Kansas 2 – The Yellow Brick Road
by Soledad
Disclaimer: Babylon 5 belongs to JMS. I don't own anything but the story idea.
Author's note: Some of the Sickbay dialogue is borrowed from the 1st Season Voyager episode "The Phage". The Reg Gel treatment is book canon, mentioned in the Classic!Trek novel "The First Adventure".
Warning forl language: Ivanova is in a foul mood. Story is not beta read, so all mistakes are exclusively ming. *g*
PART 10
Sickbay was a blur of activity when Tom Paris arrived with Chakotay's haphazardly cobbled-together body, straight into the operation room; and yet everything highly economical and uder control. After the chaos of Babylon 5's MedLabs, it was a relief.
Fortunately, they didn't have to bodily haul the severely injured executive officer onto the table. The transporter was adjusted finely enough to deliver him on the spot. Tom was secretly grateful for small mercies; he knew from first-hand experience how heawy the commander was. All muscle, not an ounce of excess fat, but heavy nonetheless.
"Get the blood gas infuser!" the EMH snapped, taking in the readings of the diagnostic computer magnitudes faster than any flesh and blood person could have.
Tom shot him a confused look. He never assisted the Doctor by an operation before and had no idea where to look for the more specialized surgical equipment.
"Equipment storage unit two, second shelf on the left," Kes supplied quietly.
Tom nodded his thanks and hurried to fetch it.
"We must implant the cloned lungs before he goes into a coma," the EMS muttered. "The infuser will only keep his oxygen levels stable for the next hour or so, so we'll have to hurry. It is a good thing the shot missed his heart, but this won't be pretty."
"What about the other damaged organs?" Janeway asked from the Doctor's office, where she was watching the procedure through the large plexiglass window. "I'm told his liver and spleen have been damaged, too. And one of his kidneys."
"And a generous portion of his intestines, yes, but those can wait," the EMH replied. "First we replace the destroyed lungs; then we go over to the other organs, one after another. We'll be here for a while; no need for you to stay, Captain. I'll inform you when we're done."
Which meant in translation: I've got a patient in a critical condition, on whom I must concentrate now. Please go away and let me do my job. After a moment Janeway accepted the not-so-subtle message and left, under the apologetic glance of Tom Paris.
"Good," the EMH said. "Now we can remove his lungs and attach the cloned replacements. Mr Paris, did they teach you how to run a respiratory series in your bio-chemistry class at the Academy?"
Tom shook his head ruefully. "No, I'm afraid they didn't.
The EMH rolled his eyes in very convincing irritation... considering that he was a hologram, that is.
"Fine, I'll do it myself. Get me a pulmonary scanner!"
Kes hurried to deliver the required instrument. The EMH run a hurried but thorough scan, and then nodded.
"All right; we can begin. Mr. Paris, I want you to keep an eye on his toxicity levels and warn me the moment they start rising. Kes, you'll assist me."
For the next hour and a half, the Doctor was working with a singular concentration only artificial life forms – those not hampered by the natural limitations of an organic body – are capable of. To her credit, Kes showed no sign of tiring, either. In fact, she seemed almost relieved to be able to burn off some of the excess energy her exponentially growing powers were releasing into her body. Tom's eyes glazed over by merely watching them.
Admittedly watching the readouts on the diagnostic computer screen wasn't a particularly inspiring task, either.
Until the alarm sign popped up on the screen, that is.
"Doc, I thing his cellular toxicity level is rising," he warned.
The EMH glanced at the screen over Chakotay's still open chest cavity.
"It's up to thirty-two per cent," he said with a frown. "Let see if we can stabilize those levels. Get me a cytoplazmic stimulator."
Tom checked the equipment unit and frowned. "Er... we don't seem to have one."
"Then replicate one, The design schematics are in the ship's medical database," the EMH returned to the complicated task of attaching the individual blood vessels to the cloned lungs, muttering angrily under his nonexistent breath. "The man drives a seven hundred ton starship, so somebody thinks he'd make a good medic. Hurry up with that cytoplasmic stimulator, Mr Paris! We need to oxygenate the commander's blood supply – what's left of it – and relay the neuro-electrical impulses."
"Will he need further blood transfusions?" Kes asked, while Tom replicated the requested tool and handed it to the EMH.
