The Pursuit of War Part 1 Accessing records...December 2260 "Son of a bitch!" The semi-audible syllables tumbled from Michael Garibaldi's mouth as his eyes flew from the list in his hand to the face of Captain John Sheridan. "It's against regulations to address a senior officer in those terms, Mr. Garibaldi," Sheridan said with feigned irritation. As Garibaldi watched, the man softened: his eyes, his face, his body relaxing into trust and desperation. "Michael, when I first came here I wasn't sure about you. You weren't sure about me. Since then, I have come to trust you, to rely on you. Now I need you to take care of this for me: no questions, no speculations, no hunches or educated guesses. All right?" A man of few fierce friendships, Garibaldi wanted to trust, wanted to help the man before him. Still... "Yeah," he said though the voice of paranoia that lived with him and kept him alive screamed that this was not a good idea. "Good. Now when I see you next, if everything is set, we'll talk about the weather." Sheridan flashed a joyless smile. "Yes sir." Chief Warrant Officer Michael Garibaldi knew how to respond to an order from his commanding officer. ================================================================ Z'ha'dum, December 2260 "Think about it, Captain," the dark figure prompted. "Look at the long history of human struggle: six thousand years of recorded wars, bloodshed, atrocities beyond description. But look at what came out of all of that: we've gone to the stars, split the atom, written sonnets. We never would have come this far if we hadn't been at each others' throats, evolving our way up, inch by inch." John Sheridan could scarcely hear the words over the pounding in his ears, the surging rage at this man who had been aboard the Icarus and survived, who could have told him about Anna, could have told him his wife was alive, but didn't, wouldn't. This man, over whom Sheridan had battled with his security chief until Michael had resigned. Rage. And hammering fear. Of this place. Of these people. Of the creatures that inhabit this place, the ones who had not yet shown themselves. "It was supposed to be an equal balance between our side and the Vorlons, but the Vorlons decided that their way was the right way." The voice was Anna's voice, the face, Anna's face, but this, this was not Anna, Sheridan knew, not his Anna. "They enlisted the support of other worlds, like the Minbari. They even started interfering with the development of younger races." "When you look at a Vorlon, you see what they want you to see," Morden explained. "They've manipulated us so we'd respond favorably to them. They've even interfered at a genetic level, taking humans and... and adjusting them. Why do you think certifiable telepaths came out of nowhere a hundred years ago?" "They created telepaths on a hundred worlds to use as canon fodder for the next war, but fortunately our friends got there first, and with the help of the PsiCorps, made sure that they came out on our side." The man who called himself Justin spoke casually of 'our' friends and 'our' side. It enraged Sheridan. And terrified him. "John, they think that the human race shows great potential. When all this is over, we can be riding high, the first to rebuild, making things our own way. But the only thing that's standing in our way now is you. So, we can either work together now or we can remove your support mechanism." "Everything depends on getting the other races to fight each other, to create conflict in order to promote growth and evolution. By getting them to cooperate, you are working against that goal," Anna explained. "Whenever this starts, there's always someone who tries to organize the other races. You've done it. That's a commendable achievement," Morden offered, "but as far as our goals are concerned, unproductive." "So, why don't you just kill me?" Sheridan asked. It was a stall but it might work. He needed to think, to fight down the fear of what he knew now he had to do. "Doesn't work," said Justin. "Somebody'd just come around and replace you. That's always been the trouble with creating martyrs. We brought you here hoping you'd understand us, work with us, not against us. You're important. You're what they call a nexus. You turn one way, and the whole world has a tendency to go the same way. Let go of those other races! You can't hold them together. Evolution will be served one way or another. So you can work with us, or..." "Or you'll do to me what you did to Anna." ================================================================ Accessing records...December 2260 "Commander?" David Corwin's voice carried the respect appropriate for a junior officer and the compassion of a concerned colleague. "Any word on the Captain? Anything at all?" Ivanova asked, more hope in the words than in her voice. The Shadow ships had come, and they had gone, and something in Ivanova's soul said that the Captain was gone now too. "We've tried everything. The White Star isn't receiving. As far as we can tell, it's been destroyed." There was no good way to give that news, Corwin knew. Or this news. "There's something else. We checked the fighter bays. One of the fighters we sent out didn't come back." Training for command responsibility pecked through Ivanova's numbness. "Who was the pilot?" she asked. "Mr. Garibaldi." ================================================================ Accessing records...January 2261 Personal Log: Citizen G'Kar "The Shadows have paused in their pursuit of war, and everywhere there is a sense of imminent change. Whether it is a change for good or ill no one can say because no one has yet answered two very important questions: Where is Mr. Garibaldi? and What happened to Captain Sheridan at Z'ha'dum?" ================================================================ Consciousness crept back cautiously, scratching between his shoulder blades, licking at his eyelids. He first perceived absence, rapidly building a list of what had gone missing: his helmet, his flight suit, his 'Fury, his memory. Another absence, too suspicious to be a relief: guards, captors, torturers, anyone with him. No one. No one he could perceive anyway. Slowly he let his eyes flutter open a bit wider and took stock of his surroundings. A soft light oozed from wall sconces here and there around the perimeter of room, a space he judged equivalent to his quarters back on station. He looked for cameras, for