Chapter 10
When Dr. Franklin found the note resting on the discarded sling—Don't worry, Lennier's with me, be back as soon as we've found Abbie, M.—his initial impulse was to link through to Garibaldi and call out a security detail. Instead, after re-reading the note, he had his communication patched through to Delenn.
The Minbari Ambassador was all sweet reason. Of course she knew what Lennier was doing; in fact, he was acting on her instructions. Marcus was clearly determined to go Downbelow and search for the child; and in Lennier's company, she was sure he would be safe. Franklin's angry protest—that, with or without Lennier, Marcus wasn't fit to be out and about—drew Delenn's most charming and implacable smile. "The decision had already been made, Doctor," she said.
"That was not your decision to make!"
"No, it was not. It was his."
Under the velvet of her diplomacy, she was unyielding steel. Franklin, forced to acknowledge defeat, slammed a fist against the comm unit and broke the connection. No point in calling Security. Even at less than his best, and especially with Lennier's help, Marcus could probably evade any detail Garibaldi might send.
Fifteen minutes later, Franklin couldn't spare a thought for his missing patient.
An emergency team was urgently summoned to Ambassador Mollari's quarters. Seconds later, an alarm came in of an explosion on the docking bay, with multiple, severe casualties. A third call pleaded for a trauma team to rush to the Zocalo and deal with an unspecified emergency in one of the restaurants. Yet another summons came from the Gneissh trade center in Gray sector, a call which Franklin himself suited up to answer, leaving Dr. Hobbes to control the increasing chaos in Medlab as the comm unit signaled yet again.
There was no emergency in the Gray sector. All Franklin and his team found there was a disrupted trade center, a confused security team, which had rushed there in response to an emergency call, and a thoroughly angry Trade Minister.
No emergency existed in any restaurant on the Zocalo.
Workers, pilots, and passengers alike in the docking bay denied reporting any explosion. Indeed, operations had been going quite smoothly until the place was invaded by the triage team, the trauma team, and the two security contingents that had been called there. A half-dozen ships' captains lodged complaints with Ivanova about the disruption.
Londo Mollari was disturbed in the enjoyment of a lavish meal and an exotic new wine by the unwarranted intrusion of a trauma team and Garibaldi. He bypassed Ivanova, complaining directly, and at length, to Sheridan.
As it was reckoned up later, a total of ten emergency calls had come in to Security in as many minutes, each reporting a situation that demanded an immediate response and afforded no time to ask questions. During the same time period, fourteen emergencies had been reported to Medlab. The message logs, and the messages themselves, evaporated from both the computer system and the backups just as Ivanova's tech crew was beginning its analysis. Twenty-three of the twenty-four emergencies were false alarms.
Fifteen minutes after the first call, the barrage of false alarms stopped as abruptly as it had begun. Tornado-like, it left a trail of wreckage in its wake. Sheridan and Ivanova began working their way through an avalanche of complaints and the shambles that had been made of the docking schedule. Garibaldi headed Downbelow to confer with Brothers Bernard and Aquinas. Dr. Franklin ordered an autopsy on the body of the sole genuine emergency: a facilities worker, felled by a sudden, massive coronary. The overtaxed emergency team had arrived just in time for him to breathe his last under the triage tech's hands.
Normalcy had been largely restored to Medlab by the time the prodigals returned, a little more than two hours after Marcus and Lennier had slipped out. Franklin, in the midst of reviewing the preliminary autopsy results, was still keeping a sharp eye on the door and was quick to meet them: Lennier, serene as usual and carrying two cloaks over one arm; Marcus, pallid, obviously in pain, and looking ready to drop; and Abbie, lugging a bulky bundle, her thin face tense and apprehensive, by no means sure of her welcome.
The sharp reproof that had risen to Franklin's lips died away at the sight of her, even before Marcus said, "Take it easy on me, Stephen. We've already scared her off once today." Lennier steered Marcus to the nearest chair.
"I'm just glad you made it back," the doctor replied. He took a quick evaluative look at his patient before turning to Abbie, saying gently, "Are you all right, honey?"
She nodded stiffly, still in the grip of anxiety. "Shouldn't you be looking after Marcus?"
"Sure, right away. Let's just find Dr. Hobbes—"
"If the young lady will permit," said Lennier, "I will be honored to escort her to find Dr. Hobbes."
Abbie offered him a tiny smile. "Okay. Thank you, Mr. Lennier."
"Yes, thanks, Lennier," echoed Marcus from his chair. "And thank Delenn for me, will you?"
"Certainly," Lennier responded, with the formal little Minbari bow. "Miss?" He led Abbie away, the child casting a worried look back at Marcus as she followed.
Franklin turned to his patient. "Can you make it back to your room?"
"Of course," Marcus asserted, but he accepted Franklin's supporting arm readily enough.