The hologram nodded. "I've already started the production of synthetic blood for him; that and the Reg Gel will eath up all his replicator rations, I'm afraid, as we don't have unlimited capacity in Sickbay. But it still beats being dead. I just hope our combined sources will be enough. Producing Reg Gel is not an easy process, and it costs lots of energy."
"We can use my replicator rations as well, Doctor," Kes offered. "I don't really need them. And I'm sure the ex-Maquis will lay together whatever they can spare."
"You can use mine, too," Tom added. "What is a replicated pizza compared with the chance to keep our fearless executive officer with us? Besides, we can have real food on the station to escape Neelix's cooking. All sorts of it. Who needs the replicated stuff?"
"How selfless of you, Mr Paris," the EMH commented dryly. "I'm sure the commander will be touched. Well, that was Problem Number One dealt with; the new lungs are firmly attached in all the required places. Let's take a look at his liver now; and at his digestive tract. Plenty of work to do here still."
Commander Susan Ivanova, fearless – and much feared – second-in-command of Babylon 5, was positively fuming. Garibaldi had actually had the cheek of assigning two bodyguards to her. To her! As if she were some delicate flower, or a damsel in distress, that would need the protection of big, strong men! Pah!
All right, one of the security guards was actually a woman – a deceivingly petite Asian woman at that, whom she happened to like well enough – but that wasn't the point.
The point was that Garibaldi apparently thoguht that she needed protection. Just because that slime Malcolm was still at large!
Granted, Malcolm was slime. One had to be slime – and worse – to become such a high-ranking Homeguard member as he had been. Coing to Babylon 5, with the sole agenda of organizing ranom violence against aliens, ultimately planning to assassinate the ambassadors of the four major alien powers, while his comrades on Earth would struck at the respective embassies.
He'd almost succeeded with Londo; and whatever she might think about Londo personally, she didn't want him dead. Neither did she want to face the reaction of the Centauri government. Whatever they might think of Londo, they wouldn't have taken kindly if their ambassador had been assassinated – and that on the thirtieth anniversary of his Day of Ascencion, of all times!
How delusional with hatred towards aliens had one to be to believe that she – and Commander Sinclair, of all people! – would become part of such a conspiracy? Yet Malcolm had believed it… revealing therefore not only his co-conspirators and the new stealth suits but also the entire plan. He'd been arrested and deported back to Earth two years ago, but it apparently had been too optimistic to hole she'd never see him again.
Actually, they should have counted on him resurfacing after Clark had risen to power. Homeguard might have been absorbed by Nightwatch last year, but that didn't mean their ultimate end – on the contrary. All they had lost was their unflattering public image; the dirt itself they produced was still living on – had even become the strong right arm of Mini-Pax.
What did that say about Earth in general and about the new government in particular?
"Strong right arm indeed," she muttered inder her breath angrily as she turned into the section of Blue Sector where the quarters of the command staff were situated, her faithful shadows hot on her heels. "Ministry of Peace, my ass! Fucking hypocritical warmongers, the lot of them!"
"Commander?" Officer Shinisho, the petite Asian security guard, asked in confusion, making Ivanova realize that she'd been swearing in Russian.
Which was perhaps the best for them all.
"Never mind," she said. "Just bowing off steam."
Fumi Shimisho nodded in understanding. She knew – they ll knew of the stress the command staff had o deal with on the daily basis, and like the others, she was glad not having the same responsibility.
"We'll remain in front of the door, just in case," she said, taking up positions with her colleague.
"Unnecessary, but thanks anyway," Ivanova keyed in her code – the two security guards discretely stared in the opposite direction – and entered her quarters.
It was dark inside, which she welcomed. After a long duty shift she was always a little headach-y from the exposure to the harsh lights of C&C. For that reason she always kept her private quarters dimly lit. It was relaxing. And it fit her mood after work.
That, and the first glass of vodka.
"Computer, lights, at twenty-five per cent," she said, taking off her uniform jacked and hanging it on the outside of the wardrobe.
That was one of the advantages of the military. One did not have to ponder what one should wear on the next day. Dress regulations took care of the problem nicely; and she was hardly ever off-duty in these days.
Right now she was off-duty, though, and that left her with exactly two choices how to relax. She could have a long-overdue shower, then a glass of vodka and crawl into the bed with a book she wouldn't actually read because she'd fal asleep after the first couple of paragraphs.
Or she could get stoned right away and spend the night alone, in drunken stupor; it wasn't as if Garibaldi's minions would let her even close to the Zocalo tonight.
