From K.A.Light@qmw.ac.ukSun Mar 24 14:33:24 1996 Date: Thu, 21 Mar 1996 14:58:26 GMT From: K.A.Light@qmw.ac.uk Reply to: b5-creative@blob.best.net To: b5-creative@blob.best.net Subject: Tyger project 0/? Hi all, those of you with long memories may remember the story entitled "Tyger Project". It is a joint effort by myself and Sarah Terzo and due to circumstances outside the control of both the authors has lapsed recently. However it is up and running again so to celebrate and remind you what it is all about I shall be posting the first four chapters again. They have been proof-read once more and some minor adjustments made. Comments of any kind are appreciated either to the list, myself or Sarah. Read and enjoy, Kate From K.A.Light@qmw.ac.ukSun Mar 24 14:33:28 1996 Date: Thu, 21 Mar 1996 15:04:52 GMT From: K.A.Light@qmw.ac.uk Reply to: b5-creative@blob.best.net To: b5-creative@blob.best.net Subject: Tyger project 1/? ----------------------------------------------------------------------- T H E T Y G E R P R O J E C T PART I By Sarah Terzo ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Prolouge: Pain is the center of the universe, like a burning fire. A black curtain covers my vision. I can hear screams, but I don't know which are my own. Pain explodes it explodes explodes again. Washes over me in waves. My insides are being torn apart. Thoughts whirl. But he will suffer this and more. My mantra, I repeat it again and again and again. Send each word screaming through the universe- HE. WILL. SUFFER. THIS. AND. MORE. My face is wet with tears. But hate is a lifeline. WIth each beat and pulse of pain comes joy until I want it it it is a fire burning me pure and clean melting away purging a fiery furnace purging everything but my resolve and my hate the hate theemberburningburningandburningatthecenteroftheflame burning burning burning..... --------------------------------------------------------------------- Part I- Later -------------------------------------------------------------------- In space, it is always night. Since my childhood, I have found the dark expanse of the night sky comforting, almost soothing. When I was little, I would look at the moon and wonder if the people there were looking at Earth, wonder how it looked to them. I would make up my own pictures in the stars, creating constellations with the easy imagination of childhood. Sometimes I'd lie out on the lawn, watching for meteors and satelites, or ships in the distance. The sky was freedom, it was vast, and, most of all, it was alive- full of unknown beings, living mysteries that would take a thousand lifetimes to explore. And the dark of night on earth brought comfort and a softening of all the rough edges of the day. I have learned to find solace in shadows. It has been a long time since I looked at the night sky with the innocence of my childhood, yet I still take some comfort in it. I have just completed my first intersteller journy, and as I step onto Babylon 5 I am aware that, although it is mid-day according to EST, it is always truly night here. Life, both human and alien, teems around me. People are hurrying off the transport, others are hurrying on. None of them pay attention to me. Like most people, they look, but they don;t really see. Then again, I have taken great pains to be anonymous. I'm wearing baggy, casual clothes to hide my figure, wearing little make-up. I am trying not to attract attention. My hair is not all real, and in my bag I carry two pairs of colored contact lenses. I feel momentarily light-headed, but it will pass; I keep walking, knowing that it's important to appear as if I know where I am going. My ears adjust to the noise of the crowd, and it surprises me that the blend of voices sounds so similar to crowd noise back on earth. If I close my eyes, I could almost be back home, eating dinner with my friends at the Complex, or sitting in the theater, waiting for the curtain to rise. But when I look around, the illusion dissolves, the bubble breaks, and I am again alone in unfamiliar territory, surrounded by strangers and aliens. I don't know if I will live to see home again. My brother would have loved this place. He was always facinated, enamored, really, with alien life. I remember him as a xenobiology student, full of awe, wonder, and an intense, naive love for these creatures around me. And I remember him with pain, for even though it has been nearly thirteen years since his ship met with an 'accident' during a nonagressive mission into Vorlon space, my grief is still as sharp as winter. I was still a kid when he was assigned to the crew of the Daedilus, but I remember how happy he was, how he'd driven all the way back to New York to tell me and Mom the news, smiling; how my mother had tried to keep him from going, and how he had dismissed her worries and left, full of excitement and the thrill of an explorer too