Kansas 5 - The Yellow Brick Road, Part 08
Title: Kansas 2 - The Yellow Brick Road
Author: Soledad
Author’s notes: For disclaimer, rating, etc., see the secondary index page.
Armstrong is the nameless Night Watch leader who had several appearances in Season 3. Since he was played by Vaughn Armstrong, I simply bestowed the actor’s name upon him.
PART 08
Lennier found Rastenn’s message when he returned from his regular meeting with the visiting Rangers; Marcus still being restricted to MedLab, he had taken over that particular task for the time being.
At first he found it strange that Neroon’s nephew would send him a message to begin with; due to their different allegiances, they were anything but friends. That was a fact that not even their current, surprisingly insightful conversation had changed… and would not change, not for a while. Not as long as Delenn and Neroon remained adversaries.
Besides, he had already told Rastenn what he was allowed to tell - what Rastenn needed to know. What else could have remained unsaid between the two of them?
Deciding that guesswork would not take him anywhere, Lennier shrugged and ordered the computer to play the message. It did not surprise him that it turned out to be a coded one - Rastenn was his uncle’s spy, after all, and spies tended to be a little paranoid. Thankfully, he only needed voice identification to read it.
The Rastenn on the vid was a very concerned one; in fact, this was the first time Lennier had seen him display anything but calm arrogance - the typical Warrior Caste attitude.
“I do not have time for details,” he said without preamble, “but since you are a friend of Vir’s, I think you ought to know about this. He is in MedLab One, in a… delicate condition and could use the support of a friend. And perhaps the ambassador would need to know what has happened tonight as well. I have to go now and meet my uncle’s messenger, but… it would be better for Vir not to be alone; for several reasons.”
With that, the message ended, leaving Lennier in a seriously worried state of mind. He could not even guess what might have happened to Vir, but he supposed it had something to do with the visit of Minister Virini and Lord Refa as well as the sudden departure of the latter for Narn space during the previous night. Add G’Kar’s own hurried departure only a short time before that, and the implications did not look good at all.
Contrary to common belief, Lennier was not as meek - or as naïve, for that matter - as appearances might lead one to think. He had been trained in the unarmed defence arts of Tha’Domo in the temple from his early childhood on; those arts included tactical thinking as well as actual physical combat. Plus, as Delenn’s aide for two and a half years, he was privy to plans and information very few other people would be. He could imagine why Lord Refa had felt the need to visit Narn in such a great hurry, right after G’Kar’s departure. He just could not imagine what Vir’s role might have been in all this.
He wished he could speak with Rastenn personally. But if Neroon’s nephew would be meeting his uncle’s spies, not even another Minbari - or even a Ranger, for that matter - would be able to find him. Warrior Caste spies were highly capable, and, despite his youth, Rastenn was one of the best.
That left one person Lennier could ask: Vir himself. And since - according to Rastenn’s message - Vir was in need of a friend, Lennier decided to pay MedLab One a visit.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Wearing his old leather garb - the one he had worn in all his years as a Maquis - brought back a strange feeling of déja vu, Chakotay found, strolling with the similarly-clad Ayala along the Zocalo. The shop that served as one of the Night Watch operations bases was near the end of Babylon 5’s ‘shopping mile’, but still in a frequented area. They had to be very careful.
He glanced around, checking for his people unobtrusively. He saw Trumari and Tabor, both wearing the oversized, asymmetrically-cut tunics and ceremonial earrings of their native Bajor, approaching slowly from the opposite direction. Chell, wrapped into a cloak so brightly coloured that it positively hurt the eye - not to mentioned it contrasted with his blue skin almost painfully - was talking to the Centauri a mile a minute, holding the elbow of the man (who had a decidedly trapped look) in a vice-like grip, but kept an eye on his commanding officer all the time.
Further away, Ken Dalby and Mariah Henley strolled along the booths, arms linked in the manner of an old, married couple... which they were in all but the letter of the law. Mariah even had the cheek to put his small, old-fashioned phaser on her girdle and wear it as if it were a strange-looking ornament.
“Everyone is in position, Cap,” Ayala said in a low voice, as if they were discussing the knick-knacks displayed on a Brakiri gift shop’s counter. “Hogan and Gerry are waiting at the core shuttle stop. Nozawa and T’Ral are watching the turbolift… er, transport tube. Yosha and Jarvis have just taken up position at the other end of this section and can be here in no time, using the maintenance tunnels Mr. Garibaldi’s shown us.”
“Very well,” Chakotay said. “Let’s do this.”
Ayala tapped his comm badge twice, signalling the others - and Garibaldi’s troops that were approaching the other base in Brown Sector at the same time - that they were going in. There was no verbal answer, of course, but he could see the two Bajorans closing up from one side and Dalby and Henley from the other one; even Chell let go of the Centauri, who could not get away from him quickly enough, and moved up towards them.
“Our surprise is already within,” Ayala informed his commanding officer.
Chakotay nodded. “Good. Let’s move on.”
They entered the clothes’ shop. It was lucky for them that the Night Watch people had not chosen a more specific establishment as camouflage… exotic alien instruments, for example. Faking interest for those would have been a lot more complicated.
The shop owner turned towards the opening door with convincing interest; he must have been well-trained for the job… unless he was the genuine item, of course, used as a pawn by the others. He was a heavy-set, middle-aged man with a face one could have seen a hundred times and yet not remember afterwards, which could be useful in this kind of work.
“Gentlemen,” he said jovially, “what can I do for you?”
“We can wait,” Chakotay said, gesturing towards the only other customer, a slender, dark-haired young man with pointy ears, who had obviously been there for quite some time already.
The shop owner waved off his concern, though.
“Oh, that gentleman is still looking for the right jacket for his betrothal ceremony,” he explained. “He said it would take some time, so I can help you in the meantime. What would be your pleasure?”
While Chakotay involved the shop owner into a discussion about the best possible gift for a woman he had just begun to date, Ayala’s experienced eyes checked the shop for hidden doors, weapons and surveillance devices. He found quite a few of the latter ones, but none of the rest, which meant that there either were none, or they were very well hidden. Finally, having seen all he could without the help of openly use scanners, he slapped Chakotay on the back.
“You’re overcomplicating things again,” he said. “I told you: if you wanna impress her, you ought to buy her a silk shawl - that one, in yellow, would match her colouring nicely. Don’t you think it’s pretty?” he turned to the alien customer who had come closer to watch them choosing.
“Indeed,” the young man said, reaching out for the shawl in question over the shoulder of the shop owner. “If I may be so bold.”
“Sure,” the shop owner moved to the side to make room for him - and then dropped heavily over the counter, crushing his delicate wares, seemingly without reason.
“Oh, my!” the young alien exclaimed, trying to soften his fall. “He fainted! Surely, there must be a shop assistant somewhere who can help him!”
He laid the shop owner onto the counter, hurried to the back door and began hammering on it with his fists. “Hello? Somebody? Help us, please?”
Chakotay had a hard time to suppress his grin. The famous Vulcan neck pinch was a handy thing, especially among people who had never heard about it, but who would have thought that young Vorik was such an excellent actor? First the tale about the betrothal suit, and now this spectacle… It had surprised everyone that he would volunteer for an almost purely Maquis mission, but that he would be so good at it…
“Hey, kid,” he said to the Vulcan, “don’t hammer a dent into that door, would you? If there’s anyone at all, they don’t hear you. We must go in and see if we can find them.”
He could see through the semi-transparent front door the two Bajorans blocking the entrance and nodded to Ayala, who had memorized the layout of the shop from the blueprints shown to him by Garibaldi. Ayala stepped to the back door and - shielding his own actions from the surveillance devices with his broad back - inserted a key card (also courtesy of Garibaldi) into the security slit, overriding the lock. The door opened.
“Go,” Chakotay said. “I’ll cover you. Vorik, let in the others and stay here to secure the shop.”
“Aye, sir,” the Vulcan replied crisply. He produced a phaser from under his tunic, called in the two other teams plus Chell, then he took up position behind a row of long cloaks hanging near the front door - and waited.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Seven of Nine stared at the computer screen in slight confusion. She was currently watching Captain Sheridan’s log entry from February 6 of the previous year; an official entry recording the visit of the so-called ‘technomages’ on Babylon 5, and also his personal entry, which was supposed to be confidential… but such minor hindrances never bothered Seven when on her quest for knowledge.
In January 2259, over one-hundred technomages were gathering on our station, Sheridan’s personal log entry said. Their reason: a great storm was coming and they were leaving to preserve their knowledge and to keep it from being used to ill purpose. They said they do not know where they are going and with luck, should not return within a human lifetime. One of them - the one named Elric - told me they had nothing to say to anyone on this side of the Rim; perhaps they expect to find someone or something on the other side.
She had cross-referenced the term but all she got was a short entry in the station’s database; an entry that was apparently based on some arcane Centauri legends.
