Kansas 2 – The Yellow Brick Road

by Soledad

Disclaimer: Babylon 5 belongs to JMS. Star Trek belongs to Gene Roddenberry. I don't own anything but the story idea.

Author's note: Yes, I decided to keep Suder alive! He was an interesting character with great potential, and it's a crying shame that he was killed off so early on.

PART 13

Whatever similarity Voyager's infamous Crewman Suder might have had with Brother Edward, it was strictly on the surface, Sheridan found, while he was explaining the man what they expected his help with. Or rather, Lon Suder probably had a lot in common with the person Brother Edward used to be, before his original personality would have been wiped out.

The Black Rose killer.

And while "Brother Edward" was admittedly an artificial construct, created using one of the several templates available for such cases, at least he had been pleasant and likeable and harmless. The man currently sitting across Sheridan was dangerous and unpredictable.

Especially as he was an alien. One that looked deceivingly human and – according to the Starfleet people – was even genetically fully compatible with humans; but still an alien.

Estimating the danger a human psychopath could represent was hard enough. Making an educated guess how an alien psychopath might react to a provocation was near impossible. Especially an alien psychopath with strong telepathic abilities, belonging to a race Sheridan had never met before.

He was walking a fine line here. A very fine line.

To his credit, Suder was clearly aware of the risk he represented. Had he not asked to be kept isolated for the rest of the crew, as a pre-emptive measure? And he was very open with Sheridan, too.

"I feel that I must warn you, Captain," he said in the soft, cultured voice of Brother Edward; it was positively eerie. "The treatment and the meditative training I have been receiving from Mr Tuvok since my latest... episode have helped me to temper my aggressions to a certain extent, but I am in no way fully healed. Perhaps I will never be. The contact with the mind of a ruthless murderer and a terrorist might cause a severe setback. I might lose control and murder them. There are no guarantees. I am dangerous. Extremely so."

"I understand that," Sheridan replied. "If you're afraid that helping us would ruin your chances to heal, I'll understand that, too. You're not obliged to do this. We can call for a Minbari telepath. It will take some time, but..."

"But time is exactly what is an issue here, isn't it?" Suder interrupted. "Lives are at stake... many lives, right?"

Sheridan nodded. „A quarter million on the station alone. More who are not here but depend on us."

"Then you cannot afford to wait," Suder said. "I'll do it. I want to help. But Captain, I don't want to kill more people. Not even criminals, who would deserve to die. Promise me one thing: have somebody with a gun outside the door and have me shot, should I lose control."

Perhaps he wasn't so different from Brother Edward, after all.

"But how could we hope to interfere in time if you choose to kill somebody telepathically?" Sheridan asked.

Suder shook his head. "I can't do that... or, at least, I don't think so. And even if I could, it isn't so easy as people might think. I can't simply make somebody die via mental order, and I'm not sure any other telepaths can; and even those few who might be capable of such things, couldn't do so without special training. No; if I lose it, I'll try to throttle these guys, or bash them over the head with a chair or something. Your people will have ample time to shoot me."

"Is it truly what you want?" Sheridan asked. Suder nodded.

"This is my only condition, Captain. I would rather die than become again who – what – I once was."

"All right, then," Sheridan said after a lengthy pause. "I'll inform Mr Garibaldi about our agreement. Some of his men are awfully fast with a gun. And thank you for taking such risks for us."

Suder nodded again. "You are welcome, Captain. I am glad to be of assistance."

Kes checked the readouts of the control panel connected to the regeneration tank before taking the lone seat next to Chakotay and saw in relief that everything was in perfect working order. From Voyager's crew, only she and Ensign Crisa Jurot, a Betazoid, could bear to stay with the commander for more than a few minutes. The sight was too unnerving for everyone else.

Only telepaths could actually sense Chakotay's presence in the deep artificial coma in which he was kept for the sake of a more speedy recovery. To everyone else – just like to Dr Hobbs – he seemed quite dead. And, unlike Dr Hobbs, the others didn't have the medical background to interpret the readouts – or to believe them.

