An Unsatisfied Hunger Part 1 Michael Garibaldi laughed aloud when he heard it: he was whistling! He had not felt this good in a very long time. There was more work to do, more to remember -- that he knew -- but he had broken through, and he felt confident now that all of his memories would return in time. Broken through. Yes, broken through to the memories, to what had really happened to him -- happened to them -- and broken through in other ways as well: through to things he needed to face about himself, through to new possibilities for relationships. This was a new day, a time of beginnings. He picked up the melody again. There was one more piece of business left, one task still to be performed to close the book on what was. He would tend to that this evening. He toyed with the idea of doing it now, but this wasn't an office conversation. It needed a more personal setting. Maybe over dinner? No, they didn't know each other well enough for that. He settled down to his usual table -- his office, as he had come to call it -- and began to sort through the pending cases. There were a few more he could close out today; that pleased him. "Are you Garibaldi?" The question struck Michael as odd. There weren't a lot of people on this station who would have to ask. "Last time I checked. Do something for you?" His questioner was a husky man on the down side of middle age. His grey hair needed trimming, but it was clear that once it had once been carefully styled. Each item of clothing he wore -- and he seemed to be wearing far too many -- was beautifully constructed, perhaps, Michael suspected, custom tailored, but now they were thrown on all together without thought to style or function, as though all he had was what he could carry on his back. "I was told that you sometimes help people find lost...things?" The last was a feeble attempt, an unsatisfied want for a better word. "It has happened." Garibaldi gestured toward a chair. "You lost something?" The man sat, and Michael studied the face across from him. Lines enough to suggest that life had not been without stress, but not so many that one would think he had suffered. The mouth was pinched and tight, the blue eyes furtive and frightened. The skin of his face had a leathery tan, as though he had spent a good deal of time outdoors, but Garibaldi noted with interest that the color did not extend down past his neck. The man pressed his palms down on the table, as though to steady himself, and the sparkle of his diamond pinkie ring caught Michael's eye. "I was on a business trip when Proxima 3 was attacked, Mr. Garibaldi. My family...they were all there." This was the part of the job Garibaldi hated: the stories. Every one could break your heart. "Have you checked..." The man cut him off before he could finish the question. "I've spoken with all the 'official' sources. They were very little help. I've talked to everyone, anyone I could find who had any information. Mr. Garibaldi, I have been told that my family may have escaped, and I'm holding on to that hope, but I'm at a dead end. I can't find out if it's true, or where they've gone, or if they're safe. Please, people told me you could help -- that you had contacts..." "OK, slow down. If I'm going to take this case, I'm going to need some information. First of all, your family...who exactly?" For the next several minutes Garibaldi directed the conversation by his questions, and made careful notes of the replies. A wife, a daughter and son- in-law, two grandchildren. Gordon Francis produced pictures from his wallet, grudgingly agreeing to leave them with Garibaldi. Michael felt as though he had stripped the man of all he had left. Rumors that some ships had gotten away in time, that Francis' family might have been among the handful who escaped. Unsubstantiated rumors from nameless sources, friends of friends of friends. Not much to go on. Garibaldi did not encourage his would-be client. "There's not a lot here. I can do some checking around, but I don't want to lie to you: I don't have a lot of hope that I'll come up with anything." "Please, Mr. Garibaldi. I've heard stories about you, about the jobs you've done. They say you can solve cases others won't even consider." Who were 'they', Michael wondered, and why were they talking about him? He sighed, shook his head, and launched into his usual recitation about fees and expenses. Gordon Francis nodded numbly. "Mr. Garibaldi, I was considered a wealthy man once upon a time. I don't know at this point what I really have left, but whatever it is, I would gladly give it to you if it will bring my family back." He slipped the diamond from his right pinkie. "Will this be adequate as a retainer?" He offered the ring to Garibaldi, who accepted it cautiously. He did not begin to know how to put a price on the item, but, what the hell, this was probably going to go dry in a day or two anyway. Michael slipped the ring on his own hand, startled by how well it fit. "I'll do what I can, Mr. Francis. Check back in a couple of days." "Thank you, Mr. Garibaldi. I know you won't disappoint me." = = = Michael stood in the corridor staring at the door, trying to remember the little speech he had prepared. He had rehearsed it over and over in the transport tube, and now it was gone. He stepped aside to let some people pass, and they smiled and nodded in greeting. He faced the door again, drew a deep breath, and tried to compose his thoughts. From the other direction, more passersby greeted him. Gradually he realized he was becoming quite conspicuous standing there in the hall. Prepared or not, he would have to signal. He touched the device. A male voice answered, with obvious annoyance. "Yeah? What is it?" Garibaldi was caught off guard now. Quickly he checked that this was the right sector, the right corridor, the right room. "I...I'm sorry..." He was stammering. "I was looking for Ms. Sullivan." "Who are you?" For a moment, Michael thought he knew that voice. Was it possible? "Michael Garibaldi." He heard another voice from inside, muffled. The door swung open. Carly Sullivan stood opposite him, looking embarrassed. "I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Garibaldi. What can I do for you?" From what Garibaldi could see from the doorway, it appeared she was alone. "Was that..." He was almost afraid to say it. "...Sparky?!?" "Yes, it was. I'm sorry you were greeted so rudely. I don't get many visitors. That was the first time Sparky has answered the