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?

4. Section 4

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

AUTHOR: Sarai

E-MAIL: 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 Eighteen

2261, Olare

Despite his genuine hatred for his attire, Marcus found it helpful as he made his way through the lower levels of Olare. Rennie had been right--no one noticed a slave, or if they did, they assumed he was on orders from his master and had a right to be there. It was almost like he was part of the furniture or one of the android units that did most of the manual labor on the station, and he needed that advantage. The strange Minbari he'd seen in the dining hall had a significant head start and wasn't wasting any time. Luckily, Minbari warriors weren't exactly regular sites on Olare, meaning that Marcus had little difficulty getting directions. The only problem was that he didn't like at all where they were taking him.

Olare had more than twenty levels and could hold at a pinch over 50,000 inhabitants. He doubted that it had been anywhere near that size under the Centauri, but the raiders had added to it over the years. The result was less than aesthetically pleasing--the gleaming central orb of the old Centauri base was now surrounded by radiating arms of inferior structures, making it look something like a lopsided spider. Normally, there were less than a tenth of the full compliment there, but this was a special occasion, which was why Rennie had thought of the disguise she had. Hundreds of additional slavers and thousands of pieces of living cargo had flooded into the station during the last few rotations, which might explain the ease of their entrance. Partere seemed to have invited every slaver in the business to some type of meeting, promising a big business opportunity for all of them at the end of the next rotation. He'd been cagey about exactly what that might be, but the safe passage guarantees and promises of rich rewards had brought in enough extra bodies that the station was bursting at the seams.

Marcus dodged the traffic expertly, used to making his way through Down Below where space was at a premium and corridors were often used as extra sleeping births by the destitute. He finally reached a claustrophobic hall smelling of urine and sickness, lined with rows of crowded slave pens on either side. These weren't the exotic rarities showcased in the dining hall, glittering in body paint and dressed in outrageous attire to act as ornaments on their master's arms. Instead, these run of the mill types had doubtless been captured in recent raids. Lacking unusual intellect or great beauty, they would be sold off for mine or agro workers at rock bottom prices, and, unless they managed to escape or be rescued soon, their lives were likely to be harsh. No reason to give them extra comforts.

Slavery was illegal in many areas, but the Centauri and Drazi still openly practiced it, along with a host of smaller worlds. And even in prohibited areas, there were those on outlying colonies with populations too small for the workload willing to risk a fine for extra help. Marcus remembered being a wide eyed five year old, peering around his father's legs at Arisia's spaceport, when a ship of slaves rescued by Earth Force after an attack on a Raider base docked for medical care. They hadn't looked like people, at least none that Marcus had ever seen. One boy about his own age weighed maybe half of his weight and was barely able to stand on his own. Marcus, after staring at him in horror for several minutes, had buried his face in his father's leg and cried uncontrollably. He'd been convinced his father meant to sell him off, and that he would soon end up in a similar condition, and it had taken hours for his parents to calm him down. Even then, the slaves' hollow eyes and gaunt faces had haunted his dreams for weeks. He had the feeling he was going to have a repeat of those nightmares after this.

A forest of pleading hands reached out to him as he fought his way through the containers of supplies that had been stacked in the passage's narrow width, cutting off what little air circulated down this far and blocking much of the light. As dim as the corridor was, it was possible to tell that each cell seemed to hold a different species, Narn, Drazi, Brackiri, Minbari . . . Marcus stopped suddenly near the end of the corridor, and slowly pivoted to look in the cage to his right. It was filled with Minbari prisoners, captured military, by the look of them. He goggled; that was something you didn't see everyday. Most were sitting in the filthy remains of their uniforms, resolutely ignoring him. One, the owner of the hand that had grabbed his tunic, however, was staring at him imperiously.

"My companion needs medical attention and will die if he does not have it! That would lower your profit, would it not, slaver?"

Marcus was about to ask her, for it was a young woman who had virtually demanded his aide, if it wasn't obvious by his attire that he was not a wealthy slaver, most of whom could at least afford trousers. Then he recognized her. It had been a long time, but those weeks on the Ingata had been burned onto his brain to the point that it took him only a second to recognize Neroon's one time aide. Her name escaped him, but it was undoubtedly the same woman, doubtless having achieved promotion by now only to be captured by raiders. Yet, in her crowded and filthy cell, looking nothing like her typical cool, perfect self, she still managed to be compelling. Marcus sighed; damn the Minbari anyway, but he couldn't leave her and the sick one to continue the chase.

"What does he need?"

