From fmlecou@mailbox.syr.edu Sun Apr 21 10:44:16 1996
Date: Thu, 11 Apr 1996 17:18:06 -0400 (EDT)
From: "Felicia M. Le Cou" <fmlecou@mailbox.syr.edu>
To: b5-creative@lists1.best.com
Subject: Three Day Delay (1/?)


Hello everyone:

I've been asked to post the following for a friend.  She's a newbie B5 
writer and very anxious for feedback.  I really like the story and want 
her to write more.  I hope you feel the same.

Felicia
fmlecou@mailbox.syr.edu

-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Gentle listfolk:        A really nervous newbie steps to the podium...
This story goes somewhere before, umm, the ep where martial law is declared
by the Knightwatch/Ministry of Peace. Or not. (Not being intentionally
vague here, just not certain yet...)
        Comments welcomed & appreciated on the list. Or write to Felicia 
<fmlecou@mailbox.syr.edu> and she'll get them to me.

*       *       *
Three Day Delay
by Lianna Zoe

        Later, Garibaldi would think back to what Delenn had told him at
Ambassador Mollari's Ascension celebration; that some people in the
universe were tied to others with invisible strings. Souls destined to find
each other no matter what, across insurmountable barriers, in spite of
impossible odds. It was the only way he could explain it. There hadn't been
any clues, or any reason to guess at what was going on.  You could explain
what Lyta and Ivanova had felt, you could rationalize the sequence of
events that included them, but when you looked at how he figured into it,
you had to write it off to blind chance. Luck. Coincidence.
        Fate.

*
10:00 Daytime shift

        He'd been at Customs, checking on some of the passengers coming off
a transport from Io to Babylon 5. This particular ship's captain wasn't
exactly criminal, but some of his crew were on the shady side---so
reviewing the ID's on the people who were leaving the Glory May was only
common sense. Babylon 5 sometimes got the worst of Earth's rejects through
its gates, and keeping an eye on them while they were onstation was part of
his job. Garibaldi didn't have to be there to do this, but he'd wanted to
check up on Zach anyway. The recent changes in his second-in-command's
priorities made him wary, and a little sad; and it was exhausting,
wondering if your backup was reliable, or would sell you out if told to by
some jerk with an armband.

       Docking Bay 32 was busy, bustling with the unloading crew, the crew
members, and the passengers waiting to board the ship to leave for the trip
back to Io.  The passengers arriving were the usual lot. There'd been a few
business travellers, a couple of ladies who looked fairly shady, and then
there'd been Gerda Flint. He hadn't even looked at her that first minute,
just taken the ID, put it in the reader, and scanned it for authenticity.

NAME:   Gerda Flint
Age:    29      Occupation: Artist      Residence: Emirate of Yemen
Eyes:   Brown   Hair:   Black
Height: 175 cm  Weight: 20 k    Distinguishing Marks: None
Last Debarkation:       Io, 1/31/60
Dependent:      Son, Adric Flint (3 months old)

        <BLIP>  CLEARED came up on the reader.

        When the Security Chief looked up to hand her back the ID,
something hit him. A sense of familiarity. "Thank you," whispered the woman
holding the baby carrier, strain engraved on her features, seeming too
tired to meet his eyes. He didn't let go of the ID, and she looked up at
him from behind gray-tinted shades; dark brown eyes in a tan face regarded
him curiously, with no sense of recognition. "Is there a problem?" She
tugged on the plastic square, and Garibaldi snapped out of it long enough
to give it back to her.
        "No problem," he said, smiling easily. "You just reminded me of
someone. How long are you planning on staying at Babylon 5, Ms. Flint?"
        "Three days." She shifted the baby carrier on her arm, checking on
the sleeping baby within it with unconscious maternal worry. "We're taking
a transport to one of the outer colonies as soon as my husband can join
us." The faintest trace of Arabic accent colored her words, and the slump
of her shoulders increased the impression of a weary traveller who just
wanted to get to a nice, soft bed.
        "Which colony would that be?" Garibaldi was staring at her, and
knew it, but that nagging sense of _knowing_ her would not go away. Along
with an equally strong sense that there was no way they'd ever met before.
So why was she so familiar?
        "Talos 3?" The woman seemed unsure, then smiled hesitantly. Again,
that *jolt*, the breathless feeling that he _knew_ her, and damnit, this
was important. "Jared is making all the arrangements. I can't remember if
it's Two or Three."
        "It has to be Talos 3, the second planet's a desert." Why the hell
did he feel disappointed that she was married? Two minutes he'd been
talking to her, and he wanted to ask her out for a drink. This was nuts.
"Do you have a place to stay on-station while you wait for your husband?"
        "Yes," Ms. Flint responded, the hesitation gone, more brisk now.
"We have friends on-station. They're lending me their guest room while I'm
here." Determinedly, she squared her shoulders and asked, "Is there
anything else?"
        "What? Oh, no. No, there's not." He couldn't think of a thing to
say. Except the obvious. "Have we met before?"
        "No." Again, that downright, in-your-face decisiveness. "I'd
remember." She smiled to soften the brusque comment, then added, "If you'll
excuse me---I really want to get to our friends' quarters before Adric
wakes up. He's impossible to deal with when he's hungry."
        "Sure. Enjoy your stay at Babylon 5." You idiot, Garibaldi griped
to himself as he watched her leave. What were you thinking of... something
about the way she was walking was familiar, the stride teasing at the back
of his brain---
        ---which was when a fight broke out between a dock worker and one
of the Glory May's crew, so he couldn't follow the train of thought to its
natural conclusion.  By the time the fight was settled, she was gone.
        "Damnit," Garibaldi muttered, rubbing the back of his neck as he
stared down the corridor where she'd departed.
        "Problem, Chief?" Zach asked, joining him at the Customs station.
        "No. Nothing, really." Garibaldi wished he felt comfortable
confiding in Zach; he would have liked to ask his opinion about Gerda
Flint. But the general uneasiness of their current working relationship
stopped him from doing so. He didn't know why, but it seemed too private to
mention to someone he didn't trust.


