A Call to Arms (8 page)

He wondered,
Who are these people? What was Galen trying to tell me?
The woman with the gold eyes--he couldn’t even identify her race. The African American might be someone in EarthForce, but no one Sheridan had ever met. And the Drazi? What did a Drazi have to do with this?

And while he was musing, something changed. Sheridan looked around. In the sky, replacing the two moons, was the unmistakable outline of Babylon 5.

Then he heard Garibaldi’s voice, saying, “Mr. President ? Mr. President?”

Back on the now familiar bridge of
Excalibur
, everything seemed just the way he had left it. Garibaldi was looking at him curiously. And Drake was standing off to one side, studying his monitors, ostentatiously taking no notice of Sheridan’s lapse.

When he noticed that Sheridan was again paying attention, Drake began speaking.

“I was
saying
that the hull is a plasteel-crystalline alloy, capable of refracting eighty percent of any energy weapon used against it, although that twenty percent can mount up pretty fast in a major battle. We---”

Sheridan stood up abruptly. “We have to go,” he announced.
This isn’t going to be easy, though
, he thought to himself. If he had doubted his own sanity, he couldn’t imagine what the others were going to think. But there wasn’t time--the techno-mage had made it clear that the fate of Earth hung in the balance. He’d have to try to explain along the way.

Garibaldi said, “What? But we Just---“

“Tell the
White Star
to pick us up. We have to go, and we have to go right now.”

“Go where?” Garibaldi asked.

Sheridan thought back to the last thing he had seen when he was with Galen. It had been Babylon 5.

He mused aloud, “It was above the faces... over them all... Babylon 5.”

He left the bridge quickly, without so much as a backward glance. Garibaldi watched him go. He was becoming filled with alarm. What had happened to the chief? Staring at static-filled StellarCom screens, sleeping at weird hours, blackouts, now this. Was he coming unraveled? What was going on here?

He noticed Drake looking at him.

“You heard the president’s orders, Mr. Drake. Call up the
White Star
. We’re going to Babylon 5.”

He turned away as if this were the most usual order in the world. Drake was an outsider. No sense letting him think his president had gone completely off his rocker, even if he
had
.

Sheridan sat, silent, pensive, in the command seat aboard the
White Star
. Around him, one shift of Rangers went off duty, and another came on. Displays danced across the monitors. There was an ever present sensation of power and purpose as the ship knifed noiselessly through space.

Sheridan had some sheets of paper spread out on the console before him. He was sketching the faces he had seen earlier, in the circles in the dirt: the faces that Galen had caused to appear. Although Sheridan had never thought much of his drawing skills, these sketches were taking shape with uncanny accuracy. He wondered if Galen might have stimulated his artistic center. Hard to say what else could account for this suddenly acquired artistry. Perhaps it was simply a response to a command he had received--programming that enabled him to remember these faces, burn them into his memory, find out to whom they belonged.

He was engaged in this drawing when Garibaldi came onto the bridge. Garibaldi’s face was a study in itself--the perfect picture of a man trying not to be judgmental. But clearly he needed to know what was going on. He seriously wished Sheridan were being a little more forthcoming. Of course, Garibaldi also knew he often wasn’t very forthcoming himself. He couldn’t blame John for keeping these matters to himself, whatever they were. But he really needed to find out what was going on.

So he decided to try what he hoped was the casual approach. “So, John... Mr. President... you want to tell me why we’re heading to B5 in such a hurry?”

Sheridan looked up from his drawings, considered for a moment, and said, “No, not yet. Because I’m not even sure I believe it myself. But I have to find out if what I think is...
is
.”

“I see,” Garibaldi said, thinking that this was double-talk if ever he’d heard any. And he’d heard some in his career. Had even put out some.

For the first time, he began to wonder seriously if there weren’t something the matter with Sheridan.

“You know, we could stop by Minbar on the way over, just for a day... see Delenn,” he said, trying to sound sympathetic. “You’ve been under a lot of pressure lately, and---”

“I’m fine, Michael,” Sheridan said flatly. “And we’re going to Babylon 5.” That was that.

