Rick Stockwell sonic-swabbed the deck.
That was his job. He was in charge of keeping the corridors and hallways of Red Seven as clean as possible. Red was mostly executive, posh suites, meant for the best of the station's visitors. B5 was a big place; Red was probably the coziest of its assignments.
Or so he was told.
Sure, he could've been a janitor in the loading dock, mopping up the boot scrapings of everyone who came through the station, but instead, he'd been placed in Red. He didn't remember much about how he ended up there. He was on his way to the Dalev system, looking for his estranged wife, when he ended up on B5. It wasn't his choice to stay there; money and other things had necessitated his staying put there for the time. His quarters were "down below", out in Brown 74. It was a quiet part of the station, he was lucky to have his quarters there. It was far removed from the various noises and troubles of the station, far enough from the fusion reactors that he could sleep at night, and close enough to the hydroponics section that he could enjoy a nice long walk in the fresh air before bed.
But he missed Maureen, he really did. She was special, but at the same time, annoying to him, in that she could still hold such a presence in his life despite the fact that he could neither recall what she looked like, nor remember anything about her. He just knew she had gone to the Dalev sector, that they had been estranged for some eight months now, that he had sold everything of their home that she hadn't in order to go after her, and that he had ended up on B5 because of it. It wasn't much, but it was his. He was just happy to be productive, happy to still be able to work --to do something to take his mind off her.
The problem was that he really didn't feel comfortable. It always felt to him, during his long hours spent washing the decks, like he was wasting his time, like he was just passing time, when he could do something more valuable. He didn't know what that was, but he was sure he had done something before B5. It was like something in his memory was shielding him. Doctor Franklin --the station's chief medical officer-- had told him that it was possible he was shielding himself from something in his past, a traumatic event or something, but he refused to say much more. For some reason, though, as far back as he could remember, people seemed to be afraid of him. When he'd push his sonic broom along the deckways, people seemed to try to walk around him, turn back, avoid eye contact, that sort of thing. He had no friends, fewer acquaintances. His was a lowly existence indeed. But he liked it that way. Nothing special, that was Rick's claim.
Two more hours to quitting time. A quick drink by himself at the Darkstar and a long night's rest. Maybe a little quality reading-- Ellison, or something fun. Who knew. It didn't really matter-- he didn't get any real time off for another couple days.
A couple of Minbari passed by --he recognized them immediately as Ambassador Delenn and her assistant, Lennier. Delenn was one of the few who ever really looked him in the eye. She looked at him and smiled her sweet, Minbari smile, ever so softly, as they passed, discussing something in their native language. Rick didn't speak Minbari. He knew there'd been a war, but he couldn't remember where he'd been
----if you only get one shot on these bastards, take it! Hold the Line!----
but he knew he didn't have a problem with the Minbari anymore than they had a problem with him. And judging by Ambassador Delenn's pleasant demeanour towards him, there was no problem. Except these decks, which he went back to sonic-swabbing as the delegates passed him by.
Passed him by... seemed like everything passed him by nowadays. Things had a certain rhythm to him. Get out of bed, swab, lunch on the Zocalo, swab, a walk through hydroponics, a Jovian sunspot to call it a day, and another sleep. Not a bad rhythm
----they're all over me! Sons of bitches! I'm done, LT! Tell my wife----
but one that to which he had no trouble keeping time.
B5 was a nice place. He'd only met the Commander of the station once or twice. Station was abuzz with rumours that the Minbari had delegated him specifically and twisted EarthForce admin's arm until Earth-gov had caved. Why not? Minbari probably knew better than the damned Earth-gov, after all, we still didn't know why the hell they didn't break us at the Battle of the Line
----the Grey Council demands answers, and if I have to break you for them, I will----
when they had the chance, they just surrendered and that was all. Rick never understood Minbari. He much preferred Centauri, or Narns. At least they made sense. Narns negotiated by force; Centauri negotiated by power. Minbari had a singsong way of going about their business, a rhythm Rick just couldn't follow.
Back and forth, back and forth, over the decks he'd go. He looked up and saw a security detail, led by Chief Garibaldi himself, coming down the corridor
----not another move! You're under arrest for the murder of Ajit Waril of the Minbari Federation! Put your hands on your head----
and he nodded. It was customary; Garibaldi didn't even see him. Nor did the security detail with him, except to acknowledge his presence, determine how much of a threat he presented
----this guy's a veteran of the War, so be careful; consider him armed and extremely dangerous----
and leave it at that. He didn't really like the security presence on the station, but they were necessary to keep the place running. Necessary evils, he'd learned, were a matter of course.
