From hugovidal@mix-net.net Wed Dec 25 00:20:16 1996 Date: Mon, 18 Nov 1996 00:24:07 -0500 (EST) From: Julia Hugo-Vidal To: b5-creative@lists.best.com Subject: New Story: Scavenger Hunt (1/5) Disclaimers: Everything and everyone you're used to seeing when you're glued to the screen watching "Babylon 5" is the property of J. Michael Straczynski, Babylonian Productions (TM) and Warner Brothers (TM). Every body else, and the story itself, is (C)1996 by Julia Hugo-Vidal (No TM). I realize that it's traditional to say how poor I am, here, but frankly, we have a nice house and a darn good 401(k), so WB lawyers, stay away! Feel free to distribute this story on the Net, archive it, or send it to agents looking for new clients; just be sure to attach my name and all disclaimers. This story may not be reproduced in any other medium without the express consent of the author...or I'll come and get you. And I'm a lawyer, too (Bwaahaahaa!) This story may not be sold or purchased in any form. For your amusement, I have included a little scavenger hunt within the story: each part has a hidden quotation from a favorite writer. Find it, e-mail me with your answers, and I will post the Grand Poo-Bah Winner after the story has run. Many thanks to Ann Zembala, Emily Brunson, and Miki, my beta readers. A virtual package of McVities Digestives to you all--don't misuse them! SCAVENGER HUNT part 1 of 5 by Julia J. Hugo-Vidal Find an insult by Joanna Russ. There was something distinctly unnerving, Susan Ivanova thought, about being surrounded by four-and-a-half foot spiders. The Tch'kik -- and their profitable shipping trade -- were new to Babylon 5, and Ivanova was grimly determined to see that they got the red carpet treatment. God knew, they needed all the credits they could bring in now that Earth Alliance funding was gone. And so, here she was, ending an excruciatingly long day at C and C in a chilly docking bay, making smiley faces at beings who looked like they were about to be squashed by a giant broom. Fatigued, she sat on a roughly woven sack that had been offloaded earlier and put to one side. It was filled with what felt like old tennis balls, and, all things considered, made a reasonably comfortable perch from which to oversee the controlled chaos of disembarkation. She caught sight of Marcus Cole crossing from a farther landing bay into the Tch'kik field, back from some mysterious errand. He had undoubtedly had a hell of a lot more interesting day than hers, Ivanova thought gloomily. Well...not all of us get to be an interstellar secret agent. "Let me guess," he called out as he approached, "That is the famed woolsack, and you are setting yourself up as speaker of the first Babylonian parliament." "I'm not a politician," Ivanova replied astringently as Marcus stopped before her. "I'm a deity. And I intend to make sure these people-", here she paused to smile and nod to the Tch'kik first mate, "-leave many offerings at my feet." Marcus blinked twice and then looked at her from under very long lashes. "Yes," he said speculatively, "I can see you as a goddess...one of those Neolithic ones with loads of bronze jewelry and bearskin..." Ivanova felt herself flush and was saved from coming up with a scathing remark by the arrival of the Tch'kik captain, who had broken off her conversation with a Guild official to skitter over to Ivanova's impromptu resting place. The whistle-click of the arachnid's speech was translated into a soft, feminine voice. "You do us honor by your kind attentiveness." More whistling and clicking. "To value the family-future of strangers is to show great mother-feeling." She made a graceful gesture with her two front legs. "This future-tells a sister-oneship with your station. May your children be born hungry." Another complicated bow and she hurried back to the waiting Teamster. Marcus and Ivanova digested what the captain had said in silence. As one, they looked down at the large bundle supporting Babylon 5's second-in-command. She thought she felt something twitch inside. "Susan," Marcus said calmly, "I believe you are sitting on that woman's eggsac." "So what did you do?" asked Mara Abromovitch, taking a long pull from her beer. "What did I do?" Ivanova said incredulously. "I jumped up so fast you'd think my butt was retrofitted with boosters." She closed her eyes. "What a day." "Your problem is insufficient mother-feeling," Marcus offered, sipping experimentally at what was alleged to be a Pimms. "If you'd hung around, who knows? The captain's children might have all imprinted on you. What a step forward for inter-species relations!" "More likely be their first meal," Ivanova shivered involuntarily. "'May your children be born hungry!'" It was C and C First Shift's night to buy at Earhart's, and the place was packed. Ivanova had arrived late, with Marcus trailing relentlessly along, and they had managed to squeeze into a space at the corner booth, already littered with glasses and a half-eaten platter of delgin fritters. Along with Abromovitch, who manned civilian center ops, there was Yilin Jhou, of tactical ops, Peter Lent, the subsystem comm officer, and Elspeth Pride, a traffic controller. David Corwin, having given up on attracting the beleaguered waitress' attention, was now shouldering his way through the crowd with a pitcher of beer and a very tall vodka. On past nights, the patrons of Earhart's would have been an almost unbroken sea of EarthForce brown and blue. Now, several shaky weeks after breaking away from President Clark's regime, the military officers and crew were a ragtag bunch, wearing a pastiche of outdated uniforms and mufti, trying, without much success, to look like a professional, unified corps. The new uniforms were supposed to be in the pipeline, but with the shortages of labour and cash... "Here you are, Commander," said Corwin, delicately placing her vodka on a napkin before dropping the beer pitcher with a thud on the table. "Y'know what the problem is?" asked Yulin rhetorically, picking up an earlier conversational thread. "We are all working too hard, too long, for too little money and..." Here he seemed to lose the thought for a moment,"...and too little beer." "To small beer," intoned Marcus solemnly, raising his glass. They all followed suit. "It's not just C and C," Corwin pointed out. "Everybody in EarthForce--I mean, formerly in EarthForce--or, you know, whatever we all are now--everybody is feeling pinched." "To pinching," proposed Marcus, and they all drank. Pride picked up a fritter and began gesturing with it. "What this station needs is some fun," the fritter bobbed, "and I do not mean goin' off to this joint an' tyin' one on." Here the fritter was popped into her mouth and another took duty as the pointer. "Sweet Lord, goin' out on the town here is about as much fun as attendin' the wreck of the Hesperus." "To getting wrecked," Marcus saluted, as the glasses were drained once more. Ivanova looked morosely into her vodka. "Russians don't believe in fun. We believe in fate." A general pall seemed to settle over the table. "What I'd like to do is a scavenger hunt," said Peter Lent dreamily. "B5 has been like one long finals grind lately...wouldn't it be nice if we could have a Passing Out Day here, with the scavenger hunt, and the dance..." he trailed off, his chin in his hand and his brown eyes unfocused. Marcus looked at Ivanova and raised his eyebrows inquisitively. "It's an Academy tradition," she explained. "After exams are graded, but before the official graduation, the seniors 'pass out' of their class and into commissioned status." Her face brightened slightly, recollecting. "It's a wonderful time...everyone joins in a huge scavenger hunt where you team up to find ridiculous items, and you have to do these silly things..." "I had to take a shower in the Commandant's quarters," laughed Abromovitch, twirling a blond curl in an unconciously seductive gesture. Ivanova smiled, continuing, "Then at the end of the day you clean up and get dressed up and there's a big dinner dance-" "And you bring your sheet along with the score," reminded Lent. "Right, the highest score wins, and people stand up and sing songs, and then there's dancing-" "And sometimes dirty limericks!" added Pride, and that phrase evidently triggered some memory, because every Academy graduate guffawed loud enough to draw attention from the nearby booths. Marcus was delighted. "It sounds like just the thing," he urged. "We could have one here on station. Give everybody a lift." "Aw, no," Ivanova demurred, "It's just an academy thing. I don't think it would mean much to-" "Actually, Commander," interrupted Yilin, "During the EM war, the scavenger hunt spread all through EarthForce. I was a lowly swabbie on a troop transport--never went to the Academy. But we did scavenger hunts at ports of call and on leave." He grinned. "As a matter of fact, I got to know the woman I married on a scavenger hunt." "We could make a committee, right here, the seven of us," Pride said excitedly. "We could post the subscription, lettin' people who want to play sign up, and then ask for submissions for targets and feats to perform. It wouldn't take but a few days to vet the suggestions, and then we message the individual sheets-" "We're going to need some help with that, Elspeth," Abromovitch pointed out. The petite black woman waved a hand, dismissing the obstacle. "Okay, so we get a few more volunteers for the grunt work. Once we messenger the sheets, that's it! We play!" "Wait a minute, people," Ivanova interjected, "This is hardly the time for a -" "I bet it would be easy to install a dance floor in the Speaker's Corner area of the Garden," Lent blurted out. "And we could get a couple of restaurants to cater the dinner." "With what money?" yelped Ivanova. "This is crazy! Yes, the scavenger hunt was fun, but this is practically a war zone--everything's so unsettled--we need everyone's full attention to duty-" "Haven't you ever heard of the pause that refreshes?" asked Marcus. "Or how about, The family that plays together, stays together'?" "All you have to do is persuade the captain to give us the go-ahead, " said Abromovitch, matter of factly. "And release a small amount for the dinner dance," added Lent. hurriedly. Ivanova groaned, rolling her head back against the booth wall. "The captain will never agree to this. Not. In. A. Million. Years!" BANG! John Sheridan's hand hit his desk as he swiveled his chair to the left. "That's a great idea!" He bounced up out of his seat and energetically began to pace the office. "You like it?" Ivanova asked, incredulous. "I like it. No! I love it. There's nothing to pull people together in a team like an old-fashioned Academy scavenger hunt." "Except maybe a lynch mob," the third participant in the morning briefing said sotto voce. Security Chief Michael Garibaldi reached over his head and stretched his shoulders with a loud crack. "I can't say I recommend this, Captain," he continued more loudly. "Gangs of people racing all over the station trying to collect God-knows-what? Lotta potential for trouble. I see vandalism, I see fistfights, I see alien residents getting ticked off..." The captain of Babylon 5 braced both arms on his desk as he addressed the chief. "Mr. Garibaldi, I believe you'd cancel Christmas if you thought there was a security risk." "Damn right I would," Garibaldi shot back. "Hey, if Santa was wandering around here without a proper identicard, I'd have him in lock up faster than you could say 'Ho, ho, ho.'" "Susan," Sheridan said, turning to his first officer, "We've all been tiptoeing around here like gatecrashers at a wake. I think this would be a real shot in the arm for morale." His voice took on an almost unnoticeable wheedling sound. "I know it would take some fine tuning to avoid the hazards Mr. Garibaldi has pointed out-" "I haven't gotten started on 'the hazards' yet," Garibaldi stressed. "-but do you think this project is doable?" The look her superior officer was giving Ivanova brought to mind little Johnny, asking for a puppy. She glanced over at Garibaldi, who was rolling his eyes, and then back at Sheridan, who was somehow beaming even more intensely at her. "Yes, sir, I think it is," she said, surrendering. "My crew in C and C is very gung ho on this, and I believe that, with a little help, they'll be able to organize a safe and successful scavenger hunt." "Yes! Let's do it, then. We'll need some way to mark all registered participants to avoid thieving under the cover of the hunt-" Ivanova reached for her datapad as Sheridan began to enumerate his orders on his fingers,"-notify all embassies and legations, and attach some background information on the...what...history and conventions of a scavenger hunt-" "Let's ask for their help vetting suggestions if they're going to have any citizens participating," Ivanova suggested. "We don't want to require a Drazi to collect a milkshake and then find out it's a mortal insult to her mother." "Good idea," Sheridan agreed, walking over to his bookcase. "And we'll need some way to alert docking vessels what's going on so they don't think the whole crew's gone crazy." He popped open the lower cabinet drawers and began to rummage inside among the flimsies, books and personal effects. "Do you really think it's good business to lie to your incoming ships that way?" Garibaldi asked dryly as he rose and gathered his files. "I hate to miss the rest of the prom committee meeting, but I have to get down to Refugee R and R to talk to-" a quick glance at his datapad "- Mercedes LoBianco about an illegal alien." Ivanova sketched him a quick salute and Sheridan waved an arm awkwardly from deep within the cabinet. The door was just hissing shut behind the security chief when the captain emerged, triumphant. In his hands he held a rickety plaque made of some extremely fake looking wood. The tarnished metal face bore an etching of an Academy cadet sprawled flat on his back, and the legend : PASSING OUT DAY 6 June 2240 Esn. John Sheridan GRAND HIGH POO-BAH His face glowed with a pride usually reserved for pictures of the first born child. "Did I ever tell you how I won my Passing Out Day, Commander?" Mercedes LoBianco thumbed her office lock secure, shouldered her satchel, and turned to stride down the hallway of Red 14. She immediately bounced off the massive chest of an unusually hirsute Aventine, who bared his teeth at her and snarled, "You are clean, but animated!" He stalked off in the direction of the public comm banks as Mercedes reeled about unsteadily. After a moment's deep breathing, she resumed her walk towards the Red commercial district. I have reached the nadir of my existence, she thought. I am clean, but animated. This little encounter was just the topper on her Day That Would Live In Infamy. She had been presented with applications from three hundred more Narn, on top of an already impossible caseload. The latest on an endless series of conferences on use of the Markab homeworld had been rescheduled, crashing her intricate arrangement of meetings, travel and interviews. A message for all civilian employees of EarthForce had informed her that her paydraught would be deposited five days late, presumably after the Quartermaster's office figured out what currency was valid this week. The deli had mixed up her lunch order with that of an Elosian, and had delivered marinated fish entrails and a kind of rubbery