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

  Chapter 7

  A call from Delenn was such a pleasant thing to look forward to. Sheridan was surprised. They hadn't planned to talk for another few days. Still, it was a welcome treat. Sheridan strode down the corridor leading from the bridge to the interior parts of the ship. He was sure of his direction, but hadn't counted on the size of the vessel. It took a lot longer to get from point to point on Excalibur than it did on a White Star. The walk was pleasant enough, down a wide corridor that seemed to dip slightly downward as he walked on it. The lighting was even, monotonous, hypnotic. He thought it might be a good idea to do something more dramatic with it. This evenly lit corridor, which gave the sensation that you were traveling into the depths of a dream, was almost hypnotic to the senses. Some sounds would also be good here. Help to wake people up! Still, that was a minor point. So far, he approved of the ship's layout. It showed good common sense. He had to congratulate Drake on that. He found his way without difficulty to the conference room. It was large and pleasantly lit, with con- trasting pastel wall colors and rug. It had the good smell of a new ship about it. Inside, there was a long light-colored table, with six chairs around it. Near the far wall was a small table with a pot of steaming coffee ready for him. Sheridan smiled. He was sure Garibaldi had thought of this detail. He poured himself a cup of coffee, sipped it appreciatively for a moment, and went to the chair at the head of the table, next to a video monitor with its ready light blinking. Sheridan spoke. "You have a message for me?" The computer monitor's voice replied, "Message received , President Sheridan. Ready to display." "Good, let's see it," Sheridan said, and he leaned forward toward the screen. The monitor came to life in a series of vivid swirling colors. That was strange. Sheridan couldn't remember ever seeing anything like it. Excalibur must be using new software, he thought. The swirling colors changed into interlocking shapes, turning, twirling, coalescing and separating again. No data was coming through, no printout, not even an explanatory voice-over. But Sheridan found that he wasn't impatient. It was strangely soothing just sitting in front of this glowing screen, relaxed , watching the changing shapes and colors. Like watching a dream. Funny he should think of that... He watched the display, and he felt slowed down and content. Tension that he hadn't even been aware of seemed to be draining from his muscles. He sat there, perfectly relaxed, the cup of coffee cooling beside him, forgotten, and watched the swirling shapes. Even when the display went off he was still perfectly at ease, and in no hurry to move. Garibaldi was nervous and impatient. Ten minutes seemed long enough to him for the president to receive his message and get back to the bridge. He waited another five minutes. No message came from the conference room, even though it was connected to the bridge. Faint alarm bells went off in Garibaldi's mind. He was sure nothing was wrong ... but still ... He got up and hurried down the corridor to the conference room. The door was closed. Protocol demanded that he wait until Sheridan summoned him. His own built-in sense of urgency disagreed. He pressed his ear against the door and tried to hear what was going on. He couldn't make out a sound. He straightened and began pacing, trying to decide what to do. He was not happy about this at all. He walked up and down outside the door, glancing frequently at his watch. He had other stuff on Excalibur to show to Sheridan, and he knew the president was eager to see it all. So what was he doing, staying in there so long? This wasn't like Sheridan at all. He had never been a man to waste time on personal communications during an official transmission. Not even with Delenn. Why was this changing now? He looked again at his watch. Sheridan had been in there for twenty minutes easy, maybe longer. It was unthinkable for Garibaldi to interrupt, but he suspected that something was going wrong. It was his habit to follow his suspicions. But still he hung back. When nearly half an hour had passed, Garibaldi was at last convinced enough that something was going on. He defied the rules of privacy, opened the door, and poked his head in. "Mr. President, are you okay?" Sheridan, seated in a relaxed posture in front of the console, looked up with a smile. "Why shouldn't I be okay?" he asked. "Because you've been in there almost half an hour." "That's not possible," Sheridan said. He shook his head, though, as if to clear out the cobwebs. "I just got here. The message was scrambled. Gibberish. Drake hasn't installed new software, has he?" Garibaldi shook his head. "Then it must be some kind of interference." "You stayed looking at gibberish for twenty minutes ? Hell, if you're gonna do that, you might as well come by my place sometime, and I'll show you some twentieth-century television." Sheridan didn't seem to find the remark funny. At least, he didn't smile. The president had looked fine before the transmission. But now Garibaldi saw that he suddenly seemed tired, played out. There were lines of strain around his eyes, a tension to his lips. Seeing this, Garibaldi