From: Stephen Barringer Subject: Preview of Coming Attraction Date: Thu, 26 Feb 1998 14:54:30 -0500 Coming Soon . . . . A New Fan Fiction Novel by Stephen J. Barringer INTO THE FIRE Miraculously saved from certain death, Susan Ivanova has seen the end of the Earth Alliance Civil War and the fall of President Morgan Clark's corrupt regime. Now she has been promoted to Captain and given command of the Warlock-class cruiser EAS *Saint-Germain*, Earth's newest and most powerful starship. She has finally achieved her life's greatest dream. But the dream has turned to ashes in the moment of its birth. For her life was saved by the death of the man she realized, too late, she loved. Her promotion is a sham, a political punishment for her loyalty to the rebel Captain John Sheridan. Her starship is an untried, experimental vessel, the product of a technology proscribed throughout known space. Her crew is a mismatched assortment of green cadets and Earthforce failures, some of whom have secret agendas of their own. And her mission is to explore the Rim of known space, officially to guard the "forbidden" technologies abandoned by the Vorlons and the Shadows from exploitation by younger, less scrupulous races... but in reality to secure those technologies for Earth alone. Now, alone on the Rim, hunted by enemies past and present, visible and invisible, and facing a threat that could mean the destruction of the galaxy, Susan Ivanova has only one chance to survive. She must win an impossible allegiance from the divided loyalties of her crew. She must face at last her darkest secret. And in the end, she must surrender herself to her oldest, deepest pain. Some days it just doesn't pay to be Russian. W A N D E R I N G S T A R Coming soon on the B5-Creative Mailing List <*> DISCLAIMER: Susan Ivanova, John Sheridan, Morgan Clark, Earthforce and the Earth Alliance, and the Vorlons and the Shadows are the creations and copyrighted property of J. Michael Straczynski and Babylonian Productions, and are used here without permission strictly for the purposes of entertainment. From: Stephen Barringer Subject: WANDERING STAR: 01/?? (but many!) Date: Fri, 27 Feb 1998 16:14:14 -0500 In response to a rather pointed encouragement (thank you, Susan B., wherever you are!) the first installment of my first B5 fanfic. Go easy on me,= folks. <><><><><><><><><><> BOILERPLATE <><><><><><><><><><><><> DISCLAIMER: Susan Ivanova, John Sheridan, Morgan Clark, Earthforce and the Earth Alliance, Alfred Bester, the Vorlons and the Shadows, Psi Corps and all other BABYLON 5 characters are the creations and copyrighted property of J. Michael Straczynski and Babylonian Productions, and are used here without permission strictly for the purposes of entertainment. All other characters and situations are copyright of the author, but permission is hereby granted for free, nonprofit use by other fanfic authors. (Though it would be nice if you asked anyway.) SPOILERS: Much of Fourth/Fifth Seasons, from "Between the Darkness and the Light" up to "A View From the Gallery". SUMMARY: The first month of Ivanova's captaincy aboard the Warlock-class cruiser *Saint-Germain*, her adventures on the Rim, and the secrets of her starship and crew. <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> << W A N D E R I N G S T A R >> PROLOGUE: PEACEKEEPERS - 1 - DECEMBER 16, 2261 SYRIA PLANUM, MARS COLONY Red sunlight bathed the room in blood as the dark-haired man stepped into its light, his deep, dark eyes and oddly youthful face seeming to glow with the eerie luminescence. The woman who waited for him at the plexicrys windows did not move, made no outward acknowledgement of his presence. But they had already begun their communication. It did not take place in words; it was faster, blurrier, rich with depths and tones that no purely auditory conversation would convey, no transcription could hope to match. But the meanings and concepts exchanged proceeded roughly so. =3Dyou know=3D =3DI know=3D The woman nodded. =3D[commiseration]/[irony]/[resignation]=3D She left= the window panels and moved to the couch; he joined her, and they sat, thought swirling between them like silver mist in the air. =3Dstatus of Corps?=3D =3Dunchanged ["The Corps is mother, the Corps is father"], we will continue [satisfaction-resignation]=3D The man smiled. =3DCarolyn? [careful concern]=3D At that the man's smile vanished. =3Dunchanged [darkness-grief-= bitterness]: biotech R&D has not yet found [frustration] the implants' keys=3D He looked away, brows drawing his face into brooding shadow. =3D[calmness-serenity] patience=3D counseled the woman. =3Dthere are= always other options [IMAGE: a road branching in endless forks]=3D She pushed back her hair, a short, professional bob of brown, and folded her arms; her hazel eyes never left the man. =3DI know of others with ends much like your own [IMAGE: many roads melting into one]: our Senatorial allies [IMAGE: a tall, balding, dignified black man with strings on hands and feet, rising into infinity] have won support for the Warlock Project=3D =3D[shock] !!!=3D The man's head twisted sharply around. =3Dit is too= soon!=3D =3Dany later will be too late,=3D countered the woman. =3Dwe have already= begun: join or fall behind, Alfred Bester [threat-danger-humour]: join or fall behind [echo, echo, echo]:[IMAGE: dark-haired man standing alone on a road, fading into vanishing distance]=3D She stood and left the room. Bester remained on the couch for some time, staring out at the lifeless surface of Mars. His body was light with the low gravity, but his heart sat like a stone in his chest. Death itself scared him less than the horrific living technology of the Shadows, the violent and violating biomachines that had taken away his Carolyn, his heart, his sole remaining claim to humanity. Already, they had gone too far down that road. He had tried once to find an answer in the ruins of Z'ha'dum, and watched the planet consume itself in fire before his eyes. Would Earth, itself, a thousand years hence, do the same if the organic machines of the Shadows became the common tools of= humans? He sighed. There was nothing to be done. The plans of the others would go ahead, with or without his permission; and if he joined now, at least he would have an opportunity to affect the outcome. Who knew? There might even be an answer or two gained along the way. His link bleeped. Annoyed, he glanced down at it. He hated links; the distances and occlusion rendered telepathic contact impossible, and pure speech always felt so limited. Still, you couldn't touch everyone's mind *all* the time. He tapped it and answered. "Bester." "Sir? We have a new status report on Operative XR-372." "Yes?" "He's awake, sir. Fully conscious." Subdued excitement thrummed in the other voice. "We're still running tests, but preliminary estimates are of one hundred percent success." Adrenaline lashed like silver fire through Bester's veins. He was on his feet and striding to the door. "Prep him for a visitor. I have his first assignment." - 2 - DECEMBER 17, 2261 EARTHDOME, GENEVA Sky. At long last, sky. Susan Ivanova stood on the snow-covered grass of the Earthforce billet's lawn, her head tilted back, tears trickling down her cheeks. She had arrived late last night on a bus from the starport, exhausted to the bone and to the core of her soul, and thrown herself into bed without realizing where she was. But this morning, the sunlight had shone in through her window and woken her, and the gravity -- *real* gravity, not the centripetally-generated inertia of a space station - gave her back her proper weight at last, and finally she knew she was home. Earth, her birthworld. And she had gone out to breathe the cold winter air and watch the sun climbing up into the heavens, the sky so endless and blue and alive, and before she had known it she was crying again. the annoyingly sane part of her brain informed her. Ivanova snuffled and scrubbed at her face. Already she had drawn curious looks from some of the billet's other inhabitants as they trailed in and out, heading for their various assignments or leisure assignations. Thankfully, they were the Space Service, and knew what it was to touch ground again after Yahweh knew how many years in space. The soldiers of the Planetary Service, on the other hand, the groundpounding GROPOs, would never have let the chance to make fun of a spacegirl like her go by. Earthforce was theoretically a single organization, but the ancient rivalry between those who walked and fought hand to hand and those who flew or sailed and fought with their vehicles remained. Earthside billets had long given up any attempt to put the two branches together in one building; the insurance companies just wouldn't deal with the inevitable consequences any more. A snort of laughter burst through the remains of her tears, and she shook her head. She sighed, gathered herself and headed back into the building. A quick shower, a fresh uniform - she was still not used to seeing the captain's bars on her shoulder - and then one of the local cabs should get her there without any problem. "So whadaya think of the mess?" the cab driver said conversationally to her as she closed the door and slid into the centre of the back seat. "Clark takes himself out with a plasma gun, bang! I say good riddance to 'im. Who needs the whole strokin' Nightwatch?" He was short and grizzled, with the loose-jowled look of a fat man who'd recently lost weight. "An' now ISN says we're gonna be joinin' some big-deal interstellar treaty. Holy crapoly, I swear to you, lady, if I ever thought the day woulda come when the Boneheads came back here to save the freakin' planet from its own President, ay...." He shook his head, amazed. "Senate Hall, east wing," said Ivanova, her voice flat. The cab driver didn't take the hint, but he did hit the charge pedal. The cab hummed into motion and shot along the streets, the silver bubble of Earthdome growing larger in the windshield. The driver gestured to it admiringly. "Look at it, huh? Beautiful. Tell you, lady, I work in the greatest city in the whole freakin' universe, you got the beauty of Man, the beauty of Nature...." He swept out a hand to indicate the Alps on the horizon, white, snow-glistening triangles of mountain peaks. "Doesn't get any better than this. Who needs space, huh? That's what I say. Who needs space?" Ivanova dropped her head into one palm. She looked up at the cab's roof. "So, did you see action in the blowup?" The driver glanced back over his shoulder. "You look like someone who can kick an ass or two. Crap, I tell you, I wouldn't wanna be in fight. Freakin' civil war, I tell ya, freakin' civil war, if I'd been Sheridan I woulda just sent someone in with a long-range sniper gun and taken out Clark right away. Shoulda done it back in '59, before the crap went down. You know, there's people sayin' that's how it happened, you get it? Some senator or a Dome guard or somebody shot Clark before he could shut off the space grid. Wouldn't that be a kicker, make this whole battle a freakin' accident?" Ivanova's knuckles went slowly white on her carryall bag's handles. The driver blathered on as the cab passed through the east gate of the Earthdome. The winter sky disappeared, replaced by cool gray plastiform panels arching up and over the vast muddled complex of buildings and connected modules that was the Earth Alliance government centre. Angular white towers stood among ornate, baroque buildings transported from the oldest heart of Swiss Geneva, red and green houses converted to hotels and storefronts; straight white bridges linked the skyscrapers above while trees blossomed under the circles of UV sunlamps arranged to nourish them. Watching the metroplex slide by, Ivanova let out her breath, her anger fading. There was no aesthetic, balanced perfection to Earthdome, as there might have been to a Minbari city, and none of the exotic alien grandeur of a Centauri capitol, but there was a real vitality here, a relaxed enjoyment of disorder that seemed to be a uniquely human trait. A sudden impulse took her so strongly that her throat closed up: what if she walked into the meeting and told Senator Metairie and General Lefcourt that she had changed her mind? That she was going to resign from Earthforce just as John had done? Take her last pay, her personal belongings, and walk out of Earthdome forever? She had wanted to travel after the war, she'd said as much to Marcus on the bridge of the *White Star* -- She swallowed, fought back tears. Damn it. She'd thought she was over this. Why now, why only after she had lost him, did every thought of him make her want to cry? "Hey, lady, you okay back there? Something wrong?" The cab driver had twisted to look over his shoulder, and it was only the honest concern in his glance that stopped her punching him through the windshield. Ivanova's hands twisted in the fabric of her carryall as she fought for calm. Dammit, dammit, dammit, this was no way to begin what might be the most important meeting of her career. For the first time the driver hesitated. "Look, lady, I don't know if there's anything I can do, but it looks like you need help." He found a gap in traffic and eased over to the curb, throttling the charge down, then put the meter on hold and turned to face her. "You maybe, I don't know, you wanna talk about it?" Ivanova stared at him. "Talk? What is this, psychiatry on wheels? You charge extra for this service?" The driver flushed. "Hey, lady, I'd be a pretty crappy human being if I couldn't tell that some things are more important than your next ten-credit trip." He shrugged. "Look, this is Earthdome, I can get all the rides I want. Hell, some weeks I probably make more'n you do. And I see and hear a lot more than the bigwigs in those buildings think." One calloused thumb jabbed at the Senate Hall, a long low building just down the street. "You want someone who can listen, who knows what goes down and who won't shoot you for blabbin' secrets, I'm your best shot." "How tragic," Ivanova muttered. "Sorry?" "Nothing. Look - " She rubbed her forehead, searching for words. "I appreciate the offer, really I do, but there's just - there's no way I could explain it." "No way to sum up?" The driver risked a grin. Ivanova's mouth twitched. "Five words: I was on Babylon 5." The driver let out a long, low whistle and slumped back in his seat. "Wow. An' you're still in Earthforce? No wonder you're dancin' on landmines." "Well, that's one way to put it." Ivanova smiled. Strangely, she *was* feeling better. "Captain Sheridan made it a condition of his resignation that all personnel under his orders were granted full amnesty. You can imagine how well *that* went over." "Sheesh," the driver agreed. "Never jam a condition down a general's throat. They *hate* that." "Yeah." Ivanova was silent a moment. "Unfortunately, when generals get upset, they have a distressing habit of taking it out on their subordinates." Her eyes strayed to the Senate Hall, waiting patiently down the street, like a lion knowing it was about to be fed. The driver followed her gaze. "So they gonna tell you 'good girl', or tell you to bend over?" Ivanova's eyebrows lifted. "I never heard it put that bluntly before. Well - " She blew out a breath. "The problem is it's not that simple. Earthforce is very good at making punishments look like rewards, and vice versa. Sometimes they're one and the same thing." "That's why I drive a cab," said the driver. "People don't like my job, they don't pay me. Best kinda job review there is. 'Cause it's the *simplest*." "Huh." Ivanova grabbed her carryall and opened the back door; there was no point in waiting any longer, and the Hall was easily within walking distance from here. "Well, for what it's worth, I'm intending to pay you. How= much?" The driver looked at her again, then shook his head and switched off the meter. "No charge, lady. Not for you." "Oh, no, wait, I can't let you do that - " Ivanova protested. "No, no, call this my little way of contributin' to human happiness." The driver held up his hand with great dignity, but his eyes twinkled. "Besides, it ain't often a lunk like me gets to drive around a gorgeous Earthforce captain an' still talk to her afterwards." Ivanova shook her head, smiling helplessly. "You're one of those people who has to have the last word, aren't you?" "Me? What gives you that idea?" The driver grinned widely and reached over to pull the back door shut. Ivanova stepped clear as the hum of the cab's motors rose. The cab began to pull away from the curb, angled out to face the traffic, and stopped. The driver leaned out his window. "Oh, and by the way, Captain? Merry Christmas!" Ivanova laughed. "I'm Jewish!" she yelled after the departing vehicle. "So happy Hanukkah!" came a final shout back, and the cab was gone. Ivanova stared after it, her smile equal parts mirth and bemusement. she thought. She tried to imagine a Minbari or Drazi doing what this total stranger had just done and couldn't. It was nice to realize there were good people back home too. "Captain Ivanova." Senator Elizabeth Metairie rose to clasp Ivanova's hand as she leaned over the desk. She was a small woman, dark-haired and dark-eyed, and pretty in a well-preserved-40s kind of way. "Thank you for coming." Ivanova nodded stiffly. "Thank you, Senator." She turned to salute the other man who stood in the room, a burly, grey-haired fellow in a blue Earthforce uniform. "General Lefcourt." "Captain," said Lefcourt, and indicated the chair. "Please, be seated." As Ivanova took the chair, he paced around her to stand at Metairie's side. "Your journey proceeded well?" "Uh, yes sir. Can't complain." She tried a nervous grin. "Well, I could, I'm Russian, but...." She trailed off under Lefcourt's sober stare. "Well, never mind." Metairie smiled. "It's good to see you still have your sense of humour after everything that's happened, Captain." Her smile faded to a somber look. "I understand you were very nearly killed." Ivanova folded her hands in her lap and fixed her gaze on them. "Very nearly, ma'am. It was only through the - " her voice caught for a moment - "through the sacrifice of a very close friend that I survived." "We all lost good people," rumbled Lefcourt, his blue eyes warming slightly with what was probably as close to compassion as he could get. "In some ways I think that was the greatest tragedy of this situation, that good people could find themselves so divided." The blue gaze cooled again. "No one would ever dare question the strength of your loyalty, Captain." "Merely its placement?" Ivanova suggested dryly. Lefcourt's gaze flickered. Metairie sighed and leant forward. "And there you've hit the nail on the head, Captain. It's no real secret that there are people here in Earthdome who still view anyone who supported Sheridan with extreme suspicion." Ivanova sighed. "I can't say I'm surprised." "Unconditional amnesty was part of the agreement President Luchenko made with Sheridan," Lefcourt said. "But there are many ways to strike back without invoking or breaking the law. We aren't interested in exposing you to them just yet." A sudden chill cut through Ivanova's midsection, and she sat up straight, her voice weak for lack of air but steady. "Are you revoking my command, sir?" "No." Lefcourt's answer was quick and strong. "Never. You've earned that command and more. But...." He drew a deep breath. "Your mission specs have changed." "Changed?" Lefcourt and Metairie exchanged a glance. Finally Lefcourt sighed, took a personal dataplayer from the desk and handed it to her. Ivanova frowned. "Sir?" "Read." Shrugging, Ivanova punched the access button. Lines of data scrolled across the screen, interspersed with star charts and crew files. Ivanova read with eidetic speed, eyes flickering back and forth=85 and= slowly, her face changed. First the frown became even more perplexed. Then it became an incredulous scowl. And then her eyebrows shot up, appalled. She looked up. "Sir - permission to speak freely! -" she only barely waited for Lefcourt's nod - "are you out of your mind?! There's no *way* one ship could handle that mission profile, no matter how powerful or fast it is! And this was supposed to be a *shakedown* cruise! What if something goes wrong with the ship? Sir, this - this - " "This, Captain," said Metairie quietly, but with iron in her voice, "is the only way we can save your reputation and career. And possibly your life." Ivanova stared at her. "Senator, this is a sentence of exile." "And the alternative," said Lefcourt, "could be a sentence of= death." ...TO BE CONTINUED From: Stephen Barringer Subject: WANDERING STAR: 02/?? Date: Fri, 06 Mar 1998 16:24:39 -0500 Instalment 2 of WANDERING STAR. I'm going to try for an instalment once every week or so, but I am writing from work and rehearsing for a play and a film shoot, so should the occasional Friday go by without an update, please don't PPG me to death, please please? Note also the change in e-mail address. Feedback welcomed. Flames will crush my spirit and send it wailing into outer darkness, so please make criticism kind, hm? <><><><><><><><><><> BOILERPLATE <><><><><><><><><><><><> DISCLAIMER: Susan Ivanova, Senator Metairie, General Lefcourt, John Sheridan, Morgan Clark, Earthforce and the Earth Alliance, Alfred Bester, Psi Corps and all other BABYLON 5 characters are the creations and copyrighted property of J. Michael Straczynski and Babylonian Productions, and are used here without permission strictly for the purposes of entertainment. All other characters and situations are copyright of the author, but permission is hereby granted for free, nonprofit use by other fanfic authors. (Though it would be nice if you asked anyway.) SPOILERS: Much of Fourth/Fifth Seasons, from "Between the Darkness and the Light" up to "A View From the Gallery". <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> << W A N D E R I N G S T A R >> PROLOGUE: PEACEKEEPERS - 3 - DECEMBER 23, 2261 STATION PRIME Gravity was a giant foot on her chest as the Earthforce shuttle sped skyward from Airdome. Ivanova gritted her teeth and endured it. Her bones creaked. All around her, the blue sky slowly faded into black and the stars emerged, bright and shining points of unwinking fire. Like Lefcourt's gaze. Her eidetic memory replayed, with merciless speed, the remainder of the conversation six days ago. She had stared at Metairie and Lefcourt, sensing but not understanding the threat. "Death," she finally said. Lefcourt sighed, and the military stiffness went out of his bearing; he perched himself on the edge of the desk. "Captain," he said, "I'd be lying if I said I was ungrateful for what you and Sheridan did. I disagreed with your methods, I always will, but I am profoundly glad of the result." "As am I," Metairie agreed. "But?" Ivanova prodded. "But we are by no means a majority voice." Metairie rubbed her forehead. "Captain, you have to understand that *Clark wasn't alone*. He had, and has, many supporters and followers in the Senate, the Ministries and in Earthforce, many of whom did absolutely *nothing* that was actually illegal and can't possibly be dismissed, reprimanded or controlled. And there are many more who cared nothing for either side and are trying to eliminate *all* the elements involved for the sake of a return to peace. To say nothing of Psi Corps." "Yes, indeed, let us say nothing of Psi Corps," Ivanova agreed with something slightly too sharp to be irony. Metairie let it pass. "But what it comes down to is that you have far too many enemies in Earthgov, Captain, and they have far too much power. This is only nominally a reward, Captain Ivanova. It is also, and was always meant to be, a punishment. And a revenge." Bitter comprehension tightened Ivanova's mouth. "Of course." "They would prefer you court-martialed and dead, or dishonourably discharged at the least," said Lefcourt bluntly. "But Luchenko's amnesty has hamstrung them, and paradoxically made them more dangerous. Any reprisals against you now would be covert, and we would not be in a position to protect you from them. We wanted to get you away from Earth control, as far as possible." "You certainly did *that*," Ivanova muttered. "Captain," said Lefcourt warningly. "Sorry." Metairie maintained her diplomatic calmness. "We had hoped you would take command on Babylon 5," she said. "Under the auspices of the Interstellar Alliance, you would be far more secure there than anywhere else in Earth space. But that option is... no longer open to us." Ivanova heard the faint reproof in Metairie's voice, but didn't really care. Babylon 5 had been the place of some of the best times in her life. But not once, not twice, but *three times*, it had also been the place where her dreams of love and intimacy had died. First, Malcolm Biggs. Then, Talia Winters. And finally Marcus, the love she hadn't even *known* about until she had lost him. That was it. No more. No matter how close her friends on Babylon 5 were, every room, every metre of that station was a living twist of memory's knife. No prestige or safety was worth that. "A captain on extended-range patrol is as close to a completely autonomous entity as exists in Earthforce," said Lefcourt. "We can protect you from local and covert interference that way. And the difficulty of the mission profile can be passed off as a punishment in order to satisfy them." Ivanova almost said. "We realize we're handing you an impossible task," Lefcourt went on. "But we know this, and it will be taken into consideration. In a year Clark's people will have lost most of whatever power they have left. Nobody who reads the mission profile will fault you for any failure." "And if you do manage to pull it off," Metairie added with a smile, "the accomplishment will outweigh any bad feeling remaining back here. In one stroke you'll gain enough influence to be safe from any possible attack. This will be difficult, but really, it's a no-lose situation, Captain." *That* did it. "Senator," Ivanova grated, "with all due respect, the only people who believe in no-lose situations are children and fools, and I don't think any of us are either. Did it ever occur to you that people *die* out on the Rim?" Metairie blinked. "Captain, I didn't mean - " "I recognize that this is the best you could do, and believe me, I appreciate your efforts. But please don't try to sugar-coat it." Metairie and Lefcourt exchanged a glance. Metairie cleared her throat. "I'm sorry, Captain. I was only trying to be as positive as possible." Ivanova took a deep breath and let her anger out with it; as much as she could, anyway. Yelling had always been a far more effective stress relief for her. But talking back in *any* way to an Earthforce superior could be grounds for dismissal, and even though Metairie had no direct authority over her there was no point in making enemies where she didn't have to. "No, Senator, I'm the one who should apologize. I was out of line." "As I said, we understand." Metairie hesitated, and for the first time her expression of uncertainty seemed genuine, unfiltered by her practiced politician's charm. "I would be lying if I told you this assignment was as desirable as ISN is making it sound. But there are positive aspects to it, and with all due respect, Captain, your record does indicate a certain, um, tendency to pessimism?" One delicate eyebrow arched. "It's hardly been unwarranted," Ivanova muttered, aware even as she said it of how petty the statement sounded. "Granted." Metairie looked at Lefcourt again; he nodded, and the Senator turned back to look her steadily in the eyes. "Captain, you free to refuse this assignment, if you want. But over and above everything else, you're an Earthforce officer. A soldier. We can't protect you from battle. But we give you a choice about how to fight. You can fight out there, at the helm of a starship, or you can fight in here, with words and lies and politics. "The choice is yours." It was strange, Ivanova mused bitterly as the vast rotating wheel of Station Prime grew in the viewport of the shuttle, how the only time anyone ever said, "The choice is yours," was when there was really no choice at all. Station Prime was the oldest and, until the construction of Babylon 4, the largest of the Earth Alliance's space stations. Unlike the rotary-cylinder O'Neill habitats that were the design for the Babylon stations and for Jumpgate Alpha off Io, Station Prime had been built to an older pattern, the "spoked wheel" shape of early Terran visions. The main fusion generators, as well as an assortment of micro-grav cargo bays, were contained in the central "axle" of the station, from which twelve kilometre-long cylindrical supports