pink pancake instead of the beef burrito she had been ready to dive into. But the worst, the absolute aphelion of embarrassment, had come first thing in the morning, while she was discussing plans for a school for refugees with Brothers Joachim and Frederick. Into her office walked Michael Garibaldi, the man whom she had privately voted as "Most likely to father my children," despite the fact that she had only ever seen him -- well, ogled him, if the truth be known -- in passing. The security chief had looked at her, standing with two monks, wearing a shapeless gray ankle-length dress and a long black overvest, and raised his elegant dark eyebrows in inquiry. "Sister Mercedes?" he asked pleasantly. Coming back to the present, she caught a glimpse of herself in the smoked glass window of a FedExInStel office. A long, big-nosed face innocent of makeup, a severe bun of black, wiry hair, and an outfit that could not give offense to the most modest cultural standard with whom she might have dealings. Santa Maria, she did look like a nun! Sister Mercedes, of the order of Our Lady of the Extremely Repressed. Well, she thought, boarding the lift tube to Red 47, her parents had warned her about becoming a social worker. Her small quarters might as well have been a rack room for the amount of time spent there, and this was reflected by her decorating scheme of wall-to-wall discarded clothing, accented by heaps of papers and journals. "Computer," she called out, dropping her satchel on a discarded pizza box, "Calendar. Messages." "You are having dinner with Citizens G'Kar and Na'Rek at 20:00 hours at the Hanging Gardens, Green 3, Section 7. Bring all data concerning possible resettlement on Chavel. You have a message from the captain of "Fleming's Folly". You have a message from Elspeth Pride-" "Stop. Display message." Her former roommate's pretty, dark face filled the screen, grinning wickedly. "Chica," the message began, "I have finally found a way to pry you away from the plight of the dispossessed masses! When was the last time you let your hair down an' went on a scavenger hunt?" "Scavenger hunt?" mused Narn's former ambassador, leaning back in his well-upholstered chair and sniffing his liqueur appreciatively. "Hunting is an excellent form of recreation, but if the station is having a problem with vermin, would not a biochemical exterminant be more...effective?" There was a subdued clink of dishes around them, and wrapped in the warm glow of a productive meeting and the Hanging Gardens' famous spiced wine, Mercedes was feeling both expansive and at ease with her companions. True, Na'Rek was stiffer than the station's former commander at a diplomatic reception, but G'Kar had mellowed considerably from the man who would once bellow belligerently at her for failures in moving refugees fast enough. "No, no...'scavenger' refers to the people playing the game. You see," Mercedes tucked a single stray curl back into her tightly controlled twist, "players get a list of things they have to lay hands on, objects that might be difficult to find or require teamwork to collect. Usually there are also some feats you have to perform-- something funny, or challenging, or embarrassing. At the end of the day, the player with the most hits--the one who's been able to check off the most on her list--wins." She took a cautious sip of the sweet-smelling liquor. Ayuda! Na'Rek looked stone faced at her. "Do you not think this trivializes the serious situation we are all in? So much suffering and pain on our homeworld, a civil war in human space...this seems most inappropriate to--" G'Kar was shaking his head gently. "We cannot let the evil around us remove all joy from our lives, Na'Rek. If we cannot take pleasure in living, we are already lost to the darkness." He leaned forward, elbows on the table, radiating an inner certainty. "G'Quan said, 'Do not yet dig a grave while life thrills your soul.'" Mercedes was fascinated. Na'Rek looked discomfited "I, myself, am a Lannist," she replied, softening slightly. "The teachers of the Cave of Lann," G'Kar said cheerfully, "preach acceptance of suffering. One may presume they would also advise acceptance of --as you humans say--" with a nod in Mercedes' direction, "--a good time." "'Sufficient to the day is the evil thereof,'" quoted Mercedes. "Well, said, Ms. LoBianco!" exclaimed G'Kar. "I shall encourage all our people who can be spared from security and medical support to take part. I can see from the noble and faithful Na'Rek, here, that I have been remiss in my duties!" Na'Rek was making gestures of pleased humility. "I must remind our community to balance labour with laughter." "All work and no play makes G'Ack a dull boy," Mercedes murmured. Woah! Better slow down on that aperitif. G'Kar suddenly paused, a concerned expression on his face. "You don't suppose the Minbari will get involved, do you? Every time they do what passes for fun on their homeworld, it seems to involve an endless amount of self reflection and chanting. Not to mention the epic poetry recitals!" He closed his eyes in remembrance. "You don't know what suffering is until you're forced to sit through all 87 cantos of 'Gehann and His Quest for Lightness of Spirit.' And THAT was considered a comedy classic." Delenn of Minbar gracefully poured two cups of tea and paused for a moment, appreciating the plumes of fragrance rising about her. She glanced up at the time display and then resumed setting the table in her private quarters. The captain of the station was about to join her for a working lunch, the only time they had had together in three days. She sent up a brief prayer that they could share at least one hour together uninterrupted by warships, marauders, strikes, sabotage or...or...her litany failed her. Delenn knew all too well that anything that could go wrong in the universe would, and frequently would do so on Babylon 5. When the door to the Ambassadorial quarters chimed, the corresponding leap in her heart almost caused her to falter in her task. Instead, she disciplined herself, laying out the utensils and small bowls in their prescribed order while she strained to hear. A pleasantly pitched murmur: her attache, Lennier, greeting the captain. A louder tone, bright as a brass trumpet: John Sheridan. Galvanized, Delenn finished setting the table with a haste that would have shocked her teachers and made her way through the suite like a falcon winging to the arm. Sheridan's small talk to Lennier dried up entirely when Delenn entered the room. The aide stood patiently by, ignored, as the Military Governor of Babylon 5 and the Minbari Ambassador smiled at each other foolishly. In his innermost mind, where he sometimes permitted himself to be critical of Delenn, he dryly noted that the only way these two would be able to keep their feelings a secret would be by wearing bags over their heads. A slight throat clearing by Lennier brought Sheridan back. "Delenn." he said, warmly. She moved toward him and bowed slightly. "You are well, I hope?" "Fine, I'm just...fine." She beamed, he grinned, Lennier racked his brain for an excuse to disappear during the busiest time of his workday. The captain was describing something called "a scavenger hunt" to the ambassador, who seemed fascinated. Of course, she'd be fascinated if Sheridan were discussing Narn nursery rhymes, Lennier's innermost voice niggled. Instantly, he was flooded with contrition, and, engrossed in self-chastisement, he missed the bulk of Delenn's remark to him. "--don't you think so, Lennier?" Sheridan and Delenn were both looking at him expectantly. "I...I'm sorry. My mind was elsewhere," apologized the attache. "I was saying that this 'scavenger hunt' reminds me of the festival of Elionu Awar'e." She turned to Sheridan. "It is held every three years. Friends and family members recreate great Quests of the past, and at the conclusion there is a feast, with--ah--singing in parts?" "Choral singing," Sheridan supplied. Delenn nodded. "Choral singing, and we read from the great philosophers on themes of enjoyment and recite humorous poetry. I think it must be every child's favorite holiday. It was certainly mine." Lennier nodded, smiling in his serene, spare fashion. "If this scavenger hunt is open to non-humans, I can think of many of our people who would wish to participate. We have had no Elionu Awar'e on the station," he said wistfully. Sheridan hesitated, torn between encouragement and full disclosure, "Everyone who abides by the rules will be welcome to play," he said reluctantly, "but you have to realize that this will be a lot more...unh...rambunctious than your festival." He was willing to bet that none of his people would be reading from the great philosophers. Delenn breezed on, unconcerned. "Discovering our similarities and appreciating our differences are still functions of Babylon 5, are they not? We may even have time to bring together a small group of singers," she reflected. "Everyone loves hearing 'Gehann and His Quest for Lightness of Spirit.'" Eight days later, Elspeth Pride stood impatiently inside the doorway of Mercedes LoBianco's room. It had seemed too much effort to actually clear a path into the quarters, so she was reduced to shouting instructions toward the bathroom, where her friend was deciding what to wear. Hard wearing and comfortable was suggested, but Elspeth was hoping for something hot to emerge. Her husband had commented that Mercedes' job was turning her into a eunuch...not that she had been much of a hot tamale before posting to Babylon 5. But Elspeth knew her from way back, from before her marriage, and knew that somewhere under that repressed exterior...Mercedes emerged from the bathroom for inspection. Her hair was scraped back and pinned in place, as always, but-- "My God!" laughed Elspeth, "Those your ol' fatigues?" Mercedes shoved her hands self consciously into the deep cargo pockets of the olive twill and rocked back and forth on heavy treaded boots. Her sleeveless undershirt bore the hand painted legend 'No Mercy', and Elspeth knew the back was block printed '152nd Espana: Mas Malos.' "Chica, you got that when you were seventeen and it still fits? Damn, that makes me mad! I had to give mine to my 10 year old." "If you want to keep your girlish figure, try one of Doc Franklin's food plans. Worked for me." "Unh-unh. That man never met a plate of fat-free tofu he didn't like. Those diets of his make people mean and nasty. You ready?" To her dismay, Mercedes pulled an enormous, heavy sweatshirt on before exiting the room and thumbing the lock. In the corridor, heading to the Zocalo, Elspeth complained, "What you wanna cover up the merchandise with that ugly old sweatshirt for?" "Hace mucho frio en esta estacion, in case you haven't noticed. What do you want, I should show the whole Zocalo my..." she waved a hand in toward her chest. "Darlin' as far as I know, no one on this station has any idea you have-" Elspeth imitated her friend's wave "-and I don't see that you're a happier an' more contented woman for it. Here. Go left aroun' the greengrocer's." The largest bank of public comm booths had been given over to the scavenger hunt, and at 0800 hours there was already a crowd jostling to get their sheets. Mostly humans, but with enough aliens to give it a cheerful, festival like atmosphere. Elspeth gazed at the crowd with pleasure, waving to those she recognized. There was David Corwin, who, like her, had worked third shift to be free to start early in the morning. Weren't those two conspiring with their heads together the attaches to the Minbari and Centari delegations? And over there, directing security to their positions was...She grabbed Mercedes by the elbow and dragged her out of line. "Whoops! Got some business to take care of. I'm on the committee, y'know." "I know, Elspeth, you've only told me--" When she saw their immediate destination, her indignant reply strangled in her throat. Elspeth stopped in front of the tall, saturnine figure of the station's chief of security. "Mr. Garibaldi!" she said, in that flirtatious way only happily married women can carry off. "I was so sorry to hear you won't be joinin' in this little scavenger hunt personally. But I must say, I feel sooo much more confident, knowin' you'll be overseein' security yourself." Garibaldi's thin lips quirked in a half smile. "Lt. Pride, I wouldn't dream of handing this detail off to anyone else." His eyes flicked toward Mercedes, who was smiling with a glazed and totally insincere expression. "Do you know Mercedes LoBianco, Chief?" "Yeah, we met a few days ago at Relocation and Resettlement. Nice to see you again, Ms. LoBianco." There was a beat, but Ms. LoBianco seemed uninclined to answer. Elspeth laughed a bit nervously and began to haul her companion back to the line. "We'll just let you go, then! Hope your day goes smoothly!" She thought she heard a "Not a chance in hell," but let it pass. Moving towards the comm booths, she glared at Mercedes. "That was down right rude, Mercy. You could of least had said--" "He thought I was a nun." "What?" "Last week. When he met me, he thought I was a nun. By the time we sorted it out, I had come across as some frigid old frump and he had dug himself his grave with his tongue, as my grandmother would say. It was horribly embarrassing and I just want to forget that Michael Garibaldi exists. O.K?" They arrived at a free unit and Mercedes sat down, swiping her identicard through the slot and punching in her information with unnecessary emphasis. Her friend looked queasy. "Oh...I wish you had told me about it when it happened, Mercy..." A flimsy headed LOBIANCO, MERCEDES was rattling out of the printer. Elspeth took the seat in turn and set about getting her instruction sheet, doing her best to avoid looking at her friend. She could hear the "um-hmm"s and "Okay"s that marked her progress down the list. Then, a sharply indrawn breath. "Madre de dios!" With the same irresistible fascination she had for a bad accident, Elspeth turned to Mercedes. She was staring rigidly at the sheet, breaking off to pin Elspeth with narrowed eyes. "'Give Michael Garibaldi a great big juicy kiss in front of witnesses'?" she hissed. From hugovidal@mix-net.net Wed Dec 25 00:25:02 1996 Date: Mon, 18 Nov 1996 12:12:42 -0500 (EST) From: Julia Hugo-Vidal To: b5-creative@lists.best.com Subject: Re: Scavenger Hunt (2/5) SCAVENGER HUNT, part 2 of 5 (Disclaimers in introduction) by Julia J. Hugo-Vidal Find the piece of dialogue written by Robert A. Heinlein. Lennier and his Centauri counterpart were puzzling out their lists at a rickety market table when a fight broke out at the comm booths. It appeared that one human contestant was trying to throttle her partner--before the hunt had even begun! "We had better leave before the brawling spreads," said Vir Cotto. "These humans are deadly serious about their games." The items appearing on their lists were eclectic, to say the least. Some were specific to Minbari or Centauri cultures: an icon of Ra-Tuol and a pan for cooking saatrims, for instance. Some were familiar to anyone who lived and traveled in space: an O2 rebreather mask, a tracing cel for a translator. But some were truly exotic: A rubber ball? Eyeliner? And this terrifying requirement... Lennier held out his sheet towards Vir, pointing out number 7 silently. "I know," sighed the young Centauri, "I've got the same task to perform." He