door." Michael didn't know if he was amazed or amused. "He sounds different." As soon as the sentence escaped his lips, he thought it sounded stupid; moreover, he couldn't explain, even to himself, what it meant. Sullivan blinked in surprise. "Well, yes, he probably does. I've been tuning the program. I think he's a little less..." She chose the word carefully. "...abrasive." "How?" Garibaldi asked. "I mean, how do you do that? Tune it?" Now she looked startled, caught off guard by his question. He began to apologize. "No, it's all right, Mr. Garibaldi. Sparky is an artificial intelligence. He learns from experience. After he performs a task, I try to give him feedback on how successful he was, and how he might modify his behavior next time. Gradually, he gets better." "So," Michael smiled, "you giving him any feedback on this?" He gestured to the doorway, implying in the wave the process of answering the door. "Probably not," she replied, shaking her head. "It's not terribly effective if too much time passes between the event and the response." "So? Do it. Unless that's how you want him to answer?" Michael chuckled and winked. Sullivan revealed a trace of a smile. "You don't mind waiting?" she inquired. "Well," he hesitated, not wanting to appear too pushy, "may I come in?" She blushed as she realized he was still in the corridor. "Please come in, Mr. Garibaldi. I'm sorry. I'm afraid my manners aren't much better than Sparky's." Garibaldi stepped across the threshold, waited for the door to close behind him, and watched as Sullivan excused herself and turned to the computer console. He surveyed the quarters, hoping to understand something about the occupant from what he saw there. He thought that it was not what he had expected, but he was not sure what he had expected. The furnishings were sparse, efficient, but...but what? He groped for a word, rejected decadent, settled for opulent. A low square table sat in the center of the living area, bare except for a glass globe filled with a royal blue liquid, in which three flames seemed suspended. At one corner of the table, an oversized, overstuffed, well-worn recliner sat, and opposite it, a large, lush easy chair and ottoman. The only other furnishings were pillows: large ones, small ones, on the chairs, on the floor, seemingly everywhere, dozens of them, all in shades of blue and violet. Garibaldi looked back toward the computer console where Sullivan stood, noted that a black gabardine jacket, no doubt the suit mate to the simple, tailored skirt she wore, hung on the chair there, and that an unadorned pair of pumps -- black, low-heeled, practical shoes -- were tucked tidily beneath the chair. Sullivan turned her attention back to him. "Thank you, Mr. Garibaldi. I'm sorry to keep you waiting. What can I do for you?" Her tone, he thought, was always businesslike, which made the realization that she was barefoot just a bit too amusing to allow him to suppress his smile. He turned his attention to the reason for this visit. "I just wanted to let you know what happened." Suddenly he felt awkward, as though the conversation were becoming inappropriately intimate. But he owed her at least this much. "I was able to remember some of what happened, -- not all of it yet, but much more than ever before." She nodded, but her face revealed no emotion. "That's good news. Isn't it?" "Yes," he affirmed, "some of the memories are difficult, but it's better than not knowing. And," he chose his words carefully, not wanting to betray Sheridan's privacy, "... the Captain and I were able to straighten out some things that had come between us." "That is good." She nodded, and for a moment, her eyes and her attention seemed far away. When she looked up at him again, he said, softly, "thank you." Her heart could hear all of the meaning his voice gave to those simple words. She nodded, started to speak, stopped, nodded again. Finally, she murmured, "I'm glad I could be of help." "Well," he said, as the silence became awkward, "I should go." "Thank you for coming by, and I'm sorry about Sparky." Sullivan lifted a finger toward the ceiling, the source of the disembodied voice they called Sparky. Garibaldi stopped in his tracks. "You seriously think you're going to get him back on line?" He glanced to his right to catch her reaction. She obviously was surprised by the question, but then she smiled a bit, shook her head, shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe not. If I do, it may have to be over the Commander's dead body." "If you and Ivanova are on opposite sides of this, it's not her dead body I'd worry about," Michael quipped. Sullivan laughed and looked up at him. "I know it seems like a crazy idea, but there's a lot of good programming in Sparky, a lot of design elements that are far more sophisticated than what's on station now. We could benefit from that. It's just that..." Her voice trailed off. "He's irritating as hell?" Garibaldi supplied. A look of resignation came over Sullivan's features. "Yes," she said, nodding, "and I'm probably the last person in the universe who should be trying to get him over it." She shook her head and looked back to the console. Garibaldi turned, looked at her, puzzled. "Why?" She stared at him in genuine astonishment. After a moment, she snorted, a cynical little laugh. "You haven't noticed, Mr. Garibaldi? I have no friends. I don't socialize. People skills have never been my long suit." It wasn't a whine or a complaint. Just a statement: fact. But facts, he thought, can still hurt. He wanted to say something to ease the pain, but his wit failed him. She opened the door, and turned back to face him. He knew that was his cue to leave, but it didn't seem right to go. "Thank you for coming by, Mr. Garibaldi." Awkwardly, he moved to the threshold, stopped, wanting to say something, but finding nothing, managed only a good night, which she returned. As he stepped out into the corridor, she said softly, "I'd still appreciate your input on Sparky, Mr. Garibaldi, if you ever have a few minutes..." He spun around to seize the invitation. Her eyes were cast down, as though his shoes were of tremendous interest to her. "I've got an appointment this evening," he began, "but maybe..." "Whatever." She shrugged. "I'm not trying to pressure you, Mr. Garibaldi. You know where to find me. Good night." And with that, the door slid closed. = = = The appointment Michael Garibaldi had for that evening would take him into DownBelow. He changed