radiated out to a wheel of titanium fifteen stories thick and two hundred metres wide. At either end of the central axle, giant black solar energy panels reached out like wings to either side, internal gyroscopes maintaining their orientation towards the Sun throughout the station's revolution. As the shuttle approached, attitude thrusters fired, matching trajectory and velocity with the outer surface of the wheel and angling the shuttle to approach the docking bay doors sliding open above them. It looked like nothing so much as a giant silver wheel rolling down to crush them. Kinesis played across Ivanova's body and through the shuttle's chassis as pulses of fusion-engine power brought them up into the docking bay. Beneath them, the doors slid shut. The engines' roar began to die down. Ivanova felt gravity, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, grip her once again as magnetic landing grapples engaged, pulling the ship towards what centripetal inertia was now declaring to be the "floor" of the bay. They touched down with a *clank*. Ivanova sighed. The less efficient design of Station Prime's docking facilities meant that it would take much longer for heat and atmosphere cycling to be complete than it would aboard Babylon 5. Ivanova folded her arms and waited, her anger simmering ever higher. Had the *Saint-Germain* been any other ship it would have been here waiting for her, and she and her crew could have begun immediately. But no: thanks to the new designs of the starship, and the secret parts of its new mission, the crew would gather here on Station Prime *first*, and *then*, in a shuttle convoy, they would travel from Prime to the Callisto shipyards... a voyage that would take another week. Ivanova hated secrets. They weren't *efficient*. Yahweh knew Babylon 5 had suffered enough from that one very obvious principle. Why was it no one but her ever clued into that? On a display panel above the shuttle's main door, a light turned from red to green. Susan sighed in relief and unbelted herself. The docking bay had been declared fit for human exposure, which meant it was still freezing. Ivanova joined the other passengers of the shuttle in their headlong rush to the lights of the decon antechamber; it was open now at both ends, unneeded for this particular craft, and the crowd thundered on into the central debarkation room. Ivanova slowed to a breathless halt, looking around for her contacts as the other Earthforce personnel found their ways out or their assigned liaisons. She frowned. She didn't recognize any of the officers waiting along the walls - Her eyes made contact. Near the far back entrance, two men waited. One was tall, broad-shouldered, black-skinned and evidently on the far side of forty-five; his tight, curly hair was almost completely silver, his square-jawed, handsome face bearded in the same colour. A commander's bars gleamed gold on his breast. By his side stood a much younger man, blond, slight and slim, wavy hair brushed neatly back from a pale triangular face dominated by clear, piercing blue-green eyes. His rank bar was that of an ensign: Ivanova thought briefly to herself she'd never seen anyone so deserving of the epithet "fresh-faced cadet" before her gaze went back to the commander. She *knew* that face. She'd seen it... somewhere.... But more to the point, the contact of the commander's eyes with hers meant that he clearly knew her. He nudged the ensign, and the two of them walked over to her; Ivanova repressed an impulse to straighten her clothing. She was *their* superior officer, after all. They came to attention before her and saluted; automatically she returned it. "Captain Ivanova," said the commander in a deep voice, his accent vaguely British but somehow flatter: the word "captain" was almost "kepten". But he pronounced her name correctly, emphasizing the second syllable as so few non-Russian speakers did. "Welcome to Station Prime. This is Ensign Thomas Morgan." "Captain," said the blond man, nodding. "Thank you," said Ivanova, nonplussed. Somehow the commander had managed to avoid identifying himself, and she suddenly couldn't figure out how to ask him his name directly without seeming, well, rude. "Commander, I can't help feeling I should know you." "You probably should," said the commander in a curiously flat tone. "Station has assigned the crew of the *Saint-Germain* a block of rooms in White Sector. If you'll come with me - " He turned and strode back towards the main entrance, Ensign Morgan automatically following. Unnerved and a little irritated, Ivanova jogged to catch up. Who was in command here, anyway? "Commander," Ivanova repeated as they entered the level's main corridor. "Would you care to introduce yourself, please?" Her voice was sharp. "Please, Captain." Unexpectedly - and annoyingly - the commander's voice actually sounded *amused*, although there was no hint of a smile on his face. "I go unrecognized so seldom, anonymity is a rare pleasure. Would you deny your new exec a moment of relief?" "So you *are* my executive officer." She glanced at Morgan. "And you?" "Helm, sir. Alpha shift." Morgan smiled, an awkward but surprisingly charming expression. Ivanova tried to remember if she'd ever been that young and enthusiastic about anything. "My first assignments, and I can tell you, I'm looking forward to this. Scuttlebutt has it the *Saint-Germain*'s the toughest ship in the fleet; she could kick a *Sharlin*-class ship halfway across the galaxy and still have enough punch to take on a Vorlon battlecruiser." Ivanova had to smile. "I think you exaggerate, Ensign." "Of course I do, sir, isn't that what being young and stupid's all about?" He gave her a wide-eyed look that was clearly intended to fool nobody. Ivanova had to work hard to control her amusement. "But I still can't wait to get my hands on those controls." She was about to riposte with some comment about young male enthusiasm when she remembered where she was, and who she was with, and realized how neatly Morgan had distracted her. Anger crackled through her, and she stopped dead. Morgan and the commander had to backpedal and turn to face her, both looking surprised. "No farther." She glared at them both. "I want some answers, and I want them now. Who are you, Commander?" The commander sighed. And it was the abruptly weary, defeated look of his face that was the final piece in Ivanova's memory. The answer was cold and chilling in her even before the man spoke it aloud. "Commander F. Xavier DeClercq, Captain, at your service." Commander DeClercq. The Coward of Vega VII. Ivanova's mind railed, even as her jaw dropped and her stomach took a sickening plunge. Her mind stopped. Metairie and Lefcourt had thought she would be safe from revenge aboard the *Saint-Germain*. But they had been wrong. The revenge was only beginning. ...TO BE CONTINUED <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> Coming soon: WANDERING STAR, PART I: Saint-Germain ...in which our Captain meets more of her crew and takes command of Earthforce's most powerful and controversial vessel, and her first voyage to the Rim. <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> From: Stephen Barringer Subject: WANDERING STAR: 03/?? Date: Tue, 10 Mar 1998 17:05:07 -0500 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii" Instalment 3 of WANDERING STAR. So much for Fridays only...! I've given up on trying for any kind of schedule. It'll come as it comes, folks. Standard request: feedback welcomed, flames cringed from, etc etc etc.... <><><><><><><><><><> BOILERPLATE <><><><><><><><><><><><> DISCLAIMER: Susan Ivanova, Marcus Cole, and all other BABYLON 5 characters are the creations and copyrighted property of J. Michael Straczynski and Babylonian Productions, and are used here without permission strictly for the purposes of entertainment. All other characters and situations are copyright of the author, but permission is hereby granted for free, nonprofit use by other fanfic authors. (Though it would be nice if you asked anyway.) SPOILERS: Much of Fourth/Fifth Seasons, from "Between the Darkness and the Light" up to "A View From the Gallery". <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> << W A N D E R I N G S T A R >> PART I: SAINT-GERMAIN - 1 - DECEMBER 24, 2261, 01:13 EST STATION PRIME, EXECUTIVE QUARTERS 11-A-24 The station had been in darkness for some hours now, but Susan had been unable to sleep. She lay stretched out on the couch in her quarters, staring at the ceiling, her vision lost in the gunmetal-grey metal of the room. She had gone over her crew roster again and again, and without exception - without a single fragging exception, not even herself - the crew fell into one of two categories. Either they were failures, washouts, political losers, insubordinates or some other variety of Earthforce undesirable, or they were raw cadets just out of Academy, many of whom had problems of their own. Not all - she'd been pleasantly surprised with a rare few of them; Morgan in particular was evidently one of the Academy's top products - but far too many to be comfortable. Tomorrow she would meet with her primary executive crew, one by one, one on one. From both Jeffrey Sinclair and John Sheridan she'd learned the value of personal involvement. They had each had their own styles, of course. Sinclair, though he had always maintained a certain distance, would dive in and work right alongside someone, winning loyalty with work and competence rather than with words; Sheridan, by contrast, though he was perfectly willing to delegate work and stay out of it once delegated, had a personal charm and warmth that bound people to him on an emotional level. But both had had that absolutely devastating way of looking at you with utterly open eyes that said, . For Ivanova, who had always had more trouble trusting herself than she had others, that kind of aura had been simply impossible to resist. Not that trusting others was easy for her, either. Garibaldi had always joked about trusting no one, but for all his open paranoia and suspicion, he at least knew his own mind - if he didn't trust you, he trusted you with *nothing*, and made no bones about it. Conversely, once he *did* trust, he trusted absolutely. It had never been that black and white for her. Trusting someone's intentions, for example, wasn't the same as trusting their judgement; and degrees of trust rose and fell, waxing and waning with her mood, the events of the day, the actions of others.... Trust and faith were shadowed, ever-changing mazes for her, and she navigated them with difficulty at the best of times. Her eyes had been growing heavy for some time, and almost without noticing now, they slid slowly closed, her mind still going over the crew and the problem of trust. How, she wondered sleepily, did you win the souls of three hundred and seventy people, half of whom were children and the other half scarred outcasts, and make them trust not only you but each other? How? Somehow, she was in the hydroponics garden on Babylon 5 once more, carefully placing her hard-found coffee plants into their suspensor tanks. Zack had agreed to arrange for a covert shipment to the *Saint-Germain*; a task that might have been harder, he'd told her with a grin, if he hadn't found out that half the captains in the fleet had already done the same thing via one trade route or another. Susan had laughed - one of the few times since Marcus' death she had done so - and thanked him, and he'd warned her that it would be her lookout to get them properly stored for transport. It had been, she knew, the last time she would ever stand in the gardens of B5, and yet somehow here she was again, and she felt no surprise. "The greatest power of dreams," said a voice she remembered, a cheerful British voice with hints of pain and irony like dark crystals in brandy, "is that they alone can transcend time." She turned, and there he was, leaning against a nearby railing with his arms folded. As handsome and elegant as he had ever been in life, even at his most bedraggled or beaten-up. Tears burned in her eyes. Her throat and chest clenched. "Marcus," she whispered, and ran to him, and he opened his arms to her, and for a blissful eternity that was all too brief she tasted his mouth, his lips, the feel of his beard against her tear-dampened cheek. "I'm sorry," she gasped between kisses, "I'm sorry, I should have seen it, why didn't I say something sooner -- ?" "You were afraid, love," he murmured. He drew back a little, fixing her with those dark, incredible eyes. "There's nothing to be ashamed of in fear. It's meant to keep us alive." Susan gave a strangled laugh. "God, even when you're dead, you don't think I can do any wrong, can you?" Marcus chuckled. "Susan, you punish yourself enough for a score of judges, I've never felt the need to add to it." He traced her lips with one finger, face abruptly turning serious. "It's I who should apologize to you, you know. I didn't love you enough, and I'm sorry." "*What?*" "Or perhaps it was too much, I don't know...." Marcus sighed, and let his arms fall, stepping away from her. "Susan, my brother and family died at Arisia III, and all my life after that was an attempt to make up for not dying with them. For my failure to believe my brother when he brought me the first warnings from Sinclair and the Rangers. Delenn told me once that it was the one thing I valued enough to sacrifice - that guilt, that self-hatred for being alive. But I didn't listen to her. If I did - " His eyes met hers, and there were tears in his eyes too, now. "I might have learned how to love you enough to live for you, instead of dying for you." "No, no, no - " She pursued him and caught him by his hands, desperate not to let him go again. "How can you say that? Are you saying you wish you hadn't saved me? You stupid idiot, if I'd known you'd even *tried* something like that - " " - you'd have killed me?" Marcus finished with that deceptively innocent uplifted eyebrow. Susan coughed a sob of laughter. "Something like that." Marcus sighed. "Susan, my love, if I'd been thinking straight, if I hadn't been so caught up in the feeling that I'd failed you somehow, as if it was my sole responsibility to look after you, as if I had the power to protect you from the universe, as if I were God letting the sparrow fall, then I might have been less obsessed with the idea of atonement. I might have realized that I could have shared my energy; I could have gotten more people to use the alien healing machine with me. I might have considered that I wasn't the only one who loved you enough to risk losing his life for you. I might have won allies instead of abandoning Sheridan at the moment of his greatest need. I might have learned to ask for help, and to feel no guilt for needing it." He drew a second deep breath and met her eyes evenly. "I did love you, Susan. I always loved you. But I didn't love you enough. I loved my own pride and self-pity more." "No - " Furious and hurt, Ivanova let go of his hands and grabbed him by his shoulders. "No. Now *you're* judging yourself too harshly, God damn it, Marcus, you *always* thought your failures were the mortal sins of the universe - " She broke off, gulping. "Wait; I didn't mean - " How had that come out? She'd meant to deny his argument completely and had wound up agreeing with it. How did he keep *doing* this to her? Marcus shrugged. "You see?" "Why are you here?" She had to turn away. She couldn't look at him any more. "Why are you doing this to me?" He looked thoughtful. "For absolution, I suppose. Mine and yours." He came around and knelt before her, looking as if he were about to propose marriage, or swear an oath of knighthood. "Susan, I came to ask your forgiveness, for not loving you enough. And I came to tell you you have to forgive *yourself*, for being afraid to love me. You have to let me go, and let go of your guilt and pain over me, or you'll never be able to love anyone properly again." Half deliberately, half out of sheer inability to remain standing, Susan fell to her knees, her eyes locking with his once again. "Where the *hell* do you get the nerve to tell me that?" she whispered in a shaky voice not nearly as harsh as she wanted it to be. "Because I still love you, and I want you to be happy, and I don't want you to make my mistakes," said Marcus simply. Susan let herself fall forward against his chest, sobbing openly now. "Absolution?" she choked out. "I'll give you absolution." She pushed him over onto his back, tearing at the multiple layers of his Ranger robes, lifting herself to let his hands strip away the Earthforce uniform in return. "I'll give you absolution the way you *never* thought it could be - " Further words died as she seized his mouth with hers. In the way of dreams, it was impossibly perfect, and soul-wrenching. When it was over they lay together, wrapped in a warm grey non-space that the hydroponics garden had somehow become, and wept gently for each other. "I could wish all penances were like that," Marcus murmured at length. Susan smiled. "Consider yourself forgiven." "And you?" Marcus lifted up on one elbow to look down at her, his expression intent. "Have you forgiven yourself? You still have a mortal life ahead of you." "As opposed to?" "You know I can't tell you that." "I should have known. What is it about dead people that you can never get a straight answer out of them?" Marcus chuckled; she felt the vibrations of his body along hers. "Let's just say, existence is a journey, and I'm a step or two farther along it now." "You sound like a Vorlon." "And if I told you I'd had some long and decent chats with Kosh on this side of the veil, would you believe me?" "I just might, you know. I figured the only thing that would loosen a Vorlon up is death." She sighed as the humour abruptly went out of her. "God, Marcus, why couldn't we have done this while you were alive?" "Stupidity. Mine and yours. The usual explanation." Marcus curled up close to her again and kissed her, a long, gentle fusion of lips and breath. "But you, at least, don't ever have to be that stupid again. Which was rather the point of this whole encounter." Susan looked up at him. "Are you really here? Or is this just a dream?" Marcus shook his head fondly. "Ah, Susan, Susan, Susan. After all this time, you're still asking questions like that. You should know by now that the difference between dreams and reality is entirely a matter of definition." "And the difference between answers and evasions is entirely a matter of bullshit." Marcus threw back his head and laughed out loud; the sight was startling, Susan realized, because she didn't think she had *ever* seen him laugh that openly. "God, Susan, you never let anyone get away with a thing, do you?" "No." She poked him in the ribs. "Now cough it up." His mirth faded to a quieter, sorrowful smile. "I can't, Susan. The universe doesn't give you those answers. What did we fight Clark and the Shadows for, if not for the right to decide for ourselves what we believe? I won't take that choice away from you. I *can't*." "Great," Susan muttered. "Even dead, you know how to drive me crazy." Marcus laughed again and wound himself closer. Susan sighed, relishing the warmth, her eyes fluttering closed. She felt his breath warm against her ear as he whispered. "That's no drive, Susan, it's a short walk at best." She smiled. "Be well, my love." *BEEP * BEEP * BEEP * BEEP * BEEP * Ivanova rolled over and groaned. "Off!" she snapped, and the computer stopped the alarm with deceptive servility. Ivanova knew damn well it would start again in six minutes if she didn't physically input a command to the wall panel. She tried to gather her blankets around her and realized she'd fallen asleep in her uniform. She groaned again; she *hated* that. Her mouth tasted like old carpet, her trousers were sticky, and her back ached from sleeping on the couch - Sticky? The memory of the dream slapped her across the face. She blushed bright crimson. Perhaps it had been as well she'd slept on her couch. Stained bedsheets would have been a great way to start her first rumour around Station Prime. God, she hadn't had any dreams like that since she was seventeen, just before she'd lost her virginity to the captain of the swim team. He'd been a better swimmer than lover, as it turned out, but at least it had stopped the dreams. She sighed. Dreams were like that. The best of them surpassed anything reality usually offered. Reality, on the other hand, seemed perfectly capable of becoming worse than even the most horrible nightmares. Just once, she would have liked to break that pattern. She trudged to the shower, stripping off her clothes and tossing them in the laundry chute, and braced herself for her first full day back in space. ...TO BE CONTINUED <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> Coming soon: More of WANDERING STAR, PART I: Saint-Germain ...in which our Captain meets her primary crew and discovers the truth behind the Coward of Vega VII. <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> From: Stephen Barringer Subject: WANDERING STAR: 04/?? Date: Thu, 12 Mar 1998 10:40:42 -0500 Instalment 4 of WANDERING STAR. This will probably be the last for this week -- I write from work and won't get another one in before Monday, most likely, so bear with me, folks. Standard request: feedback welcomed, flames cringed from, etc etc etc.... I want to thank everyone for all the positive feedback I've gotten! It's really quite overwhelming. I am told that due to some wonky interaction between my files and the list's editor, the formatting I used in the opening segment's telepathic conversation has caused weird characters to get inserted in some distributed files. I'll correct this in future by typing different characters for telepathic dialogue (and yes, there will be more of it!), but anyone who wants to get a direct sending of (hopefully) a legible version of part 1 of the prologue can request it at the above address. Thanks all! <><><><><><><><><><> BOILERPLATE <><><><><><><><><><><><> DISCLAIMER: Susan Ivanova, Earthforce and all other BABYLON 5 characters are the creations and copyrighted property of J. Michael Straczynski and Babylonian Productions, and are used here without permission strictly for the purposes of entertainment. All other characters and situations are copyright of the author, but permission is hereby granted for free, nonprofit use by other fanfic authors. (Though it would be nice if you asked anyway.) SPOILERS: Much of Fourth/Fifth Seasons, from "Between the Darkness and the Light" up to "A View From the Gallery". <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> << W A N D E R I N G S T A R >> PART I: SAINT-GERMAIN - 2 - DECEMBER 24, 08:30 EST She'd scheduled DeClercq first. He would be the worst of the lot, she suspected, for all that his career-destroying cowardice was fifteen years behind him now. Sitting at her desk terminal, a mug of synthocaf steaming beside her, she called up his file and reviewed it carefully, trying to put her inevitable disgust and anger aside. He was her XO now, for good or bad, and to have a hope in hell of survival she had to understand him. Francis Xavier DeClercq. Born March 11, 2212, in Johannesburg, South Africa - well, that explained the accent. Of French-Creole immigrant stock, raised Catholic. Entered Earthforce Space Service in 2230, straight out of secondary school; saw a year of action in the close of the Dilgar wars as a temporary midshipman. Made lieutenant in 2233, full commander in 2238, promoted to Captain of the *Minotaur* in 2242. Several awards for achievement, consistently doing well in simulation. But only that first year of combat for actual battle experience. He had been captain of the *Japetus* in 2246 when it had happened. The Earth-Minbari War had been raging for half a year at that point. The first battles had been sporadic, near the outer limits of Earth's sphere of domination, and at first Earthdome had disdained the terrifying reports filtering back for their incoherence and incompleteness. But near the end of 2245, almost six months after the ill-fated *Prometheus* expedition had come to grief, the Minbari forces had begun to strike systematically along the older colonies - the Orion Belt, the Vega colonies, the Sirius belt-mining operations. Vega VII had come under attack in January 2246, and a task force of seven Hyperion-class cruisers, the *Japetus* among them, had been dispatched to the system to deal with the Minbari. Of those seven ships, one ship alone had survived. The *Japetus*. The full details of then-Captain DeClercq's report to Earthdome had not been released due to security classifications. But ISN got hold of enough information to put together its own horrific version of events. Put simply, DeClercq had panicked. At the sight of the effortless slaughter the Minbari ships were making of his fellows, he had broken formation and taken the *Japetus* back into hyperspace, fleeing hell-bent for leather back towards Earth. And behind him, the other ships of the task force, and the colonists of Vega VII, had died under Minbari cannon fire. Ivanova took a deep breath and made her fists unclench. She had never known why DeClercq hadn't simply been shot. He'd been court-martialed, of course, but for whatever reason he had neither been sentenced to death nor even expelled from Earthforce. He'd been broken, of course, busted down to ensign and tainted for life, but he had not been executed. After running out on his comrades, betraying his loyalties - suggested an inner voice. she came back fiercely. said the inner voice in mocking response. The bleep of the door to her chambers cut off her response in mid-thought, and she grimaced, not sure whether to feel grateful or not. "Enter." The door slid open, and Commander DeClercq stepped through. Ivanova gritted her teeth. All right, she told herself. All right. "Commander." "Captain." Silence. Ivanova sighed and massaged her forehead. "Look, Commander, have a seat and let's talk, okay?" DeClercq's neutral mask was masterful, but then, he must have had a lot of practice over the years. "Whatever you say, sir." He sat on the couch, looking comfortable but no less alert and formal. Ivanova got up, came around her desk, folded her arms and leant back against it. "Do you know who I am?" she said. There was the slightest of twitches at the side of DeClercq's mouth. "Captain Susan Ivanova," he said. "Executive officer on the Babylon 5 station, under both Jeffrey Sinclair and John Sheridan; former political rebel and now promoted to command of the EAS *Saint-Germain*." Ivanova nodded. "Accurate enough, but you left out a few things. I'm also persona non grata in Earthforce, Earthdome and Psi Corps, among other places, and this mission was assigned to me as a punishment. Which means *you* are supposed to be part of that punishment." DeClercq's voice was only faintly bitter, like cyanide under apple juice. "I suspected as much." "But I happen to disagree." DeClercq blinked. Ivanova stood up, went to the armchair opposite him and sat down, not taking her eyes from his. "Francis - can I call you Francis?" "I go by Xavier, actually." DeClercq looked guardedly at her. "Xavier." Ivanova pointed at him. "Everyone in Earthforce thinks of you as the Coward of Vega VII. For the longest time, so did I. But I was wrong to do so, because I didn't *know*. I could afford to be lazy about that before; I can't now. And I've learned a little something in the last few months about mass opinion, even in Earthforce." She looked down, then up at him again. "I don't intend this mission to be my punishment. I intend to survive. I intend to beat whatever they throw at me. But I *cannot do it without you.* I can't afford easy opinions and I can't afford to hate you. So." She spread her hands. "Tell me about Vega VII, Xavier. Tell me your side of the story. Everything. Tell me why I shouldn't hate you." DeClercq stared at her, mouth open; he looked as if he'd been slapped. Unable to resist a sudden mischievous impulse, Ivanova donned her deadpan face, reached out with a finger and flipped his jaw closed. "Stop that, you'll catch flies." "Ah - yes, sir. Of course, I...." DeClercq rubbed a heavy hand over his face and gave her a befuddled look. "Sir, do you realize that's the first time I've been asked that in fifteen years?" "I suspected." DeClercq blew out a breath. He slumped forward. "Sir, I wish I could give you a good reason, but the truth is, I can't. I've spent fifteen years wondering what I could have done differently, and when I look back at my actions objectively, even *I* hate what they show." "You're not answering my question." Ivanova's voice was flat. "I said, tell me your side of the story, I didn't say tell me you can't give me a good reason not to hate you. You don't decide what those reasons are, Ex-Oh; I do. Am I clear?" "Er - yes, sir. Perfectly." "Fine. I'll be clearer." Ivanova leant back in the armchair and folded her arms. "I want you to start from the beginning and leave out nothing. Your thoughts, your feelings, your actions, the events around you as you understand them - everything." "Everything?" "Am I going to have to repeat myself with *every* order I give?" The irritation in her voice wasn't all feigned now. "Consider yourself under orders for full debriefing, Commander, and start talking. *Now!