It was a sign of how much damage the Endless Bounty suffered at the hands of the Eldar pirates that Sáclair chose to actually greet his wife in person rather than risk any potential fallout of using an astropathic servitor. He wasn't entirely confident that he could transmit his consciousness for any great distance and be actually guaranteed to return. Magos Tuul was repairing the relevant systems and assured him that minimal functionality had been already restored, but he wasn't willing to gamble on its efficacy. They'd already cast the dice too many times for his liking in the past few months.

Donat Enzo was manning the helm in his absence, aided or at least not wholly hindered by Sácomer. Blessed be the Golden Throne, that pompous windbag had taken the bait when Sáclair suggested his second in command would require additional back up to make up for not being wholly mentally integrated into the system. Never mind that a bind grox could manage to keep the ship in orbit with all the basic safety protocols built into the Endless Bounty's machine spirit, the bulbous man was just thrilled to be of use. He was quite nearly as thrilled as Sáclair had been to be rid of the man's company.

The man really was infuriating. Were he not a cousin of house Sáclair he would have found a replacement for the man long ago. Unfortunately as he was part of the chain of succession for the Endless Bounty's throne of command, he could not be cast aside without due cause. Neither "nobody likes him" nor "he is so far down the chain of succession as to make him irrelevant" were apparently good enough causes for dismissal.

Nathaniel knew.

He'd checked.

He'd checked several times, and nearly with as much scrutiny as his crew treated him with as he traversed the distance from his palatial quarters to the docking bay where he planned to meet his wife. The crew of the Endless Bounty were, of course, familiar with his face and voice. He made sure to address all hands at least once a day, and there were enough hololith terminals that they'd all be accustomed to his visage. Some had even seen him in person when they'd made the pilgrimage up to his throne room. What they had not seen, had likely never seen, was his august personage walking among them.

Such things were not done. The captain of the Endless Bounty was either at the helm or in his palace, but never among the commoners. Even before the safety concerns associated with the Amon Sui had rendered his free movement on the ship impractical, it was simply not something done by the reigning sovereign of the Endless Bounty. His father would have had him switched for even considering it, even escorted as he was by the Lionhearts. He most definitely would have gotten an earful from his father about walking the distance rather than arranging for an armored transport or proper palanquin. He likely still would when next he interfaced with the archived memories of all the past captains of the Endless Bounty.

It went against his entire life's worth of breeding and education, but Sáclair found himself wanting, just for once in his life, to just feel normal. He was tired of the feeling of space whipping past him. He was tired of the dull aching pain he felt from the ship, the atrophied ache of so many systems gone beyond repair. The rush of being part of the Endless Bounty was now as much a burden as a joy. His heightened senses left him aware of just how hobbled his space-faring maiden had become, feeling around for functions that were no longer there as an amputee might try to move their severed limb.

That last battle had been too much for his beloved ship. She'd lived through it, but it was going to be a slow death spiral from this point forward. None of the Magos had said it to him yet, but he knew. He knew all too well.

Even under optimal conditions where the Endless Bounty wasn't engaging in constant combat, she would be due for repairs at a forge world at least once a year just for basic maintenance. She would need her reactors checked. She would need her shield generators re-calibrated. She would need to be checked for micro-fractures in her hull and potential damage to her superstructure. She would need any one of a hundred time-sensitive repairs done to her by experts whose sole purpose in life was to make sure his ship continued to sail through the stars. And that wasn't to speak of the larger repairs that one was required to complete every generation or so else risk something unfortunate like a rupture in the hexegrammic wards or a complete warp-core failure.

In six months Sáclair was going to have to make the very real choice of entirely forgoing the warp and only traveling through hyperspace or risking a catastrophic implosion every time he turned on the void reactors to open a portal to the warp. Even that was a stop-gap, other mission critical systems would soon be past even the abilities of his Tech Priests to prolong. A year from now he wasn't sure if there would even be functioning life support.

He was a year from being a captain without a ship, a marooned Sáclair.

And there wasn't anything he could do about it other than prolong the inevitable. Simply put, there were no forge worlds to be found. There wasn't anyone with the resources to fix what had been broken and even if Magos Tuul devoted himself entirely to reshaping their new home world into a dry-dock for the Endless Bounty it would be a labor of generations to restore the ancient starship to her former glory. Sáclair might be able to witness it as part of the collective, provided of course that the collective managed to endure that long. Even that much seemed overly ambitious to Sáclair.

The combined sadness and fear he felt from the collective was almost more than he could endure. They knew all that he knew, and he knew that they were likely closer to mortal than any Captain Sáclair had been in generations past. He'd always planned to be part of the great collective when he died, guiding his son to good choices as the Captain's Sáclair had done before him. But now? Now he'd just be happy to live long enough to hold his boy in his arms. A real son, a legitimate son, it was all that he asked for in life.

"Sir?" Colonel Danzig queried as the captain stared out across the corridor. The Colonel watched the captain's eyes barely focus on the commoners in front of him as they parted before their liege lord.

He must have been standing in silence for quite some time, the Lionhearts were not prone to interrupting their Captain even in his moments of melancholy. "Forgive me Colonel, I was lost in thought."

"Good thoughts, I hope Captain." Replied the colonel, his voice betraying the fact that he knew they were anything but good.

"Always, Colonel. Always good." Spoke the Captain, with even less conviction than the Colonel's platitudes. Sáclair tried not to actively categorize each of the damages they passed along their route, but he still found his mind straying to exactly which of the dull pains he felt when joined with the Endless Bounty corresponded to each damaged part. "Is it far to the hangar."

"No sir." The Colonel replied. "Not far at all. I've already walked the route twice today."

"Twice?" Queried the Captain. He knew that the route they'd chosen would have been scouted and policed by the Lionhearts, but he wouldn't have expected the Colonel to spot check the work of his subordinates so many times in one day.

"Once for business, once for pleasure I suspect, my Lord Sáclair." Joked Sergei.

"I haven't the faintest what you're talking about." The Colonel replied hastily, his dark cheeks coloring. "I'm just being thorough."

"Thorough?" Sergei replied, entirely amused. "Is that what we're calling it these days? Or was there a second alliance noblewoman fluent in the Damascene tongue hiding somewhere about this ship without me knowing it?"

"I may have escorted Miss Wallace to the docking bay, but if you're implying anything untoward happened – you are mistaken." The Colonel smiled roguishly. "I am not Fadir."

"No, Fadir would have already bedded the gorgeous noblewoman practically tossing herself at him rather than just making eye contact with her that is somehow more perverse than if you'd taken her on the promenade." Sergei replied, waggling his eyebrows in a way that elicited a chuckle from the Captain, even in his current dark mood. "You see, even the Captain agrees! If you wish to be with the woman, be with her. Save us all from the infuriatingly moony eyed look you get when you sit in your office dreaming of her with drool coming out of your mouth."

"I do not drool." Countered Danzig.

"No?" Sergei snorted. "It was as though you were trying to irrigate the surface with your spittle. Not entirely becoming if a suitor for a beautiful woman."

The Colonel snorted. "And you would know of wooing a beautiful woman? The last female I saw in your company was a barmaid on the lower decks who was listening to your stories in order to increase the value of her, likely already overgenerous, tip."

"Gentlemen, as the man among us with the most experience with the fairer sex, I do feel obligated to point out that the Alliance noblewoman is quite entirely friendly with anyone and everyone willing to speak into that felt tipped wand she carries with her at all times." The Captain shook his head, sighing deeply. "I'm not certain exactly what religious order requires her to archive the conversations she has with all people, but I presume that the order she belongs to, this ISN she speaks of at all times, likely has rules of conduct in place. It is perhaps best not to tread too far into traditions a man only understands in passing. Two of my bastards ended up circumcised because I didn't wholly understand the traditions of my second concubine."

"Never fear, milord. I have no interest in bedding a pagan." Replied Danzig.

"Don't you?" Sáclair replied jokingly. "Well, the holonovels of my youth must have been drastically different from those you've accessed, because when I'd been in my thirties an untamed woman from a world without the sexual prohibitions of the Imperial Cult would have been precisely the sort of woman I was seeking. Or has the Conquest of Nyn'a Queen of Zer been added to the banned books list?"

"Sir, I don't know if there was ever a time when it wasn't prohibited literature." Danzig replied. "Or a time when young men didn't know where to get a copy in a hurry."

The trio laughed, and Sáclair momentarily forgot his worries about the Endless Bounty's impending service needs. They continued to joke, in increasingly bawdy humor, about their mutual respect for the female form and all of its practical applications in a way that was – while wholly inappropriate for a man of his station to discuss with his subordinates – freeing in a way Sáclair hadn't felt in recent memory. For just a bright, shining moment in time, he was not the Captain of a starship or the vassal of an Inquisitor. He was just a man engaging with other men, as men.

