Babylon 5: Red Fury by Claudia Christian, Morgan Grant Buchanan

PROLOGUE
    Mars, Dome One, December, 2262.
    Michael Garibaldi awoke to an irritating, unending alarm. The
    clock beside his bed told him it was 2am and for a moment he thought he was back in his old, cramped quarters on Babylon 5. That had been the last place anyone had dared to wake him at such an ungodly hour.
    But the bed he was lying on was almost as large as his entire room on the space station and he was covered with lavish, black silk sheets and wearing pajamas woven by the insectile hands of a Gaim Queen—
    clothes which would have cost him three years’ salary when he was a Chief of Security. No, he was on Mars, living his new life.
    Since taking over the day-to-day running of Edgars Industries,
    Michael Garibaldi had become one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the galaxy and he had firm expectations that, whatever other benefits the position brought with it, an undisturbed night’s sleep should be right at the top of the list. That had been his old life—woken up at all hours, having to sit in on every decision, manage every little thing.
    Now he had people to do that for him. Garibaldi sighed and tapped a panel beside his bed, opening a comm channel. The holographic form of his assistant, Reynolds, was instantly projected into the air above his bed. Reynolds was a thin man, obsessed with detail, always sitting behind the same console—analyzing data, scouring through reports, collecting information that might be of interest to Garibaldi. He was a pedantic, particular man—qualities that suited his job perfectly—but he was prone to disturbing Garibaldi for reasons less than spectacularly important and now, now he had gone one step too far. He had broken the number one rule.
    “Reynolds,” he said. “What did I specifically order you never to do?
    My exact words.”
    “To never wake you, sir.”
    -4-
    RED FURY
    “Unless?”
    “Unless it was the end of the world and Earth was about to go up in flames and all hell was breaking loose.”
    “And I meant it. Literally. The. End. Of. The. World. Is the world going up in actual flames?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Do you know I was dreaming about bagna càuda. Have you ever
    had bagna càuda? Italian dip with garlic, anchovies, olive oil, roasted vegetables?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Then you don’t know what you’ve just done.” And the man never
    truly would. Normally Garibaldi’s sleep was plagued by nightmares—
    things he did when the Psi Corps were inside his head, casualties he’d seen during the war, bad memories from the old days on Mars. He
    seldom slept well. But not that night.
    “I was back on Babylon 5,” Garibaldi said, “and I’d been piecing together the ingredients for bagna càuda for over three months, smuggling them in, one by one, and then it was finally there, right in front of me.
    And then you woke me up. Nowadays I can have a swimming pool filled with bagna càuda if I want but I can never have that moment again, of tasting it after having to wait three excruciating months.”
    “Yes, sir,” Reynolds said without any hint of emotion. It wasn’t the first time he’d been on the receiving end of one of Garibaldi’s anecdotal lectures.
    “Well?”
    “Our new intelligence satellites, the ones with the prototype
    sensors, they’ve picked up a Vorlon ship en route to Earth.”
    “A planet-killer?” Garibaldi asked, visualizing the massive Vorlon ships that could decimate an entire world with one concentrated
    discharge of a beam weapon.
    “No, sir. A smaller vessel. A Vorlon transport. Blood red in color.”
    Garibaldi nodded. “Right. There’s only one of those left this side
    -5-
    RED FURY
    of the Galactic Rim—the shuttle left behind by that crazy Vorlon ambassador they sent us after Kosh. He’s not back is he?”
    “Not as far as we can tell, sir...”
    “Well, that’s interesting but...”
    “Five minutes ago the ship destroyed a Psi Corps spy satellite.”
    “Okay. That’s good news, Reynolds, but it’s