Babylon 5 - A Call To Arms (Scheckley Robert) Read online

  Babylon 5

  A Call to Arms

  by Robert Scheckley

  Chapter 1

  It was a neutral kind of a darkness to which John Sheridan opened his eyes. The first sense that kicked in was smell. The place was immediately characterized by a lack of smell. But as soon as he concentrated, Sheridan picked up faint traces of a familiar and not offensive scent. Min- bari. Of course. He was on a Minbari cruiser. He opened his eyes in the small darkened room they had assigned him. He noticed the luminous dial of a clock on a facing wall. It was just two minutes before the time he had asked them to call him. He still retained the military training that had been instilled in him over the years. No matter how much time passed, he would never forget the beefy captain of cadets back at the Academy, his voice full of mock irony as he drawled, "Gentlemen, shall we rise and shine? Or shall we linger in our beds awhile longer, thus inviting company punishment at the best, courts- martial at the worst?" And out they'd pile, all the new cadets, Sheridan among them, ready to face the new day and whatever it might bring. Discipline had been so deeply ingrained in Sheridan that nothing could erase it. Even when he was off duty, even while he and Delenn had been on their honeymoon , he had always been up before dawn-no matter what time dawn was on whatever planet he happened to be stationed. And not just up but awake, alert, bright- eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to face whatever the new day might bring. His wrist link went off, pulling him back to the present . He toggled it. "President Sheridan?" It was the voice of the duty officer. Sheridan remembered him from the mess table the previous night. A large, cheerful Minbari with a good sense of humor. He had told several lively jokes, not all of them comprehensible to an Earther. But his voice was formal and serious now. "This is the call you requested. The White Star is within visual range." "Yes, thank you," Sheridan said. "I'll be up to the bridge presently." He rolled out of bed. The bathroom was a tiny cubicle ; the Minbari wasted no time installing amenities on their capital ships, even for the senior officers. He took a cold shower, enjoying the needle spray of water stinging his skin. He dried off and wrapped himself in a towel, then shaved, leaving his trim salt-and-pepper beard intact, and tried to remember his dream of the night before. It had been the same dream again, like the ones he'd experienced so many times recently. The ones he couldn't quite remember. The ones that felt so important but always vanished as soon as he woke up, leaving only lingering hints. He dressed, and mused. This particular series of dreams had been going on for a while now, though he couldn't remember just how long. The one last night had been like the others: it inspired a feeling that someone was trying to warn him of something important , to break through the daytime barrier in his mind. There was the familiar sense-of something urgent that he needed to remember, something he had to do, and quickly, quickly, not a moment to be lost. But what was it? He hadn't told anyone about the dreams. Some people thought he was crazy enough as it was, with his hunches that were too complex and multileveled to explain . And besides, there was nothing to tell. Whenever he woke up, his dreams dissolved before he could grasp them. But even though he wasn't sure of their content, he knew they were important, and he couldn't escape the feeling that something or someone was trying to communicate with him. Although he considered himself a rational man, Sheridan didn't discount the importance of dreams. So often they were portents of things to come. More than once, dreams had played a crucial part in his life. But he didn't like to overstress their importance. He knew that some dreams, while they might seem important, simply weren't visionary. He had even studied the subject in what he laughingly referred to as his spare time, looking up the subject in the big on-line library maintained on the Babylon 5 space station, where he had begun his presidency . only five years earlier. Some of the ancients had documented interesting ideas on dreams. Iamblichus, for example, was a Greek who had devoted his studies to the Egyptian mysteries of Serapis. He had written a book on dream explanation and interpretation as early as A.D. 235. The next prominent figure had been Marsilio Ficino, writing in Italy during the Renaissance. Still later, the Frenchman Binet had been an early pioneer in dream research. His work had been extended by the French Desoille, Sigmund Freud, and C. G. Jung. Freud had been responsible for the line of reasoning that claimed dreams were reenactments of childhood scenes. The Jungians seemed to feel dreams related to figures in what they called the "archetypal consciousness ." Writers like Hillman and Cobb felt dreams were a road into an inner landscape of the underworld, which they felt every person possessed. One school held that dreams were composed of odds and ends thrown up by the mind, things thought or seen during the day that hadn't quite reached the threshold of consciousness. But some authorities, like Jannig and Vierese, believed there were visionary dreams, too, scenes and visions viewed by the mind as it traveled in many dimensions in its nightly wanderings. Their theories had gained new popularity