Disclaimer: the setting, characters,
and concepts of Babylon 5 belong to JMS, Babylonian Productions,
and a good number of other people/places/things I can't remember.
(Pssst....JMS...leave now! See no evil, and all that...) No infringement
of copyright is intended, I just went for a stroll through the
station. Haven't made one thin dime on anything I've ever written,
and will not start with this. No harm, no foul...no lawsuit? Please?
Song With Broken Music
by Jacynthe Demorae
Denise Laramie shut down her workstation and sealed up her tool tray. The next shift worker would finish the probe on the worktable, and the metal and ceramic sphere would disappear into the vague nether land of Testing. Tomorrow, she'd come back and find another in the exact same state of partial completion, would craft the next level, and leave it for the next shift to finish. All that changed were the serial numbers. Without those numbers, she might think herself in some space-age version of the pits of Tartarus. Her shift-mates headed towards the exits, already pulling off safety equipment and chattering amongst themselves.
"Hey, Dee?"
Denise grimaced. She detested that nickname. Turning around, she
saw a sandy-haired tech about five years her junior. She couldn't
remember his name, if she had ever known it. Even after three
years of living on-station, a year on the same shift, faces around
her remained nameless blurs. Better, that way.
"Yes?"
He faltered, then visibly gathered himself. "Listen...tomorrow's
the Treaty anniversary, and--"
"Sure, I'll cover for you," she interrupted, anticipating
his request. She usually subbed for anyone who asked. After all,
she had the time, and extra pay was always welcome.
He blinked. "Uh, actually...I was going to ask if you were
going to the ceremony."
"Ceremony?" she asked, feeling like an idiot. Something
sharp and hot shifted in the pit of her stomach. "I don't
go to Treaty ceremonies."
Her voice sounded high and thin in her own ears, brittle.
"Oh, they're kind of stiff, the ones on Earth, anyway."
The tech shrugged one shoulder. "They're different here,
though, the Minbari--"
Denise tensed, fixing the tech with an intent stare. She tasted
bitter bile at the back of her throat. "What about the Minbari?"
He hesitated. "They--that is, I hear there's a lot of Minbari
rituals in the ceremony here. It's supposed to be...pretty...impressive...."
His voice faltered, then stumbled to a halt. This wasn't working
out the way he'd planned. The tech swallowed hard. "So...are
you going?"
Denise continued to stare into the middle distance for a long,
tense moment, then refocused on him. "When is this ceremony?
Where?"
He blinked. "Oh, well...there're a lot of smaller gatherings--some
of 'em pretty wild--but the main one is in the Garden. Mid-watch,
I think, but it's listed--"
Her gaze flickered, then sharpened. "Thanks. I'll be there."
Without another word, she turned on her heel and stalked off,
leaving the tech to stare after her. So do we have a date or
what?
Denise made her way to her quarters, a
small gray cubicle with an economy bath, the cheapest living space
on the station, barring Down Below. The starkness of it had ceased
to bother her. It had a door that locked, and a functioning environmental
system. That was all she needed. She sat down at her fold-out
table and thought about what she'd just learned.
Denise had buried herself in work, in alcohol, in any distraction
she could find to block out the memory of the Battle of the Line.
Her memories of that day had never faded, she didn't need a bells-and-whistles
reminder. She didn't need any kind of reminder at all. The Battle
of the Line was never farther than an eyeblink away.
But Minbari taking part in a Treaty commemoration? Easier to imagine
pigs with gills piloting spaceships, or bare-naked spacewalking.
Or a race of technologically advanced aliens, hounding humans
across the stars, then surrendering a breath away from annihilating
the Human race, but never saying why?
Denise pushed away from the table and punched up her no-frills
link to Babcom. Query, she typed, time/location of Treaty
of the Line ceremony. The station logo popped up and insipid
on-hold music began to play. Denise rolled her eyes and drummed
her fingertips on the console, tapping out a counter-rhythym.
Before she got five beats into it, a text display popped up, giving
her the event schedule. She studied it in some dismay. Scheduled
speakers and presentations, even a video performance. It looked
more like a damn block party than a remembrance of genocide. The
sharp pain in her stomach began lancing out, like a starburst
razor, slicing deep. She pressed a hand to her abdomen, trying
to soothe the ache.
Station authorities invite all residents and visitors to participate
in the observance in accordance with their own cultural dictates.
Witnesses of the Line are especially invited to share their stories.
Earth's ambassador to Minbar, Jeffrey Sinclair, would have a pre-recorded
message. The Minbari ambassador herself would speak, and some
damned Bonehead priest would officiate, twisting words into Gordian
knots, but never apologize, never explain.
