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Secrets

© 1999, Jo Taylor

The room echoed with the sounds of battle.  Weapons swished through the air as bodies attacked and retreated.  Booted feet thudded against the hard wood flooring.  Metal met flesh, a grunt of surprise the only acknowledgement as the silent battle continued.

And suddenly it was all over.

Marcus felt his legs being swept out from under him, falling back with enough force to knock the breath from him in a gasp of pain and exasperation, his weapon spinning from his hand.  Propping himself up on one arm, he found the point of his opponent's pike bare inches away from his face, poised for a killing strike.

"Surrender."

"Buggered if I will!" he retorted only to see the pike drawn back, the arm holding it tighten ready to plunge the weapon into his unprotected face.

"Surrender!"

He thought about his choices, realised he had none and collapsed back against the uncompromising floor, cursing under his breath.  A moment passed in silence until he raised his eyes to catch those of his assailant then he burst into laughter, the fit so infectious that soon both combatants were left out of breath, tears streaming down their faces.

A slim hand was held out to him and he accepted it as he rose from his rather ungraceful sprawl, brushing down the black trousers turned grey from their contact with the dusty floor.  "One of these days, Shera, I will beat you, then see how you like getting splinters in your bum!"

"Only if I let you win, Marcus," she replied grinning, as she dodged his half-hearted attempt to grab her arm.

Standing only five foot two and three quarter inches, though she claimed five foot three, Shera appeared deceptively waif-like.  A preconception she was happy to shatter on any occasion, with any of the trainees who believed themselves better with the denn'bok -- or any other weapon.

Well ahead of him in her training, this month would see her pass out of his life as she set forth on the journey designated to her.  In less than three weeks there would be a Rebirth ceremony, those rangers who were deemed by the masters to be ready would assume their duties and receive the coveted brooch.  Shera was one of those favoured to join the Anla'shok.  He would miss her.  For the last six months, whilst Durhann took on the new recruits, Shera had taken up the role of tutor to selected acolytes.  Her expertise with pike and blade unquestioned by the Masters and her role as teacher approved by Sinclair.  For the last three weeks it had been his turn to suffer humiliation after humiliation as this tiny woman repeatedly bested him in combat.  Just once he wanted to dump her on the floor and make her face defeat.

For all that, they had become fast friends, finding in one another a similarity of background and purpose; family lost, revenge required, but underlying that a sense of the ridiculous that lit them both from within.

Marcus retrieved his weapon as they prepared to leave; a movement in the shadows by the rear wall caught their attention.  Weapons hissed open as they took up a defensive stance.  The hall had been theirs alone, he had watched as Shera opened the room with a key kept on her person and he would have sworn that no-one could have entered without one of them being aware.  The dark figure took shape, revealing the hooded form of Ranger One as he moved toward them.  Marcus gulped a little and sheepishly closed his pike with a snap, Shera following suit.

The more he saw of this quiet man, the greater his respect became.  Though he knew that Sinclair was a mortal, a human and no more unearthly than he, still the name 'Entil'Zha' sprung to his lips whenever they met, along with an almost overwhelming feeling that he should make some kind of abeyance, though he knew Sinclair was uncomfortable with such displays.  They had spoken on occasion, not often, but enough that Marcus was sure the man had spent too much time with the Minbari religious leaders.  He could confound you with nonsense as easily as any of the Sech!  Surely a trait he had learned since arriving on Minbar?

Sinclair let down the hood that had shaded his face from their view.  For a moment Marcus thought he glimpsed the merest hint of a terrible sadness flit across the stern face.  In an instant the impression was gone as his leader's grey eyes twinkled with appreciation.

"Well done, Marcus I do believe you almost had Shera worried then."

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.  "If you think being flat on your back with the business end of a denn'bok up your nose gives her something to worry about, you must be a few brain cells down!"

The room went deathly quiet for a moment before Sinclair's laugh barked into the uneasy silence.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have . . ."

"Don't worry about it, I have had worse allegations thrown my way, but I believe you are going to be late for Sech G'Nath's meditation class?"

Accepting his dismissal with good grace, he bowed slightly to Shera signifying the end of their session before hurrying toward the door.  Closing it behind him, he left the barest gap between door and jamb, one ear pressed to the opening.  Eavesdropping on his friend and the Anla'shok Na, was probably not a very honourable thing to do, but how else was a ranger in training to gather information?  Was that not one of the prime tasks for the chosen of Valen?  Justifying his lapse he listened intently, catching only the odd word here and there.  Sinclair seemed to be quizzing Shera on her home planet, but the reply was lost as her voice dropped to a confidential whisper.

A bell tolled sonorously in the distance, calling the students to their studies.