innocent to understand the danger. And I remember my mother's face crumpling into that of a stranger, an old woman, when the man in the uniform stood uneasily in the doorway, again, just as one had stood there for my father, killed in the Dilgar war. Father and brother, both casualties of that same peaceful, night sky. She never recovered. The ache inside adds to my resolve. Remembering my brother makes my job that much easier. It's all a question of sacrifice. What am I willing to sacrifice for the good of earth? My father and brother gave their lives, and I am willing to do the same. It seems to take an eternity to reach the room that has been rented and prepared for me. When I finally stand at the doorway, I glance around self-consciously to see if anyone is watching. I'm being paranoid. I search the room carefully and find what I am looking for- a small bag of white powder in the wastebasket, buried under a few wrinkled copies of "Universe Today" This will enhance the poison. I have brought the poison with me. In the bottom of my bag ia a syringe and a plastic container. In the bathroom I trace a vein on my arm and, gritting my teeth, plunge the needle in. Dark burgundy liquid fills the syringe. If this isn't enough, there's plenty more where it came from. I remember when I agreed to take this assignment. It was at a Home Guard meeting. We had been briefed on the Deathwalker situation, according to rumor. Supposedly, war criminal Deathwalker had developed a serum for virtual immortality, a cure for disease and injury. She was en route to earth with this serum when Ambassador Kosh Naraneck ordered a Vorlon ship to destroy her transport. I listened to this in cold hatred as those around me stirred and murmered. The oratoor spoke about the men, women and children condemned to suffer and die by the Vorlons' action- Kosh's action. Justice demands retribution. I thought of my mother, lying ravaged with cancer in a hospital bed, kept alive by machines and tended by strangers. Trapped in a twilight world of pain and fear of death. Something within me snapped. All the tears for my murdered brother, the loss of a father I never had a chance to know, who was robbed from the spoils of war by Kosh and lost his life for nothing, all of it changed into pure hate. Hatred for the alien monster, Kosh. Earth Force was too cowardly to do anything. It was time for Home Guard to take action. I was one of the people involved in the Tyger Project from its conception. Babylon 5 had been a hotspot ever since the Malcolm Biggs Disaser when a large group of Home Guard personel, led by Malcolm Biggs, were tricked by Babylon 5's former commander, Sinclair. But I was confident about our new leadership, and when the time came, I volunteered. There were five of us initially, taking daily injections, for by far the most efficient way to smuggle and carry poison is inside of one's body. The poison was developed by a small group of scientists who are friendly to our cause. (We have allies everywhere) I don't know why they are so sure it will be effective against the Vorlon; in Home Guard information is given out on a need-to-know basis. Less to spill if your caught and scanned. Of the five that who took injections to build up a high blood level, two died and two went insane. The force of my hate keeped me alive and clear-minded. Some might call me an assassin, but the line between a murderer and a hero is a matter of perspective. Commander Sheridan kills, and he's a hero. THe only difference between 'acceptable' killing in war and murder is that some rich, corrupt earth dome politician defines it. As far as I'm concerned, we are at war, and it is time to send a message that no one can fail to read. But first, I have a meeting in down below to attend. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ ---------------END PART ONE=---------- to be continued -------- --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Comments to Kate or Sarah ("terzo@trenton.edu") From K.A.Light@qmw.ac.ukSun Mar 24 14:33:31 1996 Date: Thu, 21 Mar 1996 15:07:24 GMT From: K.A.Light@qmw.ac.uk Reply to: b5-creative@blob.best.net To: b5-creative@blob.best.net Subject: Tyger Project 2/? Tyger Project Part II By Sarah Terzo (terzo@trenton.edu) ----------------------------- all disclaimers from part I apply ----------------------------- On the way to Down Below I stop in a bathroom and dump out the contents of the bag. Hastily I turn it inside out. The other side is tattered, stained brown and will go with my lurker clothes. I insert a pair of brown contacts and pull out my small make-up case. It must be used very subtly, to exaggerate certain features and enhance blemishes. In a few minutes, I am transformed into a lurker woman- gray, baggy pants held up with a frayed, but strong, belt, a stained, rumpled white shirt, weathered brown jacket and a pair of boots that are so worn