It was President Sheridan who appointed Michael Garibaldi to be the Interstellar Alliance's Director of Covert Intelligence, and it was Ranger Garibaldi who interceded with Entil'zha Delenn to have me appointed as his second. Michael pushed me past my apprehensions, teaching me security and intelligence by instruction, example, and immersion. Shortly after the attempt to assassinate Sheridan, Garibaldi delegated responsibility for the President's personal security to me. It was a charge that awed and sometimes frightened me, but it was clear that the relationship between Garibaldi and Sheridan, with all its history, made Michael the wrong man to handle the day-to-day of the President's safety.
That responsibility required me to be part of the President's daily security briefing. Within a few months, those meetings had taken on a depressingly routine theme. Attacks, focused on Alliance ships, continued, and we were all frustrated by our inability to stop them or identify their source.
I watched Garibaldi as he ran down the information yet again for Sheridan. The business suit he wore made him look old, I thought. He said it was more appropriate for the job than our Ranger uniform, but I suspected he was still not comfortable with that garb. He did not object to my wearing it, and he wore the Isil'zha - the Ranger badge that had once belonged to Entil'zha Sinclair - on his suit jacket.
"Mr. President, I think it may be time to involve the telepaths."
"Telepaths? What are you suggesting, Michael?"
"With your permission, Mr. President, I suggest we recruit some of our guests down in Brown Sector. Assign them to WhiteStars in the Ranger fleet. Maybe they can pick up something during an encounter. Maybe they can see or hear or feel or ...whatever it is they do... who it is we're fighting."
"The Minbari could provide telepaths," Sheridan pointed out.
"By your leave, Mr. President," I interrupted, "since all of the Alliance worlds are affected by these raiders and since any of the worlds could be responsible, it might be unwise to involve any of the governments in the investigation. Minbari telepaths might be perceived as agents of the Minbari government."
"Any human telepaths will not been seen as agents of EarthGov?"
"Not these telepaths, Mr. President," Michael explained. "PsiCorps would be associated with EarthGov, but these people are independent, freelance, rather than in the service of any of the worlds. Their search for their own homeworld makes that clear."
"Even if they could - even if they would - how will that help us? We need proof, evidence we can act on. We try to put forth the impressions of a telepath - a telepath in our employ - and we'll be laughed at."
"All right, it's not enough to act on. I'll admit that. But at least it might give us a place to start some other investigation. Damn it, Mr. President, we're looking at a blank wall here."
It took several more minutes for Garibaldi to win a grudging acknowledgement from Sheridan, but ultimately the President gave approval to explore the possibility of using telepaths. I wondered if Garibaldi would handle that negotiation himself. Michael's distrust of telepaths, nearly legend, was understandable, given what he had been through, but it was clear since his return to Babylon 5, that he was making an effort to overcome his feelings. As we left the President's office, I tried to sound him out.
"You want to do some planning before we approach the telepaths?"
"Planning isn't always the best course of action when you're dealing with telepaths," Garibaldi replied, "at least, when you're dealing with telepaths who have no reservations about listening in on anybody's thoughts, anytime, anywhere." He shook his head, as much to chase the thought as to express it. "No, the more spontaneous this is, the better off we'll be."
"OK, so we plan to be spontaneous." I glanced over to see if he was smiling. He was, but only for an instant.
"I'll handle this one," he said.
"You think that's wise?"
A shrug was Garibaldi's only answer for a time. "You know, I never understood how Sinclair and Sheridan handled all the diplomacy crap that went with running the station. But I did learn a few things from watching them. This Byron character wants respect - for himself and for telepaths in general. If we're going to get anywhere with him, I can't send a subordinate to negotiate. I have to show up myself to let him know that he's important. Even then, it's risky. He probably thinks the President should make the call personally."
"You talk about him as if he were a head of state."
"He thinks he is. That's what he wants - a telepath homeworld. I don't know. Maybe that would be a good thing."
"Maybe, but where?"
