From: "Stephen J. Barringer" Subject: WANDERING STAR 32/?? Date: Tue, 20 Apr 1999 23:24:41 -0400 I *told* you I'd start writing with a little bit more frequency.... But no less brain-sweat. Folks, don't ever take up writing unless you *really* get off on setting yourself insoluble plot puzzles and then thinking of answers. *****************DISCLAIMER***************** Susan Ivanova and all BABYLON 5 characters and situations are the creations and copyrighted property of J. Michael Straczynski and Babylonian Productions, and are used here without permission strictly for the purposes of non-profit entertainment. Other characters and situations are copyright of the author, but permission is hereby granted for free, non-profit use by other fanfic authors. (Though it would be nice if you asked anyway.) ************************************************** < < W A N D E R I N G S T A R > > PART II: SCAVENGER HUNT - 27 - VORLON HABITAT 22:25 EST "Droshalla’s Light," whispered Khovrath as he stared around the gigantic mausoleum. Zhamarok, Uzbek and Vrysh turned in slow circles, likewise struck silent. Only Mazrakh seemed even partly unfazed by the grandeur of the crypt. It was he who had confirmed that it *was* a crypt, striding across the stained, shattered stone of the floor to a pod and taking the measurements that proclaimed no life was left within. It was he now who walked around the rising pathways of the circular ledges, occasionally stopping to check another pod. His movements were quick, reflexive, showing for the first time hints of something that might be fear. Khovrath would have enjoyed that realization more in another place and time, but here, under this glorious, tragic crystalline light, he felt too apprehensive himself. Khovrath had never considered himself stupid, but he had never considered himself particularly bright either. He was smart enough to learn well what he needed to know, and not to be distracted by what he didn’t; and he possessed the kind of quick-thinking wit that no Huntleader could afford to be without. But speculation, imagination and fancy were never traits he had indulged. Even the wonders of the living city above had not especially moved him. Perhaps it was a part of the Drazi’s essentially predatory nature. Lifeforms, even molded, constructed beings, were still just a part of the natural order, and could still be categorized as predator, prey, competitor, or other. The dead, however... the dead were not so easily placed. It was a part of Drazi history that the Coalition of the Freehold had chosen simply never to speak of. But in ancient days long past, before the worship of Droshalla helped transform the endless battles for territory into the ritualized Games of Power and thus laid the foundations for the Freehold, the Drazi had fed on their own dead. Those days were more than four thousand years gone, now, but the taboos instilled by the priests remained strong and horrific. So strong were they that the Drazi customarily cremated their dead, or buried them at sea or in space – anything rather than leave behind something that could conceivably tempt a desperate living draz into repeating the foulness of his bestial ancestors. It was part of why they were seldom comfortable with the funerary rituals of other races, especially those who buried or embalmed the body – and it was a *large* part of why they so detested the Pak’ma’ra. That the Pak’ma’ra were of such a constitution and biochemical makeup that they *required* carrion to survive was irrelevant. The taboo itself was enough. Now he and his Hunters stood in the presence of more dead flesh than he had ever seen in one place in his life – and he had seen many a battle. Had they *intended* this chamber as their sepulchre? Or had this been merely a waystation, a time of suspended animation that had gone disastrously wrong? Khovrath neither knew nor cared. All he knew was that standing here made him feel as if angry gods glared down around him, waiting only for the perfect moment to smash him for his presumption. "*Here!*" Khovrath spun and brought up his disruptor with a speed no Human could match, only to snarl in hatred and relief as he realized Mazrakh was waving at them from a ledge high above the floor. Only the lingering remnants of his dread kept him from screeching his response. "What?!" "A portal. Leading downwards. I smell the Human scent. I have found blood." Mazrakh turned to glance back down. "And something other. Something muskier. There may yet be others of this race alive." "If they have allied with the Earthers..." Uzbek sounded alarmed. "Might they have shown the *Earthers* where lie the hidden weapons?" "Assuming there *are* any," Zhamarok cautioned. "We dare not assume there are not." Khovrath scowled up at Mazrakh, who glared down with equal impatience. "We must follow." Carefully unsaid was the promise of leaving this hall of the dead. 22:28 EST In a dark corridor with moistly shining walls, a limp figure lay, its back stained with the ooze and charring of a disruptor burn. Down the corridor’s floor stretched the trail of blood and serum the figure had left as