The Universe According to General Susan Ivanova
Lesson One:
Grief is nothing but the starting and stopping of sorrow, with occasional breaks in between that serve mainly to determine just how terrible the next wave will be.
Lesson Two:
Life is nothing but the starting and stopping of grief.
They're quiet on the way back to Minbar, leaving the station's debris behind them for someone else to clean up, for once. Susan casts a sidelong glance at Delenn, watches her speak softly to a Minbari kid who seems to be having trouble with the navigation controls. And, okay, Susan's Adronato is pretty rusty, but it seems an awful lot like Delenn's being calm, and patient, and kind, like everything's not coming apart at the seams, like they're not leaving the wrecks of their old lives back there with all the pieces of the Zocalo and Brown Sector and whatever else.
And then Delenn looks up, and a fresh horror and guilt slips into her expression, and God, Susan knows that face. The hell of grief is that it isn't constant; it lets you forget, just for a moment, lets you think you're free.
Susan swallows hard, looks away. She doesn't have a clue how the Minbari deal with grief, but then, it's not like humans exactly have a go-to grieving process, complete with guidebooks and a list of the most popular tourist attractions. Don't forget to stop off at 'Turning To Talk To Someone Who's Not There' on your way to 'Achieving Total and Complete Acceptance', folks, it's a doozy.
Hell. It's not like she can make things worse.
She turns back, sees Delenn watching her this time, and nods, trying to communicate something – anything – through her eyes. After a moment, as though giving the action careful consideration, Delenn offers her a crooked smile in return.
Things with the Rangers are a bit awkward at first. It's not like Susan's never filled big shoes before, but when those shoes have just gone and marched off to the site of an epic battle, there to disappear without a trace into the mists of history, well. Things are a bit awkward.
"The President never required this kind of-" Tullomari catches sight of her expression and, to his credit, he amends whatever he was originally going to say. "-reorganization."
"He knew you," Susan says, resisting the urge to pace, to wave her hands in the air, to get in his face and make him worry about whatever skeletons might be hiding in his closet. Those are tricks for a soldier, for a general, for an old warhorse. She's trying this whole enlightened Minbari stuff on for size. "I don't. Things will be different until I get up to speed. And part of that difference means changing things around, breaking up the status quo a little, so we're not all striving to reach some unrealistically perfect ideal that happened while John was still around."
It hurts to drop his name so casually like that, but watching Tullomari fume while she sits behind her desk, calm and imperturbable, she thinks maybe the Minbari have the right idea. "Look," he says. "I've had these Rangers under my direct command for five years. We work best together. Three of them are honorary members of my Water Clan. One was the first Brakiri to join the Rangers, opening the doors for so many of us – myself included."
Susan takes a breath, lets him sweat for a second, then lowers her voice. "I'm not unsympathetic. Believe me, I know the kinds of bonds you can make as a Ranger. But you and I both know things are heating up out there." She actually has to grab the desk in front of her to remind her body not to get up and start pacing. "Reports of some new, space-faring race with advanced tech, this Zaleeth Starfront. I don't know about you, but it sounds to me like we need the intelligence only a Ranger can provide."
He actually slams his hands down on her desk. "All the more reason to let me keep my people! I won't let us get separated because you want to throw your weight around to establish your presence here."
She stares at his hands for a moment, and then, very slowly, raises an eyebrow. He flinches, and some level of Ranger training must penetrate at last, because he almost leaps back to attention. She makes a mental note to see that he gets more vital missions – the part of her that's become a diplomat finds him annoying as hell, but the part of her that's still a soldier appreciates the candor, and the loyalty to his people.
In the meantime, though, she needs to nip this particular problem in the bud. "I'm going to be very, very kind to you today, Tullomari. I'm going to pretend there was-" She pauses, as though searching for inspiration. "-a mosquito, buzzing in my ear. A Minbari mosquito. I didn't catch that last bit. Would you care to try again?"
