A Place to Call Home
By Terri Osborne
terri@terriosborne.com
Part 19
All Babylon 5 characters and settings belong to JMS, Warner Brothers, TNT and anyone else with legitimate legal claim. No infringement of copyright is intended by this work. Only a few select characters are mine, and should the Great Maker need them, or anyone similar to them, I can probably be bought off with a story credit. ;-)
Even though this covers the same time period and the same major event, no infringement upon J. Gregory Keyes' novels is intended. Though, I will draw upon them for some background information.
Content Warning: [AC] [AL]
Anything encased in * these * is telepathic speech.
Spoilers through Season 5 and the Psi Corps novels.
And thanks to Sarah, Sharon and Keith, my eagle-eyed beta readers! Virtual boxes of Godivas to all of you!
----------
April 18, 2264
Not again, Susan
thought as she slowly regained consciousness. If I wake up with this headache one more
day . . . .
She stared at the dimly lit
ceiling of the small bedroom Michael Garibaldi had given her three days before. I swear
to God, I'm going to kill Minette for this.
Susan had come to the
Garibaldi residence partially to set up her cover story of working for Edgars-Garibaldi
Industries. She had also hoped to rid herself of the godforsaken pounding that had been
greeting her for the past seven mornings.
She'd at least been able to
put up the guise of accomplishing her primary objective.
Her hand went to the
nightstand, finding the bottle of aspirin and small cup of water. Without even turning,
she popped the lid from the bottle and extracted the last three pills. Realizing that
taking the pills would be almost impossible to do laying down, she forced herself to sit.
Hit it fast and hard,
she thought as she swallowed the aspirin and tucked herself back under the covers. Then
maybe I'll at least be able to function today.
She was teetering on the verge
of falling back to sleep when a soft knock came at the door.
"What?"
A thin beam of light fell into
the room as the door slowly opened. If the softness of the knock hadn't given her away,
the sound of Lise Edgars Garibaldi's voice certainly would have. "Susan? You up?
Breakfast is ready."
Susan groaned. Why, in the
name of all that was holy, had Michael Alfredo Garibaldi married a morning person? Sure,
Lise was pretty, she'd grant him that, but looks hardly made up for such abysmal behavior.
"I'll rise, but I refuse to shine."
Her stomach chose that moment
to voice its lack of substantial content.
Lise chuckled. "Well,
it's not the kind of breakfast you'd get on Earth, but we do have fresh orange juice. And
Michael wanted you to know that you have a visitor."
That got Susan's attention
almost as quickly as the mention of food. "I have a visitor?"
"Yes," Lise stated.
"Lyta's in the living room."
Lyta. I wonder-
"Lise?" Susan
quickly asked as the door began to close.
"Yes?"
She stared at the brunette for
a long moment before replying, "As soon as this-"
"-headache goes away?
I'll tell her."
The door whispered to a close,
leaving Susan in peace once more. Only, it wasn't quite as peaceful; her aching mind was
tending to that.
What is she doing here?
she thought. I'm not going in for another three days. The staff is just about ready to
work in there. Garibaldi didn't say he was calling her, but that doesn't mean a damned
thing. I've already tried everything Minette said to lose this headache. What's going on?
Pulling the blanket to her
chin, she stared into the near-darkness. Marcus, where the hell are you when I need
you?
A more solid knock came at her
door.
After days of working around
so many telepaths of varying strengths, Susan had begun learning to 'read' her
surroundings. It had nagged her at first, the thought of using abilities that she had
fought for so long to keep a secret, but she had quickly realized that there wasn't much
of a choice.
If she didn't use them, there
was the distinct possibility that her abilities would use her, giving her away to the
Corps at the worst possible moment.
The memory of Jason
Ironheart's abilities leaking throughout the station returned to her with blinding
clarity.
Susan was hardly that strong,
but the risk of her abilities leaking through her guard had simply been too great. She had
subtly persuaded Alina to teach her more defensive tactics over their days of training.
Alina had also taught her an old theory on telepathy, she hadn't been quite certain of the
source, that treated telepathy as an atmosphere, and telepaths as the winds. Stronger
telepaths were bigger gusts, normals were barely a breeze.
What stood outside Susan's
door at that moment felt like a hurricane.
The ache in her skull finally
began to fade.
"Yes?" she called.
The door cracked open once
more, and her suspicion proved correct. The sharp contrast of the brightly lit hallway
gave Lyta's hair a fiery aura. "Susan?"
She attempted a smile, but it
hardly felt genuine. "Hi, Lyta."
The redhead slipped into the
room, closing the door before settling onto the foot of the bed. "Are you all right?
Lise said you still have the headache."
Susan nodded, the throbbing
subsiding even further. "Aspirin's the only thing that's actually helping."
Lyta's hazel eyes seemed to
look through her, but Susan felt no scan. "How are the dreams?"
Susan's heart leapt into her
throat. "The dreams?"
"Marcus," the
redhead whispered. "You asked me about them, remember? Kosh used to speak to me in my
dreams. If what you have is anything like that . . . ."
