From: watkins julia k <julifolo@ux1.cso.uiuc.edu>
Subject: Three WWE stories (fwd)
Date: Fri, 14 Feb 1997 07:40:34 -0600 (CST)


Hello all!

I will be posting three WWE stories today. The first story ("Circle") was 
originally posted here in June of last year. The third story ("Future and
Past") was posted two months later. "Circle" has minor revisions and
the third story has had a few major changes. I am reposting these
now because the middle story ("Catherine") only now has been finished, 
rescued from oblivion by a request from Justin who wanted to read the
missing middle story. (Thanks, Justin!)

These three stories are the reactions of three characters to the 
events of "War Without End": Garibaldi, Catherine Sakai, and Sheridan.
These stories are mostly me trying to get a problimatical episode to 
the point I could deal with it. I hope they are also food for thought
for the rest of you.

Julie
still trying to get Sinclair to join the other characters that live
in my head


From: watkins julia k <julifolo@ux1.cso.uiuc.edu>
Subject: "Circle" (WWE story 1 of 3)
Date: Fri, 14 Feb 1997 07:48:38 -0600 (CST)

Hello all!

This is the first WWE story, set the day after the _White Star_ returned
from B4 without Sinclair. The first version of this was posted in June
last year. I had beta help, but the acknowledgement statment seems to 
have disappeared from the file. (*ack!*)

Comments welcome. 

Julie
still miffed joe "couldn't" take care of this...

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Standard disclaimers. This story has been written for entertainment
purposes, not monetary profit. No copyright infringement is intended.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Circle

     by Julie Watkins
     julifolo@ux1.cso.uiuc.edu

When you lay dying and you stood yourself before your God, by
what name did he call you?


Garibaldi stood in the observation dome, wishing he was in a
starfury so he could stop the spinning stars and point his
gaze where his thoughts were: Sector 14.

    He tried to call up a image of his friend and he could not
do it. The face was gone, the name was gone. In the quiet
hell of night he had awoke in a cold sweat. Jeff had been
talking to him--his mind trying to make sense of what the others
had told him--but he couldn't listen to the words. It wasn't an
apology, it wasn't a goodbye. It had been quiet excitement, a
challenge, work to be done. He knew Jeff wanted him to understand. 
He couldn't.


He had stared the ceiling until he had the choice of falling
into madness or calling up the lights. He stumbled out of bed
and went to his monitor and started searching the history
records. After several washouts he decided he needed help
from someone with access to a different set of databases.

    He woke Lennier out of a sound sleep, dragging him to the
computer at his desk. "I want Minibari historical records," he
explained. "I don't care if this terminal or the files aren't
set up for translation." Lennier, ever the dutiful aide,
reacted to the urgency in Garibaldi's voice and took the
orders without question. "Give me unenhanced visual, anything 
you've got. History, not philosophy -- Valen."

    The files were enormous and the ancillary larger still.
But the search criteria of unenhanced original records
chopped it down to a core handful of matches. No audio
survived. Somewhere during the procedure Lennier became aware
of why and what Garibaldi was asking for. He kept his
thoughts silent and, as if he were a program, paged through
the results without comment.


There were fourteen photos, most of a commemorative nature.
There had been much rebuilding to do and not much energy
devoted to history, except long after the fact. The quality
of the images had degraded over time. There was one short
video clip filmed near the end of Valen's life, addressing a
large gathering. The audio had long since been lost. Lennier 
said the topic was on the importance of peace. He showed 
Garibaldi how to cycle through the file and then stood so 
that he could sit.


Garibaldi looked at the records, one by one. "I don't know you," 
he said to the screen. How could you do this to me? his thoughts
continued.

  "It was his destiny," Delenn had said in the docking bay, 
and her face had that "spiritual" look he had seen her wear so
many times when she was talking in certainty--she, Minbari member 
of the religious caste--and he with everyone else had to take
what ever she pronounced on faith, as the captain always did. 

    She had told him that when he had angrily demanded of those
who had returned from the _Whitestar_ where was the man who had
gone with them and had not returned. That man no longer existed.
"He told us 'I will take the station back because I have always 
taken it'", Delenn had said, quoting--she said--Sinclair's words. 
"'It has already happened.'"

    And he was supposed to accept that circular reasoning, and he
hadn't wanted to. "Could you do that?" he had hissed at Sheridan.
"If someone handed you a letter and said 'Here, this is your life'
--would you accept it? Just like that?"

    "It was not 'just like that'," Delenn answered instead of
Sheridan, and she continued, speaking words he didn't want to hear.
It made no sense. What was Minbari religion to Jeff? 

    Garibaldi had to admit Jeff had a spiritual side to him that he
could never understand. The protest he clung to, the protest he
had shouted first to Delenn, and then to Lennier when Delenn
did not react, was unbelief. He, Michael Garibaldi, would never
presume to dictate another's religion. How much more, then, would
not Jeff have felt--he who had so much respect for other's beliefs?
That isn't, that _wasn't_ you, Jeff. He pushed aside the memory of 
comments he had made to himself, watching the Ranger reports Sinclair
had started to send once the network was up an running, wondering why 
Jeff seemed more relaxed than he ever knew him while the universe was 
going to hell.

    "How could he do that?" Garibaldi had screamed at them, searching
for a reason he could deny it all. "What you're telling me-- it 
wasn't, it isn't his own world. How could he ask himself-- how could
he _pretend_ such a thing?"

    "It wasn't pretense." Lennier had answered calmly, showing no
emotion. "You feel a wrong has been done to us. No. Sinclair did 
not take Minbar, Minbar took him." 

    "It was Minbar that told him what to do," Sheridan had continued,
looking equally accepting. "He would not have stayed there, he would 
not have learned what he learned, would not have formed the Rangers as
he formed them if he did not agree with what he found there. It's
a circle and there was no 'beginning'."


