Chapter 21

Like Ivanova, Brothers Bernard and Aquinas took being disturbed in the middle of Babylon 5's artificial night as a matter of course. Indeed, Bernard was already awake, silently absorbed as he monitored the station's computer functions, when Zack Allan came. Zack brought the notes that had been confiscated from Jaeger's quarters, the news of the arrests, and Sheridan's request that Bernard and Aquinas make whatever sense they could of Jaeger's notes.

Several hours later, very early in the morning watch, two hollow-eyed and disheveled monks ventured softly into C and C. Brother Bernard's voice was hesitant as he requested a few minutes of the captain's time. At once, Sheridan brought the monks to his office.

After refusing the captain's offer of tea and clearing his throat several times, Bernard said, "Captain Sheridan, we have deciphered—this." He laid the notes down on Sheridan's desk with an air of distaste; the captain half-expected him to wipe his hand clean.

Brother Aquinas, as usual, took up the explanation. "Captain, this document is another rogue program. It is designed to affect computer commands issued by the jumpgate."

"Affect them how?"

Aquinas ran his tongue over his lips. "As I understand your system, the jumpgate receives an identity code from each ship approaching Babylon 5 through hyperspace. It then transmits that code to your Command and Control center."

"That's right. That's how we register arrivals and departures."

"Captain—were this program in place on the system, the jumpgate computer would no longer merely register and transmit these codes. It would respond to them in one of three ways, depending on the type of identity code it received."

"Go on."

"If it received an alien identity code, the jumpgate computer would issue commands designed to reverse the ship's course and disable its tracking and communications systems. This would, of course, trap the vessel in hyperspace. I understand that you have been able to rescue a ship from such a situation, but—"

"One ship," Sheridan said. "One time." He understood the implications of what Aquinas was saying, and he didn't like them at all. "In the situation you've just described, the ship in question would probably be trapped for good. It would depend on how thoroughly this program could interfere with an alien ship's technology." And at best, the captain reflected—even assuming that an alien vessel thrust into hyperspace somehow survived and made it back to normal space—her crew must interpret the incident as either gross incompetence, or outright hostility, on the part of Babylon 5. "You say this is the response to an alien identity code?"

"Yes, Captain. Any ship not of Human origin."

Brother Bernard shook his head, muttering, "Diabolical. Diabolical."

Aquinas glanced at him sympathetically and went on, "An Earth vessel's identity code would evoke one of two responses. Any civilian vessel would be regarded, and treated, as a hostile invader. The station's defense systems would be set to destroy it, immediately and without warning. Very probably, you and your officers would have no chance to override the automated commands."

Peaceful alien ships consigned to oblivion; civilian Human ships blasted to bits . . . "And what would happen to Earthforce military ships?"

"Nothing." It was Brother Bernard who replied in a soft, mournful voice. "Nothing. A vessel transmitting an Earth military identity code would come through the jumpgate without difficulty. At the same time, the station's blast doors would be opened, and all your defensive systems disabled."

The whole scenario rolled through Sheridan's mind. Babylon 5, transformed by its own jumpgate into a death trap for any ship that approached. Then, no doubt at a signal from Jaeger, an Earthforce fleet sweeping in from hyperspace to seize the helpless station. Once held by President Clark's Shadow-tainted government, Babylon 5 would be lost as a bastion against the coming darkness—a loss that might very well tip the balance, permanently, in the Shadows' favor.

Sheridan's blood ran cold as he realized the magnitude of the potential disaster, and how narrowly it had just been averted. The fact that his own life would certainly have been forfeit registered momentarily, and was dismissed.

"Is there any trace of this program on the station's systems?" he demanded.

"No! Of course not," replied Aquinas, shocked. "Captain, I assure you, we had your duty officer initiate a shutdown of the jumpgate computer as soon as we realized what the program was designed to do. We, and several others of our Order, ran extensive diagnostics on all systems to ensure that they were safe."

In his engineering-professor voice, Brother Bernard began to explain, "I have devised a diagnostic program that—"

"Is most effective," Aquinas cut him off adroitly. "You may be assured, Captain, there is no danger."

Sheridan believed him. "Once again, gentlemen," he said, "I can't thank you enough for everything you've done."

Brother Bernard replied, "Captain. You are not alone in your desire to combat evil. The opportunity to give any help in that same holy cause was a privilege." Indicating the document on Sheridan's desk, he asked, "Will you see to it that this is destroyed?"

"It'll be kept guarded for however long we need it as evidence. Then, I promise, it will be destroyed."

