Babylon 5 1. Book 1: My Enemy: Part 1

Author's notes: This quasi-novella is a collaboration between myself and my good friend Valeria (neptune.spaceports.com/~valeria/), that dates back a few years. For a long time it languished on our collective Web sites, and now I think it's time it got a little further out into the world. I'm placing it here with her permission in the hopes that people who haven't read it will, and so that we can hopefully get a little feedback that will let us finish the final chapter of the tale.  
  
For those looking for fiction that centres around the main characters of the Babylon 5 story, this is not the story for you. This is an interpretation of situations that could have happened on the periphery of the great events that shaped the wonderful universe JMS created for us, dealing with a most fascinating, mysterious, and misunderstood group: the Minbari Warrior Caste. And one Warrior in particular: Jatrinn. This is her story.  
  
Again, I remind you, this is a collaboration, please address any review comments to both Valeria and myself.  
  
The Dagger's Edge   
by Valeria and Flarn  
  
Chapter 1: My Enemy   
  
Part 1  
  
2247 (?)  
  
The young woman leaned low against the animal's neck, burying herself in the  
plumes of grey hair until she seemed more a part of the beast than a  
separate entity. Her steed, slant-backed and tall as a full grown Minbari  
at the shoulder, tossed his head, waving his single horn in a gesture of  
defiance that echoed in the heart of his rider. Muscles bunched - she could  
feel the leashed strength of the animal coalescing where her legs gripped  
his sides - and she felt at this moment immensely grateful that she had  
learned the follies of riding bare back at an early age. Well, almost  
learned them, for here she was, without restraints again, and liable to  
crack open her skull. That was the last thought she had time for; a  
heartbeat later they had become the wind.  
  
The massive quadruped sprang into a full-blown gallop, thundering across the  
moorland, razor-sharp hooves churning up great clods of turf in his wake.  
His rider let out a whoop of surprise and almost childlike delight at the  
sudden acceleration that blew the hood from her jagged-crested head and sent  
them speeding past translucent crystal outcroppings, and low stretches of  
silver-fronded trees. No artificial contrivance could match this, the  
seamless melding of nadach and rider. This was joy at its most elemental;  
this was freedom, the legacy and sacred birthright of every member of the  
Star Riders clan long before the time when they had taken truly to the  
stars.  
  
The stars, they called her now. Soon. It echoed in her blood, in the wind  
so sharp and fierce it brought tears of reaction to her pale blue eyes. But  
she wouldn't think of it now.  
  
She leaned further into the beast's neck, trusting him implicitly to steer  
their course, and had almost fallen into a quasi reverie, lulled by the  
animal's rocking, loping gait, when a snort of challenge caused her to lift  
her head again.  
  
They were not alone.  
  
Pursuing hoof beats rumbled in a rapidly closing distance. The ground  
seemed to echo with the counterpoint of her own beast's flight. Whispering  
fiercely, she urged her steed on with every imprecation in a Warrior's  
vocabulary. "Islani, do you hear that sound?" The animal's ears, almost  
lost in the feather-like strands of his luxuriant coat, twitched back to  
listen as she spoke. "Someone is coming. Do not let them overtake us." She  
dug her heels gently into his sides, and loosened the reins even more as the  
stallion increased speed. This time she cooed with the fondness of a mother  
to a very small child. "Yes, you are the finest stallion on the planet and  
I know you will not let them best us. We will be victorious, no matter the  
cost."  
  
Still the interloper gained, closing the distance, until she could feel a  
tandem presence, no longer eating her wake, but sharing her wind. Eyes lit  
with pale, dangerous fire, she stole a glance at who dared to challenge her.  
  
He was bent low over his mount, a black shape on the back of a dun stallion  
whose horn very nearly matched her mount's. Wind stung her eyes, but she  
saw, and seeing clenched her legs around her mount. The beast protested,  
snorting against the wind. She dug her hands into his long fur, and he  
finally acquiesced, pace slowing to a near stop. Her challenger did the  
same.  
  
"Lohrvan."  
  
He smiled, a sharp, bright flash of teeth in the moonlight, and bowed his  
head in courtly mockery to his sister. "Jatrinn. Still like riding  
bareback, little sister?"  
  
"Yes. Still need to prove you're better than me?" She matched him smile  
for smile.  
  
He grinned. It had always been a game between them, to struggle for the  
upper hand - a game the religious in their town disapproved of.  
  
Lohrvan's mount snuffed loudly, lifting his horn, and Jatrinn found Islani  
tensing. He jerked his head up, blowing, and jabbed his long horn in clear  
challenge. Jatrinn pulled his head back, burying her hands in his fur and  
making noises half-soothing, half-threatening.  
  
"You came," she finally said. "I didn't know if you would."  
  
"Of course. I couldn't miss this, could I? Your first ship duty, and your  
first service to Minbar... it's an important thing."  
  
"Mmm," she said. "I cannot wait." Her eyes crinkled with anticipation,  
excitement.  
  
"No," said Lohrvan. "I imagine not. You always were a fighter, it will do  
you good to have someone to fight."  
  
"Faugh." Jatrinn spat. "As if the *Humans* were a worthy target."  
  
"Well, maybe not," Lohrvan said, conceding her point with a nod. "But good  
enough to whet your blade on, eh?"  
  
She nodded, silent, solemn for a moment. Lohrvan turned his mount. "I hope  
it goes well for you. The Humans may not be much of a contest for us, but  
it is still important."  
  
"Of course." And then she gave him a quicksilver glance, and said, softly,  
"Thank you for coming."  
  
