Babylon 5 - Blood Oath

by John Vornholt

  Sheridan blinked at him. "How well do you know this man?"

  "I just met him. He came up to me after the service and said he wanted to get back to Homeworld. He agreed to be my guide if I arranged passage on the K'sha Na'vas."

  "That's not our ship, Garibaldi. I can't order them to take a stranger on board a military vessel."

  The chief cleared his throat. "Begging your pardon, sir, but it's your prerogative to pick the people for the official delegation. I don't remember volunteering, yet there I am. You could put Al Vernon on the list. Since he's married to a Narn, he is sort of a pioneer in Narn-Terran relationships."

  "How long has Al Vernon been on the station?" In answer to his own question, the captain glanced at his screen and said, "He just arrived here two hours ago, so he couldn't have been involved in G'Kar's death. He did­n't waste any time getting to you, did he?"

  "No sir. I don't intend to trust him with my life—all I know is that he fell into my lap, and I'd feel like a fool if I didn't take him. He said he was broke—how many credits does he have?"

  Sheridan gazed at his screen. "He hasn't used a credit chit on the station, so we have no record of his financial status. Look at all the places this guy has been—Centauri Prime, Mars, Antareus, Betelguese Four, not to mention ten years on the Narn Homeworld. Look here and here—there are a lot of gaps where we don't know where he's been. If you take this man with you, he'll have to be your responsibility. I'll hold you personally accountable for his actions."

  "Yes, sir," Garibaldi answered gravely, wondering if he was taking leave of his senses. He had absolutely no reason to trust Al Vernon, just a hunch that providence had dealt him a trump card in a plaid sportcoat.

  Captain Sheridan pressed his console, and the main viewer on the wall blinked on, showing a com­munications graph. "This is Captain Sheridan to the Narn cruiser K'sha Na'vas. I would like to speak to Captain Vin'Tok, if he is available."

  The graphic was replaced by a view of the bridge of the Narn heavy cruiser, K'sha Na'vas. The lights were dimmed drowsily, as if take-off were hours away instead of ten minutes. Vin'Tok sat down in front of the screen, and his face was half-bathed in shadows.

  "Hello, Captain," he said. "May I be of help?"

  "Captain, I wish to include one more dignitary on the list of delegates from Earth. His name is Al Vernon, and he's a civilian."

  Now Vin'Tok sat up abruptly in his chair and scowled at Sheridan. "This is highly irregular, adding a passen­ger only ten minutes before we depart."

  Sheridan smiled pleasantly. "We are only trying to show our respect to Ambassador G'Kar by sending a worthy delegation. I can upload to you the records of Mr. Vernon, so you can see for yourself that he's a fitting symbol of the cooperation between our worlds."

  "Very well," muttered the Narn captain. "I trust this will not delay our departure. Out." He punched a button, and the screen went blank.

  On the dimly lit bridge of the warship K'sha Na'vas, G'Kar's sharp chin jutted out of the shadows. "You fool! Bringing a complete stranger on board!"

  "What was I to do?" asked Vin'Tok. "A three-person delegation is still small. How was I to refuse the humans? Believe me, they have been quite genuine in their grief over your demise. The memorial service was heart­warming. When this is all over, my friend, you will have to tell me why you have taken such a desperate action."

  G'Kar sat stiffly in his chair, his lips tight. Dead men have little influence, he was beginning to find out.

  "Data download from Captain Sheridan is now com­plete," announced a Narn tech.

  "You'd better get below," Vin'Tok told G'Kar, a note of dismissal in his voice.

  G'Kar wanted to protest, but his power and prestige were evaporating before his eyes. No longer was he G'Kar of the Third Circle. He was a dead man—a nonen­tity. His lot was to be hidden away, hunted, and now ignored. When he had hastily devised this scheme, he had never realized the jeopardy in which he was placing himself. He had assumed that his associates would treat him as they always had, realizing that he was still G'Kar. But G'Kar was officially dead; he had no strings to pull and no teeth to his bite. He was dependent upon the kind­ness of friends, and they seemed more curious than helpful.

  He would try to arrange being discovered floating in space, and still alive, as soon as his mission to Homeworld was over. And he would conclude that busi­ness as quickly as possible.

  With armed guards at his back, G'Kar marched toward the ladder that would take him down into the hold. There his furnished cell awaited.

