An Unsatisfied Hunger Part 3 = = = He could feel the anger rising as he rummaged for clean clothes. He was tired of being jerked around, told where to go and what to do. It was time to take charge, time for some old-fashioned police work. He dressed quickly. By the time he entered the lobby, he had a plan. He stopped at the front desk to let the clerk know he would be out all day, to ask that they hold any messages. Of course, sir. Oh, before you go, the restaurant called up just now to verify your dinner reservation. Shall we confirm for eight or would you like to make that for later in the evening? Damn, here we go again! For a moment, he considered canceling the reservation, refusing to play the game any longer, but his curiosity pleaded with him. He wanted to know why he was here, and who was pulling the strings in this little puppet show, and if he refused to go along, he might never find out. Still, the idea that he had no control, not even the illusion of control, infuriated him. "I can't make it by eight. Tell them to change it. Make it nine." Nine was, however, half a day away and Garibaldi had other things on his mind now. Outside, the urban air hung still and sodden, another inescapable presence in an already overcrowded city. It moved with him as he pushed through it, south to the regional office of one of the last print-news organizations. Much of his conversation with Akirai bothered him, but one point in particular reverberated in his brain. The Ranger had said that Roger Sullivan asked that there not be an investigation into his son's death. But there had been. If no investigation had been conducted, there truly would be no files. Instead, he had seen that files, which once had existed, had been erased. An investigation had gone on -- no decent police organization would let a death like that go by without an inquiry -- but someone had worked very hard to make it all disappear. Garibaldi searched out the archives first. While they still made newspapers for daily reading, everything in the archive was transferred to data crystals for more compact and durable storage. Much of the material that had appeared in the paper was cross-referenced electronically to other sources of information when it was archived. As he began his search, Michael hoped he'd have more luck here. ISN, he knew, was firmly under Clark's thumb, and Clark no doubt owed the Sullivan family a few favors. But perhaps here there was still some truth. He found the first article, noting the death. Interestingly, this article actually spoke about Sean Sullivan as someone whose identity was more than Roger Sullivan's son. It mentioned, although briefly, that Mrs. Sullivan -- and Michael noted that it was 'Mrs.' and not 'Ms.' -- had been in the vehicle with her husband. He jotted a few notes on details of the article, and moved on to a link to Sean Sullivan's obituary. The obit was not a long piece, but Sean's was not a long life. He was not a world shaper, a builder of empires, like his father. An academic, published but not prominent, he seemed, from that little biography, to be a simple man. He was survived by his wife, parents, brother. They had no children. Michael wondered why. On a hunch, Michael searched back through what used to be called the society pages: notices of engagements, weddings, births, other occasions that mark the passages of lives. Anyone could submit such a notice for publication but the more prominent one's family, the more space one would likely receive. There under marriages he found it: Sullivan weds Amalfitano. He expected more than he found. The article contained all the pertinent details of when and where the couple were wed, who was in attendance, what they wore, and when and where they would honeymoon, but it was cut and dried, with no indication that this was the heir to one of the largest fortunes in the Earth Alliance. He noted the names of the witnesses, not sure why that seemed important. There was only one photo, a candid shot of the couple. Michael thought he had never seen her look so happy. The burly groom with his rusty hair and beard towered over his bride, but the delight in his eyes as he looked at her matched her joy in him. They made a beautiful couple. Michael turned away from the viewer, embarrassed that he was misty-eyed. It was silly to think a photo could have this much power over him. It was just a picture. He felt his breath catch and spun quickly back to the screen, retracing his search back to the first article, scrolling to the accompanying photo. Two things impressed him as he stared at the picture of the vehicle in which the young Sullivan had died. The first was that this was a battered, aging economy model -- scarcely what you'd expect a young man with millions in trust funds to own. The second, and most disturbing, was that the car was not burnt. = = = Garibaldi decided he had learned all he could from the computer. It was time to talk to some people. Fortunately, the article had a byline and a photo credit; unfortunately, the security guard was not about to let him in without an appointment. Right outside, he found a com unit, and placed a call back to the building he had just left. The reporter whose byline appeared on the article was still on staff and in the office. Garibaldi used an alias -- he was taking enough of a risk showing his face on Earth without flashing his real name around too -- and invented a cover story. He asked if he might talk with the man over lunch. Experience told him people often speak more freely with their mouths full, especially if someone else is picking up the check. They agreed on a meet. Over a pub lunch accompanied by iced tea for Michael and several beers for his companion, Garibaldi tested the man's memory of the assignment more than two years past. It wasn't a difficult quiz. Obviously, the reporter, a middle-aged man named Jerry Oliver, had not forgotten the event; rather he spoke about it easily and angrily, intent on the fact that ISN had distorted the story. He and his photographer had been among the first on the scene, he assured his host, having been nearby on another assignment when the call went out on the police and fire channel. They had seen emergency units respond, and while he assured Michael that there had been some burning, he insisted that the vehicle had not been consumed by flames as the ISN reports had shown. It had been, in his words, an assassination, a professionally rigged explosion designed to instantly kill the driver and only the driver. Michael handled the check when it arrived, and thanked Oliver for the information. As they left the pub and