In Valen's Name
Part 3
= = =
He was tending the bruises when the summons came. The Minbari Ranger who
appeared at his door shared no information save that he was wanted in the
Entil'Zha's office, then led him briskly through the corridors, and with a bow,
left him outside the door. Garibaldi signaled, and as the door opened, stepped
inside to find Delenn in conversation with Ardret, Durhan, and Navain.
Michael realized at once why he had been called. So, it was over. And they
would leave it to Delenn to tell him. He placed his hand on his chest and
bowed. "Respects, Entil'Zha." The three looked uncomfortable and quickly took
their leave. No greeting passed between Michael and the teachers, save his
small, grudging bow.
"Good evening, Michael. Thank you for coming." Delenn was smiling at him, the
smile of an old friend, but was he seeing his friend or his Entil'Zha?
He thought hard about his reply, his eyes cast down at the floor. In Adronato
he said "Entil'Zha honors me by the summons."
Delenn moved toward him, and taking his right hand from where it still rested
above his heart, she cradled it in her hands. The tiny Minbari looked up into
his eyes. "How are you, Michael?" she asked, in English.
Did she really want him to answer that, at this, of all moments? In English he
responded, "I am well, Entil'Zha."
"Have a few months at Tuzanor made you forget your old friends?" she asked,
still holding his hand.
"No, Delenn," he said softly. Anything but, he thought.
She released his hand and stepped away. "I am told the training has been
difficult for you." A slight shift in inflection raised it into a question.
Gee, I wonder where she heard that? "At times." Like now.
"You are coming to the end of the period of training. Are you prepared to take
the Ranger oath?"
Garibaldi's stomach and jaw clenched. Was this how they wanted it? Was he
supposed to take himself out, to save them from the dirty work? No deal.
"Would it matter whether I thought I was or I wasn't?" His anger slung the
blade of challenge.
Delenn studied his eyes for a long time. "It is the only thing that can matter.
No one can force you to make that vow. Others may stand between you and the
ceremony but if you have the heart of a Ranger ... "
"Is that why I'm here, Delenn?" Michael spat out. "So that you can tell me
that I may have the heart of a Ranger, but I'll never wear the badge? Fine.
Say it, and let's stop wasting everyone's time."
The woman seemed honestly hurt by his anger, but after a moment she straightened
and spoke with a quiet strength. "It was as Entil'Zha, as well as your friend,
that I invited you to come to Tuzanor, and it is in my role as Entil'Zha that I
accept the oath of all new Rangers and present them with their badges. The
decision as to whether you will be among them lies with you ... " Garibaldi had
felt chastened by her words, until a final phrase revived his anger. " ... and
with your teachers." Still he held his tongue. She took his hand again. "Is
there anything a friend may do to help?" she asked gently.
The tenderness in her voice softened him. "I wish ... ," and he choked on the
words, "I wish I had an answer to that. I go through the days. I do what 's
asked of me. Sometimes I succeed. Sometimes I fail. But what does that mean,
Delenn? How do I make sense out of success and failure? How do I balance
learning Minbari grammar against losing the lives of a crew under my command? I
struggle to learn to fight with sticks so I can face an enemy whose technology
defies our understanding. And I learn to meditate, but on what?"
Garibaldi listened to himself as though he were hearing the words for the first
time, and in some sense, he was. All the unnamed dissatisfaction, the
suppressed confusion came ripping out. Delenn's eyes never left his face, nor
did her lips open in argument or excuse.
"I've been here nearly two months, Delenn, and as you say, I'm coming to the end
of the training. But training in what, Delenn? I've known the Rangers, out
there where it matters. I've worked with them, seen them fight, seen them die.
It was never about which verb to use or whether the ritual had been followed
properly. It only rarely involved the denn'bok. It was about honor, and
courage, and an inner confidence that the cause was absolutely just and your
actions absolutely essential. That's what I came to Tuzanor looking for,
Delenn.
"Maybe I'm not cut out to be a Ranger. The last person who'd be surprised by
that is me, but I'll be damned if I understand what the last two months of my
life have to do with finding out." He caught his breath, felt resignation
oozing into his body. "I wish I had an answer for you, Delenn, but I don't."
He was ready to find rage when he met her eyes but he had not expected to find
hope. "I suspect, Michael," she said softly, a trace of a smile beginning to
form, "that when you have found the answer, you will no longer need the help."
What the hell did that mean? Damn the Minbari! He swallowed hard but it did
nothing to move the bitter lump that sat in the back of his throat, souring his
mouth and blocking his breathing. "Why don't we just do what we came here to
do, Delenn, and not drag it out?" He turned to face her squarely, straightening
his body, setting his face, meeting her gaze.
"We have done it, Michael, " she said with a nod. "You are expected at dinner."
He refused to show any more of the emotion that was buffeting him. He bowed
stiffly, and backed toward the door.
"Michael?" she called after him. He stopped, but did not turn. "Michael, you
have many friends -- more than you realize. They will help you, if you will let
them."
"I know, Delenn, " he whispered as the door closed.
= = =
The rituals of dinner were a comfort tonight, he thought bitterly, something to
get him through this hour or two without having to make real conversation,
without having to reveal himself or what was churning inside him. When the meal
was over he fled, out of the dining hall, out of the building, somewhere Drew
would not find him. He'd want to talk as they jogged, and Michael couldn't
handle that tonight. He took refuge in the chapel, as he had come to call the
smallest of the temples.
What the hell had happened tonight? Was he just supposed to infer that he had
washed out? Was he supposed to be noble enough to remove himself? Bullshit.
He shook his head and sat down.
So why was he staying? To make a fool of himself? To get beaten and bloody?
Didn't need to come here for that, Michael. You've always managed those pretty
well, wherever you were. Damn. He needed to get control of himself here, to
think this through rationally. He emptied his lungs with a long slow exhalation
and tried to relax as the air came rushing back in. He closed his eyes.
Meditation. He laughed out loud. Who would have thought that this would be the
one thing of value he would learn here? Him, of all people! The one thing of
value. Two months, and only this to show for it?
He focused on his breathing. What else have you learned, Michael? The
breathing, focus on the breathing, shut off the voices for a while. Adronato.
Now there was something he'd use all the time. Stop. Get yourself together.
Breathe in. The military training wasn't new -- some variation here and there,
a chance to get in tighter shape -- but he'd trained as a soldier long before he
came to Minbar. A soldier and a pilot. Got a look at the White Star, at least.
A sick feeling swept him and he forced his attention back to his breath.
Why did you come, Michael? If not to train as a soldier, then why? Breathe...
honor, and courage, and an inner confidence that the cause was absolutely just
and your actions absolutely essential ... Essential. What's essential? And
essential to what? Breathe, Michael. The cause. The war is over, damn it.
Breathe out. Our war is never over, our army never stands down. The Army of
Light. The light. Essential to the light. To truth. To peace. Listen to
yourself. Get a grip, Michael.
You're gonna change the galaxy. You're gonna make a difference. Sure. Jeff
did. All this is his, his work, his legacy. Ranger One. How'd you do in
training, Jeff? Breathe, damn it. Hello, old friend. Yeah, well, I've fucked
up another job. Oh god, would you just breathe, damn it.
He leaned forward on the bench and shook his head hard as though he could knock
loose all the voices inside it. He scrubbed his face with his hands then ran
them up over his head and down, down the painfully tight sinews in his neck.
Are you prepared to take the Ranger oath? He sighed heavily.
I am a Ranger. Not yet, Michael. From the looks of things, not ever. We walk
in the dark places no others will enter. Been there. Done that. We stand on
the bridge and no one may pass.
It went quiet in his head. Awfully, sickeningly, viciously quiet. The voices
must know, must know they don't have to tell me, that I can't ever forget. Oh
damn. Will you breathe before you start crying again?
He reordered his body, closed his eyes, tried to find a rhythm for his
breathing. He had to fight to expand his lungs against the pounding heart that
felt twice its normal size. He had to struggle against the sick feeling in his
stomach. He had to force the breath past the ever growing lump in his throat.
He squeezed his eyes shut tighter but the burning there told him the tears were
back. He collected all his strength and tried to take another breath, but a sob
racked through his body. He grabbed his gut and doubled forward.
"Begin again." A soft voice from behind him, gentle hands on his shoulders. He
sprang from the bench, whirling to face the owner of the voice.
"Begin again, my ass! What the hell do you know about it? You can't begin again
when people are dead, when you killed them, killed them by your incompetence, or
your betrayal. How do you begin again when everyone you've trusted has
abandoned you, or turned on you, or suffered because of you? How do you ask
someone to start over with you when you know that they've gone through hell and
you put them there? How do you begin again when you know a monster lives inside
you? Why should you even try?"