and full of holes that they look about to fall apart. The face that peers out at me from the mirror is obscured by overgrown, stringy brown hair. Down Below is an awful place. Its full of people who came to Babylon 5 with high hopes and then were laid off or had plans fall through or were just plain unlucky and now are stuck here without even enough money to make it home. I try to keep my head lowered, eyes on the ground, but the excited squeals of children get my attention. I am standing near a reeking heap of trash. A group of about six children are rooting around in the garbage, looking for thrown away scraps of half-eaten food. A boy, who looks no older than ten, is passing out something; the other children crowd around him, holding out cupped hands, reaching for bits of fermented slop with hungry, eager eyes. The acrid smell and the thought of eating such 'food' turns my stomach. I try to ignore the children and press on- I have much to do, but I can't stand it. Doubling back, I retrace my steps to a small store that I passed earlier. The owner is a hard-faced human who watches me suspiciously as the pile of groceries in my basket grows higher and higher. How could anyone sell food at high prices while people are starving practically on their doorstep? Sometimes people disgust me. I look him straight in the eye as I hand him my credit chip, and he looks back at me with narrow, suspicious slits of eyes. I meet his gaze coldly, almost daring him to refuse my money. But the sale is made and is legit, and after a pause he hands me back the chip, and I'm on my way with my purchase. The way he looked at me, like I were a piece of garbage myself, leaves me feeling somehow violated. It occurs to me that even if a lurker were able to scrounge up the money to buy a single can of food from this guy's store, the humiliation of being so coldly scrutinized would be almost too much to bear. I read a book once, ages and ages ago, where fictional travelers entered a forest where the sun never shone. All the trees were stunted, twisted things that had only known an occasional glimmer of light. One of the travelers turned on a torchlight, and the trees, which had been starved for light for so long, stretched their branches pitifully towards the travelers. That is how the children look at me when I walk over to them with the stuff I bought. When I approach the garbage pile they draw back, but their eyes are on me. I place the bags on the floor and then walk away quickly without looking back. What I've just done is stupid, of course. Not only did I risk blowing my own cover, I just blew all the money that was supposed to get me home buying a few meals for those kids and their families. Now I'm a lurker in earnest. But after all, those children still have a chance at life. I have nothing left- no home, no family, just a purpose. After I kill Kosh, I don't care what happens. These kids deserve a chance to have a better life than I did- if there is just one little thing I can do to help, so much the better. ---------------------------------------------- Invocation of privacy in Red Three from The Gathering Black Light Camoflauge suit from The War Prayer ------------------------------------------------- ***************************************************** Two hours later my little meeting in Down Below is over and I am in Red Three disguised as a Centauri woman. There is a mark on each wrist where the needle pierced the skin, one to draw out the poison and one to pump the purged blood back in. I hated being strapped to that table, my back against the hard surface. Before I left, our agent slipped a card into my hand which will unlock the door of the charity clinic. I need to go back there tonight. My contact was angry at me for being late. I can tell, even though he didn't say it. Something in the way he looked at me. I'm lucky it went off OK.. But the way he looked at me reminded me they didn't want me. They never wanted me because they don't really trust me. Too young. Never killed before. Too unstable. I know what they said about me at meetings when I wasn't around. I tell myself that the technician who hooked me up to the machine in the charity clinic, my first contact, probably doesn't even know what the poison is for- he's just following instructions from Home Guard. the fewer people who know the better. But something about the way he looked at me wasn't right. And something went wrong already, with the machine. That's why I have to come back tonight and pick up the stuff. He needs more time than expected to condense the poison. I take this as a bad sign. Now its up to him to distract Franklin and anyone else who might be prying or curious about why he used the transfusion machine on a lurker from Down Below. I don't like the way things are going at all. My life is in his goddamn hands and I don't even know his name. Home Guard is