"My pleasure." He watched her for a moment, as she wheeled her nadach, and  
something wild and wicked caught fire in his eyes. "Catch me!" he shouted,  
slapping his nadach on the flank. Jatrinn barely hesitated before doing the  
same, hooves thundering across the flat moor, churning up the dirt.  
Jatrinn had said goodbye to her parents at home. It wouldn't be right for  
them to follow her to the terminal--this walk was hers to walk alone. She  
was too excited to meditate, but too self-conscious to run headlong down the  
streets as her nerves bade her do. But she walked quickly, head high,  
unwilling to admit that she hadn't yet quite figured out how to move best in  
her new armour.  
  
She heard Kiardonn coming, but didn't stop to look, gawking like a child.  
She did slow her pace, though, letting the girl come to meet her.  
  
Kiardonn half-flew down the street, her robes fluttering around her like the  
wings of a wounded bird. "Jatrinn, wait," she panted.  
  
Jatrinn rolled her eyes, before she turned so that Kiardonn couldn't see  
her, but did indeed pause and turn. "Kiardonn, you aren't supposed to be  
here."  
  
"I know," Kiardonn gasped. "I know. You were going to go without saying  
goodbye."  
  
Jatrinn couldn't tell how much of that was accusation. Kiardonn had the  
face of a lily, and grey eyes like crystal, and she was not easy for  
Jatrinn's Warrior mind to understand. So she shrugged by way of answer.  
  
"I have something for you. A-a present." Kiardonn reached into the folds  
of her heavy over robes.  
  
Oh, Valen. Not a silly baby-gift from Revaal's little sister. But she  
didn't say it, looking into Kiardonn's face. Her eyes were dusk-coloured,  
and very clear. She looked so young, but she was old enough to work at the  
weapons' factory. Maybe this was something worthwhile after all.  
  
Kiardonn withdrew something from the folds of her cloud-coloured heavy robe.  
She pressed it into Jatrinn's hands. It was wrapped in thin cloth, but  
Jatrinn could feel the roughly triangular shape through the thin weave. She  
pushed back the fabric, and her breath caught.  
  
It was a sheath, of the same black leather as her new warrior's armour. She  
fingered the hilt, but didn't draw the blade - that would be an insult to  
Kiardonn, as if she didn't trust that the workmanship was good, as if she  
had to check for flaws.  
  
"I wanted to give you something," said Kiardonn. "And I thought you would  
be likely to wear this."  
  
"Yes," said Jatrinn. The sheath had two thin metal rings, and she found a  
place to attach it to her new armour. Kiardonn was looking at her. "Take  
care of yourself, Jatrinn," she said.  
  
"I will," Jatrinn said, smiling a hawk smile. "The Humans couldn't hurt me  
if they tried."  
  
Kiardonn was still looking at her, and Jatrinn thought, suddenly, that  
Kiardonn was no child, anymore. "That wasn't quite what I meant," she said.  
"Valen walk with you."  
  
"Yes," said Jatrinn. "And with you."  
  
Kiardonn swirled away, lily-slender and pale. Jatrinn finished the walk to  
the terminal alone.  
  
Lohrvan was waiting for her at the terminal, which was as much a tradition  
as the solitary walk had been. He greeted her with a formal bow, which she  
mimicked - stiffly, in her heavy armour - and then asked, "Nervous?"  
  
"No," she said, lifting her chin, and he laughed.  
  
"I believe it, though you may be a fool, for it." His eyes fell to the  
blade. "What's that?"  
  
"A present. From Kiardonn."  
  
He frowned, very briefly, then the creases in his forehead smoothed into a  
smile. "Oh, she gave you one, too?"  
  
"Too?"  
  
"Never mind." He smiled at her. "Luck, Jatrinn. Your first battle  
determines a lot, you know."  
  
"I know." She wasn't nervous, that was true, but she was so excited her  
belly fluttered. She breathed, trying to quell the stir.  
  
"Na'Fhurs Jatrinn..." It was her name, prefaced by her brand new title, and  
Lohrvan spoke it slowly, seeming to taste it like a new dish he found very  
much to his liking. "You almost sound grown up, little sister."  
  
She lifted her chin, almost as defiant in the face of his pride as she would  
have been faced with a rebuke. "I am grown up." Then, more teasingly,  
"...and you had better be on your guard, because soon I'll be coming after  
you for all the times you teased me when we were little."  
  
"A few years extra growth doesn't scare me." Her brother replied, smirking.  
"Try again when you're an Alyt."  
  
"No no," Jatrinn laughed. "By then I will be too smart to tangle with you.  
It has to be now - while I still feel I can conquer the world!" In a rush  
of exuberance, she grasped for his hands, even as he twisted them out of her  
reach, and they sparred for a while in deep, yet companionable  
concentration, each one never quite catching the other.  
  
It was almost a dance, this kata of two, one pair of hands invariably  
trailing another, like mirror reflections from two separate universes,  
neither of them quite in synchronicity. Their fingers moved faster than  
most eyes could track, blurring in their motion, leaving trails of stars.  
Neither adversary noticed, they were riveted on each other's eyes - it was  
the secret, to keep your intentions out of your eyes until you struck.  
  
Suddenly, Lohrvan switched directions, strong fingers coming  
counter-clockwise to fasten like manacles around her slender wrists. "You  
can have the world if you like, Jatrinn, but you won't get the better of  
me." He loosened his grip, and Jatrinn batted his arms aside.  
  
"So much for thinking your arrogance would mellow with age," she groused.  
Tugging at her tunic, she gave her brother a sidelong look. "I always  
wondered why you didn't choose command."  
  
"It just wasn't my calling, Jatrinn. I guess I'll always be more  
comfortable bashing enemy heads than trying to see into them." He chuckled.  
  
Jatrinn gave him a smug look. "At my rank I get the benefit of both." She  
frowned, almost reluctantly remembering why she had come here. "It's almost  
time."  
  
"Yes," he agreed. "Be careful, sister."  
  
She swallowed a jaunty reply, realizing that perhaps her invincible older  
brother might in fact need something more. /I love you,/ she thought  
suddenly, but said only, "I will."  
  
