BABYLON 5, BROWN SECTOR, AREA 37
4/25/2263, 19:41 EST

        Trish Livingston was pretty sure there was no such thing as God. But there were nights she doubted that conviction: nights which *proved* Hell existed, which brought Hell up from the abyss and drowned her in its noisy, putrid tides. Nights like this one, where the lusts and bestiality of a dozen different species reached a fever pitch of degradation and she felt not only ashamed, but actively *afraid* to be female.

        In other words, your typical Friday night at the Dark Star.

        As Lia, the dancer on stage, stripped off her last piece of clothing and flung it into the crowd to the accompaniment of the music's raunchy, bouncing climax, the crowd exploded. All over the packed room, Human, Centauri, Narn, and Brakiri males rose, hooting and cheering and whistling. The woman grinned, gyrating a body whose curves *couldn't* be natural, Trish was sure. She felt no envy, only sick disgust. Was Lia getting paid in drugs or credits, she wondered. She glanced around at the men pressed up against the bar and fought back the urge to run.

        Strictly by the numbers, in fact, she had less to be afraid of here than the crowd implied. Humans only formed a part of the Dark Star's typical audience, and the perversion of xenoerotophilia -- sex with members of a sapient species other than your own -- was far rarer than religious or xenophobic bigots throughout the ISA believed. But it wasn't unknown, either. Rumour had it the former Narn Ambassador G'Kar had had a *major* thing for human women; and, of course, the single most famous married couple in the galaxy were a prime example of that. Hell, they'd even had a baby, Trish thought irritably as she finished the latest round of drinks and sent it off on a waitress' tray. Come right here to B5 last week, as if to broadcast to the galaxy that they were a normal family just like any other....

        "Hey, babe." A gap-toothed dockworker grinned at her. "How much do *you* go for?"

        <CLK-whhhRRRR>

        The dockworker's grin vanished; his eyes bulged, then slid down to the PPG pressed under his chin. Trish smiled thinly, her finger caressing the trigger. "I'm not on the entertaining staff," she bit out. "I serve drinks. You want a drink, talk to me. You want anything else, talk to Taan."

        "Right. Sure. Hey, no problem." The dockworker held his hands up and backed away, vanishing into the crowd. Sweat shone on his brow in the pass of an errant blue spotlight beam.

        "That wasn't wise, Livingston."

        Trish ignored the voice behind her as she tucked the PPG under the back of her blouse. "Ask me if I care, Taan."

        Taan Churok folded his muscular, green-scaled arms. He spoke better English than any Drazi Trish had ever met, but on very rare occasions his anger got the better of him. "You have right to protect yourself. That why you were given weapon. But this not protection. This hurts my business."

        "I'm not one of your entertainers." Trish paused to take another round of orders, went to the taps and began busily filling glasses. "Either on-stage or back room. I don't want anyone thinking I am. Ever."

        Taan surveyed her. When he spoke again his voice was neutral. "Are you ashamed to work for me, Patricia? If you are, we can talk about your severance pay."

        Trish repressed a gulp of fear, which slid to her stomach in a cold, insubstantial weight. But she made her own voice equally neutral. "Taan, you don't seriously expect me to be *proud* of working here, do you?"

        Taan shook his head. "I don't understand what shame or pride has to do with it. We satisfy a biological need – like the Fresh Aire restaurant."

        "You people only mate four times a year," Trish snapped. "How the frag are you *supposed* to understand?"

        "Understanding is not required, only obedience."

        "I'm not your slave, Taan. And where the hell did you learn that saying anyway?"

        Taan's smile was dry. "We *do* have Minbari customers, Livingston. Though they don't like this atmosphere -- they prefer quiet weekday afternoons." The smile faded. "You're not my slave, true. But as long asyou work for me, I have a right to ask for a certain level of service. You can't give me that, we have to talk."

        Trish used the excuse of finishing the drinks to avoid answering for a moment while she got her whirling thoughts into something resembling order. "Taan, I -- "

        The words died.

        Some things simply couldn't be explained. Oh, she could tell Taan in *words* what it meant to be a woman in this kind of workplace. But there was no way any Drazi -- a species that only went into heat four times a year and had far less sexual dimorphism than humans -- could understand in its heart what it meant to feel like *meat*. A Centauri or Brakiri female would instantly understand. A Narn might need a little explanation -- Narn women were just as physically tough as males, and like Drazi females were far less physically inconvenienced by pregnancy -- but Narn history had its share of chauvinism. Minbari, well, Minbari ritual and socialization had evolved from the ground up to rechannel and defuse that kind of sexual aggression, and so it would need a *lot* of explanation... but there, too, it wasn't unknown. All pre-Federation and pre-Valen, to hear any Minbari talk, of course. Not *these* days. Minbari did not kill Minbari. Minbari did not lie. And Minbari most *certainly* did not rape.

        But murder and lies had characterized the entire Minbari Civil War two years ago, from what Trish had heard. She was coldly, bitterly certain that those hadn't been the only atrocities in that war. And there were dark, whispered rumours about what had happened to some humans during the Earth-Minbari war, the ones caught on outposts by warriors so consumed with hatred that honour became... flexible.

        This was Hell. Not the noise, not the bodies, not even the propositions and the prostitution. It was the fear and the hate they brought. The fact that they made her *believe* her own hatred.

        "We'll talk at the end of your shift." There was nothing in Taan's voice to indicate that this was a good or bad thing. "Why don't you go on break, meanwhile. Take a few minutes, get a rest -- "

        He broke off, eyes flashing to the door. Then widening. "Droshalla damn me."

        Trish turned to follow his gaze.

        Slipping past the bouncer was a female figure garbed in plain brown sweatshirt and trousers, such as any human might have worn, head hidden by the sweatshirt's hood. But there was something subtly alien about that smooth gait, and the hood poked up at the back. Then she turned slightly, and Trish's eyes widened in turn as she recognized the Minbari Ambassador -- Sheronn? No, Sherann. What the *frag -- *

        "I don't really think this is the best place for our good Ambassador," muttered Taan. "Do you, Livingston?"

        "No." That much, at least, they could agree on. "I'll go talk to her."

        "You do that."

        Trish slipped out from around the bar, past a tall, dark-eyed Centauri lord in green and azure and a black-cloaked, hooded figure discussing something in low murmurs, and pushed through the crowd to reach Sherann as she descended to the main floor. "Ambassador?"

        "Ah, drat." Sherann snapped her fingers. The gesture looked positively *weird* coming from a Minbari. "I was hoping to elude detection a while longer. Can I help you?"

        Trish blinked. "I think that's supposed to be my line."

        "I know, that's why I stole it. I wanted to, what's the expression? Cut to the cheese."

        A cough of laughter burst from Trish's mouth out of sheer surprise; she struggled with her mirth a moment – it wasn't polite to laugh at someone's linguistic gaffs -- then saw Sherann's face. The Minbari woman looked perfectly innocent... but there was a sparkle in her eye that said she knew *exactly* what metaphors she'd mixed. At the sight Trish gave up and laughed.

        Sherann smiled. "There, you see? Even in a place like this, it's possible to find amusement." She surveyed the crowd, her smile slanting into something a little more cynical. "I wanted to see humanity at its worst, so that I might understand your people better. I think I'm getting a, I believe the term is, 'package deal'."

