From dmb@any.isis.rl.ac.uk Sun Aug 4 01:38:38 1996 Date: Thu, 18 Jul 1996 13:09:17 -0100 From: Devious Brownies Reply-To: b5-creative@lists.best.com To: b5-creative@lists.best.com Subject: "The Victory of His Hand." - Part 1. "The Victory of His Hand." -------------------------- Preface. This story is set in 2260 and occurs soon after the events shown in the television episode "The Fall of Night" but prior to those of "Matters of Honour". While the action is self-contained, details of Tim Campbell's background, and his previous interaction with station personnel, are drawn from the earlier story "That Guard Our Native Seas". This story was written by David Brownless ("Devious Brownies") and comments and criticism should be sent to D.M.Brownless@rl.ac.uk. The characters and situations of the television show "Babylon 5" are the intellectual property of Warner Brothers and are used without permission. Additional material by David Brownless may be used by anyone provided that acknowledgement of its origin is included. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- "The Victory of His Hand." -------------------------- Chapter 1. [Sunday, 15th. January, 2260 - 1500 hours.] Sarah Chandler looked across the deep blue waters and out towards the horizon. Just vaguely to the east she thought she could make out a faint cotton-thread of grey that marked the Greek coast. Her hands gripped tighter at the steel cable rails that ran the length of the side of the ship, and she shivered. Not with cold, the Mediterranean breezes were gentle at this time of year, and besides, the air was readily warmed by the heat of the afternoon sun. No, it was excitement that made Sarah tremble. It was the exultation of reaching a defining moment in her life, mixed with the sharp edge of fear that accompanied those about to shine light on the face of the unknown. "Professor. Professor Chandler." someone called. Sarah turned to see David Lacroix execute a impressively expert slide down the ladder from the upped deck. "It's down there, David." she told him, "It's down there just waiting for us!" She couldn't keep the exhilaration from her voice as she spoke. She considered what the discovery would mean to him. A postgraduate on secondment to the team from Orsay, David had been a major unknown, and an equal risk, to the expedition. But within weeks, the rest of them had let his enthusiasm win them over, until now it felt like there had never been a time without him. Even now, David was wearing `Lacroix's patented silly grin number seven' as he walked over to her now. "Yep, it's `jam today' for everybody." he admitted, "But the fame, fortune and academic laureates won't arrive for, ooh, days!" "So how's momma's precious little baby?" she queried, matching his grin. "Well my seasickness is gone, though I'm still a little unsteady in the mornings." he replied, disingenuously, "Oh, you mean her!" he added, nodding over the side at the almost featureless ocean. "The cradle is locked and the ties are holding. We're right down to the plimsoll line as it is mind you. If she'd been a tad bigger, you and I would be paddling about now." "The important thing is that she's clear." Chandler told him. "By a good ten fathoms." David noted, at her puzzled look he explained, "an old maritime measure, sixty feet to you and me. I'm really getting into the sailor bit aren't I?" "A regular Popeye." she answered, it was the postgraduate's turn to look puzzled, "He was... never mind." She let go of the rails in favour of leaning on them, and, sticking her head as far out as was prudent, stared at the inky water that lapped the sides of the ship. David did likewise and the two of them stared in silence for a few minutes "Think of it, David." Sarah said, eventually, "She has been waiting for us for thousands of years, down there, in the dark. This is the biggest pre-Christian discovery since the Tomb of Tutankhamun. An incredibly preserved, and totally intact, Roman galley." "What do you think she was carrying?" David asked her. "Wonderful things, David." Sarah almost whispered, "Wonderful things!" "Sarah!" an urgent voice called, then again, "Sarah, you down there?" "Yes, Peter." she called back. Peter Parry fell through the hatchway to land heavily on his feet. He stumbled forward, swearing and rubbing his knees. "Trouble." he said hastily, "A storm's brewing, to the west." He gestured for them to follow and set off at a trot round towards the prow of the ship. Sarah started after him. "I thought we checked before lifting the galley?" she remarked. "We did." Peter replied, acidly, "Met-Italia send their apologies but say a body of polar air has broken south unexpectedly. It hit a warm front out of the tropics about an hour ago, and got pushed up to form a depression. Since then the pressure's dropped so fast people's ears are popping!" "Shit, a bomb!" David muttered. "What!" Chandler nearly screamed, missing a step. "Sorry, weather-speak." David apologised, "A sudden crash in air pressure. And the prelude to one mother of a storm!" "Look!" Paul shouted, pointing over the port side. In the distance, white pillars of cloud seemed to be billowing closer as they watched. "It'll pass right over us about ten tonight!" "What about the galley?" Sarah queried, "Will she be safe?" "A damn sight safer than we'll be!" Peter sneered. Chandler could tell he was holding something back. She looked at him sternly until he caved. "The captain said that we're lower in the water than is strictly safe." Peter confessed, "If the waves get bad and we start shipping to much water, he'll have no choice but to blow the explosive bolts on the cables and drop the galley back to the sea floor." Sarah looked at him as though he'd just owned up to murder. "He can't! We might never find her again, and even if we did, the shock could smash her to pieces!" "I know, for Christ's sake!" Peter snapped, "But if it comes to it, it's either that or in two thousand years time someone will be pulling US from the silt!" He wilted under her shocked stare. "Come on, Sarah." he pleaded, "Tolly's a good captain, he won't even think of blowing those cables until the fish are swimming up our knickers!" Peter's absurd guarantee broke the tension, and Sarah laughed despite her misgivings. "Okay," she agreed, superfluously, "but if he does drop her, it'll be YOU who goes down and picks up the pieces!" Chapter 2. [Sunday, 15th. January, 2260 - 2330 hours.] Sarah knew better than to say anything. In fact she knew better than to be on the bridge during a crisis, but there was a limit to how detached she could be about her fate. Anatoly caught sight of her, stood in the doorway from the passenger lounge, but his only response was to give her a wink and turn back to the controls. The bridge deck pitched at a seemingly impossible angle and Chandler had to grab the door-frame to keep from falling. "Holy shit!" cried the pilot-man, "That must have been forty off the horizontal!" The first-mate ran through the rapid checklist of displays on the console in front of her. "We shipped some over the bow, mainly splash, and the gymnastics stuffed the stern about two fathoms under. Pumps'll handle it." she said calmly, her voice raised only enough to be heard. "The wind is holding at about eighty knots, gusting to one-ten. MI say we've probably got another hour of this to go." "How's our drift?" The captain asked. "If the GPS is to be believed, a damn sight better than I expected." The mate shrugged, "Don't ask my why." "It's our friend down there." the pilot remarked, jerking a thumb towards the deck, "It's acting like a massive drag. Doing me a favour really, I hardly need to compensate for short term variations at all." Sarah risked asking a question, "How is she holding, Tolly?" "If you could be that concerned for me." the big Russian sighed, and gave a nod to his first-mate, "Myrna?" Myrna punched up the status mimic for the salvage rig. "The cradle is holding, and the support cables are well within the envelope." she commented, "The hydraulic dampers on the jacks are shot though. I'm afraid your Romans are getting shook about a bit, Professor! The rig was built to handle the odd big swell, not a force nine gale." "Gale?" the captain laughed, "This is at least a tempest!" "How many goodly creatures are there here!" Sarah quoted, "How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world, that has such people in't!" Tolly laughed. "Hear that, Myrna? We're `goodly creatures' now." The first-mate snorted. "Who says she was referring to you?" A deafening crash reverberated through the deck, throwing Chandler heavily against the door jamb. The ship seemed to lift clear of the surface briefly, then settled ponderously, rocking like some drunken leviathan. Groggily, Sarah pulled herself upright. "We've hit something!" she yelled. "Something hit us, more like!" the pilot snapped. "Don't fret, Professor." boomed the captain, his voice still calm, "This is a double-skinned, wide-body catamaran. An eight inch shell couldn't sink us." There was a second, and equally powerful, shudder. Still off-balance, the Englishwoman was smashed backwards against the bulkhead. As she fell towards unconsciousness, she heard Tolly's voice speak to her from some great distance. "Now TWO eight inch shells, that's a different matter!" ---===***===--- Sarah felt a cool trickle of water run past the bridge of her nose and over the lid of her eye. She reached up and wiped it clear before she risked opening it. David took the damp cloth from her forehead. "Now you know why they don't allow passengers on the bridge!" he said with a smile, if a trifle uncharitably. Sarah opened her other eye, and looked around for a window. To her left came a patch of brilliant sunlight and she could make out the clear blue of the sky outside. "We weren't holed badly then?" she asked. "We weren't holed at all!" David answered. "So what hit us?" "Nothing." the postgraduate said, shaking his head. Sarah drew breath to contradict him. "Nothing hit US!" Lacroix added, quickly, "The impacts we felt were to the cradle. Damn near tore the jacks out of the superstructure!" Chandler sat up hastily, too hastily it turned out and her head swam. "Sod it!" she spat. The professor swung her legs off the low couch on which she had been placed and rested her head on one hand. "What was the damage?" she asked, getting back to the matter at hand. "Parry is down there now." David shrugged, "He said he wanted to make an early start on picking up the pieces." "The galley's in pieces?" Sarah queried quietly. She suddenly felt weak as the loss of such an opportunity drew her strength. "Woah, figure of speech." David reassured her, "I think he was just paraphrasing your last instruction." "Help me to the bridge, David." Sarah asked, thrusting out a hand for him to take. The young Frenchman looked at it wearily. "I don't think that's such a good idea." he advised her. "Which is why I'm a professor and you're just a postgraduate!" she snapped. She looked away from his hurt expression. "Sorry, that was uncalled for." She stared at him pleadingly. "But I have to know, David." Lacroix took her arm and helped the Englishwoman to her feet. He continued to support her as they made their slow progress to back to the bridge. The captain turned when they entered and scowled at Lacroix. "You should not have let her come up here!" Anatoly castigated him. "He tried, but I overcame his pain threshold." Sarah interjected. Anatoly shook his head. "Sometimes I think you must have some Russian in you!" he marvelled. "Not since St. Petersburg." Sarah joked. She winced at Tolly's booming laugh. "How's the baby." Michael, one of her postdoctorates, answered. "That first shock holed the cradle. The second was something smashing in the galley's hold. Peter says about half the cargo is scattered over the sea bed underneath us." "The joists on that cradle were nine inch steel!" Chandler argued, "What the hell could smash through those?" "They weren't smashed through." Michael said, carefully, "Some kind of weapon blew them to splinters. To get to the hull underneath." "Weapon!?" Sarah snapped, unable to credit what was being suggested. "That's right." Michael confirmed, "While we were playing tag with the storm, someone sailed up beneath us and raided the galley." "Well what the HELL did they take?" Sarah practically screamed. She looked around at the blank faces of her team and the crew. Someone knows, she thought to herself. Someone with a submersible craft able to target and board a ship in an iron cradle while it is being dragged around in a force nine gale. She thought back to the unnatural rapidity of the storms development, and shivered. "Tolly?" she called, "Patch me through ship-to- shore, could you?" --------------------------------------------------------------------------- From dmb@any.isis.rl.ac.uk Sun Aug 4 01:38:47 1996 Date: Thu, 18 Jul 1996 13:14:44 -0100 From: Devious Brownies Reply-To: b5-creative@lists.best.com To: b5-creative@lists.best.com Subject: "The Victory of His Hand." - Part 2. "The Victory of His Hand." -------------------------- Chapter 3. [Tuesday, 17th. January, 2260 - 1023 hours] Garibaldi walked quickly down the corridors that led to the station's gardens. As he moved, he kept up a rapid conversation via his link. "...and he's been spending it like water. Now call me paranoid, but when a lurker with a five times losing streak for pick-pocketing suddenly starts acting like he's Paul Getty, I get more than a little interested in his sudden change of circumstance." From the tiny speaker, Sheridan's voice responded, "So you think he found his `lucky dip' so to speak?" "No, the kind of credit he's been flashing couldn't have come out of someone's pocket." Garibaldi argued, "I think he's had a change of trade." "What makes you say that?" "The guy dropped completely out of sight for about twelve hours, then `wham', he's wandering buying all sorts of crazy stuff, screaming at people. Generally acting completely out of it!" Garibaldi explained. He pause to order his thoughts. "My guess is he's turned to pushing dope, and was stupid enough to sample a few of his wares. Anyway, he's in the gardens now, so we'll know for sure when I bring him in." "Okay, Michael, keep me informed." The link went dead. The security chief side-stepped a group of Drazi `pilgrims', ignoring their attention-seeking gestures to him, and jogged through