From fmlecou@mailbox.syr.eduTue Jan 9 20:16:11 1996 Date: Sat, 6 Jan 1996 23:15:32 -0500 (EST) From: "Felicia M. Le Cou" Reply to: b5-creative@blob.best.net To: b5-creative@blob.best.net Subject: Shades of Grey, Ch.1.1 Here is the first segment of Shades of Grey! Hope this fulfills your B5 fix for the day! Shades of Grey By Felicia Le Cou fmlecou@mailbox.syr.edu ISN Reports: "Time is an interesting concept. We think of it as linear. Things we experience live in the past, and the future can bring us any option. But once you know that time isn't fixed...then nothing remains certain--Not the future (if it ever was), not the present, not the past...." --Admiral Jeffrey Sinclair Retired Chapter 1 The area of Earth's North American continent once known as the Pacific Northwest managed to remain green despite severe ecological problems in the twenty-first century. Now, in the twenty-third century, the purity of the region can be attributed to once unpopular environmental protection laws which restricted clear-cut logging, urban expansion into forest land, and prescribed strict fines to violators of any kind. The Northwest's lakes exist as clear and unpolluted; her evergreen forests are nearly as full as before the first logging operations took place in the nineteenth century, leveling them for the first, but not the last, time. Highway 2 still stretched northwards out of Spokane-Cheney Metro, but gas powered vehicles no longer populated it. About a hundred years ago a high-speed rail-car system replaced the broken pavement. This section of old American highway was one of the last to upgrade to such a system; local populations resisted modern transportation systems because they feared increased transient access. They had by then come to expect a certain quality of life-- and they didn't want anything or anyone interfering with their independence. The rail system didn't last more than twenty years or so. The Pend Oreille Earthquake of 2150 essentially destroyed it. The tri- state government (composed of Washington, Oregon, and Idaho) chose not to reinvest funds in an non-revenue generating system and repaired damage in the metro areas--a lot of damage, caused by 9.1 Richter scale upset. Eventually, the road was replaced by the magnetic-shuttle grid. The new ground shuttles could be programmed for travel anywhere within the map grid where the large magnetic based tracking strips were buried in the ground. The passengers didn't need a driver, just a destination. The shuttle then traveled, approximately four feet off the ground, safely, cleanly, and efficiently. And slowly. Local population set the speed limit at 80 kilometers per hour, and restricted air access to emergency vehicles and local traffic only. This caused tourists, used to instant access anywhere they wished, to think twice before planning a purely leisure trip. Many still came, but not as many as might come. Certainly, one of the passengers in the small two person shuttle nearing Davis Lake wouldn't have come, not if she didn't have to. She was a thin woman, in her late forties or early fifties. Her chin length dark blond hair would be more grey than blond, but she colored it for professional reasons--so she told herself, anyway. Her assistant, Samantha Marshall, looked with interest at the passing snow covered trees and bushes that blurred by. The young red haired woman appeared perfectly comfortable, excited even, in her surroundings. Well, her career wasn't on the line, threatening self-destruction if this anniversary segment didn't get completed on time. "'The wilderness has a mysterious tongue which teaches awful doubt, or faith so mild, so solemn, so serene....'" "What was that? Sammy?" she asked. Sammy shrugged a little, "Oh, nothing really. It's from Shelley's "Mont Blanc." This area has always reminded me of it." "But I thought that poem was about a mountain in Europe." "Depends how you interpret it, Cynthia. But I grew up around here, and when I was a little girl and my mother and I took this route to visit my Grandmother in Ione, I always imagined the poem moving as a vision in my mind, especially whenever I first glimpsed the Canadian mountains, "'Mont Blanc appears, --still, snowy, and serene--Its subject mountains their unearthly forms pile around it, ice and rock' I know its not an exact comparison, but before I saw the real Mont Blanc it was the only comparison I had. Besides," Sammy shrugged again, "Chamouni is more like a park, you know? When I visited it I had a hard time believing it was ever as wild as Shelley portrayed it." Cynthia frowned, never knowing her assistant had such poetic interests. "What did you major in as an undergrad?" she asked. "Communications technology," Sammy replied. "Why?" "Just curious." "I did a double graduate degree: Journalism and Earth Lit, if you can believe it," Sammy supplied. "I even wrote a two hundred page thesis on Shelley; my profs wanted me to go through the PhD program but I was already twenty, and any more school would have driven me nuts." Cynthia studied her assistant more closely, eyebrow raised. Sammy had been consistently working with her for four years now. She always assumed that ISN snagged her just out of grad school, before EarthDome stole her away for their purposes. "Sammy Marshall, just how old are you?" "Twenty-four. Oh, hey we're coming up on the lake now. I wonder if its iced over. Sometimes it is. I'd cut over it if I thought I could get away with it, but someone would probably see me and then we'd be in big trouble." Sammy pulled up the navigation program on the terminal. The shuttle began slowing from its already slow pace. Cynthia checked her wrist chronometer, 0840 local time. They had twenty minutes to make their appointment. But she began to feel nervous as she watched Sammy examine their route on the terminal's map. "Doesn't the magno-strip take us all the way?" Cynthia asked. Sammy looked up, amusement playing across her expressive face, "You've got to be kidding! The residents here would never go for that. Nope, once we get to the turn off we have to pilot this ourselves." As if in response to Sammy's explanation, the shuttle's computer intoned, "End of programmed route in two minutes." "And you know how to pilot one of these?" Cynthia asked. "Uhm, well, I knew the old model pretty well. Actually, I haven't dealt with this model, but how different can it be?" Cynthia shook her head, watching the ice-covered lake to her left. The ice was periodically broken up by water-filled holes. Very cold looking water-filled holes. She didn't relish the idea of sinking into those depths. How embarrassing! *ISN News reports Cynthia Torquemann's rescue from icy depths, all because she didn't know how to pilot a ground shuttle!