Like most other people aboard Voyager – with the possible exceptions of Lieutenant Rollins, who still seemed to hold grudges against the ex-Maquis in general and against Chakotay in particular – Kes hoped that the commander would make a full recovery. She liked the soft-spoken executive officer – even though one could see flashes at times that explained why he'd been called the Angry Warrior among his peers – and she knew many would be devastated by his loss.

Not only the former Maquis, either. She knew she would miss him greatly, too.

But first and foremost she wished Chakotay a quick and full recovery for Dr Hobbs's sake. She could literally feel the bond between them growing stronger with each passing day, and it made her worry what would happen to Dr Hobbs, should Voyager find a way back to their own universe.

She also wondered if Dr Hobbs was aware of her own state of elogium – and if not, should she be made aware of it? Kes usually preferred not to interfere with the private life of her crewmates, and Dr Hobbs wasn't even one of them. Still, she had a certain responsibility here; one she did not want to shirk. Perhaps she should talk to Dr Hobbs when the lovely doctor next came off-duty and sit with Chakotay.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a powerful telepathic call...actually, not as much a call as a summoning. At first she was confused. The only one aboard Voyager she'd been in telepathic contact with was Tuvok, and it didn't felt like the Vulcan. It was older, much older, utterly alien – and it clearly came from outside Voyager.

Now that she had spotted the origins of the call, she could also identify the "voice": it was the aliens hip, the strange, disturbingly alive ship of the cruel Vorlon ambassador, with whom she'd had that unpleasant encounter in the docking bay. The ship was calling out to her again, and before she'd have realized what she was doing, her feet were already carrying her away from Sickbay on their own.

She'd almost reached the trap door in Voyager's belly when she came to her senses and stopped. This was a bad idea. Last time she'd given in to the lore of the call, she nearly died. Only the fact that the Vorlon hadn't been prepared for such a powerful reaction from her side had saved her life.

This time the Vorlon would be prepared. This time she wouldn't have the advantage of the surprise on her side. This time it could end badly for her.

And yet she could not resist. That first contact with the sentient ship had thrown the floodgates of her mind wide open; she had continued to grow in mental strength ever since. Tuvok's mundane exercises, the pitiful little tricks Thanis had shown her... they had been child's play compared with what she could do now; and she could feel deep within her very core that this was just the beginning.

She was growing so fast she was sometimes afraid she would burn up in the process. At the same time, though, she knew that this was meant to happen. That she was mean to outgrow her current form of existence and become... she wasn't really sure what she would become.

She only knew that this was a natural evolvement for her kind. Something that had been blocked when her people had become utterly dependent on the Caretaker and stopped using their abilities.

She was already well beyond that phase. She'd outgrown Thanis and the others, trapped in their own bodies by Suspiria's well-meant but poorly executed attempts to help them along the path of their natural evolution. She was reaching the end of her short path of corporeal existence, ready to ascend to the next level.

She could not do it without help, though. Her people had long forgotten how to shed their cocoon. But the ship... the ship had recognized her as a being on the verge of such fundamental change and nudged her along.

Perhaps the Vorlons themselves had to go through such phases a long time ago. Perhaps their youths would still do so... if there were any youths among them still. Perhaps the ship was a symbiotic life form, whose function – or one of its functions – had once been to help such transformations along. Perhaps that was why the ship – the spaceborne creature – kept calling out to her.

And she knew she would follow the summoning. By now, she had no choice. The changes had already begun – the only possible way was forward. She could not remain stuck between then and now. The Vorlon would just have to deal with it.

Climbing down the ladder that led to the docking bay floor nimbly, Kes crossed the distance between Voyager and the Vorlon ship... and waited.

Here I am, she sent the message telepathically. What do you want?

For a short while nothing happened. Then the pattern on the ship's skin began to shift; it extended part of itself like a tentacle and enveloped her completely.

And Kes fell into a dream-like state from that touch, and everything else around her ceased to exist.

Watching the scene via his magic bauble on board of his cloaked ship, Galen was shocked – to put it mildly. This was a possibility he had never taken under consideration. To his knowledge, no Vorlon ship had ever sought contact to any other being than its own master; in fact, they only ever tolerated other people – even other Vorlons – when expressly ordered by their masters.