microphones, for fixtures that might disguise them. His eyes adjusted to the orchestrated twilight, sorting out the shades of beige and peach and green. Furniture, carpet, plants, art on the walls -- rather upscale for a cell. Carefully, he slid his right leg away from its mate, then back again. He bent a knee, then another, drawing his feet up along the surface of the mattress until they neared his butt. His hands moved next, sliding over the smoothness of the sheets. He drew a long, deep breath, then another, braced himself for what might come, and rolled onto his side. He waited. No evidence of restraint nor of reaction. Another breath. He swung his feet to the floor and sat up. A stubborn stiffness permeated his body, the resistance to movement that comes with having been still far too long. He was not, as best he could tell, hurt in any way: no broken bones, no bruises, none of the deep internal aching that came with a beating. He'd had some experience with that. He wondered how long he'd been out. And how long he'd been here. Here, Michael Garibaldi discovered as he forced himself up from the bed and began to move around, wasn't bad. Actually a little bigger than his quarters, and with a better decorator. Plush carpet shifted under his step like the sand whose color it claimed. Two couches upholstered in apricot faced one another across a low table of wood and glass, and a small dining table with two chairs stood near an efficient little kitchen. The pantry was stocked with an agreeable collection of foods he enjoyed, and beside the viewer, a stack of vids included all his favorites. It seemed he'd been expected. But by whom, he wondered, as he inventoried the bar? ================================================================ Accessing records...January 2261 Personal Log: Citizen G'Kar "It is now seven days since we lost Captain Sheridan and Mr. Garibaldi. In a way, I think we have also lost Ivanova. It is as though her heart has been pierced and her spirit has poured out through the wound. She blames herself. It is foolish, it is destructive, it is...human." ================================================================ "Commander?" "Commander?" It took a second, more insistent call from Lt. Corwin to shake Ivanova from the embrace of grief. She jumped but turned to him with a sleepwalker's eyes. Though her glance fell on him, he could not tell if she saw him, and she made no reply. "Commander, we have a ship requesting to dock," he plunged on, hoping the message would get through. "A Black Omega StarFury, Commander -- Mr. Bester." She nodded, her eyes losing focus as she did. Corwin pushed on. "Shall we bring him in, Commander?" Ivanova seemed startled by the question. "Yes, fine." He tried again. "Shall we alert Security?" "What?" The vacant eyes drifted back to him, and she sighed, seeming finally to return to the here and now. "Yes, fine. The usual. I'll be in the Cap...in the office." Zack Allan led the detail personally. He didn't like the idea of the little teep creep being on board, but if it had to happen, he personally was going to see that Bester didn't get near anyone or anything important. Before he left for the docking bay, Allan called Medlab to have Franklin standing by with the sleepers. Until the Doc assured him that the PsiCop's powers were damped by the drugs, he'd have to battle with the nagging doubts about whether Bester was trying to play with his head, or the heads of his security officers. The sooner they got him to Medlab, the better. The PsiCop emerged from the ship, helmet tucked under his left arm, its crippled hand dangling. The smirk of amused superiority with which he greeted the security team left Allan torn between revulsion and rage. Bester's grin widened as he sensed the emotions. "Good afternoon, Sergeant. I rather expected Mr. Garibaldi himself would be here to greet me." A twisted delight gleamed in the PsiCop's eyes. "Let's skip the small talk," Zack snapped. "You want to be escorted straight to Medlab, or would you like to stop off at the brig first?" "Actually, I suspect Commander Ivanova will be most upset if I don't call on her immediately. Or perhaps you'd like to explain to her why my information about Captain Sheridan's whereabouts wasn't important enough to share with her?" Allan's sneer persisted through his grudging agreement, his order to his detail, and most of the walk to the Station Commander's office. Only his curiosity about what the telepath might actually know quelled his irritation. After presenting the PsiCop to Ivanova, Allan took position just inside the door. He knew that the Chief, if he were here, would stay beside the desk and would be in the thick of things. He wasn't that friendly with the Commander, but he wasn't going to let this slime out of his sight either. Besides, he wanted as much as anyone to have information about the Captain. Ivanova's distaste for the PsiCop was enough to stir her only slightly. Zack thought he had never seen her look so forlorn. "Is there a problem?" she began, taking no notice of Bester's greeting. "Commander! I imagine Captain Sheridan would be hurt to think you didn't view his absence as a problem." "What do you know about the Captain?" "It is possible that I know where he is..." Bester strung out the words to tantalize. "...and how he might be retrieved. " It took all Zack's self- control not to grab him and shake the words out of the little man. "But, like everyone, Commander, I have my price." "What do you want?" Bester's smarmy smile broadened at the question. "Just tit for tat, Commander. If you want my information on the Captain's whereabouts, then I want the energies of your medical officer turned from drugging me to finding a way to extricate Carolyn Sanderson from the biotechnology that now imprisons her. " "Commander, you can't agree..." The protest leapt from Zack Allan. There was no way Bester could be allowed access to the station without sleepers. To his surprise, Ivanova silenced him with an upraised hand. "I'm not agreeing to anything yet," she said to both men. Then focusing her attention on the PsiCop she prompted, "finish." Bester smiled again. "The rest is simple. If you decide to mount an attempt to extract the Captain, I come along. I assist your efforts, and, in return, you also extract some technology which I believe will support the good doctor's efforts." Ivanova dropped into the chair, a movement too suffused with exhaustion