* "Anyway," Sammy continued, "We'll be there soon. Davis Lake isn't that large, and I believe the Sinclair's are right on the edge...the far side of the edge, of course." "Of course," Cynthia replied, holding her breath as the computer's control ended and Sammy's control began. She breathed out when she didn't notice any significant difference. Until the shuttle lurched sickeningly to the left, towards the water. Cynthia clutched the sides of her seat, bracing for the icy cold. "Relax, Cynthia! We're just leaving the magno-grid. Everything's fine...." Cynthia just nodded her head, hoping that the return trip wouldn't be nearly as traumatic. God, what the network wouldn't do for ratings these days. To be continued in segment 1.2 Copyright 1996 by Felicia Le Cou. All Right Reserved, save for those already owned by the PTEN network. Please send comments to either the list or me at fmlecou@mailbox.syr.edu. Enjoy! From fmlecou@mailbox.syr.eduSat Jan 13 18:33:50 1996 Date: Fri, 12 Jan 1996 03:01:10 -0500 (EST) From: "Felicia M. Le Cou" Reply to: b5-creative@blob.best.net To: b5-creative@blob.best.net Subject: Shades of Grey, Ch. 1.2 Shades of Grey By Felicia Le Cou fmlecou@mailbox.syr.edu <1.2> It was an old dream.... Sometimes sleep provided an escape from which he didn't want to return. A place so comfortable and warm--in this place anything was possible. He could exist in any time, witness any event, and imagine any scenario. But despite these vast possibilities, he found himself standing awkwardly on familiar rocky terrain. When he recognized this place, escape of sleep became prison. This world he stood on would deliver only pain and grief, and anguish. The acrid air--he couldn't breath it. None of them could. An oxygen mask covered his face, tenuous protection from the heavy atmosphere clinging to his body and around his neck, threatening strangulation. He was here, in this place, for a reason. For a purpose. But memory of that purpose evaded his sleeping mind, like a shadow fleeing light's capture. He stood alone beneath an alien sun, shrouded in thick red mist as it dropped into the horizon. Before him a cliff face stretched sharply upwards, the surrounding rocks reflecting red hues of anger. But also before him, hosted by the cliff face, gaped a darkened cavern, it's entrance wide and hungary. He strode forth, entering the cavern. Still alone, he advanced cautiously over the sharp and uneven ground--not sure what he would find but knowing he had to go forward. To warn, prepossessed with deadly knowledge. He must struggle onward despite the extreme heat blowing against him, despite the uncertainty ahead. Once within the great cavern, his eyes adjust to the lighting-- dim, but not the total blackness he initially expected. The colorful rock formations, stretching from the high vaulted ceiling to the ground, provided internal light--glowing iridescent mauve, the color of the sky outside, the color of the sun. All angry but somehow fitting. The walls reflected earth ocher, the color of blood. Where was she? The cavern remained empty of both his friends and his foes. Where-- A second passageway's entrance beckoned, mysteriously hidden among the jagged wall. Not so mysterious, knowing instantly where he must go, he enters, not sure what he will find but dread filling his heart. He hears the others somewhere behind him; they call for him to wait but he knows that any faltering would end in tragedy. Red tinged fog, the kind only experienced in nightmares such as this, surrounded him. He sees a strange double vision, both watching as if from very far away, objectively, calmly, and the confusing images, through his own eyes, barely detected through the deadly gaseous mists. Finally, he can see her. The mist--thinned in this one spot, isolated in time. She stands alone, pain on her face and in her heart. He has known her a million years, even if in reality only fifteen. She watches him watching her. Her long dark hair streaked with blood, from where he can't determine. In her hands she holds a small dagger. He starts towards her, wanting...needing to help. "Don't," she says, pleading, dagger held up in a half- threatening gesture. He stops. "Don't stop me this time," her voice pleading, muffled by the mask. "I can't--" I can't. She stops speaking with those words. Can't what? The question hangs in the mist between them. He almost asks her, but before he has a chance to speak she removes her mask and begins willfully gasping in deep breaths of poisoned air. "Stop!" he tries to call out, but no sound escapes from him--a silent plea on the winds traversing this hellish planet. He leaps toward her as she jabs the dagger towards her throat. "Delenn!" + + + "Jeff! Wake up!" Jeffrey Sinclair's eyes flew open, panicked. Where was he? Why didn't anything seem familiar? He couldn't focus--the blur of abandoned sleep polluting his vision. "No," he whispered, rubbing his eyes, trying to clear them. "Jeff?" A cool hand covered his forehead, concern seeping through its touch. "Catherine," Sinclair spoke his wife's name, the disorientation of the dream still with him. The dream vision fled, it's sense of urgency had not. Sinclair inhaled, then looked around him, now recognizing the bedroom he and Catherine shared. On Earth--his earth, not some alien soil. Catherine sat on the edge of the bed, clothed in terry cloth blue, which