clothes quickly, pulling together a look that would be inconspicuous without making him appear a target. He checked the power capsule in his PPG before tucking it into his belt, double-checked his pockets to be certain that he carried nothing that could ID him. He laughed at himself even as he did it. Who on this station would he fool? Still, the old habits, the old training...better to be safe. It didn't take long for him to make his way down to the recesses of the station, into a bar he could have shut down for a dozen different violations when he was running security, and would have, if it hadn't always been such a rich source of information. He scanned the room from the doorway, mentally cataloging the cast of characters, then crossed to the bar. He propped one elbow on the bar, positioning himself so that most of the room was in his line of vision, and the few tables in the dark corner behind him -- the tables where, he knew, the most interesting interactions would take place -- were within earshot. He exchanged greetings with the bartender, who filled a glass with ice and tonic, squeezed in a slice of lime, and set it down at Garibaldi's elbow. One of the things Garibaldi had learned since he got sober was that there are times when it pays to look like you're drinking. The next customer to approach the bar was a hulk of man, easily a head taller than Garibaldi, and giving the appearance of having been born surly. His jacket, black leather and chains, partially draped an otherwise bare upper body, and on the exposed chest Michael noted what appeared to be a tattoo, but on closer inspection proved to be a ritualistic scar. He demanded a drink and the bartender produced it without any attempt at pleasantries. Garibaldi turned his gaze to the increasingly noisy barroom. Reaching in to his breast pocket, he withdrew a few small papers, and dropped them on the bar as he turned back to sip his drink. Michael kept his eyes on the mirror behind the bar, using it to continue scanning the room. In a moment, his companion began to sort the papers into two piles. The huge man hesitated only once, at the picture of Gordon Francis' family. When all had been sorted, he gathered up one stack and tucked it into an inner pocket in his jacket. Garibaldi motioned to the bartender that he needed a refill, and when the fresh drink was placed before him, he handed over a credit chit. "Buy my friend one too," he said, jerking his head toward the man on his left. As the bartender moved away to ring up the drinks, Michael gathered up the remaining papers and his glass, and wove his way between bodies to a table on the far side of the barroom. By the time the giant drained his glass, the bartender returned and handed Garibaldi's credit chit over to him. He pocketed it and left the bar. Michael tried to get comfortable at the table. It could be a long night in this smoky saloon with the sound system prone to an irritating static. A woman's hands slid over Michael's shoulders and down on to his chest. She purred into his ear as she slipped into the chair beside him, but when she was seated, and recognized the former security chief, the business girl's enthusiasm faded. Michael chuckled softly as she retreated. He spent another half hour people watching, nursing his drink. When the glass was empty, he looked around for the waitress, catching her eye from across the room. She nodded, and soon appeared beside him, depositing a fresh drink and a small packet of papers. He pocketed the papers. Michael waited a few moments, fidgeting over his drink, until he felt it was safe to leave. He threw back a last swallow and rose from the table, moved toward the entrance. At the doorway as he stepped aside to let some new arrivals pass, he felt eyes on his back. Turning, scanning the room, he saw no one. He shook off a shiver and headed out. = = = Back in his quarters a bit later, he sorted through the slips of paper. First, he noted which ones his contact had not taken. Often there was much to be learned from seeing what his sources would not comment on. Then, one by one, he examined the slips that had been returned to him. On the back of each, he found a notation: sometimes a name, sometimes a cryptic note, never an outright answer, just an arrow to point him to it. The fact that the handwritings were all different always intrigued him. He wondered how many people actually reviewed them before they came back to him. Michael flipped the article in his hand over, then over again. He examined it carefully, tilting it in the light. It was blank. The picture of Gordon Francis' family carried no notation. It had been returned exactly as received. Garibaldi spent much of the night wondering what that meant. = = = Resigned to a night without sleep, Garibaldi rose well before dawn' if that word had any meaning on Babylon 5. He showered, changed clothes, and headed out to do a bit of investigating in DownBelow before he began his office hours. The station never slept, but at this hour, with most shops and businesses closed, most people abed and only skeleton crews keeping essential functions running, it had a hush that the Chief had always liked. He savored the quiet as he waited for the transport tube, which whooshed to a stop, as he stepped toward the doors. The collision caught him by surprise. He had expected to be the only one using the tube at this hour, an expectation probably shared by the body with whom he collided. He steadied himself, then reached out to steady his startled, startling companion. He broke off in mid-apology as he recognized her. "Working late, Ms. Sullivan?" Garibaldi inquired, one cynical eyebrow arched. She made no answer to his question, only apologized for bumping into him. Michael thought she looked different, and quickly took inventory to ground the impression in observation. Sullivan wore a trench coat, belted at the waist, collar folded close against her neck. Her usually sensible shoes had been replaced by high heeled sandals; her make-up was more pronounced. Was the sedate Ms. Sullivan just getting in from a date? She offered no explanation, but walked off down the corridor. Michael stepped into the tube and tried to remember where he was headed. = = = Garibaldi felt a sense of satisfaction as he settled into his office. The early morning hours in DownBelow had been productive, turning up the information he needed to close out two more cases. He sipped at his kafe as Gordon Francis pulled up a chair. Michael