Long ago, technomages used to be quite common on Centauri Prime, the entry, apparently authored by Ambassador Londo Mollari himself, said. They are long gone from the homeworld, but they have been seen on other planets and even in the depth of space from time to time. They are a secretive order that uses science to achieve the effect of magic; their organization predates the Republic. While we cannot say with certainty that they originated from our world, it is known that membership is not restricted to one race or one world. There have been known human, Vree, or, as some say, even Pak’ma’ra technomages, although the latter is hard to imagine.
Technomages use technology in new and different ways. They combine ingenuity with the technological knowledge of the various races and the result is startling. Little is known about what technologies are used and how they are controlled. Not all of their powers require technological aid, though. Knowledge and intelligence give them a great edge. They study the mysteries of laser and circuit, crystal and scanner, holographic demons and invocations of equations. These are the tools they employ. And they know many things. Secrets that they share with nobody else.
It is said that they almost never travel. They do not like to leave their places of power. To see even one of them is a rare thing. To see more than one at a time is considered a very bad omen. Before our first Emperor took the throne of the Centauri Republic, he consulted three technomages, who gave him their blessing. That is an image that is very powerful for those of us who still believe in the old ways. They can be a source of great trouble, unless one knows how to deal with them.
And that was all. A handful of commonplaces and superstitious rumours. That was not something Seven of Nine would find satisfying.
Obviously, those people did exist, and - based on visual records - the enigmatic Galen person she had met on Babylon 5 was one of them. They seemed to have unusual skills (or technology) to create illusions, and considering what their leader had apparently done to the Centauri ambassador (Seven had actually found that entry first) also a twisted sense of humour.
This still did not explain, however, what this Galen character could possibly want from her. It was unlikely that he would have mistaken her for one of his own kind; they most likely knew each other well, and besides, she was nothing like them, nothing at all.
And yet this Galen had spoken to her as if he could offer her an alternative; something that would give her existence true meaning, a real purpose. That was an option she intended to learn more about. Yet before she would confront Galen - assuming she could track him down in the first place - she needed to learn more about technomages in general. Those short entries she had found revealed almost nothing… at least nothing of true significance.
She checked the records again to see who had had the most extensive contact with them. The answer was Captain Sheridan, of course, but she rejected that possibility at once. She could not corner the station commander and demand information about something she wasn’t even supposed to know of.
She rejected the Centauri ambassador for the same reason. But there was another possibility. It seemed that the ambassador’s aide had been the first to make contact with these technomages. And he seemed a friendly and talkative fellow, who had already befriended several Voyager crewmembers. That sounded promising.
Seven started a search for Vir Cotto’s possible location - breaking into Babylon 5’s security system had not been a true challenge for someone who could communicate with computers directly - and was surprised to find that the young Centauri had visited Voyager last night. She also found indication that the man was currently treated in MedLab One.
That was convenient. She would have needed a very good reason to enter Babylon 5’s diplomatic section. For visiting the MedLabs she only needed a simple excuse… again, not a true challenge.
Deciding to find out the reason for Vir Cotto’s nocturnal visit in Sickbay later (she generally preferred to know everything that happened aboard Voyager), Seven of Nine terminated her search in favour of paying MedLab One a visit.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Zack Allen had not been so anxious since the big showdown with the Night Watch people several weeks earlier. He would have preferred to be with the teams attacking the remaining two Night Watch bases, but Garibaldi had forbidden him to do so. He had been a Night Watch member himself - out of naïveté, not because he had bought the propaganda, though - so he’d have been the first to be recognized… and that would not be a very friendly reunion.
Sometimes he wondered what would have become of him, had chosen Armstrong’s side instead of Garibaldi’s. Would he be hiding somewhere in Brown Sector with the others right now? Or would have his help made enough difference for Armstrong and his cronies to emerge from the conflict victorious, arresting - probably even spacing - the captain, Ivanova, the chief and who knows whom else? Would Babylon 5 now being run by Night Watch?
He did not regret his choice. He never really understood the intricacies of politics, the power plays going on under the seemingly hale surface; but he trusted Garibaldi. He trusted that the chief would know what was the right thing to do; that following his commanding officer, he would do the right thing, too. He had to trust that… or there was no point to anything he was doing here.
Parting ways with the rest of his team (who had been assigned to attack the Night Watch base in Brown Sector) Zack rode the core shuttle to the Garden. In order to make everything look normal, he needed to show increased Security presence in all the places where nothing of importance was going on. Smoke and mirrors and all that stuff, as Garibaldi called it.
Leaving the shuttle, he took the elevator to the ground level of the Garden. He looked around, taking in the illusion of peace the Garden always created. It seemed so calm, so serene, so very beautiful. So very out of place here, on the last frontier against a malicious enemy… and yet so comforting.
Until he discovered the black-clad figure of Lyta in the Zen garden, lying in front of the bench like a broken doll, that is.
Of course he recognized her immediately. How could he not? He liked her… liked her a lot. He had liked her ever since she had got back to Babylon 5 again. He had felt for her… for all the things she had gone through, ever since severing ties with the Psi Corps. And lately he had even begun to think that probably, just probably, he could do right by her.
Granted, there was a big gap between him, a simple security officer, and the kind of life Lyta was leading. A life he might never understand; although he hoped he could, one day. In any case, he wanted to at least try. Lyta was the kind of person who made a guy want to try. There was something about her that made him nuts.
He had thought about asking her out once or twice, but never got the courage to actually do so. She was so different… and she had been through a lot, what with the Psi Corps and the Vorlons and all. Maybe she didn’t even want that kind of connection; not now, not here, and likely not with someone as unimportant as he was.
And yet, seeing her collapsed on the sand like a wounded bird only made him feel all the stronger for her. Perhaps he ought to say something, after all - before he would lose the chance to do so entirely. But first he needed to see that she got help… whatever might be ailing her. If there was anything he could do, that is.
He was almost afraid to check her pulse. To his great relief, it was there… weak, but relatively steady. Well, that was good, for starters. He activated his comm link.
“Zack to MedLab,” he said. “I need a medic in the Zen garden, as soon as possible.”
But before the person on the other end of the connection could answer, Lyta began to regain consciousness. She caught the end of his sentence, and grabbed his hand… either for support or to stop him, he was not sure.
“That’s… unnecessary,” she protested. “I’m… I’m better now… just very tired. Could you… could you help me get back to… to my quarters? All I need… is rest.”
Zack did not really buy it. “Are you sure about that?”
She nodded. “Please… no medics.”
“All right, all right,” Zack sighed in exasperation. “MedLab, cancel that. We seem to have the situation under control. Thanks.”
But when they reached Lyta's quarters, he stared at the barren room with only a naked mattress on the floor with trepidation.
“Lyta! This is no way for a human being to live!”
“There is no other way… not for the moment,” Lyta replied, her strength slowly returning. “I can’t fight a Vorlon; not over something as trivial as furniture.”
“Does the captain know about this?” Zack asked.
Lyta shook her head. “No; and I don’t wish him to learn about it, either. He has far more important concerns at the moment. Please, Zack; if you’re truly my friend, don’t tell anyone. Especially not the captain. This is not the right time for personal grievances.”
Zack mulled over that bit for a while.
“All right,” he finally said. “I’ll keep it for myself…. For now. But after this mess is cleaned up one way or another…”
“… nothing of this will matter anymore,” Lyta interrupted. “Thank you, Zack - for everything.”
And then she promptly lost consciousness again.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Chakotay and his men found the back room of the clothes shop empty. Well, empty of any people, that is; with suits and dresses and coats hanging everywhere, it seemed the ideal rat trap.
“Nobody home here,” Trumari stated the obvious. “What now?”
Ayala consulted his tricorder. “There are two maintenance tunnels leading out from this room, here and here,” he showed the others the hidden entrances. “Unfortunately, they lead to vastly different directions. We’ll have to split up and follow the two routes as Ms Alexander had taken them from the prisoners’ minds.”
“What about side branches and such?” Chakotay asked.
“There are few of those, and Garibaldi has placed Narns at the exit points,” Ayala explained. “They’ve got pictures of the suspects and will - hopefully - be able to pick them out of the crowd, should thy trey to escape through the side exits.”
“Hopefully,” Chakotay replied with emphasis. “This must happen very fast, or things will escalate something really ugly. “All right; Greg, I’ll go with you, Dalby and Henley. Trumari has the most experience with this kind of thing; he’ll take Tabor and Nozawa and check out the other way. Keep radio silence, and remember our hit code: two touches at every new stretch you’ve found clear; three if you’ve made contact.”
“And don’t forget to mute your tricorders,” Ayala added, “or else they’ll shoot you before you can realize they’re there. I’ve seen them in action; they won’t hesitate to kill.”
“Neither will we,” Trumari replied darkly.
“But only if there is no other way,” Ayala reminded him. “The actual goal is to get them alive, so that their brains could be picked for more information. Are you all ready?”
“Sure,” the others chorused as one man.
Ayala nodded. “Well what are you waiting for? Let’s get it done!”