Lohrvan nodded. "You have to go the last alone, Jatrinn." He swept his arm  
out, indicating the tarmac, the spreading sunlight, and the pale, washed  
morning sky.  
  
She returned the nod, saluting him in the traditional way - and then he  
pulled her into an embrace. They weren't the kind of family who hugged  
much, and so it was brief and awkward, and then he let her go.  
  
She left the terminal, walked out onto the tarmac alone, waiting for the  
shuttle. She drew her blade, now, turning it in the light. Jatrinn weighed  
the blade in the flat of her hand and smiled faintly. It was an appropriate  
gift for a young Warrior, and so much more satisfying than a pike. Suited  
for the drawing of blood, a weapon at once quick and elegant and dangerous.  
Like me, she thought, then barked a laugh at her own arrogance. /Like I  
will be/, she amended. /I will be a weapon./ The edges were sharp enough to  
draw blood if she ran her fingertips along them, and the dull-silver flat of  
the blade was etched with a stylized flame in a triangle.  
  
Jatrinn had owned knives before, in fact there was one tucked into the top  
of her boot, but nothing like this... Silently she vowed she would be  
worthy, of the magnificent weapon, and of the uniform she now wore.  
  
Engines hummed and whirred overhead, jarring her from her contemplation, and  
she sheathed the blade, attaching it to her belt, as the shuttle continued  
to hover. It would not land, but she knew what to do. Boldly she strode  
forward to stand on a rough metallic circle that rested on the pavement, and  
signalled her readiness. Light dropped down to surround her, and the circle  
of metal began to rise towards the shuttle, carrying her with it.  
  
Her stomach lurched, but she kept her eyes stoically heavenward. This  
moment of limbo was the part she hated most, and looking down wouldn't help.  
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she saw the inside of the  
transport drop down around her, and felt the metal of the bay doors clang  
shut below her platform. She managed to step off without shaking, and hoped  
she wasn't as pale as she felt.  
After a brief transit, the transport was swallowed as she had been, this  
time by the larger bulk of a cruiser's landing bay. She'd missed the  
triumphant entry - a threatened bout of space sickness kept her ensconced in  
the lavatory until she could master her rebellious stomach.  
  
But now she was *here*.  
  
Jatrinn could feel eyes upon her as she walked through the spacious halls of  
the warship, despite the fact that no one was in sight. Fortunately she knew  
the layout of these ships, having studied the schematics with more fervour  
than a priest might examine the sacred texts. Priests. They could know  
nothing of the exhilaration she felt now, so close to her goal. She fancied  
she could feel the pull of the planet below easing as the ship left orbit,  
despite knowing the artificial gravity wells made that quite impossible.  
  
Adjusting the weight of her satchel on her shoulders, Jatrinn paused,  
feeling her nerves tremble again. She was expected on the bridge, that  
alone should have accounted for the tingling that had diffused into her  
veins; but it didn't. The feeling became more electric, suddenly  
crystallizing in a wave of urgency - responding instinctively, she pivoted,  
ducking low and lunging with a kick. She had only a moment to congratulate  
herself for the well-honed instincts that had prompted her to act, but that  
moment was all her assailant needed. Deftly he caught her foot and held it,  
effortlessly, making her flounder like some exotic black-winged bird in the  
claws of a predatory cat.  
  
"Not bad." She craned her neck painfully in search of the source of the  
voice. It was soft, growling, reminding her again of a cat. "Not good,  
either. But there is promise."  
  
"Let me down, sir," she demanded with as much dignity as she could muster in  
the situation, and was rewarded by a rich laugh.  
  
"In a moment. I have your attention completely, now, and I shan't let that  
opportunity slip through my fingers." He kept his firm grip on her ankle,  
lowering it slightly to allow her to gain her stance. His other hand  
flicked to her hip, unsheathing the dagger there and flipping it into his  
palm. "Not regulation."  
  
"No."  
  
He released her ankle, and she scrambled to her feet again, drawing  
attention. He turned the blade in his hand, letting the light play over the  
etchings. "Acid-made? No, I suppose you wouldn't know." He turned it  
over, testing the point on his black glove, then spun it into the air and  
caught it expertly by the hilt, offering it back to her. "A fine weapon -  
if you know how to handle it." His eyes caught hers and held them, firmly.  
  
"I can." She slipped the triangle blade back in its place, and lifted her  
chin almost without noticing the gesture.  
  
His eyes flashed again, from the sheath at her waist back to her face.  
"Good." She thought she saw a smile at the edges of his mouth before he  
turned his back on her, calling over her shoulder. "You will be late to the  
bridge. Tell the man on duty there that you were detained."  
  
"By whom should I tell him?"  
  
He turned his head marginally toward her again. "By Neroon, of course."  
  
Of course. She had heard how the Alyt enjoyed conducting inspection of his  
new troops in rather unorthodox ways - had even been expecting it, just not  
quite this soon. To what did she owe this singular mark of favour?  
/Caution/, her mind asserted, /There was nothing to suggest he favours you./  
Which made her next conclusion, reached in those short instants, even more  
alarming: she wanted him to. 


	2. Book 1: My Enemy: Part 2

Author's notes: This quasi-novella is a collaboration between myself and my good friend Valeria (neptune.spaceports.com/~valeria/), that dates back a few years. For a long time it languished on our collective Web sites, and now I think it's time it got a little further out into the world. I'm placing it here with her permission in the hopes that people who haven't read it will, and so that we can hopefully get a little feedback that will let us finish the final chapter of the tale.  
  
For those looking for fiction that centres around the main characters of the Babylon 5 story, this is not the story for you. This is an interpretation of situations that could have happened on the periphery of the great events that shaped the wonderful universe JMS created for us, dealing with a most fascinating, mysterious, and misunderstood group: the Minbari Warrior Caste. And one Warrior in particular: Jatrinn. This is her story.  
  
