by Peter David
~ chapter 12 ~
Delenn was conversant in many areas and had many impressive abilities. But never before had she displayed quite such a dazzling mastery of the verbal technique known as "understatement."
"The situation is getting out of control, Lenonn," she said.
What is most striking about this particular bit of understatement is that she made it when the Black Star's fate was not yet generally known, the vessel's destruction having occurred only moments earlier. Had she known about it, the comment might have seemed a bit more self-serving, as if she were sanguine about the situation until it actually had a negative impact on the Minbari themselves.
As it was, the pronouncement was based on cool, clinical observation of the war's progress and what seemed, to her, to be a slow, steady march toward an inevitable and genocidal conclusion.
She again stood in her quarters in the Minbari cruiser that served the needs of the Grey Council, facing a most concerned Ranger leader. "So far, we have hit only the outer colonies," she continued. "They are sparsely populated, with minimal defenses. Soon we will begin to hit colonies and stations closer to the homeworld of the Humans." She shook her head, unable to keep the worry from her voice. "Every day that passes sees more death, and every death will make it that much harder to intervene."
Lenonn had come to the same conclusion, but he had no recommendation to offer. "Then what do you suggest?" he asked.
"A peace offering." Delenn was beginning to pace, as if the motion might stimulate thought. "Anything that can open the way for negotiations."
"An apology?" he suggested, but immediately shook his head. "The others will say that's a very little payment for the murder of Dukhat."
He was surprised, however, to see that Delenn did not necessarily dismiss the idea out of hand. "But it is a start, Lenonn. Enough, perhaps, to call for a cease-fire. Give us time to find a solution." She put a hand on his shoulder. 'That's why I need you, Lenonn. I cannot contact the Humans directly, or ask any other member of the Grey Council to do so. We cannot act alone. But someone else might be able to contact them unofficially. Someone the others would respect, with a history of service and unchallenged loyalty. Someone like you, Lenonn."
Again Lenonn was shaking his head. He hated to feel as if he were the voice of doom, but Delenn was suggesting things that simply did not seem feasible to him. "I appreciate the compliment you pay me, Delenn, but. .." He gestured helplessly. "But how do I do this? If I contact them directly, the Grey Council will hear of it and interfere. The Humans will almost certainly consider it a trap."
Delenn, however, was ahead of him. And for that, as it turned out, she had me to thank. She did not know about, or even care about, the source of the information in her possession. It only mattered to her that she knew. You will remember that I had gotten word to the Minbari of the Narn intention to sell arms to the Humans. Well, this information had made its way to Delenn, and she intended to put it to use in a most unexpected manner. 'There is a way," she said slowly. "Our intelligence reports indicate that the Humans have made a deal with the Narns to buy weapons. Through the Narns, we can arrange a meeting in neutral territory. But the danger is great," she warned. "The Humans may attempt to capture you. And the Narns cannot be trusted on the best of days."
Lenonn shrugged expressively. "To live is to risk." He considered it a moment more, and then nodded in brisk acceptance. "I will have my Rangers contact the Narn government and set things in motion. With luck the meeting could take place in ... three weeks. Perhaps four. No sooner."
Delenn was not particularly happy about that. Every passing day was that many more lives lost, that many more souls crying for vengeance. It seemed to her that the more time that went by the more difficult it was going to be to have some sort of peaceful end to this business. But she had to acknowledge the realities of the situation, and so she said, "It will have to do." Almost as an afterthought, she added, "I've been gathering information on their language, culture. I'll make a copy for you this afternoon. It may prove . .. useful. And thank you, Lenonn."
"No, thank you," he replied. "The Rangers have asked only one thing: to serve, to have the opportunity to lay down their lives in a righteous cause. At my age, I feared I would never again have the chance to serve my people as one of my order should. Thank you for giving me this opportunity. Whatever comes, I will meet it with joy."
And with that, he bowed to Delenn and left her presence, leaving Delenn to worry. For all she knew, she was sending Lenonn to his death. It was not a decision she made easily or happily, and it was almost as if his happiness in having the opportunity made it more, not less, difficult for her.