accentuated her raven black hair. Her face, wide eyed and expressive, questioned. He knew she would ask, again. And he would still have no answer for her. "Are you back now?" Catherine asked softly. Sinclair nodded his head, taking hold of Catherine's slender hand, warm against his chilled palm, and pulling it to his lips. She leaned towards him as he managed to sit up without appearing too clumsy, and brought her free arm about, smoothly encircling his neck. His wife's gracefulness far outshone his, he thought. "What were you dreaming about?" she asked, snuggling against him. Her dark lush hair splayed across his chest. What was the dream? The question he knew she would ask. And then she would ask the other. "I don't remember," he replied. He had an idea, a fragment of thought, but then it fled his conscious mind. Another pattern of color, here and gone in an instant. "You screamed her name so loud I was surprised you didn't wake from the sound of it," Catherine commented. Sinclair could not see her face, cheek against him, eyes turned outwards into the room. "Who's name?" he asked, knowing perfectly well who's it must have been. "Delenn's. Jeff..." Catherine glanced upwards, brushing the grey from his face with her finger tips. "...it's been five years." "I don't remember," Sinclair told her again. "It's a dream, a nightmare." "That's not what I meant, and you know it," Catherine sighed, her voice becoming sharp, almost bitter. He never could bring himself to part with those memories, to share them. No matter how much she wanted him to, or needed him to. "I know," Sinclair replied quietly, feeling regret that he could not please Catherine in this. It wasn't just a memory; it *was* a nightmare. Catherine must have somehow sensed that Sinclair said all he planned to say, and kissed him. Even the kiss conveyed her hurt at his unwillingness to speak of things before. "C'mon. Get up, Jeff." Catherine patted him lightly on the shoulder. Then she pulled away, getting up herself. Whith the absence of her marm body heat, Sinclair became aware of how chilly the room actually was, and how damp the force of his nightmare left the sheets. "Do I have to?" Sinclair asked, knowing that he had to but asking anyway. Maybe Catherine would write him a note to stay home from school. If he was lucky he could convince her to call him in sick as well. Then he'd be set; he'watch cartoons all day. Sinclair smiled, this thought amused him. "Not if you want ISN to interview you in bed," Catherine warned. "That's today?" "Yes, it's today. In two hours. C'mon," Catherine gently tugged on his arm, "we have to clear the walk-way. We had six inches last night, and it's a mess out there." "But we have two hours." Sinclair pulled Catherine back into the bed with him. It warmed back up. + + + To be continued in segment 1.3 Copyright 1996 by Felicia Le Cou. All Right Reserved, save for those already owned by the PTEN network. Please send comments to either the list or me at fmlecou@mailbox.syr.edu. Enjoy! From fmlecou@mailbox.syr.eduSat Jan 20 15:24:03 1996 Date: Sat, 20 Jan 1996 01:07:14 -0500 (EST) From: "Felicia M. Le Cou" Reply to: b5-creative@blob.best.net To: b5-creative@blob.best.net, Justin Donnelly , Christina Kamnikar Subject: Shades Of Grey, Ch. 1.3 Shades of Grey By Felicia Le Cou fmlecou@mailbox.syr.edu <1.3> Sinclair and Catherine didn't make it outside of their lakeside home until over an hour later. The sunlight, intensified by the recently fallen snow, caused both of them to squint as they shovelled it away. They should have wore sunglasses, but Catherine put them away somewhere and if they spent more time than they did trying to remember where her "very safe place" was, then they still would be inside, and ISN would have the opportunity to report on how the Sinclair's couldn't keep their walkway clear of snow, and about the impending lawsuit filed when ISN anchorwoman Cynthia Torquemann slipped and broke her neck. Not a totally unpleasant thought, Catherine had to admit. They were both outside in the brisk winter air, shovelling the snow away from the shuttle landing pad when Catherine debated telling her husband about her new contract. But instead of telling him that she planned to go off-world for two weeks, she mentioned the approaching interview. "Jeff, you don't have do this, you know." "Have you met Cynthia Torquemann before?" Sinclair asked her. "I've seen her interviews." "Well, you're about to meet her in person, because unless I'm mistaken that shuttle's hers." Sighing, Catherine identified the shuttle Sinclair indicated, despite the sun's harsh glare. In other words, if they wanted to back out now they would have to deal with people, not machines. They moved away from the landing pad as the small shuttle approached them. Who was piloting that thing? Catherine wondered, because the shuttle pilot seemed to have some trouble maneuvering to a stop. For a moment, it was debatable if the shuttle would land on the pad at all, so hyperbolic was it's wobbling. But it landed. "Someone not familiar with the upgrade," Catherine commented, and she was surprised to see the young red-head who stepped out of the side exit, with Cynthia Torquemann following closely behind. The anchorwoman looked pale and annoyed in her red skirted suit. The glint of a gold-toned ISN pin sparkled briefly from the shoulder of her tapered jacket. She must not have enjoyed her trip. Samantha Marshall, Catherine identified the first woman. This was the one who set up the interview with Sinclair. Was she the pilot? Catherine was surprised because no one else exited. She thought that ISN would have sent someone who knew the area better than an anchorwoman's assistant. But Miss Marshall didn't seem distressed. Dressed in deep green that tapered her waist and ended at her knees, curls framed her open friendly face. "I hope we're not too late!" Miss Marshall happily greeted. Sinclair, standing at Catherine's side, grinned, "No, not at all. We got a late start on our morning. You must be Samantha Marshall?" "Yes, call me Sammy. So