From: Jakhel@aol.com Subject: Infinite Regress 1A: Intralude -- Part 1 of 7 Date: Thu, 20 Aug 1998 21:18:17 EDT IR1A_1.TXT INFINITE REGRESS 1A: INTRALUDE Part 1 of 7 This one takes place midway through Season 5. It starts the day before 'Meditations on the Abyss', when Mr. Garibaldi gets a most abnormal 'dose of normality'. Again, be warned of major Season 5 spoilers, colorful language and heretical concepts of all sorts. Acknowledgements -- J. Michael Straczynski and Warner Bros, of course, for the B5 universe and characters. I am borrowing them purely for my own amusement and that of other similarly demented folk, not as any sort of business venture. All the actors and other creative types mentioned - this stuff is all really a tribute to you guys. I just hope my admiration comes through, and that anything that might possibly be interpreted as a slam is understood to be presented with tongue firmly in cheek, and/or for a valid plot or characterization reason. The typical victims of pilferage -- the Star Trek collective, Timbuk3, Sheryl Crow, Dire Straits, Kinky Friedman, the people responsible for the movie "Strange Days", City Boy, Eric Clapton, the Kinks, Frank Zappa, the Grateful Dead, Lillian Jackson Braun, And the Wizards of the Coast. (Note: Timbuk3 R God 2.) Like IR1, this is intended as a multimedia experience. It is strongly recommended that you get hold of the following tunes and play them in conjunction with reading this and/or contemplating Life, the Universe, and B5/ Season 5 in General (the snippets in the story are, in fact, teasers). For your convenience, they are listed below: City Boy: Dinner at the Ritz, 1977, Polygram. (Good Luck!) The Kinks: Muswell Hillbillies, 1971, Rhino (reissued). Timbuk3: Big Shot In the Dark, 1991, I.R.S. Sheryl Crow: Sheryl Crow, 1996, A&M. Dire Straits: On Every Street, 1991, Warner Bros. Eric Clapton: Pilgrim, 1998, Reprise. Soundtrack to "Strange Days" - not explicitly mentioned, but darned near as creepy as the movie. In a GOOD way, of course. 1995, Sony. Notice anything about Ms. Lewis' contribution? Soundtrack to "The Harder They Come" - also not explicitly mentioned, but one of the best household puttering albums ever made. 1972, Island Records. Special thanks to David Goldingay for the loan of a few Rangers, and to Stephen J. Barringer for unnervingly moral support and rigorous criticism. Mr. Barringer does FANTASTIC Ivanova ("Wandering Star"), by the way, and Mr. Goldingay's "meanwhile, back at the ranch" style epic (the Rimstalker sagas) makes a great sidebar to the "real" series. And to all the others who sent responses to IR1, my amazed delight and gratitude. I only WISH I could promise more of the same cockeyed lunacy, but I'm afraid raw inspiration only goes so far. I hope you'll bear with me while I explore the concept of craftsmanship, here -- and don't hesitate to whack me upside the virtual head should the 3rd sin overtake me! As with IR1, names and details have been changed to protect the guilty. To everybody whose approval I couldn't get, due to circumstances beyond my control, I have done my best to present things in a fair and equitable manner, given the information available and the requirements of the story (hey, if it's a choice between a good line and strict adherence to fact, which would YOU go for?). IR1B is in the works, and, without giving away anything, I can say that it will be done in a more action-oriented format, MUCH lighter on the touchy- feely side. It's just...I think about this stuff. Anybody want to talk socks? * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "If God didn't want us to talk to gypsies...he wouldn't have created bathroom mirrors." -- Kinky Friedman, 1997. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "I've decided what you need is a dose of normality." -- Lise Hampton Edgars, 2262. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * PART 1 - Le Diner Chez L'Enfilis The meeting between Michael Garibaldi, Director of Covert Intelligence for the Interstellar Alliance, and Sha'vei Shival and Val'na Tharvonn of the station's Ranger contingent went on much longer than Garibaldi had anticipated. In fact, it was only adjourned when the Val'na left to attend his previously scheduled exercise with some of the newer Rangers. At the Sha'vei's suggestion, they stopped by a clearing in the garden to observe the Religious Caste teacher with his students. More Minbari mystic mumbo-jumbo, thought Garibaldi impatiently, as he watched the earnest young humans and Minbari scattered motionless across the grass. Tharvonn's musical voice floated across the sunlit glade, urging them in Minbari to immerse themselves in the space, the air, the small lives around them, just breathing, and listening. Eventually, the Sha'vei nodded to Garibaldi, and they quietly slipped away. "Whoo! Well, that was very, uh, educational," the human ventured as they reached the relative normalcy of the corridors. Shival smiled at him. "We all learn in different ways, Mr. Garibaldi. There was another matter I wished to discuss, if you have a moment." "JUST a moment -- I'm overdue for one of those 'informal' diplomatic deals. The Enfili invited the vips and me over for a traditional dinner, and I'm not about to turn down a free meal." "Just a moment, then." The senior Ranger gathered his thoughts. "Mr. Garibaldi, you have been working with us since before the Shadow War. Very closely, for a time. Your assistance was much appreciated, and when you... left us, our ranks were lessened." "Yeah, well, I appreciate that. It's just, uh, personal matters...you understand. Well, come to think of it you probably don't understand, but..." The Sha'vei continued. "It was anticipated that with your return, that... closeness would be reestablished. However, this has not occurred." "Yeah, well, don't feel like the Lone....um...singled out," Garibaldi replied as a group of Narns paused in the cross-corridor, then walked on. "I'm not a real cozy kind of a guy." He met the other man's eyes firmly and continued. "I know what you mean, though. I put a lot of time and energy into working with my security team, and I haven't been doing that with the Rangers lately. Part of it is that I'm just getting my feet wet with this thing. It's a different job, my priorities are different, and we're in a COMPLETELY different situation from anything we've ever been in before. Plus I've had my hands full with those telepaths, and now with these raiders..." The Sha'vei started to respond, but Garibaldi raised a hand to cut him off. "I know, I know, I'll have to try to make more time to, uh, hang out with you guys..." He sidled away down the hall toward the elevator. "Listen, I've gotta run, but I'll look over those reports and get back to you in the morning." When he finally arrived at the Enfili Ambassadorial suite, the second course was being served. After making his apologies to the Ambassador and her husband, he took his place between Dr. Franklin and Captain Lochley (collecting a wry grin from the former and a smoldering glare from the latter). Delenn smiled at him from across the table. "Ambassador Tiyella and Professor Fellerin have prepared this meal for us with their own hands, Michael. It is a great honor." The Ambassador beamed at him from the kitchen area. At Garibaldi's inquiring look, the Professor elaborated. "We brought most of the ingredients with us from our homeworld, which your people so bravely defended from the Drazi, but there were a few things that we had to ...ah...approximate from what we could find in the Zocalo." "Well, it looks great," Garibaldi assured him. "Is there any ritual or anything involved, or can I just dig in?" On being assured that enthusiasm was flattering, he did so. "Here, try this," Sheridan said, handing him something called 'vehtraal sauce' to go with his sautee'd jr'bl. As Michael picked up his second sporkful, the Ambassador returned to the table. Quickly, she said, "We have already mentioned to the others, that this sauce has an unfortunate reaction with alcohol. You should not imbibe within several hours before or after ingesting it..." Stephen piped up, "Ah, that's not a problem with Mr. Garibaldi. He doesn't drink." After a moment of involuntary shock, Michael gamely swallowed that second bite and went for a third. It really was quite good -- sort of lemon- cinnamony, in a base like Chinamerican sweet-and-sour sauce. The Ambassadors were under the impression that all humans drank alcoholic beverages in social situations. Delenn explained, quite diplomatically, that certain humans have a genetic defect which prevents their systems from handling the effects safely. "Um," Franklin started to cut in, as he noticed Garibaldi fidgeting. "What?" Delenn turned to him, then glanced at Michael. "There is no reason to feel badly about it. After all, my entire species suffers a similar handicap." Garibaldi looked up. "Did I say something? I didn't say anything. Did you hear me say anything?" he asked the Captain. She shook her head, trying to suppress a smile. He pointed at the sauce. "Hey, pass me some more of that...whatever you called it. It's really pretty good." Later, he cornered the Ambassador and asked, just out of curiosity, what the precise parameters of the interaction might be. She considered for a moment, calculating in her head. "For a person of your...ah, what is the word..." "Intelligence? Charm? Good looks?" "Mass -- that is the word I was looking for, mass. For a human of your mass, a small drink after, ah, between four and five of your hours should be safe." Four or five hours, huh? Shouldn't be a problem. Lately he'd gotten into the habit of indulging in a little nip at lunch -- he was VERY glad the meeting with the Rangers had kept him from doing so today. Another three hours or so -- ah, what the hell, it wasn't as though he NEEDED the stuff or anything. He was fine as long as he kept busy, and with his new job, that wasn't hard to do. It was just that whenever things slowed down, he'd start THINKING again. Wondering what ELSE that little rat-bastard Bester had done to him, that he hadn't found out about yet. Reliving moments from that horrible day -- the confrontation with Bester, being held hostage (in Medlab, of all places!), the wrench in his gut when Sheridan threw him to the wolves and all he could think was, 'AIN'T payback a bitch, though?'. And last, but hardly least -- in a lifetime filled with narrow escapes, he was damned if he could think of anything more humiliating than having his life saved by that pompous little pseudo-messianic TWIT of a telepath. Bester's own protégé, no less. Damn, there were times he could swear the whole thing was a conspiracy between the telepaths and the Universe in general to keep him alive just so they could keep tormenting him. Was it any wonder he had come to...appreciate a little something to take the edge off, now and then? "Michael? Babylon 5 to Garibaldi, do you read me?" "What? Oh, Stephen, sorry. I was just...uh...going over the reports from the Ranger patrols in my head...what were you saying?" The after-dinner chat threatened to go on for the next few millenia, but Garibaldi excused himself as soon as was reasonably polite and headed for the gym. Now, THIS is exercise, he thought, attacking the bag. He noticed that his timing was off -- just a hair, but enough to be irritating. His wind wasn't what it should be, either. "Getting a little slow, there, aren't you, Chief?" came a voice from the group of Security guys over by the weight machines. Dipak Hsu, the guy who thought he was a reincarnation of Bruce Lee. Wonderful. "Hey, Dipster! You want to step into the practice ring and say that?" Garibaldi called back, trying not to breathe heavily. He trounced the guy, of course, but not by as much of a margin as he would have liked. Heading for the sonic showers, he resolved to get back on a regular training schedule. Some of the guys invited him to join them -- it was pinochle night at Earhart's. He declined. Right now he just wanted to get home and kick back. Besides, social situations like that were getting... uncomfortable, lately. Any other considerations aside (yeah? like what?), it seemed as though every unattached het female on the force had independently jumped to the conclusion that since he wasn't their boss any more, he was fair game -- and a few of them seemed to have trouble accepting the fact that he was TAKEN. Their approaches ranged from subtle and friendly to blatant and annoying. With a couple of the more subtle and, um, congenial ones he had found himself automatically playing back, until he realized what was happening. THAT had been embarrassing. And, let's face it, more than a little frustrating, under the circumstances. Speaking of which, he really should give Lise a call. She'd called him several times over the last few months, but always managed to catch him out. Tonight would be a good time to touch base and catch up on things, once he'd ...unwound a bit. The first thing he noticed when he got back to his quarters was that he was almost out of booze. He checked the time - half an hour, to be on the safe side. He decided to take a REAL shower and kill what he had, then worry about the resupply issue. Half an hour later, he'd had a small one, and was considering another. To distract himself, he called up some tunes. Half an hour after that, he was singing along with the music and contemplating finishing the bottle. What was this again? Oh, yeah, City Boy, good old stuff from the 1970's: hammering operatic power pop -- 'Who says that no one's an island surrounded by nothing but sea...' He chorused loudly and atonally, more declaiming than singing. 