It makes no more sense than "Chicken and egg", Garibaldi groused.

    He shook his head free of the memories of other people
explaining. He didn't want Sheridan's words, not Delenn's. He
looked at the blurred images of a stranger, a Minbari, and tried
to see something he could recognize. He tried to talk to the 
screen, tried to pretend it was Jeff there, that he was talking
to him, but he couldn't make the words leave his throat. So
he had to pretend he was talking, just as he would have to pretend
he was hearing Jeff answer. If he could make him answer, even in 
his imagination. If he could expect words from the dead.

    Did they leave you any part for yourself, Jeff? he asked. Do you, 
did you know me any more or was the change too great? The only 
possible answer wasn't answer enough: "I'm sorry, old friend."


And the room was filled with silence.
    Emptiness.
    Loneliness.


As time bled away, Garibaldi tried to pull himself back together.
If there was anything more, he knew he'd have to look for it, and he 
would never be sure if it was really there or it was just him wanting 
to find some sign. On the screen Valen gestured, pleading for a peace
that might endure.

    Do I have to learn to read Minbari now? he asked himself. Search 
"his" teachings on friendship on the chance that something he wrote 
had specific as well as general significance?

    His head reeled over the abyss. That way lead back to madness.
It was no place he belonged.
+++


He had lost track of how many times he had cycled through the
file when he heard the door open behind him. "On the
relevant meridian on Earth it's coming up on dawn." The voice
was Marcus'. He approached to stand behind Garibaldi. "Lennier
would like his quarters back."

    Garibaldi keep his eyes on the monitor and didn't speak.
Three more photos, and then he took his hands from the keyboard
freezing the display. He sat back. On the screen was a blurred 
photo of three Minbari standing in front of a stylized structure. 
He couldn't tell one from the other. 

    The question hung there for several moments and then Marcus
cleared his throat. "Ah, him," he touched the screen. Hollow
eyes turned to lock with his. He retreated, shrugging an apology.
"I read the caption."

    "Oh," Garibaldi spoke at last, putting the display back onto
automatic cycle. "How's your head feeling?"

    "You want to know what I think about this."

    You, Susan, John ... Delenn, Lennier and the rest of the 
Minbari race. "Yeah."

    "It happened."

    Garibaldi waited for more, and his breaths got deeper the
longer the silence grew. "Is that all you have to say?"

    "Yes."

    All the anger he had cried out in the docking bay was ready
to surface again but had been deflected by the odd, almost shaking
tone of Marcus' voice saying that "yes". Garibaldi at first turned 
his head back and then had to look down to see him. The ranger had 
lowered to a squat, sitting on his heels, eyes looking upwards to 
the monitor. Garibaldi rolled the chair sideways to give him a better 
view. "Marcus?"

    "Michael," he swallowed, "this feels ... so odd."

    It was a cold comfort to him to finally see someone else react.
"What?"

    "I've seen these. Most of these," Marcus explained. "Ent-- Sinclair
has seen these. But-- what we each saw first were the reconstructions,
the augmentations. Later computer artists trying to rebuild the
degrading data of over-used files." Each iteration, each correction
had been colored by that artist's idealizations. And the original
recordings for most reconstructions had been lost. "The standard
portrait--"

    "Don't I know it." Garibaldi muttered, spinning towards the
abyss again. All the limited station history files had were five 
different versions of the same painting, and that had been what had 
sent him running to Lennier, all the while his mind screaming in 
denial: "It's a lie, it's a lie."

    "That surface was all we saw," he said, standing again. "There 
wasn't reason to look deeper."

    Garibaldi couldn't believe the implication of what he saw on
Marcus' face. "You see a resemblance." 

    He was shocked. "Yes. Don't you?"

    "No."

    The display had cycled back to the halting video clip. Chopped
motion and frequent white-outs. Marcus watched Garibaldi's eyes 
rather than the screen. He saw it, how the hand descended though the 
mouth was too blurred, but he didn't want to believe.    

    "Damn it, Jeff," Garibaldi said to the screen without seeing it. 
His throat clenched. "I don't know you," he said again. Did I ever?

    "Maybe you didn't," Marcus said carefully.

    "Are you going to start spouting all that 'destiny' crap again?"
Garibaldi surprised himself. The words were angry but his voice was 
already defeated. "What right did he have--" He tried to call up
the anger, because he didn't want to find a reason to accept.
He gestured at the screen."What right did he have to play--"

    "Moses," Marcus inserted. "Not God," he added too quickly.
"It is a large distinction. 'Moses' is the closer analogy
though probably overstated."

    "'Moses'," Garibaldi repeated, feeling even more alone.


He grieves, Marcus told himself, more than any of the rest of us. 
It's a pain too deep to answer directly. He found an appropriate
tangent for a gentle approach. "It's an interesting question, 
difficult to answer: 'Who are you?'"

    Garibaldi looked at him, puzzled.

    "Excuse me," Marcus grinned apologetically. "You wonder, I think, 
how he--" he nodded to the image on the screen, "--would answer?"

    Garibaldi waited, eyes dull, anger gone.

    "There's the answer Delenn believes," Marcus continued, "that he
was/is a 'Moses', and there are three other possibilities." He spread 
his arms wide. " ... or infinite shadings in between."

    "Namely," Garibaldi prompted when Marcus didn't continue.

    "Maybe he was the Wizard of Oz," he shrugged. "A con man," he 
then explained in response to Garibaldi's pained expression. "Or maybe 
he was a Vorlon puppet or a madman. Who do you think he was?"

    My friend. Garibaldi didn't say the words aloud.

    Marcus withdrew the question. "Who do you think the Minbari are, 
and who do you think they would have followed? Could something false 
have had the strength to survive?"

