Babylon 5 02 - Accusations (Tilton, Lois) Read online

  Babylon 5:

  Accusations

  Lois Tilton

  "THIS IS EARTHFORCE COMMANDER IVANOVA

  TO SUSPECTED RAIDER SHIPS. CUT YOUR

  ENGINES OR I WILL ATTACK."

  There was no response. Then it was all or nothing. The raiders continued their flight toward the jump point, and Alpha Wing's formation, a fusion-powered spearpoint, flung itself at its targets, phased plasma guns fully charged, closing in.

  But the targets weren't blind or helpless. As soon as they detected the Earthforce fighters bearing down on them, the raiders reacted, a half-dozen of the small wing-shaped fighters peeling off to engage their pursuers.

  "Lock on target. Fire."

  Superheated plasma shot from her guns, intercepted by the transport's defensive weapons. From the formation around her came more fire as Alpha Wing engaged the enemy. A raider ship bore down on her from straight ahead, but Ivanova had it in her sights, fired, and had the savage satisfaction of seeing the incandescent gases of its death-explosion fill her screen. Another raider took a hit, spun crazily for a brief instant, then disintegrated into flying debris. . . .

  CHAPTER 1

  Observation Dome, Babylon 5: When it was quiet, with no ships departing or approaching the station, an observer could look out through the curved windows and see the stars glowing silently against the black backdrop of space. At such times it might be possible to contemplate the infinity of the cosmos and wonder at humanity's place among the sentient races of the universe.

  But such peaceful meditation was rarely possible in the Observation Dome. This was the Control Center of Babylon 5, and Commander Susan Ivanova was intent on her console, not contemplating the view from the window. The surface of the large curved control console was black, as space was black, but its data screens glowed in vivid electronic hues as the figures constantly flickered and changed. On the central screen, icons represented the ships filling the station's traffic lanes, pulling away from the station, coming in to dock. One in particular was highlighted: a crippled cargo transport coming in, three days behind schedule, with damage to its stabilizers that predicted an interesting docking experience to come.

  Ivanova stood with hands clasped behind her back, considering the computer-projected trajectory of the incoming freighter on the screen. The colors of the lighted displays played across her face, its skin pulled taut by her tightly braided hair.

  Then she ordered crisply, "Centauri transport Gonfalion, this is Babylon Control. Your trajectory is erratic. I'm ordering you to cut your engines. We're going to tow you in. Do not, repeat not attempt to dock under your own power. Do you read me, Gonfalion?"

  The face of the alien pilot on the communications screen did not look happy on hearing this order. There would be towing charges added to the station's usual docking fees. But the fines for noncompliance would certainly be a lot stiffer yet. "Acknowledged, Babylon Control. I'm cutting power to the thrusters now."

  The scan technician checking her own instruments confirmed, "Their engines are shutting down, Commander."

  Ivanova acknowledged with a short nod. Still intently watching the screen, she ordered, "Get a couple of shuttles out there to tow her into cargo bay eight. Divert all incoming traffic away from that traffic lane. Give them plenty of room."

  It was a slow and tricky job, to lock grapples onto a ship the size of an interstellar freighter and maneuver it into the narrow chute of the station's docking bay. Ivanova would oversee the operation from here at her console, as insurance against something else going wrong. Not that she mistrusted the skill of the station's pilots, but there was only one desirable outcome and an infinite number of disastrous ones. Under such circumstances, she preferred not to rely on luck. It was the Russian in her coming out, she sometimes said.

  There were other, smaller annoyances trying to claim her attention: the communications screen on her console now showed three more new messages waiting in the queue. Ivanova already knew what most of them were about. In the corridors outside the sanctuary of the Observation Dome, where they weren't allowed entry, prowled a small pack of shipping factors, insurance agents, hopeful salvage operators, and others who wanted news of the damaged freighter and its cargo. But they'd just have to wait until the ship was safely docked. She had no time and less inclination to deal with them now.

  On the screen, the shuttles were closing in on the mass of the cargo ship, deploying grapples.