'I tell you he's WRONG and MISGUIDED I STAND here surROUNDed by ME!!!' Fine song. Fine, fine song. Ah, man, there was something he was going to do. Oh, yeah, call Lise. "Hello, honey, sorry I haven't called in a while but I've been drunk off my ass..." -- then again, maybe not. No matter how well he tried to cover, she'd be able to tell, and then he'd REALLY be in trouble. No, not a good idea. That was the LAST thing he needed right now. What he DID need, he decided, was someone like Dodger -- or Anne -- someone who would KNOW what he'd been going through, who would understand and sympathize rather than jumping all over his butt. In a bad way, that is...he killed the bottle, lay back on the bed, and the warm fuzzy blackness swallowed him up. From: Jakhel@aol.com Subject: Infinite Regress 1A: Intralude -- Part 2 of 7 Date: Fri, 21 Aug 1998 18:51:43 EDT -------------------------------------------------------------------------- IR1A_2.TXT INFINITE REGRESS 1A: INTRALUDE Part 2 of 7 A victim of bad judgement and bad chemistry, Mr. Garibaldi is on a fast track to the Twilight Zone... Again, be warned of major Season 5 spoilers, colorful language and heretical concepts of all sorts. Acknowledgements and notes can be found in Part 1. S P O I L E R S P A C E ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- PART 2 - Goin' Down the Road Feelin' Bad... He sank deeper and deeper, consciousness fading like a cooling ember into endless night. Release, release, let it all go...the heart of the darkness coalesced into light, brightening and spreading out all around him. Detached, incurious, impervious, he hung englobed in the heart of a star. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the light resolved into form: billowing cottonball clouds of supernal whiteness thronging in an impossibly blue sky. The sundrenched green of trees and grass, grey roadway, colorful vehicles and buildings flashed by, all caught in a frame of grey plastic that marked his peripheral vision. Music welled up around him, over the rush of wind past the open window. 'Man is a beast of wild imagination, But I ain't gonna let this darkness fascination Lead me down...' He was driving -- on a surface highway -- on a planet -- but how? This has got to be a dream, he thought, as his head turned briefly to check on his passenger. A young boy, perhaps ten years old, peered pensively out the side window. Delicate features, a slight build in a white T-shirt and blue pants, short honey-gold hair with a long, thin, tail straggling down the back -- and overlarge iridescent-lensed sunglasses. Without volition, he turned back to watch the road. The vehicles were sleek, new-looking for the most part, but of an unfamiliar design -- a huge one rumbled past on his left, and he felt a mental jolt as he recognized it. An 18-wheeler, by god, a genuine, diesel-fueled semi-truck and trailer. He looked closer. ALL the cars were gas-guzzlers! Private vehicles, on a surface highway -- where the hell WAS he? No colony undeveloped enough to use fossil fuels would have this complex a highway system -- tube transport would have been laid in by the time population density required it! His head turned again, startling him. This time, when it turned back, he noticed his hands on the steering wheel (STEERING WHEEL?) -- small, delicate hands, lightly tanned, veins and tendons showing early middle-age, with spots in the wrong places. A nameless fear crept up on him as he absently noticed the nails -- cut to the quick on the left hand, longer and carefully shaped on the right. There was something familiar about that... What the hell was going on, anyway? The last thing he remembered was passing out in his quarters after dinner...was this an effect of that... whatever-it-was sauce? Or something more deliberate? Was this some diabolical new form of dust, that allowed the user (or victim, in this case) to get into the head of someone at a distance? It would have to be one HELL of a distance, though -- the nearest planet that was this earthlike was, well, Earth. Or maybe it was some sort of cyber-illusion, like what those two assholes did to Sinclair -- or the shit the guy was peddling in that INCREDIBLY depressing movie Anne had left him... It was a LOT like that 'wire' setup, he realized. Not only was he seeing through another person's eyes, he was even feeling his -- no, HER -- body. A visceral, twisting shock went through Garibaldi as some background partition in his mind assimilated all the subtle differences. There was nothing he could really put a finger on -- well, there was, of course, but he wasn't about to try for motor control now, the lady was trying to DRIVE, for chrissake! Aside from that, the differences were for the most part subtle -- mass distribution, wrist strength, all that STUFF flopping around on one's head and falling into one's eyes...after a few moments, he decided it wasn't nearly as odd as he'd have thought it would be. He felt completely clear-headed -- more so than he had in weeks, in fact. No alcohol in THIS brain, he decided ruefully. He felt her speak, and had no idea what she was going to say. "Hey, kiddo, can I have my sunglasses back?" the voice sounded almost familiar, but not quite. "No," the boy replied, with a quirk of the lip. "Geez, I wear my contacts to go get new glasses, finally, and I figure, 'hey, I can wear my new, seriously cool sunglasses!', and the kid goes and steals 'em from me." "Yup." The quirk grew into a smile. She sighed. "Well, I WAS going to stop in and rent a game, but this sun is giving me SUCH a headache, I guess we'll just have to head straight home..." "Hey, Mom, you want your sunglasses back?" They grinned at each other as he passed them over. Garibaldi felt obscurely better once she put them on, setting the outside world at a little distance. Listening to her talk, he was beginning to suspect...nah, that'd be TOO much of a coincidence. But then, there was that thing Delenn had mentioned... She looked in the rear-view mirror briefly, grey eyes flashing back at him from under shaggy reddish-brown bangs. A bug or something flew in the vent and landed on her shirt. As she looked down to brush it off, Garibaldi read 'Religions of the World' upside down and backwards -- he knew that T-shirt. It was the same T-shirt he had folded neatly in the back of his bottom drawer. Not just the same design -- the same SHIRT. It WAS Anne, Anne Hayes -- but not HIS Anne. Not the lady who had been shifted out of her own time and universe, wherein Babylon 5 and all its neighbors, enemies, and inhabitants were nothing but an ambitious sci-fi vid thought up by some lunatic name of, what was it, Strickland? Stradivarius? Straczynski, that's it -- and watched by, apparently, an amazing number of other 20th/21st-Century lunatics. Not the lady who had started out irritating the hell out of him, and ended up walking off onto a dimension- spanning starship born of her own imagination, taking a little piece of his heart with her. Not her, but another VERSION of her, from a parallel timeline. Most likely, this was the version from his OWN past. Considering what Delenn said she'd discovered (that the soul that had been Anne's, 230-odd years ago in his timeline, had eventually become HIS), it actually almost made sense. Perhaps this was one of those 'past life experiences' people talked about. He'd always thought that was pure bull-hockey, but then again... Might as well enjoy it, anyway, he decided. After all, this was pretty much his favorite historical time period. He started paying attention to the scenery. It took him a minute to figure out why all those cables were strung all over everywhere -- running alongside the highway, crossing overhead, trailing out into the business and residential areas. POWER lines, he finally realized, waving around in the breeze like that for any passing flitter to clip. Ah, but they didn't HAVE such things yet. Still looked pretty vulnerable, though. Of course, this was LONG before the planetary power grid had been established. In fact, what he was looking at was pretty much the pinnacle of current technological infrastructure. Elsewhere on the planet people were still stripping the last scraggly trees for firewood. A scary time to be alive, he mused. But then, weren't they all? "Hey, Mom, I have an unstoppable mutation!" the kid interrupted his train of thought -- hers, too, apparently. She recovered quickly, though, flicking a glance over to where he had torn open a set of -- hah -- trading cards! Now THERE'S a cultural constant for you, thought Garibaldi, as she sighed heavily. "Well, Jason, I wasn't going to tell you until you were older, but since you've found out on your own..." "Mom, it's a CARD!" he pointed out in disgust. "Look, it's a blue Enchant Creature -- enchanted creature gets plus three plus three, but during your upkeep it LOSES one one." Anne looked over, almost as confused as Garibaldi. "That's UNSTABLE mutation. Like that's better." "Anyway, if you put it on your OPPONENT'S creature..." "On a turn when you KNOW they can't hurt you..." "Unless they put a DISenchant on it, it loses strength every turn until -- BOOM! -- it's dead." Ah, yes, one of those complicated games with incomprehensible rules and unexpected exceptions. As Garibaldi recalled, there had been a particularly tasteless version going around the station during the Narn-Centauri war... this one seemed pretty basic. Of course, these were 'dead' cards, with no holographic programming to store multiple card faces on a single unit, so that whole dimension of the game probably hadn't even been thought of yet. She took an exit ramp off the highway and proceeded along a main artery into town. The architecture was low and rambling, typical of the time and place. Supermarkets, used car lots, fast-food restaurants, and the occasional bucolic apartment complex lined the street (the latter not yet walled and gated, Garibaldi noticed -- wherever this was, it must be relatively far from the urban centers). Up ahead, a few four- and five-story buildings 'towered' over what must be downtown. Just short of that, she turned off into the parking lot for the vid rental place. As soon as she stopped the car, he tried for motor control. Nothing. It was -- damn, it felt JUST like when he'd tried to shoot Bester. 'Blocked -- at the point of action.' Panic washed over him in a silent scream. Helpless, disoriented, his awareness swung between visual and tactile input. He felt his hold on reason slipping. He centered briefly as she approached the door, but then he automatically REACHED to shove it open, felt no response, and slipped away again. Disjointed images, sounds, unfamiliar sensations, and NOTHING he did had any effect. No control, no communication -- he felt pinned like a butterfly to the inside of someone else's skull. He struggled to get a grip on himself. He couldn't get a grip on anything ELSE, after all. Carefully he built a mental image of himself in his office, only with slightly upgraded monitoring equipment. The visualization helped him get his equilibrium back, as he figured out how to reroute involuntary motor impulses to the 'internal' body. His hostess meandered the aisles while the kid scurried off to the games section. Although he could neither control her body nor communicate with her mind, he could direct his attention to a certain degree within her range of vision, hearing, etc. Hearing and touch was relatively easy. Vision was a bit trickier, since her eyes were focussed on what SHE was paying attention to, but by concentrating on peripheral vision input he could manage it. The body-sense was more disturbing, though, now that she was up and moving around. Center of gravity was lower, of course, but more disconcerting was all this jiggling business going on in various areas. He had observed the phenomenon, of course, with appreciation or disgust depending on the individual parameters involved, but FEELING it was something else again. It felt like somebody had glued gel packs to the areas in question -- and rather loosely, at that. This version must be MUCH heavier than the one he, um, knew, to produce all this gratuitous tectonic shifting at every step. He tested out the peripheral vision as she passed a mirrored wall, and was astonished to note that she WASN'T particularly heavy -- it was pretty much the same comfortable, yet tidy silhouette he remembered. So, this wobbly thing going on was STANDARD??? Well, probably not for skinny little bits like Delenn or his Lise, but...Ivanova? Nah -- she was solid muscle! Then again...certain data, acquired inadvertently over the years, suggested otherwise. He dragged himself away from this fascinating line of conjecture with an effort. Anne was skimming the shelves -- the boxes housing fragile tape cassettes gave an overview of their contents that was questionable at best. Lots of sex and violence, and stuff that must be intended as comedy. None of it very appealing. The science fiction section was fairly interesting: more cheesy 'classics' than he'd ever seen in once place before, plus half a dozen shelves devoted to what seemed to be episodes of a single vid series. Peripheral vision hookup working QUITE well, Garibaldi thought, spotting Koenig out of the corner of her eye. No B5, though. Probably just as well. He wasn't sure just how he'd react to the sight of his own face -- that guy Doyle's face, actually -- peering back at him from one of those boxes. None of it seemed to snag his hostess' attention. He caught the date on a display of upcoming titles as she checked out Jason's game -- June 13, 1998. Pretty much what he'd expected, but it was still something of a shock to see it right there in yellow and blue. They got back in the car and pulled out onto the street. From: Jakhel@aol.com Subject: Infinite Regress 1A: Intralude -- Part 3 of 7 Date: Sat, 22 Aug 1998 14:17:37 EDT IR1A_3.TXT INFINITE REGRESS 1A: INTRALUDE Part 3 of 7 Mr. Garibaldi is riding around in Ms. Hayes' head -- yes, folks, it's the SECOND cheapest gimmick in the known multiverse! But what the hey, let's run with it! Again, be warned of major Season 5 spoilers, colorful language and heretical concepts of all sorts. Acknowledgements and notes can be found in Part 1. S P O I L E R S P A C E ----------------------------------------------------------- PART 3 - A Little Honest Work... Not far from the downtown area, Anne turned off onto a side street and parked next to a small white house with -- no, it couldn't be -- a white picket fence?!? Garibaldi would have cracked up if he'd had the wherewithal. Oh, if he ever got the chance, WHAT a ration of shit he'd give her about that! This dream or whatever it was might just have some good points to it after all. The house had a detached garage, which she did NOT put the car in. There was a fairly large back yard, half of which seemed to be made up of either a garden or a neglected swath of weeds -- he couldn't quite tell from the quick scan she gave it. A small porch led to the back door, and thence to a large, country-style kitchen. The kid immediately disappeared with his game, leaving his mother to bring in the bags. After stashing a bewildering variety of items, she made Jason a sandwich ("Poof, you're a sandwich!") and snagged herself a container