good to finally meet you, Admiral." Sammy paused, waiting for Cynthia to catch up with her. Cynthia slipped slightly in her heels. Maybe Catherine's vision would manifest after all. "And may I introduce Cynthia Torquemann?" Sammy began. Cynthia smiled tensely; Catherine decided it was going to be a long morning. + + + "This place is so wonderfully historic," Samantha Marshall told Catherine, looking in awe at the antique-filled study. No evidence of modern communications equipment decorated the walls. No electronic indicators. Nothing in the room suggested that the outside world had advanced 200 years or more beyond the technology currently visual. Catherine, now dressed in a khaki jumpsuit with raven hair drawn back in a matching string, showed Cynthia Torquemann and her aide into the study when the news team first arrived. If ISN must conduct an interview, attempt to dredge up a past that even she, Sinclair's wife, had little success extracting, then the study was the most appropriate. Suddenly, she realized Cynthia's assistant waited for a response. "Yes," she replied, "It is rather like a museum." Because everything here reflected him. Who he was; is. "I love it," Sammy added, hazel eyes glittering as she swept out a hand, encompassing the room, passing over the desk with it's small reading lamp and paperweight encapsulating an ancient seagoing ship, and including the many volumes of books that lined the hardwood shelves behind the cherry wood desk. Shakespeare, Keats, Shelley, Tennyson, Elliot. Critical thought by Dr. Paulette Scott, analyzing the poetical works produced by the romantic age, seemed to especially intrigue the young woman. Catherine noticed Cynthia looking up from her notes, eyebrow raised, as Sammy more closely admired the great book collection. "So does Jeff," This woman's impressionability amused her. Sammy's hand crept out, nearly brushing the spine of one very thick volume laying flat on the center shelf, adjacent to an award plaque. Old--no, ancient--the characters were not Earth Standard, or even Roman in origin. "Where did that book come from?" Cynthia asked, also noticing the volume. "It's Minbari," Catherine informed. "Yes, I thought it might be," Sammy commented, then moved to the front of the desk, checking the hand-held test monitor to the pair of hovering recorders. One recorder would focus on Sinclair when he returned from shoveling the walkway, and the other...the other would probably focus on the interviewer, Catherine guessed. She hoped her husband would finish shovelling that walkway soon. She didn't exactly feel comfortable with ISN people, in general. "Books take up a lot of space," Cynthia said. "Wouldn't data- crystals be a more efficient storage medium?" "Well, I need something to do when my wife is away at work," Sinclair explained as he entered. "Dust my books off, I mean, when I read them," he added when the newscaster looked at him, blank faced. Jeffrey Sinclair paused just inside the room, dressed in a dark blue shirt and black slacks, looking as if he might be having second thoughts. Catherine was having third or fourth thoughts, but she wasn't the one who had to decide whether or not to allow Cynthia Torquemann, a stranger, probe into his personal life. To probe into their personal life. Sammy stepped towards him, a blur of bright energy. "Admiral Sinclair, your wife suggested this area for the interview, and I agree with her. Everything in the room seems to somehow reflect your personality, or," Sammy amended, "how people perceive you. But--" "What my assistant is trying to say, Admiral," Cynthia interrupted, "is that if you prefer this to take place in another location, someplace with better lighting perhaps, then we will certainly concede to your preferences." "No, this is fine," Sinclair grinned at Sammy before sitting down behind the desk. Catherine knew that one of the reasons Sinclair agreed to the anniversary interview were the several communications conducted by Cynthia's assistant over the past week. Cynthia checked her small microphone, barely detectable near her pin, while Sammy conducted a final check on the recorders' view. After seating herself across from Sinclair she smiled. The smile that Catherine saw over the ISN newscasts for the past 20 years or so. "Thank you for agreeing to this interview, Admiral Sinclair. I wanted to explain that you are perfectly free not to answer any question I ask, and of course you have editing powers as per agreement, and--" "I do?" Sinclair asked, surprised. "Yes, my aide explained that unless I agreed to that provision I wasn't going to have to opportunity to talk to you, or any of the others previously involved with Babylon 5. It seems that people are very, uh, wary of press coverage in these isolationist times." Cynthia frowned at Sammy, who glance briefly at Catherine. "Yes, that's correct," Catherine affirmed. Truthfully, it was news to her, but thought it was a good idea. "The reason I am here today, Admiral, is because the political and social climate of the galaxy drastically changed over the last five years, and we at ISN hope that you, and others who participated on behalf of Babylon 5 in the Shadow War, could help us, as citizens of an increasingly isolationist environment, understand a little more of what exactly occurred in those final, hectic days." Sinclair met Catherine's eyes; she couldn't help but remember his unwillingness to speak of this subject only two hours earlier. "Ms. Torquemann--" "Cynthia, please," she urged. "Cynthia, I know of at least a hundred histories and analysis that have been published in the last five years detailing this very subject, perhaps this would be a better question for the political analysts." Cynthia nodded her head, "But nearly half of those same chronicles discount the notion that we were ever at war with an old and ancient race, and that the destruction of our colony in the Tiger sector was only shadow-play, a story, created by the Centauri government, at that time very intent on expanding borders where ever possible." "But