The Dark Horse Votes Neigh

This is the 7th and final chapter in the Dark Horse series.

Carla's ship was taken in tow by a Minbari war cruiser. The large, old ship was a long way from its normal hunting grounds, but Carla had to admit it was a good choice for a tow truck. It handled the mass of the comparatively tiny Whitestar with ease.

After they had been underway for a day, the war cruiser's captain invited Carla and her senior officers to dine with him and his officers. Carla hesitated over who to bring along with her. Firuun, of course, but other than him, all her officers had come aboard fresh from training. She decided on the pilot, nav and com officer, gunner, and of course the tac officer, Khunnier.

Firuun had a medical immobilizer on his arm, but was back to his usual energy level, and his voice boomed like a cannon as he greeted the war cruiser's officers.

The guests filed into the dining hall of the war cruiser's captain's suite, and Carla looked around with interest at the decorations on the walls. They appeared to be sculpture of some kind, but Carla wondered if they might have some use of which she was unaware. "This is a very nice dining hall," she told the Captain in Minbari.

"Yes, a generously sized table," replied the Captain. "My suite is just through there."

"I thought Minbari didn't have private cabins," Carla commented. "A collective culture."

The Captain smiled. "No, that is an artifact of the Whitestar's small size. Your ship has a higher drive and weapons to crew area ratio than a war cruiser. The war cruiser was meant to be a home for its crew for many years, possibly permanently. The Whitestar was designed to be crewed by religious who would go home to their temples after the Shadow War."

Carla wondered if there were a shower aboard this ship, but did not get the chance to ask.

The Captain introduced his officers by both name and clan name, so Carla did likewise.

The Captain gestured politely to the chairs. "Please be seated." Everyone sat, except for the servers, who appeared by their youth to be junior officers, perhaps the equivalent of middies.

A late arrival came to the table, although Carla did not hear him walk up the corridor, as if he had waited just around the corner for the introductions to be finished. The Minbari Captain pointedly did not introduce the newcomer.

But Carla recognized him. Her breath caught in her throat.

She felt as dizzy as she had aboard the Neon class merchantman when the air was being pumped out. She wanted to get up and leave the gathering, but was afraid of showing weakness in front of her crew. And in front of the other Minbari as well.

She took deep breaths, staring blankly at the table.

"Carla?" Firuun asked, as quietly as he could. Which was not very quiet. "Are you alright?"

Carla looked up white-faced, and clutched Firuun's arm. The good arm, fortunately. "I'm fine, Firuun." Her voice came out high and weak to her ears. "This is… the person who taught me to speak Minbari."

There was an uncomfortable silence.

Khunnier figured it out. "Comac," he whispered. Carla nodded.

Comac of Clan Itma spoke in precisely the same accent as Carla. "I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?!" Carla shrieked. She grabbed a fork as if planning to stab him with it.

Firuun put a hand on her shoulder as if prepared to hold her in her seat. He whispered, "Carla, this isn't a bar. We can't fight in here."

"For not recognizing you," Comac said.

Carla subsided. She set down the utensil and took a drink of whatever it was she had been served, which did not seem nearly poisonous enough for the occasion.

Comac continued, "I would not have come if I had known. The Captain and I thought if I was not introduced, it would avoid any awkwardness."

Not looking at anyone, Carla said, "I survived the pirate base. And having my ship nearly blown out from under me. I suppose I can survive this too."

"I'll go," Comac said, "with my Captain's permission?"

Carla said, "Wait. The Anla'shok taught me to confront my fears, not avoid them. If I can't get through this dinner with you here, then I give in to terror. Therefore you must stay. It is our way."

"The way of the Anla'shok," Comac said. "I see. You are a remarkable person, Captain. If I may ask, who are you?"

Carla sighed. "I can understand why you wouldn't recognize my face. I've gotten rather weather-beaten since then. Humans age faster than Minbari. And I was young and fit and beautiful once. There." Carla pulled up a sleeve, showing the old, white scars of hundreds of scratches. "Do you recognize me now?"

Carla had been one of his first baltor mar victims, before he started restraining the prisoners to keep them from injuring themselves with scratching. Later subjects had the V-marks instead. In the original group of prisoners who had the scratch scars, there had been only one female.

There was another very awkward pause.

