From: "Stephen J. Barringer" Subject: VIRTUAL SEASON SIX, EPISODE 9 -- 1/6 Date: Thu, 16 Dec 1999 19:03:37 -0500 OVERTURE BABYLON 5, BROWN SECTOR, AREA 37 4 / 25 / 2263, 19:41 EST Trish Livingston was pretty sure there was no such thing as God. But there were nights she doubted that conviction: nights which *proved* Hell existed, which brought Hell up from the abyss and drowned her in its noisy, putrid tides. Nights like this one, where the lusts and bestiality of a dozen different species reached a fever pitch of degradation and she felt not only ashamed, but actively *afraid* to be female. In other words, your typical Friday night at the Dark Star. As Lia, the dancer on stage, stripped off her last piece of clothing and flung it into the crowd to the accompaniment of the music's raunchy, bouncing climax, the crowd exploded. All over the packed room, Human, Centauri, Narn, and Brakiri males rose, hooting and cheering and whistling. The woman grinned, gyrating a body whose curves *couldn't* be natural, Trish was sure. She felt no envy, only sick disgust. Was Lia getting paid in drugs or credits, she wondered. She glanced around at the men pressed up against the bar and fought back the urge to run. Strictly by the numbers, in fact, she had less to be afraid of here than the crowd implied. Humans only formed a part of the Dark Star's typical audience, and the perversion of xenoerotophilia – sex with members of a sapient species other than your own – was far rarer than religious or xenophobic bigots throughout the ISA believed. But it wasn't unknown, either. Rumour had it the former Narn Ambassador G'Kar had had a *major* thing for human women; and, of course, the single most famous married couple in the galaxy were a prime example of that. Hell, they'd even had a baby, Trish thought irritably as she finished the latest round of drinks and sent it off on a waitress' tray. Come right here to B5 last week, as if to broadcast to the galaxy that they were a normal family just like any other.... "Hey, babe." A gap-toothed dockworker grinned at her. "How much do *you* go for?" The dockworker's grin vanished; his eyes bulged, then slid down to the PPG pressed under his chin. Trish smiled thinly, her finger caressing the trigger. "I'm not on the entertaining staff," she bit out. "I serve drinks. You want a drink, talk to me. You want anything else, talk to Taan." "Right. Sure. Hey, no problem." The dockworker held his hands up and backed away, vanishing into the crowd. Sweat shone on his brow in the pass of an errant blue spotlight beam. "That wasn't wise, Livingston." Trish ignored the voice behind her as she tucked the PPG under the back of her blouse. "Ask me if I care, Taan." Taan Churok folded his muscular, green-scaled arms. He spoke better English than any Drazi Trish had ever met, but on very rare occasions his anger got the better of him. "You have right to protect yourself. That why you were given weapon. But this not protection. This hurts my business." "I'm not one of your entertainers." Trish paused to take another round of orders, went to the taps and began busily filling glasses. "Either on-stage or back room. I don't want anyone thinking I am. Ever." Taan surveyed her. When he spoke again his voice was neutral. "Are you ashamed to work for me, Patricia? If you are, we can talk about your severance pay." Trish repressed a gulp of fear, which slid to her stomach in a cold, insubstantial weight. But she made her own voice equally neutral. "Taan, you don't seriously expect me to be *proud* of working here, do you?" Taan shook his head. "I don't understand what shame or pride has to do with it. We satisfy a biological need – like the Fresh Aire restaurant." "You people only mate four times a year," Trish snapped. "How the frag are you *supposed* to understand?" "Understanding is not required, only obedience." "I'm not your slave, Taan. And where the hell did you learn that saying anyway?" Taan's smile was dry. "We *do* have Minbari customers, Livingston. Though they don't like this atmosphere – they prefer quiet weekday afternoons." The smile faded. "You're not my slave, true. But as long as you work for me, I have a right to ask for a certain level of service. You can't give me that, we have to talk." Trish used the excuse of finishing the drinks to avoid answering for a moment while she got her whirling thoughts into something resembling order. "Taan, I – " The words died. Some things simply couldn't be explained. Oh, she could tell Taan in *words* what it meant to be a woman in this kind of workplace. But there was no way any Drazi – a species that only went into heat four times a year and had far less sexual dimorphism than humans – could understand in its heart what it meant to feel like *meat*. A Centauri or Brakiri female would instantly understand. A Narn might need a little explanation – Narn women were just as physically tough as males, and like Drazi females were far less physically inconvenienced by pregnancy – but Narn history had its share of chauvinism. Minbari, well, Minbari ritual and socialization had evolved from the ground up to rechannel and defuse that kind of sexual aggression, and so it would need a *lot* of explanation... but there, too, it wasn't unknown. All pre-Federation and pre-Valen, to hear any Minbari talk, of course. Not *these* days. Minbari did not kill Minbari. Minbari did not lie. And Minbari most *certainly* did not rape. But murder and lies had characterized the entire Minbari Civil War two years ago, from what Trish had heard. She was coldly, bitterly certain that those hadn't been the only atrocities in that war. And there were dark, whispered rumours about what had happened to some humans during the Earth-Minbari war, the ones caught on outposts by warriors so consumed with hatred that honour became... flexible. This was Hell. Not the noise, not the bodies, not even the propositions and the prostitution. It was the fear and the hate they brought. The fact that they made her *believe* her own hatred. "We'll talk at the end of your shift." There was nothing in Taan's voice to indicate that this was a good or bad thing. "Why don't you go on break, meanwhile. Take a few minutes, get a rest – " He broke off, eyes flashing to the door. Then widening. "Droshalla damn me." Trish turned to follow his gaze. Slipping past the bouncer was a female figure garbed in plain brown sweatshirt and trousers, such as any human might have worn, head hidden by the sweatshirt's hood. But there was something subtly alien about that smooth gait, and the hood poked up at the back. Then she turned slightly, and Trish's eyes widened in turn as she recognized the Minbari Ambassador – Sheronn? No, Sherann. What the *frag -- * "I don't really think this is the best place for our good Ambassador," muttered Taan. "Do you, Livingston?" "No." That much, at least, they could agree on. "I'll go talk to her." "You do that." Trish slipped out from around the bar, past a tall, dark-eyed Centauri lord in green and azure and a black-cloaked, hooded figure discussing something in low murmurs, and pushed through the crowd to reach Sherann as she descended to the main floor. "Ambassador?" "Ah, drat." Sherann snapped her fingers. The gesture looked positively *weird* coming from a Minbari. "I was hoping to elude detection a while longer. Can I help you?" Trish blinked. "I think that's supposed to be my line." "I know, that's why I stole it. I wanted to, what's the expression? Cut to the cheese." A cough of laughter burst from Trish's mouth out of sheer surprise; she struggled with her mirth a moment – it wasn't polite to laugh at someone's linguistic gaffs -- then saw Sherann's face. The Minbari woman looked perfectly innocent... but there was a sparkle in her eye that said she knew *exactly* what metaphors she'd mixed. At the sight Trish gave up and laughed. Sherann smiled. "There, you see? Even in a place like this, it's possible to find amusement." She surveyed the crowd, her smile slanting into something a little more cynical. "I wanted to see humanity at its worst, so that I might understand your people better. I think I'm getting a, I believe the term is, 'package deal'." A short, fat Centauri man staggered past, arms around two scantily clad women, one Centauri and one human. Sherann and Trish turned to watch him go; Sherann's lips pursed. "*Definitely* a package deal." "Ambassador – " Trish took a deep breath – "this is really not a good idea. This place is *dangerous*. I wouldn't let my kid sister anywhere *near* here." "Do you think of me as a kid sister, Ms...?" "Livingston. Patricia Livingston." The response was startling: a bright, sudden smile of recognition. "Ah, so *you* are the sister Selene speaks of! Her coffee and tea business has made a *great* difference to Captain Lochley and her staff. I must tell you that I admire her greatly." "You -- *admire* her?" "It speaks well of you that you raised her so well." Sherann's voice was level, her eyes penetrating. "That you would endure employment such as this to do so." Trish looked down awkwardly. Her face felt hot. This was ridiculous; she hadn't blushed in *years*. "Yeah, well, you do what you have to...." This was *quite* enough of that. "And what *you* have to do is scram. I'm serious, Ambassador. You want to understand humanity's dark side, I'll have lunch with you tomorrow and tell you all about it, but here is *not* the place for – " Before she could finish, let alone realize her own audacity – she'd just made a lunch date with the *Ambassador for the Minbari Federation*, for God's sake! -- Sherann stumbled, brushed aside by an extremely tall person with shoulders like concrete and a face to match: grey, pockmarked, and stubbled with a beard like moss. He and his partner, a second Human thug of similar build, marched on through the crowd, not seeming to care if people got out of their way or not; it certainly didn't make any difference to their speed of motion. Between them walked a youngish, slim, Oriental man with short spiky hair and eyes like black jade: shiny, hard and opaque. His undershirt and pants were tough and black; his jacket, a flowing silk thing in red and gold, a serpentine outline twisting on the back. Trish twisted to stare after them, opening her mouth to yell. Sherann caught her arm and *squeezed* it; Trish was so stunned at the sheer strength of the Minbari woman's grip she forgot to yelp. "Wait," she hissed. The Oriental man stopped before the Centauri lord and his hooded companion. The Centauri turned, raising his eyebrows. "Yes?" he said, smiling. "What? You have a, ah, problem here, what can I do for you, hm?" He waggled his shoulders as if in encouragement. "We understand you're transacting business." The young man's voice was sharp, flat and loud; it cut through the nearby babble, and people began turning to listen. "I'd like to make you aware of some changes in the situation here." "Changes?" hissed the hooded figure, drawing itself up into a combat stance. Trish, who'd worked with Taan for years, recognized that stance and that sibilance: this was a Drazi. A Drazi *female*, by the sound of it. She stepped forward, forgetting Sherann. "As of midnight yesterday," continued the man – and now his voice was getting even louder, though it was still too flat to be a shout – "all transactions of a covert, unofficial nature on Babylon 5 are conducted only with *my* permission. *I* set the licenses for doing business here. And the fees. You give me my cut, or I take what I'm due and more. Do you understand?" The Centauri looked to one side, smiling bemusedly. "Cut, hm, yes – I don't wish to cause trouble, certainly, no no no no no – but – you're who again, exactly?" "I am Lung. The Dragon." Trish's heart froze. The Centauri looked sidelong at him. "The Dragon, hm, yes. Perhaps we can come to an arrangement, as you say – " "We arrange nothing!" The Drazi flung back her cloak, hand dropping to a long curved knife at its belt. Beneath was plain, unadorned civilian clothing... but the dreiz *stood* as if she was wearing a uniform. Military: Trish would have bet her left arm on it. "Our business nothing to do with human criminals!" "Your business is in human space. On this station. That *makes* it my business," said the Dragon, still in that utterly flat voice. Then his eyes slid to Taan, who was watching from behind the bar. "And that includes you, Mutari Churok." Taan stiffened. "You are mad." But his voice was rather less steady. "The Dark Star has been independent of these petty gang concerns for years. We are neutral ground – " "Things change, Mutari Churok. You work my way or you don't work at all, and don't think your Earth owner will come to your rescue. Do I make myself clear?" Taan was breathing heavily now, his body tense in the same combat stance the Drazi officer had adopted. She saw the thugs' hands move to their belts behind their bodies, knew there were guns concealed there. Taan was standing not two feet from the PPG rifle G'Stral had got for them a few months ago, and that Taan hid under the bar to break up fights before Security could. Trish swallowed her dismay; it was frigid and nauseating in her stomach. "Before you consider your response," the Dragon said, looking from Centauri to draz and dreiz alike, "understand: I have been observing you for some time. I *know* the workings of your business. You cannot withstand me in a war; I know everything there is to know about you. You know *nothing* about me. You cannot survive." "You may not survive next three minutes, talking like that." The Drazi officer snarled. "Cannot declare war if dead." For the first time, the man – the Dragon – smiled. It was a cold, inhuman, *hungry* expression. "You're welcome to try, Commander Zhirith." The Drazi jerked back. Her hand spasmed on the knife. Trish shut her eyes and prepared to duck. "Excuse me." The Dragon, his thugs, the Centauri, the Drazi commander and Taan all spun as Sherann strolled calmly up to them. Trish's gape was as wide as theirs. Sherann slipped back her hood and smiled at them all. "Ambassador Sherann of Rhell, of the Minbari Federation. I *do* hope there is nothing unpleasant in the offing." "Merely a private discussion, Ambassador." The Dragon recovered fast, voice and face resuming their flat neutrality. "It does not concern you." "Oh, but it does. You see, if this discussion came to violence, I would most surely be hurt; I am no warrior or mystic monk, I am merely a humble worker. Yet I am also an Ambassador. Were I hurt, it would be the most drastic kind of... incident." There was nothing in the least funny about Sherann's smile now. "So I suggest that you continue this discussion elsewhere... especially since I have just called Security, and they do respond with admirable speed to someone of my ranking." "Ah. I see – it's... *rank*, is it?" The Centauri smoothed down his coat, held out his hand and bowed; Sherann took it, her smile not wavering as he bent to kiss her hand. "And if I were to, ah, tell them this is all a regrettable misunderstanding – would, um, *my* rank, then, be listened to, hm?" "And you are...." "Tarquin Corsaro. Baron of the House Corsaro, of Immolan. I hope you don't mean to imply that a high lord of the great and noble Corsaros would willingly partake in... criminal behaviour?" He smiled, teeth white and sharp against dusky lips. "Since the high lord in question is *not*, after all, a citizen of the ISA, nor subject, strictly speaking, to the laws thereof...." "Not at all." Sherann's teeth somehow seemed equally sharp, all of a sudden. "But like the estimable Mr. Lung, here, Security would be very interested in any transactions between ISA and non-ISA states. Your presence here with Commander Zhirith is enough implication of that." Corsaro tilted his head, then slowly nodded. His smile grew, like a fencer appreciating an opponent's lucky hit. "I must take you to dinner sometime, Ambassador. The conversation should be... *fascinating.