0-In the Beginning

by Peter David

  He was, of course, welcome to think that. It was not exactly an opinion that I, or anyone in my government, shared. Had it been, we might have taken the chance if there was sufficient gain to be had. As it was, it would have been madness. But I had no desire to get into a debate over what chances the Humans might or might not have if we merely gave them combat technology. Opting to bypass the entire discussion, I simply said, "It is not our policy to supply advanced weapons to developing worlds."

  "We'll pay any price," Hastur said quickly.

  "Yes, and then we will pay the price when the Minbari come after us for helping you. No, there is not enough money in your entire planet to justify that risk."

  "Londo, if you'd just listen . . ."

  At which point I had had enough. If I would listen? I had tried to caution them, to tell them what it was they were getting themselves into. They had not listened to me. Now I was supposed to heed their words?

  "Listen?" I demanded. "To what? The voice of a race that is about to become extinct?"

  My pronouncement of the fate of Hastur's kind was, I admit, somewhat harsh, and the look on his face certainly reflected that. But I was not feeling particularly genteel that day, or receptive to being made to feel guilty over a situation that I had tried to warn them away from. I shook my head and said, "No, I'm sorry. I've always been very fond of Humans, but we cannot risk angering the Minbari. There is nothing I can do. I'm sorry," I said again, and then walked away.

  Hastur stayed there until I was gone, undoubtedly thinking that I was unaware of what he was going to do next. No greater fool was there than Hastur, I can tell you. My spies informed me of his every intention before it even was acted upon.

  Why?

  Because the individual he was to meet with had a very big mouth.

  His name was G'Kar, and in later years he would develop into perhaps the most canny, most implacable, and most formidable individual I had ever met. But at that point in time he was young and foolish, and did not hesitate to spout his plans to assorted lieutenants. Lieutenants who were, in turn, all too eager to supply information to me in exchange for certain perks and privileges that I accorded them under the table. That was always the Narns' problem, you see. Insufficient unity. Even though, at that point, the Narns had freed themselves of Centauri rule, there were still those who were all too eager to keep on the good side of the Centauri in the event of a-shall we say, regression in relations?

  Through them, I learned of the meeting between G'Kar and Hastur which took place mere moments after the Human and I had parted company.

  G'Kar was a powerfully built Narn, with the blazing red eyes typical of that race; the brown, spotted, and hairless skin; and an outthrust jaw that only added to his general air of pugnaciousness and arrogance. He was also a member of the Kha'Ri, the central governors of the Narn regime.

  He was seated in a chair in Hastur's darkened office, waiting patiently for what he was certain Hastur would say. When Hastur entered, G'Kar wasted no time on small talk. "Well?" he said.

  Hastur sighed. "He refused to help ... as you said he would."

  G'Kar leaned forward and smiled with satisfaction, his red eyes glowing with excitement. "The Centauri care for no one but themselves. They would sooner see your world in flames than lift a finger to help."

  Harsh words, considering that when I had proffered a finger earlier, it had been to point the Humans away from a path of self-destruction. But it is always far more convenient for the aggrieved party to feel that their difficulties are the result of someone other than themselves. Hastur nodded, appreciative to hear something akin to consoling words from another race. "So it would seem," he admitted. Then he clapped his hands together briskly. "All right then, G'Kar. What help can we expect from the Narns?"

  G'Kar again leaned forward, eagerly, into a stark beam of light that accentuated the coarseness of his spotted skin. "When we drove the Centauri from our world after a hundred years of occupation, we seized many of their weapons. We took them apart, studied them, learned to turn their own weapons against them. And we are willing to sell them to you."

  Hastur could already feel butterflies of hope flitting about in his stomach. "Aren't you worried about the Minbari?" he asked.

  G'Kar shook his head. "If they capture any of the equipment, they will assume it came from the Centauri, attack them . . . and we win by default. And if they should learn that the weapons came from us..." He shrugged. "We endured slavery for a hundred years. A slave is immune to the fear of dying, because to die is simply to end the cycle of pain."