The other made no reply.
Garibaldi left the temple.
= = =
Stupid!
The door of the tiny room slammed behind him. Enough of this shit. He rummaged
for his bag and threw it open on the bed. The chest shivered as he yanked it
open, heaving the contents viciously toward the bag. He ripped off the
waistcoat and tossed it back on the chest. You can have it back, Marcus. Give
it back to the dead.
He bit his lip and waited for the shivers to run their course. With at least a
tentative hold on his rational mind again, he crossed to the bed and extricated
a set of clothes from the chaos in, on, and around his suitcase. The rest he
tucked inside, a bit more neatly. He stripped off the Ranger uniform, dressing
again in his own clothes.
Carefully, he folded the uniform and set it back in the chest, retrieving and
adding the waistcoat last. The textbooks he returned to the shelf before
scanning the room for anything else that might be his. All that was left was
the pike. He lifted it from the table, staring at the metal cylinder in his
hand. Idly, he snapped it open. Garibaldi tossed the denn'bok on the bed,
collected his bag, and left.
The air was cool when he stepped out of the barracks, and the compound was dark
and quiet. He hoisted his bag onto his shoulder and headed for Tuzanor. He'd
find shelter there tonight -- or not. It didn't matter. -- and get a transport
in the morning. Somewhere. Anywhere. That didn't matter either. Not much did
now.
Lost in thought, he hadn't noticed the approaching figure. Garibaldi jumped at
the sound of his name.
In answer, as calmly as he could, he said only, "Sech Navain." Garibaldi would
give him his title, but he refused to bow.
"It is a good night for a walk," Navain said without expression, but his eyes
searched Garibaldi's with an urgency Michael did not understand.
"Yeah," Michael answered, and adjusting his bag on his shoulder, he walked on.
"Are you leaving?" Navain called after him.
Garibaldi stopped, the anger bristling in him. "Yes," he said, looking over his
shoulder at Navain. "I'm leaving. I have no business being here. Does it make
you feel better to hear me say it?"
"You cannot know that yet," Navain answered, ignoring the taunt.
Michael spun on him. "What is that -- more of your cryptic Minbari philosophy?
Save it. I don't need it, I don't want it. I'm gone, Navain. You can delight
in that." The last sentence he spat out, the word 'delight' heavy with sarcasm.
He turned his back and started away.
"Michael, will you walk with me?" Garibaldi was incredulous. In his fury, he
started to laugh. Navain approached him and said again, "Walk with me, please."
The rage in Michael went quiet now, simmering rather than roiling. "I've been
through the training. I've done what was asked of me the best way I could. It
wasn't good enough. I don't see where we have anything else to talk about."
"You haven't begun to do what you need to do." That turned the heat up under
his anger, but the words of fury caught in Michael's throat as he fought violent
urges. "Please, Michael," Navain said softly, "give me just a few moments.
Then, if you wish, you may go."
Something Michael did not understand made him listen. Something in the man's
eyes. Clenching and unclenching his fists, he tried to understand why he was
even considering this. No. He started to leave. "Wanna talk socks?" Navain
said softly.
"What the hell did you say?" Garibaldi moved on him.
Navain laid a hand on Michael's elbow and gestured toward the compound. "Walk
with me, Michael, please."
They walked for several minutes in silence as Michael struggled to get control
of his emotion. Navain spoke at last. "The path you've chosen is a difficult
one."
"It's all downhill, actually, from here to Tuzanor." Michael knew he was using
the flippancy as a weapon, but it missed its mark.
"But, contrary to what you think, you haven't yet done what you came here to
do."
Garibaldi really wanted to tell this guy off. Unfortunately, Michael thought,
he was right. He hadn't known it himself until tonight in Delenn's office, but
whatever it was that had drawn him here, whatever he had come to search for, he
hadn't found it. But why the hell did Navain care, and what was that remark
before?
He realized Navain was waiting for him to speak, and though he wasn't sure he
could, he made the effort. "I know." Michael was startled by the softness of
his own voice. "What I was looking for isn't here."
"You do not know that to be true yet either." They walked along in silence,
with Garibaldi marveling at how irritating the man could be. After a time,
Navain spoke again. "First, you must understand the task. You are just
reaching that point. Soon you will be ready to begin your work."
"To begin my work?" The confusion was obvious in Michael's face. "Are you
trying to tell me to start the training over?" He should have left, Michael
thought, when he had the chance.
"The period of training is useful on different levels. It gives one time to
learn new skills. It allows the Rangers to form personal bonds, loyalties that
will serve them well later. Most of all, it provides a structure for the days
in which the trainee must learn what is truly necessary for a Ranger:.. "
Garibaldi stopped walking, both hands raised in front of him. "Right, I know:
delight, respect, compassion. I've heard this speech. Excuse me, I'm outta
here."
Navain smiled broadly, for the first time Garibaldi could remember. "Often
enough that you could give it back to me, I suspect. Please, walk with me."
Sweeping out a circle with his hand, he bargained, "once around the compound,
that is all I will ask." The deal was too familiar for Michael to refuse.
"It is hard for you, I know, " Navain continued, "to accept the importance --
even the relevance -- of those three. You have a quick wit, and, I suspect, a
penchant for mischief, but I doubt you have ever been gentle enough with
yourself to allow for true delight." Garibaldi shifted his bag uncomfortably on
his shoulder. What did Navain know about who and what he was?
"Respect is your currency, your bargaining chip. Earned. Given if received in
return." You have a problem with that? Michael thought, but he held his
tongue. Let's just get around the compound.
"Compassion ..." Navain's voice trailed away. After a few steps, he said,
"Each trainee has his or her own work to do in order to become a Ranger. You
have begun to identify yours. Now you must put down your burdens so that you
are free to work."
Another argument was the last thing Garibaldi wanted, but he couldn't stand
anymore of this mystical clap-trap. "Sech Navain, I don't want to be rude, but
I don't understand why we're having this conversation. And I'm damn sure I
don't understand what you're trying to tell me -- if anything. I can't speak
Adronato to save myself. I've become the denn'bok equivalent of a tackling
dummy. And today I proved that putting me in command of a White Star could well
mean the end of the Rangers. Three strikes, Navain. I'm outta here."
"Whatever problems you may have in the training," Navain said, "will solve
themselves if you attend to the real work."
Michael's temper snapped. "It must be nice to be so cocksure, to have all the
answers. The master teacher. Delight, respect, compassion! When was the last
time you were out there," he flung the words and an arm to the star-filled sky,
"the last time you faced the terror and the death that real Rangers live with?"
"Six months ago." The words stopped Michael in mid-tirade. Gesturing for him
to walk again, Navain explained. "This is not my usual assignment, Michael. I
was injured on my last mission and needed time to recuperate. This is what you
might call desk duty."
Why, Michael wondered, had he assumed Navain had been here forever? Age was
part of it, that much he had to admit. Navain, Durhan, and Ardret were almost
the only Rangers in Michael's experience who appeared older than himself. He
blurted a question without stopping to consider its propriety. "How long have
you been a Ranger?"
The small smile that had been sneaking up on Navain's mouth ambushed his whole
face. "Three years, next month." If that answer left Michael speechless, it
did not shock him as deeply as Navain's next words. "Thanks to you."
Garibaldi's mind and mouth formed the word "me?" but no sound would come out.
The sight of his speechless companion drew a deep chortle from Navain. "Yes,
Michael, you. Please, come." They began to walk again, although Michael's pace
was not so hurried this time. "I had my own difficulties in training, Michael.
The specifics are not important now, but like you, I found it difficult to take
things like delight seriously. Like you, I had my bags packed to leave."
Michael realized he was hanging on the man's words. "What happened?"
Again Navain smiled. "Jeffrey Sinclair." As though he expected the reaction,
he laid a hand on Michael's shoulder to urge him into motion again. "Entil'Zha
took an interest in all the trainees of course, but for me, he did more. I do
not know why. He helped me to face the work I needed to do, and in the process
of that work I came to understand respect and compassion, but delight -- that
eluded me. Worse, it upset me. I thought it a trivialization of all that the
Rangers represent. And, if the truth be told, I was too angry to let myself
experience it."
"I spent many hours in conversation with Ranger One on the subject of delight.
Many of those conversations might be better characterized as debates or
arguments. A Jesuit lawyer, I believe is what he said he had been called."
Garibaldi cringed to hear the title with which he had teased Jeff. "In those
talks, Sinclair told me many stories, stories that delighted him -- and me. And
he told me much about the friend who figured so prominently in so many of those
stories."
They slowed to a halt, having come full circle. Garibaldi turned to Navain,
searching helplessly for words. "I have so many questions..."