to suit Zack Allan. She regarded the dark man with a skeptical interest. "How do you come by this information?" "Oh, Commander, really now! Revealing my sources would be a poor strategy, to say the least. I didn't come here to negotiate. You know my terms, and..." He turned to raise an eyebrow in Zack's direction. "...it appears you'll know where to find me when you've made your decision. "But don't take too long, Commander. I'm not sure how long I can tolerate my luxurious accommodations. "Shall we go, Sergeant?" ================================================================ An inspection of the little apartment, even one as paranoid as Michael Garibaldi was wont to conduct, could not take very long. He found no sign of surveillance, either audio or visual, and though he did not take particular care for silence, no one arrived to take note of his activity. His flight suit hung in the closet, along with a selection of other clothing, all in his size. His helmet sat on an upper shelf. In fact, Garibaldi noted as he scanned the room yet again for hiding places or secret panels, the only things that seemed to be missing were his sidearm and his ship. If he could find a way out of here, perhaps he could resurrect those. Carefully, he approached the security panel that controlled the single access. Oddly, it appeared to be controlled from his side. He examined the mechanism more closely, startled to find it indicated the door unlocked. He pressed his body against the wall beside the portal and wondered if this were the action of a sane man. He moved the switch to open. A soft whoosh accompanied the movement of the door as it swung wide and stood open. Breathless, Garibaldi waited. No rush of bodies. No sound of alarm. He peeled his body off the wall and swung round to look beyond. In the comfortable sitting room a dark, slender figure rose and buttoned his jacket. "Ah, Mr. Garibaldi! It's good to see you're finally awake." He flashed a brilliant smile. "Welcome to Z'ha'dum." ================================================================ Accessing records...January 2261 Personal Log: Citizen G'Kar "Delenn has refused to eat for seven days: fasting, praying, and waiting. Delenn believes. I think she is the only one who does." ================================================================ "I'm sorry we're late," Lyta Alexander explained. "The ambassador was in discussion with the Vorlon homeworld until late last night." "About what?" Delenn asked with an uncharacteristic lack of diplomacy. Thought the question seemed addressed to Lyta, her eyes locked on the Vorlon ambassador. "I'm afraid I can't tell you that." Lyta's voice, full of discomfort, cushioned the Vorlon's resistant message. "After all I've done for you, am I to be shut out like this?" Delenn demanded of Ulkesh. Lyta flushed. "Is there anything in particular that you wanted, Ambassador? Otherwise..." The Minbari ignored the woman. "I need to speak with you. Alone." "I'm afraid that's not possible." Lyta's voice softened and her pain became clear. "I don't have any choice in this either, Delenn." Delenn would not be quieted. "The League is breaking up again, returning to their own worlds. The alliance is fracturing. One word from you, from the Vorlon Empire, could help keep it all together. You haven't come to our Council meetings, haven't returned my calls. Why?" No response. "The stories we've heard about what happened at Z'ha'dum. Are they true?" The music of the Vorlon voice. "Yes." A faint hope rose in the tiny Minbari. "What do you intend to do about them?" Voices overlapping in a senseless song. "Nothing." Panic filled her. "If Sheridan is still alive, if there's even a chance..." The drone again. "Irrelevant." "Irrelevant?" Fear shaded to anger. "How can you say that? You know how much depends on him." "He has opened an unexpected door. We do now what must be done now. His purpose has been fulfilled." "You have the power to send a force to investigate. If he is alive, he can be rescued." Delenn's voice was pleading. "No one returns from Z'ha'dum." "That's what we thought about Anna Sheridan. You were wrong then. You can be wrong now. Are you afraid to admit you might be capable of another mistake?" The challenge met silence. "He planned for you, worked for you, for me, for everyone here. If you turn away now, if you abandon him to die on Z'ha'dum, I will have no more respect left for you. Do you understand me?" "Respect is irrelevant." The Vorlon turned, gliding toward the garden's gateway. Lyta broke her silence to speak at last her own words. "I'm sorry, Delenn. I'm sorry." "Leave us," Ulkesh ordered. The directive startled both women, and though the Vorlon said nothing more, the changing expressions in Lyta's eyes told Delenn that their communication continued. Lyta cast a guilty glance at Delenn, the bowed her head and wordlessly left the garden. The Minbari spun on the Vorlon ambassador. "You cannot walk away from this now. You must help..." "That time is past." "Past? You have not yet tried. If we can make contact with Sheridan..." "Sheridan's time is past. Your time has come." "My time?!" "Listen." ================================================================ "If you're so damn agreeable, why don't you just give me my weapon and my ship and let me go home?" Garibaldi straightened his shoulders but the itch of suspicion that danced along his spine would not be quieted. Morden smiled again, knowingly this time, reinforcing the impression with a nod of his head. "No one here carries a weapon, Mr. Garibaldi, but your PPG is in fact in the cockpit of your StarFury. Your ship has been towed to a sheltered area and refueled, and it's ready for you, whenever you want to leave. But we had hoped you'd hear us out before you left." The dark haired man rose and approached Garibaldi, a move which sent no threatening message. "Michael, I know what you did when Captain Sheridan had me in custody on Babylon 5. It took a great deal of courage to risk your career for a stranger, but you're a man of principle. I know that. I also know that I'm very much in your debt. "I'd like to repay that debt, and I believe I can," Morden continued, stepping toward a cabinet on the rear wall, opening it as he spoke, "if you'll listen to what my associates have to say." He raised a glass. "Can I fix you a drink, Michael?" ================================================================ The door chime did not lift