*" He turned and whispered something to Zhirith; the Drazi stood stiffly, but her hand stopped clenching on the knife hilt. He threw a sidelong glance at the Dragon, who hadn't moved. "Mr. Lung. Would you care to, ah, meet me for lunch tomorrow at 1300 local? Say, a booth at the Fresh Aire?" The Dragon considered, then nodded, a single sharp movement. He turned and strode away, the thugs following as if moored to his side with tractor beams. Tarquin stood up, spread his hands and smiled around. "Ring down the curtain, ladies, gentlemen. The farce is over." A moment of stillness; then, half relieved, half disappointed, the gathered crowd began to disperse. Sherann turned back to Trish, who was staring frozenly at her. She raised her eyebrows. "Is something wrong?" Trish shook her head slowly. "You just don't know how to back down, do you?" "Oh, I do, Ms. Livingston. Believe me, I do. Sometimes, backing down is the only way to survive." She glanced back at Tarquin, who had abandoned the stiffly furious Zhirith to whisper something in the ears of a Centauri dancer; the dancer giggled and blushed. "But sometimes, you must follow through all the way to win." "You *sure* you're worker caste?" "Is that not the calling of my heart?" The irony in Sherann's smile was a strange thing, almost bitter. Trish couldn't read it, and gave up trying. "Listen, don't you think you've had enough excitement for one night, Ambassador?" "And leave without having a drink?" Sherann dropped onto the stool that Tarquin had left empty, as the Centauri lord headed off with his dancer. "No, I think not. Some tomato juice, if you can find an unopened can." Trish had to smile. "You're some piece of work, Ambassador." "Please. Sherann." Sherann smiled and turned to gaze out over the crowd. "Tell me, do *all* human males react like this simply to the sight of naked skin?" Trish considered, then nodded. "Yep." "What exceedingly simplistic creatures. I am surprised Delenn has so much trouble with hers." Trish choked. At Sherann's inquiring expression she had to snigger again. "Let's just say it's... not always that simple." "Do tell." Sherann leaned on the bar, interested. "Well, first you have to take the 'beer-goggles' effect into account." "They wear glasses made from ale bottles?" "Not... exactly." 4 / 26 / 2263, 02:07 EST The one drink turned into a meal, several glasses of tomato juice, and more than five hours of conversation, much to Sherann's unexpected pleasure. Patricia was a bitter young woman, but her perceptions and intelligence were sharp, and her acid wit was entertaining, if frequently depressing. When Taan finally closed down at one-forty-five, Sherann had insisted on seeing Trish back to her quarters. The young human had protested, but Sherann had benignly ignored her; she had, perhaps, rather less use for tradition than most of her people, but it was simply not done to let a junior look out for an elder. It was not proper. pointed out a most improper voice somewhere in her head. Sherann ignored it. She might only be worker caste, which meant she was entitled to learn neither the warriors' ancient martial arts nor the temples' paths of defense... but the workers had their own ways of fighting. She was not worried for herself. Through the crowds of Brown Sector she strode, fatigued but unafraid. She remained unafraid even as, in a junction between storage pods, the Dragon's two gigantic, grey-faced goons stepped into her path, bracing herself. She'd expected as much. There was no point in talking. Without slowing she spun on one heel and kicked one of them in the groin. He fell, gasping, oddly silent. The other grabbed for her; instead of dodging she spun *into* the grab, one elbow coming up and back to stab into her opponent's stomach. He staggered, his weight coming down on her; she knelt, letting him drop with her, then pitched forward, bone crest almost touching the floor. He somersaulted over her and landed flat on his back, breath wheezing. She got to her feet, dug her personal communicator out of her pocket – Something huge, soft, and freezing cold hit her in the back of the spine. Every gross motor muscle shut down at once; she plunged to the deck and hit like a limp sack of temshwee eggs. She landed on her wrist. A *crunch* of broken bone split the air. There was no pain. "A Centauri neural inhibitor," said the Dragon, coalescing from the shadows, holding up a strange gunlike device. "Prevents neuroelectrical function on specified frequencies and areas. Induces paralysis and anaesthesia in any degree I choose. I like to think of it as my way of being kind." Sherann stared up at him. She could barely move her eyes. But somehow the young man read her expression. "I can't have you testifying to what you heard back there. And after you, I don't think I have to worry about anybody else trying. But I've nothing against *you*, Ambassador. This is strictly business. So I see no point in making this any more unpleasant for you than it has to be. Do be a dear and return the favour, hm?" He tucked the device away in his gold-and-red jacket, then nodded to the goons, who were rising by now as the effect of Sherann's blows finally faded. "Make sure it's visible and extensive. But don't kill her until the end – the doctors can tell. They have to be afraid of what we'll do, not enraged by it." All in the same calm voice. Sherann wondered if her sense of fear had been anaesthetized; she felt nothing except numb incomprehension. This couldn't be happening. This could *not* be happening. The Dragon walked away and was gone. The goons watched him. Then, still without a word, they exchanged glances and bent down, arranging her on the deck with her limbs and fingers splayed. And they went to work. [Cue Dramatic Music] TA'LON The Galaxy's Third Age began in fire. Out of the downfall of the ancient gods of order and chaos rose the Interstellar Alliance, the greatest confederation of life history had ever seen, led by the ancient people of Minbar and the brash young humans of Earth. [Images: the Battle of Coriana VI; the departure of the Vorlons, Shadows and First Ones; the President and First Lady of the ISA, John Sheridan and Delenn of Mir.] VIR COTTO But peace does not come without price. The Centauri Republic languishes in isolation, devastated by war, and the Narn Regime fights to rebuild its glory and power. [Images: the devastated Centauri Prime capitol; the Narn and Drazi fleet on the march.] TESSA HALLORAN The politics of a score of races clash throughout the galaxy, even while Earth and Minbar battle the taints of darkness lurking in their hearts. [Images: a riot in the Zocalo; a Minbari warrior looks up out of a shadowed cloak with a grim glare.] DR. HOBBS Now more than ever, we need a place where life and love, peace and understanding are revered, where the strange is the everyday, and the old gods of war give way to the new god of wisdom. [Images: Dr. Hobbs at an alien's bedside; the Minbari ambassador Sherann laughing at a Rebo & Zooty video; Narn and Minbari bowing to an image of G'Kar.] ZACK ALLAN That place is here. A space station at a crossroads of the galaxy; a universe of races, beliefs and dreams, suspended in the stars; a place once known as the last, best hope for peace. [Image: a full velocity pass across the north pole of Epsilon 3, revealing Babylon 5 beyond. Then zoom in quickly . . . to reveal . . .] DAVID CORWIN The year is 2263. ELIZABETH LOCHLEY The place . . . is BABYLON 5. B A B Y L O N 5 T H E V I R T U A L S I X T H S E A S O N: "T H E P R I C E O F F R E E D O M" Episode 9: C R A C K D O W N Starring TRACY SCOGGINS as Captain Elizabeth Lochley JOSHUA COX as Lt. Commander David Corwin JEFF CONAWAY as Security Chief Zack Allan STEPHEN FURST as Ambassador Vir Cotto MARSHALL TEAGUE as Ambassador Ta'Lon Also Starring MARJORIE MONAGHAN as Tessa "Number One" Halloran JENNIFER BALGOBIN as Dr. Lillian Hobbs PERI GILPIN as Ambassador Sherann MALCOLM GETS as Officer Colin Ferris REGINALD VELJOHNSON as Sergeant Glenn Satamba BRAD RENFRO as G'Stral LEAH REMINI as Jamie Pratchett BABYLON 5 created by J. MICHAEL STRACZYNSKI THE VIRTUAL SIXTH SEASON produced by Stephen J. Barringer Anne E. Clements David G. Goldingay Gareth Williams Watch for Act One, Coming Soon! - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - DISCLAIMER BABYLON 5 and all characters and situations thereof are the creations and copyrighted property of J. Michael Straczynski and Babylonian Productions. This preview and all stories of the Virtual Sixth Season are non-profit creations for the purposes of private entertainment only. Original characters and situations are copyright of their authors. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - From: "Stephen J. Barringer" Subject: VIRTUAL SEASON SIX, EPISODE 9 -- 2/6 Date: Thu, 13 Jan 2000 19:13:26 -0500 (Disclaimers in Part 1) CRACKDOWN Story by Gary Boshears Teleplay by Stephen J. Barringer Guest starring MARTIN SACKS as Aragon Pernimi JEFF GOLDBLUM as Tarquin Corsaro PETE SMITH as The Voice Of j'Nialth J.K. SIMMONS as Captain Teach CALLUM KEITH RENNIE as First Mate Roberts B.D. WONG as The Dragon BERNIE CASEY as ESI Special Agent Derek Cranston TIME WINTERS as Ambassador Rathenn RANCE HOWARD as Ambassador David Sheridan KIM STRAUSS as Ambassador Vizhak JONATHAN CHAPMAN as Ambassador Lethke Kullenbrok with Special Guest Stars KERI RUSSELL as Commander Zhirith and BRUCE BOXLEITNER as President John Sheridan ACT ONE BROWN 37, DOWNBELOW 4 / 26 / 2263, 02:10 EST Afterward, G'Stral blamed it on three things. The first had been watching Sherann face down the Dragon without blinking, hidden at his table in the Dark Star. Even granted it was founded on ignorance – he knew more of the Dragon than Sherann possibly could – it was an insanely brave thing to do. Also, unfortunately, insanely stupid. He'd trailed her and Livingston from the bar and watched her lay out the goons, actually allowing himself to hope she'd get away. Foolish. The Dragon had dropped her without missing a beat... and then he'd heard what the human had used to do it. A Centauri neural inhibitor. It was a device that had become infamous in the transition camps, in G'Khorazhar, Na'Haminar, Dros 3, anywhere else the Centauri had run a camp during the war. G'Stral had felt the touch of the device himself, felt its cold signals shut down his ability to move while leaving his nerves awake and afire, waiting for the guards' clubs. Its black, gunlike shape still swam through his dreams. He had thought himself past ever having to see one again. Power-hungry and delicate, the devices were next to impossible to get past customs without high-level medical clearance, and their range was too short to make them worth the arms-dealers' interest. But even in the gloom, he could not mistake that shape. Still, even as the Dragon left, carrying a shard of G'Stral's nightmares with him, the young Narn had hesitated. He owed Sherann nothing. Perhaps a trace debt for her counsel, when Lord-General Marrago had come aboard back in February. But not life-price. Nothing that would demand this risk – not only of facing these men but of openly setting himself against the Dragon. If the Dragon had decided to claim B5 – if he decided G'Stral was an enemy – Then one of the goons lifted Sherann's arm, braced her forearm over his knee and broke it with a single savage crack downwards with his elbow. Simultaneously, the other stood and unloaded a crushingly powerful kick into her ribs. More snaps of bone echoed. Sherann stared numbly at the ceiling, eyes wide with fright -- *but no pain*. The Dragon hadn't lied. He really didn't care. He was so disconnected that he thought the granting of a painless death was a *mercy*. But life was worth more than that. If you killed you killed with *passion*; you *cared* about who you killed – hated them for *reasons*, hated them *yourself*. You didn't kill just to rid yourself of an obstacle. And G'Stral hated. Hated the universe and its brutal indifference to pain. Hated the Centauri guards who'd taken his home and family from him. Hated the station with its dark, stale chambers and its rotten underside. Hated the Dragon who had come to destroy his world *again*. Hated the goons who even now moved to crush Sherann's upper arm under their boots, breaking it again. He let that hate carry his hand up, let it level the PPG pistol he'd acquired to replace the rifle Glenn Satamba had taken from him three months ago. He let it depress his finger on the contact. Red-gold fire blazed, smashing the darkness and hurling one of the goons backward. The other spasmed as if electrocuted, swayed, and plunged face-first to the floor. G'Stral faltered a moment, surprised – he'd only hit one of them, he *knew* he had -- but decided a moment later it really didn't matter. He hastened forward, knelt, gathered Sherann's broken and bleeding form into his arms, and sprinted for the nearest transport tube. MEDLAB ONE 4 / 26 / 2263, 02:23 EST Lochley came charging in from the corridor, hair wild with sleep's disarray but her eyes bright and fierce with panic; she braked to a stop as Ta'Lon, in the middle of the lab, held up a hand. The Narn ambassador's other hand clenched and unclenched as if it ached to hold his katok. Beside him, Vir stood with his nose pressed against the securiplas of Medlab's surgical chamber, his shoulders tense with grief and frantic worry, watching as Dr. Hobbs' masked and suited figure buzzed around the unconscious form of the Minbari Ambassador. G'Stral stood to one side, arms folded, glowering at everyone with impersonal anger. Zack and Satamba arrived moments later, both similarly dishevelled from a frantic dive into uniform and consciousness. Jamie Pratchett was with them, though the young Ranger had somehow managed to look considerably more prepared than they; and behind them came, of all people, Colin Ferris – he hadn't even bothered with uniform, only donning a dressing robe. Out of his Psi Cop blacks, badgeless, and with eyes crinkled in empathic pain and fear, he didn't seem nearly as commanding as was his wont. "Colin." Lochley frowned; she tried to remember just who Corwin's frantic summons had been directed to and couldn't. "You're not on the priority notification list for this kind of attack." "No, I'm not." Colin didn't even look at her. "I came out of a nightmare and I... I knew. Will she be all right?" Lochley shrugged helplessly. "I just got here myself." Zack pushed past her, Satamba on his heels, to face G'Stral; it was a measure of what hung in the air here that he didn't bother with even a perfunctory glare at Colin. "Let me guess. You found her like this, you have no idea what happened." G'Stral swept them with a glare, but it was oddly hollow. His mouth worked. "Wrong." Zack blinked suspiciously. "Wrong?" "I'll give you one name for free, Allan." Jamie shook her head as if to unjam something and stared at G'Stral. "I know about you, kiddo; did you just offer something for *free*?" "You don't know as much as you think you do, Pratchett," G'Stral growled, and looked back to Zack. "I said one name and I meant it. Lung." The vowel was long, almost aspirated, like a cold breath off a mountain lake. Zack's jaw fell. Beside him, Satamba breathed, "Oh, *crap*." "Lung?" Lochley frowned. "That's Chinese, isn't it?" "It means 'the Dragon'," said Colin quietly. Satamba nodded, his eyes dismayed but his face like stone. "He's one of the biggest crimelords on Earth; he ran a major network of Tongs around the Pacific Rim. But I thought he was strictly Earth-based." "Maybe not," gritted Zack. "Some of the recent reports from Earth Central suggested he was looking to expand into alien trade, especially after Clark's