        A short, fat Centauri man staggered past, arms around two scantily clad women, one Centauri and one human. Sherann and Trish turned to watch him go; Sherann's lips pursed. "*Definitely* a package deal."

        "Ambassador -- " Trish took a deep breath -- this is really not a good idea. This place is *dangerous*. I wouldn't let my kid sister anywhere *near* here."

        "Do you think of me as a kid sister, Ms...?"

        "Livingston. Patricia Livingston."

        The response was startling: a bright, sudden smile of recognition. "Ah, so *you* are the sister Selene speaks of! Her coffee and tea business has made a *great* difference to Captain Lochley and her staff. I must tell you that I admire her greatly."

        "You -- *admire* her?"

        "It speaks well of you that you raised her so well." Sherann's voice was level, her eyes penetrating. "That you would endure employment such as this to do so."

        Trish looked down awkwardly. Her face felt hot. This was ridiculous; she hadn't blushed in *years*. "Yeah, well, you do what you have to...." This was *quite* enough of that. "And what *you* have to do is scram. I'm serious, Ambassador. You want to understand humanity's dark side, I'll have lunch with you tomorrow and tell you all about it, but here is *not* the place for -- "

        Before she could finish, let alone realize her own audacity -- she's just made a lunch date with the *Ambassador for the Minbari Federation*, for God's sake! -- Sherann stumbled, brushed aside by an extremely tall person with shoulders like concrete and a face to match: grey, pockmarked, and stubbled with a beard like moss. He and his partner, a second Human thug of similar build, marched on through the crowd, not seeming to care if people got out of their way or not; it certainly didn't make any difference to their speed of motion. Between them walked a youngish, slim, Oriental man with short spiky hair and eyes like black jade: shiny, hard and opaque. His undershirt and pants were tough and black; his jacket, a flowing silk thing in red and gold, a serpentine outline twisting on the back. Trish twisted to stare after them, opening her mouth to yell.

        Sherann caught her arm and *squeezed* it; Trish was so stunned at the sheer strength of the Minbari woman's grip she forgot to yelp. "Wait," she hissed.

        The Oriental man stopped before the Centauri lord and his hooded companion. The Centauri turned, raising his eyebrows. "Yes?" he said, smiling. "What? You have a, ah, problem here, what can I do for you, hm?" He waggled his shoulders as if in encouragement.

        "We understand you're transacting business." The young man's voice was sharp, flat and loud; it cut through the nearby babble, and people began turning to listen. "I'd like to make you aware of some changes in the situation here."

        "Changes?" hissed the hooded figure, drawing itself up into a combat stance. Trish, who'd worked with Taan for years, recognized that stance and that sibilance: this was a Drazi. A Drazi *female*, by the sound of it. She stepped forward, forgetting Sherann.

        "As of midnight yesterday," continued the man -- and now his voice was getting even louder, though it was still too flat to be a shout -- "all transactions of a covert, unofficial nature on Babylon 5 are conducted only with *my* permission. *I* set the licenses for doing business here. And the fees. You give me my cut, or I take what I'm due and more. Do you understand?"

        The Centauri looked to one side, smiling bemusedly. "Cut, hm, yes -- I don't wish to cause trouble, certainly, no no no no no -- but -- you're who again, exactly?"

        "I am Lung. The Dragon."

        Trish's heart froze.

        The Centauri looked sidelong at him. "The Dragon, hm, yes. Perhaps we can come to an arrangement, as you say -- "

        "We arrange nothing!" The Drazi flung back her cloak, hand dropping to a long curved knife at its belt. Beneath was plain, unadorned civilian clothing... but the dreiz *stood* as if she was wearing a uniform. Military: Trish would have bet her left arm on it. "Our business nothing to do with human criminals!"

        "Your business is in human space. On this station. That *makes* it my business," said the Dragon, still in that utterly flat voice. Then his eyes slid to Taan, who was watching from behind the bar. "And that includes you, Mutari Churok."

        Taan stiffened. "You are mad." But his voice was rather less steady. "The Dark Star has been independent of these petty gang concerns for years. We are neutral ground -- "

        "Things change, Mutari Churok. You work my way or you don't work at all, and don't think your Earth owner will come to your rescue. Do I make myself clear?"

        Taan was breathing heavily now, his body tense in the same combat stance the Drazi officer had adopted. She saw the thugs' hands move to their belts behind their bodies, knew there were guns concealed there. Taan was standing not two feet from the PPG rifle G'Stral had got for them a few months ago, and that Taan hid under the bar to break up fights before Security could. Trish swallowed her dismay; it was frigid and nauseating in her stomach. <No, no, no -- >

        "Before you consider your response," the Dragon said, looking from Centauri to draz and dreiz alike, "understand: I have been observing you for some time. I *know* the workings of your business. You cannot withstand me in a war; I know everything there is to know about you. You know *nothing* about me. You cannot survive."

        "You may not survive next three minutes, talking like that." The Drazi officer snarled. "Cannot declare war if dead."

        For the first time, the man -- the Dragon -- smiled. It was a cold, inhuman, *hungry* expression. "You're welcome to try, Commander Zhirith."

        The Drazi jerked back. Her hand spasmed on the knife. Trish shut her eyes and prepared to duck. <Oh, crap, oh crap oh crap oh *crap* -- >

        "Excuse me."

        The Dragon, his thugs, the Centauri, the Drazi commander and Taan all spun as Sherann strolled calmly up to them. Trish's gape was as wide as theirs. Sherann slipped back her hood and smiled at them all. "Ambassador Sherann of Rhell, of the Minbari Federation. I *do* hope there is nothing unpleasant in the offing."

        "Merely a private discussion, Ambassador." The Dragon recovered fast, voice and face resuming their flat neutrality. "It does not concern
you."

        "Oh, but it does. You see, if this discussion came to violence, I would most surely be hurt; I am no warrior or mystic monk, I am merely a humble worker. Yet I am also an Ambassador. Were I hurt, it would be the most drastic kind of... incident." There was nothing in the least funny about Sherann's smile now. "So I suggest that you continue this discussion elsewhere... especially since I have just called Security, and they do respond with admirable speed to someone of my ranking."

        "Ah. I see -- it's... *rank*, is it?" The Centauri smoothed down his coat, held out his hand and bowed; Sherann took it, her smile not wavering as he bent to kiss her hand. "And if I were to, ah, tell them this is all a regrettable misunderstanding -- would, um, *my* rank, then, be listened to, hm?"

        "And you are...."

        "Tarquin Corsaro. Baron of the House Corsaro, of Immolan. I hope you don't mean to imply that a high lord of the great and noble Corsaros would willingly partake in... criminal behaviour?" He smiled, teeth white and sharp against dusky lips. "Since the high lord in question is *not*, after all, a citizen of the ISA, nor subject, strictly speaking, to the laws thereof...."

        "Not at all." Sherann's teeth somehow seemed equally sharp, all of a sudden. "But like the estimable Mr. Lung, here, Security would be very interested in any transactions between ISA and non-ISA states. Your presence here with Commander Zhirith is enough implication of that."

