I have a message from another time...

                     Eyrie Productions, Unlimited
                               presents

                UNDOCUMENTED FEATURES FUTURE IMPERFECT
                      - SYMPHONY OF THE SWORD -

             Seventh Movement: Reflections in Transition

                         Benjamin D. Hutchins
                           Kris Overstreet
                           with Anne Cross

                 Theme from "Battlecruiser Vengeance"
                           by John M. Ford

                (c) 2001 Eyrie Productions, Unlimited


                         TUESDAY, MAY 3, 2405
                               8:44 AM
              CFMF CHARLEMAGNE, ON STATION AT BABYLON 5
                        EPSILON ERIDANI SYSTEM

        One of the plagues of an admiral's rank is paperwork.  Reports
must be read, acknowledged, and responded to.  Pay chits must be
authorized.  The discipline of the ship, or fleet, must be attended
to, which means review of every ship's Captain's Mast and, occasionally, 
the empaneling of courts-martial.  Reports, in turn, must be written
for those higher up the command chain, detailing operations, endorsing
promotions or demotions, and requesting resupply or refit.
        Aya Nakajima attacked paperwork with the same sort of
mentality she applied to any other attack; she cut straight to what
she felt was important and did it so thoroughly that the slap-dash
handling of the minor details was overlooked.  In this system, Aya
handled military-action reports, court-martial level discipline, and
absolutely nothing else, throwing all the maintenance responsibilities
back onto the captains and rubber-stamping the results.  In the past
year, she had applied the same system to reports coming up to her as
2Div commander from the Seventh, Eighth, and Ninth Task Forces.
        The system might not have been the best in the galaxy, but it
did work.  For any combat reports from the other task forces in the
Second Division, Aya would usually endorse: "I wasn't there, this guy
was.  He's probably right."  Only if her orders were directly and
flagrantly violated in a nonproductive way did Aya take a personal
(and usually vindictive) interest.  Within the task force she
personally commanded, she gave her captains her full support, having
had ten years to weed out the incompetent and unmotivated officers.
With her detailed attention to their combat reports and the loose but
firm discipline she mandated, her aides were easily able to catch
anything she missed.
        It is for this reason that, having begun the morning briefing
and paperwork session at 0800 hours Fleet time (also B5's time), Aya
had either cleared through what could be cleared or set aside those
items which couldn't by 0837, stood on the Charlemagne's main
transporter pads by 0844, and found herself on the bridge of IPS
Challenger, the command deck of Babylon 5, and finally the Babylon 5
extension of the CFA New Orleans' Bazaar - nicknamed the Zocalo by the
Bajoran workers - at 0846, 0847, and 0849 hours respectively.
        The Zocalo was by no means as impressive a sight as the Bazaar
(or Bazaars) on the New Orleans; for one thing, you could see its
beginning and end without straining the eyes across half a kilometer
or more of broad corridor.  For another thing, all the stands were
obviously of a temporary nature, easily taken down and moved, nothing
really heavy or bulky which wasn't equipped with a repulsorlift.
However, despite the fading Freespacer work presence on the station,
the Zocalo showed no signs of going away, and in fact some Bajorans
and other local inhabitants had begun setting up their own stores
nearby.
        After a couple of minutes of searching, Aya found Gryphon at
one of the several Freespacer-owned construction roach-coaches on the
inner edge of the Zocalo.  The first of the station's restaurants
would open for business in a couple of weeks, at which point the
caterers would move on to some other space-habitat job. For now,
however, they continued providing cheap, hot food to the shrinking
construction crew and growing station staff.
        Gryphon was juggling his usual breakfast when on-station
(tangberry danish, hash browns, black tea) when Aya snatched away his
paper cup of tea with one hand, grabbed the empty hand in the other,
and pumped it firmly up and down.
        "Way to go, Gryphon!  Banzai!" she exclaimed.  Aya was at her
most chipper this morning, her smiling face and perky expression
almost more than Captain Benjamin Hutchins could handle.  He'd spent
the prior evening making certain that Earthforce really was standing
down from any possible intention of storming Babylon 5, and had
collapsed into his seldom-used bunk in Blue Sector when Ruri had
finally threatened him with phaser stun if he didn't get some rest.
As a result, his brain was either in that Blue Sector bed or in his
bunk on Challenger or, sweet thought of thoughts, luxuriating on the
pillow of his soft, cozy bed in New Avalon... and not at all in the
Zocalo, certainly not looking slightly down at Aya Nakajima's cute,
maniacal smile and victory pose.
        (For a moment, just a moment, the "I'm in bed" image and the
"oh, it's Aya" image blended into something quite interesting, but his
"no, that can't be right" filter caught and purged it almost
immediately, more was the pity.)
        "Aya," he gasped, buying time while his brain made the commute
back to his skull, "bwa?  Wha?  My arm?"
        "Oh!"  Aya released his hand at last, belatedly restoring his
beverage to him as he added, "I watched the whole escape!  I couldn't
believe how you dodged all those minesats!  And then BAZORK!! you blew
up the interdiction satellite!  You squeezed a Reflex cannon into that
little ship!  I can't believe it!  Can I have one?"
        Gryphon's brain had finally arrived, but in metaphorical terms
its tie was askew and its briefcase spilled all over the office
floor.  "Aya, Aya," he said, waving her down, "slow up just a bit and
start at the beginning.  I don't have the first idea what you're
talking about."
        "Your -rescue-," Aya said, coming off like nothing so much as
an overexcited child.  "You folded out of nowhere in Daggerdisc and
swooped down and - "
        "OH!" Gryphon said, comprehension dawning.  He took a bite of
his danish, chewed, swallowed, and then said, "Sorry, but that wasn't
me."
        Aya's jaw dropped slightly.  "You mean you -didn't- put a
Reflex cannon in Daggerdisc?"
        Gryphon couldn't help chuckling. "Get your mind out of your
big-gun fixation, Aya.  Yes I did, no you can't have one, and I wasn't
the one at the controls.  I was right here in this system, wondering
why the Earthforce tactical band had suddenly gone all noisy.  The one
doing the hotshot driving was my son."
        "Leonard?" Aya scratched her head, looking very puzzled.  "I
didn't think he was interested in ships.  Destroids, yes, but not
ships."
        "No, not Len."
        "Not -Guy-?  He's only, what, ten?"
        "Almost twelve, but no - it was Corwin, actually."
        Aya's jaw dropped again, still further.  "Little Corwin?
Skuld's son?  I haven't seen him in years!!"
        "He's grown," Gryphon said, shrugging.  "He's the same age as
Len, you know."
        Aya took a moment to absorb this information, then smiled
again.  "Well," she declared, "I promised to shake the hand of the man
who pulled off that escape, and I am going to do just that!"  Grabbing
Gryphon's arm, Aya pulled him away from the catering booth, saying,
"Now, c'mon!  It's nearly 0900 and I'm running late!"
        Shrugging, Gryphon scarfed down his breakfast as she hauled
him through the corridors of the station, much to the amusement of
various passing station personnel.
        They wound up in the docking bay where Daggerdisc was
berthed.  From outside, there didn't seem to be anyone around.
Someone had been there - the wreckage of the comm dish was almost
completely removed from the upper hull, and several of the nastier
scorch marks were gone - but no one was in evidence now.  Gryphon went
to the base of the ramp, looked up inside, and yelled, "CORWIN?"
        From inside came the sounds of feet on deck plates, and then
Corwin appeared, dressed in a slightly dirty gray technician's
coverall and carrying what looked like about half of a deflector
shield emitter head.
        "Yeah?" he said as he came down the ramp.
        Gryphon started to say, "I've got someone here who'd like to - "
        Aya, eyes going wide, gasped, then seized Corwin's free
hand (heedless of the fact that it was rather dirty) and pumped it
vigorously.
        "Oh my goodness, -look- at you!" she said.  "The boy who put
the Solo twins to shame!  How -are- you?  I haven't seen you since you
were thiiiiiis high!" she added with the appropriate gesture.  "Wow!
I'm going to get a crick in my neck if you grow any more!"
        As Corwin attempted to formulate a response to this onslaught,
there came the sound of more footsteps from behind him, and then Utena
Tenjou rounded the corner from the aft engine compartment.  She wore
one of her Ohtori Academy uniform jackets over Martian Army fatigue
pants, and had somehow contrived to keep it relatively clean, though
she had managed to acquire a smear of grease on one cheek from
somewhere.
        "Oh!  You must be Corwin's girlfriend!" said Aya with a broad
smile, which caused both of them to blush furiously.
        "Um, well - " said Corwin.
        At the same time, Utena offered, "That's not - "
        But Aya wasn't listening.  She grabbed Utena's hands too,
wrung them, and looked her up and down with undisguised admiration.
"You're so CUTE!  I like that shade of pink, and the uniform is so
COOL!"  She leaned nearer as if imparting a confidence and said, "I
looked ridiculous in -my- school uniform, and it was worse when I got
out - Starfleet was still using the bootie PJs until my second year
out of the Academy."
        "Um," said Utena.
        Aya blinked, then smacked herself in the forehead.  "Oh, I'm
sorry, how rude of me."  She squared herself up and saluted smartly.
"Vice Admiral Ayami Nakajima, Confederate Freespacers Mercenary Fleet."
        "Nice to meet you, Admiral.  I'm Utena Tenjou."
        Aya dropped the military pose effortlessly, grinned, and said,
"Oh, I've known Corwin since he was knee high - I think it's OK if his
girlfriend calls me Aya."
        "Well - "
        "Corwin," said Gryphon diplomatically, "did you have
breakfast?"
        "Not yet," Corwin replied.  "I wanted to get the comm-dish
housing cleared before - "
        "No breakfast?  That's no way for a growing boy to start the
day," Aya insisted.  "C'mon, we'll go up to the New Orleans and get
something at the Corellian House of Hotcakes, my treat.  It's the
least I can do for that show you gave me yesterday."
        Corwin glanced at Utena, who grinned and said, "I'll go wash
up."
        "OK, cool.  C'mon aboard," said Corwin, and the four of them
went into Daggerdisc's wardroom.  Corwin put the piece of shield
generator down on the dining-booth table, and while Utena disappeared
into one of the staterooms, Corwin chatted with Aya and his father as
he washed his face and hands in the galley sink.
        Utena returned presently, having cleaned the grease from her
face and hands.  She entered the wardroom belting on the Thorn of the
Rose, which, being an unusual accessory for a teenage girl to have,
caught Aya's attention immediately.
        "Wow," the Freespacer said after examining the intricate
basket hilt for a moment.  "That is a -nice- sword."
        "Hm?  Oh, thank you."
        "Where'd you get it?" asked Aya.
        "Corwin made it for my birthday," Utena told her.
        Aya blinked, impressed.  "Really?  Corwin, you're so -talented-!  
Know how to use it?" she asked Utena with a speculative smile.
        "Gryphon-sensei thinks I do all right," Utena replied with a
private sort of grin.
        "Is that so?" Aya asked Gryphon, looking intrigued.
        Gryphon nodded.  "She's beaten me, on a good day," he
confirmed.  Aya Nakajima was in a position to know what that meant;
she'd seen him in action several times, once against pretty long odds.
Her eyes sparkled at the implications as she looked Utena over again
in this new light.
        "Oh ho!  Well, looks like plenty of room here," said Aya,
gesturing to the mostly-empty docking bay.  "Let's try it out."
        "Aya, c'mon," said Gryphon.  "You just met the girl, she
hasn't had breakfast yet or anything."
        "Yeah, you're right," said Aya, pouting.  Then she shook it
off and said brightly, "OK, c'mon, let's get some breakfast."

        "Did you know," said Aya to Corwin after the waitress brought
their pancakes, "you probably prevented a civil war?"
        Corwin looked faintly confused.  "Pardon?" he asked.
        "Not an Earth civil war," Aya clarified, "a Federation one.  I
was ready to commit a full carrier task force to rescuing your
friends, especially the Princess and Kate.  We would have lost ships
in that rescue... Earthforce would have lost more... Starfleet might
have gotten involved... and with that start, you have Corellia and
Salusia at each other's throats, the WDF against Starfleet, the
Klingons trying to choose a side, GENOM doing Buddha only knows what,
and the Romulans and Cardassians swooping in to pick the bones."
        Corwin blinked.
        "Surprised?" asked Aya.  "I -do- consider these things.  I
think about 'em a lot, especially at two in the morning on a night
without a party.  But I was prepared to start that war, because the
alternative - at that moment - was to let the Psi Corps get away with
murder.
        "Ben probably told you this already; if not, he should have,"
she went on, gesturing with her fork.  "We're looking at a war
sometime in the next, oh, maybe ten years.  I think yesterday pushed
that war back a bit. Earthforce had to back down.  They've just
realized their support isn't nearly as strong as they thought, and
their personal defense force isn't strong enough yet to stand against
the rest of the galaxy.  Earthforce, the Psi Corps, even the Dome,
they're going to back off for a while, until this incident is
yesterday's news.
        "But they aren't going to forget, or forgive, or change their
goals.  The Earth Alliance is back on its heels today, but it's still
twenty-five percent of the entire Federation.  Once the heat is off,
they are going to -arm-.  They're going to build a fleet big enough to
challenge Salusia, or us, or the WDF even.  They're going to keep
eating away at the Federation Starfleet until it becomes nothing more
than a branch of Earthforce.  They're going to find allies like the
Corellians among the Federation, and run off minor powers, until the
Psi Act becomes law throughout the Federation.  Or maybe worse."
        Aya paused, looking uncharacteristically grave, then put
her hand on Corwin's shoulder and went on seriously,
        "And when the war -does- come, Earth is gonna -remember- us,
Corwin.  Right now there's a bunch of Psi Corps officers very very
interested in you and your friends, and a bunch of Earth Alliance
generals who want me on a barbecue spit, and a bunch of politicians
who agree with all of them.  They are gonna remember... so you need to
be ready for when they try again."
        Gryphon looked across the table at Utena and, despite the
gravity of what Aya was telling his son, smiled a private little
smile, which she returned.  Corwin, unnoticing, asked the Freespacer
admiral, a trifle defensively,
        "What are you saying we should do?  Hide?"
        Aya snorted.  "Hide?  You?  Hell no!  -Fight-!  I know your
mother, kid.  I know she's training you.  Your father says that Utena
here is good enough to beat him, and I trust his judgment.  Both of
you, keep learning!  Keep practicing!  Teach your friends!  And when
the time comes, when you have the chance to stop injustice and protect
those you love... then the hell with the consequences, -do what is
right-."
        Corwin smiled, as if to counterbalance Aya's unwonted
solemnity, and said, "My track record's pretty good."
        Aya grinned, her somber mood shattering, and she whomped
Corwin on the shoulder in a man-to-man sort of way, rocking him
sideways in his seat.  "So I've seen," she said.  "You just keep right
on doing what you're doing.  Keep your chin up and your eyes open,
don't be afraid, and you'll be fine."
        Aya slugged back the rest of her Singapore sling (with
-breakfast-?! Utena had thought when she ordered it), put down the
glass, and stood up, smoothing her uniform.  "Well."  She hauled
Corwin out of his seat and into a very snug embrace, shook Utena's
hand with a wink, mussed up Gryphon's hair, and said, "I gotta go run
my fleet, or T'Pall will show up and drag me off by the ear."
        "I doubt T'Pall would do that," said Gryphon with a lazy grin.
        "Oh?" said Aya.  "And why's that?"
        "Because," Gryphon replied calmly, "that's Homare's job.
Right, Homare?"
        Aya's eyes widened as her twin brother's thumb and forefinger
closed on her left ear.
        "OW!" she cried, drawing only a few glances from the staff and
patrons of the restaurant.  Everyone there was too used to her to
react any more than that.
        "C'mon, Sis," said Homare Nakajima resignedly.  "There's a
task force conference in five minutes.  Captain.  Kids," he said with
a cordial nod to Aya's tablemates.
        "Ow, quit it, OK!  I'm coming already, leggo!"  Aya waved
wildly as she was dragged away, shouting after her, "See ya at
Redneck's barbecue!  If ya want a tour of my ships, set it up with
Claire!  Ja ne!  OW, Homare, dammit!"
        Corwin sat down, shaking his head.  Only then did he notice
that, though it seemed in retrospect as if she'd spent the entire time
talking, Aya had nevertheless managed to put away no fewer than six
pancakes, plus hashbrowns and sausage.  Only crumbs and syrup traces
remained on her plate.
        "Remarkable woman," Gryphon observed, having just noticed the
same thing.
        "Did she just stick us with the check?" Utena wondered.
        "Of course not, miss," said their waiter jovially, pausing on
his way to deliver a tray of food to another table in his zone.  "Don't
worry about a thing.  Admiral Nakajima's tab at this House of Hotcakes
is legendary throughout the chain."
        "Oh," said Utena.
        "Why, some years ago," the Bolian went on, his eyes misting up
nostalgically, "when the Fleet was at Zardon, she treated the entire
crew of a visiting WDF cruiser to breakfast here.  450 beings!"  The
waiter sighed wistfully.  "That was a good tip... "
        "Those waffles aren't going to serve themselves, Dremp," an
irritable voice growled from the serving counter.
        Dremp sighed again, more annoyed than wistful this time.  "One
has so little time for pleasant conversation in this job," he
observed as he bustled away.  "Good day, all... "

