Chapter 8
Early in the afternoon, Delenn came into Medlab. In her arms she carried a neatly-folded bundle: a clean Ranger's uniform that she had brought from Marcus' quarters. Ivanova had willingly used her command-level override to open Marcus' door, and sent her best wishes for his recovery.
Delenn had remained low-spirited all morning since leaving the Garden. She seemed to find ill tidings everywhere she turned. Two confirmed Shadow attacks had decimated Brakiri colonies, and the Brakiri Ambassador had angrily demanded to know why his people should waste resources supporting Babylon 5 if no one was going to help them. Following that encounter, she'd gone to the command deck to confer with Sheridan. Their conversation had been interrupted by the report of a brief failure of three transport tubes. Delenn could almost feel the blood pressure of the whole command staff rising. When young Corwin had turned, grinning, to report, "It's a normal glitch, sir—the system's compensating," the wave of relief that swept the whole of C and C demonstrated how tense they all were now about even the most basic station operations.
Just as Delenn was about to leave, Garibaldi had come to deliver his report to the captain. He had a good description of one of Marcus' assailants, as well as of the alien-hating Hunter, and was cautiously optimistic about their chances, as he put it, of "nailing the bastards soon". Nonetheless, Garibaldi had turned to Delenn and said, "Till we do, Ambassador, you want to watch your back. I can order a security escort for you." She had, of course, refused; but she'd been hard pressed to convince the security chief and Sheridan—especially Sheridan—that such precautions were unacceptable.
She would not live in fear. She would not seek special protection from the hazards that they all faced. When and if danger came, she would face it. Any lesser response would be a concession to the Darkness, a defeat worse, in its way, than death itself.
It was in this thoughtful frame of mind that Delenn arrived in Medlab. A Minbari medical tech immediately left his work and came to greet her. She gave him instructions quietly and handed him a small packet she had brought. Then, the uniform in her arms and determined cheer on her face, she went to pay her call.
Marcus was sitting up in a chair, one arm in a sling, his face somber. Deeply absorbed in his own thoughts, for a moment he was unaware that she had come in. When he did glance up and see her, his sudden glad smile only partly relieved the air of discouragement that shadowed him. "Delenn! What a pleasant surprise," he exclaimed, preparing to rise in greeting.
She motioned to him to stay seated and set the uniform aside on a shelf. "I brought this for when you are better. Dr. Franklin tells me that, except for your belt and boots, your clothing was bloodstained past saving."
"He told me that too. Good to hear that at least I won't have to break in new boots. Thank you."
"Were you in meditation just now?" she asked. "If you prefer, I can come back later."
"I wouldn't call it 'meditation'. More like sulking. I'd much prefer it if you could stay awhile."
She smiled, and asked, "Do you drink khajj'hadur tea?"
"Yes," he answered, surprised and pleased.
"I thought perhaps you might. I am having some made."
A second Minbari medical tech brought in a chair and a small table; Delenn sat down and made herself comfortable. She would never have asked a Minbari if he drank khajj'hadur tea, since her people were trained to it from childhood, but few Humans ever learned the art. The first mouthful of the brew, hot and almost intolerably bitter, must be held in the mouth until, reacting with salivary chemicals, it turned suddenly sweet. Once the reaction had occurred, the tea had a sweet, indescribably delicate flavor. The healing and soothing properties of khajj'hadur were the stuff of legend, but very few Humans, most of whom were Rangers, persisted past the inevitable first failures to learn to drink it. Delenn had been sure that Marcus was stubborn enough to be among those few.
The tech to whom Delenn had entrusted the tea now brought in a portable warmer unit, followed by a tray containing a pot of the tea itself and a pair of the wide, shallow bowls in which it was traditionally served. Delenn thanked and dismissed him with a gracious smile and poured out the steaming brew. She and Marcus then lifted the bowls simultaneously, touched them lightly together according to the ceremonial tradition, and took the first bitter sip at the same time. For a moment they sat, eyes closed, waiting for the bitterness to pass. When it did, each of them took the ritual second sip and relaxed. The brief ceremony concluded, they were free to converse.
