AN - I just wanted to take a moment to say thank you to everyone who is reading this, especially my 2 reviewers, you guys are awesome and you give me the energy to keep this story going!

Sheridan watched with narrowed eyes as Bester proceeded to take over his office, layering the desk with an assortment of documents, each bearing the Psicorps logo. It was less than an hour since the Psicop had arrived, and his levels of irritation were already through the roof.

'Alright Bester,' he strode forwards, placing his hands firmly on the desk, pulling the shorter man's attention from the files. 'Tell me about this threat.'

The telepath met his stare evenly. He hesitated, as if considering how much confidential information he could entrust to a mundane.

'It is a rogue telepath' the Psicop told him finally.

Sheridan took a particularly deep breath, reminding himself that this situation was temporary.

'I meant something aside from the obvious. You have asked for my support and I have granted it, now -'

'Debatable.'

Sheridan stood his ground.

'Lyta is off limits, until such a time as the charges against her have been fully investigated.'

Bester's eyes flashed dangerously. 'A foolish move,' the man sneered softly.

'Well I wouldn't want her to disappear before the evidence can be collected. Until then she is neutralised…besides I highly doubt that this rogue is going to seek her out in the brig. Now if this telepath is as dangerous as you imply I have a right to know what I am dealing with.'

Bester shrugged. 'Very well. As I am sure you are aware, telepaths are separated into distinct classifications with P12's such as myself,' he offered an unsettling smile '-at the top of the list.'

'Mr Bester,' Sheridan interrupted. 'Get to the point.'

'Your average rogue will have a P rating from anywhere between 1 and 9, which is problematic to a mundane, but for a Psicop…well you can imagine. Because of the scarcity of telepaths with a high P rating, as well as certain measures taken by the corps it is very rare to encounter a rogue rated higher than 9 or 10.'

Sheridan's heart sank. Give him an old fashioned war over this telepath minefield, any day of the week. In fact it was almost enough to make him nostalgic for the days when he did not answer to Earthgov, and having Bester removed from his ship was as easy as paging Garibaldi.

'So what exactly are we dealing with here?' he found himself asking, hoping the answer wasn't what he feared.

'A P12, Captain. And a particularly powerful one at that.'

Sheridan frowned. He remembered asking Lyta about the higher rated telepaths when they were recruiting for the shadow war; she had told him that it would be difficult. That any telepath with a ranking of P12 would automatically be designated…

Bester's smile was almost gentle.

'And so you see Captain. You really are better off leaving this one to the experts. Whatever you may think of my methods I can promise you I am far kinder than Mr Gordon. After all I am answerable to someone…just like you. Rogue telepaths now, they know that they will face severe correction and so they will do anything at all to avoid capture – regardless of the casualties. You might not like me now, but I think that you will be grateful for my presence before this is done.'

'That seems unlikely, Mr Bester.' The telepath shrugged dramatically before turning back to his documents. Sheridan was about to make a pointed comment about finding the Psicop somewhere else to do his work when Bester addressed him again without looking up.

'Of course if you wanted to assist me I am particularly fond of coffee – preferably black.'

Sheridan left his office with a pounding headache and the telepath's last words ringing annoyingly in his mind;

'An interesting proposition but I just don't think I have the flexibility…'

Andrew was uneasy. He had drawn the short straw with this assignment; no one wanted to be responsible for guarding the altered telepath. It was bad enough when an ordinary teep decided to mess with you; but the woman who stood with her back to him inside the cell – from what they said about her she was barely even human.

Sure she looked harmless enough. She was actually quite pretty, in a mousey red head way, if you were into that sort of thing. And if you were willing to risk it…Andrew could not imagine letting one of them inside his head regardless of the reason. It was bad enough that he had been assigned to stand between this one and her freedom…after all she had already performed illegal scans on at least one civilian and frankly if she got loose he didn't like his odds.

