When It Alteration Finds

by Sarai332000

Marcus Cole has even more secrets than anyone knew. What did he do in the Earth-Minbari War and why is old history threatening to get him killed?

1. Default Chapter

DISCLAIMER: Babylon 5 belongs to JMS. I'm just playing. AUTHOR: Sarai PAIRING: Marcus/Neroon WARNING: m/m slash, violence RATING: R (eventually, PG-13 now)SPOILERS: Seasons 3 and 4 AUTHOR'S NOTE: This isn't my usual fandom, so please let me know if I messed anything up. I'll post the rest of this when I finish it, probably in six weeks or so, and can repost this part with any needed corrections then. SUMMARY: What if they had met before? TITLE: When it Alteration Finds

Chapter One

They called it Obsidian. It was originally designed as a joke; a computer virus cobbled together by a few students at the Academy in a childish competition to see who could make the more damaging program. It ended up being the only hope for a doomed world. Like humans who contracted a viral infection, most computers infested with a rogue program could eventually recover. Obsidian, however, was to a computer like cyanide was to a human. It wasn't a virus, it was a poison, from which any infected system could never be brought back; it turned every function as dark, black and cold as its namesake. It was the perfect weapon to end the horrifying war, but even a super weapon has a flaw. It has to be delivered.

2248, the Ingata

Neroon was usually content to carry out Branmer's orders unquestioningly. Even the more tedious ones, those involving the seemingly endless paperwork his position demanded, were often useful, and he had learned much of caste politics from replying to the communiqués regularly sent to his commanding officer. Indeed, he was pleased to take the responsibility off Branmer's shoulders, for although the war went well for their side, his Shi Alyt often seemed troubled. Why this should be so puzzled Neroon, but it was not his place to question, only to obey. And no one could fault Branmer's leadership. The Ingata had proven itself numerous times against the humans, and would soon do so again. It was scheduled to lead the final assault on Earth, now only weeks away, that Branmer had helped to plan. Still, this particular assignment he could have done without. Babysitting spoiled noble's sons was hardly the proper task for a warrior, and although he would never have allowed himself to vocalize his displeasure, he grumbled mentally as he made his way to the main landing bay.

The shuttle carrying the scion of one of the Warrior Caste's oldest families--by all accounts, a thoroughly over bred, arrogant young man--was just landing. Neroon watched as some of the replacement crew for those lost in a recent suicide run by Earth Force ships stepped into the cavernous bay, their stiff postures giving evidence of the long transit time. Their shuttle had had a stopover for refueling several days before due to the length of the trip from Minbar, but for the last 40 hours, the passengers had been packed into the small conveyance with little opportunity to stretch tired muscles. Neroon scanned the fatigued looking crowd, but did not see the one he had been sent to meet.

Of course, he only had an old, rather grainy vid capture to go by, as the young man had not gone through the usual warrior training program and been photographed and IDed like everyone else. Oh no, that would have been too much to expect for Tyamer's heir. The Moon Shield leader had not scrupled to keep his only child in luxury on their country estate, while the rest of the Warrior Caste's children were being assigned barracks in one of the communal training villages where they would spend the majority of their adolescence. Neroon thought Tyamer had done his son a disservice; yes, the training regimen was hard--and purposefully so, for how else could the Warrior Caste maintain its strength--but those years were invaluable for making friends and useful contacts for the future. Of course, he thought sardonically, perhaps Tyamer did not feel that his son, with all the power of the Moon Shields behind him, was in need of more common friendships. Or perhaps, he thought as he caught sight of a particularly bedraggled looking specimen, he didn't wish for others to know how useless his heir really was.

"You are Sorval, family Kathu, of the Moon Shields?" Neroon's voice as he addressed the skinny youngster before him held a note of incredulity, for the boy was all but swaying on his feet. He'd have expected better self control, or pride at least, from the great man's son. Unless he had misidentified him. He looked about as the boy focused weary gray eyes on him, but the others had all been met by their respective section heads, and were in the process of being led away. Either this really was Sorval, or Tyamer had managed to come up with yet another way to postpone his son's introduction to active duty.

"Yes," the boy dispelled that fear, at least, and held out an identity chip in a slightly shaking hand. Neroon took it, looking him over narrowly. By Valen, it was worse than he had thought. The child, for he hardly looked old enough to be called a man no matter what his records said, was skinny to the point of scrawniness and his eyes were red enough to make Neroon wonder if he was ill. That would explain why he seemed on the verge of collapse from a mere shuttle ride, although why command would send anyone, much less the coddled favorite of one of its leading voices, out when he was sick was a mystery.

"You appear unwell." He hated to spoil the boy more than he doubtless already was, but Branmer was an old friend of Tyamer's and would skin Neroon alive if the brat was seriously ill and he did not catch it. "We can stop by the medical facility if you feel the necessity."

"No!" The boy's eyes widened in what looked almost like panic. "That is," he drew himself up with something approaching correct posture for the first time. "No, sir, I do not."

Neroon decided to take him at his word for the moment, particularly as he had no interest in spending half a day in the medical ward while that damned Tranus made his usual meticulous, time consuming examination, especially if all he was likely to say was that the whelp was tired and out of shape. The former should be taken care of by a brief rest; the latter, and Neroon had to suppress a smile at the thought, would be dealt with by Master Durhan in the trainee's gym. The brat had better have all his father's lauded skill; Durhan and Tyamer were old rivals, and Neroon doubted that his one time tutor planned to take it easy on the great man's son.

"Come then," Neroon said curtly, and set a rapid pace out of the bay. He had many other duties requiring his attention, and resented any extra time spent showing Sorval to his rooms. He hoped the boy didn't assume that being met by the ship's first officer was a sign of things to come; Branmer was unlikely to play favorites, and Neroon certainly wasn't. It had always been tradition that section heads met their new arrivals, and since Sorval's duty shifts would be in the weapons division, Neroon was his immediate superior. Luckily, there were a number of junior officers who would be overseeing his instruction.

The boy caught up his traveling pack and stumbled down the corridor after him. So much for stealth training, Neroon thought, half amused and half horrified as the gangly creature tripped over his own feet more than once before they reached his assigned rooms. Usually, a newly made officer would have had a bunkmate as, even on a ship the size of the Ingata, space was at a premium. Neroon knew for a fact that Branmer had made no alternate plans for the young noble shuffling gracelessly behind him, but he nonetheless had his own room for the moment. Better that he understand that that would soon change.

"You will have a roommate after our next supply run; we are not yet at full compliment." The young man nodded, seemingly too tired to even speak. Neroon would have berated him for his lack of discipline, but did not want to waste even more time on him. Let others teach him respect; there would be many happy volunteers. "You have the next three duty shifts off; your orders are in your terminal." Neroon handed the boy a data crystal with his access codes for the ship's computers, then left. What a waste of over half an hour!

Marcus saw the door slide efficiently closed after the big Minbari before he collapsed, panting, to the uncarpeted tiles. His body wanted nothing more than to black out for a day at least, and despite the fact that he was lying on the floor, the room felt like it was spinning wildly around him. How he'd managed to walk this far was beyond him; he strongly suspected that only the threat of an examination in the med lab had done it. He didn't expect to survive this mission, but being caught out within an hour of setting foot on board would have been pretty damn pathetic.

After an indeterminate amount of time, the room's spinning slowed enough that he managed to crawl over to the computer and check his schedule. He did the time conversion and realized with profound relief that he had almost twenty one Earth hours, or a full Minbari day, before he was expected anywhere, and he set the computer to give him an alarm three hours before that time in case his internal clock was hopelessly screwed up. He stumbled into the bathroom and groggily checked his appearance in the tiny mirror. He was relieved to see that he looked passable except for the extreme redness of his eyes. There was little he could do about that, as they'd found out too late that the contacts his disguise required irritated the hell out of his eyes. They were nonetheless necessary since no one had ever seen a green eyed Minbari and, at any rate, Sorvals' vital stats were on record; his eyes, like those of many of his race, were gray.

It was only, Marcus thought as he peeled off his hated costume, one of the many flaws in the damn thing's design. Still, considering how little time they'd had to construct it, he supposed he should be grateful that it was convincing, no matter how uncomfortable. None of the Minbari on the shuttle nor the officer who had met him had seemed to find anything wildly unusual about his appearance; he could only hope that would continue. Three weeks, he chanted his mantra as he began a sponge bath. Damn the Minbari and their weird ideas of bathing; God, what he wouldn't give for a shower!

Marcus leaned against the sink when his exhausted muscles threatened to give way after he'd washed off two day's sweat from that sauna of a costume. He had had to resort to stims to stay awake on the shuttle, desperately afraid that, if he fell asleep, he might mumble something incriminating. "You have to remember, Marcus," the head of research at Intel had reminded him at least a dozen times. "Most people in undercover assignments give themselves away by something simple. They relax after a while and, without realizing it, their guard falls. Forget who you are and why you're there even for a second and it can lead to disaster!" It sounded paranoid to stay awake for almost two days, just because he was afraid of using English in his sleep, but paranoia was a healthy habit under the circumstances. "Always assume the worst," he'd been told. Marcus grimaced; that wasn't going to be a problem.

He looked down at his hands, noticing that they were still trembling slightly from the stims, despite the fact that he'd stopped the shots 18 hours earlier for fear of overdosing. His body craved sleep like a parched desert seeks water but, before he could allow himself that luxury, he had to don the damned synthaskin costume again. No matter how much he hated it, sleeping without it wasn't a possibility. It took at least ten minutes to settle properly and, if there was a drill or other emergency, he'd never have time to get it on if someone came looking for him. He didn't think that was likely, but couldn't take the chance.

Drying himself off thoroughly, he focused tired eyes on the pale visage and shaved cranium in the mirror as he reattached his Minbari face. He needed to shave again, especially his head as the little hairs beginning to pop out all over his scalp itched like mad, but he just didn't have the strength. Tomorrow, he promised himself, as the synthaskin flowed over his skin like quicksilver before settling into place and turning the chalky white that passed for a healthy Minbari complexion.

The young man he was impersonating had been selected mainly because of his unusual isolation from the others of his caste. That made it unlikely that anyone was familiar enough with him to notice the variations in appearance that the costume couldn't duplicate. Marcus was a good three inches taller and about thirty pounds lighter than the real Sorval. The face he saw in the mirror, thanks to the synthaskin mask and attached bone crest, bore a resemblance to that of the furious young man captured with a Minbari transport some weeks before. Marcus seriously doubted, however, that the costume would fool anyone who had met him recently; synthaskin could only do so much, and there had been no time for surgery to remake Marcus' own features into something closer to the more delicate ones of the young Minbari. As it was, things like the size of his nose, always a bit too prominent for his liking, could not be hidden by the mask, and his profile therefore bore little resemblance to the man he was mimicking.

Still, the telepaths who had scanned Sorval assured Marcus that the pride of his old father's heart hadn't been off the family estate for any length of time in years, and was not well known even within his own caste. That had not reassured Marcus much, however; he didn't know how much contact the man might have had with others that he hadn't bothered to tell his father about, nor how many images of the Moon Shield heir might be floating around. Three weeks, he reminded himself, pulling on pajamas but leaving off the padding he wore under his armor that attempted--without much success, he feared--to make him look like he had a typical Minbari frame. He had a bulky robe he could pull on in a second if needed, and the heavy pads were both stiff and very hot.

Marcus leaned back against the slanted Minbari sleeping platform and tried to relax into rest, but the 45-degree angle ultimately defeated him. He moved the bedding to the floor and stretched out as much as possible in the tiny cabin, which left his feet jutting into the bathroom. He pulled up the blanket and ignored the Spartan surroundings. The room he'd carved out of part of a storage area back on Arisia in order to get some privacy from his younger brother hadn't been much larger.

He expected to drift off immediately, but too many images crowded behind his eyes. It had been this way ever since the dump, as they inelegantly called it. It was an oddly appropriate word, for that was exactly what it had felt like; as if a huge weight had been dumped into his mind, weighing him down to the point of smothering him under someone else's memories. He hadn't expected to survive the process. The few who had tried it before him, except in cases of much smaller transfers, had died or gone mad; the doctors had told him that the suicide rating for his mission might well be fulfilled before he ever set foot on a Minbari vessel. Marcus hadn't much liked the odds, or the idea of having a whole phalanx of Psi Corps members accessing his brain to implant the information, but there had been no other choice. He'd always been good with languages, but no one could learn another tongue fluently in only two weeks, and besides the language there had been etiquette, history, philosophy, religion and fighting techniques-- a whole culture--that also had to be absorbed. Two years wouldn't have been enough if he'd had to study it all on his own; the revolutionary Psi Corps method had been the only way.

