BABYLON 5: THE VIRTUAL SIXTH SEASON
"THE PRICE OF FREEDOM"
Episode 12
THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME
Lieutenant Corwin spotted Captain Lochley as she strolled into the Zocalo.
"Captain!" he called. "There you are. I've been looking for you."
Lochley smiled and kept walking, heading for a lavish floral display.
"Just taking a moment to stop and smell the roses, Lieutenant," she said over her shoulder.
"Ma'am?"
She gathered up an exotic white bloom. "Do you realize, it's been almost three days since we've had any kind of a crisis around here? And the last one wasn't even a big one."
"Yes, it's been pretty quiet," Corwin agreed automatically, anxious to deliver his message and get back to C&C. He didn't get a chance, though, since she immediately launched into a circuitous monologue involving Sheridan, Garibaldi, and something called the 'Pauli effect'. This gave him plenty of time to wonder whether a selective memory was some sort of critical component of the command mindset.
Granted, the problem with lurkers resisting relocation while repairs were made to various levels of Brown Sector had been resolved quite handily, with the help of Ms. Marrago and that Narn kid, still it had been little more than a week since the whole station had come within a gnat's whisker of being blown up. And before that...well, the less said, the better. For the Captain to be so complacent about one week of relative quiet argued a degree of psychological discipline that the Lieutenant could only strive to emulate. Too bad he was going to have to burst her bubble...
"Over the last few months," Lochley went on smoothly, "this place has become...almost manageable."
For a moment Corwin wondered if she were joking -- but then he saw his chance.
"I'm sorry, Lieutenant," she said, coming back from whatever mental realm Captains went to when they were pontificating (another Command Concept he had yet to nail down, although he was working on it). "Obviously, you tracked me down for a reason. What is it?"
As he told her, he could have sworn he heard something go 'pop'.
At the inner end of the Customs chamber a set of transport tube doors closed on the elegantly attired and complacently smiling figure of Michael Garibaldi, once Chief of Security of Babylon 5, now Chief of Operations of one of the Earth Alliance's most powerful mega-corporations. A few moments later they reopened to reveal an oddly assorted pair of upper-class Centauri gentlemen engrossed in urgent conversation.
"Now whatever you do," said the shorter, older man, "don't sneeze in the presence of the H'ggorth Chief Facilitator. It's considered a serious insult to their gods -- if you even think you might be catching a cold, reschedule. Say that the omens are inauspicious -- they always believe that one. I've used it a hundred times...well, it feels like that many, anyway."
"Sneezing...gods...omens...got it, Ambassador," the gangly attache was zealously entering notes, his crest bobbing slightly as he nodded over the datapad. In the few months since his arrival, Volga Jaddo had devoted all his considerable energy to learning his duties as the Centauri Ambassador's attache, ever-mindful (and ever-reminded the Lady Brettaria, his formidable Aunt) of his position as breadwinner for the remnants of their extended family. Now he looked down at his superior, a wary look on his long, perpetually mournful face.
"Um, Ambassador -- there was one thing I wanted to ask you about..."
"Um, yes?" Vir Cotto answered absently, scanning the room for a particular face.
"Um, well, as you may know, um..." the younger man began (and yes, certain elements among the station's Human personnel *did* refer to the two of them as the 'Centauri Um...bassadorial Staff'), "my family has settled into their new quarters quite nicely, after that, um, awkwardness when we first arrived...and my cousin Narandro has recently started giving lessons in swordsmanship. He managed to rent some space in Brown 11 -- not the best neighborhood, I know, but..."
"Wait a minute," Vir interrupted, focusing on his attache once more. "Your cousin is Narandro Dok? The Champion of the Camulodo Cora Predo? I won fifty ducats on a match of his, once! Of course it was Londo's idea, and he did take half...but still...I'm sorry, you were saying?"
"Well, yes, Narandro was living in Camulodo, but his wives and children were killed in the bombing there. Then, when the Cora Predo was disbanded, he came to us, and, um..."
"Disbanded? What are you talking about?"
"You didn't hear? It was one of the first decrees the Emperor made after he took the throne. It was said that duelling societies are not suitable for an advanced culture -- that they encourage lawlessness and reckless behavior. It is now illegal to carry a kutari or other blade in public, or to teach the art of the sword anywhere on the homeworld. On the colonies, and here, within the restrictions imposed by the station's own policies, of course, there is more leeway...at least so far...but..."
"I don't believe it!" Vir protested. "Londo loved the Cora Predo -- he would never..."
"The Emperor made the proclamation himself," Volga assured him. "I was there, I heard it. But what I wanted to ask you is, can we -- I mean, can *they* -- borrow the Jaddo kutari, the one my Uncle Urza gave to the Emperor? I know he left it here, I've seen it in your quarters. Actually, I, um, polished it yesterday," he added with a sheepish smile. "We would treat it with great honor -- Narandro wants to hang it in the Salle itself, right over the shrine to Morg the Death-Handed. He is certain it would help bring in students who revere the old ways..."
"I don't know," the Ambassador said dubiously. "If His Majesty really...but I can't believe that he would...but if he has, then...I mean, it's not really for me to say..."
"What is not for you to say, my husband?" Lyndisty's lilting voice chimed in. Her brilliant smile drove all thought clean out of the Ambassador's head, as usual. The attache, a respectably (and presumably happily) married young man, was only slightly less at a loss for words.
"The um, the Ambassador was just giving me some, uh, last-minute instructions, dem'selle Marrago," said Volga, bobbing his head deferentially toward the diminutive Centauri woman. She favored him with a flash of that smile, and he blushed. Vir recovered himself enough to dismiss the young man, and the two of them walked slowly toward the gate.
"I'm sorry I'm so late, Vir," Lyndisty said. "There was a slight emergency at the Center, but Mrs. Sheridan was good enough to cover for me for a while. I was afraid you would be gone by the time I could get here..."
"Oh, not to worry," Vir replied. "I've got a good...um..." he looked up at the time display -- "three minutes left before the Justarius undocks. I am glad you came, though. I didn't want to go without seeing you..."
"Why, Vir, you are only going home for a few days! Although," she added wistfully, "I do wish I were going with you -- I would like to see Father again...and Mother, of course. It's just that there is so much to do here..."
"Maybe next time," Vir suggested. "I'm planning on visiting your parents while I'm there, anyway -- I'll be sure to tell them how much you miss them."
"Yes, and make sure Father is dressing warmly enough -- the old house is so drafty, and he still thinks of himself as the stalwart soldier who can ignore any hardship. And..." her smile faltered, "tell Mother I am well, and that I will record a message for her...soon."
"I suppose she'll be anxious to hear when we plan to complete our marriage," he suggested, and their eyes met in a look of shared wariness and longing. "I'll handle it," he assured her, pulling himself together. "I am, after all, a professional diplomat!"
"So you are, my Ambassador!" she agreed, taking his arm again with a relieved smile. "So, are you going to present your proposal to the Emperor?"
"Well, that is the main reason I'm going home, after all -- to report on my progress in dealing with the Interstellar Alliance here on Babylon 5. And if negotiating -- or, I should say, renegotiating -- an extensive trade treaty with almost two-thirds of the Alliance worlds, including the Narns, doesn't count as progress, then I don't know what does!" He couldn't help sounding a bit smug, and Lyndisty's eyes glowed as she looked up at him.
"I'm sure that the Emperor will be very proud of you, Vir! You must be careful, though," she said, sobering, "for there may be those at Court that will envy you -- you know how they are, there! And if anyone were to link you to the escape of Lady Morella and Carn Mollari..." she added, referring to the recent, thoroughly unauthorized rescue of the station by the current Emperor's nephew and the widow of the former Emperor. A Centauri warship had been diverted to arrest them, but the renegades had already left the station. Some said they had fled to Earth, some suggested less likely places. Vir himself did not know where they had gone -- Captain Lochley had said she'd take care of it, and he had been more than willing to leave the matter in her capable hands.
"Oh, yes," he assured Lyndisty, "I will certainly be careful! Fortunately, when I was at court before this, it was in far too lowly a position to make enemies...that is," his eyes tightened at a particularly painful memory, "surviving enemies...but never mind," he perked up and patted his fiancee's hand, "I'm sure everything will be fine, and I'll be back here with you before you know it! Ah -- they're calling for my shuttle, I have to go now."
Quickly, a little shyly, they embraced, and the Ambassador started through the gate. Struck by some unnameable impulse, Lyndisty called after him again.
"Vir!"
He turned back.
"Be careful!"
He smiled, and waved, and was swallowed up by the crowd. Lyndisty looked after him for a long moment, then sighed and turned away.
"Be careful," she murmured a third time. She shook her head. "Why do I keep SAYING that to people?" she asked, whether of her Vendrizi symbiont or of the Universe in general, she wasn't sure. A few steps later, she stopped short.
"And why do I have this feeling that they never listen?"
As she left the embarcation area through one doorway, two Narns entered from the opposite direction. One was stocky and in the prime of his Narnhood, while the other was younger, slimmer, and incongruously clad in an Earth-style jumpsuit.
"Are you sure you won't come with me, G'Stral?" the elder Narn was saying. "I'm sure it would prove most...educational."
The other shook his head vehemently. "I will never go back. There is nothing for me on Homeworld. My family, my whole village was obliterated by the Centauri."
"There are other villages," the Narn Ambassador pointed out. "From what I hear, the rebuilding is progressing remarkably well, with help from the Alliance."
G'Stral snorted. "And at what price?" he asked cynically. "When the Alliance is done rebuilding Narn in its own image, will it truly be Narn at all?"
"All worlds change, G'Stral -- even this place has changed, in the short time I have been here. I think you are simply afraid. Yes," he nodded as the young Narn scowled angrily. "Afraid to let go of your anger and need for revenge. You gather it all up into one lump and call it 'home', and cling to it like a yard-lizard clinging to her egg. But I have travelled much farther than you, my young friend, and let go of many things, and despite all the changes, I look forward to walking the sands of Narn once again. Perhaps I will even get a chance to visit the sea -- my ancestors were sailors, you know, before we learned to sail between the stars."
G'stral laughed shortly. "If you can call those tepid puddles the Centauri left us 'seas'," he said scathingly. "I remember when they announced that the last fish were extinct -- I was barely out of the pouch, but I knew we had lost something precious and irreplaceable..."
"Not necessarily," said Ambassador Ta'Lon. "There is a team of geneticists at the University of Mesoamerica on Earth that is making remarkable progress in recreating extinct species from preserved genetic materials. Just last week I sat in on some promising negotiations with them..."
At that moment the announcement for the Narn shuttle sounded, cutting off Ta'Lon's account as well as whatever retort G'Stral had been about to make.
"Ah -- I must go. Keep well, G'Stral, and...try to stay out of trouble until I get back!"
As the Narn Ambassador passed through the gate and his young protege faded back towards Down Below, two tall, golden-haired Humans approached the next gate over. The display screen for this one showed an imminent departure for Mars.
"So, are you going to visit Earth, too?" asked the black-clad Psi Cop, to be met by a blank stare from his companion.
"No, why should I?" she asked in return.
Colin Ferris shrugged. He didn't quite dare bring up the topic of Dr. Franklin, but he couldn't help being curious. "I don't know, I just figured since you were going to be in the neighborhood..."
Tessa Halloran shook her head, smiling slightly. "That's one thing that always amuses me about you Earthers -- that deepseated belief that your little planet is the center of the Universe. Believe me, if I do end up with any time on my hands -- which is highly unlikely -- Earth is the last place I'd go to play tourist. Besides," she added dismissively, "I caught most of the high points in college, anyway."
"High points? Like what? Mount Everest, perhaps?" the telepath prodded. Sometimes he just couldn't resist teasing Halloran -- as much for the pleasure at being trusted enough by a mundane to get away with it as for the chance to crack that ultracompetent demeanor of hers. Although she might not have Jamie Pratchett's almost intimidating puckishness, he found her more subtle responses delightful.