She opted for the first solution (she was really looking forward to that shower all afternoon, and besides, duty shift was hell after a night of lonely drinking) and was heading to the bathroom when something stirred in the farthest corner of the room and a familiar voice said softly,
"Hello Susan! Missed me?"
Lillian Hobbs was dead on her feet when she finally decided to return to her quarters. After having treated the wounded from the fight in Red Sector – from both sides – and did what she could for Lyta Alexander, she got at last relieve by Dr Groyokin and could hurry over to Voyager to see how Chakotay was doing.
Of course, watching the odd holographic doctor operate on her lover with the help of that small-boned, sprite-like little alien girl and some highly sophisticated equipment they simply called the Arch hadn't served to ease her frustraton.
She knew it would have been unprofessional to allow her to assist – more so as she had no idea what Voyager's medical equipment could do and how to use it. Still, she wished she could have actually done something, instead of just watching the helplessly a surgical process so far beyond her own experience she sometimes didn't even understand what the Doctor was doing.
After three endless, agonizing hours, the process was finally finished. The Doctor declared himself satisfied with the preliminary results, stating that the Reg Gel would do the rest. Apparently, they had he egeneraton tank already prepared, and now they lowered Chakotay into it, up to his chin, and the semi-translucent green… stuff ensconed him immediately.
It wasn't a pretty sight. In fact, it seemed every bit as if the rigor mortis had already set on.
"Don't be concerned, Doc," Voyager's blond pilot, who also dubbed as their field medic, since the Holodoc, as they had nicknamed him… it… couldn't leave Sickbay – unless transported to the holodeck, but how that was possible really escaped Lillian's understanding.
"How could I not?" she replied anxiously. "He looks… well, he looks dead, honestly."
"He isn't dead, though," the pilot, what was his name again, something with Paris, promised. "That's just the regeneration stiffness. The geel immobilizes him, so that his wounds can heal and his bones can knit without being unintentionally jostled."
"But he still hasn't regained consciousness!"
"No; and he won't, either, not for several days to come. The Doc keeps him in an artificial coma. The accelerated healing process puts a great eal of stress on his system plus, if he were awake, the boredom wold drive him mad. Trust me; this is the best, for all parties involved. Especially for him."
"I know," Lillian said glumly. "It's just… I just wish I could do something. Aside from just standing here and staring at him through the glass."
"You can talk to him," Paris suggested. "He might not understand you, but it's a known fact that patients react to the voices of their love ones – at least mentally – during regeneration. It helps them to find their way back when it's time to awake."
Lillian nodded in relief. "All right, I can do that."
"But not today," the Holodoc popped up from somewhere to check on Chakotay's vitals. "You're exhausted, both physically and emotionally, your blood sugar levels are dangerously low," he briefly waved that little hand-held instrument they called a tricorder in her direction. "You need to rest. Go home, eat something and sleep. Commander Chakotay will still be here, lying in the Reg-Gel, tomorrow. And for days afterwards."
"No need to talk down to me as if I were a child," Lillian snapped, her tempers flaring. "I'm a doctor myself, I know the drill."
"And we both know that doctors are the worst patients," the hologram replied. "Stop arguing. I'll see hat you receive permission to visit the Commander regularly, but I want you out of my Sickbay for now. Go!"
"Don't take it personally, Doc," Tom Paris said, when the irritated – and irritating – chief medical officer of Voyager stormed off to look after his other patients. "He's got the knowledge of the two hundred best physicians of the Federation programmed into his matrix, but his bedside manner is still shithe."
"I wish we could borrow him for a while; that would take care of all the self-important dignitaries invading the MedLabs in no time," Lillian looked down at Chakotay; then back at Paris. "Watch over him for me while I'm not here, will you?"
The pilot shrugged. "Sure. There's not a lot of flying I can do while Voyager is stranded here, so at least I can do something useful in the meantime."
Lillian thanked him, and then she returned home indeed. It as a good thing that all station personnel lived in Blue Sector; that way she didn't have to go far. She wasn't sure she could have managed to get, say, to Red Sector on her own.
Crossing the MedLabs on her way home, she exchanged a few words with Dr Harrison, who was relatively young, gifted and highly dedicated to her work. Reassured that things were running smoothly, she allower herself to relax – for the first time since Chakotay had been shot.