        Corsaro tilted his head, then slowly nodded. His smile grew, like a fencer appreciating an opponent's lucky hit. "I must take you to dinner sometime, Ambassador. The conversation should be... *fascinating.*" He turned and whispered something to Zhirith; the Drazi stood stiffly, but her hand stopped clenching on the knife hilt. He threw a sidelong glance at the Dragon, who hadn't moved. "Mr. Lung. Would you care to, ah, meet me for lunch tomorrow at 1300 local? Say, a booth at the Fresh Aire?"

        The Dragon considered, then nodded, a single sharp movement. He turned and strode away, the thugs following as if moored to his side with tractor beams. Tarquin stood up, spread his hands and smiled around. "Ring down the curtain, ladies, gentlemen. The farce is over."

        A moment of stillness; then, half relieved, half disappointed, the gathered crowd began to disperse. Sherann turned back to Trish, who was staring frozenly at her. She raised her eyebrows. "Is something wrong?"

        Trish shook her head slowly. "You just don't know how to back down, do you?"

        "Oh, I do, Ms. Livingston. Believe me, I do. Sometimes, backing down is the only way to survive." She glanced back at Tarquin, who had abandoned the stiffly furious Zhirith to whisper something in the ears of a Centauri dancer; the dancer giggled and blushed. "But sometimes, you must follow through all the way to win."

        "You *sure* you're worker caste?"

        "Is that not the calling of my heart?"

        The irony in Sherann's smile was a strange thing, almost bitter. Trish couldn't read it, and gave up trying. "Listen, don't you think you've had enough excitement for one night, Ambassador?"

        "And leave without having a drink?" Sherann dropped onto the stool that Tarquin had left empty, as the Centauri lord headed off with his dancer. "No, I think not. Some tomato juice, if you can find an unopened can."

        Trish had to smile. "You're some piece of work, Ambassador."

        "Please. Sherann." Sherann smiled and turned to gaze out over the crowd. "Tell me, do *all* human males react like this simply to the sight of naked skin?"

        Trish considered, then nodded. "Yep."

        "What exceedingly simplistic creatures. I am surprised Delenn has so much trouble with hers."

        Trish choked. At Sherann's inquiring expression she had to snigger again. "Let's just say it's... not always that simple."

        "Do tell." Sherann leaned on the bar, interested.

        "Well, first you have to take the 'beer-goggles' effect into account."

        "They wear glasses made from ale bottles?"

        "Not... exactly."

****************
4 / 26 / 2263, 02:07 EST

        The one drink turned into a meal, several glasses of tomato juice, and more than five hours of conversation, much to Sherann's unexpected pleasure. Patricia was a bitter young woman, but her perceptions and intelligence were sharp, and her acid wit was entertaining, if frequently depressing. When Taan finally closed down at one-forty-five, Sherann had insisted on seeing Trish back to her quarters. The young human had protested, but Sherann had benignly ignored her; she had, perhaps, rather less use for tradition than most of her people, but it was simply not done to let a junior look out for an elder. It was not proper.

        <Of course, now you have no one to look out for *you*,> pointed out a most improper voice somewhere in her head.

        Sherann ignored it. She might only be worker caste, which meant she was entitled to learn neither the warriors' ancient martial arts nor the temples' paths of defense... but the workers had their own ways of fighting. She was not worried for herself. Through the crowds of Brown Sector she strode, fatigued but unafraid.

        She remained unafraid even as, in a junction between storage pods, the Dragon's two gigantic, grey-faced goons stepped into her path, bracing herself. She'd expected as much. There was no point in talking. Without slowing she spun on one heel and kicked one of them in the groin. He fell, gasping, oddly silent. The other grabbed for her; instead of dodging she spun *into* the grab, one elbow coming up and back to stab into her opponent's stomach. He staggered, his weight coming down on her; she knelt, letting him drop with her, then pitched forward, bone crest almost touching the floor. He somersaulted over her and landed flat on his back, breath wheezing. She got to her feet, dug her personal communicator out of her pocket --

        Something huge, soft, and freezing cold hit her in the back of the spine. Every gross motor muscle shut down at once; she plunged to the deck and hit like a limp sack of temshwee eggs. She landed on her wrist. A *crunch* of broken bone split the air.

        There was no pain.

        "A Centauri neural inhibitor," said the Dragon, coalescing from the shadows, holding up a strange gunlike device. "Prevents neuroelectrical function on specified frequencies and areas. Induces paralysis and anaesthesia in any degree I choose. I like to think of it as my way of being kind."

        Sherann stared up at him. She could barely move her eyes. But somehow the young man read her expression. "I can't have you testifying to what you heard back there. And after you, I don't think I have to worry about anybody else trying. But I've nothing against *you*, Ambassador. This is strictly business. So I see no point in making this any more unpleasant for you than it has to be. Do be a dear and return the favour, hm?"

        He tucked the device away in his gold-and-red jacket, then nodded to the goons, who were rising by now as the effect of Sherann's blows finally faded. "Make sure it's visible and extensive. But don't kill her until the end -- the doctors can tell. They have to be afraid of what we'll do, not enraged by it." All in the same calm voice. Sherann wondered if her sense of fear had been anaesthetized; she felt nothing except numb incomprehension. This couldn't be happening. This could *not* be happening.

        The Dragon walked away and was gone.

        The goons watched him. Then, still without a word, they exchanged glances and bent down, arranging her on the deck with her limbs and fingers splayed.

        And they went to work.

****************** Act One *****************
BROWN 37, DOWNBELOW
4 / 26 / 2263, 02:10 EST

        Afterward, G'Stral blamed it on three things. The first had been watching Sherann face down the Dragon without blinking, hidden at his table in the Dark Star. Even granted it was founded on ignorance -- he knew more of the Dragon than Sherann possibly could – it was an insanely brave thing to do.

        Also, unfortunately, insanely stupid.

        He'd trailed her and Livingston from the bar and watched her lay out the goons, actually allowing himself to hope she'd get away. Foolish. The Dragon had dropped her without missing a beat... and then he'd heard what the human had used to do it.

        A Centauri neural inhibitor.

        It was a device that had become infamous in the transition camps, in G'Khorazhar, Na'Haminar, Dros 3, anywhere else the Centauri had run a camp during the war. G'Stral had felt the touch of the device himself, felt its cold signals shut down his ability to move while leaving his nerves awake and afire, waiting for the guards' clubs. Its black, gunlike shape still swam through his dreams.

        He had thought himself past ever having to see one again. Power-hungry and delicate, the devices were next to impossible to get past customs without high-level medical clearance, and their range was too short to make them worth the arms-dealers' interest. But even in the gloom, he could not mistake that shape.

        Still, even as the Dragon left, carrying a shard of G'Stral's nightmares with him, the young Narn had hesitated. He owed Sherann nothing. Perhaps a trace debt for her counsel, when Lord-General Marrago had come aboard back in February. But not life-price. Nothing that would demand this risk -- not only of facing these men but of openly setting himself against the Dragon. If the Dragon had decided to claim B5 -- if he decided G'Stral was an enemy --

        Then one of the goons lifted Sherann's arm, braced her forearm over his knee and broke it with a single savage crack downwards with his elbow. Simultaneously, the other stood and unloaded a crushingly powerful kick into her ribs. More snaps of bone echoed. Sherann stared numbly at the ceiling, eyes wide with fright -- *but no pain*.