Navain nodded. "And I could provide responses. But you will not have answers
until you find them in your own heart. Lay down the burdens, Michael. Do the
work." With that, and nothing more, the teacher withdrew.
Left alone in the compound, Garibaldi stared out at the stars, looking in to the
depths. What had he come to find?...honor... courage ... confidence... But
how? And what did Navain mean "put down your burdens"? What burdens? The
question made him aware of the pack on his back and he swung it down from his
shoulder. Dangling it from his hand, he looked toward the city then toward the
barracks. Aw nuts. He threw the bag back over his shoulder and started for his
room.
= = =
It didn't really make sense to try to sleep, Garibaldi thought as he dropped his
bag on top of the chest. He'd have to be up again in a couple of hours. But
facing a full day, even a shorter Minbari day, without some rest probably wasn't
a great idea either.
The fighting pike, extended to full length, still lay angled across the bed.
Garibaldi lifted it carefully, testing the heft of it in his hand. He snapped
it closed. Move faster, huh? Open. What was slowing him down? Closed. Was
he just too old for this?
He stretched out on the bed and pondered the ceiling, the metal cylinder cold in
his hand. It's not the years, he thought, it's the mileage. A lot of mileage
in the last year or so. Before Sheridan went to Z'ha'dum, before ... well,
before, he was quick in a fight, he was quick with a joke. Before. An eternity
masquerading as a year.
And now it was after. Clark was gone, Sheridan was safe -- hell, President of
the new Alliance. And everyone, Sheridan, Delenn, even Ivanova who had wanted
him shot on sight, everyone had forgiven him. It wasn't my fault. They
understood that. It wasn't my fault. But it was me. I was there. I saw it.
I heard it. I did it.
Sleep stole up on him in the mask of memory, and he was there again: tracking
Sheridan's father, sending the message telling John he had to come alone. And
he came, alone, undisguised, and unsuspecting. Trusting, believing that
whatever had happened, Michael would not let any harm come to him. We stand on
the bridge ...
With all the ethereal substance of a dream, he was there again in the bar room.
The tranq was in his hand, and then it was on John's. I told him not to fight
it. If only he hadn't fought maybe it would have been different, maybe...
He fought so hard. Undrugged, he might have had a chance, at least to get away.
But I took care of that. I made sure he'd go down. And I watched. Screaming
inside, but bound to the chair, bound as surely as if with rope. I watched him
fight and I never left my chair. Together, what might we have done? How would
things have been different if I had helped him, protected him, my CO, my friend?
We stand on the bridge...
But I didn't.
I never moved, never tried.
It wasn't my fault. But I was there. I heard it: the gasping grunts as they
hit him, kicked him, over and over again. I saw it, saw him fall, struggle back
up, and fall again, broken, bloody, but still fighting, still hoping. I felt
it. All of it. Every blow to body and to spirit that took my Captain down.
We stand on the bridge.
I was there. I let them do it. It was me. I took him down.
A sharp blow caught Michael's jaw, snapping his head back, rattling his teeth
and jolting him fully and suddenly awake. The pike, extended now, lay across
his body, one end resting on his right shoulder, the end, apparently, that had
gotten his jaw. He closed the pike carefully, and rose from the bed. Setting
the weapon safely on the table, he ran his fingers gingerly along his jaw. That
was going to hurt for a while. Not bad enough every partner you've had has
pounded you to a pulp, Michael. Now you have to do it to yourself.
It didn't pay to try to sleep, not with the nightmare. He showered and dressed,
once more in the uniform of the Ranger. Begin again.
= = =
Michael Garibaldi was on his fourth -- or was it fifth -- cup of coffee when
Drew found him at breakfast. "Michael! Missed you last night. Is everything
OK?" Was it the smell of the food from the young man's tray that made his
stomach lurch, Michael wondered, or was it the question?
"I needed to do some thinking." That was true, anyway.
The young man pushed the pale hair out of his eyes yet again, affording him a
better look at his companion. His eyes didn't leave Garibaldi's face as he dug
into a plate of eggs. "Anything I can do?"
"Nah." It flew quickly, automatically, from his mouth, then with greater
consciousness, he added, "thank you." Michael realized that the younger man was
still watching him, and he began to feel uncomfortable under the scrutiny.
"What?" he barked defensively.
"Nothing, " Drew replied still holding his eyes. "I just remember someone
telling me that we need each other, that we can't do it alone."
Damn you, Garibaldi thought, diving into his coffee. Don't do this to me. Get
control of yourself and tell him politely to mind his own business. Michael
drew down a long swallow, steeled himself , and raised his eyes to Drew's. "I
appreciate ... " The rest of the words simply would not come out, not in the
face of those pale blue eyes, eyes that studied him without taunt, without
challenge, without demand. Just looked at him. With acceptance. And respect.
Finally Michael forced out words. They weren't the ones he had intended, but
they were all he could manage. "I can't do this now, not here."
"Call the time, " the blond answered, his glance unwavering.
"Tonight? After dinner?" Michael croaked. Drew acknowledged with a nod.
Finally, he dropped his eyes to his breakfast, and Michael, relieved, sipped at
his coffee.
= = =
Most of the morning seemed lost in a haze of fatigue and distraction. Garibaldi
managed to get through the early sessions without embarrassing himself or doing
any harm, and he figured that was probably the best he could hope for today.
And then it was time for Navain's class. Every session with the teacher was one
Michael had dreaded, had endured, survived. How would he face Navain now? What
would he say? And what would Navain expect from him?
As they filtered into the room Navain was indicating that they should seat
themselves in a circle. That meant he would ask them to share stories, and that
Michael hated most of all. He had never volunteered, and, mercifully, had never
been put on the spot. When they were all in place, Sech Navain explained that
he wished them to speak of respect.
"Take a moment or two just to think before we speak, " Navain began, and then he
was silent, as though following his own advice. "It is easy to speak of those
we respect," he continued after a moment, "easy to talk of heroes. What I ask
you to do today is a bit more difficult. I ask you to share with us the story
of a moment when someone has shown you respect."
Garibaldi braced himself for an hour of starry-eyed-kid-brother stories. He
looked at Navain who seemed lost in thought. The first starry-eyed-kid-brother
story began. Michael paid the courtesy of seeming attentive but his mind was
elsewhere, rehashing what Navain had said to him the previous night. Other
trainees took turns speaking, telling of family, friends and colleagues, stories
of feeling appreciated, valued, honored. Michael thought about Navain and about
Jeff.
It grew quiet in the room and Michael felt himself getting nervous. He leaned
forward in his chair, rested his arms on his knees, and prayed he wouldn't be
challenged to speak. And then Drew was talking.
"This may sound silly -- it's just a little thing. Someone, someone I respect,
I look up to -- well, I sensed he was having a rough time and I just offered to
listen, if he wanted to talk. I didn't think he'd accept but I wanted him to
know that I saw and I cared. And he accepted. It's a little thing, like I
said, but the idea that he would agree to talk to me that way ... When I'm
confused or scared, I try to ask myself what he would do. That someone of his
strength would be willing to accept help from me, to lean on me a little, I
felt, well, honored."
There were a few murmurs of approval from the group, as there had been for each
speaker. Garibaldi found he couldn't take his eyes from Drew's face, though the
young man made no attempt to look his way. Navain spoke a word of thanks, as he
had for each trainee who had spoken, and indicated that there was time for one
more story. The group quieted and a little voice in Michael's head told him
escape was near. He almost didn't hear it, over the sound of his own voice in
the room.
He heard himself talking about the station, about his life before Babylon 5 and
how Sinclair had wanted him as Chief of Security in spite of his record. Stop
now, the voice inside his head said. You've already said way too much. He
talked about the arrival of the ambassadors and the assassination attempt on
Kosh, and the pressure from Earth for Sinclair to give the investigation to
someone else. Why don't you just tell them you're incompetent, the voice
challenged, and get it over with?
"Sinclair was accused, and it was looking really bad. I offered him the chance
to put somebody else in charge, admitted I wasn't sure if I could do it for him.
He never flinched. Told me I was the right man for the job -- and a pain in the
ass -- and he wouldn't have it any other way."
There was laughter around him, warm, accepting laughter, and laughter within him
as well. Navain thanked him, as he had done for the others, and dismissed the
group. Garibaldi wondered if Navain would make any reference to the
conversation of the previous night, or would expect him to, but the teacher gave
him only a bow and a smile, and Michael followed the others out.
= = =
Garibaldi greeted his table mates as he sat down to lunch, still startled to
hear Adronato from his own lips. Good-humoredly they all practiced their formal
and informal expressions of best wishes and congratulations, while the young
woman whose birthday provided the occasion for the drill giggled and blushed.
