Babylon 5: Red Fury

by Claudia Christian

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  RED FURY

  Claudia Christian

  & Morgan Grant Buchanan

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  Red Fury is a work of fan fiction and is meant to be shared for

  enjoyment. It is not to be sold or republished for profit for any reason.

  All of the characters in this story are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Note: This story takes place towards the end of 2262 (after the conclusion of the events of Season 5). President Sheridan has arrested Lyta Alexander but Michael Gaibaldi has used his newfound power as President of Edgars Industries to ensure her release. Susan Ivanova has been captain of her Warlock-class destroyer Titans for a year. This story is self-contained but if you want to read the very first story to feature Ivanova and the Vorlon transport once owned by Ambassador Ulkesh (Kosh 2), read J.

  Michael Straczynski’s short story Hidden Agendas, first published in 2000 in the Official Babylon 5 Magazine.

  PROLOGUE

  Mars, Dome One, December, 2262.

  Michael Garibaldi awoke to an irritating, unending alarm. The

  clock beside his bed told him it was 2am and for a moment he thought he was back in his old, cramped quarters on Babylon 5. That had been the last place anyone had dared to wake him at such an ungodly hour.

  But the bed he was lying on was almost as large as his entire room on the space station and he was covered with lavish, black silk sheets and wearing pajamas woven by the insectile hands of a Gaim Queen—

  clothes which would have cost him three years’ salary when he was a Chief of Security. No, he was on Mars, living his new life.

  Since taking over the day-to-day running of Edgars Industries,

  Michael Garibaldi had become one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the galaxy and he had firm expectations that, whatever other benefits the position brought with it, an undisturbed night’s sleep should be right at the top of the list. That had been his old life—woken up at all hours, having to sit in on every decision, manage every little thing.

  Now he had people to do that for him. Garibaldi sighed and tapped a panel beside his bed, opening a comm channel. The holographic form of his assistant, Reynolds, was instantly projected into the air above his bed. Reynolds was a thin man, obsessed with detail, always sitting behind the same console—analyzing data, scouring through reports, collecting information that might be of interest to Garibaldi. He was a pedantic, particular man—qualities that suited his job perfectly—but he was prone to disturbing Garibaldi for reasons less than spectacularly important and now, now he had gone one step too far. He had broken the number one rule.

  “Reynolds,” he said. “What did I specifically order you never to do?

  My exact words.”

  “To never wake you, sir.”

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  “Unless?”

  “Unless it was the end of the world and Earth was about to go up in flames and all hell was breaking loose.”

  “And I meant it. Literally. The. End. Of. The. World. Is the world going up in actual flames?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you know I was dreaming about bagna càuda. Have you ever

  had bagna càuda? Italian dip with garlic, anchovies, olive oil, roasted vegetables?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then you don’t know what you’ve just done.” And the man never

  truly would. Normally Garibaldi’s sleep was plagued by nightmares—

  things he did when the Psi Corps were inside his head, casualties he’d seen during the war, bad memories from the old days on Mars. He

  seldom slept well. But not that night.

  “I was back on Babylon 5,” Garibaldi said, “and I’d been piecing together the ingredients for bagna càuda for over three months, smuggling them in, one by one, and then it was finally there, right in front of me.

  And then you woke me up. Nowadays I can have a swimming pool filled with bagna càuda if I want but I can never have that moment again, of tasting it after having to wait three excruciating months.”

  “Yes, sir,” Reynolds said without any hint of emotion. It wasn’t the first time he’d been on the receiving end of one of Garibaldi’s anecdotal lectures.

  “Well?”

  “Our new intelligence satellites, the ones with the prototype

  sensors, they’ve picked up a Vorlon ship en route to Earth.”

  “A planet-killer?” Garibaldi asked, visualizing the massive Vorlon ships that could decimate an entire world with one concentrated

  discharge of a beam weapon.

  “No, sir. A smaller vessel. A Vorlon transport. Blood red in color.”

  Garibaldi nodded. “Right. There’s only one of those left this side

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  of the Galactic Rim—the shuttle left behind by that crazy Vorlon ambassador they sent us after Kosh. He’s not back is he?”

  “Not as far as we can tell, sir...”

  “Well, that’s interesting but...”

  “Five minutes ago the ship destroyed a Psi Corps spy satellite.”

  “Okay. That’s good news, Reynolds, but it’s still hardly the end of...”

  “Our intel says your old comrade Susan Ivanova is piloting it.”

  “Susan?”

  Garibaldi jumped out of bed and pulled on his robe, his mind racing.

  Susan’s ship Titans, a Warlock-class destroyer, had been found to have hidden Shadow tech built into its systems. She’d worked together with Sheridan and Lyta Alexander to destroy it—they’d used the Vorlon ship to do the job. The end result was that the Vorlon vessel had ended up permanently integrated into Titans’ systems, sealed away in a locked deck. Garibaldi felt a headache stirring at the back of his skull.

  “Sir, I’ve received an update,” Reynolds said. “She’s attacked a top-secret Psi Corps base in Siberia.”

  “The new one they’ve been pouring all their money into?” Garibaldi said in surprise. “With cutting edge defenses?”