        The Dragon hadn't lied.

        He really didn't care. He was so disconnected that he thought the granting of a painless death was a *mercy*. But life was worth more than that. If you killed you killed with *passion*; you *cared* about who you killed -- hated them for *reasons*, hated them *yourself*. You didn't kill just to rid yourself of an obstacle.

        And G'Stral hated.

        Hated the universe and its brutal indifference to pain. Hated the Centauri guards who'd taken his home and family from him. Hated the station with its dark, stale chambers and its rotten underside. Hated the Dragon who had come to destroy his world *again*. Hated the goons who even now moved to crush Sherann's upper arm under their boots, breaking it again. He let that hate carry his hand up, let it level the PPG pistol he'd acquired to replace the rifle Glenn Satamba had taken from him three months ago. He let it depress his finger on the contact.

        Red-gold fire blazed, smashing the darkness and hurling one of the oons backward. The other spasmed as if electrocuted, swayed, and plunged face-first to the floor. G'Stral faltered a moment, surprised -- he'd only hit one of them, he *knew* he had -- but decided a moment later it really didn't matter. He hastened forward, knelt, gathered Sherann's broken and bleeding form into his arms, and sprinted for the nearest transport tube.

****************
MEDLAB ONE
4 / 26 / 2263, 02:23 EST

        Lochley came charging in from the corridor, hair wild with sleep's disarray but her eyes bright and fierce with panic; she braked to a stop as Ta'Lon, in the middle of the lab, held up a hand. The Narn ambassador's other hand clenched and unclenched as if it ached to hold his katok. Beside him, Vir stood with his nose pressed against the securiplas of Medlab's surgical chamber, his shoulders tense with grief and frantic worry, watching as Dr. Hobbs' masked and suited figure buzzed around the unconscious form of the Minbari Ambassador. G'Stral stood to one side, arms folded, glowering at everyone with impersonal anger.

        Zack and Satamba arrived moments later, both similarly dishevelled from a frantic dive into uniform and consciousness. Jamie Pratchett was with them, though the young Ranger had somehow managed to look considerably more prepared than they; and behind them came, of all people, Colin Ferris -- he hadn't even bothered with uniform, only donning a dressing robe. Out of his Psi Cop blacks, badgeless, and with eyes crinkled in empathic pain and fear, he didn't seem nearly as commanding as was his wont.

        "Colin." Lochley frowned; she tried to remember just who Corwin's frantic summons had been directed to and couldn't. "You're not on the priority notification list for this kind of attack."

        "No, I'm not." Colin didn't even look at her. "I came out of a nightmare and I... I knew. Will she be all right?"

        Lochley shrugged helplessly. "I just got here myself."

        Zack pushed past her, Satamba on his heels, to face G'Stral; it was a measure of what hung in the air here that he didn't bother with even a perfunctory glare at Colin. "Let me guess. You found her like this, you have no idea what happened."

        G'Stral swept them with a glare, but it was oddly hollow. His mouth worked. "Wrong."

        Zack blinked suspiciously. "Wrong?"

        "I'll give you one name for free, Allan."

        Jamie shook her head as if to unjam something and stared at G'Stral. "I know about you, kiddo; did you just offer something for *free*?"

        "You don't know as much as you think you do, Pratchett," G'Stral growled, and looked back to Zack. "I said one name and I meant it. Lung." The vowel was long, almost aspirated, like a cold breath off a mountain lake.

        Zack's jaw fell. Beside him, Satamba breathed, "Oh, *crap*."

        "Lung?" Lochley frowned. "That's Chinese, isn't it?"

        "It means 'the Dragon'," said Colin quietly.

        Satamba nodded, his eyes dismayed but his face like stone. "He's one of the biggest crimelords on Earth; he ran a major network of Tongs around the Pacific Rim. But I thought he was strictly Earth-based."

        "Maybe not," gritted Zack. "Some of the recent reports from Earth Central suggested he was looking to expand into alien trade, especially after Clark's embargoes were lifted."

        "And of course he comes here." Lochley massaged her forehead. "Well, it's not like we haven't dealt with criminals before, right? I --" She stopped as the simultaneously forming expressions on Zack's and Satamba's faces registered. "What?"

        "This isn't the same, Captain." Zack shook his head grimly. "This is a whole 'nother ballpark here. Deuce, n'Grath, Trace -- they were *nothing* compared to this guy. We're talking somebody who commands funds on the level of a megacorp and has been in business for *decades*."

        "His family, anyway," added Satamba. "They're a clan, the eldest male heir takes over and ditches his personal name. There's evidence to indicate it goes back before the Earth Alliance."

        Lochley's jaw tightened.

        The door to the surgical chamber whirred back and Hobbs emerged, stripping off gloves stained with the peculiar cherry-red of Minbari blood. She jolted to a startled stop as the focus of everyone in the lab swung instantly to her. "Where did *you* all come from?"

        "Attacks on Ambassadors invoke a class-three security protocol, Doctor," said Lochley. "Corwin was required to notify all of us." Her mouth moved in something that wanted to be a smile, but couldn't quite make its way through pain. "Nobody was strictly required to come *here*, but..."

        "Ambassador Sherann is... special to us," muttered Vir, blushing.

        Lilian blinked rapidly, a shine gathering in her eyes; but she managed the smile Lochley hadn't been able to. "Well, she'll go on being special, Vir. There was some internal bleeding, it was touch and go, but I think I got it all. Her condition is still serious, but she's stable."

        The breath that seemed to simultaneously go out of everyone present quieted them all for a moment. In the silence, Lochley watched as, one by one, the others exchanged furtive looks, as startled as she to realize the depth of the feelings here. Even Zack and Colin were sneaking unsettled glances at each other, neither realizing he was the subject of the same scrutiny.

        It should have been a good thing, and part of Lochley revelled in the unity. But another part of her was unutterably depressed. Were pain, shock, and death the only coins that could buy such union?

        <Perhaps they are. But Sherann would probably count it a fair bargain.>

        For some reason that depressed her even more.

        The main door to Medlab lifted back with a whir. David Sheridan hurried in, Rathenn only steps behind him. Lochley turned before he could get a word out. "She's all right, David. She'll live."

        Sheridan closed his eyes and breathed out an immense gust of relief. "Oh, thank God."

        Rathenn bowed his head. "Na'sheen irali, kan jiro'naf'shae," he whispered. "Blessed fate, stay with our daughter."

        Lochley nodded. "Amen." She turned to Hobbs. "Did you find anything out about the attackers?"

        "They were dust addicts." Hobbs shook her head. "One of the odder side-effects of the drug -- symbiont addiction syndrome. They became addicted simultaneously and each was the first the other went after. It had the effect of creating a direct telepathic link as long as they had the drug; it made them an immensely efficient fighting team."

        Lochley frowned. "So that's why one shot killed them both?"