his eyes from the reports on the desk before him, nor did the silent figure that drew close behind him stir him; neither did he look to the bottle from which he refilled his glass. "Hello, Michael." The honeyed voice turned his head, and the vision of her drew him from his chair. Her smile widened as she saw him stand, her lips full and soft and shining with a deep rose that promised the sweetness of summer peaches. A forgotten strand of hair nestled in the curve of her neck, milk and honey meeting. She reached a hand out to his cheek. "Where's the Captain?" he croaked. The tremor in his body started at the point of contact. "There's no need to worry about John now, Michael," she assured him. With a smile, she turned away, glancing back over her shoulder to observe, "That is so like you though." Her eyes moved back to the desk. "I'm pleased that you've agreed to hear us out. Is there anything I can do, Michael? Any questions I can answer for you?" "Has John seen this stuff?" Garibaldi demanded, taking a report from her hand. "Is he here? When can I talk to him?" She giggled then, a laugh Garibaldi wasn't sure how to categorize. "Michael, of all John's friends you are the one he counts on most to get to the truth of things. Don't concern yourself with John now. All in good time. What's important now is that you understand the truth, and take that message back with you." She reached a hand round to the back of his neck, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial tone. "John was so right about you," she crooned in his ear, rising on her tiptoes. "I knew we could count on you." She kissed him then. It was not the kiss of another man's wife. ================================================================ A faint tone chimed when the locking mechanisms were released and a grudging hum came from the motors as the door slid back. Alfred Bester was aware of his visitor well before either sound carried to his ears. Aware of a visitor, of her identity, and of her intentions. "Good afternoon, Commander. Welcome," he said with a sweep of his hand, "to my ... very humble ... abode." She made no response to his feeble humor, but there was, in her eyes, an energy that had not been visible earlier, the power of decision. "I've spoken to Dr. Franklin and told him to make the biotech investigations his top priority," she said without preface. "Now what do you know about the Captain?" "Fine, thank you, Commander, and you?" The dark man tugged at a black glove, judging her anxiety. He lowered his voice a bit. "What you've heard about the blast at Z'ha'dum is true," he continued, "but deceptive. Most of the inhabited areas of the planet are deep underground, safe from the effects of Captain Sheridan's oh-so-heroic displays of firepower. Your fearless leader remains on the planet, tucked away safely where he can do no further harm." "That's it? That's your information? That he's on Z'ha'dum?" Bester walked away from her irritation. "I can be more specific, Commander, if you wish to mount a rescue." He faced her now with a triumphant smile, and for a time, neither of them spoke. Finally, Ivanova nodded, a reluctant gulp of resignation accompanying the motion. "I believe I can do that, but the station forces alone won't be enough. It would be dangerous, foolhardy, to take our ships away from the defense of the station now. An attack could come at any time." She began to pace. "No, we'll need help from Delenn, and maybe from some of the others. It's got to be carefully planned. We can't just go crashing in there. That's where your information..." The glistening grin that greeted her when she looked up at Bester stopped her cold. "What are you laughing at?" she demanded. Bester shook his head rapidly side to side, brows diving downward. "No, no, Commander. Not laughing. Merely enjoying." He drew close to the stiff-backed woman. "If you'll forgive my saying so, you're delightful when you're in your element, Commander. And it's clear that you were born for command." Susan spun away from him with an exaggerated wince of exasperation. "Give me a break!" Anger crackled across the space between them. "Because you have information I need, I will have to work with you, Mr. Bester. Don't for one minute confuse that with liking you, or respecting you, or anything microscopically more positive than tolerating you. If it weren't for the information you have, Mr. Bester, I would have gladly had Sgt. Allan escort you to the airlock instead of the brig." "Please, Commander, threats won't get us anywhere. As you say, we have to work together. I was merely attempting to point out that your obvious talent for the exercise of authority is finally coming to the fore. It's really a shame that you've been wasted doing all the grunt work while Sheridan runs about playing boy hero." "I will thank you..." spit from between Ivanova's clenched teeth. "I know, I know," Bester chuckled, "you're loyal to the man. For the sake of our common goals, I will attempt to moderate my opinions, but truly, Commander, it's good to see that you are taking charge. You need that. The station needs that. And Sheridan would want that, don't you think?" "I think," Ivanova observed coldly, "that we have work to do, and that the sooner we get it done, the sooner you will be off this station." "Then let's begin, Commander!" Bester exclaimed joyously. "And please, let's begin by getting out of here." ================================================================ A shiver vibrated through Garibaldi's body, an involuntary attempt to draw away from the filthy feel of the clothing he wore. Beneath his flight suit, he was dressed in the same clothes he had worn when he left Babylon 5, clothes that had gone unlaundered in the interim. He tried to tell himself the odor was his imagination; he turned his attention to other things. An eight-key code released the locking mechanism, each unmarked key accompanied by a gentle tone. His StarFury showed new battle scars, scratches and burns he couldn't remember earning. Two technicians nodded and smiled as they withdrew. "Everything is set now, Michael," his companion explained. "You'll have safe passage out of the system, to the coordinates programmed into your flight computer. There's just enough fuel to get you there, and then you'll drift. Life support will automatically cut back to minimal when the fuel gets low, so you'll start to feel sleepy. Don't fight it. It's better if