Garibaldi may have given up drinking but a man must have at least some vices or he'd go insane. Garibaldi's vice of choice was food. Hearty wonderful, cholesterol rich, melt in your mouth, take a nap afterwards because you can barely move your toes, just like mother used to make italian goodness.
Real cheese was worth the added cost. Synthetics were about ten times cheaper and arguably had the same nutritional content, but they just weren't the same. They weren't made with love.
Sure, his favorite restaurant on the station had a chinese chef who'd learned to make pizza in chicago, but that only added to the ambiance. And even though it wasn't up to the standards of Italy, or even Brooklyn for that matter, it still beat the hell out of that pathetic excuse for a pizza joint the Brakiri opened up last year. Their fondness for fermented mushrooms and fish luminescent fish appeared to have overpowered their sense of esthetics.
A pizza should not produce a small cloud of purple fog.
He smiled at the savory taste of his own food only pausing the rhythmic movement of fork to lips briefly when when the meal of the Drazi next to him made a run for it. The still living squid creature dragged the plate back towards an open tank of bubbling water.
The Drazi stabbed his errant dinner, pinning it to the bar. He looked up happily, apparently thrilled that his meal still had some fight in it. Supposedly living food aided in the digestive processes of the Drazi species.
"No, no thanks," Michael politely declined as the Drazi tried to offer him a still wriggling tentacle of something covered in pesto. The fragrance of the basil only partially overcame the musky odor of the mottled purple and blue flesh beneath, "I'm trying to cut down."
He was saved from having to decline a second tentacle by a screech of dismay. The crowd of idle shopper's parted as the residents of Babylon rushed to get out of an filthy apoplectic panegyarist. Amis, the lurker he'd let out of the drunk tank earlier that day, was standing on yet another counter-top screaming at the top of his lungs.
The lurker's eyes were wild and his face contorted into an insane expression, "You're all gonna die. The soldier of darkness from the past has come on that ship."
Michael pushed away the delicious smelling plate, nodding to the Drazi next to him, "Save me some dessert." The Drazi shrugged and went back to battling with his errant lunch, apparently unconcerned.
"Don't close your eyes don't go to sleep! It will find you." Amis waved his arms wide, dancing a jig on top of the counter. A frustrated looking Abbai chef swatted at the lurker's feet with an oven mitt, swearing furiously. Amis jumped off the counter, oblivious to the Abbai, ran over to Michael, and hugged him more than Michael would have cared to receive, "Brother Garibaldi I was looking for you."
Michael twisted Ami's arm behind the lurker's back and dragged him away, noting offhandedly that Amis had left brown streaks of oil along Michael's crisp uniform, "Lets take a walk. You're starting to make the natives restless,"
"I'm not crazy it's on this station," Amis yanked his arm out of Michael's grip. The wild man smelled foul and his face was even dirtier than it had been earlier that day. He had to have been crawling through the engineering access tunnels along the edge of the station to get covered in that much engine grease.
"Death," Amis screeched as much out of fear as anger. It was a hollow desperate sound, the sort a child might have used in convincing his parents that the monster under the bed was real. "It came off that ship from the past. I found it."
"You're sure," Garibaldi said, unsure why the man's words were striking true with him. It was the sanest and most coherent Amis had sounded yet.
"I saw it do the same thing during the war," Amis nodded then fell to his knees in pain, grasping his own shoulders, and twitching in pain. He yanked at his hair, "It's... it's in pain."
Amis gritted his teeth, grinning manically and looking happier than Garibaldi had ever seen him. A deep menacing howl echoed from the depths of the station. A shrill, piercing sound somewhere like nails on a chalk board mixed with a distant echoing crowing. There was something wrong, something very wrong.
Michael's link chimed and he answered it, grabbing Amis tightly by the shirt, "Garibaldi here. You want to tell me what in the heck is going on?"
"Sir. The Inquisitor just conducted some sort of Exorcism in the Baazar... he's claiming that there is a demon on the station," the confused voice of Officer Shiro replied, "Sir... you need to get down here. We're losing control of the situation."
Michael swore, "I'll be there in a minute."
Amis made a break for it but Michael held firm, "Oh no, get over here. We are going down to processing first."
"A demon. There is a demon on the station?" It felt odd and unnatural to be saying out loud to a grown man. It was the craziest thing she had every heard someone say out loud. The PPG shook in her hand as she felt stoic resolution roll off the Inquisitor in waves, "My god... you actually believe that don't you?"
Inquisitor Daul believed that there was a demon on the station with absolute conviction, there was not a shred of doubt in the man's mind. His utter faith to that one truth was actually a bit overwhelming. He stared her in the eyes unblinkingly, totally ignoring the presence of the armed security forces massed round them, "Your belief in it is irrelevant. If you do not allow me to take action now people will die."
The massed group of aliens and humans started muttering to each other fearfully. More than a few of them were giving significant glances in the direction of G'Kar, who had not taken a single step away from the Inquisitor's side even after station security started pointing weapons. He stood shoulder to shoulder with Hilder. His brow furrowed and his glowing red eyes narrowed, burning with an alien sort of satisfied conviction.
Damn it, the Narn was giving an air of legitimacy to to the Inquisitor's insane ravings. This had to be part of some political scheme of the Inquisitor's, thought to what end she could not even begin to guess. The politics of the Empire was as much of a mystery as its location.
Officer Shiro took a step towards the Inquisitor but froze mid step as the Skitarii growled menacingly and spread his tentacles, metallic pincers snapping a terrible staccato. The bodyguard's posture spread unnaturally, a subtle reminder that the body beneath his robes was anything but human.
Talia bit her lip nervously. The chances that the Inquisitor actually complied with the Captain's request to remove all hidden weapons from the station were close to nil. Even if Thross no longer had the personal shielding unit who knew how many weapons were incorporated into his body.
"Inquisitor you will comply with us," Officer Shiro backed up from Thross, waving his pistol backward and forward as he tried to keep all the Imperials covered, "I don't know what it is that you did to that woman but it sure as hell wasn't legal."
"Foolish boy!" The Inqusitor's voice rumbled with the thread of imminent psychic hazard, "I saved the woman. She was possessed by a hungering spirit. I cannot allow you to delay me in this matter. If I do not act it may well be disastrous."
"And if you do not come with me into custody it will be deadly," Talia nodded to the pistol in her hand, "Inquisitor even if you can stop one, two, or even ten of us with the psychic powers you are fond of reminding me are superior to mine, you will not be able to get off this station before we manage to capture or kill you. If a PPG doesn't get you, shutting off an airlock and venting the oxygen to space will. Even if you do get to a transport then you'll just make a nice target for the station's guns."
The Inquisitor glowered, his voice smoldering with fury. The cups and plates in the cafe shook as the Inquisitor drew in power, "Insolent witch, I should flay you alive for your sheer foolishness. You would doom us all for your inaction."
"From the demon," Talia snorted in disbelief, dismissively, as though the Inquisitor's effortless display of telekinesis did not rattle her, "The demon you exorcized."
"Spirit was cast from mortal vessel," the Imperial priest linked his thumbs together in the symbol of the Imperial Eagle, bowing his head deeply and cradling a thick tome, "So it is written so it shall be."
A Markab woman crowed furiously from the edge of the crowd, "Darkness has taken the station! Touched by darkness we all are," he pointed to the girl still cradled in Galut's tree trunk sized arms, "We must remove the bringer of darkness not the one who fights it!" The general murmurs of assent from the collected aliens was not reassuring.
Babylon Five was a haven and port of call for all the races of the Non-aligned worlds, including a number of theocracies like that of Markab. The Inquisitor's psychically empowered light show was playing off the superstitions of any number of them.
"Lord save us from your followers," muttered Shiro in a whisper that was clearly intended to be heard by Talia. She agreed with him but still shot him a disapproving look, now was not the time for jokes.
"Yes," hissed some sort of snake faced alien Talia couldn't begin to identify, "Out the airlock, remove the taint, free the station, better for all of us."
"Like hell you are," Dr. Franklin stood up from where he'd been kneeling next to the unconscious woman, the look in his eyes dropped the temperature of the room two degrees, "Nobody is touching my patient. I'm not about to have a lynch mob descending on a woman out of superstition. She hasn't done anything."
"This is not superstition or fear," the Markab waved his hands in the direction of the woman, twisting his arms in derision, "This is truth. Those tainted by the true evils must not be allowed to stay."
"No," Hilder's voice rasped out simmering with a subtle psychic aura of intimidation. Talia had to toss up a mental block to stop her knees from shaking, "Any connections she had with the beast have been severed. And I am most certain that nobody here is foolish enough to attack the beast's victim in front of me. I would consider it an insult," he eyed the Markab in distaste, "A personal insult."
The Markab didn't get a chance to reply.
A deep bellowing cry echoed through the station, piercing and vile. It left the aftertaste of sour milk on Talia's lips and a greasy feeling of wrongness shifting about in the forefront of Talia's psychic senses. It was the same sort of wanton sense of twisted malice she'd found in the minds of serial killers and rabid animals, spiteful and hungering.
The already agitated crowd started to run for all the exits at once, pushing, punching, clawing, and shoving their way away from the unconscious woman.
Shiro yelled into his link, calling Garibaldi and yelling for back-up.
The cry hadn't come from anywhere near Miranda, but in their fear it didn't seem that the fleeing crowd had made that connection. The cry had activated something terrifying and primal ingrained into the sentient psyche, an overpowering urge to flee drawing out all rational thought.
Station security struggled with the rioting mob, desperately trying keep order. A snub-nosed creature grabbed for officer Shiro's side arm, swinging for the Asian man's head with a wild haymaker. He twisted the creature's arm behind its back, smashing the would be attacker to the floor with a resounding thunk of flesh.
"No," Talia all but screamed as Cairn Thross grabbed her by the collar, yanking her forwards and batting the pistol out of her hand. She steeled herself, preparing herself for an agonizing blow from his deadly metal arms.
It never came.
The cybernetic man tossed her behind him, next to the still unconscious Miranda, shielding her with his body. Thross, Daul, and Galut stood in a semi-circle in front of the café, fighting back the tides of the rioting crowd.
"Miss Winters," Inquisitor Hidler's smoldering whisper danced from his lips in frustration, "You must listen to me. There is still time. You must listen to me." A terrified looking Markab made a lunge for the café, trying to get to the exit beyond it. Daul flung him back into the crowd with an errant wave and a burst of psychic energy, "I am trying to help you! Your pride will kill thousands if you do not allow me to aid you."
"No," Talia stood up and smiled, "I don't think so." Loud klaxons echoed resoundingly through the Bazaar as the bulkhead sealed, driving the already unruly crowd into a frenzy. Talia pulled a mask out of her pocket and fixed it over her nose and mouth, the sterile scent of filtered air filling her nostrils.
The clattering noise of metal canisters rolling along the deck plates of the station echoed around the Bazaar, followed soon by the hissing sound of escaping gas. Talia smiled behind her mask at Daul, "In fact Inquisitor I don't think you're going to be doing much of anything at all."
After the Drazi riot Captain Sheridan took precautions to prevent further bloodshed. The Captain could be accused of many things, shortsightedness was not one of them. In the event of another riot station security was authorized to cut off a section of the ship and flood it with a powerful sedative gas that would knock out everyone but the methane breathers.
The Inquisitor's eyes widened and he reached for the grinning skull helm lashed to his belt, "Heretic witch!" Talia lunged for the Inquisitor and grabbed the golden skull. The Inquisitor shoved her in the chest, pushing a burst of telekenetic energy out of his open palm.
He tossed her back ten feet, but did not manage to loosen her grip on the helmet. The grinning golden skull smacked her in the forehead as she collided with the mirror behind the counter of the café. The impact hurt badly, a shard of the mirrored glass cut her ear, but she had won.
The Inquisitor for all his impressive powers was still human, and limited by the human physiology. Even an Inquisitor had to breathe. He was beaten and he knew it.
The Inquisitor took a drunken step towards her, shielding his mouth and nose with a cupped hand. He made a beaconing gesture towards the mask, power surged forth and summoned the golden skull. Talia gripped the shifting helmet tighter and willed it to stay.
The runes and sigils along the helm glowed with a pale blue light and Talia felt a barrier fall into place inches from her body, protecting her from the Inquisitor's grasping presence. Daul looked at the barrier in horror, mortified at her use of his own psychic protections against him.
Daul, furiously bellowed to Cairn in the Imperial langauge. He only managed a few drunken syllables before he fell to the ground muttering wildly to himself, but the Skitarii had gotten the message.
The cyborg, unaffected by the gas, advanced furiously upon Talia. Mechanical tentacles tossed tables and chairs effortlessly as the mechanical man growled out a grating incoherent war cry. The Skitarii leapt over the bar and swiped at her with a mechanical tentacle, just barely missing her neck but tearing the breathing mask from her face.
A woozy and unsettling feeling oozed through her limbs as she gasped in terror. There was only one clear thought in the mind of the Cyborg, only one aim. Cairn was going to kill her. Cairn was going to kill her as painfully as he could.
She held out her hand and screamed, "No." Pushing at him with all her fear and need. The gilded skull flared for a second time, runes flaring with a cool blue light. The cyborg froze in place standing just outside arm's reach, poised to strike but unable to move.
The skull's runes blazed and grew blisteringly hot, but she dared not let go. Whatever else the helmet was, it clearly worked to focus the psychic potential of its bearer. Whereas she had struggled to move a penny with her mind this morning, with the aid of the skull she was able to stop the movement of the cyborg entirely.
It was a glorious sensation of power like she'd never felt before but it could soon be all for nothing. Talia could already feel eyes heavy with sleep and the pharmaceutical taste of cotton was wrapping around her tongue. It would not be long before the gas robbed her of her concentration and the cyborg could redouble his attack.
There had to be a way, there had to be a way out. There was always a way out.
Talia crab walked along the floor behind the bar, keenly aware that the twitching of the cyborg's limbs was becoming less erratic and more deliberate. Her limbs were weak and shambling, only barely listening to her mind. She stuttered and shook her way to the edge of the bar before her control over the cyborg broke entirely.
The cyborg approached her carelessly, almost lazily. He lifted her to her feet and grasped her about the neck with his tentacle, slowly constricting her air passageway. Talia wanted to fling the helmet at Thross' face but only managed a limp flick of her wrist. The helmet dropped to the groud with a deafening clatter.
