From: "Stephen J. Barringer" Subject: WANDERING STAR 41/?? Date: Fri, 3 Mar 2000 01:26:13 -0500 For those worried I'd forgotten -- I haven't, I've just been drowned in much stuff. *****************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 - 36 - EAS *SAINT-GERMAIN* JANUARY 15, 00:42 EST Matching vectors with the *Saint-Germain* for docking proved to be the most difficult part of the process. Once free of the atmosphere and no longer bound by aerodynamics or gravity, all but two of the Thunderbolts had detached themselves; the remaining two, Takayama and Cardshark, had retracted their cables as far as they could, winding themselves in towards Shuttle One until they were close enough to use their grappling claws and attach themselves directly. Takayama was positioned just above and behind the shuttle's nose, Cardshark just beneath its dead thruster nozzles. The alignment was off centre, and the engines closest to the shuttle's hull had had to be shut off to keep the fusion exhaust from melting through the fuselage: the result was a set of mismatched thrust vectors that required top-notch piloting and constant compensation to keep steady. In the end, Takayama, Morgan and DeClercq had plotted a "scoop-up" intercept that would have given Ivanova fits if she hadn't already seen far more impossible things performed today. The Thunderbolts aligned themselves before the *Saint-Germain*'s docking bay, decelerated just slightly, then detached and accelerated away. Its orbital speed slowed to just slightly less than the main ship's, Shuttle One had seemed to hang still in space as the *Saint-Germain* crept forward and swallowed it up in the docking tube. Several dozen spacesuited docking crew awaited them there. Darting forwards as the shuttle drifted past them, the crew attached cables with mag-grapples and engaged internal winches; the cables wound tight, stopping the drift and pulling the shuttle into the guidance tracks leading to the airlock. The inert bulk of the shuttle locked into the tracks with a rattling *thud*. Once there, the established machinery took over: Shuttle One slid backwards into the docking chamber lift, rose in its metal cage, slid sideways, and locked into its home port. More crew attached refueling and reoxygenating lines as the airlock cycled through its preset debarkation routine. There were, perhaps, more crew assigned to the docking of this particular shuttle than was the norm; but all in all, it was a fairly standard dock, the unorthodox collection trajectory notwithstanding. But anything that might have been considered "standard" ended as the airlock door opened. Ivanova remembered the moment – less than a month ago, but seeming like an eternity – when she'd first stepped onto the *Saint-Germain* and realized where the blackish-green shimmer of the walls had come from. Her reaction, then, had been somewhere between outrage, nausea and terror. Now it seemed simply the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen in her life. She stepped down onto the debarkation corridor, hands going automatically to the wall's holding rungs and feet finding the runged insteps. Zero-gee was more relief and relaxation than distress. Every step was a blissful breath of sanity and cleanliness, of air untainted by roses-and-spice Vorlon scents or of carbonized, liquefied organics. DeClercq waited at the far end. He was nothing but a silhouette in the slightly brighter light of the docking chamber access ledge beyond, but he too was beautiful. She considered telling him that and decided against it with a barely restrained giggle. He would be either confused or discomfited, and neither was fair to him. She stepped out of the corridor, onto the docking ledge, and saluted. "Commander." "Captain." He saluted with crisp formality, but the smile on his face was wider than any smile she had ever seen on him before. "May I congratulate you on your survival." The joy she could feel coming off him was almost tangible, a soft wave of warmth and sparkles like heated champagne that was smelt rather than tasted, felt rather than seen in smile, or heard in voice. It was the relief and happiness of a man who'd found a new reason for life, risked its loss, and had it given back to him.... Ivanova's own joy shattered in a crash of cold, terrified realization. This wasn't just empathy and her own delight in reunion. This was outright, honest to God's damnation *telepathy.* She was *scanning* DeClercq – not strongly, not deliberately, but scanning him all the same. Violating his God-given right to privacy and dignity, stealing his thoughts and feelings in the most blatant theft possible. She stood frozen in the moment of that realization as the other crew gathered around her and DeClercq. That she could not yet tell what his thoughts actually were was irrelevant. That his emotions were clearly visible to anyone *without* telepathy was also irrelevant. These powers had killed her mother. She would *not* let that happen to her. The voice that came to her now was not one she chose to recall often. Even years later, there was too much pain associated with it, almost as much as there was with Marcus' voice. It was a clear alto, smooth and warm without being husky, not quite as deep as her own voice but close. Faintly, she remembered blond hair, brown eyes, a soft, curving body pressed against hers. Now the voice was speaking, not to her, but to a young girl lying on a medcot in Babylon 5's Medbay One. The girl twisted on the cot, her face racked with pain and confusion, and Talia bent over her, calmly commanding her with both voice and telepathy: Brick by brick. Talia had, Ivanova realized, instinctively chosen an image designed