Marcus doubted, however, that despite his resilience to the process, he had absorbed anywhere near enough to fool anyone for long. The language had seemed to stick best, possibly because, as an Earth Force Intelligence officer, he'd already attained a slight familiarity with it. But a great deal of the rest had not stayed with him. He could access pieces of Sorval's memories--faces, snatches of songs, images of Minbari cities, as well as some rather embarrassing sexual encounters that Marcus would rather they'd have left out--but much of it was too indistinct to allow him to make much sense of it. Not to mention that the doctors had warned him that even the language skills might fade with time. Information dumped into a mind instead of learned tended to be transitory, and Marcus had no idea what he would do if his command of the complicated Warrior Caste language suddenly started to fail him.

Three weeks, he reminded himself; just survive that long. A rendezvous was planned for a large part of the Minbari fleet at that time, and Earth Force had intercepted transmissions that the final assault would begin shortly thereafter. All attempts to reach a settlement with the Minbari had failed, and no one had hopes of the war ending except in one of two ways. Either he would fail in his mission, and the fleet would destroy Earth, or he would succeed, and the nasty little computer poison he carried would cause the Minbari fleet to become dead in space, easy prey for the remnants of Earth Force.

Of course, even if he was successful in uploading Obsidian and it actually worked with the Minbari computers--a long shot in most of his colleagues' expectations--and if it spread through the fleet via their communications system as planned, Minbar would still be in much better shape to wage a war than Earth. No one knew exactly how many ships they held in reserve, but Marcus doubted they were throwing all they had into the conflict; after all, their victories had come too easily for them to need to risk everything. The hope was that suffering a serious defeat might cause their leaders, who so far had refused to even receive Earth's ambassadors, to listen to offers of peace. The war had been little more than a military exercise for the Minbari so far, who had lost only a small percentage of the casualties inflicted on Earth Force and the colonies. But if their people learned what it was like to suffer large casualties, if their news services began reporting the hundreds of thousands of losses that were a regular feature of Earth's daily news, maybe they would put pressure on their leaders to come to terms.

It was a lot of ifs, Marcus knew, but he'd discovered that it was easy to play the long odds when they are the only ones you have. Three weeks until the rendezvous; three weeks to somehow break into the top-level security files of this massive starship and upload the poison; three weeks until he, like the rest of the Ingata, became a target for the Earth fleet that was currently massing near Venus. For, even if his mission was successful, there was no hope of rescue. If he managed to somehow get off the ship before Obsidian caused the blast doors to close, turning it into a tomb, he'd be in a malfunctioning Minbari fighter in the midst of a slaughter. Best-case scenario, he had three weeks to live. It was the last thought he had before sleep finally claimed his restless mind.

Chapter Two

2261, Babylon 5

Marcus idly finished his drink while he watched the two large Minbari warriors at a shadowy table near the seedy bar's farthest corner. They were in a Drazi bar in Brown sector that few of Babylon 5's inhabitants had heard of and even fewer patronized. It said something about the duo's business that they had found it at all. The place made no effort to advertise itself, since the pirates, smugglers, assassins for hire, arms dealers and narcotic pushers that made up 90% of its clientele preferred to have their privacy. They drank a lot, so the bar's owners, who also engaged in fair amount of shady dealings, went merrily along with their wishes. Watchers posted in nearby dark corners kept an eye out for security, and on the few occasions when a couple--for no security personnel patrolled Brown sector alone--wandered in, they saw nothing more suspect than a friendly game of cards. As soon as they left, of course, the wheeling and dealing resumed as usual.

Marcus was not wearing his Ranger pin or brown and black uniform. The Rangers had once been a covert operation, but with Delenn's inauguration looming, it was no longer possible to keep to the dress code and still remain unnoticed. Marcus' current attire, a flashy black leather number that would have had most of his associates goggling if they ever saw him in it--reflected his pose as a Terran drug smuggler with a fast ship and a faster personal life. He had used the persona with good results before, but was rethinking the look. He fended off yet another proposition, this time from a Narn, and tried to adjust his gun belt to hide the assets shown off by the skin-tight trousers. He kept his attention on the two in the corner as he did so, however. Something was up; Marcus could feel it.

He'd heard people make fun of Michael Garibaldi's assertions that he could sense whenever something was wrong on the station, but Marcus had never had difficulty believing him. He'd experienced that same indefinable sense of wrongness sometimes himself, and it always turned out badly when he ignored it. Like on Arisia, a little voice piped up at the back of his mind. He immediately cut it off; he didn't need distractions like that tonight.

Both of the Minbari were Star Riders. Marcus had seen one of them lurking about Brown sector looking furtive and had followed him to the bar, where he had shortly been met by another. Most people wouldn't have been able to tell clan affiliation without being able to see the small symbols on their armor, but Marcus had picked them out easily. It was in the shape of their long, dark cloaks, cut from a template hundreds of years old that had been copied from one worn by their first clan leader. More obviously, it was in the peculiar mix of arrogance and elegance that no other clan ever quite managed, that calm conceit that said, we were first, and we are best. Oh, yes. They were Star Riders all right.

That in itself would not have worried him, much less have made him miss an important meeting with an informant in order to watch them drink. Although the majority of Minbari on Babylon 5 were Religious Caste, due both to Delenn's position as ambassador and their slightly lesser xenophobia, Warrior Caste members did come and go occasionally, and Star Riders had certainly been there before. Neroon had even been there once, although his run in with Jeffrey Sinclair had taken place before Marcus' arrival. Only Neroon, Marcus had thought when Lennier told him about it, could have managed to provoke Valen himself into resorting to violence. Marcus completely understood Sinclair's exasperation, having often had reason to feel it himself.

The two Minbari were now joined by a third, who, despite the low lighting that the bar's owners and frequenters preferred, kept his deep cowl up over his bone crest. Marcus ordered a refill, mainly to keep the bartender happy, and watched them out of the corner of his eye. There was no reason for him to be there, no cause to be concerned about what a handful of Star Riders were doing, but he couldn't help it. Every instinct he had said that trouble was brewing, and it didn't take much imagination to figure out what it was probably about. Delenn's inauguration as Entil' Zha was the only event taking place at the moment that he knew damned well would interest the Warrior Caste. What worried him was what they planned to do about it. He somehow doubted they were there to wish her well.

The three spoke only briefly before rising to go. The bar was a good meeting point, but dangerous plotting would be better carried out in whatever rooms they'd managed to obtain. Marcus doubted that they'd logged in with security, as there were ways around that regardless of what Michael thought. Marcus would have told him about some of them, except that he occasionally used them himself. There were also plenty of rooms for hire that didn't appear on the station's official lists; Marcus assumed the trio was off to one, and he intended to follow after giving them a small head start. No one, not even someone trained as one of them, followed the Warrior Caste too closely and lived to tell about it.

Marcus watched them head for the door, moving silently despite the weight of their armor and the fact that none were small men. Other patrons shifted out of their way, like small mammals taking to their holes when a hawk's shadow looms over head. The three were predators, and the other denizens of the establishment knew it.

Right before they exited, the warriors passed under the small light over the entry portal. The sickly green beam illuminated the face of the mysterious third party for a split second before he was gone. That glimpse was all Marcus needed, however. He fell back against the bar and dizzily wondered what would happen to him if he passed out here. That he'd be robbed was certain, but he was fairly sure that some slightly more interesting things would also occur before his body was stuffed out an airlock or dumped in a little used corridor. He decided not to risk it, and left immediately, before the tiny dots swirling before his vision had a chance to gang up on him.

He found an outlet vent for the air purification system nearby and let the cool breeze blow on him for a minute until he felt more himself. He didn't want to believe it; tried desperately to tell himself that he was hallucinating. He'd just been thinking about him, after all; surely his mind had played a trick. But the more he tried to talk himself out of it, the more certain he became: it had been Neroon. And if that was true, and if he was here for the obvious reason, Marcus decided that he knew one Ranger who needed to start making his will.

Lennier was speaking so earnestly that Marcus didn't have the heart to stop him. Besides, it wasn't as if he could explain how he already knew everything the young priest was saying. Knew and had already decided how to deal with it. "Marcus, he is the best of the Warrior Caste." Lennier looked worried that his friend was about to get an unfortunate introduction to what an enraged Star Rider could do. Marcus toyed with telling the young innocent that he was well aware what Neroon was like when caught in a passion, but resisted temptation; he doubted that even his reputation for levity would cover up that remark. He had never told anyone of his work during the Earth-Minbari War, not even Sech Durhan when he met him again at the Ranger Training facility more than a decade after their first encounter. He had very good reason to keep the two parts of his life completely separate. Of course, that was likely to prove difficult shortly, when a major player from one era insisted on intruding into the other, but then, this was Neroon. He'd always posed a serious hazard to Marcus' peace of mind.

He sent Lennier off with glib assurances, smiling a little after his friend had gone. They wouldn't meet again, unless Lennier wanted to give him the information on Neroon's bolt hole personally, but that was just as well. Recently, he'd become a bit too fond of Delenn's young aide, and had almost forgotten his old teacher's caution to never become too relaxed with anyone. Danger lay down such a road, and trusting in anyone beside yourself led to disaster. Marcus had only made that mistake once, and had no intention of repeating it. No, better that it end now, as it should have then; better that his old nemesis finish what he'd started.

"So, you must be Neroon." Marcus knew that there was no way Neroon could possibly recognize him, no chance that he would connect the gawky, gray eyed scion of a noble Minbari house with the green eyed Ranger before him. Still, the hands that gripped his denn'bok were sweaty. Marcus wondered again, as he waited to be acknowledged, if he should have brought a different weapon, but it wasn't as if he could issue an ancient Minbari challenge using anything other than the traditional one. Changing pikes would also have been difficult; fine denn'boks were hard to come by even on Minbar, being handed down in families for generations, and were hardly available for purchase in the Zocalo. He supposed he could have asked Lennier for his, but what possible excuse could he have given? "Sorry old man, but you see, Neroon gave me this pike--been in his family 400 years, you know--as an engagement present, and I'm afraid he might recognize it." Perhaps not. He'd just have to make sure his opponent never had the chance to get a good look at the weapon. Marcus was loath to give it up anyway; he'd used the pike so long that it had become almost an extension of his hand, and he needed that advantage. Neroon, although he didn't realize it yet, already knew all Marcus' best moves. He should do, Marcus thought wryly; after all, I taught them to him.

"You shouldn't get involved in things that don't concern you. My quarrel is with Delenn." Neroon's answer didn't surprise Marcus in the least. Most people would have mistaken it for kindness or courtesy--let the foolish Ranger walk away while he still could--but Marcus knew better. Neroon simply didn't want to waste time fighting an inferior warrior. He was essentially saying that Marcus wasn't good enough to bother killing. Despite his every caution to himself, the first words out of Neroon's mouth had managed to enrage him. Marcus held his temper, but only barely. "Then your quarrel is with me."

"Do you have any idea who I am?" There it was: the familiar Star Rider pride, in all its overblown glory. As if all Rangers would of course be knowledgeable enough of the great Neroon to immediately recognize him, even in a dimly lit hole in the wall in Brown sector. Marcus gripped his denn'bok until part of the feeling left his fingers. He wanted to shout, "Yes, I do, as a matter of fact. I'm the man who saved your life once. I'm the one who you swore you'd love forever. I'm the one you betrayed." God, how he wished the Ingata had been turned to dust all those years ago, and he and Neroon along with it! Marcus managed to keep his outward calm, even though inwardly rage and pain more than a decade old filled his mouth with bitterness. "I do. The only way you will get to her is through me. I invoke Denn'sha."

"To the death." Neroon looked amused. "During the war I killed fifty thousand of you. What's one more?" He moved immediately, but Marcus was prepared for the initial clash. It was powerful but lacked finesse, meant only to knock the presumptuous human out of the way so Neroon could get on with killing his real prey. The warrior wasn't taking him or his challenge seriously, not yet. Marcus doubted that he could defeat Neroon once he began putting some effort into his attack, but at the moment, the Star Rider was probably surprised that his opponent even knew how to hold a denn'bok properly. Marcus turned aside that first assault with ease. "Not bad ... for a beginner," Neroon told him condescendingly. "Last chance. I was taught the pike by Durhan himself."

Marcus almost laughed then. Dear God, if he only knew. "Oh really?," he couldn't resist commenting. "So was I." Let him think Marcus meant at the facility at Tuzanor. What would it matter? He'd be dead soon, and his secret would die with him.

"You're a fool." Ah, Marcus smiled at the contemptuous comment. That sounded familiar. "But, if this is what you wish then Denn'sha it shall be. To the death!"

Chapter Three

2248, The Ingata

Durhan was short, but powerful. Marcus had initially been surprised at what he'd mistaken for the first overweight Minbari he'd ever seen. That had been before the master had sent three huge opponents to the mat in a matter of minutes, without even appearing winded. He was big all right, but it wasn't fat. The man was one huge muscle, all the strength of which was about to be turned on him. Marcus decided that he didn't feel well.