"Did you not hear? Your thugs beat him half to death, and there is nothing I can do for him here. He needs a doctor, at the very least!"

Marcus looked around, and luckily there did not seem to be any guards. Possibly because agro workers weren't worth enough to bother guarding, or perhaps because, for the next ten days, no one could get on or off Olare anyway. Even if someone managed to steal something valuable--like a cell full of highly qualified scientists and warriors-- where could they take it? It made guards rather superfluous. Marcus didn't understand what Minbari Warrior Caste officers were doing grouped in with illiterate slaves, probably captured from some rural colony only to be sold on to another just like it, but his was not to question why. He just had to get them out of there.

"Medical is on the other side of the station," Marcus recalled from his previous visit. "And even if I could get you there, no one would treat you unless your master approved. Where is he? Doesn't he know you need help?"

She uttered a very rude word in Minbari. "He is the one who ordered the torture! He will do nothing." She looked him up and down, obviously revising her first impression. "I thought you were one of his men; they're the only ones who come down here. Please, fetch us some medical supplies. We have a nurse here, but he can do little without something to work with."

Marcus sighed. If he did as she asked, assuming their captor was as vicious as she'd said, it would do them little good. If he let them out, however, and showed them a few of his old bolt holes from before, maybe they could stay out of the way until the rotation ended. How he'd get them off the station then he had no idea, but if he left them in there to die, they'd have no chance at all. Deal with one problem at a time, he thought, and set about hotwiring the cell door.

Fifteen minutes later, he was leading a band of twenty Minbari through the lower levels of Olare, praying nobody would see him and make a report to his "master." Avoiding Neroon was vying for top place on his to do list with finding the elusive Minbari again; in fact, he had to do the first until he could manage the second or he would likely be getting an up close view of the outside of Olare along with the rest of the space trash shortly.

"Stay here. I'll go to the kitchens and see what I can liberate, and I may know a place I can find some meds. If you leave, I won't be able to find you and I won't waste time looking. Do you understand?"

"Why are you helping us," a suspicious looking older man demanded. "You have no reason to risk anything; how do we know you aren't planning to betray us?"

Of course, Marcus thought in rising temper. The Minbari could be as compassionate to others as they wanted--when they felt like it--but naturally no one else could be expected to help anyone simply because it was the right thing to do. Here he'd given up an excellent lead to assist them, but had to be suspected of all kinds of ulterior motives anyway. "To whom," he demanded. "Your owner wouldn't appreciate my helping you out of that cell, and no other slaver would touch his goods even if they were told exactly where to find you. It would start a fight not only between them, but between all of their allies, too. No one is going to risk a blood bath over twenty slaves."

"Then why?" The man's gaze took in Marcus' revealing costume with a sneer. It was obvious that this one, at least, did not appreciate being rescued by someone he mistook for a pleasure slave.

Marcus had to almost literally bite his tongue to keep from saying what he thought. They were tired, starving and wretched, they didn't need him venting on them no matter how tempting it might be. "Just a lark," he replied, and didn't bother to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

He left them huddled together in a tunnel that had once been used as an escape route for the Centauri. Marcus had found it when he had been in trouble before and desperately needed a hiding place, mainly because he had known it would be there. The Centauri were paranoid by nature and, untrustworthy themselves, they assumed everyone else to be the same. As a result, they always insured that there were multiple ways out of any base they built, with most commanders putting in secret passages of their own that no one else knew about. He'd often wondered, after housing paranoid Centauri emperors for over a thousand years, why the central palace complex hadn't collapsed in on itself from the warren of tunnels probably cut underneath it. He doubted this one had ever been used, since, as far as he knew, Olare had never been taken. Since the Centauri hadn't been likely to leave design specs for the station lying around when they abandoned it, likely he
along knew where it was. At least he hoped so.

Marcus was very thankful in the next hour that he had considerable training in infiltration, although he hadn't ever expected to use it to steal food and medicine from his own ship. But it was the only way to get the medical supplies without taking a huge risk, and he doubted that Neroon would be likely to look for him in the most obvious spot on Olare. Still, he didn't dare enter the landing bay in the usual way, but accessed it via a
tube used for loading liquid cargo. Unlike the fuel lines, it was currently unattached to anything, and since it held nothing of value, was not patrolled. Marcus shimmied up the large, flexible structure, keeping his balance only because of the speed at which he was moving. He exited near the far wall and made his way to the Dagger, keeping watch all the time for a roving guard who might stop and question him, or worse, drag him off and lock him up until his master could be located. Slaves were not usually detained on Olare--again, where were they going to run? Wherever they were, it was usually assumed that
they were on an errand for their masters or were simply lost, but it would be his luck to have an overzealous guard wonder why he was skulking around behind the cargo containers.