  Garibaldi was ambushed just as he was coming off the lift on the docking level. Ivanova stopped him with a palm to the chest and peered at him with eyes that were darker and more intense than usual.

  "What is this about a stranger coming with us?" she demanded.

  "You mean Al Vernon," Garibaldi said sheepishly. "He's a stranger to us, but he's no stranger to Homeworld. We'll need someone who knows their way around."

  "What about Na'Toth? I took her out to breakfast this morning—bought her smoked eel! She's agreed to help us."

  Garibaldi scowled. "Until she catches sight of Mi'Ra and goes for her throat. I want to get in and get out with the least amount of trouble, and I think Al will be a big help."

  He struggled with his duffel bag and his heavy coat while trying to check on the time. Damn it, he didn't want to go someplace where he had to wear a coat, where the temperature shot up and down the thermometer like a yo-yo. He liked it on B-5, where the temperature was regulated for optimum comfort.

  Ivanova hefted her own luggage and bulky jacket. "We'd better keep moving."

  "Mr. Garibaldi!" bellowed a voice. They turned to see a squat man in a loud sportcoat waddling towards them, dragging a huge suitcase in each hand.

  Ivanova gave Garibaldi a raised eyebrow. "Don't tell me that's him?"

  "I'm sure he'll tell you himself." Garibaldi managed a smile.

  His round face beaming, Al Vernon dropped his suit­cases in front of Ivanova. "I'm Al Vernon," he said proudly, "and you must be Commander Ivanova. This is a real pleasure, yes, indeedy!"

  The commander frowned darkly. "I wasn't consulted about you coming with us, and I'm not sure I agree with it. This is a delicate mission, and we may need to be tact­ful." She glanced at Garibaldi. "On the other hand, neither one of us knows how to be tactful. How about you?"

  Al dabbed a handkerchief at his moist forehead. "I don't know how tactful I am, but I do know Narns. With them, you have to deal with a position of strength. If they sense weakness, they'll eat you alive. Have you got any­thing to bargain with?"

  Garibaldi looked at Ivanova and shook his head. "No, all we've got is a data crystal, some vidlogs, and a desire to get home. If we're sticking to the truth, why should we have to bargain?"

  "One hand washes the other. That's a human phrase, but the Narns could have invented it." Al picked up his suitcases and grinned. "I hate to be late! Shall we be going?"

  With Mr. Vernon plunging ahead in the lead, the Terran delegation made their way to bay six, where the K'sha Na'vas was docked. Waiting for them was Na'Toth, who gave the three humans a disdainful look. "I hope you aren't turning this into a circus," she said. Nonplussed, Al Vernon looked at her and smiled. "The flower of Narn womanhood is the thorn."

  Na'Toth blinked at him in surprise. "Where did you learn that?"

  "From my lovely wife, Hannah. Well, that's what I called her; her real name is Ho'Na. She was a great stu­dent of the Vopa Cha'Kur. I have always been attracted to powerful women, Narn women." He shrugged. "It is a terrible weakness. I cannot wait to return to the land of thorny women."

  Na'Toth laughed, a rich, ribald sound. "Under the thorn is the softest fruit," she added.

  "How well I know," agreed Al Vernon. Garibaldi and Ivanova looked blankly at one another, neither one of them being an expert on Narn double entendres. On the plus side, Al Vernon seemed to have made his first conquest among their hosts.

  He bowed formally to N
a'Toth. "May I have the plea­sure of serving you dinner tonight?"

  Na'Toth frowned at the invitation. "I'm sure we'll all eat together. If you'll excuse me. I'll tell the captain that the Terran delegation is here." The lanky Narn strode through the airlock.

  "I'm afraid to ask," said Garibaldi, "but what is this Vopa Cha'Kur?"

  Al smiled. "It's equivalent to Earth's Kama Sutra. Required reading on Narn, old boy."

  With that, the portly man gripped his bags and rum­bled up the ramp. Ivanova and Garibaldi struggled along in his wake. The air-lock door whooshed open, and they walked down another ramp into the receiving compart­ment, where Captain Vin'Tok, his first officer, Yal'Tar, and Na'Toth stood waiting. A crewman bolted the hatch behind them and made ready for departure.

  With importance, Captain Vin'Tok proclaimed, "On behalf of the Narn Regime, welcome aboard the cruiser K'sha Na'vas of the Second Fleet of the Golden Order."

  "It is our pleasure," said Commander Ivanova. "I just wish it were under happier circumstances."