"Yes, as a matter of fact," she replied, deadpan. "A group of us Marsie transfer students set up an expedition. Oldstyle -- no elevators, no chair lifts, just our standard outdoor gear from home. The gravity was a bitch, but aside from that it was wonderful. The colors, that incredible horizon..." she broke off at the sight of Colin's vindicated grin. "Of course, it's nothing compared to Olympus," she said quickly. "And the rest of it -- Earthdome, the Louvre, the Taj Mahal...it all just seemed so...so self-important. So caught up in the idea of its own greatness that whatever had made it great in the first place was lost."
"Then you obviously picked the wrong 'high points'," Colin assured her. "Someday I'll take you on a tour -- we'll do the Caribbean islands, the coast of Norway, stop off at the Edmonton Arcology for a change of pace..."
"Well, while you're planning my next trip, I need to get started on this one." A trace of concern crept into her eyes. "Are you going to be all right, Colin? Are those...alien memories still bothering you?"
Typical Tessa, he thought. She herself had been seriously injured during the reactor crisis -- he had never gotten the details, but the emotional leakage he couldn't help picking up from Dr. Hobbs indicated that her recovery was somewhat of a medical miracle. Yet, not only did she go jaunting off to Mars before she should really be out of Medlab, but she was worried about his lingering...difficulties.
"Not as much," he replied, smiling. "It's amazing what a little distraction will do." She finally cracked a smile herself at his dismissal of the near-destruction of the five-mile-long space station as 'a little distraction'. "And, frankly," he went on, "I intend to spend the next week or so holed up in my quarters, getting those memories thoroughly sorted out and integrated. So don't be surprised if, the next time you see me, I'm speaking entirely in Vorlon aphorisms!"
Tessa laughed aloud, giving the round to Colin without rancor. "You'll drive Zack crazy! And speaking of Zack..." she looked around, but there was no sign of the Security Chief. "Oh, well, everything he should need is in his infile anyway."
She glanced at the display as the announcement for her shuttle began. "Take care, Colin!" she called, hitching her carryall higher on her shoulder and moving off through the gate, "Don't let the station go to Hell without me!"
Just as she disappeared, Zack Allan hurried up to the gate.
"Damn it," he said. "I was hoping to catch her before she left..."
"You could have her called back, if it's that important," Colin suggested. Zack looked up at him, distracted, then his gaze sharpened and he shook his head.
"No," he said curtly. "It'll wait. Besides," he said, his expression lightening as a trace of smugness crept into his voice, "I gotta see a man about a bet."
With that, he turned on his heel and walked off, to leave the Psi Cop looking after him in no more confusion than usual.
****************** Act One *****************
STATION PRIME, CENTAURI SYSTEM
It was one of those really realistic dreams -- the kind where you aren't even aware that you're dreaming, and take the hints of surreality, the sense of being somehow unstuck in time, completely in stride.
It had started out with this very trip; Vir's first visit back home since Londo's inauguration. There had been a party at the Royal Court, something about a picture gallery -- and over all, a feeling of something terribly, terribly wrong. Londo had been acting peculiar -- even more so than the last time Vir had seen him -- almost as though he were a prisoner in his own palace. Then there was that creepy Minister of Security -- Durla, was it? All very strange and frightening.
Then he'd gone back to Babylon 5 -- only it was suddenly last year, when President Sheridan was still there and Mr. Garibaldi was still Director of Covert Intelligence, before his drinking problem had gotten out of hand. That had gone strange, too -- something about a parade through Down Below, and a Centauri trying to assassinate the President. This horrid little black thing had come out of the man's mouth, and then that very odd technomage had stomped on it. The Human said something about "having to work on 'mysterious'"...and that's when Vir was awakened by a loud PING from the cabin's speakers.
"We are now approaching Station Prime," the dulcet voice advised. "Please remain seated until the shuttle has come to a complete stop."
****************
CAPITAL CITY, CENTAURI PRIME
Aragon Pernimi, former Telepath Guildmaster of Immolan V, looked out a narrow, grimy window at a cityscape of half-destroyed tenements and half-rebuilt office buildings. In the central business districts and the wealthy enclaves, reconstruction had progressed rapidly during the months he had been away, but in this neighborhood the scars of the bombardment were still raw and oozing. Even in the rebuilt areas, though, one didn't need to be a telepath to realize that all was not well on Centauri Prime. The things he'd seen in his few days here, the rumors he had picked up on the street (telepathically and otherwise) were extremely disturbing. Not, however, as disturbing as the instructions he'd just been given.
He had finally managed to win free of Babylon 5, the Human known as 'the Dragon', and even that overgrown kitchen-crawler j'Nialth, but the price of that freedom had been steep -- he was just beginning to realize how steep. He shook his head and turned away from the window. Clothes and bedding were strewn about the room, and a distinct odor of mildew drifted in from the fresher cabinet -- the only other chamber in this ramshackle apartment.
Wistfully Pernimi recalled his luxurious quarters on Babylon 5 -- and before that, his gracious mansion on Immolan, before his fate had started on its inexorable downward spiral. From Master of Telepaths on one of the Centauri Republic's most prestigious colonies to a hired killer hiding in a slum garret -- for the millionth time he cursed the man who had persuaded him to attempt to scan the Emperor. And now he was bound to attempt something almost as foolhardy.
He slung on his expensive but sadly worn jacket -- ironically apt for this neighborhood, where disposessed noblemen mixed with the rabble that had hastened to loot their demolished palaces -- and left the tiny apartment, locking the door carefully (if pointlessly) behind him.
****************
G'KAMAZAD, NARN
"My goal," the mellifluous voice enunciated precisely, "is to help you to become the best, most productive Na'Toth that you can possibly be." The petite Narn woman's smile was a professional one, finding no echo in her clear red eyes.
Na'Toth bared her own teeth in a predator's grin. "Then why have you not approved my request to return to active duty? Surely I would be more productive on a starship, or assisting one of our envoys, or even..." she looked around the room for inspiration, finding it in the cracks and fallen rubble that still marred a corner of her Rehabilitation Coordinator's office. "Sh'rakh, I'd be more productive on a building crew than I am lying around that retreat of yours like a t'gath cow in a mud puddle!" She planted her hands on the desk and leaned forward, pushing at the edges of the smaller woman's composure as she forced her to draw back.
"I need to WORK, Ta'Marr. If not for the Kha'Ri, then perhaps it is time that I take the Dongo'Norr and make my own way in the world."
That made the Coordinator sit up straight. "Don't be ridiculous," she snapped. "One must make allowances considering what you've been through, but I fail to believe that you would be so foolish as to resign from government service at this point in your career. Quite apart from the disgrace to your family, and your tremendous value to us as a proven leader, there is the matter of your therapy, which contrary to your opinion is not complete, and which is being covered -- in full -- by the Exchequer of the Kha'Ri. Unless of course you resign, in which case the costs would revert to you." Ta'Marr resettled her files before her as though trapping any protest beneath them.
Na'Toth sighed, acknowledging that her threat was an empty one. What little family she had left after the Centauri mass-driver attack -- those who had survived the subsequent occupation -- had eked out a meager living on her pension since Narn regained its independence. Since she had been returned to them, by what some called at least semi-divine intervention (and she herself, familiar as she was with the semi-divinity in question, had trouble chalking up to pure luck), her disability pay had provided them a few small comforts, as well as some long-delayed necessities. She could not, in conscience, take away that security, let alone saddle all of them with a mountain of debt for the medical treatment (physical and mental) that she had required as a result of her captivity.
She drew herself up and took a deep breath. "Give me an assignment," she repeated, on the verge of pleading. Ta'Marr regarded her steadily, then flipped open her top file.
"As a matter of fact, the committee has made a recommendation in your case, although I am afraid it is not in any of the areas you requested."
Na'Toth braced herself. It was an assignment, and whatever it was, it could not possibly be worse than the torture and degradation she had endured at the hands of the Centauri, so she told herself she would accept it with a positive, professional attitude.
"They want you to become pregnant."
It took a moment to sink in. Then,
"WHAT?!?" she shrieked, succumbing to a most uncharacteristic fit of the sputters. "PREGNANT? Me?!? I couldn't possibly...I've never even considered such a..."
"Well, I suggest you begin considering it immediately. Your therapists agree that the hormonal changes associated with pregnancy will help to alleviate your depression..."
"I am not depressed!" the taller woman snapped reflexively, but Ta'Marr kept talking.
"...and with over half a billion killed in the Centauri bombardment alone, we need to build up our population as quickly as possible. You will be permitted a free choice of co-parent, and in the meantime we have arranged for a posting that will make use of your skills while providing the required degree of...domestic stability."
"A desk job?" Na'Toth asked dazedly, still trying to assimilate the idea of herself as a childbearer and -- the heavens she didn't believe in forfend -- eventual assistant childrearer.
"That will be for the Councillor to decide," Ta'Marr answered, coming out from behind her desk in response to the flashing entry-request light by the doorway.
Na'Toth turned to follow her. "The Councillor? What Councillor..." she began, but was cut off when the door slid open to reveal the Narn in question.
"Councillor G'Kael, Executor Martial of the Kha'Ri," Ta'Marr announced unnecessarily, as the tall, athletic form of the famed war hero strode into the room, the blood-red metallic edging of his distinctive dark robes catching the light in subdued, elegant flickers as he moved.
Na'Toth had heard of him, of course. Ambassador G'Kar had mentioned him several times as an old comrade-in-arms, and since her return to Narn she had not been so sequestered as to have escaped the public information programs that covered (in rather exhaustive detail) the lives and qualifications of those raised to the new ruling council.
G'Kael had been a high-ranking operative in the Regime's Intelligence Service (the documentaries were uncharacteristically vague about that part of his career), and had commanded the outpost at Narlahk when it had served as a rallying-point for the surviving Narn forces after the Day of Fire. After G'Kar had won his people's independence but declined to lead them, G'Kael had been virtually drafted into the reborn Kha'Ri, and had directed Narn military activities against the Shadows, in support of Sheridan's rebellious Earthers and later in support of the new Interstellar Alliance. It was rumored that the personal health of General Na'Tok, who had defied both Sheridan's and G'Kael's orders in bombarding the Centauri homeworld, had suffered almost as much as his career in the aftermath of what some called a triumph and others (primarily the Followers of G'Kar), a disaster.
To that theoretical knowledge, Na'Toth could now add an impression of great physical energy and even greater intellectual power. He had to be close to G'Kar's age, yet the smile he gave her (though less expressive than those of the thin-skinned Humans) spoke of the abilities and interests of a much younger man. But then, age had never slowed the Ambassador down any, she recalled wryly.
The Executor's head tilted slightly as he regarded her, arms folded across his dark-tabarded chest.
"Commander Na'Toth," he stated smoothly, as though acknowledging a superior vintage of takhara wine.
Na'Toth lifted her own head proudly in reply, momentarily disconcerted to find that her eye-level still did not match his. The Rehabilitation Coordinator, completely forgotten, retreated to her desk.
"I have need of an assistant," G'Kael continued. "I understand that you are still recuperating from mistreatment at Centauri hands, and you will find me not unsympathetic to your...situation."
And just which situation was he referring to, she wondered.
"However, as Adjutant to an Executor of the Kha'Ri, I will expect you to put aside any ill feeling you may have towards aliens, and work wholeheartedly toward the recovery and eventual expansion of the Narn Regime, within the fraternity of the Interstellar Alliance."
Na'Toth's eyes glittered with crimson fire as she replied. "Councillor G'Kael, I served for almost two years with Ambassador G'Kar on Babylon 5. I believe you will find my discretion to be irreproachable, and my capabilities...more than adequate. May I ask what my duties will entail, specifically?"
"You may certainly ask," the former spymaster assured her, "and I shall answer as circumstances warrant. G'Kar spoke of you often, and with high regard," he went on, turning the subject deftly. "I believe that this will be a most satisfactory arrangement, on both sides."
