Babylon 5 - [3] - Blood Oath

by John Vornholt

  "Are you up on your Mark Twain?" she heard a voice ask.

  She turned to see Londo Mollari looking expectantly at her, a half-smile on his face.

  "I've heard of him, but I'm no expert on early American writers," she admitted.

  "Too bad," said Londo. "You could enjoy this more."

  Before she could question him further about the odd literary allusion, Captain Vin'Tok stepped between them. "We leave in forty-six minutes," he told her. "We expect punctuality."

  "You'll get it," said the commander, "as long as you have some coffee on board."

  "We recently added coffee to our stores," replied the Narn with a slight smile. He started to follow Na'Toth out the rear exit, then stopped. "I suggest you bring both warm and cool clothing."

  "I've done my research," she assured him. "I'm pre­pared for anything."

  Vin'Tok gave her a curt bow. Several security guards stepped in and escorted the Narn delegation through the backstage area. Ivanova turned to look for Londo, and she saw his spiked hair cutting through the sea of alien heads like the dorsal fin of a shark. She was too far away to catch up with him, so she let her eyes wander. Finally she spied Garibaldi, leaning over the railing of the bal­cony and looking down on the mourners like a vengeful angel.

  She tapped her link. "Ivanova to Garibaldi."

  "I see you," said the chief with a wave. "What's up?"

  "I just wanted to tell you that we leave for Homeworld in forty-five minutes."

  "Do you have any idea what we're getting ourselves into?" he asked with concern.

  "Nope," she admitted. "But I did hear one bit of good news."

  "What's that?"

  "They have coffee on board."

  "But at night I expect hot chocolate," said the chief. "I've got a million things to do before we leave, but I'll be there. Garibaldi out."

  A dust devil swirled through the copper-colored sand, across pockmarked walls, up a cement post, and finally found a street sign to play with. The sign twisted and squeaked on its corroded metal rings, tossing rust con­fetti to the playful dust devil. Mi'Ra, daughter of Du'Rog, paused under the sign, which read simply "V'Tar." She had to laugh that such a poverty-stricken street, squeezed dry of all life and hope, could be named after the spark of life.

  Street V'Tar consisted of two rows of three-story buildings, each one more weary and forlorn than the one before. Even in this wind, she could smell the burning rubber. The only light came from clay pots that swung in the wind, casting shadow races on the dilapidated build­ings. With frightening sameness, Street V'Tar stretched down a hill until it was mercifully swallowed in darkness. Mi'Ra shivered, knowing this drained section of the bor­der zone was her home, worse than a plebian's.

  "Hurry!" she called into the wind, wondering where her lazy brother, T'Kog, was hiding now. T'Kog was a grave disappointment to her, and she found she was wast­ing too much energy keeping him focused on the Shon'Kar. He still acted as if life was going to change, get better of its own accord, and she knew it was not.

  "Mi'Ra! Mi'Ra!" he screamed, stumbling out of the darkness.

  She drew her compact PPG, thinking T'Kog was being chased. When the Narn saw that her younger brother was laughing and waving some bits of newspad, her sharp features bent into a scowl. "Stop using my name!"

  "Do you see what this is!" he said, shoving the news-pad in her face. "G'Kar is dead! G'Kar died in an explosion launching from Babylon 5!"

  Mi'Ra grasped the sheets out of his hands and stared at them, each symbol registering on her smooth reptilian face. Her spotted cranium throbbed, and her lips twisted back. G'Kar the destroyer was dead! Their hated foe, killer of their father, defiler of their name, and object of their Shon'Kar—he was dead. Killed in a suspicious ex­plosion. Clearly, somebody had gotten to him, but who?

  She shouted at the night sky, "Why wasn't it me?"

  "Hush, sister. Let the fate have some play here," T'Kog cautioned her.

  "Who gave you these?" she demanded, flashing the newspads in his face.

  T'Kog pointed innocently behind them. "A man down there, he was giving them away. Several people seemed to know about it already."

  Mi'Ra had already leveled her PPG and was scanning the shadows when she heard a voice spring from inside a dust devil. "Don't be afraid, my dear," it crooned.