He was their better, but it made their company no less enjoyable that they were of the lower class. They were Lionhearts, after all, and were not just any commoners. They were nobility in every way other than breeding. Actually, some were probably nobility even in breeding as well – the Lionheart training center was a preferred place to dispose of one's unwanted bastards. Maziv's resemblance to Sáclair's own father was likely more than coincidence. His father's wife had been less fond of bastards than his own.

Not that it overly mattered even if it were true. Maziv was in a good place for a bastard to be – a profession where his duty mattered more than his tainted breeding. Once his son was born he'd have to see about seeing to it that his other bastards found similarly appropriate occupations. Ideally he'd find them ones with oaths of loyalty which removed them from the potential line of succession.

Which reminded him, he was going to have to speak with Donat Enzo about this fool idea he'd had to marry of his daughter to one of the Sáclair bastards. He'd gladly accept the dowry, but he needed to speak man to man with his executive officer to ensure that the man wasn't acting hastily. The child of a bastard could often encounter as much stigma as their father. He wouldn't publicly discourage it, of course. He went out of his way not to draw attention to the existence of his bastards at all, but he was at a loss as to what long term benefits Donat saw in marrying his daughter to a man with such limited prospects.

"Odd," remarked Captain Sáclair as they entered the docking bay and he caught a glimpse of the combined Narn, Centauri, and Imperial honor guards with their respective banners. "A year ago I would have balked at the idea of xenos being on my ship, now we seem to be at the verge of them becoming a permanent fixture."

That it had been a substantially lesser affiliation with alien races which had initially condemned him was not lost on the Captain either, though he did not speak it aloud. The decision to ultimately allow an armed honor guard to escort both G'Kar from the Narn fleet and greet the Centauri Ambassador had been made with the Inquisitor's explicit permission. A decision that just served to remind Sáclair how far they had strayed from the sphere of Imperial control.

It was all in the pursuit of the rogue Inquisitor Faust, and was authorized under Daul's inquisitorial mandate, but it still unnerved Sáclair how normal it was starting to feel for him to have xenos in such close quarters. It bothered him how he was even starting to look forward to their presence. He was actually excited to meet Londo Mollari in person – the Centauri Ambassador was a man of the same cloth as Sáclair. They'd shared their mutual frustrations over women and the oddities of the politics of nobility in passing as part of the negotiations, and if one could ignore the man's prominent canines and odd hair, it was only marginally different from engaging with the nobility of the empire. So slight, in fact, that he'd been forced to remind himself that he was not speaking with an equal.

"As odd as it may be, those Xenos have earned a measure of leniency." Mused the Colonel, rubbing at his chin. "They've treated us with nothing but kindness and been willing to die in the name of a cause that is not their own. I can't even say the same about most of the men on this ship."

"Yes." Agreed Sáclair, somehow more bothered by the validity of that statement than he had been before. "They have."

A deeper discussion of the xenos would have to wait, however, till they were no longer within earshot. The Narn Ambassador, G'Kar, strode over to them and extended his gauntleted hand in a gesture of friendship that Sáclair had returned before even considering the political implications of accepting it. It had just felt natural. The ambassador shook firmly, saying a greeting in his native tongue before switching to standard Gothic. He'd learned the language with quite astonishing accuracy in the time it had taken them to return from Shi'lassen. He was by no means fluent, but he was easily understood. "Captain, it is good to see you."

"And you, Ambassador." Replied Sáclair, realizing that the Lionhearts hadn't tensed at his approach any more than they might have for Daul Hilder. Danzig hadn't been kidding about trusting the xenos. "I understand that only your flagship remains with us."

"Indeed." Agreed the ambassador. "Our border concerns forced us to recall those forces used on Shi'lassen to guard the homeworld."

"Nothing serious I hope," Sáclair let go of the ambassador's hand, crossing his arms over the medals and ribbons across his formal white uniform.

"Piracy I'm afraid." G'Kar shook his head disappointedly. "Some miscreants are taking advantage of the unrest in the Non-Aligned worlds to rob traders traveling in unclaimed space. We're all suffering from it lately, Na'Toth informs me it is a point of much concern for the Babylon 5 advisory council. The Brakiri have even reportedly lost contact with some of their outer colonies. Someone destroyed their hyperspace gates."

"That is uncommon in warfare then I take it. I'm still getting used to the rules of warfare observed in the sector." Sáclair admitted. "Are your ships not capable of opening windows into hyperspace?"

"A warship or something with a great mass? Of course. But the hyperspace gates aren't just there to allow ships to enter and exit hyperspace, they're sign posts for how to get through it. Without those markers it will take weeks or even months longer than it ought to for a fleet to investigate a colony that has dropped out of contact." The Ambassador shook his head. "And with the arrival of the new powers we've seen this past month, I fear for what might happen to those colonists in that time."

Sáclair shivered visibly. Throne alone help the colony that got invaded by a full Eldar slave raid. And the Necrons, whatever they were, seemed to terrify the Inquisitor more than any demon. He was going to need to figure out how to get orbital defenses for New Belzafest, sooner rather than later. Their colony was barely armed and certainly less established than the worlds of the native races of this galaxy.

"Caution is a wise choice indeed."

"I have not yet seen the Inquisitor, Captain." Intoned G'Kar. "I would have expected him to be here to greet the Centauri Ambassador and your wife."

"Daul Hilder has sequestered himself with his apprentice in order to research what happened on Shi'lassen. To what end, I have no idea, but I haven't so much as seen his manservants in days. Whatever it was that they found in the fortress left him deeply rattled." Sáclair rubbed the side of his face, regretting having elected not to shave. He had just enough hair to call it a beard but not quite enough to call it a handsome beard, and his wife had preferred his facial more well-coiffed than he was at the moment. It was less a matter fashion and more sheer lack of time to devote to grooming. "I've never actually seen the man worried before… it troubles me."

"There are many disturbing things I've seen in the past months." Agreed the Narn, his mottled skin stretching as the corners of his wide smile seemed to reach his red eyes. "But many more that bring me hope. Your people, in particular, have been a source of great comfort as of late."

"Our people?" Replied Sáclair, curious. "Considering all the bloodshed that has traveled with us you'll pardon my surprise."

"Captain, you showed up out of the blue with technologies that none, save the eldest of races, have access. And what is the first war you participate in? Do you invade us? Do you conquer and despoil the weak? No. The first thing you do is to fight for the freedom of those weaker than yourselves." The Narn chuckled at his own private joke. "Oh, I know that Faust is one of 'yours.' But it he is one that you publicly took responsibility for fighting. You are so ashamed of someone abusing their power and knowledge that you'd rather die fighting him than allow him to continue. And that is what gives me hope. That is what gives me hope for humanity."

Were they back in Imperial space Sáclair would have frankly preferred just calling in a proper military fleet to virus bomb the planet from orbit and then sifting through the corpses to find the information they sought, but this seemed to be a poor choice of time to correct the Ambassador. "The actions were necessary."

"Indeed they were." Agreed the Narn. "But I did not see the blood of Minbari or Drazi, or any one of the countless other races who condemned the Shi'lassen rebels, spilled upon the battlefield alongside human, Narn, and Centauri."

"You are a man of conviction G'Kar. It is to your credit." Sáclair smiled. "It is a shame you were not born of man. I think we would have benefitted from a man of your conviction."

"And I am glad that you were not born a Narn," G'Kar jibed. "Else there would be no available females left for the rest of us to choose from."

Sáclair actually let loose a long belly laugh. "Someone has been gossiping about me then?"

"Your wife, actually. We requested the diplomatic titles of your family. I was not expecting the cavalcade of wives and concubines. Even Mollari limited himself to three women," G'Kar's canines protruded out in his satisfied smirk. "Though it's the virtual littler of children that truly impressed me. You have more offspring than most humans have extended family members."

"I like to stay busy." Sáclair replied, keenly aware of his immediate sobriety as he reflexively reached gestured for a servant to bring him wine – remembering after doing so that none of his household servants would be in the docking bay other than the platoon worth of Lionhearts. He was not left to dwell on his insufferable lack of inebriation long, however, as the inner doors of the airlock opened. A wide transport ship soared across the hangar bay on landing repulsor-lifts, emblazoned with the colors of House Sáclair. "And I expect that will only increase now that my obligations are with us once again."

Nathaniel struggled to contain his excitement as the doors to the transport opened and exposed the most beautiful woman in the world, the Lady Sáclair – swollen with child. She was waddling forwards, her speed aided by a breastplate shaped like a golden lion conforming to the exact size of her belly that glowed with the soft blue light of anti-gravity. It would do little to protect her against any sort of actual attack given that the rest of her body was encased in a form fitting red body suit and veil, but it would provide a counterbalance to the weight now concentrated in her belly and allow a greater range of movement.

Nathaniel hugged his wife from her side, rubbing his hand across the metal lion's face as he kissed his beloved. He inhaled her scent, holding her against him as though he were afraid she might disappear in a puff of smoke.

