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".

Warning: there are certain practices mentioned considering Centauri society that might be disturbing for some readers.

PART SEVENTEEN

Red Sector – Fresh Air Restaurant

"We Centauri live our lives for appearances: position, status, title. These are the things by which we define ourselves, "Vir explained. "Consequently, most powerful and respected males not only have several wives but usually one or two young male consorts – not children, in that the law knows no exception, but no full adults either. They usually are the equivalent of 16-24-year-old humans. It's considered quite an honour, actually, and they are released from service and married off after reaching full maturity, to the daughters of important allies to strengthen the positions of their masters and their own family…"

He was enjoying himself enormously. Usually, outworldlers found Centaury customs… strange, at best. The faint of heart often found them outrageous, alienating or downright disgusting. The lady officer from Voyager, however, had listened to him with fascination.

Of course, the fact that Ms Wildman was an exobiologist might have played some part in her curiosity. But she also showed a genuine interest for Vir's personal history, and that was more than surprising. Nobody had ever showed any interest for Vir's past.

Naturally, he was careful to keep details that humans might have found disgusting to himself. There was the little girl to consider, after all. Who knew how much she would understand from their discussion? But explaining the intricacies of Centauri society that resulted in him growing up in Uncle Jeraddo's house seemed harmless enough – as long as he skipped some details and phrased his information carefully.

The blonde woman gave him a knowing look. "Is this what happened to you? You mentioned your recent betrothal…"

Vir's face acquired a rather interesting shade of purple. "Well, yes… and no, not entirely," he shot an uneasy look at Naomi who seemed completely focused on her food. "You see, as I said, having a male consort is a sign of high status for a Centauri noble… unless… unless, of course, they are related. In that case, it's considered a… a… a shame. And if it comes out, well, then… then the evidence must be removed… in a sense."

He trailed off, unable to continue. But the lady officer understood what he was trying to tell.

"So, that is how you came to Babylon 5?" she asked gently. Vir nodded.

"My uncle needed me off planet, at once. And since nobody wanted a status this low, I was sent to Londo. He got the job because he had fallen in disgrace at court, too, you know."

"They whisked you off planet, although you were the one abused by your uncle?" Sam Wildman shook her head, angry but not surprised. Earth history offered enough similar examples.

Vir shrugged. "At least he didn't have me killed. I had no other relatives; it would have been easy for him to arrange for an… accident. Accidents like that happen on Centauri Prime every day."

"How come then that he arranged a marriage for you anyway?" Sam asked. "If I understand you correctly, such things are based on prestige – and you had none, had you?"

"I was ambassador on Minbar, for a short time," Vir explained. "When Londo began to gather influence – through methods I would rather not name here – he arranged that job for me, through Ambassador Delenn. The Minbari were… content with my work, and it… it seemed that my star would rise… well, as much as it could, on a post nobody else wanted. So my uncle arranged this marriage between me and Lyndisty with her mother, the Lady Drusella."

"So, does this mean that you are married now?" Sam asked, but Vir shook his head sadly.

"N-no, not anymore… I mean, we weren't officially married yet… and now there is little chance that we actually would… although she promised to wait for me… I just… I just don't know if it's still possible… or if I'd want it, even if it were possible… I mean…"

"Vir," Sam said patiently; they had reached first name basis about an hour ago. "You are babbling."

Vir's face acquired that interesting shade of purple again. "I… I guess I do, don't I?"

"Yes, you do. Now, why don't you tell me this story as it happened? Preferably in chronological order?"

Grey Sector – unnumbered level

Ken Dalby looked up at the high-pitched whine of the energy offload – right into the muzzle of a PPG. Behind the weapon, he saw the disgustingly satisfied face of a young, dark-haired man, apparently a human. And between the two of them Lyta Alexander lay like a broken doll, blood seeping from her injured shoulder in an alarmingly quick rate.