you know that's not the truth, don't you," Sinclair seemed tense. Catherine was now sure this interview was not a good idea. "Yes, I know the truth. I was in the Epsilon system during the last battle. Obviously, not the best place to be...." Sinclair nodded his head, then he shifted in his chair and took a deep breath. What was he thinking? Catherine wanted to know. What was he remembering. What were all those thoughts and feelings that he would never, or could never, easily share with her? She held her breath, waiting for him to speak. She was always holding her breath. "The Centauri lost several billion lives and most of their colonies," Sinclair began. "That alone should answer the question about who could have destroyed our colony at the Tiger sector." He leaned forward, shifting in his chair again. "Human losses, number wise, were high, but not compared to the losses of others. Approximately one million. One million lives, four times as many lives lost in the war with Minbar, but not as important as the fiscal losses," his voice took on a sarcastic tone. "At least," he continued, "not according to the meetings and the decisions. Earth wars of the last several hundred years have been reduced to numbers--sheer loss of potential profit, except for possibly World War II, where over six million lives were lost due to a madman's religious quest, and the Earth-Minbari war--which was a legitimate Holy War, for them, at the time. But, the point I am trying to make, especially in response to your query, is that the Shadow War would have never been noticed by half if we didn't lose fiscally. "I saw a copy of a memo, I can't say to who or who from, that tallied, bean counted, everything EarthDome had lost so far in the war. Under "Acceptable Losses" was the number up to 3 million human lives. These were numbers that we supposedly could absorb, that EarthDome would receive minimal political backlash. But the Tiger colony also hosted one of our oldest and largest Quantium D-40 mines--and the number crunchers deemed it an "Unacceptable Loss," not only in terms of expense to rebuild, but the loss in potential profits. This is what most likely prompted EarthSenate and EarthCongress to withdraw, make isolation policy not just practice, and to choose not to renew the Babylon project." Sinclair paused, bringing up a hand to brush the grey hair out of his eyes, then to rub his neck. He looked tired--more tired than normal. He was right, Catherine thought, this was a better question for the political analysts. "The attack on the Tiger colony finally convinced EarthDome that Earth holdings were targets in the war," Cynthia summarized, "and even though, at that point, military resources were officially assigned, Earth had already made it's decision not to rebuild in the Tiger sector?" "Pretty much, that sums it up. In the end, we, as a whole, failed to understand the overall ideal of what happened. Societal history reduced the Shadow War to a profit-loss statement. And we lot. Some lost more than others, but we all lost." "Admiral," Cynthia spoke, "what do you have to say about those who argue that the war wouldn't have touched us at all if we had only stayed out of other races' affairs, especially on Babylon 5." Sinclair sighed, shaking his head, "But if Babylon 5 did not exist at the time, allowing the different races conveniently pool their knowledge, then we would have been manipulated to our own destruction. Remember, and many forget now that five years have passed, that eighteen shadow agents emerged in EarthDome, alone, all in places of considerable influence...." + + + To be continued in 1.4 Copyright 1996 by Felicia Le Cou. All rights reserved, saved for those already owned by others. Please send any comments to fmlecou@mailbox.syr.edu. Enjoy! From fmlecou@mailbox.syr.eduSat Jan 20 15:24:06 1996 Date: Sat, 20 Jan 1996 01:08:33 -0500 (EST) From: "Felicia M. Le Cou" Reply to: b5-creative@blob.best.net To: b5-creative@blob.best.net Subject: Shades Of Grey, Ch. 1.4 Shades Of Grey By Felicia Le Cou fmlecou@mailbox.syr.edu <1.4> As the ISN interview continued, Catherine tensed more and more. "Is the saying true?" Cynthia asked. "Does time heal all wounds?" Sinclair thought a moment, temporarily thrown off by Cynthia's change in questioning. "Time is an interesting concept," he said after a long while. "We think of it as linear. Things we experience live in the past, and the future can bring us any option. But once you know that time isn't fixed...then nothing remains certain--Not the future--if it ever was, not the present, not the past, so as to whether or not Time heals, I can't say." "Can you explain what exactly you mean by that?" "No, Cynthia, I'm afraid I really can't." Awkward silence. Catherine debated about interrupting this interview before she exploded. She could sense Sinclair's discomfort from across the room. But then Sammy softly tapped her on the shoulder, distracting her from the interview. "I really hate to bother you, but I really hoped I could get a glass of water?" "Water?," Catherine realized that she never asked if the news people were thirsty, hungary, or anything. Sammy nodded her head. "Sure, I should probably leave the room anyway." "Why?" "I might strangle your boss if I don't," Catherine explained. "You hungary, too?" "Yeah, well, she has that effect on some people," Sammy said as she followed Catherine out of the study. "As far as food...I wasn't going to ask. It's been a hectic day and I just planned on getting something later." They went into the kitchen. A refrigerator, no synth. A stovetop. Very open, very calming, and facing the bay windows looking over the frozen lake. Catherine stretched her neck, not realizing how tense she had become until she left the study. And she also realized that she actually liked Cynthia Torquemann's assistant, who watched her, looking concerned. "So," Catherine smiled at the younger woman, pouring her a glass of water from the counter carafe. "Why aren't you conducting the interview, Sammy? I understand you did all the groundwork