the main lock to the garden area. With a quick glance round to get his bearings, Garibaldi turned to his left and resumed walking. He reactivated his link. "Security office." he instructed it, "Paul? Where is he now?" "Still nothing since he passed observation point `four-fourteen B'." Chalmers answered, "I've kept an eye on that and four-fifteen A, B and C. Zip." "So he must still be somewhere between fourteen A and fifteen." Garibaldi concluded aloud. "Or he knows a route we don't." Paul noted, pessimistically, "Barring that, to still be out of sight he'd have to be between the fourteen B bridge and that gazebo with that abstract sculpture in it." "Garvey's Aphrodite." Michael supplied. "That's the one." Paul agreed, "I always get mixed up between that and `Garvey's roughly chiselled hunk of rock with a hole in it'. Can't think why!" Garibaldi smiled. Trust Chalmers to want his Aphrodite to look like a woman, he thought to himself, and his women to look like Aphrodite. Aloud he answered, "Good work, Paul. I'm almost at the bridge now, call me the moment he shows up on any of the monitors." He broke the connection. Garibaldi could just make out the bridge in the distance, and started to feel uneasy. Something's wrong, he thought. The movement of the people on the bridge was atypical, they appeared to be milling around rather than actually going anywhere. Michael picked up his pace. The security chief reached the crowd at a fast jog, and started to push through. "Security." he identified himself, "Clear a way here, people." The shocked looks on the faces of the crowd began to sink in and Garibaldi's heart sank. His link sounded as he broke through the crowd. "Garibaldi." he answered. "Sir, it's Chalmers." Paul's voice came, "We've just had a call that our guy's just..." "Hanged himself, yeah I know!" Garibaldi interrupted. He looked away from the pathetic figure swinging from the parapet below him. "Get an SOC team here, stat! And I'll need an ME and a forensics team." ---===***===--- "`Don't try to stop me'," Sheridan quoted, flicking through Garibaldi's report, "`he has commanded me' and `he is waiting'." Sheridan looked up. "So who is `he'?" Michael shrugged. "An hallucination maybe?" he guessed, "Whoever he thought it was, he was manic about not being stopped, waved a Drazi knife in the face of anyone who even tried talking to him." Ivanova chipped in, "Out of his mind on his own drugs, like you said in the report." She fidgeted uneasily, eager to get back to her post in C&C. "So why call us here?" Garibaldi shook his head. "If he was dealing, he had some pretty unusual customers!" he replied. He took a clear plastic bag from his pocket and handed it to Sheridan. The captain turned it over in his hand a few times, then looked quizzically at Garibaldi. "They were in his pockets." the chief explained. Sheridan passed the bag to Ivanova. Through the plastic she could see several small coins, of bronze and silver. They looked old, almost primitive, just small, rough circles of metal stamped with the impression of a head. A human head, she realised with a shock. "These are from Earth." she exclaimed, "But no-one has used coins like these in hundreds of years!" "Thousands." Garibaldi corrected, automatically. To the looks of the two other officers, he explained, "They're Roman, I'm Italian. Trust me on this." He took the evidence bag from the commander, glancing briefly at it before returning it to his pocket. "There were others which looked to be Greek. I've sent images of them to Earth, to see if anyone can place them. But that doesn't explain how the hell they got out here." Sheridan's link called for attention and the captain answered it. "This is Sheridan." "Captain, this is C&C, we've just had a response from Earth-dome on Mr. Garibaldi's inquiry." Lieutenant Corwin answered, "They've told us to halt all further investigation pending the arrival of an Earth investigator to observe." "What!" Garibaldi shouted. Sheridan waved him quiet. "Did they give a reason, Lieutenant?" he asked. "Yes sir." Corwin affirmed, "They said it was for reasons of planetary security." There was a pause at the other end. "Do you wish to send a reply, sir?" "Just confirm we are standing by." Sheridan said, "And tell them not to take to long." He cut the link. "How the hell does a handful of ancient coins constitute a threat to planetary security?" he asked. "I'm more worried about this `observer' they're sending." Ivanova remarked, "Remember what hit the fan last time they sent an investigator out here?" "Let's hope it's true that lightening never strikes the same place twice!" Sheridan answered her, "But keep on your toes anyway." Chapter 4. William Stone ran his hand across the polished walnut surface of his desk, and remembered how his grandfather had used to do the same thing. There was a knock at the door to the study. "Come." he called. The door opened slightly, and Tim Campbell sidled through it, shutting it behind him. The investigator made his way across to where Stone was sat, and stood uneasily on the other side of the imposing bureau. "You wished to see me, Adjudicator Stone?" Campbell asked. "Timothy, it's nice to see you again." Stone started, his tone convivial, "Sorry to drag you out here like this." The adjudicator pulled open one of the drawers in the massive desk and began to shuffle through the objects inside. "It makes a change to be away from my desk." Campbell replied, non- committally, "But I gathered this wasn't a social request." His expression was guarded as he watched the other man hunt for something. "There's been rather an odd incident, or string of incidents I should say, and I'd like you to help with the investigation." Stone continued. Carefully, he extracted a small object from the drawer and concealed it with his palm. He made no offer to show it to Campbell. "Tell me," he added, looking up, "Have you ever heard of Sarah Chandler?" "She's the professor of archaeology at Balliol, Oxford." Tim said by way of confirmation, "In fact she was my tutor in archaeology when I was an undergraduate at Warwick. She was just a doctor then, mind you." Perplexed, Stone asked, "I thought you majored in mathematics?" "I did." Campbell agreed, "Warwick requires everyone to do a two term course in a subject unrelated to their major, it's their antidote to the `ivory tower' syndrome." "Your acquaintance may be useful, Professor Chandler recently reported the theft of several artefacts." Stone said, "So it seems I was right to chose you over Symms objections." "Symms couldn't find his arse with both hands!" Campbell snorted. Hurriedly, the adjudicator cupped one ear to indicate the probability there were eavesdroppers. "Not unless he were to follow the sound of his voice, anyway." Campbell added with a smile. "But surely this is a job for the antiquities department." Stone gave up. "The items in question were stolen from the hold of a Roman galley. Professor Chandler is in the Mediterranean at the moment and was in the process of recovering it." Campbell smiled. "I withdraw my objections, and I'll be sure and send you a postcard!" At Stone's amused expression, Campbell's smile faltered. "That is not where I'm sending you, Tim." Stone corrected. He opened the file in front of him and passed over a strangely colourless picture of wrecked timbers and scorched metal. "I said she was in the PROCESS of recovering the galley. The ship itself was over two hundred feet below the surface of the ocean, and in the middle of a gale, when it was ransacked. You'll notice the carbonised joists, indicating a high energy cutting device." Campbell whistled. "We're talking pretty sleek tech here." Campbell noted, "Any leads on who has access to that kind of kit?" "Just one." Stone replied, coolly, "Within thirty-six hours, coins positively identified as being from the same horde started to turn up of Babylon 5." The official's face set deadly serious. "Someone transported a stolen cargo past Earth's defence net and out to neutral space faster than Earth-force's best ship of the line. We need to know who and how." "You're sending me back there, aren't you?" Campbell said quietly. "Just to observe." Stone answered, almost apologetically, "You know their set-up and they know you." "And most of them hate me." Campbell snapped, "Look, I'm harbouring no misconceptions here! Last time I was on B5, I flipped out and fouled up. No-one in Earth-dome is going to want me on this. Especially if it's as important as you make out." "It's not their call, Tim." Stone insisted, "The crime report was filed by Professor Chandler through her college. That puts it in my bailiwick, and I want you as my observer." "Why?" the investigator asked, simply. "You have a background in military intelligence, you are familiar with alien cultures and languages... need I go on?" "You left out that I'm generally regarded not so much as a loose cannon, but more of a rogue armada. That I haven't done any field work in six months. And that I get space-sick just looking up at night!" "So close your eyes!" Stone snapped. Incongruously, the adjudicator's expression was pleading. "You're the best I've got, Tim, take the job." Campbell sighed. "When do I leave?" "Tomorrow, on the Asimov." Stone said, smiling, "The artificial gravity should be a help." He pushed his chair back and stood up. "Come take a look at the garden." he suggested, opening the French windows onto the frost covered lawn outside. Campbell followed Stone outside, and watched as he activated the tiny device half hidden in his hand. "A jammer, Bill?" Tim asked, puzzled. "This bit is off the record." William replied, barely moving his lips, "I figured out most of what really happened last time you were on Babylon 5. I know that you were involved getting David Took off Earth, that Mrs. Jansen assisted you, and that the Babylon command staff helped you cover-up. But I want to know what it was Took was working on. What was so important you would risk your life to destroy it?" Campbell looked uncomfortable. "The what isn't important." he said. Stone continued to look at him levelly. "But it would have provided the military advantage certain groups were looking for to restart the Earth- Minbari war." he admitted finally, "But with Took's box of tricks, we'd probably have won this time." There was a long pause while the adjudicator digested this revelation. "Which people, Tim?" Stone said softly, angrily, "Who wanted another war?" "I can't say." Campbell admitted, "I'm not exactly in a position to start nosing around. But what I do know is that the military connections Took knew of are all under the command of people personally chosen for the position by President Clarke." Stone snapped off the jammer and turned back towards the study. "You should come back in the summer. Believe me, you won't recognise the place." He retook his seat and seemingly pulled himself back to the business at hand. "Well, it's pointless to tell you to enjoy your trip." he commented, "But I will warn you that your reports will be subject to the utmost scrutiny. So no foul-ups this time, Tim!" "No, sir." Tim replied, "If you will excuse me?" He waited for Stone to nod acquiescence, then turned and made his way back through the study door to his waiting car. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- From dmb@any.isis.rl.ac.uk Sun Aug 4 01:38:49 1996 Date: Thu, 18 Jul 1996 13:52:33 -0100 From: Devious Brownies Reply-To: b5-creative@lists.best.com To: b5-creative@lists.best.com Subject: "The Victory of His Hand." - Part 3. "The Victory of His Hand." -------------------------- Chapter 5. [Sunday, 22nd. January, 2260 - 1317 hours] Garibaldi waited silently amidst the bustle of the arrival lounge, painfully aware of Ivanova's tense vigil at his side. Her stoic silence kept him equally quiet, until the pregnant pause came to full term. "Shouldn't be long now." he informed her, helpfully. "Please," she replied coldly, "let me enjoy these last few moments of tranquillity." She tried to return to her soundless waiting, but couldn't manage it now the charm had been broken. "I can't believe they sent HIM!" she spat. "He's not so bad." the chief said with a shrug. "He pulled a gun on you last time, Michael." "Yeah, but he didn't fire it!" Garibaldi noted. He could sense her looking askew at him. "Well it's an improvement." he explained. "Michael!" came a man's voice, and Campbell peeled off from a disembarking group and strode towards the security officer. "And Commander Ivanova too, you shouldn't have." "I was hoping it was a different Investigator Campbell." Ivanova said, cuttingly. Hastily, Michael stepped forward and the two men shook hands. "Good to see you again, Tim." Garibaldi said, warmly, "You're looking..." "Fat!" Ivanova interjected. It was nearly true, the Earth investigator's frame was more filled, and his face had a softer edge to it that spoke of a languid lifestyle. Campbell shrugged. "I don't get the exercise I used to." he explained, "After my last visit here, they've had me flying a desk." "Best place for you." Susan remarked. "What, behind it or over it?" Tim inquired, innocently. The commander flushed slightly, just catching her first flicker of a smile. She held out her hand and Campbell shook it. "Welcome back, Mr. Campbell." She became aware of the unnatural stiffness of the hand she held, and looked down. The skin was uneven, indicating the patchwork of healed tissue beneath, and the fingers were held in a frozen, crooked grasp. She looked back up at the investigator. "Does it still bother you?" "Well typing's a chore, and it's ruined my sex-life." Campbell joked, "But it doesn't hurt, if that's what you mean." He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "Though at this precise moment, I regret not being able to feel more with it." Ivanova withdrew her hand quickly. "I'm not going to have any trouble with you, I hope!" she warned. "I couldn't if I wanted to." Tim reassured her, "I have no authority here at all this time. I'm just an observer, and yours to command." "In your dreams, Campbell." Susan snorted. Tim sighed. "For weeks to come." He seemed to visibly relax as Ivanova allowed herself to laugh. The investigator shrugged his hold-all higher on his shoulder. "Right, what now?" he asked. "Captain Sheridan." said Garibaldi and Ivanova together, the security officer continued, "This time you brief him BEFORE all hell breaks loose!" Campbell