As they turned to their food and talk turned to news from outside, Michael
looked around for Jhevnak, but the Minbari was not at table.
Hurriedly, Michael grabbed a few bites of his lunch, then begged excuse of his
companions, accepted their applause for having chosen the right form for the
apology, and bid them farewell. Maybe he would learn to speak Adronato someday,
but right now he wanted to find Jhevnak.
He stood in the compound outside the dining room. Where? Where would the young
Minbari go? Back to his room? Or up in the hills? Trust your hunches,
Michael. He headed for the temples.
Slipping inside the door, Garibaldi eased it closed noiselessly. A solitary
figure, head bowed, arms limp at his sides, stood before the statue of Valen.
As Michael watched the Minbari raised his eyes to the figure of Valen, and
Michael found his gaze drawn there as well.
Who was he, this legend, at the center of Minbari society, at the heart of the
Rangers? Minbari not born of Minbari, whatever that meant. Garibaldi the
agnostic was uncomfortable with the near deification of the ancient leader, even
more uncomfortable with the prophecies that Valen would return, and utterly
panicked by the suggestion that Jeff Sinclair was that second coming. He
suspected Jeff wouldn't have been real comfortable with it either.
But Jhevnak had come here, come to Valen's statue. What had he come to find?
Slowly, Michael paced off the aisle, positioning himself over Jhevnak's left
shoulder, waiting for the Minbari's peripheral vision to detect him. "Is it
true you knew him, Michael?"
"Who?" Garibaldi inquired gently, drawing alongside the young trainee.
"Entil'Zha." Jhevnak turned to look at him. "Sinclair." With a flush of
awkwardness and a prayer that this would not be a theological discussion,
Michael nodded.
"And Sheridan?" the Minbari asked, his voice flat, his demeanor trance-like.
"The one they call Starkiller?"
Garibaldi winced to hear again the epithet. "Yes."
They stood together in silence for a time before the Minbari spoke again. "It
sounded so right, Michael, so just," he whispered, shaking his head. "I wanted
to stand against the darkness, to defend the light, to protect my people. I do
not know if I understood what that would mean."
In the silent semi-darkness of the little temple, Garibaldi saw again a parade
of moments, each of them a decision. He followed Jhevnak's gaze to the face of
Valen. "We never do. None of us ever do." He laid an arm gently on the young
man's shoulders and led him outside.
By the time they assembled for the afternoon meditation, Garibaldi was
apprehensive. Lack of sleep was beginning to get the upper hand on him, and he
did not enjoy contemplating what Sech Ardret's reaction would be if he started
snoring during the meditation. He would have to maintain enough control to be
certain that didn't happen, even if it meant sacrificing some of the freedom he
found in these sessions. He settled himself with his legs crossed left over
right instead of his usual right over left, placed his hands in this lap rather
than on his knees, and focused his eyes on the flame of a candle across the
room. To close them now would be to court disaster.
The breathing came easily, rhythmically.
The flame, the fire, burning, consuming, the air, the breath, surrender, the
fire.
Fading, growing, the breath, the fire, bowing, leaping, the flame, at rest.
Fire, test, crucible, purity, flame, light, hope, fire.
The flame, the fire, fading, failing, fire, consuming, destroying, the light.
Garibaldi looked over to where Jhevnak sat. Where was the fire Garibaldi had
seen in him that first night? Sech Ardret's stern glance quickly signaled his
disapproval of Michael's distraction. He returned his eyes to the flame.
The flame, the fire, fading, bending, vanquished, broken, struggling, no!
Fighting, broken, Sheridan, struggling, beaten, broken, defiant, the flame.
Struggling, fighting, stubborn, rising, strong, growing, dancing, free.
Mars, Edgars, struggling, vanquished, fighting, battling, defiant, free.
The flame, the fire, hope, struggling, Sheridan, beaten, rescued, free.
A hard shake of his head did little to throw off the memories. Garibaldi knew
he couldn't do this now, couldn't let himself get drawn back into the nightmares
of Mars. Not here, not out in public, with too much of the day still to get
through. He needed to clear his mind, focus his energy before the denn'bok
training.
Centering himself, he acknowledged the images then willed his mind to release
them. He could not ignore them, and would not, he knew, but right now, he had
to let them go. Clear everything away. Just be still.
Move faster. Don't think about the denn'bok now. Just clear your mind. Why
couldn't he move faster? Let it go. What was weighing him down? Focus on the
flame. Be still.
A cold hand grabbed his spine and self-loathing curdled his stomach. You sat
still enough on Mars.
Stop it. Focus on the flame. Bending, flickering, fighting back to life. Like
Sheridan, beaten, falling, struggling back. While you were still, perfectly
still.
Move faster.
Just move.
Damn it, move.
Help him.
Do something.
The hand on his shoulder made him jump. Jhevnak stood over him, looking
concerned. "Michael?" The young Minbari called him back to the here and now.
"It is time to move on."
= = =
Pulling himself to his feet with Jhevnak's help, Garibaldi joined the trainee in
the walk to the martial arts center. They found their places quickly and began
the basic drills. Garibaldi searched within himself for just a little more
energy to carry him through these last few hours. Still, with each throw his
opponent seemed a little heavier, a little harder to bring down. After they had
sparred a while, Sech Durhan signaled for them to begin their work with the
pike.
Even after all these days there was still an electricity in the simultaneous
snap of the thirty-six pikes, a satisfaction in the sound that left Michael
smiling through the solo forMs. When they partnered off, Garibaldi found himself
facing Drew, and he hoped the kid would not hold back out of some misguided
sympathy for the old man.
He attacked, immediately and forcefully, to make it clear he expected no special
treatment. Drew countered easily, and with a few quick blows, brought Garibaldi
down. Michael rose, and they began again, this time with Drew on the attack.
Clearly, he had worried needlessly.
The kid is good, Garibaldi thought, and heard his teeth click together as a
particularly deft maneuver sent him crashing to the floor. It was not just that
he had taken Michael down -- by now it seemed everyone could do that -- but
Michael really could see the moves, trapped as he was in that slow motion
experience. Drew's form was precise, his movement fluid. The pike was an
extension of his body, and he fought with an abandon reminiscent of Marcus Cole,
Garibaldi thought, as he thudded to the deck again.
He had to get serious about this. Move faster, they kept telling him. Michael
shut his eyes for a moment and gathered his concentration, then sprang to his
feet, and nodded to Drew to begin again.
Faster, then. Stop thinking so much. Just go for it. He doubled over the blow
to his gut, collapsed as the pike came down on his back.
He forced himself back up without pausing to collect himself. Move faster, damn
it. Let it come from your body, from your instincts. He felt his feet swept
out from under him, too late to tuck or roll. He slammed to the floor flat on
his back, his breath leaving him with a grunt.
For one awful moment, memory seized him: the stench of stale beer , the mind-
sheering audio, and the garish neon light of the bar room on Mars. The strobing
snapshots were burned into his brain and every grunt he heard had ripped at his
gut like it was his own. Gulping for air, he opened his eyes and saw a pale
hand extending down to help him up, a hand offered in undeserved friendship. At
last, he grasped it, accepting the help, and on his feet again, murmured softly,
"thanks, John."
"John?"
Garibaldi's eyes darted to the face of the young blond, with an uncomprehending
look.
Drew smiled. "You called me John."
"I did? God, I'm sorry." Garibaldi felt a warm flush of embarrassment and cold
shiver of recognition. "Drew, I'm sorry."
"No problem, " his sparring partner assured him. "Who's John?"
Michael waved off the question, and they began again, but the slip stayed in his
mind. A sharp blow to the ribs brought his attention back the combat. He
blocked, dodged, saw an opening. A quick thrust right there would knock him off
balance, would bring John down. John -- damn! he did it again. The opportunity
long gone, all Michael could do was try to defend himself, to delay the next
fall.
He picked himself up. Move faster. Seize the opportunity. What are you
waiting for? What are you afraid of?
He drove himself, pushing physically and mentally, to break out of the morass of
failure the denn'bok had come to symbolize for him. Do it, damn it. Hit him.
Don't just stand there and let them beat up on you.
He parried Drew's attack. Perhaps it could work. He thrust, and the pikes
clanged together. He spun to dodge the reply. This was the longest he had ever
lasted. Now attack.
Hit him.
Why can't you hit him?
Move.
Do something.
Michael Garibaldi hit the deck again, face down, breathing hard, stinging from
the blows that had dropped him. Maybe it was the pain, or his losing battle
with fatigue, that made his throat tighten, his eyes burn, and his body tremble.
Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself up from the floor, climbed to his feet.
He bowed to his partner, snapped the pike closed, and wiped away his tears.
