# Babylon 5 and its characters and their words were created by J. Michael Straczynski, and belong to Joe and Warner Bros., and are used without permission. The rest belongs to Cathy Faye Rudolph.)

# The unseen ending to 'Grey 17 is Missing'.

Garibaldi leaned in at the doorway.

"Captain, you wouldn't believe the day I've had--"

"The day you've had?" Sheridan asked, astonished. "We had an assault on Marcus, somebody got into the Rangers' ceremony--could have killed Delenn--and where were you?"

Garibaldi set his jaw. "OK." He took a seat across from Sheridan. "Well, first there was this missing maintenance man, only he wasn't missing, he'd been killed by a Zarg. But--I'm getting ahead of myself."

Garibaldi's shiny boots appeared at the desktop as Garibaldi made himself comfortable by putting his feet up on Sheridan's desk.

"That was after I'd found out that the entire 17th floor of Grey Sector...had completely disappeared. Well, not disappeared exactly, this weird cult had taken over the place, see? And there was a dummy that shot tranks out of its eyes, very strange--"

Incredulity replaced the consternation on Sheridan's face.

"--but it was all supposed to be perfect, that was the thing about it, and there wasn't a way out, but there was, except it was spiritual, you had to die a perfect death. That's where the Zarg came in, and either it was going to kill me or I was going to kill it, and--

Garibaldi paused, a look of innocent concern on his face.

"--Am I going too fast for you?"

.........

"Are you nuts?" Garibaldi asked, his expression reflecting his serious doubt of Sheridan's sanity. He slid out of his nonchalant pose, put his feet on the floor, and sat on the edge of the chair.

Sheridan chuckled. "Now, Michael, hear me out. I think this is exactly what we need. And I think it could work." He reached down and with each hand picked up flimsy reports from the pile on his desk. "Know what these are? This--" he gestured with the transparency in his left hand "--is a report on current and projected housing requirements of the Ranger complement on the station, and this-- " nodding at the report in his right hand "--is a review of the construction schedules for the Epsilon 3 supply depot. It's clear from these numbers that we need an area, preferably secure, for our 'transient' guests, the Rangers and the workers who come up to the station on duty rotation."

Sheridan stacked the flimsies on top of others on his desk, shaking his head at some private joke.

"Delenn told me once that humans are so interesting --and dangerous-- because we form communities. Put a bunch of us together, with common cause, and you start building purpose, momentum, strength." He looked at the stack of reports again and tapped the top one with his index finger. "These are already highly committed people, Rangers and the Epsilon 3 team. But I think we would do well to provide the conditions and the opportunity for the Rangers and for the Epsilon 3 workers to form their own community here on the station."

Sheridan narrowed his eyes, focusing on the top sheet, tracing with his finger in the margin next to one paragraph.

"As it is, the Epsilon 3 supply depot is fast becoming a colony. Judging from this, along with the lighting system and cleft-point satellite relay built so far, we've got supply ships from the major races laying over there, and putting up some temporary quarters in the cave systems. Those quarters are filled to capacity with relief crews and more than a few sentients who 'jumped ship'. That means the need for support services has grown, everything from commissary facilities to reclamation to --" Sheridan stopped, left hand partly raised as if to hold Garibaldi's attention, right hand moving aside the top two sheets and then stabbing at the ending phrases of the report. "Hell, we've even got some loony woman establishing some sort of quasi-religious center down there."

"I would hardly refer to her as 'loony'," chided a gentle voice from the doorway.

Sheridan stood. "Brother Theo, I didn't mean--" Theo shook his head, acknowledging that Sheridan had meant no harm.

"Captain....Mr. Garibaldi...I've been down to the supply depot, and you are right, Captain, it is a colony, or the good beginning of one. Perhaps," Brother Theo continued in thoughtful tones, "perhaps that will be to your advantage in the future. As to this quasi-religious establishment you mentioned, the Meditation Center is merely an outgrowth of the search for understanding in which all beings engage. I was quite surprised at the apparent attraction the simple area had for the workers...until I visited there myself. It's just drilled out caverns and some small comforts such as candles and floor mats, and readers for a modest library of data crystals on the many faiths and beliefs shared and recorded, but there is something about the Center..."

