From kgriffin@mae.carleton.caMon Dec 18 13:43:59 1995 Date: Fri, 15 Dec 1995 12:35:54 -0500 (EST) From: Karl Griffin Reply to: b5-creative@blob.best.net To: b5-creative@blob.best.net Subject: "Strings" Prologue Here is my burnt offering. Its the prologue (the rest being eaten by Microsoft Word 6) if I get enough immediate response I'll retype chapters 1 to 3 fairly quickly otherwise I'll get to it in the new year. Anyway I'd appreciate it if you would drop me a line if you think its promising. Strings by Jeram Grey (nom de plume) PROLOGUE The incandescent lighting on the Zocalo was dimming, imperceptably but constantly. The stations systems, programmed by ranks of of psychologists, began this phenomena at 1700 Greenwich Mean Time. The environmental ordinance halted the process at 1900 GMT when a lighting level equivalent to a bright twilight was reached. According to the psychologists this gave the population of Babylon 5 a comforting routine, something to soothe the primal apprehension of being suspended in a hard vacuum. Of course most of the population who did notice the intricate routine cursed the dim light as an irritation. However it did portend the beginning of the peak business hours as station personnel and diplomats left their jobs and sought out diversions. Several small boutiques opened during this interval. Of these, tucked into a small corner was a glass shop. The store had an air that said "exclusivity" and discreetly moved antique and exotic glass work in and out of human space and the neighbouring alien republics. Membari carved crystal shared shelves with Edwardian glassware that looked alien to the uneducated eye. Stark Narn friezes clashed resoundingly with ornate Centauri work. Patrons were few but the rarity of much of the work provided a small but profitable custom. Into this store slipped a quiet form that simply seemed to slide off the eyes that grew metaphorically out of the station's walls. As the antique door swung open Markab wind chimes (which were gaining value exponentially) tinkled, alerting the proprietor of the shop. A portly human woman of forty or so, the owner turned to greet her prospective customer with the smile of a professional merchant. As her eyes alit on the stranger her smile turned slightly quizzical. Serious collectors did not often fit the profile of her guest, but on Babylon 5 she had serviced much stranger patrons. With a carefully cultured voice she asked "May I help you." "I'm sorry but could you show me this Membari goblet? Is it pre-Council?" replied the customer. The merchant's smile widened. So it was a serious collector, and one with a discerning eye. "Yes, in fact this was made a crafter in the same clan as Valen. It has the typical resonance of Membari work but the feel is definitely pre-Madelen. Would you like to touch it?" "Yes but thats not why I'm here." "I'm sorry?" The knife blade seemed to magically appear in the stranger's hand. It drove up in an arc and slammed in under the chin of the proprietor, the point of the blade embedding itself in a brain that was still struggling to understand what was going on. "No I'm the one who's sorry." the assassin said, withdrawing the knife and stepping away from the resultant fountain of blood. As the merchant's mind dimmed into the final darkness the assassin carefully wiped the stiletto and reset the spring sheathe on the right wrist. Turning the shop's open sign off the figure exited the store, the Markab chimes ringing with an eerie brightness, and slipped into the bustling crowd. Three gloved figures observed the movements of the assassin and moved to follow their quarry. They were well aware of the events within the store but knew both from experience and their extra sense that there was little to be learned or performed within. Besides, reasoned the leader, the loss of a pawn, albeit a useful one, was well worth it if the elimination of the pest and the identity of the organization running it could be obtained. Their opponent was professional, slipping through the the crowds with a bewildering speed, thoughts closed tightly in a wall that leaked little of importance with a complex mask of idle thoughts to allay the suspicion of casual sensitives. However, the three hunters were among the best there were. They scanned lightly, not testing the wall but scenting and holding the mask. They moved precisely, three satellites orbiting an imaginary body that followed the killer doggedly. The assassin stepped into a service corridor, one that would eventually exit into a section that long time residents called the Down Below. The three followers conferred silently, thoughts spinning through options and reaching a decision without a noticable pause. Two continued direct pursuit while the leader retraced his path and entered a lift that placed him in the slum well ahead of the tunnel's exit. Slipping into the warren that the tunnel would end into, he pulled from his bulky coat an ugly snub nosed weapon about the same size as a conventional assault PPG. His thoughts probed ahead, searching for the thought mask that would demarcate his prey. Almost instantaneously, powerful thoughts in weird alien patterns flooded at him, trying to confuse, to anger, to drive insane. He fought their influence, shields drilled into him at fourteen appeared in his mind almost coincident with the assault. Being one of the most powerful human psis alive he held the shields and threw out a scan, trying to get a fix on both his prey and the interloper. Still it was a seventh sense, one older than man, deep in his hind brain that alerted him to the presence around the corner. It was training, drilled into him at the training facility on Mars, that threw him into a roll, that made his weapon spit death into the section. It was his mind registering shock as one of his own men was flung back by the darts. And it was someone close behind him who said "Thank You." The psi cop spun, weapon rising to block a downward strike from a crazy claw-like weapon in his opponents hand. He stepped forward reversing the rifle, butt swinging in an uppercut towards his opponents center. The cloaked figure seemed to flow in a circle that somehow moved it towards and past him while evading the strike. The psi-cop spun again to find his opponent standing three meters away. His shields changed patterns, maximizing the lessons learned in a genocidal war over a decade ago. His weapon reversed itself to visit death upon his opponent. "I don't think so." and his weapon was torn away by a wire like tendril attached to the claw thing. The gun whipped towards his opponent then stopped, held in mid-air by the tendril. Then it flung the gun against the side of the wall with a dull clank. Without thought a dagger appeared in the psi-operative's hand and he flung himself at his opponent, never noticing a second wire attached to his Omega pin. Even in an area as noisy and disreputable area as the Down Below his scream sent the inhabitants fleeing the sector..... [Part 2, "" Text 150 lines] [Unable to print this part] From kgriffin@mae.carleton.caMon Dec 18 13:44:05 1995 Date: Mon, 18 Dec 1995 13:36:13 -0500 (EST) From: Karl Griffin Reply to: b5-creative@blob.best.net To: b5-creative@blob.best.net Subject: Strings :Chapter 1 Thank you for all of your encouragement. I'm gratified that you seem to like the story. A couple things before chapter 1. I am the nom de plume I just wanted to have one (so sue me :)). Many thanks to the people who pointed out the correct spelling of Minbari and to the person (I can't remember the name) who pointed out that its Pi not Omega on the Psi Corps pin. Thank you for both the praise and the criticism. Chapter 2 is going to have to be after the New Year