A Call to Arms (2 page)

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 casually 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.

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 qualities.

“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.”

With the command for the jump from space to hyperspace, the
White Star’s
crew began the evolution that would take her from one piece of empty space to another.

Only this particular piece was not quite empty.

Sitting less than a mile from the
White Star
was a farseer ‘bot. It was a small, rounded object, and it had gone unnoticed by the
White Star’s
detectors. The ‘bot was small and glittering. It looked like a curved mass of quicksilver, and it reflected the
White Star
. It hung all by itself in the void of space, turning slowly to keep the Minbari craft in sight. The ‘bot seemed alone and isolated, turning by itself with no sign of a guiding intelligence.

And yet, just
beneath
the surface of the object, a curious thing happened. Though the ‘bot seemed solid, closer examination led to a brief, vertiginous tunneling effect.

This dizzying ride led to a sphere, small enough to be held in a man’s hand. Obviously, it was remotely connected to the farseer ’bot.

A man was holding the sphere, a man whose face was hidden in a hood, part of a cloak that muffled him from head to toe. The man was standing in a darkened room, its only source of light a powerglobe on the ground near where he sat, cross-legged.

In the glowing surface of the crystal sphere, the
White Star
picked up speed and vanished into a jump point that had opened in front of it. The man watched intently. A voice behind the man with the sphere said, “Galen...”

Without turning around, the man with the probe responded. “I’m here.”

“The Circle requires your presence.”

Galen pushed back his hood and stood up. He was a tall young man, an Earther. “I’m busy,” he said, his attention still on the probe.

“They know of your activities. You will come to them... or they will come to you. Either way, you
will
be called to account.”

Galen moved uncomfortably, annoyed by the disturbance.

“We are all called to account, sooner or later,” he said. “And to whom am I supposed to explain my behavior
this
time?”

“To everyone involved.”

“Everyone? It must be a very large room.”

“Galen,” the voice said again. It was beginning to sound exasperated.

“All right, all right. Show me the way.”

As he spoke, the room changed. Its sharp edges collapsed and everything around Galen became misty and indistinct. In the darkness, a line of small lights appeared on the ground in front of him. Looking up, he saw that the lights extended as far as he could see, seemingly to infinity.

He sighed. “The long road. But then, it’s always the long road, isn’t it? And you...” he said, speaking to the ship seen within the globe itself, “you may be called to account even sooner than you imagined.”

He drew a black cloth out of his sleeve and covered the globe. When he pulled off the cloth, the probe was gone.

“Can we be on our way now?” the voice said, sounding quite testy.

Lunch ended with a nice selection of liqueurs, brought over by a waiter in a white uniform. The White Star ships often carried exceptional cuisine, especially when they were transporting important passengers, and this selection was typical of the choices that could be offered.

Sheridan declined, since he wanted to keep his senses clear for the work ahead. Garibaldi, by his own instructions, was not offered the liqueur tray. He eyed it anyhow.

Picking their way through the normal clutter of equipment common to a recently commissioned ship, Sheridan and Garibaldi came to the bridge. A Minbari Ranger was seated at the main console, reading the instruments. He was taking great pains with his work, conscious that the eyes both of Garibaldi and the president of the Interstellar Alliance were on him. Biting his lip, he made tiny adjustments on the instruments until he had it just right. Then he got up and moved away.

Sheridan smiled at him and, with a by-your-leave gesture, slid into the chair.

“Mr. President, we’ve arrived at the rendezvous point,” another member of the bridge crew announced.

“Good,” Sheridan said. He settled down in front of the controls, looking them over quickly to reacquaint himself with their array. Then he said, “Lock in coordinates, prepare to jump to normal space...
Jump
!”

Everyone on the bridge had been waiting for that command. The response was little short of instantaneous. Ahead of the ship, a jump point formed. The
White Star
emerged into normal space.

Sheridan got up and relinquished the seat to the Ranger. He and Garibaldi strolled around the bridge. Through the window, Sheridan could see only the distant stars. But the White Star was rotating slowly.

The Minbari Ranger said, “We should be coming into visual range any time now.”

“I hope this was worth it,” Sheridan said. “I haven’t seen anything on these ships since the initial designs came across my desk three years ago.”

“Well,” Garibaldi said with barely contained excitement, “if what I saw here last was any indication, I think you’re gonna like this. I think you’re gonna like this a lot.” He looked through the window.

The White Star completed her rotation and was lined up with the object of their visit. “There she blows!” Garibaldi said. “Our first two prototype destroyers.”