"Shit!"  He had still to return his pike to the weapon store before joining his meditation class.  It crossed his mind for the briefest moment to run straight to the class but of the two Sech's he would rather face G'Nath's wrath than Deben's.  The weapons master was just as likely to take the lapse out of his hide.  Last time he had been tardy in returning his pike he had spent an hour being used as a punching bag for the students as Deben instructed them on the finer points of inflicting debilitating blows with hand or foot.  Bruises had decorated his body for over a week.  The lesson had been humiliating but it had taught him not to try any Sech's patience again.

He was in luck; the weapon hall was empty.  Quickly he placed the weapon in its slot then hared off toward his next class.

Minbari and Human sat in serried rows facing the ancient Minbari seated at the far end of the hall.  Not the whisper of a breath, the rustle of clothing disturbed the utter silence within the room.  Hard black eyes locked onto his and he wondered if he had made the right choice after all.  The barest gesture from the master brought Marcus to the front of the class where he was signalled to sit.  G'Nath's eyes closed and he sighed in relief at the escape he seemed to have achieved.  Closing his own eyes he tried his best to sink into the deep meditative state that Minbari seemed to believe so essential to a Ranger.

Thoughts chased around his mind like squirrels trapped in a cage.  What had happened between Shera and Sinclair?  Would tomorrow bring a new challenge?  Some of the trainees had been allowed out on fact-finding missions over the last few months, some not much further on in their training than he was.  Energy pulsed through him seeking an escape; his brain still wired from the fight with Shera.  He found inactivity almost unbearable for it gave him time to think, time to remember; and he did not want to remember.

Cramp twinged the muscle of his right thigh sending an uncomfortable spasm up into his groin.  He moved slightly, trying to relieve the pressure and wondered again how this was supposed to leave you refreshed and full of 'delight'!  Another twinge and his eyes flew open, what little concentration he had found lost now in the need to move.  G'Nath's disapproving eye was firmly fixed on him.  He grimaced an apology and stretched out the offending leg, massaging the muscles until the blood began to flow again.

For the next twenty minutes he sat perfectly still, though his mind still wandered along paths of its own as he amused himself with various ways to get even with Shera.  This pastime at least meant he attracted no more attention from the master.

"Dismissed."

Marcus made to leave but a sharp "Mr Cole" rooted him to the spot.  He returned to stand in front of the still seated Sech.

"Sit, Mr Cole." The old man bent his penetrating gaze on Marcus' defiant features.  "I have never approved of Humans becoming Anla'shok.  You lack discipline, inner harmony.  You believe that might of arms can conquer all, but it can not.  To understand your enemy you must understand his soul, and to understand his soul you must understand your own.  And you do not."

"May I speak freely?"

G'Nath nodded.

"My enemies are the Shadows and their minions.  The race that destroyed my planet, that took my home and my family from me and from others just like me.  They don't have a soul!"

"You are afraid to look too closely at you own heart, for fear that you may see another's."

"What?" He hated it when the Minbari trotted out these words of wisdom that made no sense to him.  It left him frustrated and uncomfortably aware that maybe he was missing something vitally important through his own lack of intuition.

"Before you can face your enemies, Mr Cole, you must face yourself.  Meditation will bring you to understanding." The disapproving gaze relaxed for a moment as the old man's hand rested lightly on Marcus' shoulder, "If you will let it."

Walking slowly across to the eating hall the master's words echoed in him.  Did he understand himself?  Did he want to probe his soul and unearth all that hidden pain?  Would it make him any better as a Ranger?

***

Only a handful of Minbari still lingered over the evening meal.  He viewed the scant choice with a critical eye.  What he would give for a steak right now, even a synthesised one would be welcome after months of Minbari fare.  Finally selecting the least unappetising dish he looked around for a seat.  Tucked in the corner of the room, unnoticed on his arrival, sat Shera.  Long black hair fell unfettered, hiding her face; and with the deep colour of her clothing she blended into the shadows.  Every line of her tense body screamed deep concentration and something more, anxiety.  Shera feared nothing.  It was one of those immutable laws, like bread landing butter side down.  He had never seen her flinch in any situation, and the Minbari had thought up a few ripe scenarios for their pupils.

"Will you look at this stuff!" Marcus put the tray down with a clatter that shattered her reverie.  "Is it any wonder I look more like a medical photo than Hercules?"

Panicked eyes shot up to meet his; the usual calm green turned to sea storm in a face that seemed unnaturally pallid.  Her lips tipped into a token smile and his heart sank.  Sliding into the seat opposite her, he pulled his dish closer and studied the fine features now avoiding his gaze.

Taking a slow bite he waited, hoping she would tell him what was wrong.  But the silence grew longer and his brain was working nineteen to the dozen on speculation after speculation.

"This is torture!" he exclaimed.

She looked up again.  "What?  The food?" Her mind had been far away.

"Well, that too.  No, watching you wrestle with the mother of all problems.  Tell me what's wrong.  Maybe I can help?"