        Juri Arisugawa had just emerged from the shower when she heard
the merry little song of the door chime.  Glancing down the short
hallway from the bathroom, she saw that the door to the suite's master
bedroom was still shut; either there was no one in there, or whoever
was left (-someone- had used the shower before Juri) was still asleep.
Sighing, she pulled on her bathrobe, wrapped her thick orange hair in
a towel to keep it from dripping all over everything, and went to
answer the door.
        The person standing there was a young man with slightly
tousled brown hair, dressed in the black and gray duty uniform of the
International Police Organization Space Force.  Juri didn't recognize
him, but she knew the uniform on sight, though she wasn't adept enough
just yet to be able to tell the newcomer's rank from the single gold
hash mark on his turtleneck collar.
        Apparently the uniformed boy (for he was only a boy - Juri
knew looks could be deceiving, especially in this world, but he looked
no older than Miki) was of the opinion that Juri outranked him.  He
came to attention and saluted, not visibly concerned that he was
addressing a somewhat-less-than-elegant late-teenage girl in a towel
turban and a rather damp white terrycloth bathrobe.
        "The Captain's compliments, ma'am," said the uniformed young
man briskly.  "He wonders if you and your companions would care to
lunch with him and his officers aboard Challenger this afternoon."
        Juri looked at the young officer with a straight face, though
inside she was more amused than she'd been since this whole adventure
had begun.  It's a good thing I answered the door, and not Utena, she
thought.  She might laugh in his face; she wouldn't mean any harm by
it, but still, it would bruise his ego.
        "My compliments to the Captain," she replied smoothly, "and
please tell him that we would be delighted, assuming I can wake the
others."
        "Thank you, ma'am," said the young officer gravely.  "If you
will report to Transporter Room Two at as near to noon as is
convenient, you will be conveyed aboard promptly."  He saluted again,
pivoted smartly on his heel, and moved briskly off down the corridor.
Juri watched him go, small smile hovering around the corners of her
mouth, then went back inside and let the bulkhead door close behind
her before chuckling softly.
        "Something f-funny?" inquired Kaitlyn Hutchins as she emerged
from the master bedroom, looking slightly owlish without her glasses,
hair mussed, tiger pajamas rumpled.
        "We've been invited to lunch with your father aboard his
starship," she said.  "The young man they sent to convey the
invitation... "  Juri shook her head, chuckling again.  The young
man's earnestness had been almost painful - he'd reminded her of Miki,
before he'd learned to take things easier.  "Let's say he took his
work very seriously."

        In a small but comfortably appointed two-room suite in Red
Sector, Elizabeth Broadbank sat at the bedroom desk and stared hard at
the face of her father's robotic secretary as if willing the machine's
head to explode.
        "If you'll just tell him it's -me- calling," she began, but
709 cut her off flatly,
        "Mr. Broadbank is in an important meeting and has left
instructions that he is not to be disturbed.  Your message will be
conveyed.  I can do no more."
        Liza felt herself starting to boil over and clamped a lid down
over it.  She was in enough trouble without pitching a tantrum at a
stupid answerbot that didn't know better.
        "Fine," she said with an effort.  "You have my number here?"
        "Yes," 709 replied.  "Thank you for calling Aztechnology."
        Liza stared at the BabCom logo for a few moments, then sighed
and threw herself down on the bed.
        "Suit yourself," she said to no one.  "It's not like I'm going
anywhere."

        The hostelries of the CFA New Orleans are located close to the
four main docking bays of the ship, especially in the forward quarter
of the vessel, next to the vast Docking Bay One and the two-dozen-odd
privately owned repair bays there.  In this forward area, near the
broad, kilometer-long main corridor linking DB1 and the Processional
at the center of the ship, were the Hilton Freespace, the Barony Arms
New Orleans, the Hutt-owned Zlato-Zlato, all the Freespacer nation's
high-class hotels - except for the rooms at Calrissian's on the
Processional.  When the refugees from the Worcester Preparatory
Institute arrived on the New Orleans, the Powers that Be decided not
to board underage school children in a casino hotel.
        So it was that, on the morning after arrival, Mia Ausa found
herself waking in one of the Hilton's luxury suites' single bedrooms.
Unaccustomed to sleeping human-style, she had a disagreeable crick in
her neck and a persistent, irrational feeling that she had somehow
courted ill fortune by spending a night in the room's enormous bed,
but both faded during her morning ablutions.  By the time she emerged
from the bathroom and dressed, she felt pretty much normal.
        Like the others, she'd escaped with minimal packing.  She had
a single valise, a black leather one like a portable computer case,
and had brought only one set of clothes, her Anla'shok battle uniform.
This was a good choice for the possibility of a protracted lack of
resources - sturdy and made of highly resistant fabrics, it would stay
clean considerably longer than normal clothing.
        As she sat down to brush her long black hair, she switched on
the small dataterm built into the bedroom desk and set it to Network
23, her father's network.
        A moment later, her hairbrush clattered to the floor as she
saw his face, and behind it the wreckage of the Wedge back on the WPI
campus.
        "It's all over here now but the administrative screaming,"
John Trussell's face said, but Mia didn't hear him.  She was too busy
trying to get her heart started again.
        "In Valen's name," she murmured.  "They sent -him-?!  Are they
-mad-?"  Then she gathered her wits, shaking her head.  Of course, she
reminded herself.  They don't know how dangerous it is, and he
wouldn't refuse the assignment.
        She felt a little better when she noticed the blinking red
"REBROADCAST" icon flashing in the corner of the screen.  If anything
had happened to him, they wouldn't be rerunning his earlier report,
would they?
        That depended on the ratings.
        Mia fumbled with the terminal controls, deactivating its TV
function and punching in a communications code instead.  The Hilton
"Please Wait" graphic appeared, cycled a few times, and then the face
of a receptionist appeared.
        "Good morning, Network 23," said the receptionist.
        "News department, please," said Mia, sounding considerably
more collected than she felt.  "I must speak with John Trussell."
        "Who is calling, please?"
        "My name is Mia Ausa.  I'm his daughter."
        "One moment, please."  The screen switched to a Network 23
version of the same standard "Please Wait" screen, then back to the
receptionist.  "I'm sorry, Mr. Trussell is in the field at this time.
Would you like to leave him vidmail?"
        "No," said Mia, feeling herself edge toward desperation.
"What about his producer?"
        "One moment, please," said the receptionist in the same
blandly pleasant tone.  The screen went to the "Please Wait" image a
third time, then blipped to a different face.  Mia felt herself partly
relax, for this face was a friendly one, one she recognized.
        "Theora," said Mia.  "Where's Murph?"
        "Catching some sleep in the break room," replied Network 23
news director Theora Carter.  "We're on hour twenty-five of the
Worcester crisis, if you start counting from the first reports of the
WPI campus lockdown."  Theora smiled.  "Worried about your dad?"
        "I just saw the rerun - him standing in front of the Wedge.
Is he all right?"
        "He's fine."  Theora looked mildly surprised.  "Why wouldn't
he be?  Your own involvement aside, it's just another story."
        Just another story.  Right.  Mia forced an unaggressive look
of relief onto her face.  "Can you link me through to him?  I'd really
like to talk to him."
        "Sure.  Hold on."  Again with the "Please Wait" graphic, and
then Mia had to make herself not recoil in horror from what she saw
next.
        Al, John Trussell's cybernetic Controller, had a fondness for
rendering himself in what he considered to be the cutting edge of
human fashions.  Unfortunately, no one had ever been able to determine
just where Al had acquired his notions of what was and was not
fashionable, and so his virtual wardrobe tended to be rather
eye-bending.  Today he was sporting something in alternating verdigris
and Romulan-ale-blue iridescent diagonal stripes which, at the
"distance" he was from the "camera", interfered with the Galactic
Video Communications Encoding Standard quite remarkably.
        "Heyyy!" said Al delightedly.  "Mia!  How are you, honey?
You and your friends have this place in quite an uproar."
        "I'm fine, Al.  Is Dad there?"
        "He's sacked out in the back.  We're on our way back to
Sydney - not much more to see in Worcester now that Tremayne's out of
a job."
        "Director Tremayne was... fired?"
        "Ohhh yeah.  They sent him to the Moon.  He's gonna be chasing
dust bunnies for the next couple years.  That's what happens when you
nearly get the Earth destroyed.  You want me to wake up your old man
for you?"
        "Please."
        "No problem.  Hey!  Hey!  One of you bucketheads wake up the
boss, his daughter's on the phone for him."
        "Mr. Trussell has had only two hours of sleep," a
single-sideband vocoder voice intoned from somewhere off screen.
        Another, similar voice pitched slightly lower added, "Humans
require six to eight for - "
        "Did I ask for a biology report?" Al demanded.  "No!  Wake him
up!  Stupid machines."  He looked apologetically at Mia.  "Sorry.
It's so hard to find good help these days."
        A second later, the screen changed again, this time to a view
of a rather disheveled, puffy-eyed John Trussell.  His sleep-blurred
face brightened considerably when he saw his daughter.
        "Mia," he said, smiling.  "I was going to try calling you when
I woke up.  Where are you?"
        "The Freespacer Home Fleet at Bajor," said Mia.  "Dad, what
the hell were you thinking?!"
        Truss raised an eyebrow.  "'Scuse me?" he asked.  "There was a
story to cover, I covered it.  That's my job."
        "Stop it," Mia replied.  "You know what I mean.  What in the
world possessed you to walk right up to a Psi Cop and stick a camera
in his face?"
        "What was I supposed to do?  Hide out in Sydney and tell Murph
to send somebody else?  You were involved, Mia.  I couldn't just stay
home.  Besides, I'm fine.  Tremayne was too preoccupied to suspect a
thing."
        "I suppose... but it's so -dangerous-.  Why can't you get out
of there?  Ask for a transfer to one of the offworld bureaus.  Get
away from Earth before they tighten the restrictions or issue a
blanket re-screening."
        "Most of the network's offworld bureaus are still within the
Earth Alliance," said Truss.
        "They must be planning to open one on Babylon 5," Mia pointed
out.
        "I imagine so, but I haven't heard anything definite."
        "Ask for that.  Please?  Edison will give it to you, I know he
will.  You... you could tell him why if you had to."
        Truss looked like he wanted to chuckle, but he didn't, because
he knew his daughter was taking this all very seriously.  Instead he
considered for a few moments, then sighed and said, "All right, Mia.
I'll ask about it as soon as I get back to Headquarters.  Where are
you headed next?"
        "I'm not sure.  There's been talk of Zeta Cygni giving us
asylum until everything can be sorted out.  I think Kate's father is
working on it."
        Truss nodded.  "OK.  That's all in good hands, then.  Can you
keep me posted?  I'll let you know as soon as I find anything out on
this end."
        "All right."  Mia paused, then went on, "Thank you... for
looking into it.  When I saw that you had gone there... I don't think
I've ever been so scared."
        Truss smiled ruefully.  "I'm sorry," he said.  "I didn't even
think of it at the time.  I'll let you know what happens.  OK?"
        "OK."
        "Love you."
        "I love you too, Dad.  Bye for now."
        Mia broke the connection, then sighed.  Aunt Delenn was right
about her father, she decided; he could be so -difficult- sometimes.