He looked at his watch. It'd only been fifteen minutes. Something must be up around the station. He didn't know what, though-- of course not, he wasn't in any of the considerable loops of information that seemed to circulate. One for the Vorlons, whom he really didn't understand at all. One for the Narns, whom he admired for their resilience after years of Centauri occupation. One for the Centauri, whom he admired for their power, their money, and their way of doing business. One for the Minbari
----shove that up your ass, you crest-headed bastards! That's for Jimmy! Oh God! They're all over me! Someone cover my six! Shi----
and their mysterious ways. And two or three for the EarthForce station crew and the command officers.
Oh, and one for PsiCorps, no doubt. PsiCorps didn't have much of a presence on station, just Talia Winters, the commercial telepath
----after completion of this deep scan, you'll be taken to Medical for completion of your sentence, after which you'll be returned to society as a functional----
whom he saw every once in a while at the Darkstar. Maybe he'd be so fortunate to see her again that evening. She wasn't his type, but that didn't mean he didn't look anyway.
The next hour and a half flew by relatively quickly. Rick busied himself thinking about how much longer he'd have to work to get that ticket to his wife. She really owed him some answers --one day she was there, the next she was off without so much as a note. He couldn't pinpoint exactly when he had lost her, mostly because he had such a hard time remembering it, but if the doctor felt it might be better for him to just work through it on his own, try to piece it together one bit at a time, maybe that was for the best.
But a telepath might be able to help him do that, too. He didn't like being scanned
----you may feel a little discomfort at being scanned, but it's all part of the process----
because it always gave him a headache. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been scanned --it might've been inadvertent when he last saw Ms. Winters in the Darkstar-- but he knew it when he felt it. It was rather unpleasant.
He took his usual shortcut around the Zocalo by way of the hydroponic bay, enjoying the faux moonlight shimmering across the rows of plant life there. Interspersed at intervals, he would offer a cordial nod to others in the midst of a stroll of their own. He felt himself rather surprised to cross paths with Ambassador Delenn yet again. He merely nodded and continued along his way, but she addressed him.
"You are on your way home, mister Stockwell?" she requested in her thick Minbari accent.
Rick turned and nodded. At this, Delenn laughed.
"You have nothing to fear from me.
----what are the defensive capabilities of EarthForce? You cannot refuse me----
I am merely... curious."
"I am honoured," Rick stated plainly, his voice a typical monotone, "that I have incurred your curiosity, Ambassador."
"This station is peculiar to me. There is no place like it in the galaxy, or so I am told, and as a result, I interest myself in the activities of all those who share this peculiarity of the universe."
"I understand," Rick said, "but I find myself curious-- would it be too forward of a simple corridor cleaner to offer an ambassador a drink?"
Delenn seemed taken aback at the suggestion for a moment, then inclined her head forward at an angle. "I fear that a previous commitment to Commander Sinclair
----This is Sinclair! All Starfury pilots, form up on me and hold the Line!----
forces me to decline, but I do appreciate your offer."
Rick smiled cordially at the Minbari. "As I appreciate your considering it. Anything I can do to make a good impression."
Delenn seemed, again, to have a slightly shocked expression upon her face, as if he were speaking in tongues, but Rick figured the ambassador must be versed in at least twenty separate languages, so this would not have been a problem. Something at the base of his memory flashed anger at seeing her fearful expression, but he repressed his flash almost as quickly as she did. Her impassive and pleasant demeanour returned.
"The offer is most appreciated. Perhaps another night, however."
Rick's smile had only briefly wavered; it returned warmly. "Certainly. Good evening, Ambassador."
"Good evening, mister Rockton." She turned and moved away at a pace slightly quicker than walking, but not quite walking.
Rockton? Rick asked himself.
----Stuart Rockton, you are found guilty of the murder of Ajit Waril. By special request of the Minbari Federation, you are sentenced to----
But my name is Stockwell. Perhaps she became momentarily confused. Something was clearly distracting her anyway.
More's the pity, he figured. With nothing to distract him save the echo of it in his mind, he figured he might just be more privileged than an ambassador.
