STILL NOT IN KANSAS
by Soledad
Author's notes: For disclaimer, rating, etc., see Part One.
Some of the dialogue, as before, is directly taken from the episode "Grey 17 Is Missing". There seems to be overall agreement in the fandom about Marcus' quarters being in Brown Sector. I don't know whether this is a canon fact or not – I simply accepted it, as it made sense to me. The placement of the Zocalo in Red Sector was suggested by Winchell Chung's Babylon 5 map, as Red is the business area in general, but this is not entirely sure.
PART THIRTEEN
Brown Sector
Lennier was so deep in thoughts that he nearly ran into an equally distracted Vir when he left the diplomatic sector and stepped out onto the Zocalo. They both murmured apologies but didn't stop to talk, not even for a minute. Somehow, Vir's connection to Rastenn had come between them, and they had not spoken to each other save that one time, shortly after Lennier's return to Babylon 5. When he had to share his suspicions about Rastenn with Vir. The young Centauri had seemed to avoid him ever since. Lennier hoped that it would pass eventually and the two of them would return to their usual, easy understanding. But at the moment, he had more important things to worry about.
After dinner, Delenn, Captain Janeway and the pointy-eared girl named Kes had started one of those seemingly pointless conversations that allowed women to bond easily, regardless of the confines of age, trade and even race, and which usually left men of any sort completely bewildered. Lennier saw on the eminently patient face of Commander Tuvok that the Vulcan, too, was absolutely left out of this secret understanding that was based solely on the condition of being female. After a few minutes, Tuvok had asked permission to go and seek out Lyta Alexander, with whom he had wanted to discuss some finer points of telepathy, and Captain Janeway dismissed him with a generous wave of her hand.
Lennier used the opportunity to excuse himself as well. He had pondered over the meager chances left to him to save Delenn, and now was going to check them out.
You will have to find someone outside the chain of command, the telepathic message of the alien girl had said. Lennier was just about to do that.
He crossed the Zocalo, getting out of the way of a gentle-faced, blonde woman in a blue Voyager uniform, who held an about three-year-old child tightly, gave them a polite, apologetic smile and hurried down to Brown Sector, where the probably only person lived who might be able to help him.
Grey Sector
Gregor Ayala was a patient man. The mere fact that he had been able to keep up some sort of friendship with Ken Dalby, the most irritating – and always irritated – ex-Maquis aboard Voyager, proved that. He even got along with he Holodoc, most of the time. But standing in an elevator that stopped on every level while Garibaldi counted to three every time between two levels, was wearing his legendary patience thin.
"What do you hope from this?" he asked in mild irritation when the elevator stopped on Level 15. It looked exactly like the other fourteen before.
"To find the missing level," Garibaldi replied. "I know there must be thirty of them. If Ms Jolie only found twenty-nine, there must be one where the tube doesn't stop."
Ayala thought about that for a moment, then he nodded. "Makes sense."
"I don't suppose you could check that for me with that little gizmo of yours?" Garibaldi printed at the tricorder on Ayala's side and stepped back into the cabin. "Grey 16," he said and counted, "One-two-three, Three seconds" The cabin stopped. The doors opened. Ayala activated his tricorder, but the useful little instrument refused to cooperate.
"Afraid not," he said to Garibaldi's earlier question. "It seems there is something interfering with the tricorder. Either some alloy in the bulkheads themselves or…"
"… a scattering field," Garibaldi finished for him. "We'll see." They stepped back into the cabin again. "Grey 17," Garibaldi ordered, and as the elevator jerked into motion, he counted again, "One-two-three… four… five…six," the tube stopped, the doors opened. Right across the floor, the usual sign on the wall informed them about their location: Sector Grey, Level 17. They looked at each other.
"Now we are on something," Ayala said. "What are you going to do about it?"
"Going back to Level 16 and stop the tube midways," Garibaldi replied. Ayala lifted an inquiring eyebrow but didn't protest. This was Garibaldi's station; the security chief knew what he was doing. Or so Ayala hoped.