        Not long afterward, a properly uniformed Harcourt McKenzie
rousted his fellow refugees from their Hilton luxury suites and,
wielding a credit chit from the CFMF Home Fleet, stated that the Fleet
was rescuing them from the horrors of Room Service, or worse yet the
Complimentary Continental Breakfast.  After breakfast - if the
brand-new communicator on his belt didn't beep, anyway - a leisurely
sightseeing trip would be possible, anything from the grand shops of
the central Processional to the grubby but colorful booths and
pavillions of the Bazaar.
        The others, although unresponsive to the prospect of shopping
with the minor amount of cash available among them, greeted the
prospect of a truly gourmet breakfast with approval.  A few morning
abolutions, changes of clothing for those who brought them, and a
prolonged assembly of the group later, Mac led his fellow students to
a turbolift which deposited them within short walking distance of the
Imperial Centauri Diner ("Anything You Desire, By Your Command").
        Despite the vast disparity of human, Hoffmanite, Narn,
t'skrang, Dantrovian, and Minbari palates, the short-order cook didn't
bat an eye as Mac ordered his favorite breakfast (pigs in a blanket,
Bantha bacon and two eggs scrambled with toast and bluapple jam) and
encouraged his companions to do likewise.  Conversation was muted over
the loud and enthusiastic clattering of the other patrons' plates and
cutlery, and muted still more as the orders came up, done to the
perfection of a cook with a gift for knowing what every culture's
version of a 'greasy spoon' is and how to mimic it.
        The food was not what any of the diners would call haute
cuisine.  It was, more importantly, -good food-, prepared in such a
way as to remind one not of a chef but of family and home, of the
little cafe just down the block.  Although G'Kron complained as a
matter of form, having had nothing but a glass of hyng juice, everyone
else was quite satisfied with both service and food.  Mac had to wave
off a couple of attempts to tip; not only would the Centauri staff be
offended, but they would add an extra charge to the Fleet's bill
anyway.
        Thus far undisturbed by Mac's communicator, the group
adjourned to the corridors of the New Orleans, fortified by a hearty
meal, for some serious rubbernecking.
        On this day, they discovered, there was rather more to ogle
than usual.
        As the shops and bazaar stalls opened for business, black and
gold banners rose across the high ceilings of the corridors.  Video
displays everywhere replayed, again and again, the arrival of the
Sixth Carrier Task Force, footage of the kids immediately after
beaming onto the New Orleans, even footage from the Daggerdisc's
narrow escape from Earth's defense grid.  Placards razzing the Psi
Corps, the Earth Ministry of Peace, and various other causes rose from
every corner, including not a few sales racks.  The Freespacer nation,
it seemed, was suffering an acute attack of patriotism, and for some
peculiar reason the WPI students stood at the core of it all.
        Mac's attempts to encourage store browsing proved an
embarrassing failure.  Every store owner greeted them at the door and
practially -piled- free merchandise onto the victim of choice.  Mia,
for instance, who'd had very few possessions at WPI, found her
material wealth doubled in five minutes when a Corellian free trader
loaded her down with one of every Minbari import in his shop.
Invariably afterwards came a photograph, a pose, and a handshake (with
business card slipped in hand for future business).  When a bookstore
attempted to offer G'Kron a spokesperson contract, Mac finally broke
off the entire thing and hustled the group back to the hotel before
someone began sewing corporate logos on their clothing.
        "I really -am- sorry," Mac sighed as the turbolift rushed them
back to the hotel district.  "Usually the word -free- isn't in the
Freespacer vocabulary."
        G'Kron looked confused.  "Yes it is," he observed.  "It's in
your very -name-."
        Mac sighed.  "You know what I mean."
        "I do?" said G'Kron, looking still -more- puzzled.
        "It's all right," said Azalynn, who had made the error of
walking into two stores - a candle shop and a bladesmith - and now
bore two votive candles, a foot-long aromatic candle, and a complete
set of ceremonial Colonial Warrior blades, plus a coupon for half-off
a blaster to complete the armament.  "I've got a terrific head start
on my Christmas shopping... "
        "Things should calm down in a few days," Mac continued.
"Another time, when our faces aren't on FNS every thirty minutes,
there's a lot I'd like to show you."
        "I, for one, wouldn't mind a second trip," said Moose.  He had
been targeted by a music shop owner.  After repeated statements that
he neither played nor desired to learn the Sousaphone, the bak'rakh
and dayyv'd, or the pandemonium, he had accepted the gift of a
contrabass violin which the shop owner insisted had "just sat around
there since forever."  Moose strongly doubted that, considering the
"NEW ITEM!  ONLY Mk3,500" tag on the case.  One look at the
electrocardial schnootz taking up one entire wall of the shop, though,
had convinced him that it -could- be worse.  He could at least -carry-
the bass fiddle, and he was intrigued by the miniature set of tuned
Hoffmanite orchestral anvils in the discount section... for future
purchase, perhaps.
        Along with the bass fiddle, Moose carried the overflow of
G'Kron's load.  G'Kron had become the subject of a bizarre bidding war
in reverse, with a group of shopkeepers competing to see who could
pile more free merchandise onto the stunned Narn.  The eventual winner
had been the book store owner, a Cardassian expatriate who proved
himself a faster and more verbose talker than even G'Kron, and by the
time Mac pulled the paper contract out of the dazed Narn's hands
G'Kron's entire wardrobe had been replaced, he owned a copy of every
book by every prophet Narn revered, a golf bag had been slung over his
shoulders, and a plateful of the highest quality gourmet spoo had been
stuck into his mouth.  (Not the spoo, the plate. G'Kron had been
forced to hold it in his teeth until Azalynn removed it.)
        Everyone knew that when G'Kron's brain completed the
inevitable rant on -this- subject, it would be a doozy.  Mac found
himself rather looking forward to it.
        The group staggered into the Hilton lobby, laden with the
products of a very strange generosity.  The procession stopped cold as
Mac froze, stood to attention, and saluted a stern middle-aged man
wearing dingy ship's coveralls.  Of average height and stocky build,
and bald as a cue ball, the older man returned the salute and
muttered, "At ease, Cord."
        As the group eased around Mac into the lobby, they noticed
that the man wasn't alone.  A brunette in a plain, no-nonsense dress,
hair done up in a bun, stepped over to join the long-faced man beside
Mac.  Behind her was a woman fighting and losing the battle of the
bulge, hand in hand with a tall swarthy man possessed of a perpetual
smile and pencil-thin mustache.  Behind them all stood a young woman
with raven-black hair and a stately old woman of at least a century's
age, hair solid white from scalp to shoulder.
        The stocky man to whom Mac had saluted began looking him up
and down, inspecting with a cool, analytical gaze.  He walked halfway
around Mac, noted idly the immense mass of MacEchearn blocking his
path, and returned to the front.  "You look fairly well, Cord," he
said at last.  "I trust you have been giving proper attention to your
studies, despite this...  -lamentable- state of affairs."
        "Aye, Captain," Mac said.
        "I'd never expected you to take after your grandfather," the
stocky man continued.  "Risks.  Danger.  Excitement.  I thought you
didn't like those things."
        "It was necessary, sir," Mac replied simply.
        The stocky man accepted this, nodding approval.  "Just don't
make a habit of it.  There is a surplus of adventure-seeking fools and
a severe lack of serious-minded people today."  Looking around the
other students, he added, "I hope you and your friends didn't sign any
endorsements this morning."
        "I don't think so, sir," Mac said.  "A few holograms, nothing
more."
        "Good, good," the stocky man said.  "Ladies and gentlemen, I
am Cyrano McKenzie, captain of the private freighter Aurochs.  You are
well acquainted with my son Cord."  He gestured to Mac, who still stood
at an aggressive parade rest.  "This is the rest of our family: my
wife Shirley," nodding to the woman in the bun, "my sister Jasper and
her husband, Fredrigo dos Santos," and the pair bowed deeply, Jasper
following her tall husband's lead, "their daughter Caspia, and my
mother, Emerald McKenzie."  The young lady smiled as Emerald stepped
forward and hugged Mac, then shook hands with the rest of the WPI
students.
        Mac, in turn, introduced the various WPI students, barely
getting through the group before a startled female squeal from across
the lobby drew attention to the occupant of a hoverchair, who had just
goosed a maid in passing.
        "Oh, -blast,-" Cyrano grumbled.  "Mom, I thought you were
keeping an -eye- on him."
        The hoverchair's occupant, giggling madly, made a beeline for
the large group.  The occupant was -ancient-, two hundred years old if
a day, skin and bones, one very lonely lock of silver hair in the
center of his scalp.  A black patch covered one eye socket, and a
walking cane with a silver skull head on top poked from the blanket
covering his lap.
        "Emerald's grandfather," Cyrano sighed, gesturing
introduction, "the dread pirate of Corellia, Commodore Coros bel
Bendi."
        Bel Bendi waved cheerfully at the group.  "Well, if it isn't
little Harry!  And how is my little space marine doing, hmm?"
        "I apologize," Cyrano muttered to the others.  "He's quite
senile.  We had to take him in four years ago when we found him on
Obroa-skai trying to recruit a crew."
        "Is he... "  Azalynn reconsidered her question.  "Was he
really a space pirate?"
        "Over a hundred years ago, yes," Cyrano muttered.  "He was
defeated twice by Wedge Defense Force ships -before- the collapse.  He
sold out his operations to the CFMF almost ninety years ago in
exchange for amnesty, but these days..."  He gestured to the old man,
who was describing sword battles and blaster shootouts that Mac
doubtless had led to victory, while Mac smiled and nodded pleasantly
through.
        "Cord," Cyrano said, breaking through bel Bendi's random
chatter, "I came here to offer you transport from here to the Republic
of Zeta Cygni.  The Home Fleet will relocate there after the
christening ceremonies for the station are complete, but Captain
Hutchins has expressed his hope that you'll reside in New Avalon as
his guest until things quieten down again.  Your friends are welcome
to join you, of course, but it will take us a few days to reach Zeta
Cygni, so they may wish to use faster transportation."
        Before anyone could reply, Mac's communicator beeped for his
attention.  Looking faintly surprised, he took it from his belt,
flipped it open, and said, "McKenzie here."
        "Midshipsman McKenzie," came the clipped voice of Commander
Typhon, the second officer of the New Orleans.  "Orders from Home
Fleet.  You are to escort your charges to Transporter Room 1 at 1200
hours sharp for transport to Babylon 5.  Have all personal effects
either present or tagged for transport from the hotel."
        Mac's brow furrowed.  "But - " he said.
        "Upon receiving quarters assignments," Typhon continued as
if he hadn't heard the midshipsman's objection (which was likely), "you
will then proceed to IPS Challenger no later than 1300 for lunch at
the Captain's table."
        "Sir, I - "
        "That gives you eighty-seven minutes, Midshipsman," said
Typhon pointedly.  "Better get moving.  Any questions?" he added,
in a tone that made it perfectly clear that there had better not be.
        "... No, Commander.  Orders acknowledged.  McKenzie out."  Mac
closed the communicator, put it back on his belt, and gave his father
a chagrined look.
        "Bah," Coros bel Bendi spat.  "Stinkin' rear-echelon motherf - "
        "GRANDFATHER!" said Emerald primly.
        For his part, Cyrano McKenzie didn't bat an eye.  "Well,
that's settled," he said with a firm nod.  "If you'll excuse us," he
added to the others, "I wish to debrief Midshipsman McKenzie in
private before he has to leave.  Cord, follow me... "
        A few brief farewells later, the McKenzie clan and the WPI
students parted, the students for their hotel rooms and the McKenzies
to return to their ship.  Mac followed his father down the corridor to
one of the Hilton's smaller meeting rooms, which lay empty at the
moment.  Cyrano opened the door, gestured Mac inside, and followed,
closing the door behind him.
        Father and son faced each other for a long, uncomfortable
moment.  Finally, Cyrano stepped forward, dropping all formality, and
hugged Mac tightly, rocking on his feet with emotions he hadn't
allowed himself to show in public.
        "Thank God you're home, son," Cyrano whispered, "thank God
you're home."

        The Duelists and their friends (less Amanda and Devlin, who
were still confined to Medlab on Babylon 5) entered the starship
Challenger's officers' mess with some trepidation.  Few of them had
ever been aboard a military starship before, and none, except Kate,
Utena and Mac, quite knew what would be expected of them. 
        Mac had acquired a new dress uniform and was looking his
absolute sharpest.  None of the rest were quite so formal - they
couldn't be, having no clothes but what they'd brought with them and
little money with which to buy new ones.  Most of them still wore
somewhat rumpled WPI uniforms.  G'Kron's sudden wealth of clothing
from the New Orleans was all casual-wear, unsuited for any formal
occasion.  Since arriving from Earth, only Utena and Corwin had been
able to change - one of her Ohtori uniforms had still been in her
duffel bag after her trip to the Moon, and he'd had a couple of
changes stored aboard Daggerdisc for emergencies.
        What they found was an unintimidating room one level below and
just aft of the bridge, rather intimate, really, considering the size
of the ship.  It had a nice view of the rear half of the main hull's
dorsal surface and the warp nacelles; if there were any activity in
either of the ship's two shuttlebays, it would have been observable
from here.  That was, in fact, the room's primary purpose; Gryphon had
transformed it into a dining room for the command staff as kind of an
afterthought, when no one in the virtual-reality simulation prototype
of the ship ever used the place for its intended purpose.
        The room's main feature was a long rectangular table which
could seat twenty.  Gryphon, who had been standing near one of the big
windows, turned at the sound of the door and smiled.
        "Thank you, Jantzen," he said.
        "Sir," said the crewman who had conducted the guests up from
the transporter room, and he excused himself.
        Mac stepped forward, came stiffly to attention, saluted
sharply, and declared, "Midshipsman Harcourt M. McKenzie, CFMF,
reporting as ordered, Captain!"
        Gryphon gave him an odd look, then returned the salute as a
matter of form.
        "At ease, Midshipsman.  It wasn't an order, just an
invitation."
        Mac "relaxed" into that aggressive parade-rest again and said,
"That wasn't the way I heard it, Captain."
        "That's true," Azalynn observed.  "They were pretty sharp
about it."  She screwed up her face and did a surprisingly good
impression of Commander Typhon's dry voice: "'Upon receiving quarters
assignments, you will then proceed to IPS Challenger no later than
1300 for lunch at the Captain's table.'"
        "Sounds like a real party animal, that one," Nall remarked
from Corwin's shoulder.
        Gryphon chuckled.  "It appears somebody in Home Fleet Command
got a little overzealous.  I'm sorry about that, Mr. McKenzie.  I only
intended to offer you and the rest of Kate's friends lodgings aboard
B5 and lunch up here if you -wanted- them.  I hope the misunderstanding
didn't drag you away from something important."
        "It's taken care of for now, sir," said Mac.
        "Good," responded Gryphon with a nod.  "Anyway, will you
-please- relax?  You're giving me a tension headache.  I haven't seen
anybody stand like that since I was at Starfleet Academy."
        "-Gladly-," Mac muttered, reaching up and rubbing his neck a 
bit. "Sorry about the martinet bit, but my father taught me to -act- 
respectful to authority figures."  A familiar, wry smirk appeared on 
his face as he added, "He never did manage to teach me to -be- 
respectful, though."
        Gryphon chuckled, gesturing Mac and his group into the dining
room.  "I've always had problems with that myself," he said.
"Something about feeling that respect ought to be earned."
        Mac nodded agreement, then looked genuinely confused as his 
brain did a quick rewind on Gryphon's words.  "I wasn't aware you'd 
been in Starfleet, Captain," he said.
        "Different universe," said Gryphon, grinning.  "Have a seat
and I'll tell you all about it over lunch.  I apologize for the
absence of some of my officers," the captain went on as he showed the
kids to their seats, "but we don't have enough crew for full shift
rotation yet, and somebody's got to watch the store."
        The partial command staff of the starship Challenger proceeded
to treat their guests to the best lunch any of them had had in some
time.  Indeed, since coming to Babylon 5, the former WPI students had
been eyeing the food processors with a slightly dubious air, not
because they disliked the units' output, but because, after a year of
WPI food, they couldn't quite believe that it was -possible- to feed
large groups of people that well.  Here in the Challenger officers'
mess, though, the food was an order better than -that-, prepared by
hand and served by uniformed crewmen with towels over their arms and
perfect manners.
        "We're kind of an informal force," Gryphon informed them with
a grin, "but for special occasions, we know how to turn ourselves
out."  He raised his glass.  "To the Institute Duelists' Society!"
        "Kai DuSaQ Hay'wI'nugh!" blared Science Officer Klaang.
        "Kai!" replied his cousin Kraalgh, late of the WPI Languages
Department, and Utena Tenjou, his favorite student.
        "Now," said Gryphon once they'd all drunk to that and dug into
their meals, "here's the program for today.  I have a million things
to chase this afternoon, so I won't be able to spend much time with
you - but it's all for a good cause, trust me.  Lieutenant T'Vek and
Sub-Commander Klaang here will take good care of you, though; while
I'm hiding in my office taking care of business, they're going to take
you out and show you one of the coolest things in the sector, the
Denorios Belt.  After that we'll head back here; Earthforce should be
delivering your stuff about then."
        "What kind of business?" Wakaba Shinohara asked with a
there's-more-to-this-I-just-know-it kind of look.
        Gryphon grinned at her.  "You'll find out," he said, and
wouldn't be budged on the subject for the rest of the meal.  He told
them about some of his experiences in an alternate-universe Starfleet
instead - such as the first time he'd commanded a ship named
Challenger.

