"Homecoming" Series
Set during Season One of Crusade, but there's no spoilers (I think - hadn't seen a single episode yet at time of writing) since it's focused on a different crew than the group on Crusade. The story takes place in an alternate universe, which branched from the canon version during "Phoenix Rising", but is mostly set in a place I'm sure 95% of the B5 loving public out there would love to see. Read on for details. :)
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 . . . you walk towards wisdom if you walk towards the truth.
~~~~
The trip across the mountains could in itself be described as a 'learning experience'. Tension levels went up and down a number of times as people argued and laughed, and slowly, everyone learned to get along.
Well, almost everyone . . .
The incident was funny in hindsight, actually. It was the sixth night travelling, and the whole camp (over 400 members by this point) woke up to a loud "AAAAUGH!!" and the lights were immediately turned up to shine on young Jesse scrambling frantically away from his blankets - and a half-dressed, very embarrassed looking medic: Private Rianna Brandan. In the lengthy explaining that followed the uproar, she had claimed she was just trying to be friendly. He freaked that she wasn't at all friendly if she put her cold hands *there*!
"It's not like the teeps are monks or nothing! Go find their girls!" Brandan exclaimed, attempting to salvage what was left of her reputation.
The female telepaths, of course, had used the ruckus to rapidly make it back to their own blankets. Ruth answered the light shining in her eyes with a rude gesture before pulling the cover up over her head, and the others complained (sounding very much like they'd been fast asleep) "Does it look like I've got a guy in here with me?"
The Captain would have believed them, if not for the fact she had heard Ruth's rapid scramble to get back to safety less than three seconds before the light found her. But in the name of friendship, Ivanova did - truthfully - say that she hadn't seen any of them leave their bed the whole night. She was amazed that Ruth *hadn't* been in her own bed in the first place, but she didn't say so out loud. Tired and annoyed, Byron let the matter drop. Everyone tried to go back to sleep, with various degrees of success. Jesse, still wild-eyed, decided to forgo his sleep and took a turn at keeping watch.
A few minutes later, Ivanova heard a muffled snickering off to her left a short distance, followed by a distinct 'thump', and the snarled comment, "Shut up, Marcie. My brains are NOT kept in my panties."
[I think it's time for a lecture on proper behavior,] the Captain decided before dozing off again.
Ivanova noticed a surreptitious return of an undergarment the next morning by a crewman who was trying way too hard to keep the exchange hidden, and before breakfast gave a brief but stern lecture on 'being nice' not including opening your legs. It didn't stop the late-night visitations, among the teeps or her crew, but the now-bashful medic tried to apologise afterwards to the Captain, taking time to find her commanding officer in the large group as it walked eastward in the afternoon heat. It did not help, however.
"Three words, private: AGE OF MAJORITY!"
"He's not built like a kid! He's taller than me!" She protested.
"That's not hard to achieve. He described you as a COOTIE ATTACK! He's years too young! Go find that marine who's been eyeing you if you need to take off your pants."
"Oh, come on, Walsh is lousy in bed! You can't blame me for-"
"Oh yes I can, Private. YOU were the one who started that incident, and *you* were the one with your shirt open! I have seen his behaviour, and I've seen yours - Follow orders from now on and stay AWAY from the locals!"
"But - but - it's not my fault! They're just better at hiding it! It's - its not like you haven't been 'talking' with their leader!" she suddenly blurted out, with an emphasis on talking that made her suddenly go pale as she realised what she'd just inferred.
Ivanova stopped dead in her tracks. [Now *that* tears it!]
Fury and scorn evident on every millimetre of face, Ivanova physically hauled the suddenly terrified girl around to face her, and proceeded to start the most thorough chewing-out she had ever had the sadistic pleasure to give. The Captain started with an explicit dissection of Brandan's looks, attitude, and general performance on the trip, as an appetiser as to why Brandan shouldn't bother ever glancing at the opposite gender. Then came the main course. Ivanova told Brandan about Lyta. That she was a very dear friend who'd been missing for years, and who was now an expectant mother, thanks to Byron. Ivanova told the crying girl *what* Lyta was, what she'd been through, and what she'd done for everyone.
"Do you think the list ends there? Do you? Well it does not. Sheridan may have been the one to get the credit for setting Earth, Mars, the Orion colonies, Proxima, all of it free - but he *didn't* do it alone. He had help. He had a lot of help, and yes, I was involved, but you had better learn really fast that Lyta was too. Do you know who went to the Shadow's homeworld to save our now-president's butt? Do you know who kept our White Star hidden even as those black widow ships were hunting for us? Same person, kid, and twice again after that! Both in saving him from Clark's goons and defending Mars during the second attack by the cruisers - in which, I might add, Lyta saved almost 30 *thousand* lives! You bloody well ought to be praying for Lyta, too, since without her, President Clark would have destroyed the entire Mars colony. You were there, weren't you. Do you even remember the bombings he ordered on Dome One? The missiles he'd had his minions drop? The thousands of deaths, the sight of the hundreds of decompressed and asphyxiated corpses that littered the sands? How many of your family died during those attacks, private? How many were on the refugee ships, fleeing, when troops loyal to him located and destroyed the unarmed transports? How many? Two? Twenty? Your home was there, on Mars. And you would have been there too - how young were you then? 12? 13? Do you remember hearing the news about the dozens of heavy cruisers he'd sent a few weeks after he destroyed Dome One, to completely wipe out the *entire* colony there? You do! Did you ever, even ONCE, stop to wonder how those thirty cruisers were stopped? Same answer, kid. It was *her* and a single resistance cell that got her into place in time to fry the controls on those warships. She had to be there, and not get to cover even in the weapons fire around her, feeling the death-scream of the people who had been altered to be used as living weapons. Then she had to stay there, risking her life to keep doing it, until his entire fleet was laid out. The pain she must have gone through is beyond my comprehension, and it's sure as hell beyond yours! Did you even have any family that was *not* on Mars at the time? No? None? Then when we get off this dustball and back to the ship, you remember the next time you talk to them exactly WHO is responsible for them still being alive. They would have all been killed otherwise, so you better not get lippy about my 'talking' to Byron to find out about her life and safety after I left B5 for the Sophocles. Got it?!"
Ivanova took almost an hour, not even noticing the fact that the others all left a wide berth around the small but very intense storm in their midst. They weren't stupid enough to cross Ivanova in an already bad mood. Ivanova reduced her victim past tears and sent her away, ordering her to be a forward scout - the hardest job on the trip - until they reached the city.
Jesse stuck to the Captain's side afterwards, partly to continue the lessons about his home, partly because Private Brandan was too terrified to so much as glance in the direction of Ivanova.