took their leave, Oliver shook Garibaldi's hand. "And if I were you, I'd keep a low profile. You don't realize how well known your face is, Mr. Garibaldi." = = = Oliver's warning was probably sound. It was, perhaps, time to get out of sight, at least for a while. He would have to handle the rest of this over the com system anyway. Back at the hotel, he checked for messages, and found only a confirmation of his dinner reservation at the restaurant downstairs, a place called Busby's. That should be interesting. On the way up to the room, Michael considered how best to finesse what he hoped to do next. The first step, he decided, was just one more bit of research. The second was to change clothes. Old instincts surfaced as he entered the room. He tiptoed in, alert for any other presence, then surveyed the room carefully, trying to determine if anyone had checked it out in his absence. Except for the housekeeping staff, it appeared that no one had been there. He consulted the notes he had made earlier, found the names of Sean and Carly Sullivan's best man and maid of honor. Both proved surprisingly easy to locate. Before he made those calls though, he had to change. He went through the shirts he had brought with him, looking for something simple, dark, high collared. Deciding on the best of his choices, he stripped off the shirt he was wearing and slipped the new one on. He slid the furniture around a bit in the little room so that the view to anyone on the com would suggest an office. Then he sat at his desk and placed the first of the calls. "Good afternoon. I'm sorry to disturb you, Ms...." Surreptitiously, he glanced at his notes. "...Delaney. I'm Michael Garibaldi..." He knew that using his own name was risky but it was a risk he'd have to take. "...Chief of Security on Babylon 5." OK, so he lied. He hoped this shirt looked enough like a uniform. "Periodically, we do background checks on station personnel, chosen at random, and if I may, I'd like to ask you a few questions about..." He pretended to look at notes and tried to be casual. "...a Ms. L. C. Sullivan, who is employed on the station as Head of Operating Systems and Artificial Intelligence." "Carly. Of course, Mr. Garibaldi. What can I do for you?" "How long have you known Ms. Sullivan?" he began, trying to be patient, trying to ask questions that would sound like a routine background check. Ms. Delaney was cheerful, helpful, and very supportive of Sullivan. Finally, Michael felt he could move to the real questions. "Ms. Delaney, I apologize if this next question seems impertinent, but I have to ask in order to be clear on Ms. Sullivan's background." He saw a look of concern on the woman's face. "Do you have any reason to believe or to suspect that Ms. Sullivan was responsible for her husband's death?" Garibaldi was shocked by the woman's silence. He had expected an immediate denial. He was even more startled by what came next. "Did Carly tell you that?" Delaney asked at last. "I'm sorry," Michael said, trying not to show emotion, "I'm not at liberty..." "I had hoped she'd forgiven herself by now. Carly blamed herself, but no one ever could have held her responsible." "I'm not sure I understand...'blamed herself'?" Garibaldi pressed. "Because it was her car, because ordinarily she would have been driving." "And do you know why she wasn't driving?" "She and Sean had come to the restaurant separately, straight from work, to have dinner with Sean's parents. Sean and his dad had argued again, and Carly said Sean was still upset when they left. He wanted to talk, didn't want to go home in separate cars. Carly's car was closer so they took that. Sean couldn't stand not to drive, he hated being a passenger. He took Carly's keys, and well..." A visible shiver racked the image on the viewer as Ms. Delaney remembered. Shifting the subject with a few more questions, Michael worked around to a thanks and good-bye. When the viewer was dark, he paused to take stock of what he had heard, to sort the answers from the new questions. He had heard the story from the woman he assumed was Carly Sullivan's best friend. Now he wanted to hear it from someone loyal to Sean Sullivan. He placed the call, using the same ruse again. Mr. Vogel seemed to be buying it as well. Michael began with the routine questions, and got the routine answers. Finally, he put the real question. "Do you have any reason to believe or to suspect that Ms. Sullivan was responsible for her husband's death?" "Carly?! Is this some kind of sick joke? Carly was the best thing that ever happened to Sean, and he never let a day go by without saying so. They were more in love than any two people I've ever known. The abuse she took from his family would have driven another woman to rage, but she accepted it without comment or complaint, because she didn't want to come between Sean and his family. She was devastated when he died. Mr. Garibaldi, that question is insulting. There is no way that Carly could be responsible for Sean's death." "Do you have an opinion, sir, about who was responsible?" "No one is going to let this just be a horrible accident, are they?" Vogel asked, shaking his head. "I don't know what to say, Mr. Garibaldi, except that power polarizes people. The more power one has, the more enemies one has, or believes one has. And people will do terrifying things to hold on to power. The Sullivans were a complicated family. Sean was trying to find his own way, and that made things even more complicated. I don't know who was responsible. I don't know if anyone ever will. I just know Sean is gone, and that's a greater loss to our world than many people realize." Michael wanted to press the man, to pin him to specifics, but he'd blow his cover if he pushed too hard. He ran a few more questions and concluded the call. He stared at the darkened view screen for a time, juggling ideas, fitting pieces together, waiting for a picture to emerge. Finally he rose from his chair, stretched his stiffened limbs, and turned to check the time. Still several hours before dinner. What would that bring? It would probably be wise for him to rest a while, be sharp for whatever the evening held. He kicked off his shoes beside the bed, emptied his pockets onto the dresser. Stretching out on the bed, he flipped through the channels available, settling on an old vid he knew by heart. Slowly, with the familiar sights and sounds to lull him, he felt a sensuous sleepiness sliding over him. A nap would feel good. With a quick call to the front desk, he assured he would be awakened in time for dinner. And then he let himself rest. = = = The pulsing bleat of the com system summoned him back to consciousness. Groggily, he acknowledged the wake-up call, and ordered the vid off. He'd left himself time to shower and change before the mysterious mealtime appointment. Adjusting the shower controls to a hard hot pulse, Garibaldi began to slip off his clothes. The ancient plumbing gurgled and sputtered as Michael laid out his shaving kit. He looked over to the tub, watched the whirlpool around the open drain. Wide open, he noted. 