Thirdspace, p.7
Thirdspace, page 7
Looking for something vaguely approximating a bright side, Zack offered, "The power drain seems to be stricdy short-range. So if we're lucky, this won't constitute a hazard to navigation."
"We'll just have to make sure to keep a distance or come up with some kind of shielding," Sheridan said.
The moment he said it, however, he knew that it wasn't going to sit especially well with Ivanova. As it turned out, he was absolutely right. "But that'll make it almost impossible to do a half-decent analysis," she protested. "I..."
At that moment, as if sensing that he was in the midst of a conversation that couldn't possibly come to a mutually acceptable conclusion, Sheridan's comlink beeped. He tapped it and said, "Sheridan, go."
Corwin's voice filtered over the link. "Captain, we've got a ship from IPX coming in through the gate."
Ivanova said, "Interplanetary Expeditions?" She shook her head in amazement. "That was fast."
But Zack shrugged in that tough-to-surprise, blase manner he had. "I figured they'd hear about this pretty quick. They've got sources everywhere." These little tidbits of information weren't exactly what Sheridan needed to hear ... neither the fact of IPX's arrival, nor the concern that somebody in his staff or on the station was blabbing to an Earth-connected organization about Babylon 5 business. "Did you tell them we don't have anything to do with Earth anymore?" he asked Corwin over the link.
"Confirmed. But one of the passengers is still asking to speak with you."
Sheridan tried not to let out the sigh that filled him. He nearly succeeded. "All right... my office, twenty minutes." He toggled off the comlink and turned to Ivanova and Zack, and as he did so his mind was already racing to try and determine just how he could turn this particular development to his advantage.
He could, of course, simply blow them off, but that seemed rather wasteful. And his late wife, Anna, had done work for IPX. From experience, Sheridan knew they didn't blow off easily. Other possibilities suggested themselves, and he had every intention of trying to take advantage of them if it were at all feasible. "If you'll excuse me, I think I have to do some old-fashioned horse-trading." With a "carry on" nod of his head to them, he turned on his heel and headed to his office.
Ivanova shook her head grimly ... which was no great shock, really, since "grimly" was her trademark. "Well, the vultures are starting to circle."
"I thought vultures only came around after you were already dead," Zack pointed out.
To which Ivanova replied, "Maybe they know something we don't."
As they headed back to their respective stations, Ivanova had the creepiest and most uneasy feeling. Soto's explanation seemed to make perfect sense, the whole business with proximity being the key.
And yet, somehow, it seemed just the least bit pat. There was another, far more chilling interpretation to the events which now came unbidden to Ivanova's mind. What if there was something about the artifact that allowed it to pick and choose who, or what, it let near? What if it disabled the 'bot because it didn't want information to be uncovered ... or at least, uncovered until it was good and ready to make a move, whatever that might be. What if... what if it had not disabled the Starfuries... because it needed the Starfuries. Needed them to escape the confines of hyperspace and return to normal space so that it could... ... it could ...
"It could what?" she said in frustration.
Zack glanced at her. "Something on your mind, Commander?"
She shrugged. "I'm just being paranoid."
"Well, you know the old line about that."
"You mean how, just because you're paranoid, it doesn't mean they're not out to get you?"
"Yup. Of course, the only question is: Who are they?"
It was a perfectly reasonable question ... and Ivanova was beginning to have the distant, dread feeling that they might have stumbled upon a gigantic, heaping helping of "they," whatever they were, and it was sitting right outside Babylon 5 just biding its time until... ... until they were ready.
There is no problem. You are safe. You are safe.
[Mistakes... must know... mistakes...]
You are safe from harm. You are safe from fear. Ease away from your concerns. . . .
[Stop them ... stop the mistakes ... stop the end of everything...]
Lyta Alexander, whose mind was being very quietly and deliberately ripped in half, sat in her quarters. Actually, sit was probably too mild a word. She was in a half-crouch, like a cornered animal, barefoot and atop her desk.