very strict about that- no names. I lean back in my chair. I was supposed to get something to eat after the procedure. But I read once that tigers hunt best when they are a little bit hungry. I will stay a little hungry. I hardly have any money left anyway. After a while a thin man with dark hair makes his way over to where I'm sitting. "Pardon me, do you have the time? Earth standard?" he asks softly, in a Centauri dialect. "It's 5:00. You are the First person from Earth I've met." "Where I come from, it's the hour of the tiger," he says in English. I gesture to the chair opposite. "Please sit down." We invoke privacy, and blue lights flicker as the table is made soundproof. There are various small groups of people and aliens talking at other tables, carrying out their own business. None of them look at us. "It's all here," he's saying. "Do you have the suit?" I nod. "The Black Light Camoflage suit works only when you're standing still, remember. If you move you'll be partly visible. The pellets will get hot on impact, so don't drop them, no matter what you do. The chemicals mix on impact and will heat up anything near them. There are two in here. If one hits Kosh's suit it should flush it out. And once its out, just kill it. Don't talk to it, don't hesitate, don't even look at it. Just do it." I know all this. Why is he telling me this? Doesn't he trust me? I'm starting to get angry at being treated like a child. "Use the poison. The ppg is only for emergencies. The poison's a sure thing. Remember though, if you do have to shoot, aim for below the head, above the collar and angle it down." Things are all wrong; I don't have the poison yet. That look on his face- he knows I don't have it. I have a sudden intense desire to reach into the bag he hands me and pull out the gun, to shoot him for not trusting me and then turn it on the people around me. I can almost hear the screams and and see them run. I'd like to...but that's crazy, I have work to do. "There's a problem," I say. "I have to go back and get the poison from the clinic in Down Below." He frowns but says, "Be careful, then. And good luck. From now on, you're on your own." What's the meaning of that look on his face? Is someone in Home Guard planning to sabotage my mission? I'll have to be very careful. But as I grip the bag, a feeling of joy passes over me. Kosh, you are going to die.. You are going to feel the poison burn into you and know that you're dying. You don't know it yet, but you have one day left to live. And I'm going to stand there and watch as the poison eats you alive, and I'm going to laugh. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Its late when I head back to the clinic to get the distilled poison. the halls and alleyways are dark and in the suit I blend right in with the shadows. The people I pass don't even know I'm there. I feel like a hunter now, like an animal stalking its prey. The area around the clinic is deserted and this makes me careless. I walk through the waiting room and into the clinic itself. And freeze. A man is looking up at me in confusion. It takes me a moment to realize that he saw the door open and close but that he probably didn't see me. Its Franklin, but why the hell is he here? Did my contact set me up? And how could I be so stupid to walk right in! Then the adrenaline screams through my veins because I see that he is standing at the open door of the storage unit where the poison is. I don't think at all. I make no conscious decision to move. My training takes over and I charge him. I won't let myself be caught! I've come too far! Rage propels me forward and carries me into the air. Seventeen years of training and countless brawls guide me as straight as an arrow. The flat of my foot catches him squarely on the jaw, and the pain of the contact is somehow sharply and immensely pleasing. He falls hard and I spring away, favoring my foot just the tiniest bit. The poison! I root through the icebox throwing out samples of blood and transfusion packs which slowly stain the floor red as they thaw. Glass shatters against the floor and liquids and solutions make patterns, flowing into each other. My heart is racing as I toss aside the useless glass containers with violence. Where is it? Finally, I find a small thin tube containing a syrupy brown substance. I tighten the top and pocket it. Then I turn to leave. Broken glass now covers the floor. The doctor moans softly. Did he see me? I can't take the chance. I take out the ppg and aim it at his head, then change my mind. Why waste it? I put it down and pull out my old belt. Putting one knee on the unconscious man's back for leverage, I slip it around his neck. As I pull, a wild, delicious joy rises up in me. It is almost as if the life that is draining out of him is entering me, filling me with vitality. This is the part of killing that no one wants to admit- how good it