  She knew this disembodied voice was a trick—some said the Thenta Ma'Kur had learned it from the techno-mages—but the assassins had made it their own. The young Narn woman moved in a crouch with her pistol drawn, trying to find the source of the voice. She had reason to hate the league, and they her—but she knew that if they wanted her dead, they would strike without issuing a warning.

  "You haven't come to kill us, have you?" she asked.

  "Not at this time, my lady," said the voice. "Come to the nearest archway in the wall."

  T'Kog was slinking away from the confrontation, but Mi'Ra grabbed him by his shabby collar and thrust him against the wall. He hit the pockmarked cement head-on and moaned as he massaged a knot on his dotted cra­nium.

  "You picked up the message," she told him. "So you come with me."

  Mi'Ra dragged him the rest of the way and threw him against one side of the archway, while she leaned against the other. She holstered her weapon and watched the light in the clay pot sway back and forth. "We're here!" she shouted into the wind.

  A slim man wrapped in black shawls eased out of the shadows and slumped against the wall beside her brother, who gasped. Slinking back T'Kog managed to get con­trol of himself and face up to this apparition. The black shawls covered every part of him, including his face, and they flapped leisurely in the wind that groaned around them.

  "You've been making trouble for us," said the man in a cultured bass voice. "Telling people that we don't ful­fill our contracts."

  "Well, you don't!" Mi'Ra spit at the ground. "The Thenta Ma'Kur is a sham, and that's all I tell them."

  The man swaddled in black flinched for a moment but settled into the archway. "You cannot say that anymore. We have fulfilled our contract with your father. G'Kar is dead."

  Mi'Ra narrowed her blazing red eyes at the assassin, knowing that he and death were familiar friends. "Is this true? G'Kar is truly dead?"

  "Go to Jasba," said the man. "Find any public viewer. You will see, G'Kar is dead. The newspads are real."

  Mi'Ra breathed deeply and sunk against the ancient archway. "Then it is over?" she asked in disbelief.

  "Not for you," said the assassin. "Many suspect you because of your brave but indiscreet Shon'Kar. Next time, leave this work to the professionals."

  Mi'Ra glared at him. As much as she despised the cold-blooded scavengers of the Thenta Ma'Kur, she was ready to accept the fact that they had fulfilled their con­tract.

  Still, the Narn woman straightened her shoulders and declared, "I am proud of my Shon'Kar."

  "Of course you are, my dear, but the humans of Babylon 5 do not appreciate the Shon'Kar as much as we do. G'Kar also has many friends, important ones. Our advice to you is this—neither admit nor deny your hand in his murder, and do not mention us. Your Blood Oath is well-known, and all will come to accept it."

  Mi'Ra bowed. "I will do as you wish. From now on I will speak highly of your fellowship."

  The black-shrouded figure bowed in return. "Earthforce personnel are coming to Homeworld to answer the Council's questions. We will stay close to them and watch them, in case they interfere too much. As of now, our business with you is concluded."

  With that, the black-shrouded man stepped from the light of the archway and strode into the darkness, which accepted him without hesitation.

  CHAPTER 6

  Michael Garibaldi stayed behind in the theater bal­cony, watching the mourners depart after the memorial service for G'Kar. He wasn't the sentimental type, except when it came to old friends and young ladies, but the memorial service had been oddly touch­ing. Even Londo had risen to the occasion. As Delenn had said in her address, it
was easy to be angry and deny what had happened, and it was much harder to accept the fact that G'Kar was gone. It was like a whole section of the station was suddenly missing.

  He leaned over the balcony again, wondering if there was a murderer in the well-behaved crowd. The security chief had no idea anybody was watching him.

  "Hi, my name is Al Vernon!" crowed a loud voice directly behind him. The security chief whirled around to see a human male approaching him from the back of the balcony. He was a portly fellow dressed in a check­ered sportcoat, and sweat glistened on his florid face. He held out a pudgy hand as if it was the most important thing in the world that he shake Garibaldi's hand.

  "Do I know you?" asked Garibaldi.

  "No, sir, you do not," answered the man cheerfully, but that didn't prevent him from grabbing Garibaldi's hand and yanking for all he was worth. "My name is Al Vernon, but I already said that. You're Garibaldi, the security chief of this fine station, am I right?"