embargoes were lifted." "And of course he comes here." Lochley massaged her forehead. "Well, it's not like we haven't dealt with criminals before, right? I – " She stopped as the simultaneously forming expressions on Zack's and Satamba's faces registered. "What?" "This isn't the same, Captain." Zack shook his head grimly. "This is a whole 'nother ballpark here. Deuce, n'Grath, Trace – they were *nothing* compared to this guy. We're talking somebody who commands funds on the level of a megacorp and has been in business for *decades*." "His family, anyway," added Satamba. "They're a clan, the eldest male heir takes over and ditches his personal name. There's evidence to indicate it goes back before the Earth Alliance." Lochley's jaw tightened. The door to the surgical chamber whirred back and Hobbs emerged, stripping off gloves stained with the peculiar cherry-red of Minbari blood. She jolted to a startled stop as the focus of everyone in the lab swung instantly to her. "Where did *you* all come from?" "Attacks on Ambassadors invoke a class-three security protocol, Doctor," said Lochley. "Corwin was required to notify all of us." Her mouth moved in something that wanted to be a smile, but couldn't quite make its way through pain. "Nobody was strictly required to come *here*, but...." "Ambassador Sherann is... special to us," muttered Vir, blushing. Lillian blinked rapidly, a shine gathering in her eyes; but she managed the smile Lochley hadn't been able to. "Well, she'll go on being special, Vir. There was some internal bleeding, it was touch and go, but I think I got it all. Her condition is still serious, but she's stable." The breath that seemed to simultaneously go out of everyone present quieted them all for a moment. In the silence, Lochley watched as, one by one, the others exchanged furtive looks, as startled as she to realize the depth of the feelings here. Even Zack and Colin were sneaking unsettled glances at each other, neither realizing he was the subject of the same scrutiny. It should have been a good thing, and part of Lochley revelled in the unity. But another part of her was unutterably depressed. Were pain, shock, and death the only coins that could buy such union? For some reason that depressed her even more. The main door to Medlab lifted back with a whir. David Sheridan hurried in, Rathenn only steps behind him. Lochley turned before he could get a word out. "She's all right, David. She'll live." Sheridan closed his eyes and breathed out an immense gust of relief. "Oh, thank God." Rathenn bowed his head. "Na'sheen irali, kan jiro'naf'shae," he whispered. "Blessed fate, stay with our daughter." Lochley nodded. "Amen." She turned to Hobbs. "Did you find anything out about the attackers?" "They were dust addicts." Hobbs shook her head. "One of the odder side-effects of the drug – symbiont addiction syndrome. They became addicted simultaneously and each was the first the other went after. It had the effect of creating a direct telepathic link as long as they had the drug; it made them an immensely efficient fighting team." Lochley frowned. "So that's why one shot killed them both?" "Resonance," Colin said. "I've read studies on the condition. Once the addiction progresses far enough any fatal shock to one system sends the other into shutdown." His eyes slid to G'Stral, then to Zack. "It's generally accepted as exoneration for any criminal charges, unless the killer was the one who fed them the drug." Jamie snorted. "I kinda doubt this guy's gonna be pressing charges." "Maybe *he* won't. But I will." Lochley stepped forward. "We have an eyewitness and – " She stopped, her stomach sinking. G'Stral was shaking his head in that slow, firm way she'd come to loathe. "G'Stral, don't you *dare* tell me – " "I am *not* going up against the Dragon on my own, Captain." "We can offer you protective custody – " Ta'Lon began. It was cut off by a single snort of laughter from the younger Narn. Ta'Lon's brow lowered. "Do you mock me?" "I mock you if you think anything *she* can do – " G'Stral indicated Lochley with a jerk of his head – "can protect me." Satamba intercepted Lochley's explosion with a hand on her arm. "It wouldn't do any good anyway, Cap'n. From what Corwin told me earlier, all G'Stral saw the Dragon do was use the inhibitor on her. He couldn't even be sure he heard any orders to the goons. Even if we could find the inhibitor and tie it to him, it's only a felony misdemeanour – maximum penalty's a thousand-credit fine or thirty days' brig time. Not enough to legally get him off the station. We'd be tipping our hand for nothing." Lochley pressed her lips tightly together for a moment. "Fine. If we have to find something harder, we find something harder. But this is the last straw. I am *not* letting any more of this crap go on." She turned to the room at large. "Ambassadors, later this morning at the standard nine hundred meeting, I will be making an announcement. You'll receive a brief before I go back to bed, and your input is welcomed. But I want you to know right now – it will be an *announcement*. Not an issue to debate, not a question to vote on: it's been decided now. Understood?" "If it's what I think it is," said Ta'Lon, "it's not only understood – " CENTRAL COUNCIL CHAMBER 4 / 26 / 2263, 09:11 EST " – but fully supported by myself, Ambassador Rathenn, Ambassador Cotto, and Ambassador Ta'Lon," Sheridan finished. Lochley stood before him at the centre of the chamber, hands joined behind her, her eyes blazing at the room. The ambassadors shifted and murmured uneasily to each other. Standing at alert to one side of the chamber, Zack, Satamba and Jamie stood, all in full dress uniform: Zack in the black-and-silver of the Army of Light, Satamba in an Earthforce silver-grey dress tunic, and Jamie in the flowing black cloak of the Rangers. Zack slid a glance at Satamba, who stared phlegmatically ahead, and at Jamie, who stood perfectly poised with the tiniest smirk on her face; he wagered *their* uniforms didn't feel uncomfortable and badly-fit. Still, in fairness to the Minbari tailors, he supposed they couldn't be blamed for the propensity of his uniforms to feel more and more ill-fitting depending on how nervous *he* was. He didn't disagree with Lochley in the slightest – his own thoughts on the matter boiled down to -- but he really wished she hadn't decided it was necessary to have them there as visual reinforcement. Zack was never comfortable in front of a crowd. It was, of course, Vizhak who rose to speak; though for once it was not in immediate challenge. "This 'crackdown' you propose, Captain," he rumbled. Zack blinked as he realized the Drazi Ambassador was foregoing his usual dialect. "What effects will it have on station business?" Zack had learned to read the Captain pretty well by now, and he caught the flicker of tightening muscles through her jawline that spoke of anger. But her answer was level. "It will slow commerce and customs to some extent, as we will be stepping up our inspections in both frequency and intensity. Most major criminal activity on *any* transit point – planetbound or spaceborne – centres around smuggling. We want to choke off supply and export lines first, then grab the masterminds as evidence becomes available to charge and convict them. Subsidiary criminals arrested will be held in temporary facilities currently being set up in Brown Sector." "Convict, you say. Convict by what law?" Lethke Kullenbrok stood. His voice was smooth but cautious. "Not all interstellar states proscribe the same commodities." "That will depend on the circumstances." Lochley swept the room again, making eye contact with every being there. "We will select the jurisdiction for each case individually, based on applicability, appropriateness... and the chances of our getting a conviction." She raised her voice to go on over the appalled murmur that sprung up. "That's right, Ambassadors. If two legal systems are equally applicable to a case we *will* try it by the laws that give us the best chance of success." Rathenn cleared his throat. "I hasten to add that this does *not* mean we will try someone by a law not applicable to them." "No. Of course not. Nor will the unfortunate homeless displaced by your new, 'temporary' prisons be charged as criminals merely by their location, I trust?" Lethke bowed and sat down without waiting for an answer. Zack tried to decide if the absolute neutrality of the Brakiri's voice meant he was being ironic, and couldn't. The Gaim Ambassador stood. [There will be challenges,] its translator buzzed. [When ambiguities in laws arise. What right do you claim to choose the laws you please?] "Because I am the *commanding officer* of Babylon 5!" The answer was a whipcrack, and slashed the room to silence. Lochley's anger now was unmistakeable. "Bear in mind, Ambassadors, that in crisis conditions I *am* authorized to declare martial law on this station! That martial law, as set out in the Earthforce Articles of Duty, suspends *all* rights to civilian legal systems and trials. And given that B5's criminal elements have, in the last three months, committed nearly lethal attacks on *two* ambassadors, some might argue that I am not only within my rights to exercise that authority, but that I am *obliged* to do so until I can assure the EA and the ISA that Babylon 5 can still function!" She paused, took a breath and closed her eyes, then resumed more calmly. "I do not choose to exercise that authority at this time, Ambassadors, because I want your active cooperation, not just powerless consent. And given the respect which we all feel for Ambassador Sherann... I had hoped you would be willing to provide that cooperation." Zack kept his face blank, but his stomach descended slowly into his boots as he listened to the uneasy, resentful mutters the room's occupants exchanged. Even Rathenn and Vir seemed a little nonplussed at Lochley's harshness, though Ta'Lon was impassive and David Sheridan's eyes sparkled with angry delight. Evidently he was only too happy to see his former daughter-in-law taking charge. If Lochley sensed the divided support from behind her, she didn't show it. "Any information you can provide regarding criminal activities on station will be appreciated," she said. "Station Security and the Anla'Shok, under the direction of Chief Allan and Val'na Pratchett, will be duly authorized for all legal enforcement duties. You may send such information directly to them. As you know, copies of all legal codes represented by station inhabitants are available at all times to all Ambassadors; I ask you to familiarize yourself with any portions that may be relevant – specifically, laws concerning customs, smuggling, and illegal transactions and commodities. "Thank you for coming, Ambassadors." She went to the arc table for the senior diplomats and struck the gavel once, not bothering to move around to her seat. "This meeting is adjourned." From his side, Zack heard a soft snort. He snuck a sidelong glance at Satamba. "Glenn?" "It might be adjourned, but it's not over," the larger man murmured. Jamie chuckled. But the sound didn't hold much mirth. CAPTAIN'S OFFICE 10:30 EST "Captain?" Colin stood uncertainly in the doorway. "Colin; good." Lochley rose from her desk and ushered him to the office's lounge area, where Zack, Satamba and Jamie waited. The coffee table was buried in a pile of station plans, data crystals and staff rosters; Jamie was stretched out along the couch, her feet resting on Zack's lap (Zack appeared to be ignoring this as best he could), with Satamba occupying one of the armchairs. Lochley pushed Colin down into the other armchair; at his bewildered look, Jamie winked at him. Satamba smiled genially, and even Zack managed a tolerably civil nod of greeting. "Now you're here, we can begin," Lochley finished. Colin looked up at her. "Captain, you are aware I haven't got *any* legal power outside the pursuit and arrest of rogue human telepaths." "Perfectly. That's not what I want you for." Lochley paced back and forth before the table. "On Babylon 5, the four of you are the best trained in the practical methods of observation, police procedure, and enforcement, as well as being familiar with EA law, which is the primary legal code we're operating by. Val'na Pratchett, when we need input on ISA or alien laws, we'll be tapping you and the Rangers." Jamie spread her hands. "Consider us tapped." Lochley grimaced faintly. "I don't suppose you'd consider sitting up?" Jamie looked thoughtful. "I don't suppose you'd believe me if I told you this was vital to a Ranger meditation technique?" At Lochley's look she held up her hands. "Never mind, never mind." She swung herself to a sitting position and leant forwards. "Okay, you want serious, you got it." Lochley let out a breath. "Thank you. Zack, Glenn, I want to double the guards on all incoming and outgoing transport processing points." Zack's eyebrows shot up. "*Double* them?" "*And* on the DownBelow sweeps," confirmed Lochley. "I'm aware of your staffing problems. We're going to use as many of the Rangers as we can on the DownBelow patrols, but the limited numbers means everybody in Security will be working double shifts for at least four days a week. Possibly more if we can get people to volunteer the extra time." She held up a hand to cut off his protest. "I am aware of the overtime pay that'll require, I'm going to justify that in the budget as necessary military expenditures." "How long you expect this crackdown to last, Cap'n?" Satamba frowned. "As long as it takes to get the Dragon, Sergeant, and as long as I can sustain it while it produces results." Lochley's voice softened. "I don't want any more Sheranns or Virs, people. No more Frosts, no more Owen Straingers, no more Jeanne Dariases. We've let this slide for too long. It's time it was stopped. For good." "You'll have no argument from me," said Colin soberly, "but I'm still not sure what you want me to do." Lochley nodded. "You're right in that you have no legal operational authority here. I want you retained as a consulting advisor. A lot of your knowledge and training is just as applicable to mundane criminals as it is to teeps, Colin; I want that resource. And if you're needed for any scans – " he opened his mouth; she overrode him – "any scans *of consenting witnesses only*, I want that available too." Colin bit his lip. "Captain, for that function you *are* technically required to request that Psi Corps assign a criminal-specialist telepath here." "You're authorized to perform the same functions if necessary, you're better trained and more powerful than any criminal teep, and you're *here*." Lochley leant down, hands on the arm of his chair, and matched his gaze face to face. "Colin, I want your help on this, but if you won't help, I want you out of my way. What do *you* want?" The Psi Cop blinked. But, to his own surprise, he found himself answering with far more conviction and speed than he'd expected. "I'm with you, Captain. Of course." "Good." Lochley smiled, a fierce, intense, *hungry* smile. Colin suddenly found it very difficult to breathe. Good *God*, but she was beautiful – he'd known that, of course, ever since meeting her, he wasn't *blind*... ...or was he? Had he been, all along? As Lochley turned away, he broke that train of thought's back and tossed it aside. There might be a time and a place for it, but this was neither. The Captain knelt down in front of the coffee table, grabbing a staff roster. "Now, I want to break down the customs duties as follows: Ackerman, Aitchison, Aldred and Auvergne on first station shift one. Azkein, Barrett, Basquienne and B'Dran on second station...." Colin chanced a look across at Zack, wondering if the Security Chief was as agreeable to this arrangement as Lochley thought. Zack, however, in the moment before his face