14:00 Daytime shift

        Lyta Alexander was in Down Below when she brushed by the woman with
the baby. Ever since she'd deserted the Corps, and begun courier work for
the Vorlons, she'd been extra, ultra-careful about not being spotted on the
station by anyone interested in turning her in. Threats to Ambassadors
aside, there were a lot of people on B5 who'd be willing to risk a few bad
dreams for the amount of money the Corps was offering for her return - dead
or alive.  Most of the lurkers in Brown Section and the Bazaar had enough
worries of their own that they'd leave her alone; those that wouldn't were
silently told to GO AWAY until they found themselves somewhere else, unsure
why, but far away from Lyta Alexander.

        The sense of telepathic power that came through the brief contact
with the woman in bright gold-and-red tourist's garb was overpowering.
DON'T LOOK AT ME, the woman was mentally broadcasting to everyone around
her. DON'T NOTICE ME.

        To a mundane, the subliminal message would be nearly impossible to
resist. To Lyta, a trained P-5 (possibly stronger now, but who knew for
certain?) , it was like a blast in the ear from a megaphone. It hadn't been
clear what the woman was doing until they'd bumped into each other,
something almost impossible to avoid given the crowded nature of the Bazaar
and the narrow corridor left open between booths.

        She turned around and followed the woman, wanting to offer her
help; certain that she knew why the newcomer had been broadcasting,
positive that this was a runaway telepath. The dismantling of the
Underground Railroad that had gone through B5 last year had probably left a
lot of desperate people back on Earth and Mars, but the risk to the station
command had become too great before Lyta returned from Vorlon space, with
the information about the Corps' diastrous "sleeper" program. She could
understand why they'd had to quit, but at least a huge number of telepaths
had moved on to safety before it was shut down. But this poor woman was
probably half-frantic, and now totally alone and defenseless, without the
support system that had saved so many before.

        Catching up to the woman next to a jewelry stall, Lyta touched her
on the arm, saying, "Excuse me---"

        Dizziness. Overpowering revulsion, a feeling of GET AWAY FROM ME!
Shields slammed up so fast and hard that Lyta almost heard an audible
<thunk> as they dropped in place. Definitely a telepath, definitely on the
run.

        And below and beneath that, something incredibly familiar. Lyta
stared at the woman, trying to see something she recognized. But that
nauseating sense of revulsion was distracting her; the tourist was sending
out waves of disorienting images, trying to keep her from getting any
closer. The P-5 squinted and shook her head, concentrating on finding her
own center in the midst of the chaos being broadcast.

        The woman was staring at Lyta now, her jaw set in anger. "You could
have knocked Jason out of his carrier, grabbing my arm like that! What do
you think you were doing?" And subliminally, but still recognizable to
Lyta, GO AWAY. GO AWAY. GO AWAY.

        "Is there some kind of problem?" The jewelry seller frowned at
Lyta, shooting the unknown telepath a protective look. Lyta couldn't be
sure, but it felt like the woman might be influencing the vendor. "Is she
bothering you?"

        "She tried to grab my baby," exclaimed the tourist shrilly, backing
away from Lyta, dark eyes wide behind her gray shades, clutching the baby
carrier to her chest. "She's crazy!"

        A crowd started to form, grumbling and threatening.  "I didn't do
anything," Lyta protested, backing away, sending a mental message to the
other telepath. I WANT TO HELP YOU---

        GO >>AWAY<<!!! The woman had her head down, cooing at the child in
the pink-and-blue babyseat. "Poor sweetheart," she was murmurring, "did
that nasty woman scare you?" Sympathetic sounds from the crowd; outrage
mingled with protectiveness.

        Before she knew what was happening, Lyta was separated from the
other telepath by a wall of bodies. How much of their behavior was in
response to the woman's allegations, and how much was telepathically
induced, she couldn't tell. Her head hurt too badly to focus on the
visitor.

        By the time she'd convinced the crowd that she wasn't some kind of
lunatic, her headache was gone. Along with the mother and child.

