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Chapter Text

2260

"Thanks for this," says Ivanova, holding the data crystal with the video of what happened to President Santiago.

"You needed assistance," says Draal. "That was foretold. I saw it, too."

"We need assistance from everybody. And a lot of the League Worlds aren't pulling together." She reflects. "But even the major powers aren't pulling together. The Centauri Republic and Narn Regime are fighting each other. We've got problems back home. Apparently, so do the Minbari."

"There is a saying among our Warrior Caste," says Draal. "When a warrior fights a warrior, only the enemy may win."

"Try telling them," says Ivanova. "Delenn's going to have to go back and talk to them. The White Stars are great, but we haven't got that many. All those nice, big, speedy ships they've got in the Warrior Caste. We could really use 'em right about now." She purses her lips, dissatisfied. "Wish there were a data crystal for that."

"You could have one," offers Draal.

"I wouldn't even know what to look for," admits Ivanova, "I don't know anything about Minbar."

"But I do," says Draal grimly. "And I don't like what I see. You understand, of course, that I haven't physically been present. I cannot leave the Machine. But with the Machine - of course, I watch. I see many things. I see... infinities..." he trails off and becomes distant.

"Did you see anything that could help us?" Ivanova asks.

Draal continues his musing. Typical Minbari. Sometime soon, Ivanova hopes he'll answer her actual question. "Worlds... and universes... of different choices... Some a simple, single, switch. Some a vector of features, another direction. In some, a solitary difference percolates to a change years down the line. In others, the difference creates a wealth of new possibilities. Some universes were utterly alien to me. Who the Minbari could have been... I did not recognise us. I confess, I took great interest in watching the activities of my own race. But I knew I must not be partial, and therefore I watched you all. I watched us all. I watched who we became. These... worlds... they passed in the blink of an eye for me, but in them, we lived out whole lives. Dynasties."

Draal turns to her. "Would you like to see one? I think it'll have the answers you're looking for."

"Is that allowed?" asks Ivanova.

He waves a hand, dismissive. "I cannot show you futures. But the path we could have taken to such a place has already been passed over. The waveforms, probabilities... these have already collapsed. Though the people and the events bear some resemblance to our current events, we can no more alter our future to match what you will see than we could sprout wings and fly. We have no longer the genetic capability. No, I don't think it would do any harm. But it may explain much."

"Well," says Ivanova, "alright then." He hooks her back into the Heart of the Machine, and then hooks himself with a secondary conduit at his temple, and the hall fades from her view.

--

2254

Branmer comes upon Neroon in the Alternate Bridge of the Ingata, reading a report. "Do I need to find a second executive officer?" he asks.

         Where are we? asks Ivanova. When are we?

         Watch and see, says Draal.

         That's ... He's younger than I thought he'd be, says Ivanova. Handsome, too. You know - for a Minbari.

         Mm. Branmer was not old when he passed, says Draal.

"Good luck finding someone better than I am," says Neroon. He does not bother looking up. His tone is haughty, but he is not wrong. During the war, Neroon's talents as second-in-command on the Ingata, which became the flagship after the loss of the Drala Fi, were invaluable. After the war, they are largely wasted. They both know this.

         Why are they speaking English? asks Ivanova.

         They are not, says Draal. For the moment you shift in and out of perception like this. Here and now, we look through Branmer's eyes. We hear with his ears, and we understand with his language. It will not always be so. The Machine calculates what is best for the narrative.

         Neroon has an accent, says Ivanova.

         No, replies Draal. Neroon is not the one with the accent. Branmer is.

"Are you thinking of leaving?" says Branmer.

"What?" Neroon puts down the report and gives Branmer his full attention. "No. Why?"

"I hear you've been elected to the Council of Caste Elders," Branmer explains. "You did not tell me about this."

To his credit, Neroon appears a little sheepish. "I did not see how I had to," he says. He is evasive, finding other things to look at than Branmer. He flips through the report he is clearly not reading. "I had planned to stay. Meetings are only once monthly. By my current calculations we are every two weeks back in Tuzanor Port, and we shall maintain this frequency for the rest of the cycle. And they were flexible when Teraal left four cycles ago to carry twins. I am not even courting."

"But that is different. Children are a joy, and twins are rare. You are spreading yourself thin." Which likely has something to do with Neroon not courting, but wisely Branmer holds his tongue. Hunting Norsai klerow - with their two sets of teeth and three sets of claws - is more fun than than talking to Neroon about the courting he should be at least trying to do. Wounded klerow do not lash out with Neroon's ferocity.

"It's my decision to keep busy," says Neroon defensively. "I have to think about my career. As Caste Elder, I become one of the heads of our Clan. This takes time. Nothing I cannot manage."

"Well... then, good work." Neroon smiles more to himself than anything, for it disappears as quickly as it came. Congratulations are in order, Branmer supposes. "It is no mere feat to be appointed at your age. I know it is not that there was a lack of candidates. A number among the Fire Wings. Or Katrenn of the Star Riders, who outranks you in experience. You must have impressed the Clan Mothers. I imagine you spoke with great eloquence."

Neroon is clearly flattered. "Do I ever speak otherwise?"

"Always," says Branmer, grinning. "How did you convince them you had the wisdom as befits a Caste Elder, when you are consistently impudent to me!" But Branmer is not without his own brashness. "Well, my friend. Is this what you wanted?"

"It is," says Neroon. "I like politics. Law."

"It is messy," Branmer warns.

"Yes. But I like it. I am good at it. I want to feel like ..."

"Like you have power over others?" he guesses.

"Like I have some ability to change things," says Neroon instead. "Our people change so seldom."

"Is that what we are meant to do? Change?"

"If it's necessary? Yes. The war was good for us." Although Neroon does not say so without some wistfulness. "Our losses notwithstanding," he adds.

"We did not lose anyone. Their souls have returned to the void whence they came," says Branmer. "A projection of the universe."

"Mm. Whatever helps you think about it all," says Neroon.

Though Branmer had never met him, he knows the name of the fallen friend of whom they're both carefully speaking. Neroon had reported the debrief of that particular mission directly to Branmer. Unbeknownst to Neroon - who specifically asked that the information be passed to the Grey Council - Branmer did not report the findings to anyone else. It was withholding that information that helped in part to stop the war. Thus Branmer has never told Neroon that he withheld what he did from the Grey Council. It was the right choice to do so, and Neroon would probably - in time - agree. But Neroon would, unquestionably, despise him for it. And Branmer would spare him that cognitive dissonance.

It is as well, for Neroon has also made it clear he has permanently severed this portion of his life, his memories, and does not want to pursue the subject, ever again. So Branmer can extend him no more comfort than these allusions. Sometimes Branmer wonders if that is so by construction. Neroon has never liked to be comforted, never liked acknowledging that he needed it. Ignoring pain isn't a solution to pain. But ever-stubborn Neroon will not hear him on this.

"You have never been a believer," says Branmer.

"You have never held it against me," mutters Neroon. "You were the High Priest another life ago, not I. Besides, I still keep our ways and traditions."

Yes. Those, and those alone, are important to Neroon. He is happy to ritualise traditions into a distilled and meaningless pattern to pay as little attention as possible to underlying meaning. Theatrics is practically his second trade. No wonder he likes law and politics. "Do you truly not believe? Not at all? It is still our faith," Branmer argues. "Not some guarded secret of the Religious Caste."

Neroon says nothing. He turns half-hearted attention back to his report.

"Of which they have many," says Branmer. He is trying for a casual, lightening tone, but now that he is thinking of secrets, he is thinking of one in particular, and it weighs so heavily on his conscience that he cannot keep the ominousness out of his voice.

Again, Neroon says nothing.

Branmer changes the topic. "Our faith is intended for the warriors, as well. That's why when I became High Priest I requested a posting to Star Riders, instead of in some Religious Caste fane where I might more properly devote myself."

"You were born to Star Riders, your mother's mother was one of our greatest heroes." Neroon smiles. He looks relaxed like this, genuine. A momentary break in his posturing or brooding. His dark eyes are friendly, and sparkle. Neroon's friendship has been a hidden blessing, Branmer thinks. He knows that Neroon doesn't grant this closeness to many. He feels selected, chosen. "I am glad for it. We were stronger with you."

"Because I thereafter formally joined your ranks and became Shai Alyt," supplies Branmer.

"Because you made objectively correct decisions and were a brilliant tactician," says Neroon. "And in that, it was probably your Religious training that helped." He rolls his eyes as he grins. "There, I admitted it. Tell no one."

Branmer smiles and mimes the locking of a key at his lips.

"Well," says Neroon. "Did you come up here only to admonish me for my secrecy?"

Secrecy, Branmer thinks.

Does he tell Neroon? That he, alone aside from the Grey Council, knows why the Minbari surrendered on the eve of victory? That he, as Shai Alyt, knows why the victory was torn from the Warrior Caste? Why they were stopped before they could finish? Why he, as war leader, agreed, and let the gaping wound in the honour of the Warrior Caste bleed freely without being cauterised, where to this day, it festers?

No, he cannot. Neroon - like most of the Warrior Caste - distrusts and dislikes the Religious Caste too much still. It has been less than seven cycles since the last ships fell. If he tells Neroon, he may as well openly say he never really accepted the calling to the Warrior Caste. A full warrior Shai Alyt would grant them their victory. Branmer, a turncoat priest who switched, did not. That is what they would say. And Neroon hardly believes enough in their faith for their own people, let alone for the sake of any other race, let alone for the sake of a race he openly considers dishonourable. Not without good reason.

Yet something of Neroon's manner strikes Branmer as ... a possibility. Neroon is not quiet, he is not contemplative. He is not given to meditation, and he lacks patience. Neroon could never be Religious Caste. Neroon would barely possess the ability to sit still for an apprenticeship to adept-level of any Worker Caste craft. But he is clever, passionate, and reliable. And but for his occasionally duplicitous sense of humour, he is genuine. He loves their people. He would die for them. Branmer has never doubted this.

Would he live for them?

         This is the universe where he answers yes, says Draal.

There is a possibility... and given his interest in politics...

Branmer could act on it.

         This is the universe where he does, says Draal.

"The Humans are starting work now on the fifth station," says Branmer. This utterance seems almost pulled from him; he surprises even himself as he says it. Well, it's too late to turn back now. Something seems to have shifted.

Branmer casts a quick eye over his shoulder, but as watched as he feels, no one is there.

         Can he see us? asks Ivanova.

         Branmer was highly perceptive, says Draal. Even by the Religious Caste's standards. His mother is one of our stronger telepaths.

"Mmm. They keep doing this," says Neroon. "I have a theory about the Humans - I think they cannot stop until they have finished something. They would not stop during the war."

"Nor would we. We did not allow them to surrender."

"They were without honour," says Neroon simply.

"Sometimes, yes," agrees Branmer. "The Grey Council has elected to grant them assistance in building. The fifth station will be Earth-governed, but it will be built at least partially with Minbari technology."

"What?" Neroon is baffled. "Why? Three stations were sabotaged. One, they lost! And now you mean to tell me -" Neroon throws his report down onto the nearest flat surface - a communications station - and gets to his feet, where he begins to pace. Every time he turns, he does it so sharply that his coattails spin out. Neroon and his drama, thinks Branmer. "Who knows of this?"

"The Grey Council does not intend to tell anyone until after the station is complete," says Branmer. He sighs. "It is a good idea, Neroon. The Humans want to use it as a meeting place. That we may meet and talk. That we no longer make mistakes with other races. This could have been our first contact with them, instead of all that fruitless death."

"Do you know who on the Grey Council it was that voted for this?" snaps Neroon.

"I am not privy to such vote casting. I am not Satai."

"Naturally, but you know of this. How did you find out?"

Branmer is uncomfortable. "Satai Delenn," he replies.

"Oh," says Neroon acidly. His posture stiffens.

"She raised the motion, and voted for it."

"Of course she did," Neroon growls.

"So did all three of the Worker Caste Satai."

"What - really? They do not consider it a waste of their time? Or resources? An astronomical amount of quantium-40 would be needed for such a project."

Branmer concedes the point. "Apparently it is worth the investment."

"Well," says Neroon, clearly floored. "That's four. I take it Satai Delenn found sympathy in her own caste for the deciding vote?"

"No," says Branmer. "Those came from Satai Coplann and Satai Irlit."

"What?" Neroon exclaims.

"That appears to be your new favourite word," mutters Branmer.

"They are both Warrior Caste!"

Branmer tries for sympathetic. "And they too, knew Dukhat. Satai Irlit less well. But Irlit is, like Dukhat was, a Night Walker. Satai Delenn's argument was largely on the basis that this is what Dukhat would have wanted. Irlit agreed. Her consensus came, I am told, immediately."

"Hm." Neroon is silent and frowning a moment as he thinks. He begins to pace again. "Well, what thinks Satai Morann?"

"Satai Morann retired from his post three cycles ago," explains Branmer. Why was a tetchier issue still. "He will always be Honoured, but he has no further say in the Grey Council."

"Who has replaced him?"

"That, you will have to find out for your own," Branmer replies flatly. Neroon is taken aback. "Well, you seem upset enough. I assume you want to bring this up with them? We will intersect the path of their ship in two days. You can ask them for an audience then to complain."

Neroon's answer is blessedly quick. "No," he says. "No, no. If it is the decision of the Grey Council, I can and shall respect this."

"Hah! and if I had told you it was the Religious Caste who had tipped the scales on the vote?"

For they did vote for Satai Delenn's motion. In fact, it was unanimous.

"Don't test me," says Neroon. "I am not your pupil."

"Not anymore," says Branmer. "I am still your elder."

"By a mere fifteen cycles."

"And I outrank you."

"For now." Neroon's ambition is well-known. But his tone in this is jocular, so Branmer is unconcerned. It is no threat, only levity. And there is only truth in it - Branmer has every notion of suggesting Neroon for his position when he prepares to vacate it. There is no one Branmer thinks better suited.

But Neroon could use some broader experience. "I'm sure, then, you have put together that they will want ambassadors for the completed station," Branmer adds.

Neroon nods. "Assuming it doesn't explode or disappear."

"With the help of our technology, it will not."

"Mm."

There is more silence as Neroon works it through. Once he does, he stops tapping his lips in contemplation and fixes Branmer with a sharp, dark look. "You can't be serious," he exclaims. "You are Shai Alyt! Though I agree, there is presently no conflict in which we are immisced, how do you come to talk to me of being stretched thin? You cannot think to do this!"

"I was not thinking of volunteering myself for the position," says Branmer, neutrally.

"Then, who -" This takes him much less time. "No," Neroon says, vehement. "No, Branmer. No."

"I can find a second executive officer," says Branmer. "None would be as good as you, as you have said. But, as you have also said, there is presently no conflict in which we are immisced. It is therefore not a priority."

"This - isn't - but... no -"

For once, eloquent silver-tongued Neroon is lost for words, especially after Branmer has used his own against him. Branmer will admit it, this is very satisfying. "The High Priestess, Presiding in Spirit for the Religious Caste has already authorised Satai Delenn for ambassador," he says.

Neroon latches onto this like a lifepod. "Good! Good, yes - she can go. That is perfect. Not I. I am too busy."

"So is Delenn," says Branmer dryly. "She is, after all, Satai."

"You know, you are correct, perhaps I shall take up courting," says Neroon, lying through his teeth, "finding a lifemate will take up much of my time."

"The last time you courted I had to rescue you from it," says Branmer.

"I did not need rescuing," claims Neroon.

"You would have landed yourself loveless for a lie."

"The sake of someone else's honour."

"Which is not even the first time you have done such a thing," reminds Branmer, a warning.

"No - don't - don't bring that up. That is not fair, I was fourteen cycles -"

"In any case," Branmer says, interrupting Neroon's burgeoning diatribe, "they may not even listen to me. But this conversation has decided it in my heart." He approaches and gently puts his hands on Neroon's shoulders; from the way Neroon twitches, he aches to shrug Branmer off, but Neroon is better disciplined than that and allows himself to be talked down to, as befits someone his rank by someone above his rank. Branmer carefully looks into his eyes, imploring his understanding. "How are we to meet with other races if we cannot even meet with each other? We would have only one voice on Babylon 5 - we must have three people deciding it. One of each caste."

"This is why you asked me to plot the course I did, through the trajectory of the Grey Council ship, isn't it," mutters Neroon. "You want to bring this up with them. You wanted that all along."

"No, that was because they will seek the voices from the Shai Alyt, the High Priestess Presiding in Spirit, and the A'va Riaal, for when they make their decision. This was just an idea," says Branmer.

"Then it is just an idea that you can drop."

"It was not until you said it yourself that it struck. You like politics. You like law. You're good at them."

Neroon is shaking his head. "Shai Alyt, respectfully, you are mistaken. I did not mean -"

"I agree with you," says Branmer. "You are good at them. You have an insight into machinations that feels so automatic and natural that if I didn't know you ... but I do. You're as good as - no, probably better than - Satai Delenn. Her true strengths lie elsewhere."

This frank praise shuts Neroon up, because though he dislikes Delenn, he can't help a grudging but intense respect for her. Branmer lets him go and Neroon, clearly uncomfortable, folds his arms over his chest. "I am not exactly diplomatic," he says at last.

"But she is," says Branmer. "Imagine - the two of you, working together. You would complement each other." Branmer has always thought this.

"We would destroy each other," says Neroon flatly. "And the fifth Earth station. Not necessarily in this order."

"This is what Dukhat would have wanted," Branmer says. "Search your heart on that. You know I'm right."

Neroon's mouth twists. That means Branmer is winning. "And the Worker Caste?"

Branmer suspects he already knows what the A'va Riaal will say. "If the High Priestess Presiding in Spirit will send an ambassador for the Religious Caste, and the Shai Alyt will send one for the Warrior Caste, the A'va Riaal will find someone for the Worker Caste," he says. "Do I have your permission? Even tentatively? Otherwise they will vote and the person who is sent will be sent by mandate of the Grey Council as a whole, and that person will almost certainly be Religious."

"It is the function of the Religious Caste to play diplomat," Neroon argues.

"Then the Warrior Caste will lose all representation on the Earth station."

"We do not need representation there," says Neroon, but his voice now contains an uncertain tremulous quality. "We go where we are needed."

"As will the Worker Caste," adds Branmer.

"They freely tolerate the representation of the Religious Caste."

"Do they?" Someone should ask them. "On Minbar, three is sacred."

"I don't believe like you do," says Neroon. "I have not your faith."

"I don't need your faith," retorts Branmer. "What I need is your service."

"My posting is upon the Ingata!"

"To be revoked at my command if I need." Something like ire flashes in Neroon's eyes. Come on, thinks Branmer, meet me in the middle. "Listen to me," he says, "I am not commanding you." But he could, and Neroon is beginning to try his substantial patience.

"Then I can refuse -"

"I am asking you, Alyt Neroon," Branmer interrupts. He draws himself up to his height - perhaps a hand's breadth taller than Neroon's - and squares his shoulders under the thick reinforced spaulders. He has gotten used to a warrior's uniform, and he has gotten good at using it. "For the good of our caste. For the good of our clan." This makes Neroon shrink a little more. The thought of bringing honour - or dishonour - to his caste and clan always does. "Star Riders have always made excellent leaders. And - this is not incongruent with your own ambitions."

"Living among aliens isn't incongruent?" Neroon says. "Shai Alyt..."

"Your experiences on the Earth station Babylon 5 will give you a stronger voice in the Council of Caste Elders," says Branmer. "You wanted to effect a change? You would be at the very centre of one! Is that not why you applied to the Council of Caste Elders in the first place?"

"Caste Elder and Ambassador are two very different things," complains Neroon.

"What change could you achieve, captaining a ship? Drifting from place to place? The last lead on the Trigati was valstas ago, and it was a dead end. You have been in charge of monitoring that, so you well know. You're meant for more than a captaincy. I know it. You know it. And after the war, the frictions between the Warrior Caste and the Religious... this will change our people. This will heal them." Branmer sighs. He's said his bit. The rest is up to Neroon. "Well? Do you accept?"

Neroon is quiet for a long moment. At last he replies, grumbling darkly, "The next time anyone says anything about my unpleasantly overt ambitions, I am going to send them to find you. Yours are so much worse. Fine. You have my permission. But if the Grey Council says no, you must not push -"

"Of course not," says Branmer. They won't say no.

         They wind up being delighted, says Draal.

         Interesting, says Ivanova. But would it really have changed so much?

         Watch and see! Draal sounds a good deal more excited than she is. Some things, yes. Others remain much the same. What is important is that the flow of information is drastically altered.

--

2257

"Commander," says Takashima by way of greeting, as Sinclair enters Command and Control. "The Warrior Caste ambassador is scheduled to arrive here at oh-nine-hundred hours. That's in fifteen minutes."

         Oh! says Ivanova, delighted. Man, I've missed Jeff. What's he been up to, lately?

         That's a story for another time, says Draal. And that time draws near. In the meantime, keep watching this.

Sinclair smiles and joins her by the window on the dais, looking out of Observation Dome 1. "Thank you, Lieutenant-Commander." Then he frowns, puzzled. "I still don't get why he didn't come with the other two. Would've saved on fuel."

"There's much I still don't get about the Minbari," Takashima says. "I don't see why they have to have three of them. They're only going to get one vote when it matters."

Sinclair acknowledges this with a nod of his head. "I'd rather they bicker with each other than pick fights with us again. We almost didn't survive the last one. Fine. I'll be there to meet him. Notify the Religious and Worker Caste ambassadors of his arrival."

"I'm sure they already know," says Takashima.

"Our due diligence, so they can't claim we didn't tell them," says Sinclair. "Then I'd like you to have someone set up meetings with the other ambassadors and the three of them. Now that they're finally all together they should start meeting with the others."

"Well, alright," Takashima replies, "but the Religious Caste ambassador has been meeting with the Centauri ambassador, the Narn ambassador, and many in the League of Non-Aligned Worlds for months now."

"And we'll be keeping that to ourselves unless she decides to tell our new Warrior Caste friend." Sinclair smiles, friendly.

"Hah, I get it." The light on the terminal board below her, the one that had been solid, now starts to blink, which reminds her. "There's also a gold channel transmission waiting for you. Priority ultraviolet."

"What's the source?"

"By our calculations, just outside Vorlon space."

Sinclair's face grows immediately serious. "You don't think they ...?"

Takashima shrugs. Who can tell what the Vorlons are thinking? Communication with them is entirely new. But it's farther than the Minbari usually get, if the rumours can be believed. They tend to wait for visits. Maybe ask and ye shall receive was the right framework. "We could hold off on the meetings of all the ambassadors," she says. "Way it's going, you might get another."

--

The Warrior Caste ambassador's ship is punctual, and from the tracking vector, he's piloting his little shuttle pretty expertly. No complaints there, thinks Sinclair. They did say he was a captain of some sort. The weapon ports on the shuttle are kept open all the way until he establishes radio contact with Takashima for docking, however, and that's a nasty thought until Takashima reminds him that they do that as a sign of respect and friendship.

Respect and friendship, thinks Sinclair, like a mantra, as he waits in the passenger lounge on the reception side of customs. Respect and friendship.

But then the ambassador comes aboard and Sinclair's hopes wilt.

From the moment he lowers his hood, the ambassador is sneering, looking around apprehensively or judgementally at the station. He doesn't seem to want to be here. Little wonder, then, why he is. Surely Minbar could do just as well with one ambassador? There's really no need for three of them. And Sinclair knows Delenn so well. She's kind, and she's moved from a contact to an acquaintance to a friend over the past decade since the end of the Earth-Minbari war. As far as Minbari go - so Sinclair takes it - she's downright chummy, though she maintains the usual cryptic ambiguity that he's come to expect from the Minbari.

As for the Worker Caste ambassador, he mostly keeps to himself, which suits Sinclair fine. When they have to interact, Racine is polite enough, though distant, and equally cryptic.

Neroon, on the other hand, is neither friendly nor polite. At least he isn't cryptic about it. Small mercies.

"You must be Alyt Neroon," says Sinclair. He bows the way Delenn has taught him. Neroon doesn't bow back. He barely inclines his head forward and continues to keep his nose held high enough that he can look down it at Sinclair, despite being shorter than Sinclair. So much for respect and friendship.

         He's so rude, says Ivanova.

         This is, as far as I can tell, a universal constant, adds Draal.

         He's this rude in every universe? That's got to be exhausting.

"Am I... pronouncing that correctly?" Sinclair asks, hoping for a reaction, anything that is more than the cold, hard look in Neroon's dark eyes and the equally frozen set of his jaw.

"No," says Neroon, without offering an alternative pronunciation. He has a deeper voice than Sinclair would've thought for a man only that tall. Stocky. Doesn't look like all that much, but the armour conceals a lot of what heft there might be. It's hard to tell, and Neroon isn't exactly forthcoming with details.

"Why don't I show you to your quarters," says Sinclair, eager to get this over with.

As he leads them to Green sector, where all the other ambassadors are, he explains the basics of the regulations to Neroon, who remains silent unless Sinclair asks him an explicit question. Then he answers with as few words as possible and they are all dripping with sarcasm.

"No guns," says Sinclair, "in fact no weapons at all. Is that clear?"

"I myself am a weapon," drawls Neroon. "Perhaps I should leave."

"And no drugs, I won't have that dust nonsense on my ship. Is that clear too?"

"Dust is an Earth chemical?" asks Neroon. "Then it is an Earth problem."

At last they get to Green sector and they stop outside of Green 9, compartment 23. "Well, this is you," says Sinclair, and keys open the door. He smiles pleasantly and extends his hand forward in an 'after you' gesture. Neroon looks at his hand like it is made of so many insects and cautiously steps through, avoiding contact.

Immediately Neroon notices the change. He bounces very lightly on the balls of his feet. "The gravity has shifted. This is Minbar's," he says.

"We thought you'd appreciate the homey feel," suggests Sinclair.

"I do not," says Neroon coldly. "Are these quarters outfitted with permanent gravity settings?"

"They're - all integrated with the rotational motion, of course," says Sinclair, "but it's Minbar's gravitational instruments that have been designed to simulate her precise pull." He's careful to mention that it's definitely Minbari technology. Maybe that will appease Neroon.

It does not. "I am inquiring whether can they be adjusted manually," Neroon snaps.

Ah. So that's the problem? "Not by the occupant. I'll - I'll have my head of security handle it," Sinclair offers.

Neroon's glare is withering. "Do so," he says.

Yes sir, thinks Sinclair, just trying to be polite. "It was Ambassador Delenn's idea."

At this, Neroon curls his upper lip. So this is what disgust really looks like on Neroon's face. It's pretty poorly masked, if he's even trying to conceal it. "Are her quarters near?"

"Oh, yes!" says Sinclair. "Hers are right next door. Number 22."

"Find me other quarters," Neroon commands.

"There... are no other units in Green sector available with this breathable atmosphere. The next best would be just inside Red sector."

"That will do."

"Red sector is where the pak'ma'ra are staying."

Neroon thinks it over. Judging from his face he is weighing how much he really dislikes Delenn against how much he likes the pak'ma'ra. "And the Worker Caste ambassador?"

"Ambassador Racine is number 21," says Sinclair.

"On Delenn's other side. The universe revolves around our Religious Caste, I see," says Neroon, scowling. "Red sector it is. Show me the way." He turns on his heel and walks out the door, past Sinclair. Guess the pak'ma'ra won. That's a first.

We have not one but three high-ranking Minbari officials on this station, thinks Sinclair, this is what we have been working toward since day one. Let's not mess it up now by shooting this one in the face, no matter how much you'd like to.

         I'd really like to shoot him in the face, says Ivanova. Can I do that from here? Just a little?

         Draal smiles and says nothing. Anyway, I'll move forward a bit. Little happens until the Vorlon Ambassador arrives.

         Ms Alexander was there too, wasn't she? Ivanova took some time to read about Lyta Alexander, in the wake of ... what happened with Talia. She hasn't forgotten Alexander. She hasn't forgiven her, either. What's her role in all of this? she asks.

         An interesting one, says Draal. When the Vorlon Ambassador is poisoned, she sees into his mind. That, you know. Allow me to expound upon the rest.

Chapter Text

Passenger Lounge of Babylon 5. Not a bad place. Kind of ugly, decor-wise. Well, may that be the worst thing that happens. All Del Varner has to do is make it through this last leg, then he should be fine. It's been a long journey, and quite frankly he was done with it three stops ago. This nonsense idea of the Narn had better work.

There's one woman waiting just on the other side of the gates with the head security officer, Garry Balding-something. Varner can't see her front from here, but he's willing to bet the lapel's got a real special pin on it. Psi Corps. Why else would he have her quarantined like that? The commander of the ship approaches - that's Sinclair, Varner knows that much, hero of the Line, he's heard through his channels - and he strains to listen from his position in the queue to pass through the security gate terminals.

"Welcome to Babylon 5," says Sinclair. "It's about time Earth Central sent us a telepath. Can I see your -"

The lady hands it over without a word.

"Your identicard," Sinclair says, uselessly. He puts it through the scanner. Telepath, alright. They didn't have one stationed last time Varner checked. This is new. If he had made his connection in the Tigris Sector, he wouldn't have to deal with this. Quickly, Varner categorises her from what he can see, now that he's advanced a bit in line to the security gate. She looks young. She looks naive. Pretty, thin. Pointed nose, delicate ears. Short red hair, and bright brown eyes.

Varner is careful to keep all his thoughts on how pretty she is - let his mind wander in lust - to try and subvert her picking up any wayward thoughts about why he's really here. Better she thinks him a creep than figure out what he really is.

"Everything seems to be in order," says Sinclair. "Thanks." The two of them start to walk off, and Garry the security beef returns to his post behind the glass.

There, thinks Varner. Maybe that's the end of telepath troubles for me. He sidles up behind a guy with the distinct look of a user. User might mean dealer. He'll walk right in behind this guy and if anything pings, they'll front him for it, not Varner.

Through surreptitious glances, he watches Garry in the security station. An officer with a greasy ponytail points something out to him on their systems. Both Garry and the officer notice the person in question - the person walking in front of Varner. Or are they pointing to Varner?

Keep calm, he thinks. Not thinking about that nice little contraband I have in my pocket. Thinking about that nice pretty telepath. Don't want her to hear what I'm thinking. He imagines her naked. Probably has great tits. Got a nice little contraband for her in my pocket, too.

The second they are on the other side of customs - Varner's pleased to hear nothing beeps, at least not outside - Garry approaches them both. "'Scuse me," he says, "can I speak to you for a quick moment?"

It's not clear who he's talking to. Varner looks at the guy who was in front of him. Sure is looking kinda nervous.

Pretty telepath, red hair. Varner likes 'em darker but he'd happily make an exception. Wonder if the carpet matches the drapes. He's cool as a cucumber.

There's nothing outwardly dangerous about Garry's tone, but the guy in front of Varner goes nuts. He whips out a weapon as he wraps his arms around the nearest person - a woman, civilian. Thank god, thinks Varner. He presses himself around a corner, away from the man, nearly out of sight. Varner's just another terrified bystander. "Stay back," the man warns, his voice panicky and taut, "you stay back or I'll kill her - don't make me - !"

"I'm coming out," says a louder voice, "I'm unarmed."

Varner narrows his eyes. Sinclair is back.

"P-put the gun down!" yells the guy.

A look from Sinclair, and everybody does what he says. Useful little trick, thinks Varner. He fingers the device in his pocket.

"This isn't going to work," says Sinclair. "There's only one way out of here on Babylon 5, and it's back where you came. If you get past me, where'll you go then?"

If you get past me, where'll you go then. Makes Varner wonder. You know, that's an awful good question.

If Varner wants any kind of exit strategy - and he's beginning to think that at this rate he better cook up a plan for one - it'll have to include Sinclair. He removes the device, points it at Sinclair, and sets it to capture visual data. Just in case the Narn isn't good for his word, and he can't meet with his buyer. Just in case.

"You made a mistake, but no one's been hurt yet," adds Sinclair. "Let her go, and I'll guarantee you safe passage off this station."

Yeah, you sure will, thinks Varner. Looks like Sinclair's face and uniform can guarantee just about anything. Varner likes the sound of that.

"Why should I trust you?" mutters the man.

"Because I gave you my word," Sinclair replies. "And because right now, five marksmen are taking up position outside. Take her out and they'll burn you right down to the ground. It's your choice."

Clearly no choice. The man shoves the woman aside. As she pitches forward, the security team swarm him and quickly disarm him. One reaches in and plucks out a baggie of dust.

Sinclair isn't happy. He says some threatening words to him, and the one thing he mentions that Varner pays careful attention to is that they've logged his ship's ID. If he ever comes within 50 klicks of Babylon 5 again, Sinclair says, they'll blow him out of the sky.

Ship ID logs, eh, thinks Varner. Maybe I have someone who knows something about that. He makes a beeline for his quarters in Blue sector and places a call.

"I'm on duty," whispers a voice.

         Can't place it, says Ivanova.

         You will, says Draal.

"And I'm on the station," says Varner. "Meet me this afternoon. I need what I came here for. You can pick where."

"Varner, I don't have time for this. Tomorrow, okay?" Something starts to beep in the background. "Dammit. I'll call you back."

"You'd better," he replies, "or I'll make all your little secrets go public." But the click of the disconnect sound is all the answer he gets.

For the moment he heads for the casino. Psi Corps rules and regs are too well-known - she's not allowed to gamble. She'll never step foot in the joint, and he'll be safe there from that little red-haired telepath. A bit paranoid? Sure. But that's served him well in tech running. He just wants out of this alive.

--

"Lieutenant-Commander Takashima!" cries G'Kar, the moment the door to C&C opens. Takashima flinches so hard her shoulder-length black hair ripples. Is this an abuse of his diplomatic access? Perhaps. Does he care? Absolutely not. "I understand that the supply ship sent by my government is not being allowed to dock!"

"That's correct," snaps Takashima. She looks upset about something already. Well, good. G'Kar isn't exactly pleased himself. "They won't submit to a weapons search."

"This is outrageous!" he exclaims.

"You know the regs, Ambassador G'Kar." Takashima folds her arms over her chest. "Scanning is the only way to make sure no weapons get on board."

"Except for those belonging to the Earth Alliance, of course," he sneers. "The Narn Regime is dedicated to peace!"

"So, in that case! Being the peace-loving Narn we've all come to know and love," Takashima says, "except for a few planets out on the fringe who say you've invaded them - they shouldn't mind being scanned, now, should they?"