Brother Theo smiled at Sheridan.

"But that's something you should discover on your own. Forgive me, gentlemen, but I did overhear your discussion, and my order would be happy to assist in any renovation activities needed for the Grey Sector area. I must admit that the offer is not entirely selfless, for the order does need more than our currently allotted space to continue our research and the tasks Commander Ivanova assigns to us. Since Grey Sector is primarily industrial space, it would be ideal for the pursuits of the scientific and mechanical aspects in which we are engaged, and it would need only minor modifications to become, shall we say, 'livable'?"

"I hope you didn't need a Zarg," Garibaldi said to himself.

.........

Garibaldi suppressed a shudder as the tube doors opened at Grey 17 --the real Grey 17 level. But the feeling of dread was replaced by surprise and disbelief. The shambles of discarded and broken equipment had been cleared away, and members of Brother Theo's order were engaged in painting and the repair of the overhead lighting. As he passed, the monks made short welcomes or words of greeting, or simple bows from the ones too quiet or shy for more. At the end of the corridor, Garibaldi turned right, following the monks and some worker-caste Minbari as they wheeled loaded carts to Grey 17's storage area.

The palettes were stacked head-high with containers, labeled as foodstuffs in a variety of languages. He paused to examine the closest stack. Some wag had scrawled "Vorlon BBQ" on the side of a box containing dried rez-zoth'r; Garibaldi mused that the only race other than the Narn to be able to consume the fiery substance might well be the Vorlons. He'd gained a new respect for the Narn cast-iron stomach the time G'Kar had depleted the station's entire allotment of dried chili peppers to send as 'candy' to the children at a Narn outpost.

He stood to the side as the now-empty cart was trucked past and the monks followed in its wake. Sounds of activity drew him in the direction from which the cart had come. In the center of the storage area, at the drop point for conveyor-bound boxes, a number of Minbari sorted through the cart's cargo, with a Minbari-robed human reading off the labels and making notes against the manifest.

At first, it didn't register. Garibaldi watched from behind as the human read off the Standard label, then gestured to the label and repeated the name of the contents in Minbari. The hood of the Minbari robe was draped loosely down the back, and the grid lights above played in thin highlights over the long blonde-brown hair draped over her right shoulder. A few of the strands had escaped and were dangling as ringlets at the base of her neck. Her shoulders seemed to tense at the touch of the curls, and she shifted the stylus and recorder to her left hand and reached around with her right to harness the errant strands and draw them over her shoulder once more.

He stood in silence, the first suspicion sending a frisson of uncertainty down his spine. The woman had sent another worker off with two boxes and was now alone, scribbling with the stylus, checking off the received items. Garibaldi approached her quietly, and stopped ten feet away, watching her stand on tiptoe to check the seal of a box on the conveyor belt before her.

His voice was pitched softly, so as not to frighten her.

"Karena?"

Just for an instant, she froze. Garibaldi's practiced eye noted those small signs that she had heard him--the slight lifting of her head, the sudden tension in her fingers. Anyone else would have missed it. As the moment passed, she seemed to be satisfied that the seal was intact, and with a last mark on the recorder, she set the unit aside and turned around.

She had prepared herself well, the artifice of polite surprise at the appearance of a stranger settled on her face. Her lips were parted, on the verge of a distanced greeting. Then her green eyes opened wider and after a moment, her features relaxed to permit a genuine smile. She closed the distance between them, and took his hand in hers.

"Michael, it is a pleasure to see you again."

Garibaldi stared at her. Myriad questions jostled for preeminence his mind. Yet he stood, dumbfounded, as she gazed at him. Later he decided they would have stood there for hours had they not been interrupted by a timid worker-caste Minbari.

"Tezah, more supplies?" The Minbari looked aside in what Garibaldi knew to be typical Minbari deference. But her reply to the Minbari was as to an equal.

"I believe that is the last for today, Taldenn. Thank you for your kind assistance." She bowed to him, and Taldenn, returning the gesture, turned and disappeared through the rows of storage palettes.

"'Tezah'?" Garibaldi regarded her quizzically. "I don't think I've heard that one before. Is it some sort of Minbari rank or title?"