decided the rest of the tour could wait. "Listen," Garibaldi said, "Drake still has a few bugs to work out. Nothing serious, but it'll take a while. Get some rest, we'll finish the tour later." "Fine," Sheridan said. "Good idea. Guess I'm more tired than I thought." Garibaldi left the conference room and shut the door gently. Drake had come up from the bridge and was looking uneasy. "Is something wrong?" he asked. "Is the president all right? I certainly hope there's nothing=' "The president is fine," Garibaldi said flatly. "There's someone else you should be worrying about." "Who?" "That's you," Garibaldi said. "Now we're gonna figure out a way to move this thing." His glance took in the ship. "Or you're going to go outside and push." "I'll get right on it!" Drake hurried away. Garibaldi nodded at the retreating figure, and mused to himself, "Things were so much easier on Babylon 5."

  Chapter 8

  On Babylon 5 at this point in time, a line of new arrivals had reached customs and was moving slowly through the scanners. Zack Allan was standing a little ways back at his station, watching them. He saw that it was the usual ragtag bunch that drifted into Babylon 5 from all over the galaxy. There were Humans and aliens from a dozen different worlds. They were not a well- dressed bunch, although most of them were wearing what passed for their best back where they came from. Their clothing looked more than a little odd here. As usual, there were some from worlds Zack couldn't identify. As security chief, one of Zack's prime areas of interest was this customs line. When trouble came to Babylon 5, this was its typical entry point, among these people seeking work or fun or trouble or adventure on this smallest of civilized worlds. Babylon 5 was a self-sustaining civilization just over five miles long and holding roughly 250,000 persons. It was a place of commerce and peace in a neutral territory and, as such, had become a focal point for most of the intelligent races of the galaxy. Some of those who were entering now were on their way to somewhere else, but those who were staying always managed to keep things interesting. This woman coming into the inspection area now was worth a second look. She was humanoid, though not Human. Small but striking, just over five feet tall, golden-eyed, dressed in dark leathers and bright, flexible metals. She had wild, raven hair that fell down over her shoulders and a to-hell-with-you air about her that was intriguing, to say the least. Her papers said she was Dureena Nafeel. Home planet, Zander Prime. Zack thought he had heard that name before, but he couldn't place it. There were so many planets! Maybe he'd look it up later when he had some free time. Dureena took long strides through the scanners. A monitor near Zack read WEAPONS VIOLATION. Zack stepped forward toward her. "Ma'am? Can I see you over here?" He escorted her to a private area near customs. "What's the matter?" Dureena asked with a touch of defiance in her voice. "I guess you didn't read the postings outside," Zack said. "Babylon 5 has a strict weapons policy. Now, either give me whatever you're carrying, or I'll have to ask you to leave the station." She studied him with all the interest she'd give to a bug, then pulled a long-bladed knife from her belt, handed it to him hilt-first, and started to move away. Zack, still keeping his voice pleasant, said, "All of it. You can pick it up when you leave." The woman looked from him to the guards, as though assessing how much trouble it would be to take them out. She seemed to think it wouldn't be difficult at all, but decided it would stir up too much trouble. This was neither the time nor the place. There, in front of Zack's astonished eyes, she pulled a short sword from a hiding place behind her back, another blade from her belt. With a flick of the wrist she produced a wickedly curved knife from each boot, a garrote from around her waist. . . Before she was done, nearly a dozen weapons, exotic and lethal, had been added to the collection on the countertop. "That's it," she said with finality. "Thanks a lot," Zack replied. "Can I go now?" "Be my guest." She went through the customs barrier, then stopped, apparently bewildered by the proliferation of corridors and levels that lay ahead of her. Near her, two small humanoids were playing a game with colored bones. A panatos salesman was offering his small, warm buns. Passing close by were oddly assorted couples, most notably a gigantic woman in a garish green shift paired with a very small man in a simulated leopard-skin jumpsuit . Where did that duo come from? There was a babble of conversation covering the whole auditory range, from bass grumblings to high- pitched twitters and squeaks. And the colors! Bright, flashing, constantly shifting. It was difficult to make out shapes; everything became a pandemonium of coalescing images. And where was she supposed to go in all this? She turned to Zack. "Where do the lost people go?" "Who?" Zack said. "The forgotten. The castoffs. The neglected. The lost people." Zack nodded in understanding. "Down Below. Brown Sector." With the barest nod of her head in acknowledgment, Dureena strode off. Zack watched her go, wondering if this one was going to be trouble. He wasn't the only one watching Dureena on the day of her arrival.