*" She didn't shout, but the last word was a whipcrack. DeClercq actually started, sat up straighter, and nodded, the bewilderment in his eyes clearing... and replacing it - dared she hope? - there seemed to be a flicker of genuine respect. "Aye aye, sir," he said, and began. * * * We were three days' transit out of the Orion shipyards when the signal came in. Gold Channel, ultraviolet priority. Captain Samuel Vorshak was task force commodore, and to do him justice, he didn't downplay the situation... but he didn't tell us what we should have known, either. He might not have known himself. I still don't know how classified the truth was, in those early years. You know as well as I do it was years before the full details of the *Prometheus* expedition came out. Anyway - we came out of hyperspace on a standard z-plus ecliptic approach, full burn in towards Vega VII in an Arrowhead formation. Vorshak was on point with the *Bellerophon*; I was on far starboard flank with the *Japetus*. The Minbari must have jumped in right before we did, they hadn't had time to... [DeClercq swallowed.] ...to really get down to their work. You've seen the Minbari in battle, Captain. [Ivanova only nodded.] You know what they can do, when they're roused. How powerful their technology is. Their heavy beams, their cannon, their shields and scanning tech.... We didn't know. We weren't prepared. And their magnogravitic drives gave their ships more acceleration, more manoeuvreability, than the Hyperions ever had. They came up at us like torpedoes, three Sharlin-class cruisers, and smashed through the formation before we could get even an approximate tracking solution. The *Cronos* was destroyed instantly. The *Pegasus* was blasted sideways and off trajectory, her drives completely gone. I never saw what happened to her. She must have just spiraled on past the planet until her life-support gave out. Vorshak was ready for them on the second pass. We pincered, the *Rhea* and the *Japetus* on port, *Bellerophon*, *Chimera* and *Athena* on starboard, laying down a dispersion-fire pattern. Vorshak already knew there wasn't a hope in hell of a lock-on. It might have worked if we'd had Omega or Nova heavy weapons, but the Hyperions just didn't have the armament back then. They went through our fire like a hawk flies through rain, and the *Bellerophon* and the *Rhea* were gone. Just... gone. The Minbari cannon went right through our armour and touched off the fusion generators like detonators. Twin blue-white suns. Burning. And the Minbari cruisers sailed on towards Vega VII as if it had been the most casual thing in the= world. They might not even have bothered coming back if Captain Arkenham hadn't done what she did. I knew Sarah. I'd gone to Academy with her. She was always the most stubborn, bullheaded cadet in the Fleet, and that was how she went out. She put the *Athena* on burnout thrust and took her head on into the trailing cruiser, and she got lucky. Strange way to describe it, isn't it? But the Minbari didn't build their shields to protect against megatonne five-g impacts. The last I saw was the *Athena* punching in the tail-fins of the cruiser like a collapsing foil mockup and then... my God, the explosion... so fierce... like Sirius going nova - the Minbari fusion engines were so much stronger than ours.... But there were two more Minbari ships, and only two more of us, and the *Chimera* had lost half its drive and a lot of its weapons. We were relatively undamaged. We'd been lucky. But the other two Minbari ships were coming back now, and they meant business. They were finished playing. And... I remember thinking, My God, my God, Earthdome has to know, we have to tell them, we can't just die and let everything here be for nothing.... And I told my XO to jump us into hyperspace. And we came home. I made my first report to Earthgov about a week later... just as the scout ships recovered the *Chimera*'s black box recorder from the wreckage. Captain Hirschfield saw us go. The Minbari didn't take him out instantly. They took out his thrusters, they fried the electronics, they atomized every last weapons port, comm aerial and attitude jet... but they didn't breach his hull any more than they had to. They paralyzed him and left his crew there to die, strangling on their own exhausted oxygen reserves, while the Minbari butchered Vega VII. And the black box recorded it all. And the last thing anyone ever heard Captain Max Hirschfield saying... well, gasping, really... was a damnation of my soul to hell. They played it all back at my trial. Every word. The only reason I was exonerated at all was that I'd brought back the first accurate evaluation of Minbari fighting capacities the war had ever seen, and the Joint Chiefs finally decided that I'd made the militarily correct decision. But my own crew betrayed me. They'd seen what we'd done. Even before we'd gotten home I'd seen the looks, heard the whispers. And the moment we hit Station Prime, it was out there, like a plague. Even the Joint Chiefs seemed to think I'd made my decision out of fear as much as out of military need. But the horrible, horrible truth is, they were right. It wasn't panic, like they said. I didn't freeze. But in a lot of ways, that makes it worse. It was a cold decision. I was terrified. I didn't want to die. I didn't want my ship to die. And I knew that if I stayed and fought, that was what would happen. And I didn't want to die. So=85 I= left. You ask me why you shouldn't hate me? I don't know, Captain. I've spent fifteen years hating myself. * * * Ivanova stared at him. DeClercq gazed straight ahead, back erect, eyes level, face blank as an ebony mask. That was it? She dropped her gaze to the deck and opened her mouth, not knowing what would come out, only knowing that something had to. Something to break this awful silence. Something to prevent her XO destroying himself and taking the rest of them with him, because while she couldn't hate him now, it was clear that the rest of her crew would, and he would do absolutely nothing himself to stop them. He believed he deserved it. And maybe he did. But she could *not* have an XO the rest of the crew would hate. If he wouldn't save himself, she had to save him. What came out of her mouth was: "A wise man once told me that fear was nothing to be ashamed of." DeClercq's eyes flickered to hers. "I have only one question for you, Xavier," said Ivanova. "Considered as a tactical and strategic situation, without personal involvement, what is the correct response for a commander whose forces are outnumbered, on the verge of defeat, and whose generals require information about those self-same enemy forces? What is the officers' duty, in that case?" "To save as many of his men as he can and to get what information he can back to headquarters. Sir." His voice was tentative, as if he suspected a trickier answer. "Which is precisely what you did." Susan held his eyes. "You made the correct decision, and I don't care what the reasons for it were. I don't care who you *were*, Xavier, I need who you are now, I need you to be whatever you've become. The Coward of Vega VII is a media creation, and he's fifteen years dead history. You're not him. Not any more. I will not crucify you for one decision - " her voice sharpened " -- *and I will not let you or anyone else do it either.* This isn't a monastery, Commander; we have no place for self-flagellation here. This is a by-God Earth Alliance starship crew, and you are its executive officer, and you will by God *be* its executive officer! No recriminations, no confessions, no shame or doubt or guilt, *you are an Earthforce officer!* Do you understand me,= Commander?" "Sir - " "Wrong answer, Commander!" She leapt to her feet, eyes blazing furiously down into his. "On your *feet* when your CO talks to you, DeClercq!" He scrambled to his feet, wide-eyed, and snapped to attention as she shouted into his face. "I'm only going to ask this question one more time, Commander: no more emotional self-abuse! Not now, not ever! Am I clear?!" "Aye aye, sir!" "*Wrong* answer, DeClercq, I didn't give an order, I asked a question! You say 'yes sir' to a question! Understood?" "Sir, yes sir!" "I CAN'T HEAR YOU!" "SIR, YES SIR!" "All right, Commander, *now* you get an order! And I don't ever expect to have to spell out the difference again, am I understood?!" "SIR, YES SIR!" "You will behave at all times as an Earthforce officer! You will back me up for the crew, you will keep me on my toes, you will *not* shut up because you're afraid to trust yourself, and if you think the best thing to do is run, then by God you *tell* me that! Can you carry out these orders?" "AYE AYE, SIR!" "I *still* can't hear you!" "*AYE AYE, SIR!*" "DIS-MISSED!" Ivanova bellowed at the top of her lungs, and in almost an automatic reaction DeClercq spun sharply on his heels and marched double time to the door. It slid open, he exited, and Ivanova collapsed against her desk, gasping. she thought. She hadn't shouted that hard at anyone for a while, and she had to admit, it felt damned good. A tiny grin pulled at her mouth. Poor DeClercq. He'd probably gotten at least a little of her anger with Lefcourt and Earthgov, but then, that was one of the unwritten jobs of an XO - to be a punching bag for their commander when they had no other way of blowing off steam. Not that she'd ever been especially good at that herself, but then, that was why it was unwritten, wasn't it? She sighed and sat down. She'd set aside an hour for this, and it had taken barely twenty minutes. Her Tac Ops officer wasn't due 'til oh-nine-thirty. Now all she had to do was sit and think. DeClercq. Well, she'd snapped him out of his funk, for now at least, and there was enough resolution and competence in there to keep him going once he'd gotten his head slapped straight. Whether it would help with the crew was another story. Some of the newbies might not have heard of him, and some of the problem cases might even sympathize... but there would still be problems. She smiled. Her father had said that to her once when she'd called in tears, complaining about the boarding school program in - where had that been, London? He'd said it gently, but firmly. Susan took a deep breath. She moved to her desk and sat down, calling up the file on Lieutenant Commander Philip Ramirez, command shift tactical operations officer for the EAS *Saint-Germain.* ...TO BE CONTINUED <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> Coming soon: More of WANDERING STAR, PART I: Saint-Germain ...in which our Captain discovers that there *is* such a thing as a Tac Officer who's too violent, and that it *is* possible to be a genius and still be amazingly dumb. <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> From: Stephen Barringer Subject: WANDERING STAR: 05/?? Date: Mon, 16 Mar 1998 17:33:52 -0500 Instalment 5 of WANDERING STAR. Only a few more characters to meet and then we get to see (so to speak) the *Saint-Germain.* Standard request: feedback welcomed, flames cringed from, etc etc etc.... Standard thanks: everybody has been incredibly supportive and enthusiastic. Special thanks to Lazel Lazarov for some insightful criticisms, and to Julie Watkins for letting me read some of her "Black Star" stories in preparation for my own space battles. Thanks all! <><><><><><><><><><> BOILERPLATE <><><><><><><><><><><><> DISCLAIMER: Susan Ivanova, Earthforce, the Shadows, President Clark, and all other BABYLON 5 characters are the creations and copyrighted property of J. Michael Straczynski and Babylonian Productions, and are used here without permission strictly for the purposes of entertainment. All other characters and situations are copyright of the author, but permission is hereby granted for free, nonprofit use by other fanfic authors. (Though it would be nice if you asked anyway.) SPOILERS: Much of Fourth/Fifth Seasons, from "Between the Darkness and the Light" up to "A View From the Gallery". <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> << W A N D E R I N G S T A R >> PART I: SAINT-GERMAIN - 3 - 09:30 EST Philip Ramirez was tall and almost ridiculously good-looking, with jet-black hair, olive skin, and dark eyes that simmered with a constant heat. The quality of that heat changed from one moment to the next, but the intensity never faded. He wore his Earthforce uniform as if it were a flamboyant cloak, and stood as if there should have been a sword at his side. Ivanova might have found him attractive, but he reminded her of Marcus in too many ways, and the one way in which he was utterly *different* from Marcus Cole made him even less attractive: his smile seemed to have that same edge, that same heat to it that all his expressions did, and the burning sharpness robbed those expressions of any gentleness or humour. Ivanova didn't much like the result. Fire was all very well, but it was useless and destructive without control. Which was, she reflected, rather the whole point of Ramirez's presence here. He was what someone with a slightly more romantic imagination might have called a warrior of the old school, and what she herself called a dangerous hothead. He was good - nobody could have held his lieutenant-commander's rank as long as he had without true ability - but he was entirely too aggressive. In battle aboard a ship, that was sometimes a good thing. It was less valuable in personal interaction, where a prickly temper and altogether too-well-developed melee skills made a volatile and dangerous combination. It didn't help, as Ivanova had found out, that he'd grown up in the Iberian Republic: dueling was still legal there, despite the Senate's continual firm pressure on the Republic to repeal the law, and before joining Earthforce Philip Ramirez had fought, and won, no less than six duels - four of them to the death. Earthforce was able to exercise a control of its personnel that the Earth Alliance could not over the internal laws of its member states: Ramirez had never fought a formal duel again... but his service record was peppered with reprimands about intra-unit violence, almost as many as the typical gropo's. Ivanova wondered what he was doing in the Space Service. She put her hands together and leant forwards on her elbows. "So, Mr. Ramirez. Tell me. Why do you think you're here?" Ramirez grinned briefly. "In this office, in your crew, or in existence?" Ivanova's mouth twitched. "Why not, we've got time. All three." "In strict order of asking, sir, because you told me to be here, because I asked for this roster, and to live life to the fullest and die with honour." Ivanova considered that. "You think I'll give you chances to die with honour?" "They'll come along, sir, regardless of your choice in the matter." "You may be right, but whether you exercise the option of death is *my* choice, Lieutenant Commander, not yours." Her voice was even. "I happen to know which ship you fought on in the Civil War, Mr. Ramirez. Did that have anything to do with your requested assignment?" "Yes, sir, it did." "Why?" Ivanova leant forward. "Why would you ask to join the crew of a known rebel and traitor to Earthforce when you yourself fought on the *Apollo* in the name of President Clark?" There; it was out. She held her breath and tried not to look like she was doing so. Darkness swirled down Ramirez's face like rippling thundercloud. "Are you impugning my loyalty, Captain?" "No, Mr. Ramirez, but you yourself just did." The scowl shifted subtly, into confusion. "Sir?" "I expect my questions answered promptly and truthfully, Lieutenant-Commander." Ivanova leant back, making her face as impassive and cool as she could. "Not doing so could be construed as treason." Ramirez searched her face. She didn't know what he was looking for, but he seemed to find it; abruptly his grin flashed again, like heat lightning. "Understood, sir. Apologies." He stood a little straighter. "To answer your question, sir: I requested transfer here because the *Saint-Germain* is the most powerful ship in the fleet. I like to be where the power is. And, sir, I requested transfer here because I wanted to serve under you." "Me?" Ivanova blinked, caught totally blindside. "You *want* to serve under John Sheridan's second?" "No, sir, I want to serve under the commander who defeated Earth's most powerful ships in a pitched one-to-one battle." Ramirez's eyes glowed with something that was half battlelust, half worship. "The Omega-A ships were rumoured to be the toughest things Earth ever turned out. The *Saint-Germain*'s supposed to be a production model. And you beat them! You fought them toe to toe, you didn't back down, and you sent them down in fire! *That* is the kind of commander I want to - " "Where did you hear this?" Even she was startled by the sudden icy lash in her voice. But the cold of her words was nothing compared to the freezing void that had just opened in her stomach. "Sir?" "That the Warlock class was designed after the - " Ivanova had to deliberately substitute the words - "the Omega-A ships." Memory rose like a tidal wave in her mind: destroyers with black, mottled hulls, asymmetrically spiked, mutant monsters of metal and flesh, a queasy cross of familiar and alien technologies... an abomination that had almost destroyed her, and indirectly caused Marcus to destroy himself. She had known the Warlock ships were supposed to be even more powerful than the Omegas, but the idea that Earthdome had cast down Clark and then coldly gone on in his footsteps... that the ship she was about to command was a product of the very outrages she'd almost died to end.... ...and then that nobody in Earthdome had even seen fit to *tell* her that.... Somebody was speaking. " - Captain?" A faint Spanish accent. Ramirez. Yes. She was supposed to be cautioning him on *his* temper. Amusement broke through her anger, restoring a momentary grip on herself. She looked up. "Sorry, Mr. Ramirez. Please repeat yourself." Ramirez paused, then shrugged. "Not much to repeat, sir. As I said, it was all rumours and suggestions, but it's logical, is it not? Whatever worked in the Omega-A's probably went into the Warlock design. I believe Lieutenant Snow was part of the design team." Snow: yes. The Chief of Engineering, who so far had been nothing more than a screenpic and a name. Her stomach hollow, Ivanova stood. "Mr. Ramirez, can you tell me where to find Lieutenant Snow?" Ramirez shrugged. Ivanova tapped her link. "Computer: location of Lieutenant Tiffany Snow." There was a pause while the Station Prime central datanet cross-checked its internal link configuration. "Lieutenant Snow," said the sexless voice eventually, "is in Main Library Reference 3." Ivanova looked at Ramirez. "Can you take me there?" Ramirez bowed sweepingly. "As my Captain orders." - 4 - 09:51 EST MAIN LIBRARY REFERENCE 3, STATION PRIME As with all else in space, weight and mass and energy conservation were crucial in data storage. As with all else in human nature, idiosyncracy, inertia and impulse ruled the slow corruption of idealism. The results, as manifested in the Station Prime library halls, were long walls of crystal-storage racks interrupted by volumes of hardcopy bindings, collections of scrolls, circular datadisks here and there, a few works of alien art burned into non-Terran hides, anomalous crystals set on their own shelves due to incompatibility with Earth mass-storage racks, and at least one copy, Ivanova saw, of the Book of G'Quan. The organic component of the storage had resulted in the main lighting being reset to much lower levels - too much EM bombardment could damage delicate organics - and rows of study carrels were set between the shelves with brighter lamps available over the datareaders. Ivanova had the momentary, blurring impression of a great underground cavern, walled in stone, metal and crystal with blotches of fungus and lichen spread out over its contours, lined with blocky stalagmites over which shadowed and mysterious figures bent, their faces lit from beneath by eldritch fire. Ramirez strode between the shelves as if he owned them, making no effort to slow up for her. Ivanova had to jog periodically to catch up. Her annoyance stopped at her lips, for once; even she was not quite tactless enough to shout in a library. But she vowed to herself she would put a stop to this sort of thing on the *Saint-Germain*. Ahead, Ramirez made a sharp right and disappeared between two shelves. Ivanova swung to follow and almost cannoned into him; he'd stopped dead. Furious, Ivanova opened her mouth to blister him with invective - to hell with being in a library, she was tired of being led around by her own crew! - and stopped as the woman just beyond Ramirez looked up. Her breath froze. Talia. A second later, the shadows shifted, and her vision cleared. No. Not Talia. The eyes were lighter in colour, a greeny-hazel rather than Talia's depthless brown, and the short blonde hair had more gold and red in its highlights. But the Earthforce uniform outlined a tall, shapely body, and her face had the same high-cheekboned elegance - "Oh, *wow*," said the woman, in a bright, amused soprano that Ivanova could only describe as... *chirpy*. She was staring at Ramirez with the look of a kid in a candy store who'd just seen the biggest chocolate rabbit in existence. "I don't know who you are, guy, but you better be looking for me, 'cause I'm not letting you past here 'til I get your name." Her grin was wide and playful, and it took years off the character of her face. "You like Italian food?" Ramirez looked discomfited. "Lieutenant Snow?" The woman's grin widened. "Oh goody goody, you know who I am already. I hate all that boring introduction crap." She linked her arm through Ramirez' and began to steer him down the shelf towards the library exit. "I know the maitre d' down at the Starlight, he can get us a *great* window seat for lunch, then I'm thinking a quick and intimate tour of a bedroom or two...." Her voice trailed off as she and Ramirez disappeared around the corner; Ramirez threw a look back at Ivanova that seemed to be actual panic. Ivanova wasn't sure if she wanted to scream with laughter or just scream. She settled for a quick sprint to catch up and tapped the woman on her shoulder. "Lieutenant Tiffany Snow?" Snow turned, scowling. "Yes?" Her eyes fell to Ivanova's stetbar; she made a token salute. "Captain?" "I understand you're my chief of engineering." Ivanova folded her arms. Understanding lit Snow's eyes. "Oh, wow, *you're* Ivanova!" She let go of Ramirez and saluted again, this time much more crisply. "This is so cool, I wanted to talk to you but I never had the nerve to go bug you in your quarters, this is so *excellent!*" She abandoned the salute and, Ivanova couldn't believe it, actually bounced on her feet. "You've been, like, a hero of mine ever since you led that Starfury squadron to save the fighters from a government trap, and then after you took out the Omega-A's with those Minbari ships, we got so much technical data from the hazmat triage we were able to make the Warlocks ten times better in every way, I mean - " She suddenly looked horrified. "Not that it was great what happened to you, sir, I heard you were almost killed but then that's war I guess isn't it?" She paused; Ivanova only stared. Snow frowned. "Captain?" A thousand questions logjammed in Ivanova's mind. She settled for, "You weren't trained in the Earthforce Academy, were you, Lieutenant." Snow looked indignant. "Hell yes I was! I mean, I got attached to R&D like weeks after graduation, oh man, let me tell you, I don't *ever* wanna be that hung over again, and this is my first on-ship assignment in, well, my career, but I came out of the same school you did!" "Impossible as that may seem," muttered Ramirez, who still looked poleaxed. Ivanova felt the same way. *This* was an Earthforce lieutenant? And they expected *her* to nurse Snow into combat and field experience? "Why are you here?" she finally said. Snow frowned. "Is that, like, an existential question?" Ivanova spoke with the care of the homicidally frustrated. "Why... are you part... of my crew?" "Oh." Snow nodded. "That's 'cause I'm the only one with the tech skills and the security classification for all the Warlock overhauls. I mean, the organo-polymer chains in the hull construction alone would take like weeks to bring an outsider up to speed on, and then you've got the grav-conversion solenoids, the new fusion augmentation, the crystallomolecular circuits in the chassis regeneration systems, and let me tell you, Captain, if the heavy cannon go down on you you *don't* want anyone else trying to fix them. Enough power to carve straight through the heaviest Minbari alloys." Ivanova gaped. Snow looked perfectly serious. She looked to Ramirez, who appeared equally stunned. A few words lingered in her memory: she swallowed. "Regeneration?" Snow nodded. At least she was keeping her voice quiet. "A polycarbosilicate hull compound with total-infusion pattern iterations. If you've got electricity, replacement silicon and carbon, the thing's as tough as any ceramsteel alloys, more flexible, and self-repairing. The *Saint-Germain* can shrug off blasts that would go through an Omega like a spear." She grinned. "We're talkin', this ship is *burnin'.