in 2115, with the confirmation of telepathy. Sheridan suspected his recent dreams didn't fit any of the standard categories. It was almost as if someone or something was trying to send him a dream, or make contact with him while he was sleeping. He wondered, uneasily, if his dream experiences might in fact have something to do with telepathy. He sincerely hoped not. His experiences with the Psi Corps had left him with a deep suspicion of this wild talent, and like so many, he maintained a fear of falling under its spell. It was true that the Psi Corps had been reformed and transformed. There was more freedom for telepaths, and mingling between telepaths and normals was no longer forbidden. Telepaths no longer had to wear gloves and special uniforms, but still, each telepath was scanned every six months to make sure they hadn't been infringing on the rights of normals. And Sheridan still held many of his old suspicions. Whatever the explanation, dreams haunted his sleep most nights and left him wondering about them during the day. He hadn't been sleeping well recently. He attributed that in part to the fact that he was so far from Delenn. His wife was on Minbar, her home planet, and he was on a Minbari cruiser, en route to a rendezvous with Michael Garibaldi. He and Delenn had become very close, almost psychically attuned to one another. Sometimes he felt incomplete without her by his side. But she was acting as a combined vice president and first lady for the Interstellar Alliance of Races. The vague dreams made him uneasy, and though he didn't care to acknowledge the feeling, he wished he could talk it over with Delenn. But neither could spare the time-the very nature of their responsibilities frequently kept them apart. She couldn't leave Minbar on a whim; her presence was necessary there. And their unique relationship allowed them to carry on in two places at once. Though Sheridan sometimes wished otherwise, he knew they were both considered indispensable. But he also had learned, from his military background , his lifetime of service, not to take himself too seriously, no matter what his rank or position. Men and women came and went, but the workings of the universe went on-the all-important mechanics of civilization , great tasks such as creating peace and order where war and chaos had been before. If he wasn't around to perform those tasks, then someone else would be. That's what he believed, but it wasn't the sort of thing you talked about. So he straightened his clothing and prepared to go to the bridge. Indispensable? Maybe not in a general sense. But in a limited way, yes, since events hinged on the lives of individuals. He and Delenn were pivotal people. They were the first leaders of the Interstellar Alliance- people who, due to their placement, not necessarily to their abilities, were crucial to the unfolding of events. Delenn was currently organizing and orchestrating the events of the grand celebration that would mark the fifth anniversary of the Alliance. And he? He was having dreams that he couldn't remember. Not an
y of their content, not even their mood. There was only one thing his dreams seemed to be telling him-that something big was going to happen, and it wouldn't be a pay. Finishing his preparations, and skipping breakfast, Sheridan came directly to the bridge of the cruiser. The White Star to which he was transferring was already within visual range. The sleek, hawklike form of these ships never ceased to thrill him. The bridge was a scene of quiet, organized activity as the Minbari navigator made the final adjustments to match his ship's speed to that of the White Star. All around him there was the hushed discipline of a well- run ship, officers and crew attending to their duties with a minimum of conversation. The Minbari commander was aware of Sheridan as soon as he stepped onto the bridge. The commander had arrived early to be sure of greeting him properly. He'd had a talk with his officers late last night, after Sheridan had turned in, just to be sure they'd know how to act. He'd told them, "President Sheridan likes to keep things casual. I don't suppose he knows it, but that presents more of a problem than if he were a stickler for strict discipline. If he addresses any of you, respond in a friendly manner, but always with reserve and respect. Do I make myself clear?" Sure, sir, we'll deal with him just like we deal with you, his junior officers were thinking, but by no means saying. The Minbari commander, though well liked, simply didn't realize that he was a pr oblem for his junior officers just like Sheridan was a problem for him. But Sheridan wasn't in a very conversational mood that morning. He nodded pleasantly enough to the commander and his bridge crew. "Everything in order for the transfer?" "Yes, sir!" the Minbari commander responded. "The White Star is in place, and our launch is ready to take you over to her." "Might as well get on with it, then," Sheridan said, and started toward the lock, the Minbari commander accompanying him. "Good luck, sir," the Minbari said when they reached the lock entrance. "It's been a pleasure escorting you here. Hope to see you again soon." "I look forward to it," Sheridan said. He gave the commander a friendly nod and entered the lock. Now that there was work to do, he put aside his musings . All that was left of his dream was a vague premonition . But not even that gave him a clue as to just what was to come.