Again, I remind you, this is a collaboration, please address any review comments to both Valeria and myself.  
______________________________________________________________  
  
The Dagger's Edge   
by Valeria and Flarn  
  
Chapter 1: My Enemy : Part 2  
  
She spent a dull shift on the bridge, consolidating her familiarity with the  
tactical station she had been drilled in constant simulations to man. There  
was nothing to scan, nothing to do but run more drills and simulations as  
they knifed through the fire of hyperspace, moving to attack yet another  
Human colony.  
  
Jatrinn snorted mentally. It was so simple, like unstringing beads from a  
necklace, first one, then another, and another, until you were left with  
nothing but a wispy piece of floss that blew away in the wind. Something, a  
faint sense of unease, threaded its subtle way through the mad anger towards  
Humanity that she shared with the whole of her people. She would have slit  
her own throat with her splendid new knife sooner than admit it. Her  
fingers went to the hilt in an absent caress. The Humans were murderers,  
cowards, vermin, and deserved to be wiped from the face of the galaxy.  
  
When her shift ended she went with the rest to the mess hall, a thoughtful  
shadow, the only one not speaking in the group, all of whom seemed to know  
each other. Taking a tray from the stack provided, she stood in line for her  
meal. A few curious glances were tossed her way, not all of them from  
females, and she returned each one with a courteous nod, or in some cases a  
speculative look of her own, but for the moment she was content simply to  
watch the interactions around her.  
  
Handing over her tray to one of the Minbari on kitchen duty, she received it  
back again, laden with stew, bread, and a mug of tea so pungent with herbs  
it made the eyes water. Choosing a spot at the end of one of the long  
tables that dotted the mess hall, she was about to settle in to eat, when  
someone settled onto the bench beside her, rudely jostling her as she tried  
to scoop up a mouthful of stew.  
  
Jatrinn quirked an impatient eye ridge towards the interloper, who didn't  
glance her way. "*Excuse me*."  
  
"You're excused," a female voice airily replied. There was something oddly  
familiar about it.  
  
"Oh, no, my friend," Jatrinn replied in a saccharine tone, its sweetness  
underlined by more than a hint of danger. "I would suggest that it is you  
who should excuse yourself..."  
  
"But there is no excuse for me," the voice replied, maddeningly calm. "Or  
so you've often said. Really, Jatrinn, I had such hopes for you, but I see  
that inbred Warrior snobbishness has caught up with you after all. It's no  
wonder caste admission is so zealously guarded... few outsiders can  
successfully affect the same degree of unpleasantness."  
  
Tension suddenly leached out of Jatrinn's form, although the tone of her  
voice did not change. "Ah, but you have come very close, at times. Which  
is why we have tolerated your inferior Worker blood tainting our ranks. Is  
that not so... Revaal?"  
  
With a loud thud, a dagger suddenly appeared between Jatrinn's middle and  
index fingers where her hand rested next to her tray. All eyes at the table  
turned towards her as she examined the weapon that was the twin of the one  
sheathed at her hip. The miss had been deliberate - had anyone else but her  
spoken those words, the dagger would have impaled the unfortunate person's  
hand instead of merely burying itself in the hard synthetic surface to a  
depth of several inches.  
  
Her 'assailant' turned around. Pale grey eyes echoed the colour of a crest  
that was far smoother than the brambled masses that crowned the rest of  
those at the table. The face was thin, a hawklike nose lending an avian  
grace to the otherwise plain features... plain at least, until she smiled.  
  
Grinning herself, Jatrinn extricated her hand from the around the dagger,  
savouring the thrill that still coursed through her veins from the  
unexpected attack. She felt something wet and looked down to see a faint  
trail of blood wending its way down her palm. "Bitch," she hissed, still  
smiling, as she dabbed at the wound with her napkin. "You're losing your  
touch, Revaal." Reaching out, she clasped the other's forearms, and Revaal  
returned the gesture, steel-strong fingers digging in. Welcoming.  
  
"Well?" Jatrinn demanded, impatiently as she did most things. "How have you  
been? I haven't seen you in months. And not a single message. You could  
have been living in the bowels of Z'ha'dum for all I knew."  
  
Revaal laughed, though the mirth didn't quite reach her eyes. "I've felt  
like it at times, my friend."  
  
"And how is Kiardonn?"  
  
This time the flash of pain was unmistakeable. "I should ask *you* that,  
since you probably have more information than I. The last I heard she was  
working in a weapon-systems assembly plant..."  
  
Jatrinn leaned forward. "The last you heard?"  
  
"It hasn't gotten better... In fact it's gotten worse." The  
Worker-turned-Warrior looked away. "She no longer considers me her sister."  
  
Jatrinn's eyes twitched slightly at the edges, but her expression fixed. "I  
see." A delicate path, here; cruelty would be uncalled for, but sympathy  
offensive to one so determined to prove herself. "She has not forgiven you,  
then, for...?"  
  
"No." Revaal barked a short laugh, fingering the hilt of the dagger still  
quivering in the table. "Among other things. She will not forgive...."  
Abruptly her grip tightened on it, and she yanked the blade from the table  
and buried it again in its hilt, "...and she does not forget."  
  
Jatrinn nodded, a bare movement of her head, studying Revaal from the corner  
of her eye. "When did you get your ship duty, friend? And which master  
thought to assign you to it before me?" She smiled, a flash of teeth.  
"Obviously he was smitten with you, to pass me over for you."  
  
"Oh, is that it, Jatrinn?" she demanded, and Jatrinn was relieved to see the  
life flick back into Revaal's eyes. "Perhaps *she* was simply aware that I  
could beat you insensate in hand-to-hand practice."  
  
"You never could," Jatrinn replied evenly, "and you still can't."  
  
"Oh, can't I?" Revaal pushed aside her bowl. "Perhaps you'd like to prove  
it?"  
  
