, Captain," he replied, his 
voice frosty.  Turning to Michael, he said gently, "I'll get the key."

"Zack, don't bother," Garibaldi called as the Security Chief turned to the 
Customs House.  He thrust his right hand up and out, drawing the bracelet clear 
of his sleeve.  "May I?"  he grinned at a quizzical Allan, as he lifted the stat 
bar from the Army of Light uniform.  

He positioned the bar's pin delicately between the index and middle fingers of 
his left hand.  Grasping the locking mechanism of the bracelet carefully between 
his left thumb and ring finger, Garibaldi executed a series of three quick taps 
with the pin, and bracelet dropped free of his arm.  He caught it as it fell and 
handed it with a flourish to Lochley.  "Captain, " he said with a slight bow.  
The men held their laughter until the furious commander had left.

"Mr. Allan," Garibaldi smiled with another bow as he handed the stat bar back to 
Zack.  

"How the hell did you do that?"  Sheridan asked.

"Aw, I could never find the damn keys when I wanted them, so I learned to pick 
those things years ago, " Michael grinned.

Sheridan's face was serious.  "Why did you wear it, Michael?  If you could have 
popped it at any time, why did you walk around wearing it?"

Garibaldi shrugged.  "Because I didn't want to get the Chief here in trouble, " 
he smiled, nudging Zack, "and because ...  I guess because I thought it was what 
I deserved ...  then."

"And now?"  Sheridan asked as Zack handed Michael's bag over for inspection.  

"Now, " Garibaldi thought for a moment staring at the floor, then he raised his 
eyes to Sheridan's, "now we begin again."  

= = =

Most times he could remember, seeing double had been a reason for distress.  
Tonight, however, Michael Garibaldi climbed into the hills above Tuzanor, 
overjoyed by the sight of two moons hanging over the Ranger training camp.  He 
was home.  What a crazy notion!

He scrambled up the trail and pondered all the prayers his agnostic soul could 
never pronounce: gratitude for being back here, for having been here in the 
first place; atonement for all those he had wronged, here and elsewhere; 
petition for still one more chance.  And forgiveness.  For himself.

Garibaldi stopped, standing erect but relaxed in the middle of the path that led 
to the camp's main gate.  Everything Bester used against me, against John, was a 
part of me, is a part of me.  It will always be there, there for him or someone 
like him to use again, unless ...  

He heard Sheridan's voice in his head.  "The words don't change what happened, 
or take away the hurt, but without them we have no future together, ...  " Yeah, 
Michael, the words don't take away the hurt, but you need to say them.  The 
words don't change what happened, but you have no future without them.  I 
forgive you.  Michael, you fucked up -- big time -- because you're a human being 
trying to do the best you can with what you've got and with who you are, and 
sometimes, you blow it.  And you blew it, as badly as I ever want to think 
about.

So I forgive you, Michael.  Not because you deserve it.  Not because you've 
earned it.  Just because you need it.  I forgive you for everything that 
happened, all the harm you caused, intended or unintended.  I forgive you.  
Let's try not to let it happen again.  But I forgive you.  A shiver ran through 
Michael Garibaldi as he realized he meant it.  

All the emotions he had expected to feel were there.  Sort of.  There was 
relief, and joy, and yes, some pain, but they were muted, subdued, an 
undercurrent of feeling beneath the surface of the experience.  Michael 
Garibaldi stood on the hillside above Tuzanor, eyes closed, head tipped back to 
the night sky, reveling in the peace.  

Peace.  Within as well as without.  More than contentment, deeper than calm, 
pervading his soul more thoroughly than any emotion he had ever known, more even 
than the hatred.  This wondrous new experience, so startling and so welcome, 
suffused every aspect of his being.  He was finally at peace.  And alive to know 
it.  

With a grateful smile Garibaldi started again toward the training camp on the 
hillside above.  He slipped through the gate and paused to look again at the 
fields and buildings that had become so familiar.  As his eyes scanned the 
compound, his heart monitored reactions.  Shrugging against the weight of the 
bag on his shoulder, Garibaldi walked toward the darkened barracks.  The fear 
was gone, the dread evaporated, the shame released.  

With a welcome certainty, he entered the building that housed the Ranger 
trainees.  It was about honor, and courage, and an inner confidence that the 
cause was absolutely just and your actions absolutely essential.  He thought of 
Sheridan as he climbed the stairs, of Sheridan and of the final campaign of the 
war against Clark.  They were indeed an Army of Light, and the cause was most 
certainly just.  And this, he thought as he rested his hand on the door to his 
room, this course of action you've begun, is essential, necessary and right.  