"It is good to see you too," Spoke the Lady Sáclair once finally he allowed her to come up for air. Her skin was flush and her pupils wide with desire. Nathaniel allowed himself no small measure of pride that even haggard and battle weary, his wife still desired him.

He looked up to the sound of slow clapping as Londo Mollari walked out from the transport, followed by Vir, a stern looking Narn with a blade, and a virtual cavalcade of the personal servants of the Lady Sáclair. Londo continued to clap, a look of sincere happiness on his face. "Ah! True love, it is too rare to see it between those of station and obligation."

The Lady Sáclair rolled her eyes and snorted. "Dear Londo, did I not tell you that my love is an incorrigible romantic?"

"To tell, to see – they are not the same. I have seen, so now I believe." The Centauri replied, hooking his thumbs into his elaborate waistcoat. "Such a lucky man."

The Lady Sáclair kissed her husband again, "He is at that."

"Ambassador Mollari, I find myself actually pleased to see you." G'Kar allowed his head to bow to the Centauri Ambassador. Only by the meagerest of tilts, but it was a visible acquiescence.

"And I actually need to see you. We are having a day full of surprises." Ambassador Mollari shrugged his shoulders, never removing his hands from his waistcoat. The little gold bangles on it jingled with the motion.

"About what, precisely?" G'Kar arched an orange spotted brow in curiosity.

The second Narn carrying a blade spoke, "The Centauri Emperor has requested an audience with you. In person."

"He what?" G'Kar replied, gobsmacked.

"He has offered you, and your ship, safe passage into and out from the Centauri home world. He desires an audience with representatives from the Narn and Imperial governments." Londo Mollari used a voice of deliberately calm smugness. "Didn't you know, G'Kar? You are now a war hero of the Centauri Republic."

G'Kar hissed like a scalded cat. "And he expects me to do what exactly?"

"Accept the Imperial medal of Valor, I believe." Londo turned to the Captain. "Yourself as well, Captain. The Inquisitor too. Your presence would all be greatly appreciated."

G'Kar's eye was twitching, and he seemed on the verge of screaming or hitting something when the other Narn put a hand on his shoulder. "G'Kar – You are being offered the highest honor their Emperor can bestow. There are Centauri houses of nobility who can't claim the same after trying for generations. Shame them. Show them they are no better than any Narn."

The Ambassador's unconvincing grimace twisted into a pale imitation of a smile as she choked out something that might have been an agreement to accept the award, but only managed to halfway sound like the ambassador wasn't on the verge of vomiting. He made a couple of high pitched squawks before clenching his teeth in concerted effort to keep himself from saying the words he would clearly has preferred to say.

The hissing sound that he made was somewhere between a grox and a teakettle as the Ambassador Mollari turned to Ambassador Cotto and said in a voice of theatrically exaggerated consultation, "Don't worry Vir, I will watch out to see that he does not make a similar display in front of the Emperor when we are both given our awards together. I would not want to be embarrassed."

"I don't know, it would make for a much more entertaining dinner party for him to keep going on as he is. If I'm to be forced to attend I might as well be amused." The Lady Sáclair replied, drumming her fingers along the lion's metal face.

The Captain tensed up, the bangles on his shirt sleeves jingling abruptly with the motion. "You will be attending? I would think that in your condition..."

"You would think that in my condition I am still the lady of house Sáclair and a member of the house must attend a meeting of such importance." His wife replied, an edge to her voice he was not accustomed to in her tone.

"My Love surely there is another way, an astropathic servitor perhaps?" Sáclair replied in high gothic in an effort to retain at least some privacy in their communications.

"A servitor? For a meeting with the head of an Empire? Unacceptable." His wife, having none of it, replied in standard gothic – exposing their argument to the surrounding crowd. "Unless you plan to attend or to allow the Inquisitor to accept the accolades to our house on our behalf, I am the only Sáclair of House Sáclair who has the authority to attend."

A lord Sáclair leaving the Endless bounty? It was preposterous. It was unheard of, and he would not even consider the possibility even if he were physically able to be parted from his ship for that long. A lifetime of interaction with the ships systems had long ago robbed him of his ability to stray too far from his beloved Endless Bounty. And he would rather die than allow the Inquisitor to, once again, usurp the destiny of his household. The Captain sighed in resignation. "There is no way I can dissuade you from this path?"

"None." She shook her head. "Unless, dear husband, you would prefer that we send your daughters or one of your Bastard sons?"

The Lord Sáclair let forth a snort of derision, dismissing that possibility entirely. None of his daughters were adept enough at statecraft to consider unleashing them upon a foreign government and his bastards were… bastards – he wouldn't shame his house by sending one of them to conduct his business. "You'll need an entourage and an escort."

"I intend to take the Inquisitor and his retinue actually." The Lady Sáclair replied, a wicked little lilt of laughter in her tone. "They are, after all, guests under the hospitality of House Sáclair and should be subordinate to it when they fly our banner."

Oh – oh that was too rich. Daul Hilder wouldn't even be able to decline the invitation as he was already guaranteed to attend. The Emperor of the Centauri would first meet the Inquisition as subordinates to his household. Sáclair kissed his wife. "I do love you – you know that?"

"Indeed." Her face still held the hard edge to it even though she returned his greedy kiss. "I also intend to take Sørian."

"Really?" Sáclair blinked. "I wouldn't have thought he would be the sort you got along with."

"He is precisely the sort our daughter seems to favor. I feel it is best that he be given some responsibilities where I can keep him in my sight." The Lady Sáclair pursed her lips. "Do you not agree husband of mine."

The Lord Sáclair rolled his eyes. "You shall have all those you wish in your retinue, my love, fear not – I could never deny you what is yours."

He turned back to the Ambassadors, "Gentlemen. It would seem we have much to plan."

The Station's estimates for how many Lukers were onboard were laughably inaccurate. And he should know, the Imperial priest had become sort of the unofficial "mayor" of down below.

If you had a problem in down below, the first person you went to was Father Al'Ashir. Father Al'Ashir didn't care that you were poor. Father Al'Ashir didn't care that you were an addict. Father Al'Ashir didn't care that you had done bad things. Father Al'Ashir just cared that you were trying to be a better person. Father Al'Ashir was even the one in the videos fighting the demon that had attacked Babylon 5.

Everyone had great opinions of Al'Ashir's ability. From all the rumors he'd heard about himself, the Imperial clergyman supposed that the Alliance humans were under the distinct impression that he was capable of walking on air and turning crumbs into a feast. Al'Ashir would have liked to meet that man, he would have greatly expedited Al'Ashir's current frustrations.

Father Al'Ashir's school was struggling. He hadn't accounted for just how many children were actually on Babylon five, and how many of them were in need of an education. And while he had talked up a good game of how it didn't matter to him that he'd used the last of his anti-agapic treatments to heal the sick back when he spoke with the general, the effects of his previous round of treatments was wearing off. Al'Ashir's body had been artificially invigorated with chemical concoctions to induce youthful energy and exuberance over a period of centuries. No longer aided by those treatments, the rigors of old age were coming to him far faster than he had anticipated.

His body was betraying him. Actions that he'd found easy only weeks ago were now taking large amounts of his time. His body ached when he woke, when he slept, when he ate, his very existence seemed an overexertion of what his frame intended to support. It took him thirty minutes just to pee. That left him ill-suited to maintain order and discipline in a classroom full of pre-pubescents and teenagers by himself. He'd hired a couple of the more reputable lurkers to help him corral his classroom, but what he really needed was more teachers. It was getting to the point where he'd been forced to improvise his sermons on holy days for lack of time to write a proper one. None of his petitioners had noticed, of course, but it was the principle of the matter. One did not Ad Lib the word of the Emperor.

So, at the advice of one of the Alliance merchants who attended his services with some regularity, Father Al'Ashir had placed a notice in something called the "classifieds" for a daily publication that had an apparently wide pool of potential candidates to choose from. He'd kept the advertisement simple, the paper had charged by the word and levied a princely price for each letter.

Wanted: Teachers of Mathematics, physics, history, and science. Must be willing to relocate to Babylon 5. Pay negotiable. Safety not guaranteed. Contact Father A'Ashir of the Church of HIS Imperial Majesty's Glorious Victory for further details.

There had been a flurry of replies, and even a number of interviews, but no real candidates that he felt were qualified for the position. Most of his interviews just seemed to be from people who wanted to actually speak with an Imperial. They asked questions about the job and about life in the Empire, but the only sincerity he heard were in the inquiries about the latter. Those few educators who seemed genuinely interested in the prospect of teaching at his school seemed a bit too caught up in the "safety not guaranteed" portion of his advertisement.

It would likely have been easier to lie to get someone out here and unable to afford a return trip without working in his employ for several months, but he couldn't bring himself to do something that manipulative. The truth was that Babylon 5 had shown itself to be anything but safe in the time he'd been living on it. There had already been one major demonic incursion – he couldn't guarantee that there wouldn't be another. The ruinous powers had a way of worming their way back into the places that they'd already been once.

