PART 2 - Ingata
by V. Wildeber, 18 November 1997

It was almost half a year later, and another massive war cruiser floated silently off the starboard bow of the Ingata. The commander of the Terinni had given Neroon the news that this ship was on its way back from exploring the Rim. The Ingata had intercepted the Valeda as it returned to make its report to the Grey Council. Now, the two warcruisers would travel together to the Nine.

Onboard the Ingata, an undertone of excitement crackled through the air, only partly contained by the studied professionalism of the crew members, as the flyer of Shai Alyt Lakhir of the Wind Swords, betrothed to Shai Alyt Neroon of the Star Riders, approached the docking bay. Neroon waited in apparent patience, exuding calm. Beside him, Shukran knew better, but said nothing.

The airlock doors opened, and in strode the most beautiful Minbari Shukran had ever seen. Lakhir was fully Neroon's height, with piercing green eyes and aquiline features. Her headbone swept up in an imposing crown of intricately carved swirls, held at a perpetual angle of well-deserved pride. Lakhir met and locked with Neroon's dark eyes, and Shukran felt the air become charged.

"Shai Alyt Lakhir of the warcruiser Valeda, I welcome you to the Ingata. Lakhir of the Wind Swords, my intended, I welcome you to my home." They stepped toward each other in the blessing ritual of close friends, right hands extended to each others' chests.

"Shai Alyt Neroon of the warcruiser Ingata, I am honored by your hospitality. Neroon of the Star Riders, my intended, I share your home."

Neroon's deep-set eyes were, well, glowing. There was no other word for it. Shukran unobtrusively shrank back against the bulkhead and began to study the patterns of light against the deck panels while the couple murmured more personal greetings.

The footsteps of an officer in the corridor broke the quiet. Shukran moved quickly to intercept the messenger, then returned to relay his words to Neroon.

"I regret that I have urgent business to attend to. Shukran will show you to your room and insure that you have all you need. I shall not be long."

Lakhir nodded her head slightly in reply, a mocking half-smile dancing on her lips for just a moment, but remaining in her eyes. "Of course." She turned and swept past, her cloak brushing against Neroon. Neroon stared after her for a moment, looking oddly young. Shukran bowed to Neroon and started after Lakhir, having to trot a little to keep up.

The courtship rituals had definite purpose. They were designed to ensure that the couple to be married was perfectly suited for each other, and completely aware of what they were embarking upon -- for divorce was not an option. The more important families of the senior clans often planned potential marriages when the intended couple was very young. These betrothed couples grew up knowing that they were intended for each other, and usually did marry, after completing the courtship rituals. Sometimes, however, the courtship rituals served their purpose, and proved the couple to be unsuited. Quietly, the engagement would be dissolved, with no honor lost.

Neroon of the Star Riders and Lakhir of the Wind Swords had been betrothed from childhood, and had spent the better part of their growing years together. They had been perfectly matched: he, languid and deliberate, like a panther on prowl; she, swift and incisive, falcon-like. They had competed in everything, and had both risen through the ranks of their clans at meteoric rates to the rank of Shai Alyt.

After commissioning, they had been separated, serving with their clans. They had fewer opportunities to spend time together over the years, but never lost track of each other. When they did meet, it was usually at some formal occasion, and they seldom had much time to be alone. Neroon had joked that Minbar entrusted him with the lives of 351 of its finest warriors, but would not trust him to be alone for a moment with the woman he was to marry. Tonight was different.

Lakhir had insisted that Shukran stay somewhere else tonight. Neroon hadn't put up too much of an argument. It wasn't like he was firing his aide -- Lakhir had not even brought her aide onboard. It was sort of ironic, though, since Shukran already knew his true face. After all, she was his aide. But for tonight, she would stay down the corridor.

Tonight was the first night of the courtship rituals -- the first of three nights where Lakhir would watch him sleep, in order to discover his true face. If she did not approve of what she saw, the betrothal was over. Assuming that she did like what she saw, more rituals would follow, at a more rapid pace than normal in order to complete them all before the two warcruisers arrived at the Grey Council ship.

In the dark, the silence was deafening. Neroon lay on his bed, eyes shut, mind racing. He could not sleep. He rolled over onto his side and tried to get comfortable. It didn't work. All his senses kept reminding him of the woman who shared his room that night -- sitting silent and half-obscured in the corner, watching and waiting for him to fall asleep. Even with his eyes closed, he saw Lakhir. When he rolled on his left side, he saw her in profile. He flipped onto his stomach, and saw her from behind. The soft scent of her skin filled the room. Neroon realized that this would be a very long night.