*" "Snow." Ivanova could barely get any air in her lungs. "That's alien technology. That's... that's *Shadow* technology." Snow frowned. "What are the Shadows?" ...TO BE CONTINUED <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> Coming soon: More of WANDERING STAR, PART I: Saint-Germain ...in which John Sheridan complains about weddings, Thomas Morgan provides some insight into his crewmates, and Ivanova receives an unwelcome visitor just before the crew departs for the Callisto shipyards. <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> From: Stephen Barringer Subject: WANDERING STAR: 06/?? Date: Wed, 18 Mar 1998 15:07:13 -0500 Instalment 6 of WANDERING STAR. This is a long one, but I had a fair bit to get through. If this bit seems rushed, that's probably why. Standard request: feedback welcomed, flames cringed from, etc etc etc.... This round I decided to do a list of authors' thanks, just because I always think it's cool to give credit where credit is due; so: to everyone who's sent in praise, comments, or criticism, including: Susan B., Julie B., Kathi, John, Yasmin, Amy, Susan P., Carla, Bea, Lazel, Justine, Elisabeth, Brent, Emily, Julia K.W., and Ali -- thanks all! Your kind words have meant more than I can say... all I can offer in return are my feeble creative efforts.... <><><><><><><><><><> BOILERPLATE <><><><><><><><><><><><> 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 entertainment. All other characters and situations are copyright of the author, but permission is hereby granted for free, nonprofit use by other fanfic authors. (Though it would be nice if you asked anyway.) SPOILERS: Much of Fourth/Fifth Seasons, from "Between the Darkness and the Light" up to "A View From the Gallery". <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> << W A N D E R I N G S T A R >> PART I: SAINT-GERMAIN - 5 - 11:38 EST "CLASSIFIED?!" On the screen, John Sheridan winced. "Susan...." "John, this is ridiculous. This is insane. I mean," Susan gestured wildly about, as if clawing for words, "I can understand Clark not telling anyone about the Shadows or the Shadow War, they were the key to his power, but now? What *possible* point is there in it now?" "I don't *know*, Susan, but I'm not sure I can help you." Sheridan looked at her with that devastating knack he had of managing to look straight through a video screen; apolitical as his training might have been, he was learning fast. "I don't have any direct authority in or over Earthforce any more, and I can't legislate to the Senate outside of certain very broad principles." He gave a snort of laughter. "I haven't even been inaugurated yet, much less had time to draft any declarations of principles or legal agreements." "You? Draft a constitution?" Ivanova had to smile. "You can barely bring yourself to write reports." "Which is why I moved up in the world. Trust me, Susan, one of the unwritten perks of captainship is the fact that most of the time you get to tell *other* people to write the reports." He shook his head in wry amusement. Susan still couldn't decide whether she liked him in civilian clothes or not; military uniforms, whether the blue of Earthforce or the black of the Army of Light, had seemed so much a part of him that this new, fashionable, elegantly bearded and politically polished John Sheridan looked like a stranger half the time. It was him, and yet it wasn't. The effect was unsettling. "And then there's the wedding." Susan's mouth twitched. "Let me guess. Delenn wants a sixty-three-day ritual." "Fifty-seven days." Sheridan rolled his eyes. "She was willing to admit taking that much time might be... impractical at this point in the ISA's formation. But... I don't know...." He rubbed his forehead, looking weary. "Fifty-seven days is a bit much, but I understand, for once. This is something special, something I want to remember. Something I want *her* to remember. I don't want this to be a perfunctory detail." Susan smiled. "John, can I give you a bit of advice?" "Feel free." "You and Delenn could be married by a robot preacher in New Vegas and it wouldn't make a damn bit of difference." Ivanova rested her chin on her hands and grinned. "Not that I'm recommending that, but seriously. Stop worrying. Get the rings on your fingers and get the promises made. Everything else is details. Besides, the only other alternative is waiting until Garibaldi gets his hands on you two and tries to organize it himself; you really want to see what a Garibaldi wedding looks like?" "I thought I'd seen it once, but then I realized I was actually in a war zone." He laughed. Ivanova joined him. Then he glanced down to one side; Ivanova saw a similar warning flashing on the bottom right of her own screen. ALLOTTED COMMUNICATION TIME EXPIRING. Susan looked up. "John, I didn't get a chance to tell you - " "Susan, I can't stay." Sheridan cut her off. "Look, if you want to get some of the information on the Shadow War declassified you'll have to get Lefcourt to take it up with President Luchenko and the Earth Senate, I can't help you. Drop me a letter now and then, OK? Good luck with the new - " STELLARCOM TACHYON LINK TERMINATED. Ivanova grimaced. Dammit. She'd meant to hint subtly at the Shadow technology, to get Sheridan to realize what was going on without her having to formally state it - an act which would have gotten her summarily executed for giving away that kind of classified military information to non-Earthforce personnel. But tachyon links were expensive, and Sheridan's time was now even more so. She doubted she would get another chance to speak with him before she was scheduled to ship out. She switched over to a textcomm program and began to type. "So, Ensign Morgan - who did you piss off?" Morgan looked up, surprised. "Captain. Hello." Ivanova sat down across from him and put down her lunch tray. "I hope you don't mind my interrupting your lunch, but I'm running behind today. I thought we might take care of this and then I can meet the rest of my crew." Morgan shrugged. "Not a problem, Captain, I'm all yours." He looked around at the noisy, bustling commissary hall. "Though if you want privacy I'm afraid you're ess-out of luck." "I don't care myself, but you might." "How do you mean?" "Like I said." Ivanova stared straight at him. "Who did you piss off?" Morgan put down his mug. "You're serious." "Yes I am." Ivanova took a bite of her salad and pointed at him with her fork. "You could have had your pick of assignments. I've seen your scores. You're not like Ramirez or DeClercq. Why were you assigned here?" Morgan looked away pensively. The expression brought shadow across his eyes and made him abruptly look much older. "Random selection, maybe." He shot her a sidelong look and lifted his eyebrows. "Does *everyone* have to have a history? I understand Lieutenant Snow's supposed to be very good at what she does... and I hear good things about Dr. Kimeda." "Doctor -- ?" "Kimeda. Alexandra Kimeda. She's *very* well thought of - at least - " Morgan gave a sudden grin. " - so she tells me." Ivanova raised an eyebrow. "You've met?" "On the shuttle up to the station." Morgan leant forward a little and lowered his voice; Ivanova bent forward to listen, a smile tugging at her lips. "This absolutely gorgeous woman sits down next to me, and she's in civvies, she's not wearing her Earthforce uniform, so I try to strike up a conversation. After about three tries where I get nothing but silence she gives me this absolutely *freezing* look and says to me, 'Ensign, I am not a piece of fluff you can charm with easy small talk, I am the chief medical officer of the EAS *Saint-Germain* and I am not interested in social intercourse with you or any other kind of intercourse. Now will you kindly leave me alone?' And this is loud enough for the whole shuttle to hear." Ivanova laughed. "So what did you say to that?" "I said, 'What a coincidence, I'm the pilot for the *Saint-Germain*!'" Morgan's grin was positively impish. "'We'll get to spend a whole year together!'" "You really know how to make friends, don't you, Mr. Morgan?" "It's a gift. You can call me Thomas if you want," Morgan offered. "Unless you're one of those captains who insists on formality." Ivanova considered it. "I'm not, not really, but I think we'd best stick to formality for now until I get to know everyone." She smiled. "But thank you, Ensign." Morgan lifted a hand. "Not a problem, sir. Like I said, I'm all yours." He paused a beat. "For what it's worth, so's the Commander. I spoke to him a little earlier, and he didn't say much about your meeting, but... I can tell these things." His face sobered. "I think you were the first CO he's had in a long time who didn't treat him with either disgust or polite distance, and it was... it was what he needed." He folded his hands on the table and gave her a direct look. "He's a good man, Captain. And he's not a coward, whatever the stories say. I think he'd follow you into hellfire now if you asked him." He hesitated. "So would I, for that matter." Something thickened in Ivanova's throat. She dropped her eyes and took a breath, not sure how to respond. "I'm... grateful for the sentiment, Ensign. But I may be asking you to do exactly that. So you might wish to restrain yourself for the moment." Morgan frowned. "Sir?" "Never mind." Ivanova rose, abandoning the remainder of her lunch; she didn't feel hungry any more. Aware of Morgan's puzzled gaze on her back, she walked to the commissary exit and left. The corridor outside was empty, for the moment. She let herself fall back against the wall and buried her face in her hands. She straightened, tapped her link and sent a series of swift orders. 14:00 EST The living room of her quarters might have resembled a smallish cocktail party if there had been even the slightest hint of humour or enjoyment in it. As it was, it had the air of estranged family members gathering for the funeral of a hated elder: uncomfortable, uncertain, and suspicious, with sidelong looks and guarded expressions galore. The Earthforce uniforms everyone wore only emphasized the stiffness of the atmosphere. Ivanova entered with DeClercq at her side and went straight to her desk, dropping down into the chair and catching everyone with wide, intense eyes as DeClercq took up an at-ease stance at her side. Ramirez and Snow noddedbriefly to her; Morgan gave her a fleeting, almost invisible smile; the rest simply returned her gaze. "Good afternoon, everyone. I was going to do this one by one, but things have changed. I've decided to accelerate our schedule, and that requires some immediate introductions." She pointed at the woman sitting to the farthest left of the small circle of people. "Doctor?" The woman moistened her lips and stood. She was small, slim and lovely, short black hair worn over a triangular, almond-eyed face, but something in the night-black eyes shone like a glint of cold iron. If Ramirez was fire, this woman was ice. "Dr. Alexandra Kimeda," she said stiffly. "Chief medical officer. Hello." She directed a glare at Morgan, who only grinned back, unabashed. Ramirez saluted. "Lieutenant-Commander Ramirez, Tac Ops." The man next to him saluted as well, but in a considerably sloppier fashion, and even when he stood his whole bearing seemed to slouch. He was as tall as Ramirez and DeClercq but much lankier, his grey uniform seeming slightly off somehow without actually being visibly unfitting; curly brown hair tumbled down almost to shoulder level, and his eyes were a clear grey-green. "Hi." He waved with a half-smile. "Matt Waverly, warrant officer, ship's security." Morgan saluted without standing. "Ensign Thomas Morgan, helm and astrogation, *sirs*!" he barked. Beside him, Snow laughed; DeClercq's eyes twinkled, though his impassive face never moved, and Ivanova felt a twitch of amusement. Whatever other skills he had, Morgan knew how to break tension. With some people, at least. Kimeda's mouth was still tight, and Ramirez was looking at Morgan with the expression of one who hadn't gotten the joke. The man at Morgan's side didn't look pleased, either. He was the only man in the room whose uniform was green rather than the Space Service's blue or grey; it fit him like battle-armour, stiff and straight and crisp, setting off bold Roman features, dark glittering eyes and blue-black scalp stubble. He stood and nodded. "First Lieutenant Leandro Corelli, commanding officer 196th Platoon, Division 5, Earthforce Planetary Service." "Also known as 'Corelli's Claymores'," Morgan added . Snow stifled a giggle, blushing furiously when Corelli's eyes pinned her with a glare, but she seemed unable to stop snickering. Ivanova bit the inside of her cheek. Every platoon gave itself a nickname after its commanding officer, but outsiders making fun of it was *not* a good way to win respect. Which didn't stop her wanting to laugh anyway. The jarheads made enough fun of the Space Service as it was; it was nice to see the boot on the other foot. Still, this had to be stopped before it went much further. "Lieutenant Corelli is on detachment to the *Saint-Germain* for ground operations," she said. "His platoon is one of the most competent and well-trained in the EPS. I'm sure he would appreciate being given the proper respect." She let her level gaze traverse the room. "And I *know* that I will appreciate it." Silence was her only answer, but Morgan looked appropriately serious, and Snow blushed and dropped her gaze. Ivanova nodded, satisfied. Good enough. Kimeda spoke without warning. "May I ask why the theatrical get-to-know-you charade, Captain? We're all professionals." God, was she going to have to fight for every single ounce of serious respect she could get? Ivanova let the anger rise up behind her eyes. "Because we are a new crew, in a new ship, with a new mission. We don't have a book or routine to fall back on, people. We *are* the book. What we do will set the precedent for the Warlock class operations doctrine. I wanted to cut past the normal cut-and-thrust of a crew settling into each other. I wanted us to start knowing each other, I wanted us not to have to cope with strangers and unfamiliar people when everything else will be unfamiliar." Kimeda snorted. "Quite frankly, Captain, if you wanted a crew without interpersonal stress you should have done us all a favour and died at Mars, because the only place you'll find that kind of a crew is in heaven." The venom in the cold words was unmistakeable. Ivanova's jaw dropped. But before she could find words, before her shock could translate into fury, DeClercq walked calmly over to Kimeda and caught her eyes. Kimeda blinked and was in the middle of opening her mouth to say something when DeClercq's backhand took her across her face with a savage *crack*. Kimeda reeled back and fell against the wall, staggering, her eyes wide with shock and fright, her face slack with pain. One hand went to her lips and came away bloody. She stared at the blood as if she'd never seen it before, then up at DeClercq. DeClercq's expression was still utterly impassive. "Earthforce Space Service Regulations, Section 45, Subsection 3, paragraph a), 'Insubordination,'" he said in a toneless voice. "A commanding officer of any Earthforce starship or squadron, or his or her duly appointed representatives, shall have legal recourse to corporal and/or capital punishment if deemed necessary to enforce discipline within a unit." He lowered his eyes to meet Kimeda's. "Doctor, I could have broken your arm or crippled you for that kind of insubordination. Captain Ivanova could have ordered you shot. Be grateful all you got was a slap in the face." The silence in the room felt numb, paralyzed. Snow's face was blank and appalled, as if she was about to cry. Ivanova moistened the inside of her lips. "Thank you, Commander," she said quietly. "I believe you've made your point." DeClercq nodded to her and went back to stand at her side. Ivanova looked at Kimeda. The doctor's icy mask had shattered irretrievably, her face spasming and eyes blazing with barely controlled rage and fear. "Well, Doctor?" "You - you - " Kimeda dragged a shaking hand across her mouth, wiping away the rest of the blood. "I request a transfer." "Denied. Nobody else would have you." Ivanova looked around at the rest of the room. "And that is the last time I will mention, or expect to hear about, anyone's past. I will not lie to you. We have been chosen in part because we are all, in various ways... difficult to integrate into the normal Earthforce mainstream and mindset. But you are not here to please Earthforce. You're here to do your job, and to please *me.* If I have to be a tyrant and bully I will. I would much rather not. But the choice is yours." She winced at the echo of Metairie's words. she told herself. Morgan cleared his throat. "I think I can speak for all of us when I say that..." He glanced around the room. "...that we would much rather you not as well, sir." His nervous look flashed into a sudden wry grin. "I'll never live it down if I get beaten up by my own CO." There was too much tension in the room for the feeble joke to alleviate it entirely, but Ivanova appreciated the effort, and allowed herself to smile. "I was hoping you would say that," she said, directing the comment out as if the room at large had answered. "I bring this up because I have decided we will relocate to the *Saint-Germain* tomorrow." Even DeClercq looked surprised, though he tried to hide it. Corelli made no such effort. "Tomorrow?" He shifted around to face her. "Captain, my platoon hasn't even shipped up from Earth yet! They aren't due for three more days!" "Then they can take a flight out when they get here," said Ivanova flatly. "I want to see my ship now, and I want you all to see her. The crew will travel directly here as they arrive, and once we have a full complement we're shipping out." The others glanced back and forth. It was Ramirez who asked the inevitable question. "To where, sir?" "To Sector 897, coordinates 67 by 50 by 39. Further details of the mission will be disseminated there." Now, she wondered, who would be the first to make the inevitable realization...? She made a quiet bet with herself and won when Morgan suddenly went pale. Snow, surprisingly, was only a second behind him. "That's right on the border of Vorlon space," Morgan whispered. Ivanova nodded. "Strictly speaking, it's a Rim system between the Vorlon Empire's borders and the far edge of the League worlds." Snow gulped. "Sir, we're not, like, actually going *in* to Vorlon space? I mean, I like life." "That's classified for now." Ivanova smiled ruefully. "But I can *promise* you, Lieutenant Snow, we are in absolutely *no* danger from the Vorlons." "You can't know that," snapped Kimeda. "Nobody knows what really happened to the Vorlons - we heard the stories, but that's all they are! You can't seriously expect to - " Ivanova looked at her, and she shut up. "I give you my word, Doctor Kimeda, we are in no danger from the Vorlons," Ivanova repeated. With some effort, she kept the anger out of the statement. "I saw them leave this galaxy; I was there for the end of a war you and most of Earthforce know nothing about." Strangely, the anger seemed to be fading of its own accord. She stared past Kimeda, remembering the sight: thousands of ships, the black cloud of the Shadow planetkiller engulfing them all, the clovelike shapes of the Vorlons squared off against the Shadows' black spidercraft, the younger races trapped in between, and the mighty, alien shapes of the First Ones circling the chaos like gods staring into a crucible... and then had come the vision, of Sheridan and Delenn, trapped in blackness and being forced towards a choice of Order versus Chaos that could have crippled all life and freedom in the galaxy.... ...until somehow they had realized what was happening, and had forced open the trap. Until they had chosen their own freedom, their own destiny, and by sheer force of will and defiance made these godlike races see that they would no longer be servants, either willing or unwilling. Two people, two small, insignificant, frail and mortal beings, had faced down the mightiest forces in the galaxy and banished them forever. Force was not always the answer. And abruptly Ivanova realized why she had remembered that, why it was so crucial to abandon her anger. She refocused on Kimeda, realizing that the room had gone silent, and held the doctor's furious and frightened gaze. "There will come a time when you will have to save my life, or the lives of my crew," Ivanova said softly, willing Kimeda to understand. "I don't want you to hate me or be angry when that day comes. For my sake, and for yours. What's more important to you, Doctor Kimeda? Life? Or pride?" Kimeda flushed, then looked angrily down at the floor; but Ivanova had seen the sudden flicker of shame and confusion, and nodded to herself. It was a beginning. The officers filed out of the room, one by one. On the threshold, Morgan paused. "Captain? What time do we ship out tomorrow?" "Oh six hundred." Morgan grimaced. "You don't believe in sleeping late, do you, sir." "Early to bed, early to rise, Ensign." "Makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise, yes, sir, I know that. I prefer the other version." He gave a lopsided grin. "Early to rise, early to bed, makes a man healthy, wealthy and dead." Ivanova tilted her head. "You know, Ensign, much as I appreciate the humour, I can't imagine this constant joking of yours going over well with some instructors I know." Morgan shrugged. "Well, maybe that's why they gave me to you. Like you said, sir, we all seem to have pasts." He chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. "If there's no time for Christmas mass tomorrow, I'll have to visit the chapel tonight." Ivanova blinked. "Good God. It is Christmas, isn't it." Morgan nodded. "I didn't know you were Catholic." "A wee bit of a stumbler, but I still believe." Morgan's grin was rueful. "They have masses at twenty-hundred and twenty-four hundred." He hesitated. "Would you like to join me, sir?" "Ensign, I'm Jewish." "And did you get a chance to celebrate Hanukkah this year?" "No. Not really." "Well then. You say your prayers, I'll say mine, it's all the same God in the end." Morgan spread his hands. "It can hardly hurt, sir." Ivanova hesitated. "Ensign, I... I'm not really sure I - " The words dried up. How to say what she didn't understand herself? That the past year had strained whatever feeble faith she had left in life, in goodness, in God Himself? That now, whenever she tried to pray, it turned into a railing fit of tears, or a horrible feeling of emptiness? That she had not even tried to celebrate Hanukkah for fear of that emptiness engulfing her? She had never been good at confessing these things even to close friends. Admit it to a naive young ensign she didn't even know, who wasn't even of her faith? That was so far beyond possible it was laughable. And yet.... Where resolution failed, impulse could sometimes be tricked. Ivanova turned off her mind for a moment and heard herself quietly agreeing, Morgan's cheerful suggestion of meeting at nineteen forty-five outside the chapel, and his departure. The door slid closed behind him. Ivanova considered the air. Still and silent, the room seemed to be waiting for her to say something, or admit something. What, she had no idea. she thought, There was no answer. She sighed, rose, and went through to the small bedchamber. Maybe a nap would help her think. She removed her uniform jacket and tossed it onto a chair, but didn't bother with taking off anything else. She'd only be asleep for a while. "Lights, one-quarter," she told the computer, which obliged, and Ivanova sighed and rolled over. "Alarm, set for thirty minutes from now." A beep of acknowledgement. She nestled closer into the pillow and closed her eyes. TRRRRR. TRRRRR. "Computer, cancel all incoming transmissions!" she snapped, and buried her head under the pillow. "Incoming transmission contains Psi Alpha UV override clearance. Impossible to cancel," said the computer in its maddeningly calm monotone. "Presence of Captain Susan Ivanova confirmed. Autosignal accept in thirty seconds." Ivanova used all thirty seconds in swearing a blue streak before she finally sat up. Stomping over to the terminal, she flung herself down and glared at the screen. If this was another bigwig trying to tell her how to do her job - The screen lit. "Ah," said the hateful, hateful voice. "Captain Ivanova! You're looking well. So good to see you've got the promotion you deserve." It took her a moment to find sufficient breath. "*Bester!*" Bester grinned, dark eyes dancing like snowflakes. "Forgive me for the impersonality of a screen call, Captain, but the last time we spoke in person I made a most... *intimate* acquaintance with the palm of your hand, and pleasurable as that was - " His smile dripped lubricity. "I haven't the time or inclination for a repeat performance." The smile abruptly vanished. "We have something far more important to discuss." ...TO BE CONTINUED <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> Coming soon: More of WANDERING STAR, PART I: Saint-Germain ...in which Alfred Bester proves once again his capacities for both annoyance and usefulness; Ivanova celebrates Mass; our crew endures boredom; and the *Saint-Germain* herself makes her entrance. <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> AUTHOR'S NOTE The tradition of nicknaming an infantry platoon after its CO is in fact a real one, and was used by Robert Heinlein in the novel STARSHIP TROOPERS. Similarly, most real-life military organizations allow combat-command officers *extreme* latitude in personnel discipline, and the scene between DeClercq and Kimeda is in fact perfectly likely to happen if any military official mouths off to his or her CO to the degree Kimeda did. (And before anybody decides they hate Kimeda or DeClercq, wait and see. There are depths to this situation nobody's seen yet.) Some people may have noticed by now my rather arbitrary division of Earthforce into the Space Service and the Planetary Service. This is done purely to satisfy my own sense of internal logic; while jms gets a *lot* of military stuff more accurate in B5 than anyone ever did in any TREK, the one thing he's fumbled is rank structure. A major does *not* outrank a captain or commander in a naval chain of command, and you do *not* go (as Corwin apparently did in "Exogenesis") from a lieutenant j.g. to a 1st Lieutenant; the former is a naval rank, the latter an army rank. It's worth noting that the B5 EARTHFORCE SOURCEBOOK from Chameleon Eclectic doesn't even *try* to match jms' stories. From: Stephen Barringer Subject: WANDERING STAR: 07/??, VERSION 2 Date: Thu, 26 Mar 1998 11:12:51 -0500 As noted in my last message, this is the corrected version of Instalment 7. Please discard the previous version. <><><><><><><><><><> BOILERPLATE <><><><><><><><><><><><> 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 entertainment. All other characters and situations are copyright of the author, but permission is hereby granted for free, nonprofit use by other fanfic authors. (Though it would be nice if you asked anyway.) SPOILERS: Much of Fourth/Fifth Seasons, from "Between the Darkness and the Light" up to "A View From the Gallery". <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> << W A N D E R I N G S T A R >> PART I: SAINT-GERMAIN - 6 - Breathless with fury, Ivanova stabbed at her console, to no effect. Bester watched her and chuckled. "Captain, I'm so sorry, but this is too important to let you cut me off in a fit of pique." "Important? I've seen what *you* call important." Ivanova abandoned the console and leant forward, eyes blazing. "You took one of my best friends, twisted him in two and made him betray his captain and his friends in the name of your petty little manipulations! You sacrificed the only hope of Earth's freedom for your own power politics! Forgive me if I don't agree with what *you* define as important!" Bester only smiled. "I can always forgive ignorance, Captain; it's hardly *your* fault you don't understand what's really going on." "I don't suppose you'd care to enlighten me?" She didn't give him a chance to respond. "'Sorry, Captain, that's classified.'" Her intonation aped Bester's exactly. Bester raised his eyebrow. "How perceptive. Are you sure you didn't inherit any of your mother's talent?" Only her fury, combined with the sure knowledge that he was too far away for any kind of scan, stopped the piercing icy chill in Ivanova's stomach from showing on her face. "Be glad I didn't, Bester. If I had, I'd have sensed any illegal scans you performed, and I'd have been within my rights to shoot you there on the spot." "Captain! I am an officer of the Psi Police! I do not perform unauthorized scans on normals!" Bester's look of mock shock was so saccharine it was nauseating. "How dare you even suggest such a thing?" That was it. Ivanova got up, went over to her dresser, picked up her PPG, charged it with a whirring hum she knew damn well the screen mike could pick up, and pointed it at the screen. "Okay, Bester, either get to the point or I'll deal with the fine for damaging Earthforce property." "Code Psi Lachrymose." Ivanova blinked. "What?" "Code Psi Lachrymose." Bester's face was perfectly serious. Ivanova stared at the screen. Her PPG didn't waver. "Have you gone crazy or have I?" Bester sighed. "Now it is I who must ask *your* forgiveness, Captain, but I cannot explain any further; I have laws and regulations I must obey as surely as you do." He paused. "Let us consider a hypothetical situation. Certain enemies, recently defeated, have made an involuntary bequest of new techniques and knowledges. Rumour has it that you may be in a position to directly benefit from such." Unsubtle as Ivanova was, she was no dummy either. Cautiously, she lowered her PPG. "And if rumour were to be correct?" "Then certain factions would ensure their ability to likewise benefit. Even to the point of creating a personal presence." The chill returned, milder this time but no less cold. "You're talking about another concealed personality." Bester nodded sombrely. "Yes, Captain. And I cannot tell you who, or where, or how. It might be any of your crew. And as telepaths are currently forbidden to hold the full military rank necessary to serve on a ship like the *Saint-Germain* -- " a tinge of acid leaked through his smooth words - "there is no way I can provide you with an ally. Not without moving openly in a way that my opponents will be watching for, and ready to take advantage of." "In other words, you can't stick your own neck out," Ivanova growled. "Precisely." If Bester even noticed her anger, he didn't deign to acknowledge it. "You must know, Captain, that not all gambits are worth the necessary sacrifice." He leant forward, into the pickup. "But what I can do is give you a secret weapon." "Which is?" "Code Psi Lachrymose." He leant back. "It's a failsafe we implant in all covert personality operatives. When sent or spoken to a revealed operative, it causes what we refer to as a random ego assimilation. It disables the barrier between the original and the covert personality, causing them to - " he lifted his hands and brought the palms together " - collapse into one new personality, usually incapacitating the subject for a goodly length of time. We don't like to use it, only one out of every ten subjects or so retains any kind of sanity afterwards, but