Dalshon
Chapter 3
An average looking Minbari male in nondescript civilian brown moved through the corridors of Untika, his eyes always flitting to reflective surfaces to see if he was being followed. The tension in his movements showed the same wariness as most of the rest of the denizens of this smuggler's paradise.
In this place, as in only one other place in the galaxy, there existed a truly multiracial community. There were many Minbari here, but the Minbari government had no special standing. He could blend in, and still be in a place where any arrest order issued by Minbar would not be automatically given high priority.
He was sure there must be an arrest order. Of course, it could just as easily have come from the Interstellar Alliance, in which case, he had not traveled far enough out of known space. But any farther than Untika, and being Minbari would attract attention. It was a calculated risk. Or maybe he was just homesick.
Homesick for Babylon 5. For the best years of his life, now irretrievably gone.
One moment of weakness. It had been Sheridan's own damn fault. Lennier had been happy to serve Delenn, and expect nothing of her. Until Sheridan showed him power.
Lennier had become the master, the loribond controller. How could he go back to being the humble servant after that? He had joined the Anla'shok as a way to express his devotion to Delenn and still exercise that strength he had found within. And then, the moment of weakness. He lived for the One, he died for the One. Why could he not have waited for the One? Just waited twenty years.
Delenn had once told him she could not imagine her life without him in it. Surely that was love?
There was a sound, and a flash of light, and then utter darkness. Bodies jostled into him.
Red emergency lights came on. People were screaming and running. That had been a bomb. This was the third one that had gone off since he had come to Untika. The police were going to be making a sweep. He had to get out of this section before they got here; he could not afford to be picked up and identified.
He found the access to the next section. A mob of screaming, bleeding heads bobbed on a sea of pushing bodies. The pressure doors were closed. There was no way out that way. He was trapped.
No, not trapped, not yet. He had spied out the ways of Untika weeks ago. He had to hide until the sweeper teams went through, and then he could make his way to the other end of the section, and get up into the ductwork that would take him onto the former Pakmera vessel. The place still stank, so it was only used by those who had no place else to go, Untika's version of Downbelow. From there he could melt into the general population of the station.
He hid in the maintenance access to what had once been a gunnery pod. There was no way out that way, at least not without a space suit; the place where the guns had once been was open to space. But he could hide here well enough until he had a chance to get to the way out.
Lennier had gotten good at hiding. He walked in the dark places where no one else would go… No, he had no right to even think that. He was no longer Anla'shok. Morden had been right. The Shadow servant's prophecy on the Day of the Dead had come true. Lennier had betrayed the Anla'shok. Betrayed Entilza.
No, never that. Never.
He crouched in the pitch black of the maintenance crawlway, listening to the screaming through the walls. It faded to sounds of booted feet. The police searchers?
They would not look here. Lennier had access codes for little hidey holes on Untika that even Untika's builders did not have. He had bought them from some very bad people. Access, and money, and concealable weapons, and many other needful things. He had sold his fighter. He did not want to think about what they were probably doing with it now. Only raiders would want to buy a military fighter on the black market.
At last he folded out of the maintenance hatch and went on his way, trying to look nonchalant as he walked towards the one place in this section where he could get to the ductwork that ran to the Pakmera ship.
He was just an ordinary person going about his business like everyone else, yes sir. Then someone ran around a corner and smacked right into him.
As he rebounded, he took in the uniform and the badge: the wide oval green stone, set with two figures cradling it, a human in gold, a Minbari in silver. An Anla'shok pin.
Lennier moved with the speed of the martial art practiced by his clan, the Third Fane of Chudoma. But he did not attack, he ran to safety, and the ducts. He ran into the empty room, leapt up, grabbed the edge of the ductwork in the ceiling, and swung himself up into the air duct just in time.
The female human Ranger appeared below him, looking around. Was she really Anla'shok? Her uniform did not fit her very well. It hung loose on her. One sleeve was pushed up, showing a bandage on her arm.
She staggered around in a circle, looking for him. Hunting him. Her movements were uncertain, exaggerated. Perhaps she was more badly wounded than she appeared. Or perhaps she was starving. Or drunk? Yes, a little drunk, Lennier decided, as he watched her.
Now that he had been sighted, he had to get out of Untika. No, he would be far more likely to be spotted in space. This was no longer the age of the solitary Ranger spy. Where there was one Anla'shok, there would be a Whitestar.
She left. But she would be back, or other Anla'shok from the same ship.
Lennier crawled away through the fibrous dust. The Anla'shok were after him. He needed protection.
End of Chapter 3