Glaring right into the muzzle of a weapon was nothing new for Ken Dalby. He had done so uncounted times as a Maquis freedom fighter, usually with a Cardassian or two (or more) on the other end of said weapon. He was used to situations like this. He knew how to stall for time, how to bargain for his life, negotiate, make fake promises he never intended to keep, just to distract his attacker until help arrived.

And he knew that help was not far away. If Tuvok's sensitive Vulcan ears had not picked up the offload of the PPG, the tricorders certainly would have. Standard Starfleet procedure demanded that the incident be investigated, and Tuvok held Starfleet regulations in high esteem. It was only a matter of time. All Ken needed to do was keeping the young man with the weapon occupied.

Unfortunately, the red-haired woman bleeding to her death didn't have much time left. Dalby, having had a crash course in field medicine, could clearly see that.

What made him even more anxious was the expression on that handsome face behind the weapon. It made him itch with nervosity, which he'd never felt when facing armed Cardassians. The spoonheads were cold, heartless, calculating bastards, and cruel beyond belief; if anyone, Ken knew that. But at least with the Cardassians one always knew what to expect. Usually the worst. But they were a known quality.

This young man, however, was clearly mad. His dark eyes glittered manically, with the fanatism of a religious – or political – zealot, and the sneer on his face was as far from sane as humanly possible, while still capable of aiming a weapon at someone in a professional manner.

"Lookie, lookie," he said in a soft, singsong voice," whom do we have here? One of the new best buddies of Captain Sheridan, no doubt. You shouldn't be here, you know…"

"Yeah, I know," Dalby nodded sourly. "Believe me, I'd love to be somewhere else. Far, far away from here. Too bad nobody ever asks me where I'd like to go…"

"And what is our reluctant visitor doing here, then?" the singsong voice asked, the weapon swaying a little in the young man's hand. Dalby began to sweat; a twitching finger on the fire button was definitely not a good thing. Especially when the weapon was held by a madman.

"I'm trying to block the 'lift doors," he replied thoughtfully, as he had nothing to lose by telling the truth, "so that I can get back into the cabin and the hell out of here. Care to help me?"

For a moment he was afraid he'd overestimated his luck, as those slightly mad eyes filled with anger.

"Our visitor is a funny person," the voice was harder now, more annoyed than playful; maybe the guy wasn't completely mad, after all. "But his jokes are lame. What should we do with him, I wonder?"

Dalby caught a flash of black and gold behind the madman and forced himself to look straight at his enemy, or else he'd have revealed the approach of his friends. He needed the young man to focus on him… but it was risky business.

"Look," he said calmly (a lot more calmly than he actually felt); "are you going to shoot me now or not? 'Coz if you're not, we should call a med team or whatnot. In case you haven't noticed, that lady here is bleeding to death."

"Let her," the pleasant face of the young man contorted in unexpected hatred. "She's a filthy telepath who keeps poking around in other people's heads. They are everywhere, swarming like cockroaches, sniffling… But when we are done, they'll be all eradicated."

"So, you are some sort of elite cleansing force, huh?" Dalby said, desperately trying to ignore Trumari who was snaking up behind the madman. "Killing all those in your way, establishing your great new order, aren't you?"

The question seemed to surprise the other man. "You've heard of us? The Homeguard?"

"Nah," Dalby replied grimly. "I never actually heard of your lot. But I know your kind well enough. I've fought people like you and your cronies all my life. They killed my family. Set our farm to fire. Hunted us like animals, for sport. All in the name of their wonderful new order. You think you can frighten me, young snot? I've killed Cardassians twice your size with my bare hands. Do you know how hard it is, to throttle a Cardassian? They have scaled skin, and their neck is corded, from the collarbone up to their ears. The muscle cords are thick like three of your fingers together. In order to kill them, you must know exactly where to put the pressure, 'coz their necks are too thick for you to encircle with both hands completely. So, you have to grab them frontally, between the neck cords and crush their windpipe…"

The young man listened to Dalby's detailed description with morbid fascination. He completely forgot to watch his surroundings, and it took him by surprise when Trumari finally got in arm's reach, grabbed his wrist and wrestled the PPG from his hand. At the same moment, Dalby leaped to his feet and rammed his knee into the groin of the guy with brutal force. Trumari caught the swaying man and knocked him out with the blunt end of the PPG.

