In Valen's Name
Part 5



= = =

The customs area on Babylon 5 was a crush of bodies: human, Narn, Minbari,
Drazi, Centauri, you name it. A drone of voices, the commingling of myriad
incomprehensible dialects, floated over the ambient noises of the station: the
faint hum of engines, the whir of the automatic doors, the blare of the com
system. A few fragments of English jumped out at him, and to his surprise,
snatches of Adronato as well, isolated intelligible sounds flying by.

Garibaldi shifted his weight from foot to foot, impatience rustling within him
and around him. He joined the chorus of waiters craning to find the reason for
the delay, and noted with amusement the Centauri loudly haranguing the customs
agent up ahead.

At least that much hadn't changed. Or had. Things had changed, back from the
frightened few travelers of the dark days of rebellion, back to this teeming
madhouse he remembered with an irritated fondness. Driving his hands deep into
his pockets, Michael tipped his head forward and closed his eyes against the
sights of the customs area and the concourse beyond. Every muscle seemed to
twitch with the urge to take charge, to silence the Centauri, get the line
moving again. Not his watch, not any longer.

He rolled his head in a slow circle to dispel the tension. Jostled from behind,
he opened his eyes to see that the line was moving again. He scanned the faces
in the crowd as he stepped forward, his investigator's mind still cataloging,
judging. His gaze settled on a face he knew, a Drazi merchant who had once been
his client. Michael smiled and raised a hand in greeting, but the Drazi,
averting his eyes quickly, turned his back to Garibaldi and moved away.

With no luggage to speak of, Garibaldi expected to pass through the inspection
quickly, so he was startled when the agent did a search of his little bag.
Recognizing her as a young officer hired just before he resigned, Michael tried
to joke, but she made no acknowledgment. If she seriously thought he had
anything concealed in there, though, she was not going to find it with that
pitiful rummaging. She ought to have been taught to do a proper search, taught
where and how to look for hidden pockets and false bottoMs. He accepted the bag
back from her with a bit of irritation, finally getting contact with her annoyed
green eyes as he suggested that next time she look under the lining. Garibaldi
moved out onto the concourse still feeling like he was on the wrong side of this
whole process.

The feeling of role reversal heightened when he spotted Zack Allan. His former
second had grown into the job, no longer looking edgy in the command uniform,
comfortably giving orders to the security agents on duty. A bittersweet smile
crossed Michael's face as he realized his confidence in the young man had proved
sound. He approached the Security Chief and waited for him to finish his
conversation before greeting him. "Hey, Zack."

Nothing had ever crossed Zack Allan's mind that didn't show in his face, Michael
thought, flashing on the memory of one particular poker game. In the moment's
pause, Allan's eyes widened and the beginnings of a smile showed around his
mouth, then that mouth clamped down into a thin-lipped sneer as suspicion
clouded his eyes and furrowed his brow. Finally, as though he realized how
obvious it all was, Zack blushed, stammered something incoherent, and shifted
his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot.

Feeling awkward now himself, Garibaldi tried to smooth the moment by repeating
his greeting. "How are you, Zack?"

Zack's forced smile accompanied a too-formal response. "Mr. Garibaldi, what
brings you back to Babylon 5?"

Michael winced at this impossibly stiff welcome from the man who had been his
protegé, who had tried to be his friend, the man he had repeatedly driven away.
This was, he supposed, what he deserved, but it wasn't what he wanted. "Zack!
Has it been that long?" he chided, trying to keep it light. "It's Michael."

The younger man remained uncomfortable, his eyes shifting nervously. Out of old
habit, Michael followed the darting glances, realizing uneasily that Allan was
checking the locations of the nearest security agents. Zack's eyes met
Michael's momentarily, then dropped to the floor as he cleared his throat.
"Yeah, well, ... " His voice faded away.

No easy way out, Michael. You'll have to face this head on. He edged a little
closer to Allan, dropping his voice to near a whisper, maneuvering for eye
contact. "Zack, a lot went down between us before I left the station, a lot
that I regret. Things I never should have said, attitude you didn't deserve.
I'm sorry for that, all of it." His voice, calm and controlled when he began,
trembled awkwardly now.

The younger man studied him, brow furrowed with confusion and mistrust. "I know
that you tried to help me," Garibaldi continued, trying to hold a steady timbre,
"kept trying until you just couldn't stand my shit any more." Shame stuck in
the back of his throat. "I'm grateful for that. I know, I didn't act it at the
time, but looking back, I am."

Allan said nothing, only stood with arms folded across his chest. Now the
nervous fidgeting was Michael's. His jaw sawed side to side as he chewed his
lip. "I guess," he said, his voice weak and halting, "I guess I'm trying to say
thank you. And I'm sorry. I hope, maybe someday, you'll be able to forgive
me." He swallowed hard and gave up trying to find the words to set this right.
What he never should have started, now he could only strive to end quickly. He
chucked the younger man's shoulder affectionately. "See ya, Zack."

Garibaldi turned his back on Zack Allan one last time, shifted his bag on his
shoulder, and began the walk down the concourse. The din he remembered from
this place couldn't penetrate the noises in his head: the pounding of
embarrassment, the buzz of shame, the voices of what he should have said.

"Michael, wait!" Allan's voice broke through the drone in Garibaldi's brain.
He halted and let Zack catch up to him before he turned. The young man trotted
up, his face flushed with embarrassment. "Michael, I'm sorry." His head cocked
to the right, eyes squinting in discomfort. "I guess, I was shocked to see you.
I didn't know what to expect." His large hands punctuated every sentence.
"Really, it's good to see you again." The last sentence had the sound of an
apology.

