"I think so ... it's all kind of fuzzy ...."
"Yes, I should think so, we all had quite a lot to drink. Anyway, we were on our way back to B5 when we ran into engine trouble. We jumped to normal space and I barely managed to get us down in one piece. Got you and the gear out just before the ship exploded."
"I see." She faced into the sunlight and blinked against the light. "Any sign of life?"
"Dunno," he said. "I suppose we should have a look around."
"Communications?"
"We weren't able to get out a distress signal before we hit, and the ship... well, you can see for yourself we're not getting word out anytime soon. No, the best thing for now is for us to build some shelter with the gear, and settle in. We'll start exploring tomorrow. At least they don't need us for anything for a while, what with the war being over and all that."
"Maybe," she said, still looking around. "Well, if we're going to be stuck somewhere, this is the place for it."
"Yes. Pretty, isn't it?"
She nodded. "It's almost like this place I always used to see in my head, the kind of place ... " Her voice trailed off.
"Yes?" A place where you said you could be happy, he thought. And you deserve happiness.Maybe we both do.And maybe this time we can find it.
"Nothing," she said. "We should get to work."
"Absolutely, Commander. Then I think I may be able to find something here to eat, I'm quite a chef when I want to be, you know."
She smiled, and shook her head. "I'm sure," she said, then stopped, frowning.
"What is it?" Marcus asked.
"It's strange ... I can't shake this feeling ... a memory of me going somewhere, sitting and talking to you, and you not listening."
"Yeah, well, I get that a lot from you," he said. Please god let her not remember. It's all I've ever asked of you, leave her alone and let her have a little peace.
She looked at him, and laughed, and the moment passed. "Maybe so." She studied him for a moment. "But one thing I do remember is you carrying me off the White Star after we were hit. You saved my life."
He nodded. Looked away.
She touched his shoulder gently. "Did I ever say thank you?"
"Unnecessary," he said. "It was no trouble at all."
"Good, because I wouldn’t want you to extend yourself on my behalf."
"Me? Bestir myself from my reverie all on your behalf? Wouldn't dream of it," he said, and enjoyed the sound of her laugh. He realized just how much he'd missed it.
"Well," he said, turning toward the horizon, "shall we go inspect our new home?"
"Lead on," she said.
Marcus smiled, and took the first steps in the long sunny walk that he knew they would share for a very, very long time to come.
The Nautilus Coil
by
J. Gregory Keyes
~February, 2265~
"I've had just about enough of this," Michael Garibaldi said to the man with the gun.
"If you just wait quietly," the man said, adjusting his aim on Garibaldi's heart, "someone will be with you in a moment." With his free hand, he pushed aside a long lock of black hair that threatened to obscure his vision. Garibaldi almost jumped him then. In his black duster and caudric shirt, the fellow didn't look like someone who knew how to use a PPG all that well. Still, at this range anyone could get lucky.
"In a moment," Garibaldi grunted. "I've been here for a whole lot of moments already pal, and like I said, I've about had it. You wanna read my mind? Please, be my guest. You won't like what you find."
"We don't scan without permission," the telepath said, with a slight smirk that called him a liar.
"You were one of Byron's litter, right? You look like one of 'em. As attached to the colour black as the Psi Corps ever was, I guess the upbringing always shows, huh? But since you were on B5 back when, you know who I am. And you know it's not whoever told you to stand your little tin butt here that foots your bills. It's me that keeps you in PPG's, pork and beans, and hair conditioner for your oh-so-long-and-shiny hair."
"I know who you are, Mr. Garibaldi," the telepath said. "The whole movement is grateful for your support, but as an ex-military man you understand I have my orders."
"Ex is the important part there. Never did care for the uniform — or taking orders. Come to think of it, neither did your Saint Byron."
The smirk rotated into a frown, but the fellow didn't say anything.
"Look," Garibaldi said. "I just want to talk to whoever's in charge, and I want to talk to them now. I'm expected."
"Will I do?"