to appeal to a planet-born girl, an image that allowed time and patience to work. But she had no time for that. And there was another image, one that worked better for her anyway. In her mind she summoned the vision of a B5 security-shield door: a thick duralloy plate designed to slam down in a half-second against the horrific pressure of decompression. Vast, grey, and unyielding, it came to her instantly. She triggered it. The door crashed closed with a *boom*. " – Captain?" She refocused quickly. DeClercq's concern had mitigated the visible relief on his face... and with a surge of her own relief Ivanova realized that was *all* she saw. Just the expression. Nothing came from DeClercq or the other personnel. It was just as it had been. "I'm fine. Just a little tired." Which was truer than she'd realized. In the relaxation of zero-gee, when her muscles no longer had to support her weight, the fatigue wasn't unbearable. But it was still a massive presence within her, like a directionless weight of its own. "I want everyone here checked over for radiation poisoning and any foreign biotoxins. And – " she sighed; she didn't much like this but it was not only necessary protocol but good sense. " – have Dr. Kimeda set up the alien contamination quarantine for... for our guests." DeClercq frowned. "Guests? Captain, what – " Tisiara peered around Ivanova's leg, her claws hooked into the metal mesh of the floor. Bright black eyes blinked up at the startled commander. "I – " "Xavier, this is Tisiara, of the Sharasai." Ivanova rubbed the little alien's head, scratching her fingers through the fur; Tisiara purred and butted her head against Ivanova's thigh. "She and her kin are the last survivors of her people – " "Mothers?" said DeClercq. "A suspension device. It's... a long story." Ivanova realized she was too tired to bother trying to explain. She wasn't sure she understood it all herself. "They'll have to go into quarantine." Snow, who had come up beside them as the rest of the crew debarked, pulled herself down by the floor rings to kneel beside Tisiara. "That just means that they have to keep you separate from us for a little while, sweetie. Just so we can be sure you don't have any bugs that might make us sick." Tisiara stopped. < --*were*,> she thought, and pain came off her like bursts of cold grey spray. Ivanova felt them splash against the shield she held in her mind. It was all she could do to hold herself upright. <*were* no insects, in the City> "Not those kind of bugs, sweetie." <[incomprehension]> "They're *children*," murmured DeClercq in shock. Ivanova nodded wearily. "This is not what the First Contact protocols were written to cover," she murmured to him. Her eyes hardened as she looked past Tisiara and Snow to where Waverly and Corelli drifted forward, a green-scaled giant moving between them. "Neither is this, for that matter." The big draz reached down with one booted foot to hook himself to a floor ring and stop his movement. It was a smooth gesture; the Drazi had artificial gravity, but it was a new and unreliable technology for them, and most of their military personnel were still trained in full zero-g as a matter of course. The Huntleader lifted one hand to face DeClercq, palm out. Ivanova was startled when DeClercq, without hesitation or confusion, stepped into the Drazi's grip, lifting his own hand to lightly grip the draz's throat in return. Her own hand lifted and then froze, an automatic *no!* dying on her lips as she realized neither man nor draz was closing that potentially lethal grasp. Only resting it there. "Khovrath, Huntleader, Silent Shadows," rumbled the Drazi. "DeClercq, Commander, *Saint-Germain*," returned DeClercq, switching from English to Interlac. "Has Captain Ivanova briefed you on your status here?" "Drazi... not briefed, no." Khovrath's eyes slid sideways to Ivanova; his face was expressionless, but there was something in his halting Interlac that suddenly suggested humour. "Captain... busy. Ensuring – smallship safety – no?" Ivanova's mouth twitched. Technically accurate, if you considered simply sitting in the cockpit, watching everything intently and praying nothing would go wrong to be "ensuring safety". "Correct." DeClercq nodded. "Very well. Under the Interstellar Accords of Civilized Warfare, adopted as Articles Seven through Nineteen of the Interstellar Alliance's Declaration of Principles, you, your Hunters, and the crew of the corsair *Darktalon* are hereby declared to be our prisoners of war. You will be detained aboard our vessel, subject to the basic considerations of right for all sentient individuals, until such time as you may be remanded to a suitable board of adjudication convened by the Executive Council of the Interstellar Alliance at which time your deeds will be prosecuted. Do you understand this declaration and your rights within it?" Khovrath's mouth twisted. "Could have said: 'You, Drazi, our prisoners with honour. Alliance to judge your acts.' What more needed?" "Humans are wordy buggers, Khovrath," said Morgan, from where he watched nearby. "What is 'buggers'?" Thomas opened his mouth, then stopped. Ivanova raised an eyebrow at him. "Well, Thomas?" she said in English. "You explain it to them. Though I don't think they're anatomically equipped to understand." Thomas blushed furiously. "Um...." Whatever he was going to say was lost in the simultaneous rippling breep of several links opening at once. "Ramirez to command staff! All command staff to the bridge immediately!" 