Historically speaking, Lyta
Alexander and Susan Ivanova had never been what anyone would have called 'best friends'.
Susan had simply been burned one too many times to trust a telepath that much.
Still, she had trusted Lyta
with her life on more than one occasion, which for a telepath was far more than even Susan
would have thought possible. Most people were terrified of Lyta Alexander and everything
their imaginations thought her capable. There were times when that list even included
Susan Ivanova.
Somehow, though, she trusted
Lyta. That trust had eventually brought with it camaraderie, a sort of friendship, and
enough of an understanding of the woman beneath the Vorlon weapon to know that tone of
voice. Lyta Alexander had been as much in love with Kosh as had been humanly possible.
"Lyta, I-"
"Don't be sorry,"
she replied, holding up a hand. "You didn't kill him. I just - I just want you to
know that I understand."
Susan took a deep, frustrated
breath, before stating, "They're gone, Lyta. I haven't had a single dream of any sort
since Minette put these things in my head. I can't reach him anymore. Besides that, I keep
waking up with this damned headache. She says she didn't do anything, but-"
"You don't believe
her," Lyta matter-of-factly finished. "This isn't a surprise, Susan. You said
the aspirins were helping?"
She nodded. "Nothing else
works. I can't make any sense out of it. I'm half tempted to contact Stephen, see if he
can think of something."
"No. If the aspirin is
working, then you should stick with it. The last thing we need right now is another person
involved in this. I hate to see you going into Syria Planum with a handicap, though."
"So do I," Susan
replied, rubbing her temples. "Can you have Andrew come and test the blocks again? I
want to make sure this isn't affecting them."
Lyta nodded. "I'll have
him come over tomorrow." Rising slowly from the bed, she smiled. "Seems like
you're feeling better. I'll let you get dressed. We'll talk more over breakfast."
As the door closed behind the
redhead, Susan stared once again at the ceiling.
God, I hope the aspirin
isn't killing the blocks. I don't think I could handle that procedure again. Marcus, where
the hell are you?
----------
April 21, 2264
The building that greeted
her as the transport tube approached had to be the single most intimidating building that
Susan Ivanova had ever seen. It was tall, almost grotesquely tall compared to the other
buildings in Marsdome. Beige walls stretched upward, almost reaching the glass of the
dome. A wall of windows was set into the building's façade. At the top, where everything
tapered to an enormous wedge, was a gigantic Psi Corps logo. She stared at the
out-of-place greenery that surrounded the oddly-shaped building, wondering if it had been
put there just to humanize the structure.
It looks almost like an
old-fashioned rocket with those fins at the bottom, she thought, wondering precisely
what demented personality had been the architect.
"Man, looks just like the
one in Geneva," Garibaldi mused from the seat beside her. "Originality is
obviously not a must."
As the transport pulled into
the station, Susan fought to control the butterflies in her stomach. She attempted to
convince herself that it was nothing more than an easy in-and-out; just go in, meet the
people on high, invoke the just-passed bill, and head off for Syria Planum. She had
accomplished far more difficult tasks during the Shadow War.
Of course, then you had
help, Ivanova.
As she stepped through three
separate banks of security scanners and into the building, the first thing that hit her
mind was the sheer lack of telepathic noise. Even in the camp, the telepaths gave off a
tremendous amount of psionic background noise. Here, however, that wasn't the case. She
sensed order, discipline coming from the minds of those around her.
Curious.
She followed Garibaldi down a
corridor that was nothing but shades of beige. The paint on the walls matched the outside
of the building, while the carpet was a darker tone. White sconces lit the hallways,
making the setting all the more neutral. The only items breaking the monochromatic décor
were the framed posters that adorned the walls. White text on black, the first poster to
greet her eyes held the Psi Corps mantra. The Corps is Mother. The Corps is Father.
Then another. Obey.
Gives a whole new meaning
to the Fifth Commandment.
A bone-deep throbbing slowly
began to develop behind her left eye. Of all the times to not have any aspirin.
"Hello, Mister
Garibaldi."
Susan's heart stopped for the
briefest of moments at recognizing Alfred Bester's voice. Her first thought, as it always
was with the little weasel, was hatred; hatred for the man that was a living embodiment of
every reason that Psi Corps deserved to crumble.
Get it under control,
Ivanova. Strong emotions may still let him in.
In the corner of her eye, she
noticed Garibaldi's jaw tighten. His eyes fixed on Bester, and the hatred she felt in
herself was multiplied tenfold in that gaze.
The display, however, left the
Psi Cop completely unfazed. "And Captain Ivanova. But, then, I suppose I can't
call you captain' any longer, can I? Shame you resigned after finally getting
that promotion."
Ignoring the rapidly
developing headache as best she could, she glared icily at the much shorter man and his
outstretched, black-gloved hand. Did he actually want to shake hands? Arms folded at the
small of her back, she gave him the briefest of nods. "'Captain' will
do."
"Ah, yes. The usual
Ivanova charm," Bester said with an obviously forced smile. Turning his attentions
back toward Garibaldi, he continued. "I understand that you have some urgent
information?"
