“Homecoming” Series
"Part Six: Akeldama" (written pre '00, re-edited '02)
If you haven't by now figured out when and where this (A.U.) story is taking place, you haven't read the rest of it. So please go back and read it. :) Advice, comments, opinions, responses, questions, suggestions to: h_raelynn@hotmail.com >>> Please!
All things and people invented by jms belong to him. He can have them back whenever he wants. Original characters and settings are my own, if you want to use them, just ask me nicely and I'll say yes. :)
[indicates thoughts.]
*emphasis*
PG - 13 . . . time does not wait for mere mortals.
~~~~
Private log, Rianna Brandan recording. I will never, ever, ever make fun of farmers again. Ever. Ever, ever, ever, ever. Is that enough evers? Ever. The numbing drugs havent set in yet, and I am in pain. A lot of pain. A great deal of pain. I will never be underapprecative of bread again. Bread takes a lot of work to make. I should know. Ive spend the last few days helping harvest wheat. Except for today because yesterday I made the foolish comment what the heck happens to all the stupid grain. I shouldnt have called it stupid. That was a definite mistake. I spent all of today grinding it in various ways, sifting, filtering, chaffing (or whatever they call taking the outer husks off, now thats exercise!) etc, etc, etc. . .my arms are about to fall off. But Im not as bad as some of the others, since Ive been getting upper-body exercise the whole trip - digging latrine pits the whole way here. (Ah ha ha, the bathrooms here are already made. Showers! Hot running water! Soap! Washing machines for clothing (waterwheels turn them for us, no armwork)! Whooo!) Some others say theres a girl healer here who can make pain go away with a touch but I havent met anyone who could do that yet, unfortunately. The description was rather vague anyway. It would be easier if the fields were next to The Wall. But nooooo, they arent. Ye gods, my jaw fell right off the first time I turned around on the plains - we had walked maybe most of a kilometre already - and I first SAW the place. Holey Moley and every other swearwordish phrase out there. It doth earneth thy nameth. HUGE! FRIGGIN HUGE! Ill try to make a sketch soon. Wont be able to get the sheer size in, though, not even a real sense of scale. The Wall. Ha ha ha. . .on a 30-klick wide skyscraper, maybe. Sacred Red Sands of Home, its a very big tall wide city. Oh yeah. The fields are out a few Kms so that they dont get rained on during the daily afternoon drizzle, so in order to get to the wheat we have to go past animal pens, outbuildings of whatever sorts, and the orchards. More trees than Id ever seen under cultivation, and all babies still. Im not counting the forest on the walk to here. Baby peach trees, baby cherry trees in the north stretch and orange seedlings in the south, basketfuls of apples. . .yummy. . .massive case of diarrhea though, until I (and we) got used to the fresh foods. But it all evens out ok even with aching muscles. Actually Marcie is the worst today. SHE made the silly comment about wondering how the sewage was treated early this morning. . .guess what she got to do all today? Hoo, she stinks. We all (well most of us) have learned really fast to be careful what we say. Think stuff, fine, I dont think weve been scanned yet by the locals, but be very careful about what you say. Theyll teach you anything you dont know. . .whether or not you really WANT to learn! Stubbornest people Ive ever met, the locals. My arms are going numb finally. What relief. I do have one small consulation: I havent made any comments or asked any questions on how this place was built. I have therefore managed to stay off mining duty. Id rather not have to chop out blocks of rocks and haul them off to whatever village is scheduled to receive building material that day. He he he. . . *moan* Im going to bed now goodnight. ~~~~ Log continued. Theres an upside and a downside to getting a bed right next to a window. Upside - nice cool breeze, fresh air. Downside - You wake up at whatever godawful hour the sun happens to begin to rise. On a third hand (paw, if you count those 6-limbed kangaroo thingies I saw bickering about prices over in a market in Area 10), I get to complete writing this so it dont sound so lame. Its been a while since I updated this (losing the book will do that) so maybe I better explain what the heck is going on. Any of us crewmembers who are not up on a repair shift (like medics with zilch repair knowledge) are helping the locals do things, mostly harvesting the primary grain crops because thats what needs done right now. Officers too. And lots of locals who have other jobs the rest of the time, we are all out there working. Two hundred thousand people can eat a whoooole lot of wheat. Oi! Ye Gods, I think I just quoted the Captain . . . is that good or bad? Either way the food here is great. The slop-stores in orbit will be rotted by now (god bless radiation), and a lot of the food we harvest is marked for sending up to the ship later for the trip home. I could eat a whole oh gads, whats that thing called? The big rodent thingy thats from here but was first found by Minbari so its name is unpronounceable. A whole one for every meal. Yum yum yum. Plus you dont have to take it off a stalk and bag it. :) The butchers just go down to the pens and WHAM! Dinner. After you skin, gut and chop it, of course. I know because sometimes I have to help cut. But its not all work. Even though we have to be heading out for work by the time the suns butt clears the ground and stay out until its gone over the mountains and sometimes even until everything is getting dark, we get both of the Sundays off (does that make sense? They call the day between Saturday and Sunday 'endday' and its when the weekend really starts, not Friday night), and theres always a few hours or minutes at the end of the work day to relax. Some days I am even not too sore so I can find a guy to spent time