A shower and then bed, she decided, keyeing in her code; she didn't feel like eating, even though she knew she ought to. Starting an early shift, as she would do in the morning, wasn't a good thing to do on an empty stomach. But with Chakotay's dissected body before her mind's eye she seriously doubted she'd be able to eat.
She wondered when did she become so fond of him that she could no longer keep the professional distance; not even when it was needed. She'd had lovers before. Some of them she'd actually liked very much. And it wasn't so that they'd have a real chance; sooner or later he'd have find a way to return to his own universe, and that would be the end of – of whatever this thing was between them.
And yet she couldn't deny that he mean more to her than all the others before. She shook her head. It was time to rest. With Dr Franklin still on his quest to find himself, they were seriously understaffed at Medab. She would need her full strength tomorrow.
The first thing she noticed upon entering her darkened quarters was the scent: fragrant, sweet and spicy at the same time, something she'd never encountered before. Then there was sound: like crystal chimes, heard from a great distance.
"Computer," she said, almost afraid to break the magic. "Lights at fifty per cent."
Her living area became half-illuminated and, serching for the source of scent and sound, her glance fell upon half a dozen flowers placed in a vase in the middle of the offee table.
They were long-stemmed and fragile, as if made of spun glass, yet very much alive. As she went closer, spellbound by their otherworldly beauty, they reacted o the moving of the air with soft chiming, and their scent grew stronger. They were the most perfectly beautiful things she'd seen in her entire life.
Leaned against the vase was a hand-written card. She picked it up, her eyes widening a she read.
Hey Doc,
Chakotay ordered these Centauri star-laces for your dinner date. As they're rare and short-living, I thought it would be a waste to be sent to the restaurant, so I've redirected the delivery to your quarters. I hope you don't mind.
Garibaldi
Lillian had heard of Centauri star-laces before, of course – who hadn't? – but she'd never actually seen one… until now. She also knew that they were extravagantly pricely, not just rare. No-one ordered them simply to adorn a dinner table – unless the dinner (or the dinner partner) was of great importance.
And yet Chakotay had ordered them for their planned dinner. The meaning of that almost frightened her. But she decided to ignore that aspect for now. This was her chance to experience a rare moment of perfect beauty, and she wa not about to waste it. She would take a shower, put on her sleeping suit and dressing gown and sleep on the couch of the living area, bating in the scent an the music of the star-laces.
And tomorrow she'd seek out Garibaldi to thank him.
Ivanova turned around just in time to see Malcom Biggs step out of the shadows. She pulled a face.
"I should have known you'd find a way in, sooner or later," she said scathingly. "You've always been a sneaky bastard with more money at your disposal than it would be healthy. So, what was it this time? A changeling net? One of those black light camouflage suits again? Or have you simply bribed the guards?"
"You don't seem to set much faith in the loyalty of your people," Biggs replied mockingly. "I thought now that you've got rid of Nightwatch, the rest of them would be seen as trustworthy."
Ivanova srugged. "Trust is good; control is better. I trust everyone exactly as far as I can control them. Which is why I don't trust you at all."
"I'm hurt!" Biggs declared, with a parodic exaggeration of supposedly hurt feelings. "The thought that we love each other once…"
"We didn't," Ivanova interrupted. "We had sex – damn good sex, admittedly, but just sex. You were never half as important to me as my career, which is why I left you," she noticed with dark satisfaction the twitching muscle in his face. "Even though I had no idea that you'd turn into such a murderous, xenophobic bigot."
"Times change and we change with them," Biggs answered sweetly. "I hadn't expected you to go for girls, either. Tell me," he added with a leacherous grin, "was your little blonde Teep good in bed? Could she make you moan and scream as I could? Oh, wait! How could she? She didn't hve the right equipment for that. Or did the two of you use toys, for the lack of the true item?"
He must have done a lot of combat training in recent years because he almost managed to move out of Ivanova's reach in time. Almost. The difference was clearly demonstrated by his broken nose… and some bruised knuckles on Ivanova's side. For a slender woman, she had a mean left hook, as many of her Earth Force comrades had learned the hard way. Just as Biggs got the chance to learn now.
"That," he hissed, trying to stop the bleeding of his nose with the help of a handkerchief," was a mistake. I was willing to put things right with you. To let you realize what you've missed all those years; what's turned you into such a cold bitch. I'd have taken you back."
Ivanova shook her head in disbelief. The nerve of the guy was simply unbelievable!