since I'm going home soon. Oh yeah. I DO know who killed whom and what it all relates too. Cheers. (insert legal stuff) Strings: Chapter 1 It was 440 GMT in the morning and Michael Garibaldi had come to the inevitable conclusion that he was having a bad day. There were several valid reasons for this rather premature prognosis. One, he was awake. Two, he had been awake for an hour. Three, he was on duty. Four, he wasn't supposed to be on duty for another hour and fifty minutes. Five, this was the one morning each week that he would normally treat himself to a mug of REAL coffee. Six, he was in a room with a body that had been deliberately removed from the land of the living. Seven, it was looking increasingly like the murder was what was known in the business as a 'clean hit'. Last, but not least, the discoverer of the corpse was Londo Mollari. "Great Maker, these queries are an insult to the Centauri people and my family honor. What! What! Have I imbibed any alcohol! Are you daft! I assure you Captain Sheridan will hear of this!" the diplomat's hands waved, herding an increasingly discomfitted security officer back against a fortune in fragile glasswork. Garibaldi sighed. That pretty much summed up points eight to seventy five. "Well Morishi, what have we got?" Garibaldi asked, his tone almost artificially cheery. Morishi looked up cautiously from where he knelt at the side of the corpse, studying a cracked Minbari goblet clutched in a death grip in the woman's right hand. He was new to the station but experienced enough to know both that security chiefs come in one mold and that there are times to glossy a report and times when you tell your boss everything you know. "Essentially nothing Chief," so much for that, he thought,"There simply isn't that much to work with. Knife wound to the throat area. I'd guess some sort of stilleto from the size of the wound but that will have to be verified by Medlab. There doesn't appear to be a struggle so the victim probably never saw it coming. Apart from that we have some fibres which could belong to any number of people all of whom have probably changed their clothes in the interim. Sorry." "Don't worry about it, something will come up." even to Garibaldi the words rang false. The crash of something expensive breaking caught his attention. Somehow Londo had managed to manouever the hapless security officer into knocking over one of the Narn friezes. Despite himself, Garibaldi grinned momentarily. It was good to see the rascal playing his old games. All too often recently his friend had been broody, prattling on about the manifest destiny of his people. Wiping the smile from his face he asked "And what's his story?" gesturing in the direction of the diplomat. "From what I understand, he had a private appointment with the victim, a Ms. Janine Powell. He was trying to obtain a Cirrus of a rival..." "What's a Cirrus?" Garibaldi interjected. "An intricate glass bowl used in Centauri religious festivals. It seems you mix the fruit and liquers attributed to their fifty gods and..." "You mean its a punch bowl?" "Sort of. I don't quite get it myself but it seems that by aquiring the... punch bowl he would be embarassing one of his political opponents. He arrived at approximately 310 this morning and found the store unlocked. He entered and discovered Ms. Powell in her current state." "Hmmm, let's check that angle out. Perhaps Ms. Powell was selling something that someone felt she wasn't supposed to." Garibaldi's wrist comm paged, interrupting the conversation. "Damn, what now." Garibaldi grumbled as he activated the unit. "Chief, this is Allen, I'm in Down Below and we've got three more for the freezer." "Jesus, can this day get any worse." Garibaldi pondered for a moment then replied "Zack can you handle the preliminary work yourself, I'm tied up right now." "Uh.. I think you should drop what your doing right now." Zack replied somewhat guardedly. "What could be so bloody important about some Lurkers!" Garibaldi snapped. "Boss, they aren't your usual Lurkers. They're Corps." "Damn. I'll be there directly. Morishi seal the shop up and get a official statement from Ambassador Mollari." Garibaldi said, sprinting for the door. As he did so his gaze travelled heavenwards. Things couldn't possibly get any worse. * * * Twenty minutes later Garibaldi was fervently wishing that he had knocked on a big piece of solid wood. With his head. Hard. "Have ever seen one of these Chief?" Zack said, handing over a nasty looking assault weapon. Garibaldi whistled softly "A flechette gun. With a subsonic nozzle and cartridges of diamond tipped darts. Guaranteed to turn an armor plated lobster into tomato puree without even a whisper. Where the hell did you find it? " "Each of the three stiffs had one, along with enough assorted garottes and knives to equip the Narn assassin's guild." "Did any of them have a stilleto?" Garibaldi said sharply. "No. Why?" "Just a wild stab. I was hoping that one of them was the one who committed the Powell murder." Garibaldi sighed, "How were they killed?" "Actually I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on it Chief." Zack said sheepishly. "What." the tone brooked no delay in an explanation. "Well," Zack said hurriedly, "one of them seems to have been shot by one of his comrades but the other two... well maybe you should take a look." He motionned Garibaldi to the three covered shapes against the wall of the section. Garibaldi strode over and gently lifted the covers. The first was obviously the man who had been flechetted. He dropped the cover quickly. Even a seasoned ex-GROPOS had trouble looking at the ruin that a flechette gun made of a body. The second corpse was almost as gruesome. Some sort of claw had ripped him in a diagonal cut that started at his left collar bone and ended at the right hip. It had then twisted in the wound and finished in a slash across the man's abdomen, disembowelling him. While it would take Franklin's autopsy to confirm it, Garibaldi suspected that the second cut had been unnecessary, the talon having been so sharp that it had sheared through the protective rib cage into the heart. He let the second body cover drop. "Oh no." Garibaldi's face was white. The third man had perished in method far less bloody than his compatriots. In fact, apart for the melted Pi pin revealed by his open jacket, he didn't have a mark on him. "Boss?" queried Allan, confusion evident on his face. "I know him." Garibaldi said, obviously shaken, as he let the cloth drop over the chiseled, silver maned face. "A friend of yours?" "No, actually the last time we met he was... questionning me." Garibaldi replied, fists clenched bone white, "when he let me go. I swore I would kill the bastard. He laughed at me. Thought he couldn't be touched by a dead-head, or anybody else for that matter. Thing was, he was probably right." He looked straight Allan. "Whatever killed him, it wasn't human and it doesn't have an ounce of pity, morality or fair play. Or else, he wouldn't be lying here." "And," he continued, "its still on the station." This isn't a bad day, he thought, this is hell. From kgriffin@mae.carleton.caSat Dec 30 16:25:25 1995 Date: Fri, 29 Dec 1995 18:03:47 -0500 (EST) From: Karl Griffin Reply to: b5-creative@blob.best.net To: b5-creative@blob.best.net Subject: Strings Chapter 2 Hi guys I'm up here for a friends going away party. So I'm posting Chapter 2 for your consumption. I see everyone else been really busy. Please, please please give me some feedback. One last point: telepathic communication is marked with a *. I didn't really do anything different with it but I hope to remedy that in another story (way way in the future.) hope you enjoy. Legalities inserted