"No, Anla'shok Na." There's a smugness in his tone, and she thinks maybe he's taking pleasure in the fact that they don't call her Entil'zha, like they did with John and Delenn. If he stands any more at attention, he'll strain something.
She lets him stew for a bit; he's probably tallying up all the really fun ways to kill people. She knows that's what she'd be doing in his place. Then she does stand up, comes around the desk. "For the record, Tullomari, I'm not the sort of commander to throw my weight around. I am, however, the sort of commander who doesn't feel the need to explain my orders to the people under me."
"Nor should you." Yeah, she can practically see the veins throbbing on his forehead.
She clasps her hands behind her back, starts a leisurely stroll across the room as she's talking. "Come with me to the balcony, Tullomari."
She glances back in time to see him go pale. Apparently her reputation's preceded her. "I promise not to throw you off," she says, deadpan, and he clears his throat, hurrying to her side.
It's a fairly nice afternoon – the clouds are hanging heavy, but it's not raining, and the sun's just low enough in the sky that it's peeking through, painting the crystalline city in palettes of orange and gold. Tullomari takes a deep breath, composing himself by looking out at the vista, and in his face she sees a hint of the awe and admiration that must have drawn him here in the first place.
"It's dangerous," she says, softly. "That's why I don't want you to stay together. You get complacent. You get dependent. We don't know what we're up against." She glances at him, struck by the strangeness of the city around them, of the not-quite-human lines of his face. "I make it a general policy to expect the worst, Tullomari, and I don't want you to have to choose between your mission and your friends."
He looks away, still seething. "We all understand that. We'd die before betraying the Anla'shok."
"You can't know that," Susan says, and watches the sun slip behind a new bank of clouds, plunging the city into a premature darkness. "You never really know how far you'll go to save somebody until you're there. And it's my job to try and avoid these situations before they happen. Do you understand?"
Now, finally, his eyes widen, and he looks at her head-on. He's smart enough to see past the platitudes and figure out what she's really saying: she needs him to be expendable, and she needs him to be able to see his people as expendable, too. She watches the weight of it settle around his shoulders, watches him straighten with new purpose and resolve. "I understand."
She lets out a breath. "Good. You can pick your own people based on the personnel files, but run them by me first. Dismissed."
By his strange expression, that's something else John didn't do, but he nods and sweeps away with as much grace as he can manage. Right before he leaves, she clears her throat. To hell with Minbari enlightenment, anyway. "Oh, and Tullomari? If you ever question my authority again – or, for that matter, if you so much as breathe on my desk again – I really will throw you headfirst off this balcony. And that's 'headfirst' as in head first, and then the rest of you."
He bows deeply, from the waist, fighting down a smile. "I have no doubt of it."
She watches him leave, then turns back to watch the city make its sleepy way toward evening. It's peaceful; she's never trusted peaceful. Too many things can go wrong with peaceful.
All the same, she stays out long enough to watch the clouds clear, to watch the stars come out.
One month after Susan takes on the mantle of Ranger One, David Sheridan comes home on leave.
She tells herself she'll be there when it happens, when he finds out, but in the end she goes out to sit in the garden and just listens to the echoes of shouting. After a time, she hears angry footsteps, remembers too late that this is David's favorite place to sit and think, and finds herself turning to meet too-familiar eyes, red-rimmed and swollen with crying.
"Susan," he says, and there's a weird moment of disconnect. The few times she's seen him, he's always given her the terrifying impression of a pint-sized version of her former CO, but now, mostly grown-up, she thinks she sees more of his mother in him. Something about the posture, all defiance and confidence and grace.
He clears his throat, straightens, corrects his method of address, and the artificial formality puts her straight back in mind of John. "Anla'shok Na."
She thinks about telling him to relax, but he's barely holding himself together as it is, so she runs with it. "Ranger Sheridan. Please, sit with me."
For a second she thinks he'll refuse, but she cocks an eyebrow in challenge, and he flushes, settling down beside her. For a while, they sit like that, quietly, staring out at the green, and then he rubs a hand over his eyes. "You gonna yell at me for yelling at Delenn?"
