"Homecoming" Series
And if you haven't by now figured out when and where it is, you're sunk. ;) Advice, comments, opinions, responses, and suggestions all welcome: h_raelynn@hotmail.com :) I love feedback!
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 nice and I'll say yes. :)
[indicates thoughts]
*emphasis*
PG - 13 . . . when you have faced the truth, could you tell it wore a mask?
~~~~
Susan blinked back tears as she moved to Lyta's side and put an arm around her, a month of hoping, praying, and cheerfulness suddenly crashing down around her into wickedly sharp-edged fragments. Lyta weakly tried to shrug her off but gave up after a few moments, too tired to fight. Susan just held her and cried, for once unaware of the cast's impediment.
It was a few minutes later that Susan realised Lyta was speaking, but even when she did, she wasn't sure if the whisper was directed at her or the universe in general. "They tried to take him from me. I couldn't sleep they would try again. I won't let anyone take him. He's mine."
"She hasn't slept in almost a week, and she hasn't eaten properly for days. She will barely even drink anything," a masculine voice came from the doorway. Susan looked over to where Byron was leaning against the arch, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "I woke up to your voices." He straightened up and walked over to sit on the edge of the bed facing them.
"Hi," Susan said carefully, aware of the fact Lyta had started to shiver violently in her grasp.
He gave a tight smile back, then indicated with a slight chin tilt for her to look at Lyta, who had turned away from him, holding the baby and her face on the far side. She had stopped watching the infant, instead didn't seem to be seeing anything at all.
She whispered in a faltering voice, "He tried to take my baby away. He took the last two. I won't let him take this one. Make him go away, Susan. Make everyone go away."
Byron sighed, looking at Susan with concern. "Please, try to get her to sleep, or to eat, either one - but preferably both - is what she needs. We can't bury it until she lets go."
"GO AWAY!!" Lyta suddenly screamed, her voice breaking. Byron retreated from the room as Lyta dissolved into Susan's arms, sobbing and hugging the dead infant to her chest.
"I won't let them take him away, Lyta. I won't let anyone take him away from you, I won't." Susan softly tried to reassure her as she held them, wondering what to do. "How old is he? Any name ideas?" There was a pause. "Lyta?"
"Zack was right, you know. Byron is trouble. He is the worst of the bunch. He took them, Susan, while I was sleeping. I'm not going to let it happen again. I'm not."
The Captain had by this point realised that Lyta was barely coherent, and must have been this way for a couple of days at least. "How old is your boy, Lyta?" She had to repeat it gently, several times, before Lyta stirred and gave a reply.
“Born . . . two days ago. Three times, he breathed on his own. A month early, too early, my pretty baby. I kept breathing for him. It kept his heart beating, and I blocked his pain." She stroked a finger along his forehead, touching the peach fuzz of red that covered his gray skin. She gave a soft smile, but that faded from her lips quickly. "I kept breathing for him. Then they tried to take him away, and when I could pull him back, his heart was gone. I couldn't get it going again. I tried and I tried but I failed. I won't let anyone take him away. Not you, not Byron, not anyone."
"What's his name?" Ivanova insisted, trying to break through the fugue Lyta was in.
Lyta looked at Susan, still not quite seeing her, confused. "I don't know."
“Well . . . let's name your son, then." Susan cradled Lyta's head on her shoulder, holding the distraught mother in her grasp, trying to provide a link to reality.
After a while of silent thinking Susan suddenly remembered a name. The nagging feeling that had been haunting her ever since the firefight, when she realised a few seconds after entering the vortex that she remembered the co-ordinates from a timeflash. She'd been going on automatic, too dizzy from the head wound to actually be thinking, especially about what she had learned so many years ago on Babylon 4. "Oh, no." Susan suddenly understood what she saw years ago, understood why the sky here seemed oddly familiar. What she would see soon . . . the date was listed, but the local date. "Nathaniel James," she whispered in disbelief, more to herself than to Lyta.
Lyta looked in her direction, puzzled.
"The - the baby's name. I thought it wasn't yours - I mean, I should have moved the flowers, looked at the bottom of the marker. I thought the last name was James. But you were - oh, god, you don't have any idea what I'm talking about, do you? You were there! You even called me Captain. That's how I knew - thought I knew - I'd live through all the wars that came in the next few years. But it hadn't happened yet, what I saw. But then who's the kid with you - the flash after that, who-" She suddenly cut off her verbal train to run her train of thought.
Lyta didn't understand what Susan was suddenly babbling about, but she did consider what Susan had said. "Ok."
"Ok, what?"
Lyta's reply came out slowly, careful to pronounce it right. "Nathaniel James Alexander. It's - it's a good name."
Susan smiled sadly at Lyta, wishing things had been different, had been better. But the universe seemed to have a mind of its own. "Big name for a little boy, but yes, a good name."
"He isn't going to grow into it, is he." Lyta stated.
"No . . . I don't think he will."
“I won’t give him up. I can’t let them take him away too.”
"I'm not going to let them do anything, ok? I'll look after you while I'm here. I'm sincere. Check if you want."
"Can't."
"I'll let you-"
“Can’t . . . too tired to focus. I can't sleep, they'll take him. I couldn't sleep before he was born - kept busy, trying to help you. I was trying not to worry." As she spoke, the first tiny bit of sun peeked over the horizon, letting her face become visible, and making Susan's heart climb up into her throat with concern. Lyta's eyes looked like they'd both been punched; the dark circles from sleep depravation seemed like bruises. That wasn't what held Ivanova's attention, however, because there was a long, thin scar visible along the side of her neck. It was 4 inches long at least, a narrow groove going from just under a nick out of the bottom of her right earlobe down the side, curving gradually to where it disappeared under the light gray dress fabric about an inch from the ridge of her spine. Lyta's hair had grown down to her waist and been bound into a thick braid but almost half had fallen out since it was put in. Her hair wasn't the only thing loose. Susan didn't know how much extra room the dress had while Lyta was pregnant, but right now it hung off Lyta's trembling frame almost like a collapsed tent. She had let the blanket drop, and instead was leaning against Ivanova for the needed warmth, Susan's arms cuddled under hers to help support the baby.
Ivanova supported her for the steps to the bed while she continued to reassure her, then laid down beside her, the dead baby sheltered between their bodies. Susan's good arm covered them both protectively. Face to face with her friend, Lyta fell asleep instantly.
Susan watched over them, dozing in the same bed for a few hours out of pure exhaustion. After she got over the shock, she was a little grossed out by Lyta's protective streak for a corpse; but she understood too well the feeling, the need to protect what was left. A frozen ranger in B5's cryotubes was her own doing . . . Susan was just as protective of Marcus. Hell, the main reason she'd wanted, and later kept, command of the then-brand-new Sophocles was because she got the missions that included first contact. She'd been looking for a way to heal Marcus, out among the alien worlds, in the faint hopes of curing death itself.
Not that her ship was much help now, with all the medical equipment still radioactive. They couldn't have gotten Lyta there to help her.
Ivanova had other reasons for understanding Lyta's plight as well. Drugs took her mother away, then her mother's body had been removed before they'd let her back into the house. She never saw the corpse, never did learn exactly how the physical death had occurred. She wasn't able to be there for her brother or her father, either. So much had been lost . . . Susan didn't know about later, when the baby started to decompose, but for now there wasn't a force in the universe that would convince her to force them apart.