here.... Strings: Chapter 2 Iolanthe was the most remote of Earth Alliance's fourteen colonies. It had been inheritted from the fading Centauri Republic in the period of expansion just after the Dilgar war, when Earth Alliance had been the most popular of the five major powers. The indigenous sapients, still in the feudal stage of development, had made an attractive suit to the nascent superpower rather than risk the depredations of the encroaching Narn. It remained a quiet area, despite the war that raged only light-decades away. Though its strategic value had increased slightly, its primary importance was economic, being the only non-Minbari natural source of data crystals in the Terran sphere of influence. Despite this the world had only just attained colony status and when the system's smallish sun rose on the main settlement it awoke a population of barely fifty thousand. One denizen had been awake for a time however, though he wasn't enjoying himself too much. Quentin Wade was finishing off his weekday workout, which he privately considered his personal punishment for eating. Fifteen minutes of stretching, another forty-five praticing the kata of miscellaneous martial arts, thirty minutes weight training a specific muscle group and finally, fifteen minutes on the treadmill. Legs pumping, he cursed the gift that made him a telepath. Then he roundly cursed the ambition that had led him into the corporate side of the Corps. While it wasn't an acknowledged rule, corporate telepaths were expected to portray a certain air. It was well known that attractive and/or parental looking corporate teeps did better in both securing new business and in negotiations, primarily because their appearance took the participating parties' minds off their erstwhile function. Since at twenty seven Quentin was too young to be grandfatherly, he was forced to fit the attractive bill. Fortunately genetics had gifted (cursed?) him with the raw material. He had the best of the mixed features that were shared by most children in the colonies, where geographical and artificial class barriers had faded under the pressure and xenophobia of being human on an alien world. Large brown eyes, with the epicanthic fold of an oriental forefather hovered over a proud, straight, Icelandic nose. His skin was a deep mahogany and his five foot eleven frame had the toned, catlike musculature of an athlete. His brown hair had been burnished gold by the harsh sunlight of Iolanthe. Finishing with treadmill he grabbed a towel and looked critically in the full length mirror provided by the facility for the vain and the people who relied on their appearance to make their way in the world. Satisfied, he grinned at his reflection but the smile faded as he recalled the fight he had with his newly ex-girlfriend last night. Reflecting that it was his fault, as always, he said ruefully to the mirror "If only you weren't such a dick." "Mr. Wade?" inquired a voice politely. Startled, he turned to see a man dressed in the uniform of the military's ground forces. A psi pin underneath the EA sigil explained how he had managed to evade detection by Wade. "Yes," he inquired in a polite but not particularly friendly manner, "may I help you?" The other reason he had entered the corporate side of things was that he disliked uniforms. Disliked them enough to surrepticiously aid the local branch of the Underground Railroad. "Good morning, I am Colonel Gray. I have been ordered to request that you perform a surface scan of my mind for security purposes. You will, of course, be renumerated for your trouble." Puzzled, Quentin said "Of course, there's no reason why we cannot proceed now." As he reached out with his mind he wondered what the hell was going on. Security purposes? Gently slipping into Colonel Gray's mind he performed the light scan. Wait, what was that pattern? A tangle of thought slowly resolved itself into a single word. Quentin moaned and fell to his knees, his mind ablaze. Blocks that he had never known were there fell away, memories reimplanted themselves. Gasping, he grappled with the new information. "Are you okay?" sympathy was evident in the Colonel's voice. "I'll be fine." memory forced him to add, "Sir." "Good. Take an hour to finish your... recovery, Lieutenant-Colonel Geoffries. We'll begin your debriefing and assign you your next mission in your quarters." Obviously the Colonel knew something of how dangerous the program was thought Quentin. Enough to know how important it was to reinforce the full identity by both reminding the subject of his identity and by forcing him to confront the falseness of the truncated personality's existance. Then his mind exploded again and he couldn't think of anything for the next forty minutes. When he finally left for his debriefing he didn't even glance at the mirror. It never had revealed anything anyway. * * * * Activating the voice lock he entered the suite that had housed him while under the deep cover program. Moving into the living he was unsurprised to find Colonel Gray sitting comfortably reading a copy of the local newspaper. Now that he was operating to his full potential, not the P6 rating and corporate training that he had been limited to by the program, he found even the well shielded Colonel rather 'noisy'. "Good morning Colonel" he said coming to attention smartly. "Benjamin. Please sit." despite the warm tone both instructions were orders and Quentin sat. "Are you ready to begin?" Colonel Gray asked. "Yes, Sir." he replied frowning at his surroundings. "Is there a problem Mr.Geoffries?" the tone remained conversational, the debriefing and reassignment were vital but losing an important agent to backlash was not worth the risk. "No. I was just noticing that the walls... well I've always hated that colour. And the sofas are just a bit too opulent for me. Its sort of hard to believe I lived here for eighteen months." Quentin said trancelike. He shook himself. "I'm ready to present my progress in infiltrating the Underground Railroad sir." his voice taking on a professional demeanor. Benjamin smiled. He wasn't quite there yet, he was a bit stiff at the edges, but the reprint was taking. Over next hour and half Lt. Colonel Geoffries described his part in the underground telepath railway, his contacts, the methods of moving telepaths out to the colony and the companies and people who sheltered them. All telepaths have didactic memory when they wish and he left little out. Finally he wound down. "I suppose I'll be coordinating with the psi-cops in the following investigation." he said heavily. The military psionic deep cover program was limited in that it could only truncate and place false memories over an existing personality, thus only persons who emphasized to a degree to the part they were playing could be put under. Thus Quentin's dislike of the 'enforcement' branch of the Corps was quite real. He also had his share of secrets that would both damage the military branch of the Corps and probably endanger his life if they ever came out. Colonel Gray grimaced "That won't be necessary. Since you've been under tensions between us and the psi-cops have increased. We'll file the information for use at a later time." To an extent he wasn't surprised. While the outside population had always viewed the Corps as a monolithic entity, it had more factions than the legendary hydra. Still, it was unusual for two entire branches to be on the out with each other. "You'll be sent to Mars to investigate another resurgence by the Free Mars organization." Colonel Gray said. Simultaneously his mind reached out and said *We're sending you to Babylon 5.* "Yes Sir, what are the specifics." he replied no surprise evident in his tone. His mind however was another matter. *WHAT!