After a harrowing trip around the perimeter of the hangar, Marcus entered the ship via the cargo doors under its belly usually used for reprovisioning. Out of breath and nervous as a cat, he listened carefully after making it to the main hall, but there was no sound from within the small ship except for the hum of a few computers. He slunk into the galley as quietly as possible anyway, and threw food and containers of water into a large duffle bag. He didn't bother to pick and choose with the medicine, but simply dumped the whole first aid kit into the sack. Judging by the looks of the Minbari, they were going to need most of it.

He paused in the corridor once more, his heavy sack at his feet, and considered leaving Neroon a message. But what could he possibly say? That he was sorry for spying? He wasn't, and Neroon would know that. It had been war. He'd done his duty and, given the same set of circumstances, however much he might hate it, he would do it again. He could write that he hadn't meant for Neroon to find out the truth this way, but it was unlikely to help matters. He hadn't told him, and pleading that he'd feared for his life if he did wasn't likely to help his case now. If he'd really wanted Neroon to know, he could have come clean with a battalion of Garibaldi's security personnel around him, and Neroon would figure that out pretty quick. Should he say that hadn't been pretending, at least not after a while, to how he felt? That their time on the Ingata had meant something to him? In Neroon's position, Marcus knew he'd feel betrayed, guilty--for not seeing the spy literally right under his nose all those years ago--and very likely furious. He probably wouldn't even read any note, and even if he did, he'd never believe it. No, this was one time when there simply weren't any easy answers.

The trip back to the hidey hole was more wearing on his nerves than the trip out, primarily because the dinner festivities had ended and the corridors were crowded with merrymakers on their way back to their assigned quarters or ships. Marcus didn't fear being stopped, but he did worry about the delay. He didn't know how seriously the injured Minbari was hurt, and could only hope he would get back in time.

The mass of Minbari were still where he'd left them, not surprisingly. Whether they trusted him or not, there was no way out of their predicament at the moment. If any of them had ever heard of Olare, a safe bet considering its infamy, they knew there was nowhere to run.

"Here, I brought the whole med kit," Marcus began, handing the duffle bag to his old acquaintance. She didn't move to take it, however, but stood staring openmouthed at something beyond his left shoulder.

Marcus had time to have a horrible premonition before he was forcibly whirled around. It was with considerable chagrin but no surprise at all that he looked up into the face of an obviously enraged Neroon. He must have followed him from the Dagger; stupid not to have expected it. He glanced around, but there were only two exits--one was behind Neroon, and the other down a lengthy stretch of corridor in front of which the twenty injured Minbari were arrayed like a damn blocking a river. Great. Nice to know his luck was operating as usual.

Chapter Nineteen

2248, The Ingata

Durhan was not pleased. Marcus had figured that out when the usually composed sech had thrown a book across the room shortly after entering their quarters. It hit the wall hard and bounced onto the sofa, falling open to an elaborately decorated page. Books were precious commodities in an age in which none had been printed for centuries. Many were in museums, especially ones like this, which looked as if it had been copied and decorated by hand. Marcus automatically picked it up, glad to note that there did not appear to be any damage. He carefully sat it on a nearby table, eyeing Durhan nervously as he did so.

"I am surprised to see you evidence any reverence for tradition," Durhan said fiercely, throwing himself into a chair.

"We are upholding tradition," Neroon replied calmly. If he was upset by his friend's mood, it didn't show. Marcus edged around the angry sech and seated himself on the sofa near Neroon.

"Distorting, you mean," Durhan returned, pausing to glare at Marcus. "A pretty pair you make, members of two of our oldest houses, engaged in this farce! And dragging me in with you!"

"Hardly a farce," Neroon objected, pouring tea for their guest as if they were having a perfectly normal conversation. "We have every intention of honoring the rights."

"After a ten day! Have you gone quite mad? Neither of you is a commoner; your marriages are things of extreme importance to your castes, not something to be entered into on a whim!"

"You said you would assist."

"I said that to have a chance to talk some sense into you!" Durhan turned to Marcus beseechingly. "Sorval, surely you won't jeopardize your entire future, not to mention your clan's well being, on such a ridiculous notion."