  “Another update, sir. The Vorlon craft has destroyed the Siberian base and is moving across the Bering Strait at high speed. What are your orders?”

  “You were right to wake me up, Reynolds. The world’s not going up in flames yet but it might be by the time Ivanova’s done.”

  “Do you want us to forward our intel to Earth Dome, sir? Or the

  Alliance on Babylon 5? They don’t have our resources. They won’t even know what’s hit them until they start reviewing and analyzing data. We can give them a heads up, so they’re ready if she strikes again.”

  “She’s only hit a satellite and a base, both Psi Corps property?”

  “Yes, sir. And now she’s single-handedly tackling a squadron of the Psi Corps fighters. There’s a repeating message transmitting from her ship.”

  Reynolds tapped a button on his console and Garibaldi’s room was

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  filled with the sound of Susan’s voice. She didn’t sound happy.

  Where is Bester? I keep going until I get Bester.

  “Bester?” Garibaldi’s head began to throb with a single, painful intensity.

  “Sir, if she can harness that kind of firepower it might take a half-dozen White Stars to stop her.”

  “Then here’s what I want you to do, Reynolds,” Garibaldi said

  calmly. “I’m going to have something sent to you.”

  “I’ve got everything I need here, sir.”

  “What you don’t have is a pot of bagna càuda,” Garibaldi replied with forced enthusiasm. “I
want you to relax. Sit back and enjoy it.

  Wait for more intel to come in.”

  “But...”

  “Don’t notify Earth Dome, and you sure as hell won’t say a word to Babylon 5. Capiche?”

  “Sir, innocent lives could be lost if she strikes again. The base she’s just hit suffered seventy-two casualties.”

  “All Psi Corps?” Garibaldi asked.

  “Yes...” the man replied hesitantly.

  “Enjoy your meal,” Garibaldi replied, shutting off the

  comm channel.

  Reynolds was pedantic but he knew how to follow orders. Garibaldi rushed towards one of the black steel walls of his vast bedchamber and pressed his palm against it. A hidden doorway appeared, leading into a labyrinthine network of tunnels. Garibaldi quickly traced out an intricate route known only to himself. He was short on time; his programming was already kicking in. Lyta Alexander had removed

  all of the psychic protocols the Psi Cop Alfred Bester had woven throughout his mind—all except one. He was no longer compelled to betray his friends but buried deep inside his mind was a command that under no circumstances could he harm or knowingly allow harm to

  befall Bester—the man solely responsible for nearly destroying his life.

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  Lyta had promised to remove that block only when Garibaldi had used his power and resources to utterly destroy the Psi Corps. Until then, he would not be permitted to take his revenge.

  So what exactly had Bester done to piss Ivanova off? Something

  stupid, that was for sure, because now she was on the warpath,

  mounting a one-woman crusade. Or maybe that was all part of the Psi Cop’s plan? The command at the back of Garibaldi’s mind was already compelling him to warn Bester, to stop Susan, to preserve Bester’s life. Was this Bester’s little joke—to infuriate Susan and then sit back and wait, knowing Garibaldi would have no choice but to step in and intervene?

  Garibaldi came to a stop before a large, impregnable door made

  of quantium-80—an ultra-rare mineral that could only be found on one planetoid in Grid Epsilon. He didn’t need to punch in a security code or supply voice identification. The sensitive alien alloy from which the door had been forged had imprinted his form. He walked directly into it, activating the localized jumpgate that transported him from outside to inside his command center in an instant. Any intruder would go unrecognized by the door and live a very short life after being transported into hyperspace.

  The room was filled with an extensive security station, similar to the one he’d had on Babylon 5, except this unit was state-of-the-art and hooked into a super computer deep beneath the Martian surface. It was the only man-made system to contain components loaned personally to Garibaldi by Draal, custodian of the Great Machine on Epsilon III.

  When he’d retired from his short stint as Head of Covert Intelligence for the Alliance, Garibaldi made sure he had all the tools he needed to protect himself and those he loved.

  Garibaldi knew he was a few hours ahead of the Psi Corps, EarthForce and the Alliance, time enough to uncover what had happened and make sure that, however things played out, the final move would be his.

  He placed a circular neural interface on his head and allowed his

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  unconscious mind to start scanning through the oceans of data floating about on the Inter Stellar Network, piecing the story together with every resource at his disposal. Information was currency and having it might mean the difference between life and death for his friend when the game played out—and he was determined that if he did have to stop Susan, that he would do everything in his power to spare her life.

  Garibaldi suddenly remembered he had an outstanding task and

  opened up a comm channel to the kitchen. “Can you have a pot of

  bagna càuda sent to Reynolds?”

  “Yes sir,” a voice replied. “And one for yourself?”

  “Maybe later,” Garibaldi said as he filtered through the thousands of news bulletins and military reports that raced through his mind,

  “I’ve lost my appetite.”

  A few minutes later, when he had a sense of what had happened,

  Garibaldi punched a complex code sequence into his console and

  opened a channel to Psi Corps HQ. The image of the man he hated

  more than anyone in the universe appeared—a smug, self-satisfied smile upon his face.