of what turned out to be fruit-flavored yogurt. A little too sweet, but not bad. She ate on the move, engaged in some sort of aimless puttering behavior that did little to reduce the overall chaos level of the house. It did, however, come close to driving Garibaldi out of his mind. Her mind. Whatever. For instance, at one point she went to get the dirty clothes the kid had missed in his dramatically grudging attempt to collect them from the dark and mysterious reaches of his room (the which reminded Garibaldi of certain parts of Downbelow that he REALLY didn't appreciate being reminded of). While doing that, she noticed that the lizard needed misting, and that the water bottle was empty. While in the bathroom filling it, she observed that the cat box needed cleaning, so Garibaldi got an up-close-and-personal introduction to THAT little chore. (It was odd to consider just WHICH technological innovations have made the most impact on ordinary peoples' lives.) So then of course the REST of the garbage had to be taken out, which eventually led her back to the bathroom, where the water bottle waited. Back to the lizard, and thus to the stray socks (and why did the kid need so MANY clothes, anyway?) Just as Garibaldi was heaving a virtual sigh of relief at returning to the original mission, there, she let out a squawk. This provoked an answering yowl from the kid, who had apparently lost his concentration and been eaten by a giant space-toad. Or, at least, so he claimed. "WHY are there worms in your bookcase?" Garibaldi's hostess inquired, seemingly unperturbed at the thought of her son becoming a toad snack. "I rescued them," the undigested-looking child replied. His eyes were fixed on the TV screen, and he was doing some kind of odd, jittery little dance with the attached control module. "From what or whom, pray tell?" "You know last time it rained, that puddle out by the garage? They were drowning in there, so I rescued them." "Well, it's not raining NOW, so why don't you take them OUTSIDE and let them go on about their wormy little business?" "Let me just beat this level -- OOOH! MAN does that SUCK! Sorry, mom -- he just came at me outta NOWHERE..." "TAKE THE WORMS AWAY, JASON." "Yeah, yeah, yeah, in a minute..." She shook her head, smiling crookedly, and went back to puttering. About the time Garibaldi decided he was going to blow a fuse if she switched tracks on him ONE MORE TIME, she grabbed a portable tape player (tapes -- yeccchhh!) and headed outside. He wasn't in the clear yet, though. No sooner had she emerged from the garage with an assortment of gardening implements than she dumped them by the porch and ducked back into the house to yawp at the kid again about the worms. When she came back out, she picked up a long, spindly contraption and a reel of plastic line. She settled at the porch table with the headphones slung around her neck and pried out the central core of the business end. Apparently, the thing used a whirling end of line to demolish plant life, but the line gradually wore down and needed refilling. 'I swear they're out there -- may be angels...' Cute. A song about UFOs. Ah, it felt good to be here in the heart of Old America, land of rampant superstition -- AND the occasional blundering Vree tourist group. Anne had just about gotten the thing wound up when the stubborn line sprang free. She cracked up and started over. Same thing happened. She cracked up again, and started over again. THIS time she got it secured. Then she went to replace the unit and realized that it was wound up backwards. 'I think a change would do you good...' Finally she got the thing put together properly and was ready to go. She swept meticulously along the paths running between islands of feral greenery. As she stopped to pluck a single weed from a patch of lush growth, Garibaldi couldn't help but note that despite its chaotic appearance, her garden was actually more carefully maintained than her house. She finished the paths and settled down to pulling crabgrass out of the brick and flagstone walkway. A boy about Jason's age showed up, and was waved inside. She kept the headphones around her neck -- loud enough to make out, but not isolating her from the ambiant bug and bird calls, or the swish of cars passing along the main street out front. The station just doesn't sound the same, Garibaldi mused, nor any domed colony. Not even the garden, those few times he had had to tend the coffee plants himself, before he'd hired those kids to do it. He thought a smile to himself, thinking of the Centauri girl and her ragamuffin Lurker friend. They'd LOVE this place. He made a mental note to check up on her when he got back. Woke up. Whatever. If it turned out that they WERE behind those attacks on the shipping lines, B5 would become a rather inhospitable place for Centauri, even civilians like her father the gardener. Not that he was sentimental or anything -- he just needed someone he could TRUST taking care of those plants. At one point, Anne stopped and leaned back on her elbows in the tall grass. Garibaldi watched through her eyes the stately march of clouds across the endless blue sky. Sunlight beat down on her face. Birds called and responded, counterpoint to the crickets. A breath of a breeze stirred the grass, bringing scents his station-tuned mind pulled out of her backbrain, that she probably didn't even register. It had been far, far too long, he thought, as the sunlight that had nourished his ancestors for millions of years sank into her body. The only times he'd been out in the open in the last...he'd lost track of how many years...were the battle on Mars and that godawful...ah...episode on the Drazi homeworld. In fact, he'd been discussing just that with Tafiq at the hotel before he'd passed out. The Drazi capital city was a dry, barren place, though -- this was North America on EARTH, and something deep in his genes was waking like a hibernating animal -- opening, slowly, like a reluctant fist. The vast magnificence of space, the splendor of stars, worlds, nebulae, the bizarre non-distance of hyperspace -- these were humbling, and inspiring, certainly. But let's face it, he didn't get 'out' that much, and when he did he'd generally been too busy for sightseeing. And the station -- the station was impressive, even breathtaking, but it was ENCLOSED. This feeling of being OUTSIDE -- of standing on the skin of a planet -- had grown unfamiliar to him. No, he amended as she went back to tending the small, interwoven lives around her, not ON the skin, IN it. Bound and woven into a skein of life vaster and more ponderous than the fragile bubble he had learned to call home -- vast, ponderous, and unimaginably ancient. All that mouthing off BOTH sides had done about 'loyalty to Earth' -- how many of those career spacefarers had had a real, deepdown understanding of what that MEANT? Garibaldi found himself envying those who had, whichever way they'd chosen to implement that loyalty. And what about the telepaths, so much MORE sensitive to the life around them? B5 must have been hell for those guys, he thought with an unexpected twinge of sympathy -- a brief refuge in hell. No wonder they were so bent on finding a homeworld of their own. And was it coincidence that Psi Corps did, or at least plotted, most of their mischief on Mars, underground or under the domes? Anne pulled weeds carefully, methodically. At least she wasn't spraying poisonous chemicals on them, Michael thought approvingly. He found it hard to believe that people had actually DONE that. His grandmother (the ex-cop who had turned fanatical gardener on retirement) had never even used the carefully controlled tailored viruses that had kept weeds in check for the last century or so. "Work WITH the garden, not against it," she'd always said. "Guide the plants in the way they should go, and root out the troublemakers." -- which pretty much summed up her professional career too, now that he thought about it. Could he say the same about his? He wondered. 'If it makes you happy, it can't be that bad -- But if it makes you happy, then why the hell are you so sad?' Caterwauling, that's what it was -- caterwauling. His taste in music and Anne's had quite a bit of overlap, but this didn't come anywhere near it. What the hell was the girl yarbling on about, anyway? He could feel Anne grinning to herself on the chorus -- WHAT? If it were the Anne HE knew, he'd be just a teensy bit suspicious, but it wasn't. In his timeline there WAS no B5 vid, so she couldn't possibly know... Jason and his friend came tumbling out the door. "Hey, Mom, I want to play Super Mario, and Ben wants to play StarFox. I'm LOUSY at StarFox." "But he's BEEN playing Super Mario all day! I just thought it would be a good idea to play something DIFFERENT." "That IS a good idea. Tell you what, why don't you guys play OUTSIDE for a while? Remember, my children" she went into exaggerated sensei mode, "in any situation involving a difficult choice, there are ALWAYS three alternatives." "Three alternatives?" asked Jason. "Yup. There's the one you want, the one you don't want, and the one you haven't thought of yet." Jason thought about it for a minute, then asked, "How about the one you never think of at all?" She opened her mouth...and left it there. Fortunately, Ben distracted Jason with a bat and ball, and Anne went back to weeding. And thinking. Garibaldi went back to soaking up sunshine. 'Every day is a winding road -- I get a little bit closer. Every day is a faded sign -- I get a little bit closer to feeling fine...' Now that one was decent. Oddly enough, it reminded him of some stuff in that book of G'Kar's... The phone on the porch table warbled. She fetched it and went back to weeding one-handed as she talked. "Hey, Anne, it's me, Agni." "Hey, kiddo, how was your trip?" "Great. We got in late last night or we would have called you. My cousins say hi. And listen, we forgot to set the VCR, so we missed the last B5..." "Ooooooh! Ooh ooh OOH!!" What, was the chick devolving into a chimpanzee right before his...whatever? Did the other woman say 'B5'?!? "And WHAT a one to have missed!" Anne went on. "Particularly after last week's little...ah...tapdancing exhibition, there." TAPdancing? Now Garibaldi was REALLY confused. He didn't know anybody on the station who was any good at tapdancing. Whoa -- he must have missed something -- "...so did she stay?" "Of COURSE she didn't stay. At least I don't think so. Maybe she's off shopping or something. Or nobly lurking about, biding her time..." "Naah..." opined the other. "You're right. That'd take too much gumption. And to be fair, it's not just a matter of gumption, it's also a matter of perspective...Listen, Jason's going over to Kevin's for a sleepover around seven, and I'm going to the Red Dog to see Jeff's band later tonight -- why don't you guys stop by somewhere in between and I'll play it for you. There's some excellent G'Kar..." she trailed off tantalizingly. "Okay, okay, we'll be by around eight. You know, I still think you're MUCH too gleeful about poor Michael's...ah..." "Predicament?" "Predicament. Exactly." A male voice in the distance piped up, "Ah, it's just a side-effect -- we all KNOW she's still got a crush on him." "Geez, not EVEN," his hostess demurred. Michael who? thought Michael suspiciously. "After six months of working on that damned story I swear to God if Doyle walked in my back gate in his birthday suit I'd just tell him to get the hell out of my face." She blinked up at the gate from where she sat on the walkway. "As it were," she added thoughtfully. Garibaldi didn't know WHAT to think. And most of the things he could think of to think made him VERY nervous. Another timeline, that WASN'T his, DID have the vid, and the local version of his...friend, spiritual ancestor, whatever the hell you wanted to call her...didn't seem particularly sympathetic. One of those 'be careful what you wish for' situations, he decided ruefully. And what the hell were they talking about, anyway? Tap dancing, a story, and some female neither of them had much use for. Garibaldi couldn't think of ANYBODY he knew on the station who could be accused of a lack of 'gumption'. Certainly not Delenn or Lochley, and while Lyta had gone pretty gooey over that expletive-deleted telepath, now that he was out of the picture her gumption seemed to be in perfect working order. In fact, the last time he'd seen her she'd been dogging business-types in the Zocalo, trying to sell her crazy exploration scheme. Anne came to an arbitrary stopping point in her weeding and retired with a tall glass of lemonade to the porch. The boys were engaged in some sort of constructive activity behind the shed. A big, fat, brown tabby cat launched itself into her lap, and she began another ancient ritual Garibaldi recognized from his summers with his grandmother -- what she had referred to as 'pulling the cat'. Clumps of fur drifted on the air as the primate performed grooming behavior on the feline. Both seemed soothed. Eventually, though, other duties called. "Sorry, Tabitha, I have to go put vegetables in the kid now." She whipped up a quick meal, the other boy went home, and, indeed, a few green things did make their way into Jason's system. Amateur gourmet that he sometimes fancied himself to be, Garibaldi did his best to ignore the details. After that, she packed the kid up and they were back in the car. They made their way toward the highway and out into a more rural area, with clumps of small houses and duplexes along curvy, tree-lined roads. She turned in at a house that looked much too small for the swarm of dogs and male humans of various ages that engulfed it, with one petite, alert woman holding court in the kitchen. They chatted for a while -- apparently the woman was working two jobs as well as riding herd on a husband, three sons, and various dogs, toads, and other wildlife, so she was tired but cheerful. "I really appreciate you looking after him tonight..." Anne began. "Oh, it's no problem. It'll give Kevin and Josh something to do besides fight with each other. I have to go in to work at ten tomorrow, so I'll just drop him by on the way." "That'll be great," Anne agreed. She captured and hugged the kid, then headed home. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- P.S. Re: "feeling things in one's genes" -- that one scans oddly, but whenever I see a movie shot on location in the Scottish Highlands I SWEAR that's what it feels like. Little RNA tendrils poking their little ends at the DNA and going "HEY, remember THAT? Yeah, YOU!!! Nah, not you, guanine, you're from that Irish chunk that got spliced in, but you guys in this section...how come YOU don't make more of us, huh? Yeah, right, blame it all on the bluidy Sassenach on the other chromosome..." -- well, anyway. So much for MY college education. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- From: Jakhel@aol.com Subject: INFINITE REGRESS 1A: Intralude -- Part 4 of 7 Date: Sun, 23 Aug 1998 13:16:04 EDT IR1A_4.TXT INFINITE REGRESS 1A: INTRALUDE Part 4 of 7 In which Mr. Garibaldi involuntarily takes part in an eclectic TV acid test... Again, be warned of major Season 5 spoilers, colorful language and heretical concepts of all sorts. Acknowledgements and notes can be found in Part 1. S P O I L E R S P A C E ----------------------------------------------------------------------- PART 4 - And a Little Dishonest Work. As soon as Anne got in the door, the cats made their grievances known. The placid brown tabby merely mewed accusingly, but the more aggressive silver tabby did her best to trip her erring human by twining around her ankles. Anne stumbled obediently over to where the catfood was stashed and split a can between them. She then proceeded immediately to the desk, where she flipped on the primitive computer. Hauling the TV cart over to a convenient spot, she rummaged for a cassette, shoved it in, and selected one of half a dozen clunky remote-control devices. As she settled into the desk chair, the unmistakable sound of feline retching drifted in from the kitchen. When she got THAT taken care of, and coffee grabbed, and a completely illegible notebook at hand, she addressed the remote. When the TV came on, it showed some sort of futuristic starship bridge set, whereon a bald man with eagle eyes rapped out a command. "Full stop!" "Compared to WHAT?" Anne snapped back, and hit the remote. As her net interface came up (slowly), the tape started with a shot of 'Londo' and 'G'Kar' arguing in council. Whoa, it really DID look and sound like them! And there was 'Jeff', looking harried. Quadrant 37? Now which crisis was that, again? Anne checked her e-mail, while Garibaldi watched the screen out of the corner of her eye, fascinated. Nice shots of the station -- how the hell did they DO that? And there's Doyle -- holy shit -- PETROV?!? The show cut to an intro sequence. Ah, come on, Michael scoffed, Jeff never sounded that pompous...well, maybe once or twice, when he was trying to impress somebody...or reading a prepared statement...or both...ah, hell, whatever. It was just kinda hokey, that's all. His hostess was reading through something -- oh, for...it was some kind of story about Marcus coming back to life, and running off with Susan and living happily ever after...what WAS this nonsense, anyway? Next up was a message from somebody accusing Anne of being out of her mind, then critiquing something called 'Infinite Regress' -- she sent back an acknowledgement and moved on to an esoteric segment of an ongoing philosophical debate that Garibaldi couldn't make heads or tails of. She spent quite a while on that one. The commercials finally ended, and the show came back on, with super- imposed credits. The episodes apparently had individual titles, and this one was called 'Chrysalis'. Uh-oh. Garibaldi was beginning to get a bad feeling about this. Right around the northeastern corner of his left virtual kidney. Those station shots were downright uncanny, he noticed in passing. Earthforce One, 'Santiago' -- he felt weird eavesdropping on 'Jeff' and 'Catherine', though. Ah, that's better -- 'Londo' haranguing 'Vir'. "Nibbled to death by cats ..." He thought a chuckle as, out of some warped predatory instinct, the silver tabby made a grab for Anne's ankle. Now Morden was on the com -- so THAT's how that all got started! Cut to DownBelow (a bit stagey, but not bad), where Doyle was back- tracking 'Petrov' -- hey, wasn't that Trish, the new bartender at the Dark Star? Yup, that's her, attitude and all. As Doyle slipped through the artistically (and inaccurately) backlit hangings, Garibaldi noted with some amusement just WHERE his hostess' gaze wandered...hey, that WAS that same little telepath dude, wasn't it? "There comes a time," said Jurasik in the garden, "when you look into the mirror and you realize that what you see is all that you will ever be. Then you accept it. Or you kill yourself. Or you stop looking into mirrors. No, nothing can be changed." Sounded about like Garibaldi felt, these days. The guy playing the agent of Chaos replied, "Then nothing's lost by trying." Suddenly that struck Michael as being an odd line for a bad guy. For the first time he found himself wondering just what this writer, Straczynski, was trying to PROVE, anyway. Anne was looking at instructions for sending fan fiction to a -- oh, for crying out loud -- GARIBALDI fan website? he found himself both horrified and, embarrassingly, intrigued. She opened up a text editor instead, though. The next few scenes were fascinating -- and amusing. Not a bad show, he decided. A little soap-opera-ish -- that sappy background music when 'Jeff' was talking to 'G'kar' really set his virtual teeth on edge -- but not bad, all things considered. Dinner at Fresh Aire -- oh, yeah, he remembered that one, all right. Geez, what a doofus that guy Doyle was, though. "I don't like this a LOT" -- he hadn't really SAID that, had he? He didn't think so...but he wasn't nearly as sure of it as he would have liked. Suddenly he noticed what Anne had on the screen. What the HELL? A description of him and Bester in the tube on Mars...and then...his attention was wrenched back to the vid -- Shadow ships. Unmistakable, hellish black spidery things drifting malevolently across the artificial starfield. Now what was that she -- the other her -- and Stephen and Delenn had been going on about -- that there was about ninety percent congruence between the vid and his reality? From what he'd seen so far, that sounded about right. Those ships DEFINITELY gave him the screaming willies, as Draal would say. On the monitor: Anne in Medlab, talking to Stephen. Then himself and Zack -- now how had she known about THAT conversation? Oh, yeah, she'd WRITTEN it... This whole thing was really starting to creep him out. (Starting?) According to Anne's abductor/main character Kiya, by writing her science fiction series Anne would retroactively create the 'Multiversal Guardians' known as the Rena'a, who had therefore had Kiya bring her for a visit to HIS timeline to get her started writing in the first place. Your basic, garden- variety time loop, with an interdimensional twist. Now, here he was watching another version of Anne working on the story of what had happened with him and his (sic) version of her -- so was there yet another timeline where someone was writing about him riding around in Anne's mind, watching HER write? It was like a hall of mirrors -- an infinite regression of universes -- hence the title, he deduced brilliantly. Meanwhile, he wasn't at all sure he approved of this version's take on things. Was all this stuff REALLY what 'his' version of Anne had been thinking? Ninety percent? And who the hell were the Addams family, anyway? Suddenly, her head whipped around, locking onto the screen. Chills crept down the spine Garibaldi wasn't wearing as he watched Doyle and the actor playing his second messing about with smuggled electronics. Serious ten percenters, he noticed. Most of the minor examples of 'advanced' tech fell into that category, which wasn't surprising when you thought about it. Anne had slipped off the chair to crouch in front of the set, shoulders and jaw tense. Doyle was talking to 'Devereaux'. Damn, had he really looked that nervous? Michael couldn't help it. "IDIOT!!" he yelled in the silence of his own mind as the simulated bolt knocked Doyle sprawling forward onto the deck. As the commercials cut in, she climbed back into her chair, jaw set. This time she forgot to fast-forward, just worked through the commercials, cutting, pasting, sending, resetting. Garibaldi wondered if he should be flattered by her apparent concern -- then again, maybe it was just a cultural reaction to televised violence. He'd heard that the people of this time were a bloodthirsty bunch. The show finally resumed. She barely flicked a glance over at Doyle crawling along the deck, but the screen wasn't quite out of her range of vision. Dramatic impact was all well and good, thought Garibaldi, but did the guy have to make such a PRODUCTION out of it? Flash to G'Kar and Na'Toth -- "There's someone else THERE, Na'Toth..." Yeah, yeah, tell us something we DON'T know. And back to the transport tube. What a ham, Garibaldi thought viciously as his alter ego scrabbled at the door. "Ham, hell -- the guy's a whole fucking Christmas dinner," his hostess snarled under her breath. One great mind with the same thought, Garibaldi mused ruefully. She stabbed the fast-forward -- not for long though, because here came Delenn and Lennier messing with the Triluminary. Man, that had taken guts -- but, come to think of it, why COULDN'T she have held off for another hour or so, and given Sinclair time to talk to her? Especially considering that he found out the whole story soon enough anyway. Well, at least the rough part was over. Now all he had to look forward to was Earthforce One blowing up -- he hoped the computer graphics people had done as good a job on that as they had with everything else so far. After all, he'd missed it the first time around...and there she went. Kaaaa... BLOOEY. At least this one didn't actually KILL anybody. Damn, they even got Clark right. Poor bastard -- hope he didn't get STUCK with bad-guy roles, after this. Or presidents. In this time and place, of course, the two were pretty much synonymous. Ah, cut to Medlab... "He is an annoying man, but I would miss him if he..." Why, Londo, I didn't know you cared. With that son of a junkyard BITCH at the window... Morden again. And there they were -- Shadows their own damned selves on HIS station. Another nasty, nasty ninety percenter. He'd known they had been there, but SEEING it brought his nonexistent hackles up, big time. She finished sending off that dratted story, closed down the computer, and popped the tape. From: Jakhel@aol.com Subject: INFINITE REGRESS 1A: Intralude -- Part 5a of 7 Date: Mon, 24 Aug 1998 13:00:31 EDT IR1A_5.TXT INFINITE REGRESS 1A: INTRALUDE Part 5 of 7 Mr. Garibaldi has survived mental interuniversal translocation, yardwork, a glimpse of fandom, and a semiprivate screening of "Chrysalis". Now the fun REALLY starts... By the way, this one was so long I chopped it into two parts. Again, be warned of major Season 5 spoilers, colorful language and heretical concepts of all sorts. Acknowledgements and notes can be found in Part 1. S P O I L E R S P A C E ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- PART 5 - Lisanalysis 101 The back doorbell rang as Anne was finishing up the dishes. A young academic couple filed in, ditched their shoes, and made themselves comfortable in the family room. The lady was a cosmopolitan geologist-in- training, and a classic Indian beauty. The guy, Craig, was a mathematician, with dark hair, fair skin, and a fiendish gleam in his eye. Agni was enthusing over a hobby shop on the way back from Ohio. "...And they had this really cool collector's card of Earthforce One blowing up..." Yeah. Wonderful. THIS one was a panther, all right, Garibaldi noted. Not at all his type, of course. Quite possibly G'Kar's type, though, he decided with a virtual grin. After drinks were distributed, and a frantic search for the remote concluded successfully, the tape of the latest episode was started up. Here we go again, thought Garibaldi, bracing himself. Now when was this supposed to be? John and Delenn, both looking so...drained, so hopeless. Was this something he'd missed -- or something that hadn't happened yet? 'When you know something...' Londo and Vir confronting Zack -- oh, no. He'd been afraid of that. Oh, hell. New intro -- nice montage. He caught the shot of 'Jeff' in a Ranger outfit -- intellectually he understood why Sinclair had avoided him on that last jaunt to B4, but it was still a wrench. More flashes, from THIS year, now -- so what was with the goofy look, anyway? And the way Straczynski had his name plastered on the station's butt...cute. Real cute. 