"I don't need to prove anything to you." Nevertheless, she was already  
testing her leg muscles, assuring herself she was ready for another round of  
sparring. It was a standing joke between them, but also almost a ritual.  
They argued, they sparred, and the loser put up with a good many cracks  
about her prowess until the next time.  
They found an unused practice room and dropped their weapons, moving to a  
mat. Revaal bent to stretch, and Jatrinn leapt then, catlike for all her  
size. Revaal barely managed to duck, but recovered quickly, spinning on her  
heels to face the larger Warrior. She stretched her hands out, remaining in  
a crouch.  
  
Jatrinn was aware that she wouldn't get an opening that perfect again, and  
began to circle, forcing Revaal to remain within her circle. Revaal played  
a good sun to Jatrinn's orbit, flashing a quick kick, a sharp blow, moving  
and fiery. She was smaller, but swifter, and not much less strong.  
  
They circled one another, Revaal's grey eyes sharp and alert. Jatrinn  
thought briefly that this war would be far more satisfying if the humans  
were as good an enemy as this former-Worker. She allowed herself to appear  
open for a moment, trusting both instinct and her  
knowledge of Revaal.  
  
As predicted, Revaal rushed her, heaving her shoulder against Jatrinn's  
breastplate and simultaneously catching an arm and twisting it, painfully.  
  
Jatrinn hooked her leg through Revaal's and bent them back, wrapping both  
arms bearlike around the smaller woman's torso. She forced Revaal down,  
pinning her effectively to the mats.  
  
"Enough, all right. I yield." She gasped for breath. "I yield. Let me  
up, will you?"  
  
Jatrinn did, smiling smugly as she found and replaced her knife belt. "I  
told you."  
  
"You sound like an infant." Revaal's tone turned mocking. "I told you so.  
Someday your arrogance will pin you to a wall, and then where will you be?"  
  
"Up against a wall, and kicking for all I'm worth." Jatrinn gave her a  
knife blade smile. "Don't worry. No one thinks less of you. You can't  
help your inferior breeding."  
  
Revaal made a harsh noise, and spun to leave. Jatrinn would be forgiven in  
due time. Warriors were hot-blooded and mercurial, or so the Religious  
said, but at least they bore no grudges.  
  
She felt eyes on her, and turned, blanching slightly at the figure who  
leaned against the second doorway. He gave her a smile that was the match  
of the one she had just given Revaal. "Not bad," he said, almost  
silkily--or was that her imagination. "I think perhaps you are redeemed for  
your lack of skill in the hallway."  
  
Her fingers pulled at the fastenings of her knife belt, adjusting its  
position at her hips, better to keep them busy than let them fidget as they  
suddenly seemed to want to. His eyes dropped for a moment, following her  
movements, and she cursed to herself, wondering if he could see through the  
pretence. "I am not redeemed," she found herself saying, candidly. "I took  
advantage of a moment of weakness."  
  
"Better you find her weakness than a Human." Her upper lip lifted into a  
faint sneer that bespoke her opinions on the likelihood of that eventuality.  
Neroon's own smile thinned somewhat. "They have been known to get lucky  
from time to time, Jatrinn."  
  
She managed to conceal the start of surprise at hearing her own name pass  
his lips, feeling nothing more than an inward leap of her heart. He  
observed her with hooded eyes, almost seeming to sense that motion as well,  
rubbing his chin, the black glove a delicious contrast against the pallor of  
his clean-shaven jaw.  
  
"You seem to know your friend's weaknesses well. What about your own?"  
  
Neroon took a step closer, looking down into her upturned face. Jatrinn  
moistened her lips, wondering what had possessed her to paint them such a  
visible shade of red. She had posed before a mirror, admiring how the  
vibrant colour had contrasted with her pale skin, and made her look so  
worldly, but now she felt foolish, totally unprepared for the very reaction  
she had hoped to evoke. As if to eliminate any doubt of his motives, the  
towering Warrior let his eyes sweep over her body in frank sexual appraisal.  
Interest even.  
  
"You are trembling," he whispered roughly. "Don't think for a moment that  
someone won't use this to their advantage."  
  
"Someone...." she breathed, then quickly cleared her throat and forced  
herself to meet his eyes. "Someone like you?"  
  
"Perhaps." He lowered his head slightly, moving even closer so that she had  
to crane her neck to meet his eyes. And she was no short woman. "Perhaps.  
Do you realize what kind of position you are in?"  
  
"Mmm?" She understood a bare second too late, moving into a defensive  
stance just as he struck, black-gloved hands catching her wrists, pulling  
her off balance and against him. His fingers dug into her arms in a parody  
of the welcome greeting. She glared up at him, and he laughed at her  
expression.  
  
"You don't like it?" He bent closer, she could feel his breath on her lips.  
"Then defend yourself better, next time." And then his mouth was on hers.  
  
Jatrinn gasped, but made no move to pull away. His scent enveloped her,  
leather and skin. His mouth was hot as a furnace, and she felt his rough  
chest plate grind against hers. He explored her mouth completely, frankly,  
and swiftly, and then he pulled away as abruptly as he had moved. His eyes  
crossed her face and down her body again, as if renewing his appraisal. He  
released her a moment later.  
  
She tried to summon a look of indignation, but couldn't manage. He twisted  
a smile. "Don't try to pretend you're upset," he purred. "You're not."  
  
"Any more than you are," she shot back, cringing a moment too late at her  
audacity. What if she provoked him? /Provoke him into what?/, a sly voice  
whispered in her thoughts. Like an unwanted spectre the image arose  
unbidden, the heat of skin on skin, siege and conquest, surrender... How  
could one freeze with such fear of the unknown and still be aching?  
  