The overheard conversation between the chief and Dr Franklin hadn't exactly set his mind at ease either… It had been a short exchange, after the doctor had finished his long distance observation.

'You should let me know if the patient shows any sign of her abilities returning.'

'I thought you said the sleepers would be strong enough.'

'Sure they are,' the doctor had agreed cheerfully. 'More than five times the strength of those needed to knock out a P12 for a month – which would be reassuring if that was what we were dealing with…'

Then the two men had passed out of earshot, leaving Andrew alone with the telepathic prisoner whose abilities might or might not remain dampened.

So it went without saying that Andrew paid very close attention to the behaviour of the prisoner. And that behaviour was normal enough, at least for the first few hours. Enough so that by 2PM Earthtime his mind was starting to wonder; just enough to miss the first warning signs.

So that by the time it occurred to him to wonder at the sudden purpose in her stillness it was too late to go for his comm – too late to do anything as the scorpions started to descend on him.

As for the second man – who watched with concentration as he fell to the floor, before turning to depart – of him the unfortunate guard would retain no memory whatsoever.

'You aren't hallucinating Lyta' the sending assured her 'or if you are then it is a delusion that we share.'

'My name is Byron and like you I am running from the Psicorps. But I didn't come here to run – we have spent too long running, when what we should be doing is making a stand. I had heard stories of your incredible abilities and I knew that you must be the answer to our prayers.'

-'But first I have to get you out…what?' it happened too quickly for her to respond…one minute he was focussed on her, his expression earnest, and the next he was turning around, his eyes narrowed with displeasure. -At what she could not see…

'Byron?' she reached out to him – or at least tried to reach – the power that should have flowed from her remained infuriatingly blocked.

But something was happening in the corridor outside – she could hear the sound of scuffling.

'Byron?' No answer. Then the sending blanked out and she was left alone in the cell.

Garibaldi frowned at the crumpled piece of paper in his hand…unfortunately the address which had been scribbled there remained the same; Brown 5 – just that. As leads went it wasn't exactly promising…the brown sector was large and full of unsavoury characters who were bound to resent his presence. Searching it would take time – too much time given Zack's most recent update – he had hoped to have a few more hours before the Psicops descended on the station.

He had worked with Bester in the past and recognised in the telepath a determination that mirrored his own. While the man's attitude left much to be desired, his results could not be questioned; and he would keep on coming until he had what he had come for.

That meant that Garibaldi needed to track down Clive Everton and persuade him to withdraw his testimony before the Psicop found a way to make him disappear for good. Because once that happened Lyta was as good as lost… Even if Sheridan was able to keep Bester from taking custody then and there it was just a question of time before Earthgov forced his hand; either way Bester would be smiling. And Garibaldi would have been prepared to search the moon singlehandedly if it had meant pissing the telepath off. Compared to that Brown Five was just a minor irritation.

'I have a possible lead,' he informed the comm screen in the elevator. It was strange to be reduced to civilian communication, after years of military access, and not entirely comfortable. He made a note to see what he could do about getting his hands on a stray communication piece – just for emergencies of course. If five years on this station had taught him anything it was that it was that there was no such thing as being over prepared.

'It seems our Mr Everton has a weakness for brunette hookers, and was seen leaving with a girl last night. Now I couldn't get a name for the girl, but some of her patrons thought she operates out of Brown Sector. It's not much but she is the last person to set eyes on our witness, so if you could do your best to keep Bester away it would be appreciated. I will get back in touch once I find out more.'

He cut the transmission, and smothered a yawn. What was it he had said about independent work again – no more getting caught up in every station emergency?

'Well maybe I can sit the next one out,' he said to himself, as the lift came to a stop.

'Brown Five,' announced the mechanised voice, and the door slid open, to reveal two large men, both of them armed. Thug one (Garibaldi thought he recognised the ghastly taste in tattoos) took the lead, his smile wide and unpleasant, but the second was not far behind. Needless to say there was nobody else in sight.