setting it up. You convinced Jeff, anyway." "I'm pretty much still considered a trainee, a researcher. I've only been with the network four years. Cynthia has more experience, more exposure," Sammy accepted the water, sipped it. The fact that she didn't sound bitter or slighted at all impressed Catherine. When Catherine worked for Interplanetary Expeditions as a pilot, she quit after two years of non-advancement and started her own scouting service. They told her one too many times that she was a valued researcher, and was more useful to them in an assist position. "Still," she commented as she assorted some fruit, vegetables, and cheese on a platter, "I have to say I was extremely surprised when Jeff told me he agreed to let Cynthia Torquemann interview him. I still remember all the fallout ISN got after her 36 Hours special about Babylon 5 aired." "She can be controversial, and that's another reason the network wanted her," Sammy sat down across from Catherine at the white oval table near the window. "Ratings are still part of the game, Mrs. Sinclair. Not much has changed in news-reporting history. She's good at what she does; she gets people to talk about what they don't want to, or think they don't want to, even when they don't feel comfortable, or if--" "They say they can't remember?" Catherine asked, passing Sammy the breakfast platter to snack from. "Sometimes," Sammy picked up a piece of broccoli. "You might think she's asking too many questions, but she isn't. Most will be edited down--we have to fit everything into an hour time slot," Sammy said this last bit sarcastically. Obviously, despite her lip service to ISN, she didn't agree with everything they did. "You don't agree, then," Catherine said neutrally. "No, I don't," anger seeped through Sammy's voice. "Cynthia's been set up, and it's unfair!" The young woman suddenly lowered her eyes and concentrated on some of the cheese lining the edge of the platter. But her outburst was interesting. "Why?" Catherine wanted to know. "Because this assignment was handed to us less than a week ago. ISN decided that it just had to be done at the last minute. They are looking for a puff piece, and are demanding work for a full length documentary--and have given us no editing support, no service support, and a deadline that I wouldn't have even been expected to meet even if it was for a class final. They are using her previous association with all of you to their advantage and against her. Really, her career is on the line." Sammy munched down a piece of cauliflower. Catherine just waited, wondering if she would say more on the subject. She was sure Sinclair would be interested. "Cynthia's right, you know. To bring up the end of the war, I mean. Hundreds of history books and chronicles may be out in the information matrix, but the gaps are so substantial that it's still anyone's best guess what really happened. The people who know, really know, either won't fill those gaps in, because they can't remember, or say they can't remember, or--" "Or are dead," Catherine interjected. "Or are dead," Sammy agreed. "But if the end hadn't been so dramatic, half the human population would have blinked, and missed it." Sammy drank some water and met Catherine's eyes. "Tell me, did you know what was going on?" An unexpected twist; no one had ever asked Catherine's viewpoint on the war. But the problem was she was one of the people who nearly missed the war. Her blindness, due to shortsightedness more than anything else, was something she always regretted. "No, I guess I didn't really know the details. I knew that Jeff was involved in something...but--" Catherine broke off, breathing in deeply, trying to remember what clues Jeff tried to drop her during those first frequent communications from Minbar. But, she didn't listen, hadn't wanted to hear.... "Strange things happen in space all the time," she continued, feeling uneasy. "And after a while, nothing surprised me. So much information...and it was confidential. Both of our work required that. And for a time, a long time, that strained our relationship." Why was she telling this to a stranger? Catherine wondered. Because this stranger was the first person who ever asked? Sammy didn't say anything while Catherine sipped her water, only patiently waited for her to continue. "Jeff used to send me messages, telling me to avoid sectors of space, areas on the rim, mining outposts that I might be doing business with. But he wouldn't tell me why, and that made me angry. "That was when Jeff was still on Minbar--he said, 'don't ask me because I can't tell you.' And I felt he was trying to keep me from...going to far. 'Please be careful' is what he said when I refused to disclose the details of my scouting missions, and later I learned that something terrible always happened in those areas he warned me away from." "He was trying to keep you safe," Sammy commented. "Yes, but I think he wanted to ground me from space travel entirely, if he had the option. Especially after the incident at Sigma 957--" "I've heard stories about that place," Sammy sounded excited. "Is it true that an ancient race that lives there helped find the weakness that allowed the combined interstellar military to destroy the Shadows?" "So I've heard..." Catherine trailed off, noting Sammy's anticipative demeanor. "Why is it that suddenly I get the sense that your interviewing me after all?" The other woman blushed a little, then shrugged her shoulders. "Because I like to talk to people? Or because I'm wearing a recorder. I planned to tell you at the end of our visit..." "Oh, really?" Catherine asked, amused. Sammy Marshall would be an excellent interviewer if ISN let her; she was easy to talk to. "Yes, it's more of a personal project. Until I can show that I actually have skills, no one will take me seriously. Is it all right if I continue recording?" Sammy asked hopefully, with a smile. A smile that people found they had a hard time turning down-- joy of the mountain under full light of noon. "Why not," Catherine laughed. "Now, you