~~~~
Lyta slept for more than a day while Susan chased off two visits from Byron, having to threaten him the second time, and three different telepath doctors or nurses who'd been sent on the same mission of separation. She didn't let them stick around long enough to get their exact profession. She would see only a few people that first, sad day at The Wall. But she trusted Jesse, and let him bring food and explain a few things further, and she made him guard the doorway while she went across the hall to the bathroom. It was communal, something expected in a place where holes had to be dug through solid rock before they could lay pipe down; but it was more private, more sanitary, and cleaner than the latrine pits she'd had to get used to on the trip. It also afforded toilet paper again. She looked longingly at the shower stalls, aware of her physical state, but went back to Lyta instead.
A few hours before lunchtime, she saw some of her crewmembers, a few reps from those who'd arrived at The Wall before her group did. Later in the afternoon a few from her own group came after they'd slept in, grateful for actual beds. The reports she received from all of them were good; they were being welcomed kindly, and they liked the locals, having pretty much gotten over any old dislikes of teeps they'd had before. As a majority they didn't object to having to share space, happily aware that it was better than a blanket on the ground and the fact that they didn't have any money or valuables to trade to stay at the local version of a hotel.
Her crew was being billeted out to various families or singles nearby, throughout Areas 11 to 16. Most stayed with a family, using one of the wide soft couches to sleep on; some were assigned a bunk with other crew they were familiar with in the innermost rooms - 'winter quarters' did not offer windows, but had plenty of space available. One smiling fellow said it was just like being at his brother's place back on earth: little kids carefully prying his eyelids open at first light to wake him up to play. A few who'd requested it were moved from billets to rooms shared with particular crewmembers, set up like a dorm room, and some of these tried to avoid the locals as much as possible. ["No sense trying to *force* psi-phobics to change," as Byron had commented a while ago. Still, I'll have to watch that group carefully for trouble.] A few of the locals were apparently (or obviously) trying to steer clear of the soldiers, but most of the colonists seemed to like the earthforce refugees. Some of the first arrivals had asked to be billeted with a different person a few days or weeks after arriving . . . usually the local offering to share was of the opposite gender, but a few were family or said they had known the crewmate from before, so likely just wanted to reacquaint.
"They're quite friendly," one private had grinned before he'd realised he probably shouldn't be admitting to sleeping with the locals to his captain. Ivanova had just rolled her eyes at him and said he was dismissed.
[Well, as long as my crew doesn’t mind being viewed as ‘Fresh meat’, I have no complaints. At least with the larger population base here compared to when we travelled, the normals are not being deliberately left out. Now *that* would have lead to some ugly confrontations! Some of them are friendly for other reasons, however, like the few cases where a family has been reunited. Even if they don’t have teep genes, those individuals are being welcomed quite well. Some of the crew with family members here have already been told citizenship could be granted upon a return trip, if they chose to come back. Heck, they told ME that. Wait a minute, no Byron didn't. He said because of my mother, I could be a citizen - he didn't add the coming back part. Maybe he just forgot. Or am I thinking too loudly about not wanting to face the brass back home? Was he inviting me to stay? I'd be a citizen anyway - if I confessed to being latent. Ha, fat chance of that. No. He must have just forgotten to add coming back.]
Ivanova didn't give the telepaths secret of knowing who among her crew was latent away to her unwitting crew, but before the first day was over, she did privately confront one of the women who'd been with her group as to how many of the local girls who'd been with them were pregnant, and how many of those who had stayed in The Wall, too. All 5 of the girls who'd travelled were suspected - no menses had arrived. "Including me," Sarah had said with a faint grin and a hand over her belly, "And I had been told by many doctors that I was barren!" Over 200 locals in the wall were similarly hopeful, as well as numerous others in the prairie farms and towns that surrounded The Wall, members of which had helped the crewmembers get here.
Exasperated, Ivanova told her "Do *not* seduce my crew away!"
Sarah had replied, "They will all have to leave, if they want to come back later, it will be dealt with then, but yes they are all going to leave. Governor's orders, to keep things on the level with Earthforce. Besides, it's not *our* fault you have handsome men in your command. Smile, Ivanova! Ruth has been wanting a child ever since she began to heal, even if it took the 'frequency' on the trip to make it happen."
The Captain was holding court in the living room area, to keep an eye on anyone who tried to contact Lyta. She tied back the curtains between the kitchen area and living room, and propped open the shutters to let light in. It helped quite a bit, especially as long as the sun was low. There would have been more light if she had opened the doorway to the bedroom to let the sun pour in from there as well, but instead she kept it closed off, the shutters in there only open a little to let Lyta sleep better. So, she turned up the oil lamps, adding light that way. They burned clear and bright, just as good as the electric lights on the ship did.
The first two days at The Wall seemed full and busy, even with only a few people coming to call, since she was still short on sleep. Except for the abrupt ending of Lyta's status as a mother, the news was good. Carlson's bunch was expected in 20 or 21 days more, and a few stragglers were still coming in off the plains, the ocean landers included. There were a few complaints over communal washrooms, but the toilet and shower stalls were all private, and actual water was available for showers, ranging from hot to warm to cold as the individual chose, so it wasn't all bad by any means. Ivanova spent much of her time the second day there yawning and studying the maps Lyta had spread out on the walls, tables, and stored rolled up in cubbies on the shelves. It seemed Lyta had been helping organise the search, if not plain leading it. Ivanova suddenly had a nagging suspicion about her friend . . . she decided to check with Jesse when he got back from his errand. The entire planet was mapped, with careful notes added on separate papers as to the routes the refugees would need to gather at The Wall. Also in the main table were lists of who was staying where, the injured and recovery details from each day, and lists of when people had or were expected to arrive. Lyta was still as efficiently organised as Ivanova recalled. Ever the curious one, she began to dig through the shelves full of information to find out all she could about this place - The Wall, the world, and the system.
The entire solar system had been mapped before all of their ships had given out or been destroyed while trying to bring more immigrants, confining the locals to the two populated moons, not even allowing the residents of one to visit the other. Visiting wasn't a high priority however, as one atmosphere was methane based and the other was oxygen based. They didn't need to mix socially or economically, but still observed each other's important functions with calm curiosity. A pair of huge crystals, one in the Northern Capital City and one on the Capital on Meth, allowed telepathic signals to be passed back and forth with the clarity to allow images of the sender to appear in the First Council buildings located on each world, right beside the unusual - and unscannable - crystals. They were a gift from Minbar, from a closed and secretive religious sect called the Sisters of Valeria. How the crystals worked was anyone's guess, but they did. That wasn't the only surprise Ivanova's search found, and they were numerous and scattered, as fit the area where she found them.
The Captain's eyebrows rose as she read her way through the reports of the various orbs she'd seen in the sky. If the written descriptions were true, then there were two other moons around the gas giant, not just this one, that could support oxygen breathing life without domes and breathers. The teeps had picked the most temperate one to live on for now, but they still had the settlement and mining rights to everything in the system, for future expansion. The documents allowing this under Alliance law were signed by none other than Delenn! [When did she? . . . never mind, I'll ask someone. Did Sheridan know about this place? DOES Sheridan know? He has disliked teeps ever since that horrible incident during the war where Delenn and David were injured, the same one that got Carlson's family killed . . . but none of the telepaths involved got out alive, so I shouldn't have to worry about this place having terrorists. I hope!]
