Kansas 2 - The Yellow Brick Road, Part 09
Title: Kansas 2 - The Yellow Brick Road
Author: Soledad
Author’s notes: For disclaimer, rating, etc., see the secondary index page.
The Reg Gel is book canon, mentioned in the original series novel “The First Adventure”.
I’ve taken some liberties regarding Londo’s ex-wives.
PART 09
Vir looked up into the icy blue eyes of the blonde vision of exaggerated human femininity in honest shock, and Lennier couldn’t blame him. Even though he wasn’t similarly affected himself. Minbari imprinted on one person and were never interested in anybody else through their entire life.
He’d heard of the cyborg lady of Voyager, of course - everyone with even the smallest contact to C&C had - but this was the first time he saw her face to face. He found the experience… unsettling, although for different reasons than Vir might have.
Centauri, even though they were genetically incompatible with humans, found them sexually attractive. Minbari, not being slaves to their hormones - or rather, their hormones being naturally challenged towards a single person - were able to look deeper. Most of them being spiritually sensitive, they could feel another person’s soul, even that of humans.
Humans were easier than other aliens anyway, as they practically wore their souls on their sleeves.
From the cyborg lady of Voyager, however, Lennier could feel nothing. And that, frankly, terrified him.
Being mildly empathic, like most members of the Third Fane of Chu’domo, he could usually read the general disposition as well as the momentary emotional state of most people he met. From this semi-robotic woman, however, he felt nothing.
He’d heard complaints about her treating C&C personnel with impatience and arrogance, but those must have been temporary emotional patterns. Because right now, as she was staring down at Vir with those unblinking, porcelain blue eyes, gleaming in her steel-grey, almost metallic jumpsuit like a silver statue, she felt… well, unreal would have been the best word for it.
As a rule, Lennier perceived the souls of others as music: a wordless melody, the chiming of temple bells, the singing of the wind across the crystal spires of large Minbari cities. Simpler souls, like Vir’s, had a simple melody. Delenn’s was like a symphony played by a grand orchestra: violent themes forged into a complex pattern of rising and ebbing, and with every change, Lennier’s own soul was being sucked deeper into that powerful tide.
But from the cyborg lady of Voyager he got no music at all. Oh, there were faint echoes that revealed that there had once been a great deal of… well, noise could probably be the best description. But it was all gone now, save for those lingering echoes, and she felt as empty to him as a discarded piece of Warrior Caste body armour.
Lennier wondered if she’d implode in the not so distant future. People who were hollow in the inside usually did, and then innocents got hurt. Already, Vir seemed horrified enough - although by her cold professionalism rather than by the danger he wasn’t even aware of.
“M-my assistance?” he stuttered. “W-with what?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Lennier interrupted before the cyborg lady could have answered. “You are in no shape to assist her with anything,” he turned to the woman who was more than a head taller than him, due to the high heels supporting her already impressive natural height. “Please, leave. My friend is not well, and you are upsetting him.”
“Irrelevant,” she replied coldly. “I require information. This individual might be able to provide it.”
“This individual is my patient,” Dr Hernandez, smaller even than Lennier in size but fierce enough to put a Warrior Caste matron to shame, stepped between them and glared up into the cyborg lady’s face with a scowl. “He’s been through a lot and he needs to rest.”
“Rest is irrelevant,” the cyborg lady replied. “Information is of paramount importance.”
“Not in my MedLabs, unless it’s necessary for treatment,” Dr Hernandez put her foot down. “Now, you can leave voluntarily, or I’ll have you removed by security.”
“They would be no match for me,” the cyborg lady said.
There was no arrogance in that statement, only the cold fact. And, seeing the exoskeleton on her hand, somehow Lennier didn’t doubt the truth of it.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Before the verbal confrontation could have escalated, though, the low-key hum of Voyager’s miraculous particle transporter could be heard, and the golden column of energy swirled into existence in the middle of MedLab. A moment later Tom Paris stepped out of it, with an anxious face, carrying the 24th century equivalent of a medkit.
“Oh, Lieutenant Paris, good that you’re here,” Lennier jumped at the choice with both hands… figuratively speaking. “Would you tell your colleague that she should not bother Vir while he’s still not recovering?”
“As if she’d listen to me; or to anyone else, for that matter,” Paris grinned cynically, but he gave it a try nonetheless. “Seven, you should return to Voyager; I’ve been called over because Chakotay is apparently injured - the captain might need you.”
Seven of Nine considered that argument for a moment - then she nodded.
“Very well. I’ll go - for now. But I’ll return to continue my research.”
With that, she left indeed, stalking on her high heel like a hereon.
The relief following her departure was short-living, though. Almost at the same time Mr. Leong, the paramedic on duty, came in with his team, running with the gurney with Chakotay on.
The executive officer of Voyager was in a horrible shape, with a hole of the size of a fist burned through his midsection, as if it had been punched through flesh and bone with white-hot iron. He was unconscious, his skin clammy and of a pale, muddy colour from the shock and the blood loss.
“Shock room, now!” Dr. Hernandez yelled, yanking on a pair of antiseptic gloves. “Send me a trauma team!”
“Wait!” Tom Paris tried to sop her. “We’re supposed to stabilize him and then beam him over to Voyager…”
She gave him a measuring look.
“Lieutenant, I was a battlefield trauma surgeon in both major interplanetary wars of our century; and then served with the troops of General Franklin, before coming to Babylon 5. Your technology may be more advanced, but I know everything about PPG shot wounds, and I’m telling you, if I don’t treat him now, there’ll be nothing left to take back to your ship. Now, either assist me or get out of my way, because we don’t have a moment to waste.”
Her tone was so authoritative that Paris simply nodded and followed her to the shock room.
Barely were they gone, Lieutenant Ayala arrived, his face full of concern for his friend and commanding officer.
“Chakotay and I have the same blood group, should he need a transfusion,” he told Lillian, who was just coming from examining Lyta Alexander.
The doctor, though, shook her head.
“You couldn’t donate the amount of blood he’d need,” she replied, apparently having been updated about Chakotay’s condition. “It was a high-powered shot; the kind that would burn straight through an organic body, causing massive internal burns and trauma to the internal organs - even melting clothing into the skin.”
“The dermal regenerators can deal with that,” Ayala said. “The damaged organs, though, will have to be replaced with cloned ones.”
“We don’t have the technology for that,” Lillian began, but Ayala interrupted her.
“Fortunately, we do. In fact, Sickbay has cloned organs of every crewmember in cryogenic storage, as per Starfleet regulations,” he pulled a face. “I never thought I’d be grateful for the damn regs one day, but now… I just hope we get him over to Voyager as soon as possible.”
“Dr. Hernandez will do her best,” Lillian replied, although she was deathly pale with worry, “She has great experience with PPG shot wounds.”
Ayala raised an eyebrow. “You’re not going in with them?”