reflexively closed, only looked worried. Cautiously, Colin relaxed his blocks the tiniest amount. What he sensed only confirmed his fear. Though the emotions the others radiated were the same mix of righteous indignation and professional, dedicated determination, none was quite so strong... or as angry... as Lochley's. And they all knew it. And all were worried about it. THE ZOCALO 11:15 EST It had previously been a general store of no particular note or quality, though it did boast one very brief flare of fame: it had once been known as the Babylon 5 Emporium, selling trademarked toys, clothing, dolls and other products designed to raise the station's profile. The short-lived experiment had actually been quite successful... until the proprietors made the mistake of immortalizing Captain John Sheridan, the Starkiller, as a teddy bear. Both bear and shop had met a quick and unceremonious end. Until now. It had been purchased three weeks ago, and undergone extensive remodeling in secret behind plastiform panels. Now open, it was that rarity in deep space commerce: a data entertainment outlet that specialized in the merchandizing of rare bound hardcopies. Or, as such stores were more frequently known on planetary surfaces, a bookshop. A crowd had already gathered, some watching with fascination while others plunged eagerly inside to peruse the wares. Helpful staff removed the books from their protective plexicrys covers, allowing customers to touch the pages personally. Most species in the galaxy shared an irrational love for manual printing, which had kept the bound book from ever dying out. However, most books had too low a value-to-mass ratio to be worth the cost of interstellar shipping – when the contents of a 37-volume encyclopedia could be reproduced on a single 100-gram data crystal, printed information simply wasn't an economically viable commodity. The exceptions were those works which, through age, rarity, social, political or religious import, or sheer artistic quality, had acquired value out of all proportion to their weight. As a result, every book on the shelf was worth a thousand credits at minimum. For those who merely liked to look but didn't have the budget to buy, cheap datacrystal reprints or recitations of all the works represented were available in the rear, as was a whole host of more traditional vids and recordings and a generous selection of computer games and programs. It was on these, the shop's staff explained, that the place expected to make its operating profit. But it was the books which stood out front, which even behind their plexicrys covers perfumed the air with the scent of ancient cloth, cardboard, paper and parchment. The books which had the crowd mesmerized. And the books which gave the shop its name, suspended on a sign above the door, a sign utterly without electronic adornment or ostentation, a sign that read simply: THE TOME. Aragon Pernimi tilted his head back to read it, and snorted. "'The Tome'?" he repeated. "Pah. Humans have no sense of display." He slapped at his guild medallion to emphasize his point. Even tuned to a low volume, j'Nialth's translator still had the sound of an overenthusiastic sports narrator, jumping and lilting with a surreal excitement which didn't match the Centauri words at all. "We're not here to comment on display, Pernimi. We're here to make an arrangement!" Pernimi winced. "Yes, of course. As you say." He wondered again who'd programmed j'Nialth's translator; half the time the giant bug sounded like a would-be Arena-Master of Capriche IV. He stepped inside, the Thrakallan shuffling in after him. The store was dim inside, the other patrons instinctively making their startled way for the elaborately dressed Centauri and the hulking, angular insectoid. As Pernimi scowled around, wondering who to ask about the mysterious message that had summoned them both there, a young human male in a white shirt and black trousers materialized at his elbow. "Mr. Pernimi?" "Yes! Yes, what, what, what?" Pernimi whirled, glaring. The young man only bowed, never losing his poise. "Guildmaster Pernimi. j'Nialth." J'Nialth's body angled upright with a sharp click, surprise spilling off him over Pernimi's telepathic senses like a splash of carbonated ice water. "Yes," he said. "J'Nialth. " Pernimi frowned at the unfamiliar word, but before he could ask the young man cleared his throat. "Excellent. Now that we've established that, please forgive me, Guildmaster – " There was no warning, not even a hint of intention flaring through the veneer of polite diffidence. Before Pernimi could twist away the young man had seized his hand and pressed a hypo to the back of his arm; the hypo hissed, discharging its cargo straight into his veins. Pernimi staggered, as shocked as j'Nialth had been a moment ago. That veneer of polite indifference, he realized too late, had been an excellently trained block. Nothing that could stop a conscious scan from a Guildmaster, but enough to hide intent until he could be caught off-guard. And the expertly chosen injection point: not in the wrist or hand, as most humans might attempt, but high up the forearm just where the major blood vessels dissolved into the spongelike mass of capillaries that filled the wrist and hand. In fury only faintly leavened by fear, he turned the full power of his telepathic grip upon the young man, freezing him in mid-step. "Pernimi?" said j'Nialth. "What is wrong?" "Nothing!" gritted Pernimi. "Once I find out what this *pakatril* has poisoned me with, it will be nothing!" "Guildmaster." One word only, but it was smooth and powerful, instinctively commanding attention. Pernimi looked up, as did j'Nialth. A human male of the subspecies they called "oriental" stood near the back of the shop, almost invisible in the shadows there. His eyes glittered like Immolan shadowjade. "Please release my employee, Mr. Pernimi. He was only following my orders." "Orders, eh?" Pernimi bared his fangs at the human. "And if I boil his puny little brain in his skull, will you send his family a medal, for dying in the line of service?" "You won't do that." "Oh, won't I?" "Perhaps," said the youth in the white shirt, "Mr. Lung should have said, 'you *can't*'." And incredibly, as if pulling free of treacle, he stepped away. Pernimi felt his psionic grasp dissolving like spunsugar in rain, appalled as the voices he had lived with all his life suddenly died away and faded into a horrifying, nauseating silence. He swallowed thickly. "Seriolani drugs," he whispered. "Neutralizers." Lung nodded. "We call them 'sleepers' on Earth; different chemical components for Centauri, of course, but it's much the same thing. I extend my sincerest apologies, Guildmaster, but there are certain confidences I *must* ensure are respected." He stepped to one side and gestured to the door leading into the back offices. "Please." "And if we choose not to go?" J'Nialth's cautious words jarred against the artificially peppy tone of his translator. The Dragon smiled. "You won't do that." "I have had operatives in place for some time now, preparing the way, setting up accounts and suppliers, making contacts. Now, I am here. As of today, Babylon 5 is mine." The Dragon sat upright in his chair, erect without being stiff, fingers tented before his face. "Yours," Pernimi repeated. The slim young man nodded. "Mine." "Exclusively?" j'Nialth asked. "I am willing to license rights for subsidiary operations. All mundane operations will continue as per B5 law, of course." The Dragon smiled, his face looking like a paper mask. Anger and terror twined through Pernimi's gut as he tried again and again to penetrate that mask. It was no use. The seriolani drugs had dropped a thick black veil over the senses that made him who he was, and a huge, freezing hollow had opened in the Guildmaster's stomach. "What... licensing arrangements... could be made?" J'Nialth's head tilted back and forth, one compound eye, then another focusing on the Dragon. "Standard operational taxes. Say... fifty percent of all income." "*Fifty!*" J'Nialth's body clicked upright, with the same jackknifelike movement of surprise Pernimi had seen outside. "That is *outrageous*!" "No, sixty is outrageous. And you just went up to seventy." Nothing changed in voice or tone, but Pernimi recognized the glint of danger in the Dragon's eye. He lifted a hand to his colleague, waving the Thrakallan to silence; j'Nialth subsided. "Perhaps... thirty-five?" offered Pernimi. "Seventy-five." "All right, fort – Wait a minute, you just went *up*, you're supposed to come down!" "Eighty." "There, you see, you did it again!" "Eighty-five." "All right, all right, all right – " Pernimi slumped. "Fifty." "Done." The Dragon sat back. "I'll expect your first payment next week. And by the way – I have full BabCom access; I will know if payment is held back." Pernimi stared at the desk, unable to believe how quickly he'd folded. But there had been something in the voice, the eyes, which dissolved his bluster into emptiness. The Thrakallan was less flabbergasted; he curled out one angular limb, hoisted Pernimi to a standing position with surprising strength, and bowed. " Dragon," he intoned. The Dragon bowed. " j'Nialth," he responded formally. ALFREDO'S POOL HALL 11:42 EST Neither Pernimi nor j'Nialth said anything on their way back to Alfredo's, but the aura of stunned fury and helplessness that hung around them cleared the path like a tear-gas screen. At the bar, still without speaking, j'Nialth slipped behind the counter, selected a bulb of some thick dark green liquid – the Thrakallan intoxicant of choice; Pernimi had never been able to pronounce its name or even dare to ask exactly what it was – and poured the Centauri telepath a tumbler of brivare. Pernimi slumped onto a stool and swigged from the brivare as if it was cheap maro wine. They drank in silence for a moment, the Thrakallan's proboscis making a sound rather like a straw in a milkshake. Finally, j'Nialth put its drinkbulb down. "He must go," he stated. Pernimi ignored it, still feeling dislocated from the silence in his head. "What was that word he called you? " He stumbled over the trilling syllables. "Thrakallan status name," said j'Nialth shortly. "Not to be explained to outsiders." "*He* knew." "That's why he has to go," repeated j'Nialth. "You're going to be all cryptic and alien on me about this, aren't you." "Yes. I want him gone." "You and me both, my friend. Seriolani, gaaahh." Pernimi shuddered, tossed back his brivare, and realized j'Nialth was still staring levelly at him. "What?" "You are to rid us of him." "I -- ? *I* am to rid *us* of him?" Pernimi twisted on his stool. "Who do you think you are, you overgrown mantis?" "Your employer. And the one who knows who to call on Centauri Prime if you wish to see the inside of an Imperial cell." Pernimi stared at the insectoid. "You wouldn't do that." J'Nialth said nothing. Pernimi closed his eyes and slumped until his head was resting on the bar top, disrupting the perfect crest of his hair. "Oh, mighty Shafir, god of telepaths, what have I done to deserve this?" he moaned. He shot upright and leaned in almost nose to nose with the Thrakallan, praying for just one flare of psi with which to drive his point home. "*How* am I supposed to *do* that? I am neither an assassin or a Royal Guard! What do you want me to *do*?" "To rid us of him." J'Nialth's face and voice were as implacable and immobile as only an alien's could be. Pernimi spun away, thrusting himself to his feet, and stomped out of the bar. J'Nialth turned up the volume on his translator. "Where are you going?" "To relax myself, so I can *think!*" BROWN 37 12:20 EST "Mr. Pernimi." Taan Churok bowed as Aragon dropped onto a stool. At the other end of the bar, the female bartender glanced down at them and snorted. "How can we help you?" "A brivare, to start with. And then, hm, let me see – " The Centauri thought for a moment as Taan poured his brivare. "Is the delightful young lady I saw three nights ago at a loose end? You know, the one with the big, er...." Aragon motioned vaguely in the direction of his own chest. "Ah, Celicia. I will see. One moment, please." Churok bowed and disappeared into the back as Pernimi sipped his brivare morosely. It was good stuff, he reluctantly admitted. Better than the bottom-of-the-barrel scrapings j'Nialth called brivare. He looked around. In early afternoon, the Dark Star was considerably quieter; normally it would have been almost dead, but this was an endweek day by the human calendar – Satinsday, or some such name. Still, there was a respectable crowd, Centauri, Human and Narn. Miracle of miracles, even the Narn were keeping relatively quiet. Pernimi wondered if they were here in anticipation of a Narn dancer, and shuddered. There was something positively revolting about watching the reptile-like Narn females gyrate in mockery of Centauri dancing. Ah, Celicia... He let his mind tumble back to three nights ago, when life had been so much simpler. As if it were that straightforward. Pernimi had never even known what it was to be a Centauri criminal until a few short months ago, let alone knowing how *human* criminals operated and thought. And this Dragon carried himself with all the majesty of a Centauri , the lordless, exiled warriors who were half bandit, half unbound avenger. Pernimi had no idea how to deal with such a creature. Even a single scan would not do much; sapient minds were rich, complex things, and several deep scans would be required to gain anything like a working knowledge. Perhaps he could, what was the human word, *sting* him. Pretend to comply, then go to Babylon 5's security chief and set him up... no. No, this Dragon was too clever, he would know, and Pernimi would not survive to testify. Glowering, he finished his brivare. There must be *some* way to f ind a weakness, *some* ally to seek – "Hel-*lo*, Pernimi!" Aragon spun on his stool so fast he was almost dizzied. The tall Centauri lord settled onto the stool next to him and smiled, a wide, friendly, warm expression that didn't fool Pernimi for a second. "Imagine running into you here! Well, I don't suppose I should be surprised, all the scum of the galaxy eventually passes through this station, I hear..." He trailed off and cocked an amused eyebrow at Pernimi's frozen snarl. "Aren't you going to say hello?" "Tarquin Corsaro," Pernimi hissed. "*Still* the Viceroy of Immolan has not realized what a fiend you are! That you live and breathe is proof the Great Maker has a very *twisted* sense of humour!" "Now is that any way to talk to an old business partner?" "*Business* partner?" Pernimi spluttered. "Do you think I am an *imbecile*, Corsaro? Your House and the others who banished me violated every tradition of Centauri history!" "Oh, Aragon, Aragon, Aragon...." Tarquin shook his head, *tsk*ing. "Vayando Refa knew it just as well as you do, the Emperor is traditionally off limits to such scrying. We couldn't let you get away with that." And suddenly, shockingly, there was a blaster in his hand, levelled squarely at Pernimi's midsection. "Did you really think you'd escaped?" Pernimi mustered all the arrogance he could, glaring down at the blaster and then straight into Corsaro's eyes. "You may be a fast shot, Corsaro, but are you faster than thought? I can tear your mind apart before the nerve impulse pulls your finger onto the trigger." Pure bluff, every last word: the seriolani was still thick and black in his brain. But they knew the power of the Guildmaster of Immolan V. Several of their agents had had cause to experience it, during his flight, and those agents would experience nothing, ever again. Not that they were *dead*, precisely... at least, their bodies weren't. If Corsaro had seen the gibbering vegetables that remained in the wake of Pernimi's escape, he