'And All My Dreams, Torn Asunder'. Cheerful title. A cheerful start, too -- and it went straight downhill from there. A sick horror grew in him as the episode unfolded (sick in a metaphoric sense only, of course, since his hostess was nightmarishly perky about the whole thing). Shit, there was no way in HELL he'd ever go off on Zack like that! What a pathetic jerk that guy Doyle was. And he called himself an actor! Sheesh. He ought to hang it up and get a REAL job -- assuming anybody'd hire him. All of them -- what was his name, Conaway, that guy Boxleitner -- so close. So DAMN close. Like looking at a reflection in rippling water. So clear, and so completely impossible. When it came down to it, though, they were just actors, doing a job. The guy behind it, that Straczynski -- this travesty was really all his fault. Straczynski was writing the damn thing, after all. And what did the guy have against HIM, anyway? Putting him through half a dozen different kinds of hell -- for ENTERTAINMENT? Sure, he'd killed Sheridan off once and tortured a him a bit here and there, but at least he let the guy have a decent home life. No, come on, get a grip, Garibaldi. This whole thing was either much more complicated or much simpler than it looked. Probably both, he decided. He just didn't buy the idea that everything that he and the others did, said, and thought was somehow controlled by some guy with a sick imagination in another universe. He hadn't bought it from the nuns back in primary school, and he wasn't buying it now. More likely it was the other way around -- although how not only Straczynski but the actors, the set designers, the makeup and costume people, not to mention whoever was responsible for those stunningly lifelike 'outside' shots -- how they could ALL be plugged into some sub-subconscious 'carrier wave' or something like that from his own universe was more than he could figure. Most likely, BOTH his universe and this vid were reflections of some deeper reality -- and, he thought ruefully, he was getting into MUCH deeper philosophical waters here than he was at ALL comfortable with. What it came down to in practical terms was that as far as he could tell, that earlier episode had been dead-on. That being the case, there was no reason to think that THIS one wasn't, too. Wouldn't be. Whatever. So, what could he do about it? He realized suddenly that the "real" people in the room were discussing precisely that, and paid attention. Craig was pointing out that Sheridan's bright idea wouldn't have worked for long anyway, especially since the next OFFENSIVE raid would have set off the war immediately. So Garibaldi's failure to stop that particular incursion wasn't as much of a nexus-point as it might seem -- certainly not in the same direction! Anne wondered whether timelines might reconverge. If the sequence of events leading from Michael's little slip eventually led back to the same overall situation as if he HAD caught that one, would the timelines themselves merge, after diverging temporarily? She'd already come up with the concept that a 'core' timeline was really just the midpoint of a bell- curve of possibilities. Craig, being a professional, had a name for it: a 'manifold'. Which had what to do with the price of oranges in the Zocalo? Garibaldi was getting bored. The others came to the conclusion that it was actually an ETHICAL nexus, rather than an event nexus -- that the split timelines would run in parallel until the seed of that choice on his part matured. Well, wasn't that just peachy. Nothing like listening to your subconscious motivations and whatnot being discussed by people you hardly even knew. Given the choice, Garibaldi would rather have been at the dentist along about now. Anne was rattling on again. "...Although it was rather slick how, when he was whining excuses at Lise, he very cleverly avoided mentioning any of the things that really DID send him over the edge. Did you notice that? I noticed that. A very nice touch on Straczynski's part, I thought." Hey, don't I get any credit? Garibaldi wondered. Then: what the hell am I THINKING? He was torn between wishing they'd play that last episode and hoping to God they wouldn't. In any event, they didn't. They damn near talked it to death, though. In an unwitting show of masculine solidarity, Craig piped up, "Hey, I LIKE Lise." Anne shot back, "Good! Then maybe YOU can explain it to me. I know a lot of times guys use completely different criteria for wives and girlfriends than they do for friends, but I just don't get this one. I mean, the attraction is obvious, and the deep-level bond is nobody's damn business but theirs, but on all the practical levels, all the levels you build a working relationship on, it just don't FLY. She's got the morals of an alley cat -- no, scratch that, I'VE got the morals of an alley cat -- SHE'S got the morals of a...a professional wife, or prostitute, same difference. Plus all the integrity of a swiss cheese and corresponding backbone. She lies to him, she's contemptuous of him, she rags on him constantly for not meeting HER standards without making the slightest effort to meet him halfway, and demands unreasonable levels of commitment from him without showing a flicker of loyalty or responsibility in return. She plays him like a goddamn piano and the poor pussy-whipped bastard just comes back for more -- please, PLEASE explain to me how any of this can POSSIBLY be considered a good thing!" Craig waffled a bit. "Well, I don't know of anywhere she LIES to him..." Anne cut back in. "I think there are a couple in there somewhere -- and there's some things where we don't know one way or the other but they sound suspicious as hell to me. She certainly deceives him -- for one thing, when she came to B5 instead of Billy-boy, that cute little shot at the gates, there? If you think about it, she wouldn't have been all THAT surprised to see him, since she knew he was head of Security. She may or may not have known he'd quit, but if she knew that, she'd be likely to know Edgars had hired him. If she didn't know either or both of those things, she'd probably be somewhat confused at seeing him with WADE, but not as stunned as she looked - in fact, she'd be EXPECTING him to pop up, probably at the worst possible time. Therefore logic tells us that she WASN'T as stunned as she looked. She was playing him right from the start, if only out of self- preservation." "Oh, come on," protested Craig. "That shot was a ten percenter -- they just put that in to show the audience what was going on." No, it wasn't, thought Garibaldi, remembering. But what they didn't get was how like Lise that was -- how automatic her defenses were. Now that he thought back on it, he could pinpoint the instant her expression had gone from "Okay, where is he?" to "THERE he is!" to "MICHAEL?!?" A ten percenter indeed, if that nuance hadn't gotten through. As for lying to him...well, she'd been in a tough spot, there. And that whole bit about not calling him when she'd gotten divorced made a LOT more sense to him now that he was, let's face it, right smack on the other side of the fence. The rest of Anne's diatribe he smugly chalked up to jealousy. It was pretty amusing, actually. "Mind you, I don't think she's malicious. I just think she's acquisitive, amoral, and dangerous. These are not necessarily killer issues, depending on what else is going on, but they definitely affect how you want to set up your relationship." "Especially considering her position in the scheme of things -- and his!" Craig pointed out. Agni added, "Yeah, you'd think he'd be making a little more effort to make sure Edgars Industries is on their side." "Them and IPX," Craig agreed. "They'd be critical." "ISN seems to be on their side for the moment..." the young woman mused. "Not for TOO long, though -- Remember how they skewered them in 'Deconstruction'," noted Anne. "Damn media sluts." Craig had the last word, and the other two cracked up. Garibaldi wasn't laughing. "Seriously, though," Anne continued. "If I were in Garibaldi's position, THAT particular issue would be giving me the screaming mimis right there, even if everything else were as much sweetness and light as they're so desperately pretending it is. And that's what I meant about perspective, too" she added to Agni. "You have to look at it from her side. She's gone from being a middle-class dronette who would have been perfectly happy as a '50's-style housewife -- which is half of her appeal to Mr. Newt Gingrich, Jr. there..." "Ouch!" quoth Agni. Who? thought Garibaldi. "Backlash," Craig mentioned. "No shit!" his lady agreed. What? thought Garibaldi. "Anyway," Anne went on, "she's gone from that to being a trophy wife, and from THERE to being a corporate shark in her own right - with all the stresses AND PERQS pertaining thereto. She's just come off of six months of intensive on-the-job training in an area she has no demonstrated qualifications for -- this is HER vacation, and she's pissed off at and disappointed in him for spoiling it for her. She has NO grasp of the larger issues, nor does he have any interest in enlightening her, since she is in fact a diversion to him, too. The only difference is that he IS apparently under the impression that this kind of situation constitutes a 'serious relationship' -- and the only LEGITIMATE beef I have with her is that she knows better and deliberately allows him to continue thinking so." That one brought Garibaldi up short. He considered the matter. Sure, he and Lise had SOMETHING, but maybe he SHOULD take Anne's hint -- made in no uncertain terms by both versions now -- that he take a good close look at exactly what it WAS. And at what it wasn't. There was no question that he loved Lise. The question was whether that necessarily meant he had to let himself be led around by the back of his brain and other unauthorized body parts. And the next, much harder question was whether that or losing her again were his only...alternatives. He tuned back in to the conversation. "Actually, I was thinking about all this a few days ago, and it occurred to me that ALL of my male friends either have reacted or probably would react exactly the same way to Jason's father as I do to Lise -- and for pretty much the same reasons. Dubious integrity, lack of backbone, manipulation, all that good stuff." "You know," Craig mused, "if Garibaldi is YOUR reincarnation, maybe Lise is an incarnation of Jason's dad." "Oh, come on, that's just a plot gimmick, to help bring...certain developments within shouting distance of remote plausibility," she protested. Yeah, remoter by the second, thought Garibaldi snidely. "But I did come up with a paradigm for it -- thinking of souls as something like tachyons. Points of consciousness that are themselves timeless, but that accrete personalities, manifestations in space/time like standing waves ...yeah, well, whatever. It did make for a good plot gimmick, though." End of 5a... From: Jakhel@aol.com Subject: INFINITE REGRESS 1A: Intralude -- Part 5b of 7 Date: Mon, 24 Aug 1998 13:14:08 EDT Acknowledgements and notes can be found in Part 1. S P O I L E R S P A C E ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- Part 5 of 7, continued. Agni went back a level. "If Scott's father is such a loser, why did you have his kid?" "He's not a LOSER -- he's just...difficult. Mind you, I like difficult men, but I'm not about to let them mess up my life -- after all, you can't enjoy them properly if you're too busy being miserable. Besides, I operate better on my own, anyway." Craig was curious -- as was Garibaldi. "If you're such a loner, why did you have a kid at all?" "Excuse me?" she replied, more indignant than Garibaldi thought the question warranted. "I was a Bio major, remember? A successful organism is one that produces viable offspring. Us humans, being cultural animals, have other options, but that one's still pretty basic. Unless you have a good reason -- genetic, economic, situational, and/or parenting not being in your job description -- you should give it your best shot. MY best shot involved NOT having somebody breathing down my neck 24 hours a day 365 days a year, telling me what to do in my own house and how to raise my own kid. Besides, no offense, Craig, but a lot of times a husband ends up being the equivalent of another kid, and my limit is, in fact, ONE." "Oh, come on," protested Craig, "not all guys are like that. Agni doesn't take care of ME!" "Much," Agni amended. "Of course not," Anne agreed, "but the guys I tend to be attracted to don't tend to be good partner or coparent material -- and for that matter, neither am I. The culture tells us that we should find one person to be everything -- lover, best friend, domestic partner, genetic and functional coparent -- and that's certainly the most CONVENIENT setup -- plus being real handy for the power structure to manipulate. "Unfortunately, life isn't always that convenient. So people fall in love, have kids, get divorced, get remarried, sometimes trying several times before they get it right, if they ever do -- and the kids get the fallout. I read somewhere that it generally takes couples between ten and twenty years to iron out their control issues -- and the way our biology is set up, those are the same years we're raising our kids. One would hope we're evolving away from that, but the Catch-22 is we've got to survive as a species LONG enough ...but anyway. With me, I knew I wasn't wife material, but I thought I'd make a pretty good mommy, so I went for genetics. And friendship -- at the time, I was about as certain as a person can be that it was the kind of friendship that can handle a lot of stress. And frankly, I STILL don't think that's the issue with Jason and his dad." Agni asked the obvious question. Turns out the guy WAS one of those that needed to be taken care of, and had found a lovely lady to do so at about the same time he was dealing with Anne. Anne felt sure that if she had a chance to talk to her, they could work it out so that Jason could have a reasonable degree of contact with his father. His father, however, was adamant that discussing the matter with his wife would be a disaster, and insisted that the only way it could work was if they didn't tell her, and just...sort of...hoped she didn't find out. Anne wasn't about to go for that -- a lousy example for the kid, aside from everything else -- and ALSO wasn't about to go behind HIS back to talk to HER. Garibaldi wondered what the third alternative to this one might be. Then Anne pointed out that once Jason got old enough to take matters into his own hands, all bets were off. At that point, unilaterally opening negotiations with his stepmother became not meddling, but defusing a dangerous situation HER KID was walking into. "Adjustable ethics," Craig pointed out, which somehow led back to a discussion of the current travails of the Interstellar Alliance. The eventual general consensus was that everybody was basically reacting, and doing the best they could under the circumstances. Including Lise. Craig asked if Anne thought SHE could have done better with Garibaldi. Michael couldn't WAIT to hear the answer to that one. She thought about it. "As a girlfriend?" she said finally, "of course not. I don't play that. As a friend -- it depends. There's so many factors. You can't just say 'man, he should ditch her, she's trouble.' There are so many other levels, things an outsider can never understand. All you can do is say 'be careful. These are the directions I can see trouble coming from, for what it's worth', and just..." "Be there?" put in the Indian girl sympathetically. "Well, not in this case, obviously, which is why I end up babbling all this stuff at you guys out of frustration." Craig wasn't about to let it go. "But if you HAD been stuck there, do you really think you would have handled his drinking any differently from Lise or Zack?" Anne had no hesitation about that one. "Yeah, I really do. I honestly think my first reaction would have been 'what the hell HAPPENED??' -- I mean, look. He had some pretty solid controls set in that particular area, there. Something very specific and very powerful HAD to have happened to shoot 'em all to hell like that." Garibaldi basked in gratified smuggitude. Despite all her prickliness (what was it with him and prickly women, anyway?), she cared about him. Just as he'd been thinking before this dream or whatever it was started -- soul- kin or not, he knew he could count on her for understanding, and