He had found the confidence, the certainty of purpose.  Garibaldi stepped into 
the little room and tossed his pack on the floor beside the chest.  Courage had 
come, too, he thought, as the work of the days just passed and those to come 
played out calmly in his mind.  His hands clutched and released absently on the 
back of the desk chair as he considered what to do next.  Confidence and courage 
had been found, but could he reclaim honor?  

= = =

Michael walked noiselessly out of the room and down the hall, stopping in front 
of a door from behind which whispers of light shone.  He knocked, the concussion 
echoing in the late night silence.  A preoccupied voice answered, muffled as 
much by fatigue as by the intervening door.  "Come."

Garibaldi laid a hand gently on the door, pushing it in to the room, letting it 
swing clear, but not following it.  He stood outlined in the doorway and looked 
across the room at the blond stretched out on the bed, textbook in hand.  Drew's 
hooded eyes shifted from his book to the figure at the threshold, and a smile 
crept across his face.  

"I wondered when you'd get back."  He was grinning broadly now.  Bare-chested, 
blankets thrown across his lower body, voice slurred by the nearness of sleep, 
Drew smiled confidently at him.  "You gonna stand in the hall all night, 
Michael?"  he asked with a laugh.

"I wasn't sure if I'd be welcome," Garibaldi said softly.

The young man's voice trembled as he answered.  "Always, Michael."

Garibaldi stepped into the little room, a duplicate of his own in most respects, 
and let the door swing closed behind him.  He turned to face Drew, as the blond 
dropped his legs over the side of the bed and stood.  "We should talk," Michael 
croaked, suddenly nervous again.

Drew erupted in a wincing laugh.  "Oh, Michael, please! I'm not sure my heart 
could take it."  The memories hit Garibaldi in a rush, the image of his 
companion's horror and compassion stirring tears, but the young man's smile, and 
his gentle hand on Michael's shoulder, banished them again.  

"Drew, I'm sorry ...  " Garibaldi stammered, "you reached out to try to help me 
and I ...  I turned around and ripped at you.  I don't know what happened to me 
that night ...  "

"I do," the blond said softly.  "And I'm honored, and grateful."

Michael's eyes jumped to Drew's, and his brow furrowed in confusion.  
"Grateful?"  His voice was shaking.  "That I lit into you like that?"

"Grateful that you trusted me, that you felt safe enough with me to talk so 
honestly about your pain."  Drew's piercing blue eyes searched Garibaldi's face.  
"I only wish I could have done more than listen."

"I said things that night ...  " Michael's throat was tight, his voice raspy.  

"That night was that night, " Drew interrupted.  "Michael, no one should carry 
something like that alone.  You shared it with me.  I didn't expect it to be 
pretty.  What's important is what you're doing about it."  The blond grabbed up 
a shirt from the back of the chair and dug his arms into the sleeves.  "I assume 
your taking off all of a sudden had something to do with that?"  he asked before 
he ducked his head under the fabric.  

"I went back to Babylon 5," Michael murmured.  "To talk to John."  Their eyes 
met as the young man's head emerged again.  "To ask his forgiveness."

Drew hinted at a smile.  "And you're feeling better now?"

Garibaldi nodded, grinning.  "We talked, really talked.  Everything, absolute 
truth."

"And?"  Drew's eyebrows arched, and he rolled his fingers to prod Michael along.  

"And ...  he forgave me."  Michael laughed openly, the joy of that knowledge 
sweeping over him.  

"And you?"  Drew asked, his smile growing.

"Me?"  The older man looked at him quizzically.

"Have you forgiven yourself?"  The question was gently spoken, though pointed.

Garibaldi was silent for a long moment, then began to nod.  "Yeah," he smiled, 
"I think I finally have."

The young man smiled broadly.  "And you've come back.  To finish your training?"

"If they'll have me," Michael said, cocking his head to one side.  After a 
moment he sobered.  "Drew, I've done a lot of thinking.  About honor, and 
courage.  The things I said that night ...  "

The blond hair spilled down into his eyes as Drew shook away Michael's protests.  
"You went back to confront your Captain, Michael.  That alone should put to rest 
any doubts about your courage."