        At two o'clock that afternoon, Susan Ivanova - bored out of
her mind on the command deck of the station - was surprised to see the
metaspace jumpgate open.  There were no more materials shipments
scheduled; the station was physically complete.  The full staff wasn't
due for another two days, the diplomatic corps for two weeks.  There
was a Starfleet ship expected later in the day, but it wouldn't be
here yet, and anyway it wouldn't be coming by metaspace.
        She was doubly surprised when the metapoint disgorged a
single ship, small and angular but nasty-looking, her snubbed weapons
emplacements and sharply angled armor making it clear that she was
built for a fight.  Ivanova recognized the markings immediately, but
before she could say anything, the Starfleet ensign on the sensor
board was already reporting.
        "Gamilon destroyer, K'tayyl class.  She's hailing."
        "On screen," said Ivanova.  She got up from the deck officer's
chair and tugged down on her uniform tunic.  The things were
comfortable, and a whole lot better-looking than the Starfleet
uniforms of her early career, but the jackets did have an annoying
tendency to ride up a bit if you sat down.
        "This is Lieutenant Commander Susan Ivanova of the IPO space
station Babylon 5," she announced.  "Please identify yourself."
        The screen beeped and showed Ivanova a lean-faced young
Gamilon man with hair so black it was nearly blue and glowing red
eyes.
        "Hullo, there," he said, sounding slightly distracted.  "This
is His Gamilon Majesty's destroyer Vengeance, Commander Garon Dessler
commanding.  Ah, that would be me, by the way - Garon Dessler."
        Ivanova frowned thoughtfully.  Garon Dessler?  As in Prince
Garon, the black sheep of the Gamilon royal family?  She wondered if
he'd become a black sheep by having bad comm presence, or if he was
really as inept as he sounded.
        What a weird world it was.  Yesterday, the Gamilon Navy had
come within about a minute of wiping out all life on Ivanova's home
planet; today she was welcoming a Gamilon prince as an ally and
telling him it would be her pleasure to give him a mooring location
and receive him aboard.
        When he was gone from the screen, she touched the call button
on the Mark Two communicator stuck to the back of her hand - she
preferred them to the commbadges - and said, "Ivanova to Kira."
        "Go ahead," replied the slightly tinny voice of Major Kira
Nerys, the station's chief of security.
        "Major, a Gamilon destroyer has just pulled up alongside.  It
seems Prince Garon is anxious to visit his sister."
        "Wonderful," replied Kira sourly, and Ivanova reflected with a
wry smile that at least she and the Bajoran were in agreement about
something for once.
        "I'd like you to post someone to keep an eye on him and his
party while they're aboard.  Not that I don't trust them, you
understand, but... "
        "Understood," the security chief replied.  "I'll put one of my
best men on it.  Kira out."
        Ivanova tabbed her communicator off, sat down in the deck
officer's chair, and sighed.
        "Problem?" came Commander Johnson's voice from the door
to his office.
        Ivanova swiveled to face him.  "Oh, no, sir," she said,
shaking her head with exaggerated assurance.  "There's a Gamilon
destroyer parked outside, a Starfleet ship due in from Earth in two
hours, and Challenger's out giving a group of schoolchildren a tour of
the Denorios Belt.  Noooo problem."
        Jer nodded as if completely oblivious to his deputy's sarcasm,
which, Ivanova had come to realize, was a higher grade of sarcasm all
its own.  The commander replied absently, "Good, good," before turning
and going back into his office.
        Ivanova sighed a little deeper and muttered something darkly
in Russian.

        "Good afternoon, Your Highness," said the trimly jumpsuited
IPO Security officer who met Garon and his party in Transporter Room C
after the Gamilons had finished materializing.
        "Commander," said Garon.
        "Er, no, sir, I'm a lieutenant," said the officer.  He had an
English accent, which made him pronounce it "leftenant".
        "Oh," said Garon.  "Well, work hard, eat right, and you'll be
promoted one day," he added absently.  "-I'm- a commander.  You should
call me that.  I gave up being a prince," he added with a broad wink.
"Too much work."
        "... Ah," said the security officer.  "Well... uh, Commander... 
I'm Lieutenant Malcolm Reed, and on behalf of the International Police
Organization, I'd like to welcome you to Babylon 5."
        Garon looked around, nodded.  "Very fine, very fine," he
said.  "I'm Commander Garon Dessler, destroyer Vengeance, you know.
This is my executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Corimel Dragonaar."
        The taller and slimmer of the two similar-looking redheaded
Gamilon women who had accompanied the prince nodded to Reed and smiled
an elegant smile.
        "Ma'am," said Reed, nodding.
        "And Flight Officer Kitarina Dragonaar," Garon went on,
indicating the shorter, more... well, the only word Reed could come up
with was 'voluptuous'... of the two.  Sisters, the security officer
thought, well well, but he kept his face neutral and his voice polite
as he greeted her as well.
        "Lieutenant, we don't wish to keep you from your duties," said
Corimel.  "If you could please direct us to wherever it is Commander
Dessler's sister is staying, we won't take up any more of your time."
        "Well, Lieutenant Commander," said Reed with a smile, "as it
happens, you -are- my duties at present.  So if you'll follow me... "

        Julian Bashir, MD, considered himself to be among the happiest
men in Starfleet.  Which was pretty funny, really, since Admiral
Tordek had seemed positively apologetic when he gave Bashir the
assignment.  The poor man hadn't known what to do when the young
doctor had thanked him, then informed the flag officer that he,
Bashir, had in fact -requested- the assignment.
        The competition hadn't been stiff; nobody else in Starfleet
Medical wanted anything to do with this place.  The Epsilon Eridani
system was a backwater.  If not for the Babylon project, it wouldn't
have received a metaspace gate for years, if ever.  Add to that the
inevitable problems with the station's joint administration and the
fool's errand that most of Starfleet thought the whole idea was in the
first place, and you didn't have a lot of officers scrambling for the
posting.
        Dr. Bashir, however, was extremely pleased and felt very lucky
to have won it.  Whether the station's function - providing a meeting
place for the nations of the known galaxy to prepare defenses against
possible extragalactic threats - was a fool's errand or not, he
neither knew nor cared.  Bashir had no interest in politics, which was
often as much a gift as a hindrance.  He didn't care one bit whether
the place's diplomatic corps achieved marvels of historic note or
simply bickered - the important thing was, they were coming, and so
was everybody else.
        As soon as it went online, Babylon 5 would become a crossroads
in the galaxy, bringing together people from hundreds, -thousands- of
species and cultures, and he, Doctor Julian Bashir, would be right in
the thick of it.  Where else in Starfleet could a young physician
(even one as handsome and brilliant as he was) find himself in command
of a staff so large, so competent, so broad in scope?  Where else
could he be assured of a clientele as varied, vibrant and exotic?
Nowhere.  No sir, -this- was where the -action- was going to be.
        Still, right now, with the station only partially staffed and
none of the diplomatic corps on site as yet, things were a bit...
slow.  There were journals to read and bulletins from Starfleet
Medical to keep up with, of course, but Bashir was a fast reader, so
he spent a lot of his time hanging around on the Zocalo talking with
the Freespacers and that fascinating Cardassian fellow who claimed to
be a tailor.  He'd tried to chat up Lieutenant Commander Ivanova once,
but after she'd asked him with bright-eyed interest whether he thought
he could set his -own- broken arm or would need an orderly to help him
with it, he'd tabled that project for the moment.  Which had left him
right back where he'd started.
        As such, though he certainly deplored the circumstances which
had led to their injuries, he found himself rather glad to have
customers now.  Anyway, there wasn't anything seriously wrong with any
of them; just contusions, cuts, some neural shock.  The young man had
a nasty gash on his face, but it had been clean and responded very
well to the protoplaser.  So, despite the fact that they were still
here for observation, none of his current patients really needed
anything from their doctor at the present time.
        How fortunate for him, then, that someone had brought another
to his door - a truly wretched individual, suffering from chronic
malnourishment, three different kinds of parasitic infestation, a
nasty skin condition, and fairly severe displacement shock.  Yes,
indeed, putting this fellow right had been a challenge worthy of
Julian Bashir!  Why, it had taken him very nearly all morning, but
now, after a heroic struggle... 
        "I think he'll be just fine," said a smiling Bashir as he
delivered the gray cat back into the arms of his owner.  "He's had a
systemic flush and a bath, I've given him something for that skin
irritation, and he's up to date on all his immunizations.  A little
good food and attention, and I should think he'll do just fine.  For
your information, he seems to be about a year old, and he'd already
been fixed.  Fine-tempered fellow," Bashir added conversationally,
scratching the cat's ears and listening to him purr.  "I can't imagine
what could have possessed his previous owners to abandon him like
that.  What's his name again?"
        "Peril," replied Dorothy Wayneright as she adjusted the cat in
her arms.  When he'd come in, the animal had been dirty, skinny,
patchy and shaky.  Now he was clean and glossy - still skinny and a
bit patchy, but quite content-looking.  "Thank you, Doctor.  I
apologize for asking you to work outside your field, but the station
doesn't have a veterinarian."
        "Not at all," said Bashir.  "As a xenophysician, I have to be
ready to work on -anything-.  Just because it's not sentient doesn't
mean it's beneath me."  He petted the cat's head as if to prove that
there were no hard feelings.  "And how are you feeling today?  I
understand you all had a very traumatic experience yesterday.  No
aches, pains, shock symptoms... ?"
        "I'm a robot, Doctor," Dorothy replied, the corner of her
mouth cocking just the tiniest bit in the smile direction as she read
his startled reaction.  "But thank you for your concern," she added
after pausing for a beat in order to enjoy it.
        "Ah, well," said Bashir; then he smiled gamely and said, "In
that case, if you've any physical complaints, you'd best find Chief
O'Brien!  The man's a wizard with mechanical systems and whatnot."
        Dorothy humored the young doctor by thanking him for the tip,
rather than informing him that, had she any physical repair needs,
they could be most efficiently met by her owner.  She would have gone
on to thank him once more for his care of Peril, but just then the
doors opened and four people came in.
        Dorothy recognized one of them - Rina Dragonaar, Amanda
Dessler's friend who had dropped in on one of the Art of Noise's trips
to Toronto a few weeks earlier - and could extrapolate from
resemblances and anecdotal evidence the identities of two others -
Amanda's elder brother and Rina's elder sister.  The fourth was a
human in an IPO Security uniform.
        Dorothy nodded in greeting to Rina, who seemed a bit
preoccupied, and made her way out.  Bashir put on his winningest smile
and went to introduce himself to his guests.
        They were a preoccupied lot, and didn't pay Bashir a lot of
attention.  He recognized their lack of interest for what it was,
showed them to the isolation areas they wanted, and excused himself.
Reed accompanied him, leaving the visitors to have some privacy.
        As soon as the door closed behind the young doctor and the
security man, Garon Dessler abandoned his pretense of amiable idiocy
and strode to his sister's bedside, taking her hand in his as Rina
Dragonaar took the other.
        "Amanda," said Garon.  "How are you feeling?"
        "I'm fine, Garon," Amanda replied, sounding a bit irritable.
"I was fine yesterday and I'm fine today.  That idiot doctor insisted
on keeping me here for 'observation', though as far as I know he's
'observed' very little."  She made a frustrated noise.  "Every minute
I waste here is another minute for Xenia to find a better hiding
place... but there is nowhere in this universe that she can hide from
me."
        Garon arched an eyebrow.  "You're so certain she was
responsible?"
        Amanda nodded.  "The fool she used as her instrument
identified her.  I will have to ask her why she was so careless as to
make direct contact... before I kill her."
        "Father won't be happy about that," said Garon ruefully.
        "He wasn't happy when I nearly disintegrated him yesterday,
either, but he got over that and he'll get over this."
        Garon blinked.  So did Rina, opposite him.  So, for that
matter, did Corimel behind him, which brought a small smile to
Amanda's hard-set, angry face.  Rarely was Cora Dragonaar fazed by
anything.
        "Well," said Garon.  "The things I miss, patrolling the
Romulan frontier."  Squeezing Amanda's hand, he turned to the other
bed, where Devlin Carter lay sleeping.  The bruises on the young man's
face had faded; Bashir's skilled hand with the protoplaser had reduced
the gash on his cheek to a thin red line.  It would leave a narrow
scar, but only because Devlin had insisted on it, much to Bashir's
chagrin.  The young surgeon was a bit of a perfectionist, and hated
leaving things unfinished that way.
        Garon turned back to Amanda, his expression one of surprised
interest.  "You marked him?"
        "I thought they might leave him alone if I did," said Amanda.
"How much have you heard?"
        "Not much," said Cora.  "Only that a group of WPI students
were involved in an altercation with the Psi Corps yesterday and had
been evacuated to Babylon 5.  We knew, of course, that you had to be
involved."
        Amanda smiled.  "A logical assumption," she said.  Then she
seemed to realize that something was amiss to her right, turned, and
said in astonishment, "Kit, are you -crying-?"
        "Of -course- I'm crying, you stupid bitch," bawled Rina
Dragonaar, burying her tear-streaked face in the bedclothes on
Amanda's chest.  "You and Carter nearly got killed, AGAIN, and where
was I?  WHERE WAS I?  What GOOD am I?"
        Amanda sighed and stroked her oldest friend's thick,
disorderly red hair.  "It's not your fault, Kit.  I ordered you to go
away."
        "I know," Rina replied miserably.  "Why?  What did I do?"
        Amanda blinked.  "You didn't do anything!  It wasn't a
-punishment-; I didn't want to interfere with your career."
        "To HELL with my career!" Rina replied.  "YOU are my career,
Amanda."  She raised herself, looked Amanda in the eye, and said, "I
went into the Navy because you did, not because I care a damn about
it.  Dammit, Amanda!  You're more than my best friend, more than my
lover.  You're a Dessler, I'm a Dragonaar.  Sometimes I think you've
never understood what that really means."
        Amanda stared at her friend in open astonishment, then looked
from her to her elder sister, then to Garon, who stood with his arms
folded, impassive.  Then her gaze shifted back to Rina again, and she
nodded, solemn.
        "Perhaps I haven't," she said.  "I'm... I'm sorry, Kitarina.
I've mistreated you, thoughtlessly."
        Rina looked back at her, smiled wanly, and said in a small
voice, "So... you won't send me away again?"
        "No," Amanda said.
        Rina's smile broadened; she leaned forward and kissed Amanda
with considerable fire, leaving the princess slightly breathless when
they separated.
        "OK then," she said brightly.
        Amanda smiled and sat up straighter, bunching the covers in
her lap and crossing her legs to lean forward.  "If you really want to
prove your worth as a retainer," she said teasingly, "get me out of
this place."
        Rina touched her shoulder briefly, then walked around Garon
and stood surveying Devlin.
        "Is he... all right?" she asked hesitantly.
        "He will be," Amanda replied.  "He took a tremendous neural
shock - telepathic combat with a Psi Cop - and quite a beating, but
he's been resting comfortably since last night."
        "Huh."  Rina touched the mostly-healed slash on his face.
"You did mark him."
        "I didn't think the Corps would be foolish enough to meddle
with a Gamilon princess's battle prize.  More fool I," said Amanda
with wry bitterness.  "They phasered us both.  Father nearly destroyed
their world for it."  She sighed, then went on, "At any rate, we've
escaped them, and they've escaped the fate their folly entitled them
to... "
        "What's to stop them from coming after him again?" Cora
wondered.
        "Me," Amanda replied flatly.
        "And me," Rina insisted.  "You promised - "
        Amanda smiled.  "Of course, Kit, but that's not what I meant."
 She looked around for Bashir, didn't see him, and climbed down from
the bed, crossing to look down at Devlin.  Then she turned to Garon,
met his eyes, and said, "With your permission, brother, I intend to
marry him."
        Garon looked back at her for a moment, then at Devlin, then
back to Amanda, his long face expressionless.
        Then it broke into his Rather Stupid Smile and he brayed
cheerily, "Oh, jolly good!  Any excuse for a party, eh?"
        "Garon," said Amanda, "please.  Be serious."
        Like a switch had been thrown, Garon reverted to his true
self.  "Sorry," he said, "habit."  He placed his hands on Amanda's
shoulders and looked her in the face.  "You know I'll support you,
Amanda, in any endeavor.  Carter is a good man.  I count him among my
very few real friends - you know that, too.  For what little it's
worth in the public eye, you have my support in this as well."
        Without a word, Amanda embraced her brother, laying her head
on his shoulder.  In this room, in front of these four people as with
almost no others she knew, she could permit herself the luxury of
breaking down, just a little, after the rigors of the last two days.
        "Hey," said Devlin's voice, quiet and wry.  "You bastard,
you've made her cry."
        Garon grinned and shook Devlin by the hand before Rina swooped
in and tested the mending telepath's lips for a few seconds.
        "That," Devlin remarked, "is quite a thing to wake up to."
        "Devlin," said Amanda, gathering back her composure slightly,
"Garon has just given us his permission to marry."
        "Oh.  Well, that's sporting of you, m'lud," said Devlin.
        "Not a bit of it, old son," Garon replied.  "Happy to help."
        "Have you given any thought," asked Cora with a mischievous
look, "as to when?"
        "Not particularly," Amanda replied.  "We've several things to
do first.  To start... "  She drew herself up into a more military
bearing and said briskly, "Commander Dessler, you have orders from the
Crown Princess.  You will place yourself, your ship and your crew at
her disposal until further notice, for the purpose of hunting down the
fugitive Xenia Laila Dessler and delivering her up to Imperial
justice."
        "So am I commanded," Garon replied stiffly, "so must I obey."
        "Then notify Command as to your Imperial orders and prepare
your vessel for departure.  We leave tomorrow - "  She dropped the
military stance and added in a wry mutter, " - if Bashir will let us
out of here... "