"You're delusional, do you know that?" she said. "I'm done with you; I've been done with you for ten years by now. And after the stund you pulled last time with your Homeguard buddes, I wouldn't even waste a PPG shot on you."
"Unfortunately for you, I'm a lot less choosy," holding the handkerchief to his still bleeding nose with one hand, Biggs pulled a PPG out of his belt with the other one. It wa a different model than the one used by station presonnel on duty, with considerably more firepower.
Ivanova shot him a perplexed look. "What is this, Victorian melodrama? 'Return to me or I'll burn a hole of the size of a football through your chest?' You're kidding, aren't you?"
"Oh, I've never been more serious in my life," Biggs hissed from behind his blood-soaked handkerchief. "It's you who doesn't seem to recognize the gravity of your situation."
"What gravity?" Ivanova actually laughed in his face. "Malcolm, you don't really believe that I'm afraid of you, do you?"
"You should," Biggs replied darkly. "I'm done playing, Susan. You will return to Earth with me; on your own or in a coffin. It's your choice."
"Oh, for God's sake!" Ivanova exploded.
She'd told him the truth; she wasn't afraid of him. She didn't like the impracical way he was holding that PPG, through. He hated non-professionals waving a deadly weapon around, period. That could lead to some nasty surprises – for all parties involved.
"Listen, Malcolm," she began, trying to sound reasonable, which wasn't an easy feat, considering how furious she ws. "Put that gun away before someboy gets hurt… unless you really want to kill me. Because I'm sure as hell not going back to Earth with you… or anywere else, for that matter. The sooner you accept that inevitable fact, the better for both of us."
But Biggs wasn't about to listen to reason. He was clearly too far gone for that,
"Wrong!" he hissed. "You're under arrest upon the charge of treason against EarthGov generally and President Clark personally. You will come back with me, and you will face your ourt-martial; and then we will discuss our future."
"You seem to forget that I'm no longer an Earth citizen," Ivanova replied calmly. "Babylon 5 is an independent state now. EarthGov hs no jurisdiction here, and the only one I answer to is Captain Sheridan. Not to Mini-Pax, not to Nightwatch, and most definitely not to you. My place is here, and nothing short of God appearing in a burning bush would make me leave Babylon 5."
"Then I will have to kill you," Biggs said with the terrible inner logic of insanity. "You'e been tainted by all these filthy aliens. By the tentacled decandents who try to mimic us, by the genocidal boneheads who nearl extinguished us, by the spotted reptiles whining for our help, now that they've been beaten…"
"You forgot the Vorlons," Ivanova commented, unimpressed. "Of course, it's hard to say anything dehonesting about a species you know nothing about. And, just for your information, I've even become Drazi leader for a while."
Biggs's face distorted with hatred.
"You!" he spat in utter disgust. "You've whored yourself to those… those monstrous creatures!"
"Actually… no, I haven't. Humans aren't even biologically compatible with most of them, and Minbari aren't into casual sex. But one can learn a great deal from them… especially from the Minbari."
Using Biggs's momentary distraction to her advantage, she leapt forward without warning, and performed the classical attack maneouvre of the Tha'domo discipline, the Minbari martial art of unarmed combat, that she'd learned from Lennier, of all people. Ramming her knee into Biggs's groin, she slapped the PPG out of his hand and well outside his reach, while she head-butted him brutally at the same time.
Lennier would have been scandalized, seeing Tha'domo used in such undisciplined manner, of course. Minbari stood on ceremony to an unhealthy extent. EarthForce officers, however – even ex-EarthForce officers – didn't. Above all else, they stood on efficience, and Ivanova was showing an impressive display of that.
Within seconds, she had Biggs disarmed and at her (currently rather questionable) mercy, and continued beating him up, giving in to her pent-up frustration all too willingly, until the securtiy detail in front of her quarters used the emergency override to open the door and came in running, thinking that she was being murdered.
"Commander, are you all rigt?" Officer Shinisho asked worriedly.
"Oh, yes," Ivanov held her bloody, bruised hand under the tap and let the cold water flow over it. "Haven't been better since this whole mess with Earth started. Now, take this sorry excuse for a human being to the brig. Perhaps he's understood now that if a woman says not it means no," she looked down at the broken and bleeeding figure at her feet with utter contempt. "You see, Malcolm, the move that helped me to kick your sorry ass to the next sector? I've learned that from a bonehead. From one of their priests, for that matter. Think about it."
