by Peter David
There were nods from all around.
The question was never even put to a vote. There seemed no need. And Delenn, the death of Dukhat still freshly seared into her mind, said nothing Gave no voice to her most intimate thoughts. Indeed, there was no reason to, for the inner uncertainties she carried were not yet sufficiently great to vent them to the Council.
For you, Dukhat, went through her mind. And she was vaguely disturbed to find that the thought gave her no satisfaction whatsoever.
~ chapter 8 ~
The briefing room on Earthdome was packed with Earth-force officers. On a large screen, they were watching what amounted to a visual catalogue of military atrocities. Colony after colony, and ship after ship attempting to defend them, all destroyed. Blasted to scrap metal, blackened and burned, and more lives snuffed out with each passing moment.
On a raised platform, General Lefcourt and an associate of his -an older, thinner, gray-haired general named Fontaine -watched in silence. There were no murmurs passing through the crowd as they witnessed the destruction, no whispered conferences. There was just respectful silence, both for the loss of life that they were witnessing, and for the awareness that they were confronted with power beyond any that they had come to know, expect, or understand.
The screen switched from footage of the Minbari slaughter to a schematic that showed the progress of the fleet. This finally drew a verbal response: startled gasps mostly, followed by a low level of urgent muttering.
Lefcourt's voice cut through the buzzing of voices. 'The incidents you have just seen have been repeated at half a dozen bases in just the last few days. Where the Minbari strike, nothing is left alive. Even ships no longer capable of fighting are targeted and destroyed. So surrender on any scale is not an option. Every attempt we've made to communicate with them has been ... rebuffed."
He did not need to spell it out. Everyone in the room knew what had gone on with Jankowski, knew that his actions had been publicly discredited and he himself offered up as a bargaining chip. The Humans knew nothing of Dukhat, of course. They knew only that Jankowski had fired precipitously, and first, and they were willing to discuss that criminal act with the Minbari, especially if it meant opening a line of communication. But that attempt, along with all the others, had been met with only stony silence.
"They are moving methodically through the outer colonies," Fontaine continued, "wiping out our defense structures, leaving the colonies vulnerable. Civilian structures are being left alone for now. We know the Minbari have a caste system, including a warrior caste, so they may be fighting in a way consistent with that structure, taking out our warriors first, then going after the rest later."
'They intend to eliminate our defensive capability all the way to Earth," Lefcourt predicted ominously. "Then, with no one to stop them, they'll head back out again and finish the job of wiping out every last man, woman, and child of the Human race."
There was a long moment of silence. What was basically a death sentence for Humanity had just been read. They looked at one another, trying to draw upon some ray of hope, unable to find any.
Nor was General Fontaine able to provide any of his own. "Since the first engagement," he told them, "we have not won a single battle against the enemy. Their ships are immensely superior to our own and use some kind of stealth technology we haven't been able to beat yet.
"We called you here because we wanted you to see the situation for yourselves. We want you to go back to your units and make them understand two things: one, that we need a victory against these forces . . . any victory ... to increase morale; and two, that unless we find some way to defeat the Minbari, the Human race ends with the current generation.
"Dismissed."
It was a curt and abrupt way to address the troops, but Lefcourt saw no other way to handle it. This was not intended to be a session which coddled them or gave them a false sense of security. This was a reality check, designed to put an awareness of imminent annihilation into what were, ideally, the best military minds in the field. This was more extreme than instilling the fear of God into them. After all, the Human God-even on His worst day-had left a handful of Humans in existence for the purpose of perpetuating the species. The Minbari had no such mandate.
In the crowd were Captain Sterns and Commander Sheridan. As the others filed out around them, Sterns looked to Sheridan with something that Sheridan had never seen in the man's eyes before: hopelessness.
"How do we beat them, John?" Sterns asked. "You saw those records. Any ship that goes up against them loses."
Sheridan shook his head vigorously. "I've never believed in the idea of an undefeatable enemy, Captain. Any ship can be destroyed."
"I hope to hell you're right," Sterns said. He paused a moment, considering the situation, and then said, "It'll be a few more days before the Lexington is fully outfitted, engines recharged. You could see your folks."
"You're going to need me here, Captain. They'll understand," Sheridan replied briskly.
"You're sure?"
Sheridan was surprised at the lack of certainty in Sterns's voice. "If you were in my position, would you go?"
"Under normal conditions, no. After what I just saw-" He hesitated, then said, "Yeah. I'd go."
The military base was massive. Hundreds of soldiers headed into cargo bays and transports prepared to take off into a starry sky that suddenly seemed far more threatening than it ever had before.
A wavy-haired, rugged young pilot named Ganya Ivanov was in the pilot ready room, pulling together the last of his personal effects, when he heard his name being paged over the public-address system. "You've got a visitor," his sergeant's voice announced. "Room seven! You've got five minutes! Get to it, we've got to launch!"
