by Peter David
"Sheridan," Lefcourt informed him as he dropped back behind his desk, "you are the most stubborn man I've ever seen. And mainly at your own expense. All right." He sighed again. "If you want to shoot your career in the foot, who am I to stand in your way? Go on. Dismissed."
"Yes, sir," Sheridan said briskly, turned on his heel, and left. . .
. . . and went straight to a public call screen, so anxious and annoyed that he didn't even want to wait until he got to his quarters. Within minutes he had his father on the line. "John!" his father said, smiling up at him from the view-screen. Sheridan had been told any number of times that he had his father's eyes and smile. Sheridan, for his part, didn't see it. "What a pleasant surprise."
"Yes. Pleasant."
"John, what's wrong?" David said quickly.
"They offered me the post of XO on the Prometheus," Sheridan said.
"Congratulations!" His father was practically beaming. "She's a superb ship! This is exactly the sort of high-profile-"
"I turned them down."
David Sheridan's face fell. "Turned them . . . down? Why?"
"I had my reasons."
"What reasons could they possibly have been that surmounted such an excellent opportunity, son? The Minbari could be a more important race in Humanity's development than the Centauri! This is one for the history books, John. It-"
"How did you know that?" Sheridan immediately pounced on the opening his father had left. "How did you know that it was the Prometheus's next assignment, to head to the Minbari border?"
"Well, it's not exactly classified information, John . . ."
"And do you know the assignment of every ship in the fleet?"
His father impatiently blew air between his taut lips. "Okay, Johnny, so General Lefcourt mentioned it at our poker game. So I reminded him of how perfect you would be for the job, and he ran it past Mike Jankowski, who by the way got a raw deal on that Omega business, if you ask me . . "
"A raw deal? People died, Dad, and he could have prevented it! He got off and he shouldn't have, if you want my opinion."
"Your opinions, John, just cost you a high-profile assignment."
"An assignment you got for me. Damn it, Dad, we've been over this and over this . .."
"Yes, we have, and I keep telling you the same thing, except you don't seem to listen, John," his father reminded him. "Your advancement is due entirely to the quality of your work. Yes, I occasionally open doors for you thanks to my contacts. But you're the one who goes through them, John. You and you alone. Now, what's wrong with that?"
"What's wrong with that is that I have to know that my achievements are my achievements. I-"
He put his hands to his temples and shook his head in exasperation, coming to the realization that nothing was going to be accomplished by going back and forth on the topic. "All right, Dad, forget it. Just... never mind."
"Don't get impatient with me, John," his father remonstrated him, and Sheridan saw a flash of the anger that his father customarily kept so well in check. "I'm watching out for my son. Where I come from, that's called being a good father."
"And where I come from, it's called being unable to cut the cord," Sheridan replied.
"John . . . look ... I know you think you're unique. You always have. Certainly you are to me. And that's fine, as far as it goes. But the harsh truth is that there's hundreds of officers out there, just as good as you, just as deserving, and a lot of them with more impressive records than yours."
"You mean more politically impressive than mine. More 'high-profile.'"
"However you want to phrase it," said David Sheridan. "And those people can wind up getting preferential treatment, even though they're less deserving than you. So if I even the odds a bit... where's the harm in that? Hmm? You tell me: Where's the harm?"
And Sheridan tapped his chest. "In here, Dad," he said softly. "It's in here."
David Sheridan shook his head in exasperation. "1 don't understand you, John. God as my witness, I don't understand you at all."
"I know, sir. And that might be the hardest thing for me to take."
They chatted a minute or so more, but really, they'd said everything they needed to say. All too quickly, they severed the connection.
Sheridan stood there, leaning against the booth, looking somewhat annoyed. He was startled when a voice-mine, to be precise-said, "You are a very foolish individual. And very lucky."
He turned and looked at me in confusion. "I beg your pardon?" he said. "With all due respect, Ambassador Mollari-"
"Ah, you know me."
"Of course. Everyone remotely connected with Earthgov knows you. The point is, with all due respect, as I said, what business is it of yours?"
"None," I said reasonably. I extended a hand and shook his firmly. "None at all, Commander-?"
"Sheridan," he answered, eyeing me with more than a little suspicion.
"Sheridan." I said the name, rolling it around in my head to try to remember it. There was something about the deep intensity of this young man that I found intriguing. "I could not help but overhear your discussion."
"Why couldn't you help it?"
"Because I was eavesdropping," I said, surprised that I had to explain that which should have been so self-evident. "I am rather bored, you see, waiting for what I believe to be the impending and inevitable disaster that is about to befall your race. Am I to understand that you turned down a position on a ship that will go into Minbari space?"
"That's correct, yes."
I eyed him curiously. "Tell me, Commander: Do you understand the difference between doing that which is correct and that which is right?"
Sheridan made no pretense of comprehending even in the slightest what I was talking about. He shook his head.
"To do what is correct is to take an action that-from all present information-seems to be the proper way to proceed. On that basis, what you have done is woefully incorrect."
"Now, look," said Sheridan.