  A communications panel on the wall made a chirping sound, and the first officer rushed to answer it. "This is Yal'Tar."

  "Our escort has arrived," came the reply. "We have completed the checklist, and we are cleared for depar­ture."

  "Escort?" muttered Garibaldi.

  Vin'Tok shrugged. "Two smaller cruisers. It is nothing—just three ships with the same destination. We Narns like to travel in packs."

  "Ah, yes" Al Vernon beamed—"I always feel safe on a Narn vessel. They take the extra precaution."

  Vin'Tok narrowed his eyes at the colorfully dressed human. "I did some checking. You disappeared from Narn two years ago—listed as missing, presumed dead."

  Al laughed nervously. "Well, as the great Mark Twain said, the reports of my death were greatly exaggerated! I will tell you of my adventure over dinner tonight, Captain. Suffice to say, I am happy to be returning to the land that cries in bloodstone."

  Vin'Tok cocked his head and smiled, apparently taken off guard by another Narn homily. He issued some orders to his crew, and Garibaldi looked at Ivanova only to find that her brow was deeply furrowed in thought. "Are you trying to make sense of this?" he whispered.

  "No, he mentioned Mark Twain." She frowned in thought. "That's twice I've heard the name today."

  Garibaldi looked around. "I'm more worried about why we need three warships to get to Homeworld."

  A hatch opened, and two crew members came in to pick up the passengers' luggage and coats. Captain Vin'Tok led his guests through the hatch and down a short walkway that was surrounded by ducts and access panels. They went through another hatch and entered a chamber that contained about sixty seats arranged in a semicircle, facing center. To Garibaldi, the room looked like a combination troop transport and briefing room. With no troops present, the chamber seemed oddly hol­low, like the inside of a tomb.

  Vin'Tok motioned to the empty seats. "You will be comfortable here. Please strap yourselves in with the restraining bars, as there will be an increase in g's and weightlessness for a few minutes. After we have entered hyperspace, I will escort you to your quarters."

  Na'Toth immediately took a seat, as if showing that she was a passenger who knew her place. Al Vernon hus­tled to the seat beside her and unnecessarily helped her pull down her restraining bar. With about fifty empty seats, Garibaldi had a wide range of choices. He always liked to sit at the back of a vessel, where he could keep an eye on everybody else, so he wandered in that direc­tion. Still embedded in her own thoughts, Ivanova trailed after him.

  Garibaldi pulled the molded bar down over his head and lifted his eyebrows at Ivanova. The Narns kept watch on their four passengers until each one was safely strapped into his or her own seat. Only then did they leave them alone in the transport section.

  A few aisles away, Na'Toth and Al were chatting like old friends, although it sounded as if they were now talk­ing about restaurants instead of sex.

  "What do you know about Mark Twain?" Ivanova asked.

  "Plenty," said Garibaldi. "I love Mark Twain."

  Suddenly Garibaldi heard a hollow clanging sound that reverberated around the empty chamber. We're pulling away from the station, he thought. The skin on his face stretched back, his hair follicles tingled, and he could feel a flurry of butterflies in his stomach. They were on their way to the Narn Homeworld.

  As the three Narn cruisers approached the jump gate, they looked like a school of stingrays with twin tails. In formation the sleek ships darted into the jump gate and were swallowed in a blaze of light.

  CHAPTER 7

  Dr. Stephen Franklin bent over his prized patient, Dan Leffler, and smiled at the man. "Just relax. Don't try to move. It's especially important to keep your head still."

  "Okay," muttered Leffler, gazing around at medlab. The blinking lights and instruments blinded him, and he twisted his head from side to side. That gave him a ter­rific headache, so he stopped doing it and just screwed his eyes shut.

  "Lower the lights, please," said Dr. Franklin very calmly. He placed his dark hands on Leffler's chest, and the disoriented man felt a wave of comfort. "Don't move around, please. Just try to stay calm."

  "Chief Garibaldi," croaked Leffler. "I ... uh ... the Narns..."

  "Chief Garibaldi has left the station, but Captain Sheridan is on his way here, and so is your friend, Lou Welch." He smiled pleasantly. "You're a popular fellow, Leffler. I hear that our resident telepath, Talia Winters, wants to see you, too. You just try to collect your thoughts, and don't move around too much. Okay?"

