An Unsatisfied Hunger
Part 2


= = =

Room service was not an option.  Michael Garibaldi had arranged to get himself 
to Mars, but his accommodations for the trip were far from four-star.  Although 
there were other passengers, it was primarily a cargo ship, so he staked out a 
territory in the hold and devoted himself to being invisible.  

The trip, mercifully only two days, gave him plenty of time to puzzle over the 
absence of records concerning the explosion that killed Sean Sullivan, and made 
his inability to access any kind of computer system a major annoyance.  He was 
relieved to clear customs easily once the ship had docked, and he set out for 
the squatters' camp, determined to find Mrs. Francis as quickly as possible, and 
turn his attention to his own private mystery.

= = =

It reminded him of DownBelow.  This impromptu city of tents and packing crates 
bustled with the noise of any good-sized settlement at midday.  Its citizens 
eked out what living they could, bartering more often than buying, dreaming of 
moving out, moving up, but rarely leaving, at least not alive.  There was no 
tourist information center, no com listing to look her up in, no town hall in 
which to make inquiries.  Garibaldi pulled the picture of Gordon Francis' wife 
from his pocket and approached the nearest person who might share his language.  

He had been prepared for the persistent protests of ignorance.  A search like 
this took patience.  He was soon conscious, however, that his questions, and 
particularly, the picture, were being met with surprise, discomfort,  and 
resentment.  Had Mrs. Francis caused some kind of trouble?  Willis had said she 
was arguing with security.  Had the security force retaliated on the squatters 
because of something she had done?  Was she in fact in custody, as Willis 
suspected?  Or perhaps was he being taken for a security agent come in search of 
her to arrest or rearrest her?

"Yo.  Over here."  The man who called to him looked browbeaten to Garibaldi.  
"Word's going around that you're asking a lot of questions," the man said as 
Michael drew near.  He looked around him quickly, then back at Michael.  "You 
willing to pay for information?"

"Depends on the information.  And the price."  He held up the photo."  I'm 
looking for this woman.  I know she was seen around here about two weeks ago.  
You know where I can find her?"

The broken little man nodded enthusiastically.  "I'll take you to her.  And 
right nearby her place, there's a grocer.  We can do a bit of shopping?"

The deal was made quickly.  Garibaldi felt relieved that his informant wanted to 
be paid off in food.  Maybe he was just a sucker, but it made him feel the 
exchange was an honest one.  Michael had to maintain a good pace to keep up with 
the squirrelly figure.  He stopped finally and pointed to a blanket, hung to 
serve as a door.  "That's her place," Garibaldi's informant offered, "and 
there's the grocer." 

"OK, just let me see if the lady's in, and then we do the marketing."  He left 
the man standing some distance from the makeshift shelter and approached the 
doorway.  There was no way to signal his presence, so he called out.  "Hello?"

From inside, in a feminine voice, came a moan, a plaintive mixture of pain and 
fear.  Michael pushed his way inside.  He was able to realize that he had fallen 
to his knees before everything went black.

= = =

The first things he saw, when his personal lights came back on, were six legs.  
They looked human, he noted, as he tried to bring them into focus.  He had seen 
double on other occasions, but triple was new.  When he had cleared his head, 
however, he discovered that new experiences would have to wait.  There were 
actually three of them: large, well armed, and decidedly unfriendly.  Gingerly, 
Michael tried to roll onto his back.  The whir of a PPG arming suggested he not 
move too quickly.  

The crumpled man raised his open hands above his head to show that he had no 
aggression in mind, although he hoped he didn't look stupid enough to attack men 
who had him outnumbered three to one and, if his count was accurate, outgunned 
at least six to nothing.  Slowly, he rolled over; carefully, he sat up.  Huey, 
Dewey, and Louie held their fire.  

The shift in position moved the throbbing to different spots in his skull, but 
he forced himself to survey his surroundings.  It looked less like a room than 
the unfinished end of a tunnel, low ceiling and rough walls blending into one 
another.  Windowless, it served, judging by the crates around him, as a storage 
area.  A heavy wooden door sat off center in one wall, and opened as he 
appraised it.  The man who entered appeared to be unarmed.  He spared no time on 
pleasantries.  "What are you doing here?"

"I was hoping you folks could help me with that one."  Huey started forward, but 
the mustachioed man in front of Garibaldi -- Michael mentally christened him 
Donald -- waved him back.  As he did so, he turned slightly and Garibaldi 
detected a bulge in his jacket that meant his PPG was tucked into his belt at 
the back.  

"Your wit will be wasted here," Donald assured him, "so just save it.  Straight 
answers, starting now.  Why are you here?"

A retort sprang to Michael's mind, and almost to his lips, but Huey looked 
itchy.  "I came to Mars on business for a client.  I'm a private security 
agent." 

"We know who you are and what you are.  You were looking for someone.  Why?"

"I told you: for a client.  I find things, and sometimes, people.  A client 
hired me to find someone.  I came here to do that."

"Who hired you?"

"My client list is confidential."  It was Dewey's turn to itch.  Huey had 
responded to a tap at the door, opening it slightly and listening to someone 
outside.  He closed the door and stepped up behind Donald, whispering in his 
ear.  The muscular figure turned back to Michael.  

"This conversation isn't over, and if you're smart, you'll worry less about your 
clients' rights and more about your own neck."

Michael's neck was stiff from staring up at the dark-eyed stranger.  "May I get 
up?" he asked, hands raised.

Donald thought it over briefly.  "Slowly.  Don't do anything stupid.  Keep your 
hands in plain sight."  Slowly, and as intelligently as he could manage, Michael 
got to his feet.  Abruptly, Donald spun on his heel and left.  Huey, Dewey, and 
Louie didn't look like they wanted to chat, so Michael simply waited for the 
pounding in his head to subside.  

In a few moments, Donald reappeared in the doorway.  He gestured to the trio and 
one by one, they left.  "My men will be right outside.  Don't try anything 
stupid."  Whoever these people were, they had a serious concern about his 
intelligence.  

