One of the advantages of being multilingual was that one could pick the best language for a given situation. This late at night,
on the border between Blue and Brown sectors after being dragged out of bed for what had turned out to be a complete non-event, called for profanity. And if
ever any human language had been optimized for wearily cursing the universe's neverending campaign to destroy what little remained of Susan's sanity,
her native Russian was it.
She had just rounded a corner in the deserted corridor, mind more fixated on reaching the nearest lift and getting back to her
cold and empty (but at least soft) bed than on her surroundings when it happened. Mere meters ahead of her, a sudden shimmer in the air, like a solid heat
haze, blurred the corridor for a moment before splitting apart like a theater curtain, opening onto a momentary sight that reminded her jarringly of the view
through a jump point.
Then a machine shot out of the opening, hit the deckplates, and plunged towards her on two narrow wheels with the whine of some
of king of engine Dopplering in her ears. Combat-honed reflexes dulled by shock and sleep deprivation, she stumbled backwards, slammed into the bulkhead, and
had just enough time to realize that there was no way she could dive down the angle of the corridor quickly enough--
-- before the howling machine screeched to a stop mere inches from running her down, leaving dark streaks on the decking and
probably giving its rider whiplash, judging from how his head snapped back and forth.
...the rider. The machine was an archaic -motorcycle-, Susan realized belatedly, which meant... "GARIBALDI!!! YOU'RE A
DEAD M--"
Her voice cut off as several facts finally registered in her brain.
??????: The motorcycle's rider was the wrong size and shape to be Michael Garibaldi.
??????: Despite the full-body protective suit, the open-faced helmet and goggles still left the rider's chin visible, and
that was definitely -not- Garibaldi's jawline. It was too clean-shaven, for one thing.
??????, and most important: Whatever near-tecnomagery the Security chief might be capable of when in pursuit of ever greater and
grander pranks (usually aimed at herself), teleportation wasn't one of them.
Not to mention the fact that for the past five seconds it had taken her to work through all this, the nameless rider, whom she
now realized was -strapped- to his machine, had hung limp and unmoving as a rag doll, either unconscious or--
She steeled herself and reached out to carefully poke one pale cheek below the goggles. Clammy, but warm. She dangled her hand
in front of his face and was rewarded with the sensation of shallow but steady respiration drifting past her fingers.
Great. She rolled her eyes upwards. "I don't know what I did to deserve this, but are you sure I was -that-
bad?"
There was, of course, no reply. Fortunately, her native tongue had a perfect word for this situation as well:
"Nichevo," she sighed, and activated her Link.
"C&C, this is Ivanova."
The response was startled. "Commander? What are you doing up?"
She rolled her eyes again. "Don't ask, Corwin. Call Chief Garibaldi and Doctor Franklin. Tell them I need them and an
incident team at--" she stopped to double-check the wall markers. "At Brown Twenty-Seven, Section Eighteen. ASAP."
"Um, Commander, I'm pretty sure they're both asleep, and I know the Chief had a bad day--" Corwin sounded less
than enthused at the idea of of waking the cantankerous head of security, which roused scant sympathy in Susan's heart. If -she- were going to have to pull
an all-nighter, then she might as damned well share the joy. "I don't care what kind of day he had," she cut the lieutenant off. "I want
them both down here, NOW. And don't worry," she added with just a bit of cheerful malice, "we'll be pulling in the Commander pretty soon
too."
"Yes, ma'am." Corwin somehow managed to sound brisk, efficient, and like a man being lead before a firing squad
all at the same time.
"Ivanova out." She killed the Link and propped her hands on her hips, glaring at the latest Weird Thing to hit Epsilon
Sector's infamous Weird Magnet (known officially as Babylon 5). Just one more damn thing that proved that the universe was out to get -her-, personally,
that's what it was. Just one... more....
Irritation gave way to bemusement. The motorcycle's engine had shut off after it stopped, the rider's legs were limp was
wet noodles, and she could see that the, uh, kick-stilt? Leg-strut? The whateveryoucallit that was supposed to hold the motorcycle upright... wasn't. So
-why- wasn't the darn thing tipping over?
"Who -are- you," she murmured, wide eyed. "And why are you -here-?"
If some stroke of divine precognition had given her the answer to those questions just then, Lieutenant Commander Susan
Ivanonva, Earthforce, second-in-command of Babylon 5, would have run for the cobra bays and taken her Starfury straight through the jumpgate on a course Away
From Here at the fighter's best possible speed. But since that would not have suited the whims of the universe, or the designs of the Powers directing the
path of the motorcycle's nameless rider, she was left in a state of blissful, if potentially lethal, ignorance.