He arrived in the Darkstar on the cusp of rush hour, just like always. Not surprisingly, those who remained were either drunk or on their way. There were a few exceptions; not surprisingly, one among their number was Ambassador Londo Mollari of the Centauri Republic. The boisterous peacock of a man was in the process of engaging three lovely human ladies in conversation, as well as badgering a fourth into bringing drinks enough for the five of them. He smiled, cautiously avoiding the Centauri. He made a point of finding a corner table and burrowing into it, as usual. There were few things as important to him as enjoying a Jovian sunspot in peace; contrariwise, where Ambassador Mollari was at present might have been the Centauri notion of peace, but Rick liked his just fine.
It always surprised him to spot Talia Winters in here, seeing as the establishment wasn't exactly the type where one would expect to see a self-respecting human woman, let alone a telepath. But sure enough, and much to his inner rejoicing, he saw a familiar silhouette in the booth at the far end of the place. He went to the bar, placed his order, offered his credit-chip, and after the transaction was complete, he carried his sunspot over to her table.
He rehearsed to himself how he should address her, but figured it was mostly irrelevant-- she probably knew he was coming anyway. Sure enough, she looked over her shoulder, her large blue and very pretty eyes flashing once in his direction.
"Mister Stockwell," she said placidly, "you've been looking for me."
"Is it that obvious?" Rick replied.
"Not really-- I apologize, you were just... broadcasting it. It's kind of hard not to pick out a clean thought in a place like this."
Rick smiled, and she indicated the other side of the table with a gloved hand. Telepaths, he reminded himself, needed to glove their hands to avoid inadvertent contact with other minds. He didn't really understand that, he just knew how he hated when voices would flash through his mind
----it's been eight years, Stu, let it go already----
and he couldn't imagine the process being pleasant.
"So, why do you come down here anyway?"
"Mostly just to tune myself. If I can focus on just my own thoughts in this kind of place, I can handle anything."
Rick smiled, and had a brief glimpse in his mind of alternate reasons Ms. Winters might be down here. Talia seemed to reel momentarily, and he realized that by thinking about her, he was probably both tempting her to scan him, and should she succumb to the temptation, be insulted in the process. So, he just thought about the taste of his Jovian sunspot instead. Talia's face was warm, her lipstick shading her smile with a touch of almost fraternal intimacy, but Rick figured this to be as much an effect of her scanning him as anything. He shook off such thoughts and spoke, the silence clearly awkward between them.
"I've been having weird dreams lately. Keep seeing myself hunting Minbari in a ship --a really little one of some kind. Whole swarms of 'em, attacking these big fish-like ships."
"Well, I'm no expert in dream interpretation-- have you been watching too many holovids or something?"
"Holovids?" Rick couldn't even afford a player, let alone the data crystals. "No."
"That's odd. Would you mind if I scanned you?"
"Always gives me a headache, but if it'll help."
"Tell you what-- I won't charge you for it, but don't tell anyone, okay?" She smiled sweetly at him.
"Sure."
She raised a hand and he closed his eyes, preparing for the pain to come, but nothing did. After a moment, he opened one of his eyes, since he didn't really feel anything.
"Nothing wrong as far as I can tell." She smiled at him. "What is it that you remember?"
"I don't know, a lot of garbled chatter, broken English, that sort of thing. In the middle of space, all these little ships, going against these bigger ones, like mosquitos or something. Oh--and then, darkness. Hooded figures, I think they're Minbari, there. Eight or nine of them. Surrounding me. Then one of them --just one other, not in the circle. Then standing over him, threatening him with a PPG. Then-- for some reason, I see another hooded figure, in the ombuds' chambers, sentencing me to something."
"Something?"
"It always cuts off."
"Interesting-- um, if you'll excuse me, I really need to rest, I did a lot of scans today, and I'd best go to my quarters--" Talia Winters practically fell over herself making her way out, with the briefest of eye exchanges with the Centauri ambassador on his way out. The warm look on her face disintegrated into confusion and panic moments after, sending Londo's eyes from her face to Rick's. Rick downed the rest of his sunspot in a gulp and headed home by a separate exit.
He laid awake all night just thinking, trying to piece things together. But he couldn't. Were Maureen here--- no use in thinking about that, she was always a distraction anyway. Something was just at the back of his mind, and he couldn't think of it. Every time he thought of Maureen
----this one's for the wife I lost, the wife you took!----
something would claw at the back of his head like one of those creatures the Centauri were so deathly afraid of, with a name he forgot. A name he forgot... for some reason hearing those four words together made his blood chill just a little. Names he had forgotten. So many names. He had such a hard time remembering his life before B5.
He tried to think. He'd gone to school... where? He'd worked as... what? He'd joined the war... or had he? He and Maureen had married... hadn't they? He couldn't even remember what she looked like... or could he?