A faint shiver ran up Garibaldi's neck at that familiar voice. Nevertheless, he turned to address the speaker, a slim, redheaded woman with eyes like chips of interstellar carbon.
"Lyta, tell this toy soldier he has about four seconds to get his yap out of my way before life starts getting real painful for him."
Lyta regarded Garibaldi for a long, silent moment.
"Don't push my people around, Garibaldi." She nodded almost reluctantly at the guard. "Let him in, Antony." She turned and walked up the corridor. Fuming, Garibaldi followed.
"Is he here?" he asked.
"No," Lyta said, "Mr. Bester is not here."
Garibaldi took Lyta by the arm and swung her around. She jerked back and her eyes narrowed dangerously.
"Go ahead," he snapped. "Do it. Mindfrag me or whatever it is you're trying to threaten with that stare of yours. But I've had it with you. I agreed to finance your little revolution and you agreed to help me get Bester. Now, let's see. Out of this deal you've gotten about ten million credits, three ships, and enough weapons to shoot every man, woman, and child in Calcutta with a different gun. Now let's count up the receipts on my side. You were going to remove Bester's little mindblock," he tapped his head. "Golly! It's still there! How do you like that? And Bester? He's still alive and free. To make things even happier, four days ago I get a call in the priority code we agreed on — no explanation, no note from you, just a 'come quick.' Well, lady, I came quick, way the hell out to this miserable ball of ice. My ship is put under guns, your little fashion thug stalls me, and then you show up and treat me like something you found on your shoe. Now — you tell me what's going on, or you can just screw this. All of it. Pay your own damn bills."
For an instant, Garibaldi thought he had pushed her too far, that he would see those eyes go all black and have his mind shredded like so much lettuce for a Cobb salad. But then her face softened, and a little of the old Lyta peeked through her hard mask — the quiet, compassionate, slightly naive woman he had first met on Babylon 5.
"I'm a little ... on edge," she said. "Psi Corps has been turning all of the screws, and Bester in particular seems to have gone completely around the bend. From what information we get, the rehabilitation camps have become killing fields. We've lost a lot of good people. My people, Michael," she closed her eyes, but when she opened them they were still Human. "You're right. I shouldn't take it out on you."
"Lyta — just tell me what this is all about. Pretty please."
She nodded. "Do you know where we are?"
"Is this a trick question, or one of Byron's deep philosophical ruminations on the nature of being? I got here, after all. Go to Jupiter, hang a left, first big sphere of cracked ice on the right."
"I apologised, Michael. Can't we just have a conversation?"
He bit back another sharp comment, then sighed. "We can try. Let's start again. We're in an extremely well hidden installation below the surface ice of Ganymede. Looks like there's been a fair amount of fighting going on, recently. I'm guessing this was some sort of hush-hush Psi Corps base you guys just dusted."
"Yes. This is the other ledger."
"Sorry?"
The very corners of her lips lifted up, the threat of a smile. "I thought you, of all people, would know what I was talking about. Back when people kept financial records on paper, dishonest businessmen kept tw
o sets of books — one with the actual transactions—"
"And one prettied up to cover the dirty dealings. I get you now. So this place?"
"Among other things, it's an archive. The secret archive, the one only a few people even in Psi Corps know about."
"How did you find out about it?"
"I ran across one of those select people. I ... persuaded him to tell me."
That tickled Garibaldi's spine. He knew all too well what telepaths could do when they got inside your head. And Lyta was probably the most powerful telepath alive.
"Not to worry, Michael," Lyta said softly, understanding either his expression or registering his feelings. After all, he was just another telepath. I suspect you wouldn't mind if we all wiped each other out."
"That's not fair. You know I don't feel what way." Garibaldi shrugged. "You're the one who wanted to have the civil conversation. You found something you think I ought to know about?"
"Yes. Through here."
They cycled through an airlock, stepping into a room considerably colder than the one they had just been in. Lyta took a Thermaskin parka from the rack. "You might want this."