'I wonder how many pieces of...' He slid the diamond from his left hand. '...jewelry...' He considered the ramifications. '...have disappeared down there.' Gordon Francis' ring hit the porcelain tub with a satisfying plunk. Michael watched it ride the stream of water to the dark drain and down. 'Oops!' The shower felt particularly good this evening. = = = Busby's was a large, high-ceilinged room, whose oversize windows let in the last of the setting sun. Tables were set wide apart, giving a sense of comfort and privacy, though the restaurant was busy. Michael was greeted warmly, and on giving his alias, was shown to a table set for two. He ordered a tonic and lime, opened his menu, and waited. It didn't take long. The man who approached the table seemed familiar to Garibaldi, an impression that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. He searched for a context, a clue that would help him identity the stranger who seated himself across the table. A surprisingly soft baritone greeted him. "Good evening, Mr. Garibaldi. Thank you for coming." Resentment simmered in Michael's throat. He was at a disadvantage here and it left a bad taste in his mouth. "I'm not sure I had a choice, Mister...?" His voice was bitter. "My friends call me Trevor." "And what should I call you?" The man laughed, motioned to the waiter that he'd like the same as Garibaldi was drinking, and turned back to Michael. "I hope you'll come to feel you can call me Trevor." His momentary amusement gave way to concern by the time his drink arrived. "I understand how you must feel, Mr. Garibaldi. Everyone seems to be making decisions for you. Everyone except you." "Beg pardon?" Michael did not like how much his dinner companion seemed to know. "I'm sorry. Let me try to explain. For starters, I know you, Mr. Garibaldi, because I've visited Babylon 5." Suddenly Michael had the context he had sought. He saw the face across from him as he had seen it the first time: in the DownBelow bar. This was the man Willis had tried to cut in on. This was the redhead's companion. And he was saying as much. "I saw Willis approach you in the bar, and knew enough about him to know he'd be up to no good. I told the folks on Mars that. Though I must say you had them pretty worked up flashing that picture around." 'The folks on Mars,' Garibaldi thought, was a description from someone outside the group but familiar with it. So Trevor would not be Mars Resistance, but someone known to them, trusted by them. "Your Ranger friend probably saved you from a lot of unpleasant getting acquainted. Lucky for you he happened to be around." Not a Ranger either, but he would have worn the pin if he had been. "Everything turned out all right, I trust?" He'd be damned if he was going to tell this man anything more than he already knew. "Maybe you'd like to tell me who the hell you are, and why I'm here?" "Who I am really isn't important, but your second question is. You're here, Mr. Garibaldi, because we're on the same side." "We?" "Nowadays everyone knows what you and your colleagues on Babylon 5 are fighting for, what you stand for. Some of us also know about the Rangers, what you and Sinclair, and now Sheridan and Delenn, have done to help them. You're quite accustomed to the fact that there is an active Resistance organization on Mars. You even accept the idea of EarthForce ships refusing Clark's orders. Is it so hard for you to imagine that there might be some Earthers, some civilians, who see Clark for what he is, and want to stand with the forces of light?" "So let's say I believe that. It doesn't answer my question." "We wanted to show ourselves to you, to introduce ourselves if you will." Michael's patience was gone. "Fine. You've been jerking my chain for days now. Starting now, I call the shots. You want to get acquainted? OK, I'll accept that. I want a meeting with your top people. No underlings, no excuses. And I want it tonight. Do what you have to do." Michael could feel his pulse pounding. Trevor slipped a hotel key across the table to Garibaldi. "The Hotel Pierre. Downtown. Room 683. Twenty minutes." = = = Alone in a hallway at the Hotel Pierre, Garibaldi checked his PPG. He had demanded this meeting, but obviously they' had been planning on it anyway, which ripped the teeth out of his big dog performance, and left him now feeling more annoyed than ever. Well, he wasn't about to just walk in there unarmed and unassuming. He held his weapon half under his jacket as he knocked on the door of room 683. No response. Damn, he didn't like this. He knocked again, a more resonant thumping. Still nothing. His left hand drew the PPG clear as his right slid the electronic key into its slot. With a soft click, the door swung free. Garibaldi wedged the door part way open and tried to peer beyond it. The darkened room gave back no information. He could feel the sweat oozing between his palm and the PPG as he gingerly stepped inside. He dropped to a crouch as he cleared the door, and stayed low as the door swung closed and his eyes adjusted to the darkness. The silent room showed no signs of any other presence. Michael realized as he cautiously rose that room 683 was a suite, and he was in the living area. Slowly, carefully, he circled the room, clockwise, moving first away from, then back toward the bedroom door. There were no surprises in the main room, no one hiding under the drapes, no one jumping out from behind the furniture. He flattened his body back against the wall as he pushed on the door to the bedroom, but no attack was forthcoming. He found the bedroom not only empty but stripped, the beds bare, the closets empty. He checked the bathroom and found it likewise barren, no towels, no toiletries, no indication that the room was occupied. He didn't like this, didn't like it at all. He edged back into the living area. The sound of the door lock froze him in his tracks. He reassured himself with the heft of his weapon in his hand, and quickly checked his back. As the door swung wide, the light from the hall created the silhouette of a tall slender figure in the frame of the doorway. A man, he could see that, but back lit as he was, Garibaldi