The man known on Babylon 5 merely as Mr Morden was preparing himself to leave the station. His work her was done – for the time being – and he was eeded back on Z'Ha'Dum. The game was just about to be upped several levels.
Oh, he did have a given name, of course. Just as he'd one had a wife and a daughter, killed mindlessly just because some idiot terrorist group had found it a good idea to bomb the Io jumpgate. And without them to speak it with love, what need would he have for another name? Just Morden was enough.
He briefly touched the Afran love stone worn around his neck, with the symbol of the star god turned inwards s it was proper. Not for religious reasons; he no longer believed in any gods, least in one of an extinct people. But the idea of it sending the good wishes of Alicja and little Sarah into his heart appealed to him.
It was all that he had left of his family.
Anna always understood that, She'd been the one to have the stone mounted on a necklace, giving it to him as a gift, as a symbol of friendship, during the Icarus expedition. Shortly before they would reach Z'Ha'Dum.
Shortly before their lives would change forever.
For his part, he'd welcomed the change. It gave him purpose again: something to do. Something else than the organized grave robbery IPX was doing all over the known galaxy, salvaging alien technology for Earth.
The only thing he still regretted was what had happened to Anna. He'd have prevented it, if he could; whatever else she might have been, she was a friend. But his... associates hadn't trusted him quite as much as they did now – insofar they were capable of trust at all, that is – and in his efforts to save her, he'd forgotten about the most crucial argument: Anna's husband.
He'd never quite forgiven himself for that oversight.
But it was a moot point now. What was done was done, and he couldn't change it. Not anymore. He needed to focus on the task still before him. The game – the biggest game of the current millennium – had already started.
He left his temporary quarters in Brown Sector with mixed feelings... but mostly in satisfaction. There have been several minor setbacks during the last couple of days – the failed assassination attempts of both Delenn and Rastenn, his failure to get inside the strange human ship the likes of which he'd never seen before, the unexpectedly successful action against the Nightwatch leftovers... the list went on.
In any other case, he'd be worried by now. His associates didn't take failure kindly. But all this was virtually insignificant compared with the news of Voyager's secret weapon: that the fragile little pixie working in their version of the MedLabs had managed to hurl the new Vorlon ambassador against the bulkhead by the sheer power of her mind, without breaking a sweat.
That piece of information saved him from the prospective consequences of his minor failures. Somebody strong enough to defeat a Vorlon without actually trying was of utmost value. He'd been told that the little creature would be his next agenda. His associates couldn't get close to her; she was so sensitive sh'd feel them from two decks away.
But she seemed to be open to human charm; and charm Mr Morden had in spades. It was his weapon of choice.
First, however, he had to work on the Sheridan project. The break-away from Earth had been an unexpected move, but one they might use to their advantage yet. Clark might grow over-confident and forget who was truly pulling the strings here, so creating a strong opponent within the same camp could be useful. Therefore Morden needed to get Sheridan away from his Minbari allies – revealing Delenn's deception would take care of that – so that he'd need a new alliance against EarthGov.
And the very person with the best chance to persuade him was already on her way to Babylon 5.
For that plan to work, Mr Morden needed to return to Z'Ha'Dum. The failed attempt by Nightwatch to seize control of Babylon 5 had to be abandoned. Besides, once they had Sheridan in their camp, there would be no need or such unsubtle methods to secure control. His associates had their metaphorical fingers in many pies; and as their public face, Mr Morden got to play in the upper league now.
With a satisfied little smile, he approached Customs. He had about twenty minutes to board a Centauri shuttle that would bring him to the regular starliner – which, in turn, would drop him off on a waystation where a Drakh ship would be waiting for him. It was a bit of a circumspect route, but he had to be careful. There was no need to alert Sheridan and his allies to the existence of the Drakh – the strongest, most efficient servants of Z'Ha'Dum.
He was almost at Customs when he got the feeling that he was being watched. That was nothing new; he was always being watched, even in the most private moments of personal grooming. He'd grown used to it during the last five years. But the intense attention focused on his person felt different than the slick omnipresence of his associates. This was something else; something no less powerful and dangerous, though.
Slowly, avoiding to draw attention, he turned around. At first he saw no-one in the empty, almost dark corridor. Then something stirred, and as his eyes adapted to the poor visual conditions, he saw a tall, bald-headed, broad-shouldered man in a long black coat.
"What do you want?" he demanded.
