Once upon a time, there was a Crusade script that contained flashbacks into
critical moments in the life of the crew. For Lt. John Matheson, that moment
involved a female rogue telepath held at PsiCorps Headquarters. In the original
version of that script, the telepath was to have been Lyta Alexander, but the
producers and Patricia Tallman could not come to terms, and so the script was
revised. In the original version, however, there was a brief scene that
suggested that Lyta might have escaped the blast that destroyed PsiCorps
Headquarters. It was from that deleted scene that this story sprang. It was
written before later B5 works declared that Lyta had died in the Telepath War,
so it assumes that she came through that War very much alive.
Heads And Tales
Misty wraiths sauntered on spiral staircases built of predawn light. Within the
molasses brick shelter, she leaned against the frosty window frame and watched
them climb up from the murky surface of the marsh, as miniature tendrils of
steam from her teacup mirrored the motion. Lyta Alexander shivered, though the
mug was warm in her hands and the fire blazed in the hearth. It was a rugged
place the telepaths had come to, hard living and low tech. She drew the
chenille robe tighter round her.
The tea slipped warmly down her throat, its honeyed tannin heightening her
senses. As the wind rattled branches against the window, from across the swamp
a blaze of flame called her eyes. The pain of the memory it carried mingled
with its warm familiarity. She sighed, not entirely sure why.
If Earth's seasons had any meaning here, she would measure this as late summer.
Most of the native foliage was in full flower. One large shrub, its branches
spreading broadly all about, showed the fiery colors of autumn's impending
death. One vibrant plant would die too soon. Each year she watched it happen
again: that same branch on that same tree yielded its greenery to the blazing
hues that presaged death, long before its fellows, long before its time. Every
year she remembered.
In the first days of the telepaths' settlement on this rugged planet, Lyta
Alexander had been their closest thing to a governor. Her powers, her
connection to Byron, her unfailing passion, had cast her as their leader,
although when the hostilities were over she would have preferred to fade away.
Even a utopian society needs structure and until routines of governance were
established, her power marked her as leader. Although the Alliance officially
granted the telepaths this home world at the end of the war, there were
diplomatic skirmishes for years afterward, and Lyta was the closest thing to a
diplomat they had. Her temperament was not well suited to the role, but she had
"history" on nearly every dignitary in or out of the Alliance.
Now, she thought, as she slowly dressed in the fabrics their looms produced and
the layers the climate demanded, she had become more a monument than a minister.
She was grateful to be free of the political responsibilities, tired as she was
of all that wrangling, but the homage with which she was treated made her feel
more relic than respected elder. And she was, if she faced facts, old. The
first strands of silver rippling through her fiery hair might have been
charming, but as she ran the brush through them now she acknowledged that the
grey locks overwhelmed the red. The effect only emphasized the weariness in her
eyes.
She checked the day's schedule, more out of habit than the expectation of
anything new. For a time, she had been provided with a secretary to handle her
appointments, but as her commitments dwindled, it seemed pointless. They did
have a communications network now, so most scheduling was automatic. The rest
she could handle by herself.
Today's agenda was like that of most other days. She could spend some early
morning time tending her garden. A few flowers hid in there, but most of the
soil was turned to producing food. Trade with other worlds was still limited;
it was best that they be as self-sufficient as possible. She was expected at
the Trade Commission meeting later in the morning. If it were typical, nothing
would be accomplished. Her only other appointment was in the early afternoon.
A colonel. What did EarthForce want with her now?
There was a pleasure in watering and weeding that she wouldn't have imagined,
some connection to a distant past. The day's harvest was generous: tomatoes,
mustard greens, and corn. She set them on the table while she washed up,
pleased at the way their shapes and colors made an impromptu centerpiece.
Time allowed for leisurely walk to the city plaza before the meeting. Arriving
early, she did not enter the building but chose a seat on a bench in the plaza.
She drew a small journal from her bag, and recorded the morning's thoughts.
Writing was a habit she had learned from G'Kar, one of the many debts she owed
him.
She wrote about the garden and about the people who scurried in and out of the
governance hall on this crisp, windy morning. How had they managed to create a
bureaucracy so quickly? She wrote about hopes and hardships. She did not
mention the tree.
Lyta could only wonder why she was included in this trade commission, since she
rarely played any active role. Still, there was a certain amusement in watching
a group of telepaths engage in politics. Lying was essentially impossible, when
everyone could read everyone else. Even negotiation, any sort of bargaining,
was difficult, when everyone else at the table could be inside your head. No
one would do that, of course. It wasn't ethical. It wasn't polite. Lyta had
amused herself at many a boring meeting by peeking in on who was scanning whom.
The most amusing fiction was the pretense that none of it was happening.
This commission meeting was, in some sense, actually productive. After a
blazing argument between the isolationist leader and the resident pragmatist,
there was a resolution to explore options for trade with Earth. Was that why
the EarthForce colonel wanted to see her? Was he lobbying for this deal?