Donald stepped out of the room, leaving Garibaldi alone, but only for a moment.  
The door opened again to admit a slender young man who greeted Garibaldi by 
name.  "You don't look well," said the cloaked figure, pushing crates closer 
together, "perhaps you should sit down."  Michael perched on the edge of a 
crate, staring dumbfounded, at the Ranger.

"Akirai!" he spoke at last, shouting in a whisper.  "What are you doing here?  
Who are these people?"

"Everything in good time, Mr. Garibaldi.  I'm here to help you, but you've got 
to work with me."  Michael's antennae went up.  He didn't like the sound of 
that.  He searched the young man's hazel eyes.  Could he still be trusted?

"You've got to tell me why you came to Mars, who this woman is that you've been 
asking about, why you're looking for her, who you're working for...  " It 
sounded to Michael like Akirai knew a hell of a lot already.

"And who are you working for?"  Garibaldi spat out the challenge.

Akirai placed an elegant hand on his chest, framing the badge that marked him as 
a Ranger between thumb and fingers.  "I am a Ranger..." He said nothing else, 
but the rest of the vow played itself out in both their minds, and Michael could 
see in the younger man's eyes that the allegation had hurt.  He felt suddenly 
ashamed.  

"Please, Mr. Garibaldi?  We don't have a lot of time."  Akirai was calm, but 
insistent.  

"Akirai, who are these people?  Why are you helping them?"

"I'm trying to help you.  If one listens to the story from their perspective, 
it's quite obvious that they have cause to distrust you.  Under the 
circumstances, they've shown great restraint."

"Who are they?  What do they want from me?"

"I persuaded them to let me talk with you.  I assured them that there had to be 
some misunderstanding, that I knew from personal experience what kind of man you 
are.  You've got to answer my questions so that we can get this straightened 
out."

"Give me this, as a token of trust, and I'll tell you whatever you want to 
know."  Akirai should indeed know what kind of man Michael was, and Michael knew 
him to be a man of honor as well, but he needed a pledge, a sign of safety.  
"Who are they?"

The young man considered Michael's demand, searching Garibaldi's face with what 
Michael recognized as the same doubt and desire to trust that he felt as he 
returned the gaze.  Finally, he spoke.  "Mars resistance."

Questions climbed over one another to get out of Garibaldi's mind, but he rammed 
them back, and kept his promise.  "I came to Mars because an informant reported 
having seen the woman in the picture..." Instinctively his hand went to his 
pocket, but the photos were gone.  "...at a squatters' camp.  She's the wife of 
my client.  He asked me to find her, and the rest of his family."

"Who is the client?"

"Gordon Francis, a businessman.  He is -- was -- from Proxima."

"And who was your informant?"

"Somebody who approached me in a DownBelow bar.  Gave his name as Willis, 
but..."

Akirai nodded, understanding that such men rarely used the same name twice.  

"The rest of the family, you said.  Is that the other photo?"

"Yes.  Willis only claimed to have seen the wife, but the others may be here 
too."

"What do you know about Willis?"

"Nothing.  This is the first time he's given me anything, but all my regular 
sources came up dry on this case."  Garibaldi suddenly remembered the photo 
being returned without comment.  Akirai saw the puzzlement in his eyes, and 
demanded explanation.  Michael recounted the story.

Nodding, as if Michael's account confirmed some suspicion, Akirai asked softly, 
"Just what do you know about Mister...Francis, was it?"  Garibaldi opened his 
mouth to reply, then realized he had already shared just about everything he 
knew about his client.  Akirai received that news with the same quiet 
recognition.  He stood and Michael followed suit.

"Thank you, Mr. Garibaldi.  Let me see if I can take care of this."  With a 
slight bow, he took his leave.

= = =

"You heard?" the young Ranger asked the group in the hallway.  There were nods, 
but only one voice, and that in protest.  

"He could have fabricated the whole thing," the one Garibaldi had dubbed Donald 
pointed out.  

"Not Garibaldi!" Akirai's tone was fierce.  "He doesn't lie."

"How can you be sure?"  The woman who asked was calm, simply seeking 
information, with no challenge intended.  Akirai turned to face her.  

"This is a man I trust, a man we have all learned to trust.  This is the man 
Ranger One trusted above all others."  No argument was offered.  After a moment, 
Akirai spoke again, his voice softer, gentler.  "He's been set up.  He's being 
used -- by whom is not clear -- but once he understands that he'll be as anxious 
as we are to find out."

His words were addressed to the lone woman in the group, the woman to whom they 
all deferred.  She considered what Akirai had to say, nodding a bit, then turned 
to the bulky, bearded man who leaned quietly against the wall.  "Trevor?  What 
do you think?" she asked.

His gruff appearance contrasted with the cultured voice and gentle manner.  "I 
have no first hand knowledge of him," he offered after some thought, "but it did 
look as though Willis sought him out."  He paused.  "Lou trusts him, speaks well 
of him."  This last seemed significant.

"All right," the woman nodded toward Akirai, "let's talk to him."  At that, the 
door opened one more time.  

= = =

Garibaldi was, if anything, more confused for having talked with Akirai.  What 
ties did the young Ranger have to Mars Resistance, and why was Mars Resistance 
so interested in the Gordon Francis' case?  Donald's reappearance tabled the 
questions.  Michael rose and turned to face the man at the door, tried not to 
react when Akirai slid into the room.  

"Your friends hold you in high regard, Mr. Garibaldi."  Michael had the feeling 
Donald didn't share the opinion.  "Let's hope you live up to their trust."  
Garibaldi bristled a bit at that, but Akirai interrupted.  

"Mr. Garibaldi, I've convinced my colleagues to hear your side of the matter, 
and I trust you will be open to their perspective."  Michael looked from one man 
to the other and back, merely nodded.  "It could be...enlightening," Akirai 
added.  

"This way," Donald barked and strode out of the room.  

"Come," counseled Akirai, ushering Michael through the door.  

Donald led them down a hall, a tunnel of sorts, into another room about the size 
of the one they had left, but furnished with table and chairs.  Garibaldi saw 
immediately that Huey, Dewey, and Louie were still with them, still heavily 
armed, one against each of the other walls of the room.  There were several men 
seated at the table -- Akirai noted that Trevor was not among them -- and 
standing at the head of the table, a woman.