"Thanks, Zack. It's good to be back." They fumbled at a handshake as Garibaldi
looked around him. "A little weird, but kinda nice."

"What are you doing here?" blurted Zack suddenly, blushing when he realized how
rude it sounded.

Garibaldi laughed, an honest, hearty chortle that was infectious, forcing a
chuckle from Zack. At least the kid was starting to realize when he put his
foot in it. "I came to see Sheridan," Michael said as the laughter faded.

Allan whistled softly. "That ain't gonna be easy, Michael. He's a very busy
man these days."

"I know," Garibaldi said, resignation and determination contesting in his voice.
He didn't offer Zack anything more, and Zack, never the most persistent of
investigators, did not ask. A bit of small talk passed between them, news of
Ivanova's new post, a string of "how is ... " questions and answers.

"Well ... " Michael seized a lull in the conversation to glance at the chrono.
"I'd better get a move on, if I'm going to get to see the ..."

"Captain!" Zack snapped, straightening quickly, his glance over Michael's right
shoulder.

Shit! This wasn't how he had wanted it to happen. Not out in public like this,
not before he was ready. He steeled himself and turned to face the Captain. A
curious stare from the enormous green eyes of Elizabeth Lochley froze him in
place.

"Good Afternoon!" she greeted them. "Mr. Allan, I don't believe I know your
friend."

"Captain Lochley, this is Michael Garibaldi. Michael was ... "

" ... your predecessor as Chief of Security," Lochley finished for him, eyebrow
arched skeptically. "I recognize the name." If she knew who he was, she no
doubt knew more than what post he had held. A stormy nod accompanied the icy
greeting. "Mr. Garibaldi."

A bottomless void sat where Garibaldi's gut had been. "Captain." He returned
the nod with only the slightest of thaws. The silence sat more heavily than
Garibaldi could stand. "Welcome to Babylon 5," he offered at last. "She's a
good station, and you've got a fine crew." He glanced at Zack with this last,
and noted that the young Security Chief shared his discomfort.

"Yes," Lochley hissed, her stare unwavering, "I have people I can trust."

Garibaldi winced in spite of himself, and a bright blush colored Zack Allan's
face. "What the Captain means ... "

"Mr. Garibaldi knows exactly what the Captain means, " she interrupted, her eyes
never leaving Garibaldi's. Michael felt his own face begin to color, but there,
too, at the back of his neck, he felt the first twitches of anger.

"It's all right, Zack," Michael said softly. His tightly clenched jaw barely
allowed him to articulate the words. "The Captain's entitled to her opinion."

"I don't deal in opinion. I deal in facts." Lochley was baiting him. "And the
facts are public knowledge."

"Captain, there are things you ... " Zack Allan's defense was cut short again,
this time by Garibaldi's hand on his chest.

"Don't, Zack." Michael took his eyes from Lochley's finally to look at the
younger man. "Your responsibility is to your CO. Don't screw with that on
account of me." Allan's mouth opened to protest, but Michael's glance, the
quick, backward tip of his head, the tightened jaw, silenced him.

"How noble!" The sarcasm in Lochley's taunt stung Michael. He sucked air deep
into his lungs before he looked at her again. Did she want him to lose his
temper, to argue with her? Or was she enjoying his meekness in the face of her
insinuations? Another long slow breath served to calm him before he spoke to
her.

"I understand you, Captain," Garibaldi began, his voice calmer than his spirit.
"And you can speak plainly. I worked for Sheridan and I betrayed him." He
paused, to watch her reaction and to swallow down the lump in his throat. "Zack
would never do that to you, to any CO he worked for," he continued, shifting the
focus off himself. "I hope you appreciate that."

A shift in topic was the only evidence Lochley gave that his response had
affected her at all. "I assume you have a purpose in being here?"

The hole in his gut was back. He didn't want to talk about this, least of all
with her. He bit his lip and nodded. "I have to see someone. I won't stay on
your station any longer than necessary to do that." A trace of his old sarcasm
was creeping in.

"And just who is so important that you'd show your face around here again?"

Michael's eyes closed as he resisted the impulse to spar with her. Before he
could collect himself, he heard Zack's voice, uncharacteristically soft and
controlled, deeper than he remembered it.

"Mr. Garibaldi is here to see President Sheridan." He had to remember to thank
Zack for that.

Lochley's snort of laughter snapped Michael's eyes open. "God! You actually
think he'll see you? No, I take that back. Your Sheridan's just enough of a
Pollyanna to try to kiss and make-up." She looked to a flabbergasted, open-
mouthed Zack Allan as she continued, stonily referring to Michael in third-
person. "I trust you've at least checked him for weapons? I don't need him
causing an incident."

It was like the trigger snap of an old projectile pistol: a faint click that
launched a dangerous, irretrievable slug. Garibaldi heard the little noise in
the back of his brain just before the angry words flew.

"Hold it one minute, Captain," Michael barked. Lochley gave him a sidelong
glance, her eyebrow cocked in defiance, but he continued. "Fine, you don't like
me, don't trust me. That's your call, and you've got ammunition for it. I
don't argue that. But don't confuse what happened in the past with the present
or the future. And I'll thank you to show a little more respect for your
predecessor."

"How sweet. Defending Sheridan's honor, are you? I'm sure the knowledge that
you think so highly of him was a great comfort to him during his debriefing."