01:01 EST "We have to get clear. Now." Ramirez indicated, on the main viewscreen, the blot of red-gold fire on the planet's surface below. In the past hour it had expanded immensely, covering an area roughly twenty times the size of the City's vale and still growing. "The entire planet may turn into a miniature sun. We couldn't survive the radiation release at that range. The P/R screens would be fried." DeClercq nodded in understanding as Morgan took Ensign Koderres' place at the helm. "Confirmed, Lieutenant-Commander. Mr. Morgan, plot a course – " "Belay that, Ensign." Ivanova's voice wasn't cold, just firm. DeClercq turned, scowling. Ivanova ignored the expression as she tapped commands into her armchair compad, considering the results her screen flashed up at her. "I won't have this planet destroyed because of our blundering." "I don't find destroying *us* instead an acceptable alternative, Captain!" Ramirez snapped. "Did I say that was an option? Consider yourself reprimanded, Mr. Ramirez." Ivanova didn't look up. Ramirez opened his mouth, but stopped as Morgan gripped his arm with surprising speed and shook his head. The tac officer stared down at the younger man, black eyes flashing, but after a moment closed his mouth. DeClercq sighed inwardly. It was precisely this sort of thing that had kept Ramirez stuck at his current rank for so long. "May I ask what you *do* plan to do, Captain?" he said, attempting to make the question sound like nothing more than polite curiosity. "What else?" Ivanova's mouth trembled slightly, but her voice remained unshaken. "I plan to save the world." She let them consider that for a moment, then pointed at people one by one. "Lieutenant Snow, Doctor Braun, Commander; in my briefing room in fifteen minutes. Lieutenant-Commander Ramirez, you have the conn." She turned and strode for the door. "Where are you going, sir?" Bailey blurted out, then immediately looked as if she wanted to swallow the question. "I mean, uh – " Ivanova paused in the bridge door and gave the comm tech a level look. "I'm going to take a vibe shower, Technician. I stink." MEDBAY 01:12 EST Too many of the beds were full, and not enough. For every soldier or security guard who was sitting having a wound treated, there was an empty cot that Waverly's imagination filled with a silent, unmoving form. He leant slumped against a console by the medbay's door, watching as Kimeda's staff bustled around the injured. Corelli stood at his side, hands behind his back in parade-rest at-ease stance, his eyes stony. Waverly shot him a sidelong look. "Geez, Leandro, don't you ever relax?" Corelli returned the look with one glance, his eyes sliding sideways before returning to rest intently upon the scene. "Are you relaxed right now, Chief?" Waverly winced. "No." Corelli nodded briefly. "I'll relax when we're home." He lifted his regard to look past the wounded into the isolab, where Kimeda, in full scrubs, chased the nervous and borderline hysterical Sharasai around the lab trying to get blood samples. The doctor was looking borderline hysterical herself. At last she gave up, settled for grabbing one of the alien children, and jabbed her hypoextractor into its rear without ceremony. The Sharasai wailed; a moment later the others took it up, a high, crystal-edged keening. Kimeda let the alien go and almost literally kicked her way out of the isolab, stumbling into the exchange-door and waiting until it revolved to release her. With a gasp she collapsed against one medcot. "God -- !" "Anybody ever tell you your bedside manner really sucks, Doc?" Waverly remarked. Kimeda glared at him sourly. "I should take lessons in tact from *you*, Chief?" She pushed herself upright and went to her lab table. "Let's just hope this isn't the only healthy one in a group of infected subjects, because I am *not* doing that again." "How long will it take for a complete workup?" Corelli glanced at the isolab, watching as the Sharasai huddled together, their keen dropping to a croon of mutual comfort and sympathy. "If we have to keep them in there for long, they may protest." "And what are they going to do, kick holes in the plexicrys?" Kimeda muttered. Pouring blood into a centrifuge phial, she set the 'fuge going and placed a few drops on an electron slide. "I find myself not particularly moved by their distress." "You will be," said Corelli. "Directly." "And now *you* think my empathy is faulty too?" "No. Precisely the opposite, in fact." Corelli never took his stony eyes off the isolab. "Remember, Doctor. They're telepaths. All of them." Kimeda paused. "From the way they felt in my head," Waverly added, mostly out of perverse delight at seeing the icy doctor rattled, "my guess is the weakest of 'em's at least a P8 or P9. Imagine what they'll be like when they grow up." "Indeed. Who decided this?" Waverly frowned. He didn't like how flatly that question had come out. "Well, the Captain did. I mean, we all agreed – they're *kids*, Doc, we weren't gonna leave them to die down there – but it was the Captain's call." "I thought as much. I just needed you to confirm it." Kimeda put down the electron slide and rose, turning to head for the door without a second look. Corelli and Waverly followed her with their eyes, then exchanged a glance. The sudden unsettlement was clear to both of them. Waverly sprinted out the door after her, catching up with her just as the transport tube door opened. "Doc. Where are you going?" "To the bridge." Kimeda stepped in, turned around, and actually *smiled* at him. "To relieve Captain Ivanova from command, on the grounds that she is clearly psychologically unfit for duty." The transport tube doors closed. Waverly gaped at his own reflection in their smooth metallic surface as if the reflection itself had just reached out and haymakered him, trying to make himself move. But he couldn't. ... TO BE CONTINUED