Babylon5: The Short Stories

by J. Michael Straczynski

  "But you don't think it'll happen."

  "Which? I don't think people have gotten any better since the stone age, and I don't see it happening any time soon. And as for a Homeworld," he pushed his chin at the viewport, "there's a lot of unclaimed worlds where we're going, right? Now that the Vorlons are gone."

  "If they are gone."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Since we started this trip, I've been feeling something. Something familiar."

  "Vorlons?"

  "I don't know. Maybe."

  "Well this is about them, right? This whole thing?"

  "In a sense. The Vorlons created us — created telepaths."

  "I know. I was there, remember, when Byron went off the deep end, tried to blackmail the InterStellar Alliance, held all of us somehow accountable for what the collective Koshs did? That's not the big secret I'm supposed to keep, is it?"

  "No. But there was more. When Byron found out ..." she suddenly, unaccountably blushed, and stopped, only to begin again, speaking more quickly. "Like you said, when he found out, he reacted badly. But you don't know how it feels, Michael, to suddenly realize that your entire existence was contrived, that you are nothing but a tool."

  Garibaldi rolled his eyes. "Lyta, Bester programmed me to turn one of my best friends over to be tortured and killed. Are you really gonna tell me that's somehow less immediate than knowing your God-knows-how-many great grandma was given some kind of telepath vitamin supplements 200 years ago?"

  This time her face actually registered chagrin, that she had made a mistake. It was gratifying.

  "Point taken," she allowed. "But Byron reacted badly. It hit him dead centre. So I didn't tell him everything I learned when I was with the Vorlons."

  "But you're going to tell me?"

  "I have to."

  "It's just like Christmas."

  She looked away. "The Shadows came early. The Vorlons never finished us."

  "Never ... Oh, my God."

  "Yeah. I'm not sure exactly how they did it, but I've pieced together how I think it may have happened. I think they started a long time ago, maybe thousands or even a million years ago. They took some of us ... or maybe just cells to clone us from, I'm not sure ... and they tinkered with us, bred us somewhere offworld. Now and then they would come back to Earth — and Minbar, and Narn, and all of the other worlds where they created teeps — and insert a new genetic sequence into the home populations. They worked slowly — the Vorlons live a long time, and an experiment that stretches over centuries doesn't seem strange to them.

  "Sometime in the late 21st century, they crossed a threshold, and not long after that the first obvious teeps started showing up on Earth. It happened earlier on other worlds, but it happened better on Earth. We were their pride and joy. But I still got the impression that, as we are, we were maybe a third step in a five-step plan."

  "Except for you. They made you stronger."

  "Yes. Step four, maybe, still not step five. They just didn't have time, not with the Shadows coming too early. They had to use us as we were. After that — they left."

  She faced him squarely. "You've seen the things I can do, Michael. I was only a P5 when they modified me. Bester is a P12."

  "And you think this planet is where they made the mould, so to speak? That the secret to enhancing teeps is there?"

  "Someone thought so. Someone 70 years ago."

  "I thought you said you were the first telepath to know the Vorlons created you."

  "I thought so too. I was wrong."

  The only response Garibaldi could think of was a long, low whistle.

  * * * * *

  "I know they must be out there," Garibaldi muttered. But for all of his staring, he saw nothing but a lot of little stars and one big one, the unnamed yellow-orange sphere that had greeted the Toreador and her crew when they dropped out of hyperspace. The Toreador was a refitted IPX ship, as red in tooth and claw as Garibaldi could make her. She couldn't duke it out with a White Star, or even an EA destroyer like the Agamemnon, but anything else had better watch out.

  "Well, the planet's there," said Kirstin Firth, the freckled kid at navigation. "About 50 million klicks form our present position. Can't tell much about it from here."

  "Shouldn't have come out so far away," Garibaldi complained.

  Captain Dochale — a middle-aged man with striking Dravidian features and coloring and not a single gray hair — cleared his throat. "That was the way you wanted to do it, Mr. Garibaldi, remember?"