    Garibaldi looked away and stopped trying to solve the
paradox. I told you, he said to the fading memory of Jeff in his
mind. How many times did I ask it: Why do you do this? Try to get 
yourself killed. You were always looking for something, looking for 
a way to die, looking for meaning. You were my friend, Jeff. That was 
meaning enough for me. You found your meaning, but it didn't include me.


His head hurt. "I could have come with him. He didn't give me the 
choice." His voice dropped to a whisper. "He didn't want me there."

    "No."

    He continued to stare, drained of emotion.

    Marcus gave him five more moments and then, all business, pulled
out a blank crystal from a pocket. He copied the file before signing
off and powering down the computer. "I'll make you a translation of
the captions."

    Garibaldi didn't move.

    "Michael."

    "OK, yeah." He  stood and let Marcus' hand on his back guide him to
the door. His eyes and mind focused only the minimum needed to
navigate. He had to think. It was going to take a long ... time ... 
to untangle this.

====end====


From: watkins julia k <julifolo@ux1.cso.uiuc.edu>
Subject: "Catherine" (WWE story 2 of 3)
Date: Fri, 14 Feb 1997 08:06:06 -0600 (CST)


Hello all!

This is the second of three WWE stories, set about six weeks after 
"Circle", and about a week before "Future and Past". This middle 
story is specifically dedicated to my beta reader Justin Donnelly
because it was his question that finally unlocked this story from 
the limbo it had disappeared into half a year ago. Thanks also to 
Les McBride and Sue Phillips who also commented on the drafts.

Comments welcome

Julie
whose middle name is "Katherine"

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Standard disclaimers. This story has been written for 
entertainment purposes, not monetary profit. No 
copyright infringement is intended.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


     "Catherine"
     
     by Julie Watkins
     julifolo@ux1.cso.uiuc.edu


	   --== Prolog ==--
    
"Go away," Catherine commanded the mail server.

    Nevertheless, the prompt remained on the terminal screen.
It was still there three hours later when she had finished her
negotiations and unloaded her small but valuable cargo. Amid all
the craziness the only currencies still viable were survival and 
fear. It would be a while before she expect another job offer, 
and then she would have to weigh the risks.

   The message still waited. Whoever set it had spent a lot of
credits to find her; there were probably duplicates waiting at 
every port in the sector. So who had that kind of connections? 

    Cursing her curiosity, she opened the file. She stopped short
when she saw it had been sent by Michael, not Jeff.

    "Bad news, Catherine--" he began.

     --== 1 ==--

"Corwin!"

    She almost didn't recognize him with short hair and no uniform.
Hardly anyone was in uniform any more.

   "Corwin. Hey, hold up!" Walking swiftly, she dodged traffic to 
join him. The Zocalo was crowded today. Matters were quiet and
shoppers were taking advantage.

    He turned just as she was about to tap his back. "Miss Sakai,"
he said after a shocked pause.

    "I need to talk to you."

    He stared a moment before nodding agreement.

    She steered him towards a low budget bar that had booths and
privacy. "Is it true?" she said, looking at the political poster 
hung over the bar that showed Clark's dead head on a pike. Wishful
thinking.

    "That bastard," she pointed. "Did he really kill Santiago? They 
found the proof here, didn't they?"

    "Not Clark himself, but he arranged it. The Captain's sure of
that."

    Catherine was breathing angry. "It was Clark that ordered Jeff 
back to Earth, you know. I told him he didn't have to go. He went. 
He promised me he was coming back, I told him not to make promises 
he couldn't keep."

    "Ah," Corwin said in a neutral voice. "I don't think anyone
suspected back then--" 

    The kid did have a calming voice, she decided. He must be
getting lots of practice with all the refugee ships coming in. 
She wasn't in a mood to be placated. He damn well had to know
enough to know why she was here. "If Clark--that murderer Clark--
if he hadn't ordered Jeff away I'd still be here. We'd be married. 
There was just time enough, I think, before the Centauri/Narn War 
happened that we could have gotten the wedding planned and done." 
If she'd agreed to his earlier date ... She thought she remembered 
there had been a calm few weeks. If she could have kept herself 
from backing out.

     "I'm sorry --" he seemed to stumble on what names to use
and settled on none. "I'm sorry he died."

    "Jeff called me from Earth, saying he'd been assigned to
Minbar, and 'postponed' the wedding. I told him it was 'now or
never'. He wouldn't resign. Clark--" she spat the word "--said 
he needed him on Minbar. That murdering, home-wrecking bastard."
She turned her attention back to Corwin. "So how did he die?"

    "I really don't--"

    "Then tell me what you do know. Did coded messages come in?"

    He paused, considering what he could say. "He was on station.
Com- ... Ambassador Sinclair. Not long, not even a day. It was 
the same time we got that crazy distress call."

    "From who?"

    "Us, the future." He shifted uneasily. "I shouldn't--"

    "And Jeff got involved." Catherine wouldn't give in, reminding
him she had a right to know.

    "Miss Sakai," Corwin said firmly. "I don't know much, and I'm
not at liberty--" Her glare made him wince. "I'm not saying you
shouldn't be told, and I don't expect a problem, but shouldn't you
be talking to Mr. Garibaldi?"

    His question was all the more annoying for being right. It 
might take more than she expected to get his cooperation. She 
wasn't ready to talk to Michael. Her eyes wandered and her voice 
became small. "Michael? I saw him; I saw his eyes. The moment we 
get within two feet of each other we're both going to break down."

    Corwin moved as if to touch her arm but her answering stare
warned him to back off. "I prefer to shed my tears in private,
Lieutenant. I assure you, I've done my share of weeping. I'm not
ready yet for Michael. I've got to find enough of what he's hiding
from me that he'll have to give me the rest."