Included in the possession/mining rights was an outer moon in particular that caught her eye: small, barren, but stuffed fuller with Quantium 40 and other valuable minerals than any single rock she'd even known. If the numbers were true, more Q40 was there than in most systems! The map said an automated mining plant was set up to get trade material dug out, refined, and packaged for the White Stars that occasioned by, but from the production estimates, Ivanova wasn't sure the whole thing wasn't just a pleasant dream. [It can't be that good . . . I'll ask Lyta when she's awake and thinking smoothly . . .]
[Smoothly?!?] Blinking, she suddenly turned the book sideways to look at it, instead of its contents, as she realised the smooth cover under her hand was a fine grade of leather. [Leather? To cover a book? I’ve heard of it in antiques that were designed to start out expensive, but otherwise . . .]
The paper everything was written on also surprised Ivanova. It was good quality, but had been made locally. The colonists had found a way, or dug up from museums, to have printing technology. [How the - ?]
“Jesse, get over here. I need some more answers.”
She had soon pried the facts out of him. Paper presses - but ones that didn't use any power source, except muscle. Leather covers and bindings, and it all checked as good quality, no matter how many books she pulled off the shelves and skimmed through. None claimed to be a special edition; they were all being made with such care. Jesse got a little puffed up when he realised Ivanova had been expecting the same cheap mass-products she’d been used to in Earthforce. It was a matter of pride that they made the best. Ivanova agreed that the books were better than anything she'd ever had, except possibly a few heirlooms, but these were new. The telepaths were making things to last. The printing presses were used with the same care as weaving machines, looms, and everything; it was all made without power and made not to use power. Some tools had been imported at the start, but the rest were all forged on the planet.
“Calm down, I didn’t mean to offend anyone,” Ivanova tried to unruffle his feathers. “I forgot your father is a bookbinder. I apologise! Ok? Ok, then.”
Jesse ‘humphed’ at her, then his monologue went rattling off in a new direction. “Books are VERY important. Everyone knows that! That’s one of th'reasons that th'Governor wants t’open trade - some things can’t be made yet. Stuff like standardised weights for manufacturing scales, supermetals for holding molten metals without melting 'emselves, and *books* - there’re many people who know of titles that aren’t available here, and they want copies brought in for reprinting and distribution. But physical items aren’t th'main concern with lifting th'veil, t’use th'phrase, that hides our existence. People are th'concern, skilled people. We need lots of tradespeople, t’help make things. We need teachers for schools, and midwives, and doctors. Since it’s been several years since we all started t’arrive, and no new advanced medicines are 'round, th'contra's humans have're starting t’wear off, if they aren't already worn out. Th'same with some of th'other species. Th'typical 5 year implants can’t be replaced, see, and there’s a large population increase starting, my mom says th'number of babies being born is expected t’explode upwards within th'next decade as all th'chemical based contra's ran out. I don’t want that. I’ve got enough sisters! There're substitutes, of course, but they’ve got varying degrees of effectiveness. That’s th'drawback t’not having advanced technology - some things can’t be made at all. Th'most reliable contraceptives were easy t'make with sophisticated equipment, but they don’t store well outside th'human body. My mom told me that, I dunno if it’s - it is true? Dang. Here come th'sisters. Humph. Importing th'drugs from Earth territory ain't practical - th'long exposure t’hyperspace makes any not in use considerably less potent, possibly even defective. They’ve got t’be made close t'the distribution source t'be effective.”
“I know all that, mister scientist.”
“I had t’learn all this for a school report last year. Can I at least get you t’hear it out?” Jesse complained.
“Go ahead,” she muttered, her thoughts a long ways off. [That is a good point he’s got. The Rangers wouldn’t have been able to bring any contra’s in . . . but . . . I think I just found out a way to help pay everyone here back,] Ivanova thought as she realised the problem. [If Medlab gets back online, we might be able to solve this for them, at least in part.]
Jesse continued in the half-bored drone characteristic of someone who has very little real interest in the subject being spoken. “ . . .also on th'wanted list are therapists, at least for us humans. Many of us have been raised by th'Psi Corps, and therefore had no experience t’draw upon for our own parenting. Many times in th'past, such 'orphans becoming parents' would abuse their children, since they had no knowledge of what t’do t’be a parent, as their own parents hadn't been 'round for an example t’follow. Friends help, of course, and those with intact families help, but th'need for social workers is large and it’s only getting larger. We aren’t afraid t’ask for help. We - they - want t’be good t’their children, in th'short and long run. Some people want lots of children t’make up for their previous losses. Some people wanted contra's imported, they don't want t’have babies without end. Everyone’s different. Some of the men, after having several children, have opted for vasc - uh - vasectomies. They’re safe, while a tubal ligation - or a hysterectomy - is not. It’s a simple matter of minor surgery compared t’major. But Dad won’t get himself fixed. I think he’s afraid of losing us, too, and having no kids anymore.”
“Losing you too?”
“I used t’have brothers.” Jesse stared at his toes glumly.
Ivanova hesitated, wondering what to say, then just patted him on the shoulder gently. “I used to have a brother, too. I still miss him.”
An awkward silence followed for a few seconds. “I’ll go get lunch,” Jesse suddenly offered.
“That’s another question: how the hell are you paying for all this food you keep bringing? I trust you’re not stealing . . . so explain. Fully.”
“But I’m hungry *now* . . . OW! Ok! Ok! Some of th'kitchens are communal as well, they operate more as 'it's free but some days it's your turn t’help cook or clean up' rest'rants, since not all apartments have their own little kitchen space. Most do, but not all of ‘em. Anyone who lacks their own kitchen but still wants t’eat privately or in a small group often ends up lurking in a corner of a dining hall, but levels two and four have plenty of markets t’buy food from, and little nooks t’eat in - as long as y'have money, which you refugees don't. If you ask Lyta nicely later she’s probably got some she could loan out or give.”
He paused to breathe before continuing, “They started t’do that when all *us* nervous refugees - see, th'Interference Vortex took time t’make, and th'jumpgate was still 'round for th'first while, and we were all afraid of an invasion by all th'ones who didn’t want us t’leave where we were before - that’s why so much of Th'Wall was done inna hurry - if trouble came, we’d just have t’scamper int'th'deeper tunnels and we can come out all over th'mountains. Like a rabbit warren - lots of back doors. I’m getting off topic. Because we hadn’t had time t’set up currency yet, we didn’t use money for much. We bartered for things and services. Th'habit was kept. Money’s still not used much in Th'Wall, unless actual trade with someone who doesn’t live here is occurring, bartering for services and favours was - and is - th'common method. A farmer would keep bringing food for a carpenter's meals as long as th'chair was being made; th'amount of energy put out by th'farmer measured against th'amount of energy t’bring th'wood in, age it, then cut and finish th'chair. Work's rarely done by individuals, actually, it’s shared out by th'guilds t’ensure everyone's working and eating. All th'workers and family members of a particular guild look after each other, trading services as a group. Often children get apprenticed t'their parents, but it’s not uncommon t’apprentice out to friends in other guilds, as long as th'child finishes school first. I want t'tell stories when I finish with my classes - th'teachers gave me a break t’help all of you, cause I can do things most others can’t-”
“You mean move things? Don’t look surprised, I’ve seen how you get books off the highest shelves. Don’t worry, I’m not mad at you for not telling. That *would* have given my crew the creeps . . . but it’s probably the reason you could feed us all with that bow of yours.”
