"Your fire is dying," he said aloud. "May I?" She thanked him, and while she
brewed a pot of tea, he rebuilt the fire to a hearty crackle. They sat, elbow to
elbow, at the little table with the morning's harvest in the center. There was
an awkward moment's silence after the tea was poured, until Lyta spoke.
"So, do you still play by the rules, John?"
"Of course..." he replied. /...not. /
She sputtered a giggle into her tea, amused as much by the mixed modes of
communication as by the response itself. He smiled too and then continued
aloud.
"In time, there were more telepaths in EarthForce, and because of the
quarantine, fewer Metasensory people to make the rounds checking up on us. The
checks became annual, then occasional. When the cure was finally found, there
was so much excitement making sure that it got to everyone, that EarthGov lost
interest in us. We stopped getting visits from Mr. Jones, and gradually we were
able to relax.
"Oh, I still observe the basic rules. I've never scanned anyone without
permission, but I'm a lot faster to use what I hear in the background noise
nowadays."
"John, you said that thanking me was part of the purpose of this visit. I guess
I still don't understand the rest. Why did you come? And why now?"
"The last part is the easier part to answer. The Powell was out this way, and I
had leave time coming. I figured if I didn't seize the opportunity now, I might
never get another chance. You see, I'm retiring from EarthForce soon, Lyta."
"Retiring? Or giving up?"
He didn't answer right away. "I'm not entirely sure myself," he said finally.
"When I was growing up, I wanted to be in EarthForce and I thought it was
terribly unfair that I was barred from that because I was a telepath. I said
that one had nothing to do with the other. When I finally got to EarthForce,
and was compelled to behave as though I wasn't a telepath, I realized it's not
so easy to separate the two."
"It's never easy to deny who you are." Gentle words but woeful, they were
spoken as much for herself as for him. He studied the soft swag of her hair as
her head tipped down over her teacup and tried to will himself to see the eyes
hiding behind it. He reached out this time, just as gently, mind to mind,
asking entry, offering comfort. She showed him a hundred memories in a moment,
memories of Vorlons and violence and victories, of Babylon 5 and Bester and
Byron. He cradled her mind in his own, trying to give back a measure of the
compassion she had given him.
"That's the other reason I came, Lyta," he whispered when finally her mind went
quiet. A slender hand, marked with the calluses of years of gardening, drew
back the veil of hair from her eyes. She studied him, a stare piercing enough
to make him squirm, and though she formed no words with voice or mind, she let
him feel the curiosity that stirred in her.
He shifted in his seat and made to sip from the now empty cup. She refilled his
mug as he spoke. "I wanted to tell you about Byron. I knew him, years ago.
Not well, but..." Mentally, he thanked her for the tea, and he paused to take a
long, warm swallow. "We knew each other in training. He was a few years ahead
of me, but he wasn't the kind who would just keep to his own cadre. We had
several long talks, good talks, full of honest questions, and now and then some
answers."
The mix of honesty and humor made her smile. She thought about how short their
time together had been and how little she had known about his life, and in the
quiet of her mind, she heard John's understanding.
"I wanted you to know what he was like then, Lyta, who he was. People know he
was part of the Omega Squadron. Bester never missed a chance to talk about how
Byron 'betrayed' him. But he wasn't just some jack-booted bloodhound who
suddenly did a one-eighty and went rogue. It wasn't that simple."
/It rarely is, / she thought, and he smiled in acknowledgement. "All I know of
his past," she said aloud, "is the little bit that came out with Bester." Even
the sound of his name made her angry, and she felt John's compassion.
"I understand," he said. "He came aboard the Excalibur at one point, and he
was, if possible, even more arrogant than I remember him from training. But
it's more than that. The man's..." He searched for a word sufficiently vile.
"Vicious," Lyta supplied. "He's vicious. He didn't care whether the telepaths
had a colony on Babylon 5. He just wanted to destroy Byron. He wouldn't stop
until he killed him." Matheson jumped back from the flames of rage in her mind,
passion beyond emotion, fury cultivated into murderous steel. He shifted the
subject to escape his discomfort.
"I just wanted you to know that Byron didn't start out as a Bester clone.
Things were different then, and Bester's reputation was better, but even then,
Byron had his doubts. Do you remember the signs in the PsiCorps training
facility?"
"How could I forget? 'Trust the Corps.' 'The Corps is Mother; the Corps is
Father.' They were everywhere you looked."