  Chapter 9

  On Excalibur, Sheridan walked down the long, curving, evenly lit corridor looking for an empty sleeping cubicle. There were plenty of them: Excalibur was still an empty ship, without her complement of soldiers aboard. He could have any room
he cared to take, or any ten of them, for that matter. They were all the same, anyhow, without any personal touches yet. "I guess this'll do as well as any other," Sheridan said to himself, choosing one of the sleeping cubicles at random. It was comforting to him, the simplicity of the small, rectangular space. There was nothing in it but a bunk bed, a desk, a StellarCom monitor, and two chairs. There was an adjoining bathroom, and the whole thing was lit by a powerglobe, putting out its even, shadowless glow. Sheridan threw himself onto the bed, boots and all. "Dim," he said, and the powerglobe turned the room to dusk. He could think of a dozen things he ought to do before going to sleep. Paramount among them were taking off his boots, undressing, taking a shower. But he was too tired to do any of them. He couldn't remember when he'd last felt such a bone-deep fatigue. He lay there on the bed, looking at the pastel ceiling, thinking vague thoughts, and sleep came to him. With it came a dream. Or was it a dream? He was standing on rocky, uneven ground, and it was dark. A wind was blowing, and he could feel a gritty dust in the air. The area was fitfully illuminated by fires burning in the immense landscape that stretched around him on all sides. Everything was lava and scorched rock. There wasn't a tree or any green thing in sight. Turning, he saw, at a distance, the ruined crater of a city silhouetted black against the charcoal-gray sky. Fires were burning in the city, too, and columns of smoke rose into the sky. He sensed that this was what his recent dreams had been about. But this time, he knew he would remember. Sheridan could also sense that this had once been a beautiful place. Even in ruins, the city showed signs of a former nobility. Even at this distance, he could see there were minarets and spires lying in the streets like the bodies of fallen giants, and they were mixed with the remains of a classical, unearthly sculpture, giant heads and torsos lying in the rubble-choked streets. This had been a place devoted to the arts. Lightning flashed in the sky, double and triple forked, revealing a devastated landscape as far as the eye could see. Sheridan didn't need a guided tour to know that all this world was dead, ravaged, bereft of life, even vegetable life, even algae. Somehow, he knew. Something or someone had really done a job on this world, de- vouríng the forests, drying up the seas, sweeping away the cities and other Human habitations. He turned slowly, looking at all this in sorrow and slowly mounting anger. And at the same time he was wondering, Where the hell am I? What's going on here? As if in answer to his thoughts, a voice came out of the darkness and said, "Do you hear that?" Sheridan turned quickly in the direction of the voice. He could just make out a robed figure squatting on the ground beside the cliff face. The man's face was concealed behind a hood. He was bent over, scratching on the ground with a stick. "Who the hell are you?" Sheridan demanded. "I am called Galen," he answered. Then, "Do you hear it?" "Hear what?" "Listen," Galen said. "I don't hear anything," Sheridan said. "Exactly. No birds, no animals, no machines, no voices. And no insects, or starships, or music. Only the wind. You are hearing the sound of a dead world. A murdered world." "Was there an attack?" Sheridan asked. "Nothing so grand as that. It was a test. Can you imagine that? All this, just for a test!" Sheridan shook his head slowly. What in hell was going on? He was aboard Excalibur. He was asleep! He shook his head slowly. "This is a dream." "No," Galen said. "Not a dream. A nightmare. And if sometimes dreams come true, then what of our nightmares?" "Who are you?" Sheridan asked. "A friend. I called to you earlier." Galen pushed back his cowl, revealing a