could tell little else. "Good evening." A warm tenor, with a trace of an accent Garibaldi couldn't quite name. Michael kept his PPG trained as the man stepped inside and let the door close behind him. They could see each other now that their eyes adjusted to the darkness, not clearly, but enough. Michael took stock of the pale blond in the tuxedo, as the man spread his arms wide from his sides. Bending his arms at the elbows, the silent figure took the satin lapels in his fingers and eased the jacket open, revealing for Michael the PPG he wore in a shoulder holster. The look he gave Garibaldi seemed to ask permission, but Michael made no response. His arms still wide, he dropped the side of the jacket that did not conceal a weapon, and slowly moved his free hand toward his ppg. With thumb and finger he seized the butt of the weapon, eased it out of its place in the holster, and held it, barrel down, at arm's length in front of him. He moved slowly forward and placed the weapon gently on the coffee table. Michael could feel tiny muscles twitching but he refused to change his position. He kept his PPG trained on the blond as he evaluated the situation. "That's it," the slender stranger spoke again. "You can pat me down if you like." "Jacket." Michael was startled that his voice sounded more certain than he felt. "Off." The man smiled as he doffed the dinner jacket then did a slow pirouette to assure Garibaldi he was otherwise unarmed. Finally, Michael lowered his weapon. As Michael approached him, the blond unfastened the cuffs of his starched and pleated shirt. "Sorry," Michael said sarcastically, "no one told me we had a dress code." The blond grinned as he folded back his cuffs, and Michael thought the sparkling blue eyes seemed honest and amused. "I apologize, Mr. Garibaldi, but I had another appointment this evening that required the tux." He extended a hand to Garibaldi, and after a moment's consideration, Michael accepted the greeting. "Jeremy Alcott," he said as he clasped Michael's hand. "Won't you sit down?" The two men settled themselves on couches across the coffee table from one another. Finally, Michael laid his ppg on the coffee table. "Thank you, Mr. Garibaldi. I appreciate the gesture, although I assume you're carrying a backup." Michael made the blond to be close to 6' 5 but only, perhaps, 175 pounds, finely muscled under the linen shirt. "And you?" Michael challenged. Alcott pulled his knees up, rested both feet on the coffee table. Grabbing the knees of his trousers, he pulled upward to expose his ankles. "As I said, you're welcome to pat me down. I carry one as a matter of course, but I didn't load up tonight, because I didn't believe I was in any danger." "Must be a nice feeling." Michael's tone was still edged with sarcasm. "Then why all the games?" he asked, as Alcott dropped his feet back to the floor and leaned forward. "Please know, Mr. Garibaldi, that it is not out of any distrust of you..." "Really?" Michael scornfully cut him off. "If we had any doubts about you," Alcott smiled, "you wouldn't be here. But we had to be certain that you weren't being followed." Michael thought about the ring that had been used to track him to the Resistance hideout on Mars, the ring that now was somewhere in the sewage system. He wondered if he should say anything. The blond man seemed to read his mind. "The folks on Mars alerted us about the ring. That's why you didn't come straight here. Trevor's instructions were to make sure you were not wearing the ring before he gave you the key." He added with a note of caution in his voice, "we assumed you would not be foolish enough to carry it concealed?" "It's been taken care of," Michael offered. He found himself liking this man in spite of his paranoia, and he found that realization annoying. "I'm sorry this is not a more hospitable meeting place, Mr. Garibaldi, but I felt privacy was the primary concern. It's good to finally meet you." "Finally?" Garibaldi was still uneasy with this whole arrangement. "Well, actually, I personally have never attempted to make contact with you before, but our representative has. I was beginning to think it would never happen." "Maybe you'd like to start from the beginning?" Michael wanted some answers before his patience evaporated completely. "Of course, Mr. Garibaldi. Let me try, anyway..." With that Jeremy Alcott began the story of people distressed by the Ministry of Peace and the Night Watch, people who one by one stood against the lies and the propaganda and suffered for it, people who little by little found one another, became a group, an organization, still doing all the day to day things as before, but giving over more of their time, energy, and resources to fight the evil they saw Clark imposing. "Word reached us, Mr. Garibaldi, that key people on Babylon 5, people in command positions, knew the truth about Clark, saw the danger and were willing to stand against it, in fact had taken a stand. Your name came up again and again in those reports. It was hard -- Clark's campaign of disinformation started early -- but stories came through, enough to make us believe that you were fighting for the same ideals we were." "We weren't completely sure about Sheridan and Ivanova. They're soldiers first and foremost, and we were afraid that when the chips were down, they'd follow orders. Until we heard the truth about Clark's attack on the station, that is. Did you know he tried to suppress the reports? And when they began to come out, he tried to paint you as the aggressors." Michael listened silently but intently. To hear the events that had shaped your own life recounted from another perspective was at once unsettling and reassuring. What had been familiar was suddenly new and even different, but hearing it told validated it, confirmed that what they had been through had meant something. "But even before that, before you broke away, we had tried to reach you, to let you know we were here, and were with you. We tried to reach you, specifically, because you had been on Babylon 5 from the beginning, because all our reports said you wouldn't go for any of the Night Watch crap, because contacts we had on Mars remembered you as someone who could be trusted, and because, by that time, we had encountered the Rangers -- knew what Jeff Sinclair was doing -- and knew that Sinclair trusted you." Michael could feel the tension drain from his body as he continued to listen and began to trust. The skeptic in his soul pounded on the back of his brain and screamed 'don't do this' but for a moment anyway, he opted to believe. "This is the second time I've heard you tried