  "I know. I didn't want to drop in to a warm reception. Now I'm worried they beat us to the punch."

  "Maybe they didn't come at all," Dochale said. "After all, Psi Corps has plenty on its hands these days. Maybe too much for what could be a wild goose chase."

  "No. Bester would never let this pass. They'd come as soon as they managed to get a ship fitted. The question is, given their current situation — how long did that take?" He rubbed his chin.

  "Let's jump closer," he said.

  "Risky, Mr. Garibaldi."

  "Not as risky as letting them find whatever is down there while we cruise in at sub-light speeds. Jump again."

  * * * * *

  This time it was the discernible disk of a planet that greeted them as the black-and-white of real space replaced the red nightmare of what lay under it.

  Garibaldi crinkled his brow at the sight of the planet. Like most habitable worlds, what he saw was mostly white. The poles were huge, and equatorial regions were quilted in clouds — ribbons and veils, swirls and checkerboards. Glimpses of topaz oceans came through near the equator, and the yellow brown of arid regions. He saw very little green.

  "Well?" he asked, impatiently. "What have we got?"

  "Earth-like," Firth said. "Larger, but with fewer heavy elements, so about the same mass. Sir, it's been banged up. A lot, and recently."

  "What with?"

  "There are two large continents. Both of them have been bombed to bedrock, in some places. There's still dust in the air — that planet seems to be in the grips of a nuclear winter.No signs of energy or industrial production.Not on this side, anyway."

  "Any ships around?"

  "Not yet. There is a moon — small, with a few metal structures." She looked up excitedly. "There's a jumpgate, sir. Or what's left of one!"

  "Whose design?"

  "Unknown, but it looks more like a Vorlon gate than anything else."

  "It's Vorlon."

  Garibaldi turned. Lyta had just come on the bridge.

  "Can you feel them, Lyta? Are they out there?"

  "I've been trying. There is — something — on the planet. It might be Bester's people, it might not. I really can't tell."

  "Sir! Firth shouted. "I've got a profile! Cyclops class cruiser. That's got to be them, sir!"

  "Hot damn. Let's go light some candles."

  But what they found was a dead ship, or at least an empty one. Life support systems had been turned off, and the ship opened to space. There were no bodies, no trace of violence, nothing at all to indicate what had become of the crew. The log had been wiped blank, and the computer was not aware of anything that had happened since leaving I-O.

  But an atmospheric shuttle was missing from the hanger.

  "Could they be hiding from us, Lyta?" Garibaldi asked, glancing around nervously. "When Bester was hunting your friends on Babylon 5, you pulled a disappearing trick with them. Hid them in plain sight."

  "It's possible that all of them working together might manage to fool me," she said, "but I don't really think so. For all of their talk about being a family, Psi Cops aren't good at that sort of cooperation. Psi Corps is dog-eat-dog, nd the last thing you want is for a possible rival to know your innermost thoughts." Her face assumed an almost wistful look. "Except when we were kids. Before they managed to set us all at each other's throats."

  "What if they've already enhanced themselves?"

  Lyta shrugged. "In that case, we're doomed."

  "That's w
hat I like about you, Lyta. The glass is always half-full. Half-full of something awful."

  "I think they're on the planet."

  "So do I," Garibaldi muttered. "But where?"

  "We find what they were looking for, we find them," Lyta replied.

  When they returned to the Toreador, Firth had magnified views of a sector of the planet up.

  "Big neutrino source here," she said. "An underground fusion reactor, or something like it. We've got surface structures, too. Also, traces of what looks like an Earth-built shuttle."

  "Traces?"

  "Scattered in a 20 klick radius."

  "Something shot them down?"

  "I can't say, sir. She certainly blew up at a respectable altitude."

  "Kind of makes me wonder whether we ought to land at all. What about transmissions?"

  "None, sir, not even in response to our own."

  Garibaldi blew out a long breath. "Huh. What the hell?"

  "I'm going down," Lyta said. "He's down there. I feel him — there, where the reactor

  is."

