Thirdspace (Babylon 5)

Book by David Peter J Michael Straczynski

Eighteen months later ...
In some ways, it was a shame that Captain John Sheridan, commander of
Babylon 5, was unaware that all life in the galaxy--and possibly the
universe--shortly would be facing complete and utter annihilation. It
might have enabled him to put the concerns of the League of Non-Aligned
Worlds into their proper perspective.
As it was, he stood in front of a group of representatives, clean-shaven
and crisp in his black uniform, trying to quell their fears and only being
partly successful. He couldn't blame them entirely. They were frightened,
but none of them wished to admit it. So they covered the fear with
blustering, boasting, and outright impertinence. They not only wanted to
know what he was going to do about their concerns, but what he was going
to do right that very second.
It was the middle of the Earth year 2261. The year between wars, and the
beginning of a new age. The Shadow War was over, but there was still a
darkness waiting back on Earth. Babylon 5 had broken away from Earth, and
in retaliation President Clark had quarantined them, trying to strangle
B5's supply lines. Those aboard the station were becoming desperate and
couldn't afford to lose even a single supply ship. And that desperation
was reflected in the faces of the League representatives.
"What are we supposed to tell our people?" one of them demanded. "Every
day there's new rumors that key supplies won't be coming in!"
"We know what you want of us, Sheridan," said another. "You want us to put
on positive faces when we report back to our people! But we're tired of
trying to sell goodwill on your say-so alone!"
Next to Sheridan stood Delenn, the ambassador from Minbar, wearing the
loose-flowing dress customary to her people. Sheridan had no closer, or
more intimate, ally than she. The more fanciful of B5's residents tended
to view all that they had been through in recent months as some sort of
grand romantic saga, with Sheridan and Delenn--and the obvious love which
bound them--as key ingredients in that story. Today, though, Sheridan was
beginning to bristle at the tone of the representatives' words, and ever
so slightly Delenn placed a gently restraining hand on his forearm. She
knew precisely what was going through his mind, as she so often did.
It had been Sheridan who had organized the battle against hopeless odds in
the conflict that had been known as the Shadow War. Sheridan who had
literally come back from the dead, Sheridan who had organized a
determined, albeit hopelessly overmatched, alliance, and ultimately
Sheridan--with Delenn's help--who had faced down not only the Shadows, but
the Vorlons as well, and had put an end to a war that could have racked up
death tolls in the billions.
But now he was faced with the oldest and most pointed question in the
galaxy: What have you done for me lately?
He allowed his annoyance to pass, soothed by Delenn's touch and taking a
mental step back from the challenging tones.
"People," he said slowly, his voice gravelly. Lately he felt as if he'd
been talking nonstop, to anyone and everyone who would listen to him, and
he wondered if his vocal cords would ever reach a point where they didn't
feel exhausted. "With all respect, you're acting as if what's going on out
there is some sort of ... of inconvenience that's been cooked up in order
to make your lives that much more difficult. Allow me to remind you of a
few key points"--and he proceeded to count them off on his fingers. "It's
been a year and a half since we broke away from Earth and became an
independent state. President Santiago has been assassinated, and his
successor, President Clark, has turned Earth into a prison camp."
He stepped away from Delenn and began to circle the League
representatives. "Babylon Five began life as a diplomatic station," he
continued. "We're now transformed, by necessity, into the first line of
defense against Clark, Raiders, the Shadows, and the constant threat of
war. A quarter million people cut off, isolated, trying to create a better
life, trying to survive, all alone in the night. Our job is to create the
peace. If we fall, one hundred worlds fall with us. Failure is not an
option."
"What are you saying?" asked the Drazi rep.
"I'm saying," Sheridan told them firmly, "that we are not going to fail. I
am saying that we have plans, even now, that will ensure our supply lines
will not be subject to attack from Raiders."
"What about from Clark?" the Brakiri representative inquired. "And from
the Shadows?"
"Truthfully, I don't think the Shadows will be presenting much more of a
threat," Sheridan assured them, "and as for Clark ... we'll handle him as
well when the time comes." He put up his hands to forestall the barrage of
questions that he knew was
going to be forthcoming. "People, please!" he called over their raised
voices. "Please trust me on this. I'd like to think I've earned that much,
at least."
"How are you going to deal with the Raiders, then?" asked the Drazi.
Sheridan shook his head. "I'm sorry, I'd rather not say. If I go into
detail, that could backfire if it leaks out."
The Brakiri waved dismissively. "There is no plan!" he said in annoyance.
"Just ... more illusions! More promises!"
Sheridan took a step forward and looked squarely into the Brakiri's eye.
"Name a promise," he said in a low and clearly angry voice, "that I have
not kept."
The Brakiri's mouth opened for a moment and then closed as he looked to
the others for some sort of comment or support. None was immediately
forthcoming. There seemed to be a sort of group shrug.
"All right then," Sheridan said tightly. "And I will continue to keep my
promises, and my word. Now if you'll excuse me, there are matters that
require my immediate attention."
"But we have--"
"Other considerations, I know. And I'm quite certain that Ambassador
Delenn," and he rested a hand on her shoulder, "will be more than happy to
address them. Good day to you."
Delenn fired a look at him that fairly shouted, Oh, you are going to
regret that little maneuver, John Sheridan. But she kept her mouth frozen
in a smile as she said, "By all means, Captain. I will be happy to attend
to the concerns of the League."
"I knew I could count on you," Sheridan said briskly, knowing full well
that he had very likely bought himself a heaping helping of trouble for
later on. But he was prepared to deal with only one crisis at a time. And
at that moment, there was another brewing that he had to get to as quickly
as possible....
