could get those interesting locked room mysteries with a million suspects and some brilliant amateur sleuth who'd step in and lend a hand, but down here in 301, there usually wasn't a lot of doubt. When one drunk person sliced open another drunk person in broad daylight in front of like six zillion witnesses, there was only so much you could do to drag the case out until teatime.
Which looked like the case here. Well, there were two witnesses, rather than a zillion, and Zack had a feeling neither suspect nor stiff had been especially drunk, but it was pretty damned obvious who was guilty.
If he didn't know better, he'd assume Mr. Trace had either set this up, or sent his man to kill Smith and it had simply gone wrong, but Zack did know better. As a result he was buying the 'unprovoked attack' theory put across by the barman.
'He just.... he just went mad,' the barman was saying, for the umpteenth time. What was his name? Zack had forgotten. Oh, it couldn't have been important. The Ombuds down here didn't worry so much about evidence or due process or reliable testimony or whatever. They just did what Mr. Trace said and then went home early to watch the vids.
Zack could relate.
'He just started punching him, punching and punching. He broke a chair on Mr. Drake's back. And then.... oh, my God.... he got out a knife, and....'
Zack stopped listening. Yeah, yeah. They got the picture already. Sheesh. Someone just take a statement and get on with it. The body had been removed by the forensics guys, who had then proceeded to check for.... whatever stuff it was they checked for. They had spent the whole time arguing about who was sexier: some blonde woman on some soap opera, or some other blonde woman on some other soap opera. Finally, the guys had amicably agreed to differ.
Real co-operation. Understanding each other's differences. Maybe there was hope for the Pit yet.
Yeah, right.
'What do you think, Allan?'
Zack turned and saw Mr. Trace standing next to him. His hands were in his trouser pockets, and he was looking around with an expression that might have been sadness, or might have been disgust. Probably both.
'Well, the story is, the suspect.... this Dexter Smith guy.... just snapped, and attacked Drake. Beat him up, slapped him a couple of times, at least once with a chair, and then drove a knife into his neck.'
Trace nodded, knowing as well as Zack did that that was all rubbish. Sure, Smith looked a fairly hard guy, but Drake was big, and very mean. No way would he have gone down that easily. Besides, judging from the position the body had been in....
'What do you think set him off?'
'Hard to tell,' Zack replied, scratching at his ear. 'The suspect had been drinking. Not too much according to the barman, but you know how it is with some people. One glass and they're ready to take on the whole world. Maybe drugs or something. Could have been some psychiatric thing. That.... what is it.... Minbari War Syndrome.'
'I heard Smith quit Earthforce because of some combat stress problem.'
'Yeah, that could be it.'
'Could be.' Trace shook his head. 'A sad day. Drake was a good man. A damned good man.'
'Have you told his missus yet?'
'Just on my way round now. I wanted to see what you'd found out first. You are going to find this guy, aren't you, Allan?'
'No problem. We'll get him.'
'Good. You're a good man, Allan. I know I can rely on you.'
Trace slapped him gently on the back, then turned and left. Zack looked around for a while and then left to get something to eat.
In one sense it was all completely irrational. Ambassador David Sheridan had spent all his life meeting and mixing with aliens. He had done business adjudicating the fates of empires with people he wouldn't trust to clean his shoes. He had made speeches of undying friendship to people he knew were just waiting to stab him in the back.
Throughout his entire career he had never let personal dislike get in the way of the necessity of his work. The needs of his people were more important than personal feelings.
Until now.
It was Delenn. He just couldn't seem to think straight concerning her. Of course he had plenty of rational reasons for disliking her — leaving aside the issue of what she had done to Earth, there was the way she had seduced John, caused him to betray his Government and led him to a deathbed on some alien world.
On the other hand, he had always been able to concentrate on the greater good before.
The Shadows themselves had discussed her presence here, and they had left the matter entirely up to him. They were sure that she carried nothing, either on her person or in her ship, that could pose a threat. There were no explosive devices, no long-range tracking signals, or spy cameras or whatever other interesting technology the Vorlons could have come up with. They had no fears about anyone mounting any sort of rescue attempt. Z'ha'dum was well protected, they would have ample warning of any oncoming fleet, nothing less than the entire complement of the Vorlon fleet would pose a threat in any case, and for some reason the Shadows seemed convinced that would not happen.
So, the Shadows had given him three options: kill her here and now, give her a Keeper and send her home, or take her to Proxima for trial.
The second, Ambassador Sheridan had dismissed out of hand. It was a fine idea, but the Alliance had that damned technomage, and he would definitely be looking for a Keeper. As Delenn's only real power base was Kazomi 7 it would be pointless sending her anywhere else. She had no influence in the Minbari Federation any more, and besides.... Sinoval was being kept well in hand.
Sheridan had contemplated trying to turn her without the aid of a Keeper. It had worked with Parlonn a thousand years ago, and with Neroon recently. They were both warrior caste however, and something within them appealed more to the whole ethos of 'survival of the fittest' and 'growth through chaos'. Delenn had had too much indoctrination from the Vorlons for that to work without some major genetic modification, and the technomage would spot that as well.
So: kill her now, or take her home for trial.
From a purely personal viewpoint, he just wanted her dead. He was sick of her and her whole infernal race. John would be gone by now, his last days spent trapped in wires and tubes and machinery in the company of aliens. Delenn had done that to him. Just kill her and be done with it.
But.... the greater good. At Proxima she could be put on trial, public trial for her war crimes. Clark would receive an even greater boost in popularity. It would show the public yet again the benefits of their alliance with the Shadows. A boost in public confidence, another victory in a propaganda war. It would also be a vital stepping stone for the next stage in the rebirth of humanity: war with the Alliance.
He rubbed at his eyes wearily. He was tired, and he couldn't think. He had been putting the good of humanity above his own desires all his life. Surely he was entitled to one act of selfishness now?
She had killed his son. She had killed his daughter, and his grandchildren, and she had been responsible for the death of his wife. Everyone he had ever loved had been lost to her.
He sipped at his tea, and realised it had long since gone cold. He sighed. A man was not meant to outlive his children, least of all his grandchildren. That was.... not the way of things.
But the good of humanity. Surely that was worth more? Humanity could benefit from this far more than just his desire to put her down here and now.
Why had she come? What benefit had she hoped to gain from this little stratagem?
He looked up, hoping to ask Neroon. He knew her better than most after all. There was no sign of him. The Minbari was gone.
Sighing, Ambassador Sheridan prepared another cup of tea. He was thinking about Proxima.
Londo's quarters were.... adequate. Surprisingly so, given the state the whole of Kazomi 7 had been in the last time he had been here.