While less exciting, the majority of the journey was still worth saving memories of. The Earthforcers who'd been raised on 'Dry' colonies such as Mars had rarely - if ever - seen rivers, ponds, lakes, or any large bodies of water. The Earth-born had several good laughs at their expense. While swimming was never a luxury they had much time for, the fact of having to use water to wash themselves and their clothing wasn't one they could avoid. Hygiene regulations were strict . . . besides, getting wet was a way to find relief from the mid-day heat, a high priority for the hundreds who had become accustomed to the climate-controlled ship environment. At each water source, the girls posted guards to keep the boys away from their section, and vice versa. Ivanova didn't know how the men were taking the primitive conditions, but the women didn't mind it too badly after a while. Or if they did, they had soon stopped complaining when she could overhear. After they got used to the shortage of deodorant (the locals had ensured that some was brought, but they didn't expect that there would be so many people in the group - they didn't have enough for everyone to have their own, and people soon became stingy about sharing) and the complete lack of perfume, they grudgingly accepted it is how it was. There was always at least a few who complained over using local powdered soda-and-salt mixes to brush their teeth with, but there soon weren't any dental rinses left from the emergency supplies to do it the 'modern' way.
The one person who had it the worst when it came time to clean each day was probably Ruth. She'd been able to find a spot of her own for the first few days, but soon there just wasn't enough space along the shorelines to be alone. It was the seventh total day when it happened. The way the laughter, complaints, and general talking just suddenly faded into whispering and then unnatural silence, Ivanova knew something was wrong. She glanced up in the direction everyone was either staring in - or pointedly avoiding. They had noticed her scars, and even Ivanova jumped, to see them in full daylight. She'd felt them in the dark, but it hadn't been the right time or place - she had been reassuring the crying woman that Mysersal was alive and well. The silence stretched on for almost a minute while Ruth's face went first red then faded to a sickly grey. The other local girls kept their hands on their hunting knives, ready to spring to her defence the instant it was needed.
More than Ruth's face and neck had been cut, and none of it had been healed properly - she was more scar than skin. A *lot* more. Some of the scars were obviously cuts, some were obviously burns, and some even looked as though her tormentors had laced the fresh wounds with ink to make the mark permanent, but most of the scars were so overlapped and massed together that their source was completely lost. An older woman, blonde on her scalp but a brunette otherwise, gulped, and finally asked the first question. It was more a statement than a question, and the woman wasn't able keep the horror off her face.
"Those are why you wear long sleeves, even in the sun, isn't it. When we all take off the outer layer to put on shorts and a vest but you stay covered."
Ruth, not looking at anyone, nodded. Her expression was that of someone who'd been through the scrutiny before, and had never liked it.
"Does it still hurt?" a worried voice asked.
Another nod. Ivanova wondered if she should stop things, but knew that the questions had to come eventually, and it was better she was here to protect what must have been a fragile self-esteem. And to deal with any of her crew as needed, if they dared to insult the frightened woman.
"How? . . . you . . ." this time, the voice trailed off.
"Psi Corps, you moron! They must have not liked her for something . . . which is enough to make her an automatic friend in MY books. That and . . . um . . . miss, I don't know if it is you or not, the name is the same and your face is close - but I had a sister in that prison camp, too . . . the rangers brought me a letter, a *paper* letter, from her. Almost two years ago. I haven't found out yet if she's here or not."
Another local woman, the dark-haired beauty without any tan lines whom the others called Sarah, spoke for the nervous Ruth. "There was a call sent out for family when you arrived. Either a message or the person should to try to meet us when we get back to civilisation. We can try a particular search, if you know her name. Ask Byron later this afternoon, he's the only one strong enough to catch messages sent from the Wall over this distance. He can try to ask for you . . . and Ruth is Ruth, yes."
The woman nodded, smiling at Ruth. She mouthed the words thank you, then looked around distractedly. "What are all of you staring at! We need to wash up before the boys come wandering around."
Most of them quickly went back to cleaning, but there was still too many sideways looks at Ruth's body - what was left of it - for her not to leave as quickly as possible. Quiet whispers spread around the water, as the ones who had recognised her told the others what Ruth had been, and what she had done. Ivanova kept an ear pricked as to what they were saying, to try to keep dangerous rumours down. She didn't hear any at that point. The woman whose sister had been mentioned, Private (first class) Hammond, already appeared to be blisteringly defensive of the silent ex-reporter.
That wasn't the most intense time bathing, however . . . wet-towel fights were quite common after a few more days. Even one-armed, Ivanova was a demon, even if a few welts did prove a few of her crew had been able to place. Wash time was about the only time she enjoyed having her arm broken. Someone else was usually willing to scrub her back, as long as the favour was returned, so her broken arm wasn't a complete hindrance. She was able to miss the heavy labour aspect of scrubbing clothes, instead choosing to carry small loads, mediate squabbles that sprang up, and give orders. After they got used to it, some of the dry-born commented they might not want to go back to sonics, at least for washing themselves - clothes were a totally different matter. Laundry duty was not popular, but everyone helped. Everyone had to, to get it done quickly to keep moving. Even the grumpy middle-aged Lieutenant with both legs broken in the Drakh attack was able to assist. She knew how to sew, and was repeatedly blessed for mending holes on various items, and in turn was assisted with being sponge-bathed by cloth and bowl. Several side comments were made by her about how it was too bad the boys weren't around to help her bathe, leading to her soon being drenched by various others. After they stopped laughing and repaired her casts, her friends took turns helping carry her stretcher, so she wouldn't have 'just some ruddy strangers' for company.
Over the first few days after the revelation, the multitude of flower wreaths that arrived on Ruth's blankets were a small indication that more than one woman had a loved one spared because of the final broadcast. Word spread to the male half more slowly, as none of them saw her without clothing in daylight. A few of the possible latents knew she had scars besides those immediately visible, if they had felt them during intercourse; but since she never undressed fully in their presence they didn't know just how bad it was. She certainly didn't seem willing to let anyone touch her in public, males especially. On the 12th day of travelling, while Ruth and a few others were cooling their feet in a stream for a few moments, one dull-witted fellow caught a glimpse of a melted patch on her feet and made a rude comment on it. He soon disappeared, probably while on a side trip to 'water the trees'. Byron was not the least bit thrilled to have to take various search parties out after dark to go looking for him, when the night-camp was made and they realised at roll call that he wasn't among them. He was found hanging upside down a good 40 feet up a tree, bound and gagged and stark naked, several miles back. He had no idea who did it to him. In fact, he had no memory of that entire day until he woke up swaying in the evening breeze like a drunken bat, with no one at all in sight.
There were 5 telepath women in the group by that time, and every single one was accounted for during the entire time the man was gone. Ivanova finally had to let the matter drop, since the soldier was too unnerved to try to press charges. They never did find his uniform.
Ivanova did not, however, ask Hammond where she had been.
