by Peter David
To Delenn it seemed a sensible, straightforward solution, but it appeared to electrify the room. Instantly Morann snapped, "The warrior caste will not take part in this. Our forces are needed here to protect the homeworld. Besides," and his tone seemed to gather conviction, "the journey is long and difficult. Earlier expeditions found the area around Z'ha'dum is mined with traps and ancient defense systems. Other races have moved in, claiming it as their own."
Dukhat made a sympathetic, clucking noise, and shook his head sadly. As if concerned for the safety of the entire caste, Dukhat said, "Then you believe it is too dangerous for the warrior caste to go."
Despite Dukhat's tone, the insult was quite clear. Morann bristled as he said, "The warrior caste fears nothing. But it is a waste of our time. Further, if the Council endorses such an expedition, it would cause unnecessary panic among our people."
"I agree," Dukhat said levelly. "So they will not have to go-"
Morann blinked in surprise, but recovered quickly. "Thank you," he said, and fired a smug look that somehow managed to encompass both Lenonn and Delenn.
Lenonn felt deflated. He had come so close, so close, particularly with Delenn's inspired notion for seeking out proof that would support Lenonn's concerns. But now it appeared as if Dukhat had abandoned the concept with barely a thought. As for Delenn, she was a study in stoicism. A considerable feat considering that her mentor and master had apparently dismissed her idea out of hand.
Then, barely a moment later, the mood of all the participants shifted one hundred and eighty degrees as Dukhat added, almost as an afterthought, "We will go."
Morann was stunned, and the rest of the Grey Council members looked at each other in surprise and confusion, each of them apparently waiting for another to say something. Morann finally managed to get out, "What? But Master-"
Dukhat was still circling the perimeter, walking faster than ever, like a moving target. "We are the ones who must decide how much support to give the Rangers. We can rely on the reports of others, or see for ourselves." He paused a moment and looked both wistful and excited. "My whole life, I have heard of Z'ha'dum in whispers and legends. I think I would like to see it once, before I die. Wouldn't you, Delenn?" he asked, looking pleased with himself.
He had spoken in a coaxing way, but Delenn needed no coaxing. She too, looked pleased. "Yes, Master," she said readily.
"Then we will go,' Dukhat said firmly, forestalling any further reactions or discussion. He resumed his pacing. "We will take only a few support vessels, sworn to secrecy, to avoid the panic Morann fears." Dukhat was ever wise, ever the politician. Let everyone know that all their opinions would remain valued... even the opinions of those who did not carry the day. "And we will travel indirectly, stopping at various outposts until we are ready for the final jump. It is an elegant and simple solution, Morann. Thank you for giving it to me "
Lenonn watched Morann, and was amused to see Morann reflexively mouth "You're welcome." It was all he could do to contain his laughter.
Dukhat halted his circumnavigation of the circle, sending his path near Delenn. Addressing the rest in a sweeping manner, he said, "You may go now and prepare for our journey." The Council began to disperse as Lenonn approached Dukhat and Delenn.
"Thank you, Master," he said fervently. "Thank you." Not trusting himself to say anything more-for such was the intensity of his feelings in the matter-Lenonn turned and left without further word.
But Delenn's attention was not focused on Lenonn. In-stead it was on Morann, who had fired her a glance sufficiently venomous to poison her back three incarnations. He turned his back to her and walked out, and doubt began to creep into Delenn's head. When she had spoken up, she had felt so positive about what she was saying, so utterly devoid of doubt. But Morann's anger seemed to speak quite loudly, and what it said was, On your head, Delenn. On your head.
It gave her pause, and the weight of true responsibility- the responsibility involved in participating in the Grey Council-began to fully dawn upon her.
Upon Lenonn's departure, Dukhat headed for the door, Delenn falling into step next to him. They moved out into the corridor and walked in silence for a short while. Dukhat had learned long before, however, that a "short" while was all the time that one could count on for silence from Delenn.
"You have something on your mind, Delenn," he said with an amused sigh. "I recognize that expression."