Academics weren't, as a rule of thumb, the adventurous type. "Because a hell beast from the pits of nightmare might devour you," extended somewhat beyond their range of acceptable risk. For those willing to accept the presence of the demonic it was out of fear for their mortal and immortal wellbeing. For those applicants not willing to accept the presence of the infernal powers, it was more out of a fear of Al'Ashir's own sanity. Nobody wanted to travel half way across creation to be trapped as the assistant to a man with limited mental faculties - certainly not for the salary Al'Ashir was offering.

The near ritualistic materialism of the Alliance was beginning to gall Father Al'Ashir. These people had witnessed a demonic incursion, had caught it on film, and they still insisted upon seeking mortal explanations for extra-cosmic powers. Religion was, near as he could tell, a politely tolerated anachronism in human society. Even those who believed in the scriptures of their holy books seemed to abandon that belief at the doors of the chapel.

This most recent applicant hadn't abandoned his faith so much as he had declared outright war against it. He was an odd fellow, a gentleman apparently from the "West Coast" though he hadn't actually bothered to mention precisely of what it was westerly, garbed in clothing that would have made him a rarity even in the high courts of Necromunda. His hair was shaved along one side of his head, and let grow into a long mess of purple dreadlocks along the other side. His face had been pierced in what Al'Ashir presumed to be some sort of tribal passage into manhood – the bridge of his nose and cheeks glinted with metal studs. He'd wrapped his neck with a thick scarf, wrapping it up to cover the rips in his shirt - rips that seemed to be ornamental rather than accidental.

He was a pleasant enough fellow, and had initially seemed like a good fit for the position. However, the man's blatant disregard for the Emperor had quickly eliminated him from the pool of viable applicants. At this point the only reason that Al'Ashir hadn't hung up on the man was out of politeness.

Al'Ashir was sincerely struggling to remain polite.

"No, I do not mean that metaphorically." Al'Ashir sighed, leaning back in his chair and pouring a generous measure of steaming tea from a porcelain pot into wide mug. "I mean that our Emperor has been alive for well over forty thousand years."

"Look, I'm not trying to dismiss your religion but come on. You want me to believe that the head of state you worship has been alive for longer than there has been a space faring human civilization, and has been leading your people from beyond the grave." The man sipped at a steaming white paper cup emblazoned with some sort of pagan god smiling on it.

"The Emperor was gravely injured in his battle against his favored son Horus – the betrayer." Al'Ashir replied, getting somewhat tired of repeating himself. "He was placed upon the Golden Throne, which sustains his mortal form and allows him to rule over us all."

"But nobody has seen him. Ten thousand years and he's just been sitting on a chair." Replied the infuriating man in a tone that seemed to indicate that he was under the impression that settled the matter.

"Not exactly. There are those who've been granted audiences – those who the Emperor has visited in spirit if not in body." Father Al'Ashir chewed his lip. "Certainly, the Sainted Alicia Dominica was granted an audience when she ended Goge Vandire's reign of blood in the Age of Apostasy."

"Wow – a member of the Church got an audience with god." The man's voice dripped with sarcasm. "That's really convincing."

"I don't think I like what you're implying." Rejoined Al'Ashir, his mug of tea now forgotten. "And I'm certain that we've gone past the point where I am obligated to continue this line of inquiry. Good day to you, sir, and I wish you luck in your search. May the Emperor Light your path."

He turned off the video feed before the man had a chance to give a snappy retort, muttering. "And may he guide you away from the hell-pit you seem quite entirely determined to damn yourself to in the meanwhile." The man's face danced on the screen, the man's face frozen in place on the aging display.

There was a soft knock at his door and he quickly yelled "Enter!" eager to have someone to interact with who wasn't that awful, awful man. The office that adjoined the room he used as both schoolhouse and cathedral wasn't overly generous, but it was large enough that unless he raised his voice he wouldn't be heard. The door opened and a tall man stepped into the room carrying a copy of Universe Today, Al'Ashir's advert circled prominently in red pen. He was a tall man, and muscular, but was inscrutable through the thick cloak and hood he wrapped himself in. His face was obscured by a breathing mask, a common enough item on the station. They'd become increasingly in vogue as the statistics on how many people had died from asphyxiation in the past battle became public.

This was new – so far all his prospective teachers had been reaching out to him over networked communications, sending remote applications. A walk in was unexpected, but not altogether unwelcome. It would be a substantially easier sell to employ someone who was already on the station.

"Welcome, I must confess that I wasn't prepared for you." Al'Ashir brushed a pile of papers off the chair in front of his desk and gestured for the man to sit down. "Do you want Tea? Coffee?"

"No… no thank you." Replied the man, his voice echoing with a slight twinge of reverberation from his mask. "But the offer is appreciated."

Al'Ashir sat down at his desk and smiled widely. "Now then. I'm curious. What makes you think that you're a good fit to teach at my school."

"I'm an educator by trade. I was employed by the Kha'ri to work on the Quadrant 37 base's continuing education program, but the base was destroyed and the Kha'ri terminated my contract meaning that I was, essentially, stranded on Babylon 5. I've been working as a chef to try and earn a ticket back to the Homeworld." The man shrugged. "But if there is actual employment to be found as an educator on this station, I suppose that it is as good as anything I might have hoped for on the Quadrant 37 base."

"I will, of course, need to see your credentials." Al'Ashir replied politely.

"Of course." The man reached into his cloak and handed a folder to Al'Ashir containing a number of clear plastic sheets covered in printed interlac lettering and holographic bar-codes. Al'Ashir hated the so called "Universal Language" – for a supposedly "easy" language it was one of the most muddled and inscrutable linguistic constructs he'd encountered. It had saved him a number of headaches when it occurred to him that he could just place the clear plastic sheets favored in this sector of space on top of actual paper to expedite reading.

"You attended the Doctoral Program in Education on the Narn homeworld." Al'Ashir looked up, realizing for the first time that the man's proportions were not of entirely human dimensions. It had never even occurred to him that non-human's read the Universe Today publication.

The Narn pulled off his re-breather and looked at Al'Ashir pleadingly with his blood red eyes. "Look, I realize that this is a little low rent for those qualifications, but you are the only one employing teachers on this station and whatever we "negotiate" my pay to is going to be better than serving aged Spoo to Centauri tourists."

"And you feel that you are ideologically sound for my teachings?" Al'Ashir recognized the Narn. He'd attended several of the Imperial priest's sermons, leaving in a huff more than once when he'd preached about mistrusting any alien who comes preaching of 'peace and brotherhood.' "You seemed… troubled, by my sermons."

"How could I not be? My people's entire history has been lived under the boot heels of the Centauri Emperor's goons. They came promising brotherhood and civilization and brought only slavery and death." The Narn professor shivered. "When you speak of the perils of welcoming the unknown without first ensuring that you are strong enough to face the monsters that lie in space, it speaks to a place that is so personal to every Narn that I cannot bare to be around it. I value the wisdom but I find myself needing more privacy to consider it than can be found in a place of public worship."

Al'Ashir wasn't really sure what to say to that. That was the lesson he'd been trying to teach, he just hadn't quite expected for it to resonate with the very xenos he'd been warning about. He most definitely wasn't prepared for a xenos to be talking like an Imperial parishioner. "You find solace in the word?"

"The Emperor Almighty has much wisdom to teach his followers… I would actually like to count myself among them if such a thing can be achieved." The Narn leaned forward eagerly. "I know that you've conducted baptism for several of the Lurkers."

Al'Ashir felt the room spinning as his mind struggled to grasp what was happening. A xenos had just walked into his office, professed the divinity and wisdom of the God Emperor, and then asked to be baptized as one of his adherents. He'd know that this was going to be a problem eventually, what with all the xenos who were showing up to services, but he hadn't expected it so soon. He'd been going out of his way to preach warnings about the dangers of non-human species precisely as a polite way of avoiding the problem entirely.

He was already walking fine line between converting heretics and committing outright heresy himself and was beyond positive that even the moderate elements of the imperial church would see him burned at the stake if he was so presumptuous as to start baptizing xenos without establishing some sort of vetting process to ensure their sincerity and absolve themselves of their impure origins. "We will have to revisit the possibility of allowing you to enter the faithful once I've had the opportunity to consult the relevant texts. As a non-human the process is more… involved, than it is for one of the blood."

"I'll do whatever I have to." Replied the Narn. Al'Ashir believed him.

"Good." Al'Ashir replied. "Now if you are to work for me, I will require your name."

"Sa'jek." Replied the Narn.

"I look forward to working with you Sa'jek." The Imperial priest bowed his head slightly and took a sip from his mug, deeply relieved to have some actual help for the school. He noticed, however that Sa'jek's attention wasn't entirely focused on their conversation. His eyes kept straying to the still image on the screen behind Al'Ashir. "Is something the matter."