He flashed her another of those reptilian smiles, then turned to Ta'Marr. "If you are finished with the Commander, Coordinator?"
"Certainly, Councillor," the woman replied, looking as though that were the only thing she was capable of saying at that point. Na'Toth sniffed -- the Councillor was admittedly an imposing specimen, but *she* had never been one to be impressed by masculine posturing.
As they left the building together, G'Kael spoke again, more softly this time.
"I would like to assure you that, whatever duties I may assign you, you will be allowed complete liberty to pursue your...personal goals." The appreciative look in his eyes left her in no doubt as to exactly what kind of liberties he was prepared to allow.
Na'Toth stopped, looking him square in the eye. "Councillor," she said quellingly. "Whatever you may have read in my file, I will ask that you keep to yourself. My *personal goals*, as you put it, are my own business -- not yours, not the Kha'Ri's, and *not*," she practically spat, "that of the Rehabilitation Committee. If that is not acceptable, then I will be forced to request another posting."
"Such a posting might not be nearly as...congenial as that of Executor's Adjutant," G'Kael pointed out, watching her carefully.
She contented herself with raising a brow ridge, and he surprised her by laughing aloud.
"Come along, Na'Toth," he said cheerfully. "I have something to show you. I believe you were worried about being assigned to a desk job?"
High overhead, a shuttle rumbled in for its approach to the capital's main passenger port.
****************
DOME 1B, MARS
As Teresa Halloran stepped out of the access tube into the main concourse of the John F. Carter Shuttleport, her senses were assaulted by a wave of color and sound, as well as the unique flavor of recycled air that meant "Mars".
The reports certainly hadn't overstated the case, she thought as she made her way toward the baggage claim. Not only had traffic naturally picked up since the Earthers had backed off on their 'war of red tape', as President Sheridan had so succinctly called it, but the excitement and opportunities (both political and economic) generated by the upcoming elections had the colony's primary transit nexus bustling like the proverbial poked anthill.
"Director? Ms. Halloran! Hey, Number One!"
Tessa's icy glare flew unerringly to a short, stocky, chocolate-skinned figure in a Dome One security uniform topped by an improbable but impressive weave of red-gold braids. Her lips thinned as she strode up to the woman.
"I was going to ask if you were insane, but since it's you, I suppose it's a moot point," Tessa said grimly.
The security officer smiled slightly as she began moving them toward the exit. "It got your attention," she said, "and I figured anyone else who put it together would be as likely to ask for your autograph as punch you out."
"It's not punches I'm worried about," Tessa replied. Feelings about the Resistance -- both for and against -- still ran high on Mars, and she could think of half a dozen reasons why someone recognizing its former leader might want to take her out. Her current position as the Interstellar Alliance's head of Covert Intelligence was no guarantee of universal goodwill either, and the crowded shuttleport would provide perfect cover for an assassination attempt.
"Our security screenings are quite thorough," the other woman assured her, and now that she was looking, Tessa saw at least half a dozen plainclothes agents within striking range of the two of them. She did not, however, notice the beefy man in Earthforce uniform who sidled over to the nearest comm unit as they passed.
Tessa nodded shortly. "Good work, Sergeant..." the other woman shot her a look, and Tessa glanced down at her uniform collar, "...Lieutenant Carr. My baggage..."
"Has been sent on to your hotel. I've got a private zipcar waiting outside -- the TPTB's want to see you soonest."
"TPTB's?" Tessa asked. The reports had missed that one.
"Temporary Powers That Be," Lt. Carr explained. "People started calling them that when they announced that the officers of the Presiding Council of the Provisional Government would be ineligible for office in this round of elections."
"I heard about that," said Tessa. "Amanda Carter's still eligible, though, isn't she?"
"Eligible, running, and favored for the Planetary Coordinator's seat," Carr answered. "Her Green Mars Coalition sits smack in the political center, although Hiram Esposito's Earth sympathizers -- the Blues -- are putting up quite a challenge, especially here in Main Dome. Now that the Earthers have accepted our independence, the megacorps and colony shareholders are more than willing to let bygones be bygones." She sounded as though she wasn't, which surprised Tessa a bit. When she and Carr had crossed paths before, the other woman had been a staunch supporter of the colonial status quo.
"Have the Reds settled on a candidate yet?" she asked, hoping her concern wasn't obvious.
Carr shook her head, turning it into a nod at the guard by the exit. "They're still broken out into three or four separate factions -- the outlying tent settlements don't trust the domers, and the prospectors and gypsies don't trust *anybody*.
"Plus the fact that Chico Allende and Tambut Singh still can't manage to be in the same room for more than five minutes without trying to throttle each other," she added with a sidelong glance at Tessa as they climbed into a low-slung, closed groundcar.
Tessa leaned her head against the seat back, closing her eyes with a faint groan. Lieutenant Carr's velvet-brown ones slid over. "As ye sow, so shall ye reap," she said quietly.
"Don't remind me," said Tessa without opening her eyes. She considered various things for a moment, then added, "Congratulations, by the way. On your promotion."
The other woman shrugged. "I did my job. I survived. I didn't piss anybody off enough to get...forgotten when things settled out. Or remembered the wrong way -- which is more than can be said for you," she pointed out.
"You mean getting drafted to run errands for the PG, or getting drafted as Chief Spook for the ISA?"
"Both -- and don't try to tell me you argued too hard on either count," Carr tossed back.
There was another short silence, this time broken by the Lieutenant, as she stared straight ahead through the security shield that separated them from the driver's compartment.
"Thanks."
"For what?"
"Not killing me, last time we met."
Tessa smiled. That had been one hell of a mission, with her cell trapped between the then-sergeant's task force and an Earther military transport that was due to explode in less than a minute. She'd managed to get the drop on Carr, and gotten her people out with seconds to spare. The sergeant, who had tracked and harassed the Resistance leader since hostilities had broken out, had fully expected to be killed out of hand, but even at the worst of the troubles that had not been Tessa's way with an enemy she acknowledged as honorable. She shrugged in turn, shifting forward in her seat.
"It would have been a waste. A domed colony needs expert security personnel, no matter who's in charge -- people who can not only follow orders, but work on their own, and you've always been good at that."
"True," Carr acknowledged with a complete lack of false modesty. "Actually, it's one of my side projects that prompted me to volunteer for your escort." At Tessa's inquiring look, she elaborated. "We know that when your people were...operating, they gathered several caches of rather nasty armaments -- artillery, chemical weapons, bioagents for habitat sabotage -- even a few nukes went missing. Trouble is, not all those caches were declared when Independence came -- at least half a dozen of them are still out there somewhere, unaccounted for."
"And you're trying to track them down, and you thought I could help?"
"Bingo."
Tessa drew a deep breath. "I wish I could, Lieutenant, I really do. But I turned over everything my branch of the organization had -- I never even knew where the rest were, that was part of the whole guerilla decentralization strategy."
"Yes, well, I'm afraid it worked a little too well in this case. Nobody we've managed to contact seems to know where they are -- and those who do know are still in hiding, for one reason or another."
"Well, I'll certainly have my people here keep an eye out -- and they're mostly Rangers, so their eyes are pretty sharp."
"That'll help," the Lieutenant acknowledged. She looked out the window -- they were turning into the driveway that led under the Provisional Government's headquarters. "I was also hoping that while you're here, between placating the bigwigs and scoping out the campaign," she continued, neatly encapsulating two-thirds of Tessa's mission in a leap of pure Sherlockian deduction, "you could sniff around and see if you can get something from your old connections -- I daresay you still have a few we don't know about."
"With you on the case?" Tessa retorted with a smile, then she sobered. "I'll see what I can do. I don't like the idea of those weapons falling into the wrong hands any more than you do."
Carr snorted as she clambered out of the vehicle. "As if they were ever in the right hands," was her only comment.
****************
ROYAL PALACE, CENTAURI PRIME
Ambassador Cotto had been passed from one functionary to another until he began to wonder if the Emperor actually existed, or if he had been spirited away somewhere and this bureaucratic shuffle instituted to maintain the fiction of his presence. Unfortunately, he was well aware that such a scenario was not outside the realm of possibility, but he clung to his faith in Londo's irreducible stubbornness. Anyone -- or any political force -- attempting to muzzle, muffle, or otherwise control this Emperor was going to have its work cut out for it, Vir told himself confidently.
At last he was ushered into an spacious office that his directional sense assured him must be pretty close to the throne room. It was occupied by two men conferring earnestly over an ornate Donnato IX-style desk littered with papers and sporting one of the new sleekly functional comm/processor units. (The 'minimalist' fashion introduced by the late Emperor Cartagia as a decadent whim had struck a chord with the Centauri public, particularly after the Alliance attack, and a new aesthetic of utilitarian simplicity was sweeping the planet -- a trend Vir was decidedly ambivalent about.)
As the Ambassador approached, he could not help overhearing the heated discussion already in progress. The youngish man behind the desk was tall and slender, yet broad-shouldered, with a tightly-curled brown crest that spoke either of strict pragmatism or politic fashion-sense -- or, perhaps, of both. The man standing at his side was darkly bearded and more compact, and his crest seemed unable to decide between the reserve of current fashion and the extravagance of personal pride: it rose up a good half-hand, but then curled under sharply, as if embarrassed at its own temerity.
"But Kristo, if you make these cuts it will put hundreds -- perhaps thousands -- of people out of work! And with the economy the way it is..."
"Nonsense, Denardo," the seated man replied firmly. "With the retraining facilities we will set up -- using only a small fraction of the conserved revenues -- these resources will quickly be returned to the community as productive assets, while our operations will run much more efficiently. I can't imagine what that old fool Jaddo thought he was doing, allowing these deadweight middle managers and hangers-on to keep sucking the lifeblood out of the Mollari holdings -- thank the gods Uncle Londo finally came to his senses and put us in charge!"
"Well, I think the fact that Minz Jaddo and both of Urza's sons were vaporized in the Alliance attack might have had something to do with it," Denardo suggested.
"'The heaviest rain is still good for the ghola'," Kristo reminded him, referring to the deep-burrowing root that provided a staple food for the lower classes. "Or, in this case, the heaviest particle-beam." The young man's gaze sharpened as he spotted the hesitantly approaching Ambassador.
"Can I help you?"
"Um...hello...how do you do," Vir faltered, somewhat intimidated by the Imperial nephew's imperious tone. "I'm...Ambassador Cotto? From Babylon 5? I'm, uh, here to see the Emperor?"
Kristo unfolded himself from behind the desk and came forward to deliver a perfunctory bow, which Denardo echoed, as if joined to the taller man by a string.
"Kristo Mollari at your service, Ambassador," the young man said crisply, his manner indicating nothing of the kind. "My brother, Denardo," he added, gesturing towards the shorter man, who bobbed another bow.
As Vir returned the genuflections, unsure of the exact protocol required between an Ambassador and a pair of Imperial nephews, he caught the look the other two exchanged. Suddenly he remembered that these must be Carn Mollari's younger brothers -- or half-brothers, he wasn't quite sure -- and that Carn had last been seen fleeing Imperial reprisals, on Babylon 5. He wondered whether running into them like this was a good thing or not.
"I believe the Ambassador was formerly our Imperial Uncle's attache, when *he* was still serving on Babylon 5," Denardo ventured, politely enough. "If you have any free time during your visit, Ambassador, I would be most interested in hearing of your experiences among the aliens..."
"The Ambassador is a busy man, Denardo," Kristo cut him off. "Besides, you will be fully occupied in overseeing the modifications we have been discussing. I suggest you get started," he added pointedly.
"Me?! But..." Denardo subsided at a sharp look from his brother. With a sigh, he bowed again, and this time when he came up Vir threw him a quick glance of sympathy and shared understanding. The younger man's mouth tightened in acknowledgement, and he turned and headed for the door.
Once Denardo had departed, Kristo returned his attention to the Ambassador. For a moment Vir wondered if he was going to ask about Carn, but the younger man simply stared at him coldly.
"Do you have an appointment, sir?" he asked at last, which was none of the questions Vir had been expecting.