"He and I talked about them, late one night. He said they were the single
greatest source of his doubts about the Corps. If an idea was sound, he said,
there was no need to sell it that hard. The ones that said 'Obey' worried him
the most. We talked a long time about the dangers of mindless obedience.
"I asked him once why he joined the Omega Squadron. He didn't answer me at
first, and when he did, it wasn't at all the answer I expected. Most of the
squadron was there out of personal loyalty to Bester, but he didn't even mention
that. He said he had dreamed of being a fighter pilot. As a little boy, he had
heard stories about the war, about the Battle of the Line, and he fantasized
about piloting a Starfury. He was heartbroken when he learned that telepaths
weren't welcome in EarthForce."
/Just like you. / He smiled at her observation.
"I remember he looked at me a long time, and then he said, very softly, 'this is
the closest I'll ever get to my dream.' He joined Omega because it was his only
chance to fly."
"And then Bester demanded the obedience from him," she said, her jaw tight.
Matheson spoke softly. "Bester told him that the price of the dream was to give
up who he was."
"He couldn't do that."
"No." / Sometimes the dream is too dear. /
"Is that why you're retiring, John? Is the dream too dear?"
"Not so much dear as disappointing, I think." He rose, moved to the fireplace,
and aimlessly prodded the fire with a poker. "When you dream about something,
you imagine that it'll be soaring, exhilarating. But EarthForce, at least the
way it's been for me... well, it didn't soar."
He faced her now, backlit by the blaze. "The saddest part is that there were so
many times when I know I would have been a better soldier if I had just been
free to be who and what I am."
She rose and he crossed to meet her, breaking out of the corona of the hearth.
"And when you retire, John, what then? Where will you go?"
"I haven't quite worked out those details yet." He shrugged, but worry's
creases siphoned the smile from his eyes.
"You know you're welcome here," she offered, and instantly knew his gratitude
and his reluctance.
/ A little bit too far outside the lines. / They shared a smile at the common
thought, before Matheson checked his chrono.
"I should go. I've taken up enough of your time."
"Nonsense. I've enjoyed the visit. Why don't you stay for dinner? It's
nothing special, but no one's died from my cooking."
"I wish I could, but I do have to get back to the Powell. Thank you for seeing
me, Lyta."
"Thank you for coming, John. I appreciate the memories you shared, but most of
all, I'm glad to have the chance to know you." She stepped closer, and took his
hand in both of hers. "I've never properly thanked you, John, for what you did
in that cell in Geneva. A simple thank you doesn't feel like enough. But I
want to thank you most of all for taking the harder road."
He rattled his head as though it might knock sense into the words. "The harder
road?"
Slowly, her head pulsed up and down. "We took the easy way, John. We fought to
get here, yes, but we moved away from the normals and all their misconceptions
and suspicions, and we created a homeworld where telepaths only have to deal
with other telepaths. You stayed among the normals. You worked within their
institutions. And you reminded them -- and us -- that 'telepath' and 'normal'
are just two more artificial categories into which we try to force the infinite
diversity of humanity. You and I, Byron, Bester -- all telepaths. Could you
paint us with one brush?"
A soft chuckle escaped him before he leaned in to kiss her cheek. As she opened
the door for him, a chill blast of wind tugged it from her hand. "Your coat!
You'll need that with our weather." She pushed the door closed again and took
his coat down from the hanger. The aged black leather was soft under her
fingers as she held it open for his arms, and as he cinched the trench around
him and raised the ample hood, she realized that the coat reached his ankles.
"Not exactly standard issue," she noted, "unless EarthForce has changed a lot."
In the shadows of the hood, his eyes crinkle in a smile. "No, not standard at
all. A gift from a friend." His words stopped and for a moment, Lyta felt
blocks around his mind. Sadness flooded her when he let them fall.
"Galen was a technomage," he explained. "He wasn't officially part of the
Excalibur's crew, but he spent a great deal of time with us. It's funny,
because when we were on the Excalibur, we really weren't friends. I was never
really sure if he could be trusted. He was much closer to Gideon, and to
Dureena. But... well, things don't always turn out the way you expect.
"I was with him when he died, held him in the last moments. He said he wanted
me to have the coat, to remember him. He said... he said that we were two sides
of the same coin, he and I. Technomage and telepath. Just as we came to our
abilities because of intervention by the Vorlons, they owe their power to the
Shadows, and both of us labor under the burden of that knowledge. That's the
price we pay for being extraordinary."