knew this conversation wouldn't be easy. "I'm sorry, Mr. Francis. I wish I had better news for you, but I haven't been able to turn up anything on your family. None of my sources has any information. He slipped Francis' ring from his finger. I think it's only fair to return this to you." "Please don't, Mr. Garibaldi," Gordon Francis said, physically drawing back from Garibaldi. "Don't give up on them. You've got to find them. Please keep trying." "Look, I know this isn't easy, but sometimes we just have to accept..." He would rage if someone tried a line like this on him, Michael knew, and he felt lousy about saying it to Francis. "Please, Mr. Garibaldi, if it's a matter of money... " "No. No, it's not that. Look, we didn't have much to go on to begin with, and none of my sources are turning up anything more." Garibaldi was startled by how hard he found it to say no. "I can keep an eye out, see if I stumble over anything, so it's not like we're giving up, but I don't want to lead you on here, to get your hopes up when, honestly, we've got nothing." Garibaldi searched the pale blue eyes. Would he find anger? Pain? Resignation? The steel of the gaze that met his sent a shiver through him. "Keep trying, Mr. Garibaldi. I know you'll come through for me." = = = Quitting time. Michael stood and stretched, taking stock of the day, considering plans for the evening. He should probably pick up something to eat on his way in, but tonight he could kick back, take some time off. A thought caught him up short, and he smiled as he made the decision. With a determined stride, he made for Blue Sector. By the time he arrived at the door, he was braced and ready for anything. He signaled without hesitation. The voice still had an edge, but the change was pronounced. "Yes?" was all Sparky said. "Michael Garibaldi to see Ms. Sullivan," the Chief announced confidently. "You're outta luck, Bozo." That Michael was not prepared for. "I beg your pardon?" "Beg all you want," came the acerbic response, "she's not here." Clearly, Sparky could still use a bit more tuning. Michael checked the time. She would be on staff schedule, and the shift change was over two standard hours ago. 'God, Michael,' he thought to himself, 'the woman can have a life.' But she hadn't given him the impression that she did. "I suppose you're going to want to know where she is?" Sparky's whine broke into Michael's thoughts. "Do you have that information?" Michael asked in surprise. "Geez, who do you think you're talking to here? What little I don't know, I can find out." "Well, then, where is she?" "Hold your horses, for Pete's sake. I'm looking." The pause was momentary. "She's in her office: Blue 12." Garibaldi shook his head in annoyance. "That's her last scheduled location, but do you have any way to know where she went after the office?" "I said," and Sparky was the petulant one now, "she's in her office." "Right now?" "Yes, now. You got a hearing problem or something?" "Are you taking that information from her link?" "Do you mind? I got work to do here. She's in her office. Go. Don't go. I don't..." "All right!" Michael interrupted. "I'm going!" = = = It didn't take him long to find the office, and his signal was met with a rather absent-minded sounding "Come." She was behind her desk when he entered the room, her back to the door, her eyes fixed on the display. With one hand she motioned him in, then held up a palm to stall off his greeting. The other hand played over the keypad. "Aha!" A few more keys and she rose from her chair. "There!" She turned to face him. "Mr. Garibaldi!" He was obviously not the visitor she had been expecting. "I'm sorry if I startled you. If this is a bad time..." "No, no, it's quite all right, Mr. Garibaldi. I'm sorry." She struggled to calm her voice. "How can I help you?" "Well, I remembered you said you'd like to talk about Sparky, and I thought, if you had some time..." He let his voice trail off as he saw the distress in her eyes. "Not a good time, huh?" "Oh, Mr. Garibaldi! I do want to hear what you have to say, but I'm afraid it's really not a good time. I need to finish here tonight. I am sorry." "No, it's OK. Another time, maybe." Michael moved for the door, glanced back at the display screen. "Anything I can help with?" He gave her his most charming smile. "I'm afraid not," she replied, and the smile that accompanying her words seemed genuinely disappointed. "Just a project that the Commander handed me, but it's sweet of you to ask." "Susan's got you working overtime, eh? What's the hot project?" He leaned a bit to see around her, and she sidestepped to block his view. "Nothing terribly interesting, Mr. Garibaldi, but I'm not at liberty... "She hit a switch and the display went dark. His interest was piqued. "I should have this done by morning, so the next time you have a few minutes, please do come by." "Sure," he replied, as he glanced over the documents on her desk, "I'll do that." She was moving toward the door, and he was forced to retreat. He bid her good night and started for his quarters, but a familiar form greeted him round the first turn in the corridor. "Michael! You're looking well!" Marcus clapped him soundly on the shoulder. "I'd love to chat, but I'm late for an appointment." And as quickly as he had appeared, the Ranger was gone. Michael Garibaldi stared after the cloaked figure, fitting the puzzle pieces together in his mind. = = = The tea was sweating, and he wasn't far behind. Michael Garibaldi was not a man who easily took a night off and the carefully chosen vid and tall glass of iced tea he had readied for himself were doing nothing to distract him from the thoughts pummeling his brain. Sparky! Damn! That thing always managed to be annoying! ...Bozo?! I'll give him Bozo! ...How did he know where she was? ...And how did he know I wanted to know? Does he give that information out to just anybody who signals at the door? Damn! That could be dangerous! I should go tell her about that...Ah! She's working! ...She was just getting in at dawn and now she's working late. Interesting... What is she working on? Why wouldn't she let me see it? Am I just out of the loop because I resigned? Can I get more information from Ivanova? ...Why has Susan, who doesn't trust Sullivan, given her this job? Why is Sullivan doing it herself, rather than delegating? Whom had she been expecting? Marcus? Why? Think! What were the documents you saw on her desk? Eyes closed, he struggled to picture the