From: Jakhel Subject: Infinite Regress 1: Overview (1/37) IR1N_00.txt Date: Wed, 20 May 1998 23:37:00 EDT **IR1N_OO.TXT * * OVERVIEW -- INITIAL SUBMISSION 05/20/98 * * * * * * * * * * INFINITE REGRESS 1: * HOW I FELL HEAD OVER HEELS IN LOVE WITH MICHAEL GARIBALDI * AND LIVED TO TELL THE TALE * A Freidmanesque -- or, if you will, Brustian -- Babylon 5 fantasy, * set three days before the arrival of Captain Lochley. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * To Jerry Doyle, without whom none of this would have been possible, *and to J. Michael Straczynski, without whom it would not have been necessary. * Most of all, to my mother, * who taught me the basics of writing, goofiness, * and dealing with difficult men. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * An ordinary post-boomer chick is whisked from a timeline very close to ours to one of the 'core' B5 timelines for three days (two nights) of wild and majorly goofy romance with the Galaxy's sexiest P.I. -- among other things. Critics rave: "Quite cool, in fact." - Delenn. "Fasscinating..." - L. Mollari. "It's, well, it's a little hard to believe..." - J. Sheridan. ">I< don't believe it." - M. Garibaldi. !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! WARNING !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ANY OR ALL OF THE SUBSEQUENT MODULES OF THIS PROJECT MAY CONTAIN ANY OR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING: * SPOILERS FOR THE FIRST HALF OF SEASON 5 * VERY COLORFUL LANGUAGE * SEXUAL INSINUENDO * SUBVERSIVE AND HERETICAL IDEAS NOTE: the "source" copy of this is in a nicely formatted Word document, which is much more readable than these little modules. I can zip it for you in various formats. The "uncut" version of the modules themselves, with the synopses, will be available as soon as I get done prepping it. NOTE ALSO: I don't do much talking down to or spoonfeeding the audience. If you don't get something, look it up, track it down, or figure it out! (Or ask.) * * * * * * ATTIBUTIONS, DISCLAIMERS & ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS * * * * * * * I blithely borrowed from everywhere for this puppy -- this thing was written solely for the sake of doing it, not as any sort of profit-making venture. I am grateful for the opportunity to share it over the net with anyone who might enjoy it, and VERY grateful to all the people whom I have pilfered from and been inspired by. The ones I have been able to identify are as follows: JMS: the B5 universe, characters, and background in general, as well as various quotes. He and Warner Bros. own all that stuff, I'm just borrowing it. I have come up with a few new "B5 native" characters -- as far as I'm concerned anyone else is welcome to use them. I have definite plans for Karl in the sequel, but the rest are pretty much open. Lanniel was originally Warrior Caste (Storm Dancer clan), by the way. Gene Roddenberry and his successors: all the ST, NG and DS9 stuff. They own It, I'm playing with it. All the B5 actors - those mentioned, and those who just provided inspiration. Kinky Freidman, Stephen Brust, Carole Nelson Douglas: inspiration. Roger Zelazny, Robert Heinlein, Robert E. Howard, Jo Clayton, John Barnes, Lois McMaster Bujold, Mike Moorcock, Peter David, A. Bertram Chandler, Julian May, Dr.Hunter S. Thompson, Raymond Chandler, P.J. O'Rourke, William Greider, Peter Cook: mentions, quotes, and/or concepts. Marion Zimmer Bradley: likewise, plus all those moral fibre-building rejections. Kathryn Drennan : plausibility reinforcement on a critical psychological point ('To Dream in the City of Sorrows', p.158.) J.R.R. Tolkien: basic principles and a hidden character. J.J. Cale: song lyrics and mention of various songs from the album 'Naturally', Polygram Records, 1972. Tasty. Sam Phillips: song lyrics and song title from the album 'Martinis and Bikinis', Virgin Records, 1994. Likewise. Sarah McLachlan: song lyrics from the album 'Fumbling Towards Ecstasy', (also writing credit to Pierre Marchand). Arista Records, 1993. Overhyped, but solid. Me (Anne E. Clements): all the Derian/Rena'a stuff, plus 'my' (or is that 'our'?) songs. They're mine, I can play with them. I really do want to write up the Derian series for publication (yes, it's THIS me Kiya has that bright idea about in Chapter 24!), so PLEASE don't borrow her anytime BEFORE she gets recruited, and check with me for background info first! (However, I have no CLUE what the deal is with the foxy guy with the sunglasses, so feel free. Do keep me posted in any event, tho, so we can minimize proliferating timelines from that nexus.....) As for the songs, I'm still working on the tape, so sometime between now and 2032.......BUT anyway. My uncle: art history. Mad TV: the donut lady. The Narn Bat Squad: forbearance and a cameo (I bribed them with donuts). The Chicago Park District: quote, and preservation of sanity during critical years. I Have No Clue But Could Not Resist: whoever came up with that T-Shirt. Dire Straits, U2, Al DiMeola, City Boy, the Grateful Dead, REM, Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Big Country, Monty Python, and the Movie 'Strange Days': Miscellaneous mention and future pilferage (of course, by then the whole 'intellectual property' issue, like the health care thing, will have been resolved in the best possible way for all concerned......yeah, well, whatever.). * * * * * * * * * * * * * * CONTENTS * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * IR1 will tentatively be released in the following modules. There will probably be a Recap to wrap it up, which will contain the FINAL version of this Contents listing (hey, at least I ain't showing no basketball!) plus the synopses. IR1N_00.txt - This overview. IR1N_01.txt - Prologue - CHAPTER 1 - Part 1. "In all my years in Temple, nothing ever prepared me for THIS sort of experience...." - Lennier, of the 3rd Fane of J'Domo. IR1N_02.txt - CHAPTER 1 - Part 2. IR1N_03.txt - CHAPTER 2. 5/15/98 "Breathing out...breathing in...breathing out...breathing in..." - Jeffrey Sinclair. IR1N_04.txt - CHAPTER 3 - Part 1. "When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro." - Dr. Hunter S. Thompson. IR1N_05.txt - CHAPTER 3 - Part 2. IR1N_06.txt - CHAPTER 4. "Don't assume -- it makes an ass out of 'u' and 'me'..." - Traditional. IR1N_07.txt - CHAPTER 5 - Part 1. "Manual release is online." - Enterprise NCC-1701E. IR1N_08.txt - CHAPTER 5 - Part 2. IR1N_09.txt - CHAPTER 6 - Part 1. "I suggest you take those eyes somewhere else, while you still have them." - Susan Ivanova. IR1N_10.txt - CHAPTER 6 - Part 2. IR1N_11.txt - CHAPTER 7 - Part 1. "There....are....four....lights...." - Jean-Luc Picard. IR1N_12.txt - CHAPTER 7 - Part 2. IR1N_13.txt - CHAPTER 8. "I'm a doctor, not a (insert noun here)!" - Dr. Leonard McCoy. IR1N_14.txt - CHAPTER 9 - Part 1. "What do you want?" - Mr. Morden. IR1N_15.txt - CHAPTER 9 - Part 2. IR1N_16.txt - CHAPTER 10. "Fascinating, Captain..." - Spock of Vulcan. IR1N_17.txt - CHAPTER 11 - Part 1. "Reflection...surprise...terror...for the future..." - Kosh. IR1N_18.txt - CHAPTER 11 - Part 2. IR1N_19.txt - CHAPTER 12 - Part 1. "One thing at a time, Ambassador....one thing at a time." - Mr. Morden. IR1N_20.txt - CHAPTER 12 - Part 2. IR1N_21.txt - CHAPTER 13 - Part 1. "This is no time to argue about the time -- we don't have the time!" - Deanna Troi. IR1N_22.txt - CHAPTER 13 - Part 2. IR1N_23.txt - CHAPTER 14. "It's like I always say -- you can get more with a kind word and a two-by-four than you can with just a kind word." - Marcus Cole. IR1N_24.txt - CHAPTER 15. "That's the worst case of testosterone poisoning >I've< ever seen..." - Susan Ivanova. IR1N_25.txt - CHAPTER 16. "A signpost in a strange land..." - Sam Phillips. IR1N_26.txt - CHAPTER 17. "It's a nuisance, but what can you expect from reptiles?" - Marcus Cole. IR1N_27.txt - CHAPTER 18. "Well. It was a good idea, while it lasted." - Marcus Cole. IR1N_28.txt - CHAPTER 19. "Assimilate this!" - Worf, son of Mogh. IR1N_29.txt - CHAPTER 20. "If you were any other man, I would kill you where you stand." - Worf, son of Mogh. IR1N_30.txt - CHAPTER 21. "I knew you would come." - Various. IR1N_31.txt - CHAPTER 22 - Part 1. "Hello, old friend..." - Jeffrey Sinclair. IR1N_32.txt - CHAPTER 22 - Part 2. IR1N_33.txt - CHAPTER 23. "Everybody remember where we parked." - James T. Kirk. IR1N_34.txt - CHAPTER 24 - Part 1. "The Outside closes at 4 o'clock." - Lincoln Park Children's Zoo, Chicago IR1N_35.txt - CHAPTER 24 - Part 2. - Epilogue. IR1N_36.txt - Recap. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * REFERENCES * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The Analysis document and the Three Sins are referred to frequently and rather cryptically throughout the story. To keep the flow going, rather than recap them wherever they appear, I am including them here for reference. DO NOT look further before you get through IR1N_01.TXT! R E F E R E N C E S P A C E Analysis document - "As far as I can tell, I am from an alternate past (1998), in which you guys are a television show. From what the Medlab staff can tell me, I appeared via some method that produced visual effects similar to the 'matter transporter' used in the other 'currently' popular Future History scenario. Possibilities: 1) I'm telling the truth, and something very weird is going on. 2) I'm lying through my teeth, and something moderately weird is going on. 3) I'm really from here (more or less), with a personality overlay, probably courtesy of your lovely telepaths (note that your Mr. Bester is played by the guy who, in his youth, played the navigator in the first chunk of the above- mentioned other Future History -- coincidence or clue?). 4) I'm out of my mind. 4.1) "back home" 4.2) "here" 4.3) somewhere/when completely different. 5) This whole thing is a simulation of some sort. 5.1) I'm an innocent party shanghai'd into it for some reason. 5.2) I'm a volunteer or victim or something. 5.3) I'm an A.I. or something. 6) Something completely different. Actions: 1) Disprove (2) above. 2) Check my stuff (clothes, wallet, etc.) -- is it faked? Background check on my I.D. Of course, if I never existed in this timeline, not finding me won't tell us anything. If I did, finding me won't tell us much -- still, what we do or do not find may tell us something. 3) Assuming that my version of events is at least generally congruent with your reality (allowing for discrepancies inherent in producing a TV show set 260-odd years in the future), there is one thing that might at least prove that I know stuff that can only come from watching the show (or access to some other "overarching" information source, on the level of your Mr. Lorien) - get hold of Lyta Alexander and see if she remembers what Kosh said to the Minbari in the changeling net right before he (Kosh) was knocked out. She is the only living person who could know that, unless she or Kosh mentioned it to somebody, and she was a bit distracted and he probably wouldn't have bothered. 4) Find a plausible explanation for the 'light show' in C&C. 5) Data search on the 'masterminds' of both Future Histories -- Gene Roddenberry (Star Trek) and J. Michael Straczynski (Babylon 5) circa 1950-2000. Did they exist? What did they do? What happened to them? Try Walter Koenig (Bester) too. 6)...." DO NOT look further before you get through IR1N_11.TXT! R E F E R E N C E S P A C E The Three Sins are Sloth, Stupidity, and Taking Oneself Seriously. **IR1N_00.TXT * * * * * * * * * * END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * From: Jakhel Subject: Infinite Regress 1: Overview (1/37) IR1N_00.txt Date: Wed, 20 May 1998 23:37:00 EDT **IR1N_OO.TXT * * OVERVIEW -- INITIAL SUBMISSION 05/20/98 * * * * * * * * * * INFINITE REGRESS 1: * HOW I FELL HEAD OVER HEELS IN LOVE WITH MICHAEL GARIBALDI * AND LIVED TO TELL THE TALE * A Freidmanesque -- or, if you will, Brustian -- Babylon 5 fantasy, * set three days before the arrival of Captain Lochley. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * To Jerry Doyle, without whom none of this would have been possible, *and to J. Michael Straczynski, without whom it would not have been necessary. * Most of all, to my mother, * who taught me the basics of writing, goofiness, * and dealing with difficult men. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * An ordinary post-boomer chick is whisked from a timeline very close to ours to one of the 'core' B5 timelines for three days (two nights) of wild and majorly goofy romance with the Galaxy's sexiest P.I. -- among other things. Critics rave: "Quite cool, in fact." - Delenn. "Fasscinating..." - L. Mollari. "It's, well, it's a little hard to believe..." - J. Sheridan. ">I< don't believe it." - M. Garibaldi. !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! WARNING !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ANY OR ALL OF THE SUBSEQUENT MODULES OF THIS PROJECT MAY CONTAIN ANY OR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING: * SPOILERS FOR THE FIRST HALF OF SEASON 5 * VERY COLORFUL LANGUAGE * SEXUAL INSINUENDO * SUBVERSIVE AND HERETICAL IDEAS NOTE: the "source" copy of this is in a nicely formatted Word document, which is much more readable than these little modules. I can zip it for you in various formats. The "uncut" version of the modules themselves, with the synopses, will be available as soon as I get done prepping it. NOTE ALSO: I don't do much talking down to or spoonfeeding the audience. If you don't get something, look it up, track it down, or figure it out! (Or ask.) * * * * * * ATTIBUTIONS, DISCLAIMERS & ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS * * * * * * * I blithely borrowed from everywhere for this puppy -- this thing was written solely for the sake of doing it, not as any sort of profit-making venture. I am grateful for the opportunity to share it over the net with anyone who might enjoy it, and VERY grateful to all the people whom I have pilfered from and been inspired by. The ones I have been able to identify are as follows: JMS: the B5 universe, characters, and background in general, as well as various quotes. He and Warner Bros. own all that stuff, I'm just borrowing it. I have come up with a few new "B5 native" characters -- as far as I'm concerned anyone else is welcome to use them. I have definite plans for Karl in the sequel, but the rest are pretty much open. Lanniel was originally Warrior Caste (Storm Dancer clan), by the way. Gene Roddenberry and his successors: all the ST, NG and DS9 stuff. They own It, I'm playing with it. All the B5 actors - those mentioned, and those who just provided inspiration. Kinky Freidman, Stephen Brust, Carole Nelson Douglas: inspiration. Roger Zelazny, Robert Heinlein, Robert E. Howard, Jo Clayton, John Barnes, Lois McMaster Bujold, Mike Moorcock, Peter David, A. Bertram Chandler, Julian May, Dr.Hunter S. Thompson, Raymond Chandler, P.J. O'Rourke, William Greider, Peter Cook: mentions, quotes, and/or concepts. Marion Zimmer Bradley: likewise, plus all those moral fibre-building rejections. Kathryn Drennan : plausibility reinforcement on a critical psychological point ('To Dream in the City of Sorrows', p.158.) J.R.R. Tolkien: basic principles and a hidden character. J.J. Cale: song lyrics and mention of various songs from the album 'Naturally', Polygram Records, 1972. Tasty. Sam Phillips: song lyrics and song title from the album 'Martinis and Bikinis', Virgin Records, 1994. Likewise. Sarah McLachlan: song lyrics from the album 'Fumbling Towards Ecstasy', (also writing credit to Pierre Marchand). Arista Records, 1993. Overhyped, but solid. Me (Anne E. Clements): all the Derian/Rena'a stuff, plus 'my' (or is that 'our'?) songs. They're mine, I can play with them. I really do want to write up the Derian series for publication (yes, it's THIS me Kiya has that bright idea about in Chapter 24!), so PLEASE don't borrow her anytime BEFORE she gets recruited, and check with me for background info first! (However, I have no CLUE what the deal is with the foxy guy with the sunglasses, so feel free. Do keep me posted in any event, tho, so we can minimize proliferating timelines from that nexus.....) As for the songs, I'm still working on the tape, so sometime between now and 2032.......BUT anyway. My uncle: art history. Mad TV: the donut lady. The Narn Bat Squad: forbearance and a cameo (I bribed them with donuts). The Chicago Park District: quote, and preservation of sanity during critical years. I Have No Clue But Could Not Resist: whoever came up with that T-Shirt. Dire Straits, U2, Al DiMeola, City Boy, the Grateful Dead, REM, Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Big Country, Monty Python, and the Movie 'Strange Days': Miscellaneous mention and future pilferage (of course, by then the whole 'intellectual property' issue, like the health care thing, will have been resolved in the best possible way for all concerned......yeah, well, whatever.). * * * * * * * * * * * * * * CONTENTS * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * IR1 will tentatively be released in the following modules. There will probably be a Recap to wrap it up, which will contain the FINAL version of this Contents listing (hey, at least I ain't showing no basketball!) plus the synopses. IR1N_00.txt - This overview. IR1N_01.txt - Prologue - CHAPTER 1 - Part 1. "In all my years in Temple, nothing ever prepared me for THIS sort of experience...." - Lennier, of the 3rd Fane of J'Domo. IR1N_02.txt - CHAPTER 1 - Part 2. IR1N_03.txt - CHAPTER 2. 5/15/98 "Breathing out...breathing in...breathing out...breathing in..." - Jeffrey Sinclair. IR1N_04.txt - CHAPTER 3 - Part 1. "When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro." - Dr. Hunter S. Thompson. IR1N_05.txt - CHAPTER 3 - Part 2. IR1N_06.txt - CHAPTER 4. "Don't assume -- it makes an ass out of 'u' and 'me'..." - Traditional. IR1N_07.txt - CHAPTER 5 - Part 1. "Manual release is online." - Enterprise NCC-1701E. IR1N_08.txt - CHAPTER 5 - Part 2. IR1N_09.txt - CHAPTER 6 - Part 1. "I suggest you take those eyes somewhere else, while you still have them." - Susan Ivanova. IR1N_10.txt - CHAPTER 6 - Part 2. IR1N_11.txt - CHAPTER 7 - Part 1. "There....are....four....lights...." - Jean-Luc Picard. IR1N_12.txt - CHAPTER 7 - Part 2. IR1N_13.txt - CHAPTER 8. "I'm a doctor, not a (insert noun here)!" - Dr. Leonard McCoy. IR1N_14.txt - CHAPTER 9 - Part 1. "What do you want?" - Mr. Morden. IR1N_15.txt - CHAPTER 9 - Part 2. IR1N_16.txt - CHAPTER 10. "Fascinating, Captain..." - Spock of Vulcan. IR1N_17.txt - CHAPTER 11 - Part 1. "Reflection...surprise...terror...for the future..." - Kosh. IR1N_18.txt - CHAPTER 11 - Part 2. IR1N_19.txt - CHAPTER 12 - Part 1. "One thing at a time, Ambassador....one thing at a time." - Mr. Morden. IR1N_20.txt - CHAPTER 12 - Part 2. IR1N_21.txt - CHAPTER 13 - Part 1. "This is no time to argue about the time -- we don't have the time!" - Deanna Troi. IR1N_22.txt - CHAPTER 13 - Part 2. IR1N_23.txt - CHAPTER 14. "It's like I always say -- you can get more with a kind word and a two-by-four than you can with just a kind word." - Marcus Cole. IR1N_24.txt - CHAPTER 15. "That's the worst case of testosterone poisoning >I've< ever seen..." - Susan Ivanova. IR1N_25.txt - CHAPTER 16. "A signpost in a strange land..." - Sam Phillips. IR1N_26.txt - CHAPTER 17. "It's a nuisance, but what can you expect from reptiles?" - Marcus Cole. IR1N_27.txt - CHAPTER 18. "Well. It was a good idea, while it lasted." - Marcus Cole. IR1N_28.txt - CHAPTER 19. "Assimilate this!" - Worf, son of Mogh. IR1N_29.txt - CHAPTER 20. "If you were any other man, I would kill you where you stand." - Worf, son of Mogh. IR1N_30.txt - CHAPTER 21. "I knew you would come." - Various. IR1N_31.txt - CHAPTER 22 - Part 1. "Hello, old friend..." - Jeffrey Sinclair. IR1N_32.txt - CHAPTER 22 - Part 2. IR1N_33.txt - CHAPTER 23. "Everybody remember where we parked." - James T. Kirk. IR1N_34.txt - CHAPTER 24 - Part 1. "The Outside closes at 4 o'clock." - Lincoln Park Children's Zoo, Chicago IR1N_35.txt - CHAPTER 24 - Part 2. - Epilogue. IR1N_36.txt - Recap. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * REFERENCES * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The Analysis document and the Three Sins are referred to frequently and rather cryptically throughout the story. To keep the flow going, rather than recap them wherever they appear, I am including them here for reference. DO NOT look further before you get through IR1N_01.TXT! R E F E R E N C E S P A C E Analysis document - "As far as I can tell, I am from an alternate past (1998), in which you guys are a television show. From what the Medlab staff can tell me, I appeared via some method that produced visual effects similar to the 'matter transporter' used in the other 'currently' popular Future History scenario. Possibilities: 1) I'm telling the truth, and something very weird is going on. 2) I'm lying through my teeth, and something moderately weird is going on. 3) I'm really from here (more or less), with a personality overlay, probably courtesy of your lovely telepaths (note that your Mr. Bester is played by the guy who, in his youth, played the navigator in the first chunk of the above- mentioned other Future History -- coincidence or clue?). 4) I'm out of my mind. 4.1) "back home" 4.2) "here" 4.3) somewhere/when completely different. 5) This whole thing is a simulation of some sort. 5.1) I'm an innocent party shanghai'd into it for some reason. 5.2) I'm a volunteer or victim or something. 5.3) I'm an A.I. or something. 6) Something completely different. Actions: 1) Disprove (2) above. 2) Check my stuff (clothes, wallet, etc.) -- is it faked? Background check on my I.D. Of course, if I never existed in this timeline, not finding me won't tell us anything. If I did, finding me won't tell us much -- still, what we do or do not find may tell us something. 3) Assuming that my version of events is at least generally congruent with your reality (allowing for discrepancies inherent in producing a TV show set 260-odd years in the future), there is one thing that might at least prove that I know stuff that can only come from watching the show (or access to some other "overarching" information source, on the level of your Mr. Lorien) - get hold of Lyta Alexander and see if she remembers what Kosh said to the Minbari in the changeling net right before he (Kosh) was knocked out. She is the only living person who could know that, unless she or Kosh mentioned it to somebody, and she was a bit distracted and he probably wouldn't have bothered. 4) Find a plausible explanation for the 'light show' in C&C. 5) Data search on the 'masterminds' of both Future Histories -- Gene Roddenberry (Star Trek) and J. Michael Straczynski (Babylon 5) circa 1950-2000. Did they exist? What did they do? What happened to them? Try Walter Koenig (Bester) too. 6)...." DO NOT look further before you get through IR1N_11.TXT! R E F E R E N C E S P A C E From: Jakhel Subject: Infinite Regress 1: Chapter 1 Part 1 (2/37) IR1N_01.txt Date: Wed, 20 May 1998 23:44:52 EDT **IR1N_01.TXT * * INFINITE REGRESS 1: CHAPTER 1 PART 1 * * * * * * * * * INITIAL SUBMISSION 05/20/98 * * See Infinite Regress 1: Overview (IR1N_00.txt) for attributions, * acknowledgements, and other notes. Contact me at Jakhel@aol.com with * feedback, questions, or whatever. * * TIMEFRAME: 3 days before the arrival of Captain Lochley. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * WARNING! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * THIS FILE MAY CONTAIN ANY OR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING: * * SPOILERS FOR THE FIRST HALF OF SEASON 5 * VERY COLORFUL LANGUAGE * SEXUAL INSINUENDO * SUBVERSIVE AND HERETICAL IDEAS * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * S P O I L E R S P A C E A N D M **IR1N_01.TXT * * * * * * * * * * BEGIN * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Prologue - A woman crouched on the floor of a darkened room, one leg back, elbow propped on the front knee. It was a comfortably furnished room, but the woman didn't look particularly comfortable. Every muscle taut, her gaze was rivetted on a smallish portable TV. The screen showed alternating closeups of two men sitting across from each other in some sort of tube-transport module. One spoke softly, steadily, with a clipped accent. The other was silent, expressionless in the strobe-shot darkness of the tunnel. "I've decided to be magnanimous, Mr. Garibaldi -- not that you'll appreciate it -- because you have prevented a new Holocaust. The enslavement and murder of several million telepaths -- though I doubt very much you'll appreciate that either. Go back, Mr. Garibaldi -- go back and remember..." The woman's jaw clenched as the smaller man kept talking, and her hand opened and closed, spasmodically, clawlike. At last, the man in black left the car, and the screen showed the bald man beginning to remember. A raw scream of animal anguish rang out, and the program cut to a chewing gum commercial. The woman rose with a single lithe movement and stalked into the kitchen. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * CHAPTER 1. "In all my years in Temple, nothing ever prepared me for THIS sort of experience....." - Lennier, of the 3rd Fane of J'Domo. Okay, so I'm walking home from the mall on a Sunday afternoon. It has finally turned into real winter after months of nasty cold rain, and the kid is off sledding and building snowpeople with one of his buddies, so I've been trekking all over town in the soft snow. Next thing I know, I'm waking up on an examination table. A nicely padded examination table, in a bustling clinic area. The decor is very high-tech, in soothing shades of light grey and teal, with a tasteful logo on the wall above me....I close my eyes. Okay, I'm dreaming. I open my eyes....okay, I'm hallucinating. I raise up on an elbow, looking around for lights, cameras, the rest of the soundstage.... nope, just more clinic. Or should I say Medlab? I get up, more curious than woozy (though not by much), grab my glasses off the console next to me, and head for the open door. The staff is busy tending to other patients, and I make it far enough to get a good look down the hall both ways -- yup, it's a hallway, all righty, with more of those nifty 5-of-swords logos and some right peculiar-looking pedestrians. If it's a fake, it's a good one. If it's a hallucination, it's a damn good one -- the smells are particularly inventive. They're not overwhelming, just strange, and do not combine at all well with the acrobatics my stomach is attempting. Finally, somebody notices me. A youngish medical-type lady bustles over to help me back to the table. "Well, you're finally awake," she observes. "How are you feeling?" I make a noise indicative of bearable misery, then utter the inevitable. "Um....not to be cliche or anything, but where exactly am I?" "Medlab 2, Babylon 5. Apparently, you appeared in C&C in a blaze of glory, and since you were unconscious, Security brought you here." "A blaze of glory?" "Mmhmm, some kind of light show, anyway." She checks the console and makes some notes. By now I'm past confused and halfway to hysterical. "Transporter, probably." The medic is in a more grounded state of consciousness and looks at me as though I just might be making sense. Unfortunately, I know better. I think. Well, in for a valium, in for a bottle of Thorazine -- "Is, um, Dr. Franklin around?" "His shift starts in a little while. Would you like me to call him now?" "No, no, that's okay. I'll just hang out here and, uh, talk to him when he gets in, I guess." There's one more thing I need to know -- the date. She tells me, looking at me dubiously when I ask for the year. Mid-January, 2262 -- which puts us pretty much into unknown territory, from my perspective. Probably just as well, considering all the godawful things that can happen when people run around with information from other people's futures... thinking about this makes my head hurt. I lie back and just breathe for a while. Resistance is futile, thinking is inevitable, and before long I realize that if I don't write some of this stuff down, I'm going to go stark staring nuts -- assuming I'm not already. One of the staff comes up with an actual notepad (not quite paper, but it'll do) and recognizable pen. In about half an hour of bugging the staff for details, scribbling, erasing, and reorganizing, I have drafted a reasonable (sic) Analysis document -- something for Franklin, Security, and/or whoever to work off of without getting totally lost in the twists and turns of causality (or lack of same): "As far as I can tell, I am from an alternate past (1998), in which you guys are a television show. From what the Medlab staff can tell me, I appeared via some method that produced visual effects similar to the 'matter transporter' used in the other 'currently' popular Future History scenario. Possibilities: 1) I'm telling the truth, and something very weird is going on. 2) I'm lying through my teeth, and something moderately weird is going on. 3) I'm really from here (more or less), with a personality overlay, probably courtesy of your lovely telepaths (note that your Mr. Bester is played by the guy who, in his youth, played the navigator in the first chunk of the above- mentioned other Future History -- coincidence or clue?). 4) I'm out of my mind. 4.1) "back home" 4.2) "here" 4.3) somewhere/when completely different. 5) This whole thing is a simulation of some sort. 5.1) I'm an innocent party shanghai'd into it for some reason. 5.2) I'm a volunteer or victim or something. 5.3) I'm an A.I. or something. 6) Something completely different. Actions: 1) Disprove (2) above. 2) Check my stuff (clothes, wallet, etc.) -- is it faked? Background check on my I.D. Of course, if I never existed in this timeline, not finding me won't tell us anything. If I did, finding me won't tell us much -- still, what we do or do not find may tell us SOMETHING. 3) Assuming that my version of events is at least generally congruent with your reality (allowing for discrepancies inherent in producing a TV show set 260-odd years in the future), there is one thing that might at least prove that I know stuff that can only come from watching the show (or access to some other 'overarching' information source, on the level of your Mr. Lorien?) - get hold of Lyta Alexander and see if she remembers what Kosh said to the Minbari in the changeling net right before he (Kosh) was knocked out. She is the only living person who could know that, unless she or Kosh mentioned it to somebody, and she was a bit distracted and he probably wouldn't have bothered. 4) Find a plausible explanation for the 'light show' in C&C. 5) Data search on the 'masterminds' of both Future Histories -- Gene Roddenberry (Star Trek) and J. Michael Straczynski (Babylon 5) circa 1950-2000. Did they exist? What did they do? What happened to them? Try Walter Koenig (Bester) too. 6)...." At that point, Dr. Franklin walks in. It's Stephen, all right -- or Richard Biggs if this is some sort of practical joke, or somebody who looks just like him, or a hologram, or......let's just say it's Stephen, for now. Better not call him Stephen, though -- I'm going to have to watch that! He checks in with the other three patients -- two humans and a little person with what might or might not be standard "Gee, let's put bumps on their noses and foreheads and then they must be aliens" makeup. Then he gets to me. "How are you feeling?" Ah, yes, just the right degree of professional concern, mixed with boredom and the merest twinge of curiosity -- with all the weirdness coming down in the past few years, a mere human appearing out of nowhere in the middle of the night is hardly worth bothering with. "Still a little shaky," I answer, "but basically okay. Is there anything actually WRONG with me?" Inoperable cancer that I'm fleeing into hallucinations? A mysterious plague or interdimensional parasite?? Am I really an android or alien with pilfered or made-up memories??? "Apparently the loss of consciousness was caused by some sort of synaptic dampening field. Once the field was no longer present, it took a few hours for your brain waves to restabilize, but there doesn't seem to be any permanent damage...." Field? Light show? "Could it have anything to do with how I was, um, brought here?" Yes, he does have nice eyes -- brown velvet lasers, at the moment. "I don't know, how WERE you brought here?" "No clue." I hand him the notepad. "I've been writing stuff down to keep from climbing the walls. Here's what I've come up with so far." He puzzles over my hieroglyphics. "Alternate past? Television show!" He looks at me incredulously. "Keep going, it gets better." He does, nodding occasionally -- probably at Possibility #4. When he gets to #6, he notes wryly, "that probably covers it." "Hey, you read, or watch, enough of this stuff, you know better than to take anything for granted!" "Mmm." He scans the rest, then just looks at me for a moment. "Tell you what, as soon as rounds are done I'll check with Security. Meanwhile, you stay here and rest." Having tried to sit up again and thought better of it, I agree. He starts to leave, then turns back. "By the way, what DID Kosh say to the Minbari in the changeling net?" As it happens, the punchline is entirely appropriate -- "He addressed him as Entil'zha Valen -- which wouldn't have made any sense to anybody at the time, and if it were anybody but Kosh, you'd wonder why he bothered." Franklin nods thoughtfully and leaves. One major cultural evolutionary leap agreed upon by both Star Trek and B5 involves the concept of appropiate attire for medical patients -- real clothes instead of glorified kleenices. Nevertheless, as soon as I feel up to it, I locate my own clothes folded neatly in a compartment under the table. Since it was cold out, I had layered -- a long-sleeved waffle-henley under my Religions of the World T-Shirt, under a woolly tunic sweater, with sweatpants over leggings and two pairs of socks. I decide to go with the T-shirt and sweater over the sweatpants, and roll up the extra socks and long-sleeved shirt in the leggings. A staff person points me to a washroom to change in - I check the plumbing: sleek but decipherable. Wow, a dispenser of disposable combs of various designs, and a recyctacle to dispose of them in. Ditto for oral hygiene objects, dermal care substances, depilatories, and sweat gland inhibitors. I avail myself of each (don't ask). **IR1N_01.TXT * * * * * * * * * * END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * From: Jakhel Subject: Infinite Regress 1: Chapter 1 Part 2 (3/37) IR1N_02.txt Date: Thu, 21 May 1998 22:31:25 EDT **IR1N_02.TXT * * INFINITE REGRESS 1: CHAPTER 1 PART 2 * * * * * * * * * INITIAL SUBMISSION 05/21/98 * "In all my years in Temple, nothing ever prepared me for THIS sort * of experience....." - Lennier, of the 3rd Fane of J'Domo. * * See Infinite Regress 1: Overview (IR1N_00.txt) for attributions, * acknowledgements, and other notes. Contact me at Jakhel@aol.com with * feedback, questions, or whatever. * * TIMEFRAME: 3 days before the arrival of Captain Lochley. * SYNOPSIS: Our heroine or other opiate has appeared on the station * and made the acquaintance of Dr. Franklin. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * WARNING! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * THIS FILE MAY CONTAIN ANY OR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING: * * SPOILERS FOR THE FIRST HALF OF SEASON 5 * VERY COLORFUL LANGUAGE * SEXUAL INSINUENDO * SUBVERSIVE AND HERETICAL IDEAS * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * S P O I L E R S P A C E A N D M O R E S P O I L **IR1N_02.TXT * * * * * * * * * * BEGIN * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * At this point I shall digress, and flip into a remote p.o.v, since I'm relaying what I learned later. Apparently, earlier that morning Mr. Michael Garibaldi, erstwhile Security Chief turned Galactic P.I., had run across one of his former subordinates while enjoying a late dinner in the Zocalo. The guy mentioned my arrival, and Mr. Garibaldi was understandably intrigued. He gave the new Security Chief, Mr. Zack Allen, some time to get settled into his shift, then wandered by the office. Zack was sitting there with the contents of my wallet strewn across the desk and an annoyed look on his face. Considering the various expired appointment cards, unnamed phone numbers, Buy-10-get-1-free cards, and other miscellaneous crap that accumulates in my wallet, not to mention the truly embarrassing number of ATM receipts, I can certainly understand why. Let's not even discuss my driver's license photo. That decidedly inartistic image was echoed on the desk monitor, along with a brief and uninspiring bio. According to EarthGov records, I was born June 7th, 1956 in Arlington, Va, and died in a house fire in late 2032, having done nothing of note except produce a similarly undistinguished offspring. "It's amazing, Chief." (Yes, Zack still calls Garibaldi 'Chief' in moments of stress -- I heard him, later.) "All this stuff checks out. And look at the detail -- have you ever seen fake i.d. with this much...." He waved at it, "miscellaneous crap?" "260-year-old miscellaneous crap, in perfect condition," mused Garibaldi sarcastically, fingering my disintegrating clinic card. Zack fished something out of a console. "Hey, you ain't seen nothing yet." He handed the other guy a dollar bill. "Talk about perfect condition -- as far as the analyzer can tell, this baby is genuine." "So what? I know three different sources in Downbelow who could get you one just like it for a couple grand." "Yeah, well, this dame's got eight of 'em, plus two fives and a twenty. And that's not counting the change in her pockets." "And there's always the credit cards," Garibaldi pointed out, nudging a useless bit of plastic. "Lou said something about...lights?" "Yeah, yeah." Zack picked up his 'coffee' mug and slurped at it. "There's this column of bluish light a couple meters high, right? Then this woman appears in it, the light disappears, and she falls over. Boom. Out cold. So they took her to Medlab 2 and brought her coat and i.d. here." "This coat?" There was a worn LL Bean parka draped over the back of Zack's chair. "Yep. It's genuine, too." "Uh-huh.....are you done with this stuff?" "Yeah, I was going to send someone to Medlab with it -- I'm gonna go talk to her as soon as I get a chance, but I've got a staff meeting in about... yipe...thirty seconds!" "Listen, why don't I just run it down there for you?" offered Garibaldi. "Would you? Hey, that's great -- tell Dr. Franklin I'll be there as soon as I can get away -- and not to let her wander off anywhere 'til I get there, okay? Thanks, man." "No problem," said Michael to Zack's back. Then he put my wallet together, downloaded the files from Zack's terminal to his own datapad, and grabbed my coat. He got to Franklin's office just as the doctor was firing up a search query, and went over my Analysis while it was chugging. Possibility #4: "No shit." Action #2: "Did that. Everything looks real, and she's on file. I got it right here." Action #3: "Okay, I'll bite, what DID Kosh say to the Minbari in the changeling net?" Stephen told him. "I'm running a search on those other guys now," the doctor continued -- and right on cue, that syrupy computer voice piped up, "Search...completed." "Roddenberry....Star Trek...." mused Garibaldi, "I remember that show. The jerk-off captain and the guy with the ears..." just then Koenig's cheery young visage came on the screen and Michael froze solid. "Computer," he snapped, "Access subsequent visual images for subject Koenig, Walter." Pictures flashed until he stopped them at a fiendishly charming middle-aged version. Stephen says he hissed -- let's call it a sigh. Anyway, once he pulled his fingernails OUT of the desktop, he remembered his manners and asked Franklin to pull up the file on Straczynski. They looked at that, then ran a search on all actors of the period correlating with visual data on Babylon 5 personnel. Jerry Doyle popped up first, naturally, followed by Boxleitner, Christian, Biggs, and the other humans. (They didn't check for the aliens on that pass.) Garibaldi took out his datapad. "May I?" "Be my guest," said Franklin. **IR1N_02.TXT * * * * * * * * * * END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * From: Jakhel Subject: Infinite Regress 1: Chapter 2 (4/37) IR1N_03.txt Date: Thu, 21 May 1998 22:35:15 EDT **IR1N_03.TXT * * INFINITE REGRESS 1: CHAPTER 2 * * * * * * * * * * * * * INITIAL SUBMISSION 05/21/98 * "Breathing out....breathing in....breathing out....breathing in...." * - Jeffrey Sinclair. * * See Infinite Regress 1: Overview (IR1N_00.txt) for attributions, * acknowledgements, and other notes. Contact me at Jakhel@aol.com with * feedback, questions, or whatever. * * TIMEFRAME: 3 days before the arrival of Captain Lochley. * SYNOPSIS: Our heroine or other opiate has appeared on the station * and made the acquaintance of Dr. Franklin. Mr. Garibaldi has checked * her records, and also found Koenig and the B5 actors. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * WARNING! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * THIS FILE MAY CONTAIN ANY OR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING: * * SPOILERS FOR THE FIRST HALF OF SEASON 5 * VERY COLORFUL LANGUAGE * SEXUAL INSINUENDO * SUBVERSIVE AND HERETICAL IDEAS * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * S P O I L E R S P A C E A N D M O R E S P O I L **IR1N_03.TXT * * * * * * * * * * BEGIN * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Meanwhile, once I got dressed, there wasn't much to do. The staff continued to ignore me unless I bothered them, and I didn't want to bug the patients. Eventually I snagged another notepad and went back to ruminating. At about 09:45 by the wall clock, Garibaldi strolled in. He was wearing his nice brown civvies that make him look like something from the Sicilian branch of the Addams Family, and carrying my coat, his datapad, and my notepad. I looked up and said without thinking, "Whadja find?" Oops. He took about a millisecond to process that, decided he didn't like it, and led with his right hand. "How do you do. I'm Michael Garibaldi, a freelance investigator based on Babylon 5, and you would be...?" "Utterly charmed," I replied without missing a beat, and clasped his hand in both of mine. Strong hand. Warm hand. Serious callouses and tendons. Very REAL.... "You know", I went on recklessly, "when they had the auditions, they were, like, 'state your name and the part you're auditioning for', and this one guy goes 'I'm Jerry Doyle, and I'm here for the part I'm gonna GET.'" "Yeah, we found Doyle." Garibaldi retrieved his hand and peered critically at the datapad. "Good-looking guy." Careful, now -- "Um, your...particular >style< of good-looking, or otherwise?" Behind him, I saw Stephen stifle a snicker. Michael just handed me the datapad. There was Doyle, in his McDonald's-logo hairline days. I couldn't resist. "Yup, that's the Garibaldi >I< know and love." I don't know why I did that. With guys like that, you have to push back just to stay in the conversation, but that WAS a bit much. Garibaldi grabbed the pad back and poked at it. "Yeah, and that's the Bester >I< know and love." He glared at me as if it was MY fault. I did a Spock eyebrow at him. "Did you find Straczynski?" "Yep." "What happened to him?" I'd glimpsed enough of Doyle's bio to see that there was no B5 credit listed. Garibaldi's eyes narrowed. "What do YOU think?" Uh-oh. I started to say something like 'how the hell should I know?', but thought better of it. I remembered the train of thought I'd been following when they came in, and narrowed my eyes right back at him. "Did you find me?" Garibaldi punched the pad again and handed it back to me. Yuck. Birthdate -- I laughed, then had to explain the deal with the clerk at the hospital thinking it was 5:45AM on the 7th instead of 5:45PM on the 6th. Michael and Stephen looked at each other -- more extraneous detail. "Um, could I..." Stephen showed me how to link to the kid's file. Cartoonist -- "Excellent!" -- and work on special effects for sf movies -- "Seriously excellent! Yes! That's my KID!" I enthused. Garibaldi folded his arms, unimpressed. I went back to my file. "Publications -- none listed...I'll bet the same thing happened to Straczynski; he may have had the idea, or something like it, but he never got around to doing anything with it." I handed Garibaldi the pad. He brought up Straczynski's file and handed it back. Killed in an auto accident in 1987. "According to this documentary thingy they ran," I said thoughtfully, "he had the idea for the whole 5-year saga in one swell foop, and spent about a year writing it down -- that would have been right around then." "So," Stephen mused, "Maybe he was distracted and didn't watch where he was going?" "Or where someone else was going. Hey, it makes as much sense as anything else," I pointed out. Garibaldi still wasn't impressed. "So what have YOU not published?" I tried to explain what I had been thinking. "Well, this is a long shot, and I'm not sure where it goes, really, but in my science-fiction series, which I have yet to do squat with, one of the things I'm doing is taking Zelazny's concept -- 'positing infinity, the rest is easy' -- and extending it to say that internally consistent works of fiction, that enough people absorb and more-or-less believe in, generate their own realities..." Garibaldi butted in, "Didn't Heinlein do something like that?" "Yeah, several people have -- trouble is, you have to be real careful with your implications, and keep a good hold on your characters and plotline, or the whole thing just sort of spirals into mush. But anyway, I've got these behind-the-scenes advanced-and-morally-pure-like-driven-snow type dudes" I flicked a sardonic glance at the guys, "who DO have the means to flip between universes, which, as you'll note, is what seems to have happened to me. And if Straczynski, in my timeline, wrote something that turned into -- or echoed -- your timeline..." You're saying people in your...timeline...create other universes?" Yes, Stephen is also a scientist. I shook my head. "It's not necessarily that simple. Now that I've been pulled out of my timeline, will I ever write it? Or was it the me in this timeline that was supposed to write it, only I got burned up -- with my notes -- before I could get around to it -- just like your version of Straczynski?" Garibaldi looked dubious. "Hey, look," I protested, "I may procrastinate like crazy, but I AM persistent: I can see getting it together to publish at about 75 or so. But any way you look at it, we still have no clue who's behind this or what their motive is. Or why they used a Star Trek transporter or whatever the hell it was. This whole thing is just way too weird, any way you look at it." "You're telling me," said Garibaldi. "Well, listen, folks, I've got places to go, people to see -- oh, Stephen, Zack said to tell you he'll be by to talk to Ms. Hayes as soon as he gets out of his meeting." He turned to me. "Welcome to Babylon 5." I nodded. He left. Stephen exhaled. "Before Zack gets here, I can at least do something about those," he said, pointing at the bridge of my nose. My glasses? "They're scratched all to hell," he continued in moderately high dudgeon, "and they're not even the right prescription!" "I've been meaning to get new ones," I said apologetically, "I just haven't gotten around to it." "Well, as long as you're here, we might as well get those eyes fixed, and then you won't have to worry about it." Excuse me? Turns out he could indeed fix my eyes -- even zap the cataract 'seeds' that weren't due to start bugging me for another twenty years or so. The process was fascinating, and I'm afraid I pestered him a bit about the details. He explained things patiently, though -- he seemed pleased to have an interested audience, and before I knew it I had, in fact, slipped and called him 'Stephen'. "...I'm sorry, >Dr. Franklin<." "That's all right," he responded automatically. "Well, no, it isn't," I said firmly. "It may seem trivial, but actually one of the hardest things about this for me -- aside from the general weirdness of the whole thing -- is keeping in mind that I don't really KNOW you people." He didn't get it, so I tried again. "It really was a damn good show, and when you get into this stuff, you develop a certain....regard for the various characters. To me, you're not 'Dr. Franklin', you're 'Stephen', and if I don't watch myself pretty carefully, I'm going to be making remarks about 'when Jeff said this' and 'when Susan did that' and....hell, I've already stepped on Garibaldi's toes." "Yes, well, Mr. Garibaldi's 'toes' are easily stepped on," Stephen pointed out. No shit, thought I. "Besides, with the mood he's been in since he got back from Mars, I think everybody's stepped on them at least once -- but then I suppose >you< know all >about< that," he added sarcastically. I thought back over the last few episodes, winding up the 4th season... skipping over the rough bits...."Nnnnooooo....actually, the last thing I remember about Garibaldi was....well...let's see, he did the battle thing, found Lise, you all came back here to party, and...that's all there was, I think. Why, what happened?" Stephen hesitated -- just a little too long. "Oh, my god -- don't tell me something happened to Lise!" "No, nothing like that," he assured me. He made some notes and adjusted something down by my feet before continuing. "Apparently, she had some.... second thoughts..." "AGAIN?" I burst out indignantly, then caught myself. "Shit, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that, it's none of my business, it's just....god DAMN it, he doesn't need that right now!" "You're right," Stephen said, lowering a helmet-like contraption over my head. "It's none of your business. Now, this may sting for a moment...." Typical medical understatement. When it was over, I muttered, "Well, I suppose from her point of view it could make a certain amount of sense..." "And it's none..." "- Of my business, yes, I know, doctor. Thank you, doctor, " I said sarcastically. "Thank you, >Stephen<," he admonished, pushing back the headset. I smiled up at him. "Thank you, Stephen," I repeated obediently. Then I noticed..... everything! I sat up, looking around in wonder at all the details, the crisp lines....I brought my hand up by my nose and admired all the little ridges. I picked up a labelled phial and covered my right eye -- and read the little letters clear as anything! "Thank you, Stephen!" I breathed -- I wanted to hug him, but that would have been pushing it. "Just doing my job," he said, and turned away in a vain attempt to hide a grin. Not long after that, Zack showed up. We went over the whole thing with him, much less flippantly and with no more coherent results. Poor Zack -- he's a great guy, but imagination isn't his strong suit, and this situation was pushing the limits of MINE. Eventually, we trucked over to Security for a session with the biofeedback devices. There were some relatively mild truth drugs available -- Stephen was reluctant, but I wanted to get this over with. Bizarre -- but at least by the time it was over I felt we had taken a good whack at Action #1. By about 13:00 I had more-or-less recovered, and Dr. Franklin offered to take me to lunch. Since I was broke, I graciously accepted. On the way, I mentioned my financial dilemna. "I wouldn't worry about it. I'm sure Mr. Garibaldi knows somebody who can turn that old paper money into lots of nice, new credits for you." "Yeah, but eventually I'll have to look for a job, and I'll bet the market for PowerBuilder programmers in the 23rd century is pretty much nonexistent." "You'll think of something," he assured me, ushering me to a seat. Over lunch we discussed history, medicine, history of medicine, politics and medicine, and whether Marcus could have divvied up the load through the Healing Machine if he'd just chilled out enough to think of it. Along about then, Ambassador G'Kar came up to our table. My first serious alien! He was charming, of course. Stephen simply told him that I was visiting from Earth, but he had heard some odd rumors and was a bit suspicious. That was fun fencing with -- he was quite willing to bide his time. Also a bit browner than I had expected, and I kept getting distracted by the bicolored eyes. When he started flirting, in his heavyhanded G'Kar fashion, I flashed on the pink underwear bit and had a hell of a time keeping a straight face. As soon as he left, I grabbed Dr. Franklin's forearm convulsively. "Stephen! Remember, back in '58, they had this demonstration of everybody's religions?" Stephen nodded, gently trying to get his arm back. "Yeah, I was on leave at the time, but I remember hearing about it." "Anyway, at the same time G'Kar has found out that an old enemy has hired an assassin to kill him. So he hires a bodyguard from this insect dude, only the bodyguard winds up dead in his -- G'Kar's -- quarters. So Garibaldi's in there talking to him about it -- oh, yeah, Na'Toth just got there -- I mean here -- too and earlier she'd made some comment about G'Kar's thing for human females -- and Garibaldi's poking around and he comes up with this pair of hot pink lacy underthings from under G'Kar's pillow." Stephen couldn't help cracking up at that. "Right. So Michael's giving him the required ration of shit, and at the end he goes, like, 'You know, I have to say, hot pink is DEFINITELY your color', and the whole time G'Kar was talking to us I kept thinking about that and I damn near LOST it!" By this time Stephen was making shushing noises at me, but I couldn't stop. All this stuff was swirling around in my head and I couldn't stop babbling about previous episodes, the new season not having started yet and whether that meant anything, all those time-loop Star Trek shows, the time- loop here.....he'd shepherded me almost all the way back to Medlab when we ran into Garibaldi in the corridor. I wasn't walking too well by that time, so he grabbed my other arm and asked Stephen what the hell happened to me. "Stress, I think. I should have known better than to give her those drugs..." "Drugs? What drugs?" He named the stuff he'd used. "We were trying to take care of 'Action #1', but we should have at least waited...." "Yeah, well, don't beat yourself up over it, she seemed to be in pretty good shape earlier." At that point I was able to at least shift tracks, so I started to tell Michael -- much less coherently -- about the underwear thing. "...And the worst part of it is, the way his makeup is done -- Katsulas's makeup -- it's a slightly different color, plus with the lighting in there, the thing is, hot pink really IS his color!" We'd stopped dead in the hallway by then, and I was kind of hanging on Michael for support. "The thing of it is," I looked up at him -- farther up than I would have thought, actually -- "it's like one of those 'everything you know is wrong' kinda deals, only....everything I know is right, and that's even WORSE, you know?" He did know. After everything he'd been through recently due to Bester's little tricks with his mind, he knew exactly how I was feeling right then. And I knew he knew, and it helped. "Come on," he said brusquely, and heaved me up onto my feet. "Let's get you back to Medlab and you can rest for a while." **IR1N_03.TXT * * * * * * * * * * END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * From: Jakhel Subject: Infinite Regress 1: Chapter 3 Part 1 (5/37) IR1N_04.txt Date: Fri, 22 May 1998 22:38:24 EDT **IR1N_04.TXT * * INFINITE REGRESS 1: CHAPTER 3 Part 1* * * * * * * * * * * * * INITIAL SUBMISSION 05/22/98 * "When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro." * - Dr. Hunter S. Thompson. * * See Infinite Regress 1: Overview (IR1N_00.txt) for attributions, * acknowledgements, and other notes. Contact me at Jakhel@aol.com with * feedback, questions, or whatever. * * TIMEFRAME: 3 days before the arrival of Captain Lochley. * SYNOPSIS: Our heroine has appeared on the station and made the acquaintance * of Dr. Franklin, Mr. Garibaldi, Mr. Allen, and Ambassador G'Kar. All this * has resulted in input overload, and after an embarrassing collapse in the * corridor, she has been taken to Medlab and sedated. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * WARNING! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * THIS FILE MAY CONTAIN ANY OR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING: * * SPOILERS FOR THE FIRST HALF OF SEASON 5 * VERY COLORFUL LANGUAGE * SEXUAL INSINUENDO * SUBVERSIVE AND HERETICAL IDEAS * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * S P O I L E R S P A C E A N D M O R E S P **IR1N_04.TXT * * * * * * * * * * BEGIN * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * When I woke up again, it was almost 18:00. I was in one of those curtained-off areas, and Garibaldi was sitting there poking at his datapad. I felt a lot calmer, and intended to stay that way. "Mr. Garibaldi." He looked up. "Hey, you're back with us." "What, did I disappear again?" "Ha ha, very funny. How are you feeling?" "Tired of answering that question. Listen, I'm sorry about that scene in the hallway, there..." He shrugged it off. "It happens. Dr. Franklin's grumbling at himself for giving you those truth drugs, though..." I sighed. "I know, I should have known better. It's just that >I< know I'm not lying, but I wanted you guys to know, too, especially you and Z....Mr. Allen." "Mm," He mm'd noncommitally. Mr. Garibaldi....." I didn't know how to bring this up gracefully. "Stephen..." An eyebrow hiked. "I mean, >Dr. Franklin< said I might be able to convert my currency into credits...." "At a hefty markup, if you know the right people and can make the right deal," he observed. "Well," I said carefully. "Dr. Franklin said you might be able to help me with that." "Possibly...." He punched the pad for a while, then gave me a challenging look. "20 percent." I didn't >even< think he meant the markup. "Well, yeah..." -- You know, you should never try to derail a man when he's setting himself up for a good line. Or chapter, as the case may be. He went on for a good five minutes about not being in the public service business any more and making ends meet until I finally lost patience with him. "Michael!" "What?" "DUH!!!" One of the nice things about that word is that it actually GAINS impact from being out of common usage. His eyebrows took a running jump at his forehead, but lost steam about halfway to the top and slipped back. "Oh. Yeah, that's right, I guess you know all that already, huh?" I just looked at him. "Yeah, well, anyway, um..." he ran down, then started up again, more hesitantly. "You probably want to, um, get out of this place, and Dr. Franklin's going to need it for other patients..." he paused and checked to see if any of his hair had grown back. It hadn't. "...and I've got some leads, but it may take some time to finalize the deal, and in the meantime you're, uh," he exhaled. This is generally considered healthy. He inhaled. Even better. "...welcome to sleep on my sofa for a day or two....oh, hell, I'll take the sofa. Just for a couple of days, mind -- it's not as bad as those things the Minbari use, but..." "I should hope not!" I cut in, grinning. He was in some danger of grinning back, but caught himself just in time. "Yeah, well, whatever." I didn't see what was so interesting about the curtains, but then I was new here. "Thanks, I appreciate it," I replied. That was so sweet -- I guess -- but then he IS, of course....I wondered about the sudden diffidence, though... oh, shit. I knew what it was. After that performance in the corridor he probably thought I was going to put the moves on him, given half a chance. As if!! Not only is he not my type, I know perfectly damn well I'm not his. Granted I haven't seen all the reruns, still I sincerely doubt that there is one in which Garibaldi finds himself irresistibly attracted to a dumpy middle- aged broad with glasses. Okay, without glasses. Whatever. At any rate, if I wanted the guy to work with me I'd best defuse that particular misapprehension right swift! He was making noises about calls to make and meeting me and Stephen at dinner. "Mr. Garibaldi." He turned back. "I...apologize again for the incident in the corridor. I do not normally behave like that." "Yeah, well, you don't normally get your entire universe jerked out from under you and replaced by Goldilocks and the Three Bears, either. At least, I hope not, for your sake." He almost made it out the door on that one, but not quite -- "Oh, one more thing -- I talked to President Sheridan this afternoon. He and Delenn are pretty much booked up, but they said they'd have some time to talk to you this evening. After dinner." He split while I was putting my jaw back on. Franklin passed him on the way out. "How are you doing?" Whoa, a phrase change. "I'M fine. Your friend is a jerk. No, I shouldn't say that. He just offered to help me with my finances, at a measly 20 percent commission..." ">Twenty percent?<" awped Stephen. "...AND offered to let me crash on his couch, then on his way OUT told me Sheridan and Delenn want to talk to me after dinner. Real tranquilizing, huh?" "Relax, they're good people." He checked the console. "And this contraption says you're handling the shock quite well. Now I'm going to give you some tablets to take if you feel like things are getting too much for you again, all right?" "Yeah, sure." No way in hell, but why upset the good doctor? "So where did you put my clothes this time?" Dinner was at a slightly more upscale place, and I continued my strategy of centering on one more-or-less recognizable item and branching out from there. This time, I reminded myself sternly that I was on a space station and ordered something from the bean curd family. Stephen was just winding up the 2500-words-or-less version of how the private practice & insurance vs. nationalized health care thing had worked out when Garibaldi showed up. "So, you going to write a book when you get back or what?" "Yeah, right, a self-help book called 'The 12-Step Program for Saving the Planet'." Both men looked blank. I considered explaining, but remembered just in time that I was trying to >avoid< antagonizing Garibaldi. Stephen probably wouldn't be too thrilled with my take on that whole concept either, come to think of it. This whole situation was starting to wear on my discretion circuits -- and it was only likely to get worse. But anyway.... "Actually, I've been thinking about that. One of my prime excuses for procrastinating the science fiction series was that I wanted to work in all kinds of nifty ideas for sustainable technology and whatnot, with AND without the option of moving the nasty shit off the planet -- only trouble is,I have no clue what said ideas might be. So, if I can get a chance to do some research here, find out how you guys actually managed to pull yourselves out of the nosedive we're in the middle of..." "Is that wise?" asked Stephen. "I mean, couldn't you, I don't know, damage the timeline or something?" "I could if it was >my< timeline, but unless somebody's playing games with my head AND your database..." "Which is entirely possible," Garibaldi pointed out. "In which case it's probably NOT a time-loop situation, in which case it won't make a rat's ass worth of difference. Anyway, I categorically refuse to believe that any given future will work out anywhere near the way anyone inside it thinks it will, AT such long range IN such detail" -- that last because both Franklin and Garibaldi were inhaling and I did NOT want to get sidetracked onto prophecies and/or forward loops at the moment -- "so we're working >across< timelines and any ideas I bring back are as good as -- but no better than -- anybody else's." "Yeah, well, there's always the question of whether you'll have the OPTION of bringing them back. And the question of whether anyone would pay any attention to them. And, of course, the question of whether you'd ever get around to actually writing them down." Apparently, Mr. Garibaldi had no aversion to antagonizing ME. I considered how the man's looks would be improved by a dollop of bean curd between the eyes. "The point is, there's no such thing as too many good ideas floating around." I concluded, calmly and reasonably. "Well, I think we can all agree on THAT," chimed in a familiar hearty voice, punctuated by a faint 'plop' as the bean curd that hadn't gone on Michael's forehead went into my water glass. Holy shit, thought I, it's the Captain. President. Whatever. Now, mind you, I don't intimidate easily (especially when people are TRYING, as the gentleman across from me might possibly have figured out by now). However, despite all the silliness I had seen these two go through (vicariously, of course, and within the bounds of prime-time television propriety), and despite knowing very well that they were indeed 'good people', standing there in real live flesh and bone, as it were, they intimidated the living hell out of me. Unlike my workday version of 'Delenn mode' attire, the original did not, in fact, look like something thrown together out of what wasn't in the laundry yet, in a desperate attempt to find something reasonably comfortable, hopefully aesthetic, and minimally conforming to an irksome and depressing dress code. Then again, maybe she was just better at it. They had gotten the makeup damn close. There was the subtle difference between something growing up out of the hair and something stuck on top of it, and an even more subtle something about the bone structure in general, but the main thing they'd missed was the lovely mother-of-pearl effect on the exposed ridges. Sheridan was dapper in a grey coat and all that face fur. I shook hands with Sheridan and bowed to Delenn -- then she gave me that "oh, come >on!<" smile, clasped my hands in hers, and welcomed me to the station in an entirely different tone of voice from Michael's, earlier. The waitbeing appeared magically -- it was one of those guys whose lower face is all tentacles. You'd think that would be a disadvantage to a foodservice career on a human-run station, but he/she/it carried it off with panache. Sheridan greeted the person by name (which I won't even try to transliterate) and ordered a beer. Delenn opted for tea, and I asked for a new glass of water. Delenn turned toward me, and the premonition struck. I SAW the future, as clearly and in as much detail as Julian Bashir's vision during Worf's bachelor party on DS9. It was undeniable, it was unstoppable, and it was happening.... now: "How are you feeling?" Delenn asked solicitously. "Still a little disoriented, actually," I replied with commendable calm. "I should imagine so. Time travel is disturbing enough, but crossing over to an alternate universe...." "Yes," put in Sheridan, "this whole business of a television show, two hundred and sixty years in the past, predicting every detail of our experiences here....it's, well, it's pretty hard to believe." ">I< don't believe it," remarked Garibaldi. "Still going with Possibility #4, are you?" I asked sweetly. "Or #3. 5 and 6 don't look too bad either, but #3 is my...>personal< favorite." Sheridan had pulled my Analysis out of his jacket pocket, consulted it, And passed it to Delenn. She smiled slightly at Possibility #6. The woman smiled a lot. I'd noticed that before. BUT anyway....by now I was well aware that this was the real grilling. The interview with Zack had been only a warmup. Fortunately, I had at least one defender -- "How do you account for the physical evidence, then?" asked Dr. Franklin. "Faked," snapped the prosecutor, "hell, Stephen, you know what those people are capable of." I wanted to ask why, if he was so sure I was a Psi Corps patsy, he was taking me under his wing, so to speak. On second thought, maybe I >didn't< want to ask why. GOOD morning! Perhaps my perspective-induced regard for the man, combined with an overinflated estimate of my own personal threat-potential, had led me to miscalculate very badly indeed. Particularly if he was right, which I was certainly in no position to determine. At any rate, I'm a strategist, not a tactician, and this had been pretty much a non-stop tactical situation from the word 'go'. Perhaps I'd best eat my bean curd and strategize for a while, and let the experts do their thing. **IR1N_04.TXT * * * * * * * * * * END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * From: Jakhel Subject: Infinite Regress 1: Chapter 3 Part 2 (6/37) IR1N_05.txt Date: Fri, 22 May 1998 22:43:35 EDT **IR1N_05.TXT * * INFINITE REGRESS 1: CHAPTER 3 PART 2* * * * * * * * * * * * * INITIAL SUBMISSION 05/22/98 * "When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro." * - Dr. Hunter S. Thompson. * * See Infinite Regress 1: Overview (IR1N_00.txt) for attributions, * acknowledgements, and other notes. Contact me at Jakhel@aol.com with * feedback, questions, or whatever. * * TIMEFRAME: 3 days before the arrival of Captain Lochley. * SYNOPSIS: Our heroine has appeared on the station and made the acquaintance * of various characters. All (Sheridan, Delenn, Franklin, Garibaldi, and our * Ms. Hayes) are discussing the situation after dinner. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * WARNING! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * THIS FILE MAY CONTAIN ANY OR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING: * * SPOILERS FOR THE FIRST HALF OF SEASON 5 * VERY COLORFUL LANGUAGE * SEXUAL INSINUENDO * SUBVERSIVE AND HERETICAL IDEAS * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * S P O I L E R S P A C E A N D M O R E S P O **IR1N_05.TXT * * * * * * * * * * BEGIN * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * They tore into it for the next twenty minutes or so, without coming to any conclusions. Delenn did think up a couple of fascinating subcategories of Possibility #6, but unfortunately neither of them were any more provable -- or disprovable -- at the moment than #4 or #5. That left us with Franklin and, tentatively, Delenn, in favor of #1, Michael staunchly promoting #3, and Sheridan (and me) squarely in the middle. Mind you, I didn't THINK my brains had been scrambled, but then I wouldn't. Which was, of course, Garibaldi's strongest point -- and who would care to argue HIM on it? Well, Stephen, actually. And Sheridan, when he wasn't arguing the other side. (My estimate of the man was rising rapidly, which one would have thought difficult.) I finished up my bean curd and the little orange things with the spikes. Then I pushed the green glop around on my plate for a while, until they started arguing in >tight< circles. "Maybe we're attacking this from the wrong end," I mentioned. "It seems to me that the main question is WHY? Even if I am who and what I think I am, I doubt that this was an accident. Maybe if I'd popped up in a corridor or halfway through a bulkhead or something, but not like THAT. So, what's the point? What good does it do anybody to have some odd person walking around making off-the-wall comments about things that nobody has any business knowing except you?" "Distraction," said Garibaldi succinctly. It occurred to me that that little boost to the man's suspiciousness centers had never been explicitly turned off -- presumably it would wear off eventually without reinforcement, but it sure hadn't yet. "But why?" I prodded. "What's -- " I broke off with a laugh. "Geez, that's exactly what I'd be asking if I WERE a plant -- 'hey, you guys, what's going on that anybody would want to distract you from?' Gaah!" "Very nice," drawled Garibaldi. "Thank you," said I. "Perhaps we should try another approach," put in Delenn, diplomatically. "Just how similar >is< our reality to what you know?" I thought about it. "As far as I can tell, it seems to be running about 90% congruency. Some things are a little off, but, well....I recognized all you people, and you're certainly >acting< like yourselves." I breathed deeply to avoid glaring at the bald guy. "The decor is basically the same -- I knew where I was immediately -- except that they've never actually shown Medlab 2, but I knew it had to be one of 'em -- and this place is not familiar, but, again, either nothing has ever been set here or maybe I wasn't paying attention. Of course, there's some stuff that was obviously done for dramatic effect -- for instance, on the show, nobody ever has to tell the computer to do anything more than once." Stephen snorted at that one. "and there were a few blatant flubs -- like in one of the early episodes, there is..... mention ...of a security tape..." "TAPE?" squawked Garibaldi indignantly. "Yeah, and not only that, but the damned thing cuts out right when the conversation gets interesting, and Doyle just blows right on by like that's normal. Can you say, 'obvious plot device'? Oh, and one other one I caught at the time -- I don't remember the context, but it was after the new uniforms (which do match, by the way, and quite snazzy they are, too) -- but anyway, Boxleitner -- that's you -" Sheridan nodded, "has this line about 'as my great-grandfather used to say, 'Cool'", and I was like, yeah, right, throw a few more generations on there, kiddo!" "But....I DID say that!" protested Sheridan. "You're kidding," I said, astounded. He shrugged. "It sounded good at the time." Alpha males. Who knew? "Cool?" Delenn asked tentatively. I thought about it, then explained, "It's like an intensive form of 'okay', with overtones of slightly surprised approval." "I see," she mused. "Duh," muttered Michael. We went on for a while like that, comparing notes. I mentioned Claudia Christian's remark about 'de-boning' Mira Furlan, and Delenn gave the exact same grin that Furlan had -- that did it, I was hooked. I'd always been a little impatient with Delenn's character, but the actual person was, well, multidimensional, and I found myself cutting her a LOT more slack. Finally, Sheridan changed the subject. "So have you considered what you'll do if you can't get back to your own....universe?" "Yeah, I've tried to." I sighed. "As you know, I worked as a programmer. I tell myself that the one advantage I DO have is that....well, in my time the technology was changing so fast that it wasn't so much a matter of being an expert in any one language, as being quick on the uptake -- able to adapt to new tools and make them do what you needed to do. And I was fairly decent at it, on a certain level -- the serious techie stuff went over my head, but, hey, 'if...then...else' -- what else do you need to know? Still, theres a helluva difference between picking up Visual Basic when you already know PowerBuilder, and making THIS kind of a jump." (As I'd suspected, the GUI alone was quite different, from the show AND real life. So sorry, Mr. Gates!) Sheridan nodded. "Yes, well, as you undoubtedly know, here on this station we're trying to create an Interstellar Alliance among the civilized races, and of course we can't do it alone. We're going to need a staff -- people who are, as you say, 'quick on the uptake'; who can look at all sides of an issue without being limited by prejudice or preconceptions." He tapped the Analysis, on the table before him. "As soon as I saw this, I realized that -- if everything works out, of course -- you would make an excellent addition to that staff." I didn't know what to say. "I...don't know what to say," I said. Garibaldi had found something absolutely fascinating up on the ceiling. "I've never really thought about it before....I don't tend to consider myself a very...diplomatic person." A snort wafted over from the other side of the table. "Ah, but I've been watching you," said Sheridan, "and I like the way you handle yourself. And besides, you were highly recommended by Ambassador G'Kar." >Moi?< "Yes, he was very impressed with you," Sheridan assured me. "I....was very impressed with him," I replied as steadily as possible. "Yeah, you might say he swept her off her feet," put in the bald guy. "Excuse me?" I inquired politely. "That whole thing was YOUR damn fault in the first place!" "Hey, I never even SAID that! You can't blame ME for every line some wiseass writer in another universe puts in that guy Doyle's mouth!" "Yeah, you're just jealous 'cause YOU didn't think of it." Delenn looked stunned. Stephen was having a choking fit. Sheridan asked, "Am I missing something?" "Before your time," Michael and I chorussed, still glaring at each other. Delenn blinked. She blinked again. "Time," she said. We all looked at her. "Time! John, perhaps Draal knows something about this -- or could at least tell us if, and how, such a thing is possible!" "The Great Machine!" exclaimed Stephen. "It's certainly worth a try," opined Sheridan. "Now, why the hell didn't >I< think of that?" said I. "Excuse me, I think I see somebody I need to talk to," said Garibaldi, and he split to the other side of the room. While Sheridan and Delenn discussed their schedules, trying to come up with the time to make a trip down to the planet, I watched Michael schmoozing a couple of bumpy-forehead types over at the bar. Indeed and indeed, the boy was good. I smiled, thinking of the bit in the last show of the fourth season the "future retrospective", so to speak -- where Garibaldi's HOLOGRAM manages to override its host computer, outsmart the slimeball running it, and flush the guy's masters' nefarious plot down the toilet in ten minutes flat -- minus time for commercials. Of course, Earth ends up getting trashed anyway...I decided that I'd best NOT mention that one, and turned back to catch Delenn looking at me funny. What? "Sorry, I was...distracted." "Mm. I can see that. It turns out that John and I will be able to take you to Epsilon 3 on the day after tomorrow -- if that is satisfactory." I grinned. "At the moment, my schedule is completely open." "Good," said Delenn, and smiled. "Well, I need to get going," said Stephen. "I've got some journals I need to catch up on." "We should go, too," said Sheridan, and took the check. I made my goodbyes and wandered over to the >other< end of the bar. I enjoyed the ambiance for a while, and eventually Garibaldi joined me. "Hey, thanks for not butting in over there -- those guys get a little nervous around strangers." "I kinda figured." He looked at me speculatively. "Well, let's go, then." We went. **IR1N_05.TXT * * * * * * * * * * END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * From: Jakhel Subject: Infinite Regress 1: CHAPTER 4 (7/37) IR1N_06.txt Date: Sat, 23 May 1998 16:04:26 EDT **IR1N_06.TXT * * INFINITE REGRESS 1: CHAPTER 4 * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * INITIAL SUBMISSION 05/23/98 * "Don't assume -- it makes an ass out of 'u' and 'me'..." * - Traditional. * * See Infinite Regress 1: Overview (IR1N_00.txt) for attributions, * acknowledgements, and other notes. Contact me at Jakhel@aol.com with * feedback, questions, or whatever. * * TIMEFRAME: 3 days before the arrival of Captain Lochley. * SYNOPSIS: Our heroine has appeared on the station and made the acquaintance * of various characters. Given the perennial resource crunch and Ms. Hayes' * nebulous financial status, Mr. Garibaldi has offered to put her up * temporarily. Any other motivation he may have is as yet undetermined.... * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * WARNING! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * THIS FILE MAY CONTAIN ANY OR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING: * * SPOILERS FOR THE FIRST HALF OF SEASON 5 * VERY COLORFUL LANGUAGE * SEXUAL INSINUENDO * SUBVERSIVE AND HERETICAL IDEAS * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * S P O I L E R S P A C E A N D M O R E S P **IR1N_06.TXT * * * * * * * * * * BEGIN * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * So, anyway, the guy picks me up in a bar and takes me back to his place. Yeah, right. Anyway, when we got to his quarters, Garibaldi gave me the grand tour -- from the shower through the kitchen gadgets to a quick but thorough computer-access walkthrough. With a view towards starting the research I had thought of at dinner, I asked about the cost of data access (negligible for most things) and how to save stuff locally (name it and stash it in local storage, basically -- and I probably wouldn't need to worry about space for what I had in mind). The things have voice, keypad, and touchscreen input -- to use voice mode on one, you simply address it as 'Computer' clearly and firmly, and give it simple but COMPLETE common-sense instructions. As a programmer, I had no particular problem with this, except, "So what happens when you're talking ABOUT a, um, one of these things, and it thinks you're talking TO it?" "Well..." Michael was actually stumped by that one. "I guess...we just sorta >avoid< doing that." "Uh-HUH. Okay, fine. And I see we have here the infamous data crystals. Is there some kind of an index on these things? How the hell do you tell 'em apart?" "Right here. The storage rack has a selectable display, or you can slap it into the port," he demonstrated, '"and bring it up on the main screen." A contents menu appeared, beneath an oddly familiar logo. "Ah, yes, the Daffmeister," I observed. "I've got the tape of that collection. My son loved it when he was about four or five." I grinned at him sidelong. "Yeah, well, that's just an example," he explained hurriedly, and flipped the crystal back into its slot. "Uh, well, make yourself at home. I'll probably be out until two or three hundred, so feel free to go on to bed. And don't even THINK about sleeping on the sofa," he admonished as I opened my mouth to suggest exactly that, "I don't want to be tripping over you when I get in." Fair enough. He split. As soon as he left the room, I headed for the couch. I made it -- barely before the second wave of reaction hit. The first wave, after lunch, had been a matter of input overload. This one was a matter of loss, and deep disorientation. I'd been holding it off all day by throwing myself into the moment, there -- but now I had a breathing space and it hit like the proverbial ton of bricks. First issue was the kid, of course. I'm not even going to TRY to describe how that one felt. If you're a parent, you already have a good idea. If you're a single parent, you have a better idea. I'm not the most sociable person in the world, and my local support network was a bit on the skimpy side, so there had always been this small nagging terror in the back of my brain -- 'what if something happens to ME?'....well, now something had. Sure, the people he was with were good friends, and would undoubtedly take care of him until my parents could get there -- but in the meantime, the initial concern, then frantic searching, the police, the appalling sense of abandonment -- gods, it made me want to run screaming out the nearest airlock. Which would not, in fact, have helped. I told myself, over and over, that in most of these situations, if the person gets back to their own dimension or time or whatever at all, it's at the exact time and place that they left (except, of course, when it isn't, or when they >don't< get back at all). Reconciling myself to setting that as an operational assumption took a while, but finally I was able to move on to other issues. Everything I knew was gone. Hey, there's a good one! I'm from a small family, I don't pair-bond or make close friends quickly, so the family and friends I do have are very important to me -- and they were all long gone in this timeline (how many generations was that? eight? twelve? something). Plus my home, my job (oh, darn), the places I knew, my guitar -- damn, my CD collection...well, that might not be entirely irretrievable, given time and patience...and probably some of the things that were still there, like Lake Michigan, the Rocky Mountains, and so on, were actually in better shape than they had been in my time. But still, so much would be different! Frankly, at the moment, the idea of going back to Earth was MUCH scarier than that of staying on the station. Which brings us to Issue #3 -- WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED? I mean, hey, I may be a science fiction freak, and a child of the psychedelic seventies, and have spent most of my formative and more that I'd care to admit of my adult years WISHING I'd get whisked off to another universe, still, that was a helluva far cry from having it actually HAPPEN. Even if we >were< all living in a consensus reality based on probability-packets manifesting variously as matter, energy, and will, that consensus reality had been pretty god-damned stable and consistent for 41 years, and to have it take a sideways, corkscrewing leap on me at this late date was more than a little annoying. When you threw in the fictional congruence aspect, it was worse -- and when you threw in the second-level congruence with MY prospective fiction, the whole thing was just plain silly. Frankly, sitting there on the couch with my eyes shut, I was very seriously considering coming down in favor of Possibility #4.1. But then I opened my eyes and there it all was -- right down to the Daffy Duck picture behind the bed -- so whaddaya gonna DO? Which was, in fact, Issue #4 -- what was I going to do? Yeah, yeah, I knew what I was going to do short-term: stay out of Garibaldi's...way as much as humanly possible under the circumstances, go see Draal day after tomorrow, and hope to whatever there might be to hope to that there was a way home. But what if there wasn't? Well, I'd had one offer already, which wasn't too damn shabby for the first day of a job search -- even though it was way the hell out of my field. Of course, 'my field' was now a self-maintaining hydroponics unit in a Dyson Sphere somewhere....perhaps it WAS time for a career change. But to what, exactly? 'Staff' is such a...flexible term. Well, let's see. Based on what I'd seen so far, it shouldn't take me too long to come up to speed on the mechanics of pulling information together, organizing and presenting it -- and wasn't it just the other day that I was remarking to the kid's 4th-grade teacher that those were THE critical skills for any 'intellectual' occupation? Well, then. Probably -- hopefully -- some combination of analyst and general flunky. Flunkitude I had no problem with -- quite the contrary, as it would get me out and communicating with people. Sheridan had said he liked the way I handled myself, with aliens and with new situations. How much of that was due to running on pure adrenalin, though? Then again, around here that wasn't exactly an unusual state of affairs! Part of me wanted to curl up in a little ball under a large piece of furniture crying 'I'm not worthy! I'm not worthy!' -- and the rest was drooling, wagging its tail and barking at the door. Well. Let's see if I could find something to chew on before the master came home. If I started pulling files on general history, that would be a start on my research for if I DID get home, and also begin remedial re-education for if I didn't. Whoa -- multiple birdkilling. Always a good concept. But first, I wanted to try that shower. I almost wished the guy >didn't< have a real shower for a moment, as I came out combing my wet mane into place. I stopped in front of the mirror for a quick eval -- one cheery thing I'd noticed, in the 10% category, was that people in this universe did NOT all look like TV stars. This was a good thing. I'd pulled my T-shirt back on, with the leggings, this time, and the overall effect was not entirely repulsive. I could stand to drop a few pounds, and a few of the ones I kept could be better distributed, but I was pleased to note that the regimen of alternating exercise and dance videos I'd started over the holidays had in fact been having an effect. I felt, and looked, stronger, leaner, and more graceful than I had since the kid and I quit our Tae Kwon Do classes -- and none too soon, perhaps: this was not a locale conducive to a sedentary lifestyle. "All rrrrrighty then," I muttered to myself, snagging the desk chair. I plopped down in it, did a preparatory stretch, and addressed the keypad. "Und zo ve have now...ze further adventures of Dilbert...in the 23rd and a half... CENTURY!!" * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * A bearded man, a bald man, and a half-human woman stood in a room lined with monitors. "So, what have you got, Michael?" asked the bearded man. The bald man leaned over the console as he answered. "Like I told you this afternoon, everything we've got on her checks out according to the records we have from that time period, down to the fibers in her clothing and the fillings in her teeth. The fact that the last part of the 20th century is the earliest time that we HAVE that level of detail on..." "Is suspicious in and of itself, yes, I agree. And if this is something aimed at you, or at me through you..." "My personal interest in that period wouldn't be too hard to dig up. So, like I always say, 'keep your friends close, and your enemies...." He hit a final sequence, and a section of monitors sprang to life, showing a living room area from several angles, "...even closer.'" "Is that why you offered to let her stay with you, instead of requesting transient quarters, so that you could SPY on her?" the woman sounded affronted. "Yes, ma'am, that's what I do," the man replied shortly, eyes on the screen. "But the transient quarters ARE monitored, by Security, as a matter of routine," protested the bearded man. "Yeah, and everybody knows it," pointed out the other man. "But NOBODY bugs my quarters -- except me. So the minute she tries anything, directly or indirectly..." "Hm. If they were going for the direct approach, you'd think they'd have picked someone a little more, uh..." he caught his wife's innocently curious look -- "Never mind." The bald man wasn't listening. He had focussed on one of the monitors which showed the woman in the room as she, in turn, pored over the data on her screen. The adjacent monitor showed an echo of what she was looking at. "Come on, sweetheart, show Daddy what you got," he muttered. After scanning for a moment, he huffed in disgust. "Nothing! She's got general history, 3rd and 4th World Wars, three different studies on environmental reclamation, two on early Solar system exploration, and a complete download of Rolling Stone Magazine from 1998 through the last issue in 2076. What the hell is she gonna do with THAT?" "Read it?" suggested the bearded man. "Look, Michael, I understand your concern, but I don't want you getting...distracted by this. I need you on your toes for this inauguration business." "Got it covered, Captain -- Mr. President," the bald man amended, grinning at his friend. "Seriously, Zack's doing a great job with the routine stuff -- insofar as anything around here is EVER routine! The last thing he needs right now is me breathing down his neck. What you need ME for is to handle the really off-the-wall shit, like this." He turned back to the monitor. "'Off-the-wall shit?'" the bearded man repeated dubiously. "Whoa -- she's moving..." **IR1N_06.TXT * * * * * * * * * * END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * From: Jakhel Subject: Infinite Regress 1: Chapter 5 Part 1 (8/37) IR1N_07.txt Date: Sun, 24 May 1998 22:00:33 EDT **IR1N_07.TXT * * INFINITE REGRESS 1: CHAPTER 5 Part 1 * * * * * * * * * * * * INITIAL SUBMISSION 05/24/98 * "Manual release is online." * - Enterprise NCC-1701E. * * See Infinite Regress 1: Overview (IR1N_00.txt) for attributions, * acknowledgements, and other notes. Contact me at Jakhel@aol.com with * feedback, questions, or whatever. * * TIMEFRAME: 3 days before the arrival of Captain Lochley. * SYNOPSIS: Ms. Hayes is hanging out in Garibaldi's quarters, trying to adjust * to her situation. Meanwhile, Garibaldi (with Sheridan and Delenn in tow) is * monitoring, watching for an indication that she is not what she seems... * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * WARNING! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * THIS FILE MAY CONTAIN ANY OR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING: * * SPOILERS FOR THE FIRST HALF OF SEASON 5 * VERY COLORFUL LANGUAGE * SEXUAL INSINUENDO * SUBVERSIVE AND HERETICAL IDEAS * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * S P O I L E R S P A C E A N D M O R E S P **IR1N_07.TXT * * * * * * * * * * BEGIN * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * I had just about reached saturation point. That Rolling Stone stuff was Going to be great, though -- I was really looking forward to watching the Peejmeister (P.J. O'Rourke) get old and crusty. Er. I stood and stretched. "Tunes!" I cried. "Need Tunes! Desperately!" (So I talk to myself -- you got a problem with that?) Now, from time to time the producers had taken a stab at portraying Mr. Garibaldi's taste in music, but I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt and assign that to the 10 percent error margin. I checked the selection. As I'd expected, there were a few titles I recognized -- classics all, and quite palatable. The rest consisted of some jazzish-looking stuff, some bluesish, a few alien things and a few more totally non-identifiable, and quite a bit of stuff that must be Martian. Not having cover art -- even the squinched-up cover art of CD's -- was kind of a drag, as far as getting a feel for it was concerned. Duh -- I was looking at the rack display, which only showed text. What do you want to bet these things had video files in with them? I reached for the Martian crystal I'd been looking at....then pulled back as the little hairs on the back of my neck went all prickly. Somehow, strategically speaking, I had a sneakish suspicion that messing with this man's stuff would not be a real good idea. Instead, I eyed the console speculatively. It looked back at me. I decided to try something. "Computer. How far back do you carry music files -- Earth music files?" "Earliest Earth musical recordings....date...1882." I was impressed. "That should do it," I said. "Okay, computer, access music file, title 'Martinis and Bikinis', author Phillips, first name Sam, date of publication...oh, 1994, 1995 -- try that, anyway." "Working.....file found." "Hot damn. Computer, save to local storage as 'Phillips'." "File....saved." Okay. Computer, access local storage, Phillips, playback from track 1." "Reference...not found." Oh, hell. I thought back over what I'd just said -- ah, there's the problem: 'track' must not be a defined term in this context. I tried again, using 'subheading'. Same error message. Let's back up a level, then. "Computer, give me a high-level overview of the contents of local storage file 'Phillips'." The computer rattled off the title, credits, and publication history, then said, "Subsection 1: Love and Kisses. 56 seconds..." "Subsection! Duh. Computer...stop....talking...oh, god!" I'd lost it. The computer stopped talking, all right -- and switched to scrolling the description on the screen. I cracked up. "Computer, terminate description!" "Description....terminated." I stood chortling at myself for a minute. Talk about your DEU (Defective End User) errors! "Jeez," I muttered, "Two hundred and sixty years down the road, and they have yet to come up with a decent DWM command. (That's 'Do What I MEAN', for you non-professionals.) Fuckin' slackers.......Jesus H. Christ on a crutch with mustard.......hhhokay, here we go -- computer. Local definition: subsection of a music file equals 'track'." "Local definition...saved." Now it worked just dandy. I settled on the floor in the middle of the room to do stretches. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The bearded man was chuckling, and the woman was suppressing a ladylike snicker. The bald man's expression was determinedly thunderous, although it had cracked involuntarily once or twice. "You have to admit, she's pretty good," the bearded man observed. "Yeah, too good," asserted the bald man. "If she IS who she says she is, she shouldn't be picking up on our systems this fast." The woman looked at him quizzically. "I suspect that if you were in her position, you would do the same." He gave her a look back. ">That's< what worries me." Exasperated, the woman asked, "Michael, honestly, do you have any evidence that she is anything other than what she claims?" "You mean, aside from the fact that what she claims is impossible? Actually, I may," the bald man leaned forward as he went on. "Just before I met you guys at the restaurant, I had a little chat with a guy I know over in Brown sector, who knows a guy who knows a guy who says there are rumors going around about an undercover telepath on the station." "Psi Cop?" asked the bearded man, all business now. "Sounds that way," the other man affirmed. "Now, if that's who's pulling this lady's strings, then at some point they're going to make contact, unless she's a telepath, too, which I doubt. She's a little too free with her hands, if you know what I mean." "Mm," the bearded man agreed. "And if they already have their plan in place, and don't need to confer?" "Well, then, hopefully between keeping an eye on her, and following up on these rumors, I can track down the connection before they make their move." He sighed, "It's not much, but it beats letting her run loose on the station." The bearded man nodded. "You're probably right. And if she is innocent, it won't do her any harm. I'll leave it in your hands, Michael. Well," he continued, "It's been a long day, and I have some reading to do yet tonight. Are you coming, Delenn?". The woman looked at the bald man, once more intent on the screen, then back to her husband. "I would like to stay for a while, if Mr. Garibaldi does not mind," she said. The bearded man quirked an eyebrow. "As a chaperone?" he asked quietly. She just smiled at him. "Sure, Delenn, stick around," put in the man at the console. "You might catch something I'd miss." Both the bearded man's eyebrows went up at that. "Did I just hear him imply he might miss something?" he asked the woman in a stage whisper. "Thank you, Mr. President," the other man responded dryly. "Good night, Mr. President." The bearded man shook his head, laughing. "Don't be too late, now," he admonished the woman, and left. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The familiar music, the familiar pull in the leg muscles (50 pulses in frog position, 50 in the wide V, 50 on each hamstring, 50 down the middle) gradually coaxed me into a semi-meditative state, soothing the last jangles out of my nerves. The funny thing was, I actually felt comfortable there, in that room. Normally, if I'm doing stretches in someone else's house, or in a motel room or whatever, there's this sense of being out of my territory -- but for some reason I didn't feel that here -- where I was, in fact, way out of my territory. The decor was part of it, I supposed. The whole thing was in a sort of undersea color scheme -- green stripeys around the grey/green mottled walls, furniture in blending shades of blue, purple, green, and black, set off by accents of warmer color. There was a kitchenette area in dark green opposite the door, past the Babcom unit and a narrow desk. The sleeping area was off to the left of that, with dresser, bed, a tall bookcase/cabinet arrangement, the bathroom, and a couple spidery chairs under a picture that looked like a bad imitation of a fake Keeton. Brightened up the wall quite efficiently, though. Finally we had something that looked like at one time it had had ambitions to be a partition, but had lacked the resolve -- and so back to the door. The couch, a half-backless, l-shaped number, divided the kichenette from the entrance area, on top of an inoffensive geometric design woven into the middle of the carpet. Beige carpet. Some things never change. The man was definitely more of a neat freak than I am -- but then that can be said of 90% of the population in any timeline. The overall effect was a precarious balance of severity and sensuousness, with scattered flashes of pure whimsy. I liked it. And yet, there was something.....something a little off somehow.... Ms. Phillips' nasal yet melodious voice cut in with "Same Rain" just as I finished the last of the stretches. As usual, I soon found myself on my feet, meandering in little dance steps around the room, juxtaposing audio and visual input against what was going on in my own head, blending all of it into a mental substrate from which useful patterns would -- might -- emerge. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "What the hell is she doing now?" the bald man asked. "Dancing, I believe," the woman replied. The man hmph'd. "I was right. She's nuts." The woman opened her mouth to respond, decided it wasn't worth it, and returned her attention to the screen. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 'I knew a man -- a refugee -- survival was his art, all that he held valuable, he carried in his heart....' Yes, I think so....I wandered over to the bookcase. One of the narrow shelves was packed with books -- rather a lot, under the circumstances. And, yes, there was a set of neatly-bound hard-SF classics: Heinlein, Clarke, Asimov, Gibson -- the ones I didn't recognize made my fingers itch.....down, girl! 'Is it the same rain that falls on the mountain's face? Is it the same rain that falls on the prison gate? Is it the same rain that falls on me...' The 'rain' image might not be apropos, but the basic concept certainly applied. I was unable to resist coming in on the harmony -- might as well limber up the old vocal cords. After all, if I was stuck here and the gig with Sheridan didn't pan out, my next best bet was to turn pro musician after all. **IR1N_07.TXT * * * * * * * * * * END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * From: Jakhel Subject: Infinite Regress 1: Chapter 5 Part 2 (9/37) IR1N_08.txt Date: Sun, 24 May 1998 22:21:11 EDT **IR1N_08.TXT * * INFINITE REGRESS 1: CHAPTER 5 Part 2 * * * * * * * * * * * * INITIAL SUBMISSION 05/24/98 * "Manual release is online." * - Enterprise NCC-1701E. * * See Infinite Regress 1: Overview (IR1N_00.txt) for attributions, * acknowledgements, and other notes. Contact me at Jakhel@aol.com with * feedback, questions, or whatever. * * TIMEFRAME: 3 days before the arrival of Captain Lochley. * SYNOPSIS: Ms. Hayes is still hanging out in Garibaldi's quarters, still * being watched... * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * WARNING! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * THIS FILE MAY CONTAIN ANY OR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING: * * SPOILERS FOR THE FIRST HALF OF SEASON 5 * VERY COLORFUL LANGUAGE * SEXUAL INSINUENDO * SUBVERSIVE AND HERETICAL IDEAS * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * S P O I L E R S P A C E A N D M O R E S P **IR1N_08.TXT * * * * * * * * * * BEGIN * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 'All the money in the world -- all the power it can buy Will not take your voice away -- cannot own what you hold inside....' The top of the dresser was the Miscellaneous Objects department -- my gaze was drawn inevitably to a small holo of Lise -- the love of Garibaldi's life, tra la, tra la. She'd dealt with him successfully for some time -- no mean feat, even in his younger, simpler days -- then declined to come with him to B5 and promptly turned around and married some guy named Franz. Through some deft scriptwriters' sleight-of-hand that could only be matched by the bizarritudes of real life, she had ended up RE-married to one William Edgars, a corporate magnate with more than a toe in the muddy waters percolating through Sol system. This worthy gentleman had hired Michael (oops!) to help with his plot against Psi Corps -- unaware that Michael was, at the time, an unwitting Psi Corps mole himself. So Billy-boy and his head honcho (a right tasty little critter, as I recall) get scragged, and Lise (whose original profession was never even HINTED at, to my recollection) gets the whole bloody corporate empire dumped on her, as well as having her personal life turned completely upside-down for the fifth time in as many years. Meanwhile, Michael's running around with half his wires jerked loose, having just betrayed every loyalty he's developed in the past four years (plus a few basic principles, just for seasoning). Hell, the poor boy already had her on a pedestal, and by this time she was the ONLY thing he had to steer by. But of course it all worked out and they lived happily ever after, right? Yeah, right. He needed immediate, massive doses of rock-solid emotional and psychological support, and she needed, not just a strong arm, but also a guide through the political and economic jungle, there, and -- most of all -- TIME, to get her own priorities and emotions in order. Anybody with half a brain could have predicted that this one would get ugly -- not necessarily terminal, but rocky as hell. I gave the woman in the holo a sympathetic half-smile. She was tooth- achingly pretty, of course, in that dark, elfin style. A little slick, a little flaky, just the >teensiest< bit on the wishy-washy side under a mask of ferocious self-determination....gee, now which direct ancestor of my beloved offspring did all that remind me of? (Hint: >I< ain't pretty!) I felt the smile turn into a wry grin. "It's a tough call, kiddo," I advised somebody softly as the music faded. "I wouldn't >even< know what to tell you." The skirling strains of "Baby, I Can't Please You" cut through my reverie. Hah -- nothing like some good old-fashioned knife-edged cynicism to lighten up all this melodramatic bullshit. I bounced gleefully around the room, harmonizing recklessly -- I >love< this woman's voice, offbeat though it is. And we HIT the bridge -- 'I know -- You say 'love' when you mean 'control' -- You buy the truth and your heart is cold, so you live in shadows....' I stopped cold. >Shadows?< True, the mantis-y dudes themselves might be gone, shoo'd away like pesky neighbor kids by Sheridan's righteous wrath -- but still..... Once upon a time, when my parents were living in Washington, D.C., my mother and I went to visit the Capitol building. Now, my mom is (or...oh boy ...WAS) a pretty good navigator, and I'm not too shabby myself, yet somehow or other we managed to get lost in there. The more we wandered the halls, past offices, cafeterias, meeting rooms, through corridors bustling with frantic bureaucrats, the more frantic WE both got -- it seemed as though tension and anxiety was seeping right out of the walls...by the time we got out of there, I was convinced that it would be seriously cost-effective to just pull the whole thing down and rebuild it from scratch every twenty years or so. The money spent would be more than offset by the decrease in bad decision-making ....but anyway. Somehow, I could swear there was the same kind of concept operating here. I thought about Mr. Garibaldi's side of the last few years -- what must been settling into >these< walls. Layer on layer of anger, fear, confusion, despair...unless, of course, I was making the whole thing up. After all, let's not get carried away by all this mystical garbage....then again, in a universe that contained functioning telepaths, demonstrable reincarnation, people coming back from the dead, and a Great War between the forces of Order and Chaos -- perhaps this kind of feeling should NOT be dismissed out of hand. The vibes were getting creepier as the verses got more vicious... "Computer, stop playback!" I paced for a few moments, thinking furiously, looking in corners for what I could....almost...see... "This may be really silly," I told myself, "but this universe is a little bit....skewed....actually, along about now it's probably still >significantly< skewed...Computer!" I snapped, and retrieved and stored Sarah McLachlan's 'Fumbling Towards Ecstasy' album. "Just for grins, let's see what we get," I muttered, and fired up the title track. The music stole in gently, on little cat feet...I could almost sense the corners of the room pricking up their nonexistent antennae, going 'what's this? what's this?' Then McLachlan's soft, rich voice - 'All the fear has left me now -- ' (what? what?) 'I'm not frightened any more. It's my heart that pounds beneath my flesh -- It's my mouth that pushes out this breath.' I know this sounds idiotic, but I swear I could sense something retreating. Slowly, reluctantly, like a thick, dark liquid gradually being displaced by clear water...I came in with the harmony on the chorus. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "I did not realize that humans used song and dance in that way," mused the woman. "What way?" "To drive away shadows." "The Shadows are gone," said the man tightly. The woman regarded the colored monitor-light washing over his intent, closed face. "There are always shadows," she observed. A moment later, the man stood and stretched. "Yeah, well, this is all very entertaining, but I gotta see a man about a dog. Let me know if she does anything suspicious." The woman was curious. "What, exactly, would you consider 'suspicious'?" "I don't know......>suspicious<." The woman turned back to the monitor -- to find the woman on the screen standing stock still in front of a large picture of Daffy Duck with an appalled expression on her face. The Minbari woman frowned. It WAS a truly appalling picture, nevertheless... * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * My slow-moving brain had finally stumbled over the obvious -- the duelling one-liners, this bit with the room, the whole shebangi. God damn it to hell, I'd managed to fall in love with the sucker. It was inevitable, of course. Garibaldi had always been my hands-down favorite character on the show -- let's face it, I always go for the #2 guy, especially if he's an intense brunet (okay, ex-brunet) with more brains than is good for him, a fiendish sense of humor, and an incredibly sexy voice. Once I was catapulted into this situation, with all its associated stresses and vulnerabilities, that theoretical appreciation had rapidly developed into a full-blown knee-melting, adrenalin-pumping, solar-plexus-clenching infatuation. "Oh, now THIS is intelligent," I gritted out, turning to lean against the dresser. I wrapped my arms tightly around myself, hugging the sinking ache in my middle, and tried to breathe. The first attempt ended in a laugh, as I muttered, "...feels just like the thing with Talia in the elevator..." I kept trying, there not being much of an alternative. McLachlan's overdubbed voice washed over me. 