02:32:52  Night shift

        Michael Garibaldi was dreaming.
        More precisely, he was having a nightmare.
        It was a familiar nightmare by now. He'd been having it off and on
for a year. Talia Winters twisted in his arms, screaming imprecations and
threats at Lyta Alexander. "You're dead, Lyta, you traitor! The Corps will
FIND you!" She snarled, fighting him, and he glimpsed the last flickers of
the woman he cared about die, drowned in the alien personality implanted by
PsiCorps. "The Corps is mother, the Corps is father..." Sentiments the
Talia he knew would never utter without irony and bitterness, now shouted
in the fervent tones of a fanatic.
        And again, just as it happened last year, he dragged her out of the
room, shoving her away from him as she laughed in scorn. "Talia's gone
forever, Mr. Garibaldi. Get over it." Naked contempt shone on her face, the
face of the woman he'd almost loved. Maybe more than almost.
        Dreamlike, the scene melted into another one - the moments in the
jail cell with Matt Stone, when she'd told her ex-husband good-bye without
a backward glance.  Only now she was leaving him, her expression as icy as
her name. And another scene, when she'd almost been killed by the Martian
terrorist who'd been programmed to self-destruct... only this time, she was
ripped to pieces by the explosion he couldn't prevent.
        Numbly, he watched her turn on him again, this time screaming, "You
can die too, Michael Garibaldi!" She was holding a PPG, her eyes cold and
glittering, and as she raised it, he could hear himself plea "Talia..."
        "Talia's dead. I'm all that's left..." And she shot him.

        He sat up in bed, gasping for breath. "God..." Michael muttered
softly, falling back onto the sheets, unable to stop his heart from racing.
"Wonder what set that off." He closed his eyes, feeling hot, unshed tears
gather beneath the lids. Damn, damn, damn. Damn PsiCorps. Obliterating
someone's personality was the sentence reserved for murderers, stone
killers; nothing that Talia had ever deserved. And to leave that cold,
poisonous bitch behind in her place... Susan had taken it hard too. They'd
talked about it, a few times, off shift, in the small, late hours of the
morning. The loss that Susan felt had been a gaping hole in her heart; and
the anger she'd felt for the replacement personality had been entirely
understandable. But it had nearly tempted Michael back into taking a drink
when he'd realized that allowing Lyta Alexander to test Talia had been the
thing that had killed her. It made them responsible, almost, for her death.
Not as responsible as the Corps, but still...

        Garibaldi was wide awake now. No help for it. He tossed the covers
aside, and walked over to the video display, searching methodically through
his crystals for the Duck Dodgers clips.  Don't think about it, he ordered
himself.  You don't want to remember her. She's gone.
        He couldn't find the Duck Dodgers crystal, but some other Daffy
Duck clip instead. Garibaldi settled back onto the couch, watching the
cartoons in the dark, trying to ignore the nagging depression left by the
dream. Blinking, he focused on the screen. Daffy Duck was dressed up as a
girl, batting his false eyelashes at some monster.
        Michael frowned. Why did that remind him of the woman from the
Glory May this morning? He didn't know. But once he started thinking about
her, he couldn't bring his mind back to the animated antics on the
vidscreen.  Why had she seemed so familiar?
        Giving up the effort to watch the cartoon, he said, "Stop film."
The room went dark. Chewing at his lower lip, he stared in front of him for
a while, mulling over the exchange with the tourist at the docking bay.
Funny how he couldn't remember what she looked like now. But at the time,
he could have sworn he knew her... "Half lights." The room brightened to
visibility without being painful. The Security Chief paced over to his
comscreen, muttering under his breath. "What the hell. Computer. Bring up
records on... Gerda Flint. Passenger arrived on the Glory May this morning,
Docking Bay 32."  Two, two and a half minutes, and then the record was
onscreen.
        And like a punch in the stomach, Michael realized how he knew her.
Aside from the dark hair and eyes, she was a dead ringer for Talia Winters.
"No," he whispered, leaning close to the screen. "Can't be... I would've
seen it..." Or would I? he wondered. If Talia had been influencing him---
if she'd been trying to _prevent_ him from recognizing her--- maybe he
wouldn't. But what was she doing back on Babylon 5?
        With a kid. Married. The punch in the stomach now felt more like
the sinking feeling he'd felt when Lise had told him she was married. Loss.
Total disorientation.  Staring at the picture, he said, "Computer! Alter
photo image."
        "Photo alteration engaged. State parameters."
        "Change hair color to blonde - pale blonde. And shorter. Eyes to
blue. And delete the shades." The image whirred for a moment, then
coalesced.
        It wasn't his imagination.
        Oh, there were changes. A softening of the edges, a few more lines
around the eyes... but it was Talia. Just to make sure, he whispered,
"Computer. Comparison analysis of this photo with the one of Talia Winters
on file." More whirring, a few more seconds, then the mechanical voice
answered: "Analysis complete. Comparison ratio finds 98% match, within
acceptable limits."
        Slowly, without conscious volition, his fingers came up to trace
the edges of the face onscreen. "Talia..."

*       *      *

 Comments, please...     It'll be a while before I send the next bit, I
have to write this other story... Expect Part 2 next week at the earliest.

Lianna