Then he looked at Dalby and nodded with a feral grin. This had nothing to do with their recent training in Starfleet methods and tactical procedures. This was a purely Maquis operation: quick, dirty and extremely efficient. Just like in the old days.

Dalby returned the Bajoran's grin and squatted down to Lyta. He examined her injury as well as it was possible without a medkit… and swore shortly but suggestively in Klingon. All those years serving with Torres rubbed off after a while.

"How is she doing?" Nozawa, coming up behind Trumari, asked.

"Not well," Dalby replied. "She's losing a lot of blood. We'll have to get her out of here."

"That could be a problem," Trumari looked at the elevator pointedly. The doors had been shot during their short fight and the opening mechanism lay in pieces on the floor. Most pieces had been pulled out by Dalby himself.

"There has to be another way out," Nozawa said. "No guerrilla group would set up home in a rat trap with only one exit. Especially since they don't have transporters."

"Maybe our friend here can help," Trumari kicked the unconscious man in the ribs to wake him. "I'm sure I can make him cooperate…"

"I wish Tuvok and the others could shut this scattering field down," Dalby murmured, stripping down to the waist and tearing up his undershirt to apply a makeshift bandage to Lyta's wound. "Dammit, I can't stop the bleeding! We must beam her out of here, directly to sickbay. The EMH is her only chance – I doubt their doctors here could save her."

The Bajoran nodded grimly, and before Nozawa could stop him, touched his comm badge. "Trumari to Tuvok."

"Ensign, you were supposed to keep comm silence," the voice of the Vulcan answered immediately.

"No time, sir," Trumari answered sharply. "We have a critically wounded woman here, who needs the EMH and she needs him now. Dalby says you must shut down the scattering field somehow. The elevator is gone, so we have to beam her out of here, preferably five minutes ago."

A moment of silence, then, "I see. Stand by, Ensign. We've just found Lieutenant Ayala and Mr. Garibaldi. Maybe they can be of assistance. Try to find another exit in the meantime. Tuvok out."

"You heard the man," Trumari looked at Nozawa. "Scan the bulkheads for maintenance tubes or whatever you can find. I'll wake up this guy and talk him nicely into helping us.

Tuvok was very un-Vulcan-like relieved to find Ayala unharmed. Garibaldi was another matter entirely, of course. But they needed the local security chief as the only person familiar with Babylon 5's computer system, if they wanted to shut down the damn scattering field.

Ayala and Garibaldi had disabled several computer interfaces already, narrowing down the possibilities of the cleverly cross-rigged internal system to reboot itself. Dalby, too, had done a nice amount of damage while trying to cross-wire the elevator controls. But the whole thing was still much too complicated, and they still hadn't the faintest idea where the central control could be.

"We are going nowhere like this," Ayala said, teeth gritting in frustration. "But we do have that unconscious guy back in the room where Garibaldi was imprisoned. Tuvok could meld with him and get us the information we need."

"If he has the information," Ensign Foster said pessimistically. Ayala shrugged.

"They aren't that many here. Which means each of them has to know how to get in and out and through the scattering field. It's worth a shot anyway."

Tuvok raised an eyebrow. "Mr. Ayala, surely you know how Vulcans think about a forced mind meld."

"Not really, sir," Ayala replied, "and frankly, I don't even care. Someone is dying over there, and we haven't any other way out, either. With all due respect for your ethics, sir, they are just not as important as the lives of us all… and those on the whole station, which would be seriously endangered, should we be unable to pass the information about these rebels here along."

Tuvok hesitated for a moment. His whole being, all he had been taught in his long life, rebelled against the idea of forcible taking the information they needed from the mind of an unconscious man. But he also knew that he'd have to do it. His moral dilemma could wait. Lyta Alexander could not.

He knew the injured woman couldn't be anyone else but Lyta. He had personally ordered her to remain with Dalby… and he could feel the faint telepathic contact between them fading away. He was responsible for what had happened to Lyta – she wouldn't have come down here without him. He had to try helping her.

"Very well," he said, resigned. "Lead the way."

Chakotay was sitting in his office, in a valiant effort to distract himself with long overdue paperwork. He decided against returning to the bridge; he'd only make everyone nervous. The crew was used to see him as the solid rock in the storm, and showing his agitation – which he couldn't hide very well right now – wouldn't help things. It was better to let Rollins play captain and stay here with the utterly boring reports.

When his comm unit finally beeped, he almost jumped off his seat. Then he almost jumped a second time, when he recognized Greg's voice. "Ayala to Chakotay."

"Chakotay here. Greg, are you all right?"

"I am," the voice of his friend answered, "but we've run into a bit of trouble here. We have wounded, Chak… one of them critical. They need to be beamed to sickbay. Now."

"You know what the Captain said about the transporters, don't you?"

"Yeah, but I also know what she said about emergencies. We have one dying woman who doesn't have the time we are wasting right now, Chak. You are in charge right now. You can do this."

"And she can have my hide afterwards," Chakotay murmured, but he know as well as Ayala that they had no choice. "All right, Greg. Do as you see it fit; I'll inform the transporter room."

"See you in sickbay," Ayala replied and signed off.

Dr. Lillian Hobbs had barely begun her late shift when C&C called her.

"Doctor, you have an urgent message from Voyager," Technician Robertson told her. "From Commander Chakotay."

Dr. Hobbs frowned. That couldn't mean any good. Sure, she'd hoped that Chakotay would contact her again, but it wasn't an emergency call she'd expected.

"I'll take it in my office," she answered to C&C and hurried over to her – well, actually Franklin's – inner sanctuary. Robertson acknowledged and put the call through to the comm unit of the office.

Chakotay's face was positively grim on the small vidscreen. "I'm sorry to bother you when you're on duty, doctor," he said, "but we need your help. Can you come over to Voyager's sickbay? It's really urgent."

"Well, yes, at the moment there's nothing to do," Lillian answered in surprise. "What happened?"

"I can't talk about it. Not on this open channel," Chakotay said. "You'll have to come over and see it yourself. Oh, one more thing… do you have any records about Ms Alexander?"

"Lyta? Sure, I have her whole medical file at my disposal."

"Good. Bring it along. You'll need it."

"Will do," Lillian began to feel something like anxiety. This didn't sound good. This didn't sound good at all. "Anything else?"

"Yes. Keep this connection open. Tell me when you have the file. We'll beam you over; nobody needs to know about this. Not yet, anyway."

"Beam me over?" Dr. Hobbs replied, nervously. "What are you talking about?"

"Lillian," Chakotay's voice was low and patient. "Do you trust me?"

The question surprised her. "Well... yes, of course I trust you. Why do you ask?"

"Then believe me if I say you that it won't harm you. Are you alone?"

"Yes…"

"Good. Tell me when you're done."

The only thing Lillian understood was that Lyta might be in trouble – probably sick or injured, if they needed her medical file. The situation was most likely critical enough for the Voyager people to take her to their own sickbay, to that wondrous medical hologram. But they still needed Lillian's help. That was enough. She'll ask for details later.

Downloading Lyta's medical file into a data crystal was a matter of moments. She added the confidential ones that Dr. Franklin kept in a password-protected data block as well. One couldn't know what would be needed.

"Chakotay," he said, a little uncertainly. "I'm finished here."

"Good, stay where you are and don't move," Chakotay's voice became muffled as he most likely turned away from the comm unit. "Transporter room, do you have her coordinates?"

"Aye, sir," an unfamiliar female voice answered him. "Transporter lock in place."

"Very well. Beam her directly to sickbay."

There was a tingling sensation, then a brief moment of disorientation – and Lillian Hobbs found herself standing in the middle of Voyager's sickbay.

TBC