they find you unconscious." Garibaldi scrambled into the cockpit, strapping in and instinctively running through a mental pre-flight checklist. Morden followed and rested his arms on the edge of the cabin. "In a few hours, Mr. Allan will receive a tip from an informant, suggesting where he might look for you. He and his team should pick you up, and when they bring you around...well, you'll be fine, Michael." He extended a hand to Garibaldi. "And I'll see you back on the Babylon 5." The dark haired man jumped clear of the ship as Garibaldi fitted his helmet in place. Michael checked his instruments and glanced to one side to catch Morden's jaunty wave. He listened for the snap of the canopy, fired his engines, and began to whistle. ================================================================ Accessing records...January 2261 "Convoy one to C&C. Standing by." Zack Allan's voice sliced through the com channel. "Clear to proceed, Mr. Allan. Good hunting to you." It was Delenn's voice, Zack realized as he acknowledged. He wondered why the Ambassador would be in C&C, but other matters demanded his attention now. "Now hold your fire until I give the word," he reprimanded his team. "If Mr. Garibaldi is out there, we don't want to risk injuring him. It'll just make him mad. And you know what he's like." "That's a roger, Shuttle One." Allan made the first call. "Unidentified fighter, this is Babylon 5 Shuttle. Please identify yourself." "Shuttle One, we're reading her as a StarFury," came back from one of the fighters. "Roger that, Bravo One. We confirm. Bravo 1 and Bravo 3, move in for a closer look. See if you can get visual on her markings." Again, Zack hailed the ship. "Repeating, this is Babylon 5 Shuttle to StarFury. Please identify yourself. StarFury, do you read? Identify." "Shuttle One, this is Bravo Three. We have a duck. It's the Chief's fighter, all right, Sergeant." "Roger that, Bravo Three. Is she manned?" "Affirmative, Shuttle One. We can see a pilot, or a helmet anyway, in the cockpit." "Shuttle One to Bravo Convoy. Let's see if we can tow him in. Bravo One, can you get a grapple on him?" "Aye, Shuttle One. Grappling now." "Babylon 5 Shuttle to C&C. Come in." "Shuttle One, this is C&C. Go ahead." Corwin's voice this time. Where was Delenn? "We have located Mr. Garibaldi's fighter and we have her in tow. She is manned, but pilot does not respond to our hails. Request med team to meet us at the docking bay." "Copy that, Shuttle One. Relaying the request to Medlab. Bring him home." "Roger, C&C. We're on our way," Zack replied. He turned his attention back to his detail. "OK, Bravo Convoy, let's get him home. And be careful about it. Just because he's not conscious, doesn't mean he's not cranky." "That's a roger, Shuttle One!" ================================================================ "Doc?" Zack Allan's greeting took Stephen Franklin's attention from his charts and records. "Come in, Mr. Allan," he said as he rose from the desk chair and stretched stiff muscles. "What can I do for you?" "I was just wonderin'... you know, about the Chief. Is he OK?" Franklin sighed and wished he could offer more of an answer to the young man's obvious concern. "He's conscious, alert, and cranky as usual," he replied, hoping to draw a smile. "I'm going to keep him a few days, run some tests, but based on what we've seen so far, he seems to be healthy. Tired, a little dehydrated, a couple of pounds lighter, but yes, he's OK." Distress contorted the face of the young security agent. "What's wrong, Zack?" the physician inquired. "Have you seen something that concerns you?" Allan shrugged and squirmed. "I dunno, Doc. It's just kinda weird, is all. We get a tip about where to look for the Chief and sure enough, there he is, right on the mark. We tow him home and he wakes up and he's fine, but when I ask him what happened, I don't get answers." "Memory loss is not uncommon in trauma cases," Franklin offered. Zack nodded, unconvinced. "I know, I know. It's just, I dunno. Somethin' doesn't feel right." Franklin thought that if he had more energy he might share the young man's apprehension. Unfortunately, his energy was deployed, by order of Cmdr. Susan Ivanova, to extricating the telepaths in cryogenic suspension from biotech implants that prepared them to merge with Shadow fighters. It was painstaking, frustrating work, work he wasn't convinced he could accomplish. Work that was not assisted by visits from Bester to inquire about his progress. He was resentful, irritated, and he needed some sleep. "We'll check him out, Zack, I promise. And you'll probably find he's giving you a full briefing in a day or so. For now," he said, tapping the display off, "we all need some sleep." ================================================================ "But why am I not permitted to see him?" the delicate Minbari demanded. Stephen Franklin tried unsuccessfully to sidestep his interrogator. "Delenn, I understand your concern," he said, his irritation showing. "I'm sure that if Garibaldi had any information about the Captain, he would have shared it with us immediately." He needed to get back to the latest biotech experiments. Ivanova had already linked in about it this morning, and Bester would, no doubt, be by again. Franklin cursed at the display of a human brain networked with circuitry. "A brief visit, that is all I ask! A few questions..." She spun to follow the doctor who slipped past her. The physician turned from the monitors that commanded his attention, nearly tripping over the resolute woman. "Zack tried to ask some questions when they brought him in, Delenn." His voice dropped, an awkward compassion in his eyes. "Frankly, Delenn, we're concerned about Michael's memory. He hasn't said much and some of what he has said doesn't make much sense." Seeing she would not be moved, he shifted uncomfortably. "We're running some tests. If all goes well, he should be out of here in a day or so. Until then, I'm sorry, Delenn, no visitors. " She made no answer but her anger crackled through the Medlab as she strode out into the corridor. "Delenn!" The young Minbari dodged several pedestrians to draw even with the irritated ambassador. Lennier composed himself, offering a small bow then shuffling to catch up again with his stalking mentor. "Delenn, he is asking for you," he said softly. It took several steps before the statement registered. When it did, Delenn halted, but her gaze did not