'Ohh boy,' Garibaldi muttered. Then in a louder voice; 'I don't suppose you just happened to be waiting for the lift?'

Thug one raised his firearm.

'No? -Didn't think so.'

'Byron?' Lyta knew that it was dangerous to speak out loud, but her silent enquiries had been met with yet more silence – and she had to know what was going on. It was not that she trusted him per se, but if he was telling the truth about his own status as a rogue…Well there was no denying how good it would feel to have an ally – particularly one as powerful as he had seemed.

Assuming that this isn't one of their games, she reminded herself grimly. After the incident with the mundane (was it really only last night?) she wasn't taking anything at face value.

Still he had seemed so sincere. Not to mention the fact that the corps were only interested in taking her into custody – and she couldn't imagine Bester risking such a perfect opportunity to get his hands on her, not for the benefit of what little information she had at her disposal.

Lyta approached the door with caution, listening intently with both senses.

Byron? She broadcast softly, trying not to picture Bester standing on the other end of the steel door, listening to her every thought with that familiar brand of dark amusement. It could not have been more than a couple of minutes since the projection had faltered, no matter how long it had felt to her. For all she knew he had sensed a nearby Psicop and decided to lay low until the threat was past.

But what if it was more than that? What if he really was in trouble?

Then Lyta allowed herself a humourless smile. If there was something in that corridor strong enough to threaten a P12 she was in no position to offer assistance, even if she could have left this cell. Face it Lyta, you are better of worrying about your own situation….but the last few hours had been spent on just that and to little practical benefit. In fact the only real chance she had seen of getting out of here had been with the assistance of this Byron and it was quite possible that he had just been arrested himself.

If this was some particularly imaginative Psicorps torture she had to admit that it was working – if there was one quality that was shared by all telepaths it was a hatred of being kept in the dark.

Then all of a sudden her mind was no longer alone. Please don't be concerned he told her. I am going to come to you, and then we will have a few minutes to talk and she could hear the sound of footsteps moving rapidly towards her. She had only a second and a half to gather herself before the door was suddenly open, and she found herself face to face with the man from the image.

The projection, she decided, had not done him justice. Oh there were shadows under his eyes and his face was lined with strain, but none of that could detract from the power of his presence. She found to her embarrassment that she was staring – there was a line of belief amongst mundanes that the more powerful a telepath was the greater their natural charisma - it was nonsense of course, but looking at Byron one could almost believe it. The elegance of his features certainly did not hurt.

'Lyta,' he greeted her with a radiant smile, and she was grateful that he did not acknowledge her line of thoughts. 'Your mental image does not do you justice. I can sense your questions and I will answer them all, but time is short. Will you come with me?'

Lyta hesitated. To run now would be to lose the support of the station; that much was clear. If she left with Byron it would not just be the Psicops who hunted her. Besides this was her home, it might not be ideal but it was everything that she had left, not an easy thing to give up. At least it would not have been, if it had not already been gone. Face it Lyta, she told herself grimly; Babylon 5 stopped being your home the moment the mundanes decided to ambush you with sleepers. Whatever happens now, there is no going back.

As for Byron -her gut instinct said that this man was not with the corps – that she could trust him. He must have been aware of her thoughts but he did not interrupt. Strangely this decided her.

'Yes,' she whispered. 'I will come with you,' and she knew that her choice was the right one the moment that she saw his smile.

'You have got to be kidding me.' Zack had hurried back to Sheridan's office the moment he had received the message, hoping that he had misunderstood. One look at the Captain's face told him he had not. As for Bester – gloating seemed too mild a word for the expression on the Psicop's face. Of course this must be the best possible outcome as far as he was concerned. Now that Lyta was in the wind there was nothing to stop him from taking control of the hunt for her. What could have possessed her to risk it?