'Delenn', not 'mom'. It occurs to her that she was about the same age when Ganya died. She thinks of Delenn's vision of the universe, always bringing people together who can learn the most from each other, and feels a wave of annoyance. The universe has a hell of a sense of humor. "Sure, I'm gonna yell at you, because it was a stupid thing to do."
He tenses, then springs to his feet, and for a second she thinks he might actually be pissed off enough to take a swing at her, but his voice is calm, controlled. Too controlled. "My father is dead. He died, and he knew he was dying, and she never thought to tell me it was time."
She sighs. "Right, because your mom is conspiring to keep you from saying goodbye to your father. She's out to get you. She hates you. My mistake."
He's crying again, but doesn't seem aware of it. She realizes his left hand is in motion, fingers dancing nervously, and it takes her a moment to place it: another borrowed quirk of John's. "I'm their son. She could have pulled me out of training. For this, she could have done it."
Susan stretches her legs out in front of her, feeling a twinge from an old PPG burn. The deep scars never completely heal. "You're putting a helluva lot of blame on Delenn's shoulders. John didn't call you back, either."
David doesn't say anything to that, just turns around. She can see his shoulders shaking.
"Hey," she says, and waits until he looks back at her. "I miss him, too. But you know he couldn't have done what he did – couldn't have gone off and made himself a legend – if you were here. They didn't want you to remember him the way he was when he was dying. They didn't want you living with his ghost in your head." There's a flash in her mind of a man in a hospital bed, and even now, she feels something catch in her breath. "They were right."
He's quiet for a long while, and she thinks maybe she's managed to freak him out even more, alienate him completely. Then he turns back, and for a second she doesn't see a great warrior or a wise leader. She sees a kid, scared, trying to cope with the reality that change can be terrible, heartbreaking, permanent. "Nothing's the same, anymore," he says, petulant.
She tries a lopsided grin. "Yeah. That's kinda how this whole life thing works. You either accept that fact, or you let it bury you."
He clears his throat again, looks down at the ground, and she watches him try to compose himself, to bring himself back under control. "How?"
"Well, a good first step would be to go back in there and apologize to your mom." He winces, and now her smile is a bit more genuine. "Yeah, I know, she's always right and it's annoying as hell how gracious she is about it. But you need her on your side, David. You need each other. And when you're done apologizing, you can come straight back out here, and we'll do some sparring so I can kick your ass."
There's a startled silence, and then he laughs, and for a second she thinks it's going to turn back to crying before he gets himself under control again. "Seriously? I've been training with the pike for months. I'm the best in my class."
"Maybe I won't fight with one hand tied behind my back, then. It will still, I think, be a decisive victory"
He scoffs. "Dream on."
"You get back inside, talk to Delenn, and when you're ready, I'll be here." He nods, and, on a whim, she reaches out and takes his hand. "You're not alone in this, or anything else. You've got people who care about you. Okay?"
He nods again, a bit shakily, then pauses. "You know what? My mom's not the only one who's annoyingly right all the time."
She winks. "What can I say? I learned from the best."
He smiles, then, and she watches him go, and she thinks about change and the universe and the fact that maybe, for the first time in a long while, she's found somewhere to call home.
The transmission comes in garbled, smothered in static, but Susan manages to make out the word "-ambush!-", and then she's yelling orders, and an annoying little voice in her head is going, "Yes, well done, you just got the President killed," and then everything is fire and blood and screaming-
She hits the deck, hard, and after a while she feels a hand batting at her face. The owner of the hand gives a muffled shriek when she rolls over, which Susan takes to mean she isn't looking so good. She squints through the blood and smoke at Millan, one of the new recruits, a tiny religious-caste Minbari she's seen take out warriors nearly three times her size. There's a gash on her cheek, and a darkening bruise in the skin along her bone crest, and she looks about thirty seconds from losing whatever she had for dinner. After a moment, though, she seems to pull herself together – Susan can just about hear the mental chanting.