"Yes," Michael
replied in a tight voice. "This is probably a stupid question, but is there someplace
secure where we can talk? I don't think you want this getting around."
"Of course." One
gloved hand gestured down a side corridor. Susan noted that it, too, was the same
conglomeration of beige hues. Boring. The headquarters of Psi Corps on Mars, and it looked
no different from what she would have expected of any office building on Earth; the same
drab colors, the same monotonous sounds. How had Andrew tolerated working in such an
environment?
Ivanova, what is wrong with
you? He worked in Syria Planum, not here. Get it together. Think straight for crying out
loud.
"Right this way."
Garibaldi took up step behind
Bester, with Susan pulling up the rear as they wandered off. She recalled turning at least
five times but, even with her memory, she couldn't have verified that on sight.
As they walked, Bester nodded
to one of the younger Psi Cops, a woman dressed head to foot in the requisite black suit,
with the copper Psi Corps shield on her left lapel. Dark glasses covered her eyes, and her
close-cropped blonde hair did little to frame what were otherwise attractive features.
Turning an eye to Garibaldi, Susan discovered him with a look of concern on his face.
Catching his eye, she raised
an eyebrow quizzically.
Shaking his head, Garibaldi's
footsteps grew faster.
Susan got the distinct
impression that he wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. He barely had
control over his anger.
The blonde took up step behind
them, close enough for Susan to sense her presence; sense it, and recognize it. Swallowing
hard, she buried the realization behind the blocks and fought to keep it from her
expression. The headache made it difficult, but not impossible.
Bester opened what appeared to
be a solid, wooden door, revealing a small office. He gestured toward a light brown sofa
as he entered the room. "Have a seat."
Susan followed Michael to the
sofa, sinking into its cushions. It felt suspiciously like the sofa that had been in the
captain's office on Babylon 5. Comfortable, but not overly so.
"I said someplace secure,
Bester," Garibaldi warned.
Bester smiled at the blonde,
who had taken up a stance behind the large wooden desk. It was a paternal smile, warm,
caring - and completely unnerving to anyone who had knowledge of the man. "You'll
forgive my assistant's presence, Mister Garibaldi. Call it a little healthy paranoia, but
not even Psi Cops travel alone these days. Even within our own walls we are in danger from
Miss Alexander's people."
"Didn't think they were
hers anymore," Susan stated.
"You, of all people,
should know better than to believe the popular media, Captain. Whoever this Minette woman
is, you can be certain that she is simply a figurehead. Lyta Alexander is still the real
power to be dealt with."
Susan and Michael exchanged
looks. With a 'whatever you say' shrug, Garibaldi set the plan in motion.
"You remember William
Edgars' death a couple of years ago?"
Bester nodded.
"Well, since I took over
I found out a few things. There were a few projects - personal projects - he was working
on."
"And those projects would
interest me how?"
Garibaldi took a deep breath
and said, "A virus. It attacks the telepathic gene. There was only one vial of the
bug in existence, and it disappeared when they ransacked the house. I've been hunting for
it for months."
A smug grin spread across
Bester's features. "And you require the Corps' assistance."
"Hardly," Garibaldi
said with a snort of derision. "The only help I need from Psi Corps is compliance
with the Trainor Bill."
Bester glanced back at the
blonde. When she gave a brief nod, he raised an eyebrow. "You wish to investigate the
Corps itself?"
Michael Garibaldi smiled
viciously. "Damn right I do."
"And what would you have
to do with this investigation, Captain?"
Susan pulled herself out of
the sofa, stepping toward Bester. She stopped just close enough to properly look down upon
him. "I'm leading it."
Bester at least had the
decency to look surprised. "You, Captain?"
"Yes," Susan stated.
"Me. My investigators will join us once I get settled in at the Syria Planum
facility."
That was when she felt
the scan.
She managed to curb her
instinctive reaction to kill whoever was doing it, but it was a far from easy task.
Instead, she continued to glare down at Bester, daring the little weasel to push further.
One dark eyebrow raised at the
realization that it wasn't Bester doing the scan.
Crossing her arms over her
chest, Susan strode over to the blonde. Staring into those dark glasses, she put every
ounce of command into her voice. "Next time, Bester, if you want to bring one of your
little lap bitches, make sure she knows how to behave."
Indignance hit her from the
woman.
Genuine surprise hit her from
Bester. "Why, Captain, we don't need-"
Susan whirled on the man.
"What we don't need, Mister Bester, are any more of your games. If you thought
I wouldn't recognize Miss Winters, you were wrong. I'm warning you right now, if she, or
anyone else for that matter, ever tries to scan me again, I will personally rip out their
heart and force feed it down your throat. Do I make myself absolutely clear?"
Bester's gaze went past her,
presumably to where Talia Winters stood. "Yes."
"Good."
Stalking toward the door, her headache finally receding, she gestured for Michael to
follow. As she stepped through the threshold, one final thought struck.
"And Talia? Hate the
haircut."
[End Part 19]