shift. "Who is asking for me?" she whispered. Lennier swayed uncomfortably from foot to foot. "Ambassador Kosh has been..." He cleared his throat. "...calling for you." A quiet born as much of apprehension as resolve settled over Delenn. Calming her breathing, the tiny figure drew herself to full height. As she turned toward the Vorlon's quarters, Lennier fell in behind her. "No, Lennier," she said quietly. She stopped just long enough to force Lennier to do likewise then moved forward again. "This I must do alone." "You wanted to see me, Ambassador?" The encounter suit seemed to flutter on an imperceptible breeze as the Vorlon turned to face Delenn. She looked up at him expectantly, restraining her arrogance, denying her fear. She waited, watching for the small movements of the encounter suit that prefaced the Vorlon's infrequent speech. Silence. "Was there something you wanted, Ambassador?" she tried again. An incongruous relief flowed in her when the response finally came. "You will act." "Act? What action would you have me take?" "You will lead them. They do not understand. They are weak, foolish. They must be shown." Delenn's insides turned iron cold and hard with a metallic taste rising in her throat until she thought she would be ill. "I do not understand, Ambassador." She struggled to sound calm. "I am no longer a member of the Grey Council. Who am I to lead? What am I to show them?" The sense of disapproval she perceived was her imagination, she assured herself, until she heard the anger in the Vorlon's voice. "You will take control of this station. You will lead them against the darkness." "What?" Delenn's voice was a gasp. "The darkness must be destroyed." The repeated shaking of her head could not throw off the terror eating its way through her soul. "What you ask..." She found voice again. "... this is not possible. "You have the power. Your fear is the only obstacle." "This station is not ours; it belongs to Earth. Until John returns..." "Sheridan is dead." "You cannot know that," Delenn exploded. "Not for sure. I will not give up hope." "You are angry," the Vorlon observed. "Good." "Angry, yes," she declared, trembling. "Angry that you should abandon one who worked so hard for all of us." "He did what was required," the Vorlon pronounced coldly, "as you will." ================================================================ They were snarling at one another by the time that Stephen released him from Medlab. It had not helped that Michael had asked so many questions about the research on the telepaths. Franklin was under obvious stress. Moving quickly, purposefully, Garibaldi found that the station corridors had an eerie familiarity. He made his way without thought to the navigation, despite the fact that he'd been elsewhere for... how long? He wasn't quite sure. Somewhere in his memory, he heard someone saying that time worked differently on Z'ha'dum. He whistled and wondered if it was true. There was little activity in Green Sector this early in the day. Michael signaled at the door and waited; a muffled voice ordered it open. "Mr. Garibaldi!" The Centauri in the garish dressing gown chirped with delight. "Oh! How wonderful to see you. Please, please, come in. What can I do for you?" "Thanks, Vir. I ..." "I'm so sorry Londo's not here. He'll be so happy to hear that you're all right. He's always though of you as a friend, you know." "Vir..." Pacing, the attaché continued, almost heedless of his guest. "I know Londo can be difficult sometimes, but he's not a bad sort, really. It's just, well he cares so much and sometimes..." "Vir!" Garibaldi shouted down the round-faced little man. "Where is Londo? I need to see him." Vir's startled expression slowly yielded to understanding. "Oh, of course! You wouldn't know. It wasn't until after..." "Vir!!" The Centauri jumped, then composed himself, lacing his fingers over his belly. "I'm sorry, Mr. Garibaldi. Londo has been called back to Centauri Prime. The Emperor has appointed him Advisor on Planetary Security. " "Planetary Secur...?!!" Disbelief contorted Garibaldi's face. He shook his head as if to clear away a bad dream. "When is he due back?" "Well, he...uh...I mean...we don't... it could be..." Garibaldi's glare drew a sigh from the Centauri. "I was just gathering up a few things here, Mr. Garibaldi, before I join Londo. I don't know if he will return to Babylon 5." "No way! Look, you get a hold of Londo, and you tell him I need to talk to him. Pronto. Tell him I don't care how he does it, but to get back here as soon as possible. You got that?" "I don't think that's..." "VIR!" "I'll tell him." ================================================================ As he let himself into his quarters, he was unsure what to do next, where to begin -- or more accurately, where to resume. He found himself staring at the bed, but he had spent too many of these last days trapped in a bed. He opened the closet and tossed a fresh uniform onto a chair. Stripping off the clothes that had been fetched to medlab for him, he started a shower. Under the cascade of warm water he gave himself time to plan, to consider what needed doing, and how, and when. He hummed softly as his uncertainty slipped away with the soapy rivulets. By the time he was dry and slipping on the black garments of the Army of Light, he felt confident he knew the way. He would start at the Station House. ================================================================ He scanned the backlog of reports quickly, his eyes flying through the routine minutiae, searching for what he wasn't sure he wanted to find. Zack Allan let out a delighted cry when he entered the Station House and spotted the familiar figure back behind the desk. "Chief! Geez, it's good to see you," he exclaimed as he galloped across the office. Garibaldi glanced up briefly, nodded, and turned his eyes back to the viewer. "What do you know about the new Vorlon ambassador?" he inquired. Allan was caught up short. "The Vorlon?" He fidgeted a bit. "He's a weird one -- that's not new -- but he pretty much keeps to himself." "Pretty much?" Garibaldi snapped. "Who does he talk to?" His eyes did not leave the reports scrolling up the display. His second shrugged. "Lyta's working for him, like she did for Kosh. And he sees Delenn, I guess." For reasons Allan didn't understand, that got the Chief's attention. The gaze his superior turned on the young sergeant was hard and