Part 3
= = =
He was tending the bruises when the summons came. The Minbari Ranger who
appeared at his door shared no information save that he was wanted in the
Entil'Zha's office, then led him briskly through the corridors, and with a bow,
left him outside the door. Garibaldi signaled, and as the door opened, stepped
inside to find Delenn in conversation with Ardret, Durhan, and Navain.
Michael realized at once why he had been called. So, it was over. And they
would leave it to Delenn to tell him. He placed his hand on his chest and
bowed. "Respects, Entil'Zha." The three looked uncomfortable and quickly took
their leave. No greeting passed between Michael and the teachers, save his
small, grudging bow.
"Good evening, Michael. Thank you for coming." Delenn was smiling at him, the
smile of an old friend, but was he seeing his friend or his Entil'Zha?
He thought hard about his reply, his eyes cast down at the floor. In Adronato
he said "Entil'Zha honors me by the summons."
Delenn moved toward him, and taking his right hand from where it still rested
above his heart, she cradled it in her hands. The tiny Minbari looked up into
his eyes. "How are you, Michael?" she asked, in English.
Did she really want him to answer that, at this, of all moments? In English he
responded, "I am well, Entil'Zha."
"Have a few months at Tuzanor made you forget your old friends?" she asked,
still holding his hand.
"No, Delenn," he said softly. Anything but, he thought.
She released his hand and stepped away. "I am told the training has been
difficult for you." A slight shift in inflection raised it into a question.
Gee, I wonder where she heard that? "At times." Like now.
"You are coming to the end of the period of training. Are you prepared to take
the Ranger oath?"
Garibaldi's stomach and jaw clenched. Was this how they wanted it? Was he
supposed to take himself out, to save them from the dirty work? No deal.
"Would it matter whether I thought I was or I wasn't?" His anger slung the
blade of challenge.
Delenn studied his eyes for a long time. "It is the only thing that can matter.
No one can force you to make that vow. Others may stand between you and the
ceremony but if you have the heart of a Ranger ... "
"Is that why I'm here, Delenn?" Michael spat out. "So that you can tell me
that I may have the heart of a Ranger, but I'll never wear the badge? Fine.
Say it, and let's stop wasting everyone's time."
The woman seemed honestly hurt by his anger, but after a moment she straightened
and spoke with a quiet strength. "It was as Entil'Zha, as well as your friend,
that I invited you to come to Tuzanor, and it is in my role as Entil'Zha that I
accept the oath of all new Rangers and present them with their badges. The
decision as to whether you will be among them lies with you ... " Garibaldi had
felt chastened by her words, until a final phrase revived his anger. " ... and
with your teachers." Still he held his tongue. She took his hand again. "Is
there anything a friend may do to help?" she asked gently.
The tenderness in her voice softened him. "I wish ... ," and he choked on the
words, "I wish I had an answer to that. I go through the days. I do what 's
asked of me. Sometimes I succeed. Sometimes I fail. But what does that mean,
Delenn? How do I make sense out of success and failure? How do I balance
learning Minbari grammar against losing the lives of a crew under my command? I
struggle to learn to fight with sticks so I can face an enemy whose technology
defies our understanding. And I learn to meditate, but on what?"
Garibaldi listened to himself as though he were hearing the words for the first
time, and in some sense, he was. All the unnamed dissatisfaction, the
suppressed confusion came ripping out. Delenn's eyes never left his face, nor
did her lips open in argument or excuse.
"I've been here nearly two months, Delenn, and as you say, I'm coming to the end
of the training. But training in what, Delenn? I've known the Rangers, out
there where it matters. I've worked with them, seen them fight, seen them die.
It was never about which verb to use or whether the ritual had been followed
properly. It only rarely involved the denn'bok. It was about honor, and
courage, and an inner confidence that the cause was absolutely just and your
actions absolutely essential. That's what I came to Tuzanor looking for,
Delenn.
"Maybe I'm not cut out to be a Ranger. The last person who'd be surprised by
that is me, but I'll be damned if I understand what the last two months of my
life have to do with finding out." He caught his breath, felt resignation
oozing into his body. "I wish I had an answer for you, Delenn, but I don't."
He was ready to find rage when he met her eyes but he had not expected to find
hope. "I suspect, Michael," she said softly, a trace of a smile beginning to
form, "that when you have found the answer, you will no longer need the help."
What the hell did that mean? Damn the Minbari! He swallowed hard but it did
nothing to move the bitter lump that sat in the back of his throat, souring his
mouth and blocking his breathing. "Why don't we just do what we came here to
do, Delenn, and not drag it out?" He turned to face her squarely, straightening
his body, setting his face, meeting her gaze.
"We have done it, Michael, " she said with a nod. "You are expected at dinner."
He refused to show any more of the emotion that was buffeting him. He bowed
stiffly, and backed toward the door.
"Michael?" she called after him. He stopped, but did not turn. "Michael, you
have many friends -- more than you realize. They will help you, if you will let
them."
"I know, Delenn, " he whispered as the door closed.
= = =
The rituals of dinner were a comfort tonight, he thought bitterly, something to
get him through this hour or two without having to make real conversation,
without having to reveal himself or what was churning inside him. When the meal
was over he fled, out of the dining hall, out of the building, somewhere Drew
would not find him. He'd want to talk as they jogged, and Michael couldn't
handle that tonight. He took refuge in the chapel, as he had come to call the
smallest of the temples.
What the hell had happened tonight? Was he just supposed to infer that he had
washed out? Was he supposed to be noble enough to remove himself? Bullshit.
He shook his head and sat down.
So why was he staying? To make a fool of himself? To get beaten and bloody?
Didn't need to come here for that, Michael. You've always managed those pretty
well, wherever you were. Damn. He needed to get control of himself here, to
think this through rationally. He emptied his lungs with a long slow exhalation
and tried to relax as the air came rushing back in. He closed his eyes.
Meditation. He laughed out loud. Who would have thought that this would be the
one thing of value he would learn here? Him, of all people! The one thing of
value. Two months, and only this to show for it?
He focused on his breathing. What else have you learned, Michael? The
breathing, focus on the breathing, shut off the voices for a while. Adronato.
Now there was something he'd use all the time. Stop. Get yourself together.
Breathe in. The military training wasn't new -- some variation here and there,
a chance to get in tighter shape -- but he'd trained as a soldier long before he
came to Minbar. A soldier and a pilot. Got a look at the White Star, at least.
A sick feeling swept him and he forced his attention back to his breath.
Why did you come, Michael? If not to train as a soldier, then why? Breathe...
honor, and courage, and an inner confidence that the cause was absolutely just
and your actions absolutely essential ... Essential. What's essential? And
essential to what? Breathe, Michael. The cause. The war is over, damn it.
Breathe out. Our war is never over, our army never stands down. The Army of
Light. The light. Essential to the light. To truth. To peace. Listen to
yourself. Get a grip, Michael.
You're gonna change the galaxy. You're gonna make a difference. Sure. Jeff
did. All this is his, his work, his legacy. Ranger One. How'd you do in
training, Jeff? Breathe, damn it. Hello, old friend. Yeah, well, I've fucked
up another job. Oh god, would you just breathe, damn it.
He leaned forward on the bench and shook his head hard as though he could knock
loose all the voices inside it. He scrubbed his face with his hands then ran
them up over his head and down, down the painfully tight sinews in his neck.
Are you prepared to take the Ranger oath? He sighed heavily.
I am a Ranger. Not yet, Michael. From the looks of things, not ever. We walk
in the dark places no others will enter. Been there. Done that. We stand on
the bridge and no one may pass.
It went quiet in his head. Awfully, sickeningly, viciously quiet. The voices
must know, must know they don't have to tell me, that I can't ever forget. Oh
damn. Will you breathe before you start crying again?
He reordered his body, closed his eyes, tried to find a rhythm for his
breathing. He had to fight to expand his lungs against the pounding heart that
felt twice its normal size. He had to struggle against the sick feeling in his
stomach. He had to force the breath past the ever growing lump in his throat.
He squeezed his eyes shut tighter but the burning there told him the tears were
back. He collected all his strength and tried to take another breath, but a sob
racked through his body. He grabbed his gut and doubled forward.
"Begin again." A soft voice from behind him, gentle hands on his shoulders. He
sprang from the bench, whirling to face the owner of the voice.
"Begin again, my ass! What the hell do you know about it? You can't begin again
when people are dead, when you killed them, killed them by your incompetence, or
your betrayal. How do you begin again when everyone you've trusted has
abandoned you, or turned on you, or suffered because of you? How do you ask
someone to start over with you when you know that they've gone through hell and
you put them there? How do you begin again when you know a monster lives inside
you? Why should you even try?"