"You could do some research on that, in your spare time," he teased. "In other business... there should be information coming in from some of the WhiteStars today. Can you handle the debriefings?"
"I can. I do have one appointment though, with Ambassador Mollari. Information about the emperor's security force."
"Oh, now that's gonna be helpful."
"The Narns suggested using Pouchmates as body doubles."
"And you haven't brought that up with the President yet?"
I used the moment of laughter to shift to a more serious subject. "Michael, sometimes I wonder why I'm here. You don't need me. You could handle this detail yourself, and if you did need manpower, I'm sure Mr. Allan would have his staff cooperate with you."
He winced and waved his hands awkwardly in front of him. "Zack's a good man. But it's not the same." He paused, but we both knew that wasn't an answer. "Zack's people are security officers, and I'm sure they're very good at their jobs." Another pause. "But they're not Rangers."
"For the work we're doing, Michael, does that really matter?" I asked.
"Maybe not. But it matters for me. Yeah, all right, a lot of the day-to-day of what we do is the same as what I did before Tuzanor. But I'm not the same. I'm a Ranger. That means something. How to live, how to breathe, how to fight, how to die. That's what they taught us, isn't it? But I'm still working it out. You help me learn to be Anla'shok."
"Still learning? I thought your training ended when Entil'zha pinned that badge on you."
Garibaldi's left hand jumped to the Isil'zha on his jacket. He fingered it gently - lovingly, I thought. "Yeah, well, you know me. Always playing catch-up. I've still got a few issues to resolve."
I waited, watching, as Michael's hand flattened over the Isil'zha, as though to salute the Entil'zha, then dropped limp at his side again.
"You haven't made your peace with Sinclair yet, have you?" I asked softly.
"Not yet." The words had a crispness that suggested a forced control. "Maybe, before I die."
We parted at the end of the corridor, each to his own tasks. I spent some time finalizing security arrangements for President Sheridan's upcoming trip to the newly independent Mars, before a lunch meeting with the Centauri representative to the Alliance.
"Thank you for seeing me, Ambassador Mollari." I bowed slightly as he motioned for me to sit.
"You are a Ranger, yes?" He paused only long enough for me to assent. "You were trained on Minbar, yes?" I nodded, agreed, and wondered where this was going. "You share the Minbari aversion to alcohol?"
I could not help but laugh. "No, Ambassador."
"Good! Another drink, barkeep, and one for my friend here."
"Thank you, sir, but I am on duty."
"Not to worry," he replied. "I'll drink yours."
"With all respect, Ambassador, should you be drinking this way so soon after your heart attack?"
"Ah! There it is! You escaped the Minbari prohibition, but you work for that teetotaler Garibaldi! Take my advice, young man. People do not enjoy having security - or anyone - know as much about their lives as your friend Garibaldi seems to know. It is... spooky."
I thanked Mollari for his counsel. Over lunch, I explained that we were interviewing representatives of all the Alliance worlds, looking for any ideas that might help us improve security for President Sheridan.
"I'm not sure there is much to tell you, Mr. Callahan. The Emperor is protected by the Republican Guard, including a contingent of personal bodyguards. Nothing elaborate."
"In the station records, Ambassador, there is information on the Emperor's visit to Babylon 5."
"Yes, yes, Turhan. A momentous occasion, culminating, unfortunately, in his death here on the station. It was awkward, to say the least."
"The records indicate that Emperor Turhan's escort included telepaths."
"That was another era, my friend. An esteemed tradition that our current emperor prefers to ignore."
A bit of prompting and a few more drinks elicited an explanation of Centauri's tradition of surrounding the emperor with four telepaths. Their linked minds allowed the ruler to maintain a connection to his court when he was elsewhere.
"Emperor Cartagia doesn't maintain the tradition?"
"There are many traditions Emperor Cartagia has banished. Our homeworld has become an unfamiliar land." Londo sighed. "Perhaps it is right to seek new ways. The old ways have left us empty, and so very, very tired. To make a new world...perhaps this is not such a bad thing. What do you think, my young ranger?"