  "Who?"

  "A Vorlon. Or something that feels like a Vorlon. And doesn't. I don't know, but I have to find out."

  "Are you sure this is a good idea? Something sure took a bite out of our Psi Corps buddies."

  "I have a strong feeling that if whoever is down there wanted us dead, we already would be," Lyta countered.

  "Well, your feelings and a credit,after taxes,comes to about half a credit,"Garibaldi

  muttered, "But I have the same feeling. Now we have a credit between us. Okay, let's hit it."

  "You don't have to go, Michael."

  "Sure I do. I don't trust you, remember?"

  "Well — feels like home, anyway," Garibaldi said, a little weakly. He'd spent the last half an hour anticipating the particle beam or warhead that would scatter them onto the bits of the other lander. Now that they were on the ground he felt almost giddy. And it did feel a little like home — it was cold. Not as cold as Mars, where Garibaldi had grown up, but still pretty chilly.

  They had landed on the shore of an iced-over lake that Firth assured them was no more than seven years old, the result of a river being diverted by a catastrophic impact or clean fusion explosion some 80 kilometers South.Beyond the lake, battered umber mountains cut against a pearl sky veined with dark jade.

  Inland from the lake were artificial domes of various sizes, pushing out of the ground like young mushrooms. Some were no larger than a groundcar, but the largest could have contained their shuttle easily.

  But it was the shore itself that held their attention.

  "Nice beach," Garibaldi said.

  Lyta nodded, mute with horror. The lake had a border of bleached bones around it, mixed and piled like driftwood by the waves.

  Garibaldi bent and picked up a skull. "Poor Yorick," he said. "I don't think I knew you at all."

  "It looks Human," Lyta said. Behind her, one of the four telepaths they had brought along bent double, vomiting. Garibaldi was pleased that none of his security forces followed suit, but even the most seasoned of them looked a little green. Hell, he was having trouble holding his lunch down.

  "Sort of Human," Garibaldi said. "I'm not an expert, but it looks too small."

  "Maybe it was a child."

  It's not a child.

  The voice buzzed inside of Garibaldi's skull.

  "Stop that, Lyta," he muttered, studying the empty white eyesockets.

  "That wasn't me, Michael."

  "Then who..." but then he saw him, a thin figure leaning on a cane, hobbling his way from one of the structures.

  "Hold it right there!" Garibaldi said, drawing his PPG. Behind him, his security men were already locked and loaded.

  I mean you no harm.

  "Get out of my head!"

  "Michael," Lyta whispered. "That's him. That's who I've been sensing."

  The man was a few meters away now. He was incredibly old, his skin like ancient brown parchment, his skull nearly as visible as those on the beach. His hair was whiter than snow, and hung in a queue that trailed him on the ground. He wore a suit that would have looked out of date on Garibaldi's grandfather.

  I... "I—" the spoken word came reluctantly from the old man, like an antique petrol engine trying to start after a long period of rest. "Sorry," the stranger went on. "I haven't spoken aloud to anyone in — well, in my terms in around 10 years. By your reckoning, considerably longer."

  "Who are you?" Garibaldi asked.

  The man held out his hand. "My name is Kevin Vacit." Garibaldi took the offered grip, tentatively. It felt like wire.

  "That's impossible!" Lyta sputtered.

  Vacit turned on her. "And you are most certainly an Alexander. How true runs that blood." He smiled, tightly, as if it hurt his face.

  "You two know each other?"

  Lyta's eyes were somehow both dubious and as wide as a child's. "He was the Director of Psi Corps," she said. "I mean, in the last century. My grandmother worked with him."

  "And her mother, and hers," Vacit said. "All the way back to the beginning. The Alexander's were among the first."

  Lyta nodded, studying his face. "You look like him. My mother had a picture from her mother. She said you just vanished one day. Everyone thought you had been murdered, but the body was never found."