Part of him told him she had looked like Talia. But that couldn't be right. Talia looked like... well, like Talia. He felt a little awkward for a moment, realizing that he would eventually someday leave B5 and head to the... to the... what was the name of that system... it didn't matter, he'd written it down... somewhere... sleep came peacefully and Rick drifted with it...
Morning came too quickly. Rick had dozed off at a bad angle; his shoulders hurt, his face was half-planted to the pillow, and he looked at the clock. Still another hour 'til work. Bonus.
Rick rolled out, still in his work clothes from the night before, and figured no one would really notice. Folding out the creases in his jumpsuit, he decided to take advantage of his sleeping pattern and take a nice long walk through the arboretum.
Rick walked slowly across the way, making a path woven only around bunches or bushes. Nothing made him as happy as straightening up after a night tucked in a ball. He tended to sleep that way for --well, he didn't have a reason to sleep that way. Who actually had a reason for sleeping in a certain position anyway? Only recently had snoring actually been completely cured, and even then, it wasn't a perfect cure, more of a preventative treatment. But Rick didn't snore. At least, he didn't hear himself snore.
And he guessed he didn't, or Maureen would've had at least one night lying awake worrying about that. He thought he might've enjoyed walking a dog or somesuch in their life before, but he couldn't remember if they'd had one or not. It was hard to say.
He passed a Minbari. Religious caste,
----well, I say, I don't care if they have a religious caste or not, kill 'em all, let God sort 'em out!----
he could tell by the crest of her forehead. He tried to smile at her, but something from her mind touched his --just for a moment-- and suddenly he was very scared. He had known she was a telepath the moment she had touched his mind, but by the time that mind of his had reacted correctly to her telepathic abilities, even just brushing by its surface, something violent recoiled in his mind-- as it did in hers. She threw a curse --or a prayer, Rick could never speak shell-head-- wait-- why did he call her--
---damn shell-heads! We can take 'em! Hold the Line!----
It all came back to him, suddenly. The Minbari probed him, to ascertain his true identity. As she did, he realized who he was. He realized why he couldn't remember, why he had-- Waril.
Waril had been the name of the bastard shell-head that had attacked his home planet, in the Great War-- had been the reason he went from flying freighters to Starfuries-- had been the reason he had come to B5 in the first place --had been for revenge, revenge for Maureen --and the shell-headed bastards had requested that he-- be--- mindwiped! That was what had happened! This nosy shell-headed bitch had gone too far. He felt his hands close around her neck, and he held them there for a long time. She passed into unconsciousness, not yet fully dead. His thumbs squeezed harder into her windpipe, but he heard a noise in the distance, someone crying out, and fled.
Stuart Rockton, now fully in control of his faculties, turned and figured out the layout of this station within a heartbeat. Not too far from the Starfury bays. Time to get back in the fight.
Where could he go? Probably half the human population knew he'd been wiped. Hell, he didn't understand himself how he could've survived the procedure --well, okay, survived as himself. He kept thinking about Maureen, the sight of her dead body, lying there, so cold, her tender arms just limp, her beautiful face bludgeoned by what appeared to be a rifle butt. The shell-heads hadn't even given her a chance, the bastards.
That'd been why he got himself into space in the first. He'd always wanted to pilot a Starfury. Flying aircab freight shipments over Slentri was all he could muster because of his psych history. Chronic depression. Alcoholism. Drug problems. Maureen had been an angel to put up with him.
Then the bastards came right out of hell and took his angel away.
Everything changed that day, as Slentri laid in ruins. Stu had been lucky --or so they said-- as he was hauling long freight in his 'cab to Dryslon, on the far side of Trila. Shell-heads struck Slentri first, wiped the bustling city of three million down to a scant thousand within eight hours --mostly by shock troops. The warrior castes, he learned, were intent on eradicating every ape on Trila, but were too "honourable" --whatever that meant-- to just nuke them or use mass-drivers and get it over with. Trila had been a beautiful, fertile, serene world with sufficient amounts industry and sufficient amounts wilderness to suit any man. Maureen had been a native of Trila. Stuart hadn't --his parents had moved from Mars colony at the first sign of trouble, when he was thirteen. He remembered even then watching out the spaceside view, keeping his viewcam on the outer hull fixed on a Starfury flying escort --since the Dilgar were still fighting-fit back then. It had been a long ride, but Stuart remembered it well. He remembered hyperspace, the strange waves of colour, the odd crashing and ducking about of light and shadow at intervals-- how the camera had shut itself down due to a lens overexposure, how disappointed he had been. The moment they left hyperspace, however, he was fixed once again on the Starfury.