'I won't fear love...' Yeah, right. Eventually I was able to straighten up. I knuckled Daffy gently between the eyes and murmured, "Well, >ain't< life interesting, though." The first section of the track had ended, and I REALLY didn't feel like dealing with the second section right then. "Computer, stop playback," I said, then cut the lights and crawled into bed. By some welcome miracle, I fell asleep almost at once. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The man came back into the room. "Did I miss anything?" he asked. The woman shook her head. "Nothing 'suspicious'. She has retired, and I believe I shall do the same." She turned back at the door. "Oh, yes, she did say something...about Miss Winters...and an elevator?" The man snorted. "I told you she was nuts." "Perhaps. But," she hesitated, then went on, "Michael, whatever else this woman may be, I do not believe that she is your enemy." "Delenn," the man sighed deeply, "Right now, I don't know WHAT to believe." She smiled. "Good night, Michael. Get some rest." **IR1N_08.TXT * * * * * * * * * * END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * From: Jakhel Subject: INFINITE REGRESS 1: CHAPTER 6 Part 1 (10/37) IR1N_09/txt Date: Mon, 25 May 1998 23:17:00 EDT Everybody's doing their thing tonight....how cozy! **IR1N_09.TXT * * INFINITE REGRESS 1: CHAPTER 6 Part 1 * * * * * * * * * * * * INITIAL SUBMISSION 05/25/98 * "I suggest you take those eyes somewhere else, while you still have them." * - Susan Ivanova. * * See Infinite Regress 1: Overview (IR1N_00.txt) for attributions, * acknowledgements, and other notes. Contact me at Jakhel@aol.com with * feedback, questions, or whatever. * * TIMEFRAME: 2 days before the arrival of Captain Lochley. * SYNOPSIS: Ms. Hayes has realized that she is in deep kimchee, Garibaldi * is suspicious (so what else is new?), and Delenn seems sympathetic. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * WARNING! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * THIS FILE MAY CONTAIN ANY OR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING: * * SPOILERS FOR THE FIRST HALF OF SEASON 5 * VERY COLORFUL LANGUAGE * SEXUAL INSINUENDO * SUBVERSIVE AND HERETICAL IDEAS * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * S P O I L E R S P A C E A N D M O R E S P **IR1N_09.TXT * * * * * * * * * * BEGIN * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * I woke briefly when Garibaldi came in -- at whatever ungodly hour THAT might have been -- and again when he awoke and padded through to the bathroom. (I'm a light sleeper at the best of times, and that odd 'territory' thing had its limits.) It was indeed strange having no environmental cues whatsoever as to the time. For the first time I was aware of a slight feeling of claustrophobia, but I ignored it, figuring I'd adapt -- or, hopefully, leave. I pulled the comforter over my head and pretended to still be asleep when he came back out -- there were things I wanted to think through before dealing with the man. Okay, let's strategize. What were my priorities, here? Well, top priority, of course, was trying to get home. Not that I wouldn't have been seriously tempted to stay, given a choice -- but I didn't have a choice. I had a kid. Now, it would be awfully darn convenient if Draal could just flick a brain wave or two and send me home, but that was probably a tad optimistic. More likely, there would be -- for want of a better term -- a >quest< of some sort involved. However, there was really no point in speculating about that until I had something vaguely resembling a clue. Second priority was obviously the research -- proven-workable solutions for the multifarious, interlinked problems besetting my native timeline. Either I'd be able to bring back a limited amount of hardcopy, in which case I'd best digest the available info like crazy to maximize the bang-to-buck ratio, or I'd have to rely on memory, which the digestion process would help with better than anything else I could think of, offhand. So -- get up to speed on the current equivalents of spreadsheets and word processors, and get cracking on those stored files ASAP. Third priority -- well, thanks to my psychological makeup and premenopausal hormones, that one was also pretty damn obvious. Anything I could do to make Garibaldi's life easier and more cheerful, I would do. Presumptuous? Perhaps. But I couldn't help remembering all those Monday mornings, storming into my friend Roger's cube snarling 'what the HELL is going on with Garibaldi?'. I'd been so sure he had something up his sleeve -- deliberately distancing himself from Sheridan & co. because he knew someone had gotten to him and he was a weak link, infiltrating the bad guys back home, SOMETHING. And when it turned out he didn't, it was quite.....sobering. Now that I was dealing with the man himself, with the focussed attention characteristic of my unfortunate affliction, there, I couldn't help reading all the little telltales of ruthlessly repressed misery -- in his eyes, his mouth, the way he moved, the extra sharpness on his usually edgy attitude. Not that there was likely to be much I COULD do. The man didn't trust me -- and I could hardly blame him. Hell, as far as I could tell, he didn't even like me. He did seem to enjoy the repartee, though (he had to be missing Ivanova, more desperately than he'd probably admit), and that was a start. Throw in the fact that rock-solid support, affection, and persistance are also in my job description, and it didn't look totally impossible, even with a short time-frame. If I could get just one honest smile out of him, I'd count it as a victory. Something to aim at, anyway. Fourth priority was helping the rest of these guys out any way I could. Again, that probably wouldn't amount to much, but you never can tell. At the very least, I told myself grimly, if it turned out that what I thought was MY personality was actually a construct, this construct was going to fight with every fiber of its virtual being to override, subvert, and/or sabotage any inimical programming. So there. With that bracing thought, I rolled out of bed, fished the comb I'd pilfered from Medlab out of my coat pocket, and ducked briefly into the bathroom. A familiar and delectable aroma greeted me as I emerged to find Garibaldi puttering around the kitchenette. "Is that Captain Ivanova's coffee I smell?" I asked. "You bet. She couldn't take the plants with her, and we didn't want them falling into the wrong hands, so I adopted them....cream and sugar?" "Just a little sugar's fine. Unless you have some hot chocolate mix." "Hot chocolate mix? In coffee?" "Aha!" I exclaimed triumphantly. "Lost Secret of the Ancients #1 -- hot chocolate mix. Makes bad coffee tolerable, and good coffee sublime." I accepted a mug and took a sip. "THIS is good coffee." Garibaldi's gaze had slipped down to my T-shirted chest and hung there. I hid a grin behind my coffee mug and turned away. "Whoa -- donuts!" I observed. The man had gone all out in the hospitality department -- a traditionally cheerful paperoid box sat on the counter, half- filled with donuts of several varieties (familiar and un-), including one big, fat, gooey boston creme. The very thing to make a lost and lonely inter- imensional time-traveler such as myself feel right at home...I reached for it. "Ah ah ah! That one's mine." "Fine. Be that way," I grumbled, and went for second best -- a chocolate- frosted cake donut. Not bad. Something occurred to me. "Hey, Michael -- I'm sorry, >Mr.< Garibaldi..." He shrugged. "Ah, as long as we're roomies, I guess you can call me Michael. Or Mike." "Mike-y?" I essayed. He pursed his lips, then replied thoughtfully, "Annie...Oakley?" "Aagh!" I cried, making the sign of the cross against the foul fiend. "Avaunt! Arroint! Truce!" He cracked up. Slightly. "Anyway, speaking of non-critical congruencies, is that bike a 90-percenter or what?" "Bike?" he looked blank -- but only for a split second. "Oh, the BIKE! Yeah, it's in storage. Man, I haven't thought about that for..." he thought about it. "...a >long< time." "This is a bad thing," I pointed out. "Yeah, well, we've been a little busy." "Still a bad thing." He grunted assent, then, "You ride?" "Nah -- I wish. I knew a guy in college who did, though, and at one point I was, like, 'I could get me one of these'...but it never happened. That and hang-gliding." Garibaldi's gaze had drifted to my chest again. This time I let him FINISH reading my T-shirt. It's a good one -- goes something like this: RELIGIONS OF THE WORLD Taoism: Shit Happens. Hare Krishna: Shit Happens Rama Rama Ding Ding. Hinduism: This Shit Happened Before. Islam: If Shit Happens, Take a Hostage. Zen: What is the Sound of Shit Happening? Buddhism: When Shit Happens, is it Really Shit? Confucianism: Confucius Say, "Shit Happens" 7th Day Adventism: Shit Happens on Saturdays. Protestantism: Shit Won't Happen If I Work Harder. Catholicism: If Shit Happens, I Deserve It. Jehovah's Witness: Knock, Knock, "Shit Happens" Unitarian: What Is This Shit? Mormon: Shit Happens Again & Again & Again & Again. Judaism: Why Does This Shit Always Happen To Me? Rastafarianism: Let's Smoke This Shit. "I like that," Garibaldi decided. "Yeah, me, too," I agreed. Wait for it......wait for it......now -- "Also it's the only way I can get guys to stare at my chest." It was a glorious sight, but I had business elsewhere. While Garibaldi was wiping coffee off of himself, I neatly bisected the boston crème and escaped to the bathroom, from whence I audited my first lesson in extra- terrestrial invective. And most educational it was, too. Fortunately, he'd moved on in his life by the time I came back out, after running my clothes through the microwave-like cleaner thingy. This time I decided to be daring and go with the leggings instead of the sweatpants -- what the hell. My snowboots would have to do -- they were $20 black-nylon- and-fake-fur jobbies from le Target boutique: not overtly objectionable, but a bit lacking in arch support. The sweater might get warm over the henley, but I'd just have to live with that until/unless I could score something better. Garibaldi was turning away from the console. "Delenn just called. She'd like to talk to you some more. I told her I'd drop you off at 10:00. Meanwhile, we've got an appointment in Downbelow in about twenty minutes. You ready to move?" "Sure, let me just get my wallet." I extracted the $38, and started to slip it down my boot with the identicard Zack had given me. Garibaldi cleared his throat. "Maybe you'd better let me carry the cash. It can get pretty dicey down there." I nodded and passed it over. Michael gave me a funny look as he stashed it. What? He shook his head, and we cruised. I did briefly wonder why, if he had the cash, he wanted me to come along. It wasn't like I didn't have enough to do -- but then, could I really pass up a chance like this? **IR1N_09.TXT * * * * * * * * * * END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * From: Jakhel Subject: Infinite Regress 1: Chapter 6 Part 2 (11/37) IR1N_10.txt Date: Mon, 25 May 1998 23:31:43 EDT **IR1N_10.TXT * * INFINITE REGRESS 1: CHAPTER 6 Part 2 * * * * * * * * * * * * INITIAL SUBMISSION 05/25/98 * "I suggest you take those eyes somewhere else, while you still have them." * - Susan Ivanova. * * See Infinite Regress 1: Overview (IR1N_00.txt) for attributions, * acknowledgements, and other notes. Contact me at Jakhel@aol.com with * feedback, questions, or whatever. * * TIMEFRAME: 2 days before the arrival of Captain Lochley. * SYNOPSIS: Mr. Garibaldi and Ms. Hayes have breakfasted and are on their way * to Downbelow to do some business... * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * WARNING! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * THIS FILE MAY CONTAIN ANY OR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING: * * SPOILERS FOR THE FIRST HALF OF SEASON 5 * VERY COLORFUL LANGUAGE * SEXUAL INSINUENDO * SUBVERSIVE AND HERETICAL IDEAS * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * S P O I L E R S P A C E A N D M O R E S P **IR1N_10.TXT * * * * * * * * * * BEGIN * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Fifteen minutes later, we were in another world. It was a dark and narrow world, and I found old instincts resurfacing as I paced, cat-soft and alert, behind the jungle creature that was Garibaldi. The closeness was the worst part. As a teenager, running the streets of Chicago after curfew, smug in the knowledge that I WAS one of the people my parents always warned me about, there was an optimum distance -- far enough out into the middle of the street to get a head start away from anyone who might come at you out of the shadows, yet close enough to duck into said shadows when a cop car came by. Also things like snow, or summer mug...and streetlights...and stars...and always, always, the lake wind. Here there was no such perspective, no such breath of tantalizing freedom, and no such leeway. The refuges people had cobbled together out of packing crates, broken machinery, and scavenged swaths of cloth were also the main trafficways, under an all-too-close ceiling. Cold eyes gleamed from the unlikeliest corners, and whispers and scuttlings rustled ahead of us as word went out that the Man was on the prowl. Eventually, we came to a hatchway guarded by a pair of singularly unsavory-looking humanoids. The female amused herself by looking me up and down and picking her teeth with something I wouldn't want to identify, while Garibaldi talked us by the hulking male.....whatever he was. At least I think he was male -- his business, I guess. I gave the chickie a cold eyebrow as we went in -- she didn't seem real impressed. That's okay, neither was I. The room inside had started life as a cylinder, about 5 meters in diameter and twice that long, with another hatch centered in the opposite end. I could not even begin to guess what its original purpose might have been, but now it was apparently being used as a black-market emporium of some sort. Shelves were built out from the curving walls starting halfway back, past tables, ditto, piled with used (very used) clothing and miscellaneous junk. At the very back, a trestle desklike affair blocked off access to the second hatchway, presided over by a wizened, weaselly human male of indeterminate age wearing bottle-thick spectacles. Evidenty this gentleman had not seen fit to grace Dr. Franklin's free clinic -- a wracking cough backed up this theory. Two more stars of Cambodian Wrestlemania flanked the desk. Garibaldi flicked a quick look back at me -- I hung back, staying between him and the exit. The chickie had slipped in behind us and was resting her skinny butt against the hatch. I might not be able to take her, but I could at least distract her if I had to, I decided. I propped myself against the edge of a shelving unit, at an angle to heep half an eye on her without missing the main action. "Mr. Garibaldi," hissed our host. "How delightful to see you again. Now that you are no longer a member of the opposition, so to speak, I look forward to developing a much more cordial, and mutually profitable, relationship." "Yeah, well, don't start picking out curtains just yet, Garak." I faked a cough. It balanced out the two Duk(h)ats, in an odd sort of way, but honestly! If nothing else, this guy's taste in clothes, or lack thereof, would have given the Cardassian version an apoplexy. While I was recovering, Garibaldi was explaining just WHY they were not exactly best buddies and just HOW he would still be keeping tabs on the guy's operations, not to mention just WHAT would happen to him if he overstepped his bounds. "But, just to prove there's no hard feelings, I happen to have a bit of business for you. Perfectly legal, and with a nice profit margin for you. Hey, you never know, you might just get hooked on making an honest living." 'How...gratifying. But if I may ask -- if, as you say, this is all so open and...above-board, so to speak, why come to me?" I'd been kinda wondering that myself. "Weelll, there's certain amount of....time pressure involved. My client may not be sticking around very long, and we wanted to...bypass some of the red tape. Besides, let's face it, your resources and contacts are the best in the sector -- I know that, you know that, so why beat around the asteroid belt?" Garibaldi flashed an ingratiating grin -- with teeth. Primates -- ya gotta love 'em. Garak preened -- a sight I could have gone all day without missing -- and bit the hook. "And just what does this... business of yours entail?" Garibaldi fished out one of the singles. He went to pass it over, but held back at the last second. No tricks, his look said, and the weasel gave a Quarkish laugh of demurral. On examination, the bill proved genuine (no duh!). Eventually, a 'transfer fee' was arrived at -- then came the dicey part. Here we were -- with the merchandise, and all of them. And a closed hatch with a bit of tetanus-covered barbed wire and eyeliner maybe half my age guarding it. I moved up closer to Michael while he was reaching into his jacket. The chickie ambled up to about where I'd started from. The bodyguard on Garibaldi's side blew it -- he grabbed for Michael's free arm too soon, and the other hand came out with his PPG instead of the cash. Garibaldi's elbow distracted the big guy in the gut, while his aim held steady between the weasel's glittering lenses. Meanwhile, I amazed myself by stepping forward -- out of reach of the lug behind me -- and bringing up a quite respectable roundhouse kick to the chickie's arm as she went to flip a knife into Garibaldi's most-targetted body part. The Garak person wisely called off his associates at that point, and the transaction proceeded without further entertainment. We headed back for Red sector without speaking, and settled at a table out of the way of traffic. Garibaldi fished out his datapad and worked it for a while, then passed it over. "There's the breakdown, the total, my cut, and the equivalents in 1998 dollars," he explained. The 20% commission came to a hefty chunk -- which meant my 80% was more than sufficient. At worst, if I were stuck here, I would have a bit of breathing space to examine my options. I nodded, pleased and relieved. "Now, I'm setting you up a temporary account with BATCorp -- " he went on. Would that be anywhere near the Bat Cave? He noticed I was clueless. "The Bablyon 5 Asset Transfer Corporation," he explained. "The station's charter provides for an independent clearing-area to facilitate exchange between political or economic entities that can have wildly -- often incompatibly -- varying rules and regulations..." "That must get interesting," I commented. "You have no idea," he agreed. "You get into this stuff?" "Detest it," I replied. "Yeah, I figured." I couldn't tell whether that was an insult, a compliment, or just an observation. "Anyway, you can draw on this account here -- or add to it, for that matter -- " yeah, real likely -- "but for any transfer to, say, an Earthside banking system, you'd need to go through all their red tape -- identity checks, the whole works. I thought you might want to...defer that, for the time being." "Mm," I agreed, and pressed my thumb where he told me to. "There you go, you're all set." He looked at me quizzically. "You know, there's just one thing I don't get. Come to think of it, there's a lot of things I don't get, but one thing I really don't get -- when I said I wanted 20 percent, you didn't even blink. Why is that?" "You mean, aside from the credit card interest rates in my time? No, seriously, I just figured that if you said 20 percent, then the 80 percent would be...sufficient for what I could reasonably expect to need, short-term. Which, in fact, it is. Elementary, my dear Mr. Garibaldi." He looked at me as if I were some extremely alien life-form -- not repulsive, necessarily, just too totally different to even have an opinion on. He opened his mouth, then shut it again. An historic moment, by Loki -- Michael Alfredo Garibaldi at a loss for words. "Oh," he said, finally. After a moment, he recovered enough to ask what I wanted to do now -- "You've got an hour before I drop you at Delenn's place, I thought you might like to see some of the sights..." "Shopping," I declared. "Shopping?" he repeated warily. I grinned at the expression on his face. As it happens, I am a ruthlessly efficient -- though not always economical -- shopper, especially when I KNOW what I want. First stop was the main B5 souvenir stand -- yes, pushover that he is (in some ways), Sheridan had relented once the proprietors cleaned up their act. There I snagged a medium-sized, shoulder-slung satchel in Medlab teal, with the B5 logo splotted on one side and the new Interstellar Alliance logo on the other. I did see a couple of the teddy bears -- at the back end of a bottom shelf behind some posters -- but restrained myself. "Shoes," I told Michael. "Shoes?" he turned and pointed. "Shoes." Five minutes later I walked out in a pair of sleek black numbers that made Nike's most advanced designs look like a couple of chipped rocks. Pure bliss, and they didn't >even< look like ducks. I could get used to this. One more thing, and this did require some hunting. Finally found it, though -- a tunic-length, close-fitting vest with pockets in a soft, yet sturdy steel-grey fabric with a slight sheen to it. I squelched a twinge of embarrassment as I stripped off the sweater in front of Garibaldi. The henley was much clingier than the T-shirt, and one advantage to being modestly endowed (aside from being able to run downstairs without injuring myself) is that I only need to wear a harness for work. Oh, well, nothing he hadn't seen before, I told myself as I shrugged on and belted the vest. "Looks good," he commented. WhatEverrr.... "Works for me," I decided. I paid for it and stuffed the sweater into the satchel. "How are we doing for time?" Turns out we had time to check out the view from an overlook of one of the main docking bays -- MAJOR cool. Then we took a brisk stroll through part of the main cylinder on the way back to Green sector, with the inside of the station arching up on either side, and the monorail thingy swooping by overhead. I was seriously impressed. As we cruised past formal gardens, the maze, the greenhouse areas where plants from many different planets were put through artificial seasons, and carefully tended 'wild' spaces, Garibaldi delivered a running commentary. It was darned close to being literally a running commentary -- when I walk briskly, I walk BRISKLY. The poor guy actually had to take his hands OUT of his pockets. At one point, we emerged into a clearing, flooded with reflected and augmented sunlight -- an excellent antidote for the claustrophobia that had been haunting me all morning. Suddenly, I dropped the satchel and ran out into the open space. I spun around and around -- counterpoint to the larger spin I could only feel as gravity. Then I flopped back onto the grass -- were those wispy little clouds drifting between here and the other side? Michael probably thought I was a loon. Oh, well, what the hell -- he already thought I was a loon, and worse. If I started trimming my sails to what I thought he thought at this stage of the game, I was hosed, big time. First principle of Zen love -- the best thing to do in any situation involving the victim is exactly what you would do normally -- and for me, this WAS normal. So there. I slid my eyes over and caught him watching me with no readable expression whatsoever on his face. As soon as he caught me looking at him, he looked away. I rolled to my feet and headed back. He heaved himself off the pillar he'd been holding up, snagged the satchel, and handed it to me without a word. "Thank you, sir!" No response. Twit. I shot a sidelong look at him, but he had stuffed his hands in his pockets again and was determined to ignore me, so I gave up. If he wanted to stew in his own juice, that was his problem, not mine. **IR1N_10.TXT * * * * * * * * * * END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * From: Jakhel Subject: Infinite Regress 1: Chapter 7 Part 1 (12/37) IR1N_11.txt Date: Tue, 26 May 1998 13:17:29 EDT **IR1N_11.TXT * * INFINITE REGRESS 1: CHAPTER 7 Part 1 * * * * * * * * * * * * INITIAL SUBMISSION 05/26/98 * "There....are....four....lights...." * - Jean-Luc Picard. * * See Infinite Regress 1: Overview (IR1N_00.txt) for attributions, * acknowledgements, and other notes. Contact me at Jakhel@aol.com with * feedback, questions, or whatever. * * TIMEFRAME: 2 days before the arrival of Captain Lochley. * SYNOPSIS: After their errands in DownBelow and the Zocalo, and a brisk * stroll in the park, Mr. Garibaldi and Ms. Hayes are making their way to * Delenn's quarters. Ms. Hayes seems to be experimenting with various * cheering-up techniques, with indeterminate results. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * WARNING! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * THIS FILE MAY CONTAIN ANY OR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING: * * SPOILERS FOR THE FIRST HALF OF SEASON 5 * VERY COLORFUL LANGUAGE * SEXUAL INSINUENDO * SUBVERSIVE AND HERETICAL IDEAS * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * S P O I L E R S P A C E A N D M O R E S P **IR1N_11.TXT * * * * * * * * * * BEGIN * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * By the time we got into the Green sector corridors, Garibaldi had progressed from whatever was originally bugging him to being determined to continue being bugged. We were both having trouble with our mouths -- he kept doing that thoughtful/irritated sucking-in-the-cheeks thing, and I kept having to straighten out a smirk. Probably looked pretty damn goofy. Given half a chance, I would have verbally jabbed him a good one or two, but unfortunately (or fortunately, as the case may be) the opportunity never arose. Eventually we arrived at Delenn's quarters. Michael slapped the annunciator, exercised his metatarsals until the door opened, and waved me inside. The Ambassador rustled up to meet us. "Ms. Hayes, Mr. Garibaldi, your timing is perfect -- I have almost an hour before meeting with the Drazi ambassador. Were you able to get your business taken care of?" She looked from me to Michael. "Yup, she's all set," he replied. (Monosyllables, forsooth.) Just then, his link beeped (first time since I'd been hanging out with him -- must be a slow week). "Garibaldi -- go." "Michael, this is Zack. I think I've got something for you." He cut me a look. "On my way. You -- " (to me) "stay put 'til I get back." "No problem," I said heavily, over a sudden twist of nausea. It didn't take a brain surgeon to figure that one out. Oh, well, nothing for it but to let the man do his job and hope for the best. I just hoped Delenn wasn't going to go all gnarly on me, now, too. She seemed determined not to, bless her heart, chattering on about the challenges of high-level interspecies domesticity until I got myself together, there. I phased back in in the middle of something about Sheridan washing his own socks every morning. "Socks?" I asked, bemused. "Mm. He is a strange man." "This is a good thing," I said automatically. She brightened. "Yes, it is!" she sounded surprised (though pleased) that I would say so, and after that, we were fine. In fact, when a young lady from Security showed up a couple minutes later, she was more annoyed about it than I was. She shoo'd her out to stand guard outside the door -- "if you insist!" -- and actually tried to apologize to me for Garibaldi's paranoia. "No, he's right," I said firmly. "This is too weird to get sloppy about. Even if it's not me that's the danger -- and the gods know I hope it's not -- that doesn't mean there isn't any." "It is most reassuring that you feel that way, " Delenn commented. "Yeah, well, I could always be lying through my teeth," I pointed out. I grabbed the sides of my head and yelled, "Gaaaaahhhh!" -- and we both cracked up. "Hey, the universe is a laugh or cry situation -- whatcha gonna do?" I asked rhetorically. Then something occurred to me. "You know, something just occurred to me," I said. Delenn looked at me inquisitively. "As you know, us humans tend to go off in all directions when it comes to religious beliefs -- " She grinned. "I >have< noticed that..." "And some of us just pretty much go along with what we're told, while others start from scratch -- " "And you would be one of the latter, I would guess." "What WAS your first clue?" "I am not sure....." "Rhetorical question. Anyway, I don't know if you're familiar with the Roman Catholic concept of Seven Deadly Sins -- " she was " -- but I've sort of distilled it down to three -- " "Three?" as one of the Minbari religious caste, who consider three a sacred number, she found this mildly intriguing. "Mm," I agreed. "Sloth, Stupidity, and Taking Oneself Seriously. Stupidity meaning, not lack of brainpower, but active stupidity -- doing something you know damn well is just plain STUPID -- like, oh, say, Clark ordering Earthforce to fire on civilians, or >anybody< getting in Garibaldi's face...." Oh, let's get OFF that tack! "And sloth being, of course, the sin of hanging upside down from trees." THAT one went over like a lead cigar. I backtracked and explained about sloths -- "so 'sloth' also means laziness, but when I talk about this stuff it usually works better to say 'the sin of hanging upside down from trees' ...ah, never mind. Anyway, the worst one, the one that'll get you when you least expect it, is the 3rd Sin." "Taking Oneself Seriously?" "Damn straight. That sucker'll bite you in the butt every time -- and given half a chance, it'll seriously hose up your life -- and the lives of everybody around you. In fact, what just occurred to me was that ALL the major problems you guys have had lately can be attributed to various people, from the Vorlons and Shadows on down, taking themselves WAY too damn seriously." Delenn broke into a delighted smile. "Do you know, I have never thought of it that way on quite so large a scale -- John and I have discussed bits and pieces of it, but..." "Well, that's the other thing," I cut in. "You and President Sheridan have both been...." How to put this? "stripped down to bare essence, as it were, and built yourselves back up -- a couple times each, right? Anyway, it's made you -- not immune to the third sin, entirely, but extremely resistant on a deep level -- past a certain point you both just KNOW better. And that gives you both a critical extra few degrees of freedom..." "Degrees of freedom?" I'd lost her. I tried to explain -- "When you guys get serious, it's not a matter of taking >yourselves< seriously, it's a matter of mobilizing all available resources to handle a serious >situation<, which you are more free and able to do because you are NOT taking yourselves seriously. It's a subtle, but critical difference, and the upshot...well, here you are." She had actually followed all that, and was looking thoughtful. "That is an...interesting perspective. I must remember to discuss it with John -- " She looked up at me confidingly -- "I can foresee many applications of this way of looking at things in the immediate future!" "You betcha," I agreed, "next time Londo and G'Kar go at it hot and heavy, just say, 'woop -- 3rd sin problem'!" She smiled. I had another thought, and stopped smiling. "What is it?" I started to say 'oh, nothing' -- but it wasn't nothing, dammit. Not to anyone here, anyway. "Well, I was just thinking, Mr. Garibaldi's a whole 'nother kettle of worms, really. He's been beat up all to hell, but not stripped down the way you guys have. Everything he's been through has just added to his...internal complexity, so to speak. This is not good. It's like there's this major dichotomy happening -- on the one hand we got this hellacious 3rd sin problem..." "Mmm," agreed Delenn. "And on the other, it's like every other sentence out of the man's mouth, he's jerking the rug out from under someone -- including himself. It's like his whole life is one big battle with the 3rd sin." -- And he's NOT winning, I thought but did not say. I shook myself and looked up at her. "Why are we talking about this, anyway? Geez, why are we talking about MY opinions on stuff?!?" Delenn smiled reassuringly. "Consider it a...job interview? If you should remain here, and come to work with us, we will need to know your strengths, the way your mind works, to determine where you will be most useful, and...content." That sounded reasonable. I'd had much less pleasant interviews! She went on. "So, we know that you are a philosopher, an analyst..." "Synthesist, actually," I corrected. Had I been paying attention, I might have noticed a flicker of irritation cross her lovely features -- a small 3rd sin attack on my part, perhaps? At any rate, I explained. "We have a saying about not being able to see the forest for the trees -- I see forests all over the place. I'm not good with detail, but I'm good at finding and evaluating patterns that emerge from that detail, and then finding something useful to do with those patterns -- a way of extending them to other contexts, or using them to help find solutions to the detail-level problems. A lot of times when I come up with something like that, it's hard to explain to people -- and sometimes it's irrelevant, and sometimes it's just plain wrong, but that's what I do. "This friend of mine, he was my boss for a while, and he used to always accuse me of 'jumping seven steps ahead' on issues -- of course he's just the opposite, very methodical, a very 'one step at a time' kind of a guy. He had this office with...well, what passed for a wonderful view, very sunny, anyway...behind him, and whenever I needed a break I'd just find some complex issue that I already figured I knew how to handle, and say, 'hey, I think I'll run this by John'..." "John?" broke in Delenn, amused. I looked at her, and thought it through... "You know, there are some distinct similarities, come to think of it," I realized. "Some physical, but mostly -- yeah, integrity is a key concept in both cases -- MY friend John was always talking about" (in my best gruff macho voice) "'the right thing to do' -- he wasn't very strange, though. Insufficient strangeness was a definite factor -- of course, he did make up for it in entertainment value...but anyway. I 'd take -- whatever it was -- in and set him going on it, and then I could just sit back and space out on the view while he went through it step...by step...by step..." Delenn grinned appreciatively. "And half the time he'd end up where I'd already gotten to, in which case I'd know it had been thoroughly checked out -- and have gotten in a healthy spot of meditation, there -- or he'd find a flaw or alternative and end up somewhere else that was generally at least as interesting. We made a good team, actually," I said, reminiscing. "Plus, we always demanded the best from each other -- not in so many words, but just by the nature of the relationship. That's a pretty good thing to have going, you know?" I had a feeling she did. "So, anyway," I wound up, "That's why you won't catch me 'slipping' and calling your husband by his first name like I do everybody else -- all things considered, it would be too weird. But anyway..." where had the main thread of this discussion been going? Oh, yeah -- "Like I say, I pull patterns together -- whether it's programming, or dealing with people, or writing songs... "Writing songs?" Delenn pounced on that one. "Oh, yeah, that's...what I do. I mean, it's one of the things I do... actually, I often wonder how people who don't do something creative, even just as a hobby, manage to get by. I mean, when things get really awful, I can always say 'hey, at least I'll get a good song out of this one.' This friend of mine..." Delenn's cheek twitched in a quick grin, but I didn't notice -- "the best guitar player I ever knew, but he was really into " way low register, here -- "depressing songs....'16 Tons', 'Fire and Rain', all that kinda stuff. Trouble is, in order to write like that he had to LIVE like that, which got REAL damn old for the rest of us. Major, major 3rd sin situation." Delenn laughed. "So right there, I decided that if I couldn't write cheerful songs, at least they would all have a twist, or a punchline -- something to jerk people awake, make them think a little." "It sounds fascinating. Do you play an instrument?" "Electric guitar. The standard for the genre -- I'm what we called a 'singer-songwriter' -- is acoustic guitar, but for various reasons, I play electric instead. It's a little odd, but it works." "And you play...professionally?" "Well, no -- a few open mikes here and there -- where they let people come in off the street and play a few tunes," I explained. "people seem to like my stuff, but the logistics are a bitch -- plus since my wrists started acting up, I can't play for an entire evening. So I try to get stuff recorded as best I can, and just...keep truckin', basically. I mean it's not like I can STOP, or anything." **IR1N_11.TXT * * * * * * * * * * END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * From: Jakhel Subject: Infinite Regress 1: Chapter 7 Part 2 (13/37) IR1N_12.txt Date: Tue, 26 May 1998 13:30:58 EDT **IR1N_12.TXT * * INFINITE REGRESS 1: CHAPTER 7 Part 2 * * * * * * * * * * * * INITIAL SUBMISSION 05/26/98 * "There....are....four....lights...." * - Jean-Luc Picard. * * See Infinite Regress 1: Overview (IR1N_00.txt) for attributions, * acknowledgements, and other notes. Contact me at Jakhel@aol.com with * feedback, questions, or whatever. * * TIMEFRAME: 2 days before the arrival of Captain Lochley. * SYNOPSIS: Ms. Hayes and Delenn are having a lovely chat - at the moment, * they're discussing Ms. Hayes' musical avocation... * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * WARNING! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * THIS FILE MAY CONTAIN ANY OR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING: * * SPOILERS FOR THE FIRST HALF OF SEASON 5 * VERY COLORFUL LANGUAGE * SEXUAL INSINUENDO * SUBVERSIVE AND HERETICAL IDEAS * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * S P O I L E R S P A C E A N D M O R E S P A C **IR1N_12.TXT * * * * * * * * * * BEGIN * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "If you stay with us, I would very much like to hear you perform," said Delenn. "Oh...." I was stunned. From open mike night to a command performance for the presidential couple...could I handle it? And I had what to lose? Hell, yes, I could handle it! I knew these people, and I knew my stuff -- and I knew that I had no business even thinking about it. I smiled ruefully back at her. "I wish I could say I hope so, but...." "I understand," she said understandingly. We sat in silence for a while, considering. Finally, I scraped up some nerve from somewhere. "There's something I've always wanted to ask you about, actually." "Yes?" "Forgive me if I step into areas where I am...not welcome, but...the whole Minbari spiritual...thing has always fascinated me...and there are a few points ...if you wouldn't be offended..." "Offended! Hardly! I have far too few opportunities these days to discuss such things, and so far I do not find your views at all....offensive. Quite the contrary, in fact." She smiled encouragingly at me, and I tried to think where to start... "Okay. Well, in the course of trying to figure out my own...path, there, a long time ago I came up with the idea that we're all sort of....pseudopods of consciousness, that get manifested in physical reality, primarily to learn stuff, and slurp it up into the main...substrate, there." "Slurp it up?" "It's a technical term," I deadpanned. "Anyway, the idea is that when you die, all the energy and...data that makes you you diffuses back up, and thence out into the other pseudopods to the degree that they have, well, in a spiritual sense, proximity to the one that just got slurped. "An example would be....there was this great man in my time, a musician and, in a sense, a spiritual leader. He died a couple years ago, and, as I generally do, I sort of stepped back from the whole thing for several months. Then this magazine that covers these things ran an in-depth issue on his life, and death, and I finally sat down and dealt with it. Sometime later I was noodling around on the guitar...now, you've got to understand, I don't play lead guitar -- the melody that floats on top -- I play ferocious rhythm guitar, to make up for the fact that I DON'T work with a lead guitarist -- anyway, I found myself not only playing lead, but playing, unmistakably if somewhat ineptly, Jerry Garcia-style leads. Very weird. Very weird indeed -- I've never done anything remotely like it before or since. So I got the idea about that life-energy flowing into other people to the extent that they had contact with the person -- another example would be the little bits of Marcus floating around in all of you. And of course the BEEG chunk in Susan -- " I saw it occur to Delenn at the same time it occurred to me -- "Whoa -- I wonder if that was part of what he had in mind," I speculated, "if so, that would make that whole thing significantly less stupid, and I might actually have to consider jumping OUT of his shit about it somewhere along the line." Delenn looked at me. "You really do....care about all of us, don't you?" she said wonderingly. "Well, yeah," I said, surprised that she would be surprised. "Just because somebody doesn't exist doesn't mean you can't care about them." THAT sounded weird. I tried again, more carefully this time -- "No, seriously, a pattern doesn't have to be physically manifest in your local spacetime before you can appreciate it, and appreciation generally provokes caring..." "Except when it becomes greed," put in Delenn. "Mmm, that would be a combination -- mostly 3rd sin with some 2nd. Anyway if you've got all this diffusion stuff going on, how do souls come into it? Why postulate coherent entities that persist across manifestations?" -- Aside from it being a real handy plot mechanism, I did not add. It was Delenn's turn to go into lecture mode -- "Well, to begin with, it is more than a postulate! It is an observed fact. As to why, and how...the closest I can come, in your language, to explaining it is to say that such entities -- patterns, if you will, in the...starstuff..." "I remember that!" I broke in. The first time she and Sheridan had really connected....Delenn was startled -- then even MORE startled as the implications sank in. Her eyes went wide. "Thousands of people...." She whispered. I was a bit boggled myself, come to think of it -- the bit with G'Kar's new artificial eye on their wedding night came inevitably to mind. I put out a cautioning hand and spoke carefully -- "Laugh or cry, Delenn -- come on now, you can do it..." A corner of her mouth twitched. Her hands flew up to her face -- for a moment she was still -- and then she went into convulsions. I waited it out. Eventually she recovered enough to gasp a single word -- "Anna?" I took a deep breath -- and got glared at. "Yup," I confessed, and she was off again. Yo, verily, yet another of the little trials in the life of a great spiritual and temporal leader. Eventually, she recovered. "Whew," she exclaimed in a most un- Ambassadorial manner. "I believe I have had all the 3rd sin knocked out of me for today, at least!" I restrained myself from congratulating her on achieving a state of Hawaii -- it would have taken too long to explain. She went on to describe how some patterns -- some combinations of characteristics of a sentient entity -- are useful enough -- learn enough, experience enough -- that they tend to hold together, much as early protein strands 'learned' to combine, recombine, and replicate themselves -- while, at the same time, diffusing, as I had speculated, throughout the general matrix, there. "Oh," I said, just barely grasping the concept itself, but identifying the pattern, "2 = 0." "Yes!" exclaimed Delenn, startled. I looked at her... "And three..." I began -- "Balances!" we both finished. We looked at each other and laughed in amazed delight, thoughts flying around in the air between us way too fast and furious for even a telepath to catch. "Why do witches cackle...." I said finally. "Pardon?" I shook my head. "This friend of mine " -- here we go again, I thought ruefully. Gee, you shove one person through a hole into another universe, and a whole Mongolian Cluster of mnemonic holograms comes along for the ride... "one of my best friends, until...well, anyway, she was the only person I've ever really been able to talk to about this stuff -- we figured out most of it together, actually -- and one time we were in the middle of some bizarre adventure or other, and one or the other of us goes, 'why do witches cackle?' and the other one goes 'because it's funny'"...suddenly I flashed on another conversation, years later -- 'do you think we'll always laugh like this?' -- and started to cry. "Oh, damn." Delenn helped me to a seat. "What happened?" she asked softly. I shook my head, trying to find a way to explain. "She...flamed out, basically. Her marriage was going bad and her daughter was dong the teenaged rebellion thing, so she threw herself into her work to get away from that -- and the politics at work was pretty damn insane, too, so everything just spiralled out of control. I saw it coming, but -- you know how hard it is to tell when to butt in and when not to? Well, when I finally did say something, it backfired and just made things worse. Eventually she got fired -- and after that, I don't even know what happened to her..." "I understand. My friend, Shaal Mayan..." "The poet?" "Yes -- how did -- oh." "Mm," I agreed. "Mayan did not react well to my...transformation," she began. No big surprise, there, after the lady was attacked by xenophobic humans on her first visit to the station. "We have...drifted, since then, and I suspect that from her point of view it may seem that I have...'flamed out'." "Now, there's a cheery thought -- you certainly seem to be okay." "Quite cool, in fact," she twinkled at me. "Now, there is something I would like to show you." She dug around in various cabinets for a while, getting progressively more annoyed, until she scared up what she was looking for in a chest back in a corner of the closet. She brought it out and set it up on the table between us. It was one of those pastel plastic tinker-toy arrangements -- up close I could see little thready things winding through the matrix, hitting the surface in little crystalline glints -- connections? Whatever. This one consisted of a jigsaw-puzzle type flat, low-sided box (triangular, of course) with arching projections at the corners -- sort of like a Minbari toddler's idea of a model of the top half of DS9 without the central spindle. She fired it up with a hand-pass, and it thrummed expectantly, sliding up the scale to a light, not- unpleasant warble. In the middle, two patterns of light began to form, coalescing out of an amorphous glow into intricate figures, mutating through combinations that seemed to almost, but not quite, repeat. "What is it?" I whispered, fascinated. "It is called zial'm'rinn. What is does, is to display an image of any soul within in its range -- about the volume of this room. The patterns here reflect the patterns of the soul -- it is used for meditation, and for instruction, to gain insight into one's own soul and also into that of another -- a teacher, or student, most often." I smiled delightedly at her -- "Sort of a very personal mandala?" She smiled back. "Something like that." I leaned closer, entranced. Now, which one was mine, and which was hers? Ah, I had it -- the lighter, more jagged pattern in white with glints of purple, blue, and gold, that seemed to dance in the middle of the space, sending little sparks in all directions -- that must be Delenn. The more fluid, grey- blue-silver flecked pattern prowling around the edges of the enclosure, then spinning suddenly across to another side -- that must be me. I was really getting into it when the door bleeped. "That's probably Michael," I said, coming back to what currently passed for reality. I took a deep breath and looked up at Delenn -- I didn't even have to say it. She gripped my shoulder as she headed for the door. I heard her ask if he had found anything, but I didn't hear his reply. At least he had recovered his aplomb, though -- he wandered over and make a great show of examining the zial'm'rinn. Delenn went through her explanation again, but it seemed to bounce right off the dome. Seemed to -- never can tell, with that boy. "Hm, " he said at last, "Maybe someday somebody will explain all this stuff to me in English." Delenn gave him an affectionately exasperated look. "Speaking of things you ARE interested in," I cut in nervously, "have you figured out my secret identity yet?" "Not yet, but we're working on it," he assured me. "Isn't that sweet," I replied through only lightly clenched teeth. "Dr. Franklin wants you to come by for a checkup," he advised. "When?" "Now would be good." "Yes," agreed Delenn. She had been staring at the zial'm'rinn with a puzzled expression while we were sparring. It looked okay to me -- both lights were still pulsing steadily. But then, what did I know? She continued hurriedly, "I am afraid I must prepare for my meeting with the Drazi ambassador. Let me just put this away." She did so, and we made our goodbyes and cruised. **IR1N_12.TXT * * * * * * * * * * END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * From: Jakhel@aol.com Subject: Infinite Regress 1: Chapter 8 Part 1 (14/37) IR1N_13.txt Date: Wed, 27 May 1998 15:05:42 EDT **IR1N_13.TXT * * INFINITE REGRESS 1: CHAPTER 8 Part 1 * * * * * * * * * * * * INITIAL SUBMISSION 05/27/98 * "I'm a doctor, not a (insert noun here)!" * - Dr. Leonard McCoy. * * See Infinite Regress 1: Overview (IR1N_00.txt) for attributions, * acknowledgements, and other notes. Contact me at Jakhel@aol.com with * feedback, questions, or whatever. * * TIMEFRAME: 2 days before the arrival of Captain Lochley. * SYNOPSIS: Ms. Hayes and Delenn have had a lovely chat, while Garibaldi * was off investigating...something. Now they're heading back to Medlab, so * that Dr. Franklin can verify his job on her eyes. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * WARNING! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * THIS FILE MAY CONTAIN ANY OR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING: * * SPOILERS FOR THE FIRST HALF OF SEASON 5 * VERY COLORFUL LANGUAGE * SEXUAL INSINUENDO * SUBVERSIVE AND HERETICAL IDEAS * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * S P O I L E R S P A C E A N D M O R E S P A **IR1N_13.TXT * * * * * * * * * * BEGIN * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * We hadn't made it halfway to Medlab 4 when Garibaldi's link beeped again. Zack's stress level was higher this time -- "Chief, we got a situation in Brown 26 -- can you give us a hand?" "I'm there." He clicked off. "Look, I don't know how long this is gonna take. I'll set you up with temporary access to my quarters. Go straight down that hall and turn left to get to Medlab, and I'll meet you >back at my place< later," he said pointedly. I agreed, and he took off. "Yes, Mr. Garibaldi," I muttered at his retreating back. "Whatever you SAY, Mr. Garibaldi. Go piss up a TREE, Mr. Garibaldi." * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * There was a medium-sized crisis on in Medlab when I got there. Somebody from the alien sector had just been rushed in after suffering some sort of attack, and two of the other patients were also in acute difficulties of some kind. All hands were on overdrive, and I quickly found a corner out of everyone's way. I was admiring Stephen's hyper orchestra-conductor command style when I noticed something wrong with the person on the exam table next to me. I had no idea what sort of person it was -- it went way beyond the bumpy- forehead category, yet appeared okay in our environment. Okay, that is, except for the jet of yellowish fluid spurting out of its mid-thoracic (more or less) appendage. Way too damn familiar sight -- old programming kicked in and I looked for -- and found -- the suspended line and extra-large needle that had popped loose. And on the other side -- without even thinking I reached over and pinched the return line just ahead of the oncoming airbubble, WITHOUT popping that needle or getting caught in the jet from the first problem. There was a clamp on the counter, just within reach -- I secured that line, snagged a pair of gloves -- pad? PAD?!? -- Pad. Rip and press. How hard? Hard enough. Where? Hell, all OVER the area. The person winked its cervical (sic) eyes at me and mewled. I smiled reassuringly and yelled for help. A couple of people looked over, saw that I had things more under control than they did, and went back to what they were doing. Something warm and tingly happened behind my sternum when Stephen glanced over, nodded shortly, and did the same. Must be lack of breakfast, I thought, and kept the pressure on. After a while, things calmed down, and a staff person took over. She checked that the bleeding had, in fact, stopped, dressed the puncture, removed the other needle, and reattached both lines to other appendages. As yellow fluid climbed up the line, I finally followed it...." "Excuse me, what is this?" I indicated the array. "This Fzdsht'k (hey, that's what it sounded like) is having trouble with its blood-cleansing organs..." "It's a dialysis unit," I marveled. "Basically, yes," the woman replied. How our sins do come back to haunt us, I thought. When Stephen finally got a break, I insisted on paying for the optical sensor upgrade. He tried to pass it off as falling under some sort of contingency account, but I called him on it. "Hello? Stephen? This is me, remember? Madame X, who sees all, knows all? One of the things I really liked in theory about Bab5 -- although the appeal is rapidly fading in real life -- was that you guys had a real economy to deal with." "Oh yeah? What do the other guys have?" he asked, sounding intrigued. "You don't want to know," I assured him. "Yes, I do," he asserted emphatically. I sighed. It's not going to work, Stephen...."Think one step this side of Leprechauns, and you won't be far wrong -- now let's get this over with, okay?" He gave in, grumbling. "I wanted to thank you for your help back there," he said as he handed back my card. "No problem. Brought back old memories -- and not entirely in a bad way," I mused. "Oh?" "My first job out of college was as a dialysis tech -- as a Biology major it was something like that, or grad school, and I was increasingly dubious about the concept of grad school..." "Dialysis? Renal hemodialysis? Before they developed artificial kidneys?" Now he really WAS intrigued. "Shuttling a person's blood all over the goddamned room for four hours with some klutz like me with a pair of hemostats monitoring it, you betcha." I didn't bother to ask why there wasn't a more efficient unit for the F-guy -- if there had been one, they would have been using it. "That's when I learned that I was NOT cut out for a medical career -- aside from being a klutz, my first instinct in a crisis is to stop, think, figure out what's wrong and fix it without making things worse by going off half-cocked -- " "Mm, I see the problem." "Yeah, well, I managed to get out of that job without killing anybody, thank the gods, and then when I got into computers, where that approach works real well, I eventually quit feeling like a total piece of shit over it. Actually, the experience helped -- you know how, in the business world, people are always getting bent out of shape about money, and status, and various political bullshit?" -- yeah, he knew -- "Well, I was, like, if there's no blood on the walls, it ain't EVEN an emergency, and I ain't gonna lose sleep over it. Kept my stress level way down." Stephen laughed down at his datapad, then pointed it at me, dead serious. "Yeah, well, when the political bullshit LEADS to blood on the walls, then your stress level goes way UP, believe me!" -- And I certainly wasn't about to argue with HIM, on THAT. As Stephen was setting up to check my eyes, whomst should grace us with his presumably potentially divine presence but the Centauri Ambassador, Londo Mollari. He swept in with a flourish of ornate coat and upstanding 'do, loudly demanding Stephen's assistance in a critical matter of State. Stephen was dubious. Finally, Londo admitted that the issue was actually VIR'S headache -- literally. The pudgy little attache was having the Centauri equivalent of a migraine. It had come on him suddenly, in Londo's quarters, and Vir was now ensconced on Londo's couch, moaning most piteously and driving the Ambassador up the wall. "And if I am driven to distraction by his infernal caterwauling, how will I be able to conduct myself with the lofty and trranquil bearing expected of me at President Sheridan's inauguration, ah?" Inauguration? thought I -- oh, that should be a hoot. And speaking of which, when was Londo supposed to go be Emperor? Not yet, apparently. -- And what WAS the proper form of address for an almost-Emperor, anyway? "Ambassador....Londo!" Stephen got him settled down -- for the moment. "I know what he needs -- we've been through this before. When he forgets to take his medication, these headaches flare up -- especially when he's under stress. Has he been under a lot of stress, lately?" Oh, go ahead, chomp on that ankle, Stephen! "Strresss? STRRESSS? You ask me, Londo Mollari, if my assistant -- little enough assistance that he is -- is under strresss? If you take one tenth the strresss that I am under -- no, one twentieth, and consider that the stress that VIR is under...well, my dear doctor, I can assure you that you will have strresss enough for fifty headaches! Yeess! Strresss, indeed!" he muttered slowly to a halt. "Fine," said Stephen, exasperated. "I'll get the medicine. Meanwhile, Ambassador Mollari, meet Ms. Anne Hayes. Ms. Hayes," and he neatly passed the Centauri, "Ambassador Mollari." Well, there was no blood on the walls, so what the hell... "Excellency! I have heard so much about you. I'm delighted to have the..." "Excssellenssy? I am not feeling at all excssellent at the moment, thank you, with all that moaning and groaning going on back in my quarters....aahhh, but you are the young lady from the past, whom I have been hearing so many... interressting rumors about." Small station, eh, what? -- And, YOUNG lady?? Hoo boy. I smiled weakly. "So, have you been enjoying your visit to the future?" he asked politely. "So far it's been fascinating. Mr. Garibaldi has been showing me around a little...." "Ah, I see. Fasscinating. Yeesss...a word of advice...I should be most careful around Mr. Garibaldi, if I were an...attrractive young lady such as yourself..." I shot Stephen a dubious look. Mollari continued, "I am afraid he has been verrry....touchy lately -- a disappointment of the heart, I understand. In such a state, a man may be subject to all sorts of...fancies, yess???" he gave me an appraising look. "Yeesss..." "Well, I appreciate the thought, Ambassador," I replied diplomatically, "but I assure you it's not an issue. I am most definitely NOT Mr. Garibaldi's type." Stephen shot ME some kind of a look -- what? "Yess, well, if he does give you any trrouble -- any trrouble at all -- come to me, and I will set him strraight." The image was priceless. I faked another cough -- gee, I wonder if Stephen could give me something for that....but anyway. "Believe me, Ambassador, in such a situation you are....one of the first people I would think of." He nodded smugly. "Excssellent..." Stephen handed him a phial and gave him instructions. As he was leaving, I called to him, "Ambassador! Please tell the Virmeister I hope he feels better." "The...Virr-meisterrr?" "It's....a term of affection, or respect. From the German for 'master'. For instance," I tried to find an example he'd get -- "if you're at a party, the person in charge of the music would be the 'tunemeister'. And someone like Vir, who is very very good at being Vir, would be..." "The Virrmeisterr," Londo chimed in. "Yess...I like that." I winked at him. He twinkled back at me and wandered off, muttering, "Da Virrmeisterr..." As soon as the door closed, I cracked up. "ONE of the first people you'd think of?" asked Stephen, chuckling. "Why me, Lord?" I entreated. "Just lucky, I guess. Now, let me have a look at those eyes." **IR1N_13.TXT * * * * * * * * * * END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * From: Jakhel@aol.com Subject: Infinite Regress 1: Chapter 8 Part 2(15/37) IR1N_13a.txt Date: Wed, 27 May 1998 15:22:44 EDT MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit **IR1N_13a.TXT * * INFINITE REGRESS 1: CHAPTER 8 Part 2 * * * * * * * * * * * * INITIAL SUBMISSION 05/27/98 * "I'm a doctor, not a (insert noun here)!" * - Dr. Leonard McCoy. * * See Infinite Regress 1: Overview (IR1N_00.txt) for attributions, * acknowledgements, and other notes. Contact me at Jakhel@aol.com with * feedback, questions, or whatever. * * TIMEFRAME: 2 days before the arrival of Captain Lochley. * SYNOPSIS: Ms. Hayes has just encountered Ambassador Mollari at Medlab. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * WARNING! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * THIS FILE MAY CONTAIN ANY OR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING: * * SPOILERS FOR THE FIRST HALF OF SEASON 5 * VERY COLORFUL LANGUAGE * SEXUAL INSINUENDO * SUBVERSIVE AND HERETICAL IDEAS * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * S P O I L E R S P A C E A N D M O R E S P O I L **IR1N_13a.TXT * * * * * * * * * * BEGIN * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * When Stephen was done checking my eyes, I asked if he ever heard from that lady from the cold-sleep ship. "Mariah Cirrus? Funny you should ask about her. I've been thinking about how similar your situations are -- except, of course, where they're QUITE different." There was some sort of quirky smiley thing going on with him that I didn't quite get. "Yeah, like the fact that, even though I'm from farther in the past, I actually have MORE of a clue about this time than she did." "Mm. That plus the fact that there's no ravening monster loose on the station," he pointed out. "That we know of," he continued. "Yet," he added. "Today," he concluded. I capped it -- "Unless, of course, you count Garibaldi," -- and was skewered on the riposte -- "Just remember, if he gives you anny trrouble..." We both cracked up. "You know, I'd....never mind." I caught myself -- I wasn't sure just how far prime-time sensibilities extended into real life, here. "What?" -- oh, well, maybe he could handle it... "Well, I probably shouldn't admit this, but my mind doesn't always run on the highest of tracks, there, if you follow my drift, and the image of Londo, um, >setting Michael straight< just sort of...hoo, boy!" Stephen grinned incredulously. "That IS bad." "Isn't it, though? Almost as bad as the idea of Londo as an 'attrrractive young lady'..." Stephen lost it. "You'd better get out of here," he said at last, "before I'm >completely< unfit for duty. You're a terrible influence, you know that?" "Ya THINK? -- All right, I'm outta here. I've got to get cracking on that research stuff anyway." "Good luck!" "Thanks!" Since Mr. Garibaldi, in his infinite wisdom, had failed to specify that I was to proceed IMMEDIATELY from Medlab to his quarters, I took the liberty of cutting through the Zocalo to grab some lunch and poke around a bit on my own. In a small kiosk on the very edge of the great chamber, I found the most wonderful thing. It looked like it had started out as a Centauri design -- one of those fitted peplum deals that an Earthbred eye expects to swoop down into a long skirt and so often....doesn't. This was just the jacket part, but with a high, sort of Nehru collar instead of a decolletage. It was done up in midnight-blue velvety stuff with a vee of tone-on-tone brocade-work down the front, and it fit like a glove. I lusted after that garment, but had no plausible excuse for spending the credits on it. Therefore, unfortunately, doing so would have violated the Second principle of Zen love -- never do ANYTHING without a damn good excuse. Gaah, I thought -- enough these nonsense already, I got work to do. As I turned to leave the shop, I caught a furtive movement out of the corner of my eye. Oh, boy, I thought, a furtive movement. When I looked back, there were only a few shoppers doing the browsing thing. Who, me, paranoid? Must be the company I was keeping. I navigated back to Michael's, and sure enough, the door let me in. I dumped my stuff and got to work. Scanning through the main menu, I located the utilities, and found myself a nifty little report generator -- it automatically created outlines, bullet points, hypertext links and footnotes. There was a double-ended stylus clipped to the console -- this was used much like a two-button mouse -- to drag/drop, you just circled some text to select, then dotted where you wanted it. The rest of it was just as straightforward, and the Help even made sense. Okay, so they weren't just slackers. I zipped through the general history stuff and used it to create a chronological outline. Then I went back through that, the environmental stuff, and the space exploration stuff using keyword searches -- after about three hours I had boiled it down to less than fifty bullet points -- with associated footnotes. It calc'd out to about 20 standard 8 1/2 by 11(!!) pages in small, but readable type. I saved the file, then stretched. Should I start the Rolling Stone stuff right away, or take a break first? As well as the entertainment value, I was hoping it would give me some leads for another round of keyword searches -- another ten pages, perhaps. I went ahead and pulled up the January, 2007 issue, just for grins. I figured that would be far enough from the Heisenberg divergence I knew about (Straczynski's accident) that it wouldn't be just crystal-gazing, but still close enough that the issues would be recognizable. Break and come back? Oh, what the hell...I bypassed the music and movie stuff -- I didn't mind 'spoiling my appetite' for the history, but music was another matter altogether -- ah, there was an article by William Grieder, lambasting Congress for passing something called the 'In-Home Surveillance Act'. Sounded rude, crude, and morally gauche to me... Would you believe I got into the third paragraph before the light bulb went on? It finally did, though -- "Omigo-od..." I swore in my best Valspeak, as it all fell into place. I whipped around, scanning the upper corners of the room. "Yeah, right, like I'M gonna see anything. That slimy son of a bitch...." I grinned in unabashed admiration. He'd pulled it off beautifully -- by flipping back and forth between obvious suspicion and grudging friendliness, he'd kept me too off- balance to figure out what he was really up to, even if I had been so inclined. "Okay, now, what extremely embarrassing things have I been doing lately... oh, MAN!" all that dancing around the room stuff -- geez, no wonder the man thought I was a loon. I just sat there for a while, in acute chagrin. Finally, I wrestled the 3rd sin to a fall. "Ah, fuck him if he can't take a joke!" -- excellent mantra for such occasions. I retrieved, stored, and fired up J.J. Cale's album 'Naturally', and, with a one-fingered salute, started my stretches. **IR1N_13a.TXT * * * * * * * * * * END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * From: Jakhel@aol.com Subject: Infinite Regress 1: Chapter 9 Part 1 (16/38) IR1N_14.txt Date: Thu, 28 May 1998 16:31:40 EDT **IR1N_14.TXT * * INFINITE REGRESS 1: CHAPTER 9 Part 1 * * * * * * * * * * * * INITIAL SUBMISSION 05/28/98 * "What do you want?" * - Mr. Morden. * * See Infinite Regress 1: Overview (IR1N_00.txt) for attributions, * acknowledgements, and other notes. Contact me at Jakhel@aol.com with * feedback, questions, or whatever. * * TIMEFRAME: 2 days before the arrival of Captain Lochley. * SYNOPSIS: Ms. Hayes has figured out that Garibaldi has bugged his own * quarters in order to keep an eye on her. She is a bit embarrassed and * definitely admiring, but basically figures it's HIS problem. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * WARNING! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * THIS FILE MAY CONTAIN ANY OR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING: * * SPOILERS FOR THE FIRST HALF OF SEASON 5 * VERY COLORFUL LANGUAGE * SEXUAL INSINUENDO * SUBVERSIVE AND HERETICAL IDEAS * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * S P O I L E R S P A C E A N D M O R E S P A **IR1N_14.TXT * * * * * * * * * * BEGIN * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The bald man stared at the screen in shock. "I don't believe it," he muttered to himself. "She made me -- and blew right past like it was nothing. She's GOTTA be legit. "Nuts, maybe," he added with a dawning smile, "but legit..." The sound from the other room trickled in. 'They call me the breeze -- I keep blowin' down the road....' "Unless she's a deep plant, like Talia -- nah, she'd have to be a telepath for that, wouldn't she? Hell, I don't know." He braced his elbows on the console and propped his head in his hands. "I'm getting really tired of this," he confessed to the room at large. "Really FUCKING tired of this!" A fist crashed down on a blank section of desktop, and the whole unit shuddered. The man stood up suddenly and started pacing around the room. The music continued, accompanied by occasional comments from the subject under observation -- 'I ain't hiding from nobody (- HAH!) Ain't nobody hiding from me. (Hello-o?)' A light chuckle wafted into the room. "Computer," snapped the bald man -- then thought better of it -- "Abort." He kept pacing. Every few seconds he would start to address the computer, then change his mind. 'I got that green light, babe -- I got to be moving on....' "Computer, terminate security log 437-alpha-niner, sub two. Scramble and lock access, authorization Garibaldi F813. New password..." he hesitated, then grinned, ">Doyle<." The monitors went blank, and the music stopped. "Log...terminated. Access...locked and scrambled. New password...in effect." The man headed for the door -- but stopped as he caught sight of his reflection in one of the other monitor screens. He smoothed out his expression, sucked in his gut (with very little visible change), and adjusted the set of his jacket. He frowned, then took off the jacket and adjusted the set of the vest beneath it instead. He draped the jacket over his arm, and with a vestigial grooming motion, smoothed the gleaming dome of his head. "Jerry, my man," he winked, "eat your heart out." He turned and was gone. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * I had discovered that 'Don't Go To Strangers' is perfect for 2-count front kicks in sets of four on each leg -- 'If I'm standing (down) in a crowd (and down) Call my name (and down), call it loud (and change) Don't go to strangers (down) -- woman (and down) -- Call on me (and down and kick and change)...' I kept at it -- op chaggi front kicks, bitt chaggi roundhouse kicks, and again....Once I got into it, I still had the wind to come in on the harmony to the second verse -- 'Don't leave me here to rust -- don't let me turn to dust. Oh, woman, when in doubt, call on me.... If I'm standing in a crowd, call my name, call it loud, Don't go to strangers, woman, call on me.' On the last line I swept the front kick all the way back and twisted around -- to face Garibaldi leaning on the partition with his jacket slung over his crossed arms and a VERY odd look on his face. Whatcha call your laugh or RUN situation? "Oh, shit," I yelped. "Computer, half volume," he said quickly. Then, "Hey, don't mind me, I just live here." I sighed, planting my hands on my hips. "Look, whatever happens, after tomorrow I will be OUT of your HAIR, okay?" The eyebrows went up. "Excuse me?" he asked pointedly, and I realized what I'd just said. I cracked up. "Oh, gods, I'm sorry -- I didn't EVEN do that on purpose!" He grinned and shrugged it off. "Ah, never mind, I'm used to it. You know, " he said, smoothing his hand over the infinitesimal stubble and ambling over toward the kitchen counter, "It's really more of a relief than anything else. You know how it used to stand straight up, like that? I HATED that, especially toward the end, there, but the buzz cuts weren't much better..." I'D thought they were, but anyway...a thought apparently struck him. "Man, you know, that's a really weird thing to think about -- another guy out there somewhere that looks just like me" He draped his jacket carefully over a chair back. "Two other guys, really, one in my past and one in your present, and they both look just...like....me......well, ninety percent, anyway." He peered speculatively at me. "Hmm. Kinda makes you wonder about that other ten percent, doesn't it?" "I don't think I want to be a part of this conversation," I said decisively. He flashed an all-too-familiar fiendish grin, and a cold chill crawled down my spine. What if he had...FOUND something? He turned to hunt for a glass and inhaled. Before he could start up again, I broke in. "Michael." He looked back over, innocent. "Now you're scaring me," I said, in dead earnest, for once. "Scaring you? NOW I'm scaring you?" -- Yeah, nice try, Garibaldi. I snorted. "Isn't this where you go into your 'buddy-buddy' routine, and I'm supposed to go," -- in my best Barbie Doll voice -- "oh, gee, he really IS a nice guy, I'll tell him >all about< my nefarious plot"- he cracked up. I barely noticed -- I was too pissed. And scared. "Trouble is," I went on, "I don't HAVE a nefarious plot -- or if I do, I don't know about it, okay? What part of 'I don't know what the fuck is going on here' do you not understand?" "Whoa, whoa, whoa -- easy, take it easy! Look, I know we got off on the wrong foot, and I'm sorry about that." He looked away, doing the back-of-the- head bit. "And...I'm sorry I scared you, just now, too. That's...." he laughed shortly. "That's funny. I was honestly trying to be friendly for once. Just goes to show, I guess, huh?" The baby blues flashed my way, and I was toast. Whatever game this boy was playing, he'd just taken it one level too high for me, especially given my hormone-induced handicap, there. "I'm sorry I went off on you," I said reluctantly. "I guess the idea that you might be right, that I might be...programmed, somehow, is so terrifying that I end up taking it out on you. Which is pretty damn silly, when you consider that you're the person who's got the best chance of figuring out exactly what IS going on here." "Hey, now," he protested, "if you know me as well as you SAY you know me, you know how far >flattery's< gonna get you." "It's not flattery, it's observation," I pointed out. "Yeah, well, whatever." He cast about for a change of subject. "Hey, what was that....martial arts kinda stuff you were doing before?" "Oh." I blushed. I do that, horrendously. I hate it. But anyway -- "That's, uh...well, the kid and I took Tae Kwon Do for a couple years. I enjoyed the hell out of it...he had yet to internalize the concept of 'practice'." Not wanting Garibaldi to think ill of my kid, I hastened to add, "Actually, I think if it had been a one-on-one thing he would have been fine, but this was one of those 'family-oriented' type situations -- with little 'programs' and 'incentives' and whatnot." I sighed. "I suspect a low tolerance for that kind of thing runs in the family." "From his father's side?" sympathized Garibaldi. "From BOTH sides, I should hope!" I retorted indignantly. He cracked up again. Was my timing getting better, or was the man losing it? Uh-oh....bad question... "Hey, why don't I make some room, here, and you can show me what you got," he suggested. "WHAT?" I squawked. "Come on." He shoved the coffee table aside. "Just see if you can hit me." "You're crazed," I opined. "Aw, come on!" he coaxed, bouncing back lightly into a guard position. "Come on! One good one!" "No way in hell!" I said firmly. "I've seen you in action WAY too many times, kiddo." "Uh-uh!" he corrected, "you've seen DOYLE in action." "Yeah, and exactly WHICH direction do you think any difference is going to be in?" Michael stopped bouncing and grinned smugly. "Yeah, you're right. I suppose I could probably take him." "I SUPPOSE you could kick his butt down the stairs and have him for breakfast -- get real!" I replied. The eyebrows went up. "As it were," I amended, and started to pick my vest up off the couch. But then a sudden demon seized me, and without warning I launched a kick into his midsection. Except, of course, that his midsection was no longer there. His hand was. I found myself in that embarrassingly familiar (and familiarly embarrassing) hopping-around-on-one-foot position -- for a moment I was really scared, but then he laughed and tipped me harmlessly back onto the couch. I bared my teeth in a grin and came back at him, using the one thing our teacher had approved of about my self-defense style -- relentless, ferocious, nonstop attack. -- Yeah, right into a brick wall, but what the hell. The sonuvabitch was LAUGHING at me, which I always find....inspiring....and I got in a few decent licks before he managed to immobilize me. At which point, predictably, we had a whole 'nother issue. It took only an eon or so of staring into his intent misty eyes for me to conclude that I had, if not exactly miscalculated, certainly oversimplified. Between tossing his career out the porthole, the violation of his mind, and now this break with Lise, the man was seriously adrift. Despite his suspicions, something about me apparently looked like a lifeline -- or at least a distraction. And speaking of distraction -- I'd MUCH rather fall into those eyes than fret uselessly about my own predicament...Oh, great, I thought, clutching at sanity, the man's still seriously attached elsewhere, he thinks I'm a Psi Corps plant, and I hope to GOD I'm leaving tomorrow -- not to mention viruses, possible allergic reactions, and other biological calamities. His eyes were still excavating the back of my head, and his hold on me was more desperate than restraining. "So, how many have YOU counted?" My voice came out a whisper. That's okay, his was a croak. "What?" "Reasons this is a bad idea." He thought about that a moment, said, "Not enough," and dove. A few centuries later, when we came up for air, I put my hand on his chest to get some distance. It didn't help much. "Michael...this is...I could still be a plant. I just don't KNOW." He looked down at me, rubbing his thumb gently across my cheekbone. Finally he shook his head. "I don't think so." Any remaining non-jello-based body parts I might have had melted at that point, and I sank into his warm shoulder. "Besides," he whispered into my hair, "I think we've just conclusively PROVEN Possibility #4." **IR1N_14.TXT * * * * * * * * * * END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * From: Jakhel@aol.com Subject: Infinite Regress 1: Chapter 9 Part 2 (17/38) IR1N_15.txt Date: Thu, 28 May 1998 16:41:54 EDT **IR1N_15.TXT * * INFINITE REGRESS 1: CHAPTER 9 Part 1 * * * * * * * * * * * * INITIAL SUBMISSION 05/28/98 * "What do you want?" * - Mr. Morden. * * See Infinite Regress 1: Overview (IR1N_00.txt) for attributions, * acknowledgements, and other notes. Contact me at Jakhel@aol.com with * feedback, questions, or whatever. * * TIMEFRAME: 2 days before the arrival of Captain Lochley. * SYNOPSIS: We're at the mushy part. Fortunately, we are following the * guidelines of the show, and have discreetly gone to commercials for an hour * or so -- a concept those of us watching Bab5 on TNT are QUITE familiar with. * Even more fortunately, I will leave said commercials to your imagination. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * WARNING! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * THIS FILE MAY CONTAIN ANY OR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING: * * SPOILERS FOR THE FIRST HALF OF SEASON 5 * VERY COLORFUL LANGUAGE * SEXUAL INSINUENDO * SUBVERSIVE AND HERETICAL IDEAS * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * S P O I L E R S P A C E A N D M O R E S P **IR1N_15.TXT * * * * * * * * * * BEGIN * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The package arrived while Michael was in the shower. He was getting ready to go prowling again, and I was leaning carefully against the counter, drinking coffee and contemplating the fascinating question of just what Stephen would have done with that morning-after parade of Klingons, Trill, and Ferengi on DS9 last year (at the moment, I felt like all FOUR of them). I finally decided that he probably would have handled it the same way Dr. Bashir did -- after all, the two of them are pretty much neck-and-neck in the "adorable space-station doctor" competition. Julian may be cuter, and flashier, but Stephen has that low-register, underhanded ZING.....the door bleeped. I felt a moment of panic -- fortunately, however, I was in the home of a man who was accustomed to living alone (I love it, I do). "Yo!" he called from the bathroom. Yo? Shouldn't that be, 'Computer....Yo'? At any rate, the door whined open -- SWEET fuzzy logic on them things -- to reveal a young Minbari gentleman carrying a large, flat container. He bowed. I bowed. "You are the Earth musician, Anne Hayes?" I allowed as how I was. He bowed. I bowed. "I am Vishann, of the 14th Confluence of Facilitation." Whoopee, lucky old you, I thought. "I have been asked by Entil'zha Delenn to present this to you," which he did, "with her compliments, and this message." -- Which he also handed me. He bowed. I bowed. "My thanks, Vishann of the 14th Confluence of Facilitation, to you and to Entil'zha Delenn." He bowed. I bowed. He left. I stood there like an idiot. Michael strolled in and fished his shirt up off the floor. DOWN, I say! You know, the man really isn't at ALL my type, I thought again. Too hefty, too furry, with less-than-inspiring bone structure -- and a serious short-hair even when he had HAD hair. Although, come to think of it, if you transplanted HIS brain into MARCUS' body, you'd get something pretty damn dangerous....ah, well -- been there, done that, and had the kid to prove it. Next? I quit maundering and showed him the loot. "So play the message," advised the maitre du maison. Now, how come it was that, after acquitting myself most creditably with the system last night and this afternoon, on my own, I was now totally incapable of getting the blasted crystal to work? Damn hormones. HE seemed fine, the jerk. Difference between hydraulics and integrated circuits, I guess -- for us female types, scratching the itch generally just makes it worse. Even (especially?) when it's an itch you hadn't even CONSIDERED admitting to yourself that you had. Oh, well, hell. Delenn's delicate features appeared on the screen. Apparently, Sheridan had decided (with or without help) to hold a small reception that evening, just for the diplomats and former League representatives who had been here for the duration, so to speak. The idea was to touch base with the old guard before the, if you'll pardon the expression, new wave of IA participants and wannabes started flooding in for the inauguration. (Apparently I was now cleared to officially know about that -- how gratifying). Delenn had, by some heroic and/or devious means, managed to borrow the current version of an electric guitar, and was hoping I could provide, say, 45 minutes worth of live entertainment for the reception. The reception was scheduled to start at 20:00, but my set wouldn't be until 21:00 -- she hoped that would give me time to become accustomed to the instrument, which she'd been told was slightly different from what I was used to. If I wished to decline, I should call her back and leave a message, but she hoped I would agree. If so, could I please ask Mr. Garibaldi to get there a little early to make sure the sound system was set up properly. Well. The lady pulled no punches, that's for damn sure. Michael looked at me appraisingly. "So, you gonna do it?" "Of course I'm gonna >do itLondo?<" Michael cracked up. "Yeah, well, the point is, she was very firm about it not being an issue because, quote, she's NOT your type, unquote." "That's very true, " Garibaldi agreed solemnly. "She is not at all the type of woman I'm generally attracted to." "I don't think that's what she...." "And there is certainly no question of me inflicting any 'unwanted attentions' on her." "Of course not, but I..." "Excuse me." -- and Michael came to meet me (see above). End of Flashback #2. So THAT'S why Stephen had had so much trouble keeping it together this afternoon! The orientation thing was a non-issue, of course -- a grace note, if you will, on the main theme. However, Michael's bringing it up -- out of whatever bizarre combination of rationalization and ambivalence had been brewing in that screwy little mind of his at the time -- had provided the good doctor with that last, critical data point needed for a definitive diagnosis. In short, he had twigged, right up front, that if this were an 'episode', it would be basically the Garibaldi version of the Mariah Cirrus thing. Garibaldi being Garibaldi, however, this would be no gentle, poignant tale of sweet romance nipped in the bud by cold, harsh reality, but something much darker, more twisted, and, above all, MAJORLY goofy. His astonishment at our little facesucking exhibition was not so much due to being proven wrong on the immediate issue, as to being proven so spectacularly RIGHT on the larger one. All of which left us with Mr. Neanderthal, there...I marshalled my forces. "You thought I was WHAT?" "You're not, are you?" Michael shot back smugly. He thought he was cute. I thought so, too, but not on this particular subject. Aha -- the over- confident bastard was going for his water glass. "Not actively," I replied quite seriously, "I've never run into the right woman. You?" Two for two -- at least this time it was only water. I gave Stephen a thumbs-up. "Thanks," he said. "No problem," I assured him. "Later," Michael warned me, mopping off his jacket. Oh, yeah...right then I needed a drink. I took the guitar over to a cleared area that was apparently going to be the stage, propped it against the wall, and headed for the bar. They had bourbon, but no gingerale -- Coke was apparently out of fashion, also, so I was at a loss. After a convoluted discussion with the bartender, I settled on something not entirely unlike 7-Up, and wandered back to the guys. Michael looked pointedly at the drink -- I Spock-eyebrowed him, and he backed down without a word. Smart man. The fact of the matter is, when I get nervous my voice dies an ugly and painful death -- and that was the LAST thing I needed right then. I slurped it down, refilled with fruit juice, and went to touch base with Delenn. I hovered unobtrusively for a minute or two while she wound up her conversation with one of the other delegates. This one was a small, slender person with greyish skin -- he/she/it looked exactly like our 1990's 'standard' aliens -- big head tapering to a tiny mouth and chin, with huge, black, tilted-oval eyes. I wondered if these were the guys with the flying saucers in those spectacular battle scenes -- and if so, had they REALLY been dropping in on us unannounced all along? -- A question for another time, perhaps. Finally, Delenn turned to me and smiled, hands folded into her wide sleeves. I grinned back. "All right, you got me," I said cheerfully. "Good!" she replied. "Now, the guests have been informed that you are from the past -- brought here to Babylon 5 by means that we do not, as yet, fully understand," -- you can say that again, I thought -- "and that you will be playing music of your own time and culture. I did not want to go into the...more complicated aspects, since it is not particularly relevant to the evening's entertainment." "That's fine," I agreed, "I can work with that." I ran over with her what I was planning on doing. She agreed, solemnly -- then her eyes flashed. Uh-oh, here it comes.... "I take it Mr. Garibaldi believes you now?" -- I DO like the way this woman's mind works. "Weelllll...either that," I replied carefully, "or he's a better actor than Mr. Doyle could ever HOPE to be." "Yes...." The alien woman mused, "I have observed that humans are surprisingly....fragile in certain areas." I wasn't EVEN about to pursue that one -- not just then, at any rate. Just then, Sheridan popped up at her elbow, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and not looking at ALL like a man who'd just spent the last hour and a half in a conference call with the Narn central government. "Sorry I'm late. Did I miss anything?" he asked perkily. Delenn looked at me. I looked at Delenn. "I...think I need to go set up now," I said. "Mr. President." We nodded at each other and I managed to escape with my composure more-or-less intact. Once I was out of earshot, Sheridan asked what THAT was all about. She told him Michael and I had had a meeting of the minds. "A meeting of the minds?" Sheridan repeated, clueless. "Mmm. Among other things." She cut him a look. "Oh? Oh!" he thought about that a moment, watching Michael helping me set up. "Hmm. I KNEW bugging his own quarters was a bad idea." "John!" his wife said sharply. "You should be happy for them!" He was still watching us, with no overwhelming degree of benevolence. "Should I," he commented drily. Meanwhile, I scooted over to the stage. Michael had the guitar strapped on (a delightful sight, believe me!) and was setting the transmitter to interface with the room's sound system. He noticed my barely-repressed hilarity. "You okay?" I jerked my head -- not a nod, not a shake, a jerk -- "Delenn.....oh, never mind." "Hm! I know the feeling," he assured me. **IR1N_16a.TXT * * * * * * * * * * END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * From: Jakhel@aol.com Subject: Infinite Regress 1: Chapter 11 Part 1 (20/39 - really!!) IR1N_17.txt Date: Sat, 30 May 1998 16:20:24 EDT **IR1N_17.TXT * * INFINITE REGRESS 1: CHAPTER 10 Part 1* * * * * * * * * * * * INITIAL SUBMISSION 05/30/98 * "Reflection...surprise...terror...for the future..." * - Kosh. * * See Infinite Regress 1: Overview (IR1N_00.txt) for attributions, * acknowledgements, and other notes. Contact me at Jakhel@aol.com with * feedback, questions, or whatever. * * TIMEFRAME: 2 days before the arrival of Captain Lochley. * SYNOPSIS: Ms. Hayes is about to go onstage at the diplomatic reception. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * WARNING! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * THIS FILE MAY CONTAIN ANY OR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING: * * SPOILERS FOR THE FIRST HALF OF SEASON 5 * VERY COLORFUL LANGUAGE * SEXUAL INSINUENDO * SUBVERSIVE AND HERETICAL IDEAS * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * S P O I L E R S P A C E A N D M O R E S P A C E **IR1N_17.TXT * * * * * * * * * * BEGIN * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * When Garibaldi had the guitar set to his satisfaction, he set it aside and attached a microphone-button to the front of my jacket. Of course, he HAD to flatten his other hand halfway across my chest for leverage...."Quit it," I murmured. It wasn't exactly an >honest< smile I got back (along with a gratuitous squeeze), but I had hopes. Then he demonstrated and set the monitors -- little projector-thingies that dropped down from the ceiling, focusing automatically about a foot above the mic-button, so that I could hear myself, but the sound wouldn't feed back or slop over into the audience. Cool. Once he took himself off, I tuned up and scanned the crowd. I recognized at least the species of maybe half the attendees. Didn't spot the insectoid Gaim, though -- too bad, I'd been looking forward to meeting that one. There were the tentacled guys -- Pak'ma'ra, I remembered now. Carrion-eaters. Yes -- 'all employees must wash hands and tentacles before returning to work'.... but anyway. My old pal the Fizzy-whatever was folded into a corner of a couch -- it waved an appendage at me (I think), so I smiled and waved back. The Drazi contingent was here, the Centauri (Londo raised his glass at me), and the Narns (G'Kar had come in with Sheridan, and was giving his troops a little pep talk in the corner). "Is this thing on?" It was. "Good evening, gentlepeople. Ambassador Delenn has asked me to play a few songs for you this evening, and I hope it will prove enjoyable, or at least tolerable, for most of you, anyway. As you may have heard, I was brought here, by means that are as yet undetermined, from a time before humans had any space travel capability to speak of, although we certainly had enough IDEAS on the subject." I grinned as I caught Stephen's eye. He nodded encouragingly. The rest of the audience was sorting itself out by degree of interest -- Sheridan and Delenn parked themselves at a table to my left, and Stephen sat between Londo and G'Kar slightly to my right. "My time was a time of great change -- much like this time, in many ways. We went from steam power to nuclear energy, from the printing press to hand- held, networked computers, from exploring our own world to sending probes to the stars, all in less than one human's lifetime. We were a world of diverse cultures -- as alien to each other as separate species -- some bent only on conquest, but most looking for a way to live in peace. "It was a harsh time -- we were rapidly outgrowing the resources of our world, and beginning to learn the price of centuries of heedless exploitation. It was a cynical time -- for those of us with the means and leisure to indulge in cynicism. It was a time of rampant individualism. All our traditions were being reexamined -- sometimes discarded, sometimes used as armor, or weapons, by those who were ruled by fear of the new and the unknown. And finally, it was a time of great hope, for we knew that if we could just make it through, somehow, there was a whole galaxy full of wonder and delight -- and, of course, new challenges -- waiting for us. "The music I grew up with -- the music I play -- reflects all of that: change, harshness, cynicism, taking traditional forms in radical new directions following the path of the singer's heart, and out of all the darkness, hope. I don't play >nice< songs, I don't play >sweet< songs. Almost everything I play has a bite to it -- something to wake you up and make You think. Many of them say, "look, here's this stupid stuff people do -- let's NOT DO THIS -- let's do SOMETHING ELSE" -- even if I don't always know what that something else might be. -- And I think that fits very well with what you are trying to do here on Babylon 5 -- something different -- something better, even if it's not quite clear what that is, yet. "I'm going to start with a couple of tunes that I did not write, but that illustrate my point, I think, and then move on to my own stuff. I hope that you will find it interesting, at any rate." With that, I rolled into J.J. Cale's 'River Runs Deep' -- my version, gender-switched and a bit uptempo. It's a fun little song -- easy to play, easy to sing, and quite catchy. The fact that it's all about simmering rage triggered by insane jealousy and leading to cold-blooded murder is entirely beside the point. Uh-HUH. "Mr. Garibaldi will probably recognize this one -- although my version may not be quite what he's used to..." I started up "Suzy Q" -- the Psychotic Dyke version. When I learned this song, I quickly realized that there was no way I could do Fogerty's lead vocal -- and in most situations (although not this one!) the audience would be playing it in their heads anyway. So I do the high harmony as the lead vocal, swooping from waiflike ethereality to a banshee snarl on the "say that you'll be mine" verse -- then back to completely unhinged waifishness on a reprise of the first two verses. It's very unsettling when done right -- I love it. Came out okay this time -- Sheridan was definitely looking at me funny by the end. Oh, well, he'd like the next one better. At the back of the room, Garibaldi was in input mode -- slouched back with his feet on a table. I had started out trying read his body language -- when he pulled his hands out from behind his head and crossed his arms, was this a bad thing? -- But I quit it when it got too distracting. Which was almost at once. I retuned in 30 seconds flat (oh, sweet, sweet progress!) and headed into "Close". It has a spoken intro -- "Physics -- and psychology....people talk about 'pseudo-intimacy' -- what exactly does this mean? If distance is time, then how do you know when you're really >close< to somebody?" Close as two hearts beating in the night -- close as a star to another star, Close as a whisper on the telephone line -- so close, and yet so far. Close as a hope that lives unspoken -- close as my heart to wherever you are, Close connection -- never broken -- too close, and yet too far. Close as your lover when you need that space -- a dry kiss thorugh a closing door -- Poison words, they leave that trace -- too close, and yet too far. Close as a tongue or a trigger finger -- the right love at the wrong time, Lives drift, but the longing lingers -- so close, and yet so far. Close as a look from across the room -- close as a stranger in an elevator car, Close as the words on a lover's tomb -- so close, and yet so far. Close as the war on the nightly newscast -- close as the needle in your best friend's arm, Close to the edge, and looking over -- too close -- and way too far. As I came out of that verse, I grinned at Sheridan, hammering the strings. His eyes widened -- despite all the polite stuff previously, I think that was the first moment we actually communicated. I used the boost from that to rip through the instrumental break and back into the first verse to wind it up. I had a thought for the next song -- this could either be really cool, or really awful if it backfired. Oh, well, no blood on the walls yet... "All right", I said, "We're going to have a little audience participation thing here. How many of you, for your primary means of procreation, combine genetic material with that of other members of your species to form new individuals -- please raise an appendage." Arms and whatnot went up all over the room. I caught a glimpse of something from the Centauri flunky-contingent back in the back -- someone was either very confused or had a really vile sense of humor. Anyway, from where I was I didn't see anyone abstaining. "Gee, narrow little group we got here, huh? Okay, now, how many of you -- speaking on a species level, here, now, not personally -- tend to form your strongest interpersonal bonds with people who could at least theoretically be partners in this process?" Down to a little over half on that one -- good enough. "All right, well, those of you who don't may need to stretch your imaginations to find an analogy, but it's a good exercise, anyway. Now, among humans this is a pretty strong tendency, and our mating instincts tend to get redirected one way or another to provide energy for a lot of our interpersonal interactions -- sort of like using a nuclear bomb to provide energy for a ship or colony." Got a few chuckles on that one -- and not just from humans. "As you know, we have two genetic genders, with slightly different physical and psychological characteristics, and we often try to shove them into separate roles in our societies, with varying degrees of success." Sheridan and Delenn were following me with interest -- Stephen was getting a clue where I was going with this, and covering a grin. Michael had his arms AND legs crossed. Mmhmm.... "Now, for various reasons, a varying but noticeable percentage of our people end up programmed such that they bond with members of their own gender -- this is not real useful for reproduction, obviously, and due to instinct hookups it often tends to provoke hostility from the majority of the population -- including these peoples' families, friends, co-workers, and what have you. "In my time, well, I'm not sure whether the actual incidence was higher, but the visibility was a LOT higher -- with all the cultural upheaval going on, these people were able to band together for mutual support and develop significant subcultures of their own, exploring new ways of dealing with each other, lifestyles and priorities that were not based on traditional family units, turning the energy that didn't go into procreation to the arts -- fine, domestic, and otherwise. In a world that seemed to be getting smaller and narrower every day, these people were pioneers on the frontier of the heart." I shot a look at Stephen. He looked grim -- he knew what was coming. "Then came the epidemic -- a disease that attacked the immune system. It didn't kill its victims -- just left them defenseless against whatever else came along. It could take years -- years of hoping, praying, trying new treatments, meanwhile wreaking havoc on their economics, their lives, and their loved ones. Then there was the backlash as the fear of infection added to the hostility that already existed, since the first and hardest hit were the male homosexuals -- the gender that tends to be more visible, more aggressive, and more vulnerable. They were our sons, our brothers -- hell, sometimes even our fathers -- things happen -- and our friends. I don't know what ended up happening..." Stephen shook his head sadly, "but from in the middle of it, I can tell you that it was as tragic as any war. So," I took a deep breath, "when things like that happen, people like me write songs about it, to try and capture the essence of the situation, for others in our own time, and for the future. Anyway, here's my best shot." It was a little song for such a big intro -- but it's one of my favorites, and it seemed to go over pretty well... Jack-a-dandy, Jack-a-dandy, Jack-a-dandy my dear -- Where are you going so fine-o? I'm bound for the city, where the boys are all pretty -- Ne'er again will you see your Jack-a-dandy-o.... **IR1N_17.TXT * * * * * * * * * * END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * From: Jakhel@aol.com Subject: Infinite Regress 1: Chapter 11 Part 2 (21/39) IR1N_18.txt Date: Sat, 30 May 1998 16:24:24 EDT **IR1N_18.TXT * * INFINITE REGRESS 1: CHAPTER 10 Part 2* * * * * * * * * * * * INITIAL SUBMISSION 05/30/98 * "Reflection...surprise...terror...for the future..." * - Kosh. * * See Infinite Regress 1: Overview (IR1N_00.txt) for attributions, * acknowledgements, and other notes. Contact me at Jakhel@aol.com with * feedback, questions, or whatever. * * TIMEFRAME: 2 days before the arrival of Captain Lochley. * SYNOPSIS: Ms. Hayes is entertaining the guests at the diplomatic reception. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * WARNING! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * THIS FILE MAY CONTAIN ANY OR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING: * * SPOILERS FOR THE FIRST HALF OF SEASON 5 * VERY COLORFUL LANGUAGE * SEXUAL INSINUENDO * SUBVERSIVE AND HERETICAL IDEAS * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * S P O I L E R S P A C E A N D M O R E S P A C E **IR1N_18.TXT * * * * * * * * * * BEGIN * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * I let the last echoes trail away, then looked up and scanned the audience. They were ready..."And now for something completely different...I wrote this one about the guy that ended up being my son's father, one time when I was... just the teensiest bit annoyed with him. Later, another time when I was also annoyed with him, on the same issue, I played it for him. So, he thinks for a minute, then he goes, 'you know, you really ought to to switch the second and third verses around, they'll flow better that way' -- and he was right..." I laughed ruefully. "Yeah, if only that sense of priorities had extended into other areas...but anyway. I still play it, just 'cause it's a hellaciously fun tune to play. -- Anybody feels like dancing, go for it!" -- and I launched into 'Sweet Prima Donna' -- vicious as hell over a firecracker guitar riff... Well, he's a sweet prima donna with long, dark hair, He's got women crawling over him, everywhere -- Loves to see 'em scramble and act like fools, You know he loves to be the prize in their cat-claw duels. I may love him in his own despite, But I'm too damn lazy to fight....... The front ranks were unanimously grinning by the end of that one, and there was some definite bopping going on in the background. Even Michael looked amused. Continuing in the same artery, I let fly with "Down in the Trenches" -- a charming little ditty I came up with after a couple years of hanging around with my friend John and his best friend after their simultaneous divorces. We all had kids the same age, so we set up a sort of parenting network. I also got a ground-floor view of them putting their lives back together -- nothing like watching a pair of middle-aged salesmen re-enter the dating game, boy.... Down here in the trenches in the battle of the sexes Don't know what the stench is, but it's getting pretty thick. Could be the aroma of another broken home, Or just the scent of something lurking in the shadows of the night. High above the clouds there flies a bird with wings of fire Soaring ever higher on her journey to the sun -- Babe, why don't you call me -- babe, why don't you trust me? Babe, I know this must be love -- I never felt like this before...... "Now how did I know you'd like that one, Ambassador?" I said in a quick aside to Londo, who had been practically sparkling with delight through the whole thing -- and went straight into 'House of Cards'. It's a light, wistful thing, and makes a good segue out of DTs -- House of cards, house of cards, don't blow down my house of cards - I won't blow down your house of cards, if you don't mess with mine. Way to go, way to go, don't tell me which way to go -- I won't tell you where to go, just don't get in my way..... I noticed Sheridan looking sort of wistful after that verse -- some kind of flashback, perhaps? I was gratified that I seemed to be getting through to people, anyway. Retuned back down -- now what? Oh, yeah, 'Heart Like an Eagle'. It's fun to play -- divorced women like it a lot, which didn't do me a whole hell of a lot of good with this audience. The instrumental is right tasty, though, and I was counting on that to get through to some of those who had been left behind by the lyrics so far. Seemed to work. After that -- I'd gone out on a limb once already with the intro to 'Jack-a-Dandy' -- did I dare do so again, with something a little more personal? Well, it's not a BAD tune....just not my usual style....but I really did feel like it.... "This is one of the very few sappy songs I've written -- that is, sentimental or...what have you...or at least one of the few I've kept...and I don't play it often, but...I don't know....whatever...." This wasn't going well -- play the SONG, dammit. Make me an anchor with a long, fine chain -- Light as silk so I can fly away -- Strong as steel so wherever I roam That cool thin line is gonna guide me home -- And I will sail on your ocean. And I will rest on your shore. Build me a lighthouse on a storm-tossed bay With a searchlight shining out night and day -- When I'm lost out in the wind and foam, That cool clear light is gonna call me home. And I will walk on your beaches. And I will watch by your fire -- All that love teaches in this storm of desire. Give me a love that is as strong as iron -- Soft as silk -- hot as fire - Warm like a blanket on a cold dark night -- Shining through the clouds with a clear white light. And I will give what I have, And I will hold to your heart - Sand, stone, wind and wave -- Down the years from the start. Make me an anchor with a long, fine chain... Sheridan looked a lot more comfortable with that one. It went over well with the rest of the audience, too -- with one glaring (and I DO mean glaring) exception. When I looked up, finally, after the last chord died, Michael was standing up all the way in the back corner with his arms crossed and the lasers on narrow beam. What the hell had I done wrong? He had no way of PROVING that one was aimed at him, I thought, covering my virtual ass frantically -- and even if it was, in what conceivable way could it be taken badly? With someone as complex and paranoid as Garibaldi, there was no telling -- about half a dozen totally idiotic and utterly plausible possibilities flashed through my mind in the time it took for the applause to die down. What do you want to bet it was ALL of them, plus a few more I hadn't thought of yet? Oh, well, time to make like a professional, here, huh? Step OUT of the shit and keep trucking. Fortunately I had a good one to recover on.... "This is a song that I started, and I really loved the melody, but about half the lyrics just wouldn't come -- " Down in front, G'Kar gave me a commiserating nod. " -- until this afternoon." I exchanged a smile with Delenn. "In fact, the way it came out, I think perhaps this song was meant for this place, and this time -- " All I see is the morning -- all I hear is the wind. And sometimes it comes without warning -- this feeling alone. Race down the wind, stare down the sun, Rise up from the ashes -- your work's never done. Stare down the sun -- drive back the night. Step out of the shadows, into the light.... There was nothing particularly unusual or twisted in this one, just every word, every note in exactly the right place at the right time. It built, crested, and faded -- the room went still, then erupted in applause of various kinds. Wow -- what a concept! If this was all my "professional" career ever amounted to, it would be more than enough. I drank in the feedback -- I could feel the incredulous smile on my face -- and felt it fade at the sight of the dark blot in the corner. At least his hands were back in his pockets, the lasers on standby as he looked out over the enthusiastic crowd, his jaw set thoughtfully. For the first time I almost regretted my new distance vision -- I forced back a tight imitation of a smile and went into the last intro. "I'd like to dedicate this last one to someone who is NOT here, at least physically." -- and what had happened to Marc Remillard when he de-looped? I had forgotten, dammit -- and it might or might not apply here anyway -- "I think he'd like it, though -- this one goes out to Commander Jeffrey Sinclair..." -- the station's previous C.O., who had, after several years of leading the Anla-Shok (the Rangers -- an elite cross-species courier, spy, and strike force that was now the enforcement arm of the Alliance) taken Babylon 4 back a thousand years to help win the previous Great War. He had also, after reversing Delenn's transformation on the way back, become the living corner- stone of Minbari culture from that day to this -- and, incidentally, Delenn's own distant ancestor (time loops -- gotta love 'em!). "In Valen's name," I finished softly, smiling at Delenn, and hit the opening notes of Big Bang Blues. It starts out with a slow, rich, single-note blues progression -- basically a guitar version of a church organ -- then explodes into a Buddy Holly-style riff. -- Oh, yeah, the other thing about Jeff, which had given me the idea in the first place -- in the episode with the pink underwear bit, it had been Sinclair's responsibility to arrange a demonstration of Earth's "dominant religious beliefs". The end of the show had been a pull-back shot of him escorting the Group down a line of, what was it, two hundred-something? -- representatives of all of Earth's various religions. I'd MADE the kid watch that one. So, anyway... I met my baby at a party at a temple down the avenue. There was such a lot of people there -- most of them I hardly knew. He said "Ain't I seen you somewhere?" -- I said "Yeah, we got the same guru." There was a flock of Hare Krishnas and a gaggle of Hasidic Jews. There was a bunch of Unitarians -- looked just like me and you. - And they had seven rockin' yogis and a rollin' bodhisattva, too. And won't you gimme the sound -- one band rockin'. Open the door -- Jesus' knockin'. Give him a beer -- bring him over here -- and we'll have a party tonight. Oh, yeah, we're gonna have a party tonight Rockin' in the heavenly light When Hell breaks loose we're gonna hafta choose -- so let's have a party tonight! Well, the party was a benefit to help the ASPCA - all the puppies and the kittens whose lives are being thrown away - so we were trading catechisms and a-rockin' our dogmas away. Well, the bodhisattva said "We got a song we want to play for you. It's a classic rock-n-roller, I know that you all know it, too -- you see, this pretty Neo-Pagan just requested the Big Bang Blues. So won't you gimme the sound -- one band rockin'. Turn it up loud -- there ain't no stoppin' when the Bad Bodhisattva and his Seven Rockin' Yogis get to playin' the Big Bang Blues!" And we were dancin' to the Big Bang Blues -- Everybody know the Big Bang Blues - 'Cause when the Gods got together for the first time ever, they were playin' the Big Bang Blues! And won't you gimme the sound -- one band rockin'. Open the door -- Jesus knockin'. Give him an axe -- Mohammed's on the sax, and they're playin' the Big Bang Blues! It was another big hit -- even those (the majority) who didn't get most of the punch lines got the basic idea. Sheridan and Stephen had both lost it big time, and even Michael had cracked a couple grins. Well, it was over -- and with no blood on the walls. Or so I thought. **IR1N_18.TXT * * * * * * * * * * END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * From: Jakhel@aol.com Subject: Infinite Regress 1: Chapter 12 Part 1 (22/39) IR1N_19.txt Date: Sun, 31 May 1998 14:55:19 EDT **IR1N_19.TXT * * INFINITE REGRESS 1: CHAPTER 12 Part 1* * * * * * * * * * * * INITIAL SUBMISSION 05/31/98 * "One thing at a time, Ambassador....one thing at a time." * - Mr. Morden. * * See Infinite Regress 1: Overview (IR1N_00.txt) for attributions, * acknowledgements, and other notes. Contact me at Jakhel@aol.com with * feedback, questions, or whatever. * * TIMEFRAME: 2 days before the arrival of Captain Lochley. * SYNOPSIS: Ms. Hayes has just finished her set. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * WARNING! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * THIS FILE MAY CONTAIN ANY OR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING: * * SPOILERS FOR THE FIRST HALF OF SEASON 5 * VERY COLORFUL LANGUAGE * SEXUAL INSINUENDO * SUBVERSIVE AND HERETICAL IDEAS * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * S P O I L E R S P A C E A N D M O R E S P A C E **IR1N_19.TXT * * * * * * * * * * BEGIN * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Garibaldi was still bugged about something. He meandered up to the front while I took my bows, and cornered me the instant I got 'offstage'. "Listen," he said quickly -- nervously -- "I don't know why the hell I didn't think of this before, but what with you knowing all about my.... situation....I guess I just...." He went from looking everywhere ELSE in the room to pinning me with the lasers on full aperture, and took a deep breath. "I never asked YOU if there was anyone back home." Oh, boy. I knew that look. The man's guard was all the way down -- well, okay, halfway down, but that was bad enough. Suddenly I got a very clear glimpse of the downside of this situation, if I did get stuck here. I had a strong suspicion that, like a truly depressing percentage of highly intelligent, highly defensive males, the guy was a purebred Klingon at heart. (Get it? Kling-on? Never mind). Well worth dealing with, of course -- if you had the chops -- but definitely no stroll in the park. Well, as they say in the Regency romances, best to start as you intend to go on. I opened with a light parry: "Well, the last I heard there were about five BILLION people back home. Why?" So much for the light parry -- shields to 40% and falling, Captain -- "Ah, don't do this -- you know what I mean. Anyone special." "Quite a few special," I replied automatically, "starting with the kid..." Damn, too hard. He mantled like a great hawk, hunching his shoulders and flinging his head around as if hoping Sheridan or somebody would come to HIS rescue, for once. "Michael," I said firmly, taking hold of his upper arm. He looked at me warily -- at least the shields were coming back up. Ready tractor beam...I held his gaze and spoke straight from the heart. "Look, it's like this, for real -- I don't do 'wife', I don't do 'girlfriend'. Ever, for anyone -- it's not in my job description. I make a damn good friend, and under...appropriate circumstances I've been known to make a halfway-decent mistress." I paused, then went on carefully, hoping he'd get this. "It's not a matter of...depth of feeling, or commitment, or any of that crap -- it's a matter of qualifications and priorities, what you are and are not good at, and how you build your life. And whether things work out in a...standard pattern..." -- he followed my glance at the presidential couple -- "or otherwise, either way, you do the best you can with what you've GOT, you know?" "Yeah, I guess," he agreed, reluctantly. His gaze dropped, then came back to mine as if pulled by a rubber band. "And when -- if -- you go back?" I snorted. "It's going to hurt like flaming hell for a long time. What's your point?" He started to answer, then caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. It was Zack, hovering in the doorway. A look flashed between them, and Michael turned back to me briefly. "You wanna know what I think, I think you've been watching too many vids -- you're starting to sound like Marcus." -- and he was gone. Londo appeared at my side. "Dear lady," he advised, "you must not let Mr. Garibaldi turn you into a FISH." I closed my mouth. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Garibaldi met Zack over by the door. "Hey, remember that dust shipment we picked up yesterday morning?" the Security Chief asked. Michael nodded. "Well, I followed your suggestion. We replaced it with that copycat stuff Dr. Franklin had lying around and sent it on through. A few minutes ago we got a call from Brown 37 -- a guy was beat up pretty bad, and he had some of it on him." "And the guy it was consigned to was killed in that riot yesterday afternoon....any word from Franklin on who he was, by the way?" "Yeah -- Edward Gantt -- originally from Cincinnati, but he's been knocking around all over for the last fifteen years or so -- small businesses, free-lancing, that sort of thing." "Gantt....Edward Gantt.....got it! The guy was a small-time drug dealer on Orion IV when I was there...but then he disappeared suddenly. I just assumed he pissed somebody off and took a long walk out a short airlock, but..." "Yeah, and remember, Dr. Franklin said he was a telepath -- that he could tell by the neural structure or something...." "Uh-huh, and we figured that's where those Psi Cop rumors were coming from, which is why I figured....ah, never mind. And that shipment originally came from Syria Planum, which is where Psi Corps has their 're-education' facility ....this is looking ugly, Zack." "Tell me about it. If that stuff is still getting around, even with Gantt dead, that means that someone else was working with him." "When you find out who, and what they're up to, you let me know. Anything that leads to Psi Corps, I want to know about!" "Got it. -- Oh, and Chief -- " not stress, but affection, this time, "don't worry about this stuff for now -- just enjoy the party. It's good to see you relaxing, for once. You deserve it, ya know what I mean?" "Deserve what?" Garibaldi snapped suspiciously, glaring at his friend. Zack backed off. "Just...I don't know...having a good time, for a change. Sheesh, lighten up, will you?" "Sorry, Zack. You're right -- I suppose I should....lighten up, huh?" He scanned the crowd and found me talking to Londo. He exhaled heavily. "Yeah, I suppose. Just keep me posted, okay?" "You got it," said Zack, and he split. Garibaldi wandered over to the bar, keeping an eye on us. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "You are a sly one, you are," the Centauri Ambassador told me confidentially. "'Not an issue', you said, ah? 'Not his type', you said." "Well, it's NOT an issue, and I'm NOT his type. It's just....things happen." Rama rama ding ding. "Yess, so they do, so they do....if you ask me, from what I have seen you are precisely Mr. Garibaldi's type -- I mean that in a good way, of course..." Yeah, Londo. Thanks a bunch. "I have been meaning to ask you something," he went on. "In this.... television show of yours..." "Not mine!" I protested. I didn't even WANT to know how he knew about that! "Whatever. Am I portrayed as....a villain?" "No! No, not at all -- or, well, not exactly." I felt I'd best handle this in the third person. "Ambassador Mollari is...a complex character in a complex situation. He does what he believes is best for his people, regardless of the personal cost -- and, at times, despite his own misgivings." The Ambassador/Prime Minister/Emperor-to-be shot me a look from under those brows. I was impressed. "And he keeps doing his best," I continued doggedly, "That is NOT the mark of a villain in my book." As it were. "No," he sighed, after a moment. "Only, perhaps...of a great fool." "I don't think so," I told him. "I don't think so at all." He pulled himself out of his thoughts with an effort. "Yes, well, that is very good of you to say. There was one other thing -- do they show anything about..." he leaned close, "the vision?" "Which one?" He jerked back. "Ahhhh....both of them, then? And what, exactly, do they....um...." "Well, the thing with G'Kar comes up a lot...well, not a lot, really, but...a lot." The Centauri laughed shortly. "Tell me about it," he said. "It seems as though every time I close my eyes, I see that face...especially since the thing with the....um...." he waved vaguely in the direction of his head, then tried to shove away the whole issue. Didn't manage it, though -- "...and the worst thing.....the way things have...developed lately, with the Shadow War, and the situation with Earth... the new Alliance..." he broke off, and looked around to see if anyone was eavesdropping. Didn't look like it, although I had my suspicions about the potted plant. I think it winked at me. "Now, you know I would never say this to anyone but you," Mollari went on, "and that only because I suspect you may have an...inkling...of the matter already...the truth is," he sighed, "I find I do not anticipate having my hands around G'Kar's throat with quite the same....zeal that I once did. And furthermore, I find the thought that he might, to be somewhat...depressing. On a certain level, you understand." "I understand, Ambassador." What the hell could I SAY, here? "Well, I don't know whether that is meant to be A future or THE future, or perhaps several possible futures intersecting at that point...but the feeling I have always gotten from that scene is that it is not.." careful, here..." quite as straightforward as it might seem. And that, if it happens, it will be the right thing to do at the time. Of course, I don't suppose that does you a whole lot of good." "Yes, yes, it does," he said thoughtfully. "And the reading from Lady Morella?" I thought, hard, but only came up with generalities. "I really don't remember the details on that one, only that I never quite figured it out..." "Oh, well, that does us a tremendous amount of good, doesn't it? Perhaps if I REMIND you -- " which he proceeded to do. Little bits and pieces came back to me -- and the more those bits and pieces came together, the more certain I became that we should QUIT talking about it. So, how to turn the subject from what was, legitimately, the man's primary interest? Ah, yeesss... "Ambassador," I remarked idly, "this may sound weird, but bear with me, here -- what did you think of Lady Morella as a PERSON?" Londo shrugged. "She is a great lady, in every sense of the word. I suppose....I suppose I would say that she is an example of all that is most worth preserving of our great Republic -- proud, yet compassionate, courageous, and...beautiful....why do you ask?" "The woman that played that role is also a great lady, in her way. The appearance on Babylon 5 was a treat for all of us, but probably her best-known role is in another, similar series -- " and I proceeded to describe Lwaxana Troi. Got his attention, all righty. "Ah, a woman with all the virtues of my....dear wife Timov," he summarized -- I really admired the way he enunciated all three words without ever once unclenching his teeth -- "but with a little more....ah...." "A LOT more...ah!" I clarified. "Ah, yesss...." "So, next time this universe gets you down, just consider the concept of this excellent person in an equally plausible universe, a century or so downtime." "A pleasant thought, indeed," he agreed. We stood there and people- watched for a while, Londo filling me in on all the juicy diplomatic gossip -- at least the relatively harmless stuff. It occurred to me that if Lwaxana HAD been in Londo's life, that silly Shit with Morden -- the charmingly sinister Shadow agent Londo had gotten tangled up with, with flamingly disastrous results -- would have been nipped RIGHT in the bud. Plus, as a highly-trained telepath, she probably would have put a spoke or two in Psi Corps' wheel, too, just on g.p. -- hmmm, that reminded me...what about the OTHER telepaths around here? Why hadn't they taken an interest in this ugly little situation? The 'prime directive' concept is all well and good, but this was a little like Stephen going, 'Oh, look, a case of bubonic plague -- I think I'll just sit around and see what it DOES...' But anyway. As far as importing Lwaxana to this timeline -- on second thought, not to show TOO much sympathy for the Shadows' P.O.V., there, but if the multiverse sorted itself out that conveniently, things would get pretty damn boring. Maybe. Whatever. **IR1N_19.TXT * * * * * * * * * * END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * From: Jakhel@aol.com Subject: Infinite Regress 1: Chapter 12 Part 2 (23/39) IR1N_20.txt Date: Sun, 31 May 1998 15:11:29 EDT **IR1N_20.TXT * * INFINITE REGRESS 1: CHAPTER 12 Part 2 * * * * * * * * * * * * INITIAL SUBMISSION 05/31/98 * "One thing at a time, Ambassador....one thing at a time." * - Mr. Morden. * * See Infinite Regress 1: Overview (IR1N_00.txt) for attributions, * acknowledgements, and other notes. Contact me at Jakhel@aol.com with * feedback, questions, or whatever. * * TIMEFRAME: 2 days before the arrival of Captain Lochley. * SYNOPSIS: Ms. Hayes is talking to Londo at the reception. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * WARNING! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * THIS FILE MAY CONTAIN ANY OR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING: * * SPOILERS FOR THE FIRST HALF OF SEASON 5 * VERY COLORFUL LANGUAGE * SEXUAL INSINUENDO * SUBVERSIVE AND HERETICAL IDEAS * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * S P O I L E R S P A C E A N D M O R E S P A C E **IR1N_20.TXT * * * * * * * * * * BEGIN * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "Ah, and here he is! The Virrmeisterr!" the Ambassador exlaimed jovially as his attache joined us. "He's been calling me that all day," explained Vir, spacing out little details like introductions entirely -- "I have no idea why!" Oops. I looked at Londo. Londo beamed at me. "Mr. Cotto," I tried to get his attention. "I am delighted to meet you at last. I hope your headache is better?" "Oh, much better, Ms., um, I just...forgot to take my medication, and, um....but I'm feeling much better now, and I am so glad that I was able to hear your performance!" I was flattered, and told him so. He was flattered that I was flattered. Londo was looking ill. I was having a great time. "Mr. Cotto, has the Ambassador told you about, um..." "The television show? Actually," Vir hesitated, then leaned in -- "I was the one that told him." Both my eyebrows went flying -- "How...?" "A friend of a friend of mine works in Medlab 2. She, um got a look at that thing you were writing, and she told her boyfriend, and he told me. -- I haven't told anyone else, though! Of course, one of them may have..." "I wonder if that might be a problem...." I mused. I couldn't see how, though, offhand -- fragging contagious paranoia around here, boy. Trouble is, around here it usually turned out to be justified. Meanwhile, Vir was going on about how much he liked my songs -- even though some of them he didn't really quite understand, still, that thing about the wind and the sun was awfully nice..... I reciprocated by telling him how much I had admired that Narn-smuggling deal that he had pulled off -- two thousand Narns given travel papers through the Centauri diplomatic office on Minbar (which Vir was running at the time) -- then officially "killed", and actually smuggled to freedom. Susan had taken over that operation -- I wondered how much longer it had lasted. (Londo was trying very hard to pretend he didn't know us). Then there was the whole way Vir had handled Morden -- Londo's patience failed him at that point and he found a pretext to send Vir away, then made some disparaging remark about my excessive attentions to him. I pointed out that Vir was actually one of the most appealing characters on the show -- the 'everyperson' who is way out of his depth, but has his heart firmly in the right place. "Hearts," corrected the Ambassador. I looked a question. "We have two of them," he explained. "Oh, yeah, that's right, I forgot." "Forgot? How could you FORGET? Or am I to suppose that a momentous event such as the death of a deranged Emperor would have taken place discreetly offstage, as it were, due to some...unusual spasm of sensitivity on the part of this...Strassinsski person? Were your culture's ideas of entertainment so much more elevated than those of your descendants? Ah? I thought not!" "Yes, well, if you think about it," I retorted, "that whole...situation just goes to support my main argument," which, in fact, it did -- look it up if you don't remember. "Besides," I continued, "think of all the times Vir has been right about something in the first place...." "Nonsense!" Londo said dismissively. "Nonsense, my left big toenail! If I were you, I'd look at this whole 'two Emperors' thing as an opportunity, rather than a threat." The prophecy was that he and Vir would both be Emperor -- one after the other died -- and Londo was up to bat first. "You've got some damn good material there, and if you set it up right, he'll be able to accomplish things you couldn't even if you did....um...well, anyway, you get the idea." "I shall take it under advisement," Mollari said in his best regal-and- annoyed voice. Right about then, Michael came back. "All right, you two lovebirds, break it up," he said cheerily. "Don't you ever want to just throw something at him?" I asked Londo. "Constantly, my dear lady, constantly," the Ambassador replied, somewhat mollified, and excused himself to go circulate. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "There's a gentlething over here that wants a word with you," the ever- p.c. Mr. Garibaldi advised. It was the F....whatever. Michael introduced us with an unknown degree of accuracy, and we made various placating gestures at each other. It tapped one bandaged appendage with another, mewled and gurgled out of two separate orifices at once, and its vocoder said, "Pleasure...for....opportunity....to.... express...gratitude...." "It was no trouble, um...." I hadn't caught its title, if any.... "Gratitude....for....music....and....appreciation....of....assistance..." it clarified. Okay.... "Well, thank you." "Gratitude....for....gratitude?" -- Umm....well.... "Gratitude for appreciation, and appreciation of gratitude." What the hell. It gurgled emphatically and waved a different set of appendages -- I hoped I hadn't pissed it off. Assuming it pissed. When healthy, at any rate. Then its translator caught up -- "Pleasure! Pleasure! Pleasure!" Oh. Okay, fine. It went on -- "You....visit....Fzhgl'k...appreciate...many things. I...speak...more.... with you....that...location." "Yes, well, I'm afraid that probably won't be possible..." "All....possible. This....seen. We...talk more...that...location. No more....this....location." And with that, it folded all its limbs and went still. I looked at Garibaldi. "Is it all right?" "I, uh...I THINK so...Let's just, um..." he gestured for me to follow him. As soon as we left the area, the Fizzy dude perked back up. Logical. "Damn, I almost forgot," said Garibaldi, snapping his fingers. "I programmed some background music for after the show. -- And believe it or not, I think I actually picked some things that'll go well after your little exhibition, there." In the crucial split second when I was deciding WHICH response to go with, he escaped to cue it up. He's quick for a big guy. As I turned away, Ambassador G'Kar caught my eye. He raised his glass in salute and invitation, so I wandered over. He praised my tunes, asking several rather pointed questions about style and content that I answered to the best of my ability. He, in turn, regaled me with excerpts from a couple of his own efforts -- good stuff. Very Shakespearean. Went oddly with the neo-blues drifting around the room (heavy on harp and bass, slow, but with a little zydeco lilt around the edges), but it worked. Suddenly he leaned close -- "I have discovered your secret, you know." "You have?" -- And would that be one I knew about, or otherwise? "I know what you have been doing." He nodded smugly and winked the new eye. Nice effect -- obviously, he'd been practicing. I looked at my drink. I looked around the room. I THOUGHT I knew what I had been doing.... "You do?" I asked at last. "I've been watching you," he advised me. "I've been watching you chatting and mingling and....what is that delightful human word..." "Schmoozing?" "That's the one -- schmoozing with everyone here -- with one exception. And do you know what I think?" "I have no clue," I admitted. "I think that you are a hunter -- a clever predator who uses distraction and misdirection to sneak up on her prey. The kind of woman who pays attention to every OTHER man in the room, until the one she really wants walks right into her trap. Well," he concluded complacently, "here I am." Heavens to Murgatroyd -- of all the brilliant but misguided notions! Of course I had always had the utmost admiration for G'Kar, embattled as he was in his three distinct yet intertwining epic campaigns (against the Centauri, against the dark goddess Vengeance, and against the 3rd sin) -- now my regard reached a new high point. I told him so -- "Ambassador...I have some good news, and I have some bad news. Good news is, you've got me pegged. That is exactly how I operate, and I am as impressed by your deducing as much as your little heart or other body parts could possibly desire. Bad news is, I wasn't doing it this time -- really, that's not a line, I wasn't. I'm..." -- Garibaldi dropped a grin on Delenn that damn near took out my knees from across the room -- "...a little busy right now." Michael looked up and our eyes locked -- anything that had gotten in the way of that look would have been fried, big time. G'Kar followed my gaze. "I see," he mused, and turned back to me gracefully. "Perhaps another time, then, should your" he waved vaguely, "situation permit." I was smiling back at him and trying desperately to come up with a way to field that one when Londo popped up again. Not that THAT helped much! "You are not giving up, are you, G'Kar?" the Centauri berated the Narn jovially. "Retreating from the fray? Routed, without even giving battle? Where is the famous Narn ingenuity now, ah?" "Go away, Mollari. I am having a private conversation with this lady." "Yesss, I have observed that! And I strongly encourage you to continue this private conversation, so that I may also have the pleasure of observing Mr. Garibaldi as he rips you up into a great many very small pieces...." Oh, now, THIS was embarrassing! "But...but Mr. Garibaldi is my friend," G'Kar protested, "Surely he would understand that I mean no disrespect for his..." "Excuse me?" I cut in before he could come up with a noun I did NOT want to hear. Londo bared his fangs in a grin. Between us, we sent the poor Narn into fluster-mode. After a few moments of sputtering, he came up with something he figured was safe -- "Any friend of Mr. Garibaldi's is a friend of mine!" "Indeed?" I Spock-eyebrowed him. "Certainly!" he affirmed. I turned to the overly-smug Centauri. "And you, Excellency?" (I love calling him that.) "The same, of course, dear lady!" he assured me. "I see. That must make you guys best buddies, then, huh?" Both alien faces went blank. "Excuse me." Ya know, it was almost too easy -- when I got clear away, I turned back to see them deep in conversation. In the old days they would have been throwing things at each other by now -- ah well, the price of progress, I suppose. **IR1N_20.TXT * * * * * * * * * * END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * From: Jakhel@aol.com Subject: Infinite Regress 1: Chapter 13 Part 1 (24/39) IR1N_21.txt Date: Mon, 1 Jun 1998 13:23:31 EDT **IR1N_21.TXT * * INFINITE REGRESS 1: CHAPTER 13 Part 1 * * * * * * * * * * * * INITIAL SUBMISSION 06/01/98 * "This is no time to argue about the time -- we don't have the time!" * - Deanna Troi. * * See Infinite Regress 1: Overview (IR1N_00.txt) for attributions, * acknowledgements, and other notes. Contact me at Jakhel@aol.com with * feedback, questions, or whatever. * * TIMEFRAME: 2 days before the arrival of Captain Lochley. * SYNOPSIS: Still schmoozing at the reception. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * WARNING! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * THIS FILE MAY CONTAIN ANY OR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING: * * SPOILERS FOR THE FIRST HALF OF SEASON 5 * VERY COLORFUL LANGUAGE * SEXUAL INSINUENDO * SUBVERSIVE AND HERETICAL IDEAS * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * S P O I L E R S P A C E A N D M O R E S P A C E **IR1N_21.TXT * * * * * * * * * * BEGIN * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * I left them to their own devices and drifted over to Michael and Delenn. Stephen was with them, and the President, having done his share of...ah... schmoozing for the evening, wandered over to join us. We snagged a table and a healthy selection of the remaining hors d'oeuvres, and settled in for a good chat. First, Sheridan relayed Draal's response to his message: "Bring her!" Short and to the point -- I hoped the guy was feeling okay. I didn't have a whole lot of time to worry about it, though, because just then Delenn hit one right out into left field -- "One thing I have always admired about humans is your colorful use of language," she began in her best formal diplomatic tone of voice -- "There is one phrase in particular that intrigues me -- I believe it dates from your time, Anne, so perhaps you could explain it to me -- 'Jesus H. Christ on a crutch with... mustard'?" Silence fell on the table like a 27-ton safe on a cartoon rooster. Stephen covered his mouth and concentrated on his breathing. Sheridan cleared his throat and studied the table intently. I looked at Michael. Michael whistled an aimless little tune and looked all OVER the room. Delenn looked around the table. "Did I say something wrong?" she asked, and I lost it completely. Eventually I regained enough control to inquire of the tabletop, "WHY do I suddenly feel Russian?" "Russian?" Stephen asked obligingly. I looked up. "Do the words, 'Garibaldi, you're a dead man!' ring any bells?" Michael pursed his lips and considered. "Nope," he said firmly -- "You, John?" The ever-supportive Sheridan shook his head solemnly. "Never heard 'em before in my life," he deadpanned. I collapsed on the table, moaning. The good doctor would have come to my aid, but he was having his own difficulties. Through my anguish, I heard Sheridan say, "I take it she found out about the surveillance." "Figured it out," Michael corrected. Was that a note of pride in his voice? I raised my head. "Yeah, this afternoon," I said repressively. "You might want to reconsider that job offer, Mr. President," I continued. "My 'quickness of uptake' tends to have a few gaps in it, on occasion." "Well, nobody's perfect," Sheridan reassured me. I took a stab at explaining to Delenn. "See, the thing is, that's not..." I broke up again, pulled it together, and tried one more time, "that's not a common expression, it's one of mine. Somewhere along the line I've picked up the habit of mixing my metaphors -- switching out fragments of cliches to give them some extra 'oomph', like, for instance...." I thought furiously, trying to come up with one she'd get. Fortunately, Michael came to my rescue. "Hand the lady a balloon -- hey, that went over like a lead cigar," he commented. "Precisely!" I crowed. "You know, Michael," observed Stephen, "I've always thought you had a mind like a steel sieve." "Hey, when I want your opinion, I'll give it to you," Garibaldi shot back. "That's no fair, that's a real one!" I protested. "But, Jesus H. Christ on a crutch with MUSTARD?" repeated Sheridan dubiously. "Jesus H. Christ on a crutch, plus shit on a stick with mustard," I elucidated. "Adds a whole new psychological dimension, don't you think?" "It certainly does!" he agreed, with less than wholehearted approval. "I'm still not sure I follow that," admitted Delenn. We all (except Sheridan) took a shot at explaining the various levels of profound psycho-religious significance and their interaction, without noticeable success. Finally, I had an idea. "Tell you what -- when you get a chance, run it by Lennier. If there's any Minbari who would get it, it's him. Don't you think?" I asked Michael. "Possibly," he admitted grudgingly. "And if he does get it," I went on, "He may be able to translate it into terms you'd get -- at least, he'd have a better chance than any of us, obviously!" "I will do so, then," she said, and smiled. The President just looked glad to have the whole topic closed. Not long after that, someone mentioned telepaths, and I remembered what had occurred to me earlier, talking to Londo. "Delenn, you guys and the Centauri have had telepaths for a long time now, right?" "Yes, of course," she replied. "They have been among us for almost two thousand years -- the Centauri somewhat less, I believe." "And did yours go through a phase like this, when they were first... feeling their oats, so to speak?" "I am not sure....come to think of it, I believe so, but they have been integrated into our society for so long that I had not really considered the matter..." "And so your telepaths, and the Centauri telepaths, who both know better, are just sitting back and letting our telepaths make jerks of themselves?" That was a zinger -- there was a general protest of it not being their place to interfere with other species' development, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Garibaldi alone abstained, watching me through narrowed eyes as I crossed my arms and stared them all down. "Really?" I said with heavy sarcasm. "I'd say if there's one thing the Psi Corps has right, it's that one of the prime responsibilities of a trained telepath is to help train and monitor other telepaths -- that may get ethically tricky, but it sure as hell doesn't stop dead at political or species lines!" "There are many difficult issues involved..." protested Delenn vehemently. Sheridan looked thoughtful. "I appreciate that..." I began. "So what's the answer, Ms. Know-it-all?" cut in Garibaldi. "There is no easy answer," I retorted, "there never is -- but the approach is the same as you're using with species differences -- playing up the fact that we're all people. We may not be 'cable-ready' -- we may not have all those extra channels, but we reach out to each other, and to the universe, just like they do. And they fall flat on their butts just like we do. We're the substrate, they're the cutting edge -- we're the handle, they're the blade. We need each other -- and we need to be NICE to each other." I turned to Sheridan, who, after that initial protest, had sat back to watch the fireworks. "One of the best analyses of this issue up through my time was done by a woman named Marion Zimmer Bradley. She goes off on some odd tangents, but overall it's a damn good workup. If I were you, I'd pull that and related works, plus any available Minbari and Centauri info, ASAP. Or delegate it, anyway..." Whoops -- I felt the ground go out from under me as a devilish grin lit up the President's face. "Well, Ms. Hayes, if you stay with us, you can make that your first project," he declared. Michael and Stephen broke into synchronized coughing fits. Delenn beamed. Holy howling shit. I took a deep breath and said, "You got it, Mr. President." Then I turned to my only female friend in THIS world -- "Dele-enn," I whined, "how did I end up back in this situation?" "At least his office has a good view," she pointed out. "Well, yes, there is that," I agreed. ">I< never had an office with a view," grumbled Garibaldi. "Me neither," I commiserated, "but, like I said, you work with what you got." His expression flashed into suspicion -- jeez, Michael, lighten up, I thought. Just then, G'Kar came hustling up to me, and I got distracted. "You've been holding out on me," the Narn accused. Oh, no, not again, I thought -- but it wasn't that. Londo had spilled the beans about the TV show, and G'Kar was determined to get his share of juicy tidbits. Stephen remarked to Sheridan, "Did you know that the actor who plays G'Kar in her timeline did Shakespeare in ours?" "Somehow, that doesn't surprise me," replied the President. "Londo, Londo, wherefore art thou Mollari?" Michael declaimed, unable to resist a good line even in a fit of jerkitude. I threw a cheese ball at him. G'Kar drew himself up in indignation and started sputtering again. I wondered if that might be some sort of vestigial lizard-out-from-under-rock type behavior -- amateur xeno-socio-anthro(?)-psycho-biology -- my new fave hobby! But anyway. "G'Kar, G'Kar, G'Kar, sit down and let me tell you a story," I coaxed. "Stephen, you wanted to hear about 'the other guys', well, this is the story of one of those series -- the one you guys will relate to best, not to mention the best written." I gathered myself and began. "This is the story of a beautiful world invaded, raped, plundered for a hundred years -- fought for and retaken at a terrible cost in lives and the spirit of its people..." G'Kar was hooked -- surprise, surprise. He pulled up a chair. Londo came up behind him, looking sour. I gave him a wry smile. "It is also the story of their conquerors -- who, in turn, find THEMSELVES infiltrated and taken over by an even more insidious enemy with designs on the entire quadrant." Okay, now I had Londo, too. HE pulled up a chair. "It's the story of a space station, run by humans whose own government is not entirely immune to malign influence, that stands between these two peoples and on the front line of defense against the main enemy. And, finally, it is the story of that station's commanding officer, who ends up getting more weird shit dumped on him than he could POSSIBLY have imagined -- plus on top of all that he has a teenaged son to deal with." "Oh, boy," commiserated Sheridan, rolling his eyes. **IR1N_21.TXT * * * * * * * * * * END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * From: Jakhel@aol.com Subject: Infinite Regress 1: Chapter 12 Part 2 (25/39) IR1N_22.txt Date: Mon, 1 Jun 1998 13:28:14 EDT **IR1N_22.TXT * * INFINITE REGRESS 1: CHAPTER 13 Part 2 * * * * * * * * * * * * INITIAL SUBMISSION 06/01/98 * "This is no time to argue about the time -- we don't have the time!" * - Deanna Troi. * * See Infinite Regress 1: Overview (IR1N_00.txt) for attributions, * acknowledgements, and other notes. Contact me at Jakhel@aol.com with * feedback, questions, or whatever. * * TIMEFRAME: 2 days before the arrival of Captain Lochley. * SYNOPSIS: STILL schmoozing at the reception. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * WARNING! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * THIS FILE MAY CONTAIN ANY OR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING: * * SPOILERS FOR THE FIRST HALF OF SEASON 5 * VERY COLORFUL LANGUAGE * SEXUAL INSINUENDO * SUBVERSIVE AND HERETICAL IDEAS * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * S P O I L E R S P A C E A N D M O R E S P A C E **IR1N_22.TXT * * * * * * * * * * BEGIN * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * So I proceeded to tell them all about DS9 -- the Bajorans and the Cardassians, the Federation and the Dominion, the Klingons, the Romulans, and the Maquis. I sketched out the station and its inhabitants -- couldn't find any good analog for Quark -- I think Quark may be unique in the multiverse. Which Odo might or might NOT find gratifying. Delenn was fascinated by the wormhole aliens, and both of them got a kick out of Sisko being the Emissary. The Minbari woman caught me up short when I mentioned Gul Dukat -- she was apalled that the name of her mentor, the revered leader whose death had triggered the Earth-Minbari war -- should be so similar to that of a "bad guy". I tried to explain. "Well, he's not your run-of-the-mill bad guy -- neither Straczynski nor the Star Trek people do too many of those." I grinned at Londo -- he did that fakey smile thing back at me. Yeah, he was feeling better. "Basically, if you take Ambassador Mollari's...interesting position, plus Ambassador G'Kar's bravery, plus Ambassador Delenn's, um, impetuosity, plus a partially rehydrated version of Bester's twisted little heart, and wrap it all up in a tall, dark, and handsome semi-reptilian package, then you've got Gul Dukat. Personally, I think he's adorable, but then my taste is a little strange." I expected a smartass comment from Garibaldi at that, and was a little disturbed when it didn't happen -- but this time I was distracted by my own babbling. "Anyway, he's got this major thing for Major Kira -- he developed a taste for Bajoran women when he was running the place. He thinks she's the cat's pajamas -- and of course SHE just wants to see his head on a pike. So every once in a while he'll do something uncharacteristically noble and she'll ease up on him a little bit -- then of course he'll turn around and shove both jackboots right down his own throat again. I think he ought to hang it up, frankly -- she's NOT going to come around." G'Kar spoke up at this point -- "And you say that all of this is actually happening, or will happen, somewhere....out there?" I was quick to point out that it was just a hypothesis. "But if what I think is happening here is happening, here, then it would not be logical to assume that it is a unique case." "Could you go over again what it is that you think IS happening here?" the Narn Ambassador requested. I had done some intermittent thinking about that, and had trimmed the formula a bit since yesterday morning. "In addition to the alternate timelines split off by Heisenberg divergences -- including people's decisions and whatnot -- " I checked to make sure everybody was following -- they were. "You also get some from sufficiently massive direct negative-entropy events, such as popular works of fiction. Now, there must be some sort of parameters as to how and when these ....mindworlds are generated, and at the moment we have no clue what those are, but if we look at similar cases, we can try to extract some commonalities that we can at least look for..." "And then there's your Congruency Theory," put in Stephen. "The whole 90% -10% thing. It makes sense if you think of the original work of fiction as a template -- like DNA is the template for a living being -- and the mindworld itself as the being..." "Class/instance model," I caught the ball -- "The more detailed and internally consistent your class definition is -- the book, or TV show, or whatever, the more congruence the instance mindworld will exhibit..." and tossed it back to Stephen. "So in a mindworld generated by vids you'd have high congruence in the visuals and character behavior..." "But would suffer in terms of consistency in the backstory, compared to a book..." "Unless they took specific steps to counteract that -- thereby, perhaps, pushing it over the...instantiation threshold," Sheridan wrapped it up neatly. "So, when you say 90% congruency, 10% error....." mused Delenn... "It's really more of a label than a data value -- short for the idea that whatever can match, does, and whatever doesn't make any damn SENSE, doesn't," I explained. "Ah! But -- any damn sense according to WHOM?" G'Kar inquired. "So, if the very structure of a mindworld is to some degree dependent on the worldview of the author..." I speculated. "Or the audience? Or both?" asked the Narn -- and we were well and truly off into the ozone. We went from one wild and elegant tangent to another -- I particularly enjoyed our resolution of the 'genetic duplication' question (how come we DID get the actors and the 'real people' in the same timeline?) -- it went something like this -- G'Kar: "Did you know that every civilized Narnlike species has independently developed their own version of this one particular food..." Me: "Of course! The Universal Swedish Meatball Phenomenon!" G'Kar: "Precisely -- and if we postulate a tightly focussed application of this basic principle..." Sheridan: "And that principle would be....?" G'Kar (taken aback): "Why, I have no idea!" Me: "Whatever it is, though, it would certainly explain it." As the distinguished Ambassador and I nodded smugly to each other, I suddenly realized that, under the appropriate circumstances -- say, if we were stranded on a desert asteroid for long enough to actually RUN OUT of other things to talk about, well, it could happen... Mr. Simon Ilyan Jr.'s mood was apparently not improved by observation of this concept -- but then it wasn't exactly any of his damn BUSINESS, was it? Klingons. Tchah! His real problem here (and don't you just love it when people say that?) was that he was too used to keeping the, for lack of a less nauseating and more accurate term, 'romantic' part of his life separate from the rest. This close juxtaposition -- trying to dynamically juggle all the parameters in his head vis-à-vis his own current emotional vulnerability -- while at the same time trying to figure out exactly what that was -- had him seriously off-balance. Mr. Garibaldi does not appreciate being off-balance. It's a 3rd sin thing. However, if the guy had any thought of dealing with a real live honest-to- god PERSON of any caliber whatsoever on any kind of long-term basis, he'd best LEARN how to deal with it. No time like the present, eh, what? I flashed a grin at G'Kar. "Hey, how about this one..." -- I think that's when I threw out the one about how there were now at least two more B5 timelines -- the one(s) where I did show up here and the one(s) where I didn't. Everybody just sat and thought about that for a few minutes. Eventually I mentioned how pleasant it was that, since this wasn't a TV show, or (worse yet) a movie, nobody felt mysteriously, yet somehow irresistibly compelled to do the sucker line -- 'so how do we know which one is the REAL timeline?' The others all looked at each other, then, gradually, all eyes settled on Stephen. "What?" he said. "What are you all looking at? -- Oh, no. No, no, no." he appealed to me -- "These guys are wrong, right? I mean, they wouldn't make ME say something that....obvious and pedantic, would they? WOULD they?" I made what felt like a very pained-looking face. "Well, if Susan were here, she's hardheaded enough to carry it off without sounding...um...less than cutting-edge...or maybe Michael on a bad day, but..." "What?" protested Michael. "Well, okay," I backed down, "three or four years ago, maybe..." "And just what the hell is THAT supposed to mean?" He lurched up out of his slouch -- oh, boy -- which knee should I bite down on next? Stephen saved my ass on that one -- "Well, I for one think this is absolutely unfair. I'm not going to stand for this kind of treatment, you know. I don't know who I'm going to lodge a protest WITH, exactly, but I am definitely going to take it up with somebody, at the earliest possible opportunity..." "Walking the web of possibility!" G'Kar had found his metaphor. He beamed beatifically at the ceiling, hands outspread, then continued at some length in the same artery. We all enjoyed it -- even the bald guy settled down. Eventually the Narn ran down and Sheridan offered his own take -- comparing the theoretical navigation of the infinitely-expanding tree of timelines to running multiple-parameter relative velocity calculations when driving a spacecraft. "Full Stop, my ass!" I muttered reflexively under my breath. Michael caught it, though, so I had to explain it, which led inevitably to the "whooshing" sounds and other psycho-technological fudges required by the medium. That jogged him out of his fog long enough to ask what the story on Koenig was. "If there's one positive thing that can be said about Bester's existence," I said thoughtfully, "I suppose it's that it gave Koenig a chance to hit his stride as an actor." "Yeah, well, pardon me for not breaking out the champagne on THAT one," Garibaldi said graciously. "I still can't believe they actually TALK DOWN to the audience," commented the doctor. "Oh, come on, Stephen," said Michael. "It's the same with vids nowadays. Hell, it's probably worse." "Yes, but...this is different. This is...well, this is...." "Us?" inserted Sheridan. "Well...yeah! I mean, this isn't just your ordinary space opera..." I smiled to myself, thinking of the unenlightened people back home who undoubtedly considered it precisely that -- "This Straczynski and his people have got to be making some sort of a statement, and they wouldn't want to water it down and make the whole thing a...a laughingstock for the very people who otherwise could be reached and, well, influenced." It was a good theory, if a little backwards -- "The thing is, though," I said, "if you want to reach the widest possible audience, fire the imaginations of people in all walks of life, you need to make allowances for people who...tend to allocate their processing capability to other priorities..." "In other words, that are as dumb as a box of rocks," clarified Garibaldi. "Hey, there's rocks over in the Star Trek universe who would take violent exception to that remark!" I pointed out. "Yeah, well, we're not IN that universe. We're in THIS universe, and we don't HAVE any intelligent rocks, or matter transporters, or..." "Leprechauns?" threw in Stephen helpfully. "LEPrechauns?" demanded Michael. "Damn shame," I mused. "A dose of Quark would do you guys a world of good." -- Sorry, Quark, I couldn't resist. Delenn threw in her two credits worth -- "Just because we have not yet encountered a mineral-based sentient life form, that does not mean that they do not exist..." "Fine! Fine. Just forget I said anything." Outflanked, outmaneuvered, and outgunned, the bald guy went back to sulking. I watched him carefully, with a definite yellow alert happening in the back of my brain. "John, what were we originally discussing?" asked Delenn. As with my ex-boss, watching my prospective NEW boss work was a joy and a delight. With instincts honed by years of moderating League and War Council meetings, he tracked us back to the last main B5 timeline split being my appearance. This got them started cataloguing other nexus-points, and extrapolating therefrom. **IR1N_22.TXT * * * * * * * * * * END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * From: Jakhel@aol.com Subject: Infinite Regress 1: Chapter 14 (26/39) IR1N_23.txt Date: Tue, 2 Jun 1998 13:11:28 EDT **IR1N_23.TXT * * INFINITE REGRESS 1: CHAPTER 14 * * * * * * * * * * * * INITIAL SUBMISSION 06/02/98 * "It's like I always say -- you can get more with a kind word and a * two-by-four than you can with just a kind word." * - Marcus Cole. * * See Infinite Regress 1: Overview (IR1N_00.txt) for attributions, * acknowledgements, and other notes. Contact me at Jakhel@aol.com with * feedback, questions, or whatever. * * TIMEFRAME: 2 days before the arrival of Captain Lochley. * SYNOPSIS: STILL schmoozing at the reception - Garibalid's getting edgy, * though. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * WARNING! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * THIS FILE MAY CONTAIN ANY OR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING: * * SPOILERS FOR THE FIRST HALF OF SEASON 5 * VERY COLORFUL LANGUAGE * SEXUAL INSINUENDO * SUBVERSIVE AND HERETICAL IDEAS * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * S P O I L E R S P A C E A N D M O R E S P A **IR1N_23.TXT * * * * * * * * * * BEGIN * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * It was quite a swinging little discussion we had going there for a while. I think all of them, Sheridan, Delenn, Stephen, and even G'Kar, were enjoying the chance to blue-sky -- to stretch their imaginations nice and hard without anybody's lives hanging in the balance, for once. Garibaldi, though, was definitely in processing mode -- just watching, arms crossed, thumbs out. Londo had split a while ago -- his imagination was a bit too anchored in immediate reality to really enjoy this stuff. Michael's tolerance probably wasn't all that much higher, but he was hanging around waiting for ME to run down. Now there was another thing he was out of practice dealing with -- basing his movements on someone else's. I could relate. That's one of the reasons I don't 'date' -- I'm too used to going my own way at my own pace. Well, let's see if we could ease that situation -- aha! 'Nowhere to Run' was playing, which meant 'After Midnight' was next -- and, yes, there were still people dancing. I leaned over and asked Michael if he wanted to dance on the next song. He looked at me as if I were nuts. "Are you NUTS?" he asked. "Oh, come on," I wheedled, peering up at him from under my bangs. He gave me a disgusted look, and I backed off. Fine. BE that way. Stephen? "Sure, why not?" -- and off we went. Now, Stephen turned out to be a fine dancer -- I thought I knew that, but I wasn't sure. (Did that sound weird or what?) Anyway, we had large fun with that slinky little tune. After that, my blood was up, so I asked the tunemeister, there, to cue up Dire Straits' 'Badges, Posters, Stickers, and T-Shirts'. Minding my manners, I also asked him, again, to dance. And again, the invitation was declined. Oh, well, I guess...