The ex-Maquis team split up and vanished in their respective maintenance tunnels. Chakotay took head in his own group, as he’d always done while still a freedom fighter. The tunnel led them straight to Brown Sector, where it forked.
“Where now?” Dalby whispered.
Ayala checked the layout of the section on his PADD.
“The one on the left,” he decided. “Thirty metres further down must be one of those temporary lodgings that usually are rented by visitors passing through the station, who only spend here a night or two.”
“They have their base in a hotel room?” Henley asked in surprise. “How would that work? How can they stay there without being found out?”
“Perhaps they rotate as hotel guests,” Chakotay shrugged. “That way, they won’t draw any unwanted attention; especially if they do it under false names. They have good enough contacts to get fake ID-chips, I guess. Let’s go!”
It took them at least twenty minutes to reach the end of the side tunnel. Only in situations like this did one realize how huge Babylon 5 actually was. Before opening the hatch, Chakotay pressed an ear against it.
“I can’t hear a thing,” he whispered, “but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there. We’re going in - set phasers at heavy stun. Attack pattern Gamma-Six. At three…”
The others nodded in understanding. Chakotay counted back from three on his fingers; then he tossed the hatch open, and they all jumped into the room behind it, scattering in all directions and rolling into a ball, to offer as small a target as possible. With the same roll, they fired widely-fanned, heavy-stun beams into the room in a random pattern.
One had to give their adversaries one thing: they were well-trained. Simultaneously while being his by the stun beam, one of them managed to fire his PPG at the intruders. Fortunately, he was unable to take proper aim, so only Henley’s hair got singed a little. Which caused her to grumble for a week afterwards, but that was another matter.
But that was the only attempt of resistance. Only seconds later, everyone in the room was heavily stunned and lay on the floor. Chakotay counted them.
“Five down, six more to go,” he commented in satisfaction. “Whom do we have here, Greg?”
Ayala, the man with the vital information, checked his PADD again.
“Four of them are small fish,” he replied. “But this one,” he nodded at a grey-haired, middle-aged man with sharp features, “is one of the chief honchos. This is that Armstrong character Garibaldi’s told us about. The one who tried to take over the station a couple of months ago with the other Night Watch types.”
“But neither of them is Malcolm Biggs?” Chakotay asked. Ayala shook his head. “Well, then we need to be very careful, people. He is the puppeteer… these are just the puppets. Let’s call in station security; then we can move on to help the others.”
Henley called Garibaldi on the pre-appointed channel and asked for ‘clean-up service’ to be sent both to the clothes shop and the hotel room. They handcuffed the unconscious terrorists, just in case, and searched them for any possible hidden weapons - they didn’t find much. Apparently, the guys trusted their PPGs to be enough in any conflict.
Well, they were apparently wrong, Ayala thought.
Dalby and Henley were left behind to keep an eye on the captives until Security arrived. Chakotay and Ayala hurried back to the fork in the maintenance tunnels, and chose the other way to give Trumari’s group reinforcements.
They had barely brought half the way behind them when Chakotay’s comm badge vibrated. Once. That meant, the other group had run into unexpected trouble and needed help. Since there was no longer any danger for the business area, Chakotay activated the communicator.
“Angry Warrior to the tribe,” he said. “Move in onto our tertiary target, from both sides. Elf boy, keep the beachhead. All others - move it!”
The ex-Maquis jumped into action from all the different positions they had taken in. Only Vorik and the ones guarding the transporter tubes and the core shuttle station of Red Sector kept their posts, in order to cut off the way of potentially fleeing terrorists.
“Hurry up, Greg,” Chakotay said through gritted teeth. “I’ve got a very bad feeling about this.”
“You and me, Cap, you and me,” the big, burly ex-Maquis replied, moving through the low and narrow tunnel with surprising speed and agility.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Lennier found MedLab one in a bit of disarray when he arrived. It seemed that once again, Ms Alexander had been brought in, after her most recent release from Voyager’s sickbay, although nobody appeared to know what could be wrong with her. Mr. Allen, Mr. Garibaldi’s aide, stood at her bed, while Dr. Hobbs was taking readings, her face grey with concern,
After a few moments of watching the highly professional blur of activity around Ms Alexander’s bed, Lennier finally spotted a med tech he knew.
“Mr. Kiriyama,” he said politely, “I’ve come to visit Vir Cotto. Can you tell me where I can find him?”
“Observation Room Two,” the Asian med tech nodded in the direction of said room. “But he needs to rest. Has gone through severe trauma and must not have any more stress.”
“I do not intend to be stressful,” Lennier replied seriously. “I just want to sit with him for a while. He is my friend.”
“Well, go on in, then, “the med tech said. “If there’s anything the poor guy can use right now, it’s a friend.”
Lennier readily did as he was told, and he found a somewhat bruised but otherwise unhurt Vir sleeping quietly in the observation room. Well… physically unhurt, in any case. As for his mental condition… the deep, dark rings under his eyes and the new, previously unseen bitter lines in the corners of his mouth spoke another language.
The med tech had spoken of severe trauma, and whatever it might have been, it had left traces. Traces that wouldn’t be easily erased - in the worst case, they wouldn’t be erased at all. Still, Lennier tried to remain optimistic. Vir was resilient; more resilient than most people would give him credit. He was one of those people who bent easily but didn’t break easily.
Vir must have felt his presence, because he opened his eyes and gave Lennier a weak smile. His eyes were weary and full of pain, but - to Lennier’s relief - he didn’t seem completely shattered. Just deeply hurt; which was bad enough, but still not beyond healing.
“Lennier,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
He spoke clearly, in a calm, even tone, even though his voice was as weary as his eyes were. Lennier guessed that whatever had happened to him, it had already been dealt with, and Vir was getting through the aftershocks at the moment.
“I cannot leave you out of my eyes for a minute,” the Minbari chastised his friend gently. “I turn my back for a moment, and you get in trouble as soon as I am not looking.”
Vir actually laughed at that, which did a great deal of good to ease Lennier’s heart.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll try to take better care of myself - for your sake.”
“What happened to you?” Lennier asked.
Vir made a small, dismissive gesture with a chubby hand - a gesture Lennier had seen too often, whenever the young Centauri was speaking about himself. Vir didn’t have a great deal of self-confidence, which was a shame indeed.
“Oh, nothing unusual,” he said. “Caught up in Centauri politics; got used as an unwilling and useless tool by both sides… that sort of thing.”
There was so much sadness in his voice it almost broke Lennier’s heart. He knew that Vir considered Ambassador Mollari as some kind of mentor, and while he wasn’t blind towards Londo’s faults, he’d do literally everything to help him.
“What did he make you do?” he asked quietly.
“He forced me to lure G’Kar into a deadly trap,” Vir answered in defeat. “And then Lord Refa’s men caught me, and his telepath tore my mind to pieces. And now G’Kar will be arrested, tortured and publicly executed, and Lord Refa will be triumphant, and all that because I was too weak.”
“A forced scan?” Lennier hissed, leaving Vir’s self-recriminations unaddressed for the time being. He’d work on those later. “How deep?”
“All the way,” Vir replied tiredly. “They know everything about me; including how I helped Narns to escape labour camp while I served on Minbar as temporary ambassador. I’m a dead man, Lennier - unless your government grants me asylum.”
“And they let you go after this?” Lennier was truly bewildered. That wasn’t the usual Centauri way to deal with political adversaries… or their co-workers.
“Oh, I’m sure they were going to execute me; after they’d squeezed every bit of potentially useful information out of my brain,” Vir said bitterly. “It seems that befriending a Minbari spy does have its advantages, though.”
Lennier nodded in understanding. “Rastenn. He truly must like you very much - the Warrior Caste does not get involved with the affairs of other species, as a rule.”
“Rastenn,” Vir admitted. “He broke me out of the room where they kept me, got me to Voyager - with the help of Mr. Cole, I assume, as I doubt he’d have contacts of his own already. Mr. Tuvok, that Vulcan security chief of theirs, performed something they call a mind-meld then, putting back the pieces where they belonged, somehow… I have no idea how. He isn’t even a doctor, I understand. But he’s a hundred years old, they say, and trained for this sort of thing. However he did it, I am grateful. I still might be executed in the near future, but at least I won’t be an insane, slobbering wreck in the meantime, and that means a great deal to me.”
“Why are you still here, then?” Lennier asked.
“He put my mind back together, but a forced deep scan also causes a nasty physical shock… or so the doctors say,” Vir replied with a shrug. “I’m still weak like a baby. Dr. Hernandez says it will take days until my body has finished dealing with the trauma, so they want to observe my condition for at least another day. I don’t mind, actually - they have less chance to get to me while I’m here. And the nurses are very kind.”
He didn’t say pretty or friendly as Londo would have done, and Lennier understood that kindness was not something his friend had often experienced in his long life. He tried to say something… comforting but didn’t seem to find the right words, and that seemed him deeply. What kind of friend was he if he couldn’t even give a little comfort?