feels. He might never admit it, but I bet John Sheridan felt exactly this way when he watched Minbari burn. Now I have felt it too. I'm following in his footsteps now. The man beneath me is struggling weakly in his unconscious state, making little jerking motions of his head and body as he struggles to breathe. This only adds to the sense of power that is rushing through me, making me feel so alive. I wish John were here to feel this with me. When something's this good. you want to share it with someone. Strangulation is, of course, the great equalizer. It brings everyone down to the same level; its almost spiritual. No matter who you are or what you stand for or own, it doesn't matter. All differences become unimportant. When you can't breathe, the only thing that matters is your next breath. No matter who you are. My victim's motions are growing weaker and I'm so involved in this that I don't notice the door sounds. Someone wants in. At this hour of the night? I let go of the belt and walk over to the door, holding the gun. Maybe they'll go away. I wait in silence, barely daring to breathe, my heart pounding. The doctor groans. The door sounds again. I can feel sweat trickle down my face. I point the gun at the door. "Enter!" ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ========================================================================= ====== Part Three to come. More main characters will be making an appearance. From K.A.Light@qmw.ac.ukSun Mar 24 14:33:37 1996 Date: Thu, 21 Mar 1996 15:09:04 GMT From: K.A.Light@qmw.ac.uk Reply to: b5-creative@blob.best.net To: b5-creative@blob.best.net Subject: Tyger project 3/? EPISODE THREE (By Kate Light, "k.a.light@qmw.ac.uk") A single clean shot. His shocked expression lasts mere seconds before the body hits the floor. I wrinkle my nose at the smell of burning flesh until I remember: this is the smell of success. His death had become vital to my mission. I spin round to face Franklin, then freeze. He stands up slowly, his hands gently massaging his neck, his face a picture of perplexity. I remind myself he can't see me so long as I don't move. So why is he staring straight at me? I don't know how long he has been conscious; maybe he saw something as I shot the guard I must kill this man: he too has become a danger to this mission. Not only because I am now sure he has seen me, but because he will tend the injured Vorlon if I fail to kill. He would minister to that murdering alien with the same devotion I tended my mother. My anger rises, the only reason I haven't shot him already is that I want him to turn away, so my movements do not betray me, even to a man about to die. Still confused from the attempted strangulation, he is staring at something. His eyes register a dawning distress. As he moves forward I raise the PPG, he stops, frowning uncertainly into the space into which I had momentarily appeared. The face of my brother swims into focus, his eyes are filled with disappointment. I stare down at the violated chrysalis and understanding dawns, too late. I suddenly wonder why I had noticed it in the first place, welded to the underside of a twig it should have remained untouched until the time came. Instead I had grasped it eagerly, somehow aware of the life inside. My pocket knife was too clumsy for the task I intended. Like a surgeon operating on a healthy patient I had violated the laws of nature and killed the butterfly before its first flight. "Why?" he asks. "I don't know," I mutter stupidly, and I really don't. I can't remember now if the action was born of an impulse to curiosity or destruction. "Let the kid be," suggests a calm voice. I look up at the blond youth, his hand resting lightly on my brother's shoulder, his face full of concern for my tears and his friend's fears. "Remember when you were young," continues John Sheridan. "We all make mistakes." Sheridan understood, he understood..... I turn and run, I cannot kill now and so I run, blindly...straight into the arms of a security officer. I had been standing longer then I thought and the PPG blast had brought the guards running. "Ok, calm down now," suggests the guard as he divests me of the dark suit made useless by my struggles and takes the PPG from my suddenly nerveless grip. I want to fight him, to escape, but I am caught off balance somehow, confused by the fact that my captor is not slim and blonde but pudgy faced with receding hair. I snort with disgust, but he is supremely unimpressed. "Put this idiot somewhere secure!" he orders a superior. I tense, ready to run as soon as he lets go, but he can feel it and keeps tight hold of me until the uniformed flunkey has me firmly by the other arm and a PPG trained on me. "Garibaldi!, Just in time!" exults the Vorlon lover as he walks across the floor towards me. I expect him to come up and slap me at the very least, but he is intent on the crumpled