"An app...well, not as such...I advised the Minister of the Court of my expected arrival time, but...um...not specifically an appointment, no..."
Kristo sighed heavily. "Of course you understand that the Emperor is heavily occupied with affairs of State. A personal audience must be requested at least a month in advance..."
"A month!" This was too much. Vir remembered this one now: Londo had once referred to him, in what was for Mollari an excess of avuncular affection, as a 'hyperactive young vulture-in-training'. And this was what had ousted young Volga and his family and sent them all packing to Babylon 5? His confidence rallied. "That is simply ridiculous," he stated firmly, "The Emperor knows I'm here, and he would be most displeased to learn that my report to him had been delayed by some..." his new diplomatic skills came to his rescue before he went too far over the edge in this palatial pit of political vipers -- "person he has placed in a position of trust in his new administration." He stopped right there, glaring at the younger man.
It seemed to make an impression.
"Very well, I'll see what I can do," Kristo replied abruptly, returning to his seat and addressing the screen. Vir couldn't see or hear who he was talking to, but the young man suddenly stiffened, as though repressing a strong sense of affront -- more so even than at Vir, which was interesting.
The conversation was short, and young Mollari's manner was markedly different when it was over -- almost friendly, in fact.
"You were right," he admitted, "the Emperor is waiting for you. Through there, second door to the left.
"...and good luck!" he added, which unnerved the Ambassador even more.
Gathering his resolution, Vir stepped through the gauze-hung portal into the Imperial reception room. It was a side door, near the back, where shadowed draperies extended nearly to the throne itself, and it took him a few paces to get around to a clear view of the royal dais.
From the throne a familiar voice spoke in an all-too-familiar tone of petulant impatience.
"It is about time you arrived, Vir!"
The first thing Vir noticed was the cold look in Londo's eyes -- flat and impersonal, as if any regard for Vir as a person had been completely subsumed in the glory of his new Imperial estate. It was the kind of look the former Ambassador used to give G'Kar across the council table in the bad old days, and Vir was saddened, and more than a little frightened, to find it turned on him.
Then he noticed the second thing: the living nightmare that stood beside the gold and crimson-velvet chair, leaning familiarly over the white-clad form of the Emperor. He was an ordinary enough man to the eye, with a modest crest crowning lean, ascetic features and the glacial eyes of a born intriguer, but the jolt of terror Vir felt at the sight of him had nothing to do with any ordinary intrigue.
"I would like you to meet my new head of Internal Security," said Mollari. "Ambassador Cotto, this is Minister Durla. I am sure you will get along...quite famously."
****************** Act Two *****************
G'KAMAZAD, NARN
The industrial haze blanketing the capital city of the Narn homeworld looked just the same as it always had. 'Always' meaning all of Ta'Lon's lifetime, and his father's, and his father's before that, ever since the Centauri had come to Narn. The city itself was a Centauri 'improvement'; there had been those, in the early years following the First Independence, who had argued for razing the place and returning to the loose affiliation of villages that had consituted what there was of a planetary government, before the conquerors came.
The Narns had learned the lessons of their masters too well, though. This city, and the others like it strewn across the planet's encircling land mass, were needed to maintain the industrial base essential to a modern galactic power. And the Kha'Ri was needed to guide the people of Narn as they rebuilt their devastated world and took their rightful place among the stars -- or so they kept telling everybody.
But it was still an ugly city.
Ta'Lon had seen some beautiful cities in his years of wandering, before he had fetched up on Babylon 5 like a piece of flotsam washed in by the tide. He had seen the crystal towers of Yedor, the painted hills of San Francisco, even (once and briefly) the baroque splendor of ancient Sphodria on Centauri Prime. Even the Drazi capital, with its twisted, dusty streets and wide-balconied warrens, had its own unique aesthetic, its own quaint appeal -- an appeal the cities of Narn completely lacked.
Three years after the Second Independence, the city's inhabitants semed determined to make up for that with sheer enthusiasm. The Great Hall of the Kha'Ri was a blank, bunker-like building built on the ruins of the Centauri viceroy's palace and by now thoroughly cleansed of Emperor Cartagia's transitory renovations. The square before it was cast in the local reddish-orange concrete, stark and unadorned, and was lined with equally blank, bunker-like office buildings. As Ta'Lon walked into the plaza, though, he was swallowed up by a noisy, colorful cross-section of Narn society.
It was early afternoon -- daymeal break for most of the city workers -- and the square was filled with vending carts and bureaucrats, construction workers and businesspeople, sidewalk entertainers and gawking tourists, all gathered into little clumps or leisurely-strolling clusters. Ta'Lon noticed that many of the men were wearing ta'fak: the loose robes designed to accomodate a full pouch. There were an unusual number of couples, too, and many of the single women in the street had that bright-eyed, bouncy look that was the only outward sign of pregnancy among Narns. They must be trying to build up the population, he thought. A good idea on the face of it, but not without implications. The next generation would be a generation with too few parents, too few teachers, lacking the infrastructure needed to educate and nurture a burgeoning horde of naturally-rebellious youths. And for role-models, they would have men and women like...Ta'Lon's mouth twisted wryly...G'Stral.
He thought about his own pouchlings -- two boys, grown now, if they were still alive. He had been very young when they were born, and eager to prove his manhood. He had not been all that good of a father -- the lessons supposedly instilled in a young man by caring for pouchlings had pretty much gone over his head. As soon as they had outgrown the pouch, he had turned them back over to their mother and left his home village, never to return. Maybe that was part of his feeling for G'Stral -- a sense of making up for missed opportunities. As he nodded in acknowledgement of a passing woman's flirtatious smile, he wondered, perhaps for the first time, what he would do if he were given a second chance.
Something to consider another time, he decided. This afternoon -- as soon as the meal interval ended, in fact -- he was scheduled to meet with the Diplomatic Committee, to review his first half-year as Ambassador. If he survived that, he might have leisure to consider his personal life goals. Shaking his head and hitching at the baldric of his katok reassuringly, he headed out into the square.
****************
ROYAL PALACE, CENTAURI PRIME
"Where is my nephew, Vir?"
"Um...back that way, the last I saw..." Vir pointed back the way he had come.
"Not them, you fool," the Emperor replied testily. "I cannot help but know where they are -- sometimes I wish I could."
"Where is Carn Mollari, Ambassador?" cut in Durla. "You must have spoken with him on Babylon 5..."
"He saved my life on Babylon 5, Minister," Vir shot back. "Along with the lives of a quarter of a million other people. You should be honoring him as a hero, not pursuing him like a common criminal..."
"Hardly that, Ambassador," Durla retorted. "He is the nephew of the Emperor, and was accompanied by the widow of Emperor Turhan, which makes him a most uncommon criminal. We are most anxious to...discuss certain matters with him and Lady Morella. Where did they go?"
Summoning all his courage, Vir looked Durla in the eye and replied evenly, "I don't know. They left Babylon 5 on an unregistered ship -- They could be anywhere by now."
****************
G'KAMAZAD, NARN
"You could have gotten anywhere by now," Na'Toth was saying. "Why in the Galaxy did you come to Narn?"
The haggard young Centauri shrugged, too exhausted to even try to explain. The woman at his side stirred and gathered her unobtrusively expensive cloak more closely about her. She opened her mouth to speak, but was forestalled by Councillor G'Kael.
"Where better for a pair of renegade Centauri, on the run from their own people, to seek refuge? No one would think to look for them here -- and if they did, any Internal Security agents sent to collect them would find an extremely cold welcome."
"Our security operatives are skilled professionals," cautioned Lady Morella.
"As are my people," G'Kael assured her. "As witness the fact that you were brought to me within an hour of your arrival. I apologize for making you wait so long for this interview, by the way, but there were certain...arrangements to be made." He smiled once more at Na'Toth.
"After the journey we have endured, it is a relief simply to stand on a solid planet once more," the Imperial widow assured him. "However, now that we are here, we must consider our position most carefully. We are aware that our people are no longer welcome here..."
"Your people were never welcome here," gritted Na'Toth, unable to resist the impulse.
"Na'Toth," G'Kael chided, "Her Majesty is our guest. Do try to contain yourself."
"A simple 'Lady Morella' will do," her ladyship corrected. "As we were saying, we appreciate that our presence will cause some difficulties. However, we are certain that we may rely on your assistance, Councillor."
"We are?" Na'Toth wondered aloud, without thinking.
"The Lady Morella is a powerful seer, Na'Toth," G'Kael explained, then turned to the Centauri woman with a perfect Court bow that somehow did not come off as either buffoonish or sarcastic. "If she tells us that she is 'certain' I will assist her, then who am I to fly in the face of Fate?"
Morella drew breath as if to speak, but the Councillor held up a hand to forestall her. "My assistant, Na'Toth, will see to your accommodations. It may be some time before I see my way clear to address the Kha'Ri in this matter -- there are...complications...as I'm sure you can understand. However, I intend to press for full asylum for both of you, as a gesture of gratitude for your efforts in protecting Babylon 5, which I and many of our people consider an important symbol of our independence and our hopes for the future."
Carn Mollari cocked his head and grinned wearily. "A good line, if you can make it stick."
"I intend to," G'Kael replied firmly.
Na'Toth looked hard at the young Centauri, for the first time seeing him as Londo's nephew. From what she could tell, a definite improvement. Which wasn't saying much. Accommodations?
She cleared her throat and regarded G'Kael expectantly.
"Accomodations?" she prodded.
"Ah, yes." He handed her a jingling pouch. "Use cash, it's more discreet. Start with Du'Mon, the host at the Seventh Tentacle in Lower Na'Haminar Street. He should be able to arrange something...suitable. Meanwhile, I have a Diplomatic Committee meeting to attend -- it should prove most amusing. Good day, ladies. Mollari."
With another bow he swept out, leaving the two Centauri looking dubiously at her.
****************
DOME ONE, MARS
Tessa threw her head back and looked all the way up to the ceiling of the nine-story atrium at the heart of Robinson's Department Store. There were twenty-one more floors above that, she knew, all bustling with practical-minded businessfolk and state-of-the-art data processing equipment. Down here in the store proper, though, gilded chandeliers, dark wood and glass counters, and ornate plasterwork hearkened back to a more opulent, romantic age. An age which had, in fact, never existed on Mars at all, but had been transplanted lock, stock and escalators at the whim of the man who had made a fortune supplying the early colonists. Like Sears, Roebuck, and Ward in the days of the American West, Ben Robinson and his successors had provided the necessities of life, plus a few treasured luxuries, to the intrepid settlers of the Red Planet. Even now, nearly 70% of the consumer goods purchased on Mars passed through Robinson's warehouses and outlets -- most of which were models of stark, cost-effective efficiency. The Dome One store was the company's showplace, though -- emporium, museum, and entertainment complex in one, and an acknowledged center of Mars urban culture.
Tessa and her secondary school friends had made the downtown store the focal point of many a teenaged exploratory ramble, meeting for a soda at the ninth-floor cafe, then gossiping and browsing for hours amid the glittering displays. They could rarely afford to actually buy anything, but it didn't matter -- just soaking up the atmosphere was enough for Tessa and her friends in those long-ago days before more serious and deadly games claimed her attention.
During her years on Earth she had visited New York and Chicago, hoping to find the originals of this extravagant copy, but they were long gone. Macy's, Marshall Field's, Carson Pirie Scott -- all the grand old edifices had succumbed to war, urban blight, or -- worse -- downsizing.
Robinson's still stood, though, a monument to calculated greed and conspicuous consumption that even the most dedicated utilitarian had to admire for its sheer audacity. It was a 'must-see' stop in the Centauri guidebooks -- not that Mars saw many Centauri tourists these days.