  "Got it, Control," the pilot of shuttle A reported. "Locked on."

  "Well done," Ivanova commended her.

  "Commander," Communications broke in, "there's another message. Sender says it's urgent and personal."

  "If it's personal, then it can wait," Ivanova said curtly. Several months ago, such a message would have instantly aroused concern about her father, dying in a hospital on Earth, but that phase of her life was over now. Mother, brother, now father, all of them dead, and there was no one else she could think of who might be calling her on a matter both personal and urgent enough to interfere with duty.

  Now both shuttles had the cargo ship fast, and Ivanova ordered, "All right, take her in."

  There was one tense moment after that when a departing Narn fighter cut too close to the crippled ship's path, but Ivanova instantly ordered it, "Narn fighter 42, reduce your speed and return to your assigned traffic lane."

  The maneuver had been deliberate, Ivanova suspected. The Narn and the Centauri had been at war intermittently for over a century, and the hostilities between them were always close to the surface, even here on Babylon 5, this station whose very reason for existence was peace between all sentient races. Lately, with war between them now breaking out in earnest, that goal was seeming further and further remote, but for the moment, the balance of power held, precariously. And it was simple common-sense self-preservation to obey the instructions of the traffic controller on a station as crowded with ships as this one was now.

  The rest of the docking maneuvers were uneventful, even tedious, and from time to time Ivanova's thoughts wandered to the waiting message: urgent and personal. Who could have sent it to her? What could they want?

  With the crisis finally averted, she returned control of traffic operations to the technicians on duty, then after a slight hesitation, she queried the computer for the name of the sender of that one particular message.

  "The sender's name is J. D."

  "J. D.?" she wondered aloud. "Just J. D.?"

  "There is no other name or identification with the message."

  But Ivanova had already remembered. Ortega. J. D. Ortega. But what was he doing here on Babylon 5? And what urgent business could he have with her? As far as she knew, Ortega had gone back home to Mars, turning down a career in Earthforce, choosing to go back to the mines while Ivanova went on to be promoted full commander before she was thirty. His face was coming back to her now: the blue-black curly hair, the warm smile.

  There hadn't been anything between the two of them. It would have been wrong for a number of reasons: J. D. was her flight instructor, he was fiercely loyal to his wife back home on Mars. Ivanova remembered how he kept her picture with him all the timewhat was her name? Constanzia? Ivanova had always suspected that it was for Constanzia's sake that he'd left Earthforce. It was hard to imagine him down in the red cavern of some Martian mine instead of the freedom of a Starfury.

  But he'd taught her everything she knew about flying. Yes, she remembered.

  "Let's see the message," she finally ordered the computer.

  "Playing message now."

  The face that appeared on her communications screen was and was not J. D.'s. His father, maybe,
or a brother, she thought at first. This was an older face, with the laugh lines deeper and somehow not so much like laughter. Ivanova had to suppress a sudden urge to stare at her own face in the mirror surface of her console. Have we changed so much? Has it been so long? Ten years?

  But the voice was the same. The message was brief, hurried. "Susan, I'm in trouble. They say you're Number Two here on this station. I don't know anyone else who might be able to help. There's something I have to tell you. Please, meet me in the Alpha Wing ready room at 20:00 hours."

  "J. D.?" Ivanova asked aloud, but it was the computer that responded: "End of message."

  20:00 hours. Ivanova thought quickly. She'd be off duty by then. Of course she'd meet him. But what kind of trouble was he in? Why did he seem so nervous, even fearful? What was wrong?

  "Computer, what time is it now?"

  "21:55 hours."

  Ivanova stood up, paced the width of the room, sat down again. The ready room was empty, which it usually was at this hour, when Alpha Wing was off duty. She'd been here almost two hours, first watching the news on the wall screens, then reading a few of the old newspapers lying around the place, finally resorting to a holographic game that she found under a seat cushion, sending a tiny image of a Starfury zipping around the room on the tail of a Minbari fighter. It probably ought to be confiscated, she thought. Earth was at peace with the Minbari now, it couldn't do any good to go bringing up the war again, especially here on Babylon 5 where running into a real Minbari fighter was a frequent occurrence. On the other hand, it was a fairly good game.