'She definitely escaped?' he turned to face the telepath, his eyes narrowed with suspicion, as he voiced his train of thought aloud. 'Because I think we all know how much Mr Bester here would love to get his hands on her.'

Sheridan shook his head. 'The security footage is clear enough, Lyta left of her own free will, although she did not do so alone.'

Zack frowned. 'I don't understand, are you suggesting she has an accomplice?'

'It is starting to look that way. See for yourself.'

The stamp on the recording was recent, he noticed; if she had made her move it was in the last half hour. At first everything seemed fine, Lyta was pacing her cell with a frown on her face, and there was nothing at all to suggest that she might be plotting her escape. Then suddenly she froze, turning as if to face an intruder. Zack suppressed a shiver – there was no one else in the cell. Whatever the red haired telepath saw it seemed to calm her though, he could see the panic in her features smooth into something resembling resolve. Then suddenly she frowned.

'Byron?' she called out softly.

Zack's heart sank. 'The rogue?'

Sheridan nodded grimly. 'This would have been the moment when the guard realised something was wrong. We have him in the medlab now under sedation –but whatever they hit him with it did serious damage. There is a good chance that he won't recover.'

Zack felt cold. 'It wasn't Lyta. This Byron maybe, but not her, she wouldn't hurt someone unnecessarily.'

'That may be so, but it changes nothing. Earth will demand action, and perhaps they are right. We have one injured man and two telepaths on the loose with no reason to hold back…'

'An unfortunate turn of events,' cut in Bester, 'but hardly an unforeseeable one. I have warned you on more than one occasion that your sentiment would lead to something like this – still I will not hold it against you. What matters now is that we are finally on the same page – the rogues must be recaptured. Fortunately I have some expertise on the subject. Now I imagine that you can have no more objections to my taking control of the prisoners once they have been recaptured?'

Zack frowned but Sheridan was already nodding. Calm down, he told himself sternly, you saw this coming – you know the Captain has no choice. But no amount of objectivity could dull the image that was Lyta being hunted, and possibly even gunned down by some overenthusiastic Psicop. Zack wanted to rage – to smash something, possibly several things. I was on your side; he told the woman silently why couldn't you see that? All I needed was a little bit more time. But that was immaterial now – Lyta had made her choice, and all that was left was the aftermath.

He had never been so tempted to walk away from a post in his life; but he could not – not when it had been Sheridan's sympathy that had allowed Lyta to stay with them this long. Zack owed the man to see this through. It was even possible that he could still do something to help her. And so he stayed; for the same reason that he had gone along with the plan to drug her; because sometimes actions were necessary even if they couldn't be called pleasant. -And because she had left them no choice. Lyta what have you got yourself into?

While he had been gathering his thoughts Bester had taken charge 'I have called for reinforcements,' he told them 'but we cannot expect them to arrive for another couple of hours. That is a pity because we have a window of opportunity – the sleepers in Miss Alexander's system will not block her forever and once they wear off capturing either of them will become considerably more difficult.'

'Byron knows this, which is why his next move will be to go to ground for however long that takes. Between his training and Lyta's familiarity with the station finding them will not be easy. We will need to look out for anything unusual not just today but in the last couple of days as well – any anomaly which could point to a P12. -Something to say Mr Allan?'

Zack shot him a glare.

'Just that I don't know – searching for something 'out of the ordinary' on a place like Babylon 5 might not be as simple as you make it out. Now maybe if you could narrow it down a little…'

Bester frowned. 'Quite right Mr Allan – I do seem to be at a disadvantage there, which means that I will need to borrow some of your expertise.' Before he could process this, or make any sort of protest Zack found himself unable to move.

'Get – Away – From - Me' Zack hissed ineffectually, as the telepath approached him, reaching out a black gloved hand as his eyes narrowed in concentration.