papers. See the desk. OK, a mug there. He remembered it was steaming. Where had it come from that it was still hot? He tried to remember the smell: was it kafe or tea? Some documents there by the mug. To the right a sheet with handwritten notes. Lines of code, addresses, fall-out from the program she was working on. And something else. There, by the picture frame. The picture of... of whom? Garibaldi bounced from the couch and crossed to his desk. There were pictures in the packet, the one that made him think twice about Sullivan. It was in the desk drawer. And on top of the desk were other pictures, pictures of Gordon Francis' family. As Michael looked again at them, he felt a certain shame that he wasn't trying harder to track them down. He remembered the torment in Gordon Francis' eyes when he handed those pictures over. And then he remembered the look in those eyes this morning. How would he name it? Determination? His heart raced as the word 'vicious' flashed through his mind. Shaking off that bizarre feeling, Garibaldi looked again at the images on the desktop. One of Francis' wife, quite a few years his junior if this was a recent picture. An attractive woman, whose sandy curls strayed down to frame gentle blue eyes. She had the kind of smile you want your mom to have when she looked at you. The background was sterile, the kind of uniform backdrop used for id photos. Did this woman actually look good in an identicard photo? And the family group: Francis' daughter with her husband, and the two children. This was a snapshot, a casual photo. It wasn't even clear if they had been aware it was being taken. She had the baby -- barely more than a newborn from the looks of it -- in her arms, looking on while he played with his son. The toddler had a fiery shock of hair, like his father. The little one didn't have enough hair yet to tell if he (or was it she?) would be a redhead too, or dark like mom. This was the photo his contact had taken. This was the one that had been returned, without annotation. That still bugged him. It had never happened before, and Garibaldi had to think there was a message in it. But what? He made the decision quickly, gathering up the photos and a few other papers, snapping a command to turn off the vid and the lights. He left the tea sweating on the table. = = = Garibaldi entered the bar knowing it might be a wild goose chase, but he had to try again. He scanned the room quickly, then took his usual stance at the bar. He watched the dancers and waited, but no one joined him. He picked a spot to focus his eyes, careful not to give any of the more aggressive patrons the impression he was staring, and gave his attention over to sorting the hum of conversation from the tables behind him into individual voices and separate sentences. A bit of romance, a bit of smuggling, but nothing there that seemed to be of use to him. As he refilled Michael's glass, the bartender made a bit of small talk, but nothing more. The waitress who had returned his papers on last visit approached the bar with an order, but Garibaldi's attempts to strike up a conversation were met with polite disinterest. Taking his drink with him, Michael moved to a table, seating himself so that he had a view of the door but also line of sight to a mirror in which he could watch the room behind him. Each time the door swung open, he hoped, but disappointed, returned to scanning the room for anyone who had ever been a source for him. After several hours and far too much tonic water, Michael resigned himself to the fact that it was a holiday for snitches. He'd get nothing tonight, he thought, as he drained his glass. He was about to rise from his chair when a shadow fell over him. "Good evening." The man who greeted him was a stocky, solid, six-footer, bearded but beginning to bald, with a ruddy complexion and golden red hair. He seated himself without waiting for an invitation. "I hear you're looking for information." Garibaldi's curiosity battled with his paranoia. He quickly rechecked the few conversations he had had this evening. He had not said he was looking for information. Who was this man? Why was he here? And did he in fact have anything valuable? "Knowledge is power." Garibaldi replied with a shrug. "Indeed it is, Mr. Garibaldi. And I believe in sharing." "Really?" Michael raised an eyebrow. "I'm touched." His companion laughed heartily, and signaled to the waitress that they needed another round. Garibaldi handed over a credit chit which, he noted, the waitress returned to him after deducting the price of the drinks. When she was gone, his companion continued. "So, how can I be of help, Mr. Garibaldi?" Michael was wary. "I'm not sure I understand, Mister...?" He didn't expect to get a name, not a real one anyway, but he disliked the fact that this man had that advantage over him. "Willis. No Mister necessary," he offered cheerfully and, Michael thought, a bit too easily. "Word has it you come down here when you need some information, and I may be able to help you out." "For what price?" Michael made a mental note to shake up his routines. In his work, habits were not good things. "Everything is negotiable. Depends on the information. What it's worth to you. What it costs me." He met Garibaldi's eyes over the rim of his glass. "So...what do you need?" His usual sources were going nowhere with the Francis case, Garibaldi thought. Maybe this guy really does have some information. What danger could there be in asking? He fished the pictures from his pocket, and laid them on the table, facing Willis. "I'm looking for these people. I have reason to think they may have escaped from Proxima, but I don't know where they are now." Willis examined both photos. He tapped the group photo. "I can't help you here. They don't ring any bells at all. But this one..." His finger moved to the photo of Mrs. Francis. "I'm sure she's the one." "The one? What one?" Garibaldi demanded, hoping Willis wasn't going to turn out to be kin to Zathras. "I was on Mars a couple of weeks ago -- looking for some people, if you know what I mean. I had heard that the people I was after might be in this sort of squatter's camp -- lots of refugees scraping together what they can, you know?" Garibaldi nodded to encourage him along. "I never did find my people, but I saw her." He tapped the photo again. "She was shouting down a security officer, something about where they could and couldn't camp. I remember, 'cause she didn't look the type to