A Good Assassin 
DS9/B5 crossover  
Kathryn Ramage
September 1998

Summary: Babylon 5's Michael Garibaldi has to 
go pretty far to hire someone to kill Bester.

Setting: This story takes place sometime after 
the B5 episode "Phoenix Rising," but at no
particular point in the DS9 timeline--I wouldn't
pin it down to anything more specific than late 
in the series.

Rating: G if you don't mind a conversation about
murder and a salty word or two from Garibaldi.
PG if you do.

Paramount owns Star Trek, DS9, Garak and Quark.
Michael Garibaldi belongs to JM Straczynski and
Warner Brothers.  This story was written for 
personal entertainment and should not be taken 
as intended copyright infringement.

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The guy didn't exactly look like a professional 
killer, but he had come highly recommended.

"You're Mr. Ga-"

"Ah!  No names!" The assassin lifted one finger to 
stop him.  "Please, sit down."

He sat.

The man across the table from him was reptilian, but 
not a species he recognized. In fact, except for the 
humans in black uniforms who seemed to be all over 
this seedy space-dive, he didn't see a single member 
of any race he knew: the troll tending bar, the huge 
guy like a manatee crammed into a leather jumpsuit, 
all the crinkly-nosed people--not one looked familiar.  
But then he was a long way from home.

"Now, what can I do for you?" 

"I was given your name, told to come to you.  There's 
someone I need to get rid of."  

A few years ago, he would've found it hard to see
himself in a situation like this.  He'd been an 
officer of the law; sure, he'd had his own personal 
opinions about how to deal with the hard cases, but 
if he sought justice, he'd gone through the time-
honored procedures of due process.  But that was 
before.  The only justice he would find now was the 
kind you had to go outside of the boundaries of the
law to get.

He had come a long away in the past few years, and a 
hell of a long way to arrive at *this* place.  It'd
taken some trouble to locate this man.  

He hoped it would be worth it.  

"You're - ah- still in the business?" he asked
doubtfully.

"Oh, I'm retired for the most part these days, but I 
occasionally perform special services in a good cause
--favors for friends, that sort of thing.  It's never 
good to allow your skills to fall far out of practice.
Why don't you tell me a little about this...service
you require?" 

"Is that necessary?"

"No..." his companion smiled.  "But it gives us 
something to talk about.  If you'll forgive a 
personal remark, you don't look like the kind of 
man who balks at committing his own murders."

True enough.  "Yeah, but in this case, I can't."

"Too obvious a suspect?"

"No, I don't care about that.  Half the galaxy
knows I want this creep dead, and once his body turns
up, they'll come straight to me anyway.  I'll take
whatever's coming to me afterwards, but I can't do 
it myself."

"Can I get you gentlemen something to drink?"
The troll bartender had come over to their table. 

Christ, why did they have to meet in a bar anyway?
"Nothing for me, thanks," he shook his head quickly,
before he changed his mind.

The thing was, he *could* use a stiff drink right 
now, but as much as he wanted it, that was just
as much as he couldn't have it.  Hadn't he screwed 
up enough already?  He couldn't afford to screw this 
up too.

"You can't just sit here without making a purchase,"
the bartender complained.  "It's against the house 
rules-"

"Quark," his companion said, "not now."

The words sounded pleasant enough, but the smile 
was not so nice, and there was a flash of something 
dangerous in the eyes that made the troll back off 
nervously.  A mumbled apology, and he scuttled away.

A chill ran up Garibaldi's spine and all his doubts 
vanished.  He'd seen enough cold-blooded killers in 
his time to know that this man was as icy as they 
came.  Okay, so maybe "cold-blooded" was an offensive 
term to use with a reptilian species, but in this 
case it was true.  

He'd been sent to the right person after all.

"It's like this," he lowered his voice and began his 
story.  "I betrayed a friend.  I sold him out--and 
because of it, he was beaten, tortured, imprisoned.  
He would have died.  All my fault."

The assassin, not shocked, nodded for him to go on.

"I had good reasons.  At least, it seemed like I did 
at the time.  But after they captured him, it was like 
a fog cleared up inside my head and I realized what 
I'd done.  The thing I couldn't figure out was *why*.  
Nothing made sense anymore, until I ran into a couple
of clues, tracked them down...right to *him*.

"Him?"

"The one I've come to see you about. The man behind 
it all along.  His name is Alfred Bester.  He's 
responsible.  He set me up, turned me against my 
friends, had me brainwashed."

"Brain-?" The assassin looked puzzled.

"Psychologically reconditioned," he explained. "This 
guy is a telepath.  He got inside my head, rearranged 
the furniture just a little.  Scrubbed out a few
inconvenient spots, like my sense of loyalty.  My
free will."

"I wouldn't know about that.  My people are impervious 
to telepathic influence."

"Lucky you."  Actually, this was one of the reasons 
he'd been directed to seek this particular semi-retired 
killer.  A guy like this could look Bester straight 
in the eye without flinching; all those Psi-Cop 
intimidation tactics would bounce right off of him.  
Oh, he'd give anything to see the smug expression wiped
off that son-of-bitch's face when he realized his psi
powers wouldn't save him this time.  He knew he couldn't 
be there when it happened, but the sight of *that* 
would almost be worth the risk.
     