  The doctor stood up, looking confident, calm, and authoritative all at the same time. "Be sure to tell me if you have any serious pain anywhere. We can sedate you again."

  "All right," said the officer, taking a deep breath and starting to feel more like a human being than a blob of confusion. He tried to collect his thoughts, but they seemed to be rather nebulous—just a few scattered images floating weightlessly beyond his grasp.

  Leffler didn't know how long he lay there, getting reacquainted with his various appendages and assuring himself he wasn't seriously hurt, except for the foamcore bandage around his head and the dull throbbing that would not go away. Somebody had sure dinged his rocker panel, but he couldn't remember who, only that it had something to do with Narns. Well, his brother, Taylor, always told him he had a hard head. He guessed that was better than the alternative.

  When he heard voices speaking softly nearby, he opened his eyes and saw the good doctor conferring with Lou Welch, Captain Sheridan, and Talia Winters, who looked like an angel with a halo of blonde hair around her head. "Lou!" he croaked.

  His fellow officer rushed to the bedside, his sardonic face creasing into a smile. "Yeah, Leffler, we send you to do a simple job, and you get your head busted open."

  "Lou, I don't know who did it. I can't tell you any­thing."

  "Relax," Dr. Franklin cautioned. "You won't remem­ber it all at once. Your memory will come back in bits and pieces—it may take days." He looked pointedly at Captain Sheridan. "Your health is the primary concern."

  "Of course," said Sheridan. He smiled at Leffler with his ruggedly handsome face. "Soldier, do you think you're up to answering a few questions?"

  "Yes, sir." Leffler tried to relax. "I'll do the best I can."

  Sheridan glanced at Welch, who consulted a handheld device. "Let me tell you the details that we have so far, and maybe they will jar your memory. You were in Down Below, corridor 112 of Brown Sector, checking for undocumented Narns among the lurkers. This was in connection with the death of Ambassador G'Kar."

  "Yes," said Leffler slowly, the assignment coming back to him. "I remember all of that. We were looking for some family ..."

  "Du'Rog," answered Welch. "That's right, Zeke. You're doing good. That stretch of corridor has a lot of small shacks made out of all kinds of discarded stuff.

  You were checking around, running ID on Narns. Some kids told us that you went inside one of those sh
acks. Do you know what happened next?"

  "I went inside one of them," Leffler repeated to him­self, squinting into their faces. Then he grew frustrated. "I went inside several of them, running lots of identicards. I don't remember one in particular—I don't remember what was so special about it."

  "Let me ask you this," said Captain Sheridan, "do you remember anything odd happening to you? Anything unusual?"

  Leffler shut his eyes, hoping it would improve his memory. His mind did possess one odd image—an old Narn, lying in bed with his back to him. "There was a Narn who was sick," he said. "I never saw his face."

  Sheridan leaned forward. "You never saw his face. So you never verified his ID?"

  "I guess not," admitted Leffler. "Or I did, but I just don't remember it."

  "May I try?" Talia Winters asked softly. Sheridan nodded and motioned toward the patient. The telepath, dressed elegantly in a gray suit with leather trim, stepped to the edge of the bed and smiled sympathetically at Leffler.

  "I'm reluctant to scan you in your condition," she said, "but if we can find out what happened to Ambassador G'Kar..."

  "I understand. It's okay," said Leffler, trying to appear brave in the presence of the beautiful telepath. "What have I got to hide?"

  "I won't find that out," said the telepath. "This scan is going to be very specific, concentrating on what hap­pened to you in Down Below. But if the pain becomes too great, for either one of us, I'm going to break it off."

  "Okay," agreed Leffler, taking a deep breath.

  Slowly, Talia Winters pulled the black leather glove off her right hand, revealing a delicate appendage that was even whiter than her porcelain face. She explained, "I want you to concentrate on an image in your mind from earlier today, when you were in Down Below. It could be a person, like that sick Narn, or a place, or a number on a bulkhead. Just think of something that you clearly remember from earlier today."

  Leffler tried to remember the sick Narn who was lying on the cot, his back toward him. He seemed important for some reason. Then he felt Ms. Winters' cool fingers on his wrist, and the image became crystal clear, popu­lated by a mob of people and impressions vying for his attention. All kinds of memories came cascading into his consciousness, including some from years ago, but Ms. Winters' cool, white hand was there to push most of them away. With her calm assistance, he suddenly knew where he was—in the corridor, outside the row of dilap­idated shacks in Down Below.