Comac studied the lacework scars, clearly struggling to remember the name from so long ago. Then he said, "First Sergeant Carla Punch. Gropo."

Carla pulled down the sleeve. She whispered, "Everyone, please eat."

Khunnier muttered, "I don't think the others have much of an appetite." He started eating; he had known about Carla's past for a long time.

Carla glanced up at her other officers, the fresh faced young fellows who had jumped at the chance to be the first military caste officers to serve on a Whitestar. Like Khunnier, they were all far too young to remember the Earth-Minbari war. They all looked mortified.

The Minbari Captain said, "I apologize, Captain Punch. I thought I was arranging a social gathering, a mere courtesy. Not a test of your resolve as a member of the Anla'shok."

"The past is past," Carla said in a brittle tone. "Actually, the Centauri pirate, Inoja, did far worse things. Of course, I got to kill her, so that's alright."

"I would appreciate it if you did not murder my chief of security," the Minbari Captain said dryly.

"Don't worry. I'm not capable of killing a Minbari. That's one of the commands I still live with, even though Control is dead."

"I don't understand," the Minbari Captain said. He glanced at Comac for an explanation, but Comac was stirring the contents of his plate with a congealed expression on his face.

It was Firuun who provided the explanation, in a low rumble like a far away rocket engine. He waited until several people raised glasses to their lips to cover the silence. "Captain Punch is loribonded."

Which caused every Minbari at the table who had been drinking something to spray his tablemates. Carla thought that was a rather amusing sight, and pressed her lips together and held her breath for a moment to keep the laughter in. Giggling hysterically at this moment would not contribute to her reputation for sanity.

Her old pain had little power over her now. It had been replaced by new pain, but also, all the traumas, old and new, had been eclipsed by a feeling that she was finally home. Her Whitestar might not have much in the way of amenities, but it was more than she had ever hoped to have. She was a Ranger, and a ship captain. And that was enough.

"Enough about the past," Carla said. "Let's talk ships. Have you heard about the new super-Whitestar designs?"

A relieved buzz of voices started up as everyone jumped on the change of topic.

Carla looked at her hands: they were not shaking. Her voice had steadied out. The dizzy feeling was gone. The Anla'shok way served her well; she was OK. She was amazed that she was OK.

\

"For a so called 'very exclusive party' there seem to be a whole lot of people here, Michael."

"So, maybe a thousand or so," Garibaldi said, snagging a drink from a passing float-tray. "That is exclusive. Do you know how many people there are in the galaxy? Just counting humans, it's in the billions."

"Mm. Well, so far it's turning out to be a much nicer evening than the last time I went with you to Mars."

"You know that wasn't my fault."

"Of course I know that. Or I wouldn't be here. And neither would you."

"Yeah, good to know where we stand on that, John. Speaking of second chances, I believe I see one of my fellow excessively rich men making his way in our direction."

The newcomer was barely recognizable, and it was not just the expensive blue suit with the fashionable gold collar tips. Lines had appeared in his face since Sheridan had seen him last. "Great party, Michael. Hello, Sheridan." The man gestured with his martini.

"Do I recognize you?" Sheridan asked.

"I hope not."

Sheridan narrowed his eyes, and tilted his face a bit. "Major Sands?"

"Not anymore. I resigned my commission, you know."

"Well, this is a bit public for anything that might need to be said."

Party noise was all around them: the clink of ice in glasses, the murmur of conversations, mostly in English but in a few dozen other human and alien languages as well, live music drifting in from the ballroom. Men in suits, women in glittering cocktail dresses, and various aliens brushed past them.

"Consider whatever needs to be said, said then," Reginald suggested. "The last thing we need is for people to start saying 'secret meeting.' There are already gossip logs claiming to show photos of Rangers coming in and out of my ranch."

Sheridan tried for a fake chuckle, which came out as more of a whuff. "Someone would really have to be a conspiracy buff to believe you and I are in on anything together."

Garibaldi said, "I take it you two have met."

"Don't you watch ISN, Michael?"

"Not if I can help it."

"Well. Everything worked out. The pirate menace is gone, and everything that went with it. I call that a successful operation."

"No hard feelings?" Sands asked.

"I haven't got time to bother holding a grudge against anybody who's not actively fighting me right now. Besides, we were both on the same side, in the end, weren't we? Earth's side."