Examining the wound, Franklin decided that though Marcus had done himself a little harm, on the whole it could have been much worse. The wound had reopened and begun to bleed, soaking the bandage, but the flow was already slowing. Deciding he could deal with the situation under local anesthesia, Franklin rang for a surgical nurse and a suture kit. Marcus lay silent while they worked, visibly relaxing once the local took hold and masked the pain. Finally, he ventured, "I appreciate your not calling out the guard dogs."
"That's right. You don't know what's happened," replied Franklin, in no mood for jokes. As he finished his task and began re-dressing the injury, he told about the false alarms.
"Our saboteur again?"
"Looks like."
"Any harm done?"
"A man's dead because my people couldn't get to him in time."
"Twice a murderer, then."
The dressing was completed. Franklin handed the used instruments and discarded surgical materials to the nurse, who stacked everything neatly on a tray and left the room. With the doctor's help, Marcus shifted onto his back. "Nightwatch," he said.
"Nightwatch! What about them?"
"On our way back, Abbie saw Zack Allan. She called him 'that Nightwatch man'. Says she sees Nightwatch people Downbelow 'all the time'."
"That makes sense," Franklin said slowly, revolving the possibilities in his mind. "That makes all kinds of sense. They already tried to take the station back once, by targeting Delenn. Why not target the station itself? And there's no guarantee we got rid of them all."
"I think I need a word with Mr. Garibaldi," Marcus began, trying to turn onto his right side and get up. Franklin let him struggle for a few seconds, then gently pushed him back down.
"What you need," he said, "is rest. You've done more than enough knight-errantry for one day. You got off lucky, this time, but your body still has to pay for this little expedition. Now if you want that wound to heal properly, you'll start behaving yourself. I'll tell Garibaldi about this Nightwatch lead."
Marcus listened meekly, and waited a moment before he replied. "That's it? That's the whole lecture?"
"I guess after the lecture I read you this morning, I'm not in a position to give another."
"You do understand, then? I had to go after her. It was something I said that sent her off."
The doctor's brow furrowed. "You said that we'd scared her off."
"We, but mostly me. She heard us this morning. She heard me ask what you proposed to do with her. Took it to mean I didn't want to be bothered with her any more." Marcus fidgeted a little, as though in pain, though Franklin knew the local couldn't have begun to wear off yet.
Quietly, Franklin said, "I think you've more than made up for it. She's safe, you're safe—I guess that's all that counts. I'll go talk to Garibaldi. You get some rest." He turned to leave, then paused at the threshold. "Oh. One more thing."
"What's that?"
"Try pulling another stunt like this, and I'll sedate you into the middle of next week. Got that?"
"Got it," Marcus acknowledged, and Franklin left.
Marcus closed his eyes. The combined influences of urgency, adrenaline, and Minbari homebrew, which had sustained him for the past half-hour or so, were gone now. An overwhelming fatigue was insinuating itself into the very marrow of his bones. It was no trouble at all to obey Stephen's order to rest; indeed, Marcus doubted he'd have been able to move if the place were to catch fire.
Worth it, he thought, worth whatever price I have to pay, just to know she's safe. Whoever or Whatever was in charge of the universe had come through splendidly. Marcus offered a wordless thanksgiving, as heartfelt as any Lennier had prayed in his whole consecrated life.
After awhile a nurse came in, propped him up on pillows, and brought a dinner tray. By a herculean effort, he ate about half a bowl of soup without help, thereby avoiding the indignity of being spoon-fed and the greater indignity of returning to intravenous nourishment. The food helped a little; he felt more alert when he'd finished. The nurse removed the extra pillows and left, repeating the standard Medlab mantra, "Get some rest, now."
I hope Stephen comes soon to tell me what Garibaldi said.
When Franklin did return, he took his time, busying himself again with scanners and monitors. "Not bad. A little temperature, but that'll pass. Your blood pressure's back up. I think we can get by without another transfusion."
"Fine. Thank you," Marcus replied impatiently. "What did Mr. Garibaldi say?"
"He'd like Abbie to look over some pictures of known Nightwatch members, see if she can identify any of them. Think she can handle that?"
Marcus, trying to consider the question, found it difficult to concentrate. "Maybe," he said finally. "I think—she'd need one of us with her. Moral support."
"That would be you. She doesn't trust me the way she does you. Let's not worry about it until tomorrow. Need something to help you sleep?"
The question evoked a weak chuckle. "Good one Stephen, that's very good . . . . I'd like to tell Abbie good night. So she won't worry."
"I'll send her in."
Abbie padded quietly into the room a few minutes later. She'd had another bath, and her damp curls fluffed out from her head. The blue Medlab gown she wore came down almost to her wrists and fell well below her knees. Dr. Franklin had told her to stay just a few minutes and not to let Marcus talk much.