use that kind of language. I didn't hang around, for reasons you can imagine, but I think they took her into custody." "Two weeks you say?" "About that." Willis nodded. "Where exactly was this camp?" Garibaldi was surprised by the flood of memories he felt as he pictured the places on Mars Willis described to him. The camp would not be hard to find, not for someone like Michael who knew the territory well. "So what do I owe you?" Garibaldi asked when Willis was finished. "This one's on me," Willis said as he rose. Michael got to his feet as well, even more suspicious now. Informants didn't give information away. There was always a price. "Since this is our first piece of business, Mr. Garibaldi, to prove my worth at no cost to you, I'll give you this one. Unless, of course, you have some influence there." Garibaldi followed Willis' lecherous stare to the woman who had just stepped onto the dance floor. "Sorry," he shook his head. She was new here. Although Garibaldi could only see her back, he was certain he would remember if he had seen that back before. Shapely legs balanced on dangerously high, slender heels. A flippy, breathtakingly short red leather skirt. Pale white back, shoulders, and arms above the black and red lace bustier. And an impossibly thick tumble of copper curls. From the way she leaned against her male companion, Garibaldi guessed she was more than a little tipsy. Willis didn't stop to say good-bye. Garibaldi tucked the photos back into his pocket as he watched his informant try unsuccessfully to cut in on the redhead and her partner. Strange place ya got here, he thought as he squeezed through the crowds to the door. Again, he felt the eyes on him, spun, and found nothing. Willis was pleading his case while the redhead leaned sleepily against her companion's arm. Strange place. = = = There were two conversations he needed to have before he left for Mars. It had not been easy to arrange transport, but he still had a few connections. He was used to traveling light, so packing would be no problem. Now that the decision was made, he was anxious to get going, and he was pleased to find Gordon Francis waiting when he arrived at his office. Over hot mugs of kafe, he explained to Francis that he had a lead on his wife, although nothing yet on the rest of the family. He would need to leave the station for a while to check it out. The grey-haired man pressed for details, but something in the maze of suspicion Garibaldi called his subconscious refused to be too specific. The older man's aqua eyes flashed to Michael's hand, where the diamond still rested, as he inquired whether he owed Garibaldi anything more. Oddly nervous, Michael adjusted the ring on his pinkie while deferring the offer. He would bill Francis later for the expenses of the trip. With a satisfied smile, Gordon Francis sat back in his chair and proffered Garibaldi his thanks. Michael drank deeply of his kafe to chase away his chills. = = = Business done, as many cases as possible closed out, Garibaldi was almost ready to leave. One more conversation was necessary. Michael smiled at the sense of deja vu. He had had this feeling before. Was this business or personal? He wasn't sure now, but after his most recent run-in with the beast, he was definitely going to speak his mind about Sparky. A quick stop at Sullivan's, a few hours sleep, and a transport at dawn. He was ready for it. He felt a surge of defiance as he approached the doorway. 'Do your worst, Sparky,' he thought as he signaled. "Yes?" Sparky's voice was emotionless. 'You're not gonna charm me,' he thought. "Michael Garibaldi to see Ms. Sullivan." The door slid open, without comment from Sparky. Sullivan strode out of the kitchen area, wiping her hands on a towel. "Good evening, Mr. Garibaldi. A little better this time?" Michael laughed in spite of his resolve. "Yeah, I suppose." He stepped inside in response to her invitation and took stock of the place. A jacket on the chair by the computer console, navy this time, a pair of pumps under the chair, the three flames in the blue globe, the cushions tumbling everywhere. All as he remembered. And a fragrance, one he hadn't noted the last time. "Mr. Garibaldi?" Michael suddenly realized she was talking to him. "Did you come about Sparky?" "Yes," he answered as he turned to face her. "I'm sorry. I hope this isn't inconvenient, but I'm going to be off station for a while, and I wanted to do this before I left." What he really wanted he thought, remembering the exchange the previous night, was to strangle Sparky. "No problem, Mr. Garibaldi." She motioned for him to sit. "Just let me turn this off." They both looked to the source of a sizzling, sputtering sound, and she scurried to remove a pot from the stove. Michael chose the easy chair, but opted to move the ottoman aside, feeling more at home with his feet firmly on the floor. With the danger of fire averted, Sullivan grabbed a pad and arranged herself on a floor cushion at the opposite side of the table. A fear of sounding petty flushed his face, and this woman sitting at his feet shattered his sang-froid. Dry mouthed, Michael wondered aloud where he should begin. "Why don't you start by telling me what it was that was that moved you to use your PPG, and we'll work from there?" Sullivan prompted softly. Wincing, remembering, finally laughing, Garibaldi began to relate the incident. One story leading easily to another, his role as raconteur gradually relaxed him until he no longer noticed the questions she interjected. When the tales of Sparky were exhausted he was perched on the edge of the chair, his hands quiet on his knees for the first time since his account began. She smiled as she reviewed her notes, and only in watching her did he realize how much information had actually been passed in the anecdotes with which he had been entertaining them both. They were funny, he realized, now, in the retelling, if not when one was going through them. "Well, you've certainly given me plenty to work on, Mr. Garibaldi. Thank you." She got to her feet and crossed to the data console, dropping the record of their conversation beside the keypad. Michael followed suit, but found himself distracted again by that aroma. He stepped toward the kitchen area, noting with interest and a certain pleasure an array of food on the counter. "Mr. Garibaldi?" The quizzical sound from behind him made him turn. Michael tried to catalog all that flashed in her eyes before the professional