Oh, not the huge battle cruisers or the enormous planetkillers, of course. Those were merely machines. Built by using organic technology, for sure, yet without a mind of their own.

But the little ships, the personal vessels they were different. They were bound to one master alone and lived and died with that one master. And yet Ulkesh's ship had reached out to Voyager's little pixy, in spite of its master's violent reaction at the first time.

What might have made it do so?

Galen admitted that his order didn't know a shard of what they would have liked to know about Vorlons. The Vorlons despised the techno-mages because of their origins and gave them little to no credit for having freed themselves from the yoke of their creators. For the Vorlons, they were all tainted by the Shadows, and therefore suspect at best.

The Elders, however, feared that when it came to the final confrontation, the Vorlons would make no difference between them and the true Shadow Servants. They were a race grown rigid with age and self-righteousness; narrow-minded in pursuing what they thought would be the right path – the only right path. The Circle did not want to be eradicated, just because the Vorlons weren't sure about them and chose to play safe.

Which was why the Order had decided to go into hiding in the first place. Why they looked at Galen's contacts with the outside world disfavourably. They could not hope to be treated well by either side, so they saw no reason to put themselves at risk.

Galen and Alwyn were free spirits who dared to disagree. But that also meant that they were on their own, with no hope for help from the others. New allies would have been helpful, but so far they hadn't found anyone strong enough to stand by them.

Not even now. As amazing as the girl's evolvement was, she was only one person. One not from this universe and not even in the fullness of her power yet. Galen found it interesting to watch her, but he would never risk her for his own purposes. Not without a real chance to win, that is.

Besides, he had already chosen a different path; a more promising one. There were no guarantees, of course – there never were – but it was promising, and at least he was on his own playground with the involuntary, telepathic cyborgs.

He closed his hands around the bauble, making it darken, and rose from his seat in determination. It was time to set his own chess pieces into movement.

Malcolm Biggs wasn't particularly concerned about the outcome of his interrogation. He'd been patched up after his unexpectedly violent encounter with Susan, given some industrial strength painkillers and a decent meal, and now he was waiting for his questioning with dark amusement.

They would get nothing out of him. He'd been specially trained to fool any investigations and even equipped with the 23rd-century equivalent of a cyanide capsule, in case Sheridan and his cronies would choose to have him tortured for information.

He didn't really think they would, though. For a professional soldier, Sheridan was way too queasy to order another human being tortured or killed in cold blood. That stupid, old-fashioned chivalry of his would play right into Malcolm's hands.

They would probably send in some sorry alien excuse of a telepath, together with the questioner, to try and find the information they wanted in his head. Well, they could try till they turned blue. He had very firm blocks set up by a P12, for just such cases, and several layers of fake information spread above them.

They would get exactly what EarthGov wanted them to believe.

And if they did choose to use torture after all, Malcolm would not hesitate to use his poison capsule. His life, especially without Susan in it, was irrelevant. Only the case counted: to break the resistance of Babylon 5 and bring it back under the control of Nightwatch, where it belonged.

And if a few hundred aliens died in the process, that was only an added bonus.

The door opened now, and in came Sheridan in that ridiculous new uniform of Minbari design that made him look like an employee of a funeral institute, followed by a man in a black jumpsuit. A jumpsuit with a yellow shoulder part and some sort of rank insignia on the collar.

That would be their resident telepath, then. Strange; Malcolm had been informed that Babylon 5 had no officially assigned telepath at the moment. The sleeper agent had been revealed and recalled to Earth, and not yet replaced. Nor would she; not before Earth had taken Babylon 5 back.

Sure, the rogue Lyta Alexander had been coming in and out for a while. But she was a mere P5; and besides, she worked for the Vorlons now. So where had Sheridan gotten this creepy guy from? Another rogue perhaps?

"Not in the way you think, Mr Biggs," the man said softly; there was something in his cold, black eyes that made Malcolm shiver.

"Let's not waste time with idle chit-chat, shall we?" Sheridan asked rhetorically, taking the seat opposite Malcolm; Creepy Guy took the free chair on his left. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way. You can tell me what I want to know, or Mr Suder here will take it directly from your head. It's your choice; so choose wisely."