Lillian shook her head. “No; Maya Hernandez has more experience with this kind of injury, and besides, it’s better for the patient if his doctor is not… emotionally compromised. I’ve got a lot of work to do anyway. Ms Alexander has been brought in, and her condition is… worrisome.”
“In what way?” Ayala asked.
Lillian shrugged. “That’s the problem: we don’t know. She’s unconscious, but I can’t find any physical reason for it. She seems exhausted, and I don’t know why. It’s less than a day ago that she checked herself out of your Sickbay, and I haven’t got any documents from your doctor yet.”
“You should ask Tuvok,” Ayala suggested. “He’ll be coming over to check on the chubby little guy with the funny hair anyway; perhaps he can do his Vulcan mojo to wake the lady up again,”
“It might be worth the try,” Lillian agreed; then she sighed, as the paramedics came running again, bringing in the less seriously injured participants of the fight with the Night Watch people. “Well, it seems duty calls. Are you staying, Lieutenant?”
Ayala nodded. “I won’t go anywhere as long as Chakotay is in there.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Walking back to the docking bays to return to Voyager, Seven of Nine felt a profound sense of dissatisfaction. Her project of learning more about techno-mages - a contradiction in itself, if there had ever been one - had been unnecessarily delayed. She was certain that answering a few factual questions wouldn’t have harmed the pathetic creature in any way. But doctors - especially human doctors - were unreasonably protective of their patients.
Certainly, she could have removed the obstacles from her way and force the information out of the Centauri. He was such a weak creature, he wouldn’t be able to withhold anything from her. But Captain Janeway wanted her to follow the rules - human rules, Starfleet rules - and without the Collective she needed place to belong.
It was better to comply - for now. Until a better opportunity came up.
Janeway and the others might believe that they had tamed her. That she had adopted their opinion that becoming human was possible - and desirable - for her. She would leave them their illusion… for the time being.
Reaching the bay where Voyager was docked, her long, purposeful strides slowed down considerably. She had that odd feeling of being watched again. But as she slowly turned around and scanned the room with her enhanced Borg senses, she couldn’t spot the source of the sensation. Still, she was certain that something - or someone - was spying on her. There had to be some very advanced technology at work… even by Borg measures.
She shook her head. Guesswork was counterproductive, as she couldn’t gather any empiric data at the moment. The best thing to do was to regenerate - she’d skipped one rotation in favour of deepening her research, and it showed. She needed to replenish her strength for the clearly inevitable encounter with this Galen person.
She entered Voyager through the door on the underside of the hull and headed directly to the cargo bay, where her regeneration chamber was waiting. She was looking forward what she’d once described to her curious crewmates as “contemplating her existence”. At that time, they had found it a charming concept.
They had no idea what it truly meant.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Ayala used the time of waiting to engage Vir and Lennier in conversation. He wasn’t a political animal by his nature, but the various intertwining conflicts of this universe fascinated him. Especially the conflict between Narn und Centauri: the changing roles of aggressors and victims and the consequences of this power struggle for the rest of the galactic balance of powers.
Besides, it was always tactically wise to know as much about the power structure of a given situation as possible. He’d learned that from Chakotay, who hadn’t led advanced tactical training at Starfleet Academy for nothing.
He understood that the current conflict had started hen the Narn attacked a defenceless Centauri agricultural colony - established on a planet formerly belonging to the Narn - some three years ago. Only the intervention of Commander Sinclair, then commanding officer of Babylon 5, now Earth’s ambassador on Minbar, which probably explained his success, had persuaded the Narn to withdraw. But the humiliation of the Centauri in general and Ambassador Mollari’s in particular had been complete.
And now the Centauri, having arranged themselves with this reawakened ancient power, the Shadows, were paying back for that, in grand style. By having bombed the Narn homeworld back to the Stone Age; and by hunting down and publicly executing every Narn that would dare to raise their voice - or their weapon - against them.
“The attack on Ragesh 3 was particularly bitter for Londo,” Vir explained. “He’d used his influence to get his nephew, a talented young scientist, a safe position as head researcher and project director at the research station there… or what he thought was a safe position. And then the Narns attacked, captured his nephew, forced Carn to make a false statement about civilian unrest within the colony and that they had asked the Narns to move n and help keeping up order - and that publicly, on all channels… That was a black day for House Mollari.”
“And once Mr. Morden showed up here, with his enigmatic question of ‘What do you want?’, Ambassador Mollari walked straight into the Shadow trap,” Lennier concluded.
Vir nodded unhappily. “Yes, he did. I’m sure he hadn’t realized at first what he was doing. He was hurt and angered… and rightly so! What the Narns did to our colony to his nephew, was vile! Five thousand people lived on Ragesh 3; unarmed civilians, all of them. And Carn Mollari was marked as a traitor for that forced statement. He didn’t deserve that! He was a good, decent young man - quite surprising from someone coming from one of the Old Houses, in fact.”
“Where is he now?” Lennier asked.
“I don’t know; and I seriously doubt that Londo would,” Vir sighed. “He escaped being arrested and executed for treason - barely - but where he has gone is everybody’s guess. Londo was devastated, of course. With his brother dead, Carn was his only relative he truly cared for; and his heir… was like a son to him.”
“That certainly explains a lot,” Lennier commented slowly. “But it still doesn’t excuse what he did.”
“Do you think I don’t know that?” Vir snapped. “Do you think I enjoy watching him falling into darkness a little more with every passing day? But I cannot do anything to stop him. He doesn’t listen to anyone.”
“He might listen to Timov, though,” Dr. Hernandez said, entering the room. She was no longer wearing her surgeon’s scrub and looked relieved. “Commander Chakotay has been stabilized and beamed directly to your Sickbay,” she added for Ayala. “Lieutenant Paris said something about reconstructive neurosurgery and Reg Gel - whatever that is.”
“A disgusting but highly efficient method of regeneration, both for broken bones and injured organs,” Ayala explained. “Essentially, you’re put into a tank with what looks like green jelly and you have to sit there until it does its thing. The more serious the injury, the longer you have to sit there.”
“Interesting,” the doctor commented. “I’ve never heard of such a method.”
“It’s been out of use since the late 23rd century, having been replaced with faster methods,” Ayala said. “The Holodoc reconstructed it, though, since we no longer had access to specialized Federation hospitals, lost in the Delta Quadrant as we were. Chakotay will hate it; but, assuming the surgery goes well, it will help him. Who is Timov, though?”
“Ambassador Mollari’s wife,” Lennier replied. “The one of the three he chose to keep when Emperor Turhan granted him a divorce from two wives out of three in 2259, Earth reckoning, as a gift for the thirtieth anniversary of his Ascencion.”
“His what?”
“The ceremony marking the time from which a young Centauri noble is considered a full adult and allowed to take part in politics,” Lennier explained. “They celebrate this anniversary with a huge party, at which all invited guests have to appear barefooted - as a sing of respect. They also have to bring a gift.”
“That Londo chose to keep Lady Timov as his nominal wife doesn’t mean he’d be willing to listen to her,” Vir pointed out reasonably. "Or that Lady Timov would bother to talk to him in the first place. She always made her low opinion of Londo adamantly clear.”