The other made no reply.
Garibaldi left the temple.
= = =
Stupid!
The door of the tiny room slammed behind him. Enough of this shit. He rummaged
for his bag and threw it open on the bed. The chest shivered as he yanked it
open, heaving the contents viciously toward the bag. He ripped off the
waistcoat and tossed it back on the chest. You can have it back, Marcus. Give
it back to the dead.
He bit his lip and waited for the shivers to run their course. With at least a
tentative hold on his rational mind again, he crossed to the bed and extricated
a set of clothes from the chaos in, on, and around his suitcase. The rest he
tucked inside, a bit more neatly. He stripped off the Ranger uniform, dressing
again in his own clothes.
Carefully, he folded the uniform and set it back in the chest, retrieving and
adding the waistcoat last. The textbooks he returned to the shelf before
scanning the room for anything else that might be his. All that was left was
the pike. He lifted it from the table, staring at the metal cylinder in his
hand. Idly, he snapped it open. Garibaldi tossed the denn'bok on the bed,
collected his bag, and left.
The air was cool when he stepped out of the barracks, and the compound was dark
and quiet. He hoisted his bag onto his shoulder and headed for Tuzanor. He'd
find shelter there tonight -- or not. It didn't matter. -- and get a transport
in the morning. Somewhere. Anywhere. That didn't matter either. Not much did
now.
Lost in thought, he hadn't noticed the approaching figure. Garibaldi jumped at
the sound of his name.
In answer, as calmly as he could, he said only, "Sech Navain." Garibaldi would
give him his title, but he refused to bow.
"It is a good night for a walk," Navain said without expression, but his eyes
searched Garibaldi's with an urgency Michael did not understand.
"Yeah," Michael answered, and adjusting his bag on his shoulder, he walked on.
"Are you leaving?" Navain called after him.
Garibaldi stopped, the anger bristling in him. "Yes," he said, looking over his
shoulder at Navain. "I'm leaving. I have no business being here. Does it make
you feel better to hear me say it?"
"You cannot know that yet," Navain answered, ignoring the taunt.
Michael spun on him. "What is that -- more of your cryptic Minbari philosophy?
Save it. I don't need it, I don't want it. I'm gone, Navain. You can delight
in that." The last sentence he spat out, the word 'delight' heavy with sarcasm.
He turned his back and started away.
"Michael, will you walk with me?" Garibaldi was incredulous. In his fury, he
started to laugh. Navain approached him and said again, "Walk with me, please."
The rage in Michael went quiet now, simmering rather than roiling. "I've been
through the training. I've done what was asked of me the best way I could. It
wasn't good enough. I don't see where we have anything else to talk about."
"You haven't begun to do what you need to do." That turned the heat up under
his anger, but the words of fury caught in Michael's throat as he fought violent
urges. "Please, Michael," Navain said softly, "give me just a few moments.
Then, if you wish, you may go."
Something Michael did not understand made him listen. Something in the man's
eyes. Clenching and unclenching his fists, he tried to understand why he was
even considering this. No. He started to leave. "Wanna talk socks?" Navain
said softly.
"What the hell did you say?" Garibaldi moved on him.
Navain laid a hand on Michael's elbow and gestured toward the compound. "Walk
with me, Michael, please."
They walked for several minutes in silence as Michael struggled to get control
of his emotion. Navain spoke at last. "The path you've chosen is a difficult
one."
"It's all downhill, actually, from here to Tuzanor." Michael knew he was using
the flippancy as a weapon, but it missed its mark.
"But, contrary to what you think, you haven't yet done what you came here to
do."
Garibaldi really wanted to tell this guy off. Unfortunately, Michael thought,
he was right. He hadn't known it himself until tonight in Delenn's office, but
whatever it was that had drawn him here, whatever he had come to search for, he
hadn't found it. But why the hell did Navain care, and what was that remark
before?
He realized Navain was waiting for him to speak, and though he wasn't sure he
could, he made the effort. "I know." Michael was startled by the softness of
his own voice. "What I was looking for isn't here."
"You do not know that to be true yet either." They walked along in silence,
with Garibaldi marveling at how irritating the man could be. After a time,
Navain spoke again. "First, you must understand the task. You are just
reaching that point. Soon you will be ready to begin your work."
"To begin my work?" The confusion was obvious in Michael's face. "Are you
trying to tell me to start the training over?" He should have left, Michael
thought, when he had the chance.
"The period of training is useful on different levels. It gives one time to
learn new skills. It allows the Rangers to form personal bonds, loyalties that
will serve them well later. Most of all, it provides a structure for the days
in which the trainee must learn what is truly necessary for a Ranger:.. "
Garibaldi stopped walking, both hands raised in front of him. "Right, I know:
delight, respect, compassion. I've heard this speech. Excuse me, I'm outta
here."
Navain smiled broadly, for the first time Garibaldi could remember. "Often
enough that you could give it back to me, I suspect. Please, walk with me."
Sweeping out a circle with his hand, he bargained, "once around the compound,
that is all I will ask." The deal was too familiar for Michael to refuse.
"It is hard for you, I know, " Navain continued, "to accept the importance --
even the relevance -- of those three. You have a quick wit, and, I suspect, a
penchant for mischief, but I doubt you have ever been gentle enough with
yourself to allow for true delight." Garibaldi shifted his bag uncomfortably on
his shoulder. What did Navain know about who and what he was?
"Respect is your currency, your bargaining chip. Earned. Given if received in
return." You have a problem with that? Michael thought, but he held his
tongue. Let's just get around the compound.
"Compassion ..." Navain's voice trailed away. After a few steps, he said,
"Each trainee has his or her own work to do in order to become a Ranger. You
have begun to identify yours. Now you must put down your burdens so that you
are free to work."
Another argument was the last thing Garibaldi wanted, but he couldn't stand
anymore of this mystical clap-trap. "Sech Navain, I don't want to be rude, but
I don't understand why we're having this conversation. And I'm damn sure I
don't understand what you're trying to tell me -- if anything. I can't speak
Adronato to save myself. I've become the denn'bok equivalent of a tackling
dummy. And today I proved that putting me in command of a White Star could well
mean the end of the Rangers. Three strikes, Navain. I'm outta here."
"Whatever problems you may have in the training," Navain said, "will solve
themselves if you attend to the real work."
Michael's temper snapped. "It must be nice to be so cocksure, to have all the
answers. The master teacher. Delight, respect, compassion! When was the last
time you were out there," he flung the words and an arm to the star-filled sky,
"the last time you faced the terror and the death that real Rangers live with?"
"Six months ago." The words stopped Michael in mid-tirade. Gesturing for him
to walk again, Navain explained. "This is not my usual assignment, Michael. I
was injured on my last mission and needed time to recuperate. This is what you
might call desk duty."
Why, Michael wondered, had he assumed Navain had been here forever? Age was
part of it, that much he had to admit. Navain, Durhan, and Ardret were almost
the only Rangers in Michael's experience who appeared older than himself. He
blurted a question without stopping to consider its propriety. "How long have
you been a Ranger?"
The small smile that had been sneaking up on Navain's mouth ambushed his whole
face. "Three years, next month." If that answer left Michael speechless, it
did not shock him as deeply as Navain's next words. "Thanks to you."
Garibaldi's mind and mouth formed the word "me?" but no sound would come out.
The sight of his speechless companion drew a deep chortle from Navain. "Yes,
Michael, you. Please, come." They began to walk again, although Michael's pace
was not so hurried this time. "I had my own difficulties in training, Michael.
The specifics are not important now, but like you, I found it difficult to take
things like delight seriously. Like you, I had my bags packed to leave."
Michael realized he was hanging on the man's words. "What happened?"
Again Navain smiled. "Jeffrey Sinclair." As though he expected the reaction,
he laid a hand on Michael's shoulder to urge him into motion again. "Entil'Zha
took an interest in all the trainees of course, but for me, he did more. I do
not know why. He helped me to face the work I needed to do, and in the process
of that work I came to understand respect and compassion, but delight -- that
eluded me. Worse, it upset me. I thought it a trivialization of all that the
Rangers represent. And, if the truth be told, I was too angry to let myself
experience it."
"I spent many hours in conversation with Ranger One on the subject of delight.
Many of those conversations might be better characterized as debates or
arguments. A Jesuit lawyer, I believe is what he said he had been called."
Garibaldi cringed to hear the title with which he had teased Jeff. "In those
talks, Sinclair told me many stories, stories that delighted him -- and me. And
he told me much about the friend who figured so prominently in so many of those
stories."
They slowed to a halt, having come full circle. Garibaldi turned to Navain,
searching helplessly for words. "I have so many questions..."