"Use the right word, Captain. Interrogation. Torture. And save the denials.
I was there. Or does your honesty fail you when it comes to your friend Clark?"

"You were there, all right!" she sneered. "Maybe you should have thought about
how rough it was going to get before you sold him out."

"Wait, did I miss something here? You're talking to me about selling out? You
were working for Clark the whole time."

"I took an oath, Mr. Garibaldi. Not to Clark, or to any one person, but to
EarthForce and its commander. My promises mean something to me. But then, you
wouldn't understand that."

If her intent had been to rip open wounds, she had succeeded. Michael felt
anger drain from him, sucked down again into that visceral void. He hung his
head and battled the sickening shame.

"Is this necessary?" Zack Allan's words were clipped and his voice carried a
barely controlled fury. Still, Michael was grateful for his intervention.

Lochley didn't miss a beat. Turning to Allan, she issued a final order. "See
that your people know his whereabouts at all times. Good day."

The two men waited in silence for the Captain to disappear into the crowd on the
concourse. Garibaldi looked to the left and right of Zack, too embarrassed to
make eye contact. "Sorry you had to see that."

"Aw, Michael, she's just got a stake in making people think she's tough. Don't
take her too seriously. She doesn't understand what really happened."

"She understands enough," Michael said, grimacing. "Look, Zack, I appreciate
your standing up for me, but this is your career, buddy, and she can make you or
break you. Don't let me get between you. Your first loyalty is to your CO."
His jaw trembled when he heard himself, and he shook out an ironic laugh. "Take
it from one who knows."

Allan didn't laugh. Garibaldi couldn't remember ever seeing him look so
serious. "The Captain thunders a lot, but it's not gonna come down to you or
her. And if it did," he continued, his eyes narrowing, a crooked smile playing
across his face, "I know where my loyalties are."

Michael thought it best not to touch that, but he couldn't help smiling. He
pursed his lips and glanced around the concourse before inquiring, "So, you want
me to come down to the station house for a surveillance bracelet?"

The left side of Allan's face curled in a smirk. "Nah!"

"Zack, she gave you an order," Garibaldi protested, "and she strikes me as the
kind who'll check."

His protegé grinned. "My orders were to make sure my people know your
whereabouts. You'll be in Sheridan's office. I'll tell them."

The grateful smile that spread over Garibaldi's face was quickly chased off by a
scowl of concern. "Thanks, Zack," Michael said slowly, forcing out the words he
knew he had to say "but I'm not gonna be the one to get you into hot water. And
right about now, it's probably better for me to play by the rules. Whether we
like it or not, Captain Lochley makes those rules."

"Michael, I'm not gonna ... " Zack shook his head.

Garibaldi silenced him with an upraised hand. "Zack! Could we just do this
while I'm still holding on to a little of my dignity?"

Allan grumbled and scowled, but the set of Garibaldi's teeth hard against the
lower lip, the tremble in the older man's jaw, told him not to prolong this one.
"We don't have to go down to the station," he muttered reluctantly. "We've got
some in the Customs House."

Sighing, Zack led the way into the little office. Garibaldi followed, cringing
when he recognized the agent on duty. "Mr. Garibaldi, it's good to see you
again," Ramirez bubbled as he jumped from his chair. Michael forced a smile,
acknowledging the greeting with a nod and a quick hello.

"Ramirez," Zack barked, "gimme a tag."

"Sure, chief," the agent answered, fumbling in his desk drawer for the bracelet.
He handed it to Zack and turned quickly back to Garibaldi. His mouth was open
to make the next round of small talk when Zack secured the monitoring device
around Michael's extended right wrist. His glance darted quickly between
Garibaldi and Allan. "What is this, some kind of joke? Chief?"

"Ramirez, don't you have some paperwork to do?" the young officer snarled.

Garibaldi's eyes remained on the floor until the agent had murmured "right,
chief" and moved away. He swallowed hard as he looked back at Zack. "Thanks,
Zack," he said weakly.

"Yeah, whatever," Zack shrugged. His link chirped as if on cue, and the call
demanded his presence elsewhere. The two men said their good-byes quickly, but
Michael lingered to watch as Babylon 5's Chief of Security moved off down the
concourse. He fidgeted with the tagging device that seemed to weigh so heavily
on his arm. Finally, when Zack had faded from view, Garibaldi sighed, tucked
the bracelet under his cuff, and resumed his quest.

= = =

Green Sector had been the Ambassadorial quarters, larger and more elegantly
appointed than most of the station. Parts of it still served as residence for
the delegates of the various worlds, but much had now been converted to the
offices of the new Alliance, and for both reasons, security was thick here.
Checking through was an emotional roller coaster ride for Garibaldi. Old
friends greeted him warmly, former friends scrutinized him with eyes that
screamed "traitor" and young recruits failed to recognize him at all. He wasn't
sure which was most painful.

After a bit of searching, Michael found Sheridan's new offices. There were
several layers of receptionists, secretaries, and aides between this unexpected,
unannounced visitor and President Sheridan.

President Sheridan. Still sounded strange. No one in the fence of people
protecting the President wanted to offer Michael any hope of seeing him. He was
turned down in every way and for every reason imaginable. Only his steadfast
refusal to accept those rebuffs held him there.

"Look," he insisted to the latest aide to say no, "would you just tell him that
Michael Garibaldi wants to talk to him? I don't care when. I'll wait as long
as it takes. Just give him the message, please?" Exasperation was evident in
the man's eyes, and Michael suspected he capitulated only in the hope of ridding
himself of this annoyance.