"Are you all right?" she asks, and Susan nods, brusquely, because if she thinks about it too hard, she'll see that debris hurtling toward her again, she'll see that damn Minbari infirmary again, and she'll wake up and see-
She rolls to her feet, and immediately lists to one side, catching herself against the bulkhead. "What the hell?"
Millan is dabbing her sleeve against the cut on her face. "I think the artificial gravity is damaged. Tino is dead."
Susan swears under her breath, turning to take in the extent of the destruction. It looks like most of the systems are undergoing autorepair, but there's no mistaking the state of the body slumped over the controls. She swipes the blood out of her eyes, then explores the slice along her hairline with careful fingers. It's bleeding like a sonuvabitch. "Any word from Delenn?"
Millan's face falls. "I... I hadn't even thought of her. When I woke up, I just- I just saw Tino, and then you, and I should have-"
"It's okay," Susan says, and tries not to imagine what it would be like, alone on a bridge full of corpses. "Focus, all right? Get me communications. We have to find out if the President's shuttle made it to the docking bay."
Millan nods, swallows hard, and totters over to one of the consoles, now located, thanks to the blip in the gravity, somewhat uphill. It's all uphill from here, Susan thinks, and feels a thoroughly inappropriate giggle rising to her lips. Hell. Maybe she's losing more blood than she thought.
She checks the external sensors, almost as an afterthought, and has to wait a while for the adaptive repairs to register her command and piece together the necessary systems. When they do, she sucks in a breath, feels the room around her go cold. "Well. That's not good."
The display's a less sophisticated version of the real thing, but even with dots in place of ships, it's obvious that there are a whole fucking lot of unfriendlies out there. Dozens of ships – hundreds, maybe – all from the Zaleeth Starfront, all surrounding them, poised to finish what they've started.
"Screw communications," Susan barks. "Get me weapons monitoring."
Millan's seen it, too; there's a new steel in her voice. "They're not preparing to fire. Gunports are closed. I can't raise them – I think our end's all right, but there's no reply from them."
"Can we run?"
"They're surrounding us completely."
"What the hell are they waiting for? Are they sending in breaching pods?"
"Negative."
A new voice cuts in over Susan's personal communicator, and just at that moment, it's the most beautiful thing Susan's ever heard. "-receive? Can you hear me?"
There's a moment where Susan thinks the world's actually spinning, and then she realizes it's just the artificial gravity recalibrating itself. Still. She grabs the edges of the console to steady herself, hears the relief in her voice. "Delenn! Yes, we read you. Did you make it aboard?"
There's a silence that goes on a bit too long, and then: "Yes, I think so. It's so dark, here. There was an explosion after I left the shuttle; I suspect one of the energy pods was hit before I docked. I was-" Another pause, and then her voice comes through again, a little softer, almost confused. "I think I was unconscious for a time. "
Susan makes herself take a deep breath before asking, "How badly are you hurt?"
A grim tone. "I will be all right. What is our situation?"
Susan looks at the monitors again. No change. "Damned if I know. There's at least a hundred of them out there, but they're just sitting, watching."
"Then it was the Zaleeth who attacked."
"Who the hell else would it be?" Susan can't quite keep the bitterness out of her voice, but dammit, Delenn always assumes the best of people, and there's nothing in the world more frustrating than an idealist. "They lured us out here with the promise of a treaty, and now they get the President of the Alliance served up on a platter. You shouldn't have come, Delenn. I told you-"
"Trust," Delenn says softly, "is the foundation of any new friendship. Have they made any attempt to communicate? To explain their actions? Their intentions?"
"I'd think shooting at us would be a pretty big clue about their intentions. Tino's dead."
Another silence, longer this time, and Susan's just starting to work up a good panic by the time Delenn finally responds. "I see. What do you propose we do?"