Tessa had chosen it as a meeting place for purely practical reasons, of course. It was crowded and noisy, and security was lax -- by Tessa's standards, anyway. There were a hundred entrances and exits, and myriads of rooms and passageways, all crawling with people at all hours of the day...but aside from all that, it was one of the few places in Dome One that she actually missed. Even when she was leading the Resistance, sabotaging Earther-run or -influenced commercial enterprises and always on the lookout for the spectacular 'statement', she had never even considered making an example of this place. One of her lieutenants had suggested it -- once -- and promptly found himself reassigned as liaison to the Hellas Basin gypsy camps.
So here she was again -- older, hopefully a little wiser, and every bit as enchanted as the four-(m)year-old who had first ventured through those magical revolving doors. And she had a good hour before she was to meet her contact (in the Electronic Entertainment department, seventh floor, between the vid crystals and the portable holosim chambers). An hour of pure sensual indulgence. Who knows, she thought, she might even *buy* something.
As she ambled by an upscale evening dress display, Tessa thought of Lilian Hobbs back on B5, with her love of beautiful fabrics. She wondered if the doctor had ever been here -- maybe she could take her back a small souvenir...
She spotted a purple beadwork purse and veered across the aisle traffic, just as a hurrying shopper, burdened by several large bundles and looking back over her shoulder, careened right into her. She reached out to steady the other woman, but only succeeded in knocking another bag out of her arms. Fresh from six months of (mostly) Earth-standard gravity, she managed to retrieve the flying parcel before it hit the ground, and turned back to meet an unexpectedly familiar expression of faintly petulant apology.
"I'm terribly sorry -- I should have been looking where I was going. Of course, they really need to do something about the number of people they let in here..." the woman's voice trailed off as recognition dawned. "Ms...Halloran, isn't it?"
Tessa smiled crookedly. "Fancy meeting you here, Ms. Edgars -- I mean, Garibaldi...I mean..."
"Oh, for heaven's sake just call me 'Lise'! This name business has gotten to the point where it's just embarrassing," the slim, elegant woman said lightly. "I had no idea you were on Mars -- Michael didn't say anything about it. Are you visiting family, or..." she frowned, "is there some kind of a problem...?"
"Nothing like that," Tessa assured her. "I am going to stop by and see the folks, but mainly it's just routine business," she lied blithely.
Lise relaxed visibly. Given the fact that the last time Garibaldi's then-fiancee had let him take a 'short trip' to Babylon 5 she hadn't seen him again for six months, Tessa could hardly blame her for being concerned.
"In that case, I hope you can make time to come out to the house -- or maybe coffee or something now, if you're not too busy?" she asked, with a slightly desperate air of entreaty. Tessa suddenly realized that being the trophy wife, then widow, of the owner of one of Mars' premier megacorps had undoubtedly wreaked havoc on the woman's friendships -- assuming she had had any. In fact...
"I don't see your people, Ms...Lise," she corrected, looking around nonchalantly. "They must be very good."
"My people? What do you...oh, you mean that dreadful man Michael has following me around. At least Wade was a civilized person you could talk to, but *this* guy...well, anyway," she said, tossing her head and sidling along the aisle, thereby forcing Tessa to accompany her, "I lost his little minions at a concert in Burroughs Park. With luck, I should be free of them for another hour or so. What do you say?" Lise grinned a distinctly catlike grin, to which Tessa could only respond with a thoroughly professional blank look hiding a sharp stab of dismay.
The damned overaged bimbette had ditched her security?!? Was the woman insane, or just a total flaming airhead? Either way, she was dangerous -- both to herself and, now, to Tessa as well. Robinson's' own security might be lax, but half a dozen of Garibaldi's picked people swarming around the store looking for his shopaholic wife would scare Tessa's contact off faster than a sandstorm could scrape shit, as they said in the outback. And the people she was contacting wouldn't be likely to be terribly forgiving about an apparent double-cross on her part, which would not only scotch her chances of turning up any weapons caches, but might even make her visit to Mars a bit more lively than she had hoped in the personal safety department.
On the other hand, if Garibaldi's people found their runaway charge quickly, and got her the hell out of there -- if she were, for instance, to remain in a highly visible location for an extended period of time, so that the first bodyguard to show up would spot her almost at once...Tessa looked up to the ninth floor cafe balcony.
Oh, look, an empty table.
She cocked an eyebrow and grinned back at Lise. "I wonder if they still make that killer mint torte," she said challengingly.
"Yes, as a matter of fact, they do."
On their way upstairs, they parked Lise's bundles at a bank of lockers stashed discreetly in an alcove outside the seventh floor restrooms.
"You seem to know your way around," Tessa said lightly. A spasm of distaste flickered over the other woman's face, so quickly Tessa wondered if she'd imagined it.
"I ought to. The first job I got when I came to Main Dome was here."
"Sales?"
"Cleaning crew," Lise answered grimly.
Tessa followed her out, thoughtful. She had known that the widow of the fabulously wealthy William Edgars was not, as one might say, 'to the manor born', but she'd always assumed that her antecedents were at least solidly middle-class. This hint to the contrary engaged her Director of Covert Intelligence instincts -- or, perhaps, something baser. But what the hell. "And yet, you shop here," she commented, fishing.
"Damn straight," the other woman replied with a steely glint in her eye.
By the time they had been seated in the airy cafe, Tessa's curiosity had been thoroughly piqued. She'd never thought much about Lise Hampton-Edgars-Garibaldi as a person before -- although she had noted the apparent incongruity of her marriage to Michael Garibaldi. The alliance of the forthright, tough-minded ex-Security Chief with the irrepressible (if somewhat morbid) sense of humor, and the elegant, humorless woman that Tessa had automatically categorized as a manipulative little gold-digger had seemed improbable, at best. By the time lunch appeared, though, she had realized that there was a lot more to the story.
Teresa Halloran was the second-generation Marsborn daughter of engineer parents, raised in the comfort of Main Dome and provided with an excellent education. She had given up an assured upper-middle-class future to work with the Resistance, out of a passionate patriotism born of typical cossetted post-adolescent rebellion but quickly tempered by harsh experience. Lise Hampton, on the other hand, had been born into a scruffy clan of third- and fourth-generation prospectors and itinerant laborers, migrating throughout Mars' double-length year along a carefully-planned route among the outlying domes and frontier tent settlements. Even the special treatments that kept children born on Mars from developing into the freakishly tall somatotypes called "Lopers" by the Earth-normal majority had only been administered at the insistence of Lise's grandmother, who had also been responsible for what education the scrappy little rover-brat had picked up.
Life in the Martian outback was often brutal -- not only physically, as the sheer inimicability of the environment threatened them at every turn, but also psychologically, with families cooped up inside the caravan-like rovers for weeks or even months at a time. Lise had run away to Dome One as soon as an opportunity presented itself -- she avoided mentioning what exactly she had been running from, but after spending quite a bit of time in the outback herself, Tessa could make a few educated guesses. She could also guess a lot of what Lise left out about the ensuing years, first struggling simply to survive, and later developing a passionate drive to fit in, to live the kind of life the vids and advertisements promised -- to be respectable. To be safe.
"And then," Lise stopped, and a wistful smile played around her mouth. "Then I met Michael.
"I was working the customer service desk for Pan Solar out at the shuttleport, when this big...jerk comes storming over to complain about his lost luggage. He'd been shuttled back and forth between bases for a few days, and his bags hadn't caught up with him -- something like that, anyway. I'd had a simply hellish day, and I was about ready to bite somebody's head off anyway, and here comes Michael. Drunk, of course, and spoiling for a fight.
"Which," she grinned up at Tessa, "I gave him. And about halfway through, I saw something in his eyes...change." She poked at her salad for a while, then went on.
"I found his bags. He bought me dinner. He called the next day, can you believe it? So of course I fell head over heels in love with him -- and he fell in love with me. And it was everything I'd ever dreamed of...for a while." Her face closed down, then.
Tessa wondered if she should let it go, but the opportunity was too good to pass up -- plus, the woman was acting like she wanted to get some of this out.
"The drinking?" she asked. Lise shook her head quickly.
"It wasn't that -- not at first, anyway. After all, from what I knew then, that was just...what men did. -- And a lot of women, too, although I can't stand being drunk, myself," she added with a little shudder.
"But he was so...impatient. All the time -- at home, *and* at work. Nothing was ever right, everything had to be done his way, and yet everything he did was always wrong -- at least in his own eyes, and soon enough other people would start to agree with him. Especially the people he worked for," she said with a wry grin.
"And then he'd just...get drunk. Every time he came home all bright-eyed and bouncy and 'ready to party'...I'd know he'd gotten fired again. Then in a few days, he'd get another lead -- some friend of a friend of a guy he'd met in a bar knew somebody who was hiring, and he'd be off to a new job, bound and determined to make good this time, until it started to go sour again.
"And then he met Jeffrey Sinclair."
"Wasn't it Sinclair who gave him a chance, on B5?" Tessa asked.
Lise laughed shortly. "A chance! A chance to start fresh -- to leave it all behind. Even me. And he leaped at it." She stabbed a defenseless cucumber through the heart.
"Didn't he ask you to go with him?" Tessa ventured.
"Of course he asked!" Lise snapped. "But I wasn't about to pick up and move to some...space station out in the middle of nowhere! I had a life by then -- I had friends, responsibilities...furniture -- oh, nothing like I have now, of course, but it wasn't a bad life, even with Michael's little...eccentricities." She paused for breath.
"In other words, you were scared."
After a startled moment, the other woman smiled ruefully.
"Terrified," she admitted. "Looking back, I think I must have thought of a space station as being like a big rover -- where you couldn't even go out for a walk in a coat and breather. But of course I didn't realize that then.
"I didn't realize a lot of things.
"So he went, and I stayed, and met Franz..." she took a deep breath. "And then Bill, and He brought Michael back to me."
Catching the capital 'H', Tessa wondered whether Lise meant Edgars or God. Both, perhaps.
"Story of my life," the brunette concluded cheerfully, cocking her head like a curious crow. "Your turn!"
Tessa looked around, then down into the atrium, but didn't spot anyone who looked like a bodyguard.
Rats.
"Well," she started slowly, "My father came to Mars with his parents from Boston when he was a little kid..."
"Did you say Boston?" Lise interrupted. "And his name was Halloran? What was his father's name?" she asked eagerly.
"Jerry -- Gerald, I think. Why?"
"Did he have a sister named Margaret?" the other woman pressed. A bit taken aback, Tessa tried to remember.
"Wait...yes, she was the one who stayed back on Earth. She was a police officer, I think..."
"Ha! That's it!" Lise cried gleefully, clapping her hands and earning glares from neighboring diners. "You and Michael are *cousins*! His grandmother was Margaret Halloran -- he used to talk about her all the time."
Tessa was dumbfounded. Then, slowly, a grin to match the other woman's crept over her face. She wasn't sure yet just how she was going to use this, but she'd bet a year's pay the opportunity would present itself...and when it did...
Lise checked her wristpad - a shiny expensive trinket that used a holofield rather than an inset display screen, Tessa noticed. Reflexively, she checked her own more utilitarian (and much more powerful) databand.
"Damn!" she swore. She had five minutes to make her rendezvous. She stood quickly.
"Look, I hate to run -- it's been great, we should get together again before I leave, but right now I really have to go..." she stood, and Lise stood with her.
"That's all right, I should be going too. I just need to get my things down on Seven, and..."
"Oh, for..." Tessa broke off and bolted -- the only thing she could do now was try to get to her contact before the all-too-well-known widow showed up!
Lise looked after her in confusion, then sighed. "It's got to be genetic," she said.
****************
ROYAL PALACE, CENTAURI PRIME
Eventually the Emperor ran out of patience and dismissed Minister Durla -- and not a moment too soon, as far as Ambassador Cotto was concerned. He had always been a terrible liar, and while he wasn't exactly lying (since he did not, in fact, know where the fugitives had gone), he had had rather more contact with them during their visit to Babylon 5, once the immediate crises had been averted and before their anonymous departure, than was perhaps politic. He felt certain that he and Minister Durla would have serious differences of opinion about which of his conversations with Carn Mollari and Lady Morella were any of the Minister's business, and there were certain aspects of those discussions that he really wouldn't even feel comfortable sharing with Londo.