~~~~
The Captain had followed Byron's advice a few days after she'd gotten it, moving away from the group's EM fields to listen for a few hours. After pestering Jesse for details on the local wildlife, he recommended that she come and see a plant that had really pretty flowers, a favourite of his sisters - but the plant grew up in the cliffs. When he had found an easy route up one, he showed her and a few others the path up during a lunch break.
The song was incredibly beautiful. Ivanova didn't know how to describe it - it wasn't exactly a tune, it had nothing she could say was harmony or melody or words, but it was there, and it was most definitely music. The others in her small group seemed to be normal, and were therefore disappointed. The plants he'd seen from the valley floor had shed their blooms during the night, and looked like scraggly gray-green bundles of twigs with wilted coloured bits hanging down from the ends. The others were a bit dismayed, but Ivanova took it all in stride. "There'll be more flowers, the season for them is just starting, right?"
"Yes. I'll find you a fresher one soon," Jesse promised feverishly, outwardly mad at him for disappointing them. Inwardly, he seemed pleased to have been the one to introduce Ivanova to the telepaths’ pride and joy of their home.
They went back to the main group, Ivanova remembering as much of the music's complicated rhythms as she could. She made sure to sleep away from where the comm units were gathered and stored at night from then on.
Despite the ship's crew having been a fairly steady group for the past several years, the journey did more for comradeship than any other event. It was not all walking, washing, or riding. The days when they had to wait for stragglers coming down were a calm respite for the main group. The 8th and 15th nights after walking, there was a need to wait more than one day at the site of the night-camp. Everyone could stay up late, and sleep in. And there was a bit of a celebration, as pent-up frustrations were let out, and they showed they were happy just to be alive. But it was the *dancers* that made those two evenings memorable.
They had been setting up for the first of those nights over a few days, making the earthforce people wonder what was up with all the secret smiles the telepaths wore. One of the local girls knew how to carve wooden flutes from tree branches, and soon they had become reasonably popular - if someone showed they knew how to play decently, they got to have one, and the Private who'd had a harmonica in his pocket had been getting a lot of practice. There were also enough odds and ends about to make percussion instruments of sorts. The 8th night after they'd left the lake, before the sun had set, most of the telepaths had gathered everyone musical off to the side and had a conference of sorts. The telepaths not involved - Byron, Jesse, and a white-haired man Ivanova didn't know the name of - had spent the day hunting berries, but they brought back several small baskets of ones they had said were poisonous if eaten. When Ivanova asked why, she was told they made good temporary dye - if made right, it won't sweat off but will later wash away, and they had enough for several different colours. Jesse had just grinned and said they were for a good purpose. Then he'd blushed at the look Byron gave him, muttering he liked to look as much as the next fellow. Ivanova didn't get any more answers out of them that afternoon, but did not worry too much because of the sheer glee being silently expressed by Jesse and the other local men. She did notice just after they ate mid-afternoon that all the local girls, apart from the flute carver, were nowhere to be seen; a few of the teep-friendly girls in her crew were suspiciously absent as well.
Her crew, lounging around and relaxing for the whole day, could hear snippets of tunes and laughter as the musical group practised a few instrumental songs. Those who could play had been practising the same tunes on and off for several days, but that day they went at it in earnest. Everyone else found out about what they were planning much later, well after dusk. All the fires but two, in the center of a large clearing, were dimmed to coals, and all other sources of light were turned off. Everyone had gathered around, leaving a wide ring around the space between the fires, marked out by a circle of rocks in the carefully cleared and levelled dirt. It wasn't totally dark out, but a thin layer of clouds obscured most of the starlight, so the only illumination came from the two small fires and the dim presence of the gas giant. Ivanova, sitting about halfway back, noticed that Jesse had sat right at the side of the ring. The only ones closer were the musicians, and they were facing outwards, towards the crowd. The expectant crowd was shushed down to silence, and the first flute began. It wasn't a symphony by any means, but it set the pace for the shrouded four that came walking down from the edges of the crowd to the center of the ring. No, they weren't walking. Gliding sinuously, they flowed between the seated audience members like scraps of silk floating in the breeze, drifting into the center ring.
"Don't slap me if I seem to stare too much, they need me to help broadcast the glyphs to all the mundanes here." Byron whispered to Ivanova as he leaned over to her ear. At her puzzled look, he just grinned, shrugged and sat there patiently.
Other flutes joined the first, then more instruments, and the four figures, cloaked and hooded so they were fully obscured, let the covering fall to the ground with one fluid motion. Ivanova's jaw dropped. They were glowing! Head to feet, patterns and bright colors marked out a suggestive-of-curves trellis outline from eyelids to toes. Three were smooth and pastel-colored, one glittered with a rippled look; they all seemed to be made of neon. [No they're not, they've just got luminescent body paint on. I can see the swirl marks left by fingers in the colors. Wow, though. . . are they wearing anything?! If they are, it's very tight and scanty.] A few wolf-whistles were heard, and one pastel woman's face turned into a grin shape.
The four anonymous figures - all decidedly female and each brightly patterned with the berry dies - were suddenly surrounded by a swirling cloud of glowing dust that spun in dozens of tiny tornadoes before turning into sparkling bubbles which floated up and away on a non-existent breeze. The painted women, until that moment, had not seemed to move. Then they did move, slowly and gently, first by opening eyes that were dark holes in the glowing masks of their faces and then their bodies began to shift gradually, each sensual motion followed by a blurred streaking of the same colour of the painted limb like translucent streamers; Ivanova's mouth went dry. The images that trailed behind the women weren't actually there at all, but she was seeing them - it was being pictured telepathically. Byron must have been stronger than even she suspected, if the reaction of her crew was any indication, everyone was seeing it. She hid her flicker of nervousness. [The man is Lyta's husband. He has to be a good guy, right?]
The dance, at first just slow stretch-like motions, soon picked up its tempo . . . and the ambient temperature seemed to climb. The smooth graceful contortions, while not totally erotic, were certainly quite suggestive. And quite creative. And they made Ivanova hurt just watching them, all four must have been avid gymnasts to have done those motions without spraining any joints. She didn't know how many minutes it went on for, but she was more than willing to take any one or all four to bed with her by the time the music peaked and ended. From the deafening applause, whistles, and catcalls, she wasn't the only one in the right mood. The four, visibly panting for air, bowed and grinned. A few steps to one side got them each a short skirt and vest to wear over top of the paint, then they each grabbed the outstretched hand of various males in the audience, pulling them in to dance a little more traditionally as the musicians played a new tune. In short order almost everyone in the camp was dancing. The first four, after moving from dimmed fire to dimmed fire and starting them blazing again, soon slipped away into the woods to wash the paint off before sneaking back to rejoin the festivities as themselves.
Much, much later, a tired and happily footsore Ivanova managed to locate Byron; sitting quietly by himself a short distance from the firelight and nursing a cup of something. When she got closer, she could smell a bitter but painkilling herb tea. She'd seen Ruth drinking a cup with almost every meal. "Sore feet? No? Headache?"