"I was only thinking," she said slowly. "I believe that Lenonn is correct, and that we must begin to prepare. But.. ." She desperately did not want to sound as if she were incapable of sticking with an opinion. Yet one aspect of Lenonn's speech truly had rung hollow to her. A thousand years ago the Minbari had been a great race, and they were still great. She could not accept Lenonn's pronouncement that they had fallen so far that the Vorlons would have nothing to do with them. "Morann is also correct. The Vorlons should have contacted us by now."
"Yes, they should," replied Dukhat, so readily that it surprised Delenn slightly. As they walked, he purposefully gazed straight ahead. "But if the legends surrounding the Vorlons are correct, remember that they do not reveal themselves quickly, and never all at once." With that, he glanced her way, and they paused.
There was something in his tone that caught her attention. She looked at him askance and asked, "What are you saying?"
"I'm not saying anything," Dukhat replied with a deliberately straight face. "I did not say anything then, and I am not saying anything now."
"But-" began Delenn.
Very abruptly, Dukhat said, "It's been a long day. I must go to my sanctum and meditate on this in private. Good day, Delenn."
She bowed to him in deference, and he seemed to acknowledge it only in the most perfunctory of manners. She watched him walk away and pondered the rather odd conversation they'd just had.
She was quite accustomed to Dukhat's habit of not providing complete responses to her questions. How often had he said to her that the best person to answer questions for Delenn was Delenn herself? But this wasn't a case of Dukhat simply being enigmatic or trying to teach her and guide her mind. She couldn't help but feel that Dukhat was actually hiding something.
It bothered her ... even concerned her.
She continued to walk, lost in thought, and realized that her path had taken her unconsciously past Dukhat's sanctum. She would never dream of disturbing him when he had gone to meditate. Still, there was something remaining to be said, and she was beginning to wonder whether this was one of Dukhat's tests. The type that was designed to encourage her to think for herself. Perhaps he wanted her to follow, to challenge him, to question him more thoroughly. Perhaps. ..
She hesitated outside his door ...
. . . and then she thought she heard something. Dukhat's voice. It sounded as if he was conversing with someone. But he had told her he was going to meditate. Who was he talking to, then? Was Morann in there, trying to convince Dukhat of the error of his plan?
Glancing left and right and feeling rather guilty, Delenn sidled slightly closer to the door and listened. She was able to make out Dukhat's voice, and he had just spoken three words: "Now it starts."
What an odd thing to say. To whom could he have been addressing the comment, she wondered.
Then she heard a voice respond ... and it was as no voice she had ever heard. It sounded as if it were many voices, synthesized as one, and surrounded by chimes.
"Yes" was all it said.
Then she heard footsteps, the sound of others approaching, and Delenn realized that it wasn't exactly the most appropriate thing to be caught standing outside the quarters of Dukhat, eavesdropping. Very quickly, Delenn backed away from the door, smoothed her robes and-looking as casual as she could-walked quickly away.
And as she did, her mind was racing. For Delenn was a very quick-witted and very intelligent female, and before she was halfway down the hallway, she was reasonably certain she knew just exactly who -or what -Dukhat had been speaking with. The knowledge
filled her with excitement and a sense that she was living in what could well be a historic time.
On that score, she was correct. All too tragically correct.
~ chapter 5 ~
I will speak to you now of John Sheridan.
Captain Sheridan, as I mentioned before, was the commander of Babylon 5 after the mystery-shrouded departure of Jeffrey Sinclair. They were very different men, I must say. Sinclair always seemed to me a somewhat haunted man, all too aware of the machinations of the universe that were unfolding around him and determined to overwhelm them through sheer force of will. Sheridan, on the other hand- well, it was fascinating to watch his development. While Sinclair was more the diplomat, Sheridan was more the soldier. Indeed, I believe that he was instituted at Babylon 5 precisely because he was a soldier. The Earth government felt that it could more easily control him. I believe that they also installed Sheridan in order to anger the Minbari, for Sheridan acquired quite a bit of a reputation among the Minbari in the events that were to unfold.
