DISCLAIMER: Babylon 5 belongs to JMS. I'm just playing.
AUTHOR: Sarai
E-MAIL:
PAIRING: Marcus/Neroon
WARNING: m/m slash, violence
RATING: R
SPOILERS: Seasons 3 and 4
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hi, we're getting there.
SUMMARY: What if they had met before?
TITLE: When it Alteration Finds
Chapter Nine
2248, The Ingata
Marcus found the room that he assumed was meant for Neroon's dra'ma easily enough. Even first officer's quarters weren't that large, and the little space that branched off from the sitting room was the only possibility. It held merely the standard-issue sleeping platform, a tiny closet with a few storage boxes and--thank God--a computer system, but it looked like paradise to Marcus. A place to work where no one would be looking over his shoulder was all he had wanted, but the fact that it was also carpeted was an unexpected bonus. If he had to sleep on the floor, at least it would be more comfortable here than back in his old room.
Marcus moved in within a few minutes, then wondered what he was supposed to do. He wanted to get started working the bugs out of Obsidian, but didn't know when Neroon was planning to show up. Until he found out what the Alyt expected of him and could work out a safe schedule, programming was out.
He wandered into the kitchen and his stomach reminded him that he hadn't eaten. Going to the mess hall was not appealing; the blandness of institutional food seemed a universal constant, and Marcus had already checked the menu. He didn't much relish the idea of facing flavorless noodles and sieki, the latter a bitter herb often used as a seasoning. It was one of the few Minbari dishes that had any taste at all to a human; unfortunately, in its case, that wasn't a good thing. Besides, if he was supposed to be chief cook and bottle washer, he might as well get started. Maybe he could come up with something slightly more palatable.
The problem was that his father, who did most of the cooking in their family since his mother couldn't make toast without burning it, had always favored spicy foods like Italian, Indian, or Martian. As a result, Marcus was afraid that most of the dishes he knew how to make were unlikely to sit well with Minbari taste buds. But then, Neroon had seemed to favor the slightly more highly seasoned dishes from their previous meal, so maybe modifying a few old standbys could work. Assuming, of course, that the Alyt had anything like the necessary ingredients. A couple of minutes' search was enough to show that the kitchen had a well stocked larder--apparently the Alyt shared his opinion of the mess hall-- but Marcus didn't know what many of the items were, and there were no helpful instructions on the packages. He spent the next half hour at the computer, trying to match descriptions with names and uses, and in the process stumbled across a recipe bank. It was broken down by region, and he learned with pleasure that Neroon's area of Minbar was known for a spicy cuisine that sounded like a variation on curry. Marcus grinned as he made a list of the requirements for the best sounding dish; Neroon, thankfully, had them all.
He found himself almost wishing that he could visit Neroon's part of Minbar, which was along the equatorial belt and managed a fairly mild climate for an otherwise cold planet. It had looked a bit like Tuscany from the few photos that accompanied the recipes. He had never thought of the Minbari, who no human had seen other than in space or, rarely, in the Luna detention facility, living in a sun drenched landscape in houses interspersed with arbors of ancient fruit vines, bordered by a coastline that glowed azure under an oddly Sol-type sun. They had always seemed creatures tinted with the colors of space--black like their uniforms or silver gray like their ships. The color and sparkle that looked like a regular part of Neroon's home was difficult to reconcile with most Terran's view of pale, acetic warriors who took little love in anything except killing. Marcus pushed the thoughts away quickly; they were disturbing him, and he needed to keep his attention on what he was doing.
An hour later, Marcus was setting the low table in the sitting room. He'd assumed that was correct since the cabin didn't contain a dining room and the small table was similar to the one Durhan had loaned him. He had manfully resisted the temptation to make his modified curry to his taste, since keeping Neroon happy seemed like the best plan; getting kicked back to his old quarters would not be a favorable turn of events, now that he'd have a roommate. As a result, he'd cut the spices in the dish and taken time arranging the table, which even boasted a few floral cuttings from hydroponics. Ani'es, Neroon's supercilious shai'hat, had delivered them at Marcus' request.
She'd regarded the disheveled Marcus with some disdain when she entered the Alyt's quarters without bothering to signal for admittance. She looked like an advertisement for the perfect Minbari aide--neat, clean and with the requisite superior expression--but then, she hadn't been slaving in the kitchen for over an hour. "They are poisonous if eaten," she warned him, as she handed over the flowers. "It is only after the blossoms have fallen off and the roots fully matured that flarn is safe for consumption." Marcus rolled his eyes and stuck the surprisingly attractive purple blooms in a tall glass, the closest thing he could find to a vase. He sat them on the table as Ani'es looked on curiously.
"They aren't going to be eaten," Marcus told her, rearranging the utilitarian dishes that were all Neroon seemed to possess to make room for the centerpiece.
"Then I fail to see the point," the woman sniffed. Marcus ignored her and went back into the kitchen for his masterpiece. "What is that?!," Ani'es asked in alarm, when he sat the dish of vegetable curry on the table. "You can't expect the Alyt to eat that!," she was obviously horrified. "My eyes are watering from the smell alone!"
"Then don't smell it." Marcus decided that Sorval's reputation for arrogance might need a work out, just to keep him in character. Besides, Ani'es' scorn was getting on his nerves--he'd worked almost an hour on that damned dish, and was rather proud of it.
"Very well," the small aide regarded Marcus with scorn. "But don't blame me if he ends up in Medical!" With what would have been termed a flounce in humans, she left the room, only a few minutes before Neroon arrived.
Marcus regarded his new mentor nervously, hoping that the table, which now also contained a variation on roti bread and several bottles of fruit juice, looked appealing. He hadn't had time to make a second main course, so if Neroon didn't like his offering, he was in trouble. Neroon didn't say anything, however, just nodded a greeting before retreating to his bedroom. Marcus looked after him anxiously; had Ani'es caught him in the hallway and warned him off the food? After a few moments, however, he reappeared, still dressed in his uniform but without the body armor and heavy boots. It didn't make much of a difference, physique wise; Neroon still looked like he was carved out of solid rock. Marcus had a flashback to the sensation of being crushed against the sleeping platform the night before and shivered. He stamped down on the feeling without trying to name it; whatever it was, it wasn't what he needed to be thinking about right now.
"I thought you might like to avoid the mess hall tonight," Marcus offered, "they're serving flarn noodles again."
Neroon nodded, seating himself at the table silently. Marcus supposed he should be grateful that no repeat of the previous night's seduction seemed on the menu, but Neroon's complete silence soon began to bother him. He caught the Alyt glancing at him with an odd expression several times as they ate, but couldn't read it. At least he seemed to like the food; most of the curry was quickly disposed of, and there was no comment on its spiciness. Marcus wished he didn't feel so nervous and could properly enjoy it; it was the first meal that hadn't tasted like hospital food since he'd arrived.
In the end, Neroon merely thanked him for the meal, and disappeared into his inner sanctum, leaving Marcus with no instructions as to how to fill his evening. He carted off the dishes for cleaning, then regarded the empty sitting room with bemusement. All right, so maybe Neroon was tired and would explain Marcus' duties later. At least that left him the night free to wrestle with Obsidian, assuming he could stay awake. Marcus stifled a yawn, and went to his room, hoping he'd been found satisfactory.
Neroon regarded the holo picture on his bookshelf with more than usual interest. It was the best of the few images he still had of Tallier, and was prized for the fact that his uncle had taken it at a family gathering, insuring that Neroon had been able to be in the image as well. He and Tallier still bore the grass stains from an impromptu wrestling match with some of Neroon's young cousins, but had their arms around each other and were smiling in blissful ignorance of the blow fate had in store only a few years away. Tallier was still sober in the photo, although he'd unwisely begun smoking a local herb with Neroon's mother a short time afterwards and had to be pulled out from under a table and carried home by his amused lover some time later. The family matriarch, who grew the noxious and completely illegal herb in her garden, could handle it; everyone else had long ago learned to refuse politely.
It had been a test, of course. The shameless old woman had, once Tallier was hopelessly intoxicated, proceeded to quiz him mercilessly about his feelings for her only son. Neroon had sighed and let her get on with it, knowing that a rescue would only postpone the inevitable. His mother was less than pleased at the thought of no grandchildren, and was itching to find a reason to withhold her blessing. As long as the union had been unofficial, she had been willing to turn a blind eye, assuming Neroon would eventually move on and provide the required heir. He had learned to simply ignore the various comments she made about eligible young women, and to decline with thanks any dinner parties obviously designed to show off the latest of his mother's protégés. When he and Tallier had decided to make their alliance official, he had known exactly how well it was likely to sit with his mother.
It had been with considerable amusement and not a little relief, then, that Neroon had accepted her grudging agreement to the union. As he draped the unconscious Tallier over his shoulder, she poked him in the stomach with her walking stick, her usual way of getting his attention. "That's a good boy," she said crossly, as if he had deliberately picked out someone with whom it was impossible to find fault. "Perhaps, he has sisters?"
"No mother." Neroon had regarded her fondly.
"Oh, very well, then. You always do as you like anyway," she had groused, and tapped Tallier on the backside with the head of her cane. "But he needs to learn to manage his sabrack better. I'll send him some." She had, too, and Tallier, despite Neroon's complaints, had smoked it all. The house had reeked for weeks.
No, Neroon told himself sternly as he replaced the picture, it couldn't be.
He forced himself to go through his nightly routine, cleaning his skin and polishing the intricate ridges in his crest, which, due to static from the ship's air filtration system, always looked dusty if not properly maintained. He wasn't really concentrating on the task, however, but was thinking back to that shocking meal. It must have been Durhan who had told the boy. He seemed determined to throw Neroon together with young Sorval, so that would make sense. Except that Neroon could not remember discussing his lover in any depth with Durhan, or, for that matter, anyone else on the Ingata. Had the master called Minbar and asked close family members about his relationship? He couldn't imagine his friend breaking protocol to that degree, but if he hadn't, what was the answer? How had Sorval known?
Neroon had felt off balance for several days with the alarming speed with which the skinny young Kathui had gotten under his skin. The memories that he usually kept resolutely locked away kept intruding onto his consciousness, no matter how he tried to concentrate on other things. One in particular kept coming to mind, the engagement dinner he'd shared long ago with his lover. That had been before Tallier had managed to teach him basic cooking skills, and Neroon had suggested that they go out to eat to celebrate. Tallier had cheekily remarked that he couldn't do what he planned with Neroon if they were sitting in the middle of a restaurant, and offered to cook instead. He had made a traditional, highly spiced dish common in Neroon's family that he knew was a personal favorite; he had also insisted on draping the table and festooning the arbor where they dined with flowers, to make it look more festive, he'd said. Thereafter, every year they had the same meal as a celebration, and the colorful flarn blooms, so attractive and easy to come by, had always graced the table. Every single year.
But those dinners were private, and putting flarn blossoms on an eating table was not a common Minbari custom. Indeed, Neroon didn't know anyone else who did it. It had been one of his and Tallier's inside jokes, and he doubted his mala had shared the information with anyone. How, then, had Sorval known? Had it just been coincidence? Neroon's orderly mind rejected that thought--the dish, perhaps, could have been simply an elegant way of paying homage to his clan, and the fact that he liked it was no secret. Neroon had cooked a very mild version several times for his old master, who had never failed to complain that he was trying to roast him and pointedly drank two carafes of juice all on his own thereafter. Durhan would have remembered the dish, but the flowers--they could not also be a coincidence, could they?