While he was still struggling with himself, the doors of the observation room slid open again, and in walked a tall, blonde vision of a human woman in a form-fitting silver-grey jumpsuit, on such high heels that the mere sight of it made him struggle for balance. How human females were capable of walking on such dangerous footwear - and why they felt the urge to do so in the first place - remained a mystery for him.
The woman walked closer to Vir’s bed and looked down at him with large, doll-like blue eyes. Over one of her eyes there was some kind of cybernetic implant. That and the exoskeleton covering her right hand revealed her as the cyborg lady from Voyager, of whom Lennier had already heard. Well, perhaps she wasn’t a cyborg - not entirely - but definitely the closest thing.
“Vir Cotto?” she inquired, raising her unimplanted eyebrow. “I require your assistance.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
When Chakotay and Ayala reached the last known base of the Night Watch terrorists, they found it suspiciously empty… well, empty save from Trumari’s group, every single member of which was lying unconscious on the floor.
“Anaesthetic gas!” Ayala hissed, throwing one of the transparent breathing masks to Chakotay and pressing the other one onto his own face. The adhesive seaming of the mask adapted immediately, so that he was now safe from any possible gaseous substances or pathogens that might have been in the air.
Chakotay followed his example in a great hurry, hiding a smile. Nobody but Greg would have thought to keep those masks on him all the time - but again, as Greg liked to say, he was born ready. Ready for anything life might throw in his face. This continued alertness had saved Chakotay’s life more often than he would care to count. He considered himself a level-headed and careful leader - well, most of the time anyway - but Gregor Ayala kept surprising him with things that sounded very logical in hindsight yet would never have occurred to him in advance.
Which was the reason why Ayala had always been his second-in-command. Not because of their decades-long friendship, although it was good to have someone watching his back whom he could trust unconditionally. Not for reasons of technical savviness - Ayala was good, but Torres was better, and so were Hogan, Tabor and even Dalby. What made Ayala unique and supremely important was his thoroughness. If there was any chance of something going wrong, Ayala had already taken it into consideration and was prepared to deal with it. Like now.
“Be careful, Cap,” he warned, scanning the room both with the tricorder and with the experienced eyes of a guerrilla fighter. “They can be hiding somewhere in the room still.”
“That’s unlikely,” Chakotay replied. “The room is practically empty, save these boxes; and they have been pushed tightly to the walls. There isn’t enough room for anybody to hide behind them.”
“We can’t be sure about that,” Ayala said soberly. “Our local knowledge is very limited; and there can be hiding places the cannon fodder we’ve questioned wouldn’t even know of. I suggest doing a heavy-stun beam sweep here, too.”
“I’m all for thoroughness,” Chakotay shrugged. “Just be careful whom you aim that phaser at.”
This was an old joke between them, originating from their youth, at which time Greg had once accidentally hit Chakotay with an old-fashioned phaser pistol they’d found while exploring a former battle site. Fortunately for Chakotay, the weapon had been set at light stun, so that he recovered after an hour or so, but poor Greg never lived it down.
They both grinned and began with the stun sweep, slowly, methodically, careful to cover every inch in either direction. They were almost done when - from the corner of his eye - Ayala spotted a movement among the shadows. In the next moment, a man wearing one of those damned black light camouflage suits stepped forward, becoming visible due to having moved, and aimed his PPG directly at Chakotay.
“Chak, no!” Ayala screamed when the PPG shot hit his friend’s broad chest, but he was too far to protect Chakotay with his own body. His training, however, kicked in. He stunned the assassin and forced himself to finish the stun sweep they’d begun, in order to avoid any other unpleasant surprises.
Four more camouflaged terrorists fell to the floor with loud thuds. Only when he was sure there could be not more of them hiding anywhere did he hit his comm badge.
“Ayala to Voyager. Chakotay has been shot. I need an emergency beam-out, directly to Sickbay.”
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” the concerned voice of the duty transporter technician replied. “I don’t know where you are and what’s interfering with the transporter beam, but I can’t get a lock on either of you.”
Ayala said something in Cardassian that would have earned him a prompt execution from the spoonheads - he only used expletitives in the language of the enemy in times of extreme stress - then he took a deep breath to calm down.
“All right,” he sad. “Beam Paris over with an emergency kit to MedLab One, and inform Dr. Hobbs that I’m taking Chakotay there. We’ll see when and how we can get him back to the holodoc. Ayala out.”
He changed the frequency and called all the ex-Maquis who took part in the action.
“Ayala to all teams. Mission accomplished. Clean-up teams needed. Chakotay’s down, though; I’m taking him to MedLab One. You know what you have to do, so do it. I’ll stay with the Cap. Ayala out.”
Now that the necessary calls had been made, he could finally look after Chakotay - and the sight was not encouraging. Chakotay had a nasty-looking burn in the middle of his chest, his hand was clammy and his breathing shallow.
Ayala swore under his breath and felt around himself for the ever-present hypospray without which he’d never start any mission. He found it in his pocket and shot Chakotay with everything it contained: something to prevent infection, something to prevent inflammation and something to support his heart till the medics arrived. It was the standard Maquis cocktail they always used - one he hadn’t needed for a long time. He knew he had to stabilize Chakotay before they could move him - he was just not sure he could do it. The emergency shot was not nearly effective enough for such severe injuries.
Laconic creature as he was, he still almost burst out in tears when Paris came in running, with a med team of Babylon 5’s MedLabs pushing a gurney in tow.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
When Lyta came by, she had a splitting headache and felt ridiculously weak. She was vaguely surprised to find herself in MedLab One - and Zack Allen sitting at her bedside, perched on a very uncomfortable-looking stool.
“What… what happened?” she asked.
“I was about to ask you the same thing,” Zack answered gently. “I found you in the Zen garden… unconscious. I called medical assistance, but you insisted on going back to your quarters instead - where you promptly passed out again, so I thought it would be more prudent to bring you here, after all.”
“Oh… Lyta found it hard to think. “I… perhaps I’ve a bit… a bit overstrained myself.”
“Doing what?” Zack was still light years from understanding things.
“I… called for help,” Lyta whispered.
“Er… what?” Zack was starting to feel as if he’d suddenly entered some sort of weird alternate reality.
But Lyta had already fallen asleep again.
Zack sighed and rubbed his burning eyes. Looking up again, his glance fell upon Captain Sheridan, who was standing in the door of the observation room.
“What did she mean with calling for help?” Zack asked him in honest bewilderment.
Sheridan shook his head. He looked a little better, now that he’d slept a few hours, but still every bit as tired as Zack felt. They must have gotten him out of his bed, which could only mean that the action against the Night Watch people had been finished.
“I have no idea,” he replied. “And quite frankly, that scares the shit out of me.”
The confession surprised Zack greatly - even shocked him a little. He’d always thought that nothing could shake Sheridan’s self-confidence. Was even annoyed about that fact sometimes.
“What exactly does scare you about it, Captain?” he asked.
“Several things,” Sheridan answered slowly. “Firstly the very fact that she apparently sees our situation serious enough to call for help. Secondly, that she might see the new Vorlon ambassador as a threat, against which we’d need help. And thirdly that she actually might know someone who’d be able to deal with an out-of-control Vorlon.”
Zack thought about those aspects for a while, then he nodded. “I see your point, Captain,” he said in complete agreement.
A moment later, a med-team rushed by the observation room with a gurney, Voyager’s pilot following them with a concerned face. On the gurney Commander Chakotay lay, with a nasty-looking PPG-burn in his chest. Now concerned himself, Sheridan got hold of Ayala who was hurrying after them with an exception as near to panic as he was capable of on his usually stony face.
“What happened, Lieutenant?”
“We ran into a bit of trouble in one of the Night Watch hideouts,” Ayala summarized. “Chakotay was shot. They need to stabilize him before he’d slip away into a coma… or we won’t be able to beam him over to our Sickbay.”
“Did you get all the targets, at least?” Sheridan asked.
Ayala nodded. “Stunned, captured, delivered to the holding cells, identified… all but one.”
“You mean one of them is still on the run?” Sheridan asked with a frown.
Ayala shrugged. “No plan is absolutely waterproof. Perhaps he’s been elsewhere on the station, minding his business, while we got out their rat holes.”
“I see. Who’s the one missing?” Sheridan asked.
“You won’t like it,” Ayala replied grimly. “It’s that Malcolm Biggs.”
Sheridan and Zack looked at each other, realizing where the missing terrorist could have been. After a moment, Sheridan shook off the shock and activated his link, calling Garibaldi.
“Michael, find Ivanova and put her under guard. She’s in extreme danger.”
“She won’t like it,” Garibaldi commented.
“And I don’t care,” Sheridan replied. “I want her safe. Biggs might be after her. All the others are counted for.”
“Understood,” Garibaldi replied curtly. “Will do.”
Sheridan deactivated his link and looked at Zack in anguish. “I just hope we’re not too late already,” he said.