He'd already damned Sorval to the lowest pit of whatever hell the Minbari believed in at least ten times that morning. For a young man who supposedly didn't know anybody, he'd managed to make a number of enemies. Most of the other young officers were merely aloof, much as those on the shuttle had been. Marcus assumed that was due to Sorval's caste rank, which seemed to make some people nervous, or because many of the Minbari had been assigned duty with the same people they had gone through training with, meaning that most of them had known each other for decades. The standoffishness, however, wasn't a problem. In fact, Marcus welcomed it. The less he had to interact with anyone, the less likely he was to give himself away. No, the difficulty was the reputation for arrogance that had preceded him, which his quiet demeanor seemed to reinforce; it had already won him some less than friendly looks from those of his own rank. The middle rank officers were also less than happy to meet him, due to the fact that Sorval had received a commission ahead of their protégés simply because of the name he bore. Then there was Master Durhan, who seemed to dislike Sorval on a personal level. At least, Marcus hadn't noticed anyone else having to run ten miles on the damned treadmill as a "warm up."

He came to the end of the run, sweating like a pig underneath his padding and body mask. Thankfully, the synthaskin did not show a change in color, allowing him, if he managed to control his desire to gasp for air, to look as cool as the other Minbari. Unfortunately, his unruffled demeanor earned him attention where he least wanted it.

"Good! Perhaps you aren't as out of shape as I thought!" Durhan's hearty tones were beginning to get on Marcus' nerves, but he was careful to show no emotion as the master looked him over. The mask was designed to follow his muscles, including those of his face, so he had to be careful to watch his expression at all times. "Let's see if you can handle a pike better than your sire!"

Marcus sighed inwardly. Of course, they couldn't start with hand to hand or something else in which he might have made a decent showing. It would just have to be the pike, which no one had used for serious combat on Earth since the damned Middle Ages!

Marcus had retained some of Sorval's memories about common Minbari weapons techniques, but he doubted they'd do him much good against Durhan. Since the master had just dumped three well trained Minbari, who'd probably been carrying pikes since they were old enough to walk, on their collective arses, Marcus had no illusions as to how long he'd last. Getting beaten up was the least of his worries, however. What really concerned him was what would happen if Durhan landed a tough blow that tore his costume. Synthaskin was durable, and tears knitted together quickly, but they would show as silver scars for a few moments at least. Not to mention that if the master managed to knock him out or break a bone, he'd be on his way to the medical facility where one scan would show the truth. No, somehow he had to avoid any type of serious injury. Too bad the new arrival wasn't going to be allowed to stand around and watch for a few weeks as he'd hoped.

It quickly became apparent that Durhan wasn't pulling his punches. The wind whistling past Marcus' ear at a barely dodged blow was proof that, if any of the master's strikes landed, he would be in trouble. His pads would give him some cushioning, but not, he very much feared, anywhere near enough. Humans didn't have the Minbari bone mass, and a blow that would simply inconvenience one of the other students would likely incapacitate him. No, it couldn't end on his first day, before he even had a chance to try to complete his mission! He wouldn't let it all fall apart so easily.

Marcus had the advantages of speed and agility over Durhan, and he used them to keep out of the way of the hail of blows being aimed at him while he tried to think. The Minbari likely knew little about Terran fighting methods, especially the more esoteric ones. Marcus' training had included some time with a karate teacher who'd been fascinated with Japanese, Chinese and Okinawan staff fighting. Of course, the staffs he'd used in class had been heavily padded, and had often still surprised Marcus with the force of the blow they could land. Durhan, he noticed, hadn't padded his staff, or denn'bok as the Minbari called it. Marcus would have vastly preferred not to use his old teacher's tactics for fear of drawing attention to himself, but it wasn't like he had a choice. Durhan might be fighting for fun or to show off; Marcus was fighting for his life. He only hoped no one recognized any of the moves as uniquely Terran.

He took the offensive suddenly with a Huen Sao reap that almost succeeded in knocking the master off his feet. Durhan jumped over it at the last second, but it surprised him, allowing Marcus to take advantage of the almost stumble. He closed enough to snag one of Durhan's legs with his own and simultaneously drove the pike as hard as he could into the master's chest. He didn't worry about seriously injuring him--Durhan was wearing the sturdy body armor common to the Warrior Caste, and Marcus doubted any blow he could aim would penetrate it, but he hoped to knock the wind out of his opponent and force an early end to the match. Of course it didn't work. Durhan went down, but almost immediately bounced back up looking amazingly cheerful for someone who'd absorbed a blow that would have knocked a human unconscious.

"Well, not bad--for a beginner. I see that I can stop holding back."

Marcus barely had time to wonder what the master meant before the fight escalated to the point that he couldn't think at all and remain on his feet. He fought with every trick, dirty or not, that he knew and invented a few new ones on the spot, but Durhan met everything with ease and always seemed a step ahead. Marcus' karate teacher had often spoken of soldiers entering a fugue state in combat, where everything other than the events of the moment faded out, and the battle became the whole world, but he'd never experienced it until then. How long they fought Marcus never knew, only that, when the gymnasium finally began to intrude again on his senses and he started to hear the surprised murmurs of the large crowd that had gathered around the practice mat, he was hit with the most overwhelming exhaustion he'd ever known.

Durhan bore evidence of several wounds, with one above his right eye bleeding profusely, but he looked as if he was having the time of his life. "All right, that's enough for now, I believe," he commented crisply, retracting his pike and regarding Marcus with an odd expression. Marcus desperately wanted a mirror, to see how his costume had fared, but assumed it had to be holding up or surely someone would be dragging him off to the brig by now. He stumbled over to the wall and slid down to a seated position as Durhan started to test another new arrival. Marcus managed to reattach the collapsed pike to his belt, but his hands were shaking with exhaustion, making it a major operation. When he looked up again, it was to see the young man who had taken his place get forced off the mat by a powerful blow, his round with the master having taken all of about two minutes. Marcus watched as a succession of other students were gracefully savaged over the next fifteen minutes, while he fought to stay awake. God, everything in his body hurt, and underneath the damn synthaskin he was soaking wet. Three weeks were beginning to look very much like a lifetime.

"All right, enough!" Durhan disposed of the last unlucky specimen and proceeded to give them a long lecture on the pathetic excuse for warriors they all were, and how he was going to whip them into shape if it killed them. Marcus did not share the uneasy chuckle that ran through the group at that comment; he wasn't at all sure Durhan was kidding. "Your new physical regimens will be uploaded to your computer account by this evening. If I hear of anyone skipping the workouts, I'll pull you aside for some one on one training, understand?" The new arrivals bowed before scattering gratefully. Marcus slowly got to his feet, but, of course, wasn't allowed to leave with the rest.

"A few of those moves were rather unique," Durhan told him, intercepting him before Marcus could get anywhere near the door to the corridor. "It looks as if your father didn't completely neglect your education, after all." He looked like he expected an answer, but Marcus had no idea what would be safe to say. He muttered his thanks, and to his great relief, the master seemed satisfied. "You'll be late for your first duty shift; can't have that," he was told heartily. "But we'll talk soon, young Sorval." Durhan strode off, looking like he'd spent the morning watching vids instead of fighting a dozen well-trained men and women. Marcus scowled after him, and limped off for the next test on what was already shaping up to be a very long day.

Neroon regarded the pale green flarn puree on his plate with less than appreciation. He had long made it a habit to dine with his old teacher once a week, and they traded off host duties. This week was Durhan's turn and, as usual, the quality of the food wasn't up to Neroon's standards. He wished they were eating in the mess with everyone else; they were serving a sweet soup made with Se n'kai tonight, and while it wasn't a personal favorite, anything was an improvement over the tasteless vegetable Durhan so enjoyed. It was versatile, being made into everything from a custard- like dish, which was what he supposed Durhan had been trying for, to pasta, but the simple fact was that flarn remained flarn in any incarnation, and Neroon had eaten more than enough of it as a young trainee to do him for a lifetime.

"And came damn close to throwing me two more times! I tell you, he's a find!" Durhan shook his head. "Must take after his mother." The master was going on about one of his students as he had been for some time. Neroon was less than interested; at the rate the war was going, hand-to- hand fighting wouldn't be necessary. Once the remnants of Earth's fleet and its defense grid were dealt with, victory would be assured no matter how many ground troops the Earthers might manage. The Minbari fleet would blockade the planet from space, and ground troops were of little use if you had no ships left with which to transport them.

"I am glad to note that at least one of the new arrivals meets with your exacting standards, my friend."

"Oh, go ahead, Neroon," Durhan grumbled good-naturedly. "Rub it in; I don't care. I intend to pick his brain for every new technique--some of those were truly extraordinary--and set up a new training regimen for some of the old hands around here." He gave Neroon an arch look. "Even some of the command staff are getting a bit soft."

Neroon laughed. "Don't tell me you think this protégé of yours can best me, my friend. Do you dislike the boy that much, to set him up for humiliation?"

"And a few are becoming over prideful, did I mention that?," Durhan continued dryly. "In any case, while I don't think he could best you yet, give me six months with him and we'll see. He landed some good blows today; if he hadn't been pulling his punches, I'd probably be in a good bit of discomfort right now. He gave me more than half an hour's work out!"

Neroon was surprised. It had been some time since anyone had lasted longer than a few minutes with the master, and to land any strikes at all was unusual. Durhan was known as the best for a reason, and Neroon had been grateful to gain his expertise for the Ingata. "What did you say the boy's name was?," he asked, pushing some flarn about so that it would look like he'd eaten.

Durhan gave an exasperated sigh. "You come to me to hear about the new recruits, then spend half the night thinking about battle maneuvers or some such thing! If you had been paying attention, you would know I was speaking about Sorval. I'd think you would be happy to hear a positive report about one in your own department."

"Sorval? Tyamer's heir?"

Durhan groaned. "Don't remind me! The man is insufferable enough as it is. I'll have to tone down my praise of the young Kathui or I'll never hear the end of it!"

The master went on to give Neroon a report on the rest of the new recruits, but the Ingata's First was no longer listening. He found it difficult to believe that the gawky young stripling he'd escorted from the landing bay had been able to wrest praise from master Durhan. Few did, and no one, to Neroon's knowledge, had ever managed to make the Master rethink his whole training schedule. Neroon ate his flarn mindlessly as he decided that perhaps he'd pay a bit of attention to young Sorval, and see what other talents he might be hiding.

Marcus stared at the specs running across his computer terminal with something approaching awe. Earth Force had managed to capture a few of the smaller Minbari ships, including one Nial class heavy cruiser, and take them apart for study. But no one had any idea of the capabilities of a Sharlin class ship, since anyone who met one tended to end up as space dust shortly thereafter. One hundred ninety crew, 15 Nial fighters, 6 neutron cannons, 18 fusion cannons, 6 missile launchers, a plasma net generator and an electric pulse gun. And that was just one ship. No wonder Earth Force was getting pulverized!

More to the point from Marcus' perspective was the intricacy of the ship's computer system. He'd expected it to be more complex than those of the fighters they'd examined back at Intel headquarters, but had confidently assumed he could compensate. There hadn't been a lot of recreation possibilities on Arisia, and like most of the children there, Marcus had been a computer nerd. His ability with computers was one reason the 22 year old had been drafted by Intel, rather than another part of Earth Force, and had, along with his mental affinity with the dump process, been one of the main things that had recommended him for this assignment. He was still sure he could compensate for the variations from the designs he'd seen back on Earth; the problem was not ability so much as access.

The Ingata had two computer systems, the basic, which closely resembled the one on which he'd trained, that was used for most ship's business. It gave him everything from his duty schedule to personal messages and was not a problem. Unfortunately, it was also not useful from the point of view of his mission. Obsidian had to be downloaded into the Ingata's primary network, which controlled vital systems like life support and weaponry, and it was protected like nothing he'd ever seen. As a weapon's officer he did, of course, have basic access, a necessity for his job, but basic wasn't going to cut it. Even if he downloaded Obsidian at his current level and it took out the lower functions, it wouldn't derail the main ones needed for combat, or do enough damage in general to effect the outcome of the battle for Earth. He needed the access codes to the higher levels and thus to the computer core. And the only people who had them were command grade: Shi Alyt Branmer and Alyt Neroon.

Marcus had been racking his brain for over an hour to try to see another way into the primary system--he wasn't a bad hacker, the adult vids on Arisia having been firewall protected--but it rapidly became obvious that the only way into the higher levels of the Minbari computer system was through those passwords. If he'd had a year to examine the system, maybe he could have found another way, but he had less than three weeks and a host of other duties to take up part of that time. Things were not looking good. Marcus waited until his first duty shift was over, then rapidly made his way back to his room and called up the personnel files on Branmer and Neroon. It surprised him to learn that Branmer had, until recently, been a member of the Religious Caste, and had only become a leading voice among the warriors after Dukhat was killed by the Prometheus. The captain had an incredibly busy schedule, Marcus noted, and try as he might, he could see no openings where a newly arrived officer might have a chance to get to know him. At least not well enough to be able to observe him entering in his private code sequence. After a short break for a trip to the mess hall for take out--no advantage would be gained in allowing himself to weaken from starvation--Marcus turned his attention to Neroon's file.