Neroon moved to his private comm unit and linked to the ship's main computer. He brought up the records on his dra'ma, and found, as he'd suspected, that the boy was very young. Still, he had already been the pride of his old father's heart for almost four cycles by the time Tallier was killed. The ridiculous idea that Neroon had briefly entertained at dinner, that this was a rare case of his lover returning to him, was therefore impossible.
The souls of the departed were, of course, eventually reborn into new bodies as everyone knew. But this process was believed to take quite a while after death, the religious theorists guessing centuries on average. A popular plot device in the romantic novels his mother regularly devoured had lovers reunited after the death of one when the departed was reborn, but Neroon had never heard of such a thing actually happening. And the odds of them meeting again even if it did were astronomical, considering that there were over four billion Minbari. In any case, it certainly hadn't occurred this time, for Sorval's birth date precluded the possibility. It was a mystery, and Neroon hated mysteries. As a warrior, he was well aware that anything he didn't know could end up hurting him, and usually insured that unexplained facts surrounding the running of his ship were carefully investigated. In this case, he would have far preferred to let the issue drop, but the commander in him couldn't do it.
He found it hard to believe that Tyamer had sent his son there deliberately to seduce him, but an alliance between their two clans would give the crafty old man considerable power. And Tyamer had the cunning and the resources to investigate Neroon's background, and possibly to bribe his or Tallier's family servants into revealing private information. Neroon didn't like the feeling that he was a pawn in Tyamer's political maneuverings, nor that he was being played for a fool by the callow youth in the next room. His lover returned? He thought not. The boy might have been coached to mimic a few of Tallier's habits, but whoever had done so had obviously been a poor planner. That slip with the birthday was careless, something Neroon himself would never have overlooked. He decided that, come the morning, he'd see exactly how good the boy's knowledge of his old lover was, and if it turned out that someone was actually trying to use Tallier's death for political purposes, Neroon would personally space them.
Chapter Ten
2261, The Ingata
Marcus had known that his conversation with Neroon was going to be difficult; the fact that the low dining table in the Shi Alyt's quarters was set with their engagement dinner, complete with flowers, merely confirmed the fact. Irony was a strong Minbari trait, and Neroon had always been gifted with an overabundance of it. However, nothing Marcus had anticipated could have prepared him for the discussion that accompanied dinner. It was easily the strangest he had ever had and, considering that he included a surreal talk with Kosh in the list, that was saying something.
Marcus had assumed that, since Neroon had just encountered him in his real form, he would immediately see through the synthaskin. He'd only worn it to get past the Ingata's guards, not in any hopes of reprising his masquerade with the Shi Alyt. But it was soon apparent that Neroon still did not equate Sorval with Marcus, making explanations even more complicated than he'd expected. He toyed with his food and tried to think how to phrase things to at least get a hearing before Neroon decided to finish what he'd begun in Down Below.
"How old are you?" Neroon surprised him by suddenly asking. Of all the questions Marcus had expected, that hadn't been one of them. He looked at Neroon blankly as the Minbari continued. "Because, of course, I know that you aren't the real Sorval. After your "death," I went to personally give Tyamer an account of how you had perished. It was my duty to my dra'ma, and also a courtesy to another clan leader. There were several very fine pictures of his son in his study. I recognized immediately that I had never before met that Sorval. It was . . . quite a shock."
"Er, yes, I suppose so." Marcus noticed the slight pulse that beat at Neroon's temple. It was a sign of suppressed emotion, but what kind? The idea that he could actually have mourned him was ludicrous; Neroon had considered him a convenience and possibly a political tool, nothing more. Was it anger, then, that was upsetting the Shi Alyt? Rage at being duped? Marcus thought it would be highly ironic to be killed for being Sorval rather than himself. Ironic, but perhaps fitting. It was, after all, as Sorval that he'd betrayed him.
"So I ask again, how old are you?"
Marcus wondered why Neroon wasn't asking what seemed the far more relevant questions of who he was and how he'd managed to return from the dead, but decided to be grateful for the reprieve. "I was born in 2226, so I'm just over 25 cycles. May I ask why you wish to know?"
Neroon simply sat, inscrutable except for that tell tale pulse. Even Marcus, who had long ago learned to gage Minbari emotions from subtle clues, noticed nothing except for a slight tightening of Neroon's hand on his spoon. Marcus knew, of course, that his age made him extremely young for a Minbari, although he would be 35 Earth years old on his next birthday. Twelve years ago, if he were actually a Minbari youth, he should still have been in training, not posted to a battleship in a war zone. Marcus tried to concentrate on what was possibly his last meal, but found that he had no taste for it. How long could it be before Neroon figured out the obvious?
"Twenty-five." Neroon said at last. "Then you were only 16 when you took Sorval's place?"
Marcus did a quick calculation. Each Minbari cycle was about 1.35 Earth years, so 16 was approximately 21 and a half. "Yes."
Neroon pushed his plate away. He was definitely not happy about something. Marcus couldn't see, under the circumstances, what possible difference his age made, either then or now. But, in any case, he couldn't wait around, hoping that a diplomatic way of mentioning the threat to the fleet would emerge. He'd just have to chance it that Neroon would hear him out.
"I, er, came to discuss an important matter, Shi Alyt," he began and, when Neroon didn't stop him, rushed ahead with the basic explanation he had given Garibaldi. Leaving out the little point that he had been the one to infect the fleet in the first place, he told Neroon only what he had to know to locate the virus. The information was going to seem fantastic enough on its own; there was no need to add embellishments until they were demanded. "This is a copy of Obsidian, with the activation code attached." Marcus handed over the crystal when he finished. Again ironically, it was one of many that had been mined on Minbar. Neroon took it, but said nothing. Marcus swallowed and ploughed on. "The idea was to wait until all the ships that were deployed to attack Earth had been infected before activating the virus; otherwise, it would have been discovered and possibly counteracted before the battle. I don't know how the secret leaked," Marcus added truthfully, "but if it is purged from your systems, the code will be useless."
"Why give this to me?," Neroon inquired calmly, as if he hadn't just been told that the entire fleet was about to be used for target practice by Raiders.
"The war is over," Marcus replied, wondering what was going on behind those dark eyes. "Earth and Minbar are allies now."
"I meant why me specifically, instead of Shakiri; he would be the more obvious choice, would he not?"
"Er, perhaps, but you're here." And, Marcus thought, how he could have managed to obtain an audience with the Warrior Caste leader boggled the mind.
"And you knew I would listen to you."
Marcus' hadn't been certain of anything of the kind. One's dead lover did not often drop by for dinner, after all. He'd imagined many possibilities for this meeting, but the current eerily calm conversation hadn't been one of them. "I'd hoped you would. If you find Obsidian on the Ingata, it will be easier to persuade Shakiri to authorize a general search."
"You seem certain we will find it. An Earther gave you this information?"
"You could say that." Certainly, Intel was composed of 'Earthers,' Marcus thought, trying to screw up the courage to simply remove the costume. Neroon had the crystal and the explanation. Seeing Marcus as he really was could only confirm that infecting the Ingata had indeed been possible.
"You trust your contact?" Neroon was starting to really worry Marcus. Where was the passionate, contemptuous warrior who had all but destroyed him a week ago?
"My information is correct," Marcus assured him. Before he could do or say anything else, Neroon nodded, rose, and went to the comm station. While Marcus watched in disbelief, he sent the crystal's information to his Alyt, along with orders to begin the search for the virus immediately.
"I assume your contact is the Ranger Marcus Cole," Neroon said, settling again opposite him. "I have reason also to respect his word. He is . . . unusual . . . for an Earther." Neroon glanced at the pike that was now back on Marcus' belt. "Did you give him that?"
Marcus took a drink and tried to calm himself. All right, this was it. "In a way. I don't exactly know where to begin . . . "
Neroon held up a hand, forestalling Marcus' words. "No. You don't need to explain. It was yours to do with as you wished. And perhaps it is best this way." His expression softened for an instant. "You are so very young."
Marcus was becoming seriously confused. Neroon soon added to that feeling when he went on to lecture 'Sorval' on the dangers of impersonating another. "If the real Kathui heir had not been captured and detained, you would have been found out almost immediately and sent home in disgrace. Despite what you may have believed, we would not have allowed you to stay on board, especially not at such an age, despite your abilities. I know how it is," he commented, as Marcus' mouth dropped open in shock. "You wanted to serve our people and, like many of the young ones in my own clan, were afraid the war would end before your training was complete. You were not the only one to misrepresent your age during the conflict."
Marcus stared at him, unable to believe that he might actually be getting a reprieve. Could Neroon really not see the truth, even when it sat across the table from him? Marcus shifted, and the tight dressings Stephen had applied to his ribs to keep them inert caused a flash of pain; he hardly noticed it. By God, did he actually have a chance to walk out of here alive? He started to think fast; he'd need a cover story, and Neroon was nothing if not perceptive.
"I assume you work with the Rangers now?"
"Yes, that's right." Marcus was relieved that the Shi Alyt had not managed to become Entil'Zha, and therefore did not have Ranger records at his command. The lie should hold up.
"And I assume that is where you met Cole? You trained together at Tuzanor?"
"Yes," Marcus saw Neroon's surprise at the brevity of his answer, and quickly added, "but he didn't think you'd accept the information on Obsidian if it came from him or Delenn."
"He was probably correct." Neroon smiled slightly at Marcus' stiffness. "You can relax, 'Sorval,' I am not going to ask your name or clan affiliation. The war was a difficult time for all of us, and many made decisions they have since had reason to regret, or at least to re-examine. I do not intend to prosecute you over something long since over. You have a new life now; be happy in it."
Neroon kept to his word not to ask about his identity; instead, he focused on Marcus' time as a Ranger for the rest of the conversation. It surprised Marcus no end to discover that Neroon believed him to be involved in a romantic relationship with his alter ego, and thought that he had given "Cole" the pike for the same reason that Neroon had once made a gift of it to him. By then, however, the discussion had become so surreal that Marcus simply nodded and played along, feeling too numb with shock to even laugh at the absurdity of it all.
The only question that gave him any real trouble was the method he'd used to disappear from the Ingata during the Battle of the Line. He stuck with the story Neroon seemed to already believe: that when his section of the ship had been hit, he'd been trapped and unable to get anywhere except to a life pod, and that Earth Force had picked him up soon after he ejected. It had the advantage of being partially true--he had left in a pod--and the only embroidery required was that he'd gone back to Minbar after finally being released and later joined the Rangers under his real name.
By the time Neroon put him in his personal shuttle to return to Babylon 5, Marcus' head was throbbing with the strain of keeping his story straight and he was almost dizzy with relief. He had been fully prepared to die if necessary--one death in exchange for saving the entire Minbari fleet did not sound like a bad trade, even if it was his own--but he was deliriously glad to have been spared. Not that he had much of a life by most people's standards, he supposed, with no family, few friends and a non-existent love life, but he was fond of it. Despite what some people seemed to believe, he did not have a death wish. He was willing to die in a good cause, all Rangers were or they never made it past Sech Turval's probing questions, but he preferred to stay alive to do something worthwhile and atone for the many mistakes of his past. And, he thought in quiet exaltation, his work that day had made up for a lot.