"I've had to live with it ever since," he continued.  
"I try to work out just where the conditioning begins 
and ends. Maybe my betrayal was his idea, and all my 
reasons manufactured out of nothing.  Or maybe there 
was a real doubt in the back of my mind, and Bester 
only dug it out to use against me.  I don't know.  I 
lie awake some nights thinking about it."

Mercifully, the bartender had retreated to a safe
distance; that drink was beginning to look pretty 
good again.

"I would say you have ample reason for wanting this
person dead," the assassin said.  "In your situation,
I would have cheerfully wrung the man's throat.  My
own acts of betrayal are not so easily laid at another's
door.  I wish they were.  So, why is your enemy still 
living?"
 
"It's not that easy.  Afterwards, I couldn't wait to 
get my hands on the guy.  Believe me, I wanted him 
*dead.*  He wasn't going to get away with what he did 
to me, and what I did because of that.  Things did get 
back to normal eventually.  My friend was rescued.  
He's forgiven me.  I've been brought back into the fold 
and we're a happy family again.  But I've never been 
much for 'forgive and forget' myself.  

"And then he came back.  It was the moment I'd been 
waiting months for.  I had him, dammit.  I had him right 
*there,* my weapon trained on him.  All I had to do 
was pull the trigger--and I couldn't do it."

"I take it it wasn't a sudden irrational fit of mercy 
that stopped you?"

He shook his head.  "No, not mercy," he answered.  
"A telepathic block.  I literally couldn't do it. This
guy isn't stupid--you got to know that.  After what he
did to me, he knew I'd want revenge.  So while he was
messing around in my mind, he set up a little protection
for himself. An Asimov, they call it.  Do you know what
that is?"

"Something to do with robotics, isn't it?  A programmed
directive to keep the machines from harming their masters."  
The man was regarding him with frank pity; he hated pity.  
"I didn't know that that kind of mental restriction could 
be effectively placed upon a sentient being."

"It can," he snapped bitterly.  "He was happy to
explain it to me: I can't shoot the bastard.  I can't
throttle him with my bare hands.  If that's not bad
enough, I've got this directive planted in my brain so
that if I see someone else try to kill him, I have an
irresistible impulse to throw myself in the way.  I 
have to protect him."  

"My sympathies.  It must be humiliating."

"Yeah, well...I didn't give up right away. I thought, 
okay, I can get around this.  I don't have to kill him 
myself.  Sure, that'd be more satisfying, but I'll take 
what I can get.  All I need is a little imagination.  
Hell," he snorted angrily, "what I needed was a good 
assassin.  But you know what they say--there's never a 
good assassin around when you need one.  I found out I 
couldn't even *talk* about it.  I couldn't hire anyone 
for the hit, even second-hand."

"But you *are* telling me," his companion pointed 
out, "and quite volubly."

"It took awhile, but I found a way around it.  If 
I tell you how, though, you'll wonder why I'm not 
in a straitjacket.  First things first: Are you 
interested?"

"Mm...perhaps.  I must confess, you propose an 
intriguing challenge."

"I'll give you all the information you need to find 
Bester, but after that, I can't know a thing about it.  
I don't want to know what you're going to do, when it's 
going to happen.  Not one detail.  If I know, I'll only 
screw it up.  I'll try to stop you--I won't be able 
to help myself."

"Yes, I understand."

"After it's all over, you'll get in touch with me  
and I'll see you get back here."  He took a quick glance 
around the dingy little bar.  "If that's what you want.
Well?"

The assassin nodded.  "We have a bargain, on one 
condition.  I want to know how you found a way around
your psychological restrictions.  Call it curiosity."

He'd put this off--he knew the minute he opened his 
mouth, this guy would be looking around for someone 
to show up with that straitjacket--but he'd have to 
tell the truth eventually.  He doubted this man 
would agree to go along without it. 

"I know this'll sound crazy," he said, "but the 
directive doesn't hold when you cross into another 
universe.  

"Yes, I see," said the assassin.  "And we are going
to lure your Mr. Bester over here so that I can
dispatch him?"

"Not exactly.  I thought you'd come back with me."

"I don't get to travel as much as I'd like to these 
days, and I've never visited an alternate reality
before."  He might have been joking, just humoring 
the escaped lunatic until his keepers showed up; 
Garibaldi couldn't tell. "How do we return to your- 
er- universe?" 
 
"Damned if I can explain it technically." Together,
they left the table.  "It took some pretty weird 
shit to get me here..."

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Sig altered to keep the spam-bots away;
remove the asterisks.

Kathryn Ramage        kramage@e*r*o*l*s.com
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The following tale of alien encounters is true.
By true, I mean false. It's all lies, but
they're entertaining lies--and, in the end,
isn't that the real truth?  The answer is no.

Leonard Nimoy, hosting The Simpsons
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