From: Jakhel@aol.com Subject: Due Up, Chapter 1a of ?? Date: Sat, 30 Jan 1999 20:26:53 EST DUE UP By Anne E. Clements This story will be done as a round robin, with various authors doing the chapters (e-mail me at Jakhel@aol.com if you would like to contribute!). It is a crossover between Due South (created by Paul Haggis, @1995+ Alliance Communications Corporation) and Babylon 5 (created by J. Michael Straczynski, owned by Warner Brothers). This story is written and distributed purely for private, non-profit entertainment, with no intention of infringing on the rights of the owners of the respective programs. But anyway, the congruence of character and attitude of these two excellent shows make it inevitable that in some branching of the infinite Multiverse they must intersect, perhaps as follows. * * * * * * * * * * * DUE UP, Part 1 of ?? by Anne E. Clements (Jakhel@aol.com), first released January 1999. Note -- I would like to dedicate this part to our Canadian friends, whom I hope are sufficiently free of the Third Sin to not be TOO mortally offended! Special thanks to Chris Kamnikar, for ideas, immoral support, and a few stray bits of dialogue. You ARE doing the second chapter, right, Chris? * * * * * * * * * * * In the mid-1990's, one Constable Benton Fraser, a young, earnest, second- generation Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman raised by librarians in the Yukon Territory, came to Chicago on the trail of his father's killer. For reasons that we needn't explore at this juncture, he remained attached as a liaison to the Canadian consulate, and became the de facto partner of one Raymond Vecchio, a young, earnest wiseass with the Chicago PD. On a warm Saturday afternoon in mid-October, they found themselves following up on an anonymous tip. The sky was a clear electric blue, and the few trees in sight were decked out in their best fall colors. The street was crowded -- anybody with any kind of excuse was out taking advantage of the weather. Fraser's red Mountie tunic made a brilliant splotch in the throng, attracting glances that turned into double-takes as female pedestrians (and not a few males) registered the classic blue-eyed brunet good looks of the man wearing it. His partner, a slender, balding, rather weaselly-looking man whose mobile mouth betrayed an irrepressible wry humor, was explaining that their suspect was supposed to be meeting a man about some forged i.d. under the Morse avenue el station, which they were even then approaching. The Constable was confused. "Won't that be a little cramped, Ray?" "Cramped? What do you mean, cramped?" Vecchio asked absently as he walked, his attention on the swarming viaduct ahead. Spotting their quarry in the bustling shadows of the tracks was going to be a trick, even for a professional. Two professionals. "Well, yes, Ray, cramped," the other man repeated. "Granted, an Alsatian IS a rather large dog, still, two grown men attempting to conduct business, particularly business of that nature, UNDERNEATH a rather large dog..." Ray stopped, turned, and glared at his friend with long-suffering impatience. "Not Alsatian, Fraser, EL STATION. The place where the ELevated trains stop, get it? Kinda like telling somebody "I'll meet you by the big glacier", or whatever you guys use for landmarks in the Great White North. Now, come on, we're gonna miss him." "Ah," The taller man acknowledged, and followed his partner through the glass doors of a rather seedy-looking corner restaurant. "May I ask why," he continued, "we are coming in here, rather than proceeding to the, ah, el STAtion?" "Instinct, Fraser. Policeman's intuition. Sit down," Ray advised, sliding into the far side of a booth by the window and grabbing a menu. He looked up. "Trust me." Fraser settled into the other seat and plucked a menu from the holder on the table. "It's not that I don't TRUST you, Ray, it's just that I don't..." Fraser peered at the laminated sheet in his hand as though it were written in Swahili. "What is this? Kreplatch? You know, the Aktinnik people of the northern tundra make a marvelous dish they call "kraplitch" out of ptarmigan giblets stewed with lichen and small pieces of..." "Not while I'm eating, Fraser! Or considering eating, even. And it's 'kreplach', not 'krap...' whatever." "I see. Yes, well, I'll have one of those," he told the waitress, pointing at the menu. She wrote it down, unimpressed. "You know, Ray, I can't help wondering why Diefenbaker didn't want to come with us