offered his flimsy. Number 7 was identical. The pair paused before the lift, thinking. "This feat, I feel, asks the most of us," said Lennier. "I propose we attempt this first." Vir looked to one side, as if waiting for rescue, then nodded reluctantly. "Number 7 it is." Susan Ivonova bounced up on the balls of her feet and surveyed her kingdom with a benevolent smile. Her morning had been a great success up to now. The cafeteria had laid in a small supply of real coffee, she had arrived on deck at C and C five minutes early for a change, and shipping was steady, but light. She was working a short shift today, and was already anticipating the scavenger hunt this afternoon. She hummed an old Russian tune, oblivious to the looks the regular first shift technicians were sending each other. Mara Abromovitz raised her eyebrows enquiringly and discretely made a thousand year old gesture with her hands, rolling her head toward Ivanova's desk. The commander had switched to "Whistle While You Work." and was rattling speedily through the data crystal tray. Peter Lent opened his palms wide and shrugged. Yilin Jhou pursed his lips and shook his head emphatically. He was the expert--his family was quartered just down the hall from Ivanova. A slight chime and the hiss of doors opening interrupted the pantomimed conversation. Lennier and Vir entered C and C, each looking distinctly uncomfortable. "Gentlemen!" Susan greeted them cheerfully, "This is a surprise. What can I do for you?" The two held up their official sheets in response. "You're scavengers! What did you come for? Old docking schedules? Souvenir ship idents?" The ambassadorial aides looked at each other with a mixture of anxiousness and resignation. Then Lennier stepped forward, placing one hand reverently on his chest, and bowed deeply. "Commander Susan Ivanova of the Earth Nation Russia, it has been revealed to me that your soul and mine have intertwined throughout the ages. I beg you to accept my suit and consider me worthy to partner you in this life and the next, in Valen's name." He straightened from his bow and looked earnestly at Ivanova, who stood with her jaw dropped open a good six centimetres. "Let me get this straight...are you asking me to MARRY you, Lennier?" Her heartfelt incredulity seemed to prick the youthful Minbari, and he rose to his full height and replied with great dignity, "I believe that is what I just said." The commander opened her mouth, closed it again, turned to the right, turned back and finally stuck both hands into her hair for a moment. Then, clasping her hands in front of her, she bowed slightly. "You do me great honor, Lennier of..um..the Third Fane of Cho'Dam. But I'm afraid I have to say 'no'." Did he look relieved? He bowed in return and backed away gracefully. Then Vir shambled over to Ivanova. "Commander," he began, "you know I'm already contracted to Lyndisty for my first wife, but I would be pleased if you would agree to be my second wife." Vir did a passable imitation of 'eager'. "I feel both our houses would benefit from this union. Ahh...do you have a dowry?" Ivanova felt her eyes rolling upward in her head. "No, Vir, I don't have a dowry. I don't think I even have an EarthForce pension anymore. And I don't think we would be-" she dropped her voice "-biologically compatible, if you get my drift." Vir looked uncomprehending. Susan held up six fingers and waggled them meaningfully. The light dawned on the Centauri. "Ahh--" he said. "Well, that's that, then. Better get going, Lennier. We don't want to keep the commander any longer than we have!" Amidst bows and finger wagglings, the scavengers left the deck. From the C and C door, Ivanova could feel, rather than see, the pulsations of six diaphragms heaving in and out with suppressed laughter. Turning on her crew, she found they had all developed unnaturally thin lips and twitching jaw muscles. "I am going out for another coffee," said Ivanova tightly. "I'll be back in five minutes and I expect everything to be S.Q.A.. Got it?" To their credit, the door had actually shut behind her before Ivanova heard the typhoon of laughter. Michael Garibaldi was not having a good day. It was not quite 1000 hours and his people had already busted up two fights, arrested three petty thieves lifting goods from shopkeepers under the guise of the scavenger hunt, and hauled in a Centauri who claimed his sheet required him to fondle an exotic dancer at the Naked Stars nightclub. Watching the throngs of merrymakers in the Blue section recreational district, he vacillated between a funereal sense of foreboding and the sharp indignity of always having to be the heavy. His abstracted scan of the crowd was broken by a loud hail from the entrance of the officers' gym. Captain Sheridan, a towel draped over his shoulder, fairly bounced toward Garibaldi. He was sporting dress down uniform pants and an Academy baseball shirt that--his security chief noted with some pleasure--was straining across the midsection. An anachronistic baseball cap completed the picture. At his side was Delenn, wearing what he assumed was the Minbari equivalent of playclothes and an expression of bright anticipation. "Mr. Garibaldi! How's my station?" Without pausing for an answer, he flicked the towel off and snapped it in the air. "We've already got five items on our sheets!" Delenn fished into the commodious bag she wore and extracted a goblet proudly. "Delenn. Cap'n." For a second Garibaldi thought about puncturing Sheridan's holiday spirit. Then a wave of magnanimous generosity overtook him. "Everything routine so far. No problems." "Great! You be sure to let me know if anything comes up--I don't want anybody thinking that just cause I'm taking part in the scavenger hunt, I'm shirking my responsibilities." Oh. no, thought Garibaldi. God forbid. "What's next, Delenn?" the captain asked his companion. She glanced at her list. "I need a l'lehan, which means a music store or a visit to a Minbari who plays a l'lehanwe, and then--this must be an astronomical text?--a book titled 'Goodnight, Moon.' And I must visit one of the earth cuisine restaurants. We could lunch there together." She looked up at Sheridan with such pleasure that Michael Garibaldi felt a swift stab of resigned loneliness and sighed subaudibly. Delenn glanced at him keenly. "Perhaps you would join us, Mr. Garibaldi?" He waved them on. "Naah. Better keep to my beat. After all, somebody's gotta make sure that truth, justice and the American way prevail." Sheridan tipped him a salute and offered an arm to Delenn. "The American way?" she asked as they moved away. Garibaldi could pick out her voice as they vanished into the crowd. "And John, what is this at the restaurant? Have you ever heard of a Big Mac?" Elspeth Pride had been forgiven for her attempt at matchmaking after an extended session of pleading. Her penance had been to listen to a blow-by-blow account of Mercedes' miserable marriage and an explication of why she NEVER wanted another man in her life, NEVER. That the Spaniard could keep railing on the subject even while shinnying up a drainpipe to retrieve a flow indicator was, Elspeth thought, an excellent sign that her friend was ready to fall in love at the nearest opportunity. Successful scavenging and the opportunity to vent, however, restored Mercedes' good humor, and as the pair moved along Brown 36, they enjoyed surreptitiously goggling at the alien participants in the hunt. Somber faced Drazi stalked by clutching gaily fluttering scarves. A Radio Flyer wagon containing a huge rubber plant was being pulled by some individuals that bore a strong resemblance to the plant. Two Amrids were engaged in a wrestling match over a wheezing accordion. "You think they know how to play 'Lady of Spain'?" Elspeth whispered. Mercedes snorted, and then swiveled her head around in astonishment at the sight of a group of Narns who seemed to be...playing hopscotch. They were sing-songing a verse that bore the unmistakable stamp of a children's song, and skipping in interlacing patterns. When one misstepped, breaking the rhythm, the whole group shouted with laughter, a sound so foreign to station inhabitants that it drew stares from every sentient in the corridor. Mercedes' sense of utter dislocation was completed by the sight of Na'Rek at the head of the formation. Catching sight of her human acquaintance, she waved in a fashion that could only be described as friendly and, after a brief consultation with her fellows, left the game to join Mercedes and Elspeth. "Now I know those rumors about mood-altering drugs in the air recyclers are true," Mercedes said in an undertone. "Ms. LoBianco," Na'Rek greeted them. Mercedes introduced Lt. Pride and bows were exchanged all around. "Perhaps you can help me with a definition," the Narn continued. "I must collect ten 'bobby pins' and have been unable to find out what, exactly, these are. Do you..." Mercedes was already pulling one from her tightly skewered twist. "This is what you're looking for, Na'Rek," she said. "It's a ...tool for holding long hair in place." Na'Rek looked dubious. "I shall never understand you species with hair," she said. "Have any of you ever considered the years of productive time wasted on dealing with a ...a public sexual display?" "To tell you the truth, I never really thought about it in just that fashion," Mercedes said, amused. "Oh, no? Then how come you keep your crownin' glory beaten down in that old bun, there?" challenged Elspeth. "I am just as comfortable with my hair down as with it up," Mercedes retorted, stung. She began pulling pin after pin from her scalp. "It just looks more professional this way." A hank of curly black hair fell into her eyes. "Here, Na'Rek, " she continued, handing over the bobby pins, "Take them with my blessing." She was pushing masses of hair away from her face. Na'Rek looked a bit worried. "Perhaps I should not," she began, "You seem to have an unusual amount of that stuff. I would hate to be responsible for an accident...what in the three caves are you doing?" Mercedes had flopped over from her waist and then abruptly swung upwards, settling her hair down her back. "Eso es," she said, taking the Narn's arm and beginning down the corridor. "Now, Na'Rek, perhaps you can help us. Elspeth needs to find a Narn tooth cleaner, and from what I understand, you can't just pop into the chemist's for one..." When David Corwin entered C and C at 1130 hours, he looked pale and wan. "Corwin," snapped Commander Ivanova, "What are you doing here? You were on Third Shift." Corwin shuffled forward until Ivanova was close enough to tell that he had interrupted his scavenger search for a few drinks. "Lieutenant," she growled, "I do NOT allow persons consuming alcohol onto my bridge!" Corwin wrung his hands miserably. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Visibly swallowing, he tried again. "My dearest...umn...Commander," he got out in a strangled voice. "Will you ... umn ...marry me?" Michael Garibaldi was trying to down a hero sandwich while keeping a weather eye on the various inhabitants of Brown 75, a bustling area that served as a kind of permeable barrier between the more ambitious residents of Downbelow and the less fastidious resident of the upper levels. His comm beeped just as he took a mouthful of faux-cheese and synthetic salami. "Gar'bal'i. Gah.". "Chief? Is that you?" the concerned voice of his deputy sounded. "Yah, iff me. Whaff uh?" There was a long pause before Allen resumed. "There's some kinda disturbance in sector 17, Brown 76. I've dispatched Johnson and Kahlil, but you're closest. And Chief?" Garibaldi finished off the bite. "Yeah, Zack." "Report is it involves Lennier and Mr. Cotto." Garibaldi looked at his sandwich philosophically. "Ok, I got it. Do NOT notify either embassy until you hear from me. Let's see if I can get this sorted out without bringing in the big guns. Garibaldi out." The disturbance was apparently at the grandiously-named Sky High Gambling Palace--apparent because as Garibaldi neared the crowd of gawkers a body came flying through the open archway. The security chief forced his way through the mob--there seemed to be quite a lot of unlicensed betting going on among the watchers--and, grabbing him firmly by the collar, heaved the young Centauri onto his feet. The bravo looked at him muzzily, scowled, and took a swing at the chief, clipping him right in the breastbone. Garibaldi exhaled explosively and popped the Centauri squarely between the eyes, sending him unconscious to the floor. Wheezing and shaking his now bruised knuckles, Garibaldi entered the Gambling Palace. His first impression was that a better name would have been the Down in the Gutter Gambling Dive. His second was that everyone inside was playing a game of freeze tag, and he was It. On one side of the room, Lennier was holding a ferret-faced human off the floor, two fingers poised to do something very unpleasant to his neck. On the other side, a squat, muscular Drazi had Vir by his coat, and was pressing a nasty looking tube at his ear. Assorted individuals lay groaning on the floor, while others had flattened themselves prudently against the walls. The only movement in the room came from a massive, shaggy human by the bar, who was swinging his head back and forth in the way of a maddened bull, snorting loudly. Garibaldi firmly suppressed the urge to say '''Ello, 'Ello, wot's all this, then?'" Instead, he opened his palms peaceably and said: "What seems to be the problem here, boys?" Evidently, Big N' Ugly found this intensely provocative. "I WANT MY MONEY!" he roared, and charged past Garibaldi toward Lennier and Ferret Face. The security chief tried to take him down and was rewarded with a bottle smashed against the back of his head. He fell forward onto his hands and knees, drenched in a foul smelling liquor. By the time he regained his footing, Lennier had dropped his hostage--now doing an imitation of a rug--and was pulling some of that Minbari martial arts stuff on the bull man. Despite Lennier's evident expertise, the human seemed too large and stupid to realize he should be falling down. Vir Cotto made his strategic move at this point by swooning to the floor, and his Drazi guard, deprived of a target, was promptly jumped by a skinny human and a Pak'ma'ra. The high pitched whine of a charged PPG caught the attention of most of the establishment, and the sound of three shots discharging into the ceiling brought the remainder up short. "AWWRIGHT!" Garibaldi shouted. Just then Johnson, a towering Nordic woman, and the slim and lethal looking Kahlil skidded through the archway. "What the...HELL is going on here?!?" The back of his head felt like pieces of glass might still be stuck in it. "Lennier?" The young Minbari drew himself into quiescence with visible effort. "Mr. Cotto and I came here for the purpose of obtaining some 'chips'," he began. "Mr. Cotto wanted to play a few rounds of a game of chance. Upon observation, I came to realize that the rotating wheel which formed the basis of the...game...was in fact erroneously balanced. The outcome was not randomly generated." "You figured out the roulette wheel was fixed," Garibaldi translated. "Great. I suppose you shared this information with the rest of the customers, right?" "Of course," Lennier answered, affronted. "I understand that people come here to wager on the possibility of winning, not simply to