He nodded gently. "It took a lot of effort to show the trailings to so many, even with help, and even when they were close to me and receptive. I'll have a terrible hangover in the morning."
"I'll try not to wake you. So . . . which four were they? Everyone out there says they don't know, that it's supposed to be anonymous. You going to tell me the other three?"
"First you say four, then three . . . and I don't know." He tried to grin, but winced instead.
"Well, it's a safe guess the rippled effect was caused by Ruth's scars - the keloid patterns on her skin were visible even though the paint didn't follow her scarlines, and she was taking as many painkillers as she could stand with her supper to fight back the pain she must have known she was going to feel; but I don't think anyone else will really think it was her. She tends to be very shy if there's more than a few people around, they'd assume someone else. Who were the other three? I noticed Sarah wasn't among the musicians . . ."
"Touché, ma'am. They were all my people, not yours. I think. You can puzzle out the rest if you want, but I . . . I am going to try to sleep, even with the noise. And - perhaps - you should make sure more painkillers are ready for Ruth when she eventually wakes up."
"Noise? It's just singing. Ok, so they're not a choir, but . . ." Ivanova let it go with a smile. "I'll make sure she's ok. Was there any more news from Lyta tonight? And when might we witness this again?"
"The baby is still kicking, your crew continues to arrive safely, and I'll give you the numbers when my head is clear . . . if there is time later, I'm sure they will want to dance again. It is their choice, the men don't do that. Rule of the Gypsies. We have our own version, and you can rest assured I will not take part. Good night, Captain."
"Sleep well, Byron. It was a great show." She smiled as she wandered back to watch the party again. [It is good to be alive,] she thought, then turned away to find a quiet spot to sleep. She moved far enough away that the planet's music was audible. It was gentler, with a deeper resonance than the last time - [I must be closer to a certain kind of rock or something if it's changed, that's what Jesse said - or was it plants that affected it? Both . . . and where the other moons are, gravity pulls are assumed a factor as well. Not that it can be studied, since the phenomenon doesn't exist within an EM field any stronger that what a body makes. It's nice to know there are some things that will always remain a mystery . . . ] and she smiled as she dropped off.
~~~~
Not every night was a party, by any means. It was rough terrain, and after a long day's hike most people just dropped down into their tents and blankets, barely taking the time to use the newly dug latrine pits or eat the meals started by the forward scouts. A few crewmembers would occasionally become sore enough to need help to unstrap the backpacks of things which all the uninjured people were required to carry; the group was too large, needing too many supplies compared to what the unridden horses could pack. But there was always a few who sat up and talked, at least for a while. Jesse, always ready to talk an ear off someone, thrived under the attention. He would tell whoever would listen the names of the moons and other objects in the sky, and made up a few stories that the ship's more literary-inclined happily jotted down. Why this one animal had whiskers on one side of it's face and not the other. Why rubberbills seemed to be flying backwards when you looked at one. Why the Ali-lin-toc trees would pull their needles back if you touched them the first time, then lash out upon the second touch, but didn't move from contact with water or other trees. The only actual planet in the star system, the gas giant, he called The Watcher. He told tales about how the 12 main moons were children of The Watcher, and how the 13 moons that orbited other moons were the Watcher's grandchildren. Why the two outer orbit moons which circled each other as they revolved were Fi and Di, and how they came to be called the dancing twins. Why their home was the favoured child. Why the asteroid rings were where they were. Why one moon spun backwards, and two more on their sides. All the moons and such were females - pretty, but hard to reach out to without a lot of effort - and who would want to? Only the old people, who somehow believed that the other gender were something nice rather than a plague upon real people.
"I'm guessing you have sisters," one listener commented.
"Yeah, 4 of 'em. I'm th'only boy." Jesse replied.
"That explains it!" And the rest of the group laughed.
"So Jesse, how long have these folklore tales been around? Some seem similar to other culture's methods of explaining creation when they were still aboriginals. Were any of these stories borrowed, in whole or in part?" Another asked earnestly.
Jesse just looked at them like they'd lost their marbles. "Heck, no. I'm just making all this verbal fertiliser up as I go!"
The sound of a scratching pen suddenly halted in its effort to copy what he was saying. "You're making all this up?" A fourth asked belatedly.
"Yup. Right now, like. I make up lots of stuff, t'keep my sisters and their friends en'ertained when it's my turn t'look after 'em. Sometimes their friends' parents come, too, t'listen. I've got stories written down and printed, a few of 'em. Everyone gets t'read what I made up!"
"A published author," the first crewmember commented. "I'll note that in my report. Can we use these stories as well?"
"Why'd y'think I was telling 'em t'you?!"
At this point, Ivanova started to laugh, and they called it a night. It would be another long day tomorrow.
~~~~
By the 34th total day, there were almost 500 total humans in the one huge group. 462 crew, 18 telepaths. There were 67 horses, two more having been lost in a flooded river and one little foal born from a mare Byron hadn't suspected was pregnant when he first selected her to go. Many of the injured were partly or fully recovered, even those that the doctors had first suspected would die from their injuries; though the group was dangerously low on medicines by that morning, and the food stores were depleted to the point where they depended entirely upon the perimeter scouts to keep eating. They were 2 days from The Wall, which 'they will see when they got there why it is called that'. Ivanova hated riddles, but could sense the gentle humour and total conviction of its name when the telepaths let her read them. So she wasn't worried.
Summer was fading in the higher passes, but was in full force in the lower valleys, and it got downright hot when the sun was right overhead. The ups and down of the narrow valleys had widened and levelled as they walked the final descent in elevation. The small river they'd been following on and off for the past 14 days had broadened into a delta then disappeared, trickle by trickle, underground into the more porous veins of rock. The last bit of it had completly vanished at the edge of the clearing where their previous camp had been. Byron had told them when they first reached the river that it bubbled out at the base of the mountains, hot and mineralised, after passing next to old volcanic vents. It was one of The Wall's sources of fresh water and heat, tapped by pipes on the way down. Then he had added, in a tone that demanded absolute obedience, that they were not allowed to contaminate it. That they were to be extremely careful of source streams, and where the latrines were placed. That they were all to dump the used wastewater far back from the edge of the river; whether it had washed dishes, clothing, or persons. "We cannot afford another plague, especially with all of you here!" Both he and Ivanova had been very careful to keep the clean-water policy enforced among the weary crew.
The day before, they had come down into the widest valley yet - about a mile across already and gradually growing wider. They had also just started to pass crops, neat rows of grains in carefully tended fields. Ivanova recognised them (after Jesse's prompting) as a local seed; one that if planted right, wouldn't need any weeding because of naturally occurring chemical inhibitors, just watering at the right times. It could be planted several days away from 'home', since a weekly check was all it needed, maybe for the farmer to open an irrigation gate in the stream trickling nearby and let more moisture into the furrows. But mostly they had seen forests, a few signs of careful timber harvesting, and the odd animal. Some odder than others. . . was that a gok she spotted half-hidden by berry plants, chewing happily on the fruit? It had been years since she'd last seen one. [Well . . . Byron had said there were Minbari here, no reason to think why they wouldn't have brought animals along, too.]