Garibaldi winced, remembering Sheridan, and Lochley, and Bester.  "This trip 
taught me more about courage than I expected.  But honor ...  Drew, I feel like 
I'm starting from scratch ...  "

"Well, halleluia!"  the young man exclaimed, spinning round to face Garibaldi 
with a clap of his hands.  

"Halle ...  what?"  A puzzled Garibaldi stared at the trainee.  

"Michael, if you really believe that, it's wonderful!"  Drew slapped his 
shoulder.  "You're starting with a clean slate.  No marks against you.  
Congratulations."  Despite his grin, there were questions in his eyes.  

A tiny smile of delight flirted with Michael's eyes, but he persisted.  "Drew, 
what you think matters to me ...  " 

"You know what I think, Michael," the young man chided him, growing serious now.  
"Hasn't changed.  I meant what I said in Navain's class that day."

Michael winced at the memory.  "Drew, we should talk about that ...  I'm no role 
model ...  " He stepped toward the trainee, his hands held up before him in 
defense.

The blue eyes looked at him expectantly.  "Fresh start, Michael?"

Garibaldi shook his head.  "Fresh start or not, Drew, I'm no role model.  Don't 
...  you want someone to look up to ..."  He waved an arm toward the compound.  
" ...  Sinclair...  or Marcus Cole ...  or even Sheridan.  Not me.  I'm not ...  
"

Drew grimaced, and cut off the protest with a stamp of his foot.  "Aw, come on, 
Michael.  I expected better from you.  You gonna send me to the guys who make it 
look easy?  What help is that?"

Michael stared at him open-mouthed, a furrow creasing his brow.  The young man 
stepped nearer, and lowered his voice as he continued.  "You're naming icons -- 
men who always did the right thing.  I screw up.  I fall down.  

"I'm not looking for someone to show me how to be a perfect Ranger.  I'm looking 
for someone to show me how to keep going when hope is gone, to try one more time 
when everything you've tried has failed."  Crossing to the entryway, pressing 
his back against the frame, he looked back to where Michael stood.  "I'm looking 
for someone to stand between me and the door when my bag's packed to leave, to 
make me believe the impossible is possible."

When Garibaldi had turned to face him, Drew approached him again.  "Your 
credentials are impeccable, Michael.  Sorry, but you're my role model."

It was an improbable mixture of laughter and tears that swept over Garibaldi, 
joy and remorse, hope and apprehension, exhilaration and fatigue, all tossed 
into the emotional stew.  It was delight.  Drew laughed with him, and when the 
welcome backs and thanks had been exchanged, chased him off to find a few hours 
sleep.  And to begin again.  

= = =

Michael Garibaldi rose with the dawn, dressing in the half light seeping in from 
the window.  Robing himself in the Ranger uniform felt like a ritual now, a 
solemn commitment to begin again.  If they would have him.

He made his way to the Entil'Zha's office, his third trip here, he noted.  The 
Minbari loved threes; perhaps it was a good omen.  The office door stood open 
when he arrived, but the room was dark and empty.  

It was early, maybe too early.  Maybe he should come back after ...  

"Entil'Zha is not in Tuzanor."  The voice came from behind Garibaldi, and he 
turned and bowed to the Ranger.

"Thank you, Sech Navain, and good morning," Michael replied, trying to shape his 
tone to fit the feeling that tugged at him.  What was it?

"Good morning, Michael."  Navain returned the greeting politely but without 
smiling.  "Entil'Zha will return in a few days, if you wish to make an 
appointment."  The offer was matter-of-fact, and made no attempt at inquiry.

"I will do that, Sech Navain, if that is the proper course of action."  He 
didn't want to wait until Delenn got back.  He wanted to get back to training 
now, today, or know that he couldn't, and be gone from here.  Yet that was not 
what he said to Navain, and as he heard his next sentence, he recognized what he 
was feeling.  "I would be grateful for your counsel, Sech Navain, if I could 
impose upon you."  Respect.  

Navain stepped into the office, calling for lights, and inviting Michael to 
follow.  "How may I help you?"  he asked finally.

Garibaldi stood stiffly before the glass-topped desk.  "I have returned to 
Tuzanor in the hope that I might be allowed to complete my training.  I 
recognize that I left abruptly, without explanation or permission, and if by 
doing so I sacrificed my chance to be a Ranger, I will accept that judgment."  
He paused, but Navain made no reply, so he continued.  "I had hoped that my 
request to resume training could be decided upon quickly, but if I must make my 
petition to Entil'Zha herself, I will do so.  I would be grateful for your 
guidance on how I should proceed."