Quiet footsteps approached the uptilted bed, and he felt Lakhir's soft touch on his arm. He opened one eye and smiled ruefully, "I don't suppose you saw my true face, then?"

"No," she smiled. "Here, this will help you relax." She began rubbing his shoulders, gently kneading the tensed muscles. He shifted over a bit, giving her room to sit beside him. One of the benefits of being Shai Alyt was the larger bed -- a benefit which Neroon suddenly found very appealing.

Shukran sounded the door chime softly, then silently entered the quarters with the morning reports for both ships. Through the door to Shai Alyt Neroon's room filtered the sounds of soft mutterings and low laughter. Shukran retrieved the teapot from the cabinet, assuming that Lakhir had decided to awaken Neroon early. No problem -- she would make the tea, set out breakfast, and leave. Soon, to Shukran's embarrassment, it became apparent that the couple had begun an advanced reconnaissance of their centers of pleasure -- a part of the courtship ritual which was supposed to come much later, and which was always chaperoned. A soft groan punctuated the silence. The young aide looked at the door, then down at the teacup she held, and deliberately dropped it.

The sound of breaking china wiped the fog from Neroon's brain and brought him crashing back to reality. He gently pushed himself away from Lakhir and slid over to the edge of the bed. He had allowed things to go entirely too far.

Already the crews of the Valeda and Ingata had challenged each other to a contest. This time, to preclude any flyer accident similar to the previous one, the contest was to be played out over the entire course of the trip back to the Grey Council ship. There would be challenges daily, with limited participants. Not only would this stretch out the entertainment value of the contest, but it had the additional benefit of allowing the warriors of both warcruisers time to recuperate between matches.

Neroon and Lakhir strode side-by-side down the corridors toward the practice hall. Shukran had conveniently gone on ahead to prepare tea for them in the commons, then had disappeared on some other mission.

Somehow, the commons was empty save for the two commanders. Neroon suspected that Shukran had something to do with that. Lakhir had gone straight over to the porthole with her tea, and was staring out into the stars at the Valeda. Warming his hands on his cup, Neroon walked over to the porthole and leaned against the bulkhead behind her, watching the steam from his tea curl up to embrace her. "What are you looking at?" he asked, softly.

"My ship. I can never tire of looking at her. It's a rare privilege, lately." She smiled and turned to face him, "But not rare any more." She moved closer and kissed him, then turned again toward her ship.

Neroon stepped closer, wrapping an arm around her lightly, smiling at how she fit so perfectly into his side. He gazed out into the starry depths of the night and was amazed by the beauty that was all around them. He sipped his tea and hugged Lakhir a little closer, feeling a warm contentment at the wonder of the moment.

"We can set up a skin-dancing challenge." Lakhir's sudden comment startled him out of his reverie.

"Hmm?"

"Both our crews could use the practice -- and if we set it up as a competition, they'll improve even faster!" Lakhir's eyes glowed as she began planning for pilot training, envisioning hundreds of fighters skimming tight to the skins of the "opponent" warcruisers -- playing a deadly game to come in under the enemy's guns. She spun around, giving Neroon a playful hug, and coming to rest on the planter under the porthole.

As she unveiled her idea, she picked at the dull leaves of the plant, finally coming to the bud. "What do you have this thing doing onboard?" she interrupted herself impatiently. "It's a waste of oxygen!" Absently, she flicked the bud off the plant and returned to thinking out loud about the new contest.

Neroon looked down at the broken bud, just a crumpled ball of gray with a touch of red at the tip. Suddenly, the stars became balls of gas again, mere navigational aids. Across the way floated a warcruiser built of alloys and metals, a weapons platform, a base, and a tool to be used in accomplishing the mission. There was no beauty in the night -- only pragmatism.

He took her cup, stacked it in his, and set them both down. "The pilots will benefit greatly from this training. We should go to the practice hall -- we're keeping everyone waiting." They then proceeded to keep everyone waiting just a bit longer.

The Wind Swords of the Valeda fought each round as if it were a death-match, stopping only when the referee intervened. The easy camaraderie of the challenge with the Terinni was replaced by a thick tension. It was almost with a sense of relief that the exhausted officers of the Ingata escorted their opponents back to their flyers at the end of the day's match. This competition would test everyone to their utmost -- the sort of a challenge that warriors thrived upon.