Vir Cotto was not having a good day.
He sat in his quarters, peering bleary-eyed into the mirror and trying to
figure out the identity of the ghastly looking individual who had usurped
his reflection. His hair, to his horror, was somehow actually lying flat
on his head. This was simply an unacceptable situation, for the height of
one's hair indicated the rank and status of a Centauri male--which Vir had
the vague feeling that he was, although the way his head was swimming, he
might even have been in error about that. He muttered a low curse as he
pushed at the uncooperative shafts, poking and prodding them back to their
customary altitude. Then he put an unsteady hand on his forehead and
leaned forward, moaning softly.
He had woken up with a remarkable headache, hungover from the previous
night when he had been entertaining several newly arrived diplomats who
had come to Babylon 5 expecting to be "meeted and greeted" by the
formidable Londo Mollari. Londo, however, was on Centauri Prime,
endeavoring to help sort out the disarray which had threatened to grip the
Centauri homeworld ever since the recent death of the Emperor....
Recent death.
Vir laughed to himself in a deeply embittered manner. Even in the privacy
of his quarters, even to himself, he could not deal with the truth. Could
not deal with the fact that he, and he alone, had actually killed the
demented Emperor Cartagia. Granted it had been as much accident as
intentional act, but still, it had been Vir's hand on the syringe holding
the poison injection. Vir who had personally ended Cartagia's reign of
terror. And Vir who carried the guilt, despite Londo's assurances
that--had Cartagia lived--every man, woman, and child on Centauri Prime
would have ended up smoldering cinders, as sacrifices to Cartagia's
growing insanity.
Even so, he drew only a little comfort from that. And it did nothing to
make the haunted look in his eyes go away.
With that thought, Vir pulled down the lower lid of his right eye and
stared more closely. Maybe that haunted look was partly derived from the
excessive drinking in which he'd indulged the night before. The legend of
Londo Mollari's partying abilities was a hard one to live up to, and Vir
was now paying the price for his attempts to act as Londo's proxy.
And it wasn't as if the day was going to get any easier. He had paperwork
piled up everywhere, it seemed. Day-to-day matters that piled up faster
than he could deal with them. It seemed that everyone wanted a piece of
him. On any given day, he had fifty things on his "to do" list, and he
only ever got down to number nineteen or twenty.
Somewhere deep, deep within, there was part of him that would have given
anything to get away from all the constant nonsense which plagued him. To
go far away, to another place, where he would simply be pampered and loved
and cared for, where sultry women who found him endlessly fascinating and
desirable would caress him, coo his name in low tones of love, and make
his life something that he anticipated and enjoyed rather than something
he dreaded.
A pipe dream, that's all it was. He knew it. But sometimes it was all he
had that kept him going.
A chime exploded in the room.
At least, it seemed to explode. What was far more likely, he quickly
realized--and indeed, this was the truth of it--was that the standard door
chime simply seemed magnified due to the presence of his wretched and
overpowering headache. "Yes," said a voice that sounded, in a vague
manner, somewhat akin to Vir's own. But it couldn't really be Vir's voice.
It rang inside his head in a rather sepulchral manner. On automatic pilot,
the voice continued, "Come in," and damned if it wasn't Vir's voice after
all. It was then he realized that the lower half of his face was numb; he
wasn't fully aware that his mouth was moving.
The door slid open and he saw the group of representatives from the League
of Non-Aligned Worlds. They bustled into the room and all began to speak
at once. It was everything that Vir could do to shush them into relative
silence, for he felt as if his head was going to explode if he didn't take
immediate action to stop the din. "What is it?" asked Vir with impatience.
"Do you have any idea what time it is?"
"Thirteen hundred hours," said the Brakiri.
Vir blinked in surprise. He'd completely lost track of time. "It is?" he
said incredulously. "One in the afternoon? Really?" He realized he'd
probably fallen asleep in front of the mirror and hadn't even realized it.
"Well ... what can I do for you? And whatever it is, can it be done at a
later time?"
"We aren't entirely sure that Sheridan is putting the needs of the League
at its appropriate level of importance," said the Brakiri, coming straight
to the point. "We think you can do something about that."
"M-me?" asked Vir in confusion.
"We want you to talk to Sheridan," said the Drazi. "He listens to you. You
are one of his inner circle."
"I ... don't think I am, no," Vir said, shaking his head violently ...
which proved to be a rather drastic mistake, as he leaned against the wall
and waited for the room to cease spiraling about him. "Londo, he listens
to. I'm not Londo."
"You're not?" asked the Drazi, and when the others gave him a look, he
shrugged. "All Centauri look alike to Drazi," he said by way of
explanation. "No offense."
"None taken," said Vir, who hated to admit that all the Drazi tended to
look alike to him, as well.
"That doesn't matter," the Brakiri told him. "In fact, that might be
something of an advantage. Mollari always has his own agenda. If you speak
to Sheridan on our behalf, you'll just have ours."
"Thank you, I guess," said Vir, uncertain whether he should be flattered
or insulted by the observation. "And may I ask what your, uhm ... 'behalf'
... consists of?"
"We want Sheridan to listen to us."
"He doesn't listen to you now?" asked Vir in confusion, certain that he
remembered Sheridan always willing to make time for whomever needed to
speak with him.
"No. He hears us. But he doesn't listen," the Drazi said.
"How do you know he's not listening?"
"Because if he were," the Brakiri said reasonably, "then he'd always do
what we asked him to."
Vir rubbed the bridge of his nose, coming to the realization that the day
was not going to get any better. And those fantasy sultry women who could
ease his cares seemed very, very far away indeed.