it's sometimes an invaluable last resort when an operative malfunctions." "So all I have to do is say, 'code psi lachrymose' to every crew member and I'll find my mole?" Bester grimaced. "Alas, Captain, it is not that simple." "It never is," Ivanova muttered. "The auditory signal only works once the covert personality has activated. If the cover ego is still active, and the covert personality is dormant, the signal is meaningless. And the signal to *activate* the mole can be sent only through subliminal EM transmission or direct telepathic contact." "Why are you telling me all this?" For the first time, a spark of what might be genuine emotion flickered in Bester's eyes: rage. "Because a woman I love lies in cryogenic stasis and tortured misery thanks to this technology. I have little liking for it, and less for seeing it used as my opponents would use it. What they plan... it is an obscenity. An insult to our humanity, and our superiority. If I can thwart that in any way, be assured, Captain, I will not hesitate to do so. Whatever the price." "Oh, I believe you, Bester." Ivanova holstered her gun. "I wish I didn't, but I do. You'll pay any price, sacrifice any life, any human, to get what you want, won't you?" "Only the ones I hate, or care nothing for." Bester's smile was almost winsome. "Do you tell me that you wouldn't sacrifice me, if you thought it necessary to achieve a sufficiently important end?" Ivanova took a deep breath, letting her anger shift into something harder, colder, almost sad. "Yes, Bester. That's exactly what I'm telling you. I don't use people as pawns. I hate you and I hate everything you stand for. But I would not sacrifice you to any end or goal, whatever it was, without your consent and understanding." Bester looked oddly at her. "I find that hard to believe." "Yes. I know." Ivanova met his eyes. "And in some ways that's the greatest tragedy of your life." Bester gave a twisted grin. "You intrigue me, Captain, and you surprise me. And it is very seldom a P12 telepath can honestly say that about anyone." "Imagine my joy and happiness." The Psi Cop threw his head back and laughed. "Ivanova, you're amazing. I'll be following your career with considerable interest. It never hurts to have a friend in Psi Corps, you know." Still laughing, he reached forward and disconnected. The screen went blank. Ivanova stared at it. "No, Bester," she whispered after a while. "That's where you're wrong. It hurts more than you could possibly imagine." - 7 - STATION PRIME CHAPEL HALL 20:22 EST Although the Catholic Church had finally allowed women to be ordained as priests in the 21st century, the inertia of conservatism and tradition had slowed the actual infusion of female ministers into the clergy; it had taken nearly two hundred years for a woman to actually rise to the position of Pontiff, and the majority of Catholic priests and brothers were still male. Ivanova, whose intermittent religious upbringing had been mostly at the hands of either her father or Rabbi Koslov, had to admit that there was something comforting about the traditional image of a white-bearded old man intoning ritual words. They weren't the words of *her* rituals, but the sense of ancient tradition was the same. The priest took a breath and sang the words of the gospel acclamation: "'Alleluia, alleluia; alleluia,'" in a quavering tenor. The congregation sang it back. Ivanova remained silent but listened to Morgan singing beside her: his voice was strong and surprisingly melodic. "'Rejoice, and open your hearts, O Israel,/ unto you a child is born. Alleluia, alleluia; alleluia.'" The congregation sat as the priest opened his service book to the appropriate page, cleared his throat, and read. "A reading from the Gospel of Matthew. "From the east came three wise men; they were kings and philosophers, who studied the stars, and their names were Balthasar, Gaspar and Melchior. And they looked up, and they saw a new star in the east, that they had not seen before. And they came to Jerusalem, and Balthasar said, 'Where is the baby born to be the king of the Jews?' Gaspar said, 'We have seen the sign of his coming, the new star that has risen in the east.' Melchior said, 'We have come to worship him and do him homage.' "King Herod and the people of Jerusalem were wroth. Herod called together the priests and scribes and asked, 'Where will the Messiah be born?' 'In the town of Bethlehem, in Judaea,' said they, 'for this is what the prophet wrote: "'Bethlehem in the land of Judah, you are by no means least of the cities of Judah; for from you will come a leader who will guide my people to Israel.' "So Herod called the kings from the East to a secret meeting, and learned from them the moment of the star's appearance. Then he sent them to Bethlehem with these instructions: 'Go and search well for the child, and tell me when you find him, that I too may do him homage.' And the kings left Herod, and the wandering star drew them on to the East. What joy and happiness was theirs to witness! And ahead of them the star went on, until it came to rest above the place where the child lay. And they entered into the stable, and when they saw the child with his mother Mary, they bowed before Him and worshipped Him; and they offered up their gifts of gold, and frankincense, and myrrh. "But they were warned in a dream not to go back to Herod, and returned to their own land a different way. "This is the Gospel of the Lord." With one voice, the congregation responded. "Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ." "So what did you think?" "I think my knees hurt." Ivanova rubbed her thighs. "Sitting, standing, kneeling, over and over again. You'd think after twenty-three hundred years they could make up their minds." Morgan snorted. "And you call yourself in shape? Oy, bubkie, that was nothing." He led the way out of the small antechamber, into the station corridor, his voice taking on the nasal stridency of the Bronx. "In the old days, we had none of these cushions or these nice chairs, it was cold stone benches on your tuchis, and you kneeled on the floor and ruined your back honestly, by God!" Ivanova tried and failed to control her smile. "I think you're both the wrong age and the wrong faith to get away with that voice, Ensign." Morgan smiled, then looked at her seriously. "Sir, please, it's Christmas Eve. It would mean a lot to me if you'd call me Thomas. Just for the evening." Ivanova hesitated; but really, there was no reason why not. It wasn't as if Morgan's behaviour would get any *more* unprofessional, after all. "All right - Thomas." She considered the corollary briefly and thought again, why not? One-way informality wasn't worth much. "I'm Susan." Morgan's eyebrows went up. "Thank you, sir. -Susan," he caught himself. "And thanks for coming tonight. Seriously, I hate going to Mass with people I don't know." "You don't know me all that well either," Susan pointed out. "Oh, I think I know you pretty well." Thomas waved an airy hand. "Oh really?" Susan stopped and folded her arms. "So tell me about myself, Thomas. Tell me how well you know me, considering we only met for the first time yesterday." Thomas raised his eyebrows at her. "Okay," he said after a moment, and put one hand to his chin with a theatrical scowl of thought. "Let's see. Susan Ivanova, born, hmm, 2235?" Susan laughed. "Wrong already, but very smoothly so." "Well, you're not supposed to talk about a lady's age anyway." Thomas grinned. "Born some unspecified time ago, Captain of a new and powerful ship, former political rebel, courageous, loyal, honest and honourable...." Sometime in the recitation his grin had faded, become something quieter, deeper. His eyes were clear and steady on hers. "Lonely, I think, and probably more than a little scared." He hesitated, looking at her curiously. "Brilliant and quick-thinking, with more than your fair share of physical and emotional scars. A wit that you use as both weapon and shield. And a *lot* of pain." Susan stared at him. For a moment a freezing cold fear lashed through her -- -- but then it faded. Her psi abilities were so weak as to be almost nonexistent, but she *knew* when she was being scanned, and she hadn't been, not even a surface flicker. But the fear didn't vanish entirely, either. Either Morgan was very, *very* perceptive, or she was literally just that obvious, and she wasn't sure which idea scared her more. "Ensign Morgan...." "Yes, sir?" Morgan accepted the return to formality without a moment's hesitation, as if he'd been expecting it. "I don't think we should continue this conversation." Morgan nodded. "As you wish, sir. But if I may - " he didn't give her the chance to cut him off - "I think you need more than just a loyal or competent crew. I think you need a friend." The unspoken offer was clear beneath the words. He saluted. "Permission to depart, Captain?" "Granted," Ivanova managed. Crisply, Morgan spun and marched away, with no hint of either anger or upset in his bearing. Ivanova stared after him. "Mr. Morgan," she called abruptly. Morgan slowed and turned. "Sir?" "Thank you." She had to give him credit; he didn't seem thrown at all. A small smile lifted the corner of his mouth. "You're welcome, sir." - 8 - EARTHFORCE PERSONNEL SHUTTLE CSD-27 DECEMBER 28, 17:13 EST If there was anything more boring than in-system shuttle flight, Ivanova was sure she didn't know what it was, but for once, she didn't object greatly. She remembered Garibaldi commenting once to an ISN reporter that he'd love nothing more than to be bored out of his skull for twenty-four hours, and for the first time in her life she understood what he meant. After the Shadow War, the Voice of the Resistance broadcasts, the campaign against Clark, and the final battles over Mars and Earth, the sheer luxury of not having to do anything at all was treasured. About a third of her crew had made it to Station Prime by the time she'd ordered the early relocation, and a single heavy shuttle had sufficed for them all. Most of them passed the time either asleep or reading or watching pocket vids on their datareaders. DeClercq spent some time going over crew rosters with her, highlighting potential problems; even among the enlisted crew and the second and third shift officers, there were a fair share of problem cases, though nothing as drastic as DeClercq himself, or Ramirez, or Kimeda. Ivanova sighed to herself. Nothing was ever easy. What interested her was watching how her command staff chose to pass time. DeClercq didn't take much leisure time unless occasionally ordered, but what little he did was spent over books - Ivanova recognized the poet Toni Morrison, a Malcolm X biography, and the *Oracles of Nzangari*, a 22nd-century Islamic tract that had revitalized the faith. It surprised her: she hadn't thought DeClercq was Muslim, and she asked him about it. As it turned out, he wasn't - he admitted unblushingly to being a lapsed Catholic with no plans to take up any other faith - but Irube Nzangari's crucial role in the formation of the East African Confederation had made him a major figure in African history. Ramirez, by contrast, chased women. It was more game than serious pursuit - intra-crew romance was heavily discouraged, if not actually forbidden, and there was little space for privacy in the shuttle anyway - but he seemed more interested in the hunt than the capture, and took great pleasure in making women blush. He even seemed to enjoy the occasional slaps across the face. He had never once tried it on Ivanova herself, but everybody else seemed to be fair game. Surprisingly, Tiffany Snow tended to give back as good as she got in such contests, and Ivanova was forced to revise her opinion of the engineering officer. Snow wasn't stupid; far from it - she was simply... out of touch, in some ways. Snow's own reading material alternated between technical journals and mass-market romances, two things Ivanova had only ever found alike in their unreadability. She still shuddered whenever she thought about it. Kimeda read medical articles or stared silently out a porthole. She had become much more polite since the confrontation in Ivanova's quarters, but made absolutely no overtures and responded not an inch beyond what genteel courtesy required. Ivanova had mustered her patience and waited. She'd read Kimeda's record, and she thought she knew what the problem was, but trying to force another confrontation would do more damage than it was worth. For now, she could afford to wait. Lieutenant Corelli and Ensign Morgan had discovered a mutual addiction to chess, and spent most of their waking hours playing. An informal betting ring had sprouted up among their ongoing tournament, which, despite its official illegality, Ivanova found pleasing: it kept the crew busy and out of trouble. Despite having totally disparate playing styles - Morgan played with a sort of intuitive randomness, Corelli with steady, merciless aggression - they were evenly matched, and both won as many matches as they lost, a situation Corelli seemed to find more aggravating than Morgan. Matt Waverly, on the other hand, was a devastatingly good poker addict, as Ivanova found out the one time she'd joined a game. She was normally quite adept at reading people but had found herself utterly unable to make any sense of Waverly's facial or body language; she'd left the game nearly a hundred credits poorer for it. Still, the players - enlisted crew, most of them - had seemed startled and pleased that an officer, the Captain, yet, had actually joined them for one of their "belowdecks" pastimes. A hundred credits was a small price to pay for some goodwill. Three days had passed in this manner under steady acceleration, then deceleration once past the midpoint of their journey, and Jupiter had grown huge and swollen in the shuttle's forward viewport. Callisto grew steadily nearer, a round greyish orb surrounded by the orbital platforms and frameworks of ship-construction yards; shuttles streamed in and out of ore-processing stations, and half-built ships hung like gutted fish in their docking frames. Ivanova had commandeered an empty seat on the shuttle bridge, and waited in uneasy anticipation. The Special Projects dock orbited on the far side of the moon, guarded by armed defense platforms ready to blow any trespassing ship to atoms if it didn't provide the correct transponder code. The shuttle pilot glanced from the viewport to her console. "Correction, three degrees x-absolute, burn on my mark. Three, two, one, mark." The copilot touched controls; Susan felt an attitude thruster fire with a vibration, and the shuttle shifted course. On a display screen, the flashing dot that was their craft moved steadily towards a blacked-out arc of orbit. "Entering Special Projects space in two minutes." The pilot glanced at Ivanova. "Transferring comm control to station three. Captain, be ready with your authorization code." Ivanova nodded. "Defense platforms hailing us," said the copilot. "Channel open," said Ivanova. "Transmitting code." She punched in the long complex series of numbers and letters without a moment's hesitation. Eidetic memory was good for something, at least. There was a moment's pause while the defense network processed the code. Then the comm console emitted a cheerful chirp. "Code accepted and confirmed," said the pilot. "Hal, slot us in for the Special Projects platform. Orbital path approach C." "Approach C, confirm, correcting to orbit now." The copilot paused, listening to the jack plugged into his ear. "We have the Platform on the line, hailing us." Ivanova ignored him. She leant forward, only half aware that she had stopped breathing. Any moment now, she would be able to see - Something cleared the horizon. Like a skeletal tower, the Special Projects platform revolved against the night, an O'Neill cylinder with six triangular docking frames spread out around it. Only one was filled. Ivanova's heart pounded as she stared at it, fear and wild excitement clogging her throat. The *Saint-Germain* was patterned after the basic Omega hull: a hammerhead shape, weapons and fighter docks up front, a rotating crew section in the middle, and the powerful fusion plants and engines in the "handle" of the hammer. But the rotating section was shorter and thicker, presenting less of a target, and the ship itself was easily half again the size of the *Agamemnon.* And the hull outlines were clean, unmarred by spikes. For a moment, sheer relief almost made Ivanova cry. And then the station revolved further into the light, and sunlight fell across the ship. And Ivanova's heart froze. The light fell silently into a night-black, shimmering hull, waves of deep blue and red seeming to undulate in the blackness. The Earth Alliance logo blazed with blue and crimson fire on the starboard prow, above the white letters that spelled out E.A.S. SAINT-GERMAIN. Portholes were sparkles of gleaming white light in the black hull, like the glitter of crushed diamond. Unconsciously, Ivanova lifted a hand to press against the viewport plexicrys, her mouth open. God, but it was *beautiful*.... How could something built on such horror be so beautiful? Unnoticed, a tear trickled down Ivanova's cheek as the shuttle plunged on towards the station, towards its rendezvous with her ship. ...TO BE CONTINUED <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> Coming soon: The conclusion of WANDERING STAR, PART I: Saint-Germain ...in which our Captain takes command, Morgan provides historical commentary, Kimeda reveals a secret, DeClercq and Waverly butt heads, and the *Saint-Germain* begins her voyage. <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> AUTHOR'S NOTES The passage read during the scene at Mass is adapted from the Gospel of Matthew, chapter 2, verses 1-12; it's one of many traditional readings done at Christmas masses in the Catholic Church. My own version is changed slightly for the sake of the story's symbolism. The existence of female clergy in jms' future version of the Church was established in "Conflicts of Interest" with a throwaway line about a woman Pope. In keeping with jms' work, I have noted this fact in the scene above. However, much as I know I will offend some readers with this, I have to state here that despite being a dedicated feminist, I am also a dedicated Roman Catholic, and I do not myself support the ordaining of women as priests. I wouldn't normally feel it necessary to state this, but I do take my faith very seriously, and I'm reluctant to give even the impression that I support something when in fact I do not. However, before everyone on this list jumps all over me, let me add: I'm not *against* ordaining women as priests, either, so please don't flame me for being a kneejerk conservative or idiot chauvinist or womanhater or any of that. I just don't want to take a stance, even inadvertently, on an issue I'm not qualified or authorized to judge. We now return you to your regularly scheduled fiction. #-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-# From: Stephen Barringer Subject: WANDERING STAR 08/?? Date: Thu, 26 Mar 1998 11:45:33 -0500 Instalment 8 of WANDERING STAR... NOT the conclusion of PART I: SAINT-GERMAIN. I lied. It got too long. But it should follow quickly. (Believe me, I want to get out to the Rim and the real adventures as fast as you do!) Feedback, flames, blahdi blahdi, ah, you know the drill. <><><><><><><><><><> BOILERPLATE <><><><><><><><><><><><> 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 entertainment. All other characters and situations are copyright of the author, but permission is hereby granted for free, nonprofit use by other fanfic authors. (Though it would be nice if you asked anyway.) SPOILERS: Much of Fourth/Fifth Seasons, from "Between the Darkness and the Light" up to "A View From the Gallery". <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> << W A N D E R I N G S T A R >> PART I: SAINT-GERMAIN - 9 - E.A.S. SAINT-GERMAIN DECEMBER 29, 08:30 EST Annoyingly, the one technology Ivanova might have been willing to forgive stealing from the Shadows was the one thing Earthforce didn't seem to have deciphered: artificial gravity. The only reason they were able to walk around in the *Saint-Germain* at all was the inertia imparted by the Platform's spin, and even so, half the crew's quarters were still "upside down" by their current gravity and inaccessible. As the door to the bridge slid open, Ivanova silently thanked the uncommon sense that had made the yard dogs lock the rotating section with the bridge right side up. Internally, the ship didn't look much different from any standard Earthforce starship, but there were tiny details off here and there. Every pressure bulkhead and door, Snow explained as they headed along the main corridor towards the bridge, was constructed of the same polycarbosilicate that made the outer hull, and the inability of the material to hold paint or dye had necessitated a slightly different colour scheme: the polycarbosilicate shone a deep black with shimmering highlights of green, and the internal lighting was brighter, compensating. In addition, much less was visible of the pipes and cabling that usually lined the ceilings and walls of most Earth starships. "It's like endemic," Snow said. "Programmed into the structure of the bulkheads." "So how the hell does damage control get at it?" said Waverly, as they walked along the corridor. "That's what these little gizmos are for." Proudly, Snow produced a stubby, torchlike device from her breast pocket and displayed it with a flourish. "Molecular debonders. They project an EM field that triggers a preselected molecular reaction, the valences reverse, and you just cut yourself a panel." She flicked a switch on the device. Its nozzle glowed with white light. Snow turned to a bulkhead, pressed the nozzle to its green-black smoothness and quickly drew a square on the material. Without pausing, she reversed the device and pressed the broad-ended base to the outlined square, then pulled. The square came free and hung on the device, fixed. "Whoa," said Morgan. "In your own words, Lieutenant: way cool." Snow grinned, blushing. Ivanova stared into the gap revealed. Like the ship itself, it was a weird and unsettling mix of traditional technology with Shadow biotech: fibreoptic cables threaded throughout queasily organic-seeming material, metallic-looking pipes pulsing with nutrient fluid like veins and muscle. Thankfully, everything was done in lines too straight and angular for any purely organic construct. It gave Ivanova something to cling to. Snow fit the panel back into its gap, reset a switch on the debonder and ran it around the edges of the square once again: the hairthin lines vanished as she did so, and the panel melded seamlessly with the bulkhead, as if it had never been touched. "And, voila." Morgan clapped obligingly. He was the only one who did so, however, and after a moment he and Snow looked around. Ivanova was a little relieved to see she wasn't the only one taken aback by the display; Ramirez and DeClercq both looked uneasy, and Waverly was glaring at the wall as if it had just offered to sell him his own mother. Snow cleared her throat. "Uh, Captain? Is something wrong?" "Nothing," Ivanova said aloud, and walked on. The door to the bridge slid open at her approach - another comforting familiarity; she'd half expected the thing to iris open like an organic valve - and Ivanova stepped through into a two-level room that might have been taken from any Earth Alliance starship. The far wall was almost completely taken up by a wide, curved viewscreen that stretched through both levels, and at the focus of the screen's parabolic arc two stations sat side by side: helm to port, tac ops to starboard. Above and between them, the captain's chair sat at the precise centre of the room. The upper level, a ring of metal gridmesh flooring, ran around the walls with multipurpose stations set into it at varying intervals. All the chairs were long, well-padded and equipped with velocity-shock harnesses, a subtle but telling indication of the kind of acceleration the *Saint-Germain* could pull - maybe as much as six or seven g. Her ribcage twanged in fearful anticipation. But something else was drawing her attention now. Carefully, she let herself down the ladder from the upper floor and approached the captain's chair. Her hand skated over the soft leather - well, it wasn't *real* leather, but the fabric sure felt like it - testing its reality; then, in a smooth motion, she swung herself over into a sitting position. Behind and above her, she was aware of the other officers following her in, but they made no sound, sobered perhaps by the intensity of her expression as she stared at the blank screen. From the breast pocket of her tunic, Ivanova took a sheaf of hardcopy flimsies and unfolded them, then cleared her throat. "Computer, activate log entry, full bridge pickup, screen display." The screen came alight, a string of code at the top showing date and time over the heading LOG. Ivanova turned to the first page of the hardcopy. "On this day, December 29th, 2261, at - " she checked the time - "oh-eight hundred forty-one, by order of President Susanna Luchenko, Commander-in-Chief of the Earth Alliance Armed Forces, and Joint Chief of Staff Marshal-General Robert Allan Lefcourt of the Second Division, I, Captain Susan Tatiana Ivanova, do hereby take command of the Warlock-class starship EAS *Saint-Germain*, serial code WHD-01A." The words appeared on the screen as she read. "I swear to uphold and defend the laws, citizens and worlds of the Earth Alliance; to protect and govern my crew and my starship in accordance with the Articles of Duty of the Armed Forces; and to satisfy the authorities and responsibilities invested in me by the power of the duly elected President and Senate of the Earth Alliance. I shall take any and all measures to fulfill these charges as may be required, even to the cost of my own life." She stared into the screen, beyond it, remembering one instant's final glimpse of a hurtling shard of wreckage, then pain so huge and swift it barely even hurt.... She swallowed and spoke again. "By my authority and voiceprint, Susan Tatiana Ivanova, rank, Captain, serial number JG302XV1973. Computer: confirm, certify, and hardfreeze." The computer bleeped a cheerful confirmation that seemed absurdly out of place; a moment later, the data crystal locked into her chairside comm console went dim and popped up from its socket. Ivanova picked it up, regarding it almost curiously. With a sigh, she swung out of her chair and stood, weighing the crystal in her hand, gazing around at the bridge. At the helm of the *White Star 2*, she had, to all intents and purposes, been slain. Here, now, was the beginning of her second life. "Captain?" said DeClercq. Ivanova blinked at him as if she'd forgotten he was there, which, in fact, she had. "Commander," she finally said. "Yes?" "Are you all right?" Ivanova took in the expressions of the others. Kimeda was as blank and impassive as ever, but Declercq, Ramirez, Snow, Morgan and Waverly all wore looks of concern and worry. Ivanova felt something warm blossom inside her breast. She smiled, and it came more easily, more truly, than any smile had come in years. "Yes," she said. "I'm all right." - 10 - "So what did Saint Germain do, anyway?" asked Snow as the small cadre of officers travelled down towards the engineering section. "I mean, I don't know a whole lot of saints, but don't they like each have some special thing? Francis Xavier's the animal guy, right? --No offense, Xave," she added hastily. "Xave?" said DeClercq. "Er, Commander," Snow backpedaled. "Thank you." "I'm afraid my education didn't cover a whole lot of hagiography," said Ivanova. "Mr. Morgan, Mr. DeClercq, you're the Catholics here. Who was Saint Germain?" She knew perfectly well that Saint-Germain had not in fact been a saint, but watching Snow get corrected was too much fun to pass up... and she was curious to see if anyone in her crew actually recognized the name. God knew she hadn't; she had had to search the Interweb to find out. "I haven't the slightest idea," said DeClercq. "Never heard of him in my life." "Unsurprisingly," said Morgan. "He wasn't a saint at all. Rather the opposite, if you believe all the bad press about him, but I make it a point never to believe bad press unless it's true." Kimeda snorted. "Isn't that a little tautological, Ensign?" Morgan grinned. "Malingering Jesuit influence." "So he was a bad guy," Snow pressed. "Well, he was a *strange* guy," Morgan answered. "The Comte de Saint-Germain - " he pronounced it with a flawless French accent; it came out almost *cohm' de