  She was still in uniform, her hair pulled back into the braid she usually wore on duty, contributing an edge to the headache she could feel now, throbbing above her temples. Almost two hours! Where was J. D.? Her concern had progressed from "Why doesn't he show up on time?" to "What's keeping him?" and by now to "What's happened to him?"

  "Computer, what time is it now?"

  "22:02 hours."

  More than two hours. And in all that time, no one had come into the room. Only one other person had been here at all, a large man with Oriental features who'd come out of the rest room and brushed past her just after she entered the main waiting room.

  So what had happened to J. D.? In his message, he'd said he was in trouble. Had seemed afraid. Hard to believe that J. D. Ortega could have any enemies at all, let alone here on Babylon 5, where he'd never set foot until

  Until when? How long had he been on the station? Why hadn't he contacted her until now?

  "Computer, when did J. D. Ortega arrive on the station?"

  "Station registry shows there have been eight individuals named Ortega arriving at Babylon 5 since it first went on-line. None of them had the initials J. D."

  "What? That's impossible!"

  There was a computer console at a battered table in one corner, and Ivanova went to it now and queried the registry again. A list of names scrolled down the screen. It was true. Ortega, J. D. wasn't listed.

  Now, that was wrong, just plain very wrong. If J. D. was somewhere on the station, he had to be in the registry. She called up his message again and queried its origin.

  "Message was sent from Gray 18 at 13:08 hours."

  So he was on the station. That was J. D. Ortega's face on the screen. His voice: "I'm in trouble."

  Ivanova was starting to wonder just what kind of trouble. "Something's going on," she said to herself in a low voice. But maybe the registry was the wrong place to be looking.

  "Computer, search all files for the name J. D. Ortega," she ordered.

  The response wasn't quite what she'd wanted to hear. "This file is restricted."

  Ivanova scowled. She input her password, identifying herself as the station's executive officer.

  "Password is valid. Security clearance is valid. Accessing file: J. D. Ortega."

  And there was his image on the screen, but this time it was flagged for all Earth Alliance Security Forces: FUGITIVE ALERT. RED LEVEL. WANTED FOR SUSPICION OF TERRORISM AND CONSPIRACY.

  J. D. Ortega? A terrorist? A part of Ivanova's universe shifted on its foundations. No, that was impossible, it couldn't be true, it had to be some kind of error. Mistaken identity. But the face on the screenit was J. D.'s.

  Shaken and anxious, she touched her personal communications link to switch it on. "Garibaldi? This is Ivanova."

  With relief, she heard the familiar voice of Babylon 5's security chief answering, "Ivanova? What's up?"

  "I know you're not on duty"

  "Hey, there's no rest for the wicked, and that's me. Spill it, Ivanova."

  But that was harder than it sounded. Ivanova started to explain, "Earlier today I got a message from an old friend. My old flight instructor. He asked me to meet him in the Alpha Wing ready room at 20:00 hours. I've waited all that time. He never showed."

  Garibaldi's voice was amused. "Stood you up, huh? You want security to track down your date for you?"

  Ivanova shook off the remark. Michael Garibaldi was notorious for his bad jokes, but she wasn't in the mood for him to start now.

  "In his message, he said he was in trouble." She hesitated. Was this betraying J. D.? "When he didn't show up after more than two hours, I queried the computer. First, it said there was no record of him in the station registry. Then ... it said there was an alert out for him. On suspicion of terrorism."

  Garibaldi's voice was suddenly serious. "What's your friend's name?"

  "J. D. Ortega."

  There was a pause. Then Garibaldi said grimly, "I think you'd better meet me in Security Central, Commander."

  He was waiting for her, waiting in his usual swivel chair, surrounded by banks of screens and instrumentation that took up half the space in the office. Garibaldi's gray Earthforce uniform was, as usual, not quite as crisp as a career officer's might be. He'd been around a long while and come to believe that results were what counted, not image. Ivanova had come to learn that he usually got the results.