Ganya looked at his peers in confusion and even with slight suspicion. His last "visitor" had been a rather scantily clad young woman whose presence had been arranged by his cohorts on his birthday the previous month. But no one seemed to be paying him any attention. Instead their thoughts seemed a million miles away. Which they undoubtedly were. So, with a mental shrug, Ganya headed off toward the specified room.
The interview room was very spartan, with white walls, a desk, and two chairs. When he entered he saw that there was a young woman waiting for him, her back to the door, staring thoughtfully at a starmap that was hanging on the wall.
"Susan ..." he said, "what are you doing here? You were supposed to be at university."
His Russian accent was a bit more pronounced than Susan's. It had to do with the company they had kept growing up, really. Ganya had remained with a fairly small circle of local associates, while Susan had always been far more aggressively "continental" in her tastes. Educated at a number of boarding schools outside the Russian Consortium, she seemed to take a zealous joy in keeping the company of virtually anyone except the fairly conservative Russians that her father would have preferred. "You know me," Susan countered. "Never where I'm supposed to be. I wanted to see you before you left."
From outside the room there was the sound of transports taking off, of marching feet. Susan and Ganya had to raise their voices just to be heard. Teasingly, he said, "I thought big brothers were supposed to look after their little sisters, not the other way around."
She shrugged. "So sue me."
"I will," he told her with exaggerated graveness. "Later. After I get back."
There. He had said it. They both knew the subtext of her visit. The words she dared not speak, but which he read in her deep blue eyes. The worry that her brother would go off to fight and die, and she would never see him again. Susan had already suffered terrible losses in her life. She felt as if, were she to sustain one more, she would crack completely. In order to bolster her, Ganya smiled for the first time, and then moved to embrace her. She held him so tightly that he felt his ribs buckling against each other. "I'm just worried, that's all," she admitted. "I keep hearing these terrible stories about what's going on out there."
He shook his
head. "It's not as bad as everyone says. We've won several major victories against them already "
She sighed and stepped back. "You always were a terrible liar, Ganya."
His instinct was to try to defend the lie, to say that she had misread him. But he didn't even bother. Susan had indeed somehow always known when he was lying. It was a mystery to him how she was able to tell, but she was. "The important thing," he said confidently, "is that you shouldn't worry. I can't do what I have to if you're going to be worried about me." He patted her on the shoulder. "I'll be fine. The military takes care of its own."
"Good," she said. "Then you'll back me up when I sign up in a few months."
He looked as if she'd just slapped him. "Susan Ivanova, you can't-!"
Whenever Susan Ivanova had decided that a subject was effectively closed, she folded her arms tightly. She did so now. "I'll be old enough then. On the news they say they need everyone who can fight."
In his heart, Ganya knew the truth-that it was slim odds of the Human race even surviving those few months until Susan's enrollment and training would prepare her for combat. But he wasn't about to tell her that. Approaching from a different direction, he said, "Father won't stand for it."
"It's my choice, not his."
"You don't need to do this ..."
Then the sergeant's voice sounded once more over the public-address system. "Ivanov, Ganya . . . report to Bay Nine for immediate launch."
Ganya felt a flash of regret. She'd come all this way, gone to so much effort to see him, and they'd wound up spending what might be their last moments together arguing over a matter that would very likely be moot. "I have to go," Ganya said tonelessly. He paused uneasily for a moment, wanting to be strong for her and finding it difficult. "Take care of Father while I'm gone. And . .."
She always knew he was lying. She always knew. And so, with every fiber of his being, he had to believe what he was about to say so that she, too, would believe it. With 100 percent conviction he said, "And I'll see you soon. I love you, little sister."
She smiled. She believed. Or at least she wanted to. "I love you, too."
He started to turn away, to head out the door, and then she called, "Wait! Remember . . ." She fished for words, and then hauled them in. "Remember when we got lost when we were camping, and then I lost my earring and we got found and you made me feel better by telling me it was lucky? And then we played on the same team, and I had only the one earring and we won-"
Her words had come out all in a rush, and it had been difficult for Ganya to follow all that she said, but he nodded gamely. "Of course I remember, but-"
She removed one of her earrings and handed it to him. "Take it, for good luck. I won't wear it again until you come back. Until you give it back to me. That way we know you'll come back."
He hesitated a moment. Her small hand was folded into his, and they remained that way for a moment. He smiled and nodded, took the earring, and slid it into his pocket. Then he took her head between his hands, and kissed her on the forehead.
"I'll see you soon," Ganya said, and he was gone.
Many years later, Susan Ivanova would tell me of that moment. As was so often the case with these revelations, it would occur in the Zocalo, the "watering hole" of Babylon 5, and she would be quietly drinking herself into a stupor as she memorialized the anniversary of that day. She would sit there, speaking of Ganya, and the entire time she was gently pulling at her earlobe. The one that was devoid of an earring. I stayed there with her, probably the only one on the station who could match her drink for drink.
She told me of how she maintained herself and her steadiness until after Ganya left the room. Then she watched him go, peering through the window in the room, and it was only at that point that she allowed the emotion to overwhelm her and the tears to pour down her face.