with to relax. The local men here (not on the walk but in the city) are sometimes willing I even had in bed an active twice now and he was really good. ALL the rumours about sex with a teep are true! :D Some guys even invited Jan I know, but Marcie scared them off with her talking. Foo on her. ;) Some competitions have been set up on the weekends, general muscle-stuff like races, martial arts, gymnastics displays, other games. Its kindof odd to know teeps are involved, but it makes sense. Who cares if the opposition knows what youre going to do, if they cant get the physical part done themselves? Knowing theres 3 backflips and a spin in so-and-so routine means squat if you cant get your own routine down pat. This of course translates into a lot of usually sedentary crewmembers trying out the tricks on their own, resulting in all sorts of sprains, strains, and broken bones. I work on-and-off on weekends, watching stuff (Im in one of the first aid stations, a nice cool tent, so I get shade) whenever someone hasnt come limping up. My wrapping has gotten better, with a local doctor here supervising us lackeys to make sure we snug the bandages on right. Its not as nice as just waving a ‘magic wand’ (Dr. Mitchell’s words) and fixing it, but its nice to see and feel the work youre doing. Tensor lives! But the recreation isnt all physical. Thats just part of what the Captain and whoever shes working with (my vote is for her friend Linda (Lisa?), who I really want meet one day soon) have set up. Theyve got a great public library system here, even if theres some books they dont have yet. There are several concert halls - mostly set outside in open-air ampatheatres. Ampi? Ampo? Half-circle ancient greek versions of theatres. I saw an actual grand piano in one - a prized trophy brought by some thoughtful settler, and lots of littler places for music. The few instruments that managed to make it here are tenderly cared for, even if they do see a lot of use, and the ones made here arent too bad sounding, for being nothing but acoostic kinds. I must have listened to informal jam sessions dozens of times. They just ‘happen’, all over the place. A few of the locals have said to me that if their world makes music, they can too. * ? * No further explanations was given, but Marcie says its probably a metaphor of some kind. Like everything else in the Psi Corps, she says music was kept rigid and formal. A few classical concerts maybe and zip else. More making up for lost time I guess. Friends, aliens and family were all happy to teach us how to play, and a few have tried to get me on a flute. Nuh-uh! But jams are a great way to meet guys. No ‘dancing’ (Pant pant pant!) though besides the normal ‘in pairs’ kind. Bodypaintless. :p But theres a rumour going round that a ‘skirt’ will happen soon, which has been explained to me as a male dance. Since I havent seen a single skirt in normal (human - what the aliens wear I cant discribe usually) attire yet, I dont know why its called that. There was a couple on the dancers for a few minutes during the walk, but those were more like a towel or cloth wrap-around than a skirt. Mostly pants, a few dresses for the women on formal occasions, and there were a few honest-to-god kilts on the guys at a wedding a few days ago (THAT was a celebration! So much for the idea that teeps dont drink!). But no skirts. I asked about it. The locals laughed and said theyd make sure I was able to attend. So its another puzzle Ive got to wait to solve. But the way the local girls would grin. . .should be good. So to get to my point, Ive got enough to keep busy on the moments Im not working, sleeping, or flirting. I can hear others waking up, so I better skiddle for the bathroom in front of them. Bye for now! * ! * Did I just write that? ~~~~ Private Log continued, Rianna Brandan recording. Day 52 after smuck-down. I have officially screwed up my life and my until-now career. Ha ha ha ha ha ha. Massive understatement. I am sooo glad nobody wants to make me a diplamat, because I just know I’d start wars. Lots of wars. Very messy, bloody, things-going-kablooie wars. I met the Captain’s friend today. Not that I *KNEW* it was her right away, because maybe, just maybe, somewhere else in some other, better universe, I might have said something more diplamatic. Maybe a short speech, elegantly delivered, thanking her for saving my homeworld and my family, and for helping the crew I serve with. Maybe a few poetic lines on what a pretty world she has, even if the sky does go up forever and they don’t live in domes like regular people. Or something, ANYTHING, at least, that didn’t make me look like a complete and total born-yesterday-in-a- recyc-bin backstreet rookie. Alas, it is an imperfect universe, and I have officially fubar’d my existence. Did I notice that the Captain was only a few feet away? No, because she was wearing civvies just like I was. Did I remember to curtsey, or bow, or nod respectfully at a beautiful lady who looked dignified even in work clothes? No! Noooo, all *I* noticed was how she looked, and then from my stupid mouth, which, from this moment on, I formally DISOWN, came "Gee, your hair’s even more red than mine is!" . . . she blinked a few times and slowly grinned. At which point the Captain turns around, wearing one of her patented(tm) stares, and I suddenly realize who this lady must be. Despite the obstacle of my heart, which had suddenly fallen clean out of my torso along with the contents of my bladder, I managed to stumble away, looking even more like a fool. Once in the corridor, I ran here to hide. My life is over. My career is doomed. The Captain is going to maim me and leave me to die spread out over some rocks for whatever passes as vultures here to pick over the scraps. I -----
~~~~
Her pen suddenly jumped when a voice called out, “Hey RIA!”
Brandan shoved her journal out of the way, stuffed her head into her pillow and tried to hide. “Go away. I want to be alone in my misery,” she moaned.