Her quarters looked as if a hurricane had blasted through, and as it so happened one had: Hurricane Lyta. She sat there, her feet partly curled up under her. Her hair was askew and she was muttering to herself, and her muttering was mirrored by the words on the wall.
"There is danger... danger... remember the danger," she said to herself, the words coming so rapid-fire that it might have been impossible for any listener to pick up what she was saying. But the words from her lips were not important. Rather, the words from the tip of the marker with which she was scribbling were the key elements. All over the wall, and even on the furniture, she had scribbled over and over again, "There is danger," mirroring the words she spoke. "There is danger, remember, there is danger. Remember. There is danger, remember," in all different sizes and shapes and colors as she had gone through one writing implement after another. There was barely any room left on the wall, and when there wasn't room she began writing on top of that which had already been written. It was the act of writing the words that was important, rather than the finished product. She wrote to reinforce her own worries and concerns, to try and sort out to the best of her desperate ability the voices that were warring in her head
As she turned her entire quarters into one giant memo, she realized that she was wearing out yet another marker. But she wanted to keep writing. And she had the awful suspicion that once the marker wore out, she'd probably open a vein and start scribbling in blood.
It didn't matter, though. None of it mattered. As long as she remembered.
Except she couldn't remember what she was supposed to remember. She glanced at the wall, saw the word "danger," said in a low and demented tone, "Oh. Right. Danger," and continued with her activities while trying to ignore the part of her that was assuring her that there was no danger ... except for the likelihood that she was losing her mind.
It was an option she found far preferable. Because if she was simply losing her mind, then it was her own personal little problem. One more madwoman in the galaxy didn't seem to be that major a consideration. But if it went beyond that-if she were not, in fact, going mad, but instead the glimpses she was seeing of imminent and star-spanning danger were true-then it was the problem of every man, woman, and child in the galaxy, for as long as they managed to survive. Which, as it happened, would not be terribly long.
Chapter 7
Elizabeth Trent was an attractive young woman in her thirties, with light brown skin and a perpetually amused air that covered a mind like a steel trap... and a soul that matched her mind. When Sheridan entered, he saw her eyeing his office as if she were sizing up a piece of real estate. He had a sneaking suspicion that if he'd arrived five minutes later, she'd have been seated in his chair, tilted back and relaxed, her feet up on his desk.
She turned to look at him and appeared to be considering him in the same manner that she appraised the office. He wondered briefly which one-the office or him-she considered more worthwhile. She was wearing a light brown pantsuit that was quite attractive. "Ah, Captain," she said, sticking out a hand as she approached him. "Dr. Elizabeth Trent, Field Coordinator for Interplanetary Expeditions. It's a pleasure to meet you."
He shook her hand, and was momentarily surprised by the strength of her grip, considering that she was a head shorter than he. He moved around to his desk, and replied, "Well, it's certainly a surprise to meetyow. In case you hadn't heard, we're on President Clark's quarantine list. No ship from Earth is allowed to dock at Babylon 5."
She shrugged in a manner that indicated she was indifferent to the desires of President Clark. That automatically earned brownie points with Sheridan. It also added some finesse when
Trent countered Sheridan's indication that she should sit opposite him at his desk by pointing instead toward the more comfortable-looking sofa and chairs situated toward the back of the office. Sheridan didn't generally like to discuss hard-core business in that section, reserving the area mainly for off-the-record, relaxed chats with long-time associates. Trent, however, didn't particularly seem to care to what use Sheridan put his furniture. Instead she headed straight for the sofa, leaving Sheridan standing next to his desk with no one to talk to.
"We're aware of the embargo," she assured him in a tone that verified his belief that she couldn't give a damn about Clark's policies. Perhaps she was, in fact, a rabid Clark supporter and was just trying to get on his good side. If so, well ... it was working to some degree. "But IPX is ... a special case."
Trent gestured to the couch as if Sheridan actually still had some say in the matter. "May we?"