“That may be so,” Dr. Hernandez allowed. “But she’s also very dutiful. She did save Londo’s life, after all, when his youngest wife’s Day of Ascension gift oh so accidentally poisoned him,”
“She did?” this piece of news was obviously new for Vir. “How would she do that? And, before anything else, why?”
Dr. Hernandez shrugged. “Apparently, they have the same blood type; and Ambassador Mollari needed a transfusion. As for the why, she announced, and I quote: ‘I still have some principles that even twenty years with Londo can’t erase’. A remarkable woman… and one tough cookie, if I ever saw one.”
“But why did she never tell anyone?” Vir was completely flabbergasted.
“She told Dr. Franklin that neither of them would be ready for the awkwardness of any fake gratitude from the ambassador’s side,” Dr. Hernandez grinned. “As I said: a remarkable woman.”
“With the less than endearing habit to bite when under duress,” Vir muttered sourly.
“Well, if you are small and unarmed, you need to find alternate ways to defend yourself,” Dr. Hernandez, rather on the petite side herself, commented. Then she suppressed a yawn. “Well, I’m beat. Fortunately, Dr. Harrison is due to take over for me, so I can go to my bed with a clean conscience Good day, gentlemen. This old lady sorely needs her beauty sleep.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“She, too, is remarkable woman,” Lennier said when the doctor was safely out of earshot. “What are you going to do now, Vir? Are you contacting the ambassador’s wife?”
“I’m not sure,” Vir admitted glumly. “Perhaps I should. But the mere thought of it sends cold shivers down my spine. She is small, but she has a fearsome temper.”
“Does she really bite people?” Lennier still had a hard time to believe that; but again, Minbari weren’t that big on physical contact, unless among bondmates - and even then strictly in private.
Vir blinked a few times, thinking.
“Well, I never actually saw it myself,” he finally said. “But I’ve been assured by Londo in confidence that it happened at least twice.”
Now it was Lennier’s turn to blink in confusion.
“And the ambassador still choose to keep her when he had to choose?”
Vir shrugged, which looked a bit strange, lying on his back as he was.
“He said, with her he at least always knew where he stood - which is certainly true. Lady Timov is not one to mince her words when she has something to say.”
“What were the other two like?” Lennier knew it was nowhere near his business, but curiosity took the better of him.
Vir frowned for a moment; then his face cleared in realisation.
“Oh, right; you were rather occupied with Ambassador Delenn’s personal matters at the time. Well, all three marriages were arranged ones, as it is custom among our great Houses. Londo married Lady Timov in 2239, according to Earth reckoning; she was his first wife and came from a lesser but very wealthy family. Lady Daggair, the second wife, was the oldest of the three and the daughter of a politically very active nobleman. She, too, had a devout interest in ‘the vagaries of politics and social climbing’, as Lady Timov would put it, as well as in spending great deals of Londo's money. When Londo was poisoned, Lady Daggair actually hoped he would pass away, as he hadn’t made his divorce decision public yet.”
“Charming,” Lennier commented dryly. Vir shrugged.
“She liked to say that she was what she’d been made: by her father, by Londo and by our society. I’m afraid there’s a great deal of truth in that statement.”
“I will take your word for it,” Lennier said. “What about the third wife, though?”
“Oh, the Lady Mariel!” Vir’s eyes became just a little wishful with the memory of her. “She was the youngest of Londo's three wives by many years. Soft spoken and beautiful, yet utterly ruthless - the iron claw in the velvet glove, as Lady Timov called her. Her father married her off to Londo because her… err… special interest in rich and powerful men was becoming an embarrassment for the whole family.”
“She was the one who made attempts to poison Ambassador Mollari?” Lennier tried to clarify. Londo Mollari’s family life was nothing if not complicated.
“She’d purchased the ancient statuette that fired a poison arrow at Londo,” Vir clarified. “She might or might not have known that it was booby-trapped; we never really found out. Personally, I’m sure she knew. Had Londo died before making his divorce decision public, all three of his wives would have become rich and prestigious widows, able to live the privileged lives of noble women they were accustomed to.”
“And yet Lady Timov chose to save her unloved husband,” Lennier said slowly. “That speaks of a noble character.”
“She’s brutally honest, I’ll give her that,” Vir allowed. “Perhaps Dr. Hernandez was right. Dutiful is the correct word to describe her.”
“What’s become of the other two?”
“Londo gave each of them a modest alimony as a settlement upon the divorce; but, of course, they were forced to adopt a more… modest lifestyle - something they weren’t happy with. Lady Daggair couldn’t bear the disgrace and fled to her family’s country estate, where she’s been living ever since. Lady Mariel, I heard, found herself something of a pariah in our social circles as a discard, and did her best to sleep her way up the ranks again. She’s currently said to be one of Emperor Cartagia’s playthings… which means a fairly short life expectance as a rule. But she’s like those Earth animals… you know, the ones that resemble your goks…”
“Cats?” Lennier offered a little uncertainly, and Vir nodded.
“Yes. They say, those… cats always land on their feet, no matter how high they fall from; and so does Lady Mariel, regardless what might happen to her.”
“She was certainly fortunate that Ambassador Mollari simply let her go, after the poisoning attempt,” Lennier said dryly. “I’m told that people have been executed for much lesser offences on Centauri Prime.”
“Londo had no proof that it was pre-meditated; and a scandal would have harmed House Mollari more than the attempt to kill him,” Vir replied with a shrug.
Lennier shook his head. “I will never understand your people.”
“It’s not easy,” Vir allowed. “Sometimes I wonder if I do.”
And yet Lady Morella had foretold that he’d become Emperor one day. Truly, it was hard to imagine, even for him. Had he not known that she was one of the most powerful seers of her era, he wouldn’t believe it for a moment.
He still hoped it was a mistake. Even prophetesses could make mistakes, couldn’t they? He hadn’t told about the prophecy anyone; not even Lennier, whose discretion was absolute. If he behaved as if the prophecy had never been spoken, perhaps it wouldn’t come true, either.
He hoped it wouldn’t. He prayed for that to all fifty-two gods of the Centauri pantheon. Because should it come true, it wouldn’t bode well - neither for him, nor for the Centauri Republic. Vir Cotto knew his own limitation and was man enough to admit them.
Seeing that his friend was lost in thought, Lennier excused himself to return to Delenn’s quarters. There was still much work to do, and even he felt a little overwhelmed at times. Visiting Vir had been a welcome distraction, but now he had to pick up his duties again.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Wrapped in his cloak of invisibility - actually a clever piece of technology, based on the bending of light - Galen left the docking bay, heading for a certain, abandoned part of the MedLabs. It was an interesting challenge to wave his way across this crowded and busy sector of the station without bumping into anyone and being discovered by touch, but he had great practice in such things.
Still, he wouldn’t have taken the risk in the first place, hadn’t he felt the urge to check on his, let’s say, special wards.