Sighing, she seemed to ponder her reply.  A shrug of her shoulder and she opened her mouth to speak.

A heavy hand landed on her shoulder, the gravel-like voice of Sinclair startling them into awareness of his presence.  "Good.  I'm glad to see you found Marcus.  When you have briefed him, join me in my office for final instructions." A nod to Marcus and he was gone.

"How does he do that?  Does he realise how annoying that is . . .?  And what does he mean, "brief me".  Come on, spill it."

"Not here.  Let's walk."

She was up and moving before he had time to put down his fork.  Following her rapidly moving figure they headed for the meditation gardens.  The place was deserted, students who were not attending special classes were busy going over the day"s work, learning, remembering, trying to understand the complexities engendered by the Minbari language.

As they walked the serpentine paths Shera told him something of their mission and the background behind it.

"Remember when we first met?" Though she asked the question, she waited for no reply.  "I told you then that my colony had been destroyed, my family and friends killed.  I survived by sheer luck maybe, or some deity had its eye on me.  For whatever reason I am the only one left to exact revenge for their destruction.  Sinclair has just given me an opportunity to possibly even the score a little."

"You don't seem too happy about it?  What is it you have to do?"

By now they had reached the centre of the garden, a large perfectly symmetrical pool of clear water.  He had tried to see into its depths on his first visit; he would not try again.  The surface remained calm whatever the weather, a stillness that sent shivers up his spine.  As he had gazed into the pool he had felt drawn in by it, as though he were falling in an endless flight toward his doom.

"Culden was not the planet I grew up on, though I considered it home.  I was born and raised on Turnis.  My mother escaped from there when I was fourteen.  She took up with a miner heading for Culden's mining facility, I tagged along."

His eyes had widened at the name Turnis.  Everyone in his sector had heard of the penal colony there, of the conditions to be found and the type of inmate condemned to its care.  That Shera had been born there explained a lot about her that had been a mystery to him.  She would have grown up fast in that atmosphere.

On his own colony he had met adversity in one form or another, but nothing like the conflicts that must have been a daily occurrence for an attractive female on Turnis.

He found her eyes resting on him speculatively.

"Is that where you learnt your skill with the knife?"

She nodded.  "I killed my first man when I was twelve.  He had been bothering my mother for as long as I could recall.  I hated him, what he did to her.  After he had taken her, beaten her nearly senseless, he fell asleep full of the alcoholic muck they drank there.  While he was snoring, I slit his throat."

Her air was one of casual disregard but he had caught the anger in her voice.  It rang in him too, that a child should have to perform such acts.

"Didn't they come after you?"

"We got out of there fast as we could.  One of the miners was going on leave, he gave us a lift to the port; we lost ourselves in that rabbit warren of streets.  Mother went back to her old profession, silver work, and we got by on the money she made and my knife when things turned bad occasionally."

He chose his words carefully, guessing what her answer would be.  "And where are we going on this mission?"

"Turnis."

***

Durhann waited for him inside the weapons training hall.  Marcus' heart beat a little faster as he saw the Minbari held two denn'bok.  A one on one match with the acknowledged Master was a rare and sought after experience.  That Shera may have had something to do with the honour about to be bestowed, he had little doubt.  Durhann's approval was required before any ranger received his own denn'bok.  All trainees currently returned their weapons after each session.  To be custodian of one of these ancient weapons was something he dearly wanted.

Durhann tossed one pike to Marcus, extended his own, and leapt to the attack, aiming a blow to his unprotected face.  His own weapon opened just in time as he raised it above his head warding off the blow.  Pain shot down his arm and into his shoulder.  Rage blossomed in him at the unprovoked attacked and he swung around aiming for his opponent's legs only to find his pike blocked, then almost wrenched from his hand by the force of the riposte.  He stepped back quickly, reigning in his emotions as he took stock of his antagonist.  He could feel the sweat trickling down his back as he whipped the pike back up in a defensive gesture, Durhann's own weapon slicing the air a hairs breath from his face.  Anger got the better of him and he charged into the affray swinging his pike into the master's body.  A sharp rap on his shoulder sobered him as his own pass went wide.  For all his years Durhann was quick as lightning.

They traded blow after blow and it seemed to Marcus that the older man was tiring, or he was improving.  Whatever the cause, he was infused with a need to at least touch the Minbari with his pike before he was summarily defeated.  Slowly he felt his training take over, each move and countermove came with greater ease; he instinctively knew what move Durhann was about to make.  Though his performance was improving, still it took all his concentration to just stay standing in this fight.

Sweat trickled into his eyes, momentarily blinding him and it was over.  Resistance was withdrawn and he waited for a heartbeat, then two, for the strike to fall.  Wiping the moisture from his face he looked over to the Minbari Sech who stood calmly in front of him, weapon retracted.  Not a sign of laboured breath, not a bead of sweat to show that they had fought with a savage intensity.