  "That's no secret," growled the chief. "Listen, I've got to leave the station soon, and I'm busy." He glanced down and saw Talia Winters filing out of the amphithe­ater with the others, which reminded him of another matter still up in the air—Officer Leffler. "Do you think you could get to the point?" he demanded of his chubby acquaintance.

  "It's quite simple, sir." He stood on his tiptoes to whis­per to the taller man. "Rumor has it that you're going to the Narn Homeworld aboard the K'sha Na'vas. I'd like to tag along, if I could. I've been trying to get there for six months, and I was hoping you would prevail upon the Narns or Captain Sheridan to get me aboard."

  Garibaldi gaped at the man. "You've got a lot of nerve. If you know all of that, then you also know that we're an official delegation. The K'sha Na'vas is not a transport—you can't just buy a ticket on her."

  Al Vernon laughed nervously. "That is one reason why I must appeal to you, sir. I've managed to come this far—1 only just arrived—but I find myself short of funds for the journey to Homeworld. However, I've got excel­lent lines of credit there, plus many business associates who will vouch for me."

  "You've been to Homeworld?" asked Garibaldi, sounding doubtful.

  "Been there, sir? Why, I lived there for ten years! Have a wife there, I do. Well, she's an ex-wife by now, I should imagine. Darling little thing, except for when she used to get mad at me." He whispered again, "Don't marry a Narn unless you can stand a woman with a temper."

  Now Garibaldi was intrigued. "Do they often marry humans?"

  "No, not often," admitted Al. "The number of humans living on Homeworld is very small, but a family with too many daughters might see fit to marry one off to a human who was prosperous. Children are out of the question, of course, but sexual relations are not. No, indeedy."

  Garibaldi scowled at the man's sly grin, but he was still intrigued. "What kind of business did you do there?"

  "Importer of alien technologies," answered Al. "The Narns are crazy for anything from outside the Regime. Toys, kitchen goods, communications..."

  "Weapons," suggested Garibaldi.

  The man bristled. "Nothing illegal, I can assure you. In fact, had I not been so scrupulous, I would have avoided the business reversals that have kept me away from Narn for so long."

  Garibaldi rubbed his chin. "You know, it might not be a bad idea to have a guide along, somebody who knows the territory. We've been summoned to answer questions about G'Kar's death, but we don't want to be held up in a bureaucratic nightmare for days on end."

  "I still have some friends in high places," Al assured him. "I could save you considerable time and help you to avoid many pitfalls."

  "You would be part of the official delegation—no weapons, no funny business—and you would have to attend a memorial service for G'Kar."

  Al Vernon rubbed his chubby hands together. "I would be honored to attend a service for Ambassador G'Kar, whom I met many years ago. What a tragic loss."

  "Yeah." The chief tapped his link and spoke into the device. "This is Garibaldi to C-and-C."

  "Lieutenant Mitchell on duty," came a sprightly female voice. "Go ahead, Chief."

  "I would like the complete records on a human male who's here on the station. He goes by the name of Al Vernon. I also want to know how long he's been on B5, and what his financial status is. And I want to know if there is any record of him ever living on the Narn Homeworld."

  Garibaldi smiled at his new friend, who seemed to be sweating just a little bit more. "You only have half-an-hour on this, so get back to me as soon as you can."

  "Yes, sir. C-and-C out."

  Al Vernon chuckled and tugged at his collar. "You're a thorough man, aren't you, Mr. Garibaldi?"

  "I just want to make sure you are who you say you are. I'll talk to the captain and do the best I can. Meet me in forty-three minutes in dock six, and be ready to go."

  "Yes, sir!" said Al, snapping to attention and thrust­ing his stomach out.

  Garibaldi winced at the man's eagerness and strode to the steps leading down from the balcony. He didn't feel as if he had made much of a commitment, because if Al Vernon's story didn't check out, he wasn't going any­where. If by some miracle Al did check out, he could be a valuable ally, a human who knew his way around the Narn Homeworld. Garibaldi wanted to trust Na'Toth to be their guide, but he was afraid that the attaché had her own agenda.