Navain was silent for a time, but his eyes never left Garibaldi's face.  Though 
the face was impassive, Michael thought he saw a smile in the Minbari's eyes.  
"Were you asked to leave?"  Navain asked at last.

The question caught Michael off-guard.  Navain knew the circumstances of his 
leaving.  "No, Sech Navain, " he answered warily.  "The decision to leave was my 
own."

"Then the decision to return would seem to be your own as well, Michael."  The 
Ranger betrayed no emotion as he spoke.  

Garibaldi wasn't sure of what he was hearing.  "I want very much to return, Sech 
Navain, to complete the training.  That is why I came here: to ask permission."

"You received the Entil'Zha's permission to train as a Ranger some time ago, 
Michael.  You presented yourself here, and were accepted as a candidate.  That 
permission has not been withdrawn."

Michael's tone was incredulous.  "I was concerned that my absence might have 
changed the masters' opinion of my worthiness.  If I am still viewed as an 
acceptable candidate, I would like very much to resume my training."

"I would not presume to speak for Entil'Zha, Michael, nor for my fellow 
teachers, but for myself, I wouldn't have it any other way."  An honest smile 
spread across the Ranger's features, a smile Michael returned, even as he 
realized that he heard another voice.  

Garibaldi took a step toward the Ranger, then awkwardly backed away.  What he 
needed to say was private, personal, a thank you for something that perhaps only 
Michael could understand.  

"Navain," Michael began, looking up to find the Minbari still smiling.  He moved 
forward again, and heard himself drop his voice a bit.  "Navain,this may not 
make any sense, but from the first time we met, each time you speak to me, I 
hear Sinclair.  Just now, when you said "I wouldn't have it any other way" I 
heard Jeff back in the early days on the station.  When you helped me with the 
meditation, when you called to me in the temple before I left, it was you, but 
it was Jeff.  I apologize, I probably make no sense, but I just wanted you to 
know that I am grateful for it."  

The Ranger said nothing at first, only laid a hand on Michael's shoulder to draw 
him along as they walked to the door and down the corridor.  "He would have 
liked to have been here, Michael, to see you do this," the Ranger reflected as 
they moved along the hallway.  "He knew you have the heart of a Ranger, and he 
knew one day you would wear the uniform.  It would have been a great joy to him 
to have supervised your training himself.  I know how dear you are to him."  
They passed through the front doors of the administration building into the 
amber sunlight of the early morning hills.  

"If, when I look at you, I remember him and the wisdom he shared with me, and 
remembering, I hear his voice, and hearing, I echo him, well, then perhaps in 
some small way, he is here.  That would be a gift."  Navain stopped and turned 
to face Garibaldi.  

"Or perhaps, we both just miss him very much."  The Ranger still smiled but 
Michael saw a sadness in that smile that mirrored his own heart.  

"I believe you have a class, Michael," Navain admonished before Michael could 
reply.

Garibaldi nodded, a hesitant smirk suffusing his features.  "Minbari language.  
Not my best."  He laughed gently at his own embarrassment.  

"Perhaps," the teacher acknowledged, "but not long ago, we could not have had 
this conversation."  Only at that comment did Michael realize that the entire 
exchange, from first greeting to this, had been in Adronato.  

"Go now, Michael," Navain prodded.  Eyes laughing, he added, "Begin again."

Michael Garibaldi smiled too, laid his right hand over his heart, and extended 
it to the teacher.  "In Valen's name."

"In Valen's name," came the echo.

= = =

That day was the beginning of something already familiar, the continuation of an 
experience wholly new.  The rhythms and routines of the day were lulling, ever 
as before, familiar, predictable.  Yet there was in him a joyous jitteriness 
through which he viewed each class, each exercise afresh.  He felt in himself an 
eagerness, a desire he had forgotten.  And well it was, given the sheaves of 
notes he would have to catch up on from several days of classroom sessions 
missed.  His work was ahead of him, the usual work and then some.  At least, he 
thought wryly, some of the bruises from the denn'bok had healed.  

In truth, by day's end, he was once again at home, a little uncertain but more 
able to accept that in himself.  It felt gratifying to fall into step with Drew 
on their evening jog.  

"So, heard the rumors?"  Drew asked as they took the first turn.  