2261, Babylon 5
"I need to speak with Sorval." Neroon's face on the comm unit surprised Marcus. His last words had sounded like a farewell that was intended to be permanent, and he had not so much as asked for a way to contact him later.
Marcus tried to sit up to see the vid screen better, but gave up after a moment. He was back in Med Lab because Stephen had shown up at his room with a phalanx of orderlies and kidnapped him a few hours after his return to the station. Marcus had pointed out that the doctor had woken him from a sound sleep only to drag him off to a much less comfortable bed and stuff him full of sleeping pills, which seemed a waste of resources. Stephen hadn't bothered to lecture him or even to respond. However, Susan's ruined handcuffs had been replaced by enough medical restraints to keep down a couple of enraged Narns, and the nurses and orderlies were under strict instructions not to bring him so much as a glass of water without the doctor's explicit permission.
"Well, I'm a little tied up at the moment, Neroon." Marcus lifted his head, the only part of him that was actually able to move, and managed to glimpse Neroon's sober expression. "But I can probably get a message to him, if it is urgent."
"It is. Tell him," Neroon paused, and Marcus could see him struggling to stay calm, an obvious change from his previous attitude, "that the item was not found. But two more ships have . . . had problems such as we spoke of. Tell him that he must contact me immediately!"
Marcus stared at the face on the viewer, which looked slightly haggard. It didn't look like Neroon had slept since their meeting two days before, not that he blamed him. Two more Minbari ships had been destroyed, yet Obsidian had not been found on the Ingata? That was impossible; Marcus knew damned well that, of all the ships in the fleet, Neroon's was definitely infected.
"I'll see what I can do," he promised, wondering what could have possibly gone wrong, and how he was going to escape Med Lab this time.
"This is getting to be a bad habit." Zac had waited until the nefarious looking Brackiri finished relaying his message and slipped into the darkness before approaching Marcus. He almost hadn't recognized him since the Ranger had shaved and was wearing a scruffy set of casuals instead of his uniform. "I do have other duties than stalking you, you know."
Actually, Zac wasn't at all displeased that Marcus was proving so hard for Stephen to keep locked down. The doc had been desperate enough to get Delenn off his back to offer Zac a nice little bonus if he dragged Marcus back to MedLab before her scheduled visit, and he could almost taste the steak already. He could only afford real, Earth raised beef a couple times a year on his salary, as the stuff was rare these days even planetside, and when you tagged on the shipping fees to Bab5 it was almost literally worth its weight in gold. But Stephen made a lot more than he did, and the doc kept his promises.
"Come on, let's go. I hear there's a nice Rebo and Zootie film on in a few minutes. You don't wanna miss that, right?" If Marcus heard him, it wasn't obvious. "Hey, I'm talking, here." Zac watched in surprise as Marcus completely ignored him, and started off down the corridor, muttering to himself. "Hey!" He caught up with him at the turbo lifts. "Did the doc over medicate you or what?"
"I'm fine." Marcus tried to shift away from his hold, but Zac was having none of it.
"Great, then you won't mind Franklin verifying that. He offered to buy me dinner if I got you back in less than an hour and," Zac checked his chronometer, "I think we can just make it."
"I'm not going back. I have plans to make."
"Sure. Tell it to the doc."
"Let him go, Zac."
Zac glanced over his shoulder to see Garibaldi approaching. Good, he could use reinforcement. "Franklin said to drag him back, by the hair if necessary." Zac regarded Marcus' knit cap, which fitted a little too close for someone with as much hair as the Ranger usually had. "Not that that looks possible at the moment, but hey, I'm adaptable."
"I need to talk to Marcus; I'll deal with Stephen."
"Yeah, but Chief, he promised me steak." Zac tried not to whine, but it came through anyway.
"Marcus owes you dinner, then."
Zac sighed. He doubted the Ranger was likely to be able to afford anything better than spoo, which Zac could definitely live without, but arguing with the Chief when he was in a mood was a waste of time. "As long as you get him back before Franklin starts yelling at me over the comm," Zac relented, and watched his steak evaporate into wishful thinking as Garibaldi frog marched Marcus onto the elevator and the doors shut in his face. Life wasn't fair.
Chapter Eleven
2248, The Ingata
Marcus regarded the tube of oil in his hand with foreboding. It's just a massage, he reminded himself for the tenth time. A nice, platonic massage; nothing to get upset about. He had almost managed to calm down when Neroon came out of the bedroom attired only in a towel. A very small towel.
"No special instruction," he told Marcus as he climbed onto the padded table that had been erected in the living room. "However you're accustomed to do it will be fine."
Marcus swallowed and approached the powerful Minbari frame laid out before him. Neroon's was a reasonable enough request; they had had a hard workout and both landed on the practice mat more than once. It was fairly normal to receive a massage from a regular sparring partner, and Marcus had seen numerous examples in the changing rooms of the gymnasium in the last week. Plus, as Neroon's dra'ma, he supposed it was his job. So why did he feel so odd about it?
There had been no repeat of the events of their disastrous dinner date since he moved in. In fact, in the two days since becoming Neroon's aide, Marcus had actually seen less of him than before, and the few times when he had, the First had been completely proper. The attraction he'd previously evidenced must have been a result of the drug; either that, or he felt it improper to proposition his dra'ma. His request was unlikely to be the beginning of a seduction, then, especially as it didn't seem like Neroon's usual manner of proceeding. If their one encounter was anything to go by, subtlety wasn't his style.
Neroon glanced over his shoulder, and Marcus realized that to hesitate any longer would look strange. All right, then. Nothing to it, he told himself, as he poured some of the oil Durhan had recommended, which-- surprise--was derived from flarn blossoms, onto his hands and began to rub it in. He thought that, if Earth had only known how dependant the Minbari were on the plant, they could have ended the war simply by infecting the crops and throwing the planet's whole economy into chaos.
"I won't break," Neroon commented after a few minutes, and Marcus increased the pressure. The problem was that, whatever he did, it probably felt like a gentle pat to the Minbari. Like most of his people, who had developed heavier bones and musculature to deal with the slightly greater gravity on their world, Neroon was powerfully built. His naturally strong frame had been sculpted and hardened by years of regular exercise and Warrior Caste training regimens, to the point that, if he had a physical flaw, Marcus couldn't see it. A Narn might have made a good masseuse for him, but Marcus was having problems. It didn't help that his hands seemed to like stroking the skin of the Alyt's back, enjoying the unique satin-over-steel feel of the man, and he had to constantly remind himself to press harder. It was also a problem that his brain kept providing him with a number of disturbing images of more interesting things he could be doing with the body currently under his control.
The whole thing was disconcerting to Marcus who, prior to this trip, had never thought of a male as a sexual object. And he'd had plenty of opportunities: one of his best friends on Arisia had made his interest clear, as had several fellow operatives in Intel. Marcus had turned them down gently and not given much thought to the matter. He hadn't felt any attraction, unlike in the case of a few girls he had known, and had therefore assumed that he preferred women. Now, however, he was beginning to wonder if maybe his lack of interest had been less because of their gender than the fact that he found them boring personally. Marcus had expected to learn things about himself on this mission, but reevaluating his sexuality hadn't been one of them.
Of course, he decided, part of the problem might be that Neroon was obviously experienced, and had known exactly how to excite a partner. Marcus' previous love interests, such as they were, had naturally expected him to take charge, which he had done without a great deal of skill. There had been no such expectation on Neroon's part, and Marcus' very insubordinate brain had been running replays of those breathless few minutes in the Alyt's bedroom on a continuous loop for two days. At the time, he'd been too surprised to fully appreciate the experience, but his excellent memory seemed intent on remedying that fact.
It wasn't fair, Marcus thought resentfully. If he had to be taken as someone's dra'ma, why couldn't it have been by Branmer or Durhan, neither of whom provoked this sort of response? No, it had to be Neroon. And, taken objectively, anyone would have to agree that the Alyt was beautiful. Not handsome, for that word had connotations for Marcus that were all associated with humans, and therefore didn't seem to fit Neroon at all. Beautiful seemed more appropriate somehow, as one might describe an unusually well designed art object, even of alien make, in a museum or gallery. With his pale skin tone, he actually looked rather like a marble statue, perhaps something Michelangelo might have done about the time he carved those two powerfully built slaves for Julius' tomb. The resemblance was heightened since Neroon's head was turned away so that Marcus couldn't see his expressive brown eyes. Until, that was, Neroon shifted to regard him with a slight frown.
"Have you not done this before?"
Marcus wondered how he had messed up now. "Er, not often. We had servants . . . "
"I see. Then you shall have to learn, for I refuse to have a dra'ma who cannot give a simple massage." He hopped off the table. "Lay down."
Marcus almost panicked, but caught himself before he said anything stupid. "I feel fine. Really. No soreness at all." That was a lie, but he'd have said almost anything to avoid getting on that table. The idea of Neroon's hands on him, especially at the moment, fell under the category of Extremely Bad Idea.
"I cannot instruct you properly in words alone," Neroon said impatiently, "get up." His tone clearly said that he would brook no argument, and Marcus slowly did as he was told. He wasn't sure what worried him more, that the synthaskin might feel different from normal Minbari skin to Neroon, or that he might enjoy the massage a little too much.
He didn't worry for long, since Neroon began a professional massage that made thinking about anything difficult. Marcus tried to concentrate on absorbing the instructions he was being given, knowing that he'd be expected to return the favor shortly, but found it far easier to imagine what else he'd like those talented hands to be doing. Especially after Neroon made an annoyed sound and tugged Marcus' shirt off.
There was nothing particularly sensuous about the hands on his back, and technically, they weren't even touching him, but the damned synthaskin was not much of a barrier. Marcus bit his lip and tried to think about other things. He was absolutely not lying there getting excited from the touch of a man who would snap his neck in an instant if he knew who he really was. Unfortunately, that thought only resulted in an increase in the amount of blood heading south. Great, Marcus thought in despair; perfect time to learn that he was a little kinky. Seemed quite the day for revelations.
"You are very tense." Neroon sounded slightly concerned. "And you need to eat more. You are far too thin."
"It's due to a growth spurt," Marcus gave the prepared answer without much thought. God, Neroon was good at this! "I added several inches recently."
"You had better bulk up before your next physical, or Tranus will have you on supplements, and I should warn you, they are NOT palatable."
"I'll remember that." Neroon's large hands made quick work of the knots that had developed from too much tension and too many nights of sleeping on hard floors. Marcus felt like most of his bones had liquefied by the time Neroon finally released him. He managed to slide off the table, catching the side to keep from stumbling, but to his surprise, the Alyt folded up the platform without requesting a continuance of his own abortive massage.
"I'm going to prepare dinner." Neroon shot Marcus a stern glance. "And you will eat all of it."
Marcus nodded, before dragging the table back into the nearby closet. Then he hurried to his room and took care of a pressing problem. Wonderful: mission complication #1,212: he was officially attracted to the man he was working as hard as possible to destroy. That was one thing for which Intel had neglected to prepare him, and he had absolutely no idea what to do about it.
