0-In the Beginning

by Peter David

  Franklin was, at that moment, in the process of taking several doctors on a guided tour of the infirmary. Before the tour, they had expressed a great many concerns, and that was understandable. None of them had any idea exactly what they'd be facing. All they knew was that they'd be dealing with patients who might be wounded in ways that were completely unknown to Earth medical science. So it was understood that they were going to need topflight equipment to deal with it. Seeing their growing sense of relief, as he spoke with confidence and assurance about what they could expect in terms of medical support, Franklin once again congratulated himself on doing whatever was necessary.

  "And the worst cases of radiation poisoning will come here for treatment," Franklin was saying. "When this goes online, it'll be the best facility of its kind anywhere. We don't know what kind of enhanced energy weapons the Minbari are using, but-"

  He was about to continue with a show of utter confidence that the facility would be capable of handling whatever was tossed at it. It was precisely this sort of measured, reasoned assurance that the new doctors needed to hear.

  Unfortunately, what they heard next was an outraged bellow of "What the hell is wrong with you, Franklin?"

  Franklin couldn't quite believe it. Stalking toward him, arms moving like pistons, was General Fontaine.

  General Fontaine, by the way, was my source for learning of the following encounter. You see, Earthforce made several more attempts to try to earn my interest and support and, through me, that of the Centauri empire. Fontaine took it upon himself to become a "confidant" of mine, describing the war effort in nauseating detail. Perhaps he thought I would be impressed with the way in which the Humans were handling themselves. I admit I was not particularly interested. However, he usually chose to share these discussions over drinks, for which he invariably paid. Far be it from me to reject the hospitality of anyone, much less someone who wishes to join me in imbibing and will pay for the privilege.

  Fontaine was not predisposed to flying off the handle or to sudden bursts of rage, so whatever it was that had him upset, it had to be fairly formidable. How in the world it could possibly involve Franklin, the young doctor clearly had no idea. "Sir?"

  Turning to face the other doctors, Fontaine said brusquely, "Out! This is private!" Taking him at his word, the doctors fled the confines of the infirmary, and Franklin stared at Fontaine in obvious confusion.

  Fontaine was waving a folder about so aggressively that he nearly hit Franklin with it. "I just got this report about your activities before you rejoined Earthforce," he snapped. Franklin glanced at the folder but didn't appear to attach much importance to it. Perhaps he was under the impression that he simply had nothing to hide or be ashamed of. Fontaine waved the folder about for emphasis as he bellowed, "It says you spent three years hitchhiking on starships, trading your services as ship's doctor for free passage."

  The sun evidently had not yet risen on the horizon of Dr. Franklin's comprehension. "That's correct, but I don't see-"

  Fontaine flipped open the file, as if he didn't already have the offending documents memorized. "And during that time you had contact with a group of Minbari off Beta Durani."

  "Yeah." To Fontaine, it seemed as if Franklin's continued indifference was at this point beginning to take on an air of being forced. "One of their ships had gone down, there was no one else around, and I did all I could to save them. But we didn't know what we were dealing with, and they all died." He shrugged, not out of a sense of callousness, but more from the point of view of a man who had tried to do his best and it simply hadn't been enough. It happens, even to the best of men.

  He tapped the folder. "It's all in the report-"

  "The hell it is!" The general's lack of diminishing rage clearly surprised Franklin, who was apparently under the impression that simply pointing out the facts would be enough to assuage Fontaine. "I see statements about then-language, their general physiology, a little about their culture." He shook his head fiercely, clearly considering what he had before him inadequate. "I know you, Franklin. You weren't out there sight-seeing. You were gathering medical data. Was there an autopsy?"

  Franklin seemed to shift uncomfortably in place. "Yes."

  As if cross-examining a witness in a court of law, Fontaine continued, "And did you or did you not collect detailed information about their biology, their DNA, and other areas that just might be considered vital to the biogenetic warfare division?"

  "I did."