Talia's lung's burned, pain overwhelming the soporific effects of the gas. She whimpered lamely as the tentacle grew tighter and tighter, cutting off the precious flow of tainted air. She was neither strong enough, fast enough or skilled enough to get away from him. She had no weapons, no allies, no options. She was going to die.
Something wide and pink collided with Cairn's head, smashing him to the floor. His tentacles tore at the skin of her neck, leaving friction burns behind, but slackened enough for her to escape. Cairn screeched in fury and stared at his attacker in disbelief.
It had been Galut who'd attacked him. Galut, the Inquisitor's second bodyguard was giggling giddily to himself pupils dialated from the gas. He muttered to himself in a sing-song voice only half aware of his surroundings, "No more hurt pretty Susan, no more hurt pretty Susan, no more hurt pretty Susan..."
Cairn swore an oath that sounded something like a hissing vyper and reached for Talia a second time. The giant grabbed his tentacles with a grasp of his meaty fist and yanked backwards. The astonished cyborg sailed through the wooden bar and across the café, flying a good twenty feet before colliding into a vending machine.
Cairn collapsed in the wreckage of the vending machine, silent and unmoving. Galut shook his head in sadness and bent down to check on Talia, cooing softly in the Imperial language. He brushed back a stray hair with an elephantine finger, talking in the same gentle tone one might use when talking to an infant.
He smiled at her protectively and ruffled her hair. No longer powered by adrenaline Talia simply allowed herself to be mothered by the hallucinating giant.
Talia felt at ease as the giant picked her up and cradled her in his arms like a baby, grasping the stuffed rabbit he offered her in gratitude. He sat down next to the unconscious imperials cross legged and rocked her, singing a throaty lullaby. Talia melted into the bulging muscles of Galut's arms and fell into a deep slumber.
"Galut do good Susan," the giant muttered feverishly as his eyes drooped and he fell asleep, "Galut do good."
Under different circumstances Susan might have been honored to be the first Earther on an Imperial vessel.
As it stood, she was not. Heavy iron manacles were bound around her wrists and ankles tied together with heavy links of had nursed hopes that she might escape from Imperial custody by jumping into an escape pod and heading for the station but before she knew it, Susan and her kidnappers were already inside the Imperial ship shoving their way through the varying mass of people wandering about the ship's docking bay.
Yet for all her anger and rage she could not help but look at the interior of the Imperial ship in awe. The swooping gothic architecture and bizarre imperial fashions were more alien than any of the non-aligned worlds she'd seen yet. On the bright side they'd returned her uniform to her before binding her, a small mercy but one she was grateful for. She preferred not to think about how many people had seen her wearing the sheer fabric garment.
Susan shot a murderous glace at Jak as the twitching man excused himself and wandered towards a fat man in rich clothing hanging from a metal frame. The obese figure swung backwards and forwards jovially as Jak walked up to him, kicking his atrophied legs in amusement.
Danzig prodded her onward as she slowed to get a better look at the strange man. The rough callused surface of his right hand squeezed her shoulder, not enough to hurt her but enough that she could not ignore him, "Forwards."
He pointed though an ornate arch into the corridors beyond. Susan sighed and followed Danzig's instructions. Judging by the speed at which Dazig was nodded through customs it seemed likely Danzig's position in the Imperial command structure was higher than he'd advertised. Another secret, another lie, it was hardly a surprise. The Imperials seemed to lie as often as they spoke.
Her curiosity battled her desire to escape as they wandered through the security check-point and into the inner area of the ship.
The strangeness of the ship was exacerbated by the seeming backwardness of the ship's facilities. Twice they'd passed public fountains from which the crew of the ship was drawing water with large steel buckets and carrying them back to the shops. Pubescent teenagers leaning on ornately carved wooden yokes stood around the fountains in no apparent hurry to return with their carved burden, chatting eagerly.
A couple of them shot curious looks in Susan's direction, apparently more interested in Danizg and gazan than in their captive. Judging by the impressed murmurs of interest Danzig held a position of importance and respect on the ship. The olive skinned man positively preened under their gaze, strutting as he walked next to Susan.
The bustling masses of people were awash with flowing linen garments, red pillbox hats, and simple turbans embroidered with the double headed eagle of the Empire, looking positively domestic for all the alien strangeness of the Imperial customs and clothing. An aging crone of a woman with a face that looked like aged leather approached her with a citrusy smelling fruit, offering her wares for only five sliver thrones. Gazan shooed the old crone away muttering, "Five thrones for fruit? The nerve."
Susan was unquestionably their prisoner, but they seemed surprisingly eager to impress her with the history and grandeur of the Endless Bounty. They pointed to landmarks and frescoes as they wandered the winding corridors. "This is the story of the Primarchs, the most glorious warriors among men," they would say or, "Vurnal Sáclair, Captain of the Endless Bounty in the Age of Apostasy. A great man."
It felt less like a kidnapping and more like being forced to go on a trip to a tourist site with her uncles, in spite of the firearms being pointed at her. They referred to historical events within the Empire as though it were not simply common knowledge, they believed it was innate that a human being would recognize them immediately. She struggled to keep up with the various obscure bits of trivia being tossed her way.
When she escaped knowledge of those land marks might mean the difference between freedom and death. "Primarch," "Astropath," "Cultist," "Genestealer," and "Amon Sui" meant nothing yet, but they would. Information was a weapon without peer.
Susan swore as she tripped over the manacles binding her arms and legs. They'd fused the bones of her arms and legs where they'd been broken, but the limbs were still sore and uneasy. The muscles seemed to be unconvinced that they weren't supposed to be locking up in pain when she moved. They'd frozen twice, going numb and sending pins and needles shooting up her spine. A side effect of the stimulant they'd used to resuscitate her combined with the earlier sedative no doubt.
Danzig grabbed her as she overbalanced, steadying her against his shoulder. She noted idly the sensation of being pressed agianst dark man's hard muscled arms was not altogether unpleasant. She still slapped Danzig for his efforts, "Don't touch me you bastard."
Her slap was awkward, hampered by the weight of her manacles. Danzig easily snatched the hanging chains with casual aplomb. A slight red mark covered his cheek as he lifted her arms above her head and stared her in the eyes with businesslike dispassion, "You will not do that again."
Susan's eyes smoldered with defiance but she held her tongue. Getting mouthy with Danzig wouldn't achieve anything other than earning her a beating for her efforts. Her limbs were healed, but freshly so. It would take only minimal effort for the professional soldiers to crack the recently fused bone. If she was going to escape she'd have to wait for them to relax their guard.
A hard bark of laughter echoed from across the street where a handsome man with a devil may care sort of smile observed them with an amused expression on his face. He wore the same crimson and gold silks as Danzig and Gazan, topped with a black pillbox hat, "You always had a unique way of dealing with women Danzig."
Gazan snorted, his lips curving up into a smile that twinkled at the edge of his eyes, "Fadir, you will pardon me if I find your perspectives on women suspect."
"I've yet to hear a complaint from the fairer sex," Fadir said in a tone of falsely wounded pride, his hand pressed over his heart, "You wound me."
"Not as well as the husbands of your conquests would wish to I suspect," Gazan said dryly, grabbing Fadir by the wrist and pulling him into a one armed hug. The two men slapped each others backs in an amiable gesture of greeting.
"Perhaps," Fadir's expression grew more serious, "Gazan you need to go and check on Yonal. He's been having complications."
"I thought that Kerrigan did the surgery to implant his augmentics herself," Gazan's smiled slackened a, the twinkle in his eyes turning to a hard professional gaze, "Medicus Nor sent me no messages indicating that there were aftereffects of the surgery."
Fadir nodded sadly, "Not those sorts of complications. He's been taking the loss of Murak badly."
Danzig's breath caught in his teeth, making a hissing noise somewhere between fury and sorrow, "The boy is dead?"
"We lost a lot of the new recruits in the latest attack of the Amon Sui. Sergei and Maziv have been in a frenzy trying to keep the ship in order. We're down to a hundred and fifty new recruits and two hundred Lionhearts, not including those of us too old or too wounded for active duty," Fadir shook his head, "Sergei will give a more full report when you get back to headquarters."
"Traitors blood," snarled Danzig, "I knew we'd taken losses but I had no idea that we'd lost so many. How is Maziv taking it?"
"The old man?" Fadir barked with laughter, slapping his side and rolling his eyes. He pulled back his upper lip and scrunched up his brow in apparent imitation of the man, speaking in a gruff voice that was whistled with every third syllable, "The Lionhearts don't go and waste time feeling sorry for those of us who have the dignity to have died in service of the house Sáclair. Most men don't have the clarity of dying with a purpose, and the Emperor values men of honor."
Gazan smacked Fadir across the back of younger soldier's head in a playful fashion, "I don't think that old mother would appreciate that you've been imitating him when his back is turned."
"And I'm sure he'd skin you alive if he heard you calling him mother," Fadir's face turned serious again, "The Captain felt it was necessary to keep the specific losses of the Lionhearts secret, we didn't want to send that information to you over an open microwave channel. Seeing as how the damn astropathic servitor decided to go and get itself eaten we haven't had a free moment to get the information to you," Fadir shook his head sadly, "We're a mess sir."
Gazan bit his lip and looked at a clock with six hands pressed into a bronze statue of a double headed eagle, "Danzig I really must get to Yonal. He blamed himself for everything that went wrong in his little brother's life already. Now that Murak is dead I need to go and smack some sense into him before he does something stupid," Gazan pointed to Fadir, "The boy is more than capable of dealing with the witch and I need to get to Yonal before he goes for afternoon prayers. "
Danzig gave Susan an appraising look and nodded, "I could probably handle the witch by myself if it came down to it. She isn't much of a threat, she was just foolish enough to sucker punch the Inquisitor of all people."
Susan bristled at the insult as Fadir swore in fury, "The Alliance woman is a throne cursed psycher? Why are you bringing her onto the ship?"
"Not for you to know Fadir," Danzig said in a tone that left no room for discussion, "We get her where she is going and wait for the Inquisitor. That's it. Anything else is above our pay grade."
Fadir's flirtatious expression turned to one of guarded apprehension. He approached Susan and stood next to her the way one might do with an hungry tiger, anxious and justifiably fearful. He muttered a lyrical prayer to himself in a flowing language that seemed vaguely familiar to Susan, some sort of a ward against evil.
She preferred Fadir's superstitious apprehension to Danzig's outright indifference.
They continued to duck down corridors and into elevators for another thirty minutes. The ship seemed to have been built and rebuilt from the hulls of several different ships, the layout and esthetics of one deck varied greatly from that of another.
Susan tried to memorize the route from the docking bay to their destination but lost track of their path somewhere around a statue of a man driving a sword into a creature vaguely resembing a giant ten legged crab.
The surroundings grew more opulent and well tended as they went higher and higher on the ship. The wide corridors, devoid of the refuse and discarded food wrappers of the lower decks, were full of people wearing rich clothing in a style totally different from that of the lower decks. The upper deck residents were garbed in silk and velvet set with jewels and pearls. They would have looked lavish even within the Centauri Imperial court.
Danzig let out a low whistle when they reached a set of red pressure doors at the end of an obscure side path, "Hamman, are you there?"
The doors opened and the worn face of Hamman popped out, "I need to verify your identity sir."
"Damnit Hamman I have better things to do than this," Swore the broad shouldered man. He massaged his temples as a pillar of marble tipped with a small stone basin rose from the floor, "You know who I am."
"Yes sir I do," Nodded Hamman as he pointed behind Danzig at the high ceiling in the distance, "Those don't."
Susan looked up in the direction Hamman pointed. Shoved into a recesses between the many statues lining the walls of the corridor were a pair of human torsos, servitor constructs. They stared down at the trio in front of the door with glassy, disinterested expressions. Their arms had been replaced with large magazine fed weapons of a caliber Susan didn't care to guess.
Fadir let out a long, low whistle as he pulled the glove off his hand and reached for the thin blade sticking up from the bowl. He pricked his finger, squeezing a thin trickle of blood into it. The bowl sucked the drop into it and chimed in the affirmitive, "That's what Kerrigan meant by a surprise for any visitors. She does 'surprise' pretty damn good."
"A heavy bolter round would be one hell of a surprise," Danzig said as he pricked the tip of his finger, squeezing the blood into the bowl, then spoke in a clear voice, "Corporal Danzig plus one."
As Susan was frog marched into the room she realized that there would be no way of leaving the apartments without being directly in line of sight of the heavy turret weapons pointed at the door.
"Son of a bitch," Susan swore, "That insufferable son of a bitch." They didn't need to keep her in a jail cell. The Inquisitor could give her free run of his apartments, safe in the knowledge that there was no way she would be able to get out of his quarters without getting her head blown off.
Hamman smacked her across the mouth, "You will keep a civil tongue between your teeth or it will be taken away from you witch. It is by the Inquisitor's mercy that you are not simply being tossed out an airlock."
"I'll be glad to return the favor at some point in the future," Susan blinked white flashes of light away from her eyes and was rewarded for her sarcasm with another slap, "Kiss my ass."
Hamman went for a third slap but stopped when Fadir grabbed his wrist. Fadir gave him a stony gaze and spoke in the lyrical language of the Lionhearts. Hamman stiffened in surprise and relented, staring at Susan in shock, "You cannot be serious. She is a heretic at best, there is no way he can be serious about this."
"He is and she will, though she doesn't know it yet," Danzig chuckled dryly, "Damn strange choice for it really."
"Choice for what?" Susan looked back at the corridor, wondering if she would be able to shamble fast enough to avoid the turrets, "What are you going to do with me." A sudden burst of panic overtook her and she struggled against the three men as they dragged her further into the apartment.
Susan whipped the chain binding her wrists up and into Danzig's nose with the wet sound of breaking cartilage. The Lionheart swore loudly but did not let go, "Stop fighting you lunatic woman! We aren't going to hurt you."
Susan readied herself for another swing of the chain at Fadir when a burst of rolling laughter echoed down the hallway, haughty and trenchant. Susan hesitated for a second, granting a chance for to Fadir snag the chain.
An elegant woman with porcelain skin strode forward, the soft crimson velvet creases in her flowing dress crinkling with every clip of her jewel encrusted slippers. Her dress was well tailored, sweeping angles and hanging fabrics highlighting a belly plump with child rather than concealing it.