He knew that as long as Ulkesh remained on Babylon 5, the telepaths in their cryogenic chambers were in mortal danger. Vorlons could instinctively feel the presence of Shadow technology, even in its dormant state, and only Merlin could tell what an ill-tempered Vorlon would do if he decided to eliminate a perceived threat. And Ulkesh was constantly ill-tempered in these days.
Galen knew, of course, the reason for the Vorlon’s permanently sour mood. He had watched the oddly powerful little creature travelling on Voyager hurl the bulky Vorlon against the wall in an act of instinctive self-defence. He had to admit that is surprised him. The girl was so small, so fragile, so child-like with her blonde pixie cut and those pointed ears; she could go as the Flower Fairy, but for the lack of butterfly wings.
And yet she’d been able to overpower a Vorlon! An ancient and ruthless one, even as Vorlons go. That had been… unexpected. Not to mention impressive.
Granted, she’d caught Ulkesh unaware. Next time she’d have a real fight at her hands and might not get away so easily. Nonetheless, it had been amazing; and one could not yet foretell, how much her powers would grow.
Still, the innocent little girl with the enormous mental powers was of no use for Galen’s plans. Her path led to a different destination; to a kind of existence that was several levels higher than his own. That much he could already see and knew it would be unwise to meddle with such powers.
No, his secret weapon was Seven of Nine, the ex-Borg still mourning her Collective… and those unfortunates violated by the Shadow servants to become the living weapon of the Enemy.
Living being relative, of course.
He reached the hidden compartment of the MedLabs where they were kept until somebody might be able to figure out how to reverse the handiwork of the Drakh biotechnicians… which was a futile hope, of course. Once merged with the implants, they were no longer removable - not without killing the host first, that is. He knew that. His implants were of similar nature. The only difference being that he’d achieved them willingly. He’d volunteered to become what he was now.
These poor souls had not volunteered; but they’d remain what they had become nonetheless: part human, part machine. The only question was now: how to use their powers for the greater good. Because there was no way to lose them again.
The door to the cryogenic storage room was sealed, of course, but that could never stop him. He neutralized the seal with the tiniest flicker from his staff and entered the large hall, originally meant as storage space for medical equipment, medicine reserves and the likes. Now it was a tomb of some sort.
It looked like a hallway of the Stoa in Ancient Greece, the cryo-tubes seaming both lengthy walls like cylindrical steel pillars. One hundred cryo-tubes. One hundred human beings, full of implants that served only one purpose: to fly a Shadow ship.
One hundred Shadow ships, to be more accurate. Flown by the most powerful telepaths Earth had ever bred. Capable of withstanding the telepathic interference coming from their adversaries. Enough to destroy everything Sheridan and his unsteady allies might come up with… unless the Vorlons interfered again.
Galen shook his head in sorrow. No, the Vorlons would not interfere. They never really did, save for the one instant when Sheridan had practically blackmailed Kosh into helping them. For one thousand years, they held back, watching the younger races, inspiring them, manipulating them, nudging them in the right direction.
Or rather what they believed was the right direction. The Vorlons always believed they knew everything. And they never hesitated to sacrifice the younger races, just to prove their point.
That was something the Minbari - especially the Religious Caste - had yet to understand; and Galen feared that with Ulkesh in position, they would learn it the hard way, very soon.
But even if his own brethren chose not to interfere, Galen himself wasn’t willing to let those two ancient giants play with all the younger races as if those were merely chess pieces. Granted, what he could do was but a drop in the ocean on the grand scale of things. But he was determined to do that much, at the very least.
Ironically enough, the Shadows themselves had provided him with the means to hit them; and to hit them hard. And Voyager had brought over from an alternate reality the only missing piece: the very person that could - and would, though she didn’t know yet - serve as the Nexus.
All he needed yet was a suitable ship; but he was confident that that, too, would come his way at the right moment. Until then, he’ have to do what techno-mages did best: he would watch.
He slowly walked down between the long rows of cryogenic chambers, each housing a violated, dissected and rebuilt human being; their faces, frozen in a mute scream of utter horror spoke clearly of what they had gone through. He touched every single chamber briefly, in greeting as much as in compassion; but he knew that not even the knowledge of his brethren would be enough to safely remove the cyberweb implants from those poor creatures. The Shadow servants might be able to do so, but the person they had once been would still be changed, forever.
“It will be over, soon,” he promised them in a low murmur. “You cannot be helped; not anymore. You won’t be able to return to your former lives. But you will be given a new purpose; and perhaps, if we’re very lucky, the chance for a new existence. Be patient, my children. It won’t take long now.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Blessedly unknowing of the plans of such enormous consequences taking shape behind his back, Babylon 5’s chief of security had finished his detailed report about the hit on the Night Watch base in Red Sector, sent it to Sheridan’s computer and prepared to go off-duty. Officially. His shift had ended several hours ago - officially - but crisises rarely took the official duty roster under consideration; and on Babylon 5 a day without at least a medium-sized crisis was a very rare day indeed.
Becoming independent from Earth hadn’t changed that fact one bit. It only shifted the nature of the regular crisises to a different angle.
Garibaldi waited for Zack Allen to relieve him - officially - and paid MedLab a quick visit to see how his people were doing. The injured Night Watch members had already been treated and sent to the holding cells; this time Sheridan hadn’t wanted to ask for Voyager’s help, as Captain Janeway had been decidedly unhappy with her people’s involvement in station business.
Well, at least she hadn’t forbidden any volunteers to help; and Chakotay’s people had proved eminently helpful. Garibaldi only hoped that the medicine of a parallel Earth - of a federation of hundreds of planets in the 24th century - was advanced enough, so that Chakotay wouldn’t pay with his life for his willingness to help out his fellow humans.
Which reminded him of Chakotay’s original plans for tonight. Plans that somebody ought to do something about. With purposeful strides, he left MedLab and headed back to Red Sector. He had a Centauri flower vendor to speak and a table reservation to cancel. After all, circumstances changed and plans changed with them. Why should Chakotay spend his credits on a reservation he wouldn’t be able to put to good use?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
In the cryogenic facility of the MedLabs Galen had come to a decision. He didn’t know if his protective spells would work against a Vorlon - never had techno-mage technology been tested against one of them - but he had to try. This new Vorlon was a bigot, with an unusual hang to cruelty, even for one of his old and merciless race. He would try to eliminate the frozen telepaths who, in his eyes, had been tainted by the Shadows.
That they hadn’t asked for it meant to the Vorlons nothing.
Perhaps with Kosh - the original Kosh - it would have been different. Perhaps with him one could have reasoned. Not with Ulkesh, though. This Vorlon was fanatical in his pursuit of cleansing the universe from the Shadows and their taint.
Actually, his attitude was morbidly similar to that of certain pro-Earth groups. “Let’s purify the universe,” had been the Homeguard slogan. The Vorlons just did it in a grand scale and didn’t care about collateral damage.