body. More concerned for the dead than the living, I think contemptuously; he could die for that. The flunky is not so well trained as his smug superior, I can feel his inexperience in my blood. He thinks that because there is a PPG pointed at me, I will not struggle. The fool thinks I value my life above the cause. As he starts to turn and propel me out of the door I twist in his grip and sink my teeth into the crook of his PPG holding arm. He yowles with surprise and fires the PPG at the space my head had occupied just seconds ago. I let go instantly and run past the remaining two guards. Their surprise lasts only an instant, but it is long enough. By the time they give chase I have start enough, spurred on by the adrenaline and the taste of blood. As I run across the concourse people make way before me, afraid of the look in my eyes and the blood on my face. As soon as it feels safe I slow to a walk. It is tempting to run as far and as fast as I can, but I know this will only attract attention. I continue at what I hope is an inconspicuous pace until I reach the safety of down below and the shadows once more. ******************** Sheridan awoke with a cry of terror. Trembling, he reached for the sweat soaked sheets in an instinctive effort to hide from the overwhelming feeling of foreboding. Realising where he was he tried to calm his breathing and work out why he felt quite so devastated. The dream had not been that terrifying. He was young again, trying to calm his best friend's fears over the behaviour of an errant sibling. The child had looked so upset as it held out the shattered chrysalis and his heart went out to the youngster as much as to his friend. But as he looked kindly on the child a horrible grin spread across its face. Sheridan felt he was being drawn in, claimed as an accomplice: he could not break away from the mesmerising intensity of those eyes. It was from this terrible stare that he had awoken, drenched in the sweat of misshapen memories, confusedly trying to put a name to the face. To be continued...... From K.A.Light@qmw.ac.ukSun Mar 24 14:33:39 1996 Date: Thu, 21 Mar 1996 15:10:09 GMT From: K.A.Light@qmw.ac.uk Reply to: b5-creative@blob.best.net To: b5-creative@blob.best.net Subject: Tyger Project 4/? Episode 4 by Kate Light I collapse, panting, in a corner and try to compose myself: take stock of the situation. It is only as I notice the shadows encroaching that I realise my greatest enemy is exhaustion. Drained by the adrenaline burst I do not notice the figures until they block out the light. "The tyger lies defeated." goads the tallest shadow. I snarl and rise to my feet, incensed by the fact that they have the advantage over me. (I do not stop to consider the possibility that the comment is meaningless babble from a brain fried lurker. They know me: I can smell their contempt!) "Oh come now, the fighting is over. Tygers only get one chance at the prize." He seems coldly amused. I knew they never wanted me. They have been waiting for failure. "I have killed," I protest. "And I shall kill again, bigger prey!" "Oh haven't we all. And shan't we all!" He leans towards me, mocking. I am repulsed by the sardonic humour in his voice. As if it were all a game. I can feel his fellow shadows closing in on me and I curse the stupidity that allowed me to sink to rest in a corner where I am so easily trapped. Underneath the cold amusement lies a will of steel, I can feel it .. reaching out to choke me. I wait just long enough, and then I pounce. The beings are so ethereal that I am momentarily surprised when my fist hits solid flesh. The flesh, too, is surprised and crumples in on itself as the air escapes. Winded, it reels out of the way to allow another to close in. I aim a kick at the jaw of the next figure, but I have musjudged: as if expecting my blow it stops just short of the body of its winded companion. I start to fall, unbalanced by the lack of contact, (a mistake I will not make again!) By the time I reach the level of the prone body I have regained my self possession. Landing on one knee I thump the side of his jaw, preventing him from rising for a little longer. I sense the presence of the second shadow above me as I turn from the body, letting the swing of the blow turn me round as I rise. By the time I am standing I am at an angle to my attacker. I aim another kick and this time feel the satisfaction of impact; then the pain ... body armour! The wall that corners me also supports me as I reel from the impact, so this time I do not fall. I turn to find the floor clear of bodies and a sea of faces menacing me. I can tell the fight is hopeless, but I will not go down easily. Undaunted I lash out agian ....... and again. The faces of my attackers swarm before my eyes, all anonymous, names on a need to know basis, I do not need to know . Then in the shadows I see others: the pug faced chief