Something in his face seemed to change, a brief instant of  
less-than-composure eclipsing, then intensifying his brooding expression.  
That reaction frightened her far more than anything else he could have said  
or done, and her heart pounded a single foreboding drumbeat against her  
ribs.  
  
"Yes," he murmured at last, pausing so long that she almost thought it was a  
reply to her accusation. "Better to discover your weaknesses among  
allies..."  
  
The intensity of his gaze was becoming too much. Or was it simply the  
intensity of the scenes her mind continued to dredge up to torment her?  
Scenes of him knocking her to the floor, his body pushing against her own  
flat on the mats and thoughts of tempting death be damned to Z'ha'dum. As  
Warriors, they were already dead. Oh, but if Death came to her in this  
terrible, magnificent black-shouldered form... /Sword to my sheath. Oh  
Valen.../ The pleasant ache centred lower than she cared to think about, and  
stabbed deeply.  
  
It was a deciding blow.  
  
She willed her voice to be even as she prepared to concede this round. "I  
should go."  
  
"You should," he rumbled.  
  
Lifting her face to his, she expected a smug smile of victory, but instead  
found only a frown.  
  
"I have to go find where I'm billeted..." The excuse sounded shabby even to  
her ears. Crossing her arms over her chest sharply in salute, she turned to  
go.  
  
"I arranged for you to share quarters with Revaal." His voice vibrated  
along her retreating spine. "After all, it was she who suggested I request  
you..."  
  
"Did she?" Her voice threatened to shake in her throat, and she swallowed,  
forcing herself to look over her shoulder at him. Curse him for his broad  
chest, for his gauntleted hands that were a dream of power and subtlety....  
"I see."  
  
He said nothing more, but his gaze was somewhat... different, as she  
retreated. She made it all the way to her new quarters, even getting lost  
along the way, before the shaking started again. She stripped roughly out  
of her armour, suddenly far too hot and confining, and let it lay where it  
had fallen. She stood in her shift, allowing the atmosphere to cool her  
too-hot skin.  
  
"You're shivering." She hadn't seen Revaal, pinkish with stripping  
astringent and wiping the last of the acrid liquid from behind her small  
ears. "Put something on if you're cold." Friendly derision laced her voice  
as she threw a robe toward Jatrinn.  
  
/Not just cold, friend./ She caught the thrown robe and pulled it roughly  
around her shoulders. /And not just exercise that makes me flushed./  
She dreamed of him that night. More than once, and yet the dreams melded  
together, and every one ended the same; with her on her back beneath him,  
triumphant in her surrender to his strength. She dreamed of skin on skin,  
the harsh leather discarded, his body hot against hers.... She woke  
exhausted and flushed, again, and she saw curious question in Revaal's eyes.  
But Revaal said nothing about it. In fact, it was Jatrinn herself who  
brought Neroon up in their discussion. 


	3. Book 1: My Enemy: Part 3

Author's notes: This quasi-novella is a collaboration between myself and my good friend Valeria (neptune.spaceports.com/~valeria/), that dates back a few years. For a long time it languished on our collective Web sites, and now I think it's time it got a little further out into the world. I'm placing it here with her permission in the hopes that people who haven't read it will, and so that we can hopefully get a little feedback that will let us finish the final chapter of the tale.  
  
For those looking for fiction that centres around the main characters of the Babylon 5 story, this is not the story for you. This is an interpretation of situations that could have happened on the periphery of the great events that shaped the wonderful universe JMS created for us, dealing with a most fascinating, mysterious, and misunderstood group: the Minbari Warrior Caste. And one Warrior in particular: Jatrinn. This is her story.  
  
Again, I remind you, this is a collaboration, please address any review comments to both Valeria and myself.  
______________________________________________________________  
  
The Dagger's Edge   
by Valeria and Flarn  
  
Chapter 1: My Enemy : Part 3  
  
"Do you happen to know Alyt Neroon?" she asked lightly as they prepared for  
breakfast that morning. She covertly glanced at Revaal, whose grey eyes  
registered surprise. Jatrinn almost bit her lip, but caught herself and  
schooled her features into a look of mild curiosity.  
  
"Some," the other admitted, tugging on her tunic to adjust the drape. "Why  
do you ask?"  
  
Part of her wanted to mention what Neroon had said last night, to thank  
Revaal for her consideration, but she knew how uncomfortable that would make  
her. Revaal's feelings ran deep, but she preferred to mask them under a  
veneer of brashness and rivalry. /Probably why we get along so well,/  
Jatrinn admitted in a rare moment of candour. She wasn't exactly the most  
expressive person herself.  
  
Adjusting the seam of her new bodysuit, Jatrinn pulled on her trousers and  
boots, before reaching for the remainder of her outer garments. She  
shrugged, casually. "Isn't is wise to know what kind of man you serve  
under?"  
  
Revaal didn't turn around, but the eyes of her reflection sought Jatrinn's  
as she stared into the small mirror above the sink. "He can be...  
unconventional," she stated at last. "He has some definite ideas about the  
way our caste should be governed... and the way Warriors should govern  
themselves. He is demanding and hard, but never cruel..." A small smile  
pulled at the corners of her lips. "Tyran all but worships him."  
  
Jatrinn looked up from adjusting the straps of her chest plate. "Tyran?"  
  
"One of the gunners... you'll meet him later. He's partnered me in  
sparring."  
  
Revaal's nonchalant dismissal of the individual in question was all but a  
declaration of undying passion to Jatrinn, who knew her well. "Oho? And in  
any other activities I should know about?"  
  
"A few," the other admitted, pivoting away from the mirror to stretch  
languorously on her bunk like a gok in the sunlight. "Although we aren't  
technically lovers yet." She rolled over onto her stomach thoughtfully,  
grabbing the top of the bed and arching her back in a stretch. "He is  
*very* good though..."  
  