voice and visage returned. He had seen amusement. "Thank you for taking time to share this with me." Amazement too, as though she truly did not understand him. "I know you're under some time pressure." There was more. Was it affection? "I won't keep you." What did he really know about her? What did she really know about him? "Before I go," he said finally, "can I ask you a question?" She raised her eyes to meet his, calm, controlled, with only a hint of curiosity. "Of course," she said, moving toward Garibaldi and beyond, leaning casually against the kitchen counter as he turned to follow her. Garibaldi took a step toward her and sniffed. "What's the garlic for?" Sullivan's whole body relaxed in a laugh. She shook her head and gave Garibaldi a sidelong glance that said 'incorrigible'. Moving pots back to their earlier places on the stove, she said, "I'm making sauce." Garibaldi scanned the ingredients on the counter. "Sauce? Spaghetti sauce?" She laughed again, and adjusted the heat under a pot. "Yes, Mr. Garibaldi, spaghetti sauce. Or as my grandmother called it, gravy." His turn to laugh, a chuckle of recognition. "A Sullivan makes her own gravy?" She fixed him with a stare, hands on hips. "I wasn't born a Sullivan, Mr. Garibaldi." For a moment, Michael was speechless. That hadn't really penetrated his consciousness before. She wasn't a Sullivan by birth. She had married into the family. He didn't know if that was better or worse. "Mr. Garibaldi?" He snapped to as a knife blade tapped his left hand. "I need that onion." He handed over the papery globe, and took stock of the ingredients and equipment spread over the counter. "You going to peel those?" He nodded toward a pile of plum tomatoes. "Would you like a knife?" she teased, feigning exasperation. "You got another?" he asked, deadpan. "You're serious." Her stare was broken by the hiss of water boiling over. Turning down the heat, she sized him up again. "I usually blanch them," she said, nodding toward the pot of water. Garibaldi came around the counter, and began to remove the skins from the plump red globules. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, noting with pleasure that she handled a knife well. "How finely do you chop that onion?" Michael inquired as he looked over her shoulder. "Is this a quiz?" She glanced back at him as she added the chopped onion to the pot. His face colored a bit as he peeked at her. They laughed together. "You want these chopped or do you use a mill?" he asked once all the tomatoes were peeled. "Chopped, please. Knives are in the block." She stirred the pot, and Michael murmured his approval as the aroma wafted to him. He examined the array of knives, chose one, and sharpened it on a steel. A good blade in skilled hands made short work of the tomatoes. As Sullivan scooped them into the pot, she asked, "Would you mind some music?" Michael followed her glance to the sound system. "Allow me," he volunteered. He surveyed her collection approvingly: fairly large, rather eclectic. "What would you like?" he called over to her. "Your choice," came the response, and he settled on some cool jazz. She smiled as he came back to the kitchen. "I love that sax," was all she said. They settled into a rhythm of work, the only conversation focused on the recipe. "You don't put sugar in this, do you?" There was horror in his voice. "Of course not. If it's too acid, we can add a little more carrot." "Diced or grated?" "I like grated," she replied. Garibaldi nodded, signaling both agreement and approval. The thick ruddy slush was soon bubbling, all the necessary elements and enhancements in place. "How long?" he asked as Sullivan reduced the heat to keep the melange at a soft simmer. "I like to do it long and slow." She stirred the concoction one more time, and set a lid on it, just a bit ajar. "That is, if you approve?" she teased. "You have my permission," Michael pronounced with mock pontification. As they turned their attention to clean up he was urgently aware that he needed to hit the head. "May I..." he left the question unfinished, only pointing to the sleeping area, off which, usually, the bathroom opened. "Of course." She stowed the remnants of their ingredients in the cooler as he slipped away. The bedroom, he thought, had the same mixture of sparseness and opulence as the living area. A simple chest against the wall, one chair in the corner, and a small table beside the double bed were the only furnishings, but the bed was dressed with exquisitely detailed linens, a down comforter, and what looked like dozens of pillows. He raised the lights and closed the bathroom door. Pretty standard here. Sonic shower, minimal space. On the back of the door, he found a small slip of fuchsia silk and an extravagant swath of royal blue terry. The robe seemed enormous, especially next to the tiny gown, and was clearly masculine in style. Could it be that Sullivan had a regular houseguest? As he washed up, Michael scanned the room for other signs of a second presence. No extra toothbrush, no aftershave, only one hairbrush. Puzzling. He dried his hands, lowered the lights, and slipped through the door. Pausing in the doorway of the darkened bedroom, Garibaldi savored the sight before him. The proper Ms. Sullivan stood at the sink, her back to him, rinsing the last of the dishes and softly scat singing to the moan of the sax. As he watched, silently smiling, she rose on stockinged toes and danced a step or two in time to the music. As she reached for a towel, she crossed right foot behind left ankle, and with a sweep of the hips that made his breath catch in his chest, she spun round to face him. The blush rose to her cheeks as quickly as her heels sank to the floor. He could only smile. "Can I offer you something, Mr. Garibaldi?" She dove for cover into the cooler. "I think I have...Yes!" Composed again, she held aloft a bottle of mineral water. Earth. Italian. Tough to get out here. He was impressed. "Thank you." He stepped out of the doorframe as she reached for two tall cobalt glasses. "Lemon? Or lime?" she asked, retrieving her knife. He opted for lime, and she extricated one from a basket of citrus on the counter, deftly reducing it to wedges. Garibaldi poured. He sensed she was avoiding eye contact as she stirred the sauce again. Her left hand held the lid of the saucepot and Michael noted she wore no ring. As she offered him the spoon to taste, he wondered if he could find out more about her. "Ummm," he