Two oversized men, Ogryn like Galut, followed her on either side. The Ogryn wore tight breeches, cutaway skirted coats, lacy waistcoats, perfumed white wigs, garlands of flowers, and expressions of supreme suffering on their wide snaggletoothed faces. Each carried a rifle that seemed to be as much a club as a side-arm. Judging by their stance the weapons they carried were clearly the only part of their uniform not making them uncomfortable.
The woman leaned in close to Susan and crossed her arms over a wide belly full with child. She smiled, flashing a mouth full of teeth only slightly paler than her creamy skin. Susan glared back defiantly, confused by the pregnant woman's presence.
"My Lady Sáclair," Danzig stood up straight as board and saluted, a gesture made somewhat comical by his broken nose and the slight trickle of blood rolling down his face, "I had not been informed to expect you."
"I would be very much surprised if you had," the woman idly remarked, reaching out and running an indifferent finger over Susan's uniform, "I'd been hoping to have a conversation with the Inquisitor. Was his personal transport not the one you arrived on?"
"It was madam, but the Inquisitor is still on the station," Danzig said in the same tone Susan might have used to address President Clark, "To my knowledge he will return before the day's end."
The woman grunted in incredulity, "So you say. Though if the slave markets in Alliance space have such stock as this I can hardly blame him for his tardiness. He does have some good taste after all."
Susan's blood boiled and she spat in the woman's face, "I'm no one's slave you pompous bitch."
Danzig turned on her, his hand raised to strike but stopped at a gesture and a word from the woman. She wiped the spittle away from her face with a lace handkerchief, something like a smile playing at the edge of her lips, "You are a fiery one, aren't you? No, not a slave. I recognize you Lieutenant Commander. But Hilder wouldn't be taking you against your will if he did not have a purpose for you. Not when it risks all that he has labored to build these past months. Not when killing you would be so much easier."
"I'm not easy to kill," Susan yanked her arms down and nearly dislodged the chain from Fadir's grip. Hamman shot her a murderous glance but did not slap her.
"Oh I think I'm going to like you," tittered the Lady Sáclair, her full lips puckered in thought. Cool eyes roved over her rumpled uniform and manacled hands, taking the measure of her, "I suppose it's too much to hope that the Inquisitor has taken a romantic interest. Hilder would have to relax for more than ten seconds to do that."
Susan tried not to be ill at the idea of the Inquisitor having romantic intentions for her. The idea of the Inquisitor having romantic intentions for anyone was alarming enough without involving her. If he wished to force himself upon her she wasn't sure if she'd be able to stop him, "I'd rather die."
"Let's not go wishing more troubles upon ourself yet, shall we? The Emperor gives enough without asking for more." The woman looked up at Danzig and spoke in a voice of authority, "Colonel Danzig. Are you allowed to speak about the intentions he has for this woman with her."
"No mam," Danzig shook his head once. Susan nodded she'd assumed as much.
"Has he given orders not to speak of it to my husband," The woman, apparently the wife of the ship's captain quirked an eyebrow. Susan tried to recall the dossier she'd been compiling on the ship. Annabelle, yes that had been the woman's name. Annabelle, the Lady Sáclair.
"If he had I wouldn't obey them my lady," Danzig smiled, "But he has ordered me not to speak of them with anyone else in the command structure of lesser status."
The Lady laughed a feline laugh, almost a purr, "Then as my husband's equal and proxy I request you inform me." Susan's breath caught in her throat.
The Lady Sáclair was defying the Inquisitor, maybe even trying to sabotage the Inquisitor's plans. The Inquisitor's authority within the Empire was not as absolute as he'd represented it to Captain Sheridan, even on his own ship.
"Mam," the Lionheart's eyes widened in vexation, his conflicting oaths of loyalty warring within his head, "I don't know if..."
"If what?" Asked the Lady. She hadn't raised her voice but Danzig hopped as though she'd flung a pot of scalding water in his face, "Your oath of Loyalty is to my husband, not to Hilder. I am his wife and equal on this ship. You will tell me what I want to know. Now."
"Yes," Danzig said, his voice resolute, "Of course mam."
"Good," The Lady caressed a curl of Susan's fiery red locks that had come loose in the fight, bright orange seeming almost phosphorescent against the inhuman pallor of the Lady's flesh. An unreadable expression played across her face, "Now why does the Inquisitor want her?"
"Yes mam," He cleared his throat and slapped a firm hand on Susan's shoulder. Her knees buckled, "Allow me to present to you Miss Susan Ivanova, newest apprentice to Inquisitor Daul Hilder."
Susan's jaw dropped, "You have got to be kidding me."
Mark was nervous, and not undeservingly so. Mark was a criminal, and a dangerous one at that, though he was hesitant to think of himself that way. The warrants on him had no doubt gotten to Babylon Fiv blank writs of arrest demanding that he be brought in dead or alive. Mark preferred dead.
Death was preferable to what the Psi Corps would do to him. The couldn't do anything to him once he was dead.
He'd entered the Psi Corps as a child, taken from his parents at age seven. His memories of his parents were vague, but he remembered that they hadn't fought the government officials who'd come to take him away. They'd believed he was being given an opportunity beyond his wildest dreams, a chance at a real future. They thought it was a great choice.
It didn't make him hate them less for giving him up.
They'd raised him much in the way that they claimed they would for the first ten years or so, at least till his eighteenth birthday when he started to manifest telekinesis. It was at that point that he'd been slated for a special project, one of the many unofficial projects done by the Psi Corps.
They'd done things to him, things that he preferred not to remember, things that still gave him nightmares. He'd escaped by the skin of his teeth with the aid of the Underground Railroad, sneaking to the proxima colony via mars for a number of months before fleeting for the Babylon Station. It was one of the few ports where one could reach alien territories that would not extradite to the Earth Alliance.
It was a safe haven for the Underground Railroad, one of the few military installations without its own dedicated Psi Corps presence. About two dozen rogue telepaths would be on station at any given time. They had to be careful, staying out of view and under the radar.
They could only risk sending people into alien space one or two at a time, careful not to draw the notice of immigration. A human arriving on an Earth Force transport was relatively unremarkable, a human leaving on an alien transport was odd. A dozen humans leaving on a transport would draw notice.
They did not wish to draw notice. However somebody was causing psychic pandemonium on station. After the psychic scream rocked the ship Mark headed for the meeting place. No message needed to be sent.
There was already a small crowd of people in the tiny brown sector apartment when he entered. Nobody wasted time with small talk or greetings when he entered the room, few even bothered to look. They'd all sensed his arrival long before he pushed the door open.
Small talk would have been wasted anyway. For safety's sake they exchanged neither names nor personal information. Psychic exchanges of information were often more practical anyway. An ID could be faked, a mind couldn't.
The room resounded with silence as the telepaths exchanged frenzied snippets of information with each other. Something had attacked the station. The Captain had arrested the Imperial Inquisitor. The Imperial Inquisitor had fought a demon and lost. Talia Winters had fought the Inquisitor and won. The conflicting thoughts thundered deafeningly in his head contesting the silent shifting of bodies in the room.
"Enough! We know nothing for sure," Slurred the voice of the de-facto leader of the Underground Railroad, a hunched crone of a man misshapen from the abuses he'd suffered at the orders of the Psi Corps, "Rumors will get us nowhere but into a panic. Getting into a panic will get us caught."
"And getting caught will get us killed," muttered Mark idly to himself, "Which would be bad." The man next to Mark shivered and scratched at his chest, groaning in pain. The poor bastard probably was too afraid to go to the med-center for fear that someone would back track his medical records. They'd lost a man to a ruptured appendix for that very reason last month.
The crowd silently murmured to each other psychically, a shifting morass of fear and anticipation. The hunch-back shouted again in his incoherent mess of slurs, "Enough! We are safe. The Psi Corps has yet to break the Mars cell. We have at least a month before they catch on to us if they ever do. We'll be in Minbari space by then."
The irony of fleeing to Minbar in search of safety was not lost on Mark. He could still remember huddling in a bunker on Earth at the Battle for the Line. Not that long ago the Minbari were the closest thing to Satan he could think of, a post now deservingly occupied by one Alfred Bester.
The Psi Core was hell on Earth.
The crisp uniformity and institutional disinfected sterility that the public was privy to was only a mask over the cankerous purulence of the Psi Cpors' true purposes. God the things the Psi Corps had done to them were unholy, there was no other word for it. Selective breeding, forced abortions, murder, rape, it was a virtual laundry list of every inhuman and unforgivable act that could be committed.
And nobody knew about it. Obfuscation and misdirection were the weapons of the Psi Corps, and they were nothing if not efficient. Nobody believed the ravings of a couple rogue telepaths. Nobody really wanted to. Telepaths were frightening and the Psi Corps allowed normal people to feel protected.
People would sacrifice a lot for that sense of protection. His parents had sacrificed him after all.
Sacrifice, god but he was sick of having to hear that word. Everything was sacrifice. For all that he valued his freedom the pursuit of it was astonishingly limiting. A sentiment that all the pilgrims on the underground railroad felt with equal measure.
"When do we leave?" asked a young girl in pigtails eagerly her face full of unbridled hope. She was only thirteen but would easily be a P-9 when she grew into her full potential. It was probably why the Psi Corps wanted to breed her early.
The hunchback smiled, a gruesome gesture on his twisted features but his good will shone from his mind, "Children will be the first to go. Less than a week for you." The girl smiled and giggled as he pinched her cheek, "Less than a month for us all. We will all be free soon."
The tension in the room dropped drastically and the psychic muttering lulled to dull idle whispering. The prospect of freedom was enough to calm anyone. God bless those bone heads, he would kiss the first one he saw once he got to Minbar. Freedom was a glorious idea.
"Now," Slurred the hunchback, "Go back to your quarters, get some food, get some rest, and be ready for soon it is time. Soon it will be time to go."
The man next to Mark coughed again, blood spurting out of his mouth and nose. Mark cried out without meaning to, "Damnit!"
A dark skinned P6 woman rushed over to the man with a towel, wiping off his face and nose. The ill man's pale and clammy skin was covered in great beads of sweat. He shivered and shook convulsively, "We need to get him to a doctor!"
"No," hissed a P4 with a strong german accent, "If ve do zat den ve vill be caught." Mark wanted to disagree with the man but couldn't. There were too many surgically implanted markers in all members of the Psi Corps to make going to a doctor entirely safe. All it would take was one doctor back-tracking serial numbers in order to get medical records and they'd all be up the creek.
"We can't let him die," cried the young P9 as she yanked frustratedly at her pig tails. Damn the Psi Corps to hell a child shouldn't be forced to make this sort of a decision, "He just can't die."
"No," hissed a P11 woman of vaguely English accent in a green dress. Her face squirmed between warring expressions of pity and fear, "If he dies he dies but we cannot risk all of us for him."
"We don't have to," the hunch back shook his head. He approached the ill man warily, pulling his shirt over his mouth as he examined the black veins of the man's neck, "I know of a doctor who doesn't ask questions. He can be trusted."
"How can you know," hissed the P11 woman in the green dress. She grabbed the hunchback's arm, nails biting at the man's skin as her hands flexed in hysteria, "How can you be sure?"
"I am," said the hunch-back in a voice indicating that he considered the matter to be closed. He brushed the woman's hand away dismissively, "I'll contact him and have him down here to help... who is that?" The hunch back hysteria and stared at the man vomiting up blood, "I've never seen him before. Who is that?"
The man was a stranger. How in the hell had a stranger gotten into their meeting?
Mark backed away in horror as the man stood up, blood still seeping from the man's every orifice and staining his clothing. His face had elongated unnaturally and his skin had pinched into and odd shape, bilious shadow seeping from his shirt and pants.
"Who in the hell are you?" Mark snarled as he pulled out his PPG, "What in the hell are you?"
The man shifted on the balls of his feet and his skin stretched and shifted like an ill-fitting suit, twisting and bursting as horns and claws protruded from where they'd been concealed beneath. The room filled with a malevolent hungering presence.
The hunchback bellowed, "Run," though it hardly needed to be said. As the man's head burst like a ripe mellon revealing a cruel reptilian face beneath the collected telepaths fled. The creature swiped a fist faster than Mark could see, shoving it's hand into the torso of the german telepath and tearing his heart and lungs out of his body without ever breaking the flesh.
The reptilian equine face shimmered and disappeared into a vague shadowy nothingness. The giant body of the creature rippled and shifted as it reached into the body again and again, pulling out hunks of dripping creature swallowed the organs greedily, ignoring the deluge of PPG shots Mark fired at it as though they were the stinging of bees.
And then he realized what was truly unnerving him. It wasn't only flesh the creature grabbed. There was a vague bluish, silvery something that came up with every handful of meat. With every handful the German man's mind got smaller and weaker, robbing him of everything except the pain.
God almighty it was eating the german psychic's soul.
Mark lashed at the creature with his mind in desperation, forcing his hate into a blade of telepathic energy. The creature dropped a handful of man flesh, snarling in indignant fury. It turned three sets of horrid misshapen eyes on him, glowing in the shadowy dark, and spoke in a voice like rotten food and the buzzing of insects, "Mine."
Mark screamed as the creature charged him, talon tipped fingers tearing through his flesh without ever leaving a mark. The creature drove its face into Mark's chest, feeding. As Mark felt the creature tearing his intestines from his torso he put the PPG up to his temple and pulled the trigger.
It was a pity he wouldn't see Minbar.
The Inquisitor jerked fitfully in his sleep, plagued by nightmares. Once or twice he'd made a strangled sound halfway between a cry and a yell of anguish. Michael didn't even want to begin to imagine what the Inquisitor had gone through that could make a man's back arch like that in his sleep.
Protocol dictated that he administer a sedative to a prisoner suffering from severe night terrors, but he couldn't do that without first getting a doctor down to examine the Inquisitor. And he couldn't do that without stomping over about ten different treaties. He could, and had, anministered psychic supressants. That at least was his right.
He wasn't even sure if legally he could hold the Inquisitor once he woke up, technically speaking as a duly appointed representative in the League of Non-aligned worlds he was granted diplomatic immunity from anything that wasn't a war crime or covered under an extradition treaty.
At the moment he was only holding the Ambassador under a loophole stating that a representative of the Non-aligned worlds may be taken into protective custody in the event that they were incapacitated. As the Inqusiitor had been incapacitated in the process of quelling a riot it was legal, but only thinly so. Hopefully it would give Captain Sheridan enough time to act.
And someone would have to act soon. The Babylon 5 brig lacked the capacity to arrest everyone involved in the riot so they'd been forced to limit themselves to arresting the Imperials and a single Markab the only ones that Officer Shiro had been able to identify as instigating the riot.