to make touch with me, but I can't for the life of me figure out when or how. What are we talking about?" Jeremy laughed. "One of our best people volunteered to go to Babylon 5, and try to establish contact with you. Every attempt to talk to you was met with such hostility that we agreed to back off a while. Then you seceded from the Alliance, and with all the other troubles, well, we figured you had enough to worry about, so we just laid low, knowing we still had a contact person there if we needed one." Garibaldi mentally called the role of all his contacts, his sources, informants, trying to remember anyone who might have been the contact Jeremy described. "Still?" he asked, and Jeremy nodded. "Oh yes, still there. In fact, we've run a few more people out to the station, because of the intelligence we were getting." "What intelligence?" Michael asked. The paranoia was pummeling his brain now. "That's the reason we put you through all this, Mr. Garibaldi. We felt it was imperative to share this with you as soon as possible, and took advantage of Trevor's encounter with you on Mars. Clark has been unsuccessful with direct attacks on the station, and he's having more and more trouble controlling public opinion when he moves against you, so he's begun to infiltrate the station. He's shipping in saboteurs, people who will disrupt things both physically and politically. We have specifics for you," he handed over a data crystal, "but we don't pretend to think our lists are complete. I understand you're no longer Chief of Security, but..." "I'll do what I can," Michael nodded, pocketing the crystal. "Thank you." "You should know our information suggests that right now the greatest threat is physical sabotage. We don't think they'll attempt anything massive, rather enough small strikes to cripple operations, divert resources, and undermine confidence." "May I know who you have aboard the station? Or am I just supposed to wait around until you're in the mood to tell me something?" The cynic in him was not dead. "We won't be trying to keep secrets from you, now that we're on the same team. Our people will identify themselves to you as soon as you return to the station. I think everyone on our end would be most comfortable if you were our liaison, since you have links to both command on the station and to the Rangers. Not to mention the fact that our people and the Mars Resistance both see you as the most trusted of the leaders of the station." Flattery will get you a paranoid response. "What is that crap? If you're trying to suck up at least get your facts straight." Jeremy's laugh was authentic and unselfconscious, rippling through his body, lighting his face, and sparkling in the air around them. "Mr. Garibaldi, I'm sorry," he said, although he obviously wasn't, "it's just that you are so refreshingly real, so honest. There are not many like you left, I fear." The man had charm. Michael would have to give him that. Shaking off his laughter, he spoke again. "I recognize that, officially, you're no longer part of the command staff, but directly and indirectly, you still wield a lot of power on the station. And well, we've had our questions about your Captain." Michael felt himself bristle. Whatever differences he may have had with Sheridan, it was quite another matter to have someone outside question him. Was all of this some sort of elaborate ruse to get him to turn on John? "You said yourself Sheridan proved himself when we broke away. He put himself out there." An edge of accusation had returned to Garibaldi's voice. His words stabbed through the darkness, a blade of mistrust, and he saw the wound in Jeremy's eyes. "I'm sorry," he said, and this time he was. "I meant no disrespect. It's just that since Captain Sheridan returned from Z'ha'dum he's become something of...well, a cult figure...and we've been concerned about whether he's still fighting for principal, or..." Jeremy looked sheepish, as though he expected Michael to lash out at him. "...or for himself." Garibaldi's spine felt fused as the rush of rage stiffened him. His muscles sang with the unreleased energy waiting to strike out in anger. Each breath made him tremble. He opened his mouth to speak but his parched throat could supply no sound. Jeremy went on. "What frightened us most was that we heard you and he were at odds, and while we might be able to dismiss other reports as propaganda, if you had reason to distrust him, we felt that was a serious concern." He paused and Michael sensed he was waiting for a response, but all that had gone down between himself and Sheridan was too private to be tossed out here. "The latest report we had, Jeremy continued at last, said that you and he had settled things." Finally, Michael found his voice. "The Captain is as committed to the cause as he ever was, and yes, we had some problems, but it was dealt with and it's over. I would trust him with my life -- I have in the past, and I do every day. I would hope he feels the same way about me. I consider it an honor to work with him." "That's all I need to hear, Mr. Garibaldi. You trust him. That's the finest reference we could ask for." Who the hell was this guy? And why did something in Michael insist on liking him? The voice in his head was flippant, but the conflict Michael felt was serious. If all the forces working against Clark could be coordinated, they could certainly expose him, oust him, and restore a legitimate government to the Alliance. Jeremy would be an important ally, if he truly spoke for Resistance forces on Earth, but Clark and the Psi Corps were not above a charade, masquerading as their own opposition to lure the Army of Light into a trap. Caution was called for. And yet... "And what about your references?" Michael asked. "Who vouches for you?" Jeremy nodded, his smile fading. "I understand your concern, Mr. Garibaldi, but I don't know what to offer you. Very few people would be able to confirm for you that I am who I claim to be, and most of those people are no better known to you than I am. I wish there were some way I could demonstrate my trustworthiness for you...." "Mars Resistance?" "Trevor's our liaison. They know I exist, but we've never been face to face." "Rangers?" "Again, contact has been through others in the organization." Michael hesitated, unsure if he should move in this direction. "You mentioned Commander Sinclair." "Well, we knew him officially as Ambassador Sinclair, unofficially as Ranger One." "Face to face?" "Well, sort of. Once. Over the com channels. But..." Alcott's voice was gentle, as though he sensed that what he was about to say would be painful. "...he's