After several hours spent laying out battle drills and skin-dancing exercises, Neroon walked with Lakhir to the bay. They had spent three nights together in sleep-watching; but tonight was the night of reflection, spent apart. It was one of the rituals imposed upon all the castes by the religious caste -- a time for contemplation and prayer. The warrior caste tended to use it more as a bachelor party, in preparation for the next ritual -- the night of discovery.

Tomorrow night, Neroon and a few selected officers would board the Valeda, where he and Lakhir would explore each others' centers of pleasure. The officers, both Neroon's and Lakhir's, would be in the quarters, outside the bedroom, ostensibly to keep things from going too far.

Once the night of discovery was over, there were still more rituals to undergo. Under normal circumstances, these rituals would be spread out over a protracted period of time, allowing for contemplation between each event. But these were not normal circumstances, and Neroon and Lakhir were racing through their rituals as if they were hurdles on an obstacle course. They would stand before the Grey Council as husband and wife, partners for life.

They held each other close in the flyer bay, unobserved. Again, Shukran had gotten there ahead of them, and had emptied the bay and relieved the officer on duty in the bay control room. As they kissed goodbye, Lakhir glanced up at the control room and murmured, "Your aide does good work."

Neroon watched from behind the airlock as the flyer hovered, then slipped smoothly out of the bay, bearing the woman he was to marry back to her ship. In a way, he regretted the haste that they were choosing to take. But another part of him wanted to do away with the rituals altogether and get on with the marriage. He felt like a coiled spring.

Shukran had been surprised when Neroon asked her to stay with him for the night of reflection. She had assumed that he would ask Durell or Jitenn, since both were Star Riders.

They finished their tea, and Shukran rose to clear the table and begin washing dishes. Neroon pushed back from the table and glanced down at the neat stack of reports at his elbow, then stood, leaving them unread. He walked into the kitchen and began drying dishes as his aide washed them. She looked up, surprised, but smiled in thanks.

They discussed crew efficiency reports, training status, equipment readiness, fuel and supply usage rates, and all of the other mundane but necessary information required to keep a warcruiser running. It was all information which he could have just as easily gotten from the stack of reports on the table, or by a quick call to Alyt Durell on the bridge.

But this was not the way the night of reflection was supposed to be. It was the night to remember old friends and relive dear memories -- a night to be thankful for the blessings and lessons of the past, and to prepare to embrace the future. On this night, the couple was to spend the evening apart, sharing their concerns and their hopes with one or two of their closest friends. In a way, it was a confirmation of the decision to go forward with one of the most intimate of the courtship rituals -- the night of discovery.

Neroon crossed over to his room, returning with an armload of his uniforms and a pair of boots. Unceremoniously, he dumped them on the floor. "Tonight, Shukran, we are not Shai Alyt and aide -- we are just old friends and old aides. We will prepare our uniforms together and remember old times." He grinned uncharacteristically, sitting heavily on the couch with a flourish. "And I'll show you how to *really* polish armor!"

Shukran cocked her head and looked down at her mentor. On occasion, he was playful, showing the youthfulness that years of responsibility and war sought to stifle. It was one of his most endearing qualities, actually -- a quality lost on most people, who never saw beneath his bluff exterior.

A few moments later, she flopped down beside him on the couch, a pile of her own uniforms in her lap.

They talked for hours, preparing every uniform they each owned. After a while, Neroon pulled his boots back on, noting his reflection against the toe, and slung his cloak over his tunic, leaving his armor folded neatly on the table. "Come along, Shukran." Shukran followed suit, and joined him as he headed out toward the practice hall.

Alone in the empty hall, the two sparred and talked. Blows were landed, yes, but they were all pulled at the last moment, becoming light taps. Both of them were expert at the denn'bok, and could crush skulls and collapse organs with the deadly weapon. At the moment, this skill enabled them to ensure that their blows landed softly enough that they would not crack an egg.

The hall rang with the sharp, metallic sound of pike against pike, the occasional thud of a well-landed blow, and the sound of low conversation and laughter. Neroon enjoyed sparring immensely. The denn'bok was his favored weapon, and he was one of the best of his people with it, trained by Sech Durhan himself. And between them, Neroon and Branmer had trained Shukran and the other members of the crew, honing their skills to deadly perfection.

Sometime late into the next watch, the two walked slowly through the corridors back toward his quarters, cutting through the commons to get some tea. Neroon stood at the porthole, gazing out at the stars, lost in thought. He turned to see Shukran at his side, extending a cup of tea to him.