"Come in, Mr. Garibaldi," she welcomed him, the reflection of the ceiling lights 
dancing in her blue eyes, smiling eyes under a tousle of sandy curls.  "Please 
sit down," said the woman he had come to Mars to find.

= = =

Nothing made him more furious than being played for a patsy.  As he talked with 
the leaders of Mars Resistance, Garibaldi's emotion escalated from embarrassment 
to irritation to anger to rage.  

"So I was supposed to do the leg work to find you so Francis could...what?  And 
who is Gordon Francis anyway?"  Michael demanded.

"That's a good question, Mr. Garibaldi." Akirai was pacing beside the table.  
"No doubt it's an alias, but it's one none of us have heard before.  Can you 
describe the man?"

Michael began to detail the features of the man who had hired him.  As he did, 
one of the men at the table began to sketch, trying to capture the face 
Garibaldi portrayed.  He began to question Michael, to ask his approval of 
different parts of the sketch until, together, they arrived at a rough portrait 
of the man who presented himself as Gordon Francis.  The picture passed from 
hand to hand around the room, but no one save Garibaldi had ever seen the man.

Growing more and more restless, Michael realized his brain was racing.  He had 
abandoned his chair long ago, and now the room was starting to feel cramped.  "I 
was supposed to find the whole family," Michael pointed out.  "So who are the 
people in the other photo?"  Silence.  "O - K," Michael chanted sarcastically, 
"forget I asked." 

"We're not trying to be difficult," Mr. Garibaldi, she said, "nor are we trying 
to keep anything from you.  We just don't have that answer.  We don't know these 
people.  Maybe they really are his family.  Maybe that piece of reality was put 
there to quiet your suspicions."

"Yeah, well, I've got some real noisy suspicions right about now," he said as he 
began to pace again, "and I'll bet serious money they are not Gordon Francis' 
family."

Akirai moved around the table and stood beside Garibaldi, placing a hand on the 
taller man's shoulder.  "Please, Mr. Garibaldi, sit down.  You're making 
everyone nervous."  Acknowledging the truth of the young man's words, and the 
perceptible tension in his own body, Michael drew a slow breath and moved back 
to his chair.  Spinning the simple straight back around, he straddled it, 
folding his arms atop the chair back, resting his head on his forearms.  
Proposals ricocheted over his head as he tried to calm his mind, focus his 
thoughts, understand all that had happened, was happening, might have happened.

"Something's not right."  The conversation stopped as Garibaldi lifted his head 
and made that pronouncement.  

"Mr. Garibaldi?" She was looking into his eyes but she sensed he did not see 
her.  He was staring through her off into some distance in his imagination.

"It's not right.  It's..." He was out of the chair again.  "It's too easy."

The Ranger approached him.  "What?  What's too easy?"

"Francis comes to me, to set me up to find you, and maybe these other people, 
for him."  He turned to look at her, and she nodded in agreement.  "I get no 
leads on you or them.  In fact, I get a strange response -- maybe a stay-away 
message." 

Akirai was nodding now.  "The picture that was taken but not marked.  We know 
these people but we're not going to tell you anything.  You're right, that may 
have been a warning."

"Then out of nowhere, up pops Willis, pointing me to Mars, to the camp where in 
fact, you were seen, yes?"

"Yes.  The event he described to you actually happened."

"So," Michael continued, "if Willis and Francis are working together, they 
already know where you are.  What do they need me for?"

Donald leaned in to the table.  "Is it possible they're not working together?"

"Possible," Garibaldi answered, "but not probable.  That would be just too 
perfect a coincidence."

She rose from her chair now.  "So they wanted to be certain you'd find me, but 
for some other reason...for something that would happen after you found me.  But 
what?"

They stared at each other from opposite ends of the table, two minds racing in 
tandem.  Akirai tried to interrupt, but Michael held up a hand to silence him.  
The glint drew her eyes, and made Michael turn.

"Shit!!  "

Garibaldi ripped Francis' pinkie ring from his hand.  

= = =

They found it under the diamond in Gordon Francis' pinkie ring: the transmitter, 
the beacon that had already betrayed their location.   

"Evacuate this place, and do it now.  Get as many of your people as possible out 
of here.  And be careful: they may be waiting for you to come out."

Relieved that there were only a few members of the Resistance in the tunnels to 
be concerned about, and seeing that they were ready for a situation like this, 
Michael turned his thoughts to what to do next.  Whoever was homing in on the 
signal wasn't following too closely, or they would have been here by now.  If he 
left now, moved to another location, stayed there a while, maybe he could throw 
them off.  No, to do that was to put others in danger, possibly innocent 
bystanders.  To disable the transmitter was to notify Francis that the scheme 
had been discovered.  That could be equally dangerous.  

"Garibaldi, come on."  Her voice startled him.  "Everyone else is clear.  Let's 
go."

"Why are you of all people still here?"  Michael scolded.  "Get the hell out of 
here.  Now.  Get far away from me."

"What about you?  Where will you go?"

"Don't worry about me.  Just go."  Then on an afterthought, he asked, "How 
important is this facility to your operation?"

"What?  What are you asking?"

"If this place -- these rooms, these tunnels -- if it were destroyed, how much 
would that hurt?"

"Garibaldi, what are you thinking?"

"Damn it!  Can you live without it?"  He waited for her to nod.  "Then get out, 
and get yourself somewhere safe, and stay the hell away from me.  Now go!"  And 
she did.

= = =

"What are you going to do?"

Michael jumped out of his skin at the question.  He had thought he was alone.  
He turned to face the Ranger.  "Get out of here.  You should have been gone long 
ago."

Akirai merely smiled.  "My place is with you."

Michael checked the power capsule in his PPG.  He could argue, but the gold-grey 
eyes spoke of determination.  "Eventually, they'll break in.  They'll expect to 
find the Resistance.  Instead, they'll get me."  He tucked the PPG into his 
belt.  

"Us," Akirai corrected.  "What's your plan?"