Relax Mr Allan came the Psicops voice from inside his head. I only need to obtain an overview. Believe me your mind is not a place I have any desire to linger. Trying not to panic – and probably failing – Zack threw everything he could muster against the invisible force that was even now rifling through his thoughts. A sense of exasperation – then Zack found himself imprisoned behind a crude wall. He could see everything that was going on around him, but could not do anything about it – could not reach the muscles needed to speak- or throw a punch - or make any move at all…

Now then the telepath instructed, as calmly as if nothing had happened. Let me see everything to catch your notice since Friday morning. And Zack felt his thoughts obey even as he tried to stop them.

I will kill you he hissed at the presence. You hear me you bastard I WILL kill you.

Unnecessary Mr Allan. I - then without warning Zack was suddenly free. Stumbling backwards he reached for his firearm, fully intending to empty it into the Psicops head – only to find the reason for his release – during Bester's mental assault Sheridan had drawn his own weapon and was pointing it directly at the telepath.

'Captain,' Bester interjected. 'This is unnecessary – we are on the same side,'

'I suggest that you step away from my head of security' Sheridan spoke with a dangerous calm. 'I would hate to have to waste my time going over all the details with whoever they send to replace you.'

Bester blinked.

'Very well. I have what I needed. Nothing much out of the ordinary, except that there has been some unusual behaviour in the residents of down below– it isn't much, but it's a start. I will expect your security teams to be ready within the hour.'

Sheridan nodded finally, replacing the weapon.

'I will instruct them – but Bester….I expect you to take every precaution to prevent this turning into a bloodbath. I won't have my men needlessly sacrificed, not for you and your games, am I understood?'

The Psicop fixed him with a poisonous stare 'perhaps you should have thought of that before you made your station home to a rogue telepath. We will be doing this my way now – because my way works. And as for bystanders…I make no promises.'

Sheridan was about to answer heatedly when Zack's comm beeped, cutting him off.

'We've got trouble in down below,' one of his men announced. 'I thought you should know as you were asking about brown sector.'

Brown sector? And then he remembered – Mr Garibaldi!

'What sort of trouble?' Zack asked, aware that all the attention in the room was now fixed on him.

'Reports of a shooting, possibly an assassination. We are sending a team down to investigate now.'

-'Don't bother,' cut in Zack. 'I will handle this in person. Thank you for the update.'

Then he turned to face the Psicop. 'Unusual enough for you Mr Bester?'

Garibaldi was in a foul mood. First he had been drawn into yet another security incident – then he had been sent on a wild goose chase through most of down below. And just when he had himself a solid lead some moron with a grudge had to pull something like this.

'You two sure are lucky I'm in a hurry,' he told the downed thugs, massaging the knuckles of his left hand, and trying to ignore the flashes of pain in his leg and abdomen. It had looked really bad for a while there – it would have been, if his attackers had acted with any sort of unity.

Fortunately for him this brand of thug was more accustomed to attacking alone - allowing him to handle them one at a time. If not for that…but only fools dealt in ifs, and while Garibaldi had earned many unflattering names in his time 'fool' had not been one of them.

'I sure hope Lyta appreciates this,' he muttered grimly as he secured the second man, before laying their illegal weapons prominently beside them. 'Someone will come investigate the gunshots and then you can explain how you got here to security.'

Then – before he could reconsider the wisdom of continuing in this state – he set off into brown sector. He had passed through several deserted corridors before he realised that something was wrong – lurkers had some of the best survival instincts he had ever encountered but even they wouldn't stay away so long after trouble had passed.

Unless there was some whole new trouble brewing that Garibaldi didn't know about.

That was a nasty thought, but it didn't change anything. He still needed to find Clive Everton, and the last person to have set eyes on the man run her business from somewhere down here. Besides there were plenty of unpopular people on this station aside from him – maybe it was someone else's turn to get a nasty surprise for once.

'Yea right,' he muttered. 'Come out Mr Everton – wherever you are.'