“Ummmm . . . Yeah. Lyta tracked me down and asked if I’d be willing t’go with Byron t’help . . . But I have t’go right back t’school again when y'leave, and when I’m done in a few more years I’ll probably be a binder like my dad. Maybe sometimes make m'own books with m'own stories in them. Literacy and knowledge in general are highly prized, so I want t'try t’go t’the college they’re trying t’set up . . . but they need more teachers first. So I dunno.”
“I still don’t get the ‘no money’ bit. HOW could a system like that function?!”
Jesse glowered for a few seconds, shifting his weight around. “Yes you do know! Th'cooks on your ship all cook, and th'maintenance people all do maintenance, it’s not done one-to-one with money being traded. You keep track of how much each person has done and figure it out from there. Does that show it better? Most of th'other towns and cities have started t'use currency, however. It’s just here that we’re proud t’be stubborn. *NOW* can I go'n'get lunch?!?”
~~~~
He had just returned from the nearest open kitchen, carrying a huge platter full of fresh food when he was followed in by the medic who'd been popping up into Ivanova's view (usually to promptly hide again) every so often on the trip. Upon reaching The Wall the previous morning, Ivanova had pardoned all sins and transgressions made on the trip, knowing a fresh start would be needed, but that didn't stop young Brandan from trying not to show her extreme nervousness anyway.
"Knock, knock!" came the hesitant voice from the corridor.
"What, tired of hitting your knuckles on rocks? Come in, private, I don't bite." Ivanova called, not lifting her attention away from the piles of paper on the table on front of her.
"I might!" Jesse threatened loudly from inside the kitchen, where he had put some of the roast bird and vegetables on plates for Ivanova and himself, and was by then rummaging through the cupboards to find and add the bread and spices he could smell.
"Holy. Lookit at all the books!" Brandan goggled as she passed by the tied-open curtains and entered. "But he's been hanging around you too long. Sir," came the hasty addition before she paused to draw breath and try again. "There's plenty of gorgeous men here. Why would I want you, kid? Jeez that smells good. I'm - well, we were on our way to lunch now, but we - uh - wanted to track you down and see how your friend is doing. The whole crew wants to know."
"It's the Russian in him that gives him a sharp tongue. You didn't know? He was born in the same town I was. As for Lyta . . . I don't know yet. She was still unconscious when I checked a few minutes ago. It'll take a couple of days to tell what will happen. In the meantime, I'm keeping the wolves away to let her rest."
"They - they're saying the baby died." Brandan said softly.
Ivanova nodded grimly.
The girl sighed and left under a cloud.
"Uh, Captain?" Jesse said.
"Yes?"
"You might want t'phrase it different. We've got some sayings here that aren't from other places so y'wouldn't know 'em yet. 'Keeping th'wolf away' means getting drunk really early in th'morning because you can't sleep. At least here. I've heard others say it. I think th'Governor was th'first t'say it. Why're y'laugh - oh. She got it from you. Weird. But nice. What kind of juice d'y'want? They sent up two pitchers."
"Jesse." Ivanova ordered.
"Yes ma'am?"
"Apple, please. The other one I'm still getting used to. Thank you. Confirm something for me. This Governor everyone refers to. Yes or no, is she Lyta?"
Jesse nodded. "She likes t'keep herself separated from her job. If someone in your crew got mad for something, they'd be more likely t'go after a person with a title rather than just a friend of th'captain. We're not supposed t'let your crew know it's her. Because of all th'stuff she does - well - when she's healthy and awake. Nobody can actually hurt her, of course, but we don't want anyone t'try. How'd y'guess?"
"You kept dropping hints. I paid attention."
"Oh."
"So what are some of the other idioms?"
"Eh?"
"Sayings. Local sayings."
"Oh. Um . . . well, if someone says you're being a curtain, it means you're listening in when maybe you shouldn't be. Eavesdropping, it was called. No eaves here, though." He grinned. "No roofs. There's gutterlines along th'windows, t'keep rain out, but that's about it."
"Gutterlines?"
"Those little grooves cut int'th'bottoms of th'windows to drain water away when it blows in. You can go look if y'want, but *I’m* gonna eat!”
Ivanova had noticed them, and the little bucket that sat on the outer part of the sill. She’d watched rainwater trickle down a little pipe into the bucket that seemed put there for that very purpose. [I’ve poured myself a few glasses of water from it, it had better have been safe to drink!]
“It is. The whole outer surface is one big rain collector, mostly for crop irrigation.”
“JESSE!” She shouted in sudden anger.
“I wasn’t listening! You were just thinking too loud! Honest!”
She glared at him as he rapidly retreated into the kitchen with his plate.
Ivanova, deciding he was probably right since she hadn’t felt a scan, relaxed with her meal. She then checked on Lyta again before she settled back on her couch, staring at the maps and notes and charts. She still had to complete the assembly of her crew, plan the rest of the repairs, and figure out how to hold the peace between her crew and the telepaths. Sure, they were getting along, but soon the phobics would act up, and boredom was bound to set in even for the crew who did get along with the locals. No vids, no simulators to play in, no commsystems, none of the usual entertainment her troops were used to. Sure, between sex and travelling most of them had kept busy so far, but as the weeks wore on . . . she hoped the ship would take less than another month to fix to send them home, but it might be another 2. [Oi! Send 'them' home? Ivanova, you should be thinking of going with them. Why aren't you? . . . Because I want to stay. I mean, I don't have a reason to leave - when I do get back, I'll have to try to find some excuse for knowing how to get here. What do I tell the brass? I can't confess to being a latent! But I have to go back . . . even if it’s just to tell Gray’s parents. They’d want to know he died flying . . . I wish I had a body to bring back to them. No, I wish I had a *warm* body that I c- never mind. Not when Lyta’s so sick.] She was still muttering to herself when Jesse braved a peek out, decided it was safe again, and quickly scampered back to the kitchen with the scraps for recycling and the dishes. He was proud of his position as 'captain's aide', but her crew would be less easy to please. She'd have to make sure they found lots of work to occupy their minds and hands. "What am I going to do with them?" She asked herself aloud.
"With who?", came a familiar voice from the doorway.
"Hello Byron, my threat still stands but otherwise, you can come in," she warned. "I need you to do something for me. Us."
"Considering I supposedly live here, I shouldn't have to ask to come in. However, I've found a place to sleep, since I'm guessing you'll want to take over this room. Am I allowed to get a spare set of clothes? If not, your . . . 'cabin boy' can deliver my things." He handed her a folded piece of paper. It was an area-level-intersection reference, followed by '4th doorway, outerside, going north'.