"I don't know that I have one, but I know I want to find out who the hell is 
behind this.  So..."  He chose a position with a good view of all entryways.  
"...we wait."

= = =

They waited.  And waited.  And waited.  When the adrenaline rush subsided, the 
two men began to speculate on the meaning of their solitude.   

"Why track me?  Why do they want to know where I am if they're not going to do 
anything about it?  And who are 'they'?"  Garibaldi was growing more and more 
restless.  

Akirai considered the question for some time.  "Your job isn't finished yet," he 
said finally.  The Chief looked at him quizzically.  "You were supposed to find 
the people in both pictures.  You've only found one."

"You think they're waiting for me to move on?  But they have to realize I'm on 
to their scam.  They can't think that I've gotten to this point and still think 
she's his wife?"

"No, but they probably figure that -- assuming you're still alive -- you're 
going to want to know who those other people are, and that you'll be trying to 
find them."

"Well, they're right on that.  Damn it!  How am I going to find them without 
letting Francis track me right to them?"  Michael pulled the ring off again, 
studied it, and finally sighed and jammed it back on his hand.  

"What do you think happens when I move on?  They raid this place to round up the 
Resistance?"

"I guess.  At least we've gotten everyone clear.  They know this place is off 
limits now, so if company comes, there'll be nobody home."

"If we're right."  Michael stretched cramped limbs.  "God, I'm hungry."

Akirai laughed, the light of his smile penetrating the darkness of Michael's 
mood.  "Maybe we should just order in," he teased.

Garibaldi joined in the laugh, feeling, he thought, a little slaphappy.  He 
hadn't eaten, or for that matter slept, in ...how long was it?  "Well, I'd offer 
to run out and pick up a few groceries, but..." He turned to look at the Ranger, 
arching an eyebrow as he worked through the idea just forming.  Akirai's 
wariness was evident.

"Garibaldi, what are you thinking?"

"I can't go out shopping," Michael replied, laying a hand on the younger man's 
shoulder, "but you can.  If we're right, as long as I'm here, this place is 
safe.  So...I'm staying.  And you're going to find us something to eat.  After 
which," he said, "surveying the Spartan surroundings, we should get some sleep."

"Then what?"

"Are you always this annoying?"  Garibaldi asked with a smile.  "Go!  I'm 
hungry."

Akirai smiled and headed for the door.  "Mr. Garibaldi?" he called back over his 
shoulder.  Michael looked up.  "What if we're wrong?"

= = =

It was not an elegant repast, but it met the need.  Akirai had collected some 
bread and cheese, some fresh fruit, had considered picking up a few beers but 
then remembered.  He made it back safely and found Garibaldi hungry but 
unharmed.  They ate at the conference table and tried to make plans.  

"It would seem we're right about our friends waiting for you to leave.  I 
couldn't even find a sign of anyone watching the exits," Akirai offered.

Michael studied the fragment of bread in his fingers.  "You figure it's Clark?  
That Gordon Francis -- whoever the hell he really is -- is working for Clark?"

"The fact that your first target was highly placed in the Resistance would 
suggest that, but we still don't know who your other targets are."

"Speaking of 'we' -- when did you join Mars Resistance?"  Garibaldi studied the 
man on the other side of the table.  There were still bright flecks in the hazel 
eyes, even if bags were beginning to show beneath them.  His walnut brown skin 
still had a boyish softness, although stubble had begun to show through.  He 
looked to Garibaldi even thinner than when last they met, lost in the folds of 
the Ranger cape.

An embarrassed evasive smile spread over his face, as he skirted the question.  
"They have been...helpful...to us, and we have tried to return the favor."  He 
began to giggle as the eyebrow asked all the questions.  "OK, OK, supplies and 
such, for refugees mostly."

"So the Rangers are doing business with the Resistance, eh?"  Michael prodded.  

"Nothing so formal, Mr. Garibaldi," Akirai dodged.  "It's not as if we're 
keeping records."

'No records exist.'  The voice of the computer system snapped into his head.  
"Damn."  The single word escaped as he remembered that he had wanted to explore 
the missing records regarding Sean Sullivan's death.

"What's wrong?"  Akirai asked.

"Aw, nothing.  I had planned to do a little research, that is, before things got 
interesting."

"Can I take care of it for you?" the young man offered.

"No, thanks, but no.  I was checking on something just before I left the 
station, and kept getting a message that no records exist.  I know that can't be 
right.  I figure they're classified or something, so I need to do a little 
hacking around."  Michael started to clear off the table.  "Nothing urgent.  
It'll keep."

The Ranger, grinning broadly, tipped his chair back on two legs.  "What's so 
funny?"  Michael asked.

"You should go do it," Akirai responded.  

"Except that I'm the one who has to stay here."

"No, Mr. Garibaldi.  The ring has to stay here."

= = =

"This is silly."  A very discomfited Michael Garibaldi glowered under the folds 
of a Ranger cape.  "There is no way that anyone will believe that I'm you."

"No one has to."  Akirai grinned.  "They just have to believe you're not you.  
You'll leave the ring here, wear the cape, and if anyone is watching, you're 
just another Ranger doing business with the Resistance."  Teasing the Chief was 
a greater pleasure than he had imagined.  

Garibaldi brushed a hand over the top of his head.  "This is something of a 
give-away," he growled.

"No problem," the Ranger assured him.  "There's a hood."  With a chortle, he 
ducked Michael's swat.

= = =

It was quiet when Michael made his way out.  He found a public access data 
terminal and repeated his search for police records on Sean Sullivan's death.  
The response was the same.  A few security codes he kept for emergencies got him 
into classified records, and he tried the search again.  Nothing.  

He tried another route, requesting all police reports for the date and location.  
They listed out sorted by number, and he searched for what was not there.  
Quickly he found the gaps in the report numbers, and tried an undelete routine.  
What he could retrieve was corrupt, fragmentary, but it was a report on the fire 
that killed Sean Sullivan.