“Ria, get up. Message from the Captain.” an insistent hand shook her shoulder.
“Marcie, go away.”
“Not until you tell me how to make those kind of brownie points with God.”
A single eye emerged from the cotton covered down. “Huh?”
“I don’t know! She just said something about breaking the ice finally, and to say thank you. Ria, Captain God said thank you! What the hell for!?”
Brandan sat bolt upright. “You're joking, but I’m *not* laughing! Seriously, what’s she gonna do to me? Make me spend the rest of my time here hauling rock? Chipping away gravel? Cleaning out the sewage pools? Wait a minute. You’re . . . not . . . kidding . . .”
“Of course not! What the hell did you do??”
Blinking several times, Brandan re-ran the memory. “I think I made someone smile.”
“Whu - that’s it? You made someone smile? Why would that - be - such - Oh god. That pretty lady next to Ivanova . . . her friend?”
“I guess so - the one whose baby miscarried or something. But she wasn’t shaped like she’d - well I don’t know!”
“If she had a gash in her neck and copper hair to her waist in a 5-part braid, that was her. I heard Ivanova call her Lyta.”
“Uh-huh.” Brandan muttered weakly.
A long, expectant pause followed.
“WELL?” Marcie exclaimed.
Brandan shoved the journal under the mattress and stood up with a smile of her own. “I’m starving. Let’s go- what’s those bells mean?”
“GUYS!” a loud voice yelled from the corridor. “News posting! Get moving!”
“Now what?”
“Got me. But an all-bells ringer like that has got to be important. Come on, It’s a long run down to level 3!”
~~~~
“Captain’s Personal Log, End of 52nd total day. I'm tired, sore, and cranky, but I better put some general ramblings down for posterity anyway. Bureaucracy may take a heck of a long time to get something done, but I guess I can’t say anymore that they don’t get anything done at all. Translated loosely, this means the First Council has finally figured out the basics on how they’re going to deal with permanent contact. They’re still bickering, of course, but then politicians do that. They’ve made plans to set aside an unpopulated island, one large enough to handle the possible numbers of future travellers and be basically self-sustaining so that the normals stationed or visiting there - news media, maybe ship’s crews on leave - won’t have to go to the mainland. The island is almost the size of Vancouver Island back on Earth, and has no indigenous lifeforms to risk pushing to extinction. I've done a bit of research on it since we got the news this afternoon, and it seems to be ideal. It’s also far enough away from the mainland that no one is going to hop onto a boat and try to sneak away, but the distance is mostly to ensure none of the altered teeps sense any of the power that’ll be set up to recharge shuttles, etc. In a fast sailing ship under a good wind you can reach the closest port on the Northern Continent in about 12 hours. An average ship under a normal wind would take almost 2 full days. The Southern Ports are all at least 27 hours away. The physical shape of the island also helps. It’s mostly cliffs at the edges, a few safe harbors, and many flat spaces in the middle for a series of ports. The coral around it has passable channels, but they will need trained navigators to get the sailing ships from and to the deep water without ripping open their hulls. But they intend to start small, both with building a spaceport and the transportation across the water. As long as even one out of the hundreds of shadow-altered telepaths is living and mobile, the shipbuilding guilds refuse to make any vessel able to travel the distance in less than 12 hours. They had a heck of a time getting the poor souls here to safety; they refuse to let them be compromised at all. They refuse to let any citizen be compromised by outsiders (such as my crew), even the non-telepathic citizens are protected. But considering what all of them had to go through to survive long enough to get here, I don’t blame them for being mother hens to each other. Unity is strength. And after that one idiot pilot went outside the approved flight path and nearly drove that one alt insane from proximity . . . if I ever let him out of the sewage pools I’ll gut him. He nearly got her killed, and a shuttle was almost destroyed. It took two days to fix the wiring well enough to fly it again. But their unity is causing another problem. You’d think that out of however many millions of people they have here, there would be some which would be willing to return with the Sophocles to be on the trade delegation. Not in this case. They don’t want to leave. Out of an estimated population of just over 67 million, you’d think there would be hordes of folks wanting a share of the action. A fat expense account, lots of fancy parties to hobnob at, sights to see, people to bargain with, live the high life for a year or so, be an adventurer. No, no, no. Out of the entire adult population, less than a hundred have asked to be considered. Ok, so there’s only room for about 50 or so, more if they don’t mind sharing quarters with the enlisted troops, but still! None of them are telepaths from higher psi-levels. I think their infamous music is addictive or something, and the stronger teeps have been taking larger doses. Out of the under 100, only 64 are trained active teeps, and all of those are in the lower levels. 15 are latent, the rest are family - but mundanes. And from only 6 of the many species. Some of those on the first lists are backing out even now; they change their minds and want to remain at home. Lyta hasn’t given me any specifics yet, but she looks a tad out of place by the whole lack of enthusiasm. She agrees that most of the population does want controlled trade, but if no one is willing to go out and do the trading . . . they just don’t want to leave. They don’t want to be alone again, to be surrounded by machine noise and the lack of music again. The thought has crossed my mind more than once - if Gray had lived, would he have wanted to stay? I don't know if he would have been a help, or if he would have tried to back away from taking a side. Hell of a conflict of interest. But I still wish he had been able to come, to keep him from dying, if nothing else. I've had a recurring problem that he would have been able to solve, but I make do with local support in his absence. It's probably the only thing I won't ask Lyta's help on, *that* would get far too complicated. To get