Bernard, looking at the document, shook his head and murmured, "Such a waste. Such a waste. I must pray for this man Jaeger."

Marcus arrived as Ivanova was leaving her quarters for duty. Abbie, aglow, her arms wide, ran to meet him, announcing, "You were right! They got him!"

"I know, love."

"You know? How?" the child demanded.

"Careful," he admonished her suddenly, "it aches a bit this morning. No, don't worry, it's all right, you didn't hurt me.—How do I know? I hear things. I find things out. That's what Rangers do."

"Among other things," Ivanova commented dryly, giving Marcus a casual glance up and down. He had turned quickly to protect his left side from Abbie's embrace, and he seemed altogether a little worn around the edges. It didn't take a genius to figure out how he'd known about Jaeger's capture, but he seemed to have come through it in one piece.

Marcus' eyes met hers. At once, knowing that he hadn't fooled her for a second, he focused his attention on Abbie and said, "Ready for breakfast?"

"You two play nice," Ivanova said, and left for C and C.

Abbie's excitement, of course, had no effect on her appetite and she put away a substantial breakfast at Eclipse Café. From the bursts of conversation that punctuated the meal, Marcus learned that a call from Sheridan to Susan had wakened Abbie in the middle of the night, and that first thing this morning Susan had told her about the capture. "They caught a whole lot of people," she told him. "Susan was really happy."

"A lot of credit goes to you, love. You were so brave about looking at those pictures, and that's how Mr. Garibaldi knew who to look for."

She bit her lip, suddenly subdued. Worrying her napkin between her fingers, she confessed, "I wasn't brave. I was scared."

"But you did it anyway. That's all courage is: going on when you're scared. I've met warrior-caste Minbari who weren't as brave as you."

"Anyway," she began. She obviously didn't want to think about the ordeal of reviewing the pictures, even in the context of praise. Marcus let it drop. "Anyway," he echoed, pushing back his chair. "Let's take a walk. I have news for you."

The hand she slipped unhesitatingly into his was cold, and she didn't say a word but simply trotted along beside him. He led her to the Zen Garden: that quiet and tranquil place would afford a measure of privacy for this conversation.

The Zen Garden was deserted just now, offering its simple beauty to them alone. Marcus sat down on the stone bench. Abbie withdrew her hand from his and stood in front of him with the air of a prisoner in the dock awaiting her sentence. She ignored the inviting pat he gave to the open space beside him. He could see the pulse leaping in her throat.

"Abbie, do you know what a will is?"

"I think so. Isn't that like when you say who gets your stuff when you die?"

"That's right. Clever girl. Well, if you have children, one of the things you put in your will is the name of someone you want to take care of them if you should die. That's called a 'guardian'."

She began to pale and the pulse in her throat leaped faster. Marcus went on steadily. "I found out that your father left a will, love; and he named a guardian for you. Do you remember a woman named Virginia Wakefield?"

She shook her head No and waited mutely for him to go on.

"She was a great friend of your mother's, and—"

"I don't remember her," Abbie burst out. "I don't remember her or my mother."

Marcus couldn't think of any way to respond to that except simply to go on, very quietly. "Your father named her as your guardian in his will. Now, I've talked with her—"

"When?"

"This morning, and night before last."

The child, beginning to tremble, clenched her fists. "You talked to her? About me? And you didn't even tell me?"

"Abbie, listen. Listen." Gently, he took hold of her shoulders. "Night before last, I told her your father had died. She didn't know. And I told her about you—"

"And she didn't want me. Nobody wants me."

"No, love, that's not true." Marcus was having trouble keeping his voice steady. "Listen, now. She wanted you right away; but she has a husband, and a daughter who's nearly grown. Before she could say Yes, she had to discuss it with them. Nothing was sure until then. I thought it would be better to wait to tell you until things were sure."

She swallowed twice, wringing her hands. "And?" she whispered.

"They want you, love. They all want you. She'll be here for you in about a week."

There. Said and done.

Abbie's eyes were enormous in a milk-white face. "You're just going to let her come? You're going to let her just take me away?"

"Abbie, this isn't something I have any say in. This was the arrangement your father made."

She wrenched violently away from him, kicking wildly at a meticulously-raked gravel bed. Ornamental rocks and bits of gravel whizzed in all directions. Her pallor vanished as angry blood flooded her face.

"How could he do that?" she half-sobbed, half-screamed. The tranquil patterns raked into the gravel dissolved under her frenzied kicking and stamping. "How could he just give me away like that? To someone I don't even know?"