"Rumors?"  Michael's head was full of so many things.  Was there room for 
gossip?

"Word is that Entil'Zha Delenn will be back this week and that the President 
will be with her.  They're supposed to be setting up Alliance headquarters here, 
and rumor is they'll both be doing an 'inspection' -- visiting in camp, looking 
around.  Jhevnak claims we're going to be flying escort when they arrive."  Drew 
threw a quick sideways glance at Garibaldi.  "You got any inside information?"

Michael laughed softly.  "Not really.  They are coming to Tuzanor, I know that.  
What they're gonna do when they get here, John didn't say."  

"Does it spook you at all," the blond inquired with a squint, "to realize you're 
on a first name basis with legends?"

Garibaldi snorted.  "What spooks me," he offered after a moment, "is that 
legends grow up so fast around good people who are simply trying to do what's 
right.  They're real people, Drew, just working with what life gives them the 
best way they can.  Sheridan.  Delenn.  Sinclair ...  "

"Garibaldi?"  The young man's eyes sparkled as he looked at his companion.  

"Yeah, right!"  Michael gave a cynical laugh.  "That'll be the day!"  

They ran on a while, still grinning, enjoying the silence.  Drew spoke at last.  
"Almost once around.  You heading in to the books?"

Garibaldi started to nod, then changed his mind.  "I've gotta get to those 
books, but I'm gonna take a couple of minutes first.  You go on ahead."

The younger man continued at a jog into the barracks and up the stairs.  
Garibaldi slowed his pace a bit, watching his friend for a moment, then he 
trotted easily to the little temple.  Pulling up in front of the doors, he 
paused a moment to quiet his breathing before slipping inside.

The translucent crystal surfaces of the temple obscured none of the light of 
Minbar's moons, only shaded it with their cool, calming blues.  His eyes focused 
on the statue of Valen at the front of the building, and he strode noiselessly 
across the tile floor.  He took his place beside the silent figure who stood 
beneath the statue, their eyes on the face of Valen.  

After a few minutes the Minbari turned, rested a hand on Michael's shoulder.  
"Good night, old friend," he whispered as he left the chapel.  

"Good night, Navain," Garibaldi answered faintly, placing his right hand over 
his heart.  He raised that hand to the image of Valen above him.  "Good night, 
old friend."

= = =

The second day, he had thought, would bring the beginnings of a returning 
routine, the familiarity of patterns repeated.  Yet as Garibaldi settled down to 
meditation on that second day, he found the sense of novelty undiminished, and 
the martial arts class that followed only added to the astonishing newness.  For 
the first time, Michael found himself truly able to hold his own during denn'bok 
drills.  He did go down, there was no denying that, but neither as hard nor as 
quickly as had been his habit.  Offensive moves became possible, and he found 
himself marveling as he saw a few good ones land.  Maybe there was hope.

Routine was not to be.  Even the usual schedule was disrupted by the arrival, 
the following day, of the Entil'Zha and the new President of the Alliance.  
Jhevnak had been right about the assignment.  White Stars and solo fighters were 
slated to fly ceremonial escort for the arriving dignitaries, each ship manned 
by trainees.  The Ranger candidates picked up their postings at breakfast that 
morning, reporting immediately afterward to their ships, for a run-through.  
Jhevnak pulled the navigator's chair on a White Star; Drew was assigned a 
fighter.  Michael found himself in the command chair of the lead White Star, 
wondering if the assignment was a nod to his friendship with Sheridan and 
Delenn.  He was fairly certain it was not because of his brilliant record in the 
simulators.  

The practice went smoothly with little for the trainees in the big chairs to 
actually command: a lot of formation flying, a little bit of showing off for 
company.  They set in and returned to the morning's classes, while crews checked 
and refueled the ships.  Sheridan and Delenn were expected mid-afternoon.

Navain's class picked up on the topic of the day.  With the formation of the new 
Alliance, all the member worlds had been invited to send candidates to the 
Rangers.  They spoke of the richness of having so many peoples represented, of 
the need to understand the various cultures.  Conversation turned to the 
learning of languages, and Michael joked about his attempts to read Narn.  The 
question of old wounds was raised, Narn and Centauri most specifically in mind, 
but quickly Michael found himself challenged again by Jhevnak.  "When the battle 
is over, must the enemy be destroyed?"

Garibaldi bristled, old instincts readying for a fight.  It would be easy to 
provoke, easy but wrong.  "No."