wasn't letting it throw him. "Yes, yes, I'm sure you can, but – " His thoughtful smile now looked faintly embarrassed. "That would be as public a way of getting yourself thrown off B5 as possible, wouldn't it? And, you see, *I*'m the hero here. I'm the noble of a Centauri House, and *you're* a wanted criminal in Centauri space. I could shoot you right here and now and get a 'thank-you' from your security chief. Which, I believe, I will." He raised the blaster. And stopped as the muzzle of a PPG rifle pressed squarely against his jawline. His eyebrows shot up, though his smile didn't falter. "Nobody shoots *anybody* in here except us," Trish Livingston snarled from behind the PPG's stock. Her finger was tight on the trigger. "Both of you. Out. Now." "What a delightful surprise," Corsaro murmured. "Do you – do you have any *idea* how thoroughly I could ruin your life, young lady?" "Do you have any idea what Centauri brains look like when blown out the ear by a plasma bolt?" Trish worked the charging slide, and the rifle powered up with a whirr. "I'm gonna give you one more chance, Corsaro. Put down the blaster. Now." Corsaro's smile only widened. But Pernimi, who knew this man, saw the glint in his dark eyes and the shine of his sharp teeth, and knew Livingston had just made herself a mortal enemy. He opened his mouth to beg her to shoot. "EVERYONE FREEZE!" The patrons at the door reeled, knocked away as a horde of figures poured in, swift-moving shadows of black and grey, Ranger and Earthforce uniforms side by side. Zack Allan strode in and fired a single PPG shot at the ceiling; it burst in a shower of plasma sparks that drifted down around him like the halo of an avenging angel. "This establishment is hereby *closed*, by order of Babylon 5 Security! Everyone drop your weapons, *now*!" He levelled his pistol straight at the frozen trio by the bar, while all around the Rangers and the security guards arrested and cuffed everyone in sight. "You are all under arrest on the charges of contributing to prostitution!" Corsaro opened his hand and let the blaster fall. Trish lowered her PPG, put the rifle on the table and pushed it away. Zack strode over, grabbed it up, and ejected the energy cap. His eyes were like diamond: bright, sharp, hard and unforgiving. "That's it, Livingston. This time you've gone too far." Pernimi thought numbly as the guards cuffed him and led him towards the door. "The Great Maker help us all," he whispered. ...TO BE CONTINUED From: "Stephen J. Barringer" Subject: VIRTUAL SEASON SIX, EPISODE NINE -- ACT TWO (3/6) Date: Wed, 16 Feb 2000 19:47:12 -0500 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit ACT TWO BLUE SECTOR, LEVEL 30 18:37 EST Despite being a civil correctional facility exactly like any planetbound prison, Babylon 5's security cellblock had rapidly earned the sobriquet "brig" among the vast majority of the station's Earthforce personnel - another holdover from the naval-tradition heritage of the Space Service, though the few Planetary Service personnel assigned to B5 preferred to call it "the stockade" or "Leavenworth". Interestingly, even B5's civilians and criminals spoke of "brig time" or "getting brigged", rather than the usual nicknames. It was as if everyone, even the lawbreakers, was eager to distinguish B5 and its unique environment from planetbound traditions. But by whatever name you called it, it was still a jail. And today, for the first time since the inception of B5 in 2257, it was absolutely, overflowingly full. Prisoners had been doubled up in the small, duralloy-walled cells, with securicams on constant monitoring to keep order and guards striding up and down, PPGs set to stunning level and ready to use. As Zack Allan marched past the cells, checking prisoners against his records, the babble of angry protests, tears, and moans of fright and need made a hellish cacophony. Trish had thought she'd never hear anything worse than a starving mob in DownBelow, or the slavering hoots of a Dark Star crowd. But she'd been wrong. This was worse. Her cellmate had simply taken his seat with a self-possession she found amazing; most Centauri were so prone to screaming and bellowing about the tiniest infraction of their personal codes of necessity that the idea of one calmly accepting an alien's prison sentence was almost overwhelming. But the Centauri baron, Corsaro, had borne himself with remarkable aplomb for the whole afternoon, even when Allan had come in to tell them they were being charged for possession of unauthorized weaponry. A very serious crime, on a space station. Prostitution - or contributing to it - was a misdemeanour at best as long as the principles of legal age and free consent weren't violated. But illegal possession of a weapon which could, in time, damage station integrity and constitute a threat to all inhabitants... by the book, at least, that was a far more serious offense. Which she'd known. Again, her mind circled back to that. She'd *known* the odds of something like this happening, she was not blind to the character of the Dark Star. But since she'd started working there, nothing like this *had* happened - G'Stral's little strafing run in January somehow going overlooked by the cops. And she'd gradually relaxed. Come to believe there was some kind of unspoken understanding; that Security permitted the Dark Star its covert peacekeeping tools for the sake of quiet. Hell, the Security staff themselves came to the Dark Star. One or two even purchased a companion once in a while. Now she knew. The understanding had only been unspoken so long as it was safe. The attack on Vir Cotto a few months ago had probably started this; with Sherann's attack, the Captain must have had enough. Trish wasn't sure she blamed Captain Lochley. Hell, she sympathized. But that did nothing to assuage the gnawing fear in her gut. Unable to sit still, she paced the cell, hands knotted in each other behind her back. The Centauri watched her movements, up, down, back, forth, never once shifting from his languid sprawl on the cell's second cot. "You should really calm yourself," said Corsaro without warning, his voice somewhere between sympathetic and amused. "Fretting about it won't do anything." "Shut up," Trish snapped. "You have a kid sister? You have somebody you're supposed to look after, *responsibilities*? You tell me to calm down when you know about that crap." "Oh, I've, I've got responsibilities." Corsaro chuckled. "But there's absolutely nothing I can do about this, and no way I could have prevented this, so, why not relax?" "Because - " Trish lifted her hands, fingers curled before her face as if to tear at her hair; they quivered there a moment, then dropped, and she collapsed onto the other cot. "Forget it," she muttered. "If you have to ask you wouldn't understand the answer." "Perhaps not," Corsaro allowed. "But given that your employer is in prison for the same charges, I doubt you need to worry about losing your job." "Yeah, unless the Captain decides to shut the whole place down permanently." "Do you think that's likely?" "I don't *know.*" Trish scrubbed wearily at her face. "God, why did I ever take that job? I mean - I *knew* what went on there. I still took it. I can't even remember why." "For money," said Corsaro airily. "Why else does one do anything?" Trish gave him a sour look. "You could at least *try* to look worried." "But... that would be a lie." "Oh, shut up." "Hey, Trish." Satamba rapped on the mesh of the cell wall, just loud enough to be audible over the noise. "You got a couple visitors." He smiled and stepped back, waving somebody forward. A pair of waist-high heads -- one covered in dark curls, one shaven but for the beginnings of a tail right at the base of the skull -- hurried past him and pressed themselves to the mesh. With a cry, Trish sprang to the mesh wall, dropped to her knees, and knotted her fingers over her little sister's. Beside Selene, Jaida Tefano watched with narrow eyes. "This would be the sister," commented Corsaro. Satamba gave him a look of mock awe, and the Baron sighed and retreated into silence. Trish noticed none of it. "I talked to Chief Allan," said Selene. "He's posting bail for you. Five hundred." Trish hissed through her teeth. "Aw, crap. Okay, look, I'm gonna have to tell you how to access my credit account - " "Don't bother," said Jaida, her voice cool. "We've paid it already." Trish blinked. "What?" "Chief Allan's processing it now," said Selene. Unlike her Centauri friend, the young Human girl looked anything but cool. "Trish - G'Stral came to get us. He told us what happened. Is it - " Her voice didn't crack; it just locked, as if something had irised shut in her throat. Trish resisted the urge to moisten her lips. Her own throat felt uncomfortably tight. She looked down and made herself draw a deep breath. "Yeah. Yeah, it is. I could be in a lot of trouble." "Only 'could be'?" remarked Corsaro. "You're becoming more optimistic already." Jaida directed a glare at him, and he feigned a cringe of fright, his smile twisting. "You said you'd be okay there. You said it wasn't nearly as bad as it sounded." Selene had never taken her eyes off her sister's. "You said nothing like this ever *happened*, Trish." "I said I *doubted* it would ever happen, Selene," Trish snapped, finally finding anger among the turmoil of her emotions and embracing it. "I never said never." "You said *never*," Selene insisted, on the verge of tears. "Look, Selene, whatever you think you heard, I did *not* -- " Trish caught her shout at the last moment and throttled it down to something approaching rationality. "You never wanted me to work there in the first place, and I was *not* gonna argue with you about it. You don't listen much to me as it is, I didn't want to lose that. I had to take whatever I could get to support us, okay?" Selene clenched her fists, shaking her head so her curls flew out. "That's not the point, Trish, God - God *damn* it." She spat the word out with the clumsy weight of one unaccustomed to swearing. Jaida arched a faint eyebrow as Trish's jaw dropped. "All this time, you keep telling me I have to do the right thing, to get out of DownBelow, to go legit - you were so *happy* when the Chief got us the license for IGOT; you know how happy *I* was that you were *proud* of me -- ?" Trish felt something flare in hot, freezing pain inside her chest and eyes. " - And all this time you were in someplace like the Dark Star, where they... where they *do* it for *money*, and you've got guns and fights and - " Finally the tears came, Selene's voice hitching and breaking into sobs like an iceberg crashing into shards. "Why did you *stay* there, Trish? *Why*?" Trish swallowed; it hurt. Reflexively she glanced over the girls' shoulders, but Satamba had long since left. Her fingers tightened on Selene's. "Selene... you got to understand - we were out of choices. I didn't have anywhere to go. Any other way to support us. I promised our father I'd take care of you... and I did. However I could." Fury spurted briefly through the pain. "Would it've been more *moral* if I'd let you starve, for God's sake?!" "We're spending *our* money to bail you out, Patricia," said Jaida coldly. "I don't think you can talk about who's supporting who much longer." Trish shot to her feet. "Okay, that's *enough* out of you, you little - " "Leave her alone!" cried Selene. Trish struck the mesh disgustedly. "What am I gonna do, phase through the wall?" She turned away with a snort. "Forget it." From the corridor leading to the Security office, Zack approached. He slowed, looking at the three of them cautiously. Evidently deciding Jaida was the only one in any semblance of calm, he went to her. "Uh... Miss Tefano?" She turned. "Oh. Chief Allan." Startled, some of the anger and presence slipped from her; she was once again a preteen girl, uncertain and wide-eyed. "Is, um, is everything ready?" "Yep." Zack ran his keycard over the cell's mag lock, and a panel in the mesh clicked free and swung back. Trish exited, keeping a wary distance from the Security Chief, who regarded her levelly. "You're released with bail on your own recognizance, Miss Livingston. You'll be notified by BabCom when your trial's scheduled. Make sure to stay in touch. You won't like it if we have to find you." Trish nodded sullenly. Without acknowledging her sister or Jaida, she marched past Zack and down the corridor. Behind her, she could hear Selene's slightly unsteady footsteps and Jaida's sharper, quicker paces. Corsaro watched them go, still smiling, as Chief Allan closed the door and left. Humans. They were so much like Centauri, in so many ways; he could see why the delightful little barbarians had been briefly thought a lost colony of Centauri, and even why some Centauri had *wanted* to believe that in the face of all biological evidence. The same passionate souls, the same confusion of honour and appetite, the same capacity for radiating pain and joy like suns. The same predilection for self-destruction. As the dark-skinned Human sergeant walked past, Aragon Pernimi trailing behind him like a half-deflated balloon on a string, Corsaro raised his voice. "Aragon!" The Guildmaster snapped about. For all his bulk, Satamba was quick: he spun a second later, hand on his plasma gun, but paused as Aragon snapped, "What do you *want*, you overgrown beak-nosed piece of floppy-crested string?!" Corsaro laughed. "Ah, Aragon, you haven't lost your touch with the flattery have you? I missed you, really. I did." At the tone, Satamba eased his stance. He obviously hadn’t understood a word - they'd been speaking Centauri - but Corsaro was too relaxed to be about to try anything. "Get - to the point," Pernimi snarled. Corsaro directed his question and a sidelong glance to the sergeant. "He's been released, hasn't he," he said in English, indicating Pernimi. Satamba nodded, a faint frown furrowing his brow. "Good." He nodded to Aragon and switched back to Centauri. "Then I'll see you in the morning, Aragon, with my bail." Aragon choked. "Your *bail*?" He began to laugh. "What in the name of the Great Maker's mid-left tentisticularity makes you think I'll bail *you* out?" Corsaro adopted a pensive look. "You know, I'm, I'm really not sure. Well, aside from the fact I could tell the Viceroy of Immolan V *exactly* where to find you...." He let his voice trail off and smiled. Aragon's lip drew back in a snarl, but the sound seemed oddly drained. He whirled and stomped away. Satamba threw Corsaro a warning look. "Whatever you were saying, Your Grace, it better not be anything I'm not gonna like finding out about," he rumbled. Corsaro shrugged. "I truly do wish it was possible to tell you how little I care, Sergeant. But I don't think there's a language that can express the necessary fraction of zero." Satamba glared sourly at him but made no other response. He turned to follow Pernimi, leaving Corsaro alone in his cell. The Centauri lord put his hands behind his head and smiled. All in all, things weren't going badly. He'd dealt with worse than a night in jail, in his time. So a blaster had been confiscated; he could gain another one quickly, and he would never be on this station long enough to come to trial. He would probably have to kill Pernimi, which was a shame - he *did* enjoy the thought of the former Guildmaster scrounging for his bread the rest of his life - but they couldn't have another attempt like the one of last year. Neither the Emperor nor a select few of his Inner Circle could afford to be scanned at *all*. The Emperor had even dismissed the Imperial Tetrapathy, a move that had shocked the planet. Given that disquiet and suspicion, it was *just* possible that Pernimi might make some more effort to find out just who'd hired him for his Imperial scan... and having realized his employer's true motives, he