  For the first time, there was a trace of anger in Franklin's eyes. Fontaine believed it was because Franklin knew that he had been found out, and was furious over the general's cleverness. As for me, in retrospect, I think it more likely that Franklin was angry over what he knew the general was about to say.

  "And where are those notes?" Fontaine asked. He reined in his ire just for a moment. If Franklin had, at that point, said something to the effect of, "Sorry, sir, it's an oversight. Here they are," and produced them on the spot, a smile would likely have blossomed on Fontaine's face and he would have called Franklin heroic, patting him on the shoulder like a long-lost son.

  Instead Franklin seemed to brace himself, like a person squaring their shoulders and hurling themselves into a fierce rainstorm. "Sir, I'm a doctor," he said slowly. "My job is to save lives. In my opinion-"

  "I don't give a rat's ass about your opinion, mister!" Fontaine bellowed, a fact that was already reasonably clear even without discussions of the proffering of a rodent's hindquarters. "I want those notes."

  "I can't do that."

  Franklin seemed so matter-of-fact that it stopped Fontaine cold. One did not lightly tread into the area of insubordination. In fact, Fontaine could not recall the last time that it had happened. "Excuse me? I. .. don't think I heard that."

  "I can't allow my notes to be used in creating a biogenetic plague that could, conceivably, wipe out an entire race."

  Fontaine was absolutely staggered. He could not believe what Franklin was telling him. At that moment, as far as Fontaine was concerned, Franklin was a traitor. Not simply to the Earth government, but to the entire Human race.

  He had difficulty believing that the son of General Richard Franklin would behave in such a manner. He decided, just for a moment, to think that perhaps the good doctor simply didn't realize the gravity of the situation. That perhaps it had not been explained to him in sufficient words of one syllable. As if speaking to someone who was mentally defective, he said, "That's what they're trying to do to us, son, or have you not been following the news lately?"

  "I know," Franklin said, as reasonably as if he were discussing scores in a sporting event. "And if we do the same, how are we any different?"

  And Fontaine erupted with fury. "Damn it, mister-!" he shouted.

  But Franklin would not be intimidated, and he raised his voice to the general, shouting back, "I'm sorry, General, but as a doctor, I cannot allow my notes to be used in the production of weapons of war. Under the military code of justice you cannot ask me to go against my conscience!"

  Fontaine tried to make himself heard above Franklin, bellowing "You can't talk to me like that!" but it became apparent to him that Franklin was not listening. Then he spun on his heel and for just a moment, Franklin likely thought that he'd managed to turn away Fontaine's wrath somehow. But Fontaine instead shouted "Security!" and that was when Franklin knew he was in major, major trouble.

  Several security guards appeared at the door, and it looked as though they were even less inclined to be reasonable than the general. Fontaine stabbed a quivering finger in Franklin's direction and snarled, "Dr. Franklin is under arrest. He will be held until he provides the information I have requested." He began ticking off instructions on his fingers. "I want his office searched. I want his house searched. I want every data crystal, every record, every report confiscated by sixteen hundred hours." He turned back to Franklin, who was completely stone-faced. "God help you, son, because from here on out, the blood of every soldier that
dies in this war is on your hands."

  Franklin looked as if he wanted to reply to that, to deny it, but before he could get a word out, Fontaine snapped, "Get him out of here." The guards lost no time in grabbing Franklin by either arm and "escorting" him out of the infirmary.

  They hauled Franklin down the corridor, past the doctors who had been evicted so unceremoniously from the room. They gaped at Franklin as he was brought past them, and he paused only long enough to say to them, "We have met the enemy . . . and he is us." And then he was dragged away.

  ~ chapter 11 ~

  There were many things John Sheridan was convinced that he would become in his lifetime, and many things that he was certain he would never become. Of the latter, "discouraged" was quite high on the list. Particularly when it came to the subject of dealing with an enemy.