  Maybe if he was lucky, thought the chief, there would be a break in the investigation before he had to board K'sha Na'vas. Maybe they'd find Mi'Ra in Down Below, or Leffler would jump up in bed and identify both his assailant and the murderer. Get real, thought Garibaldi, knowing that he would never have a lucky streak like that.

  He stopped in the corridor and watched the last of the mourners, who were breaking up into small groups and going about their business. After a moment, the chief tapped his link and said, "Garibaldi to medlab."

  "Franklin here," came the response. "Are you check­ing up on your officer?"

  "Yeah, Doc. Has Leffler regained consciousness?"

  "I just got back from the service. Let me check." A minute later, Franklin reported back, "Leffler gained consciousness briefly, but he became agitated and we sedated him. His vital signs and EKG look good, but you can't be too careful with head trauma."

  "Can we wake him up to be questioned?" asked Garibaldi.

  The doctor's tone was cool. "I think he's several hours away from that. Perhaps tomorrow."

  "Thanks," said Garibaldi. "I'll be off-station by then, so could you contact Captain Sheridan as soon as Leffler is well enough to be questioned about his attack?"

  "I'll make sure. Anything else?"

  "Nope. Garibaldi out." He tapped his link again. "Garibaldi to Welch."

  "I read you, Chief."

  "Any luck down there?" he asked, expecting the worst.

  "Afraid not. We've checked every Narn in sight, and we've found a handful with expired identicards. But we've made positive ID on all of them, and none of them are recent arrivals to the station. No one seems to have any connection with the Du'Rog family."

  "What about the attack on Leffler? Anyone see any­thing?"

  "No, sir. But then nobody ever sees anything down here."

  Garibaldi frowned at the back of his hand. "All right, Lou, call it off for now. I'm off the station in about forty minutes, but there is one thing I want you to follow up on."

  "Sure, chief."

  "When Leffler comes to, question him. If he can't remember who hit him—and people often lose their memory after a head injury—contact Talia Winters. She can do a scan on him and help us fill in the blanks. She's already agreed to do this, so all you have to do is call her."

  "Gotcha. Have a good trip."

  "Yeah," said Garibaldi. "Out."

  After stopping at his quarters to pick up his duffel bag and rescue his heavy coat from mothballs, Garibaldi headed toward Captain Sheridan's office. He was about ten meters from the captain's door when his link buzzed.

  "Garibaldi here!" he snapped at
the back of his head.

  "This is Lieutenant Mitchell in C-and-C, and I have that data for you on Al Vernon. Want me to upload to your link?"

  Garibaldi checked the time and saw that he was run­ning out of it. "Send it to Captain Sheridan's terminal. I'm just outside his office. Garibaldi out."

  Be there, Captain Sheridan, he muttered to himself as he pressed the chime. To his relief, a voice called, "Enter!"

  Garibaldi ducked through the door and was relieved to see that Sheridan was alone in his office. He was peer­ing at his flat-screen terminal, a bemused expression on his face.

  The captain barely looked up. "Hello, Garibaldi. Ready for your trip?"

  "Not really, sir," admitted the security chief. "I hope I haven't caught you at a bad time, but this will only take a moment."

  Sheridan frowned at his screen. "Would you believe I'm looking at Narn legal texts? Most of them are cen­turies old and predate the Centauri invasion. It seems as if they prefer debating the meaning of these old laws, most of which are irrelevant to a spacefaring society, to writing any new laws. Their beliefs are mired in the past. This Shon'Kar business reminds me of Earth a few cen­turies back, when it was legal to fight duels to the death."

  Garibaldi stepped to the side of Sheridan's desk. "Sir, I was expecting a download from C-and-C, and I had them send it directly to you. Could I take a look?"

  Sheridan pushed his chair back and motioned toward the screen. "Go ahead."

  Garibaldi angled the screen and punched in some com­mands. As information and a photograph blossomed on the screen, he began to read aloud, "Full name is Albert Curtis Vernon, a.k.a. Al Vernon, and he hails from Mansfield, Ohio." He stopped and pointed to a window of text. "This is interesting, sir—he's done a lot of trav­eling around, but you can see that the Narn Homeworld was his legal residence for almost ten years. He was reg­istered with both the embassy and the trade commission. Yeah, he seems legit."