Saanh-zher-Maanh* -- "was a noted figure in the French court of, I believe it might have been Louis XV, eighteenth century. He was popularly believed to be an alchemist and a sorcerer; some people even thought he was a vampire. He always wore black, never ate or drank in public, and was thoroughly enigmatic in a lot of other ways. First name was supposed to be Franciscus, or Francesco. And that's all we really know about him." "Appropriate for the Warlock class that they be named after famed historical sorcerers," said Kimeda. Ramirez laughed. "I should request that one be named the *Atlantes*, after the sorcerer of Carona, patron to Ruggiero, greatest swordsman in Spain!" "What's that from?" said Snow blankly. "The *Orlando Furioso*, of course!" Ramirez mock-glared at her. "You should read something other than bits, bytes, whips and clips, Lieutenant." "Hey, whatever broadens your skill base." Waverly snuck an admiring glance at Snow's well-rounded posterior, but his eyes were face-level and sober by the time she looked around. Ivanova caught the inside of her cheek between her teeth, trying to prevent laughter, even as the more paranoid part of her mind worried. Between Waverly and Morgan she was going to have a hell of a time enforcing discipline. Through another sliding door they left the crew section. The corridor here was wider, almost squarish, and a row of rungs was laddered along each wall to provide propulsive holds for travellers under zero g; the light tubes were set into the corners where wall met ceiling and floor, the illumination odd and diffused. Ivanova knew it was the most efficient way to design zero-g corridors - the fewer referents there were to an arbitrary "up" or "down" the easier it was for crew to adapt - but under gravity or acceleration it made the corridor look wrong somehow, unbalanced. She snorted to herself. Her time on Babylon 5 was telling. Most Space Service personnel could switch from Starfury six-g accelerations to weightlessness at the drop of a hat; between the steady g of Babylon 5, and the artificial gravity and inertial compensation of the *White Stars*, her g-adaptation skills were sadly out of practice. She made a vow to start eating lightly once they shipped out. It would be very bad for dignity if the Captain of the ship whoopsed her cookies all over the bridge the first time they pulled hard g. At the end of the corridor, Snow punched a security code into a wall keypad; the door slid open, and Snow stepped through into the engine chamber. The other officers, Ivanova in the lead, followed. And on the catwalk outside, they came to a slow stunned stop. The chamber was huge, but was crisscrossed everywhere with catwalks and retractable bulkheads, making it look like nothing so much as some insane kind of mechanoid beehive strung with cabling like black spiderweb. Shipsuit-clad techs swarmed over a vast black cylinder from which tangible vibrations pulsed, suspended in a frame of braces and cantilevers. Around the central fusion generator and connected to it by spiraling injection conduits, four long black tubes stretched the length of the room, coiled with closely wound metal tubing: the thrust exhausts, magnetic accelerators that took the superheated plasma generated by the fusion plant and shot it via magnetic pulse out the main drive tubes. And everything, everywhere, shone in the same deep black-green shimmer of the Shadow polycarbosilicate. Even the air seemed different: cooler, less frenetic, the titanic energies of the ship's heart contained more efficiently, with less waste heat. "Pretty cool, isn't it, sir?" said Snow, nudging Ivanova in the ribs with a grin. Ivanova started and glared at the other woman, annoyed, but Snow was oblivious. "If we had the kind of inertial compensation the Minbari or the Centauri use, we could pull up to twenty or thirty g easy with the engine power and thruster capacity we've got. Still, we're faster than any Earthforce, Narn or known Leagueworld ship right now, and we can match most Centauri... probably still can't catch a Minbari if they put their minds to it, but we got some other surprises for them anyway." "Oh?" said Ramirez. Snow lowered her voice. "We haven't got the hang of active gravity control or inertiacomp yet, but the same principles give you a continuum displacement pulse for the same energy cost as ordinary EM sensors." Ivanova nodded patiently. "Which means, what, exactly?" "Real-time FTL mass detection that bypasses the EM spectrum completely." Snow's wide grin seemed to bristle with unexpected teeth. "Which means every Minbari stealth device ever invented is completely *useless.*" "Madre de Dios," Ramirez breathed. "You broke the Minbari stealth tech." His face had lit with a shining glow, as profound and epiphanic a revelation as any mystic communion with God. Ivanova almost knew how he felt, aware her own jaw was hanging loose; the others, even Kimeda, were all looking equally stunned. If Snow was right, she and the Warlock design team had cracked the greatest problem of electronic warfare since the Dilgar War thirty years ago and singlehandedly made sure the Minbari, or any comparably advanced race, could never again threaten Earth the way they once had. "Not broke," Snow corrected. "Bypassed." She sighed. "And that gives you its own problems, believe me." She strode along the catwalk towards a runged strip of metal that led down towards the plant and the lower levels of the engine chamber. "It's not passive, for one thing - we use it, we totally light ourselves up to anybody with the same kinda sensors, and we're pretty sure the Minbari've got that technology too. Also it's basically a yes-no kinda deal." Gracefully, she swung over onto the ladder and descended towards the floor of the bay; one by one, the others followed. "On its own it tells you where something is and about how massive it is, but that's it. Still - " she grinned up at Ivanova, who was directly above her - "that's enough for a weapons lock, and that's all you really need, right?" "As long as you don't care who you're shooting at, yes, I would imagine so," said Ivanova dryly. "Well, that's what you've got other sensors for. Duh." Snow looked down to find the next rung. Ivanova reminded herself firmly that stomping on her chief engineer's head would win her no friends, no matter how good it felt. Snow reached the floor of the compartment, turned to face the chamber at large, drew a deep breath and shrieked, "CAPTAIN ON DECK!" Her voice, at the upper registers, turned truly shrill, cutting through the noise like a laser drill and scraping the inside of any listeners' teeth. Still, Ivanova had to admit even as she cringed, it got through the ruckus. The milling roil of bodies died down as the crew turned one by one to face her, falling obligingly silent; in the sudden quiet the pulsing basso thrum of the fusion plant could be heard, like a teeth-shivering heartbeat. A fat man emerged from the crowd; he was bald and sweaty and smelled of perspiration, though his arms were brawny and knotted with muscle. His grey uniform hung open three buttons in front and was still discoloured with sweat. But his salute was neat with military precision. "Chief Petty Officer Joseph Fykas, Captain." Ivanova returned the salute. She remembered Fykas; DeClercq had gone over his record, and she'd actually been relieved to get him. He was an old hand with engines and circuitry, and he did his job well, but his record was continually marked with reprimands for attitude and insubordination. Ivanova, who had learned to read between the lines of official reports in her time on Babylon 5, was betting it arose not out of inherent problems with authority but with a total lack of patience for fools or interference - a trait she could well understand. So she didn't smile. She only said, "CPO Fykas. If I asked for a full status report, would I understand it?" She nodded over his shoulder at the fusion plant. Fykas sized her up frankly. "Depends. You got a couple degrees in microcircuitry, fusion-mag plants and superconductors under your belt?" "Only basic electronics and a lot of hands-on learning." "Trust me, Skipper, there ain't nothing 'only' about hands-on learning." Fykas' growl seemed crotchety, but his eyes gleamed with something Ivanova hoped was respect. "But I'll sum up for ya. We're learnin' these ropes too, but thanks to Tif over there, I think we got a handle on 'em; an' I'll promise ya this - " He raised his voice so the whole crew could hear. " - if *any* of these hull-rats thinks they can slack off around here, they're gonna get to meet the Big Empty up close and personal, *do I make myself clear*?" "YES, SIR!" the gathered techs bellowed as one; but they were smiling. Ivanova felt some of the tension in her stomach uncurl. Snow might be an idiot, but with Fykas to hold her hand, they might just manage. Things were looking up. ...TO BE CONTINUED <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> Coming soon: More of WANDERING STAR, PART I: Saint-Germain ...in which New Year's Eve sees a surprising conflict between Waverly, Ramirez and DeClercq, a revelation from Kimeda, and some highly unprofessional behaviour from Morgan. <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> AUTHOR'S NOTES Re "Susan Tatiana Ivanova" -- I don't know Ivanova's real middle name or if it's ever been established on the show; if it has, my apologies, and just assume jms got it wrong, OK? (*GASP!* "Heretic! Burn him! Burn the sorcerer! Burn him!"....) Similar apologies if I've contradicted anything technical established by the show. I should warn everyone that I *love* hard-tech SF (although I hate technobabble as much as any B5 fan alive), so there will be more of the above. If anyone feels I'm swinging too far into technobabble, let me know. #-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-# "If I live through this job without losing my mind, it will be a miracle of Biblical proportions!" "There goes *my* faith in the Almighty." --Ivanova and Corwin, "A Day in the Strife" #-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-# From: Stephen Barringer Subject: WANDERING STAR 09/?? Date: Mon, 30 Mar 1998 17:23:57 -0500 Instalment 9 of WANDERING STAR, and the end of PART I: SAINT-GERMAIN. Feedback, flames, blahdi blahdi, you know the rest. The e-mail address should be in here somewhere. Where'd I leave it....? <><><><><><><><><><> BOILERPLATE <><><><><><><><><><><><> 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 entertainment. All other characters and situations are copyright of the author, but permission is hereby granted for free, nonprofit use by other fanfic authors. (Though it would be nice if you asked anyway.) SPOILERS: Much of Fourth/Fifth Seasons, from "Between the Darkness and the Light" up to "A View From the Gallery". <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> << W A N D E R I N G S T A R >> PART I: SAINT-GERMAIN - 11 - DECEMBER 31, 2261, 11:22 EST The door signal trilled. Ivanova looked up. "Come in." The procession that entered her office might have been comical, taken at face value. DeClercq, first in, was sporting a shocking black eye. Ramirez looked disheveled and beaten up, and Waverly, the last one to enter, wore an expression caught uneasily between fury and embarrassment. But the palpable air of anger and tension between them wiped any temptation to laugh out of Ivanova's mind. She put aside the incoming crew roster she'd been evaluating and folded her hands on her desk. "Sit down, all of you," she said quietly. They did so, tossing wary glances back and forth between her and each other. When they were seated, she made eye contact with each of them once, then addressed her words to the air somewhere between them. "Mr. Waverly. Report." Waverly cleared his throat. "In Mess Hall B2, I found Mr. Ramirez fighting with Starman Jacobsen. When I tried to break it up Commander DeClercq intervened - " "I was trying to *help*," snapped DeClercq. "You interfered in the performance of my duties!" Waverly shouted back. Ramirez snorted explosively. "Oh, *please*, Waverly, who do you think you are, Inspector Javert? This was a *passing* matter - " "Brawling is forbidden on Earthforce starships!" "So are private hydroponics stashes - " "HEY!" Ivanova bellowed. The three men fell silent. Ivanova put both hands to her forehead as if trying to hold her skull together. She fixed DeClercq with a withering glare. "Xavier, no offense, but when I tell Mr. Waverly, report, *don't interrupt him!* All right?" "Aye aye, sir," DeClercq muttered. "And you, Mr. Ramirez, given that you seem to be the one in trouble here - " "Sir, it wasn't *me* that put the black eye on the Commander!" Ramirez protested. "*Shut up!*" Ivanova shouted. "Not another word out of *either* of you until Waverly finishes!" She took a deep breath, clawing for control. There *had* to be another way of getting respect without shouting. Sheridan had never shouted. Well, not at people whose respect he was trying to win, anyway. "Mr. Waverly, go on." "As I was saying." Waverly didn't seem to be much closer to control himself. "Mr. Ramirez and Mr. Jacobsen were brawling in front of everyone in the mess hall, and when I tried to restrain Mr. Ramirez, Commander DeClercq did so first. And he shoved me right away so that he could get to Ramirez before I did. Unfortunately, Mr. Jacobsen threw a punch while my people were grabbing him, and thanks to the Commander's position he got the punch right in the face." "All right. Fine. Is that it?" "Yes, sir. That's it." "Okay." Ivanova took another deep breath. "Mr. Ramirez. Why were you fighting?" Ramirez took a second to reply. "Mr. Jacobsen made what I considered to be a highly inappropriate remark about Commander DeClercq." "Inappropriate," Ivanova repeated. "Do I really want to know the content of this remark?" "Suffice it to say it involved cowardice," DeClercq said quietly. "I didn't ask you, Xavier," Ivanova snapped, but her heart wasn't in it. While it was comforting to know Ramirez would stand up for his XO, she didn't need fights. Especially not over this. Resentment and fear did not produce the kind of loyalty she needed: the crew had to accept DeClercq for themselves, not because the Tac Ops officer would beat up anyone he caught making insinuations. Which was strange enough in itself. Ramirez, Mr. Honourable, protecting the Coward of Vega VII? Either Ramirez knew more than he was letting on, or it was long enough ago that he'd known, and still knew, virtually nothing. Or there were complexities to the man's obsession with honour she hadn't fathomed yet. "So you took it on yourself to protect Commander DeClercq's reputation." "I took it on myself to rebuke a man acting with cowardice and dishonour," said Ramirez, his voice and face neutral but the heat in his eyes blazing like a furnace. "If one wishes to express a complaint or a criticism, or even an insult, one does so openly. A man should have the courage of his convictions! Worse even than the coward is the anonymous coward." Ivanova blinked. "You beat a man up because he complained about his commander behind his back?" Unbelievably, she found a laugh somewhere. "Philip, that's common to every single Earthforce member ever sworn in! Hell, *I* complained about my CO when he wasn't around!" The words clearly took Ramirez off guard. "Captain - " "Philip, drop it." The concern for honour touched her, but there was honour, and there was practicality, and Ivanova had a starship to command. "Mr. Waverly, I take it your objection is to Commander DeClercq interfering in your duties?" "Yes, sir, I think I said as much." Waverly glowered. "Commander? Why *did* you interfere?" DeClercq sighed. "Because while I appreciated Mr. Ramirez' defense of me, I knew very well I could not win acceptance among the crew with that kind of support." He shot Ramirez a sidelong look, and the younger man had the grace to look uncomfortable. "I felt it was important that Jacobsen speak his mind, confront me and resolve this, and I had to show that I was the one to prevent Mr. Ramirez's response, which quite frankly *was* within his rights as a senior officer." The last remark was clearly directed at Waverly. "If Security doesn't handle internal discipline what's the point of *having* a security detachment?" Waverly snapped. "Matt." Ivanova raised a warning finger; amazingly, Waverly paused, then subsided, though his glower didn't lessen. She refocused on DeClercq. "So you jumped in on Matt's turf." "So it would seem." "So it fragging *is,*" Waverly gritted. Ivanova glared at him, and he stopped, made an effort to calm himself, and went on. "Captain, I'm sorry, I realize I'm not acting real professional here, but I don't have a lot of history, here or in Earthforce, and the Commander isn't the only one who needs to win some respect! If the crew sees me getting undercut by the XO or Tac Ops all the time, what the hell's the point in having me or my people around?" It was a fair complaint, Ivanova had to admit. Waverly wasn't one of her problem cases, but he was, like Morgan, pretty well fresh out of Earthforce training, and unlike Morgan, Waverly didn't have the stellar qualifications necessary to pick and choose his assignments. He had no particular enemies in Earthforce Central but no real friends either, and his presence on the jinx-ship the *Saint-Germain* was rapidly becoming was probably just due to blind bad luck. Although if he was as blunt and direct everywhere else as he had so far been with her, odds were he had managed to piss off at least one senior officer in a way that could only be unofficially avenged. Regardless of why, he was here now, and he wanted - understandably - to consolidate his authority and do his job well. Unfortunately, building the acceptance DeClercq needed required teaching Waverly when *not* to do his job. She wondered if the phrase "turn a blind eye" meant anything to the young hothead. "All right," she finally said. "Here's what we're going to do. Mr. Waverly, you're going to discipline Mr. Ramirez and Mr. Jacobsen at Captain's Mast for public brawling. Mr. DeClercq, you had an unfortunate accident down in engineering due to rusty zero-g reflexes. And none of you ever came into this office. Because had you done so, I might have had to take official notice, which would mean a court-martial for Mr. Ramirez and Mr. Jacobsen, and possibly even for you, Xavier." She gave all of them a steady look. "Do I make myself clear?" "Aye aye, sir," said DeClercq. Ramirez scowled, but nodded. "Aye aye, sir." "Sir - " "Matt." Waverly sighed. "Aye aye, sir." They filed out in silence. Ivanova watched them go, then slumped back and stared at the ceiling. "You're trying to make some kind of point here," she asked it. "Aren't you." Only silence answered her. Ivanova groaned, put her head down on the desk, and began pounding it rhythmically against the cold metal. It was rather soothing, actually. - 12 - 12:16 EST "Aspirin?" Caught in the medbay door, Ivanova stared at Kimeda, dumbfounded. "How did you know?" "Captain, I've worked under no less than seven Earthforce starship commanders," said Kimeda, not looking up from her computer screen. "Without exception, every single one of them has come through the door of medbay wearing precisely that expression. It always means the same thing." Still not taking her eyes from the screen, she reached over, plucked a white plastic bottle off the desktop and tossed it in Ivanova's general direction. Reflexively, Ivanova caught it, forgetting momentarily the headache that she'd come here to alleviate. She walked over to the desk, put the bottle down and plopped down in a chair opposite Kimeda, who appeared oblivious to her presence. But Ivanova could see the stiffness in her neck muscles, the tension in Kimeda's arms as she tapped at her keyboard. Wondering half-whimsically whose patience would snap first, she folded her arms and settled back, waiting. A good five minutes passed before Kimeda finally gave in and looked up with a martyred sigh. "Can I help you with anything else, Captain?" Silently, Ivanova thanked God - she'd been on the verge of punching Kimeda in the face just to see if there was a human being behind that mask. "Yes. You can tell me why you hate me. Though I should warn you, I think I have a pretty good idea." "Do you?" "Yes. Your father was on the command ship of the Omega-A task force." Only the sudden slackening of the tension in Kimeda's face gave her surprise away; she didn't move otherwise. But Ivanova had seen it, and leant forward, unsure whether she was sad or relieved the problem had been exactly what she thought it was. "My clearance as Captain of the *Saint-Germain* gave me an access I didn't have before. I was able to download some of the classified files from the Clark regime's military rosters. Commander Hajaniro Kimeda, second on the Omega-A destroyer XRA-1. The ship I personally destroyed." Muscles moved in Kimeda's jaw, and her eyes were obsidian. But she said nothing. "They're using you, you know." Kimeda blinked. "What?" "My enemies in Earthforce. They chose you to serve here because they knew about your hatred. Sheridan, myself, anybody on the side of the rebels." Ivanova stood and stared down at her, her face as blank as she could make it, using only her height. "They're counting on you to hate me, Doctor. The same people that put us both in the situation we faced." Kimeda lunged to her feet so suddenly it actually made Ivanova jump back a step. "The Senate didn't *force* you to be a traitor," she hissed. "*You* chose to take up arms against the duly elected President." Against such an anger as this, anger would be useless. Deliberately, Ivanova made herself as calm as possible. "The duly-elected *Vice*-President." "What?" "Clark was elected as Vice-President, the running mate for Luis Santiago. He succeeded to the Presidency only through Santiago's assassination." "That was never proven," Kimeda countered shakily. "No, but I have no doubt it will be." She cut off Kimeda's response with a raised hand. "I'm not interested in this argument, Doctor. My point is that Morgan Clark was never, at any point in his career, the 'duly-elected President'. He didn't gain his office by popular choice. He gained it by murder and betrayal - or, if you prefer, by ruthlessly profiting from his President's accidental death." Try as she might she couldn't quite keep the mockery out of the last two words. Kimeda flushed. "We didn't disrupt the proper order of things, Doctor. We did what we had to do to restore it." "And killed my father in the process." "Yes." Kimeda stared at her. "You admit it? Just like that?" "What do you want me to do? Deny it?" "I want you to be *ashamed* of it," Kimeda said, her voice low and poisonous. Ivanova had to admit, at least it was a relief from the shouting. "I want you to be horrified by it. I want you to feel everything I felt when I was told how he'd died." "Why? Would that bring him back from the dead?" "That's not the point." "Then what is?" "The point is justice." "No, the point is revenge." Ivanova put her hands on the countertop and deliberately leant into Kimeda's personal space. The doctor backed away as if burned. "There *is* no justice in the kind of situation we faced, Doctor, because there was only one man truly guilty of beginning this war, and he died by his own hand three weeks ago. His supporters are still in office because of that. Your father died because of that. The man I... loved... died because of that." This time it was not mockery she couldn't keep from her voice, and she had to pause a moment before she could go on. "What you want, Doctor, isn't something I can give to you, because I don't have it either. Deal with it." Kimeda turned away and strode to the other side of her office, breathing heavily. "That's it?" she rasped after a moment. "'Deal with it'? Do you expect that to make it all better?" "No, but from what I know of your record, nothing else would, either." Ivanova sat down again, letting her anger come to the surface as a thin thread of acid in her words. "You've never been very good at losing, have you, Doctor? Everything has to be your way, in your time, at your pleasure. It's followed you everywhere, you know. It's in black and white on the record. 'Brilliant doctor, miserable human being' - that was Captain Jameson, on the *Agamemnon.* 'Disruptive attitude interferes with effective crew integration' - that was Commander Morpurgo of the *Rommel*. I could go on. They all say the same things." "So this - " Kimeda swept an arm around medbay, as if to take in the entire *Saint-Germain* -- "is supposed to be my punishment." Ivanova nodded. "And you're supposed to be mine. Don't you see how they work? How they use you, and set you up, and manipulate everything around them? We can't find justice in that. What we can find is the chance to survive. Which is the only justice that really matters in the end, isn't it?" she whispered silently. "It's not that easy," Kimeda muttered. "It never is. Since when was 'easy' the point?" Kimeda didn't answer for a few minutes. "I am what I am," she finally said. "I won't change because people have a hard time handling me." "Bullshit." Kimeda jerked around. "What you are," Ivanova went on, "is stubborn, arrogant, rude and obnoxious, and the only difference with me is that you have a semi-legitimate reason to be angry, so you think that justifies it for once. But *nobody* gets a license to be a jerk or an asshole or a bitch on my ship, Doctor. Not even me." "You could have fooled me." "I'm doing what I have to." "Yes, isn't that what everyone in the Civil War said?" Ivanova had to bite back the shout that came to her lips. Her response came grating out through clenched teeth. "Doctor, please don't do this." "Do what? Be honest? Tell the truth? Pretend I'm less than I am to satisfy everyone else?" Kimeda raised a maddening eyebrow. "Captain, I'm here to do a job, and I promise you, I'll do that job to the best of my ability, and the best of my ability is pretty God-damned good. But I will not have my spirit legislated to. Now unless you have a medical situation beyond a headache, get out." Rage burned in Ivanova's throat and stomach like swamp-gas. But there was no DeClercq here, no recalcitrant crew to impress; and Ivanova doubted Kimeda would be affected by another blow anyway. It had scared her once out of shock. That wouldn't work again. And as long as Kimeda was speaking on medical grounds, not even Ivanova could defy her orders. Ivanova ruled everything and everyone else on the ship... but under official Earthforce regs, medbay was Kimeda's domain. She'd lost this one, she realized, as Kimeda ostentatiously returned to her work, and the heavy leaden chill of disappointment and defeat settled over her rage, choking it out, extinguishing it. With a silent sigh of resignation, she left. She didn't see the tears that dripped slowly down Kimeda's impassive mask of a face, and fell with tiny taps onto the counter in the silence of the medical bay. - 13 - JANUARY 2, 2262 08:53 EST In one pocket, Ivanova fingered the data crystal containing the tachtrans she'd received that morning, and read quickly in her hasty rush to the bridge. It was short and hurried and beautiful. Brother Theo had been found in time after all. He had been rather startled to find himself sharing wedding honours with Satai Delidi of the Minbari religious caste - it was seldom that an ordinary human monk even came close to, much less meet and perform a wedding with, one of the Grey Council - but had willingly acquiesced to the somewhat improvised ecumenism, and on New Year's Day John Sheridan and Delenn of Mir had been married in a shuttle en route to Babylon 5. Her heart had ached with memories of Marcus, and dreams of what could never be at this point, but the pain was oddly pleasant. Perhaps it was just that John and Delenn were so obviously happy, it was impossible not to feel that happiness in some measure. The ceremony had been long and elaborate and subdued, but the couple's joy shone through every moment. Even now, fingering the crystal, Ivanova felt some of that radiate through to her. It fused with her own excitement, and warmth swelled inside her. It was almost time. The door to the lift slid open, and Ivanova strode down the hallway, reminding herself that this was the last time for a while she'd get full normal g: the bridge was built high enough in the *Saint-Germain*s rotator that effective g was only about half-Earth normal. Thedoor to the bridge retracted before her, and as she stepped inside Commander DeClercq raised his voice. "Captain on deck." The alpha shift immediately stood to attention. DeClercq stood at a station