     --== 2 ==--

At the end of the meeting Garibaldi spoke his news.

    "Catherine Sakai is on station," he said, looking at Ivanova. 
She paled. It took longer for Sheridan to recognize the name. 
Marcus looked puzzled.

    "I sent word Jeff had died. She's here to find out why."

    "We have to tell her," Sheridan said.

    "No."

    Ivanova stared at him. "What?" 

    "There's no one here who's going to tell her but me, and I'm 
not going to do it." When had they gotten so close anyway? Shared
pain, he supposed. There was that one unsuccessful strategy
session over lunch some few days after the Ikarran matter had been
cleaned up. He had been frustrated that he couldn't make Jeff 
understand the risks he was taking and Catherine could only echo 
his fears. He'd always gotten the feeling that Jeff saw in 
Catherine his one escape from whatever he was running from, or to. 
But he couldn't make up his mind, and Catherine would not put up 
with that.

   "Michael, you can't be serious," Ivanova insisted.

    "What, drop 'Moses Sinclair' on her without warning? She was
going to _marry_ him. It almost sent me over the edge, what's it
going to do to her?"

    "Or is it _you_ can't talk about it?"

    "I'm only following her lead," Garibaldi hissed. "I'm not in
hiding!" He got up from his chair and started pacing around the
table, punctuating his points by pauses in the rhythm. "She came
here wanting to know, but now she's scared at what she'll be told.
She's not ready." He continued his circuit until he was behind
Ivanova, and leaned over to speak in her ear. "I at least had the
'advantage' of watching you die five times." That had been the
distress signal he had left to investigate just as Jeff had 
entered the station. "Whatever was happening I knew what was at 
stake. And _I_ had a message."

   "He didn't leave a tape for her?" Sheridan asked, voice
surprised.

    "No record of any sent; nothing I could find here; nothing on
Minbar. I had the rangers there check. So I sent her the news, but
I didn't say 'how'." 

    "He was going to marry her." Marcus also looked at a loss.
"How could he not...?"  

    "I suppose he couldn't think of what to say," Garibaldi
answered, finding it was grim comfort to lay this out in front of 
the others; cracking the illusion, perhaps. This was the Jeff he
wanted them to remember, warts and all. He spoke almost cheerfully,
which underscored the wasted opportunities all the more. "He had
no idea what he could say, so he must have kept putting it off until
it was too late, and let it go. Typical Jeff and Catherine. Anything
else they could be logical about, except each other. Damn Clark,
anyway. I really thought they had finally gotten it right."

    "Yes," Ivanova agreed sadly. "It might have worked. They'd
looked so happy."

   "They had this love/hate relationship," Garibaldi explained to
Sheridan and Marcus. "I'm sure she tried to tell him not to take the
ambassador position. He told me, the first call after I woke up, the
marriage was off. She was 'upset'. ... If it was anything like the 
last time they broke up she screamed at him for twenty minutes 
straight and hung up on 'I hate you'." 

    "Damn," Sheridan mumbled. 

    "An exit like that was usually good for two, three years before
they tried again" Garibaldi continued glibly. "And that was the last
thing she said to him, unless she called to say it again when the
Clark tape got released." He had circled back to his chair again. 
He sat, leaned his chin on his hand and met Sheridan's eyes. "Last 
he knew the relationship was 'hate'. I don't think it occurred to 
him-- again, typical-- that  getting a death notice would switch 
the setting back to 'love'."

    "She has to be told," Ivanova insisted.

    "Yes," Garibaldi said. "But not cold." He pulled out a data
crystal that was the historical record of Valen that Lennier had
compiled: a small collection of degraded photographs a video full
of white-outs that had lost its audio. "Did Marcus give you a
copy?" 

    "The photographs."

    "How many times did it take you to see it?"

    "I don't know," she admitted. "I kept closing it down. A while.
Sometimes I can recognize him, sometimes I can't."

    "I'll give her some clues," Garibaldi assured. "She'll start
digging and the fight will do her good. When she's close enough 
I'll tell her the rest."


Late the next day, Marcus entered Garibaldi's office.

    "I found something," he said without preamble, popping in a
data crystal. 

    Garibaldi looked at the display: a pair of short poems. "_The 
surety of friendship..._" The author was obviously Sinclair. 
He welcomed the pain; it made him feel more alive, somehow.

    "A clue for Catherine?" Marcus ventured.

    Garibaldi stared at the screen. "He wrote these for us, didn't 
he?" They formed a near-mirrored set: a long belated recognition
of how each had shaped Valen's human past, written in symbolic
terms. In the text to Catherine, he could feel Sinclair's longing.

    "Ah, one poem actually," Marcus corrected. "Both translations
are accurate, using variant word meanings. As is the standard
text-- it's from the last chapter of his _Ethics_. Academia, you
know: it's a dry and pedantic representation. But if you consider
the original pronunciation the poetic rhythm is pronounced. I just
broke apart the sentences into the appropriate phrasing."

    "You're right," Garibaldi said to the screen. "It's time."

     --== 3 ==--

It was their third meeting, but Corwin didn't have much to say.
He was still insisting she needed to talk to Garibaldi.
   
    Catherine was making her usual response when she saw him 
striding into the restaurant. Before she could get up to leave 
Garibaldi had sat beside her in the booth, arm extended. "Come
here, Catherine." Her eyes filled instantly with tears as she slid
over the final foot and he held her to his chest, both arms, with 
all his strength, eyes closed. She sobbed uncontrollably as he 
rocked her. "Sorry, girl. I'm so sorry." He smoothed her hair. 
"I would have stopped him if I could, but he got away from me."

    "Damn you, Michael," she managed between sobs. "How could
you let him do this?"