        Challenger returned from the Denorios Belt at three-thirty.
At four, another starship entered the system.  On the bridge of the
Challenger, Gryphon smiled a rather wry smile at the sight of the
newcomer as she dropped out of warp and approached.
        He'd never liked the design of the Federation Starfleet's
Galaxy-class starships.  In recent years, one of the most evident
symptoms of the cooling of relations between the Wedge Defense Force
and Starfleet was the fact that Starfleet had been moving away from
common-platform operations with the WDF and designing their own,
competing vessels.  From what Gryphon had seen of them, their people
hadn't quite got the hang of it yet.  Every recent Federation ship
vaguely resembled an updated version of some classic WDF design - the
Galaxy was built along the same basic plan as the Constitution class,
the Nebula class roughly mimicked the Miranda class, and so on - but
they all had one unifying, defining feature: in Gryphon's eyes they
were all extremely ugly.
        As the designer of the ships they were mimicking, Gryphon
couldn't help but find that vaguely insulting, on some deep-seated,
irrational, personal level.  He was especially irked by the Galaxy
class because, in addition to being ugly, it had been created
specifically because the Earth Alliance elements in Starfleet Command
wanted the fleet to have a ship more powerful than the WDF's
front-line battlecruiser, the Iowa class.  Gryphon took some
satisfaction in knowing that Starfleet's design bureau hadn't quite
achieved that goal.
        Oh, the Galaxy class was a remarkable shipbuilding
achievement, no doubt about that.  It was by far the most massive of
the conventional warp-driven starships; Gryphon's own Challenger was
longer, but nowhere near as wide or as heavily built.  It was a
sturdy, highly survivable ship with an interesting modular
construction concept and a lot of good ideas underlying it.
        Shame it was so ugly.
        As the IFF signals came in and Challenger's main screen
display painted in identifying information, Gryphon noted that this
particular Galaxy-class was one to which he took particular exception,
not because of anything about the ship herself, so much as her name
and number: USS Enterprise, NCC-1701-A.
        Here, then, was -another- symptom of the new coolness
between Starfleet and the WDF.  Why else would Starfleet have
deliberately assigned a new-construction ship the name and incremented
hull number of a former Starfleet ship still in active service with
the Wedge Defense Force?  The convention of appending a letter to the
hull number of a ship intended as a replacement for one lost in battle
was an old one, but in that respect this ship's number was a lie.  WDF
(nee USS) Enterprise, NCC-1701, a Constitution-class vessel, was still
alive and kicking, the flagship of the WDF Tactical Fleet.
        "They sent a Starfleet ship," mused Klaang thoughtfully.
        Gryphon nodded.  "I figured they would," he said.  "Things are
too tense around here right now to risk sending an Earthforce vessel
into the construction area.  I imagine the Dome asked Starfleet to
handle it as a courtesy, since Starfleet has joint management of the
station."
        "Enterprise is hailing," reported comm officer Hoshi Sato.
        "On screen," said Gryphon, and he mentally prepared himself
for a boring exchange of insincere pleasantries with some Starfleet
stuffed shirt.

        "Quite a facility," said Starfleet Captain Jean-Luc Picard as
he looked around the station's central arboretum.  "A most unique
design for a modern space habitat."
        Above Picard's bald head, the central chamber soared up and
away, wrapping completely around.  High overhead, the twin tracks of
the station's core shuttle, a dual monorail train system, ran through
the exact center of the gigantic cylindrical room, from the huge
bulkhead some hundred yards or so behind Picard to the other huge
bulkhead almost a mile ahead of him.  The same distance again above
the shuttle tracks, rather than the blue sky that the openness of this
room suggested -should- be there, there was... more ground.  The whole
thing was like a square mile or so of pleasant countryside had been
rolled up into a tube.
        "Why did the designers go with rotational gravity?" wondered
Picard.  "I haven't seen a spin-grav station in... oh, well, since I
was a cadet."
        "Tell you the truth, I don't really know," Gryphon replied.
"Losing the first four stations was certainly a financial drain, but
gravity generators are so cheap these days... "  He shrugged.  "I
blame Zoner.  Actually, I wasn't very much involved with the design
process of the station.  I was too busy on Project Sovereign."
        "Indeed," said Picard, nodding.  The two men walked in silence
across the grassy area for a few minutes, heading back toward the
bulkhead door that would take them back into the more conventional
part of the station.  After a few moments, Picard inquired with just a
hint of dry humor, "So.  How long do you -think- it would take your
ship to disable a Galaxy-class?"
        Without missing a beat, Gryphon replied, "Our record is
thirty-six seconds, but the simulated enemy captain is nowhere near
your caliber, Jean-Luc."
        "Ah, well, I'm gratified to hear that," said Picard with mock
modesty.
        "T'Vek thinks it would take us at -least- a -minute- to
cripple Enterprise," Gryphon went on, his face guilelessly earnest.
        Picard stopped walking and looked hard at him for a moment;
then the elder-looking man's face crinkled in a laugh and he slapped
Gryphon on the shoulder.
        "Don't let Commander Riker hear you say that," Picard said as
they passed through the big, heavy door and into a gray-painted metal
corridor.
        Gryphon opened his mouth to reply, but just then, a voice from
Picard's Starfleet commbadge interrupted them: "Riker to Picard."
        "Speak of the devil," Picard observed; then, tapping the
badge, he said crisply, "Go ahead, Number One."
        "You wanted to be notified when the cargo was offloaded, sir.
We've just secured the last of the containers aboard Challenger."
        "Ah, excellent.  Captain Hutchins and I will be there
shortly.  Picard out."
        Gryphon smiled as the two captains headed for the nearest
transporter room.  "He's so -brisk-," mused the former Wedge Defender.
        "Will?  Oh, yes.  When he's a job to do, he's the consummate
professional," Picard replied, nodding.  "You know, when I first
brought him on board, I was afraid for a while that he had no sense of
humor.  As it turned out, he was just trying too hard to make his best
impression."
        Gryphon grinned.  "Reminds me of a punk Starfleet captain who
was my liaison officer to the Federation for a while, back when I was
getting the WDF back together," he said nostalgically.  "What a stiff
that kid was.  He knew starships and wine, but that was about -all- he
knew.  Still... I tried to teach him a few things, here and there.
Sometimes I find myself wondering how he turned out."  He sighed in
frustration, snapping his fingers.  "I wish I could remember his
-name-."
        Picard smiled dryly.  "I'm sure he's done just fine."
        "I hope so," said Gryphon, grinning.  Then, sobering, he mused
as they entered the transporter room, "What the hell's happened to
Starfleet lately, Jean-Luc?"
        "I'm not sure what you mean," Picard replied.
        "Challenger," said Gryphon to the transporter operator, who
nodded and started setting the controls while the two officers mounted
the platform and took up positions on adjacent pads.  Without waiting
to be transported, Gryphon then turned to Picard and went on, "You
know what I mean.  The hostility that's developed in Starfleet's
corporate culture toward the Wedge Defense Force, the Experts, Zeta
Cygni - we used to be allies.  More than allies, -friends-."
        They were engulfed by the beam then, and as they emerged from
it aboard the Challenger, Gryphon was continuing, "Nowadays... hell,
we're chummier with the Klingons than we are with Starfleet.  You've
even stopped sharing class-C codes with us."
        Picard looked as if he might be getting ready to stand on his
dignity, but then he shook his head and sighed.  "I don't know, Ben,"
he said as they stepped down from the platform and moved out into the
corridor.  "There are those who believe that the WDF has grown too
powerful since the War of Corporate Occupation, and the IPO... well,
the Earth Alliance opposed the adoption of the IPO charter, you know
that."
        "Since when did the Earth Alliance speak for Starfleet?"
Gryphon inquired, his tone betraying anger.
        Picard held up a conciliatory hand.  "I'm not your enemy," he
said.  "I... I wouldn't say this to many others, but I have my doubts
about the current situation in the Federation Council, to say nothing
of Starfleet Command."
        "Then why do you stay?  If you went to Noriko, she'd put you
to work.  Or, hell, I'd give you a job in a heartbeat.  You say the
word and I'll lay down another Sovereign for you."
        Picard cocked an eyebrow.  "I understood that you'd only built
the one because of the difficulties a growing organization like the
Experts of Justice had in staffing a ship of this size."
        "For you, I'd -find- 500 crewmen somewhere," Gryphon replied.
"Hell, I'd buy your current ship from the Fleet like I did for Jim
Kirk if I thought they'd sell her."
        Picard half-smiled, most of his thoughts elsewhere.
        "You could be one of us so easily," Gryphon persisted.
        "The galaxy's best and brightest, stood up in line to face the
darkness?" Picard asked, sounding amused, but not unkindly so.
        "Exactly," Gryphon replied, undaunted.  "Let me ask Skuld to
give you the Test.  I know you'd pass.  After fifteen years, my
instincts for this kind of thing are almost as good as hers."
        Picard shook his head.  "No, thank you," he said.  "You asked
me why I stay in Starfleet?  It's because I believe in it.  I still
believe in the ideals the United Federation of Planets and its
Starfleet represent."
        "I can respect that," Gryphon replied.  "It's just too bad
that the Federation doesn't believe in them any more."
        "I'm not as pessimistic as you are," said Picard.
        "You're not as experienced as I am," Gryphon said.
        "If everyone who does believe abandons the Federation, then it
truly -will- have forgotten its own most sacred principles," Picard
insisted.  "I can contribute most from within.  I don't think it's too
late.  This is only a downturn, Ben.  These things happen in cycles.
Give me, and people like me, time, and we can turn the Federation
around, with or without the Earth Alliance's approval."
        "I hope so, Jean-Luc," Gryphon replied, but from the tone of
his voice, that hope was a dim one.  "I'd hate to have to find out for
real who would win that fight between your ship and mine."
        "So would I," Picard said, and they walked in a rather glum
silence the rest of the way to Cargo Bay 1.
        There, Gryphon brightened somewhat at the sight of the various
possessions of his daughter and her friends, hastily abandoned on
Earth in their flight from the Psi Corps and delivered by Gryphon's
demand.  There was a large silver standard cargo module for each of
them, neatly labeled, containing each student's possessions - gathered
from dorm rooms and common areas, sorted and packed.  Secured to the
deck nearby were three vehicles - a black and silver antique
automobile, a battered former school bus, and a sidecar motorcycle.
        Gryphon went to the cargo module with his daughter's name on
it and keyed open the access panel to look inside.  His demeanor
brightened further as he saw what lay within.
        "Everything seems to be here," he said, "and in good order.
Even the piano."  He turned to Picard.  "That's rather surprising.
I'd resigned myself to breaking the news of at least a 10% loss to
Earthforce's grudging care."
        Captain Picard smiled.  "My people did all the gathering and
packing," he said.  "Number One wanted to make it plain to the
children that not all Earthpeople are vindictive.  My security chief
was particularly zealous about running down items that the Psi Corps
enforcement teams securing the campus had helped themselves to.  He
believes we got everything, and Mr. Worf is nothing if not thorough."