They stepped back into the cabin one more time, Ayala with the tricorder still in hand, just in case.
"Grey 16," Garibaldi said, and counted, "One-two... emergency stop! Open tube doors."
"This is not a valid level designation," the impassive artificial voice of the station computer told him. "Safety procedures require…"
"Security override," Garibaldi interrupted, rolling his eyes in irritation, and rattled down his security code routinely. "Allow manual opening."
The cabin doors opened for about a handbreadth with a silent groan, as if in reluctance. Ayala helped Garibaldi push them apart wide enough, so that they were able to press themselves through. Then they just stood for a while – and looked in amazement and, in Garibaldi's case, with a not-so-small amount of self-satisfaction.
Before their eyes, a whole, unnumbered level of Grey Sector stretched in much the same configuration than the others that they had already checked. It seemed just as uninhabited as the others, filled with various sorts of industrial debris. However, they must have crossed the barrier of that scattering field, because Ayala's tricorder came alive at once, with a soft beeep.
"Silent mode," he instructed the small tool hurriedly, and the beeping sound stopped – but not soon enough. A well-hidden sensor grid, designed most likely to register intruders, began to blink with tiny red lights, and the readouts of the tricorder gave alarming messages, at the same time as a soft, hissing sound reached their ears.
"Anesthesyne gas!" Ayala hissed. "Back into the 'lift, quickly!"
But in this very moment, the cabin doors wooshed closed behind them, and wouldn't open again. The control panel next to the doors had been cannibalized, wires hanging out from behind its broken surface like the intestines of some dead animal. Ayala ripped the transparent mask from his utility belt (others often laughed about his caution, to carry one of those on him every time when in foreign environment, but it had paid out several times in the past already) and pressed it onto his face. The adhesive lining accommodated to his facial structure immediately, sealing his mouth, nose and eyes and filtering out the gas. Garibaldi, however, had no breather with him and started losing consciousness rapidly.
"Hide," he groaned to Ayala and tossed his PPG to the Voyager officer with his last effort. "We must not both…"
He passed out, his head banging on the floor, but Ayala understood nevertheless. With the scattering field around this lost level, they couldn't get out any emergency call. Garibaldi's only hope was that whoever lived in this hideout, they wouldn't discover Ayala, too, so that the Voyager officer would be able to free him later.
Ayala grabbed the PPG, took a quick look around and detected the perfect hiding place unerringly. A mere onlooker would have never expected him to press his bulky frame into that relatively small crack between broken mental containers, but Ayala was used to such things. This was like a Maquis operation all over again.
Brown Sector
"Enter!" called the voice of Marcus. The door slid upwards, allowing Lennier entrance to the Ranger's quarters. He stepped in and looked around, curiously.
Quite frankly, there was not much to see. A novice's cell in the Temple of Chudomo had more luxury than the practically blank room that Marcus Cole called his quarters. There was a peculiar piece of furniture that looked like an armchair but was currently pulled out to double length, serving, no doubt, as a bed. On its left side a tiny bedside table stood, with a reading lamp on it, and on the opposite wall, there was a Minbari-style shrine, with a Triluminary, illuminated by an opaque lamp from behind. The only other piece of furniture was a folding chair right of the door, with a naked light bulb above it.
"Lennier," Marcus rose from said chair, "what can I do for you?"
But Lennier was still a little distracted by the view… or moreso by the lack of anything worth viewing. "I've never seen your quarters before," he said. Very… slight."
"Like a prison cell," someone commented cynically, and Lennier literally startled a bit, only now noticing two other persons in the barely lit room. Granted, they were standing in the shadows, but still… he should have noticed them. He could not afford this sort of distraction.
Marcus took no offence. "This was the best Ivanova could find, given how tight we are for space." He shrugged philosophically. "It 's enough for my needs. Any more would be distraction."
One of his guests, a slender yet apparently strong woman with intricate ridges on her forehead, eyed him as if he were some rare, exotic specimen. "Are you hiding pointy ears under that mane of yours? This sounded suspiciously Vulcan."