Perhaps, now that it had passed, he would cancel.
critical moments in the life of the crew. For Lt. John Matheson, that moment
involved a female rogue telepath held at PsiCorps Headquarters. In the original
version of that script, the telepath was to have been Lyta Alexander, but the
producers and Patricia Tallman could not come to terms, and so the script was
revised. In the original version, however, there was a brief scene that
suggested that Lyta might have escaped the blast that destroyed PsiCorps
Headquarters. It was from that deleted scene that this story sprang. It was
written before later B5 works declared that Lyta had died in the Telepath War,
so it assumes that she came through that War very much alive.
Heads And Tales
Misty wraiths sauntered on spiral staircases built of predawn light. Within the
molasses brick shelter, she leaned against the frosty window frame and watched
them climb up from the murky surface of the marsh, as miniature tendrils of
steam from her teacup mirrored the motion. Lyta Alexander shivered, though the
mug was warm in her hands and the fire blazed in the hearth. It was a rugged
place the telepaths had come to, hard living and low tech. She drew the
chenille robe tighter round her.
The tea slipped warmly down her throat, its honeyed tannin heightening her
senses. As the wind rattled branches against the window, from across the swamp
a blaze of flame called her eyes. The pain of the memory it carried mingled
with its warm familiarity. She sighed, not entirely sure why.
If Earth's seasons had any meaning here, she would measure this as late summer.
Most of the native foliage was in full flower. One large shrub, its branches
spreading broadly all about, showed the fiery colors of autumn's impending
death. One vibrant plant would die too soon. Each year she watched it happen
again: that same branch on that same tree yielded its greenery to the blazing
hues that presaged death, long before its fellows, long before its time. Every
year she remembered.
In the first days of the telepaths' settlement on this rugged planet, Lyta
Alexander had been their closest thing to a governor. Her powers, her
connection to Byron, her unfailing passion, had cast her as their leader,
although when the hostilities were over she would have preferred to fade away.
Even a utopian society needs structure and until routines of governance were
established, her power marked her as leader. Although the Alliance officially
granted the telepaths this home world at the end of the war, there were
diplomatic skirmishes for years afterward, and Lyta was the closest thing to a
diplomat they had. Her temperament was not well suited to the role, but she had
"history" on nearly every dignitary in or out of the Alliance.
Now, she thought, as she slowly dressed in the fabrics their looms produced and
the layers the climate demanded, she had become more a monument than a minister.
She was grateful to be free of the political responsibilities, tired as she was
of all that wrangling, but the homage with which she was treated made her feel
more relic than respected elder. And she was, if she faced facts, old. The
first strands of silver rippling through her fiery hair might have been
charming, but as she ran the brush through them now she acknowledged that the
grey locks overwhelmed the red. The effect only emphasized the weariness in her
eyes.
She checked the day's schedule, more out of habit than the expectation of
anything new. For a time, she had been provided with a secretary to handle her
appointments, but as her commitments dwindled, it seemed pointless. They did
have a communications network now, so most scheduling was automatic. The rest
she could handle by herself.
Today's agenda was like that of most other days. She could spend some early
morning time tending her garden. A few flowers hid in there, but most of the
soil was turned to producing food. Trade with other worlds was still limited;
it was best that they be as self-sufficient as possible. She was expected at
the Trade Commission meeting later in the morning. If it were typical, nothing
would be accomplished. Her only other appointment was in the early afternoon.
A colonel. What did EarthForce want with her now?
There was a pleasure in watering and weeding that she wouldn't have imagined,
some connection to a distant past. The day's harvest was generous: tomatoes,
mustard greens, and corn. She set them on the table while she washed up,
pleased at the way their shapes and colors made an impromptu centerpiece.
Time allowed for leisurely walk to the city plaza before the meeting. Arriving
early, she did not enter the building but chose a seat on a bench in the plaza.
She drew a small journal from her bag, and recorded the morning's thoughts.
Writing was a habit she had learned from G'Kar, one of the many debts she owed
him.
She wrote about the garden and about the people who scurried in and out of the
governance hall on this crisp, windy morning. How had they managed to create a
bureaucracy so quickly? She wrote about hopes and hardships. She did not
mention the tree.
Lyta could only wonder why she was included in this trade commission, since she
rarely played any active role. Still, there was a certain amusement in watching
a group of telepaths engage in politics. Lying was essentially impossible, when
everyone could read everyone else. Even negotiation, any sort of bargaining,
was difficult, when everyone else at the table could be inside your head. No
one would do that, of course. It wasn't ethical. It wasn't polite. Lyta had
amused herself at many a boring meeting by peeking in on who was scanning whom.
The most amusing fiction was the pretense that none of it was happening.
This commission meeting was, in some sense, actually productive. After a
blazing argument between the isolationist leader and the resident pragmatist,
there was a resolution to explore options for trade with Earth. Was that why
the EarthForce colonel wanted to see her? Was he lobbying for this deal?
Perhaps, now that it had passed, he would cancel.