hand credits over to the owner." At this Big n' Ugly roared to life once again. "I WANT MY MONEY," he howled, snatching at the ferret-faced little man who was scrabbling across the floor. Johnson stopped the enraged customer with a full body check and an upper arm block to the side of his head. Kahlil smoothly snapped on the restraints as the man fell to his knees. "I warned him," came a thin, weak voice from somewhere under the now-unconscious Drazi. Vir Cotto was attempting to crawl out from beneath his erstwhile captor. "I begged him not to say anything. Minbari can be so...so..." "Honest?" Garibaldi asked, giving the Centari a hand up. "Look, Mr. Garibaldi," the now standing ferret face began, emboldened by the presence of security, "I run an honest crib here. I don't care what no bonehead says, none 'a my games are fixed. I got a quality place here. I even got his boss," he gestured toward Cotto, "comin' here now and again. You think a Centauri blueblood would play if the fix was in? This goddamn pipsqueak--" here Lennier shifted his weight forward and pierced the owner with a menacing stare. The man paled, but continued. "This Minbari come in looking for a favor, lookin' to get a few chips, an' the next thing, he's inciting a riot in my place!" He seemed to like the sound of that phrase. "Yeah, incitin' a riot! You should run him in for that!" Michael Garibaldi looked around at the players in this little drama and felt the mother of all headaches beginning at the nape of his neck. "Okay," he sighed. "As soon as I get the Gambling Commissioner over here to verify that everything's on the up and up, I'll have Mr. Lennier booked on disorderly and inciting violence." Ferret face looked at him craftily. "There ain't no Gambling Commissioner. He left with the last ships to Earth." "Captain Sheridan has appointed Justice Nancy Kressman to the job. I'm sure she can get over here by the end of the day." The owner stared at Garibaldi with dawning suspicion. "Justice Nancy Kressman?" "Yup." "Justice 'Incorruptible' Kressman?" "That's what they call her. Whadda you worried about? After all, you run a clean crib." The owner was backing away, shaking his head vehemently. "No, thanks. I don't want to...disrupt customers. Already lost enough business today as it is. We'll let bygones be bygones. I'm sure the bone--the Minbari fellow realizes his mistake. No need to get him into trouble." Lennier opened his mouth. "Zip it!" Garibaldi growled in his best sergeant's voice. "The rest of you," he raised his voice, "can lodge complaints for assault or recovery of funds as soon your identicards are cleared by Mr. Kahlil, here." Kahlil cheerily waved a portable reader. Oddly enough, no one was forthcoming. "Right," snapped Garibaldi. "Let's clear out Hansel and Gretel." Flanked by the mps, Lennier and Cotto were ushered out the archway. Before exiting, Garibaldi rounded on the room. "Remember, folks--B5 security is here for YOU." Outside, the Minbari and Centauri tried to apologise as they were unobtrusively hustled toward the tube by Johnson and Kahlil. The security chief waved them on, nodding. As the transport doors shut, he could hear Vir's plaintive voice: "We didn't even get our chips..." Garibaldi decided to take a turn around the sector just to ensure that everything remained peaceable. As he walked, he noticed to his annoyance that people were stepping out of his way briskly. He tried relaxing his ferocious scowl into the semblance of a smile, to no effect on passers by. He tried humming his "happy cop on the beat" song to show what a good guy he was. "There's a pawnshop, on the corner, where I usually keep my overcoat..." The averted gazes and sidling away continued. Police brutality? he mused. It wasn't until an entirely respectable looking businesswoman wrinkled up her nose and glanced at him with disgust that he realized his problem. He smelled like a distillery. And he was wearing his only black uniform. Aw, nuts. Come off as a drunk or patrol in his civvies? Garibaldi headed toward the lifts to his quarters, his headache tightening with every step he took. The doors to C&C hissed open. An Elosian entered, swaying gently on its dorsal tentacles. It was carrying a stuffed fish. "Commander Ivanova," it began, "I bring you bounty of the eternal sea, in order that I may ask you..." From hugovidal@mix-net.net Wed Dec 25 00:33:07 1996 Date: Tue, 19 Nov 1996 13:55:38 -0500 (EST) From: Julia Hugo-Vidal To: b5-creative@lists.best.com Subject: Re: Scavenger Hunt (3/5) SCAVENGER HUNT part 3 of 5 (Disclaimers in introduction) by Julia J. Hugo-Vidal Find a quote from Lewis Carroll. Captain John Sheridan was in such high spirits, he felt like he could walk on air. So he did. "Stop it, John," Delenn said with a hint of a giggle. "You don't have any safety on yet." "Spoilsport." But he did grab hold of a strap to keep from floating any higher. His scavenger hunt instructions had included a particularly intriguing challenge: to hit a baseball four kilometres. He had briefly considered suiting up and knocking it off outside the station, but a small voice inside protested that performing the feat in the center agricultural section--a canister some 4.7 kilometres across--would be far more satisfying. Over a most atypical lunch, Sheridan and Delenn had sketched out their plan of attack, and after stashing their compilation of loot in his quarters, they had snuck into the service mechs' turbolift at the Habitation end of the Garden. Delenn had shown a surprising flair for breaking and entering into the highly restricted area, and now they were pleasantly crowded together in a fast rising car, headed for the shuttle core that pierced the entire station. Sheridan had known immediately that the only way to hit the ball the required distance was in microgravity, which meant the station's center of rotation. The shuttle core was laid out along that axis: the problem came in accessing the great outdoors from the shuttle cars. The captain knew from harrowing experience that the only way to stop a car outside a transfer station was to rip the emergency override, an event that would tie up commuter traffic for an hour or more. It was Delenn who had asked how service technicians performed routine maintenance and repairs without taking the whole transportation system off line. Sheridan had explained, with dawning interest, about the restricted lifts at the ends of the canister and the maintenance gondola, a tiny car clipped to a cable that stretched parallel to the shuttle core. Deep fried food seemed to have an...unusual effect...on Minbari physiology: after finishing off an extra-large order of fries Delenn was positively giddy. She had insisted on an assault upon the service car, and now as they neared the free-fall radius, she looked flushed and radiant, her long dark hair rising from her shoulders and floating about her face. Sheridan was irresistibly reminded of the unusual uses to which he had put microgravity in his younger days, and was idly contemplating whether he could anchor his feet in the hangstraps, when the car shuddered to a halt. "Okay, safety time," he said. Both he and Delenn buckled multi-hitch belts around their waists and clipped on long safety cords. The captain helped his companion loop her cord several times across her shoulder and down her torso, and if he took rather more time than was necessary, well, neither of them was in a great hurry. "Let me help you with yours," Delenn offered a little breathily. "I know it can be difficult to handle cable in free fall." She proceeded to be very helpful. "My! People certainly do, ah, bump together up here. However to the technicians manage?" "I understand the repair teams are all married couples." "That would explain it, then." Somewhat reluctantly, Sheridan cracked the door and pushed it out of the way. The cable was immediately above their lift car and the maintenance gondola was parked about two metres in front of them, its doorway skewed at about thirty degrees north. Sheridan reached up, clipped the other end of his safety to the cable, and tucked the ditty bag holding his ball and bat under his arm. "Just push off from this car, aim for the gondola, and try to get your feet out in front of you," he instructed. "It doesn't matter if you miss the door--once you're on the side you can manoeuver your way in. The important thing is not to slam into the gondola leading with your nose or your wrist--you wouldn't believe how many broken bones I've seen occur in routine transfers." "Umn. I'll try to be careful, John." "And watch that first step--it's a doozy!" Chuckling at his own witticism, Sheridan shoved off toward the service gondola. He caught the lower edge with the balls of his feet, barked his shins, bit back an obscenity and hoisted himself through the door frame. "Okay, your turn!" he called. Delenn kicked away from the lift with her hands pointing toward the gondola, swung her legs parallel to her torso like a diver, gave an admirably flexible twist to her hips and sailed cleanly through the door feet first. Sheridan would not have guessed that she was capable of smirking like that. Several remarks flitted through his mind and were quickly rejected. A wise man knows when he's beaten. "All right, Ambassador, let's move this buggy. We don't want to be featured in the nightly newscast for hijacking." Her smirk broadening into a grin, Delenn went to the door and floated up to unhook their lines from the cable. Sheridan pried open the control panel and gave it a cursory going over. Okay, forward thrust, reverse...rotation here, and the interior control for the locking clamp, corresponding to the manual lever on the pully apparatus. A child of three could operate it. Delenn had returned and clicked both safeties in place inside the little cable car. "Well?" she asked. "Are we ready to proceed? I am looking forward to seeing you 'hit it out of the park'." Laughing, Sheridan engaged the forward thrusters. The gondola began slowly chugging its way along the cable. "Where ever did you get that expression from?" he asked. She looked rather pleased with herself. "Mr. Garibaldi has been giving me some 'pointers' about baseball. He shared some of his games on tape with me--" she suddenly looked doubtful. "Perhaps I should not have said that. The tapes were illegal, you see...made without the permission of the 'Baseball Commissioner'." Sheridan shouted with laughter. "I...I don't think the ECC is going to come out here and arrest him, Delenn, " he gasped out. "Well, really, John! The warning at the beginning of the tapes sounds very serious. At any rate, Mr. Garibaldi has told me that to understand a North American human, I must understand this baseball game." "And has it worked?" he asked happily. "Not in the least. Mr. Garibaldi starts to explain why the play is a metaphor for the 'frontier spirit' and then he gets very excited and begins yelling at the viewscreen. Frequently he hops up and down. It certainly doesn't seem very spiritual, and I still don't see how it supposedly defines your people. However," she added judiciously," It is very aesthetically pleasing. And it has enriched my knowledge of your idioms. So--look, John, the distance counter." The device was blinking at 98 metres, close to where they had agreed to stop. Sheridan floated to the control panel, cut power and tripped the brake. The sudden silence seemed like a third conspirator. They looked at each other, two overly precocious children about to pull a wonderful prank. "Let's do it!" Sheridan said. The plan was for him to hook a foot under one of the exterior handholds and line up his shot, a slight downward angle that should eventually deposit the ball somewhere in the broad fields ringing the Agricultural section. He adjusted his cap firmly on his head and removed the ball and bat from his bag. "John," Delenn said, reemerging from where she had been clipping his safety line to the cable, "The nearest handhold is at a bad angle. I suggest you rotate the car 45 degrees north. Then you'll be able to swing down instead of up." Impatient now, he reengaged power and lightly adjusted the thrusters. Then he went hand-over-hand out the door. Going by the book, Delenn dutifully clipped her safety on the cable next to his and then curled around a small strut to watch the Mighty Casey at bat. Sheridan found the inverted U of the handhold and wiggled his foot under it. This was no different than any other exercise in orbital geometry. He knew the rotation, the radial distance, the angle of descent. The only variable would be the speed, and he had a good idea of his clocking power if he hammered the ball--not too difficult when it hung motionless in front of him, waiting patiently for the bat to connect. He shouldered his bat, took a deep breath and swung powerfully-- Just as the 1440 shuttle came thundering past them, a scant two metres away. The ball tore forward, clipped the shuttle firmly and ricocheted off in a totally unplanned direction. The rushing wake of atmosphere caught up with them, rocking the cable car violently, sending Sheridan tumbling painfully along the top, flailing with his free hand for a grip. "John!" Delenn screamed, ascending the handholds over the doorway. Sheridan felt the bat he was still gripping connect with something hard. A metallic clunk, something giving way. Another curl of the shuttle's wake had flung Delenn straight out from the car and only her determined two handed grip kept her from flying off. Sheridan was rolled head over heels and lost hold of the car, left free floating, clutching his bat and feeling the wind sweep through his hair. His hair. Over the maintenance car, fluttering erratically in the wake of the shuttle, was his Academy baseball hat. "My CAP!!" he cried out in anguish. Delenn made an instant judgment, launched herself into the air to grab it, actually brushed it with her fingertips before she was twisted away by one of the last buffets of the wake. The two erstwhile conspirators hung off their safety cables at almost 180 degrees relation. John's baseball cap had assumed its own gentle line of descent; out of reach, it would eventually come smashing into the canister floor, probably somewhere in the vicinity of the Habitation. Sheridan's mournful reflections were broken by a chugging cycle that tickled the back of his mind with a warning. The service car, its braking lever unlatched by Sheridan's bat, was dutifully trundling itself down the cable, trailing after the now vanished shuttle. "Delenn!" Sheridan squawked, "The car! The car!" The two began pulling themselves along the safety lines as fast as possible, making for the center cable. Perhaps they could catch up with the gondola... And perhaps not. They drifted close by the cable, silently. Sheridan began looking about for his hat again, carefully avoiding eye contact with Delenn. Eventually she cleared her throat pointedly. "Am I to understand that you did NOT shut off the power before you left the car?" Interesting how her accent grew more pronounced when she was ticked off. Maybe he could charm his way out of this. "Well, ...no, Delenn, I guess I was so anxious to...unh...step outside with my--with you, that I...forgot. Neglected to. I mean." WHACK! Delenn hit him in the shoulder with a doubled piece of safety cable. "Ouch!" he yelped. "Whadja do that for?" WHACK! "Because that was stupid, John Sheridan, and the universe punishes stupidity!" WHACK! "Jesus H. Christ! I'm sorry, okay?" He pulled himself along the cable trying to avoid her reach. "Sorry! If you were in temple training you'd know the meaning of sorry! I would have gotten the cane if I had been as careless as that!" She was also shinning along the cable, somewhat more slowly, since she was hampered by the length of safety line she continued to swing at her companion. Sheridan felt like an EA ship, helplessly retreating before the wrath of the Minbari. He stopped a moment to wrap some of the floating line around him and WHACK! damned if she didn't get the bottom of his foot! He looked grimly at the lift doors, invitingly opened in the distance. He guessed they were both about to break the 100 metres free-fall cable crawl record. 