today." "Probably had a hot date with a hot dog - besides, they wouldn't have let him in here anyway. Umm..." (to the waitress) "I'll have a cup of coffee, and, ah, is that apple pie fresh?" "Last week." "Close enough." Vecchio kept looking out the window towards the el station. Suddenly, though, he nodded at Fraser and pretended a great interest in his apple pie. Fraser glanced around surreptitiously, just as two new customers came in the door and settled at an inner booth. The first man fit the description of Harkness - about 5'11", dark hair, beady eyes, high, almost asiatic cheekbones and a scraggly mustache and goatee. He was dressed in a nondescript army jacket and jeans, and looked around furtively at the other diners. Fraser ducked behind his menu, and thus naturally went unnoticed. The mountie peered up and over at the other man, who was decidedly NOT standard issue for the neighborhood. This gentleman was tall - perhaps six and a half feet -- and extremely thin, with the coal-black skin of an African native. His hair was hidden by a knit cap, but Fraser caught a wisp of white straggling out the back. Dark sunglasses covered his eyes, and a black leather duster and gloves completed the impression of sinister stealth. As soon as Harkness got done ordering, Vecchio stood up nonchalantly, flipped a ten onto the table, and wandered over. Fraser followed, his hat under his arm. "Good afternoon, gentlemen," quoth Ray. He flipped his badge at the two men. "Detective Vecchio, Chicago PD. Now I'm sure you don't want..." What the men DID want was out - this became obvious as Harkness lunged out of the booth, knocking Fraser aside as he dashed around the corner and into the kitchen. The other man seemed to leap right OVER the back of his bench and headed out the front door. Ray and Fraser collided as Ray tried to take off after Harkness while the Mountie, drawn by some instinct, moved to follow the suspected forger. The black man paused between the inner and outer doors and whipped off his sunglasses, looking back at Fraser with an ice-blue stare that galvanized the Canadian. Without even a glance at his partner, who was negotiating the swinging door to the kitchen in pursuit of Harkness, Fraser sped after the mystery man. Black leather coat flying, long legs pumping like a racehorse, the dark man shot across Morse Avenue and sped along the narrow street abutting the viaduct. Narrowly avoiding a bread truck, a motorcycle, a beat-up Volvo and several unwitting pedestrians, the Mountie followed. At the next street, the man hung a left, then another left through a side yard to head back toward Morse. As Fraser rounded the corner, he saw his prey nearing the street - and Harkness, with Ray in pursuit, angling to intercept. Ray stopped, whipped out his revolver, and yelled, "Stop! Police!" Harkness lurched into the guy in the black coat, yelled "The beach!" and launched himself over a fence into the next yard. The black man whirled, aimed a flying kick at Fraser, and disappeared down the alley, heading eastward. Ray holstered his gun and bent down to help his partner up. "You alright?" "I believe so." "I'll get Harkness - you go after the weirdo." "Understood." Ray scrambled over the fence. Fraser resettled his hat and took off down the alleyway. The black man was halfway down the block, but Fraser gained ground steadily. The tall man looked back, then leaped to catch a low-hanging fire escape. He scrambled up like a spider, followed doggedly by the bright-clad Mountie. From roof to roof the chase continued, until Fraser rounded a set of chimneys to find -- nothing. Empty roof, empty sky, empty alleyway below. Huffing in frustration, Fraser made his way down grey- painted back stairs to the alley, and thence to the street. Scanning as he went, he made his way to the corner of Morse and Sheridan, where he found Ray, also empty-handed and annoyed. "Lost him?" the detective asked. "Lost him," the Mountie confirmed. "Me, too," Vecchio confessed. They both sighed. Fraser nodded across the street. "Let's go," he said, catching his breath, and started across as the light obligingly turned green. In the middle, though, he stopped, peering at the street-sign they were approaching. White on green, it read "Sheridan Rd.", with "1200 WEST" in tiny letters below. "Ray," he mused. "I just thought of something." "What?" the detective asked, exasperated, from the curb. "This street goes all the way through the city, doesn't it?" "Yeah. So?" "And, I believe, It