She was shocked at how pale and drained he still looked. During the last quarter-hour or so of their trip from Downbelow, he'd assured her that he'd be fine once they reached Medlab. She'd understood that to mean that, once he had a chance to lie down and rest, he'd start getting better right away, but obviously he hadn't. She swallowed hard and put on a brave smile as she came to his bedside.
"Had dinner, love?" His voice was weak, which frightened her.
"Dinner and a bath and everything," she assured him.
"Good." He paused, blinking slowly, struggling to stay awake.
She wanted to tell him so much—how sorry she was for running away and causing him all this trouble. She longed to ask him what would happen to her now, where and how she would live. But she couldn't demand one single thing more from him tonight. Instead, she said, "Maybe we can have breakfast together tomorrow?"
"Sounds lovely."
"And, and I can show you my books."
"Mm. I'd like that."
His eyes were closing now. Abbie reached out to gently tuck the covers closer around his shoulders and to smooth a place where the pillow was crumpled. "Is that better?"
"Perfect," he whispered, turning his head a little and burrowing down into the pillow. "G'night, love."
Greatly daring, she said, "Computer. Lights down one-half." She listened in the dimness to his deep, regular breathing and glanced around furtively. Then she leaned forward. "Goodnight, love," she whispered, and kissed him gently on the upturned cheek. He never stirred.
Abbie tiptoed out, reported to the waiting Dr. Franklin, "He's asleep," and went back to her own bed. For the second night in a row, she was warm, well-fed, safe, clean, and comfortable. After awhile, she fell asleep and dreamed of her father lying dead in his blood.
Reports of the chaos were gratifying, especially the description of the havoc in the docking bay. Nonetheless, the Hunter was unsatisfied; one of his main goals had not been met. The target's location in Medlab had been confirmed by a check of the computer record. But the operative assigned to deal with him, who'd walked freely into Medlab while the medical and security teams were being kept busy elsewhere, hadn't found him. Neither had anyone else. One improbable report, of his having been briefly glimpsed Downbelow at the Abandon All Hope, was disdainfully rejected.
Hiding? Back in his quarters? Or, with any luck, already dead? Coldly determined, the Hunter resumed his work.
Brothers Bernard and Aquinas, sternly tearing themselves from the myriad of fascinating new data generated by the two dozen false alarms, joined their brothers at Compline. During the Office the whole community interceded for the repose of the soul of Amos Tuttle, maintenance worker, and prayed also for the wife and two daughters he'd left behind on Earth. Brother Theo had received three separate requests for these prayers: one each from Franklin and Garibaldi; the third—Theo warmed with satisfaction—from Captain Sheridan himself.
After Compline, the two monks returned to their printouts with renewed dedication.
Garibaldi called it "just a routine photo I.D.", but there was nothing routine about it as far as Ivanova was concerned. She was highly skeptical of the whole proceeding, the more so because of the strictures Franklin laid down. They couldn't even set the thing up at a definite time or place, because the kid couldn't face it unless Marcus was with her, and Franklin couldn't tell them till morning when Marcus would be up to it, or whether he'd be able to come to the captain's office or the command staff would have to go to Medlab. And then the doctor added, and repeated, other cautions: don't frighten the kid, don't ask her too many questions, above all don't touch her. Over a couple of glasses at Earhart's, Ivanova expressed her misgivings to Garibaldi. "I just don't see how some little kid from Downbelow can tell us anything useful. Especially this kid. She sounds so—so fragile."
He set down his club soda and asked pointedly, "Got any other leads?"
Her silent stare into her glass was the only answer.
"Face it," said Garibaldi, "we're up a creek here. It's worth a shot."
Ivanova remained silent, glumly consuming her vodka. The fact that they were this desperate disturbed her most of all.
Garibaldi had a few doubts of his own. The kid might help or she might not; he was willing to take a chance on that. But the captain had insisted that Zack Allan be present, since the child had definitely identified him as a Nightwatch member. After all, Garibaldi himself had said that the saboteur could be anybody. But he'd come to trust Zack, after a long period of doubt and testing, and he didn't much appreciate feeling that his judgment was in doubt. Still—"Chain of command," he'd reminded himself, and ordered Zack to attend. Zack was baffled by the order and a little resentful at the explanation. "Chief," he'd said, "how long do I have to go on proving myself?" Garibaldi had no answer for him.
There was one little whiff of hope. Brother Aquinas had alerted Garibaldi that he and Bernard might have come up with an antiviral program that might be of help. Personally, Garibaldi hoped it would be a lot quicker. He hoped that the kid could point to a face and name a name.
Captain Sheridan, after ninety minutes of trying to soothe Questal and two Gneissh Sub-Ministers, was just glad to be dealing once again with people who used more than one verb tense.