    "He was Jeff to the end, they tell me. He never would listen to 
sense, you know that."

    She clung tighter. Garibaldi raised his head to see Corwin was
still there, trying to find something to say. " 's OK," he told him.
"You go, I'll take over. I brought handkerchiefs." Corwin nodded.

    "It's true," she said as Corwin walked away, her final desperate
hope shattered on the floor. His message had been text not vid.
"He's really dead." Garibaldi was hiding something, but it wasn't a
secret mission.

    "He's dead," He answered softly, a catch in his voice. "Dead
and gone." He didn't say that in the right order.

    Catherine pushed him away with sudden strength. "Don't lie to
me, Michael!"

    "I'm not."

    "What aren't you telling me?"

    He shook his head.

    "What happened?"

    "I can't tell you."

    "Why?" The word was a wail of anguish.

    It hurt to keep his resolve. "If I told you why it would be the 
same as telling you. I can't. Not yet."

    "You can't do this to me. I love him. I would have married him.
You have no right--"

    "No."

    "Then when?"

    "I can't say."

    A long silence, as she tried to understand. "You will tell me--
when the time's right." He nodded. "And if you're killed?"

    "I'm not going to get killed," he snapped. "Not for a while 
yet." The universe wasn't finished kicking him around yet, he was
certain. "Ask Susan. She's the one who told me." It was only two
words-- "He's dead"-- but she had spoken first and all the rest had
been moot after that.  "Susan was there," he continued. "Also
Delenn and Lennier. And Sheridan and Marcus Cole. Someone will tell 
you, I promise. It won't be long."

    She looked miserable. "Will it be sooner if I sign on? I've got 
a ship; I do good work." 

    He agreed, directing her to Marcus. "He could use your help."
He gave her a final hug, then pulled a folded sheet of paper from
his pocket as he broke away. "One last thing. This was found in
his files on Minbar after I sent my message. I think he wrote it
about you."

    Catherine read the poem. The Minbari influence was clear, as
was the restrained emotion. Even to himself, he couldn't speak
plain. She excused herself, needing to be alone.

    Why did she feel she had read it before?

     --== 4 ==--

In the hallway, Catherine stood hesitantly. Garibaldi invited her 
in. She sat on the couch, her posture taut.

    In silence, he made caff for both of them. At length she placed
the half-full mug carefully down on the low table before her. "Susan
said you had something to show me."

    
She couldn't understand what unfocused photos of Minbari had to do 
with the Shadow War she had joined, but at the fourth image impossible 
correlations began to pull it all together. The distress call Corwin 
received, from a future that never happened; rumors about the rescue 
of the crew of Babylon 4 that declared it was time travel; the 
Minibari-sounding poem that seemed to be speaking of a time much more 
than two years past; Ambassador Delenn's transformation.

    "Are you trying to tell me Jeff went back in time, became a
Minbari?"


Garibaldi tried to explain. It was obvious he was only pretending 
to believe, that he was still in denial even as he repeated what 
he had been told. She placed a hand on either side of the monitor 
screen. The photo and video cycle processed. On the third repetition,
English captions replaced Minbari and the cycling slowed. 

    "I don't know how he did it." Garibaldi keep his eyes on the
wall. "But the historical record is there. He did. I don't know if 
it was the letter that told him, but he brought nothing. Maybe it 
was his Jesuit training. They checked his computer logs looking for
messages. His last access was before he was given the letter. He
went back with barely more than his clothes and the ranger broach. 
He didn't even bring a dictionary. B4 had files, but he wouldn't 
have been able to count on them for more than maintenance 
documentation, and from what I can gather he must have wiped any 
historical data before any curious had a chance to find it. I 
suppose it made some sort of sense: he wouldn't have been any kind 
of leader for anyone to follow if he'd brought a script along with 
him he would try to follow."

    "He just left it to God," she summarized.

    "Right," he said, answering her soft voice with bitter sarcasm.
He wanted to say more, to complain against the arrogance that would 
throw away advantage on the faith that "it would happen because it 
always happened," but Catherine's eyes had gone glassy, hands still 
on the monitor. Somehow she was reaching back.


"Jeff--" she said. She could hear his voice in her memory. Every 
conversation, every argument about "God, the universe, and
everything" ... it was forming into a single truth. His blurred 
eyes spoke to her, in the motions of the silent video the shape 
of the music was told. She could only watch in wonder as he scaled 
ever higher, driven by the longing that was both conquest and utter
surrender.

    A flower bloomed in her mind that was comfort, the strong
embrace as he had held her and filled her. It would soon fade in
the harsh realities of her trapped state in the physical here and
now, yet in her dreams would she revisit the timeless moment.

    "Oh, God, Michael," she whispered. "He sees it. He sees it." 
All that he had searched for. She lowered her arms and turned
away from the screen to his embrace. 

    Garibaldi let her cry, his own tears painfully walled in by
unwanted jealousy. How was it that she could understand when he
could not? It was the part of Sinclair he didn't want to accept, 
the part that puzzled him. The part that had left him behind.

===end===


From: watkins julia k <julifolo@ux1.cso.uiuc.edu>
Subject: "Future and Past" (WWE story 3 of 3)
Date: Fri, 14 Feb 1997 08:31:51 -0600 (CST)


Hello all!

This is my third WWE story, set about a week after "Catherine". 
This was originanlly posted last August, but has undergone
substantive revision to incorporate "Z'Ha'Dum" and Delenn's later 
observations. I like the ending much better now.

Many thanks to Jenny, Sue, Adele and Alison who helped on the first
version, and helped me smooth this out into something less "loud". 
Comments welcome.

Julie
in a comparision mood

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Standard disclaimers. 

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

"Future and Past"
          by Julie Watkins
     julifolo@ux1.cso.uiuc.edu

Two figures in black. 

