She tapped her link. "Ivanova to Garibaldi."
"I see you," said the chief with a wave. "What's up?"
"I just wanted to tell you that we leave for Homeworld in forty-five minutes."
"Do you have any idea what we're getting ourselves into?" he asked with concern.
"Nope," she admitted. "But I did hear one bit of good news."
"What's that?"
"They have coffee on board."
"But at night I expect hot chocolate," said the chief. "I've got a million things to do before we leave, but I'll be there. Garibaldi out."
A dust devil swirled through the copper-colored sand, across pockmarked walls, up a cement post, and finally found a street sign to play with. The sign twisted and squeaked on its corroded metal rings, tossing rust confetti to the playful dust devil. Mi'Ra, daughter of Du'Rog, paused under the sign, which read simply "V'Tar." She had to laugh that such a poverty-stricken street, squeezed dry of all life and hope, could be named after the spark of life.
Street V'Tar consisted of two rows of three-story buildings, each one more weary and forlorn than the one before. Even in this wind, she could smell the burning rubber. The only light came from clay pots that swung in the wind, casting shadow races on the dilapidated buildings. With frightening sameness, Street V'Tar stretched down a hill until it was mercifully swallowed in darkness. Mi'Ra shivered, knowing this drained section of the border zone was her home, worse than a plebian's.
"Hurry!" she called into the wind, wondering where her lazy brother, T'Kog, was hiding now. T'Kog was a grave disappointment to her, and she found she was wasting too much energy keeping him focused on the Shon'Kar. He still acted as if life was going to change, get better of its own accord, and she knew it was not.
"Mi'Ra! Mi'Ra!" he screamed, stumbling out of the darkness.
She drew her compact PPG, thinking T'Kog was being chased. When the Narn saw that her younger brother was laughing and waving some bits of newspad, her sharp features bent into a scowl. "Stop using my name!"
"Do you see what this is!" he said, shoving the news-pad in her face. "G'Kar is dead! G'Kar died in an explosion launching from Babylon 5!"
Mi'Ra grasped the sheets out of his hands and stared at them, each symbol registering on her smooth reptilian face. Her spotted cranium throbbed, and her lips twisted back. G'Kar the destroyer was dead! Their hated foe, killer of their father, defiler of their name, and object of their Shon'Kar—he was dead. Killed in a suspicious explosion. Clearly, somebody had gotten to him, but who?
She shouted at the night sky, "Why wasn't it me?"
"Hush, sister. Let the fate have some play here," T'Kog cautioned her.
"Who gave you these?" she demanded, flashing the newspads in his face.
T'Kog pointed innocently behind them. "A man down there, he was giving them away. Several people seemed to know about it already."
Mi'Ra had already leveled her PPG and was scanning the shadows when she heard a voice spring from inside a dust devil. "Don't be afraid, my dear," it crooned.
She knew this disembodied voice was a trick—some said the Thenta Ma'Kur had learned it from the techno-mages—but the assassins had made it their own. The young Narn woman moved in a crouch with her pistol drawn, trying to find the source of the voice. She had reason to hate the league, and they her—but she knew that if they wanted her dead, they would strike without issuing a warning.
"You haven't come to kill us, have you?" she asked.
"Not at this time, my lady," said the voice. "Come to the nearest archway in the wall."
T'Kog was slinking away from the confrontation, but Mi'Ra grabbed him by his shabby collar and thrust him against the wall. He hit the pockmarked cement head-on and moaned as he massaged a knot on his dotted cranium.
"You picked up the message," she told him. "So you come with me."
Mi'Ra dragged him the rest of the way and threw him against one side of the archway, while she leaned against the other. She holstered her weapon and watched the light in the clay pot sway back and forth. "We're here!" she shouted into the wind.
A slim man wrapped in black shawls eased out of the shadows and slumped against the wall beside her brother, who gasped. Slinking back T'Kog managed to get control of himself and face up to this apparition. The black shawls covered every part of him, including his face, and they flapped leisurely in the wind that groaned around them.
"You've been making trouble for us," said the man in a cultured bass voice. "Telling people that we don't fulfill our contracts."
"Well, you don't!" Mi'Ra spit at the ground. "The Thenta Ma'Kur is a sham, and that's all I tell them."
The man swaddled in black flinched for a moment but settled into the archway. "You cannot say that anymore. We have fulfilled our contract with your father. G'Kar is dead."
Mi'Ra narrowed her blazing red eyes at the assassin, knowing that he and death were familiar friends. "Is this true? G'Kar is truly dead?"
"Go to Jasba," said the man. "Find any public viewer. You will see, G'Kar is dead. The newspads are real."
Mi'Ra breathed deeply and sunk against the ancient archway. "Then it is over?" she asked in disbelief.
"Not for you," said the assassin. "Many suspect you because of your brave but indiscreet Shon'Kar. Next time, leave this work to the professionals."
Mi'Ra glared at him. As much as she despised the cold-blooded scavengers of the Thenta Ma'Kur, she was ready to accept the fact that they had fulfilled their contract.
Still, the Narn woman straightened her shoulders and declared, "I am proud of my Shon'Kar."
"Of course you are, my dear, but the humans of Babylon 5 do not appreciate the Shon'Kar as much as we do. G'Kar also has many friends, important ones. Our advice to you is this—neither admit nor deny your hand in his murder, and do not mention us. Your Blood Oath is well-known, and all will come to accept it."
Mi'Ra bowed. "I will do as you wish. From now on I will speak highly of your fellowship."
The black-shrouded figure bowed in return. "Earthforce personnel are coming to Homeworld to answer the Council's questions. We will stay close to them and watch them, in case they interfere too much. As of now, our business with you is concluded."
With that, the black-shrouded man stepped from the light of the archway and strode into the darkness, which accepted him without hesitation.
CHAPTER 6
Michael Garibaldi stayed behind in the theater balcony, watching the mourners depart after the memorial service for G'Kar. He wasn't the sentimental type, except when it came to old friends and young ladies, but the memorial service had been oddly touching. Even Londo had risen to the occasion. As Delenn had said in her address, it was easy to be angry and deny what had happened, and it was much harder to accept the fact that G'Kar was gone. It was like a whole section of the station was suddenly missing.
He leaned over the balcony again, wondering if there was a murderer in the well-behaved crowd. The security chief had no idea anybody was watching him.
"Hi, my name is Al Vernon!" crowed a loud voice directly behind him. The security chief whirled around to see a human male approaching him from the back of the balcony. He was a portly fellow dressed in a checkered sportcoat, and sweat glistened on his florid face. He held out a pudgy hand as if it was the most important thing in the world that he shake Garibaldi's hand.