It looked slightly more promising than the captain's, mainly because Neroon was head of Weaponry and therefore his commanding officer. Not that he'd actually seen him that day, when a mid-level officer named Rudan had shown him the ropes, but it did explain why the ship's first officer had bothered to meet his shuttle. Marcus was working for him. Marcus forced himself to keep spooning up the largely tasteless soup that had formed the main course that night as he read all about Alyt Neroon. It surprised him to note that the man was over seventy Earth years old. No one back home was sure how long Minbari lived, but the ship's First hadn't looked like an old man to Marcus. He quickly called up Durhan's profile, and discovered that the sech who'd come close to wiping the floor with him that morning was almost 100. After a perusal of other ship records, Marcus made the guess that Neroon's age would put him somewhere in his early thirties if he'd been human, which made it surprising that he was already second in command of the Ingata and had been so for several years. Of course, the fact that he had been the leader of the Star Rider's clan of the Warrior Caste since his father's death a decade before might have helped, Marcus mused.

After reading the profile three times, Marcus sighed and sat back, feeling a little sick. He wasn't sure if it was the soup and spongy bread like substance that had been served with it, or the plan that was beginning to surface in his head that was responsible. There might be a way to get to Neroon. His schedule was busy, but he was on the lists of those officers who were available at set times to help others with combat techniques, in his case with the denn'bok and several hand-to-hand methods unfamiliar to Marcus. His pathetic showing that morning against Durhan would probably allow him a believable reason to ask his section head for tutelage, assuming he was willing to accept the risk of Neroon beating the crap out of him. That wasn't, however, the part of his plan that worried him.

Marcus reread the entry one more time, hoping for a loophole, but none presented itself. The only way he could see to get close enough to Neroon to have a chance at that access code was offered by one line in the First's bio. It seemed that Neroon had had a spouse named Tallier who had died for some unnamed cause twenty-four Earth years before. The profiles, which were quite laconic, provided little background information, but in every search Marcus had done, Tallier came back as a male name. And therein lay both his greatest chance and his greatest challenge.

To gain the First's trust quickly enough to get the information he required, a seduction was perfect; but there were a whole host of problems associated with the idea. Marcus had little idea how to seduce anybody, having never before tried, and no knowledge at all about what might be acceptable to a Minbari male. He wasn't even sure if such a liaison was legal; after all, Earth Force had all kinds of fraternization regs against junior and senior officers getting involved with each other, especially when in the same chain of command. He also didn't know if his synthaskin costume, as technologically advanced as it was, would stand up to that kind of intimate examination. It hadn't, he reflected with dark humor, been in the design specs. Marcus sighed and went to sponge himself off again, not feeling adventurous enough to try the skin stripper that appealed to the Minbari's tougher epidermis. The more he looked at this mission, the more impossible it seemed. He desperately wished one of the more experienced agents could have taken it, but all had either lacked his computer knowledge or the mental resilience needed to get through the dump. If he was Earth's best hope, Marcus thought with a scowl, they were all in a lot of trouble.

Chapter Four 2261, Babylon 5 Marcus woke up to pain, in massive amounts. Heaven wasn't supposed to feel this bad, so opening his eyes might not be the best plan. He wondered what purgatory would be like for him. A million years or so of reliving Arisia's destruction, perhaps interspersed with a few scenes from that last, horrific day on the Ingata? No, he definitely didn't want to open his eyes. "Stop faking. The instruments tell me when you're awake, you know." Stephen's voice cut through the fog swirling around his brain. Marcus winced at the light level in what was unmistakable MedLab as he cautiously cracked an eye. Only one seemed capable of opening at the moment, but it was sufficient to give him a view of the doctor's glowering face. "Hullo, Stephen."

"Don't 'hello Stephen' me. If you think I'm going to pass up the opportunity to tell you exactly what I think of this latest stunt of yours . . . " Marcus sighed and braced himself for the lecture. "You're absolutely right. But only because you're too banged up at the moment to appreciate the full effect. Nope, not gonna work myself up into a good fit until you're strong enough to stay conscious through the whole thing, and don't have any excuses for claiming not to remember it later."

Marcus sighed again. It was a bitch having a doctor who knew him so well. "Do I get a drink of water in the meantime?", he croaked, unable to manage his usual level of flippancy. He suspected that he was on serious painkillers due to the cottony feel of his mouth, but they didn't seem to be doing him much good. He wondered how many pieces Neroon had left him in. Why hadn't the bastard finished him? But then, Marcus reflected, the whole situation did have a curious irony. The last time they'd met, Neroon had left him broken and bleeding, too, but still alive so he could experience the rest of his world shattering around him. He wondered if that had happened again while he slept. "Delenn?"

Stephen gave him a drink, not nearly enough for Marcus' taste, and reassured him. "She's fine. Seriously pissed off at you, but fine." Marcus nodded his comprehension, and Stephen, sneaky bastard that he was, adjusted something on the array of tubes leading into various parts of his patient's anatomy. A few seconds later, Marcus floated off again.

The next time he awoke, Neroon was looming over him, mumbling something about having a revelation. Marcus made a flip remark, which won him one of Neroon's rare, booming laughs. It was, of course, only a very nice dream. He was probably dying, so his subconscious was giving him the solace of taking him back to a time before Neroon's treachery, to when Marcus had known what he thought was true intimacy for the one and only time in his life. Then they had shared much more than their bodies, and laughter had been commonplace.

"All right, that's enough." Stephen was shooing someone out of his room, but Marcus didn't have the strength to care. Perhaps Susan was trying to visit. They were friends, after a fashion, despite the fact that she found him about as attractive as an annoying baby brother. Just as well; considering that he was a virgin where women were concerned, he'd probably manage to disappoint. Hell, he wasn't even sure if he hadn't bored the hell out of Neroon during their little tryst. The Alyt had had a vested interest in keeping Sorval happy, after all, so it wasn't like he'd have told him. And he certainly threw him over quickly enough, given the opportunity.

The next time Marcus resurfaced from the meds, Delenn was there. He thought she might have visited before, but wasn't sure. The medication was making everything fuzzy, but since Stephen was pumping it directly into his system, there wasn't much he could do about it. "Marcus. You are looking better." Marcus glanced at Lennier, in his usual place a step or so behind Delenn, who gave him an encouraging half smile. They were both being diplomatic, he was sure. Stephen had removed the only mirror in the room, making Marcus suspicious about exactly how good he was looking these days. Speaking of which, "What day is it?" His voice was rough, but understandable.

"You have been in MedLab for three days," Delenn informed him, and Marcus bit back a groan. Great; at least four meetings with important contacts missed, and none of them was the type to risk visiting him in the brightly lit and very public MedLab. He needed to get back to work.

"What are you doing?" Stephen's outraged tones came as soon as Marcus tried to remove one of the forest of tubes snaking into his arm, side and even the top of his leg. What, had they run out of other veins?

"I have to see a few people," he began, only to wince as the volume of Stephen's displeasure broke over them all. Lennier looked faintly impressed; apparently, he hadn't had the pleasure of hearing the good doctor rip someone apart before. When the lecture, to which Marcus listened only enough to note when it wound down, had stopped, he tried again. "My contacts won't speak with anyone else, and there's been some strange rumors lately . . . "

"There are ALWAYS strange rumors around here; this place thrives on them." Stephen dismissed his concerns with an angry swipe of his hand. "Let me be VERY clear," he said, getting to within two inches of Marcus' face. "You. Are. Not. Going. ANYWHERE. You are going to stay here and heal. No, I don't trust you," he forestalled the intended protest, "not even as far as I could throw that medical bed with you in it! Anyone you need to talk to can use the comm system until I choose to release you. And don't try it," he added, noting the direction of Marcus' pleading glance. "Delenn backs me completely on this."

The newly installed Entil'zha had on her implacable look, the one that said, 'I will smile and be extremely polite while I tell you no repeatedly.' Marcus lay back without even trying. Bollocks.

"Get well, Marcus," Delenn told him, before she and Lennier were ushered out by a very smug looking Stephen. The good doc obviously thought he'd won, but Marcus wasn't about to lay back and watch entertainment vids while his whole, meticulously assembled informant net collapsed from lack of attention. It would take him a year to reassemble it if Stephen had his way and kept him swaddled in a medical bed for weeks. And that was too high a price to pay for a leisurely recovery. Besides, he hadn't been inventing an excuse to escape MedLab; there really had been some very disturbing rumors floating about before Neroon decided to come by and cock up his life again. As soon as Stephen's back was turned, Marcus quietly slid the comm panel over to him and began working on his escape.

Marcus knew they were hunting him; could feel the net tightening around him, but he had a job to finish first. The informant he was meeting was a Pakmara who had a marginally higher IQ than most of his species. That only meant, of course, that he was slightly to the intelligent side of bread dough, but he nonetheless did manage to convey one piece of interesting news. To most people, it would have been a mere curiosity; to Marcus, however, it was the last piece in a puzzle that had been weeks coming together.

The news was anything but welcome, but Marcus paid up. He tried not to think what horrid, half rotten delicacy the money would be used to obtain, and sat down to await his stalker in relative comfort. He wasn't long in coming.

"Ah, I see I'm honored," Marcus quipped, as Garibaldi himself stomped into the unused cargo bay.

"You better be glad it's me," Michael told him shortly. "Delenn's fit to be tied and you don't even wanna know what Stephen was saying when I left MedLab."

"Don't suppose you could just forget you saw me?," Marcus asked hopefully. Sometimes Michael could be reasonable; one look at the set of the Chief's jaw line, however, told him that this wasn't going to be one of those times.

"Don't suppose I could." His face softened after witnessing Marcus' less than successful attempt to rise, and he hurried over to help him up. His nose wrinkled slightly at the lingering essence of Pakmara, but he didn't say anything. Marcus' contacts occasionally mentioned things of interest to station security and, when they wouldn't compromise any of the Order's activities or reveal his secret ways onto the station, Marcus dutifully passed them on. Michael requited by turning a blind eye to all reports of odd meetings involving the Ranger. "You really shouldn't be up. You look like shit."

"Thank you for that assessment."

"No problem. Come on," Michael threw an arm around Marcus' waist to keep him from tipping over. "Let's smuggle you back into MedLab. Stephen might be somewhat mollified if he sees you all tucked up in bed, safe and sound."

"Right." Marcus wasn't overly worried about getting another lecture from the doctor; his head was still swimming with the implications of the Pakmara's news. "Look, Michael, I need to check on a few things, but Stephen has his bloodhounds out after me . . . "

"One of whom is me," the Chief reminded him as he calmly tapped his comm badge to let C&C know that the package had been retrieved.

"Tell the package that he'd better keep his sorry ass in Medlab, or I'll come down there and tie him to the bed!" Ivanova's furious tones came clearly through the link. Marcus winced. "Never been called that before," he said, altering his expression to what he hoped was a charming smile, but under the circumstances might have looked more like a grimace.

"We thought it best not to alert anyone to the fact that you were walking-- or possibly crawling--around the ship in no shape to defend yourself. You do have a few enemies, or so I hear." Marcus smirked; he didn't know the half of it. "And before you can ask whatever it is you're about to hit me with, understand that this is one time all my sympathies are with Stephen. Besides, there's a lot of people I don't mind having mad at me, but Delenn isn't one of 'em. And she isn't gonna believe that I couldn't bring you in if I wanted, especially in the shape you're in."

"Yes, fine, I understand your dilemma, Chief." Marcus thought quickly as Garibaldi hauled him into a freight elevator, the fastest way out of the warren of storage bays. "But perhaps we could come to a compromise?"

"Why would I need to do that? I don't think you're in any shape to make a run for it. I'm taking you back to MedLab, and that's all there is to it."

"Yes, but will I stay there? Come on, Chief," Marcus wheedled. "Wouldn't it be better to have my promise to stick around and let Stephen have his fun, without him having to keep me drugged out of my mind or, as Susan suggested, tied to a bed? He does have better things to do, as does his staff, than watching me every minute."

"And what exactly would this promise cost me?," Michael looked suspicious, but at least he was listening.

Marcus hit the emergency stop; nowhere was safe to discuss this, but an unused freight elevator in an empty cargo bay was as good as he was going to get. "This is important," he said, and Michael's hand, which had been reaching for the release, fell away.

"All right. You got five minutes, then I'm stunning you, throwing you over my shoulder and carting you back to MedLab, got that?"

Marcus didn't waste time replying. "I had to meet a contact; he gave me the usual load of dreck, but there was one jewel among the dross this time." Marcus took a deep breath; God, he hoped he wasn't going to regret this. "The Minbari fleet lost a ship recently, one of the Sharlin class cruisers. It won't have been on the news," he cut off Michael's objection before he could make it, "The Minbari don't want anyone to know. But the ship was plundered by Raiders and some of its . . . remains . . . were pillaged by the Pakmara before the Minbari could retrieve it."