* Things must be getting paranoid indeed if they couldn't talk in the quarters of a sleeper. *Listen, take these briefs from me.* A series of thought shapes appeared in Gray's mind. Quentin reached and snagged them. It took him less then five minutes to digest what would have been a hours worth of reading. In the meantime Gray filled the air with meaningless details of his bogus mission to Mars. *I still don't see it all.* Quentin had the information but interpreting it would take several analysts days to complete. *See this string of murders on the outer colonies.* On the surface they were all unrelated. Different planets, different politics, they didn't even share hobbies. However they were all linked to the Corps, though some by only the most tenous of strands. *An intelligence cell,* the pattern appeared to Quentin, *and someone's closing it down.* The verbal conversation moved on to the suspected leaders of the Free Mars movement. *Exactly. Initially we thought it was the Underground Railroad striking back though we were a bit surprised at the professionalism of the assassinations. With your report however, we can confirm most of the movements of the various arms of the organization and it can't be them. We want to know who it is.* the concern threaded through the thought was intense. *Maybe the cops are cleaning house, tying off loose threads.* *That's what we thought, until a group of their 'cleaners' turned up dead on Babylon 5 sixteen hours ago, just after one of the killings * Gray's thought was grim *it was VERY messy. We were lucky that B5 downloaded its reports to Earthdome only four hours after the murders.* Quentin shrugged mentally, something only teeps can appreciate and thought *So they cleaned the cleaners. Never the less, I don't see the reason why you needed to activate me. You or any of the others could do the job. In fact, one of your own reports indicates that you may have the trust of some of the command staff.* *There are two reasons why I can't do the mission myself.* Quentin thought he caught a feeling of wistfulness from Gray. If he did the Colonel hid it immediately, the feeling passing deeper into his mind. Emotions were hard to read, even for powerful telepaths to read anyway. *One, the identity of one of the cleaners.* The name passed between them. *Mazian?* he was incredulous, the man was a legend in spook circles, a P19, there were only a handful of telepaths in his range and none of them 'worked'. *Yes and the psi-cops aren't happy about losing him. They'll be sending their best to find his killer. They'd rip through my mind and that of the others like plastic wrap. As the strongest of our illicits the old man thinks that you have the best chance.* Quentin blinked and a question on a particularly nasty terrorist faltered momentarily. So he knew that Quentin was a P15, one of a score of military telepaths that had somehow evaded the culling that would have forced them to be psi-cops. His eyes narrowed. How much did the Colonel know? He might have to find out when the briefing ended. *Second, our influence in this matter is to be as subtle as possible. For some reason Babylon 5 has gotten an undue amount of attention from our law enforcing friends. In the afore mentioned case I was involved in an investigation instigated by a psi cop, one that might have resulted in a change of command. It looked like a personal attack on the commander but on the off chance the old man notified the joint chiefs of the possibility of a some sort of plot. When President Santiago died it looked like the worst was more than a possibility. So when Sinclair was 'laterally promoted' to the Minbari consulate they were ready with replacement that would look good to the psi-cops but was personally loyal to them.* *So the Brigadier General is throwing in with the Joint Chiefs of Staff* Quentin thought guardedly. *The old man is walking the fence. Which is why we have to be really cautious with this. Intelligence believes that there are still two members of the cell still alive on Babylon 5. He believes this is our best chance to suss what's going on without committing ourselves.* the thought was sharp, reminding Quentin of his place in the scheme of things. Behind his shielded inner mind Quentin reflected that it made sense. Treachery to the ideals of the Earth Alliance was earth shattering and any military man would be against it. But. In that but was the memory of the thousand times that a telepath caught the thought *freak*, the insane paranoia against anything different, especially something with the potential to look into the darkest corner of their little minds. Yes, he'd probably take the same tact as the chief. *Still, why me? One of the others must be closer. It'll take me a week just to get there.* *You have the information on the psi-cops sleeper program.* It was a statement, the information having been in one of the briefs. *Yes.* That had been shocking. Their method was both more flexible and more intrusive, imparting a 'parasitic lurker' personality that completely erased that of the host when activated. *Well the only reason that we know of it is that one of their sleepers was a military teep, a normal P10. We were placing him in our deep cover program. Fortunately for us the programs are incompatible, though it led to insanity for the subject. However, we suspect that if there is a sleeper there is also an active agent. Logically he would also be an illicit. For some reason you are above suspicion in this matter.* there was some puzzlement to that last thought as if Gray didn't know why this was so. So he doesn't know everything, Quentin thought. Good. *Very well. Do we know the identity of the two agents.* *No. You'll have to determine them yourselves.* Great. One of them could be a sleeper, how am I supposed to detect THAT, he thought sourly to himself. *You may trust the security officer and the captain of the station but remember you are to keep a low profile. Don't contact them openly or too often.* Gray continued. *Anything else?* the thought was heavy with irony. Quentin was a pro and disliked people telling him how to do his job. "Your typical package is over there. Including the specifics that you generally request for this type of work. An estafette will take you to Babylon 5, ETA from departure twenty one hours. Be at the stardock for launch in three." Gray said, ending the interview. Quentin moved to the case on the coffee table and opened it. He inventoried the items as he donned them. Brown sim-leather three quarter length jacket. Standard issue PPG in holster with three extra charges. He moved the holster to right of the small of his back. Tanto type blade with wrist sheathe. A pair of flash grenades disappeared into the jacket pockets. Some stims and his pride and joy, an 18th century british mail sword. He unsheathed the blade and looked it over. It wasn't the sharpest thing around but it had saved life a number of times. He sheathed the blade and hung it on a hook built into the jacket for this purpose. "And Lieutenant Colonel." Gray's voice said coolly from the door. "Yes." he said turning. The throwing dagger was half way to him. As always his training took over, everything turning glacially slow. He let his center fall away to his right and went into a roll, the knife passing over him into the kitchen. The PPG appeared in his hand and he aimed at the doorway. There was no one there. Cursing, he put the PPG away. As he did so the vid-screen flared up. He glanced at it as a serious but vital looking man appeared on screen. So this was one of the old man's stunts. The brigadier general grinned "Hope you weren't too obvious Q. I also hope Gray got the