"Wait here," commanded the aide, before slipping through the far door. Twenty
minutes later he emerged, giving the pacing Garibaldi nothing more than a scowl.
Michael dropped into a chair and tried to compose himself. He slowed his
breathing, ordering himself to meditate. Several minutes later his eyes flew
open to the sound of that far door opening again. He sprang to his feet at the
sight of Sheridan framed in the doorway.

"Michael! I'm sorry you had to wait!" John exclaimed, crossing the outer office
to where Michael stood frozen with last minute anxiety. Garibaldi accepted the
out-thrust hand as Sheridan clapped him soundly on the shoulder.

On the edge of his vision, Michael could see the aide, glaring at him, his head
jerked back in shock, his eyes rolling in disgust. The irreverent little voice
in Garibaldi's soul told him to squash Sheridan in an effusive bear hug, just to
provoke the disapproving attaché, but he thought better of mischief just now.
"Thank you for seeing me, Mr. President," he said softly, watching from the
corner of his eye for the aide's reaction.

"Mr. President?!?" Sheridan let loose a laugh. "For pete's sake, Michael, you
sound like some diplomat. I hope that's not what they've been doing to you on
Minbar?"

Garibaldi shifted his eyes to Sheridan's face, and shook his head uncomfortably.
He could feel his jaw tighten with nervousness. "No," he stammered, "no, I'm
sorry, John. But thank you anyway. I know you're busy."

"That I am," said Sheridan, his smile diminishing only the faintest bit. "Come
on in, Michael. I don't have a lot of time, but at least we can make a date to
get together." He gestured toward the office door. Garibaldi swallowed
nonexistent saliva as he willed his feet to move.

Just across the threshold, he stopped to survey the place, forcing Sheridan to
step around him to clear the door. The office was large -- so large Garibaldi
thought his quickly muttered apology echoed a bit -- and decorated more
elaborately than Michael expected. There were personal mementos -- an
autographed baseball, a couple of commendations -- but many of the trappings
around the office suggested a hand other than John's.

"I know, Michael," Sheridan laughed, "it's not my usual bare-bones efficiency."
Garibaldi wondered what had telegraphed his thoughts so well. "They tell me
that as President I have an image to maintain." He shook his head as though
disbelieving, but his hazel eyes sparkled with amusement. "So you're not done
with training yet, are you? What brings you home, Michael?"

Sheridan's choice of words sent a shiver through Garibaldi. He didn't feel at
home, didn't know if he ever could again. He drew a long, trembling breath,
broke from John's gaze, then looked back. "No, " he said, so quietly that
Sheridan stepped closer to hear him, "I'm not done. But I came to see you."

He dropped his eyes again, suddenly conscious of the sweat pouring out of his
body and the burning emptiness of his lungs. His teeth dug into his lower lip
as he lifted his head again. "I came to ask you to forgive me, John, to forgive
me for betraying you."

Sheridan's disbelieving eyes widened until golden eyebrows slammed down in
annoyance. "Michael, we've been over this already." His face and voice
softened, his eyes filled with emotion too close to pity. "It wasn't your
fault. You couldn't help what was happening to you. "

Michael jerked both hands up in front of him, beating his flattened palms
against the air to halt Sheridan's advance. "Don't! Please, don't just let me
off the hook here, John. This isn't about fault. It's about forgiveness.
Forgiveness for what I did. The fact is, I did it, John. I betrayed you"

"Michael, stop beating up on yourself." Sheridan squinted at him. "Things got
rough there for a while, sure. We both know that. But I'm fine now -- thanks
to you. It's over now. "

Garibaldi's head rolled back and he flashed an agonized grimace at the ceiling.
"John, I know what you're saying. I said it myself. 'It's not my fault. It
was Bester. It wasn't my fault.' I wanted to believe that too, John, to make it
that easy. Put it all on someone else. But it's not that simple. "

His shoulders hunched forward as the pace of his words increased. "It's about
what I did to you. It's about the fact that it was me who did it, not Bester."
He watched Sheridan's eyes as he spoke. "Bester didn't invent me, John, he just
worked with what he found."

Michael Garibaldi stepped up closer to his former commander. "I did it, John.
I did it." It was a challenge and a plea. "Can you deal with that? Can you
admit that? Can you forgive me for that?"

The words came slowly from a mouth hanging open in astonishment. "Michael, what
are you saying? That you wanted to?" Anger began to invade his voice when
Garibaldi failed to deny the accusation. "Are you telling me you lied to me --
deliberately -- knowingly? Are you saying you handed me over to Clark, that you
wanted to betray me? "

"Isn't that what you believed, before you knew Bester was involved?" Michael
challenged. "What did you think, when those guys grabbed you in the bar?
Didn't you believe it was my fault, that I could do that?" Sheridan flinched at
the memory, and Garibaldi backed off just a little. "Could you have forgiven
me, before, when that was what you believed? What if Bester hadn't been
involved? Could you have ever forgiven me?"

John's arms stretched across an unseen void, reaching out to a lost friend.
"Michael, this is crazy! It was never like that." The muscles in his face
seemed to sag, pulled down by fatigue and sadness, aging him before Garibaldi's
eyes.

"Yes, I felt betrayed. I went to Mars because of you, because of us -- the
trust, the friendship, everything we've been through together." The bitter
memories stung his throat and narrowed his eyes. "I knew you'd been acting
strange, and shit, yes, it scared me. But we were friends, Michael, and at a
moment like that, with a message like that, I had to believe, had to trust that
whatever else had gone down, you were still my friend."