"He is jeopardizing nothing, Durhan," Neroon answered for him, which was just as well as Marcus had no idea what they were talking about. It was his understanding that Durhan was there to go through the details of the engagement ceremony, over which he was supposed to preside. Apparently, he had some other agenda, however, probably another of those things Marcus would have understood if he were really Sorval. He repressed a sigh. This sort of thing was getting old.

"My family long ago realized they would get no heir from me," Neroon continued, "and alternatives have been endlessly debated. My successor will likely be one of three of my cousins, depending on circumstances hopefully many years in the future. As for Sorval, his direct line may end, true, but despite Tyamer's protestations, there are other candidates for leadership of the Moon Shields. The stability of the clan as a whole is not in danger, only that of Tyamer's family to continue in the dominant position."

"And you wonder that Tyamer denied you!" Durhan looked disgusted. "You should have thought more clearly."

"I did."

"You can say that, when you intend to do this . . . this insanity?"

Neroon sighed, and for the first time began to look weary. Marcus knew how many hours he had been putting into the refit, but up until now, they hadn't been apparent. "There are several choices before us, but as far as anyone outside this room is concerned, yes, I am going through with it."

"Elaborate."

"You know why I do not wish Sorval to return home, why it is out of the question." Marcus' interest suddenly revived. He knew why he didn't want to leave, but why Neroon would care whether he did or not had been a mystery. He had assumed it was something to do with wanting to help his career. Wasn't that what a mentor did? Naturally he'd want him to be present at the final battle; that's where medals were won, after all, not on a transport going the other way. He got the impression now, however, that that wasn't what they were talking about. Both men seemed awfully grim simply because of the chance that he'd lose out on a little glory.

"There must be another way," Durhan insisted. "This may deal with the current problem, but cause even more trouble in the future. For the both of you."

"Perhaps. That is why I am proposing two possible alternatives." Neroon turned to Marcus, and it was obvious that the Alyt's usual iron control was fracturing. His eyes, usually black mirrors that gave nothing away, were like dark stars, glittering with some violent emotion. Marcus swallowed nervously. What was wrong now? "I have thought long about this, Sorval. If your rank was less than it is, this would be much simpler, but we have to deal with circumstances as they are. I am willing to go through with the engagement, and later the marriage itself if you wish. But I am considerably older than you, and have already had a relationship that greatly satisfied me. Should you choose to bind yourself to me, I will do all in my power to please you, but it is possible you will be missing out on a future alliance that you would find more fulfilling. I must know your mind on this. You agreed to an engagement, but that was before I knew your father would oppose the union. The ancient rite is now our only option, but it will be very difficult to dissolve, should you wish to do so. As Durhan said, it will solve the immediate problem, but may create many more later."

"You spoke of another option?" Marcus wasn't sure what his reaction was supposed to be, but apparently he was taking things a bit too calmly, for both men were looking more worried by the second. In fact, Marcus didn't give a damn about long term consequences; the future was a concept that had narrowed for him to a couple of weeks, maximum. He just hoped there was a way out of this ancient right business before he ended up giving the game away in a particularly embarrassing fashion. Even assuming his disguise held up, how exactly did one make love like a Minbari? It hadn't been in the mission lectures, and what memories he could dredge up from Sorval were exclusively hetero in nature. In other words, as useless as most of the rest of the man's thoughts had been.

Neroon glanced at Durhan, then back to Marcus. "As you know, Sorval, in past centuries, the marriage of a clan leader was far more important to the clan's stability than it is today. The sundering of a couple often also meant the end of an important alliance that the marriage had sealed, and a restructuring of political coalitions as a result. Now we have the Grey Council to intervene if a succession dispute looks likely to result in bloodshed, but in the past, there was no such safety net. It came to be law, then, that there could be no separation or divorce among clan leaders. It was thought this would cut down on the violence, but in actuality, it often resulted in one unhappy partner trying to assassinate the other. Over time, loopholes were found in the laws to allow another solution."

"You are suggesting that I lie . . ."

Neroon cut off Durhan's outraged splutter before it could get going. "No, you are anticipating me. In any case, if such things were dishonorable, half our ancestry must be considered ignoble liars." He turned back to Marcus. "When there was a serious question about the durability of a proposed marriage, a precaution was often taken to give both parties a way out later if they chose. Simply put, some part of the ceremony would be left out or deliberately done inaccurately. If the marriage was a success, everyone simply forgot that fact, but if problems developed, a witness would come forward to challenge the validity of the union on that basis."

"So, you're suggesting we deliberately sabotage the ceremony."