Denise cleared the screen, then sent a personal leave notice to
her supervisor. They wanted to listen to speeches about the Line,
hmm? Then listen, and listen good.
Her gut ached like she'd swallowed lye and turpentine. Trembling,
she turned away from the console and groped for her OTC meds case.
Popping it open, she gulped down double-doses of antacid/analgesics
and mild tranks. She collapsed onto her berth, not even bothering
to fold it out into a proper bed. Curled up on the lumpy cushions,
she hugged herself, waiting for the meds to kick in. It took longer
than usual. By the time she finally drifted off to sleep, the
shakes still hadn't let her go.
***
She left early for the ceremony, carefully
dressed in her best clothes: a snug dun-colored worksuit, popular
among workers on terraforming projects. They were durable, allowed
for easy range of motion, and were trim enough to fit easily under
an enviro-suit. More importantly, they fell within range of her
meager clothing allowance. On her left wrist, she wore a braided
copper bracelet, her sole piece of jewelry, and her only physical
legacy from her mother.
Apparently, many other station-dwellers had also planned on arriving
early. The corridors thronged with people, many of them wearing
a small clutch pin with a star-speckled disc, bisected by a red
line. Most of them seemed headed towards the Garden. Denise drifted
at the edge of the crowd, speaking to no-one, finally finding
a place to stand that commanded a reasonable view.
Nothing so gauche as a podium for a Minbari speaker. Smooth, white
stones arranged in a loose white circle. A low table, draped with
an embroidered cloth, supported a pyramid of glass shelves, each
bearing a row of triangular crystal oil lamps. Beneath it, and
running the length of the table, was a shallow silver basin, filled
with water. She couldn't see any connection between these things
and the Battle of the Line or its resulting treaty.
A Minbari dressed in the layered brocade robes favored by the
religious caste moved through the crowd and stepped into the stone
circle. Denise watched--him? Her? Who could tell?--with narrowed
eyes, arms folded protectively across her chest. Clasping its
hands together, the Minbari waited until relative silence had
descended over the crowd.
"Welcome. I am Ruthvyn, of the fifth Fane of the Star Riders
clan, once of the military caste."
Denise's attention locked onto the Minbari. A warrior? She could
count the number of Minbari she knew by sight and name on one
hand and still have fingers left over. They'd all been of the
religious caste--technically, she supposed, so was this one. She'd
never even made eye contact with a Bonehead Butcher before. She
swallowed hard. The razorblades jabbed into her stomach again.
"I thank you all for coming to bear witness to this act of
contrition and renewal. All are invited to speak if they wish,
to share their account of the war between our peoples. If you
will allow, I will share my story with you."
Silence. No one spoke, no one moved. Ruthvyn inclined its head,
held the pose for a moment, then reached for one of the oil lamps.
Another Minbari, this one in simpler robes, came forward with
a lit pillar candle. The two exchanged bows, and Ruthvyn lit the
lamp from the other's candle. The Star Rider--bloody pretentious
name, Denise thought--turned back to face them.
"I was born into the military caste and took training to
be a pilot. I hadn't yet finished my training when the Minbari
first encountered Humans. When our Chosen One was slain."
The words hung in the air. Denise kept her gaze locked on the
Minbari. She could read nothing in those alien features.
"We embarked on our holy war of vengeance, striking at those
who robbed us of Dukhat. Our course was clear--for its crime,
Humanity must be eradicated." Ruthvyn bowed his head.
He? When had the Minbari become a 'he'? Denise shifted her weight
uneasily. Giving a Minbari even the loose ID of a gender specification
implied a recognition, an acknowledgement of the alien as a person.
A person with thoughts, emotions, rights, and dignity. More
than they gave us, Denise thought, the old anger flaring to
new life. She glowered at the Minbari. Just another Bonehead
Butcher, no matter how he tries to dress it up.
'He,' again, damn it.
As if he sensed her gaze, Ruthvyn raised his head--and seemed
to look directly at her.
"As a warrior, I served to protect, to defend--and then,
to avenge. I took my place with others of my caste and followed
Branmer to the Line, in the last great advance."
Denise nearly spat at the name. Branmer. The Butcher with the
most blood on his hands. The one who gave the orders. The one
who couldn't die horribly enough in her most secret fantasies.
She must have made some sound or movement, the people near her
were giving her wary looks. With an effort, she locked down her
emotions, thrusting them behind the wall she'd built up with such
care and determination for the past fifteen years.
"When the order came to surrender, I could not believe...I
did not understand. Yet our orders were clear and direct. I returned
to Minbar, my heart buried in the ruins of my spirit. The moment
I returned home, I went to a temple, and remained there for days."