The two shared a shudder at the thought of what the Pakmara had probably wanted with it. Carrion eaters weren't picky. "But Raiders don't hit something that big, unless they were traveling in a larger than usual configuration," Michael mused. "And even then, I can't see them going after a Sharlin cruiser--those things are like a floating fortress."

Tell me about it, Marcus thought. "Yes, normally they'd avoid anything well able to protect itself. But I've reason to think that this one wasn't. That currently, a lot of them aren't."

"A lot of what? Marcus, if you've got a point . . ."

"No one can know you got this from me," Marcus insisted. "If you think I have a lot of enemies now, it's nothing to what would happen if the source of your information was leaked. Do you understand?"

"Ok." Garibaldi had become very serious, and Marcus decided to go for it. The Chief had impressed him more than once with both his ability and his discretion, and in any case, it wasn't like he had a choice. This time, he certainly couldn't tell Delenn.

"A number of Minbari cruisers, possibly all of them, have been infected with a computer virus. A bad one. It happened back during the war, when the virus was implanted in one ship before the Battle of the Line. But, since the Minbari surrendered, it was never used. It spreads through the ships' communication's system so, after this long, I have to assume most if not all of the fleet is infected."

"Then why haven't they been having problems all along?"

"Because the virus lays dormant until activated, and the activation code was never sent. But I've been hearing rumors for a few weeks now that may indicate that someone has obtained the code. I assume it was sold to the Raiders, who would pay a high price for being able to plunder the Minbari fleet at will."

Garibaldi whistled. "I'll just bet. But that means the entire fleet is in danger, and that means . . . "

"That so is Babylon 5. The Minbari ships guarding the station have always been its best line of defense. The Minbari HAVE to be told about this, Michael; they have to purge Obsidian now, or soon there won't be a fleet left."

"And you know about this because?"

Marcus shook his head. "No. But I can give you the specs on the virus, show them how to identify it. It's subtle; they won't find it in time otherwise."

"And you are telling me this instead of Delenn because?"

"No questions, Michael! Ok, look," Marcus saw the expression on the Chief's face, and knew he wouldn't budge without some kind of explanation. "Intel invented it--or co-opted it, rather--during the war. When it didn't turn out to be needed, it was left in place because no one trusted the Minbari to keep the peace."

"So Obsidian was a type of insurance," Michael was quick, Marcus noted with relief. His strength was fading fast and he still had to get the damned program to the Chief. "They go ballistic again, we take out their entire fleet. Nice."

"Exactly. Only it would be less nice if someone else did it now that we're allies. And with all the upheaval on earth lately, somehow, the secret slipped out. I may be able to figure out who messed up," Marcus thought aloud, "given time. There were only a handful of us who knew."

"Uh huh." Michael was looking at him shrewdly. "And you were all of what? Twenty one, twenty two in the war? How did you become so familiar with a top level program that you're still, twelve years later, able to write it out from memory?"

Marcus sighed. Bugger it. He should have known that keeping secrets from Garibaldi was a sucker's bet. Anyway, the Chief already knew enough to hang him out to dry if he chose, and Marcus did need his help. "Because I'm the one who delivered it."

Chapter Five 2248, The Ingata Neroon picked himself up from the mat and glared at the skinny child standing over him. The only thing that saved the boy from a serious beating was the fact that he was not smirking. In fact, his carefully neutral expression had not changed once since they began twenty minutes before, something that was really beginning to infuriate Neroon. "Again." Neroon took a stance opposite his opponent, and tried not to let it bother him that his tutelage of the youngster was quickly turning into a tutorial for himself.

Durhan hadn't been joking; the child knew some completely original maneuvers, which collectively were resulting in the closest thing to a trouncing Neroon had received in a long time. And, as if afraid to hurt his decrepit old section head, the boy added insult to injury by barely tapping him when he connected. Neroon could hardly feel the blow through his armor that the boy landed a few moments later, using another odd maneuver. To make things worse, his even, aristocratic complexion hadn't the slightest hint of a flush to mar its smooth surface, while Neroon had no doubt that he was coloring nicely. Maybe there had been some truth in Durhan's jibe that he was getting soft.

After chasing the child around the practice mat for another twenty minutes, Neroon called a halt to their session. He had a good excuse--another pairing had reserved the mat--but in truth, he was the closest to winded he had been in a while and needed the breather. The damned child wouldn't stay still! He was everywhere except where he was supposed to be, dodging and weaving through all of Neroon's attacks, then coming out of nowhere with another move the First had never before seen. Neroon decided that he was definitely going to schedule an extra training session or two into his week; when a lanky lad of less than twenty cycles could best him, something had to be done.

He noticed that the boy was still standing by the mat, with the first expression Neroon had seen on his face all morning. Surprisingly, it wasn't triumph, although, had anyone been keeping score, he easily would have won the match. Instead, it looked like vague embarrassment, and Neroon was about to assure him that beating up his section head would not earn him extra duty when the boy spoke.

"They, uh, they're having flarn tonight, in the mess." He fidgeted. "I heard someone say you're not fond of it, and I'm not either. It's pretty bland, isn't it? That is, I know some people love it, and its very nutritious, but if you don't, then I was wondering if maybe . . . of course you don't have to, I mean, you're First, aren't you? Naturally you don't have to do anything, but I meant, I wouldn't be offended if you didn't want to."

Neroon eyed him suspiciously, but he was fairly sure that none of the blows he'd attempted to land alongside the boy's head had actually connected. "If I didn't wish to do what?"

The boy squirmed under his regard. "Um, it was probably a bad idea. I understand. I'm sure you have lots of work to do, and even if not, there's no reason why you'd want to eat with me, and . . . "

"That would be acceptable." Neroon didn't think he could face another dish of flarn, especially the way the mess hall fixed it, which, if possible, was even more bland than Durhan's version. He doubted, however, that the boy had the means to concoct much of an alternative. The junior officers' quarters most decidedly did not come with kitchens attached. "What did you have in mind?"

The boy looked surprised, as if he had assumed his invitation would be rejected, and hadn't given it much thought. "Um, it's a surprise," he finally replied, and Neroon decided to humor him and not press for details he probably didn't yet have. Branmer had asked him to let him know how the youth was settling in, and a leisurely meal would afford more opportunity for questions than a fierce sparring match. In any case, whatever food the youngster came up with, it couldn't be worse than flarn.

"Very well. Leave a message for me with the details. My shift ends two hours after yours."

Durhan watched the little tableaux with curiosity. Naturally, he was interested in how his best student would take on his latest protégé, and had to hold back a delighted grin more than once as Neroon ended up on the mat. Durhan could rarely spare time from his teaching duties to spar with the ship's First, and even when he did, they had fought each other too often to prove a real challenge. He knew all Neroon's tricks--not surprising considering that he'd taught him most of them--and Neroon knew his. It was only very occasionally that he managed to fool his old friend, but Tyamer's offspring had done it repeatedly. Neroon would, of course, absorb the new techniques and soon use them to properly thrash the boy; he had done as much once to Durhan himself. But it was certainly going to be amusing while it lasted.

Then, however, the boy had managed to surprise Durhan once again. Neroon was often a bit isolated from his fellow warriors since, as First, there were few with whom he could relax as equals. Branmer was usually busy, having become in Durhan's mind overly obsessed with the war to the exclusion of everything else; the chief medical officer and Neroon cordially loathed each other; and Durhan himself often had to rearrange his crowded schedule to make time for their once weekly meal. In addition to his status on the ship was Neroon's position as clan leader, which made even other Alyts somewhat nervous about approaching him. It had been, then, with the utmost surprise that Durhan had heard Sorval boldly, if somewhat incoherently, ask Neroon on what sounded suspiciously like a date.

"Sorval! A word." Durhan watched as the boy trotted up to him. He looked as cool and collected as always, with no sign that he had recently been put through a punishing work out. Despite himself, Durhan was impressed. He looked him over. It was difficult to give an assessment of his relative attractiveness; he was still in that annoying stage where rapid growth spurts made him look like a famine victim, and he was without doubt too tall for the fashion. Still, his complexion was good, with a sheen to it that Durhan, who had suffered taunts as a child for his slightly coarser skin, secretly envied. He had good features, too, although his nose was a tad large; still, in another ten cycles or so, when his face and form broadened a bit, he might turn out rather well. He couldn't, of course, ever be expected to rival Tallier, but then, who could?

"So, you plan to court the Alyt, do you?" Durhan was pleased that his bluntness managed to draw a startled look from the boy. He was far too sunk in aristocratic reserve for his own good.

"I, erhm," the boy seemed to find words difficult, but Durhan didn't mind. He had summoned him over to listen, not to talk.

"That's good. Neroon has been alone far too long, as I have repeatedly told him. Still, the task you've set yourself won't be easy. When is your duty shift to start?"

"Er, in a few minutes, Master Durhan."

"Well, then, I'll have to take care of things myself. You run along for now. Come by my office after you get off and I'll show you what I've arranged."

The boy wandered off, looking slightly stunned, and Durhan smiled as he watched him go. He hated to do Tyamer's family a favor, but by Valen, if anyone could bring Neroon out of the isolation he'd wrapped around himself since Tallier died, Durhan was going to support it with everything he had. "Muran!," he called for his aide. "Take my morning classes. Something urgent has come up."

Marcus made his way slowly to the Ingata's hydroponics garden. Durhan had left him a message, telling him to meet him there, but Marcus had no idea why. He was close to panicking, as his duty shift had kept him far too busy to make any arrangements for the evening and Neroon was scheduled to get off rotation shortly. He hoped whatever it was Durhan wanted wouldn't take too long. One of his fellow officers had a friend on the mess staff, and Marcus was going to try and talk the man out of something other than flarn for his and Neroon's dinner.

"Ah, there you are. Over here." Marcus followed Durhan's voice to the far side of the last room in the gardens. The Minbari had accelerated the growth rates of many plants, including the one that was harvested for the dreaded flarn, allowing almost a quarter of the ship's food to be produced on board. It helped out with the oxygen levels, and cut down on the number of supply runs needed on long missions.

The rooms were mostly utilitarian, but the final one was banded by the observation windows that ringed deck 15, and the contrast between the black of space and the green tubs of plants was attractive. It reminded Marcus of his mother's garden on Arisia, in which she tried to keep a little of Earth alive so far from home. He only hoped she lived to see it again; Arisia had been evacuated because its Q-40 operation might prove an attractive target for the Minbari, and his family now waited on Earth for the war to decide their fate. Marcus intended to do whatever necessary to insure that they, and all the other families with them, would be safe. Even if that meant seducing a strange alien he'd only just met.

"All right, now pay attention," Durhan, who was kneeling in the middle of a nest of cushions, paused to light a candle. It, along with half a dozen others, were scattered around, adding a golden glow to the dimness of the ship's night cycle. Marcus was both relieved and somewhat nervous to note how much trouble the pike master had gone to for his dinner date. He must really be fond of Neroon, Marcus thought in awe, taking in the dozen or so silver dishes filled with food stuffs, most of the names of which he didn't even know. "Don't look so concerned," Durhan told him, amused. "I didn't cook." He leaned forward conspiratorially, "I called in a few favors."

"That was most kind," Marcus said lamely.

"Neroon is an old friend, as was his father before him," Durhan responded, casting a eye over the low table around which the cushions were scattered. "That's all right, I believe." He went on to give Marcus a brief run down of conversational gambits, most of which were completely useless since Marcus did not know anything about the entities that Durhan mentioned. They could be sports teams, musical groups or stamp collecting societies for all he could tell from the master's comments. He settled for fingering the small vial in his pocket and nodding at the appropriate moments. He really wished Durhan would leave. A few minutes later, the master seemed to decide that it was time for his exit, and with a command to the ship's computer to start playing some soft music in the background, he departed.

Marcus sat on a cushion and regarded the covered platters with taught nerves. He wasn't sure he remembered much about Minbari table manners. Better to drug the fruit juice now and hope the effects were quick acting. The bottle was only one of three on the table--Durhan really had gone all out--but Marcus hid the other two behind a planter. He wanted Neroon out of it as soon as possible, before he did or said anything to give himself away. His hands were shaking so that he could hardly get the stopper out of the bottle, but he finally managed and, with a nervous glance at the door, dumped in the whole vial. It was supposed to be tasteless; he only hoped that the more sensitive Minbari taste buds wouldn't be able to pick it out. Intel had invented it and used it with some success in the past. It was one of a small group of substances he'd brought with him in case they were needed, along with the antidote that he'd taken back in his room. Usually, the concoction induced a state in which inhibitions were dropped and the subject became extremely suggestible. Marcus only hoped it would work on Neroon, at least well enough to get him the code sequence. He needed it now so as to have time to alter Obsidian if it didn't work on the Minbari system.