"Yes. It would be impossible if Branmer was officiating, but since he has declined, Durhan will read the vows. No one will be surprised later if he realizes he made a mistake. He is not, after all, Religious Caste, and has not been trained in such things."

"Great!" Marcus was so relieved he almost collapsed. For a while there, he'd actually thought he was going to have to go through the whole ceremony, and with a witness no less! "So, when do we do this?"

"You are forgetting, young Sorval, that I have agreed to nothing!" Durhan was obviously still displeased, although Marcus couldn't imagine why. All he had to do was make a mistake, misread a paragraph out of that huge book or something. Now that the panic was over, Marcus was anxious to get on with it. He had a duty shift later that day and was hoping all this could be settled before then so he could work on Obsidian after he got off.

"It seems the best plan to me," Marcus said, concealing his annoyance. He hoped it wasn't going to take them all day to convince Durhan to play along. Sometimes, the Minbari sense of honor could be damned inconvenient.

"Don't you?" Durhan got up and began striding about the room, his short cape billowing out behind him like an exclamation point. "Well, allow me to enlighten you. I am not happy about dishonoring myself by lying, to the council no less, by stating that this is a valid engagement when I know perfectly well it is not. I was already displeased about being witness to the ancient ceremony--a barbaric tradition I have always felt--but under the circumstances reluctantly agreed. I had no idea when I did so that Neroon had not yet told you about having to use the old rite, nor that he had this subterfuge in mind. Now I am left with the choice of dishonor or dishonor--lying to the council or allowing you to be sent back into an abusive situation when I could have saved you." He dropped back into his chair. "Tell me again, Sorval, that you do not see a problem."

"What are you going to do?" Marcus could feel the panic rising again at the thought of Durhan balking. If he did, could anyone else be found to do this, or would he be sent away? And what abusive situation was he talking about? Marcus really wished the Minbari weren't so allergic to alcohol--he could have used a drink or three.

"I am open to ideas," Durhan said with some exasperation. "I was only told the full tale an hour ago, and must confess that my mind is still reeling. Perhaps we could put you on a very slow shuttle back to Minbar, instead one of the usual transports. Your father can demand your recall, but not dictate how it is done. The war may well be over by the time you arrive, and then we can sort out this . . . situation."

Marcus froze. All the giddy relief of the previous moments deserted him in a second; he could almost feel his blood turning to ice in his veins. One thought stood out clearly, however: he was not leaving. Not after everything he'd been through, not when he was so close to a solution. He swallowed to moisten his suddenly dry throat. "If you won't consider anything else, then we'll go through with the ceremony--the correct ceremony," he added, when Durhan looked about to protest.

"Sorval, be certain you understand." Neroon said urgently. "The engagement is binding--it cannot be broken if the ceremony if performed correctly. We will be less than married afterward, but more than engaged. You can choose to live apart from me, but you will always be bound to me, neither of us able to take a different spouse or to do a hundred other things, such as adopt children, without the other's permission. Once this is done, there is no changing your mind later--it is final. That is why it was almost considered a marriage in itself in the past. Be very sure of what you are saying before you agree."

"I am sure."

"This is ridiculous," Durhan broke in. Marcus really wished Neroon had left him out of this. If anyone had the right to blow up, it was him, not Durhan. "You have known each other for a handful of days! You cannot let yourself be . . . "

"I can do whatever I want," Marcus cut him off sharply. He was not going to allow Durhan's outraged sense of propriety to ruin everything. He might not like the solution, might, in fact, be terrified out of his mind about it, but at least he had a way to remain on the ship. "Neroon said he is willing to go through with the ceremony, as am I. All you have to do is officiate, and if there is nothing required that will dishonor you, I do not understand your objection."

"As witness, it is my duty to make the situation clear to the participants," Durhan huffed, a little taken aback by Marcus' tone.

"Which you have amply done," Neroon said dryly. "Will you act for us, my friend?"

Durhan dithered about some more, but at last agreed. He stomped out, muttering darkly to himself, a few minutes later. Now that the ceremony was set for that evening, Marcus decided he didn't feel very well. He'd anticipated many problems on this mission, but this hadn't been among them. He had no idea what he could do to prepare, and in any case, he had very little time. His duty shift started in less than two hours and, with the ship in its current condition, the chance of skiving off early was nill. By the time he got off, he'd have barely an hour before the ceremony began. No, he definitely didn't feel well.