        At 1700 hours station time, Captain Picard issued an
invitation for the command staff of the starship Challenger and the
Earth escapees to dine aboard the Enterprise that evening at 1800
hours.  It was a goodwill gesture, intended to show that, while
Earthforce might hold a grudge, Starfleet did not intend to.
        The Duelists gathered in Devlin and Amanda's Medlab room to
discuss the matter.  They concluded, after some debate, that it was
doubtful Picard was up to anything shady.  Kaitlyn knew the man, had
known him for years - he was an old friend of the family, from before
her own birth.  She insisted that he was a man of solid principles,
old-line Starfleet, from back in the days when the Fleet and the WDF
were closely allied, and that she couldn't imagine any change in
Starfleet's internal climate turning him against his principles.
        Amanda's first inclination was to pass, especially when she
viewed the part of Picard's invitation in which he mentioned, for the
sake of having everything aboveboard, that his ship's counselor was a
Psi Corps officer and that he would appreciate it if, as a valued
member of his command staff, she were allowed to attend.  Devlin,
though, said that after the previous day (and with the Challenger and
the Vengeance on station), he feared no telepath.  When he announced
he was going, Amanda immediately reversed her decision, and Rina
Dragonaar, though not specifically invited, insisted on accompanying
them.
        G'Kron, already tiring of his brush with notoriety, passed.
So too did Mac, who in any event had too much paperwork to catch up on
from his commission's brief activation.  He'd enjoyed lunch aboard the
Challenger, once the misunderstanding about his presence having been
ordered had been cleared up; even so, he didn't particularly feel like
having -another- formal dinner, and so, given the option this time, he
respectfully declined.
        Of the others, only T'skaia declined the captain's
invitation.  This surprised his friends, who would have thought that
such an occasion would be right up his alley - he'd certainly enjoyed
lunch aboard the Challenger, and that hadn't been a formal affair.  He
replied that he would have liked to have gone, and asked that they
convey his sincere regrets to Captain Picard, but that he had
important business to attend to that simply couldn't wait.  His former
Galaxy Housemates assumed that he'd been bitten by the muse and had to
go paint something, possibly relating to the escape from Earth, and so
they didn't hassle him.
        With that settled, Amanda negotiated her and Devlin's release
from Medlab, and the Duelists adjourned to their rooms to go through
their recovered things and prepare for Captain Picard's table.

        "You aren't going to wear that again, are you?" Juri inquired
half an hour later, as Kate laid out her black and orange dress on the
bed in the master bedroom.
        "It's the only f-formal d-d-dress I h-have," said Kaitlyn.
"W-what else am I s-sup-posed to w-wear?"
        Juri shook her head and tsked.  "No, no, it won't do."
        "I th-thought you liked this d-dress," Kate protested.
        "I do, but you can't wear the same thing -every time- you
dress up.  Come along, put on something simple and let's go.  We've
half an hour, that should be enough time to get you something decent."
        Kate protested, but it was no use.  In five minutes, she found
herself in one of the few non-Freespacer Zocalo shops that wasn't
newly opened.  It was a small but nicely appointed establishment run
by an extremely friendly Cardassian by the name of Garak, who just so
happened to be a tailor.
        "Twenty minutes is a bit more tight than I generally like my
deadlines," Garak informed the two women with some trepidation; then
he brightened and added, "But I love a challenge.  Onto the laser
plate with you, my dear; let's get your measurements and I'll see what
we can do."
        Kate complied and was scanned.
        "Now then," Garak said as the scanning lasers did their work,
"I couldn't help but recognize you.  Is this an outfit for some
specific occasion, or will an evening gown do?"
        Juri watched as Kaitlyn turned in front of the fitting lasers.
"She's just attained mastery in her family's martial art.  I believe
part of the dinner party is to celebrate that."
        "It's n-not off-ficial yet," Kate admonished Juri, blushing
slightly.
        "Ah," Garak said, as Kaitlyn stepped off the plate.  "Well,
then.  What style?"
        Kaitlyn gave Juri an imploring look, that you-do-the-talking
look the redhead had often seen her give Utena, and Juri smiled.
        "Asagiri Katsujinkenryuu," she said.  "It's a Japanese
variant."
        Garak had a look of inspired concentration on his face.  "Hmm,
yes.  Should I think of any particular theme?"
        "T-t-tigers," Kaitlyn put in.  When Juri gave her a glance,
she shrugged helplessly.
        "Mm," Garak said.  "Tigers.  Large cats, native to Earth?
Yes.  Just the thing.  Well, you -are- an autumn, my dear.  Hmm... I
believe I have something that will work..."  he trailed off as he
vanished into his storeroom, and called back, "This will take me a
bit, have a seat."
        Kaitlyn sat down and began people-watching, always a favorite
activity in crowded places like the Zocalo.  She made a mental note to
ask Dad about looking into the possibilities of getting a Marche
movenpick franchise into the station.  Juri joined her for a few
moments, scanning the Zocalo with her cool green eyes as if looking
for something in particular; then she paused.  "I'll be right back,"
she said, and glided off down the Zocalo storefronts.
        Kaitlyn watched her go into one of the stores, and then emerge
five minutes later with a small dark box, of the size usually
containing jewelry.  She came back, smiling her secretive, pleased
smile, and when Kaitlyn looked a question at her, the elegant girl's
smile widened slightly.  "One must have the proper accessories," she
said.  "You'll see."
        Precisely fourteen minutes and twenty-seven seconds later,
Garak came back out into the front of his shop and solemnly handed
Kaitlyn a stack of folded fabric.  "There's a changing area right
there," he said, gesturing with one hand at a standing screen.  "I
don't think they'll need any alterations, but one never knows," he
added with a smile.
        Kaitlyn stood up slowly, and just before she walked behind
the screen, Juri put the small velvet box on top of the folded
fabric.

        Five minutes later, she and Juri walked in to the Enterprise's
Ten-Forward Lounge (elegantly converted into a formal dining room, the
ship positioned to give a very good view of Babylon 5 through the
massive windows), precisely on time.  The conversation suffered a
brief lull as everyone appreciated this new transformation of the
usually subdued Duelist leader's wardrobe.
        The style of the clothing was obviously inspired by Japanese
culture: her blouse was cut in a wrap style, reminiscent of a gi top,
with tiger stripes textured in the sheer black silk.  The blouse
tucked into straight heather grey slacks, and over it all she wore a
modified loose kimono of burnt-orange rough silk, hand printed with
black wood-cut tigers.  The black silk of her gi top provided the only
necessary accents in color contrast at the neck and wrists.  The whole
affair was held together by a bright orange obi, narrow like a man's
rather than broad and elaborate, knotted on the side in a complicated
bow that left two trailing streamers down to her knee.  Through this
obi she had thrust her zatoichi.
        Around her throat, she wore a black satin ribbon choker with a
small golden tiger head dangling from the ribbon and glaring out at
all comers with tiny polished tiger-eye chips.  In her earlobes were
the little silver maple leaves her father had given her for her
birthday.  The only aspect of Kate's appearance Juri was dissatisfied
with was her hairstyle; Juri had lacked the time to put it into a
properly involved and pinned Japanese bun, and so had settled for
gathering it back into a loose ponytail with a length of orange ribbon
(graciously provided by Garak).
        Gryphon, with a wide smile on his face, walked over to his
blushing daughter and kissed her on the forehead.  "You look lovely,"
he said quietly, and offered her an arm.
        Juri allowed herself one tiny, smug smile, and took her own
seat while Gryphon led his daughter to the head of the table.
        "Captain Picard," he said formally, "may I present my
daughter Kaitlyn, aspirant master of the Asagiri Katsujinkenyuu."
        Picard rose to his feet, tugged down on the hem of his dress
uniform's gold-trimmed white jacket with the unconscious grace of long
habit, and bowed formally.
        "Miss Kaitlyn," he said in his surprisingly rich, powerful
voice.  "It's an honor to have you aboard.  Welcome to the
Enterprise."
        Kate smiled shyly.  "Th-thank you for inv-viting us," she
said.  Juri noted with interest that her friend's stutter was fairly
mild with this man, indicating a pretty high level of familiarity with
him - but then Kate had said he was a friend of the family.
        Picard offered Kate his arm and took her down the side of the
table, introducing his command staff: Commander Will Riker, a tall,
broad, bearded man with a rather nautical air and a hint of mischief
in his eyes, who kissed Kate's hand and made her blush; Lieutenant
Commander Geordi La Forge, a friendly-faced, cheerful black man;
Lieutenant Commander Data Soong, a pleasant-looking man who was a
curious shade of yellow.
        Upon this officer's introduction, Dorothy said, "Soong," in an
I-know-that-name tone.
        Data cocked his head inquisitively.  "You recognize the name?"
he asked.
        "You're a robot," said Dorothy flatly.
        "I prefer the term 'android'," Data replied, but Dorothy shook
her head.
        "Androids have organic components," she said.
        "I feel the use of the word in that sense has become somewhat
archaic," Data replied in a tone which indicated that he found the
disagreement very interesting and not at all irritating.  "If you
accept as a given that the purpose of language is to facilitate the
communication of ideas, I submit that it would be more efficient for
'robot' to be used in reference to obviously mechanical constructs
such as Transformers.  'Android' would then be applied to constructs,
like myself, which are intended to convincingly mimic humanoid life
forms."
        Dorothy considered this.  "What are now classified by the
Turing Institute as biomimetic mechano-humanoids," she said.
        "(Oh, my God, there's two of them,)" Geordi La Forge murmured
behind his hand.  Will Riker's eyes twinkled as he tried not to laugh.
        Data nodded, ignoring the byplay completely.  "Precisely.
That term is needlessly cumbersome, in my opinion.  I take it you are
familiar with the work of my creator?"
        "My name is R. Dorothy Wayneright," Dorothy replied, as though
that explained everything.
        Apparently to Data it did.  He looked impressed as he replied,
"Intriguing!  Wayneright.  That would make us... second cousins, then."
        "Of a sort."
        "Excuse me for seeming dense," said Wakaba, "but, huh?"
        "My creator, Doctor Noonian Soong, had an assistant at the
peak of his career, in the 2330s," Data explained in his usual
friendly, didactic way.  "His name was Timothy Wayneright.  When
Dr. Soong's lab was destroyed in 2335, Dr. Wayneright disappeared,
along with most of Dr. Soong's notes."
        "He created me in 2400," Dorothy said.  "He once claimed that
it took him that long to decipher Dr. Soong's handwriting."
        "I am pleased to meet you, R. Dorothy," said Data.  "I have
often wondered what became of Dr. Wayneright and the notes he took.
My brother Lore will be gratified to learn of your existence as well."
        "Lore's my executive officer," Gryphon put in.  "He's off on a
long-range patrol with Krontep this week - should be back Friday."
        With that little digression over with, Picard went on to
introduce the rest of his staff: Lieutenant Worf, a Klingon officer
who had a rather severe mien but was gracious enough; Dr. Beverly
Crusher, a handsome redhead with a calm, confident manner; and the
ship's counselor, Deanna Troi.
        Troi was a lovely woman with a lot of curly dark hair and big
black eyes.  The only other person Juri could remember having seen
with really black eyes was R. Dorothy Wayneright, who had once told
her roommate that her irises were black to disguise the fact that the
pupils of her eyes were not quite as perfectly biomimetic as the rest
of her construction.  They made her look a little mysterious, and they
had the same effect on Deanna Troi.  But though the counselor's eyes
may have lent her an air of mystery, the rest of her basically just
looked nervous.
        That was to be expected; after all, she was the only one of
the Enterprise staff not wearing a Starfleet uniform.  Instead, she
wore the high-collared, trim-jacketed garb of the Psi Corps, complete
with gloves and the golden-psi badge, though in a wine-red rather than
the black of the Psi Cops.  She had to be well aware that her captain's
guests were not, after their recent experiences, inclined to be kindly
disposed toward members of the Corps, and it showed on her face as
trepidation.
        When she was introduced, Troi smiled at Kate, who was
perfectly civil in return.  The counselor remained standing as Captain
Picard conducted Kate to her seat and pulled it out for her, and when
the captain was back in his own place, Troi spoke.
        "I know," she said in a pleasant voice with a hint of some
melodic accent or another, "that you've all had a bad experience with
the Psi Corps recently, and I want to thank you all for coming, even
though you knew I would be here.  Just to get everything on the table,
so to speak, my name is Deanna Troi.  I'm half-Betan and a receptive
empath, Standard Rating P3; that means I'm only telepathic with other
telepaths, usually other Betans.  I'm a licensed counselor, which is
the function I serve here on the Enterprise."
        She paused, then smiled wryly.  "I feel a bit silly standing
here and rambling on like this, but I thought it was important, after
your experiences, to know exactly what you're faced with.  If, having
heard that, any of you are uncomfortable with my presence here, I'll
be happy to leave."
        When no one spoke, Troi ran her dark eyes down the row of
Duelists, finally settling on Devlin Carter, who looked straight back
at her.
        "Mr. Carter," she said.  "According to your file, you're a P12
telepath.  You must know that means there's nothing whatsoever that I
could do to you.  If you'd like to scan me, to determine the truth of
what I've said and the harmlessness of my intentions... I have no
objections."
        Devlin raised an eyebrow.  He knew, better than anyone else at
the table, what that meant.  For a low-grade psionic like a P3 to
invite a scan from a P12 total stranger was a remarkable act, the
psionic equivalent of baring one's throat to a potential predator.  He
wasn't so sentimental as to take the offer itself for proof enough of
her good nature, though; so, carefully, he reached out and brushed her
mind, only gently.  He had no desire to riffle through the filing
cabinets of her subconscious - only to look at the surface and test
the truth of her assertion about her grade.  If that were true, then
the rest would logically follow.
        In a second, he was satisfied, and, smiling, nodded.
        "I've no objection to your presence, Counselor," he said.
Amanda shot him a look; he patted her hand soothingly.
        <She's on the level,> he thought to her.
        <Can you be sure of that?> Amanda asked skeptically.
        <Sure enough,> Devlin replied.  <These are good people.
Besides, what can they do to us here?  Relax, enjoy dinner.  Don't
spoil it with that sullen suspicion you're so prone to.>
        She gave him a sharp glance, realized she was being teased,
and relaxed, smiling slightly.  Seeing her do so, Rina Dragonaar
similarly relaxed on his other side.
        Given that he was being raked over the coals by a notably
unstable Psi Cop just twenty-eight hours before, Devlin Carter
reflected to himself that life was pretty damned good.
        Deanna Troi seemed to catch the sentiment, if not the actual
thought, from across the table; as she returned to her seat, she
smiled a little mischievously at him.
        The main doors of the lounge hissed open just then, and in
trotted a pair of unexpected late arrivals: Corwin's mother, decked
out in her most elaborate white and scarlet finery, and Kaitlyn's, in
a silver and black IPO Tactical Division dress uniform with her Cosmic
Rod slung on her back.
        "I'm terribly sorry we're late, Captain," said Skuld
apologetically to Picard as he rose to greet them.  "I considered
making a little adjustment to the timestream to correct it, but
Heimdall always gets on my case when I do that."
        "Not at all," said Picard graciously, giving no indication
that he had no idea what she was talking about (if, indeed, he
hadn't).  "Late or not, we're glad to have you here."
        "Jean-Luc, how do you do it?" Kei asked as she brushed aside
the captain's offered hand and embraced him.  "Every time I see you,
you just keep getting sexier and sexier."
        Will Riker coughed into his napkin; both he and La Forge
resolutely hid the grins on their faces.  Deanna Troi didn't bother
hiding hers.  Neither did Dr. Crusher, nor Kaitlyn.
        "Oh, well," said Picard with an easy grin, "you know, Kei -
some men have it... "