Gathering his strength, Galen closed his eyes and concentrated.
~TBC~
Author: Soledad
Author’s notes: For disclaimer, rating, etc., see the secondary index page.
The Reg Gel is book canon, mentioned in the original series novel “The First Adventure”.
I’ve taken some liberties regarding Londo’s ex-wives.
PART 09
Vir looked up into the icy blue eyes of the blonde vision of exaggerated human femininity in honest shock, and Lennier couldn’t blame him. Even though he wasn’t similarly affected himself. Minbari imprinted on one person and were never interested in anybody else through their entire life.
He’d heard of the cyborg lady of Voyager, of course - everyone with even the smallest contact to C&C had - but this was the first time he saw her face to face. He found the experience… unsettling, although for different reasons than Vir might have.
Centauri, even though they were genetically incompatible with humans, found them sexually attractive. Minbari, not being slaves to their hormones - or rather, their hormones being naturally challenged towards a single person - were able to look deeper. Most of them being spiritually sensitive, they could feel another person’s soul, even that of humans.
Humans were easier than other aliens anyway, as they practically wore their souls on their sleeves.
From the cyborg lady of Voyager, however, Lennier could feel nothing. And that, frankly, terrified him.
Being mildly empathic, like most members of the Third Fane of Chu’domo, he could usually read the general disposition as well as the momentary emotional state of most people he met. From this semi-robotic woman, however, he felt nothing.
He’d heard complaints about her treating C&C personnel with impatience and arrogance, but those must have been temporary emotional patterns. Because right now, as she was staring down at Vir with those unblinking, porcelain blue eyes, gleaming in her steel-grey, almost metallic jumpsuit like a silver statue, she felt… well, unreal would have been the best word for it.
As a rule, Lennier perceived the souls of others as music: a wordless melody, the chiming of temple bells, the singing of the wind across the crystal spires of large Minbari cities. Simpler souls, like Vir’s, had a simple melody. Delenn’s was like a symphony played by a grand orchestra: violent themes forged into a complex pattern of rising and ebbing, and with every change, Lennier’s own soul was being sucked deeper into that powerful tide.
But from the cyborg lady of Voyager he got no music at all. Oh, there were faint echoes that revealed that there had once been a great deal of… well, noise could probably be the best description. But it was all gone now, save for those lingering echoes, and she felt as empty to him as a discarded piece of Warrior Caste body armour.
Lennier wondered if she’d implode in the not so distant future. People who were hollow in the inside usually did, and then innocents got hurt. Already, Vir seemed horrified enough - although by her cold professionalism rather than by the danger he wasn’t even aware of.
“M-my assistance?” he stuttered. “W-with what?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Lennier interrupted before the cyborg lady could have answered. “You are in no shape to assist her with anything,” he turned to the woman who was more than a head taller than him, due to the high heels supporting her already impressive natural height. “Please, leave. My friend is not well, and you are upsetting him.”
“Irrelevant,” she replied coldly. “I require information. This individual might be able to provide it.”
“This individual is my patient,” Dr Hernandez, smaller even than Lennier in size but fierce enough to put a Warrior Caste matron to shame, stepped between them and glared up into the cyborg lady’s face with a scowl. “He’s been through a lot and he needs to rest.”
“Rest is irrelevant,” the cyborg lady replied. “Information is of paramount importance.”
“Not in my MedLabs, unless it’s necessary for treatment,” Dr Hernandez put her foot down. “Now, you can leave voluntarily, or I’ll have you removed by security.”
“They would be no match for me,” the cyborg lady said.
There was no arrogance in that statement, only the cold fact. And, seeing the exoskeleton on her hand, somehow Lennier didn’t doubt the truth of it.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Before the verbal confrontation could have escalated, though, the low-key hum of Voyager’s miraculous particle transporter could be heard, and the golden column of energy swirled into existence in the middle of MedLab. A moment later Tom Paris stepped out of it, with an anxious face, carrying the 24th century equivalent of a medkit.
“Oh, Lieutenant Paris, good that you’re here,” Lennier jumped at the choice with both hands… figuratively speaking. “Would you tell your colleague that she should not bother Vir while he’s still not recovering?”
“As if she’d listen to me; or to anyone else, for that matter,” Paris grinned cynically, but he gave it a try nonetheless. “Seven, you should return to Voyager; I’ve been called over because Chakotay is apparently injured - the captain might need you.”
Seven of Nine considered that argument for a moment - then she nodded.
“Very well. I’ll go - for now. But I’ll return to continue my research.”
With that, she left indeed, stalking on her high heel like a hereon.
The relief following her departure was short-living, though. Almost at the same time Mr. Leong, the paramedic on duty, came in with his team, running with the gurney with Chakotay on.
The executive officer of Voyager was in a horrible shape, with a hole of the size of a fist burned through his midsection, as if it had been punched through flesh and bone with white-hot iron. He was unconscious, his skin clammy and of a pale, muddy colour from the shock and the blood loss.
“Shock room, now!” Dr. Hernandez yelled, yanking on a pair of antiseptic gloves. “Send me a trauma team!”
“Wait!” Tom Paris tried to sop her. “We’re supposed to stabilize him and then beam him over to Voyager…”
She gave him a measuring look.
“Lieutenant, I was a battlefield trauma surgeon in both major interplanetary wars of our century; and then served with the troops of General Franklin, before coming to Babylon 5. Your technology may be more advanced, but I know everything about PPG shot wounds, and I’m telling you, if I don’t treat him now, there’ll be nothing left to take back to your ship. Now, either assist me or get out of my way, because we don’t have a moment to waste.”
Her tone was so authoritative that Paris simply nodded and followed her to the shock room.
Barely were they gone, Lieutenant Ayala arrived, his face full of concern for his friend and commanding officer.
“Chakotay and I have the same blood group, should he need a transfusion,” he told Lillian, who was just coming from examining Lyta Alexander.
The doctor, though, shook her head.
“You couldn’t donate the amount of blood he’d need,” she replied, apparently having been updated about Chakotay’s condition. “It was a high-powered shot; the kind that would burn straight through an organic body, causing massive internal burns and trauma to the internal organs - even melting clothing into the skin.”
“The dermal regenerators can deal with that,” Ayala said. “The damaged organs, though, will have to be replaced with cloned ones.”
“We don’t have the technology for that,” Lillian began, but Ayala interrupted her.
“Fortunately, we do. In fact, Sickbay has cloned organs of every crewmember in cryogenic storage, as per Starfleet regulations,” he pulled a face. “I never thought I’d be grateful for the damn regs one day, but now… I just hope we get him over to Voyager as soon as possible.”
“Dr. Hernandez will do her best,” Lillian replied, although she was deathly pale with worry, “She has great experience with PPG shot wounds.”
Ayala raised an eyebrow. “You’re not going in with them?”
Lillian shook her head. “No; Maya Hernandez has more experience with this kind of injury, and besides, it’s better for the patient if his doctor is not… emotionally compromised. I’ve got a lot of work to do anyway. Ms Alexander has been brought in, and her condition is… worrisome.”