"Well father… Why do you have an image of that awful reporter from ISN on your screen?" Queried the Narn. "I wouldn't think that his programming would appeal to you."

"Programming?" Al'Ashir replied in confusion.

"Yes. The human, Jason Smyth has a show where he pretends to apply for jobs in order to conduct impromptu interviews with famous figures." The Narn replied. "He asks them questions with the intention of making them appear as foolish as is possible."

"I do not understand. Why would he do that?" Al'Ashir blinked, the strange nature of his previous conversation suddenly making a great deal more sense.

"He's a reporter, Father." Answered the Narn.

"A what?" Queried the priest.

The Narn tilted his head in confusion, pausing for a full minute before bursting out into laughter. "You really don't know, do you?"

"I wouldn't be so pleased to laugh at someone who hasn't yet agreed to a fixed salary for you." Al'Ashir chided, only partially joking.

"I'm sorry Father – it's just that ISN has been singing the Empire's praises for being so open and honest with the media. But you just have no idea that you're even dealing with it, do you?" The Narn wiped a tear of mirth from his eye. "Reporters are individuals who go out and find out what the truth is, then broadcast that information."

"Oh." Al'Ashir replied, irritated. To have a network of subterfuge operating so openly was clumsy and impractical, but considering that the Imperials had fallen for it so entirely he couldn't criticize it too much. "Which government are they spying for?"

"No, you don't understand. They aren't doing this to sell secrets. They're doing it to expose the truth. They go out, find out what is actually happening, then broadcast it to anyone who will listen." Sa'jek told the utterly scandalized priest. "They view it as their duty to educate the universe on what is actually happening in it."

Father Al'Ashir thought back to the woman with a servitor emblazoned with ISN who'd come to speak with him several weeks prior, holding up a bit of foam on a stick and asking him pointed questions about the demonic incursion. "Sa'jek…. Does that include information on the demonic incursion into this station?"

"Of course." Replied Sa'jek.

"Emperor Almighty…. No….."

Michael Garibaldi did not like traveling under the best of circumstances. He was the sort of guy who liked to have his local haunt, the couple of places he went to, and never strayed quite too far from home. What he really didn't like – which is to say just hated – was traveling for no damn reason. So he was doing his best to try and make the fact that he'd snuck into a Psi Corps base to liberate Mr. Bester and the Warmaster Nya'dun into a positive. But at the moment, honestly, he was having distinct difficulty in chalking any of that up as a win.

Susan wasn't in the Psi Corps base. She had never been in the Psi Corps base. No, she'd been taken by the Inquisitor – kidnapped and forced to become his apprentice. And he was on the entirely wrong side of the galaxy to help her. The Rangers, a group of human and Minbari secret operatives who were apparently operating under the direction of his friend and former boss Jeffrey Sinclair, were more optimistic about the relative value of his sudden companions.

To say that he was surprised that his old compatriot had become the spymaster general for an extra-governmental order of elite warriors funded by the Minbari religious class would have been a gross understatement. Sinclair had been recalled to Earth without explanation earlier that year, just five days before Sheridan took over as the head of the Babylon station. His total silence hadn't bothered Michael. He knew his friend well enough to realize that had the Commander noticed something dangerous to this own safety, the Earth Alliance soldier was more than capable of using back channels to keep Garibaldi in the know. No news was good news.

Mr. Bester was being accommodated in a cell in the Minbari ship's belly, surrounded by a triad of Minbari telepaths to prevent him from being able to misbehave. After double and then triple checking the ships security protocols around the man to convince himself that the former Psi Cop wasn't about to break out of holding, Michael had joined the Ranger's leader – a human by the name of Marcus – to properly question their impossible guest. The Warmaster Nya'dun of the previously extinct Dilgar race.

She sat across from the two humans, staring across a table made from glittering Minbari crystal, drumming her fingers nervously along the table's surface. Having been given access to a proper washroom and some fresh clothing, she no longer looked like a feral beast, but she still had a distinctly caged look to her.

"So." Michael leaned on the table. "About the Dilgar."

"My answer has not changed." The Warmaster's fur bristled. "I will not tell you anything until we've reached the Non-Aligned worlds and my safety is secured."

"Are you quite certain about that?" Marcus interjected, his perpetually jocular tone dancing with mirth. "Even when a better offer is on the table?"

"I have had my fill of human offers." Replied the Warmaster, gesturing to the obvious wounds and scars covering her person. "They leave much to be desired."

"But this isn't a human offer. It's a Minbari offer being given by a human intermediary." The man smiled, snapping his fingers to summon one of the cloaked figures lining the room. "And we both know that the Minbari do not lie."

The cloaked figure pulled back his cowl as he approached, exposing Minbari bone ridges. He stared the Warmaster dead in the eye and said. "Warmaster Nya'dun, if you provide us with what you know, and answer our questions truthfully, our order promises to protect you from those who would do you harm. you have nothing to fear from us unless you intend to bring harm to those we protect."

"At which time, of course, all agreements are null and void." Interjected Marcus, waving the Minbari away. "See, easy? You tell us what we know and you get to live out your life in peace. Easy."

The Warmaster considered the matter only briefly before hissing out. "Very well – the terms are acceptable."

"Great" Michael leaned forward on his elbows. "Now, want to tell me why you were in a secret prison cell getting tortured by the Psi Corps."

"During the Great War, my government reportedly had some small measure of contact with some elements of your government and commercial interests in an unofficial capacity." The Warmaster replied. "Your telepaths were trying to wrest their names from me. That I was a Warmaster and had no reason to be in contact with the Guild of Spies mattered little to them."

"Then why keep torturing you to find it out?" Asked Marcus in confusion. "Shouldn't they have just been able to tell that you were telling the truth?"

"Normally, yes but I'm genetically resistant to telepathy. It's an abnormality in the Dilgar but not exactly a rarity." Replied the Warmaster. "I suspect that once that information was known that it became less a matter of what I knew and more of a matter of what I was. They could put images into my mind, show me things they wanted me to see, but they couldn't force the truth out of me. They couldn't take things from me."

"What I don't get though is how they got you in the first place." Michael replied. "Heck, how are you even alive? I thought that all the Dilgar died when their sun went supernova."

"A ruse, I'm afraid, perpetrated by the one who "Liberated" us from being trapped on our home-world after the League of Non-Alligned worlds destroyed our Hyperspace gate and blockaded all Dilgar ships from leaving our solar system." The Warmaster hissed in disgust. "He promised us victory – that we would be able to crush our enemies with the technology he had at his disposal. Our government was desperate, so we accepted. We selected the best and brightest from our population and loaded them onto his fleet – packed like cattle. Once he had what he wanted though, the remaining population was a liability."

"By the time we realized what he was planning, it was already too late." The Dilgar Warmaster let loose a creening yowl of lament. "We had already surrendered our weapons just to get on to the transports and could not hope to overpower the monstrous beasts serving him unarmed. Those who tried did not die well."

"You're telling me that there is a guy who can make the stars go supernova?" Michael blanched. That sort of firepower was not good.

"Indeed." She shuddered. "I knew him by the name "Faust" but there are other names for him, dark names that men dare not speak. He took us to his fortress worlds, spreading us out too thin to be able to stage any sort of rebellion. Some to build, some to lead, and far too many to breed."

Her cat like eye's widened, pupils dilated in fear. "He breeds us like pets, incubating us in glass tubes and indoctrinating us with the false memories he has chosen to take from the dead. He is using my people. Turning them into blind puppets of war. It's unacceptable."

"Can you tell us where these worlds are?" Queried Marcus, his lip curled in disgust. "So we can send a scout?"

"No." The Warmaster shook her head. "Not all. Only the one I escaped from. It took a long time to be able to get all the resources I would need to secure a transport. I…. I didn't want to risk getting caught. The creatures do things to you if they catch you."

She wrote a series of numbers on a piece of paper and pushed it across the table. "Just promise me that when you find him, when you see what he's done, that you do what is right. You punished my people for a far slighter sin than what this man is doing. I do not try to defend my people's actions in the past, but our children do not deserve what is happening to us."

Marcus took the slip of paper, "I will send someone to investigate."

"Make sure they're well-armed." Replied the Warmaster. "That world is run by the most dangerous of his servants."

"Who are?" Asked Marcus.

"The giants." Nya,dun curled her knees up to her chin and hugged her legs. She rocked back and forth in her chair as she spoke. "They stood taller than two meters, covered head to toe in black armor. At first I thought they were robots, but then I discovered that they were alive – if you can call anything that evil alive. They had…. Things…. That they could bring forth – monsters worse than the monsters we saw daily. Trust me, if you see anyone wearing the Icon of a white blade with wings, run. You run as far and as fast as you can, and hope that they haven't seen you."

"Warmaster, I'm certain we can handle your giants." Replied the ranger jovially.

"So were we, human." Nya'dun laughed. "So were we."