sympathy... "And then I'd nail the sonuvabitch to the fucking WALL until I got a straight answer out of him." Whoops!!! What the hell? "None of this 'Let's go out to dinner and then fuck our brains out' bullshit -- he may be a pretty good tapdancer for a big guy, but compared to Jason's father he's a fraggin' amateur. I don't know WHAT the hell her problem is, but cannot help but suspect that they made a lovely set of Egypshine royalty in their heyday, there... "Egyptian royalty?" wondered Agni. "King and Queen of de Nile?" suggested Craig. "Ooh, ouch!" the girl winced. "But when did you get to be so anti-Lise, anyway?" she asked. "In IR1 you were very evenhanded about the whole thing." "Yeah, well, that was before they reran those last Season 4 episodes," the would-be author pointed out. "The first time through, I thought I was overreacting, but after watching those episodes again -- there are just too many little THINGS, of the type JMS typically uses when he's building something in the background. Not necessarily a major plot-development thing (there was this guy on one of the newsgroups that thought she was working for Psi Corps, but I think that's a bit far-fetched, although he did pull together quite a few good synchronicities...), but it's at least a warning that this ain't no happily-ever-after deal -- which probably IS part of a setup of some kind." "Speaking of setups," put in Agni, "What IS Straczynski doing with Garibaldi, anyway? This is twice in a row now, he's taken away the guy's ABILITY to make ethical choices, then put him in a position where those decisions are critical..." "It's kinda like what he's done with Londo, only more tightly focussed," added Craig. "Yeah, except that there's nothing wrong with Londo's functionality, yet, it's just his perspective that's hosed," Anne agreed. "But with Michael, the key with the whole alcoholism thing is that the guy's been INJURED, just like when he got shot in the back, only there's no blood on walls so nobody notices. All he can DO is self-medicate -- hell, they didn't blame people for getting addicted to morphine after an injury, back when that's all there was. This is a MEDICAL situation, when it comes right down to it." "So you think it's partly Stephen's fault, for not noticing?" Agni asked. "You know HE'll think it was, when he finds out about it," Craig chimed in. "Oh, THAT'LL be fun," commented Anne. "And we'll get to listen to him agonize about it, too -- it's a good thing I'm in practice with the fast- forward after sitting through all those weeks of Byron and Lyta...oozing at each other." Universal shuddering. Garibaldi suddenly appreciated the downside to the vid's 'omniscient' perspective. Anne frowned. "So WHY exactly do we watch this stupid thing, again?" Agni piped up, "G'Kar. And the politics." Craig said, "The CGI. And the politics." Anne laughed, and chewed on the inside of her cheek for a while. "That whole thing was a ten percenter, you know," she said at last. Huh? What whole thing? "You banging Garibaldi?" quoth Craig. Oh, THAT whole thing. "Mmhmm. To start with, I would have foreseen backlash from that first handshake, which would have made me VERY leery of going in that particular direction. Besides, I don't do Klingons." What was that, some obscure 20th-century sexual perversion she'd ascribed to him in the story, that he didn't even know about? Damn, Lost Secret of the Ancients #2, Garibaldi thought ruefully. Agni mused, "I'm not sure he really IS a Klingon -- maybe he's just clueless." Anne was unimpressed. "Oh. Right. And this is an IMPROVEMENT? I'll grant you he doesn't have much of a madonna/whore complex (thank God and Straczynski), but that whole 'if only I can prove I'm good enough for her, everything will be wonderful' bit has some seriously nasty overtones..." That did it. If he hadn't been stuck inside her head he'd have slapped the shit out of her. Where the HELL did she get off -- whoa, whoa, whoa. Been there, done that. Stop and think. Let's face it, Straczynski had put his life on the waves for all to see, and people were bound to develop opinions about it -- that was just human nature. He couldn't AFFORD to take it personally, any more than he was about to start tailoring everything he said and did to play to some invisible audience. Her OPINIONS of his innermost dreams and fears didn't matter -- what he could LEARN from them did. She was in lecture mode again -- something about 'projection'. He'd like to project HER, right through a window, along about now. Yeah, yeah, yeah... the whole bit about being more in love with your idea of somebody's idea of you than you were with the PERSON -- he'd heard it all before. This, he reminded himself, was why he didn't hang out with women much, outside of people he worked with and, um, romantic situations. They were too damn analytical, always picking and poking and prying and dissecting people and relationships. Women complained that men used them as sex objects -- and it was a valid complaint, he had to admit. But they tended to use men as, well, emotional chew-toys, basically, and he didn't see how that was any better. When he and Lise had been living together, how many times had he come home to some incredibly convoluted tirade about mistakes he hadn't even known he'd made and oversights he hadn't even known to oversee, ascribed to motivations he hadn't even known he'd had? All of which she'd apparently been brooding over all day, if not longer -- it was all very wearing on the nerves. Which was, he realized, one reason he was putting off getting BACK into that kind of situation. As the ladies were conversing, Craig had pulled a game up on the computer in self-defense. He tossed off comments from time to time, though, just to keep things from drifting TOO far off into estrogen-land. Anne seemed to be winding down, here. "So what it comes down to is, there's people who really, really, deep-down honest-to-god BELIEVE that owning a human is not only possible but a good thing, and that said ownership is directly connected with sex. Then there's people who really, really, deep-down honest-to-god DON'T. Both views are internally consistent, and you get decent people and assholes on both sides. What you want to avoid, though, is mixing types, 'cause if you do, both parties are GOING to get hurt. So," she concluded, "bottom line is, I DON'T do Klingons." "Oh, come on, it was only for three days," Craig pointed out. "Yeah, but what if it hadn't been? They would have been up shit creek without anything vaguely RESEMBLING a paddle. Well, almost nothing." Agni looked off into the distance. "Whoa. Swimming Centauri." "Brings a whole new meaning to the phrase 'skinny-dipping', doesn't it?" Craig observed appreciatively. These people had vile and disgusting minds. Garibaldi liked them, overly analytical or not. The mathematician continued. "But you know, Lise would still have called, and then they both would have gotten to be all noble about it..." "Which would have been a relief on both sides, by then," Anne declared, perhaps a bit TOO emphatically. "At least until April Fool's Day, and then she would have gotten to watch him fall apart from JUST enough of a distance to not be able to do anything about it." "Just like everybody else," Agni observed. "Yup." "April Fool's Day?" asked Craig. "That's when they showed 'Phoenix Rising', remember? I realized that the next day and thought it was just terribly cute. 'Hey, Michael, you think you're getting your life back together? APRIL FOOL!!!'" Agni and Craig cracked up. Garibaldi was appalled. "Man, I was so schizo the next day," his hostess went on. "One minute bouncing off the ceiling from Koenig running away with the episode like that, the next, WHUMP, flat on the floor. It took me until Friday morning to figure it out -- then I was, like, 'Oh, he's gotta do a G'Kar. And BOY is it going to be fun...'" Agni agreed. "...And then they ran the bit with G'Kar becoming a 'religious icon' against Garibaldi wiping out on the Drazi homeworld...like, can we get any MORE obvious, here?" "Ah, he'll be fine," the older woman assured...somebody. "It's just a question of how many extras get killed in the meantime." "Like all those people in that first battle..." Craig pointed out. Garibaldi was SERIOUSLY appalled. Wasn't this the point in a nightmare where you were supposed to wake UP, for crying out loud? No such luck this time, apparently... ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- Hey, did anyone catch the time looplet in this one? Note to SJB re: the bit about the nuns -- I KNOW that's inaccurate, but it's a darned good line, and appropriate for the context, so there. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- From: Jakhel@aol.com Subject: NFINITE REGRESS 1A: Intralude -- Part 6 of 7 Date: Tue, 25 Aug 1998 08:36:15 EDT IR1A_6.TXT INFINITE REGRESS 1A: INTRALUDE Part 6 of 7 'Out, in the night, with the whispering breezes...out where they keep the imaginary diseases...' -- Frank Zappa, 1974. Again, be warned of major Season 5 spoilers, colorful language and heretical concepts of all sorts. Acknowledgements and notes can be found in Part 1. S P O I L E R S P A C E ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- PART 6 -- On Putting One's Money Where One's Feet Are. After a bit more desultory chat (about REAL people and events, thus, to Garibaldi at least, not nearly as interesting) Agni and Craig reclaimed their shoes and moved on. Anne changed into light sweats and returned to the living room with a glass of gingerale. The room was light and airy, well-lit in the late summer dusk. There was minimal furniture against the walls -- including a primitive amateur recording setup in one corner -- and a dark blue oriental- style rug on the hardwood floor. She started out with some real old stuff, by some band called the Kinks. Nice, gritty social commentary with a backbeat -- he could almost hear the fog and smokestacks of London. He'd been there once. All cleaned up now, of course, with carefully preserved (or reconstructed) period neighborhoods under domes. At least the parts HE'D seen. 'I got acute schizophrenia -- paranoia, too.' Sounded like a thumbnail sketch of his life, lately. She went from stretches to barre-type exercises holding onto the mantel. 'Gotta stand and face it -- life is soooooo complicated....' You have no idea, buddy. No idea at all. Anne was into the kicks and Tae Kwon Do exercises now. Her flexibility was fair for a woman her age, but her strength (particularly upper-body strength) was not great, and her stamina was nonexistent. What she NEEDED was to get out and run around the block twenty times or so every day...a nagging, bone-deep ache in one foot led him to reconsider that option. Her wrists and hands were aching, too, and he didn't think it was arthritis. He remembered how hard it had been for her to open a jar, earlier. He'd heard of that kind of thing happening to people who drove a desk too long. Even in his time, there wasn't much that could be done about it, other than prevention and paying attention to one's posture and work habits. She had put on another CD, moving on to the vocal part of her warmup ritual. She was singing along with a pair of females -- something about a watershed, a road, all just terribly inspiring, and she was giving it her best shot. He noted that her voice sounded better from inside her head -- not that it was bad from outside, as he recalled, just lighter and wispier. After that, she turned off the stereo and fired up the guitar. A couple songs he recognized (that Suzy Q really WAS vicious), and a few he didn't. He delighted in the practiced precision of her hands, despite the aches and occasional fumbles. He'd always wished he'd learned to play an instrument, but had missed his chance as a kid and now it seemed too late. LISTENING to music was one of the few things that kept him (arguably) sane -- being able to PRODUCE it was a whole 'nother concept. Finally her hands and voice gave out and she reluctantly shut it all down. She took a shower (yup, at least ninety percent) and redressed a bit more formally. Garibaldi found the makeup ritual amusing, as always. He wondered if the differences in facial expression during the process revealed hints of her and Lise's respective personalities...oh, yeah, definitely. At last she deemed herself ready to face the public. Not bad, Garibaldi had to admit as she made a final pass at the mirror. The coppery-brown mane waved softly to the collar of a black cotton jacket, worn over a dark grey silk shirt. The old-fashioned open, winged collar looked 'busy' to him until he noticed how it balanced the studless jacket lapels, drawing attention to her exposed throat. He found the effect subtly erotic -- fortunately, as in the shower, without the appropriate hormone balance and circulatory system enhancements to back it up the sensation was fleeting at best. Dark blue, slim-fitting pants (jeans, he remembered) and unobtrusive black lace-up shoes completed the ensemble. Sleek, understated, yet self- assured. The stark, unfeminine lines subtly emphasized that she was QUITE female, in much the same way as he fancied his own garb projected an air of leashed virile menace...he approved. She approved. They split. As she cruised along the sodium- and neon-lit streets (with the radio ON), Garibaldi felt her energy level rise. The bar that was their destination was more of a roadhouse, really, set back into the trees behind a gravel parking lot. She parked the car and stretched, looking up at the few stars visible beyond the lights. Resolutely, she headed inside. They were hit by the traditional wall of noise and humanity. She made her way to the bar in a determined slither -- slightly less aggressive than Garibaldi's wont (she'd swerve where he would have bulled through or stood fast), but with an almost-bounce to her step that was quite similar to his customary crowd-prowl. When she parked herself at the bar and scanned the crowd, he could almost forget that he wasn't wearing his own body. She ordered bourbon and 'Coke' -- a sickeningly sweet concoction, but with enough of a bite to be worth it, he decided. He hoped she wasn't going to get stupid on him -- nah, that wasn't her style. The crowd was certainly...colorful. It might be a college town (they'd skirted the edges of campus on the way over), but this was certainly not a college BAR. Townies, you bet -- and for the most part a 30's-and-over crowd. Aggressive