  Chapter 2

  Sheridan wasn't the only one having trouble with his dreams. Michael Garibaldi was also having a dream, in his darkened cubicle aboard the White Star, just before Sheridan's arrival. Unlike Sheridan, Garibaldi was not one to analyze his dreams, and he never considered researching them. And where Sheridan's dream had been vague and uncertain, Garibaldi's was clear and definite. In his dream, Garibaldi was in a bar back on Earth. He was in a run-down part of a large city-New York, maybe, near the approaches to the Lincoln Tunnel. It was nighttime, and there was a glow in the air from the streetlights that lit the long avenue. He'd been going somewhere in his car, driving along, calm, happy, pleased with life in general. But he'd stopped because he suddenly remembered he needed to make a phone call. A call to whom, about what? The dream hadn't specified. He was in an inconvenient place to stop: a neighborhood that had never seen better days. It was a dark place, filled with run-down buildings. Garbage was strewn on the streets. Garibaldi didn't even question why he didn't have a car phone. He simply didn't, so he stopped near a dimly lit bar. He wasn't going in there for a drink. That was the farthest thing from his mind. He was off the booze, hadn't had a drop in years. No, he simply had to make this telephone call. The street was dark, but the bar was even darker when he went in. Overhead spotlights above the curved bar sent out pools of light in an otherwise dark room. And it was quiet, with that introspective silence that places devoted to serious drinking seem to generate. There were half a dozen patrons at the bar, four men, two women. They ail seemed frozen in place, like marionettes . The bartender, in white jacket and black tie, was standing motionless behind the bar, like he was sleepwalking or something. "What can I get you?" the bartender asked. "Hey, I just want to use the phone," Garibaldi said. "You got one here?" The bartender didn't answer. Garibaldi was about to repeat his request, this time in a louder voice, when it occurred to him to look around. There were two more people in the place than he'd noticed originally, both of them standing. One guy was lounging by the pinball machine in a corner of the bar near the phone booth. He was tall and skinny and wore glasses. He had on a sports jacket but wasn't wearing a necktie. He was grinning. He had a sawed-off shotgun tucked under his arm. It took Garibaldi a moment to register the gun, so ca- sually was the man holding it, and a moment more to realize that something was very wrong. Then he noticed the other man. This man was standing to one side of the bar, in shadow. He stepped forward into the beam of one of the overhead spotlights. He was a big, hard-looking guy, stocky, broad-shouldered, with a scar down the left side of his face. He was holding a large blued- steel automatic in one hand, dangling it negligently at his side. He had a hat pulled down flat over his large head. He had on a glen-plaid suit, cut sharply. An expensive -looking camel hair topcoat was draped over his shoulders. "Looks like I came by at the wrong time," Garibaldi said, trying to seem casual. "I'll just make my call somewhere else, and have a nice day. . ." "Naw, stick around," the scar-faced man said. There was no special tone of menace in his voice, but Garibaldi stopped. "What?" Garibaldi asked. "Just don't make trouble," the scar-faced man said. "We're not here to hurt anyone ... else." He lifted his chin toward the bar. "We already done what we came to do." That was when Garibaldi made out the crumpled shape on the floor. He nodded. It looked like a mob hit. He had missed the killing action. But it looked like the trouble was over. Garibaldi relaxed slightly. And then it came. The broad-shouldered man said, "Me and my buddy will be leaving now. Just sit tight and you'll be all right. We'll just walk out, and you'll stay where you are and nobody gets hurt. Okay?" Garibaldi nodded vigorously. The scar-faced man went on, "Just to show you there's no hard feelings, I'm going to buy everyone a drink. Bartender, drinks for everyone. Make it Scotch. Your best Scotch." Garibaldi's thoughts began to tumble quickly through his head: This can't be happening to me. I'm off the booze, I'm doing fine, and this bozo is going to force me to drink again. Garibaldi was beginning to get annoyed. He wasn't going back to drinking! No matter what they thought, he wasn't going to take that drink. He'd just have to explain it to the scar-faced guy and take his chances. The bartender poured his drink. When Garibaldi saw the whiskey, brimming to the top of the shot glass, with one amber drop trickling down the side, he thought it looked mighty enticing. Suddenly the memory of good times returned to him. He sure would love a Scotch! But no one was going to force him to drink it. He saw that the others at the bar had downed their shots. They looked relieved, like they'd done what was necessary and were now safe. His was the only full shot glass on the bar. "You got any problem drinking with me?" the scar- faced man asked. "Nope," Garibaldi said, deciding this wasn't the time to try to explain, not with a blued-steel automatic picking up winks of light as it waved in his face. He raised the shot glass and downed the contents, and a feeling of pleasure, of relief, flooded him. He was drinking because he had to, to save his life! No one could blame him for that ... And then he woke up.