winds on up through the North Shore suburbs, and into Wisconsin?" "Yeah, and eventually it joins up with I-94 and ends up in Seattle -- so what?" "Hmmm." Fraser nodded thoughtfully. "Presumably, it is named after Philip Sheridan, the famous Civil War general." "I suppose..." "Did you know that in every U.S. city I've visited..." "THAT'S not saying much," Ray cut in. "AND every city I've seen a map of, there is a street named after General Sheridan? Not to mention Sheridan, Wyoming, which is on I-90, which intersects with I-94 at several junctures and eventually absorbs it. Not only that, Ray, but the Aktinnik people..." "The ones with the giblets?" "The same, Ray. They have a legend of the Great Road, which runs through all times and places, including the Spirit World and the Land of the Dead. And do you know what that Road is called, Ray?" "I have no idea, Benny," Ray said impatiently, eyeing the streetlight as it changed from green to red. Cars lurched forward, beeping at the Mountie in the middle of the street. "Zhe'ri'dann, Ray. Get it? Zhe'ri'dann. It's like some kind of mystic Path, Ray -- something about the name 'Sheridan' -- something it signifies beyond the normal, everyday names like Smith or Jones or Running Bear..." "Fraser, come ON! You can't just stand around in the middle of the street like that! You look like a walking stop light, for crying out loud. You're tying up traffic!" "Oh, sorry, Ray." They headed on down the street to the park that edged the lake. Elderly people and young families alike were out in force, enjoying the last of the warmth. Even the perpetual lake wind was mild and balmy, for a change. "Don't step there, Ray," Fraser admonished as they passed a lone maple tree overlooking a park bench. "Why not?" "It's a grave." "What?!? You mean there's a dead body buried there? A murder victim?" "I doubt it. More likely a traffic accident, or natural causes -- possibly even old age." Ray gave him a LOOK. "It's not a HUMAN's grave, Ray, it's a domestic animal -- a small dog or large cat, if I'm not mistaken. Of course, it could be several ferrets -- the scent would have dissipated by now, since the grave seems to be between twenty and twenty-five years old, but the likelihood of multiple ferret deaths, simultaneously, is extremely small...." "Fraser." "Yes, Ray?" "WHAT are you talking about?" "Nothing, Ray, never mind. Just...don't step there. Hallowed ground, you know." Ray shook his head, muttering something about pills for pontification attacks under his breath. The two men started to move on, but Fraser stopped and looked back at the tree and bench conveniently perched at the intersection of the street sidewalk and the park walkway. "Now what?" protested Vecchio, turning back. "It just occurred to me that whoever buried that cat...I'm assuming for the moment that it was a cat..." he trailed off and headed back to the tree. Ray followed, to find Fraser staring up at the scar where a low-hanging branch had been removed. Suddenly, the Canadian jumped up, caught another branch and swung into the tree. He stretched out along a sturdy branch that extended over the bench, and nodded thoughtfully. "As I suspected. Come on up, Ray. You can have this spot -- there are guest quarters over here." He moved across the tree to an almost-equally-comfy perch. He peered down at his friend. "Well? Are you coming?" Ray shook his head, said, "I don't know WHY I do these things," and swung up himself, settling onto the indicated branch. He grinned up at his friend. "Hey, this IS kinda neat. I coulda spent hours up here when I was a kid." "Precisely, Ray. I suspect our friend who buried the cat did precisely that. Of course, it may not have actually been his or her cat, or dog -- the animal might have belonged to a friend, but in any event this place meant a lot to somebody...somebody who enjoyed being able to watch the world pass by from a hidden vantage point. An adolescent, I would guess." "Fraser, this isn't exactly hidden. We're two cops in a tree, for Chrissake! And you, especially -- you look like an oversized Cardinal. The bird, I mean." "Ah, but you forget one important thing about human nature -- particularly URBAN human nature -- hush, now!" Ray hushed. An elderly couple tottered over, sat on the bench for a few minutes conversing idly, then moved on. Ray looked at Fraser. Fraser looked at Ray. "People never look up," the Mountie said softly. Vecchio sighed, and shifted resignedly on his branch. TO BE CONTINUED.... From: Jakhel@aol.com Subject: Due Up Chapter 1b of ?? Date: Sat, 30 Jan 1999 20:28:42 EST Perhaps ten minutes later, a familiar nondescript figure strolled up and sat down on the bench. Ray shifted to drop down, but Fraser stilled him with a look. Soon the lanky figure of the mystery man joined Harkness. "Didja lose him?" the suspect asked. "Of course," the other man answered in a low, gravelly voice. "The man was quite persistent, but insufficiently swift. And your pursuer?" Harkness snorted. "Typical cop. No balls, no stamina." Ray tensed -- Fraser shook his head slightly, and again the detective subsided. "So, what was that you were sayin' about a key?" Harkness continued. The black man reached inside his coat and and drew out a palm-sized black cloth pouch. "The smaller crystal is the key to the Portal. Hold the crystal in your bare hand and subvocalize the words 'ki'dao en'hai' -- the first word is the command, the second is the code for your destination. The identicard will give you instructions, plus the access and credit you will need to complete your mission. Once the datacrystal is delivered, the key crystal will return you to a safe location in this universe." "Mission? UNIVERSE?" mouthed Ray silently. Fraser shrugged. "Sounds easy enough," Harkness acknowledged. "And my fee?" "Will be waiting for you on your return. By the way, the return code is 'ki'dao en'havas'. Do NOT forget it." "Ki'dao en'havas. Got it." Harkness stood, pocketing the pouch. "Well, Mr. X, it's been a pleasure doing business with you." He stuck out his hand, and Fraser and Ray fell like autumn leaves from the tree. "Freeze! Chicago PD!" Ray tried again, whipping out his revolver. The black man launched himself over the back of the bench, knocking Ray away from the tree as Harkness bolted for the lake. Fraser took off after Harkness this time, and the black man disappeared up the alley behind the park. "Nobody EVER pays attention to me," Ray complained, and started off after the Mountie. They sped across the open field, dodging small children, dogs, and stray bicyclists. Up the slope and over they leaped, landing in the soft sand lining the walkway below. Dodging between three pioneering willows, they pulled themselves over the railing onto a pier that led out into the mildly heaving lake. Harkness darted out along the pathway, knocking aside pedestrians and hopeful fishermen as he went. Fraser and Ray exchanged a quick look -- where the hell did the guy think he was going? The pier ended in a small tower, but that wouldn't do him any good, and there was nowhere else to go except into the lake. They shrugged, and took off after him. At the end of the pier, Harkness ducked under the "protective" cable to stand at the very edge of the concrete. As Fraser and Ray came around the side of the tower, he held up a crystal and shouted "Ki'dao en'hai!" A whirling nothingness took form over the water, a twisting of space that seemed to show distorted glimpses of other places, other times -- with a single backward glance, Harkness hurled himself straight through the vortex, disappearing instantly. Fraser looked at Ray. Ray was staring, openmouthed, at the apparition. Fraser shouted, "Ray." "Ray." "Ray." "Ray." "Ray!" "Huh?" Fraser jerked his head at the vortex, which was starting to shrink. Ray's eyebrows flew up, but he followed the Mountie as he leaped, like a bright red flying fish, through the eye of the disturbance. They landed, rolling, amid a forest of feet. Fraser sprang up, was jostled by a couple of passers-by, and took refuge in a nearby alcove, where he was presently joined by a very dazed-looking Ray Vecchio. They looked out into the throng, then at each other, then back out across what seemed to be a very large room. It might have been the atrium of an urban mall, like the Century in New Town, if it hadn't been for the unusually crowded space, the odd lettering on many of the signs, and the even odder features of a great many of the customers. As Ray gaped in total confusion, a tall person with small, wide-set, bulbous eyes, a hunchback, and a set of thick tentacles where his nose and mouth should have been shuffled by. Beyond him(?), something that looked like a baby Godzilla was talking earnestly with a perfectly bald young lady in what looked like Elizabethan dress. "Benny..." he said plaintively, scanning the upper balcony. The neon sign above what seemed to be the main entrance spelled out 'Zocalo'. "Yes, Ray," Fraser answered, scanning the