were talking about Sigma 957?" Sammy directed the conversation back on target, biting into a piece of cheese. "Hmmm...yes...well, they may have helped our interstellar 'army of light', but my first experience with them wasn't pleasant. It's like I was an ant they nearly stomped on as they were strolling by...." To be continued in Chapter 1.5 Copyright 1996 by Felicia Le Cou. All Rights Reserved, save those already owned by others. Please send any comments to flecou@mailbox.syr.edu. Enjoy! From fmlecou@mailbox.syr.eduSun Jan 21 02:28:02 1996 Date: Sun, 21 Jan 1996 04:42:15 -0500 (EST) From: "Felicia M. Le Cou" Reply to: b5-creative@blob.best.net To: b5-creative@blob.best.net Subject: Shades of Grey, Ch. 1.5 Shades of Grey By Felicia Le Cou fmlecou@mailbox.syr.edu <1.5> The interview was wrapping up and Sinclair stood from the desk, stretching. "Thank you for your time, Admiral. This has really helped--and now I have more of an idea what kinds of questions to ask the others." Cynthia shook Sinclair's hand. "Oh?" Sinclair asked, intrigued. He suspected Cynthia was on a fishing expedition, and now he had his confirmation. "Yes, well, whenever we have tried to ...acquire details from EarthDome, it's been a "that's classified" information blackout. I've been curious for years...for instance, have you ever wondered just what was the role of an organization called the Rangers? I haven't found anyone who can talk about it. EarthDome says there was no such thing. Minbar, on the other hand, basically informed us that it was none of our business." "Really," Sinclair smiled, "and your conclusion...?" "That the Rangers existed, and I simply haven't found out who they worked for, yet." "They worked for peace, Cynthia. That's who they always worked for. EarthDome didn't know about them, and the Grey Council felt their presence was...inappropriate at the time. Heroes, every one of them. No one knew how much they risked and all they lost. All, every day." Cynthia's betrayed her surprise, but quickly surprised herself. She didn't ask him about the Rangers--something which surprised him. "You seem to know an awful lot about them?" "Maybe, maybe I do. But you have a sharp mind, Cynthia, so this shouldn't surprise you." Cynthia looked as if she was about to speak, but at that moment Catherine and Sammy reentered the study. Sinclair was relieved to see that Catherine was smiling, easily, and relaxed. Before she left the room he couldn't help but notice her tightly wound tension, and for a while fully expected her to spring, like a cat between him and Cynthia's then very general questions. And after she and Cynthia's assistant left, he relaxed more himself. He knew that some of the topics would upset Catherine--even though they shouldn't. "Okay," Catherine said, her cheerful demeanor glimmering through her smile. "What did we miss?" "Lots," Sinclair grinned. "And a new thread of revelation just began unravelling, I think." Cynthia looked excited, locked eyes with Sammy, grinning. "Admiral--" "Call me Jeff." "Jeff, maybe we could spend a few more moments--" "Oh, I think it would take longer than a few moments," Sinclair chuckled, "You indicated that you were running a tight schedule?" "I'm sure I could rearrange--" "Cynthia!" Sammy interrupted, "Did I tell you how long it took me to set things up with the Centaurum? Mr. Cotto isn't keen on this interview idea to begin with, and I don't think we should antagonize him further by suggesting a reschedule." Cynthia frowned, disappointed. "Of course. Whatever ISN wants, right?" Catherine raise her eyebrows in a 'don't look at me' expression. Sinclair couldn't keep from chuckling louder. "Who else do you have scheduled for this special?" Catherine asked, no doubt wondering just what she missed when she left. "Uhm..." Cynthia glanced at Sammy, "Has everyone confirmed?" Sammy nodded, "Just about. Susan Ivanova agreed to a vid interview, very reluctantly. Professor Raymond Parke--he's calling himself an 'alien aggression analyst'--if you ask me we should dump him. We have little enough time as it is, and he's just bound to be...negative. But the producers want him." "EarthDome tends to hang on his every word," Sinclair observed. "They bring him in to testify at legislative hearings...all the time." "What about General Sheridan?" Cynthia asked, taking off her microphone. "I'm working on it. But he still remembers your 36 Hours special..." "And?" Cynthia asked; Catherine's eyebrows inched up. Sinclair figured they would have an awfully interesting conversation when the ISN people cleared out. "And the president promised to convince him." Cynthia looked as if wanted to probe further, but shook her head instead, muttering something like, "I don't think I want to know." "I'm still negotiation with Satai Delenn's office," Sammy added. Sinclair noticed Catherine's smile quickly dropping, her body tensing. "First, I kept getting deferred to a...Neroon. He is most uncooperative." "Sammy, do you know who Neroon *is*?" Cynthia sounded a little shocked, and nervous, probably imagining a million scenarios her assistant broke protocol. "No, I just thought he's--" "Grey Council," Sinclair completed Sammy's sentence. "He's Grey Council. Interesting that you were able to speak to him...but then again, Delenn has several protectors these days." At mention of Delenn's name, Catherine's smile completely fled, "No one's talked to her in five years," she said. "Not her friends, not the press. No one." "Well, anyway, I'm talking to Miss Beldon now. She's human, and much easier to deal with. Traditionally, she answers ISN's questions about Minbari policy. But it's not as if she's any easier to reach. I have a vid conference set up in Spokane Cheney Metro in..." Sammy checked her wrist chronometer, "...in three hours. So, we really need to get going." Cynthia nodded her head, "Right. If the Satai finally agrees, it will be her first interview since the end of the war. Sammy, think they'd give us more air time then?" Since the end of the war? Sinclair wasn't aware that Delenn had been