above and behind the command chair; Morgan stood by the helm, Ramirez at Tac Ops. Around them, the other officers of alpha shift stood, similarly sober-faced. But as Ivanova's eyes met Morgan's, he suddenly, shockingly, *winked* at her. Ivanova managed to convert the sudden laugh into a vigourous throat-clearing. Morgan's face remained deadpan, but his eyes twinkled. Ivanova sighed internally. She was *definitely* going to have a word with the man about discipline. She stepped down from the second level to the command chair and sat down, tilting the seat forward to face the main screen. It was in visual mode now, the starfield slowly revolving under data overlays giving time and position. Above them, the frame of the Special Projects platform was visible, extending forward. As she sat, so did the rest of the crew. With one hand, Ivanova tapped the comm console built into the arm of her chair. "Bridge to Engineering." "Engineering, go!" came Snow's chirpy voice, made tinny by electronics. "Engineering, what is our status?" "Power's in the green, five by five," said Snow. Ivanova changed channels. "Bridge to Special Projects Platform One, this is the EAS *Saint-Germain*. We are on line and ready to go. Initiate undocking sequence." "*Saint-Germain,* this is SPP One. Undocking is a go, I repeat, go." Without waiting for an order Morgan hit a control: the computer began to bleep a warning signal. "Zero-g imminent," it said politely. "Zero-g imminent. Please secure for zero-g." Throughout the ship rang several loud, metallic clangs: the sound of vast clamps unlatching and drawing away, as airlocks sealed and docking tubes wound back. With a jolt, gravity vanished as the *Saint-Germain* quite literally fell out of the docking frame, inertia sending her clear of the Platform within seconds. Ivanova felt her stomach rising into her throat and swallowed a few times, fixing her eyes on the screen; its steadiness reassured her body she wasn't falling, despite the turmoil in her semicircular canals. Morgan monitored the distance as the ship fell away from the Platform. "We are clear for rotation," he said. "Commander, initiate rotation." DeClercq tapped keys at his station. "Rotation initiated, aye aye, sir." Another clang, quieter this time, and a thrum of power and vibration as the gyros of the rotating section kicked in. Inertia built a slow grasp on the bridge and pulled them back down to their seats. It wasn't gravity, but it was close enough for jazz, and the stars on the screen were beckoning with ridiculous clarity.... "Bridge to engineering, status of engines?" "Engines are ready, Skipper." "Mr. Morgan, ahead one g. Take us out of orbit. Trajectory, Saturn." Morgan's hands moved over the controls. "Alert for acceleration, one g: firing." A roar erupted through the ship's massive frame; the pull backwards, into the seat, was suddenly stronger than the pull downwards into the floor. Stellar-temperature hydrogen plasma blasted from the titanic drive tubes, magnetically accelerated, pushing the *Saint-Germain* forward at ten metres per second per second. The Platform and Callisto receded, and the void of space opened before them. Ivanova thought. And for that one moment, as the *Saint-Germain* sailed forward into the eternal night, it didn't matter that her crew was a mess, that she herself was scared and unready, that her ship was built from the flesh of monsters. It was *her ship*, and she was in command. She vowed she would remember it as the finest moment of her life. ...TO BE CONTINUED <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> Coming soon: WANDERING STAR, PART II: Scavenger Hunt ...in which the crew finds out what the *Saint-Germain*'s mission *really* is. <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> #-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-# "If I live through this job without losing my mind, it will be a miracle of Biblical proportions!" "There goes *my* faith in the Almighty." --Ivanova and Corwin, "A Day in the Strife" #-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-# From: Stephen Barringer Subject: WANDERING STAR 10/?? Date: Wed, 08 Apr 1998 17:16:58 -0400 Instalment 10 of WANDERING STAR, and the beginning of Part II of a projected five parts in the story. Sorry for the excessive delay, folks, and just to turn the knife, it may be a while before I write again... Easter weekend is coming up, after that a tech week for my CRAZY FOR YOU show and then a week of performing... my creative energy may be shot for a while. But, I'll try.... Feedback is welcomed; constructive criticism is welcomed; flames will be extinguished in creative bodily fashion. <><><><><><><><><><> BOILERPLATE <><><><><><><><><><><><> 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 entertainment. All other characters and situations are copyright of the author, but permission is hereby granted for free, nonprofit use by other fanfic authors. (Though it would be nice if you asked anyway.) SPOILERS: Much of Fourth/Fifth Seasons, from "Between the Darkness and the Light" up to "A View From the Gallery". <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> << W A N D E R I N G S T A R >> PART II: SCAVENGER HUNT - 1 - JANUARY 11, 2262 AD, 14:32 EST SECTOR 897, COORDINATES 67/50/39 STAR SYSTEM GC-8214 As stars went, this one was nothing spectacular. It was an ordinary red dwarf star, possibly the single most common stellar type about, its light comparatively faint enough that it would be invisible from Earth; it had only one planet, a bluish-coppery gas giant almost large enough to have been the red dwarf's twin. But the giant put out a considerable amount of thermal and photonic energy of its own, and in conjunction with the ionospheric currents of its three moons, radiated enough hard EM to power a small, well-shielded station permanently. Which, as it happened, was precisely what it had been doing for the last six years. In 2256 AD, through a strained and rather second-hand corridor of contact reluctantly permitted by the Minbari, the Vorlon Empire had finally stated its intent to open formal diplomatic relations with the Earth Alliance - and by implication, with the Centauri, Narn and Leagueworld races as well -- by sending an ambassador to the soon-to-be-established Babylon Station. Concomitant with that declaration had come several very pointed warnings: the space claimed by the Vorlons, a healthy chunk of the galactic arm leaning inwards towards the Core, was sacrosanct and inviolable. Humans being what they were, they'd sent expeditions anyway. None of those expeditions had ever been heard from again. The Vorlons claimed no knowledge of their presence. It was, perhaps, inevitable that it would be Humanity which took the compromise step of posting listening stations as close to the edge of Vorlon territory as possible: no other species possessed the right combination of chutzpah, paranoia and location. Offers to share whatever information came out of those listening posts had bought the Earth Alliance more than a few favours in the Centauri Republic, the Narn Regime and the League of Non-Aligned Worlds. The fact that nothing useful had ever actually come from the posts for over five years deterred nobody at all; curiosity about the Vorlons was too rampant. And then, of course, the Shadow War had erupted, and a good many of the posts had been destroyed. Some few had survived, apparently by virtue of sheer blind luck - the Vorlons' movements had been too focused and directed to allow for a concentrated extermination campaign. Listening Post VC-22 was one of the lucky ones. Not that its survival had done much good. The Vorlons were gone. And anyone who asked nowadays was told simply that the stations had been abandoned and were soon to be disassembled. Anyone, that is, who didn't have a starship captain's security clearance. "Initiating jump sequence," said Morgan. Ahead of them, a point of light welled through the formless red waves of hyperspace, then fell backwards and unfolded into a spiraling vortex of reddish-tinted light. From the other side, Ivanova knew, it would appear blue, as the light spilling out of hyperspace suddenly found itself in a universe where its preordained speed was much slower and piled up on itself, Doppler shifting towards the short end of the spectrum. At the core of the vortex was blackness. "Take us out," Ivanova ordered. The *Saint-Germain* surged through the dimensional gap. Red nothingness gave way to the black, star-studded expanse of normal space-time. Behind them, the jumpgate sustained the passage between universes for a moment longer, then let it seal shut like a regenerating wound. The *Saint-Germain* plunged onwards towards the listening post. Floating just outside the flux tube of magnetic energy that connected the gas giant with the most electroreactive of its nameless moons, VC-22 trailed mag-panels and conduits through the flux tube like fishing lines in a lake, absorbing the endless power of the giant. It was a drum-shaped station dominated by large sensor dishes and a hodgepodge of various arrays, zero-g cargo modules attached at odd intervals to the central rotating drum which housed the crew quarters and working areas. The transfer would have to be by shuttle - the *Saint-Germain* was far too big to use any of the docking locks. Even as Ivanova noted this Morgan had already changed trajectory, decelerating and guiding the ship into a matching orbit. "That seems awfully big for a listening post," commented DeClercq from his position above and behind her. Ivanova didn't turn to face him; she only listened, and a second later heard the heartbeat's hesitation she'd anticipated. "And why are there so many shuttles docked there? I thought these stations were being abandoned." "So did I, Ex-Oh," said Ivanova in an utterly unsurprised voice. "So did I." From a comm station overhead, a technician cleared her throat. "Captain? Incoming transmission from the post." "Onscreen," said Ivanova. The view of the station vanished, replaced by a two-metre-high image of an aging male Oriental face. "Captain Ivanova," said the man. "Good to see you. My name is Dr. Ling Chang. We've been told to expect you." "Dr. Ling," said Ivanova. "I'll be with you shortly. You can expect myself, my XO and my Tac Ops for the moment." She rose, then paused at the perplexed frown that had settled on Ling's face. "You have a problem, Doctor?" "I was under the impression this was to be a... a secure matter." "Are you implying you don't trust my officers, Doctor?" "No! No, not at all, I - " Ling's voice seemed to run out. "Dr. Ling." Ivanova decided to be merciful, for the moment; she had a nasty suspicion she would run out of mercy and patience long before this scheduled stopover was complete. "If especial security is required, we'll deal with that as it comes. For now, I want my officers with me. Understood?" "Not really, sir." Ling didn't smile. Ivanova did; it was a thin, sharp expression, like a dagger. "That's all right. You don't have to understand. Just follow orders. *Saint-Germain* out." Ling's face vanished and the station reappeared. "Ouch," said Morgan in a stage whisper. "You have a question, Ensign?" Ivanova admitted to herself it was more waspish than the situation probably merited, but dammit, she was *not* looking forward to this. "No sir. Not at all." To his credit, Morgan was quick, and looked suitably chastened. "Then you have the conn. Mr. Ramirez, Mr. DeClercq, you'll accompany me to the shuttle docks. Mr. Morgan, I want a flight crew down there, prepped and ready to go in fifteen." "It's done, sir." Ivanova swung out of her chair and strode to the bridge door. Behind her, Ramirez and DeClercq fell into formation, flanking her as if they'd always done so. It felt startlingly natural. Though her movement didn't slow, she took a moment to savour the sensation. - 2 - The station door and the shuttle airlock slid back simultaneously, with a pneumatic hiss as air spilled across the barrier and mingled. Beyond stood three men, all in long white coats with insignia scrolled across the breast. In person, Ling was the shortest of the three. Beside him stood a grey-haired, bespectacled man of medium height; the third was tall, pale, and broad-shouldered, with icy blue eyes and a shock of whitish-blond hair cut brutally short. "Captain Ivanova," said Ling, hurrying forward in a hand-wringing shuffle that reminded Ivanova of nothing so much as a nervous gerbil. "Commander DeClercq. Lieutenant-Commander Ramirez. I'd like to welcome you all to Station VC-22. Please, please come in...." He turned and gestured to his companions. "My colleagues, Dr. Wilson and Dr. Braun." "Howdy do, Cap," said the grey-haired man. Ivanova blinked. "'Howdy do'?" Wilson smiled, revealed crooked teeth. "Grew up in Alabama, Cap. We got none of yer fancy-schmancy speech down Alabammy way." "You must be joking," said Ramirez. "Well, yes, actually, I am," said Wilson without a hint of the exaggerated Southern accent, face instantly locking into deadpan. "But I find I generally have to supply most of the humour on this outpost; my colleagues seem to be sadly deficient." "It is called professionalism." Braun's voice was marked by the over-precise intonation of someone who had worked hard to overcome a thick accent. "You have heard of the word, I think?" "Now, now, now...." Ling waved his hands ineffectually. "Captain, we have a conference room booked for the afternoon, I have some suggestions and observations, it's all in our report...." He turned and led the way down the corridor. Ivanova noted that while Wilson sauntered along with his hands jammed casually in the pockets of the coat, Braun strode with the same military precision she, Ramirez and DeClercq had automatically assumed. She filed the fact away in her memory for further note. The station was alive with a busy, curiously abstracted bustle utterly unlike that of B5's Zocalo or Station Prime's central concourse: people hurried through the corridors and talked as if their minds and spirits were elsewhere entirely, and there was little laughter. Ivanova could almost smell the intensity. Their Earthforce uniforms got them many a curious look, and in more than a few cases a frightened look and a hasty scuttle elsewhere. While few of the personnel here were actually Earthforce, the station itself was formally under military jurisdiction - and more to the point, under military funding. Any scientist who had ever operated under military budgets knew that the money could disappear at any moment for what seemed the most ridiculous of reasons, even something as trivial as ticking off the wrong visiting officer. They lived on sufferance here, and it was her word that could justify or revoke their entire purpose for being. Ivanova knew some people who might have found that kind of power thrilling. She just found it depressing. She smiled to herself. Conference Room B was up several levels from the docking bays; the station was small enough that even that minor displacement made for a perceptible reduction in gravity, and she noticed both Ling and Wilson walking a little taller and looking a little brighter. Braun didn't seem to notice. Ivanova allowed herself a mental snicker. As they took their seats, Ling turned out his pockets and spilled several data crystals onto the tabletop, muttering distressedly to himself as he attempted to get them in some kind of order. Ivanova, Ramirez and DeClercq waited patiently. Finally Ling managed to identify the crystal he sought and jammed it hastily in the tabletop socket. The wall screen lit with a star map. Centred on it was GC-8214, highlighted in yellow. To one side, the sectors controlled (or at least formally claimed) by the Earth Alliance lit with a faint blue. The other side was red: an arc of uncharted territory marked only by the stars they had observed. Ling sketched with a laser pointer and clicked one of the stars in that red territory to yellow. "This star is a G3 type yellow dwarf, about ten light years distant," he began, "and observations are necessarily slow and vague. But from the amount of hyperspatial distortion observed in the system over the past five years, we speculate that there is a planet located there, or at least a way station of some variety." "The Vorlons used listening posts," said Ivanova. "And they were never quite as massively unconcerned with the rest of us as they pretended to be. No evidence on planetary bodies?" Braun shook his head. "Telescopic data at this range does not permit precise detection of mass. If there is a system, we are at a sufficient angle to the ecliptic that it cannot be seen. Has Earthforce any knowledge of the Vorlons' true atmospheric preference?" Ivanova shrugged. "They may not have had any. They requested a methane-based compound for Kosh Naranek on Babylon 5, but he was perfectly capable of existing in an oxygen environment. So was his replacement, for that matter." Her eyes darkened, and she had to control a shiver. She had not seen the final confrontation with the false Kosh herself - she'd been in C&C at the time - but both Delenn and Sheridan had told her something of it later. Twin, tentacled masses of light, half-matter, half-energy, one searing blue and the other blazing gold, locked in a lethal embrace that had rocked the entire station as they emerged to hurtle thousands of kilometres across deep vacuum and die in the detonation of the Vorlon's living ship... she was fairly confident that beings like that were beyond any petty concerns like atmospheric requirements. "Sentiment," said DeClercq quietly. "Pardon?" Braun's eyes were cold. "The Vorlons evolved from *some* form of corporeal creature," said DeClercq, "and that creature had a preferred environment. If the Vorlons had emotions at all - " "They did," said Ivanova. "I can assure you of that. Fear. Anger. Kindness...." she wondered. Had Kosh loved Sheridan, or Delenn, or any of the lesser beings he had manipulated and led for so long? He had eventually died for them, sacrificing his life as the price of a Vorlon attack on the Shadows. Had that been love, or simply dedication? Lyta Alexander had certainly believed Kosh loved *her*, and she had stated with flat, chilling certainy that the false Kosh had been as capable of arrogance and anger as any half-wit Drazi tavern bouncer. Ivanova had seen the evidence of that for herself. "Then it's just possible they retained a sentimental preference for their original creche environment," DeClercq finished. "We could, of course, just go and look," suggested Ramirez with impatience he didn't even bother trying to veil. "How typically direct," said Braun in a voice like acid-edged frost. Ramirez froze. "Excuse me, Doctor?" "*Mister* Ramirez," Ivanova snapped. Ramirez's mouth clapped shut, but his dark eyes never left Braun, and there was black fire in that look. Ivanova switched her attention to Braun. "If you have another option, Doctor, I'd appreciate hearing about it." Braun hesitated, not quite able to keep from looking nonplussed; then, gradually, his face closed to a sullen mask. "I meant only that a scout vessel might be more appropriate than the headlong rush the lieutenant-commander is suggesting." "And if, like the Vorlons, we had small ships capable of hyperspatial jumps, that would certainly be a feasible option," said DeClercq in a lethally calm voice. "But we have no coordinates for *any* Vorlon jumpgate - we do not even know if they *used* jumpgates - and so by definition any ship exploring Vorlon space must do so under its own power. Therefore, we could send an explorer ship - rare vessels, hugely expensive, and less suited to self-defense - or we could send a warship with the capacity to fight and run if need be." "Yes, yes, Commander, I see your point - " "Do you? Because the *point* is that sometimes things are not what they appear to be. Remember that." Ivanova felt a sudden tightness in her throat; with difficulty, she kept from swallowing. Bitter, mocking words in a voice she'd come to love... her own, quiet, utterly shattered response. "Dr. Ling," she said sharply. "Further systems. What other options do we have for exploration?" Ling pounced on her answer. Evidently he was as happy to get past the conflict as she was. "Some twelve light-years past this first point, we have more hyperspace ripples around the following stars...." - 3 - Commander-First Zarabakh was not happy. And when Zarabakh was unhappy, any draz with a gram of sense walked lightly around him. However, nobody had ever accused the Drazi as a species of having much sense. The bridge of the *Darktalon* resounded to a thundering blow as Subcommander Salathek went flying across the deck and came down hard, scaly face twisted up in numb, surprised pain. "I DO NOT WANT TO HEAR WHAT YOU DON'T KNOW!" Zarabakh thundered, looming over his command chair and literally bristling with rage; the scales around his crest and neck had risen with the tension of the muscles beneath, razor-sharp edges ready to protect his skull from an enemy's grip. "I WANT TO HEAR WHAT YOU *DO* KNOW!" "Ow," said Salathek. Zarabakh strode across the deck and hauled Salathek to his clawed feet. "We have watched that outpost for *two months*, waiting for something to happen, and now it has!" he hissed. Around them, the other Drazi watched with equal parts fascination and calculation. "And you cannot tell me *anything* about that ship, Salathek?" "For the last time, Commander - " Salathek's own rage was finally fighting free of his shock and pain. "No! Not without getting too close for our stealth tech to function! I can tell you that it is definitely an Earth warship, I can tell you it *appears* to be made of the same material as the Great Enemy's, but I cannot tell you anything else without revealing ourselves! Which word of this don't you understand?" Zarabakh grabbed Salathek's throat; Salathek grabbed back; they stood poised for a moment before mind finally overwhelmed instinct. Both dropped their hands at the same time, neither looking in the least apologetic, and Zarabakh stormed back to his chair and flung himself into it. "We will watch, and wait until they jump to hyperspace," he declared. "Then we will pursue them. Sensor distortion is heavy in hyperspace, we can get much closer. Then, possibly, we will learn more. Where they are going... and what they will do when they get there." His eyes gleamed. ...TO BE CONTINUED <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> Coming soon: More of WANDERING STAR, PART II: SCAVENGER HUNT ...in which the crew gets yet another unpleasant addition and receives a cry for help. <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> --------------------------------------------------------- From: Stephen Barringer Subject: WANDERING STAR 11/?? Date: Thu, 23 Apr 1998 17:42:12 -0400 Instalment 11 of WANDERING STAR. As before, the slow pace will continue until my CRAZY FOR YOU show is done... I have only so much creative juice to go around. Thanks are due to Colin Michael Davis; if not for his unalloyed and undeserved praise (and theatrical sympathies), this section wouldn't have been finished for another week. Feedback is welcomed; constructive criticism is welcomed; flames will be extinguished in creative bodily fashion. <><><><><><><><><><> BOILERPLATE <><><><><><><><><><><><> 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 entertainment. All other characters and situations are copyright of the author, but permission is hereby granted for free, nonprofit use by other fanfic authors. (Though it would be nice if you asked anyway.) SPOILERS: Much of Fourth/Fifth Seasons, from "Between the Darkness and the Light" up to "A View From the Gallery". <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> << W A N D E R I N G S T A R >> PART II: SCAVENGER HUNT - 4 - Five stars. Five worlds to monitor. Five worlds where any of a thousand millenium-aged deathtraps could snuff out the *Saint-Germain* as lightly as a casual breath. Ivanova's mouth twitched. Her father had been no slouch at gloominess himself - he was Russian, after all -- but even his patience had occasionally snapped at the moroseness his only daughter had been capable of displaying. Of course, her father had never had to deal with the Vorlons. "I would like to go over this with Ensign Morgan," said Ramirez, gesturing at the five stars that had been highlighted in the screen display. "I assume we will want a maximum-speed patrol route worked out." "Calculate several options," said Ivanova. "We don't know how long each world will take. Dr. Ling, I'd like to thank you for your time - " She stood and extended her hand. Ling nodded jerkily and rose. "Certainly, Captain, certainly, it's good to know that our work is yielding results...." He shook her hand with nervous enthusiasm. "Please, give our regards to Earthforce Central - oh yes, that reminds me, we have something for you." Ling rummaged through his pockets and produced yet another data crystal. Outwardly, it was identical to every other crystal Ivanova had ever seen - a transparent, pyramidal block of laser-inscribed molecular lattice - but something in her stomach did a swift drop at the sight of this one. Earthforce Central. She had learned through hard and bitter experience to dread messages from Earth. Somehow they never held anything she wanted to hear. Still, want and need were two different things. Without perceptible hesitation she took the crystal from Ling and pocketed it. "Thank you, Doctor. Can you tell me what this concerns?" Ling shook his head. "No, no, I'm sorry, I can't, it was encrypted, you know what the security restrictions are like, of course you do...." "Yes, I do." Something in her voice shut Ling up. On the bridge of the *Saint-Germain*, the comm screen at Helm trilled a quiet signal. Morgan broke off from his course-plotting simulation and examined it. His eyebrows went up. A swift series of keyboard strokes cleared the screen; star systems dotted the layout, coordinates listed beside each. One of the stars began blinking steadily. The Tac Ops second, Ensign Carroll, glanced over at him. "What's up, Tom?" To himself, Morgan grimaced; he *hated* that nickname. "We're getting a tachyon signal." "From?" said Carroll, a slim eyebrow arching into her feathery mouse-brown hair. "Inside Vorlon space." The low murmur of the bridge instantly flashed to silence. Ivanova locked the door of Ling's office, then spoke her personal security code into the door's link terminal. The central computer acknowledged it, and she shut off, one by one, the internal monitors and logs. She'd considered going back to the ship to read this, but she didn't have enough patience left. Dr. Ling had been more than willing to lend her his office. Hell, he'd seemed almost too terrified of her to protest. She found herself longing for Morgan's insouciance, or Ramirez's intractability. At least she could shout at them without feeling like she'd kicked a puppy. At Ling's desk, she slid the crystal into the scan-only socket. The computer screen flashed white with static and resolved into a familiar, grey-haired, blue-eyed visage. Ivanova's mouth tightened even as her stomach sank. "Well, well, well," she murmured. "Hello to you too,= General." General Lefcourt's image nodded stiffly at her. "Captain Ivanova; greetings. We apologize for the covert nature of this communication, but certain aspects of your mission profile had to be clarified once you were away from interference at home." "Translation, before Sheridan and the ISA could figure out what you were up to and clamp down on it," Ivanova muttered. "Your further orders are as follows." And he went on, and Ivanova stared, and her jaw dropped, and only the iron self-control she'd learned over the past few years stopped her screaming in rage and pounding her fist through the screen. "Come on." Both Ramirez and DeClercq had to bounce upright in their surprise to keep up with her as she strode out of Ling's office. It was DeClercq who mustered the nerve to ask, "Captain?" and the one word contained all the questions either had considered articulating. "We have a briefing to conduct." It was the last word any of them spoke until they neared the main shuttle-bays where the launch from the *Saint-Germain* had been docked. It didn't surprise her to find Braun standing by the shuttle-bay doors; it didn't even surprise her that he looked equally unsurprised. Angrily, she saluted him. "So, Colonel Braun, to what do I owe the honour?" Braun did not return the salute. "There is no need for this, Captain." "If you're not part of Earthforce any longer, then *I* decide what there is and isn't a need for," Ivanova hissed, leaning close to him. He remained still and