crowd in no slight state of bemusement himself. "Where are we?" "I have no idea." The Mountie's eyes narrowed as he spotted what was obviously a toy shop. Grabbing Ray's arm, he steered the protesting cop across the traffic-flow and in the doorway. While Ray checked out the action figures, Fraser scanned the shelves of toy vehicles. Nodding to himself, he hauled Ray back out of the shop, thanking the proprietor kindly for his time. "Ray," he said. "I've figured it out. That crystal somehow opened a portal into a parallel space-time dimension." "A WHO? Look, Benny, if you've figured out where we are, just TELL me so we can get the hell OUT of here and find Harkness." "We're in the future, Ray." "We're in the future, Ray," the detective echoed sarcastically. "Of COURSE we're in the future, but...wait a minute, what did you say? The FUTURE? You're kiddin' me, right? This is what you Canadians consider a JOKE?" "Not at all, Ray," Fraser assured him. "We are most definitely in the future. Or I should say, A future, since it's highly unlikely that..." "Benny, STOP. Just STOP already with the doubletalk. Where are we?" "I believe we're on a space station, Ray." "A space station." It looked to Fraser as though he was starting to get through, finally. This was something to be encouraged. "I believe so, yes." "In the future." "Yes." "And you have come to this conclusion how?" "It's obvious, Ray. The level of technology shown by the credit-transfer devices used by the vendors, the sophisticated design of the toy spaceships, neither of which details would be likely to be part of a garden-variety deception or practical joke -- and, of course, the, ah, cosmopolitan clientele." Ray looked around, more calmly and attentively this time. He peered at the structure of beams and conduits forming the ceiling, he examined the advertisements, he scrutinized the passers-by. At last, he put his hands in his pockets and made a valiant stab at nonchalance. "Well, Fraser, I'm very impressed that you were able to analyze the situation so quickly. Especially hailing, as you do, from the back-end of nowhere." "Honestly, Ray," Fraser protested, "Just because I'm Canadian doesn't mean I'm not acquainted with the latest technological and sociological speculation." "Trekkie, huh" "Dedicated, Ray," the man in riding boots confirmed. "Figures," huffed the down-to-earth cop. Ray looked around at the milling, multispecies throng. "Soooo...where's the Klingons and Vulcans -- hey, was that a Ferengi? Nope, too tall," he observed, betraying a suspicious grasp of trivia. "Ray, I seriously doubt that the real future, our future, as one might say, although there ARE theories that...well, never mind...at any rate, it is highly unlikely that the future of a past containing a detailed fictional prognostication of that future would actually resemble said fictional representation to any significant degree." Fraser inhaled. "Take those gentlemen over there, for instance," he continued. "The reptilian skin texture and coloration of the one on the left obviously indicates a homeworld that is significantly warmer and wetter than Earth, although of course its climate could have been altered since his species evolved into sentience -- possibly even due to them developing sentience, as has been the case with a lamentable percentage of our own world. The gentleman he is debating with, on the other hand, shows the aggressive ferocity, rudimentary fangs, and ornate..." he waved in the general direction of his head, "secondary sexual characteristics of a species descended from small, arboreal, monkeylike predators." "Yeah, well, that's all well and good, but can they help us find Harkness?" With that, Vecchio stepped up to the two aliens Fraser had been analysing. "If your people had not TRAMPLED mine into the ground for over a century, we would have no REASON to enact 'aggressively protectionist' trade policies!" The pugnacious reptilian creature was expounding. "Yesss," hissed the humanoid with the upstanding crest of darkened hair stretching from ear to ear, "but if you do not encourage trade, you will continue to crawl about in the mud like the animals you so optimistically claim NOT to be..." "That's DUST, thanks to Centauri exploitation," interjected the red-eyed reptiloid. "Dust, mud, it is the crawling part that is at issue, here..." "Excuse me," Ray cut in. Both aliens turned to him with matching snarls. "Never mind. You know what? I thought you were someone else. My mistake...." "So