        T'skaia Vorokoshiga'ar Ixtixtaaqitl't'chl'Vraihelt Ishkarat
prowled the corridors of Babylon 5, a t'skrang on a mission.
Actually, what he was doing wasn't so much prowling as... perhaps
cruising.  He was looking for an address, which, in a five-mile-long
space station, was not as simple a task as one might expect.
        There are many wonders in the world beyond Barsaive, Sky
thought to himself as he perused the interactive deck chart on Red
12.  You would think, for example, that finding the level would be the
bulk of the work, after which it would be a matter of relative
simplicity to locate a particular set of quarters - but you would be
wrong.  No, then the fun really began.
        Still, T'skaia wasn't about to let a little thing like spatial
confusion get in the way of his mission.  Doggedly, he made his way
around, finally locating Red 1290.
        There was no response to his application of the doorbell, not
the first time, nor the second, nor the third.  He tried the other
large button on the wall panel under the keypad, and was somewhat
surprised to see the bulkhead door pivot open, vanishing into the
wall.
        Well, if it wasn't locked...
        Sky entered the darkened room behind, alert for danger.
"Hello?" he said softly.  "Is anyone here?"
        Somewhere to his left, he could hear voices.  Quietly, he
moved toward them.  The doors inside the small but comfortable suite
were of the more conventional double-panel automatic type, like those
found on starships.  The one he approached opened with a soft hiss,
admitting him to the suite's bedroom.
        He entered just in time to see and hear a red-faced,
middle-aged man on the room's wall display say angrily, "... can come
home with the rest of that rabble, or not at all - it makes very
little difference to me!"
        Then, with a soft 'beep', his face disappeared, replaced by
the idle logo of the Babylon 5 communications network.
        There was a silence.
        "You know," said T'skaia, "I've never liked that man."
        Liza Broadbank whirled, making a sharp, frightened noise.
"T'skaia!  What the hell are you doing here?!" she demanded.  "Get
out!"
        "My apologies if I startled you," said Sky, raising his open
hands.  "The suite door wasn't locked.  I thought it possible you were
in some sort of trouble."
        Liza snorted.  "I'm in -all- sorts of trouble," she said
bitterly.  "What do you want?"
        "You haven't been seen since our escape from Earth," said Sky
simply.  "I was concerned."
        "Well, isn't that sweet," said Liza sardonically.  She threw
herself down on the bed in the middle of the far wall, covered her
eyes with one hand as if suffering from a headache and said, "Well, as
you can see, I'm fine."
        "So it would appear," said Sky dryly.  Just then, the t'skrang
noticed a small white object lying on the little table built into the
wall by the door.  "Hello," he said, "what's this?"
        It turned out to be a white envelope, letter-size and sealed,
bearing the crest of the Babylon 5 Medical Laboratory.  As Sky
regarded it curiously, Liza looked out from beneath her fingers.
        "Tampering with other people's mail is a Federation felony,
T'Skaia," she muttered without any energy.
        "Oh?" Sky held the letter out to Liza.  "Would you like to
read it first, then?  I would not normally pry, but I remain concerned
for your condition."
        "It's nothing," Liza snorted, burying her head back in the
bedcovers.  "Absolutely nothing.  Leave it alone, or throw it away."
        T'skaia knew a lie when he heard one, and he was also quite
conversant with denial.  Liza's statement bore a close enough
resemblance to both for Sky to do something he normally wouldn't do,
even to someone for whom he had lost all respect.
        The soft ripping of paper under a t'skrang claw pulled Liza's
head out of the covers.  "What are you doing?" she asked softly,
staring at Sky as he unfolded the single piece of paper and began
reading aloud.
        "'The subject, Elizabeth Broadbank, a human of Earth
descent,'" Sky read aloud, "'suffers from severe shock and mental
trauma due to psychic and psychological assault, severe displacement
disorder, and other stressors.  This condition is aggravated by a
great sense of dispossession, insecurity and loneliness - '"
        "Liar!" Liza barked.  "I am not insecure in the least!"
        "' - the causes for which are beyond my minimal training in
psychology to uncover,'" Sky continued.  "'I recommend an independent
psychiatric counselor look more closely into these underlying issues,
as left unchecked they may lead to a serious psychosis.'"  Sky looked
up at Liza, raising an eyeridge in imitation of Juri's sardonic gaze.
Liza glared sullenly back, and with a soft thump of his tail on the
deck Sky returned to reading.
        "'This is, however, of secondary importance to another factor
discovered during the examination,'" he read, his red-rimmed black
eyes widening as his speech slowed.  "'Ms. Broadbank is possessed of
multiple psi talents, exhibiting a standard telepathy rating of P2,
although the intense denial and lack of training in the subject may be
concealing a talent of P3 or perhaps even P4.'  Oh my," he added,
looking up again at Liza's stunned expression.
        Sky cleared his throat and continued, "'More importantly,
Ms. Broadbank possesses the anodyne talent at a high level.  Anodynes
are uncommon enough, especially among Earth-descent humans, that at
present, the Psi Corps rating system only goes as high as A7; it is my
Bajoran colleague Dr. Brolin Keelen's opinion that Ms. Broadbank's
talent is, like his own, above this scale, possibly A9 with training.
However, my inexperience in such matters, Dr. Brolin's unfamiliarity
with psionics as expressed in Earthpeople, and the limitations of
automated scanning equipment must be taken into account.
        "'I believe that part of Ms. Broadbank's displacement disorder
is caused by a defense mechanism to deny and seal off her empathic
talents.  The patient complained of intermittent headaches during the
exam which corresponded to the presence or absence of Princess Amanda
Dessler, who admitted in no uncertain terms her hostility to
Ms. Broadbank.  It is my professional opinion that without both
counseling and training in her awakening talents, Ms. Broadbank
may... '"
        Sky read the last few sentences silently to himself, glancing
up momentarily to see Liza's shocked stare.  "I beg your pardon," he
said.  "I have indeed intruded wrongfully into your troubles."
Carefully, Sky folded the paper up and returned it to the envelope,
setting it carefully back on the table.
        "It's a lie," Liza gasped.  "It's all a lie."
        "I must say," Sky said a little uncomfortably, "it is most
unfortunate that the Psi Corps learned of Mr. Carter when they did.
You might have escaped their attention and avoided all of this trauma
otherwise."
        Liza's stare managed to grow wider, more glassy-eyed.
"Haven't -they- told you?" she asked with a raw-edged, hysterical
little giggle.
        "'They'?"
        "Hutchins.  Tenjou.  That madwoman Dessler.  Haven't you
spoken to them at ALL?"
        "I didn't see them until this afternoon," Sky said, his tail
twitching uncertainly.  "I was on the Freespacer city-ship New Orleans
all morning, and this afternoon has been quite busy.  We spoke mostly
of the things we saw today.  You should really try to see the Denorios
Belt before leaving this system; it is quite remarkable."
        "-I- called them," Liza husked, ignoring Sky's digression
about the wonders of the Bajor system entirely.  "I called the Psi
Corps.  It was my responsibility, wasn't it?"  A soft giggle emerged
from the blankets which now wrapped Liza, clutched in trembling hands.
"Protect them from themselves.  Give the poor confused telepaths a new
home, a new life... "
        For a few moments, T'skaia's tail had gone utterly still.  As
he looked at Liza, however, his momentary rage faded, and he
considered the small, pathetic-looking blonde girl wrapping herself
for protection.  "And in striking out at another, you struck yourself
as well," he murmured.
        Liza's eyes focused, looking at Sky's wedge-shaped head.
"Stop pitying me," she said, clearly and firmly.
        "You've never encountered true -consequences- before, have
you?" said Sky in a near-whisper, almost as much to himself as to
Liza.  "This is the first time anything has ever rebounded directly
back upon you, isn't it?"
        "Get out," Liza rasped, her hands shaking as she stared at the
t'skrang.
        "And when you sought friendship... guidance... even basic
love... "  Sky shook his head.  "... you were rejected by that
shallow, self-absorbed father of yours."
        "You have no right to speak of him like that," Liza said.  "Now
get out." 
        "-You- have every right in the world to do so," Sky said.
"You certainly do not have to grow up to be like him."
        "I said GET OUT."  Liza pushed the covers aside and stood,
slowly, from the bed, her hands trembling and clenching
uncontrollably.  One hand flew up to rub her temple; a second later,
it jerked back down, just a little too fast.
        "And now," Sky said sadly, "you have not a friend on this
station, and possibly not a friend in the entire galaxy.  I would
change that, Elizabeth.  We may never have been friends, but we were
comrades, before your short-sightedness drove me from your circle."
He reached down to his belt pouch and pulled out a small wooden
object, a triangle of polished mahogany carved into a most intricate
tangle.  "I was given this on the New Orleans," he said, "under most
peculiar circumstances.  I am told that it is a Jyurain meditative
charm.  It is supposed to bring calm and stability to its wearer."  He
took one of Liza's hands in his own and slowly pressed the wooden knot
into it, wrapping her fingers around it.  "Please keep it well, and
when you need a friend, please think - "
        "GET OUUUUUUUT!!"  Liza hurled the charm across the room,
where it bounced off the wall and fell soundlessly into the carpet.
"GET OUT!!"  She held her head in her hands, tears running down her
face, shrieking again and again at the top of her lungs, "GET OUT GET
OUT GET OUUUUUTT!!!"
        Sky slowly stepped backwards out of the room, not stopping
until the automatic doors of the room had closed in front of his face.
He stared for a long moment at the closed door of Red 1290's bedroom,
straining his hearing for any sound from within.  When not a sound met
his earholes, his tail slumped, and with a potent sense of failure
T'skaia retraced his steps back to his own quarters, where awaited the
sketching materials he had also acquired on the New Orleans.  His muse
called, insistently, demanding he produce a series of sketches that,
out of respect, he could never show anyone else.  Ironic, he thought,
that beauty can come from pain.
        Meanwhile, inside the room, Liza stood trembling in the middle
of the room, pain shooting through her head, tears running down her
face as she tried to regain her composure.  With a wail she threw
herself back onto the bed, grabbing a pillow and hugging it tight,
crying loudly and uncontrollably into it.
        And as she cried, the words she couldn't say in front of
anyone else came pouring out.  "I'm sorry, Daddy.  Sky, Sky, I'm
sorry.  I'm sorry, Kaitlyn.  Utena.  Amanda.  I'm sorry, I'm sorry,
I'm sorrrrrrrryyy... "
        After a few minutes, she cried herself out; feeling weak and
hollow, she got up and found the charm Sky had given her.  Mercifully,
it hadn't been damaged by its collision with the wall.  She sat down
on the bed and gazed at it, running her fingertips over the intricate
carvings.  Calm and stability?  Looking at it, Liza thought it better
served as a physical representation of her inner turmoil.
        Sobbing again, more softly this time, she curled up on her
side, holding the charm to her chest, and tried to go to sleep.