1455 hours. Ivanova's nerves had stretched to the breaking point. If one more...entity... proposed marriage she was going to cycle herself out the nearest airlock. But now, finally, her shift was over. She could get into mufti and scavenge the station like a marauding Raider. A moving target would be a lot more difficult for her "suitors" to find, she thought with dark relish. She realized her earlier playful mood had metamorphosed somewhat, but she felt a kind of grim satisfaction that she had hidden her true feelings well and played the good sport. The C&C doors hissed open. Marcus Cole stepped inside. "No! Out! Out!" Ivanova screamed, heaving the stylus she had been holding at his head. He immediately ducked back behind the doors, which closed just after the stylus passed through the portal. The commander thought she could hear muffled swearing from the other side. A deeply disinterested silence fell over the bridge. No one looked at anyone or anything. A few moments later, the doors reopened to an empty hall. From out behind one side the stylus emerged with a white handkerchief tied to its tip. Marcus peeped around the door. "Parlay?" he inquired pleasantly. "I know what you want, Marcus, and I am NOT going to let you check off another item on your list at my expense." She was slamming data crystals and flimsies into place as she spoke, desperate to get away from her duty station as quickly as possible. "Actually, I knew you were getting off now. I've already made a good start on my list and I thought maybe you and I could--" "No." Finishing her commando filing , she turned to her replacement, who had been trying to camouflage himself as an inanimate object. "Lt. Commander LeMar, you have command." "I accept command aye, sir." They saluted briskly and Ivanova charged out the door with such speed that she lost contact with the floor and bounded up toward the ceiling. A long-fingered hand gently tugged her arm until she was grounded again. "It doesn't pay hurry too much in one-third G, Commander," Marcus reminded her. "Thank you," Ivanova said gracelessly. "Look, a little bird told me that you don't have any partner for the scavenger hunt. You're not going to get a mark for 'plays well with others' on your report card, you know." "I don't like to play with others, Mr. Cole. I compete and win on my own. I ran track at the Academy, I play one man handball, and I don't like card games. I prefer to do the scavenger hunt on my own." "You don't do any recreational sports that require a partner? Pity, that. Explains rather a lot though..." She shot him a glare, but he was so studiously bland it was impossible to tell if that had been a double entendre. She decided to ignore it. They arrived at the tube and she punched the button with unnecessary force. They waited. They waited some more. "Look," he said suddenly, "If you don't want to play with me, why don't you marry me?" "I knew it! I knew you were just here to ask me to marry you!" she exploded. Marcus seemed nonplused. "I don't think I telegraphed my intentions that broadly." "You have to do it in front of witnesses for it to count as a completed feat, you idiot. Now you're not going to be able to claim it on your sheet." "The scavenger hunt? You think this has to do with the scavenger hunt?" He rested an arm against the wall and leaned toward her. Damnit, why was she so...conscious of his physical presence? She hated feeling flustered. Was it getting hot in the corridor? "The answer is no," she snapped. "No, Mr. Cole, I will not marry you. And hiding the fact that you are scavenging is a violation of game rules." Ivanova stared fixedly at the tube doors, despite the fact the Marcus' face was only inches from her own. "You ought to say yes, Susan," he said softly. "The next time, I'm going to make you ask me." A chime, and the tube doors opened. She marched in rigidly. He stayed in the corridor. "You'll be back before the day's out, looking for something sweet from me," he caroled. The doors slid shut on her scathing reply. That...man! That...carbuncle on the face of her station! Suddenly, an image of herself, replacing all the liquid cleanser in his bathroom with a powerful depilatory, popped into her mind. Oh, yes....that might be just the ticket. Garibaldi was run to earth by his administrative assistant near the agricultural sector of the Garden. Spc. Watanabe actually jogged past him, her eyes scanning for a black uniform, when she was brought up short by the realization that the tall man in low-key civvies was the- "Chief! There you are! Taking a holiday from your paperwork?" "Believe me, you don't wanna know. What have you got for me?" She handed over a pad and a clipboard with some flimsies attached. The head of security scanned the documents, occasionally grunting softly and making a notation. Watanabe inhaled athletically and bounced on the balls of her feet, taking in the sights with almost painful enthusiasm. "Gee, it's great to get out of the office, isn't it Chief? I can't wait to get off shift tonight! I'm going to the scavenger hunt dance! You going to the dance, Chief?" Garibaldi raised an eyebrow as he signed off. "Toshi," he said, feeling about ninety next to the girl, "I'm not sure I'll make it to the end of the day." She reclaimed the documents. "This scavenger hunt is just one pain in the ass after another, as far as I'm concerned. Might as well make a general announcement: 'run amok'!" Suddenly he laughed in spite of himself. "Look at that--see what I mean?" From the direction of the livestock grounds, a group of Pak'ma'ra were leading an enormously wooly sheep by a long embroidered ribbon. The two humans watched bemused as the ewe and her shepards minced toward the nearest lift entrance. Garibaldi chuckled. "Now I've seen it all." Watanabe's face was screwed up in thought. "Chief," she said, "There weren't any Pak'ma'ra registered for the scavenger hunt." They looked at each other as the dreadful possibilities dawned. Then, as one, the security chief and the administrative clerk sprinted after the retreating aliens. "Hey! HEYYY!" Elspeth Pride thought she heard a peculiar bleating noise as she steadied her friend over a vat of liquid plant nutrient. They had received permission from Hydroponics to collect a leaf off an Omari plant, so long as they didn't uproot the stiff-stemmed vegetable. That meant getting out to the plant, growing in the midst of its algae-filled artificial pond, which was how she came to be hanging off Mercedes' thighs while the taller woman balanced on her pelvis and stretched carefully, carefully toward their prize. "Got it!" was followed by "Ungh!" LoBianco had tipped too far over and drenched most of her upper half. She quickly flopped herself backward in disgust, landing on the walkway near Elspeth. "Dios! Look at this!" Her sweatshirt was heavily blotched in green slime and gave off a...peculiar...odor. She ripped it off and held it up for Elspeth's inspection. "What a pong! Do you think it can be saved?" Her friend pinched it between thumb and forefinger. "No," she said, delivering the maternal verdict unsparingly. "It's the recycling chute for this one, honey." She ran a critical eye over her friend as Mercedes regained her feet. She wasn't as well-rounded as she had been, when they met at the end of the EM war, but the thinness suited her narrow face, throwing her high cheekbones into relief and making her nose look aristocratic, rather than just...large. Of course, there were a few lines that hadn't been there in years past, but if Elspeth squinted, she thought-- "Elspeth, why the hell are you gaping like that? Do you have a cast in your eye?" "Nope. You've been spending time at the gym, haven't you, chica? Lord, I wish I could find the time. 'Course, the last baby put a few pounds on me..." "Your last baby is six years old. Isn't there some sort of statute of limitations on blaming it on her?" Elspeth smiled placidly. She had the matchmaking soul of the irrefutably married, and she was certain that somewhere on this station was the man who could stand up to her dear friend's flaying tongue, if only she could throw Mercedes at him before the Spaniard resumed her normal "hands, eyes and thoughts-off" look. Mercedes LoBianco was going to be happy if Elspeth had to toss her entire wardrobe into the aggie ponds to do it. Besides, she had a bet riding on this. Susan Ivanova was trying to puzzle out the pronunciation of the Green 5 store she was about to enter. She thought it was English, but... "Ye Olde Curiositie Shoppe?" Well. This was where her search had led her. The door hissed--and tinkled--as it opened. Inside, it was stuffed to the ceiling with all sorts of...things. A wall of shelves held woolen clothing and foul weather gear for which there was no possible use in space. There were cheerful little signs and cute little teapots and cunning little bottles of scent. Everywhere she looked, Susan saw synth-wood trimming, and faux brass and plaid. Lots and lots of plaid. An apple cheeked old man with charmingly tufted white hair bustled out from the back and beamed at Ivanova. She hated being beamed at. "Hello! How can I help you?" the proprietor twinkled. Ivanova hated twinkling. "I understand you sell English foodstuffs--" she began. "British food, m'dear," he corrected, "British. Can't forget Scotland! And where would we be without leeks? Ha!" This last remark seemed completely nonsensical to Ivanova. "I'm not British myself, you understand...I'm on the scavenger hunt. I'm looking for something called 'McVitie's Digestive Biscuits'. According to the computer, that's--" "Yes, yes, " he cried. "I stock them. You've come to the right place, m'dear. If you would just step over here to the food counter..." He led the way through the oppressively cozy aisles, past a table piled high with stuffed animals--no, the sign said 'Cuddly toys'--to a long glass counter backed by more wooden shelving. Every inch was crammed with unfamiliar packages. She scanned for some small jars, but... "Oh," said Ivanova, a little disappointed. "I was kind of hoping to see some jam." "The rule is, jam tomorrow and jam yesterday--but never jam today," the shopkeeper said blithely. "Now, let me see. Where did I unpack the last shipment?" He began to poke around behind the shelves. Ivanova was arrested by the sight of some crusty egg-shaped lumps individually swaddled in tissue. "What are these?" she asked. "Hmmn? Ah, a hard to come by delicacy. Scotch Eggs." "Eggs? I haven't had eggs in months! How much?" "Ahhh...I hate to dissuade a customer, m'dear, but they don't taste like the eggs you're thinking of. They're more of an acquired taste, really." Disappointed, Susan turned her attention to the other offerings. Marmite. Wheetabix. Vegamite. Didn't sound like anything edible. And there, on that shelf, were some positively alarming items: Blood sausage? Tinned Spotted Dick? Freeze dried Bangers and Mash? "Do people actually EAT this stuff?" she blurted out. The old man rose from behind the counter and gave her a calculating look, far craftier than his previous bonhomie. "It's like this, m'dear," he said confidentially. "When at home in the British Isles or one of the Anglic colonies, the British eat what everyone else eats. Normal, tasty, well prepared food. But drag them 52 light years away from Mummy's kitchen or the nearest pub and they're suddenly mad for this stuff. Someone who's had dried cereal for breakfast every day for the past ten years will fork over 10 credits for fried tomato and toast at my lunch counter. I can get twenty credits for a single serving of toad-in-the-hole!" He laughed in a slightly maniacal way and waved his hand at his stock. "Tinned pheasant! Gooseberry fool! Kedgeree and kippers! Pasties!" His voice dropped. "Can't stand it m'self. I always eat Mexican and Thai. But the overhead I can charge for this food is making me a rich man!" He rubbed his hands gleefully and then seemed to remember himself. "Right. Enough about me, let's find your biscuits." Ivanova edged away from the food counter and studiously examined the stuffed--the cuddly toys. That sheep with the wee tam o'shanter was kind of cute... "M'dear, I am so sorry, but someone just bought up the last of the lot." The proprietor had a crumpled receipt and an apologetic air. "Damn. You wouldn't happen to know who, would you? Maybe I could borrow a few for the day. I really want to be able to complete my scavenger hunt list." "Oh, yes," he said, eager to help. "This is one of my regular gentlemen. Stocks up here once a month like clockwork. Terribly amiable, I'm sure he'd be happy to help you." He squinted at the receipt. "His name is Marcus Cole." Garibaldi had decided on an informal briefing in the Zocalo for the shift change. He had a morbid certainty that if he retreated from the bustle of the station to the comforting order of the Station House, some lunatic would decide to fulfill his scavenger hunt list by blasting a hole through the outer bulkhead. He reflexively wiped his hands on his thighs as the third shift team assembled. Damn, but that lanolin was hard to get rid of! He was going to have to shower the smell of sheep off himself before the scavenger hunt dinner tonight. Spc. Gemignani was looking pointedly toward the security chief's pants, and Garibaldi glanced down to find he had made two large greasy stains, one over each knee. Aw, nuts! "Okay, people, listen up," he began. "Today's big headache, as you know, has been the scavenger hunt. It officially ends in less than two hours, and I want that deadline strictly enforced." As he outlined patrol assignments and filled in ongoing situations, part of his mind continued to note the comings and goings during the Zocalo's busiest time of day. Ambassador G'Kar, shadowed by the fierce and elegant Ta'Lon, was pausing to speak to one of his assistants, who was holding up this month's copy of "National Astrographic." Vir Cotto--this time without his partner in crime--was struggling to carry a large framed poster toward the central transport tube. The picture featured a variety of alien spacecraft and the message, "The Truth Is Out Here." And sitting at an outside table at a tiny gelateria were the captain and Delenn, once more looking like a meteor impact wouldn't break their focus on one another. Aw, cripes. If he was begrudging that pair of dutiful soldiers a little time together, he was in bad shape. Get a life, Michael! "Yo, Chief," Lou Welch's voice caught his attention. "Yeah, Lou. Let me guess--you've got one more piece of nasty to deliver before you go off duty." The veteran NCO smiled easily. "I think you'll