Chapter Twenty

2248, The Ingata

Marcus assumed he could handle it. Hadn't he been through grueling training, first when he joined Earth Force, again when he was tapped for Intel and a third time when he was selected for this assignment? And hadn't the point of all that been to prepare him for any possible contingency? The physical trials had been tough, but it had been the mental ones that had really hurt, leaving his brain feeling like it had been scoured out with bleach and a wire sponge. He'd had so many Psy Corps shrinks poking through his cranium in the last few years that he'd begun to believe there was no area of his psyche that hadn't been examined, taken apart and shoved back into his stunned cranium. "Know thyself," an old teacher who liked to quote Socrates had been fond of saying, and Marcus had been under the delusion that, at least in that regard, he was ahead of the curve.

He had therefore gone to his duty shift with the assumption that, no matter what the upcoming ceremony was like, he would get through it. He hadn't expected to manage it with a great deal of grace, of course, considering the nature of the ordeal, but what was a little discomfort and embarrassment in return for what he was gaining? A way had been found for him to complete his mission, and that was what really counted, wasn't it?

Apparently not, at least as far as some heretofore unsuspected part of his brain was concerned. Marcus had remained cool and calm during his duty shift, where the frenetic activity surrounding him and his own lengthy to-do list had given him little chance to think. But as he approached Neroon's quarters, his stomach knotted and his palms started to sweat. He could feel the unusually heavy moisture sliding under the synthaskin with nowhere to go, trapped as surely as he was himself. He really wanted a chance to rinse off and relax for a few minutes with his real skin touching actual air for a change, but as soon as the door slid back to reveal the cabin's interior he realized he wasn't going to get it.

Neroon and Durhan were there and it looked like they'd been busy. Marcus hadn't known what to expect, but had rather thought Durhan might drag out his gaudy pillows and scented candles again. Instead, he found an almost gutted living room. The furniture had been carried off somewhere and even the comm center in the corner had been dismantled. Durhan had just finished rolling up the rug when Marcus came in and, after shooting him a sour look, trotted into the bedroom with it. Marcus watched with tired, uncomprehending eyes as the sech squeezed past what appeared to be the entire apartment's furnishings. That seemed a bit strange. Weren't they going to need the bedroom?

"Good, they did not keep you over. I instructed Rudan to be sure of that, as I have to be back on duty myself soon," Neroon said, striding forward with something in his hand that he slapped into Marcus' palm. "I would offer you a chance to rest before we begin, but time is short and with Branmer still unwell, I have a great many duties to attend to."

Marcus looked down at the gleaming pike Neroon had given him as Durhan reentered the room. It was a lovely piece of craftsmanship, but why had he been given it now? His next practice session wasn't scheduled until the following day. "All right!" The burly sech said briskly. "Take your places, and let's be done with this."

Neroon clapped Marcus on the shoulder, then turned and strode to the other side of the room. "In the presence of a witness of good character, Sech Durhan of the Night Walkers," he said briskly, "I, Neroon, son of Shi'el of the Star Riders, do place claim on Sorval, son of Tyanmer of the Moon Shields, in conformance with the Ancient Rites." The end of the short speech was punctuated by the sound of a pike being extended. Neroon went into a defensive crouch while Marcus simply stood there, blinking at him uncertainly.

"Er, I think I may have missed something," he offered while two sets of Minbari eyes regarded him impatiently.

"You have a weapon," Durhan barked. "Defend yourself and the honor of your house. Or will you simply roll over for him like a cheap Centauri tart?"

"That's enough," Neroon said, shooting his old friend an annoyed look. "The Rite is all but obsolete. Sorval may know little of it."

"With his rank?" Durhan snorted. "They absorb the old ways with their mother's milk!"

Neroon ignored this, returning his gaze to Marcus. "Tradition requires a token struggle for pride's sake," he explained. "Then I will take you and Durhan will finish the ceremony. It will be quickly done."

His tone was reassuring, but the predatory gleam in his eyes was not, a fact that caused Marcus' already tight stomach muscles to clench into a hard little knot. All day long he'd focused on the problem more than the solution, refusing to really think about what he'd committed to do. But watching Neroon eye him with undisguised interest, he felt his higher brain functions collapse into a tangled mess, allowing animal instinct to take over. That part of his mind had only one agenda—to survive. And it viewed the big warrior coming at him with a weapon in his hand only as a threat.