"He exorcized a demon," Michael watched the man twitch in sleep, "As in horns, tail, and pitchfork?"
"He says he exorcized a demon," Officer Shiro said in an unconvinced tone, "But he certainly did something. I don't know if you heard it where you were..."
"I did," Michael cut him off, rolling his eyes to the sky, "Everyone did. You know that. Christ Shiro, nobody's been talking about anything else."
Shiro grunted noncommittally, "We putting extra security on the Imperial docking bay? We don't want any of the Imperials getting funny ideas about storming the bring."
"For who?" Michael snorted, "The Imperials bolted when they heard... whatever that was. Zack says they left half a ton of grain behind but they just got on their ships and left like they thought the devil himself was chasing them."
Shiro's expression turned blank, "Maybe he was."
"You have something to say Shiro?" Shiro was not a particularly imaginative or superstitious man. If he was spooked you could bet there was a damn good reason.
The asian man sighed, and spoke in an uncomfortable tone. Each syllable squeezed past his teeth with a generous allowance of skepticism, "He saw something sir. Something in her head, the girl from the ship that is. He saw it and he tore it out. I don't know if it was a demon, but it wasn't friendly."
Michael nodded once, leaning on the door and starting through the small window, "Maybe. The Captain will be down in about an hour to sort this mess out. In the meanwhile I want everyone on duty. As of now anyone on vacation has their leave canceled."
Shiro groaned, no doubt having realized that Michael meant for his subordinate the be the one to actually make the announcement, "They aren't going to like that."
"I'll authorize double overtime," Michael chewed his lip, pensive. Something had happened earlier in the day. Something that without a doubt involved the Inquisitor, intimately, "Somethings not right Shiro. Something's very not right."
"You think there's a demon on station?" Shiro said in a mocking tone that only slightly coverd his unease. He put his hands on either side of his head in a crude imitation of devil horns.
Michael swatted his subordinate's hands down in consternation. Honestly, what was Shiro thinking? Michael was the one who was supposed to be cracking wise, "It doesn't have to be a demon to be something nasty Shiro. There's plenty of nasty things in the universe without demons."
The Inquisitor yelled out a pained cry, whimpering in his own language. Shiro sighed, "There's definitely something that's messing with this guy's head."
"Life," Michael tried not to think too hard about his own nightmares as the Inquisitor thrashed in his bed, "Life is more than enough to mess with anyone." He nearly jumped out of his own skin when his link went off, buzzing a with a tinny whistle.
He tapped it twice, "This is Garibaldi, what's up?"
"Mr. Garibaldi get up to my office," said Sheridan in a less than confabulatory manner. The man's usual cool was starting to crack, and a twinge of genuine anger was evident in the word, "Now."
"Time to face the music," Michael sighted and walked out of the brig.
Sørian was a mess.
Every part of his body ached and his arm, still twisted at an unnatural angle, flopped against his side with every step. The physical pain of his arm was far less than the indignity of someone of his status, a devotee of the Keeper of Secrets, being reduced to shambling down access corridors in refuse covered clothing.
"I'll kill the bastard, bring him back to life, and kill him again," he hissed, teeth clenching so hard they were well in danger of cracking. He picked a bit of vegetable peel from his sleeve and tossed it to the side with effortless contempt. The rotted garbage left green stains of slime on his fingers, "Revolting."
He shuffled up a slap-shod staircase that had clearly been a recent construction done in the aftermath of the Belzafest assault, sturdy but inelegant. His feet, bloody and shoeless, protested the indignity of walking up the metal grating. Hooked metal ridges, designed to allow the heavy booted crewmen better footing, were murder on the soft flesh of his feet.
A trail of bloody footprints trailed behind him. A more than sufficient trail for even the dimmest of security officers to catch wind of, if they were to find it. And he was walking towards the most likely area they'd be searching.
Sørian probably shouldn't have gone back to the site of the explosion, station security was doubtlessly fighting the fires and sifting through the rubble, but his instincts were telling him that he needed to return.
He'd learned to trust his instincts, twisted though they may be. His devotions to the dark gods granted him with bursts of insight at times, brief flashes of what he ought to do. And they were telling him unequivocally that he ought to return. Though for what reason he could not even hope to predict.
So he hobbled onwards, listening to the lingering touches of awareness. Dark caresses of the god of decadence guided him, muffled beaconing whispers of lust. Like all his messages from the beyond as of late they were pale shadows of the powers he was accustomed to. The vague smell of honeyed milk and rosewater perfume tugged at his tongue, tantalizing him towards the god's purpose.
Sørian attached his mind to that sense of purpose, ignoring the pain and the shame. There was no shame he would not bear for power. The gods valued dedication and devotion above all else, their fickle punishments were only for the undevoted and the unworthy.
Sørian was neither. In fact so dedicated was he to his goal that he did not hear the voice the first, second, or even third time someone called out "Sir" to get his attention. It was only on the fourth attempt that Sørian's mind was drawn away from his task and he focused on the voice.
A squat man with a ruddy face and a nose covered in bulbous growths indicative of excessive drink was staring at him in shock. His jaw hung open and a box of tools lay at his feet, forgotten, "By the throne man! What happened?"
Sørian was too tired and hurt to think up an appropriate lie so he settled on the truth, "The Amon Sui bombed the sector I was in."
The man's burned half-lips pulled back in disgust, revealing cancerously black gums caked from decades of exposure to oil and promethium. He slapped his knee in disgust and made the sign of the Aquilla, "Damned nobles and their damned infighting, making it so that an honest man can't even ply his trade."
Sørian wobbled, steadying himself with his hand on the wall. Stopping had been a mistake. All the blood loss and pain seemed to catch him in an instant. His legs buckled and he became instantly aware that he'd lost feeling in his feet.
The ugly man in the torn smock grabbed him with soot stained hands and pulled out a filthy kerchief that smelled of machine lubricant. Sørian noted with no small amount of chagrin that it was still cleaner than the patches of flesh that the ugly man was wiping rubbish off of.
"I swear it don't matter which of them wins," clucked the ugly man, "Sáclair or the Amon, I just wish whoever was going to win could get on with it so the rest of us could get on with our lives. It don't matter much to me who's running the ship so long as there aint no damned bombs going off."
He clucked his tongue, "And that damned Inquisitor's as much a menace as anyone, dragging us into fights what we got no buisness in fighting. He'll bring all mess of nasty creatures to this ship you mark my words. Xenos and Demons and Throne only knows what else. It's enough to make you turn blue."
Sørian started giggling. He hadn't meant to but the whole situation was just to absurd for him. He slumped against the wall, falling to the floor laughing like a madman at the absurdity of it all. The ugly man, apparently aware that he was falling into shock, shook him by the shoulder and looked him in the face with piggish grey eyes, "Don't you go dying on me boy! You don't get to give those bastards that satisfaction."
He hefted Sørian over his shoulders, "Come on then boy! We're going to get you to someone what can help you. I know a good medicus."
"No," hissed Sørian fearfully. If he were to be taken to a medicus there would be inconvenient questions. A medicus would be required to report his injuries to security, and even with bribes there would be no guarantee that the medicus would not report him at a later date under Osma's coercion.
"I won't be having you dying on my watch boy," clucked the old man as they walked the empty blackness of the ships access corridors, "Too much dying lately."
A plan formed in the back of his mind as Sørian fumbled at his belt with his good hand, feeling for a familiar ivory hilt. The ritual magic of chaos did not truly require the carefully prepared runes and preparations used by most practitioners. In theory a focused effort of will would be sufficient, however in making treaties with the dark gods such methods of focus were vastly preferable.
To the dark gods, granting a boon never came without a price. The trick was in directing such a price towards another. One took such precautions to prevent the fickle gods from making "slight" deviations from the caster's will and turning the caster into a semi-sentient mutated mass of a monster.
Given his need it was worth the risk.
Focusing his mind on the sigils and rules that he would have carved into the mans flesh under normal circumstances, Sørian raised the blade and drove it between the ugly man's floating ribs. The man let out an angry whispering cry as the blade pierced his lung, collapsing to the ground dead.
Sørian ignored the pain as they fell to the ground, blasphemous words at his lips. The sour syllables ground past his teeth, sending a sense of electricity up his spine. They were not from any language spoken by men or xenos, not for a thousand years.
They were words of unholy power, dark and terrible.
The wound where the blade cut into the man's flesh parted a liquid seeped out that wasn't blood. It was too pink for human blood and smelled more like aged wine, though it still smelled as sour. Sørian pulled out the blade and drank the seeping blood. The scent and flavor was only an illusion, he could still taste the foul earthy taste of copper beneath it. It was a weak illusion but it was enough to complete the ritual.
His arm popped back into place and the flesh knit together in front of his eyes. Sørian fed hungrily at the man's life blood and with it healed his own wounds. Inch by inch, second by second he restored his body to wellness.
The ugly man let out betrayed gurgles of disbelief as the life slowly died from the his eyes. Sørian drank, and drank, and drank glad for the man's strength. The was a time where Sørian would have regretted sacrificing another human being in the name of his own survival but that time was long gone.
It was a shame he had to die, Sørian did not wish him ill, but he couldn't allow anything to get in the way of his revenge.
Sørian stood up, twisting the stiffness out of his neck with a satisfying series of pops. Death only made the old man slightly less attractive, thought Sørian. The man's smock hung in a far more flattering way over the recently mummified flesh of the dead.
Sørian's own clothing too was in a far better sate then they had been only moments ago. Far from being stained with the blood and detris, his robes were as fresh and clean as they'd ever been.
"A fitting boon," chuckled Sørian as he rand his fingers through his own hair. The remains of what had once been trash fell to the ground in a shower of powdered gold dust.
Sørian picked up the man's corpse and tossed it down the trash chute. It would likely be covered with the collected debris of thousands long before anyone bothered to check it, at which point he should be long gone. The mans body thudded heavily as it fell through the chute, the metal toes of the corpse's boots echoing off the sides.
As he walked away, following the deep intuitive sense of need he realized idly that he hadn't even bothered to ask the man's name. It was just as well he supposed. One did not want to know the name of one's food.
Montgomery's glibness about the whole situation was comforting. Zack hadn't ever been a particularly religious person but there was something distinctly disconcerting about being on a hunt for demons. Montgomery had been raised in a strict Catholic family his entire childhood and gone to Catholic school for proper religious instruction, ironically the perfect breeding ground for an atheist.
And boy was Montgomery an athiest.
"Religion," groaned Montgomery as he ducked under one of the various curtains the denizens of brown sector were so fond of hanging from the ceiling for privacy. A squat something with bug eyes and a long proboscis of a nose hissed, tittering angrily at having been disturbed while eating, "Yeah, yeah same to you," he looked back towards Zack, "There's nothing to it but a bunch of superstition and worries."
"I dunno man," Zack clicked his tongue off his teeth as he eyed a particularly shifty looking pair of Golians that were looking too chummy with one of N'Grath's underlings, a particularly ugly oversized alien thug with a thick horn. The insectoid crime lord of Babylon 5 had been curiously quiet in the past couple months, uncharacteristically so considering Garibaldi's absence, "Something sure made one heck of a noise. And if it looks like a duck, quacks like a duck, and lets loose scary freaking screams like a duck it might be a demon."
"I heard a weird noise, sure," Montgomery raised a finger to his temple, "But that doesn't mean that I've lost my mind. "
"What's that supposed to mean?" Zach checked his watch. It would be another three hours of this drudgery before he got to leave brown sector, "Dumb it down for us mere mortals okay?"
"If you hear hoofbeats its better to think horse than zebra," Montgomery waved off Zach's credulity, "The Imperials have an agenda. And by all accounts they're smart. Hell you've seen ISN the same as me."
Zack had. ISN couldn't get enough of speculating about the origins and culture of the Empire. It was largely conjecture and speculation at this point, of course. Supposedly they'd be doing some sort of in depth report on the information that the Earth Alliance had been provided by the Inquisitor once it passed through the senate. But not having actual facts wasn't about to stop ISN.
"Man you're smarter than that," Zack laughed, "Have you seen a reporter on station anywhere near the Inquisitor and his crew? Heck have you seen one on the station at all? The chief would have had a fit if one of them snuck in without him knowing."
"Fair enough," Montgomery shrugged, "But that doesn't mean they aren't on to something. The Inquisitor has an agenda, same as anyone else. And it doesn't seem beyond them to have the ability to do something that looks like a demon attack. This is a society that uses re-animated corpses for cargo loaders."
"I'm not looking forward to having more to do with the Imperials in the future," Zack admitted thinking of the floating skulls, "The whole recycled people thing is just a bit to icky for me."
Montgomery chucked, "Dunno, I sure as hell like their dress code."
"She was a corpse," Zack's face twisted up in disgust, "Do we really have to talk about it still?"
Zach tired to focus on what it was about the corpse that made him feel so uneasy, but it wouldn't come to him. He was saved having to explain the confusing mess of feelings that the servitor made him feel by the approach of N'Grath's underling.
The alien towered over the two security guards but made no overt hostile motions. Zack made sure his hand rested on the handle of his pistol just in case. N'Grath was dangerous, his employees more so. More than one member of station security had simply "disappeared" over the years. It was a safe bet N'Grath had a hand involved in every one.
"My employer has information that you require," the thug said in a shrill voice that sounded like he'd spent most of his early life consuming helium. His expression clearly indicated he was used to being obeyed in spite it.
"Yeah I'll bet," snorted Zack. N'Grath often offered dubious information at premium prices but never to security. He might very well triple the price out of pure spite, "We aren't buying."
"Good, he isn't selling," snarled the giant in his girlish soprano, "N'Grath doesn't like murder. It's bad for business. Last time I checked you were on board for that as well."
Zack sobered instantly, shooting a look of alarm to Montgomery, "Why hasn't it been reported to security?"
The giant shot a withering look at Zack and said, in the sort of voice one might use with the mentally handicapped, "That is what I'm doing right now."
"Ah," Zack replied lamely, "I guess you are."
Montgomery, substantially more coherent under the circumstances asked the obvious question, "Where is the murder?"
"Not here," the thug offered unhelpfully before turning his back on them and walking away, clearly intending for the two of them to follow. Montgomery shrugged and fell into step after the alien. Zack double tapped the locator beacon on his belt to activate it and followed suit.
"Allan and Montgomery deviating from set patrols to investigate a potential disturbance," he muttered into his link, "We are proceeding with caution."