back on topic, the Council is not going to force anyone to go. But someone does have to leave, several someones to handle the sheer volume of material that needs processed, and they have to somehow stay protected. Protection seems to be a really sticky issue with these people. Not that I blame them, of course, considering their history. Outside the interference vortex, there’s a big bad universe. Every citizen here chose to come and then chose to stay. The only exceptions are a few of the children, who were too young to have a vote. But you can’t send babies out to be diplomats, no matter how mature they might seem next to the Senate back on Earth. The issue of who leaves will debated for a while, it seems, so I’ll just sit back and watch them fight it out. I have enough stuff to keep busy with, and all of it is more useful than a circular debate. Lyta has begun meeting some of my crew as of today, and it went a little better than I expected, although for a few seconds I was mildly tempted to kill that fool child. But whatever works, I’ll use. Nobody from the ship besides me knows her title, and Lyta prefers it that way. Tensions seem to rising among the bigots. There aren’t many of them, not even a dozen extremists, but things are touchy right now. It will be about a week before the ship is repaired enough to sent them into orbit for safekeeping. As long as they don’t do anything violent in the meantime, everything should be all right. But the locals are not using her title (a few came close then caught themselves), and neither am I. I'll likely have to burn this book, after I type in an edited version ship-side. I might just leave it here to keep the secrets safe, however. Mostly the introductions were by crew who had family here, but a few were from the various alien diplomats or tradesmen in The Wall. I expect a lot more over the next few days. This afternoon I got to meet 3 sets of very proud parents, several siblings, and one very wet-eyed marine who proudly showed off a wife who’d had to go into running while pregnant - and a rambunctious little son he’d never met until the week before. Poor kid already looks like him. His request to return is on the top of the pile. It’s going to break his heart to go away again. At least he knows they’re safe and that he can come back. Most of my schedule tomorrow (the eclipse is supposed to start early in the afternoon, which means we should stay inside someplace that can be heated if need be, though I've been assured our lower elevation compared to the last eclipse means it won't seem nearly so damned cold as it was before) is slated for meetings with some of the alien diplomats that live around here. Most of the non-humans have their quarters in areas 1 through 10 since most of the trade roads in use so far are from the south, that way the favorite/special foods they eat don't have to go the extra distance. They might move north a little when the dotted lines on the maps are filled in, but until they have time to pave the road to - shoot, I don’t yet know how its name is spelt. There's a major Minbari city a few hundred miles north, just inside the mountain range, that is a crossroads for 2 highways. In a year or two when the paving is done, their quickest route to the rest of the world will pass right next to The Wall, bringing an estimated 15% more travellers over a 4 year span. And, several more years after that, the road to Sli'khal (I keep forgetting to pronounce the glottal stop) will be started, the Brakiri city on the coast across the mountains. So, Brakiri trade will quadruple as the goods go in a shortcut overland instead of the long way by sea. Same route we had to take - actually building the road will be a hell of a challenge for the colonists, that was extremely rough terrain. Among other road-making examples. I don't have all the details yet; I'll get them tomorrow. There's already 6 different highways in use going to and from here, what will The Wall be like in a decade or two? I'm not worried, however, as all my visits are just social calls. All the real headbutting will take place in the actual trade delegations, whether in a few months in Alliance space or in a few years on the port island. The assumption is that the locals will want to get as much done as possible in a single trip, then return with a series of large, well-armed convoys to deter raiders along the route. Very large convoys, if they get all that they want. They are going to need quite a few transports to move it all, and several sturdy warships to provide escort. The White Star fleet might provide that part, since I doubt any local would willingly buy, lease or even rent a ship made specifically for fighting. The lists of wants and needs are huge when you consider the quantity being debated, even if they spread it out over several years and source species. Mostly, they want information - like books. The libraries have been compiling request sheets ever since they opened, and there are literally (pun intended) hundreds of thousands of titles on them from hundreds of species. Novels - new, old, antique. Musical scores (there isn't a single copy of Beethoven's 9th here!), poetry, textbooks, you name it. They might have it, but if not, they want it. Secondary, but still considered vital, are seeds and more animals. Not one viable corn plant survived long enough to be grown here, it's on the list. More cotton and flaxseed, more grains, more tree seedlings, more fruit seeds, more edible or otherwise useful plants. Lots of animals, both in numbers and number of species. Sheep, goats, horses, rabbits, penned fish, tame birds. Except chickens. The chickens they brought kept dying off, so the decision was made to stop trying until the cause could be found. Quail seem the favorite imported fowl to dine on now. Other flora and fauna, as well, these are just the human-based examples off the top of my head. A complete report will be done before the ship reaches EA space. If the resident wildlife hadn't been mostly edible, I doubt any but a few of the settlers would have lived this long. It's the same, if on a smaller scale, for the methane breathers. They need supplies and trade too, but they're helped economically (if hindered aesthetically) by the ability to use any level of power on their moon. No music, no surviving Shadow-altered teeps. But those details are listed in my report; there's no need to reiterate. As I've noted before, they don't