G'Kar lets his face sour. "This will of course be reported to the highest authority."

"Fair enough," says Takashima. "But as far as I'm concerned, they can sit out there for the next solar year." At G'Kar's indignant expression, she adds, "If it makes you feel any better, I could send them a fruit basket."

It does not make him feel better. G'Kar storms out.

Fine. Plan B it shall be. That gives him some time, though not much. He finds his radio. "Tu'Far, come in," he says.

"Ambassador," says Tu'Far. "Were you able to get the Humans to stand down?"

"Negative. We'll use the breaching pod," says G'Kar. "Tell our friend to get in position. Fire it in an hour. And Tu'Far?"

"Yes, Ambassador?"

"Tell him that if he can eliminate our associate, too, that I'll arrange to double his fee." G'Kar glowers. "There's been enough trouble."

--

Neroon is last to arrive in the garden in Blue Sector where Delenn and Racine already wait. By now, he has already been briefed on what not to say and how not to say it. Satai Delenn. Satai Racine. No, simply Delenn and Racine. In case there are interlopers, or in case someone knows what the word 'Satai' means, or figures out the pattern of social deixis in Neroon's speech to Delenn and Racine. In case Minbari to whom a Satai has not revealed themselves are present. This is understood.

Yet it feels strange. In Racine's case, far stranger; Racine is old now, 120 cycles, and he is beginning to look some of them. His face is long, and weary. He holds his hands, gnarled from decades of careful high precision work, clasped in front. His shoulders are beginning to droop. He was always thin, but now he seems thinner. His nose has grown. His bonecrest begins to recede - or maybe it has always been like that. Neroon doesn't know; Neroon has only met Racine in person once, and he was hooded.

Delenn is slightly more familiar. To call her simply Delenn is like being back in school himself. Not that they attended school together - Neroon had not met Delenn until Branmer attempted to introduce them about five cycles ago - but because she is closer to his age.

Both are Satai. With Caste Elder himself. One of these things is not like the others, Neroon thinks. It would have been better if all of them were on the same level. Why Irlit or Coplann or whoever is the third Warrior Caste Satai did not volunteer where Delenn and Racine did, is unknown to Neroon, because unlike all of them, he is not Grey, and thus unworthy of the privilege of their machinations and secrets. Forever falling behind. He dislikes this out of principle.

         Starting to explain a lot about him, says Ivanova.

         He is more complex than that, says Draal. But it doesn't help.

"Warrior Neroon," says Delenn.

"Priestess Delenn," he replies. "Worker Racine."

Racine says nothing.

"You called this meeting?" says Neroon.

"I would share our knowledge of the Vorlons," Delenn announces, "with the Humans. That they may better understand the ambassador, when he arrives. The more they understand, the more his stay may be prolonged."

"That is unwise," says Racine. His voice is rougher and gravelly. "That information is all classified."

"The Religious Caste squirrels knowledge away," says Neroon, sneering. "And then they decide where it goes, on a priestess' whim?" He loves calling Delenn priestess. If he could call her acolyte, he would. Undercutting with his words is the best power he has.

         I'm going to punch him, says Ivanova.

"I am asking, before doing," is all that Delenn says, which means Neroon has gotten away yet again with his blatant disrespect. He smirks. "Your opinions?"

"No," says Racine, firm. "They must make their own way. If they cut short the stay of the Vorlons through their own inhospitality, ignorance, or accident, it will be their doing. We must not interfere."

"Very well," says Delenn. "If you two feel such then I will inq-"

"You sought two opinions," interrupts Neroon, "you received one."

Delenn turns to him slowly. "You have answered," she says.

"Have I," says Neroon.

Delenn's eyes narrow. Neroon can tell she wants badly to call him out on this - he does this all the time, waits for her to assume what he will say and allows her to jump to conclusions so that he can catch her off-guard.

"Give them the knowledge," says Neroon. "But only to the Commander."

"The Warrior Caste wants to play Religious, by keeping information, deciding where it goes," says Racine, mocking. Racine is clever. He's never without his own insight. "But you cannot. You cannot guarantee he will not forward the information to his government. Knowledge is a tool."

"Knowledge is a weapon," says Neroon. "One that they are not very good at wielding. Let them bomb themselves." Saying it should go only to the Commander is the easiest way to guarantee it will spread. If harm should come from that, it was Delenn's folly.

"Knowledge is a privilege," says Delenn, benevolent. "I think they have deserved it."

"Well," says Neroon dryly. "That is a matter of opinion. In any case, I mark it: two votes yes. One vote no."

"I agree," says Racine. "Give them the knowledge."

"Three votes yes," says Neroon, watching Racine warily.

         This won't be the last time he changes his views at the last moment to achieve unanimity among their voting, says Draal. In some universes I have seen, he is not so hostile to discordance, but this is not one of them.

         Well, I'm not paying a lot of attention to him, says Ivanova. She glares at Neroon with open distrust.

         You should, says Draal. That has ever been a shortcoming of the Religious and Warrior Castes.

"Your arguments were sound," says Racine, as explanation. He gets up and brushes his robes smooth. "When this fails, do not forget that so were mine."

--

Not long after Delenn sends the Commander a missive, he comes to her in the Garden in Green level. He has always been prompt. She has always appreciated his respect for her time.

"Ambassador Delenn," says Sinclair, warmly. "I've seen you here before. Almost every other day." Delenn does not look up. "If you don't mind my asking, what-"

"Notice the waves?" she interrupts. "Each moving in its own order? Predictable. Unchanging." She sighs. "But drop in a single stone and see how the pattern changes. Everything around it is altered."

You have altered everything, she thinks.

"This is ... from your world?" she asks. It must be. It isn't Minbari.

"It's a Japanese stone garden," Sinclair explains. "Since we need so much land for hydroponic crops and oxygen reclamation, setting this aside was tough." He grins. "One of the designers called it a pool for 'zen skinny dipping'. All you can do is think about doing it."

Skinny - dip...? An Earth colloquialism. No matter. "I'm glad it is here," Delenn replies. "On my world, there are books, thousands of pages long, about the power of one mind to change the universe. But none say it as clearly as this." Dukhat told her once: read yourself, not books. There is no truth outside, only memories. These do not bring wisdom. She begins to understand that better, watching the sand, reading herself, and remembering books. I hope you too, Sinclair, will understand someday, she thinks.

Enough prattle. "In two days, Ambassador Kosh arrives." She looks up at Sinclair, gauging his reaction. "I look forward to meeting a Vorlon," she says. And this is not untrue. "I've heard much about them that is strange." And that is not untrue, either. But the way she says it is carefully designed to provoke his thoughts to ripple in one direction. A careful impact pattern in the sand may mean the stone was dropped with some velocity, at some angle. It may mean something else. Where stood the one who threw? Impossible to tell.

"Such as?"

"Do you not have files on the Vorlons?"

"Absolutely," Sinclair says. "Very large files." He sighs, dismayed. "There's nothing in them, of course. How much do you have?"

She cannot help a smile. "More than you, it would seem. Naturally, it's all classified."

Sinclair nods. "Naturally," he says.

Delenn extracts from the pocket inside her fine nawalt robe the little flimsy file. "Here is a copy of everything I have," she says, extending it to Sinclair. "It may be of use." It is not everything she has. This is the first direct lie she has told Sinclair today. It is, of course, not the first direct lie she has ever told him. Much of their connection is fraught with lies. That is so by necessity. Perhaps, someday, Sinclair will understand. On that day of his understanding, he shall know the truth, and not one day before.

"If anyone asks, say ... it fell from the sky." And there landed, changing forever the pattern of the sand. Racine was not wrong to voice his concerns. "I imagine I will be quite astonished by this breach of security," Delenn adds.

Sinclair furrows his brow. "Why? I mean, the war between us has been over for almost ten years, but there are still a lot of people on either side who'd hang both of us for this kind of -"

"Commander," says Delenn sternly. "You know everything about your stone garden, but clearly you have not spent nearly enough time looking at it." She gets up and brushes smooth her nawalt robe. "Good day," she says.

--

The systems are going mad with beeping. "What is it?" snaps Takashima. There had been silence not ten seconds earlier!

"We're getting an energy surge at the jump point," says Guerra, staffing visuals.

"That's impossible! There aren't any more ships due until -" Takashima cuts herself off. "Put it on screen," she demands.

Vortex active, says the computer, confirm incoming ship. A split second later it forms, and a single ship passes through the jumpgate. The shape and physical configuration, she's never seen before. But the signature matches, and that's all Takashima needs to know.

She curses. "That's a Vorlon ship, alright. Ambassador Kosh. Two days early. I was afraid he was gonna pull something like this." A cold chill washes through her. "Security's not ready, we're not in place! And all because he wants to play mysterious and catch us off-guard. Get me the Commander - fast!" she snaps to Guerra. "Let's just hope nothing else goes wrong."

The Commander replies in a flash. "Sinclair - go."

"Takashima. Vorlon is two days early, he's coming in now!"

"I'm on my way," the Commander says. "Still in Green level. Can you stall him?"

"Working on it. How much -"

"I can buy you maybe three hours," says Guerra. "Between the Narn ship that wants parking - that takes precedence - and the fact that we've never seen a ship like his before, so we'll need extra clearance on tracking vectors so he doesn't hit a beam on his way in. Has the Narn ship been scanned yet?"

"Not 'til G'Kar gives the okay," says Takashima.

"Then that's another three hours for a full scan," says Guerra. "Least amount of time, six hours."

"Six hours," says the Commander, overhearing. "Okay, we can work with six hours. Carolyn's just docked, so let me just get to my chambers and change. I'll be there in half an hour. Go find Garibaldi. Sinclair out."

Takashima nods, but to nobody, since Sinclair can't see her. Nerves. She's getting anxious. "I've got- uh, I have to meet with someone," she says to Guerra.

"Garibaldi's already on the line," he offers.

Not him, thinks Takashima. "I've got an errand to run. I'll have to find him myself in person. Where is he?"

Guerra does a quick check. "Brown-45," he says.

"Great. I'll be back in two hours."

Takashima books it out of C&C and logs onto the first public computer terminal she spots. From there, she accesses messages and sends one out. "Brown level forty-six by the transport tube in ten minutes or you get nothing," she snaps, and logs off immediately. She has to hustle, she can't wait for a reply.

         I don't understand, says Ivanova.

         You will, says Draal.

She's on her way to the nearest transport tube to Brown-46 when out of nowhere comes a sharp sudden cry. "Lieutenant-Commander Takashima!"

Christ, G'Kar, warn a girl, she thinks. In the next breath, she tries to relax. After all, she's done nothing wrong. Not yet. "About our supply ship," G'Kar continues, approaching. "I have reconsidered. With the new ambassador arriving, this is hardly the time for petty squabbles. I have told our captain to submit to your weapons search."

She blinks. "That's - great," she says.

What's the catch, she wonders.

"Since you doubtless have your hands full, our captain will wait until after the ambassador has docked. Is that satisfactory?"

Even better. Once she's dealt with her meeting, C&C can worry about the Narn later. "Yes! Yes, it is," Takashima replies. She gives him a once-over. He looks normal. "Are you - feeling alright, Ambassador?"

But G'Kar gives a broad smile. "Couldn't be better. See you at the reception, then! Good eating to you, Lieutenant-Commander," he says, and gives a bow so performative it seems mocking, and then practically skips off.

"So glad you got what you wanted," she mutters to herself.

That can't have been all he wanted.

--

Takashima is already waiting for him when he gets there. "Well, got your message," says Varner. "Where's the fire?"

"The Vorlon ship is early, that's where. Take this," she says flatly. She shoves a data crystal and an identicard into his outstretched hand. "That's everything you need."

         I can't believe it, sighs Ivanova.

         Sadly, yes, says Draal.

         Garibaldi always said he'd doubted - but I thought, it had never really been conclusively proven.

         Even in our universe, there are files of evidence against her, that someone has compiled. But someone is not sharing them around and as a result, neither Sinclair nor Sheridan have seen them. Otherwise, probably, you too would have seen them. You Humans share more than we do.

         That's saying something, says Ivanova, thinking of all the layers of secrets that the military produces.

Varner looks at the identicard. "It's yours?" he asks.

"Mine. I couldn't get anyone else's in time. Early, by two days! Can you believe it?" Takashima looks enraged just thinking about it. "But I'll be elsewhere, with witnesses, for the next three. So, if you do anything stupid, it's clearly not going to be me."

Varner smirks. "Not the first time you've used the excuse that someone's palmed your identicard, is it, Laurel?"

Takashima glares. "But this is the last time I'm doing anything like this for you," she says. "Wednesday there's a major security overhaul scheduled. You won't be able to hack the elevators or doors after that, so whatever you're going to do, it had better take place today. You understand?" She sighs. She's clearly nervous. She takes a big breath in, holds it, then exhales. Varner waits while she finishes her little spell of melodramatics. "Look, I'm done," she says, more calmly. "I want out. I wanted out years ago, after Mars. But I'm putting my foot down now. I can't be a part of this."

"Ain't no such thing," says Varner. "We'll call on you eventually. You're too highly positioned for us not to make use of you, and we've already got an extensive record of your involvement." That's just how it works!

"I'm not powerless here," Takashima retorts. "If word gets out that you're helping the Narn with secret technology ... it won't be good for you."

We'll see about that, thinks Varner. He lifts a shoulder. "They helped us during the war. Quid pro quo."

"Let alone how your Minbari connection is involved." Takashima shudders. "To think they always talk about honour. And then they pull shit like this. I still don't understand that. I don't think I want to understand. If he comes to me, I'll turn him away - you make that clear to him. He'll take the fall for this, or you, I don't care which, but it won't be me."

"You know, they're not all alike," says Varner. "Some of them think differently. Some of them support these technologies. Those, I'll deal with. The others, well. They can deal with each other."

"All of them hate us," says Takashima.

"We did fire first. But I'm digressing!" Varner smiles wide and toothy, and a lot more easily now that he has what he came for. "My job isn't apologetics. That's yours." She's always made him feel like he's an insect under her pretty prim shoe. Now he's serving it back up to her, and enjoying every minute.

"Have a nice life, Del," spits Takashima. "Don't let me see your face here ever again." She spins on her heel so fast her straight black hair flips over her shoulder in a single silky curtain and in a moment is gone in the transport tube up one floor.

"Well," says Varner to himself, "maybe not me. But I can't promise anything about my face."

He catches the next transport tube to take it to Red sector where he'll meet his next appointment. He is the last to arrive to this meeting as well. "You're late," says G'Kar.

         Him, too? says Ivanova.

         This was a particularly complicated plot, adds Draal. Neroon and Racine make it more complicated.

"I got caught behind," says Varner.

"You've said that a few times now," G'Kar decides. He narrows his eyes. "You're late very often, in fact. I don't like that. The Narn Regime doesn't like that."

"You never had a problem with punctuality before," Varner sneers.

"When it results in us having to shuffle people around like this, we most certainly do," G'Kar argues.

"Not my fault the Vorlon arrived two days early," says Varner.

"But it is your fault you missed your earlier connection." G'Kar purses his lips. "Well?" he says, expectant.

"Well yourself! Is he here, or isn't he?"

"He checked in with our agents on-station an hour ago. The breaching pod was successful, he's in."

"Good," says Varner greasily. "Then I've got a meeting with a buyer. Meet with him, give him these." Varner hands G'Kar the data crystal and the identicard.

G'Kar picks up the identicard. "Isn't that interesting," he says.

"You know the chick?" says Varner. "Tell her she oughta tighten her pockets. That was child's play, plucking that out of them." G'Kar says nothing and pockets Takashima's identicard. Varner has the sneaking suspicion his lie isn't being believed. Well, that's Laurel's problem, now. "When you're done with him, send him around to me for the sale, I'm in Blue 92."

"Like Columbus, and the ocean," says G'Kar smoothly. "Poetic."

"Sure," says Varner. "Anyway, tell him to hurry. I want my money and I want to get the hell off of Earth Alliance ships."

"Yes, yes," says G'Kar, dismissive. "You'll have your money, and your ship will depart in an hour from Docking Bay 23." He shakes a gloved finger in Varner's face. "If you miss it again, I warn you, there won't be a backup."

"I won't miss it," says Varner.

"See to it you don't," says G'Kar. "I wash my hands of any further responsibility for you."

Varner gets to his quarters in record time considering all the security he has to hide behind. More than once he considers using the changeling net in his pocket. It's not like the buyer's gonna know, right? And some of the people Varner's already scanned are able to go places real fast, like Laurel herself. Or that Commander Sinclair.

Well, that's decided it, thinks Varner. If that boneheaded creep doesn't show up in the next five minutes - he's already late, it's been almost a half hour - Varner's going to board that Narn ship and take the changeling net with him. Money or no money.

Besides, if he's an assassin worth his salt, the timing doesn't matter too much. He'll get that Vorlon in the end. And if he's not up to snuff, it's not Varner's problem, it's the Narn Regime's. Picking a fight between Earth Alliance and the Vorlons was entirely Narn's idea.

         My God, says Ivanova. This goes so much deeper than I thought.

         Machinations within machinations, says Draal. And yet I find them so utterly fascinating. It's like watching nilbok'cha. Expertly choreographed movements to drums and drones. When the Warrior Caste do it, it is like cogs in wheels, it fits so consonantly, and all those swords whirling around, but in just such a manner that none strike. Do you have that, on your planet?

         There's ballet, offers Ivanova.

         No, I have seen your ballet, says Draal. I think it has more blood.

But finally his door opens and in walks the Minbari. He has strange markings on his face - Varner's never seen one that looks like him before. Doesn't matter, they're all the same boneheads, and in a minute he'll be disguised. "About time," says Varner.

"Sorry," says his contact, "I was delayed."

And then there's a quick sound of a discharge --

         Oooh, says Ivanova, wincing. Well, at least it didn't hurt.

         From what I understand, it is extremely painful, says Draal. But mercifully fast.

--

G'Kar comes across Miss Lyta Alexander in a hall off the main strip of the Zocalo. She speaks to two individuals - one looks happy, one does not. The one who is happy smiles and leaves, clearly concluding their business. The one who is not approaches her. "Y'know, someday," he says, "I'm gonna find the guy that thought up the idea of running telepaths to businessmen. And I'm gonna kill him."

He leaves in a huff. "Funny how I just knew you were gonna say that," says Miss Alexander, mostly to herself. She gathers her folder and prepares to leave.

G'Kar draws closer. "Lyta Alexander?" he asks.

"Yes?"

"Ambassador G'Kar of the Narn Regime," he says, and bows. "May I speak to you for a moment?"

"Of course." He very gentlemanly seats her and pushes her chair in, then sits opposite.

"When I learned of your arrival," he begins, "I ran a genetic scan of your records - most impressive! A sixth-generation telepath!"

She can't help smiling. "Actually, it goes back further than that, but that's when Earth Central started keeping track of people with Psi-capability."

"Hm. We have no telepaths among my people. A genetic oversight, I suppose. One - which you could help correct." G'Kar leans in. "I am empowered to compensate you quite handsomely for your genetic background," he says. Now she leans in. Ah, money. A language that transcends others. "The process would be either direct mating - you, and I - or the donation of vital cells from which we could clone a replicant."

Miss Alexander is speechless and agape. G'Kar cannot figure why, certainly she knows that Narn has the technological capability for viable clones? "Yes," he adds, "obviously the cloning is less efficient, since we would have to grow the clone. So payment would have to be proportionately smaller, and we would still have to fuse your genes with our own and that would take even longer ... the direct mating is far more cost-effective."

Miss Alexander continues being speechless.

"Now - would you prefer to be conscious or unconscious during the mating?"

Miss Alexander's expression turns cold.

"I would prefer conscious," he quickly amends, "but I don't know what your... pleasure threshold is."

"You've already exceeded my patience threshold," Miss Alexander snaps. She pushes her chair out and stands to leave.

"I didn't mean to cause offence!" G'Kar says quickly.

"You propositioned me!" she says, clutching her folder to her chest.

"And you are fully permitted to decline! We are both adults."

"Yes, adults! Not - science experiments!"

G'Kar stands. "Is it really so strange?" he asks, circling the table to her. He pretends not to notice her discomfort as he approaches. "Your people do the same."

"We absolutely do not," says Miss Alexander crossly.

"I admit some unfamiliarity with the precise laws of your government telepath body. They don't make them public to non-Humans, you understand. But I do know Earth is no stranger to the genetic manipulation of telepathic people."

This has her thinking. She narrows her eyes and says, "Explain how, exactly?"

G'Kar gestures as he speaks. "Why, you yourself. Your lines are published and known. You yourself wouldn't be here without at least six generations of ... intervention. Who can sleep with whom. Who will sleep with whom. Who will procreate with whom. I assume there was some oversight in the beginning. But oversight leads to control." He folds his arms over his chest. "Am I incorrect?" he asks, much more quietly, in case she does not want to admit it aloud. It is the right of their government, after all.

Miss Alexander softens. "When you put it that way," she says.

"We simply wish to be forthright," continues G'Kar. "We make no attempt to hide our intent. There is no point in denying we want to have telepaths, too. And that we will do what is necessary. I duly apologise if discussing mating is considered forwardness by Human cultural standards?"

She seems to accept this. "It - it isn't, not exactly, not to me," she says. "But to call it genetic manipulation..."

"Isn't that what it is? If you think it callous, remember that such callousness is born of a certain desperation," he replies. "Every other race has this technological capability except for Narn."

Miss Alexander looks at her folder, then back up at G'Kar. "An arms race, in the mind, is that it? I don't know why I thought aliens would be any different," she says, with some bitterness. "Naive, maybe."

"The less we are different, the more we are the same," says G'Kar congenially.

The narrowness in her eyes gives way to a caution. Perhaps he's said something that strikes a chord. Perhaps he's given her food for thought. "I'll - I'll think about it," she says.

"That is all I ask," says G'Kar. He bows deeply, and leaves.

--

It is a small matter for the Minbari assassin to fish out the changeling net from the dead Human's pocket on his trousers. A miniature device, a little metal tube about the size of his littlest finger with two buttons on the casing. All of this uselessness, with this Human, for this trifle of a gadget? The Narn Regime had better pay well. They are paying the assassin less than what they would have paid the tech runner Del Varner.

In fact, that's probably where the money is coming from. Double to include the associate's death, wasn't that what the ambassador had said? Well, the associate is now quite dead and will not be accepting any payment.

Speaking of which, the assassin should probably move that. He reaches down, picks up the body and lifts it over his shoulder. Varner's ugly checked coat snags on his bonecrest. Then he walks over to the fishtank, opens the top, and deposits it face-first inside. Varner makes no motion, his eyes are wide open and unseeing, though a pocket of air escapes his mouth. The assassin waits, but Varner does not move.

He connects the changeling net to the computer, which Varner left logged in, likely to be able to show the assassin how the changeling net worked. The assassin already knows. A press of the button lets him cycle through the gathered material. There isn't much. A few interesting people. Some are clever enough selections to use - one of them is a non-descript plain fellow with mouse-brown hair. Nobody will notice that form in this zoo of Humans. A Narn that he doesn't recognise - that will buy him transport off the station back to Narn, where he can regroup and receive his payment before travelling out to the Orion Sector, where he will meet with and debrief Alyt-nali Shakiri.

The assassin would have opted for the security lead Garibaldi over Sinclair, however. Easier to cast suspicion. He recognises both from Ambassador G'Kar's extensive personnel files. But if the Narn want to make waves - and they'll pay better if that's the result - then the Commander of the station is the best option for framing. He may need Garibaldi regardless, as a tool.

But the Commander will be best for his own Minbari handlers, too. After all, Commander - then pilot - Sinclair was why the Grey Council ordered cessation of all hostilities. Perhaps without him, they will reconsider. They saw something in him - and none outside the Grey Council is quite sure what, since the Grey Council isn't saying. All Alyt-nali Shakiri has said is there was something in his mind they saw that shouldn't be there, and that their telepaths removed it, and now there is a hole in his mind. Shakiri should know. Shakiri was present for his interrogation.

It doesn't matter what they found. He's just a Human. Removing him is the first step to gaining what the Wind Swords have wanted for ten cycles.

         I knew it, says Ivanova. When Neroon came with that body - this is what the Warrior Caste wants. That's why they're not willing to help us now.

         Wind Swords is not Star Riders, says Draal cryptically. Though it is true that Neroon made no attempt to ingratiate himself. He is not very good at it.

         You don't say, says Ivanova sarcastically.

         But this is why I wanted to show you this, says Draal. There are fractures in the clans that you could exploit. It would be difficult to get the Wind Swords to assist with the coming war. It would be very easy to get the Star Riders.

         One clan, what's that do?

         Surprisingly much. The Star Riders were beloved of Valen, and they have a gravity that is respected in the Warrior Caste. Night Walkers and Moon Shields would likely follow. Three of five. And on Minbar -

         Yes, yes, says Ivanova. Three is sacred.

He disconnects and logs out. Then he disguises himself as Varner, and leaves Varner's quarters.

Along the way, as he scours the corridors, he remembers a vague warning from someone (who? he forgets) that the more people he scans, the more unstable this device is going to be, the more it may be difficult to control...

Ah, there's the back of Garibaldi now.

"Ambassador," Garibaldi is saying, "hey - hold up - glad I caught you."

"That makes one of us," says another voice - deep, rich and accented. And the accent is Fik.

         Speak of the devil, says Ivanova. Draal snorts.

The Minbari assassin stills. This is new.

"The Vorlon ambassador's coming in two days early," Garibaldi explains. "So we're moving the welcome party forward. It'll have to be today. Reception area a floor above, near Docking Bay 9. You know the way?"

The assassin peers around the corner.

Alyt Neroon of the Star Riders.

Ambassador, the assassin wonders. Have I really been away from Minbar so long?

"I have been here five of your months now," points out Neroon.

Five months, thinks the assassin. Five months ago they posted an ambassador for the Warrior Caste here, and he has known nothing of this!

What am I doing, he curses himself, wasting my life - business with the Narn Regime, the Drazi, the Abbai - it has been full cycles -

He doesn't even realise until he has raised the device up, and pointed it. Not at Garibaldi, but at Neroon. Prepared to extract data. Neroon - or someone who looks like him - could go back to Minbar whenever he likes. It would be so easy. He could use Neroon's ship. He could be there in half a valsta.

"Yeah, and in the time that you're not back home for your Minbari council business," adds Garibaldi, "you've been either sequestered in your quarters or in the chamber hall with the other ambassadors in the occasional meeting." Garibaldi doesn't look impressed. He has no idea who he is talking to, thinks the assassin. "Sure, the other two are much easier to get a hold of, but I don't think they like being your secretary. Pretty anti-social of you, if you ask me."

"I did not ask you," says Neroon.

Could I really do it, he wonders. If Neroon should find out - and he could, only one person needs to wonder why Neroon is in two places at once - then he could be dangerous. Not for nothing does Shakiri say Neroon's name with no little trepidation. Neroon is respected, because he's good. In the Wind Swords, good means lethal.

He's utterly wasted on this station, thinks the assassin. I could get him off here. A little scandal, it wouldn't matter. His record is spotless. Send him back to Minbar. Shakiri will be pleased. Shakiri would want to keep an eye on him anyway.

Or I myself could keep an eye on him, thinks the assassin. If I can assist Shakiri - maybe I could return from my effective exile. I wouldn't have to hide. After all, I'd be useful again - maybe what I've done won't have been so bad -

Or Neroon himself could help me, thinks the assassin helplessly. Even if the assassin had not been Star Rider himself. Isn't that what ambassadors do? Isn't that what they're for? And for the Warrior Caste! Neroon - Neroon would understand. Wouldn't he?

How I long to see the great crystal monoliths of Drogani again...

Valen's crest, what nonsense, thinks the assassin. The use of this device is already getting to him. No. This cannot change anything. He must not lose control. He has a job to do. And then he's getting paid.

He lowers his hand, and in his distraction misjudges the length of the sleeves on his coat. The back of the device hits the wall with the softest tick.

The noise catches Garibaldi's attention. The assassin quickly looks elsewhere, and walks away, in a sort of meander. He turns the corner and waits; Garibaldi doesn't follow. Safe. "I guess I shouldn't complain, with your... sunny disposition," overhears the assassin. "You have any idea where Ambassador Mollari is?" Garibaldi continues. "Been looking for him all over."

Mollari, the assassin thinks angrily.

"Try his second home," says Neroon. The assassin approaches, until he remains still a few paces away where he flattens himself against the wall, straining to hear.

"Hm?"

"The casino," Neroon drawls, "or its tavern. Since stepping aboard, Mollari is nearly always there. And you complain that I do not explore the station enough."

"Well, at least when he's there, he's friendly. More than I can say for you. Look - reception area, got it? Be there in two and a half hours." Two and a half hours to spend before the assassin has a job to do.

Garibaldi's footsteps grow louder, and quicker. The assassin has barely enough time to put himself down another corridor before Garibaldi comes through.

Lead me to Londo Mollari, thinks the assassin, and follows Garibaldi at a safe distance.

Garibaldi finds Londo Mollari at one of the games tables. Human craps on a Brakiri-style table. Mollari's having a good time before Garibaldi demands his attention, then Mollari claims he starts to lose. 'Starts' is relative - Mollari has probably been losing for about an hour now.

The assassin takes a seat not too far away and orders a drink - something alcoholic, something Humans would order, which he pretends to sample - and watches as Mollari continues telling everybody about the Great Centauri Republic. "The entire Vega system, in nine days," proclaims Mollari. We came out of the stars - a veritable cloud of starships - the assassin knows the words so well he is mouthing them into his drink as Mollari says them.

"Docking bay," interjects Garibaldi coldly. "Two hours."

"I'll be there," snaps Mollari. "What else have I got to do? I'm broke!" Garibaldi takes off and Mollari heads in for a drink, as the assassin knew he would. How best does Londo Mollari console himself? When drink isn't working, games. When games aren't working, drink.

Why Mollari is to be in the docking bay and not in the reception area above, like all the other ambassadors, is beyond the Minbari assassin, but it's not important. He can't have Mollari poking around the docking bay.

"'Scuse me," says the assassin. "I couldn't help overhearing, this - system of yours, it's a sure thing?"

Mollari grins wide. "My good man," he says. "I have worked it out to 15 decimal places. All it requires is a little backing! Mister - ah -"

"Varner," says the assassin, "Del Varner."

"Del Varner," says Mollari, and he takes the assassin's hand in both of his in a warm Centauri handshake.

The assassin buys Mollari three drinks. Mollari downs the first two in about five minutes flat but nurses the third when the assassin gets him talking about his system. From what it sounds like, it is no more statistically sound than any other 'trick' people have ever tried at casinos, although it is eerily similar to a counterargument to one of the methods that was once hotly debated in the Fourth Fane of Luvenna. But that was a long time ago, and what does the assassin know, mathematics had never really been his strong suit. Mollari offers a chance to put it into practice, and the assassin readily agrees, spotting a chance to stall Mollari using the craps table.

"If you can show me it works - provably - over ... let's say the next hour," begins the assassin.

"Ah, about that," says Mollari, "I have something of an obligation. And no money."

Both of which you're going to forget all about, thinks the assassin. "Let me buy you another drink," he offers. "Surely you've got a little time? I think I'd like to hear more about this."

"Of course! Of course!" says Mollari, always eager for free punch. The assassin smiles a wide, toothy grin. Varner's face is really perfect for that. "If you don't mind my asking, what is your interest?"

"Purely academic," assures the assassin. "Reminds me of something I read once. Did you ever hear of the negative bet strategy equilibrium? Minbari research."

Mollari narrows his eyes. "How would you know about that?"

Do Humans really not bother scouring other species' journals? Pathetic. It is so easy to forget he's not looking himself. So Minbari small talk fails. What would a Human say? "Like I said, just academics," he says smoothly.

Mollari waves his hand. Suspicion averted. "I am surprised they stopped meditating long enough to consider the sides of a single die," he says.

"So you don't put much stock into it," says the assassin.

"Pah! To listen to them, they've disproved half the games at this casino! Minbari," says Mollari. "What do they know about fun and games, eh?"

"I don't see any around here," the assassin admits, looking around. Except for the one right under your nose, Londo.

"There never are! They hardly come by. But how many Centauri have made this casino so much money already! Yes, I am sure, my friend," he says, pointing to the dealer, who is trying to ignore Mollari, "the house is very thankful I am here! Only one of me, and three of them. Three Minbari ambassadors! In our heyday we would have insisted, no more than one representative - or else we all get three! Yes? That is fair! That is just. And Centauri justice is firm, renowned! But three, simply because they made this station. And because they are Minbari, they are granted it. Oh, they have only one vote, yes, but it is the principle of the thing. They are so powerful now. They think they can dictate terms. Well, they are all the same, anyway. Dealing with one is like dealing with any of them."

The assassin can't help a shy curiosity. "Are they really so similar?"

"They all keep to themselves, one can't complain about that. But they lack a certain..." Mollari trails off, gesturing with his hand as he tries to find the word. "Respect," he decides.

"This is the first time I've heard of someone saying the Minbari have no respect," says the assassin.

"The Religious ambassador makes no secret of her distaste for me. So superior, so patronising! A blessed mother with her little children! The Worker ambassador is quiet. But he speaks volumes in his eyes and I don't like what they say. But he is old. Maybe he'll die soon. And the Warrior ambassador - ah, he's the worst of the bunch. Sarcastic, impudent - eras ago we would have cut off trade agreements for a single one of the many verbal slights that he throws out like candy. And then! Then, it would have hurt them."

Mollari studies his drink, contemplative, then finally drains it. The assassin motions for a fourth. The bartender gives him a grin. The assassin has to admit it - it's kind of nice, being able to operate in broad daylight, with another face. Formerly he would have to keep track of who has been keeping track of him. But should anyone start to notice a man like Del Varner, he can simply be someone else with the press of a button.

"Nowadays, nobody cares," says Mollari wistfully. "We traded much with the Minbari once. We were their first contact! For five hundred years, we were their most important trading partner. But their mannerisms show me ... they have forgotten this. Now everything they need they make themselves. Or trade with you Humans, now that they are no longer killing you. No offence," he adds.

"None taken." The Minbari assassin smiles again, wearing Del Varner's Human face. "Well, shall I leave you to it? Show me your moves."

"A-ha, I show you mine, then you'll show me yours, is that how the saying goes?" Mollari smirks and trots off to the table, fresh drink in hand.