She folded it up again. "Jesse will bring over anything needed for a day or so when he gets back, but I'm not going to let you, or anyone, in the same room that she's in until I know she's calmed down. I've *never*, not once, seen her that freaked out. Including battling with and/or possession by first ones. I want to know what's got her so badly worn, from the stories the others tell, she was as normal and stable as she ever was. Oh, yes, the reason I wanted to see you: I need a stonecutter of some sort. I don't know the exact title offhand. Not a miner or digger, like the ones who've cut The Wall out, marvellous as it is, but a sculptor. For a headstone, possibly two."
Alarmed, "Is Lyta-"
"No, she isn't going to die - I hope - but Nathaniel's sister has no proper name that I've heard of so far, and I've pried lots of details out of other people so I should have heard it, if she had one. And I certainly didn't see a proper grave marker. I can't help her first child's death - I don't even know where it happened - but her last two can be helped a little. I owe her that much, and more."
Byron was confused, then rapidly became scornful. "Whose sis- she named it? Whatever for?!"
Ivanova radiated disapproval his way so strongly that he backed up a few steps. "Closure. Forgiveness. A name to pray with. For someone who reads minds, you don't seem to be very capable of understanding. Yes, she named *HIM*!"
Byron scowled and said that he would ask the various guilds to decide who'll do the job for her. He left abruptly and Susan wondered just how much he really did care about Lyta. [It could just be stress that's making him act this way, but - the way he kept skimming over Lyta's condition on the trip - he never so much as mentioned the scar - I think I had better ask around anyway.]
~~~~
Later in the afternoon, she called in several locals she'd come to trust on the trip, and a few from The Wall whose credentials seemed to cover the area she wanted to explore. It wasn't a pleasant time. Oh, there were suspicions, reports from the years before Sanctuary's founding on the man, but she'd assumed the slant was mostly from personal bias and the fact most of it was Corps-written about a rogue. But now, it was time to hear what the other side thought. She learned from Jesse and various others that Byron's election had depended on two critical things: He was one of (in fact THE) first to land, and was therefore a founder. Almost 200 founders were named, depending on time of arrival and contribution; it was required learning in children's schooling. The other, slightly more important factor, was his relationship to Lyta. It was *she* who was popular, not him. He had made numerous political enemies over the few years he'd been here, with his arrogant streak, and a few old grudges from before had lingered on in some of his opponents whom he had known while still a member of the Corps, or still a rogue. But Lyta? She hadn't made personal enemies. People who didn't like the vorlon connection didn't like her, of course, but without that the Interference Vortex wouldn't even be a possibility - which was the one barrier that kept their worlds safe from external attack. And the fact Lyta had not been the only one tricked by the reclusive riddle-speakers - whole species had been duped by them - had slightly softened those who did not like her. She also had refused to run in any of the elections, wanting no part of power. Said the very idea left a bad taste in her mouth, and she wasn't about to be pushed into the political bullpen.
'They' disagreed. So, 'they' had her appointed, and she just kept doing what she'd been doing already, if getting more credit for it. 'They' also gave her final say in important matters, since she gave good advice. She, in return, had made her first act to be a hefty salary cap on anyone who did gain political power. And then she had ensured that by taking the citizenship pledge, the person's past was not only cleared of crimes, but any commendations as well. The crimes part was popular, the loss of past glories was not. But she had persevered with the stubborness of a true surviour, and a naturally red-headed one at that. She controlled the Interference Vortex to allow safe passage of the Sophocles while destroying the Drakh - she had been the one to figure out how to create it in the first place! She said it was basically self-sustaining and should last for decades after she had eventually died, they told Ivanova. Lyta had done 95 percent (if not more) of organising the search; somehow able to look into distant places. She had given the locals instructions to guide the earthforcers towards assistance, regardless of the cost, and had fulfilled her promises of reimbursement for time and food used.
But that was just icing on the cake, the more recent of her caseful of invisible trophies she would shyly say wasn't worth putting her in the spotlight for. Lyta had helped design and even build much of The Wall, and the Northern Captial as well. When it was planting time she'd be found in the fields with the rest of the colonists, getting the thick soil plowed and seeded while most of the other officials were taking tallies and filling out paper reports, then at night she'd be bullying them into going down and doing 'honest and hard labour' the next day. When a spring flood had taken out a nearby levy (which had since been reinforced and greatly expanded), she was among the first down there to help, waist-deep in swift currents, getting the terrified people and livestock up to higher ground. She had then pushed for improving the flood-ramps built into every second Area in The Wall, to help move things out of the lower areas faster when it was needed. Even before they had a homeworld to struggle against, she had been there and fighting for the others' sake. On Babylon 5, Lyta had been responsible for keeping the original core group away from the Psi Cops long enough to get the reprieve, then at the 60 day's early end, she had alerted security to Bester's presence before his attempt to spook Byron's group into violence. Zack Allan had caught her message, stopping Bester seconds before he could turn the final corner. None of the locals had the exact details on how, but since Ivanova knew most of the people involved, Jesse asked if she had learned.
Nodding, Ivanova retold the story as it had been told to her, a couple of years ago. During a chance meeting on Mars for shore leave and supplies last year, she had literally run into Babylon Five's Security Chief, also there on leave. A meal and several hours later, some reminiscing happened.
"I remember him," Sarah said suddenly. "He would look us in the eyes when he talked to us. Most people wouldn't. And he was kind to us - when the children would be going to and from school, before and during the reprieve, there was assigned guards who walked with them through the places that weren't safe, protecting them. He followed the rules, and didn't abuse any of us. Well, he seemed to be mad at Byron that one time, but I know why he thought it was his fault that man was hurt. Mr. Allan was a lot more honourable than many people we met as rogues."
Ivanova nodded. "Between working with Lyta all those years, and the months he'd helped screen and train the telepaths who came to help fight in the shadow war, I guess he decided teeps were ok. He gave every indication of hating Psi Cops, but he was always civil with the commercial telepaths on station. Showed a smile more for Lyta than any other person, too. But I should tell you what happened that day."
"Bester, bloodhounds close behind, had gone up to where Zack and several other guards had blocked the path. Bester told them to move. Zack told them they had no right to be here, or jurisdiction. Suggested they leave. Bester asked Zack if he was usually in such a good mood, or was it just on days where a woman he wanted to screw was leaving with another man. One of the bloodhounds laughed and moved to pass Zack, saying Earthforce law gave them to right to apprehend the 'criminals'. Zack's second decked him out cold with one punch. Bester got his gun out and was about to fire at them when Zack pulled it from his hand, breaking a few fingers in the process. Oops. "First of all, Earthforce law says you have no jurisdiction here anymore. Secondly, there's only ONE, count 'em, *one* earthforce uniform being worn on the whole friggin station. And it ain't being worn by me." Zack deliberately dropped Bester's gun to the floor, and mentioned that it would be a shame if he - meaning Bester - had to go to medlab. He'd made lots of enemies. If a stray shot was fired, sure, it might hit Bester, it might not, but it would REALLY be shame if the stray shot hit a cryo unit and killed the occupant. Especially, say, if the occupant was pregnant - meaning Carolyn. Bester turned chalk white. "You wouldn't," he said to Zack. Zack just smiled, and repeated the fact that Bester had no jurisdiction in the matter. "If there was an accident out there, and a certain woman was hurt either physically or emotionally, say, by having a lover die tragically . . . well . . . accidents happen around *here* all the time, don't they, Mr. Bester." Bester knew that if news of him having sex with a prisoner was made public, he was as good as dead. Psi Cops weren't retired, they were killed. He had a strange twitch next to his eye, turned around, and motioned for the bloodhounds to leave. The rogue teeps - several of you among them, right? One of you, then. You made a clean getaway. Zack had ensured that the shuttles had spare food, clothing, medicine, and two notes. One for Byron. "If you hurt her in any way I will hunt you down myself. Protect her better than I did." It wasn't signed, but Zack could quote it easily. I think he liked Lyta - she'd saved his - our - lives a few times, so it had to be friendship at least, but I never saw him kiss her or even ‘look her over’. When we talked, he told me that he hoped she was alive and well, but he just didn't know. *I* didn't know, even, until I was here and got news. Zack told me Lyta got a letter from him, too, saying that if she ever needed help, he would help her. That one was signed. He didn't quote it."