Some of what I will now tell you comes from Sheridan's own account that he wrote of the Great War -a lengthy work entitled No Retreat, No Surrender. And the rest comes from conversations I had with him during our time together on Babylon 5. There was a time when we treated each other with respect and when we actually compared notes on those early days. The days of the Great War. We would sit together over late drinks in the Zocalo to dwell on the strange circumstances that had brought us together. On the lives lost, and the lives wasted. They were times when we commiserated over how much we had been through, and we all felt very, very old.
Ironically, we had no idea how young we truly were.
Sheridan was a reasonably tall man. Clean cut and ruggedly handsome by Earth standards, so I'm told. Light hair which became progressively grayer as events spiraled out of control. He had a steely glint in his eye and the air of someone accustomed to both command and obedience. The man whom the military felt they could control went on to become a notorious rebel and the subject of intergalactic debate. In short, he developed before my eyes into one of the most innovative thinkers and dynamic leaders I have ever had the honor-and aggravation-of knowing.
But all of that happened much later. At the point where John Sheridan enters this story I tell you now, he is merely a humble commander. Young, idealistic, and determined to make his mark. He had been summoned to the office of General Lefcourt, who felt that he had the ideal assignment for young Sheridan. Sheridan entered Lefcourt's office with a combination of excitement and curiosity, but one could never have told it from his practiced military demeanor.
Nothing escaped Sheridan's notice. In one glance he took in the entirety of Lefcourt's domain: the desk and the books on the desk, which included Plato's Republic and the collected volumes of the military campaigns of Julius Caesar. All of it was instantly imprinted in Sheridan's mind, and could have been called up and recalled later with 100 percent accuracy if necessary. That was simply the sort of mind that Sheridan had. He missed nothing.
"You wanted to see me, sir?" asked Sheridan. Reflexively he smoothed minuscule wrinkles from his crisp new uniform jacket. The rank bars pinned to his chest gleamed so brightly that a small ball of reflected sunlight glanced off the ceiling.
"Yes." Lefcourt rose half out of his seat, returning Sheridan's salute. "Come in, Commander. Close the door and have a seat."
Sheridan did so, sitting opposite Lefcourt, his back straight, his shoulders squared. You could have balanced a glass of wine on him and the contents would remain perfectly level.
"How's your father?" Lefcourt asked.
"Fine, sir," replied Sheridan gamely. "He sends his regards and asks me to remind you-respectfully-that you still owe him forty credits from last week."
"I'll get it to him eventually." Lefcourt fixed Sheridan with a very grave look and added, "It's a sad thing, Commander: A fine diplomat has to resort to cheating at poker. Can't think of any other way the man could've beat me."
Sheridan had the sneaking suspicion that Lefcourt was only half jesting, as the general came from around his desk and sat on a couch opposite Sheridan. "I'll get right to it, Commander," he said briskly. "I have an opportunity for you and I suggest you take it."
That was all Sheridan needed to hear to get the familiar excitement stirring in his veins. Lefcourt continued, "We're sending out a mission to the border of Minbari space. The ships involved will survey the disposition of their forces and determine if the Minbari have any hostile intentions toward us. I want you on that ship as first officer."
With every word out of Lefcourt's mouth, Sheridan felt his enthusiasm withering, bit by bit. Oh, he managed to maintain a thoroughly professional demeanor. But his disappointment was overwhelming and it was all he could do not to show it. He had been under the impression that he was being promoted, given a command of his own. That the officer under whom he was serving, Captain Roger Sterns, was about to retire and he, Sheridan, was to be given command of the ship. But this . . .
Oh, of course there was the excitement of a first-contact scenario involving a potentially advanced race, but still. ..
"I'm already assigned to the Lexington," Sheridan pointed out.
Lefcourt shrugged. "The Lexington's an old patrol ship that'll never see action again if Captain Sterns has anything to say about it. He wants to finish his tour and retire with all his parts and pieces still in working order."