Ignoring the renewed twinge this subject was causing, Jatrinn determined to  
take advantage of Revaal's placid, conversational mood. Besides, perhaps it  
would give her some insight into her own situation. "So you think you want  
him?"  
  
"I do want him. I've already decided. The flight master is pleased with  
my progress in the fighter drills. He's already suggested to the Alyt that  
I be allowed to go out and engage the enemy in the next low-priority  
attack - to bloody my sword you might say. And after the battle, if Tyran is  
lucky..." Revaal's smile was positively wicked. "...I might just let him  
bloody his."  
  
Jatrinn was mortified to feel her face growing hot at her friend's frank  
speech. She took a deep breath, and rummaged through her duffel bag,  
willing the reaction to subside.  
  
Revaal noted this behaviour with a look of surprise. "What's this? You  
don't mean to tell me that you haven't already...?"  
  
"No," Jatrinn replied. "I haven't."  
  
"I'm very surprised. I would have thought that you, of all people, would  
have dispensed with that long ago."  
  
"No one has attracted my interest sufficiently to make it worthwhile." Until  
now.  
  
"Mmm, so you say. Of course it could simply be that you're afraid."  
  
"I am *not* afraid."  
  
"Aha!" Revaal crowed. "That's it, isn't it?" She sniffed scornfully. "Some  
Warrior you are, cringing at the thought of a man between your legs."  
  
Yanking on a glove with more force than necessarily, Jatrinn looked up,  
voice dangerously quiet. "Stop it."  
  
Her foreboding expression did nothing to subdue Revaal, who instead snorted  
with mirth. "I would never have had you picked out for a prude."  
  
"Prude?" Her lips compressed as she smoothed her glove over the back of her  
hand. Her eyes narrowed, fixing on some distant object. "You don't know the  
half of it, little fool." As soon as the words were free, she longed to  
call them back. Revaal, for all her lack of subtlety, was merciless when  
she sniffed out a curiosity.  
  
As predicted, Revaal's grey eyes lit. "Oh-ho, is that it?" She rolled off  
the bed, dropping neatly to her feet and giving Jatrinn an appraising  
glance. "I don't suppose you'll tell me who it is?"  
  
"Who what is?" Jatrinn snarled, but Revaal's cunning curiosity told her that  
the facade was totally transparent. Nevertheless, she lifted her chin and  
forced her features still. Her still-red cheeks betrayed her.  
  
"You don't need to be coy with me. But if you won't say...." She shrugged,  
artlessly sliding her breastplate over her chest. "Well, I'll have to find  
out for myself, won't I?"  
  
Jatrinn's jaw set. "Do what you please." She shivered, her belly clenching  
fearfully as if the bottom had dropped out of her, and her stomach muscles  
were trying to hold her together. Revaal flashed her a toothy smile.  
  
"Oh, come on. It's no shame to want to feel a man inside you." Her eyes  
slitted. "No shame at all."  
  
/If you only knew, Revaal./  
  
"I think it'd take a big one to satisfy you." Revaal cocked her head,  
studying her. "Maybe Khartyl?" She watched Jatrinn's face for reaction.  
"Brengal? Not him either... perhaps your mystery lover will be at your  
dedication ceremony tomorrow evening?" Her voice dropped low as a sly,  
mischievous smile spread over her angular features.  
  
Adjusting her crystal encrusted epaulettes one last time, Jatrinn shrugged  
impatiently. "I have to be on the bridge..."  
  
Revaal leaned back on the incline of her bed, saying nothing, but the smug  
look in her eyes spoke volumes. Touché.  
More drills, more routine patrols, reports of distant battles to be gone  
through. String after string of victories - the necklace of Human colonies  
was unravelling rapidly under the relentless Minbari onslaught. Desperate  
tactics, suicide missions, none of it made any difference, not even a  
perceptible dent in their forces. There was a rumour of a Religious caste  
cruiser that had been caught unawares, but even accounting for the ineptness  
of the Priests, it could be nothing more than that: a rumour.  
  
Nonetheless, Jatrinn performed her duties with the same vigilance as if they  
had been engaged with a far more powerful foe. She would never have  
admitted it to a soul, but something of Neroon's warning about luck had made  
her shiver.  
  
At the end of her shift the watch dispersed as new Warriors relieved them of  
their stations. Most went in search of the evening meal, but Jatrinn did  
not. She would fast until after her dedication, when she would become a  
full member of the ship, and, finally, a full Warrior. It was an ancient  
ceremony, with roots reaching as deeply as the first written accounts of  
Minbari history, and, some said, long before that.  
  
She returned to the quarters she shared with Revaal, finding them empty.  
Revaal would come to escort her to the ceremony, but until then, would  
tactfully leave her alone to meditate and prepare. There seemed to be  
little time for that however, barely enough to bathe her overheated body  
with a splash of water and don her stifling armour once more before Revaal  
appeared.  
  
"Bah! I don't know why you bother with that," Revaal taunted, catching  
Jatrinn pouting before the mirror as she reapplied the blood-dark lip colour  
she favoured. "You look so pretty your enemies will laugh in your face."  
  
Pretty. It wasn't a word Jatrinn would have applied to the face that stared  
back at her, to the harsh features, the too generous mouth, the sharp  
cheekbones, the frozen blue eyes, large and pale like an animal's. She  
quirked a smile though, then bared her teeth at herself with a *lhyral's*  
hiss. Neroon had seemed to like her well enough...  
  
No. She bit the thought off abruptly. Two days into her first duty and she  
was already contemplating the unthinkable... /Why *now*?/ And more  
importantly, why *him*?  
  
"Are you finished yet?" Revaal prompted her impatiently. "Or are you going  
to stand before the mirror and dream about your phantom lover for the rest  
of the night?" She chuckled. "Now I *really* want to see who's caught your  
attention so completely. But guessing won't be as easy as I thought - half  
the male compliment on the ship is already staring at your ass, and the  
other half is talking about it."  
  