But either his tenure as Ambassador was teaching him more about prevarication than he had thought, or the Emperor was being deliberately obtuse. At least twice Vir caught himself in a verbal stumble that should have alerted the former Ambassador that his former attache was, as the Humans said, 'winging it', and his hearts plummeted right down into his (new, and rather painful) shoes when Minister Durla suggested that his faulty memory might be...assisted by a representative of the Telepath Guild. Londo, however, only seemed to grow more distracted and restless, finally sending Durla off to 'turn over some large rocks', in the hope that he would 'find some helpless insects to torture'.
When the Minister had departed, his obsequiousness not even beginning to hide the glitter of cold calculation in his eyes, Londo pushed himself out of his throne and ambled over to a wide window. Outside, the sun gleamed pitilessly down on the half-rebuilt city. Vir joined him, unsure how to comport himself in the company of the man who had once been a friend of sorts as well as a mentor, and who was now his Emperor -- and, suddenly, almost a stranger.
"Your Majesty," he began tentatively, "as long as we have a moment alone..."
Londo snorted, then turned to fix Vir with a curiously intense look, his air of distraction completely vanished.
"Alone? An Emperor is never alone, Vir. The weight of the Republic is always heavy upon his..." he hesitated slightly, "...shoulders.
"But, yes," he went on more gently, "we have some time before the afternoon audience begins. Tell me, how are things back on Babylon 5?"
"Oh, fine!" Vir replied automatically. "Wonderful! Well, that is, except for the..." he stopped, not wanting to get back into the conversation he'd just escaped from. "And of course, there was the time..." well, no, he probably shouldn't go into that, either. "Well, it's been...pretty much the same as usual," he finished lamely.
"How comforting -- to know that there is at least one thing constant in the Universe," Londo commented dryly.
"Well, um, yes, I suppose...but what I wanted to talk to you about was this treaty I've been working on...with the other governments, you know. It was very difficult -- especially with the new import and export regulations, which, quite frankly, have been changing so fast that it's been practically impossible to keep up with them...but then I suppose you know all about that," he added as he suddenly remembered just who he was talking to. "...And I'm sure there are all sorts of excellent reasons for them...I'm certainly not implying that..."
"Yes, yes, Vir, I'm sure you have done a splendid job," Londo said impatiently, his gaze growing distant once more. "And I daresay the Centarum will give your proposal all due consideration."
"Well, actually, I was hoping...I mean, if you were to make a recommendation, I'm sure that..." Vir broke off as a glare as cold as interstellar space itself speared him.
"The Centarum will consider the treaty, and I will consider their report. That is the way things are done, Vir. Unless you are under the impression that our...former association gives you some special...influence over my decisions? Hmmmm? Is that what you believe?"
"No, no of course not," the Ambassador said hastily. "I would never..."
"Good," the Emperor snapped, turning back to look out the window again. When he was certain Vir had taken his point, the Emperor allowed a small sigh to escape. "And how is your new attache working out?" he asked, with only slightly forced geniality.
By now thoroughly cowed and more than a little confused (how quickly old habits come back, Vir thought), the Ambassador took refuge in small talk, and eventually the conversational temperature rethawed.
He even made the Emperor laugh once, recounting the discovery of Jaida and Selene's illicit gardening operation. Londo, in turn, told him of the young woman he had taken under his wing -- "No, not like that, Vir, it is all most respectable. She is a charming girl -- you will meet her tonight. Durla cannot stand her, of course," he added thoughtfully.
"Speaking of Minister Durla," Vir ventured. "I don't remember seeing him at Court, the last time I was here. How did he...why did you...I mean, no offense, but something about him...I don't know, I just don't like him, Londo."
"He is Minister of Internal Security, Vir. Being liked is not in his job description," the Emperor pointed out.
"But I liked Mr. Garibaldi -- and so did you," Vir replied, his courage rising again. "I get the feeling you don't like Durla any more than I do...and you're the Emperor!"
"Thank you for reminding me, Vir," Londo said waspishly. "I had almost forgotten for a moment. You would be amazed at how little the Emperor's likes and dislikes have to do with fulfilling his job description." His lips tightened, and he shook his head. "But enough of that. How is Mr. Garibaldi these days?"
Somehow, Vir didn't want to go into too much detail about Mr. Garibaldi's drinking problem, and its aftermath. "Um, well, he got married..."
"Poor man. I must remember to send my condolences."
"He seemed very happy..."
"Mr. Garibaldi is a very brave man, Vir. And what of your own lovely young bride, ah? Lord-General Marrago mentioned that she was remaining on Babylon 5. Have you two, ah..." Londo made a most un-Imperial gesture with both hands, and Vir winced.
"Not...exactly," he admitted. "She has her work on the station, and I have mine. We see each other from time to time...I think we're starting to become quite good friends, actually."
"FRIENDS?" the Emperor stared at him, aghast. "What IS this? Of all the people I could imagine succumbing to a taste for alien perversions, YOU are the last, Vir!"
"Well, I don't know...it just sort of...happened. I am suppposed to go visit the Lord-General and Lady Drusilla tomorrow..."
"Whatever you do, do not mention this 'friends' business to them!" Londo admonished. "It would kill Lady Drusilla, and then Marrago would be forced to kill you -- and we can't have that.
"No," he added, looking long and thoughtfully at his former attache, who had recently had a second encounter with Emperor Turhan's seeress widow. "We certainly can't have that..."
A discreet knock at the door heralded the arrival of the Minister of the Court with a polite reminder that the afternoon audience was about to begin. The Emperor resumed his throne, and the Ambassador faded unobtrusively back into the draperies as courtiers began to stream into the room. Nearby, unheard and unseen, a third figure shifted deeper into the carefully-hidden alcove behind the throne itself.
Shiv'kala, Sha'Drakh and First Claw of this particular arm of the Way of Return, nodded slowly. Features that most humanoid races would instinctively label 'demonic' showed little in the way of expression, but the observant would say he looked...content, if not precisely satisfied. The Emperor's surface thoughts and behavior were all just as they should be. The Ambassador was a complication, certainly -- his actions at the Emperor's Ascension Day, and his unexpected success in renegotiating that completely counterproductive treaty amply demonstrated that -- but now that Shiv'kala had had a chance to observe him in person, he did not think that the herbivorous-looking little creature would pose an actual threat. Especially if the Human, Molyneux, made good on his offer. Dismissing the matter from his mind, the Drakh settled in to observe the alien behavior of the Centauri Royal Court with the age-old patience of a born predator.
****************** Act Three *****************
G'KAMAZAD, NARN
Ta'Lon watched, outwardly impassive, as the members of the Diplomatic Committee filed in. His association with Ambassador G'Kar, serving as a sort of informal aide during the formative years of the Second Independence, had given him a detailed, yet almost clinically detached view of recent Narn political history. To this he had added a "refresher course" pulled together by his staff to while away the long hours of the flight from Babylon 5, and he was well able to match the incoming faces with names and affiliations.
In the dozen or so generations before the Centauri came, the villages of Narn had entered one of their cyclic periods of aggregation, forming closer associations that Humans might almost begin to call nation-states. Hearkening back to the golden age of G'Quon, they had formed a planetary Assembly of village representatives, which had in turn elected a "Kha'Ri", or Fivefold Circle of super-committees, to guide the people of Narn into a New Age.
Unfortunately, that age had been one of defeat, oppression, and exploitation by the conquering Centauri. However, tales of the heroic struggles of the Kha'Ri had helped to inspire the Resistance, and when the First Independence had been won, the Assembly and Kha'Ri had been recreated amid universal rejoicing. All but one of the members of the existing Kha'Ri had been killed or imprisoned in the Second Occupation, and that one had chosen to walk another path, but the Assembly itself had reformed immediately and drafted a new, skeleton Kha'Ri within days of the Second Liberation. Once again, the Narn Regime was directed by the five Executors of the Kha'Ri, each supported by a 20- to 50-Narn committee, or "Circle".
The Doshakh'Ri or Hearth Circle advised and directed in matters of housing, education, and medicine, and mediated in family or religious disputes. As the Fifth Circle, it formed one of the 'Feet of Narn', along with the Khrogath'Ri, or Agricultural Circle. Since the Centauri Occupation and its devastation of the planet's natural resources, the Fourth Circle had assumed responsibility for ecological recovery and conservation as well, though it was still ranked lesser in status than the two 'Hands of Narn'. These were the Third Circle (the Hanokh'Ri or Circle of Artificers), and the Jhonn'Ri -- the Circle of War, currently ranked Second. The Third Circle was effectively the Department of Industry, controlling the bulk of the Regime's economy, and only the exigencies of the last few years had allowed the Second to retain its precedence. Needless to say, the members of the Third Circle had a strong interest in Narn's swift return to a peacetime footing, which was countered by a purely patriotic hawkishness on the part of the Second. (Narn politics might lack the baroque trappings of Centauri, but more than held their own in terms of deviousness and complexity.)
First among these not-quite-equals was the Tal'Ri, the Circle of Wisdom. The Executor of the Tal'Ri was the official Head of State of the Narn Regime, and his Circle was charged with overseeing and coordinating all the other jurisdictions -- watching 'the big picture', as the Humans said. The Assembly, though a much larger body and tied to diverse geographic interests, nonetheless remained a strong element of the overall government, retaining the bulk of the legislative and judicial responsibilities as well as the authority to, in extreme cases, disband and re-elect the Kha'Ri itself -- including the Executors. If the Five Circles were the Feet, Hands, and Head of the Narn people, the Assembly was its Voice.
The Diplomatic Committee, like most committees at the planetary level, boasted three representatives of the people's Voice, each referred to officially only by the names of their regions: B'Hondal, Nirren, and Gyanimar, and carefully chosen for diversity of constituency. The middle-aged females and elderly male muttered softly among themselves as they took their seats along the wall of the circular chamber. The Committee members representing each of the Five Circles came next, but none of them seemed inclined to chat with his or her neighbor.
Ta'Lon recognized Na'Dron of the Jhonn'Ri, who had been invalided out of a generalship during the battle at Corianna VI. Despite the loss of an arm (which, in less desperate times, would by tradition have forced his retirement), he remained a vital and energetic figure in the reconstructed military, concentrating on training and tactical development. He was said to have a high regard for the Executor Martial, Councillor G'Kael, and had voted with him on most important issues. However, on those occasions when they *did* disagree, it was not always the ex-general who had ended up backing down.
Ro'Dan of the Third Circle was a wiry, intense woman who peered intently at Ta'Lon as she arranged her folders on the table before her. Ta'Lon's files had indicated that she was a protege of former Councillor Du'Rog of the Fifth Circle, who had been a noted adversary of his own mentor, G'Kar. Next to her, Ko'Roth of the Khrogath'Ri settled into his chair with the air of a man who had something to say, and was only waiting for a chance to say it. The surprisingly young G'Sadi of the Fifth Circle was as intent on scoping out her fellow committee members as she was on the Ambassador himself, her curious dark eyes flicking around each chair in turn before favoring him with a quirk of the lips that might almost be called a smile.
Finally, the representative of the First Circle came in with the final member of the Diplomatic Committee, the Executor Martial himself. The Councillor of the Tal'Ri was a tall man, but stooped with age, and G'Kael had to lean over a bit to murmur in his earhole. As he did so, his eyes met Ta'Lon's in a single crimson flash as keen as the kiss of his katok. As G'Kael took his place at the central podium, directly across from Ta'Lon, the Ambassador could not quite suppress a cold shiver of uncertainty, despite the midday equatorial heat.
His confirmation as Ambassador, at the behest of the revered G'Kar, had been made 'subject to the ongoing review of the Diplomatic Committee', and while he had never been one to waste energy trying to second-guess other peoples' responses to his actions, he was not unmindful of the fact that certain of those actions were likely to prove controversial, at best. He had discussed the matter of the Centauri Lord-General, Marrago, at some length with Councillor G'Kael, and was reasonably certain of his support on that issue, but the communiques following the celebration of the Centauri Emperor's Ascension Day, and Ta'Lon's rather unorthodox participation therein, had been brief and impersonal. Since then matters had seemed to go well, but who knew what political undercurrents might be stirring, in these troubled times?
