Drakkon by JC Williamson Disclaimer: "Drakkon," is a not-for-profit fiction, loosely (and unofficially) based upon the "Babylon 5" universe created by, and copyrighted to, J. Michael Straczynski. My ideas, creations, explanations and postulations are speculative, interpretive, and not to be confused with the gospel according to Joe. Note to Readers: This story is et in the season-two B5 time-frame, hence it does not reflect character changes and events which followed later in the series. Earlier versions of "Drakkon" (AKA: "Drackon") were posted to B5 linked sites in 1995 and may still be out there, somewhere. I've re-polished and rejuvenated the story for this Starrider site }}}:-D -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- CHAPTER ONE : EKO It is the dawn .... That much I know, despite the relentless darkness of these deep tunnels and despite the fact that here, time makes no difference at all. An internal clock still marks all the days I'm losing. Besides which, our captors -- the Vashtans -- are nocturnal. They appear at measured intervals, frantically scrambling down from topside, en masse, driven by their own genetic alarms. Drakkon doesn't move -- you'd think he was frozen, except his eyes track every sound or movement. Elite Minbari warriors are almost mythically versed in strict disciplines governing physical and spiritual control, but inward, he struggles not to scream. In my six long months on Minbar, he had not revealed such inner steel as I'd witnessed here, in these last ... what, thirteen days? He is hellishly wounded. His troops, wild with helplessness, wait offworld, on the trapped Zepho -- the Wind Sword's flagship -- held by forces inexplicably beyond their technology and experience. Down here, nervous Vashtans natter and harp at him with impunity. Worse, he endures all this indignation in company with me -- a human, a rogue. And Alyt Drakkon not only clearly disdains humans, he cannot comprehend expatriots. Although my work as a high-level telepath has earned respect on Minbar, I'm just a homeless alien to him. Yet here we are, trapped. I'm his best hope of salvation and he is mine. Not reassuring for either of us. Especially since I know what the Vashtans want to know, which is all about Drakkon's urgent mission and his clan's most intricate defenses. And soon they'll know -- he'll be expendable and, at the very least, I'll be back under Psi Corps' control. There's no reason he should trust me. I've given no cause for his distrust either, but Alyt Drakkon relies on inherent, demonstrated loyalty -- and what I've shown him, in all these past months, falls far outside those conditions. From the first, when Satai Hedronn insisted on my presence throughout the caste alignment negotiations, Drakkon has tried to lock me out, forcing me to circumvent his most convoluted and defensive mental walls. My tenacity is necessary -- he knows that. Hates it, but understands the Satai's demands. What he doesn't know is how carefully I've avoided any intrusion upon his personal privacy. In truth, a less gifted telepath could not so adroitly keep within the lines. But even the Minbari, who actually feel the most superficial scans acutely, can't sense how far their more unwitting revelations go. He also doesn't know how hard this is for me. Such specific scanning is difficult to begin with, even for a level-twelve. It's maddening when temptation interferes. And yes, Drakkon tempts me. He'd hate to know that and I'd hate for him to know. It's been quite enough being one of the few humans on Minbar, without my problematic curiosity further fueling their aloof perceptions of our more gregarious species as merely crass and insensitive. So I've worked diligently at maintaining a professional distance, adhering to the Minbari social protocol as best I understand it, controlling my innate tendency to push for engaging responses. My hipshot style has always gotten me into trouble. Growing up, I could hardly wait to flee Psi Corp's depressingly humorless ranks. I've been gladly free of them for years now, and prior to my service to the Satai, I'd steered clear of somber, ritualistic societies, with alacrity. And of course, the Minbari would never deal with the Corps. Telepathic evolution is so unevenly distributed, even the weakest of us independents find our talents and services in widespread demand -- and there are more high-level human tepes on the outside than most Earthers suspect. Oddly, it was Lyta, my childhood companion from the Corps, who brought me into Hedronn's game, and honestly, I hesitated. But although she never revealed why, I knew it was important, and I trusted her. Despite the dangers, we've always stayed in contact. Lyta's more skilled, and sneakier by far, than most anybody aside from me has ever realized, but she has her own agenda and the