Susan glances back at Millan, then straightens her robe, squares her shoulders. "If it were just me? I'd take out as many as I could before they did whatever the hell they're thinking about doing. And then I'd... I don't know. I'd yell at them a lot."
There's a hint of amusement in Delenn's voice. "And since it's not just you?"
"I say we wait."
"Agreed. There are merits to practicing caution in first contact situations." Delenn sounds like she's speaking from experience, and Susan wonders, not for the first time, which of the million rumors she's heard about the origins of the Earth-Minbari War are true.
They're quiet for a while, and Susan watches the dots on the screen, almost hoping for the final blow. It'd be something to fight against, at least. One last stand. "Can you make it to the bridge, Delenn?"
Another long silence, another flicker of panic. "I do not think so."
"Okay," Susan says. "Okay." She turns back to Millan. "Hold down the fort while I'm gone. If they start targeting us, either fire everything we've got, or pray really, really hard. Or both. Your choice."
Millan rests shaking hands on the control crystals. "Understood," she says, like it's a legitimate order, like they're in a textbook situation, and damn, but Susan's proud of them all. Her Rangers.
She sweeps off the bridge, clambering over the piles of debris the autorepair systems haven't even considered yet. For a second, she finds herself wishing to hell she hadn't let Delenn talk her into cutting down the envoy to almost nothing – one tiny ship, just the four of them, a gesture of peace and goodwill to a mysterious new force in the galaxy. Of course, if they'd brought any more people in on this, they'd just be stacking the body count. Better to leave it this way.
She doesn't realize that she's been muttering aloud, and that her communicator's still open to Delenn, until a voice intrudes on her thoughts. "You speak as though we are already dead."
"Yeah," Susan says, and shoves a sparking heap of equipment aside to clear a passage through the corridor. "And you speak as though we aren't. That's why we make such a good team. Both alive and dead. Schrodinger's conversation." She's babbling, and there's blood in her eyes again, so she swipes it aside and forges on.
"I believe I can hear you coming."
The lights are out in the shuttle docking bay, and Susan is so busy tripping over girders and twisted pieces of metal that she nearly misses the outstretched hand that plucks at the bottom of her robe. "Delenn?"
"Susan." Her voice sounds weaker in person.
Susan crouches down next to her, reaches out, clasps a too-cold hand in her own. "I have a light here somewhere," she says, and manages to fumble it from her pocket with fingers that have gone shaky. "There. Now, let's-"
At first, she can't quite figure out what's wrong with what she's seeing. She'd expected the worst – she always does – and she'd been variously picturing Delenn covered in rubble, bleeding, broken. Instead, Delenn is lying on the bare ground, impossibly pale but otherwise unscathed.
And then she looks down, sees the jagged edge of a sheet of metal buried deep in Delenn's leg, sees the blood on the floor, and everything freezes. "My God."
"I can't move it," Delenn says, matter-of-factly, and for a moment Susan hates her for the calm in her voice; they might as well be discussing the weather. "Nothing below the knee. I cannot tell if it is-" She swallows. "-if it is attached."
Susan takes a breath, makes herself lean closer to inspect the damage. "Just- just don't move, okay? It's still there. But if you move, you'll, I don't know, you'll bleed more. I think the- the metal is what's keeping you from bleeding more. Just lie still."
"I believe I can manage that." She closes her eyes for a moment, then opens them, more slowly. "Susan, are you all right?"
For a long moment, Susan just stares at her. "You're lying there with your leg half sawn off, with a hundred enemy ships surrounding us, and you're asking me if I'm all right."
Delenn makes a show of thinking it over. "Yes," she says, and while her voice is still soft, there's a new strength in it. "I am. I do expect an answer, being President, after all."
Susan feels, just then, like a green recruit, seeing combat for the first time. "I- I don't know. I'm fine, all things considered."
Delenn smiles, squeezes her hand, and Susan thinks, a bit wildly, that maybe she understands John a hell of a lot better now. "Good," says Delenn. "That's good. All things considered."