utterly impassive. "I don't like being lied to!" "Susan." She turned, startled. DeClercq looked at her with dark eyes. It was, she realized, the first time he had ever addressed her by name. "I don't wish to cramp your style - " The faintest of sparkles lit his eyes for a moment. " - but I can't help feeling we're missing something here." Ivanova spilled out her rage in a groaning sigh; the dull heat of the remaining anger was no longer enough to push through her resignation. "Mr. DeClercq, Mr. Ramirez, I'd like you to meet Dr. Ulrich Braun, formerly *Colonel* Ulrich Braun of Earthforce R&D, and that's as much as I can say until we get on board that shuttle." "Formerly?" said Ramirez. Braun's unflinching, ice-blue gaze turned to the younger man without losing a hint of its chill. "I believe your Captain has stated the conditions under which further information will be forthcoming, Lieutenant-Commander." He gestured to the shuttle bay doors. "Now, shall we?" "Have I ever mentioned," said Ramirez to no one in particular, "how much I hate lawyers?" "Enough, all of you." Ivanova couldn't even bring herself to smile. "Let's get the hell out of this place." She spun and marched through the shuttle bay doors towards the launch, trying desperately to figure out how she was going to tell Ramirez and DeClercq what they needed to know without getting herself shot. Senior Starman Manhir Singh was good, but he was lazy, which in part explained why he had never risen higher than his current rank. Moreover, the commtech specialist had apparently long since passed the point of caring about the impressions of his superior officers; he made no effort to disguise his resentment of the way Morgan was standing over him and watching every keystroke he made. "Well?" said Morgan. "It's definitely Vorlon signature, sir," said Singh, after a sullen pause just long enough to convey its point without being demonstrably insubordinate. Morgan sighed to himself. "But it's definitely not Vorlon." Morgan blinked. "You lost me. Can you run that again real slow?" "The devices used have the characteristic Hilbert signature of Vorlon organic tachyon transmitters," explained Singh with a patience that wasn't quite patronizing enough for Morgan to call him on. "But the language itself is clearly a verbal spoken tongue. I would speculate that somebody in Vorlon space has figured out how to operate a Vorlon transmitter and is using it to signal us." Heat and cold prickled through Morgan's body. He whirled and pounced on another station. "Ms. Bailey!" he ordered the young woman there. "How are your translation algorithms?" Bailey blinked at him. "Uh - " "Link in with Mr. Singh and copy the transmissions. I want this deciphered as soon as possible. It could be a call for help." "Uh, sir, that could take a few minutes - " "Then you'd better get started now, hadn't you?" Morgan raised his eyebrows at her, adding a slight smile to take the edge off his words; after a moment, Bailey smiled hesitantly back and entered the commands to link her console with Singh's. Morgan's smile turned inward. It was amazing how cooperative people were if you just smiled at them; he wondered why more people hadn't realized that. God knew, his captain could certainly stand to smile more. The few moments they'd had on Christmas Eve, when she had actually relaxed enough to laugh, to share first names, were still a glowing memory, like a tiny fusion engine somewhere in his chest - He froze, cold suddenly piercing the warmth and draining it away. Oh no. No, no, no, he was *not* going to let this happen. He'd been trained too well to let his emotions get the better of him. Hadn't he? - 5 - At some point, Xavier DeClercq had decided that he was not going to let anything surprise him any more about the first voyage of the *Saint-Germain*. More interestingly, he hadn't realized he'd made that decision until just now. At Ivanova's cold statement of Earthforce's newest lunacy, he had merely glanced at Braun, feeling no surprise whatsoever, and said, "I see." Ramirez was less phlegmatic. "WHAT?!" "I assure you, Mr. Ramirez," Braun's voice was like a soft breeze off polar glaciers, "I was fully trained in Earthforce Academy." "Twenty years ago," Ramirez spat. "And your Commander DeClercq is how old, exactly?" "Commander DeClercq has not been trapped in an academic prison for five= years!" "There are those who think *some* kind of prison was merited." Same old, same old. DeClercq accepted the pain with a sort of resigned numbness; that it still hurt, would always hurt, was a given, but he was so familiar with it now he could handle it without a flicker of visible affect. Novae blazed in Ramirez's eyes and his face darkened in a rush of blood; he sucked in breath for a screaming reply, but before he could get anything out Ivanova, looking unexpectedly weary, leaned across the small aisle and simply touched him on the wrist. Startled, Ramirez's eyes flashed to hers. They held for a few moments, black against green-flecked brown, and slowly the furious heat faded from Ramirez's expression. The anger wasn't gone entirely, but it was controlled now, waiting. Admiration stirred through the pain. This young woman had seen more, done more, suffered more than anyone should have to, and it had strengthened her to a frightening degree. DeClercq wondered if she was truly aware of her own power. Anyone could order their subordinates to die for a cause. It took true charisma to make those subordinates *want* to die. Ivanova turned to Braun. "Your official title, Doctor, will be Alien Technologies Consultant. But I want this understood now, you are *not* in the chain of command and you have *no* authority, not even the limited authority of Dr. Kimeda in medical matters. You are a civilian attache and you will behave in the appropriate manner, understood? No orders." "You do realize that means you cannot give me direct orders either," said Braun. Before she could answer he held up one hand. "Except in situations directly relating to the safety of the ship," he added in a bored voice, as if reciting from a long-memorized and dull book. "Yes, Doctor, I realize that." Too calm, that voice; the faintest of smiles. DeClercq had the ridiculous urge to brace himself, as if waiting for an overinflated balloon to explode. "But since I'm Captain, I have a *lot* of discretion over what constitutes an issue of ship's safety." Even now, Braun's icelike visage didn't crack; his cool was much better than Kimeda's. But the pale blue eyes narrowed slightly, and he said= nothing. A link bleeped. Instinctively, all three of the Earthforce officers checked the backs of their hands before realizing it was Ivanova's. She sighed and answered. "Ivanova, go." "Captain?" It was Morgan. "You'd better get up to the bridge as soon as you can, once you dock; we have some *amazing* developments up here." The signal was strange, intermittent Interlac words emerging from the squawking of a distinctly nonhuman palate. Ivanova listened, breath almost stopped in sheer fascination, as the computer worked through the recorded transmission. " the the home " Snow, who had come up from Engineering as the rumours of the discovery swept the ship, laughed out loud. "God, that sounds like some of my old Academy buddies after too much booze." DeClercq wore a scowl as he threaded his way through Bailey's translation schema. "I'm still not convinced of this." "Sir, this is the latest translation program," said Bailey diffidently. "We've based it on recorded languages from all over the galaxy. If there are any common principles in there, we'll find them." "Yes, if," said Ramirez. "At the moment that seems a questionable assumption." He winced at the noise. "We don't even know if this is= correct." " return the home " "Return the home?" said Snow. "What, somebody stole it?" "Oh my God." Ivanova turned. The shock in Morgan's voice was a tangible thing, like a blow. He wasn't looking at her, he was staring into space, his face blank and appalled and gaunt with something that looked like horror. She stared, alarmed. "Th - " A microsecond's shock of her own. "Mr. Morgan?" she finished, as quickly as she could. They were all still staring at him; she didn't think any of them had noticed her slip. "'Return home'," Morgan repeated. "Or maybe 'return to the home'." He looked around at them all, blue-green eyes wide and cold. "That message isn't for us. It's for the *Vorlons*." His meaning hit Ivanova like a punch into her right breast. As the Shadows had had allies and servants, and even tools and machinery made from living flesh, so would the Vorlons have had - so *must* they have had - and as the Shadows' forces had been abandoned, so had the Vorlons'=85 only the Vorlons hadn't given their slaves the ability to steal what they could and flee. No, the Vorlons, in the name of "protecting" the species they manipulated, would have carefully guarded and regulated, in precise, stifling order, every step of their progress.... ...until the day when the Eternal War finally ended, and the elder races= left. Committing one final act of horrific indifference. Ivanova cried in her mind, But she didn't let the outcry show in her face. She straightened, went to the drop-ladder and vaulted down to her chair. "Everyone, nav stations, now." The crew scattered to their posts. "Seal for acceleration and jump manoeuvres. Mr. Singh, signal the post we're leaving. Mr. Morgan, do you have coordinates for the signal?" "Locked and loaded, sir." "Listening post reports traffic clear to the jumpgate, sir," reported= DeClercq. "Thank you, Commander. Mr. Morgan, give me one point two five g-delta, maintain through crossover, and set a course for that star." Morgan's hands flew over the keyboard, the staccato of keystrokes rippling and hard. "Setting course, bringing her about." One hand moved to a master pilot control, a 3d-manipulable steering bar, and the other tapped his deskcomm mike. "All hands, alert for acceleration in thirty seconds, 1.25 g; all hands, alert for acceleration." "Power on line," said Snow from a station she'd commandeered. "You know, we could do more than this, way easy, if you want speed." "I'll save that for combat, Lieutenant," said Ivanova. The *Saint-Germain* rumbled with subsonic power as, in the main viewscreen, the starfield began to revolve. The jumpgate came into view, four precisely placed pylons in the shape of an incomplete diamond. On her screen display, the power for the jump flared from them like an invisible sun, building already. "Course laid in," said Morgan, "awaiting accel on your mark, Captain." "Go." Morgan hit a button. The roar of power cycled upward, building in volume and force until the starship seemed to bellow like a living beast, and acceleration pressed everyone back into their seats. The *Saint-Germain* rode a pillar of fusion fire forward, its drive flame igniting the darkness. The jumpgate flashed, rippled, and space convulsed and ruptured: red light spilled from the wound. The ship plunged into it and vanished in a distorted flare of vision. Thousands of kilometres away, hidden behind a drifting moonlet that had never earned a name, only a number no one could remember, the Drazi corsair *Darktalon* turned, broke orbit and flashed towards space. Minutes later, it too had opened a jump point and disappeared. ...TO BE CONTINUED <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> Coming soon: More of WANDERING STAR, PART II: SCAVENGER HUNT ...in which the true and horrifying legacy of the Vorlons begins to unfold, and Snow tells a surprising tale from her past. <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> AUTHOR'S NOTE To all male readers: The simile was carefully chosen. My girlfriend, and several other women I know, assure me that being hit in the breast area is *just* as painful and nauseating as a kick in the crotch is for guys. There is a *reason* why female boxing has never taken off as a genuine sport. --------------------------------------------------------- "If I live through this job without losing my mind, it will be a miracle of Biblical proportions!" "There goes *my* faith in the Almighty." --Ivanova and Corwin, "A Day in the Strife" BABYLON 5 --------------------------------------------------------- From: Stephen Barringer Subject: WANDERING STAR 12/?? Date: Mon, 27 Apr 1998 16:13:06 -0400 Instalment 12 of WANDERING STAR. Slow pace, was I saying...? Lash on, ye taskmasters and adoring (yeah right) fans, lash on. Feedback is welcomed; constructive criticism is welcomed; flames will be extinguished in creative bodily fashion. <><><><><><><><><><> BOILERPLATE <><><><><><><><><><><><> 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 entertainment. All other characters and situations are copyright of the author, but permission is hereby granted for free, nonprofit use by other fanfic authors. (Though it would be nice if you asked anyway.) SPOILERS: Much of Fourth/Fifth Seasons, from "Between the Darkness and the Light" up to "A View From the Gallery". WARNING: THIS INSTALMENT CONTAINS SPECIFIC AND DETAILED SPOILERS FOR "NO COMPROMISES"! <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> << W A N D E R I N G S T A R >> PART II: SCAVENGER HUNT - 6 - JANUARY 13, 19:41 EST HYPERSPACE They'd tried to kill him. And she hadn't even known about it until three days after it was all over. ISN couldn't transmit directly to ships in hyperspace. ButMorgan had taken advantage of their brief stopover at the listening post to download some broadcasts from the far-flung tachyon comm network, among which had been a news broadcast from Babylon 5 on the eve of the inauguration of the President of the Interstellar Alliance. He'd had copies distributed to everyone's terminal databanks, but Ivanova, in her worry over her crew and the endless administrative details of running a starship, had not bothered to access any of it until this evening. And there, in flashingly edited power, was the story of how an ex-Earthforce major had murdered a Gaim ambassador, stolen a Starfury and nearly blasted Sheridan, Delenn and G'Kar into plasma streams, saved only by Michael Garibaldi's seat-of-his-pants flying... and by the sacrifice of a heroic young telepath. Ivanova sat alone on the couch in her quarters, staring at the wall, and tried to sort out how she was feeling. Yahweh knew the mere fact of the attack shouldn't have shaken her as badly as it did. The threat of death was nothing new, for either of them. Even death at the hands of their own people, tragic truth though that was. But for some reason, she'd thought that had ended with Clark. Stupid, stupid blindness, but it was true. That their enemies in Earthforce and Earthgov would continue to work against them, she could deal with that, she was *here* because of that - but somehow she'd expected it to be the sort of thing she was facing now: covert interference, sabotage, double-dealing and threats. Not the lethal attack of a rogue, murderous gunman. She wondered if her replacement - what was her name, Lochley? - had even been in C&C when it had happened. And then there were the telepaths. For almost all her life, Ivanova had found those humans cursed with telepathic abilities - and it was a curse, for all that Bester proclaimed their genetic superiority - to be either feared or pitied. Only two people had ever come close enough for her to see past the powers to the humans beneath: her mother, and Talia Winters. And both had been destroyed for the sake of those powers. Even Lyta Alexander, rogue, rebel and Vorlon-enhanced aide, had inevitably been drawn back into the Psi Corps fold -- not by force or blandishments, but by the simple distrust of the business world for a non-regulated telepath, and by her own inability to imagine, or perform, a job that didn't involve using her powers. The only real way out from under the crushing heel of Psi Corps seemed to be to join the oppressors, to live up to the example in terror that the Psi Cops set. To be feared and hated, or to be pitied and grieved for. Except now there seemed to be another way. The ISN reporter hadn't actually said anything specific. But he had stated clearly that there were more than a few telepaths on the station now, and that Sheridan felt quite publicly grateful to them. And Babylon 5 remained an independent state, technically no longer under the jurisdiction of the Earth Alliance or of Psi Corps, and perfectly capable of granting asylum. Where else could a rogue telepath go and still feel at home? And yet.... Colony. That was the word that still sent chills down her spine. It might not have been Psi Corps, but these telepaths were still banding together, isolating themselves, shutting out the rest of humanity. As she had shut out Marcus, once upon a time, not for who he was but what he was: the risk of love, of pain, of heartbreak. As she had once shut out Talia, before learning to see past the Psi Corps badge to a woman who might never have been anything more than a telepathic construct. As Bester shut out the vast mass of humanity he dismissed as "mundanes" - thus eliminating as unworthy of consideration or compassion some of the noblest human beings she'd ever known: Jeffrey Sinclair; John Sheridan; Michael Garibaldi; Stephen Franklin; Zack Allan; Marcus Cole. Isolating oneself might shield one from pain - though God knew, she had tried, time and time again, and somehow never managed it - but it also shielded one from love. And without love, while your body might survive, your soul would inevitably wither and die. she asked herself bitterly. Unbidden, the answer came in a whimsical thought. She let herself smile before a sudden freezing jolt raced through her. For some months now, such wry thoughts had come to her in a mental voice her subconscious inevitably invested with Marcus' timbre and intonation. It was as if some tiny portion of him survived in the depths of her mind. But for the first time, the voice had changed. It still sounded something like Marcus', but it was deeper, less Britanically precise. It sounded like... like.... The door signal trilled. Almost grateful for the distraction, Ivanova let it go. "Come in," she called, and sat up. Lieutenant Snow slid around the door even before it had opened all the way and plunked herself down on the couch, dumping a pile of data-access pads on the small coffee table. "Hey, Captain, I got those reports you wanted." But Ivanova took a silent breath and leant forward. "Thank you, Lieutenant." =20 "Hey, no prob." Prob? Oh. Prob-*lem*. Right. Ivanova shook her head. "Lieutenant, can I ask you something?" "Yeah, sure." "Is this your natural mode of speech, or are you just playing with= everybody?" Snow blinked. "I - wow. You sure don't do subtle very well, do you,= Captain?" "Not very well at all." Ivanova leant back, lacing her fingers across her stomach. "But, Lieutenant, I can't be the only one who's asked about the dichotomy between your intelligence and your chosen speech patterns. When someone as unquestionably brilliant as you are deliberately passes herself off as a, I believe the word is 'ditz', it makes the rest of us suspicious." Snow frowned, and for the first time something that might be genuine anger glinted in her hazel-green eyes. "You telling me you don't trust me,= Captain?" "I'm telling you that the misleading image you're presenting doesn't give me much reason to, Tiffany." Susan kept her voice quiet. "I *do* trust you. But it's not because of your image, it's because I know enough to look past images. A lot of people don't. And I want to know why you'd deliberately let yourself in for that kind of mistake." Tiffany opened her mouth, paused, then turned away. Her jaw tightened, her eyes narrowed, and for the first time Susan saw the razor-edged brilliance that had deciphered the Shadow biotech and broken the Minbari stealth systems. For a moment she was almost frightened. But the fear vanished when Tiffany began speaking in a voice so quiet and hesitant it sounded like a shy five-year-old's. "You ever heard of the Green Moon sect, Captain?" Eidetic memory or not, the name was sufficiently obscure that it took Ivanova a few seconds to retrieve a hazy recollection from her university days. "Some sort of retro-anarchic revival group, weren't they?" "They focused on alternative spirituality," said Tiffany. "With a lot of emphasis on the post-World War II subcultures=85 they sort of took every counter-culture tradition they could find, mashed it all together into one big melting pot. Hippies, beatniks, punks, Valspeak, you name it, it was all in there somewhere. Big environmental activists, too; they bought a whole tract of land in Northern California and set up eco-enclaves. I was born on one of those enclaves; both my parents were loyal Green Moons to the core. Which meant..." She took a breath. "Which meant that like a lot of the others in the 'clave, they liked to do a lot of what they called 'creative consciousness alteration'." Ivanova understood a moment later, and felt cold. "Drugs." "Grass, acid, fire, all the lighter stuff." Tiffany rubbed her forehead. "If they'd stuck with that, they might have been fine. But round about the time I was born on one of the enclaves, dust hit the streets, and of course the Green Moon people just went berserk. They thought of it as soul-sharing. Couples would use it during sex. They'd take it in group religious celebrations. They'd probably have all killed themselves with it if they'd been able to afford it." The bleak condemnation in Snow's voice was colder than anything Ivanova had ever heard Braun or Kimeda say. She shivered. Then she went even colder as something occurred to her. She had to make herself ask the question. "When was this?" Something tugged at Snow's lips; it wasn't anything like a smile. "Just about 2233." The date triggered the final connection, and memory hit Ivanova like a brick in the face. *That* was where she'd heard the name before. "Oh no," she breathed. Snow sighed. "Yep. The beginning of the ESI anti-drug wars. They wanted the Green Moons shut down so badly they spent damn near fifteen years going after us, but the people in charge at our end were always just a little bit too smart. And ESI wasn't getting the funding or support those days that they got right after the Minbari War, or during Clark's time in office. We'd just kicked the Dilgar's asses, everyone wanted to get into space, all the Senate money was going to colonization efforts and starship-jumpgate construction." She raised her hands and let them fall. "The ESI was never able to get the people they really wanted." Her eyes fell to the floor. Slowly, her head dropped. "Not until 2249, when they were able to browbeat a terrified sixteen-year-old girl into testifying what she'd seen in the 'clave where she grew up, and got the final piece of evidence they needed for a massive search-and-seizure= operation." Ivanova had to swallow. Yes. She'd heard about it during her last year of secondary school, just before she'd joined Earthforce: it was the kind of operation that could never have been executed under Luis Santiago. It had been too dependent on force and browbeaten testimony. But the paranoid, broken Earth of 2249, which had survived only by a miracle nobody had then understood, had been a very different place, a world hungry for an enemy it could actually beat, to restore its shattered pride. When the Green Moon enclaves had chosen to resist with force, the media had swooped on it like starving vultures, as had Earthforce, the ESI and the Federal North American States' police. The final confrontation had been touted as a victory for good, decent, moral human beings everywhere. The countless deaths of Green Moon cultists and police officers was glossed over. Ivanova watched the woman on the other end of her couch. The resemblance to Talia was much more acute now, with pain drawing the lines of her face taut and wiping away her normal chirpy grin, and for a single embarrassing second something roiled under Ivanova's emotions that was a little more primal than sorrow or sympathy. Appalled at herself, she stomped on the reaction. "You can't blame yourself for that," she managed. "Can't I?" The question was lifeless. "You think they terrified me into it, Captain? Nuh-uh. I hated it, you know that? Couldn't stand the way they lived. I lived my life on the Interweb. I was qualified for a master's in engineering by the time I was fourteen. I was going to go into Earthforce the moment I turned sixteen, take advantage of the lower drafting age, but the ESI task force got me first and told me, they swore to me, they *promised* me it would be a careful op. And I let myself believe them, 'cause I hated my home so much, 'cause I *hated* my fragging *parents*." There were tears on Snow's cheeks, but her voice was as dull and steady as ever, and Ivanova wondered where they'd come from. "So I told them what I'd seen, where all the dust was, what I'd heard, and I let them record it all, and because the War Measures Act was still active I was technically an adult at sixteen, so it qualified as 'informed adult testimony' in the Senate= courts. "Me. My testimony. It was the one thing they didn't have - a witness who knew. And you're telling me I shouldn't blame myself? Who the fragging hell *else* should I blame?" Ivanova struggled for words and found only an awful silence. Snow sniffled, scrubbed away her tears with the back of one hand and then gave a choked laugh. "The really annoying thing was, they lifted the War Measures Act the week after I finished my testimony, so I had to wait two more years to join Earthforce." She shrugged. "Do you believe that?" Ivanova stared at the carpet. "So, like, here's a hypothetical question for ya, Captain." The argot had an agonizing edge to it now, like a laugh of pain. "Okay, suppose you just torpedoed your entire culture, your parents, your friends, everybody you like grew up with, and you gotta do something to show you remember 'em. Like a souvenir, get it? Totally always there. So you can forget, and you can maybe talk yourself into thinkin' you kept the good stuff, the max. An' maybe do a little bit to loosen up everyone else you meet, specially when you're in the service that greased 'em all in the first place and you're smarter'n ninety-nine percent of 'em anyhow. So you make yourself a mask, you know, out of words. You show off where you came from and you hide who you are now. Like, two birds, you know?" Snow let her breath out in a sigh. "And you run into people who don't know it's a mask, or who see the mask and automatically think whatever's behind it's gotta be bad. But you deal with that. 'Cause you gotta. 'Cause it ain't no fragging more than you deserve." Her voice had gotten so quiet near the end it was almost inaudible. Silence hung heavy in the air for a long, long minute. Snow shifted, got slowly to her feet and saluted with more crispness than Ivanova had ever seen from her. "Like, permission to head out, sir?" Ivanova raised her head. "Tiffany?" Tiffany blinked. "Sir?" "Thank you." "What did I do?" Ivanova paused a beat. "You trusted me." Tiffany opened her mouth, then closed it. Susan decided to take a page from Morgan's book. "Oh, but Lieutenant Snow, I do have one question." "Yessir?" "I was wondering if you'd endorse a request to the Bureau of Ships to have this vessel officially re-designated." Ivanova kept her face absolutely deadpan. "Between you, myself, and Commander DeClercq, I'm wondering if a more appropriate name for the vessel might be the EAS *Masochist*." Snow stared. Ivanova returned the gaze levelly. Then the other woman coughed a little, put a hand to her mouth, sniggered in her throat and choked it off. Ivanova felt her lips tremble despite all she could do to hold them still, and at the sight Snow almost bent double trying to hold in her laughter. Ivanova lost it and began to laugh as she hadn't laughed in months, and Snow collapsed onto the couch and joined her, her high-pitched giggling forming an aharmonic descant to Ivanova's gasping guffaws. It was, perhaps, a little too edgy with hysteria and tension and stress, but it was laughter all the same, and for once in her life Ivanova decided to let it run its course. ...TO BE CONTINUED <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> Coming soon: More of WANDERING STAR, PART II: SCAVENGER HUNT ...in which humanity gets its first glimpse of a Vorlon city. <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> AUTHOR'S NOTE Yes, the first glimpse of the Vorlon worlds was meant to happen in this instalment, but events dictated otherwise. Sorry, folks. I only *think* I know how this story will turn out. ---------------------------------------------------------