piercing. "Delenn? When? How often?" The questions asked, he turned back to reports before him, while he awaited Zack's answers. The startled officer stammered. "It's not like we've had them followed," he deflected. "Chief? Is something wrong?" No further response was possible before Garibaldi banged a fist down on the desk. "Bester's been on this station for over a week?" The voice carried more demand than query. Allan could only nod. "Is he in lock-up?" Garibaldi glanced at his chrono and was on his feet. Allan trotted behind him out of the office. "We escorted him to the brig at first, like usual, but the Commander said we should turn him loose." "Has he had access to anyone on the command staff?" The sergeant had to scramble to stay astride. "Yeah. A couple of times. Ivanova mostly, and the Doc says he's been poking around Medlab. " "Is he on sleepers?" "Naw. I asked the Commander if she wanted Doc to shoot him up, but she said no." Allan stumbled when the Chief executed a sudden right turn. "Is somethin' wrong, Chief? Is there somethin' you want me to do?" "No," Garibaldi replied curtly. "Yes." He stopped short, and Allan lurched to a halt. "Find Lyta. Find out what she knows about the new Vorlon." Zack opened his mouth to protest but the older man waved away the concern. "I know she's going to say she can't talk about it. That's why I want you to do it. Find a way around whatever professional reluctance she has. Take her out to dinner, a little wine, whatever. Do whatever you need to." "Michael!" The indignant security agent scowled. "Just do it!" Garibaldi ordered. "And hurry up." With that, he stepped into a turbo lift, calling for a destination in Green Sector's ambassadorial area, and whistling as the doors closed. ================================================================ There was a comforting familiarity, Garibaldi thought, in the signal tones that preceded the whoosh of the transport tube's opening door. Always there, always the same. He stepped out into the hall, pivoting as he did so to offer a small, awkward bow. "May the Queens be with you." A blush fought its way to his face as he spoke the traditional farewell to the Gaim Ambassador. The whistle of the closing door echoed in Garibaldi's sigh of relief. He would never make it as a diplomat, he knew, as he headed for the station commander's office, but you do what has to be done. "Begging your pardon, Commander, but are you crazy?" Garibaldi wasted no time as he entered the spacious office. Ivanova looked up from the reports spread before her, mug poised just short of her mouth. "Is there a problem, Mr. Garibaldi?" The tone was as arched as the eyebrow. He took position in front of her, shoulders hunched, fingers perched to push-up on the desktop. Setting her kafe down, Ivanova tipped back in her chair to escape the kink in her neck that came with looking up at the towering figure. "Station logs say Bester came aboard almost a week ago." "Yes." "Yes? That's it? Weren't you the one who wanted to blow him out of the sky?" "What's your point, Michael?" Ivanova snapped. Garibaldi began to pace, his hands slicing the air in front of him as he spoke. "You've let a PsiCop, a P12, have full access to this station and its personnel. He's not on sleepers, and we know this slime bucket well enough to know he's got no reservations about doing illegal scans. Christ! You've met with him! Who knows what information he's pulling out of people's heads." The dark-haired woman scowled. "Not that I have to answer to you, Mr. Garibaldi," she said pointedly, "but it's really not about what information he may be getting." She pushed herself out of the chair. "Geez, Michael! Right now we don't know a hell of a lot about anything." "Have you gone batty, Commander?" Michael challenged. "How about some little things like who killed Santiago, and how we know about it? How about the underground railroad and that little number we did on Mr. Bester on one of his earlier visits? How about Draal and a few details about Jeff Sinclair's disappearance?" "Damn it, Michael!" she snapped at him. "What does that matter now? What does any of it matter?" He stopped short, squinting to study her more closely. Her eyes were swollen and traced with red. The sunken pockets of wrinkled flesh that hung beneath them were more grey than beige. Her hair, tied severely and hanging down her back, separated into oily strings. Michael's tone softened with a bit of compassion. "What is it about, Susan?" he asked. She blinked at him as though she didn't understand the question. "You said it wasn't about what information he was getting. What is it about?" Ivanova sighed. "It's the information he's got, Michael. He knows where the Captain is, and he's willing to help us mount a rescue." That offer would have made Garibaldi skeptical even if it hadn't come from a telepath. "At what price?" Susan fell back into her chair. "He wants his lover back, Michael." He could hear the "is that so much to ask?" in her tone. "So the Doc gets his girlfriend out of cryo and gets all the Shadow tech out of her system and in exchange Bester helps us bring the Captain home?" "Yes." "Why don't I believe this?" He watched Ivanova harden. She spun her chair and hunched back over the desk. "Believe what you like, Mr. Garibaldi. I'm in command here until the Captain gets back. I would think running security would be enough to keep you busy, so why don't you tend to that instead of trying to second guess me?" Wincing, Garibaldi tried for a better connection. "Susan, I...." "Oh!" The pretense of surprise in the voice from the doorway was unconvincing. "Am I interrupting?" "Mr. Garibaldi was just leaving," Ivanova said coldly, ignoring Michael's glare. "Welcome home, Mr. Garibaldi!" The PsiCop flashed a specious smile. "You've had a bit of a fright, I hear." Garibaldi matched the little man's insincerity. "Nothing to speak of," he replied with a tight-lipped smile. "And what brings you to Babylon 5, Mr. Bester?" It was Ivanova who was glaring now. "Let's just call it public service," Bester answered. He turned to Ivanova. "Have you a moment, Commander?" The steel had stripped from Ivanova's face when Michael looked again, and some distraction swept her eyes that made Garibaldi shiver. Grudgingly, he accepted his cue and took his leave. At the lift, he vented his agitation by tapping repeatedly on the call button. Eight times, he realized. Once with each tone he