  Hastur could not have been less interested in Narn slavery, history, or cycles of pain. "How much can you sell us?" he asked eagerly.

  "As much as you can afford. But the price will be high," G'Kar cautioned him. "Human currency has been devalued on the interstellar market, so it will take a great deal to convince the Kha'Ri to sell you arms and provide support. But I believe it can be done. Assuming we have a deal."

  The aide stuck out a hand and said, "We have a deal, G'Kar."

  Within half an hour of the deal being struck, I knew of it.

  And within twenty-four Earth hours of my awareness, I had managed to finally get word through to my contacts with the Minbari. I admit, I did hesitate over it slightly. The providing of weapons was a straw at which the Humans were clutching, and my decision to endeavor to deprive them of it was not one lightly made.

  Then again, the Narns were endeavoring to get us into trouble with the Minbari. That was the deciding element, really. One bad turn, after all, deserves another.

  Even though Jankowski had been busted in rank, it was decided that day that he was to be brought in for further debriefing. For that matter, there were some who were advocating that he should be brought in in some sort of advisory capacity, for there was no denying one simple fact: He was the only captain to survive a direct conflict with the Minbari. General Lefcourt sent word to Jankowski's apartment that he was to report immediately.

  There was no response.

  A military attache was sent there to retrieve him, and knocked on the door authoritatively. Still, there was no response from within. The attache gained entrance to the apartment and the stench hit him immediately. Before his eyes adjusted to the flickering darkness, his nose had already told him what had happened.

  Jankowski, or what was left of him, was seated in front of a screen. Playing across the screen was a series of scenes strung together, clearly recorded by Jankowski and edited together as some sort of private collection. It was scene after scene of Minbari destruction, blasting apart ships, slaughtering thousands of innocent people, intercut with the video log of the Prometheus and Jankowski giving the order to open fire, thereby starting the war.

  There was a note next to Jankowski's body. There was also a Phased Plaser Gun which had slipped from Jankowski's lifeless hand. The note simply had three words: "On my head." Blackly ironic, one supposes, considering that the remains of Jankowski's head were rather difficult to come by after the PPG had blown off the top of it.

  And the number of captains who had truly survived an encounter with the Minbari had, just that quickly, dropped to zero.

  Sheridan's parents, David and Nancy, and his sister, Elizabeth, had made quite the fuss over his homecoming. It was as if there was an unspoken dedication toward trying to avoid dwelling on the trip's purpose. Instead they spoke of trivialities, of family plans. They laughed over incidents from the past, chatted about routine gossip. On the surface, it was no different from any other family reunion.

  Around eight in the evening, there was a knock at the door. Sheridan remained in the comfortably furnished living room, discussing the outlook for next year's baseball season as if it were a given that there was going to be one. He heard Elizabeth talking to someone and then, moments later, Elizabeth walked in with a slim, brown-haired woman at her side. Sheridan reflexively rose, and somehow immediately knew who it was even before Elizabeth said a word.

  "Mom, Dad
, you remember Anna," she said, then turned to John and said, with a mischievous expression, "John, this is Anna Keller. Anna, my brother, John."

  She extended a hand. He took it firmly, and looked deep into her eyes . . .

  . . . and felt nothing.

  This was her? This was the girl that Elizabeth had spoken of so often as being the ideal match for her brother? She seemed pleasant enough, certainly. Exceedingly attractive, in fact. And Sheridan studied her the rest of the evening, as she remained and joined in with the Sheridan family conversation. She was most certainly bright. A pleasant conversationalist, a charming raconteur, and-as it turned out-a horrible singer when she jumped into an off-key rendition of an old show tune. But she was enthusiastic, John had to give her that.

  That was all, though.

  The evening ended on a pleasant enough note, and after Anna had left, Elizabeth turned eagerly to her brother and said, "What did you think?"