        Dinner aboard the Enterprise was a pleasant time; Captain
Picard and his officers were good conversationalists and quite nice
people, really.  Wakaba Shinohara found that surprising.  All her
encounters to date with members of Earth's armed forces hadn't gone
very well, and she'd been given to understand that Starfleet was
pretty much just an extension of Earthforce these days.  Picard
certainly didn't seem to think so, though.  The man wasn't a soldier,
not really.  He was an explorer, a scientist.  The fact that he
commanded a battleship must have struck him as ironic, but he had too
much grace to say so, at least in polite company.
        Wakaba found herself wishing she knew him well enough that he
didn't consider her polite company.  Oh, she wasn't drooling over him,
like Azalynn - she liked older guys, but there were limits.  He was
interesting, though, and she would have liked to have known him
better, the way Kaitlyn seemed to.
        Thinking of older guys, she glanced at Saionji, next to her.
He'd seemed curiously preoccupied all evening - not rude, but slightly
distracted and pensive.  She leaned over and murmured,
        "(Something the matter?)"
        "(No,)" he replied.  "(Just... something peculiar.  Corwin's
mother keeps looking at us.  Mostly at you, I think.)"
        "(Really?  I hadn't noticed.  Maybe she's just being
friendly.)"
        Saionji shrugged.  "(Perhaps,)" he replied; then, in a more
public tone of voice, he complimented the captain on the competence of
his kitchen staff.
        Dessert came, then the hot beverage of one's choice, and
Captain Picard gracefully wound the occasion up before people could
start yawning.
        "I've got something I'd like to announce before we adjourn,"
said Gryphon, "if Captain Picard will permit me to monopolize his
table for a moment."
        Smiling, Picard gestured openly.  "By all means, Captain
Hutchins."
        "Speech!" cried Nall, which made Data glance curiously at him.
        Gryphon walked behind Kate's chair, put his hands on her
shoulders, and said, "As most of you know, Kaitlyn is my student in
our family's art of swordsmanship, the Asagiri Katsujinkenryuu.
Yesterday, during the chase with the Psi Corps, she manifested that
art's greatest defensive technique, the Blade of the Inviolate Soul,
which is proof that she's ready to take her place as a master of the
art."
        Applause greeted this statement, making Kate blush.  Gryphon
smiled, then held up a hand.  "But," he said, "there's always a catch,
right?  There's one more thing she must do before that promotion is
official.  So - this Saturday at 1700 hours, in the ship's dojo aboard
Challenger, she'll face her test of advancement.  Any of you who wish
to attend will be most welcome; in fact, if you bring your equipment,
you may even get a chance to help her take her place beside me."
        "I'm sure she will bring great honor to your family name,"
intoned Lieutenant Worf with greater solemnity than the Klingon had
probably intended.
        "Indeed, Mr. Worf," said Picard.  He rose, adjusted his
uniform jacket again, and smiled.  "Thank you all for coming.  My
officers and I wish you all the best of luck."
        There were polite thank-yous, and the Duelists adjourned,
filing out in ones and twos to follow Data to the Enterprise
transporter room and return to B5.
        "Shame you won't be around for Kate's trial, Jean-Luc," said
Gryphon as the two captains walked toward the doors.
        "Four days," Picard responded with a thoughtful frown.  Then,
his tone somewhat exaggeratedly brisk, he said, "I think it should
take us about that long to verify Starfleet's charts of the Denorios
Belt - don't you, Number One?"
        Riker didn't miss his cue; smiling broadly, the first officer
replied, "If we get right on it, yes sir."
        "As soon as our guests have disembarked, make it so.  Arrange
a return docking clearance with Commander Johnson for... shall we say
noon Saturday?"
        "I think that would be just about right, sir," said Riker.
"I'll get right on it.  Pleasure meeting you, Captain Hutchins."
        "And you, Commander," said Gryphon.  Riker peeled off down a
side corridor, making for the nearest turbolift, unable to quite
conceal his chuckling.
        "You're right, Jean-Luc - he DOES have a sense of humor,"
said Gryphon appreciatively.

        "I was under the impression," said Data with a puzzled
expression, "that dragons were fearsome creatures of gigantic
proportions."  He stepped out of the turbolift, then turned to hold
the door for the group of students; Corwin came out and paused nearby
so Nall could continue his conversation with the android.
        "Oh, well, we are," Nall replied.
        Data's look of puzzlement deepened.  "Forgive me for saying
so, but you do not seem to be gigantic, nor particularly fearsome."
        "That's just because I'm hanging around with Rocket Boy here,"
Nall replied, nudging Corwin's cheek with his head.  "If you found me
in my mountain lair in Alfheim, well, that'd be a different story,"
the dragon added with an all-knowing nod.
        "Ah," said Data, though the android did not look particularly
enlightened.  "I was not aware that there was a draconian species
living on Alfheim Colony."
        "Figures there'd be a colony named after it," said Nall.  He
gathered himself up and jumped from Corwin's shoulder to Data's.
"Listen.  This is a long story.  If you really want to hear it, great,
but if I've got a transporter to catch, we're never going to finish it
in time.  What do you say you guys take me with you on your sweep of
the Denorios Belt, and when you're off-duty I'll tell you all about
it."
        Corwin arched an eyebrow, but said nothing.  Nall was
-ditching- him?  Were the repairs to Daggerdisc -that- boring?
        But as Data replied that he would like that, if the Captain
allowed it, the little dragon turned his face back to Corwin, winked
one scarlet eye, and sang to him in Draconic,
        >There.  Now I'll be out of your hair for the next couple
days.<
        Corwin scowled.  >Dammit, Nall, you know it's - <
        >Easy,< said Nall, and his normally sarcastic mien was
completely serious.  >I know.  But still - that doesn't mean you need
me around.  Huh?  Trust me.  You need some time without me hanging
around.  Least I can do after I was so insensitive yesterday.<
        Corwin looked back at the little dragon for a moment, then
ruffled his head.  >OK.<  Then he switched back to Standard.  "Have a
good time.  I'll see you Saturday."
        Data looked curious, but was too polite to ask.  Nall told him
cheerily, "Logistics."
        "Ah," said Data.  He tapped his communicator and set about
securing permission for Nall to remain aboard as his guest during
the Enterprise's Denorios survey.

        In the corridor outside Babylon 5's Green Sector transporter
room, Amanda and Devlin bade farewell to the others.  They didn't go
into great detail as to why they were leaving.  They didn't have to;
their friends could sense what came next, and though not all of them
seemed to agree, nobody was stupid enough to think they could talk the
Gamilon out of it.
        "We will try to be back in time for your test, Kaitlyn," said
Amanda.  "If Dolshaia grants us good hunting... well."  She smiled.
"I would hate to miss it."
        Kate nodded.  "W-we'd m-miss you," she said, returning the
smile - a little sadly, Amanda thought.
        "Well."  Amanda squared up and nodded rather imperially at the
group.  "With luck, I'll see you all again soon."
        Utena grinned, and then, to the surprise of several of those
assembled, began to sing, if it can be called that, in Klingonese.
Amanda looked momentarily puzzled, then amused, and she and Rina
joined in on the second line.

>The guns are hot, the hull is ringing,
The engines sing the sound of triumph;
And every one aboard awaits
A prize upon the high horizon.
Hand and weapon!  Heart and power!
Cry it with the voice of Empire!
Victory and prize and plunder!
Vengeance flies at morning!<

        "I appreciate the sentiment," said Amanda when they'd
finished.  At the confused looks of several of the onlookers, she
added with a smile, "But I believe I'll leave -you- to explain it to
the others."

        On Wednesday morning, Edward Tivrusky and Ein left the
station.  No one saw them leave, but they announced their departures
in an email message which found its way to each of the ex-WPI students
as well as the station's management.  They didn't specify which of the
six ships that had left the Freespacer Home Fleet that morning they'd
gone on, where they were headed, or when (or if) they were returning;
all the message said was that Durandal needed "to go on a little trip"
and the two hackers were helping.  Best wishes, love and hugs were
bestowed upon all.
        The Duelists considered this for a few minutes, concluded that
Edward would be Edward, and hoped the galaxy was ready for her.
        That same morning, Janice Barlow packed her few possessions
and reported to Challenger for briefing by Captain Hutchins.
        "Field agent training starts Monday at Experts HQ in New
Avalon," Gryphon told her, up in his office next to the ship's
bridge.  "You'd best leave today if you want some time to settle into
your new quarters in town before it starts.  Four weeks there, a week
of orientation at Headquarters, and you'll be all set to head back
here and take up your operational posting.  We'll have an office ready
for you on B5 by then.  What do you say?"
        Janice grinned.  "Sounds good to me.  I always wanted to visit
New Avalon."
        They went down to Shuttlebay Two, where Janice was delighted
to find that Gryphon had done exactly what he'd threatened to do.
Parked in the middle of the bay, smugly lording it over the ship's
mere mortal warpshuttles, was a Danube-class runabout.  It had been
stripped of its Psi Corps Enforcement Division markings and repainted
in IPO Space Force colors (IPS Rubicon, NCC-3230), but it was
undoubtedly the same one Janice had stolen from Earth a few days
previously.
        "This won't be trouble?" asked Janice as she stowed her duffel
bag and the new cases she'd acquired for her Frame and Varista on the
New Orleans.
        "Vision checked the records - the Corps wrote it off as
'presumed destroyed'.  Just to be safe, I had the transponder
re-encoded and the isolinear ID tags changed.  Nobody will ever know
it's the same one unless they check the serial numbers engraved on the
warp coils."  He grinned.  "Give the Technical Section a week and
those won't match either.  I've arranged for her to be rebuilt to the
new Kennebec spec while you're in training.  Can't have you plodding
around at Warp 6 all the time."
        "Wow, and it's not even my birthday," said Janice.  "Listen -
not that I want to be a pain or anything, but what about school next
year?  Any word?"
        He smiled.  "I'm still chasing it, but it's starting to come
together soon.  By the time you get to New Avalon, there ought to be
news."
        "Well, OK then."  She looked momentarily at a loss; then
Gryphon held out a hand.
        "Clear skies, Agent Barlow," he said.
        "Thanks, Chief," she replied with a grin, shaking the hand.
        Chuckling to himself, Gryphon left the runabout and the
shuttlebay, and Janice Barlow and her faithful Mag headed for New
Avalon.

        After that, next couple of days were largely uneventful.  Most
of the students kept to their rooms or gathered in small groups in one
of B5's common areas, relaxing and catching up on their reading.  By
Thursday, they were starting to become a bit restless, wondering what
was to become of them.  Was the rest of the school year cancelled?
Would they have to take their finals here, or would the whole last
term be written off?  How would this affect their futures?  And what
were they going to do next year?  They had assurances that Kate's
father was looking into all this, and indeed, Challenger left the
station on a mission to Earth early Thursday morning; but the lack of
news was starting to put some of the students on edge.
        There were exceptions, of course.  Kaitlyn hardly noticed, so
busy was she in training and preparation for her upcoming mastery
trial.  Juri spent much of her time observing Kate's practice sessions
and serving as a dissimilar sparring partner.  Utena and Corwin
continued the repairs to Daggerdisc.  The others amused themselves
however they could, waited, and wondered.
        Late Thursday night found Kyouichi Saionji wandering the
corridors of the station, for lack of anything better to do.  He was
alone, and the not-yet-operational station's hallways were deserted
and quiet, but that didn't bother Saionji.  He'd always been a bit of
a lone wolf.  In the old days, that had mainly been because his
temperament had leaned toward brooding.  Nowadays... well, he supposed
he still had a tendency to brood, but not with the single-minded
determination he'd once had.
        Eventually, his wanderings through the night-dimmed corridors
of the station led him to one of the core shuttle stations.  Of all
the place's features, this had taken the most getting used to, for the
train, since it ran along the rotating station's center line, was in a
low-gravity zone.  Not quite null-gravity, but low, enough to make
navigating around the train stations a novel experience for someone
unused to variable gravity conditions.  The trains themselves had
gravity aboard, and negotiating the gradient was also a bit of a
trick, rather like getting on an escalator.  Saionji was a fairly
coordinated young man; in three days' wanderings he'd pretty much
mastered it.
        He stood, bouncing slightly on his heels in the weak gravity,
and waited for a train, wondering if they ran 24 hours a day.  It
appeared they did, for in a few minutes, one arrived.  Saionji climbed
up the gravity gradient and boarded, bound for no particular
destination.  Perhaps he'd go look around Gray Sector.  He had no
reason to believe it was all that different from Red Sector, where
Group B was quartered, or Green Sector, where those who had arrived on
Daggerdisc were staying, but nevertheless...
        He realized as the train eased into motion again that he
wasn't alone, and was further surprised to see that the other person
in the shuttle car with him was Liza Broadbank.  He found this
interesting, since as far as anyone else in the WPI group knew, Liza
hadn't left her room on Red 12 since her arrival on the station.  She
was sitting on the longitudinal bench which faced the doors in the
middle of the train.
        She looked terrible.  Her clothes, which looked like the same
WPI uniform she'd been wearing when she was rescued from the Psi
Corps, were rumpled and dingy, and her curly blonde hair was a mess.
Her face was oddly mottled, the pale skin reddened, especially around
the eyes, which were sunken in dark rims.
        His curiosity piqued, Saionji walked over and sat down on the
first of the transverse seats, at right angles to Liza.  She didn't
seem to notice him.  She merely sat, arms folded, gazing thoughtfully
at the doors.
        They rode in silence through three stops, passing out of Green
Sector into Blue.  The core shuttle didn't reach very far into Blue
Sector; the main docking corridor occupied the core in most of that
sector.  It paused at the last (or first) stop, then reversed
direction and headed back toward the other end.
        They rode past the station where Saionji had boarded, and
still Liza didn't speak, didn't acknowledge his presence at all.  Not
until they entered the arboretum, cruising slowly through the rather
surreal world of its rolled-up square mile of countryside, did she
speak, and even then, from her tone she might merely have been
thinking aloud.
        What she said was, "There has to be some way to open those
doors."
        Saionji looked at the doors, then back at Liza.
        "Why would you want to?" he inquired conversationally.
        Liza got up and walked slowly across the car to the doors.
She put her hand against one of them and stood looking out of the
window at the slowly turning ground below.
        "You know," she said without turning to look at him, "there
are a surprisingly small number of ways to die here, considering it's
a space station.  You can't operate the airlocks without security
codes.  Weapons are inaccessible.  There aren't any exposed beams in
the living quarters to hang oneself from."
        Saionji grunted noncommittally.  "Inconsiderate of them," he
remarked.
        "Very," Liza replied, her tone lacking irony.  "But if I could
get these doo