whistled. ================================================================ Returning to his quarters at day's end, Garibaldi searched for a feeling of familiarity. He tried to cook, but a long stare into the chiller raised neither inspiration nor appetite. He flipped through the vid channels, snarled at a few talking heads on ISN, snapped the viewer off again. Sighing, he sat down at the desk, dusted off the viewer, and called up a file. As his eyes scanned the document his back muscles clamped onto a feeling of dread. The sound of the door signal frightened him, but the release of adrenaline and the distraction constituted a relief. He called the open command. G'Kar swept through the door, arms wide in greeting. The embrace into which he swept Garibaldi was crushing, squeezing the breath out of the human, but leaving him smiling. The Narn released his friend with roar of pleasure, then, with a flourish, extended a familiar fedora. "This is yours, Mr. Garibaldi, and it is my great pleasure to return it. I hope you will forgive my taking it. I thought perhaps having something of yours in my possession would help me to find you." Michael's smile found an edge of tension, a look somewhere between concern and irritation. "I heard you started to go after me, G'Kar. Where exactly were you going to look?" The Narn shook his head vigorously. "Every corner of the universe, if need be! But I am pleased it was not necessary. It is good to see you home! And well. Yes? You are well?" G'Kar extended the hat again, waggling it a bit to attract Garibaldi's attention. Frowning, the human accepted the offering with a half-hearted thanks and tossed it to the bed. "Seriously, G'Kar... tell me about your investigation. Who were you talking to?" The Narn flinched in surprise. "In truth, Mr. Garibaldi, there was little investigation. A few inquiries in Down Below, leading nowhere, I'm afraid. That is all." He hesitated a moment. "Why?" Garibaldi regarded the alien closely, lingering in appraisal. Finally he spoke. "You want some tea or something, G'Kar?" ================================================================ Garibaldi lingered long under his morning shower. He and G'Kar had talked as the night grew late, talked more as late turned to early. It was hard to rouse with only a few hours' sleep. Still, as Garibaldi slipped on a clean uniform, his mind already jumped ahead to what needed to be accomplished that day. He grabbed a mug of kafe and a breakfast roll and took them along to the Station House, eager to begin his day. Zack was reviewing the night shift reports when he arrived. "Morning, Chief!" Allan said, looking up from the viewer. Garibaldi didn't break stride. "You're here. Good," he said. "Come on in." He set his breakfast down on the desk, waited for Zack to follow him into the tiny office and then ordered the door closed. He nodded toward the other chair as he sat. "What did you get from Lyta?" Allan grimaced, still uncomfortable mixing his personal life with a professional investigation, especially one he didn't really understand. As Garibaldi appraised the young man, he saw another brand of discomfort in his manner. "What?" the older man demanded. "What's the matter?" Allan shifted his weight forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "I went down to her quarters last night, Michael. I figured I'd ask her out for a drink of something." "Yeah?" Garibaldi prodded between sips of kafe. "And?" "Michael, it was weird. She wouldn't let me in at first. I almost gave up, you know? I..." Zack Allan was blushing. "I thought maybe she had somebody with her." Garibaldi couldn't quite suppress his smile. "Almost?" "Yeah. I was gonna give up and go away, but well, she sounded like she was crying. That worried me, you know?" Garibaldi nodded. "What did you do?" "I finally convinced her to open up, let me in." The young man paused and Garibaldi thought he saw Zack tremble. "Michael, her quarters were empty -- no furniture, no nothing -- just a mattress on the floor. And she was sitting there on the corner of the mattress, just crying." Garibaldi's eyes widened at the description. He set his mug down and leaned forward on the desk. "What happened?" "She said the Ambassador made her get rid of everything, that he said it was a distraction." "A distraction? From what?" "From the work. Those were the words she used: the work." "What work?" "I asked her, Michael. I really tried to get her to talk, and not just because you asked me to. I thought it would help her feel better. But she's afraid, Michael. Really afraid." The young man looked equally frightened, Michael thought. "Afraid of what?" Garibaldi inquired. "Of who?" "The Vorlon. She's terrified of the Vorlon." Zack's eyes had the hopeful shine of a lost child suddenly found. "We can give her protection, can't we, Chief?" Garibaldi's body unfolded from the chair. He moved around the desk and perched on its corner. "Has he assaulted her? Hurt her?" he asked his second. An awkward silence hung over the young man. "She won't tell me." "Won't tell you?" Zack shook his head. "She won't say anything about the Vorlon, but you can see the terror in her eyes. You can..." His voice faded; his gaze went to the floor. "What?" Garibaldi demanded. Allan's hands gestured as though he was speaking, but he made no sound. Garibaldi slid off the desk and crouched in front of the young man, forcing eye contact. The words came finally in a hoarse whisper. "I could feel it, Michael, in my mind. I could feel the terror, the hurt. It's..." He ran out of words again. Garibaldi stood and fought away the shivers that Allan's words had caused. He paced slowly around the little office. "Will she press charges?" he asked without looking at Zack. "What?" The question had startled Allan out of his painful reverie. "Will she lodge charges against the Vorlon Ambassador?" Garibaldi repeated. He didn't wait for the answer he knew was coming. "If she's not willing to press charges, there's nothing we can do. Even if she did, with his diplomatic status, there's very little..." Zack Allan rocketed from the chair. "Are you shitting me? You're just going to stand around and do nothing? Michael, she's..." Garibaldi faced his assistant. "Zack, I understand that you're worried about her -- and I am too -- but unless she's willing to press charges, there's really nothing we can do." With a long, silent stare, Zack Allan searched for Garibaldi's soul. Allan left without goodbye.