"Copy," echoed the on duty officer, "Over and out."
Montgomery whispered worriedly to Zack, "Don't look now, but tiny seems to have brothers and sisters."
A trio of horned aliens, much like the one guiding Zack and Montgomery were walking behind them at a relaxed pace, not so fast that they would be obvious in the crowd and not so slowly that they could be mistaken for doing anything other than following them.
The alien crime lord went out of his way to make sure that he wasn't remotely connected to anything on station. He was too smart for that, too dedicated to the collection of power. He was certainly too smart to try an ambush as ham fisted as asking two security officers to walk into a dark room.
N'Grath had to know that Zack already reported in. So what was the point in making it that obvious? "They're bodyguards," Zach blinked in incredulity and whispered to himself, "N'Grath has given us bodyguards."
The alien's head jerked. It was a subtle motion but enough to show Zack his guess was on the mark. Something had N'Grath spooked enough that he needed Garibaldi's help. This was a public declaration of support for Garibaldi's investigations. And he clearly meant for Garibaldi to know it.
"This can't be good," Montgomery nodded to the entrance of a brown sector apartment complex. Another five muscular bruisers of various species were standing out front, looking distinctly green at the gills.
"Nope," Agreed Zach as he stared at a Yolu with an expression of outright horror on its face slumped next to the door with his head between its knees, heaving and trying to keep from vomiting, "Not good at all."
Zack walked through the door and into hell itself. Montgomery swore and ran outside into the corridor where he vomited behind a support beam. Zack nearly joined him but managed, just barely, to keep his stomach in check in spite of the veritable olfactory assault.
Tiny and the other bruisers had done a decent job of keeping the crime scene, though it was unclear what there actually was to preserve. The walls, the ceiling, and the floor were covered in blood and organs. Some sick bastard positioned the severed limbs of eight bodies into an eight pointed star, with a head at each point.
Zack inhaled in shock, slate air tasting of soured blood and regret filling his mouth and nose. The pungent coppery taste of blood was in the very air itself, a bitter sanguinary sorrowful morass. "Focus Zack," he scrunched his eyes shut and shoved the fear into the back of his mind muttering under his breath, "Getting scared won't help anyone. Focus."
He opened his eyes, searching for clues. Few were forthcoming under the circumstances. They seemed to be human but it was hard to tell with all the blood. God was there really that much blood in a human body? It seemed impossible that a human could actually have that much blood. Was there that much hot, sticky, horrible... Zack swallowed.
This wasn't helping. He needed to focus on doing something. Running back to his quarters, crawling under the bed, and crying for a few days seemed like a great option.
But he didn't do that. He didn't run. He didn't cry. He didn't even swear. He was just too damn afraid to do that. No, what he did was pull out his note-pad and start writing down everything he saw. Writing was good. When he wrote it let him distill the situation down to its individual facts. And none of the facts were as scary as the whole.
If he focused on the small details while not considering the whole picture it would let him keep control of the situation. He cleared his throat and looked at Tiny, "Who were they?"
Tiny sighed as he looked at the bodies, his morose soprano seemed less comical under the circumstances, "We aren't really sure. The apartment is rented by the hour. And the guy who rents it is that one," he pointed to the third point in the start, "We're pretty sure he was the first victim... well that or the last."
"Why do you say that?" Zack vaguely recognized the man. He could swear that he'd seem him in Dr. Franklin's clinic not long ago, though anything Franklin had spoken with him about was probably covered under doctor-patient privilege.
"Rented by the hour remember? Mark collected half his fee before and half his fee after," the thug clicked his talon tipped fingers on the horn protruding from his head, a nervous grooming gesture, "The people who rented space from Mark paid extra for... considerations. Mark's clients were very protective of their privacy."
Criminals then, or at least people engaging in questionable activities. Mark, the owner, would have been smart enough to know not to risk wandering in on dust dealers or extortionists. Or worse, if the sloping drain at the center of the room was any indication.
"The killer wanted us to see this. Or he knew someone would see it and didn't care. Disposing of a body from this room would be easy," Zack said to nobody in particular. Tiny stood still, his face betraying no hint of comprehension or interest. Zack rolled his eyes, "Montgomery you alright?"
The other officer had returned to the scene of the crime, pale faced and covered in small flecks of his own sick. Montgomery stared at the star in utter contempt, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like scripture. Zack snapped his fingers in front of Montgomery's face, "Montgomery! Man are you okay?"
"I'm... fine," Montgomery wiped his lips on his right sleeve, "I should be okay... well not okay. You know what I mean."
Zack did. It seemed unlikely anything else would feel alright until they'd caught the sicko who'd murdered these people and put him behind bars. Zack looked at tiny, "Ok, Tiny. What in the hell happened here?"
Tiny scrunched his face up in what could have been either contemplation or agony, brows furrowed about a protuberant horn. Thinking didn't seem to be a skill Tiny was often called upon to do, "Off the record?"
"Sure," Zack wouldn't be able to use anything that Tiny said as evidence but Tiny clearly wasn't planning on providing him anything useful otherwise, "Off the record."
"Off the record there is something scaring the crap out of everyone in brown sector. Nobody's seen it but we know it's there," Tiny looked over his shoulder, dark eyes narrowed in concentration. No, not concentration, fear. Tiny, all three hundred pounds of him, was terrified. The giant lowered his voice as though he were afraid he might be heard speaking, "We can hear it whispering."
"We all heard the scream," Zack sighed, "I can assure you that we can guarantee there is nothing to worry about, the Inquisitor has been arrested."
"Don't you give me any useless lines," Tiny pointed at the pile of corpses his voice raised in anger, "About there being nothing to worry about. These people didn't kill themselves."
Zack's retort was cut off by the excited voice of Montgomery. The officer had wandered though the charnel on tip toe, doing his best not to disturb the remains, "Hey Allan! There's something in the middle of the circle of bodies."
Zack looked back at tiny, "Has anyone been in here other than us?"
"N'Gath made it clear to us that we were to keep everything untouched for you. He didn't want evidence going astray. You might get the wrong idea about his own legitimate business interests," Tiny said, straight faced. , "We haven't touched or moved anything."
Zack stifled a pithy retort. No doubt N'Gath had his men remove anything that could have traced back to the crime boss, though it seemed unlikely anyone could have walked into the circle without leaving finger prints. But not all N'Gaths enfocers had fingers.
Montgomery made a surprised noise.
"What is it Montgomery?" Zack strained to see what the other officer was looking at. There was a faint glimmer of gold beneath the blood and offal in the center of the grim tableau. Montgomery pulled a set of latex gloves off his belt and reached down, pulling up a golden coin and palming it in his hand.
"Dunno," Montgomery wiped it off with his hand, "It's gold... old too by the look of it, real old. There's something written on it. I can just barely read it." He rubbed at the coin vigorously with his thumb, "It's covered in too much blood I just need to... to wipe it off."
"Montgomery bag the coin and leave it for the forensics computer," Zack tasted the foetid taste of meal again and wretched slightly. He was fast reaching his limits for how long he could stand being in the room, "Let's get out of here and get some backup."
Montgomery continued rubbing the coin aggressively, entirely unimpressed by Zack's suggestion, "Sir it's already coming off, just give me another second."
"Montgomery I want to get the heck out of this freak show," Zack walked over to Montgomery and grabbed him by the shoulder, "We need to go."
"No!" Montgomery slapped Zack's hand away, "I need to figure this out."
"Woah," Zack pulled back in shock, hand's raised in a placating way, "Get a hold of yourself Montgomery, we aren't going to solve this right this second. We're too emotional. Just take a step back and relax, okay?"
Montgomery did quite the opposite, clutching the coin within his clenched fist as though he feared it might disappear at any moment and moving to the center of the circle, "I see what this is! It's a set up. You're with N'Gath! You're going to kill me and steal what's mine!"
Zack stared into Montgomery's wide, blood-shot eyes in shock and confusion. What in the heck just happened? Zack tried walking towards Montgomery and asking, "Man what in the heck are you talking about?" but only got so far as "Man what ar-" before Montgomery pulled out his PPG and pointed it at Zack's head.
"I see through you and your lies," Montgomery leered with hateful eyes that had no place on the kind man's face. His hand shook, his finger already on the trigger. The soft low whine of charging power reverberated in the crime scene, portentous and foreboding.
"Put down the gun Montgomery," Zack tried his best to comprehend what was going on while sharing a baffled look with Tiny, "We can talk about this. What is going on?"
"The time for talking is long past," Montgomery laughed. It was high and cruel, wholly unlike Montgomery. Montgomery had an earthy laugh that almost always held the promise of paying for the next round of drink, "I see you for what you are!"
"You want to share with the rest of the class here Montgomery? Because you've clearly read a couple of chapters I missed and I feel like you at least owe me a cliffs notes version of what in the heck is going on," Zack kept his hands up and away from his own firearm, careful not to make anything resembling a threatening movement.
"You... you know what is going on," Montgomery faltered slightly, clarity returning to his eyes, "You're with them. You're coming for me."
"Who are they Montgomery?" Zack slowly walked towards Montgomery, inching forwards to where he'd be able to grab the firearm, "Who am I with?"
"Them..." Montgomery floundered and looked at his clenched fist in confusion, "You're with them..."
"No," Zack continued to inch forwards, "I'm with you. I'm your friend. I'm your partner."
"Partner..." Montgomery said vaugely, "Yes... you are my part..." Montgomery recoiled when Zack got within reach of snatching the firearm from his hand, "Like hell you are! Nobody tires to get one up on me you hear! Nobody!"
Zack closed his eyes as he felt the cool barrel of the PPG shoved up into the nape of his neck. Montgomery was exuding hatred and confusion, the sort of wild erratic thinking that he associated with taking dust or heroin.
It was just as Zack became uncomfortably aware that Montgomery was actually going to shoot him that Tiny made his move. The giant alien charged head first, catching Montgomery at the waist with his horned head and tossing him backwards into the circle.
"Thanks," Zack sighed as he pulled Montgomery's now discarded PPG off the ground and stared at his partner in confusion, "I appreciate it."
"What was that?" Asked Tiny, the giant was rubbing his knuckles with clear glee apparently weighing the possibility that Zack would allow him to hit Montgomery again.
"I honestly haven't got the slightest clue," Zack approached his partner the way one might approach a spooked animal, slowly and with deliberate motions. Montgomery was sitting on the ground, his legs splayed in front of him, staring at the coin in his hand.
"I understand now," he muttered in a sing song chuckle. A thin trickle of blood dripped down his palm from where the golden coin cut into his flesh, "I can hear the song."
"Montgomery?" Zack stared at the wound in confusion. The blood trailing out of Montgomery's hand was discharging a purplish foul smelling trail of smoke. Sparks of electricity erupted from the coin and up his skin, burning away his uniform and fulling the room with the smell of cooking flesh.
Montgomery dragged himself foreword towards the circle, cackling manically. Zack tried to run forward to help Montgomery, to pull off the coin, to douse the green flames that were starting to consume his partners body but he was stopped. Tiny grabbed him in one elephantine hand and dragged him from the room.
"No," Zack struggled against Tiny, "I have to help him. I have to help him."
"He's gone Officer," Tiny stared at the burning man in abject horror, "That is not your friend. By the Gods I swear it."
Zack swung the PPG in his hand around and pointed it at Tiny and growled in his most menacing tones, "Let. Me. Go." He wasn't going to let some superstition stop him from helping Montgomery if he could.
Tiny tried to snatch the PPG out of his hand, swearing loudly, "Foolish man thing I'm helping you! Listen to -" Tiny didn't finish his sentence. Something blurred and emerged from the entrance to the hallway, a veiled glimmering form of shadows and nothingness. It reached into tiny's head and removed his brain, crushing the bulbous mass of grey matter with contemptuous ease.
Zack fell to the ground and crab walked away from the door.
A dark hissing sound like escaping steam echoed from the mass of shadows, a dismissive noise full of satirical loathing. Zack pulled up his PPG and fired into the shadow but the blue bursts of energy simply rolled around the creature's body, no more potent to the creature than a bee's sting.
A hoarse laugh worked it's way out of Montgomery's charred and cracked lips where he sat cross legged in the center of the circle. The man had been reduced to a blackened and bloodied homunculus, barely reminiscent of what he had once been. White teeth, stained with blackened blood flashed and glimmered in the light of the unnatural green flame, "You should have run while you had the chance mortal."
"Montgomery what the hell is going on," Zack stood up and continued to fire at the shadowy form with Montgomery's side arm. A wave of panic, stronger than any he'd ever felt was seeping into his very marrow. If this wasn't a demon he damn well didn't know what was.
"A new beginning," Montgomery's body chuckled, though it was abundantly clear to Zack that Montgomery stopped being in control the second he touched the coin. The entire ritual murder had been a trap, a trick to get someone to pick up the coin, "We are becoming something greater than ourselves. You shall too. Serve your new god and new order and you will find that we are not without compassion."
"Sure," Zack stared down the demon, "Join me and we shall rule the universe together?"
"No," the creature laughed through Montgomery's lips, a reverberating whistling croon that was inappropriate for human vocal chords, "Not together, but I will permit you to serve me without devouring you."
"Yeah," Zack grabbed his own side arm off his belt with his left hand and pointed both guns at the creature, "Making a deal with the devil isn't exactly my style."
The creature chortled eagerly, "Are you sure you cannot be convinced to see the foolishness of your stubbornness?"
"Kiss my ass Lucifer," Zack spat in the creature's face and started the Lord's Prayer while firing with both guns. The demon snarled in fury, and rushed for the circle. It liquified and shifted into something etherial, a vaporous cloud of ichorous smoke twisted with sulfurous fire. The cloud billowed towards Montgomery's open mouth and charred body.
The not-Montgomery convulsed at the center of the circle as the collected human remains spread out across the room liquified and started flowing into his body. Montgomery's body soaked up the body like a sponge. His limbs shifted, cracking as audibly and bones and cartilage formed in places no human body had a right to have them.
Zack squeezed the triggers to his PPGs over and over again, firing into the bulging and cackling mass of flesh. He wasn't sure when the guns stopped firing but he continued to stand there pulling the triggers long after the charge capsules clicked empty. His throat was ragged and parched from screaming prayers, but he continued to rasp the holy words.
And then he was moving backwards, a firm pair of taloned hands grasping him by the shoulders and dragging him towards the door. He was too terrified to resist, allowing himself to be directed out of the room.