much for Ray Vecchio, Interstellar Diplomat," he observed as he rejoined the Mountie. "Hang on, Ray." Fraser stepped up to the next passer-by -- a slight, pale humanoid dressed in a long brocade robe, with an impressive crest of bone arching around the back of his hairless head. The equally young and earnest Lennier, of the Third Fane of J'Domo, currently serving as attache to Satai Delenn of the ruling Grey Council of Minbar, who was, for reasons that we needn't explore at this juncture, currently serving as Minbari Ambassador to Babylon 5, stopped, bowed, and returned the Canadian's gaze with equanimity. He saw a tall, open-featured human male, with short dark hair curling out from under an impressive example of that fascinating human garment known as "headgear", over eyes of a frank, piercing blue. "How do you do," the Human said with a slight bow, removing his headgear politely. "I am Constable Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, currently assigned to the city of Chicago -- which, as you may or may not be aware, is not, or should I say WAS not, actually IN Canada -- however, my partner, who IS a Chicago police officer, and I were in pursuit of a suspected wrongdoer when we found ourselves in this..." he looked around, searching for the right word..."Charming," he decided, with an ingratiating yet firm nod, "locale, and I was wondering if you would be so kind as to direct us to the local authorities." The alien bowed again in return, hands held formally at his chest. "I am Lennier, of the Third Fane of J'domo, currently serving as attache to the Minbari Ambassador to Babylon 5. I am on my way to meet with the Ambassador now, but I am sure she will understand and forgive my taking a few moments to escort such worthy and well-meaning visitors as yourselves." "Thank you kindly, but we don't mean to be a bother. If you could just give us some directions, I'm sure we could..." "No trouble at all, I assure you," the alien assured him. "If your friend would care to join us...?" Fraser beckoned to Vecchio. "Ray Vecchio, Chicago PD." The very displaced-feeling cop took refuge in bravado and stuck out his right hand. An odd little smile played around the edges of the alien's mouth as he shook it firmly. "It is an honor to meet you, Mr. Vecchio," Lennier declared solemnly. "And an even greater...honor to be the one to present you to Mr. Garibaldi," he murmured to himself as he led the way to an exit. As they walked, Lennier explained the origin and purpose of the great space station, along with a brief overview, from a Minbari perspective, of the last two hundred and sixty-odd Earth years. "So," concluded Ray, "you're telling me your people and ours had this big huge war over a tiny little miscommunication, and you guys were on the verge of destroying Earth when you suddenly for no apparent reason SURRENDERED?" "Basically, yes," the alien agreed. "...and then we all got together and built this 5-mile-long space station as a sort of...meeting ground so it could never happen again? Is that what you're telling me?" "That is the gist of it," the alien agreed again. "Great. I'm in the middle of a bad pilot. Can we go to commercial, here, anybody? Pardon me..." the detective narrowly avoided running over a mother and child. They both looked up at him out of huge, black oval eyes. They gathered their robes about their greyish-skinned, spindly bodies and hurried off, their huge-domed bald heads bobbing in the crowd. Ray jerked his attention back to the conversation. "Has it worked?" Fraser was asking. "In some respects, yes," Lennier replied thoughtfully. "While Commander Sinclair was here, he was able to resolve several minor quarrels that might have escalated into major incidents, despite not having....quite as much support as one might have thought appropriate from the Earth government. His replacement, Captain Sheridan, has only been here for a few of your weeks, and he seems quite competent. However, the Narn/Centauri situation appears to be deteriorating -- I'm not sure that one man, however competent..." "Would those be the guys who were shouting at each other back there? The snakey guy and the one with the hair?" asked Ray. The Minbari nodded with a rueful smile. "Did you say the new Captain's name was Sheridan?" Fraser said suddenly. "Why, yes, John Sheridan. He was a war hero -- on your side, of course." Fraser hoisted a speculative eyebrow at his partner. "Fascinating, Ray." "Benny, you're scaring me," the detective