square, good-looking face with strong features. He was dark-eyed, hairless save for his brows, and he had the disciplined look of a monk or acolyte. His face at present showed concern, but Sheridan thought he could see the possibilities of a sly humor beneath that. With a hint of embarrassment, Galen said, "That message from Delenn ... that was me. I apologize for the deception. But a connection was necessary for the electron incantation." Before Sheridan could speak, he heard a deep, distant , massive humming noise. He identified it at once as the sound of a fleet of spaceships, approaching, but still a long way away. Sheridan said, "I thought you said this world was dead." "It is. The killers are coming back to check on their handiwork. We should go. They probably can't pick up on my probe, but there's no point in risking it." He looked at Sheridan-an electrifying look. "Remember what you have seen." The humming sound increased and Sheridan looked toward the sky. He thought he saw something moving through the clouds-something dark and massive and made of strange angles-a huge spaceship of some kind ... When he looked down again, Galen was gone. "There were some things I wanted to ask him," Sheridan said ruefully. He looked at the spot where Galen had been. The ground was marked where he had been digging with his stick. It looked like letters. Sheridan walked around to where Galen had been squatting. He could read what Galen had scratched in the dirt. Words. Daltron 7. The name of a planet, most likely. But Sheridan didn't think he had ever heard of a world by that name. He looked up again as the humming sound increased. He had the impression that the massive spaceship was coming closer. He searched the sky, trying to make out its shape. And found he was looking at the pastel ceiling above his bunk bed aboard Excalibur. He sat up, startl ed. From the nearby window, he could see that Excalibur was slowly moving away from the spacedock. To one side he could see the space tugs that were towing the big ship out. "Guess they got it fixed," Sheridan said aloud. He took the time now to shower and shave. Then he poured himself a coffee from a carafe and sat down to think things over. He knew that something amazing had happened to him, but he didn't know what it was or what it meant. No doubt the meaning of what he had seen would be revealed to him in the fullness of time. His impatient spirit rebelled against that thought. He wanted the answers now, but there was no way he could get them. Although it didn't suit his nature, he had to be patient. For a moment Sheridan considered the possibility that his blackouts might be the result of job pressure- the office of the presidency finally taking its toll. His position was demanding, and he took his duty very seriously. The fives of countless individuals required that he do so. It had been that way for five years. Years. How many of those did he have remaining? How many had he left behind, on Z'ha'dum? That was another source of pressure-the ticking of the clock. Twenty years and counting. This isn't doing anyone any good, he mused. I know what I've seen, and ignoring it won't get me anywhere. Best to get back to work. The full truth would reveal itself in due course. He went up to the bridge. Garibaldi was sitting in the captain's chair. He got up when Sheridan came in. Drake was standing nearby. The man didn't seem to know what to do with his hands. He was plucking nervously at a button on his uniform, quite unconscious of what he was doing. Drake said, "I had to call up those tugs at pretty short notice. We could really use a few more." Garibaldi shrugged unsympathetically. "It ain't pretty, but at least it'll get us out to the firing range. You get to five another ten minutes, Drake." Drake stared at Garibaldi's face: blank, hostile, sardonic . How he hated the man! But there was nothing he could do about it yet. He forced his own face into a formal mask of acceptance. He was going to have to take this for a little longer. "Yes, sir," Drake said in a formal tone. "Thank you, sir."