He shrugged. "Sure. Make yourself at home." She sat and he settled into the chair opposite her. "Let me get right to the point, Captain," she said, briskly rubbing her palms together as if she were about to do some serious business down in the bazaar.
"I expect nothing less."
She did a quick double take, as if not sure whether he was being sarcastic. Unable to tell, she shrugged it off and said, "We'd like access to the alien artifact parked outside."
Sheridan smiled at her. He wondered if, in her wildest imaginings, she remotely expected that he would just say, Sure, knock yourself out. Instead he said noncommittally, "Well, I'll certainly take your request under consideration."
She wasn't especially fooled. "That's bureaucratese for 'take a hike,' " she observed, dragging out the word as "bee-yoor-oh-crat-eese."
She had a certain degree of charm about her, but Sheridan wasn't about to be dragged in. He preferred to admire it from afar. "It is indeed," he said neutrally. Trent shook her head in a manner that seemed just a tad patronizing. That caused her to lose the same brownie points she'd just gained, leaving her at dead even in Sheridan's view. All things considered, that was probably preferable. Oddly, she didn't seem the least bit concerned with how she came across in the captain's eyes. Clearly, he mused, there must be something wrong with her. How could she not be obsessed with the need for his approval? After all, she'd known him three whole minutes; that usually was enough time for him to cast the old Sheridan spell. He wondered if he was losing his touch.
"Captain," she said, oblivious to his inner monologue. "You're not set up to investigate a find like this. You don't have the people, the training, or the equipment," she continued, ticking off his deficiencies on her fingers. "You can poke around like a pack of aborigines playing around with a Starfury, and maybe you'll find something useful by sheer accident, and maybe you'll push the wrong button and blow yourself up."
The thought had indeed occurred to Sheridan, as well. But it didn't suit the requirements of the moment to appear less than sanguine about the current situation. Instead he said with a remarkably jaunty air, "I know. Exciting, isn't it?"
Trent leaned back in her chair. If she'd had a cigarette between her fingers, she'd have taken a long drag of it about then, as she came to the slow but inevitable realization that she was not engaged in a conversation. Instead, this was clearly a negotiation. "All right," she sighed, giving in to the inevitable. "What do you want?"
The conversation finally shifted over into a realm in which Sheridan was far more comfortable. "First, some information. Why aren't you or your people afraid of retribution for breaking the embargo?"
She shrugged, as if surprised she had to explain what was, to her, painfully obvious, as if every sentient being should be aware of the infinite superiority of her position over those of mere mortals. "IPX is a multiplanetary corporation. We have agreements with over half a dozen alien governments allowing us to move across their borders without restriction. We can explore any world provided that we guarantee access to whatever we find. There's politics and there's business. This," she said with a smile, "is business. Your problems have nothing to do with us."
"You can come and go as you want." She nodded. "That's correct."
It was a satisfactory enough answer. He would have preferred something a bit more colorful, such as that they had photographs of Clark in lewd sexual positions with a Psi Cop ... Bester, preferably. But he decided he'd have to settle for something as boring as business sense.
When it came to business, however, Sheridan could manipulate it to his advantage as well as anyone else. He gave it a moment more, even though he knew exactly what he was going to say. Once he'd allowed Trent to endure the uncomfortable silence, he said, "All right... then here's the deal. I'll give you access to the artifact. You'll work with my people at all times," he added quickly, before she could think even for a moment that he was giving her carte blanche, "and you will give us full access to your data at every step along the way. We have first call on anything you find. If the technology behind that thing can be used by Earth against the other races, that information never leaves here."
Trent's face fell. It was the equivalent of throwing a bag over their heads and strapping on boxing gloves. There was protest registered all over her face. "Captain..." But Sheridan wasn't remotely interested in hearing it. "If you try, we'll destroy it," he said in no uncertain terms.
"You wouldn't," she countered, sounding appropriately appalled. "It's the find of a lifetime."