Osma awoke with a start, startled from his brief moment of slumber by a man's hand on his shoulder. Faest Nor the Medicus stood over him, surveying the younger man with a near pitying expression. "You're still here."

Osma sighed, twisting the cricks out of his neck. Sleeping in his armor was doing little to help his bodily aches and pains. "Yes, I was going over the security logs to find…"

"It has been ten hours since I last told you that you'd been here for ten hours and you are still here." The Medicus interrupted him. "Do you not have a child at home?"

"I have hired a nursemaid." Osma replied. "She's entirely capable of seeing to the boys needs in my absence."

"Oh good. She can explain to the boy why his fool of a father worked himself to death looking over more recordings than any single man could possibly hope to go through, following around a ghost of a man who regularly enters parts of the ship where no recording devices exist." Medicus Nor sighed.

"Look, Medicus. I know that you're trying to do here, but this must be done. I need to know who it is that has been releasing tainted anti-agapic treatments into the population." The work order on Gold Channel that he'd found when Tariq messed about with the command console had led him not to a person, but to a phantom identity code within the machine spirit. Something that the Magos who'd looked at it assured him as supposed to be impossible.

Someone had not only entered themselves into the Endless Bounty's machine spirit as a command level user, but had done so in a way that made it impossible to either track them or delete their profile. Osma hadn't been able to remove the user from the system but he was settling for tracking the man's inputs into the system and preventing his work orders from being executed. Ships security had sized several dozen work orders thus far for maintenance and parts that were being delivered to dead drops around the ship. They'd not yet managed to arrest anyone heading to one of these dead drops, but they could at least prevent ships resources from being misused.

Osma's ghost had odd taste in contraband. He wasn't looking for weapons or explosives as one might expect from a saboteur, no he was far more sophisticated than that. He would just re-direct components away from where they were needed, preventing repairs and maintenance in system critical areas. It was subtle and would have likely been interpreted as clerical incompetence on the part of ship's supply rather than an active attack – Osma didn't dare guess how many had died as a result of this quiet killer.

What he did know, however, was that the only way this man was getting the medical supplies required to distribute anti-agapics would require that he was actually showing up to pharmacy facilities on the Endless Bounty. He knew the duration that Bonafila Enzo had been in a coma. He knew which facilities carried that type of anti-agapic. Unfortunately, as several of them had been destroyed in the recent battles, he had no way of knowing which of them were missing the relevant inventory. So, the best he could manage was to compare the admittedly incomplete prescription records with when people showed up to actually get their prescriptions and just hope that one of the unlogged or improperly logged distributions of medicine was his saboteur.

And as the only database to record such transactions was kept within the confines of Faest Nor's office, it meant that until he actually found the man or gave up trying, the Medicus was bound and determined to see that Osma gave up some of his more obsessive tendencies. Finding the killer was, in the Medicus' opinion, no excuse for not getting a proper night's sleep. "Osma, at what point do you plan on returning my office to me?"

"Medicus, it was you who brought it to my attention that Bonafila Enzo's sudden return to health was a medical miracle." Osma replied in irritation. "I am obligated to act on an allegation with that degree of severity with the greatest expedience possible."

"And if you work yourself to death before you've found any proof there is no guarantee your replacement will find him at all." Faest Nor chided, slapping Osma's armor twice. "Now, open up the right arm."

"Medicus?" Osma blinked in confusion.

"You're dehydrated and you haven't eaten properly in at least a day." The medicus held up a plastic bag full of pink liquid. "So I'm going to start you on a saline drip with intravenous nutrients so you don't malnourish yourself in your search for justice."

Osma did his best to dissuade the Medicus, but only got as far as "That's really not – " before the medicus fixed him with a stern glare that brokered no debate in this matter. He sighed and fiddled with the fastenings on his armor, opening the right arm to the open air. His arm stank of sweat trapped within the closed confines of his armor. The medicus implanted a needle with a practiced motion, hanging the bag from a ring in the ceiling.

Osma raised a brow at that, the ring in the ceiling seemed to have been tailor made precisely for that type of bag, but the only man who'd likely get any use out of it was the medicus. Nor seemed to be following his train of thought. "Don't get smart with me lad. Just stay healthy."

"Yes Medicus," Osma replied, turning on yet another reel of holo-video. He blinked in surprise, realizing that he recognized the man sitting behind the counter of the medical dispensary. Cha'wu Xian, the man who'd committed suicide before his apothecary exploded – Killing Iino. "Medicus? Was Cha'wu Xian's apothecary rated for the storage and distribution of anti-agapics?"

"No… not at all." Faest Nor watched the video in obvious confusion.

"But I thought this was only a database of the security recordings for facilities who distributed anti-agapic treatments?" Osma pointed at Cha'wu Xian. "Why is he here?"

"He was part of the Alchemist's Guild, he would have had all the relevant medical qualifications to oversee a dispensary." Faest Nor pulled a file from one of his book cases, placing it on his desk and flipping to a page labeled with the same date as the recording Osma was looking at. "Yes, he was there. The normal clerk came down with an unexpected bout of fever and required a substitute. Cha'wu Xian volunteered to take the man's shift – at a substantial fee I might add."

"Did he actually dispense any prescriptions?" Osma tugged at his beard.

"Yes, he did." Faest Nor looked up, a dangerous look in his eyes. "Including the type of anti-agapic used on the Inquisitor's servitor two days later."

Osma breathed in sharply through his teeth. Cha'wu Xian involvement was a trail of evidence he'd believed long lost to him. "Does it have a time?"

Faest Nor smiled. "It does."

Osma's fingers shook as he input the runes to cycle the video to the precise time, revealing the face of his ghost. The face of a man who was a ghost in more ways than Osma had ever suspected. Cha'wu Xian was indeed on film, passing several vials of anti-agapic drugs to another man Osma believed long dead. Faest Nor swore, cursing the fates in several languages Osma knew and still more he didn't.

Faest Nor pointed a bony finger at the screen. "What sort of trickery is this?"

"None, I fear." Osma sighed. "It explains far too much. How has he been operating in secret? Why he would have a reason to involve himself with Donat Enzo's personal life? Why is he knowledgeable enough of the ships systems to hide himself in the command codes?"

"To the Eye! His father had him executed for techo-heresy." Faest all but growled. "This isn't possible."

"Medicus, I can't begin to say how it is possible, but I can think of no other explanation for what I am seeing. Can you?" Osma stroked his beard. "That is Dexter Abraxian."

Faest shook his head. "I conducted the autopsy myself. He's dead."

"How certain are you that you autopsied the correct body?" Osma queried.

"Pretty Throne Damned sure." The Medicus replied. "You don't do autopsy the captain's bastard son without making sure you're cutting open the right body!"

"And yet I am no less convinced that we are staring at the half-brother of Captain Nathaniel Emanuelle Saclair." Osma replied. "So we need to start finding out how the impossible has become reality – and quickly."

Tonya Wallace approached the Inquisitor's residence cautiously. The Inquisitor supposedly employed a number of secret weapons systems to remove all uninvited guests, and while Susan Ivanova had extended an invitation to the reporter, she couldn't help but notice several skeletons left to rot along the corridor. The Imperial comfort with their immediate mortality was one of the most unsettling aspects of these extraterrestrial humans. Whereas an earther would likely eschew contact with the dead, the imperials seemed to just see the dead as parts to be recycled. Dead bodies were repurposed into servitors and systems with a casual ease.

"Calm down Wallace. You're supposed to be here. You're welcome. They're not looking to kill you." The reporter muttered to herself as she stepped over a man's leg. "Please let them not be looking to kill me."

Tonya's reports of the Imperials had been incredibly positive thus far, the Lionhearts and Belzafest irregulars had both fought and died alongside Earth Alliance soldiers to protect citizens of the Alliance. It had been some of her highest rated footage, death, heroes, villains and an ultimate victory for the Earth Alliance against insurmountable odds. Well, that was how ISN sold it anyway, and as long as she could stay close to Susan Ivanova she expected she would continue to be at the top of the ratings for the foreseeable future.

Ivanova, the kidnapped Earth Alliance Commander forced into being the apprentice of the Telepathic Inquisitor noble, had basically every single element of must see TV – up to and including a body most women would kill to have. And she was doing her even best to keep feeding Tonya with information that Alliance Intelligence would have murdered to get.

Tonya reached the Inquisitor's front door and reached up to rap the door knocker when the portal opened, exposing the Inquisitor's mute cyborg bodyguard-cum-bulter Cairn Thross. It creeped Tonya out that he seemed to always know when she was about to knock on the door. She did her best to smile at the hooded collection of mechanical tentacles and talons. "Is Commander Ivanova in? I have an appointment."

The Skitarii warbled in something that might have been assent as he moved out of the doorway, pointing into the Inquisitor's apartments. Tonya noted that the Skitarii did not bother to follow her as she entered, she'd been here so often in the past week that he seemed to have dismissed her as a threat to his employer.