Sands nodded. That last line had been directed at potential eavesdroppers, he was sure. The general public still thought Sands and Sheridan had been on opposite sides of the Earth civil war.

Reginald said, "You're a very forgiving man, John Sheridan."

"I have to be, I'm married to Delenn."

Reginald saluted Sheridan and Garibaldi with his drink and excused himself.

Sheridan said, "How popular is he getting, Michael?"

"In the polls, you mean? Not bad."

"Can he win?"

"Not a chance. Not this time around, anyway. The Regulationist Party is dead in the water. And it will be as long as Earth-gov is still rounding up underground Nightwatch militias."

"Good. I'd hate to think I had anything to do with catapulting them back into power."

"So, care to tell me what's going on?"

"Not particularly, no. Of course, if you were to reconsider coming back as chief of covert intelligence…" Sheridan shrugged.

"Number One's doing a fine job with that. And representing Mars's interests. And I've got a company to run, you know."

"Yes. I hear your shipyards are doing quite well. Especially now that the competition has been reduced, thanks to that tragedy in the asteroid belt."

"Come on, what's going on?"

"Don't nag, Michael, someone might mistake you for a horse. Or part of one, anyway."

"Well, at least I'd be at home in the middle of all this horse pucky."

"Ah, look, there's the head of the Minbari trade consortium. I've been meaning to meet him. I've never met a worker caste Minbari. Excuse me."

Sheridan made his way across the room. Garibaldi was left shaking his head. Whatever the story was, he would get to the bottom of it eventually.

\

"Is it good news or bad news, Firuun?" Carla asked.

"That depends on your perspective. The yard dogs want everybody off while they graft on the new engine module. That's bad news for the Anla'shok purser in charge of repair operations, because they're going to have to put us all up in a hotel. At least until most of the crew disperses for home leave, anyway. You get to stay the entire time the ship's being repaired."

"Yes!" Carla laughed. "Just tell me it has a shower!"

"Rated for humans. I checked."

"Thank you, Firuun. And I'm sure the crew will thank you too." Carla waved a hand in front of her face to signify an odor.

"We weren't going to say anything."

"You don't have to. So are you going to visit family?"

"Yes, for a few days. Just long enough for everyone to hear all my latest stories two or three times, and get tired of me. But first, there's a bar here in the spaceport that I've been wanting to introduce you to."

Carla grinned. "Is it a place appropriate to the dignity of a starship captain?"

"Not in the slightest."

"Excellent. Meet you there after I check in?"

"And have your shower. I took the liberty of requisitioning you an extra uniform. It's waiting for you in the closet. Along with a laundry order ticket for that one."

Carla laughed again. "I knew there was some reason I made you my exec."

"I can hardly wait to see the look on my mother's face when I tell her I'm the first officer of my ship. Do you know how rare that is for someone in the engineering specialty? They told me I was wasting my talents and would never get to command rank. They thought someone with my physique should have gone for a combat assignment."

"Well, you are good at fighting. And you enjoy it. But you're a damned good engineer, too."

"Not to mention the fact that I would have died on the Blackstar if I hadn't been outside in a powered work suit when it blew. The family always seems to conveniently forget that part when they nettle me about being an engineer."

Carla nodded, suddenly serious. She tried to picture visiting her own family now that she had her new life. "If I went home wearing this uniform, my dad would probably try to have me locked up in an adjustment clinic specializing in Minbari War Syndrome. My mom, my mom would just say, 'oh good, you're dressed, take out the garbage.'"

"Mm. Well, then you could join our club."

"Huh?"

"I'll tell you tonight. Oh, the yard dogs wanted to know if we'd like them to refill the air with one of their specialty mixes, while they're at it. The ship will have to be opened to space to replace the engine compartment. I wasn't sure which ones might be agreeable to humans."

"What have they got?"

"Woods. Rain. Wildflowers. Spice."

"Humans would have had an Ocean scent in that selection."

"Not us. We don't like the ocean. Well, except for people who talk like you."

"Anything, as long as the wildflowers don't smell like springtime on Tifar. Scent linked memories are powerfully emotional for my species."

Firuun snapped off a parody of a human style salute with his newly healed arm, and boomed in English, "Aye, aye, Cap'n! No wildflowers shall pass these airlocks!"

Carla grinned. Maybe they could find someone to fight in the bar. It would be just like old times.

The End