They'd left a series of comm systems behind them, a relay back to Lake Sophocles, to keep in touch with Carlson and his group. Just over 100 people had left the lake a few days before, and were carefully picking up all the signs of their passage, such as the communicators, and the occasional lost bit of clothing. Last evening's message to Byron had over 300 crew already in billets at the Wall. The residents had taken a tally of who was where, and had passed the message on. Most people were safe. Some were known to be dead, on board the ship. Less than 100 crew were missing, but since only two pods had been destroyed during or just after landing that they knew of, the missing were most likely blown into space during the fight, or buried somewhere on the ship where they weren't seen by survivors escaping. Some of the bodies were too badly damaged to tell who it was. DNA would have to be checked on the Jane and John Does. The missing were presumed dead, but the search was ongoing just in case a pod landed somewhere remote and wasn't able to call in because of distance or broken equipment. Over 150 of the crewmembers that had hit ocean were on their way, taking the incredibly long journey over the mountains and up the prairies on foot. A few more of those who had splashed down in the ocean but were too injured or late to travel with the rest were gathered in the same port, safe. The shuttles had made two brief trips back to the ship, checking damage where the radiation would allow them to go, but they were basically saving their fuel for when it would do more good. Hazmat - removing the debris and corpses - would have to wait, but the body count wasn't as high as it might have been. It was far less than it could have been.
The 34th total morning, the 30th morning that Ivanova's group had been travelling, they found a stone cache someone had put out a day or two before, the location being close enough to the city to leave a drop. Whether the suppliers had time to ride back to the city, or just scatter into the trees, the Captain did not know, but everyone was too happy because of the cache itself for her to worry too much. Extra clothing, fresh food (including a large selection of bread, quickly and happily eaten), requested refills of medicines, more soap and other hygiene products such as menstruation supplies; and a list of names confirming who was gathered at The Wall - both crew (with a list of injured) and family members. More than one iron-hard soldier broke down into tears from good news confirmed. A few cried because they still didn't know if someone had survived. But it was a good day. The refugees had been using the one uniform they'd each been wearing pretty much everyday, and they were getting a little worn. There hadn't been enough spare clothes to give every person a set of civvies, just the ones who desperately needed it and some in general rotation. That changed with opening the cache; even if the fresh clothes were not spare uniforms, they were gladly welcomed. Also included was a sealed letter for Ivanova: a detailed report on her crew and ship.
The news from the damage teams was it would take between 4 to 6 weeks to repair to functional, but it *could* all be repaired enough to safely start for home. [Hallelujah. I *can* return home to get in trouble from the brass.] Possibly longer than 6 weeks . . . radiation levels still had to drop in various critical areas, such as medlab, before they could stay long enough to do a proper assessment. It could be 8 or 9 weeks in total. Ivanova relaxed at this news. [I'll be able to see Lyta's baby for sure! There's only a month to go for junior's arrival.] Everything seemed fine, but the writer claimed to hate 'having to waddle around like a friggin duck'. At this, Ivanova put the message down and looked at the man who was sitting beside her and attempting to read over her shoulder.
"Byron, isn't she supposed to be confined to bed?" she asked quietly.
"Lyta? Yes, why?"
She showed him the letter, making him tsk. "Chastise Lyta for me. She's not behaving."
"I will, trust me. So where's my letter?"
"You didn't get one. Odd."
Byron quickly changed the topic, but Ivanova was too involved with the contents of her letter to notice.
There was news wandering in from hyperspace, as well. One of the two Starfuries that had gone missing during the fight had eventually been found by earthforce and a small fleet was almost at the area, searching for them, but none had passed into the vortex yet, since it was so far off the beacons. The signals they were transmitting were arriving, however, which is how the telepaths knew how the search was going - Meth was equipped to receive and even send signals to the rest of the universe, and they kept in contact with the oxygen world by crystal-enhanced telepathy. Only one pilot had survived the attack itself, but his gunner had been killed and weapons systems were already destroyed by the time he switched his atmospheric power to communications, trying to broadcast a signal towards Alliance space - purposely ensuring he'd die (though having lost track of the Sophocles, this was already a certainty) for the chance that someone in the Alliance might find out what had happened. He'd been dead for days as his Thunderbolt maintained position, still broadcasting faintly when the search ships had traced the signal back to find it. The log had a record of the battle up to the point where it was lost. A pair of White Stars were en route to assist . . . Delenn seemed to think they might stumble onto something. Delenn knew full well about Sanctuary, she and her young son David had once been visited by a messenger with a great deal of news and a few important papers, a couple of years ago, the letter said. Not that she'd let her husband know . . . his prejudiced attitude towards telepaths would have been an even greater hindrance than it was for Carlson, because of his presidential position. The telepath war had affected more than telepaths. So they'd have additional company soon. Maybe 3 weeks. Possibly less.
That wasn't the bad news, however. Across the entire planet, the masses as well as the legislative assemblies were in an uproar over the fact they might lose their home's secret location, and the methane breathers on Sanctuary's larger, methane atmosphered moon were almost as agitated. A storm was brewing, and Byron wasn't there to be part of it, a fact that made him scowl at the paper even when Ivanova began to pester him for information.
Everyone knew they couldn't hurt their 'guests'. But the idea of re-opening contact with anyone in the Alliance was not a popular one, after what had been done to them in general. There hadn't been even so much as a 'thank you' for helping in the Shadow War, and the almost total lack of public support from any external governments when initially building their home didn't help the side voting for contact. The external trade they'd done, even before the incoming waves of colonists had eventually slowed, had been on a very small scale and exclusively with Minbari-made White Stars. They didn't even trade with the Minbari officially, just the Rangers/Anla'shok. Ever since the Sophocles had appeared, political factions have been in an uproar. It had helped Ivanova's situation when the Governor, liked by pretty much every member of every species, had voiced support for assisting them, and pointed out that injuring the Earthforce members would be a major violation of the peace edict they'd adopted - something that had yet to happen. ‘We can not permit ourselves to even begin to consider that occurrence. We as a people have done so much already; it should not be undone. No one individual would have made it to this place, our beloved home, without assistance. Should we not have learned from this? We will help them, as much as it is possible.’
When the Governor made a statement such as that, everyone listened, and everyone obeyed. They still argued, of course. If they hadn't had the passion for debate, they'd have never run for election. They argued over just about everything, except the long-ago worry of protection - the interference vortex handled that with ease, since it surrounded the entire solar system, no one could try to set up a jump point based on co-ordinates taken from normal space in an effort to bypass the vortex . . . they were shredded in the attempt. Jumping into normal space outside the solar system gave the Vortex more than enough time to blow their reactors anyway, just as soon as the ship charged its weapons. A scant few had tried that approach. All had died, Byron told her.