They're quiet for a moment, but God, Susan needs to do something, anything, so she says, "I should turn off the light. It's for emergencies. Conserve power in case we need it later." As if there'll be a later.
Delenn nods, and Susan plunges them into blackness.
She doesn't know how long they stay like that, silent, waiting, and some part of her is railing at the inaction, telling her she should get back to the bridge, try anything to get them back home. Failing that, she should be getting revenge on however many of these bastards she can reach.
Another part of her – a new part, wearing the cloak of the leader of the Anla'shok – is slowly embracing the idea of dying with a friend in the dark.
"What do you think happened?"
It takes Susan a moment to register the voice. It seems to be coming from very far away. "Hm?"
Delenn is quiet for a while before speaking again, and Susan focuses on the sound of her breathing, soft and shallow. "Just now. Why do you suppose they fired on us? I met with them. They seemed open to the possibility of joining the Alliance. Your Rangers could find nothing incriminating in their history."
"I don't know. I guess it doesn't really matter." She pauses, then says, "It was a trap. We always thought there was something fishy about the way they came out of nowhere, with such advanced technology. Somebody's supplying them with ships. And, it would seem, weapons. I'd be willing to bet that you and I have enough enemies out there to make us a tempting target."
She can hear the smile in Delenn's voice. "Perhaps. Perhaps you are being presumptuous. The universe may have greater plans for us yet."
Susan snorts. "And you call me presumptuous."
There's a long, comfortable silence, and then Delenn speaks again, her voice barely louder than a whisper. "Also stubborn, irritating, irascible, and utterly incomprehensible. As you humans say, if the shoe fits..."
Susan can't help it; she bursts out laughing for the first time in what feels like years, and the sound fills the deadened air of the docking bay. Another undercuts it.
"This is the leader of the Zaleeth fleet to Interstellar Alliance vessel."
Strangely enough, Susan doesn't feel a pang of fear at the voice, just focuses on the feeling of Delenn's hand in hers, on the darkness pressing in all around them.
"Better to die like this," she says, under her breath.
And then the voice continues, and she has to wait for the message to repeat, because the impossibility of it is still echoing in her mind. "-I say again, do you need assistance? The weapons systems of one of our ships appears to have malfunctioned; the attack was unintentional. Repeat, unintentional. We have medical and technical personnel standing by to assist if needed. I say again-"
Another voice, Millan's, shaking and choked with tears. "This is Ranger Millan. We do need assistance. Please, send help. Please-"
"We read you, Ranger Millan. Help is on the way."
There's wetness on her face, and Susan can't tell if it's blood or tears. Almost as an afterthought, she switches the little light back on, watches a slow, wonderful smile spread across Delenn's face. "Better to live like this," she whispers, and closes her eyes.
Delenn's stuck in a variety of Zaleeth infirmaries for the better part of a week, until she's deemed fit to travel, and so Susan spends the better part of a week sprawled in uncomfortable chairs at the side of her bed, ignoring responsibility and obligation and duty for what feels like the first time in her life. She realizes, after a while, that Millan must be taking up the slack, must be politicking and communicating with the folks back home and figuring out what the hell went wrong, but Susan's too wrapped up in the simple act of watching Delenn breathe to care.
She thinks a bit about the advice she once gave Tullomari, about the necessity of professional detachment in their line of work, and she's still not sure how much of it is total and complete bullshit. God knows, she's lost people before, and maybe things would've been different in her life if she'd ever figured out how not to give a damn. Maybe they wouldn't. Maybe they'd be worse.
When Delenn wakes up, on the sixth day, Susan thinks that maybe nothing matters as much as seeing that smile again.
The situation with the Zaleeth is largely settled through the work of Ranger Millan, who receives all the commendations Susan can think of once they get home. In a smaller, private ceremony, Susan awards her the prestigious Medal For Being Competent While Ranger One Freaks The Hell Out. She looks more confused than honored at that one.