His begrudging hauler muttered angrily into his ear, startling him back into consciousness, "Come foolish man thing, come with Vira'capac. Foolish man thing fights when the wise run. There is no honor in allowing the tainted to consume you."
It was the Inquisitor's bird man. He stood in the charnel house stoic and unimpressed, an impassive an oasis of calm and clarity. Vira'capac eyed at the teeming mass of flesh in the distance in hatred, cool calculating slitted eyes darting around the room as he dragged Zack out out.
The slowly seeping screams of offal and flesh parted a hands breadth from the Kroot's feet, dark demonic energies unable to touch him as they flickered about the room. The leaping green fire twisted harmlessly around the Kroot, seemingly afraid to touch him.
"What is it," Zack screamed as Vira'capac tossed him bodily into the hallway. He landed hard on the deck and looked around, praying to wake up from the nightmare. The thugs he'd feared only minutes ago were spread out around the hall, their eyes glazed over in death. Their corpses were oddly flat, as though someone had deflated a balloon, "What in the hell is it?"
"The man thing already knows even if he won't say it out loud. Vira'capac cannot waste time in educating a man on what he already knows," The Kroot fiddled with a round object the size of an apple from a leather pouch at his waist. He bit at the top of it, tearing a metal pin out, and tossed the grenade into the room before slamming the door closed and locking it.
The muffled sound of an explosion and a piercing howl of annoyance echoed from behind the pressure door as the Kroot ripped out the door lock controls, "Can the man thing walk?"
"Yes," Zack stood up under his own power, though his legs felt like they could give out from fear at any moment. The cloudy red eyes of a former Narn stared at him pleadingly in death, "I can walk."
"Good," Vira'capac rifled through the belongings on the corpses, pulling a blatantly illegal plasma rifle concealed in a dead street tough's jacket and shouldering it, "Get to the other man things and get them armed and armored."
The locked pressure door shook under the pressure of being struck from the other side, Vira'capac's grenade apparently had only annoyed the demon. Zack stared at the door in horror. It was going to kill them, Zack just knew it. The Kroot grabbed Zack by his shirt and shook him, "Man thing get ahold of yourself. Man thing must go. Man thing must go now or we will all die."
Zack turned from the Kroot and ran as fast as his legs would take him. It would not be till hours later that he realized that he'd never though to ask where the Kroot had gotten the grenades or how it had known were to find him, by which time it would be too late to ask.
Shemn was a miserable self important toad of a man but he was never without purpose. It was with this in mind that when Kerrigan discovered that the Navigator had been making modifications to the ship's engines that she resisted the immediate urge to order him shot in the head for meddling with her precious machines and instead made the short trip to the ship's warp engines.
The warp field stabilization generator wasn't really an engine, it was more a metaphysical knife. A ship's warp drive tore a hole in the fabric of reality into a parallel dimension that lay just beneath the material world known as the immaterial realms. The bounty's warp drive was a golden tower six stories tall wrapped in hexagrammic ward shields and dedicated six layer void shield failsafe.
On any ship it was the most vital, and most dangerous, device on board. Were a saboteur to ever gain access to the warp drives directly they could very well open a hole in the fabric of reality inside the ship, circumventing the gellar fields and sucking the bounty into the deepest depths of hell itself.
It sat in a re-enforced chamber at the center of the ship behind ten separate adamantium bulk heads guarded by a small army of servitors, tech-priests, security guards, and Lionhearts. It still felt inadequate for the danger that the device actually presented.
Of all the machines Kerrigan tended to warp drives were the machine that reminded her most of the power and fury of the Omnissiah, tools of the worthy and weapons of the wholly corrupt. Cracked or damaged a warp reactor could condemn the entire ship to death, or worse, in the depths of the void. Even the most demented of saboteurs avoided that.
It was enough to turn one's stomach. Well it would have been if Kerrigan still had a stomach. Just as well that she didn't have one, this would hardly have been the time to start getting queasy.
She was planning on accusing a Navigator of borderline heresy after all.
He wasn't hard to find. The eager tech adepts were standing around the pale and lean profiled Navigator, listening to every word with wrapped attention as he gestured to something that looked suspiciously like a hololithic projection of alliance technical data.
Kerrigan strode past the final security check-point into the warp engines and bellowed as loud as her vox unit would permit in the direction of a small crowd of tech priests., "Navigator Shemn, I insist that you explain why you are co-opting my Enginseers this instant."
The Navigator did not immediately acknowledge her, instead pulling a pinch out of his snuff box and inhaling it. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, nursing a long suffering expression and muttering something in the language of the Navigators under his breath. Kerrigan stood behind him, arms crossed in fury, glaring at the Enginseers.
The navigator swore and turned to face the Magos once it became abundantly clear Kerrigan held no intention of leaving without an answer and the Enginseers would not risk her wrath. The pale man's frigid gaze gave no hints to his mind as the ticking of a pocket-watch punctuated the silence with a smooth tick-tock. It hung from a silver string that clashed with the the garish orange and white lace of his shirt and the black silk of his coat.
He smiled, translucent lips pulling back over dark purple gums and teeth like aged ivory. The navigator's smile was like the rest of him, unnaturally stretched and strained for such a slight frame. For a diminutive man he exuded the same predatory malice as a shark of the primordial Terran sea.
"Magos," he chortled as though his plan had been to invite Kerrigan all along, "How delightful to see you." The man wielded sincerity the way some men might have carried a battle axe. In a battle of tongues Kerrigan might find herself outmatched, so she decided not to bother with one.
Kerrigan punched Shemn in the face, knocking the astounded Navigator to the ground. The Navigator squealed like a stuck boar as Kerrigan grabbed him and lifted him into the air with a mechanical tentacle and shook him. She shook him back and forth till he begged her to stop then dropped him to the floor.
"Magos," One of the Enginseers said in fearful tones of astonishment, "He is a Navigator. One does not harm a navigator. It... it just isn't done."
"Clearly," droned the sarcastic drawl of Navigator Shemn as he wiped the blood from his nose with a silken handkerchief, "You are mistaken. It can be done and it has been done in front of you."
"I do not appreciate someone forging work orders Navigator," Kerrigan reached down and helped the Navigator to his feet, "Especially when it is the Enginseers I've given the job of testing the repaired shield generators."
"I forged no orders," the Navigator bristled, managing to look haughty in spite of a broken nose, "Navigators have equal authority to assign Enginseers to duties relating to the maintenance or modification of the warp technologies of the ship."
Kerrigan slapped him across the face again with the broad side of her augmentic hand. It collided with a panful thunk, "We sustained damage to the warp drives and you're only telling me about this now? By the Omnissiah's cog I would have been here myself had I known."
"It is not damage as such," Shemn spat a bloody hunk of phlegm, backing out of the Mago's reach as he hedged around the issue nervously, "It's more of an issue of checking the functionality of an more... esoteric system."
"Navigator if you are trying to hide behind technical jargon save your breath," Kerrigan stormed past Shemn. The man vastly over estimated his own authority if he expected her to just go away with a vague explanation, "What are you doing to this ship?"
"Magos I am bound by the authority of my office not to reveal the secrets of my trade to anyone," the Navigator rushed in front of Kerrigan and barred her path with his body, his eyes hard and his thin arms outstretched. It was a symbolic gesture at best but it showed a level of bravery she had not expected from the Navigator.
Kerrigan lifted the Navigator for a second time, "And I am bound by mine to bounce your uncooperative head off the side of the warp reactor's void shields until you change your mind. How does that sound?"
"Magos," hissed a sibilant voice. Head Navigator Illrich and Zorn Calven stood on a raised marble platform in the center of the room at a wide table of adamantium covered in golden painted lions. A few Enginseers stood near them, nervously looking from the Navigators to the Magos unsure what they ought to do. She'd missed them when she entered, the glare of the reactor's power supply having hidden them.
Illrich's chiopterian features were stoic but his eyes flashed with amused severity, "While I have no especial love for my bother navigator I would prefer that you did not harm him simply because he is too stubborn for his own good. The personal consequences of harming a navigator without sufficient cause would be unpleasant."
"The personal consequences of being declared an excommunicate techo-heretic are no less damning honored Navigator," Kerrigan scoffed, "Or do you forget my status?" Hopefully he had, otherwise the threat of an exiled Magos would be laughable. Kerrigan could no more challenge the testimony of three navigators than grow wings and fly.
"Perhaps compromise is best," Calven said in a slightly long suffering tone, "Seeing as how nobody has anything worth losing except their own stubbornness." The last word was directed at Shemn with outright contempt.
"Navigator Illrich we cannot mean to reveal it to her," Shemn began to protest but was silenced by a firm jerk of the mechandrite that held him. Kerrigan glared at him and made a shushing gesture with her right hand against where her lips had once been.
Calven rolled his eyes, "Shemn, we're going to tell her about the engines. The rest of it is for our order alone. I doubt the Magos gives two figs what we do as long as we aren't screwing around with the works of the Omnissah. " Calven didn't give Shemn the chance to reply as he offered the Magos space at the table with a wave of his arm.
Kerrigan approached the platform, raising herself to the table and depositing the Navigator with his fellows in one smooth gesture. Shemn muttered darkly as Calven helped him to his feet. Kerrigan ignored the Navigator's sullen mutters and stared intently at the technical readouts in front of the navigators, surprised at their accuracy.
"Where in the Emperor's name did you get these?" Kerrigan ran a finger over the blueprints with loving care. The drawings were hand done, not printouts and clearly not done by a servitor. They were the sort of swooping curves and jittery angles that could only be managed with a keen eye and an imperfect hand, "They have to be ancient... I've seen scrolls like this in the libraries of Oita."
"An STC blueprint," Illrich said with pride as he ran a hand over the aged scroll, "The blueprints used in the construction of this very ship. The ship builders of Damascus were cleverer than most, and the engines have numerous additions they chose not to include in the standard plans entered into the ship's database."
"You realize that's heresy in the eyes of my order," Kerrigan sighed as she took in the beauty of the ships systems. They'd simplified, modified, and improved a number of systems that had been badly in need of modernization, "I should have you in irons for this."
"No Magos, it is not. Not if it is done by the house of Navigators. Not if it has to do with our arts specifically," Zorn Calven chuckled, "It's the slightest of loopholes but it is no less legal."
Kerrigan grunted unconvinced, "And what is it that you've got my men here to do?"
Calven pointed to a junction between the reactor's feedback loop and the primary drive coil of the warp engines. There was a vestigial system nestled between two void shields and a hexagrammic ward. A common enough one for most warp drives but hardly worth changing work orders from more vital tasks.
"That one," Kerrigan said in outright bemusement, "Why are you re-directing men from repairing the shields to repair that system? It's a relic. We don't know what it does, unless you count draining power as a function. Most modern warships remove that relic entirely."
"Kerrigan," tutted Illrich in a bemused voice, "I'm surprised at you. Haven't you been studying the blueprints sent over by the Alliance as a show of good faith?"
"Half the ship is in disarray, those few Enginseers who aren't dead or wounded have been co-opted for some foolishness thought up by moon-brained navigators and to top it all off I've lost half the ships work servitors to taking in cargo," Kerrigan balled her fists and counted back from one thousand in her head. Punching another navigator would be cathartic but impractical in the long run, "No navigator I have not been reading the cultural exchange files sent by the Alliance."
"A pity," Illrich pulled out the data-slate he kept in a satchel at his waste. He tapped a couple of activation runes and handed it over to Kerrigan. The Magos took it and stared at it.
She'd began to ask, "What does this have to do with-" when she looked from the slate, to the blueprints, and back again. The were the same. The redundant system operated on the exact same principles as the hyperspace generators of the alliance, "By the Omnissah."
"My feelings entirely," Zorn nodded, "It would seem that one of the more elusive technologies from the Dark Age has been within our grip for centuries."
"How could... how could this be possible?" The very idea that the Adeptus Mechanicus could have something this monumental and not know about it was staggering. It had been not long ago that Kerrigan had written a paper on the necessity of removing vestigial systems with unknown functions.
She would have to revisit her entire premise.
"I suspect that the ancestors gave up hyperspace for good reason," Calven chewed the inside of his lip, "There were many technologies that we gave up in battling the Men of Stone and Men of Iron. Perhaps there is something about hyperspace that they were able to exploit."
"It doesn't bode well that they use a technology the first of the tech-priests on Mars chose to discontinue in the war of Iron and Stone," Kerrigan said with uncertainty, "They would not rob humanity of so potent a technology without reason."
"Whatever their reason might have been it seems obvious that we need to re-activate the machine as soon as is practical," Shemn said with a hungry glace at the blueprints. The creation of a stable method of faster than light travel not requiring entry to the warp would be a boon beyond measure for the house of navigators.
"Soon..." Kerrigan nodded in thought, " But not now. We are in too weak of a position to be experimenting with something this dangerous."
Shemn swore angrily, "Magos you haven't the authority to stop us."
"Don't I?" Kerrigan looked around the room, staring into the embarrassed faces of the Enginseers. None of them met her gaze, though a couple briefly tried and failed. They would not disobey the will of a Magos outright, even a Magos in exile, "I believe you overstep your place Navigator. You do have the authority to issue work orders, as much as you wish. I however have the ability to countermand orders and you do not."
"Magos please reconsider," Illirch's inhuman face fell, the drooping flesh beneath his three eyes flopping morosely.
"It is not forever but I really must insist that you wait," Kerrigan sighed and looked longingly at the blueprints, "We must wait."
Shemn opened his mouth to argue but was silenced by Calven's stern look. Zorn had not missed the longing in her voice. She wanted the secrets of hyperspace as badly as he the Navigators did. But there was a time and a place for everything, this was neither.
Kerrigan nearly jumped out of her robes as the hand-held communicator strapped to her belt chimed loudly and unexpectedly, its loud klaxon cutting off any argument. She pulled the wailing communicator from her side and flipped it open, staring into the machine's screen.
As she read the content of the message her shock at receiving a message on her personal communicator was canceled out by her anger. The Skitarii's message had been short and to the point. He'd clearly feared that it would be either jammed or intercepted by the Alliance.
It had consisted of one word.
Demon.
Not the sort of thing Cairn would send to her without provocation.
"If you'll pardon me gentlemen, Skitarii Thross just sent me a missive that must be attended to. Good day," Kerrigan did not wait for the Navigator's sullen goodbyes before turning on her heel and all but sprinting towards Tuul and the docking bay.
There was much to do.