She wondered how many more difficult decisions lay ahead for her, and wondered-not for the first time- whether Dukhat's support of her ascension to the Grey Council was a blessing or a curse.
For Stephen Franklin, time did not quite have the importance that it once had.
If there is one thing in this universe that a doctor is aware of, it's that the time that each and every one of us has allotted to him is special, precious, and all too fleeting. It is never to be wasted, but always to be valued. Franklin had vowed never to waste a minute of the time that had been given him. Indeed, I must admit to you that, in later years, that attitude would come back to haunt him. His compulsion to maximize every minute of every day would drive him to a stimulant addiction that would nearly cost him everything.
But that was to be many years in the future, as part of a destiny that would await him on Babylon 5. At this particular point in our story, however, Dr. Franklin did not see himself as having a destiny outside the four walls of his cell.
He had half expected regular visits from General Fontaine, eager to shout over his refusal to cooperate, but he had been surprised when that joyful happenstance did not occur. Instead he was simply left there, day after unending day. He wondered if they were trying to wear him down. Or perhaps Fontaine was so angry with his insubordination that he intended to leave him there, with no hearing, no due process, no nothing, until he rotted.
There was even the worst-case scenario he had developed for himself, which was that they had forgotten all about him. They were busy fighting a war, after all, and perhaps everyone involved had simply moved on to other things and his arrest had slipped their minds. He had fallen through the cracks, as Humans like to say.
He did anything he could to keep his mind active. He would study his body and name every bone, every muscle, every organ within it. He would run through assorted diagnoses in his head, or take names of various complexly named diseases and see if he could form other words from them.
And after what seemed to him to be an eternity of time, there was the turning of a latch in his door. When food was brought to him, it was slid through a small chute in the door. This time, someone was actually opening it, preparing to . . . what? Come in? Bring him out?
He blinked against the light that came filtering in from the outside corridor as someone stepped into view in the doorway. Franklin was sitting on the floor, and did not feel any overwhelming compulsion to scramble to his feet. Consequently, the new arrival seemed almost gigantic in stature. The figure stood ramrod straight, hands draped behind the small of his back, and his head was shaking slowly in what appeared to be a most disapproving manner.
It was an attitude with which Franklin was all too familiar.
"Hello, Father," he said dryly. And I mean "dryly" in the most literal fashion. He was surprised to realize that his voice was little more than a croak. He'd fallen out of practice speaking.
"Well, well," General Franklin said, in a voice that was mocking and-as per its custom-quite low. "Look where you've landed yourself." He stepped in, coming more clearly into view and making no effort to hide his disgust over his son's present situation. "What the hell did you think you were doing?"
"It's good to see you too, Father."
"Don't get flip with me, Stephen. You have absolutely no idea how much trouble
you're in."
"Oh, I think I can take an educated guess."
" 'Educated,' yes. You know, Stephen," General Franklin said ruefully, "sometimes I think i hat's entirely your problem. Education, or too much thereof. You overthink things, overanalyze them."
"An analytical mind is generally considered an asset in a doctor," Stephen replied as he slowly pushed himself up to stand. His legs were a bit cramped from sitting for so long, and he tried to shake them out, restore circulation to them. He was only partly successful, his knees still exhibiting the urge to buckle under him. He leaned against a wall to help support himself.
"Yes, but it's a drawback when it comes to soldiers," the general shot back. "And like it or not, if you're serving in Earthforce, that's what you are, first and foremost. A soldier. And a soldier follows orders."
"I'm sorry, Dad, but first and foremost, I'm a doctor. I follow my Hippocratic oath, and one of the main parts of that oath is to promise that I will do no harm. Handing the army a recipe to mix up a genocide cocktail strikes me as doing one hell of a lot of harm."