      Sheridan was deep in thought, haunted by the vision of shadow wings
that trapped him (the sweeping sword of light) and it took a while to
register: Garibaldi and a woman. Too short for Ivanova. Ivanova was in
C&C. The woman wore unrelieved black, her face had a sober calm. 
Catherine Sakai, Jeffrey Sinclair's almost wife. She had come to the
station for answers after Garibaldi had sent her notice Sinclair was dead.
A wave of empathy washed over him, and he turned for a better look.
The black of Garibaldi's uniform was broken by white piping and blue
badges. The grief on his faced was easier to see.


Garibaldi noticed Sheridan looking up at them from where he sat at the
conference table. At the captain's nod they took the stairs down and he
straightened then stood for the introduction. Sheridan looked like he
wanted to talk and Garibaldi took his leave.


Sheridan gestured at the chair beside him, sitting after she had done so.
"I'm sorry," he said. She nodded, and he had to look away after a
moment. "Ah, I'm sorry you had to wait for the whole story.  Michael
thought it would be easier for you if you got a suspicion first and didn't
get the rest until you were ready to see it." When she didn't immediately
react he added softly. "It still makes my head spin some times."

      "Same here," she smiled.


The silence got awkward. Sheridan wondered why he had asked her to
stay. He hadn't met her in those few days of overlap when he was the
new CO and she was still on station.

      Sakai had been living in Sinclair's quarters, still there 
waiting for him to return when the reassignment went through and she
was suddenly--by the regs--a squatter with no rights. Had the 
marriage been done and registered due consideration would have been 
given and she could have taken whatever time was reasonable, and the
movers would have taken her instructions.

      Instead, it was a jagged dislocation. She would not have had
any time to say "goodbye" to what she must have felt as "home", if only
for a short time. Ivanova had (she told him) just barely managed to get
word to Sakai before the official announcement, but the scuttlebutt had
already found her in a Zocolo cafe where she had been negotiating
another free-lance job. When Sakai got back to Sinclair's quarters the
movers were already there. All the careful military politeness couldn't
cover the fact that she had to pack her things _now_, because that's what
the orders said and not "as advised by Commander Sinclair". She had
offered her help to put Jeff's stuff in order, but she was too upset and 
had to go, leaving strangers standing in her bedroom. 

      The insensitivity had been unintentional. The orders had been 
given by an EarthDome bureaucrat who didn't know about Sakai, only
that Sinclair was on his way to a new assignment, hadn't made
arrangements, and a new CO would be arriving in a few hours time.
Sheridan had been horrified at the terse report Ivanova gave him, after
the _Tragoti_ incident cooled down, but she assured him he hadn't
thrown Sinclair's fiance out onto the street. "I claimed 'too short 
notice'," Ivanova explained. She had had him assigned to one of the VIP
apartments that were scattered through officer territory which were the
same size and had the same amenities. "That's why you have artwork
already in place. In my opinion, you can keep it there."

      Sheridan took his time replacing the station artwork with new
accumulation. Sakai lost no time vacating the station. And the 
engagement was broken off shortly afterwards. As Garibaldi had said,
"Typical Jeff and Catherine." It had never felt that way to Sheridan;
it was one of several guilts he carried around. It didn't matter if 
the relationship had always been iffy, his arrival had precipitated 
the break and that made him feel responsible. "Another couple years--" 
Garibaldi had predicted, back in happier times, before the war had
begun. 

      Less than that, Sheridan answered the memory. Now Sinclair was 
gone and for Sakai there could be nothing more than "might have been".


What the hell did he think he had to talk to her about? he asked
himself. She had signed on to help, but he'd be getting her 
recognizance reports through Marcus.

      "Did you have any more questions?"

      "Not at the moment."

      He sat back further in his chair. "I know I don't know you. 
I just -- " His far hand reached up to grab the back of his neck. "I 
used to be married."

      "I knew that. Your wife was killed."

      "She was on the _Icarus_ when it exploded." He was looking at the
galactic map when he said that. The sites of the Shadow attacks were
bright red triangles. He had been trying to figure some sort of pattern. 
"I found out later it had been a Shadow attack. Back then they weren't
moving openly."

      "Shadows are the reason Jeff is gone."

      "Yes."

      "I'm sorry about your wife."

      "Anna," he said. "Her name was Anna." His eyes looked elsewhen
and, dammit, his voice still caught on that "was".

      "You loved her very much."

      "I still love her." And Delenn, he added silently. I think I'm 
falling in love with Delenn. I don't know why we can't cross that last 
barrier. She had almost kissed me that one time, but Susan interrupted,
and when I got back to her, something had changed. She'd had time to
think, she didn't want to kiss me any more. There are things she won't 
say, I can feel it. There are things she still doesn't trust me enough 
to know. That holds us apart. Anna holds us apart. Why can't I say
"goodbye"?

      Catherine looked away, uncomfortable. "Jeff and I argued a lot," 
she had to admit in the face of Sheridan's still raw grief. The only 
reason I'm wearing black is because it makes Michael feel better, she 
continued silently. Jeff and I may have spent more time in love than 
arguing, but once things got tense the feeling only escalated and we 
could only hurt each other. Our careers, our ambitions ... only I know 
now the drive for Jeff hadn't been ambition. We were going to be 
married. Could it have lasted if there hadn't been that summons waiting 
in the wings? Jeff, it's so damn appropriate that you let _Clark_ order 
you to leave. 

      Her face turned hard. "I told him it was me or his career because I
wouldn't wait any longer." She sighed. "I really wasn't surprised when he
chose 'career'. Always. And that's why he left this time."


"I'm not sure you're being entirely fair," Sheridan said carefully, 
hoping for a partial reconciliation. "Near as I could see he didn't have 
a choice."