The Captain's silent appraisal of the situation was more threatening than shouting could ever have been. An empty glass of something that smelled vaguely of brandy was clenched so tight in Sheridan's hand that the crystal was in danger of cracking.
Michael had never seen the Captain this angry. He was very glad that the captains ire was not directed at him.
"Miss Winters," Sheridan pressed his index and forefinger against the spot where his temples met, "Do you have any idea of the diplomatic situation you are putting me in? Of the danger?"
"I am obligated to enforce the laws of the Psi Corps," Miss Winters started but Captain Sheridan cut her off with a raised hand. His teeth were bared into something vaguely like a grin. It was more menacing than friendly, a forced half grimace rather than a smile.
"On psychics from the Earth Alliance. You are obligated to enforce those laws on members of the Earth Alliance. The Inquisitor is not a member of the Earth Alliance," Captain Sheridan spoke in an angry simmer. His voice was calm, reasonable and entirely without sympathy, "We do not have jurisdiction to enforce those laws on a non citizen, especially a diplomat. I just spent the better part of a my week getting every senator in Earthdome who would listen of exactly that. And seeing as how I gave tacit support of his admission to the League of Non-aligned worlds I hope you understand why arresting him is a big problem."
"That's bull and you know it Captain." Michael burst out before he could stop himself. Waving his hands in the air, "I'm the last person to come out in favor of the freaking Psi Corps but I'm not about to let that self important jerk hide behind diplomatic immunity after starting a riot."
"There are bigger things at work here than a jurisdictional pissing contest Michael," Sheridan pulled a document from the table in front of him, "We're already inches away from being put under probationary status by the Joint Chiefs for what happened with Bester. We can't very well go arresting the Inquisitor for the same thing we stopped Bester from doing. Especially if we might get accused of Treason for doing it."
"Treason?" Talia blinked in shock, "For what?"
"Miss Winters. Have you been asleep for the past month?" Captain Sheridan shook his head sadly, "If the Joint Chiefs decide we do have jurisdiction to arrest them we get charged with treason for fighting Major Pierce. If they decide you don't have jurisdiction then for arresting a diplomat on false charges."
"Hell," Michael swore angrily thinking about the current political state of the Earth Alliance Senate, "Those snakes might very well just accuse us of treason to appease the Inquisitor and stop them from going to war with us. My men did their job John. I stand by everything they did. They were right and so was Talia."
"Yes," Captain Sheridan sighed, "You were. But at this point even if we let the Inquisitor go they might toss you to the wolves just to appease the League of Non-Aligned worlds."
"Can you prove that he intended to harm the woman?" Captain Sheridan stood up and paced behind Talia and Michael.
"No," Taila said, though it clearly pained her to do so. She had the most to lose if the situation deteriorated and was likely the first in line for allegations of treason, "In fact the woman is singing praises for the Inquisitor. I checked her mind myself, if he caused her any harm it was done in a way I don't recognize."
Michael cleared his throat awkwardly, "I arrested a lurker named Amis who was stationed on a deep space listening post during the war. Forty-seven men landed on that moon. All of them were slaughtered except one."
Talia shook her head, "Sad... but what does it have to do with the Inquisitor?"
"I believe Mr. Garibaldi means that Amis thinks what wiped out his post came here on the Copernicus," Sheridan stopped pacing as he considered the matter, "Maybe we're approaching this the wrong way. The Inquisitor has been speaking our language for a short time. If there are physic people then in stands to reason that there are psychic predators. Demon seems as good a word as any to use for that."
"No," Talia shifted nervously in her chair, "We haven't got any evidence to support that. Garibaldi's team ran additional sweeps of that ship on your orders. Nothing could sneak past that."
"Unless it's something we've never seen before. Something completely outside our experience, now I traced the ships path. It passed the gravitational pull of that same moon Amis was stationed on," Michael pulled out a stellar map and laid it on the table. Tracing a long while line he'd drawn on the page, "It's not too far of a leap to say whatever caused problems there might have found its way here."
The Captain cricked his neck and rubbed out the tension, "I suppose there's a reason why you're taking the word of a man you've arrested twice in the space of a day quite this seriously."
"I checked his war record. They put enough ribbons on his chest to open a gift shop." Michael had also checked the man's psych profile. Prior to his incident on the mood there had been nothing even remotely indicating anything abnormal. Amis had been a model soldier.
"Word of the demon has spread among the alien communities. The Non-aligned Worlds have called a council meeting to discuss the possibility that something came onto this station from that ship," John reached into his desk and pulled out a rosary, "This demon talk has everybody spooked, even me if it comes down to it."
Michael turned around as the door to the Captain's office opened unexpectedly and Lt. Corwin ran into the room, accidentally bumping into Talia in his haste. The Lieutenant grasped his side and gasped for breath, having apparently ran the entire way from the CnC. He stood there gasping as he struggled to articulate complete sentences, "Came as fast as I could... big problem..."
Captain Sheridan wore a look of concern on his face for the wellbeing of his subordinate, "Slow down, tell me what's wrong."
"No," Talia said in a quiet terrified voice as she stared into the Lieutenant's eyes. Apparently she'd picked up something from Corwin's mind when he'd bumped into her, "Please no." She wore a look Michael hadn't seen on Talia's face before, even at the prospect of being accused of treason. He didn't like it.
Michael deeply hoped his suspicions were wrong when he asked, "How many people are dead?"
"We don't know," the Lieutenant shook his head, "It went after the power supply for the links early on. The only concrete evidence we have is from Mr. Allan and he's currently hysterical. Dr. Franklin his helping the wounded as best he can. We've verified at least twenty fatalities so far but there are probably more, lots more."
"What is it?" the Captain reached into his desk and pulled out a PPG, "Tell me everything."
"It's big sir, we know that for sure," Lt. Corwin shuddered, "Other than that we haven't been able to get a concrete report. Big and it can apparently become invisible."
"Hell," Michael swore, "Where is it?"
"Security is looking for it in brown and grey sectors but it could be anywhere and security would have no way of telling us," the Lieutenant shook his head, "It could be anywhere."
"Lieutenant I want you to go back to the CnC," the Captain fitted the pulse cap into his gun with a satisfying click, "I want you to get someone to fix the links as quickly as you can, contact the Captain of the Beijing Beauty and route them through his ship. He's a miserable angry son of a gun but he won't leave us hanging, not when there are lives on the line. And get him to send us his Marines."
"Yes sir," the Lieutenant nodded, eager to please. The officers emotional switch was so abrupt Michael was afraid Corwin might suffer whiplash, "What will you be doing?"
"There are two people who might have a clue what is going on," the Captain shot a meaningful glance at Michael and Talia. A silent 'and you arrested them' echoed within his head in the Captain's voice without him needing to speak them, "We're going to the armory and then seeing a man about an exorcism."
"Of course we are," Talia ran a gloved hand through her silvery blonde hair, puckering red lips in frustration, "Because sanity has suddenly decided to live elsewhere."
"Life is nothing if not interesting," Michael snapped his fingers as an idea came to him. God he was so good he amazed even himself sometimes, "Corwin, can you get a station-wide life signs monitor going? For everything that even remotely resembles life as we know it?"
"I can," Lt. Corwin nodded, "But if this thing snuck past our first scans I doubt it will do much good."
"We aren't looking for the creature," Michael said in a hollow voice, devoid of his usual good humor, "We're looking for its victims."
Daul woke up in a flurry of fear and confusion, trying to stand up on the rickety cot in his cell and falling to the hard floor with an uncomfortable thwap of skin on deck. His head throbbed and his mouth tasted of cotton as he blinked the stars out of his eyes and tried to place the room he was in from his memory. His mind felt sluggish, as though he were wading through quicksand for every thought.
"Cairn," he cried out, "Cairn where are you?"
A pair of gentle hands grabbed him by the thin fabric of his shirt and helped him back to the bed. Daul could not remember ever having owned a garment this particular shade of orange, much less having worn one. Sterile and unisex, a it was uniform. It was a prison uniform.
"Miserable bitch," Daul wiped at the spittle that would not stop dribbling down his lip, "Insufferable witch, I'll draw and quarter her with my bared fists." He'd protected her, warned her. And the ungrateful snake of a woman had stolen his rebreather and used his sigils of protection against him.
The man who'd helped Daul up chuckled and handed him a paper cup full of water. Daul drank it greedily, struggling not to spill it down his front. The muscles of his cheeks and lips still slightly paralyzed from the gas, he mumbled, "Thank you Father Al'Ashir."
"It is my duty to tend to my flock," He raised an wizened brow, "Even those who get me knocked unconscious." Daul noted with chagrin that Al'Ashir was still in the robes of his office. Station security had taken away none of the holy man's personal effects.
He stood up and saw bright patches of light flare up in front of his eyes, he staggered and steadied himself with Al'Ashir's outstretched hand. A moment ago he would have thought it were just the side effects of the drugs used to knock him unconscious but he doubted that the aged Father Al'Ashir would be so without symptoms were that the case. He looked the priest in the eyes, "They did something to me didn't they?"
The priest nodded once and leaned in for a low whisper, clearly not wanting to be overheard by whatever surveillance the Alliance had in place. His voice was calm but not without worry, "They injected you while you were asleep with something. They called it..what was it...yes 'sleepers.' They called them sleepers."
Daul froze, panic overtaking him. He closed his eyes and tried to touch the warp. The void obeyed his will, but it was a pitiful example of his usual power. He'd been able to channel more energy as a novice apprentice.
They'd done it. The bastards had stripped him of his psychic powers. The effects of sleepers weren't permanent, he knew that, but the side effects of being stripped of his psychic powers while a demon was on station would not be, "No, by the Emperor no. Not now! Please not now!"
Pleading would make no difference. Daul was cut off from the warp. Al'Ashir whispered soothingly to the Inquisitor, chanting the words of Sebastian Thor. The litanies of the third veil perhaps, it was difficult to identify the chants in the Damascan High Gothic.
Daul cleared his throat and regained his composure, remembering who he was. He was not some simpering cut-purse to be slapped in irons by the local magistrate. He was an Inquisitor of the Holy Emperor of Mankind. Powers or none he was not about to let himself be defeated.
"I apologize for that," Daul did not like for anyone to have seen his moment of weakness. Cairn had seen a couple of them, but it mattered less with Cairn. Cairn felt more like an extension of himself than another person, "I don't know what came over me."
Al'Ashir gave Daul a long, calculating look before his face cracked with pity, "Inquisitor, it is our weakness that makes us human. We are all fallible creatures, if you demand perfection of yourself constantly."
"You're wrong Father," Daul felt along the edge of the cell door with his fingers, searching for latches or imperfections and finding none, "I am not a man."
"You make an ugly woman," Father Al'Ashir drummed his fingers along his holy book, "And if you're a eunuch I will be exceedingly cross that I have lost a bet."
"No what I mean is that I'm a symbol of my office..." Daul faltered as Al'Ashir's words caught up with him, "Someone wagered money that I'm an eunuch?"
"Several someones actually. I wouldn't read too far into it, mean spirited gossip is the life's blood of a ship's nobility and an Inquisitor provides infinite opportunities for rumor," Al'Ashir clucked his teeth together amusedly, "There are also several who've wagered that and the Magos are... close. More still wager that you prefer the company of the Lionhearts or the Skitarii." The Priest's face was the picture of innocence, as though he were simply discussing the price of butter or bread.
"What business is it for a preacher to be involved in wagering on my manhood?" Daul rounded on him in indignation, ready to defend his honor when he realized the subtext of the priest's wide smirk. Daul shook his head, "You're trying to distract me from my failure."
"I haven't the remotest idea what you're talking about," Al'Ashir said with total sincerity before hooting with laughter, "Is it working?"
"Yes," Daul snorted, "It is." Daul grudgingly admitted to himself that it was some small comfort to have the preacher with him. He wouldn't have wanted to be alone right now.
As a rule Vir liked the Minbari. Having spent his entire life trapped in the circles of intrigue and dark plots of the Centauri courts he found the straightforwardness of the Minbari to be gloriously refreshing. When a Minbari said something, he meant it. When a Minbari gave his word, he meant it.
This went doubly for Delenn. The Minbari Ambassador was a shining example of morality and honesty beyond compare. It was for that very reason that he hated dealing with her for official matters.
When it came to a matter of honesty Londo was invariably lacking, and regularly gave Vir specific instructions to act in kind. He did so but never without guilt, especially with Delenn. It always felt particularly dirty to have to lie to Delenn.
So it was that he found himself standing in the ships garden facing the Minbari ambassador and trying not to feel too dirty as he lied once again on behalf of Londo.
"What do you mean occupied?" The Minbari Ambassador raised an elegant brow and brushed a lock of hair away from her neck, "Surely the Ambassador realizes that we have a scheduled meeting at this time."
"I apologize for the lateness of this," Vir wrung his hands and hoped there wasn't too much sweat dripping down his brow. Oh why couldn't the Gods have made him a better liar, "Important business for the home-world has called him away. He would be here if he could."
"Odd," Delenn's lips quirked into a smile, "I'd heard a different rumor."
"Reports that Ambassador Mollari left the station in a fit of insanity are exaggerated," It wasn't entirely a lie. Wildly drunk perhaps but the Ambassador was entirely sane.
"Indeed," Delenn sighed, "Just as well he's not here. I'm not at my best today."
"Oh," Vir relaxed somewhat and wiped the sweat from his brow, "Well that's good then."
"Yes Mr. Cotto," Delenn smiled a sad little smile, "I need time alone with my thoughts."
Vir swallowed, unsure what to do he needed to say something. He couldn't just leave the Minbari there by herself in the garden with no-one to talk to. It would have been rude at the best of times and she looked like she could use a friend. He couldn't walk away from that, not when he'd been feeling quite alone himself.
"Delenn," he started awkwardly, staring into the soft brown eyes full of so much confusion. Then, before he even knew what was happening, the words started to spill out of his lips. He meant every word of them but he was flabbergasted to hear them out loud, "The Inquisitor isn't worth listening to. He never was and he never will be."
The left side of Delenn's rosy lips dimpled upwards in a pleased way that seemed altogether better suited for her face. She ran her hand through her hair, her fingers curling through her soft brown mane, "And why do you say that Mr. Cotto?"
"Ambassador... I overheard... that is to say I was there..." Vir shuffled his feet embarrassedly. He hadn't intended to overhear the Inquisitor and Minbari Ambassador talking, he'd only come back to get a file left behind by Londo. She couldn't blame him for that. Not truly. It wasn't his fault.