~TBC~
Author: Soledad
Author’s notes: For disclaimer, rating, etc., see the secondary index page.
Armstrong is the nameless Night Watch leader who had several appearances in Season 3. Since he was played by Vaughn Armstrong, I simply bestowed the actor’s name upon him.
PART 08
Lennier found Rastenn’s message when he returned from his regular meeting with the visiting Rangers; Marcus still being restricted to MedLab, he had taken over that particular task for the time being.
At first he found it strange that Neroon’s nephew would send him a message to begin with; due to their different allegiances, they were anything but friends. That was a fact that not even their current, surprisingly insightful conversation had changed… and would not change, not for a while. Not as long as Delenn and Neroon remained adversaries.
Besides, he had already told Rastenn what he was allowed to tell - what Rastenn needed to know. What else could have remained unsaid between the two of them?
Deciding that guesswork would not take him anywhere, Lennier shrugged and ordered the computer to play the message. It did not surprise him that it turned out to be a coded one - Rastenn was his uncle’s spy, after all, and spies tended to be a little paranoid. Thankfully, he only needed voice identification to read it.
The Rastenn on the vid was a very concerned one; in fact, this was the first time Lennier had seen him display anything but calm arrogance - the typical Warrior Caste attitude.
“I do not have time for details,” he said without preamble, “but since you are a friend of Vir’s, I think you ought to know about this. He is in MedLab One, in a… delicate condition and could use the support of a friend. And perhaps the ambassador would need to know what has happened tonight as well. I have to go now and meet my uncle’s messenger, but… it would be better for Vir not to be alone; for several reasons.”
With that, the message ended, leaving Lennier in a seriously worried state of mind. He could not even guess what might have happened to Vir, but he supposed it had something to do with the visit of Minister Virini and Lord Refa as well as the sudden departure of the latter for Narn space during the previous night. Add G’Kar’s own hurried departure only a short time before that, and the implications did not look good at all.
Contrary to common belief, Lennier was not as meek - or as naïve, for that matter - as appearances might lead one to think. He had been trained in the unarmed defence arts of Tha’Domo in the temple from his early childhood on; those arts included tactical thinking as well as actual physical combat. Plus, as Delenn’s aide for two and a half years, he was privy to plans and information very few other people would be. He could imagine why Lord Refa had felt the need to visit Narn in such a great hurry, right after G’Kar’s departure. He just could not imagine what Vir’s role might have been in all this.
He wished he could speak with Rastenn personally. But if Neroon’s nephew would be meeting his uncle’s spies, not even another Minbari - or even a Ranger, for that matter - would be able to find him. Warrior Caste spies were highly capable, and, despite his youth, Rastenn was one of the best.
That left one person Lennier could ask: Vir himself. And since - according to Rastenn’s message - Vir was in need of a friend, Lennier decided to pay MedLab One a visit.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Wearing his old leather garb - the one he had worn in all his years as a Maquis - brought back a strange feeling of déja vu, Chakotay found, strolling with the similarly-clad Ayala along the Zocalo. The shop that served as one of the Night Watch operations bases was near the end of Babylon 5’s ‘shopping mile’, but still in a frequented area. They had to be very careful.
He glanced around, checking for his people unobtrusively. He saw Trumari and Tabor, both wearing the oversized, asymmetrically-cut tunics and ceremonial earrings of their native Bajor, approaching slowly from the opposite direction. Chell, wrapped into a cloak so brightly coloured that it positively hurt the eye - not to mentioned it contrasted with his blue skin almost painfully - was talking to the Centauri a mile a minute, holding the elbow of the man (who had a decidedly trapped look) in a vice-like grip, but kept an eye on his commanding officer all the time.
Further away, Ken Dalby and Mariah Henley strolled along the booths, arms linked in the manner of an old, married couple... which they were in all but the letter of the law. Mariah even had the cheek to put his small, old-fashioned phaser on her girdle and wear it as if it were a strange-looking ornament.
“Everyone is in position, Cap,” Ayala said in a low voice, as if they were discussing the knick-knacks displayed on a Brakiri gift shop’s counter. “Hogan and Gerry are waiting at the core shuttle stop. Nozawa and T’Ral are watching the turbolift… er, transport tube. Yosha and Jarvis have just taken up position at the other end of this section and can be here in no time, using the maintenance tunnels Mr. Garibaldi’s shown us.”
“Very well,” Chakotay said. “Let’s do this.”
Ayala tapped his comm badge twice, signalling the others - and Garibaldi’s troops that were approaching the other base in Brown Sector at the same time - that they were going in. There was no verbal answer, of course, but he could see the two Bajorans closing up from one side and Dalby and Henley from the other one; even Chell let go of the Centauri, who could not get away from him quickly enough, and moved up towards them.
“Our surprise is already within,” Ayala informed his commanding officer.
Chakotay nodded. “Good. Let’s move on.”
They entered the clothes’ shop. It was lucky for them that the Night Watch people had not chosen a more specific establishment as camouflage… exotic alien instruments, for example. Faking interest for those would have been a lot more complicated.
The shop owner turned towards the opening door with convincing interest; he must have been well-trained for the job… unless he was the genuine item, of course, used as a pawn by the others. He was a heavy-set, middle-aged man with a face one could have seen a hundred times and yet not remember afterwards, which could be useful in this kind of work.
“Gentlemen,” he said jovially, “what can I do for you?”
“We can wait,” Chakotay said, gesturing towards the only other customer, a slender, dark-haired young man with pointy ears, who had obviously been there for quite some time already.
The shop owner waved off his concern, though.
“Oh, that gentleman is still looking for the right jacket for his betrothal ceremony,” he explained. “He said it would take some time, so I can help you in the meantime. What would be your pleasure?”
While Chakotay involved the shop owner into a discussion about the best possible gift for a woman he had just begun to date, Ayala’s experienced eyes checked the shop for hidden doors, weapons and surveillance devices. He found quite a few of the latter ones, but none of the rest, which meant that there either were none, or they were very well hidden. Finally, having seen all he could without the help of openly use scanners, he slapped Chakotay on the back.
“You’re overcomplicating things again,” he said. “I told you: if you wanna impress her, you ought to buy her a silk shawl - that one, in yellow, would match her colouring nicely. Don’t you think it’s pretty?” he turned to the alien customer who had come closer to watch them choosing.
“Indeed,” the young man said, reaching out for the shawl in question over the shoulder of the shop owner. “If I may be so bold.”
“Sure,” the shop owner moved to the side to make room for him - and then dropped heavily over the counter, crushing his delicate wares, seemingly without reason.
“Oh, my!” the young alien exclaimed, trying to soften his fall. “He fainted! Surely, there must be a shop assistant somewhere who can help him!”
He laid the shop owner onto the counter, hurried to the back door and began hammering on it with his fists. “Hello? Somebody? Help us, please?”
Chakotay had a hard time to suppress his grin. The famous Vulcan neck pinch was a handy thing, especially among people who had never heard about it, but who would have thought that young Vorik was such an excellent actor? First the tale about the betrothal suit, and now this spectacle… It had surprised everyone that he would volunteer for an almost purely Maquis mission, but that he would be so good at it…
“Hey, kid,” he said to the Vulcan, “don’t hammer a dent into that door, would you? If there’s anyone at all, they don’t hear you. We must go in and see if we can find them.”
He could see through the semi-transparent front door the two Bajorans blocking the entrance and nodded to Ayala, who had memorized the layout of the shop from the blueprints shown to him by Garibaldi. Ayala stepped to the back door and - shielding his own actions from the surveillance devices with his broad back - inserted a key card (also courtesy of Garibaldi) into the security slit, overriding the lock. The door opened.
“Go,” Chakotay said. “I’ll cover you. Vorik, let in the others and stay here to secure the shop.”
“Aye, sir,” the Vulcan replied crisply. He produced a phaser from under his tunic, called in the two other teams plus Chell, then he took up position behind a row of long cloaks hanging near the front door - and waited.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Seven of Nine stared at the computer screen in slight confusion. She was currently watching Captain Sheridan’s log entry from February 6 of the previous year; an official entry recording the visit of the so-called ‘technomages’ on Babylon 5, and also his personal entry, which was supposed to be confidential… but such minor hindrances never bothered Seven when on her quest for knowledge.
In January 2259, over one-hundred technomages were gathering on our station, Sheridan’s personal log entry said. Their reason: a great storm was coming and they were leaving to preserve their knowledge and to keep it from being used to ill purpose. They said they do not know where they are going and with luck, should not return within a human lifetime. One of them - the one named Elric - told me they had nothing to say to anyone on this side of the Rim; perhaps they expect to find someone or something on the other side.
She had cross-referenced the term but all she got was a short entry in the station’s database; an entry that was apparently based on some arcane Centauri legends.