interviewed since-- "I wasn't aware she gave an interview after--" "It was suppressed," Cynthia pressed her lips together. "Admiral...Jeff, if I or my assistant need to speak with you before the reception, will you be available? In case we need clarification?" "And I will telefax you a copy of your footage before the interview airs," Sammy quickly added. Sinclair nodded, thinking about what Cynthia just said about Delenn. "Cynthia, I of course would be happy to provide any additional information. But, if you really want to know about the Rangers, you should ask Delenn. If you are able to speak with her. That is...a safe subject," he advised. Sinclair and Catherine returned to the kitchen after the ISN news team left. Catherine brought Sinclair a cup of coffee . "Interesting morning," Sinclair drank deeply. "Yes," Catherine replied, "but it's not over yet." Oh? "There's something I've been meaning to tell you, Jeff. And I've been putting it off a couple of days now...." Sinclair set his coffee down on the kitchen table, and took Catherine's hand, holding it to his chest. "What is it," he asked, wondering why Catherine acted as if she suddenly wanted to be out ice skating on the lake. "I have a new contract, I'll be off-world about two weeks, but I'll be back before the reception." "Oh?" Sinclair smiled, "Back to Io?" "No," Catherine withdrew her hand, turning away from him as she walked to the window. A fingertip brushed at some condensation on the glass. "Out of system." "I see," Sinclair stood up to join Catherine at the window. The water rippled unfettered by ice in the center of the lake. Blue, peaceful, but cold. "Where?" "I can't say, it's one of the conditions of my contract." Sinclair stroked her shoulder, trailing the palm his hand down her silk covered arm. "I understand. I can't say I like it--" "Jeff, please..." "But I understand," Catherine turned towards him; Sinclair kissed her. "Just promise me you'll be careful. That's all I ask." + + + The shuttle trip back to Spokane Cheney Metro passed more quickly for Cynthia Torquemann. She didn't even have time to look at the passing underbrush and wonder what the point of it's existence was. "Thank you," she told her assistant, "Thank you for steering that woman out of the room, Sammy. She was ruining the dynamic of the interview." Sammy shrugged, peering over Cynthia's shoulder at the hand-held vid. "No problem. I do what I can." "Then what was that bit on the final edit? You told me that he required it." "I was trying to expedite the process. You can bet the Minbari government will demand it if we get that far. And I think ISN doesn't think you're going to get that far." "I think you're right," Cynthia commented. "It doesn't matter, even if we get this project done, someone will complain about something, and I'll probably be out of a job." "You're beginning to sound as if you've already resigned." Cynthia hit fast forward on the vid, screening past the initial awkward stage of the interview. "What do you make of this statement on 'time'? It doesn't quite make sense, and he wouldn't elaborate." "He's retired, he's entitled not to make sense." "I'm serious, Sammy!" Sammy picked up the electronic notepad that kept track of her life, or so she once said. "Okay," she said, scribbling across the touch-pad screen, "I'll try to dig into it a little more. But it's a little obscure..." Sammy paused mid-sentence. "What." "Just, wait a moment, what did the thank-you plaque behind Admiral Sinclair's desk say?" Sammy asked, reaching toward the rewind. "What plaque. I just remember the books..." "No, there was a plaque. It was next to that big Minbari book," Sammy closed her eyes, even though her finger still touched the rewind. "It said...Thank you from the staff and crew of Babylon 4...or something like that." Cynthia decided that the Northwest air was finally getting to her assistant. "But Sinclair was never on Babylon 4," she said. "It was probably a going away gift when he became Ambassador to Minbar." But Sammy shook her head, opening her eyes, "No, no, I'm *sure* it said Babylon 4." She freeze framed the vid picture, "There. See? I was right." Cynthia looked closely at the screen area Sammy pointed to. Then, after zooming in with the magnifying function, she had to admit her assistant was right. "Well, what do you make of that," she commented, more to herself than to Sammy. "He said 'time isn't fixed,' and when you bring Babylon 4 into it...well, it just reminds me of something that I found out once, in college." Cynthia waited, her attention fully centered on Sammy. "Time...a classmate of mine once let it slip that he worked on Babylon 4--but when I told him, to his face, that he couldn't possible have because Babylon 4 disappeared, he assured me that yes, it was possible, because they all evacuated *before* the station disappeared. I checked the newsfeed records the same day, and they said that no one evacuated. But when I checked the life stats, everyone survived...and went through a government reassimilation program. I remember thinking that someone didn't get their story straight, whatever the real story was...." "And?" Cynthia asked. "And finals came up; I got sidetracked. I never did follow up the paper trail. I guess I will now. Interesting problem." "But one that we won't have time for in the anniversary segment," Cynthia was still annoyed at the restricting time slot ISN gave her. "Maybe not," Sammy said, "but there will be other segments. But what I've been dying to know...is what did the Admiral say about Satai Delenn?" Ah, the question the whole Universe wanted the answer to. "He said a few things," Cynthia replied enigmatically. "Definitely more than he would have said with Catherine Sakai Sinclair in the room...." End of Chapter 1 To be continued, eventually, in Chapter 2, homework schedule providing . Copyright 1996 by Felicia Le Cou. All rights reserved, save for those already owned by others. Any comments, please send to fmlecou@mailbox.syr.edu. Writing is a constant process and I am always trying to improve. Enjoy!