"One day," Marcus said, "I'll learn to drink this stuff without actually shuddering to start with."
"You do very well," Delenn assured him, watching him intently. Comments about the difficulties of drinking khajj'hadur were common, almost a part of the ceremony. Yet, behind Marcus' quip and his pleasant smile she sensed that something was very wrong. "Are you in much pain?"
"No, not really." He sipped his tea, cautious now not of the flavor but of keeping his mustache dry. Few Minbari wore facial hair, and khajj'hadur tea bowls had not been designed to accommodate it.
"Forgive me if I pry, Marcus, but something is troubling you deeply."
"Oh. Well." He set down the half-empty bowl with a careless shrug and eased his left arm back into the sling. "Embarrassed, I suppose. Only six of them, odds clearly in my favor, here I am in Medlab. Not exactly my finest hour."
Delenn smiled, set down her own bowl, and replenished them both with tea. "You seldom lie to me, Marcus," she said quietly. "Perhaps that is why you do it so poorly."
His smile faded and for a moment he studied the surface of the tea in the bowl. Finally he looked up and met her eyes. "I do it so poorly because I respect you so much. The same reason I don't try it often. Forgive me."
"Perhaps it is a private matter," she said gently.
Marcus lifted his tea bowl and took a meditative sip. Delenn followed suit. As his friend, as his commanding officer, she wanted to help ease whatever burden was weighing down upon him. But she would not pry.
Swallowing his tea, Marcus set the bowl down and began without preliminary, "There's this little girl."
After that, Delenn had only to listen. In a quiet voice, pausing now and then to compose his thoughts or to drink a little more tea, Marcus told her the whole story: how he'd first met the child, his attempts to protect her and see that she was fed, summaries of every conversation they'd had. Now and then he switched from English to Minbari to make a point. Delenn listened without a word. Well into the narrative, she saw Dr. Franklin look in through the window by the bed. With a brief gesture she motioned him away, and to her relief he nodded understanding and withdrew without interrupting them. Intent on his story, Marcus didn't even notice.
Delenn asked no questions and made no comment. As Marcus talked, she watched his face, observed his posture and his occasional gestures, and listened not only to his words but to the tone of his voice. By the time he finished, she knew much more than his words had told her.
"Now she's run off again," Marcus concluded. "Took fright at God knows what and ran off, probably back Downbelow. I—" He gestured helplessly with his unencumbered right hand. "Not sure I could make it that far."
"For what purpose?"
"To find her, of course."
"And is it your responsibility to find her?"
Meditatively, he picked up his tea bowl again. It was cool to his touch and he set it down without tasting what was left. "I never meant it to be," he answered at last. "Never intended for this to happen." He leaned back in his chair with a tired sigh. "Delenn, we spend every waking moment fighting Shadows. Defending billions of unknown lives on worlds we may never see. There's nothing more important, I realize that; but—that day, Downbelow, I just wanted to throw back one little starfish."
"Starfish," she repeated, at a loss. "I know what a starfish is, but what does it mean to 'throw one back'?"
"Old Earth story," he explained, with a slight smile. "Sometimes a bad storm washes starfish ashore. They can live for awhile out of the sea, but they're not very mobile. They're stranded. When the sun comes out, they dry up and die."
"The story?" Delenn prompted.
"The story takes place on a beach. Early morning, after a storm. Hundreds, thousands of stranded starfish. A little boy goes walking along, picking up starfish and flinging them, one by one, back into the sea. Then some adult comes along and points out that the sun will be out soon. The boy can't possibly save more than a few dozen of those thousands of starfish. Why bother flinging them back? What difference does it make? The boy looks down at the starfish in his hand. He says, 'Makes a difference to this one!', and—" Marcus raised his right hand to hurl an imaginary starfish. "There it goes. Splash."
Delenn, smiling, said, "Such a wise story. Yes, that is you, a flinger of starfishes."