Ivanova didn't tell them, and shielded her thoughts, that she had found the second note, carefully saved and well read, beside where Lyta had been sitting with the baby at the window. It had been opened to be read again. It held more than a promise to help. Zack had asked her one last time not to leave, said that he did care about her and for her, and he was sorry for not showing it better on several occasions. The letter admitted he was jealous and apologised for lying to her about it.
Unaware of Ivanova's inner thoughts, the others continued with Lyta's achievements. She had organised the rogues throughout their growth from almost 200 to several thousand in the space of over a year and saved the group, literally *saved* them, dozens of times. She negotiated a set of trades for genetic samples - blood and/or semen - with the Narns, who were quite happy to trade several second and third hand ships, originally from various species, for almost 3000 DNA samples from proven, trained telepaths, including two telekinetics. By the time the colonists stumbled though the 5000-plus year old (and barely-functioning) jumpgate here, they had two large explorer class ships that could hold 1200 crew but which had started off with 3 to 4 hundred each until more rogues were found and trained to work them, dozens of shuttles and 2-man scoutships, and eleven medium ships had held between 8 and 40 crew apiece. The rogues had also traded with the Minbari: good supplies and a place to make repairs in exchange for good information. Warrior caste members helped because Byron had made Sheridan's actions look ill planned and foolish, even if they didn't agree with the no-violence rules. Religious and worker caste helped for honour's sake, adding various Minbari teeps and ships to the human compliment; and as soon as proof about the horrors done to them by the Psi Corps started to be revealed (with an unnamed red-headed rogue - with a very high Psi rating - as the pivotal point for cracking the first of that information out), the Rangers had helped en masse to ferry and support the excapees. Some other Alliance worlds negotiated with Lyta for help, on a person to person level, usually because the Psi Corps/Cops had annoyed the person and they wished retribution without excess trouble.
Eventually, the medium scout Lyta, Byron, and some others (including a very pregnant Marie) were on stumbled upon this system and soon after, this world. Completely empty of sentient life or signs of a previous civilisation, but quite ready to support the new ones. The system had one planet only: the Gas Giant. One of the crew said it seemed to be watching over them. They nicknamed it the Watcher, and the nick stuck. One of its moons became home. They had found Sanctuary, and it was a welcome one.
"I just realised something. We've never officially named this place," one of the historians said.
"We what!"
"Excuse me?"
"Of course we did, 'Sanctuary'."
"No, that's the official name of the system . . . I mean this world, we never got around to naming this world. The actual moon we're on."
"He's right - and we've been too busy just trying to survive to realise that!"
"We'll have t'do that before y'go. The System is called Sanctuary, but we need t'name our homeworld."
"Homemoon?" Sarah suggested with an impish grin.
A pillow was tossed in jest, then the backfilling of information continued.
They started to build as more ships arrived, first a collection of rough wooden houses and canvas tents by a river many miles away; a temporary camp while scouting the planet and mapping. They selected likely townsites for the various species, but knew a very secure place would be needed or most of the human teeps would be afraid to come, and they knew they had to had to find it and set up before the last of their ships gave out for age, overuse, abuse, and a severe lack of spare parts. The fact that any ship found by the Psi Corps to be carrying refugees away from Earth territory was blown up didn’t help matters, either. But the ones who’d made the trip safely soon found The Wall. Geosurveys showed it would be excellent for digging - thick, strong, solid rock; a few fissures of water, and the main weight of the mountains was centred in so far that making careful honeycombs into the outer 2 or 3 hundred feet would be safe. Now, The Wall has had a population of over 200,000 for the past year. It could be 210,000 with births; the number was bound to rise anyway. They had enough room now to live comfortably; they used to be packed in a lot thicker - triple the people in under half of the current space. But it was now safe to live elsewhere, so many chose to move, even though they had to walk to reach their destinations.
The other humans were scattered all over the globe - apart from the two continental capitals and The Wall itself, no other town held more than 50,000 humans yet. Many did not have 500 humans in a single location, even. Most of the settlements were small farming towns, or single family dwellings grouped in tiny clusters among fertile grassland or crop forests. Many of the humans had by now taken up a 'gypsy' life - the human language was the trade language anyway, and peddlers and merchants roamed pretty much anywhere their wagon wheels can be hauled - assuming there were people to sell to and trade with. There were a lot of family ships, as well, fishing and coral farming, but the water-loving Brakiri outnumbered the oceanic humans by far when it came to population on the water.
Susan learned all this and more rather quickly, ending the session before the evening meal the second day she'd been there. She shooed them away mid-afternoon when they sensed Lyta was finally waking up again, and sent Jesse to get soup, "Clear broth, healthy, and I don't care how hard you have to search for it!" She closed the corridor curtains to signal the want for privacy, and went into the bedroom to see Lyta again. Her checks every few hours had shown a deep sleep, one filled with REM, a likely sign that her mental state was under repair.
When Lyta finally came around, the tears were the first things to appear, but they weren't totally bad. Grief still prevailed, assaulting thickly against Susan's mind, but Lyta was very glad to still be with her baby. Susan managed to get her to swallow a few spoonfuls of warm soup broth before Lyta faded back to sleep. Sighing, Susan sat vigil for a while longer, then went quietly back to the main room and ate two trays full of food that Jesse brought up silently. She couldn't resist the fresh, homemade meals, and a little voice in the back of head said that all the stairs here would be sure to keep unwanted weight off.
A Lieutenant who had helped Jesse carry the second tray met her in the living room and gave a quiet report before the Captain ate, the first one for that day. The crew knew Ivanova wouldn't stand for petty squabbles and concerns at a time like this. They knew she wasn't friendly when confronted by death, and if an innocent baby had died . . . the crew had avoided her as long as they could, saving up all the information for one visit, and had drawn straws to see who had to face her for the delivery. At least it wasn't bad news. A few new arrivals, they were being fed and billeted so they could sleep. The Lieutenant assured Ivanona that everything was running smoothly, the crew was avoiding confrontations, "-and there was a lady named Marie just arrived outside in the corridor who says she was told to speak with you. The cutest little preschooler too, Sir."
Ivanova smiled. “I’ll meet them.”