"I won't tell you anything," Malcolm replied with an arrogant sneer. "And unless your lapdog is a P12 or stronger, he won't get anything from me, either."

He needed to fake some resistance to plant the false information convincingly. It was a somewhat risky method, but he'd been trained thoroughly.

"Well, I don't know," Sheridan mused. "Are you stronger than a human telepath rated P12, Mr Suder?"

"I really cannot tell, Captain," answered the teep amiably. "We don't use the same specifications on Betazed. But I'm ranking fairly high among my own people... we'll just have to see, won't we?"

Malcolm began to swat profusely. He'd never heard of a planet named Beta Zed, but it was obvious now that Creepy Guy was an alien, despite his looks. He'd never heard of an alien race that would look so completely human, either – save for those cold, dark reptile eyes, that is.

The teep was probably somebody from the Earth ship of the parallel universe. If he was, then there was no way to tell what he'd be capable of. All of a sudden, Malcolm became very nervous. He sought his poison capsule with he tip of his tongue, just in case.

"Oh no, you won't!" said the teep, coldly amused, and to his infinite horror, Malcolm realized that he couldn't move his jaw to bit the capsule open.

Was the guy telekinetic as well?

"No, I'm not," the teep said, reading him like an open book. "I've simply interrupted the neural impulses between your brain and your facial muscles." He glanced at Sheridan. "Captain, I believe questioning him would lead nowhere. He's ready to commit suicide rather than tell you anything. I suggest we simply go in and take what we need. It will spare us a lot of time and any further mess."

"Agreed," Sheridan turned to Malcolm. "Well, Mr Biggs? Last chance to change your mind."

Malcolm wasn't in the position to speak, but his hateful glare told everything Sheridan needed to know.

"As you wish," he glanced at the alien teep again. "He's all yours, Mr Suder. We're going in.

The teep nodded and locked eyes with Malcolm, who could feel his layers of false information peeled away casually, one by one. And then his thought-to-be failsafe blockades began to crumble like dried clay.

"So, what have you learned?" asked Neroon two hours later, when they gathered in the War Room again.

"A great deal of really bad news about certain circles of EarthGov collaborating with the Shadows; about secret EarthForce facilities using Shadow technology to update their ships; about the role PsiCorps might or might not have played in all of this," Sheridan replied grimly. "Unfortunately, very little of what could be of immediate use for us against the Shadows. "

"Like what?" asked Garibaldi impatiently.

Sheridan shrugged. "The location of a few minor Shadow bases. The number of EarthForce destroyers equipped with Shadow technology. The fact that the shipment of frozen telepaths we've intercepted with Bester's help was the first and so far only group of modified people sent to the Shadows... well, that part is of real importance, meaning that they still don't have the means to break a telepathic blockade. But mostly just things relevant for the Earth Alliance."

"Well, it was worth a try," commented Garibaldi. "We might need that information later – who knows?"

"True; but I'm more concerned about the immediate risks," Sheridan said. "We are at the verge of the greatest war of our millennium and frankly, we're seriously outgunned and outnumbered," he looked at Neroon. "Any word from the Warrior Caste?"

The captain of the Ingata shook his head apologetically.

"I'm afraid that the Warrior Caste still does not believe that the Sher'shok Dum, the ancient enemy, has indeed returned in strength," he said.

"So I have been told," Sheridan glanced briefly in Delenn's direction. "Let me be blunt, Alyt Neroon: do you believe us?"

Neroon inclined his head in grudging respect.

"What I have learned from Anla'shok Cole, and what Rastenn had learned from Lennier about he ancient prophecies, make me willing to believe that it is so," he admitted. "But Shakiri is Shai Alyt now, and he believes otherwise."

"Shakiri is a coward and a fool, drunk with power, who would cause our entire race to fall under Shadow, rather than admit that we all have to unite our strength to escape," Delenn snapped in annoyance.

"Nonetheless, he is a legendary warrior who commands great respect among our Caste," Neroon returned. "He's been elected as Shai Alyt by the majority of the Warriors..."