“Right,” Garibaldi said. “Absolutely. Whatever you say. I’ll just get a little work done while you’re... drawing.”

“Good idea,” Sheridan said. “Oh, and while you’re at it, see what you can find out about a planet named Daltron 7.”

“Never heard of it. Is it important?”

“Could be,” Sheridan said, and returned to his drawings.

Garibaldi looked up, saw a Human Ranger at the doorway. He walked over to him and said, “Get me Captain Lochley at B5. I’ll be in my quarters.”

With a final glance at Sheridan, he left the bridge.

Sheridan didn’t even look up. He had almost completed his sketches. He darkened the Drazi’s skin, wishing now he had been working in pigments. Still, the face was recognizable. They all were. Now the only question was, who were they, and where?

Aboard the Omega-class destroyer
Charon
, Captain Leonard Anderson was commanding. A big African-American man in his early forties, he was standing at the helm. His first officer, Framer, was hovering nearby, looking more than a little nervous.

Finally Framer said, “Are you quite sure about this, Captain?”

Anderson turned. “Quite sure, Commander. Why? Is there a problem?”

“No, sir. It’s just... our last message from Earth-Dome ordered us to the Vega Colony for a routine security patrol. And now we’ve changed course to Babylon 5 without notifying HQ.”

“Phil, you worry too much. Now go on with the status checks. I know what I’m doing.”

The first officer nodded dubiously. “There’s also an officer from the engine room, sir. Flagler. Looks like he’s got a grievance. Shall I deal with it?”

“No. I’ll take care of it myself. Send him to me in the wardroom in ten minutes.”

Flagler entered and saluted smartly. He was a small, skinny man with a head of unruly red hair and thin, unpleasant features. They usually indicated trouble. Anderson had dealt with him before. And he had a good idea what it was about this time.

“Another complaint, Flagler?”

“Well... Yes, sir.”

“What is it this time?”

“Well, sir, I’m speaking here largely on behalf of the crew.”

“That’s understood,” Anderson said, the irony in his voice barely noticeable.

“We--they--were all promised leave on Vega That’s what we were told, sir, official-like.”

“That may be true,” Anderson said “But the duties of the ship take precedence over leave. You know that. You were told that right at the start.”

“I do know it, sir. But the stuff I was told said that good and sufficient reasons would always override planned rest periods.”

“Yes, and so?”

“So, begging your pardon for being so bold, sir, there seems no good and sufficient reason for this trip to Babylon 5. And what it means, sir, it means some of the boys will miss some important appointments.” These appointments, Anderson knew, consisted of an all-Vegan poker contest that started in two standard days.

“It’ll help you save some money, Flagler. I remember you didn’t do so well the last time we got to Vega. Got skinned, if I remember correctly.”

“Yes, sir, that’s true. But it’s still my God-given right to throw away my money if I’ve a mind to. And we need our R & R.”

“True enough, Flagler, and I wish I could accommodate you in this. Unfortunately, we need to go to Babylon 5.”

“Yes, sir, so you say, sir. But I was looking at the ship’s schedule--it’s posted, sir, I wasn’t trying to sneak anything--well, sir, that posting says we go to Vega.”

“That’s where we
were
going. And now we’re going somewhere else.”

“Yes, sir. But by whose orders?”

Anderson stiffened. His normally cheerful face became harsh with anger. “Are you questioning my orders, Flagler?”

“No, sir! That is, not exactly. But those orders of yours were never countermanded, sir. Sparks received no orders to the contrary. A fair-minded man, sir, might think you were taking us to B5 on a whim of your own, or maybe on some personal business.”

“Be careful what you say, Flagler. You could get yourself into a lot of trouble with this line of talk.”

“I don’t want to do that, sir. But at the same time, we have our rights, all of us, officers and enlisted. We got a right to our leave on Vega. Maybe you got a right to go to B5 to pursue whatever interests you. No one’s denying that. But the Vega run is important to us, and if it’s just a case of your whim against ours--well, sir, a good officer will listen to a complaint like that. No offense intended, sir, but it’s not right to whip us halfway across space just because you want to visit with somebody.”