He shook his head, as though disclaiming the title. "That was all I meant to do. Just once, to help one person in a way I could see. I thought it was enough. It isn't. Rescue her one time, just to toss her back to the sharks in that ocean?"
"Marcus," said Delenn. "When did you first realize that, when you threw this particular starfish, your heart went with her?"
He stared at her, unable to reply. Delenn went on, "Do you remember our very first conversation? We were discussing a legend concerning the Rangers' brooch, and I asked if you believed it."
"I remember," softly.
"You said that you had stopped believing in miracles. Your words were, 'Part of the heart goes dead'."
"'Best to leave it that way'," he finished for her, in a whisper, his eyes never leaving her face. "Yes. I remember."
Delenn moved the tea things aside, leaned forward, and cupped Marcus' hands between her own. "But that part has not gone dead, has it? And now, that child holds your heart in her two hands, as I suspect you hold hers."
His response was barely audible. "I never meant to."
"No, you did not," she agreed. "You have loved much, lost much, suffered much. You have learned to count the cost before you give your heart, because when you do give it you can hold nothing back. But this child's need spoke to something in you. This time, your heart gave itself."
He could no longer meet her gaze, but dropped his eyes to look down at her hands clasped around his. She tightened her grasp reassuringly and said, "Marcus, you must understand. Your ability to love, your capacity for compassion, these things are of the Light! They are part of your strength. The risk of loss, the pain if it comes—these are part of the price we pay who serve the Light. I know you have the courage to pay this price." She released his hands and sat back, folding her own in her lap.
After a moment or two, he found the courage to look up and meet her eyes. "How is it, Delenn, that you always know the exact right thing to say?"
"I only wish that were true."
"I keep thinking of her, back there, alone—" Marcus glanced at the folded uniform on its shelf, then at the door to the room. "And wondering why she left here—that alone is driving me mad. And I'm sure she's in danger." Briefly, he explained the connection with the Hunter.
Delenn nodded thoughtfully. "Yes. There are, as you say, many sharks in those waters." Unexpectedly, she asked, "What does she look like, this little girl?"
"About so tall." Marcus held up a hand parallel to the floor to measure Abbie's height. The disquieting thought came to him that perhaps Delenn herself was contemplating a descent Downbelow to search. He went on, "Short blond hair, in curls, freckles on her cheeks, hazel eyes. Much too thin, dressed in something shabby and too big for her."
Again, Delenn nodded. Then she electrified him by saying, "Yes. That is the child I saw this morning."
"You've seen her? Where? When?"
Delenn laid a gentle hand on his arm; he looked as though he were going to fly right out of the chair. "Very early this morning, in the Garden. I had gone there to meditate."
"Did she say anything? Was she all right?"
Wishing that she could tell him otherwise, Delenn replied, "She seemed very unhappy. I asked her if I could be of help, and she said No, that she could take care of herself."
"That's Abbie, all right."
"She left a few minutes later. It seems to me that, since she did not return here to you, she must indeed have gone back Downbelow. She is at least accustomed to that environment."
For a second time, Marcus glanced at the fresh uniform and at the door. He was calculating his chances, she knew, gauging his strength against the requirements of the resolution he had already formed. Watching him, Delenn came to a decision of her own.
"Is anyone else searching for her?" she asked.
"Mr. Garibaldi said he'd do what he could," was the dismissive reply. "But he's got other concerns, and even if he does find her she won't trust him. Besides, he doesn't know where to look."
"Do you?"
He returned his full attention to her, hope suddenly dawning. "I have a good idea where to start."
"And if you were to find her, what then?"
"Bring her back here, of course."
"And then?"
"No idea," he admitted freely. "Cross that bridge when I come to it."
"Very well," she said. Then, deliberately, she switched from English to Minbari, which she was sure Dr. Franklin, should he choose this moment to walk in, would not understand. "First," she said, "you must rest. Sleep if you can." She held up a hand to forestall his incipient protest. "Lie down. Rest. Sleep. I will send Lennier to you. When he comes, you will make the attempt together. You are not safe alone Downbelow."
"I'll wait," he promised. "When can I expect him?"