staring at me in hatred, Sheridan staring at something I cannot see, terror on his face. Then, bearing slowly down on me, the doctor from the clinic. I knew I should have killed him! He has the dispassionate look of one of the doctors involved in the project, and in his hand he holds a syringe......Trapped as I am by the mass of bodies I cannot run away. I turn my head as if to escape his gaze is to escape his power. Like a child who cannot believe it has lost a game of hide and seek I strain in the grip of the anonymous shadows. Out of the corner of my eye I recognize one of the children I had fed earlier. The image stands out in what is rapidly becoming a sea of whirling shadows. It stares straight at me, in the act of taking a bite from a chunk of something I assume is food. Unabashed it stares at its sometime benefactor, as if to thank me for another piece of bread I have just put in its mouth. Finally the dark descends completely.... The place they have taken me is not even really a room: it is just a space between other places that happens to have a door. I can feel a lump rising on the back of my head, and the insistent throbbing of pain is all I have to tell me I am still alive. Yet I remember the syringe so clearly. I force the pain to the back of my mind and try to concentrate on exploring the room without moving. This tyger lies still but not defeated. The hushed but insistent tones from the other side of this space suggest no-one has noticed me open my eyes. A quick glance around the room reassures me there is nothing more to see without moving. So I shut my eyes again and concentrate on other senses. Though it does not surprise me I notice instantly that the poison has gone. Any thoughts I may have had about trying to make an instant escape vanish. I must not leave here without the poison. The room is little used: I can smell the dust that threatens to suffocate me, but little else. This place lacks the stench of unwashed human and alien bodies that pervades most of Downbelow. It is cold here, but not damp. I listen to the muttering in the far corner. Maybe they know I am awake, or maybe living in the shadows leads to a naturally muted tone. I listen intently, but at first the rise and fall of the voices is too steady, too restrained: I cannot even tell how many different people are talking. Then things start to get heated: their passion gives them away. I still cannot hear the words, but I can begin to estimate the voices. There seems to be four of them. I am an important prisoner to be guarded by so many. Is that more or less than the original group that attacked me? I cannot say why it should matter, but the question plagues me. My memory of that time is still confused and I curse myself for being caught off guard. In spite of this my attention wanders back to those events. I try to recall the voice of the cold interrogator, is he here in this room, or have I been left to his minions? Instead all I can focus on is the face of the child- staring at me with the eyes of Judas. Then it starts to cry into the misshapen chunk of food. I suddenly notice this is no wholesome piece of bread, but a shattered and twisted husk. The child holds it out to me, begging me to take it. I want none of this transaction, but I cannot escape those pleading eyes. I am jerked back to the present by an exasperated exclamation. "She has failed! She will be recognized! We *must* kill her!" Snarling, I leap to my feet, regretting the impulse even as I do so. They are right, I am a failure-I do not have the restraint necessary for a job of this kind. But I have passion and hatred; surely these will suffice! They turn and move towards me. I can see that there are, indeed, four. At least I have some skills! "I have not failed!" I explode. "I was betrayed, but I will have revenge! I have killed once and I shall kill again." This has become my battle cry, a mantra to block out my failures: the image of the man I failed to kill and the stinging wounds of betrayal. "He was one of us," The speaker is my original interlocutor but the amusement has drained from his voice, it is now pure ice! It is a second or two before I register the meaning of those five words. He was one of us! My only death, my only triumph, is a hollow shadow. "I was not told," I mutter. Like a child again I stand before disappointed elders, but this time there is no-one to intercede. I am on my own now, I must deal with my own mistakes. "You assume too much" responds the possessor of the ice dry voice. "You were told to kill one, and only one." "I assumed I was to deal with opposition in whatever way seemed appropriate." I try and muster enough sarcasm to cover my shame. "How am I supposed to operate successfully if I can't tell enemies from friends?" "How indeed?" he replies meaningfully. One thing I can tell. These are not my friends! "We should kill her now," insists