  “Mr. Garibaldi?” Bester said cheerfully. “I’ve been expecting

  your call.”

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  ONE

  One day earlier. Asteroid belt between Mars & Jupiter, en route to Proxima.

  Captain Susan Ivanova tapped her foot impatiently on the metallic deck as her Warlock-class destroyer Titans hurtled through space towards a sea of asteroids.

  “We’re almost there, sir,” her Commander, William Berensen said.

  “Ten thousand clicks.”

  “Any luck contacting them yet?” she asked. Berensen looked to

  Lieutenant Lukas Breck, the communications officer.

  “White Star 27, come in. This is the Interstellar Alliance Ship, Titans, ” Breck said into his console, “we’re responding to your distress signal. Can you read us?” He shook his head a few seconds later.

  “Nothing, sir, just the same message on repeat.” Breck tapped his console and the message broadcast around the bridge.

  Under attack from an unknown vessel. We’re suffering heavy casualties.

  We are in desperate need of reinforcements! We can’t take this kind of damage for long.

  They’d been en route to Proxima III, ordered to protect transports delivering vital supplies to the colony, when the distress call had come through. The signal originated from deep within the asteroid belt between Mars and Jupiter, a wasteland of floating space rock, far from jumpgates, space stations or shipping lanes. The big question on Ivanova’s mind was the same one troubling every member of Titans’ crew—what kind of an assailant had the power to overwhelm a White Star?

  “Have we isolated the location of the signal yet?” Ivanova asked.

  “The signal is coming from the other side of Pallas, one of the largest asteroids in the belt,” Breck said. “It’s over 600 kilometers in diameter.

  We’re going to have to navigate around dozens of smaller rocks to reach the White Star’s position.“

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  “We don’t have time,” Ivanova said impatiently. “If there’s a fight going on, we need to be in it. Blast the smaller asteroids and drive right through the rubble. The shields can take it. And put out a call for reinforcements to White Stars 12 and 24. Tell them to divert from their journey to Proxima and get here on the double. If this is a trap, let’s make sure we’ve got our bases covered. We don’t want to end up like White Star 27.”

  “Two minutes to contact, sir,” Berensen said.

  Ivanova looked at the massive asteroid on the view screen. It was large, like a small moon without many surrounding rocks. She nodded approvingly. This was good, fewer places for an enemy to conceal themselves.

  “Activate battle stations. I want Star Furies ready to launch the second I give the order,” Ivanova commanded. “White Star 27 is Captain Hurley’s ship and he’s no pushover. Let’s be ready for anything.”

  Titans’ cannons sparked to life, a half dozen missile bay doors opened, shields hummed as they pushed asteroid rubble out of the ship’s path. Ivanova had the crew run through a rapid system check as they approached, ensuring everything was in perfect order. Every system on a destroyer relied on another. All it took in an armed conflict was for one link in the chain to break, one unexpected malfunction or failure, and the whole ship could be lost. When she first became captain of Titans, Ivanova had sensed the crew’s reluctance to carry out the endless drills she made them run.

  “We’re warriors,” sh
e’d explained. “The war is over but each day we’re on patrol we don’t know what we’re going to face. A warrior keeps her weapons sharp and at the ready. This ship is our weapon. We’ll keep her in perfect working order and we’ll get better and faster at doing it.

  Do any of you want to die because of a malfunctioning missile port or a poorly serviced Star Fury?”

  “No, sir!” they’d replied as one.

  “Then carry out your drills efficiently and without complaint. Make

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  me happy and in return I’ll do my best to keep you alive.”

  “We’re coming around the asteroid,” Breck said. “The signal is still transmitting. We should see White Star 27 any second.”

  “Slow to cruising speed two hundred clicks out,” Ivanova ordered.

  “I want visual confirmation before we go rushing in.”

  “There she is, sir,” Berensen said.

  The view screen filled with the sight of the hybrid human-Minbari vessel. She hung in space like a broken-winged bird—fire raging within her battered and charred body. It both angered and disturbed Susan to see it like this. A White Star was a thing of beauty and power, and more than that—the White Star fleet was the symbol of the Alliance’s strength, the big stick that allowed President Sheridan to walk softly. If one could be brought down with impunity it made the job of keeping the peace that much harder.

  “Try and establish contact again. I want to know what hit them,”

  Ivanova ordered.

  “Still no reply, sir,” Breck said after another attempt. “Just the same message.”

  “Life signs?” she asked her science officer, Lieutenant Catlyn Tsai.

  “Ten survivors. None of them moving,” Tsai said. And then an

  instant later: “Sir! Scans reveal her engines are close to critical. Less than ten minutes before she blows.”

  Ivanova understood the urgency in her voice. No one wanted to be near a White Star when its gravimetric engine went nova.

  “Any potential threats on the scanners?” she asked Tsai.

  “No, sir,” Tsai said. “Attackers could be shielding themselves

  behind the asteroid but I’m bouncing signals off a dozen smaller rocks in the immediate vicinity and not picking up anything. Situation reads ‘all clear’, sir.”