"There's always a price."
"Yes," he agreed. "Every dream comes with a price tag, and we have to decide
how much we're willing to pay." He stepped to the door. "Be well, Lyta, and
thank you."
"Go in peace, John." She opened the door for him again, holding it securely
this time. As he stepped out into the garden, she voiced an idle curiosity.
"John, how did Galen die?"
"The old crank said the Excalibur killed him," Matheson laughed. Sobering, he
explained. "In the early stages of the search for a cure, we came upon a
nanovirus which our medical team was able to adapt. The variant shielded the
recipient from infection by the Drakh plague for 48 hours of exposure. It freed
us to do some important research, research that ultimately led to the cure.
"But apparently the virus mutated in Galen's system, and caused a slow growing
infection. There was no cure."
"I'm sorry." Her words were feeble, but Matheson acknowledged them with a nod,
and took his leave. She stood a while in the doorway, watching him walk back
toward the town and his future. Then she shut the door, and stood by the fire,
warming herself and reviewing the conversations of the day.
The comm system crackled to life the moment her hand touched the panel, and the
connection she requested was quickly made. "Michael Garibaldi, please," she
asked the young woman who answered. "Lyta Alexander calling."
Only a moment passed before Michael appeared, greeting her warmly but with
concern. "What's up, Lyta?" he asked once pleasantries had been exchanged.
"Michael, it was a division of Edgars Industries that developed the cure for the
plague, wasn't it?"
"Developed? No. The folks on the Excalibur and Stephen's team on Earth get all
the credit for development. Our people just picked it up for mass production,"
he explained. "Why?"
"Did you do any testing on it? Counterindications? Side effects? Anything
like that?"
"Sure. Stephen's people ran the tests, and our people did them all again. It
came through clean. Amazingly so, in fact. They couldn't turn up a side
effect."
"Even in long range studies?" she asked.
"As long range as we could manage," he replied. "Time was not a luxury afforded
to us. But we've had no reports of complications, Lyta. What are you getting
at? Have you heard something?"
Her eyes drifted off the viewer, to the window, and out across the swamp to
where a single tree blazed fiery orange. "Were any of your test subjects
telepaths, Michael?"
brewed a pot of tea, he rebuilt the fire to a hearty crackle. They sat, elbow to
elbow, at the little table with the morning's harvest in the center. There was
an awkward moment's silence after the tea was poured, until Lyta spoke.
"So, do you still play by the rules, John?"
"Of course..." he replied. /...not. /
She sputtered a giggle into her tea, amused as much by the mixed modes of
communication as by the response itself. He smiled too and then continued
aloud.
"In time, there were more telepaths in EarthForce, and because of the
quarantine, fewer Metasensory people to make the rounds checking up on us. The
checks became annual, then occasional. When the cure was finally found, there
was so much excitement making sure that it got to everyone, that EarthGov lost
interest in us. We stopped getting visits from Mr. Jones, and gradually we were
able to relax.
"Oh, I still observe the basic rules. I've never scanned anyone without
permission, but I'm a lot faster to use what I hear in the background noise
nowadays."
"John, you said that thanking me was part of the purpose of this visit. I guess
I still don't understand the rest. Why did you come? And why now?"
"The last part is the easier part to answer. The Powell was out this way, and I
had leave time coming. I figured if I didn't seize the opportunity now, I might
never get another chance. You see, I'm retiring from EarthForce soon, Lyta."
"Retiring? Or giving up?"
He didn't answer right away. "I'm not entirely sure myself," he said finally.
"When I was growing up, I wanted to be in EarthForce and I thought it was
terribly unfair that I was barred from that because I was a telepath. I said
that one had nothing to do with the other. When I finally got to EarthForce,
and was compelled to behave as though I wasn't a telepath, I realized it's not
so easy to separate the two."
"It's never easy to deny who you are." Gentle words but woeful, they were
spoken as much for herself as for him. He studied the soft swag of her hair as
her head tipped down over her teacup and tried to will himself to see the eyes
hiding behind it. He reached out this time, just as gently, mind to mind,
asking entry, offering comfort. She showed him a hundred memories in a moment,
memories of Vorlons and violence and victories, of Babylon 5 and Bester and
Byron. He cradled her mind in his own, trying to give back a measure of the
compassion she had given him.