        "Resonance," Colin said. "I've read studies on the condition. Once the addiction progresses far enough any fatal shock to one system sends the other into shutdown." His eyes slid to G'Stral, then to Zack. "It's generally accepted as exoneration for any criminal charges, unless the killer was the one who fed them the drug."

        Jamie snorted. "I kinda doubt this guy's gonna be pressing charges."

        "Maybe *he* won't. But I will." Lochley stepped forward. "We have an eyewitness and -- " She stopped, her stomach sinking. G'Stral was shaking his head in that slow, firm way she'd come to loathe. "G'Stral, don't you *dare* tell me -- "

        "I am *not* going up against the Dragon on my own, Captain."

        "We can offer you protective custody -- " Ta'Lon began. It was cut off by a single snort of laughter from the younger Narn. Ta'Lon's brow lowered. "Do you mock me?"

        "I mock you if you think anything *she* can do -- " G'Stral indicated Lochley with a jerk of his head -- "can protect me."

        Satamba intercepted Lochley's explosion with a hand on her arm. "It wouldn't do any good anyway, Cap'n. From what Corwin told me earlier, all G'Stral saw the Dragon do was use the inhibitor on her. He couldn't even be sure he heard any orders to the goons. Even if we could find the inhibitor and tie it to him, it's only a felony misdemeanour -- maximum penalty's a thousand-credit fine or thirty days' brig time. Not enough to legally get him off the station. We'd be tipping our hand for nothing."

        Lochley pressed her lips tightly together for a moment. "Fine. If we have to find something harder, we find something harder. But this is the last straw. I am *not* letting any more of this crap go on."

        She turned to the room at large. "Ambassadors, later this morning at the standard nine hundred meeting, I will be making an announcement. You'll receive a brief before I go back to bed, and your input is welcomed. But I want you to know right now -- it will be an *announcement*. Not an issue to debate, not a question to vote on: it's been decided now. Understood?"

        "If it's what I think it is," said Ta'Lon, "it's not only understood -- "

****************
CENTRAL COUNCIL CHAMBER
4 / 26 / 2263, 09:11 EST

        " -- but fully supported by myself, Ambassador Rathenn, Ambassador Cotto, and Ambassador Ta'Lon," Sheridan finished. Lochley stood before him at the centre of the chamber, hands joined behind her, her eyes blazing at the room.

        The ambassadors shifted and murmured uneasily to each other. Standing at alert to one side of the chamber, Zack, Satamba and Jamie stood, all in full dress uniform: Zack in the black-and-silver of the Army of Light, Satamba in an Earthforce silver-grey dress tunic, and Jamie in the flowing black cloak of the Rangers. Zack slid a glance at Satamba, who stared phlegmatically ahead, and at Jamie, who stood perfectly poised with the tiniest smirk on her face; he wagered *their* uniforms didn't feel uncomfortable and badly-fit.

        Still, in fairness to the Minbari tailors, he supposed they couldn't be blamed for the propensity of his uniforms to feel more and more ill-fitting depending on how nervous *he* was. He didn't disagree with Lochley in the slightest -- his own thoughts on the matter boiled down to <About fragging time!> -- but he really wished she hadn't decided it was necessary to have them there as visual reinforcement. Zack was never comfortable in front of a crowd.

        It was, of course, Vizhak who rose to speak; though for once it was not in immediate challenge. "This 'crackdown' you propose, Captain," he rumbled. Zack blinked as he realized the Drazi Ambassador was foregoing his usual dialect. "What effects will it have on station business?"

        Zack had learned to read the Captain pretty well by now, and he caught the flicker of tightening muscles through her jawline that spoke of anger. But her answer was level. "It will slow commerce and customs to some extent, as we will be stepping up our inspections in both frequency and intensity. Most major criminal activity on *any* transit point -- planetbound or spaceborne -- centres around smuggling. We want to choke off supply and export lines first, then grab the masterminds as evidence becomes available to charge and convict them. Subsidiary criminals arrested will be held in temporary facilities currently being set up in Brown Sector."

        "Convict, you say. Convict by what law?" Lethke Kullenbrok stood. His voice was smooth but cautious. "Not all interstellar states proscribe the same commodities."

        "That will depend on the circumstances." Lochley swept the room again, making eye contact with every being there. "We will select the jurisdiction for each case individually, based on applicability, appropriateness... and the chances of our getting a conviction." She raised her voice to go on over the appalled murmur that sprung up. "That's right, Ambassadors. If two legal systems are equally applicable to a case we *will* try it by the laws that give us the best chance of success."

        Rathenn cleared his throat. "I hasten to add that this does *not* mean we will try someone by a law not applicable to them."

        "No. Of course not. Nor will the unfortunate homeless displaced by your new, 'temporary' prisons be charged as criminals merely by their location, I trust?" Lethke bowed and sat down without waiting for an answer. Zack tried to decide if the absolute neutrality of the Brakiri's voice meant he was being ironic, and couldn't.

        The Gaim Ambassador stood. [There will be challenges,] its translator buzzed. [When ambiguities in laws arise. What right do you claim to choose the laws you please?]

        "Because I am the *commanding officer* of Babylon 5!" The answer was a whipcrack, and slashed the room to silence. Lochley's anger now was unmistakeable. "Bear in mind, Ambassadors, that in crisis conditions I *am* authorized to declare martial law on this station! That martial law, as set out in the Earthforce Articles of Duty, suspends *all* rights to civilian legal systems and trials. And given that B5's criminal elements have, in the last three months, committed nearly lethal attacks on *two* ambassadors, some might argue that I am not only within my rights to exercise that authority, but that I am *obliged* to do so until I can assure the EA and the ISA that Babylon 5 can still function!"

        She paused, took a breath and closed her eyes, then resumed more calmly. "I do not choose to exercise that authority at this time, Ambassadors, because I want your active cooperation, not just powerless consent. And given the respect which we all feel for Ambassador Sherann... I had hoped you would be willing to provide that cooperation."

        Zack kept his face blank, but his stomach descended slowly into his boots as he listened to the uneasy, resentful mutters the room's occupants exchanged. Even Rathenn and Vir seemed a little nonplussed at Lochley's harshness, though Ta'Lon was impassive and David Sheridan's eyes sparkled with angry delight. Evidently he was only too happy to see his former daughter-in-law taking charge.

        If Lochley sensed the divided support from behind her, she didn't show it. "Any information you can provide regarding criminal activities on station will be appreciated," she said. "Station Security and the Anla'Shok, under the direction of Chief Allan and Val'na Pratchett, will be duly authorized for all legal enforcement duties. You may send such information directly to them. As you know, copies of all legal codes represented by station inhabitants are available at all times to all Ambassadors; I ask you to familiarize yourself with any portions that may be relevant -- specifically, laws concerning customs, smuggling, and illegal transactions and commodities.

        "Thank you for coming, Ambassadors." She went to the arc table for the senior diplomats and struck the gavel once, not bothering to move around to her seat. "This meeting is adjourned."

        From his side, Zack heard a soft snort. He snuck a sidelong glance at Satamba. "Glenn?"

        "It might be adjourned, but it's not over," the larger man murmured.

        Jamie chuckled. But the sound didn't hold much mirth.