Jatrinn felt a pinch on the aforementioned portion of her anatomy and  
yelped, turning an about-face and glaring at Revaal. "They are *not*!"  
  
"To say nothing of the female compliment," Revaal continued, blithely,  
"Though fortunately they're far more subtle..."  
  
"You are playing with *fire*, Revaal."  
  
"It's my life's mission, Jatrinn," she replied with a chuckle. "You know  
that. Now come on!" Hooking her friend around the arm, she dragged her out  
into the halls. "Warriors aren't late, remember? Especially not for their  
own ceremonies!"  
A trip down the lifts and a short walk later and they stood before one of  
the large briefing rooms. The halls they had passed through were deserted,  
ghostly. Not a single Minbari seemed to stand watch, not a soul uttered a  
challenge. But Jatrinn knew where everyone had gone, where they were now.  
Behind the door she now faced, with Revaal at her side.  
  
Revaal had ceased her teasing, and now gave her elbow a squeeze, a thing  
somehow more alarming. "Don't be afraid."  
  
"I'm *not* afraid!" Jatrinn snapped.  
  
The smaller woman smiled slightly. "You seem to say that a lot. Oh alright,  
don't be so -nervous- then. Sha'neyat sits badly enough on an empty  
stomach, let alone an upset one."  
  
This time, Jatrinn couldn't restrain a glare. Revaal chuckled and gave her  
a slight push forward. The motion sensors of the door reacted, and the  
portal irised open, revealing a dimly lit, cavernous room. There was no  
help for it now, but to step forward, into the sea of eyes. But perhaps  
Revaal had done her a favour after all, with the bubbling of annoyance in  
her blood the glittering stares of the ship's company were no longer  
daunting - their bright, predatory gleam was echoed in her own. She was a  
Warrior, she belonged among them.  
  
Neroon stepped out of the shadows, blocking her way, a denn'bok extended and  
lethally bright within his two gloved hands. "Why do you come here?"  
  
Boldly she made her answer. "I come to serve." She took a step forward,  
then halted abruptly as he lifted the pike and aimed it at her throat. Her  
heart pounded in reaction, despite knowing this was part of the ceremony to  
follow.  
  
"None may pass without forfeit. What will you give?"  
  
The answer was as old as time. "My life."  
  
Revaal had disappeared into the darkness, but now she appeared again, a cup  
of red liquid clutched in her hands. Neroon closed off his pike, tucking it  
away as he took the cup. Sha'neyat. Death Destroyer. The Minbari had long  
ago discovered the dangerous psychoses produced by fermented drinks, but  
continued experimentation had created a poison far more potent than mere  
alcohol. The berries from which sha'neyat was pressed stopped the heart  
within minutes, the liquid itself had to be carefully distilled and cut with  
pure spring water until the potent chemicals no longer posed a threat. It  
was a traditional Warrior's ceremonial libation, jealously guarded, the only  
outsider to partake of it being the head of the Anla'shok. In ancient  
times, many an unfit candidate had been... eliminated by a less than  
judicious watering of the drink...  
  
Jatrinn swallowed hard, grasping the symbolism only too well.  
  
"Taste of it," Neroon prompted her. "The blood of enemies who will die at  
your hands, the blood of friends who will die at your back; your own blood,  
when you cannot stem the flow... On this day you are called to shed it."  
  
Bowing, Jatrinn took the cup from Neroon's outstretched hands, her gloved  
fingertips brushing briefly against his own. Lifting it, she gazed solemnly  
into the depths, savouring her last moments of life... A copious swallow  
later, and she was no more. In a daze she saw herself passing the cup back  
to Neroon, who drank also, even more deeply than she, finishing the rest,  
sealing the bond that an Alyt shared with every member of his crew.  
Responsibility for their actions, and for their deaths, if they should come.  
  
He held her gaze for long moments, hers dropped to the strong, sensuous  
curve of his mouth, and the remains of the drink gleaming there. Even  
poison would taste sweet on those lips...  
  
Taste of it.  
  
Jatrinn hardly felt Revaal's hands guiding her, helping her to lie down for  
the next part of the ritual. Neroon remained nearby, staring down at her  
prone form, brow furrowed and stern. She wished she had remembered to ask  
whether to keep her eyes open or closed.  
  
She heard footsteps nearby, and a thin, almost transparent layer of black  
gossamer cloth interposed itself between her gaze and her new leader's. The  
Warriors who had been carrying the cloth released it, letting it pool airily  
over her body as another layer was brought, and another, and another. Her  
vision was fading, as Neroon dwindled from a distinct shape into nothing but  
a vague shadow. Layer upon layer of silk fell over her, piles of it, mounds  
of it, until it seemed as heavy as the earth in a grave. Finally she could  
not see, could barely breathe. A Warrior was already dead, and so there she  
lay; buried.  
  
Her body felt strange and very light, as if she had no bones. She heard a  
voice, far away, as if heard through a dream. It was the only sound she  
heard--the Religious sang dirges for their dead, but Warriors were silent in  
the face of it.  
  
"She lies," said the voice, low-pitched and songlike in its cadence. "She  
lies, dead. She knows death."  
  
And then he was addressing her, his voice coming deeply into her bones. His  
voice no longer muffled by the veil that shielded her from him.  
  
"Know death, Warrior. It is your partner, your lover, your life. Taste of  
it."  
  
She thought she heard a drumbeat, but no, that was foolishness. Perhaps it  
was her own blood in her ears.  
  
She thought she could feel her heartbeat slow, slow... Was it the  
*sha'neyat*? Was it her own mind? Would it still, if she breathed evenly,  
lying buried here?  
  
She felt something - panic? - blossom in her chest, suddenly, beating  
frantic wings against her ribs. She could not keep from gasping, hoped it  
was not heard. 


End file.

Babylon 5, Drama, Romance