"You do not want to see my moves," says the assassin quietly to himself.

Mollari quickly racks up a hefty tab. When he returns an hour later, he says, "It's looking badly, I know. But believe me! It is always like this before the upswing."

"Don't worry about it," says the assassin. "Go as high as six figures." That should keep him busy.

"Six," says Mollari, appreciative. His eyebrows jump. "My good man, you are a thrill-seeker!"

"Now, you said it'd work," says the assassin.

It's nearly time for him to get into position. Ruining Mollari a bit has been fun, but petty. And it will amount to nothing. Mollari has ever been slippery. If Mollari should have to pay a little more, well. He can afford it.

Why, he afforded the assassin's services for cycles! And then, when the time was right, he used him as leverage and sold off the information of his position, to exile him. Londo Mollari is the reason he hasn't been on Minbar in nearly ten cycles, not since the end of the Holy War.

The assassin won't be able to recover all the damage Londo Mollari has done to him in the past in one single afternoon. By Valen, thinks the assassin, I hope this casino bankrupts you, Mollari. "In the meantime," he says, "I might visit the facilities."

"You've not even touched your wine," says Londo.

"Bad luck to drink," lies the assassin. "Listen, why don't you have some good news for me when I get back?" He pats Mollari on the shoulder. If it's a little too hard and Mollari winces, he doesn't say anything about it, and turns on his heel back to the craps table.

The assassin leaves the casino, only to knock into a Human woman walking in. Red haired, gloved. She looks shocked. "My apologies," he says.

This is instinctive. A Human would probably be ruder, mutter 'sorry', or maybe even say nothing at all. He's got to be better at this Human thing. Then he notices her Human telepath badge. This, the assassin recognises as danger. If she so much as glances at his mind, she'll know he isn't Human.

He starts to sway on the spot. He's seen Mollari drunk enough times - like just now - he knows what it looks like. "Lookin' for the washrooms," he says. Should he flirt? He should flirt. That's what a Human would do. Because she's attractive, at least by Minbari standards. Perhaps that correlates to Human standards. "Say, you're pretty," he says, "both'f you!"

The Human looks at him. She sees a drunk. Doesn't bother to scan him. "Down that hall, around the corner," she says.

The assassin points a finger in her face and then jabs it into her tiny shoulder. "Super. Youuuu'rrre... super," he slurs. Then he spins and takes off in the other direction, knocking into the wall on his way.

"Ugh. Whatever," she says.

I can not believe this is my life now, thinks the assassin, when he turns the corner and can finally walk straight again. He pretends inebriation, he flirts with Humans. What honourless dreck. He should be on Minbar. He could have found a lifemate by now, he could have had a family, prestige in his clan. Instead he is here, scrounging for credits from the Narn Regime in exchange for mercenary work.

He rues the day he ever met Londo Mollari and took his money. It's all Mollari's fault. Yes, all of this is his fault!

He arrives at Docking Bay 9, five minutes ahead of schedule. He creeps into the bay itself but only the workers are around, and they are filing out one by one, in front of the massive docked Vorlon ship. "No assistance! And we all gotta get outta here. Can you believe this Kosh guy wants to do it all himself?" one says to another.

"His funeral," comes the reply.

Well. Ideally, yes.

The assassin extracts the changeling net from his pocket, and cycles through the data while looking at the changes on his forearm, until it matches the station commander's Earth uniform. His dark brown hair, too - just long enough to catch a glimpse of, if he presses it flat on the top of his head and looks up.

This changeling net truly is something, thinks the assassin. There is no hair there, and he knows this, and is fully aware of it. But it tricks even his own mind, his own physical senses, into thinking it's there. Sinclair's hair is softer than he would have thought Human hair is, far softer than it appears. When he whips his head around, he can feel the draft in Sinclair's hair, and almost doesn't register the weight of his own bonecrest.

Now the cameras will see Sinclair. Sinclair is going to kill the Vorlon ambassador, and Sinclair and the Humans shall answer for it. The Minbari assassin won't be losing too much sleep over that.

The assassin, as Sinclair, leaves the docking bay proper and waits outside in the hallway, where the only exit from the docking bay ejects into Babylon 5. This is surely unconventional - everybody else must go through customs - but the ambassadors have different permissions. A Vorlon ambassador most certainly. There is a clear delineated path. The Vorlon will go this way.

There is, in this hallway, a single transport tube facing the doorway to the docking bay, just outside the doors to the antechamber that leads from Docking Bay 9. There's another further along the hall, too, but this particular tube, according to station maps, connects to the reception hall. It is also highly likely, then, that someone will come down here via this tube to escort the Vorlon ambassador along.

It is nothing for Minbari strength to pry open the panel of the controls on the transport tube. Inside is a mess of wires, which he doesn't clearly understand. But he doesn't need to, because there's three open slots for data crystals, and in his pocket, next to the changeling net, is the data crystal he obtained from Varner. If Varner's good for his word, then on the crystal is an override program intended to stop doors, transport tubes, and the fast-travel monorail shuttle that runs back and forth along the centre core of the station.

The assassin jams it into the transport tube control panel. From as close as two floors up, possibly, the assassin hears a loud k-chunk sound, as a large moving object - like an elevator unit - is suddenly halted. The assassin presses his ear to the transport tube doors to hear, forgetting that his ear is no longer at his jaw.

"Status report," someone says. A male.

Momentary power loss, replies the computer. Rerouting to secondary power supply. Time delay factor: two-point-three minutes. Please stand by.

Just in time. The assassin does the same with the door, locking himself in with the Vorlon ambassador. Just in case.

It starts to dawn on the assassin: he is about to meet a Vorlon. The stuff of legends. Back when the assassin was little, back before any of this happened, cycles ago, Vorlons were the kind of thing a guardian told their charges about to ensure their good behaviour. No other Minbari alive has met a Vorlon. (Outside, perhaps, of the Grey Council. And if they have, they're keeping it to themselves. Alyt-nali Shakiri claims to have seen one on the Grey Council ship. Alyt-nali Shakiri claims many things.) But seeing one is different from meeting one, and different entirely from killing one.

Supposing... Supposing it's difficult to kill him?

But no. It can't be. This poison is well-formulated. Whether or not any Minbari has met a Vorlon, the Dilgar War Master working with Shakiri says she knows what she is doing, and her record suggests that is no lie. It's time to put that to the test.

From the doorway comes a large figure. Taller than the assassin by a shoulder's breadth, easily, even in his taller form as the station commander Sinclair. Metallic, with a triangular head, containing a single oculus-like aperture. Below the head project two hose-like appendages from what might be the Vorlon's chest. The shoulders are immense, hulking, and the cape drapes smoothly down. If the form is bipedal, it does not walk like they do. It glides forward, past the threshold.

For a moment, the Minbari assassin forgets to breathe. With effort, he recovers and smiles. "Ambassador Kosh," he finds himself saying, in Commander Sinclair's deep baritone voice. "Welcome to Babylon 5."

From within the ambassador's encounter suit extends an appendage. It is hard to make out the shape of it, because it's bright white, so bright the assassin wants to turn his head. He blinks and narrows his eyes to focus. Is it a hand? Hard to say. But the appendage remains too bright. Sometimes it flickers out of view entirely. Sometimes it looks Human. Sometimes Minbari. Well, Human and Minbari hands are not so very different.

If this is to be done, it must be done now. The assassin grasps the Vorlon's hand in his own - it is cool, yet warm; oily yet dry, scaled yet smooth, made of infinities and nothingness at the same time - and holds it there.

Then he extracts the dermal patch from his pocket with his other hand. He reaches forward with his second hand - still smiling - surely he is simply preparing to shake the ambassador's hand in both of his. Like Londo did with Del Varner. (And also with him, so many years ago.)

The Vorlon says, "Entil'Zha Valen," in many voices and shrieks and tones.

The assassin slaps the patch down on the Vorlon's skin - or what passes for it - before he really processes what is said. By then, it is too late.

Valen? Valen?

He hears a shriek in his mind. Is it the Vorlon?

Entil'Zha Valen?!

The Minbari assassin lets go immediately, in his horror. "I - I didn't," he stammers. Then he hisses, "You're mistaken!"

"Minbari yet not Minbari," says the Vorlon, and the voices and shrieks and tones begin to melt into a terrifying aural sludge. The appendage retreats into the encounter suit, taking the dermal patch with it, which is already beginning to dissolve. "I see you."

The Minbari assassin staggers back. One step, then a second. He presses himself flat against the wall and watches, spellbound, as the Vorlon crumples, and collapses.

He gasps for breath. Probably, so does the Vorlon.

"Valen," he whispers.

Why? Why would the Vorlon have said such a thing?

It knew, thinks the assassin. It knew I was not Human. It could tell.

He needs to leave - now!

Surely the Narn will still pay handsomely, even if their Human perpetrator is not personally found at the crime scene?

An alarm begins to blare. Station Alert, says the computerised announcement. Station Alert.

Valen.

Has he forgotten everything? Have they all of the Wind Swords, forgotten everything he taught them? Had they ever learnt in the first place?

The things I've done, thinks the assassin, for money. No amount of money can purchase his honour.

The assassin flees into the docking bay, out of range of the cameras, before he swaps the changeling net to whoever the next visual data is - a Narn male.

--

The second set of doors to Medlab 3, the one closest to Docking Bay 9, are keycard accessible only. Since Takashima currently lacks a keycard at the moment - Del has it - she punches in her numeric access code instead, which gives her the time to overhear the conversation between Dr Kyle and Commander Sinclair. "If the atmosphere mix isn't right," Dr Kyle is saying, "we'll kill him as soon as we crack that suit ... Approaching nominal density... As soon as it's pressurised, I'm going in."

"Maybe not," says Takashima. Both men turn to her. Time for the bad news. "We just got a reply from the Vorlon High Command. They insist that the Ambassador's encounter suit..." She sighs. "Cannot be removed. For security reasons."

Neither the Commander nor Dr Kyle look enthused. "But that's insane!" says Dr Kyle.

"They just don't want us seeing what's inside," Sinclair says darkly.

"You mean they'd rather let him die than-"

"I'm afraid so," says Takashima.

"No," says Sinclair. He's firm about it. "We haven't come this far to watch it all fall apart."

"Jeff, I'm warning you," she argues. "They're deadly serious about security."

"And we'll give them security." Sinclair doesn't seem to understand what she means by the Vorlons being deadly serious. "Ben - as a doctor you're bound by your vow of confidentiality. And that's good enough for me. As for the rest - kill the monitors, stop all data recording. I don't want any record of what goes on in there."

"Jeff," begins Dr Kyle.

"I take full responsibility," says Sinclair. Oh, I wish he hadn't said that, thinks Takashima. "Just do what you have to, Ben."

They all three look at each other. Dr Kyle clearly wants to do what the Commander is suggesting, and no amount of apprehension on Takashima's face makes him waver. Sinclair remains firm, and he holds her gaze, actively challenging her to say something about it.

Takashima doesn't.

This is dangerous, surely. This goes against what the Vorlons want. Wouldn't it be easier just to let him die? They'll send another. Or they won't. It probably won't matter in the grand scheme of things. But in the short-term, Dr Kyle might find out what it was that downed the newest ambassador through an encounter suit, which is specifically designed to be impenetrable.

That program she'd put on the crystal for Del Varner only worked on doors. It didn't work on encounter suits... did it? Supposing they find out it was her.

Dr Kyle makes the decision to go ahead and comply. He walks off, and with a sweep of his hand on the controls, kills the monitors.

"Good luck," calls Takashima, "and I hope you're wrong."

Dr Kyle doesn't reply. He's putting on an oxygen mask overtop his facemask, and then he walks into the airlock to the Isolation lab.

"Wrong about what?" asks Sinclair.

"We were talking the other day about how nobody's seen a Vorlon before," says Takashima. "And he said that according to legend, one human did see a Vorlon." Inside the Iso lab, Dr Kyle approaches their massive, unresponsive patient. "He turned to stone," Takashima says.

"Well, it's ... just a legend," says Sinclair.

"Probably," Takashima says.

"Probably."

"There must be a way," mutters Dr Kyle, from inside the Iso lab. The intercom is on, transmitting everything he says outside. It's little comfort that it's not recording any of it. "Some mean... some ..."

Then Dr Kyle presses something, and a light begins to grow from a break in the suit, emanating from within.

"I can't watch," says Takashima. She averts her face.

"I understand," says Sinclair, who keeps his gaze steady on Ambassador Kosh.

The light grows. "I've - I should - C&C," she says, pathetically.

"Go," says Sinclair softly, still as a statue, and she does.

--

Takashima comes back down to see Dr Kyle in Medlab 3, just after her shift ends. "How's it going?" she asks. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," says Dr Kyle, and he seems fine. A little run-down. He doesn't look like any part of him has turned to stone.

Maybe it really was just a story. Whoever heard of someone turning to stone upon seeing a Vorlon anyway.

Well, what about killing a Vorlon? Takashima had tried to call Varner, but there was no answer. But who else could it have been? Varner, here, of all places? And the Vorlon ambassador lasts not five minutes aboard the station before Sinclair and Garibaldi find him lying on the floor. Can't be a coincidence. Takashima doesn't believe in them.

"What have you found about our newest ambassador?" Takashima asks.

"He's ..." Dr Kyle shakes his head, his eyes wide, and huffs a heavy sigh. It looks like he's stifling a yawn. "He is something else, I'll tell you that. I've never seen anyone like him." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a canister. Then he puts it to his own forearm and depresses a button. Something makes a hydraulic hiss, and Dr Kyle blinks, relieved.

Stims, realises Takashima. "Are you sure you should be doing that?"

"I'm fine," snaps Dr Kyle.

"How many of those have you had?"

"Just the one," he says. He sighs. "These tests are going to run another five hours. But his lifesigns are dropping 5% every hour. If I'm going to reduce a quarter of his lifesigns waiting for test results, I'll give him the courtesy of being awake for it, no matter the cost to me."

"That's noble of you," says Takashima. "Can you tell what's wrong?"

"Not yet," says Dr Kyle. "I'll keep you informed once I know what it was that made him collapse. First thing tomorrow."

"The second you know," she says instead. "I know you'll be sending a message to Jeff. Might as well send one to me."

"The Commander said he'd take full responsibility," argues Dr Kyle. Don't remind me, thinks Takashima. "Meanwhile, you're off duty," he adds, "and probably exhausted."

"Well, then, I'll give him the courtesy of waking up," says Takashima.

"That's noble of you," says Dr Kyle, with a grandfatherly doting smile.

Takashima returns it thinly with a firm nod, and leaves. It's really not noble at all. It's the absolute least she can do, after having a hand in all of this.

--

It is much, much later after Neroon returns from the failed reception to his quarters in Red sector that he receives a call. It is too late, in fact. Or too early. Everybody should be asleep. So should Neroon, but he has still not quite gotten used to the time difference and the longer days. Constantly returning to Minbar for Caste Elder business makes acclimatising difficult.

         He just doesn't want to put roots down here, says Ivanova. I take it that's also why there's practically nothing in his apartment.

         Most insightful, says Draal.

"Open," Neroon calls. The Narn ambassador stands on the opposite side of the door. "Ambassador G'Kar," he says. G'Kar looks jumpy. "Well, come in."

G'Kar does, and looks around. "Smaller than mine," he notes.

"I find it cozy," drawls Neroon.

"You've heard, then? Of the Vorlon Ambassador. Poisoned, they say," says G'Kar. "You must have heard. You would not have let me in otherwise."

Of course he has heard. The whole station has heard. After all, the reason for the lockdown had to be disclosed. "That is not strictly true," says Neroon. "But it is true that heretofore you have found little reason to visit me personally."

"Well, you're all the way down here!" G'Kar complains. "How you can stand the smell of - whatever your pak'ma neighbour is cooking - is entirely beyond me. Minbari senses must be feebler than Narn."

"They are not," mutters Neroon. Neroon simply didn't know that pak'ma'ra were carrion eaters. Once he'd moved in, it had quickly become apparent. But what was he to do, come crawling back to Green sector and admit the ignorance of the Warrior Caste? Absolutely not. "State your business."

"About this poisoning," says G'Kar. "It's clearly Mollari's doing. Think about it! Where was he? When we all waited in the reception area by Docking Bay 9, where was he?"

"At the casino, where he always is?" guesses Neroon.

"And you don't find it the least bit suspicious that he wasn't there! He was the only one of us missing when Kosh arrived."

"I assumed he forgot," says Neroon. He thinks. "Or that he was inebriated. At any rate, being in the casino means there will be many witnesses."

"There hasn't been an investigation," says G'Kar.

"Yet," says Neroon. "There will be one. Of that, you may be certain. Poisoning is attempted assassination. They cannot lock down the station without an inquiry."

"Yes, yes," says G'Kar, "I'm sure it's in the regulations."

It is, if G'Kar ever bothered to read them. "And during such inquiry, they will check Mollari's alibi, as the only ambassador who was missing from the reception area. All of us can confirm each other's alibis. If Mollari really was at the casino, they will find people who saw him. - What is your concern in this matter?"

"My concern -! Why, my concern is for our new Vorlon Ambassador!" says G'Kar. "If he could be poisoned, any of us could be poisoned!"

The Narn, finds Neroon, are a lot like Minbari. Spiritual - some of them - warlike - others - and can be quite admirably crafty and technological. Except for one key difference, which is that they lie. Neroon folds his arms over his chest. "Another valsta," he says dryly, "another Centauri-Narn conflict."

"What better way to prop up a fading empire than start a war? They have been trying to join forces with the Earth Alliance for years," swears G'Kar. "Isn't that often the first step, when diplomacy fails? Find a mutual enemy, and force their hand! And who have they provoked but the Vorlons!"

If the Centauri did indeed wish to provoke the Vorlons, may Valen help their entire Republic. Neroon has never met a Vorlon, but he has heard stories.

"I only wish to ensure," adds G'Kar, "that if the time comes - that you would be willing to give assistance to the Narn Regime. We will need a powerful ally. They are too often like this - next comes invasions. Neroon, I assure you - this is the Centauri way. You can take my word for it - I should know."

Credit to G'Kar, there is here no lie. Minbari historians have been paying attention. "Nevertheless, Minbar will not interfere," says Neroon.

G'Kar narrows his eyes and wags a finger in Neroon's face. "She said you would say exactly this," he says. "She too would not accept the facts!"

Ah. Of course, she. "You attempt to goad me into action," says Neroon. "I'm insulted you think me so easy to play."

"Well, at least you're not using any of your funny gravity rings against me," says G'Kar flippantly. Neroon frowns. "In any case, I'm not asking for all of Minbar. You and I could join our forces," G'Kar continues. "I know there are factions in your Warrior Caste - why, it was you who had the Earth Alliance on its knees! One more stroke and you would have defeated them!"

Impulsively, G'Kar grabs Neroon by the shoulders, with a non-insignificant grip. Clearly Neroon should continue wearing the reinforced spaulders even in his own chambers. Neroon looks down slowly at one of G'Kar's hands, then as slowly back up at G'Kar. G'Kar lets him loose, with a sheepish smile.

"Wouldn't you like to see them there again?" says G'Kar, excited. "Wouldn't you like to finish the job?"

Yes. He would. "Factions," murmurs Neroon, a brow raised.

"They'd like to finish the job," says G'Kar.

"I'm sure they would," says Neroon.

"Not all of them are like your Grey Council - weak, frightened, old-fashioned fools, with no vision, or the will to fight - you and I, with the Narn Regime and the Minbari Warrior Caste, you with your advanced technology, we with our infinite manpower, can't you dream it? The things we might achieve together-"

"That is quite enough," Neroon interrupts.

"What?"

"The answer is no," says Neroon, and then he adds with a sneer, "sorry."

If he has to say it again, he will say it with his denn'bok. He does not want to. Not least because then G'Kar will know he too has a weapon - though, what kind of weapon is it? No energy weapon. Nothing that can't otherwise be found in the Babylon 5 exercise facilities. And they are talking of allowing the Mutai; why shouldn't they then allow a denn'bok that he rarely uses? No, he does not want to because to end an argument with a blow is entirely too fitting for the Warrior Caste, and G'Kar has been operating under impressions about him and his whole caste that are far too close to the reality. Better that Neroon use his words, like a priest or a worker. Put G'Kar off-guard, without using any tools, like funny gravity rings that one of the Religious Caste absolutely should not have.

"But-"

"I shall have no more words with you, not about this," says Neroon. He draws closer and looks up at G'Kar, with narrowed eyes. There, he sneers, "Why don't you make it three for three? Let us see how happy Racine is that you've put him last. You went out of your way to do that, because after all, they are close together in Green Sector, where you are. And I am, as you say, all the way down here."

G'Kar isn't very happy at his reply. But he takes it as a final decision. "I want it said that I offered you a chance at greatness," he says. "And you threw it away. Whatever happens now, it's out of my hands." He turns to leave. "I should have known better than to waste my time!" he shouts.

"If you try and play us like a harp," calls out Neroon, "don't be surprised when the strings cut your fingertips." His only reply is the sound of the door sliding shut behind G'Kar as he leaves.

--

That morning, Dr Kyle comes to see Takashima in her quarters. She's getting ready for the day; he walks like he's worked through the night.

"You look exhausted. You want some coffee?" Takashima calls out, on her way to her tiny kitchenette. "It's fresh. Ground it about an hour ago."

"Hm. You don't have coffee," he says.

"It's amazing the things I can get access to," she says.

Wait. Too far. Has she said too much?

But Dr Kyle is too tired to have worked it out. He accepts the coffee gratefully and drinks deep. "Oh, that's delicious," he says.

"It's nowhere near what we get back home," Takashima admits.

"It's the first coffee I've had in my time stationed here," says Dr Kyle. "I didn't realise how much I missed it."

Takashima smiles. "Why are you really here, Ben," she asks.

Dr Kyle holds the little handleless mug in both hands as he thinks. "You said you can get access to certain things," he murmurs.

"I didn't mean -"

"Relax," he says. "I don't know, and I don't care. But my thinking is that someone knows what happened to Ambassador Kosh." Dr Kyle leans forward. "And that's Kosh himself."

"You can't," says Takashima. "It's out of the question! The Vorlons wanted the cameras turned off in the docking bay. The cameras are turned off in medbay. You really think they'll let him be scanned? They'll let him die first."

"I won't let him die," vows Dr Kyle. "I can't let a patient die. The Vorlons - well. Maybe the Vorlons need never know. But if I can't get an idea of where the poison entered, he will die. That's certain. I've exhausted all other normal options, Laurel."

Takashima sighs. "Does the Commander know about this?"

"No," says Dr Kyle. "I've not mentioned this to him. And we won't tell him, either. Because, if we screw up ... it's only on our heads."

"Which will end up on a silver platter, right?"

Dr Kyle shrugs, and nods.

"Is it really worth it?" she asks.

"He's the first Vorlon Ambassador we've ever had. He's the first Vorlon we've ever met. If - if I'd been there. When we first met the Minbari. When we first met the Dilgar. Laurel, we've had so much of war, and death!" Now Dr Kyle really looks exhausted. There's bags under his eyes. "I don't stand for that."

"He's just one Vorlon," says Takashima, before she even really realises what she's said.

But Dr Kyle is shaking his head. "Not to me," he says. "Hasn't it all been enough?"

Takashima doesn't say yes. She doesn't say no, either. She stands, and walks back to the coffee pot. It's an excuse for something to do. It lets her think. Pacing helps.

Maybe... maybe it's not a bad idea. To save Kosh. Then whatever happened with Del Varner - who she still can't get a hold of ... then whatever happened with him won't matter.

This Vorlon affair is starting to freak her out. It's just an alien, she thinks. Like all the other aliens who pass by here. There's - there's nothing to be afraid of.

Except the fact that it could start another major conflict with an alien race and government with technologies more advanced than theirs. They only just finished one of those wars. Are they really so quick to set foot in another?

And it nags at her. To have been implicated in such a plot to kill the first Vorlon ambassador. It feels auspicious.

Implicated is such a harsh word...

There's really no trail to her besides the identicard (which she 'lost'). The data crystal can't be traced back to her. Unless they find Del and he spills the beans.

It must have been Del. The data crystal with the door program. That would've let someone have just a scant few moments alone with Kosh. He must have done it then.

But why he would have done it? Del was never a killer. Annoying, insistent? Sure. Never a killer.

No, worse. Del was a tech runner. He'd sell off technology. He was a go-between. And he'd sell to anyone.

And what did Laurel hand him but tech?

Takashima looks down and for just a quick moment -

Her two feet, made of grey stone. Rooted forever. She cannot move.

She saw a Vorlon. No, as good as killed one!

She gasps, and drops the little ceramic mug. It falls to the ground and shatters.

"Laurel!" exclaims Dr Kyle. He gets to his feet. "Are you alright?"

Takashima blinks. Her feet are there. Normal. In leather boots. Nothing strange.

"Thought I saw something," she says. She breathes a deep sigh. "You're right," she says. "I haven't... I haven't broken the rules in a long time, Doctor." Except that I have, she thinks. "So I guess - I'm about due." It's about time to undo whatever Del's done. "Count me in."

"Thanks," says Dr Kyle. "I can't think of anyone I'd rather have beside me when we face court-martial."

Takashima manages a wan smile. "Not so fast," she adds. "We'll still have to talk her into it. And I have a feeling it won't be easy."

It isn't.

"This is the most ridiculous idea I've ever heard!" exclaims Lyta, when they approach her with the idea an hour later in medbay. "And do you know what, since setting foot on this station, I've heard quite a few already. You have to get up early in the morning to be more ridiculous than mating with a Narn!"

"I did get up early in the morning," points out Takashima.

"I simply didn't sleep," says Dr Kyle. "I suggest you take him up on the offer - he's not bad in bed." Takashima gives Kyle an eyebrow. "So I've heard!" says Dr Kyle, holding his hands up in defence. "You know, G'Kar is rather unique. It's not every alien race out there who is so ... open-minded."

"Oh, that's rich," says Lyta dryly. "Open-minded aliens! Because I'm a telepath! Yeah, I get it. I suppose you think you're a funny man, Dr Kyle."

"No, ma'am," says Dr Kyle, abashed. He's very poorly hiding a smile.

"Look, that's a Vorlon in there! I don't know what - I don't even know what kind of mind I'd be interfacing with! If I'd be interfacing with him!" Lyta throws up her hands and begins to pace back and forth. "Do you know what the penalties are for unauthorised mind scans, without court order or commission from next of kin? I could be thrown out of the Psi Corps!"

"We understand your concerns," says Takashima, gently.

"Do you!" retorts Lyta. "It takes years to train for a P5 classification. And half of those who try burn out or- or- end up vegetables! I'm not gonna throw all that away."

"Lyta," says Takashima. "If the Ambassador dies ... the Vorlons will retaliate. This station is the first logical target. If I were in their position, I'd have a cruiser standing by in hyperspace right now, just waiting to attack us. Thousands would die. And after us, who knows how many more." She narrows her eyes. "Is that what you want?"

"No, of course not- that's not fair!" retorts Lyta.

"No, it's not," says Dr Kyle, "but that's what we're stuck with. A numbers game." He sighs heavily. "No one can force you to do this, Lyta. We have to save that Vorlon. But it has to be your choice."

Lyta looks between the two of them. Then she looks at the Vorlon. She's thinking it over. "If I do this - if I do," she stresses. "What are the odds he'll remember the contact?"

Dr Kyle is wistful. "He's so far out of it I don't think he'll have any memory of your scan," he says.

"But you're not sure," says Lyta.

Of course not. Who knows anything about Vorlon biology? "No," says Dr Kyle.

Lyta looks back at the little room, isolated by an airlock, at the massive caped encounter suit lying motionless and prone on the operating table. Her face softens.

"There really is no choice here," she replies. "I hope you both know that."

--

"So, what've you got?" asks Sinclair. He sits across from Garibaldi in the fast-travel shuttle that spans the length of the station. They're strapped in with padded bars. It's almost like being on a roller coaster. He might even miss it once they install the heavier duty Minbari instruments that will let people sit like a normal streetcar as long as they keep a hand on the rails at all times.

"Few things that don't add up," says Garibaldi, "but nothing firm yet. Turns out one alibi checked out doesn't hold up."

"Oh!" That's good news. "Whose?"

Garibaldi is grim. "Yours," he replies. "The tube's access record shows no indication of the malfunction you mentioned."

Sinclair frowns. "That- that's impossible."

"Unless someone altered the computer records, or -" Garibaldi trails off. Or what? Don't hold back on account of me, thinks Sinclair angrily, and he's about to say it when Garibaldi finally completes his thought. "Or there was no malfunction."

He refrains from rolling his eyes. "What do you think?"

"I dunno yet. But I will."

Sinclair manages a smile. "One thing's for sure, knowing your work I'd hate to end up on opposite sides of an investigation."

"So would I, Commander," says Garibaldi. "So would I."

They exit the monorail shuttle and Sinclair feels the gradual increase in gravity as they leave the central beam that runs lengthwise through Babylon 5. There's a transport tube at the end of the hall, where the gravity is better controlled. Minbari technology is all that's really keeping them from drifting away. "Well, I'm heading to Medlab. Where do you go from here?" asks Sinclair.

"C&C," Garibaldi replies. "Going to check up on the computer records. If there's any sign of them being altered in C&C, I'll be able to find out. All access to mainframe software is logged: keystrokes, access codes, everything. If you hadn't given me diplomatic oversight, I wouldn't be able to get in myself."

"Could the records be accessed from outside C&C?"

"I can't see how," says Garibaldi. "We've already inspected the terminal. Data crystal slots were wiped."

"But someone could have used one to inject malicious software," adds Sinclair.

"Well, we'll be able to find out at C&C. It'll log a phantom image of any program in the archive files, which back up every thirty minutes. You'd have to have serious tech know-how to get beyond that."

Serious tech know-how isn't something Sinclair's got. But that's little comfort and won't hold up in court enough to exonerate him, if it ever comes to it. - He shouldn't even be thinking like this! There's a perfectly good explanation for why his alibi is shot. "And if there isn't anything?"

"We'll jump off that bridge when we get there," says Garibaldi. Medlab 3, chimes the transport tube. "That's you," he adds. "Give our sick ambassador my love."

"Why, if I do that, he'll never wake up," says Sinclair, grinning.

Garibaldi doesn't return his good humour. "If we can't joke about it, what can we do?" he says instead, clearly unimpressed with Sinclair's jocularity.

"Listen, Michael," says Sinclair. "I didn't do it. I know I didn't do it. But you don't have to take my word on that. You'll get to the bottom of it eventually. I know you'll find the truth."

"You've got more faith than me," says Garibaldi modestly. "Or our Senatorial friend at Earth Central, for that matter."

"Oh, don't listen to him," says Sinclair. Garibaldi doesn't react. The doors close on the transport tube.

Leave it. It's not the first time Garibaldi's gotten morose about things. About his capability. About his history. There isn't much anybody can say to lift him out of such a funk. Just as long as he doesn't do something drastic, he'll be fine. Sinclair has faith. And if they can't have faith, what can they have?

He enters Medlab 3 with a swipe of his access card. The first doors open to a large hall with beds, some occupied, most not, thank God. The second set of doors at the end of the hall leads to the Isolation Lab, where Ambassador Kosh currently is. And, since he's not out in the main hall (only nurses and junior doctors here), Dr Kyle must be with him presently.

Sinclair swipes his pass to the doors to the Iso lab and steps in, just to hear Takashima ask, "Who did it, Lyta? Who poisoned the ambassador?"

Lyta Alexander is collapsed in a chair, breathing so heavily she could be hyperventilating, with Takashima and Dr Kyle around her. At the sound of the Iso lab doors opening they all look up.

Lyta glares. "He did it," she says, pointing to Sinclair. "He's the one. He tried to kill the ambassador!"

Her voice grows more and more hysterical, and she staggers out of the chair to flatten herself on the wall, out of Dr Kyle's and Takashima's reach. Stricken, they look from Lyta to Sinclair, as Lyta yells, "I saw it. I saw it!"

--

The assassin sits in his seat on the Narn Freighter Na'Rog in Docking Bay 23. They have been waiting for clearance to take off for over four hours, but the three Centauri ships scheduled ahead of them have had issues with their tracking systems due to a software malfunction. None of the Narn he is sitting with are happy about this, so the assassin suspects that his own distempered mood doesn't disturb his cover.

He is thinking very seriously that his name right now is Na'Dak, and that he is a very good Narn who has finished a job (a perfectly legal one!) and is returning home to the Narn homeworld under completely ordinary circumstances, even though there could not possibly be a telepath present because he is literally surrounded by Narn. But it helps to calm his nerves, and if he is not careful his nerves will give him away - the other Narn won't need telepathic abilities and it won't matter how distracted they are.

Entil'Zha Valen, had said the Vorlon.

No. It meant nothing. How could it? How could a Vorlon know anything about their history. About the kind of things that he himself has clearly forgotten!

(Then again, they said Vorlons knew much, spoke little, and heard all.)

"About another five minutes here," says the Captain by intercom.

"They said that five minutes ago," grumbles Ka'Laq, the chatty Narn sitting beside him. "Can't imagine what's taking them so long."

Five minutes stretches into forever. Ten minutes after that message, the intercom buzzes again. "It'll be another thirty minutes," he says. "Station security have gotten to us, but want to scan our software for anomalies."

"It's Centauri ships that have been having the anomalies," says G'Mak, who sits on his other side. "Couldn't impact our systems."

"You should know all about that," snaps Ka'Laq, "you write software viruses in your spare time."

"Are you suggesting I've something to do with this?" retorts G'Mak.

"Do you two maybe want to sit together," hisses the assassin between them.

Three hours pass in uneasy silence, broken only by G'Mak and Ka'Laq's barbs, exchanged over the assassin's head. (They did not take him up on his offer to sit together. They appear to much prefer sniping at each other from a distance. Valen grant me patience, thinks the assassin, before he remembers that it is fruitless to swear in Valen's name when Valen would not give him the time of day after the kinds of things he has done.)

At last the intercom buzzes again. "Ah... my friends," begins the Captain, "there's ... there's no easy way to say this ..."

The freighter is stopping at Babylon 5 indefinitely and not leaving, because the station is under lockdown.

"It's probably related to that Vorlon," says Ka'Laq. "His feeble constitution, and we all suffer! I'll miss my debriefing with the Kha'ri."

"They have to provide a reason before locking down the station," says G'Mak. "That's in regulations!"