The man came forward, but only a couple of steps. His face became visible now, and he appeared vaguely familiar, but where from, Morden couldn't quite put his finger on it at the moment.
"Isn't this what you always ask: what do you want?"the man asked in a clear, sharply accentuated tenor voice."Such a seemingly innocent question, and yet if one answers it honestly, they become trapped forever. So, if you don't mind, I'll keep my secret wishes to myself. They've all turned to ashes a long time ago anyway, and your masters cannot change that. Nobody as no-one can bring you back your wife and daughter."
"Who are you?" Morden asked in a dangerously low voice.
This man clearly knew who his was and whom he associated himself with. Such knowledge was dangerous at the current state of things and had to be erased.
Preferably together with the person possessing it.
"Have you forgotten me so soon?" the man asked back in a mocking tone. "That's sad – but it's the way the world is, I suppose."
He came another step closer, and now Morden spotted his staff and recognized it – and its bearer – for what they were.
"You're a techno-mage," he said.
It was stating the obvious, but the man nodded nonetheless.
"Indeed, I am. I was there when you visited my mentor, two years ago. Elric recognized you for what you are: a Shadow servant. We've been keeping an eye on you ever since."
The thought sent a cold shiver down Morden's spine. Techno-mages, for all the ridiculous little games they so loved to play, were a force to be reckoned with. The technology they used for their quaint little illusions had once come from the Shadows, too, and their extensive knowledge made them even more dangerous.
"You still couldn't stop me doing anything I want," he sneered.
The man shrugged his broad shoulders. "We never actually tried. The others chose to hide, and I... I had more important things to do."
"What things?"
"Things you'd never understand,2the mage said."If you did, you would ask me all the right questions; not just the one your masters make you ask again and again."
"What are the right questions then?" Morden began to enjoy himself.
He rarely had the chance to verbally spar with someone of such high intelligence. The other Shadow servants were usually dull; the Shadows liked them that way. Too much independent thinking always rung the alarm bells with them. Which was why he, too, was still being watched closely, wherever he went, even after five years of useful and highly efficient service.
"One of them is: Where are you going?"the mage replied."The other one is: Who do you serve and who do you trust? The answer to those questions – even if it is a lie – tells you everything you need to know about another person."
"So, have you come to ask me those questions then?"
"Oh, no. I already know the answer where you are concerned," the mage smiled darkly. "I've come to warn you. This station is not big enough for the two of us, and I don't intend to leave. So you'll have to go."
"Or what? Do you think you can threaten me?" Morden concentrated hard to call his associates – but nothing happened.
"I've taken the liberty to put your keepers to sleep," the mage said nonchalantly. "And yes, I can threaten you. You can't imagine the things I can do...not even in your worst nightmares. So I strongly suggest that you leave Babylon 5 and don't return; because next time there will be no warning."
Only now did Morden realize that he hadn't heard the soft chittering of his associates since he'd entered the corridor, and that made him nervous. As intrusive as their constant presence was, he'd grown so used to it that without them he felt exposed. Vulnerable.
He hated being vulnerable. The very reason wy he'd accepted their offer was to be in the position of strength. The knowledge that his fragile human existence would be protected.
"How... how did you do tha?" he asked; and regretted it immediately.
Showing weakness was always a mistake.
The mage shrugged. "When they created our first brethren, and those weren't even humans but a race called the Taratimude, who eventually became extinct, but not before rebelling against the Shadows and spreading the techno-mage order to other races, they revealed more of themselves than they'd probably intended. We know of their weaknesses like no-one else; not even their servants. That knowledge had been handed down from generation to generation ever since a Taratimude named Wieden had created our order, so that we'd be able to protect ourselves."
"So why didn't you tell the Vorlons?" Morden asked, because that would have been the logical thing to do.
The mage gave him a baleful look.
"We don't have a death wish. What, do you think, the Vorlons would have done to us when they discovered that our powers are based on Shadow technology? We are but a few; we couldn't withstand a concentrated Vorlon attack. So the elders decided that the needs of the others didn't concern us and we went into hiding. We don't take sides in this conflict, you see."
"Except you," Morden said, and the mage nodded.
"Except me, yes. So if I were you, I'd avoid this place in the future. Because I'll be watching you. Constantly. Good day, Mr Morden, and have a pleasant journey."
And with that, the mage was gone. Just like that. Vanished into thin air. Morden shook his head in displeasure before heading for Customs again. His associates would want to learn about this.
~TBC~