Navain nodded. "And I could provide responses. But you will not have answers
until you find them in your own heart. Lay down the burdens, Michael. Do the
work." With that, and nothing more, the teacher withdrew.
Left alone in the compound, Garibaldi stared out at the stars, looking in to the
depths. What had he come to find?...honor... courage ... confidence... But
how? And what did Navain mean "put down your burdens"? What burdens? The
question made him aware of the pack on his back and he swung it down from his
shoulder. Dangling it from his hand, he looked toward the city then toward the
barracks. Aw nuts. He threw the bag back over his shoulder and started for his
room.
= = =
It didn't really make sense to try to sleep, Garibaldi thought as he dropped his
bag on top of the chest. He'd have to be up again in a couple of hours. But
facing a full day, even a shorter Minbari day, without some rest probably wasn't
a great idea either.
The fighting pike, extended to full length, still lay angled across the bed.
Garibaldi lifted it carefully, testing the heft of it in his hand. He snapped
it closed. Move faster, huh? Open. What was slowing him down? Closed. Was
he just too old for this?
He stretched out on the bed and pondered the ceiling, the metal cylinder cold in
his hand. It's not the years, he thought, it's the mileage. A lot of mileage
in the last year or so. Before Sheridan went to Z'ha'dum, before ... well,
before, he was quick in a fight, he was quick with a joke. Before. An eternity
masquerading as a year.
And now it was after. Clark was gone, Sheridan was safe -- hell, President of
the new Alliance. And everyone, Sheridan, Delenn, even Ivanova who had wanted
him shot on sight, everyone had forgiven him. It wasn't my fault. They
understood that. It wasn't my fault. But it was me. I was there. I saw it.
I heard it. I did it.
Sleep stole up on him in the mask of memory, and he was there again: tracking
Sheridan's father, sending the message telling John he had to come alone. And
he came, alone, undisguised, and unsuspecting. Trusting, believing that
whatever had happened, Michael would not let any harm come to him. We stand on
the bridge ...
With all the ethereal substance of a dream, he was there again in the bar room.
The tranq was in his hand, and then it was on John's. I told him not to fight
it. If only he hadn't fought maybe it would have been different, maybe...
He fought so hard. Undrugged, he might have had a chance, at least to get away.
But I took care of that. I made sure he'd go down. And I watched. Screaming
inside, but bound to the chair, bound as surely as if with rope. I watched him
fight and I never left my chair. Together, what might we have done? How would
things have been different if I had helped him, protected him, my CO, my friend?
We stand on the bridge...
But I didn't.
I never moved, never tried.
It wasn't my fault. But I was there. I heard it: the gasping grunts as they
hit him, kicked him, over and over again. I saw it, saw him fall, struggle back
up, and fall again, broken, bloody, but still fighting, still hoping. I felt
it. All of it. Every blow to body and to spirit that took my Captain down.
We stand on the bridge.
I was there. I let them do it. It was me. I took him down.
A sharp blow caught Michael's jaw, snapping his head back, rattling his teeth
and jolting him fully and suddenly awake. The pike, extended now, lay across
his body, one end resting on his right shoulder, the end, apparently, that had
gotten his jaw. He closed the pike carefully, and rose from the bed. Setting
the weapon safely on the table, he ran his fingers gingerly along his jaw. That
was going to hurt for a while. Not bad enough every partner you've had has
pounded you to a pulp, Michael. Now you have to do it to yourself.
It didn't pay to try to sleep, not with the nightmare. He showered and dressed,
once more in the uniform of the Ranger. Begin again.
= = =
Michael Garibaldi was on his fourth -- or was it fifth -- cup of coffee when
Drew found him at breakfast. "Michael! Missed you last night. Is everything
OK?" Was it the smell of the food from the young man's tray that made his
stomach lurch, Michael wondered, or was it the question?
"I needed to do some thinking." That was true, anyway.
The young man pushed the pale hair out of his eyes yet again, affording him a
better look at his companion. His eyes didn't leave Garibaldi's face as he dug
into a plate of eggs. "Anything I can do?"
"Nah." It flew quickly, automatically, from his mouth, then with greater
consciousness, he added, "thank you." Michael realized that the younger man was
still watching him, and he began to feel uncomfortable under the scrutiny.
"What?" he barked defensively.
"Nothing, " Drew replied still holding his eyes. "I just remember someone
telling me that we need each other, that we can't do it alone."
Damn you, Garibaldi thought, diving into his coffee. Don't do this to me. Get
control of yourself and tell him politely to mind his own business. Michael
drew down a long swallow, steeled himself , and raised his eyes to Drew's. "I
appreciate ... " The rest of the words simply would not come out, not in the
face of those pale blue eyes, eyes that studied him without taunt, without
challenge, without demand. Just looked at him. With acceptance. And respect.
Finally Michael forced out words. They weren't the ones he had intended, but
they were all he could manage. "I can't do this now, not here."
"Call the time, " the blond answered, his glance unwavering.
"Tonight? After dinner?" Michael croaked. Drew acknowledged with a nod.
Finally, he dropped his eyes to his breakfast, and Michael, relieved, sipped at
his coffee.
= = =
Most of the morning seemed lost in a haze of fatigue and distraction. Garibaldi
managed to get through the early sessions without embarrassing himself or doing
any harm, and he figured that was probably the best he could hope for today.
And then it was time for Navain's class. Every session with the teacher was one
Michael had dreaded, had endured, survived. How would he face Navain now? What
would he say? And what would Navain expect from him?
As they filtered into the room Navain was indicating that they should seat
themselves in a circle. That meant he would ask them to share stories, and that
Michael hated most of all. He had never volunteered, and, mercifully, had never
been put on the spot. When they were all in place, Sech Navain explained that
he wished them to speak of respect.
"Take a moment or two just to think before we speak, " Navain began, and then he
was silent, as though following his own advice. "It is easy to speak of those
we respect," he continued after a moment, "easy to talk of heroes. What I ask
you to do today is a bit more difficult. I ask you to share with us the story
of a moment when someone has shown you respect."
Garibaldi braced himself for an hour of starry-eyed-kid-brother stories. He
looked at Navain who seemed lost in thought. The first starry-eyed-kid-brother
story began. Michael paid the courtesy of seeming attentive but his mind was
elsewhere, rehashing what Navain had said to him the previous night. Other
trainees took turns speaking, telling of family, friends and colleagues, stories
of feeling appreciated, valued, honored. Michael thought about Navain and about
Jeff.
It grew quiet in the room and Michael felt himself getting nervous. He leaned
forward in his chair, rested his arms on his knees, and prayed he wouldn't be
challenged to speak. And then Drew was talking.
"This may sound silly -- it's just a little thing. Someone, someone I respect,
I look up to -- well, I sensed he was having a rough time and I just offered to
listen, if he wanted to talk. I didn't think he'd accept but I wanted him to
know that I saw and I cared. And he accepted. It's a little thing, like I
said, but the idea that he would agree to talk to me that way ... When I'm
confused or scared, I try to ask myself what he would do. That someone of his
strength would be willing to accept help from me, to lean on me a little, I
felt, well, honored."
There were a few murmurs of approval from the group, as there had been for each
speaker. Garibaldi found he couldn't take his eyes from Drew's face, though the
young man made no attempt to look his way. Navain spoke a word of thanks, as he
had for each trainee who had spoken, and indicated that there was time for one
more story. The group quieted and a little voice in Michael's head told him
escape was near. He almost didn't hear it, over the sound of his own voice in
the room.
He heard himself talking about the station, about his life before Babylon 5 and
how Sinclair had wanted him as Chief of Security in spite of his record. Stop
now, the voice inside his head said. You've already said way too much. He
talked about the arrival of the ambassadors and the assassination attempt on
Kosh, and the pressure from Earth for Sinclair to give the investigation to
someone else. Why don't you just tell them you're incompetent, the voice
challenged, and get it over with?
"Sinclair was accused, and it was looking really bad. I offered him the chance
to put somebody else in charge, admitted I wasn't sure if I could do it for him.
He never flinched. Told me I was the right man for the job -- and a pain in the
ass -- and he wouldn't have it any other way."
There was laughter around him, warm, accepting laughter, and laughter within him
as well. Navain thanked him, as he had done for the others, and dismissed the
group. Garibaldi wondered if Navain would make any reference to the
conversation of the previous night, or would expect him to, but the teacher gave
him only a bow and a smile, and Michael followed the others out.
= = =
Garibaldi greeted his table mates as he sat down to lunch, still startled to
hear Adronato from his own lips. Good-humoredly they all practiced their formal
and informal expressions of best wishes and congratulations, while the young
woman whose birthday provided the occasion for the drill giggled and blushed.