hell out of the way. He's a good man by the way. I had to directly order him to throw the knife." The grin faded and the brigadier general took on a serious look, "Q, if you haven't noticed, this one's going to be rough. Don't trust anyone and keep your secrets close but if you have to blow them do it. I'd rather have you alive than dead. Even if it is my arse. Take care." "Take care indeed." Fuming, he sent the throwing knife flying to embed itself in the vid-screen. His uncle was a real bastard sometimes. The recording was still flickering as he went to pack. A red flash across his vision heralded the onset of the inevitable migraine. That's just great, he thought, I'm going to be a vegetable before long. See ya on the fourth From kgriffin@mae.carleton.caSat Dec 30 16:25:28 1995 Date: Fri, 29 Dec 1995 23:47:35 -0500 (EST) From: Karl Griffin Reply to: b5-creative@blob.best.net To: b5-creative@blob.best.net Subject: Strings Chapter 3 I meant to add this to chapter 2 but since that was a monster chapter I'm placing it as a separate chapter in itself. Also there is a big typo in c2 where: Emotions were hard to read, even for powerful telepaths to read anyway. it should read Emotions were hard to read, even for powerful telepaths. Now back to _Strings_ As always all of JMS's characters and B5 are his. Everything else is mine! Chapter 3 When Garibaldi walked in the bar, he immediately noticed that something was amiss. It was subtle thing, the murmur of the patrons was a bit off-rhythm, a distracted glance from a couple quietly having a drink but to a man who had spent far too much time in similar establishments it raised the red flag. Taking a moment to survey the premises he realized that the source of the disturbance was Talia Winters, who was sitting quietly by herself, staring out into space. To an extent the attention was warranted. A striking blonde, she had always caught the attention of passers-by. Still, she regularly conducted informal business at the bar and most of the customers were regulars, acquainted with her presence. Frowning Garibaldi approached her. The irregularity suddenly struck him. There, in front of the notoriously health conscious corporate telepath was a tray of six brownies and what suspiciously looked like a glass of whole milk. He hesitated, while he wasn't ostensibly on duty and was out of uniform, he was working. Having hit a wall in the recent murders with the official channels he had decided to make some discreet enquiries with his less legal contacts. Normally he wouldn't do it at this time but Captain Sheridan was ansy and wanted the case closed as quickly as possible. Garibaldi scowled, remembering the briefing. Sheridan was a capable captain and an excellent leader but he was seriously lacking in tact when it came to delicate matters. It had taken nearly a hour to convince him that reporting the murders in the next data dump to Earthdome was the only practical option. The Psi Corps would be alerted as soon as Mazian didn't report in. Burying the case would evoke suspicion that the command staff had some complicity with the deed. As it was, time was limited, the Corps was probably already on its way, ready to start digging into matters that even Sheridan hadn't been apprised of, such as Sinclair's little band of rangers and his past... encounter with Mazian. Still... curiosity had never really killed anyone. "May I join you?", he asked somewhat nervously. Talia looked up surprise evident on her face. "Of course Michael." As he sat he felt the bars atmosphere normalize. To the serious observer Mr. Garibaldi wasn't the type of person to be caught watching. The casual observers interest waned as a possible explanation for Ms. Winter's odd behaviour presented itself. A woman like Talia wouldn't often be kept waiting for a date. If she had behaved somewhat stereotypically to the affront, well, most of the men in the bar would have stereotypically given their right arm to be the one she was waiting for. "So," ignoring the patter of voices, "are you storing energy for a particular reason?" he asked his voice carefully bland. "What? Oh no, I promised a friend I would try this one day." she said smiling. "Really? If you don't mind me asking, why?" "Well Janine was always poking fun at my figure. Claimed I was missing one of the joys of life. When I..", she faltered slightly, "I found out she was dead I thought it would be a nice way to remember her." She laughed, biting into a brownie,"I think she was right." "You know Janine Powell?" Garibaldi asked, genuinely curious. "Yes, I accidentally wondered into her shop on Mars. She managed to sell me a god awful piece of crystal. She felt so bad about it she invited me in back for a cup of tea. She didn't give me a refund though. We've kept in touch ever since. When she moved here three months ago, it was like old times. She was dear to me, a great..." Talia's eyes returned from her trip down times gone and she smiled impishly at Garibaldi, "friend." "I'm sorry, I didn't know you were so close." he said a bit uncomfortably. "Michael," she reached out and touched his hand, "don't be. She wouldn't have liked me moping about her death and it helps to talk about her." He smiled, "Then I'm glad to be an ear, or a shoulder. What was she like?" "Calm, collected, a balm to my soul, especially after that incident with the serial killer on Mars." ,she said memory making her voice go dreamy, "In all the years I've known her she was only upset once in my presence. About six weeks ago I surprised her, for her birthday, late one night. She almost climbed the walls. Even after she knew it was me she wouldn't relax for at least ten minutes. Kept trying to trick me with word games," she grinned, "it was fun, finally breaking that composure." "Do you have any idea why she was so jumpy?" Talia regarded Michael for a long moment. "No, I don't know why anyone would want to kill her." ,her voice was cool. "I'm sorry, I seem to have contracted yet another case of foot in the mouth disease." Garibaldi said, inwardly cursing his bluntness. Ms. Winters took a long drink of milk. "Uh, Talia, you sort of have a milk mustache." Garibaldi said, gesturing at his own lip. She laughed and the tension at the table was broken. She grabbed a napkin and began to dab at her face. A trill from her wrist communicator startled both of them. "I'm sorry, I forgot I have to go prepare for a consultation." Garibaldi rose with her, "May I escort you to your quarters, as recompensation for my social gaffe?" She looked at him sideways, considering. What the hell she thought. After all, some of his thoughts were as cute as he was. "Why not." From kgriffin@mae.carleton.caSat Jan 13 18:34:39 1996 Date: Fri, 12 Jan 1996 16:09:18 -0500 (EST) From: Karl Griffin Reply to: b5-creative@blob.best.net To: b5-creative@blob.best.net Subject: Strings: Chapter 4 After mucho revising Ch. 4 is ready. I would *really* appreciate feedback as I feel this is a fairly weak chapter. Enjoy. Chapter 4 One hour after his briefing, Quentin Geoffries navigated his way through the loading area of Iolanthe's ramshackle starport, duffel over one shoulder, left hand gripping an expensive briefcase. In his right hand he held a half full plastic bottle of some nauseating yoghurt drink that his truncated personality had imbibed as an excuse for breakfast. Whistling tunelessly, he passed through the newer sections of the facility into the old, neglected area that had served Iolanthe in its initial days of its life as an outpost of the Alliance. Scheduled for demolition in years past, the old port was still in service, catering to traders and corporations who wished to avoid both the expense and logistics problems that plagued the more