She continued to stare at him with the same level gaze. Not angry, not sad, not anything, she was listening without a shred of shame or pride. He wished she were angry or embarrassed. He knew what to do then, he didn't know how to deal with this calm acceptance.
She didn't seem to be indicating he should stop though. In for a penny in for a pound, as the Earthers were fond of saying. It wasn't as though he were giving away some deep state secret.
"The Inquisitor sees the world the way he wants to. He believes that nobody can be trusted, so he acts in secret and invents enemies. He believes that he is the only one who can be trusted with information, so he guards it till it is dangerous for everyone. He believes that he hasn't a friend in the world, so he's always alone," Vir didn't like how many of those comments could have been made about Ambassador Mollari with equal honestly, "Don't let him drag you down to his level Delenn. Don't let him define you."
Delenn stood up, brushing the dust from the front of her robes. They were in keeping with Minbari fashion, simple, elegant, and unpretentious. They jingled slightly with the sound of small bells sewn into the sleeves.
She did not say anything as she walked up to him and planted a soft kiss on the top of his forehead, a customary Minbari gesture of friendship. Vir blushed and muttered something incoherent. He'd intended to say something about it being no trouble but the worlds ran together and simply came out as a muddled mess of sound.
"It is alright Vir," Delenn patted him on the cheek and walked back to the bench, "I understand. And you are right, I have allowed my uncertainty to rule me. It is unbecoming of a Minbari."
"Nobody's perfect," Vir looked at the garden, searching for a new topic. His eyes focused on a white tree sitting in a bed of yellow flowers, Earther foliage recently planted.
Delenn followed his gaze and chuckled, running her fingers over the petals of the yellow flowers. She bent low and inhaled their fragrance, "There are some things of perfection in the universe Vir. One only needs to look at the most simple of living things to find it."
"The most imperfect things are always the biggest," Vir sighed looking down a a footprint at the base of the tree where some inconsiderate sentient had stepped on one of the yellow flowers with a heavy boot. The crushed petals lay there, sad and dead, "And the most dangerous."
"Vir," Delenn shook her head and picked up one of the petals he was staring at, "The flower is only gone for a little while. In time the seeds will grow into more flowers and more life. Perfect beauty need not last forever." The Minbari placidity towards death bordered on the psychotic but Vir could see the logic in it. He often saw the logic in things other Centauri would have mocked him for believing.
Warning klaxons interrupted his deep thoughts as the park's lights flickered and died. The garden fell into shadow illuminated by the distant lights of blue and red sector. Delenn stood up, a worry etched in the corners of her eyes. The soft angles of her face hardened and darkened in the shadows, giving her anxiety an ominous edge.
The door that led from the gardens into the rest of blue and green sectors closed with a resounding click-hiss of the airlock sealing. The door that lead to the opposite direction ground as though it were about to close but hissed and spat in protest as it's motor burned out. A tree branch from a short willow hung lackadaisically through the air intake vent for the aft door, effectively destroying its motor.
"Not another attack on the station," hissed Vir though clenched teeth. He looked into the shadows in bemused perturbation, "Or another riot."
"I fear not Mr. Cotto," Delenn's eyes narrowed and a soft blue bio-luminescent light illuminated a small triangle of flesh in the middle of her forehead. Her eyes were focused on something just out of sight and her hand reached for something inside her robes, "I fear that at least one of the Inquisitor's predictions was worth listening to."
"Oh..." Vir stuttered as the sound of footsteps rushed in their direction, "That would be bad."
"Yes," Delenn pulled out a silver rod from her robes and shook it, extending a meter long sliver quarterstaff. She spun it twice as though verifying its balance and held it out in front of her, ready to strike, "It would be extremely bad."
Vir looked around for something to use as a weapon. He'd left the dagger given to him by his mother in the chest in his quarters, wrapped in an old sweater. He didn't like having it with him, the presence of the blade scared him. He didn't like even thinking he was remotely capable of hurting another person.
Now that he was scared and in the dark he would have been glad for the blade.
He spotted a likely weapon behind a rose bush and grabbed it, an iron hoe fitted to a thick wooden haft. It wasn't as elegant or sleek as the Minbari's quarterstaff but it was sturdy and he was glad for it. Delenn gave Vir's weapon a brief appraising look, but said nothing.
They stood there, waiting, listening to the rapid footfalls. Thump-thud, thump-thud, thump-thud, close and closer they came. Thump-thud, thump-thud, thump-thud, there were a lot of them, ten at least. Thump-thud, thump-thud, thump-thud, they were scared. Nothing ran that fast for no reason. Thump-thud, thump-thud, thump, they were there.
Terrified looking humans rushed into the garden, they rushed past Vir and Delenn, oblivious to their weapons. They reached the closed pressure doors and beat on them, trying to claw their way through the steel door.
It didn't take long to figure out what had inspired this particular brand of fear in them. If this wasn't the demon advertised by the Inquisitor Vir would eat his own shoe.
He would have much preferred eating his shoe.
It stood three meters tall, though it was difficult to say for sure. Its flesh undulated and shifted as many fanged mouths and pincers appeared and disappeared in constant unnatural metamorphosis. The tiny faces screeched and argued with each other incessantly, warbling and complaining. They urged the creature onwards demanding hot blood and fresh meat, cursing in every language Vir had ever known.
It walked on what could have been two legs and was no more than three, though the billowing noxious shadows that leaked from the jabbering mouths made it hard to tell. In spite of the creature's oblong and impossible physical deformity it moved with a sinewy grace.
It's face swelled and billowed in shadow. Equine lips hung beneath six sets of mismatched eyes, each blinking out of turn. It was big, it was powerful, and it had no right to exist in this or any other planet. The knowledge that a creature like this even could be real was enough to make Vir's skin crawl.
And here it was, snarling and thirsting for his blood. He gripped the hoe tighter in his hands. It wasn't going to kill him without a fight. Vir wasn't strong but he was no coward, no matter how much he wanted to run.
Anyhow there wasn't exactly anywhere to run to. The only exit was behind the demon.
Delenn chanted the ancient prayers of Valeria and slammed her quarterstaff on the ground, putting herself between the demon and the people fleeing it. Vir did the same with his hoe, it was an oddly self-affirming gesture. The demon's many mouth's smiled and it stopped to observe them.
"You do not belong here servant of shadows," Delenn stared at the creature with absolute conviction. Any lingering doubt the the Minbari had felt about herself was long gone, "Go back to your masters shade of Za'ha'dum."
The demon stared at Delenn with narrowed eyes and scratched a sagging breast with a scythe-like pincer before speaking. It's voice was as unnatural as the rest of it, enticing and vile at the same time, "What is its name to speak to a god as though it were an equal?"
"I am who I am beast, and you are leaving," She cracked her staff on the ground three times in proclamation, "Now."
"No, I shall not," It whinnied, it's lips pulling back over shark-like rows of fangs, "There is much feasting to be done here before I am strong enough. Your soul shall do as well as the warp-blessed who cower behind you."
"Get back!" Delenn struck with the staff, driving the haft of her staff into the creature's belly. It sank deep into the bulbous rotten flesh of the creature, spilling a dark stream of green blood. The creature neighed in fury but smiled in victory.
The tiny pincered hands of the creature latched shot out and grabbed at Delenn, tearing the staff from her hand as she fought off the thousands of razor sharp claws. Vir rushed forward with the hoe, smacking them away from her as the two of them backed toward the cowering humans.
The creature advanced with a twisted regal satisfaction. It tore the quarterstaff from its belly with a flourish that spread its filthy blood over the garden. It burned through steel and stone as though it were acid. Where it touched things that were green and growing it turned them into ash and cinders in a flash of orange flame.
It crowed, "Pitiful."
Delenn jumped into the path of the creature's outstretched claw grabbing a human child and pulling her to the ground out of the creature's reach. Vir took the opportunity to swing the blade of the hoe into the demon's face. The cold iron blistered and burned the demon's flesh, driving it back.
Vir stabbed forward again, and again, and again with the hoe. The makeshift spear burned at the creature's belly, harrying it and keeping it at bay. The creature's tail whipped out and caught him in the stomach, tossing him to the wall and knocking the wind out of his lungs.
He thought he'd been beaten cross-eyed as his mind tried to count a sudden influx of figures in the room. He shook his head and took a couple of deep breaths before he realized that he wasn't insane, there were more people in the garden. Seven of them to be precise.
Seven very angry looking people at that.
Drazi, caught in the throes of their blood lust, rushed into the room heedless of the danger and leapt at the creature screaming, "Green follow's Green Leader!" at the top of their voices. The creature lunged for the humans but Vir tossed the hoe to Delenn.
The Minbari caught it and struck the creature on the snout, repelling it back into the mess of angry Drazi. The broad shouldered lizard men hacked and slashed at the creature with their thick daggers, oblivious to the razor sharp pincers clawing at their thick scales. It hissed in fury and skewered one of them through the chest, not so much a stab-wound as it was outright disembowelment.
The other Drazi simply fought more eagerly, emboldened by the danger. Drazi were odd like that. Disembowel someone in front of their friends and most creatures get away as quick as they can, the Drazi will charge straight for you just to prove they're stronger.
For all their bravado it was abundantly clear that the Drazi were not stronger than the creature. It decapitated a second Drazi with an almost lazy swipe of its tail and licked its chops in glee. At best they were slowing the creature down.
They would not beat it.
A third Drazi died shoving Delenn out of the way of the demon's belly as it shifted into a gaping maw. The jaws of its belly closed with a resounding snap, swallowing the Drazi whole. Vir could not stand this, he had to do something other than just watching and waiting to die. There had to be some way that he could at least help the cowering humans to escape.
The demon wanted them for something, and it couldn't possibly be something good.
"By the Gods what what am I supposed to do?" he muttered as he rubbed his chest, searching for a way out of it. His fingers found the edge of the techno-mage's amulet at his chest and he froze. It was almost too much to hope for.
In all the adrenaline and fear he'd missed the buzzing sensation coming from the necklace he wore, the clear stone hot against his breast. It was shivering and shaking, virtually begging him to touch it. He reached into his shirt and yanked out the stone.
The toadish face had changed from it's leering expression that it had worn this morning to an angry snarl. As he held it in his hand he felt the hair all over his body stand on end with the sensation of control, power and rage. The techno-mages had given him the pendant for a reason. Well, this seemed as good a time as any to test out why. He pointed the face at the demon, praying that he was right.
For a moment he stood there, pointing his open palm towards the demon and feeling silly for having expected anything to happen. It was a stone face, not a plasma turret. What had he expected? He tried to lower his arm and realized that his muscles were not obeying. Every muscle in his body was tensed up in expectation of what was to come.
And by the Gods it came, Vir could attest to that. The power of the icon swept out, catching the demon in its wake.
A gout of green flames burst from the idol, engulfing the demon and igniting it's open wounds. The creature tried to shield itself in shadow but it's sorceries were for nothing, the green flame burned past the shadow and into the many million mouths. Cancerous blood boiled and bubbled beneath the creatures cracked and burning flesh as it howled in fury.
It coiled the muscles of its legs to an impossible tightness and flung itself upwards, past the point where the ships gravity operated and over to the other side of the ship. The green flames chased it, disappearing only when the creature was at a safe distance.
The pendant in Vir's hand dissolved into dust, its power spent and purpose fulfilled. The young Centauri stared at the fine powed still clinging to the sweat of his palms. The Techo-mages may not have known what he would use the pendant on, but the had to know of the presence of demons to give him such a boon. By the Gods what other truths of the universe had he simply dismissed as myth and superstition?
"Next time start with fire. Fire work better than sticks," crowed an amused voice. The avian warrior Vira'Capac dropped from where he'd been crouching in the sprawling duct work that criss-crossed the station's irrigation system. Vir could have sworn there was nobody up there when he'd entered. The Kroot read as much in his expression, "Wise predator not seen," he cackled, "And foolish Centauri prey too busy to look."
Vir pointed at the Kroot's gun, his voice coloring with indignation, "You couldn't have used that to help?"
The Kroot stared at him with one slitted eye narrowed, as though trying to determine if Vir were stupid or simply misinformed. Vir recognized that gaze. It was how Londo looked at him most of the time. Apparently deciding that Vir was simply misinformed the Kroot shook his head in disbelief, "Vira'capac no get clear shot. Wait for clear."
"Clear! It was as big as a house, you couldn't possibly miss it." Vir waved in the vague direction the charred earth where the demon had stood. The smoldering ground smelled of brimstone and suffering but he far preferred the smell to the demon.
Delenn walked over, the hoe in her hand still at the ready. The Minbari looked into the Kroot's cool reptilian eyes and touched her thumb and forefingers together to her temple, a horrified look on her face, "You weren't aiming at the demon, were you?"
"No," Vira'capac said without any guilt in his voice, "Vira'capac was not."
The human's in the corner were only just then being coaxed out of their blind panic by the remaining Drazi, their incoherently panicking minds not wholly accepting that the demon was gone. Vir looked at the nine year old human child Delenn saved from the creature's claws and back to the Kroot's rifle. Vir gagged, "Them? Why would you shoot at them?"
"Inquisitor's decision was foolish. Insulted demon was not stupid. Fed on warp-touched, grew strong. No warp touched to rob of strength, no strength gained," Vira'capac cradled his gun, clearly considering the merits of killing the humans then and there, "Think like predator or become prey. If Inquisitor waited, struck while creature weak. Fewer dead... fewer need to die."
"You will not kill them," Delenn's voice was not a threat. It was a statement of immutable fact. She would not allow the humans to be harmed, "We must not become that creature to defeat it. If we are to be better than it then we must earn it."
Vira'capac whistled, "I see. This is good, I feared you had no spine." The Kroot said it as though he expected it to be a great compliment, "Yes, you will do nicely. Good, Vira'capac will obey for now."
Delenn tilted her head for a moment then nodded, apparently satisfied with the Kroot's promise. She turned her back on Vira'capac and walked over to the shivering humans, speaking soft words of comfort. They were going to need comfort.
Vir flinched as a distant cry echoed through the station, mewling and indistinct. The creature was on the hunt again. The creature was still on the station, and still hunting. Vir stiffened at looked to the Kroot in fearful comprehension. The creature was pursuing human telepaths and there weren't that many of them on station, "Delenn! We have to warn Miss Winters!"
A/N: As always I appreciate any input you have to give. Cheers, sorry for the lateness of this chapter.