Marcus extended the denn'bok he'd been given and moved quickly aside, both to avoid Neroon's attack and to give himself room to maneuver. "It seems the boy has some pride after all," Durhan commented approvingly, but Marcus barely heard him. He was trying to figure out how to defend himself in the small, enclosed space of the cabin. It really wasn't big enough for a serious struggle, but he understood why the gym had been out of the question. He had a sudden image of himself sprawled on the floor of the gymnasium, being ridden by an enthusiastic Neroon, while Durhan shouted a critique from the sidelines as he did at practice. The thought was terrifying enough to lose Marcus what tenuous grasp he had left on common sense.

He panicked and abruptly forgot about defense. Instead, he lashed out with all his strength, catching Neroon a stunning blow to the head. It connected with the vulnerable area near the neck, where the heavy bone crest provided no padding. Neroon went down to one knee with a yelp of surprise and Marcus have him no time to regain his equilibrium. With a single swipe of the pike, he knocked the Minbari's leg out from under him, dropping him to the ground. Throwing himself on top of the larger man, he pressed the pike to Neroon's throat, slamming his head into the bare living room floor in the process.

"In the presence of a witness of good character, Sech Durhan of the Night Walkers, I, Sorval, son of Tyanmer of the Moon Shields, do place claim on Neroon, son of Shi'el of the Star Riders, in conformance with the Ancient Rites." Marcus had no idea where the words came from, but they flowed out of him as if someone else was speaking. Perhaps Sorvals's memories had come on line when his own brain stuttered under the strain. Or perhaps the utter terror he felt at having his initiation into the sexual world come in a rushed coupling under the powerful Minbari had something to do with it.

Neroon, whose windpipe was in danger of being squashed, said nothing, but the angry grunt that issued from his lips spoke volumes. Marcus didn't dare let him up, but choking the man to death wasn't a great plan, either. He looked helplessly at Durhan, whose shocked expression quickly gave way to one of intense amusement. "Well, you've done it now," he chortled. "You'd better finish what you started, young one, for I think it is safe to say you will get no other chance."

Marcus stared at Durhan for a second, then Neroon gave a massive heave that almost caused him to lose his grip. Marcus' intellect sorted itself out enough to warn him that Durhan had a point. If his only choice was to take or be taken, he damn well knew which he preferred. Neroon had done this before, so even without preparation, he was far less likely to be hurt. Not to mention that the synthaskin suit would come off far better on the giving rather than the receiving end.

After applying enough pressure to the choke hold to momentarily quiet his captive, he stared up at Durhan. "I don't have anything to use. I didn't expect—"

"Nor did I," Durhan said bluntly, shaking his head in disbelief. "I believe you will find something suitable in his left pocket, assuming you can get to it."

Marcus felt around until he located a small vial. He stared at it dubiously while Neroon thrashed about with surprising strength considering he probably couldn't breathe. Marcus knew the mechanics of what he was about to attempt, even if the finer points escaped him, but the little vial worried him. On the one hand, it would probably reduce the chance of serious injury to Neroon, but on the other, the Minbari had a far tougher epidermis than humans. Considering which appendage the liquid was soon to cover, Marcus sincerely hoped it was designed to be more gentle than the damn skin stripper they used.

He held the vial between his teeth while he slipped a hand around his captive to detach the heavy uniform trousers from their elaborate fastenings. Luckily he'd been wearing the same type of thing for almost two weeks or he'd have never managed it. As it was, it was a hell of a struggle, considering that he had to lean all his weight on the staff pinning Neroon's neck to the floor while the maniac under him tried his best to buck him off.

"I thought . . . this was only . . . supposed to be . . . a token resistance," Marcus gasped as he finally wrenched the damn fastenings open.

"Perhaps Neroon does not care for the idea of being known as your junior," Durhan suggested mildly. He had leaned against the wall with crossed arms and a patient look. Apparently, he'd figured out what Marcus had already realized—this was going to be neither quick nor easy. "It was not an issue with Tennier, of course," he added. "He was from a well-respected family, but had no pretense to high rank. And, of course, he was of the Star Riders, which simplified things immensely. You, on the other hand, will one day lead your own house, and precedence has to be established. Neroon assumed that you realized he intended you to take the junior position in the alliance between your clans." Durhan didn't bother to bite back a smirk as Marcus managed to yank the trousers down to Neroon's knees. "It appears you have other ideas."

The only idea Marcus had at the present was to avoid getting knocked on his arse long enough to finish this thing. Not that that seemed too likely even if he managed to retain his tenuous hold on the situation. His body had never felt less amorous. It was too busy battling stark terror at the thought of what would happen if Neroon got free.