As it turns out, the Zaleeth happened across a cache of long-abandoned Shadow technology, used it to build their ships and take to the stars. They were, it seemed, perfectly honest in their desire to join the Alliance, but the Shadow weapons systems on their ships had different plans. The Vorlon tech underlying the construction of the Alliance vessel eventually set off some auto-defense system, and the weapons fired of their own accord before control was regained. The Zaleeth were so terrified at incurring the wrath of the Alliance that they nearly turned and ran, but in the end, they stayed to help.
That's their story, anyway. Susan figures they're still hiding something, but in an uncharacteristic burst of magnanimity, she also figures they're entitled to some secrets of their own. For now, she'll go along with Delenn's gracious acceptance of their apologies, and she'll send her Rangers in to gather what intelligence they can, and she'll sit back and wait for the next war, if it comes.
For the first time in her life, she feels like maybe she can take anything the universe throws at her.
Delenn is still a little unsteady on her feet, two weeks after the incident, but the Zaleeth have something of a knack for xenobiology, and the Minbari doctors have assured Susan that she's expected to make a full recovery. Still, she has to stamp down the urge to jump up and help Delenn to a chair every time she enters a room.
Now, there's something in her expression that freezes Susan in place. "What is it? What's wrong?"
Delenn remains standing, one hand resting against the wall, and Susan is torn between admiring that stubbornness and getting really, really annoyed at it. "I have just had a message from David."
"Is he-"
She smiles, shaking her head. "No, nothing like that. His training is going very well." There's definitely something troubling her, though; Susan's known her too long to let it pass. Delenn takes a step forward, and sways, wincing.
"Sit down before you fall down," Susan snaps, then adds, sweetly, "Madam President."
Delenn casts her a wry look and sinks into a chair across from her. "If I had known the depths of respect and honor my position would afford me, I would have become President years ago."
Susan snorts. "Tell me about it. Tullomari and I had another knock-down drag-out yelling match this morning. I remain hopeful that he'll see the error of his ways. Eventually." She leans forward in her chair. "Delenn, something's bothering you."
She sighs. "It's David. I recognize that some of his traditions and beliefs will be unfamiliar to me. Alien." She glances up at Susan again, with a smile. "Human. And I realize that the Rangers have a somewhat lax code of discipline in some matters. But this-"
Susan feels a creeping sensation of dread. "What's he done now?"
"He has-" Delenn pauses, as though searching for the right words. "He has grown a ponytail. And a truly unfortunate mustache."
Susan stares at her for a long, long moment, then guffaws. Delenn makes an exasperated sound, and that just sets Susan off again, and a second later they're both laughing too hard to breathe.
Susan recovers first. "I promise, I'll talk to him about it. He's probably just trying to look grown-up and sophisticated."
"It is-" Delenn has to pause to catch her breath. "It is not having the desired effect."
Susan leans back in her chair, grinning up at the ceiling. "Don't worry. I was a little sister, once. I am very, very accomplished at teasing people about their choice of facial hair." For once, the thought of Ganya is bittersweet, not painful. If the hell of grief is that it isn't constant, maybe that's its blessing, too.
Maybe there's acceptance out there, after all, something warm and attainable, something as easy as forgiveness. Even for people like them.
She stops looking at the ceiling, straightens up in her chair. Delenn is watching her, smiling. "It is good to see you laugh, Susan."
For a second, Susan can't think of anything to say in return, and she's a bit scared that if she opens her mouth, everything will start pouring out: confessions, guilt, sorrow, joy. The truth. Instead, she says, "You too," and it's the same thing, in the end.
Outside, night is falling; she can see it in the long shade of the trees outside the window, in the murmurs of the quiescent city. "It's been a long day," she says, and she's not just talking about the dust-up with Tullomari.
Delenn understands; she always does. "It's just beginning."
They sit in silence, watching the encroaching shadows, settling peacefully into the rhythms of night, and darkness, and hope.
The Universe According to General Susan Ivanova
Lesson Three:
No matter the cost in loss or sorrow or grief, love is always worthwhile.