"But there's got to be a reason WHY they're all bickering," Ivanova interrupted Byron's monologue.
Byron looked at her as if she had asked him to explain why water was wet. "Well, yes. We have a very good reason coming up in just over 5 months from now. The second set of Elections are almost due."
"Ok, but it would be nice if you'd explain how it was set up - hang on. You said 'we'."
"First Councillor, at your service," Byron grinned. "About as high a title as can be held - Shh! Let me finish. I did not tell you for a very good reason. I have no wish to paint a target onto my forehead, you realise, if some among your crew had decided to do something unpleasant - a few here, probably others in your crew as well, still might wish to play 'plant the knife' in my ribcage. Hush, let me give you the explanation you desire. After the founding, it was decided that the elections would be held every 3 local years. A set of planetary leaders - the First Council, located in the capital city for the Northern Continent - of which I am a prominent member. There are 89 members in total, out of which every species with over 100,000 in population has at least one representative, with a percentage linking in telepathically from Meth. Next on the hierarchy are provincial leaders - the Second Councils. Currently there are 14 second councils, but it is expected that 2 more will be added during the election because of population growth, with a total of almost 8000 councillors. Also elected are the city or town rulers - the mayor or whichever term that species uses, and lastly the Third Councils, which hold the equivalent of Aldermen - representatives from different parts of each city who met with each other two days each week to discuss problems, developments, and successes, and spend the other 4, 5 or 6 days in the week learning the problems which are occurring and solving them. No one is required to have to work on both days of the religious break, it is one of the laws, but a few work straight through anyway. The Third Councillors are almost beyond number, with each city deciding how many it needs or wants. It's not an easy job, but it gives almost anyone who wants to try a taste of power."
Jesse added his share. "Not that y'can be very dishonest, dealing with fellow telepaths. Plus, instead of th'old Psi Corps rule of 'greater Psi means greater power', y'need citizenship, leadership ability, and personality t'get even t'Third Council standing. They're still beating out th'rules, but it seems t'keep the neurotics out of power, whether or not they have a high Psi rating."
Ivanova listened attentively during the rest of that day's walk while Byron continued to explain their government structure, answering the questions the letter had brought up. He readily admitted the system still needed polishing (what government didn't?) but it worked. Jesse said little, but did contribute when not dashing off after seeing the local version of a rabbit.
"So everyone's elected? What about second terms, voting?" She asked.
"Every person 'in charge' is voted into office, except one. She didn't want to run. So we appointed her, choosing 'Governor' as a title, since it was a position traditionally appointed. You can't run for, or hold, more than one office at a time, so it confirmed she wouldn't be nudged into any additional duties. We've agreed that a second term voted-in is possible, up to and including a 6th term, in fact, but they have to be in sequence. If someone is removed from power, they don't have a second chance at that Council level. We can't have private voting; that wouldn't be possible since some of the citizens are not telepathic, they cannot shield all their thoughts, even with the training everyone must learn to keep from broadcasting. We use ballot cards, or a show of hands or movement - if you want to follow what person A says is right, you go to their side physically. If you want to follow person B, you go to their side. Or you can stay in the middle."
"Like ancient Rome used to do in the senate."
"Similar, yes. You can run as long as you are a citizen and have reached the age of majority - 21 for humans, although it's 19 local years - it's a few extra months for our children, but it helps to keep the years exact. There are no election campaigns as you would recall - no vids for broadcasts. You need to get out and meet the people, attend the public debates. No fundraising for fancy slogans or banners, teeps know it's all show and the *person* is what counts. I'll let you watch a Council meeting if you want to and we have time during a session. Bring earplugs, they can get noisy. I'll have to leave soon after we reach The Wall, return to the First Council - they've resumed session early because of you - it's a bit of a long trip. I'd returned only a few weeks before your arrival, home to my Lyta, because there had been a 4-month recess declared, and I wanted to be there for her. When you were due to pop up, we didn't get much warning. I decided, to be blunt, that you would assist in my re-election. If things went well with your visit and you were returned safely, I'd be guaranteed to make a second term. If things went badly . . . like if you had died, I still would want to repair things as best I could. I enjoy being in charge, Captain, I'm sure you're familiar with that feeling. "
"Yes. So what does Lyta think of all this politicking, not to mention you taking off in her 7th month?"
Jesse had just grinned at the first half of her question, still saying nothing, though his grin faded a little at the second half.
Byron answered after a bit of thought. "I believe her exact phrase 3 years ago was: 'Just leave me out of this whole mess. I will support whatever you decide.' And so I tried for - and won - a seat on the First Council."
He continued, "A month ago, it was a general thought - she didn't use actual words - that if I didn't go and make sure her friend Susan was all right she'd be kind enough to make sure I'd get a catheter tube, because I'd need one with what she'd do to me."
"Ouch." Ivanova said.
"They say giving a pregnant woman backrubs and such helps. She loved the thought of being a mother, you should have seen the way she used to grin all the time, until the baby went into full 'kick' mode. By then, all touching her did was make her crabby - the baby became very physical, and she often can't block others from sensing the pain when it would hit her spine for hours at a time. I learned long ago to stay out of her way, leaving the helping to other women who've been through motherhood before. But I try to help as best I know during problems, and have been there for the births before. This one . . . I hope I can."
Then he'd wandered off again, leaving the Captain to think. Jesse just walked beside her in sober silence.
All things considered, it was a good day. Too bad it didn't last . . .
Byron went from being outwardly calm and quietly cheerful to being visibly nervous as the sun dropped. The locals caught his mood, which then spread to infect the entire group.
"She hasn't called yet." Ivanova commented bluntly.
"No. I hope they're both all right. Maybe she's just busy, or she forgot. But if I'm not here in the morning - "
"I'll pray even harder, and meet you and her in two days."
No one really slept that night, the worry infectious, even if 99% or more of the earthforcers didn't know the cause. The Captain didn't sleep at all, she just couldn't relax. It was all she could do to not pace all night.
The next morning, both Byron and a spotted brown mare were missing. He'd taken the fastest horse, and was long gone even before those on forward scout duty were waking up. Ivanova's troops wanted to know why, so she told them some of the story. "A friend I've known for years is pregnant, and Byron is the father. The baby isn't doing well, and it might be too early for the child to survive being born. Half the talking I've been doing with Byron was to pry details of how she had been since I'd seen her last."
Her crew had guessed as much, from the snippets they'd overheard and assembled together, sometimes with gaps, sometimes out of order or with wrong assumptions. Sympathetic, and eager to get to their destination, they agreed to travel without a break that day, instead eating cold food while moving, then without even needing to vote - or even speak - on the subject, they lit the oil lamps and continued through the night.