Tonya walked into the apartment, impressed, as always by the sheer eclectic mess of books and curios spread around the room. Overflowing bookshelves lined the walls filled with volumes that seemed older than some countries.

The Inquisitor's savant looked up from one of the tomes, nodding politely to her as she entered. "P-pleased to s-se-see you mu-miss Wallace."

"Jak." Tonya acknowledged the savant politely. The man meant well, but he had an annoying habit of condescension. He also had a volume of knowledge that overwhelmed most universities – so she tolerated his eccentricities as long as he continued to allow himself to be recorded. "You're not planning on lecturing me on the limitations of our Darwinian evolutionary model again?"

"I – I have considered y-your supposition that the human species originated o-on your world of origin. B-but y-you are not the first Imperial c-colony to have been lost w-with some degree of native fossil records. I-I-It is more likely that there was already a near human hominid species that your ancestors bred with w-when they l-l-lost contact with p-p-pre-imperial humanity." The man nodded. "It is not unp-p-precedented."

"Jak, you want me to believe that the humans on Earth got into a colony ship, flew to earth, somehow lost all of our advanced technology and just decided to boink enough Neanderthals to appear like we were always there?" Tonya chided. "We're an invasive species of mutant ancient aliens?"

"Genetic profiles show you within the human margin of error rather than abhuman, but yes that is my a-a-assertion." Jak replied, placing a leather tome back into the book case with a troubled expression on his face. "Odd."

"What is odd?" Tonya asked, trying to suppress the excitement in her voice as she tapped the control to the camera drone following her, zooming it in on the book in the man's hand.

"Nothing really, I just – I just could have sworn that this book was made from leather." Jak ran his fingers across the spine, pulling it out to examine the lock on the front of it. "But the pores are wrong. If I didn't know better…. Oh… oh dear…." His eyes bulged and he shoved the book back into the case. "I mistranslated that the first time. It was not a tome describing the tattoos of the faithful. It was a tome literally made from the tattoos of the faithful."

"That book is – " Tonya held her hand over her mouth as she involuntarily dry heaved.

"Yes, it's tanned human skins." Jak replied, wiping his hands in his apron. "I believe that I will be t-taking greater care to r-read the Inquisitor's inventory in future."

"Ick." Tonya blanched. "I'm gonna be – somewhere else – you have fun with that Jak."

"As always Miss Wallace." The Savant nodded. "Apprentice Inquisitor Ivanova is expecting you."

Commander, now Apprentice Inquisitor, Ivanova was sitting in the Inquisitor's study reading an elaborately decorated scroll. Her clothing, an elaborate garment in the Imperial style, was adorned with thick orange fur and a terrifying amount of Ostrich feathers. She looked up from the scroll when Tonya entered and let out a deep sigh of relief. "Finally, someone who isn't crazy."

"My producers won't agree with you on that one Commander. Trust me – when I sent them my last footage they were convinced that I'd gone completely insane to go anywhere near that fighting." Tonya laughed, trying to play it off as though she weren't equally convinced that she was out of her mind to have done so or insane for agreeing to Danzig's offer to take her back to the Endless Bounty. "But they weren't about to pass on having the only reporter currently embedded on an Imperial Warship."

"Transport." Susan replied, a half smile on her lips.

"Pardon?" Tonya asked.

"The Endless Bounty isn't a Warship. It's a cargo ship. By Imperial standards its virtually unarmed." Susan shook her head. "I know, I know but it's true. This bucket of bolts is the Imperial answer to the Delta Gamma 9."

"You're telling me that an Imperial Transport ship fought Earth Alliance fleets and won." Tonya was understandably skeptical of that assertion. The Imperial ship not only carried advanced arms and defenses, but several distinct private armies onboard.

"Here, look." Susan pointed at the scroll she was had been previously looking at. "This is a record of the Imperial Gothic War. Those ships there, they're what the Imperium would consider frigates. They're about 1.8km long and have armaments that I'd put up as being comparable to an Omega Class destroyer."

"Commander, while I'm sure that my viewers are more knowledgeable I'm only passingly familiar with the difference between ship classifications for the Earth Alliance." Tonya looked at the lovingly painted images of Imperial warships. "But that doesn't sound good for the Earth Alliance if the Imperials decide to start playing nasty."

"Tonya, the Apocalypse class' main weapon is used to destroy squadrons of escort craft like frigates. The Empire has no treaties banning the use of mass drivers or viral weaponry." She pointed to a painted image of a ship shooting at a planet and cracking an entire continent. "The Inquisitor? The people of the Endless Bounty? They haven't had the resources or much of a reason to be aggressive, but they aren't the whole Empire. We're had an upheaval in galactic politics because a transport got stranded – What happens when someone comes looking for the transport?"

"You paint a fairly grim picture of our prospects, Commander. You realize that your detractors will just allege that this is unsubstantiated allegations from a military defector." Tonya replied, flinching as plumes of psychic discharge flared in the woman's eyes. How powerful of a telepath did one have to be to manifest actual fire?

"I don't care what my detractors have to say about the matter. I don't care if they don't believe me – they need to know. The Empire isn't exaggerating how big it is or the resources they have. They don't need to exaggerate. They don't care." The commander tapped the scroll. "There are casualty figures for individual battles in the Empire that exceed wars the Earth Alliance has taken part in."

"You're wasting your breath Commander. The width and breadth of the Empire is difficult enough to describe when one has actually lived in in for their entire life." Spoke the commanding voice of the Inquisitor as he entered the study. Tony had never seen the man out an encounter suit. He was older than she, seemingly in his late forties or early fifties – though given the miraculous anti-aging treatments of the Imperial nobility it was near impossible to be sure of anyone's age. His clothing was conservative, a simple suit that wouldn't have looked out of place in either Human or Brakiri society. It was perhaps a bit anachronistic, but not overly so. The oddest thing about him was the prosthetic arm, creamy white ivory digits extending from the sleeve of his jacket.

He eyed Tonya's drone with mild interest before turning back to the reporter. "I chose to retain this ship in my employ for its relative discretion. One does not employ a warship if one is trying to travel incognito. It would be equivalent to trying to drive through a city in a tank as opposed to a standard civilian transport."

"And you consider this to be incognito?" Tonya replied jokingly, gesturing to the elaborate marble columns and jade floor tiles inlaid with gold and platinum.

"I know it seems extravagant, but if you were to see the flagship of my mentor Inquisitor Gaal you'd convinced of my utter devotion to a life without excess." Inquisitor Hilder replied, a twinkle in his eyes. "He never went anywhere without his private zoo."

"Zoo?" Tonya snorted.

"No really, the whole Zoo. Habitats and all. It all came on his flagship. It was mostly predators and specimens that he kept with him so that he could derive countermeasures to their natural attacks but there were a number of creatures he kept just because he liked them." He chuckled. "There was a two ton Oran-Fek that he named tiny and insisted upon having dressed in amusing hats on every holy day."

Tonya laughed, unsure what an Oran-Fek was but convinced by the Inquisitor's comical mime that dressing one in a hat was not a particulary practical affair. Tonya loved the Inquisitor. He was so utterly open and uncaring that it was impossible not to understand why the Imperials favored him as a leader. She would have been hard pressed to find a member of the Earth Alliance Senate who allowed her the sort of immediate open access to real world decision making that he allowed her.

"So, miss Wallace. I was told by my apprentice that you were here on a matter of some import for your House." The Inquisitor replied.

"My house?" Tonya asked in confusion.

"ISN – the guild house of spies to which you are bonded. She has informed me that in order for her to obtain a steady flow of information from your network of informants as well as to secure your assistance in providing a positive propaganda campaign on my behalf I am required to provide you with some basic information." The Inquisitor nodded to his apprentice.

"That's not quite how it works Inquisitor but I can promise to do my best to represent you fairly in my reports." The ISN reporter made eye contact with Susan only briefly, but long enough for the Commander's expression to convey "just go with it."

"I was just telling the Inquisitor how important it is to get the truth out about my transition into Imperial control." Susan replied. "Or the Alliance will take exception to someone kidnapping a senior officer."

"Are you ever going to let that go?" Inquisitor Hilder pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes – I kidnapped the Commander from Babylon 5 and impressed her into service as my apprentice. Yes I drugged her, broke her bones, and smuggled her out of the station. After the commander had drawn state secrets out of my mind. I wonder, perhaps, would the commander have preferred the alternative? Should I have wiped the secrets from her mind and tossed her over to the ham fisted idiots at the Psi Corps? Should I let them have squandered her potential?"

"You should have asked." Susan replied angrily.

"I am an Inquisitor. I do not ask, I act." Replied Daul Hilder, glaring at his apprentice. "And I am being remarkably tolerant of your petulance, Commander. Many Inquisitors would just have slain you on the spot when first you demonstrated your talents."