Minbar assignment was, frankly, out of her league. Deep work with alien minds requires high and extremely refined psi skills, but the leveled differences between human telepaths aren't much understood on Minbar. They have another human tepe in training there -- a raw young girl named Allisa -- who lacks the necessary skill, but displays a most unusual psi talent. So Satai Hedronn, ever the astute observor, did appreciate that humans may have advantages over Minbari in some telepathic areas. For a leader of the religious caste, he's a surprisingly pragmatic and forceful man. Not that Minbari pay attention to gender. Their unisexual stance still throws me, especially considering my previous, frequent work with the Narns. Believe me, once you've learned to appreciate Narn masculinity, aliens never seem quite so alien again. Indeed, even the haughty Hedronn has his charms, but when I jokingly mentioned this to Mailin (my one Minbari friend) she simply stared at me, as if trying to deconstruct my lessor evolutionary state. At first I didn't buy all that frigid Minbari control -- emotions so obviously and easily flare up between these profoundly sensitive people. But it's no act. Generations of Minbari have stringently denied overt displays and excesses. Perhaps it's at the root of what separates them, keeping their restrictive caste system intact. Drakkon, when I met him, was entirely what I expected yet nothing at all like I'd feared. He is one sharp-tongued warlord, flamboyant and imperious to the max, but Wind Swords are, after all, a most fearsome warrior clan with an infamous offworld reputation as the Dilgar Deathwalker's protectors, which branded them as loose cannons. So the Alyt's brashness didn't shock me, and his condescension didn't hurt. The usual warrior stuff on any world, in my experience. But I soon saw that this warrior had disturbing and stirring depths. When he wasn't pointedly ignoring my presence, Drakkon taunted me without saying a word -- an intriguing nonverbal skill any telepath has to admire. Bound to counteract both his and Hedronn's determined maneuvering, I chose an aggressively passive route. I'd dealt with numerous religious-caste Minbari for prior clients and was relatively used to Hedronn's unflappable style. But their warriors I didn't know. Passionate and volatile by nature, they carry their heat so close to the surface, yet manage to keep it encased in a thin layer of impenetrable ice. It reminds me of so many tepes, myself included, who must maintain both professional and personal distances despite longings to tear down the walls. But while we are typically reticent, Minbari warriors strut. Dangerous! Exciting. Drakkon -- when he enters a room, he electrifies it. Hedronn with his quiet clout holds his own, but Alyt Drakkon's presence is a constant challenge. Even now, frozen in pain, in fury and self-inflicted unwarranted shame, his force is palpable, making the jumpy Vashtans all the more agitated. I want to reach out, if only to relieve his mental agony. With my level of skill, that's simple enough, but I dare go no deeper. An invasive, personal connection is out of the question with him. Although he is vulnerable, he remains indominable. The others, however, are another matter. Three strangers step forward, out of the darkness. Two are human and their black uniforms don't surprise me. They're skilled, but insufficient, although manipulating their perceptions of Drakkon's condition is something even I won't be able to keep up for very long. For now, they all believe he's dead -- he has no idea of this, but looks the part -- and I'm their sole focus. The Vashtan leader drops to his knees in front of me. He's holding a small device -- a probe, an enhancer -- I recognize all too well. Corps issue, designed to assist lower-level psi cops in plundering and controlling those with evolved psychic skills. Whoever and whatever the Vashtans serve, they'll get what they're after and that information will destroy far more than the Alyt, and me, and the Zepho. Knowledge of the Wind Swords' thwarted mission will extend to worlds of tragedy. Drakkon's heavy gaze locks onto me. Millions of reasons press to defeat the probe. Without Drakkon, and without me, the Zepho's agenda is safely lost. I know they'll get nothing from him ... I do have a choice. But mine isn't a martyr's choice. The one who distrusts me governs my decision. There is an obscure path -- a way for telepaths to travel inward that folds a mind, over and over, into itself, and away from all else. For a level-twelve it's so uncontrollably deep and twisted as to be irreversible. Virtual suicide, effectively like a mindwipe, actually a self-induced coma. You go in that door, where no one can follow, and you throw away the key. I wish he would understand. There's no way, no time, to be sure.