might try such a scan again, possibly with more success this time. Then again, Pernimi was used to attributing the worst possible motives to every being he encountered - a side effect of being a telepath, Corsaro supposed. It would never occur to him that Vayando Refa -- one of the last heirs of the House Refa after its disgrace with the death of its head Antono in 2260 -- had been acting from anything other than revenge; it was well known that Emperor Mollari had had the House Refa broken and dishonoured during the days of darkness, arranging for Antono Refa himself to be killed on Narn. That Vayando was also an idealistic tradesman with alien contacts all over the galaxy... some of whom might have lost masters and agendas of their own... would simply never occur to Pernimi. The Guildmaster never gave other beings that much credit. Of course - Corsaro's smile darkened - he and *his* employers still didn't know who had been behind Vayando, either. Which was why they couldn't really afford to take the chance. No, Pernimi would have to die. But not before Corsaro had gotten his full use out of him. CAPTAIN'S QUARTERS 4 / 28 / 2263, 06:15 EST Lochley didn't sing as a rule - though she could carry a tune well enough, she seldom had time to listen to music nowadays and even more seldom felt cheerful enough to sing spontaneously. But this morning, as she scrubbed herself down after a *very* satisfying seven hours of sleep, she found herself carolling an old Irish ballad without a second thought. The arrests last night had been whittled down after the first re-examination, many of the suspects let go for lack of evidence. But that first sweep of DownBelow, fast, comprehensive, almost brutally efficient and *totally* unexpected, had caught dozens of the criminal element completely off-guard. Even after releasing the ones Security couldn't keep, the Ombuds had more cases coming to them in the next two weeks than they'd had in the past three months. Lochley would have bet a day's pay that at least half those cases would result in deportation. True, most of them were petty crooks, thieves, minor smugglers and the like. But even the minor players had roles in the organizations of the larger. And more extensive interrogation might persuade at least a few to roll over the details of higher-ups, what they knew. Oh yes, Lochley mused to herself as she dried and donned her uniform, things were going *great*... and they were only going to get better. "Computer. Check for messages." Lochley raised her eyebrows. "Play." The BabCom unit disappeared to reveal Corwin's face, looking worried. Lochley sighed. Why was it that he *always* looked worried when he called her? David was a nice guy, but if he didn't learn some backbone he'd never get much farther in Earthforce. No wonder he hadn't yet made it higher than Lieutenant. "Captain, this is Corwin. After you went to bed last night I got a rather disturbing message from Earthdome. I think you should come and see me in C&C as soon as you get this. Thanks." With a *breep* the BabCom logo reappeared. Lochley frowned. When he was on alternating shifts Corwin took the sixteen-to-twenty-four slot, and C&C being what it was you usually lost at least an extra hour before you could get out. If he'd planned to be awake to meet her in the morning, he'd be getting four hours sleep at most. This *must* be important. COMMAND & CONTROL 07:32 EST The face in the centre of the personnel file was ordinary: soft-skinned, round and with receding hair, friendly but unremarkable brown eyes and a not particularly impressive beard. But it wasn't the face that had Lochley staring in horror. It was the title beneath the name. HERBERT GEORGES SENATORIAL AIDE "You've got to be *kidding* me," she said to Corwin. "I never kid." Lochley did a take. Was he joking? But his earnest scowl was the same as ever. She gave him one last suspicious look before abandoning the matter. "No chance we can get this over with fast?" Corwin shook his head. "He used his one call to contact the Senate Hall back on Earth, and within an hour I had Thatcher herself breathing down my neck." "*Hilary* Thatcher?" "The one and only." Well. If Corwin had managed to survive a beration from the most vocal, idiosyncratic and powerful senator in the Earth Alliance since Lee Crawford himself, he must have more backbone than Lochley had been crediting to him. She pursed her lips. "What exactly is Mr. Georges' situation?" "Bad," said Corwin. "I checked with Zack, Glenn and Jamie last night; Georges was with a, um, a dancer, a Ms. Kelly Tirrel, and she's agreed to give state's evidence in return for a plea bargain. Barring any new developments, he's getting convicted, Captain." Lochley scowled. "Convicted of what? Even if we could prove this Kelly actively solicited him, and that he knowingly participated, it's a misdemeanour at best -- " "Kelly Tirrel's only seventeen years old," said Corwin simply. Lochley closed her eyes. "Oh, no." Corwin nodded. "She came in from Orion VII last year on a faked passport and lied to the Dark Star staff about her age. And if Senator Hilary Thatcher's direct personal aide - her *married* aide - gets convicted of the statutory rape of a fifty-credit hooker out here on the frontier - " " - her whole Family, Purity, Unity political platform collapses," Lochley finished. "Crap, crap, *crap.*" She rubbed her forehead. "All right. I'm going to my office. Use the Gold Channel, get Senator Thatcher on the line in, um, half an hour - " She stopped. "No, wait. Give me ninety minutes, then get the Senator on Gold Channel and put her through to - " Quickly, she moved to her station, called up a map of Blue Sector, and jabbed a room on one level. " - this station. Understood?" Corwin blinked; then, as he understood, his mouth twitched slightly, as if he wanted to smile but didn't quite dare just yet. "I think so, ma'am." "Good." Lochley grinned at him abruptly; Corwin actually rocked back on his heels a little, and she felt a ridiculous surge of satisfaction. Nice to know she still had the knock-their-brains-into-their-shoes smile handy, if she needed it. COUNCIL CHAMBERS 09:03 EST The instant the BabCom logo cleared, the attractive, dark-skinned brunette on the screen leant forward as if she was trying to shove herself through the pickup cam. "*Captain Lochley!*" "Ma'am?" said Lochley innocently. "What the *hell* do you think you're doing out there?" Thatcher seemed to be in her late 40s or early 50s, but the lines of fury in her face were distorting her to something much less pleasant-looking. "You're harassing my people as if they were common *criminals!* I demand you stop this 'crackdown' of yours IMMEDIATELY - " "Senator - before you go on, I think I should introduce you," said Lochley calmly, and stepped back out of the pickup cam's field of view. Thatcher stopped dead. Lochley knew what she would be seeing: every ambassador on the station watching in a variety of surprised, confused or amused looks. Including the *Earth* Ambassador, David Sheridan himself, father of the President of the Interstellar Alliance. "Esteemed colleagues, this is Senator Hilary Thatcher, elected representative of the American State of Illinois," Lochley went on in her best neutrally pleasant diplomat's voice. "Senator Thatcher, these are the Ambassadors to Babylon 5 from the member states of the Interstellar Alliance." Sheridan laughed. "Hilary, my girl, you're still as much a firebrand as ever, aren't you?" "David," Thatcher gritted between her teeth. She was good, though: within a second, her look of berserk fury had origamied into professionally outraged indignation. "Are you aware of what your Captain has been doing with her little Crusade on Crime?" "Very much so, and I back her every step of the way." Sheridan's smile hardened just a little. "I'll back her right up to President Luchenko herself if I have to." "Captain, there's obviously been some misunderstanding here." Thatcher's voice showed no sign of her switch in tactics. "Mr. Georges is a happily married man with a family." "Then he should have nothing to fear from our justice system," Lochley countered. "Of course not." Thatcher was equally cool; their masks, as the two locked eyes, fooled neither of them. "But you must understand that in our politically sensitive position, even a misplaced accusation can do incalculable damage...." "Translation," said Lethke smoothly. "You are up for reelection, if not now then very soon, and do not wish to be spattered with the mud Mr. Georges has rolled in. Am I correct, Senator?" Thatcher stared at him. For a moment her eyes were black plasma fire. "I see the fabled manners of the Brakiri are just that, Ambassador Kullenbrok," she snarled. "Fabled." "Drazi... not known for manners." Vizhak stood and bowed. "But this Drazi... grateful. Captain Lochley's work... well done. Drazi free of petty rogues. Honest Drazi merchants come to trade more. Good for Babylon 5, yes? And good, therefore, for Earth Alliance and Senate?" "You just wait until someone *you* value gets caught in this, Vizhak," snapped Thatcher. She cast a look round the chamber. "You think your little Captain's the greatest thing since sliced bread because so far she's concentrated on human criminals," she addressed them all. "Wait until she spreads out to cover all of you. Until *your* little grey channels of merchandise dry up, until *your* people come screaming to you - " "SENATOR Thatcher." It wasn't quite a yell or a snap, but it was loud and sharp and cut the other woman off completely. "I appreciate your input, but as you are *not* directly responsible for Babylon 5, nor have you any authority in Earthforce, you are *not* in a position to countermand or override the laws of the Earth Alliance on behalf of your aide. We regret the inconvenience, but Mr. Georges *will* be tried justly and fairly. If he is as innocent as you maintain, he has nothing to fear. In the meantime, I'm sorry to say we can't help you. Good-*bye*." She spun away and called, "Computer, end transmission!" just as the outraged Senator was drawing breath in response. Thatcher's face vanished into the BabCom logo. Lochley tapped her link. "Lochley to Corwin." "Permission to guess, ma'am? Block all further calls from the same source?" "You're getting good, Lieutenant." "Thank you, ma'am." As Lochley cut the link Ta'Lon lifted his hands and solemnly began to applaud. Lethke joined in, smiling urbanely. Sheridan followed, clapping delightedly, as did Vir with a look of earnest enthusiasm. A few others of the chamber, though not all, took it up. Lochley raised her hands, blushing. "Thank you, please. All of you, for agreeing to help with that." Lethke bowed his head. "It is... gratifying to see you are willing to defy your own government to ensure justice is done. By observing how you keep your own laws we have less fear for ours." "Not none," added Vizhak dryly, "but less." Lochley's smile thinned. THE ZOCALO 13:01 EST "I do apologize for the delay," said Tarquin, taking his seat across from the young human. "But I'm sure you understand it was unavoidable." The Dragon smiled, the perfect picture of charm and understanding. "Such things are always a hazard in our field of... entrepreneurship." Tarquin laughed. "I do like the way you put things, Lord Dragon, I really do. So! How exactly does one go about... ensuring a peaceful area of business in this... entrepreneurship?" "Have the tea first. It is very good." The Dragon poured from the pitcher into both his handleless cup and Tarquin's. Before Tarquin could take the cup he held up one hand; the nails, Tarquin saw, were perfectly manicured. "Allow me." Carefully, deliberately, he sipped from Tarquin's cup first, then his own. Corsaro nodded, appreciating the gesture: it was an old Centauri ritual of respect, showing that your host would rather suffer poison himself than pour it in your cup. It was of little practical worth nowadays - multi-stage poisons, measured threshold effect levels and time-delay-release toxins all allowed one to drink from a poisoned cup and live - but if Corsaro had thought the Dragon truly wanted to kill him, he wouldn't have been within three light-years of this station to start with. Playing his part, he picked up his own cup and took a hearty swallow. The tea burned, but tasted good. He put the cup down, smiling a secretive smile. "You're very good, my lord." The Dragon shrugged self-deprecatingly. "The gentleman makes it his business to know his partners." And that was as much threat as meaningless pleasantry if Corsaro had ever heard one. He slid the half-empty cup of tea aside and leaned forward. "How concerned are, shall we say, the non-business parties of this region?" "They observe much. The wise man assumes omniscience on the part of his enemies. That way, all his surprises are pleasant." They were almost certainly being monitored right now, then. Which would be perfect: Corsaro had no doubt the securicam record of the Dragon's being here would be another crime's alibi before the day was out. "Then a, hm, a certain discretion is obliged, eh?" "He who is discreet in all matters is a wise man *and* a gentleman," the Dragon agreed. They paused to order their meals from the waitress. When she'd gone, Tarquin leant back and resumed. "Certain arrangements ensure peace among competitors," he proffered. "Such arrangements are always desireable." "I would like to effect such an arrangement." "Such arrangements are never without price." Tarquin grinned. Almost poetry, this was: mutual, improvised poetry, the music of greed and secrets. "Might price be reduced in return for profit?" "He who saves a penny today may make a credit with it next week," admitted the Dragon. "Yet he would be wise to know from what he earns that coin." "Perhaps it should be considered a Gift of Heaven." "The Gifts of Heaven are rarely copper, and never pennies." The Dragon smiled again, this time in feigned gentleness; there was no yielding in those jade-black eyes. "For a man to accept something as a Gift of Heaven, such a gift would be... greater." "It is." "How so?" Tarquin considered. He'd studied a few of Earth's Chinese myths just for this eventuality - he wasn't the only one who knew it was wise to know your business partners. "Consider the Eight Immortals," he finally said. "If each gave a gold coin and set it on its side, such would show the numbers of the gifts bestowed." The Dragon's eyebrows lifted, just imperceptibly. Eight gold coins. Eight round shapes on their side. Eight *zeroes*. The Dragon was no fool. He had to know that only arms traffic could bring that much credit to or from the station. Now was the moment, Tarquin thought, as he buttered a roll and bit into it with affected nonchalance. Would the Dragon balk, or agree? "The price of arranging this gold," the human finally said. "Let us call it... the gift of the seventh Immortal, halved." Corsaro nearly choked on his roll. Five *million* credits? That was a full *five* percent of the total transaction value! Corsaro told the tiny but occasionally very mouthy "fair" part of his brain to shut up. He didn't listen to it much, but when it spoke up it was annoying. "It would be ingracious to deny a man the gift of an Immortal," he said. "Even half a gift." The Dragon's smile widened. "Man should not be greedy in the face of the Immortal." Corsaro almost choked again. Oh, *that* was rich. He managed to keep the true depths of his contempt off his face and only smiled back. "Then have we come to an arrangement?" "The arrangement... is accepted." A few metres away, the plainly dressed maintenance worker nursing his IGOT coffee at another table finished his drink, rose casually, and strolled away. Once he was into the Zocalo proper he walked more quickly, fingers carefully collapsing the miniature parabolic mike in his pocket