Hand in Glove 4/4
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She refilled their cups, draining the last from 
the teapot. They drank in silence, and though she 
noted that the room seemed dim, it felt right. 
She made no move to change it.

"What’s it like for you?" He didn’t look at her 
when he asked. "What’s it feel like to scan 
somebody?"

She used a long, slow sigh as time to find 
words. "A simple scan is nothing. It’s like 
eavesdropping on the people in the next room. I 
can hear what’s in someone’s head. But it’s 
clearer, more like it was my own thought, so I 
feel the emotion too. That’s how you can tell 
when someone’s lying. You feel the anxiety."

"And a deep scan?"

"A deep scan is more aggressive. You don’t just 
listen at the door. You ransack the drawers and 
closets. You look for hiding places and what’s 
inside them."

"What does that feel like?"

She shuddered visibly and he laid a hand gently 
on her arm. The attempt at comfort seemed feeble.

"You touch a memory, you have no anticipation of 
what’s coming, no time to prepare. You don’t know 
what you’re going to get and once you touch it, 
you’ve got it. You can’t turn it off, -- not 
without breaking the scan -- and you can really 
hurt someone if you do that.

"There’s no time to memory. You have the memory 
in an instant, whether it really lasted a minute 
or a year. You can’t see events unfolding and 
steel yourself for what’s coming. You can’t live 
with something and adjust to it. It all happens , 
just rushes by you. No, not by you. Through you, 
over you, around you. And you feel it, the joy, 
the fear, the pain, the anger, the longing…"

"What did you feel when you scanned me?" he 
whispered, unsure if he wanted to hear the 
answer.

And she didn’t answer, not at first, not for 
quite a long time. She stroked the leather of the 
gloves he had arranged so carefully.

"You are not an easy man, Michael Garibaldi," 
she said finally. "I’ve scanned a lot of people 
over the years – humans, aliens – even a Vorlon. 
Not many of those minds were as complicated as 
yours."

"Yeah, well, all those years on the booze didn’t 
help, I’m sure."

"No, they didn’t," she agreed, "but it’s more 
than that. We’re not supposed to look, to listen 
to anything except the subject we’re scanning 
for. But there was so much – all over the place – 
about Sheridan, about Sinclair, about EarthGov, 
Edgars, the Corps, mostly about you. Are you 
always so frightened, Michael?"

He nodded.

"No wonder you drank."

He tried to laugh, but his soul would not allow 
it.

"I felt your fear, Michael. I felt the fear you 
had in that moment, of the Resistance and what 
they might do to you, of me and of the scan.

"I felt your fear for the future. Could you ever 
make things right? Would you ever get the chance? 
Were you on the right road? Were you going into 
something you couldn’t handle? Or were you going 
nowhere?

"And then there were the old fears: of screwing 
up, of falling off the wagon."

"Not pretty, is it?" he asked. For just a 
moment, he stood outside himself. "I’m sorry you 
had to see that," he offered, and his tone was 
tender.

"Are you?" The question surprised her and 
stunned him, but she continued. "You said 
yourself you needed to have someone else share 
it, Michael. And when I touched your mind I felt 
your hunger to have someone really see you, 
finally understand you."

He shifted position, rearranging cramped limbs 
and turning moist eyes away from her. With a 
stuttering inhalation, he lifted himself back up 
onto the loveseat.

"It’s where a lot of the anger comes from, 
Michael." She did not rise, nor did she look up 
at him.

After a time, he spoke. "When you showed it to 
her, you were angry."

She understood the reference and affirmed it.

"Was that my anger or yours?" he asked.

"Yes." She smiled, and carefully stood up. "I 
was feeling all your rage, Michael, and a healthy 
portion of my own. It hadn’t been an easy time." 
She began to gather up the tea service. "And 
Halloran decided to push the last of my buttons."

He rose and followed her to the kitchen. "Is 
there anything I can do to help?" he asked.

"With Halloran? Too late now."

"With anything, Lyta. I owe you. Big time."

She smiled at the wall as she set the teacups in 
the sink. "Nothing right now, Michael, but who 
knows? We’re all looking at a whole new future, 
aren’t we?"

He thanked her again as she came around the 
counter and again as they walked to the door. She 
wished him well in his new job and held out her 
hand to him. He did not clasp it, but touched her 
arm gently, and awkwardly, bent to kiss her 
cheek. They said good-bye as the door slid open, 
and she watched him walk away.

In the half-light, she shivered. The door that 
had closed behind him blocked the sound of his 
footfalls on the deck plate, but she could still 
hear him. After a moment, she scooped up her cast-
off parka and hung it in the closet. She wouldn’t 
need it again. She would be staying here, on 
Babylon 5, at least for now.

She lifted her duffel onto the chair, slid back 
the zipper, and drew out the soft, rumpled 
contents. She shook out each item of clothing, 
examined it, decided if it was serviceable. Some 
she tossed in the hamper; others she folded 
carefully and put away for another day. Here and 
there in the folds she found a small item, a 
little treasure tucked away, concealed for 
safety.

She often did that, hid a little something in an 
unexpected place. It gave her a security, knowing 
that what was important to her was protected, and 
sometimes it made for a nice surprise. Some 
little package, tucked away until everyone had 
forgotten about it, rediscovered when you least 
expected it. She smiled in anticipation.

She had examined what was in Garibaldi’s mind, 
and much of it was serviceable. Edgars 
Industries’ black ops, for example. She felt 
certain the corporation would want to make 
reparation for what they had done to telepaths.

Some was better put away for another day. 
Garibaldi couldn’t know that Bester had left 
blocks behind, of course, and while she could 
have told him – or removed them – that seemed one 
of those things that should wait.

The suitcase was empty, and she stashed it on 
the closet shelf. Now, finally, she could get 
something to eat. She ordered the lights down and 
moved toward the door, taking care not to bump a 
shin on the coffee table. There on the table lay 
her gloves.

She stopped and examined them as if for the 
first time. Lifting them from the table, she held 
one up and watched it sag. By themselves, they 
were pliable but ineffective. She slipped her 
hand carefully inside the leather, stretched it 
to its limits, and bent it into a fist. With the 
right hand inside, they could accomplish a great 
deal.

She thought a long time about the telepaths who 
gave their lives in Sheridan’s offensive. She 
knew each one by name. She wondered about their 
lives, about who they once had been. She was glad 
to hear that Mr. Garibaldi felt a responsibility 
to them, and she was certain she could find lots 
of ways for him to ease his conscience. Maybe he 
could never pay his debt to those telepaths, but 
there would be others, lots of others, their 
brothers and sisters, and they would have needs 
that a man close to the President of the 
Interstellar Alliance could help to fill. She 
knew they could work something out.

She knew, but she said nothing.