eat a lot of meat here. The humans, anyway. The animals are wanted mostly for work power, hides, fur, or feathers and eggs. The times an animal is killed, it's sometimes been let decompose a little then traded to the Pak'ma'ra for whatever. Meat is for special occasions only, or a pregnant woman's cravings. Sufficient protein can be gotten from grains and vegetables in most cases. The meat consumption has jumped by almost half since we arrived in The Wall. 900 Earthforcers can go through as much meat as 100,000 locals usually do, just to give you an idea of how little they really do eat. I suspect some of the increased consumption is a sign of the local's increasing birth rate, however, as there are quite a few women 'maternally shaped'. And there are as many young toddlers and infants as school-aged kids - partly because of the dying-off of children during the settlement and partly because of the high birth rate. The crew has commented to me on how they have received strange looks for taking what the crewmember assumes is a modest piece of steak or roast . . . most have clued in by now, though, and take smaller portions, going back for a second helping afterwards. There's no taboo on having more if you empty your plate first. But they even rail on me if I leave food on my plate - wasting food is extremely rude. It's not quite a double standard, however, as they do eat meat, and they use the skins from everything that has useful hide. Some of the outer garments are leather, because it can be made waterproof easily. And marrowbones are used to thicken soups and other foods. I've decided to check the ingredient list on gelatin from now on before I eat any . . . guess how the thickener is made? Marrow jelly - they might go back to the usual apple starches eventually, but there just aren't enough apples yet to spare for such frivolity. Some of the import lists are luxury items, things they won't get unless they can obtain everything needed and have money left over after the more important wants. Legal rights to make certain patented instruments are considered a need. Importing already-made instruments is a want. Silkworms and the plants they need to eat are a good example of a luxury. Silk is not a necessity, so I doubt they will be able to bring any in for a long time. Especially since the two planets that have large populations of silk-makers are both restricted: Centauri Prime and Earth. Short of a monetary miracle, the few colonies that have a supply won't be willing to give up stock. I haven't seen anything made of silk here that wasn't an heirloom, brought in when the owner first came, and even those are rare. Not that I'm complaining, as the cotton or wool clothes are comfortable anyway. A tailor stopped by a few days after I got to The Wall, took measurements, asked what styles I'd seen that I liked or disliked, and the clothes started to arrive the next day, fitting perfectly. Nothing is off the shelf here. Other cities, maybe, but not The Wall. I’ve ended up with almost a dozen different civilian garments, and my protest that I couldn't pay wasn't heeded. Apparently I saved some family member of his back in the civil war and he would have given me a hundred pieces of clothing if I'd let him. Lyta stepped in to remind him of the limited storage space I'd have on ship, and that his work would be much appreciated by the other crewmembers. She has a gift for flattery. He left beaming. No, that's not totally true. She verbally blistered the hide off one of the local doctors a few days ago, when she'd gone out to the wheat fields with me to help everyone with the harvest. She isn't supposed to do any heavy lifting or other intense physical work yet. We weren't out there for an hour when the doctors managed to hunt her down and ordered her out of the sun. The more colorful section of her vocabulary seems to have expanded since she left B5 . . . even MY face went red before she sulked back into the shade. She didn't go inside as they ordered, however, since I found out later she had been helping numb sore muscles in a first aid tent. Typical teep - muleheaded! She'll probably go out the day after tomorrow with me anyway, at least until she gets caught. The wheat is almost in, and there are more crops already ripe enough to harvest. I've been taking the crew off other duties as much as I can, putting them into the fields to help. I'll be out every day I can make time, too.
~~~~
A few days later, the late morning sun was just beginning to get warm enough to cook skin when Ivanova noticed Lyta had stopped moving. Setting the burlap sack down, she waved a hand in front of Lyta's rapidly blinking face. "Hello?"
"Uh, ma'am, what's wrong with her?" A nearby crewmember asked. "She just went into a sortof trance . . . and . . . and - well you can see her eyes too!"
"Don't touch her!" A local warned quickly. "She's doing a different kind of work. Don't distract her."
Ivanova gave the local a glance that said she wanted a better answer, but the girl just turned her face to the sky. The sounds of conversation had died around her. All the people she could recognise as active telepaths were looking in the same direction. Then a very strange feeling rippled through her, and she, along with everyone else, joined her eyes to the same spot. Against the intense blue, a paler, reddish white pinprick appeared for a few seconds, then closed in on itself.
A jump point!
"White Star," the local girl commented offhandedly, and went back to work as if nothing at all strange had happened. The background murmuring of talk sprang back excitedly, at least among the earthforcers.
Lyta shook her head slightly and looked around with a dizzy expression, as if she was surprised to find herself where she was. She quickly whistled, and a horse nearby picked its head up and trotted over.
A surprised crewmember nearby Ivanova commented, "Nifty warning beacon. How many heard - um - felt it?"
"Every sentient being in the solar system," Lyta replied as she pulled off it's work harness and jumped onto the horse's back before tearing off towards The Wall at full gallop.
"Hey!" Ivanova cried out after her. "What are - oh, to hell with it." She handed her sack to the nearest pair of hands and scooted after Lyta on foot. [Damned girl never gives me any warning at all,] she complained to anyone listening as she began to run the 3 miles back.
[And this is strange because of what?] An unknown voice asked humorously.