He took it and shrugged into it. "Why is the floor tilted?"
"When they built this base, they melted the surface ice and sank it. From space, it looks like a meteor strike. Even to radar it might be just one of a thousand metal bearing plumes from volcanic vents. The complex is built in modules, each capable of being self-sustaining, and of floating, should the ice melt again, say from a thermonuclear burst on the surface. When we got here, the base commander had started a self-destruct sequence designed to separate the modules and sink them another kilometre or so. I stopped him and shunted the sequence, but not before a few of the preliminary charges went off. The ice around this module thawed just enough to cant it a bit. Come on."
They came to another lock, but when this one cycled, they were staring at a tunnel cut through ice.
"The next module came loose and drifted about ten meters. We cut through."
"It's cold!"
"Yes. We can't warm it enough for the ice to melt. But it isn't far."
It wasn't, but the next module was also cold when they entered it, a point made most clear by the six rock-solid bodies in Psi Corps uniform lying in various positions on the floor.
"I like what you've done with the place."
"We didn't do this. This is Psi Corps sacrificing its own."
"No need to get defensive," Garibaldi said.
"You have a knack for making one feel defensive, Michael."
"Nice to know the feeling's mutual."
"This was the archive annex. It's all here — the experiments they carried out on their own people, assassinations, the — shall we say 'rewiring'? — of government officials. Everything we need to sway popular opinion our way, I think."
"That's great," Garibaldi said, meaning it, noticing Lyta's expression was anything but optimistic. "We can bring this thing to an end." But not before I fry Bester.
"That's what I thought, at first," Lyta said. "But then one of my people found something ... disturbing."
"Such as?"
"A file that had been sealed for over 65 years, in multiple encryption's. More interesting still, it had a sort of lock that only a powerful teep could trip."
"I've never heard of such a thing."
"Neither have I."
"But you tripped it."
"No. Someone else already had, and had spent almost a year using a high-powered AI to break the code."
Garibaldi nodded at a corpse. "These guys?"
Lyta nodded. "They were still working out a few fine points when this happened, but the major secrets of the document had been known a few days at least."
"You gonna keep me in the dark?"
"No." She tapped on a display, and a starfield came up. She tapped again, isolating a single yellow-orange star. "As far as I know," she said, "this star has no name. It's over 58 light years from the nearest charted jumpgate, and there are no records of any visit to it. Except this one."
"What do you mean?"
"Seventy years ago, Psi Corps sent a covert expedition to the second planet of this star. It never returned and was never heard from again."
"That's impossible. Seventy years ago — that's before we had jumpships."
"True. The Psi Corps ship was a slower-than-light craft, capable of travelling at relativistic speeds very near the speed of light. From what we can tell, it piggybacked on a Centauri vessel to a jumpgate at the edge of their space, then plowed off on its own."
Garibaldi frowned. "Fifty-eight light years at sublight speeds? That means it's just getting there."
"We think it arrived anywhere from one to eight years ago, depending upon its deceleration routine. Its arrival might be what brought this file to the Corps' attention — a hidden clock, ticking all this time, finally ringing its alarm."
"I still don't get it. If they managed to get the Centauri to take them that close, why not all the way?"
"Because," Lyta said, "at the time, this star was in Vorlon space."
"Oh, geez."
"Exactly. Michael, I need your help. I need to get to that planet, and I need to beat Bester there."
"I know he sent an expedition. He may or may not be on it. Michael, they can't be allowed to get there and back."
"Why?"
"I — I can't tell you that, yet. I won't, not until you agree to help. To get me a ship that can jump on its own."
"Do you have any idea what you're asking? Ships like that don't grow on trees."
"You have the resources. You can do it."
"Sure. But make it worth it to me. What will Psi Corps find out there?"
She hesitated. "If you go, I'll remove the block Bester put in you."
"You're supposed to do that anyway, but you keep stringing me along. And you didn't answer the question."