The moon and starlight shone brightly anyway, the lamps were not really needed on the smooth, open dirt path on which they were walking. They could even make out a glow along the bottom horizon, at the end of the valley where it dropped into the plains, over a fuzzy treeline between the upper peaks of the mountains. Lights from 'The Wall', glowing much like any city would do in the darkness. The faint glow grew slightly as they travelled past forest and field. Dawn was approaching, but wouldn't arrive for a few hours when they started to pass rough stone fences and orchards, lines of tended bushes and fallow fields that were being used as animal pens; some of which had sleeping occupants.
Ivanova was riding again that night. She'd decided to trust the horse's better night vision for finding little holes in the path that might trip her. She was almost ready to take the cast off, and had no desire to break the other arm. There had been a few such accidents among her crew already during the past month. She travelled ahead of the majority of the group with two of the telepaths, Jesse and the old man who had said nothing verbally the entire trip. His throat had been slit on his journey to Sanctuary, like Ruth’s. They were soon some distance ahead of the main group, horses having been trotted for almost an hour. Ivanova's backside was killing her, but not so badly as the first day she'd ridden. A brief telepathic conference was held between her guides, then Jesse led Ivanova off the path, through a few hundred meters of trees, arriving at the edge of a small meadow that made Ivanova's skin crawl with a peculiar familiarity. It was not a comfortable feeling. He dismounted gracefully despite the long ride and walked towards a dark patch near where they'd emerged. It was a small grave. A very small one, freshly dug but not filled yet. There was no marker.
Ivanova struggled off her own mount - lacking any pretence of finesse - and bent down for a closer look. The grave beside it was older, overgrown and untended. It had a mossy wooden marker, bearing a female sign and the name Alexander. The few scattered graves that she could see were small and marked in much the same way, if at all. None of the graves were tended.
"Her last baby?"
"Yeah. This hole's a day old and it's not filled. Maybe she's ok. I hope they're both ok. I really like Lyta." He led her back through the trees again, a slightly longer distance in a different direction, to where the other teep's horse was standing outside a stone slab building, one of several in a loose cluster all over a natural clearing. There were no trees here because of a levelled-off hump of stone taking over for the rocky soil in a large patch. The building, the largest in the cluster, was perhaps 30 by 40 feet, with walls about 10 or 12 feet in height and a clay-shingled roof climbing another 4 or 5 feet to end in a peaked center ridge. It had several large windows that apparently had been shuttered closed, but now light was pouring out through the openings. There was a set of double doors, heavy wood, one of which was propped open.
"Here we are," he said, walking his horse up next to its companion. He saw her confused look.
"How could this be 'The Wall', and how will it hold 50, never mind 200 thousand?" She said, pointing out the obvious question.
"Wh- oh, no no no. This is just an access point, so we can get t’this valley t'farm and pasture. They'll take care of th'horses when they get here. I want t'find Byron. Come on, th'rest can wander down as they want to. He's got th'lamps lit already, they'll find us that way."
"This . . . hut . . . goes someplace?"
"Oh yes," he said earnestly, and quickly propped open the other door, letting the bright glow further escape and allowing her time to examine the place. The interior of the building was walled in shelves and hooks; hand tools and harness equipment filled every spare inch. Four lamps, turned up to full, hung from the ceiling rafters, one from near each corner. But the main item in the hut was the stairwell. Ten feet wide and taking up a 20 foot length of floor space right in the center as it went down, it's edges were surrounded a high, tight railing to prevent falls and to provide more hook space. The stairs were low, with maybe a 6 inch riser; wide, the entire 10 feet; and deep, over a foot long for easy walking. The walkway around the stairs would have been 8 feet wide, if shelves hadn’t consumed the 2 feet next to the outer wall (which was over 2 feet thick in itself). The grey-fringed old telepath had taken the centerpins out that held the shutters closed and pushed them open, and Ivanova noticed the lack of glass or screens in all of them. There were 5 windows: one on the wide wall with the doors, one per narrow wall, and two on the opposite wide wall. All were at almost 3 feet wide and at least 4 tall, letting a cool breeze drift past while letting light pour outside. The others wouldn’t have trouble finding the access point.
Ivanova suddenly realised Jesse's footsteps were clattering down the steps, so she quickly moved to follow him. The stone stairs were dimly light but visible from the now-familiar oil lamps attached to a reflective metal backing high on the wall every few dozen feet, alternating sides. Most were on low, but the boy was pausing every few lamps to turn one up, letting her see better and giving her time to catch up; quickly passing the older man who took the stairs slowly, turning every lamp up to full as he gradually went down. The staircase was long and very tunnel-like; Ivanova estimated a total of over 200 feet down and over 400 feet horizontally, though the horizontal distance was doubled up twice. Without power, she knew it had to have been cut by hand through solid rock, but it wasn't cramped for space. She could have just reached the arching roof if she stood on her toes and stretched her fingers out as far as she could. The edges of wall were still rough, but had been smoothed enough not to hurt the hand, and each side had a sturdy wooden handrail bolted to the wall at waist-height. They had two turns of 180°, each on a small platform 15 feet deep by 25 feet wide - the width of both stairwells plus a 5 foot wall, apparently so the weight didn't collapse the tunnel down - and each turn boasted a wood covered bench across the far wall for sitting and resting. Ivanova was tempted but resisted, instead following Jesse as he tore down the steps with the ease of long practice. [I have to find Lyta. I can't sit down now, I'm almost there!] Finally the descent ended with a 90° turn, and a level passage though a few dozen feet of more rock into a large if dimly lit room.
[More stone. How much digging did they have to DO?] Ivanova wondered to herself, looking around in surprise.
"Lots!" Jesse called as he half-ran across the large structure.
"Stay out of my head!" she called back, pausing to catch her breath and look around in amazement. [It's a good thing I'm not claustrophobic, after all those steps! What the hell *is* this place?]
The ceiling was dug out of the rock to be at least 20 feet high; the room itself was over 200 feet long and almost 60 feet across with a long row of large 3 by 5 foot shuttered windows set some distance apart from each other in the opposite wall. [We have to be underground, of course, so how can there be windows?!] Stone pillars supported the ceiling at regular intervals, most of which bore one or two dimmed lamps on their sides, just high enough to reach on tiptoes. The pillars didn't seem to be placed there, it looked like the room had been dug out around them. The plain gray walls weren't decorated in any way, but the floor was sectioned off by colored marks, square areas of 10 by 10 feet with a 5-foot wide walkway around each square. A few of the areas had large full sacks stacked in them, and the whole room smelled richly of grain. There were two large archways leading out of the room, one on each end lengthwise.