The captain didn't know if she could be heard, but she did her best to broadcast laughter. [It’ll have to enter orbit before landing - I should have time if I hurry!]
~~~~
Panting for air and damp with sweat, after the first few miles she was running more on adrenaline than energy while watching the White Star circle overhead in search the people directing it to where it was safe to land, then it dipped down out of sight. Diverting south slightly, she finally caught up to them, and tried not to wheeze too loudly as she nudged her way through the growing crowd of goggle-eyed children to where Lyta was conversing easily with the Ranger captain in his own language. Lyta had somehow found the time to wash the dust off and change into better clothes, a dress that was obviously meant for meeting rather than working.
Ivanova had to lean against a support strut for a few seconds to catch her breath after her run before she could talk. "When did you learn to speak Minbari?” she asked Lyta as she walked up and greeted him in his own language as well. Various members of her crew were filtering in from the fields and down from the city, adding to the dozens of drop-jawed urchins that were still gathering. Ships were not a common sight anymore for them, and a few of the youngest ones were hiding behind older siblings.
"I see you manners are as sloth as reputed, my dear Captain Ivanova," the Minbari replied with a grin and english tainted with a faint accent. "Do you have any idea what kind of a ruckus your battle and subsequent disappearance has caused? There are some who quietly suspected your location, many who say you're dead and that the search is useless, and a few who are holding out for evidence in either direction. We found the base the Drakh had been using to hide in, however, and they have joined their aged kin in hell. Your messages altered us to what could have been a very deadly confrontation before it got out of control. Thank you. The G- Alexander here has been giving us a rough update on your situation. Apart from the fighter pilots who were in combat at that time, all your crew but - 68? 68 - are alive and basically well, correct? And most are already gathered here."
"My manners are - well - there's no need for a comparison to your own." She grinned while delivering a traditional Minbari tongue-in-cheek remark, then started speaking English again. "And yes, we have about 90 percent survivors. Some who were too injured to travel here might have died since I've received news - but only a few. Almost everyone has been accounted for, even those who came down too far away to have arrived here yet - we've had to ration the shuttle fuel, you realise, and have not been able to shorten the longest journeys. The medical areas are being repaired, but it will be some time before we can treat anyone shipside. We have found 57 of the bodies, mostly from the ship, which we've temporarily buried about a mile that way - or where they came down, in a few remote cases. Retrieval is delayed by the fuel problem. Eleven crew are missing totally, but all the pods launched have now been accounted for. 8 of the 11 have had personal effects found - dog tags, a watch, things they would have been wearing and have survived where the body did not. There were only 22 of our original 25 Thunderbolts able to fly in the battle, so we've only lost another 44 crew that way. There are several repair teams currently on board the Sophocles, working as we speak. It will probably be between 10 and 20 days before she's repaired enough to safely consider starting for home, depending on how many glitches we come across. The radiation did a number on the computer systems, and if you know anything about this system, you'll know why we haven't attempted to repair any of the weapons. So, does the President know of our location yet? I'm sure he'll have a seizure at the thought."
"He is . . . going to be updated as soon we send our message. The Entil'zha thought it prudent to leave him in the dark, so to speak, for as long as possible. His opinions on the colonists here matches that of most of his kind."
"Hmm," was all Ivanova said while watching the crew from the White Star disperse to speak with her crew and the locals. "I realise you've got a full compliment, so passengers are not likely to be considered, but will you be able to carry personal messages? You can? Good. Just to tell the families they're all right, and that they will return as soon as possible. I've got a firing squad to face so I'm not really looking forward with much joy, but there are many who wish to let family members know they're alive and well. I might have saved my crew's collective butt, but they're still going to rake me over the coals because of exposing my crew to a threat like this." She pointed to the giggling children that surrounded them, dry irony in her voice. "Knowing this was here, working with all of them while here, et cetra. Also the usual trouble over compromising security, etc, etc. Paranoid idiots, but it's due process, and the fact I'm sure most of the brass probably hate the colonists will only aggravate the condition. Sure, no one *here* was really involved in the war, but still, bigotry exists."
Lyta spoke up at this point. "Susan . . . don’t offer any leading questions, but perhaps you should ask the members of your crew who were on the bridge what they remember about finding our home. See what the computer remembers . . . sometimes things are simpler than you expect. Besides, I'm sure their wallets will help our argument. Most politicians are greedy bastards, in my experience."
While Ivanova looked puzzled at the first, cryptic comment, Lyta just smiled innocently.
The Ranger had almost literally pricked his ears up at the final sentences. "Then the mining operation of the outer moon . . .?"
"Is progressing on course, yes. We knew this day was coming, so we prepared accordingly. The turnover should be more than enough by now to allow export to begin. You may fill your decks as much as you wish. It is high time we began to repay the kindness you have shown to us. As well as loading food stores, just as we were able to the times previous. It is a long trip. There were no immigrants, I assume, since you came with only one ship."
Ivanova's face had gone slack. "Wait a minute - that Q40 mine *wasn't* a fantasy?"
In unison, "No."
Lyta smiled even more pleasantly while Ivanova got dizzy and had to lean against the ship.