I said little but let the Centauri ramble on a while. Mollari's reflections were part nostalgia, part fantasy, regret muddled with ambition. Wistfulness walked with me when I took my leave.
The rest of my day was spent in conversation with other Rangers, as one by one the WhiteStars on patrol reported in. I was still in conference when Garibaldi returned. From the corner of my eye, I saw him move through the reception area and into his office. He acknowledged no one on his way - a bad sign. But his office door remained open as he scanned messages on the viewer. Not too bad.
I rapped lightly on the open door, accepted his grunt as an invitation, and rehashed the information Rangers had brought us as concisely as possible: signs of rebuilding in some of the outer colonies and the needs that created, a few border skirmishes, and persistent confrontations with the unidentified raiders.
"I've heard this report before."
"I'm sorry. Did you make contact with the telepaths?"
"We have an appointment with the great man tomorrow." His voice told me he was too weary to maintain his resentment, and I took note of the 'we.'
"Meditation might be an appropriate preparation for our meeting. If our minds are quiet..."
He leaned back in his chair and some of the tension in his frame seemed to ease. "That kind of thinking is one of the reasons I keep you around." He smiled and fingered the Isil'zha.
"One last thing, Michael." The one report I didn't want to make. "White Star 23 checked in. They just came from Earth. It's not officially a matter they'd keep track of, but they thought you'd want to know." Michael stopped scanning messages. "Alfred Bester was released. The charges you filed were dismissed."
"You are not telling me this. There is no way you are telling me this." Garibaldi rose from his chair, and I resisted the impulse to back off a step.
"I'm sorry, Michael, but they released him yesterday morning. The court said there was no credible evidence."
"Lyta! Lyta was going to testify..."
"The court ruled that her testimony was not admissible because she was rogue at the time of the incident."
Michael began to pace the small office, his fists clenching and unclenching as he walked. I waited for the whisper of exhalation and the slowing of movement that would signal he was beginning to calm. It took a while.
"I guess not even meditation will help this one?"
"Not even medication will help this one." He drew a few deep breaths, and I wondered what expletives he was censoring. He tipped his head to the side and pressed his lips into a mock smile. "Well, delight, respect, compassion, eh?"
"And patience," I said.
"And patience," he repeated. With a slap, Garibaldi darkened the com panel.
That responsibility required me to be part of the President's daily security briefing. Within a few months, those meetings had taken on a depressingly routine theme. Attacks, focused on Alliance ships, continued, and we were all frustrated by our inability to stop them or identify their source.
I watched Garibaldi as he ran down the information yet again for Sheridan. The business suit he wore made him look old, I thought. He said it was more appropriate for the job than our Ranger uniform, but I suspected he was still not comfortable with that garb. He did not object to my wearing it, and he wore the Isil'zha - the Ranger badge that had once belonged to Entil'zha Sinclair - on his suit jacket.
"Mr. President, I think it may be time to involve the telepaths."
"Telepaths? What are you suggesting, Michael?"
"With your permission, Mr. President, I suggest we recruit some of our guests down in Brown Sector. Assign them to WhiteStars in the Ranger fleet. Maybe they can pick up something during an encounter. Maybe they can see or hear or feel or ...whatever it is they do... who it is we're fighting."
"The Minbari could provide telepaths," Sheridan pointed out.
"By your leave, Mr. President," I interrupted, "since all of the Alliance worlds are affected by these raiders and since any of the worlds could be responsible, it might be unwise to involve any of the governments in the investigation. Minbari telepaths might be perceived as agents of the Minbari government."
"Any human telepaths will not been seen as agents of EarthGov?"
"Not these telepaths, Mr. President," Michael explained. "PsiCorps would be associated with EarthGov, but these people are independent, freelance, rather than in the service of any of the worlds. Their search for their own homeworld makes that clear."
"Even if they could - even if they would - how will that help us? We need proof, evidence we can act on. We try to put forth the impressions of a telepath - a telepath in our employ - and we'll be laughed at."