He retracted his own pike and, following the master's lead, bowed to signify the sessions ending.

"Very good, Mr Cole.  I see much improvement."

Marcus could hear the 'but' hanging in the air between them.

"You have much anger within you, Mr Cole.  It will prove your downfall if you continue to repress those feelings."

"Oh, I don't feel very repressed right now, believe me!"

Was it a trick of the light, or did Durhann's mouth actually twitch with humour?  The closest he had seen the master come to a smile.

He laid the denn'bok on his outstretched palms and offered the weapon back to Durhann.

"No, Mr Cole, you are now custodian of the Denn'bok.  You will use it with honour."

It felt as though a ton of bricks had been laid on his shoulders as the realisation of his acceptance hit home.  To have achieved this level, at this stage of his training was almost unheard of; the responsibility was crushing.  He bowed low and waited silently until the Sech had left the room.  A whoosh of air sighed out of him as relief and excitement warred within.  Turning the closed weapon over in his hands his new accountability became a reality.

Shera was leading them both into one of the worst places the galaxy had to offer, on the trail of a 'maybe' that had come second hand to a ranger passing through the area.  She had related the background to him the previous night.  Rumour had it that inmates were vanishing from the colony.  No great loss one would think, but these were very specific types that suddenly vanished.  Every one, without fail, had a member of their family under the Psi Corps umbrella.  Though not telepathic themselves, their relatives were.  Murderers, rapists, psychos of all descriptions were disappearing never to be seen again -- until recently that is.

Two of the ex inmates had made a sudden re-appearance two weeks before.  A small scout ship had spotted wreckage on a little used part of Turnis.  The two men were dead, still strapped into their seats.  Wires linked them to a computer the likes of which had not been seen before.  All that the ranger could get by way of solid information related to the fact that these men had seemed to be hard-wired to the craft itself.  Men, machine and all data pertaining to the crash had then vanished, their existence denied.

Sinclair wanted to know what was going on.

The transport ship was crowded, dirty and smelt disgusting to Marcus' fastidious nose.  Though he realised that he smelt little better himself after three days in its confines.  Hygiene was not high on the list of attractions on board the Scarna.  Shera had kept her own council through most of the trip, responding only when he had asked her a direct question, never volunteering an answer or starting a conversation.  He worried about her, something he had vowed not to do ever again.  Losing his brother had taken the heart out of him for a while replaced by an anger that even now simmered within him.  He did not want to get close to anyone again, the pain was too great, and here he was, letting someone else's cares become his own.

"What is this place like?  I have heard the rumours of course, but nothing could really be that bad surely."

She turned her stormy eyes and caught his, "Whatever you have heard is probably true, times a factor of ten most likely." She leant back against the dirty wall, and he scanned her closely as memories obviously surfaced.

"The penal colony only takes up a fraction of the planet as you can imagine.  And, like most colonies, it has attracted the scum of the galaxy around it.  It is more like a shantytown than a city; there is nothing that would attract a visitor.  On the other side of the planet is a mining concern; that's where my mother worked, where I grew up.  The accommodation was a little better there, not much.  We shared a place with another family, it wasn't pleasant," she trailed off, her lips tight and thin.

He thought back to his own youth; yes, he had grown up in a mining colony, but the conditions had been pretty good on the whole.  Arisia 3 had had its seamy side however.  When the men had wanted to relax, get drunk, amuse themselves in any way, a few enterprising souls had adapted part of the station into a recreation area that suited them down to the ground.  It had been best not to enquire too deeply into what went on in those dark passages.  Marcus had ventured there now and again.  The first time had been sheer curiosity, and it had nearly got him killed.  William had wanted to get away from the boring drudgery of endless paperwork, his task at the mine, and had twisted Marcus' arm to visit the bars and amusements of 'downtown'.

They should have met around ten, but Marcus had been caught up in paperwork of his own as a supply shipment had arrived.  Reaching William's room, the note tagged to the door caught his eye.  William, restless and headstrong had gone ahead and would meet him at the 'Black Cat' bar.  Cursing his brother, he had grabbed his jacket and set off in pursuit of his reckless sibling.  The room had been barely lit and it had taken a while for him to spot William's dark head at the end of the bar.  Half a dozen empty glasses already stood on the sticky surface, and the eyes that met his seemed to be a little out of focus.

"William, time to go." His hand had been ready to haul his inebriated sibling up from the stool when his own arm was grabbed from behind.

"Now you just leave the lad alone." The huge hairy hand that gripped his arm so tightly squeezed hard, temporarily cutting off the circulation.

"William!" he had hissed insistently.

"Wassamatterbrother?"  His glass slammed down on the bar.  "Another round of drinks for my good friends!"

Marcus caught him as he slid off the stool.  "I don't think so.  Come on, up with you."

Continued

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