“That’s quite enough,” Anderson snapped. “I’m not going to explain my actions to you. I’ll just tell you that this move of mine is far from a whim. I have reason to think that EarthForce security is involved. That’s reason enough for this trip.”

“Yes, sir. But EarthForce doesn’t seem to feel that way. That is, they never authorized your change of plans. They’re going to be very surprised when they find out.”

“That’s between me and them,” Anderson said.

“Yes, sir. You and them and the inspector general.”

“Are you threatening me, Flagler?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, sir! But there are set routines for differences of opinion between officers and commander. I mean, you aren’t Captain Bligh and this isn’t the British Royal Navy.”

“Right. And you’re a long shot from being Fletcher Christian. That will be all, Mr. Flagler. Unless you care to pursue it further. But I warn you, you do so at your peril.”

“No, sir, I haven’t anything more to say. I just wanted you to know that there are appropriate measures for this sort of thing, and I intend to follow them.”

Flagler stared at Anderson defiantly.

“That will be all,” Anderson said, and he watched, stone-faced, as Flagler saluted and left the wardroom.

Leonard Anderson. A skilled player of the five-string banjo. Phi Beta Kappa at the University of Kentucky at Lexington. With a doctorate in astrophysics from Dartmouth. A colonel in EarthForce, commanding and piloting
Charon
, a first-class destroyer.

Leonard Anderson, sitting back in the command chair in a dimmed room, found himself thinking back on the long way he’d come to achieve all this.

Where he’d grown up, a few of the old electric trains had still been operating. His father had been a conductor on the Delaware-Lackawanna railroad, running between Hoboken in New Jersey and Central Station, Philadelphia.

Back then, when he was little, Anderson had sometimes ridden with his father. He had loved the old cushioned seats in the passenger cars, and the way his father had reversed their backs at the end of a run, setting them up for passengers going the other way, back to Lackawanna station in Hoboken. When they left Brick Church station, Leonard would always watch for the big Sherwin-Williams sign, which stood on a hilltop near the tracks, just before they entered the tunnel.

It was a neon sign, and it showed a big globe with white and blue lines of longitude and latitude. A neon boy in a Dutch sailor’s cap stood above the globe, holding a can of paint. There was an illusion of motion as the boy tilted the paint can. Red paint spilled out and engulfed the globe. It became a crimson sphere, slightly larger than the sun, which, in Leonard’s memory, was also setting nearby.

When he was very small, that neon globe had seemed to him a real planet. And the Dutch boy had been a giant of some sort, sinister in spite of his blond hair and sunny smile. The Dutch boy was killing the planet with his can of deadly paint. That was how young Leonard saw it.

In grade school Leonard had learned of the planet Venus. It was slightly smaller than the Earth, so his teacher had said. Leonard had wondered if it might not be Venus that the boy was covering. And, he surmised, the red paint must be making it hot, because he had learned in school that Venus was too hot to support life. But when he asked, his teacher had assured him his neon planet wasn’t Venus.

Leonard forgot his questions about the Sherwin-Williams globe after a while, but he continued to think about Venus, became fixed on the idea of going there in his father’s train. When he learned that wasn’t going to be possible, he decided he’d have to find another way.

Though it wouldn’t take him to another planet, he still rode the train: a thing of power, snorting steam; the slow and then more rapid rise and fall of the pistons; the heavy panting noise of the engine as it turned the massive driveshafts; the slow movement of the steel wheels, the train beginning to come to life, a waking giant, and then moving faster, with irresistible force.

He came to love that feeling of power, and he wondered if it was anything like the sensation astronauts experienced as they hurtled toward the stars. Wondering turned to desire, and that steered him toward his most coveted goal--a spaceship command.

But the road that would take him there wouldn’t be an easy one. His parents were killed in a car crash when he was fourteen. Leonard had been at a school-sponsored camp in the Catskills. He had no near relatives, and was too proud to ask help from distant kin, so he dropped out of school and went it alone in New York City. There he learned the bitter truth: that no matter how good people said the economy was, for some, there were no jobs. He couldn’t get work without a work record.