Marcus had no sooner had the thought than Neroon suddenly went as limp as a flarn noodle. Marcus let up the pressure slightly in fear that he had cut off Neroon's air a little too long. It wasn't a smart move. The slight adjustment, coupled with having only one arm on the pike, was enough to give Neroon an advantage. The next thing Marcus knew, he was pinned under an angry member of the Warrior Caste who seemingly had no difficulties at all with Marcus' own fastenings.

"A first year ploy," Durhan chided as Marcus was systematically stripped despite his frantic struggles. "That's what comes of not going through the normal training program. I imagine your father never thought to teach you the simpler ruses, did he? Didn't think you'd be doing any back alley brawling, I suppose. You should keep in mind for the future, Sorval--the old methods are sometimes the best ones."

"Could you possibly manage NOT to lecture me right now?" Marcus gasped, as Neroon divested himself of the rest of his attire. If Durhan answered, Marcus never heard him, because it had become extremely apparent that the tussle which had wilted his own desire had had quite the opposite effect on his partner.

"I believe that the honor of your house is satisfied," Neroon informed him grimly. He located the small vial on the floor where it had been knocked in their struggle and poured the contents on his palm. He quickly covered himself, and even that perfunctory massage was enough to cause him to swell a bit larger. Which was, Marcus thought in amazement, completely absurd. His flesh didn't appear to agree with his brain's stunned assessment, however, and finally began to pay attention.

"That will never fit!" Marcus squeaked, trying to wriggle away from the heavier man.

"Let's find out," Neroon hissed, throwing Marcus' legs over his shoulders.

"Let's not." Marcus kicked the man in the head in the exact place his pike had caught him earlier. It was a nasty trick, but he was past caring. Rolling free of the momentarily stunned Minbari, Marcus turned and once more pinned the larger man. But the strength his initial panic had lent him was fading and he knew he wouldn't keep the advantage for long.

While he was desperately trying to think of a way out of this mess, his newly interested body discovered that it liked the sensation of pinning the larger man beneath him. Liked it a great deal, in fact. He found the crease of Neroon's lower back and followed it to its conclusion, marveling at the friction when he sank between the taut cheeks. Without thinking, he began working himself up and down that tight cleft, and the friction caused by the close proximity of their bodies and Neroon's renewed struggles was almost enough to make him finish then and there. He managed to hold back, assuming that the Minbari were sticklers enough to require actual penetration, but God, that felt amazing! It was hard to imagine anything being better than this. His brain was trying to argue that he wasn't supposed to be enjoying himself--that this was a necessity to complete his mission, nothing more. But his body wasn't listening and it surprised him by letting out a deeply satisfied groan.

"Oh, for Valen's sake!" Durhan's outraged tones echoed above his head. "Take him and be done with it!"

Marcus had almost forgotten that they had an observer, and his surprised start at Durhan's bellow gave Neroon enough leverage to buck him off yet again. Marcus scrambled for his pike, but it had rolled near the door and he knew he'd never reach it in time. He was right. Halfway through an undignified scuttle on hands and knees across the floor, he was abruptly dragged back and, before he even realized what was happening, impaled on an impossibly long, hard length.

Marcus found a use for Sorval's extensive knowledge of the Minbari expletive form, but it did him no good. Neroon's large hands were on either side of his hips, holding him in place as firmly as any vise, and there was nothing to do but take the pounding. Not that his traitorous body appeared to be trying. To Marcus' surprise, as soon as the initial pain of entry was over, he found himself pushing back to meet the hardness that was spearing him, urging it without words to go faster, stroke harder, pierce deeper. Neroon let out a satisfied grunt and obliged, to the point that they began to travel across the slick floor. Soon the elusive pike was within his grasp but by then Marcus couldn't have cared less.

"Have a care, or you'll spill out into the hallway!" Durhan yelled, running across the room to lock the door just before Marcus found his face squashed against it. He didn't care about that, either. Neroon's stamina was impressive, considering that Marcus himself had finished before they even reached the door, but he finally came in a rush that caused an exclamation both of pleasure and pain from Marcus. "Are you two QUITE finished?" Durhan inquired caustically. Marcus tried to get up enough energy to nod, but failed miserably. Neroon must have managed, however, for the next second Durhan was saying the rest of the ritual words needed to seal the bargain.

"Right, it's done," he said, slamming the ancient book shut. "Now would you two please move away from the door so that I may exit this house of carnality? SOME of us have work to do today." He looked down at Neroon, who had managed to pull Marcus aside without breaking contact, and suddenly burst out laughing. "I'll tell the bridge to expect you to be late."

TBC