  "Well, now you've found it," Vacit said. He shivered. "I find the cold unsettling, even through my insulated clothing. Won't you join me in my house? I assure you, I'm happy to answer your questions, and I am no danger to you at all."

  "Hold on," Garibaldi said, feeling the situation somehow getting away from him. "This family reunion is awfully keen,but how's about answering at least one question before we enter your parlor?"

  "Of course," said Vacit.

  "What happened to the Psi Corps shuttle?"

  A brief wince that might have signified regret folded Vacit's forehead.

  "This place was where the Vorlons had their chief experimental station. All of it was destroyed, I thought, with the exception of the reactor, which is deep underground. I was wrong — there were still some surface-to-air defenses. They took me — and the shuttle — by surprise. I managed to locate and disable the device before you arrived."

  Garibaldi looked at Lyta. She shook her head, clearly confused. "Director Vacit was a normal," she said, "not a teep. Michael, he's the Vorlon."

  Vacit smiled thinly. "A Vorlon I'm not. But please, can't we sit? I weary easily these days."

  The buildings scintillated. Vague, slow patterns of colour formed, melted, moved. They were like the Vorlon ships Garibaldi had seen, organic and somehow alive. Vacit led Garibaldi and Lyta in the largest dome — Garibaldi left two men at the door and sent out the rest on a perimeter watch. Likewise, Lyta's telepaths wandered around restlessly, scanning for other presences.

  Inside, the living nature of the structures was even more pronounced. Chairs,tables, and couches formed from the Vorlon stuff furnished it.

  "It took me some time to learn how to make this material conform to my wishes," Vacit explained. "For a long time, the best I could get were some toadstool-shaped lumps."

  "I thought you said the base was destroyed," Garibaldi said. "Where did these domes come from?"

  "They grew," Vacit replied. "In reaction to my presence, I think." He gestured around the room. "Please, sit. I'll start from the beginning, or as near as I can." He looked hard at Lyta. "I am Kevin Vacit," he insisted. "I was born around 2109, I'm not sure of the exact date. My mother was one of the first real telepaths. I watched — and felt — her die in one of the early programs. As an adult I was an aide to Senator Lee Crawford, who organized the Metasensory Regulatory Agency, which later — much later — became Psi Corps. In time, I became director of Psi Corps. As Lyta observes, in those days the director was supposed to be a normal. I posed as one, because I had the power to do so."

  "No," Lyta said. "He's lying. No telepath is that powerful. Even I'm not."
/>   Vacit shrugged. "I am, or was. I'm not sure why. But part of it — part of it is something my mother passed on to me. It's what you sense, Lyta. Part of a Vorlon, one of the two who came to Earth to implant their modifications in our ancestors. The Shadows found him, you see. But before he died."

  "Something similar happened on B5," Lyta said."Kosh hid his essence in Sheridan. But only for a short time."

  Vacit nodded. "So you understand. My mother had a fragment of Vorlon in her, just so. I was very young when my mother passed him to me. I developed with him in me — we were never separate entities, really. I never had two voices, only one, a fusion of Vorlon and Human. Later in life, I met the second Vorlon and learned the truth about myself. And about other things — the Shadows, the coming war. About our origins, as telepaths." He rubbed his knees. "So I am Vorlon, in a way, yes, but also Human. I was not something anyone ever planned."

  Lyta nodded. "I see it now. I think I understand."

  Garibaldi had more immediate concerns. "Why did you come here? You left Earth, alone, in a slower than light ship. You spent 60-odd years in space. Why?"

  "You understand, of course, that for me the time was much briefer — less than a year in space, in fact. Relativistic speeds, you know. Time dilation."

  "I'd still like an answer to the question. And here's another one — where's your ship?"

  Vacit sighed and sank back into his chair. "When I arrived, my ship was damaged. There was very little left on this planet, only a hint of power in this one place. I landed, expecting to die. Instead, these structures started growing, and they took care of me. They manufacture food, distill water, give me shelter and heat. The price was my ship. Vorlon technology is in part organic, but it needs metals. There are precious few metals on this planet."