The Ranger continued his conversation with Lyta while Ivanova faded into her own little world, thinking. "Only crewmembers, since we were on another mission when the call came out to scamper for here. We came as a pair - the other vessel was distracting attention elsewhere until we could ascertain the conditions here. If your friend and her crew had died, it would have been better to leave you quietly, letting the fate of the Sophocles remain a mystery. As is, the First Council will finally have to make some harsh choices."
"They can see reason - if you tie their faces to it." Lyta laughed. "Come, I can offer you a better meal than shipside rations, and more news. Your crew will be attended to as well."
"Thank you, Alexander . . . does the captain need carrying? She looks a trifle faint."
"I can damn well walk! You can go first," Ivanova glowered. [Sometimes things are simpler? . . . how?]
~~~~
The White Star stayed next to The Wall for a few hours while its crew gathered the data needed for a preliminary report, then they took off for high orbit. There was a faint worry spinning among the crew of the Sophocles that they might not return, but it was eased in less than an hour. Hundreds of eager witnesses watched as the vortex opened, the pinpoint visible for several minutes before it disappeared again, and then the ship returned. For 2 days, crewmembers from the Sophocles went on board to use the comm system; each one recorded a brief message and whom they wanted it sent to.
Then the White Star gave a ride to a pair of Earthforcers who’d walked with Ivanova, flying up the valleys until they reached Carlson's location, nearly giving him a heart attack when the ship blasted over a small ridge. The apologetic helmsman helped round up the spooked horses, then helped with carrying in the scattered equipment. Carlson’s group also left messages; he but declined the offer to carry them to The Wall in relays.
Ivanova had already figured he'd be too biased to give in, which was part of the reason she sent the two who had already taken the trip to act as additional guides, but several people with broken lower limbs were brought back in a single trip. Carlson wanted to take the long way, partly because Ivanova made the trip and he wanted to prove he was just as capable, and partly because he didn’t want to be around any more locals than he had to. He’d voiced over the comms on several occasions that the thought of being around 200, 000 telepaths until he could get up to the ship was appalling. Ivanova didn’t bother to mention that not quite a third of the population were actual telepaths - the rest were all family members. It made for a more peaceful time, but her sympathies were with the local guides in his group. Carlson was a good commander, but he flew a desk better than he did a ship, and an overland journey was definitely out of his league.
That evening, the White Star departed for Alliance space again, to prepare others for a diplomatic/trade envoy. Lyta assisted them by controlling the vortex for the brief in-system jump to the mining colony, then told Ivanova early the next morning that they had re-entered hyperspace and were on their way home safely.
~~~~
"Private log, Rianna Brandan recording. Late afternoon, Day 63. We got off work early today. The brown stuff hit the fan with the extremists, so all earthforce personnel had to go to their assigned bunks ASAP. I don’t know what’s going on yet, but I’ve got other news to jot down while I wait for the Captain to sort it out. I just hope it had nothing to do with the screaming I heard off to the south. Whatever happened, it happened a whole lot sooner than we figured it might. There wasn't too big a chance of anything happening at all, but I guess it did. The other news first. Carlson and his group made it here finally! Late this morning. Not that the Commander stayed too long. He asked that a shuttle pick him up at the top of The Wall, along with the powered equipment he’d brought (most of which the WhiteStar carried here for him). He was gone before lunchtime. Saved him a trip down the millions of stairs, but everyone else came down and made themselves at home. The ship hasn’t been set up yet for anyone to stay longer than a work-shift, but I guess he’d rather rough it than snuggle down on a local bed. Hey, it’s his (stupid) decision to pass up comfort. *I* like the locals. That reminds me. I got to meet Ruth again for lunch yesterday, Sarah brought her along on a medicine-delivery trip to here and we all met up by chance in a dining hall. All she could get down was some fruit and some bread. Poor dear’s got the 9-month flu. Well, 7 months, here. They count a month (36 Local days plus a few hours) as one trip around the Watcher. But the local calendar isn’t fully in use yet, so if you talk about things in earth time they still know what you’re talking about. Or they’re scanning me to find out what I mean. Either way works. I was polite enough to not ask Ruth who the father was. I saw her go on a couple side-trips on the overland walk . . . but considering what I was doing at said times, I’m keeping my mouth shut. :) I'm very happy for her, she's got a good midwife (even if Sarah can be a complete bitch at times) and a safe place here for the baby to live, if the baby survives. I don't know how deep Ruth's scars go, it might not be able to go full term. :( That might be bad, considering the neonatal survival rate here, but Sarah and an alien doctor who can do those sonar-click echolocation thing scans (aliens for scanners, very wonderful!) both say she's doing fine. The newest - and final - arrivals got this afternoon off, but they get right to work tomorrow. They sure talked a lot today, about everything they saw and asking about here. The fine art of silence. I never realised how much you can learn by just sitting quietly and listening . . . I think this world has been named, but I don’t know how official it’ll be. It’s a good nickname, at least. Us earthforcers have either been calling the people here locals or teeps. And they can't name this moon 'Local', so . . . I think they decided on Teep. It makes sense, in a quirky sort of way. Drazi had come from Draz, Earthers from Earth, Minbari from Minbar, and so on. Us Marsies are from Mars, even if the ancestors were earth-born. It might work. The larger moon had long ago decided to keep the nickname Meth for english-language use (none of them speak it