called him a liar.
"You were one of Byron's litter, right? You look like one of 'em. As attached to the color black as the Psi Corps ever was, I guess the upbringing always shows, huh? But since you were on B5 back when, you know who I am. And you know it's not whoever told you to stand your little tin butt here that foots your bills. It's me that keeps you in PPG's, pork and beans, and hair conditioner for your oh-so-long-and-shiny hair."
"I know who you are, Mr. Garibaldi," the telepath said. "The whole movement is grateful for your support, but as an ex-military man you understand I have my orders."
"Ex is the important part there. Never did care for the uniform - or taking orders. Come to think of it, neither did your Saint Byron."
The smirk rotated into a frown, but the fellow didn't say anything.
"Look," Garibaldi said. "I just want to talk to whoever's in charge, and I want to talk to them now. I'm expected."
"Will I do?"
A faint shiver ran up Garibaldi's neck at that familiar voice. Nevertheless, he turned to address the speaker, a slim, redheaded woman with eyes like chips of interstellar carbon.
"Lyta, tell this toy soldier he has about four seconds to get his yap out of my way before life starts getting real painful for him."
Lyta regarded Garibaldi for a long, silent moment.
"Don't push my people around, Garibaldi." She nodded almost reluctantly at the guard. "Let him in, Antony." She turned and walked up the corridor. Fuming, Garibaldi followed.
"Is he here?" he asked.
"No," Lyta said, "Mr. Bester is not here."
Garibaldi took Lyta by the arm and swung her around. She jerked back and her eyes narrowed dangerously.
"Go ahead," he snapped. "Do it. Mindfrag me or whatever it is you're trying to threaten with that stare of