want to handle this one yourself. The head of Atmospherics was on the horn. Seems one of his light reflection panels at the end of the Garden was shattered by a baseball. Sixty-five hundred credits of high precision lens turned into seven years of bad luck." "A baseball?! How the hell--" "That's not the best of it," Welch grinned. "The ball is signed. John Sheridan." Garibaldi looked up, mutely beseeching some higher power to deliver him. "And you also wanted me to remind you that the formal shop closes at 1800, so if you want to pick up your outfit you'd better get a move on." "Oh, shit. Why did I agree to come to that damn dinner dance? Is there any way I can get out of it?" Welch's grin got even wider. Garibaldi pinched the bridge of his nose wearily. "I'd just like one thing to go right today. Just one decent thing to keep me from spacing myself." Welch cleared his throat noisily and nodded in the direction of the market square, where a woman was pushing her way through the crowd toward the security contingent. For a split second Garibaldi thought one of the EarthForce Marines had escaped from the secured facility--a tall, limber body in regulation issue fatigues--and his hand twitched involuntarily toward his PPG. Then he realized the long, dull metal tube crooked in her arm was a piece of conduit, not a plasma rifle. Then he realized she was a very attractive woman, high colour turning her golden skin dusky, enormous brown eyes, and that hair... enough hair to wrap around a man and... Then he realized he already KNEW this woman. "Lou," he said in a strangled whisper, "Isn't that Ms. LoBianco? The refugee lady?" Welch made a noise of assent and cleared his throat again. "Jesus!" said Garibaldi. "What'd she do, get into that body-changing thing of Ambassador Delenn's?" She was close enough for him to read the phrase "No Mercy" on her skimpy undershirt and to be deeply appreciative of the slightly reduced gravity in the Zocalo. The scattered attention of his security team was beginning to be drawn back to their chief. Ms. LoBianco came close enough for him to feel the heat she was throwing off and fell into parade rest, hands and conduit pipe clasped behind her back. What NOW? thought Garibaldi. From hugovidal@mix-net.net Wed Dec 25 00:35:56 1996 Date: Wed, 20 Nov 1996 12:20:44 -0500 (EST) From: Julia Hugo-Vidal To: b5-creative@lists.best.com Subject: Scavenger Hunt (4/5) SCAVENGER HUNT part 4 of 5 (Disclaimers in introduction) by Julia J. Hugo-Vidal Find a conversation by Dr. Seuss. What, you think he's NOT an sf writer? Mercedes had put this off until there was no avoiding it. Kissing Michael Garibaldi--in front of witnesses--was the last uncleared item on her list. "Want me to come with you?" Elspeth Pride had offered. "No." She was going to treat this like an unpleasant business meeting: Go in confidently, state what you want assertively, get it and get out. But when she reached the Zocalo the potential humiliation crumbled her resolve. She knew she wasn't seductive, wasn't very good at anything sexual, not comfortable with her body except as a soldier's tool. A soldier...this was no job for a social worker! She needed to unleash the groundpounder in her, just a little bit, just for a few minutes. No wonder her nerve shook--this was a frontal assault, not a business meeting. She straightened her spine, cashiered her weapon--well, the pipe she had collected just before coming here--and let that wild twenty year old she had once been take the field. "Mr. Garibaldi," she said, a little too loudly. Geez, what was it that made this whole picture so...familiar? Something was scrabbling at his consciousness while he nodded pleasantly and replied. He tried not to look like he was staring. It wasn't that she was beautiful or anything...well, maybe anything... "I need something from you to finish off my scavenger hunt." She had little flecks of green stuff hanging on the ends of her hair. Of course, he had liquor dried on his, so who was he to quibble? "Yeah? How can I help you?" he said, a little too gruffly. That something was now gnawing at the back of his mind. Were those fatigues real or government surplus? And what the hell had she been wearing before--a camouflage tent? "Umn," she said, feinted forward, tilted her head a bit to the right. He went to the left, more out of instinct than anything else. Their noses bumped, then their lips met. Met, clung, pressed open hesitantly... Garibaldi felt her about to withdraw and stopped her by gathering a fistful of dark hair at the back of her head. He deepened the kiss. She fell into his mouth, all wetness and teeth and tongue. Luscious. Synapses were firing wildly through his whole nervous system, sending hot jolts everywhere. She clutched his shoulders and swayed against him, kissing him back hungrily. His other arm went around her, bending her to him. From a great distance he heard whistles and ribald whoops. His security team. Shit! His security team! He ripped himself away and held Ms. LoBianco roughly by the shoulders. They were both breathing hard. His people were cheering. Someone began a chant of "Chief, Chief, Chief..." With a great deal of effort and not a little discomfort he recollected his composure and released her. "Thank--" she began, hoarsely. Swallowed and tried again. "Thank you, Mr. Garibaldi. That was what I needed." A shout of laughter. "Remember..." somebody started. Several voices chimed in. "B5 Security is here for YOU!" Her overwide mouth quirked in a smile. The something in his head was howling frantically now. She nodded a bit shakily and turned to leave. '152 Espana: Mas Malos' he read on her undershirt. The memory clicked into place like a magazine into a well lubricated gun. The 152nd Espana, Foxtrot Company, 3rd Platoon. A seventy-two hour leave on a waterworld called...hell, he couldn't remember the catalogue designation. LoBianco...Lobo? Jesus, if it WAS her... Lou Welch was fascinated to see a pink flush settling over his friend's features as Ms. LoBianco walked unsteadily away. "Chief?" he asked mildly. Garibaldi turned on him and frowned. "Gotta go, Lou. Gotta pick up that damn outfit. Don't wanna be late for the dance." She walked briskly up to his door, paused, turned on her heel and walked away. No. This wouldn't do at all. Squaring her shoulders, she marched to his door and paused. And paused. Maybe not finishing her list wouldn't be such a bad thing, after all. She stomped down the hall for a meter or two. Shit! She could jump in a one man starfury and face down EarthForce's finest, couldn't she? She could damn well ring on someone's door and ask for a few cookies. She stomped back to the door, steeling herself to press the buzzer. She was standing there, her arm outstretched rigidly, when the door slid open. "Well?" inquired Marcus. "Have you decided to come in? Or are you going to get some more exercise by patrolling the corridor?" Susan tossed a stray lock of chestnut hair out of her face and glared at her nemesis. "You were the one who suggested these...biscuits for my list, weren't you?" she growled. He spread his arms apologetically. "I did warn you that you'd be back for something sweet," he said. "Please," he continued, stepping aside and gesturing toward the door, "Do come in." Susan sighed, compressed her lips in something that might have been a smile, and entered. Marcus Cole was not overburdened with worldly goods. In fact, she'd bet there were monks Downbelow who lived in more luxury. The door hissed behind him as he joined her. "So....I see the Rangers aren't wasting their resources on big living allowances for their agents," she said. "Would you believe that I was waiting to find the right interior decorator?" he asked. "No? How about 'My furniture's in storage'? I know: my other house is a castle." He looked around, seeming a little nervous now she was actually in his room. "The bed or the stool?" "What?" "There are only two places to sit, the bed or the stool, so--" "I'll take the stool," Susan hastily assured him. He took the bed, bounced on it a bit as if to display its comfort and reliability. She raised a quelling eyebrow. He immediately froze in place, then slapped his thighs and jumped back up. "Right then." he said, "You'll want to see the goods." Marcus ducked down to open a door in the low cabinet that provided the room's only storage. He pulled out two cylindrical packages. "Which do you prefer, milk chocolate or dark chocolate?" Susan felt all her senses come quiveringly alert. "Chocolate? These things have...chocolate in them?" "On them, actually," he said, looking at her curiously. "I don't suppose you'd like to share a few? I mean, before you carry away your loot in triumph." "Oh," she breathed, "Yes. Please." He unwrapped the crinkly paper and passed her the package, a whole stack of chocolate covered cookies... "Mmph. Oh." She crunched down, inhaled deeply, licked her fingers. "This is heaven. May I have another?" Marcus nodded. He took one biscuit himself, nibbling it distractedly as he watched Commander Ivanova's total sensual abandonment to.. "Chocolate," he murmured. "I love chocolate," she confessed. "It's so damn expensive out here that I only treat myself rarely." A radiant smile split her companion's face. "A hard working woman like you deserves a few treats now and again. Please," he urged, handing over the second package, "help yourself." She did. Captain John Sheridan paused before his mirror to give himself a last going-over. He was a bit chagrined at having to rent a formal kilt when he owned no less than three, but of course, they were sensibly packed away in his parent's attic. His dress uniform had stood in their stead for years, but now...he tugged on the short, collarless navy jacket and twitched the flat leather sporran into place over the navy and gray houndstooth kilt. Not bad...he grinned, wondering at Delenn's reaction. This was a lot more body-conscious than the Minbari-styled uniforms of the Army of Light. He was humming jauntily as he approached the tube. A tall figure in a conservative black jacket and camel coloured kilt was just entering the open doorway. "Hey, Michael! Hold that tube!" Garibaldi depressed the open button and leaned his head out of the lift to watch Sheridan jog up the corridor. "Thanks. I'm picking up Delenn and I don't want to be late. You're looking mighty sharp this evening." Garibaldi ran a finger under the high collar of his white dress shirt as the tube accelerated. "Hmmn. I'd rather be in uniform. Last time I wore one of these was at my cousin Tom's wedding. A whole bunch of us got roaring drunk and decided to reenact some ancient Celtic battle. Tom's wife wouldn't speak to me for two years after that." He looked down at his attire. "So now, whenever I think about dressing formal, I think of me flying over the sorbet cup platter wearing nothing, and I mean nothing, but a kilt." Sheridan smiled weakly. That was a mental picture he did NOT want to dwell on. The lift stopped and two young women entered, dressed to the nines. They giggled and nudged each other and cast unsubtle glances at the Captain and Security Chief. Another stop, and still more party goers crowded on. "Bear up, Mr. Garibaldi," Sheridan said under his breath. "After all, the ladies do appreciate a man in a kilt." He raised his voice as the lift stopped near the ambassadorial section. "Excuse me! Getting off!" "I certainly hope so," muttered Garibaldi. Lennier peered through the artificially induced twilight settling over the public areas of the Garden. It was getting difficult to see very far, even with the help of lamplight and softly glowing party lanterns. Where was...ah. Hovering near one of the hor'doeurve tables. He made his way through the rapidly growing crowd to stand behind his friend, then coughed in an attention-getting way he had perfected during these years of diplomatic service. Vir whirled around, almost dropping a sauce laden pastry puff on his elaborate waistcoat. "Oh, it's you." "Are we speaking again now?" "I guess so. I still say that was a boneheaded thing to do." "I can see you found it a hair raising ordeal," Lennier replied dryly. Vir snickered. Ritual insults over, he handed his friend one of the fruit drinks laid out on the table. "So, is that it?" he asked, waving a finger at Lennier's elegantly embroidered overvest. "It's a work of art." "Yes, thank you. My mother sewed every stitch herself. It was kind of you to deliver it personally. Mother complains that everything shipped in supply shuttles gets squashed." "No, really, the pleasure was mine. I really liked meeting your folks. And those other relatives whose titles I couldn't straighten out. You're a very popular guy with your family. They couldn't stop talking about your brilliant career." Lennier's face displayed the peculiar mixture of individual humility and clan pride that the religious caste seemed to have patented. "It is...gratifying... to bring favorable accomplishments to one's Fane," he said a bit smugly. "I think my family's going to disown me now that my career's gone down the waste disposal," Vir said glumly. "My second half-brother wrote me that my portrait's been taken out of the reception hall and rehung in a bathroom. In the children's wing. As a bad example." The two contemplated the vagaries of the Great Maker silently for a moment Then a flash of colour caught Lennier's eye, and he nudged Vir, pointing with his chin. "Our friend, Mr. Cole." Lennier murmured. Marcus Cole was sporting a kilt in a flamboyant purple and yellow plaid. Unlike most of the other humans, his coat was decorated with a profusion of silver buttons, and his sporran sprouted the tiny tails of dead animals. "This is very...different from his usual uniform," Lennier observed. "That's a look that would go over very big at home," said Vir, admiringly. "Needs a little more lace and gold braiding." As they watched, Commander Susan Ivanova followed Marcus into the seating area. "I am given to understand no less than twenty-seven scavengers asked for her hand in marriage," Lennier said. Vir just stared. "Wow. I don't think I've ever seen the Commander in THAT dress before. She looks..." "Somewhat less like a soldier?" "But not too much." "We should greet her, and thank her for..." "Not killing us out of hand." "Exactly." Dinner was in full swing, and John Sheridan was a happy man. Usually his position as defacto governor-general was an enormous weight, slowly sinking him into the mud of the Universe. Tonight...ah, tonight he felt like the benign potentate of a prosperous city. Contentedly surveying his realm, while one hand held a glass of very good Proxima wine and the other--half concealed under the tablecloth--had captured Delenn's narrow, aristocratic hand. He absentmindedly rubbed a thumb over her knuckles as he sought out familiar faces. Susan was holding court at a table with Lennier, Vir Cotto, and Marcus Cole, who was wearing the loudest plaid Sheridan had ever seen. G'kar, seated at a table of mixed species, was talking earnestly at Mr. Garibaldi, who was spending his time glaring at a table of three Narns and a dark haired human woman. Zack Allen had given up on eating entirely and was flitting from table to table, chatting up almost every young lady without an obvious male escort. He could spot the two tables holding most off the C and C crew, and another one seating Lou Welch, Elspeth Pride, and