The information in the report wasn't new.  Police and fire units responding to a 
car fire had found two people in the wreckage.  The driver, DOA, was identified 
as Sean Thomas Sullivan.  Garibaldi noted the names of the investigating 
officers, and ran another search, this time asking for all reports either 
officer had filed for four weeks following Sullivan's death.  The gaps in the 
list were telling.  He focused in on missing report numbers, trolling for more 
deleted files, but came up empty.  Whoever had deleted those files had been 
thorough, wiping all record.

Pushing away from the data terminal, Michael tried to clear his head.  Who would 
want to destroy the records of the investigation?  

Try another tactic.  The hospital.  The one police report he had recovered named 
the hospital to which Sullivan had been taken.  He accessed the hospital 
records, and while this too took a bit of finagling, he found the emergency room 
report.  Not a lot here, but he made notes just the same.  Next he retrieved the 
death certificate and ascertained the name of the coroner who had signed it.  He 
checked autopsy records, found a hole, dug for the file that had been squashed.  
He read the coroner's report carefully, making notes as he went.  

The crunching sound in his neck was a clear sign that he had been at this too 
long.  Garibaldi stretched, checked his surroundings.  No sign of anyone 
watching him.  For a moment, he shivered, fearful that he had left Akirai in 
danger.  He should get back.  

Michael opened his mouth to order the terminal off, and stopped.  Something was 
nagging at him.  He returned to the hospital records, hacking his way in again, 
this time looking for other reports from the same night, near the same time.  He 
was not sure how he felt about what he found.

= = =

Garibaldi was relieved to find the Ranger safe when he returned.  Although it 
appeared that nothing was going to happen until the transmitter showed Garibaldi 
was clear of the site, nonetheless Akirai humored his paranoid companion by 
agreeing that they would each take a shift of guard duty while the other slept.  
Michael opted for the first shift, knowing his mind was far too full to allow 
him to sleep.   

"Did you find what you were looking for?"  Akirai asked as he stretched out and 
tried get comfortable to sleep.  

Garibaldi considered the question for some time, wondering how much to share 
with his companion.  Noting the Chief's hesitation, the young man propped 
himself up on one elbow.  "What is it?" he asked.

Michael tried to summarize the story of the missing records, told the young man 
some of what he had managed to uncover about the death.  Interested now, Akirai 
began to question him, but Michael had few answers.  He hesitated again, unsure 
whether to share what was nagging at him.  The Ranger pressed him.  "What is it, 
Mr. Garibaldi?"

"The ISN clips show the vehicle completely charred," Michael stated quietly.

"And?" his companion asked.

"Not 'and'," Garibaldi corrected, " 'but'.  But neither the emergency room 
report nor the coroner's report talk about the kind of burns you'd expect from 
seeing that vehicle.  Burns, yes, but concentrated on certain areas of the 
body."

Akirai sat up.  "You think the car didn't burn until after his body was 
removed."  It was a statement,  not a question.  Michael only nodded.  "There's 
something else, isn't there?"  Akirai asked after a time.

Garibaldi didn't look up.  His thoughts were far away.  "He wasn't alone in the 
car.  The other passenger had minimal burns."

The young Ranger was on his feet now.  "That would say it was a focused 
detonation.  That's professional work.  And it shouldn't consume the car."  He 
started to pace.  "Unless the vehicle was burned later, to destroy the 
evidence."  He spun to face Garibaldi, found him still staring.  

Drawing near to the Chief, Akirai laid a hand on his shoulder.  "Who was the 
other passenger?"

"His wife."

= = =

Neither of them slept very well that night.  Each in turn tossing and turning, 
watching, waiting for the clatter of thugs breaking in, seeing, remembering the 
disturbing details of Sean Sullivan's death, by morning they were exhausted with 
the attempt to rest.  Garibaldi woke from the bit of sleep he had found to find 
Akirai on guard and planning.

"Are you crazy?"  The Chief's enthusiasm for his comrade's scheme was obvious.

"Who would have more reason to know what had and hadn't been done to investigate 
Sean's death?" the young Ranger countered.

"And what are we supposed to say?  'We were just in the neighborhood, Rog, and 
thought you might like to chat about how your son died'?"

"I have an idea, but we have to make a call.  And you have to lend me your 
jacket."

"I'm not wearin' the cape again.  I feel silly in the cape."

"You don't have to wear the cape," Akirai replied, folding it carefully and 
tucking it into his bag.  "You just have to lend me your jacket for a few 
minutes."

A grumbling Garibaldi sacrificed his suit jacket and watched as the Ranger 
slipped it on.  It draped the young man's shorter, slimmer frame like bunting on 
a dais, arranging itself haphazardly.  Akirai dug through his bag for what he 
described as 'one last thing' but retrieved two small cases.  As Garibaldi 
watched he removed corrective lenses from his eyes and replaced them in their 
container, then from the other box he produced a pair of wire framed eyeglasses.  
As he watched Akirai slip them on Garibaldi realized that these too dwarfed the 
young man, completing the transformation.  Michael could not help but smile.

"So now what?" he asked, appraising the preoccupied-looking little man who 
moments ago had been a competent and courageous guardian of the light.

"Now, I make a call.  What about you?"

Garibaldi considered for a moment, absentmindedly fidgeting with the ring on his 
pinkie.  "This..." he said finally, looking down at it, "is going to have to 
leave here soon, or they'll get wise to us.  So I guess I see what I can dig up 
on the people in the other picture."  Akirai saw something harden in the Chief's 
appearance.  "First though, I think I'll make a call myself," Michael added with 
resolve.

They rechecked the little hideout carefully before leaving, making sure that 
nothing had been left behind that could identify them or the members of the 
Resistance.  In truth, if whoever moved in wanted to scour the place thoroughly 
enough, they could no doubt turn up fingerprints, or DNA traces, or something, 
but odds were their pursuers wouldn't be that thorough.  Satisfied with their 
clean up, the two men slipped out to the street and searched out a com station.  

Garibaldi placed the first call, to Babylon 5, asking for and getting routed to 
Zack Allan.  Akirai kept watch, making sure no one was within earshot, as 
Michael quickly briefed his successor on Willis and Francis, asked that security 
provide surveillance until Garibaldi returned.  Zack was cautious, unwilling to 
act on suspicion and speculation, unable to charge either man with any crime, or 
hold them on station if they wanted to leave.   An unhappy Garibaldi finally 
persuaded his former second to keep an eye on them and note where they were 
going if they left the station.  With some annoyance, Michael ended the call and 
turned the station over to Akirai.