replied. TO BE CONTINUED.... From: Jakhel@aol.com Subject: Due Up, Chapter 1c of ?? Date: Sat, 30 Jan 1999 20:30:04 EST They came to a corridor, and they came to a door, and Lennier led them into an office lined with sophisticated monitoring equipment. "Mr. Garibaldi, Mr. Allan," Lennier bowed to the two men in the office, one seated and obviously in charge, the other interrupted in mid-report. "These gentlemen wished to speak with you on a matter of...some urgency." For a moment, the four men regarded one another, while the alien looked on. The Chief was a solidly built man in his late thirties, about Fraser's height, with square features and piercing eyes of that blue-grey-greenish-brownish color called, for some obscure reason, "hazel". Fraser picked out strong elements of Irish and Slavic ancestry, as well as the obvious Italian -- the man was definitely a mongrel, in the best sense of the word. To top it all off (as it were) his hairline was receding at a good clip, which he brazenly defied by allowing his remaining, slightly greying hair to grow JUST long enough to stand up on end. The effect was somewhat reminiscent of one of the gentlemen Ray had spoken with, Fraser mused. A fashion trend, perhaps. The guard was a slighter man than his chief, with longish, wavy dark hair, a dour expression and a defensive, slightly hunched posture. The moment broke as Ray stepped forward. "So you're the guy in charge here? Garibaldi, is it? Well, tell me something, Mr. Garibaldi, what the hell is goin' on here? The Mountie says we're in some kind of alternate future, but I don't buy that. To me it looks like somebody's playin' some kind of elaborate practical joke, and I ain't in a real jokin' mood right now. So where's Harkness, and where are we, and..." "Whoa, whoa, whoa," Garibaldi rose from behind his desk, gesturing for Ray to chill out. "Now it sounds like you have some kind of a problem, and that's what we're here for, to help people with their problems. Thing is, in order for us to help them, they gotta EXPLAIN those problems, and they gotta do it POLITELY. Which reminds me, Mr. Lennier?" "Yes?" The young Minbari was observing the exchange with obvious fascination. "Do you have any actual BUSINESS here?" "Well, not as such, but..." the alien dithered. "Then, thank you for your time. I'm sure Ambassador Delenn needs you to polish some crystals or something, so why don't you just run along and do that?" "Of course," the Minbari assented. He bowed to Fraser, who returned the gesture, and to Ray, who tried. With perfunctory bows to Garibaldi and Allan, and a last, oddly wistful look, he slipped out the door. No sooner had it slid shut than Ray started up again. "Look, I wanna know who the hell is responsible for this freak show? How did you set up that damn Twilight Zone gateway, who do we talk to about getting out of here, and what do you know about Harkness?" "Ray..." "Not now, Benny," Ray cut him off brusquely. "Now you listen to me! I am not about to go tromping around this funhouse looking for my suspect and risk getting killed by someone whose species I can't even pronounce!" Garibaldi had taken to pacing, hands behind his back, examining Ray as though he were some small, frantic, spitting creature that had fallen through the ceiling into his office by mistake. Nonetheless it was obvious that his patience was wearing thin. Fraser's gaze locked with the second's for a brief moment of shared understanding -- the other man sighed and shifted his stance uncomfortably, but made no move to join the fray. Garibaldi had worked his way around behind the younger man, and Ray was twisting, whippetlike, to keep him in view without giving in to the extent of actually turning around. Suddenly, moving faster than his bulk would suggest, the older man reached in and extracted Ray's weapon. "Hey! Gimme that!" shouted the cop, with a belated lunge. Garibaldi danced lightly out of reach, examining the standard-issue police revolver with interest. "What's this? A slugthrower?" he glared accusingly at Ray. "A SLUGthrower on a space station? Are you NUTS? Have you ever SEEN what happens when you shoot a hole in a spacecraft?" "No, I have NOT ever seen what happens when you shoot a hole in a spacecraft, or anything else having to DO with spacecraft, except of course on television. So if you don't MIND, Mister Buck Rogers in the Twenty-Third-and-a-half Century..." "That's D..." "Can I see you a minute, Chief?" the second cut in. Garibaldi reined himself in