As they turned to their food and talk turned to news from outside, Michael
looked around for Jhevnak, but the Minbari was not at table.
Hurriedly, Michael grabbed a few bites of his lunch, then begged excuse of his
companions, accepted their applause for having chosen the right form for the
apology, and bid them farewell. Maybe he would learn to speak Adronato someday,
but right now he wanted to find Jhevnak.
He stood in the compound outside the dining room. Where? Where would the young
Minbari go? Back to his room? Or up in the hills? Trust your hunches,
Michael. He headed for the temples.
Slipping inside the door, Garibaldi eased it closed noiselessly. A solitary
figure, head bowed, arms limp at his sides, stood before the statue of Valen.
As Michael watched the Minbari raised his eyes to the figure of Valen, and
Michael found his gaze drawn there as well.
Who was he, this legend, at the center of Minbari society, at the heart of the
Rangers? Minbari not born of Minbari, whatever that meant. Garibaldi the
agnostic was uncomfortable with the near deification of the ancient leader, even
more uncomfortable with the prophecies that Valen would return, and utterly
panicked by the suggestion that Jeff Sinclair was that second coming. He
suspected Jeff wouldn't have been real comfortable with it either.
But Jhevnak had come here, come to Valen's statue. What had he come to find?
Slowly, Michael paced off the aisle, positioning himself over Jhevnak's left
shoulder, waiting for the Minbari's peripheral vision to detect him. "Is it
true you knew him, Michael?"
"Who?" Garibaldi inquired gently, drawing alongside the young trainee.
"Entil'Zha." Jhevnak turned to look at him. "Sinclair." With a flush of
awkwardness and a prayer that this would not be a theological discussion,
Michael nodded.
"And Sheridan?" the Minbari asked, his voice flat, his demeanor trance-like.
"The one they call Starkiller?"
Garibaldi winced to hear again the epithet. "Yes."
They stood together in silence for a time before the Minbari spoke again. "It
sounded so right, Michael, so just," he whispered, shaking his head. "I wanted
to stand against the darkness, to defend the light, to protect my people. I do
not know if I understood what that would mean."
In the silent semi-darkness of the little temple, Garibaldi saw again a parade
of moments, each of them a decision. He followed Jhevnak's gaze to the face of
Valen. "We never do. None of us ever do." He laid an arm gently on the young
man's shoulders and led him outside.
By the time they assembled for the afternoon meditation, Garibaldi was
apprehensive. Lack of sleep was beginning to get the upper hand on him, and he
did not enjoy contemplating what Sech Ardret's reaction would be if he started
snoring during the meditation. He would have to maintain enough control to be
certain that didn't happen, even if it meant sacrificing some of the freedom he
found in these sessions. He settled himself with his legs crossed left over
right instead of his usual right over left, placed his hands in this lap rather
than on his knees, and focused his eyes on the flame of a candle across the
room. To close them now would be to court disaster.
The breathing came easily, rhythmically.
The flame, the fire, burning, consuming, the air, the breath, surrender, the
fire.
Fading, growing, the breath, the fire, bowing, leaping, the flame, at rest.
Fire, test, crucible, purity, flame, light, hope, fire.
The flame, the fire, fading, failing, fire, consuming, destroying, the light.
Garibaldi looked over to where Jhevnak sat. Where was the fire Garibaldi had
seen in him that first night? Sech Ardret's stern glance quickly signaled his
disapproval of Michael's distraction. He returned his eyes to the flame.
The flame, the fire, fading, bending, vanquished, broken, struggling, no!
Fighting, broken, Sheridan, struggling, beaten, broken, defiant, the flame.
Struggling, fighting, stubborn, rising, strong, growing, dancing, free.
Mars, Edgars, struggling, vanquished, fighting, battling, defiant, free.
The flame, the fire, hope, struggling, Sheridan, beaten, rescued, free.
A hard shake of his head did little to throw off the memories. Garibaldi knew
he couldn't do this now, couldn't let himself get drawn back into the nightmares
of Mars. Not here, not out in public, with too much of the day still to get
through. He needed to clear his mind, focus his energy before the denn'bok
training.
Centering himself, he acknowledged the images then willed his mind to release
them. He could not ignore them, and would not, he knew, but right now, he had
to let them go. Clear everything away. Just be still.
Move faster. Don't think about the denn'bok now. Just clear your mind. Why
couldn't he move faster? Let it go. What was weighing him down? Focus on the
flame. Be still.
A cold hand grabbed his spine and self-loathing curdled his stomach. You sat
still enough on Mars.
Stop it. Focus on the flame. Bending, flickering, fighting back to life. Like
Sheridan, beaten, falling, struggling back. While you were still, perfectly
still.
Move faster.
Just move.
Damn it, move.
Help him.
Do something.
The hand on his shoulder made him jump. Jhevnak stood over him, looking
concerned. "Michael?" The young Minbari called him back to the here and now.
"It is time to move on."
= = =
Pulling himself to his feet with Jhevnak's help, Garibaldi joined the trainee in
the walk to the martial arts center. They found their places quickly and began
the basic drills. Garibaldi searched within himself for just a little more
energy to carry him through these last few hours. Still, with each throw his
opponent seemed a little heavier, a little harder to bring down. After they had
sparred a while, Sech Durhan signaled for them to begin their work with the
pike.
Even after all these days there was still an electricity in the simultaneous
snap of the thirty-six pikes, a satisfaction in the sound that left Michael
smiling through the solo forMs. When they partnered off, Garibaldi found himself
facing Drew, and he hoped the kid would not hold back out of some misguided
sympathy for the old man.
He attacked, immediately and forcefully, to make it clear he expected no special
treatment. Drew countered easily, and with a few quick blows, brought Garibaldi
down. Michael rose, and they began again, this time with Drew on the attack.
Clearly, he had worried needlessly.
The kid is good, Garibaldi thought, and heard his teeth click together as a
particularly deft maneuver sent him crashing to the floor. It was not just that
he had taken Michael down -- by now it seemed everyone could do that -- but
Michael really could see the moves, trapped as he was in that slow motion
experience. Drew's form was precise, his movement fluid. The pike was an
extension of his body, and he fought with an abandon reminiscent of Marcus Cole,
Garibaldi thought, as he thudded to the deck again.
He had to get serious about this. Move faster, they kept telling him. Michael
shut his eyes for a moment and gathered his concentration, then sprang to his
feet, and nodded to Drew to begin again.
Faster, then. Stop thinking so much. Just go for it. He doubled over the blow
to his gut, collapsed as the pike came down on his back.
He forced himself back up without pausing to collect himself. Move faster, damn
it. Let it come from your body, from your instincts. He felt his feet swept
out from under him, too late to tuck or roll. He slammed to the floor flat on
his back, his breath leaving him with a grunt.
For one awful moment, memory seized him: the stench of stale beer , the mind-
sheering audio, and the garish neon light of the bar room on Mars. The strobing
snapshots were burned into his brain and every grunt he heard had ripped at his
gut like it was his own. Gulping for air, he opened his eyes and saw a pale
hand extending down to help him up, a hand offered in undeserved friendship. At
last, he grasped it, accepting the help, and on his feet again, murmured softly,
"thanks, John."
"John?"
Garibaldi's eyes darted to the face of the young blond, with an uncomprehending
look.
Drew smiled. "You called me John."
"I did? God, I'm sorry." Garibaldi felt a warm flush of embarrassment and cold
shiver of recognition. "Drew, I'm sorry."
"No problem, " his sparring partner assured him. "Who's John?"
Michael waved off the question, and they began again, but the slip stayed in his
mind. A sharp blow to the ribs brought his attention back the combat. He
blocked, dodged, saw an opening. A quick thrust right there would knock him off
balance, would bring John down. John -- damn! he did it again. The opportunity
long gone, all Michael could do was try to defend himself, to delay the next
fall.
He picked himself up. Move faster. Seize the opportunity. What are you
waiting for? What are you afraid of?
He drove himself, pushing physically and mentally, to break out of the morass of
failure the denn'bok had come to symbolize for him. Do it, damn it. Hit him.
Don't just stand there and let them beat up on you.
He parried Drew's attack. Perhaps it could work. He thrust, and the pikes
clanged together. He spun to dodge the reply. This was the longest he had ever
lasted. Now attack.
Hit him.
Why can't you hit him?
Move.
Do something.
Michael Garibaldi hit the deck again, face down, breathing hard, stinging from
the blows that had dropped him. Maybe it was the pain, or his losing battle
with fatigue, that made his throat tighten, his eyes burn, and his body tremble.
Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself up from the floor, climbed to his feet.
He bowed to his partner, snapped the pike closed, and wiped away his tears.