>you lose<. Acquiring target: 3rd sin generator nacelles. Target locked -- Fox Three! Knopfler and his buddies went nutso for about five minutes, and Stephen and I did our damnedest to keep up. I'd like to say that I made it all the way through the song, but I would be lying. Stephen hung in there gamely, though -- where DOES the man find time to stay in shape like that? After the song was over, we headed toward the bar by way of the marinating Italian. I got him on the shoulder as I passed by, and he flinched dramatically. Ooh, what WAS the camera angle supposed to be on THAT one, we wonders, yes, we wonders? Hell and damnation -- red alert. When we got to the bar, Stephen nodded back toward the table. "Sorry about that," he said. Damn territorial males, anyway. What the hell made Stephen think it had anything to do with him, just because we'd been out there twining around each other like a pair of hyperactive snakes for the last ten minutes? "It's not you, it's HIM," I pointed out emphatically, then continued in scientific notation -- "What I suspect we have here, doctor, is an acute case of >backlash<." "Backlash?" "As in, 'oh my god, what have I DONE?'" I elucidated. "Ah. Backlash." Now he got it. "So...what are you gonna do about it?" "Well, under normal circumstances, the recommended treatment for backlash is to stay centered..." "Mmhmm." "...make sure you have an ironclad excuse for maintaining normal contact with the sucker," -- he chuckled at that one -- "...and ride it out. Unfortunately, these are NOT normal circumstances." "That's for damn sure. So...what are you gonna do?" "Wing it," I said, and pushed off for the table. By the time we made it back there, Garibaldi was up to a rolling boil. I have mercifully forgotten most of the little jabs he threw at me in the next few minutes, but I do remember the last one. I riposted to something or other, and he nuked me back with "Yeah, well, at least I don't go dancing around other people's living rooms in my >underwear<." I went cold. I just looked at him for a few seconds in the dead silence, then excused myself to go tear down. Not that there was much to do, I just wanted to get away from him for a while -- and hurry up and get him the hell OUT of there before he made even more of an ass of himself in front of his friends. Apparently, as soon as I was out of earshot Sheridan called him on it. Mind you, the President was more than a little dubious about the situation himself, but still....anyway, Michael asked pointedly if he had ever given JOHN unsolicited advice about HIS personal life. "No..." "And have I ever ASKED you for advice about mine?" "Well, no, but..." "Then with all due respect, Mr. President, butt out!" So much for male bonding. Getting away from him did help me get my equilibrium back, and strategize a bit. I'd made a few significant mistakes so far, I admitted. The song was a bad move, and dancing with Stephen -- twice -- was a REALLY bad move. Not to mention my failure to anticipate backlash from the word 'go' -- but I honestly hadn't expected the issue to, um, come up this fast. Or at all, for that matter. At any rate, the situation should still be salvageable. Delenn wandered over. "Are you all right?" she asked. I looked up at her -- yes, that was ONE of the things she wanted to know. "It's an interesting tactical situation," I told her, "But I think my strategy is sound." "And your goal? -- IF you don't mind my asking." I love the way she says that, making it quite clear that she doesn't give a flying fuck if you DO mind her asking. "No -- I'm glad you did. It gives me a chance to bounce this off you." Okay, now, how to put it? "Remember what I was babbling about earlier this morning?" "Comparing Mr. Garibaldi to a...kettle of worms, was it?" "Yes, well, 'fish' seemed insufficient to the occasion. But anyway, I think I know of some tools he could use to help with that -- ways of looking at things, of thinking about things that are a little different from what he's gotten used to..." "And in the process of demonstrating some of those, you have set off some of his...rather formidable defenses," she observed. "Bingo." "As you say," she mused, "an interesting tactical situation. I don't know that I can add significantly to the...intelligence you must already possess," she added with a VERY nice use of the language, "but -- good luck!" For those of you whose Universal Translators are on the fritz, that was Delennese for 'fuck up, and you're a dead woman'. "Thanks," I acknowledged. I was encouraged, actually. If she'd thought I was off-track, she would have said so. 'The Interstellar Alliance reserves the right to send observers to monitor local conflicts' -- not necessarily >impartial< observers, but fair enough. Fair enough. A sudden wave of disorientation hit -- what the hell did I think I was doing, anyway, playing with this man's heart? But then, I knew that heart, as well as I knew anybody's (the remote-access data was at least 90% confirmed by local experience) -- what he was, what he could be if -- when -- he got past this. And I could see, as clearly as the lines on his face, the way he had to go to get there. It would be a long, hard road -- the most I could hope to do was give him a nudge in the right direction -- and, perhaps, clear away some of the emotional underbrush so that he might be able to ACCEPT help from other people -- the guys here, Lise if she got her shit together, and whoever else he might run across. Something twinged inside at the thought that it wouldn't be me -- but even if I stayed, I knew this situation would run its course. The pattern was too clear to delude myself otherwise, even temporarily. We'd settle out as good friends, sure, but I'd never be in this kind of catalyst position again -- which brought me right back to the trick question: did I have the right to MAKE this call? To go around imposing MY off-the-wall theories on somebody else's life, just because I had some goofy hypothesis about his state of mind? Hello? I HATE having this conversation with myself. It always pops up at the most obnoxious possible moments, too. Some years ago I was enamoured of a musician with an odd sense of humor (the only kind worth bothering with -- got a pretty decent song out of it, too). On the way to a show shortly before Christmas, I stopped for gas and was entranced by the sight of a series of small plastic dinosaurish monsters with articulated arms and legs, climbing up a garland. Snagged one as an impromptu Christmas present and positioned myself strategically at the first break. As I was watching for my moment, there, I saw his girlfriend -- a lovely statuesque blonde whom I had no quarrel with -- corner him in the back corner and start talking at him urgently. Mind you, I had no doubt that he had set that up. He'd probably been putting her off for DAYS, until she was reduced to confronting him in public, at a gig, thereby automatically becoming the bad guy -- a standard evasive maneuver for musicians and such types. Nevertheless, if he was using that kind of heavy-duty defense, it was a good bet that he was actually feeling...well, defensive about something or other, and harassed, and put upon, and all that good stuff. It is, after all, one of those maneuvers, like grounding children, that is at least as hard on the maneuverer as it is on the maneuveree. I had every confidence that the lady could take care of herself (in fact, the coup de grace she eventually came up with was indeed most artistic, but that's another story) for now, my main concern was with him. Watching this little byplay from across the room, it occurred to me that there are moments in a man's life when he really NEEDS a 4-inch Godzilla doing the can-can, and that this might very well be one of them. The smile I got not only confirmed my theory, it brightened up my whole holiday season, there. So right then I vowed that whenever I found myself agonizing over the ethics of barging into the life of some poor slob who'd never done ME any harm, I'd use the 4-inch Godzilla rule of thumb -- and this situation seemed to fall right smack dab INTO that category. The benefit/damage potential of a monkey wrench out of left field is directly related to the trajectory, the relative velocity, and the timing of the collision... I scanned the target once more. He looked up at me -- just a flash of a glare before he hooded it and looked away, pointedly evaluating the dwindling crowd before focussing determinedly on nothing at all on the OTHER side of the room. Aww, da BABE. Maternal instinct -- ya gotta love it. My standard line on that was that I had just enough of it to deal with one -- count them, one -- real live honest-to-god CHILD. This business of redirecting excess nurturing energy in exchange for economic and logistical support, status, and/or whatever had always seemed like a dubious concept to me. If nothing else, it makes for a damn thin line between enlightened mutual cooperation between two (or more) sentient beings, and institutionalized mutual exploitation based on a perversion of natural instinct. In short, it's a setup -- I don't trust it. In this particular case, though, watching that splendid creature sinking into his psycho-spiritual morass, there, I just wanted to hold him real close and make soothing noises at him for a thousand years or so. Either that or whop him upside the head with a two-by-four. Whatever works. I handed the guitar over to Monsieur Vishann, went back to pick up Michael, and with only a little fancy footwork got him out of there. After we left, Delenn remarked to her husband, "Did not one of your poets say something about 'the course of true love never runs smooth'?" Sheridan snorted. "I don't think this has anything to do with love, true or otherwise." "I think it has everything to do with it," the Minbari woman contradicted. They looked at each other for a long moment. Yeah -- so who needs 'cable- ready', anyway? **IR1N_23.TXT * * * * * * * * * * END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * From: Jakhel@aol.com Subject: Infinite Regress 1: Chapter 15 (27/39) IR1N_24.txt Date: Wed, 3 Jun 1998 13:20:02 EDT **IR1N_24.TXT * * INFINITE REGRESS 1: CHAPTER 15 * * * * * * * * * * * * INITIAL SUBMISSION 06/03/98 * "That's the worst case of testosterone poisoning I'VE ever seen..." * - Susan Ivanova. * * See Infinite Regress 1: Overview (IR1N_00.txt) for attributions, * acknowledgements, and other notes. Contact me at Jakhel@aol.com with * feedback, questions, or whatever. * * TIMEFRAME: 2 days before the arrival of Captain Lochley. * SYNOPSIS: Trouble is brewing between our heroine and the bald guy. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * WARNING! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * THIS FILE MAY CONTAIN ANY OR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING: * * SPOILERS FOR THE FIRST HALF OF SEASON 5 * VERY COLORFUL LANGUAGE * SEXUAL INSINUENDO * SUBVERSIVE AND HERETICAL IDEAS * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * S P O I L E R S P A C E A N D M O R E S P A C E **IR1N_24.TXT * * * * * * * * * * BEGIN * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Nothing like a romantic stroll through a space station in the middle of the night with a splendid male with more brains than is good for him, a fiendish sense of humor, an incredibly sexy voice, and one HELL of a bad 3rd sin problem. He probably wished he were taking me to a holding cell instead of home with him. Hell, he probably wished HE were going to a holding cell instead of taking me home with him. In a little under three hours, we had gone from delirious hormone-induced bliss to grim confrontation -- what can I say, some of us are just...quick on the uptake. For some odd reason, male humans tend to get backlash worse than females, and emotionally conservative male humans tend to get it very badly. This was shaping up to be far and away the worst case I'D ever seen -- and on my watch, too. Groovy. And it wasn't just backlash, either. Focussing his feelings on people who weren't available in person on a day-to-day basis for a long, long time had degraded his hologram/reality resync subroutines -- however 'in tune' with a person you are, however well you think you know them, they are still separate people, and will always do things you don't expect -- which is, of course, the whole point. However, it is perilously easy to lose sight of that, even when you are dealing with a person day-to-day. Allowing for it -- embracing it, even -- is a skill that needs constant practice, like a muscle that must be stretched or else it shortens, weakens, and leaves you making snide remarks at people in corridors for no good reason except that they're not acting like you think they're SUPPOSED to. For most of the way back, there was enough traffic to prevent much relevant discussion, but somehow the man managed to get his point across. Points, I should say -- oh, just a few salt-tipped barbed spears, plus the axe in the elevator..... That was the one about the damned song. Would you believe his main problem was, when we excavated down to it, that it was a song I'd written for someone ELSE? Puh-leeze! Like I'd had the time to come up with some marvel of minstrelsy this afternoon? ExCUSE me? Ah, but I'd had time to finish that other one...this was too silly to EVEN deal with. It was a SONG, for chrissake, didn't he get it? Hell, of course he didn't get it. The guy's a cop, not a musician or a writer or an actor or any of us types who fish the twisty stuff out of our own insides, tweak it and massage it into something other people can relate to, then toss it out into the universe and cut the damn kite strings. Can you say, 'reusable source code'? To a (if you'll excuse the expression) 'normal' like him, his own feelings WERE the center of his universe. He could repress them, deny them, leash them, put them on hold and even resent them, but he had yet to pick up the knack of stepping >aside< from them. He watched everybody -- even himself -- but he still took himself along for the ride. (Hey, is this convoluted enough yet? And WHERE do you think the title came from? Can you say, 'macrocosm/ microcosm'? -- But anyway). The upshot was, we had here a much wider gulf than time, or gender, or lifestyle -- and it was a gulf I sure as hell wasn't going to bridge in this particular conversation. So I shut up. By now it was pretty damn obvious what he was up to: if he could get me pissed off enough to reject him, then he'd get to feel all noble and sorry for himself. Oh, well -- I sure as hell wasn't playing THAT shit. Which kicked him up to the next level -- psyching himself up to reject me. So then he could feel like an idiot and feel sorry for himself, which wasn't quite as good, but still beat hell out of dealing with the utterly terrifying concept that we might actually LIKE each other. And the most edifying thought was that the only thing keeping me from behaving just as idiotically -- well, okay, ALMOST as idiotically -- was the fact that I had nothing to lose and no time for no bullshit. The corridors closer to his quarters were deserted. Shields to maximum... "Sssoooo....what was all that with you and Londo, anyway?" he probed. Klingon vessel coming around for another pass... "All what?" "Well, you were talking about SOMETHING for about twenty minutes there, and I was just...wondering what it was about, that's all. Is there something wrong with that?" "You timed us?" -- not that I doubted it. "Yeah, well, I was talking to Zack, then I saw you guys were...involved, there, so I just kind of...so what was it all about, anyway?" "It was personal, okay? We were just talking about...stuff." "Personal....stuff." "Yeah...." I shot him a warning look. Unfortunately, it just provoked him. "With Londo." "By George, I think he's got it! " I crowed. "Excuse me, but this station does NOT revolve around you -- which is a damn shame 'cause if it did you'd be weightless and much more amusing. But, anyway, as it happens, there ARE some things that are just none of your damn business." THAT was not a pleasant thought for Mr. Garibaldi to chew on. He chewed for a while, too. "But, Londo," he piped up again after a bit. Just couldn't let the sucker go, could he? "I admit I have a certain amount of sympathy for the guy...and he's come through for us a few times, but...I don't know, I just don't see the attraction." His jaw was set and he was trying for nonchalance, but the eyes gave him away. He had no clue what the hell was going on. Maybe a little dry analysis would give him a chance to get his shit together -- I started to give him a version of the 'not a villain' speech I'd given the Ambassador himself. "Complex? Londo, complex? You've GOT to be kidding. He'd like to think he's all sinister and mysterious, but he's just another damn shark -- he'll go straight for the jugular, every time -- he can't help it, that's just how he is." Now I was starting to get annoyed. I didn't mind him ragging on me so much -- I was right here and quite capable of defending myself. But I was goddamned if I was going to let him get away with stomping all over someone else, who WASN'T here to defend himself. "Yes, well, then there's that little thing about doing what he thought was right, in spite of his misgivings, then having it turn out all wrong, and having to live with that. Gee, now where have I heard THAT one before?" It took him a couple seconds to believe that I had actually SAID that. I seized the opportunity to put a little distance between us. "Hey!" he called. "That was NOT my fault! I was fucking programmed!" "Yup, so you were -- and a lovely excuse it is, too!" I bit it off, tossed it back, and cruised around the corner just in time to escape the blast. Timing is a GOOD thing. After that, he took the rest of the way to his door to work up a good head of steam, then came up behind me like a destroyer out of a jumpgate and fired all batteries. "Dammit!" he slammed the wall above the door mechanism. That had to hurt. "Where the HELL do you get off coming around here with your theories and your 'episodes' -- telling everybody all about their mistakes and what they've done wrong and what they SHOULD be doing...Hell, I don't know whether this is a time loop, or a multi-universe thing, or the Vorlons' idea of a practical joke -- and I don't care. All I care about is what I can see, what I can touch -- and I don't give a rat's ass how many weird alternate dimensional virtual reality whatchamathingies I get sucked into, or people get spit out of , THAT'S what I'm gonna go by." Ah, a little Robert E. Howard leakage, perhaps? The mighty-thewed barbarian, thwarting supernatural minions of evil with naught but his trusty blade and down-to-earth attitude -- I cracked a smile, briefly. Fortunately, he was too caught up in his own eloquence to notice. "And you want to know what I see right now? I see a stupid little bitch with a big mouth who's gotten herself in way over her head. THAT'S what I see." He was looming over me, the plasma cannons on full automatic -- was I supposed to SAY something, here? The options were not appealing. Oh, what the hell -- "Your point?" That set him back a good quarter millisecond. "My POINT is that you talk about 'knowing' all this stuff, and you don't KNOW anything!" -- Don't you just LOVE these middle-of-the-night epistemological conversations? "We were out there, putting our lives on the line -- hundreds of thousands dead, wounded, whole WORLDS destroyed, and all you did was sit there, in your little ivory tower, watching the damn vids..." Gee, now who might THAT one be aimed at? There was a good deal of truth to what he was saying, of course -- there always is, in these charming little discussions, which is why they hurt so much and escalate so easily. But if I got sidetracked into defending myself (something about 'playing the hand I was dealt' sprang to mind), we could be doing this all night -- and I had other plans. I did get sidetracked, admiring his presentation, for a few sentences -- ya know, the guy had real talent...but anyway, by the time I tuned back in he had remembered who he was talking to -- sort of, anyway. "You're half into this science fiction thing, half into this music crap, and now you want to work for Sheridan -- hell, you don't even know who YOU are, what makes you think you can make any kind of judgement call about anyone or anyTHING around here?" Oh, boy, projection -- this was a good thing -- let him at least hear himself saying this stuff -- get it out into the light where he could get a good look at it. "Like that bullshit about the telepaths -- do you have any IDEA how embarrassing it was listening to that? What the hell do you know about telepaths? Next you'll be trying to tell us that...that that asinine artificial intelligence program with the attitude could have taken over the whole damn computer system and betrayed us to Earthforce if it had wanted to." Really, the hardest part at this point was keeping a suitably solemn demeanor -- cracking up in a person's face while they're lambasting you is NOT generally considered to be a good idea, especially when they're larger than you and combat-trained. I settled into a comfortable "Great Stone Face" stance and waited for him to get to the end of a paragraph. "Mr. Garibaldi," I said when he finally stopped to inhale, "are you going to stand out here yawping at me all night, or shall we go inside so that you can yawp at me in private?" He stared at me a moment. "Fine!" he snarled. He carded the door and politely waved me inside. It was all in the timing -- I stepped inside the door, he stepped inside the door, the door slid shut, and I stepped BACK in under his guard and went straight for the vest. This was the tricky part, I thought as the zipper gave way. If he were legitimately pissed off, he'd have every right to throw me across the room, and there was a darned good chance he'd do so anyway, just on instinct. For whatever reason, he went with Option #2. "What....the HELL....do you think you're doing?" "Undressing you." Michael sighed and put his hands on my shoulders to move me aside. I didn't budge. "I'm a big boy now," he advised, "I can undress myself." A better straight line I could not have asked for -- "I'm sure you can do all KINDS of things yourself," I drawled, attacking the last shirt buttons. "This one..." I slid my hands in across his chest and looked him straight in the eye -- "This one I'm helping you with." He went still, like a twelve-point buck caught in the headlights of an oncoming four-by-four. Looking into his eyes, I saw all the turbulence of rage and confusion, all the fear, all the bullshit, all the defenses, all blown away -- still roiling off in the distance but leaving him, for the moment, clear. We stood alone together in the eye of the hurricane. "Why?" he rasped. There was a theoretical maximum of ONE right answer to that question, and I hoped to God the truth was it. "Because it's the right thing to do." He thought about that a moment, then smiled slightly. "Is that all?" Layers on layers. I reached up to touch his face. "Oh, no," I said gently, "Oh, no, not at all." I felt his cheek press into my hand. "It IS what counts, though," I added, as his lips touched my palm. **IR1N_24.TXT * * * * * * * * * * END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * From: Jakhel@aol.com Subject: Infinite Regress 1: Chapter 16 (28/39) IR1N_25.txt Date: Thu, 4 Jun 1998 07:30:51 EDT **IR1N_25.TXT * * INFINITE REGRESS 1: CHAPTER 16 * * * * * * * * * * * * INITIAL SUBMISSION 06/04/98 * "A signpost in a strange land..." * - Sam Phillips. * * See Infinite Regress 1: Overview (IR1N_00.txt) for attributions, * acknowledgements, and other notes. Contact me at Jakhel@aol.com with * feedback, questions, or whatever. * * TIMEFRAME: 2 days before the arrival of Captain Lochley. * SYNOPSIS: Ms. Hayes has successfully short-circuited a really nasty case of * backlash (hey, I said this was a FANTASY, remember?). * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * WARNING! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * THIS FILE MAY CONTAIN ANY OR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING: * * SPOILERS FOR THE FIRST HALF OF SEASON 5 * VERY COLORFUL LANGUAGE * SEXUAL INSINUENDO * SUBVERSIVE AND HERETICAL IDEAS * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * S P O I L E R S P A C E A N D M O **IR1N_25.TXT * * * * * * * * * * BEGIN * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Somewhat later, I asked the computer to put on the McLachlan again -- the whole track, this time. Later still, I said, "Remember the thing with Jason Ironheart?" "Yes, I remember 'the thing' with Jason Ironheart," Michael replied tolerantly. "Did Talia really elbow you in the solar plexus in the elevator?" There was a brief silence, then he lost it, big time. Geez, it wasn't THAT funny. "Anyway," I continued once he settled down, "I don't remember whether it was on the way TO see Ironheart, or on the way FROM seeing him, but she and Sinclair are in a transport thingy, and she's giving him this eloquent speech about how she and Ironheart were lovers, and how marvelously transcendant it is when telepaths make love, and the colored pylon thingies are schwooping by behind her and it's all very artistic and wonderful and I'm sitting there thinking, shit, that pretty much leaves >Michael< out in the cold, there, don't it?" "Yeah, it pretty much did, too," he admitted ruefully. "Anyway, what I wanted to say was..." I rolled up to look at him, tracing the edge of his face very lightly, "...along about now, I don't feel particularly sorry for EITHER of us, ya know?" He didn't exactly say anything, but I got the distinct impression he agreed. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "Hey, Michael?" I said again later, as he was drifting off to sleep. I HATED shoehorning things into the conversation like this, but I really wanted to get this said (it was the right thing to do), and it didn't look like an opportunity was going to pop up naturally any time soon. Given that 'any time soon' was all I could count on having -- "My mom taught me something once." "Mmm..." Agh, he really was almost asleep. Oh, well..."I had...become sensitized to a gentleman I was working with, and at one point I sort of lost it and called her, FROM WORK, and she grabbed me by the scruff of the neck, there, and said, 'okay, what do you want?'. So I was, like, 'what?', and she was, like, 'what do you WANT?' -- sort of like your old buddy Morden, except without the ulterior motive." Michael snorted sleepily from under a pillow. "Anyway, the idea is that, instead of thinking in cliché's like 'a committed relationship' -- do they still use that one?" "Mmm..." he admitted. Make that two pillows. "Goes with the beige carpet, I guess -- but anyway. What you do is visualize, realistically, how you would actually be dealing with the person if everything worked out the way you want it to, on a day-to-day basis. Then you look at how that's different from what's going on now, and in what direction. And the last thing is, 'what are you most afraid of?' -- what is the one thing that you really really really want to avoid, or handle, at all costs? Once you have those two points identified..." Michael chuckled and shed pillows. "Sounds sorta like piloting a Starfury." "IN enemy fire, you betcha," I agreed. "But it really does help -- not just in setting your course, there, but with the emotional stuff, too. When something ugly or STUPID crawls out of the back of your brain, you can hold it up like an x-ray against those two points -- " 'we stand between the darkness and the light' bounced through my mind " -- and the garbahge tends to disintegrate..." Michael cut in from his 23rd Century perspective -- "Of course, a lot depends on the efficiency of your recycling system." "Tell me about it," I agreed. Yo, verily -- the Right Hand of the 3rd Sin be Overbrood: recirculating a point of annoyance through one's brain until it develops a life of its own. "So much of that stuff is just sloppy thinking, though," I went on. "Gods, I DETEST sloppy thinking on these kinds of issues" -- like the entire 'exclusive monogamy' concept-nexus, I thought, but this was hardly the time to get into THAT one -- instead, I used the other prime example: "Like when people....inform people of things with the intention of getting something back. I HATE that shit!" Michael was very carefully saying large amounts of nothing at all. Either I was getting through to the guy, or he was just wishing I'd shut up and go to sleep already. Probably the latter. Then again, the inevitable 3rd alternative: either one of the above, or I was in VERY deep shit. Well, the worst he could do to me was -- well, I didn't want to THINK about the worst he could do to me, so I kept babbling instead. "Love is not a business transaction, it's something you DO, something you give to other people. What THEY do is their business. People run around like the universe owes them something -- the universe doesn't owe you shit." He jerked on that one. "Anything that comes your way is a bonus -- a miracle, to be cherished and appreciated -- but you have no control over it, and never can. What you do have control over is what YOU do. So when people say 'I love you', trying to get the other person to say, 'I love you, too' -- that's actually the worst kind of emotional blackmail Of course, most people don't realize they're doing it, so you can't jump in their shit about it unless it gets really obnoxious." Michael was dead still -- I don't think he was even breathing. What the hell? I cursed Fox's lousy signal and sadistic scheduling -- parts of my tapes of those last half-dozen 4th Season episodes had been damn near unwatchable, and I'd obviously missed or forgotten something critical... nothing for it but to keep going, though... "No, the correct response to that one is 'I know'. People make jokes about that -- and it makes a damn good joke, too -- but it's also absolutely, dead-on true. The ONLY legitimate reason for using that line is if you are trying to make sure they DO know it -- either to take into consideration in performing some action or other, or just so they'll keep in mind that there's someone out there who's paying attention and gives a shit, you know?" No reply. Well, I was fresh out of bright ideas. I settled back down and watched him breathe for a while. Eventually he said, apropos of nothing in particular and very quietly, "So, you think I should hang it up, or what." "No, not at all," I replied, just as softly, then went on, "It's just that you have to think things through very carefully. Look at what's ACTUALLY happening, rather than what the other person or the mainstream culture or some psychological knot in the back of your own brain tells you is SUPPOSED to be happening. The brain does not DISengage when the heart engages. But you don't...you don't give up on people." Silence. "I mean, >I< don't," I went on, " -- and I don't think you do either. Once that...communication channel....is opened, it's THERE, and you do the best you can with it. The other thing I've never understood is people who talk about how they 'used to love' somebody -- how the hell do you STOP loving somebody?" Michael hugged me, hard, and breathed into my hair. "I thought for a while I'd stopped being able to," he whispered. I hugged him back, and told his armpit, "You don't get off that easy, kiddo." Neither of us spoke again, but the death grip didn't let up. Eventually, for some unaccountable reason, my eyes started leaking. I guess he must have heard my breath catch, or something. He sighed and let up a bit. "I know, I shouldn't have brought up Lise...." "It's not that, you idiot!" I snapped. "Haven't you been listening?" "How could I help it?" he grumbled. I burrowed back into his side, seriously risking dehydration now. I sniffled. "Then what?" he asked softly. He sounded genuinely curious, so I sighed and gave it a shot. "You really ought to quit bad-mouthing Doyle. He's a helluvan actor." He thought about that for a long time, then murmured, "Ninety percent?" "Mmhmm." His hold on me tightened again. Structural integrity was going to be an issue soon -- breathing already was. Another long time went by. At last he sighed heavily and relaxed. I looked up into suspiciously glittery eyes and a lazy smile (ka-ching!). "So, what you're really telling me is that you've got a thing for DOYLE, and you're just taking it out on me 'cause I'm available." I elbowed him in the ribs. Hard. "As if! Jesus, that's disgusting!" I thought about it for a minute, looking down at him. "But I guess I'd have to say that I WAS pretty well set up." * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Still later, in the fiendish giddiness that often comes upon me at such times (to the serious detriment of several obviously-foredoomed relationships), I remarked, "Considering how these writers operate, they'll probably keep her around to write back into the show at the worst possible moment." His head jerked toward the door. "Relax," I said, pushing him back down. "They already did that with Anna Sheridan and Delenn, remember?" "They did WHAT?" " -- Oh, yeah, that's when you were off getting your brain washed, wasn't it?" "No, I was here when she showed up -- the Shadows didn't attack the station until after they went off to Z'ha'dum, remember? -- But, damn, I never heard THAT story!" "Whoa -- you mean you actually MISSED something around here? Jesus fuck, man, you were losing it already..." "Yeah, yeah, real cute -- now, c'mon, give with the details!" I did -- and by then the light bulb had gone on (and of course that HAD to happen at god-knows-what in the morning) so he started REALLY pumping me -- for information, that is. I was hard pressed to come up with much that he didn't already know about, from some angle or other, and there were a few things I judged it prudent to avoid mentioning, like all the stuff with Londo and C-Prime in general -- not that it wouldn't be 'beneficial' for these guys to have a(nother) heads-up on that, but it was WAY too close to tampering with the timeline for my taste. Mind you, the only reason I was able to get away with fudging things at all was that the guy was dead tired. Basically at this point he was freewheeling -- where the old brain gets so used to spinning frantically that it CAN'T stop...I'd talk for a while, and it would seem like he was drifting off, but whenever I stopped talking he'd wake back up enough to grumble at me -- and arguing at him would just wake him up more. Damn. Finally, in desperation (and mayhap just a touch of ambivalence) I tangented off onto an in-depth analysis of time-loops in the various mindworlds and their side-effects and implications -- and the grumbles gradually faded out. For a long time I lay there, just watching him sleep. It occurred to me that the Minbari are an ancient and wise people -- they know how to cut to the chase. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The Minbari woman watched the lights dance across the platform -- white- gold and red-gold -- circling, blending, looping away for a moment, then returning -- always returning to the dance..... The bearded man stirred in his sleep, and the woman smiled. **IR1N_25.TXT * * * * * * * * * * END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Side note with spoilers for 'Darkness Ascending' (for those on alternate viewing schedules) -- Y A D D A Y A D D A Is this a good chapter for today, or what?? She did good, tho - I was afraid that when she finally got around to showing up I'd want to slap her silly right thru the tube, but she did good. That boy sure can dance, tho -- thought I was listening to the kid's dad for a minute, there. Hmm, maybe 'our' taste is more consistent than 'we' thought....scary concept!!! A final question for any Doom fiends in the audience - was that or was that NOT a BFG 9000????? From: Jakhel@aol.com Subject: Infinite Regress 1: Chapter 17 (29/39) IR1N_26.txt Date: Fri, 5 Jun 1998 14:19:24 EDT **IR1N_26.TXT * * INFINITE REGRESS 1: CHAPTER 17 * * * * * * * * * * * * INITIAL SUBMISSION 06/05/98 * "It's a nuisance, but what can you expect from reptiles?" * - Marcus Cole * * See Infinite Regress 1: Overview (IR1N_00.txt) for attributions, * acknowledgements, and other notes. Contact me at Jakhel@aol.com with * feedback, questions, or whatever. * * TIMEFRAME: 2 days before the arrival of Captain Lochley. * SYNOPSIS: Ms. Hayes and Mr. Garibaldi have reconciled -- so how everything * is all hunky-dory and everybody is going to live happily ever after....NOT! * (For those of you who have gotten fidgety wading through the last few * chapters, we're done with the'people sitting around talking' part of the * story -- now it's back to business as (un)usual for our fave station...) * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * WARNING! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * THIS FILE MAY CONTAIN ANY OR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING: * * SPOILERS FOR THE FIRST HALF OF SEASON 5 * VERY COLORFUL LANGUAGE * SEXUAL INSINUENDO * SUBVERSIVE AND HERETICAL IDEAS * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * S P O I L E R S P A C E A N D M O R **IR1N_26.TXT * * * * * * * * * * BEGIN * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Jesus -- this is why I don't sleep with people. One of the most heartwarming moments of my friendship with the kid's dad was a conversation in which we agreed that sleeping with people sucked, because it took you six months to reset your automatic defenses to let you actually get any sleep -- and then you'd just break up and spend another six months learning to sleep without them. There's two ways to deal with that one: he got married. It's a concept. Well, okay, I suppose there's probably THREE ways to deal with it -- but recalibrating the system is NOT an acceptable option, thank you very much. So there I was at 06:00 AM in the alpha shift, stark staring awake and bored out of my skull. I'd drifted for a few hours, but nothing remotely remlike -- at such times being a mommy is invaluable training. Finally I gave up and slithered out of bed. For some odd reason, Michael was out like the proverbial light -- I had a sneakish suspicion that this was a new and positive development, so I was vewy, vewy quiet... For a while I amused myself by pulling various files and stashing them under 'Share' -- just a few obscure things for Michael and the others to enjoy in their copious free time, there. As well as the three albums I already had, I grabbed Dire Straits' 1st album, U2's 'Achtung, Baby', Al DiMeola's 'Elegant Gypsy' and City Boy's 'Dinner at the Ritz' (my respect for the system's capabilities peaked when THAT search took no longer than the others!), plus the Grateful Dead's 'Wake of the Flood' and REM's 'Automatic for the People' -- Michael already had Dark Side and Led Zep, as well as the Creedence collection and, as I said, a few other classics. In a spasm of true weirdness, I added the movies 'Strange Days' and 'Monty Python and the Holy Grail' -- you know, >cheery< stuff. The last thing I found was an unexpected prize -- they HAD done DS9 in this timeline! -- I stashed the first episode, with a pointer to the rest. Well, that was amusing. 06:32. Whoop de do. I scrounged the kitchenette. The coffee was running low, but there was some Tang-like stuff in a cabinet. There were two donuts left. 06:45. No donuts left. Hmm. I examined the box, then checked with Babcom. I could find that. I dressed quickly and headed for the door. As I went to wave at the manual 'open' panel, something tugged at the back of my brain. I tried to shrug it off, but it wouldn't let me get out the door. Something about the PATTERN of events... "Oh, now," I told myself, "let's not be stupid. I don't THINK they'd bother to write this one up -- after all, what kind of flaming loon would think up something like this? The gods know they'd never be able to publish it, let alone shoot it...but on the other hand..." If this WERE an episode, or a book, or a comic book, or whatever, there were certain dramatic inevitabilities that should be allowed for. I did what I could in that regard, and my paranoia finally let me leave the room. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Damn, you know, I HATE it when I'm right about this shit. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * I made it to the donut place, all right, and picked up a dozen -- what we didn't scarf for breakfast we could take with us on the White Star. I was cruising up one of those openwork staircases when a couple large uncouth dudes invaded my personal space, big time. They came up fast, and hustled me off down a corridor at the next level. Shit shit shit shit shit. The larger one held a PPG at the small of my back -- I knew because he introduced it to me. Didn't offer to introduce himself, though, and didn't seem too interested in anything I had to say -- I had a fat lip to prove it. We ducked through doors and down corridors, mostly uninhabited. Whenever we did pass people, the thugs covered adequately, and the cost/benefit analysis of doing otherwise seemed discouraging to me, at the time. Eventually we came through a door into what was unmistakably an industrial-strength kitchen area. Suddenly I realized where we must be, as we passed a frazzled-looking middle-aged woman talking to a dejected Pak'ma'ra. "I'm really sorry, hon," she was saying briskly, "but we've just had too many complaints. I'm sure you'll find something more...suitable...in the alien sector." Then she saw us -- "Hey, you can't come in here!" she yelled. "Watch me," my captor grunted, and backhanded her into a shelving unit. She crumpled and lay still. The Pak'ma'ra made an untranslateable sound, fleered its tentacles, and (with what I later learned was an uncharacteristic show of bravado) came after us. The other thug promptly doubled it over with a punch to its hyper- efficient gut, picked it up bodily, and stuffed it into the sink. (The sink being one of those big stainless-steel jobbies -- although I somehow doubted that they used it for washing dishes.) When I looked back, the poor person was waving its arms, legs, and tentacles helplessly, looking extremely foolish. THAT poor being was sure having a bad day -- then again, so was I. They hustled me discreetly out of the restaurant, down another corridor, down an elevator, and so on for quite a while, until we finally ducked into an office corridor in Red sector -- small import-export companies, accounting firms, insurance agents, that type of thing. The two jerks I was with passed me through a door and vanished, and two more equally attractive specimens took their places at my side. Given such an escort, how could I fail to be impressed when we entered the domain of my abductor? Well, let's start with said domain being a singularly pathetic-looking office space, with a couple file cabinets I could swear were older than I was -- would have been -- whatever -- in the corner, a cheap desk, couple chairs, and a stack of packing crates in the other corner. Continue with the mindermast himself, a small, scrawny blond with fewer brains than one would have thought possible, no sense of humor that he was aware of, and a raspy, whiny little voice. Then I saw the gloves, and suddenly I WAS impressed. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The man woke alone. He blinked, as if trying to remember something -- then rolled smoothly upright. "Anne?" he called. Silence. "Shit..." he surveyed the room quickly, pulling on his clothes. He moved automatically to clear away the donut box -- and saw the note. He read through it, swearing under his breath, checked the time, then hit the console. "Zack? Michael. I got a problem." * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * As soon as Michael realized what had happened, he put Zack on it and followed my trail as far as the donut place. Zack met him there, and they compared notes. "Here's the note," Garibalid said, laying it on the counter. Zack looked it over -- "M -- gone to stock up on Boston Crème, etc as of 07:00. A." "And it's, what, 08:30 or so, now? Maybe she just...went shopping or something. Michael, if you've dragged me out here for nothing..." "Zack, look -- I'll buy you breakfast -- hey!" he called for the attendant. A little oriental lady of indeterminate age shuffled over. "You're new here, aren't you?" Garibaldi noted. "What happened to Chung?" "Chung go Ploxima Thlee," the lady replied in a heavy generic oriental accent. "New flanchise -- Centauli-Flied Spoo. Velly popular." Zack and Michael exchanged shrugs. "Okay, give us two of those -- each -- and a couple cups of coffee. And, oh, yeah, wrap up a couple boston cremes for me -- better make it three. No, four." When that was taken care of, Zack asked if she'd seen me, and/or anything unusual, in the last hour or so. The lady perked right up -- "I tell you, I saw ever't'ing -- lady buy one dozen donut -- boston cleme, flench culler, ever't'ing. Then she go -- " she waved in the general direction of the staircase, "and he come after." "He?" Garibaldi jumped on it. "He who? What did he look like?" "He look....." she considered, "like a man." "Fine, what kind of a man?" Michael was on the scent now, boy -- "Tall? Short? What?" "Tall! Short! Yes! I tell you! Ever't'ing! He look...like a man!" Zack gave it a shot. "He LOOKED like a man -- was he an alien?" "Alien! Yes! I tell you..." "Everything, yes, we got that part," commented Michael. Zack persisted -- "What kind of alien? Narn? Centauri?" "Narn! Yes! Centauli! Yes! Alien like-a you, alien like-a me. I tell you, I saw ever't'ing." The two guys looked at each other. "I don't think we're going to get anything, here," opined Michael. "I think you're right," agreed Zack. He thanked the lady, and assured her they'd handle it from here. She had one last tidbit to add.... "He look.....like a man!" -- and she shuffled off. "Okay, fine," concluded Garibaldi, and he addressed his breakfast. "Man, this sure beats the slop they serve in the mess hall," noted Zack. "No wonder the guys hang out here so much." "Hey, cops and donuts -- it's a tradition, Zack," the ex-cop pointed out. "Yeah -- you know how those wackos on Earth are always talking about 'alien influences undermining human values' -- " Zack went on, conveniently forgetting his former association with said wackos -- "I figure as long as we keep the basics -- Mom, apple pie, cops and donuts -- we'll be in pretty good shape, ya know?" "Um, Zack..." Garibaldi nodded at a table behind them. It was occupied by a quartet of Narns -- some of those who had stayed on as Security auxiliaries when the Narn homeworld was freed -- all scarfing donuts like there was no tomorrow. One was licking powdered sugar off his gloved fingertips as Zack looked over. A fifth approached the table, carrying a full box and a baseball bat. "Yeah, well, whatever," he conceded. Just then, a voice called out, "Hey, Chief!" Both heads whipped around. Then, with a wry glance at his former second, Garibaldi deliberately went back to his donut. Not for long enough to actually snag a bite, though -- a uniformed woman strode up carrying a mangled box with the remains of a dozen donuts more-or-less in it. The hunt was up, but the trail went cold again soon enough, and the guys went back to finish their breakfast. As he was finishing up the last of his ersatz coffee, Zack mused, "Why would anyone take HER, though? I mean, it's not like she's anyone special..." Garibaldi's jaw tightened momentarily as he leaned forward. "Look, Zack, the way this vid is set up, there's all this stuff going on in the background -- clues about what's going on behind the scenes, or things they haven't shown yet. Not only does she know more than she's telling us, she knows stuff she doesn't even KNOW she knows....hell, that's what she meant about Londo, too," he realized suddenly, "and she didn't say a thing about it...I don't think... damn!" Zack made a stab at following all that -- "So you think Londo took her?" Garibaldi thought a moment. "That would be my first guess." He shook his head. "I don't know, though. The way the rumors were flying last night, it could be any of a dozen of 'em by now -- and that's just the ones I KNOW would jump on this. The chance to have that kind of information in their back pocket -- and since it's mostly about us, I'd say we have a vested interest in keeping it in OUR back pocket...as it were...um...what was I saying?" Zack was off on another tangent altogether -- "I wonder if this could have anything to do with that guy Gantt..." Garibaldi snapped his fingers -- "Yeah, did you ever get a lead on who he might be working with? What was the name of his company -- 'KG Enterprises'? Now, there's a stupid name for a front. But if Gantt was 'G', then the partner is probably 'K'. You know, when he was working Orion IV, Gantt didn't have what it takes to run an operation, but he was the best at handling the customers -- and the suppliers.... " "Yeah, and now we know why," observed Zack, but Garibaldi jumped right over it. "Who picked the stuff up, anyway?" "A couple guys -- shady records, both of 'em. We're keeping tabs on 'em." "I'll stop by the station house and take a look. Then I'm gonna go find Sheridan and give him a heads-up." "I'll check out Londo and the other Ambassadors." "Yeah, you do that -- and I swear if it WAS Londo I will personally tie his.....ah, never mind. Catch you later." **IR1N_26.TXT * * * * * * * * * * END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * From: Jakhel@aol.com Subject: Infinite Regress 1: Chapter 18 (30/39) IR1N_27.txt Date: Sat, 6 Jun 1998 09:49:36 EDT Yes, it's my birthday! And yes, it IS possible to have fun being middle-aged, even if you're stuck in THIS universe. Now if I can just find somebody to palm the kid off on so I can go see 'Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas'... Meanwhile, my sibling version, still six months or so from HER 306th birthday, is having large amounts of no fun at all... **IR1N_27.TXT * * INFINITE REGRESS 1: CHAPTER 18 * * * * * * * * * * * * INITIAL SUBMISSION 06/06/98 * "Well. It was a good idea, while it lasted." * - Marcus Cole * * See Infinite Regress 1: Overview (IR1N_00.txt) for attributions, * acknowledgements, and other notes. Contact me at Jakhel@aol.com with * feedback, questions, or whatever. * * TIMEFRAME: 2 days before the arrival of Captain Lochley. * SYNOPSIS: Ms. Hayes has been kidnapped by a telepath, and Zack and * Garibaldi are on the trail. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * WARNING! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * THIS FILE MAY CONTAIN ANY OR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING: * * SPOILERS FOR THE FIRST HALF OF SEASON 5 * VERY COLORFUL LANGUAGE * SEXUAL INSINUENDO * SUBVERSIVE AND HERETICAL IDEAS * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * S P O I L E R S P A C E A N D M O **IR1N_27.TXT * * * * * * * * * * BEGIN * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "Ms. Hayes. How good of you to join us. Please, have a seat." The two new thugs plopped me into a chair. "I apologize for the inconvenience, but I wanted to be sure our conversation was uninterrupted." Oh, gods, not more sleazy villain dialog, I thought frantically. Maybe this WAS an episode, after all, -- not one of Straczynski's, though, I'd bet -- a Peter David, maybe? He'd do something this goofy, in a heartbeat -- then again, he can WRITE. At least, I prayed desperately to the Divine Suits, let us not have to talk down to the audience TOO much -- I didn't think my stomach could handle that on two stale donuts and a glass of Tang. Who, me? Hysterical? Naahh -- hokay, lets' pull it together, here. First ordure of business: who the hell IS this guy? "Do you KNOW who I AM?" he intoned portentously. "Why, Susan, how you've changed," I muttered under my breath. "Pardon?" No. "Ah, I don't believe I've had the pleasure." "Are you sure? Think back -- perhaps in a....previous season, as I believe you would say?" Whoops -- here we go, kids -- THIS was what had been niggling at my brain ever since I talked to Vir. All the stuff I'd been babbling at Michael last night (and the stuff I so carefully hadn't) -- the nifty little teaser shots, the flash-forwards, the off-the-record conversations -- all the very KIND of info Psi Corps would love to have access to. Okay -- second ordure of business, get the hell AWAY from this creep before he got into my head. "I...don't believe so. Sorry, I guess you just weren't important enough to the story." Did I mention that I'm not a tactician? The teep was seriously miffed at not being recognized, which he expressed gracefully by having his minion slap me around a little. In a spirit of cooperation (and an overly subtle attempt to minimize my prize-value) I pointed out that all I knew was what Straczynski had seen fit to divulge -- and not even all of that. Sure, I followed the show, but I was hardly what you'd call a hardcore fan. If he thought he had somebody who sat up all night surfing the web and agonizing over every little tidbit and inconsistency, he was seriously s.o.l., here. Eventually he settled down and introduced himself -- I had the honor of being kidnapped by one Irving Terence Karl, Psi Cop. I played dumb and asked what he was planning on doing with me. Pretty much what I'd figured -- a quick download to check the quality of the merchandise, then hie us back to Mars for some in-depth excavation. Fun time. NOT. Fortunately, the little jerkazoid (actually, he was taller than me, but not by much) was also subject to that endemic sleazy-villain weakness of showing off his cleverness to his victim. The story, shorn of its self- aggrandizing embroidery, was this: Karl and his partner, a guy name of Gantt, had been sent to Babylon 5 in search of runaway telepaths -- those who had refused the 'sleeper' drugs that repressed telepathic ability, and also refused to join or escaped from the Psi Corps' totalitarian training program. Since B5 was a major transit hub, sooner or later many of them would inevitably come through here, and some would be likely to stay. As it happened, for a while Dr. Franklin had been running an 'underground railroad' for them, but after a narrow escape from the Bester person had brought that to then-Captain Sheridan's attention, he had been forced to shut it down. Still, even without a structured organization to help out, the station was too attractive a nexus-point for the Psi Cops to ignore. Given >President< Sheridan's un-subtly expressed lack of sympathy with the Corps' position, Karl and Gantt had come in under the alias of 'KG Enterprises' -- dealers in small electronics and useful gadgets: water filters, battery-powered heaters, handheld sewing machines -- inexpensive items that would provide them access to even the poorer sections of the station. To penetrate even further into the big tin can's seamy underbelly, they had a second-level cover as drug dealers -- apparently Gantt had actually BEEN a dealer before his latent talent finally awoke and he got sucked into the Corps. He was only a P4 (low-to-middling on the telepath scale), but his experience in other areas had made him an invaluable asset in this particular operation. Note the past tense -- apparently Gantt had met with a slight accident the previous afternoon, and was now resting peacefully in the station's morgue, Karl being understandably leery of claiming the body. 