"All right, it's not enough to act on. I'll admit that. But at least it might give us a place to start some other investigation. Damn it, Mr. President, we're looking at a blank wall here."
It took several more minutes for Garibaldi to win a grudging acknowledgement from Sheridan, but ultimately the President gave approval to explore the possibility of using telepaths. I wondered if Garibaldi would handle that negotiation himself. Michael's distrust of telepaths, nearly legend, was understandable, given what he had been through, but it was clear since his return to Babylon 5, that he was making an effort to overcome his feelings. As we left the President's office, I tried to sound him out.
"You want to do some planning before we approach the telepaths?"
"Planning isn't always the best course of action when you're dealing with telepaths," Garibaldi replied, "at least, when you're dealing with telepaths who have no reservations about listening in on anybody's thoughts, anytime, anywhere." He shook his head, as much to chase the thought as to express it. "No, the more spontaneous this is, the better off we'll be."
"OK, so we plan to be spontaneous." I glanced over to see if he was smiling. He was, but only for an instant.
"I'll handle this one," he said.
"You think that's wise?"
A shrug was Garibaldi's only answer for a time. "You know, I never understood how Sinclair and Sheridan handled all the diplomacy crap that went with running the station. But I did learn a few things from watching them. This Byron character wants respect - for himself and for telepaths in general. If we're going to get anywhere with him, I can't send a subordinate to negotiate. I have to show up myself to let him know that he's important. Even then, it's risky. He probably thinks the President should make the call personally."
"You talk about him as if he were a head of state."
"He thinks he is. That's what he wants - a telepath homeworld. I don't know. Maybe that would be a good thing."
"Maybe, but where?"
"You could do some research on that, in your spare time," he teased. "In other business... there should be information coming in from some of the WhiteStars today. Can you handle the debriefings?"
"I can. I do have one appointment though, with Ambassador Mollari. Information about the emperor's security force."
"Oh, now that's gonna be helpful."
"The Narns suggested using Pouchmates as body doubles."
"And you haven't brought that up with the President yet?"
I used the moment of laughter to shift to a more serious subject. "Michael, sometimes I wonder why I'm here. You don't need me. You could handle this detail yourself, and if you did need manpower, I'm sure Mr. Allan would have his staff cooperate with you."
He winced and waved his hands awkwardly in front of him. "Zack's a good man. But it's not the same." He paused, but we both knew that wasn't an answer. "Zack's people are security officers, and I'm sure they're very good at their jobs." Another pause. "But they're not Rangers."
"For the work we're doing, Michael, does that really matter?" I asked.
"Maybe not. But it matters for me. Yeah, all right, a lot of the day-to-day of what we do is the same as what I did before Tuzanor. But I'm not the same. I'm a Ranger. That means something. How to live, how to breathe, how to fight, how to die. That's what they taught us, isn't it? But I'm still working it out. You help me learn to be Anla'shok."
"Still learning? I thought your training ended when Entil'zha pinned that badge on you."
Garibaldi's left hand jumped to the Isil'zha on his jacket. He fingered it gently - lovingly, I thought. "Yeah, well, you know me. Always playing catch-up. I've still got a few issues to resolve."
I waited, watching, as Michael's hand flattened over the Isil'zha, as though to salute the Entil'zha, then dropped limp at his side again.
"You haven't made your peace with Sinclair yet, have you?" I asked softly.
"Not yet." The words had a crispness that suggested a forced control. "Maybe, before I die."
We parted at the end of the corridor, each to his own tasks. I spent some time finalizing security arrangements for President Sheridan's upcoming trip to the newly independent Mars, before a lunch meeting with the Centauri representative to the Alliance.
"Thank you for seeing me, Ambassador Mollari." I bowed slightly as he motioned for me to sit.
"You are a Ranger, yes?" He paused only long enough for me to assent. "You were trained on Minbar, yes?" I nodded, agreed, and wondered where this was going. "You share the Minbari aversion to alcohol?"
I could not help but laugh. "No, Ambassador."