with an obvious effort. "Yeah, Zack, what is it?" he asked as they stepped aside. "Chief, these guys are DEFINITELY cops." "What makes you so sure?" the Security Chief snapped, eyeing the Italian across the room suspiciously. Meanwhile, Fraser was trying to get Ray to calm down. "Ray, you can't go around accusing everyone you meet of orchestrating this trip through time. It was obviously an accident. If anyone is responsible, it was that 'Mr. X' person that Harkness was talking to, who is not, as you may notice, here. Besides, as an investigative technique, you have to admit it lacks a certain... finesse." "Finesse." "Well, yes, Ray. Not to mention the obvious advantages of keeping an open mind in a situation such as this." "And I suppose you have a lot of experience with situations such as this." "Well, there was the matter of a certain Detective ARMANI...." Vecchio looked at his partner for a long time. "LOOK at 'em," said Zack, across the room. "The way they hold themselves, ready for anything...the way they snipe at each other, but they're always watchin' each other's backs? They're cops, all right. Whatever else, they're tellin' the truth about THAT part." "Point taken, Benny," Ray admitted at last. "Point taken. He looked over at the other two, still defiant, but seeming to find some inner reference point. "Yeah, you're right, Zack," Garibaldi admitted. "I'd have seen it myself if I hadn't let that little weasel get under my skin. All right, then," he tossed his head and cracked his knuckles, "we'll do it the OTHER way." He headed back to the other two. "Vecchio, was it? Ray? That's Raymond, right? Raymond Vecchio. Late twentieth century, Chicago?" "Yeah, yeah, Vecchio, 27th Division, Robbery/Homicide, 1987 through God knows when, why don't you look it up -- I'll bet you got some souped up, two-and-a- half-centuries into the future-type database there. Hey, why don't you pull up next week's lottery numbers for me while you're at it?" The guy only got fiestier under pressure. Garibaldi kinda liked that, now that he was out of testosterone-reaction mode. "You wouldn't by any chance be related to a FRANCESCA Vecchio, would you?" the Security Chief mused idly. "Yeah, sure, she's my kid sister...hey, wait a minute, how do YOU know MY sister?" it was Ray's turn for the suspicious glare. "Francesca Vecchio," explained Garibaldi patiently, "was ONLY the head of the Chicago Police Department during the Transportation Riots of 2028, AND the author of 'The Sucker's Encyclopedia of Urban Police Work' -- a classic that's been practically the Bible of every security force in human space for, oh, about two and a half centuries, now -- AND my great-great-ten-or-eleven-times- great grandmother." "Hey, Benny, you hear that? I'm an uncle!" quoth Ray. "Congratulations, Ray," offered the Mountie. Garibaldi's lips tightened in a professional frown, but there was a glint of something entirely different in his eyes as he cut in. "All right, Uncle Ray, here's the way it's gonna be. You're going to tell me all about this guy Harkness, from the very beginning, and then MY people are going to look into it. Capisce?" "Ti se bevutto il cervello?" spat Vecchio. Fraser did a double-take. "I don't think so," Garibaldi replied, with a smug little grin. "But right now your only hope of staying out of a holding cell until we get i.d. confirmation back from Earth -- which, if you're telling the truth, could take quite a while -- is by cooperating with me. Uncle." The grin got bigger, and smugger. "He has a point, Ray," said Fraser. "It IS his jurisdiction, after all." "I'm SO glad you realize that, Mr...?" Fraser stuck out his hand politely. "Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police." Garibaldi's eyebrows flew halfway to his hairline as he finally took in the total gestalt of the uniform. "I'm, uh, honored. Or something. Hey, Zack, why don't you get us all some coffee...unless you'd prefer tea?" he asked in an excess of politeness. "Coffee is fine, thank you kindly." "It's terrible coffee," the Chief warned. Ray snorted. "Then I guess this realy IS a cop shop, after all," he said, perching on the corner of Garibaldi's desk. Garibaldi looked down at the detective's elegantly shod, swinging foot, grimaced, and stuck his hands in his pockets. He rocked back on his heels, the smug smile coming back as he regarded the younger man. "Well, Uncle Ray," he said pointedly. "Start talkin'." END OF CHAPTER 1. Stay tuned to this mailing list for Chapter 2.