She touched a leaf of the drab little plant in surprise. "I had hoped that it would be in bloom for your marriage. I suppose someone accidentally knocked into it."

Neroon looked down, only now noticing where he was standing, and bent down to pick up the damaged bud. He turned the shriveled piece over in his hand, then placed it beside the plant. Softly he said, "I'm sorry, Shukran."

"It's just a plant. It will bloom again in half a year." She paused, and continued shyly. "My father used to give my mother flowers. I just thought that Lakhir might like one for her wedding."

The broad shoulders of the Shai Alyt stiffened slightly. He turned and looked down on the completely sincere face of his aide. There was no guile in her eyes -- only openness, kindness, and a naiveté that broke his heart. He could not bring himself to tell her that Lakhir had broken the plant out of careless indifference, and that she would never have seen any value whatsoever in a thing of fragile beauty like a flower. "Thank you, Shukran," he whispered uncomfortably. "It was good of you to think of her."

He turned back toward the porthole and stared out again, unseeing. He was still feeling unsettled about continuing the courtship rituals at the breakneck pace which they had set. The speed was unusual, but was necessary in order to fit the mission deadlines set for both warcruisers. At the moment, he wanted very much just to be able to rest -- and to be quite married to the woman in the ship just off Ingata's bow.

He finished his tea and set it down, glancing back at his aide. She was waiting quietly for him, omnipresent, trusting, fiercely loyal. He suddenly realized just how much he appreciated her -- and how much he would miss her after his marriage. He and Lakhir had gone over the officer rosters, and had selected several of the best for promotions and new assignments. His aide was on the list. She didn't know it, yet.

"Shukran -- I was very glad to see that you were safe after the explosion. I never took the time to tell you. You...," he paused, irritated by the awkwardness he suddenly felt.

Shukran looked uncomfortable.

"You mean ... a great deal to me, Shukran." Another long pause. "Besides," he continued dryly, "I'd never get a decent cup of tea around here without you." Shukran looked up at him and smiled, the tension broken. "Well, it's late."

The two dark figures, looking oddly small without their armor, turned and strode down the corridor.

Once inside, Neroon set aside his cloak and sat at the table, going through the reports, knowing very well that he would find nothing new in them. Shukran took his cloak, brushed it out, and disappeared with it and the rest of his uniforms into his room. Then she took her uniforms back to her alcove. She returned and stood silently, discrete as always, waiting for the Shai Alyt to retire.

Neroon sighed and rubbed his eyes, then closed the reports and stood. He looked over to Shukran and reached out toward her in the blessing ritual. She stepped forward until his hand touched her chest, then slipped her hand up to cover his. The tall Minbari thought for a moment, then reached out with his left hand and grasped his aide's right, guiding it to his chest and holding it there. Shukran looked up at him in surprise, then the two bowed to touch foreheads together -- the blessing ritual of dear friends and equals. "Good night, my friend," he intoned. "Sleep well."

She loved him. She always had loved him, from the moment that she first saw him, standing tall and arrogant beside Shai Alyt Branmer. Branmer was always kind to her, and never seemed to notice that Shukran couldn't reach the upper controls without standing on her toes. His aide followed suit, often sitting to receive her reports so her size would not be so obvious.

Of course, she had never entertained any thought that he might ever love her. It was ridiculous. He was of the first families of Minbar. It would be a waste of good blood to join with her, a half-caste from the most junior warrior clan. And so she loved him silently, passionately, and completely privately. (Except for that embarrassing moment after the explosion, when she forgot herself completely and spontaneously hugged him. Fortunately, Neroon seemed to have glossed over that unprofessional display of hers.) She had convinced herself that she was content in unrequited love.

And now, this. His intended was here to claim him, as planned long ago by their parents. Lakhir was absolutely magnificent -- and Neroon was obviously in love with her.

Shukran lay on her bed, unable to sleep. She alone of the crew knew why Neroon was escorting the Valeda to the Grey Council ship. He had been called before the Council to take the place of Delenn as Satai, to bring the warrior caste into the position of prominence it deserved. It was imperative that Neroon and Lakhir be married before Neroon joined the Grey Council -- for the religious caste would surely protest the marriage of a Star Rider Satai Shai Alyt to a Shai Alyt of the Wind Swords.

She shut her eyes and sighed. She was his aide, and would continue as his aide until she died or he relieved her -- or, as she had accidentally discovered today, until he promoted her. She had no business feeling this way about a man who was engaged to be married... Surely it wouldn't always be this miserable -- life would get better, and she would take her joy from doing her job well, and seeing him happy... She opened her eyes and groaned. This line of reasoning was going nowhere.