“In what way?” Ayala asked.
Lillian shrugged. “That’s the problem: we don’t know. She’s unconscious, but I can’t find any physical reason for it. She seems exhausted, and I don’t know why. It’s less than a day ago that she checked herself out of your Sickbay, and I haven’t got any documents from your doctor yet.”
“You should ask Tuvok,” Ayala suggested. “He’ll be coming over to check on the chubby little guy with the funny hair anyway; perhaps he can do his Vulcan mojo to wake the lady up again,”
“It might be worth the try,” Lillian agreed; then she sighed, as the paramedics came running again, bringing in the less seriously injured participants of the fight with the Night Watch people. “Well, it seems duty calls. Are you staying, Lieutenant?”
Ayala nodded. “I won’t go anywhere as long as Chakotay is in there.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Walking back to the docking bays to return to Voyager, Seven of Nine felt a profound sense of dissatisfaction. Her project of learning more about techno-mages - a contradiction in itself, if there had ever been one - had been unnecessarily delayed. She was certain that answering a few factual questions wouldn’t have harmed the pathetic creature in any way. But doctors - especially human doctors - were unreasonably protective of their patients.
Certainly, she could have removed the obstacles from her way and force the information out of the Centauri. He was such a weak creature, he wouldn’t be able to withhold anything from her. But Captain Janeway wanted her to follow the rules - human rules, Starfleet rules - and without the Collective she needed place to belong.
It was better to comply - for now. Until a better opportunity came up.
Janeway and the others might believe that they had tamed her. That she had adopted their opinion that becoming human was possible - and desirable - for her. She would leave them their illusion… for the time being.
Reaching the bay where Voyager was docked, her long, purposeful strides slowed down considerably. She had that odd feeling of being watched again. But as she slowly turned around and scanned the room with her enhanced Borg senses, she couldn’t spot the source of the sensation. Still, she was certain that something - or someone - was spying on her. There had to be some very advanced technology at work… even by Borg measures.
She shook her head. Guesswork was counterproductive, as she couldn’t gather any empiric data at the moment. The best thing to do was to regenerate - she’d skipped one rotation in favour of deepening her research, and it showed. She needed to replenish her strength for the clearly inevitable encounter with this Galen person.
She entered Voyager through the door on the underside of the hull and headed directly to the cargo bay, where her regeneration chamber was waiting. She was looking forward what she’d once described to her curious crewmates as “contemplating her existence”. At that time, they had found it a charming concept.
They had no idea what it truly meant.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Ayala used the time of waiting to engage Vir and Lennier in conversation. He wasn’t a political animal by his nature, but the various intertwining conflicts of this universe fascinated him. Especially the conflict between Narn und Centauri: the changing roles of aggressors and victims and the consequences of this power struggle for the rest of the galactic balance of powers.
Besides, it was always tactically wise to know as much about the power structure of a given situation as possible. He’d learned that from Chakotay, who hadn’t led advanced tactical training at Starfleet Academy for nothing.
He understood that the current conflict had started hen the Narn attacked a defenceless Centauri agricultural colony - established on a planet formerly belonging to the Narn - some three years ago. Only the intervention of Commander Sinclair, then commanding officer of Babylon 5, now Earth’s ambassador on Minbar, which probably explained his success, had persuaded the Narn to withdraw. But the humiliation of the Centauri in general and Ambassador Mollari’s in particular had been complete.
And now the Centauri, having arranged themselves with this reawakened ancient power, the Shadows, were paying back for that, in grand style. By having bombed the Narn homeworld back to the Stone Age; and by hunting down and publicly executing every Narn that would dare to raise their voice - or their weapon - against them.
“The attack on Ragesh 3 was particularly bitter for Londo,” Vir explained. “He’d used his influence to get his nephew, a talented young scientist, a safe position as head researcher and project director at the research station there… or what he thought was a safe position. And then the Narns attacked, captured his nephew, forced Carn to make a false statement about civilian unrest within the colony and that they had asked the Narns to move n and help keeping up order - and that publicly, on all channels… That was a black day for House Mollari.”
“And once Mr. Morden showed up here, with his enigmatic question of ‘What do you want?’, Ambassador Mollari walked straight into the Shadow trap,” Lennier concluded.
Vir nodded unhappily. “Yes, he did. I’m sure he hadn’t realized at first what he was doing. He was hurt and angered… and rightly so! What the Narns did to our colony to his nephew, was vile! Five thousand people lived on Ragesh 3; unarmed civilians, all of them. And Carn Mollari was marked as a traitor for that forced statement. He didn’t deserve that! He was a good, decent young man - quite surprising from someone coming from one of the Old Houses, in fact.”
“Where is he now?” Lennier asked.
“I don’t know; and I seriously doubt that Londo would,” Vir sighed. “He escaped being arrested and executed for treason - barely - but where he has gone is everybody’s guess. Londo was devastated, of course. With his brother dead, Carn was his only relative he truly cared for; and his heir… was like a son to him.”
“That certainly explains a lot,” Lennier commented slowly. “But it still doesn’t excuse what he did.”
“Do you think I don’t know that?” Vir snapped. “Do you think I enjoy watching him falling into darkness a little more with every passing day? But I cannot do anything to stop him. He doesn’t listen to anyone.”
“He might listen to Timov, though,” Dr. Hernandez said, entering the room. She was no longer wearing her surgeon’s scrub and looked relieved. “Commander Chakotay has been stabilized and beamed directly to your Sickbay,” she added for Ayala. “Lieutenant Paris said something about reconstructive neurosurgery and Reg Gel - whatever that is.”
“A disgusting but highly efficient method of regeneration, both for broken bones and injured organs,” Ayala explained. “Essentially, you’re put into a tank with what looks like green jelly and you have to sit there until it does its thing. The more serious the injury, the longer you have to sit there.”
“Interesting,” the doctor commented. “I’ve never heard of such a method.”
“It’s been out of use since the late 23rd century, having been replaced with faster methods,” Ayala said. “The Holodoc reconstructed it, though, since we no longer had access to specialized Federation hospitals, lost in the Delta Quadrant as we were. Chakotay will hate it; but, assuming the surgery goes well, it will help him. Who is Timov, though?”
“Ambassador Mollari’s wife,” Lennier replied. “The one of the three he chose to keep when Emperor Turhan granted him a divorce from two wives out of three in 2259, Earth reckoning, as a gift for the thirtieth anniversary of his Ascencion.”
“His what?”
“The ceremony marking the time from which a young Centauri noble is considered a full adult and allowed to take part in politics,” Lennier explained. “They celebrate this anniversary with a huge party, at which all invited guests have to appear barefooted - as a sing of respect. They also have to bring a gift.”
“That Londo chose to keep Lady Timov as his nominal wife doesn’t mean he’d be willing to listen to her,” Vir pointed out reasonably. "Or that Lady Timov would bother to talk to him in the first place. She always made her low opinion of Londo adamantly clear.”