Embarrassment colored her face. "No, it's more of a nickname than anything else. It's Minbari for...well, the translation is somewhat variable, but it means 'one who journeys' or 'one who chooses a path' or 'one who searches for the way'. All in the context of the element of chance. The Minbari began to address me by that name, and I guess it stuck." She laughed then, and he could see mirth flood her eyes. "Of course, here on the station I'm known by the closest Standard equivalent of that nickname."

"Which is?"

She hesitated, then sighed in resignation.

"'Seren'. Short for...serendipity. I'm lucky, I suppose. It could have been 'Dippy.'"

Garibaldi kept tight rein on his laughter, limiting its expression to an appreciative smile.

"No, 'Seren' suits you."

She squeezed his hand, her smile seeming to light her eyes. Then she paused, overtaken by an earnest seriousness. "Michael, what I was before.....what I did before.....I've left that behind me." It was the subtlest of warnings, but enough. Garibaldi knew that PsiCorps was relentless in its pursuit of those it called its own. The fact that she was still alive -- and free -- was an indication of tremendous skill, or luck, or both. Or something else entirely.

All she needed was to read the agreement in his eyes. With a sigh she released his hand, and gestured off in the direction the conveyor belt ran.

"Have you toured the Grey 17 renovations yet? Oh, well, you probably came in through the office corridor, and this, of course, is the storage area. Medical supplies, food, spare parts for essential equipment. Some of it is destined for the Ranger crews on outbound ships, some is meant for the personnel here. Have you seen the dorm area?" His blank look was all the answer she required.

Garibaldi and Seren followed the belt past row after row of cargo palettes, then cut through the stacks and exited the storage area through a small door in the far wall. They walked through the adjacent laboratory area into what should have been additional office facilities.

A tempting smell wafted from the first open doorway on his left. Instead of desks and chairs, the room had been outfitted as an informal kitchen, complete with cooking units and companionable tables and chairs. Two Rangers, a Narn, and a Minbari were just sitting down to a meal, one Ranger ladling a thick stew into a broad polished stone bowl. The other Ranger saw Garibaldi in the doorway, and gestured to an empty chair at their table. Garibaldi shook his head, but bowed in thanks for the offer.

Further down were dormitories, starkly equipped in their newness. Yet for all the dearth of comforts the sense of belonging, of community, was palpable. Sections of the ubiquitous black flooring grid had been fastened onto the walls, and with simple clips fashioned from scrap metal the occupants of Grey Sector had not only a kind of storage but also a way to personalize their environment. One long dormitory was dimmed at one end, sleeping figures resting peacefully under the watchful gaze of the picture of a loved one or the display of a favorite shirt or scarf. Several of the beds were empty, but belongings were still pinned to the adjacent wall grid, either in promise of their owners' return or as gifts of spirit to those who made Grey Sector their current home.

At the other end of the dormitory the lamps were kept on low, but several Grey Sector residents were having a quiet but involved discussion. One woman was walking back and forth, alternately leaning on and then gesturing with a--

Garibaldi drew back from the doorway. Seren had waited as he'd peered inside. He paused, then said uncertainly, "There's a woman in there....with a broadsword."

Seren's eyes went wide. "Really?" She leaned around the door frame, stuck her head in just enough to see, then turned back to Garibaldi. "You're right. She does have a broadsword," Seren deadpanned.

Garibaldi knew he'd been had. He raised his eyebrows in question, and Seren gave in to a chuckle before continuing.

"We have many wonderfully skilled people here, Michael." They resumed their walk along the corridor. "Some of them are positively brilliant in their respective crafts or fields. And with that brilliance occasionally goes eccentricity." A figure, encumbered with rolls of schematics and blueprints, collided with Garibaldi as they passed a doorway. Garibaldi knelt and retrieved three of the fallen diagrams, and rose to return them to their owner. Somewhat shyly, Jeremiah thanked him, wished him well, and scurried off down the corridor, leaving an open-mouthed Garibaldi staring after him.

"Jeremiah is a good example," Seren whispered at his shoulder. "No one knows Grey 17 and its systems better than he does. As for his philosophies...he delights in discussing and debating the Universe's sentience with other Grey Sector residents. I think he's even working on revisions of some of his ideas, to incorporate the philosophical foundations in the Gaim world view. Still, I suppose you might say Jeremiah is a tad eccentric."