gone." And so it was, but Michael pushed that aside. "Tell me about him." He didn't know exactly what he was waiting to hear, and even if he had, he wasn't going to tip his hand by asking too specific a question. He listened for something that wouldn't be in the files, something that couldn't have been prepped for. And he heard it. Alcott described the scar on Jeff's cheek. That had been new, had startled Michael when he saw Jeff's last message. "When was this conversation?" Jeremy groped for a date, then added, "...just before he disappeared." "Before he died, you mean?" "That's not how I understand it." = = = Their conversations went on through the night into what rightfully should be called morning. They spoke of the station, of each of the key people there. Jeremy's questions betrayed a reluctance to trust, but his tone and his jubilant acceptance of Michael's reassurances suggested an eagerness to do just that. He seemed relieved to hear Garibaldi attest to the loyalty of each of his colleagues. Michael, for his part, was startled to hear what Alcott knew: that Ivanova was a latent telepath, that Franklin had struggled with stims, that Zack had been a member of Night Watch. In return, Jeremy briefed him on their work on Earth, how they were fighting Clark's campaign of disinformation, how they were resisting his abuse of power, how they were trying to support the colonists who had declared independence. He shared what intelligence they had from the military, apologizing that it was not more. We know there are members of the military who stand with the light, and not just the few ships Clark calls renegades, but our work has been here at home, day to day, in the offices, the factories, and the streets. A chill went through Michael. The question forming in his mind sickened his stomach. Phrases like 'casualties of war' and 'necessary losses' had never been at home on his lips. Still, he would have to ask. "Does the name Sean Sullivan mean anything to you?" He studied Jeremy's face, trying to find words for all that he saw in the man's eyes. Guilt was not one of the words. "Of course. It was a terrible loss." The voice, the sadness in Jeremy's voice, made it sound almost like a personal loss. Michael steeled himself to drive home the question. "Was your organization responsible for his death? Is that one of the ways you strike back at Clark's supporters?" "To the second question, no, Michael. We're trying to stand for truth, for justice. We're not terrorists or killers." His voice was calm, his tone, firm but not angry. His eyes held Michael's without apology. "To the first question..." he dropped his gaze, "...probably." Garibaldi felt blinded by a flood of emotions, emotions he couldn't name and didn't understand. He fought the urge to strike out at the man across from him. "What the hell does that mean?" "The explosion that killed Sean Sullivan was not our doing, Michael, I will swear that to you. But it was, in all likelihood, because of us. He wasn't a member of the Resistance, by any stretch of the imagination, but Sean saw the truth, and he and his father were arguing about it -- frequently, vehemently, and publicly." "Are you saying Clark had the son of one of his principal supporters killed because the son took a stand against him?" "Not exactly, but is it really hard for you to imagine Clark doing that?" Michael was horrified to realize that it wasn't. "I think it was meant to be a warning to Sean, a strike against the people that Clark, and Roger Sullivan, believed were corrupting Sean. But things went horribly wrong. In that sense, Sean's death was an accident." Garibaldi struggled to make sense of it all, to make sense of a story, a situation that he feared, at its heart, made no sense, could never make sense. Abruptly he tensed, realizing only after that he had heard voices in the hallway. Jeremy had done the same he noted, as both of them slid their hands toward the PPGs on the table. The voices passed, late night revelers on their way to bed, and the silence they left behind was broken by the growl of Garibaldi's stomach. Both men laughed as Michael realized he had never had dinner. "I guess we can't exactly call room service," he joked. "No," Jeremy agreed, "but..." He hesitated, looking at Michael, seemingly sizing him up. "I do know a little place nearby. I've shown up there with a friend more than once in the wee hours. Food's good. People are friendly. And nobody asks questions." "Sounds like my kind of place," Michael said, getting to his feet. "Lead the way." = = = Jeremy stopped just inside the door of the pub. A bit too flashy to be a neighborhood bar, a bit too seedy for a nightclub, it had the comfortable familiarity of a place well worn by a regular clientele. A crowded dance floor and an even more congested bar stood between them and the few tables in the rear. The blond turned to Garibaldi. "If you're uncomfortable..." Michael glanced around the room, noted the wholly male population. "No, it's fine," he said, and followed as Alcott led the way to an empty table. He leaned in close to Jeremy's shoulder to add, "but if we dance, I get to lead." As quickly as they seated themselves on adjacent sides of a small square table, a waiter greeted them and asked if they'd like a drink. Michael ordered tonic with lime, his companion asked for a draft. With their drinks before them, they consulted the menu. "I hear the salads are good, if you prefer that kind of thing. I'm a meat-eater myself, and their burgers are outstanding." "Sounds good," Michael concurred, "burgers it is." They ordered, sampled their drinks, and searched for a topic. The volume of the music allowed conversation, though not eavesdropping. "So, back to the station now for you?" Jeremy asked. Garibaldi thought that one over. There was a lot back on Babylon 5 he wanted to sort out, but he could still hear Akirai saying 'your job isn't finished yet.' He shook his head. "No, there's still something I need to find out." "Any way I can help?" offered Alcott, as they dug into their burgers. For a moment, Michael could not respond. His mouth was too full, and Jeremy had been right, the burgers were outstanding. He considered as he chewed. "I don't know. Maybe you can." He felt in his shirt pocket, and drew out the two photos and the sketch. The latter he handed first to Jeremy. "Not the real question, but just out of curiosity, do you recognize him?" Alcott studied the portrait, shook his head, and handed it back. "Sorry, can't help you there." "How about this one, then?" Michael asked, sliding the group photo in front of his companion. Jeremy sputtered