it crawled. Now it stirred again, consciousness breaking the surface of sludgy pain and lifting the figure’s head. An arm reached out, clutched weakly at the floor, pulled with superhuman effort. The body inched forward a few centimetres. Five. Six. The other arm came up, clawing at the floor for a hold. It didn’t find it. Alan Merhaupt relapsed into unconsciousness again, mind too full of pain to even consider that he might be dying, let alone to admit he was. As he sank back down into blackness one thought alone remained coherent in his mind: He was not awake to see the wall ripple above him. Long tendrils of solid matter reached down, ran themselves curiously along his body. A gap opened in the wall. He did not feel the tentacles work their way underneath him, bear him up, take him into the wall. He did not feel the blackness close upon him. But he did feel the light that began to shine into his mind. 22:32 EST Ivanova’s boots hit the floor. She stepped smartly out of the way as Waverly and the few remaining guards left to her came sliding down the polyfibre cables, landing with similar thuds. There weren’t many left now, just her, Waverly and three guards: DeChant, Pike, and Mihjawic. Good people, all, but so few... so few. Then she looked up and around. Her breath caught at the magnificence of it. It was as if, she thought, someone had taken a cryosuspension chamber and designed it on the lines of a cathedral. The silence, the stillness, the ethereal radiance, air of... of... Emptiness. Her jaw slackened. Waverly whistled. Such was the power of the chamber that even the irreverent sound and its high-pitched echoes didn’t dent the aura of majesty. "Talk about your large-scale waiting rooms." "Who do you think they were expecting to wake them up?" Pike had gone over to one of the pods, staring at his own freckled, black-haired face in its mirrorlike polish. "Maybe we could find the reanimation circuits – " "They’re dead." Waverly blinked. "Say what, Skipper?" "All of them." Ivanova turned in place, slowly, her PPG rifle forgotten in her arms. "Every body in those pods is a corpse. Something... something must have gone wrong. Something – " Light rippled across the ceiling. Instantly, Waverly and the guards snapped their PPG rifles up, charging with four near-simultaneous *whhrrrrrrs*. Ivanova saw it as well, but didn’t move. A deep chill had settled into her bones. "What the – " Waverly began. The light rippled again, brighter this time, a multihued wave of radiance sweeping inwards across the ceiling in a curved arc. Ivanova revolved to take it all in, the chill creeping up her flesh into her face and her mind. Faintly, she heard a sound: a deep, throbbing, pulsing thrum whose only analog had been the sound the mighty tower had made above, before unleashing a blast of fury that had nearly destroyed the *Saint-Germain*. The waves of light intensified. She saw without any surprise at all that they were rushing inwards, concentrating upon a single spot in the ceiling where the crystals were growing brighter and brighter by the second. The centrepoint of that radiance was directly above her. "Captain..." Waverly touched her on the shoulder, tentatively at first; then he shook her harder. "Captain, I really think we should *move* now!" "No." Waverly’s eyes widened and he stepped back. Ivanova knew why, and in her own mind wondered at the sound of her voice. The single word had carried a depthness, a richness, almost a tangible echo, easily penetrating the ever-louder thrumming sound. The rest of her, the part now almost completely possessed by the chill, knew in some unspeakable way what was coming. "Step back, all of you. Stand clear." She let her PPG rifle dangle from the end of its strap and, moved by the same inexplicable will, lifted her arms to the ceiling as if invoking a god. The ceiling overhead was blinding now, the rippling waves of light hurtling through the great dome. Ivanova closed her eyes. But still, with her mind, she saw it, not just in imagination but in a manner of perception unlike anything expressible in spoken words. For one brief moment she had the feeling of warm arms around her, a low, loving, feminine voice she heard with both ears and mind. Then the light smashed down from the ceiling and Time broke open around her. All was light, and mist, and coolness. The being stood before her, a tall entity, mammalian and fur-covered, looking not unlike a bipedal feline grown to man-height, with alien eyes and oddly-shaped ears. Its body was covered in long flowing swathes of material, wound around it to create a single covering. The expression on its face... was somehow perfectly comprehensible. Peace. A peace not untouched by grief, but no less strong for all that. Floating in the light, Susan drew in a breath. She looked down at herself, and frowned. Somehow, her own clothing had changed. The Earthforce uniform was gone, replaced by a long flowing gown, arm-length gloves, and a gossamer-fine veil, all done in a shimmering black so deep that veins of blue and red twisted within it. Cold gripped her stomach. A wedding dress. In black. The