What Michael witnessed was such a delight to his cop's soul that he had trouble 
keeping his attention focused on securing the area for Akirai.  The first call 
confirmed the location of Sullivan Enterprises' Corporate Headquarters; the 
next, to Geneva, got the access path for the CEO's offices.  Moments later, 
Roger Sullivan's executive assistant appeared on screen.  The young man in the 
baggy coat and oversized spectacles appeared startled by her greeting.  

"Oh, thank you!  Yes!  Uh...Kijana Akirai here.  I wonder if might speak with 
Mr.  Sullivan?"

Politely, but firmly, the young woman put him off.  Akirai was undeterred.  

"Perhaps you can help me then," he continued.  "I'm currently researching...a 
paper for the symposium next Fall...although possibly it might be published 
in...well, that doesn't matter does it?  My research, in any case...well, it 
would be wonderful if I could talk with him directly...or perhaps he could refer 
me to some...but I really think I've checked all possible..."

An astonished, exasperated voice cut him off.  It was all Michael could do to 
stifle his laughter.  

"Yes," Akirai began again, "I am sorry...  I should get to the point, shouldn't 
I?  That is...  I wonder...  I'm going to be in Geneva in a few days, and...if 
he had any time at all...I'd be happy to work around..."

The woman's voice again, and then Akirai continued.  "Yes, an appointment...  
that is what I meant to say...If I could interview Mr. Sullivan, just for..."

Her patience was impressive, Michael thought, as the woman politely asked about 
the subject of Akirai's research.  "Oh!  Of course!  I am sorry!"  The young man 
cleared his throat and straightened a bit as though he were about to make a 
pronouncement.  "Terrorism against the Corporate System," he replied, 
articulating each word precisely.  She put him on hold.

By the time the young woman returned, Akirai was shuffling through papers, all 
of which he dropped when she greeted him.  She waited patiently while he 
retrieved them, assured of his continued presence on the line by his murmured 
apologies.  When he returned to view, Akirai was informed that Mr. Sullivan 
might be able to spare a very few minutes Thursday morning at 7: 45, but that he 
should call again closer to the date to confirm.  She interrupted his rambling 
thanks by asking him to repeat and spell his name.  

"Doctor Kijana Akirai: A-k-..." Michael noted the title he had given himself.  
"Yes, well, I will be in transit shortly, but once I arrive in Geneva I can be 
reached..." and he went on to give the name and access of one of the best hotels 
in Geneva.  Michael was impressed.  When the call had ended, Garibaldi 
congratulated his companion on the performance.

"But," Michael raised his concern, "what if Sullivan decides to check out this 
Doctor Akirai?  Then what?"

"Everything will check out," Akirai assured him, with a sadness in his eyes.  
Michael's curiosity was diverted by the wail of sirens.  With his usual 
paranoia, he first assumed that security forces were closing in on them, but 
after a moment he remembered that they had not done anything illegal, at least, 
not recently.  Akirai nudged him and pointed.  

Together they walked toward the column of smoke that caught the Ranger's eye.  
Security forces held the gathering crowd back at a safe distance as fire units 
moved in to work.  The smoke was heavy, the flames were leaping, and the 
conflagration was spreading fast.  Onlookers wondered about the cause, the 
speed, the extent of damage, the loss of life.  Akirai and Garibaldi picked up 
their bags and moved off as the Resistance hideout burned.

= = =

Garibaldi let the Ranger take the lead as they moved into the port.  It was not 
that Akirai knew the place any better.  The sights and sounds of Mars clung to 
Michael like his own sweat.  No, it was the sad sense Michael had in watching 
Akirai that while Mars was a part of his own past, it was a part of this man's 
present, and, just perhaps, his future.

The ticket agent gave Akirai a smile of recognition.  "Where to today?" he 
asked, nodding his welcome at Garibaldi as well.  

"Earth for me -- Geneva -- on the first ship available, and my friend here needs 
passage to Epsilon 3."  The clerk acknowledged the request and consulted the 
computer.  "Your usual preferences?" he asked without looking up, and Akirai 
murmured assent.  In a few moments, the agent had produced two tickets and both 
men offered up credit chits.  Akirai waved Garibaldi's aside.   

"There you are," said the clerk, handing each of them a ticket.  "Two for earth 
on the next ship out.  That will dock first in Geneva, and you'll get your 
connection to New York half an hour later, sir."  This last was directed at 
Garibaldi.  "And if I may, I'd recommend the Hotel Wales.  A little place, out 
of the mainstream, but quite charming and much more relaxing than the big 
chains."  Garibaldi glanced at Akirai, who had accepted his ticket without 
comment.  It seemed prudent to play along.  Michael pocketed the ticket and 
offered the clerk his thanks.  "Best hurry, now.  You'll be boarding soon."

Once settled on the ship to earth, Michael quietly inquired of Akirai why his 
travel plans had been changed for him.  The Ranger was uncertain but reassuring.  
"The gentleman has frequently served as my contact to the Resistance.  I don't 
know anymore than you do about why they want you in New York, but I trust the 
man.  Go to the Wales.  I'll make touch with you as soon as I can."  Grudgingly 
Michael accepted the advice.

= = =

Akirai bid good-bye to Garibaldi in Geneva, and after watching the shuttle leave 
for New York, he checked into his hotel.  There were no messages for him.  He 
had returned Garibaldi's suit jacket, so after freshening up, he made his first 
stop a clothing store.  It took some serious persuasion to convince the over 
attentive salesclerk to allow him to purchase such an ill-fitting garment, but 
before long he was back in his hotel room and ready for his next performance.  
He called Sullivan's office again to confirm the appointment.  There were no 
problems.