in his beer. "You're serious?" he demanded. As Michael nodded, he wondered why the photo had gotten such a reaction. Jeremy's questions continued. "Where did you get this?" "You knew about Mars." This time Jeremy nodded. "The sketch is the guy who calls himself Gordon Francis, my client." Michael's companion chuckled at the sarcastic edge Garibaldi gave the last word. "This," Michael said, tapping the photo in front of Jeremy, "is supposed to be his family. Since the other photo was one of our friends on Mars, I thought maybe somebody in this one was one of your people." Alcott set down his burger and shook his head. When he had swallowed, he pushed the photo back to Michael. "Not one of ours, Michael, but I do recognize them. The man in the picture is Tim Sullivan." "Tim Sullivan?" "The younger of Roger Sullivan's sons. He and his family disappeared not long after his brother died." Garibaldi was beginning to be nervous about the public nature of their setting. Jeremy saw him glance around, and reassured him. "It's OK. Let's not be too loud, but it's OK." "You know where he is?" Garibaldi inquired. Jeremy shook his head. "No," he assured Garibaldi, "I know he disappeared, and I know when. I'm pretty sure I know why. But I don't know where." He laughed at Garibaldi the skeptic and his raised eyebrow. "We don't have them, Michael." "Are they alive?" Garibaldi asked. Jeremy nodded, his mouth full. "Are they safe?" he pressed. Still nodding, Jeremy gulped down a mouthful. "They should be fine, as best we can tell." "So why did they go to ground?" Garibaldi asked. Jeremy drained his beer. "We know that Tim had doubts about Clark. He had talked to one of our people -- nothing formal, they just happened to be friends. Tim was asking a lot of questions -- he had obviously heard rumors -- and when his brother was killed, what our man heard was that Tim felt he and his family were in danger. And then they all disappeared." "So who wants me to find them?" Michael wondered aloud. They discussed the possibilities as Jeremy settled the check. They had not yet found an answer when they stood to leave. Taking the point again, the blond tried to find a path through the press of bodies, repeatedly murmuring "Excuse me." He made little progress, new bodies blocking his path each time one moved aside. He turned back when he heard Michael chuckle. The Chief wrapped his right arm around the taller man's waist, took Alcott's left hand in his, and with a few quick steps, moved them both across the dance floor to the door. "I told you to let me lead." Michael teased as they stepped out into the dawn. They took their leave there on the sidewalk with the city coming to light and life around them. Michael's mind was racing through a catalog of next steps, but he noticed a smile playing around Jeremy's blue eyes, and a sense of something unsaid. "What is it?" he asked, cocking his head to the right. "All of the reports we got on you said you were a good man," Alcott chuckled, "but Lou never told me you were such a great dancer." The blond dodged Michael's playful swat and both men faded back into their own lives, smiling. = = = It was too early, Michael realized, to make his next move. Instead, he headed back to The Wales, to pack his gear, and arrange his transit back to Babylon 5. He was far too pumped to sleep, and at the first stroke of business hours, he would contact Jerry Oliver again, to find out if the reporter knew anything about Tim Sullivan's disappearance. He placed the call promptly, and asked the receptionist for Oliver. "I'm sorry, sir. There's no one here by that name." Garibaldi had been tucking a few last things into his bag. He stopped. "Are you saying he's not in?" "No, sir. There is no one here by that name." Michael verified that he had the right connection. "Do you have some kind of directory? Oliver. Maybe you have a different first name." "Sir, I don't mean to be rude, but I have checked the directory, and there is no one employed here with the last name, or for that matter, the first name, of Oliver." "That's impossible. I..." The realization made Michael feel sick. "Never mind. OFF." He grabbed his gear and headed for home. = = = The return to Babylon 5 was a restless several days for Garibaldi, stretched beyond its normal length by the need to dodge Clark's blockade. Stalled in sight of the station, waiting for clearance to dock, Garibaldi managed to get a message through to Ivanova. She was bemused by his questions, but assured him things had been quiet, and acquiesced to his request for a meeting with the command staff the next morning. When finally they docked, Michael's pent-up energy propelled him from the transport like a bullet fired from his Grandmother's pistol. He aimed for Blue Sector. He wasn't sure which of the questions to ask first, he thought, fidgeting in the transport tube, but he knew she was the first person he wanted to talk to. Then he would find Willis, and Gordon Francis -- whoever he was. First though, he needed to know more about Sullivan, all the Sullivans. He heard it first: the noises that tell you something is very wrong. Equipment being moved, orders barked, people shouting. He launched himself out of the tube at a trot. Then he smelt it: the acrid assault of burnt insulation, the choking odor of smoke. He broke into a full run. Finally, he saw it. Garibaldi skidded to a halt in front of Sullivan's quarters. Emergency crews were battling flames, foaming chemical suppressants on the blaze that leapt from what had been the kitchen. Security was on scene. Michael grabbed the arm of a familiar agent, his other hand trying to shield his nose and mouth from the smoke. "Jess, what happened?" he called over the noise. "Started in the wiring. It's pretty bad, but it could have been worse. The normal sensors didn't catch it. Whoever lives here had some other computer security in place. That's what sounded the alert." Sparky! Damned if it didn't live up to her faith in it. "Where is she?" Garibaldi shouted to the security agent. "Not here..." Jess answered, as they moved into the living area. "Place was empty when we got here." The damage would be severe, Michael could see that. The kitchen would be a total loss, the rest of the place would suffer from smoke. He looked around the living area, just as he remembered it, to the data console, where... "Jess! Are you sure she's not here?" "I told you, Chief, the place was empty." Michael looked back to the console, to the black jacket hanging on the chair, the black pumps underneath. He pushed his way past the emergency crew, checked the bedroom and the bath. There was no sign