  He had never stopped believing that any enemy could be defeated, that it was just a matter of figuring out how. And he very much wanted to continue to believe that in regards to the Minbari. In fact, the two ideas were far from mutually exclusive. He still believed the Minbari could be defeated, but he was beginning to wonder if Humanity would last long enough to find the way. Perhaps the Minbari would sail through the Human race, slaughtering every last one of them, and move away into the depths of space with their mysterious weakness-whatever that might be-a tight little secret.

  He lay in his bunkroom aboard the Lexington, a battle cruiser belonging to what they referred to as the Hyperion class. Since there continued to be zero gravity throughout the vessel, he was held in place via straps. He pondered the situation and desperately searched for some sort of positive aspect he could seize upon. None presented itself.

  They had lost two more ships to Minbari hit-and-run attacks in that day alone, and it was Sheridan's guess that the enemy was softening up the Humans for a major offensive. The Lexington's commander, Captain Sterns, to whom Sheridan had remained loyal, had not slept in two days. There were rumors throughout Earthforce that the Minbari had some sort of "ace" cruiser that alone was responsible for the destruction of two dozen Earth ships in the previous three weeks. However, no one had survived any attacks to confirm that.

  And as he lay there, a worse thing was gnawing away at Sheridan, the true guilt that he had found he could not voice to anyone.

  It plagued Sheridan that he had turned down the post of second-in-command aboard the Prometheus, the ship which had fired the shots heard around the galaxy. Sheridan, the conscientious man that he was, had begun to second-guess his decision. If he had been aboard the bridge at the time of the attack, might it somehow have turned out differently? Might he have managed to turn Captain Jankowski away from what ultimately proved to be a course that was destructive to all of Humanity? In short, might Sheridan's presence have avoided the Minbari's stampede of extermination?

  It was still unknown to the Humans just what exactly had set the Minbari off. They did not know of Dukhat. They did not know of the Minbari tradition of displaying weapons as a sign of respect. For all they knew, the Minbari were simply mad-dog killers who had decided to wipe out Humanity because . ..

  Because why?

  It made no sense to him. This was a race that was clearly advanced. They had more than proven the point that, in any sort of true battle situation, Humanity posed no threat. Why was such a truly superior race bent upon obliterating a lesser one?

  There had to be a reason, and it all came back to the Prometheus firing the first shots. They had not been fired upon. Everyone, in reviewing the video logs, had come to that realization. And Sheridan had started thinking that, had he been there, perhaps he would have been able to head off the chain of events that had led to the war. Because Sheridan knew, beyond any question, that had he been in Jankowski's position, he never would have fired the first shot in a first-contact situation. Even if it meant leaving oneself open to a hit. He simply never would have done it.

  Understand, the odds are that-had Sheridan been on the Prometheus-the exact same series of events would have transpired. Had Sheridan refused the direct order, Jankowski would likely have relieved him of command, just as he would have done with Chafin had Chafin declined to fire upon the Minbari. Deep down, Sheridan knew that. But Sheridan was, and is, a man of conscience. A man fully capable of second-guessing himself to death.

  Perhaps that was what helped him to keep going when others had already surrendered to despair. The feeling that, in some way, he bore a degree of responsibility for the situation, and it was up to him, personally, to deal with it. To make amends.

  But how?

  He had no time to dwell on it, however, for-as exhausted as he was-his rest was suddenly disrupted when a klaxon sounded through the ship, and an urgent voice called, "All hands, battle stations, repeat, all hands, battle stations."

  Sheridan was far too much the professional to hesitate even a moment. It was as if the exhaustion fell away in a heartbeat as he quickly undid the straps, to make his way to the bridge of the Lexington.

  But as he rose from his bunk, his elbow bumped something that had been affixed to the wall, and it floated free. He snatched it from midair and looked at it.

  It was a picture of Anna.

  His sister, Elizabeth, had sent it to him just before he had left Earth. On the back she'd scribbled, "She thinks you're gorgeous." Sheridan's first instinct had been to simply toss the photo away, but something-he had no idea what-had prompted him to take it with him. He rationalized that he was doing so because he knew it would please his sister.

