— Extract from Security Chief Michael Garibaldi's interview with Ambassador G'Kar —

Belief, Mister Garibaldi, is a very important thing. Even when we felt the first vibration of a docking procedure, we believed we could still escape. That we had lain in wait not because there was nothing else we could do, but to serve some useful purpose. To gain an advantage over our enemies. Of course we believed we could defeat them. What was the alternative? Ask the fanatics not to kill us and hope for the best?

We waited in the cargo bay as the grinding sound of the airlocks faded. Then we waited for the sound of footsteps. If we were escorted through the ship, there was still a possibility we could overpower our captors. I moved closer to the door, where I could more effectively bottleneck them. After a moment, Delenn and Mollari joined me. We bracketed the door and prepared for an unpleasant fight.

It never happened. "Why is no one coming?" Mollari asked after several tense moments. "They cannot have forgotten us."

Delenn asked, "Can you hear that?"

I strained at the door, but could hear nothing. "No," I said.

"Not there," she said. "A hissing sound."

It was Mollari who saw it first: the frost forming on the vents over the cargo bay door. Vents that were, unless human ships are very different than Narn ships, meant to slowly remove the atmosphere in the bay and allow for a smooth transition of delicate ship parts into space. Delenn was across the room before we could stop her, so we followed instead. As we did, I felt the slight movement of air and the chill growing, and then I too could hear the sound.

Do you know, it's funny. Given my experiences, I assumed I would die on my feet. Hopefully doing something worth doing, but definitely in combat. So you can understand my astonishment that the plan to kill us seemed to be nothing more than venting the atmosphere and allowing the temperature to equalize past a survivable limit.

"Great Maker," Mollari whispered. In spite of not sharing his heathen belief structure, I had to agree with the sentiment.

"It makes no sense," Delenn said. "Why would they take us so far when we could have been thrown out the airlocks on Babylon 5 to achieve the same effect?"

"Humans make no sense," I said. "You can't expect their fanatics to be any better."

Mollari cast about. Then he fumbled with his shirt and tried to put on the ring again. There was still no result. "Damn Kosh to hell," he said. "When is this thing going to be needed if not right before we are killed?"

Delenn had no answer this time. Who knows? Maybe it was enough to shake her faith in Kosh's party favors. "We can use these crates to block the vents," she said. "That should stop the air getting out."

"And when they realize what we've done and just space us, will it provide some small comfort that the crates go first?" I demanded, my needling more reflex than intent at that point.

"If you want to stand around waiting to die, G'Kar, enjoy yourself." Mollari struggled to move one of the smaller crates.

Against my better judgment I was reminded of my belief that I would die doing something. I'm not sure trying to wrestle crates up to cover a few vents is 'worth doing', but it was indeed better than standing around. "Oh, for the love of G'Quan," I muttered, then picked the crate up and hauled it across the room. I couldn't reach the vent, so I set the crate down to make a stack.

We worked as quickly as we could, I on crates alone, and Mollari and Delenn working together to move others. There were four vents working against us, and the automated system made their progress steady and irritatingly inevitable. The air was growing thin and cold by the time we managed to cover the first vent.

Mollari's flimsy Centauri physiology was the first to show signs of the air loss. He began coughing, his breath wheezing, his skin turning even whiter. To be fair, that last part could have been the cold, which I was feeling as well. I tried to estimate how much time I had before my body fell into hibernation, but my thoughts had grown fuzzy around the edges.

Delenn, alone among us, seemed unaffected. I had heard of Minbari hardiness before, but to see her continue to work even as I could no longer lift a crate by myself and Mollari scrabbled uselessly at them in between coughing fits, was quite something. She alternated between each of us, and then said, "Conserve your strength. I will take it from here."

I couldn't even bring myself to protest. My higher brain functions were being swamped by the need for warmth and air. That must be how I ended up seated in a corner, huddled against Mollari. In my defense, he was not only pleasantly exothermic but could scarcely talk for all the coughing. It might well be the most agreeable state I've ever seen him in.

"I wonder," I gasped around my chattering teeth, "if I could keep you like this. They might give me a medal if you never spoke again."

He flapped one hand and a thumb at me.

"What was that supposed to mean?"

He dragged in a particularly painful sounding breath and coughed out, "All. Six."

Centauri idiom eludes me even on my better days. "What?"

Mollari shot me a look full of contempt. "Even you. Are not. So dense."

Then comprehension dawned. "Honestly, Mollari. We're probably going to die. Can't you give our last insults a better effort than crude gestures?"

"You would. Prefer. A demonstration?"

"Not if this was the entropy death of the universe, and you were the last warm body in existence."

He tried to laugh, but his lungs made another bid for freedom and he collapsed against me. He started to flail weakly as he expelled more air than he was taking in. I looked up and saw Delenn across the room, too busy trying to save us to notice us. Now, this is the part you will never tell anyone. Not Sinclair, not Ivanova, no one.

I hauled him closer, forcing his back to straighten. "Breathe in, you idiot," I hissed in his ear. "Pouchlings do it; it's not difficult! Calm yourself and breathe, you fungal growth on otherwise promising opportunities!" I drew breath to berate him further, inhaled his hair and started coughing myself.

"Now look what you made me do," I said, and regretted it. Now the shortness of breath was mutual, and I was struggling against my own hitching lungs. Mollari had subsided against me with his lips turning slightly blue and his breathing too shallow to be effective. At last my coughing stopped and I fell back against the wall.

Across the room, Delenn collapsed as gracefully as anyone could, her own reserves of strength giving out even as two vents remained operational. She dragged herself toward another crate. She, at least, would appear courageous in death.

"We are going to look ridiculous … when they find our bodies," I muttered into that over-perfumed Centauri coif. "If it's … our people … they'll prop us up as … symbols of interstellar peace … or some such … obnoxious twaddle."

And then the vents ceased their hissing and the crates pressed against the two we'd managed to block fell to the floor. The door we had been prying at so uselessly for hours slid open, and armed humans wearing the same black clothing as before poured in and pointed PPGs at us.

More importantly, they brought with them a rush of air. I gasped, Mollari started coughing again, and Delenn caught my eye, aware and ready. Good for her.

With the return of oxygen, my head was pounding and I felt nauseous. I tried to lift my hand, but my muscles had decided a break was in order after everything I'd put them through.

But when all else fails, we still have our voices, do we not? And they can be the most potent of weapons. Unfortunately, at that moment my particular weapon was somewhat dulled by near asphyxia and hibernation, so I settled on saying, "Oh, good. We're saved."

And then, as seemed to be the only mode of communication relevant to our captors, I got pistol whipped for my troubles.