"That's the other reason I came, Lyta," he whispered when finally her mind went
quiet. A slender hand, marked with the calluses of years of gardening, drew
back the veil of hair from her eyes. She studied him, a stare piercing enough
to make him squirm, and though she formed no words with voice or mind, she let
him feel the curiosity that stirred in her.
He shifted in his seat and made to sip from the now empty cup. She refilled his
mug as he spoke. "I wanted to tell you about Byron. I knew him, years ago.
Not well, but..." Mentally, he thanked her for the tea, and he paused to take a
long, warm swallow. "We knew each other in training. He was a few years ahead
of me, but he wasn't the kind who would just keep to his own cadre. We had
several long talks, good talks, full of honest questions, and now and then some
answers."
The mix of honesty and humor made her smile. She thought about how short their
time together had been and how little she had known about his life, and in the
quiet of her mind, she heard John's understanding.
"I wanted you to know what he was like then, Lyta, who he was. People know he
was part of the Omega Squadron. Bester never missed a chance to talk about how
Byron 'betrayed' him. But he wasn't just some jack-booted bloodhound who
suddenly did a one-eighty and went rogue. It wasn't that simple."
/It rarely is, / she thought, and he smiled in acknowledgement. "All I know of
his past," she said aloud, "is the little bit that came out with Bester." Even
the sound of his name made her angry, and she felt John's compassion.
"I understand," he said. "He came aboard the Excalibur at one point, and he
was, if possible, even more arrogant than I remember him from training. But
it's more than that. The man's..." He searched for a word sufficiently vile.
"Vicious," Lyta supplied. "He's vicious. He didn't care whether the telepaths
had a colony on Babylon 5. He just wanted to destroy Byron. He wouldn't stop
until he killed him." Matheson jumped back from the flames of rage in her mind,
passion beyond emotion, fury cultivated into murderous steel. He shifted the
subject to escape his discomfort.
"I just wanted you to know that Byron didn't start out as a Bester clone.
Things were different then, and Bester's reputation was better, but even then,
Byron had his doubts. Do you remember the signs in the PsiCorps training
facility?"
"How could I forget? 'Trust the Corps.' 'The Corps is Mother; the Corps is
Father.' They were everywhere you looked."
"He and I talked about them, late one night. He said they were the single
greatest source of his doubts about the Corps. If an idea was sound, he said,
there was no need to sell it that hard. The ones that said 'Obey' worried him
the most. We talked a long time about the dangers of mindless obedience.
"I asked him once why he joined the Omega Squadron. He didn't answer me at
first, and when he did, it wasn't at all the answer I expected. Most of the
squadron was there out of personal loyalty to Bester, but he didn't even mention
that. He said he had dreamed of being a fighter pilot. As a little boy, he had
heard stories about the war, about the Battle of the Line, and he fantasized
about piloting a Starfury. He was heartbroken when he learned that telepaths
weren't welcome in EarthForce."
/Just like you. / He smiled at her observation.
"I remember he looked at me a long time, and then he said, very softly, 'this is
the closest I'll ever get to my dream.' He joined Omega because it was his only
chance to fly."
"And then Bester demanded the obedience from him," she said, her jaw tight.
Matheson spoke softly. "Bester told him that the price of the dream was to give
up who he was."
"He couldn't do that."
"No." / Sometimes the dream is too dear. /
"Is that why you're retiring, John? Is the dream too dear?"
"Not so much dear as disappointing, I think." He rose, moved to the fireplace,
and aimlessly prodded the fire with a poker. "When you dream about something,
you imagine that it'll be soaring, exhilarating. But EarthForce, at least the
way it's been for me... well, it didn't soar."
He faced her now, backlit by the blaze. "The saddest part is that there were so
many times when I know I would have been a better soldier if I had just been
free to be who and what I am."
She rose and he crossed to meet her, breaking out of the corona of the hearth.
"And when you retire, John, what then? Where will you go?"
"I haven't quite worked out those details yet." He shrugged, but worry's
creases siphoned the smile from his eyes.
"You know you're welcome here," she offered, and instantly knew his gratitude
and his reluctance.
/ A little bit too far outside the lines. / They shared a smile at the common
thought, before Matheson checked his chrono.
"I should go. I've taken up enough of your time."
"Nonsense. I've enjoyed the visit. Why don't you stay for dinner? It's
nothing special, but no one's died from my cooking."
"I wish I could, but I do have to get back to the Powell. Thank you for seeing
me, Lyta."