  He had no rationalization as to why he slid the picture into the inside of his jacket . . . nor any further clue as to why he stuck it onto the board of his station when he arrived on the bridge moments later.

  It was not as if the Lexington was alone. There were half a dozen destroyers and support vessels accompanying it. It was an array of power that would have proven daunting to virtually any other race that the Humans might have encountered. Unfortunately for them, the Minbari continued to be less than impressed by even their best efforts.

  As Sheridan strapped himself into his post on the bridge, snapping in the final buckle of his five-point harness, he came to the dismaying realization that he wasn't thinking about beating the Minbari during this engagement-presuming it was the Minbari they were about to face. Instead his primary consideration was how they would survive at all.

  Any enemy can be beaten echoed in his head. Now all he had to do was get himself to believe it.

  The initial alert had been sounded by long-range sensors automatically maintained by the ship's computers. Sheridan switched over to manual control and skimmed the array. He felt his heart beginning to speed up as he announced, "Computer alert confirmed. Picking up Minbari-style transmissions. Target bearing mark nine nine seven two one. Should be in visual range."

  "Let me see," Sterns ordered.

  The screen on the Lexington's bridge flickered and the silhouette of a small ship moved through it. Sheridan set about confirming the sightings with the other ships, which had likewise picked up the intruder on their own sensor arrays. Everyone was coordinating with the Lexington, which was the point ship.

  "Silhouette confirmed," Sheridan informed his captain. "Looks like a short-range transport. Could be a scout, or a straggler that got separated from a larger fleet."

  He was about to add a third possibility, but Sterns beat him to it. "And it could be a decoy, drawing us into an ambush."

  Sheridan nodded slowly. "Should we pursue?" he asked.

  If there was any moment that underscored the difference between captains Sterns and Jankowski, it was this one. Whereas Jankowski, with dreams of the medals awaiting him, might very well have gone after the transport with eager carelessness, Sterns stroked his chin thoughtfully before replying, exercising extraordinary caution, "Negative. I won't risk the fleet until we know exactly what we're getting into."

  Sheridan couldn't help but dwell on the fact that it was that very caution which had prompted some people to co
nsider Sterns with scorn. But while Sheridan was relieved over his captain's judicious handling of the situation, he felt constrained to point out, "She'll be leaving visual range any moment, and the scanners can't lock on."

  Sterns thought for a moment and then touched the communications console. "Launch bay, this is the captain. Launch solo fighter, I want that transport followed."

  At the first sound of a red alert, the fighter pilots had run down to the launch bay with attitudes ranging from eagerness to dread. Sitting in the cockpit of his Starfury, Ganya Ivanov's mood was somewhere in the middle. He felt no driving desire to get out there and prove himself. On the other hand, he was not particularly daunted by the thought of facing off against the Minbari. He had that same comfortable limited sense of his own mortality that Jeffrey Sinclair carried with him.

  It was that ideal combination of personality traits which prompted the launch bay watch commander, in glancing over the duty roster when the captain's order came down, to zero in on Ivanov's name. So it was that mere seconds after the order was issued, Ganya received the command to pursue the Minbari transport.

  Even though he had already run a systems check, Ganya nonetheless glanced over his array before he launched. Then he glanced, ever so briefly, at the earring Susan had given him, dutifully attached to the side of the control console. He touched it briefly, for luck, and then he sent his Starfury hurtling into the void, flames spurting from the engines located on the tips of its four wings.

  He had once told Susan that the first moments when one is in space were the most exhilarating that one could hope for. The stars shone all around him as he sat in the vivid crimson glow of the cockpit. He still remembered the first time he had been in space and wondering why the stars looked odd to him. It had been a second's realization, of course, that seeing stars twinkling was so ingrained-thanks to atmospheric distortion-that any other way looked unnatural. He had laughed over it, and since then had come to take it for granted.