Oh, what's this, a play for sympathy? She heard echoes
of her own confusion in the Minbari's words, a deep frustration
at the lack of answers. She didn't want to sympathize, damn it.
"After the Battle of the Line, as it came to be called, I
could no longer perform the duties of a Minbari warrior. A Minbari's
foremost duty is to the society--and yet that society, my own
birth caste, had betrayed me. The lines, the purposes, once so
clear, had blurred beyond recognition."
Did all Minbari sound like that? she wondered suddenly. Restrained,
and a touch sorrowful? Well, they had a lot to be sorry about.
"The spirit called then, bidding me to set down the warrior's
burden, and
take up the challenge of healing. To protect, on another front."
For a priest, he talks like a Security chief. Denise frowned
and edged closer, trying to get a better view of the Minbari's
features.
"I come here today to bear witness," he said, seeming
to speak to the flame in his hands, "that a Line may be a
boundary--or a shield."
He placed his lamp into the basin, where it floated easily on
the surface of the liquid. It began to drift along the surface,
just a single light, but surprisingly bright. Denise followed
it with her eyes for a moment, then dragged her attention back
to the Minbari. Folding his hands again, Ruthvyn bowed to the
assembled listeners and stepped out of the circle.
One by one, others came forward to speaking, each lighting lamps
and releasing them in their turn. Men and women in Earthforce
uniforms, all proudly bearing the Medal of the Line. Some looked
hale and whole, others carried shiny pink burn scars that twisted
and distorted their features. Others limped, or wore prosthetics.
Captain Sheridan spoke briefly, followed by the Minbari ambassador--unquestionably
a she, the first Minbari she'd ever seen with hair. Ambassador
Sinclair had sent a short speech on disc. The lags between speakers
grew longer and longer, until it seemed that no-one else wished
to speak. Ruthvyn came into the circle again, perhaps to close
the ceremony.
"I have a story to tell."
Heads turned, a quick, soft murmur of surprise. For a moment,
Denise wasn't sure the words had actually come from her throat.
Ruthvyn didn't skip a beat.
"Then please come forward and share it with us."
Denise moved through the press of bodies, almost stumbling when
she reached the open area of the circle. She caught herself on
one of the stones and regained her balance. She kept her gaze
fixed on Ruthvyn. Share, and share alike. Whatever you do comes
back to you.
She stopped in front of him, and he silently handed her one of
the small lamps. She accepted it, not knowing how to refuse. It
fit easily in her hands, made of glass or crystal, triangular
and filled with a clear, aromatic oil, with a bit of wick. It
smelled faintly of--what was that fruit? Oh, yes. Pears.
When she made no move to do so herself, Ruthvyn lit the lamp for
her. He met her eyes once, then looked away. As he moved past
her, she caught a whiff of some faint spice, something like cloves,
but subtly different.
She looked out over the sea of faces, all turned expectantly towards
her. So many faces, Human and not. So many eyes. For a moment,
her nerve faltered. Then the razors cut her again, and the words
came with the pain.
"My name is Denise Laramie. I was fifteen at the Battle of
the Line." Her voice sounded thin, weak. "My parents
were both Earthforce, support staff, not combatants. They were
stationed on Beta Duramis, and they'd taken me with them."
Some of the faces turned towards her softened with sympathy. Others--so
many others--closed with remembered grief. Beta Duramis had been
one of the mid-range stations completely over-run in the Minbari
press to the Line. The last 'great advance,' as Ruthvyn had called
it.
"Anyone who could pilot got pulled for the defensive line.
Holes in the support staff were patched as best they could, but
things were pretty chaotic." Denise paused, remembering.
Section after section cold and dim, all available power diverted
to the stations defenses... Beta Duramis was a research and
communication outpost, meant to monitor traffic and serve as a
resupply post for the interplanetary traffic. Everyone knew the
station's defenses were slim. Their hope lay in the physical barricade
of ships gathering around the station. No one spoke about stopping
the Minbari, only of slowing them down just long enough for the
evacuees to escape.
"I said good-bye to my parents and joined the evacuee group
I'd been assigned to--mostly kids." She smiled slightly at
the irony. Fifteen wasn't even legal, but she'd felt ancient compared
to the ten and twelve year olds she'd been placed with.
"They packed us into freighters, shuttles, anything spaceworthy
that hadn't been claimed for the defense. I don't know how many
were on our ship--maybe thirty or fifty."
So quiet, despite all of the people. The freighter had been
gutted, everything possible pulled out to make room for the evacuees.
They probably exceeded the maximum capacity for the old spacebus,
and there were still people left behind. They sat on bare decks
with their bags and bundles. One girl held a stuffed toy cat on
her lap with a white-knuckled grip. Everyone tried not to cry.