"Thank you for coming, John. I appreciate the memories you shared, but most of
all, I'm glad to have the chance to know you." She stepped closer, and took his
hand in both of hers. "I've never properly thanked you, John, for what you did
in that cell in Geneva. A simple thank you doesn't feel like enough. But I
want to thank you most of all for taking the harder road."
He rattled his head as though it might knock sense into the words. "The harder
road?"
Slowly, her head pulsed up and down. "We took the easy way, John. We fought to
get here, yes, but we moved away from the normals and all their misconceptions
and suspicions, and we created a homeworld where telepaths only have to deal
with other telepaths. You stayed among the normals. You worked within their
institutions. And you reminded them -- and us -- that 'telepath' and 'normal'
are just two more artificial categories into which we try to force the infinite
diversity of humanity. You and I, Byron, Bester -- all telepaths. Could you
paint us with one brush?"
A soft chuckle escaped him before he leaned in to kiss her cheek. As she opened
the door for him, a chill blast of wind tugged it from her hand. "Your coat!
You'll need that with our weather." She pushed the door closed again and took
his coat down from the hanger. The aged black leather was soft under her
fingers as she held it open for his arms, and as he cinched the trench around
him and raised the ample hood, she realized that the coat reached his ankles.
"Not exactly standard issue," she noted, "unless EarthForce has changed a lot."
In the shadows of the hood, his eyes crinkle in a smile. "No, not standard at
all. A gift from a friend." His words stopped and for a moment, Lyta felt
blocks around his mind. Sadness flooded her when he let them fall.
"Galen was a technomage," he explained. "He wasn't officially part of the
Excalibur's crew, but he spent a great deal of time with us. It's funny,
because when we were on the Excalibur, we really weren't friends. I was never
really sure if he could be trusted. He was much closer to Gideon, and to
Dureena. But... well, things don't always turn out the way you expect.
"I was with him when he died, held him in the last moments. He said he wanted
me to have the coat, to remember him. He said... he said that we were two sides
of the same coin, he and I. Technomage and telepath. Just as we came to our
abilities because of intervention by the Vorlons, they owe their power to the
Shadows, and both of us labor under the burden of that knowledge. That's the
price we pay for being extraordinary."
"There's always a price."
"Yes," he agreed. "Every dream comes with a price tag, and we have to decide
how much we're willing to pay." He stepped to the door. "Be well, Lyta, and
thank you."
"Go in peace, John." She opened the door for him again, holding it securely
this time. As he stepped out into the garden, she voiced an idle curiosity.
"John, how did Galen die?"
"The old crank said the Excalibur killed him," Matheson laughed. Sobering, he
explained. "In the early stages of the search for a cure, we came upon a
nanovirus which our medical team was able to adapt. The variant shielded the
recipient from infection by the Drakh plague for 48 hours of exposure. It freed
us to do some important research, research that ultimately led to the cure.
"But apparently the virus mutated in Galen's system, and caused a slow growing
infection. There was no cure."
"I'm sorry." Her words were feeble, but Matheson acknowledged them with a nod,
and took his leave. She stood a while in the doorway, watching him walk back
toward the town and his future. Then she shut the door, and stood by the fire,
warming herself and reviewing the conversations of the day.
The comm system crackled to life the moment her hand touched the panel, and the
connection she requested was quickly made. "Michael Garibaldi, please," she
asked the young woman who answered. "Lyta Alexander calling."
Only a moment passed before Michael appeared, greeting her warmly but with
concern. "What's up, Lyta?" he asked once pleasantries had been exchanged.
"Michael, it was a division of Edgars Industries that developed the cure for the
plague, wasn't it?"
"Developed? No. The folks on the Excalibur and Stephen's team on Earth get all
the credit for development. Our people just picked it up for mass production,"
he explained. "Why?"
"Did you do any testing on it? Counterindications? Side effects? Anything
like that?"
"Sure. Stephen's people ran the tests, and our people did them all again. It
came through clean. Amazingly so, in fact. They couldn't turn up a side
effect."
"Even in long range studies?" she asked.
"As long range as we could manage," he replied. "Time was not a luxury afforded
to us. But we've had no reports of complications, Lyta. What are you getting
at? Have you heard something?"
Her eyes drifted off the viewer, to the window, and out across the swamp to
where a single tree blazed fiery orange. "Were any of your test subjects
telepaths, Michael?"