“That may be so,” Dr. Hernandez allowed. “But she’s also very dutiful. She did save Londo’s life, after all, when his youngest wife’s Day of Ascension gift oh so accidentally poisoned him,”
“She did?” this piece of news was obviously new for Vir. “How would she do that? And, before anything else, why?”
Dr. Hernandez shrugged. “Apparently, they have the same blood type; and Ambassador Mollari needed a transfusion. As for the why, she announced, and I quote: ‘I still have some principles that even twenty years with Londo can’t erase’. A remarkable woman… and one tough cookie, if I ever saw one.”
“But why did she never tell anyone?” Vir was completely flabbergasted.
“She told Dr. Franklin that neither of them would be ready for the awkwardness of any fake gratitude from the ambassador’s side,” Dr. Hernandez grinned. “As I said: a remarkable woman.”
“With the less than endearing habit to bite when under duress,” Vir muttered sourly.
“Well, if you are small and unarmed, you need to find alternate ways to defend yourself,” Dr. Hernandez, rather on the petite side herself, commented. Then she suppressed a yawn. “Well, I’m beat. Fortunately, Dr. Harrison is due to take over for me, so I can go to my bed with a clean conscience Good day, gentlemen. This old lady sorely needs her beauty sleep.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“She, too, is remarkable woman,” Lennier said when the doctor was safely out of earshot. “What are you going to do now, Vir? Are you contacting the ambassador’s wife?”
“I’m not sure,” Vir admitted glumly. “Perhaps I should. But the mere thought of it sends cold shivers down my spine. She is small, but she has a fearsome temper.”
“Does she really bite people?” Lennier still had a hard time to believe that; but again, Minbari weren’t that big on physical contact, unless among bondmates - and even then strictly in private.
Vir blinked a few times, thinking.
“Well, I never actually saw it myself,” he finally said. “But I’ve been assured by Londo in confidence that it happened at least twice.”
Now it was Lennier’s turn to blink in confusion.
“And the ambassador still choose to keep her when he had to choose?”
Vir shrugged, which looked a bit strange, lying on his back as he was.
“He said, with her he at least always knew where he stood - which is certainly true. Lady Timov is not one to mince her words when she has something to say.”
“What were the other two like?” Lennier knew it was nowhere near his business, but curiosity took the better of him.
Vir frowned for a moment; then his face cleared in realisation.
“Oh, right; you were rather occupied with Ambassador Delenn’s personal matters at the time. Well, all three marriages were arranged ones, as it is custom among our great Houses. Londo married Lady Timov in 2239, according to Earth reckoning; she was his first wife and came from a lesser but very wealthy family. Lady Daggair, the second wife, was the oldest of the three and the daughter of a politically very active nobleman. She, too, had a devout interest in ‘the vagaries of politics and social climbing’, as Lady Timov would put it, as well as in spending great deals of Londo's money. When Londo was poisoned, Lady Daggair actually hoped he would pass away, as he hadn’t made his divorce decision public yet.”
“Charming,” Lennier commented dryly. Vir shrugged.
“She liked to say that she was what she’d been made: by her father, by Londo and by our society. I’m afraid there’s a great deal of truth in that statement.”
“I will take your word for it,” Lennier said. “What about the third wife, though?”
“Oh, the Lady Mariel!” Vir’s eyes became just a little wishful with the memory of her. “She was the youngest of Londo's three wives by many years. Soft spoken and beautiful, yet utterly ruthless - the iron claw in the velvet glove, as Lady Timov called her. Her father married her off to Londo because her… err… special interest in rich and powerful men was becoming an embarrassment for the whole family.”
“She was the one who made attempts to poison Ambassador Mollari?” Lennier tried to clarify. Londo Mollari’s family life was nothing if not complicated.
“She’d purchased the ancient statuette that fired a poison arrow at Londo,” Vir clarified. “She might or might not have known that it was booby-trapped; we never really found out. Personally, I’m sure she knew. Had Londo died before making his divorce decision public, all three of his wives would have become rich and prestigious widows, able to live the privileged lives of noble women they were accustomed to.”
“And yet Lady Timov chose to save her unloved husband,” Lennier said slowly. “That speaks of a noble character.”
“She’s brutally honest, I’ll give her that,” Vir allowed. “Perhaps Dr. Hernandez was right. Dutiful is the correct word to describe her.”
“What’s become of the other two?”
“Londo gave each of them a modest alimony as a settlement upon the divorce; but, of course, they were forced to adopt a more… modest lifestyle - something they weren’t happy with. Lady Daggair couldn’t bear the disgrace and fled to her family’s country estate, where she’s been living ever since. Lady Mariel, I heard, found herself something of a pariah in our social circles as a discard, and did her best to sleep her way up the ranks again. She’s currently said to be one of Emperor Cartagia’s playthings… which means a fairly short life expectance as a rule. But she’s like those Earth animals… you know, the ones that resemble your goks…”
“Cats?” Lennier offered a little uncertainly, and Vir nodded.
“Yes. They say, those… cats always land on their feet, no matter how high they fall from; and so does Lady Mariel, regardless what might happen to her.”
“She was certainly fortunate that Ambassador Mollari simply let her go, after the poisoning attempt,” Lennier said dryly. “I’m told that people have been executed for much lesser offences on Centauri Prime.”
“Londo had no proof that it was pre-meditated; and a scandal would have harmed House Mollari more than the attempt to kill him,” Vir replied with a shrug.
Lennier shook his head. “I will never understand your people.”
“It’s not easy,” Vir allowed. “Sometimes I wonder if I do.”
And yet Lady Morella had foretold that he’d become Emperor one day. Truly, it was hard to imagine, even for him. Had he not known that she was one of the most powerful seers of her era, he wouldn’t believe it for a moment.
He still hoped it was a mistake. Even prophetesses could make mistakes, couldn’t they? He hadn’t told about the prophecy anyone; not even Lennier, whose discretion was absolute. If he behaved as if the prophecy had never been spoken, perhaps it wouldn’t come true, either.
He hoped it wouldn’t. He prayed for that to all fifty-two gods of the Centauri pantheon. Because should it come true, it wouldn’t bode well - neither for him, nor for the Centauri Republic. Vir Cotto knew his own limitation and was man enough to admit them.
Seeing that his friend was lost in thought, Lennier excused himself to return to Delenn’s quarters. There was still much work to do, and even he felt a little overwhelmed at times. Visiting Vir had been a welcome distraction, but now he had to pick up his duties again.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Wrapped in his cloak of invisibility - actually a clever piece of technology, based on the bending of light - Galen left the docking bay, heading for a certain, abandoned part of the MedLabs. It was an interesting challenge to wave his way across this crowded and busy sector of the station without bumping into anyone and being discovered by touch, but he had great practice in such things.
Still, he wouldn’t have taken the risk in the first place, hadn’t he felt the urge to check on his, let’s say, special wards.