"Do not concern yourself with that. He will wake you. It is most important now that you sleep. The better rested you are, the greater your chance of success."
He nodded agreement, though hope was soaring so high within him that he doubted he would close an eye. "Tell Lennier to bring something to write with. I suppose I'd better at least leave Stephen a note."
"I will tell him."
If she had been a Human woman, Marcus would have kissed her. Instead, he rose to his feet when she did, exchanged formal Minbari bows, and obediently returned to bed as soon as she had left the room. His wound was paining him considerably, but other than that he felt wonderfully eased. Instead of racing futilely, like mice on an exercise wheel, his thoughts now had a clear direction and purpose. Rest, recruit as much strength as he could, and embark on his quest. Delenn had called it an "attempt", but Marcus refused to admit even the possibility of failure.
He began plotting possible search patterns, then stopped himself. That wasn't what he needed; he needed to release his mind, let go of conscious thought, relax into sleep as he had been trained . . . .
The Minbari tech came in, a hypo in his hand, and said quietly in his own language, "The Ambassador told me that you were in pain. Dr. Franklin left orders for medication, should you need it. This will help."
"Thank you." Marcus accepted the shot. Obviously, Delenn was helping him in every way she could think of. He closed his eyes.
The pain, ebbing away. The mind, tranquil and at peace.
Dr. Franklin, ten minutes later, came to check on his patient and found Marcus deeply asleep. Bless Delenn, he thought. Whatever it was she said or did, it was just what he needed.
The Hunter's face was immobile, completely expressionless, as he listened to his informant's report. The informant was not a member of the failed execution squad. That squad—except for the unfortunate Remmick, hampered by his injured and grotesquely swollen leg—was taking care to stay out of sight. The present informant was merely verifying their failure.
"He did survive."
"That's been confirmed?" the Hunter asked.
"Yes, sir. There's a merchant in the plaza, a potter. Yesterday afternoon after the attempt, he knocked over her display. Today he sent money to cover the damage. She was talking about it quite freely."
"Sent. Not brought."
"Sent," the informant confirmed. "By the chief of security, no less."
The Hunter tapped a finger thoughtfully on his desk. Not only had the target survived, he had also remembered what happened and had talked to Garibaldi. The Hunter's eyes narrowed.
Watching him, the informant thanked her stars that she hadn't been on the squad. "Are there orders, sir?"
It would be easy enough to find the target now. He'd sent money to the potter rather than bringing it himself, so it was a reasonably safe bet that he was confined to one of the Medlabs. The job might still be completed without too many questions being asked—but damn Remmick, damn the whole lot of them! Six of them—six!—and not a one could slip a quiet blade between one man's ribs.
He said, "Find out the target's location, and the chances of his having a fatal relapse."
"Yes, sir." The informant remained at attention, waiting for further orders or a definite dismissal.
The Hunter's thoughts turned to the Becker girl.
Easier prey than ever, now, with her guardian angel off duty, but the caution that had restrained him before still held. She might be missed; it depended on how much Garibaldi knew. But there were other ways to ensure her silence. I'll talk to her. I'll tell her what happened to her friend. She'd better stay away from him and keep her mouth shut, or he'll get hurt again, and worse . . . .
Anticipating the conversation, the Hunter smiled. Watching this smile, his informant fidgeted. The Hunter, who missed very little, observed her uneasy movement with satisfaction.
"No further orders," he said. "Get me the information I need, and then leave me alone. I have a lot of work. See to it I'm not disturbed."
"Yes, sir." She hesitated. "What about Remmick, sir?"
"What about him?"
"His leg, sir. It's getting bad."
The Hunter's voice was soft. "Did Remmick obey my orders?"
A pause. "No, sir."
"But you plan to obey my orders."
"Yes, sir."
"If I want you to do anything about Remmick, what do you think I'll do?"
"Ask—I mean, tell me, sir." The informant swallowed and looked straight ahead at the wall.
"You understand. That's good. Now, about Remmick."
"Sir?"
"Remind him that I don't reward failure."