The child looked about 3 years old, but Ivanova couldn't tell for sure; she didn't have enough experience with children. After a few basic questions, she said, “Thank you for coming all this way, I was told it's a long walk. She is a sweet one, isn’t she? Would you mind it sometime - there's no rush - to meet with a doctor in my crew who's had pediatrics training, just to check her over?”
Marie agreed, and the pair returned to a nearby dining hall for dessert.
“Before you go, Lieutenant, can you remember to meet with one of the liaisons and tell them that I want the full tour of the city, but not just yet. I want Lyta well enough to walk more than a few steps first before either taking her or letting her stay alone in her room. I’ve been told not all places are wheelchair accessible, right?”
“There aren't many ramps, just stairs, in most of the levels higher than 5. Everything below or on level 5 was built ramped, due to the number of immigrants who were crippled by their previous life. I’ll get right on it, Sir.”
~~~~
"What happened to your face?" Lyta wondered when she saw Susan clearly for the first time. It was just after she woke up the second time, late that evening. Susan, unable to find matches or any type of tinderbox, had brought a moveable lantern in with her. Even dimmed down, the light source made Lyta squint. Or it made her seem to, one of her eyes wasn't going back to normal as fast as the other. It had faded from blackish blue to a greenish yellow, and Susan had the sick feeling that her friend had been beaten. She tried to bury the feeling by helping Lyta spoon up a partial bowl of the cooled-down broth. Susan had to hold the spoon at first, as Lyta kept her arms full of Nathaniel, but after a few misses, Lyta had carefully transferred him to rest against her shoulder and used the free hand to grasp the utensil herself.
"Keeping sipping, missy. What? Oh, the stitches must have left a scar - I haven't seen a mirror in a while. A beam clobbered my forehead during the attack-"
"No, no, a patch of your face has been melted - or something. Burned - why didn't you fix it? You have the tech, up there and-" Lyta stopped her groggy observations only when Susan stuck the spoon back into her mouth to quiet her.
“Oh. That. Well . . . yeah, I could have gotten the scarring fixed, the docs said it would be easy - but . . . well . . . I didn't want to."
Lyta gave her a bewildered look.
"I want people to fear me. This helps. It doesn't interfere with sight or speech, and I don't smile much anyway. And I now know not to stick my head in a sparking panel when trying to fix it. Boom!"
"You never change." Lyta attempted a smile while trying again to manoeuvre the spoonful of warm broth up without dropping it. Her co-ordination was improving over the course of the meal, but it still had a fair ways to go until she'd be back in shape.
"Here, let me do it."
"No. I can feed myself," Lyta replied stubbornly.
~~~~
"Captain's log. It's been five days since Lyta has regained consciousness, and while I have no need to write things down to remember them, today I'm going to. That damned cast finally came off a few minutes ago, and I'm enjoying the use of both limbs again. Time to practice my penmanship. A complete survey of the ship is done, and repairs have started on places that can be pressurised and entered without radiation suits. A few stragglers are still coming in off the plains, Carlson's group is due in 16 or 17 days, and this morning almost 200 of my crew arrived in a group - the ocean landers. Now that was an odd collection of stories! Most said they first thought they'd found a Brakiri colony, since so many Brakiri were by the water. 'But it's not just Brakiri,' they said in amazement, 'you won't believe the species we've seen!' It wasn't until a few days ago that they started to see many human settlements. A few self-appointed spokespersons described towns and villages and places they'd passed on the way here, since I haven't been able to see them yet myself. The larger buildings are still being built, but there are enough intact houses and shops for them to get an idea of the architecture. The closest towns are all stone-block built, from the chunks taken out when The Wall was carved. Most of the settlements, further away, are sandstone, brick, or wood-based (only a few - the building codes here are mostly for fire prevention) in construction. And, the gravel on the nearest roads was made from the ground-up bits that were chiselled out, pieces too small to build houses out of. I’d wondered where the spare rock had gone, it was nice to learn my guess was correct. We met with them (myself wearing a clean and mended uniform) on level 3. Leaving at dawn and avoiding other people for Lyta's sake, I met the group at about 10 am. Lyta didn't meet any. She chose to stay in a back room, still too tired to do anything social. I'm sure she listened, however, from the questions she asked and answered on the way back up. The meeting took under two hours to get their reports and send them off to billets and food, but it was after dinnertime - the sun had long disappeared over the mountains - before we got back to Lyta's room, and she was beyond exhausted. I've been trying to not tire her. God knows, I've been through enough pain; I should know how not to do things. She still carries her baby constantly, but not so ferociously. She’s accepted his death, but won't give up the child yet. I won't push her. I'd already had to threaten, totally seriously, to eviscerate anyone who tries to force Lyta. I haven't found out what she meant by Byron taking away the other two yet. If he deliberately did something to them . . . best not to finish that thought. Byron had moved his few possessions (he left most of the books with her, as he has copies in his suites in the capital) into his other rooms days ago, and it looks to be non-temporary. Lyta couldn't really forgive him for the last time (I have to figure out the details on that, soon), and this apparently third attempt . . . she doesn't bother to hide her hatred and fear of him. She’s refused to even speak about him. Byron hasn't tried to make amends directly, my guess is that he doesn't want to risk a full confrontation. He also has given in to propositions by other women. That bit of news came as less than a surprise, but if he so much as touches any of my crew . . . Well, if he had touched. Past tense. He left for the capital sometime today; I got the news from Jesse just a few minutes ago. 42 days ago, I first met him, and I wasn't sure whether I like him or not. Today I know I will likely not see him again for years - if ever - and I'm glad. He lied to me, even if it was by omission. I was able to broach a few topics over our late dinner tonight. Byron had caused Lyta's bruised eye, but not because he hit her. She fell when backing away from his second attempt to pull Nathaniel from her arms. But that wasn't the kicker of the meal. Not by a long shot. She's moved up to easy-to-digest solids by now, but still she nearly choked when I asked about him. No, I didn't ask. I just commented his behaviour wasn't very husbandly - sleeping around while she was recovering, not asking how she was doing, no flowers being delivered, the little things that weren't right about the way he was acting. I should have guessed. I mean, ok, he never SAID it on the trip, but the bastard let me ASSUME!! Lyta had laughed. It wasn't pleasantly. Then she told me. They were never legally married. Byron had repeatedly said to her (she imitated his accent) 'it was an outdated Psi Corps method of controlling breeding, which never worked properly in the first place.' He kept refusing her offers. Eventually she stopped trying, especially considering he soon spent most of his time away in the capital. She'd tried to stay with him, at first, but after a while, the crowds of people and what was becoming a comparatively extravagant lifestyle would always drive her back to the calmer, simpler ways of The Wall. But at least he stayed monogamous, until now. Lyta said there were times she wishes he hadn't been, but it still hurt her to know he isn't doing so now. I think she cried herself to sleep again, after I tucked her in. We've set up a few daily rituals, the evenings included. She's been cut off from external news, so I tell her about events from outside each evening, irrelevant things that won't hurt to hear about. I decided to avoid the war, she's gone through more blood than even I have. I won't remind her of the past unless she asks. She gets the bedroom; I've nabbed a couch. No need to start rumors about us sharing a bed - besides, the couches here are comfier than my bed on the ship. Better craftsmanship, and it shows. Speaking of the couch, it must be near midnight, and I have to get up at dawn again. If I'm going to make my crew help with the harvest two days out of three, I had bloody well be there with them for at least one of the days. Paperwork can wait - especially if there's so little of it.