their spouses. The heavy thunk of glass on cloth broke his concentration. He motioned the head table waiter over, and gestured to the older gentleman seated at Delenn's left. "Another glass of Taittinger for our distinguished guest, please," Sheridan said. "On me." The head of Babylon 5 Atmospherics leaned past Delenn and smiled acidly. Oh yeah. He was a potentate, all right. "Honored Sentients, may I have your attention, please?" Elspeth Pride and Peter Lent, representing the scavenger hunt committee, were handing over the results at the head table. Sheridan thanked them with a smile and resumed speaking over the open comlink. "The sheets have been scored and I am ready to announce the winner of today's scavenger hunt." After a bit of shushing and a few calls to pipe down, the party turned its attention to the captain. He rattled the paper envelope showily. "Right here I have the name of the person destined for B5 immortality. A very exciting moment, indeed. Some of you may not know this, but when I was at the EarthForce Acadamy--" "Johhhn...," Delenn sing-songed. "Oh. Yes. Well." He tore open the envelope. "And the winner is...the Narn!...What do you mean, the Narn? Which Narn?" Lt. Lent pointed at the paper and whispered in Sheridan's ear. "All the Narn? They're a group?" Amidst deep-voiced ululations from his fellows and the applause of other species, G'Kar made his way to the head table. He shook hands with Sheridan, Lent and Pride. "Accepting for...the Narn, Citizen G'Kar." Sheridan tapped on his hand link and held it out to the alien. "Thank you," G'Kar said with satisfaction. "Thank you for your kindness. We have won the day here because we have worked collectively, one goal, one purpose, one determination. This is the strength of the my people." There were noises of amusement from some Narn at that. "May we continue to achieve our goals in the same way as we have today--by common action, supported and encouraged by our friends of other races." There was a generous round of applause and Lt. Pride handed over the trophy. It was a metallic cylinder, approximately 25 centimetres long, with a large bulge at each end. G'Kar looked at it doubtfully. "What is this?" he asked. "Your trophy," replied Sheridan. "See, here's the date of the hunt, and a place to engrave your name--or group, in your case." The Narn stared at him incredulously. "Do you know what this looks like?" demanded G'Kar. Lt. Pride's gaze slid over to the captain. She bit her lip. "It's supposed to be the station," Sheridan said. "It's Babylon 5." "Captain Sheridan. I am not ignorant of human physiology. This...thing is obviously a representation of a--" "Lets have a big hand for Citizen G'Kar, everybody!" shouted Lt. Pride. She and Lt. Lent managed to steer the Narn back toward his table. He was still holding his trophy gingerly between two fingers, shaking his large head, when the committee members returned to the head table. Sheridan plucked at Elspeth Pride's arm as she bent to retrieve the scoresheet. "Lt. Pride," he hissed. "Do you think my station looks like...like a..." She shrugged apologetically. "I understand the initial design was done by an all-male group of engineers," she murmured. He turned to Delenn. She was studiously buffing a fingernail. "Well, hell," he complained. "No wonder I sometimes feel inadequate." A theatrical trumpet blast heralded the start of the amateur performances. The clink of dishes being cleared away was drowned out by the cheers of the humans who knew what was coming. After a reasonable amount of time for catcalls and suggestions, Sheridan strode over to the bandstand. He tapped on the microphone before speaking. "For those guest unfamiliar with the...ah...rituals associated with the scavenger hunt, it is now time to pay for our wonderful dinners with some singing and--" he held back saying 'screwing around' just in time--"tomfoolery." The word brought widespread puzzled looks. Sheridan wasn't up to another session of Human Slang 101, and decided to go with the momentum and let the meaning unfold by example. "Traditionally, the ranking officer starts." That brought on a fresh round of cheers. He signaled the band, which struck up a bright tune from "Iolanthe", and taking a deep breath, sang out: "A military officer I, Assigned command of Babylon 5, A most agreeable post--to be Consulted and needed consistant-lee A pleasant occupation for A Babylonian Governor! But though the compliment implied Inflates me with legitimate pride, It nevertheless can't be denied That it has its inconvenient side; For we broke from Earth (though it caused some pain) And I'm quite prepared to face them again, But the work once done by a staff at home Has fallen to me to do--alone! It's rather overwhelming for A Babylonian Governor. And everyone with business today Must come to me for my okay, And at my desk I sit all day Reading reports 'till my hair turns gray, With a log from him--and a note from he A complaint from you--a request from ye A form for thou--and a chart for thee, And never, oh never, a break for me! Which is exasperating for A Babylonian Governor!" A roar of applause greeted him. He was caught by the sight of Delenn laughing--no circumspect giggle behind a hand, but a full out, flopping on the table, teary eyed belly laugh. Yes! He WAS a potentate in his own right! The Minbari presented "Gehenn and His Quest for Lightness of Spirit" next, which gave everyone a chance to stand in line for the bathrooms or get a fresh round of drinks. Then Ivanova got up with several members of the C and C crew and did a dramatic recitation of "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" with words suitably altered to have the hapless freighter crashing into B5's docking bay. Sheridan had seen Susan many times before at boisterous parties--he knew before the night was out she would demonstrate Cossack dancing and would sing the indescribably filthy "That Tentacled Thing with All of the Eyes and the Asteroid Miner's Daughter." Life was good. "Damn, I'm good!" crowed Elspeth Pride, flopping into her chair. She was rewarded by a kiss from her husband and another round of applause from the Welchs. She leaned confidentially over the table tilted her head minutely in the direction of Mercedes LoBianco's table. "Anything?" she asked. Lou shook his head. "Not yet. Maybe you're not as good as you think you are." "You wait. The dancing hasn't started yet, for heaven's sake!" She narrowed her eyes at her friend. "You didn't say anything to spike it, did you, Lou? 'Cause so help me, I'll--" He held up his hands as if to ward off an attack, laughing. "No. no! I'm rooting for you! If the Chief gets laid, it'll be the best five credits I ever lost." His wife rolled her eyes. "Hey, hey, hey! Gotta go," he said, catching a signal from the bandleader. "You're going to love this one." "Who's up next?" Marcus asked. "Looks like Security." Ivanova happily propped her chin in her hand. "You ever take a stab at public singing?" He winced and shook his head. "If you never did, you should. These things are fun--" "And fun is good," he encouraged. Marcus wondered if it would be too obvious if he drew his chair closer to her's. David Corwin had joined their group, apparently pissed just enough to have lost his habitual nervousness around his superior officer. He had wedged himself in between Vir and Lennier, opposite Ivanova, and Marcus was desperately trying to figure out how to divert the pass he felt coming. If he did too obvious a 'hands off' Susan would likely flatten him for his presumption, but with her flushed and happy from vodka and chocolate--HIS chocolate, dammit, at one bloody credit per bloody gram-- he was afraid she might be amenable to suggestions from Lt. Pretty Boy, over there... "Marcus. Stop grinding your teeth, will you? I want to hear this." He refocused on the bandstand. A sizable Security contingent had gathered, fronted by-- "Mr. Garibaldi?!?" Vir said, jaw dropping. "Why am I not seeing him as a singer?" Ivanova snorted. "He's half Italian and half Irish. If he couldn't sing, his parents would have drowned him at birth." Lennier looked horrified. "That's a joke, Lennier," she explained. As if to prove her point, the band's string section sprung to life, and Garibaldi began to sing in a resonant baritone: "When a felon's not engaged in his employment Or maturing his felonious little plans,. His capacity for innocent enjoyment Is just as great as any other mans." The rest of Security joined in with great gusto: "Our feelings we with difficulty smother When constabulary duty's to be done Ah, take one consideration with another, A policman's lot is not a happy one." Sheridan guffawed until he nearly fell off his chair. Why hadn't he known Michael was a Gilbert and Sullivan fan, too? Garibaldi interlaced his fingers and rested his head daintily on his hands, singing: "When the enterprising burgler's not a-burgling, When the cut-throat isn't occupied in crime, He loves to hear the little brook a-gurgling And listen to the merry village chime." The Security team began a more-or-less synchronized two step: "When the coster's finished jumping on his mother He loves to lie a-basking in the sun, Ah, take one consideration with another, A policeman's lot is not a happy one." Mercedes LoBianco joined in the enthusiastic applause, but when her dinner companions abandoned her to join in the sing-off, her stomach clenched and the nape of her neck began to prickle. She had accepted Na'Rek's invitation to join them in order to hide behind the formidable shield of a group of Narn, and she had studiously avoided the station's security chief's eye throughout the meal. She enjoyed admiring him from a safe distance, but she had no desire to get up close and personal with the way she had felt that afternoon. She had put that whole male-female thing behind her. Yes. It just distracted from work, anyway. Yes. After the Narns' performance, there would be dancing. Then she could go home, braid up her hair like she should have before this party, and go to sleep. Yes. Then there was a camel-coloured kilt in her line of sight, then a severely cut black jacket, then an unsmiling face. "Ms. LoBianco?" "Yes." "Who's that pre-Raphialite looking woman Mr. Garibaldi is buttonholing?" Marcus asked. Maybe if he could get Susan to look across the room, he could casually slip his arm onto the back of her chair. "Dunno," she replied. "I mean, I know she runs Refugee Relocation and Resettlement, but I can't remember her name." Corwin leaned forward, gathering the table's attention in. "I heard a rumor that all the security guys are wearing their ppgs in thigh holsters tonight!" he grinned. Susan snickered. Oh, yes. Lt. Corwin was chatty tonight. Bloody little git. "Yes, those fatigues are mine, Mr. Garibaldi," Mercedes said, growing impatient. "And I find this whole line of inquiry odd. Are you investigating a theft at an EF surplus store, or what?" So much for worrying that he might try to further their acquaintance. He held himself very still, leaning forward with his hands on the table. She wasn't sure if he meant to be intimidating or not. "Bear with me for a sec." His voice was low. "Fox-trot Third spent a three day leave on a world the troops called Splashdown. This woulda been very early in '46. I was just out of shuttle training then..." She stood abruptly, involuntarily, her chair skittering away from the table. "I flew a squad down from their troopship and wound up spending my seventy two hours with...some of them...it was..." He seemed to lose his thread entirely, hot, blue eyes searching her face for some clue. She watched, as fascinated as a mongoose before a snake, as his face warmed rose. His voice was barely more than a whisper. "Ms. LoBianco, did your friends call you Lobo during the War?" A stray memory, buried for over a decade, surfaced with eidetic clarity. Dim room. A laughing face, triumphant blue eyes. A tumble of dark hair worn far too long for regs. Stripping off his flight jacket eagerly. She could read the name patch from fourteen years away: GARIBALDI. "What the hell is that?" Elspeth demanded. They had been talking, all right, but Mercedes' face was drained of all colour, while Garibaldi was blushing hot pink. Mercedes shook her head vehemently, throwing up her hands like a barricade. She turned and fled toward the nearest tube. He made an abortive start after her and then rocked back on his heels. Shoved her chair back under to the table with such force that it fell over. "My. THAT was a great success," Lou Welch observed. "Oh, shut up, Lou. What you know, anyway?" Her face fell. "You gotta do somethin' to fix it. You work with the man. You must be able to do somethin'!" "Gimme my five credits and I'll talk about it." "Ladies and Gentlebeings, please take your places for the Six Ships Reel!" Sheridan stood and held out a hand to Delenn, a possessive smile on his face. "Will you do me the honor, Madam Ambassador?" She looked up, catching her lower lip in her teeth. "Oh, John...I cannot," she apologized. He bent down so no one else could hear. "It's all right," he urged. "This kind of dancing is very easy. The bandleader will call out the steps for anyone who doesn't know. I promise you won't be embarrassed." This assurance was greeted by a look of dismay. "No, you do not understand. I cannot--" "Is this some sort of religious thing? What? Minbari don't dance?" He hadn't expected her to do the chimichanga, but reeling could hardly be an affront to Minbari dignity. "No," she retorted, annoyed. "I can't dance with YOU because--" At that moment the head of Atmospherics returned from the washroom. "Ambassador," he oozed, holding out his hand. "I believe this is my dance." As Delenn stood and took his arm, the older man smiled frostily at Sheridan. Delenn tossed him one look of regret over her shoulder and then was stepping up onto the dance floor. Damn! Sheridan had the feeling he was going to be paying a lot more than replacement costs on that light reflector. From hugovidal@mix-net.net Wed Dec 25 00:40:20 1996 Date: Thu, 21 Nov 1996 09:49:57 -0500 (EST) From: Julia Hugo-Vidal To: b5-creative@lists.best.com Subject: Scavenger Hunt (5/5) SCAVENGER HUNT part 5 of 5 (Disclaimers in introduction) by Julia J. Hugo-Vidal Find a tall tale by Marion Zimmer Bradley. SLAM! The rounds of dancers began with a mighty stomp and the wild whirl of strings and brass. Marcus watched the swirling figures through half lidded eyes. He wanted to get Susan out onto the dance floor in the worst way, but she showed no inclination to leave the table. That wretched Corwin was pouring on the charm, teasing Vir and Lennier, and Susan was erupting in a fit of giggles, for Christ's sake! The band would soon wind down the first number--time to introduce the subject, hmm? "Terrific band! Makes one want to get out and swing the old sporran,eh?" Susan smiled at him, loose limbed and delightfully tipsy. "The Babtones. I could be up for a turn around the floor." She reached down under the tablecloth and fished out her abandoned high-heeled shoes. They were utterly frivolous and impractical, and as she slipped them on with unconscious seductiveness, Marcus realized he was heartily sick of functional uniforms and flat boots and Minbari-inspired multiple layers, and he would undoubtedly crawl from here to C&C if he could watch those shoes and stockings and shiny, sliding skirt