Jesse stopped halfway, realising he should explain things and light up the room enough to see. "We're at Level 54, Area 14. This is a storage room. It's mostly empty right now because much of th'grain has yet t'be harvested. The level and area are listed on every major doorway or intersection, so you won't get lost. They started out at Level 1, Area 1 when they began t'build, at th'plains level - the ground - and th'southern end. They went up and north as time went on and they needed space t'build. Tunnel. You'll see." He grinned proudly. "This way, hurry, I can hear 'em coming down. North exit." He pulled a piece of chalk out of a pocket and drew arrows in the direction they were going on some of the pillars they passed, turning up more of the lamps as he went. "For th'others."
Then he led her though a bewildering maze of halls, alcoves, intersecting corridors, the occasional ramp, and stairs. Lots of stairs. Thousands of stairs. Ivanova began to hate stairs with a passion - and she began to understand just how BIG 'The Wall' was. They passed lots of side doorways - there weren't any more actual doors since the set used to enter the access point, just open arches and the occasional curtain. Until they turned yet another corner, into a corridor only 10 feet wide instead of the previous 12 or 15, having ended up in a sort of apartment complex. The doorways suddenly became a lot more frequent, and now they all had a curtain concealing the interior; most were set on the side Ivanova suddenly realised was facing the outside. They saw few people as it was still pre-dawn and most everyone was sleeping. It took well over half an hour to go from that first storage room to finally end up in Area 14, level 16. Ivanova had decided that she definitely hated stairs. [At least I'm always going down them. No wonder all the teeps were so skinny. Fat people wouldn't keep the weight long with so much exercise.]
An 'Area', Jesse explained, was over half a mile wide, and as deep into the mountain as they could go - usually they wanted only several dozen feet, but a few musty passages went inside for miles. The forges, water collection, places for maintaining the pipes and pressure, other things that kept the city running smoothly. A 'Level' could be about 50 or up to 100 feet high, but usually only 10 to 20 feet was actually dug out. The rest of the rock was kept in place for psiproofing, soundproofing, and to stabilise the mountains. The vast majority of the mountains' mass was centred miles in, so the locals could burrow carefully-but-freely in the outside few hundreds of feet of rock without worry of being squished.
The Wall. It WAS an apt name. The city went from bottom to top, starting at the level of the plains beside the mountain chain. Most places, you exited on level one. A few grassy hills let you out on levels two or three. The high end, you had an occasional valley exit, like the one Ivanova had just come down from. "The Wall" was cut out of more than 4 mountains, whose eastern faces all meet in one huge near-vertical slab that the colonists had burrowed into. With the potential to eventually be over 20 miles long, it was the glow they could see along the valley's horizon - the faint light from dimmed lamps escaping the shutters, magnified by thousands upon thousands of windows and reflected off the surface of the plains.
Ivanova was very impressed. And humbled. They'd done all this by hand, no computers, no laser drills, all by head and by hand. In just a few years! The corridors even had painted murals covering most of them, to brighten up the rock face, and some sort of added floor and ceiling coverings kept the rock from echoing as they passed. No wonder they hadn't told her . . . she never would have believed it on word alone. The boy kept up the commentary as he searched, a soft rambling of facts as he looked for the exact room. He slowed then stopped as he sensed the strong presence of Byron. Even a latent as weak as Ivanova knew it was him, even from outside the curtain - after the long month she'd just had his aura was very familiar, even dimmed down in sleep.
"Through here," he whispered. "I don't know if they'll let me in right now but I'll be back tomorrow anyway t'say hi. She knew y'from before, so go ahead. Be careful - Byron sleeps inside." He dashed off to warn the billets of the group's early arrival.
She went in quietly, pushing past the curtain and omnipresent archways that she would soon learn made up all the 'doors' to private places, and stopped. Another curtain, a few feet in. Blinking in annoyance at the dimness from the double layer, she pushed past the second curtain and ended up in a largish room, a little bigger than the average living room back on Earth. The walls were covered in bookshelves and maps, there was one large and a few small tables, plus several chairs and low couches. Two of the wall-lamps were on just enough that she could make out what was where, to keep from stubbing her toes. She recognised Byron after a few seconds of peering; sleeping under a blanket on a couch against the distant wall. There were two curtained doorways across from her, both heading towards the outside. Ivanova padded quietly across the matting and scattered carpets on the floor and looked though the first doorway. Yet another curtain, in the same sort of arch she'd just passed through. She pushed past it and saw a sort of small, square kitchen area. Cupboards and counters lined each side, at the far end two chairs and a table sat next to the window, and potted herbs sat just inside the closed shutters on the deep, wide sill, ready for dawn's light. She could smell fresh bread from here, as well as spices and fruit. But no Lyta. Ivanova tried the second doorway.
The second room was the same depth as the little kitchen, but over twice as long to allow room for a second window; it held only spartan furnishings. One shuttered window was exactly across from her, the other almost at the far end of the room. The first details her eyes picked out in the darkness were on the wall to her left, clothing hanging from hooks and folded neatly onto shelves. There were no lamps lit in here at all; it took her eyes a few seconds to make out the empty space along the wall to her right side, the outlines of wall murals, a bench and dresser between the windows, and the shape of a double bed in the middle of the farthest, narrow wall. There was a padded chair tucked next to each window, and it was in the far window's chair that she finally saw her friend as a slight outline in the dark. As Ivanova walked closer, she could start to pick out things with her eyes - the bed was made neatly, a pitcher sat on the dresser next to a glass filled with water, and . . . Lyta, wrapped to her shoulders in a blanket, but not looking out the open window. Ivanova sat down on the edge of the bed an arm's reach away, the perspective change allowing her to see what Lyta was watching so intently. She was holding someone, a very small someone, in her arms. Susan smiled in relief, a month's worry fading in seconds. The baby had been born! A very small baby, wrapped up in it's own little blanket except for it's face. A month early but there it was! Sleeping, apparently.
Ivanova's voice was a whisper, not wanting to disturb Lyta's vigil. "We made it here ok. Thank you."
There was no reply or acknowledgement. Lyta, oblivious, stared at the baby's face.
Ivanova waited, a little impatiently, while the silence dragged on and the sky grew a little less dark, so that a faint glow was seeping through the window. "Well is it a boy or a girl?!" She blurted out suddenly.
Lyta blinked, but otherwise didn't budge.
A very long minute passed, while Ivanova's grin gradually lessened. She was used to being blocked from sensing what the telepaths were feeling, but it slowly dawned on her that she wasn't being blocked. Lyta didn't seem to be feeling anything. Puzzled, but still happy for the birth, she asked, "Lyta?"
Her friend’s voice was weak, dry and cracked when she finally did reply. "Boy. I would have had a son," the whisper came softly.
"Congr-" Ivanova suddenly stopped. ". . . would have . . . ?" Her voice trailed off.
Ivanova looked closer in the faint light.
The Baby had no colour, made no sound, and didn't move. He wasn't breathing.
"Oh, no."
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