"Impressive." Marcus jumped when he heard Neroon's somewhat surprised voice behind him. He looked around to see the Alyt, still dressed in his usual uniform, taking in the seductive scene. Marcus grabbed a glass and poured him some punch.

"We should eat," he commented, handing the glass to his victim. "It will get cold otherwise."

Neroon was regarding him oddly, and Marcus concentrated on pouring another glass and not spilling it all over the table. Relax, he ordered himself, and smiled as winningly as he knew how as Neroon slowly seated himself on a pillow. He scowled at it, and Marcus wondered if perhaps Durhan hadn't gone overboard. Certainly, yellow silk with orange tassels was a bit much; luckily the dim lighting took away slightly from the gaudiness of the overall effect.

"You went to a great deal of trouble," Neroon began uncovering dishes, looking impressed by their contents.

"Well, of course." Marcus decided to leave Durhan out of it. If he'd wanted his help to be known, he wouldn't have bustled away so that Neroon wouldn't see him. Neroon paused from filling his plate to regard Marcus levelly.

"I should tell you, your family name will not prejudice me in your favor, and neither will this." Marcus blinked. Of course, he should have assumed Neroon would think this was a bribe to look kindly on his newest officer. In his place, he probably would have thought the same. "I expect nothing less than complete objectivity," Marcus said truthfully. After all, if he was successful in his mission, by the time Sorval was due for an efficiency rating, he, Neroon and the Ingata would be dust.

"As long as that is understood," Neroon commented, seemingly mollified.

Marcus kept pushing juice at him, making sure that his glass was always topped up and being thankful that several of the dishes were highly spiced for the Minbari, which meant that he could actually discern some flavor. By the time most of the food had been disposed of, he had managed to pick his way through the minefield of Neroon's questions fairly successfully. He'd been questioned extensively about his duties, and had managed to sound enthusiastic about them. In truth, they'd required all his prior training just to keep him from looking like a complete idiot. Luckily, Sorval wasn't expected to already know the weapons system, or he'd have really been in trouble. Marcus acquired a headache as he struggled to answer the more difficult questions about his family. Sorval's memories gave him flashes of insight rather than whole pictures, and he had to all but make up some of his answers. Neroon didn't seem to know Sorval's family well, however, because he was called on none of the fabrications.

Marcus watched the level in the punch bottle carefully, and when it was almost empty, decided that it was time to test it. "Tell me about yourself," he said idly, and listened as Neroon gave a précis of his career that didn't tell Marcus much more than the personnel file had done. He couldn't tell if the drug was working or not from Neroon's answers, which were nothing he might not have said anyway.

"I was actually wondering if you, er, are with anyone right now." Marcus already knew the answer, of course, from Durhan's reaction that morning, but it was much safer asking about the Alyt's love life than about the pass codes. If he readily talked about personal issues, perhaps Marcus could risk edging around to the main point of all this.

"And why would that interest you, young Sorval?" Neroon looked amused, Marcus noted, but he couldn't tell if that was good or not.

"Er, well, it's just that I'm not seeing anyone, so . . . ," damn, this was harder than he'd thought! No wonder he's smiling, Marcus thought; I sound like an idiot.

"Yes?" Neroon looked like he was about to burst out laughing at any moment, a fact that seriously annoyed Marcus. All right, yes, he was a novice at this, but he was trying. Neroon could at least wipe the smirk off his face, even if he planned to turn him down. Marcus was never sure what prompted his next action, but thought nerves combined with irritation were probably partly to blame, that and the fact that he'd always been prone to leap before he looked.

"Just this," Marcus said, before he leaned across the table and kissed Neroon firmly, if inexpertly. Neroon simply stared at him when he broke away, causing Marcus to wonder if Minbari even kissed. Damn! He should have looked that up. He should, he thought a second later as Neroon dragged him back across the table, scattering dishes everywhere, have checked on a lot of things. Conscious thought fled then, in the face of an assault on his senses like nothing he'd ever known. Of course, his knowledge wasn't exactly extensive, unless you counted a few groping sessions with a couple of girls back on Arisia that ultimately hadn't gone very far. He did learn, however, that Minbari most definitely knew how to kiss, either that or Neroon was the fastest learner he'd ever seen. "We should continue this in my quarters," Neroon murmured against his throat a short time later. Marcus, who was still gasping for breath, could only nod. Now what had he gotten himself into?

Chapter Six

2261, Babylon 5

Neroon sat in his quarters on the Ingata and slowly opened and closed the pike in his hand. It was a masterpiece. Perfectly balanced and with a fluidity in extension that clearly showed a great craftsman's touch. He even knew which craftsman--Sech Tiva'al, who had been renowned in centuries past for his exquisite workmanship. It bore none of the ridiculously overdone inlay that some of the lesser clans preferred; it had no need of such gaudy ornamentation. It screamed its quality silently, in the dull sheen of the alloy and in the perfect weight that would allow him to balance it on a fingernail, if he chose. It was a perfect example of the fine weapons regularly carried by the leaders of his house. The question was, what had it been doing in the hand of a Ranger?

Neroon was not a thief, but he had had no compunction about retrieving a piece of family history when the opportunity presented itself. In fact, seeing it in the Ranger's hand had been one reason he had hesitated to exterminate him. As far as Neroon knew, none of the ancient fighting pikes of his family were missing. Tiva'al had only made twenty to his clan's exacting specifications, and all were still proudly borne by family leaders, including Neroon. So the puzzle remained; whose did the Ranger carry? It was a mark of high honor to be gifted with one of Tiva'al's denn'boks, an honor usually given to the eldest child of a family after its holder became too old to wield it effectively. Neroon had sent messages as soon as he returned from the station's medical facilities, and already received back twelve replies. Sixteen of Tiva'al's masterpieces were accounted for, and a seventeenth hung at Neroon's own belt.

Of the three that remained, one he knew without the need for a confirmatory message resided with his mother. She had received it as a wedding gift and steadfastly refused to part with it. It was her favorite memento of his father, and anyone who dared to suggest that perhaps it would be better off with someone who could wield it more effectively was immediately challenged to a duel. A duel they would, of course, be forced to lose, or have to explain to their clan leader why they had chosen to beat up his mother. As a result, she would still, Neroon thought in amusement, be winning duels on her deathbed. That left two.

One he strongly suspected was with Marai, a distant cousin and the only one who had yet to respond, other than for the clan matriarch who did as she damned well pleased. Marai's father, one of the clan's best generals, had used it to bribe her to adhere to the Warrior Caste when she came of age. She'd been torn between it and the Religious Caste, where she could have studied her beloved philosophy without enduring the sniggers of her year mates. Her brilliant mind could also, however, be of use in the Warrior Caste's strategic division, as her father had often reminded her. The denn'bok had been the final sweetener, and she was currently the brightest light in battle tactics that the clan possessed, which was saying something. Neroon expected to hear back from her at any time, and if she confirmed that the prized item was still in her possession, that would leave only one possibility.

Neroon regarded the innocent looking piece of metal in his hand as a sea of turbulent emotions boiled behind his eyes. He had had little time to think during the fight, had simply recognized the pike as one of Tiva'al's. He'd been loath to kill the one who bore it whom, he'd assumed, had done some great service for a family member to have been accorded such a prize. He would have asked in MedLab, had that officious doctor not all but towed him from the room. And now he waited for Marai's call, waited and planned what he would do if the weapon he held was the one he supposed it to be.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that." Damn you, Marcus, Michael thought. If the Ranger wasn't already half dead, he'd have seriously considered beating the hell out of him. Michael had never before thought of Delenn as scary: stubborn, strong-willed, intelligent, and persistent, yes, but not scary. Not until now. She'd brought Sheridan into this, of course, but didn't really need him. In fact, all the guy was doing was sitting on the sofa in the ambassador's quarters, drinking tea and occasionally throwing Michael a sympathetic look; he hadn't said a word since their abbreviated greetings.

"Can't, or won't?," Delenn demanded, eyes flashing.

"Can't," Michael said firmly. "Look, Delenn, I know you're upset here, but . . "

"UPSET?" Michael didn't think he'd ever heard Delenn shout before. She did it rather well. "If what you have said is true, then all of Minbar is virtually defenseless! I believe that warrants my being more than simply upset!"

"Yes, but it won't be defenseless for long if you just relay the information to your ships."

"I am supposed to tell them," Delenn said with obvious sarcasm, "that an unnamed source has told you that a computer virus has infiltrated all of our ships, and that the only way to clear it out is to take the core system offline and do a complete refit, which would keep our fleet useless for possibly as long as a week? To many, Mr. Garibaldi, that would look like an attempt to set up an invasion of our home world, would you not agree?"

"You don't have to take all your ships offline at the same time, Delenn," Michael pointed out. "Part of the fleet could be purged of the virus, while the other . . . "

"But you just said that ALL our ships may be vulnerable to attack by anyone who has the activation code! You are suggesting taking half the fleet offline, while the other can be savaged at will by any passing Raider! And we can ask no one for help, or it will announce our vulnerability to the entire galaxy! Not to mention that the Warrior Caste, for one, will never believe that Earth managed to get past our defenses and upload such a debilitating virus directly into the core computer--they will laugh in my face if I even suggest such a thing."

A light dawned. "Maybe not. The Ingata is still hanging out here, and it isn't part of the ships guarding the station. If it went offline for a few days or even a week, all anyone would think was that it was doing scheduled maintenance. If you could convince Neroon . . . "

Delenn laughed, and it was not a happy sound. John shook his head at Michael. "You're grasping at straws," he told him. "Why would Neroon agree to make his ship vulnerable to search for a virus that he'll probably not even believe is there? Especially just on Delenn's or my word? Neither of us is exactly tops on his list, you know. Not to mention, Michael, that I have to voice some skepticism myself. I've never heard of any plan by Intel to try some hair-brained scheme like that! And if this Obsidian worked, why did they let half our fleet get blown to hell at the Line? It doesn't add up. Your contact was playing you."

"No." Garibaldi shook his head, remembering Marcus' face. He'd suffered numerous broken ribs, a punctured lung, a broken arm, a cracked collar bone, and half a dozen serious contusions, yet he'd been worried enough to drag himself down to that cargo bay to meet that reeking Pakmara. Not the actions of someone who was bluffing, and anyway, that wasn't Marcus' style. "I believe my contact."

"But you won't name him." John looked irritated at Michael's decisive no. "Then I don't see what we can do."

"I can order one of the religious Caste's Sharlin cruisers to check for the virus," Delenn decided. "One ship going down for a refit will not cause concern, and if the virus is found, then we will have some proof to offer the Warrior Caste."

Michael nodded and left, not getting the impression that his continued presence was exactly wanted. It was the best deal he was going to get; he only hoped it would be enough.

"What do you mean, it wasn't there?" Marcus' question came out in a hiss of surprise, but it would have done so anyway. His ribs ached like the very devil, and he strongly suspected Stephen of reducing his meds in the hope that pain would keep him in bed. Marcus was grateful that at least his head felt clear for the first time in days, but now his ears must be messing up. There simply was no way he'd heard correctly.

"That's what the lady said." Michael sat in a relaxed looking posture on a chair drawn up to Marcus' bedside. If anyone looked in, they'd just see the security chief trying to cheer up a bedridden friend, or at least that was the hope. The expression on his face, however, which was turned away from the window, was not amiable. "I stuck my neck out for you--put my reputation on the line! Delenn now looks at me like I'm scum, and Sheridan is a hell of lot less likely to believe anything I tell him from now on, especially if I need it taken on faith. I need to know how sure you are of your facts."

"Damn sure," Marcus replied immediately.

"Then I need to know what happened--all of it--if I'm gonna continue to back you on this. You say your life is on the line; ok, how long do you think I'd last if a few of the warrior Caste get it through those thick skulls of theirs that I'm in league with some group planning to assault them? Or that I know anything about that ship that just blew up? I'm in this up to my ass, thanks to you, and the shit's rising fast. I want some answers and I want them now."

An hour later, Stephen kicked a stunned looking Michael out of MedLab, which was fine with Marcus. All right, yes, he could understand that his story was a bit of a shock to the security chief--it sounded fantastic to him and he'd been there--but the repeated chorus of 'No WAY,' that had accompanied his narrative had begun to get annoying. Marcus lay back against the pillows and stared mindlessly at a vid screen playing some hideous Rebo and Zootie film. It kept Stephen away, who hated the comedy team almost as much as Marcus did, and made him look like he was doing something other than plotting.

He had to talk to Neroon. It was going to get him killed, but there was simply no other way to deal with this. He didn't know why the Religious Caste ship hadn't been infected. Perhaps it was a newer model, perhaps it had a different computer system that Obsidian couldn't penetrate, or perhaps it had simply been lucky. That still left the majority of the Minbari fleet at risk, and at least half of it was definitely infected. Marcus had seen to that personally.