I put up a hand, indicating to him that I had more to say. "However, the subjectiveness of 'right' depends entirely on what history decrees to have been the proper course of action. And I have a very distinct feeling that history will judge your actions in this matter to be very right, indeed. If nothing else, you can have a clear conscience in that you were not present on the Prometheus!"
"Why?" Sheridan suddenly asked with urgency. "Why, what's going to happen? What do you know?"
"Know? For certain? Nothing." I shrugged. "I do not expect trouble. However ... I anticipate trouble. And if I were you, Commander ..."
"Yes?" He folded his arms, looking a bit impatient. "If you were me, you'd what?"
Many answers occurred to me. Ultimately, however, I realized they were all pointless, and instead simply said, "I would likely let foolish pride overwhelm me, just as you have. Good day to you, Commander." And I left him standing there, filled with questions and no answers.
A fairly common state of mind for all concerned, as it later turned out.
* * *
Sheridan's future ally, Delenn, likewise found herself faced with questions, although she already suspected that she knew the answers.
The mighty Minbari cruiser that served the Grey Council had taken up a stationary position in hyperspace . . . that physics-defying realm that provides shortcuts through space and cuts down tremendously on the amount of time required to traverse the huge distances between our various worlds. Just think: If it were not for hyperspace, we would never be able to wage war with quite the same degree of efficiency. Generations would actually go by, living in relative peace. It could even be a trend.
Ah well. To have a galaxy free of strife, I suppose we must dwell in a fantasy world where hyperspace does not exist. But in our war-torn universe, it is all too real. And at this particular time in our narrative, a Minbari transport was in the process of approaching the Minbari cruiser. From her vantage point within the cruiser, Delenn watched with great interest and anticipation.
She headed quickly down to the cargo bay, just in time to watch several crates being wheeled past. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the pilot, a young Minbari named Eisonn, and she immediately walked over to him. He saw her coming and, for just a moment, he looked as if he were tempted to quickly bolt. But he was of the religious caste, as was she, and he was all too aware of her rank and station. Clearly she desired to speak to him, and to run from her presence would be a rather formidable insult. It simply was not an option.
"Excuse me," said Delenn. "Did you just pilot in that transport?"
"Yes," Eisonn replied.
"It is dangerous to deliver cargo while in hyperspace. Why did your crew take such an unusual risk?"
"I do not ask questions. I only follow orders."
Feeling that honor and proper decorum had been satisfied, Eisonn then endeavored to beat a hasty and diplomatic retreat. But Delenn would have none of it, walking quickly beside him as he headed down the hallway. "Whose orders?" she inquired.
"I am told they came from Dukhat himself," Eisonn told her with sufficient gravity that he hoped it would deter any further questions. "The deliveries must not attract undue attention from outsiders."
"But why the secrecy?"
Eisonn was beginning to become a bit frustrated. The female clearly did not take a hint, would not back off in the face of resistance. Ironic, I suppose. He didn't know the half of what she was capable of. At the time, I suppose, neither did she.
"I don't know," he said in an angrier voice than he would have liked. "Once each week we are given a different rendezvous point. We wait, and a ship arrives. They transfer cargo to our ship, and we bring it here. That's all I know."
He hoped that would be the end of it. He should have known better.
"You must have some information about your cargo," she persisted.
"Something to do with life-support systems, alternate atmospheres. That's all I know."
He'd picked up speed, his stride roughly twice as fast as hers and increasing exponentially. She called after him "What kind of alternate atmospheres?" but he was too far ahead. He didn't consider himself safe just yet; for all he knew, Delenn was so relentless that she might leap the intervening span and tackle him around the knees.
Fortunately enough for him, the voice of Dukhat called to her. Eisonn had never been so happy to hear the Minbari leader in his life, and mercifully darted around a corner as Delenn was distracted.
"Delenn!" called Dukhat.
She stopped in her tracks, the voice of her master freezing her in place. She turned toward him as he approached. There was a look of gentle remonstration on his face.
"It is almost time for the ceremony. You are not prepared. Are you reconsidering the invitation to join the Grey Council?" he asked.
She made no effort to hide her surprise at the question. "No, of course not. Why would you even ask such a-?"
"Because," Dukhat told her archly, "a member of the Grey Council would not bother herself with such trivial details as cargo shipments and transports. Would she?"
Delenn began to get the same feeling from Dukhat that she'd gotten from Morann at the Council meeting. The notion that he was so concerned over subjects that Delenn might broach that he was standing on protocol for the simple purpose of shutting her down.
"No, Master, of course not," she said slowly, "except where it may involve larger issues. You see, only an alien life-form would require an alternate atmosphere."
He couldn't quite look her in the eyes, although he was far too dignified to appear disconcerted. "What of it?" he asked.
"I was only thinking of what you said earlier, and remembering that-from time to time-aliens have come to us pretending to be Vorlons. Since no one alive has ever seen them, it's easy to be deceived."
Give Delenn credit: She played Dukhat perfectly. By tweaking his pride, she took for granted that which he would not have readily admitted, and so made that assumption part of the conversation. A given, if you will. "Are you saying I'm being deceived?" he demanded, and then it dawned upon him what he'd said. A quick look of chagrin crossed his face.