peroxide and makeup on the females (and their generation had obviously NOT fully comprehended the dangers of raw sunlight through an ozone-depleted atmosphere). The males tended either toward manes and beards or buzz-cuts and baseball caps, and smoke from nearly-ubiquitous cigarettes (hey, cancer in a box, thought Garibaldi) hung in the air. A few of the patrons -- male and female -- eyed her curiously, but no one offered conversation. Her clothes and manner marked her as an outsider, but at the same time allowed her to blend into the scenery -- a combination Garibaldi was entirely too familiar with. The energy level in the room was high, but the mood was friendly. A good night, Garibaldi's instincts judged. The band played something peppy and innocuous from the back of the next room. After a while, Anne meandered in and took up a position just shy of what might loosely be called the 'dance floor', against one wall. She parked drink and elbow on a handy ledge and studied the band. It was a four-piece -- two guitars, bass, and drums. The lead guitarist (and lead singer) was a forgettable blond with a case of what Delenn had told him she referred to as the '3rd sin' -- taking himself MUCH too seriously. The second guitarist, however, was a tallish, slender man in his late forties, with shoulder-length steel-grey hair and a wry, dry sense of humor. Garibaldi found himself liking the guy. Apparently, so did Anne. She alternated scanning the crowd with watching him appreciatively. When she finished her drink, she slurped absently at the remaining ice. She already had a light buzz on -- hell, it would have taken him two or three drinks like that to feel like this -- but made no move to get another. She just didn't feel like it. HE just didn't feel like it. He tried to remember if he'd ever felt exactly like this in his life...buzzed, but not drunk, and not even tempted. Not that he could recall. Damn, maybe it really WAS some kind of hardwiring glitch. A knot loosened slightly back in the back of his mind...if that was the case, then he wasn't PROVING anything, by attempting to 'conquer' the bottle or by succumbing to it. And, by that logic, asking for help with it wouldn't be an admission of weakness, but just plain common sense. How many times had Stephen patched together his mangy hide, after all? He'd never made any big macho deal out of that. Much. And he'd been so PISSED when Franklin was being such an ass about his own stim addiction -- not because he thought the doctor was weak, but because it was so frustrating trying to get through the guy's defenses, for his own damn good. Maybe... Her abs tightened, and she took a very careful chomp of ice. He caught it as she scanned nonchalantly back across the room -- a slender, dark-haired man in a brown leather jacket, near the door, talking to an effervescent blonde. Every instinct Garibaldi had told him the guy was trouble. At first glance, he looked like nothing so much as a Shadow-spawned version of Marcus -- same thick, dark mane, same quick, alert movements, same air of always playing to an audience in his own mind. This guy was even wirier, though, bright eyes glittering over chiselled cheekbones and a slightly sinister mustache. Garibaldi detested him on sight. Anne's reaction was not quite so straightforward -- or perhaps it was, but not in quite the same direction. Every individual muscle seemed to come alive as adrenalin flooded her bloodstream. Deliberately casual, she replaced the glass on the ledge, folded her arms, and watched the band. Garibaldi would have bet she wasn't registering a note. She threw a friendly smile at the guitar player, but her attention was tightly focused behind and a little off to the left. Again, Garibaldi knew the feeling. The band finished their set with a slow, mournful song, which provoked a particularly fiendish grin from his hostess. She meandered up to the stage, propped her elbows on a monitor speaker, and addressed the air. "'I don't know'," she mused, "'maybe it WAS the robots. All I know, I could not leave her THERE...'" The second guitarist cracked up. "Hey, I told Bobby you wanted to do Suzy Q with us, but, uh..." "Not real thrilled with the idea, huh?" she asked, disappointed. "Well, it's nothing personal, just that if we let YOU sing with us, certain other people will want to, too, and...well, it could get ugly. Real ugly." "Yeah, well, whatever," she acknowledged. "Getting together to practice would have been a bitch, anyway, so it's probably just as well." "Practice?" the older man looked up with a gleam in his eye. "We don' need no steenkeeng practice..." "Yeah, right, and what about that little flub in 'Roll Over, Beethoven' back there?" "That was NOT a flub," he explained with great dignity. "That was an EMBELLISHMENT." They continued on in that arteriole for a while. The guy's name was Jeff -- uh-HUH, thought Garibaldi. Just as well she'd popped into his universe after the FOURTH season, wasn't it? But anyway. This seemed to be the third or fourth such little chat they'd had, and even though Garibaldi had no contact with her thoughts, just from her body language (as it were) he could sense a guarded optimism. A relaxing of the protective layer of cynicism, coupled with the faint beginnings of a call to action...all wrapped up in wariness and the fear of making yet another misstep. Despite the differences in technical detail, the overall feeling was excruciatingly familiar. Garibaldi also noted certain clues in Jeff's words, and the way he was looking at her. He wondered if Anne was picking up on them, too, or if his male perspective was giving him an edge, there. This situation was definitely going somewhere -- not just yet, though, which was fine with him under the circumstances. He wished her well and everything, just...not on HIS watch, okay? Anne eyed the musician speculatively. "Are you into science fiction at all, by any chance?" He jumped lightly down from the stage. "Yeah, sure, I used to be a BIG Star Trek fan. But then Voyager came along and, well..." "Yeah, tell me about it. They're doing some good stuff with DS9, though. Speaking of space stations, you ever watch Babylon 5?" "Oh, yeah, I was following it religiously up through the fourth season. When it went to TNT I kinda lost track, but I finally broke down and got cable, so I'm gonna try to catch up..." "I've taped all of Season 5 so far, if you want to borrow 'em..." "You know, I just might take you up on that." "I've also, um..." she hesitated. Go for it, thought Garibaldi. "Well, I've written this fan fiction thing...just kinda threw it out on the Internet ..." "Really? I'd like to read that." Jeff thought for a moment. "Tell you what, why don't you give me your e-mail address and I'll send you mine, and then you can shoot me a copy. I'd give you mine, but I can never remember the whole thing." "That'll work." Jeff looked over Anne's shoulder. Her shoulderblades tightened. "Hey, Scott, how's it goin'?" quoth the guitar man, and a voice hit her stomach like a cryo'd armadillo. "Oh, man, I just got out of the studio. Loose Lips was in, and we spent all DAY trying to get this one song done...you know how that goes. It's gonna be killer, though. It's gonna be killer." "Yeah, I've heard THAT before," Anne observed, eyeing the ceiling. "Hey, come on, you know me, would I steer you wrong?" the guy shot back with earnest puppy-dog enthusiasm. Nothing a good stiff uppercut wouldn't fix, noted Garibaldi. Anne hiked an eyebrow. The guy tried another tack. "Hey, we finally finished that SilverStar album -- it should be out sometime next month." She perked up. "Yeah, I heard about that. Is it any good?" "Yeah, pretty good, if you like that kinda stuff." "Did they drive you nuts?" she asked with a wry grin. He rolled his eyes, then shot her a sidelong look. "Man, those are two crazy chicks. If they hadn't been so wrapped up in each other, it coulda been dangerous. Although you gotta wonder...BUT anyway ..." he dropped that line of thought like an overly-perfumed handkerchief and looked away. "Mmmhmmm," she said dryly, stepping on it. Garibaldi could have sworn she'd been wearing flats when they left the house. "Don't let your wife hear you talk like that," Jeff admonished jokingly. "Where is she tonight, working?" "Yeah, they've got her on third shift again," Scott replied. "Ah, she knows I wouldn't do anything stupid -- I'm a GOOD boy, now." He shot Anne another look. She hiked both eyebrows and studied her drink. Yup, two bits of ice left. After some more shop talk, the guitar player headed off to pack up his instruments. Just as the silence was beginning to get REALLY uncomfortable, the blonde popped up at Scott's elbow. The corner of his mouth quirked under the mustache, and Garibaldi's suspicion crystallized into certainty. Genetics, huh. He'd have a few words for her on THAT subject, too, given the chance. The blonde looked Anne over briefly, dismissed her as negligible competition, and turned on the charm. She was apparently trying to persuade Scott to go to an after hours party. He tapdanced around the issue smoothly, half his mind obviously elsewhere. The guy WAS pretty good, Garibaldi had to admit. Anne got bored after a while and wandered over to give Jeff her e-mail address. "Um, I don't know how well you know Scott..." the guitar player ventured. "Well enough," she replied. "Yeah, well, I was just going to warn you...um..." "Oh. Not an issue," she assured him. "I'm, ah..." she grinned, suddenly. "...not his type." The phrase sounded vaguely familiar to Garibaldi. The guitarist laughed. "I don't think he HAS a type." "Oh, yes, he does," the woman replied, looking over at the blonde -- a pretty little foxy-faced thing, with nice long fingernails and a proprietary air. Garibaldi wouldn't have tangled with her on a bet. Anne shook her head and turned back to her conversation. After a bit more small talk, the grey- haired man walked off with a grin and his guitar case. Anne hesitated. The blonde pranced away, convinced that her fantasies were about to be realized. Anne's path just happened to cross Scott's at the door. "Got rid of THAT one," he confided smugly. Anne snorted. Obviously not a new scenario -- or a new line. "Now WHAT was that you were saying about stupidity?" she inquired politely. He smirked. "Hey, you gotta stay in practice. You never know when something might come up...or come back..." A look slid her way, then retreated. "I have a copy of that track we were working on today. You want to hear it?" Is he NUTS? thought Garibaldi. She laughed. "Sure, kiddo, what the hell." Is SHE nuts?!? thought Garibaldi, seriously alarmed. He knew that note in her voice -- all of a sudden it looked like this might be going in a direction he REALLY wouldn't be comfortable with. As it happened, the conversation in her car over the tape was purely technical. The enthusiasm with which they argued over the music made him a little nervous, though -- there was altogether too much eye contact and finishing each other's sentences going on. Finally, Scott pocketed the tape. "So," he said perkily, "Was there anything else you wanted to talk about?" Anything else SHE wanted to talk about? Garibaldi was indignant. Wasn't it HIS pathetic little ploy that had gotten them into this conversation in the first place? Anne was having that mouth problem again. "Not that I can think of, offhand. Unless YOU have something new to say..." "Nope," the slender brunet demurred, stretching extravagantly. Garibaldi was suddenly introduced to a whole new set of sensations. "Nothing's ever new with me, just the same old same old..." Come on, try a BIGGER fishhook, why don't you, thought Garibaldi shakily -- she ain't EVEN bitin' on that one. So to speak. Apparently the guy realized as much. "Man, you wouldn't BELIEVE how many kids I had over at my house the other day. My sister's kids, my brother's kids, two of Charlene's sisters' kids..." "And you," she pointed out. "AND me. The dogs didn't settle down for HOURS after they all left." "Mmhmm. Life's rough when you're a dog." Garibaldi finally saw where she was going with this. It was the old 'give him enough rope and watch him tie himself up in knots' approach. He distinctly recalled her pulling that one on HIM, at one point, come to think of it. Lise wasn't all that good at it -- she lacked the patience to carry it through, for which Garibaldi was profoundly grateful. Delenn, on the other hand, had a definite talent for waiting until John got his foot JUST inside his mouth before kicking him in the jaw. Meanwhile, they were going over, politely but with teeth, the dilemna Anne had outlined earlier for Agni and Craig -- Scott wouldn't sanction her discussing the situation with his wife, and Anne was NOT willing to get Scott and Jason together behind her back. Even the two of them dealing with each other as friends was problematic -- as she pointed out, it was kind of like telling the kid he couldn't have any ice cream, then scarfing a chocolate sundae the minute he went to bed. All she wanted to do was get the issues out on the table for all parties concerned, so they could be addressed rationally. "You don't understand," Scott protested, obviously deeply distressed at the idea of doing ANYTHING openly and above-board. "I just don't want to get in trouble, here. You know how she helped me get my life together. She supported me until I got the studio going, she's kept me on the straight and narrow for the past ten years -- well, more or less, anyway. I owe her EVERYTHING. And if she found out I'd been talking to you at all, let alone about THIS -- I'd be in SO much trouble! It would ruin EVERYTHING, and then there'd be nothing left. I'd have nothing, nobody..." "No, no, not a BATH! Anything but that!" Anne muttered under her breath. Garibaldi cracked up. He couldn't help it -- must be all that estrogen he'd been sniffing. "What?!?" Scott was mystified. "Never mind. Look, whatever you've done to that poor woman over the years, I doubt she's so far out where the busses don't run that I can't at least TALK to her about it..." "What I'VE done?" "Oh, come on, don't even TRY to tell me you didn't set your situation up very carefully..." "There's no setup about it - that's the way it IS. And it WORKS," he emphasized, glaring at her. "Yeah, and the fact that it's based on lies, games, and deception is completely irrelevant -- EXCEPT when it comes to...inconvenient little monkey wrenches like this one." NOW he was