'This is a war, son." His father thumped a fist into his palm for emphasis. "It's a different set of rules. You're a healer, granted, but you're a Human first, aren't you? Humanity stands a good possibility of being wiped out, and if you had information in your possession that can avoid that, don't you see that General Fontaine had a right to ask you to give it to him?"
"Absolutely I acknowledge that," Franklin said evenly, as he took a seat on his bunk. "But what I had was a right to tell him 'no.'"
"It's war," General Franklin repeated. "All the niceties, the theories, the polite mind-set, all of that goes right out the tubes when you're facing down an enemy that wants to wipe you out-obliterate you from the memory of the galaxy. Don't you see that they view you as a traitor, Stephen? As someone who is withholding valuable information, and disobeying a direct order to make that information available? My God, son, in the old days, they could have marched you out in front of a firing squad and had you shot!"
"So instead they're going to leave me here to rot. Thank heavens for modern-day sensibilities."
But General Franklin was shaking his head. "No . . . they're not going to do that, either"
There was something about his tone of voice that immediately caught Stephen Franklin's attention. "What do you mean? Dad . . . what are-"
"I've spoken to some people, Franklin," said his father. Franklin moaned audibly, but General Franklin ignored the noise and continued, "There are . . . possibilities to be explored."
"Do they involve the Minbari?"
"Yes."
"Not interested."
"Stephen!" protested his father.
But Stephen was vehemently shaking his head. "I'm not going to do anything that would risk the obliteration of an entire race."
"Do you think I don't know that?"
"You probably know it, but I don't think you respect it," Franklin said, a bit more sharply than he would have liked.
The general took a step forward and towered over his son. "Now you listen to me," he said in a low, angry voice. "If it were up to General Fontaine, he'd leave you here until the second coming of the Dilgar. Whatever else you may think of him, he is a superior officer and deserving of the same respect that you would have others give to you. Now, I've spent a good deal of time talking to him on your behalf-"
"I didn't ask you to intercede for me," Franklin told him.
"True enough. And if you had, that would likely have been more than enough to make me refuse. But I feel some degree of obligation to do what I can for you, whether you want me to or not. I'm here with an offer, Stephen. An offer for you to put your knowledge of the Minbari to use in a way other than that of germ warfare."
"Oh really?" Stephen said doubtfully, with undisguised sarcasm.
It almost seemed as if electricity filled the cell as his father said, in a tone so frigid that it seemed to be icing up the walls, "I have never lied to you, Stephen."
And Franklin knew that this was true. Feeling chagrined, he looked down. "No. You haven't I didn't mean to imply that you ever had."
The general looked as if he was ready to argue the point, but let it pass. Instead he said, "Stephen... let me be utterly candid. This offer that I'm coming to you with is the best you can hope for. You may wind up spending the rest of your natural life in the stockade. The only upside to this is that, if the Minbari have their way, then that will not be a particularly long period of time. On the other hand, if you agree to the terms I'm about to set forth, you have an outside chance to not only get out of here, but maybe- just maybe, if everything goes right-aid in resolving this ghastly Minbari situation."
"And if everything goes wrong?"
"Then you'll very likely be killed."
"And it doesn't bother you? The notion that you might be sending your son off to die?"
"Obviously," the general said with a grim smile, "I'd like to see you come back in one piece. But if I'm to have a choice between my son dying on his feet, in service of his race ... or dying alone and sitting on his butt in a cell. .. I know which I'd choose."
And to his surprise, Stephen laughed softly. "They should put you in charge of army recruitment, Dad. The way you present options, who could possibly turn you down? So .. . tell me what I have to do to get out of this rat trap."
He told him.
And for Stephen Franklin, suddenly the prospect of dying on his butt in a cell didn't seem entirely unattractive.
There were two massive explosions in the briefing room.
The first was that of the Minbari warship-or at least footage of it-being blasted apart by the nuclear warheads that Sheridan had seeded in the asteroids. The second was the explosion of cheers, shouts, and applause that came from the Earthforce officers, soldiers, and assorted civilians who were crammed into the two-story briefing room, watching the replay of Sheridan's triumph.