and he further realized that his kilt was going to have a very ODD lie if he got up from the table suddenly... "I'm not much of a dancer. I prefer to listen to the music, perhaps take in the Garden by night..." Corwin was smiling softly down at the table, his hands gently sweeping over the tablecloth. Damn! Marcus' heart sunk. The old walk-in-the-moonlight gambit. Well, bugger it. He was going to lock horns with this rutting stag. Go mano a mano. Take a walk down testosterone gulch. He opened his mouth to challenge his rival for the divine Susan-- "Would you care to take a little promenade with me, Lennier? See the flowers by lanternlight?" Marcus' mouth continued to hang open. "That would be most pleasant. Thank you." The two young men rose and strolled slowly toward the greenery. Marcus snapped his jaw shut. "Say, commander, I'd really like to try this kind of dancing. Could you show me?" "Sure, Vir, I'd love to. We'll have you reeling like a pro in no time." Marcus watched those shoes, those stockings, that shiny, slippery skirt tripping away from him on the arm of a portly Centauri. He laid his head down and slowly, methodically, began banging it against the table. ONE two three, ONE two three--" "Lou, for heaven's sake. Do you have to count out loud?" Elspeth Pride was sharing the second waltz with her old friend. "Sorry. I'm not exactly a natural at this. Look at Mr. Cotto, over there. He looks like Fred Astaire!" Indeed, the Centauri was tripping the light fantastic with an attractive young woman from Computer Maintenance. He had become the partner of choice, to the chagrin of some less gifted human escorts. If they had known of the tidbits of biological information Ivanova let drop in the crowded ladies room, they would have been even more worried. "So what're you gonna do?" Elspeth continued. "I thought I'd install a securecam in her room and pipe the time-delayed tape into the Chief's office. That way, when he gets in in the morning, he can see her undressing for bed." "LOU!" "Bad idea? OW! Okay, I'll think of something a little less obvious." They danced on, circling the floor. Lou Welch evidently saw something interesting, because he waltzed Elspeth toward the seating area. In flashes over her partner's shoulder, she could see Michael Garibaldi, stretched out in a chair, wadding up bits of cocktail napkins and dropping them in the candle flame. "Pretty pitiful, huh? He talks a good game, but trust me, nobody's written in his dance card for a long time, if you get my drift." He took another, more flamboyant turn. "Get ready." Welch suddenly whipped his partner around furiously, stumbled off the raised dance floor, and collapsed, clutching his ankle, conveniently near his superior officer. "LOU!" Elspeth shrieked. Garibaldi was on his feet, kilt swinging, and gently raising Lou off the floor. His second in command groaned dramatically. "My ankle...oh, hell. I sprained it." He shot a glance at Elspeth. "Oh," she said. "OH! That soft tissue damage can be terrible. The doc's gonna have you off your feet for at least...two days." "Maybe three," Lou said. Garibaldi helped him hop to a chair. "Siddown, Lou. Lt. Pride's right. Stay off it." Welch's face creased in thought. "Chief, how the hell are we gonna change tomorrow's schedule at this time of night?" "Don't worry about it, Lou. I'll talk to some of the guys." Garibaldi looked distractedly around the Garden. At least half the security personnel had already left the party, and with the amount of socializing that had been going on, there was no guarantee that they could be reached at their home coms. "Chief, I have an idea. What if we traded places? I could do all the write ups and brief the advocates for court tomorrow, and you could patrol for me. I'm in the Red sector." Garibaldi was shaking his head. "I don't know, Lou. There's a lotta--Red sector?" "Yep." "Commercial or residential?" "Both." There was a pause. Garibaldi's eyes went momentarily unfocused, looking past his friend at something only he could see. His expression was grim, but his ears were pink. Pride and Welch both stopped breathing. "Okay. You got a deal. You meet with the lawyers and I'll walk your beat." Elspeth saw her opening and took it. "Lou, I didn't know you were in Red these days. I have a good friend who lives in Red 57, number 245 A. Do you know Mercedes LoBianco?" Garibaldi's head whipped around suspiciously. Fortunately. Lou's wife rushed up at that moment and commandeered her husband. In the bustle to deliver the "injured man" to medical, Elspeth Pride made a strategic retreat to her own table. Her husband caught her around the waist and nuzzled her cheek. "We told the sitter we'd be back by 0100," he reminded her. She gave a satisfied sigh. "My work here is done," she said. "Time to ride into the sunset." Marcus tried to catch Ivanova's eye from the bar. She was surrounded by an appreciative, mostly inebriated crowd, laughing and applauding the most amazingly obscene bit of doggerel Marcus had ever heard. He had been one of her court too, until she got to the verse where the tentacled thing started using machinery on the miner's daughter...he was too embarrassed to listen to the rest. He had scarcely been able to dance with her at all, except for the Narn numbers, which were more like organized combat than human dancing. Thank God he could duck a blow! "She's great, isn't she?" Captain Sheridan bellied up to the bar and ordered a beer. "I would never guess she knew how to PRONOUNCE some of those terms, let alone DESCRIBE them. In detail. I could have stood finding out in private, rather than in front of three or four hundred people." "Out of the loop, eh? I thought I didn't see you two dancing too often tonight." At that moment, Marcus spotted Delenn on the floor, stepping through the pattern of an intricate quadrille. "I could say the same for you, Captain. Why aren't you out there?" Sheridan pulled a face. "Ambassador Delenn is using all her diplomatic skills to save my sorry ass," he confessed. In the dance, Delenn tapped the head of Atmospherics' hand flirtatiously. Had she a fan, she would have been fluttering it. "I...see," Marcus said reservedly. "I heard there was a little incident..." he pointed a finger upward. Sheridan nodded and echoed the gesture. "A little incident. Oh, yes." The two men looked up philosophically. If one squinted, the lights on the other side of the canister looked like stars as seen through atmosphere. On the other hand, it also looked as if a sizable portion of Surrey was about to come crashing from the sky, flattening them all. Marcus could almost see the farms falling... "What's that?" he asked suddenly. "What?" "That black thing, see? Does Babylon 5 have bats?" "No. No birds, either." Sheridan could see it now, a small object fluttering madly, gathering speed as it rushed toward its intersection with the canister floor. The thing must be getting close to its terminal velocity of sixty klicks per hour. "Good Lord! It's headed for the dance floor!" They could see it more clearly, now, dark navy cloth and a bill. Sheridan's stomach sank in sick inevitability. Closer, faster...there was indiscernible lettering on the thing. It flashed into the illuminated area and smashed into the balding pate of the merrily dancing head of Atmospherics, who was knocked unconscious to the floor. The music came to an abrupt stop. There was a horrified silence. Delenn bent down, retrieved the rogue baseball cap. The name on the back of the instrument of destruction was very legible. Everyone turned to look at John Sheridan. "Right now would be a good time for Homeguard terrorists to assassinate me," he whispered to Marcus. "I don't think you're going to get that lucky," Cole whispered back. Vir Cotto felt like the luck of Lord Soli was with him tonight. He had no less than ten com numbers stored in his pocket, given to him by various dancing partners. He hadn't forgotten his dear, deluded Lyndisty, of course, but who knew how long it would be before the marriage was formalized? Besides, he owed it to her to be more experienced when he came to her. It was a husband's duty to introduce his wife to physical pleasures, and he frankly would feel more comfortable gaining the necessary experience from women less interested in restraints and knives. He was wrapped in a fantasy of dazzling the imperial court with his knowledge of exotic human love rituals...winning the affections of a very rich and powerful woman...the envy of his peers...a much higher hairdo... when he almost walked into Lennier and Lt. Corwin. Lennier had that stiff backed look he got when he was being disagreeable about something, and Corwin was close to tears. "All right!" Corwin was saying, "I accept that. Just tell me--is it because I'm a man?" Lennier's brows creased in puzzlement. "No, David," he replied. "It is because you are a human." Corwin scowled. "Lennier," he said, "I never would have taken you for a...a...species chauvinist. I'm very disappointed." He stomped away. "Does this mean our swim at this "Y" you spoke of is off?" called Lennier. "Yes!" shouted Corwin, disappearing behind the moongate. Lennier sighed and fussed with his overvest as Vir stared at him, wide-eyed. "Lennier," whispered the Centauri, "I think Lt. Corwin wanted to commit the unnatural sins of Smobreli with you." "I don't know Smobreli, but if he doesn't have a bonecrest, I'm not interested," Lennier said shortly. "Ah. Well. Perhaps now might be a good time to leave. Before you insult any other species. Not that you intend to be insulting, I'm sure." "I think you are right, Vir. I believe I have had as much fun as I can take for one night." The party was winding down. They walked past their former tablemates. Ivanova was leaning heavily on Marcus Cole, who was slowly waltzing her around the floor. From the bar, they could hear Zack Allen regaling a few bored listeners with security stories: "So then she says to me, 'I swear I am prepared to defend myself by force if I am attacked by force,' and she jumps my bones..." A stretcher carrying some unfortunate older human to medlab preceded them to the tube. And from behind a bank of flowering bushes, they could hear a loud THWACK followed by a voice--suspiciously like the captain's--yelping, "Ouch!" The two attaches paused, glanced at each other, and by tacit agreement, walked on. "How do humans tell if a party was well received?" wondered Lennier as they waited for the lift tube. "Don't know. If most of the guests are unconscious, and someone has been involved in a scandal, and there's going to be a duel the next day, most Centauri would consider it a perfect party." The tube arrived, and the weary partygoers entered gratefully. As the doors were shutting, Lennier had a thought. "Perhaps the party is like the scavenger hunt---it is successful if the participants find that for which they have been searching." Marcus Cole shut his eyes and considered that heaven was just a tube ride and a short walk away. Susan Ivanova was pressed against him, dancing only slightly out of step, and when the music stopped, he opened his eyes to see her almost nose to nose with him. It made her slightly out of focus, but it was very nice. "You're cute," she said, as if just discovering the fact. "Thank you," he demurred. She didn't SOUND drunk...no slurring or hiccups. "You look just like Robin Hood, did you know that? Like Robin Hood in a kilt. Say, is it true about what men wear under these--" "Ahahah!" he chided, grabbing her hands in the nick of time. All right, she was acting a bit differently, but she wasn't stumbling about or getting sick. Maybe the vodka had just...relieved her of the burdens of her command position. Perhaps now he was seeing the true face of Susan Ivanova. "What do you say we go back to my quarters and you show me how you use your bow, Robin," Ivanova grinned. She leaned forward against him once more. "I know you want to," she murmured in his ear. That's it. She probably isn't inebriated at all. He was going to-- A heavy hand fell on Marcus' shoulder, and he looked up into the forbidding face of the Older Brother from Hell. "She's plastered, Cole," Garibaldi said. "And I intend to see you don't take advantage of that fact." "Michael! I'm a gentleman! Besides, Susan has just had a few drinks. She's in complete control, aren't you, Susan?" In answer, Ivanova swayed against Garibaldi's chest, looking up at him dreamily. "It's Michael! Hi, Michael! Marcus and I are going to my place to play Robin Hood and Maid Marion. You come, too. You can be the sheriff of Nottingham." She smirked. "Bring your handcuffs." Garibaldi raised his dark brows and looked pointedly at Marcus. Cole sighed. "Right, then, darling, let's get you home. Michael, if you take her other arm, I think we can manage the trip." "Oh, goody," Ivanova sang out. "I knew it was too good to be true," Marcus grumbled. "Look, tomorrow, when you're still alive and intact, if you get my drift, you'll thank me." "Yeah, yeah, right. Thanks ever so." As they walked Babylon 5's second in command to the tube, Marcus reviewed his finances. Just how long would it take him to save up for a box of chocolates? "Okay. Thanks for the update." Captain Sheridan tapped his handlink off. "Well, Stephen says there's no serious damage. Just a few bruises and some wounded pride. Kinda like me." Delenn looked at him unsympathetically. "You will be lucky if he does not press charges. Or, at the least, turn off the recirculating vents in your quarters." "Well, if you come for a visit and find me passed out on the floor, you'll know the cause." The sound of the band members' cases slamming shut caught his attention. "Hey, thanks, folks. That was great," he called. He turned again to the petite woman standing beside him. "C'mon, let's blow this popsicle stand." Taking Delenn's hand seemed entirely natural. "Can I walk you home?" She smiled up at him. "I am not even going to try to discover the meaning of that last phrase. And yes, you may walk me home. But only if you promise we will not discuss anything to do with baseball." "I can safely promise you that," Sheridan grinned. The corridor leading away from the Garden was sparsely populated, and the dim light of nightcycle cast a romantic ambiance on the otherwise workaday area. "So, what did you think of your first scavenger hunt?" he asked. "I enjoyed myself. Much more than I expected to, really." "Even our little accident?" "OUR accident?" she asked tartly. "Yes, even that. A philosopher once wrote that the only way to truly know another people is to know what makes them laugh. And that the only truly dangerous species is one without laughter." They walked on companionably, thinking of what she had said. Then Sheridan started to chuckle. "What?" "I was just remembering your face when you realized the maintenance car was gone for good," he laughed. She smiled, then laughed herself. "You should have seen YOUR face when I swatted you with the safety line!" He roared until tears came to his eyes. "Oh. John," she gasped weakly. They stood together, holding hands, foreheads touching, until they quieted down to an occasional chuckle, then ambled on lazily toward the ambassadorial sector. "Delenn?" "Mmmn?" "If I'm very good..." "What?" "Would you spank me again?" Today is gone. Today was fun. Tomorrow is another one. Every day, from here to there, funny things are everywhere. --Theodore Geisel