Long ago, technomages used to be quite common on Centauri Prime, the entry, apparently authored by Ambassador Londo Mollari himself, said. They are long gone from the homeworld, but they have been seen on other planets and even in the depth of space from time to time. They are a secretive order that uses science to achieve the effect of magic; their organization predates the Republic. While we cannot say with certainty that they originated from our world, it is known that membership is not restricted to one race or one world. There have been known human, Vree, or, as some say, even Pak’ma’ra technomages, although the latter is hard to imagine.
Technomages use technology in new and different ways. They combine ingenuity with the technological knowledge of the various races and the result is startling. Little is known about what technologies are used and how they are controlled. Not all of their powers require technological aid, though. Knowledge and intelligence give them a great edge. They study the mysteries of laser and circuit, crystal and scanner, holographic demons and invocations of equations. These are the tools they employ. And they know many things. Secrets that they share with nobody else.
It is said that they almost never travel. They do not like to leave their places of power. To see even one of them is a rare thing. To see more than one at a time is considered a very bad omen. Before our first Emperor took the throne of the Centauri Republic, he consulted three technomages, who gave him their blessing. That is an image that is very powerful for those of us who still believe in the old ways. They can be a source of great trouble, unless one knows how to deal with them.
And that was all. A handful of commonplaces and superstitious rumours. That was not something Seven of Nine would find satisfying.
Obviously, those people did exist, and - based on visual records - the enigmatic Galen person she had met on Babylon 5 was one of them. They seemed to have unusual skills (or technology) to create illusions, and considering what their leader had apparently done to the Centauri ambassador (Seven had actually found that entry first) also a twisted sense of humour.
This still did not explain, however, what this Galen character could possibly want from her. It was unlikely that he would have mistaken her for one of his own kind; they most likely knew each other well, and besides, she was nothing like them, nothing at all.
And yet this Galen had spoken to her as if he could offer her an alternative; something that would give her existence true meaning, a real purpose. That was an option she intended to learn more about. Yet before she would confront Galen - assuming she could track him down in the first place - she needed to learn more about technomages in general. Those short entries she had found revealed almost nothing… at least nothing of true significance.
She checked the records again to see who had had the most extensive contact with them. The answer was Captain Sheridan, of course, but she rejected that possibility at once. She could not corner the station commander and demand information about something she wasn’t even supposed to know of.
She rejected the Centauri ambassador for the same reason. But there was another possibility. It seemed that the ambassador’s aide had been the first to make contact with these technomages. And he seemed a friendly and talkative fellow, who had already befriended several Voyager crewmembers. That sounded promising.
Seven started a search for Vir Cotto’s possible location - breaking into Babylon 5’s security system had not been a true challenge for someone who could communicate with computers directly - and was surprised to find that the young Centauri had visited Voyager last night. She also found indication that the man was currently treated in MedLab One.
That was convenient. She would have needed a very good reason to enter Babylon 5’s diplomatic section. For visiting the MedLabs she only needed a simple excuse… again, not a true challenge.
Deciding to find out the reason for Vir Cotto’s nocturnal visit in Sickbay later (she generally preferred to know everything that happened aboard Voyager), Seven of Nine terminated her search in favour of paying MedLab One a visit.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Zack Allen had not been so anxious since the big showdown with the Night Watch people several weeks earlier. He would have preferred to be with the teams attacking the remaining two Night Watch bases, but Garibaldi had forbidden him to do so. He had been a Night Watch member himself - out of naïveté, not because he had bought the propaganda, though - so he’d have been the first to be recognized… and that would not be a very friendly reunion.
Sometimes he wondered what would have become of him, had chosen Armstrong’s side instead of Garibaldi’s. Would he be hiding somewhere in Brown Sector with the others right now? Or would have his help made enough difference for Armstrong and his cronies to emerge from the conflict victorious, arresting - probably even spacing - the captain, Ivanova, the chief and who knows whom else? Would Babylon 5 now being run by Night Watch?
He did not regret his choice. He never really understood the intricacies of politics, the power plays going on under the seemingly hale surface; but he trusted Garibaldi. He trusted that the chief would know what was the right thing to do; that following his commanding officer, he would do the right thing, too. He had to trust that… or there was no point to anything he was doing here.
Parting ways with the rest of his team (who had been assigned to attack the Night Watch base in Brown Sector) Zack rode the core shuttle to the Garden. In order to make everything look normal, he needed to show increased Security presence in all the places where nothing of importance was going on. Smoke and mirrors and all that stuff, as Garibaldi called it.
Leaving the shuttle, he took the elevator to the ground level of the Garden. He looked around, taking in the illusion of peace the Garden always created. It seemed so calm, so serene, so very beautiful. So very out of place here, on the last frontier against a malicious enemy… and yet so comforting.
Until he discovered the black-clad figure of Lyta in the Zen garden, lying in front of the bench like a broken doll, that is.
Of course he recognized her immediately. How could he not? He liked her… liked her a lot. He had liked her ever since she had got back to Babylon 5 again. He had felt for her… for all the things she had gone through, ever since severing ties with the Psi Corps. And lately he had even begun to think that probably, just probably, he could do right by her.
Granted, there was a big gap between him, a simple security officer, and the kind of life Lyta was leading. A life he might never understand; although he hoped he could, one day. In any case, he wanted to at least try. Lyta was the kind of person who made a guy want to try. There was something about her that made him nuts.
He had thought about asking her out once or twice, but never got the courage to actually do so. She was so different… and she had been through a lot, what with the Psi Corps and the Vorlons and all. Maybe she didn’t even want that kind of connection; not now, not here, and likely not with someone as unimportant as he was.
And yet, seeing her collapsed on the sand like a wounded bird only made him feel all the stronger for her. Perhaps he ought to say something, after all - before he would lose the chance to do so entirely. But first he needed to see that she got help… whatever might be ailing her. If there was anything he could do, that is.
He was almost afraid to check her pulse. To his great relief, it was there… weak, but relatively steady. Well, that was good, for starters. He activated his comm link.
“Zack to MedLab,” he said. “I need a medic in the Zen garden, as soon as possible.”
But before the person on the other end of the connection could answer, Lyta began to regain consciousness. She caught the end of his sentence, and grabbed his hand… either for support or to stop him, he was not sure.
“That’s… unnecessary,” she protested. “I’m… I’m better now… just very tired. Could you… could you help me get back to… to my quarters? All I need… is rest.”
Zack did not really buy it. “Are you sure about that?”
She nodded. “Please… no medics.”
“All right, all right,” Zack sighed in exasperation. “MedLab, cancel that. We seem to have the situation under control. Thanks.”
But when they reached Lyta's quarters, he stared at the barren room with only a naked mattress on the floor with trepidation.
“Lyta! This is no way for a human being to live!”
“There is no other way… not for the moment,” Lyta replied, her strength slowly returning. “I can’t fight a Vorlon; not over something as trivial as furniture.”
“Does the captain know about this?” Zack asked.
Lyta shook her head. “No; and I don’t wish him to learn about it, either. He has far more important concerns at the moment. Please, Zack; if you’re truly my friend, don’t tell anyone. Especially not the captain. This is not the right time for personal grievances.”
Zack mulled over that bit for a while.
“All right,” he finally said. “I’ll keep it for myself…. For now. But after this mess is cleaned up one way or another…”
“… nothing of this will matter anymore,” Lyta interrupted. “Thank you, Zack - for everything.”
And then she promptly lost consciousness again.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Chakotay and his men found the back room of the clothes shop empty. Well, empty of any people, that is; with suits and dresses and coats hanging everywhere, it seemed the ideal rat trap.
“Nobody home here,” Trumari stated the obvious. “What now?”
Ayala consulted his tricorder. “There are two maintenance tunnels leading out from this room, here and here,” he showed the others the hidden entrances. “Unfortunately, they lead to vastly different directions. We’ll have to split up and follow the two routes as Ms Alexander had taken them from the prisoners’ minds.”
“What about side branches and such?” Chakotay asked.
“There are few of those, and Garibaldi has placed Narns at the exit points,” Ayala explained. “They’ve got pictures of the suspects and will - hopefully - be able to pick them out of the crowd, should thy trey to escape through the side exits.”
“Hopefully,” Chakotay replied with emphasis. “This must happen very fast, or things will escalate something really ugly. “All right; Greg, I’ll go with you, Dalby and Henley. Trumari has the most experience with this kind of thing; he’ll take Tabor and Nozawa and check out the other way. Keep radio silence, and remember our hit code: two touches at every new stretch you’ve found clear; three if you’ve made contact.”
“And don’t forget to mute your tricorders,” Ayala added, “or else they’ll shoot you before you can realize they’re there. I’ve seen them in action; they won’t hesitate to kill.”
“Neither will we,” Trumari replied darkly.
“But only if there is no other way,” Ayala reminded him. “The actual goal is to get them alive, so that their brains could be picked for more information. Are you all ready?”
“Sure,” the others chorused as one man.
Ayala nodded. “Well what are you waiting for? Let’s get it done!”