Further along the corridor were more dormitory rooms and shared kitchen and sanitary facilities, then a section in active renovation, monks in safety masks crowded into a room lit with the flashes of the welder's arc as the floor grid was fastened in place along a dormitory wall. A sudden turn of the corridor, and they were at a turbo tube entrance. Garibaldi looked back the way they'd come.

"Do you call this section 'home'?" he asked thoughtfully.

She shook her head. "If I am needed here for any length of time, there is usually a spare bed in the dormitories. But I make my 'home' down on Epsilon 3, at the Center."

Garibaldi closed his eyes, biting his lip in an attempt to keep from laughing. "So _you_ are the loony woman setting up the quasi-religious center on Epsilon 3."

She laughed until tears dripped down her cheeks. It even gave her hiccups, which provoked more laughter from them both.

"Who told you that?" she worked out around the hiccups.

"Captain Sheridan."

"His tact precedes him," she observed with a smile. Seren wiped the last of the tears away across each cheek. "The Meditation Center is really a quiet place for reflection, somewhere that any of the races can come to find some measure of peace for themselves." She stopped, and snorted in mock frustration. "Shortly after setting aside the first rooms for the Meditation Center, I came upon a group of sentients arguing over the ranking of their individual deities, strident claims of superiority filling the air. The discussion ground to a halt, and 37 eyes turned to me and asked me which of the deities was the most important."

Garibaldi watched as a rose flush crept from the neck of her robe opening to her cheeks.

"I said the first thing that came to mind. I didn't think so much could turn on just a few words."

He simply looked the question at her. Seren gritted her teeth, and sighed noisily.

"There's a legend that even the Vorlons have a god, or rather a pantheon of gods. Pretty awesome thought, given how powerful the Vorlons are. It's apparently a running joke among the Rangers that one of the ancient Vorlon gods was supposedly invoked with the name 'Boogie'. So--"

"You didn't."

"Oh yes I did. I told them I was a believer in the Great Vorlon God Boogie. With all 37 eyes trained on me, I recounted the legends with as much faithful awe as I could. And they believed it, each of them. I felt my composure slipping...I knew I was going to lose it. Then I saw several of the enameled plastic buckets stacked in the corner. I solemnly retrieved one, picked out a nearby mat, sat down, cross-legged, and told the astonished onlookers that I was about to use my meditation aid to contemplate the Great Vorlon God. Then I put the bucket over my head."

Garibaldi needed the support of the wall. He leaned against it, gasping for air, his ringing laughter garnering curious stares from the small crowd that had been drawn to the corridor intersection by the disturbance. When he could finally look her in the eyes, he asked the question.

"A Boogie Bucket?"

All innocence, she nodded, eyes wide. "Why, yes. How did you know?"

.........

He accompanied her to the Departures area. They'd made small talk along the way, her contributions some small news about the progress of construction down on Epsilon 3, his the tales of some sparring with the post office on the important matter of Italian sausages. The mood was light, until she turned at the ramp to the bays.

"I heard about Jeffrey Sinclair. I'm sorry, Michael."

It didn't surprise him that she knew. She'd probably heard it from Draal, or maybe that Zathras character. Garibaldi shrugged, making an effort to keep the welling despair from showing.

"Yeah, well, me too."

Seren rested her hand lightly on his chest, and looked up into his eyes. "Michael, he valued you as a close colleague, as a good and true friend. More than you'll ever know, I suspect. I trust in his judgment, Michael. He did what he needed to, what he believed in. It was for all of us....but most especially for you."

He saw unshakable faith, absolute certainty in her eyes. With a smile, and the lightest touch of her hand to his cheek, she said her good-bye and walked up the ramp.

Garibaldi stood looking after her. Jeff had been right, talking with her was like discussing your most intimate thoughts with a best friend you'd never met before. It wasn't bad...just different. In fact, he mused, he felt better, better than he had in a long time. He set off for Sheridan's office, whistling in a minor key. Maybe he _would_ take her up on her offer of a tour of the Meditation Center. He had some time off coming to him, and with the holidays approaching...He nodded his head, making his decision. He'd visit her on Christmas, or maybe the day after.

After all, he wasn't going anywhere.