tried to look hurt at the insinuation, but wasn't very convincing. ---===***===--- "Mr. Campbell." Sheridan acknowledged, shaking the other's hand, "Pleasant trip, I trust?" "The Asimov is an excellent ship." Campbell said by way of an affirmative, "Did you know they even have a pool?" "No I didn't." the captain answered, conversationally, "But then, the ships I'm used to didn't even have showers." The investigator grimaced. "You don't need to remind me." he remarked, "In space, everyone can smell you coming." "I know you haven't settled in yet," Sheridan apologised, "but can you tell us why a suicide and a pocket full of old coins constitutes a threat to planetary security?" "We're pretty certain that those particular coins were stolen from a sunken Roman galley, while it was still underwater mind you, sometime last Sunday." he explained, looking around at the three officers, "The heist coincided with a sudden Mediterranean storm that the local meteorologists had failed to predict, yet it tool less than thirty-six hours for the missing artefacts to start surfacing way out here." "But they couldn't have been moved here that fast!" Ivanova objected. "Not on any Earth transport, no." Tim agreed, "And Earth observation detected no unusual vessels leaving our system. So..." He let the obvious conclusion hang. "So we have to conclude a non-human ship which eluded our detectors." Sheridan finished for him. "One that can come and go from Earth itself without being seen." "Hence Earth-dome's concern." Campbell agreed. "And your interest in this?" the commander queried. "The archaeologist raising the Galley was from Oxford University." Campbell explained, "I'm all that was available. No secret agendas this time, honest." He raised his hands, placatingly. "Oh, while I remember." he added, crouching down to rummage through his bag. He pulled out a hastily wrapped package and handed it to the commander. She peeked under the corner of the paper, and smiled. "It's coffee." she explained to the others. "Colombian, Sumatran, Kenyan, anything I could find." Tim added. He produced another surprise, this time a small crystal bottle filled with an amber liquid, and passed it to the captain. Sheridan read the label. "Perfume?" he queried. "Channel number fifteen, in an alcohol free base." Campbell said, explaining, "For the ambassador." Sheridan shook his head. "You had me worried for a moment." he admitted, adding, "I'll see that she gets it." "So what do I get?" Garibaldi asked. Campbell just smiled and produced a pair of data-crystals from his pocket. "Not more `Tom and Jerry'!" "No, I went for a compromise this time." Tim confessed, "Meep, meep!" Garibaldi laughed as he recognised the quote. "Where do you find this stuff?" he queried. "I have a friend in the British National Film Theatre, in Bradford." "I'll show you to your quarters. Then lunch is on me." Garibaldi looked askance at Sheridan, "Captain?" Sheridan nodded his permission, then watched as the two men sauntered out of his office. The door closed quietly behind them. "Meep, meep?" he said, looking at the commander. "I've learned not to ask." Ivanova replied. Sheridan weighed the expensive gift in his hand. "He's trying very hard to make amends." he commented, smiling, "Do you think we can trust him?" Ivanova snorted loudly. "No," Sheridan confirmed, "me neither." Chapter 6. "So we put everything, including the body, in cold-storage pending your arrival. Now you're here we can get things rolling again." Garibaldi commented, finishing the briefing he'd started between mouthfuls of lunch. The chief sneaked a sideways look at Campbell as they walked from the canteen, his eyes narrow with suspicion. Campbell finished wiping his hands with the small scented cloth and looked up, just in time to catch Garibaldi's expression. "Nothing to do with me!" he protested, "I'd rather have half a week of reports to catch up on than a four day old trail to follow." This time Campbell seemed genuinely upset by Garibaldi's accusation, and the security officer made a mental note to let up a little. "So what am I to observe first?" Tim asked. "Dr. Hobbs is down to do a full examination and autopsy on Griff Jones, the suicide." Michael explained, "Meanwhile, I've got my people questioning all his associates that we know of, and can find." "Lunch first, autopsy afterwards." Campbell said with an expression of distaste, "Interesting choice, Michael." "Hey, it's no fun throwing up on an empty stomach." Garibaldi advised, "Why, you got a suggestion?" "I wouldn't mind seeing the scene of the incident." Tim admitted. "What's the point after five days?" argued the security chief. "Well, your Mr. Jones must have had some reason for picking that particular place to top himself." the investigator argued, "He specifically made his way there from the Zocalo, past dozens of equally likely gibbets. I'd like to know why." Campbell grew a sly grin as they walked. "Besides, it would be a shame to come all this way and miss one of the wonders of the world." To Garibaldi's puzzled stare, he provided, "The hanging gardens of Babylon?" Michael pulled a face. "You're a sick man, Campbell." he chided, then stuck his hand out to guide the Englishman round a corner. "We'll do the garden tour AFTER the autopsy." Garibaldi insisted, and opened the door to the pathology lab. A large mobile screen obscured most of the laboratory from the doorway., and the two lawmen discovered why when the stepped round it. Griff Jones lay pale and lifeless, and totally naked, on a large ceramic table that occupied most of the remaining space. A petite brunette in a pale green medical smock was half-sat on the far side of the bench, apparently giving the corpse a manicure. She ignored their intrusion completely, and continued to dig under the dead man's fingernails with the point of a scalpel. After a while, she scraped the keen edge backwards across the flat surface of a glass slide and set it to one side. Standing up, she walked round the ceramic surface and took up position on the side nearest Campbell and Garibaldi. Again she started to carefully clean under Jones' fingers. Disinterestedly, she spared the security chief a glance. Garibaldi raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips, but the doctor turned soundlessly back to her work. He tried a polite cough. And when that failed to work, he tried an impolite cough. The doctor managed to frown in disapproval without conveying the slightest impression that she had paid him any attention. Campbell had been watching Michael's performance with quiet amusement. He went for a more direct approach. "When it is convenient for you, we would appreciate hearing of any progress you have made." he remarked, speaking almost too softly to be heard. The doctor nodded curtly without looking at him. Tim shrugged at Garibaldi and the two of them waited in silence for the doctor to finish. "I think I've found something for you, Mr. Garibaldi." Dr. Hobbs said suddenly. She sat up and smeared the detritus she had so meticulously collected on another slide. "Take a look at that." Hobbs gestured to the laboratory fluoroscope stood on a bench in one corner, while she retrieved her previous sample. Garibaldi powered up the light source, and under its eerie illumination the acetate sheet - that had been lying, unnoticed, on the object tray - underwent a dramatic change. A mottled hand-print sprang into glowing clarity, its lines, whorls and calluses brought to sharp relief by the dark spaces surrounding them. "So what, he didn't wash his hands?" was the chief's sardonic comment. "If you mean, `this looks much the same as any other hand-print', then for the most part you're correct." Dr. Hobbs replied, adding, "Now tilt your head from one side to the other." The two men stared at her, blankly. Giving a quick demonstration, the doctor explained, "Like this." Campbell looked over at the station's security chief and raised one eyebrow briefly. "After you, Mr. Garibaldi," he suggested, "I'll observe." The investigator bit down hard on a laugh as Michael started to swing his head back and forth over the deck of the fluoroscope. Garibaldi came to an abrupt stop, then slowly bobbed his head up and down, scrutinising the hand-print from every angle. "Take a look at this, Tim!" he called over his shoulder. Campbell copied the security chief's motions, and saw the palm print shimmer and scintillate in the indigo light as he moved. "That's not fluorescence," Tim remarked as he continued to shift his position, "that's a reflection." He looked over to where the woman doctor stood waiting. "Do you know of what?" he asked. "You know they say all that glitters is not gold?" she started. "It's `glisters'." Campbell automatically corrected, "But, yes." "Well this IS gold." the doctor continued, "Tiny flakes of gold, his hands were covered in them." She held the two slides she carried under the lamp and rocked them gently. Tiny violet ribbons of light cascaded over the marbled stain of the smear. "They're under his fingernails too, though not on his clothes." she summarised, "So the only dust your Mr. Jones has been handling was gold dust." --------------------------------------------------------------------------- From dmb@any.isis.rl.ac.uk Sun Aug 4 01:38:50 1996 Date: Thu, 18 Jul 1996 14:54:47 -0100 From: Devious Brownies Reply-To: b5-creative@lists.best.com To: b5-creative@lists.best.com Subject: "The Victory of His Hand." - Part 4. "The Victory of His Hand." -------------------------- Chapter 7. Garibaldi stifled a yawn and shifted his position slightly. One of his arms felt to be going to sleep and he re-crossed his them the other way as they rested on the parapet. Rather lazily, the chief watched the visiting investigator snoop around below him. "So?" he called down. From his position halfway down the grassy bank, Campbell looked up to where the security chief lolled over the railings of the bridge. "So I'm still looking!" Tim replied, testily. His downward progress stopped at the verge of a sandy flower-bed, Campbell stooped over to peered under the archway. "Are there many bridges like this one?" he asked. Futilely, Garibaldi shrugged, then answered, "Yeah, I suppose so." He looked around the panorama of the gardens while he performed a mental `head- count' of the bridges he could picture. "Not that many are actually high enough to hang your self from!" The import of what he had just said struck home, and Michael leaned further out to tell Campbell, "Hey, Tim..." He stopped, temporarily thrown by the investigator's apparent disappearance. "Campbell?" he called. Walking hunched, Campbell sidled out from under the bridge. "Yes?" "Maybe he picked here because the other bridges weren't tall enough?" Garibaldi suggested. "But why pick a bridge at all?" the investigator argued, "Why not just swing from the gallery in the Zocalo?" He started to scramble back up the bank, occasionally having to resort to all fours. Suddenly, Campbell turned and sat down on the grassy border, studying his hands intently. "Found something?" Michael asked. In answer, Campbell picked something from the plant-bed and hastily made his way to the security officer, putting his free hand on the bridge for support. "What've you got?" Garibaldi asked, impatiently. "Here." Campbell said, holding out the object he was carrying. Garibaldi extended his hand, and with a swift movement Campbell slapped the brick of moist earth he carried into it. "For Christ's sake, Campbell." Garibaldi snapped, angrily. He brushed as much of the dirt off his hands as he could, then wiped them on the seat of his pants. "You too!" Campbell exclaimed, smugly. Garibaldi gave him a look short on patience. "You wiped your hands on your trousers, as did I. Better raised people would have used a handkerchief." "So?" Garibaldi asked. "So why wasn't there gold dust on Griff Jones' clothes? Was he a well brought up criminal?" "There could be lots of reasons." Garibaldi hazarded. "True." Tim admitted, "But I don't think it's gold dust at all. I think it's gold leaf!" The investigator leant stiffly on the parapet and surveyed the garden. "Somewhere, someone has a cache of ancient artefacts. And our Mr. Jones was pilfering it." Garibaldi's sarcastic response was forestalled by his link. "Garibaldi here." he answered it. "Chief, it's Zack." came his sergeant's voice, "I'm in apartment one- sixty three on Red-14. I was checking on a fence, Lem Hofmann, we know Jones sometimes used." Zack paused. "Hofmann's dead." he explained, "And it's a bit... strange, Chief. You had better come take a look." Garibaldi looked at his watch, then at Campbell. "Congratulations, you've beat your previous best by more than an hour!" ---===***===--- Zack shifted uncomfortably as Garibaldi and Campbell entered. At his chief's demanding stare, he answered, "Believe me, Chief, you wouldn't believe me!" Garibaldi looked around the room. "So where is he?" he asked. Zack shifted position again and looked at the floor. Casting as quick a look at Campbell as he could manage, Zack answered, "In the bathroom." Garibaldi rubbed his forehead and counted to ten. Looking at the investigator, he snarled, "If he's dressed as a Vorlon, you are on the next ship home!" Waving for Zack to show him, Michael walk briskly through to the rooms at the rear of the apartment. "Are you going to blame me for every death around here?" Campbell demanded, sourly, as he set off after the security chief. "I figure the odds are better that way." Garibaldi answered. He skidded to a stop just through the fresher door, Zack stepped through after him and took up position on the far side of the room. Campbell appeared at the door way, and whistled. Lem Hofmann lay half curled at the bottom of the shower stall, his straggled hair plastered down over his face. From his position it was clear that he had been sat and not fallen there in death. The whole bottom fifth of the stall was lightly spattered with blood, and the bed sheet that wound incongruously about the body's lower half and over one shoulder was conspicuously tinted pink. A small kitchen knife drooped lightly in one hand, obviously the one Hofmann had used to open his own wrists. The floor of the bathroom was steeped in water, forming an unbroken lake a quarter inch deep. The body, however, was dry. "Who turned the shower off?" Garibaldi asked, perplexed. "Water Services, Chief." Zack answered, "Or