modern expansion. Tossing the bottle end over end he reached the bay where he was to rendez-vous with his transport. Hearing voices through the thin, cracked panelling he paused, listening. "We weren't aware that the shipment was of illegal narcotics. I believe you told us they were emergency vaccines for Nolan-Young's Syndrome." ,the voice was calm, relaxed but a note of irritation underlay the words. "What of it? You just ship the merchandise, we handle the customs officials. If it means so much to you we'll double your fee." "We're afraid you have misunderstood the cause of our objections. We do not ferry illegal drugs. Upon discovering the contents of your cargo we destroyed it." interjected a third, heavily accented, voice. A long moment of silence. Then the second voice hissed "Your dead." The sounds of a struggle began to emanate from the bay. Just my luck, Quentin swore, my ride is going to get slaughtered before I even get onboard. He pressed the door plate and stepped into the bay. Four humans, a fifth lying unconscious, were tussling with a middle aged man and a tall Minbari. Despite the odds the two seemed to be handling themselves adeptly. Quentin relaxed, set his baggage down to watch and leant against a wall. Only an idiot jumped into a fight if he didn't have to. Suddenly, the fifth man, who had apparently only been feigning unconsciousness, leapt up, and gripping a short eight inch metal bar, approached the Minbari from her blind spot. Almost laconically Quentin threw the bottle of yoghurt at the man. Spinning, it struck the dealer in the back of the head. Unhurt, the man spun to see Quentin casually walking towards him. "I hope you don't mind if I play too." he smiled at the drug runner. God ,he thought, if I'm going to be an idiot I've got to get better lines. Snarling, the man swung the bar in a loping blow at the telepath's temple. Quentin simply stepped back into a traditional triangular combat stance, the rod falling short by a good foot. Simultaneously his mind flowed outwards, resting lightly in the drug dealer's thoughts, gauging his skill. His opponent was experienced, he noted, but the slight impulses and thoughts that trickled back to Quentin indicated that he didn't have the degree of training to take on a combat trained teep. Still, the man wasn't aware what he faced and Quentin didn't particularly want to announce to the world that he was a telepath. The tough slid back slightly, palm opening, the bar reversing in his hand. As his hand reclosed on the bar a straight, six inch blade sprung out of the rod. Knife held in a reverse grip, the dealer directed the point at Quentin. Quentin smiled faintly, the part of his mind not directly involved in combat reflected that things didn't change; punks were still carrying springblades. A sudden surge of exultation from his opponent alerted him and he whipped his head to the side as the blade, propelled by the elastomer spring in the hilt, flew by him. Okay, he thought ruefully, things HAVE changed somewhat. Undaunted, the tough moved forward, waving the wand slowly. Suddenly his hand pumped and another thin six inch blade appeared, this time from the opposite end of the cylinder. The two fighters circled each other seeking a lapse, an opening. Suddenly the man sprung, dagger coming around and down in a vertical overhand strike, right leg leading. As Quentin stepped back, the dealer pulled the cut short, its arc spiralling in towards his own waist and pushed off into a straight thrust that should have buried the dagger's point in Quentin's solar plexus. Forewarned by the split second of conscious thought, Quentin entered the attack, sliding slightly off the line of the attack, hand moving in a horizontal circle to guide the blade away. As the blade streaked harmlessly by, his guiding arm reversed its course, moving to deliver a devastating elbow to his opponent's face. Committed, unable to evade the blow, the drug runner's body instinctively tried to minimize the damage, head turning away from Quentin, left knee bending, body arching backwards to move his head out of the strike's path. The reactions were noted immediately by Quentin, the response drilled into him over years of intense training. Completing the blow, he left his arm extended, keeping the man off balance and allowed his right arm, which had instinctively grabbed the knife hand, to push the offending weapon away from him. He then snaked his left arm around the knife arm and gripped his own right wrist in a figure four pattern. A slight movement applied enough torsion to cause the dealer to drop the knife with gasp. With a sharp twist of his hips Quentin threw the disarmed man away from him. A trained opponent would have either rolled or breakfalled but the drug dealer tried to remain upright and stumbled off-balance into a group of plastic containers. Bouncing off them he moved right into Quentin's snap side-kick and collapsed. Quentin shook his head and turned to see the two couriers watching him. Self-consciously he bowed, his hand moving in a graceful flourish. "You must be our passenger. Your early." the Minbari said, her tone brusque. "Your welcome." Quentin replied sardonically. He studied the Minbari. Her unfiled bone mantle marked her as warrior caste, the somber blue robe as a Nightwalker. While she didn't have any obvious weaponry Quentin believed the oft-quoted intelligence reports that had made the term "unarmed Minbari warrior" an oxymoron. She was in all likelihood more heavily armed than he was, something that he hoped never to confirm. He looked up into her face to see that she had been studying him at least as thoroughly. What the hell is a warrior doing so far from their homespace he thought. Meeting her gaze with a winning smile he gingerly entered her mind. While probing aliens officially carried the same punishment as probing humans the courts and more importantly, the Corps, weren't as stringent in their execution. Slipping into her thought streams he felt his probe being swept away, odd unrelated thoughts colliding into one another in a confusing array. Academically, he realized that he was looking at a very competent, if alien, block. If she didn't know he was a telepath and there was no reason for her to suspect him then she was either paranoid or extremely disciplined. Probably both, he thought with disdain, disengaging with extreme care. Very few Minbari were full blown telepaths but most of the race were hyper-sensitive to mental contact. "Don't mind Kiral, she's just a little unsettled by recent events." her human companion said, stepping forward to shake Quentin's hand, "I'm Wayne. You'll meet the rest of the crew when we get aboard the Hermes." The physical contact of the handshake made telepathic contact almost impossible to avoid and the curiosity wakened by Kiral's odd shield overrode the remnants of his caution. Looking into Wayne's mind he was surprised to find that he was also blocking his thoughts with that odd alien patter. Strange. "Since your here I would prefer that we left as soon as possible." Wayne went on, oblivious to the mental scan. "That's quite agreeable to me but don't you have other cargo to board?" "Not here." Why the hell were they here then, Quentin thought. No cargo to pick up and from the conversation he had heard, none to deliver. There were a lot of strange things to puzzle out about the couriers and absolutely no time to do it. "You seem a bit puzzled Mister ...uh." Wayne said as they walked towards the stratospheric shuttle. "Mr. Mirnov, Earl Mirnov." he replied, the false identity coming to him automatically, "I must admit that I was led to believe that you were a military courier. I'm just a bit taken a back by you and your