"No?"  Jhevnak asked with exaggerated surprise.  "Was it not you who said that 
if the enemy were not destroyed the battle was not over?"

"Yes, it was, " Michael answered quietly, leaning forward in his chair, "but 
since we had that conversation, I've learned some things."  He looked down to 
the floor, trying to frame a simple explanation of how he had changed in the 
last week.  Before he could share it, Navain had dismissed the class.  Garibaldi 
caught up to Jhevnak as they filed out.  "We should talk more about this ...  " 
he began.  

The Minbari nodded.  "Perhaps," he said as he moved away.  


There was a hum in the dining hall as every lunch table talked about the 
President's arrival.  The edginess was contagious and, Michael thought, not 
particularly constructive.  After a quick meal he slipped off to the temple to 
meditate awhile, and clear his mind, a brief respite before reporting to the 
ships, and falling into formation.  

The White Star that carried Delenn and Sheridan jumped in right on time.  The 
formal greeting was Michael's assignment.  He began, as rehearsed, with the call 
to the arriving ship, requesting identification.  Sheridan's voice came back, 
and Michael could hear the smile.  

"On behalf of the Rangers and Ranger candidates of the Tuzanor training facility 
...  " Michael began the official welcome.  

"Unidentified ships incoming."  The voice of the tactical officer on his own 
ship was echoed by that of her counterpart at the other end of the open com 
channel.  Michael called for visual.  The White Star's holographic viewer came 
online revealing what seemed to be empty space.  Only the shimmer that caught 
Garibaldi's attention betrayed the presence of the fighters, black against the 
black of space.  

"Identify."  Sheridan's voice still came through but the smile was gone.  "Star 
Furies?"  The voice was incredulous now.  "Earth Force?"  

Garibaldi signaled his tactical officer to demand identification from the 
fighters, but the call received no acknowledgment.  "Mr. President, " Michael 
addressed Sheridan formally, "under the circumstances I would suggest that we 
dispense ...  "

The suggestion was aborted by the first blast from the fighters, directed, as 
were the ones that followed, at White Star 2, carrying Sheridan and Delenn.  
"All Ranger fighters, engage those ships," Garibaldi barked.  "White Stars, fall 
into formation around White Star 2.  John, lose yourself in the White Star 
fleet, keep moving, shuffle the deck."  

The attacking ships formed up and began a second pass, ignoring the Ranger 
fighters racing to defend the fleet.  To Garibaldi's amazement, the black furies 
did not even fire in their own defense, and several were taken out because of 
it, but trained their fire wholly on White Star 2.  Though the White Stars 
rapidly scrambled their formation , no amount of maneuvering or camouflage 
confused the unidentified enemy.  Not a shot was fired on any other ship.  The 
hair on Michael's arms stood up.  "It's like they ...  "

Quickly, he singled out four White Stars.  "Take position surrounding White Star 
2, as close as possible without collision.  Protect her at all costs.  Block 
incoming fire; fire in her defense.  Do NOT let those 'furies get to her."  To 
the fighters he called out an attack vector.  

"Request correction?"  came back from one of the Ranger fighters.  "That pattern 
brings us head on to White Star 2."

"No correction," Michael snapped.  "Do it."

"But ...  " The argument coming back was cut short by a voice from another 
fighter.  

"I see where you're going.  Follow me in."  Drew's voice faded as the fighters 
formed up behind him.  

The Ranger fighters came head on at White Star 2 as the enemy, still ignoring 
them, began another pass at Sheridan's ship.  

"Come on, Drew, " Michael muttered under his breath.  As if on cue, the lead 
fighter burst forward, the others following hard on, barreling at full speed 
into the path of the attackers, weaving around the protecting White Stars, 
disrupting the enemy's attack pattern and causing them to veer off and pull up.  

Garibaldi wasted no time, seizing the moment of the enemy's confusion to attack.  
The Ranger fighters wheeled quickly and joined him.  The mystery ships fell 
quickly before this concentrated response.  A few tried to flee, but the 
fighters and Garibaldi's White Star pursued.

"Get me the tightest visual you can on that bastard, " Michael called to 
tactical as they closed on the remaining 'fury.  "I want to know who he is."  
The image enlarged before him, still eerily black on black, organic in 
appearance, with a faint shimmering outline on the underside.  Michael's jaw 
tightened in recognition and rage.  "Fire."