rather, they stopped his supply when he used up his allocation." Zack looked up at his chief. "That was nearly thirty-six hours ago. And the shower had been running for twelve before that." "Another suicide." Campbell noted, "Coincidence perhaps?" "Check his desk drawer." Zack commented. Garibaldi pushed past Campbell and walked back through the bedroom to the lounge. One drawer in the desk was ajar, and the security chief pulled it open to look inside. Reaching into it, Michael retrieved a worn bronze coin from the pile inside and held it up so the investigator could see it. "Coincidence, my ass!" he said. Tim turned to look back towards the bathroom, though the body inside was not visible. "You know, it was once quite a popular form of suicide for people to run a warm bath, sit in it, and cut their wrists." he noted, almost absently, "It was almost `de rigeur' in ancient Rome." "I think that's pushing it a bit." Garibaldi dismissed. "Then why was he wearing his bedding like a toga?" Campbell asked. Chapter 8. "Yeah, thanks Doc." Garibaldi acknowledged, and broke the link. He walked back along the bridge to Campbell, who sat swinging his legs over the edge, apparently deep in thought. "Doctor Hobbs has confirmed the time of death as approximately two days ago. The partial immersion in water makes it difficult to be any more accurate." When Campbell didn't answer, the chief added, "And the blood tested negative. Sure, he'd used a few drugs in his time, but nothing recently." "Why do you think he chose this place?" the investigator mused aloud, "Jones, I mean." Garibaldi shrugged. "Who knows?" he admitted, "Perhaps he wanted to be closer to the angel when he died." "Sorry?" Campbell said, puzzled. "Haven't you heard?" Garibaldi asked, surprised. When Campbell shook his head, the chief explained, "Some hot-head Centauri planted a bomb on the monorail when the captain was on it. Sheridan baled out just before it blew up. That just left him facing a long, slow fall, terminated by him being smeared over a quarter turn of the station's circumference." "Then what, a host of angels rescued him?" Campbell joked. "No, just one." Garibaldi said, levelly. Campbell's laughter stopped. "Someone, something, leaped up from somewhere in the garden and brought him down. Humans saw an angel, the Drazi saw a Drazi, the Minbari saw a Minbari, and so on. But all the witnesses agreed that it was a glowing figure with great, white wings." "But can you trust the witnesses?" Campbell argued, sceptically. "Most of them were ambassadors." Michael commented, idly, "Me? I think someone's been growing the wrong sort of herbs, but then what brought Sheridan down safe?" Intrigued, Tim asked, "What does Sheridan say?" "Sheridan says everyone can mind their own damn business or he'll bust their heads!" Michael answered, "After that, everybody stopped asking." The chief's link sounded for attention, and he answered it. "Sir, it's Welch." came Lou's voice, "I've just collared a pick- pocket working the Zocalo. He says he knows something about Hofmann and Jones." "What does he know?" Garibaldi asked, as Campbell leaned in closer. "He won't say, just keeps on about his `rights' and `making a deal'." Welch replied, "Should I bring him in? Or just take him straight to Med-lab to have his bones mended." Garibaldi recognised the comment as being for the thief's benefit. "Stick him in holding, Lou." he instructed, "Whether or not we treat his injuries depends on how much he can tell us." He cut communications and looked over at Campbell. "I guess you don't want this next bit to go in my report." Tim hazarded, with an expression of distaste. Garibaldi looked offended. "Hey, this is the high frontier, not the wild frontier." he snapped, "If we frighten him a little, he'll hold out for less on a deal." ---===***===--- Campbell turned off the monitor as Garibaldi entered the security office. "Bravo!" he applauded, to the accompaniment of a slow hand-clap, "But I thought the `good-cop, bad-cop' routine was ancient history." "My grand-mother taught it me." Garibaldi replied, "Anyway, we're DEALING with ancient history here!" "So what did he have to say?" Campbell asked. The security chief gestured at the monitor Tim had been watching. "I only caught part of your act," the investigator admitted, "I been trying to speak to the professor who made the original find, back on Earth." "So what's stopping you?" "About sixty feet of water." Campbell replied, adding, "She's down in the galley at the moment. I've left a message to call here as soon as she's able." Campbell waited. "So what did our guest have to say?" he prompted. "He claims he went to see Hofmann early Tuesday to fence some stuff." Garibaldi remarked, "Seems that Jones was already there, pushing the coins, and that there was an argument going on." Garibaldi kicked the back of the chair a couple of times and, grudgingly, Campbell let him take it back. "Apparently, Jones had the low-down on a major haul, too big for him to move alone. But he didn't trust Hofmann to cut him in if he just told." "Smart guy." Campbell noted. "Yeah, but if he's so smart, why ain't he breathing?" the chief retorted. "So Jones wanted a down-payment up front, as insurance, but the figure he was asking for was crazy." "And Hofmann wasn't biting." Garibaldi frowned. "That's just it, he was!" he said, "Only, he was haggling for a pay-out only half as ludicrous. So Havelock, the guy we picked up, makes some comment about spreading the wealth a little, and Jones replies, `Some kinds of good fortune are lucky for SOME.' Then he laughs like he just said something funny, and Hofmann pays off Havelock, without a word of argument, and bundles him out of the room. Then they start turning up dead, and Havelock gets kind of thankful he wasn't let in on the deal." "I think we already knew that whoever ram-raided the galley didn't do it for a handful of old currency." Campbell mused, "So all we've really learned is Jones' comment about `lucky for some'." The investigator froze suddenly, and frowned. "Was Jones English, by any chance?" Garibaldi punched up the records on the dead lurker. "Yeah, why?" "`Lucky for some - thirteen', it's a bingo phrase." Campbell replied. "Bingo?" Garibaldi queried. "It's an old, British pastime." Tim explained, "Like cricket, or butter-sauce on pop-corn." Garibaldi pulled a face as he activated the computer terminal. "No way am I getting into THAT argument again." he muttered, then addressing the computer, added, "Compile a list of all the features and facilities of the station in anyway connected with the number thirteen." The computer's gentle, synthesised voice replied, "Please clarify `connected'." "Anything using the name `thirteen', or the number..." the chief expanded. Campbell interrupted him. "Or colloquially." he added, explaining, "Thirteen is also called a `baker's dozen'." "That operation will take seventeen minutes to complete." the computer informed them. "Great!" Michael snapped, "There must be thousands." "Time so see if your grandmother taught you that other mainstay of old-fashioned policing." Campbell grinned, "The laborious trawl through a mountain of trivia." He laughed at Garibaldi's heartfelt groan. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- From dmb@any.isis.rl.ac.uk Thu Aug 8 22:07:07 1996 Date: Thu, 8 Aug 1996 16:53:30 -0100 From: Devious Brownies To: b5-creative@lists.best.com Subject: "The Victory of His Hand." - Part 5. "The Victory of His Hand." -------------------------- Chapter 9. In total there were, seven thousand, nine hundred and forty-one references fitting the admittedly loose criteria. After an obligatory twenty minute argument about how, and if, to tighten the selection process, Campbell and Garibaldi had spent the next hour in the intensely interactive process of manually searching and investigating each of the records. Garibaldi covered the numeric matches, while the Earth investigator ploughed through the letter A. "Alfada, Janine, room thirteen on Grey-27." Campbell suggested. "Connection?" the chief asked. "She's an amateur archaeologist," Tim explained, "took a sabbatical from her job here to do volunteer work at an Earth dig." Garibaldi thought for a moment, then acquiesced. "Put her on the short-list." he instructed. Campbell punched the appropriate control, then leaned back. "That makes three candidates out of, what, three hundred matches?" he noted. "Just about." Michael agreed, swiftly doing the sum in his head. "So we're looking at a short-list of maybe eighty suspects, which isn't bad!" The investigator sounded optimistic. "And not one shred of evidence on any of them." Garibaldi reminded him, "For what'll probably be three days work, that isn't good." Glad of the distraction, Michael mirrored the investigator's pose, and restarted their last argument. "It'd be a lot less if we ran the list through the computer a couple more times." he argued. Campbell sighed. "Selecting for what?" he reiterated. "Archaeological connections, like I suggested!" the chief repeated. "Hence we ignore links to alien haulage companies, or smugglers. Or fences who might previously have only dabbled in the fine-arts market." Tim insisted, "Add all that to the search and we're damn near back where we started. So why NOT use the heuristic approach, via our brains and our instincts?" Campbell tapped the monitor screen in front of him. "Hell, I doubt ALL the candidates are going to be as obvious as Janine here." Garibaldi knew precisely where this argument was going. After all, they'd already had it once before. So now `they' get another three days start on us, Garibaldi thought to himself, then stiffened. He looked side- long at Campbell, suspiciously. "It just seems like one hell of an effective delaying tactic." he commented. The snideness of the remark caught Campbell off guard, and his face grew expressionless. "I'm just an observer here, Mr. Garibaldi." he said, coldly, "If you want to run around waving your little gun, be my guest!" Campbell gestured with his crippled hand at the door, and added, "Who do you intend to shoot first? Me, perhaps, or maybe just a couple of lurkers on general principles?" The investigator's stare demanded an answer the security chief didn't have, and the two officers faced off, in silence and with obvious hostility. They were interrupted by a chime from Garibaldi's terminal, which he answered with a irate stab of his finger. "Security." he snapped, viciously. On the screen, Lieutenant Corwin looked taken aback. "Sir, there's a call come in from Earth. They say they were asked to call the station's security office." the junior officer hazarded. "That'll be the professor." Campbell remarked. "Okay, Lieutenant, put them through." Garibaldi said, he waved for Campbell to join him in front of the monitor, "You'll want to see this." "Considering I'm the one who wanted to speak to her!" Campbell muttered as he walked round the desk. The Stellacom logo cut to the image of a fiftyish woman. Her brunette hair was streaked with equal amounts of silver and sun-bleached blonde, her deep-tanned face bore shallow lines that cast it in a permanent expression of semi-concentration. Her eyes however shone with a light to shame the Mediterranean sun, twin torches of gun-metal grey. Dispensing with any sort of formality, the woman commented, "I'm Professor Chandler, what did you want to speak to me about?" Campbell leaned on the back of Garibaldi's chair to be more in shot. "I called you, Professor, I'm Investigator Campbell." he introduced himself, "I hoped you might be able to tell us more about your remarkable find." "And your interest is?" "We're investigating the alleged raid you reported." Tim answered. "If I remember correctly, Babylon five is in the Euphrates sector." Chandler snorted, disbelievingly, "I hardly think you're going to find my missing artefacts way out there!" Reaching off camera, Campbell picked up one of the coins recovered from Hofmann's quarters. He held it up to the screen. "You'd be surprised." he said, flatly. He turned the coin round in his fingers so that the archaeologist could get a look at both faces. Chandler's eyes went wide. "That's the right era." she admitted, finally, "And the die marks are consistent with similar coins recovered from the galley." She frowned, the furrows on her forehead becoming more pronounced with the gesture. "If it is from the same batch then it was incidental to whatever was taken. The coins themselves are worth a little to a collector, but not enough to warrant the expense of smuggling them as far as your station." "We think there's a cache somewhere here," Garibaldi explained, "but without more to go on we don't know if we're looking for big things, or little things." He shrugged, "Could you give us a clue?" "What are you expecting, a chalk outline?" Chandler snorted. "It's not too unreasonable to assume what `they' took to be similar to what was left behind." the investigator expanded, "Have you found any items of particular value?" Without hesitation, Chandler replied, "Yes. We have recovered one item of unparalleled worth. At least, to an archaeologist." The two officers waited for her to explain. "There were the normal collection of vases, rotted silk, Roman goods and armour." the professor commented, dismissing the inventory with an airy wave, "But the real find was an exquisite pottery urn, inlaid with ivory and gold." "Would that be gold leaf?" Campbell hazarded, "Only we found traces of gold on the hands of someone we believe may have handled the missing items." Chandler laughed. "I would be more than amazed if it was. The practice of leafing gold wasn't introduced until centuries later." Chandler said with obvious scorn, "Worked gold was shaped and polished with rounded wooden tools, a light dust would be a product of the finishing. No wonder you failed my course, Timothy." "You remember me?" Campbell said, surprised. He caught Garibaldi's sharp look in the corner of his eye. Great, he thought, more aggravation to come. "I remember that if you'd didn't spend half as much time studying the course work as you did studying my legs" she replied, sharply. She looked at her watch. "I'll send you what information we have." Chandler said, impatiently, "Now unless there is anything else?" "Just that you keep us informed, Professor." Garibaldi advised her. "I will." the woman acceded, "And I'll expect a similar courtesy." The screen