On the upper-level briefing room platform, General Lefcourt stood above them all, looking down like a god from on high. Next to him was Sheridan, elevated to almost divine stature simply by his proximity to Lefcourt and the magnitude of his accomplishment.
Humans have a charming phrase, which is as follows: "Needless to say." I'm not entirely sure why they employ it; if one doesn't need to say it, then why make a point of how one is not going to bring it up? Followed, invariably, by a discussion of the very topic that had been deemed unnecessary to broach. What a curious race they are.
"Needless to say," General Lefcourt declared, "we plan to broadcast this on every major planetary network for the next three days." Lefcourt had come to me shortly after the triumph to boast of it, and perhaps to swagger a bit. I allowed him to. What harm was there, after all? I also supplied him with the name and status of the destroyed vessel, which I in turn had garnered from my Minbari contacts. I had also been informed of their ire over the destruction of the vessel, and knew that there were factions who were advocating a very profound and comprehensive retaliation.
That bit of information, however, I did not share with Lefcourt. Why ruin his good time, after all?
"The Black Star was their flagship," he continued. "We've shown that we can take on their best, outthink and outfight it. Commander, anything you'd like to add?"
It was Sheridan's moment of glory, the spotlight squarely on him. He did not shrink from the challenge or responsibility at all. "Yes, General," he said gamely. "I've had the chance to study their style of combat. The Minbari are very meticulous, and that makes them inflexible. They don't improvise well, so when something unexpected happens, they retreat rather than adjust. Anything you can do to confuse the enemy will give you a superior position during the engagement. They have more firepower, but if you can get them to respond to you, then you have an advantage."
There was a broad-based bobbing of heads, and General Lefcourt said, "Thank you, Commander." He paused a moment to let Sheridan's words sink in, and then said, "And if any member in the press corp
s asks about the morality of sending out a distress signal and hitting the enemy, remind them that the Minbari do not take survivors. They were on a mission to murder the Lexington. They paid the price.
"Dismissed."
The room began to empty out amid excited pockets of conversation. Sheridan could pick out snatches of it here and there as officers discussed possibilities with each other. It gave rise to new hope and excitement for him. If pressed, he would have been forced to admit that he wasn't sure just what tactics might be employed to "confuse the enemy." Then again, he didn't have to be. He had given them hope, and it was fully possible that others -now that it had been revealed that the Minbari vessels could be blown up as readily as anyone else's -would rise to the challenge.
Lefcourt drew closer to Sheridan, speaking in low tones. "That was quick thinking on your part, Commander. You're to be commended."
Sheridan wasn't entirely certain what Lefcourt was referring to: his actions in the field, or his impromptu speech in telling the troops how to respond to the Minbari.
"You were right to stay where you were," Lefcourt continued. "Thanks for arguing with me. Now ... I have another job for you."
He might have tried to argue the point with Lefcourt- point out that, had he been there on the Prometheus, they might not have been in this fix in the first place. But he'd learned a long time ago that, when someone hands you a compliment, it's advisable to nod and smile. Sheridan nodded and smiled, and only then did Lefcourt's comment about another job penetrate. "But... my ship-" he began.
Lefcourt shook his head. "Is going to be in spacedock for some time being repaired. I need you for this immediately."
Sheridan had no basis upon which to protest. No one knew better than he, after all, the extent of the damage that the Lexington had sustained. It was rather unreasonable, to say nothing of a waste of manpower, to keep Sheridan tucked away while the ship underwent repairs.
The trip to Lefcourt's office was very quick, and also somewhat strained. Lefcourt did not wish to discuss the nature of the mission until they got to his sanctum, but naturally they did not want to travel in dead silence. So Lefcourt made what amounted to odd chitchat, which made Sheridan feel a bit uncomfortable. He quickly learned that there was nothing stranger than a superior officer pointedly trying to talk about nothing. Thus, when they arrived at Lefcourt's office, both Sheridan and Lefcourt let out a small sigh of relief.