Curiously, she shed no tears in the Zocalo when she related it to me.
I think she was out of them.
* * *
At a transfer point of the transport station, John Sheridan waited for the next westbound transport. He paced, annoyed with himself that he was taking the time away. But Sterns's words had haunted him, and he had finally decided to take the time to go and visit his parents. For the future appeared bleak, and if worse came to worst, well, he would very likely have enough regrets in his life without having to dwell on one more.
There was another member of the fleet at the same station. He was on the eastbound side, waiting for the ground transportation that would take him to the central staging point where pilots were assembling . . . which only made sense, since, from his uniform markings, it was clear that he was a pilot.
Sheridan looked the other man up and down. He was of fairly serious demeanor, with dark hair and heavy eyebrows. There seemed to be an almost piercing intelligence in his eyes, and when he spoke it was in a deep voice that seemed to originate from somewhere around his ankles. "Where you heading?" he said conversationally.
"Colorado," Sheridan said.
"Good." The pilot nodded approvingly. "If the Minbari attack Boulder, it'll be nice to know we have a line of defense there."
He said it so seriously, with such a straight face, that it took Sheridan a moment to digest that the pilot was making a joke. "I have family there," Sheridan explained.
"I figured as much," the pilot said amiably. "Wife? Kids?"
"Parents," Sheridan said. "And my sister, if she makes it in. But no wife or kids, no."
"Any prospects?"
Sheridan shrugged. "Well, my sister keeps trying to set me up with her best friend." He paused. "You?"
"Just coming back from visiting my ... significant other," the pilot said.
"Fiancée?"
"Catherine and I decided to leave it open, at the moment."
"Open." Sheridan laughed softly and sadly. "Very optimistic, making long-term plans that way."
"I have no choice," the pilot said. "I have to believe we can win. I have to believe I'm coming back. If I didn't -if I didn't have an intrinsic lack of belief in my own mortality -I couldn't climb into the cockpit of my Starfury."
"Understood." Sheridan nodded.
"Humanity will survive, you know."
There was something in the pilot's voice that, for the first time, fully engaged Sheridan's attention. "How are you so sure? Lack of belief in everyone's mortality?"
"Instinct," the pilot said confidently. "I do not... cannot... believe that everything that Humanity has accomplished, that everything we've aspired to, will simply come to an end. To be obliterated by a superior race, just because they can. There has to be more to them, and more to us, than that." He shifted his weight to one foot and stood with his hip slightly outthrust. "I've studied other races, you know. Charted their progress. For every single one, their development has been far, far slower than ours. It's as if we're rushing, or even being rushed. As if we're intended for some great purpose that's coming upon us sooner than we think."
"You're saying we have a destiny." Sheridan smiled. Had to admire the man for his zeal if nothing else.
"Yes," the pilot said with complete sincerity. "A destiny. A destiny that has to involve more than being the victims of genocide. I feel it. I feel it in my soul."
Sheridan wanted to say, Good place, but it sounded too flip. Then he felt a rush of air as the maglev ground transport heading westbound glided into the station. Sheridan gripped his overnight bag firmly and then held out a hand to the pilot. "John Sheridan," he said. "Best of luck to you .. . and your soul."
The pilot shook the proffered hand and replied, "Jeffrey Sinclair. The same to you."
His last view of Sinclair as the transport pulled away was of the solitary pilot, waiting on the station platform and being surrounded by other passengers. In a crowd and yet, somehow . . .alone.
He promptly gave the meeting no further thought and, indeed, within a week or so had more or less forgotten about it. Just another chance chat with a fellow member of Earth-force.
>
It would not be until the Mars Riots some time later that they would encounter each other again, their chance meeting upon a transit station a long-faded memory.
How fortunate for some that memories can fade.
Would that I could forget.
My presence, meantime, was required most urgently at Earthdome. This did not come as a tremendous surprise to me. Just as Jankowski's stock had plummeted with the advent of the war, mine had risen. I had warned them not to confront the Minbari. I had presented myself at their victory celebration and told them precisely the consequences of their rash actions. They had not believed . . . but now, now they believed. And the presidential aide, Hastur, was quite convinced that simply admitting that belief would assuage my ego and bring me solidly into the Earth camp.
We walked slowly down a hallway that was lined with various documents and memorabilia celebrating Earth's incursions and expeditions into space. Hastur was, by turns, cajoling, flattering, wheedling. But I knew what it was he wanted, and I simply kept shaking my head and saying, "I'm sorry, but there is nothing I can do."
Hastur kept his hands pressed together, constantly flexing his fingers as if he were molding clay, or perhaps trying to shape a situation to his liking. "We're not asking the Centauri government to intervene militarily. We know that won't happen." He made it sound as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, when the fact was that they had already approached us, repeatedly, on that very topic, and been unhesitatingly turned away. "We're talking here tactical and strategic support."
"And weapons," I added in a "but of course" manner.
"You and the Minbari are two of the older races. Your technology is far above our own. If we had access to some of your weapons we'd at least have a fighting chance."