murmured, savoring, swallowing, licking his lips. "Needs to simmer down, but that's going to be good. You must not really be a Sullivan." She let that pass without comment, so he pushed a little harder. "So what's this for? A big family dinner?" That got a laugh, although a rather cynical one. "Hardly. I'll pack it in small containers and store it." "And the family?" He obviously would need to be more direct. She shook her head. "I have no family," she stated flatly. "Didn't I see Dad on ISN last week?" He was leaning hard now, and, sure enough, he caught a flash of anger in her eyes, though her voice was even. "I assume you mean Roger?" Their eyes were locked now and she gave no sign of breaking the gaze. He could only nod, wondering if she knew how furious the mere thought of Roger Sullivan made him. Then suddenly, she drew a deep breath, and shook her head. When she spoke the ice was gone from her voice. "The Sullivans never approved of our marriage. For Sean's sake, I did the 'family' thing, but I never thought of Roger and Elaine as family, and I'm quite certain they don't think of me that way." "You're divorced?" Michael asked, with honest compassion in his voice. Seeming startled by his question, she shook her head. "Widowed." "I'm sorry." A flush of awkwardness ran through him. "It's all right. I guess I assumed you knew." Michael wondered if he should ask, or just shut up. She was young to be widowed. She interrupted his thoughts with a return to their earlier subject. "Perhaps you'll join me for dinner one night so you can taste the finished product." He was pleased by the invitation and distressed to realize how he had to respond. "I'd love to do that, but I'm leaving the station first thing in the morning -- some work for a client." "Well, when you get back perhaps? It will keep in the freezer." "I'd like that. Actually, though, I don't know how long I'll be gone. It all depends on how things go..." He hated the fact that this sounded like a letdown. And a weak one at that. "No problem. If you're still interested, when you get back, I'll be here." He tried to see her eyes to know if she was hurt, but she would not meet his gaze. His glass was empty. "I guess," he stumbled over a suggestion, "I should be going." Sullivan came out from the kitchen to walk him to the door. He paused at the threshold. "Thank you for tonight," he began, realizing all at once what a good time he had had, but distracted by her laughter. "That's my line, Mr. Garibaldi." She extended a hand to him. "I am seriously grateful that you would take the time to help me with Sparky, and, well, I haven't shared a kitchen with anyone in a long time. This was a real pleasure." He clasped the hand she extended. "The pleasure was mine. It's nice to work with someone who knows her way around a kitchen, especially an Italian kitchen." That got a smile. "Thank you again, Mr. Garibaldi." "Michael. Please?" "Thank you, Michael." "Thank you. And I'm holding you to that dinner invitation!" Their hands broke apart as he stepped into the corridor. "Good!" She smiled broadly at the promise. "Michael?" she called after him, and he realized her smile was gone. "Have a safe trip." He nodded, noting that she seemed worried. "Watch your back." = = = "Lights. Low." His quarters felt particularly empty tonight, Michael thought. He had had a better time than he could have imagined this evening, and he was genuinely sorry to see it end. Now his mind ricocheted among the half dozen or so impressions he had tucked away to think about later. The suggestion that her background was Italian...The man's robe on the bathroom door...The image of her dancing by the sink...Her anger at the mention of Roger Sullivan...The realization that she was a widow...Her concern for his safety on this trip. The last disturbed him most. As aware as he was of her gift -- even if he couldn't put a name on it -- if she were worried, he would take extra care. He wondered if any of the pleasant sensations of this evening were projected onto him by her. Could she do that? There was so much about her he didn't know, didn't understand -- not the least of it her connection to the Sullivan family. On a whim, he asked the computer to search public records for the name Sean Sullivan. Before long, a list of items was returned to him: birth record, licenses, marriage certificate. He called that one up. Yeah, that would make her Italian. Lucia Carolina Amalfitano. He checked the date. Seven years ago. And already a widow? He returned to the listing of documents available, scrolled down to death certificate, called it up on screen. A little over two years ago, not all that long before Sullivan came aboard. "Computer, all public records pertaining to the death of Sullivan, Sean. Cross reference with death certificate currently displayed." In a few moments, he had access to snippets of ISN broadcasts reporting the death of Sean Sullivan, son of the founder and CEO of Sullivan Enterprises, a megacorporation with substantial holdings on Earth and the colonies. Garibaldi was struck immediately by the fact that reports had far more to say and to show about Roger Sullivan, his empire, and his political influence, than about his son's life or death. Eventually, he found a report that included a picture of Sean. Freezing the display, Michael tried to imagine the young man in the photo beside the Sullivan he knew. Where had they met? What had their courtship been like? And why had he married someone Daddy didn't approve of? "Computer, continue." Michael let the rest of the vid clips play in the background as he undressed. He stopped and stared at the screen as the camera moved in on the charred hulk of a vehicle. Sean Sullivan had died in a car fire. "Computer, halt vid. Search all police records of the investigation into the death of Sullivan, Sean." A silence and then: "No records available." Garibaldi stared at the computer in disbelief. "Computer, repeat search. Same parameters." "No records available." That was not possible. "Computer, specify. Why are records unavailable?" At times, information could not be reported back because it was classified -- and he could usually get around that -- or because the investigation was ongoing -- and he was certain he could get around that. "No records exist." No records exist? The son of one of Earth's most prominent corporate executives is killed in an explosion, and no investigation was conducted? Not possible. He demanded verification. "No records exist."