Garibaldi watched him turn and walk a few steps away. "Yeah, I checked it out."
He turned back to watch Michael's reaction. "I don't claim I trusted you
completely, not after the things that had happened, but right down to that
moment in the bar, Michael, I saw you as a friend."

"Checked it out?" Garibaldi demanded, his steely blue eyes narrowing. "What
did you check, John?"

Sheridan's head jerked up, and he squared his shoulders defensively. "I checked
with my sources," he answered, folding his arms across his chest. A moment
later, as though embarrassed by the sternness of the pose, he unfolded them
again, extending open hands in front of him. "Your story about my dad checked
out. Everything said you were telling the truth."

A shamed sigh escaped Garibaldi as he broke the eye contact. He crossed to the
desk and ran his fingers absently over the polished surface. Closing his eyes,
he struggled to find the stomach for the job. "What about where I was, those
two weeks? Did you check that? Did anyone check?"

The confusion in Sheridan's face became astonishment then irritation. "What the
... ? Michael, you're going back months! God damn it, aren't we past all that
? You were a royal pain in the butt back then, yes, but it was all part of
Bester's game, Michael. He wanted to drive a wedge between us. "

Michael could taste the anger rising in his throat. This was wrong -- he had
come for balm, not bile -- but he couldn't stop it. "Yeah, I'm going back
months. I'm going back to when it all started, John. I'm talking about a
senior officer disappearing for two weeks, and nobody investigating. I'm
talking about someone in a position of power who's disappeared during a time of
war, and nobody asking any questions.

"Questions?!" Sheridan's voice cracked in disbelief. "You think nobody asked
questions? Stephen went over you with a fine tooth comb! Security tore the pod
apart and got nothing.

"And you! " Sheridan snorted, his amber eyes blazing, both hands flying up in a
gesture of disgust. "The most civil thing you said was 'I can't remember.' " He
spun a right face and walked away until the desk was between them. "You were on
my back about Lorien, about playing God, about every damn move I made. You
think anybody wanted to talk to you?"

Garibaldi followed Sheridan to the far side of the office, but now his step was
hesitant, his voice that of a supplicant. "Didn't you think something was wrong
when I couldn't remember? Was it just easier to accept it than to ask why? Why
didn't you act when you knew something was wrong?"

Sheridan's fists banged the desktop in disgust. "We just barely got you back on
duty. We were trying to get things back to normal, hoping maybe you'd be
yourself again, and you turn around and resign." He straightened, turning his
back to Garibaldi. When he spun back his jaw was quivering. "When I needed a
Chief of Security with your mind, when I needed someone I could trust the way I
had learned to trust you, when I needed you more than I ever had, you walked out
on me. You needed to find a little happiness. What crap!"

"And when have I ever bailed on you, before, John? Didn't you wonder where that
came from? "

"Wonder?" Sheridan's eyes widened. "Yeah I wondered. I wondered what had
happened to you, but maybe if you hadn't been so damn wrapped up in what
happened to you, you might have noticed that something happened to me too. And
was still happening. Damn it, Michael!" A huge sigh burst from him. "I'm the
commander of an army and I was facing the battle of my life." Indignation
stirred a fire in his voice. "I needed to be able to count on my officers, not
have to nursemaid them. And don't pretend I didn't try to talk to you. Who
decked whom on the Zocalo, Mr. Garibaldi?"

"Touché." Garibaldi flinched at the memory of that fight, precursor of the
horror to come. He grabbed hold of a chair to steady himself, knees weak now as
shame contested with anger.

"So what are you saying, Captain?" He knew the use of the now defunct title was
a stab, and he refused to look at Sheridan's reaction. "It sounds like is you
just want to forget it ever happened." He inhaled slowly, raising himself up to
his full height, and with a measured exhalation, turned to face the trembling
figure.

"I can't forget, John." His voice shook as he spoke, and barely carried across
the desk. "I need to hear you say you forgive me." The wheel of emotion had
come full cycle bringing Garibaldi to penitence again. "Not that you dismiss it
or hold someone else responsible. That you can forgive me for what I did.

"Or that you can't," he added sadly.

The high color of passion drained from Sheridan's face. With a tired squint he
muttered, "aw, damn it, Michael. What are we doing screaming at each other?"
He moved around the desk, closer to Garibaldi, but stopped awkwardly before his
outstretched hand touched Michael's arm.

"Michael ... " His head cocked to one side, the fair haired man studied his
companion intently. "Michael, damn it, I was scared." Words came now in a
rush, a confession of his own. "There was so much happening. To me. Around
me. I was trying to be the Leader everyone needed me to be, and you ... you
were challenging me. Publicly challenging my authority. Personally challenging
me to find out what was going on with you. And I'm not sure which one scared me
more. I knew you weren't right, but I couldn't, Michael, whatever hell you were
in, I couldn't go there to find you. "

Garibaldi stood open mouthed. In Sheridan's face he saw pain he had not
expected and something far more startling: fear. "I don't know what to say,
John," he said at last. He tried to continue, stopped, finally repeated
himself. "Christ, I just don't know what to say." He took a step toward John
but stopped in horror as the man backed away. He turned away, paced out a
circle, but could not escape.