= = =

At 7: 30 the next morning, with a good night's sleep behind him, Doctor Kijana 
Akirai presented himself at the offices of Sullivan Enterprises.  The guard at 
the reception desk was obviously prepared to turn him away, since no one was 
about so early, but on hearing that his appointment was with Roger Sullivan, the 
guard called upstairs to verify that Akirai was expected, then directed him to 
the twentieth floor.  By 7: 45 the young man had greeted the woman who had taken 
his call, and been ushered into Sullivan's office.  

Roger Sullivan rose from the upholstered swivel chair behind the polished wooden 
desk and extended a perfectly manicured hand to Akirai.  As they greeted one 
another, the young man noted that the onyx and diamond links that secured the 
French cuffs of Sullivan's custom tailored shirt matched stud that closed the 
collar.  

"Please sit down, Dr. Akirai," Sullivan was saying.  "I'm sorry to bring you out 
so early.  What can a simple businessman do to further research in political 
economics?"  He had checked, Akirai noted, and he was letting it be known that 
he had.  

Akirai poised on the edge of his chair.  "I'm preparing a paper...  a piece on 
terrorism...how terrorists target the major corporations...the megacorps...and 
of course, Sullivan Enterprises is the largest of the megacorps ...target them 
for attack ...  campaigns of terror against the corporation, and corporate 
executives...to influence the economy indirectly...and to push corporations to 
use their influence...to make political statements."  Sullivan nodded so the 
young man continued.  "I have been researching...profiling cases ...recorded 
cases...in the press and such...  of terrorist attacks...documented attacks...  
on executives...high ranking people in the megacorps...  and their families." 

Akirai dropped his voice and his eyes.  "Please...please forgive me, sir, if 
I...if I'm raising too...well, too painful a topic, but...  I understand...I had 
heard that...  well, it was reported...  that your ...  you lost your son a few 
years ago?"

"Yes."  Sullivan gave nothing more than a simple confirmation, and the Ranger 
could not read in those granite eyes what the man was feeling.  He offered his 
sympathies with a sincerity that he himself found surprising and Sullivan 
fidgeted with his cuffs as he acknowledged the expression.  

As he raked a pale hand through his lush mane of silvery hair, a diamond 
glittered in its platinum setting, sparkling white on white on white.  "I take 
it you have questions about my son's death, Doctor?" 

Akirai pushed away all other thoughts, concentrated on staying in character.  
"Well, sir, yes...if I may...I'm sorry if I...it's just that there's that 
bit...and it looks like it is...and then...  well, there's ...well, 
nothing...and it doesn't say ...  I mean, either way...whether it was...  or 
wasn't...a terrorist act, that is."  Something was flitting around the corners 
of Sullivan's eyes but the Ranger wasn't sure if it was anger, exasperation, or 
amusement.

"You're asking then if Sean's death was the work of terrorists?"  Akirai nodded 
and Sullivan continued.  "I'm afraid I can't give you a definitive answer, 
Doctor.  I can tell you my experience, my suspicions, but..." He turned his 
chair so that he was looking out at the city, avoiding Akirai's eyes.  "At the 
time, we were so shaken -- my wife in particular took it very hard -- we asked 
that the investigation be dropped.  It was just too painful.  We needed to close 
the door on that part of our lives, to put it to rest."

"Forgive me, Mr. Sullivan," the young man pleaded, pushing his glasses back up 
to the bridge of his nose, "I didn't mean...  it's obviously so...really, it 
wasn't my intention...opening such a wound...I'm so terribly sorry...it must 
have been awful...still, I would have thought...none of my business of 
course...but I'm sure I'd want...to know the truth...know what really 
happened...I'd need that...I'd think...I mean...how could you...didn't you want 
to know?"

Sullivan looked at Akirai over his right shoulder.  Slowly his body turned to 
face the stammering scholar, though his gaze never wavered.  His voice was quiet 
and controlled, a blade against the sharpening stone.  "In the beginning, yes, I 
thought I had to find the people responsible, had to have vengeance, before I 
could go on with my life."

"But...?"  Timidly Akirai drew forth the story.

Thrusting himself out of the chestnut chair with a suddenness that startled the 
young man, Sullivan pressed his fists into the mahogany desktop and hunched down 
to peer into Akirai's hazel eyes.  "Maybe it's the price of prominence, the cost 
of celebrity, Doctor, but it got too ugly.  There were rumors, all sorts of 
horrible rumors.  It had to stop."

"Rumors?  I'm not sure I...that is, I heard...but..." Sullivan cut him off, 
began to pace.

"It's all right, Doctor, you don't have to be coy.  If you've made any kind of 
inquiries at all, you've no doubt heard all the whispers.  The only thing that's 
certain is that there was an explosion.  We believe it was a bomb, not an 
accident, but there is no proof."

"I heard something about...if I'm not overstepping...I am sorry...  something 
about...his wife?"

Akirai was not sure how much he should admit to knowing, but he had noted that 
Sullivan had spoken of his son and of his wife, but not of his son's wife.  

"Ugly, ugly rumors.  Who would say such a thing, Doctor?  She was in the car 
with him.  Escaped with minor injuries as it happened, but who could know that?"  
He dropped back into his chair.  "I don't think there's any truth to the rumors 
that Sean's wife planted a bomb in the car.  That's just evil minds at work.  
No, there are people, Doctor, malcontents, troublemakers, who strike out with 
all kinds of violence against President Clark and anyone who supports him.  
That's where I lay blame, Doctor." 

"Then you do think...that is, you suspect...there is, as you say, no proof...but 
would you say you believe it is...  the work of terrorists, I mean?"

"Yes, doctor, although I don't think you can include Sean's murder in your 
study.  There never was a finding."  The intercom bleeped softly, and Roger 
Sullivan rose.  "I'm sorry I couldn't be more help, Doctor, but I'm afraid I 
have another appointment."  He extended his hand, and the younger man shook it 
energetically.

"Oh yes, of course," he said, backing toward the door.  "Please forgive me...I'm 
sorry to have brought up...I can imagine how painful...and thank you...so 
generous of you...I know how busy..." He was still talking when Roger Sullivan 
shut the door.  