  "Could you be any more obvious?" John asked her sarcastically.

  "Probably not. So what did you think?" she repeated.

  "She seemed nice, Elizabeth."

  "And.. .?"

  "And . . ." He shrugged. "And that's all. What do you want me to say, that there were wild sparks? That I was half tempted to sling her over my shoulder, take her out, and ravish her? She's a nice woman, sis, and that's it. Period. I didn't feel any chemistry, any spark, anything that I know you want me to say I feel. I'm sorry. Should I lie to you?"

  "Of course not," she said, but she made no effort to hide her disappointment.

  Sheridan spent the night fitfully, lying on his bed and staring up at the stars through the skylight. He had always used to enjoy this view. Not anymore. Now all he could do was picture others like him up there, fighting, dying, while the enemy relentlessly sliced through them as if they meant nothing.

  Word had reached him about Jankowski, and it had saddened him. Heaven knows he had no love for the man, but he wouldn't have wished such a pointless death on anyone. Then again, was it any more pointless than the deaths of those who were flying valiantly into battle with the Minbari, to fight and die against overwhelming odds?

  There has to be a way to beat them. There has to be. The thought consumed Sheridan and he did not sleep much that night. The next morning he decided there was no point in waiting around any longer, and so he quickly packed his change of clothes and headed for the front door while everyone in the house was still sleeping.

  Or, at least, he thought that was the case.

  But when he emerged into the living room, he was surprised to see his father, David, sitting there. He looked for all the world as if he'd been expecting his son to come tiptoeing through.

  "Going somewhere, John?" he asked.

  "I... really have to get back. Captain's expecting me."

  David nodded understandingly. Then, surprisingly, he said, "What did you think of Anna? Nice girl."

  "Very nice girl," Sheridan said, a bit impatiently.

  "But no spark."

  "No, no spark," he said to his father, looking rather uncomfortable with the discussion. "Why does everyone have a problem with that?"

  "No problem with it, son. Except it seems from where I sit that you just sort of figure, well, hell, why bother getting attached? No point. We're all dead soon anyway."

  "I don't think that," Sheridan said, a bit more sharply than he would have liked. He looked down at his feet and then said, "Good-bye, Dad."

  David sighed and shook his head "Shame for you to come all this way and not say what you came here to say."

  Sheridan dropped his overnight bag to the floor with barely concealed exasperation. "Well, why don't you tell me what that is? I mean, you seem to know everything I'm thinking. So save me the time of having to say it."

  "All right," David said, sounding disgustingly reasonable about it all. "You want to tell me how angry you are that I inserted myself into your career. That no matter how great your accomplishments, no matter what you achieve in your career, you're always going to wonder whether or not you would have managed anything of true importance without me. Here's the answer: No."

  Sheridan felt his jaw tighten at his father's apparent smugness, but David continued unhesitatingly, "And that's only fair. Because, you see, I could never have accomplished anything of importance without you."

  He gaped at his father. "What are you talking about? You have your career, your achievements ..."

  But David Sheridan waved them off dismissively. "I'm a diplomat, John. That's all. A successful one, but a diplomat nonetheless, and diplomats are a credit a dozen. It took me a large portion of my life to realize that the truly important things in my life are right here, in this house, at this moment. My God, John . . . you're about to go out and try to contribute whatever you can to saving this planet. I have never been prouder of anything in my life. But in the final analysis, all I did was put you here. You did the rest. Yet I'd like to think that you wouldn't deny me taking some personal pride in that, would you?"

  Sheridan half smiled. "No, sir."

  With an amused chuckle, Sheridan admitted, "Not off the top of my head, no."

  "Good."

  They stood there for a time, the distance between them seeming to shrink ever so slightly. Nonetheless, there seemed to be something more. Something that Sheridan needed ... and he had no idea what it was.