one of the faceless shadows. Funny how, even staring at them as I am now, it would be hard to describe these three minions. Even their leader seems little more than a shadowy impression of a man. Pale skinned and blonde, he is merely a dull patch of lightness, given shape by the surrounding gloom. "I have a job to do," I reply stubbornly. "And I intend to do it!" The mocking laughter that results is dry and echoing, like ants chittering in a vast hall. I am beginning to feel disorientated, as if the room is growing around me, or perhaps I am shrinking. Suddenly I am exposed to the universe, not answering to four shadowy non-entities, but to all eternity. "It is my destiny" I shout to the stars. "It is my destiny!" The stars are unimpressed. "You must leave it all to us, now" a disembodied voice informs me. "You have forfeited the right to a destiny. "We will carry forward the plan." "But you cannot carry forward my hate!" I am screaming now. Screaming into the vast emptiness. I stand here, all alone in the night, feeling my soul being sucked out by unseen vampires. Delenn and Sheridan sat side by side in the garden. The silence broken only by an exasperated sigh from the captain as he tried to marshal his thoughts. Delenn forbore to comment. She could sense the conflict he felt, but knew better than to try and interpret comments not yet made. "It's difficult to explain," Sheridan said at last, then lapsed into silence. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely in front of him: he stared at the ground between his feet as if it held the answers to unasked questions. "Yes?" replied the Minbari Ambassador. She risked a slight smile as she turned towards him, secure in the knowledge that he would not see it. However Sheridan chose this moment to drag his gaze away from the floor and caught the full meaning of the comment. He laughed wryly, lifting his hands briefly to his forehead in a self-deprecating gesture. "Ahh, I know. Stating the obvious." "At the beginning of any negotiation it is as well to ensure that all parties regard the same concepts as obvious." Delenn sat straight, her hands on her knees staring straight ahead. There was no trace of her earlier smile, but Sheridan could not miss the sympathetic humour in her voice. "Oh, this is silly anyway," he smiled. "I am supposed to listen to your problems, not you to mine." "That would be a very unequal partnership," commented Delenn. "How can the Minbari trust you if you do not trust us?" "Oh that's not fair!" protested Sheridan, before he caught the hint of laughter in her voice again. "You are very amused today" observed Sheridan. "I am sorry. I did not mean to make fun of you. I would truly like to help, but I cannot if you will not talk to me." "I know," Sheridan sighed. "I guess it feels a little silly, really. I've been having nightmares." He shrugged apologetically. Put like that it seemed such a minor thing. He felt like a child embarrassed by the arrival of dawn. But stronger than his discomfort was the memory of fear, the knowledge of something unpleasant lurking in the corners of even his waking mind. "You should never ignore your dreams," Delenn was completely sober now. "But I don't understand them!" Sheridan put his head in his hands before looking up once more and staring into the middle distance. "I feel they are warning me of some great danger, but all I can remember is the image of a child, both pitiful and terrifying." He shook his head and stared glumly at the floor. "Do you dream often?" enquired Delenn. "Every night." Since that first dream of his old friend there had been more. All different but all featuring the same child. Inexplicably she had appeared as the murderer in a recent incident Dr. Franklin had described. The real culprit had been an adult, but in his dream the child had stood over the body, holding a PPG. Then it had turned it's face to stare at him, always staring. The most inexplicable dream had been the one of which he could remember nothing except the face of the child, staring at him, holding out a vial of some sort. He wanted to reach out and soothe that anguished soul, but he was hampered by the encounter suit he was wearing. Delenn sighed. "I find it hard to suggest an answer. Do you recognise the child?" "That's what is so infuriating. I am sure I recognise the face, but I can't recollect from where, or even when. The dreams seem to range over time, but the face is always the same....." "Captain!" "Damn!" Sheridan expostulated as the link interrupted his musings. "Sorry," he apologized to Delenn, who seemed not to have noticed. She was staring meditatively into the middle distance. "Go ahead" Sheridan replied to the disembodied voice that issued from his link. "Sheridan? This is Garibaldi, I'm in Downbelow. We have a *major* incident here!" ******************************************** To be continued ..... soon!