"They did," says Na'Rok, who sits behind them and who is packing up her affairs. "if either of you had bothered to stop squabbling and listen to the Captain, you would've heard the reason. It was an assassination attempt. Poisoned, they say. The cameras were off - the Vorlons wanted privacy - but they got a telepath to draw it out of him, said she saw everything. Go on, then, back to your quarters. Hope you've enough for an extra day's rent."

"I don't," says G'Mak sourly.

"Well, how am I going to get to my debriefing!" exclaims Ka'Laq.

"Who cares about your debriefing! Where will I sleep tonight?"

"This is exactly why they tell each ship individually," mutters Na'Rok, "or else there is this mass panic -"

Okay, thinks the assassin, performing breathing meditations to calm himself. Okay. That's. This is a setback. Nothing more. He must simply reformulate his plan. He will wait it out, and he can disappear or be any guise. This is not the worst thing that could happen.

It does not work. He is still panicking.

I have to see Neroon, the assassin thinks. Neroon is here for diplomatic and ambassadorial assistance for the Warrior Caste. I am still Warrior Caste. Surely he will help. He has to help.

...Even after all the assassin has done? The Star Riders and the Wind Swords have ever been at each other's throats.

But it's his job as ambassador!

But my job is assassination, he thinks. No, Neroon has no reason to help him. Neroon has more reason to turn him in.

There were no cameras, he thinks. But they got a telepath to draw it out of him. Isn't that what they said?

Entil'Zha Valen. Minbari yet not Minbari. I see you. That's what the Vorlon said, just before he collapsed.

The cameras would have clearly shown a Human. The cameras would have shown Sinclair himself! But the cameras were off. Meanwhile, a telepath could hear what the Vorlon said. How the Vorlon identified him, at least partially, as Minbari.

If anyone finds out it wasn't a Human who poisoned the Vorlon - if anyone finds it was a Minbari - the assassin is truly done for. And so are the Wind Swords. He won't get his credits. Even Alyt-nali Shakiri will not employ him.

All of this for nothing!

No, that will not do.

--

"Commander," says Garibaldi. He and Dr Kyle join Takashima and Sinclair in the meeting room they've been using for Earth Alliance tactics for months now. "You wanted to see us?"

Sinclair nods. "We're getting a signal from Earth Central, Ultraviolet priority," he explains.

"Doesn't sound good," says Dr Kyle.

"How much do they know?" asks Garibaldi.

"Just that - a witness has come forth and identified the commander," says Takashima.

Sinclair doesn't reply to that. "How's Ambassador Kosh doing?" he asks instead.

"Thanks to the information we've got from Lyta, we've been able to locate the poison, and analyse the residue," explains Dr Kyle. "We're working on a counteragent now."

He sounds optimistic, thinks Takashima. Maybe that means the Vorlon will live?

Bet Del won't like that, she thinks. Good. Del Varner can go stroke off, frankly. He's brought enough trouble on this station, and pinned it on Sinclair of all people. And Takashima still can't reach him. At this point, she's stopped trying.

Sinclair nods, and presses accept on the vid screen. Senator Williams, the Foreign Attache for Earth Central, appears. "Commander Sinclair," he begins. "In the last hour, I've been in communication with the Vorlon government." Williams pauses, and grimaces. "Since you're, um ... a suspect, they've asked that the investigation be taken out of your hands. For reasons of conflict of interest. The Advisory Council will convene immediately to consider the situation."

Sinclair takes it well, but Takashima can tell he's clearly upset. "I understand," is all he says.

I don't, thinks Takashima.

"Lieutenant-Commander Takashima," says Senator Williams, "you will take Commander Sinclair's place on the council."

Takashima sighs. "With all due respect, Senator, I object - this entire situation is -"

"Laurel," says Williams, cutting her off. It's Lieutenant-Commander Takashima to you, she thinks. What kind of first-name bullshit is this. She doesn't even know his. How dare he! "This is difficult for all of us," he says patronisingly, "but I ask that you set aside your personal feelings. Consider the best interest of the station."

Like she doesn't always?

Well. She doesn't always. But he doesn't know that. Her record is spotless!

And Sinclair is why.

For Jeff, then.

"All right," says Takashima, gritting her teeth. Don't complain. Just let him have this and toe party line. "I'll do my best."

"Jeff, once the council gets into this, there's nothing we can do without compromising the neutrality of B5," Williams continues. "We can't let that happen."

Sinclair nods. "I understand, Senator. Thank you for telling me yourself. Babylon 5 out." He disconnects.

There's a moment of stunned silence in the room.

"That's it?" says Garibaldi. "You're just gonna cave in and let them do this to you?"

"I have my reasons," says Sinclair grimly.

"You can't expect us to stand here and do nothing while they railroad you," says Dr Kyle.

"I expect you to do this by the numbers!" shouts Sinclair. Dr Kyle and Takashima both cringe. Of course, that was directed at them and their little affair with Lyta Alexander - which was most certainly not by the numbers. "The safety of Babylon 5 is more important than any one member of her crew," Sinclair adds. "Am I clear?"

"'Course," says Garibaldi. "Doesn't mean we have to like it."

"Well, there's nothing you can do about it," adds Sinclair. "So not-like all you want. But that's all you're going to get."

"I've tests to run," hisses Dr Kyle. He turns and whirls out of the office back to Medlab 3.

"Commander," begins Takashima.

"You have your orders," says Sinclair.

He stands by the vidcom, an immovable figure. Almost could be stone himself.

Part of this is my fault, Takashima wants to say. She wants to confess. She didn't want an innocent fingered but of all people, Sinclair -!

Jeff was the one who helped her out on Mars. If it weren't for him, she'd probably still be there. She owes him one, doesn't she?

Just pay it forward, Jeff had said. You don't have to owe me. Just go forth and do some good.

How could she possibly when she has to sit on the Advisory Council and hear Jeff's case?

"C'mon," says Garibaldi, interrupting her thoughts. "We got work to do."

Takashima follows him out. "I don't like this, Michael," she says, as they walk back to C&C.

"Not your job to like it," he replies darkly.

"You're not the one that's going to have to sit on that Advisory Council!" says Takashima.

"Look, just -" Garibaldi stops by the transport tube and hits the button to engage. "Just stick it through another twenty-four hours or so, got it? There's gotta be another explanation behind this." He grumbles. "Sure wish Sinclair didn't go and say he'd take full responsibility."

"What more explanation could you need? It's in Kosh's thoughts! He clearly thinks Sinclair did it."

"No, the telepath reported that," says Garibaldi. The transport tube arrives and they board. "C&C," instructs Garibaldi, and the doors close.

Takashima rolls her eyes. "You don't trust telepaths. I get it. I also find it pretty crazy that - that Sinclair would ever -" She can't even make herself say it. It clearly wasn't Sinclair. It clearly was Del, or one of his associates. Somehow. She isn't too sure how. None of them have motive. Or means, beyond being generally shady. "But unless you get another telepath to prove she isn't lying ... and what reason would she have for lying?"

Garibaldi shrugs. "I dunno," he says. "I know it sounds stupid, I just - I can't trust her."

"You didn't see her in Medlab 3," says Takashima. "Lyta nearly collapsed. I don't think it was good for her to interface with an alien."

"What, you thought she might turn to stone? That's an old wives' tale," says Garibaldi. "Anyway, it was your idea."

"I know," says Takashima guiltily. "I'm starting to think it was a bad call."

"Say, what's the status of those maintenance bots?"

"Oh, that?" Takashima shrugs. "Guerra's working on it, I think. Just a drop in O2."

"I don't believe it," says Garibaldi. "This station's atmosphere's are too tightly controlled. They gotta be, or so many alien races wouldn't've dared come aboard to stay here. There's top-notch specs in what made this place."

The transport tube opens at C&C. "Well, nothing yet," says Takashima. "They're still looking."

"Lieutenant-Commander!" says Lieutenant Ogoro. "There's been an update on the O2 situation - we've lost contact with one of the maintenance bots we sent to check on the drop in oxygen pressure in Blue 5, level B."

Takashima exchanges a look with Garibaldi. He has that grin on his face again, the 'I'm right' grin. "Don't say it," she says.

"I love saying it, though," says Garibaldi. "It's my favourite thing to say."

Takashima ignores him. "Any luck with Londo?" she asks. "You wanted to talk to him before the council meeting."

"Not yet," he replies. "Can't seem to find the guy."

"I thought you already got his statement for his alibi."

"I did. I just thought I'd remind him the council meeting was a thing that was happening, in case he tried to sleep through it or forgot."

"Have you tried the-"

"Casino. Yeah. I heard that once before."

Takashima frowns. "From whom?"

"Warrior Caste Minbari ambassador," says Garibaldi.

"Didn't think he cared for Centauri," says Takashima.

"He doesn't," Garibaldi replies. "I'd be surprised if he cares for anybody. He's a real prick. Got no friends. Londo's certainly not one of 'em. Anyway, hate to say it, but he's got a point. I'll try the casino." He gives his usual tight half-smile and taps the wall of C&C twice as he leaves. "See you in the Advisory Council."

--

The assassin loiters in the main strip of the station, where the shopkeepers have gathered. Speckled in between the stalls are cafes and restaurants. If there is something of a delineated path that wanders through this hall, it's completely obscured by the chaos of the milling crowd. Here, he is a little more relaxed, because few people notice him, because he is just one of many Humans, and a particularly boring-looking one at that. Varner had not exactly been ugly, but neither was he handsome. Well, he wasn't really the assassin's type.

He hopes to find something of the Human telepath he had seen earlier, but he hasn't come across her yet.

The thing is, he has seen no Warrior Caste Minbari here either. Not one. None he would recognise, not even if incognito. None go openly in their armour and facial markings. And he has been people-watching for some time now. He has seen many Religious Caste Minbari. A few Worker. But no Warrior. Where are they all? What is Neroon even doing here if there's nobody to be ambassador for?

"You!" shouts a voice. The assassin assumes it is simply part of the background din and not meant for him until someone grabs him by the right shoulder. A firm grip.

Even after all this time, his instincts remain hot. He grabs the hand and holds it there. He shoots his elbow up. This locks the arm that's grabbing him. Then he twists and whirls around, arm held fast, pinned, until his assailant is bent over forward, arm wrenched back, in murderous pain because a shoulder joint does not bend like that.

The assassin could knee him like this in the stomach, have him on the ground -

Oh.

It's only Londo Mollari.

"Urgh," moans Mollari. "What is your problem, eh? I only want to talk!"

"You can talk with your voice, not your hands," growls the assassin.

"Is my voice going to get me my money back?" snaps Mollari. He struggles, and the assassin looses him. The assassin could take him down at a moment's notice should Mollari try anything - and he will not. Mollari straightens and gets to his feet, then brushes himself off. His overjacket is its former immaculate purple velour.

Mollari narrows his eyes. It makes the massive fronds upon his brow draw together. "You know, my friend, I did my research. Varner, yes? You do some business with we Centauri."

"Not anymore," the assassin says. He turns to walk away.

Mollari catches up. "You told me you would cover my debts and then you vanished!"

"There's no crime in lying," sneers the assassin. "It's pathetic that you believed me. I'm sure the Centauri government will pay you enough of a retainer that you'll climb out of debt in, oh... perhaps a year's time."

"And until then, I'm broke! What do you propose to do about this?"

"Not my problem. You'll probably borrow from someone," the assassin replies.

"Borrowing makes enemies," argues Mollari.

"And you have enough of those already, don't you, Londo?" The assassin draws nearer, so that only Mollari can hear him. "Now you get to know how it feels to have fallen from grace," he wonders. "If only for you, it were permanent. I hope you are suffering. I wash my hands clean of it."

"Ah, I see it clearly now - yes - this was revenge," realises Mollari. "I did something to you."

"You won't have remembered," replies the assassin. "I am but a drop in an ocean. Do you have those, on your beloved Centauri Prime? I have them on my world. In my memories of my world. Frozen in time. Like me."

"I would have remembered your face," says Mollari.

"It was selected precisely so you would not," says the assassin. He backs away, letting Mollari go. "Do not bother me again. Next time I won't let you alive."

"I'm an ambassador here!" Mollari exclaims.

"Do you think that means anything to me?" the assassin hisses.

After all, he has just poisoned one ambassador. Who is to say he won't do it again? He could. Couldn't he!

Wait. He is losing his cover like this. Why would he say something so incriminative? He's slipping.

No, that is impossible. He has control!

"You'll have to excuse me," the assassin says. "I have better things to do than talk to some outcast from some has-been Empire."

He pivots sharply on his heel and wanders off into the crowd. After a few paces he looks back; but Londo Mollari is waving a hand dismissively and racking up a tab at one of the sidewalk bars.

Hah. Let him drink. Someone else can pick up the tab if Londo himself cannot -

He knocks into a fleshy something and only then finally stops to look where he walks.

In front of him is the red-haired Human telepath.

The assassin gasps.

"You might watch where you're going," says the Human, not a little annoyed. "Again."

"You!" exclaims the assassin.

The Human's eyes dart side to side. "What about me," she says, furtively.

"I -" The assassin is utterly lost for words. He closes his gaping mouth, licks his lips and tries again. "Didn't I see you, outside the casino?"

Unfortunately, this seems to be the completely wrong thing to say. The Human shakes her head, with a bright fake smile. "No, I- I don't know what you're talking about!" she says, loud. "It was only for a client! And my clients are very confidential. So I can't talk about them. Good day!"

She brushes past him to leave.

He has an arm out, ready to stall her, but then drops it. No - he mustn't physically stop her. She might notice he is stronger than the average Human male. Also, it's probably impolite, and intimidating. And it won't keep her hanging around, which is how he intends to slowly filter out what, precisely, she knows about what she saw.

"Relax," the assassin says instead, "I wasn't - I knocked into you."

"You sure did, buddy," says the Human.

"I meant, earlier. Before. Outside the casino. But yes, also just now - I wanted to apologise," he blurts.

The Human stops. She turns around.

"Maybe, buy you a drink?" the assassin guesses.

This is flirtation, again, isn't it. More honourless nonsense.

Valen's crest, it does not matter. As long as he can get her talking!

"Have you been drinking again?" asks the Human. She comes closer and leans in, until her face is inches from his own. The assassin is very mindful of his thoughts, concerned she could pick something up at this distance, but if she does he can't feel it. Only the surprising warmth of her body, so close to his own. And the smell of - something, perfume possibly. The scent is heady, it fills his senses. So does she. His eyes widen, appalled at himself. "Well," she decides, "you don't smell like you've been drinking. But I hardly think that's appropriate, anyway. You knocked into me because you were drunk. So - what, you want me to help you get there again?"

"I meant, something non-alcoholic," he says. "Just for some company."

He wishes he could say it was a lie. But the sick part of it is that it is no lie. The assassin has been all but alone since he stepped foot on this station. His only real contact in the Narn Regime or the Abbai Matriarchate or the Drazi Freehold who wasn't one of those races, is Alyt-nali Shakiri, who only contacts him through video or voice communication methods, triple-security walled, and never appears in person. And even Shakiri is keeping him around because he is useful, not because he is liked. For over ten cycles, he has been close to no one.

And now of all people for company, it is a Human. A Human he's duping. Indignity upon indignity.

At least she smells nice. Moreover, she has something he needs: information.

"Are you," the Human begins. Then she narrows her eyes. The assassin feels the briefest hint of something float by. Not pain, just - a weird fog on his senses. The second it is there, it has gone again, and in her eyes is surprise and shock.

"You scanned me," he says angrily. She must have.

Did she see? Could she see that he wasn't Human?

"Uh, no! We-ell yes, just. Just surface!" she says, shaking her head anxiously. "It was - your emotions, I swear - right there, guilt - a bad habit," she explains. "You're trying to quit, right? You look like you are." She looks down and bites her lip. Something about the action pulls the assassin's attention. Some Human women wear lip colour, like many Minbari women, but this one does not. Her lips look naked and somehow more lurid for it, and the indentation of teeth in the plush flesh - he is certain he'd be blushing if he didn't have the security of the changeling net masking his real face. He somehow can't look away. "I - I know that feeling," she admits, coy.

"Something like that," he mutters, still on guard. How would she know? "You are not supposed to go to the casino," he realises.

"Gambling isn't very fair when you can read people's minds," she says, evasive. "Sometimes I get a little used to winning. Having the upper hand on people. But with this posting, it's completely against contract, I could lose my job... Unfortunately, that's always been where I find most of my clientele. At bars, casinos. Rich people who have a lot of money to blow also usually have a lot of business deals. So it's easy jobs for me. But I can't go in alone. A contract's a contract, and I'm bound by it. So no casino, or Psi Corps won't pay my bills. That's the rules, you know?"

"I do not know anything about your rules," says the assassin.

She studies him, a careful glance up and down. "No," she says, "of course you wouldn't."

The assassin straightens. How much did she see in him, exactly?

"Be-because Psi Corps is so - closed," she replies, quickly, "to ordinary. Uh, Humans. Normals, they call them. Ah - you." Her furtiveness is almost suspicious. But then she shrugs. "They call you normals. No offence."

"None taken," says the assassin. He relaxes.

He's making her nervous. If he makes her nervous, he will not get what he needs.

"You can't go in alone, you said," says the assassin. He moves closer, and gently takes her hand to tuck it under the crook of his arm. "Surely, you could, with an escort?"

The Human slowly smiles, her beautiful naked mouth stretching wide to reveal pearls, and the assassin's heart skips a beat. He tells himself it is because he didn't think he would be so good at this. What does that say about him?

They sit at the casino bar, each with a drink. His is nonalcoholic; so is Lyta's.

"Do you ever have one of those days that just - it goes from strange to stranger?" asks Lyta.

"Perhaps we should be drinking for a conversation like this," says the assassin, morose. He lifts his teacup to his mouth and drinks. It is sweet, fruit-flavoured, and the warmth settles in his belly like a pleasant, grounding weight. "Today has been - horrendously atypical for me."

"God, me too," says Lyta. Lyta. It's a pretty name. It sounds like a similar Minbari name. Litann. There had been a Litann in his classes at the Wind Swords military academy in Drogani. But Litann had been nothing special - his most interesting characteristic was a slightly large nose which lent his profile some character. Lyta, meanwhile, has the most uncommon eye colour he has never seen on Minbar, where if eyes are brown they are dark as night. Lyta's are the colour of gal'sha nuts. The assassin has not seen or eaten a gal'sha nut in cycles. That must be the only reason he is drowning in them.

"Credit for your thoughts," says the assassin, trying to sound understanding.

"Just - telepath stuff," says Lyta. The assassin raises an eyebrow. On Varner's face, there is hair to show the movement, which is curious, but the expression otherwise looks the same in the mirror as it does on a Minbari: prompting, curious. Lyta elaborates. "I don't usually talk to guys like you. Normals, I mean. Like... my last official client. He didn't really take much to telepaths. Well. It was the guy he was dealing with. Said if he knew who it was who made telepaths a regular part of business deals, he'd kill him."

"That's unfriendly," says the assassin.

"That's putting it mildly," says Lyta. "You know for all our skills, for all that I know it scares people, I usually just get used as a very fancy lie detector." She grins, easy and wide. The assassin finds her cheerfulness contagious, and smiles back.

"You said - official client," says the assassin. "Do you take a lot of unofficial clients?"

This wipes the grin from her face. "I, uh. I misspoke," she says.

"I don't think you did. They said a telepath helped figure out that the Vorlon ambassador was poisoned," says the assassin. "I supposed ... that it must have been you."

"That's against my contract," says Lyta defensively. "And besides, there's other teeps on the station."

"They could not have asked a Minbari telepath, none would dare approach a Vorlon." Except he himself, who approached one to kill him. Still, the exception merely proves the rule. "They could not have asked a Centauri - they wouldn't be able to afford such a service without bankrupting Earth Alliance. The Centauri Republic would make sure of that." His own experience with Londo proves that rule, too. "And no other race produces strong enough telepaths."

"You sure know a lot about telepaths," says Lyta.

"No," says the assassin with a smile, "not really. I did not grow up around any. Anyway, I can't imagine what it was like to interface with ... well. I have only heard stories."

"So have all of us," says Lyta. She casts a nervous, uncertain eye over the assassin - or Varner, since that's who she sees - before she continues. "I'm not very good at interfacing with non-humans. I don't have a lot of experience in it. It's ... it's strange," she admits, "uncomfortable."

"Is it always like that?" asks the assassin.

"It's ..." Lyta trails off. Finally she shakes her head. "I can't describe it," she says helplessly, "I just - you expect things to be where they are for humans - o-or others, sometimes, others are similar. In comparison to the Vorlon, everybody else is the same. Nothing was ... like that. His mind wasn't organised the way Humans' are. Uh - the way ours are."

The assassin is quiet a moment. "Did it hurt you?" he asks, gently. "To engage with him?" Some sympathy might garner him some more details.

It works. "Oh," says Lyta, flattered. "No. And yes. It was like - trying to squeeze yourself through a space that started out a perfect fit but became less and less you-shaped, until you came out the other end, distorted and misshapen, but still you, somehow. I saw - what he saw - and so for a moment there, I had to really put myself in his shoes." She smiles, sheepish. "Turns out Vorlons don't wear shoes, if you catch my drift."

"They said he saw the commander," says the assassin. "Even though - he has no motive."

"Del, I can only say what I saw," says Lyta. "It was the commander. You could try and argue, maybe makeup, prosthetics. But it was undeniably him. Physique, height, all of it matched. Then he said, welcome to Babylon 5 - in his voice, he said the same thing to me not so very long ago - then the Vorlon said something like lentil tsar valence, then, bam - the dermal patch on his - hand? tentacle? I don't know, my mind kind of fractured on that point." The assassin cannot help laughter, because the way Lyta relates it is very entertaining. It seems to soften Lyta further. "I feel like I was told to see a hand with the complete understanding that it wasn't a hand. And then there was ... pain. I heard screaming, I thought maybe my own voice? A deeper voice? Many voices. I could barely find my way out again."

This is all valuable information, and he wants desperately to hear a closer scene-by-scene recap but he can't dwell on details. How Lyta looks at him makes him wonder if she's already worked it out. "Like a labyrinth?" suggests the assassin instead.

"If I hadn't had skin contact," Lyta says, "I might've hurt myself."

At this, the assassin's mood - momentarily uplifted by the ludicrousness of lentil tsar valence - disappears. He looks uneasily at her small, thin hand, encased in black, wrapped around her mug. The material looks so thick that she probably feels little of the tea's warmth. "You actually touched him?" he asks. "With your bare hands."

That makes two of them who did. He wonders if she could sense his touch on the place where he put the dermal patch. If, through that connection, she could sense the moment that the Vorlon sensed him: not Commander Sinclair of the Earth Alliance, but Sonovar of the Wind Swords. Minbari but not Minbari: I see you, said the Vorlon.

But Lyta makes no mention of those words. Maybe she didn't hear them. Maybe they were for him alone.

"I had to intensify the contact to get anything at all from him," Lyta whispers. The assassin leans in, straining to hear her. "Through touch, it's - it's more. It's amplified."

"This has changed you," murmurs the assassin, watching her eyes carefully.

Lyta maintains the eye contact. "I have a different perspective on some things," she says. "When I disengaged with him, that - maybe - rebuilt some of me. Like a prism. Do you know what those are?"

The assassin shakes his head.

Something about the way Lyta is watching him feels competitive, judging. Spellbound, he cannot move, or look away. "Tiny piece of glass, takes white light in, refracts it into its components," Lyta explains.

"Oh, I know those," the assassin realises. Dorat'shae is the word in Fik. Practically the only thing he picked up from applied crystal mechanics.

"You know, part of being used as a fancy lie detector all the time means I get very good at detecting lies," says Lyta. She leans in closer. Only when she coyly drops her gaze does the assassin feel like he can breathe again.

"I'm sure," he whispers.

And then she tilts her face up, and presses her soft, nude mouth to his. He can feel every bit of it through the changeling net. Just one small kiss.

         Ivanova gasps out of shock.

         Oh, it gets better, says Draal.

"You're lying about something," she says, against him.

"Not about this," he says. He takes her face in his hands and kisses her back, soundly. Lyta gasps; she opens her mouth, and her tongue touches his. He thinks now he understands what she meant about her mind fracturing. This is a perfect distraction. It should be all part of the lie. But very shamefully, it's not. How could it be? The last time he courted was too long ago - an old friend, it hadn't worked out - he's been miserably alone all this time. And he cannot even blame misery or loneliness because oh, Valen's breath, he thinks, the warmth and feel of her lips, her tongue, it has never felt like this before. It's the sheer danger she presents, probably. Because how else could a Human -

Through touch it's amplified.

You expect things to be where they are for Humans.

I get a little used to winning. Having the upper hand on people.

She knows.

He pushes her back.

         Holy shit, says Ivanova.

         I told you, says Draal.

Lyta wipes her mouth. "Of course I know," she says, breathing heavily. "This is what I do for a living."

"Do you know what I do for a living," growls the assassin.

"Hide behind very good makeup, I take it," she retorts. "Don't know where you're hiding the bones. But look. The war is over. Alright? And anyway, this is a real strange honeypot scam, if that's what this is. But I don't want any part of - of whatever you're doing. So let's drop the guise. I already know what you are."

The assassin frowns, hoping his ire shows through on Del Varner's face, but if it does, then surely the bright blush on his cheeks does too. "You should be afraid of me," he says. His mouth tingles like he's been slapped.

"Because you're doing this for a reason?" asks Lyta. "Sure. But if you're looking to shut me up, you're going to find that hard to do. You think the station won't notice if their only Human telepath goes missing? And anyway, you approached me. If you didn't want me finding you out, you should have stayed away. Which means you wanted something. And I already know what it was, and I gave it to you. That means we're through."

Lyta takes her mug of tea, lifts it to her wicked mouth, and drains it of the last sip. "Thanks for the drink," she says, as she slams it back onto the tabletop. "If you come near me again, I'll scream." Then she hops off the stool and walks out the casino.

What does she know? How much of him did she hear? Could she hear his name? Did she catch his alliances? Does she know who he works for, who hired him?

Did she put together that if he's hiding as Del Varner, he could have hidden as Commander Sinclair?

But she's right - there's already one body (which isn't the Vorlon). A trail makes it obvious. They'll find Varner soon. The smell will expose him soon enough - unless the assassin can encourage a hungry pak'ma to find the body first. He can't make her disappear, too! And besides - the assassin finally gives into the urge to touch his lips, which are still tingling - he's not sure he wouldn't be able to do it without being so distracted he'd completely botch the crime.

He has to finish this job and get off this station, and never return. And to do that, the Vorlon has to die. The sooner, the better.

He can't kill her. But he could frame her. And she knows too much.

He follows her, fifty paces behind, the changeling net set to capture.

--

"Dr Kyle," begins Ambassador G'Kar. He stands in the advisory council chamber, proud and disdainful. It's not the first time Takashima's seen him like that. She shouldn't be surprised. "You were present with the rest of the party when the ambassador arrived, and you can confirm that Commander Sinclair was not present, correct?"

"Ah, that is correct," says Dr Kyle. "He was delayed in the transport tube."

"But!" says G'Kar. He holds a finger aloft, like a lecturer making a special point. He's certainly got a flair for the dramatic. "According to your own chief of security, the tube records do not reflect this. Why is that?"

Dr Kyle takes his time in answering. He looks just as angry as Takashima feels. G'Kar is making a spectacle of this and she cannot figure out why.

"I don't know," says Dr Kyle at last.

"Doctor - if I may," begins Ambassador Delenn. "We have heard that there was a witness. Is this true?"

"Yes," says Dr Kyle, "and no. The information is secondhand and may or may not be admissible. The witness thinks it may have been the commander but -"

"Why are you withholding the name of the witness, Dr Kyle!" interrupts G'Kar.

Dr Kyle exchanges a look with Takashima. She shrugs. Interruption is rude, but not in violation of their regulations.

"The witness requested anonymity," explains Dr Kyle, "for the time being. If this should go to trial, that would of course change."

"I see! Given that the information about the location of the poison proved accurate, it seems ... strange that you would question the rest of the story?"

"Objection," calls out Ambassador Neroon - who, with Ambassador Racine, is seated in the council audience. "Logical fallacy. That does not follow."

"The Ambassador for the Religious Caste sits this session on the Advisory Council! The Ambassador for the Warrior Caste is not present at the Advisory Council in official forms and is reminded that he must raise his hand if he wishes to make a motion from his courtesy seat located in the audience!" G'Kar thunders. "Do you wish to make a motion, Ambassador Neroon!"

Neroon exchanges a glance with Delenn, to Takashima's right, and then one with Racine. Then he pinches the bridge of his nose, just below his heavy brow ridge and sighs. He makes a hand gesture which is both dismissive and aggressive and which has Delenn coughing and Racine holding back a smile. Maybe that's Minbari for 'go frag yourself'.

         Huh. Duly noted, says Ivanova, approvingly.

         Please do not, Draal retorts.

"Due to the request for anonymity, the witness cannot be formally subpoenaed to the Advisory Council," declares Takashima, stepping in before this comes to blows - she doesn't trust Neroon, or G'Kar, to keep their fists out of it.

"Then at present all we have is the report of the witness," says G'Kar smoothly, "which we must take in its entirety without any speculation from anyone on the stand - isn't that right, Dr Kyle?"

Dr Kyle grimaces. "That's fair," he says.

"How's my jurisprudence so far, Ambassador?" sneers G'Kar.

Neroon makes that gesture again, this time accompanied by a nasty glower.

"Really, Neroon," mutters Delenn beside her.

"Now hold on, I don't think speculation is the right term," says Dr Kyle crossly.

"Overruled," says Takashima, interrupting. Dr Kyle throws her a glare and she returns it with a helpless shrug. Unfortunately, G'Kar's right on the regs this time.

Funny how he always is when he wants something badly.

"Ambassador Mollari!" cries G'Kar. Mollari jumps in his seat, waking up from his doze. "Do you have any questions?"

"Hm?" says Mollari. "Eh... no? Not at this time, thank you."

G'Kar raises a haughty brow. He pivots fast enough for his coattails to spin out. "One last thing, Doctor," he says, triumphant. "You said you were finally able to analyse the poison. What kind was it?"

Takashima narrows her eyes.

"Florazyne," says Dr Kyle. "It's pretty rare. Only comes from one system that I'm aware of - the Damocles sector."

G'Kar smiles wide. "And were you aware that the commander's woman recently returned from a trading expedition to the Damocles sector?"

"Now just a minute," growls Sinclair.

"Commander," says Takashima, warning.

"And that her ship, the Ulysses," G'Kar shrieks, "docked at this station twenty minutes before the attempted assassination!"

"Dammit!" cries Sinclair. "You leave Carolyn out of this!"

"Objection," adds Neroon - whose hand is for the record raised, but who has not been formally called upon to answer yet and has taken it upon himself to simply blurt out his thoughts anyway - "additional information bearing on the proceedings is to be provided to the council beforehand. Unless it is irrelevant, in which case this information adds nothing to your argument."

"It sure as hell is irrelevant," Sinclair snaps.

Garibaldi approaches Sinclair, his hands held open in a peaceful gesture. Sinclair looks angrily between G'Kar and Neroon and takes his seat.

"If the self-appointed defence has no further questions," says G'Kar, with a pointed look at Neroon, who returns it with a sneering curl of his lips, "then neither do I."

"If the self-appointed prosecution could maintain basic adherence to the Advisory Council's juristics," begins Neroon.

"This isn't a court," says Takashima. She strikes the gavel three times, because it takes three sharp hits of it before Neroon sits back in his chair. He folds his arms over his chest and looks away, his nose in the air, as if he weren't just acting like a child talking out of turn. "Look, let's - we'll break for recess," she says blandly, "let's reconvene in two hours." Everyone heaves a sigh of relief. Except G'Kar, Takashima notes, who heaves one in satisfaction, like a job well done.

"I need a drink," says Mollari, and flees out the door, casino-wards.

Dr Kyle too makes his exit the moment he can to return to Medlab 3 and hover over his Vorlon patient, so he misses the debriefing that takes place after the rest of the ambassadors have filed out of the Advisory Council chamber and Garibaldi, Takashima, and Sinclair are left alone.

"You okay?" asks Garibaldi.

"I'm fine," says Sinclair. "Michael - this is starting to look bad."

"We're not done here," says Garibaldi. "I don't believe what Lyta saw in Kosh's mind. I don't trust telepaths - never have, never will. Who knows what she really saw? We don't know if Kosh himself might've had something to do with what she saw."

"Ben says Kosh was out of it, completely, when Lyta came by," says Takashima. "I don't think he had much choice."

"That's the problem, none of us have any facts. Just suspicions and ... and thought-hearsay." Garibaldi shakes his head. "You can't build a case on that."

"It's technically not a trial," adds Sinclair.

"Try telling that to G'Kar," mutters Takashima.

"G'Kar said he was just nervous that what could happen to one ambassador could happen to others."

"Is that so!" Isn't G'Kar's concern touching. "Well, he's acting like he's out for blood."

Sinclair shrugs. "That's fine, I just don't want it to be Carolyn's."

"So it's better if it's yours, is it?" says Garibaldi.

"I didn't say that," says Sinclair.

"I just think there's some reason to doubt Lyta. And I've seen her a lot with Del Varner - the one who kept Londo from attending the reception."

"I should - check in with Dr Kyle," says Takashima. "And talk to G'Kar about his behaviour."

Both Sinclair and Garibaldi look at her curiously. "What's the rush?" asks Garibaldi.

"If this is about the investigation, I shouldn't hear about it, if I have to sit on the advisory council," Takashima says.

It's more that anything Garibaldi reveals about Del Varner will be already known to her. She's seen it already. She knows it all. And she has a sinking suspicion her surprise won't look real enough for Garibaldi's keen eyes. She's never been that great an actor.

Garibaldi seems to accept her excuse, though. "Alright," he says.

"If you could find out how Ambassador Kosh is doing," asks Sinclair.

"I will," says Takashima.

--

Sinclair watches Takashima leave, then turns to Garibaldi. "So what about Lyta and this- ?"

"Varner," supplies Garibaldi. "I checked with Earth Central. It turns out Varner's got a criminal record going back five years. He's been indicted three times in the last year for tech running." He extracts a flimsy from his inside coat pocket. "Take a look," he says, handing it to Sinclair.