"I wanted you to find out," Garibaldi said at last. "I wanted you to push me,
John, to ask, to find out." Again he stepped toward Sheridan, and this time
John didn't flinch. "I wanted you to stop me because I couldn't stop myself.
And I tried, damn it, I tried. Do you know that? Do you know how hard I tried
not to do that shit? " He squinted at the man across from him, narrowing his
eyes, trying to see into the heart.

Sheridan, for his part, was nodding. "Maybe, maybe that's really why I went to
Mars." He sighed, closing his eyes against the memory. "Because I knew I
should have gone after you all those other times, but I couldn't. Maybe I
thought that this time, with my dad to think about, we could work together one
more time, find each other again." He turned his shoulders as though he would
walk away, but his feet did not follow.

"Maybe I should be asking you to forgive me."

"Forgive you?" A startled Garibaldi pressed a hand to his chest. "I'm the one
who fucked up, John. I'm the one who set you up, I'm the one who lured you in,
and I just sat there while they beat the crap out of you. You think I should
forgive you?" A snort of laughter escaped him as he considered the irony of
that request.

The words came slowly, faintly. "You came into my hell to find me and bring me
home, but I couldn't do the same for you."

When Michael spoke, his tone was a bit gentler and painfully sad. "You did
what you could, John. I have to believe that. I have to believe you did
everything you could."

"No, you don't."

"What?" Michael wasn't sure he had really heard. "John?"

"You don't have to believe anything, Michael," Sheridan said without looking up.
"I told myself I did everything I could, " he said, starting to pace, "that I
did what I had to do." He halted and looked a long time at Garibaldi. "The
fact is, I put other things first. Maybe that was reasonable, but ... "
Confusion mingled with disgust in the shake of his head, and his voice died
away.

"It was war, John. You had responsibilities. I know that." Garibaldi's tone
was conciliatory, soothing.

The head shake returned, partnered with a profound sigh. "I told myself I had
other responsibilities that were more important than you were." Embarrassed by
that confession, he squeezed his eyes closed, remembering. A pleasant memory
drew a smile. "I'd see you sometimes, with clients, laughing, making smart
remarks, putting families back together, and I'd think, there he is! There's
Michael, he's all right!"

His expression soured as the memory went bitter. "But every time I got near you
we'd end up fighting. Then you picked up with Wade, and started smuggling, and
... Michael, when you left Babylon 5, I felt like I had sent you to die."
Michael was startled by the passion in Sheridan's words. "I'm sorry for that,
Michael. I wish I could go back and change it."

"John ..." Garibaldi tried to interrupt, but Sheridan held up a hand to silence
him.

"And yes, I hear what you're saying. Don't think I don't. I can still feel the
horror when I realized what you were doing to me in that bar. I was hurt,
disbelieving. The only reason I wasn't raging at you was that I was too busy
trying to stay alive. "

The last words slashed at Garibaldi, and he pressed his eyes shut tightly to
blot out the memories. He didn't look at Sheridan, didn't look at anything,
just stood with eyes closed, lost in the pain of that memory.

"I hated you for a while, Michael."

Those words snapped Garibaldi's eyes open. John Sheridan stood staring down at
his desktop. "How could you not hate me? God knows I hated me."

"I sat in that cell, and put every shred of energy I had left into hating you,"
Sheridan said. The muscles in his face tightened, and his voice grew bitter.
"Know what I kept remembering? " he asked with a sardonic grin.

"What?" In fearful curiosity, Garibaldi whispered the question.

"When I asked you to get the White Star ready for Z'ha'dum." The cynical little
laugh again. "How protective of me you were. How loyal." He turned to stare
at Michael, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. "I just wanted to scream
out and call back that friend. "

"Why didn't you, John?" Michael begged, stepping closer to his captain. "I was
always there. I just couldn't get out. Oh Christ, I was still there. Like
being in jail, like I was going insane because I couldn't tell anyone, I
couldn't get past it." His body swiveled left and right, searching for escape,
but his feet would not carry him. He drew a breath finally and tried to calm
himself, thinking he'd kill for a bottle of bourbon.

Sheridan turned his back to man who stood shaking beside his desk. He walked to
the computer console, let his fingers trail absently over the controls. He did
not turn back when he spoke. "Did it hurt, Michael? Could you feel anything
when you gave me up?"

The question ripped through Garibaldi, a disemboweling blade. "Hurt?" A bitter
laugh preceded his tears. "You wanna know what it felt like? Like cutting my
own heart out and letting them trample on it. Only I couldn't tell you. And I
don't know if you would have listened if I did."

"I wanted you beside me. I didn't care about anything else." Sheridan curled
his hands into fists in front of him, pressing his elbows into his sides,
hugging himself against the awful memories. "I could have forgotten everything
else that happened if you had just fought beside me. That's where you've always
been, Michael, where you belong: at my side in a fight, watching my back. We
still might have gone down, but together, the way it's supposed to be. "

"I never wanted to betray you," Garibaldi cried out, his voice choked with pain.
"Oh God, I never wanted that. But I did, John, I did betray you. It wasn't
just Bester but me, too. When I think about that I can't go on. I can't get
past that."

"How did you do it, Michael?" Sheridan's voice was icy; his face drawn and
hardened. "Is there a part of you that hates me, that wants to take me down?
What's in your head that Bester could use to do that? " His eyes searched
Garibaldi's for an answer.

"I don't know how," Michael answered desperately. "I've asked myself the same
thing, again and again. I don't know." His arms dropped helplessly to his
sides. "I never hated you, I swear that to you, John, never. I believed in
you, believed in what you were trying to do, what we were doing.