Marcus was on his feet, ready, but not yet willing, to intervene. "Love—"

"Don't call me that! If you really loved me, you wouldn't let her take me away!" Abbie flung herself down on hands and knees, digging up two fistfuls of gravel. Marcus moved quickly, kneeling beside her in the ruin of the gravel bed to wrap his arms around her before she hurt herself. For a moment, she writhed wildly. "How could he do that?" she demanded again of the unheeding Universe. "How could he just give me away?"

"How could he go and die," said Marcus softly, "and leave you all alone?"

She was still shaking violently, like a bomb about to burst; but at his words, she stopped struggling and fell silent. Then, she broke. Her fists opened, releasing twin cascades of gravel, and tears began streaming silently down her face. Marcus drew her close. Her arms went around his neck, and she wept quietly for a long time.

Afterwards, seated close beside him on the stone bench, she murmured, "I'm sorry."

"For what? For crying? Nothing wrong with that."

"I wrecked it." She pointed at the gravel bed.

"We'll find a rake and fix it."

She looked down at her dusty hands with their bitten nails, their heels a little scraped from the gravel. Her whisper was barely audible. "I shouldn't have said that. About Papa."

Marcus put his arm around her shoulders, and she nestled against him. "It's all right, you know," he said. "It's all right to be angry with the dead."

"No, it isn't."

"Happens all the time," he went on. "When my brother died—Lord, who wasn't I angry with then? Angry with him, for dying. Angry at myself, for surviving when he was dead. Angry with the—with the disaster, for killing him." (He had almost said "the Shadows", but remembered and stopped himself in time.) "Angry with the whole bloody Universe and everything in it."

Abbie looked up at him. She still couldn't believe that the awful things she'd said were all right, even though it was Marcus saying they were. His face was thoughtful, and he looked out over the Zen Garden without really seeing it. She realized that he wasn't really talking to her any more, that his mind had moved elsewhere. And for all his talk about anger, he didn't look angry at all—just wistful, and a little bit sad.

Gradually, he returned to the present, and to her. He gave a sigh, smoothed her hair with his hand, and said, "Tell you the truth, love, I'm a bit angry at your father myself."

"You are? How come?"

"For dying. For leaving you with no one to look out for you. For dying before I ever had the chance to know him, because I think he and I might have been friends."

She considered that, leaning against him; the reassuring rhythm of his heartbeat provided a soothing background to her thoughts. "He would have liked you," she pronounced at last, adding defensively, "It wasn't his fault that he died. He didn't want to."

"I know. Doesn't make sense to be angry, then, does it? But there it is." He shrugged. "I'll get over it. So will you."

They fell silent again. Abbie sat so still, cradled against him, that Marcus began to wonder whether perhaps she'd worn herself out and fallen asleep.

"What's her name again? That guardian?"

"Virginia Wakefield. She goes by 'Virgie'."

After another long silence: "Maybe she'll be nice."

"I thought she was, when I talked to her," Marcus replied. "She lives on a farming colony called New Kenosha, in the Orion system. It's got a natural atmosphere. No domes. Look up and see a real sky."

She looked up with a glimmer of interest: "You mean, with clouds and stuff?"

"Clouds, sunrises, wind. Genuine weather of all kinds."

Abbie rubbed the back of her hand over the dried tears on her face. "It's just—I don't know her."

"Not so long ago," he pointed out, "you didn't know me."

"But that's different. It doesn't feel like that. It feels like I've known you a long time."

"Might be the same with Mrs. Wakefield, if you give it a chance."

Yet another silence. Abbie got up, knelt by the gravel bed, and began to smooth it with her hands. "Marcus? About what I said—I mean—I mean, I really like it when you call me 'love'." She didn't dare look at him when she said it.

He was speechless, momentarily unable to find words or to utter them once found. Recognition of how much he had come to mean to her simultaneously warmed and dismayed him. To respond to her in kind, to encourage her affection, would be irresponsible in the extreme, given the uncertainties of a Ranger's life.

But to take the only alternative and deny her—

He found himself on his feet, standing by her, bending down to gently twine one of her curls around his forefinger, smiling at the freckled little triangular face turned hopefully up to his. He made the only possible response.

"Love," he said; and then, straightening, he cleared his throat and went on, "Let's find a rake, shall we, and put things to rights?"

Jaeger had received medical treatment for his broken nose. Blood from the nose had stained the shirt in which he'd been captured; he was offered a clean one, which he refused, again demanding his Earthforce uniform. When that was denied, he chose to stay in the bloodied garment. He had been given food, and time to rest. Except for his demand for his uniform, he had remained silent since his capture.