G'Kael called the meeting to order, formally introducing Ta'Lon to the Committee members. No sooner had he reviewed G'Kar's bequest of his post to the younger man, though, than Councillor Ko'Roth spoke up.
"This man is patently unqualified for the post he occupies. Before the War of Fire, he was nothing but a common drifter!"
"Indeed," added Councillor Ro'Dan, her voice cutting sharp as a knife blade. "Our records indicate that he was in fact exiled from his home village as a young man, and has wandered about the galaxy as a mercenary -- or worse -- ever since. While we all respect the wishes of former Councillor G'Kar, one cannot but wonder if his judgement might have been swayed by...affection, or simply the disarray of the times..."
Councillor G'Kael cut in at this point. "Is this true, Ambassador? Were you actually *exiled* by your own village?"
"I left," Ta'Lon replied evenly. "If the village elders chose to save face by declaring me konnamari after the fact, that was their prerogative."
"I see," murmured the Executor Martial, turning back to the other committee members. "And you do not consider two and a half years at the side of Ambassador G'Kar to be a sufficient...apprenticeship?"
"We do not," said Ko'Roth, with a corroborative nod from the Third Circle representative.
"Honored committee members," spoke up the Councillor from the Fifth Circle, G'Sadi. "I have also consulted the records concerning Ambassador Ta'Lon, and could not help but be struck by an interesting detail. As you can see, the Ambassador bears a katok, and such things are not, by tradition, given lightly. The circumstances of its bestowing, however, are *not* on record. Perhaps, if the Ambassador would oblige us, an understanding of these circumstances might shed some light on our dilemna?"
Her phrasing might be tentative, but the thrust of her question was not. It was a question Ta'lon generally declined to answer, but in this case he feared he would be unable to avoid it. Councillor G'Kael confirmed this with a nod.
"Ambassador -- if you please, enlighten us."
Ta'Lon took a deep breath and bowed slightly toward the Executor. "Very well." He turned toward the Councillors' side of the room.
"Soon after my...exile, I made my way offworld, and eventually found myself on the planet called Ekanabar. Are you familiar with it, Councillors?"
"I believe it is one of our oldest colonies, but aside from that..." Councillor Ro'Dan replied, uncharacteristically uncertain.
"Indeed, some think it may be the oldest," Ta'Lon continued. "During the early days of the Centauri Oppression, a group of refugees...obtained a Centauri transport and fled to an obscure system on what was then the edge of known space. There they settled on a Narnlike world that was already inhabited by an indigenous sentient species. They coexisted peacefully with the natives for many years -- perhaps the only world of which that can truly be said," he added.
"At the time of my visit, however, both the Narn settlement and the allied natives were under attack by a neighboring, more aggressive tribe. I...found myself in a position to help, and before I left, the village elder there gave this..." he reached back with a well-practiced motion to touch the rune-carved ivory hilt that rose above his right shoulder, "into my keeping."
"According to *my* records," Councillor G'Kael put in dryly, "you entered the enemy stronghold, alone, captured their leader, and literally forced him to sit down with the allied leaders to negotiate a truce. Sounds like a natural-born diplomat to me," he concluded, with a brief smile, and Ta'Lon allowed himself to feel a glimmer of hope. To either side, the committee members murmured quietly among themselves.
"Tell me, Ambassador," said one of the Assembly representatives -- the elder from Nirren, Ta'Lon recalled. "Did the katok's holder relate its history to you, as is traditional? There are no more than five hands of these blades known to be still in existence -- I would be curious to know which of them this is."
Ta'Lon bowed to the lady. "The man who gave it to me took it from his own dead father's hand during the escape from Narn. He was unable to tell me more than its name, Lakh'to'Morinar, and the name of its maker, Shu'Niri."
The woman shook her head, unfamiliar with the names. "Is the man who gave it to you still alive?" she inquired.
"Alas, no, he died shortly before I left." At Ro'Dan's sharp look, he added, "He was one hundred and ninety six, I believe." The Third Circle Councillor subsided reluctantly. Noting that the Fourth Circle representative still looked disgruntled, Ta'Lon addressed him.
"Councillor Ko'Roth, while I am here, I would appreciate a chance to get together with you about some extremely promising negotiations I have been privileged to facilitate with the Humans, regarding the possibility of bringing back some of our extinct species. If you would have your office contact me..."
"I will certainly do so," said Ko'Roth, his closed expression giving way to one of grudging interest.
"Very well," said G'Kael briskly. "If no one else has any arguments against the Ambassador's fitness for his position, we may proceed to a discussion of his actions during the past months..."
"I have a question," broke in Ta'Garn of the First Circle, his voice slightly tremulous with age. The equivalent of a Professor Emeritus of History at the prestigious University of Gar'Amon in G'Kamazad, he had been persuaded to join the Tal'Ri, where he served as a close advisor to the Executor General himself. G'Kael bowed respectfully towards his seat.
"I understand that shortly before the War of Fire, you were captured by an alien explorer ship..."
"The Streib, Councillor," Ta'Lon supplied.
"Indeed. And, during the course of this...adventure, you made the acquaintance of the Human, Sheridan, who is now President of the Interstellar Alliance."
"That is true, Councillor."
"And later, you appointed yourself *his* bodyguard, before joining with the resistance formed by G'Kar on Babylon 5?"
"Briefly, Councillor," Ta'Lon acknowledged with a small smile. The former academic drew himself up and levelled a piercing glare at the younger man.
"So where do your loyalties lie, Ta'Lon? With your own people, or with the Alliance?"
Ta'Lon replied unhesitatingly. "With the world and the people of Narn, Councillor. My life may have been a life of wandering, but my heart has always been here. In my actions as Ambassador -- including the incidents with the Centauri that this committee may have concerns about -- I have always striven to behave according to the tenets of the wisest and noblest among us. And most particularly, I have striven to follow the example of my predecessor.
"That is," he added wryly, "insofar as that example applies to diplomacy and the peaceful interactions between governments and species."
Ta'Garn of the First Circle nodded, apparently satisfied. There was more discussion after that -- and as Ta'Lon had suspected, the bulk of it focused on Ta'Lon's dealings with the Centauri (his brief stint as bodyguard to the collaborator Na'Far did not go unremarked upon). However, he presented his position clearly and without evasion, and although the committee was by no means unanimously supportive, by the time the late-afternoon sun came slanting in the low windows, he felt that he was making some progress.
Finally, Executor G'Kael wound up the proceedings, with the recommendation that the committee members review their findings and reconvene in five days to make a final decision. As the Councillors and Representatives made their way out of the room, he beckoned to Ta'Lon.
"Ambassador, would you mind stopping by my office at, say, the sixth hour this evening? There are some matters I would like to go over with you."
"I am entirely at your disposal, Councillor. And may I say, I appreciated your support during the meeting."
G'Kael waved a hand dismissively. "I cannot show open partiality, of course, but Ambassador G'Kar's reports of you were most encouraging."
"And your own...investigations?" Ta'Lon inquired, to be answered only by an inscrutable smile.
****************
ROBINSON'S DEPARTMENT STORE
DOME ONE, MARS
The first thing Tessa noticed as she approached the Electronic Entertainment department was a huge scarlet banner emblazoned with an all-too-familiar logo. Models of starships that Tessa knew could never fly in this universe hung from the ceiling, and the strains of a painfully cliched two-hundred-year-old anthem reached out to enfold her.
Tessa Halloran considered the phenomenon of science fiction to be one of the most ludicrous communal absurdities ever perpetrated by sentient life-forms -- right up there with spectator sports and organized religion. Unlike those, though, SF seemed to be primarily a Human mania, and contrary to all expectations, Mankind's actual emergence as a spacefaring race had not only not killed off science fiction -- even its most prosaic form, space opera -- but had actually rejuvenated it. The "classics" were devoured as eagerly as ever by each new generation of nerds and screenweenies, and both new and old epics, in various media, periodically invaded the mainstream culture like some kind of literary planktonic overgrowth.
Foremost among these was the megalithic, metastatic corporate monstrosity known as 'Star Trek'. Tessa shook her head slightly as she scanned the aisles for her contact. This ridiculously overhyped premiere made one hundred more-or-less separate vid series, now. A hundred casts, a hundred settings, thousands of distinct storylines and perhaps millions of books, comics, and amateur fiction collections -- all based on a premise that had been irretrievabley outdated over two centuries ago! Instead of being relegated to the Realm of the Quaint along with Flash Gordon, Superman, and Star Wars, it had continued to thrive: a whole alternate history, extending almost three hundred years back and who knew how many centuries ahead of present time, with only the most general galactographic similarities to their own reality. Entire planets had been created out of whole cloth, with a veritable zoo of imaginary alien sophonts -- that was the part that completely bewildered Tessa. Why, in Heaven's name, did Humans feel the need to continue to write about 'made up' aliens when there were so many to choose from in the real world? She just didn't get it.
As the vidscreen next to her zoomed in on the viewport of a totally improbable ship, focusing on the bright, cheery new crew, Tessa spotted Jensen at last. Now she just had to get to him and get both of them out of there, before he caught a whiff of Garibaldi's people (who had to be around here somewhere by now) and panicked. She stepped forward briskly as the new Captain began to speak.
Some distance away, Lise Hampton-Edgars-Garibaldi muttered unladylike imprecations at a recalcitrant locker. As she stepped back to catch her breath before giving it another try, her attention was caught by the man lurking by the entranceway.
He was big and burly, wearing a voluminous brown coat and leaning -- almost hiding -- behind the small lip of wall separating the locker area from the main floor. His right arm was raised as though he was blowing his nose...or...aiming...
A gleam of metal, and the bottom of Lise's stomach dropped out as she realized that he was holding a gun...before she could move, though, the little weapon coughed. She lunged toward the man, calling out -- a hand caught her arm and spun her around roughly, and she felt another heavy hand slap a trank patch against her neck. As she fell, she heard the gun cough a second time.
The tall Nepalese with the Scandinavian name hurried toward Tessa. He was still two aisles away, though, when he clutched at his arm and stopped short. Wincing, he called out to the blonde woman, "Run! It's a trap!" before sagging against the nearest rack.
Tessa quickly scanned her surroundings, cursing herself for her careless haste. Just as she spotted the dark figure by the door, she felt a sting in her own arm -- she plucked out the dart, but it was too late. Already the fast-acting sedative was flooding her system, blurring her vision and blitzing her equilibrium. She peered past the shooter -- was that Lise the other man was dragging back into the shadows? Damn, Garibaldi was going to have her ass in a sling for this, she thought as she sank to her knees, clutching at a portable vidconsole for support.
This brought her face to face with the Federation Captain -- a diminutive, lushly curved Indian woman in a skintight StarFleet "uniform" talking earnestly to a...Tessa blinked, and blinked again. Was that a Brakiri, in blue makeup and a blonde wig? She'd had no idea that alien actors were working in Human vid productions...how had she missed this arguably positive cultural development, she wondered muzzily.
{{Must...tell...Sheridan...}} she thought, slipping into darkness.
Moments later a muscular young man with disheveled sandy locks contrasting oddly with his shiny new suit skidded into the Electronics department, to find only a few bewildered staff people and shoppers huddling, sheeplike, around some toppled shelves, while a disregarded timeship crew blathered on in the background.
"Damn," he muttered under his breath, "the boss is gonna have my ass in a sling for this!"
****************
CAPITAL CITY, CENTAURI PRIME
Ambassador Cotto could have requisitioned a groundcar for his visit to the Marragos, but he didn't. The weather was fine, he had plenty of time, and he could use the exercise.