"I believed so much that I let you go, I let you leave with the bombs on your
ship even though I knew it probably meant I would never see you again, that I'd
just signed your death warrant. And then I was gone, and when I came back
everything was wrong. Everything. I wasn't me any more. Or I was me, but I
was a me I hated, a me I didn't recognize."

The two men stood in silence together, shared memories stirring shared pain.
Too many times around the same circle, too many old arguments refought. Michael
Garibaldi straightened, looked again at Sheridan, then at the door. Perhaps
this had been a mistake; perhaps he should just leave before he made it even
worse. He started for the door, halting when he saw Sheridan look up.

"I told you that I hated you, Michael, and for a time, I did." Sheridan
whispered as Michael turned to face him. "But after a while I realized that
what I hated was the loss of you, and then the hatred crumbled."

Sheridan stepped out from behind the desk and edged closer to his old friend.
"I know -- I saw it, I felt it -- I know it was real. You took me down." He
laid an imploring hand on Garibaldi's arm. "But I couldn't let myself believe
that you could hate me that much. I'll accept that you did those things, but I
had to hang on to the hope that there was some other explanation. Even when I
couldn't imagine anything that would explain that horror."

Garibaldi looked at him at last, but Sheridan's eyes were desolate. "Can we
find it again, Michael, the faith we had in one another? The faith we had in
ourselves? "

"Faith!" A thin-lipped smile underscored the searing pain in that word.
"What's there to believe in, John? You had faith in me. See where it got you?
Faith is crap."

Michael's bitterness jolted Sheridan, and he fired back a challenge. "Crap,
huh? Those little shreds of faith I held onto, the ones that said that there
had to be something horribly wrong for Michael to do this to me, the ones that
said 'I told you so' when I looked up to see you bursting into my cell ...
that's crap? "

"Too late." The cynic in Michael Garibaldi shook off Sheridan's hand. "Too
little, too late." With one last look, he turned to leave, but Sheridan's left
hand snapped out to block his path. The barrier before him became an arm around
his shoulders as John drew him back face to face. Michael spoke through tears.
"I'm so sorry. Oh fuck, John, I'm so sorry."

"I know, Michael. I really do know that," said Sheridan, struggling against
tears of his own. "These are hard words for me to say, Michael, because I'm not
sure I know what they mean, but I know I need to say them, for your sake, and
for mine." He straightened, resting his hands on Garibaldi's shoulders. "I
forgive you, Michael. The words don't change what happened, or take away the
hurt, but without them we have no future together, and I can't stand that
thought. Michael, please, can you believe me? Can you accept that I forgive
you? "

"I want to believe you. I want to more than I've ever wanted anything in my
life."

"Believe it, Michael. For everything ... for being a pain in the ass after
Z'ha'dum, for resigning, for the punch, for the smuggling, for leaving, for my
dad, for taking me down, for all of it, I forgive you, Michael. "

For a few moments there were only tears: regret, relief, gratitude. "Thank
you," Michael whispered at last, his hands on Sheridan's arMs. Sheridan's own
tears fell quietly, but a smile flirted with his eyes.

"And can you forgive me, Michael? Forgive me for my cowardice, for being afraid
of what I'd find if I looked too deep. Forgive me for talking to you as your
CO, instead of as your friend. Forgive me for not being straight out with my
doubts about you when it could have saved us both from hell."

"How can you ask me to forgive you?" All the anger he once felt seemed trivial
now. "I know you did the best you could. It's the way things happened." It
was as close to absolution as he could come.

It was enough for Sheridan. A long sigh shuddered through him. "Funny, but I
think maybe we were both being used, Michael, manipulated by outside forces.
Bester was controlling you, and the needs of the war were driving me. We both
wound up as pawns in a game between Clark and Bester."

Garibaldi squinted at the proposal. "I hadn't thought of it that way." He
considered a moment. "Maybe you're right."

"And maybe it's time we took control back," Sheridan continued, "owned our own
lives again, made things happen the way we want them to happen." His eyes
questioned Garibaldi, sparkling with hope.

"Sounds like a plan to me," said Michael, shivering at the real possibility of
joy.

"I'd like to reclaim our friendship, Michael, if you're willing. Get to know
each other again, learn to trust one another again." He extended a hand to his
old friend. "Can we begin again?"

Laughter shook Michael Garibaldi, honest, spontaneous laughter, the first in far
too long. He clasped the hand offered to him in friendship. "I've gotten lots
of practice at it lately." With another burst of laughter, the men embraced.

Tears came again, welcome tears this time, relief and joy and gratitude tumbling
out in that hug. Both Sheridan and Garibaldi were grinning broadly when they
broke free to wipe their eyes.

"Michael, " Sheridan began again, a grateful exuberance bubbling in his voice,
"it's so good to have you back."

"Good to be back." Garibaldi smiled, squinting and letting his head drop
forward. "Or it will be," he corrected, looking up at John. "I've got some
business to finish back on Minbar."

"It was the right decision, then, Michael?" Sheridan asked. "The Rangers?"

Michael's mouth pressed into a tight smile as he reflected on that question.
"For a while there," he admitted, "I wasn't too sure. But yeah. I have to go
back and finish this. This is what I'm supposed to do.

"I needed your forgiveness, John." Michael's voice was still choked. "Now
maybe I can forgive myself for everything that happened, maybe I can learn to
trust myself again." A smirk and a shrug punctuated the thought. "If I can do
that, maybe I can make it as a Ranger."