      "There are always choices, Captain," she snapped. "He chose not to 
say 'goodbye'. Now you tell me: was that because he was afraid he'd 
lose his resolve or was it because he wanted to avoid another fight?"

      He held his ground. "Is this an example of how your 'arguments'
started?"

      "I never had a chance --" she answered. "_We_ never had a chance.
It wasn't that anything either of us did was right or wrong. It's almost 
a relief to me that it was 'destiny' that took him away. He doesn't 
belong here. 'It's not my fault'." The quote had a nervous giggle 
underneath it. "Damn. That sounds so selfish."

      "No--" he tried to disagree, but this whole conversation was making
him uncomfortable. "We're all still trying to adjust." Well, not Lennier
or Marcus. Delenn had something on her mind, but it wasn't Valen. "I
think it's hurt Michael the hardest." Harder than you, he added silently.

      She caught the thought anyway. "I'm used to Jeff walking out on
me," she shrugged. "This is new for Michael. Sometimes it feels as if
he's a rival."

      "Oh?" Sheridan's eyes widened. He wasn't sure how to take that. On
the _White Star_ Ivanova would only say "leave it" when he tried to get
her to explain Sinclair's insistence that he couldn't talk to Garibaldi, 
even though he obviously wanted to. Later, as they approached the station 
she had whispered to him, "Michael is going to be very hurt. Michael is
going to be a problem."

      Her answering stare was blunt. "They had a better relationship that
we did--" She was talking about Jeff and Michael. She paused long
enough for Sheridan to jump to conclusions if he wanted to and then
stressed, "a _work_ relationship. Remember what I said about careers?" 

      He nodded, not entirely convinced.

      Her voice changed to annoyance. "Whatever Jeff needed him to do,
Michael was right there. Jeff pulled Michael out of the gutter and gave
him his life back. Jeff was always number one with Michael, not the job,
not ambition. So the only argument Michael ever had with Jeff was
'you're going to get yourself killed'." For the first time she looked 
upset. "Captain-- I'm worried about him. With Jeff gone--" she shivered,
"anything can happen."

      "Sinclair's been off the station almost two years now."

      "But there were letters. Michael told me that. He was keeping him
informed on the small talk, and then they were _working_ again together
with the Rangers. Now there's not even letters."

      "He left him a message, didn't he? Michael told us he got a message,
though he didn't leave one for you."

      "Jeff told Michael he was going and he couldn't let Michael come
with him. He just said it, he didn't explain." Michael never had a 
choice, she fumed. Not even Michael. Jeff had to do what he had to do, 
and we weren't a part of it. Now Michael's lost his anchor. And the way 
it happened ... It's obvious Michael needs Jeff a lot more than Jeff 
ever needed him. That's got to hurt. And how much of that did I feel the 
first time I walked away? Michael _never_ walked. Without Jeff there, I 
don't know if he has confidence he won't fall back down to the gutter 
Jeff rescued him from, or fall further. She shivered. "I'm afraid he'll 
go get himself uselessly killed just to avoid another funeral."

      "Catherine--" Sheridan tried to reassure, "we've made a new team
here and we're all working hard. He's had a hard knock, but I don't 
think he's in danger."

      "He's been hurt," she insisted, "and he doesn't want to be hurt
again."

      "Agreed." There was a bit of impatience in the word, as if he 
wanted to say "the same could be said of all of us".

      She turned away, biting her thumb. Sheridan's too concerned with
keeping the big picture in mind, she told herself, and she just couldn't
seem to get through. Maybe she was overreacting, but she didn't think so.
"Michael just wants to get it right, and he keeps getting slapped down.
Again and again." Then her voice got very small, riddled with guilt.
"And I'm not helping."

      "How is that?" he had to prompt.

      "'Misery loves company'," she quoted again. "Michael is miserable,
and so was I when I first came on board. But I'm not any more." Not
since I found out he hadn't been killed. She took a deep breath, 
staring at the map with its bloody triangles. "I'm too blasted worried 
about my own skin. A hundred years? Even if stranded, that sounds good 
to me right now. With everything thing that's happening it might be 
that my future can only be numbered in days. And Michael-- I should have
seduced him when I had the chance. Would have done us both good, to
forget the darkness for a while. Oh, Jeff -- Sometimes he's just so 
blind."


Sheridan opened his mouth, then shut it again.

      "What?" she demanded.

      "Your tenses," he explained reluctantly. "The relationships are 
past tense, but you still say 'Jeff is' not 'was'."

      "Huh," she considered. "Yeah, that's how I'm feeling."

      "He's dead."

      "No," she insisted. "He will die, but not yet. Last month he made 
a choice and he'll spend the next hundred years living with the
consequences. I can't shove it down into one moment."

      Sheridan looked dubious.

      She smiled and did not withdraw her statement. "I guess I see the 
past as a place, not a time. A place I can't reach. I know it's already 
done, but I still see him in the process of living it." She breathed in, 
hands trembling. "If I think of him as being somewhere else I can't 
reach, then I don't have to think about the rest of it. I can pretend that
what he does doesn't touch us."

      "What he 'does'," he repeated. "What he 'will do'?"

      "Yeah." Her voice shook. "That's the wall I keep running into. He
lives--_lived_ in a past stable enough that he could send a letter to
himself on a specific date."

      "The war," he whispered, seeing the direction of her thoughts.

      She nodded, eyes elsewhen, caught in fearful memory. Sometime in
Jeff's future, she knew, he would have to make the decision not to say
"don't use 'gun ports open' as a sign of respect" or to not write a 
letter to Dukhat. She hugged her arms to her. She didn't know how many 
years he'd spend trying to figure if there was a way to stop it and not 
break the loop, but at some point he would accept the Earth-Minbari war 
as "necessary". How could he do that? She caught a glimpse of Sheridan
before she lost her focus again. His thoughts must have been the same. 
"When you destroyed the _Black Star_ you used remotes," she said to
him. "No one on your ship was injured. Jeff lost every other man on his
squad. I spent hours--years--with him, trying to tell him it wasn't his
fault." For a moment her eyes went blind. "I guess it was, after all."