pissed, and, frankly, Garibaldi didn't blame him. For all her insistence that people keep their noses out of her private life (he still remembered her slapping HIM down about that), she seemed to have no hesitation in expressing her opinions on other people's. Garibaldi could definitely see where the guy was coming from. He'd been through some rough times, but had managed to put his life together, with the help of a good woman (and, since Anne had apparently not even applied for the job, where exactly did she get off ragging him about the arrangements he HAD made?). Along the way he'd made some decisions, which probably seemed good at the time, and now he was stuck with the consequences. Shit, at least he'd been ABLE to make those decisions, rather than having some fragging TELEPATH planting them in his head... And, besides, the guy WASN'T stuck, dammit. All he had to do was shift his perspective a bit: go back to basics and come at the whole situation from a slightly different angle. All it took was a little trust, and a little gumption... "Hey, I don't have to deal with this!" Scott was saying. "The whole thing was YOUR bright idea, and I don't see why I should even be worryin' about it." He folded his arms and stared resolutely out the windshield. She did likewise. "Yeah, well, I don't suppose it has anything to do with you not being as much of a jerk as you'd like to think you are," she opined obliquely. "Nope." Her mouth twitched. She looked over at him. He shot her a look back -- wary, vulnerable -- Garibaldi's virtual heart twisted, and he suddenly wondered if Craig might have hit on something after all, with that idea about Lise being a reincarnation of Scott. Both of them had trouble hanging onto their kids, that was for DAMN sure. She turned to face him, opening up. "Look, kiddo, it's my responsibility, your option. But I honestly think you guys would be good for each other. He's getting to an age where...well, where there's going to be stuff I can't help him with..." "Oh, come on, you've got friends," Scott protested. "And, let's face it, am I really the kinda guy you'd want setting him an example? I'm sure as hell not the kinda guy I'D want setting him an example!" "Give...me...a...break!" she fired back, exasperated. "The fact of the matter is, you've survived forty-one years on the planet, and from what I've heard -- NOT from you -- you're not doing too damn bad, all things considered. The critical thing is that you're ALIKE, in ways nobody else is quite like him -- you'll understand things nobody else can, and, quite frankly, the fact that he HASN'T imprinted on you as a role model will give him a certain degree of objectivity about how much of an example to take you for, and in what direction. He's a sharp kid, Scott, REAL damn sharp." "Oh, I know that!" THAT pissed her off, finally. "YOU don't know SHIT. You have no fucking CLUE what you've been missing..." words failed her, giving him time to find his. "No. I don't." Dead flat, NOT mentioning that that was the only way he could live with it. Her face set like stone to match his, but Garibaldi could feel what her stomach was doing. That combination, too, was very familiar. "Well." she said finally. "It's in your court, kiddo." "I ain't playin'." "Yeah, right." They were watching the empty railroad track again. Finally, the man said, "I gotta go." He hesitated as he reached for the door, looking back. Garibaldi knew THAT look, too -- from the inside. The guy was hooked, big time, and had no clue how to deal with it. The woman stared straight ahead, while the groggy armadillo did a slow soft-shoe. From: Jakhel@aol.com Subject: Infinite Regress 1A: Intralude -- Part 7 of 7 Date: Wed, 26 Aug 1998 08:34:27 EDT IR1A_7.TXT INFINITE REGRESS 1A: INTRALUDE Part 7 of 7 'And what have you got at the end of the day? What have you got to take away? A bottle of whisky and a new set of lies -- blinds on the window and a pain behind the eyes...' - Mark Knopfler, 1982. Again, be warned of major Season 5 spoilers, colorful language and heretical concepts of all sorts. Acknowledgements and notes can be found in Part 1. S P O I L E R S P A C E ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- PART 7 - Preliminary Meditations. The door slammed and Scott was gone, a shadow fading into the night. Anne sat for a long time, jaw set, staring at nothing. Then she snorted, turned the key and pulled out of the parking lot in a spray of gravel. As the car hit the highway, she flipped on the radio and a guitar twanged. "What the hell?" she asked, startled. The guitar answered, and the drums kicked in. "YES!!" she cried in triumph, whacking the steering wheel in time. 'Well, it's a strange old game, you learn it slow -- One step forward and it's back you go.' After a moment Garibaldi recognized the voice and the guitar work -- Dire Straits, wasn't it? This wasn't on the file she'd left him, though. 'Sometime you're the Louisville Slugger, baby, sometime you're the ball. Sometime it all come together, baby, sometime you're gonna lose it all.' The deranged grin she was wearing suited Garibaldi just fine. The night whooshed past the open window, soft and warm as a wet kiss and bracing as a slap. The road rolled under their wheels as they chased the headlights into the dark. She swooped off on an exit ramp to curve and twist along back roads, isolated houselights opening like lambent eyes and closing again slowly behind them. It was at once like and unlike flying a Starfury -- without the major swoops of inertia and quick shifts of perspective, but with, oddly enough, an even greater sense of raw SPEED. The bike would have been better, Garibaldi thought absently. It was made for these roads, after all -- this flinging oneself headlong into the unknown. Or what one could, for an all-too-brief moment, pretend was the unknown. Or, perhaps, by pure velocity transmute the known into an ever- evolving mystery... The music had segued into something equally bracing, then mellowed somewhat as she headed back into town. Again, it was a voice and guitar he knew he should know, but this one he couldn't quite place. 'Only the broken -- broken-hearted." Somehow, it didn't seem at all depressing. Do a G'Kar, huh. Garibaldi let his thoughts sniff around the edges of that one, finally, as she navigated the velvet-dark, treelined streets. Streetlights and tidy little houses passed by. A brightly lit but empty strip mall, a four-way stop with a pickup truck full of half-drunk rednecks at the other corner, a closed gas station, and home. Once there, she was too wound up to go to bed. She changed back into the sweats and wandered out onto the porch, settling down with only the light from the back door and a candle on the table to read by. The book was a leisurely mystery starring a pair of Siamese cats. It was cute, but couldn't hold her attention, and eventually she put it aside. The front rank of the flower garden stood guard at the edge of the light, last line of defense against the deep night behind. Far down the block a streetlight made an oasis of warmth, bugs flickering under the glowing canopy of leaves. Beyond that, a house light. Above and beyond that, behind the looming inky shapes of trees, a few tiny, twinkling, atmosphere-bedimmed stars shone like half-forgotten smiles, or persistent snatches of song. No limits, they whispered softly. No borders. A cat whrtled, gathered, and landed awkwardly in her lap. She talked nonsense to it, looking into the animal's wide, empty eyes. It was the emptiness of innocent stupidity, though, not the terrible soulless emptiness of Bester's eyes -- or his own in the mirror, lately. Anne's gaze drifted from the cat to the candle, as she absently stroked soft fur. Her breathing slowed. A car went by. After a while, another. All the events of the long, long day rose like iridescent bubbles in Garibaldi's mind, swirling together, arranging and rearranging themselves into a pattern he could almost grasp. There...there...in the heart of the fire... The light went out, and he woke with a gasp. Damn, had he passed out in his clothes again? He half-rose, trying to hold onto the dream, and failing. These nightmares were getting to be a real pain. Wait a minute, though -- his bruised brain was starting to function again. He could swear he hadn't had more than a couple -- well, three or four -- since he'd been practically out of booze. Yes, there was the bottle -- the old one, alone, empty. So, what the hell? Wait. That sauce -- an 'unfortunate reaction', the Ambassador had said. Jesus, how many different kinds of stupid had he BEEN, to push his luck like that? For all he knew, he could be waking up in Medlab right now with a respirator tube down his throat and a look on Stephen's face that he REALLY didn't want to see... That reminded him of something. Something from the dream...no, it was gone. They always faded like that. He wished some of his waking thoughts would take the hint and do likewise. Meanwhile, though, here he was, stark staring awake at...what...3:03 AM? Alone with his thoughts, and no booze. Again, he thought of calling Lise. And again, something held him back. So, was this nightmare business another of Bester's little...afterthoughts? Hell, the Dark Star was still open. He could head on over there for refueling ...maybe cut through the garden on the way back... Some time later, he considered breaking into the new bottle as he entered the dark, gently rustling aisles of the maze. He thought better of it almost at once, though. Let's face it, once he started he wouldn't stop, and as tired as he was he'd probably just pass out right where somebody would trip over him in the morning. NOT a good plan. Some distance away, two girls, a human perhaps ten years old, and a Centauri the equivalent, crouched in hiding at the edge of a clearing. A slender, cloaked and hooded figure appeared on one of the four paths leading to the center of the open space. As she paused at the intersection, a stray gleam of light hit her features -- a delicate amalgam of human and Minbari. The girls gasped. The woman's head turned, and the girls put their hands quickly over their mouths. Eyes shone at each other as the woman turned and hastened down the right-hand path. "Selene! That was Ambassador Delenn! Isn't she beautiful?" the Centauri girl whispered. Her own features were pixyish under her shaved scalp. The human girl nodded, bouncing tangled black curls. Light eyes gleamed through oriental lids in her olive-skinned face. "Smart, too," she replied. "I wonder where she was going at this hour." "Coming from, rather." "How do you know?" "Easy. She was coming FROM Red sector, going TO the Ambassadors' quarters." "Oh, yeah, I guess you're right. I wonder if she had an assig...assig... what do you call it." "Don't be silly -- she'd never cheat on the PRESIDENT! No, I'll bet it was a secret meeting with a special agent...maybe even that dreamy Lennier! They say he went off to be a Ranger," Selene reminded her friend. "Yeah," the other girl breathed. "and I'll bet she's sending him out to find out what's really going on with those raider attacks, and he'll be in terrible danger, but he'll find an important clue, and be a hero, and..." the Centauri girl's voice rose steadily in her excitement. "Jaida, hush! Here comes someone else!" They hushed, and soon a large, bald man strode down the same path into the clearing. "It's Mr. Garibaldi," whispered Jaida. "Four-OH," the human girl replied excitedly. "He's cute, too, don't you think?" "Your sister Trish says he's just a washout cop, and the President only gave him a job because he felt sorry for him," put in the Centauri. "My sister Trish has the brains of a Drazi likh'tat and the lousiest taste in men of anyone I know -- so I'm supposed to take HER as a role model?" The girls giggled. The ex-cop was still standing in the clearing, looking around as though he'd never seen a garden at night before. Jaida murmured, "I think he's scary." "He HIRED you! Us, I mean, but mostly you." "Yeah, but I still think he's scary." "Nah," Selene said disparagingly. "He's just gruff like that because he cares too much about people." She rested her head on her hands. "Sometimes, if I squint, he looks a little like my dad." "Your dad was short and skinny and had long curly hair, like you!" "Yeah, well, I'm squinting REAL HARD," the other girl replied. Garibaldi stood at the edge of the clearing, listening for something. He wasn't sure what it was, but something was...missing. Not right. Suddenly he realized where he had come to -- this was the clearing where the Rangers had been meditating this afternoon, the same clearing Anne had gone running out into, all those months ago. Watching her out there in the sunlight, he had been struck by a sudden urge to run out after her -- to pull her down and take her right there on the grass. The idea had shocked him then. Now he just smiled, breathing in the night air. It was recycled, like all the air on the station, but these plants were an integral part of the recycling process, so the air here was noticeably fresher than 'inside' -- rich with the mingled fragrances of plants from half a hundred worlds. He stood there, just breathing, and listening, for a long time. There were three paths before him. The lefthand path led back to his quarters, where he could curl up with his bottle for a few hours of artificial peace. The straight path led, among other places, to Zack's quarters, or to Stephen's. Either of them would cut him some slack for waking them up this early. Especially once he told them what he'd have to tell them...oh, god, could he DO it, though? The righthand path led to the Ambassadorial quarters. Londo, Delenn, Sheridan, G'Kar...more people he cared about. More people who trusted him... "There are always three alternatives..." the words drifted through his mind. It sounded like something G'Kar would say. Or Delenn. The voice he seemed to hear was definitely feminine, but echoed oddly in his head. He shook it, chose a path, and walked on. After a moment, two small shadows scurried away up the fourth path. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Well, I think I've beaten THAT metasitch to death -- for the time being, anyway. 'IR1B: DoubleCross' will take off on another tangent altogether -- look for it Novemberish or so, as it will take some serious research. Then 'IR1C: NexusPoint' early next year, if we're spared. Meanwhile, keep reading, writing, watching, and -- oh, yeah -- have a life!