But not only was Mr Everton keeping out of sight, but every other inhabitant of brown seemed to have vanished alongside him. Garibaldi made his way through deserted halls and abandoned corridors, alert for the slightest hint of noise that would give away someone watching him.

'Ok this is getting creepy. Hello? Is someone there? -Anyone?'

But there was nothing…it was the quietest he had ever seen a part of down below.

'Apparently not.' Garibaldi told himself. 'That's ok - I will find you the old fashioned way.' He kept walking.

Through another corridor, and then another.

Then just when he had given up on finding anything he saw a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye.

'Hey! You! Just a minute!'

He gave chase, gritting his teeth against the pain that flared through his injured leg. Whoever it was they certainly moved quickly – and his battered condition was not helping matters. But even the best runner in the world had to slow down to take corners, and Garibaldi was able to gain enough ground to make out some details – it was definitely a man, not particularly tall, with unremarkable colouring. Could his luck be turning?

Of course this would count for nothing if he let the man outrun him. Wishing he had thought to carry some pain killers, Garibaldi forced himself to greater speed. He could always take the time to heal properly later – Lyta- not to mention Zack needed him now.

Then just when he was despairing of ever catching up to his quarry – his renewed effort began to pay off. The man, obviously unfamiliar with the maze that was down below, had turned off into a dead end.

'Finally – a bit of luck,' Garibaldi slowed his pace to a lope and set off after him. – Down one corridor which went straight into another, at the end of which he found his quarry – staring at him wildly, his breathing heavy.

'Mr Everton?' Garibaldi asked, taking in the wild eyed man who crouched at the end of the hallway. That it was the illusive Clive there could be no doubt – although he no longer resembled the neatly groomed man in the photograph.

'I am not here to hurt you' Garibaldi tried to reassure him, approaching slowly as one might a spooked animal '–I just need you to answer some questions.'

But Everton did not seem to hear him – his gaze kept slipping off where Garibaldi stood to focus on a point further down the corridor, and his expression… Garibaldi suppressed a shudder.

He had seen some messed up things in his life, and some damaged people, but even in his roughest years he did not think he had seen anyone look at him with such agonizing helplessness.

Clive Everton – the man who had been responsible for his current bad day - was crouched inwards, huddled up as if by the act of making himself small he could escape from some private nightmare.

But his eyes…they were fixed on Garibaldi with an expression that was so bleak – so horribly fearful that his gut clenched in sympathy, even as his mind went into overdrive trying to imagine what might have caused this. -And more importantly, whether it might still be around here somewhere.

Suddenly the deserted corridors made a lot more sense; if there was something in brown sector capable of reducing a grown man to this he wouldn't have wanted to stick around either.

Clive – or what was left of Clive – was muttering something under his breathe – some sort of nursery rhyme? The words were too garbled for Garibaldi to make them out. His eyes were feverishly bright, and they alternated swiftly between Garibaldi and the entrance of the corridor.

'Easy,' Garibaldi told him softly, approaching the rocking man with caution. 'Easy. I'm not going to hurt you.' But even as he spoke, he could not help but notice how very wrong this picture was. Garibaldi was a man who paid attention to his instincts and right now they were screaming at him that he was missing something important.

Then Clive froze – tensing like a wild animal who has detected some sort of threat. He had stopped his whispering – fixing Garibaldi with a stare that was one part desperation and two parts madness.

'Help… me...' he whispered laboriously.

'Alright,' Garibaldi tried his best to reassure the man as he crouched down beside him– close enough to make out the unnatural brightness of Clive's eyes, as well as the reek of stale urine which surrounded the man.

'It's going to be alright. Can you tell me what did this to you?'

The man laughed. It was an empty sound, chilling in its bleakness.

'It was them,' Clive whispered eventually.

'OK,' Garibaldi told him 'do you think that you could tell me about them?'

Clive nodded.

'They aren't like us,' he confided. 'Oh they look the same, and they pretend…but they aren't they aren't they AREN'T' he got louder and louder until Garibaldi winced.