Sinclair peers down at the file. He swipes a few times to get the synopsis. "All these indictments are from Earth Alliance court," he realises. "Smuggling forbidden tech from the Vega system - same again from the Proxima system."

"Exactly," says Garibaldi. "Now, the minute he sets foot on Babylon 5, he's in Earth jurisdiction and subject to arrest. Why would he take that kind of risk?"

"There would have to be something major at stake," agrees Sinclair.

"And something else," adds Garibaldi. "I spoke to Londo - Varner promised to back Londo's debts at the casino, then backed out. But Varner does a lot of business with the Centauri Republic - why risk alienating his clientele by burning Londo? From the sounds of it, he really burnt him good - they had a toss-up later in the Zocalo."

"For that matter, why promise to back Londo at all?" wonders Sinclair. "Tech runners aren't noted for generosity."

"No," says Garibaldi, "and apparently Varner's been heavily in debt. He couldn't've paid Londo's debts if he wanted to." He shrugs. "It just doesn't add up. I don't know how he fits in yet, but I'll bet you a hundred credits he's involved."

"Well, we've only got an hour until we reconvene." Sinclair hands the flimsy back to Garibaldi. "I think it's about time you had a little talk with Mr Varner."

Garibaldi nods. "Think I'll try the casino. Looks like it's the perfect place to be for shifty business, isn't it."

"Go get that hundred credit bet," jokes Sinclair.

"I'd really rather get some answers," replies Garibaldi.

--

Dr Kyle is hard at work when Takashima arrives in Medlab 3. "Any luck?" she asks.

"Some," says Dr Kyle. "I just got some information from the Minbari about florazyne."

From the Minbari? "Ambassador Delenn?"

"Ambassador Racine," says Dr Kyle. He smiles, holding up a flimsy. "He's not a bad sort."

"You two are of a pair," says Takashima.

"Maybe he thinks we old folk have to stick together. Do you know, he's nearly a hundred and twenty? I certainly hope he doesn't think I'm that old. In any case, between his files on the florazyne and its actions, and what I've been able to glean from tests on Kosh himself, the poison's acting as a nerve agent. Would have taken me at least two hours to work out on my own."

Then Ambassador Kosh must be in awful pain. "Those were outlawed years ago."

"After the Dilgar war, yes. The problem, of course, is that Kosh doesn't have nerves the way we have nerves, and so the poison is a little trickier to work around. But I don't think it's passed into where he keeps his brain, which means I should be able to manufacture a counteragent within about eight hours."

"How long has Kosh got?"

Dr Kyle looks grim. "Less than twelve." He extracts from his pocket a little metal canister and holds it to his arm before he depresses it. More stims. "There isn't much room for error, Laurel," he says gravely.

"We'll get through this, Ben," Takashima replies.

Her comms link pings. "Takashima," she says, answering, "go."

"Garibaldi here," comes the reply. "Look, I'm following up on another lead, but I just thought you should know, 'cause you said you were looking for G'Kar. Turns out he's hanging out with Londo in the casino."

A Narn and a Centauri walk into a bar. Sounds like a bad joke. "I'll check it out," says Takashima. "Good luck." She nods to Dr Kyle as she leaves, but he's already back at work, his focus chemically renewed.

Mollari has never been more pleased to see her when she finds him and G'Kar in the casino.

"Ambassadors G'Kar, Mollari," says Takashima. "I'm so glad I caught you both here - I couldn't find you in either of your quarters."

"We are busy at the moment," says G'Kar icily.

"Not that busy," says Londo. He looks like he'd rather be anywhere else, but G'Kar is sticking to him like glue.

"I just thought you both might like to know that the ambassador will probably pull through. We got some more information about the poison from the Minbari, and we're working on a counteragent now."

"And for what could we need to know this?" asks G'Kar.

"Why, for your own safety. You're ambassadors too," says Takashima. "What threatens one ambassador could threaten others."

Mollari pales. G'Kar, normally expressive, keeps his face fixed.

"I should leave," says Mollari.

"I too," adds G'Kar.

How very interesting, thinks Takashima. "See you both in the council chamber in a half hour," she says.

--

Neroon is back in his chambers not two minutes before the door chime rings. "Enter," he calls.

Outside upon the threshold stands a single Minbari man. He wears plain dark robes and is otherwise nondescript and ordinary, unrecognisable from any Warrior or Worker or Religious Caste member, with the exception of his natural-gnarled bonecrest and his facial markings. "Ambassador," he says, and bows. "Caste Elder Neroon." He looks around, nervous. "May I -"

"Come in," says Neroon. "Sit down."

The man does so, on a small couch. The door closes behind him. Neroon remains standing and folds his arms over his chest.

Neroon already knows that 'factions' have split - at least in practice, they continue to pay lip service - with their government as of the end of the war. He has had his strong suspicions that it is the Wind Swords clan. Possibly also Fire Wings. What is unexpected about this is that any member of the Wind Swords should come forward. Perhaps it is one of them who has had a change of heart.

"You do not know me," begins the man. He doesn't look much younger than Neroon himself - perhaps 35 cycles. "I have been away from Minbar for - for quite some time -"

"State what you want, and what you're willing to give up in exchange for it," says Neroon flatly.

The man smiles grimly. "They said you were lethal, they did not say you were uncaring."

"I have little time, and less patience," says Neroon. "You are here because you want something you cannot otherwise procure. And you have something of value. I suspect information. Am I correct?"

The man nods. "Yes," he says, "that's an accurate synopsis of the facts."

"I know that a faction has been detected that operates in contrast to our government's decree to end the war with the Humans. You're of that faction?"

"Yes," says the man.

"And I can tell from your facial markings that you're a Wind Sword."

The man shuffles in his seat, uncomfortable. He reaches behind and scratches the base of his bonecrest. "Yes," he says at last.

"You are uneasy at the thought of selling them out," says Neroon.

"Yes."

Neroon lets there be silence for a moment. "But?" he prompts, when the man does not volunteer.

"But they have made me do some - some very terrible things," he blurts. "In a way, they have already sold me out. Sold out my honour." He sighs. "What is left of it. I think - even if I were permitted to set foot on Minbar again, I would always be a pariah."

"There's room with the Norsai," suggests Neroon.

"I tried the Norsai, long ago," says the man. "It seemed to me, then, that news travels fast."

"The workers like to gossip. What is it you want ...?"

"Sonovar," says the man.

Sonovar, thinks Neroon. That sounds familiar. "Any relation to -"

"The same," says Sonovar, looking guilty. "One and the same."

Neroon tuts. "If you want to return anywhere in Minbari space and rejoin its society, this will be exceedingly difficult for you," he says.

"I made one mistake, cycles ago," says Sonovar, beseeching. "And I have been paying my penance ever since. And every time I try and pay more, there comes more to pay."

Neroon frowns, studying him. "What have you been doing, here on Babylon 5?"

Sonovar sighs. "Nothing good," he admits.

Then the faction is actively engaged on the station. That is not good. The Humans should absolutely know about this. But not before Neroon has had a chance to know exactly what they have been up to. There is no sense in alarming them, and at any rate the Wind Swords is the Warrior Caste's problem first and foremost. (Well. And the Religious Caste's, but that is debatable.) "I could find work for you here," Neroon decides. There has been talk, after all, of hiring aides for the ambassadors.

But Sonovar shakes his head. "I don't want to be here," he says. "I want nothing more to leave. I can't stand this place, I cannot be here any longer."

"Minbar will not have you -"

"Then what is the point!" he cries. "What is the point of any of this!" He begins to wring his hands and something of the way he does so draws Neroon's attention to his bones and tendons. The way his are shifting beneath the skin is entirely unnatural.

He is wired with explosives.

Neroon quickly fixes his expression back to haughtily impassive.

Surely the Wind Swords wouldn't have done something so perverse.  It is unsurprising that whoever is handling him wants to ensure they are not found out. So, a hollow tooth, filled with poison, perhaps. Neroon has a space for one himself. But explosives? The Wind Swords have never been that militant. Is that really the Wind Swords' style? They have become more active, Neroon realises. Significantly more dangerous. What have they been doing here?

And then another, horrifying thought occurs to him. Might they have been responsible for the fallen Vorlon?

"This station is under Earth jurisdiction," explains Neroon, "which means that any crime committed on the station is theirs to prosecute, unless there exists extradition precedent. There is currently none such yet between Earth and Minbar. What that means is there is room for more ... subjective data, such as your own testimony about what you have seen, done, and committed, as evidence against -"

"Against the Wind Swords," supplies Sonovar. "You would have me betray my clan?"

"As you say, has not your clan already betrayed you?" argues Neroon. "Has not your clan already betrayed all of Minbar? What are your betrayals to that? You are Minbari first, you are Warrior Caste second, you are Wind Sword third."

"Do you think this is easy for me? To sell out secrets to a Star Rider!"

"Haven't you sold them out to worse?" sneers Neroon.

"You insult me," says Sonovar, glaring.

"You insult the Warrior Caste," says Neroon. "If I am correct in what I suspect you've been involved in, here on this station - there is not much help for you besides your information. You have put yourself in too dangerous a position."

"Then I shall get myself out of it, like I always do," says Sonovar angrily, and he storms out of Neroon's chambers.

Well, perhaps Neroon was a little heavy-handed. Let him run, let him think on it, but Sonovar is running out of options. Before too long, he will have to return. His alternative is detonating the explosives he has been wired with, and if he does that, and obliterates the station, then the Humans will declare war, and this time they will have allies, because Minbar instigated it. There is no conceivable way the Wind Swords are prepared for that.

--

Ambassador Racine is found in his own quarters in Green sector. To be so close to the Religious Caste alarms the assassin, but within seconds of ringing, the door opens.

On the other side is the ambassador, seated at a desk, writing something in a lurid script with a beautiful pen. The nib is sharp and expensive. "Sit," offers Racine, gesturing to the chair opposite him on the other side of the desk.

The assassin does. "I have - I have nowhere else to turn," he says. "Only you can help me."

Racine looks up, takes him in in a glance, and returns to his work. He's poring over some sort of plans, a massive flimsy file showing a graph. The file is pinned at the four corners with four identical squares of tape. There's lines everywhere, connecting from nodes and modules to others. Sometimes they cross, other times they bridge, with particular symbols. The rest of it is all nonsense to the assassin. "Plans for a gravitational generator," explains Racine. He caps the pen and sets it down very precisely so that it is in line with the edge of the file. "You likely wouldn't know what it describes," Racine adds. "It isn't taught to the Warrior Caste."

"It means nothing to me," admits the assassin.

"So why is it the Worker Caste ambassador is the only one who can help you, when there is on this station a Warrior Caste ambassador?"

But credit to the assassin's first inclination: Racine has not thrown him out. In fact he is nearly toying with him, like a gokk would with smaller vermin prey. Something the assassin has done or said has pleased him.

"There's..." he struggles to explain. "There's differences in the clans in the Warrior Caste. Ambassador Neroon is - is of a different clan than mine."

Racine raises his eyebrows. "Are they truly so different?"

"What I have to share is information," says the assassin. "And - to give it to one of another clan is - probably worse, in my opinion, more of a betrayal - than giving it to another caste."

"And why did you not choose the Religious Caste? They do so love their information," Racine says.

"Because the information involves the development of certain technologies by my clan," says the assassin. "The Religious Caste would not further these. It's my opinion that some good can be made of them! But at the moment -"

"At the moment, no good is being made of them," supplies Racine.

"You understand my position," says the assassin. "I want nothing more than to reintegrate into Minbari society. I have been away so long. But I would need - to hide. More the reason that I cannot go to Neroon, as I cannot remain in the Warrior Caste. Will you help me in this?"

"I could find a place for you in the Worker Caste," says Racine. He then adds, "If it wouldn't hurt your delicate Warrior sensibilities to take such a demotion."

But the assassin shakes his head. "That is a great promotion from my current position," he says.

This pleases Racine and he smiles, satisfied. "Then what are your skills?" he asks.

"That is another problem," the assassin says. "I haven't any to offer that would be comparable - for the Worker Caste."

"There are relatively unskilled trades in some locations," says Racine. "With the Norsai, for example. Agricultural products can be harvested with a minimum of training and experience."

"Neroon also mentioned the Norsai. I was hoping for something on Minbar," says the assassin.

"That will take some time to look into," says Racine.

"How long?" asks the assassin.

"As long as it takes with my resources!" Racine snaps, irritable. "If you don't like that, you can perhaps try your luck with the other ambassadors! I am sure I'm the last one you've asked! I always am."

The assassin gapes. He closes his mouth. He feels like he's tripped over a landmine. "I apologise," he says. Neroon would have better resources. Certainly, Delenn might have too. Delenn, who does not mind much of Minbar knowing that she is Satai. But Delenn would also want him to spend the rest of his life in repentance. He has already spent the past ten cycles in fruitless repentance and suffering and this has brought him no relief.

"Really, you ought to have learned something about haste in the Warrior Caste," says Racine. "Though, judging from the actions of our Warrior Ambassador, perhaps many lessons on the warnings of haste were overlooked in favour of other more militant endeavours. I see that's clearly the case for you. Return in one day."

"Could it possibly... be a Minbari day?" asks the assassin meekly. "As they are shorter -"

"Out," says Racine.

The assassin wastes no time in leaving.

--

The access system to Varner's door, as Garibaldi and his team finds, is completely nonfunctional. From the inside, the panel looks like it's been smashed to pieces, but nobody's been by to fix it, which means nobody's called it in. Garibaldi programs a security override and the door pops ajar. He lets himself in.

"C'mon," he says to his two staff members, "check around." One checks the back, the other checks the bedroom. It's then that Garibaldi notices the water on the floor, leading to the cabinet, from which an eerie blue light emanates.

He opens the cabinet - it's a fish tank, of all things. Only in Blue sector, he thinks. Varner must've been expecting a big payoff to have rented out a place like this when he could barely afford a night in a closet in Brown-91.

Suspended in the fish tank, face-first, is what looks like Del Varner. Hard to say, since his face is wrinkly and pruned. He looks like he's been there a day or two.

Dammit, thinks Garibaldi. Varner was the key to the whole thing. That was his one lead. All he's got left is talking to Lyta - assuming he can trust what she says.

"Alright," he tells the two staff members. "Collect the personal effects, we'll go through them with the team."

"And the computer?" asks one of them.

"Busted?"

"No, worse. There's a passcode lock. Three attempts remaining and if they're all wrong, it'll wipe the drive."

A tech runner absolutely would've made use of the computer. "Leave it for now, we'll seal off the area and come back to it if we have to."

--

Red level 42 had said the missive, and so the Minbari assassin presents himself there in as little time as he can manage, after procuring himself a breathing apparatus. G'Kar is already waiting, pacing back and forth with his arms clasped behind his back. G'Kar - doesn't have a breathing apparatus. Interesting, because the atmosphere in Red-42 isn't supposed to be breathable by any but the Gaim. That includes Minbari, and Narn.

G'Kar turns and spots him. "It's me," the assassin says, in Lyta Alexander's voice, with Lyta Alexander's face, using a Human's breathing apparatus. He approaches slowly, his eyes narrowed. "No oxygen mask?"

G'Kar draws nearer, leaning the assassin's way, and pulls down the collar of his stiff coat. "Gill implants," he says, "painful to use, but -"

"But efficient," says the assassin, approvingly.

"Precisely," says G'Kar. He seems proud. The assassin grins behind his own mask. Flattery will get you everywhere - flattery works on Narn. But then G'Kar's face sobers. "There's been a complication," he says. The fellow at the end of Red-42 starts to take note of them. G'Kar turns them both away and walks off down the hall. "Come," he says, his voice low.

"What's the trouble?" murmurs the assassin.

"The Humans have found Varner," says G'Kar. "You could have stored the body more carefully."

"I wasn't aware you were overly concerned about it," says the assassin. "If you had mentioned -"

"I'm concerned about attention," says G'Kar.

"Any attention about the real reason I'm here, you can pin on Varner. He won't answer. Dead men never do." Sometimes a body count can be useful.

"Is that why you're going around as the telepath now?"

Not entirely. "I have my reasons," says the assassin.

"Not that I mind. She's easier on the eyes than Varner was."

"She's a Human," says the assassin, to make it sound as though he tactfully disagrees.

"The real problem is the matter of the counteragent. They found one for the poison used."

"That's impossible!" the assassin exclaims, barely keeping his voice a hush. "Sh- My associate in the Wind Swords says that they used sophisticated technology in its design. The Humans should have had no way to find the counteragent in that time. The Humans are not that clever."

"You'd be surprised," says G'Kar. "There's a chance they might have worked it out on their own, but they didn't." G'Kar stops now, and looms down at the assassin. At least Varner was tall enough to intimidate. G'Kar looms over Lyta's height easily. "Your Worker Caste ambassador gave them extensive files on the poison, and enough about Vorlon biology for the Humans to be able to put two and two together. They'll have the counter-agent within the hour! The Vorlon was scheduled to die in a little over ten hours."

Even if they lose the counteragent somehow, they could manufacture another within an hour, and try again. They've been bought too much time - with Ambassador Racine's assistance.

Racine must have figured it out. The assassin cannot trust the Worker Caste now - it's Neroon or nothing. And nothing doesn't get him paid.

"I have already spoken to your Warrior and Worker Caste ambassadors," says G'Kar. "I highly doubt it will influence their decisions in the Advisory Council in regards to the fate of the Human Commander. The fate of the Vorlon Ambassador, therefore, becomes your responsibility."

"I shall take care of it forthwith," says the assassin.

"See that you do," says G'Kar.

--

Racine calls a meeting before their reentry into the Advisory Council chamber, so they convene for ten minutes in the antechamber next door, an empty room with three chairs and a table. It seems like Babylon 5 has set this up for exactly this purpose: Minbari ambassadorial discussions.

The table is triangular. Well, they've grown to know us well, thinks Neroon darkly.

"In the coming Advisory Council meeting, Ambassador G'Kar will call for a vote for the extradition of Commander Sinclair to the Vorlon homeworld," announces Racine.

Delenn sits straight up in her chair. "He did not tell this to me," she says angrily.

"He was aware that your opinion would be consulted before the meeting in such a fashion. He knew you would be presently informed."

She turns to Neroon. "Did you know of this?" she snaps.

"What does it matter?" mutters Neroon, doctoring his speech to obscure the fact that yes, he did know, lest Delenn outright ask him - again. Clearly, it does matter to her, very badly. "We have three voices, one vote. The vote is not declared before voices meet. He knew Racine would have to bring this to us, or risk us calling for a recess which would stall him in the Council."

Neroon keeps quiet of the fact that G'Kar evidently didn't discuss this with Delenn. But he did with Neroon, and Racine. Thus he met with Delenn once to discuss alliances with the Narn, then once with Neroon to discuss the same. Possibly, he met also with Racine. Then he met once more with Racine and once more with Neroon to discuss the vote to extradite the Babylon 5 Station Commander.

G'Kar sees Delenn as powerful, but possibly not Racine. Whether he sees Neroon as powerful is not clear - he attempted to provoke Neroon into alliance, not encourage one. Furthermore, he sees Racine and Neroon as variable, as influentiable. But not Delenn. Why not?

Is it really so clear to the Narn that the power hierarchy between the castes appears as it is? They must do better in keeping their secrets.

"It is in light of the fact that we have three voices and one vote that he has brought this to us beforehand," Racine continues. "I am to understand he has brought this to no one else. He intends to make something of a spectacle of it."

"That does not surprise me," says Delenn. She is bitter in saying so but otherwise glad that some things are not surprises, Neroon notes. The Religious Caste dislikes being unknowing. Well, so does the Warrior Caste dislike being disarmed.

"His argument is that we are not a court - which we are not - and since a Vorlon is the victim and a Human the suspect, it is congenial to suggest extradition to their space for their processing," explains Racine. "His reasoning being that this way it will assuage any wounds between the Vorlons and the Humans."

"I wonder whether Earth's Government will truly see it as congenial," wonders Delenn, "to abscond with one of their citizens, one in so high a position, and whisk him away to an area of space from which no one has returned."

"That is not Minbar's concern," says Racine.

"No, but it becomes Minbar's concern should we vote for his extradition, and the Earth Alliance disagree with the judgement," adds Neroon.

"I am surprised at you, Neroon," says Racine. Good, thinks Neroon. "I would not have thought you cared about a single trivial Human."

"I don't," says Neroon. "Where he should fall, I am certain another would pop up in his stead. That is little matter. But for Minbar to be a deciding vote in his extradition -"

"I agree," says Delenn.

"Good," says Racine. "Then we three are in agreement to withdraw our vote in an abstention."

"No abstention," says Delenn. "We must vote against."

"If we should abstain, then this promotes no action," says Racine. "Otherwise we may suffer in our relations with the Vorlons, should they be insulted."

"I would not presume the emotions of a Vorlon," says Delenn. "The Worker Caste has had little dealings with them. The Religious Caste has had many, detailed in our histories."

"Excuse me," says Racine, tersely. When he's angry his ears seem to flatten against the sides of his neck. "That presumption is yours, Priestess. I have served on the Grey Council as long as you have been alive."

Neroon says nothing, his eyes darting from between the two.

"And in such time neither of our castes have had significant interactions with the Vorlons," says Delenn. "Not until the old enemy returns, and then they will come."

Now Racine says nothing. Neroon watches as Delenn and Racine continue to say nothing at each other.

If I were not here, he thinks, this would be Grey Council matter discussion with Grey Council knowledge. It is because I am here that they cannot speak and are forced silent.

"We do not possess all the information, about this poisoner, about this crime," says Neroon gently. "There remain too many inconsistencies." Both Satai look at him like he does not belong, startled after he breaks their silence. Not for the first time he wonders whether one or both of them are telepathic. Maybe he really did interrupt a conversation. "Abstention therefore is legally appropriate. There is precedent for this in our law. That is writ. We can debate who knows the Vorlons better all afternoon and go nowhere. But we all three of us know our people. And our people would abstain. As they have done on similar enough matters."

Racine smiles and inclines his head, the way Neroon's grandmother used to do to him when he was particularly well-behaved. "The Alyt presents a strong argument."

This is very patronising praise, which Racine is trying to soften by calling him by his title, but Neroon makes no reply. This reaction does not surprise him, after Racine's ire against Delenn's own patronising. A Religious Caste Satai and a Worker Caste Satai theoretically do not outrank each other, but for the subtle unspoken precedences in the castes. A Worker Caste Satai clearly outranks a Warrior Caste Elder. The cleanest water is in the mountain spring; the river's outflow in the valley contains all the detritus picked up along the way.

         Shit rolls downhill, supplies Ivanova.

         More succinct, but slightly less eloquent, says Draal.

Delenn clearly does not like this. "I abstain from this decision," she says finally.

"Then that is an abstention for the Advisory Council," says Racine. "Two votes of three in favour of abstention is a majority. Your vote is not needed. So the ultimate vote for the Advisory Council shall itself be abstention. Do you disagree?"

"We should have unanimity in this decision, not mere majority," says Delenn.

"It is not a directly Minbar matter," says Racine.

"It is a matter that involves life or death," says Delenn. "Then it is unanimity that is required. Those are regulations."

"But not life or death of a Minbari," says Neroon.

Both Delenn and Racine look at him with hot, defiant looks. Neroon rolls his eyes and remains silent. Fine, let the Satai battle each other.

"We do not interfere, Delenn," says Racine. "Those are our orders."

Something about that phrase has Delenn thinking. "Very well," she says. "I vote to abstain. And thus in any case, we obtain unanimity."

"Well," snaps Neroon. "I shall leave you two to inform the Grey Council about it. I have the idea somehow that you would get through quicker than I."

         Will he ever not be upset about the fact that he's not one of them? asks Ivanova.

         Not in this universe, says Draal. Had he truly wanted it, he ought to have applied as aide to the Warrior Caste Satai no later than his twentieth cycle. Instead he became a career officer aboard the warships. This will not stop him from complaining.

Not a quarter of an hour later are they sitting in the session.

"The Babylon 5 Advisory Council is hereby reconvened," announces Takashima. "Recorders are activated. Ambassador G'Kar - you wish to make a motion?"

"Commander Sinclair is a respected member of the Earth Alliance," begins G'Kar. "And of this council. The idea that he may have had something to do with the attempted murder of Ambassador Kosh is repellent to everyone here. Granted - there is a long history of animosity between some of our member races - granted that Commander Sinclair personally took part in the recent Earth-Minbari War!" Neroon puts up his hand. G'Kar ignores it, but Takashima does not. "Granted -"

"Ambassador," says Takashima.

"Yes, of course," says G'Kar. "I believe that it is inappropriate for this council to act as judge and jury in this matter. We are not a court and we do not have all the facts before us! May I humbly suggest that we decline jurisdiction in this matter. This is more properly a matter for a true court of law! A court of law such as that on the Vorlon homeworld. After all, the crime committed was against their ambassador. I therefore move that Commander Sinclair be remanded for transport to the Vorlon homeworld - along with whatever witnesses and evidence that has been accumulated - there to stand trial on the charge of attempted murder."

"Ambassador!" Takashima snaps.

"Unless it is in the interest of the Earth Alliance to try and cover up the facts!" G'Kar snaps back. "If that is the case then Babylon 5 is a fraud! Now. A motion stands before this council, it must be voted upon! As the duly appointed representative of the Narn Regime I vote yes. What do the rest of you have to say?"

Someone interrupts. "Calling for a brief recess," says Mr Garibaldi. Takashima, Neroon notes, has never looked so thrilled to use her gavel. "If the Warrior Caste Ambassador can follow me, you've got a call."

Neroon follows Mr Garibaldi to the antechamber, where a message alert blinks on the computer via StellarCom. "You've got very peculiar timing," says Garibaldi. He leaves Neroon inside and shuts the door.

"Accept," says Neroon.

A grey-hooded figure appears on screen. "Caste Elder Neroon of the Star Riders," they announce in greeting. The voice is male, older. He unveils his hood.

"Leraval of the Fire Wings," says Neroon, surprised.

"Satai Leraval," he replies.

So this is the missing third.

"We are in agreement," Satai Leraval continues. "Commander Sinclair should be extradited. You will vote yes to his extradition."

"The vote is happening now," warns Neroon.

"Yes. Our sincerest apologies for the lateness. There was much discussion. You will call for a recess and inform the others. This comes from the three Satai of the Warrior Caste."

If this matter has to be debated in the Grey Council, thinks Neroon, then the Grey Council should inform its others. They clearly have not, for only Neroon was summoned for a call. Racine wanted abstention to show that there was no Minbari input on the extradition of a human to Vorlon space. Delenn wanted to vote no. If either had received information from the Grey Council, they would have called for the recess. They did not.

This is not a Grey Council decision, but a decision made only by the three Warrior Caste Satai.

Neroon is well aware of the law. This is not allowed.

"When he reaches Vorlon space, he will, of course, be killed on sight," says Neroon.

"Not necessarily. They know he is coming. They will know what to do." Satai Leraval smiles. "You may tell the others that, some things have to return home. They will understand what is meant."

Neroon frowns. If they will understand, then Satai Leraval should tell them himself, not use Neroon as a go-between. "Do you mean to say he is a Vorlon?"

"You do not understand," says Satai Leraval icily.

"Then make me understand," says Neroon.

"It is not for you to understand." Satai Leraval's mouth thins and his brow furrows. "You have been issued orders. Do you understand them, Alyt Neroon?" he asks, stern.

Neroon stands straight, salutes. "Yes, Satai," he says, bowing.

"Good," snaps Satai Leraval. "Then execute them." The transmission terminates.

Neroon returns to the chamber, escorted by Mr Garibaldi.

"How was your call?" whispers Racine, when Neroon sits back down in his chair.

I have to call for a recess, thinks Neroon. These words are on the tip of his tongue.

"Very well," he whispers back. "Have we voted?"

"Not yet," says Racine.

"Ah," says Neroon, noncommittal. Good, he should say. Because I have to call for a recess -

He watches as Earth's replacement for Sinclair - Takashima - affirms her vote against the extradition of Sinclair to the Vorlons.

- we need to discuss the vote -

He should say it.

- I must speak briefly with the Religious and Worker Caste Ambassadors -

He must say something.

- some things have to return home -

         Racine sure is staring at Neroon pretty hard, notices Ivanova.

         Yes, says Draal, you're finally learning something - how worthwhile it is to pay attention to the Worker Caste.

         He knew, Ivanova realises. He knew Neroon would get that call. Of course! He knows who that Grey Council member has been for the past three years. Because he's on the Grey Council. He knows - he's waiting for Neroon to act on it. He wants to see what Neroon will do.

"Due to the triplicity of the appointed representatives for the Minbari Federation, we were made aware of the motion before the Advisory Council reconvened, to discuss our unanimous vote," says Delenn, slowly. "Which we now present. The Minbari Federation... abstains," she at last announces.

Neroon remains stiff and nervous. He exhales a single breath and is ashamed to find it passing from him shakily. He must calm himself. I have just disregarded a direct order from a Satai of my own caste, he thinks. What calm is there to be found?

Beside him, Racine is smiling. "Do not punish yourself overly," he whispers. As gentle as his utterance is, Neroon nevertheless is startled at the intrusion. His first inclination is to snap something nasty in return, but Racine continues to speak and, in so doing, horrifies him further. "No matter what Leraval told you. Delenn shall vote as she believes necessary, regardless of the results of our meetings."

"She cannot," Neroon hisses, "she has to take our opinions into consideration! Those are regulations. That's why we're here!"

"Is it?" asks Racine, his brow raised.

You feel it too, thinks Neroon. That we are little more than figureheads. That Delenn holds the real power - all of it.

Racine's attention has shifted. He watches as the Centauri ambassador grits his teeth and takes his time in speaking. "Delenn has always believed it easier to ask forgiveness than beg permission," says Racine. "In many cases, she is right." He looks again at Neroon, directly. Neroon feels chastised like a student in front of a master. That is probably exactly what Racine wants. "She does this often, on the Grey Council. Because you do not know this about her, I am sharing this with you now. If Leraval enquires, you may say this."

"Shift blame to the Religious Caste?"

Racine lifts a shoulder. "Such a move will not be anything the Warrior Caste finds surprising."

Why tell him, though? Neroon wonders. Because Racine possesses a sense of justice? Or is this his way of competing with Delenn? Possibly both. And then - more worrisome - how could he have known immediately it was Leraval?

Racine has further insights about the other Satai. Insights Neroon might need. If Neroon plays his cards right - like his pretended naivete - he could encourage Racine to share more. (Because Delenn certainly will not. The Religious Caste hoards knowledge for its own, and does not share.)

Neroon sets his facial expression into a manner of awe and licks his lips before he speaks, like he is nervous. "You did not have to... share this insight with me," he says, hushed. "Thank you, Satai Racine. You honour me with your confidence." And, though there is a dual purpose to them, he does mean the words.

Racine is pleased, despite himself, and he gives a polite nod. Then he sits back in his chair, satisfied.

Perhaps you want to play Religious, just as badly. You crave the power of their secrets, of their information. You like to have special knowledge over someone else, thinks Neroon. You like me more when I am naive and respectful. You share things with me then, like indulging a particularly well-behaved child in a treat.

Today I have learned something valuable about two Satai, he thinks.

         He's a lot cleverer than I thought, notes Ivanova.

         Not clever enough, says Draal. A warrior should identify their foes carefully. Racine is his ally. Leraval is not. This is not the first time Neroon has fallen into the trap of caste loyalty taking precedence over logic in allyship. And, alas, it shall not be the last.

         Ivanova, still watching Neroon, doesn't reply.

         In any case, Draal adds, it amounts to nothing.

"The Centauri Republic votes yes," says Mollari.

"Deadlock, Ambassador," declares Takashima. "Two in favour, two opposed or abstaining."

"But there is a fifth vote to be heard from," adds G'Kar. "Two hours ago, I communicated my intentions to the leaders of the Vorlon Empire. They reached a decision on the matter, and asked me to cast their vote on their behalf: they vote yes - to convey Commander Sinclair to their world for trial! Which makes the vote three to two; the motion is passed. Deportation is to take place within twelve hours."

So, Neroon realises, in the end, after all that - after their discussion, after the vote, after the call, after disobeying an order from a Satai - it all amounts to nothing. Sinclair will die anyway. All for nothing.

Well, he is just a Human.

Yet Neroon feels strangely numb.

"Good day," finishes G'Kar greasily.

--

Neroon comes later to Racine's chambers. Racine is entirely unsurprised to see him. "Have you had any visitors lately?" asks Neroon.

"Why would I?" says Racine, light and evasive. "Should I be expecting one?"

This almost certainly means he has, and he is trying to figure out how much Neroon knows. Neroon will play dumb for now. "There's a Minbari Warrior on the station," he says. "He wants to return to Minbar, but can't. I suspected he would come to you."

"Why me? You're the Warrior Caste ambassador."

"And you have considerable resources outside our caste. If I were in his position, that would be my strategy."

"He knows nothing of my resources. I have not revealed myself to him as Satai. And he has no viable trade skills," says Racine.

"I thought you might say that. Even day labour?"

"Even day labour requires some knowledge to operate and maintain the machinery." Racine narrows his eyes, hawkish and predatory. "What do you think of workers, we are all idiots incapable of enlightenment?"

"Not at all," says Neroon, "that technology has so quickly advanced that even its operation is so specialised, I expect. The surprise is from hearing it. You keep much from us," he concludes, with no little approval. "As the Religious Caste has its own secrets, I take it."

The likening to the Religious Caste doesn't soften Racine as much as Neroon would have thought. Perhaps he was incorrect in his characterisation. "There are whole disciplines of pedagogical operation that exist to simplify controls for the Warrior Caste," Racine says.

That stings a little. But Neroon makes no reaction, which surprises Racine. He must already anticipate Neroon's brashness.

         Neroon needs a better poker face than 'better-than-you' haughty, says Ivanova.

         You should tell him that, someday, if ever you meet, observes Draal with a sly grin.

         No-o, thank you, replies Ivanova.

"Perhaps somewhere someone needs a guard," Neroon suggests.

"There exist guards aplenty on Minbar, such as the entirety of the non-serving officers in the Warrior Caste. Some say we have too many already. - Why can he not simply return? Who is this mystery Warrior who hides his identity? Has he no associates, no network? Surely you knew him when he came aboard."

"But I am not made aware of the movements of every Warrior Caste member that passes through the station," says Neroon.

"Perhaps you should be," suggests Racine. "After all, there are so few. And every Worker Caste member is required to register with me. And every Religious Caste member with Delenn."