****************
CAPTAIN'S OFFICE
10:30 EST

        "Captain?" Colin stood uncertainly in the doorway.

        "Colin; good." Lochley rose from her desk and ushered him to the office's lounge area, where Zack, Satamba and Jamie waited. The coffee table was buried in a pile of station plans, data crystals and staff rosters; Jamie was stretched out along the couch, her feet resting on Zack's lap (Zack appeared to be ignoring this as best he could), with Satamba occupying one of the armchairs. Lochley pushed Colin down into the other armchair; at his bewildered look, Jamie winked at him. Satamba smiled genially, and even Zack managed a tolerably civil nod of greeting. "Now you're here, we can begin," Lochley finished.

        Colin looked up at her. "Captain, you are aware I haven't got *any* legal power outside the pursuit and arrest of rogue human telepaths."

        "Perfectly. That's not what I want you for." Lochley paced back and forth before the table. "On Babylon 5, the four of you are the best trained in the practical methods of observation, police procedure, and enforcement, as well as being familiar with EA law, which is the primary legal code we're operating by. Val'na Pratchett, when we need input on ISA or alien laws, we'll be tapping you and the Rangers."

        Jamie spread her hands. "Consider us tapped."

        Lochley grimaced faintly. "I don't suppose you'd consider sitting up?"

        Jamie looked thoughtful. "I don't suppose you'd believe me if I told you this was vital to a Ranger meditation technique?" At Lochley's look she held up her hands. "Never mind, never mind." She swung herself to a sitting position and leant forwards. "Okay, you want serious, you got it."

        Lochley let out a breath. "Thank you. Zack, Glenn, I want to double the guards on all incoming and outgoing transport processing points."

        Zack's eyebrows shot up. "*Double* them?"

        "*And* on the DownBelow sweeps," confirmed Lochley. "I'm aware of your staffing problems. We're going to use as many of the Rangers as we can on the DownBelow patrols, but the limited numbers means everybody in Security will be working double shifts for at least four days a week. Possibly more if we can get people to volunteer the extra time." She held up a hand to cut off his protest. "I am aware of the overtime pay that'll require, I'm going to justify that in the budget as necessary military expenditures."

        "How long you expect this crackdown to last, Cap'n?" Satamba frowned.

        "As long as it takes to get the Dragon, Sergeant, and as long as I can sustain it while it produces results." Lochley's voice softened. "I don't want any more Sheranns or Virs, people. No more Frosts, no more Owen Straingers, no more Jeanne Dariases. We've let this slide for too long. It's time it was stopped. For good."

        "You'll have no argument from me," said Colin soberly, "but I'm still not sure what you want me to do."

        Lochley nodded. "You're right in that you have no legal operational authority here. I want you retained as a consulting advisor. A lot of your knowledge and training is just as applicable to mundane criminals as it is to teeps, Colin; I want that resource. And if you're needed for any scans -- " he opened his mouth; she overrode him -- "any scans *of consenting witnesses only*, I want that available too."

        Colin bit his lip. "Captain, for that function you *are* technically required to request that Psi Corps assign a criminal-specialist telepath here."

        "You're authorized to perform the same functions if necessary, you're better trained and more powerful than any criminal teep, and you're *here*." Lochley leant down, hands on the arm of his chair, and matched his gaze face to face. "Colin, I want your help on this, but if you won't help, I want you out of my way. What do *you* want?"

        The Psi Cop blinked. But, to his own surprise, he found himself answering with far more conviction and speed than he'd expected. "I'm with you, Captain. Of course."

        "Good." Lochley smiled, a fierce, intense, *hungry* smile. Colin suddenly found it very difficult to breathe. Good *God*, but she was beautiful -- he'd known that, of course, ever since meeting her, he wasn't *blind*...

         ...or was he?

        Had he been, all along?

        As Lochley turned away, he broke that train of thought's back and tossed it aside. There might be a time and a place for it, but this was neither. The Captain knelt down in front of the coffee table, grabbing a staff roster. "Now, I want to break down the customs duties as follows: Ackerman, Aitchison, Aldred and Auvergne on first station shift one. Azkein, Barrett, Basquienne and B'Dran on second station..."
        Colin chanced a look across at Zack, wondering if the Security Chief was as agreeable to this arrangement as Lochley thought.

        Zack, however, in the moment before his face reflexively closed, only looked worried. Cautiously, Colin relaxed his blocks the tiniest amount. What he sensed only confirmed his fear. Though the emotions the others radiated were the same mix of righteous indignation and professional, dedicated determination, none was quite so strong... or as angry... as Lochley's.

        And they all knew it.

        And all were worried about it.

****************
THE ZOCALO
11:15 EST

        It had previously been a general store of no particular note or quality, though it did boast one very brief flare of fame: it had once been known as the Babylon 5 Emporium, selling trademarked toys, clothing, dolls and other products designed to raise the station's profile. The short-lived experiment had actually been quite successful... until the proprietors made the mistake of immortalizing Captain John Sheridan, the Starkiller, as a teddy bear. Both bear and shop had met a quick and unceremonious end.

        Until now.

        It had been purchased three weeks ago, and undergone extensive remodeling in secret behind plastiform panels. Now open, it was that rarity in deep space commerce: a data entertainment outlet that specialized in the merchandizing of rare bound hardcopies. Or, as such stores were more frequently known on planetary surfaces, a bookshop. A crowd had already gathered, some watching with fascination while others plunged eagerly inside to peruse the wares. Helpful staff removed the books from their protective plexicrys covers, allowing customers to touch the pages personally.

        Most species in the galaxy shared an irrational love for manual printing, which had kept the bound book from ever dying out. However, most books had too low a value-to-mass ratio to be worth the cost of interstellar shipping -- when the contents of a 37-volume encyclopedia could be reproduced on a single 100-gram data crystal, printed information simply wasn't an economically viable commodity. The exceptions were those works which, through age, rarity, social, political or religious import, or sheer artistic quality, had acquired value out of all proportion to their weight. As a result, every book on the shelf was worth a thousand credits at minimum. For those who merely liked to look but didn't have the budget to buy, cheap datacrystal reprints or recitations of all the works represented were available in the rear, as was a whole host of more traditional vids and recordings and a generous selection of computer games and programs. It was on these, the shop's staff explained, that the place expected to make its operating profit.

        But it was the books which stood out front, which even behind their plexicrys covers perfumed the air with the scent of ancient cloth, cardboard, paper and parchment. The books which had the crowd mesmerized. And the books which gave the shop its name, suspended on a sign above the door, a sign utterly without electronic adornment or ostentation, a sign that read simply:

        THE TOME.

        Aragon Pernimi tilted his head back to read it, and snorted. "'The Tome'?" he repeated. "Pah. Humans have no sense of display." He slapped at his guild medallion to emphasize his point.

        Even tuned to a low volume, j'Nialth's translator still had the sound of an overenthusiastic sports narrator, jumping and lilting with a surreal excitement which didn't match the Centauri words at all. "We're not here to comment on display, Pernimi. We're here to make an arrangement!"

        Pernimi winced. "Yes, of course. As you say." He wondered again who'd programmed j'Nialth's translator; half the time the giant bug sounded like a would-be Arena-Master of Capriche IV. He stepped inside, the Thrakallan shuffling in after him.