Something had to be done, and he couldn't go to Delenn with this. It would almost certainly result in his dismissal from the Rangers and his forfeiture of her trust if she found out the secret he'd been hiding all these years. To have accepted Minbari training, to have worn a Minbari uniform, and to have hidden the fact that he had and was continuing to betray them could have no other result. Marcus would have accepted those terms, if they were likely to undo the damage he had inflicted, but he agreed with Delenn's own assessment of the odds of the Warrior Caste listening to her. They would not believe one who many viewed as an abomination--a half human, half Minbari thing who had polluted their race and was openly cavorting with the human commander of the station. From many Minbari's perspective, even in her own Caste, Delenn had "gone native" and was no longer trustworthy. But Neroon they would believe.

Now all Marcus had to do was figure out how to get Neroon to listen to him before he killed him. Oh, and how to get out of MedLab, since Susan, after consulting with Franklin, had smilingly handcuffed him to the bed. Marcus scowled at the steel ring around his left wrist, then called for the nurse. A little corrosive acid should work wonders; he just had to fool somebody into bringing him some.

Chapter Seven

2248, The Ingata

By the time they managed to get back to the large quarters afforded to the ship's First, Marcus was starting to seriously wonder about the drug he'd given Neroon. None of the Minbari who had been captured and interrogated by Intel had reacted unusually; had he perhaps given the Alyt an overdose? Marcus had little time to contemplate matters, as he was hauled indoors by his enthusiastic partner. He received a glimpse of a small sitting area and a recessed kitchen before being dragged off to the bedroom. This, he decided, was going way too fast.

In his imagination, he'd expected a lengthy period getting to know the Alyt, during which their increased intimacy caused Neroon to trust him enough not to notice or to care if Marcus saw his access code. The drug had been meant to increase the likelihood of that happening quickly, not to induce whatever was currently happening. Marcus tried to think as he was pushed against the tilted sleeping platform and kissed almost into unconsciousness. What had gone wrong? The only answer he could come up with was what one of his instructors had told him back at Intel. The drug always resulted in some suggestibility, but how much was in direct relation to how pleasant or abhorrent the subject felt about the proposal. Neroon had apparently really liked the suggestion offered by Marcus' attempt at a pass. His roving hands, which were working perilously close to the only part of Marcus that was enthusiastic about the current mess, certainly seemed to indicate as much.

Marcus disentangled himself and tried to adjust his clothing, which had ended up in some disarray, over his traitor of a body. "That was wonderful, really," he gushed, backing into the living room and resolutely not looking at the door to the corridor. The temptation to run like mad was strong, but that wouldn't get him anywhere and there would be no second chances; he'd used the whole vial and didn't have another one. Neroon followed, watching Marcus with an expression that was eerily similar to one he'd turned on a favorite dish earlier. "But, er, I was hoping we could talk."

"We've been talking all evening," Neroon replied, grabbing for him, but Marcus danced back out of reach.

"True, but there's still so much I don't know about you. I have so many questions! We should talk," he repeated firmly. Marcus wasn't sure whether the new suggestion overrode the old, or if Neroon simply decided that it would be undignified to chase him around the room. He didn't waste any time worrying about it, but guided the Alyt to the sofa and positioned them on opposite ends, putting himself out of Neroon's immediate grasp. The problem, of course, was how to phrase his request. Some of the test subjects had difficulty remembering the questioning process the next day, whereas others recalled it perfectly. If Neroon was in the latter category, Marcus couldn't risk simply saying, "so, what's your access code, then?" This was going to require some finesse.

"The weapons system here is even more impressive than I'd thought, although I still don't understand how the plasma net works. Perhaps if you explained it to me?"

Neroon looked at him as if he'd lost his mind, and Marcus sighed inwardly. Yes, it had been more than a minor non-sequiteur, but he had to get the conversation around to something that would offer an excuse to ask Neroon to log onto the primary system, and there weren't that many options. Besides, they had been talking about weapons earlier. Eventually, either Neroon decided to humor him or the drug kicked in, for Marcus received an in-depth explanation of exactly how the Minbari version of a tractor beam worked. He knew some colleagues back at Intel who would be salivating over the information; for his part, he tried to pay attention, but most of his mind was occupied with getting his companion over to the small com unit in the corner.

"I'm sorry, but I suppose I'm a bit slow. I still don't understand. Perhaps if you brought up the specs?"

Marcus followed Neroon over to the terminal and watched as casually as he could manage while he logged on. The code sequence was complex, but Marcus had a good memory. He spent the next half hour reciting the numbers over and over to himself while Neroon walked him slowly through the specifications for the net. By the time they were done, Marcus knew little more about the plasma net than he had to start with, but he had the code sequence down cold.

"That was brilliant! Really, truly amazing," he said when Neroon finally worked his way through the entire blueprint. "It's a shame the evening has to end so soon, but maybe we can do this again sometime. I'll just go tidy up from dinner and then, well, look at the time!" Marcus knew he was babbling, but didn't care. His fingers practically ached to get hold of a computer and find out if his mission stood a chance after all. "We both need to get some sleep, don't we, or neither of us will be much use tomorrow!" Marcus made a sudden dash for the door and Neroon didn't try to stop him. He just sat at the terminal, looking flummoxed.

All right, Marcus decided, that probably ranked as the strangest date on record, and he doubted he'd impressed Neroon with either his cleverness or his idea of small talk, but at least it had worked! He had to forcibly restrain himself from grinning madly at everyone he met on the way back to hydroponics. Maybe things were looking up!

Neroon awoke with a throbbing headache and a profound feeling of disorientation. Neither was normal, and he briefly considered a stop by the medical lab, but rejected it almost immediately. The last way he wanted to begin his day was by seeing Tranus' smirking face. He went about his duties, which were more complicated than usual since he was handling virtually all the Shi Alyt's responsibilities as well as his own to give Branmer maximum time in which to plan the final assault. His captain spent much of the day on the Joran, in a meeting with other Warrior Caste leaders, while Neroon stayed behind to command the Ingata. He was actually pleased to have his captain otherwise occupied; Branmer's sharp, dark eyes missed little, and Neroon was in no way ready to answer questions about his current state of mind.

He was not sure if he could label exactly what he was feeling, but supposed that flabbergasted came as close as anything. Not at young Sorval, who had been amusing and rather charming in an inexperienced sort of way, but rather at himself. The sudden attraction he felt for the boy after that one, fumbling kiss had shocked him, and he had let things progress too far. He wasn't surprised that the young man had retreated into a long, technical discussion; he'd probably frightened him. He'd come close to frightening himself, as his emotions had threatened to get out of control for the first time in years, and that was not a situation he could view with equanimity.

After learning of Tallier's death, he had given into his rage and all but destroyed the rooms they had shared. He didn't blame himself, but he did regret it--as a result, he now had few mementos to remember his lover by. Tallier had only been a year older than he; they had grown up and gone through training together, been posted together on their first three assignments, and confidently expected to live the rest of their lives as one. Until a stupid, avoidable shuttle accident--not the result of battle but merely of a missed maintenance problem--removed his keystone forever from his life. After his rage quieted, the world had grown cold for him. Neroon had fled to space where he had remained ever since, refusing all home leave except those required by clan duties. Minbar held nothing but bad memories, and he couldn't walk in the same gardens, see the same sights or stay in the same residence that he had shared with his lover without pain. No, better to go to space, where at least his life might be useful; better to forget how to feel, for love was not worth the grief.

He had believed that he had banished all thoughts of the softer emotions from his life. He had taken no lovers since Tallier, nor had he wanted any. He ignored the few hints that were dropped of possible interest by others, knowing he could never return their regard. How could they replace someone who had been part of his life practically since his first memory? He and Tallier had shared a history that would be impossible to find with anyone else. Even other members of his clan, other age mates, did not know the childhood secrets, had not played the pranks, had not lived and breathed and fought and loved him like Tallier, and none ever would. He had believed himself immune to love, his heart hardened by its great loss, so it was with no little alarm that he found himself responding so avidly to a young man he had barely met.

Neroon had accepted the boy's offer of dinner expecting nothing except that he might thereafter be able to give Branmer a more well rounded report than merely speaking of his fighting skills. The most he'd hoped to gain was a decent meal. The idea that he might be overcome enough to practically drag Sorval to his quarters would have caused him to laugh with scorn, had anyone dared to venture the possibility in advance. Yet that was exactly what he had done, and only after a struggle with himself not to ravish the boy in the middle of hydroponics! Had Sorval not called a halt to the proceedings, Neroon had no doubts whatsoever that he would now have a new lover, a thought that truly appalled him. He did not want this! They were about to go into a war zone--in truth, they were already in one, as evidenced by the fifteen bodies that had been shipped back to Minbar after the recent suicide attack. Letting someone else into his life when they could easily be wrenched away from him was more than foolhardy--it verged on the insane!

He wondered what was wrong with him; had he simply been alone too long, as Durhan was constantly telling him? What did he see in the gawky young man who was, other than for a few fancy pike maneuvers, no different from a hundred others on the Ingata at the moment? Neroon decided that, whatever the cause of this odd attraction, he could deal with it. A few alterations to the duty roster insured that, starting the next day, young Sorval was on opposite shifts from him. He also resisted the temptation to call the young man and offer to repay his hospitality. Neroon was actually a fairly capable cook, having had to become so in self defense--several decades of mess hall food would have deadened anyone's taste buds--and his cabin was equipped with a small, but serviceable kitchen. He did not make the offer, however, in the hopes that, if he ignored the boy, his attentions would soon wane. He would find another interest, one closer to his age and without Neroon's baggage, and the Alyt could return to his previous, contented detachment. Yes, Neroon thought resolutely, ignoring the pang the thought produced; that would be best for all concerned.

"Bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger, BUGGER!" Marcus banged his head on the desk, headless of possible damage to his mask or his cranium. The universe hated him; that's all there was to it. Of course, he should have known it was too easy. He should have known that Obsidian--bugger it--wouldn't work. He now had all of two and a half weeks to somehow fix the goddamned excuse for a program, or else to come up with a viable alternative. Either that, or he could watch his fleet be shot out of space like ducks in a shooting gallery, and Earth's last chance go down with them. Bugger!

The good news, he supposed, was that the access code worked perfectly. The bad news was that, even though he now had the power to render the Ingata useless in an attack even without Obsidian, his orders to the ship's core systems would have no effect whatever on the rest of the Minbari fleet. The main advantage of Obsidian was that it not only rendered its own computer useless, but was designed to rapidly spread to all others with which it had contact. In the busy communications preceding a major battle, that was expected to be most of the Minbari fleet. But Marcus seriously doubted that removing one ship from combat would make much of a difference for Earth. Perhaps the final battle would take an extra ten minutes or so without the flagship, but the end result would be the same.

Marcus spent most of the rest of the night trying, and failing, to figure out why Obsidian was so completely useless against the Ingata's computers. It was not surprising, then, that he was at less than his best when Durhan cornered him in the gym almost as soon as he walked in the door. "Ah, the romantic among us." Marcus thought that was a little rich; he hadn't ordered tasseled pillows and candlelight. "So, how did it go, young one?" Durhan surveyed him happily. "You look exhausted. Busy night?"

Marcus felt like replying, yes, actually, I spent most of the evening trying to figure out how to help my fleet to kill you. He bit his lip until he could answer semi-rationally, but his displeasure must have shown through. Durhan looked concerned at Marcus' polite thanks for his help, and his comment that he would be happy to return the props whenever it was convenient for the master. Durhan did not question him, however, only replied that he could drop them by at any time.

Marcus chose a sparring partner from among the mid-level officers, half hoping to get pounded into the ground and thereby have something to concentrate on other than his total failure as a secret agent. Instead, he almost managed to seriously damage the man, who was obviously not prepared to deal with an enraged and highly frustrated Earther in a really uncomfortable synthaskin suit. Durhan proclaimed the match over after preventing Marcus from destroying the man's body armor, not to mention his chest, in a ferocious assault that did not end even when his opponent was on the mat. Marcus barely noticed, but shook off the master's hands and stomped off for his duty shift, grumbling under his breath and wondering how the hell his day could get worse. As soon as he returned to his room that evening, he found out.

"I am Makren, family Chell'so, of the Fire Walkers," the young Minbari bowed low to Marcus. "I have recently transferred from the Joran. It is an honor to meet you."

Marcus noted that several bags had been deposited beside the table, heap of pillows and assorted serving dishes from the night before, leaving practically no room in the tiny cabin. Say goodbye to privacy, he thought in despair. Well, at least two and a half weeks straight in the synthaskin torture suit would probably have him looking forward to death. Especially since he wouldn't even be able to take out the damned contacts and give his eyes a rest at night. He'd have a hard time programming if they were watering as badly as they had been after the damned shuttle ride! Marcus managed a less than enthusiastic reply, then began the process of hauling off Durhan's equipment as an excuse to get away from his new roomie.