The ex-Maquis team split up and vanished in their respective maintenance tunnels. Chakotay took head in his own group, as he’d always done while still a freedom fighter. The tunnel led them straight to Brown Sector, where it forked.
“Where now?” Dalby whispered.
Ayala checked the layout of the section on his PADD.
“The one on the left,” he decided. “Thirty metres further down must be one of those temporary lodgings that usually are rented by visitors passing through the station, who only spend here a night or two.”
“They have their base in a hotel room?” Henley asked in surprise. “How would that work? How can they stay there without being found out?”
“Perhaps they rotate as hotel guests,” Chakotay shrugged. “That way, they won’t draw any unwanted attention; especially if they do it under false names. They have good enough contacts to get fake ID-chips, I guess. Let’s go!”
It took them at least twenty minutes to reach the end of the side tunnel. Only in situations like this did one realize how huge Babylon 5 actually was. Before opening the hatch, Chakotay pressed an ear against it.
“I can’t hear a thing,” he whispered, “but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there. We’re going in - set phasers at heavy stun. Attack pattern Gamma-Six. At three…”
The others nodded in understanding. Chakotay counted back from three on his fingers; then he tossed the hatch open, and they all jumped into the room behind it, scattering in all directions and rolling into a ball, to offer as small a target as possible. With the same roll, they fired widely-fanned, heavy-stun beams into the room in a random pattern.
One had to give their adversaries one thing: they were well-trained. Simultaneously while being his by the stun beam, one of them managed to fire his PPG at the intruders. Fortunately, he was unable to take proper aim, so only Henley’s hair got singed a little. Which caused her to grumble for a week afterwards, but that was another matter.
But that was the only attempt of resistance. Only seconds later, everyone in the room was heavily stunned and lay on the floor. Chakotay counted them.
“Five down, six more to go,” he commented in satisfaction. “Whom do we have here, Greg?”
Ayala, the man with the vital information, checked his PADD again.
“Four of them are small fish,” he replied. “But this one,” he nodded at a grey-haired, middle-aged man with sharp features, “is one of the chief honchos. This is that Armstrong character Garibaldi’s told us about. The one who tried to take over the station a couple of months ago with the other Night Watch types.”
“But neither of them is Malcolm Biggs?” Chakotay asked. Ayala shook his head. “Well, then we need to be very careful, people. He is the puppeteer… these are just the puppets. Let’s call in station security; then we can move on to help the others.”
Henley called Garibaldi on the pre-appointed channel and asked for ‘clean-up service’ to be sent both to the clothes shop and the hotel room. They handcuffed the unconscious terrorists, just in case, and searched them for any possible hidden weapons - they didn’t find much. Apparently, the guys trusted their PPGs to be enough in any conflict.
Well, they were apparently wrong, Ayala thought.
Dalby and Henley were left behind to keep an eye on the captives until Security arrived. Chakotay and Ayala hurried back to the fork in the maintenance tunnels, and chose the other way to give Trumari’s group reinforcements.
They had barely brought half the way behind them when Chakotay’s comm badge vibrated. Once. That meant, the other group had run into unexpected trouble and needed help. Since there was no longer any danger for the business area, Chakotay activated the communicator.
“Angry Warrior to the tribe,” he said. “Move in onto our tertiary target, from both sides. Elf boy, keep the beachhead. All others - move it!”
The ex-Maquis jumped into action from all the different positions they had taken in. Only Vorik and the ones guarding the transporter tubes and the core shuttle station of Red Sector kept their posts, in order to cut off the way of potentially fleeing terrorists.
“Hurry up, Greg,” Chakotay said through gritted teeth. “I’ve got a very bad feeling about this.”
“You and me, Cap, you and me,” the big, burly ex-Maquis replied, moving through the low and narrow tunnel with surprising speed and agility.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Lennier found MedLab one in a bit of disarray when he arrived. It seemed that once again, Ms Alexander had been brought in, after her most recent release from Voyager’s sickbay, although nobody appeared to know what could be wrong with her. Mr. Allen, Mr. Garibaldi’s aide, stood at her bed, while Dr. Hobbs was taking readings, her face grey with concern,
After a few moments of watching the highly professional blur of activity around Ms Alexander’s bed, Lennier finally spotted a med tech he knew.
“Mr. Kiriyama,” he said politely, “I’ve come to visit Vir Cotto. Can you tell me where I can find him?”
“Observation Room Two,” the Asian med tech nodded in the direction of said room. “But he needs to rest. Has gone through severe trauma and must not have any more stress.”
“I do not intend to be stressful,” Lennier replied seriously. “I just want to sit with him for a while. He is my friend.”
“Well, go on in, then, “the med tech said. “If there’s anything the poor guy can use right now, it’s a friend.”
Lennier readily did as he was told, and he found a somewhat bruised but otherwise unhurt Vir sleeping quietly in the observation room. Well… physically unhurt, in any case. As for his mental condition… the deep, dark rings under his eyes and the new, previously unseen bitter lines in the corners of his mouth spoke another language.
The med tech had spoken of severe trauma, and whatever it might have been, it had left traces. Traces that wouldn’t be easily erased - in the worst case, they wouldn’t be erased at all. Still, Lennier tried to remain optimistic. Vir was resilient; more resilient than most people would give him credit. He was one of those people who bent easily but didn’t break easily.
Vir must have felt his presence, because he opened his eyes and gave Lennier a weak smile. His eyes were weary and full of pain, but - to Lennier’s relief - he didn’t seem completely shattered. Just deeply hurt; which was bad enough, but still not beyond healing.
“Lennier,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
He spoke clearly, in a calm, even tone, even though his voice was as weary as his eyes were. Lennier guessed that whatever had happened to him, it had already been dealt with, and Vir was getting through the aftershocks at the moment.
“I cannot leave you out of my eyes for a minute,” the Minbari chastised his friend gently. “I turn my back for a moment, and you get in trouble as soon as I am not looking.”
Vir actually laughed at that, which did a great deal of good to ease Lennier’s heart.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll try to take better care of myself - for your sake.”
“What happened to you?” Lennier asked.
Vir made a small, dismissive gesture with a chubby hand - a gesture Lennier had seen too often, whenever the young Centauri was speaking about himself. Vir didn’t have a great deal of self-confidence, which was a shame indeed.
“Oh, nothing unusual,” he said. “Caught up in Centauri politics; got used as an unwilling and useless tool by both sides… that sort of thing.”
There was so much sadness in his voice it almost broke Lennier’s heart. He knew that Vir considered Ambassador Mollari as some kind of mentor, and while he wasn’t blind towards Londo’s faults, he’d do literally everything to help him.
“What did he make you do?” he asked quietly.
“He forced me to lure G’Kar into a deadly trap,” Vir answered in defeat. “And then Lord Refa’s men caught me, and his telepath tore my mind to pieces. And now G’Kar will be arrested, tortured and publicly executed, and Lord Refa will be triumphant, and all that because I was too weak.”
“A forced scan?” Lennier hissed, leaving Vir’s self-recriminations unaddressed for the time being. He’d work on those later. “How deep?”
“All the way,” Vir replied tiredly. “They know everything about me; including how I helped Narns to escape labour camp while I served on Minbar as temporary ambassador. I’m a dead man, Lennier - unless your government grants me asylum.”
“And they let you go after this?” Lennier was truly bewildered. That wasn’t the usual Centauri way to deal with political adversaries… or their co-workers.
“Oh, I’m sure they were going to execute me; after they’d squeezed every bit of potentially useful information out of my brain,” Vir said bitterly. “It seems that befriending a Minbari spy does have its advantages, though.”
Lennier nodded in understanding. “Rastenn. He truly must like you very much - the Warrior Caste does not get involved with the affairs of other species, as a rule.”
“Rastenn,” Vir admitted. “He broke me out of the room where they kept me, got me to Voyager - with the help of Mr. Cole, I assume, as I doubt he’d have contacts of his own already. Mr. Tuvok, that Vulcan security chief of theirs, performed something they call a mind-meld then, putting back the pieces where they belonged, somehow… I have no idea how. He isn’t even a doctor, I understand. But he’s a hundred years old, they say, and trained for this sort of thing. However he did it, I am grateful. I still might be executed in the near future, but at least I won’t be an insane, slobbering wreck in the meantime, and that means a great deal to me.”
“Why are you still here, then?” Lennier asked.
“He put my mind back together, but a forced deep scan also causes a nasty physical shock… or so the doctors say,” Vir replied with a shrug. “I’m still weak like a baby. Dr. Hernandez says it will take days until my body has finished dealing with the trauma, so they want to observe my condition for at least another day. I don’t mind, actually - they have less chance to get to me while I’m here. And the nurses are very kind.”
He didn’t say pretty or friendly as Londo would have done, and Lennier understood that kindness was not something his friend had often experienced in his long life. He tried to say something… comforting but didn’t seem to find the right words, and that seemed him deeply. What kind of friend was he if he couldn’t even give a little comfort?