"Inquisitor, the Earth Alliance is going to have concerns about you kidnapping a military officer." Tonya interjected. "For her benefit or not, you have commandeered someone with intimate knowledge of the Earth Alliance military disposition and tech."

The Inquisitor shook his head. "Miss Wallace, I'm not here to conquer the Earth Alliance – I'm here to apprehend a dangerous criminal. The same criminal who arranged for the half-breed armies to invade Shi'Lassen. The rogue Inquisitor Soren Faust."

"You mean that the army who invaded Shi'Lassen was Imperial in origion?" They were going to need to re-evaluate the rating chart after this interview. Hell this interview might be showed enough to actually be considered syndicated once it aired.

"Not precisely." The Inquisitor rolled the thought around in his head before replying. "Inquisitor Faust was excommunicated from my order and condemned to death for his criminal actions. He used his knowledge and resources to form his own private army, and has been a plague on the galaxy ever since."

"What does he want?" Tonya was already forming bylines in her head.

"We… we don't know. Faust's motives have always been a matter of speculation." The Inquisitor shrugged. "Historically we've been forced to be reactionary rather than proactive when it comes to Faust."

"So you've been chasing him into unknown space, without ever know why he came here?" The ISN reporter chewed her lip in thought. "What happens when you catch him?"

Daul's eye twitched, and his smile curved up into a terrifying visage of a smile – psychic motes dancing in the man's eyes. "Then Miss Wallace, I make him pay."

Thinking back to the book Jak had been looking at, Tonya had no doubt that the Inquisitor intended to follow through on that threat.

Talia Winters sat across from the Psi Corps representative, feeling distinctly like a she was a suspect rather than a witness. Mr. Timothy wasn't unpleasant, unpleasant would have required that he be capable of extending emotion. But between his apparent facial paralysis and his own telepathic screening of his emotions, he was a bit more reminiscent of an automaton than a person in his own right. He'd arrived that morning with all the appropriate paperwork, escorted by another Psi Cop of the Psi Corps, and had insisted upon interviewing her immediately.

"Miss Winters I wish to emphasize the confidentiality of this meeting's content. You are not, at any point, to discuss the things you heart today with anyone outside of the Psi Corps." The man stated, pulling a thick folder from his briefcase and spreading a series of gristly photos across the table. Talia's stomach flipped, leaving her with the distinct fear that she might expel her meager breakfast upon the table if she looked too closely at any one of the photos. "This is a matter of grave importance to all telepaths, and it must be handled with some delicacy."

"Of course." Talia smiled, pushing a lock of silver-blonde hair out of the way. "Anything I can do to help the Corps."

"I'm glad to hear that." The man nodded to the other Psi Cop. "Go to the door. Make sure that nobody feels the need to interrupt. Implant the thought in their mind if you have to."

"Sir!" Talia hissed, the Psi Cop had quite glibly ordered another telepath to enter the mind of another – a highly illegal action even as a theoretical. "I will not allow the unwarranted invasion of sentient minds on this station."

"Miss Winters, my agent has been authorized by the Psi Corps to use whatever means are required to ensure our discrete and uninterrupted conversation." Mr. Timothy steepled his fingers. "There are matters which we must discuss, and quickly. Are you familiar with any of these people?"

Talia shook her head, looking away from the gristly photos. "No. I've never see them."

"Miss Winters – I need you to actually look. You must be certain." The Psi Cop's whip crack of a voice demanded immediate action.

"I'm certain already – I've never met any of these people!" Talia shook her head, pointedly looking into Mr Timothy's eyes rather than at the gruesome photos.

"Well, they know you." Mr. Timothy pulled out another picture from his briefcase. It was a still of Talia Winters on the day the so called 'demon' had come to the station, back when she'd fallen into the Inquisitor's trap. It was one of several recordings leaked to the press following the fiasco.

"Most of the world watched that clip." Talia pointed out, "I don't know anyone who hasn't seen a couple of those clips."

"Most of the world has seen the censored version, a sanitized cut of the video which the Earth Alliance consented to be aired on ISN once it became apparent that we wouldn't be able to suppress it in its entirety. But there are copies of the unedited footage on the net, and it has developed a cult following – in every possible sense of the word." Mr. Timothy pointed to the photos arrayed along the table. "All of these people had almost nothing in common, they were different ages, different religions, different ethnicities, and from different countries. But all of them died in the same, brutal, ritual way – splayed out on crude satanic imagery. And all of them had seen the same uncensored version of the film within the past twelve hours – and all of them were telepaths who chose to take suppression drugs rather than join the Corps."

"And what? You think that the video is killing them." Talia dismissed the idea as hogwash immediately. People did not die from watching a film.

"I think that something is targeting our people and that right now the only definite link we have to these people is a video of you fighting what most of the galaxy is referring to as a demon." Mr Timothy shook his head. "So, I'm going to get your side of the story and start working my way from there."

"There was a creature that came back with the Copernicus – a sleeper ship from back before we discovered FTL. It had apparently climbed onboard and was feeding on the passengers to keep it alive." Talia continued. "It was a very powerful telepathic and telekinetic entity. It attacked the station and started consuming sentient beings and implanting its young into their corpses to make them fight. It was a terrible creature but the Imperial theocratic interpretation of quantifiable phenomenon has complicated our ability to analyze what actually happened here. Everyone seems pretty much content to just say 'a demon did it' and just move on with their lives."

"Yes, we were frustrated to hear that all the physical specimens of those infected by the creature had been cremated on Sheridan's orders." The man sighed. "Even the races for which cremation is normally anathema didn't protest the decision. No, I'm already aware of that much."

"Then what do you want to know?" Talia asked.

"I need to see what you saw. To feel what you felt. It isn't enough for me to just have a peripheral exposure to the events as they unfolded. As of right now you are the only Telepath in Earth Alliance space to have received prolonged exposure to the telepathic entity and not died horribly. Perhaps some insight into that experience will provide me with the context needed to see what I am not seeing with regards to these deaths." Mr. Timothy pulled off his gloves. "I would like you to show me – you may, of course, decline but I would implore you not to. This is too important for all of us."

Talia nodded, sympathetic to the man's frustrations. "Of course, I'll help."

She pulled off her gloves and placed her hands into Mr. Timothy's keenly aware of just how warm they were. The man actually shuddered at her touch as he said, "Miss Winters, have you been dipping your hands in ice? You need to consider investing in a warmer pair of gloves."

She said, "I'll think about it." In a joking tone, but the truth was that she already had. She'd been purchasing increasingly thick clothing to keep the cold out of her body these past few months but nothing ever quite seemed to take the chill from her.

The sharing of memories was an intimate thing. One had to take care to only share the memories one intended to share, not the stray thoughts or ideas that were running through their minds as they shared them. A lack of care often led to gross embarrassment. The first time she'd tried to do it in school the partner she'd been paired with had been so determined not to show her the sexual thoughts he was having about her that he accidentally provided her with an itemized list of all the anatomically and zoologically improbable acts he wished to conduct with her as a participant.

Talia's control over her mind was more elegant than that, however, and she anticipated minimal difficulty. She closed her eyes, grasped the man's hands, and tried to push the relevant memories to the forefront of her mind so that they could be detected via surface scan. She pushed them forward, and waited. She waited some more. She waited still longer in anticipation of that slight caress of psychic effort that let her know another telepath was in her mind but it never came. She never got even the slightest tickle of psychic influence upon her.

She opened her eyes in curiosity to find Mr. Timothy sitting slack-jawed in his chair, his eyes bulging and pupils dilated to the rim of his irises. He was gasping in a long low rasp, spittle dripping from his jaw. She let go of his hands in shock and the man's breathing went from a labored rasp to a grateful inhalation as though life were being pushed back into him. He coughed hard, bracing himself against the table before looking up at her his eyes still partially dilated.

"What are you?" He touched his face to make sure everything was still in place.

"Mr. Timothy?" Talia asked in confusion.

"No – no, don't… I don't want you to say my name." The man was shoving his papers back into his briefcase as quickly as he could manage. "I don't want my name in there."

"Are you ok?" The blonde telepath leaned towards the Psi Cop only to have him recoil from her, clearly terrified of her.

"How did it happen?" The man swallowed clutching his briefcase to his chest. "How did you become hollow? Your mind is empty. There is nothing but a white void of silence and cold within your mind – there is nothing inside you. You are without even the slightest shred of a mind or a soul."

Talia sighed deeply, clutching her hand over the pendant around her neck – the last source of warmth on her body. "It was the Inquisitor's weapon. It did this to me."

"You… you didn't even have a heartbeat when I touched your wrist. You haven't breathed except when you inhale to talk." The man swallowed. "It's not possible, because you're standing in front of me and talking… but I think…."

"You think what?" Talia asked, listening to a mess of fears she'd been to cowardly to voice emanating from Mr. Timothy's mount.

"I think you didn't survive that battle, Miss Winters." The man replied, clutching his briefcase against him even tighter. "I think that somehow, you died and never bothered to stop living."