The main problem, other than for personal issues like how he was going to sleep on the damn tilted platform and avoid mumbling in English while he did so, was the issue of Obsidian's revamp. How was he going to work on it now? Even if what's his name had a different work schedule and they rarely saw each other, could he risk a major programming operation when his roommate could wander in at any time? Yet using his work console was equally impossible; his station was surrounded by several others, all of which were constantly manned. Not to mention that he was kept quite busy on his duty shift with little spare time for any personal projects. This, he decided as he dragged the table up to Durhan's door, qualified as a complete disaster.

He was so caught up in his black mood that it took Marcus a few moments to register the fact that Durhan was looking extremely pleased with himself. "Let that alone and join me for tea," he was told after a few moments. Marcus left off carrying the used platters to the kitchen and sat at a low table, the twin of the one he'd just returned, and drank the strong tea Durhan gave him. "I have good news for you, Sorval," Durhan added, almost beaming. Marcus eyed him warily but said nothing. He didn't know the sech very well, but had received the impression from some of the others in the gym that Durhan in a cheerful mood was rarely a good thing. It usually meant the master had come up with a new way to torment his students.

"Good news?"

"Indeed." Durhan smiled at him over his tea cup, and his brown eyes sparkling with what looked almost like glee. "I hear you've acquired a roommate."

"Er, yes." Marcus wondered where this was going. He hoped Durhan didn't want him to help the young man with the pike or some such thing. He had more than enough duties already!

"And I suppose you are less than pleased about that. You'd prefer to retain your own room if possible, wouldn't you?"

"I suppose." Marcus refused to allow himself to hope that there was another free officer's quarters. It wouldn't solve all his problems, but it would certainly help.

"Good, good." Durhan smiled. "There's no problem, then; not that I thought there would be." He handed Marcus a data crystal. "All the information is there. I'll let you run along; I know you probably didn't bring much with you, but you'll want to get settled before tonight."

"But . . . "

Marcus found his half empty tea cup plucked out of his hands and somehow a few seconds later he was standing alone in the corridor. What had just happened? Shaking his head, Marcus went back to his room where he informed his roommate that he was being moved to other quarters. He might have imagined it, but thought he saw a look of relief spread over the man's face before he quickly masked it. Apparently he hadn't been looking forward to the arrangement any more than Marcus.

Declining an offer to help, Marcus gathered up his few personal items and departed, eager to get somewhere to sponge off the day's perspiration and get a little programming done. He placed Durhan's crystal in a hallway access terminal and blinked at the results. Well, that was unusual. Still, Sorval was heir to the Moon Shields; maybe the new rooms, which happened to be on the senior officer's level, were a perk of his position. Marcus wasn't about to complain; anything that got him some privacy was fine by him.

He counted off rooms until he reached one almost at the end of the corridor. He keyed in the access code that had been on the crystal and the door opened easily. Marcus was halfway into the attractively furnished sitting room before he realized that something was very wrong. A glance at the computer terminal, over which a familiar looking small twining plant hung from a set of lights, confirmed his suspicions. Marcus dropped his bag and immediately put a call through to Durhan. "I'm afraid there has been a mistake, master. I seem to have accidentally been assigned to Alyt Neroon's quarters."

Durhan chuckled, and Marcus was glad his hands were not visible over the comm link, as they twitched visibly, probably wanting to be around Durhan's throat. "Yes, of course. You can hardly be his dra'ma if you're never available." Durhan looked smug.

"His dra'ma," Marcus tried to translate the term in his head, but the only word that came back was aide, and surely Neroon already had one of those. "But doesn't the Alyt already have . . . "

"Yes, he has a shai'hat," Durhan responded placidly, "to help with the daily correspondence and to keep his schedule. However, he has never taken a dra'ma before, despite any number of families petitioning for him to train their offspring. I, er, convinced the Shi Alyt that Neroon had been remiss in this area, and he agreed with me. Branmer is quite close to your father, you know; I received the impression that he was happy to aide Tyamer's son."

"Oh." Marcus had no idea what the difference was in the two terms, but could hardly ask Durhan. It was another of the things he should have known, but didn't. In the past few days, he had become very good at looking up answers to unexpected questions, and therefore offered no objections when Durhan signed off without further explanation. Since he was already at the terminal, Marcus ran a search on his new position. What he found was more than a little unnerving.

A dra'ma was more than an aide--much more. An apprentice might have been a better translation, and it usually had that connotation for most Minbari. However, among the Warrior Caste it carried a slightly different meaning, especially in the case of a dra'ma to the Alyt or Shi Alyt of a starship. Dra'ma, or dra'sa if they happened to be women, were usually young warriors of great potential who were assigned to a senior officer to learn from him. Successfully completing a period of study, usually of several years duration, would almost always result in a quick elevation up the ladder of command, and had occasionally ended in a dra'ma obtaining the First's position when his former tutor received his initial command. It was a considerable honor, but also a huge responsibility. Marcus would be bodyguard, cook, houseboy, errand runner and trainee all at the same time. It would doubtless take up most of his small amount of free time, as dra'ma tended to be the shadows of their teachers; rarely, one account said, was one seen without the other. How, he thought in dejection, was he ever supposed to get any programming done? Damn Durhan! What could he possibly have been thinking?

"What were you thinking?!" Neroon stared at his old friend in something close to horror. "You had no right to arrange this without telling me, no right at all!"

Durhan shrugged, obviously unruffled. "If you doubt my wisdom, you are, of course, free to consult Branmer. Just explain to him that, while virtually every other officer of your rank has had at least one dra'ma or dra'sa in his career, and despite the fact that the young man shows remarkable potential, and even though Branmer himself is far too busy to take this on leaving you as the only alternative, you simply don't want to do it. I'm sure he'll understand."

"Durhan," Neroon's growl would have cowed most of his acquaintance; unfortunately Durhan was the exception.

"Of course, there is the possibility that he'll take it as a direct insult to the boy and to his family, and there's also the small issue of Sorval having already been told about it and being, at this very minute, busily moving in to your spare room. But I'm sure a sweet tempered type like Tyamer won't take things amiss when his son--his only son--calls in despair over being inexplicably rejected and forced to move back into his old rooms. Doubtless he'll get over the humiliation in time, although, of course, the next clan meeting might be a bit . . . tense."

Neroon looked at his smug, smiling companion and wondered how much trouble he would get in for spacing him. "You deliberately went behind my back . . . "

"Well, what choice did I have?" Durhan looked at him sternly. "What would you have done if I asked politely? Other than coming up with some excuse to say no, that is?"

"Which would have been my right!"

"And still is. Go see Branmer," Durhan told him breezily, knowing perfectly well he would do no such thing. Their Shi Alyt had enough to concern him at the moment without another problem being dumped in his lap. Not to mention that Neroon really didn't have an adequate excuse for refusing to take a dra'ma, especially one so highly ranked and obviously capable. To do so anyway would shame Sorval, infuriate Tyamer and put the entire Star Rider's clan at a political disadvantage for the foreseeable future. Tyamer's vote carried others among the clans, and Neroon had an obligation not to make the Star Riders any unnecessary enemies. Ultimately, there was nothing he could do about the situation except to see it through, no matter how uncomfortable that would be for him personally. "Valen, give me strength," he thought, as he turned his reluctant feet towards his quarters.

Chapter Eight

2261, Babylon 5

"You're sure about this?" Michael looked dubiously at the razor he held. He wouldn't hurt Marcus' feelings for the world, but frankly, the guy's hair was probably his best feature. Cutting it off wasn't going to have him posing for any GQ--Galactic Quarterly--spreads anytime soon.

"The synthaskin molds to the underlying epidermis, but it has a problem with hair because it shifts around too much. It's necessary, Michael--do it."

Garibaldi followed orders, but again thought it was a shame, especially when he saw how ridiculously young a hairless Marcus looked. No wonder the guy had grown a beard; he could have passed for sixteen without it. His nose was also a little prominent all on its own, with nothing to draw attention elsewhere. He looked like a baby bird, all big eyes and protruding beak. Michael refrained from saying so, however.

"Ok, what's next?" Marcus indicated the satchel he'd hastily packed in his room before he'd limped to Michael's quarters and dropped his bombshell. Michael had tried to talk him out of it, but frankly didn't see an alternative. He watched with curiosity as Marcus extracted a small, black case, which opened to reveal a silver mass that looked sort of like liquid mercury. It seemed to sense him, and creeped Michael out by flowing onto Marcus' nude body with all the familiarity of an old lover.

"It was coded to my genetic sequence," Marcus explained as the thing thinned and spread along his limbs like water. "That's a fail safe, in case someone else found it; it wouldn't work for them."

Michael nodded, amazed that the process didn't seem to bother Marcus at all. Of course, from what he'd said, he'd lived for weeks in the thing once. "How do you breathe?"

Marcus took a bone crest, which had a packet of the silver stuff hanging from it, and proceeded to attach it to his head. "It's designed not to spread into inner membranes, so it stops and blends into my real skin at my mouth and nose and er, other places."

"I meant, well, isn't it hot?" Michael was gaining new respect for the Ranger by the minute. He doubted he'd last a day in that thing.

"It can be. The suit is supposed to be breathable, but it really only works if you're sitting at a computer or something. Any form of physical exercise and you warm up very quickly. I assume they've adjusted for that in the more recent models, but the technology was quite new when I used it. And I can't very well ask for a replacement, now can I?" Marcus adjusted the bone crest, which had gripped his head at a slight angle. "Well, what do you think?"

Michael goggled at the slim, but believable Minbari standing in front of him. If he squinted, he could make out Marcus' features under the new face he wore, but only because he knew what to look for. He could have passed him in the Zocalo any day and never recognized him.

Marcus looked pleased when he said as much. "I kept the suit after . . . after everything. Don't know why, really; I should have returned it, but it wasn't like I planned to do any more work for Earth Force, and it was coded to me. No one else could have used it." He drew on a Warrior uniform and regarded the effect in the mirror. "I thought about taking it out for a stroll a couple of times at Tuzanor, but ultimately decided it wasn't worth the risk. Durhan might have seen me, and wondered how I'd come back from the dead."

"Marcus," Michael sighed. "Look, I know we've discussed this, and I know you feel you have to do this thing, but there's gotta be another way. Let me talk to Delenn again; maybe she can . . . "

"Maybe she can what?" The pale Minbari attached his long, black cape with a clasp set with the Star Rider emblem. "There is no other way, Michael. If you want to help, wish me luck."

In the end, Michael had done more than that. Marcus blessed him again for smuggling him through security--something that would have been easy to manage alone in decent shape, but not as things stood--and onto a shuttle carrying supplies to the Ingata. He hid among the casks and boxes, then escaped into the body of the ship at the first opportunity. No one who didn't know the ship as intimately as he did could have managed it, but the duty shifts hadn't changed in more than a decade, and neither had the ship's layout.

Marcus took a long time to make it up to the senior officer's quarters, both because it was necessary to rest at frequent intervals, and because he was trying not to be seen. His disguise was good, of course, and with the Ingata's large crew compliment, it wasn't likely that most people on board would give him a second glance merely because he didn't look familiar. However, some of the old crew he had worked with doubtless were still in place, and he didn't want to have to explain his resurrection if possible to avoid it.

After several hours, however, he had reached the Shi Alyt's quarters. He'd only been inside once, for tea with Branmer, but assumed Neroon had taken over the slightly larger captain's quarters since his promotion. There remained the possibility that he might not be in his rooms, but Marcus stopped at a computer terminal in a deserted passageway and logged on, using Neroon's old code sequence. It was a long shot, but he hadn't changed it. Marcus discovered that, not only was the Shi Alyt off duty, he also had no appointments listed for the moment. There was also no sign that he currently had a dra'ma. That didn't surprise Marcus greatly--his last one hadn't been a big success, after all--but it meant that no one was likely to be with him.

Marcus made his way to the Shi Alyt's quarters, and cautiously signaled for entry. The door opened at once, almost as if Neroon had been expecting someone. "Do come in, Sorval." Neroon regarded him calmly. "I waited dinner for you."

"You knew I was coming?" Marcus felt dizzy, but wasn't sure if it was the fatigue from his injuries, or Neroon's unexpected statement that had done it.

In reply, Neroon simply handed him a metal cylinder, still warm from his hand, and disappeared into the kitchen. Marcus regarded his pike with a sinking feeling. If Neroon had known, or at least suspected, his identity since their battle, then he had had days to plan what to do about it. And giving Neroon an advantage like that was definitely not a good thing. Still, his problem remained what it had always been, and he still needed Neroon's help. Besides, he would only be able to leave now with the Shi Alyt's permission. Sneaking onto the Ingata had been one thing; sneaking off, especially in his current state, would be a whole different story. Whether for good or ill, his future was now most definitely in Neroon's hands.

TBC