  On the main console, a file was displayed on a data screen. Garibaldi waved Ivanova over to it. "Is this your friend?" he asked her. "Does he come from Mars Colony?"

  With a slight feeling of reluctance, she nodded. "That's J. D."

  "It looks like your friend Ortega's gone and gotten himself involved in Mars Colony politics. Separatist politics, the Free Mars movement. Earth Central put out the alert for him ten days ago."

  "No." She shook her head, reading through the file, stunned by the revelations. "No, Garibaldi, this can't be right. Not J. D. You don't know himhow he is. I mean, his wife, his family mean everything to him. He gave up his career for them, so he could stay home on Mars. He went back to work for the mines. He wouldn't ..."

  Ivanova's voice trailed off, silenced by what she was reading. "Do you have him in the lockup? Is that where he is?"

  Garibaldi shook his head. "Until now, I had no idea he might even be on Babylon 5. This was just a general alert, sent out to all Earth Alliance security officers. Tell me, how well do you know this guy? He was your flight instructor? Have you seen him since then? Met with him recently?"

  "No, not since he left Earthforce. That was before I took the assignment on Io. Where I served under Captain Sheridan the first time." She paused abruptly, looked at Garibaldi with an altered expression, suddenly aware that this was an interrogation. Then she went on in the same controlled voice she used at the command console. "I haven't seen him since then. A few messages, the kind of thing you send on the holidays. The last few years, no, nothing. I don't think I've thought of him in the last few years-until today."

  Garibaldi said quietly, "I think you'd better show me that message you got today."

  Ivanova felt a strange sensation of being torn in half. J. D. had come to her for help. But she had no choice, not as an Earthforce officer. And besides, she realized at once that Garibaldi didn't really need to ask her permission. As head of station security, he had access to almost any message he wanted to see. "Of course," she said quickly, coverin
g up the momentary hesitation.

  This time, viewing the message on the screen, she couldn't help seeing J. D. Ortega's expression as furtive, the face of a man on the run. "I'm in trouble," he was saying. That was certainly an understatement , Ivanova thought.

  "That's him," she confirmed it again, shaking her head. "I just can't understand it. Not J. D."

  "But we do know," Garibaldi reminded her, "that he managed to get onto Babylon 5 and send at least one message without being identified. That's what worries me. How did he manage to get onto the station without triggering the alert? And if he could do that, what else was he involved in? We've got no idea how long he's been on the station. Or if someone's been hiding him. If we have a branch of the Free Mars organization on Babylon 5, that's a problem."

  Ivanova wasn't quite ready to give up. "But if he was a terrorist, then why would he come to me for help? He must have known my position on the station. If he was involved in Free Mars, why not go to them? Maybe they're the ones who were after him. He said he was in trouble."

  "I'd certainly like to know, too. Which means we have to take him in for questioning. Whenever he contacts you again."

  Wordlessly, she agreed. But there was still that gnawing doubt.

  Ortega's face was still displayed on the screen. J. D.? What kind of trouble are you in? What happened? Where were you tonight?

  CHAPTER 2

  The distress signal was going out on all frequencies, to all ships in Epsilon Sector as well as Babylon 5. On the communications screen in the station's Observation Dome, the pilot's frantic face was sweating as he sent, "Mayday! Mayday! We're under attack! Raiders closing in fast! We need help out here! This is the transport ship Cassini, coordinates Red 470 by 13 by 16! Mayday! Mayday!"

  Captain John Sheridan was at the command console. Instantly, he ordered, "Commander Ivanova, scramble Alpha Wing! We've got raiders! Red 470 by 13 by 16! That's out by the secondary transit point in Section 13!"

  Ivanova was already heading at a run for the Cobra bays where her fighter stood prepped and ready to go, while in the Observation Dome Sheridan continued to deal with the endangered transport ship. The main force of raider ships had been eliminated last year, but there were still small pockets, independent units functioning alone. "Cassini, this is Babylon Control, we have a fighter wing scrambling now. Are you hit? What weapons do you have? Can you hold them off till we get there?"