Delenn merely smiled. They both knew that she had already won this little encounter, this verbal fencing match. No reed to press the issue. Delenn, in a silky tone, said, "I'm not saying anything. I didn't say anything then, and I'm not saying anything now. Unless you are saying you've seen a Vorlon . ..?"
Dukhat could not help himself. He returned the smile, partly because he'd just had his own words thrown back in a display of ingenious irony, and partly because of her deftness in maneuvering him -Dukhat, mind you! -into such a disadvantageous position. Not for the first time, he found himself breathing a small prayer of thanks that she was on his side.
"I am saying . . . even less than you," he countered. But then, after a moment's thought, he added, "Except for this: When the darkness comes, if you ever have doubt about your actions, all you need do is look into the face of a Vorlon. Once you see that, all doubt is erased forever."
Something had crept into his voice that Delenn had never heard before. It was a sense ... of wonder.
Perhaps aware of how he sounded, Dukhat quickly changed the subject. "Now we must hurry," he told her. "Or you will be late for your own ceremony."
And, draping his arm around her shoulders, he headed off with her down the corridor.
It would be the last moment alone they would ever have.
~ chapter 6 ~
The Prometheus was a very impressive vessel, that I will admit. The pride of the Earth fleet. And, as we have discussed, pride goes before a great fall.
Indeed, it is ironic that the vessel bore that name. For Prometheus, in Human mythology, was a titanic individual who brought knowledge to Humanity in the form of fire. In doing so, he handed the Humans a double-edged sword, for it granted them both the potential for great advancement, and the capacity to obliterate themselves with greater efficiency than ever before. Because of his crime, Prometheus was chained to a rock, and mighty birds would sweep down and consume his body for all time.
And the Prometheus was to follow in this grand tradition. On the one hand, it represented the pinnacle of Human progress, a shining symbol of what mankind could accomplish. And on the other hand, its presence was about to levy a terrible, terrible cost against Humanity. One that would make the fate of the mythic Prometheus seem merciful by comparison.
The Humans had no idea what sort of fall awaited them, however. Instead the Prometheus was busy performing its duty, moving through hyperspace with an almost reckless abandon. The way that a child, having just learned to walk, will dash without fear or concept of personal consequence across a room, heedless of what can happen when an obstacle presents itself.
The Prometheus was a zero-g vessel, for the Humans did not then have a means of creating an artificial gravity field. Indeed, the gravity on the Babylon 5 space station was achieved entirely through a steady rotation, the same as that on any planet. When it comes to their spacefaring vessels, however, the Humans have a variety of ingenious means of coping with lack of gravity. In the case of the Prometheus's bridge, the Humans belted themselves into their stations so as not to be floating off all over the place at inopportune moments. Earthforce officers who had a problem with spitting when they spoke generally tended to have somewhat truncated career paths. Who needs globules of Human saliva floating about in front of them? Feh. They are a disgusting race sometimes.
At the helm sat Captain Michael Jankowski, of whom Sheridan had spoken with such less-than-glowing terms. Jankowski was a slim man with black hair, a weak chin, and the air of an ambitious ferret. He wore a headset so that he could keep in instantaneous communication with all departments of the mighty ship.
When Sheridan had turned down Jankowski's offer, Jankowski had chosen a solid first officer named Alan Chafin. Chafin had many of the same reservations Sheridan had, but his ambition was more driving than Sheridan's. Chafin was monitoring the instrumentation, a
nd he announced, "Approaching the next rendezvous point." On the screen in front of him, the glow from which provided most of the light at his station, he checked the location of the Prometheus 's escort ships. All were close enough to provide protection, but far enough away that they did not present a threat of collision when the vessels leaped back into normal space.
"Very good," Jankowski said briskly. "Prepare to jump to normal space."
"Navigation, prepare to jump," said Chafln.
"Jump," ordered Captain Jankowski.
The jump point formed directly ahead of them, the technology working perfectly as the diamond-shaped gate activated and a tube of coruscating energy burst from nowhere. Why should it not, after all? It came from the Centauri. One would expect no less. Within seconds, the vessels emerged into open space, a mere hour's journey away from the border of Minbari space. The final hour of the age of innocence of mankind. The child, charging across the room, was about to skin his knee very, very badly.
Delenn, dressed in her robes of the Grey Council, walked slowly down the corridor of the Minbari cruiser ... the corridor that led to the chambers of the Grey Council. Members of both the religious caste and the warrior caste lined either side of the hallway, standing tall and proud, honored to be part of a tradition that stretched back centuries. At the far end of the corridor stood Dukhat, and in his hands was the staff of the Grey Council. He held it horizontally, blocking Delenn's way. Every step that was about to be taken, every word about to be spoken, was carefully determined through generations of repetition and custom. They were the words first spoken by Valen when he originally called the Grey Council together, one thousand years before.
"Why do you come here, Delenn?" Dukhat intoned.
It was everything that Delenn could do to keep her voice even, prevent the excitement and anticipation of this moment from making her sound nervous or unsteady. "I come to serve,"
she replied.
"Whom do you serve?" he asked.
"I serve the truth."
"What is the truth?"