and making sure the datacrystal had the conversation recorded properly. Too vague to be any use in court, of course, but to those who *knew*, it was enough information. Not one, but *two* major criminal figures joining force on Babylon 5. His pace quickened further. Zack would need to see this as soon as possible. CAPTAIN'S OFFICE 4 / 29 / 2263, 14:16 EST As he approached the office, the tall man slowed to listen. He did this with every room he entered; it had become his habit to gain as much information as possible before going into new situations, and it had stood him in good stead for a long time. Here, however, it seemed more a requirement of tact than paranoia - the shouting echoing from the room had been audible metres down the hall. "I am telling you my people did *not* use anything brutal, on this aide or anyone else!" A high-pitched feminine voice, angry and indignant, though no hint of shriek or squeal weakened the declaration. "If he's got bruises he got 'em himself, the damned little child-rapist - " "Goddammit, Jamie, that kind of thinking's got no place here and you *know* that!" A deep masculine bass, smooth but equally angry. "If this is gonna do any good we have to play it as close to the rules as possible!" "Oh yeah, I forgot, the almighty *rules*, like they did a lot of good for the entire Earth a few years ago - " "Can we *not* get into *that*?" A second male voice, a low resonant tenor, precise and acid with impatience. "Recriminations are not what we're here for - " "Figures you'd say that." A gravelly mutter; a third man. "Am I the only person with his head still on in this room?" "You're a Psi Cop, Ferris, I never know about your head!" "Chief, please - " The bass again, weary frustration in the anger. "No, please, Sergeant, let's get it all out now, that way I don't have to listen to it in *his* head for the rest of the afternoon." "Thought you didn't *do* that sort of thing, Colin," said the woman snidely. "That's NOT what I meant - " "Then what *did* you mean?" said the gravelly male voice. Rapid footsteps from down the hall distracted the man's attention; he looked back to see a dark-haired woman in a captain's uniform rushing towards him. "Agent Cranston!" "Captain Lochley." Earthforce Special Intelligence Special Agent Derek Cranston bowed his head, not smiling. "I apologize for not waiting at the boarding lounge; I understood that a certain degree of speed would be... expeditious." "Yes, yes, but - " She broke off. "Never mind." For all her clear and powerful charisma, Cranston noted, Lochley still hadn't quite mastered the control of face, voice and bearing needed for political office. Though she gathered herself quickly, she hadn't hidden her dismay, upset or anger. He did not blame her in the slightest - dislike of ESI involvement tended to grow proportionately with a settlement's distance from Earthdome - but that couldn't be allowed to affect the jobs they both had to do. He nodded to the office, allowing himself one slightly raised eyebrow as a particularly vicious flare of vitriol drifted out into the corridor. Lochley didn't quite wince, but she couldn't hide the faint flush in her face. "We're experiencing some... difficulty in coordinating our various personnel," she managed. "So I hear. Perhaps it's as well I'm here, then. You've done an exemplary job, Captain - " he delivered the compliment like a flat statement of fact, which, after all, it was - "but this is neither your primary function here nor your area of expertise. Hence my assignment by Earthdome." He indicated the office. "Shall we?" "By all means." Her voice was toneless, but clear. The shouting took a few seconds to stumble to a halt as one by one the people in the office noticed Cranston and Lochley standing in the door. Of them, only the Chief of Security was familiar; Cranston remembered Zack Allan from his previous mission to B5. The others he didn't know, though he carefully memorized their faces and names as Lochley introduced them. The bass: Glenn Satamba, sergeant in B5's Security detachment. The precise tenor: Colin Ferris, MetaPol officer, Psi Corps - automatically, Cranston began recalling one of the mindless tunes his teenage daughter played endlessly, recycling it in his head on infinite loop. The woman: Jamie Pratchett, Val'na of the Anla'shok - local commander of the ISA Rangers, he translated. "I couldn't help but overhear your... vehement discussion," he said as they all sat down, addressing it to them all with a careful lack of emphasis. From Pratchett, a glare of angry defiance. Satamba looked irritated but discomfited, Allan's glower was almost a match, but more hostile to Cranston himself. Ferris, by contrast, looked almost blandly impassive - but his fair skin gave away the embarrassed flush. "If someone would care to summarize? Preferably *without* losing their temper." Satamba cleared his throat. "Several of the people we've arrested are claiming that the Rangers were too... forceful in their arrests. That it violated their rights." "Oh, that is such total *crap* -- " Pratchett burst out. "JAMIE!" Lochley literally snarled, and *all* of them jumped, even the Psi Cop. Pratchett subsided into sullen silence. So, Cranston thought. Elizabeth Lochley no longer rules with quite the iron hand her record aboard the EAS *Acheron* indicated, if her people were this prone to insubordination. Lochley nodded to Satamba. "Go on, Sergeant." "There are a couple of people in particular we don't want to lose," Satamba said. "We think they have connections to the larger smuggling rings. But Val'na Pratchett is... very reluctant to let her people answer our questions." "The Anla'Shok stand by one another," gritted Pratchett. "I don't want you making up your mind that my people engaged in casual brutality because you can't get any of your *own* people to admit to it, even the Narns - and frankly I don't see where a couple of bruises count as 'brutality' anyway." "Jamie, that's not the point." Chief Allan rubbed his forehead. "Look, you know and I know that for all the training rituals, once the Rangers get into the field they tend to play fast and loose with rules and procedures. You can't say they don't." "Most times we can't afford to." "Yeah, well, nobody's denying that. But this time we can't afford *not* to." "And what I resent is your assumption that I and my people don't *know* this." "May I interject?" said Cranston. Both of them looked at him, startled. Cranston called up a page on his datapad and laid it on the table. "That covers the relevant sections of EA and ISA law, especially concerning law enforcement procedures. Would you care to read it, Ms. Pratchett?" "No," muttered Jamie. "I know what it says." Cranston nodded. "That when operating in a local zone of political control, the Rangers must operate by the rules and procedures of local law enforcement, and are to consider themselves bound by any orders given by local enforcement superiors that do not directly contradict their mandate of ISA law enforcement." He levelled his best no-nonsense stare at the young woman. "In other words, Ms. Pratchett, as long as you're doing this job, you're not Rangers any more. You're B5 Security, and you play by their rules or not at all." He had to give Pratchett credit for her spirit; though off-balance, she came right back. "B5's still technically an independent state, Agent Cranston. If we have primacy of status *anywhere* in the ISA it's here. Maybe Zack and his people should be working for *us*." A quick grin, more challenging than amused. "An independent ISA state *under Earth Alliance administration,*" Cranston clarified without smiling back. "I have to admit, I've never known exactly what that means," Ferris remarked. "It means that *final* authority rests with Captain Lochley," Cranston answered, meeting the telepath eye for eye - something not a lot of people had the guts to do: both of them knew it, and the increased respect in Ferris' expression showed. "And, by the same token, final responsibility and accountability to Earthforce and Earthdome. ESI still has the option of commandeering this entire project under our personnel, if I'm not satisfied with Captain Lochley's handling of the situation." They exchanged glances. Surprisingly, it was Ferris who spoke. "So what you're saying is, if we don't get our act together, ESI takes over from the Captain and the failure goes on *her* record." "That is, in fact, exactly what I'm saying, Officer Ferris." Pratchett chewed on her bottom lip. "Huh. Well, when you put it like that...." She quirked an eyebrow at Cranston. "Hey - do you even know what the word 'smile' means?" "I do indeed, Ms. Pratchett. I also know what the word 'professional' means." Jamie's smile thinned. "The two aren't mutually exclusive, you know. And as long as we're being professional, my title's *Val'na* -- not 'Ms.'" "Very well, Val'na Pratchett. In the interest of professionalism, shall we begin discussing exactly who is claiming wrongful brutality, and what grounds they may have to do so?" Pratchett slumped. "All right, all right," she mumbled. Allan managed somehow to look simultaneously relieved and ashamed. As they began listing the cases, Cranston cast a glance sideways at Lochley. She looked back, and if Cranston couldn't read her expression, he got the very clear feeling that the Captain wasn't sure what her reaction was either. BOARDING LOUNGE 3 15:23 EST Corsaro recognized him the moment he came through: a youngish man not much older than the Dragon, a narrow, sharp-nosed face topped with spiky blond hair, dressed in stylishly roguish leathers. No different than half the monied youth of the Earth Alliance - the piratical look was "in" right at the moment, Corsaro understood. Which, of course, made it all the more perfect a disguise. If you were looking for a pirate travelling incognito, the last person you'd suspect would be the person *dressed* as a pirate. Pale blue eyes scanned the lounge and found Corsaro. The Centauri lord nodded, standing and waiting as the human approached. "Baron Tarquin," said the man. "The same." "Bart Roberts." The man didn't hold out his hand. "First mate for the EAMF *Typhoon*. Hope you weren't waiting long." "Oh, I can be very patient when given the right... motivation." Roberts' mouth twitched in a half-smile. "Don't get too excited. I'm here to make sure you don't get over-motivated. You got a place?" Corsaro shrugged. Some humans loved the wordplay of bargaining, some had no time for it; if Roberts was one of the latter, Corsaro was disappointed, but he could do business as well with them as any other. "I do." "Then let's go." BLUE 15, EXECUTIVE QUARTERS 15-A-91 15:37 EST "Typhoon," mused Corsaro aloud as Roberts tossed his jacket at the couch. "Means much the same as, oh, what's that human word... 'maelstrom'." "Yes it does, doesn't it." Again, the flickering half-smile. Roberts went to the BabCom unit and began typing commands. "You got the stuff?" "I have, as you so eloquently put it, 'the stuff'." "Good." Roberts finished his typing and stepped away, standing in the comm screen's pickup area. A moment later the StellarCom protocols finished processing. There was a *bleep*. A face appeared on the screen: bald, heavy-faced, with startlingly protuberant ears, the man wore a black eyepatch over his right eye. He looked up and smiled faintly. "Bart." "Captain." Roberts inclined his head, then turned to Corsaro. "Baron Corsaro, Captain Edward Teach, EAMF *Typhoon*." "Please - " Corsaro made a dismissive gesture. "This room has been thoroughly secured from covert scanning. Let's dispense with the fictions. There is no EAMF *Typhoon*, is there, Captain Teach?" Teach's smile had faded. "We're as much the *Typhoon* as anyone is." His voice was deep and resonant, far more powerful than his mild features. "Of course, of course, but let's not mince words. I am, in fact, dealing with the captain of the pirate vessel *Black Maelstrom.* Truth?" "The *Black Maelstrom* doesn't exist." "Not on any Earth Alliance registries, it doesn't. In reality?" Corsaro shrugged. "I simply want some plain speaking for a change." "You want plain speaking?" Teach leant forward, his one eye gleaming pale blue with malice. "Cut the crap and tell us what you got, or Bart'll plaster your brains on the ceiling." From behind, the *whir* of a concealed PPG charging. Corsaro didn't look around. "Why does everyone want my brains to be decoration around here?" he wondered. "But as you will, Captain. I have a full armament suite of disruptor cannon and long-range nuclear torpedos, together with all necessary augmentation and conversion infrastructure. Far more powerful than anything Earth-built, at least for a ship the size of the *Maelstrom*." "Exactly *how* powerful?" "Well - I should not care to face a true capital ship, even a human Omega or Warlock, but with your fighters and this armament you should be a match for any single ship in the Earth Alliance your size or smaller. And a good many outside." "Even the White Stars?" Roberts interjected. Corsaro shrugged. "If you can find one alone, surprise it, *and* prove yourself the tactical superior of the Rangers flying it. Forgive me if I consider those conditions unlikely." "Leave the tactics to us, Corsaro," Teach growled. "You said a 'full suite' - I have eight cannon emplacements I want converted. Can you do that?" "Easily. And a magazine of fifty torpedoes. Does that suffice?" Roberts had begun to grin. Teach was more restrained, but the gleam in his single eye was a very different emotion now as, on the screen, he relaxed back into his seat. "Oh yeah. Yeah, I think that, ah, 'suffices'." His faint smile faded. "The price is still set at a hundred million, right?" "Indubitably. One hundred million... and one condition." Corsaro felt Roberts tense beside him instantly. Teach didn't move. After a moment he said, almost mildly, "Condition?" "Yes. Not so much, surely?" "I don't like last-minute surprises, Corsaro." "Oh I, ah, I think you'll find this one eminently achieveable. All I require is that sometime in the next two weeks, you hit a particular vessel - a ship the name and route of which I will provide for you. When you do, after you've taken aboard your prizes, I want it destroyed with all passengers. That's all." "Hey." Roberts pressed his PPG hard into Corsaro's ribs, snarling. "We don't take orders. We hit who we want, when we want. We're not your fragging assassin ship, you get me, Corsaro? What makes you think we'd even *think* about jumping when you snap your fingers?" "Oh, well - " Corsaro shrugged elaborately, not even deigning to look at the human. "For one thing, the fact that your armament will be useless to you if you don't." "Because you won't come through with your info and delivery?" Roberts snorted a laugh. "Corsaro, your databanks wouldn't stop me for a second. I know how to screw with records and passwords, I can break any protection you got. I'll kill you, find your armament, we'll take it - " he leant in, his breath hot on Corsaro's cheek - "and we won't even pay you for it," he finished in a murmur. Tarquin directed a look at the commscreen. "Captain Teach, do you allow all your men this degree of insubordination?" Teach shrugged. "Only when they're right." "Ah." Corsaro chuckled. "Well, how lucky for me you're *both* wrong in this case. No, Captain, I meant that however you secure this armament from me, violently or peacefully, you'll still be required to hit my target." "Will I. Why." "Because that target has been hardwired into *all* the necessary control chips for those weapons. And with it there's programmed a command: if my target isn't hit for me within two weeks of the weapon systems being activated aboard your ship... then the weapons suites will all self-destruct. Violently." Roberts' eyes widened. "You son of