went blank, then returned to the Babcom logo. Chapter 10. Campbell rubbed absently at his eyes and paged forward to the next match. Slowly, a light, repetitive tapping intruded on his consciousness and the investigator looked up to see Garibaldi staring at him. The chief's stylus continued its regular percussion against his teeth as he regarded Campbell with a measured, contemplative stare. Tim sighed. "Okay, get it over with." he said, resignedly. "Don't patronise me, you conniving bastard!" Garibaldi spat, viciously. "Y-y-yes sir, your h-h-heroshipness sir!" Tim mimicked. The security chief shook his head slowly. "Forget it, it's not working." he dismissed, "I've had enough of your line of horse-hockey to last a lifetime. So you and the prof are old friends, eh?" Garibaldi leaned forward, earnestly. "Either I see the whole picture, or you see the inside of a holding cell until I can get you shipped dirt-side!" "Sarah Chandler tutored me for two terms when I was at university." Tim insisted, "Despite my fervent attempts, we never even dated. After that I have never seen her until just now. As I've said before, I am NOT here with any hidden agenda!" "Strange she remembered you then, isn't it?" the chief queried. "She's an archaeologist, Michael, good memories come with the territory." "Bull!" Garibaldi snapped, disbelievingly. "Shit happens, Garibaldi, live with it!" the investigator snarled, his voice carrying as much quiet anger as Garibaldi's. Bitterly, he added, "And here was me thinking I'd come out here with no black marks this time." Michael's riposte was cut off by a delicate chime from his console. With a stab, he brought up the newly arrived file and, silently, scanned through it. "Here!" he said to Campbell, copying the document to the investigator's screen, "You're the expert, you read it." For a minute, Campbell did so in silence. Suddenly, he let forth a slow whistle. "Way to go, Sarah." he amended. "So what's the deal." the chief asked, still not placated. "The urn is Greek, not Roman, and is about one and a half to two feet high." Tim summarised, "It's pottery all right, but made with top class clay. Probably made as an alter piece for a temple." "I think we can rule out a religious motive." dismissed Garibaldi. "The workmanship is incredible. Unique even." Campbell continued, "Normally urns of this type are painted, but this one has mythological scenes inlaid in ivory and gold. Seemingly worked right into the clay, before firing." "But wouldn't the heat damage the ivory and stuff?" Garibaldi queried, interested despite himself. "Chandler is hypothesising that Pheidias was using some technique we know nothing about." Campbell explained. "Who?" Campbell looked up at the security chief. "That's the kicker." he said, softly, "The urn is signed. Some historians argue that Pheidias may have been the greatest artist Earth has ever produced. He designed and built one of the seven wonders of the ancient world, the great statue of Zeus at Olympia, about 400 years BC. Out of ivory and gold. I think we can assume the urn was probably one of the temple goods!" "Could that be what was stolen?" the chief mused. Campbell shook his head. "No, we know what happened to Pheidias's Zeus. It was dismantled by a eunuch called Lausus and taken to Constantinople eight hundred years later. Eventually, it was burned to ash by a marauding band of early art critics, along with half the city." The investigator shrugged. "Besides, the thing was about forty feet high. Not an easy item to hide." "But this urn is valuable, right? And there could be more than one." Michael persisted. "Priceless, and yes." Campbell replied, "But we're back where we started. It could be a collector, or an antiquities dealer, or someone with an eye for art even!" With a couple of sure taps, the Earth investigator brought up a slowly and endlessly spinning image of the urn. He turned the monitor towards the security chief. "Look at it, Michael!" he said, almost breathlessly, "It's exquisite, perfect. You don't have to be interested in history to want it, it would be valuable to any lover of beauty!" "That doesn't explain how this `beauty-lover' knew it, or anything else, was down there. Unless there was a leak from the team." noted Garibaldi, "You'd better get your people to run background checks on anyone connected with the project." Campbell stared, shocked, at the security officer briefly, then spat a couple of short oaths. "Damn, how did I miss that!" Tim chided himself, "You're right, whoever was behind the raid had to have some idea of what might be down there." He recalled the Stellacom system to his monitor. "Nobody's perfect." Garibaldi commented with a shrug. "You might like to remember that." the investigator said, acidly, "It'll make our working together that much easier!" --------------------------------------------------------------------------- From dmb@any.isis.rl.ac.uk Thu Aug 8 22:07:10 1996 Date: Thu, 8 Aug 1996 17:00:22 -0100 From: Devious Brownies To: b5-creative@lists.best.com Subject: "The Victory of His Hand." - Part 6. "The Victory of His Hand." -------------------------- Chapter 11. Vir mopped his brow with one hand, while the palm of his other tapped incessantly on the table top. With a sigh short on patience, Londo contrived to `absently' put his glass down on it, hard. "Try not to look so nervous." the ambassador hissed, "You're drawing too much attention." "How can..." Vir snapped, a fraction too loudly. He tried again in a more conspiratorial whisper, "How can I NOT look nervous, I AM nervous!" He snatched his hand away from under the glass and grasped both of them together in front of him, then behind him. Finally, he settled for gripping the unwanted drink Mollari had placed in front of him earlier. "Vir," Londo said, in his most patronising manner, "how do you ever hope to succeed as a diplomat if you cannot master your emotions. You must lie with your body as well as your mouth." "I'd rather not have to lie at all." argued the aide, pleading, "Don't do this, Londo. Call it off before it's too late." "And how do you expect me to do that, eh?" Mollari snapped, "Call up Refa and tell him I've had a sudden change of heart? It would change nothing. The plan is already in motion and we must do all we can to ensure that nothing goes wrong." "But it's illegal." Vir insisted, "Captain Sheridan will..." "Captain Sheridan will do exactly what his government tells him!" Londo interrupted, dismissively, "And his government will accept whatever explanation we give them, rather than cause trouble. It is time he leaned that the Centauri Republic will allow no interference in our affairs. Not from him, not from anyone!" Vir looked hurriedly away as another Centauri approached the pair. "Ambassador, Mr. Cotto." the newcomer said, bowing low to each in turn, "I trust you are both well." "Well enough." Londo replied, only half at ease, "There is some disease going around the station, but we have not caught it yet." "So I have heard. Might I share and old family remedy with you?" the young man acknowledged. At Londo's nod, he continued, "It requires some special ingredients. Perhaps you would know where I may find them?" "Brown-7 is always a good place to start." Londo advised, "There are many interesting things to be found there at this time of day." "Thank you, Ambassador, that is most helpful." the Centauri replied, a thirsty smile on his lips, "But I have kept you too long. No doubt you have many public appointments to attend." Without another word the man turned and walked away. Vir watched the other as long as he could, and before the crowd closed about him, Vir saw two other young Centauri join the stranger at his side. Londo drained his glass and stood up. "Come on Vir, it is time we were somewhere else." he said at his natural volume, "We shall go to a casino, yes? Maybe today my luck there will change." The attache shook his head abruptly. "Casinos give me a headache." he declined, "I think I had better go back to our quarters." As he turned to leave, Vir felt Londo's hand on one arm. "No hurry." Mollari said, lightly. But the ambassador's face was serious, its expression warning. In a whisper, Londo added, "For the next hour it is better you be somewhere where you're seen, yes?" Vir nodded once and set off. Behind him, the young aide could here Londo's booming voice mouthing meaningless compliments to some hapless woman. A woman who would later clearly remember the ambassador's unwelcome attentions. ---===***===--- Vir Cotto hurried down the corridor, clutching an innocuous paper bag to his chest. For perhaps the fiftieth time, he checked behind him that he was completely unobserved. This time he was, and with a swift movement the Centauri aide slipped sideways into the semi-enclosed booth of a public access console. He slipped an Earth currency coin into the appropriate slot. The denomination was far too large for the task at hand, but he had been unable to obtain anything smaller at such short notice and a coin was necessary. For one thing it was untraceable. At the menu screen, Vir selected the Babcom system and then reached into the bag he carried. He pulled out a small, and pungent, brown fruit. "Please state what service you require." the Earth computer asked. "Give me a person to person call to the quarters of Citizen G'Kar." Vir requested, and with a mechanical clank the coin was whisked away into the depths of the machine. Quickly he pressed the fruit over the pinhole lens of the booth's camera. In one corner of the console, a small fault indicator appeared. But as Vir had correctly surmised, the machine could not now refund his money, and so had no option but to continue to place the call. The screen cleared to a fiery red, a balefully staring Narn framed by it. When the remote terminal failed to show an image, the Narn frowned. "Who is this?" he asked, suspiciously. "Listen very carefully," Vir hissed, "I shall say this only once. G'Kar is on Brown-7, and the Centauri know it. They are planning to snatch him and get him to Centauri prime to stand trial before anyone can do anything about it!" "Who is this?" the Narn asked again, adding, "How do we know what you say is true." "You don't." Vir admitted, "If I am lying, it will just mean G'Kar has a few more people around him today. If I'm telling the truth, those extra people might just save his life." The Centauri broke connection and removed the impromptu lens cover. As he stepped away from the booth, two Centauri women rounded the end of the corridor. He walked towards them, his nerves on fire. To their nods of recognition, he replied, "Good-day, good- day." He hurried on, painfully aware of how shaky his voice had been. Behind him he heard the two women giggle to each other as they wrongly interpreted his nervousness. In his mind, he paraphrased what Londo had said earlier. The plan is in motion, he thought, and I have done all I can. Chapter 12. "That's all the `A's done." Campbell commented. He turned to Garibaldi and asked, "How are you getting on?" The security chief looked at the record indicator in the top-right corner of his screen. "I'm about two thirds through." he answered, adding, "Take a break while I finish up, then we'll start checking out that short- list." "So early?" Tim queried. "If I don't get out of this chair soon, my butt'll go comatose." Garibaldi explained, marvelling, "How can you stand been sat at a desk like that for so long?" "Practice." the investigator responded, sourly. Garibaldi's link cut off his malicious chuckle. "Garibaldi." he answered. Sean Hamilton's voice came in response. "Sir, we've got a situation here." the guard advised, sounding harassed, "I've been reliably informed that the Narn and the Centauri are planning to mix it up a little on Brown- 7. We're talking maybe thirty bodies here." "Understood. I'll send someone down with your armour, then you meet me on Brown-7, colonnade four. I'll bring the cavalry." Michael cut the link and started towards the door. He stopped to look at Campbell, undecided. "You'd better stay here." Garibaldi advised, "It'll take too long to kit you out in riot gear, and to no good purpose." "No problem." Tim acquiesced, cheerfully, "I'm happy enough to leave all that mindless violence stuff to you GROPOS types." He waved a lazy hand at the console in front of him. "I'll make a start on the `B's while you're gone." he remarked, but Garibaldi was already out of the door. "Anything's better than a poke in the eye with a sharp Narn." he added to the empty air. ---===***===--- "And I mean NOW!" Garibaldi shouted, pulling a Narn away from a prone Centauri. The alien in question spun in the chief's grasp and pulled back a claw-like hand to strike at him. "Don't even think about it." Garibaldi warned him. Sheepishly, the Narn aborted his attack and allowed himself to be led away with as much offended dignity as he could muster. With a sigh he moved on to the next melee and repeated the process. Slowly over the next several minutes, four distinct groups were formed; the Narn, the Centauri, the humans, and the unconscious. Garibaldi turned to Hamilton, and saw to his surprise that the security guard was nursing a split lip. "Someone got the drop on you?" he asked. "My fault." Sean replied, "I forgot that a knee to the groin doesn't work on Centauri." Garibaldi raised one eyebrow. "It was a purely defensive knee to the groin, you understand." Hamilton corrected himself. Shaking his head, the security chief addressed the two factions. "Okay, who started it?" he asked. Immediately, both sides started talking at once, and within seconds they had abandoned any pretence of addressing Garibaldi in favour of shouting ever more outraged and outrageous claims at each other. "Stupid question." Michael muttered, mainly to himself. Feeling a headache starting, he rubbed the back of his neck and thought longingly of his bed. Eventually, Garibaldi let rip the loudest whistle he could manage. The two teams of combatants fell uncomfortably silent. "Let's try this again." Garibaldi said, with little patience, "All those who think the Narn started this, raise your hands." The ten Centauri who remained conscious lifted their arms as one. One or two of them, either deceitfully or from unfamiliarity with the Earth custom, raised both. "Right, hands down." Garibaldi instructed, "Now everyone who thinks the Centauri started it, raise YOUR hands." All