"B'Elanna, no Vulcan would ever enjoy Beowulf," the other visitor, the young Asian male Lennier had seen on the records of the first contact between Sheridan and the Voyager crew, pointed out. "Nah, Marcus is just… weird. Monk syndrome, most likely. The Holy Poverty, and stuff like that."
Lennier fund the remark a little insulting, but Marcus just smiled, obviously having forged some sort of bond with these strangers already.
"Not everybody is interested in hoarding possessions, Harry," he said. "I like to travel lightly, as I can never know how long I'll be staying on one place. Besides, it's handy to live here. Most of my contacts would never risk to set foot to the more… civilized areas of the station. Anyway, Lennier, what do you want from me?"
Lennier hesitated for a moment, but Marcus seemed to trust these humans, and he had come to trust Marcus' judgment of character.
"I'm trying to avoid breaking a promise – by breaking a promise," he finally declared. Marcus' visitors exchanged a strange look.
"Sounds Vulcan to me," the woman said with a wry grin.
The young man rolled his eyes. "Please, B'Elanna… let him speak to the end."
"That," Marcus commented dryly, "could be useful. "So, Lennier, what exactly are we talking about?"
"I promised Delenn that I would not speak of this to the captain or let him now. She did not mention you by name, though," Lennier added as an afterthought. "Not that was implicit…"
"Meaning," Marcus asked slowly, why his guests exchanged bewildered looks. He knew Minbari in general and Lennier in particular well enough to now that they needed to tell things following a particular pattern. There was no use urging them.
"If I tell the others in the chain of command, and Sheridan will find out, then I have broken a promise," Lennier continued, not noticing how Marcus eyes ware glassing over. "But if I break my promise by telling you – since you are not in the chain of command – he may not find out about this, and I will not have broken a promise."
He looked at the others expectantly. The exotic alien woman named B'Elanna rolled her eyes, muttering something about Vulcans and migraine again, while her companion – Harry, Lennier remembered – just laughed helplessly. Marcus' eyes, however, began to sparkle in evil delight.
"Lennier," he said gravely, though the corners of his mouth were twitching, "I am in awe. I truly am. The way you are taking a straightforward, logical proposition and turning inside out, so that in the end it says what you wanted to say, instead of what it actually means… this is amazing."
"I wonder which one of you is worse," B'Elanna muttered. "Does this come naturally to you guys, or must you attend to some special martial arts course where they teach you how to talk your adversaries to death?"
Marcus and Harry laughed, but Lennier found the whole situation far from funny. How could they not understand the importance and urgency of his mission? That h was only trying to do the right things while keeping his given word? The feeling of his own inability to handle such enormous task was overwhelming.
"Marcus!" he cried in distress and exasperation. "This is not a joke! I think Delenn's life may be in jeopardy."
That silenced them all. Marcus, deadly serious at once, grabbed the young Minbari's arm (this time Lennier was too upset to protest against the unasked-for contact) and led him to the lonely chair next to the door.
"Why don't you sit down and tell us the whole story?" he asked gently, while Harry and B'Elanna got seated together on his bed… armchair… whatever. "Then we'll figure out what must – and can – be done."
Red Sector
Vir Cotto was strolling through the Zocalo, trying to decide in which bar he wanted to get gloriously drunk. It was not an easy question, as he fully intended to avoid all places that were usually frequented by his fellow Centauri – and that didn't leave much to choose from. Not much of what he'd have found acceptable, that is. He had his standards, after all. A diplomatic attaché couldn't get drunk just anywhere. It would have cast an unfavourable light on the great Centauri Republic.
Just like before when he had very nearly rammed Lennier, he was too distracted to watch his steps. Sulking was an activity that demanded one's complete and undivided attention, or it had no use at all. Thus he was properly startled when something small and soft collided with him, hitting his sensitive kneecaps with something that flet like a row of sharp teeth. Or blunt knives. He let out a rather high-pitched cry of pain – there was more reason than just the wish of being fashionable for Centauri nobles to wear those high boots that covered their knees – and was supported at once by a strong, warm hand.