"When a Satai makes a request, it isn't refused," points out Neroon.

"Perhaps that's your problem," says Racine with a sneer.

A beat. Neroon takes a deep breath.

Then he inclines his head, modestly, and lowers his eyes to the ground. "Perhaps," he replies evasively.

         Wow, he's taking this real well, thinks Ivanova. I'm a little impressed.

         I am not. He is manipulating Racine skillfully, says Draal with distaste. Neroon knows much about this individual, such as his identity, his allegiances, and yet note that Racine has been doing all the talking, and Neroon has given up none of his own information.

         It's Racine's own fault he likes to be reminded of his position, argues Ivanova.

         Racine is not his foe. And more importantly, manipulation, reminds Draal, is not diplomacy.

         Isn't it, though? thinks Ivanova. Maybe just a little bit.

"I don't know how he came to Babylon 5," says Racine. "But it is possible we could find work for him here."

"How do you figure?"

"Someone - the Centauri, I believe - had thought up the idea of an assistant position. As the station grows busier I have less time for my research. I might need an assistant."

"You would accept this Warrior -"

"Of course not," says Racine icily. "But if I am permitted an assistant in my capacity as ambassador, surely the Warrior Caste ambassador would be permitted one as well. Satai or no."

"I take your point," says Neroon.

Racine peers at him, studying. "You do not seem enthused."

"I work best alone."

"Hm," says Racine. "That would be my advice."

"Thank you, Satai," says Neroon, though it grates him, and salutes with a deep bow. "You have given me much to think about."

"You are most welcome," replies Racine. "Do you know if he has visited Delenn?"

Truly, Neroon doesn't. "I highly doubt it. I do not think he will. He wanted to offer me information. Given that he is here with no ability to return on his own, the information he has must be kept secret. Even from within the Warrior Caste. This suggests to me that the information is somewhat… volatile. Precisely how, I cannot imagine. I dare not imagine. Another reason he would have come to you and not Delenn."

"Because I am not as morally forthright?"

You have said this, not I, thinks Neroon. "Because you have a closer relationship to the development of technologies that his information might be helpful for. The Religious Caste thinks in opportunity and advantage. This is inherently moralistic. The Worker Caste, sometimes, thinks in skill and practice. This is not. - That is only my estimation as a simple Warrior, of course."

"Your estimation is correct," says Racine, preening like a temshvi in mating season. "He would not go to Delenn as he thinks the Religious Caste will not further the technologies his clan has developed."

Interesting. Then there are technologies that the Wind Swords are implicated in. That they have developed. Without knowledge or assistance of the Worker Caste. They would almost certainly need outside assistance. The question is, who. It absolutely could not be the Humans - the Wind Swords would never. It would not likely be the Centauri as they would want extensive remuneration that the Wind Swords could not provide without undue administrative attention about their funds. It could be the Narn ... and that would explain G'Kar's behaviour of late in the Council chamber. "Do you think he is correct in his assumption?" asks Neroon.

Racine scoffs. "You want me to divine the actions and motivations of our Religious Caste friend, you may go ask her yourself."

"I meant more as a whole. In your experience you have worked with many Religious Caste Elders serving on the Grey Council. Given your estimate of them and the caste as a whole."

Flattery will get him everywhere.

Racine nods. "He said that given his current position, inclusion in the Worker Caste would be considered a promotion." Neroon cannot help a brow raise. Racine, unfortunately, sees it. "Are you so surprised that it could be a point of pride, to be a worker?" Ironically, Racine is the one spoiling for a fight.

Neroon shakes his head. He will have to betray more of his hand if he doesn't want Racine to throw him out. "Simply that what he has done recently must ostracise him from Minbari society," he says.

Racine does not buy it. "Obviously," he says. "The Warrior Caste clans take care of their own. He must have done something truly terrible for you to have thrown him out. He was not one of your clan, was he? He said as much that he did not want to give you the information for such reason. He must be of a clan that Star Riders dislikes. Unfortunately, that does not narrow it down, but I can think of only two which could be incited to movement."

Neroon has gone too far. He cannot let Racine know who, precisely, the Wind Sword operative in question is, because Racine will know - Racine was Satai at the time. It's time he makes his exit. "In any case, then, it is simply an issue of clan politics. I am sure you have similar differences among your guilds."

"No," says Racine. "We cooperate and unionise. That's what Workers do."

"How nice for you," snaps Neroon. "Well, when you tire of poring over your blueprints, perhaps someday you may figure out the precise instructions of how to make small groups of tribally-minded individuals cooperate with each other and unionise. Be sure to devise a clever machine for the Warrior Caste. Clearly, our pike-addled brains are in sore need."

"We shall not forget to simplify its controls for you," sneers Racine, "so that you may operate it without significant oversight from us. We would spare you the indignity of being instructed. You do not seem to take to it well."

"Good day," says Neroon, through his teeth. Racine's answering bow is derisive.

         And he was doing so well, too, says Ivanova. One step forward, two steps back.

         That was purposeful, explains Draal. A classic feint: the gla'khech var. A defensive distraction using an offensive. The Moon Shields do it more skillfully.

--

Carolyn finds Green-22 later that afternoon and pushes the button. She'd better reply, thinks Carolyn, who is mad as hell. Well, they always said she was hot-headed, and then they'd make a hair joke. Fun-ny.

At first there's nothing. She pushes the button again, then presses herself close to the door, to hear if there's any sounds of movement inside. Maybe Delenn's already at dinner. Carolyn can find her down in the Zocalo - there's only so many restaurants that serve Minbari food.

But then she overhears a quiet beep, something like a terminal disconnect, and a rustling of fabric, and then Delenn's words, murmured as though to herself alone, "Boretsvo, Racine." Minbari language. Doesn't mean anything to her. But Delenn's inside, alright.

Carolyn pushes the button a third time, then knocks.

Next door, the door opens, and one angry-looking Minbari leaves. He tears off down the hall, his black robes flying behind him. His elder Minbari associate stands at the threshold of the door, in a sand-coloured robe, watching his visitor depart. He turns his face to Carolyn. "Hello," says Carolyn.

The Minbari says nothing, and shuts the door.

"Come," says Delenn's voice finally on the intercom, and Delenn's door pops open.

"Didn't you hear me the first two times?" asks Carolyn.

Delenn is over at the terminal but swiftly strides over to Carolyn. "My apologies," she says, "my hearing capacities were otherwise engaged."

Carolyn frowns. "Who were you calling, Ambassador?" she asks. Maybe Delenn was trying to help?

"No one," says Delenn quickly. "I was granting you access."

Delenn looks caught in the act. But Minbari don't lie. Well, maybe she wasn't calling anybody. Maybe someone was calling her. "You can do that just with a voice command, you know," snaps Carolyn. "It's easy to configure."

Delenn glares. "You are upset," she announces.

"Of course I'm upset! Dammit, Delenn, how can you do this to him?"

Delenn is agape, outraged. "I have done nothing!" she says. She doesn't act like she's done nothing. She acts guilty as hell.

Good. She should be guilty as hell. "You've got that right," says Carolyn. "You didn't lift a finger to stop Jeff from being sent to the Vorlon homeworld for trial! My god, you didn't even vote in his favour at the council meeting! You abstained!"

"A vote shared with me by the other two Minbari ambassadors," explains Delenn coolly. "Will you badger them, too? I do not think you have ever even spoken to Neroon. I am certain he would be delighted to make your acquaintance."

"I came to you because you're his friend, not these - other guys," says Carolyn. "They don't know him like you know him. You could have told them no."

"Do you think I didn't? I have more to think about than my own personal goals and relationships," says Delenn. "And it is true what they said, that we do not have all the facts. I still lack some of them!"

"What you lack is a conscience. I thought Jeff was your friend." This is a low blow but dammit, she won't have Jeff shipped out like this.

"I'm sorry," says Delenn, not sounding very sorry. "I can do nothing else. I have my orders. On the matter of Commander Sinclair I'm here strictly to observe."

Carolyn narrows her eyes. "Observe what," she says.

"In any case," says Delenn abruptly, changing the subject, "do you not trust the Vorlons to adequately administer justice?"

"We have no idea who they even are," she replies. "We have no reason to trust them."

"You have no reason not to trust them!" says Delenn. "The relationship the Minbari have with the Vorlons goes back millenia. If you trust us, then you trust them."

"Well, I don't see that we can trust you! After all Jeff's done here for you, for the station, the one time he needed you, you just walked away!"

"Do you call me a coward?" asks Delenn. She lowers her voice to a dangerous tone. "Or untrustworthy?"

Something in Carolyn's blood runs ice cold. She's overstepping her bounds like this. Suddenly she wants to run away. This was a bad idea. What could the Minbari do, anyway? Take back what they said? It was 3-2! A no vote wouldn't change that.

"I didn't mean to offend you," says Carolyn.

"How could you offend," asks Delenn, advancing slowly. She is slight and small, shorter than Carolyn, but Carolyn is still somehow terrified of her. "You know, I have heard of others," she says. "Catherine Sakai. Carina Stark. Carmen Salinas. Cassandra Scott. And now - Carolyn Sykes."

"I- I don't know what you're talking about," says Carolyn.

Delenn stops close and looks up at Carolyn's face, coldly judging parts of it as her attention takes her, her brow, her fine nose, her cheekbones. "I wonder," remarks Delenn, "which of you was the original, and how many of you are replacements for her."

Carolyn, speechless, emits a derisive and disbelieving gasp of a laugh.

"If you are so concerned for him," says Delenn, "then the best thing you can do is go to him yourself. I can do nothing more for him, or you." She turns and activates the door, effectively showing it to Carolyn, so Carolyn leaves.

         Isn't that the exact same strategy Neroon used? asks Ivanova.

         Yes, says Draal apprehensively, it is.

How dare she, thinks Carolyn, how dare she be so rude, so cruel. Well, Delenn was always Jeff's friend, not Carolyn's. But apparently not even Jeff's friend either. Just here to observe. Observe what, exactly! But it's clear Carolyn won't get any answers from her about that.

Anyway, Delenn has a point. There's no reason in badgering others about their votes. If Carolyn really thought she could swing a vote then she should've talked to the Centauri. But what for? The Centauri are so fickle. The Minbari seemed loyal. Maybe that's why it stings more they couldn't even show the confidence of a no vote. Had to abstain. What a disappointment.

Carolyn gets to Jeff's quarters - not far from all the Ambassadors in Green level - and lets herself in with the door code, only to see something small and metallic whizz past her face and hit the wall with a loud bang.

"On second thought, maybe I'd better come back later," she says.

"No, wait," mutters Jeff. He gets to his feet. "I'm sorry. Dammit, Carolyn, give me a ship, turn me loose, with nobody else, that's fine - if I get in trouble I'll stay and fight it out, but -" he lifts his shoulders, helpless, "here, I - I can't."

"Why?"

"The other ambassadors have discipline - experience in diplomacy. Just look at Delenn!"

"I wouldn't say she's all that diplomatic, sometimes," says Carolyn.

"She's a hell of a lot more prepared to represent Minbar than I am to represent Earth," Jeff argues. "That's what I'm supposed to do! Represent Earth."

"And Earthers don't fight?"

Jeff shrugs, dismissive.

"Jeff, you wear that commander's badge like you're afraid you'll break it!" Carolyn huffs. "Okay, yes, you're supposed to speak for Earth! You're supposed to be polite and diplomatic! That doesn't mean letting them crucify you! And if you wanna throw something, throw it at those bastards at Earth Central who tossed you to the wolves!"

Now she knows she's getting teary. Melodramatic. She can hear it in her own voice. She hates people seeing her like this, when she's got so little control over her emotions. - That doesn't even matter! Jeff's going to the Vorlon Homeworld to die.

Only now does she pick up the object that Jeff threw. It's a little velvet box, and inside there's a shiny big coin -

A medal.

In Gratitude & Memory, it reads, the Line.

"Jeff," Carolyn whispers, "this medal - you were on the Line?"

Jeff, sitting on his couch, his posture slumped, nods, looking very small.

"You - went, and - you never told me -" Carolyn swallows. "The biggest battle. Of the Earth-Minbari War. And - you never told me."

All of a sudden everything clicks for Carolyn: Jeffrey Sinclair is not available, not really. He's not around for her. He hasn't been for months now. And he's probably never going to be. She likes him a lot and they have a lot of fun together, but can she really put her life and business on hold for a guy who clearly isn't willing to give her the same? Being busy is one thing. Sure, he runs a goddamn station. And it's hard. And he doesn't feel like he's any good at it. But that can be learned, and in time she knows he'd be a great ambassadorial figure for Earth.

But this - she didn't even know about him being on the Line, where so many humans died. And it's taken him being deported to the Vorlon homeworld to tell her about it.

Would he have even told her? If it weren't for all of this?

"I didn't want to talk about it," Jeff admits.

"Why?"

He sighs again, and nearly collapses. But then he pushes himself to stand - literally pushes himself up off the couch, looking so heavy, like he'd let it swallow him whole if it could. "I was - squad team leader when the call came in," he says. He drifts, ambling towards the corner, where he keeps a geocentric celestial sphere, with a light-up Earth at its heart. "And we all knew it was a suicide mission," he adds, bitterly. "The Minbari had broken through. Closing in. Every ship we had left was ordered to circle Earth."

He looks down at the globe. The ecliptic is marked in green. Where the ships would've been. "Stay in formation," he says, monotone. "We had to stop them - hold the line, no one gets through, no matter what. No matter what it cost."

Jeff swallows. "They came at us out of nowhere. We... never had a chance - the sky was - full of stars," he explains. Just as the globe is full of stars. Watching Earth at a distance, waiting. "And every star an exploding ship. The screams. Our screams."

He looks at her with haunted, depressed eyes. "My team was blown out of the sky in less than a minute."

You wanted to know, Jeff's eyes say. You wanted to know.

"I'm sorry," says Carolyn helplessly. He doesn't seem to hear her.

"I managed - to - take out a fighter before they hit my stabilisers," he mutters, "I was losing power, I'd lost my team - and I figured if I was going to die I'd take some of them with me." His eyes unfocus. "So I targeted one of their heavy cruisers, hit my afterburners... I was gonna ram them head on..." He looks angry, dangerous like this. He clearly hasn't gotten over it. He looks like he's still there. He looks like he's always been still there, like he's never really left. He looks like he could kill the first bonehead who walked in. That could be Delenn.

But Delenn is not their enemy. Not anymore.

"The last thing I remember is ... hurtling toward that cruiser," he says, and a note of mystery lingers in his voice, "filling my screen. Big - my god, so big. And that thing - passed in front of my eyes. I guess I ... blacked out from the acceleration. When I came to, twenty-four hours later, the cruiser was gone. I checked in - they told me the war was over." He scoffs, contemptuous. "The Minbari had surrendered."

"Because of the Line," Carolyn insists.

"No - that's what I'm trying to tell you," Jeff replies. "We were beaten. We didn't stop them, they stopped themselves. And I wish to hell I knew why. When we got back to Earth everybody treated us like heroes. But we were frauds."

"We needed a victory," she says.

"What does that say about us," wonders Jeff. "About Humanity."

"Jeff," says Carolyn, "you are not a fraud - anyone with enough guts to go on the Line doesn't have to prove anything."

He frowns, like there's something she's just not getting. "Didn't you hear me? My whole team was wiped out. I can't let that happen again."

"Is - is that what this is about, Jeff? Are you going along with this out of guilt? Because you think history's repeating itself?"

He nearly rolls his eyes. "Carolyn, I have a responsibility."

"To lead! Your team chose to go on the Line," Carolyn says, "and we chose to come here. Our decision, and our risk. Not yours." She sighs and draws nearer. Quietly, she adds, "If you wanna stay and fight this, we're with you. Just do what you think is right."

Jeff smiles. Briefly, and pained, but smiles anyway. Then he cups her cheeks and tilts her face up and kisses her. It's a nice kiss. It's even sweet.

It's not enough.

He wouldn't have said anything about any of this if it hadn't been for this big mess with that Vorlon. And she's still not convinced she's even halfway good at comforting him. She doesn't know if anything she's said has hit the mark or if she's still just not getting it. There's so much about him she doesn't even know.

I wonder who was the original, and how many of us are replacements for her.

Carolyn pulls away, fidgeting. He tries to pull her towards him but she isn't having it. He kisses her instead on the forehead. Now this really feels like parting. He lets her go, and he walks past her.

"Where are you going?" she asks, when she realises he's fetched his jacket.

"To get some answers," Jeff replies.

--

Garibaldi sits at the casino's tavern. "Just a ginger ale," he says.

"Cheapskate," says the bartender, in a light-hearted way.

"If it makes you feel any better, you can put a fancy little umbrella in it and charge me for a gin," Garibaldi retorts. "Of course, that'll come out of your tip but hey, it's your bar."

The bartender returns with his ginger ale and an umbrella. "You're head of security," he says. "You've literally never paid."

         Is that a thing? asks Ivanova. That has never been a thing for me.

         Draal huffs a sigh. This is not what I intended to show you.

         Can I have video of that exact conversation? It's probably as important as the Santiago video.

Footsteps approach. "Mister Garibaldi," says a voice. It's Londo Mollari's.

Garibaldi turns, gives him a once over, then turns back to his drink.

For some reason, Londo seems to take this as invitation. "I don't know what to say," he says. "You know, I have the greatest respect for your commander Sinclair."

"You sure have a funny way of showing it, Ambassador," Garibaldi replies.

"Yes, the vote," says Londo. "I can see why you'd be upset by that. But I didn't know! You see, G'Kar came to me to discuss my vote, eh?"

"And you just went along with somebody who'd love to put you and every other Centauri on a spit and roast the whole bunch of you," says Garibaldi.

"I had no choice!"

Garibaldi tuts.

"Back home," Londo explains, "our position, status - all that we have - is based on family history." He sighs. "G'Kar offered me an exchange: my cooperation in return for evidence, showing that during our rule of the Narn homeworld, certain... atrocities were committed by my grandfather."

Garibaldi looks up at Londo and squints. "Did you know about this?"

"Of course I knew," says Londo softly. "But what's done is done. Why bring it up now? The point is, no one else back home knows. And if it were to get out ... I couldn't let that happen." Londo purses his lips in a wistful, helpless grimace. "For what it's worth, Mister Garibaldi, I'm sorry. I didn't think my cooperation would do him any good. Two votes for shipping Sinclair off, two against - a deadlock!"

"You knew the Minbari would vote the way they did?"

"I had no idea, of course, but I suspected it would not be for. They didn't help you build this station and hand-pick its commander only to have him shipped away. I knew Delenn would vote against."

"Delenn voted abstention," Garibaldi says.

"Abstention is still against."

Not good enough for me, thinks Garibaldi. "You think G'Kar talked to the other two?"

"I have no doubt that he did," says Londo. "I think that is why he contacted the Vorlons in the end, because he didn't receive the answer he wanted from Racine or Neroon. Racine, I understand - doesn't like to meddle. Neroon, I am surprised. His kind aren't silent about the way the war ended. But he would have been outvoted. Even if he voted yes. Does it matter?"

It might. "And you knew G'Kar contacted the Vorlons?"

"I had no idea he contacted the Vorlon homeworld!"

"And if you had known?" asks Garibaldi. "Would you have done anything different?"

"No," confesses Londo. Well, at least he's honest. "No, I'm afraid not. Your commander Sinclair is a good man, I would hate to lose him." Londo looks to the side, and adds, insightfully, "This is my weakness, my failure." He turns back to Garibaldi. "And I'm sorry. Truly sorry." Londo turns to leave.

"Londo," begins Garibaldi. Londo turns back. "Thanks," he says.

Londo gives somewhere between a nod and a shrug, and ambles off.

Garibaldi gets to thinking. Londo's got a point about the others. Delenn probably voted no, Racine probably voted abstain, and Neroon probably voted yes. A vote of abstention is the same as a no for the purposes of the Advisory Council, so the two of them must've swung a majority vote like that. Racine must've talked Delenn out of her vote to join his - but Racine also helpfully gave Dr Kyle the information for the florazyne that helped save Kosh's life. Well, so the Minbari don't want to see a Vorlon die. But some of them are cool with seeing Humans die. Actually, thinking back to the war, many of them are cool with seeing Humans die. In mass droves.

His link chirps. "Garibaldi," he says, "go."

"It's Takashima. I'm in Varner's quarters now. Just thought you'd like to know I managed to crack his code. You and the commander had better get down here... there's something you should see."

Finally, some good news. "On my way," says Garibaldi, "let me just go grab the commander from Medlab."

It's only after he disconnects that he wonders: how the hell was Takashima able to crack the code? But before he can connect back his link chirps again. "Yeah?"

"Security, Brown-33. We just found another body, this one's stuffed into the access panel of a transport tube. Hasn't checked into work for a half a day, but his buddies say they saw him an hour ago."

"Bring it to Medlab 3," says Garibaldi. "Let's be real sure about that time of death."

It never rains but it pours. Garibaldi drains his ginger ale and leaves.

--

"Dr Kyle," says the Minbari assassin, in Lyta Alexander's smooth, beautiful voice.

"I just don't understand," comes a murmured reply. Then, "Huh? Lyta! What are you doing here?"

"Thought I'd stop by and see how the ambassador was doing," says the assassin.

"Definite progress," says the doctor. "The counteragent I manufactured with Ambassador Racine's files is working perfectly. I'd give him another hour and he'll likely wake up. Of course I'd like to make sure his condition remains stable for three more hours before I really let him go." Dr Kyle is not even looking at his guest. The assassin heads for the atmosphere controls, a waist-height panel of buttons, and shuts off the carbon dioxide. "I'm confident he'll pull through," the doctor adds. The Minbari assassin shuts down all the release valves. "It's extraordinary," the doctor murmurs.

The assassin watches. Waiting. Looking at the Vorlon. He approaches the Isolation lab step by step.

Minbari but not Minbari, the assassin thinks. Isn't that what he'd said? Well, not for much longer.

"Lyta!" says Dr Kyle, as though he has just realised he is not alone. "You saw Del Varner at the casino after the ambassador was attacked, right?"

"Isn't that what I said," says the assassin.

"Well, yes. And it's what others have said about you," says Dr Kyle. There's a pressure valve at the top there. The assassin waits for Dr Kyle to turn, then he twists it up a few levels to ensure diffusion of the right atmospheric components will be difficult.

"I told them already," says the assassin, "I'm not permitted inside without an escort." That's what Lyta herself said, wasn't that it? Hopefully she wasn't lying. Humans have been known to do that. "That's all he was," the assassin bites out bitterly.

"Garibaldi said something similar," says Dr Kyle, musing and thinking. There's a monitor - not set to record - stationed next to the Isolation lab window. Ah, here's the methane controls. The assassin switches it off, and dials the oxygen and nitrogen up to ordinary Minbari levels. "But that's what's so extraordinary..." the doctor continues, "according to the autopsy of Varner's body, he's been dead for nearly 36 hours. Meaning you and Garibaldi saw a dead man at the casino ... that's -"

The alarms begin to blare. No matter, the assassin is nearly finished here.

"What are you doing?!" shouts the doctor, who has spun around to find him at the workstation pushing buttons. The doctor advances. "Stop, you'll kill him!"

The assassin strikes him across the face hard with his elbow. The doctor doubles back, flattened against the wall. The assassin continues to input atmosphere parameters. Nearly there to unsafe levels! He just has to keep the doctor occupied for another thirty seconds and the changes will be irreversible, and then the Vorlon is doomed - counteragent or no counteragent.

But the doctor is miraculously not unconscious, and has grabbed a length of thick plastic pipe. He lifts it up to bat the assassin with it.

Dumb. This is like a child's denn'bok in terms of weight, the assassin has been able to use one of these since he was six cycles old!

He easily grabs the length of pipe from the doctor and wrests it from his feeble Human grip. He lifts it above his head and drives it down, obliquely, to strike the doctor's chest, where Humans keep their hearts.

The assassin misses the main ventricle chambers by perhaps a few finger lengths. Blast.

He raises the makeshift weapon again. This time, he will not miss. And there is no one else to keep the good doctor's heart from fibrillating when his strike hits its mark.

He strikes again but the doctor dodges just so and it strikes across. The doctor spins with the force of it, careening into a drawer like an apothecary's dream filled with little glass bottles and test tubes, that rain splinters and shards on the doctor's face and arms.

Suddenly the doors open on the opposite side. Sinclair is there - the assassin recognises him from the files. The assassin hisses and pulls out his Sha'ann pistol, readying the charge to fire, but Sinclair's sidearm is faster to load. He fires once.

Pain! Hot, heavy, flashing pain in his side, and smoke, the assassin can barely breathe but he looks down and there is only Lyta Alexander's pretty green uniform. He drops the pipe, he can barely hold it up anymore.

He has to get out of here. Maybe it will have been enough. Maybe he'll have to return.

The assassin ducks and dodges swiftly past Sinclair and there are no words for how much this hurts but he barely lets a grunt escape his lips.

He races down the hall to another corner and there stops to check, flattening himself on the wall and looking down.

No sign of a wound.

But he can feel it, bleeding, beneath the changeling net, and he takes this moment to indulge in a silent scream.

He has to get to Neroon! It's now or never. And never is not an option.

Sinclair's hair appears at the end of the hall by the medical lab, so the assassin dodges by switching walls for cover. But there, on his other side, coming out the nearest transport tube, is Lyta Alexander - the real one.

She stops cold when she sees herself.

Lyta's bright brown eyes are wide open but knowing and the assassin feels a presence in his thoughts.

He hisses, then charges.

Lyta barely steps aside in time, fumbling her footwork to crash into the wall, and the assassin sails past her. He tucks and rolls into the transport tube moments before the doors close.

Safe.

For now.

"Red level," the assassin croaks, "get me to Red level," before he falls to his knees and curls into the corner.

--

"What's the damage," asks Sinclair. Dr Kyle looks to Sinclair, then Lyta, and back to Sinclair. Sinclair shakes his head.

"The counteragent's been destroyed," says Dr Kyle.

"Can you make another?"

Dr Kyle looks frantic. "Maybe - I'm not sure - I have to work fast. Please, I need to concentrate."

"And Kosh -"

"Atmosphere controls have been reset to what they were but - I don't know if there's been any long-lasting effects. I would check but I need to start the production on the counteragent - I need help!"

"You have it," says a voice behind them. Ambassador Racine strides into the Medlab, his robes flowing gently around his ankles, and Sinclair has probably never been happier to see a Minbari in his life. "I heard the alarms from two wings away," Racine explains. "Before I attained the rank of guildmaster for theoretical gravimetric engineering, I held a master-level rank at the licentiate of applied organic crystal chemistry for nine of your years. Indeed it was half a lifetime ago for me, but it is enough to responsibly begin the assembly of the florazyne counteragent. In the meantime, Doctor, you have a patient. Go to him."

"Bless your soul," says Dr Kyle, and he has somehow said the right thing for Racine smiles wide and toothily, something Sinclair has never before seen, and makes a modest bow before he picks what he needs from the cabinets and sets up at a nearby desk.

"I'll give you the debrief once Kosh is secured," says Sinclair.

"You do that," says Dr Kyle. He continues toying with the key controls at the monitor by the Isolation lab. "It's entirely unfortunate I need to use this machine, I would recommend dusting it for prints to compare with hers," he says, gesturing to Lyta.

Lyta's face falls. "Y-you don't think I -"

"There were two of them," says Sinclair.

"I know," says Dr Kyle. "I saw you shoot one of them in the side, and yet she didn't bleed. In my line of work, that's extraordinarily strange."

"Prints wouldn't make any sense anyway," says Sinclair. "Lyta's always in gloves. So was the duplicate."

"I begin to understand," says Dr Kyle. "Del Varner has been dead too long. There's a duplicate of him too, running around the station." Lyta gasps softly, beside Sinclair. He looks at her, a question in his eyes, and she pales. Dr Kyle makes a final adjustment on the machines before he moves over to grab a mask. "I'll have to go back inside. I hope he doesn't mind my going in that suit of his again."

"Just do what you need to, to save him," says Sinclair. He punches his link. "Michael -"

"Right behind you," says Garibaldi, joining the party by marching into Medlab. "What've we got?"

"Kosh in critical," Sinclair announces, "counteragent destroyed. And there's a possibly deadly team of impersonators going around the station. One of them was our friend Varner, and another is impersonating Lyta."

"And a third," replies Garibaldi. "Security just found a tech reported missing at least six hours, yet seen only an hour ago. Either he went AWOL or our impersonation squad likes to make sure it uses people who can't be found."

"You might be in some danger," says Sinclair to Lyta.

Lyta swallows. "I don't think he'd hurt me," she says.

Sinclair and Garibaldi exchange looks. "Who's he?" asks Garibaldi.

"I didn't know," Lyta stammers, "how he did it, what he was involved in - I- I had no idea he was involved in this. Or I would've come forward sooner. The man going around well-concealed, as Varner - and, just now, I think that was also him."

"How could you tell?"

"Because it felt like him," says Lyta. "Remember?" She taps her temple.

Garibaldi, next to him, grimaces at the unpleasant reminder. Lyta does a good job pretending she doesn't see it. "Do you know who he is?" Sinclair asks.

Lyta takes a deep breath. "I know he's Minbari," she says.

The room falls silent.

The only sound is the steady beeping of the monitors on Kosh's vitals, muffled from inside the Isolation lab. No one else moves.

"Call Delenn," says Racine firmly. "Only Delenn." Then he returns to work.

"C'mon," says Garibaldi. "Laurel wants us in Blue."

"I'd like you to stay here," instructs Sinclair to Lyta. "It's safer, and they'll confirm an alibi for you later. Help them, if you can. Depending on how the Ambassador is, you might need to."

"Of course," says Lyta.

--

"Accept," says Delenn, on the second ring of the call, as is her usual custom with Commander Sinclair. She strives for consistency in her observation with him, that he remain unaware of her purpose here. "Commander," she answers, "to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?"

"I'm sorry, Delenn, but there's no time to explain," he replies. He looks serious. So does Garibaldi, who pokes his head in, gives a little wave, then dodges off-screen. "We're closing in on the agent we believe responsible for the attempted assassination of Ambassador Kosh as well as two murders. We ... there's no easy way to say this. We have reason to believe the agent may be Minbari."

"Tell her we also think it's one of the Warrior Caste," says Garibaldi.

"We have no concrete proof of that," argues Sinclair.

"Oh, come on! Racine said not to tell Neroon. You know, we should think about securing his area, just in case. He'll thank us later for it. Probably."

"I don't think he'll thank us for locking him in his room," says Sinclair.

"But if it isn't him, it gives him an alibi -"

"I will keep what Mister Garibaldi says in mind," says Delenn, interrupting the exchange before it goes any further. "I am sending someone to assist you."

"That's - most kind of you, but we don't need assistance," says Sinclair.

"Minbari do not kill Minbari," supplies Delenn. "If this fellow is, as you say, Minbari -" and from Delenn's intelligence, he is - "then you can use your assistant to ensure that no one else be harmed."

"All due respect ambassador," says Garibaldi, "Humans don't hide behind other species and use them for cover."

"No," replies Delenn. She smiles, gracious. "You do not. That is not what I had in mind."

"We've got to go," says Sinclair. "Laurel's waiting."

"I believe it is appropriate to wish good hunting," says Delenn. She drops her smile. "Hunt well."

--

After Sinclair disconnects with Delenn, he says, "The more I hear of this, the less I like it, Michael."

"I'm with you," says Garibaldi, leading them to the transport tube to Blue sector. "I think we both know who's behind this."

Why else would Racine say to call Delenn? And only Delenn.

"Damn," mutters Sinclair. "You know, after the war, I had my hopes."

"Yeah, well, leopards don't change their spots, I guess. Or bonecrests. Anyway, there's more. You know that O2 drop C&C logged a day ago? Repair crew found the culprit stuck to the hull of Blue 5, level B. It destroyed a maintenance bot investigating the drop in oxygen pressure. Almost took out the repair crew before they could disable it. It's a transport of some kind - my guess is someone used it to fasten onto the hull and burn through to the station."

"You've seen this transport?"

"Briefly."

The door shuts on them in the transport tube and Sinclair thinks, leaning against the back wall of the cabin. "And how many could've come through? How many are we dealing with here?"

"That's the thing," says Garibaldi, gesturing with his hand. "It's only big enough for one. I've got crews checking every inch of the hull for more, but so far, nothing. I've got forensic control on it now, there's some residue they found they're analysing."

"Residue?"

Garibaldi cocks an eyebrow in a wry grin. "Put it to you this way: that pod isn't mannable on its own. Definitely short range - someone had to bring it here and drop it off outside the station. Otherwise, there'd be a ship loading outside with no one in it. Meaning someone on the station's providing support. Now, Minbari ships have a unique gravimetric signature that imprints on fine particulate matter of the size and composition we saw in the residue. If one of them is behind this, we'll know."

"Good," says Sinclair.

"And... one other thing," Garibaldi says, sobering. "About that body Maintenance found. Environment tech, named Hazeltine. Definitely foul play - he didn't stuff himself into the access port of a transport tube. He looks like he's been there long enough to explain why he didn't check in for his shift today, or last night. But he was spotted acting weird by his associates only an hour ago."

The transport tube opens them out at Blue. "So that's sightings of Varner, after Varner is dead, and sightings of Hazeltine, after Hazeltine is dead."

"And now we've just spotted a second Lyta."

"Not so fast," warns Sinclair. "I don't want the pattern to continue that far. I don't want to know what the Psi Corps would say if she doesn't turn up."

They arrive in Varner's chambers. Takashima is already there.

Garibaldi asks, "So anyway, how did you crack -"

"Changeling net," Takashima interrupts.

"A what," says Garibaldi. He forgets whatever it was he was saying. "You're joking."

"So it's just the one guy," muses Sinclair.

"Exactly. He was a tech runner alright, transporting forbidden technology across systems. His last job took him to the Antares sector, for a changeling net."

"The ultimate in camouflage," says Garibaldi. "It sets up a holographic field that can be adjusted to project a false image."

"And that's what Kosh saw in the docking bay," adds Takashima, as she stops the computer scrolling on Commander Sinclair's own face. "Not the Commander, but someone made to look like him. Pretty neat trick."