        The store was dim inside, the other patrons instinctively making their startled way for the elaborately dressed Centauri and the hulking, angular insectoid. As Pernimi scowled around, wondering who to ask about the mysterious message that had summoned them both there, a young human male in a white shirt and black trousers materialized at his elbow. "Mr. Pernimi?"

        "Yes! Yes, what, what, what?" Pernimi whirled, glaring. The young man only bowed, never losing his poise. "Guildmaster Pernimi. <K'Lirrris> j'Nialth."

        J'Nialth's body angled upright with a sharp click, surprise spilling off him over Pernimi's telepathic senses like a splash of carbonated ice water. "Yes," he said. "J'Nialth. <K'Lirrris.>"

        Pernimi frowned at the unfamiliar word, but before he could ask the young man cleared his throat. "Excellent. Now that we've established that, please forgive me, Guildmaster -- " There was no warning, not even a hint of intention flaring through the veneer of polite diffidence. Before Pernimi could twist away the young man had seized his hand and pressed a hypo to the back of his arm; the hypo hissed, discharging its cargo straight into his veins.

        Pernimi staggered, as shocked as j'Nialth had been a moment ago. That veneer of polite indifference, he realized too late, had been an excellently trained block. Nothing that could stop a conscious scan from a Guildmaster, but enough to hide intent until he could be caught off-guard. And the expertly chosen injection point: not in the wrist or hand, as most humans might attempt, but high up the forearm just where the major blood vessels dissolved into the spongelike mass of capillaries that filled the wrist and hand. In fury only faintly leavened by fear, he turned the full power of his telepathic grip upon the young man, freezing him in mid-step.

        "Pernimi?" said j'Nialth. "What is wrong?"

        "Nothing!" gritted Pernimi. "Once I find out what this *pakatril* has poisoned me with, it will be nothing!"

        "Guildmaster."

        One word only, but it was smooth and powerful, instinctively commanding attention. Pernimi looked up, as did j'Nialth.

        A human male of the subspecies they called "oriental" stood near the back of the shop, almost invisible in the shadows there. His eyes glittered like Immolan shadowjade. "Please release my employee, Mr. Pernimi. He was only following my orders."

        "Orders, eh?" Pernimi bared his fangs at the human. "And if I boil his puny little brain in his skull, will you send his family a medal, for dying in the line of service?"

        "You won't do that."

        "Oh, won't I?"

        "Perhaps," said the youth in the white shirt, "Mr. Lung should have said, 'you *can't*'." And incredibly, as if pulling free of treacle, he stepped away. Pernimi felt his psionic grasp dissolving like spunsugar in rain, appalled as the voices he had lived with all his life suddenly died away and faded into a horrifying, nauseating silence. He swallowed thickly.

        "Seriolani drugs," he whispered. "Neutralizers."

        Lung nodded. "We call them 'sleepers' on Earth; different chemical components for Centauri, of course, but it's much the same thing. I extend my sincerest apologies, Guildmaster, but there are certain confidences I *must* ensure are respected." He stepped to one side and gestured to the door leading into the back offices. "Please."

        "And if we choose not to go?" J'Nialth's cautious words jarred against the artificially peppy tone of his translator.

        The Dragon smiled.

        "You won't do that."

        "I have had operatives in place for some time now, preparing the way, setting up accounts and suppliers, making contacts. Now, I am here. As of today, Babylon 5 is mine." The Dragon sat upright in his chair, erect without being stiff, fingers tented before his face.

        "Yours," Pernimi repeated.

        The slim young man nodded. "Mine."

        "Exclusively?" j'Nialth asked.

        "I am willing to license rights for subsidiary operations. All mundane operations will continue as per B5 law, of course." The Dragon smiled, his face looking like a paper mask. Anger and terror twined through Pernimi's gut as he tried again and again to penetrate that mask. It was no use. The seriolani drugs had dropped a thick black veil over the senses that made him who he was, and a huge, freezing hollow had opened in the Guildmaster's stomach.

        "What... licensing arrangements... could be made?" J'Nialth's head tilted back and forth, one compound eye, then another focusing on the Dragon.

        "Standard operational taxes. Say... fifty percent of all income."

        "*Fifty!*" J'Nialth's body clicked upright, with the same jackknifelike movement of surprise Pernimi had seen outside. "That is *outrageous*!"

        "No, sixty is outrageous. And you just went up to seventy." Nothing changed in voice or tone, but Pernimi recognized the glint of danger in the Dragon's eye. He lifted a hand to his colleague, waving the Thrakallan to silence; j'Nialth subsided.

        "Perhaps... thirty-five?" offered Pernimi.

        "Seventy-five."

        "All right, fort -- wait a minute, you just went *up*, you're supposed to come down!"

        "Eighty."

        "There, you see, you did it again!"

        "Eighty-five."

        "All right, all right, all right -- " Pernimi slumped. "Fifty."

        "Done." The Dragon sat back. "I'll expect your first payment next week. And by the way -- I have full BabCom access; I will know if payment is held back."

        Pernimi stared at the desk, unable to believe how quickly he'd folded. But there had been something in the voice, the eyes, which dissolved his bluster into emptiness. The Thrakallan was less flabbergasted; he curled out one angular limb, hoisted Pernimi to a standing position with surprising strength, and bowed. "<K'Varrris> Dragon," he intoned.

        The Dragon bowed. "<K'Lirrris> j'Nialth," he responded formally.

****************
ALFREDO'S POOL HALL
11:42 EST

        Neither Pernimi nor j'Nialth said anything on their way back to Alfredo's, but the aura of stunned fury and helplessness that hung around them cleared the path like a tear-gas screen. At the bar, still without speaking, j'Nialth slipped behind the counter, selected a bulb of some thick dark green liquid -- the Thrakallan intoxicant of choice; Pernimi had never been able to pronounce its name or even dare to ask exactly what it was -- and poured the Centauri telepath a tumbler of brivare. Pernimi slumped onto a stool and swigged from the brivare as if it was cheap maro wine.

        They drank in silence for a moment, the Thrakallan's proboscis making a sound rather like a straw in a milkshake. Finally, j'Nialth put its drinkbulb down. "He must go," he stated.

        Pernimi ignored it, still feeling dislocated from the silence in his head. "What was that word he called you? <K'Lirrr -- >" He stumbled over the trilling syllables.

        "Thrakallan status name," said j'Nialth shortly. "Not to be explained to outsiders."

        "*He* knew."

        "That's why he has to go," repeated j'Nialth.

        "You're going to be all cryptic and alien on me about this, aren't you."

        "Yes. I want him gone."

        "You and me both, my friend. Seriolani, gaaahh." Pernimi shuddered, tossed back his brivare, and realized j'Nialth was still staring levelly at him. "What?"

        "You are to rid us of him."

        "I -- ? *I* am to rid *us* of him?" Pernimi twisted on his stool. "Who do you think you are, you overgrown mantis?"

        "Your employer. And the one who knows who to call on Centauri Prime if you wish to see the inside of an Imperial cell."

        Pernimi stared at the insectoid. "You wouldn't do that."

        J'Nialth said nothing.