For a moment, Denise smelled the ozone-reek of stressed electronics
and the acrid stink of too much fear in too small a place. Fifteen
years, and never more than an eyeblink away.
"Undocking is pretty smooth, under almost any condition,
even emergency evac. Still, without restraints or enough handholds,
we went sliding all over the place."
A spike in the fear level, a scattering of sharp, short screams.
The vibration from the straining engines rattled their bones.
"We just started to level out," Denise continued, "when
something hit us from the side. The lights went out in the hold,
then came back on emergency power."
Faces distorted in the sickly yellow light, bodies in struggling
heaps.
"We took another hit, and this time we rolled."
Bodies falling, crashing into walls and bulkheads, loose equipment
turned into crude missiles. Clawing hands, scrabbling for some
handhold.
"I remember screaming--the gravity just cut out, and blood
bubbles spun through the hold, breaking on faces, on walls."
Her hands shook, making the hot oil slosh against the side of
the glass lamp, making the tiny flame dance and quiver. I don't
want to talk anymore. I don't want to remember. But she had
never really forgotten. Could never forget. The memories had their
fangs in her now, and wouldn't let go. Denise looked up, seeking
some point of calm. She met Ruthvyn's eyes. The razors cut again,
and she tasted blood.
"The whole ship shook, felt just like somebody hitting the
emergency stop on a lift car. The girl next to me started screaming
that she smelled smoke."
The girl with the toy cat.
Thick, ropy tendrils, greasy-smelling, creeping into the hold.
"We all panicked, then."
Fighting, clawing at each other, trying to find the emergency
hatches, trying to navigate in null-g. Screaming for help. Where
were the adults? Why weren't they helping? They were supposed
to be safe, her parents had told her she was going someplace safe--
"No pods." The words fell like weights. "They
must have needed craft so badly...they stripped the ships of the
escape pods."
A gross violation of safety regs--but in the days leading to the
Line, the regs went out in the trash. So many people, so few ships,
so small a chance of survival.
"We were overloaded, there wasn't enough working emergency
equipment."
Not enough masks. They tried to share, they knew the rules.
First one, then the other. Breathe shallow. Wait for help. Watch
the indicators grow dim and wink out, one by one.
"The bodies tumbled and bounced off of each other, off
of me--"
The little girl, still holding the toy cat.
Some of the oil splashed over, onto her hand. She dropped
the lamp with a cry, shocked by the small, unexpected pain. The
lamp tumbled to the deck and smashed against the plates, spraying
shrapnel and hot oil everywhere. By some miracle, it didn't ignite.
Silence. Utter, utter silence. She could be alone in this place.
Denise stared at the mess at her feet. Almost done. Say the
last part. Finish it.
"The next thing I remember, I woke up in a hospital. The
war was over, they told me. They found us adrift, and rescued
us. Fifteen of us, out of fifty. The pilots, the station--"
My parents.
Denise snapped her head up. "They said the war was over,
just like that. They told me the Minbari surrendered. They never
said why. So I'm asking--why? Why did you do it?"
The Minbari ambassador stepped forward. "Ms. Laramie--"
"It was an accident." She rode right over the
ambassador's attempt to speak. "Everyone knows that. Self-defense.
One man dies and you try to kill an entire race?"
Her voice cracked.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Security moving forward. They
would take her away, lock her up--she didn't care. Not anymore.
"Why? Was it just a fucking game for you? Shooting
fish in a fucking barrel?"
Security was almost on her now, so close, and she still didn't
have her answer.
"Tell me," she shouted at Ruthvyn. "Tell
me why they all had to die, you fucking butcher! TELL ME!"
"That's enough, miss, you're going to have to come with me--"
Denise wheeled around to face the security officer. "Don't
you touch me!"
The starburst razor burned in her gut, hot as the welding tool
she used on the probes. Her insides were going to fuse together
into one shapeless lump and drag her under, but she just didn't
care.
"Miss, don't make this harder, just come with me--"
No, no, she wasn't leaving without her answer! Fifteen years,
that
was long enough to wait. Not one minute more--
Her knees buckled, the security man caught her before she hit
the deck.
Her stomach was on fire, so hot, the people around her must see
it glowing, burning her up from the inside.
"On your feet now," he began.
The razor star went nova. Something tore loose inside, and thick,
bitter blood pushed up her throat. She coughed, spat a mouthful
of red across the security guard's uniform. He recoiled and she
fell, face down in the pool of oil and glass shards, struggling
to breathe.
"Ah, shit, call Medical!"
The burning stopped, the blood put out the fire. From a great
distance, Denise saw someone bending over her. Dark, alien eyes.
You didn't answer my question, she thought dizzily, before
the lights went out for good.
[end part one]
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