Neroon chopped vegetables with enough force to keep embedding the knife in the plasticine carving board. Sorval had passed every test he could devise, evidencing that he had been well coached for his role by someone. One or two coincidences Neroon might have written off, but not seven. So far, the boy had liked and disliked all the same foods as Tallier; when given a choice, he had repeatedly picked Tallier's favorite music from a selection of dozens of other choices; he used some of the same, unorthodox defense maneuvers when sparring; and he even preferred the same massage oil! Neroon was NOT going to fall into the trap of pitying a boy who was almost certainly attempting to manipulate him to forward his father's schemes.
Still, it was his responsibility to insure the well being of his dra'ma, and Sorval undoubtedly had serious physical problems. For Valen's sake, he'd been able to count every rib, and had worried that he might accidentally do the boy damage by a simple massage! Why was Tyamer's heir in such poor shape? Surely a growth spurt couldn't have resulted in such fragile bones; Neroon knew women who had a stronger build. Sorval looked like he had been starved over a long period, probably during his formative years, which brought up questions of exactly how Tyamer had trained the young man. Surely, he would not abuse his own heir, but Neroon could think of nothing else that would explain such a weak frame. Perhaps illness might do so--Neroon was no doctor, so could not be sure--but there had been nothing in Sorval's file to indicate a problem, and it was odd that Tyamer would have let the boy take up duties if he were in need of medical attention. Of course, the old man had kept putting it off, something Neroon had previously put down to a selfish wish to keep his heir with him as long as possible. Now he wondered.
As much as Neroon hated the thought, Tranus really should take a look at Sorval. But the doctor was unlikely to allow any of the other physicians to examine Tyamer's heir, and he had never heard the word discretion in his life. If Sorval was indeed ill, or worse, if he had been abused, there was little chance of Tranus keeping that information to himself. Half the ship would know within an hour, and that was simply unacceptable. Whatever problems young Sorval had, they would not be helped by knowing that the entire ship was privy to his personal affairs. Plus, if word reached his father, Tyamer might realize that his son's mission had failed and call the boy home, and that was something Neroon could not allow. Not when he didn't know what punishment Sorval might face for failure.
Neroon would simply have to address the problem himself. The war complicated matters, but fortunately it would soon be at an end. The Earthers would likely make a final stand, as he would have done in their place, but there was no doubt of the outcome. As soon as it was over, Neroon would see to it that one of the clan physicians was brought on board to examine Sorval in secret, and together they would make a plan for his recovery. And if he had been starved or abused, Neroon would find a way to make sure that Tyamer never had a chance to do it again.
Chapter Twelve
2261, Babylon 5
"So what's the deal?" Michael wasn't looking pleased. "I thought Neroon was taking care of the mess with the fleet and you were gonna stay put in MedLab. Then I wake up to find that half the messages on the security net are possible sightings of one Marcus Cole, Ranger escape artist extraordinaire. What gives?"
"You don't want to know." Marcus sat on a chair in Garibaldi's rooms and almost wished he was back in MedLab having his brains fried by mindless fluff on the vid system. It was a hell of a lot better than what awaited him. How, exactly, had he managed to screw up his life this badly? And why did his cock ups always seem to take others down with them?
"Try me." Michael sat a mug of something in front of Marcus. Considering where they were, he doubted it was anything stronger than coffee and ignored it.
"Neroon called me, wanting to talk to 'Sorval.' Seems he couldn't find Obsidian anywhere on the Ingata, but two more Sharlin class cruisers have been attacked and destroyed in the last two days."
"You're right, I didn't want to know. So what now?"
"At a guess, either Obsidian is being shielded somehow from scans--unlikely since I told them exactly what to look for--or someone managed to get another virus in place. Technically," Marcus mused, "if Obsidian had already infiltrated the Minbari systems, another virus could have been uploaded by piggybacking it onto the activation signal. Obsidian might have provided a chink in the armor of the Minbari shielding, acting like a conduit into their core computer. But that doesn't explain why Obsidian itself doesn't show up on the scans." Marcus felt indescribably weary, was he never going to see the last of that damned program? "I have to go to the source of the problem, to the people who sold the Raiders the activation code, and see if I can find out what's going on. And that means going to Olare."
Michael stared at him. "I know I didn't just hear that."
"If you have a better suggestion, please let me know," Marcus told him fervently. The last time he'd been to Hell, which was what the Centauri name for the place meant, he'd promised himself never to return. He'd been surprised to get out alive, and hadn't intended on tempting fate quite that much again. So much for promises.
"You can't. No one gets near that place. No one in their right minds even wants to!"
"Rangers do. At least, a few of us have." Marcus grimaced. "We don't make a habit of it, but occasionally it's been necessary."
"Right. Ok." Michael seemed to be having a hard time putting his thoughts together, but Marcus couldn't help him. He, too, became a little incoherent at the thought of Olare, and going in his current condition wasn't a good idea. Actually, going in any condition would fall under the category of criminally insane in most people's books. Maybe he really did have a death wish, or maybe the universe was out to get him. It certainly felt that way lately. "And I assume you aren't telling anybody where you're going, or taking back up."
"I'm telling you." Marcus drained the cup--he'd been right, it was only coffee--and tried to muster up a smile for Michael. "Don't worry, Chief; I survived the place before, I can do it again. But even if I don't, it's comforting to know that you'll be here to carry valiantly on in my stead."
"Oh, that's just great." Michael looked seriously annoyed. "Delenn already looks at me like I crawled out from under a rock. I can't wait to hear what she says when I tell her . . . "
"You aren't telling her anything!" Marcus grabbed Garibaldi's arm. "Promise me! She'd never let me go, and there's no one else who can do this."
"I thought you said Rangers, as in plural, had been there. Why not send one of the others with experience? One who wasn't used for a punching bag recently?" Michael's eyes widened at the look on Marcus' face. "No way. Do NOT tell me you were the only one to make it back."
"The Raiders don't treat spies awfully well," Marcus admitted. "But I managed it before." He tried not to think just how close his escape had been.
"Wonderful. So pretty soon now I can explain to Delenn how you ended up dead because I didn't lock you down in Medlab. What, do you hate me or something? You know, I haven't had steak in a while, either . . . "
"Very funny."
"I'm not joking. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't turn you over to Stephen and have half a dozen security guards posted to watch you around the clock. Walking into a death trap isn't going to help solve this mess!"
"Neither is sitting on my arse in MedLab! Michael," Marcus reminded himself that Garibaldi didn't have his background, and therefore didn't know exactly how bad Obsidian, or another virus like it, could be. "If the Raiders gain control of the technology and wealth of Minbar and turn on the other races, it could be years and millions of deaths before they're contained. I won't have that on my conscience. Not knowing I might have prevented it. I won't!"
"Marcus . . . "
"And think how you'll feel, when the other planets withdraw their ships from the station, to defend their own home worlds, and then the Raiders come for us. This is as much about Babylon 5 security as it is about Minbar's, don't forget that."
"If I had, we wouldn't be having this conversation now."
"Then cut the lecture and help me."
"It isn't going to be easy." Marcus indicated the impenetrable asteroid belt with a flourish. He and Neroon were in Astrometrics on the Ingata. Marcus was back in the hated Sorval guise both because it had helped him to avoid Stephen and because, as far as Neroon knew, Marcus Cole was lying incapacitated in MedLab. "The base has avoided detection for so long because of the unique attributes of the asteroid belt that surrounds it. It's one of the densest on record, to the point that even a Sharlin class cruiser trying to force its way through would be pulverized long before it reached its mark."
"Then how does anyone approach?"
"They don't." Marcus traced a thin red line showing the orbit of a large asteroid. "Olare follows an elliptical orbit, which takes it to the edge of the field on the tenth day of the cycle. There's about an hour when it is relatively near open space and can be accessed, if you're someone who isn't considered a threat. Otherwise, the defense grid on the base will scatter your atoms faster than the asteroids. After that brief window closes, it is completely cut off from access for the next ten days."
"Impressive. I am surprised Raiders would be able to think of such a thing."
Marcus shrugged. "They didn't. At its height, the Centauri Empire had spread that far, and they created the original base. The area was too far from Centauri Prime to be patrolled easily, so the outpost was made as inaccessible to attack as possible. The idea was that, if threatened, it would be able to hold out until a squadron could be sent to reinforce it. The Centauri used it as a monitoring station for the surrounding systems for several centuries, then abandoned it when they began to retreat. The Raiders soon took it over, and its been one of their main bases ever since."
"And we have to infiltrate it."
"Afraid so." Marcus leaned against the computer projecting the grid and sighed. "It's been done, but it won't be easy. Especially for us. Minbari will stick out on the station, as there are only a small number of us engaged in illicit activities, and most of them are well known. But Marcus has been there once before. We should let him deal with this."
"It is a Minbari matter," Neroon objected, as Marcus had feared he would. "No Earther, even a Ranger, should be involved in something so important to Minbari security."
So much for Neroon's revelation. "I assure you, he can be trusted, and he has contacts that we don't." Marcus was getting used to speaking of himself in the third person, he only hoped Neroon wasn't going to insist on coming along. There was no way his disguise would hold up to long-term exposure to Neroon's sharp eyes. The fact that it had done so this long was a source of continual amazement.
"I do not doubt his ability, only his right to be involved. The Earthers set this plague on us in the beginning; do you really think the council will authorize leaving its containment in the hands of one of them?"
"Then I'll go with him," Marcus immediately volunteered. "I'm not as well known as you, and will have an easier time pretending to be a rogue. I can say that I was one of those who disagreed with the peace and wants to see war break out again between Minbar and Earth. If it becomes known that the attacks on our ships are from an Earth virus, renewed hostilities might be possible."
"The Ranger Cole is still in their medical facility. He could not even sit up to take my message earlier--he cannot take on a mission of any magnitude for some time. You forget, Earthers are more fragile than we are, and they heal more slowly."
Marcus sighed inwardly. Thanks again, Stephen. The doctor had probably filled Neroon's head with stories of 'Cole's' many injuries in order to make him feel guilty. "He is actually well on the way to recovery," Marcus said, and didn't even need to lie about it. Half of Stephen's insistence on keeping him under wraps was to win the little power struggle that had been going on between them for years. All doctors had a tyrannical streak in their make up, but Marcus had never been one to pander to it. Despite Stephen's prognostications of gloom, Marcus was over the worst of the injuries Neroon had inflicted, although he'd be at less than optimal fighting capacity for some time. Of course, hopefully that wouldn't matter; the plan was not to have to fight his way out of Olare in the first place. "All his broken bones have been knitted back together, and although he isn't back to full strength yet, it's almost a week to Olare. He'll be fine by then." At least, Marcus hoped so. Showing weakness on Olare was a good way to end up as space trash.
Neroon continued to look implacable, the swirling asteroid projection that danced about them giving him the odd appearance of an ancient god calling the elements into being. "Neroon, there isn't time to debate this. The activation code was sold on Olare, which means that the answers we need are there as well. We have to know how the Raiders are penetrating our defenses before they become any more bold. At the moment they are only attacking single ships in outlying areas, but how long do you think it will be until our colonies and even Minbar itself it threatened? You can trust Marcus, he'll get the information we need."
"Then we will all go." It was said with such finality that any thought Marcus had had of persuading the stubborn officer evaporated. "Three will be no more difficult to infiltrate as two, and Shakiri's ire at having an Earther involved in this will be mollified if I am present. I doubt," Neroon said with his usual bluntness, "that your presence would have the same effect. Unless you really are the scion of some noble house in disguise?"
Marcus smiled slightly. His ancestors had been Welsh sheep farmers. "No, afraid not."
"It's settled then. We leave for Olare in the morning. Inform Cole."
TBC
Chapter Nine
2248, The Ingata
Marcus found the room that he assumed was meant for Neroon's dra'ma easily enough. Even first officer's quarters weren't that large, and the little space that branched off from the sitting room was the only possibility. It held merely the standard-issue sleeping platform, a tiny closet with a few storage boxes and--thank God--a computer system, but it looked like paradise to Marcus. A place to work where no one would be looking over his shoulder was all he had wanted, but the fact that it was also carpeted was an unexpected bonus. If he had to sleep on the floor, at least it would be more comfortable here than back in his old room.
Marcus moved in within a few minutes, then wondered what he was supposed to do. He wanted to get started working the bugs out of Obsidian, but didn't know when Neroon was planning to show up. Until he found out what the Alyt expected of him and could work out a safe schedule, programming was out.
He wandered into the kitchen and his stomach reminded him that he hadn't eaten. Going to the mess hall was not appealing; the blandness of institutional food seemed a universal constant, and Marcus had already checked the menu. He didn't much relish the idea of facing flavorless noodles and sieki, the latter a bitter herb often used as a seasoning. It was one of the few Minbari dishes that had any taste at all to a human; unfortunately, in its case, that wasn't a good thing. Besides, if he was supposed to be chief cook and bottle washer, he might as well get started. Maybe he could come up with something slightly more palatable.
The problem was that his father, who did most of the cooking in their family since his mother couldn't make toast without burning it, had always favored spicy foods like Italian, Indian, or Martian. As a result, Marcus was afraid that most of the dishes he knew how to make were unlikely to sit well with Minbari taste buds. But then, Neroon had seemed to favor the slightly more highly seasoned dishes from their previous meal, so maybe modifying a few old standbys could work. Assuming, of course, that the Alyt had anything like the necessary ingredients. A couple of minutes' search was enough to show that the kitchen had a well stocked larder--apparently the Alyt shared his opinion of the mess hall-- but Marcus didn't know what many of the items were, and there were no helpful instructions on the packages. He spent the next half hour at the computer, trying to match descriptions with names and uses, and in the process stumbled across a recipe bank. It was broken down by region, and he learned with pleasure that Neroon's area of Minbar was known for a spicy cuisine that sounded like a variation on curry. Marcus grinned as he made a list of the requirements for the best sounding dish; Neroon, thankfully, had them all.
He found himself almost wishing that he could visit Neroon's part of Minbar, which was along the equatorial belt and managed a fairly mild climate for an otherwise cold planet. It had looked a bit like Tuscany from the few photos that accompanied the recipes. He had never thought of the Minbari, who no human had seen other than in space or, rarely, in the Luna detention facility, living in a sun drenched landscape in houses interspersed with arbors of ancient fruit vines, bordered by a coastline that glowed azure under an oddly Sol-type sun. They had always seemed creatures tinted with the colors of space--black like their uniforms or silver gray like their ships. The color and sparkle that looked like a regular part of Neroon's home was difficult to reconcile with most Terran's view of pale, acetic warriors who took little love in anything except killing. Marcus pushed the thoughts away quickly; they were disturbing him, and he needed to keep his attention on what he was doing.
An hour later, Marcus was setting the low table in the sitting room. He'd assumed that was correct since the cabin didn't contain a dining room and the small table was similar to the one Durhan had loaned him. He had manfully resisted the temptation to make his modified curry to his taste, since keeping Neroon happy seemed like the best plan; getting kicked back to his old quarters would not be a favorable turn of events, now that he'd have a roommate. As a result, he'd cut the spices in the dish and taken time arranging the table, which even boasted a few floral cuttings from hydroponics. Ani'es, Neroon's supercilious shai'hat, had delivered them at Marcus' request.
She'd regarded the disheveled Marcus with some disdain when she entered the Alyt's quarters without bothering to signal for admittance. She looked like an advertisement for the perfect Minbari aide--neat, clean and with the requisite superior expression--but then, she hadn't been slaving in the kitchen for over an hour. "They are poisonous if eaten," she warned him, as she handed over the flowers. "It is only after the blossoms have fallen off and the roots fully matured that flarn is safe for consumption." Marcus rolled his eyes and stuck the surprisingly attractive purple blooms in a tall glass, the closest thing he could find to a vase. He sat them on the table as Ani'es looked on curiously.
"They aren't going to be eaten," Marcus told her, rearranging the utilitarian dishes that were all Neroon seemed to possess to make room for the centerpiece.
"Then I fail to see the point," the woman sniffed. Marcus ignored her and went back into the kitchen for his masterpiece. "What is that?!," Ani'es asked in alarm, when he sat the dish of vegetable curry on the table. "You can't expect the Alyt to eat that!," she was obviously horrified. "My eyes are watering from the smell alone!"
"Then don't smell it." Marcus decided that Sorval's reputation for arrogance might need a work out, just to keep him in character. Besides, Ani'es' scorn was getting on his nerves--he'd worked almost an hour on that damned dish, and was rather proud of it.
"Very well," the small aide regarded Marcus with scorn. "But don't blame me if he ends up in Medical!" With what would have been termed a flounce in humans, she left the room, only a few minutes before Neroon arrived.
Marcus regarded his new mentor nervously, hoping that the table, which now also contained a variation on roti bread and several bottles of fruit juice, looked appealing. He hadn't had time to make a second main course, so if Neroon didn't like his offering, he was in trouble. Neroon didn't say anything, however, just nodded a greeting before retreating to his bedroom. Marcus looked after him anxiously; had Ani'es caught him in the hallway and warned him off the food? After a few moments, however, he reappeared, still dressed in his uniform but without the body armor and heavy boots. It didn't make much of a difference, physique wise; Neroon still looked like he was carved out of solid rock. Marcus had a flashback to the sensation of being crushed against the sleeping platform the night before and shivered. He stamped down on the feeling without trying to name it; whatever it was, it wasn't what he needed to be thinking about right now.
"I thought you might like to avoid the mess hall tonight," Marcus offered, "they're serving flarn noodles again."
Neroon nodded, seating himself at the table silently. Marcus supposed he should be grateful that no repeat of the previous night's seduction seemed on the menu, but Neroon's complete silence soon began to bother him. He caught the Alyt glancing at him with an odd expression several times as they ate, but couldn't read it. At least he seemed to like the food; most of the curry was quickly disposed of, and there was no comment on its spiciness. Marcus wished he didn't feel so nervous and could properly enjoy it; it was the first meal that hadn't tasted like hospital food since he'd arrived.
In the end, Neroon merely thanked him for the meal, and disappeared into his inner sanctum, leaving Marcus with no instructions as to how to fill his evening. He carted off the dishes for cleaning, then regarded the empty sitting room with bemusement. All right, so maybe Neroon was tired and would explain Marcus' duties later. At least that left him the night free to wrestle with Obsidian, assuming he could stay awake. Marcus stifled a yawn, and went to his room, hoping he'd been found satisfactory.
Neroon regarded the holo picture on his bookshelf with more than usual interest. It was the best of the few images he still had of Tallier, and was prized for the fact that his uncle had taken it at a family gathering, insuring that Neroon had been able to be in the image as well. He and Tallier still bore the grass stains from an impromptu wrestling match with some of Neroon's young cousins, but had their arms around each other and were smiling in blissful ignorance of the blow fate had in store only a few years away. Tallier was still sober in the photo, although he'd unwisely begun smoking a local herb with Neroon's mother a short time afterwards and had to be pulled out from under a table and carried home by his amused lover some time later. The family matriarch, who grew the noxious and completely illegal herb in her garden, could handle it; everyone else had long ago learned to refuse politely.
It had been a test, of course. The shameless old woman had, once Tallier was hopelessly intoxicated, proceeded to quiz him mercilessly about his feelings for her only son. Neroon had sighed and let her get on with it, knowing that a rescue would only postpone the inevitable. His mother was less than pleased at the thought of no grandchildren, and was itching to find a reason to withhold her blessing. As long as the union had been unofficial, she had been willing to turn a blind eye, assuming Neroon would eventually move on and provide the required heir. He had learned to simply ignore the various comments she made about eligible young women, and to decline with thanks any dinner parties obviously designed to show off the latest of his mother's protégés. When he and Tallier had decided to make their alliance official, he had known exactly how well it was likely to sit with his mother.
It had been with considerable amusement and not a little relief, then, that Neroon had accepted her grudging agreement to the union. As he draped the unconscious Tallier over his shoulder, she poked him in the stomach with her walking stick, her usual way of getting his attention. "That's a good boy," she said crossly, as if he had deliberately picked out someone with whom it was impossible to find fault. "Perhaps, he has sisters?"
"No mother." Neroon had regarded her fondly.
"Oh, very well, then. You always do as you like anyway," she had groused, and tapped Tallier on the backside with the head of her cane. "But he needs to learn to manage his sabrack better. I'll send him some." She had, too, and Tallier, despite Neroon's complaints, had smoked it all. The house had reeked for weeks.
No, Neroon told himself sternly as he replaced the picture, it couldn't be.
He forced himself to go through his nightly routine, cleaning his skin and polishing the intricate ridges in his crest, which, due to static from the ship's air filtration system, always looked dusty if not properly maintained. He wasn't really concentrating on the task, however, but was thinking back to that shocking meal. It must have been Durhan who had told the boy. He seemed determined to throw Neroon together with young Sorval, so that would make sense. Except that Neroon could not remember discussing his lover in any depth with Durhan, or, for that matter, anyone else on the Ingata. Had the master called Minbar and asked close family members about his relationship? He couldn't imagine his friend breaking protocol to that degree, but if he hadn't, what was the answer? How had Sorval known?
Neroon had felt off balance for several days with the alarming speed with which the skinny young Kathui had gotten under his skin. The memories that he usually kept resolutely locked away kept intruding onto his consciousness, no matter how he tried to concentrate on other things. One in particular kept coming to mind, the engagement dinner he'd shared long ago with his lover. That had been before Tallier had managed to teach him basic cooking skills, and Neroon had suggested that they go out to eat to celebrate. Tallier had cheekily remarked that he couldn't do what he planned with Neroon if they were sitting in the middle of a restaurant, and offered to cook instead. He had made a traditional, highly spiced dish common in Neroon's family that he knew was a personal favorite; he had also insisted on draping the table and festooning the arbor where they dined with flowers, to make it look more festive, he'd said. Thereafter, every year they had the same meal as a celebration, and the colorful flarn blooms, so attractive and easy to come by, had always graced the table. Every single year.
But those dinners were private, and putting flarn blossoms on an eating table was not a common Minbari custom. Indeed, Neroon didn't know anyone else who did it. It had been one of his and Tallier's inside jokes, and he doubted his mala had shared the information with anyone. How, then, had Sorval known? Had it just been coincidence? Neroon's orderly mind rejected that thought--the dish, perhaps, could have been simply an elegant way of paying homage to his clan, and the fact that he liked it was no secret. Neroon had cooked a very mild version several times for his old master, who had never failed to complain that he was trying to roast him and pointedly drank two carafes of juice all on his own thereafter. Durhan would have remembered the dish, but the flowers--they could not also be a coincidence, could they?
Neroon moved to his private comm unit and linked to the ship's main computer. He brought up the records on his dra'ma, and found, as he'd suspected, that the boy was very young. Still, he had already been the pride of his old father's heart for almost four cycles by the time Tallier was killed. The ridiculous idea that Neroon had briefly entertained at dinner, that this was a rare case of his lover returning to him, was therefore impossible.
The souls of the departed were, of course, eventually reborn into new bodies as everyone knew. But this process was believed to take quite a while after death, the religious theorists guessing centuries on average. A popular plot device in the romantic novels his mother regularly devoured had lovers reunited after the death of one when the departed was reborn, but Neroon had never heard of such a thing actually happening. And the odds of them meeting again even if it did were astronomical, considering that there were over four billion Minbari. In any case, it certainly hadn't occurred this time, for Sorval's birth date precluded the possibility. It was a mystery, and Neroon hated mysteries. As a warrior, he was well aware that anything he didn't know could end up hurting him, and usually insured that unexplained facts surrounding the running of his ship were carefully investigated. In this case, he would have far preferred to let the issue drop, but the commander in him couldn't do it.
He found it hard to believe that Tyamer had sent his son there deliberately to seduce him, but an alliance between their two clans would give the crafty old man considerable power. And Tyamer had the cunning and the resources to investigate Neroon's background, and possibly to bribe his or Tallier's family servants into revealing private information. Neroon didn't like the feeling that he was a pawn in Tyamer's political maneuverings, nor that he was being played for a fool by the callow youth in the next room. His lover returned? He thought not. The boy might have been coached to mimic a few of Tallier's habits, but whoever had done so had obviously been a poor planner. That slip with the birthday was careless, something Neroon himself would never have overlooked. He decided that, come the morning, he'd see exactly how good the boy's knowledge of his old lover was, and if it turned out that someone was actually trying to use Tallier's death for political purposes, Neroon would personally space them.
Chapter Ten
2261, The Ingata
Marcus had known that his conversation with Neroon was going to be difficult; the fact that the low dining table in the Shi Alyt's quarters was set with their engagement dinner, complete with flowers, merely confirmed the fact. Irony was a strong Minbari trait, and Neroon had always been gifted with an overabundance of it. However, nothing Marcus had anticipated could have prepared him for the discussion that accompanied dinner. It was easily the strangest he had ever had and, considering that he included a surreal talk with Kosh in the list, that was saying something.
Marcus had assumed that, since Neroon had just encountered him in his real form, he would immediately see through the synthaskin. He'd only worn it to get past the Ingata's guards, not in any hopes of reprising his masquerade with the Shi Alyt. But it was soon apparent that Neroon still did not equate Sorval with Marcus, making explanations even more complicated than he'd expected. He toyed with his food and tried to think how to phrase things to at least get a hearing before Neroon decided to finish what he'd begun in Down Below.
"How old are you?" Neroon surprised him by suddenly asking. Of all the questions Marcus had expected, that hadn't been one of them. He looked at Neroon blankly as the Minbari continued. "Because, of course, I know that you aren't the real Sorval. After your "death," I went to personally give Tyamer an account of how you had perished. It was my duty to my dra'ma, and also a courtesy to another clan leader. There were several very fine pictures of his son in his study. I recognized immediately that I had never before met that Sorval. It was . . . quite a shock."
"Er, yes, I suppose so." Marcus noticed the slight pulse that beat at Neroon's temple. It was a sign of suppressed emotion, but what kind? The idea that he could actually have mourned him was ludicrous; Neroon had considered him a convenience and possibly a political tool, nothing more. Was it anger, then, that was upsetting the Shi Alyt? Rage at being duped? Marcus thought it would be highly ironic to be killed for being Sorval rather than himself. Ironic, but perhaps fitting. It was, after all, as Sorval that he'd betrayed him.
"So I ask again, how old are you?"
Marcus wondered why Neroon wasn't asking what seemed the far more relevant questions of who he was and how he'd managed to return from the dead, but decided to be grateful for the reprieve. "I was born in 2226, so I'm just over 25 cycles. May I ask why you wish to know?"
Neroon simply sat, inscrutable except for that tell tale pulse. Even Marcus, who had long ago learned to gage Minbari emotions from subtle clues, noticed nothing except for a slight tightening of Neroon's hand on his spoon. Marcus knew, of course, that his age made him extremely young for a Minbari, although he would be 35 Earth years old on his next birthday. Twelve years ago, if he were actually a Minbari youth, he should still have been in training, not posted to a battleship in a war zone. Marcus tried to concentrate on what was possibly his last meal, but found that he had no taste for it. How long could it be before Neroon figured out the obvious?
"Twenty-five." Neroon said at last. "Then you were only 16 when you took Sorval's place?"
Marcus did a quick calculation. Each Minbari cycle was about 1.35 Earth years, so 16 was approximately 21 and a half. "Yes."
Neroon pushed his plate away. He was definitely not happy about something. Marcus couldn't see, under the circumstances, what possible difference his age made, either then or now. But, in any case, he couldn't wait around, hoping that a diplomatic way of mentioning the threat to the fleet would emerge. He'd just have to chance it that Neroon would hear him out.
"I, er, came to discuss an important matter, Shi Alyt," he began and, when Neroon didn't stop him, rushed ahead with the basic explanation he had given Garibaldi. Leaving out the little point that he had been the one to infect the fleet in the first place, he told Neroon only what he had to know to locate the virus. The information was going to seem fantastic enough on its own; there was no need to add embellishments until they were demanded. "This is a copy of Obsidian, with the activation code attached." Marcus handed over the crystal when he finished. Again ironically, it was one of many that had been mined on Minbar. Neroon took it, but said nothing. Marcus swallowed and ploughed on. "The idea was to wait until all the ships that were deployed to attack Earth had been infected before activating the virus; otherwise, it would have been discovered and possibly counteracted before the battle. I don't know how the secret leaked," Marcus added truthfully, "but if it is purged from your systems, the code will be useless."
"Why give this to me?," Neroon inquired calmly, as if he hadn't just been told that the entire fleet was about to be used for target practice by Raiders.
"The war is over," Marcus replied, wondering what was going on behind those dark eyes. "Earth and Minbar are allies now."
"I meant why me specifically, instead of Shakiri; he would be the more obvious choice, would he not?"
"Er, perhaps, but you're here." And, Marcus thought, how he could have managed to obtain an audience with the Warrior Caste leader boggled the mind.
"And you knew I would listen to you."
Marcus' hadn't been certain of anything of the kind. One's dead lover did not often drop by for dinner, after all. He'd imagined many possibilities for this meeting, but the current eerily calm conversation hadn't been one of them. "I'd hoped you would. If you find Obsidian on the Ingata, it will be easier to persuade Shakiri to authorize a general search."
"You seem certain we will find it. An Earther gave you this information?"
"You could say that." Certainly, Intel was composed of 'Earthers,' Marcus thought, trying to screw up the courage to simply remove the costume. Neroon had the crystal and the explanation. Seeing Marcus as he really was could only confirm that infecting the Ingata had indeed been possible.
"You trust your contact?" Neroon was starting to really worry Marcus. Where was the passionate, contemptuous warrior who had all but destroyed him a week ago?
"My information is correct," Marcus assured him. Before he could do or say anything else, Neroon nodded, rose, and went to the comm station. While Marcus watched in disbelief, he sent the crystal's information to his Alyt, along with orders to begin the search for the virus immediately.
"I assume your contact is the Ranger Marcus Cole," Neroon said, settling again opposite him. "I have reason also to respect his word. He is . . . unusual . . . for an Earther." Neroon glanced at the pike that was now back on Marcus' belt. "Did you give him that?"
Marcus took a drink and tried to calm himself. All right, this was it. "In a way. I don't exactly know where to begin . . . "
Neroon held up a hand, forestalling Marcus' words. "No. You don't need to explain. It was yours to do with as you wished. And perhaps it is best this way." His expression softened for an instant. "You are so very young."
Marcus was becoming seriously confused. Neroon soon added to that feeling when he went on to lecture 'Sorval' on the dangers of impersonating another. "If the real Kathui heir had not been captured and detained, you would have been found out almost immediately and sent home in disgrace. Despite what you may have believed, we would not have allowed you to stay on board, especially not at such an age, despite your abilities. I know how it is," he commented, as Marcus' mouth dropped open in shock. "You wanted to serve our people and, like many of the young ones in my own clan, were afraid the war would end before your training was complete. You were not the only one to misrepresent your age during the conflict."
Marcus stared at him, unable to believe that he might actually be getting a reprieve. Could Neroon really not see the truth, even when it sat across the table from him? Marcus shifted, and the tight dressings Stephen had applied to his ribs to keep them inert caused a flash of pain; he hardly noticed it. By God, did he actually have a chance to walk out of here alive? He started to think fast; he'd need a cover story, and Neroon was nothing if not perceptive.
"I assume you work with the Rangers now?"
"Yes, that's right." Marcus was relieved that the Shi Alyt had not managed to become Entil'Zha, and therefore did not have Ranger records at his command. The lie should hold up.
"And I assume that is where you met Cole? You trained together at Tuzanor?"
"Yes," Marcus saw Neroon's surprise at the brevity of his answer, and quickly added, "but he didn't think you'd accept the information on Obsidian if it came from him or Delenn."
"He was probably correct." Neroon smiled slightly at Marcus' stiffness. "You can relax, 'Sorval,' I am not going to ask your name or clan affiliation. The war was a difficult time for all of us, and many made decisions they have since had reason to regret, or at least to re-examine. I do not intend to prosecute you over something long since over. You have a new life now; be happy in it."
Neroon kept to his word not to ask about his identity; instead, he focused on Marcus' time as a Ranger for the rest of the conversation. It surprised Marcus no end to discover that Neroon believed him to be involved in a romantic relationship with his alter ego, and thought that he had given "Cole" the pike for the same reason that Neroon had once made a gift of it to him. By then, however, the discussion had become so surreal that Marcus simply nodded and played along, feeling too numb with shock to even laugh at the absurdity of it all.
The only question that gave him any real trouble was the method he'd used to disappear from the Ingata during the Battle of the Line. He stuck with the story Neroon seemed to already believe: that when his section of the ship had been hit, he'd been trapped and unable to get anywhere except to a life pod, and that Earth Force had picked him up soon after he ejected. It had the advantage of being partially true--he had left in a pod--and the only embroidery required was that he'd gone back to Minbar after finally being released and later joined the Rangers under his real name.
By the time Neroon put him in his personal shuttle to return to Babylon 5, Marcus' head was throbbing with the strain of keeping his story straight and he was almost dizzy with relief. He had been fully prepared to die if necessary--one death in exchange for saving the entire Minbari fleet did not sound like a bad trade, even if it was his own--but he was deliriously glad to have been spared. Not that he had much of a life by most people's standards, he supposed, with no family, few friends and a non-existent love life, but he was fond of it. Despite what some people seemed to believe, he did not have a death wish. He was willing to die in a good cause, all Rangers were or they never made it past Sech Turval's probing questions, but he preferred to stay alive to do something worthwhile and atone for the many mistakes of his past. And, he thought in quiet exaltation, his work that day had made up for a lot.
2261, Babylon 5
"I need to speak with Sorval." Neroon's face on the comm unit surprised Marcus. His last words had sounded like a farewell that was intended to be permanent, and he had not so much as asked for a way to contact him later.
Marcus tried to sit up to see the vid screen better, but gave up after a moment. He was back in Med Lab because Stephen had shown up at his room with a phalanx of orderlies and kidnapped him a few hours after his return to the station. Marcus had pointed out that the doctor had woken him from a sound sleep only to drag him off to a much less comfortable bed and stuff him full of sleeping pills, which seemed a waste of resources. Stephen hadn't bothered to lecture him or even to respond. However, Susan's ruined handcuffs had been replaced by enough medical restraints to keep down a couple of enraged Narns, and the nurses and orderlies were under strict instructions not to bring him so much as a glass of water without the doctor's explicit permission.
"Well, I'm a little tied up at the moment, Neroon." Marcus lifted his head, the only part of him that was actually able to move, and managed to glimpse Neroon's sober expression. "But I can probably get a message to him, if it is urgent."
"It is. Tell him," Neroon paused, and Marcus could see him struggling to stay calm, an obvious change from his previous attitude, "that the item was not found. But two more ships have . . . had problems such as we spoke of. Tell him that he must contact me immediately!"
Marcus stared at the face on the viewer, which looked slightly haggard. It didn't look like Neroon had slept since their meeting two days before, not that he blamed him. Two more Minbari ships had been destroyed, yet Obsidian had not been found on the Ingata? That was impossible; Marcus knew damned well that, of all the ships in the fleet, Neroon's was definitely infected.
"I'll see what I can do," he promised, wondering what could have possibly gone wrong, and how he was going to escape Med Lab this time.
"This is getting to be a bad habit." Zac had waited until the nefarious looking Brackiri finished relaying his message and slipped into the darkness before approaching Marcus. He almost hadn't recognized him since the Ranger had shaved and was wearing a scruffy set of casuals instead of his uniform. "I do have other duties than stalking you, you know."
Actually, Zac wasn't at all displeased that Marcus was proving so hard for Stephen to keep locked down. The doc had been desperate enough to get Delenn off his back to offer Zac a nice little bonus if he dragged Marcus back to MedLab before her scheduled visit, and he could almost taste the steak already. He could only afford real, Earth raised beef a couple times a year on his salary, as the stuff was rare these days even planetside, and when you tagged on the shipping fees to Bab5 it was almost literally worth its weight in gold. But Stephen made a lot more than he did, and the doc kept his promises.
"Come on, let's go. I hear there's a nice Rebo and Zootie film on in a few minutes. You don't wanna miss that, right?" If Marcus heard him, it wasn't obvious. "Hey, I'm talking, here." Zac watched in surprise as Marcus completely ignored him, and started off down the corridor, muttering to himself. "Hey!" He caught up with him at the turbo lifts. "Did the doc over medicate you or what?"
"I'm fine." Marcus tried to shift away from his hold, but Zac was having none of it.
"Great, then you won't mind Franklin verifying that. He offered to buy me dinner if I got you back in less than an hour and," Zac checked his chronometer, "I think we can just make it."
"I'm not going back. I have plans to make."
"Sure. Tell it to the doc."
"Let him go, Zac."
Zac glanced over his shoulder to see Garibaldi approaching. Good, he could use reinforcement. "Franklin said to drag him back, by the hair if necessary." Zac regarded Marcus' knit cap, which fitted a little too close for someone with as much hair as the Ranger usually had. "Not that that looks possible at the moment, but hey, I'm adaptable."
"I need to talk to Marcus; I'll deal with Stephen."
"Yeah, but Chief, he promised me steak." Zac tried not to whine, but it came through anyway.
"Marcus owes you dinner, then."
Zac sighed. He doubted the Ranger was likely to be able to afford anything better than spoo, which Zac could definitely live without, but arguing with the Chief when he was in a mood was a waste of time. "As long as you get him back before Franklin starts yelling at me over the comm," Zac relented, and watched his steak evaporate into wishful thinking as Garibaldi frog marched Marcus onto the elevator and the doors shut in his face. Life wasn't fair.
Chapter Eleven
2248, The Ingata
Marcus regarded the tube of oil in his hand with foreboding. It's just a massage, he reminded himself for the tenth time. A nice, platonic massage; nothing to get upset about. He had almost managed to calm down when Neroon came out of the bedroom attired only in a towel. A very small towel.
"No special instruction," he told Marcus as he climbed onto the padded table that had been erected in the living room. "However you're accustomed to do it will be fine."
Marcus swallowed and approached the powerful Minbari frame laid out before him. Neroon's was a reasonable enough request; they had had a hard workout and both landed on the practice mat more than once. It was fairly normal to receive a massage from a regular sparring partner, and Marcus had seen numerous examples in the changing rooms of the gymnasium in the last week. Plus, as Neroon's dra'ma, he supposed it was his job. So why did he feel so odd about it?
There had been no repeat of the events of their disastrous dinner date since he moved in. In fact, in the two days since becoming Neroon's aide, Marcus had actually seen less of him than before, and the few times when he had, the First had been completely proper. The attraction he'd previously evidenced must have been a result of the drug; either that, or he felt it improper to proposition his dra'ma. His request was unlikely to be the beginning of a seduction, then, especially as it didn't seem like Neroon's usual manner of proceeding. If their one encounter was anything to go by, subtlety wasn't his style.
Neroon glanced over his shoulder, and Marcus realized that to hesitate any longer would look strange. All right, then. Nothing to it, he told himself, as he poured some of the oil Durhan had recommended, which-- surprise--was derived from flarn blossoms, onto his hands and began to rub it in. He thought that, if Earth had only known how dependant the Minbari were on the plant, they could have ended the war simply by infecting the crops and throwing the planet's whole economy into chaos.
"I won't break," Neroon commented after a few minutes, and Marcus increased the pressure. The problem was that, whatever he did, it probably felt like a gentle pat to the Minbari. Like most of his people, who had developed heavier bones and musculature to deal with the slightly greater gravity on their world, Neroon was powerfully built. His naturally strong frame had been sculpted and hardened by years of regular exercise and Warrior Caste training regimens, to the point that, if he had a physical flaw, Marcus couldn't see it. A Narn might have made a good masseuse for him, but Marcus was having problems. It didn't help that his hands seemed to like stroking the skin of the Alyt's back, enjoying the unique satin-over-steel feel of the man, and he had to constantly remind himself to press harder. It was also a problem that his brain kept providing him with a number of disturbing images of more interesting things he could be doing with the body currently under his control.
The whole thing was disconcerting to Marcus who, prior to this trip, had never thought of a male as a sexual object. And he'd had plenty of opportunities: one of his best friends on Arisia had made his interest clear, as had several fellow operatives in Intel. Marcus had turned them down gently and not given much thought to the matter. He hadn't felt any attraction, unlike in the case of a few girls he had known, and had therefore assumed that he preferred women. Now, however, he was beginning to wonder if maybe his lack of interest had been less because of their gender than the fact that he found them boring personally. Marcus had expected to learn things about himself on this mission, but reevaluating his sexuality hadn't been one of them.
Of course, he decided, part of the problem might be that Neroon was obviously experienced, and had known exactly how to excite a partner. Marcus' previous love interests, such as they were, had naturally expected him to take charge, which he had done without a great deal of skill. There had been no such expectation on Neroon's part, and Marcus' very insubordinate brain had been running replays of those breathless few minutes in the Alyt's bedroom on a continuous loop for two days. At the time, he'd been too surprised to fully appreciate the experience, but his excellent memory seemed intent on remedying that fact.
It wasn't fair, Marcus thought resentfully. If he had to be taken as someone's dra'ma, why couldn't it have been by Branmer or Durhan, neither of whom provoked this sort of response? No, it had to be Neroon. And, taken objectively, anyone would have to agree that the Alyt was beautiful. Not handsome, for that word had connotations for Marcus that were all associated with humans, and therefore didn't seem to fit Neroon at all. Beautiful seemed more appropriate somehow, as one might describe an unusually well designed art object, even of alien make, in a museum or gallery. With his pale skin tone, he actually looked rather like a marble statue, perhaps something Michelangelo might have done about the time he carved those two powerfully built slaves for Julius' tomb. The resemblance was heightened since Neroon's head was turned away so that Marcus couldn't see his expressive brown eyes. Until, that was, Neroon shifted to regard him with a slight frown.
"Have you not done this before?"
Marcus wondered how he had messed up now. "Er, not often. We had servants . . . "
"I see. Then you shall have to learn, for I refuse to have a dra'ma who cannot give a simple massage." He hopped off the table. "Lay down."
Marcus almost panicked, but caught himself before he said anything stupid. "I feel fine. Really. No soreness at all." That was a lie, but he'd have said almost anything to avoid getting on that table. The idea of Neroon's hands on him, especially at the moment, fell under the category of Extremely Bad Idea.
"I cannot instruct you properly in words alone," Neroon said impatiently, "get up." His tone clearly said that he would brook no argument, and Marcus slowly did as he was told. He wasn't sure what worried him more, that the synthaskin might feel different from normal Minbari skin to Neroon, or that he might enjoy the massage a little too much.
He didn't worry for long, since Neroon began a professional massage that made thinking about anything difficult. Marcus tried to concentrate on absorbing the instructions he was being given, knowing that he'd be expected to return the favor shortly, but found it far easier to imagine what else he'd like those talented hands to be doing. Especially after Neroon made an annoyed sound and tugged Marcus' shirt off.
There was nothing particularly sensuous about the hands on his back, and technically, they weren't even touching him, but the damned synthaskin was not much of a barrier. Marcus bit his lip and tried to think about other things. He was absolutely not lying there getting excited from the touch of a man who would snap his neck in an instant if he knew who he really was. Unfortunately, that thought only resulted in an increase in the amount of blood heading south. Great, Marcus thought in despair; perfect time to learn that he was a little kinky. Seemed quite the day for revelations.
"You are very tense." Neroon sounded slightly concerned. "And you need to eat more. You are far too thin."
"It's due to a growth spurt," Marcus gave the prepared answer without much thought. God, Neroon was good at this! "I added several inches recently."
"You had better bulk up before your next physical, or Tranus will have you on supplements, and I should warn you, they are NOT palatable."
"I'll remember that." Neroon's large hands made quick work of the knots that had developed from too much tension and too many nights of sleeping on hard floors. Marcus felt like most of his bones had liquefied by the time Neroon finally released him. He managed to slide off the table, catching the side to keep from stumbling, but to his surprise, the Alyt folded up the platform without requesting a continuance of his own abortive massage.
"I'm going to prepare dinner." Neroon shot Marcus a stern glance. "And you will eat all of it."
Marcus nodded, before dragging the table back into the nearby closet. Then he hurried to his room and took care of a pressing problem. Wonderful: mission complication #1,212: he was officially attracted to the man he was working as hard as possible to destroy. That was one thing for which Intel had neglected to prepare him, and he had absolutely no idea what to do about it.
Neroon chopped vegetables with enough force to keep embedding the knife in the plasticine carving board. Sorval had passed every test he could devise, evidencing that he had been well coached for his role by someone. One or two coincidences Neroon might have written off, but not seven. So far, the boy had liked and disliked all the same foods as Tallier; when given a choice, he had repeatedly picked Tallier's favorite music from a selection of dozens of other choices; he used some of the same, unorthodox defense maneuvers when sparring; and he even preferred the same massage oil! Neroon was NOT going to fall into the trap of pitying a boy who was almost certainly attempting to manipulate him to forward his father's schemes.
Still, it was his responsibility to insure the well being of his dra'ma, and Sorval undoubtedly had serious physical problems. For Valen's sake, he'd been able to count every rib, and had worried that he might accidentally do the boy damage by a simple massage! Why was Tyamer's heir in such poor shape? Surely a growth spurt couldn't have resulted in such fragile bones; Neroon knew women who had a stronger build. Sorval looked like he had been starved over a long period, probably during his formative years, which brought up questions of exactly how Tyamer had trained the young man. Surely, he would not abuse his own heir, but Neroon could think of nothing else that would explain such a weak frame. Perhaps illness might do so--Neroon was no doctor, so could not be sure--but there had been nothing in Sorval's file to indicate a problem, and it was odd that Tyamer would have let the boy take up duties if he were in need of medical attention. Of course, the old man had kept putting it off, something Neroon had previously put down to a selfish wish to keep his heir with him as long as possible. Now he wondered.
As much as Neroon hated the thought, Tranus really should take a look at Sorval. But the doctor was unlikely to allow any of the other physicians to examine Tyamer's heir, and he had never heard the word discretion in his life. If Sorval was indeed ill, or worse, if he had been abused, there was little chance of Tranus keeping that information to himself. Half the ship would know within an hour, and that was simply unacceptable. Whatever problems young Sorval had, they would not be helped by knowing that the entire ship was privy to his personal affairs. Plus, if word reached his father, Tyamer might realize that his son's mission had failed and call the boy home, and that was something Neroon could not allow. Not when he didn't know what punishment Sorval might face for failure.
Neroon would simply have to address the problem himself. The war complicated matters, but fortunately it would soon be at an end. The Earthers would likely make a final stand, as he would have done in their place, but there was no doubt of the outcome. As soon as it was over, Neroon would see to it that one of the clan physicians was brought on board to examine Sorval in secret, and together they would make a plan for his recovery. And if he had been starved or abused, Neroon would find a way to make sure that Tyamer never had a chance to do it again.
Chapter Twelve
2261, Babylon 5
"So what's the deal?" Michael wasn't looking pleased. "I thought Neroon was taking care of the mess with the fleet and you were gonna stay put in MedLab. Then I wake up to find that half the messages on the security net are possible sightings of one Marcus Cole, Ranger escape artist extraordinaire. What gives?"
"You don't want to know." Marcus sat on a chair in Garibaldi's rooms and almost wished he was back in MedLab having his brains fried by mindless fluff on the vid system. It was a hell of a lot better than what awaited him. How, exactly, had he managed to screw up his life this badly? And why did his cock ups always seem to take others down with them?
"Try me." Michael sat a mug of something in front of Marcus. Considering where they were, he doubted it was anything stronger than coffee and ignored it.
"Neroon called me, wanting to talk to 'Sorval.' Seems he couldn't find Obsidian anywhere on the Ingata, but two more Sharlin class cruisers have been attacked and destroyed in the last two days."
"You're right, I didn't want to know. So what now?"
"At a guess, either Obsidian is being shielded somehow from scans--unlikely since I told them exactly what to look for--or someone managed to get another virus in place. Technically," Marcus mused, "if Obsidian had already infiltrated the Minbari systems, another virus could have been uploaded by piggybacking it onto the activation signal. Obsidian might have provided a chink in the armor of the Minbari shielding, acting like a conduit into their core computer. But that doesn't explain why Obsidian itself doesn't show up on the scans." Marcus felt indescribably weary, was he never going to see the last of that damned program? "I have to go to the source of the problem, to the people who sold the Raiders the activation code, and see if I can find out what's going on. And that means going to Olare."
Michael stared at him. "I know I didn't just hear that."
"If you have a better suggestion, please let me know," Marcus told him fervently. The last time he'd been to Hell, which was what the Centauri name for the place meant, he'd promised himself never to return. He'd been surprised to get out alive, and hadn't intended on tempting fate quite that much again. So much for promises.
"You can't. No one gets near that place. No one in their right minds even wants to!"
"Rangers do. At least, a few of us have." Marcus grimaced. "We don't make a habit of it, but occasionally it's been necessary."
"Right. Ok." Michael seemed to be having a hard time putting his thoughts together, but Marcus couldn't help him. He, too, became a little incoherent at the thought of Olare, and going in his current condition wasn't a good idea. Actually, going in any condition would fall under the category of criminally insane in most people's books. Maybe he really did have a death wish, or maybe the universe was out to get him. It certainly felt that way lately. "And I assume you aren't telling anybody where you're going, or taking back up."
"I'm telling you." Marcus drained the cup--he'd been right, it was only coffee--and tried to muster up a smile for Michael. "Don't worry, Chief; I survived the place before, I can do it again. But even if I don't, it's comforting to know that you'll be here to carry valiantly on in my stead."
"Oh, that's just great." Michael looked seriously annoyed. "Delenn already looks at me like I crawled out from under a rock. I can't wait to hear what she says when I tell her . . . "
"You aren't telling her anything!" Marcus grabbed Garibaldi's arm. "Promise me! She'd never let me go, and there's no one else who can do this."
"I thought you said Rangers, as in plural, had been there. Why not send one of the others with experience? One who wasn't used for a punching bag recently?" Michael's eyes widened at the look on Marcus' face. "No way. Do NOT tell me you were the only one to make it back."
"The Raiders don't treat spies awfully well," Marcus admitted. "But I managed it before." He tried not to think just how close his escape had been.
"Wonderful. So pretty soon now I can explain to Delenn how you ended up dead because I didn't lock you down in Medlab. What, do you hate me or something? You know, I haven't had steak in a while, either . . . "
"Very funny."
"I'm not joking. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't turn you over to Stephen and have half a dozen security guards posted to watch you around the clock. Walking into a death trap isn't going to help solve this mess!"
"Neither is sitting on my arse in MedLab! Michael," Marcus reminded himself that Garibaldi didn't have his background, and therefore didn't know exactly how bad Obsidian, or another virus like it, could be. "If the Raiders gain control of the technology and wealth of Minbar and turn on the other races, it could be years and millions of deaths before they're contained. I won't have that on my conscience. Not knowing I might have prevented it. I won't!"
"Marcus . . . "
"And think how you'll feel, when the other planets withdraw their ships from the station, to defend their own home worlds, and then the Raiders come for us. This is as much about Babylon 5 security as it is about Minbar's, don't forget that."
"If I had, we wouldn't be having this conversation now."
"Then cut the lecture and help me."
"It isn't going to be easy." Marcus indicated the impenetrable asteroid belt with a flourish. He and Neroon were in Astrometrics on the Ingata. Marcus was back in the hated Sorval guise both because it had helped him to avoid Stephen and because, as far as Neroon knew, Marcus Cole was lying incapacitated in MedLab. "The base has avoided detection for so long because of the unique attributes of the asteroid belt that surrounds it. It's one of the densest on record, to the point that even a Sharlin class cruiser trying to force its way through would be pulverized long before it reached its mark."
"Then how does anyone approach?"
"They don't." Marcus traced a thin red line showing the orbit of a large asteroid. "Olare follows an elliptical orbit, which takes it to the edge of the field on the tenth day of the cycle. There's about an hour when it is relatively near open space and can be accessed, if you're someone who isn't considered a threat. Otherwise, the defense grid on the base will scatter your atoms faster than the asteroids. After that brief window closes, it is completely cut off from access for the next ten days."
"Impressive. I am surprised Raiders would be able to think of such a thing."
Marcus shrugged. "They didn't. At its height, the Centauri Empire had spread that far, and they created the original base. The area was too far from Centauri Prime to be patrolled easily, so the outpost was made as inaccessible to attack as possible. The idea was that, if threatened, it would be able to hold out until a squadron could be sent to reinforce it. The Centauri used it as a monitoring station for the surrounding systems for several centuries, then abandoned it when they began to retreat. The Raiders soon took it over, and its been one of their main bases ever since."
"And we have to infiltrate it."
"Afraid so." Marcus leaned against the computer projecting the grid and sighed. "It's been done, but it won't be easy. Especially for us. Minbari will stick out on the station, as there are only a small number of us engaged in illicit activities, and most of them are well known. But Marcus has been there once before. We should let him deal with this."
"It is a Minbari matter," Neroon objected, as Marcus had feared he would. "No Earther, even a Ranger, should be involved in something so important to Minbari security."
So much for Neroon's revelation. "I assure you, he can be trusted, and he has contacts that we don't." Marcus was getting used to speaking of himself in the third person, he only hoped Neroon wasn't going to insist on coming along. There was no way his disguise would hold up to long-term exposure to Neroon's sharp eyes. The fact that it had done so this long was a source of continual amazement.
"I do not doubt his ability, only his right to be involved. The Earthers set this plague on us in the beginning; do you really think the council will authorize leaving its containment in the hands of one of them?"
"Then I'll go with him," Marcus immediately volunteered. "I'm not as well known as you, and will have an easier time pretending to be a rogue. I can say that I was one of those who disagreed with the peace and wants to see war break out again between Minbar and Earth. If it becomes known that the attacks on our ships are from an Earth virus, renewed hostilities might be possible."
"The Ranger Cole is still in their medical facility. He could not even sit up to take my message earlier--he cannot take on a mission of any magnitude for some time. You forget, Earthers are more fragile than we are, and they heal more slowly."
Marcus sighed inwardly. Thanks again, Stephen. The doctor had probably filled Neroon's head with stories of 'Cole's' many injuries in order to make him feel guilty. "He is actually well on the way to recovery," Marcus said, and didn't even need to lie about it. Half of Stephen's insistence on keeping him under wraps was to win the little power struggle that had been going on between them for years. All doctors had a tyrannical streak in their make up, but Marcus had never been one to pander to it. Despite Stephen's prognostications of gloom, Marcus was over the worst of the injuries Neroon had inflicted, although he'd be at less than optimal fighting capacity for some time. Of course, hopefully that wouldn't matter; the plan was not to have to fight his way out of Olare in the first place. "All his broken bones have been knitted back together, and although he isn't back to full strength yet, it's almost a week to Olare. He'll be fine by then." At least, Marcus hoped so. Showing weakness on Olare was a good way to end up as space trash.
Neroon continued to look implacable, the swirling asteroid projection that danced about them giving him the odd appearance of an ancient god calling the elements into being. "Neroon, there isn't time to debate this. The activation code was sold on Olare, which means that the answers we need are there as well. We have to know how the Raiders are penetrating our defenses before they become any more bold. At the moment they are only attacking single ships in outlying areas, but how long do you think it will be until our colonies and even Minbar itself it threatened? You can trust Marcus, he'll get the information we need."
"Then we will all go." It was said with such finality that any thought Marcus had had of persuading the stubborn officer evaporated. "Three will be no more difficult to infiltrate as two, and Shakiri's ire at having an Earther involved in this will be mollified if I am present. I doubt," Neroon said with his usual bluntness, "that your presence would have the same effect. Unless you really are the scion of some noble house in disguise?"
Marcus smiled slightly. His ancestors had been Welsh sheep farmers. "No, afraid not."
"It's settled then. We leave for Olare in the morning. Inform Cole."
TBC