  Chapter 3

  A half hour later, Garibaldi came to the bridge of the White Star feeling grumpy and out of sorts-a typical mood for him. He was dressed in dark, shapeless clothing. It went with his mood. Once, in a circus back on Earth, many years ago when he had been a youngster, he had visited a sideshow. There had been an old gypsy woman, her head covered in a glittering kerchief, her eyes deep and hidden from the light. "Can you read my palm?" Garibaldi had asked, with a wise-guy smirk, holding out his hand. "I don't need to," the gypsy said. "I can see your fortune in your face." "Yeah? And what does it tell you?" "That you won't be happy as you go through life, especially with your truculent temperament, but you will have interesting adventures, and you'll get a lot of the best lines." "Hey, that's good enough for me," Garibaldi had said, and he had gone off whistling, hands in his pockets. Had that really happened? Or had he dreamed it? He shrugged off the thought and went to the window. He saw
a dot detach itself from the Minbari cruiser and start toward the White Star. It was the shuttle with Sheridan aboard, moving slowly toward them, its rear jets a stabbing red plume. Sheridan was right on time. Garibaldi glanced around the White Star's bridge. Everything seemed to be in order. There was a soft hum of purposeful activity. Human and Minbari Rangers were working at their consoles; data was flowing across the readout screens. Everybody seemed to know just what to do. Garibaldi wished he could say the same for himself. In his experience, life was one long improvisation broken up by unaccountable interludes. "That's him," Garibaldi remarked to the Human Ranger standing by and awaiting his orders. "Move us away as soon as he's aboard. And tell 'em to have dinner ready. It's been a long trip, and he's bound to be hungry. And even if he's not, I am." Fifteen minutes later, John Sheridan was aboard. Garibaldi greeted him with barely concealed warmth. Sheridan was one of his favorite people. It was not always easy for Garibaldi to put on his usual gruff face: his admiration for the man made that difficult. Still, he did his best. He led Sheridan inside and brought him to a booth in the dining room. There was no delay. The kitchen staff had been waiting for this. The first course seemed to be miniature enchiladas in a simple white sauce. Garibaldi ate his with good appetite, but noticed that Sheridan was toying with his. Garibaldi liked Minbari food, but suspected it might not agree with the president, not even when it had been cleared through xeno-cuisine substitutes. Now, putting down his fork, Sheridan said, "Michael , it's good to see you. How are things going on Mars?" "Couldn't be better," Garibaldi said. "Never figured myself for the corporate type. I mean, me, running one of the ten biggest corporations on Mars? But I'm having a ball." "Well," Sheridan said, "I appreciate you getting into this, Michael. I haven't been able to stay as involved with the construction on the new ships as I'd've liked." "Hey, c'mon, you've got a galactic empire to run ... Leave the nuts and bolts to the other guys. Kicking butt is what I do for a living." "Then you've talked to the head of construction ... what's his name ... Drake?" Garibaldi gave a sour smile. In his mind's eye he conjured up Drake's image: a small, efficient man who worked hard at being affable, yet with a certain prissiness about him, and a meanness based, perhaps, on a fear of things getting out of order, out of control. Not endearing qu alities. "Talked, yelled, screamed ... He's a bright guy, but he's one of those people who wants everything perfect before he does anything. So nothing gets done." "Roast leg of lamb," Sheridan commented as the waiter wheeled over a cart. "You know my tastes." "And it's nice when they coincide with my own," Garibaldi replied. "Well, I understand Drake's caution," Sheridan said. "Reverse-engineering Minbari and Vorlon technology so it'll work with Human tech ... it's never been done before." Garibaldi nodded, unconvinced. "Maybe so. Once we're done you're going to have the leanest, meanest fleet on the block. Of course, all the other races are gonna go nuts when they find out." "I know," Sheridan said. "That's why we're doing this in secret. If they knew we were building a whole new class of destroyer, they'd be all over us. Fortunately , we've got a pretty good smoke screen to hide the funding, and Delenn's keeping everyone's attention back on Minbar getting ready for the anniversary. Nobody knows we're here." Just then a Minbari Ranger came over. "Mr. President ... we're clear of all the shipping lanes. We can jump at any time." "Good," Sheridan said. "Proceed." The Ranger saluted sharply, turned, and left. There was a subtle change that rippled through the people in the dining room. It was as though somehow, almost telepathically, everyone was aware that the White Star was about to make an important move. "One thing's for sure," Sheridan said. "Even if anybody does know where we are, no one's going to follow us from here on out. I haven't seen anything yet that could keep up with a White Star on full burn."