      "You think he could have stopped it," he whispered, and could 
barely hear her answer.

      "I don't think he even tried."  


"It was his 'destiny'," that's how Michael had explained it to her, and 
he obviously didn't want to accept it any more than she did. "It has 
always been," was the reason he gave Marcus, but she knew the reason was
stronger than logic. You took that letter as a sign from God, didn't you,
Jeff? What other explanation could there be, to read a letter whose words
you could have never composed, only copied?

      Was it God? She didn't want to believe that. Nothing as omnipotent
as "God" could have anything to do with this. She didn't think she could
handle a god who needed this much suffering. But Jeff would see it that
way.

      She tried to push away the anger. She knew what he had to do wasn't
easy. "You saw those photos," she said to Sheridan. The blurred,
degraded remnants of the historical record of the historical person of
Valen. In the nine hundred years since his death the slow decline of
image quality had smoothed the features to something that was only
recognizable in hindsight. "Can't you see 'happy'? Can't you see 
'spiritual fulfilment'?"

      He shook his head. "They're too blurred."

      "I've had more practice. Believe me. What he's found is what he's
wanted, all the years I knew him." And the universe, she thought. A
thousand years ago something happened. Something was going to happen 
that the universe couldn't accept, but wasn't strong enough to stop. 
So it created what it needed, and then, later, found the need again
and sent it back. The only reason it worked--the only reason everything
didn't explode in a paradox--was because Jeff _believed_, and followed
the signs, and didn't try to change anything. Not even the war.

      "Could you do that?" she asked Sheridan. "If someone showed you
your life and said you didn't have a choice, could you accept that?"

      Sheridan took a time to answer. She seemed to want him to
debate the question, to question the ethics of acceptance. No one had
written him a letter, but his mind had been sent to the future. Londo
had showed him the wreckage of Centauri Prime, giving him the blame
for it. Delenn--his _wife_ Delenn--told him it was the future they had
fought for, and for which they had paid a "terrible price". How did she
know it was the best, the only future? How had he lost his innocence?
Had he sold his soul to save his own life? Had he condemned others to
die to save the life of Delenn, or his son David? He'd be damned if 
he'd accept that as the victory Delenn told him it was. There had to 
be another way. 

      Sinclair--Valen--was shown victory and a peace of a thousand years. 
It was right for him to accept his spiritual calling. Steeling his resolve,
Sheridan named his vision a warning, not truth. And he vowed not to let
it happen, even at the cost of his own life.

      Looking straight at Sakai he answered, "No."

      "I guess that's why you're here and Jeff is gone."

      She said that too easily, he thought. He felt as if he were 
standing on the crumbling edge of a well, trying to scramble off before 
fate tossed him down. "Yes."

      "I'm upsetting you, I think."

      "What? No." The conversation had gone on long enough. He was trying 
to figure a way to end it.

      "You're upset I'm not grieving," she insisted. "It's OK." There was 
a small tremble in her voice that gave lie to the statement. "I'm not 
repressing. Jeff and I didn't part under the best of terms, and it's not 
as if he was killed in an explosion the way your Anna was--"

      She continued, but Sheridan couldn't hear the words. He had been
trying to prevent this, to hold in his fear, but Sakai's words sent him 
over the edge. It wasn't the war, though the war was part of it. It was 
the Shadows.

      Anna was killed. He clung to that, trying to believe what he didn't
want to accept. Why did he always trip on "was"? Why couldn't he say
"Goodbye"? Anna was killed. Explosion. Morden didn't die in that
explosion. How did Anna die? The Shadows killed her. Was he sure?
He could feel his hair stand on end. What if Anna's not dead? No.
Delenn had told him-- 

      He tripped on the memory, refusing to call up the words. Delenn
had said. Delenn had promised. Anna was dead. If the memory warned
otherwise the memory was wrong. There was no other possibility than
Anna had died. If he believed there was a chance it would only drive him
mad. The madness threatened anyway. What if she still lived? What if her 
body's not dead? What are they going to offer him and could he resist? 


Sakai had stopped talking. Her eyes were locked on his, icy cold. 
"I poked something, didn't I?"

      Oh, damn, he thought. That pause was a little too long. There was 
no way to bring this conversation back to her Jeff. He pushed down hard
on his questions, shoved everything into the tomb again and buried
Anna one more time. She was dead. Safely dead. He had Delenn's promise.

      "You're flat petrified," Sakai continued, pushing. "You're scared
out of your wits."

      Sheridan had a sudden empathy with Sinclair about arguments.
"Sometimes," he had to admit, keeping his voice low. Anything less, he
knew, would have summoned the volcano. "I have nightmares. It comes
with the territory."

      "Huh," she grunted, relaxing. It was some small comfort to know just
how precarious the situation was. At least she didn't need to be distracted
by false hope... and tomorrow she would be riding her ship back out into
the abyss; looking for logic when there was no such thing. "Do you think
the universe will tell me why before it kills me?"

      "Maybe it won't come to that," he said. There was a bit of Ivanova 
in her answering smile. "We have a hope," he tried to reassure. He had to 
believe that, pushing down the fear.

      "Can I hold you to that?"

      "I appreciate your help."

      "I appreciate your thanks."

      "Thank you."

      She tapped the table with both hands as a "You're welcome" and got
up from the chair.  "I'll let you get back to your work now." He almost
stood to say goodbye but her back was already turned. 

===end===