But Sinclair can't even indulge in the satisfaction of being exonerated. "An expensive and very dangerous trick," he says. "Changeling nets are outlawed in every civilised sector. Including the Minbari Federation's. Prolonged exposure to an energy field that intense and unstable can be fatal. Our Minbari may have jeopardised more people on this station just by being here and using that thing."

"Minbari," says Takashima, surprised.

"You got someone else in mind?" asks Garibaldi.

"As a matter of fact," says Takashima, "I do -"

"Let's worry about associates later," interjects Sinclair, before they start arguing. "I'd like to catch this guy now before anybody else gets hurt. He's been using it constantly."

Takashima nods. "This is all the data he's logged on the computer," she says. "The net keeps backing up from the source every three hours."

"Can we use that to find him?"

She shakes her head. "Unfortunately, the uplink is too heavily firewalled."

"A system like this would have to put out a lot of energy," he thinks. "Laurel, can you recalibrate the stations external sensors to scan for energy sources inside the station?"

Takashima frowns as she thinks. "We can try."

"Good," Sinclair says, "do so. Garibaldi and I will be along shortly - we have to stop by security. There's a few things I'd like to pick up."

--

Delenn requests connection to Neroon's quarters in Red sector and waits for the call to connect. It takes an absurdly long time to do so, which Delenn is not convinced is not simply Neroon being passive aggressive and making her wait. In most cases, Delenn would not attribute to malice what could be attributed to negligence. But nobody calls Neroon, and there are - as far as anyone knows - no Warrior Caste Minbari on the station, besides him. Neroon is not busy.

"Delenn," he says. He does not look amused. Delenn is even less amused. "To what-"

"You should know I am currently lying for your sake," she says, interrupting. Racine said not to tell Neroon, said Mr Garibaldi. "Now I have a favour to ask of you."

Neroon's ire flares. "I did not ask you to lie for me," he says.

"Someone is coming to see you. Tell me I am wrong."

But Neroon is quiet, and glowers harder.

"You do not have to answer," Delenn says. "I already know. You should know that once the Humans know where your visitor is, they may take steps to lock down some of the areas in Red sector. If they should do so -"

"Then I should be outside my quarters," says Neroon.

Delenn carefully says nothing, unwilling to be the one to encourage Neroon to break impending lockdown. "Something is happening there," she says instead, "and I suspect it has to do with this business involving Sinclair."

"Sinclair?" asks Neroon. "How could-" But then he pauses, and his gaze shifts as he thinks. "Yes, possibly," he murmurs. "But if that's the case, then -"

"Indeed," says Delenn. "You need to protect him."

"The visitor?"

"Sinclair," reminds Delenn.

Neroon's expression is one of incredulity. "Can he not protect himself?"

"Consider this an order from the Grey Council," she counters. "You will protect him, with your life. That is tantamount."

Neroon straightens, and salutes, though he makes no secret that he dislikes the sound of what she says. "The Grey Council considers him important," he observes. "Perhaps afterwards, then, you will tell me what might be meant in regards to Sinclair of the Humans, and his possible expulsion to the Vorlon Homeworld, and the words, some things have to return home."

Delenn's blood runs cold. "Where did you hear that?" she snaps.

"The Grey Council," Neroon replies.

"Which Satai?"

Neroon does not answer. "You know that he would be killed," he says, "if he were extradited to the Vorlon Homeworld. None have returned."

Yes. When the unknown merges into the glory of the known, it returns home. - But she cannot say this. Neroon cannot know that Sinclair has within him a Minbari soul. No one can know outside of the Grey Council. Bad enough that Leraval said as much as he did. For it must be he, it must be a Warrior Caste Satai, Coplann and Irlit are trusted and would not speak so hastily, where Leraval is relatively new, and Leraval is more faithful than most Warrior Caste, Delenn had thought it a welcome surprise. But clearly Leraval's belief system only extends to the preservation of Minbari souls in Minbari bodies. Neroon is cleverer than Leraval knows. If it were not for the absurdity of the notion - that Minbari souls are being reborn into Humans - Neroon could have worked it out himself. With that in mind, Delenn does not dare even give Neroon so much as an aphorism.

"The universe is vast and mysterious," she says. "I do not expect you to understand. Today I expect you merely to do."

"Like every other day," grunts Neroon.

"Perhaps just this day," says Delenn. "If you are successful. Go, now."

Neroon nods, if a bit stiffly. "Yes, Satai," he says.

--

Garibaldi and Sinclair return quickly, armed with Auricon rifles and decked out in chest armour. Jesus, thinks Takashima, and she's not even a believer. "Security's standing by," says Garibaldi.

"What's the situation?" asks Sinclair.

Takashima hustles her way up to the platform where monitoring controls are kept. "We're closing the final relays now," she says, "switching over to a new program."

"Got it," replies one of the lieutenants.

"Alright," Sinclair says. "Filter out all known energy sources, life support, utilities, defence grid, any energy that we're putting out."

She dials the knobs down for the first three, and inputs her security override on the last. "On it," she says.

"Now compensate for ambient heat energy from the solar collectors."

"Coming up..." Something flashes. "Here it is! Got it."

"Where?"

"Looks like - Red 12, level 7a."

"Alright. Seal off the entire area, and two levels above and two below," instructs Sinclair, "this guy's fast -"

She tries, but is thwarted. An error message appears on screen. "Commander," says Takashima. "I can't seal off such an area without diplomatic oversight."

"Whose?"

Takashima runs a quick systems check. "Minbari Warrior Caste," she says.

"I knew it," mutters Garibaldi.

"Hey, that's where he lives," says Takashima.

"Are you defending him?"

"No, but -"

"According to regulations," grinds out Sinclair, interrupting them both, "to lock down a section where an ambassador of the major powers is staying, we need to notify them first. But if we notify Neroon and he is behind this, he'll know we're onto him. Luckily, there's three Minbari we can ask. Laurel, notify Delenn. Regulations satisfied."

"But the Minbari haven't logged any ships in or out," says Takashima. "How do you explain the breaching pod?"

"How do you explain that this character goes directly to him?" argues Garibaldi. "Lyta said he was Minbari."

"Oh, so now you believe Lyta."

"Now that I know what it was she saw, yeah, I do!"

"Analysis of the breaching pod residue came back, and it's not Minbari," Takashima retorts, "which, by the way, is what I was going to say before, that G'Kar's been acting strange."

"G'Kar?" asks Garibaldi.

"Neroon and G'Kar have been less than warm with each other," says Sinclair, thinking. "And that's documented, recorded in the Advisory Council. Why would they work together?"

"So he's a great actor," says Garibaldi.

         He's really not, says Ivanova.

"Minbari don't lie," says Sinclair.

"But they've been known to bend the truth," Garibaldi replies. Not without some apprehension - now he's starting to grow concerned.

"We'll save it for my return," Sinclair decides. "I'm taking care of this personally. If we need help, we'll link in."

"Wait," she says. They look up at her. "Better take a recorder. The way things are going, you may need a witness."

"Thanks," says Sinclair. "Let's go." The little disc-shaped machine hums as it warms up and follows them out the door to C&C, flying behind at a safe distance.

"Good luck," she calls. She dials Ambassador Delenn next.

Delenn picks up quickly. "We have to lock down a portion of Red sector for a few moments," Takashima explains, "and since Ambassador Neroon is staying there, we're going to need Minbari permission -"

But then the unthinkable happens, and the jumpgate system activates.

"What the," she breathes.

"We're registering an energy surge at the jump point." Lieutenant Guerra is at the console. "Matches the Vorlon ship that came through earlier. Vorlon trans-" he cuts himself off. He swallows. "Vorlon fleet incoming," he corrects himself. "Lieutenant-Commander, there's - there's at least twenty ships." Somewhere, seemingly distant, an alarm begins to blare.

"You must go," observes Delenn. "Close down what you must. I grant my authority." She disconnects, and if it were any other circumstance Takashima might think it rude.

Unfortunately, Takashima is distracted, frozen solid as stone, as she watches an entire Vorlon fleet come through the jumpgate and power up its weapons.

--

No sooner has Neroon left his quarters than the transport tube at the end of the hall activates. He darts to the corner of the hall, opposite the transport tube doors, and ducks behind a large power generator, flattening himself into the shadows and peering around to see who it is. He does not exactly trust Sonovar to be entirely reasonable, especially if he's being pursued by Sinclair, which he likely is, since Delenn has ordered Neroon to protect the Commander.

But it's only a Human in an environment tech's suit. Neroon relaxes. He watches as the man gets to - of all places - Neroon's quarters and pushes the bell. When there comes no answer he makes to push it again, but then the lights extinguish, leaving only the faint blue emergency fixtures, and an alarm sounds. This area has been locked down for security reasons, says a computerised announcement. Please, exit your quarters through the rear doors and follow security personnel to a safe area.

A loud chunk sound reverberates behind every door to every apartment in this hallway, as the doors lock, and the man stiffens.

The man darts off, past where Neroon is hidden, without seeing him. He skirts right, down the hallway that leads to the emergency stairwell to level 7b. But this door, too, is locked. Shouldn't an environment tech have some sort of override access? But the Human does not use it. He tries to kick it down. When that doesn't work, he hurls himself at it, shoulder-first. When that doesn't work, he starts to look at the ceiling, and his attention is quickly drawn by a vent.

The transport tube at the end of the hall activates again once more, and two figures emerge: Commander Sinclair and Mr Garibaldi. Mr Garibaldi exits first and ducks to the side, lifting something to his shoulder -

That's a plasma weapon, realises Neroon. He recognises it from the war.

They have weapons, and they wear armour. A little disc-recorder follows them from above.

Meanwhile, the environment tech has entirely disappeared. The vent remains untouched.

That Human must be the one behind all of this, thinks Neroon. For a moment he is relieved - for all that Sonovar has done, perhaps he was not involved in this business with Commander Sinclair and the ailing Ambassador Kosh. If he were, there would truly be no hope for him. But maybe there is a chance.

Garibaldi and Sinclair in turn lurk down the hall, slipping past each other as they exchange cover. Garibaldi goes further to peek down the hallway where Neroon's apartment is. He looks around, then back at Sinclair and nods. Sinclair disappears down another hall.

No luck. Sinclair is back within seconds. He extracts his link. "Status on tracking," he whispers into it.

"Ten metres to your right," comes the reply. "It's moving again."

Neroon slips out of the shadows to come around to the opposite hallway, parallel to the one Sinclair and Garibaldi are in. Ten metres to their right would surprise them. Neroon therefore takes position to flank.

"There it is," whispers Sinclair, and he raises his weapon and fires.

If it hits anything, they don't cry out. Two shots return - green.

Minbari plasma weapons use that light frequency. Perhaps not Sonovar himself, but Sonovar's weapon? Human Warriors are not like Minbari Warriors - they will fight with anything, even something they find on the ground.

But how could a Minbari weapon have gotten aboard the station when all ships and personnel must submit to weapons check scans?

A third shot. "Aagh!" comes a wild cry, and then a loud crash. Neroon turns to spot Garibaldi on the ground, wrestling himself out of his smoking armour. He extends his denn'bok and considers exiting the shadows.

"Mike!" comes Sinclair's cry. Garibaldi succeeds in liberating himself from his armour, grunting. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," Garibaldi coughs out, "my - jacket - caught most of it - go on, I'll catch up. Go!"

Sinclair does. As he disappears Neroon prepares to follow him, but he hears a hydraulic hiss behind him. An airlock door opens, and a figure - the Human in the environment tech's suit - yanks Garibaldi by the underarms into the area that is strictly for Gaim. Garibaldi wriggles but the Human is stronger, despite his size.

If this is a Human problem, perhaps Neroon ought not to get involved. But Garibaldi has perhaps a minute at most in that atmosphere - less since he is already coughing and panting - and it isn't a pretty death.

But Delenn did not say protect Garibaldi, she said protect Sinclair.

But in any case, the Human who dragged him in should find it equally difficult to breathe.

Neroon realises he does not want to see Garibaldi die. In any case, interfering with this new contender could draw the heat off the commander, and in a roundabout way, perhaps that is enough to act as protection for Sinclair?

Garibaldi is turning an ugly shade of red. Neroon stops thinking, and acts.

He collapses his pike, then takes a deep breath in - Minbari lungs have greater capacity than Human, a fact he knows because he has seen them expire and it is painfully fast - and enters the airlock. Easily he hoists Garibaldi over his shoulder. When he has secured him, he turns to find Sinclair with an oxygen mask, looking angry. But Sinclair does not have time to say anything before a flash of an environment suit wrests the mask from his face before disappearing. Sinclair's shots follow him but do not connect, and he disappears down the hall, the airlock shutting behind him. And now Sinclair begins to choke.

Neroon motions them both towards the airlock door.

They reassemble outside the airlock to the Gaim wing, where Neroon drops Garibaldi unceremoniously on his feet. Garibaldi is weak upon them, and collapses, sliding down the wall. "Get, 's rest," Garibaldi manages.

"Okay," says Sinclair, coughing and panting. "Wait - here -" he gestures. Sinclair too stumbles to the side of the hall and Neroon is on his feet in a flash, but Garibaldi collapses further. "No!" Sinclair thunders, "you - can sit there - an' keep'n eye on him! - I'll be alright." He staggers off down the hall.

Neroon highly doubts the Commander will be any parametrisation of alright. But Garibaldi is still coughing. He and Neroon exchange looks. "Mr Garibaldi," begins Neroon, "I deeply regret that I have orders for assistance to the Commander, not to you."

"She sent you? Jeez. She must trust you," says Garibaldi.

It is clear enough who she is. "No," says Neroon, "she does not, but I follow orders when given them."

"Aw, go on, take off already," mutters Garibaldi.

"And if the other one should return?"

"I can take care of myself," says Garibaldi, who clearly cannot, "but look, that one likes to play hero, and he's gonna need backup. I don't want that guy to start wearing Sinclair's face with the recorders around again. He's already done it once."

Wearing - face? That cannot be a Human expression. But there's no time to ask. He nods, and leaves.

--

"Lieutenant-Commander," says Lieutenant Ogoro, staffing comms, "the Vorlon captain is demanding the return of Commander Sinclair for transport to homeworld."

"Stall," says Takashima. "Patch in the signal from the commanders recorder. If we could broadcast that signal to the Vorlon ship?"

"I'm on it," says Lt. Guerra.

"They're closing in," warns Lieutenant Nowak. "They say that unless we turn over the commander in five minutes, they're opening fire on the station."

"Tell them to get stuffed! Activate defensive grid -"

"Belay that order," thunders a voice. Takashima whirls around. Ambassador Delenn has appeared in C&C, dressed in a plain white robe with a grey hood. Her eyes blaze furious and her mouth is a calm but firm line of blood red. She looks like a goddess. She marches up to the communications console and the C&C staff parts like the seas for her. "Do you really think you stand any chance against a Vorlon fleet?"

"We have to try!" pleads Takashima.

"You will simply waste the time you have gained in stalling!" argues Delenn. "Now! I hear there is a recorder. Where is the signal?"

"I'm working on it," says Guerra.

"Where. Is the signal," shouts Delenn.

Guerra pales. "Y-yes, Ambassador, right away," he says.

I need some of that, thinks Takashima.

--

The assassin has doubled back to the hall where Neroon's chambers are and has tried the door again but to no avail. The buzzer does not function. He tries knocking. Then he tries pounding. "Ambassador Neroon," he yells. "Ambassador Neroon!" He starts to sob. "Please! I require assistance! Grant me sanctuary!"

But Sinclair continues to pursue him. A laser-sight appears on his shoulder and he darts out of the way only just in time before the flash of plasma. He removes his Sha'ann from the coat pocket of the technician's guise and fires two shots back. There is no sound of pain - Garibaldi practically wailed - so neither must hit.

He leans past the corner to find Sinclair pursuing forward. Quickly he rounds the curve and climbs nimbly up a large generator, squatting in the shadows, waiting for Sinclair to come by. The nose of his rifle, laser-red, appears first. Then the rest of him, in quick movements like jabs and strikes. Perhaps Sinclair is growing nervous.

He waits for Sinclair to make it nearly all the way past him before he vaults down onto Sinclair's shoulders, tackling him from above. His grip is ill, and Sinclair worms deftly beneath him to extract himself. The assassin struggles to maintain control but his muscles are exhausted, he is drained, and his vision is starting to fade. Easily Sinclair strikes him in the jaw, then in the face, and pins him to the wall, and there something happens - he begins to lose control of the net.

In a flash he feels the fluid change to Del Varner, to Lyta Alexander, to Sinclair himself.

No! He cannot lose control! He has come too far, too far to lose everything now!

The wound in his right side is still too heavy to enable him to do much more than kick out with his left leg, but whatever he hits on Sinclair has him doubled over in pain. The assassin pushes himself off the wall. He hurls himself to Sinclair and shoves him with the fullest extent of his weight to the ground, and there Sinclair crumples, buckled into a ball. The assassin kicks at his belly, where the organs are, then again at the head, where the brain is, and then places his foot on Sinclair's neck and presses down.

He wheezes out, "I - will - not - lose -"

And there is a hard blow, obliquely on the back of his head, accompanied by the metallic clang of a denn'bok.

The assassin spins out with the force of it, landing on the wall.

"My apologies," says Neroon, and raises his pike again. "There were two of you. I had to be sure." Lightning fast, he strikes forward with the butt of the pike. It's luck - bad luck - that Neroon hits the assassin directly in the gut, where the plasma pistol wound is. The assassin whines and falls to his knees in pain, and barely manages to turn the motion of the fall into a tuck roll away from the nasty end of Neroon's pike. He lands back on his behind, and scuttles backward as Neroon advances, stalking dangerously. Behind Neroon, Sinclair gets to his feet.

The assassin finds the wall with his hands and scrambles up it, then launches himself forward with his hands arched, in a striking position. Neroon frowns. He darts aside, dodging the attack, and twists, sending his pike to the assassin's shins. The assassin hits the denn'bok, trips, and falls - into an electrical fence.

And then everything is bright, hot, and white as his body jerks and vibrates helplessly, his grip on the fence locked in place by the high current. He begins to scream.

--

"Where's that signal, Guerra?" yells Takashima.

"Online, now!" Guerra yells, scooting back to the signals terminal.

"Put me through to them first," says Delenn. "Make sure they see my face."

Guerra looks at Takashima. Well, the Minbari do seem to know the Vorlons better. Takashima nods. Guerra makes a few keystrokes. "You're on," he announces.

"Babylon 5 to Vorlon Fleet," Delenn says, in a steady and stately no-nonsense voice. "I greet you in the name of the Minbari Federation. We ask your patience and understanding in the light of recent events. Know that you are preparing to fire on an unarmed vessel unwilling to engage. Know that Naranek Kosh has made a full recovery. Know, also, what has happened of your would-be poisoner."

She turns to Takashima with a domineering lift of her head, and her bonecrest glints in the faint light of C&C like a crown. "Now," she commands.

"Broadcast all frequencies," Takashima tells Guerra. "Let them see what's going on."

Everybody - the Vorlons, C&C, the rest of Babylon 5 - watches.

--

"Minbari," says Sinclair, surprised, as the electrification fries the changeling net and shoots the man - the Minbari man - forward.

He looks over at Neroon, but Neroon doesn't seem surprised to see him. Sinclair glares. "You knew," says Sinclair. "You knew all along."

But Neroon is morosely shaking his head.

Sinclair doesn't believe him, but doesn't want to call him out on a lie, either. He turns back to the man, whose bonecrest is smoking. "Why?" he asks. He levels his rifle at the man's head. "Why would you - why did you do this? This is a place of peace. You entered this place. You caused this mayhem! For what purpose?"

Meanwhile, Neroon says something too. "Brazadi neyr ho'voraan," he says, urgently. "Nil'shakh neyr tsvo chek'ra. Shafi, hala!"

"Nalle zhaden'a min'aia," croaks the man, "moraat o'shah." To Sinclair he says in English, "There is a hole - in your mind."

Then he breaks his own wrist.

A matrix of something red flashes underneath his skin.

"He has activated explosives," warns Neroon.

"He's wired," yells Takashima from his link. "Brace for explosion!"

Sinclair buzzes back. "Close off pressure doors, seal off this immediate section!"

"Not with you inside!" cries Takashima. "And the Ambassador -"

"Do it," mutters Neroon.

"Dammit, I gave you an order!" Sinclair growls. He races back, setting the blast doors with his override. Neroon makes it back first to the Gaim wing door, outside the airlock. He positions himself in front of Garibaldi as defence, but Sinclair is still steps behind, setting the blast doors in the rest of Red 12 level 7a manually, when the explosion detonates.

They have less than a second.

The blast door to the Gaim wing engages.

Neroon grabs him by his armour and launches him like a sack of grain, under the closing blast door. He rolls under after him, but is not fast enough for his mantle, which the blast door snaps shut on. Better the mantle than a limb. He loosens it from his neck and gets to his feet.

Then the station begins to shake.

--

C&C is a cacophony.

"Showing power leaks - we're losing stability!" says Guerra.

"Ambassador - you should get out of here!" shouts Takashima.

"I am precisely where I need to be," says Delenn, immobile, as she grips hard on the bars around the communications console to maintain her composure through the quaking.

"Status!" Takashima calls.

"Thirteen degree orientation!" says Guerra.

"Doesn't feel like it!"

"Right now, Minbari gravimetric tech is the only thing keeping us on the floor," Guerra shoots back.

"You are welcome," says Delenn.

"The station's still tearing itself apart from the inside!"

"Automated operation system's not responding," says Nowak, sounding panicked.

"Go to manual!" says Takashima. "Starboard stabilisers, ten second bursts!"

"We've reversed rotation," Nowak replies, "ten degrees - four ... minus two!"

"Compensate," says Delenn.

"Aft stabilisers, small starboard bursts," says Takashima.

"Infrastructure won't handle the strain," says Guerra, "she'll blow apart!"

"Minus six - minus eight -"

"Compensate," Delenn urges.

"Mark!" yells Takashima.

"Minus eight," says Guerra, "minus five."

"Small starboard bursts. Two and two," says Takashima. "Easy - gentle!"

"Minus two - minus one ... plus two ..." Nowak holds her breath. "Zero ... holding! We're back in position."

Axis stabilised, announces the computer.

Thank god. "Damage control proceed to Blue 7," says Takashima. "Let's fix that breach."

--

Outside the Gaim sector, the Commander - slightly singed - helps Garibaldi to his feet. He glares at Neroon, who is clearly persona non grata. For some reason, Garibaldi does not appear to share his ire.

"Michael," says Sinclair.

"I'm fine," says Garibaldi, who pushes Sinclair's hands back to his own person to stand on his own balance. Humans are so annoyingly tactile with one another.

"You should've stayed with him," growls Sinclair. Neroon says nothing.

"I was fine," Garibaldi insists. "Honest. Kinda glad he was here." He turns to Neroon. "For all that you can be a real asshole."

"Mr Garibaldi," replies Neroon, noncommittal. He turns to the Commander. "Are you alright? Do you need anything?"

There's a heavy, awkward silence. "From the Warrior Caste?" asks Sinclair, in disbelief. "How about an explanation?" He stalks off, likely to C&C, checking in with his link as he goes.

"Well, you did save my life, I can't be too mad," supposes Garibaldi, "and you weren't even ordered for me. Even if you did it all solely because someone else told you to."

"We serve," says Neroon evasively.

"Great. Then you can serve me all the way to Medlab 3," Garibaldi says, with good-natured cheer. He leans heavily on Neroon, slinging an arm around Neroon's shoulders. The touch is uncomfortably familiar but he cannot find a way to gracefully tell Garibaldi to keep his Human hands to himself. "Bit of a walk from here. And maybe, while we're walking, you can explain your side."

Neroon sighs, then starts at what he considers the beginning.

--

Jeff walks Carolyn to the passenger lounge, where the civilian entrance to the Docking Bay is. "I wish you could stay," he says, holding her jacket in his arms. "We just get things calmed down, and you have to go."

"My timing always was pretty awful," she admits. She gives a weak grin. "Well. Ship's waiting," she says.

He hands over her jacket, and as she accepts it, she envisions herself saying: you know, you're not happy here either - you could come with me - we could pool our savings and buy a bigger ship - we could blow this place -

A beat passes.

He'll never do it. Why bother even to ask?

She smiles again. "You know, it was fun while it lasted," she says, patting his arm.

"Carolyn," says Jeff, surprised.

"Goodbye, Jeff." But she leans in and kisses him softly on the lips.

When she pulls back, he tries to explain. "If this is because of - all of this, I swear it's not normally so raucous here. This kind of thing doesn't happen every day."

"It's not that," Carolyn says. "I need something else. Something more. And I think if you're honest with yourself, you do too. I - I would've waited," she says, because it's true. "But not forever."

She turns and leaves Babylon 5, fully expecting never to set foot on the place again.

--

Neroon arrives in his new quarters - Green 9, Compartment 23, where he should have been all along - to find the computer already blinking at him. Call incoming from: Shai Alyt Branmer. Vessel: Ingata, the computer chirps, in the Humans' standard language.

This will be bad. For a moment, Neroon seriously contemplates walking back out of his quarters and obtaining dinner or going for a walk or any manner of things that involve him not being in his quarters. He still has not had a chance to search the room for possible listening devices. (Because how else could Delenn have already known about the visitor when nobody told her of it? Racine does not give up information too readily, and her anger when she heard that G'Kar had told Racine of the vote and not her was telling. Perhaps she uses one of those funny gravity rings G'Kar mentioned, operating on sound waves. Perhaps the walls are simply very thin. In any case, Racine and Neroon were almost certainly overheard. Alas, in the end, it was better that it was so.)

But these are all excuses. No warrior fears their end. "Accept," he says.

Branmer's face appears on screen. He looks simultaneously irate and disappointed. Neroon cannot decide which is worse.

"I can explain everything," says Neroon.

"Good," says Branmer, seething. "Then explain why a Minbari Warrior was able to board undetected by you, poison a Vorlon, kill two Humans, and blow up the station."

"Everything but that," replies Neroon. "We do not yet know how he came aboard -"

"I am in no mood for levity," says Branmer.

"Yes, I can see this," says Neroon. "I have not yet met with the others. I must first confirm the identity of the assassin. There was some business with a disguising tool -"

"Yes, the changeling net," says Branmer darkly. "I've received a copy of the broadcast already. I must say that it does not paint you in a very favourable light."

"He had explosives," says Neroon. "He couldn't be made to use them."

"And yet he did, which means you failed."

"What should I have done? Hm? Killed him on sight to stop him? Minbari do not kill Minbari," says Neroon. "And the Humans would not have accepted this as due process, either. What feeble explanation they currently have is unsatisfactory."

Branmer does not reply to this point, which suggests he does not entirely disagree. "I am meeting with the Grey Council in four hours. They in turn have already been in contact with the Vorlon and Human governments to try and soothe this upset. It has not been easy. Any information you can give us about this agent will be of paramount importance. We will be sharing all of it with the Vorlons."

Neroon nods. "I understand."

"We will also be sharing all of it with the Humans," Branmer adds.

"But -"

"Now is not the time to posture, Neroon," Branmer interrupts.

"So now is the time to grovel?"

"To pick up the pieces of the mess we have made," says Branmer. "Literally, if I understand correctly, what has become of your previous accommodations."

"The Wind Swords are the ones who have broken with the Grey Council," says Neroon, trying not to sound like a petulant child shifting blame. Even as he says it, he knows he is failing in this. "This action of theirs is in direct defiance to the surrender order of ten cycles ago."

"The Wind Swords is the Warrior Caste, like it or not," snaps Branmer. "And I speak for all of the Warrior Caste. That includes them, though they may not like it. Though you may not like it. But you are no longer permitted not to like it. You in your position as Ambassador represent all of the Warrior Caste. You - you do realise this, yes? You are effectively the Shai Alyt stationed on Babylon 5. You are my voice. That is your job. You may even style yourself Shai Alyt-nali if you like, if titles are important to you."

"I - I can't -" Neroon's throat is tight. He can't claim not to have wanted this kind of praise, this kind of recognition from Branmer, but he had not imagined it like this. "Branmer, I cannot do this," he says plaintively.

"You can, and you will," says Branmer. "I tell you: this will be your job one day, and you need experience. It is one thing to be a Captain. It is another to be War Leader. You cannot simply resign from Babylon 5. In fact, clearly, this episode shows me that the Warrior Caste is needed there more than ever."

"But what do we do about the Wind Swords? How are we supposed to solve that when I am stuck here on this station?"

Branmer thinks. "I will come," he decides, "and we will discuss this in person. I have some tasks here. When I am finished, the flow of Warrior Caste members into and out of Babylon 5 shall grow. Then your job will really begin."

"This sounds like espionage," warns Neroon.

"In many ways it may be," says Branmer. "I cannot vocally call out the Wind Swords on their misbehaviour. And they know this. They will attempt to profit from our silence. We cannot let that happen."

"Agreed," says Neroon. He sighs and closes his eyes, trying to fend off an impending headache. When he opens his eyes, the headache is still there. "Thank you, Branmer."

"My friend," says Branmer seriously, "thank you. If we had not had someone from our caste there ... things may have been different. We must begin speaking out. Against our isolationism. There are things that the Humans - especially the command aboard Babylon 5 - should know of us."

"You want me to go around spilling the secrets of our people to the Humans!?" asks Neroon, incredulous.

"They are our allies, now," replies Branmer. "The Religious Caste are the secret keepers. We, meanwhile, treat our allies as Warriors will. Is that understood?"

That is the way Branmer phrases his orders. Neroon salutes. "Yes, Shai Alyt," he replies, as he bows.

The title softens Branmer. "Is that agreeable?" he says, more gently.

"I don't like it," says Neroon. "But I have trusted your judgement before. I will do so again."

"Tell Sinclair whatever you need to, to keep your position on the station," says Branmer. "Do you understand me? Don't let him throw you off."

--

Some time later, Neroon calls a meeting between the three Minbari ambassadors. They meet in Neroon's new chambers, where he will be for the foreseeable future, because his former apartment in Red Sector is behind a lockdown and probably ash.

"I am sorry about the loss of your possessions," says Delenn.

"The denn'bok survived," says Neroon.

"Some of your books were original," she says.

"Everything else was backed up on data crystals." He looks around. "This place... will do."

"It is good to have you in Green sector," says Racine.

"It is kind of you to say so," says Neroon. It would be kinder still if he meant it. "Well, let us begin. I recognised the facial markings on the Minbari assassin," he says, beginning to explain. "I confirm, as no doubt you both already suspect, he was one of the Warrior Caste."

"Which clan?" asks Racine.

"Wind Swords. Wind Swords indulges in facial markings," he explains. "As do the Fire Wings. Both employ war paint, but Fire Wings in a different manner."

"It is an old and noble tradition," says Delenn. "I am surprised therefore that there is no such record of it in modern times for Star Riders. You love your old and noble traditions."

"Star Riders have better things to do than play with makeup," says Neroon. But it is more that Wind Swords has been doing it more in recent years, and Star Riders strains always to differentiate themselves. "Given the use of the changeling net, I am presently occupied in confirming the assassin's precise identity. But what I can say for certain is that the Wind Swords are quickly becoming a problem in the Warrior Caste. Niurik of the Night Walkers has left her position as Caste Elder, and among those sent for candidacy are three Wind Swords, who all are well-regarded. One of them is likely to win the seat. If they do so, Wind Swords will have a majority on the Council of Caste Elders. Wind Swords and Fire Wings together will be six voices out of nine for the Council from the Warrior Caste."

"Star Riders and Wind Swords have ever been at each other's throats," says Delenn. She talks like it is a simple, stupid problem among dim-witted warriors who prefer to busy themselves by squabbling with each other instead of seeking enlightenment in a noble fane.

"It is a problem that the Wind Swords have grown more and more apart from the other clans - not simply Star Riders - in the years following the end of the war," says Neroon. "They have all but broken from our government. It is dangerous for the Minbari not to pay attention to it. But at the moment, the Warrior Caste is trying to pretend it is a problem they have under control, when they do not, and the Religious and Worker Castes are trying to pretend it is a problem that is not of their concern, when it is."

"On what wisdom?" asks Delenn. "Your Warrior instinct?"

"The Shai Alyt is in agreement with me," says Neroon.

"Then you must have spoken eloquently to have swayed him," says Delenn.

"Or, possibly, I had a point," snaps Neroon. "It has been known to happen on occasion. There's a minor revelation for you!"

"Respect, Caste Elder Neroon," says Racine.

Oh, now we care about rank? thinks Neroon. But he calms himself. "The Wind Swords does not forget that it was a Star Rider Shai Alyt who obeyed the order to surrender. From this stems much of their vexation."

"I thought their ire was directed at the Religious Caste," says Racine. "After all, our Shai Alyt had been formerly Religious."

"'Ire' is a matter of opinion," says Delenn. "They are warriors. Warriors obey. That is their purpose. That is their duty. If they do not like an order, then their solace is to be sought in prayer and ritual in the Cha'dumwa. That is our tradition as Minbari. But they must first obey, because their service is to Minbar. Your Shai Alyt should seek out those involved in the Wind Swords in this matter and exercise discipline. This is what is required of him, of the position."

"You want a Star Rider to come down on them? And a Star Rider now serves as Ambassador for the whole Warrior Caste. This is what will keep the Religious Caste from facing the brunt of the anger of the Wind Swords," says Neroon. "If I publicly expose the Wind Sword assassin, they will build an enemy, now. In the Star Riders."

"Good," says Delenn. "Warrior may fight Warrior. Warrior does not fight Priest."

"Or Worker," says Racine.

"So neither of you care that Warrior fights Warrior," says Neroon.

"Will it come to anything?" asks Racine.

"It already has," complains Neroon.

"You fight," says Delenn. "We pray."

"We build," says Racine. "You fight."

"This is what you have trained to do," says Delenn.

"Your training, which our efforts as Worker -"

"- and Religious -"

"- have enabled and supported."

"When Shai Alyt Branmer obeyed the order to surrender, he was Warrior Caste," continues Delenn. "Not Religious. It is simple. You will not allow them to stir hatred of the Religious Caste into such a matter. If your Caste wishes to pick a fight, and clearly it is motivated to action, it must do so with those who are equally prepared for fighting."

That much, Neroon agrees with. "Yet when Warriors fight amongst themselves, only an enemy can win," he argues. An enemy, he has said. The enemy, he means. One in particular.

Well, why else did the Vorlons acquiesce now to sending an ambassador? The Vorlons, who Neroon has never met or seen, who Neroon was convinced were possibly one part of a cautionary tale told to children, with the ancient enemy - the Shadows - the other part.