Vir was probably in better shape right now than he had been in all his twenty-five years of life. After a rather nasty scare last year, when his weight and blood pressure had soared and his sporadic migraines had started attacking almost daily, Dr. Franklin had helped him work out a diet and exercise plan that he had actually been able to stick to. Well, mostly -- the advent of a McBari's onstation had set him back for a while, there. The exercise component had mainly consisted of long walks through the Garden and other parts of the station, although in recent months he had also taken a few private (very private) lessons in self-defense. On the trip out he'd even considered approaching Volga's cousin, but the thought of facing off against the great Narandro Dok, even with practice swords, left him in a cold sweat.
The past three days of confinement -- on the journey from Babylon 5 and settling into his rooms in the Palace -- had left him feeling restless and bloated, and neither his interview with the Emperor yesterday afternoon nor the elaborate State dinner that followed it had helped with either condition. A good long walk was just what he neeed, he decided as he stepped out across the grand avenue fronting the cityward side of the Royal Palace. This avenue, named after the legendary Emperor Palpatine, made what Humans would call a 'T' intersection with the great Processional Way that ran from the Palace all the way into the heart of the city.
Parkland lined the Way for perhaps half a kilometer, bisecting a crescent of noblemen's estates that curved around an upscale "strip" of commercial enterprises. For some reason, Humans shuttling in over the city invariably found this arc of greenery enclosing an extension of business district highly amusing, though when asked, they always attributed it to a resemblance to their letter 'C', for 'Centauri'. Vir, however, was not convinced.
By now, almost five Greater Months after the bombardment, the damage to the Imperial Estate was beginning to scab over. Through no fault of the attacking gunnery officers, the Royal Palace itself had escaped almost unscathed, and in the Capital's subtropical climate, vigorous groundcover had rapidly regrown over the scarred lawns while artful plantings disguised the places where the remains of trees had been removed and craters had been filled in. To Vir, who had last seen it immediately after the attack, it was a great improvement, but still a sad change from the stately groves and tranquil vistas of old.
The neighboring buildings, lacking the power of vegetative regeneration, were in worse state. Both prime addresses, closest to the Imperial grounds on the Processional Way itself, had been taken over by the government more than three hundred years ago after squabbles over their ownership had become too embarrassing even for the Royal Court, but they had retained their extensive gardens and elaborate, traditional facades. The lefthand mansion, which had housed the Ministry of Extraplanetary Resources, had been completely demolished, and was now simply a large fenced-off pit. Across the Way, the Ministry of Civic Engineering held its ground, albeit mostly sheathed in scaffolding.
Passing these mementos of destruction, Vir continued on along the Processional Way, watching the passers-by with unabashed curiosity. Centauri commercial architecture, like Human, ran to expansive storefront window displays, and between these and the vestments of the rich and noble-born shoppers, a provincial Ambassador could get a quick crash course in current Centauri haute couture.
Fashion wasn't the only thing he got a sense of, though. Here, too, buildings had suffered, and the economic squeeze of the imposed reparations to the ISA had delayed most rebuilding efforts outside the Imperial umbrella, so scaffolding and empty lots studded even this moneyed area of the city. The people on the street seemed subdued, wary -- almost fearful, and Vir didn't think it was just the severe lines and muted colors of the new fashions that made it seem that way. The looks they gave the Imperial Guards posted on every corner probably had something to do with it, as well as the hushed tones of their conversations -- conversations that abruptly stopped when the unfamiliar and (by their standards) quaintly-dressed Ambassador came within earshot. The few commoners in sight -- shopworkers, maintenance people, servants on errands -- hustled by quickly, eyes on the ground. Despite the brightly-painted facades and the midmorning sunshine, a grey gloom seemed to hang over the street. Even the few authorized groundcars whispered by quietly, their canopies and dark-tinted windows fully closed.
Up ahead, a small crowd of twenty or thirty people had gathered around a corner window. As Vir drew closer, he saw that it was an entertainment electronics display, featuring several large, expensive vidconsoles all tuned to the same channel. Whatever they were showing was causing quite a sensation...Vir edged into a spot from which he could see it.
There was a battle going on -- a fierce, hand-to-hand fight rather than some spaceborne extravaganza, and pretty obviously choreographed. Just then, one of the combatants -- a dark, petite Human woman -- turned toward the camera to say something. The sound, of course, was muted by the window, but Vir recognized the badge adorning her...person. He turned toward the man standing beside him.
"Is this the new 'Star Trek'?" he asked, the English words falling oddly in his native tongue. As the man replied, a murmur swept the crowd, and all he caught was something about "hundred", "timeship" and "Brakiri".
"Brakiri?" he echoed in confusion, then looked more closely at the nearest screen. There they were -- a dozen or so Brakiri in pale wigs, blue skin-coloring, and ragged 'primitive' garments, beating the stuffing out of...suddenly he realized what had caused the crowd's excitement. Those were *Narns*, covered in feathers, retreating amid a tumble of fakey-looking rocks! There was one Brakirioid in more 'modern' clothing, who seemed to be trying to rally the Narns, and another with the cluster of Federation Humans, 'Vulcans' and 'Klingons' helping the primitive blue guys.
Nonhumans on an Earth Alliance vid program? Granted it was one of a series whose popularity had spread widely throughout the known galaxy, for no easily explainable reason, but still! Vir's hearts leapt and an incredulous grin spread across his face. Less than two and a half years since the xenophobic Clark regime had been defeated, and the Earthers were bringing 'aliens' into their very living rooms!
What an excellent sign for the Alliance...that his people were no longer a part of.
As his smile faded, he realized that the main focus of the crowd was actually the fact that the Narn actors were losing the battle -- several of the young Centauri males were growing quite excited, in fact, egging the blue aliens on with loud and profane encouragement. Beyond the edges of the crowd, a group of Imperial Guards had gathered, looking grim. When an officer hurried up and spoke urgently with them, they headed resolutely for the gathered gawkers.
"All right, break it up! Nothing to see here! Be on your way now!" The Guards, unimpressed by the nobility and wealth of the spectators, began shoving them out of their prime viewing spots. Offended, the civilians shoved back, and in moments the impromptu vidparty had become a melee echoing the one on the screens. Once the Guards' truncheons came out, the shoppers quickly gave way, but by then the men in uniform were on a roll. With shouts of "ISA scum!" and "Kill the Earthers!", they attacked the store itself, smashing the window and the vidconsoles inside. Vir backed away, aghast, as some of the former spectators themselves joined in the destruction -- whether they were looking to pick up some of the goods, anxious to appear politically correct or just swept away by the excitement, he couldn't tell.
As he stepped back, he bumped up against someone and felt a hand reach out to steady him. He turned to thank the person, but there was no one there. As he turned back, a sudden wave of terror swept through him. What if this was a setup? What if that Security Minister, Durla, had found out about his regard for the Alliance and all the...questionable things he had done over the years? What if he had somehow contrived this minor riot to frame -- or even kill -- the potentially troublesome Ambassador? He had to escape -- to get away from here before they caught him! Blindly, Vir stumbled away from the fracas and took off headlong down the side street.
Across the Way, a somber-looking young man with a distinctive pale crest spotted the fleeing figure and nudged his two companions, who were amusing themselves by cheering guards and looters indiscriminately.
A block and a half down, Vir spotted an alley -- the perfect place to hide, he thought fuzzily. He looked back over his shoulder -- Great Maker, here they came! Three of them, in great, billowy cloaks -- he ducked into the alley. It dead-ended -- no, it turned, and beyond the corner a commercial van blocked the exit. He started to turn back, to find another way out, but suddenly his vision blurred and the blood thundered in his ears. A thick grey fog seemed to settle over his thoughts, like a heavy hand blotting out his consciousness. A metallic taste filled his mouth -- the taste of fear, for he knew that hand...
The pale-haired man and his companions came running around the corner of the alley just in time to see two shadowy figures lifting a third into a brightly-painted commercial van.
"Hey!" shouted one of the two darker-crested men, but the van moved off, oblivious.
"So, what do we do now?" asked the third pursuer.
"Follow," said the fair-haired man, turning back the way he had come.
Vir opened his eyes on a ring of unprepossessing faces, none of which belonged to the man he expected to see. He sat up with a gasp.
"Where is he?" the Ambassador asked frantically, looking around the room. He was lying on the floor of an abandoned industrial building -- abandoned for the very good reason that half of it was a charred tumble of wreckage. The half-dozen scruffy thugs surrounding Vir were obviously scavengers and criminals of the worst kind, and several of them were fondling short swords and long daggers in a thoroughly disconcerting fashion.
"Looky here," drawled the largest thug, a broken-nosed brute whose crest hung in grey tangles to his synthaleather-clad shoulders. "Th'Ambassador's awake! And here I was afeared this weren't gonna be no fun."
"Ambassador, huh?" cut in another, only slightly more cultured voice. "That explains a lot."
From the startled looks of his captors, Vir deduced that they were not expecting the newcomers. Three men, clad in old-style splendor right down to jewel-toned cloaks and tasseled boots, stood framed in the doorway. The speaker was a conventionally handsome lad, standing with arms folded in belligerent nonchalance. The man beside him was of similar build, but had the distinctive pale coloring of a native of the vanished island of Selini.
The third man was whip-thin and somewhat older than the other two, with a crest that bowed backward to allow for the receding hairline crowning his sharp features.
"Like what?" this worthy inquired, and the first intruder shrugged.
"I dunno -- I don't know what's goin' on here. But if I did know," he assured his companions, "I'm sure it would explain a lot!"
"He's got a point," the blond man observed.
"Yeah, six of 'em," agreed the third man. "Right on the ends of his..."
"Hey! What do you guys want?" the chief thug barked.
The fair-haired man shook his head sadly. "Now, that's the kind of thing that gives the rest of the Galaxy such a bad impression of us Centauri."
Vir glanced sharply at him, but his companions just looked mystified.
So did the chief thug, but he wasn't one to let a little thing like lines flying over his head stop him. "Why don't you three just move along and mind your own business?" he suggested.
"But surely," the third interloper replied, his derisive growl mutating into a syrupy croon, "The safety of our streets is the business of all concerned citizens."
"Yeah," the first agreed, jerking his head toward his friend. "What he said."
The thugs looked at each other and laughed.
"Oh yeah?" called one of them. "What are you gonna do about it?"
"You ain't even armed!" said another, brandishing a wicked looking blade.
The handsome young man sighed, scratching his crest with one hand as the other went back to his waist.
"Yeah, doesn't that just suck, though? You've got those swords and whatnot -- nice sporoda, by the way -- and all we've got is these silly things."
There was a triple snick, and all three men were suddenly holding Minbari fighting pikes, fully extended and held in perfect guard positions. Vir scrambled to his feet, completely ignored by the thugs who surged toward the intruders. At least one of them recognized the weapons, though, because cries of "traitor!" and "ISA filth!" arose.
"Yeah, I know," called the first man with easy bravado, "but you gotta work with what you got!" He stepped in under the first attacker's swing and deftly knocked him into a wall.
"Hey," he cried in apparent surprise, "This thing may be good for something after all!"
The other two moved into the fray, holding off the criminals easily and bantering among themselves as they fought.
"Armani!" called the pale-crested man. "What was that move Sech Westcastle kept trying to teach us?" Starting to turn toward his friend, he stepped backward, swung around, and caught the thug behind him square in the ribs. The victim fell howling and clutching himself in agony.
"Nah, that's not it," the older man replied. "It was like this..." He took a quick step backward, whirled and caught one man in the chest, then whipped the denn'bok around to crack another across the back. Both went down.
The first young man looked over from where he was holding off his own two attackers, one of them the man with the shortsword. "By Morg, I think he's got it..." he began, then turned back just in time to dodge a nasty swipe. "Do you mind?" he asked testily, cracking the swordsman across the knuckles. As the other man dropped the sword, he ducked down swiftly and scooped it up. As he rose with the blade in one hand and his pike in the other, a delighted and unmistakably bloodthirsty grin broke over his face. Both his opponents backed up hastily. All over the room, thugs were pullin