'Ok. Not like us – Got it. But you need to tell me who.'

Clive stared at him as if he was an idiot.

'Telepaths' he pronounced slowly – and then as an afterthought 'demons.'

And Garibaldi felt his heart sink. Of course it was – he really should have seen this coming. But he hadn't wanted to think that a person could have done this – however unpleasant an individual this Clive might have been – he did not deserve what had been done to him. No one did.

Then there was the matter of the attacker – Garibaldi didn't know much about the telepath mind set but wouldn't down below be the ideal environment for a rogue who wanted to escape notice? Garibaldi hoped that he was wrong – that whichever telepath had reduced Clive Everton to such a pitiful state (it had certainly not been Lyta Alexander) was long gone from here. Because if he wasn't… Don't think about that, Garibaldi told himself, just focus on getting him out.

Of course whatever energy had allowed the man to almost outrun him had vanished now that Garibaldi actually wanted him to move.

He wondered if Franklin would be able to anything for him. Then without warning the man was thrashing about –and Garibaldi staggered backwards, having taken an elbow to the wound that was already throbbing.

'What the hell?' he snapped, only to feel his blood chill at the way Clive was backing away – not from him but from something behind him.

'No please,' the man was whimpering – his eyes fixed on that point just a few paces down the corridor.

Moving with slow deliberateness, Garibaldi turned; and found himself staring into the familiar dark eyes of Mr Bester. His breath caught in his throat and he fought the urge to take several hasty steps backwards – he would probably only trip over Clive if he did so.

'I must congratulate you,' the Psicop told him, taking in the scene dispassionately. 'Your efforts have proved very helpful – but it is time this was handled by the professionals.'

'No' cringed Clive. 'Nonononono…' A quick irritated glance from Bester silenced him.

Garibaldi frowned. 'Leave him alone,' he insisted.

But Bester was shaking his head 'I don't think so,' the shorter man told him lightly. 'This man is a witness. He might know something useful.'

And with that the Psicop advanced, his hand outstretched, as if he intended to lay it on the cowering man. Moving deliberately, Garibaldi put himself between them – trying not to think about how easily the telepath could incapacitate him if he wanted to.

Bester's smile widened.

'You know I was surprised to hear about your retirement,' the Psicop told him, in a tone that was almost friendly. 'You didn't seem like the sort to simply walk away – but that is exactly what you did – without a hint of regret. So here we are, with yet another choice in front of you. Walk away Mr Garibaldi. I promise you won't like the alternatives.'

And Garibaldi found himself seriously considering it. There was something about an enemy who could get inside your head, turning your very thoughts against you – how could one begin to fight that? He had done what he could for Lyta, hell he had almost been shot while trying to prove her innocence. But this had been his only lead, and it didn't take a genius to see that Mr Everton wasn't capable of shedding light on anything.

Meanwhile here he was – down a deserted corridor with a man whose dislike of mundanes was notorious, with no back up on its way, and no weapon that could do a damn thing against a telepath.

He was about to answer – with what he had not quite decided – when Bester's eyes narrowed.

'What are you doing?' the Psicop demanded – not of him Garibaldi realised a moment later – but of Clive.

'Tenser said the tensor,' Clive recited, and Garibaldi thought he recognised the rhyme from before. 'Tenser said the tensor.'

It meant nothing to him but Bester was staring down with undisguised horror – then the Psicop had turned on his heel and started to run.

'What the?' Garibaldi stared in disbelief.

Clive looked up at him, and his eyes seemed clearer than they had before. 'Tenser said the tensor,' Clive repeated almost gently, and then he reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked ominously like a detonator.

Garibaldi had time to think that next time a telepath ran away he wouldn't stick around to ask questions – and to take a couple of ineffectual steps back before the last words hit him;

'Tension, apprehension and dissension have begun' – and then Clive must have triggered the device because the whole corridor was engulfed in flame.