black of the Shadow spiderships. The entity smiled. Susan thought back. Mirth radiated from the being. The cold that passed through Susan now was something entirely different. Again, it took no effort for the phantom to sense. Its peaceful look did not fade, though it saddened perceptibly. <*No*> This, at least, Susan needed no hesitation or consideration to send. Shock. The entity could not imagine life without the Gift, viewed it as something far more horrific than a human contemplating blindness. A long, long pause. The entity bowed its head. The mists began to swirl over the entity, covering it, seeming to dissolve it. Susan hesitated. The mists parted again; the Sharasai looked up. The Sharasai looked troubled. Clearly its artificial intelligence was having difficulty making the choice. Susan firmed her mouth, stretched out a hand, and concentrated with all her might on projecting reassurance and confidence. The decision came abruptly. The Sharasai placed its pawlike hand in hers. Susan had only a moment to consider its warm, furry feel when it was the turn of Space to explode around her. It was a circular room, ringed with strangely-shaped chairs like rippled platforms, all occupied by one of the catlike creatures. In the centre of the room a grey-furred Sharasai prowled back and forth, tail lashing. came the calmer reply, from a Sharasai reclined on its platform. Its fur was a reddish-white, and something in the frail lassitude of its movements suggested great age. Scorn rolled from Grevana in a hot, stinging wave. Grevana retorted. Kirathi yawned. Calmness and peace diffused from the elder like water into ink, diluting the fear and anger in the room. Kirathi lifted her head – Susan was suddenly sure that yes, it was a *she* -- and directed a glance around the room. What happened then was too fast, too complex and too subliminal for Susan to follow in anything but the vaguest images. Every mind began to emit a clear, focused sense, like water rippling out from a stone dropped into a pool. The dozens of ripples intersected, broke each other up, became confused. But gradually the waves synchronized in two separate points. One was centred on Kirathi, and the waves spoke of peace, patience, and hope. The other was focused on Grevana, and the waves shouted aloud with anger, resolution, and desire. Kirathi’s consensus was by far the largest. But Grevana had his supporters too. Susan could not say how long it went on. But at some point it suddenly stopped, all of it at once. The room was still again. And somehow, though she could not remember just when, the Sharasai whose consensus lay with Grevana had gathered near the door of the room. Without word or image, they turned and left. Kirathi glanced around at her supporters. she declaimed with quiet serenity. The response was a single unified pulse of agreement. A Consensus. Whiteness, and mist, and cool breezes. The simulacrum stood before her once again. Susan bowed her head. she sent. Strangely, the echo sounded curious rather than shocked. It closed its eyes for a moment. And then it smiled. Susan stared. <*Thank* you? Thank you for *what*?> It stretched out its paw to touch her face. Susan wanted to scream at it in frustration. That it knew her name was the least of the shocks. The beam of light shone down on Captain Ivanova, strobed furiously for five – ten – fifteen seconds, then winked out. Ivanova dropped to her knees, her eyes wide, her breath heaving. Waverly jumped to her side. The hand he put under her arm to help her up found muscle as tense as a humming steel cable. "Captain! What the hell *happened*?" Ivanova stared around from point to point as if she didn’t recognize the chamber. Then she put one hand to her forehead. "I know where they are." "What?" "Corelli. Snow. The Sharasai. I *know*." She shook free of his grip and pivoted, gesturing with her arms as if to take in the whole city. "I *know this city!* I know it as if I’ve lived here for *decades*, I know it almost as well as I knew Babylon 5! And I know we have to get to them now!" "Aye aye, sir, you mind telling me the frag *how?!*" Ivanova strode forward, almost shoving him out of the way, and proceeded to the huge main doors of the chamber. She lifted one hand, hesitated a moment, then placed her palm squarely against the huge panels. Colour rippled out around the outline of her hands; the doors shimmered, becoming a vast circular rainbow. And then, without sound or fuss, they parted, opening with slow sure majesty onto a tremendous arched hall. The light spilled down the ceiling into the hall, and shadow retreated away from that glory. Framed in the radiance, Ivanova turned. The wind from the hall stirred her hair, lifted it to blow about her face in a wild auburn mane like a lion’s. It came briefly to Waverly’s stunned mind that at that moment, his Captain was by far the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. "Let’s go get our people," was all she said. Waverly moistened his lips and tried to croak, "Aye aye, sir," but wasn’t sure if the words were loud enough to hear. He saluted as sharply as he could. ...TO BE CONTINUED