'KG Enterprises' (and was that a dumb name for a cover or what?) had gotten in a shipment of merchandise yesterday morning -- the drug known as 'dust' packed in a crate of water filters -- and the two Psi Cops had been pursuing sundry business deals down in Brown 26 when Karl had picked up something....a kid, a lurker, had leaked awareness of other telepaths in the vicinity. When Gantt tried to question him, the kid turned out to be mute -- then somehow, suddenly, the entire grey-market area had exploded in a riot and the kid had escaped. In the confusion, a badly stacked stack of old machine parts had fallen on Gantt, killing him instantly. Karl had tried to keep going on his own, but for some strange reason the drug business was going sour on him -- some sort of quality control issue that had him completely baffled, plus he really didn't have the personality for it -- sleazy, yes, slick, no. At any rate, Gantt had picked up the rumors about me and had jumped on it. It was him that I had almost spotted yesterday at lunch. He had convinced Karl that they should grab me, but had gotten himself killed before he got a clear shot. One of their KG thugs (Gantt had insisted on two separate sets of hirelings, one for each cover) had followed me back to Michael's yesterday evening, and both of them had been waiting to grab me this morning. And here we were. "And so," concluded Irv, "it turns out that you know SOME things that might be useful to us, but not everything." "That's what I said." "Rest assured, we will soon know exactly what you know, and what you do not know...." -- And would I know they knew I knew? Remind me to forget to remember what I remembered to forget.... "You wouldn't happen to work for a guy named Bester, by any chance?" I asked, just out of idle curiosity. Irv smiled nastily. Oh, boy. At that point, a thuglet came in with a message -- another dissatisfied customer, evidently. Karl took the three lads with him, but called in two more to keep an eye on me. I rested my head against the back of the chair and tried to think it through. Zack and Michael should be on the trail soon -- reading between the lines, Karl had left a goodly number of clues, and Zack was not exactly slow on the uptake himself. Thank Thoth I'd left that note, though. Michael should be on this by about two minutes after he woke up, or by about 8:05, whichever came LAST. What time was it now? 8:45 -- definitely on the trail, then. Unless some other disastrophe had come up in the meantime that took priority... I worked out about a dozen scenarios in my head -- each scarier than the last -- before I managed to get a chokehold on my imagination. Just CHILL, I told myself. The best thing I could do now was sit tight, keep a clear head (QUIT that -- the teep's not here!), and be ready to jump when the opportunity presented itself -- which it would, if this situation was running at all true to pattern, which so far it certainly seemed to be. So there. Meanwhile, time to make like a Minbari and meditate.... * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Garibaldi found Sheridan and Delenn in Delenn's quarters. Delenn was discussing something earnestly with, of all things, a Pak'ma'ra -- a fairly young one, if Garibaldi was any judge. He pulled Sheridan aside. "Anne's gone!" he said urgently. "She went out early this morning to get donuts -- donuts! sheesh! -- anyway, somebody must have grabbed her on the way back. Zack's on it, but..." "Michael," Sheridan interrupted reluctantly, "are you sure she didn't just..." "Walk out on me? Not a chance. I, uh...she...um...well, we made up. Besides, she left a note -- " He produced it. Sheridan looked it over. The Pak'ma'ra sidled up to them tentatively. "Forgive...honored sirs..." its vocoder rasped. "Yes?" said Sheridan encouragingly, while Garibaldi reined in his impatience. "You speak of...female human...taken against...wishes?" "Yes!" "Have you seen her?!?" The alien bowed. "Have...seen..." and proceeded to tell them about the incident in the restaurant kitchen. On a hunch, Garibaldi showed it the files on the two guys involved in the smuggling incident, and it identified them immediately. When they had extracted every iota of available info, Delenn put a grateful hand on his/her/its arm. "Thank you, my friend," she said gently, "but you must go now, or you will miss your shuttle." The Pak'ma'ra bowed deeply to the Minbari. "Respect...and deepest thanks...Entil'zha." It turned and left, with what might with only a slight stretch of the imagination be called a spring in its step. Glide. Whatever. "That's it, then -- Psi Corps," Garibaldi said tersely, and explained about the 'KG' situation. "I thought you thought she WAS Psi Corps," protested Sheridan. "Well, it looks like I was WRONG, doesn't it?" Garibaldi shot back. Something in his manner quenched any impulse Sheridan might have had to comment on that. "But why would..." began Delenn -- then she got it. "John, we MUST get her back! Quickly!" Sheridan still didn't get it -- hey, the guy's got a lot on his mind, okay? Once they pointed him at it, though -- "Ah, hell! Is there anything I can do, Michael?" "I'll let you know," replied Garibaldi, already halfway out the door. On the way to Red Sector, he filled Zack in via link -- "I'm heading for their office now -- Red 17, suite 205. Can you send a team to their quarters?" "I'm on it -- and I'll MEET you at the office. Zack out." * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Eventually Irv came back, in a sour mood. Apparently, yesterday's entire shipment of dust was bad -- and about half of it had already been delivered. Oops. Karl paced around for a while muttering about incompetents back at Syria Planum -- then he called the captain of the supply ship and raked HER over the coals for a while. He was just getting back to the question of me when the door bleeped. Karl nodded to the door guard, who palmed the panel -- nobody there. He peered around the edges of the door -- okay, I knew THIS one. I quickly cased the room -- yeah, yeah, I know I should have done that before, but I was new at this, all right? Two guys close to me, nothing readily grabbable -- shit. Meanwhile, the door guard did his disappearing act. My heart did something VERY disconcerting as Garibaldi made his entrance with a modest, yet adequate, "All right, nobody move!" Ya know, the guy gets NO respect. Two guards tackled him from each side, and the one shot he got off went wild. I lurched out of the chair, but was grabbed before I could get very far. Karl sidled quickly toward the back door, yelling at us to join him. Meanwhile the other guys were pounding Michael -- dammit dammit dammit... he broke free of three of them, decked the fourth -- and the last guy waded in. My temper snapped -- and for once I actually did something semi-effective with it. With an furious jerk I managed to get away from the guy holding me and lunged toward the door (what the hell I thought I could do, I have yet to figure out) -- but something happened. It was as though my body went offline. I froze in mid-stride and fell over. From where I lay I could just see Karl's smirk -- and his eyes. Strong sonuvabitchin' teep -- must be a full P12 Psi Cop, as I'd guessed. Rats and roaches -- this was NOT good. One of the goons picked me up and hauled me out of there. The last thing I heard as the door closed was the whine of a PPG, and the reassuring sound of Zack's mellifluous voice lilting above the commotion. **IR1N_27.TXT * * * * * * * * * * END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * From: Jakhel@aol.com Subject: Infinite Regress 1: Chapter 19 (31/39) IR1N_28.txt Date: Sun, 7 Jun 1998 13:01:08 EDT Well, the movie ('Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas') was most excellent. No redeeming social value whatsoever, but most excellent nonetheless. Trust me -- I was absofragginlutely straight when I saw it. -- Unless, of course, you count the aftereffects of seven hours of riding herd on two hyperkinetic subteenage male humanoids with a combined boredom-threshold significantly lower than the bottom of Death Valley. There is a truly horrifying parallel there that I probably DON"T want to think about much...but back to the story. **IR1N_28.TXT * * INFINITE REGRESS 1: CHAPTER 19 * * * * * * * * * * * * INITIAL SUBMISSION 06/07/98 * "Assimilate THIS!" * - Worf, son of Mogh. * * See Infinite Regress 1: Overview (IR1N_00.txt) for attributions, * acknowledgements, and other notes. Contact me at Jakhel@aol.com with * feedback, questions, or whatever. * * TIMEFRAME: 1 day before the arrival of Captain Lochley. (Oops - editorial * error here, folks - the previous 2 chapters are likewise!!!!) * SYNOPSIS: Despite an abortive rescue attempt, Ms. Hayes is still in the * clutches of the Psi Cop. At least we know where the Pak'ma'ra Ranger * came from, though. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * WARNING! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * THIS FILE MAY CONTAIN ANY OR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING: * * SPOILERS FOR THE FIRST HALF OF SEASON 5 * VERY COLORFUL LANGUAGE * SEXUAL INSINUENDO * SUBVERSIVE AND HERETICAL IDEAS * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * S P O **IR1N_28.TXT * * * * * * * * * * BEGIN * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "You have no fucking CLUE what you're dealing with," I snarled at the teep. We were somewhere down in the higher-numbered levels of Brown sector, in yet another charmingly-appointed chamber. This one boasted a sturdy chair which Karl had had bolted to the floor before they lashed me into it. All things considered, I was NOT a happy camper. "On the contrary," Karl smirked, "Mr. Garibaldi and I are....quite intimately acquainted. Of course, HE probably doesn't remember any of that. A shame, really..." And here I'd always thought 'seeing red' was just a figure of speech. "You son of a BITCH!" -- my verbal skills went right out the porthole as I lunged mindlessly at the restraints. Rocked the chair on its bolts, but not significantly. Bummer. So THIS putrid little fartball had been on the team of Psi Creeps that had messed with Michael's mind when Bester set up his sting operation -- okay fine -- I'd hold him while Michael hit him. ...Well, no, that wouldn't actually accomplish anything, would it? Tempting, though. Seriously tempting. One way or another, as a functioning Psi Carp, this guy was history. The sucker's 2nd sin account was way the fuck off the scale -- BRAGGING about mindraping Michael proved that right there. His 3rd was pretty damned impressive, too, come to think of it. Sooner or later the little creepazoid was GOING to step on his own crank -- I just hoped it was before he got around to dumping my files. No such luck, as it happened. This is how it happened, to the best of my recollection -- and my recollection in this matter is annoyingly free of signal degradation and copy- error. He stationed two of his goons at the door and sent the rest out, then settled his skinny little butt in the other (much more comfortable) chair, facing me. "Now, let's see if your mind is as...piquant....as that of your lover..." he leered. I didn't know what was worse -- the fear of the immediate danger, or the aesthetic agony of the updated 'fate-worse-than-death' scenario. "My FRIEND," I corrected through gritted teeth, not really expecting him to get the distinction. Not yet, anyway....cold terror paralyzed me as the telepath's eyes bored into mine. It was indescribable. Let me describe it like this: * Take the 'thick, dark liquid' I had imagined(?) in the corners of Michael's living room. * Toss in, as you would toss in a couple drops of Dave's Insanity Sauce, some of what was undoubtedly dribbling down the walls of EarthDome at that very moment. * Simmer in it Richard Nixon's heart, Hitler's spleen, Caligula's liver, and the tongues of a thousand lawyers, for a hundred centuries over a medium inferno. * Pour off and distill thrice. * Chill to about half a degree above absolute zero. * And finally, run a current through it to give it a horrid Borglike semblance of life. THAT's what I felt creeping into every corner of my mind. Fingering my memories, copying them off, rifling my thoughts, slithering through my opinions and filming over my observations. Twanging over my feelings idly, just as a routine diagnostic. I would have shuddered, but my body was offline again. And yes, it got into my serotonin receptors and sent my internal filters wonky. I think that was a side-effect,actually -- a bull-in-china-shop deal, or perhaps some sort of quasi-immune reaction. Be that as it were, my input levels spiralled up, down and sideways -- from microprobability-level sensitivity to total disassociation to random ganglionic cross-connection, rerouting internal sensors to external input-processing nexi and verce visa -- the gods know how many times. This here was Possibility #4, kids -- a bad acid trip with NO assurance that it would wear off -- and then, suddenly, it was over. I SLAMMED back into consensus-reality (not MY consensus, dammit!) -- that was actually the most painful part, because I HAD referents for pain again. "Fascinating," he said, and Spock-eyebrowed me. A slow, evil smile grew on his nasty little face as he watched me figure it out. Jesus flaming fuck -- how the hell do you fight an enemy who knows EVERYTHING about you? Well, let's see -- two referents, offhand, both involving Will Riker (nice to know the processors were undamaged, eh?) -- and in both cases, he worked with the fact that he HAD a divergence point -- in this case, starting right now. Of course, that only did me any good at all until/unless the little rat- bastard went in AGAIN. I had another, more cheerful idea -- even if he HAD done a complete download, it was highly unlikely that he could have, if you'll pardon the expression, assimilated the whole mess in one gulp. Not that I could hope for a Johnny Mnemonic situation, what with all-organic parts and a professional operator, but my bet was that he had essentially stashed my shit off in a corner of his brain somewhere to be reviewed later. Also, he might very well have an interest in keeping the original source more-or-less undamaged -- either way, the situation might not be as dire as he would like me to believe. Heavy-duty Zen time again, kids, until something developed. What developed was us getting off-station -- or at least that was Irv's plan. Apparently, the supply ship was heading back to Mars in less than an hour, and he had decided to grab what he could (me) and scarper. With Gantt dead and Zack and Michael on his tail, both of his covers were well and truly blown. His original mission had met with less than stunning success -- he knew little more of any renegade telepaths than he had when he got here -- but he figured bringing me in as a prize would make up for it in brownie points. He was probably right, too -- and somehow, I did NOT think my admiration for Koenig would carry over to his local alter ego. All things considered, I was not anticipating what looked to be my first space voyage with any overwhelming enthusiasm. Enthusiasm was not required, however. As soon as I could motivate, we headed out. I was again escorted by a gentleman who was not at ALL my type with a PPG pressed discreetly against my person. I'm not a big fan of walking lovingly entwined with people either, by the way. What can I say, I guess I'm just a loner by nature. I could have handled a little loneliness along about then, that's for damn sure. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Three men had gathered in the Security Chief's office. The bald man perched on the desk stiffly, as if ignoring a certain amount of pain. The bearded man looked frustrated. The dark-haired man looked annoyed. "I TOLD you I'd meet you there. What the hell got into you, anyway? You know better than to walk into a setup like that by yourself." "Quit being a mother hen, Zack. How was I supposed to know he had a whole fraggin' ARMY in there?" "Mother hen, my ass!" the dark-haired man began. "All right, all RIGHT!" the bearded man cut in, and the other two shut up, looking to him. "The main thing is, he's still got her, and now we don't know where they are, or what their plans are." "Well, if he IS a telepath, he'll probably scan her, to find out what she knows," commented the dark-haired man. The bald man started to his feet. "We've got to get her back before that happens!" he declared. "Hell, for all we know, he could be doing it to her right now," the dark- haired man pointed out. "Michael!" the bearded man's voice crackled, and the bald man subsided, reluctantly. "Both of you, settle down and let's think this thing through. Now, whether he scans her or not, he's still got to get her, or himself, or both, off the station." "And he's probably going to head for Mars," continued the bald man. The dark-haired man was working the terminal at his desk. "Hah! The ship the dust came in on is still here, and it's scheduled for departure -- back to Mars -- at 13:30. That's less than three hours from now." "And we're supposed to head down to Epsilon 3 at 14:00 -- I suppose I could stop all outgoing traffic, but I hate to do that..." mused the bearded man. "No," the bald man demurred, "They'd just go to ground, and sneak out later, when you open it up again. What ship is it?" "The 'Liberty Hall', registered out of Ceres to a Delia O'Ryan. Docking bay 149." The bald man prowled over to a wall-mounted schematic of the huge space station. He studied it for a while, then stabbed with a forefinger. "John, Zack, look at this. The only way to get there without anyone spotting them is to go through this cargo bay. They know we're after 'em, so if we flood the other accessways with Security, we'll force them to take that route. And then," he slammed his fist into the other hand, "we got 'em." "What's in there?" the bearded man asked. The dark-haired man checked. "Nothing volatile or delicate. I say let's go for it." The others agreed. "I'll put the Narns out in the hallways -- that'll put the fear of God into 'em -- and I'll take Alpha and Delta teams to set up the ambush." "I'll wait in reserve with Dr. Franklin and another team," added the bearded man. "I'll meet you at the cargo bay at 12:30," the bald man said. "Meanwhile, I'm gonna go turn over some rocks and see what crawls out." "Michael..." the dark-haired man started to protest. "Zack, I gotta do SOMEthing, or I'm gonna go up the fucking WALL, here! -- And if that walking sack of Shadow-shit has harmed a single hair of her head, I swear I'll tear him a new asshole big enough to fly a Centauri warship through!" On that, he turned and stalked out the door. The bearded man and the dark-haired man looked at each other. "Zack," mused the bearded man, "is it my imagination, or does it seem to you that his language has gotten more....colorful since Ms. Hayes arrived?" "You noticed that too, huh? You know, if you'd asked me three days ago, I wouldn't have said it was POSSIBLE." "Mmm," acknowledged the other. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * We threaded our way through back corridors again, up a lot of levels, and through areas with some really interesting gravity variations. Finally we came out into a major cargo-holding area -- a wide aisle between racks and stacks of containers. Lovely place for an ambush, thought I -- and sure enough, my enhanced vision caught a dull gleam off a flak jacket up near the rafters. Up ahead, DAMN close to Irv's line of sight, a wisp of brown sleeve.... "Hey, Irv!" I called out. He turned back toward me, and the whole cavalcade paused in the middle of the open space. "Do you smell....toast?" I inquired idly, and the air filled with PPG bolts. The guy holding me fell back with a yell -- time to stop, drop, and roll, kids. I made it to a niche between two containers, and was feeling very smug when some jerk yanked me up by the hair. Shit. "Karl! I got her!" the jerk yelled -- and with no cerebral involvement whatsodamnever I lashed up with a forearm and twisted forward, pulling what felt like less than half of my hair out of the guy's hand. I shot my legs out behind me and tripped him, when whipped around and inserted a few elbows where I thought they'd do the most good. While the guy was considering his rebuttal, I scooted away behind the racks and whatnot. By the time I looked back he was occupied shooting at a couple of Security people. I made my way to what seemed like a good vantage point. The remaining thugs had found cover and were holding off the Security folks. Irv was ahead of the rest -- his aim was nothing to write home about, but unfortunately the PPG was not his only weapon. Scattered yells and thumps marked attackers mind-burned or otherwise distracted, one by one. Then came the fragging cavalry, goddamn him for a bloody lunatic. Straight across the open space, firing as he ran, the blithering idiot headed right for the Karl-dude. A PPG bolt creased his right shoulder and staggered him for a moment, but he kept coming. You could tell Irv was trying to stop him, but the mind-zap just pissed Garibaldi off more. With a snarl, he vaulted the intervening crates, pistol-whipped the sucker, then backhanded him. Once more, and Karl collapsed against a support beam. While the thugs held off Zack's people, Michael kept pounding the teep. And kept pounding him. And KEPT pounding him. This was not good. This was not good at all. Garibaldi was shielded from the thuglings' line of fire by the crates Irv had been hiding behind -- this was a good thing -- but nobody could get to him to snap him out of his murderous rage -- this was a bad thing. It didn't take Sigmund Freud to figure out what was going on, here, kids. Aside from the singular bad timing of me getting snatched, there was the whole bloody buildup behind it. Hell, every time the man turned around he was galloping off to somebody's rescue -- and apparently it had just gotten old. The only person who had anything like an angle of approach was me. I yelled -- a couple of times. No go. Hell. I made my way up closer, dodging a stray bolt. I was only going to get one chance at this -- I calculated the angle between me, Garibaldi, and that beam. Just like shooting pool over at John's house -- except I'd damn well better MAKE this shot, for a change! I took a split second to get set: focus, acceleration, aiming six inches THROUGH the left glute -- and a perfect step-behind yeop chaggi sent Michael's head bouncing off the steel(?) strut. It didn't quite knock him out, but it did stun him long enough for Zack to get over to us. Thank God. **IR1N_28.TXT * * * * * * * * * * END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * From: Jakhel@aol.com Subject: Infinite Regress 1: Chapter 20 (32/39) IR1N_29.txt Date: Mon, 8 Jun 1998 13:09:01 EDT **IR1N_29.TXT * * INFINITE REGRESS 1: CHAPTER 20 * * * * * * * * * * * * INITIAL SUBMISSION 06/08/98 * "If you were any other man, I would kill you where you stand." * - Worf, son of Mogh. * * See Infinite Regress 1: Overview (IR1N_00.txt) for attributions, * acknowledgements, and other notes. Contact me at Jakhel@aol.com with * feedback, questions, or whatever. * * TIMEFRAME: 1 day before the arrival of Captain Lochley. * SYNOPSIS: Ms. Hayes has been rescued, Karl has been captured -- Garibaldi * kinda lost it in the process, though. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * WARNING! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * THIS FILE MAY CONTAIN ANY OR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING: * * SPOILERS FOR THE FIRST HALF OF SEASON 5 * VERY COLORFUL LANGUAGE * SEXUAL INSINUENDO * SUBVERSIVE AND HERETICAL IDEAS * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * S P O I L E R S P A C E A N D M O R E S P A **IR1N_29.TXT * * * * * * * * * * BEGIN * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * I stayed out of Zack's way as his people finished rounding up Karl's people. Then I stayed out of everyone's way as Sheridan and Franklin showed up with more Security guards. Zack filled them in, and the good doctor prudently shot Michael up with something soothing before calling a couple hefty Security dudes to take him to Medlab. Sheridan looked grim, standing over Stephen and the battered body of the Psi Cop. Stephen was doing things to him with some urgency, so I figured he was alive. I supposed that was a good thing. However...I pulled together the shreds of my courage. "Mr. President. You should be aware that he's a P12, and he did scan me." The president looked at me. Dr. Franklin looked at the president. The president looked back to the doctor. "I'll make sure a team of Minbari telepaths is available when he comes around," Sheridan said pointedly. "IF he comes around," Stephen commented, and got back to work. I started to follow the guys with Garibaldi, but was stopped by a cold whiplash of a voice. "Ms. Hayes, you're with me." "Mr. President," I acknowledged, and followed him instead. I had a pretty good idea what was coming, and I was right. As soon as we got to his office, he started in, hands behind his back, pacing behind the desk like an irritated lion. "Ms. Hayes, I deeply regret what happened to you this morning. The parties responsible will be charged, and dealt with appropriately. However. There is one thing I would very much like to know." He stopped and leaned on the desk at me. "If you know so much about what's happened to us -- to Michael in particular -- in the last few years, then what the HELL did you think you were playing at?" I didn't pretend to misunderstand him. If I had kept my distance from Garibaldi, he never would have snapped like that. Correction, I thought, he wouldn't have snapped THIS time. Like I said, I don't intimidate easily, especially when I'm right. I set my jaw, planted my own fists on the desk, and looked the President of the Interstellar Alliance straight in the eye. "John," I said deliberately, "I've watched that man go through hell, from HIS side, which even you can only guess at. I SAW what it did to him when Lise told him she was married, the first time, three years ago -- and I've watched him become what he is now. There is no way in flaming hell I'd have gone within ten feet of that man if I didn't mean it. If all I've got time for is first aid, then that's how it is, but by God I'll give it my best shot!" He got it. I'd figured he would. He also got the kicker, though -- "And if you've just made it worse?" "There is that." I met his glare steadily, and took a deep breath. "Was he getting better before I got here?" Sheridan's steely gaze held mine for a long moment. "No," he said finally, and turned away. "No, he was getting worse. Irritable, erratic, defensive...." He started pacing again. "Sometimes it feels like there's a VOLCANO building up under that cocky shell of his." He laughed grimly. "At least this time I have a pretty good idea where it's coming from." He threw me a look -- as opposed to last time, when Bester's telepathic aggravation of Garibaldi's naturally suspicious nature had led him to turn on Sheridan, eventually leading him into a trap -- "but," he went on, staring blindly through the stuff on his desk, "That doesn't seem to do much good when it comes to finding a way to help." Flaming alpha male or not, you really couldn't help liking the guy. "Well, >Captain<," I said pointedly, "You know the drill." When the odds are against you and time is running out, and one person has an idea that just MIGHT work.... He smiled wryly. "Yeah, I know the drill, all right." He thought it over, then jerked his head at the door. "Go on, give it your best shot." "Yes, sir!" I saluted sharply and headed out. "Ms. Hayes." I turned back. "The White Star will be leaving for Epsilon 3 in TWO hours. Something about a....maintenance check, I believe." "Understood." I tossed him a grateful smile and split. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * When I got to Medlab 4, Stephen was just finishing taping Michael's shoulder. He gave me a warning look as he left. Michael rotated the shoulder, carefully not looking at me. He had some nasty bruises along his ribs, too, from the first encounter, and of course that lovely lump on his head. Tres chic, you betcha. "You okay?" I asked. He thought about it. "Zack tells me it was you driving that truck," he said finally, without looking up. "That was no truck, my dear," I said wryly. "That was what was referred to in my time as a 'swift kick in the butt'." He laughed shortly, grimly, but it was a laugh. "So that's what I get for rescuing you? Something new and unusual," he added bitterly, doing that neural-net thing of linking up two TOTALLY unrelated sets of events... "No," I said firmly, "that's what you get for losing it." He sighed and shook his head. "I think maybe I lost it a long time ago." There was no good verbal answer to that one. I went over and sat beside him on the exam table, resting my head on his good shoulder. Eventually, he put that arm around me and rested his chin on the top of my head. "So what do we do now?" he asked. "Well," I said, "I need to stop by your quarters and pick up my notes and stuff. The ship leaves in two hours." "TWO hours?" "Mmhmm." "Mm." We sat there for a while. I snaked my arm around his waist, carefully. "How long do you think it'll take you to pack?" he asked. "Ten minutes?" I guessed. "Mm," he said again. Then, "Works for me." * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * I gave it my best shot, all righty. We're talking big guns, here, kids: an all-out assault on the 3rd sin, with no holds barred. We started out slow, with the best of intentions -- gentle, tender, caring, solicitous, the whole nine yards. By about the sixth time I hit one them bruises, though, the whole thing had degenerated into total silliness. At one point I just started giggling for no apparent reason. "Now what?" he growled in mock annoyance. "Oh, nothing," I said, thinking of my ex-roommate -- also not at all my type, but turning me on to Bab5 had been among the LEAST of his redeeming features. "It's just -- I never thought I'd meet a SECOND man who actually >appreciates< my horizontal one-liners..." "You got that problem too, huh?" "Oh, man!" I two-syllabled it, "people get so bent outta shape! -- If you'll excuse the expression." "Hah! Now, that's one problem I DON'T have." "Yes, I noticed. Let me just double-check, here, though..." And so on and so forth, and so forth and so on, until the poor man was reduced to a quivering, helpless, egoless blob of protoplasm. Critical difference from Bester's approach: this time it was from the inside out, and with his full and enthusiastic participation. It was no miracle cure, but it was a damn thorough bit of first aid, by Hermes. Given the proper follow-up treatment (and barring acts of God and Straczynski), the prognosis was most excellent. I was of course completely in control of myself at all times. And there's this great real-estate deal on Narn you should look into...but anyway. It was a damn good thing I'd had the sense to take care of printing out my files and packing up first. As it was, we barely made it to the White Star by something vaguely resembling the appointed time (let's NOT go into the looks we got about that, okay?), and I had that nagging feeling of having forgotten something. Oh, well! **IR1N_29.TXT * * * * * * * * * * END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * From: Jakhel@aol.com Subject: Infinite Regress 1: Chapter 20 (32/39) IR1N_29.txt Date: Tue, 9 Jun 1998 20:50:38 EDT **IR1N_30.TXT * * INFINITE REGRESS 1: CHAPTER 21 Part 1 * * * * * * * * * * * INITIAL SUBMISSION 06/09/98 * "I knew you would come." * - Various. * * * See Infinite Regress 1: Overview (IR1N_00.txt) for attributions, * acknowledgements, and other notes. Contact me at Jakhel@aol.com with * feedback, questions, or whatever. * * TIMEFRAME: 1 day before the arrival of Captain Lochley. * SYNOPSIS: Ms. Hayes is on her way down to Epsilon 3, along with Sheridan, * Delenn, Garibaldi, and Franklin. Hopefully, Draal will have some insight * into the situation. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * WARNING! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * THIS FILE MAY CONTAIN ANY OR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING: * * SPOILERS FOR THE FIRST HALF OF SEASON 5 * VERY COLORFUL LANGUAGE * SEXUAL INSINUENDO * SUBVERSIVE AND HERETICAL IDEAS * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * S P O I L E R S P A C E A N D M O R E S P **IR1N_30.TXT * * * * * * * * * * BEGIN * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * We got one more chance to talk privately, on the trip down to the surface. Delenn caught me first, though, as I stood marvelling at the view from the bridge of a White Star. "It is glorious, is it not?" she asked rhetorically. "I never tire of it." I smiled and shook my head, wordless. "I wanted to thank you," she went on, "for your help with Michael. He is ...very dear to all of us." I snorted. "Your husband just about took my hide off earlier, for 'interfering'." "He was... concerned..." she stopped. "I know," I assured her. "Do you think he's going to be all right?" "Michael, or John?" she asked, looking sidelong at me. I grinned back. "I think John's in pretty good hands." She smiled and nodded, but then the smile faded. "I think Michael will be...better, for knowing you," was all she would commit to. "I hope so," I sighed. "And what about you?" she asked. "Will you be....all right....without him?" I looked at her -- whoa. She really looked...concerned. I smiled reassuringly at her. "Been there, done that," I said lightly. "I'll be fine. A little...MORE spoiled, perhaps." She cocked her head -- the idiom had gone past her. "Spoiled as in letting a child get overly accustomed to sweets," I explained. "Ah!" she acknowledged. "You know," I went on, "I used to consider myself very lucky -- for a person of...uninspiring physical and domestic attributes, I have been privileged to get to know some fascinating, challenging, downright splendid men." "And now?" "Now I consider myself UNBELIEVABLY lucky." We shared a smile, and went back to watching the stars. A few moments later she happened to mention a sort of "ready room" behind the bridge, where crew could go to rest in emergency situations when they couldn't afford to retire to the regular sleeping quarters. It had a viewport. With the course we were on, it was another hour or so to the surface. "Does it have those slanty things in it?" I deadpanned. Her lips quirked. "Did you not say something about enjoying a challenge?" she asked in turn. "You," I decided, "are a fiendish woman, Delenn. You know, that doesn't come across....QUITE sufficiently...on the show." Her smile widened to a grin. "Then perhaps you should instruct Ms. Furlan to make a small CORRECTION to her portrayal," she recommended. We bowed to each other, and I headed across the room. Michael hoisted an eyebrow as I passed. I smirked back at him. "Four.....three.....two....one," I counted down once the door slid shut behind me. It hissed open again. I waited. A pair of strong arms wrapped around me, and a chin landed on the top of my head. I leaned back without speaking and rested my hands on his. Despite the exchange of pleasantries with Delenn, I had no....ah....inclination to get physical at that point. It would have been superfluous, as well as painful. Not to detract from Mr. Garibaldi's studly reputation, but he seemed to concur -- presumably for the same reasons. We did talk, of course, eventually. We both agreed that, if I didn't go home, there would be plenty of time to discuss the options we did have, which left -- "So what'll you do if you get back, and everything is just like it was before?" he sounded wistful. I shrugged. "Raise my kid, go to work, write some books -- and watch the new season of Babylon 5. I'll have to keep tabs on you guys, after all. -- And try very, very hard to avoid having....inappropriate thoughts about Mr. Doyle." I could feel his grin through the top of my head. "Think you'll manage it?" he asked wickedly. "Not a chance in hell," I growled. "And what'll you do, kiddo?" "Well," he said thoughtfully, "there's the inauguration to get through. That should be good for a few laughs. And the new Captain, of course. After that...." He was quiet for a long time. Then, slowly at first, ideas started bubbling up out of the man. Plans for staying on the station, working with Sheridan as well as building up his 'business' there; plans for returning to Mars, with AND without getting back together with Lise; plans for roasting Bester over a slow fire, with AND without the courtesy of wringing his scrawny little neck first...it was like a dam breaking, and I just settled back and enjoyed the show. **IR1N_30.TXT * * * * * * * * * * END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * From: Jakhel@aol.com Subject: Infinite Regress 1: Chapter 21 Part 2 (34/40) IR1N_30a.txt Date: Tue, 9 Jun 1998 21:03:42 EDT Editor's brain cramp #who-knows-what -- Note the previous segment was actually Chapter 21 Part 1, 34/40, otherwise optimistically known as IR1N_30.txt. **IR1N_30a.TXT * * INFINITE REGRESS 1: CHAPTER 21 Part 2 * * * * * * * * * * * INITIAL SUBMISSION 06/09/98 * "I knew you would come." * - Various. * * * See Infinite Regress 1: Overview (IR1N_00.txt) for attributions, * acknowledgements, and other notes. Contact me at Jakhel@aol.com with * feedback, questions, or whatever. * * TIMEFRAME: 1 day before the arrival of Captain Lochley. * SYNOPSIS: Still on the way down to Epsilon 3 * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * WARNING! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * THIS FILE MAY CONTAIN ANY OR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING: * * SPOILERS FOR THE FIRST HALF OF SEASON 5 * VERY COLORFUL LANGUAGE * SEXUAL INSINUENDO * SUBVERSIVE AND HERETICAL IDEAS * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * S P O I L E R S P A C E A N D M O R E S P O I **IR1N_30a.TXT * * * * * * * * * * BEGIN * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Something sleek, white, and very fast flitted by the viewport. "What the hell?" Michael and I agreed. He beat me to the door, but not by much. The bridge was in as close to an uproar as Rangers get -- "Configuration is completely unknown," the Minbari captain was saying, in an accent somewhat heavier than, and different from, Delenn's. We had been introduced when we came on board, but her name slipped my mind at the moment. "We are reading three fighter-class ships escorting a small transport, being pursued by another ship approximately two-thirds our size." "Can you hail them?" Sheridan asked. The human Ranger at the first officer's console shook his head. "We're trying, but there's no response." "Damn," quoth the President. "What's going on?" Michael asked Stephen, who was standing back out of the way. "These alien ships showed up a few seconds ago -- we're trying to figure out who they are," the doctor replied. "Yeah, I got that part," Garibaldi said curtly. "Like I always say," I put in, "just when you think you've got your shit together, the universe comes along and kicks you in the butt." "I thought that's what >I< always said," Michael remarked, looking at me quizzically. "So sue me," I suggested. He smiled down at me fondly, slung an arm around my shoulders and squoze. "Stay here," he said patronizingly, and headed up to join Sheridan and Delenn. I stuck my tongue out at his back, but stayed -- only because he was right, though. And to enjoy the view -- although it would have been better without the jacket. "Captain!" the first officer called, and Sheridan and the Minbari lady both looked around. "Another ship coming up around the planet at two-three-seven mark two-four -- and it's a big one!" "Display!" snapped the captain -- Lanniel, I remembered now. The front half of the bridge faded into a holographic display, cleverly enhanced to show detail we couldn't POSSIBLY have made out, given the distances involved. It was pretty much like the CGI on the show, but even MORE disconcerting. The transport, a boxy little thing with minimal aerodynamic allowances, was heading toward what was obviously the entrance to the passageway into the planet. Three spidery little fighters hovered behind it, exchanging beam-fire with the ship Michael and I had glimpsed before. Up over the horizon, off to our left, rose a fairly hefty deep-space vessel, looming over us as we followed the firefight in. Something about the attacking ship nagged at the back of my brain -- it was smooth and white like a Federation ship, but streamlined almost like a 20th Century jet fighter for serious atmosphere work, with a distinctive and rather vulnerable-looking pointy porpoise-like nose....an orange beam stabbed out from under a 'wing' and clipped a spider-fighter, sending it spiralling toward the surface. In retaliation, a green beam lanced down from the big ship and dissipated against the white ship's shields. Shields? These people didn't have shields! "It has a force-field of some kind..." observed Delenn. "What I want to know is, who are the good guys and who are the bad guys?" said Garibaldi. "If ANY of them are good guys," put in Sheridan. "I'm just glad they're not shooting at US," remarked Stephen. "PRESIDENT SHERIDAN," a deep voice boomed. "WOULD YOU BE SO GOOD AS TO DO ME A SMALL FAVOR?" "Draal?" asked Sheridan, "Is that you?" "INDEED IT IS -- YOU"LL FORGIVE ME FOR NOT APPEARING, BUT MY RESOURCES ARE SOMEWHAT LIMITED AT THE MOMENT. HOWEVER, IF YOU WOULD BE SO KIND AS TO DISTRACT THAT LARGE SHIP ABOVE YOU, MY FRIEND SHOULD BE ABLE TO HANDLE THE FIGHTERS." Well, that answered THAT question. Sheridan nodded to Captain Lanniel, who snapped at the crew, and the display swung around as we swerved to face the alien mothership. We fired -- damn, they had shields, too. They shot back, and we dodged. Lanniel took us through an elaborate acrobatic maneuver, firing rapidly, and those shields wore down and collapsed. (The display did distressing things to my stomach from back where I was -- it was a damn good thing the guys up front were used to it!) Once we scored a couple good hits, the big ship lumbered around, put on a surprising burst of speed, and vanished around behind the planet again. We'd been singed, but not significantly hurt -- our Vorlon- style hull had adapted, Borglike, to their energy-weapons within the first few shots and protected us almost as well as shields would have. Better than theirs had done -- interesting. When we got back to the vicinity of the entrance, we spotted the remains of the three fighters. The transport and the other ship had vanished -- presumably down the passageway. "Take us in -- carefully," directed Sheridan. As we approached the surface, a life-sized hologram of a stout, middle- aged-looking Minbari male flickered and materialized beside Delenn -- the Draalmeister, at last. "Are you all right?" Delenn asked anxiously. "For the moment, I myself am undamaged," the Guardian replied. "However, my defenses have been disabled, and there are intruders within the Great Machine itself -- a most uncomfortable feeling, I assure you, like insects scurrying about inside one's clothing." He shuddered dramatically. "How did this happen? Why didn't we spot them when they entered the sector?" demanded Sheridan. "Who the hell ARE these guys? And who's your friend?" was what Garibaldi wanted to know. "All shall be explained once you join us below. Follow the indicators to the landing area, and my friend will contact you there. Oh, dear...." He looked up, startled, at something only he could see -- "I'm afraid you must excuse me now..." and the image winked out. Sheridan and Delenn exchanged a worried look. Lanniel barked at the crew, and we zipped down into the passageway. The holographic display shut off (to MY relief, anyway!) and we could see chaser- lights along the cavern walls through the front viewports. We were led through several branching passages to a landing platform. The 'friendly' ship was already parked, leaving barely enough room for the White Star. As soon as we settled and secured, a transmission came in from the other ship. A figure appeared on the comm holoplat -- a human-looking female in tunic, leggings, boots -- I moved closer, not trusting my new eyes. I KNEW this woman -- the eagle beak nose, the steely grey eyes, the curly dark hair escaping its single braid -- "Kiya?" I ventured. She flashed a wry grin, spotting me unerringly behind the others. "No time for family reunions," she said. "We've got scavenger problems. Those khya'vinnthi are halfway to the Guardian's chamber by now. If we don't stop them, this place will be -- literally -- history, and not even yours!" That last she flung at Sheridan. "Would you mind explaining just who you are and what the hell is going on here?" Sheridan was seriously peeved. "Not at all," the woman replied, completely unruffled. "I am Kiyandarre Illenad Din'Chessa, I'm an agent of the Rena'a, and I am currently attempting to save your collective butts. If you, your captain, and your companions would care to join me on my ship, I would be glad to explain further -- but I'd suggest you hurry." "On YOUR ship? You've got to be kidding!" cut in Garibaldi. "Put a sock in it, Garibaldi -- I'm a good guy," Kiya cut right back. "Check with Anne. Din'Chessa out." -- and the image vanished. All eyes turned to me -- however, I was struggling with a sensation remarkably similar to what I felt whenever my son pulled something unmistakably genetic (from the paternal line) -- my god, what have I DONE? "That's..." I waved at the empty holoplat, "that's >Kiya<. That's my main character -- sorta what you are to Straczynski," I added, looking at Sheridan. "I didn't expect her to be so...ah, I suppose I should have, though....." "She's a character?" Sheridan repeated incredulously. "In a book you haven't even written yet?" added Garibaldi, "So what the hell is she doing here, now?" "That's the question, isn't it?" I focussed on his ice-cold eyes to keep from drowning. "I'd say we should head over to...shit, that's the Shandara!" No wonder the thing looked familiar -- I must have drawn it a couple hundred times between the ages of eight and eighteen. Side views, top views, schematics -- I was halfway to the viewport before Michael caught me. "Whoa, whoa, whoa -- the door's THIS way," he hauled me back. "But that's my SHIP!" I protested blindly, looking back over my shoulder. Then the brain cells kicked in -- "Well, when I was twelve years old it was my ship -- I suppose it's HER ship now," I said wistfully. "This isn't making a whole hell of a lot of sense, is it?" "Not really, no," replied Sheridan, "now, why don't you calm down, and start at the beginning?" I took a deep breath. Then another. Then I tried again. "Okay. Like I told Stephen and Michael when I got here, in my series the Rena'a are, like, the Guardians of the Multiverse -- they recruit the best and the brightest from every timeline, and they monitor, but never, ever interfere -- except, of course, when they do. You know how THAT one goes!" They did. "So Kiya, who's pretty much a standard protagonist (yes, she's a good guy -- a little headstrong, maybe, prone to bending the rules, but she's too canny to get conned into something that isn't basically on the up-and-up) -- anyway, at the end of my series she gets recruited. So just like I showed up here after the last stuff I know about, this is HER after the last I'd really thought about. I suppose I should have expected the ship, though." I grinned. "When I came up with it, it was equipped with, like, half a dozen basic propulsion and weapons systems, as well as the multiversal shift thingy, so you can operate wherever you find yourself -- and, apparently, some technologies DO carry over, at least between some universes. I've GOT to see that ship!" Sheridan laughed in spite of himself. "All right, let's go see what's up." **IR1N_30a.TXT * * * * * * * * * * END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * From: Jakhel@aol.com Subject: Infinite Regress 1: Chapter 22 Part 1 (35/40) IR1N_31.txt Date: Wed, 10 Jun 1998 13:13:10 EDT **IR1N_31.TXT * * INFINITE REGRESS 1: CHAPTER 22 Part 1 * * * * * * * * * * * INITIAL SUBMISSION 06/10/98 * "Hello, old friend..." * - Jeffrey Sinclair. * * * See Infinite Regress 1: Overview (IR1N_00.txt) for attributions, * acknowledgements, and other notes. Contact me at Jakhel@aol.com with * feedback, questions, or whatever. * * TIMEFRAME: 1 day before the arrival of Captain Lochley. * SYNOPSIS: Strange developments -- now Ms. Hayes' characters are popping * out of the woodwork... * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * WARNING! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * THIS FILE MAY CONTAIN ANY OR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING: * * SPOILERS FOR THE FIRST HALF OF SEASON 5 * VERY COLORFUL LANGUAGE * SEXUAL INSINUENDO * SUBVERSIVE AND HERETICAL IDEAS * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * S P O I L E R S P A C E A N D M O R E S P O I **IR1N_31.TXT * * * * * * * * * * BEGIN * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Six of us headed over to the Shandara -- Sheridan and Delenn, me and Michael, Stephen and Captain Lanniel (the latter made a cute couple -- the compact, dark doctor and the tall, pale Ranger). I looked around the echoing cavern briefly, but couldn't keep my eyes off the gleaming white vessel ahead for long. Between her and the White Star, for sheer aesthetic impact there wasn't a whole hell of a lot to choose. I ran a hand across what I could reach of her smooth hull -- I'm not partial to white vehicles in general, but the Shandara has always been THE exception. Then I spotted the insignia on her flank. There it was -- detailed confirmation of my wild-ass hypothesis: her name in flowing blue-silver Derian script, bracketed by arrow-curving-out- from-between-two-stars Rangers of the Ozone logos (different other Rangers -- whatchacallyer parallel fictional evolution). "So, how do we get into this thing?" asked Stephen. "Don't look at me." I answered, "I haven't drawn a schematic for her in over twenty years -- and I daresay the internal congruence to what I came up with back then is WAY under 90%..." just then a ramp lowered from under the 'throat' of the ship. Okay fine. We filed up the ramp and through a hatchway, and found ourselves in a midsized entrance chamber/airlock. The opposite doorway opened as the ramp folded up and the hatch slid shut behind us, and a light feminine voice came out of the walls. "Welcome aboard, Ms. Hayes, President Sheridan, Entil'zha Delenn, Doctor Franklin, Captain Lanniel.....Mr. Garibaldi. And may I say I am most honored to make your acquaintance, Ms. Hayes." "And you would be....?" I asked, although I had a suspicion.... "I am Shandara," the ship replied, with just a hint of smugness. "Of course!" I grinned in delight. "I'm sorry -- it's just that....I'm afraid the last time I thought about you much, I hadn't started thinking in terms of ship AIs yet...." "I suspect there is much about me that has...evolved in the last twenty- odd years." Definitely smug, but entirely ladylike withal. "Perhaps later there will be time for a tour -- for now, please follow the guidelight to the bridge." A small blue spark formed in mid-air and wafted down the corridor. We followed. As I vaguely remembered, sometime after the last hardcopy revision I had moved the bridge from the nose to back up along the spine somewhere, at least one deck in from the hull. No viewports, but an extra layer of protection. "Where is the crew?" asked Lanniel. "I'm not sure there is one," I replied. "I'd always planned on maybe half a dozen, max, and with the AI you really wouldn't even need that." "Big ship for one person," Stephen commented. "If it does have all those redundant systems, though," Garibaldi pointed out, "that would take up a lot of space." "I wonder about maintenance," I mused. "If you use robots, that's more moving parts to break down...and even if you've got replicators -- places where replicators work..." Just then we came up on a cross-corridor. Warned by a sort of hissing whine off to our left, we hung back as a large machine of some sort floated by on a nullgrav platform. It was being steered from behind by a small, foxlike alien with a long, prehensile tail and sunglasses. "Gangway! Comin' through!" he(?) yelled, then tossed back over his shoulder, "'Bout time you jerks showed up. Cap'n's waitin' on ya -- better get a move on!" "Maintenance," observed Sheridan, as the little guy trundled off down the corridor. "I guess...." I was somewhat in shock. Sunglasses? "Probably nocturnal," Stephen deduced cleverly. Whatever. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * We came onto the bridge, stepping out onto a wide balcony with a conference table in front of us, terminals and readouts along the walls behind us, and ramps down either side to the main floor. There were three main consoles with what obviously converted to acceleration couches, in a 'pilot- forward' rather than a 'Captain-to-the-rear' configuration (confirming my minimal-crew guess). The forward walls and ceiling formed a dome, and I'd bet dollars to donuts the whole thing turned into a viewscreen. Majorly suave. Kiya came striding up the lefthand ramp -- she shook hands with Sheridan and Stephen, bowed to Delenn and Lanniel, quirked an eyebrow at Garibaldi (who had both hands firmly in his pockets) and got me on the shoulder. "Good to see ya, kiddo. How are you feeling?" she grinned wickedly. "WHAT?" I demanded incredulously -- then remembered. Kiya's a sorceress -- which on her world includes being a highly-trained telepath. I flicked a glance at Michael, and she shook her head slightly -- no need to advertise to the paranoid. I cut her a look, which she pointedly ignored. You know, this could get REALLY weird. "Let's get down to business, shall we?" she said, and we settled around the table. The deal was this: The Rena'a do not, in fact, have a monopoly on inter-universal transportation -- it crops up independently now and then, or gets pilfered from somebody who already has it. The fact that there are several ways of achieving it -- technological and otherwise -- doesn't help. This, in fact, goes a long way toward answering the question of what the Rena'a DO while they're so busy not interfering -- they keep OTHER people from interfering. Fair enough. The upshot is, however, that once in a while a group of bad guys will 'break out' and cause trouble -- and apparently that is what had happened here. A gang of what the Rena'a called 'scavengers' had learned of the Great Machine and were attempting to make off with it -- and, incidentally, the whole planet, which would not (incidentally) do the orbitting space station any good at all, at all. Garibaldi didn't waste any time on the 'looking around at each other in horrified realization' bit the others were indulging in -- "Just out of curiosity, do you seriously expect us to believe that it's just coincidence that these guys show up right after Anne did -- and that you had nothing to do with it?" The lasers were back online, and I was VERY glad they weren't aimed at me this time -- the interpersonal shit was one thing, but this was a threat to >his station<... For the first time, Kiya looked disconcerted. She folded her long, bony hands and took a deep breath. "There...may be a correlation," she admitted reluctantly. "You've got to understand, there are a LOT of timelines -- hundreds of thousands of mindworlds, and they're all branching constantly." Sheridan nodded -- we'd been over this the night before. "So far as we know, the Rena'a are the only organization that can even begin to keep track of them, and it's not easy -- or complete. Once we've identified and surveyed a 'core' timeline, we use a sort of navigational beacon to tag it -- and there's several different types of beacon. "When I scouted this timeline, about a month ago, I left a short-range, broadband scout beacon with the Guardian, figuring it was safe enough." She inhaled. "Apparently, I was wrong. These guys stumbled on it and set up this operation. Draal and I didn't find out about it until a couple hours ago, when their mothership came through from Clayton-16. Since then, we've been trying to scope out their plan and counter it. What we've figured out so far is...." "Wait a minute! " I sat up straight -- "Did you say 'Clayton'? As in..." She nodded grimly. "Yup -- Vryhh tech." "Oh, shit," I decided. "What?" barked Sheridan. "More-or-less Vorlon level," I told him, "not good." "Yeah, well, that's the bad news," put in Kiya, "the good news is they don't have much -- just bits and pieces they've bought or stolen. The main thing is the gadgets they're planning on using to move the planet itself -- basically a set of 'energy-grapples' hooked up to the shift-engine they ripped off (we've got an agent back in Clayton-16 tracking THAT one down, by the way!). They've got some Roddenberry stuff, too -- disruptors and shields for the mothership, a personnel transporter -- that's how they snuck in to disable Draal's planetary defenses. I'll tell you, if we can take these guys out, we'll be extracting a major pain from several people's butts!" "And you are all the assistance we get from these...Rena'a?" inquired Lanniel. "No offense, however...." "Yeah, well, this whole operation is sort of...covert, I suppose you'd say..." "Kiya, what are you up to?" I asked in the same tone of voice I used when my son came in the room looking particularly innocent. "It's in a good cause," she said emphatically, " -- I'll explain once we get this little problem taken care of. Anyway, the bottom line is we're pretty much on our own, here." "There are three more White Stars currently at Babylon 5," noted Delenn. "Nineteen and Twenty-Three are being repaired, though," pointed out Sheridan. "Captain Lanniel, I want you to send a message to Six, and the two of you try and take out that mothership. I'm assuming the transport was carrying those 'grapples' you spoke of?" "Yes -- and I'll send Shandara along with you, Captain -- she'll be fine on her own. Just keep a comm channel open and treat her like a big fighter. Meanwhile, the six of us will need to find and disable those grapples..." "Whoa, whoa, whoa," cut in Garibaldi. "John, you and Delenn, at least, should go back to the station, and send us back some troops..." "We don't have the time," interrupted Kiya, "we're right on top of a branch point here -- I looked it up while you were on your way over -- and I can guarantee you don't want to end up on the wrong side of this one! There's only about thirty scavs on-planet -- we should be able to handle them, but it will only take them another couple of hours to get set up, so we've got move NOW." "ONLY about thirty?" muttered Stephen. "Yeah, Draal's internal sensors are tracking them," Kiya explained. "Lanniel, how many Rangers can you spare us from your crew?" asked Sheridan. She thought fast -- "Six," she replied, "I'm sorry, Mr. President, but we are very shorthanded..." "Better than nothing," he assured her. "You get going, now, and have them meet us outside." "I'll send Shandara to meet you and the other White Star as soon as we head out," added Kiya. Lanniel bowed to her, Sheridan, Delenn, and the rest of us, and split. **IR1N_31.TXT * * * * * * * * * * END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * From: Jakhel@aol.com Subject: Infinite Regress 1: Chapter 22 Part 2 (36/40) IR1N_32.txt Date: Wed, 10 Jun 1998 13:21:31 EDT **IR1N_32.TXT * * INFINITE REGRESS 1: CHAPTER 22 Part 2 * * * * * * * * * * * INITIAL SUBMISSION 06/10/98 * "Hello, old friend..." * - Jeffrey Sinclair. * * * See Infinite Regress 1: Overview (IR1N_00.txt) for attributions, * acknowledgements, and other notes. Contact me at Jakhel@aol.com with * feedback, questions, or whatever. * * TIMEFRAME: 1 day before the arrival of Captain Lochley. * SYNOPSIS: Multiversal malefactors molesting the Machine?!? * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * WARNING! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * THIS FILE MAY CONTAIN ANY OR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING: * * SPOILERS FOR THE FIRST HALF OF SEASON 5 * VERY COLORFUL LANGUAGE * SEXUAL INSINUENDO * SUBVERSIVE AND HERETICAL IDEAS * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * S P O I L E R S P A C E A N D M O R E S P O **IR1N_32.TXT * * * * * * * * * * BEGIN * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Kiya cued up the table's holodisplay to show a schematic of the Great Machine. She pointed out our landing platform (YOU ARE HERE), the one the transport was on, and three clusters of red dots, spaced equidistant from the Guardian's chamber on a horizontal plane, that marked where the scavs were setting up the grapples. "How come they're setting up around Draal, and not the center of the planet?" again, Garibaldi got the question out first, while the rest of us were inhaling. "Well, 'grapple' is a loose term -- it's all a matter of energy fields. The things are actually 'grappling' onto the control nexus of the Machine, and using that to create a field around the planet, then connecting back in turn to the shift engine they have on the transport..." "So why do we not take out the transport?" asked Delenn. "No good -- they could still take the planet somewhere else in THIS universe and come back for it later. We need to take those grapples out first, then the shift engine." "Sounds reasonable," agreed Sheridan. He looked over the schematic carefully. "All right, we'll split into three teams. Delenn, you're with me. Anne, stay with Michael. Stephen, you go with Ms. Din'Chessa -- that way each team will have at least one person who's been here before and more-or-less knows their way around." Kiya had opened her mouth, closed it again, and finally nodded. Alpha males, boy -- seven thousand more years of evolution and a couple genetic tweaks cain't EVEN begin to touch it. (And if you even THINK of asking how linear time fits into all of this, I will be very disappointed in you!) "Now," the President went on, "I've got my PPG -- Michael?" "Always." Kiya spoke up, "I think I can outfit the rest of you -- this way." She led us down the ramp and back under the balcony. On the way, Sheridan pulled me aside. "Is there anything else you can tell me about this...Rena'a situation?" I thought hard but came up clueless. "Like I said, my series ENDS with her getting recruited -- this whole inter-universe thing is a very minor, behind-the-scenes thread. It's critical to some elements of the background, but it doesn't really intrude on the story much. As a result of which, I haven't really thought through all the implications." "Hm. Well, I guess that makes this a good lesson in the value of thinking things through, then, doesn't it?" I winced at the echo of MY friend John -- and why did they have to be RIGHT all the time, dammit? * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The arsenal was a locked room off the main floor of the bridge. Given Kiya's neo-feudal background, there was a tasty selection of low-tech weapons mounted on wall racks, with the more advanced stuff in locked cabinets. Stephen hung back at first, disapproving of the entire concept, but was soon seduced by a pair of foils -- oh, now, don't go all Sulu on us, I thought affectionately. Delenn was drawn to a Welsh-style longbow. I KNEW what I wanted, and headed straight for the cabinets. "Michael, put that thing down before you hurt somebody!" Sheridan snapped, looking up from the cavalry saber he'd been admiring. Garibaldi was making tentative passes in the air with a Klingon bat'leth -- he was holding it right, too. (What did I tell you?) He put it back, reluctantly, and turned his attention to a rack of daggers and shuriken. Kiya passed out wristwatch-like items that turned out to be a combination of map display, communicator, and flashlight, and a supply of what looked more than anything else like giant twist-ties for securing any prisoners. Meanwhile, I was still digging around in the cabinets. Dammit, they had to be here somewhere! "What's this?" I asked, reaching for a sleek little number. "That's a SHAKK, from Barnes-37," the Rena'a agent replied. "Yeeegh!" I said, and jerked my hand away from it in disgust. "Tell me about it," said Kiya, who had, after all, been born, raised, and spent most of her adult life on a world that had outlawed all high-tech weapons, let alone the kind of hellspawned contrivance resting innocently on that shelf. "There's places we need 'em, though." I wondered something. John Barnes' concept centered around a Great War across timelines -- Heisenberg timelines, but still... "How do you keep those guys from breaking out into the rest of the multiverse?" Kiya opened her mouth, then closed it again. "It's complicated," she said. "I'll bet." "Actually, they're not the worst for breakouts," she went on. "The worst are the Moorcocks. Those guys'll pop up anywhere. They're like bloody cockroaches." I snorted appreciatively. Hah! There they were! I picked up a hand phaser and examined the settings. Logical. "What about Heinleins?" Michael was asking, having figured out what we were talking about. "Oh, the Heinleins are cool," Kiya assured us. "Lazarus just got promoted to third-level Rena'a, and the rest of them pretty much mind their own business." Michael and I exchanged a quick look. Lazarus? Third level? "JUST like driven snow," I pointed out. "How reassuring," he replied dryly. I set a couple more phasers on 'heavy stun' and handed them to Stephen and Delenn, with a brief explanation. As we were about to leave, Delenn stopped. "Enough. It is time," she said, to no-one in particular. Then, shooting a warning look at her husband -- definitely a warning, not a request -- she proceeded to shuck the robe. Under it, she was wearing a shimmery blue-and- purple catsuit thing that would not have looked amiss on ANY member of Starfleet. The guys were in shock. I winked at Kiya, and gave Delenn a thumbs up and a "you go, girl!". Leader of a mega-advanced species or no, she looked like she could use it. By the time she had extracted and refastened the belt from the robe around her slender waist, Michael and Stephen had more or less recovered -- Michael was looking everywhere ELSE around the room, and Stephen (who had, presumably, seen it all before anyway) said, "Are we ready, now?" "Um...sure...let's...let's go," Sheridan said, and walked into the wall. **IR1N_32.TXT * * * * * * * * * * END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * From: Jakhel@aol.com Subject: Infinite Regress 1: Chapter 23 (37/40) IR1N_33.txt Date: Thu, 11 Jun 1998 13:05:37 EDT **IR1N_33.TXT * * INFINITE REGRESS 1: CHAPTER 23 * * * * * * * * * * * INITIAL SUBMISSION 06/11/98 * "Everybody remember where we parked." * - James T. Kirk. * * * See Infinite Regress 1: Overview (IR1N_00.txt) for attributions, * acknowledgements, and other notes. Contact me at Jakhel@aol.com with * feedback, questions, or whatever. * * TIMEFRAME: 1 day before the arrival of Captain Lochley. * SYNOPSIS: And we go galloping to the rescue... * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * WARNING! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * THIS FILE MAY CONTAIN ANY OR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING: * * SPOILERS FOR THE FIRST HALF OF SEASON 5 * VERY COLORFUL LANGUAGE * SEXUAL INSINUENDO * SUBVERSIVE AND HERETICAL IDEAS * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * S P O I L E R S P A C E A N D M O **IR1N_33.TXT * * * * * * * * * * BEGIN * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The White Star was gone by the time we got outside, and six Rangers (four Minbari, two human) were waiting for us. Michael picked us a very large Minbari male, hight Tokhonn, and a very small human female, hight Sumiko. We headed out, and the rumble of Shandara's engines powering up followed us down the corridor. As we hustled across one of those humongoid catwalk thingies, Michael caught me catching him scanning Delenn's aft thrusters, there. "Oops! -- Sorry." "Puh-lease, gimme a break!" I said, throwing him a sidelong look. "It's a damn good thing Lennier's not here, though," I continued in an undertone. "I'd hate to have THAT boy blow a gasket." Michael cracked up -- discreetly. "Have I mentioned that I adore you?" he asked. You know, this 'fish impression' business was getting old. Oh," I said finally, and kept walking. At the other end of the catwalk, we split up. Michael and I, with our two Rangers, went right, heading for the northeastern grapple location. The walls thrummed and pulsed around us -- it was like walking through the insides of a gigantic animal of some kind. Aside from the thrumming and the occasional whir of a passing maintenance 'bot, it was completely quiet. I wondered where the caretakers -- the Zathrases (Zathrae?) and their cohorts (Zathrai?) -- had gotten to (ah! Of course! Zathhras). Probably lying low somewhere, I decided. We started needing the handlights as we moved farther from the Guardian's chamber and landing areas. Michael consulted the map frequently -- a couple times we were treated to a masterly display of profanity as we backtracked and re-oriented. Eventually we began to see moving lights reflected off the walls, and hear the echoes of nonhuman voices. Michael motioned for us to stay back, and peered around the edge of a lit doorway. He pulled back again, and we consulted the map. We were looking at a circular chamber, sort of a 'bubble' between two corridors. Michael had brought us around to the far side, so that any traffic between the grapple and the transport would be using the opposite entrance rather than coming out (or in) past us. He fished something out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Sumiko, who smiled, bowed, and disappeared. He whispered to me and Tokhonn for a minute, then scuttled across the doorway to the other side. I eased up to the edge of the doorway, phaser poised. The Minbari Ranger snicked his pike to full length. We waited. A yell, a 'chink' sound, another yell -- Garibaldi was firing into the chamber and I followed suit. Of the eight scavengers in the room, one was holding an arm, one was bleeding purple from its torso, and one was down with a PPG bolt to the chest. I fired a few shots in the general direction of the ones left, then ducked as they started shooting back and concentrated my fire on the grapple itself -- a bulky contraption hunkering in the middle of the room. Four of them -- including the one with the sliced chest -- came at us. Michael shot one and decked another, while Tokhonn discouraged the other two. I kept my beam on the grapple. Sumiko was holding off the other three at the other door -- one got past her guard and knocked her back into the corridor. One of ours got past Tokhonn and came at me -- I swung the phaser up and stunned him, then went back to the machine. It started to glow. Then it started to hum. Michael pulled the unconscious body of the last scavenger on our side out of the room and yelled at the Minbari. Tokhonn was dashing across after the remaining enemies, who had skedaddled out the other door. Michael ducked back out of the doorway as the grapple started to scream. I did too -- just in time. It blew, rather spectacularly -- I hoped Tokhonn had gotten out of the way. One down, at least. Garibaldi headed across the room, while I checked the bodies. Two dead. I trussed up the other three to leave for the caretakers, and collected the three shuriken, wiping purple blood off of two of them. There was another dead scav in the other corridor, close to where Tokhonn and Michael crouched by Sumiko. She was unconscious but alive, bleeding from several knife wounds. We got those roughly bandaged, Tokhonn picked her up carefully, and we headed back. I had snagged her pike and was trying to figure out how to collapse it as we walked. For some reason, my vision was tunnelling -- all I could see was the silvery metal bar in my hand, with darkening purple smears all up one end....I heard Michael's voice letting the other teams know we'd succeeded, but it sounded a million miles away -- much farther than the ringing in my ears. Was there some sort of catch or pressure-point or something on this damned thing? I tripped over one end of it and lurched into the wall. I stood there for a while, looking at those purple smears. "Come on, now." Warm, rich, slightly gravelly voice. Silver staff. Purple smears. Blood on the walls....the staff disappeared. The voice didn't. Something went 'snick'. There was an arm around my shoulders, and a chest to hide in. I squoze hard, and got squoze back, harder. Okay. I was okay. Really. I was okay...I took a couple deep breaths and pulled back. Concerned eyes looked down at me, pupils fully dilated in the dimness. "You okay?" he asked gently, smoothing my hair back behind my ear. His other arm was still supporting me. I took another deep breath and nodded. "Sorry about that," I apologized, disengaging. "Not a problem," he assured me, getting me lightly on the shoulder. "We need to get moving, though." We did. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * We ran into two ambushes on the way back -- no casualties on either side, though. The other teams had also trashed their grapples -- one Ranger was down from Sheridan and Delenn's team, but the others were all right. The scavengers were falling back -- however, it soon became clear that instead of returning to the transport, they were heading for the Guardian's chamber. We hustled, but they beat us there. We regrouped in a chamber nearby -- a sort of 'staff lounge' for the caretakers. I helped Stephen with Sumiko and the other injured Ranger while Sheridan, Delenn, Michael and Kiya worked out a plan of attack. Our communicators kept us in contact with Draal -- so far they hadn't hurt him or messed with the Machine interface, but that might well change if/when they decided they had nothing to lose. There were about ten of them left, plus however many had stayed on the transport -- with only one entrance to the Guardian's chamber, though, and Draal as a hostage, they could hold us off indefinitely. The place had not been built with hand-to-hand fighting in mind, unfortunately. Turned out there was a narrow place where we could come up through the floor, discreetly and without damaging any conduits or connections. It was right behind Draal's position, so when we came through we should be able to give them a nice surprise -- Delenn, Kiya, and I would be on that detail, with Tokhonn to heave us up through the floor, while the others kept the scavs occupied at the front door. Kiya scrounged us some cutting tools, and Michael tossed Delenn Sumiko's pike. Long story short -- it worked. As we came out from behind the interface, Delenn and Kiya proceeded to kick some scavenger butt, while I checked on the Draalmeister. Geez, the guy really did look dead, standing there, arms outstretched, entwined in the interface structures. At least they were remote connections -- instead of having to physically plug himself in like a Borg drone in a regeneration port, there was a good half-centimeter clearance between him and the hardware -- but it was still pretty creepy. I was trying to decide whether I should check for a pulse or something when his eyes opened, then one closed again in a slow wink. On instinct, I whirled and stunned a scavenger who had gotten past the ladies -- after that, there wasn't much to do except watch them mop up. Delenn wasn't too damn shabby with that pike, and Kiya was an artist with nunchuks -- I made a note of that for future reference, you betcha! Once the guys got in the door, it was all over. Sheridan sent Michael off with the Rangers to secure the transport, and Delenn and I helped Draal out of the interface -- the elderly (though well- preserved) Minbari was plucky as hell, but this whole thing had taken a lot out of him. We adjourned to the lounge, while the caretakers finally came out of hiding and started cleaning up. "I should not remain long out of the Machine," Draal protested as Stephen went over him with his tricorder-like scanner thingy. "You need to rest -- and, ideally, eat something," the doctor said fimly. "You do still eat, don't you?" "Yes, yes, on occasion," replied the Guardian, "and I daresay on this occasion we could all use a little something to restore our strength. Those cabinets, there -- anything in a green wrapper is fine for humans and Minbari. Blue or yellow..." he made a seesawing gesture, "and don't even touch the red if you can help it!" Delenn and I managed to pull something together -- hey, you think finding your way around your mother-in-law's kitchen is a trip, try scrounging in one used by a few dozen members of two or three separate alien races! "Hey, Kiya, not to change the subject or anything, but I trust I do get to go home now?" I asked, once we settled and Draal was looking a bit perkier. "Huh? Oh, yeah, sure, as soon as Shandara gets back," she replied nonchalantly, munching down on a sandwich. "And dare I ask what this was all in aid of in the first place?" -- Just out of curiosity, mind you. She opened her mouth to evade, but was saved by Garibaldi's entrance. The transport was secure -- there had been half a dozen more scavengers guarding it. The survivors were now neatly packaged, but another of our Rangers had gotten hurt in the scuffle. Stephen excused himself to go help the caretakers tend the wounded on both sides, and soon Draal insisted on returning to the Machine to start repairs. Sheridan and Delenn went with him -- they had their own issues to discuss, while they had the chance. Which left me, Michael, and Kiya with half an hour or so to kill before Shandara and the White Star returned -- with the help of White Star Six they had destroyed the scavengers' mothership and were on their way back here now. Kiya managed to avoid answering any important questions -- which, given Michael's skill as an interrogator, would have been admirable if it hadn't been so annoying. I finally contrived to slip into one backhanded, though: "Am I going to be able to, ah, bring anything back with me when I go home?" "Oh, so you did get some research done? I was afraid you'd be too, um, distracted...." Kiya grinned. "Ah, no..." I said firmly, and was about to go on when Michael leaned forward. "Hey, wait a minute -- you mean that whole thing -- her and me -- was a setup?" Oops. Bad concept. "I'd prefer to look at it as an opportunity...." the sorceress began. Nice try, Kiya. "Yeah, well, no offense -- " shooting me a look, "but I don't particularly appreciate being MANIPULATED." He glowered at Kiya, looking so adorably huffy there was no possible way I could resist -- "Oh yeah? Since when?" His jaw dropped -- and was that a hint of a blush? Oh, SCORE!!! "Now, don't you start with me!" he admonished, waving a forefinger in my face. I snapped at it. Kiya was looking all OVER the room... "Goddamn it," he bitched, "I'm surrounded by domineering females -- Susan, Delenn, now you two..." "Yeah, you know you love it," Kiya retorted. "I hear that new Captain you're getting is a female-type person, too," I added. "Oh, great! No sooner do I get rid of you than ANOTHER one lands on my back." "Sounds intriguing..." I observed thoughtfully. "You are incorrigible, you know that?" -- he >almost< said that like it was a bad thing. "Damn straight, Mister Security guy," I shot back. "That's Mister EX-Security guy to you," he noted. "Sooo...does that make you IN-secure?" asked Kiya archly. "Not nearly as much as it did three days ago," he admitted, smiling warmly over at me. That made three honest smiles, by my count -- not too damn shabby at all. Kiya slapped both hands on the table. "Then, I believe my work here is done," she declared solemnly. Michael looked at her sharply -- she was grinning, but she obviously meant it. "Oh, come on, you can't be serious -- all this just to give one guy a little immoral support?" "Hardly!" she laughed. "You Terrans have a saying about 'killing two birds with one stone' -- well, there's about half a dozen birds involved here. I'll explain the rest when we're all together, but, well, don't sell yourself short. You're needed, Mr. Garibaldi -- more than you know." He snorted, too busy being gratified to think up a disparaging comeback. Soon after that, a growing rumble announced the return of the ships. **IR1N_33.TXT * * * * * * * * * * END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * From: Jakhel@aol.com Subject: Infinite Regress 1: Chapter 24 Part 1(38/40) IR1N_34.txt Date: Fri, 12 Jun 1998 13:20:52 EDT **IR1N_34.TXT * * INFINITE REGRESS 1: CHAPTER 24 Part 1 * * * * * * * * * * * INITIAL SUBMISSION 06/12/98 * "The Outside closes at 4 o'clock." * - Lincoln Park Children's Zoo, Chicago * * * See Infinite Regress 1: Overview (IR1N_00.txt) for attributions, * acknowledgements, and other notes. Contact me at Jakhel@aol.com with * feedback, questions, or whatever. * * TIMEFRAME: 1 day before the arrival of Captain Lochley. * SYNOPSIS: The danger has been averted, and it looks like Ms. Hayes is * going home. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * WARNING! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * THIS FILE MAY CONTAIN ANY OR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING: * * SPOILERS FOR THE FIRST HALF OF SEASON 5 * VERY COLORFUL LANGUAGE * SEXUAL INSINUENDO * SUBVERSIVE AND HERETICAL IDEAS * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * S P O I L E R S P A C E A N D M O R E S P O **IR1N_34.TXT * * * * * * * * * * BEGIN * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Once both ships had powered down, I helped Stephen load the wounded Rangers onto the White Star, and snagged my satchel off the bridge. (Somebody had kicked it under a console in all the excitement.) By the time we got done with that, the prisoners had been loaded onto Shandara, to be returned to their native timeline. The five of us, plus Kiya and Draal's hologram, gathered at the foot of Shandara's ramp for explanations and goodbyes. "Ms. Din'Chessa," Sheridan started in, "I think it's high time a few things were clarified, here. First of all, I want your assurance, as an agent of these...Rena'a, that we will not have more trouble with these 'scavengers' or whatever you call them. I can tell you right now, between the Earth Alliance, our other member races, telepaths, raiders, and leftover Shadow servants, we've got plenty of headaches originating from within our OWN universe!" Kiya smiled. "Rest easy, Mr. President. As I mentioned before, there are several different types of beacon that can be set -- and some of them are much more than navigational references. I will leave an enhanced beacon, and instructions for some of its...other features...with the Guardian before I leave -- this will block most unauthorized incursions automatically, but if anything does get through, we'll be on it before you even notice. There's a side benefit you may want to keep in mind, although if I were you I'd be extremely careful about who I let know about it." She looked very seriously at Sheridan and Delenn. "The Rena'a do not interfere -- " Michael inhaled, but restrained himself for the moment, " -- but they do, under certain circumstances, take in refugees and relocate them...appropriately. If everything goes completely to hell here, and you have no other recourse, that may be a back door for you." "Well, I appreciate that. I think," the President acknowledged. Garibaldi's patience ran out at that point. "Yeah, that's all hunky-dory," he cut in, "but what exactly do you call yanking an innocent woman out of her own universe and dropping her on a space station two and a half centuries into a fictional future, if not interfering? Besides, the way you tell it, these creeps wouldn't even have found us if you hadn't been poking around here in the first place!" Kiya looked at me -- I Spock-eyebrowed her back. I wasn't EVEN about to cut her any slack on this one. She took a deep breath and spilled it. As you may have gathered by now, all this mindworld/timeline stuff plays merry hell with what we carbon-based life-forms of a certain sentience-level fondly think of as 'causality'. The multiverse EXISTS, however we go about perceiving it, and it is always (sic) going to be bigger and more complex than we can possibly begin to grasp. Even the vast webwork that the Rena'a patrol is an infinitesimal speck in the whole shebangi, there -- and, in fact, the Rena'a themselves are not a given. I wrote 'em, remember? Or, to be more precise, at some critical point, enough versions of me will have written them, well enough, and enough other entities will have acknowledged that, to instantiate them. This concept gives certain Rena'a some degree of...insecurity, shall we say? Hence Kiya's mission: to kickstart as many versions of me as possible, thus ensuring the Rena'a's existence. As timelines diverge slightly, the versions of the people in them also diverge. For the most part, the differences are not noticeable, but the larger the sample, the more significant it becomes, and Kiya was aiming for as large a sample as she could get. Apparently, this version of me had precisely the right combination of characteristics to (a) require a more emphatic kickstart than usual, and (b) be ideally suited to certain unrelated but synchronicitous nudges that would be...useful in this particular B5 timeline -- of which the most obvious were setting that beacon and the 'first aid' I'd done on Garibaldi. Other versions had been and would be handled differently -- "I have an idea for the NEXT one that is so simple and elegant that...ah, well, never mind," Kiya said, smiling mysteriously. I felt sorry for me already. Due to the fact that some aspects of all this could conceivably be construed as 'interference', Kiya was having to be very careful about it -- as I'd suspected, however evolved and noble the Rena'a might be, they were still individual sentient beings, subject to point-of-view variance and conflicts of interest. Kiya explained that the more conservative factions preferred to let things ride -- even if it meant that the Rena'a woke up one 'morning' to discover that they had never existed. They would be appalled at this little operation, and would call for extreme sanctions against Kiya and her supervisor (the guy who had come up with the idea in the first place). On the other hand, the more radical factions would be likely to take it as a precedent, which also wasn't a terribly appealing idea. "Ol...that is, my supervisor is walking a very thin line, here," she concluded, "and the quieter we can keep the whole thing, the better." I snorted and muttered, "something new and unusual," under my breath, putting that aborted syllable together with one of the few bits of Rena'a trivia I HAD come up with... Kiya herself, aside from being subject to a very natural partiality to her own existence, was firmly of the opinion that a multiverse without the mediating influence of the Rena'a would be a very bad thing. "Yes, well, that's a good idea in theory," Sheridan pointed out, "but we've seen it go wrong before." -- referring to the 'guardianship' of the Vorlons and Shadows, which had gone so terribly awry. "So have we," replied Kiya, grimly. "However," noted Delenn, "is it not in some ways precisely the same thing we are trying to do with the Alliance? Provide a central monitoring body which leaves individual species and cultures the freedom to choose their own path?" "I, for one, am all for it," declared Draal. "From the first day this delightful young lady appeared before me, I have found the whole concept of 'mindworlds' to be terribly exciting. -- And I am more than willing to be the keeper of this...beacon. You say I will be able to communicate with your people using it?" "When and if they agree," Kiya admonished. "It's not intended as a comm system, but....perhaps something can be worked out. I will inquire." Delightful young lady, eh? -- She must be older than me, by now -- as I'd suspected, there were the beginnings of white 'wings' at her temples...I wondered what Londo would make of her. Or -- scary thought -- G'Kar! "So the main point of this whole exercise was to knock me out of my rut and start me writing?" I was still having a little trouble with that one. "What we refer to in our time as a 'swift kick in the butt'," noted the bald guy. I rounded on him -- "Have I mentioned that I love you?" Michael, damn his eyes, didn't miss a beat. "No, but I knew it." I winked at him, and turned back to Kiya -- on the way, I caught Stephen giving us a funny look -- oh, well! "So, then, what was the deal with the transporter? And why did it knock me out like that?" "That was a mistake," she admitted, "My engineer swore he could hook up the transporter and the shift engine in tandem cleanly, but some sort of resonance developed in the interuniversal compensator, and it ended up conking you out for a while. There should be no permanent damage, though." "You hooked them up in tandem? But why? Why use the transporter at all?" "Well, to start with, showing up in Shandara would have been a touch blatant. Plus, I wanted you to have some clue as to what was going on -- otherwise, what was the point? As it was, you figured it out quite handily, and that got you started right down the mental path we needed you to follow." Now, what was that Michael had said about being manipulated? Oh, well, what the hell -- it had worked, hadn't it? So far, anyway... A few more details and assurances, and Sheridan was willing to let up on her. Then it was time to say goodbye -- and of course Sheridan HAD to go and ask the one question I'd hoped he'd have the sense NOT to ask, especially with Michael standing right there. "Are you sure you won't consider staying? You could do your writing here..." "There's nothing TO consider," I said firmly. "I have a kid." "I understand," he said, nodding understandingly. Not yet, you don't, thought I. Partly to avoid looking at Michael, I added, "Listen, next time you talk to Susan, tell her I said that if she's going to go gallivanting all over the galaxy feeling sorry for herself just because some actress in another universe wanted to do more movies, she's not the woman I took her for. On the other hand, if she's having the time of her life, more power to her." "I'll do that," Sheridan grinned. "Oh, and if you get a chance, tell your Mr. Straczynski to keep up the good work -- we need all the good P.R. we can get, even if it IS in another universe. But, um, ask him to lighten up a bit, would you? We could use some breathing space, here!" "I'll see what I can do...." I replied dubiously. "That's all I ask," the President assured me. I turned to the First Minbari. "Delenn," I said, and took her hands in mine. We shared a smile. "Tell Lennier...tell him I really, really, really, really, REALLY, really, really regret having missed him...I don't..." I laughed, "I don't know how else to put it!" "That's seven 'reallies'?" she asked, straight-faced. "Seven 'reallies'," I confirmed. "It's...a sacred number among my people." She nodded. We bowed. I turned to Stephen and gave him a great big hug. "Thanks for believing in me," I said in his ear. "No problem," he replied. I held him at arm's length. "And thanks for the eyes!" "No problem," he repeated, grinning. I gave him a little shake. "Take care of yourself, kiddo," I admonished. "Always," he assured me. Who else? There had to be someone else...just a few more seconds...ah! Of course! "Tell Lyta I said, 'Illegitimi non carborundum'." "'Don't let the bastards get you down'?" Stephen translated. "You got it." (Had I but known, I would have added something about watching out for manipulative blonds with serious 3rd sin problems -- but then, she probably wouldn't have paid any more attention to me than she did to Zack, so never mind.) No more procrastinating...I looked at Michael and opened my mouth. I shut my mouth and exhaled. I opened my mouth again. I shut it again. His right eyebrow was levitating, attached to the corner of HIS mouth. "Oh, hell," I decided, and threw myself into his arms, leaking saltwater all over his snazzy outfit. He got tired of that after a while and tried to find the 'off' switch for my tear ducts by probing the back of my throat with his tongue. Oddly enough, it worked. Eventually, I pulled back and socked him in his good shoulder. "Don't take any wooden credits, Garibaldi," I advised him with some semblance of cool. He flicked my chin. "You be good," he advised back. I'd have laser- burns through the back of my skull for weeks. I snorted, "Yeah, right," and followed Kiya up the ramp. Just before we made it through the hatch, he called my name. I turned back. "Tell Doyle I said to keep his nose clean!" He was grinning, hands in pockets, rocking lightly from toes to heels and back again. "I'll do it!" I called back, and stepped inside with Kiya. The hatch slid shut behind us. **IR1N_34.TXT * * * * * * * * * * END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * From: Jakhel@aol.com Subject: Infinite Regress 1: Chapter 24 Part 2 (39/40) IR1N_35.txt Date: Fri, 12 Jun 1998 13:30:43 EDT **IR1N_35.TXT * * INFINITE REGRESS 1: CHAPTER 24 Part 2 * * * * * * * * * * * INITIAL SUBMISSION 06/12/98 * "The Outside closes at 4 o'clock." * - Lincoln Park Children's Zoo, Chicago * * * See Infinite Regress 1: Overview (IR1N_00.txt) for attributions, * acknowledgements, and other notes. Contact me at Jakhel@aol.com with * feedback, questions, or whatever. * * TIMEFRAME: 1 day before the arrival of Captain Lochley. * SYNOPSIS: There's no place like home...there's no place like home... * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * WARNING! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * THIS FILE MAY CONTAIN ANY OR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING: * * SPOILERS FOR THE FIRST HALF OF SEASON 5 * VERY COLORFUL LANGUAGE * SEXUAL INSINUENDO * SUBVERSIVE AND HERETICAL IDEAS * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * S P O I L E R S P A C E A N D **IR1N_35.TXT * * * * * * * * * * BEGIN * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * I got a quick tour of Shandara -- at a very high level she was pretty much as I remembered -- but the detail was something else again. A full set of Federation technology -- turns out a lot of that stuff carried over across quite a few variations of 'natural' law -- who'd a thunk? The B5 stuff was an even more generic setup, though -- just about any universe that used point- to-point 'abnormal-space' jumps could be handled with minor tweaks to those engines. A basic, but highly efficient reaction-mass setup -- that's what the acceleration couches were for, where none of the 'inertial dampers' worked -- a Norton/Morris/Clayton-compatible version of hyperspace engines, and a Hayes(!!)/May 'artificial teleportation' module, and that pretty much covered it. Hydroponics, gym, crew and passenger quarters, and the currently jam- packed brig....I got to chat more with Shandara, and was introduced to the engineer -- but I won't spoil that surprise! Eventually I collected my gear and we headed for the shift-engine chamber. The satchel seemed heavier than I remembered -- but Kiya said something to me just then and I forgot about it. "So, you're working for the G-man these days, huh?" I remarked idly as we walked. "That should be amusing." "Ah, it's not too bad. He got most of the 3rd sin knocked out of him during his apprenticeship -- and from what I've heard, that WAS pretty amusing!" I licked my finger and drew a mark down the air, smirking. Her eyes widened. "You mean, you...." "Hey, don't fuck with the author -- retroactively, that is!" I grinned as THAT minor loop closed: in other words, I had previously gotten him back for what he had just now been responsible for doing to me -- sort of a 'what goes around already came around' kinda deal. Cool concept, eh? "I'll keep that in mind," Kiya said thoughtfully. We entered the room with the shift engine. It wasn't much to look at -- built into the wall, mostly, with a transporter-like pad for personnel shifts (as it happened, the transporter was in here, too, off to one side). I started to get nervous. "So, is this a point-of-origin deal, or do I get to explain where I've been for the last three days?" "Oh, point of origin, definitely! Would you expect anything less?" "Not from you, kiddo." We looked at each other for a moment. "I still don't believe it," I said at last, "you look just like him." "Who?" I'd lost her. "Oh, well, I modelled you on this kid I never had with this guy I....oh, never mind. One thing, though -- about a month ago I had an idea for the overall structure of the series -- when the Rena'a pulled you out of your sun- dive, there..." she grimaced, not happy at being reminded of her suicidal impulse at the end of their Great War -- "you were in pretty bad shape, right?" "Oh, yeah, they pretty much had to rebuild me from scratch. Large amounts of no fun." "Well, that's what I thought -- and I thought about doing the whole series as a flashback, from the point of view of someone who had been recruited previously, who is holding your memories during the rebuilding process, and who had also been one of your companions during the whole thing -- " she was fighting a grin, and losing -- "only the audience doesn't find out who it is until the end -- so I can throw in all sorts of clues and red herrings and whatnot -- that'll work, won't it?" She was cracking up helplessly by this time. She leaned against a wall and tried very hard to breathe. "Are you okay?" She nodded, and eventually got her shit together. "Well, my question is......who was it?" When she recovered from THAT one, she told me. I thought about it for a while, breaking into the occasional giggle myself. "Okay, I guess I can work with that," I decided finally. We gave each other a good long hug, and I stepped up onto the platform. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "Hell, even if she had stuck around, it wouldn't have worked out." Garibaldi said ruefully. "The fact is, we're WAY too much alike." Delenn nodded. "I believe you are correct." She hesitated. "I am not certain that I should tell you this, but...remember yesterday, in my quarters, I was showing Anne the zial'm'rinn?" "That thing with the lights?" "Yes....as I said, the zial'm'rinn displays an image of any soul within its range, as a pattern of light. Before you came into the room, there were two patterns -- hers and mine. After you came in, there were STILL only two patterns." "So what, I don't have a soul? I don't see what's so surprising about that." "Don't be ridiculous, Michael! I believe that what it means is that you and she have the same soul -- or rather, identical souls." "Identical souls?" "Mm. I believe that the Anne who was native to this timeline was reborn -- several times, of course, but most recently...as you." "Oh...well, I guess that explains it, then." "Yes, and it also explains her affinity with you -- with all of us, in fact, but particularly your...sensitivity to each other." Garibaldi laughed softly. "Boston crème," he murmured to himself. "Pardon?" "Nothing. Thanks, Delenn, I'm glad you told me. It helps. Really." Delenn smiled brightly and looped her arm through his. "Then, let us rejoin the others." * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "Mr. President," the first officer called out, "I have a call coming through from Earth, relaying through Babylon 5." Sheridan exchanged a look with Delenn -- what now? "Put it through," he said. A 2D view of the head and shoulders of a delicate redheaded woman appeared above the holoplat. "Lyta!" Sheridan exclaimed. "Is everything all right?" "Fine, as far as I know, Mr. President," the woman replied. "I'm returning your call -- finally! To answer your question -- I had to use some advanced memory techniques, but I finally got it. When the man Kosh thought was Sinclair came in, he called him 'Entil'zha Valen' -- which wouldn't have made any sense to anybody at the time, and if it were anybody but Kosh, you'd wonder why he bothered." Sheridan looked at Stephen. Stephen does a mean eyebrow too, when the fit takes him. "I hope that helps..." the telepath went on, obviously fishing for an explanation. "Yes, it does...it's a long story -- I'll fill you in the next time we see you. When is that likely to be, by the way?" Lyta sighed. "I really couldn't say, at this point. I've applied for reassignment to Babylon 5, but the way things are going here, frankly, I'm not too hopeful. I think Bester wants to keep me close at hand -- in-system, anyway." Sheridan nodded thoughtfully. "There've been some developments here recently that may give me some...leverage with Psi Corps. I'll see if I can pull some strings -- with any luck we'll have you back on-station before you know it." "Thanks -- I think!" the redhead replied wryly. "Take care, Lyta," the President said, and cut the connection. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * There was a flash (sorta like when the wormhole aliens grab somebody), a serious swooping sensation, and I sat down abruptly on the sidewalk at the corner of Elm and Southdale. Damn cold sidewalk -- I knew I should have put the sweats back on. After a moment, I picked myself and the satchel up and headed home. The cat came to meet me, chirruping anxiously -- I'd told her I was going to be gone for a few hours, but did she listen? Noooooo........ No messages. The indoor cats looked at me disinterestedly. I misted the lizards and made myself a drink -- bourbon and >gingerale<, by Reani, and a STRONG one. Then I unpacked, and found what Kiya had left me. Buried under the sweater, jacket, pants, socks, and printouts was a hefty, leatherbound book... "Dammit, Kiya, you shouldn't have done this...." I muttered -- but she had. It was a Derian-English dictionary. THE Derian Dictionary -- great-great-etc.-grandchild of what sat right over THERE in my old high-school binder, half-transcribed into Excel...the real prickly Georgian medical officer. She should NOT have done that. The Wiz would have her ass in a SLING if he found out she'd done that. The gods KNEW what kind of bizarre metaphysical and semantic loops we'd create if I actually USED the damn thing when I wrote up the series -- and what about consistency problems with my sibling versions in related timelines? If I had any damn sense at all I'd burn it -- right NOW. I chugged the drink, put on Big Country's 'Peace in Our Time', and dug in. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Centuries and light-years away, a man walked into an empty room. It was quiet -- too quiet -- except for the rhythmic beeping that signified waiting messages. "Computer, list held messages," the man directed. "One message holding...origin: Mars Colony." "Computer. Play message." A pretty, dark-haired woman appeared on the screen. She looked very tired. "Michael? I...we need to talk. I've been doing a lot of thinking, and I've realized that I...I need you in my life, Michael. I still love you -- you've got to believe that. If you haven't given up on me yet, if there's any chance at all that we could try again, please call me back. I'll...I'll be waiting." "End of...message." The man lay back on the bed and flung his arm over his eyes. He was quiet for a long time. "Computer. Access local storage, McLachlan. Playback Track 12, section 1 only." 'Peace...in the struggle to find peace. Comfort...on the way to comfort. And if I shed a tear, I won't cage it -- I won't fear love. And if I feel a rage, I won't deny it -- I won't fear love...' Finally, long after the last notes died, he spoke again. "Computer, transmission to Lise Edgars, Mars Colony." "Communication channel...open." * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Epilogue -- * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The Monday and Tuesday after I got back, I'm afraid I was a bit distracted at work. Between playing with the kid, organizing my notes, and digging into the Derian Dictionary, I managed to tape, but not watch, the daily Bab5 reruns. Caught the season opener Wednesday night, though. I heartily approved of Lochley -- she seemed to be precisely what was required. Ah, so THOSE were the telepaths Karl was after! If we'd known about them, I might have avoided that embarrassing little breakdown, there -- then again, maybe it was just as well. I was still having intermittent bouts of the heebie-jeebies from the telepath experience I DID have. When Lochley gave Garibaldi that dressing-down in the corridor, I'm afraid I was NOT terribly sympathetic -- say, duh, Michael! -- And when he got her back the next day, I was so utterly thrilled with the 'spymaster' concept that the other little line Doyle slipped in -- the one about somebody back on Mars who needed him -- didn't register for a few seconds. When it did, I let out a whoop of unadulterated -- well, okay, maybe a LITTLE bit adulterated -- glee. "YES!! 90%!! Go, Michael!!" Unable to stay still, I bolted out the back door and spun, laughing and crying at the same time, out under the stars in my back yard. Mind you, you can't see all that many stars from my back yard, but I knew they were all out there......waiting. **IR1N_35.TXT * * * * * * * * * * END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * From: Jakhel@aol.com Subject: Infinite Regress 1: Recap (40/40) IR1N_36.txt Date: Fri, 12 Jun 1998 13:38:00 EDT **IR1N_36.TXT * * INFINITE REGRESS 1 -- RECAP * * * * * * * * * * * * * * -- INITIAL SUBMISSION 06/12/98 * * * See Infinite Regress 1: Overview (IR1N_00.txt) for attributions, * acknowledgements, and other notes. Contact me at Jakhel@aol.com with * feedback, questions, or whatever. NOTE: the "source" copy of this is in a nicely formatted Word document, which is much more readable than these little modules. I can zip it for you in Word 7, Word 6, Word 2.0, .rtf, .txt, and probably various other formats if I hunt around a bit. There is also the "uncut" version of the modules themselves, with the synopses, if you prefer. * * * * * * * * * * * ATTIBUTIONS & ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS * * * * * * * * * * Here are the ones I 'found' in the final edit process - AFTER the release of IR1N_00.txt: Rolling Stone Magazine - Duh!!! Also the Peejmeister and the Greider person. Wayne's World. Mattel. Target Stores McDonalds Dave's Insanity Sauce Nike Jerry Garcia Kurt Vonnegut via William Jennings Patterson III Creedence Clearwater Revival And a final gnote, since we're up to "And All My Dreams, Torn Asunder", 'Some people go down and come up stronger, Some people go down and never come up. Some people go down and down and down...' - 'Below the Low', on 'My Side of the Story' by Last Gentlemen, 1989. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * CONTENTS * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * IR1 was actually released to b5-creative@lists.best.com in the following modules. 1:IR1N_00.txt - This overview. 5/20/98 2:IR1N_01.txt - Prologue 5/20/98 - CHAPTER 1 - Part 1. "In all my years in Temple, nothing ever prepared me for THIS sort of experience...." - Lennier, of the 3rd Fane of J'Domo. 3:IR1N_02.txt - CHAPTER 1 - Part 2. 5/21/98 4:IR1N_03.txt - CHAPTER 2. 5/21/98 "Breathing out...breathing in...breathing out...breathing in..." - Jeffrey Sinclair. 5:IR1N_04.txt - CHAPTER 3 - Part 1. 5/22/98 "When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro." - Dr. Hunter S. Thompson. 6:IR1N_05.txt - CHAPTER 3 - Part 2. 5/22/98 7:IR1N_06.txt - CHAPTER 4. 5/23/98 "Don't assume -- it makes an ass out of 'u' and 'me'..." - Traditional. 8:IR1N_07.txt - CHAPTER 5 - Part 1. 5/24/98 "Manual release is online." - Enterprise NCC-1701E. 9:IR1N_08.txt - CHAPTER 5 - Part 2. 5/24/98 10:IR1N_09.txt - CHAPTER 6 - Part 1. 5/25/98 "I suggest you take those eyes somewhere else, while you still have them." - Susan Ivanova. 11:IR1N_10.txt - CHAPTER 6 - Part 2. 5/25/98 12:IR1N_11.txt - CHAPTER 7 - Part 1. 5/26/98 "There....are....four....lights...." - Jean-Luc Picard. 13:IR1N_12.txt - CHAPTER 7 - Part 2. 5/26/98 14:IR1N_13.txt - CHAPTER 8 - Part 1. 5/27/98 "I'm a doctor, not a (insert noun here)!" - Dr. Leonard McCoy. 15:IR1N_13a.txt - CHAPTER 8 - Part 2. 5/27/98 16:IR1N_14.txt - CHAPTER 9 - Part 1. 5/28/98 "What do you want?" - Mr. Morden. 17:IR1N_15.txt - CHAPTER 9 - Part 2. 5/28/98 18:IR1N_16.txt - CHAPTER 10 - Part 1. 5/29/98 "Fascinating, Captain..." - Spock of Vulcan. 19:IR1N_16a.txt - CHAPTER 10 - Part 2. 5/29/98 20:IR1N_17.txt - CHAPTER 11 - Part 1. 5/30/98 "Reflection...surprise...terror...for the future..." - Kosh. 21:IR1N_18.txt - CHAPTER 11 - Part 2. 5/30/98 22:IR1N_19.txt - CHAPTER 12 - Part 1. 5/31/98 "One thing at a time, Ambassador....one thing at a time." - Mr. Morden. 23:IR1N_20.txt - CHAPTER 12 - Part 2. 5/31/98 24:IR1N_21.txt - CHAPTER 13 - Part 1. 6/1/98 "This is no time to argue about the time -- we don't have the time!" - Deanna Troi. 25:IR1N_22.txt - CHAPTER 13 - Part 2. 6/1/98 26:IR1N_23.txt - CHAPTER 14. 6/2/98 "It's like I always say -- you can get more with a kind word and a two-by-four than you can with just a kind word." - Marcus Cole. 27:IR1N_24.txt - CHAPTER 15. 6/3/98 "That's the worst case of testosterone poisoning I've ever seen..." - Susan Ivanova. 28:IR1N_25.txt - CHAPTER 16. 6/4/98 "A signpost in a strange land..." - Sam Phillips. 29:IR1N_26.txt - CHAPTER 17. 6/5/98 "It's a nuisance, but what can you expect from reptiles?" - Marcus Cole. 30:IR1N_27.txt - CHAPTER 18. 6/6/98 "Well. It was a good idea, while it lasted." - Marcus Cole. 31:IR1N_28.txt - CHAPTER 19. 6/7/98 "Assimilate THIS!" - Worf, son of Mogh. 32:IR1N_29.txt - CHAPTER 20. 6/8/98 "If you were any other man, I would kill you where you stand." - Worf, son of Mogh. 33:IR1N_30.txt - CHAPTER 21 - Part 1. 6/9/98 "I knew you would come." - Various. 34:IR1N_30a.txt - CHAPTER 21 - Part 2. 6/9/98 35:IR1N_31.txt - CHAPTER 22 - Part 1. 6/10/98 "Hello, old friend..." - Jeffrey Sinclair. 36:IR1N_32.txt - CHAPTER 22 - Part 2. 6/10/98 37:IR1N_33.txt - CHAPTER 23. 6/11/98 "Everybody remember where we parked." - James T. Kirk. 38:IR1N_34.txt - CHAPTER 24 - Part 1. 6/12/98 "The Outside closes at 4 o'clock." - Lincoln Park Children's Zoo, Chicago 39:IR1N_35.txt - CHAPTER 24 - Part 2. 6/12/98 - Epilogue. 40:IR1N_36.txt - Recap. 6/12/98 * * * * * * * * * Th-th-thbduh-thbduh-that's all, Folks!* * * * * * * * * Unfortunately, I can't really do much with IR2 until we are vouchsafed a revelation of what will be going on around 2267 - probably sometime around the end of Crusade???? -- The deal is, I have to keep those two timelines in sync so as not to have Ms. Hayes "out-age" the others, and yet give her time to write up the Deria stuff. Which is what I will, hopefully, be doing HERE in the meantime -- a less authoritative version, alas -- although there are some ideas I am tossing around for IR2 that may mitigate that....stay tuned! At any rate, IR2 will definitely have a cute kid (well, teenager by then -- kind of a Jake Sisko deal), and we already have a robot if you count Shandara, but I can guarandamnTEE you we ain't having no Happily Ever After, at least for Our Heroine or Other Opiate. Interesting in the Meantime, yes, Happily Ever After -- Oh, HUH-uh! We'll also discover where all the "3rd Person" parts of IR1 really come from, and meet whole new bunches of characters -- some oddly familiar, some not... Meanwhile, back at the station, the delegates were coming into the Council Chamber (which would leave Mack and Bo with a SERIOUS problem......) **IR1N_36.TXT * * * * * * * * * * END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *