When It Alteration Finds

by Sarai332000

Marcus Cole has even more secrets than anyone knew. What did he do in the Earth-Minbari War and why is old history threatening to get him killed?

3. Section 3

DISCLAIMER: Babylon 5 belongs to JMS. I'm just playing.

AUTHOR: Sarai

E-MAIL:

PAIRING: Marcus/Neroon

WARNING: m/m slash, violence

RATING: NC-7

SPOILERS: Seasons 3 and 4

SUMMARY: What if they had met before?

TITLE: When it Alteration Finds

Chapter Thirteen

2248, The Ingata

Marcus was starting to worry that he'd done or said something to give himself away. Neroon had become very curious all of a sudden about his home life, and peppered him with questions throughout dinner about his father, his tutors and his early military training. Marcus tried to call up some of Sorval's memories to help him, but the majority of what he said had to be fabricated. He could only hope that, whatever had prompted Neroon's suspicions didn't cause him to contact Sorval's family on Minbar. That would definitely complicate things.

Marcus retreated to his room as soon as possible, but his work on Obsidian was interrupted by a blaring klaxon only minutes later. He carefully shut down and encrypted the program, then ran into the outer room. Neroon was heading out the door as he did so.

"Some of our scout ships have encountered some human vessels. Several of the Earth ships were destroyed, but others managed to get away. We are needed to deal with the crippled ones that remain." Neroon finished fastening his uniform tunic. "Stay here; you're off duty, and there are plenty of hands to manage weapons. This should not take long." Before Marcus could reply, the Alyt was gone.

Marcus stood still for a few moments, both to gather his thoughts and to give Neroon time to clear the area. He had, of course, known that this moment was likely to come, but in the past week had managed to put the possibility out of his mind. There had been no attacks since he came on board, and he'd let himself begin to hope that there wouldn't be any until the rendezvous, when Obsidian would insure that the predators quickly became the prey. Now he was left with an impossible situation. He couldn't risk compromising his mission to interfere, but also couldn't stand by and let more Earth Force ships be blown to bits when he had a chance to prevent it.

There wasn't time for an in-depth analysis, so Marcus followed instinct and left for Weapons Central. If he could access the maintenance tubes near the main console, he might be able to take the primary batteries off line. It would not, of course, affect the Nial fighters, which had probably already been launched, but it might buy the Earth Force ships enough time to get away.

The access tunnels were narrow and dimly lit, but Marcus had become used to them over the last week since Rudan, the chief weapon's officer, was slightly claustrophobic and hated the things. He had sent Marcus on the two repair duties that had come up, giving him at least a basic idea of where he was going. The lights flickered just as he crawled up to the back of the main console, an indication that the ship had come out of hyperspace. There wasn't much time, then.

Rudan had been complaining all week about several subsystems acting up, causing hiccoughs and lag time in the operations of the main grid. Marcus' repairs had been designed to correct the difficulties, but hopefully the recent problems would provide a cover for his sabotage. A few minutes were all it took to undo several days' worth of painstaking repair work, and soon thereafter the secondary subsystem was starting to sizzle.

Marcus backed quickly away, ignoring the pain when a shudder ran through the ship, causing his knee to connect sharply with the side of the passageway. Another sudden lurch had him bouncing around for a moment like a ping pong ball, but as soon as things calmed down, he crawled on. A warning light would appear any minute on the weapon's console, and shortly thereafter someone would be sent to rectify the problem. Since there was no possible excuse he could give for his presence, Marcus intended to be long gone by then.

In his haste to get out of the vicinity, he took a wrong turn in the winding maze of access tunnels, and soon realized that he had no idea where he was. He stopped to orientate himself, but sounds echoed strangely in the metal tubes and it seemed as if people were approaching from all sides. Marcus took the only available out and burst through a ventilation duct into a small room. It wasn't until he was halfway into the darkened chamber that he realized that it was filled with flames.

The ship lurched again, throwing him forward and causing him to bounce off what felt like the edge of a desk. His momentum was halted when he stumbled over something lying in the floor that he soon identified as a body. He could not see who it was since the room was actually darker than the tunnel, with the only light coming from the glowing blue triangle of the door release across the room.

Without thinking, Marcus grabbed the still warm body at his feet and dragged it towards the doorway, only to find another body blocking his path halfway there. He could feel himself getting lightheaded from the smoke and knew he had to get the door open at all costs or there would soon be three of them on the floor. Extending his pike, he used it to punch the release, but it seemed to be stuck. When he hit it again more forcefully, the door finally slid back, letting in clean air from the corridor. Along with it came the shrill shriek of the klaxon, which had been only a slight background noise in the access tunnels, and a dim, red glow from the ship's emergency lights.

Marcus dragged the first body into the corridor and propped it against the wall before going back for the other. He manually closed the malfunctioning door to keep the noxious smoke trapped inside, before stumbling over to the nearest body to check it for injuries. He couldn't see much in the corridor, but there didn't appear to be any wounds except for a sticky wet patch on the man's head. Marcus left him and crawled over to the person he'd propped against the wall, only to discover that, although there was still a weak pulse, there was no sign of him breathing.

Marcus immediately ripped open the man's tunic, shoved aside his armor and began CPR. He needed to call for assistance, but had no idea how long he'd been without oxygen; to hesitate might mean permanent brain damage or death before a medical team could arrive. Fortunately, the hours of first aide instruction drilled into all Intel operatives proved useful, and a few moments later, the man coughed and began gasping for breath.

As soon as he got his own breath back, Marcus found his comm badge and put through a call to Medical. The department sounded as if it was in chaos, but after a few moments, one of the doctors promised that a team would be sent as soon as one became available. Marcus was about to ask why, in the middle of a battle, they didn't have all their personnel on call, but the man abruptly cut the transmission.

Marcus sat back against the wall of the hallway in exhaustion. His own lungs felt heavy, as if he'd breathed a little too much smoke, and his eyes were stinging from particles that had gotten trapped under the damned contacts. He longed to go back to his room and wash them out and maybe drink half a gallon of water, but didn't dare leave his two patients until help could arrive. He recognized the inconsistency, of course. He'd just rescued the lives of two Minbari who, if his mission was a success, would only die in a few weeks anyway, largely because of his actions. But he didn't regret his decision. He could not have simply walked away, leaving them to choke slowly to death, when he could easily prevent it. Whatever monster the war was making of him, he wasn't yet that far gone.

A few seconds later, the main lights came back on and Marcus blinked in the suddenly bright corridor. The man with the bloody head wound groaned, and Marcus moved over to his side just as several medics came hurrying down the corridor. It was not until one of them asked him if the Shi Alyt was badly injured that Marcus realized that the body in front of him belonged to Branmer, of all people. He was still attempting to absorb the fact that he had inadvertently rescued the man scheduled to lead the attack on Earth, when his other patient sat up, catching his attention.

Neroon peered dazedly at him out of a smoke blackened face. "What happened?"

Marcus goggled at him for a second before regaining some equilibrium. "I'm not sure." He tried to clear his head enough to explain how he'd managed to get into what he now realized must have been Branmer's office, but drew a blank. Luckily, one of the med techs assumed Neroon had been addressing him, and broke in.

"Reports are that the Black Star and several cruisers have been destroyed, sir. They followed what looked to be a malfunctioning human vessel into an asteroid belt, and a few minutes afterwards there was a huge explosion. Debris from it damaged even some of our systems, and we were nowhere near the point of impact." The man shied back from the fierce glare Neroon sent him. "I'm sorry, sir, that's all I know." The two med techs loaded Branmer onto a stretcher. "If you need assistance, we can come back . . . "

"No. I am fine." Neroon struggled to his feet, and Marcus moved unthinkingly to assist him. The med techs hurried off as the Alyt shrugged off Marcus' help. "Thank you, but I can manage." He refastened his tunic before starting off, a little awkwardly, down the tunnel.

"Where are you going?," Marcus demanded, following him. "You almost died a few minutes ago. Don't you think the doctors should take a look at you?"

"Later." Neroon waved the question away. "I have to assess the damage first, and insure that this isn't the beginning of a large scale assault." He shook his head to clear it, and Marcus saw the disbelief in his eyes. "How did they manage it? The Black Star . . . it's impossible. It must have been an accident."

Marcus bristled at the assumption that Earth Force could not possibly take out a Sharlin class cruiser on its own. Of course, they never had managed it before, but he was glad to see that someone on his side was learning to be devious. It sounded like they had set up an ambush, which had probably netted a bigger prize than anyone had planned. Maybe, he thought wistfully, the destruction of an important ship might cause the Minbari to rethink the war. He doubted it would have that effect on the Warrior Caste--Neroon, for one, was already beginning to flush with anger as the shock wore off--but maybe the Religious Caste leadership would have more sense. He devoutly hoped so.

"You can come to the bridge with me. Later I want to hear how you managed to save the Shi Alyt, but for now, we have work to do."

Marcus sighed and followed his mentor down the corridor, busily trying to come up with an excuse that might be believed. One thing was certain, this episode was definitely NOT going in the mission report, assuming he somehow survived to make one.

Chapter Fourteen

2261, On the way to Olare

Neroon had to give the Ranger organization credit. The small, evil looking ship Cole had appropriated for them was exactly what a smuggler might be expected to own, as were the esoteric collection of personal armaments arrayed on the bed in the only cabin. The outrageous attire the Ranger expected him to wear, however, was taking the charade a little too far.

"I assume you are joking?" Neroon held up the ridiculous trousers. They were made of some type of animal hide and were designed to fit like a glove, assuming they were anything like the ones into which the Ranger had somehow poured himself. Cole was, Neroon noticed with irritation, looking unreasonably jovial for someone who was about to walk into what could prove to be a death trap. The fact that he looked ridiculous in the tight black clothes and copious amount of gold jewelry he was wearing also did not seem to phase him. But then, an ill-timed sense of humor seemed to be another of the many problems with Earthers.

Neroon wished, yet again, that Sorval could have come instead, not that a week's journey alone in a small ship with him was necessarily a good idea. Sorval had made the decision to live his own life when he chose not to inform Neroon that he had survived the war, or to send him any communications in all the time since. Perhaps it had been fear of bringing disgrace on his family if his deception was revealed that prompted his silence, or perhaps he had merely never cared as Neroon had. Relationships often developed between dra'ma and their trainers, but few became permanent. It was not Sorval's fault that Neroon had come to want theirs to be so, and in any case, he had a new lover now. Neroon had not, therefore, contested Sorval's decision to stay behind on Babylon 5 so that someone would be aware of the problem if they failed to return. The more he was around the Ranger, however, the more he regretted that decision.

"You'll stick out at the brothel if you show up in anything too understated," Cole was saying.

"I beg your pardon."

"The brothel," Cole responded cheerfully. "Well, you didn't think we were going to blast our way into Olare, did you? The Dagger's a good ship, but she'd be no match for that defense grid. Anyway, we're after answers, not a body count."

Which did not, Neroon thought in exasperation, explain why Cole was apparently set on visiting a brothel with the two of them attired more like courtesans than clients. When he said as much, it resulted merely in another wide grin and an assessing look. "Yes, we could probably get a good bit for you," the irrepressible Ranger had the gall to comment. "So be nice, or I'll start thinking about selling you." Cole took advantage of Neroon's momentary outrage to scoop up his discarded attire and throw it down a laundry chute, leaving him with little choice but to squeeze into the odd Terran garments. They were less uncomfortable than he had imagined, but had an alarming tendency to squeak at odd moments, making them ill suited, he thought, for a warrior's attire.

Eventually, after Neroon joined Cole in the small command cubicle, the human finally managed to make a coherent point. It seemed that, the last time he had been on Olare, he had only managed to get away with his life because he'd acquired a protector. That individual presently ran one of the most infamous brothels in known space, so they were off to beg her aid in once more infiltrating the station appropriately known as Hell.

Cole's familiarity with Olare had been the main point convincing Neroon that, despite his weakened physical state, he was the correct choice to accompany him on the mission. Now he was beginning to wonder. Madams were not known for generosity or for straight dealing; the creature Cole was planning to use would likely sell news of their plans to the first bidder and undermine their mission from the start. When Neroon attempted to point this out, however, the human merely shrugged.

"You don't know Rennie. Besides, I'm not planning to tell her the truth about the mission. I actually think she'd be disappointed if I didn't come up with a flamboyant lie." Neroon held onto his temper with difficulty. Half or more of the Minbari fleet was under serious threat, and still the human joked! He wondered if he would make a week without strangling him. It would be a close thing.

The brothel turned out to be just as bad as Neroon had expected. The majority of the customers were Centauri, not surprising since the station that housed the gaudy establishment was on the outskirts of Centauri space, but there were a smattering of Narns, Drazi and humans about also, allowing Cole to fit in easily enough. Neroon garnered more than a little attention, however, which did not surprise him. When Minbari felt the need for services such as those offered by the dubiously named Heart's Desire, they turned to others of their kind. He was probably the only Minbari ever to set foot in the silken draped, incense fogged hallways, and as they progressed on their way, he acquired a train of curious followers.

By the time they reached the salon where the Madam kept court, Neroon was beginning to wish he had taken up Cole's offer to go in alone. At the time, he had assumed it was a ruse to allow the human to waste time drinking and carousing, but considering the size of the parade they had acquired, he was starting to wonder if Cole hadn't known what he was talking about. In that case, the damned man should have explained better. The last thing they needed was this much exposure.

"Ah, my lovely Andrew!" A cloud of red and gold draperies descended on them, which, once Neroon had batted away the gauzy fabric obscuring his vision, resolved itself into the ugliest woman he had ever seen. She was probably Centauri, judging by the shaved cranium, but had so many sags, folds and lines on her wrinkled face that she could have been almost anything. A clawed hand grabbed at Cole's backside, but because of the slickness of the animal hide covering, could not get a good grip. For the first time, Neroon was thankful for their ridiculous attire. "And you bring me a gift! And such a gift!" The crone made a few tottering steps in his direction, and Neroon automatically stepped back. "Oh, he's shy! We'll soon take care of that, won't we?"

Her assembled court of prostitutes and favored clients gave a roar of approval, causing Cole, after shooting Neroon a smug look, to have some difficulty explaining that his companion was neither a gift nor up for sale. The crone sulked, muttering about ungrateful brats and making what Neroon assumed were highly inflated estimates of what his services would fetch on an hourly basis. He ignored her, except to keep well out of the reach of those blood red talons, while Cole flirted shamelessly. The human's battered face and shaved head--the latter, as he had explained to Neroon, the result of some of the doctor's treatments--garnered him a good deal of sympathy from the Madam, who donated a wildly painted scarf for a head covering. He tied it on while she shooed her court out of the room and collapsed back on a mass of cushions with an exaggerated sigh.

"I'm thinking of retiring," she told Cole pitifully when they had all gone. "I'm not as strong as I used to be, and people try to take advantage of me all the time." Her argument was somewhat diminished by the healthy swig she took on a huge flagon of spirits immediately thereafter. Neroon, whose mother often made similar declarations of feebleness whenever she was scheming to get her way, was skeptical. "I'm glad you would never try to cheat an old woman, Andrew dear."

Cole put on a trustworthy expression. "Never!," he declared, kissing the nearest claw with every appearance of relish. "You're far too sharp for me, Rennie!"

Neroon couldn't tell if the mad old creature was attempting to flirt, or if her obviously fake eyelashes were irritating her, but one seemed to have become stuck. The watery blue eye that wasn't having problems with the eyelash regarded him blearily. "I know what you want, my dear. And I have just the thing. She's fresh off the farm, barely out of her teens and . . . "

"No, Rennie. Although the reputation of your fine establishment is known far and wide, I'm afraid my partner and I don't have time to indulge--this trip, at least."

"Partner, hmmm? So that's how it is." Rennie managed to rip off the offending eyelash and it went soaring, landing near Neroon's feet like a large, dead spider. He resisted the urge to stomp on it. "I don't suppose you two would consider giving a little performance, would you? For just a few select guests? We'd make a killing!" She eyed Neroon and cackled. "No one's ever seen one of them go at it, after all. Tell me, is he any good?" Neroon almost choked in an effort not to respond, and thereby lose whatever chance they had of gaining the creature's aid, whatever that might be. He could have sworn that she winked at him, although with her eye problem it was difficult to tell.

"Perhaps another time, Rennie," Cole said, looking regretful as he turned her down. For his sake, Neroon hoped he was acting. "Right now, we have something of an emergency, and need the sort of help only you can give."

The crone apparently found this very funny. "Oh, I don't know if I'm up to two of you at my age!," she laughed. "At least, not at the same time."

Cole shook his head. "As pleasant a prospect as that is, I was actually talking about your little sideline." He didn't appear to have moved, but suddenly held one of the Ranger pins carefully cupped in the palm of his hand. "I believe you told a friend of mine once that, if she needed a favor, she had only to ask?"

A surprising transformation came over the wrinkled red lump. Suddenly, Neroon could understand how such a creature had managed to build and maintain the most notorious chain of brothels in the system. Her eyes lost their vagueness and she sat up, placing the now largely empty flagon carefully among the scattered silks. "Really? Must have been in a weak moment."

"I believe it was right after several White Stars kept Kolese from turning your ship into salvage with you still on it."

Rennie smiled slightly. "Oh, yes. I do seem to recall something, now that you mention it." Shrewd blue eyes glanced over them both, before returning to Cole. "I knew you weren't a smuggler. Too good looking, and far too noble." She sighed. "What does she want?"

Cole didn't waste any more time. "We need to get onto Olare without attracting notice."

"Oh, is that all?" The woman sounded appropriately sarcastic. Neroon tended to agree with her. He couldn't imagine what Cole could be thinking, first identifying himself as a Ranger and then demanding the impossible. "Want me to conquer the Centauri empire, too, while I'm at it?"

"I thought you already had. Wasn't that the Minister of Defense I saw on the way in here, sandwiched between two Narns?"

Rennie shrugged. "He picked up a taste for them when the government controlled the Narn home world, and then his supply dried up." She picked up a data pad and scrolled through some entries while Neroon fumed. This was absurd, and positively the last time he would ever trust a human. "I have an idea," she surprised him by saying after several long minutes had passed. "But you aren't going to like it."

"Why not?" Marcus looked suddenly less cheerful.

The old hag grinned, showing an absence of teeth. "Because I don't think gold lamé is really your color, dear."

Chapter Fifteen

2248, The Ingata

Branmer adjusted position behind his desk to better accommodate the great mass of bandages with which Tranus had smothered him. Neroon had refused to submit to similar treatment, primarily because it would have necessitated remaining in Medical half the day instead of overseeing the ship's repairs, and the Ingata could ill afford to have both its senior officers unavailable for duty. The crew's discipline was as firm as always, but he had noticed a haunted look on more than one face. Many had had friends or relatives on the Black Star, and its loss had hit hard. He had kept them too busy to grieve, but it would come eventually, and they needed to see him acting as if this was an isolated incident that would not effect the final assault in the slightest. Which it wouldn't; he and Branmer would see to that. His body had begun to protest the lack of medical attention, however, with regular bolts of pain from his various contusions shooting through him at odd moments. But none were as uncomfortable as the conversation with the Shi Alyt.

"Tyamer is worried about his heir's safety. It is understandable," Branmer said, tossing the recent communiqué onto his desk with a contemptuous flip of his wrist, "if not precisely commendable. After our recent close call, he prefers to have the young man with him."

"No." Neroon did not hesitate. "That would be most unwise." Until he managed to unravel the mystery of Sorval's upbringing, he wasn't going to send him back into a potentially abusive situation.

"I understand your reluctance," Branmer agreed. "The father's decision will not help the son's career, despite the commendation I shall see that Sorval receives for his recent actions. He will always have difficulty explaining why he left the fleet on the eve of our biggest battle in centuries, without so much as a scratch on him. However, Tyamer is well within his rights, and I have no grounds for refusing his request. I may be Sorval's commanding officer, but his sire's wishes take precedence, especially since Tyamer is also his clan leader."

"No." Neroon began pacing the small office, which, like much of the ship, still bore the signs of their recent buffeting. "He is my dra'ma, surely . . ."

"Your feelings are commendable, Neroon. I, too, would like to give the young man a chance to make a name for himself, but neither my position as his commander nor yours as his mentor supercedes his father's. If Tyamer is determined to have his heir recalled, he will manage it."

Neroon considered telling Branmer about his suspicions of Tyamer's treatment of his precious heir, but took only a few moments to realize the difficult position that would create for his Shi Alyt. Branmer was trying to plan the final assault on Earth so as to spare as much of the civilian population as possible while eliminating its military capability. In addition, he had a damaged ship to repair, grief and shock over the loss of the Black Star--on which several close friends had served--to manage, and a number of serious injuries to overcome. He did not need yet another problem, especially when it was one to which even his strongest worded protest would likely go unheeded.

Neroon left his superior's office a few minutes later in a foul mood. He was not accustomed to having his requests denied, and was angry at himself for not being able to come up with a solution to spare his dra'ma. It did not help that he was far from understanding the situation. It made little sense that Tyamer would be concerned enough over Sorval's well being to have him recalled when he mistreated him at home, and it played havoc with the theory that Sorval had been sent to the Ingata to seduce Neroon. But solving the riddle of Tyamer's motivations was less a concern than how to negate his request. The Tudeska, a small transport damaged in the Black Star's destruction, was being sent to Minbar for repairs as soon as its main engines were brought back online, and unless he could manage a miracle, Sorval would be on it.

Neroon went about his duties with his usual thoroughness, but the pressing problem of his dra'ma's future kept returning to mind. By the time his third shift in a row ended and he finally heeded his body's demand for rest, he still had no idea how to outwit the wily Kathui leader. He returned to his quarters in some pain and a foul mood, only to find that his dra'ma was nowhere to be found. He managed to undress without assistance and, after an inspection of his stiff limbs, decided that, although the next week was unlikely to be comfortable, he would suffer no lasting ill effects from his close call.

He tarried over dinner longer than usual, contemplating Sorval's timing while he ate the remainder of his excellent cooking. Odd that the pampered son of a proud aristocrat would bother to acquire such a skill, but it was hardly the only mystery about Sorval. Why the boy had ignored the command to remain in their quarters and how he had managed to come along just at the expedient moment were far more interesting questions. The rescue, now that Neroon had time to think about it, seemed highly improbable, unless Sorval was dogging his every step. How else would he have known that he and Branmer would be in the Shi Alyt's office? He should have looked for them on the bridge or at Battle Command, which was where they would have been had Branmer not needed to consult secret orders in the case of such an emergency. But how Sorval could have followed them was another mystery. Neroon was trained to notice when he was being tailed, and Sorval was apt to trip over his own two feet unless wielding a denn'bok. Perhaps he had simply made a fortunate guess as to their whereabouts, unlikely as it seemed. The real question was why he would bother.

Was he so infatuated that he couldn't bear to let Neroon out of his sight? That seemed ridiculous, especially if his regard was feigned. Of course, if Tyamer had sent his son on a political mission, it seemed strange that he would recall him just when Sorval had gained the coveted position as Neroon's live in aide, which would surely be expected to help their machinations. Admittedly, the Black Star's destruction had shocked many who had thought that the humans could be subdued without significant losses, but Tyamer was an old warrior himself; the concept of danger to his son must have crossed his mind before he agreed to the posting. Instead of recalling Sorval, Tyamer should be exhorting him to continue his progress with Neroon. Unless, of course, there had never been a plan of seduction at all. Unless Sorval's interest was genuine.

That opened up a totally new avenue of thought which kept Neroon occupied for some time. After looking at it from all directions, he could see no real objection to the plan that had occurred to him, except for possible difficulties backing out later. It helped that he wouldn't actually have to go through with it; the war would be over soon, and he would be free to deal with matters in a more well informed and leisurely way. War time alliances were easily made and as easily broken, and few would likely think much of it. The main thing at the moment was to keep the young man with him, and that his plan would manage perfectly.

Marcus was trying not to panic, but it was getting a little difficult. He had just been informed that Sorval's father demanded his recall, since the future of the Moon Shield leadership would be badly damaged by the loss of its heir. The ship to Minbar was set to leave in less than a day, and Obsidian still wasn't functional. If it had been, he would have taken the ship gladly, knowing that, although he'd doubtless be exposed as soon as it landed, at least his mission would have been a success. As it was, he would probably get to wait out the days before his execution for espionage listening to news reports of Earth's destruction.

He had had no time to work on the program since learning of the impending recall as, along with everyone else, he had been pulling double shifts to complete the ship's

repairs as quickly as possible. He had finally been released for a rest when third shift went on duty and had spent hours wrestling with the program from hell, as he had less than affectionately named it. But he had been so tired and distracted that little was accomplished, and time was running out.

In desperation, Marcus went to try to convince Neroon to postpone his return, only to find that the Alyt had completed his third straight duty shift and called it a day. Marcus raced back to their rooms once again, dodging the crew members and repair bots that littered the halls, frantic to find some excuse to buy more time. There was still a week and a half before the assault on Earth, and possibly longer now that Earthforce had finally managed to cause some havoc. That might be good enough--it would have to be--but a few hours would not suffice. He had to come up with a reason for Neroon to fight to keep him around. Unfortunately, the only one his exhausted brain kept coming up with was his curry making abilities, which as an argument didn't impress even him.

Thankfully, Neroon was still up when he returned and Marcus immediately launched into the hurried speech he'd prepared, emphasizing the need for every crewmember to remain at their posts in the current situation. It wasn't very convincing since, at the rate things were going, the repairs would be completed in a few days, but it was the best he could do. He had started to run down by the time he realized that Neroon was acting rather peculiar. Instead of waving away his concerns as he'd half expected, his superior was listening with an intent look on his face that worried Marcus for reasons he couldn't immediately define.

"So, er, with three injured on my shift and five more throughout the weapons division, it would seem better for me to postpone my return until at least the repairs are completed. Although, even then, if some of the injured are going to require extensive recovery time, it would be imprudent of me to leave before most of them are on their feet. We can't afford to be shorthanded with a major battle ahead. So, perhaps it would be best to just inform my father that I won't be returning until after the final assault."

"You wish me to tell him?" Neroon asked, never taking his eyes off Marcus. That steady regard was becoming quite disturbing.

"Well, you are my commanding officer and, technically, I'm not supposed to make personal calls, especially with communications tied up with the adjustments to the battle plans and whatnot . . ."

"You don't want to talk to your father." It was not a question. Marcus began wondering if somehow he had given himself away and Neroon was playing with him before revealing that he knew all. It was eerily similar to the anxiety ridden nightmares he'd been having of late--except that last one, which had featured him being eaten alive by a giant dish of flarn.

I couldn't have, he thought frantically. He had made sure that the med techs never got anywhere near him when he escorted Neroon to Medical, and the hated disguise was fine. He'd taken it off and checked it out in their cabin before returning to duty, just in case his crawl through the maintenance tubes had damaged it. But if Neroon still knew nothing, why the sudden interest? And what if the Alyt insisted that he make a call to Tyamer? There was no way either his face or voice would fool the Moon Shield leader even for a minute.

"Er, well, I just think . . . that is, I wouldn't want any special treatment. Everyone would like to talk to their families right now, to assure them that they are well. But that would tie up communications just when we most need them clear, and it would not help my reputation if I were the only one to succeed."

"No," Neroon smiled faintly. "Of course not." He continued his silent regard, but Marcus steadied himself with the thought that, if Neroon had found him out, he wouldn't be talking to him alone in their quarters, but would have several telepaths scanning him in the brig. Unless, of course, there were teeps hidden somewhere in the apartment. Marcus forced himself not to look about. If they were there, they'd already acquired more than enough to damn him. His only real protection had been the hope that they would never bother to look.

"What if I told you that there is a way to avoid your father's demand for your recall, but that it involves a somewhat . . . unorthodox element?"

Marcus jumped at Neroon's voice, and inwardly cursed himself for appearing visibly nervous. If the Alyt didn't already suspect him, he certainly would if he kept that up. "I'd be interested, of course." Marcus cut off his usual tendency to babble under pressure, reminding himself of his trainer's advice to say no more in any situation than was necessary. That was especially vital when a single wrong word could betray him.

"Good. Then I will make that call to your father, to tell him that, as your fiancé, I choose to exercise my right to keep you with me."

Chapter Sixteen

2261, On the way to Olare

"His name is Rainar Etoghale." Marcus called up a particularly ugly face on the vid screen. "Half human, half Drazi," he explained, before Neroon could ask. It had not been a fortunate combination: soft folds of excess flesh covered with pink tinged grey scales almost hid beady, hostile eyes. "Minor league con man, small arms dealer and informant. Tried to be an assassin for hire a few years ago, but quit after his mark almost killed him. A screw up, basically, but a useful one. His brother, Partere, is one of the biggest slavers in the system. He manages the sale of most of the prisoners taken by the Raiders and practically runs Olare these days."

"So if anyone can tell us about Obsidian, it would be him," Neroon summarized.

"Right, but we don't want to talk to Partere, since he received all the brains in the family, and our cover story is a bit . . . thin." And it wasn't the only thing, Marcus thought, avoiding looking at his current costume. He mentally damned Rennie to hell for the sixth time that hour; trust him to have a contact who thought she had a sense of humor. "Hence Rainar."

"Won't he be suspicious to let two unknowns onto Olare? And why can we not simply question him elsewhere?"

Marcus tamped down a feeling of annoyance. He had been on an adrenaline high when he and Neroon first started the trip, and had found the Minbari's obvious disgust at Rennie's usual antics amusing. But after she saddled them with this ridiculous charade, the brunt of which would be borne by him and not his less than diplomatic partner, his good humor had begun to evaporate. That process had been considerably helped by Neroon continuing to question his every move on the mission, however small. He had managed dozens of such affairs on his own quite well thank you, not to mention one that had, and against all odds still was, fooling Neroon. He didn't need to be constantly harassed for information by a Minbari whose experience in undercover assignments was likely minimal at best. But he had learned in the last four days that it was far easier to get his partner off his back by simply answering his questions than by arguing with him.

"He'll smuggle us onto the station because Rennie gave us enough information to put him and his operation out of business permanently. And he can't go running to big brother for help. If Partere knew how badly and how often his sibling had messed up, and how far he'd endangered their business by his incompetence, he'd gut him for us. As for questioning him elsewhere, we'll be doing that as soon as we rendezvous, but the odds of him knowing much are slim. Partere never tells Rainar about anything big. He doesn't trust him any more than anyone else who has ever met him."

Marcus paused, catching an unwelcoming glimpse of himself in the reflection from the view screen. God, he really owed Rennie something special for this. Of course, it did have its upside; Neroon had barely glanced at him since he put it on. "I believe Rennie might have been right. Silver would have been much better with my skin tone." As he'd hoped, the warrior gave a disgusted grunt and left the tiny command center, allowing Marcus to navigate to the rendezvous on his own. Now, if only Rainar would be so easily dealt with.

"You outta you minds!" The blubbering blob that was the illustrious Partere's brother slouched on a chair on his ship's luxurious viewing deck and looked about ready to collapse into the floor. His usually frightening mix of the worst aspects of his parent's visages was streaked with tears and some type of yellowish slime Marcus was trying hard not to think about. They'd arrived earlier than expected and caught him with a rather exotic member of his large harem--a perk to having a brother in the trade--and part of Marcus' brain was still trying to erase that image. He'd probably be having nightmares about it for weeks.

"Rainar, you know perfectly well that you have no choice. There's enough information in even one of these files to shut your brother down permanently, and garner you the death sentence on several dozen worlds. All we want to forget about it is a tiny amount of cooperation."

"I don't knows nothing!" The combination of English words and Drazi grammar, not to mention the frequent introduction of profanity garnered from half the worlds in the system, was giving Marcus a headache, and they'd only been on board fifteen minutes.

"Of that I have no doubt," Marcus snapped, trying to maintain a sunny temperament, but not being helped by the thought that, while they wasted time with this boil on the galaxy's backside, what little chance they had of keeping a lid on Obsidian was slipping away.

"Cole, have you ever seen what they do to slavers who cheat on their payments to the Drazi government?" Neroon asked idly. He was looming over Rainar from a standing position, having answered the offer of a chair with a sneer. Judging by his expression, he obviously thought any contact with the surface of the ship to be unhygienic. To his credit, he was probably right.

To Marcus' surprise, Neroon's comment, gleaned from a few mentions in Rennie's files, had an immediate and startling effect. Rainar sat up, pulled out a large handkerchief and began mopping his sodden face. "They'll never believe it. You don't have anything solid on me."

"Your English has improved, I see." Marcus was irritated at being played, and doubly so at Neroon being the one to realize it.

"And you gotta be the ugliest pleasure slave I ever saw," Rainar spat, looking him over contemptuously. "I don't know who you think you're going to fool. Now cut the crap and show me the evidence, or get the hell off my ship."

Marcus jammed a copy of one of their data files into a nearby viewer and waited. Rainar had the lousy eyesight common to his father's people, but the viewer must have been specially modified, because he absorbed the level of trouble he was in very quickly. Marcus was considering the possibility that it was less ability than sheer indifference that kept the younger Etoghale brother from making a name for himself. And, with his family, looking too incompetent to be a threat might be a healthy advantage.

"Where did you get this?"

"You don't actually expect us to answer that, do you? Just help us get onto Olare and you'll never see it again. And neither will anyone else." At least not until Rennie decided she could make a profit from it and sold it on. There were certainly plenty of potential purchasers; the Etoghale's had made more than a few enemies through the years.

Rainar looked at him with a lax expression on his mismatched features, but Marcus no longer assumed that there was little mental activity going on behind the slaver's dull eyes. "If I kill you now, maybe I never see it again either. And I don't have to look over my shoulder, waiting for my brother's assassins to find me after you get caught and ID me as the idiot who helped you."

Neroon re-entered the conversation before Marcus could respond. "Assuming you managed to murder us," his expression showed obvious skepticism on that point, "the entire Star Rider's clan would hunt you across half the galaxy if need be, and the end they devised would be far more creative than anything your brother might design. That is, of course," a fist caught Rainar by his messy tunic and levitated the overweight captain entirely out of his chair, "if I do not kill you for impugning the courage of my caste by implying that a Minbari warrior would break under questioning."

Marcus was set to enjoy the spectacle of Rainar's bulk dangling like a deflated balloon for several minutes, but he had seen the look on Neroon's face on those of too many Minbari not to recognize it. He might be playing good cop/bad cop, but Neroon was perfectly serious. And having him snap the neck of their only way onto Olare was not a good move.

"Right. Neroon, I'm sure Rainar meant nothing of the kind. Did you?" A wet kind of squeak was the only answer the man seemed capable of making. "So, er, why don't you put him back down and we'll hammer out the details? Time is passing," Marcus commented as cheerfully as he was able. Despite constant contact, he never managed to become insouciant around enraged Minbari--which, all things considered, was probably a good thing.

After several more tense seconds, Neroon opened his hand and Rainar dropped like a sack of sand back onto the small command chair, which wobbled dangerously under his girth. Surprisingly, it didn't break. It took him a few moments, but eventually he managed to get his breath back and typed out an introduction for them to Partere. But there was no way, he swore, looking at Neroon with a mixture of hatred and fear, that he could accompany them to his brother's base. He had been delegated to deal with a problem in Centauri space by Partere, who would not understand if he returned without having completed it. "But this is the access code to the defense grid; it and the letter will get you onto the base, but you'll have to make your own way off. Don't expect me to rescue you. Until I hear one way or the other how it went, I'm not going anywhere near that place!"

It was, Marcus reflected, as good as they were likely to get. He doubted Rainar would betray them; no one would knowingly bring down the wrath of the entire Star Riders clan on his head. Whether Partere would consider his useless brother's word a good enough reason not to blow them out of space just for the hell of it remained to be seen.

Getting onto Olare turned out to be surprisingly easy. By putting considerable strain on the Dagger's engines, they approached the base just as its ten day cycle reached open space. The access code for the defense grid allowed them to be routed into the lengthy line of ships waiting to dock in the narrow window of time before Olare drifted off into the asteroids again, rather than the ships who skirted the edges of the field and petitioned to join the queue. The audience with Partere, however, was another matter entirely.

The slaver was no more attractive than his brother, but he dressed much more opulently, in enough red and yellow silks to make a small tent. Reclining at the head of a large banquet table, glittering with jewels and being attended by no less than four pleasure slaves, he actually made Rennie look tasteful by comparison. It wasn't sight of Partere's overblown dress sense that made Marcus want to jump up and run for the nearest door, however.

After reading his brother's introductory epistle, the slaver welcomed them like old friends--or particularly dangerous enemies over whom he wanted to keep watch--and invited them to join him in the large banquet hall for dinner. They had little choice but to recline at the low table piled high with delicacies from far flung systems and try to look like they fit in. Marcus wished he had persuaded Neroon to throw a few gaudy necklaces or a sash or two over his plain black leathers. Opulence and ostentatious display seemed to be in fashion among the Raiders, and Neroon stuck out like a crow in the midst of a flock of peacocks. It had been hard enough to get him into the costume in the first place, however, and Marcus could only hope that his drab attire would be put down to general Minbari oddity. He just wished he'd had the good sense to pick Neroon out a costume that was a little less tight; as nice as the view was, it was proving a distraction.

Dinner was bad enough on its own, considering the intelligence that showed clearly in the slaver's squinty gaze whenever it rested on them, but the activities that followed the meal came close to causing Marcus to lose his cool completely. "I thought Minbari weren't supposed to be affectionate in public," he hissed to Neroon. Reclining comfortably on a mound of cushions behind him, his "owner" was making as free with him as with desert, a fact that concerned Marcus on a number of levels. The hand that had snaked under the tunic Rennie had thought appropriate was also making it very difficult to think clearly, a serious problem in a room filled with people who made the average denizen of Down Below look like a Boy Scout.

"I am a rogue Minbari who has descended so far as to traffic in sentient life forms," was the calm reply, as Neroon tugged at the thin swath of fabric that was all that was allowing Marcus to pretend to decency. "If I follow protocol too rigidly, it might be remarked upon. Do not be alarmed Earther. I can assure you, this will be carried no further than necessary."

That was not particularly comforting considering the level of activity taking place around them. Marcus could see Neroon's point--pleasure slaves were generally brought along for a reason, and someone might still be sober enough to wonder why Neroon, who Rainar had portrayed as a disgruntled veteran of the Earth/Minbari War who dealt exclusively in humans, was so uninterested in his pet slave. The fact remained that this was not the kind of peril Marcus had expected to face on the base. All things considered, an ambush at ten to one odds looked more attractive by the minute.

Partere was luckily far too involved with his own slaves to pay them much attention, as were most of the other beings in the room. Except for one, a dark figure in an alcove, who turned and strode out almost the same minute Marcus' gaze came to rest on him. The walk alone would have been enough to identify not only his species but his caste; the familiar indents in the fabric of his hood caused by the ridges of a bone crest were unnecessary confirmation. The sight of a Minbari warrior casually and incongruously present at a slaver's banquet would have been enough to raise Marcus' suspicions, even had he known nothing about Obsidian. As it was, following the man was imperative.

"Neroon, did you see . . . "

The question was cut off by a very familiar mouth descending on his. Marcus responded automatically for an instant, the taste of his long lost lover immediately recognizable and instantly seductive. Not to mention that it had been a very long time since he'd felt any sort of sexual pleasure that he didn't personally provide. God, he had forgotten just how good Neroon tasted! None of his attempts to recreate this sensation had ever even come close.

After the disaster on the Ingata, he had taken several years to even begin thinking about dating, and several more to act on it, only to find that the only person who interested him was the one he could never hope to have. The fact that his ideal partner was from another species and male didn't particularly bother him; that Neroon was almost certain to kill him if he ever found out that he wasn't dead already, however, did. He had persisted in sporadic attempts to find someone who could overwrite his memories of those last weeks on the Ingata, but Susan had been a typical example of his luck--beautiful, brainy, and completely uninterested in him. Sometimes he thought he had picked her simply because misery loves company, and no one was more miserable than Susan.

The thought of Susan led to thoughts of Babylon 5 and then to a vision of its exploding under a mass Raider attack if he didn't concentrate on what he was supposed to be doing. He started a very belated struggle, but it did no good considering his companion's far greater strength and the pleasurable sensations their activities aroused, none of which lent much vigor to his escape attempts. Why did this have to happen now? And why was Neroon being so passionate when they were only putting on a show? He'd spent almost the whole trip out reviewing Rennie's files or beating the hell out of foam padded packing crates in the cargo bay--for training purposes, Marcus had assumed. If he'd wanted to relieve some boredom by seducing his partner, he'd had plenty of time to do so when it wouldn't screw up the entire mission. But then, his timing had never been convenient, at least not for Marcus. "Neroon, let me go! We have to . . . "

The whispered comment, possible when Neroon finally came up for air, was cut off when Marcus noticed the expression on his companion's face. Oh shit. Apparently he wasn't the only one who had just had his memory jogged. That kiss might turn out to head his list of serious life errors, assuming he lived long enough to revise the record. He was, as Michael would have said, busted, and as soon as Neroon recovered from the shock, it would take that keen brain about ten seconds to realize that at least some of the current problems could be laid at Marcus' door. That and the small matter of an old but major betrayal meant he had to find the mysterious Minbari watcher quickly and get the key to deactivating Obsidian, or whatever was causing havoc for the fleet, or he was most certainly going to be very dead.

Marcus didn't hesitate, but jumped up, grabbed Neroon's wine goblet, and ran out of the hall, hopefully looking to any observer like a dutiful slave off to the kitchens to obtain his master a better beverage. The fact that Neroon had, of course, not so much as sipped the wine he had been served, which sloshed over the cup rim as Marcus ran for his life, was something he could only trust would go unnoticed in the Bacchanalia taking over the dining chamber. In any case, he had more important things to worry about.

Chapter Seventeen

2248, The Ingata

Neroon had anticipated an uphill battle. Even assuming that Sorval's interest was real, or that he was afraid enough of his father to agree even if it wasn't, such an unexpected proposal would cause amazement at least, if not dismay. He therefore made certain to spell out his reasons clearly.

"This is the only way if you wish to remain here. As it stands, I have no possible leverage with your father to oppose his wishes. If I or even Branmer were to do so, he would go over our heads to the council and they would order you to comply with his commands. You are his heir, but not his equal under law. He is your clan leader, and only knowledge that another of equal rank has a claim on you will prevent him from exercising his paternal prerogatives. The marriage bond is the only one which overrules a parent's rights. Naturally, I will understand if you wish some time to think about this. It is a large step to take and . . . "

Neroon's planned speech was cut short by Sorval launching himself into his arms and kissing him passionately. When he finally managed to detach his enthusiastic new fiancé, he reflected ruefully that matters had been settled much more easily than expected. He soon realized exactly how ironic that thought had been.

Branmer was the first obstacle to the match, to Neroon's considerable surprise. He had assumed that his commander would simply sanction any action he chose to take, both out of long acquaintance and because Branmer was well known for never interfering in his officer's private affairs. It was one reason he was among the most popular of the fleet's commanders. This time, however, he appeared willing to make an exception.

"I find it a little difficult to believe, Neroon, that you are truly committed to a young man you met barely ten days ago! This wouldn't have anything to do with pique over my refusal to oppose Tyamer's request, would it? I know you are unaccustomed to having your will thwarted, but to go this far!"

"I can assure you that I would never take such a step out of petulance," Neroon replied, astonished to be so accused by one he had believed knew him well. His surprise, and a reluctance to accuse Tyamer of abuse with little proof, hampered his defense, and Branmer ultimately refused to perform the ceremony. Not that it was a serious consideration. Normally, it would have been considered a public reproof to have the ship's senior officer, who had been a leading voice in the Religious Caste and was well trained to officiate, to decline. However, since Neroon had no intention of actually going through with the penultimate ceremony, Branmer's refusal would never be known.

It was still a blow, however, especially when it became obvious during the course of the conversation that Branmer suspected Neroon of using Sorval as little more than a pawn in some nefarious plan to advance his power once the war was over. Despite his respect for his commander, and his repeated reminders to himself of Branmer's recent losses on the Black Star, he was having difficulty holding his temper by the time the Shi Alyt finally sighed and wearily commented that he had no way of stopping the engagement, however unwise he thought it to be.

Tyamer, who heard the news from a brief message Neroon sent the same day, was far less restrained. And unlike Branmer, he both could and did immediately try to stop it. Neroon received messages from family members informing him that the old man had almost had a fit before the Clan Council and had attempted to get an official sanction against Neroon for, as he put it, "corrupting his son and endangering the Moon Shield succession." He actually seemed to think that Neroon, who had no son "because of his well known preference for males," had decided to steal Tyamer's and train him as his own successor. It was so paranoid that it would have been almost amusing if the old man hadn't apparently sincerely believed it.

As it was, unless Tyamer was playing a far more subtle game than Neroon could understand, it was evident that he had not sent Sorval on a planned seduction. That was a comfort, despite the outrageously offensive language he had continually used to refer to Neroon, his clan and his parentage. The latter, Neroon learned, had caused his mother, who represented the Star Riders in the Clan Council in his absence, to challenge the old man to a duel. The two had barely been restrained from coming to blows there and then, lending Neroon the disturbing mental picture of his elderly mother and the equally frail Moon Shield leader swatting at each other on the council floor over his honor.

He discovered when his duty shift ended that Tyamer had sent personal communiqués to both himself and Sorval, utilizing restricted channels supposed to be reserved for emergencies. As the old man made clear in his opening sentence, he considered the perverting of his son and the interruption of the direct succession of his line to fall under that category. He went on to demand Sorval's immediate return and a written apology to all Moon Shields to be delivered in front of the entire Clan Council.

Neroon was grateful that the message, due to the exigencies of war time conflict and the distance from Minbar, was time delayed. Otherwise, the Star Riders and Moon Shields might have found their long, amicable relations permanently severed. After a lengthy meditation, he managed to reign in his temper before sending a very terse reply, informing Tyamer that the betrothal would be formalized the following evening by the ancient rite, and that Sorval would remain at his side thereafter as custom demanded.

It had not been an easy decision. Neroon had expected little if any opposition to his suit from Tyamer, especially if such an end had been the old man's object all along. His clan was older and more prestigious than that of the Moon Shields, and his spouse would hold considerable power. He had never anticipated such a violent and public refusal, and one which put his entire plan in jeopardy. The rules for courting someone of Sorval's rank were clear, however; Neroon could not approach him without his family's consent, much less arrange a betrothal. Unless, that was, he resorted to the ancient rite. It would give him a way around Tyamer's utter rejection of his suit, but did away with any hope of an easy out once the current situation was passed.

It had taken him some time to make the decision to go ahead. It was his natural caution, however, and not, as he would have expected after such a short acquaintance, because of any doubts of his affection for Sorval, that made him hesitate. Although the boy could not be Tallier, he nonetheless gave Neroon the same feeling of familiarity, warmth and trust that he had once known from his deceased partner, and had believed he would never find with another. He was not usually a superstitious man, but he could not help wondering if perhaps the small signs were Tallier's way of letting him known that this one had his approval. It would be an adjustment, allowing someone back into his life again after so long, but he was confident that the union could prove a happy one. He already felt more comfortable with Sorval than with many people he had known for decades--a happy occurrence since it now appeared likely that they would be together for some time. In any case, honor would not allow him to abandon his dra'ma to serious abuse if there was any way of preventing it.

Neroon did not see the message Tyamer sent to Sorval, but noticed that it had been deleted from the records and no reply had been sent. It seemed that his young fiancé did not much care for his father's choice of words, either. Relations were obviously strained between them; if not for Sorval's reaction to his proposal, Neroon would have assumed that he was only using the engagement to avoid an unwelcome recall. Sorval's enthusiasm also made contemplation of the betrothal ceremony more palatable. The event would be traumatic to a degree regardless of circumstances, but would prove easier for them both if some emotion was involved.

Marcus stared at the computer as if it had suddenly started using another language that he didn't understand. For a brief moment, he actually wondered if the dump was fading and taking his skill with the Minbari tongue with it, but then the screen coalesced again and he realized that his lapse had been due to shock. Shock and utter, paralyzing panic.

This simply couldn't be happening. Marcus read the short explanation again, but had to stop halfway through to put his head between his knees and concentrate on not passing out. Apparently God, wherever he lived, was Minbari, or else he certainly favored them a great deal more than humans--one human in particular. First Obsidian wouldn't work and steadfastly refused all Marcus' attempts to make it communicate with the Minbari system; then he was recalled to a planet he'd never seen by a man he'd never met, and only dodged that potential disaster by agreeing to a sham engagement; and now he found out that the engagement wasn't going to be a sham after all.

Marcus had been so overwhelmingly grateful to be offered a way out of his dire predicament that he hadn't hesitated an instant in accepting Neroon's offer. Of course, he had assumed that the engagement would be a lengthy one, as was common on Minbar, and that he would have plenty of time to finish his assignment and escape before it progressed very far. That hopeful notion had lasted until Durhan's terse announcement that he had agreed, reluctantly, to be Marcus' deliktha, and would speak to him about it in the morning. Marcus had been busy wrestling with Obsidian at the time, and had merely nodded at the viewer and thanked Durhan before signing off. Later, however, it had occurred to him that it would be a wise precaution to look up the unfamiliar term before their meeting, and the computer had obligingly offered him a brief, but devastating definition.

It seemed that, centuries before, the Minbari had had some peculiar customs. One involved a method of obtaining a marriage partner when his or her family refused the suit. Essentially, the rejected suitor would kidnap his intended and carry him off to a family stronghold. Then, in the presence of a witness of unimpeachable character, called a deliktha, the couple would declare their desire to be wed and, after a brief ceremony, would be unbreakably betrothed. Thereafter, the fiancé was considered part of the new family, and could not be reintegrated into his old one, even if later recaptured before the actual wedding. It had originally been intended to avoid allowing the frequent feuds between clans--at one time a serious problem--from preventing marriages between the ruling bloodlines. It also helped to derail long-term feuds, by insuring that there were blood ties between succeeding generations of two quarreling families.

The ritual was so engrained in tradition that even the establishment of the Gray Council, which effectively removed the need for it by providing a forum for resolving disputes that eluded the clans, had not removed it from law. It was seldom used, but was technically still legal. And Tyamer's refusal to allow the engagement to go ahead had forced Neroon to employ the ancient rite to get around the old man's objections.

Which meant, in Marcus' case, that he was buggered--quite literally. That insured that the engagement could not be broken since, by ancient Minbari law, all that was needed for a marriage was a declaration of intent before a witness and a sexual union. A large, formal ceremony usually followed the betrothal, normally after the two families had made up their differences or at least declared a truce, and everyone could be assembled without fear of bloodshed. But the betrothal ceremony was a marriage rite in and of itself; the later grand, public display was more for the prestige of the families involved than any legal necessity. And that was what had been scheduled for the next evening. Marcus wondered if he should just kill himself and save Neroon the trouble, because no matter how lucky he had been until now, there was no way he was going to be able to pull off a masquerade like that.

TBC