a *bitch* -- " He drew back his fist. "Bart; wait." Teach held up his hand. "I'd be lying if I said I didn't want what you're offering, Corsaro. But I don't like being used. You got *any* incentive for me to accept this condition of yours?" "Yes. The choice of target." "And it is?" Corsaro glanced at Roberts and held up one hand, moving it slowly towards his jacket. "May I?" Suspiciously, Roberts nodded. Continuing the slow movement, Corsaro dipped inside his jacket, brought out a datacrystal, plugged it into the BabCom terminal console and transmitted a file. It took a few minutes for the tachyon burst to resolve at the far end with a *bleep*; Teach called it up and began scanning it rapidly. Then he paused. Slowly, a grin spread across his face. "Well, well, well." "You see?" Corsaro inquired. "Oh yeah. Yeah, you know, for once, I think I can stand being used. For *this*... yeah. I can stand it." "Don't think of it as being *used*, Captain. Think of it as... a fortuitous coincidence of purpose." Corsaro glanced at Roberts. "I think you can put that down now," he said, indicating the PPG. Roberts looked to the commscreen, and Teach nodded. With a reluctance that Tarquin suspected was only partly feigned, Roberts holstered the gun and held out his hand. Corsaro shook it with a grin. he thought. BROWN SECTOR, LEVEL 22, SECTION 41 5 / 2 / 2263, 01:13 EST All around the dimly-lit storage chamber, Satamba and his people lay concealed. They'd been waiting for six hours, all of them having volunteered and fasted for a day beforehand to prevent any need for washroom breaks. Satamba had accepted that last condition with a rueful grin; God knew he could certainly stand a day without food. He just prayed the rumbling of his stomach wouldn't give them away. It couldn't, not really - the noise of the ventilation ducts alone would prevent that - but the yawning void in his midsection *felt* loud enough to rouse the dead. Aldred - who, damn her, didn't seem to be feeling any hunger pangs at all - looked over at him from her concealment beneath the false-front cargo crate. "Thirteen minutes late," she whispered. "These ain't megacorp professionals," Glenn observed. "I kinda doubt punctuality's on their list of virtues." "What *would* be on a craze-smuggler's list of virtues?" Aldred asked with a grin. "Quick reflexes. And an ability to shut up when they have to." Satamba raised an eyebrow at her - not angry, just reproving - and Aldred flushed, abashed. In Satamba's ear, the silent-comm receiver burred. "Incoming," murmured the almost inaudible voice. Satamba nodded and triggered the "ready" signal, a quick triple beep, to all the waiting guards, then ducked down into position. Aldred was tense and immobile nearby, PPG poised. Satamba closed his eyes and made himself breathe steadily. One. Two. Three. He yawned, then frowned. That was strange. He hadn't felt tired a moment before - he yawned again and blinked furiously. His limbs felt warm and heavy. Under her crate, Aldred's PPG was sagging, her head drooping while sleepiness and alarm fought in her glazing eyes. His breath hissed in his ears. Satamba yawned again - That wasn't his breath hissing. He reared up and fired randomly into the ceiling: red-gold fire blazed with a whickering pulsing sound, sparks showering down. Concealed in the shadows of one entrance, the gas-masked form who'd stealthily placed the cylinder into the room and twisted open its valve jerked back, vanishing into the passage. "Pursue and follow!" Satamba roared, adrenaline punching through the fog of sleep. "C&C, immediate air replacement, Brown 22-41! We've got morphazine!" From the entrance, more masked forms opened fire with PPGs of their own, their aim deadly and unhindered by sleep gas. Satamba took two bursts against the right shoulder of his EDI flak jacket, falling back and hitting the floor with a thud like a beached whale; his pistol flew from his hand and he lay, gasping, staring at the ceiling with wide eyes. The return fire from the guards was weak and sporadic, badly aimed; only their cover was protecting them - and not all of them. A scream ripped out as one guard, who'd leaned out too far, fell with a charred and bleeding throat. Aldred had already fallen asleep under her case. Satamba struggled to roll over, but the pain, the sleep gas and the fall had driven all strength from his body. His fingers clenched feebly at the floor. Then, with a sudden roar, the sound of the ventilation systems shifted up three gears into a rushing bellow. Cold, razor-sharp air sliced across Satamba's face, cutting away the haze of weariness; strength flooded back into him with a kind of dizzy exhilaration. He didn't spend further time on the thought, only rolling to grab his pistol and came up shooting left handed. The craze-smugglers, caught off-guard, retreated hastily, but not before leaving three of their number dead. Satamba stumbled towards the entrance, then stopped, snarling. There was no time and some of his men were down. He hit his link. "Med team to Brown 22, stat!" MEDLAB ONE 5 / 2 / 2263, 01:39 EST Hobbs was off-duty, but her second had patched Glenn up, (reluctantly) pronounced him fit for duty, then gone off to treat the wounded. Two of the Security staff were beyond any treatment, however, and Lochley repressed the fury churning acidly in her stomach as she, Zack, and Agent Cranston listened to Satamba's dull-voiced report. "A leak," said Zack, weary anger dragging lines in his face. "Gotta be a leak. Morphazine? That's a premeditated ambush. They knew." "They might have had a telepath," Glenn suggested, without much hope. Ignoring Dr. Nieman's hasty advice, he rubbed gingerly at the regen bandage pack over his shoulder. Zack sighed. "I wish I bought that. But - " he grimaced - "Ferris is too good at his job. Any teep strong enough to pick up on you without warning or line-of-sight, Ferris would have found by now, or at least got records on. No, it's gotta be a leak in security." "We were lucky to get as far as we did," admitted Lochley. "It wouldn't be too difficult for somebody with the Dragon's resources to suborn *someone* in the chain of command." "No, indeed," agreed Cranston. "I'd like to spend tomorrow focusing on that, if I may. Chief Allan, I'd like to have access to the personnel records of all security staff and support personnel - " He broke off at Zack's dawning look of outrage. "Is there a problem, Chief?" "Yeah, there's a problem, you're putting my people under the Inquisition is the problem!" Cranston levelled a patient look at him. "Chief, we're facing a potentially lethal leak in security. We have to know who's a potential weakness." Zack snorted. "Geez, *where*'ve I heard *that* before." Cranston was quick, Lochley had to admit; he only paused a second. "Your point is valid, Chief. But I'm not the Nightwatch. I'm not an illegal martial force violating the civil rights of a free population. I'm a duly appointed law officer beginning a legitimate internal investigation of an armed security and police organization." "God, I hate legalese," muttered Zack. "Hate it as much as you like, you know this has to be done." Neither Cranston's face nor voice yielded an inch. Zack looked at Lochley, who grimaced but had to nod. She didn't like it either, but Cranston was right. They had to know. Zack read the order in her expression and rubbed his forehead. "Okay, okay," he mumbled. "You'll have the records first thing tomorrow." "Thank you." Cranston checked the time on his link and yawned. "Sergeant, let me say again I'm glad you weren't hurt seriously. Shall we regroup at oh-nine-hundred?" Their nods were distinctly lacklustre, but he gave no indication he noticed. Still looking dapper, he left, curiously silent for such a large man. Zack scowled. "I could really get to hate that guy." "He's just doing his job, Zack," said Lochley. "Yeah, but does he have to be so damn cold about it?" Zack shook his head. "Like a robot, for God's sake." "You said it, Zack." They twisted, startled. On an empty medcot across the room, Jamie was sitting, swinging her legs and grinning impishly. Lochley had to work her mouth before she could speak. "How the hell did you - " "Get in here? Trade secret." Quicksilver-fast, Jamie's grin vanished. "I didn't want Cranston overhearing this. Am I the only one who thinks it's suspicious he showed up so fast after we piss off a big-shot Earth Senator? And that our first major leaks in Security show up *after* he arrives and insists on horning in at the highest level? Not to mention that using morphazine is a classic ESI combat tactic--" "You're saying *Cranston* is a spy?" Zack gaped. "Jamie, that's crazy - I mean, I don't like the guy either but I know him! He's not like that!" "Yeah, like you knew the people in Nightwatch?" Jamie snapped. She broke off at Zack's wounded look and held up her hand. "Okay, okay, cheap shot, I admit it. I just think it's worth it to be *careful*, is all. Especially considering - " she held up the other hand - "this." In her black-gloved fingers, a data crystal glimmered. "What's that?" Lochley frowned. "Take a look." Jamie went to Hobbs' desk, beckoning them to follow her. As they gathered around, she popped the crystal into the reader socket and told the panel, "Play." The screen blurred with white snow, then lit up: a scene in the Zocalo, framed with the identification captions of securicam footage. In the centre of the screen, a young Oriental man in a scarlet jacket sat at a table, smiling at the elegantly robed Abbai across from him. "Abbai?" Glenn muttered. "A trade representative for one of their bigger consortiums," Jamie growled. "*And* a personal friend of the Abbai Ambassador." As they watched, the two rose, bowed to one another, and made their separate ways. Jamie hit a key and froze the display. "Now does that suggest to you that we have wholehearted official support?" "Babylon 5's never gotten wholehearted official support," said Zack dryly. He gazed significantly at Jamie. "Which doesn't mean every official's a corrupt spy, either. Admit it, Jamie, you just don't trust anybody completely who isn't in the Rangers." Jamie flushed. "That is *not* -- " "Not *relevant* is what it is," Lochley intervened. "Look, there's nothing we can do here. All of you, get some sleep. I'm going to do the same." ALLIANCE COUNCIL CHAMBER 5 / 6 / 2263, 14:22 EST As the diplomats muttered and mumbled uneasily around her, Lochley ignored them as best she could to focus on her private review screen. The green-and-white spherical shape of the starliner *Clarke* moved towards the jumpgate. She shook her head once again at the incongruity of a top-class luxury starship being used as a prison transport. Still, there was a certain twisted logic to it. The *Clarke* was not at the height of its career right now. Though Transtellar Lines desperately kept emphasizing in every commercial that their *Visionary*-class liners were named after artists, poets and writers, not politicians, the fact was nobody nowadays remembered an obscure 20th-century novelist -- and everybody remembered the tyrannical President who'd almost destroyed the Earth. Bookings for the *Asimov*, the *Hamilton*, the *Heinlein*, the *Brin* and the *Hayes* remained sky-high and popular, but for the *Clarke* they were virtually nonexistent. Which was probably why Earthgov had been able to afford it for this contract. As it disappeared through the jumpgate en route to Earth, Lochley sighed with relief: there went the first load of real troublemakers. The first real sign of success in the crackdown. She'd have preferred it if Herbert Georges had been among them, but the order from Senator Thatcher's lawyers blocking trial until chosen counsel could get out to B5 had come through by StellarCom two days ago, just in time to keep Lochley from asserting right of jurisdiction. Lochley, thoroughly irritated with the delaying tactic, had considered calling ISN to break the story anyway, but Cranston had cautioned her against that by pointing out how easily it could turn into a libel lawsuit. When she remembered what ISN had done to John during Clark's time in office, she had to agree. Granted, ISN had been under government control then... but the instincts to smear, misinterpret and profit had been all Dan Randall's, and they were never absent from any private media firm, much less any that happened to sympathize with Thatcher's political platforms. As the time display in the corner of her screen clicked over to 14:30, Ambassador Lethke Kullenbrok strode in, computer-punctual as always. His long, amicable face was closed and unreadable. Lochley straightened, worried. She flattered herself that she had gotten quite good at reading the alien faces of the Ambassadors, and she didn't ever recall Lethke looking that... *guarded*, was the only word she could find for it. Still, business was business. She rose and tapped her gavel, the room stilling. "The ISA Council for Space Station Babylon 5 is in session," she announced formally, "at the request of Ambassador Lethke Kullenbrok of the Brakiri Confederation. I will turn the meeting over to him. Ambassador Kullenbrok?" "Thank you, Captain." Lethke's voice, too, was still smooth, but somehow had lost its pleasant friendliness. He turned, meeting the gaze of the major powers' representatives one by one - pausing briefly at the empty chair where Sherann would usually sit - and then turned to regard the rest of the room. "Seventeen hours ago, by human reckoning," he said flatly, "a merchant convoy proceeding from the Brakiri home jumpgate was attacked by hostile vessels, gutted and destroyed. There were no survivors. It was only the blindest luck that we found out about it this quickly - an astronomical observatory on one of our moons happened to have its telescopes in the right direction, and saw the battle. Fighters were sent to the wreckage, which would have dispersed beyond finding or recall within hours. "Upon finding the wreck, samples were taken and analyzed. Ten hours ago, that analysis was completed. At that time, the Incumbent of the Confederation exercised his privilege as an executive governor of an ISA member world and ordered a local White Star to bring the results - and the evidence - here, to Babylon 5: the closest major nexus for the Interstellar Alliance." "Um - evidence?" Vir looked worried. "Evidence," Lethke repeated emotionlessly. From his bag, he took several shards of bronze hull armour-alloy and held up the largest. It was jagged, scored with the black carbonization of energy fire. "Evidence of the type of weapon used to attack. Evidence of the reappearance of a forgotten crime. Evidence that places the very existence of the Interstellar Alliance in danger." "In what way, Ambassador?" rumbled Ta'Lon. "Because that evidence indicates that the attackers were *not* the human rogue telepaths we have believed responsible for the majority of the past months' piracy." Lethke's knuckles whitened as his grip on the shard tightened. Lochley caught her breath as she saw drops of cinnamon-coloured blood begin to seep past his hand. "This alloy does not show the molecular fusion and deformation created by the impact of human plasma weapons. Do you know what has happened to this metal?" Lochley shook her head. Without warning Lethke spun and hurled it at the base of Vizhak's seat and desk. It struck and shattered as if frozen, splinters of bright bronze spinning across the floor. Vizhak sprang to his feet with an angry cry, clenching his fists as Lethke raised his bleeding hand to point at him. "Disrupted," he hissed, shaking. Lochley realized with a sort of numb, dismayed wonder she really never had seen the Brakiri truly angry before. "The very molecules destabilized. By high-energy disruptor cannon impact. "By weapons made by the *Drazi.*" ... TO BE CONTINUED