associate." Wayne chuckled, "That's to be expected. I'm ex-Fleet myself, when your boss explained your position and asked to trade in a favour I was only too happy to help another retiree from the service. His influence was instrumental in aquiring the EAS Hermes from the mothball fleet." So he doesn't know what I am. But he was shielding. Why did the name EAS Hermes ring a bell? Maybe I just stumbled onto something. Quentin's thoughts flashed around like lightning. Whatever it is, it'll have to wait until the current business is finished he concluded regretfully. As he boarded the shuttle Quentin noticed that Wayne was wearing an odd broach for his cloak. Discounting it as one of the countless 'alien' artifacts that flooded the Earth Alliance worlds he asked the foremost question on his mind. "By the by, do you have artificial gravity?" "I'm afraid not. The Hermes was made for speed, not comfort." Damn. * * * * As their cargo entered the passenger section of the shuttle Kiral gave her partner a significant glance. With an impish grin he put his hand out behind the Minbari's vestigial looking ears and retrieved a data crystal. "How in Valen's name..." "Now, now, a magician never reveals his secrets." he grinned. "I was referring to the crystal, not your inane chicanery." the Minbari replied with asperity. "Oh. Swiped it from that idiot Jenkins." "You don't think it will confirm our suspicions." she said, hope colouring her voice. "No, they wouldn't be careless enough to leave anything of real importance with a fool like that. Still, its another piece to the puzzle" "And now, instead of finishing our assignment, we have to hare off to Babylon 5 for some fool reason." "Their position does seem rather exposed." "And who's fault is that? If we didn't use so many....", she let her words peter out, embarassment evident in her features. "Humans?" Wayne finished quietly. "My apologies, I spoke in haste. I am not looking forwards to my assignment, no matter how temporary." Kiral said apologetically. "Forget it, I know how much you want to find out what's going on here. Besides I didn't think very much of Minbari when I joined." "Speaking of what's going on, what's our passenger's story." Wayne smiled, accepting the change of topic gracefully. "As far as I can determine, Mr. Mirnov is what he appears to be. A computer programmer working on defense related algorithms. His employer is a contractor that provides several major military applications." Kiral looked at Wayne with disbelief. "He fought rather competently for a computer programmer." "Perhaps he's ex-military. Or he could be an martial arts enthusiast. Such things aren't as regimented as with your people. What does it matter anyway?" "Nothing, I suppose, it just seems a bit too coincidental that we get a request to courier a programmer to Babylon 5 at the same time I am ordered to that post." she said thoughtfully. "Coincidences do happen Kiral. Besides, I seriously doubt you'll have time to track down a lowly programmer with everything else that'll be going on." Wayne replied drily. "Hmm... we'll see. Let's get going, Marin is making her special stew, and its the last real Minbari food I'll be eating for a while." Seeing Wayne's discomfitted expression, she smiled. "Don't worry I'm sure she has determined a way to neutralize the vegetables for the human members of the crew." "I hope so, the alkaloids made it a rather distinct experience," he replied drily. He'd had a fever and the shakes for weeks, "though admittedly it wasn't as interesting as your little experiment with ethanol. Hey, are you blushing? Its not like you came close to killing me and Kris, hell, you can hardly see her scar." Kiral muttered something in Warrior Minbar. Wayne laughed. "Let's go." From kgriffin@mae.carleton.caSat Feb 24 21:34:10 1996 Date: Tue, 6 Feb 1996 20:23:56 -0500 (EST) From: Karl Griffin Reply to: b5-creative@blob.best.net To: b5-creative@blob.best.net Subject: Strings: Chapter 5 Hello people here is the next installment of _Strings_. I really hope *someone* is still reading it. As always I really, really really want feedback whether you like it or loathe it. I can't improve unless someone gives me something to go on. Thank You (hope you enjoy :)) Strings: Chapter 5 Mentally exhausted, Garibaldi sank onto his couch. In a better time, in in a different life, Lisa would have been there, her hands massaging the tension away. In the interim alcohol, several fights, twenty-five light years and a promotion had robbed him of that support. Now alone, he was distinctly aware that, after a short reprieve, the universe seemed to have recalled that it didn't like him. Today had been a case in point. Attempts at aquiring information on Mazian from both official and unofficial channels had proved fruitless and his gray world contacts had point blank refused to even consider looking into the matter. Janine Powell's death had also stymied the Security Department. The obvious leads, mainly religious and archaeologic rivals in the glass antique field, had turned into wisps of smoke and the entire investigation was floundering. Finally, to make matters worse, the Corps had advised CinC that their investigative team would arrive in twelve hours. His only consolation, small as it was, was a message whispered to him when he had visited a washroom. Garibaldi sighed and contemplated cancelling his plans to go with Benjamin to Earhart's. He seriously doubted that the foray would help him to relax. His door bell trilled. Michael pulled himself up to answer it. One of his shadier contacts, a data merchant of questionable morals, thrust a data crystal in his face. "Here, take it." "What the hell are you doing here?" "It can't wait. Take it. If I'd had known I'd have refused to help. As it is if you can find me again then there probably won't be that much to find." With that the man spun around on his heel and sped away. Garibaldi observed his departure for a few moments and then wandered back into his quarters, confused. Confused because he had only dared approach the man for an inquiry into Ms. Powell's background. As he reviewed the file on a hand held datapad in the privacy of his room the confusion faded, replaced by incredulity. Excitement washed away fatigue and grabbing his work jacket he rushed out. Things are starting to go my way, he reflected as he headed to his office. First, the Rangers are seeing sense for once in their life and are avoiding the station until things clear up. Now I discover that Janine Powell nee Janine Anderson has ties to both the Corps and the Justice Department. Which either links the two murders or is an enormous coincidence. And I don't believe in coincidences, he concluded to himself. The turbolift door irissed open and he stepped in to see a visibly pensive Ivonova. "Mr. Garibaldi, you're looking surprisingly cheerful." she said bemused. "Yeah, looks like I may have got a break in those murders that happened a couple of days back." he drawled. "Really?", Ivonova replied surprise evident on her face, "That is good news." "Yep, I'm going down to the office to verify a couple of tid-bits. Franklin and I are going to Earhart's in a couple of hours. I'll fill you in then if you're interested." "I'd like to but I'm going to be in C&C a couple of hours late today and then I have a dinner engagement." "Let me guess. Diplomatic functions?" "What makes you think THAT?" she said startled. "Oh, you looked a little worried when I stepped on the lift. You only get that way is when the Captain has dumped another political assignment on you." She smiled, "Well, I'm sorry to burst your insightful theorem but the dinner is an informal event with a friend. The only reason I want to be in Control late