He had no idea how losing one angel would lead him to wings of his own back then. He had no idea how losing one angel had led him to such rage, such fury-- the Starfury, therefore, was his perfect match.
Stuart's aircab piloting skills made him a natural at riding Starfuries. Any bastard who could navigate Slentri's airways at rush-hour could handle a 'fury. And the Force needed pilots so badly that they made him squad commander.
He'd known Jeffrey Sinclair briefly --he was his superior officer's superior officer. They'd been on the Line together. He remembered vaguely breaking formation to cover Sinclair's starfighter as it made a last-ditch plunge into a shell-head cruiser --Sinclair himself had never approved the use of the term, or so he learned-- when a bright light had consumed it. Presuming Sinclair was dead, he broke away just as a shell-head fighter clipped his wing. With only three lateral thrusters, Stu was in a tailspin out into the middle of nowhere, and bailed.
When he came to, he was surrounded by figures in grey cloaks. One revealed his head to show he was a Minbari.
The torture began soon thereafter. Stu didn't remember it in terms of hours, he remembered only the agony, the detail, the precision of his tormentor, how he had cried Maureen's name in a way that puzzled the Minbari tasked with extracting whatever had to be extracted from him to get the truth.
Whatever truth they wanted, they got it. There was no denying that.
But truth had its price.
And Stu figured it was time for a little payback.
He crept along the edge of a corridor, hesitant. Shell-heads. Everywhere. He had to avoid the Zocalo --too many of Garibaldi's ilk, his cruller-cop security. He needed a PPG like he needed a stiff drink or two --Jovian sunspots, what was he thinking. What a girly drink.
He didn't have time to think of an alternative. Commander Sinclair strode down the hall, his own PPG unholstered. Before Stu knew it, four of those cruller-cops he'd derided moments before were standing at corners to him. Garibaldi was right behind him.
"This can go two ways, Rocky," Sinclair began. Rocky. No one had called him by his flight name in ages. Stu smiled.
"You know which way I want it to go. I got nowhere to go. You might as well take me now, because ain't no shell-heads gonna stand if I have my way."
Stuart felt his shoulder bristle slightly, as though something was going on behind him. He turned and saw Delenn standing there-- but he couldn't touch her. She had touched him, however, her hand serenely calm on his shoulder.
"Our people did many wrongs in the War, mister Rockton. It has diminshed us both in ways you cannot imagine. And you have my apology, both personally and ambassadorially, for the losses you experienced. But this cannot be the way." She stopped, and stared --hard-- into his eyes. Stuart could feel the tension of six PPGs barreling down on him, but felt more threatened --and strangely relaxed-- by the shell--- by the Minbari woman standing before him.
He said nothing --he felt as though words were failing him-- but placed his hand on her shoulder as well. Delenn bowed her head for a moment, as did Stuart. He had seen the Minbari do this once, while swabbing the decks.
Perhaps it was time to swab the past clean as well.
"I don't get it," Garibaldi said as he stood in Sinclair's office. "I mean, the guy goes from homicidal maniac to happy Minbari-hugger in all of, what, ten seconds?"
"He was cornered, Michael, what would you do?" Sinclair smiled as he read over the last order of business of the day. Conferring with his security chief before he linked out for the evening was just that.
"Yeah, I guess, but where did Delenn come from? And how did she know?"
"That part, I think it's better we not know. We might not be happy with the answers we get."
"Yeah, no kidding." Garibaldi spun on one foot to walk out, and then turned and said, "you know, Commander, we don't have to wipe this guy right yet. He was at the Line, you were at the Line, maybe he saw something--"
Sinclair raised a hand. "I think we both know the answer to that one."
"What you said before about how Delenn got there in the first place."
Sinclair nodded at his chief of security as Garibaldi smirked and headed out. The Line... he'd thought about it more times than he could recall, trying to piece together what one Minbari he had known had called the "hole in his mind" --those missing moments between his last-ditch plunge and much later.
He heard his own words in his head as he turned his thoughts back to signing off on maintenance logs and such.
He suspected that Stuart Rockton wasn't happy with the answers he'd gotten.
And perhaps that was for the best.
Tired and weary, both in mind and in body, Sinclair finished up the logs and called it a night. But the more he thought about it, the more he kept coming back to an image of Delenn in his mind.
And he couldn't recall where he'd seen it before.
But he knew it hadn't been today.