= = =

It was an unfailing reality of life that the trip from the port to the hotel -- 
any port, any hotel -- was far more arduous than the journey -- any journey -- 
that led to the port.  Michael Garibaldi was exhausted by the time he walked 
through the front door of the Hotel Wales.   

It was definitely small, and, well, yes, charming, in an antique sort of way.  
How old could this place be?  The lobby, he thought, looked like something from 
an old vid: marble and brass and slightly worn upholstery.  Real plants and 
fresh flowers decorated the public spaces in an abundance that he had forgotten 
possible during his years in space.  He approached the front desk with only one 
certainty: that he was not calling the plays in this game.  

He checked in under the same alias that had been used on his ticket.  This 
process seemed to proceed normally.  He asked for a single room, discussed 
options and preferences with the desk clerk, was assigned a room, left a credit 
chit on deposit, received his keys.  A bellman was summoned, and though he had 
only the one bag, Michael allowed the man to carry it for him and show him to 
his room.  He was shown how to adjust the environmental controls, how to operate 
the com system, where to find information about the hotel and the city.  And 
then he was alone.  Alone in little room in an anachronistic lodging house in a 
strange city on a planet he hadn't intended to visit.  And he had no idea why.  

The shower, he noted, was water, and the idea of it seemed awfully good after 
the trip.  He shrugged off his suit jacket and wondered how Akirai was faring.  
A smile returned to him as he remembered the Ranger's performance for Sullivan's 
assistant.  As he unpacked and undressed, his thoughts wound back through the 
events of the last several days.  He adjusted the water temperature and stepped 
into the shower, musing on the faces and forces that had been driving him, from 
Babylon 5 to Mars, and now here.

The warm rain soothed his body, drumming hypnotically on the straining muscles 
of his neck and shoulders.  He breathed in the steamy cloud and tried to let the 
lingering doubts rinse away with the puddles of lather.  For a few minutes, just 
a few minutes, maybe he could relax.  The sudsy sliver that passed for soap in 
hotels slipped from his hand and caromed around the tub.  As he bent to retrieve 
it, his spine screamed, stretching until he thought his skin would crack.  He 
froze like that, bent double, and waited for the warm water to pummel away the 
aftereffects of too many days on transports, too many nights sleeping on floors.  
As he slowly straightened, he heard again the admonition: 'Watch your back.' 

Sullivan.  The other Sullivan.  What had she felt?  Why had she warned him?  She 
couldn't have known he was being set up.  Could she?  What did he really know 
about her?  And why did he care about Sean Sullivan's death?  Roger Sullivan was 
one of the most powerful men in the Earth Alliance.  Whatever had happened after 
Sean died, it must have been what Roger Sullivan wanted, right?  Why did he feel 
compelled to check it out?

He turned off the water and grabbed a towel.  Patting himself down quickly, he 
wrapped the towel around his hips.  A glance in the mirror told him that he 
needed a shave and even more, needed some sleep.  He padded out to the bedroom, 
happily contemplating the prospect of a real bed.  He lost the damp towel, 
privacy locked the door, and arranged the extra pillows under his head and 
shoulders.  What did she do with all those pillows?  Damn!  Forget the woman.  
Go to sleep.

The welcome balm of slumber soothed his mind and body, easing him into a quiet 
blackness, an enveloping velvet darkness, comforting, protecting him, from 
everything.  Except the piercing bleep of the com system.  Michael shook himself 
out of the haze of sleep and pushed himself up on one elbow.  How long had he 
been asleep?  He ordered the viewer on, and felt a wave of relief as Akirai 
appeared, complete with an ill-fitting suit jacket.  

"Good morning, Mr. Garibaldi!  Hope I'm not interrupting anything?"

"Morning?  Um, just barely, I guess," replied Garibaldi, spying the faintest of 
lights at the window.  "As for interrupting, trust me, I don't have that much 
energy.  Did you have your meeting?"

"It was brief, but yes, I got to see him.  And he wasn't at all surprised by the 
absence of records, in fact, he said they asked that there be no investigation."

Garibaldi was on his feet, dragging the bed sheets off the bed to wrap around 
him.  "But why?  You'd think he'd want justice, even vengeance."

"He said it was too painful, that there were ugly rumors springing up."

"What kind of rumors?"

"Maybe that should wait until I catch up with you.  I can get the next shuttle 
to New York."

"What are you -- playing cute with me all of a sudden?  What rumors?"

"Chief, this channel may not be..."

"Just tell me!"  Garibaldi's irritation was audible.  "I'm sorry," he went on, 
shaking his head at the image on the viewer, "but it's too damn early for games.  
"

Akirai looked sheepish.  "Mr. Garibaldi, he claimed there were rumors about his 
daughter-in-law, rumors that she was behind the car bomb."  Michael dropped down 
on the corner of the bed, his eyes still fixed on the screen.  A sickening wave 
of horror and disbelief swept through him.  "But he also said he blamed 
malcontents' and troublemakers' -- Clark's opposition."

"He said she was responsible?"

"No.  He said there were rumors that she was, but he dismissed them.  He saw it 
as an attack on him, because he supports Clark."

"Why would he bring it up, why would he tell you, if..."

"I mentioned her," Akirai interrupted.  "I started to ask about her being in the 
car but not taking the same kind of injuries, but before I could get to that, he 
went on about the rumors."

Michael's mind was racing, weighing what he had heard, fitting it with the 
evidence he had collected.  "Did you believe him?"

"What?"

"Did you believe him?  Did you think he was straight with you, or were you being 
managed?"

"Definitely managed.  I'm sure that's the only way this man knows how to play.  
But I don't think he believes she's responsible, if that's what you're asking.  
Look, let me join you there..."

"No!  No, don't waste time coming here.  Damn, I don't even know what the hell 
I'm doing here.  Get back to Babylon 5.  Check out whatever sources you've got, 
see if anyone knows anything about these rumors.  He may not believe them, but 
he obviously thought you knew about them, or wanted to make sure you did.  I'll 
see you back there as soon as I can."

The Ranger acknowledged Garibaldi's request and bid him farewell.  

"Akirai?"  The young man waited for Michael's instructions.  "Keep an eye on 
Sullivan."