"... because you were Satai at that time and therefore not available," Delenn interrupted.

"The reason matters not," Neroon said. "He has been elected, and he is our Caste leader. I cannot go against his orders – that would be treason – and I cannot counteract his orders, either. I no longer have the sufficient authority. Not since you dissolved the Grey Council."

Delenn paled but accepted the blame nonetheless. It was only justified, and every Minbari knew it.

"So you choose to do nothing?" she then asked.

"I didn't say that," Neroon replied. I've already sent word to Shakiri that I will take Ingata out on patrol, to see if there is any truth in the statements of the Religious Caste. If we get into a fight with the Shadows, I cannot be blamed for that; and if I can bring back proof of their return, that might be enough to force Shakiri's hand."

"We can't be entirely sure about that, though, right?" Sheridan asked.

"No, we cannot," Neroon admitted freely. "But this is the best I can offer."

"Then it is fortunate that I can offer something better," Delenn rose from her seat. "Meet me at the docking bay in an hour. I've got something to show you – both of you."

A little less than an hour later, they were all on the bridge of the White Star – sans Garibaldi, that is, who had another problem of station security to solve – which was speeding through hyperspace. Neroon and Rastenn had been given the grand tour previously and were still amazed by the fast yet powerful little ship.

Sheridan, on the other hand, was impatient and morose.

"I wish you would tell me what this is all about, Delenn!" he complained – not for the first time since they had left Babylon 5.

Delenn just smiled mysteriously. "It's a surprise."

"I wouldn't press her," Neroon advised. That never worked. Se was always good at hiding her true agendas."

There was something in his voice that spoke of a long history between the two of them, but Sheridan wisely decided not to ask. Not yet anyway.

He kept nagging Delenn instead. "Give me a little hint at least!"

Delenn rolled her eyes. "Oh, all right, if you really cannot wait a moment longer… Now that we know what the Shadows have in mind, we have an advantage for the first time. We can rally all the other races, prepare to launch a major counterattack!"

"Good luck finding enough suicidal fools!" commented Neroon dryly.

Delenn ignored him, speaking to Sheridan instead. "I thought you might like to know what resources you have; since you seemed so worried about being outnumbered and outgunned." She turned to the helmsman and spoke in Adronato, "Zu! Dahbi!"

The young man in the white Religious Caste robes nodded wordlessly and the White Star jumped back into normal space. Delenn led Sheridan from his chair to the window; Neroon and Rastenn followed them without invitation.

"Take a look!" she encouraged them.

Sheridan and the two Warriors looked out and saw – the White Star.

And the White Star.

And… they could barely catch their breath. Left, right, above, below, there were rank upon rank of duplicates of the ship they were currently riding.

"There are hundreds of them!" Rastenn exclaimed in awe. "Hundreds of White Stars!"

Delenn nodded. "The White Star was never intended to be one of a kind. It was only the first. We've been working around the clock to construct them."

"You said you needed time to prepare," Sheridan said, dazed. "This is why, isn't it?"

Delenn nodded again, standing tall and proud. "The first wave of ships is finished at last! The Rangers will pilot them under our shared command. We are as ready for them as we will ever be! We finally have, as you say, a fighting chance!"

Sheridan was clearly thrilled beyond words. He looked from Delenn out to his new fleet, then back to her again.

"I don't know what to say," he admitted sheepishly.

Delenn raised a hand in a – for Minbari – shocking gesture of intimacy between two people not actually married (or at least officially courting) and caressed his cheek.

"Then say nothing," she replied softly.

Neroon and Rastenn watched with ill-concealed discomfort as, with the White Star fleet behind them as backdrop, they embraced and exchange a passionate, lingering kiss. In Minbari terms, such things counted as public indecency at best, and the way the crew was looking away from the two lovebirds it was clear that the warriors weren't the only ones uncomfortable with such blatant disregard of tradition.

As the kiss didn't seem to end, Neroon cleared his throat pointedly.

"As the humans would say, get a room, you two! There's no need to scandalize an otherwise loyal crew by making them watch actions that should be kept private."

~TBC~