For a little while longer, at least....
on the border between Blue and Brown sectors after being dragged out of bed for what had turned out to be a complete non-event, called for profanity. And if
ever any human language had been optimized for wearily cursing the universe's neverending campaign to destroy what little remained of Susan's sanity,
her native Russian was it.
She had just rounded a corner in the deserted corridor, mind more fixated on reaching the nearest lift and getting back to her
cold and empty (but at least soft) bed than on her surroundings when it happened. Mere meters ahead of her, a sudden shimmer in the air, like a solid heat
haze, blurred the corridor for a moment before splitting apart like a theater curtain, opening onto a momentary sight that reminded her jarringly of the view
through a jump point.
Then a machine shot out of the opening, hit the deckplates, and plunged towards her on two narrow wheels with the whine of some
of king of engine Dopplering in her ears. Combat-honed reflexes dulled by shock and sleep deprivation, she stumbled backwards, slammed into the bulkhead, and
had just enough time to realize that there was no way she could dive down the angle of the corridor quickly enough--
-- before the howling machine screeched to a stop mere inches from running her down, leaving dark streaks on the decking and
probably giving its rider whiplash, judging from how his head snapped back and forth.
...the rider. The machine was an archaic -motorcycle-, Susan realized belatedly, which meant... "GARIBALDI!!! YOU'RE A
DEAD M--"
Her voice cut off as several facts finally registered in her brain.
??????: The motorcycle's rider was the wrong size and shape to be Michael Garibaldi.
??????: Despite the full-body protective suit, the open-faced helmet and goggles still left the rider's chin visible, and
that was definitely -not- Garibaldi's jawline. It was too clean-shaven, for one thing.
??????, and most important: Whatever near-tecnomagery the Security chief might be capable of when in pursuit of ever greater and
grander pranks (usually aimed at herself), teleportation wasn't one of them.
Not to mention the fact that for the past five seconds it had taken her to work through all this, the nameless rider, whom she
now realized was -strapped- to his machine, had hung limp and unmoving as a rag doll, either unconscious or--
She steeled herself and reached out to carefully poke one pale cheek below the goggles. Clammy, but warm. She dangled her hand
in front of his face and was rewarded with the sensation of shallow but steady respiration drifting past her fingers.
Great. She rolled her eyes upwards. "I don't know what I did to deserve this, but are you sure I was -that-
bad?"
There was, of course, no reply. Fortunately, her native tongue had a perfect word for this situation as well:
"Nichevo," she sighed, and activated her Link.
"C&C, this is Ivanova."
The response was startled. "Commander? What are you doing up?"
She rolled her eyes again. "Don't ask, Corwin. Call Chief Garibaldi and Doctor Franklin. Tell them I need them and an
incident team at--" she stopped to double-check the wall markers. "At Brown Twenty-Seven, Section Eighteen. ASAP."
"Um, Commander, I'm pretty sure they're both asleep, and I know the Chief had a bad day--" Corwin sounded less
than enthused at the idea of of waking the cantankerous head of security, which roused scant sympathy in Susan's heart. If -she- were going to have to pull
an all-nighter, then she might as damned well share the joy. "I don't care what kind of day he had," she cut the lieutenant off. "I want
them both down here, NOW. And don't worry," she added with just a bit of cheerful malice, "we'll be pulling in the Commander pretty soon
too."
"Yes, ma'am." Corwin somehow managed to sound brisk, efficient, and like a man being lead before a firing squad
all at the same time.
"Ivanova out." She killed the Link and propped her hands on her hips, glaring at the latest Weird Thing to hit Epsilon
Sector's infamous Weird Magnet (known officially as Babylon 5). Just one more damn thing that proved that the universe was out to get -her-, personally,
that's what it was. Just one... more....
Irritation gave way to bemusement. The motorcycle's engine had shut off after it stopped, the rider's legs were limp was
wet noodles, and she could see that the, uh, kick-stilt? Leg-strut? The whateveryoucallit that was supposed to hold the motorcycle upright... wasn't. So
-why- wasn't the darn thing tipping over?
"Who -are- you," she murmured, wide eyed. "And why are you -here-?"
If some stroke of divine precognition had given her the answer to those questions just then, Lieutenant Commander Susan
Ivanonva, Earthforce, second-in-command of Babylon 5, would have run for the cobra bays and taken her Starfury straight through the jumpgate on a course Away
From Here at the fighter's best possible speed. But since that would not have suited the whims of the universe, or the designs of the Powers directing the
path of the motorcycle's nameless rider, she was left in a state of blissful, if potentially lethal, ignorance.
For a little while longer, at least....