normally, for them it’s just 'trade language'), and the System had already been officially designated 'Sanctuary'. "Teep." Yeah. It might work. I’m going to join Marcie and the others in pacing the room until we find out what the trouble was. Updates to follow." ~~~~ "Log continued. There have been very few times these past few months, ever since I put on the insignia, that I have been ashamed to serve with Earthforce. It didn’t matter I’d never been to earth before, it didn’t matter I was in medicine and not a ‘real’ soldier. All that mattered was how proud I was to belong to something so great. To belong with all those other people. This is the first big time I’ve actually hated the uniform. They told us what had happened. Private First Class Conner, 4 years of service, no distinguishing marks on his file. Five others, all similar rank, similar records. Until today. I guess they felt left out of the party or something, and decided to hold their own. He tried to rape a local woman. The others had been planning on taking turns, after him. He won the draw, he got to try her out first. Tried to. He was only partly successful. It was them we could hear screaming across almost 2 miles of fields. And we aren’t allowed to cut him down yet. Or his cronies. Jan was able to get close enough to the scaffold they’d been tied to and found out whether or not they were still alive or not before she was hustled inside. Three were moaning. Four were still oozing red, which is sortof a good sign. Dead men don’t bleed. But if what Jan described was accurate . . . In old Islamic societies, if you were caught stealing, your hand was cut off. No hand means you can’t grab whatever. It’s a practice mirrored in a lot of traditional, or alien, cultures. Let the punishment fit the crime sort of thing. Nobody’s (as far as I know) been raped here before. Maybe everyone was just too nice. Maybe this was written in the laws here. If not, I’m guessing that whoever was the first on the scene was a historian and that they had a knife. Connor, the others, it looked like they’d all been castrated. I feel sick. End log.”
~~~~
“Captain’s Personal Log, Evening of the 63rd day. Every so often, you realise that you really *don’t* know someone as well as you think. Like when I watched Lyta light a lamp and suddenly found out why she’d never had to bother keeping matches or a tinderbox around, it was a shock. But sometimes, just some of the time, there’s a much bigger surprise lurking. If such things happened often, I doubt the universe would want to continue with the bother of existing. Today was the day from hell, and I’m not talking about Carlson’s arriving and departing. I had to give an order today that I sure as hell didn’t want to. Not because I didn’t agree with the order, but because I wish the cause for that chain of events had never taken place. The repair crews are busy enough with critical systems, the brig shouldn’t need to be started up to working order, and I sure as hell don’t have the people to spare to guard the place. But the crewmembers that committed the crime will not be allowed off the scaffold until they can be removed, totally. Lyta was quite blunt in her message. If I can’t get them off her world (she used the possessive ‘my world’) before they die, then they die. She will not allow them medical aide. Or food. Or water. Or shelter of any form. She left the room again before I could answer, or stop her. She was, to be equally blunt, furious. She was also splattered in blood. Earthforce has no actual say here at all, it’s the Teep’s world, a teep was the victim, and my crewmembers broke the teep’s laws. I’m responsible for their conduct and safety, and I couldn’t do a thing. I went down and saw them, and was able to talk briefly with the woman involved. Their clothes had all been torn, or cut, or ripped - I don’t know yet - in an identical pattern. Matching what they’d done to the woman’s clothing. A local non-telepathic doctor was allowed close enough to look at, but not to treat, their injuries. Two each. The first injury was a stab to the throat, to match where a stolen knife was held to keep the woman from crying out. They didn’t think anyone was close enough to hear her mentally. They were almost right. But there’s one person here with very strong abilities. That woman heard, and acted to protect her fellow telepath. Years before, that same woman had spent a year and a half in Psi Corps custody while they ripped her mind apart to get at information she supposedly carried. Scans can be intensified with skin contact . . . and she has the misfortune to have been very pretty. Interrogations often took the form of gang rapes. Vaginal, oral, anal, mental. The evidence was clear, even after she’d had time to heal physically a little, having been in the mars underground for six months after her escape, before I first met her. On B5 for a few days, then gone again running. Steven Franklin, a doctor and close friend, had tried to ease my hatred for her by explaining some of what she’d gone through. The medical profile he had gotten was very explicit on what had happened to said female. But she never spoke of it, ever, to me or to anyone, as far as I know. Steven’s idea didn’t really work. It took her impressive return - and a rather impressive reference - to convince me to consider her a possible ally. I can sort of understand why she acted the way she did, even if I don’t agree. But there’s a part of me that cannot, just *can* *not* accept the second injury she gave those men. Pull them away from the victim, that much I understand. But not what she did to the men next. Each of them had a testicle removed. Only one. THAT part I don’t understand. Why not both? Why not a full castration, remove everything? The blood vessels and nerves were trimmed off, the wounds won’t be fatal. Extremely painful for a very long time, yes, but not fatal. If we can get the brig working shipside within a day or two, they’ll live, and probably make a partial recovery. If not, the attackers die of a combination of exposure and dehydration. After all the pain she’s been through, I had thought she’d have given up on the concept of causing harm to others. But I suppose there’s always an exception. Even for Lyta. Carlson is going to have a fit at this mess, I just know it. And I have to go topside to call him and deliver the news, instead of trying to start on a decent night’s rest. End Log.”
~~~~