  And his father asked him a deceptively simple four-word question:

  "What do you want?"

  "What do I want?" Sheridan asked. His father nodded. And Sheridan, without hesitation, said, "I want to know how to defeat the Minbari. I want to see my people take pride in themselves and live without the fear of possible obliteration. I want. . ."

  And he thought of the man from the transport junction. He thought of Sinclair.

  "I want to know that there was some point to it all. Some greater purpose, some meaning to existence, rather than that we simply came this far so we could all go to hell in one great flaming ruin. That's what I want."

  "Then you'll have it," his father said with confidence.

  "How do you know, Dad?"

  "Because," his father replied, "I have never, in my life, known you not to get something that you wanted if you really, truly put your mind to achieving it. And with so much at stake, I don't expect this to be the first time you fail." He paused, then added with conviction, "You won't let us down, John. You won't let yourself down. Not the John Sheridan I know. The man I'm proud to call my son."

  He wasn't much of a hugger, David Sheridan wasn't. So when he tried to do it with his son, it was an awkward and unaccustomed movement. But his son took it for what it was: a valiant effort. And he returned the embrace.

  "You're a hell of a diplomat, Dad," John said.

  "Got no choice. I have to live up to the standard of excellence set by my son." He patted him on the shoulder. "Come back safely, John."

  "It's the only way to come back, Dad. And I know I will. After all" and he smiled, "it's what I want."

  ~ chapter 9 ~

  Delenn did not know what she wanted.

  She looked out of the window of her quarters within the Minbari cruiser. Delenn had been doing more and more investigation into the Humans, now that they were the enemy. Specifically, she had researched their history of warfare, and quite a formidable history it was. She had gone as far back as she could, and had been intrigued by Human wars which had a scope that bordered on the mythic.

  There was one in particular, the Trojan War, that interested her for three reasons (of course).

  First, because the Trojan War had involved an individual who predicted disaster and foresaw a great enemy . . . and would not be believed. Much like Lenonn, who had arrived but moments before, and who even now was seated near her, lost in his own thoughts.

  Second, because there was a large vehicle involved, a Trojan "horse" -an Earth animal -which appeared to be non-threatening, but in fact contained a hidden enemy . . . much like the Prometheus.


  And third . . . there was a woman. A woman named Helen, the cause of the war. Hers was said to be the face that launched a thousand ships.

  Helen.

  Delenn.

  Similarity in names, to be sure. And as she imagined her reflection superimposed over the ships of the fleet-her face upon the vessels-she saw irony that was impossible to ignore.

  There was another Earth saying she had stumbled upon: Those who do not listen to the lessons of history are doomed to repeat it. So many people died in the Trojan War ... in all the wars thereafter . . . and for what? For what? Border disputes that could have, should have, been resolved in some other way. Incidents that seemed to demand bloody retribution and became bloodbaths in which millions of innocent lives were lost.

  And, unlike Minbari, who believed that their souls went on to new incarnations, Humans were not uniform in their beliefs as to what happened after they died. Which meant that they risked their lives, were willing to throw them away, with no consensus as to whether that sacrifice would have any long-term meaning. They hurled themselves into the void and, for all some of them knew, they were never coming back, nor were they likely heading toward anything except eternal oblivion.

  The face that launched a thousand ships was stony and silent, and could not help but feel that, from somewhere near, Dukhat was watching.

  And frowning.

  She heard the door open behind her, but gave no indication to that effect. Instead she continued to stare out the window, as if hypnotized by the view. When the new arrival spoke, she immediately knew the voice as Morann's. For some reason, she was not surprised.

  In recent days, Morann's attitude toward her had seemed to shift. Whereas originally he'd had little patience for her, somehow the crucible of war had forged-if not a full alliance-at least a grudging respect for her.

  "Good evening, Delenn," he said. When she made no reply, he held up a data crystal. "The latest reports from the front. Three more of the Humans' deep-range colonies have fallen."