He knew that as long as Ulkesh remained on Babylon 5, the telepaths in their cryogenic chambers were in mortal danger. Vorlons could instinctively feel the presence of Shadow technology, even in its dormant state, and only Merlin could tell what an ill-tempered Vorlon would do if he decided to eliminate a perceived threat. And Ulkesh was constantly ill-tempered in these days.
Galen knew, of course, the reason for the Vorlon’s permanently sour mood. He had watched the oddly powerful little creature travelling on Voyager hurl the bulky Vorlon against the wall in an act of instinctive self-defence. He had to admit that is surprised him. The girl was so small, so fragile, so child-like with her blonde pixie cut and those pointed ears; she could go as the Flower Fairy, but for the lack of butterfly wings.
And yet she’d been able to overpower a Vorlon! An ancient and ruthless one, even as Vorlons go. That had been… unexpected. Not to mention impressive.
Granted, she’d caught Ulkesh unaware. Next time she’d have a real fight at her hands and might not get away so easily. Nonetheless, it had been amazing; and one could not yet foretell, how much her powers would grow.
Still, the innocent little girl with the enormous mental powers was of no use for Galen’s plans. Her path led to a different destination; to a kind of existence that was several levels higher than his own. That much he could already see and knew it would be unwise to meddle with such powers.
No, his secret weapon was Seven of Nine, the ex-Borg still mourning her Collective… and those unfortunates violated by the Shadow servants to become the living weapon of the Enemy.
Living being relative, of course.
He reached the hidden compartment of the MedLabs where they were kept until somebody might be able to figure out how to reverse the handiwork of the Drakh biotechnicians… which was a futile hope, of course. Once merged with the implants, they were no longer removable - not without killing the host first, that is. He knew that. His implants were of similar nature. The only difference being that he’d achieved them willingly. He’d volunteered to become what he was now.
These poor souls had not volunteered; but they’d remain what they had become nonetheless: part human, part machine. The only question was now: how to use their powers for the greater good. Because there was no way to lose them again.
The door to the cryogenic storage room was sealed, of course, but that could never stop him. He neutralized the seal with the tiniest flicker from his staff and entered the large hall, originally meant as storage space for medical equipment, medicine reserves and the likes. Now it was a tomb of some sort.
It looked like a hallway of the Stoa in Ancient Greece, the cryo-tubes seaming both lengthy walls like cylindrical steel pillars. One hundred cryo-tubes. One hundred human beings, full of implants that served only one purpose: to fly a Shadow ship.
One hundred Shadow ships, to be more accurate. Flown by the most powerful telepaths Earth had ever bred. Capable of withstanding the telepathic interference coming from their adversaries. Enough to destroy everything Sheridan and his unsteady allies might come up with… unless the Vorlons interfered again.
Galen shook his head in sorrow. No, the Vorlons would not interfere. They never really did, save for the one instant when Sheridan had practically blackmailed Kosh into helping them. For one thousand years, they held back, watching the younger races, inspiring them, manipulating them, nudging them in the right direction.
Or rather what they believed was the right direction. The Vorlons always believed they knew everything. And they never hesitated to sacrifice the younger races, just to prove their point.
That was something the Minbari - especially the Religious Caste - had yet to understand; and Galen feared that with Ulkesh in position, they would learn it the hard way, very soon.
But even if his own brethren chose not to interfere, Galen himself wasn’t willing to let those two ancient giants play with all the younger races as if those were merely chess pieces. Granted, what he could do was but a drop in the ocean on the grand scale of things. But he was determined to do that much, at the very least.
Ironically enough, the Shadows themselves had provided him with the means to hit them; and to hit them hard. And Voyager had brought over from an alternate reality the only missing piece: the very person that could - and would, though she didn’t know yet - serve as the Nexus.
All he needed yet was a suitable ship; but he was confident that that, too, would come his way at the right moment. Until then, he’ have to do what techno-mages did best: he would watch.
He slowly walked down between the long rows of cryogenic chambers, each housing a violated, dissected and rebuilt human being; their faces, frozen in a mute scream of utter horror spoke clearly of what they had gone through. He touched every single chamber briefly, in greeting as much as in compassion; but he knew that not even the knowledge of his brethren would be enough to safely remove the cyberweb implants from those poor creatures. The Shadow servants might be able to do so, but the person they had once been would still be changed, forever.
“It will be over, soon,” he promised them in a low murmur. “You cannot be helped; not anymore. You won’t be able to return to your former lives. But you will be given a new purpose; and perhaps, if we’re very lucky, the chance for a new existence. Be patient, my children. It won’t take long now.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Blessedly unknowing of the plans of such enormous consequences taking shape behind his back, Babylon 5’s chief of security had finished his detailed report about the hit on the Night Watch base in Red Sector, sent it to Sheridan’s computer and prepared to go off-duty. Officially. His shift had ended several hours ago - officially - but crisises rarely took the official duty roster under consideration; and on Babylon 5 a day without at least a medium-sized crisis was a very rare day indeed.
Becoming independent from Earth hadn’t changed that fact one bit. It only shifted the nature of the regular crisises to a different angle.
Garibaldi waited for Zack Allen to relieve him - officially - and paid MedLab a quick visit to see how his people were doing. The injured Night Watch members had already been treated and sent to the holding cells; this time Sheridan hadn’t wanted to ask for Voyager’s help, as Captain Janeway had been decidedly unhappy with her people’s involvement in station business.
Well, at least she hadn’t forbidden any volunteers to help; and Chakotay’s people had proved eminently helpful. Garibaldi only hoped that the medicine of a parallel Earth - of a federation of hundreds of planets in the 24th century - was advanced enough, so that Chakotay wouldn’t pay with his life for his willingness to help out his fellow humans.
Which reminded him of Chakotay’s original plans for tonight. Plans that somebody ought to do something about. With purposeful strides, he left MedLab and headed back to Red Sector. He had a Centauri flower vendor to speak and a table reservation to cancel. After all, circumstances changed and plans changed with them. Why should Chakotay spend his credits on a reservation he wouldn’t be able to put to good use?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
In the cryogenic facility of the MedLabs Galen had come to a decision. He didn’t know if his protective spells would work against a Vorlon - never had techno-mage technology been tested against one of them - but he had to try. This new Vorlon was a bigot, with an unusual hang to cruelty, even for one of his old and merciless race. He would try to eliminate the frozen telepaths who, in his eyes, had been tainted by the Shadows.
That they hadn’t asked for it meant to the Vorlons nothing.
Perhaps with Kosh - the original Kosh - it would have been different. Perhaps with him one could have reasoned. Not with Ulkesh, though. This Vorlon was fanatical in his pursuit of cleansing the universe from the Shadows and their taint.
Actually, his attitude was morbidly similar to that of certain pro-Earth groups. “Let’s purify the universe,” had been the Homeguard slogan. The Vorlons just did it in a grand scale and didn’t care about collateral damage.
Gathering his strength, Galen closed his eyes and concentrated.
~TBC~