"No more delays, Michael. I'll remove the block the second you give me your word."
Garibaldi rubbed his chin. "I want to know what's out there," he insisted.
"I'm not entirely sure myself," Lyta replied. "But I do know this — if Bester gets there first, we're going to lose this war. And when I say we, I don't just mean the resistance. I mean you, too. If what I suspect is true, Bester has finally found the magic bullet, and after he shoots us with it, he's going to put another one right in the collective mundane brain. That, you can count on."
Garibaldi sighed. "Great. And that's all you're going to say?"
"At this time, yes."
Garibaldi smoothed his palm along his bald pate. "Fine. Here are the terms, then. My ship, my expedition. You can go, you can bring some of your people, but the muscle is mine. Whatever you think is out there, you say I can't trust Bester with it. Maybe I can't trust you with it either. True?"
She didn't answer.
"See, I know the lengths you'd go to to beat the Psi Corps. I'm with you there. But there are people in your organization who would be just as happy to stick it to the rest of us as Bester."
"That's not true. We only want to be left alone, to have our own Homeworld."
"So you say, and I honestly think you, at least, are serious about that. But I've never met a telepath who didn't harbour some resentment—"
"How can you blame us? After 200 years of being used, oppressed, controlled and murdered?"
"Thanks for making my point," Garibaldi riposted. "My way or the highway, Lyta. It has to be this way."
She didn't hesitate long. Even if she wasn't scanning him, she certainly understood him well enough to know he wasn't bluffing.
"Okay," she said. "When can we get started?"
The PPG hummed merrily as it charged. So did Garibaldi — The Yellow Rose of Texas, slightly off-key. He pressed the contact and grinned savagely as the room flickered green. Still humming, he produced another holo of Bester, pinned it next to the blackened one on the blast shield, and stepped back.
"How long are you go
ing to keep that up?" Lyta asked from the doorway.
"Just savouring one of life's little pleasures," Garibaldi said. "The ability to not only want to kill someone, but to actually be able to do it."
"I think I've created a monster."
"Nope. You just it off the leash. The prize in the category of monster-maker goes to ..." he aimed and fired. Bester's evil grin vanished in a flash of superheated helium. Garibaldi blew an imaginary puff of smoke from the business end of the PPG and holstered it. "Two days ago I couldn't do that. I couldn't even shoot his damn picture. Thanks, Lyta."
"Don't mention it. I just thought you'd like to know we're jumping in about an hour."
"Yeah? In that case, grateful as I am, shouldn't we have another little conversation? I mean, it was Bester who used to pull that 'need to know' crap."
She nodded reluctantly. "Will this just be between me and you?"
"I'm ever the soul of discretion."
"Right." She folded her arms, then went over to stare out at the stars through the viewport.
"Do you think...?" she trailed off.
"What?"
"Do you think I'm crazy? All those stars, all those worlds. Can't there be some place we can call home?"
"It's not that simple."
She sighed. "I know. I used to think there was hope, you know? That mundanes and teeps could live together. Now ..." again her voice dropped away into silence.
Garibaldi popped his lips together, taking a rare moment to consider what he ought to say.
"I think Byron was a kook," he began and the swift hurt and anger that pinched Lyta's face told him he'd not considered long enough.
"No, look," he rushed on, patting something imaginary at about chest height. "I know he was your friend, and a lot more. You loved him, and love gives everyone a first-class case of tunnel vision. Take it from someone who knows. But what I was going to say was that I think he was right about that one thing, at least. Whatever you want, whatever I want, we can't live together. This isn't like the old bigotries, based on idiotic criteria like skin colour or religion. This is real. You can read my mind, I can't read yours. It's too hard for you not to take advantage of that, and too hard for me not to envy and fear you. We can deny it, suppress it, but it'll always come back. Always. So no, I don't think you're crazy. I hope you find a Homeworld, and I hope it's far away, and I hope you stay the hell there until we all get better somehow."
Babylon5: The Short Stories Page 9