        Pernimi closed his eyes and slumped until his head was resting on the bar top, disrupting the perfect crest of his hair. "Oh, mighty Shafir, god of telepaths, what have I done to deserve this?" he moaned. He shot upright and leaned in almost nose to nose with the Thrakallan, praying for just one flare of psi with which to drive his point home. "*How* am I supposed to *do* that? I am neither an assassin or a Royal Guard! What do you want me to *do*?"

        "To rid us of him." J'Nialth's face and voice were as implacable and immobile as only an alien's could be.

        Pernimi spun away, thrusting himself to his feet, and stomped out of the bar. J'Nialth turned up the volume on his translator. "Where are you going?"

        "To relax myself, so I can *think!*"

****************
BROWN 37
12:20 EST

        "Mr. Pernimi." Taan Churok bowed as Aragon dropped onto a stool. At the other end of the bar, the female bartender glanced down at them and snorted. "How can we help you?"

        "A brivare, to start with. And then, hm, let me see -- " The Centauri thought for a moment as Taan poured his brivare. "Is the delightful young lady I saw three nights ago at a loose end? You know, the one with the big, er...." Aragon motioned vaguely in the direction of his own chest.

        "Ah, Celicia. I will see. One moment, please." Churok bowed and disappeared into the back as Pernimi sipped his brivare morosely. It was good stuff, he reluctantly admitted. Better than the bottom-of-the-barrel scrapings j'Nialth called brivare. He looked around.

        In early afternoon, the Dark Star was considerably quieter; normally it would have been almost dead, but this was an endweek day by the human calendar -- Satinsday, or some such name. Still, there was a respectable crowd, Centauri, Human and Narn. Miracle of miracles, even the Narn were keeping relatively quiet. Pernimi wondered if they were here in anticipation of a Narn dancer, and shuddered. There was something positively revolting about watching the reptile-like Narn females gyrate in mockery of Centauri dancing. Ah, Celicia... He let his mind tumble back to three nights ago, when life had been so much simpler.

        <Rid us of him.> As if it were that straightforward. Pernimi had never even known what it was to be a Centauri criminal until a few short months ago, let alone knowing how *human* criminals operated and thought. And this Dragon carried himself with all the majesty of a Centauri <roijo>, the lordless, exiled warriors who were half bandit, half unbound avenger. Pernimi had no idea how to deal with such a creature. Even a single scan would not do much; sapient minds were rich, complex things, and several deep scans would be required to gain anything like a working knowledge. Perhaps he could, what was the human word, *sting* him. Pretend to comply, then go to Babylon 5's security chief and set him up... no. No, this Dragon was too clever, he would know, and Pernimi would not survive to testify. Glowering, he finished his brivare. There must be *some* way to find a weakness, *some* ally to seek --

        "Hel-*lo*, Pernimi!"

        Aragon spun on his stool so fast he was almost dizzied.

        The tall Centauri lord settled onto the stool next to him and smiled, a wide, friendly, warm expression that didn't fool Pernimi for a second. "Imagine running into you here! Well, I don't suppose I should be surprised, all the scum of the galaxy eventually passes through this station, I hear..." He trailed off and cocked an amused eyebrow at Pernimi's frozen snarl. "Aren't you going to say hello?"

        "Tarquin Corsaro," Pernimi hissed. "*Still* the Viceroy of Immolan has not realized what a fiend you are! That you live and breathe is proof the Great Maker has a very *twisted* sense of humour!"

        "Now is that any way to talk to an old business partner?"

        "*Business* partner?" Pernimi spluttered. "Do you think I am an *imbecile*, Corsaro? Your House and the others who banished me violated every tradition of Centauri history!"

        quot;Oh, Aragon, Aragon, Aragon...." Tarquin shook his head, *tsk*ing. "Vayando Refa knew it just as well as you do, the Emperor is traditionally off limits to such scrying. We couldn't let you get away with that." And suddenly, shockingly, there was a blaster in his hand, levelled squarely at Pernimi's midsection. "Did you really think you'd escaped?"

        Pernimi mustered all the arrogance he could, glaring down at the blaster and then straight into Corsaro's eyes. "You may be a fast shot, Corsaro, but are you faster than thought? I can tear your mind apart before the nerve impulse pulls your finger onto the trigger." Pure bluff, every last word: the seriolani was still thick and black in his brain. But they knew the power of the Guildmaster of Immolan V. Several of their agents had had cause to experience it, during his flight, and those agents would experience nothing, ever again. Not that they were *dead*, precisely... at least, their bodies weren't.

        If Corsaro had seen the gibbering vegetables that remained in the wake of Pernimi's escape, he wasn't letting it throw him. "Yes, yes, I'm sure you can, but -- " His thoughtful smile now looked faintly embarrassed. "That would be as public a way of getting yourself thrown off B5 as possible, wouldn't it? And, you see, *I*'m the hero here. I'm the noble of a Centauri House, and *you're* a wanted criminal in Centauri space. I could shoot you right here and now and get a 'thank-you' from your security chief. Which, I believe, I will."

        He raised the blaster. And stopped as the muzzle of a PPG rifle pressed squarely against his jawline. His eyebrows shot up, though his smile didn't falter.

        "Nobody shoots *anybody* in here except us," Trish Livingston snarled from behind the PPG's stock. Her finger was tight on the trigger. "Both of you. Out. Now."

        "What a delightful surprise," Corsaro murmured. "Do you -- do you have any *idea* how thoroughly I could ruin your life, young lady?"

        "Do you have any idea what Centauri brains look like when blown out the ear by a plasma bolt?" Trish worked the charging slide, and the rifle powered up with a whirr. "I'm gonna give you one more chance, Corsaro. Put down the blaster. Now."

        Corsaro's smile only widened. But Pernimi, who knew this man, saw the glint in his dark eyes and the shine of his sharp teeth, and knew Livingston had just made herself a mortal enemy. He opened his mouth to beg her to shoot.

        "EVERYONE FREEZE!" The patrons at the door reeled, knocked away as a horde of figures poured in, swift-moving shadows of black and grey, Ranger and Earthforce uniforms side by side. Zack Allan strode in and fired a single PPG shot at the ceiling; it burst in a shower of plasma sparks that drifted down around him like the halo of an avenging angel. "This establishment is hereby *closed*, by order of Babylon 5 Security! Everyone drop your weapons, *now*!" He levelled his pistol straight at the frozen trio by the bar, while all around the Rangers and the security guards arrested and cuffed everyone in sight. "You are all under arrest on the charges of contributing to prostitution!"

        Corsaro opened his hand and let the blaster fall. Trish lowered her PPG, put the rifle on the table and pushed it away. Zack strode over, grabbed it up, and ejected the energy cap. His eyes were like diamond: bright, sharp, hard and unforgiving. "That's it, Livingston. This time you've gone too far."

        <Oh no,> Pernimi thought numbly as the guards cuffed him and led him towards the door. <This time, Chief Allan, it is *you* -- you and your Captain -- who have gone too far.

        <The Great Maker help you.>

        "The Great Maker help us all," he whispered.

****************** Act Two *****************

BABYLON 5
BLUE SECTOR, LEVEL 30
18:37 EST