thirteen `surviving' Narn obeyed. Three of the guards also raised a hand, dropping them quickly at the chief's disapproving glare. "The Narn have it. Which gives YOU..." the chief decided, indicating the Centauri, "one minute to get out of here!" One of the Centauri spat at the floor. "You call this justice?" he challenged, outraged by the security officer's actions. "No, I call this diplomacy." Michael corrected, adding, "Trouble is, people don't think I'm very good at it. In fact they have been known to imply I'm about as subtle as a mass-driver." He took a pace nearer the Centauri group. "And in about thirty seconds, you're going to find out just how unpleasant that makes me!" Stymied, the Centauri retreated in poor order, carrying their casualties with them. Garibaldi turned back to the quietly milling Narn, and caught sight of G'Kar leaning heavily against the back wall. Crossing quickly to the ex- ambassador, Michael extended one hand. "Sorry about the simile, G'Kar." he apologised. "In the circumstances, Mr. Garibaldi," G'Kar wheezed, taking the proffered hand and struggling to his feet, "you are forgiven." The Narn studied the security chief's expression at length, and correctly determining that he was being asked a question, added "It seems the Centauri are impatient for me to return home, so very generously they decided to provide me with a lift." G'Kar rubbed his ribs, ruefully, "They were quite insistent!" ---===***===--- Campbell pouted pensively at the screen, his eyes speed-reading just the highlights of each record. "Move on." he instructed, and the record changed. Again, its essence was absorbed in a flurry of saccades. "Again." Another record, another flicker of the eyes. "Again." For minute after minute the investigator sat motionless in front of the luminescent console. That is, motionless apart from the rapid and ceaseless motion of his eyes and his lips as they mouthed a bare minimum of words in a flat, mechanical monotone. "Again. Again. Again." Yet another record flashed up on the monitor. But at this one Campbell started, then sat slowly upright in his chair. Unlike the others, this record barely took up a quarter of the screen, the information was so scant as to be virtually useless. But what little there was caused the investigator to pause, and his mind to race furiously. Carefully, Tim replayed the events of that morning. He and Garibaldi opening the security office, Michael shifting a pile of reports to let him sit down, Michael putting the reports on the edge of his desk. Campbell looked at those same reports, and smiled. Standing up, he lifted the corner of the report pile and retrieved the ident-card he knew would be underneath them. Garibaldi's ident-card. Tilting back the display, Campbell took another look at the record displayed thereon. Bay thirteen, he read, permanently allocated to the Vorlon mission to house one transport vessel registered to Ambassador Kosh Naranek of the Vorlon Empire. Access restricted to violet and ultraviolet clearances only. Notes: area is generally avoided due to reported unusual phenomena in the vicinity (attributed to exposure to Vorlon technology). It's large, hard to get into, and pretty well shunned, Campbell thought to himself, what better place to hide contraband. Clearing the monitor, the investigator paused. Indecisively, he tapped the chief's pass on the top of the desk. "What the hell," Tim said, finally, "no-one goes there right?" --------------------------------------------------------------------------- From dmb@any.isis.rl.ac.uk Sun Aug 18 20:55:41 1996 Date: Wed, 14 Aug 1996 13:35:42 -0100 From: Devious Brownies To: b5-creative@lists.best.com Subject: "The Victory of His Hand." - Part 7. "The Victory of His Hand." -------------------------- Chapter 13. Tim looked furtively in both directions as he slid the card into the access control on the entrance to Bay-13. The door swung back in one smooth motion. Pocketing the stolen ident-card, the investigator sidled into the gloomy interior, still checking for observers. As the door closed on his retreat, Campbell turned to face the bay. And froze. In front of him, the hull of the Vorlon ship curved up and away, the mottled surface disguising its exact shape. Somewhat awed, Campbell studied the patterned surface in wonder. The colours were bright, vivacious, yet on some level the seemed very natural, even familiar. The transport was the green of meadows and forests, of leaves and lichen, a living green. Belatedly, the investigator became aware of subtle shifts in the pattern, of delicate changes of shape and hue at the very limit of his vision. He stepped forward for a closer look. Instantly, the changes became faster, more pronounced. But more alarmingly, the activity appeared to centre around the area of hull nearest to Campbell. The Earth official came to an abrupt stop. "Oops, my mistake." he said quickly, stepping carefully backwards, "I thought you were somebody else." At a presumably safer distance, Tim shook his head. "Christ, I'm talking to inanimate objects now!" he muttered, adding, "At least, I HOPE it's inanimate." Campbell retreated all the way back to the doorway before starting to shuffle his way round the edge of the bay. He fought a sudden urge to whistle, worried the ship scant yards away from him might whistle back. A metallic ringing sound echoed unnaturally loud amidst the silence, and Tim saw the light flash from the tiny object his foot had dislodged. Campbell followed the sound of it as it spun and rattled a few feet ahead of him and bent to pick it up. Standing, he held it out towards the lit central well, already sure of what he'd see. The Roman coin, a twin of those he had seen in Garibaldi's office, was unmistakable even in the sombre light of the mezzanine. It's here, he thought to himself, excitedly, the cache is somewhere here! Campbell squatted down again and started to feel about the floor at his feet for more coins. As his eyes adjusted to the greater darkness to be found near the deck, Tim became aware of a faint blue glow to his right. He discovered it emanated from a panel the size of his palm, protruding from the side wall. The LED served to illuminate an adjacent push switch, labelled `gallery lights' and, with a grin, Tim pushed the button. He was awarded by a row of dim lights above him on the wall, which ran the entire length of the bay at twelve foot intervals. Hurriedly Campbell checked the ship for any reaction, but none was visible. As he turned back, the investigator caught sight of a large, shapeless object about twenty feet further along from him. Brown and strangely sculpted, it reminded him of the giant termite mounds he had seen once on a visit to Africa. As he got closer, he could see that the colour and texture was due to a covering of some kind, that hid something as tall as he was, but maybe four times as wide. Campbell couldn't place the material, which was tan and dull, with an oily lustre that wasn't mirrored in its dry touch. Shockingly it was warm, like skin, and the investigator's own flesh crawled as he touched it. Steeling himself, Campbell took a firm hold, and pulled at the mantle, seeking to release whatever was underneath. It came free in a single, smooth motion, almost as if it unravelled itself, and fell in a heap at his feet. Campbell's exclamation of disgust caught in his throat. Motionless, not even breathing, the investigator found himself able to do nothing but stare. Terrified, transfixed, his mind in turmoil and half numb with shock, Tim's face was set in an expression of fear and awe, the only movement the slow rolling of tears from his eyes. And the impossible creature that had lain beneath the strange, alien covering, returned his gaze, unperturbed. ---===***===--- Finally, the burning pain in his lungs broke Tim's paralysis, and he drew a sharp breath, only to let it out immediately in a series of racking sobs. Campbell tried again, pressing his eyes tight closed and bending almost double, fighting to bring his breathing under control. Eventually, he succeeded, and in his self-imposed darkness he struggled to make sense of what he had uncovered. He could feel the tears that ran down his cheeks, and wiping his eyes, he risked looking up again. She, for it was most definitely a woman, had not moved, and still smiled at him, almost indulgently. Willing himself to be rational, Campbell began to make a closer inspection. She was fully as tall as himself, and nude. Her milk white skin was flawless, her pose relaxed. Her two hands gripped gently at a bolt of cloth of gold that fell in a precisely disordered cascade of folds to her feet. Campbell reached out to touch one of her hands, then ran it over the wrist and up the arm to her shoulder. The ivory was coolly tepid under his fingers. Finally, his mind accepted that this was, HAD to be, a statue. He stepped backwards for a better view. And, Campbell admitted to himself, because I'm afraid to be near its supernatural perfection. Her beauty clutched at his heart, and tore at his soul. For all that she was made of ivory and gold, the illusion of her life made Campbell feel like a thing of common clay and he felt shamed for his actions. Every curve of her figure suggested she was at the zenith of her physical power. Her hair was arranged in a formal style, but one that had been blown by carefree winds. Her eyes sparkled from the flecks of gold that formed each iris. Finally, from her back rose two great wings of gold. Their attitudes maddeningly out of symmetry, but positioned with such skill that they appeared in perfect physical, and artistic, balance. Campbell could make out the impression of each individual feather in those wings, even from several feet distant. And as each breath, each subtle correction to his balance, fractionally altered his relation to them, they seemed to move and flex. "I know you." Tim hissed, "I know who you are!" Realising what she must represent, the investigator's anger, his outrage, gave him courage and purpose. Defiantly, Campbell stepped forward again, and he ran his knuckles gently down one wing, letting them soak up the chill of the metal, as he forced away the guilt he felt. Campbell spun on one heel and with a final, icy glare at the alien transport, walked swiftly back towards the entrance. As he fought to keep calm, Tim failed to notice the lights dim slightly, and did not see the coherent ripple of pattern than ran the length of the ship to his right. ---===***===--- In his quarters, Ambassador Kosh stirred uneasily in the translucent miasma that was his atmosphere of choice. The iris of his encounter suit opened wide, and the ophidian head tilted, as though the Vorlon were listening to some distant song. In apparent response, the alien ambassador sang a brief song of his own. "Yes." echoed the translator from its position on the chest-plate of Kosh's encounter suit. With an ominous finality, the iris snapped shut and the Vorlon armour went limp. Chapter 14. As he waited for the transport tube to arrive, Campbell leaned his forehead against the cool of the wall and struggled to gather his thoughts. He felt eviscerated by concepts and ideas that he did not want to think, but that sprang into his mind by the very action of his wanting to avoid them. Don't think of a blue monkey, he told himself, bitterly. Finally, one thought surfaced as victor over the others. They will kill me for what I know, Campbell told himself. Lifting his head, Tim saw a tube-car waiting patiently for him to enter. As soon as he did so, Campbell felt his penned up depression, and fatigue, and shock tear at his metabolic reserves, and the investigator stumbled forwards, catching himself from falling with an outstretched hand. As the sudden tiredness overwhelmed him, Campbell slumped against the far wall, and sank slowly and unconsciously into an instinctive foetal position. ---===***===--- Garibaldi looked around the empty security office, his expression surprisingly free of concern. Whistling an improvised tune, the chief retook his seat and reactivated his monitor. With a small frown, the chief noticed that the combined short-list was only very marginally larger than when he'd left. He spun round the desk console Campbell had been using and turned on that as well. It remained blank, indicating that the investigator had cleared his session. Michael raised his eyebrows and checked the local time. Too early to call it a day, the chief thought, then after a moment more consideration he accessed the equivalent time in Campbell's home province. This WAS consistent with the Garibaldi's first idea that the investigator had gone to his quarters, and the chief was initially inclined to leave it at that. His ingrained distrust of everyone and everything won him over. He made repeated to calls the investigator's apartment, but no answer came. Slapping a little tattoo on the desktop with the palms of his hands, Michael considered his options. In fact, there was really only one option. He would have to go down to Campbell's room and ensure that the investigator was indeed asleep. It was not inconceivable that the long journey had rendered Tim insensible to the paging of the apartment console. If so, Garibaldi thought, he'll be equally liable to sleep through the door- chime. The security chief tapped the pocket where he habitually kept his pass, frowning when he found it to be empty. With a tut of realisation, Garibaldi lifted the pile of reports from the edge of his desk and glanced underneath. Carefully, Michael replaced the report pile and began to think furiously, his brow furrowed. "Zack Allen." he said into his link. "Allen, here." came the sergeant's voice. "Zack, it's me." Garibaldi answered, "Come up to the security office on Blue-5 as soon as you can, okay? I need you to open the lock-up for me." "Er... sure, Chief." Allen acknowledged, hesitantly, "Is something wrong with your ident-card?" "Not as far as I know." the chief replied, his voice rich with irony, "So you had better start an all-points on Tim Campbell. Because he's either in his room sleeping, or..." He let the sentence hang. Zack swore sharply on the other end of the line. "Do me a favour, chief," he asked, "don't make me tell the commander, okay?" "Whatever." Garibaldi agreed, absently. He closed the link and crossed the room to where the investigator had been sitting. As the chief studied the still blank screen, he remembered