A Call to Arms (4 page)

“See you soon. Yours, Cora.”

Drake looked away from the letter and tried to calm himself. But there was nothing he could do about the waves of joy that seemed to burst over his head. And nothing he wanted to do. Cora was coming to see him! This was the most wonderful news in the world.

That a girl like Cora--an Earth girl, tall, slender, blond, educated, of a good family--a
patrician
!--was crossing empty space to see him had to mean something. She didn’t say so in her E-mail, but that was because she was a formal person. Unless he mistook the signs, her visit meant that she felt something for him, just as he loved her.

Of course, he had never told her so. And she didn’t say anything to that effect outright. But he was sure he could read the signs, sure she reciprocated his own feelings. And now she was coming to the spacedock!

He laughed, and his face became almost handsome. He’d reveal his feelings to her this time. She would see how right they were for each other. She would agree to marry him. And then he’d put the nightmare behind him.

But was that still possible? Did he have the time to undo the strange nightmare of the past months, the long slide that had begun in a Martian bar when he’d gone on leave? There, he’d actually found someone--a perfect stranger--who had listened to him, sympathized with his grievances. A few drinks, and Drake had actually found himself offered riches, and a chance at revenge for the indignities heaped upon him by those snotty Earth types.

His face flushed with panic as he thought about it now. Where had all his caution gone, his lifetime of weighing one thing against another? Like a fool he had listened to the stranger’s ideas and agreed with the justice of them. These Earth people thought they owned all creation and everything in it! They’d soon see! It had been such a relief to say what he felt, to someone who seemed to understand.

But now he was trapped.

Or was he? It still wasn’t too late to back out. He could get out of it. He hadn’t committed himself irrevocably, not yet. He was a prominent person; they couldn’t touch him if he changed his mind. They wouldn’t dare.

He heaved a long, shuddering sigh. He could end all this. With Cora at his side, anything was possible.

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 contrasting 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.”

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.

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.