Neroon couldn't sleep either. The spring in his gut was winding still tighter. He got up and padded over to the porthole.

Formal training occurred on the bridge or in the training hall, but the informal mentoring which truly developed the junior leadership of the warrior caste was carried out at portholes and over cups of tea. At this porthole, a young aide to Branmer had slowly, dimly, begun to comprehend the fact that there was more to life than just pragmatics. He, in turn, had continued these discussions with his aide, slim and dark in the starlight, who saw beauty in the night.

Sadly, he realized that he would never have these kinds of discussions with Lakhir. But with her, he would be the most powerful Minbari alive, Satai of the Grey Council -- a Grey Council dominated by warriors --commanding a pair of warcruisers and a subfleet unequaled in the Minbari Federation. His hand slowly tightened into a fist, and his breathing grew deeper.

Lakhir awoke in him a fierce passion that seemed to singe his very soul. If he closed his eyes, he could see her clearly, could smell her scent and feel her touch, hear her voice... He leaned his head against the porthole, listening for her voice whispering to him in the night. He heard ... absolutely nothing.

Of course, the religious caste members, saffron-robed and trembling, would protest the alliance of two such powerful houses in a member of the Grey Council. If all went as planned, the wedding ceremony would be completed just as they came into viewing distance of the Grey Council cruiser. Neroon would be initiated as Satai -- then would return to the Valeda to consummate his marriage -- *finally*! Technically, it would all be above-board.

* A half-truth is the worst kind of a lie. *

Those passionless, whimpering priests with their purposely-vague prophesies -- they would complain, but to no avail. Certainly the workers wouldn't raise a fuss. They were on the Grey Council for form more than function, as far as Neroon was concerned. Valen had been a warrior, and the Grey Council should, by all rights, be a warrior's council. Who were these religious zealots, anyway, to get in the way of what was rightfully his?

* Minbari never lie, unless absolutely necessary to save face for another. *

A trail of light shot across the night -- a "thrown star," as Shukran would have said. He looked down at his clenched fist, opening his fingers and staring at them as if he had just found them. The spring coiled inside him was well past breaking point. Neroon stared at his reflection in the porthole for a moment, then slammed his hand into the glass.

A fighting pike extended with a deadly click, and swift light footsteps sounded outside his door.

"It's all right, Shukran!" He endeavored to look calm.

She entered his room warily, pike held low. Subtly, she glanced around the room, then at Neroon. He made no move to speak, so she bowed and turned to leave. His voice froze her in the doorway.

"Shukran." His voice was low and cold. "Prepare my flyer."

Her stomach wrenched. He was going to Lakhir -- against all traditions -- because he couldn't be without her. It was obvious he was in pain -- and was getting angry. Shukran pivoted back toward Neroon, saluting without looking up, then darted out of the room.

The Shai Alyt turned back to the porthole, regaining his composure. Moments later, he heard his aide rush out, her boots thudding down the corridor.

His personal flyer was ready when he arrived at the bay. He nodded evenly to his aide, standing stiffly at attention by the hatch, and bent to enter.

"I think it's all too fast, Shai Alyt."

He nearly brained himself spinning around to face his aide. She stared right back at him with smouldering eyes that seemed to pin him in place. She was taking an extreme chance. Defiance like this was not tolerated in the warrior caste. Neroon brought himself up to his full height, towering over his young aide, and glared down at her.

Stubbornly, she held his gaze. He jerked her up roughly by her collar, pulling her off-balance, up onto the toes of one foot, and scowled down into her rebellious eyes. He saw anger and surprise, which he expected -- but also pain which seemed to reach down to the depths of her soul. She was not merely his aide, but his friend. She had challenged him with good reason.

"Valen preserve us from those who would follow us blindly." Gruffly, he set her back down, boxing her affectionately across the headbone with his glove. They stood there awkwardly for a moment. He turned and ducked down into the flyer, then pulled the hatch shut behind him.

"You are clear to depart, Shai Alyt." The voice from the bay control room was Shukran's -- not surprisingly, she had cleared the bay before Neroon had gotten there. Neroon realized that his aide had probably entered something innocuous -- and false --as his destination, in order to preserve his honor. Going to Lakhir right now was tantamount to admitting to his entire crew that he had no self-control. He pulled out of the bay and gunned the engine, pouring his frustration into the flyer.

-- continued in Part Three --