the last thing Tim had said to him. "`I'll make a start on the `B's while you're gone.'" he quoted to himself, adding, "Where the hell are you, Campbell?" ---===***===--- Campbell stood at the top of a hill and surveyed the surrounding lowlands over the top of a dry stone wall. The sky was blue and clear, the grass was green and, impossibly, Terran. Along the shore visible below him lay a moderately sized town, its harbour opening out onto an empty ocean that extended right out to the horizon. "Where the hell am I?" he said. The wall turned a corner just to his left an continued on, while to his right it cut straight across the landscape, passing out of sight behind an imposing white building Campbell thought was probably a temple. From behind the temple the hill rose steeply again, obscuring any further landmarks. Campbell caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye and he back of his neck prickled. He turned to find himself facing the back of an incomparably more massive temple than the first. It looked to be built entirely from marble, its classically styled roof held high above his head by six tremendous pillars of the Corinthian style. Incongruously, Campbell's only though was that they should have been Doric. The investigator chose follow the bend in the wall, and tapping one hand lightly on the shoulder high stones, he set off. Within about a hundred yards, Campbell drew level with a very much more functional looking building on the far side of the wall from him. Tim found a foothold and poked his head further over, just able to make out the near corner of what appeared to be an open air auditorium. Belatedly, Campbell realised that he had not seen or heard a single living thing, man or beast, since he had inexplicably found himself... wherever he was. He saw that the wall ended maybe another fifty yards further on, and dropped himself down. As Campbell walked the first ten of those fifty yards, a series of marble steps was slowly revealed round the corner of the temple to his left. Tim looked back at the silent auditorium building, then at the temple. With a shrug, he changed direction and started towards the latter. The inside of the temple was shielded from him by two great wooded doors, leviathans of their type, one of which stood slightly ajar. The frontispiece of the roof was decorated with expertly rendered carvings, the central example being a masterly diorama of a woman in an amorous embrace with a swan. Given the Greek styling of the temple, Tim guessed the woman to be Leda. Summoning all his nerve, Campbell climbed the steps, noticing in passing that one had been badly cracked. This minor imperfection brought the investigator to an abrupt halt. He dropped to one knee and ran his fingers across the break. The two edges abutted so precisely that the whole could only have been damaged in situ. looking again at the rise of the hill - the hill of Cronus, said a small voice in his head - and at the other, smaller temple - of Hera, the same voice supplied, Campbell realised where he must be. Obviously, indisputably, he was in the town of Olympia, in Greece. The only problem lay in that Campbell knew the temples and the auditorium to be nothing more than piles of rubble, long since worn down by the passage of time. Shocked to the core, Campbell revised his earlier question. "My god, WHEN am I?" he whispered. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- From dmb@any.isis.rl.ac.uk Sun Aug 18 20:56:16 1996 Date: Thu, 15 Aug 1996 12:51:04 -0100 From: Devious Brownies To: b5-creative@lists.best.com Subject: "The Victory of His Hand." - Part 8. "The Victory of His Hand." -------------------------- Chapter 15. Campbell turned slowly around on the marble step. He was initially inclined to disbelieve his circumstances, but the counsel of reason told him to do so would be unwise. His memory dredged up an odd incident of just over a year previously - his time, when a construction engineer, who had been presumed lost with Babylon 4, suddenly returned home to find his wife had remarried. One violent domestic dispute later, Campbell had been called in to interview this `prodigal son' of Earth, but to little effect. The man had said not one word concerning his whereabouts from the time Campbell arrived until Bill Stone walked in and ordered him released into the custody of two men in Earth-force uniforms. The wife's last hysterical scream, as she was similarly escorted away, rang in his ears. `He hasn't changed!' she had shouted to the milling officers, `Don't you understand? He HASN'T changed!'. Yes, Campbell thought to himself, now I understand. Opposite the temple, the investigator's attention was again drawn to two parallel rows of raised stone seating, bordering a flat and barren rectangle, some twenty yards by two hundred. Tim had initially dismissed this as a puzzle for later. But now the structure's purpose was painfully apparent, it was an Olympic stadium. THE Olympic stadium, he corrected himself. "Maybe I can get a job as an oracle?" he mused, "Pity I only speak modern Greek!" The investigator sat down heavily on the temple steps and looked up at the cloudless sky. Several light-years - and three millennia - away, Michael is probably trying to explain to Sheridan how I managed to disappear without trace, he thought to himself. "Of course you know what'll happen." Campbell said to an imaginary audience, "I'll wait three thousand years for a shuttle to the Euphrates sector, then two will turn up at once." The joke fell flat into the unnatural silence, and Tim put his head into his hands, his loneliness feeding the despair. ---===***===--- "What do you mean `disappeared'?" Sheridan said, sharply. His rough anger carrying through the link. The chief swore he could hear the tendons in John's link hand tightening as the captain clenched it into a fist. Garibaldi winced. "I mean I had to leave him alone during an emergency, and when I got back, there he wasn't." Michael explained, adding a brief report on the nature of incident he had been forced to attend, and his reasons for leaving Campbell out of it. Sheridan was silent for a long time. Eventually, he commented, "Well at least he doesn't have the authority to cause us so much trouble this time. We should be thankful for small mercies!" There was a second, longer, pause during which Garibaldi shifted uncomfortably. The captain seemed to sense this and continued, "Talk to me, Michael." The security chief hesitated between wading deeper into trouble, or just diving in. Finally, he admitted, "He has my ident-card." "Damn it, Garibaldi, I thought I told you to be careful!" Sheridan snapped, "How did he get hold of your pass?" "I kind of left it on my desk when the call came in." was Garibaldi's sheepish answer. Allow me to introduce myself, he thought, my name is `mud'. Obligingly, Michael's memory supplied an image of Campbell saying `meep, meep.' The security chief couldn't shake the feeling that, like the coyote, he was being made a fool of. Sheridan let loose a stream of sharp epithets, some of which were new even to the chief. "So he could be anywhere on the station." "Yeah, but even with the card he can't get OFF-station!" Michael noted, then silently prayed that what he had just said was true. Fool, his insecurities screamed at him, Campbell's taken whatever he wanted and is gone, long gone! "Have you told Susan yet?" the captain asked. "I kind of thought..." Garibaldi began. "No deal." Sheridan interrupted, "Your mess, your problem. But I WILL tell Delenn. Campbell just might be tempted to go and see her." ---===***===--- A faint sound caused Campbell to wrench his head back upright. Listening intently, Tim heard the sound repeated. A woman sobbing, not out of sorrow, but in fear. The investigator scrambled to his feet and looked around for the source. He spun quickly as he ascertained that it was coming from behind him, only to be faced with those imposing temple doors. Tim sprinted across to them, and struggled vainly to widen the gap between them. Impatiently, he thrust himself into the meagre opening and clawed his way inside. Bruised by his efforts, Campbell fell to his knees on the shadowed floor, breathing hard. Gulping air, Tim regained his feet and started forward, only to be brought up hard by some invisible barrier. He focused on what lay beyond, and screamed. The sound seemed to fade away to silence just inches from his mouth. And above him sat the mammoth figure of Zeus, looking down with eyes of fire, the god's face a mask of limitless, inhuman wrath. It's huge arms trembling as they gripped the knees, the idol leaned forward, sneering. Suddenly, Campbell realised that the god did not look at him, but at another figure, one crouched pitifully at the foot of the throne. It was the winged woman, kneeling timorously with her weight forward on one hand. The other hand covered her face, while those golden wings trailed out like leaden things behind her. Yet this was no statue but a marvellously living, feeling creature. It was her cries Campbell had heard. Her hair fell in loose, golden tresses to frame the hidden face, and Campbell could see that the ends were made wet by her tears. The long wings shuddered in sympathy with her body, as it shook with fear and apprehension. Two emotions that Campbell could readily share with her. Chapter 16. "Whore! Harlot!" Zeus roared, his voice shaking the floor beneath Campbell's feet. The investigator pressed his hands hard over his ears as the mad god's cries drove daggers of pain into the side of his head. "You DARE to bring your shame in front of me? To attempt to touch my hand with defiled feet?" The giant leaned back, the angry colour fading from its cheeks, until only an expression of icy malevolence remained. "On the day the puerile runts of the Yeshua cult slighted me, in my own house, did I command that no-one will see of us again." Zeus remarked, coldly, "That law had stood two thousand years before today. Is my authority now in question? Are my words no longer to be heeded? Think so and I will make you the example that it is otherwise!" The god's eyes narrowed as he looked down at the cowering woman, he gave her a humourless smile. "Great Father, please!" the creature begged, "It was only my image that was seen. Truly, I have followed your law!" "Silence!" Zeus screamed, in a voice that sent Campbell to his knees, "You know that we are manifest through our images! And did I not also order that all true likenesses were be destroyed, so that mortal man may have no further ingress into our domain!" He leaned over, bringing his patronising, mocking face closer to the shivering sprite. "Yet one survives!?" the god added, in a whisper as loud as Campbell could shout, "If you have followed my law, how can this be?" "Pheidias." the trembling woman admitted, "It was Pheidias's gift to me, and I could not bear to harm it. So I sent it into the depths of the sea where it would never be found." "But found it was." the giant snapped, "And seen it was, and so it was touched." The god drew himself up in his seat, and closed his eyes. "You have broken my law, and through your actions you have brought shame upon yourself, and shame has been brought upon you." Zeus pronounced, "You are found unfit for my presence and unworthy of my mercy. I WILL have my requital upon you for this affront!" The winged woman cried out, recoiling in fear from the foot of the throne. "No!" she screamed, and in a single lithe motion, regained her feet, her wings spread wide. They smashed at the air like golden hammers, their first stroke lifting her ten feet into the air. She was not given time for a second. At her first motion, Zeus had roared, "You defy ME!?" He made a trifling gesture and whips of cold iron flashed from the marble beneath the fleeing woman's feet, catching her by hand and foot and wing. She was dragged down again to the floor. "For that shall I triple your suffering!" added the grinning god. At another gesture, flames sprang about the bound figure as though from an unseen pyre. Her first scream of pain resonated around the temple chamber. All the more sickening for being mixed, as it was, with the insane laughter of her master. Campbell smashed helplessly at the invisible wall that held him back. His shouts and protests destroyed by it the moment they left his lips. Vainly, the investigator waved and gestured, but the figure of Zeus looked intently at the spectacle before him and did not seem to notice the thwarted mortal. The tormented woman writhed in a fire that turned her iron shackles white hot, but did not soften them. Screamed amidst flames that burned but did not consume. The agonised thrashing of her wings served only to fan the flames and multiply her pain, until, her endurance reached, she stumbled onto her hands and knees, still twisting at each fresh scald. Gradually, her movements began to slow, weaken, giving the occult fire more time to play on each exposed surface. The woman's hair started to crisp and curl, the feathers of her wings began to blacken. The dual stench of burning flesh and feathers made Campbell retch dryly as he leaned helplessly against the invisible barrier. "I'm sorry!" Tim whispered to the woman who suffered before him, "Please, I'm so sorry!" Arching feebly away from the fire, the woman's face turned towards him. She stared at Campbell through burning eyelashes, and gave him a frail entreaty for the succour she could not hope for from her lord. The restraining force evaporated, and Tim stumbled forward into the imposing hall. "Stop it!" he cried, frantically, "STOP IT!" "Who dares!?" roar the startled god. Quasi-solid lightening threw the investigator backwards across the floor, and against the unyielding marble of a supporting pillar. Tim marvelled to find himself unhurt. "Let her go!" he screamed at the giant. The spectral flames vanished, and the woman collapsed, sobbing, to the floor. The iron cords tightened possesively about her. "The defiler!" Zeus hissed with an unpleasant grin, "So how do you like your victim now?" Campbell leaped upon the term. "Yes, damn it, she's the VICTIM, you bastard!" Tim screamed, his voice edged with hysteria, "You don't punish the victim!" The god threw back his head and laughed. "Are you offering to take her place?" he asked, jeeringly. Campbell glanced at the fast held creature in front of him. She raised her head, her expression silently begging his help. She has Cristina's eyes, Tim thought. "Yes." Campbell replied, resolutely. He scrambled to his feet, and started to walk forward. "Fool!" the god spat, suddenly serious, "It is merely your shade that visits us, brought here by the touch of her image. Only when it is your soul that stands before me will I release her, and no sooner." Zeus lifted one great hand and pointed at the investigator. "Go now." the giant snarled, "And be warned that my patience is spent. I will not wait long for your return!" For Campbell, the world was white. Then darkness welled about him, and Tim felt himself tumbling through unknown voids. With a convulsive kick, he came round on the floor of the tube-car. He scrambled to his feet and looked around, confused and disoriented. Unbidden, the last image of the cowered woman filled his conscious mind. As the doors of the transport tube opened, the investigator stalked smartly forward, aware now what it was he must do. He moved smoothly through the unfamiliar corridors, guided perhaps by instinct. Tim's mind could almost picture his destination, almost give name to his deeper purpose. Through his muddied perception, Campbell was aware that something jarred, that part of him rebelled against his unreasoned flight. It's okay, he told himself, it will be clearer soon. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- From dmb@any.isis.rl.ac.uk Sun Dec 22 22:43:50 1996 Date: Thu, 29 Aug 1996 12:43:21 -0100 From: Devious Brownies To: b5-creative@lists.best.com Subject: "The Victory of His Hand." - Part 11. "The Victory of His Hand." -------------------------- Chapter 21. Early the next evening, Campbell found himself surprised by an invitation to the commander's quarters. Garibaldi was also there, and the stimulating aroma of fresh-ground coffee hung richly in the air. As they waited for Ivanova, Michael and the investigator traded insults about each other's taste in food, clothes, cartoons, and women. "You can't go wrong with `perky'." Garibaldi insisted. Campbell pulled a face. "Perky!?" he said, incredulously, "Next you'll be confessing a weakness for baby-talk. No, `fierce' is better. Not aggressive, mind you, just with a bit of fire!" "As long as they have really great..." Michael started, then paused when Ivanova walked over carrying a tray with three coffees on it. "Ideas!" he finished, lamely, "Great ideas, very important!" Ivanova frowned as she tried, and failed, to reconstruct the rest of the conversation from that last sentence. "What DO men talk about when we're not around?" she asked, perplexed. Campbell and Garibaldi exchanged glances. "Women." they replied together. "Though Jell-O usually comes in somewhere." Campbell added. To Ivanova's blank look, he flashed a `try me' expression. The commander laughed, and took her seat on the couch opposite. She gestured at the data-pad that lay on the table between them. "I read your report, and Michael's." Susan remarked, lightly, "Did you really out stare a Vorlon?" Tim waved a dismissive hand. "He let me win." he explained, "For all I know, he could have been pulling faces and picking his nose inside that hood!" The investigator shrugged, "Anyway, it didn't matter, as long as Kosh got the message to keep the hell out of my head!" Garibaldi swallowed a mouthful of coffee and cut in. "I didn't get that bit." he admitted, "Are you saying you were sleepwalking when Susan saw you?" Tim shook his head. "No, but I wasn't fully under my own control. Something like a post-hypnotic command." he explained. "To kill yourself?" Ivanova objected, "I thought it was impossible to make someone suicide that way?" Campbell nodded. "That's right, you can't." he agreed, "At least, not against their will." Ivanova and Garibaldi looked blankly at one another, but Campbell's eyes were focused on another place, and another time. "I dreamed of her, Commander," Tim said, softly, "the Victory. Not the statue, but her, living, breathing, suffering at the whim of a mad god. She was so... beautiful, though that word, or any other, does not do her beauty justice. It was my fault, my... crime. But it was her Zeus punished. When she..." The investigator broke off, and returned his gaze to his audience. Who sat in rapt, and shocked, attention. "It was just a dream, an illusion designed to manipulate my emotions, and make me susceptible to the Vorlon's suggestion." he added, pragmatically. "You're damn lucky Susan was there!" Garibaldi snorted. Tim shook his head. "No matter." he argued, "The commander shouldn't have even had time to reach me, had I not hesitated. No Michael, that trick doesn't work on me!" "Yes, I was forgetting that you're `Campbell: Space Hero'." added Ivanova, sarcastically, "Your `mighty mind' is immune to mesmerism, I suppose!" "No, I'm just shit-scared of dying." the investigator replied, bluntly, "Listen Commander, when you face your death, alone and helpless, and without hope. When you face it and ACCEPT it, and then somehow survive, you don't come back stronger or braver! Part of you doesn't come back at all." He looked away from her, and down to the floor. "When the Bletchley died, I died, and I knew it as surely as I knew anything. I was dead, with only the biological niceties left to go. So at the end, I gave up, stopped fighting, stopped begging to live." Tim whispered, and shuddered, "I couldn't go through that again. I couldn't face dying a second time! So when I looked down into that cargo bay, I froze." The investigator drained his coffee cup reflexively. "At that moment, you couldn't have PUSHED me off, Commander!" he snapped. Susan shook her head dismissively, and looked to the security chief for support. But Michael glanced away, refusing to meet the eye of anyone in the room. His face was ashen. Ivanova's memory dredged up the image of his pale figure, back-shot and dying, as it lay on a med-lab berth. Something in the chief's expression told he that HE had understood what Campbell meant, and finally, she believed. What did you leave there Michael, she asked herself, but did not dare to repeat the question aloud. Campbell glanced at the wall chrono, and jumped. He practically dropped the cup he held to the table and scrambled to his feet. "Well thank you for the coffee, Commander, But if you'll excuse me, I have a date with Lillian Hobbs." he acknowledged. "DOCTOR Hobbs!?" the two officers chorused. Campbell smiled. "That's right." he replied, "I'm treating her to the dinner of her choice at the most exclusive restaurant on the station. By way of an apology for sedating her." Ivanova looked aghast. "And she agreed!?" she stammered, incredulously. "I think her exact words were, `this is going to cost you'." Campbell admitted, amiably enough. He caught Garibaldi and the commander exchanging sceptical looks. "Hey, if it hasn't worked by the dessert course, I'm going to try abject grovelling." Garibaldi's laugh was cut short by a disapproving stare from the commander. "Have fun." he said. "Don't wait up." Campbell shot back with a wink, adding, "I'll see you at breakfast?" "Count on it." the security chief warned. Campbell just grinned and, jamming his hands deep in his jacket pockets, disappeared out into the corridor. Garibaldi cocked an eyebrow at the commander. "Do you think he always lands on his feet?" he asked. "I don't know." Ivanova growled, "But I do think we missed a golden opportunity to find out." Chapter 22. "No Commander this morning?" Campbell asked, sitting down across the table from Garibaldi. "Been and gone." the chief replied, between mouthfuls, "So how was your evening?" "The doctor was right, it did cost me." Tim admitted. "I hope you have an understanding expenses clerk." Michael remarked. He pushed away the remains of what looked to be a remarkably sugar filled dessert and pulled over a second. "It's coming out of my pocket." Campbell answered, then shrugged, "I can afford it." He started on his, very light, breakfast. Garibaldi snorted. "They must pay well, Earth-side." he said. Campbell stared at him. "Haven't you checked my file yet?" he asked, genuinely puzzled. "Yeah, I looked through your service record, military and justice, after your last visit." Michael admitted, "Why, what did I miss? Don't tell me, your a scotch lord and heir to some huge highland estate." "That's `Scots laird', scotch is the drink." Campbell corrected. Garibaldi paused, the spoon half in his mouth and stared at the investigator. "No, I'm not." Tim sighed, with a long suffering look, and explained, "After we were demobbed, me and David, David Took, just kept on doing what we do best. You know, new ciphers for old, that sort of thing. We developed the NIM cipher, patented it, and sold the rights to Terracom." "Terracom?" Garibaldi the chief said, "But they became..." "Stellacom, yes." Campbell agreed, wistfully, "I knew we should have held out for a percentage." "So why the hell are you working as an investigator?" Garibaldi said, frowning. He pushed the empty dish away from him and sat back with a satisfied sigh. "Initially, just to keep busy." Tim answered, "David had his research post, Christi took a job with Pan-Solar, Theroux went back to his home colony and bought a farm. None of us wanted too much time on our hands back then. Later... well the job just kind of gets to you." Garibaldi unconsciously nodded his agreement. "Anyway, you didn't answer my question." he noted, "Did Dr. Hobbs forgive you or what?" "Well it took eggs-benedict, lemon sorbet, fillet steak, creme brule - with fresh raspberries, and a bottle of `55 Tattinger, but yes." the investigator replied. Marvelling, Garibaldi shook his head, and saluted Campbell with his morning `coffee' before taking a swig from the cup. "Then we went to her place and screwed like minks." Tim added. Convulsively, Michael spat the drink across the table and collapsed into a fit of coughs. Campbell snatched his breakfast bowl out of range. "Gotcha!" he said, grinning like a schoolboy. "Man, you have got some `cojones'!" Garibaldi admitted, "Mind you, not for long if the commander had heard you say that. Come on, what did happen." "Not much." Tim said with a shrug, "We had our meal, swapped work stories until early morning, then she said that the next time I was a patient of hers, she'd sedate me with a mallet and we went to our separate quarters." The investigator paused, and looked contemplative for a moment. "I like her." he amended. "You like any woman who stands up to you!" Garibaldi noted, acidly. "Of course." Campbell agreed, "Otherwise what's the point?" The security chief struggled to find an answer. Finally, he gave up and settled for, "When does your flight leave?" "In about an hour." Campbell said. He looked wistfully around the commissary. "I envy you, Michael, you've got a nice patch here." "Yeah?" Garibaldi replied, "Well don't start making plans, or I'll tell Hobbs what you said about minks!" ---===***===--- Campbell and Garibaldi sauntered into the departure bay with relaxed swaggers. Seeing that they had a few minutes, the investigator swung the hold-all off his shoulder and dropped it carelessly at his feet. He flexed his half numb arm, experimentally. "You sure you don't want the toons back?" Garibaldi asked again. "No, already." Campbell answered. He pantomimed a conspiratorial look over each shoulder. "Truth be told, I took copies." he whispered. "Hey, that's illegal." Michael objected. "So arrest me!" "What, and have you miss your flight?" the chief objected, "Just get the hell off my station, Campbell." Tim laughed, and was on the verge of making a reply when he noticed that Garibaldi was staring pensively over the investigator's shoulder. He turned in time to see the crowd peel cautiously out of the path of a familiar, yet mysterious, figure. "Ambassador Kosh, how nice." Campbell spat, coldly, "Come to convey a parting platitude?" The Vorlon stopped a few feet away from the two lawmen, and spoke briefly in the strange and alien harmony of his language. "Nothing is eternal." said the translator unit, "Understanding comes to all things, in time." Garibaldi saw Campbell's eyebrows rise in surprise. Don't tell me he speaks Vorlon too, he thought to himself. "Really?" the investigator dismissed, "Well many creatures make noise at both ends." The iris of Kosh's encounter suit snapped open, sharply, and Garibaldi surreptitiously moved his hand closer to his link. But the iris slowly contracted again as the ambassador made a reply. "You do not understand." provided the translator, "Yet." The Vorlon turned smoothly where he stood and began to walk away. "Ambassador Kosh!" Campbell called after him. The alien turned, and waited. "Is she real?" Tim asked, "Nike, is she real?" Kosh appeared to consider the question carefully, before replying. "Yes." he said, then continued his retreat. "What the hell was all that about?" Garibaldi snapped out, "And don't pretend you don't know." Campbell shrugged. "I suppose he was saying that he's an okay guy once you get to know him." the investigator commented, adding, "I told him he was talking out of his arse!" "And that stuff about Nike?" the security chief persevered. "A personal matter." Campbell dodged, and changed the subject quickly, "They'll be ready for boarding in a minute, I'd better get ready." He re-shouldered his bag. "Look after yourself, Michael." he said, placing one hand on Garibaldi's shoulder, "Oh, and kiss the commander goodbye for me." "Do I look suicidal?" Michael replied, then mentally kicked himself, "Geez, I'm sorry!" Campbell just laughed. "Speaking of Ivanova," Garibaldi remembered, "she said to tell you to bring vodka next time." "If I'm ever out this way, I will." Campbell agreed. He was about to turn away when he paused. "Michael," Campbell started, his face serious, "the Vorlon was willing to murder for his own ends. Don't trust him too deeply, and don't ever stand in his way." "Safe journey, Tim." the chief replied, neutrally. He stood and watched as the investigator walked through the gate to his shuttle. His thoughts strayed back to the events of the past few days, and he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something else. Something Campbell hadn't shared with him. His train of thought was derailed by the chime of his link. "Garibaldi." he answered it. "Chief," Zack Allen's voice acknowledged, "We've got a problem..." [The End] ---------------------------------------------------------------------------