"You will, Michael," Sheridan assured him, clasping Garibaldi's hand now in both
of his. "I know you ... What's this?" A bewildered look spread over John's
face as his left hand closed on Michael's wrist. Two right hands contested,
Garibaldi instinctively trying to withdraw, Sheridan holding fast, his left hand
pushing back Michael's cuff. "Michael, what the hell ... ?"

Dry-mouthed, Michael answered, his eyes avoiding John's. "It's a surveillance
bracelet."

"I know what it is," Sheridan countered, astonishment in his voice. "Why the
hell are you wearing it?"

Garibaldi finally wrested his arm from his friend's grip, shoving both hands
deep into his pockets. "It's not important, John. I'm leaving now anyway," he
evaded with a shake of his head.

"Not important?" an incredulous Sheridan countered. "You're walking around
this station tagged? And you're going to brush that off? Michael, how did this
happen? Why did it happen?"

Garibaldi sighed and swallowed hard. There was, he could see, no way to avoid
this. "Captain Lochley is not pleased about having me on station, definitely
not pleased about having me anywhere near you." He couldn't bring himself to
look at John.

Sheridan strode angrily toward the computer console. "Who the hell does she ...
"

"John, don't!" Garibaldi pleaded, anticipating what his friend was about to do.

Sheridan ignored him and hit a signal on the panel. "Get me Lochley!"

Michael laid a hand on Sheridan's arm. "John, don't get involved in this. She
doesn't trust me. Why would she? The tag didn't prevent me from talking to
you. I did what I needed to do, and now I'm going back to Minbar. It really
doesn't matter. It sure as hell isn't worth your time. I've taken too much of
that already."

"Lochley here! You wanted to speak to me , Mr. President?" A note of irritation
iced the voice on the com channel.

"Captain! Do you want to explain to me why Michael Garibaldi is wearing a
surveillance bracelet?"

The face on screen scowled. "If I take your question literally, Mr. President,
no, I don't. But I'll assume you were demanding rather than asking. In which
case, I can only assume that the bracelet was attached in response the orders I
gave my Chief of Security: to keep track of Garibaldi's whereabouts until he
leaves the station."

Sheridan's eyebrows knit down in anger. "This is outrageous! There was no need
for this, Captain. It's a power play, pure and simple, an attempt to humiliate
... "

"Mr. President," Lochley snapped, interrupting him, "may I remind you that I am
responsible for the welfare of this station and its inhabitants, including
yourself? In my capacity as Commander of Babylon 5, I am well within my rights
... "

"Rights?" Sheridan broke in to her sentence, his voice crackling with fury.
"What about Michael's rights?"

Off to the side of the com unit, out of sight of Lochley, Garibaldi pressed
himself against the wall, wishing he could disappear. "John, please ... don't
... " His whispered plea was barely audible, lost in the battle between the
commanders.

... You're treating him like a criminal ... " John continued his tirade.

"I am treating him ... " Lochley raised her voice, enough to overpower
Sheridan, not enough to suggest any loss of control. " ... like a man who has
a history of erratic and violent behavior, who turned against the Earth Alliance
to which he had sworn an oath of loyalty, who was suspected of smuggling, who
was seen by numerous witnesses assaulting you, who was in the employ of a man
suspected of engaging in biological warfare against telepaths, who was a suspect
in the death of his employer. A man who arranged your father's kidnapping, who
lured you into a trap for the people he claimed to be fighting against, who
broke into secure Earth Force facilities, assaulted personnel, and conspired
against the Earth Alliance in acts of sabotage. The only thing that's unclear
here, Mr. President, is why he's allowed on this station at all."

Sheridan sputtered his anger, his face growing red, sweat beading on his brow.
"You're dredging up issues that are behind us. I won't stand for this, Captain.
I demand that you send a security agent to my office immediately to remove this
bracelet."

"I'm afraid you have no authority in this matter, Mr. President." Lochley's
voice had an icy calm, and a trace of smile played around her eyes. "You no
longer give orders on this station. I would be happy to send security to your
office to collect Garibaldi and escort him off station. Once he clears customs,
the bracelet will be removed." The smile evaporated and the voice hardened.
"And not before. Good day, Mr. President."

"Damn!" Sheridan punched the com panel with both hands.

Garibaldi peeled himself off the wall and reached a hand out to Sheridan.
"John, it's OK."

He turned, shaking his head, anger, frustration, and embarrassment shaking his
voice and his poise. "Michael, I'm sorry ... "

"It's OK, John. Really." His hands went to Sheridan's shoulders. "I'm going
anyway. I'm sorry that you had to listen to that."

"I don't know about her, Michael. In many ways she's a fine commander, but
sometimes ... "

"Yeah," Garibaldi shrugged. "Whatever. John, just let go of it. It's not
important. Look, I should go ... "

"Let me walk you to your ship ... "

"John, your outer office is probably overflowing with people! I've taken way too
much of your time. I don't even know what ship I'm gonna get. Whatever's the
first to Minbar, I guess."

"Maybe I can arrange ... "

"John! Go back to work." The two men studied each other, memorizing this
moment. "Thank you, John," Garibaldi whispered, his hand extended in friendship
once again.

Sheridan clasped that hand, nodding, swallowing down the lump in his throat, and
with a firm grip, drew Garibaldi once more close to him. Their farewells were
said quickly with smiles and laughter, and as they shared a last hug in the
doorway of the office, neither had a care about the horrified look on the face
of Sheridan's aide.