Most of the cadre were similarly uncommunicative. Some rapped out name, rank, and Earthforce identity number with the steely resolution of prisoners of war. Others stared into space, ostentatiously ignoring the questions put to them by Garibaldi or Zack Allan. A few, less resolute, hinted that they might be willing to answer a question if Sheridan was willing to guarantee immunity from prosecution.

The prospect would have been discouraging, had Garibaldi actually expected or needed the prisoners' co-operation. As far as he was concerned, the fact that they had already been proved covert Nightwatch operatives was enough to justify whatever course of action Sheridan might devise. He went to meet with the captain, who he found in his office, brooding over a bundle of papers on his desk.

"Not a peep out of any of 'em," Garibaldi reported.

"Well, I expected as much," said Sheridan. He gestured toward the papers. "I'll be interested to know if Mr. Jaeger will have anything to say about this."

"The monks made some sense of it?"

"They did." Briefly, Sheridan explained the scheme outlined in the notes. Garibaldi listened intently, his heavy brows pulling into a scowl, and then let loose with a string of the most creative profanity Sheridan had ever heard.

"So now what?" Garibaldi finally asked. "We can't keep 'em in the brig forever. Any chance of just dumping 'em all out the nearest airlock?"

"I have to admit, it's tempting."

Garibaldi shook his head regretfully. "Yeah, but then there's that due-process thing. Rule of law, innocent till proven guilty—damn, I hate being the good guys."

Sheridan stood up, picking up the notes. "The Gneissh First Minister—excuse me, the Gneissh Ambassador—is due aboard in about half an hour. I want to give him the full diplomatic treatment. Then we'll show this to Mr. I-Demand-My-Uniform-Back and see what he has to say for himself."

Sheridan had a full honor guard, including Ivanova and Garibaldi, waiting at attention when the encounter-suited Ambassador Maltir plodded from his transport. Delenn stood nearby, representing both the government of Minbar and the Babylon 5 Advisory Council—Londo Mollari had declined to come, claiming he couldn't spare the time. The Drazi, Llort, and Pak'ma'ra representatives also waited to greet the Gneissh Ambassador.

Trade Minister Questal himself didn't come lumbering into sight until the moment his First Minister/Ambassador was due to arrive. When Maltir appeared—a Gneissh even more ungainly and stump-legged than Questal himself—Questal simply went up to him, waved a hand in Sheridan's general direction, and said, "Captain Sheridan."

Maltir turned toward the captain, who began, "Mr. Ambassador. Welcome to—"

"The problem is not solved." Maltir's voice was flat, almost as inflectionless as though he used an electronic translator.

"No, sir, the problem is solved. We've caught the man who was causing the problem."

The Gneissh's dull little eyes blinked behind the face shield of his encounter suit. Sheridan had no idea what the eye blink was intended to register—surprise? Satisfaction?

Maltir turned away. "I go to my quarters."

"Certainly, Mr. Ambassador," said Ivanova smoothly, stepping forward with her usual self-possession. "I've arranged space in Green sector—"

Maltir thrust his head forward, peering through the shield into her face. "Talk is waste." He gestured impatiently toward the doorway leading from the reception area.

"Of course," Ivanova acquiesced, with a tight little smile. "This way." Maltir and Questal followed her past the honor guard, past Delenn, past the Drazi, the Llort, and the Pak'ma'ra. Delenn bowed deeply in the gracious Minbari fashion as Maltir passed, and was ignored. The Drazi representative began spluttering indignantly in his own language. Sheridan, who had a smattering of Drazi, caught a word or two and hoped fervently that the Gneissh either hadn't heard or hadn't understood it.

"Nice guy," Garibaldi commented sotto voce. "Remind me to invite him to my wake."

Abbie took a long time and great pains to restore the gravel bed. She insisted on doing all the work herself, refusing Marcus' help; she had destroyed it, and she would fix it. He watched in respectful silence as she retrieved every last tiny bit of the scattered gravel. She raked a new pattern into the bed, studied it, then raked the gravel smooth again and started over. It took five different designs before she created one that satisfied her. Finally, with care, she replaced the ornamental rocks one by one, adjusting each until she was fully pleased with its effect before she reached for the next.

She couldn't tell, once she had finished, whether it was as good as before she'd ruined it. Neither she nor Marcus remembered what the bed had looked like when they'd entered the Zen Garden. But it was orderly again, and beautiful; and for now, Abbie was content.