"I am very sorry, sir," the gentle voice of the blonde human woman said. "My daughter got a little too excited by this place and tore herself away. Did she hurt you badly?"
Vir looked at the lovely, concerned face first and at the small child still clutching to his leg for leverage second. The little one seemed as human as her mother – aside from a row of bony spikes, shaped like the thorns of a Terran rose, parting her forehead in the exact middle. So, that was what had hit his knee!
He surveyed the damage carefully. Fortunately, it was insignificant. The spikes of the child had not torn his clothes, nor had they broken his skin. Relieved, he straightened again and smiled shyly at the woman.
"That is all right, lady. I'm not hurt – she's just shocked me for a moment." He recognized the blue uniform; the woman was part of the Voyager crew. In fact, she had even been part of the first delegation that had visited Babylon 5 and met Sheridan. "I think I saw you on the records," he offered hesitantly. "You are one of the Voyager scientists, aren't you? Their exobiologist?"
The woman smiled and offered him a hand; apparently, humans of both universes shared this particular greeting custom. "That's right. I'm Samantha Wildman. The little whirlwind is called Naomi. She's almost three, but, as you could see, already quite a handful."
"Vir Cotto," Vir kissed her hand, which made her blush for some reason. Oh, right, humans had no idea how to treat a lady properly. "I'm the attaché of Ambassador Londo Mollari of the Centauri Republic."
"Oh my God, that's you?" To Vir's surprise, the lady officer's face beamed with delight. "Then you were the one to save our people's butts after that pool party?"
Vir blushed furiously. "Really, Lady Samantha, I didn't do anything special. I just told the truth, that's all."
"You helped my friends when nobody else would step forth to help them," Samantha Wildman declared, "and that means that you are my friend, too. Which, on the other hand, means, that I'll have to buy you a drink. Where can I do that?"
Vir hesitated. Getting drunk was no longer his agenda. Keeping the pleasant company as long as possible suddenly became much more important. He longed for company. For someone he could simply talk to and forget his concerns.
"If I may make a different suggestion," he said, and Sam Wildman nodded. "I haven't had time for dinner yet. There is a restaurant here that offers excellently-made Centauri specialities – I'd love to introduce you to them if you're willing to give them a try."
Sam Wildman laughed. "Why not? As long as they are not harmful for the human metabolism, I'm always willing to try out new things."
"Then it'd be my pleasure to help you to this new experience," Vir offered his arm and Sam took it without hesitation. Arm in arm, they left in the direction of the best Centauri restaurant.
From a shadowy corner, disguised by the wide hood of his cloak, Alyt Neroon glared after them in suspicion. Now it seemed that the Centauri would find a way to these strange humans, after all. He didn't like it. On the other hand, it was possible that the human woman would tell Vir Cotto things that might be interesting for Neroon as well. His decision made, he left the shadows and followed them.
Blue Sector
At the same time, Chakotay and Lillian Hobbs reached the section of Blue Sector where the quarters of medical personnel were situated. Being somewhat old-fashioned, Chakotay had insisted on escorting her home, and Lillian didn't mind at all. She enjoyed not only his company but also the jealous looks of other women (and even of the one or other man) cast in their direction.
"Here we are," she said, inserting the code card into the slot. "Are you sure you don't want to come in for a minute? I'd offer you coffee, clichéd as it might sound, but I'm afraid I've run out of it weeks ago."
Chakotay shook his head apologetically. "Not today, I'm afraid. As you know, I've got the Alpha shift tomorrow. Besides, don't you think that we should consult the doctor before we... well, before we go any further? Even though we are both humans, there might be risks…" He trailed off, because Lillian's face became hard as steel, and he understood that he had managed to insult her somehow.
"My dear Commander," Lillian Hobbs said in the manner that she usually reserved for particularly difficult patients, "in case you have forgotten, on this station I am 'the doctor'. I might not be called Chief Medical Officer like your hologram, although I am currently filling in for one right now; but even though I'm not programmed with the knowledge of hundreds of physicians, I understand my job and I am damn good at it. Or do I look like a fool to you, who wouldn't do her research considering possible risks?"