While he was still struggling with himself, the doors of the observation room slid open again, and in walked a tall, blonde vision of a human woman in a form-fitting silver-grey jumpsuit, on such high heels that the mere sight of it made him struggle for balance. How human females were capable of walking on such dangerous footwear - and why they felt the urge to do so in the first place - remained a mystery for him.
The woman walked closer to Vir’s bed and looked down at him with large, doll-like blue eyes. Over one of her eyes there was some kind of cybernetic implant. That and the exoskeleton covering her right hand revealed her as the cyborg lady from Voyager, of whom Lennier had already heard. Well, perhaps she wasn’t a cyborg - not entirely - but definitely the closest thing.
“Vir Cotto?” she inquired, raising her unimplanted eyebrow. “I require your assistance.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
When Chakotay and Ayala reached the last known base of the Night Watch terrorists, they found it suspiciously empty… well, empty save from Trumari’s group, every single member of which was lying unconscious on the floor.
“Anaesthetic gas!” Ayala hissed, throwing one of the transparent breathing masks to Chakotay and pressing the other one onto his own face. The adhesive seaming of the mask adapted immediately, so that he was now safe from any possible gaseous substances or pathogens that might have been in the air.
Chakotay followed his example in a great hurry, hiding a smile. Nobody but Greg would have thought to keep those masks on him all the time - but again, as Greg liked to say, he was born ready. Ready for anything life might throw in his face. This continued alertness had saved Chakotay’s life more often than he would care to count. He considered himself a level-headed and careful leader - well, most of the time anyway - but Gregor Ayala kept surprising him with things that sounded very logical in hindsight yet would never have occurred to him in advance.
Which was the reason why Ayala had always been his second-in-command. Not because of their decades-long friendship, although it was good to have someone watching his back whom he could trust unconditionally. Not for reasons of technical savviness - Ayala was good, but Torres was better, and so were Hogan, Tabor and even Dalby. What made Ayala unique and supremely important was his thoroughness. If there was any chance of something going wrong, Ayala had already taken it into consideration and was prepared to deal with it. Like now.
“Be careful, Cap,” he warned, scanning the room both with the tricorder and with the experienced eyes of a guerrilla fighter. “They can be hiding somewhere in the room still.”
“That’s unlikely,” Chakotay replied. “The room is practically empty, save these boxes; and they have been pushed tightly to the walls. There isn’t enough room for anybody to hide behind them.”
“We can’t be sure about that,” Ayala said soberly. “Our local knowledge is very limited; and there can be hiding places the cannon fodder we’ve questioned wouldn’t even know of. I suggest doing a heavy-stun beam sweep here, too.”
“I’m all for thoroughness,” Chakotay shrugged. “Just be careful whom you aim that phaser at.”
This was an old joke between them, originating from their youth, at which time Greg had once accidentally hit Chakotay with an old-fashioned phaser pistol they’d found while exploring a former battle site. Fortunately for Chakotay, the weapon had been set at light stun, so that he recovered after an hour or so, but poor Greg never lived it down.
They both grinned and began with the stun sweep, slowly, methodically, careful to cover every inch in either direction. They were almost done when - from the corner of his eye - Ayala spotted a movement among the shadows. In the next moment, a man wearing one of those damned black light camouflage suits stepped forward, becoming visible due to having moved, and aimed his PPG directly at Chakotay.
“Chak, no!” Ayala screamed when the PPG shot hit his friend’s broad chest, but he was too far to protect Chakotay with his own body. His training, however, kicked in. He stunned the assassin and forced himself to finish the stun sweep they’d begun, in order to avoid any other unpleasant surprises.
Four more camouflaged terrorists fell to the floor with loud thuds. Only when he was sure there could be not more of them hiding anywhere did he hit his comm badge.
“Ayala to Voyager. Chakotay has been shot. I need an emergency beam-out, directly to Sickbay.”
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” the concerned voice of the duty transporter technician replied. “I don’t know where you are and what’s interfering with the transporter beam, but I can’t get a lock on either of you.”
Ayala said something in Cardassian that would have earned him a prompt execution from the spoonheads - he only used expletitives in the language of the enemy in times of extreme stress - then he took a deep breath to calm down.
“All right,” he sad. “Beam Paris over with an emergency kit to MedLab One, and inform Dr. Hobbs that I’m taking Chakotay there. We’ll see when and how we can get him back to the holodoc. Ayala out.”
He changed the frequency and called all the ex-Maquis who took part in the action.
“Ayala to all teams. Mission accomplished. Clean-up teams needed. Chakotay’s down, though; I’m taking him to MedLab One. You know what you have to do, so do it. I’ll stay with the Cap. Ayala out.”
Now that the necessary calls had been made, he could finally look after Chakotay - and the sight was not encouraging. Chakotay had a nasty-looking burn in the middle of his chest, his hand was clammy and his breathing shallow.
Ayala swore under his breath and felt around himself for the ever-present hypospray without which he’d never start any mission. He found it in his pocket and shot Chakotay with everything it contained: something to prevent infection, something to prevent inflammation and something to support his heart till the medics arrived. It was the standard Maquis cocktail they always used - one he hadn’t needed for a long time. He knew he had to stabilize Chakotay before they could move him - he was just not sure he could do it. The emergency shot was not nearly effective enough for such severe injuries.
Laconic creature as he was, he still almost burst out in tears when Paris came in running, with a med team of Babylon 5’s MedLabs pushing a gurney in tow.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
When Lyta came by, she had a splitting headache and felt ridiculously weak. She was vaguely surprised to find herself in MedLab One - and Zack Allen sitting at her bedside, perched on a very uncomfortable-looking stool.
“What… what happened?” she asked.
“I was about to ask you the same thing,” Zack answered gently. “I found you in the Zen garden… unconscious. I called medical assistance, but you insisted on going back to your quarters instead - where you promptly passed out again, so I thought it would be more prudent to bring you here, after all.”
“Oh… Lyta found it hard to think. “I… perhaps I’ve a bit… a bit overstrained myself.”
“Doing what?” Zack was still light years from understanding things.
“I… called for help,” Lyta whispered.
“Er… what?” Zack was starting to feel as if he’d suddenly entered some sort of weird alternate reality.
But Lyta had already fallen asleep again.
Zack sighed and rubbed his burning eyes. Looking up again, his glance fell upon Captain Sheridan, who was standing in the door of the observation room.
“What did she mean with calling for help?” Zack asked him in honest bewilderment.
Sheridan shook his head. He looked a little better, now that he’d slept a few hours, but still every bit as tired as Zack felt. They must have gotten him out of his bed, which could only mean that the action against the Night Watch people had been finished.
“I have no idea,” he replied. “And quite frankly, that scares the shit out of me.”
The confession surprised Zack greatly - even shocked him a little. He’d always thought that nothing could shake Sheridan’s self-confidence. Was even annoyed about that fact sometimes.
“What exactly does scare you about it, Captain?” he asked.
“Several things,” Sheridan answered slowly. “Firstly the very fact that she apparently sees our situation serious enough to call for help. Secondly, that she might see the new Vorlon ambassador as a threat, against which we’d need help. And thirdly that she actually might know someone who’d be able to deal with an out-of-control Vorlon.”
Zack thought about those aspects for a while, then he nodded. “I see your point, Captain,” he said in complete agreement.
A moment later, a med-team rushed by the observation room with a gurney, Voyager’s pilot following them with a concerned face. On the gurney Commander Chakotay lay, with a nasty-looking PPG-burn in his chest. Now concerned himself, Sheridan got hold of Ayala who was hurrying after them with an exception as near to panic as he was capable of on his usually stony face.
“What happened, Lieutenant?”
“We ran into a bit of trouble in one of the Night Watch hideouts,” Ayala summarized. “Chakotay was shot. They need to stabilize him before he’d slip away into a coma… or we won’t be able to beam him over to our Sickbay.”
“Did you get all the targets, at least?” Sheridan asked.
Ayala nodded. “Stunned, captured, delivered to the holding cells, identified… all but one.”
“You mean one of them is still on the run?” Sheridan asked with a frown.
Ayala shrugged. “No plan is absolutely waterproof. Perhaps he’s been elsewhere on the station, minding his business, while we got out their rat holes.”
“I see. Who’s the one missing?” Sheridan asked.
“You won’t like it,” Ayala replied grimly. “It’s that Malcolm Biggs.”
Sheridan and Zack looked at each other, realizing where the missing terrorist could have been. After a moment, Sheridan shook off the shock and activated his link, calling Garibaldi.
“Michael, find Ivanova and put her under guard. She’s in extreme danger.”
“She won’t like it,” Garibaldi commented.
“And I don’t care,” Sheridan replied. “I want her safe. Biggs might be after her. All the others are counted for.”
“Understood,” Garibaldi replied curtly. “Will do.”
Sheridan deactivated his link and looked at Zack in anguish. “I just hope we’re not too late already,” he said.
~TBC~