Delenn and Racine look at each other, and in this moment's glance Neroon reads their anxiety.

"I knew it," whispers Neroon. "Do you have evidence?"

"Of what?" asks Delenn, pretending ignorance.

"None we will share with you," says Racine.

"You freely give Sinclair of the Humans all your information on the Vorlons, yet you will give me no indication of what has begun to transpire!" shouts Neroon. "If the Warrior Caste is needed, now is the time to tell them!"

"This is a matter for the Grey Council," says Racine. "You are not on it. This meeting is over." Racine stands to leave.

         They don't even listen to him, says Ivanova.

         They do not have to, says Draal. He is outranked. A warrior must understand rank.

         They could've thrown him a bone!

         For what? From the moment he has been on this station, he has been imperious in his handling with them. And now he seeks their alliance? He knows something of diplomacy to have made rank Alyt. He has yet to exercise it. Thus, it is a problem of his own devising.

         Well, says Ivanova, when you put it that way.

         If the Warrior Caste had had greater presence on Babylon 5, says Draal, they would be more amenable to entering the war. But not because the Religious or Worker Caste could better convince them. Because the Humans could convince them.

         Is that your theory?

         I have seen it, in many possible futures, says Draal. They had a way to understanding. A means to a powerful ally in the Earth Alliance. They did not take it. Your people and ours are tied in ways they do not even know, and still they hate. That is their tragedy.

"I intend to give Commander Sinclair of the Humans a full record of the travels of the Wind Sword operative in question," says Neroon.

"Good," says Racine. "When you do so, ensure that it is made clear to him that this mess is a quagmire of the Warrior Caste's doing, and thus that the Warrior Caste shall be responsible for its cleaning. Is there anything else?"

"I will be sending a copy of the report I make to Sinclair to the Shai Alyt," says Neroon. "And Alyt-nali Shakiri of the Wind Swords."

"No one on the Council of Caste Elders?"

"The Shai Alyt will determine if they receive such information. As for Alyt-nali Shakiri..." Neroon sends it to him before the Caste Elders on purpose. He knows - but cannot prove - this assassin is Shakiri's doing. He cannot have Shakiri thinking Neroon will tattle on him to the Council. Shakiri, after all, is not on the Council. But he also cannot have Shakiri think that something of this magnitude has gone unnoticed. "This is a peace offering," says Neroon. Shakiri's last chance.

"And the Grey Council?"

"If you feel they should know, you may inform them," says Neroon tartly. "Since you so often remind me that you are on it."

"Neroon," says Delenn, warning.

"Ah, look, a volunteer," says Neroon, gesturing at Delenn.

         You know what, I take back everything I said, says Ivanova. I'm back to punching him.

         One step forward, two steps back, I believe you said? quips Draal.

Racine does not bother with a reply. Anger flashes in his eyes, and if his expression alone could wound, Neroon would find himself flayed, but Racine holds his tongue as he exits Neroon's quarters.

Delenn sighs. "Did you have to be so ..." She trails off.

"I am being myself," says Neroon.

"Maybe that is the problem. You don't want to listen to me. I know. I can tell. You dislike me. You think you know it all already, and that there is nothing you could learn from a simple temple priestess."

"You put words in my mouth. That is not why I dislike you, and you know it," says Neroon. It is because he has much to learn from her, like how she can wield diplomacy so effortlessly, and he would learn it better if she - and the whole Religious Caste - weren't so damnably sanctimonious about it all the time, treating warriors like they were idiots with sticks, talking over them, like their emotions and experiences did not matter because they had orders to follow. Some days Neroon finds himself agreeing with the spirit of what Shakiri says. Misguided though Shakiri's methods are, his intentions are good. His intentions are for the Warrior Caste, which is more than Neroon can say for Delenn, who doesn't seem to care for the well-being of the Warrior Caste at all. Some priestess.

Branmer had once said, our faith is intended for the warriors, as well. Oh, is it truly? Pull the other one, it has chimes and bells well-suited to meditation!

"It matters little to me why you dislike me," retorts Delenn, her voice dripping acid. "Or even that you dislike me. But you may have to play this game a little wiser, before too long. I do not know you well. I know Shakiri even less. But what I know of you both is that you can out-smart Shakiri. Easily. And you will need to. And that is all the advice that I will give, for I know you will not take it. After all, what does a simple temple priestess know?"

Neroon says nothing, looking away, and Delenn storms out of the room, content with the last word.

--

"Commander," calls in Lieutenant-Commander Takashima.

"Sinclair," he replies, "go."

"Ambassador Neroon wants to speak to you. It's - about the recent troubles, with the assassin."

"Great," mutters Sinclair. "I guess he's waiting for me in the Garden too?" Those Minbari and their zen stones.

There's some silence on the line. Neroon must have shown up in C&C. Reminder to revoke his diplomatic access to that, thinks Sinclair. "He said he wasn't planning on it," says Takashima at last, "but if that's what you prefer, then..."

"Tell him he can meet me there in ten minutes," says Sinclair.

Sinclair takes his sweet time on the transport tube, hoping to be late to make Neroon stew. Right when you want it to break down, it doesn't, would you look at that. Passive aggressive? Sure. But since he's not allowed to physically punch the guy, it's all he's got.

Neroon is in the Garden, alright, but he's further on than Delenn and Racine's usual spot in front of the stones. He's inspecting the hydroponic wheat, testing the strength and rigidity of the stalk. As Sinclair watches, Neroon does something more unexpected - he removes his glove, then touches a grain head very carefully, running his bare fingertips over the long brush hairs that sprout out of the spikelets.

         You see? says Draal. There is a curiosity in them. They simply like to pretend it isn't there.

"Having fun?" asks Sinclair. Abruptly, Neroon starts, then scowls. He puts his glove back on. "Well, you wanted this meeting. Don't look so surprised."

"How is - Mr Garibaldi," asks Neroon tentatively.

"Resting, in his quarters," replies Sinclair.

"And - the station?"

"Holding together. We have a repairs team working on the breach. It'll take a few days, but it's nothing we can't fix."

"Good." Neroon's face remains entirely impassive. Whether he actually thinks it is good or not is hard to say. "And the ambassador?"

"Kosh has made a full recovery," says Sinclair, and on this he is proud. "Out of critical, and probably by this point discharged from Medlab. The counteragent worked better than we had hoped. We have Racine and Dr Kyle to thank for that."

"Yes," says Neroon. He almost smiles.

"Well," says Sinclair. "I'm sure you didn't call me all the way down here for small talk."

Neroon sighs. "No. I wanted to explain to you personally who it was who attacked several people, jeopardised the safety of the entire station, and nearly caused a major diplomatic incident between the Earth Alliance and the Vorlon Empire, to say nothing of what he did to you."

"Something tells me you can't take full credit for that," says Sinclair. "You didn't get him aboard the station. But you did seem to know him."

"Not personally," Neroon says. "He came to see me yesterday, looking for assistance. He said he had information. But he was unwilling to give up the information, so I was unwilling to assist."

"I see," says Sinclair. "And when did you know he was internally wired with explosives? Explosives of the kind that aren't allowed on my station."

"Before you did," murmurs Neroon. "I hoped he could be talked down from using them." He pulls out a flimsy file from his surcoat's outside pocket, located at his hip, and holds it out. "Sonovar of the family Quer, of the Wind Swords," he says. Sinclair takes the file. "That will explain in full detail who he is, with more relevant information which may be new to you, about the Warrior Caste and its clans - some of which are less pleased with the outcome of the war than others. It also catalogues his movements over the past ten of your years. Sonovar was once an aide to Satai Morann, who served on the Grey Council during the Earth-Minbari War. Stop me when I have said something unfamiliar to you."

"So far, so good," says Sinclair evenly. If Neroon is upset that Sinclair already knows so much, he doesn't show it, but his mouth thins and his eyes narrow.

"Sonovar was also providing information about what he saw, in his position as aide, to Londo Mollari of the Centauri Republic, in exchange for a substantial credit allowance," continues Neroon.

Sinclair whistles. "Bribery?" he says. Minbari can be bribed, with something as easy as money? "I thought your people were beyond that."

Neroon lifts an eyebrow. "So did we. When he was discovered, Sonovar resigned in disgrace, as did later Satai Morann. Sonovar was not necessarily exiled, but nowhere on Minbar would employ him. So he has spent the time abroad, taking what appear to be odd jobs, to survive. Eventually he appears to have realised that the easiest way to support himself, given his knowledge, was -"

"To be a hitman," fulfills Sinclair. "Do they teach you nothing else in the Warrior Caste? No SIGINT, no cryptography? No transferable skills?"

"Apparently, Sonovar had never felt himself particularly adept in anything else," says Neroon.

"Well," says Sinclair. He pockets the flimsy. "I'll have to take a closer look at this information."

"Naturally," says Neroon. "There is much to go through, and not much time before Ambassador Kosh's welcoming ceremony."

"About that," Sinclair replies. "I really don't think it would be appropriate to have Warrior Caste presence there."

Neroon considers this in silence for a moment, and then closes his eyes and nods, more respectfully than Sinclair has ever seen him do.

"Just answer me one more question," Sinclair interrupts. "How can I even trust you when it's the Warrior Caste who pulled this stunt? Delenn is washing her hands of it, as far as I can tell, and so is Racine. But they're a different caste. And they've been helpful - Delenn's diplomacy - Racine's research. If you say there's multiple clans, how do I know you're not somehow affiliated with this Sonovar's clan, and still looking to get me out? For that matter, how can I know that you don't want to start up the war again?"

Sinclair frowns and steps closer to Neroon, uncomfortably close. The distance between them is enough that Neroon has no choice but to look up to face him, which he does, struggling to maintain his customary disdain. From this distance and in this light he can see that Neroon's eyes are not pitch black, but simply dark brown. It humanises him. Bet that would sting, if he knew. "I want you to look me in the eye, and tell me you're not still interested in killing all of us," hisses Sinclair. "Can you do that, Neroon?"

For a moment, Neroon holds his gaze. Then he steps back and looks away. "You know that there is a council of nine - three of each caste - which governs us," he says instead.

"That's not the answer to the question I asked," growls Sinclair. He's real sick and tired of Minbari doing this.

"No, but allow me to wend my way there," Neroon snaps. It's almost satisfying to see him react with emotion instead of cold dispassion. "Grant me that much!"

Sinclair glares.

"The Grey Council," Neroon continues, more calmly. "You know of them, yes? They are who gave the order for surrender. The order came from the members who were Religious Caste, but it was accepted by the Grey Council as a whole. It was upon the orders of the Grey Council, from the motion made by its Religious Caste members, that the Warrior Caste as a whole obeyed. It is the function of the Warrior Caste to obey the Religious Caste."

"I was under the impression you were on equal footing," says Sinclair.

"I would not say so," says Neroon. "So. There are factions within the Warrior Caste that want the war to be over, but on their terms. These terms are the obliteration of your race. Star Riders is not one of these factions - it is a Star Rider who is Shai Alyt and we follow his path. When he was ordered to stand down, we followed that too. Not all were happy to. I was not happy to. I will admit that not understanding why we surrendered has ... blunted my affect in our dealings."

Neroon breathes in deeply before continuing. "Do I want all Humans dead?" He exhales fully. "No. Likely not," he says, impersonally, like someone who has not really thought about it but has taken a shortcut to the conclusion. Sinclair hopes he's right. "If I were asked fifteen of your years ago, I would have probably wanted nothing to do with you, and wished you neither ill nor good. But that war wove us together. And unlike the Religious Caste, I fought you. You ought to remember this. Because in so doing, I saw there so little of honour that I genuinely cannot divine what could possibly be important enough about you to have caused these ripples in our race, and whether it was worth keeping your species alive at the expense of our own turmoil - turmoil that the Warrior Caste alone suffers."

The power of one mind, to change the universe, thinks Sinclair.

But surely Neroon meant you-general, not you-personal. Right?

There is a hole in your mind.

         He's starting to understand, says Draal. It is something magical to see them here like this. The one who was. The one who is to come.

         What? asks Ivanova.

         Oh, nothing, says Draal.

"Since the Religious Caste took the responsibility for this ... abrupt surrender," Neroon continues, "I think it is the Religious Caste who is to blame. These factions within the Warrior Caste further think that because of this, the Religious Caste is, despite its wisdom, unfit to rule. Because they do rule us. Their power may be soft, but it is an unbreakable grip. In the best case scenario, I am to redirect the anger towards my own clan, that at least Warrior may fight Warrior, because for all their power, a priest stands no chance against a warrior, and there can be no honour in such a fight."

Neroon sighs. "I do not know what to tell you to convince you that I am not a part of this faction," he admits. "Because in fact... I may have to become part of it, to understand it, and to dismantle it. I have only been recently made aware that they are more active than I thought."

Step by step, he approaches. Before he gets too close, Sinclair folds his arms over his chest, but this doesn't seem to deter Neroon and he gets right up in Sinclair's face. "Commander, I understand that you have no reason to like me," Neroon says, terse and dangerous. "I have, after all, given you none. And until now you have had no reason to trust me, which is in part why I give you the following information."

         This part gets me, every time, says Draal. I don't know if I'm proud or offended.

         Relatable, agrees Ivanova.

         I should note, says Draal, on Minbar this is a prosecutable offence.

Sinclair holds his breath. Neroon draws nearer still and leans toward his ear. There, he whispers, "Your other two Minbari ambassadors are secretly members of the very Grey Council who issued the surrender order. I am not. As such, they are privy to more information than I am. Such as the real reason for the surrender order, and the circumstances that brought it about. They have the answers that you seek."

"And if you knew," murmurs Sinclair, "would you tell me?"

"Since I cannot begin to imagine why we surrendered," Neroon replies, "I cannot say with certainty that I would." He inhales, and finally steps back. "I will hide no more information from you. That is what the Religious Caste does. And I am not, nor will I ever be, in my heart, Religious. And my position on this station does require some cooperation from the Warrior Caste. I shall commit to such cooperation. So if you ask me, and I know, and I am free to tell you, then I will tell you." He spreads his hands, beseeching. "But I cannot tell you that which I do not know."

"Then I want to know one more thing," says Sinclair. "The assassin, shortly before he - blew himself up." Neroon winces. "He said something to me. He said, 'there's a hole in your mind.' Does that mean anything to you?"

Neroon accords it at least some thought, but finally shakes his head. "Nothing that I can think of," he replies. "If I had to guess - and this is, of course, speculation - I would think he meant that you are missing memories. That could be due to head trauma, inflicted physically. Though it is more likely to mean inflicted telepathically." Neroon pauses, and looks at Sinclair, and in that moment Sinclair knows his facial expression must have betrayed his anxiety. "But Sonovar was no telepath," he continues. "You will find his test scores on that file I gave you. So how he could have known such a thing is unclear."

"Do you think it's possible the Wind Swords have telepaths in their ranks?"

Neroon sighs. He levels an even gaze at Sinclair. "Yes," he says. "It's possible. I think it is likely."

"On what grounds?" asks Sinclair.

"On the grounds that Star Riders has some," he replies, looking away, "and that anything Star Riders has, Wind Swords seems to require as well."

"You're not supposed to have telepaths in the Warrior Caste clans," supplies Sinclair.

"No," says Neroon. "We are not. Minbari telepaths are to be sent to perform training in the Ninth Fane of Bhu'rissan, and after their training, encouraged to remain with the Religious Caste as True Seekers. Almost all who have finished the training, do so. The remainder become Worker Caste. It remains unclear how a Warrior could be a True Seeker." He scoffs. "A True Seeker of what, the sword?"

Sinclair drops his hands to put them in his pockets, where he plays nervously with the flimsy file, trying to get his fingers to stop shaking. "You didn't have to tell me that," he says.

"No," replies Neroon, "I did not. And I don't think I need to tell you that all of what I have said today must be kept in strictest confidence. Does this satisfy you?"

"You can stay," Sinclair decides. "I'm keeping you around because you're useful."

"Do not make the same mistake the Religious Caste makes," says Neroon. "That we are tools to be used. And when not in use, and not in service, discarded."

"Why," snaps Sinclair, "because it'll hurt your feelings?"

"Because the Warrior Caste has been too well-armed to be thus ignored." Neroon narrows his eyes, suddenly coming to a realisation. "And I suspect that is what has happened here, with Sonovar, and what may continue to happen."

"Look, Alyt," begins Sinclair. "I have appreciated your frankness. Really." In fifteen minutes Neroon has given him more straight answers than he has gotten out of ten years with Delenn. That's downright shocking, and it's definitely changed how he sees Neroon. In fact, it's almost uncharacteristic. Sinclair can't help wondering if it's a new hidden agenda of Neroon's, who he still doesn't trust. "But the next time you've got some internal Minbari politics to work out, just keep all the enlightenment to yourself, and if at all possible off my station entirely."

And then Neroon - smiles.

First his lips pull up into a half-grin. Then he laughs in a puff of air, like it escapes him and surprises him, and then he's outright laughing, loud and free, and his brown eyes are sparkling. He looks years younger.

"What's the joke," says Sinclair, who has never been able to keep a straight face when someone is laughing like this in front of him. My god, he thinks, he's got dimples. How can a man this dangerous, this rude, have dimples? This is ridiculous. "That wasn't meant to be funny."

"Well, it would ruin the humour -" gasps Neroon, "if I enlightened you - so I will have to keep it to myself!"

And now Sinclair is laughing too. "And off my station!"

"That's right - and off the station!"

         Draal is cackling.

         I don't get it, says Ivanova.

--

"You wanted to see me, Commander?" asks G'Kar, when Sinclair buzzes him in to his quarters.

"Just thought you might like to join me in a toast, before the reception," Sinclair says, smiling. He picks up the little handleless mugs - filled with fruit liqueur, which Dr Kyle says Narn can tolerate - and hands one to G'Kar. G'Kar takes it, but not without some apprehension.

Sinclair keeps smiling, nice and wide, that G'Kar doesn't suspect a thing. "To a fully operational Babylon 5," he says.

"To the future," says G'Kar instead, and clinks their glasses in what is coincidentally both a Human and Narn tradition.

Sinclair waits until G'Kar drinks first, which he does, deeply. "I'm pleased that the Vorlons have dropped all charges against you," G'Kar says. "Now that the real culprit has been found. Have you... learned anything more about him?"

"Yes," says Sinclair. It's all well-detailed on Neroon's file, how very many times the assassin was travelling through the Narn Regime. "Our would-be assassin had an interesting background. Seems he belonged to a branch of the Minbari Warrior Caste who split from their government after the war."

"A Warrior Caste," says G'Kar, triumphantly. "That explains why he would want to disrupt Babylon 5! And our mutual goal of peace. You know, you will not be able to trust that Neroon now. I expect he'll be leaving us soon?"

"Oh, I'll be keeping him around," says Sinclair. "We have a saying on Earth - keep your friends close, and keep your enemies closer."

"Wise enough," says G'Kar.

The assassin was not the only one working for the Narn Regime. "I'm surprised you didn't ask about Del Varner," says Sinclair.

"I assumed he was simply another innocent victim," says G'Kar, dismissive.

"Not quite," Sinclair replies. "We checked his ships logs and apparently, he spent a lot of time working for your government. A lucrative business, running forbidden technology into Narn space. His last entry spoke of a big payoff for bringing a changeling net across the border. He was supposed to meet with his buyer in the Tigris sector, but was running behind -" Sinclair pauses, as though remembering something, and then continues, colloquially, "Say, didn't your supply ship also pass through the Tigris sector on its way here? And we found the transport the Minbari assassin used, and judging from the decomposition of the ship residue on it - which was decidedly not Minbari - in fact, the time of it leaving such a ship to breach Babylon 5 would put it just after you refused to have that very supply ship scanned, and just before you suddenly decided it was alright to scan -"

"If you have a point to make, Commander, please, make it," G'Kar says, seething.

Sinclair drops his friendly guise. "I believe the assassin was brought here on your supply ship," he says.

G'Kar tuts, shaking his head, and walks past him, in a display of both nonchalance and dominance.

"That's why they needed the changeling net before they arrived," Sinclair adds. "A Minbari Warrior walking off a Narn ship would draw a lot of attention. With the net, he could appear to be one of your crew, and infiltrate the station. When Varner missed connecting with your ship, he came here. So you had to find another way to get the assassin on board. They used the transport we found on the station's hull to get him inside; he then killed Del Varner and grabbed the changeling net."

"Sheer speculation, Commander," says G'Kar. "With the death of Del Varner, and of the assassin - you have no proof."

Sinclair smiles. "That's right."

G'Kar drains his drink. "Well," he says, "I should be on my way."

"One more thing. As I mentioned, the assassin belonged to the Minbari warrior class." Sinclair glares. "During the war, I was in my world's warrior class. We saved each other's lives a dozen times over. Made the sort of friendships that last a lifetime."

"Commendable," drawls G'Kar, "but what does that have to do with -"

"With nanotechnology? Glad you asked." G'Kar's expression at the non sequitur is too comical to resist. "You've heard of it, haven't you? Machines too small for the eye to see? Maybe Del Varner brought you some, sometime. You can even shield them - make them invisible to electronic detection. Like the one you just swallowed, in that drink." G'Kar's jaw drops, and likely his face pales, if Sinclair could tell what that looked like on thick Narn skin. "I imagine it's firmly latched onto your intestinal tract by now."

"What," whispers G'Kar.

Sinclair continues, shrugging, "Oh, it's nothing harmful, Ambassador ... it's a location transmitter." And then Sinclair picks up his completely innocuous link finder and presses the button.

The transmitter for his link finder, which he has affixed to the bottom of G'Kar's glass, which G'Kar holds in his hand, level with his solar plexus, pings loudly. G'Kar nearly jumps out of his codpiece.

"It should dissolve in about five years," says Sinclair. "But until then, Ambassador - my friends, in my warrior caste, have this frequency."

G'Kar is agape, horrified.

"And if anything should happen to Babylon 5, they have instructions to track down that transmitter and - well." Sinclair extends his hands. He smiles congenially. "Why spoil the surprise?"

"This is an outrage!" G'Kar yells.

"This is insurance," says Sinclair. "What you do here is your own business - you can scheme, and plan, and play all the games you want. But get this straight: if you ever endanger this station again, my people will find you. And the results will be most unpleasant. Look on the bright side, Ambassador! From now on, whenever you raise a toast to the good health of Babylon 5, I'll know you mean every word of it."

G'Kar bursts out of his quarters and ducks into the transport tube the second he can.

         He got off pretty easy, says Ivanova.

         He is paying for it presently, says Draal. We all come around in our own way.

--

Later, in the reception area, people mill about, eating, drinking, socialising. Lyta is talking with Dr Kyle as Mollari approaches them, shaking hands; Racine is standing in the corner reading something on a flimsy file, absently eating a slice of what seems like cake but doesn't fall apart like it. G'Kar is also in a corner, but decidedly less pleased; he looks quite sour. Delenn is behind the food table, admiring a sugar sculpture. She seems entranced by the way the light falls upon it. The command staff look excited to have an hour off. The rest of the League of the Non-Aligned Worlds representatives discuss various things amongst themselves, with various levels of volume.

Neroon should probably be here, thinks Sinclair. Maybe I was too hard on him. Then he reflects. His caste literally tried to kill an ambassador, and then blew up a whole level of Red sector. No, I wasn't too hard on him.

"Can I have your attention," announces Sinclair at last. "Will you all please join me in welcoming to Babylon 5 our final representative: Ambassador Kosh, of the Vorlon Empire."

Sinclair bows, then begins to applaud, and the rest of the room follows his lead.

Kosh - wherever he is in that magnificent encounter suit - inclines his head in return. Racine stands, in the corner, and bows deeply. Delenn approaches and bows deeply. Mollari lifts his glass. Well, maybe that's the same as a deep bow for a Centauri.

When the applause dies down, Sinclair wanders through the crowd, as is expected of him, but he tires of parties easily. Kosh, when he finally gets the chance to speak with him, is rather strange. "I'm so happy your government decided to join us on the station," he says, "and in our mission for interplanetary peace."

"We struggle to open a door between us," says Kosh, "when the whole wall is an illusion."

"Is that a ... Vorlon saying?" Sinclair guesses.

"Yes," replies Kosh.

"Well, I'll take that as a blessing," he says.

Kosh inclines his head and the aperture on the oculus widens to its fullest extent for a second, before narrowing again.

But the Minbari seem happy and flock to Kosh. Kosh doesn't seem to mind. Guess Delenn wasn't kidding when she said she was looking forward to meeting a Vorlon. It seems strange to think that even the Minbari hadn't met them before.

Happy to see that people are - finally - getting along, Sinclair steps out of the room.

The reception area backs onto the Garden, which is a happy coincidence - the other reception area by Docking Bay 9 hadn't. Sinclair takes a seat by the stones and thinks about doors and walls. Then he starts to think about holes.

There is a hole in your mind. Yeah, you're not joking, pal.

But nothing in the way the way the stones fall really elucidate anything about that, and they don't bring back his memories from the missing day during the Line.

Soft footfalls sound beside him. "You left the reception," says Delenn gently.

"I needed a little quiet, to think," says Sinclair. "Delenn, just before he died the Minbari assassin looked at me and said, there is a hole in your mind."

Delenn looks taken aback, almost shocked. "An old Minbari insult," she says, shaking her head, "nothing you need worry about. I should not be surprised if it was a verbal taunt, intended to provoke you. The Warrior Caste can be like that, sometimes. Trust me that you would rather they strike with their words, than with their pikes. Such blows are easier to defend."

There it is. So either Delenn is lying, or Neroon is lying. Or both of them. But one of them is definitely lying.

And everybody says that Minbari don't lie, thinks Sinclair.

"Maybe," says Sinclair. He gets to his feet and begins to pace. "It's just - there's a twenty-four hour period in my life that I can't account for. It happened during the war with your people." He turns to Delenn, to ask her again. "You - you wouldn't be holding anything out on me, would you, old friend?"

"Commander," Delenn assures him, "I would never tell you anything that was not in your best interest."

And who among your Grey Council determines what that is, wonders Sinclair. Maybe they all get together and vote about what I'd like to know.

For a moment he thinks seriously about calling her out on what she has said. That's not what Neroon told me, is on the tip of his tongue. But then he also remembers what Neroon said: that Delenn and Racine are higher up than he is, and if Neroon is free to tell him things, he will. (Apparently. Sinclair isn't going to be holding his breath.) They could order Neroon silent. Sinclair doesn't want that.

"Well," says Sinclair, managing a feeble smile. "We'll talk about this again one of these days." He walks past her. "Come on. We should get back to the reception."

But he can't keep the gravity from his voice. The disappointment. He doesn't bother trying. I thought we were friends, he thinks.

Delenn quickly changes the topic. "By the way," she says. "There's something I've been wondering."

Sinclair turns.

"Why - 'Babylon 5'?"

"You know the answer to that," Sinclair says.

"That the prior four were lost, or destroyed. Yes. But then, why build another?"

"Plain old Human stubbornness, I guess," he says. "When something we value is destroyed -" like trust - "we rebuild it. If it's destroyed again, we rebuild it again. And again, and again, and ... again." He looks out over the Garden, lush and green, and safe in their massive rotating countless tonnes of steel. "Until it stays."

One of these days, he thinks angrily, you'll tell me what I need to know. When you finally realise we're trustworthy. Then at last our people will understand each other.

But then he reflects: we struggle to open a door between us, when the whole wall is an illusion. And his anger mostly fades.

--

Ivanova's vision clears, and she finds herself back in the hall before the Great Machine, with Draal. "Is that it?" she asks.

"For now," Draal says. He unhooks them both from the Machine, her from the main conduits and himself from the secondaries, so that he can fully return to the Machine's heart.

A portion of the floor opens up, and a platform beneath it rises. On top is a single data crystal, clutched in prongs emerging from the platform, like a jewel. "Your information for Minbar," Draal replies. "The time will come soon, when the division between the castes becomes even greater. Warrior will stand apart from the other two. I need not tell you this is a dangerous thing."

"Fractured Minbari is exactly what we don't want," says Ivanova. She takes the data crystal and slips it into her pocket, alongside the other one containing the evidence of Santiago's assassination. "How do I stop this?"

Draal smiles sadly. "You don't," he says. "It has already been set into motion. It could only have been stopped earlier. I could show you, if you like. Delenn has made some difficult choices. I am not certain I would have made the same ones. But I am here, and she is there, and yet we are each the right person, in the right place, at the right time." He stares into the distance, thinking. "He'll come to the station himself, I suspect," he says. "The likelihood is great. As for why, I cannot tell you. And it's not because I am withholding secrets."

"Causality," guesses Ivanova. "If you told me - it'd change things."

Draal nods. "Correct. When he arrives - you could intercept him yourself, but I don't think you should. Delenn will know what to do. I know what she will choose. Give her the information that you have seen here today, and she will act."

"It won't be that easy, will it?"

"No. Only on the surface does it seem so simple. The machinations are significantly more complex. Remember that I said he has difficulty recognising when caste loyalty should be abandoned, for the logic of selecting the better ally. You will get your ships, and you will get some Star Riders. But it may be too late for him. That," says Draal wistfully, "is his tragedy."

That sounds so fatalistic. "He'll die, you mean," Ivanova says.

Draal does not exactly reply with a firm answer. "We all die, eventually. No warrior fears their end."

Chapter Text

caste

“I had no idea that there existed such shapeshifting technology,” says Neroon over tea in Racine’s chambers.

“The Star Riders need not be apprised of all technological comings and goings,” Racine replies.

“Stop playing with me,” Neroon snaps. “I must know the extent of cooperation between the Worker Caste and … some of our clans.” It’s why Branmer meets now with the Wind Swords.

“The Warrior Caste Satai know all about it already,” says Racine. (Then so too must the current Shai Alyt. Time to contact Branmer.)

“Why was a changeling net so easy for the Wind Swords to obtain?” Neroon protests.

Satai Racine straightens. “That is none of your concern, Caste Elder.”

–

Ultimately, Satai Racine will not tell Neroon what the Wind Swords contract of the Worker Caste, and suggests that he find other means not involving an accusatory and commanding tone. Neroon storms off for his own quarters.

“Was that wise, I wonder,” asks Satai Delenn, when he informs her. (He discusses all potentially Grey Council matter with the other Ambassador Satai, especially as she is Religious.)

“Do not lecture me on wisdom,” says Satai Racine. “You may be a priestess, and I a lowly engineer, but you are half my age.”

Satai Delenn says nothing but smiles, nods and bows.

–

illness

Neroon refuses to make health appointments with the Human doctor, but these headaches have become too difficult to ignore, and he will not be home for Caste Elder business for another three valstas.

“Ambassador,” says Dr Franklin, when Neroon enters Medlab. “I’ve never seen y-”

“Painkillers,” states Neroon. “The strongest you have suitable for Minbari biology, should you know anything of that.” He doubts it.

But Franklin surprises him. “I know plenty about Minbari biology,” he says coolly. “I’ve more experience than you have in Standard - the usual magic word is ‘please’. But I don’t give anything to non-patients.”

–

adoptive family

“Do you know what the Jesuits taught me,” says Sinclair conversationally.

“I don’t care for religious matters,” snaps Neroon.

Silence succeeds his interruption. Neroon refuses to let himself feel cowed by a Human. At last, Sinclair says, “They taught me an unexamined faith is not worth having.”

Neroon’s lips curl. “Well said,” he admits, albeit reluctantly.

“Those brothers also taught me that prayer doesn’t make magic happen; rather, you pray for the strength to take action, and you pray for guidance to do the right actions.” Sinclair is quiet a moment. “I don’t think we did the right actions today.”

–

“Branmer was like a brother to me,” spits Neroon. “Is that what you want? An answer, a why? Why I took what he said and ignored it? Why I took his wishes and ignored them? He’s dead, he doesn’t need anything. No more strength. But I need-”

His voice thickens and he breaks off before he chokes on his words. He swallows to remain composed. I needed it, so I took it.

Those unspoken words linger, heavy. I needed it, so I took it.

So might makes right, does it? Do the wishes of a dead man have no bearing?

–

“I appreciate you confiding in me,” says Sinclair. “Thank you.”

Neroon doesn’t acknowledge this. “I’m returning to Minbar in the morning. His partner will want the ceremonial urn,” he explains. His Star Rider partner.

“Of course,” says Sinclair. “Will you return to Babylon 5?”

Truly, he doesn’t know. “Perhaps I should be replaced with someone more deferential to our Religious Caste Ambassador.”

“You’re one of us now,” Sinclair protests. Neroon flinches. “Ambassador Delenn doesn’t control who is stationed here, I do.”

“She’s the one who put you here,” sneers Neroon. It helps himself feel grounded and knocks Sinclair, wide-eyed, off-guard.

– 

spreadsheet

Dr Franklin saunters back into the examination room. “Well, Ambassador, your bloodwork came back a complete and total wreck, and I’m not liking your recent brain imaging scans, and then there’s the therapy I continue to recommend for your obvious psychological problems -”

“I should maim you for your insinuations of such dishonour,” snaps Neroon. “There is nothing wrong with my mind, Human.”

Dr Franklin extends a prescription slip with a date on it. Doubtless he has already entered it into his organisational files, which Neroon has so far proven powerless to escape. “See you in three months,” he says.

–

darkness

It is clear that the episode with Branmer has influenced the outcome: Neroon is not appointed to the position of Shai Alyt.

“Are you not busy enough with being Caste Elder and Ambassador?” asks Delenn, when he inquires.

“You will regret your decision,” Neroon warns. “There is a … darkness, in Shakiri.” That hot-headed Wind Sword has landed their Caste in trouble before. This is a bad idea. “A shadow,” he adds.

Delenn looks at him with a shocked expression. The word 'shadow’ has her attention. But she replies only, “Sour grapes, say the Humans.”

“Watch and see,” says Neroon. “He’ll damn us all.”

–

An unsettlement grows in the pit of his stomach. Shai Alyt outranks Alyt; there is also little the Council of Caste Elders can do against the leader of the standing guard. The chain of command is clear.

So, too, was Branmer: Keep an eye on him, he’d said. And, before he suddenly died, I’ll be meeting with the Wind Swords.

Only one position remains that Neroon could attain to keep Shakiri in check, and that’s Satai.

Unfortunately, there are no vacancies on the Grey Council.

Yet.

What do you want, someone asks, and Neroon opens his mouth to reply -