of her, but she had been home. And where would she go barefoot? Unless she had not gone willingly. Michael's mind raced back to the fire on Mars, back further to her last admonition to him. He knew he needed to find her, but how? "Sparky! Where is she?" he barked out the question. "I'm a little busy here...in case you haven't noticed," came the reply. "Where is Sullivan? I need to know now." "And just who's asking? You think I give that information to..." "Michael Garibaldi," he interrupted. "Now where the hell is she?" Sparky came back with a location in a heartbeat and just as quickly Michael was off at a run. As he ran, he realized why the location seemed familiar. It was the DownBelow bar where he had met Willis. = = = The place looked normal when he arrived. He did a visual check from the doorway, trying not to show that he was breathing hard. No sign of Sullivan. Could the fire have screwed up Sparky, messed with whatever it was he used to track her location? Michael crossed to the bar and gestured to the bartender, but before the man could respond Michael had spotted two familiar forms at a table back in the dark corner. The redhead was pulling her hand from the man's grasp, whining in an incredibly irritating voice about not wanting to leave. She might just get her way on this one, Michael thought as he approached the table, because he was not about to let Willis leave either, not before they had a little chat. "Well, look who's here!" Garibaldi announced as he came up behind the man. He noted that Willis now had a hold of the woman by the upper arm, a grip that was obviously painfully tight. He was liking this guy less and less all the time. The elbow to his gut caught him unaware, doubling him over. Garibaldi heard himself grunt as the sucker punch forced the air from his lungs. He managed to dodge the flailing right that Willis followed with, and came charging to throw his burly attacker against the back wall. Willis kicked out, forcing Michael to jump back, but as Garibaldi steadied his stance, he saw the glint of the blade Willis had drawn. The bearded man slashed at him and Michael dodged. They circled, pushing chairs and tables out of the way. Where the hell was security? With a growl, Willis lunged at him. Quickly, Michael sidestepped his attacker, grabbing the arm that held the knife and raising it up while using one leg to sweep out Willis' feet and bring the man down. Garibaldi dropped to his knees, pinning Willis' arms, pounding the right one on the floor until the knife fell free and skated away across the bar room. Struggling beneath him, Willis worked a leg around Garibaldi's and roared as he shoved the Chief off him and onto his back. Michael was able to throw one good punch, a left that bloodied Willis, before the man pinned his arms. Bracing his feet, Michael rocked his body upward and to the right, trying to throw off his attacker. He managed to move Willis' weight off him, but the man grabbed him in a bear hug, and together they rolled on the bar room floor. Garibaldi worked a hand up to his opponent's throat, squeezing off the man's air, until finally he was able to break his grasp and throw him off. Willis did not stay away for long. The instant he had his breath back, he rushed Garibaldi again. Blocking Willis' charge with his legs, Garibaldi kicked the man far enough back to give himself time to scramble to his feet. Willis straightened as well, but made no move to attack. Then Garibaldi saw the PPG in his hand. He grabbed for his own, but realized with a sickening feeling that it was his own weapon Willis held. Willis' back was to the room, Michael's to the wall. He had no escape route. "Good night, Mr. Garibaldi," Willis sneered, but Michael's eyes locked on the weapon as he heard it charge. He saw Willis' hand twitch and then release. He willed his body out of the path of the blast, and stared in shock as the gun fell from Willis' hand to the floor. The bearded man's left hand clutched at his right arm as he dropped to his knees and bent forward in pain. Michael saw the knife, the blade he had forced from Willis' hand, lodged in the man's shoulder from behind, just as security arrived. = = = "Chief, please stop pacing. You're making me nervous," begged the security agent. Garibaldi knew he would have insisted on the same follow-up when he was in charge, but it didn't make him any less impatient. He wouldn't find Sullivan by cooling his heels in the station house. He spun toward the sound of the opening door. Zack Allan's voice had a new authority, Michael thought, as Allan dismissed the agent. "OK, Michael, everything checks out. You can go." "Where's Willis?" Garibaldi asked. "Down in medlab," Zack replied. "The doc says he'll be OK. You can press charges of assault but you know that won't hold him for long." "Yeah, whatever..." Garibaldi wasn't all that anxious to lock Willis up. He'd rather follow him back to the big boys. He loped out of the station house headed for Sullivan's quarters to try Sparky again. Maybe he could get a better location on Sullivan now. Or not. Maybe Sparky was just a waste of his time. But where else could he begin? He nearly collided with her in the hallway. The redhead had also been taken in for questioning, of course, since she had thrown the knife that stopped Willis. Michael realized he owed her a thank you. He helped her steady herself and noticed that unlike his earlier encounter with her, she did not appear tipsy. Tired, yes, and a little shaken, and somehow familiar. Silly, Michael thought. He had only seen her once before tonight. "I'm sorry," he said, extending his hand. "Michael Garibaldi." She smiled as she silently took his hand. Michael wondered how it was possible for anyone's eyes to be so green. "I don't know where you learned to handle a knife like that, but I'm certainly grateful you did," Michael said. "I don't really know how to thank you. I wish I could do something..." A soft voice without any trace of a whine interrupted him, a voice he knew. "Would you see me home?" With a gentle "of course," Michael offered her his arm, and escorted her out of the station house to the nearest transport tube. When they were alone inside the tube, she called the destination and set down the hobo bag she carried. From it she extracted a folded trench coat, shook it out, and slipped it on. One hand pulled the red curls from her head and dropped them into the bag while the other smoothed her brown bangs into place. The final step in the transformation was to pop out the emerald lenses. She took his arm again as the tube doors opened. "Grazie, Michelalfredo," Sullivan whispered.