"I'm sorry," Chakotay seemed decidedly uncomfortable. "I didn't mean to question your competence, really. I'm just…"
"Getting cold feet, I know," Lillian sighed in defeat. "Well, you might want to ask yourself what is it you are really afraid of – the health risks or allowing anyone to get close? If you manage to find an answer, you know how to contact me."
With that, she turned on her heels and entered her quarters, surprise a little by her own sudden urge to be hurtful. It was not her common trait. Maybe it was the disappointment; maybe the fear that hey might not, after all, have the time to go slowly; the dread of further what ifs. Or the old defensive mechanism to hurt the other before she could get hurt herself. She was not entirely sure. All she could feel was a helpless anger that even her own more somber half found illogical. And yet, she couldn't help but feel angry,
"This is all my fault," she declared to the dark and empty room. "I should never have agreed to a blind date in the first place. I was perfectly content being alone. I had enough stress without additional complications. I should have stuck to my work. Yes, that would have been much, much better."
She began to undress, with quick, jerking motions, not caring that she tore buttons and clasps from her dress in the process, blinking back the tears angrily.
Brown Section – Marcus' quarters
"So, Lennier," Marcus said patiently, "would you, please, stop fretting and tell me why do you think that Delenn may be in danger?"
Lennier sighed. This was not an easy thing to admit. That Minbari – even those of the Warrior Caste – could ever stoop so low.
"One of our own… a former member of the Grey Council… has challenged her right to lead the Anla'shok. The Rangers," he added, for the visitors' sake. "I think, he… he may resort to violence to stop her."
"Warrior Caste?" It was more a statement from Marcus' side than a real question, but Lennier nodded anyway. Marcus made a wry face. "Typical."
Harry looked at Marcus in confusion. "Have you not told me that Minbari do not kill Minbari?"
"They usually don't," Marcus replied. "It hasn't happened in the last thousand years."
"Correct," Lennier nodded. "And given Delenn's position, it would be even more unthinkable. If Neroon harms her… If a Minbari of one caste even tries to kill another, especially one from a different caste, then the shock and anger will lead to retributions back home."
"It could even cause a civil war between the castes, couldn't it?" B'Elanna realized, her knowledge of Klingon customs coming handy in understanding the dilemma. Lennier nodded again, miserably.
"And the same would happen if Lennier went after the guy who is trying to kill Delenn," Marcus added.
"So, you are looking for a non-Minbari to stop him, aren't you?" B'Elanna asked. "Because that way, the castes will be kept out of the conflict and Delenn could still be saved, right?"
"Yes," Lennier admitted, not able to raise his eyes.
"You have just found the right person," Marcus told him determinedly.
Grey Sector
Deep down, on the unnamed level between Grey 16 and Grey 17, Gregor Ayala watched wih an increasing feel of dread as a hidden maintenance door opened in the bulkhead, not far from his hiding place. Three men stepped out of it, humans, if their looks could be trusted, wearing PPGs and some sort of unidentifiable combat gear. It was not the same thing station security usually wore, but not very far from it, either. Their whole bearing screamed trained soldier – or, at the very least, experienced mercenary – and Ayala understood that Babylon 5 might have a more serious problem than a missing level of Grey Sector.
Two of the men grabbed Garibaldi's arms and legs and dragged him away into one of the adjoining rooms on the left side. Ayala, using every trick of Maquis stealth that his body still remembered, followed them, keeping in the shadows as much as possible.
The odds were not good. There could have been dozens of these well-armed people down here, on a level of the existence of which nobody seemed to know. A beam-out call was out of the question, not only because of the scattering field. He couldn't risk revealing himself; so far the people seemed to assume that Garibaldi was alone. Hopefully, they would be busy enough with the security chief to forget to check for other possible intruders.
Yeah, the odds were not good. But Gregor Ayala was used to fight impossible odds. All he needed was a good chance – and a healthy amount of luck.
TBC