The joy of the situation was, she knew damned well that Sheridan wasn't a scientist. At least, that was the joy of it, as far as Sheridan was concerned. He was a soldier first and foremost, and since the main thing that soldiers tended to fight for was territory, Trent was all too aware that she was dealing with someone who was much more worried about property than scientific principle. Sheridan didn't care if it was the find of this lifetime, the next, or the lifetime of a star. He wasn't about to let anyone take away anything that he considered his, and he made his position quite clear when he said firmly, "It's scrap metal. Guaranteed. I will pull the trigger myself if I have to." He waited for this to sink in, and when it had thudded sufficiently deep into her awareness, he continued, "Second..."
If Sheridan had suddenly torn away his face to reveal that he was actually a Nam, he could not have gotten a more astounded reaction from her. "There's more?" she gasped incredulously.
"Thanks to the embargo we're running short on supplies around here. Spare parts, certain foods we can't grow ..."
She was way ahead of him. "And you want us to break the blockade, bring you whatever supplies you need."
He shrugged, as if she'd stated the self-evident. "If you're going to work here, you may as well bring lunch. I'm just making sure you bring enough for everybody."
Slowly, and with commendable caution, she said, "All right, Captain ... let me think about it. We still have to decide if what's out there is worth all these conditions."
She could say whatever she wanted, but Sheridan knew that he had her. One didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure it out. She looked like a coiled spring, as if she were prepared to unwind and hurl herself upon the artifact, wrapping herself around it like a joyous lover. The only thing was, she hadn't quite admitted it to herself.
Not surprising, really. She had enough scientific chops to refuse leaping to any sort of conclusion or commitment. All Sheridan needed was some small thing to push her completely over. He suspected it wouldn't be long in coming.
As it happened, he didn't have to wait at all. For he hadn't even had the chance to get another word out when his link beeped. He tapped it and said, "Sheridan."
The voice of Susan Ivanova replied, "Captain, they just finished going over the sample we took from the alien artifact. The carbon dating indicates that whatever that thing is ..." even the normally staid Ivanova couldn't keep the astonishment from her voice, "it's over a million years old."
That was that. Sheridan and Trent exchanged looks, and he knew that he had her completely hooked. Reeling her in he could do with one hand. He lowered his voice slightly, to imply a bit of privacy between the two of them even though the link was still on. "Still thinking it over, Doctor?"
This time Trent didn't hesitate. "Tell your people to stand by. We've got a deal."
He nodded and extended a hand. She shook it with that same firm grasp. Then he said into his link, "Commander ... good news. IPX is going to be lending us a hand."
And Ivanova, with her customary dourness, said, "Oh ... goody." It was as if she perceived an offer of help as something that would ultimately inconvenience her.
She didn't know the half of it.
The polite, inoffensive way to refer to the state of the cargo bay was that it was a hive of activity. The less polite, more offensive way-the one in which Ivanova was inclined at that moment to describe it-was that it was a nuthouse.
Dozens of technicians in IPX jumpsuits were carrying duffel bags, briefcases, satchels, and boxes. Entire loads of equipment were being wheeled in. And it wasn't as if this was all being accomplished in a brisk, orderly, and no-nonsense manner. No, everyone was shouting out instructions, calling out questions at the top of their lungs, wanting to know where this went or that should be stacked. Everyone was turning to everyone else and asking directions, and since no one knew their way around Babylon 5, it was the most massive case of the blind leading the blind that Ivanova had ever seen.
Her frustration grew exponentially as she kept looking for someplace to stand where she wouldn't be in the way. She was spectacularly unsuccessful in accomplishing that. No matter where she stood, no matter which way she turned, she suddenly found herself blocking someone's path. Shouts of "Watch your back!" and "Watch your head!" abounded. She mused over the physical impossibility of accomplishing either suggestion, and realized that the response which came most readily to her lips involved an even more impossible physical act.