is because I want to take a look at the Hermes when she jumps in." A long time ago, Londo had told Michael that he had one of the best poker faces that he had seen on a human. It served him well now. None of the shock that he felt radiated out to the surface. "The Hermes? What's the event? The one thousandth visitor or something?" he said conversationally. "You must be joking. Even an ex-Jarhead should..." At Garibaldi's quizzical expression she paused, "..well maybe not. The Hermes and its sister ship the Revere were the two most famous EA ships in the Dilgar War. You know, the Estafette corvettes that performed the blockade run at Aggra 2 and pierced the Dilgar battle-sphere at Salos. She's been refitted by some civilian outfit but the ship is still a classic. Most of the command staff is going to show up. Want to take a look at it?" "Naw, that's all ancient history to me." Garibaldi said. Why can't ANYTHING go my way he thought to himself. The rangers would have to evacuate on the only bloody ship that would stir interest in the Fleet staff on station. Jeez, he thought disgustedly, why didn't they just get the VORLONS to pick them up. The turbolift door hissed open. Garibaldi stepped out. Ivonova pursued him. "Aren't you off to CinC ?" he said as he walked to his office, puzzled. "No, actually I wanted to warn you." she said tersely, the pensive look returning to her features. No, not pensive, Garibaldi realized, /scared/. What the hell could scare the redoubtable Commander Ivonova? "Warn me about what?" The door to his office slid open. "Them." she murmured and smiling painfully, nodded to the three occupants of the room. "If you'll excuse me, I have to be getting back to CinC." she said loudly. Still wearing that painful smile she fled the area. Garibaldi was too busy trying to figure out how he could do the same to notice. An obviously discomfited Zack Allan turned to him, relief evident on his features. "Ah, Chief. Glad to see you're here. I must be getting back to my duties now." he said animatedly. "Ladies, if you'll excuse me.", and departed hastily. Leaving Garibaldi standing there, staring. At two attractive women in their late twenties. Which would normally be a pleasant experience. Wearing black uniforms, jack boots and gloves. And psi pins, he thought belatedly, lets not forget the psi pins. Which removed all pretense of normality from the encounter. "Chief of Security Michael Garibaldi I presume." "Ah, yes. You're early, we weren't expecting you here for several hours." "It all depends on how you... perceive things Mr. Garibaldi. I believe our arrival is most opportune." * * * * * Lennier bowed. "Delenn, a man is here to see you. He is expected." She looked up from her studies. She smiled slightly, placing her datapad on the desk. "Then I believe you should show him in Lennier." Lennier bowed and left to retrieve the man. She stood and moved to the left corner of the room, ostensibly to regard a piece of art that she had acquired recently. More to the point she had always preferred to stand during meetings, a habit formed during her days on the Grey Council. "Ambassador Delenn, this is Mr. Greenway." Lennier introduced the man. "Yes, I believe we have met before." "Briefly, Madame Ambassador. I'm honoured you remember me." "I do try to remember all of import." She smiled at Lennier, her left ring finger moving fractionally. He bowed and departed. Silence grew in the room. Delenn treasured silence, longed for its comfort. It washed away the screams she heard underlying every conversation of late. The ranger would speak soon, she thought sadly, for despite their brightness and determination, patience was not a human characteristic. "You requested a meeting, Ambassador." A statement. She regarded him for a long moment. "Yes. Your withdrawal plans are of concern to me." "How so? You are in agreement with Mr. Garibaldi's assessment. Remaining on station is too hazardous for the organization." "My concern is with the operative chosen to oversee your progress on the station during your hiatus." she stated. "Ambassador, we simply cannot leave the station unwatched at this juncture. The probability of a minbari attracting the attention of the Corps is much lower. Thus she is the ideal stand-in for our operatives here. Besides I'd hardly call our selection incompetent." Mr. Greenway replied evenly. "I wonder. Have you informed Mr. Garibaldi of this development?" The resulting silence spoke volumes. "As I thought." she pursed her lips, a habit she had developed since her metamorphosis. "I cannot allow this. She is not to board the station. This is an order." Greenway drew himself up, his grey formal cloak flowing around him like a dark cloud. His pin flashed, reflecting the light from a crystal glow globe. His voice was quiet but iron underlay the words. "I will not accept that. Without her we will be blind. As it is our operations here will be in tatters. Babylon 5 is a locus. Failure here could mean the defeat of our cause." If the ranger was a storm Delenn was the sun on the sea, light piercing mysterious depths, the glassy surface hinting at everything, at nothing. If she was angered at the ranger's presumption it did not show in her voice, only the calm overtones of one who had spent a lifetime in a position of power. "You will not be blind. I will be here. That is enough." "Enough? I think not. WE are the rangers, Ambassador Delenn. WE are sworn to seek, WE search the low, dank places that others scorn to tread. WE deal with the decadent, the villainous. All for the greater good, to ensure the future of the light. Do not seek to replace us, Ambassador, you are not meant for that path. You would not last long outside the halls of power.", he spat, "This interview is done." and turned to leave. Or tried to as he found himself unable to move, weighed down by a gravity that was suddenly several times the section-rated .97 g. "We will be done when I say, not before." Delenn's voice was calm but she bridled visibly at the man's haughtiness. A series of complex gravitational alterations deposited Greenway in the middle of chamber, floating two feet off the floor. She slowly circled him. "Listen to me. Do not prattle of your sacrifices, I know them well. I have given up power beyond your comprehension, happiness, peace. Be assured I do not ask this of you lightly. I am the commander of the rangers in this sector and I require this." Greenway settled lightly to the floor, as the gravitational influences waned under Delenn's control. He straightened his cloak nervously. "Ambassador, it is not within my authority. Or yours." he added hastily. "The One has directed this course, there is no other option. Even if I agreed with you. And I do not." "Then there is nothing to be done." she said heavily. "If you wish I will relay your views personally to the One." he offered. She nodded and he turned to depart. "By your leave?" "Of course." she said looking down. "And Ambassador?" Delenn raised her head to view the ranger. "If I may say, Ambassador, you do Kiral wrong to judge her by her reputation. I trained with her and I can assure you its undeserved." As the door closed behind him Delenn whispered "Its not her reputation that troubles me." and turned to regard the painting on the wall. It was Markab, a possession given to her by one of the last of the race, in payment for the kindness she had shown in dealing with the illness that he had evaded but had decimated his kind. The theme, however, had been repeated a thousand times, by a thousand races. It depicted a lone Markab being cast out from his home, by his family. Troubled, Delenn stared at it, the image burning itself in her mind, until Lennier entered several minutes later.