Immediately Sheridan felt a quiet rage building within him. He endeavored to fight it down, because he knew that -to a degree -Lefcourt was right. But to hear it expressed in such flat terms seemed disrespectful, and Sheridan inwardly rebelled against such cavalier dismissal of an officer who wasn't even there to defend himself. Striving to keep any hint of insubordination out of his voice, Sheridan replied, "He's a good man and a fine officer. He's loyal to his crew. I feel I have an obligation to return that loyalty."
"I appreciate that," Lefcourt said in a tone that indicated that he didn't appreciate it one bit. "But career advancement depends on high-visibility assignments. This is an important mission. When it's over, you'll be that much closer to having your own command. That's what you want, isn't it?"
Lefcourt had managed to hit just the right patronizing tone with Sheridan, and it tugged at all the issues that Sheridan always carried within him. Sheridan had already progressed fairly rapidly through the ranks. He wanted to believe, with every fiber of his being, that every step up the chain of command came as a result of genuine merit. But it galled him that his father regularly played cards with all the men who wound up making the decisions, such as who got promoted versus who stayed at the same rank.
And there was just the slightest bit of nagging doubt within him that prompted him to wonder, ever so slightly, how much of his advancement was due to what he was, as opposed to who he was.
Thus, he replied, "Yes . . . but only if I deserve it. Not because I'm my father's son."
It came out with a good deal more heat than he would have liked, and he saw Lefcourt stiffen slightly. Sheridan couldn't tell whether it was because Lefcourt resented the insinuation, or because Sheridan had struck a nerve by hurling out an accusation that had more than a little truth in it. And Sheridan suddenly had the distinct feeling he didn't want to know which it was.
So Sheridan decided that the best thing he could do was draw the discussion away from the questions of his own relative merit, as quickly as he could. "Can I ask what ship will be leading the expedition?"
"The Prometheus" Lefcourt told him. "Captain Jankowski lost his XO to the Churchill a few weeks ago, and he's been looking for a replacement. You'd fit in perfectly."
"Captain Michael Jankowski?" asked Sheridan slowly.
"That's right. Why?"
Well, that was that, as far as Sheridan was concerned. Even had he possessed the slightest glimmer of interest.. . even if he'd toyed, however briefly, with the notion of deserting the Lexington for the draw of a high-profile mission ... the news of the
mission's commander was more than enough to put paid to that notion, once and for all.
Still, there wouldn't be any harm in trying to be just a bit politic. There was at least enough of the father in the son for that. Choosing his words carefully, Sheridan said, "I know some of the officers who have served under him. He doesn't handle first-contact situations as well as others. Ever since the Omega incident-"
Clearly another sore point, and this one Lefcourt made no attempt at hiding. "The military tribunal cleared him of all responsibility for what happened," he said quickly.
"I understand that, but . . ." Sheridan felt extremely uncomfortable pursuing this. For all he knew, Lefcourt and Jankowski were best friends. Hell, maybe Jankowski was engaged to Lefcourt's daughter. Who knew? Still, Sheridan decided that nothing would be served by his being reticent. "If I can speak frankly," he said, and continued, encouraged when Lefcourt nodded permission and listened attentively. "The men under his command consider him a loose cannon," he told Lefcourt. "I'd rather not walk into a situation where I might have to go up against my own CO if things got hot."
"Then you're saying no," said Lefcourt with no hint of inflection. Sheridan had heard computer voices with more animation.
"I'm afraid so," Sheridan admitted. Be politic! Be diplomatic! his father's voice fairly shouted in his head. Reflexively, Sheridan said, "Don't misunderstand me: I appreciate the offer, General. And you're right, this is a plum assignment and a fast track to promotion. But I can't leave Captain Sterns in the lurch, and I don't feel comfortable with the situation on the Prometheus"
Lefcourt appeared to take this in. Then he sighed, nodded as if his head weighed about fifty pounds, and moved back to his desk. Sensing that the meeting was reaching a conclusion, Sheridan stood respectfully.