~~~~
Just before beginning breakfast the next morning, Lyta asked Susan when Jesse would be coming by.
"A few minutes, I guess, he tends to show up early to avoid getting babysitting duty. May I ask why?"
"I . . . " Lyta paused to draw breath. "I want to send him to bring a stonecutter." She didn't quite look up from her piece of fruit.
Susan nodded, not entirely able to answer aloud.
~~~~
[Stop worrying. So she wanted you to leave for the discussion. It can't be that bad. Ok, so you're not there to protect her, but maybe this is a sign that she's getting back to her reliable old self. Stop worrying!]
Ivanova tried not to pace as she stalked along the corridors, paused at the recessed alcoves that held a window to the outside, and wandered around in general. Lyta had said that the apprentice would find her after the meeting, but Lyta hadn't told her what to do in the meantime. Ivanova was not used to having nothing to do. So she explored half-heartedly, going up and down levels, looking at the murals on the walls, making small talk with the locals she passed, and in general not being noticed by anyone important. She was in a civilian outfit, and if any of her crew saw her, they didn't get close enough to see the facial scars to know it was her.
She paused as she saw a lot of cross-corridor activity a few hundred feet further on, and wondered whether she should go on or turn back. [Hang on. What's in here?] She thought, seeing a double-sized doorway next to her and peeking in. [No curtain - oh, this must be one of the dining halls I've heard about.] The large room was littered with tables and chairs, mostly empty of people except a few places near the windows. A young girl wearing a large apron over her clothes came out a doorway adjoining the room at the far end, carrying out a rattling tray of cutlery to a counter and placing it next to several stacks of plates. Another aproned young girl [hang on, that one's a boy, he just has his hair in a braid] was carrying a stack of metal pans and arranging them by size into slots in the counter. As she walked closer, she could start to make out noise from the other room. A kitchen, by the looks of the attire. The boy looked up as she got close.
"You gonna just stare, or are you gonna help?" He asked bluntly.
"Help, I guess, but I have no idea how to start."
He blinked up at her. "Well, after we set up the buffet we just have to wipe the tables again, so we're almost ready for the ones who want their lunch early. You're one of them earthforcers? I thought so. You walk like you've got a pole stuck up your-"
"JAMES!" the girl interrupted.
Ivanova just laughed. "I've been a bit tense lately, I'll admit it. Who should I ask about getting an apron?"
"Mrs. Connel runs this kitchen this shift. Ask her, she'd get you set up. But don't talk back and remember to call her ma'am. You can't miss her, she's five feet each way."
[Five fe- Oh!] Ivanova blinked as she received a mental picture of the woman in question. "Thanks, kid," she said and went in. The usual stone walls, covered with cupboards and shelves and hooks, all as neat and as clean as could be. Heat radiated from the entry into the corridor as several people scurried out with pans of raw dough and meats, and others scurried in with trays of baked items. [Of course - the ovens are probably further in, closer to the heat source. They might not even have to burn wood to cook things, unless they're after the smoke flavor.] The many counters were a mix of recycled stainless steel and polished granite, with large wooden cutting boards placed in strategic locations.
It took a moment to find the large woman, or rather, it took her a moment to be found BY the large woman. Blinking down, Ivanova realised that the boy had showed her from his viewpoint, and Mrs. Connel was quite a bit shorter when compared to Ivanova. The top of her mass of grey hair barely reached Ivanova's chin. Her personality, however, was as large as her waist, and she ruled her little kingdom with a large wooden spoon that likely saw more backsides than soup.
"You're here to help? Good! Apron's are there, put on a hat - and cover *all* your hair up, missy, I don't want a single hair out to fall into someone's meal! Now. You're new. Ever cooked before? I mean REALLY cooked?"
"No," Ivanova admitted sheepishly.
"That's No, Ma'am! Well. Can't let you at the baking boards then. Little one over there, chopping greens for the salad could use a bit of help. No, over THERE! Look when I'm pointing! Just do what he does, but if he gets cut, don't do that. Call me. Now get!"
Ivanova got, a little meeker than what she was used to. Grabbing an apron and hat, she quickly put both on, getting all the stray hairs tucked away before taking up a place next to the designated chef. [If this is a lesson in being humble, it's working,] she thought. The boy she was supposed to follow was quite young. Very young. He was standing on a stepstool just so he could see over the counter. He was pulling lettuce apart, dumping the core and stray bits of brown into a recessed bin that was placed in the counter between them, then tugging the head apart and ripping off bite-sized chunks which he then tossed into a large bowl in front of him. Ivanova's cutting board had a small chef's knife, a large empty bowl, and a large wicker basket full of some sort of long beans.
"Do I just trim them, or cut them up too?" She asked.
The boy stopped working to blink up at her. He pointed at the bin. "Scaps go here. And deys gots to be lil 'muff that kids cam eat too," and then he went right back the lettuce.
"I guess I cut them, then."
Sighing, she wryly reminded herself she was planning on helping today . . . that, however, didn't stop her from jumping when the bin squeaked at her as soon as she shoved the first pile of trimmings into it, and a few of the scraps flew back out. Blinking a few times, she looked inside.
"You aim't sup-posed to scare dem. Dey eat compost fer us!" The boy reprimanded.
The size and shape of a large ferret but with a prehensile tail again as long as it was, the smooth-skinned (but fuzzy-furred on it's back) little lizardy creature blinked up at her with an eternally puzzled expression before returning back to it's meal. Grinning, Ivanova reached in to stroke the soft, warm skin. "Hello. I *thought* I saw one of you a while ago."
The gok gave a quiet 'mrouw' and purred for a few moments, then nudged her hand away with its tail. Ivanova went back to cutting her beans, but was more careful as to how she let them fall into the bin.
A few minutes later, "Does he have a name?"
"Nope," the boy said. "But she gots twims!"
"What?"
He put down his lettuce after a quick glance told him Mrs. Connel wasn't looking, then reached in carefully and lifted the animal up onto it's hind legs, revealing two small bumps under the skin on it's belly. "She gots twims. Two babies im her pouch. When dey stop sucking dey will come out and play. But deys eating now." He put the growling mother back on all fours, and quickly went back to work, suggesting to Ivanova with a look that she do the same.
The basket was half-emptied of beans and her backside had received two not-so-gentle smacks from the large wooden spoon before Ivanova heard a whistle. The stonecutter's apprentice was standing in the doorway. He waved in a come motion. She nodded back and looked around to spot Mrs. Connel; who was immersed in a lecture about how a large pot of something should be properly spiced. Avoiding notice, she whispered 'bye!' to the boy, returned her hat and apron, and scuttled out the door.
"Whew," was all she said upon freedom. "I hope none of my crew saw me."
"That one's a tyrant." The apprentice said knowingly, and led her back through the maze to Lyta's rooms. The Cutter had already left, and when Susan asked what was said, Lyta didn't answer.
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The 11th morning at The Wall was when it happened. Ivanova had started the trip to the Wall on day 4, arriving on day 36. The 47th total day. . . they buried Nathaniel.
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P.S. Why should Alfred Hitchcock be the only one to do cameo's? {;D