"Good! Another drink, barkeep, and one for my friend here."
"Thank you, sir, but I am on duty."
"Not to worry," he replied. "I'll drink yours."
"With all respect, Ambassador, should you be drinking this way so soon after your heart attack?"
"Ah! There it is! You escaped the Minbari prohibition, but you work for that teetotaler Garibaldi! Take my advice, young man. People do not enjoy having security - or anyone - know as much about their lives as your friend Garibaldi seems to know. It is... spooky."
I thanked Mollari for his counsel. Over lunch, I explained that we were interviewing representatives of all the Alliance worlds, looking for any ideas that might help us improve security for President Sheridan.
"I'm not sure there is much to tell you, Mr. Callahan. The Emperor is protected by the Republican Guard, including a contingent of personal bodyguards. Nothing elaborate."
"In the station records, Ambassador, there is information on the Emperor's visit to Babylon 5."
"Yes, yes, Turhan. A momentous occasion, culminating, unfortunately, in his death here on the station. It was awkward, to say the least."
"The records indicate that Emperor Turhan's escort included telepaths."
"That was another era, my friend. An esteemed tradition that our current emperor prefers to ignore."
A bit of prompting and a few more drinks elicited an explanation of Centauri's tradition of surrounding the emperor with four telepaths. Their linked minds allowed the ruler to maintain a connection to his court when he was elsewhere.
"Emperor Cartagia doesn't maintain the tradition?"
"There are many traditions Emperor Cartagia has banished. Our homeworld has become an unfamiliar land." Londo sighed. "Perhaps it is right to seek new ways. The old ways have left us empty, and so very, very tired. To make a new world...perhaps this is not such a bad thing. What do you think, my young ranger?"
I said little but let the Centauri ramble on a while. Mollari's reflections were part nostalgia, part fantasy, regret muddled with ambition. Wistfulness walked with me when I took my leave.
The rest of my day was spent in conversation with other Rangers, as one by one the WhiteStars on patrol reported in. I was still in conference when Garibaldi returned. From the corner of my eye, I saw him move through the reception area and into his office. He acknowledged no one on his way - a bad sign. But his office door remained open as he scanned messages on the viewer. Not too bad.
I rapped lightly on the open door, accepted his grunt as an invitation, and rehashed the information Rangers had brought us as concisely as possible: signs of rebuilding in some of the outer colonies and the needs that created, a few border skirmishes, and persistent confrontations with the unidentified raiders.
"I've heard this report before."
"I'm sorry. Did you make contact with the telepaths?"
"We have an appointment with the great man tomorrow." His voice told me he was too weary to maintain his resentment, and I took note of the 'we.'
"Meditation might be an appropriate preparation for our meeting. If our minds are quiet..."
He leaned back in his chair and some of the tension in his frame seemed to ease. "That kind of thinking is one of the reasons I keep you around." He smiled and fingered the Isil'zha.
"One last thing, Michael." The one report I didn't want to make. "White Star 23 checked in. They just came from Earth. It's not officially a matter they'd keep track of, but they thought you'd want to know." Michael stopped scanning messages. "Alfred Bester was released. The charges you filed were dismissed."
"You are not telling me this. There is no way you are telling me this." Garibaldi rose from his chair, and I resisted the impulse to back off a step.
"I'm sorry, Michael, but they released him yesterday morning. The court said there was no credible evidence."
"Lyta! Lyta was going to testify..."
"The court ruled that her testimony was not admissible because she was rogue at the time of the incident."
Michael began to pace the small office, his fists clenching and unclenching as he walked. I waited for the whisper of exhalation and the slowing of movement that would signal he was beginning to calm. It took a while.
"I guess not even meditation will help this one?"
"Not even medication will help this one." He drew a few deep breaths, and I wondered what expletives he was censoring. He tipped his head to the side and pressed his lips into a mock smile. "Well, delight, respect, compassion, eh?"
"And patience," I said.
"And patience," he repeated. With a slap, Garibaldi darkened the com panel.