Thirdspace, p.8
Thirdspace, page 8
But she restrained herself. Shouting at newcomers, letting her frustration and impatience with this... this thundering horde stampeding through her station.., was not going to solve anything. At least, not in the long term. In the short term, however, the thought of venting some of her frustration was beginning to look pretty good. But she had to put aside such thoughts in the interest of continued harmony, peace, and sanity.
So instead Ivanova endeavored to act as a sort of desperate traffic cop. Having had enough of standing there and watching people moving helter-skelter throughout the cargo bay, apparently setting out in whatever direction struck their fancy at any given moment, Ivanova began calling out instructions to whomever would listen to her. Unfortunately, as she quickly discovered, the number of people who actually would listen to her was depressingly small. "I'd appreciate it if you'd keep this whole area clear!" she called out. But she wasn't quite sure to whom she was actually talking. It was more of a general all-purpose announcement, and since everyone within earshot figured that she was talking to someone else, they all ignored her.
She saw a stack of precariously balanced crates, and the technicians seemed determined to try and stack a few more on top. Ivanova felt as if she were the only one who saw the impending disaster as she shouted. "No, that's... don't touch... watch out for the..."
Her warning was truncated by a loud crash as the crates toppled over. The technicians scurried to get out of the way instants before the stack came crashing down. "Never mind," sighed Ivanova.
What was truly amazing was that none of them seemed the slightest bit surprised that the tower of crates had tumbled down. Nor did they seem at all put off by the unnecessary duplication of effort as they began restacking the boxes.
She was about to try and stop them, and then she noticed off in another direction that a loader was being overloaded. She saw the back wheels starting to lift, and the oblivious IPX techies were shoving more boxes atop it to try and save time and prevent multiple trips.
"Don't put it there, not there," she pleaded, "anywhere but..." and she realized in a distant and amazed manner that she couldn't remember the last time she had pleaded for anything. Was this what she had been reduced to? Not just traffic cop, but a failed and desperate traffic cop?
And then it became moot as the loader, its center of gravity thrown off, tipped forward, spilling everything. "-there," completed Ivanova, with the air of someone whose entire life had descended into complete and utter misery.
"You should see your face," came a voice that sounded filled with all the amusement that Ivanova found impossible to discern in this situation. Dr. Franklin drifted in to stand nearby; he seemed to be drinking in the insanity with barely concealed glee. She realized that the source of his glee was she herself, and she considered it to be somewhat frightening to realize that the station's chief medical officer had a very highly pronounced streak of sadism about him.
"This is just hideous ..." she moaned.
Franklin nodded sympathetically, and then his gaze seemed to drift off for a moment. As if remembering from a great distance, he said, "You know back on Earth, along the Amazon in South America, they've got these army ants. They sweep across the forest in a carpet five inches thick, millions of them. They're less than an inch long," and he held up his fingers to demonstrate, "but they can devastate an entire forest in less than an hour."
She stared at him silently and made a gesture that seemed to say, And the point is ... ? For his reply, he looked around the crowd that was hurtling past them at what appeared to be breakneck speed. Considering that everyone involved continued to have little-to-no clue as to where they were actually supposed to be going, it seemed that never had so many done so little so quickly and so loudly. "I didn't know army ants had cousins this far out into space," Franklin said by way of concluding the previous thought.
Sounding not the least bit as if she were joking, Ivanova said, "Do you think anybody'd notice if I killed afew of them?"
Franklin considered the question. "How many?" It seemed to be the appropriate response. After a moment of judging what she thought she could get away with, she replied, "I dunno ... ten?"
Franklin shook his head with conviction. "They'd notice," he assured her.
She reassessed. "Six?"
With a slow grin, Franklin said, "Go for it."
He waited for her to crack a smile in return. She didn't. And suddenly he had the feeling that she was about to yank out a Phased Plasma Gun and start blasting, shouting "Doctor's orders" in a demented voice at the top of her lungs.
At that moment, Ivanova was approached by a woman with a clipboard whom she had noticed as one of the directors of the madness which had seized the cargo bay. The woman said, "Ah, Commander ... Dr. Elizabeth Trent, IPX," then noticed that Ivanova was staring at the clipboard. She probably figured that Ivanova was impressed by her efficiency and organization. In point of fact, Ivanova was mentally picturing the sheer joy which would ensue if she took the clipboard and proceeded to beat a few of the technicians to death.
Continuing in valuable obliviousness, Trent said, "I assume Captain Sheridan briefed you on our mission?"
"Actually, this is my station, Doctor," Ivanova informed her in a voice that mingled both pride and annoyance that Trent would even suggest that she, Ivanova, was out of the loop. "Nothing happens here that I don't know about." Realizing that it might be better to say something other than what was going through her mind, such as Get the hell off my station, she turned and gestured to the chief medical officer. "This is Dr. Stephen Franklin. You'll be coordinating with him on any organic findings."
Trent shook his hand and said, by way of acknowledgment, "Doctor."
"Nice to meet you," said Franklin, and he wasn't kidding. She was indeed a very attractive woman, and her no-nonsense air was most pleasing to him. Then he realized that Ivanova was staring at him with a gaze that was capable of boring through to the other side of his skull, and he cleared his throat as he released Dr. Trent's hand.
He was momentarily at a loss for words, but Trent wasn't. He had a sneaking suspicion she never was. "We should get together for a few minutes now, discuss how we want to split up the work before things get crazy."
Franklin knew perfectly well that Ivanova was never going to let that one get by, and he wasn't disappointed as a stunned Ivanova said in shock, "Before they get crazy? What do you call this?"
Trent glanced around the cargo bay in a most indifferent manner. She'd seen every manner of embarkation upon the launching of a project, and this lunacy was hardly atypical. As a matter of fact, if everything had been proceeding in a perfectly organized way, she'd likely have been concerned about it.
"Science," she said offhandedly.
Before Ivanova could reply, Trent's right-hand man-a roundish, balding, Asian man named Bill Morishi-stepped over to address her. "Doctor? Can you look at this?" and he gestured off to one side. Without further hesitation, Trent moved off after him, giving absolutely no further thought to the needs or concerns of Ivanova, Franklin, or-in all likelihood-anyone else on Babylon 5. Nor had she particularly endeared herself to Ivanova, who nodded in Trent's direction as she said to Franklin, "Maybe just killing one would do it."
It made sense, of course. Cut off the head, the body withers. Trent was the queen-if something happened to her, then with any luck the others would simply fall over and lie on the floor, their little hands and feet in the air.
Franklin said, "In that case, I think I should be elsewhere."
She nodded to him in acknowledgment, but didn't even notice which way he was going because she was distracted by another very loud crash. It pulled her attention ... but only for a moment, as she caught herself and forced herself to look in a completely opposite direction. She didn't want to know what had happened.
"That's it. I'm going to get some sleep," she said to no one in particular. Sheila Morris Rosen Blumberg O'Sullivan had never seen such insanity in her life. It took her forever to get through customs, because the place was a mob scene what with technicians of all sorts, all wearing the same uniforms, coming through in all directions and tying up the customs officials. And they were all loaded down with all manner of luggage. By the time she staggered through, clutching her hastily packed overnight bag, she was completely exhausted. She heard her name called out but was barely able to focus on the origin.
Alex came toward her, his arms open wide to her. She had to admit, he looked damned good, even after all this time. Then again, she was no slouch either. She had worked hard to keep her body firm and young looking. She had also wrestled with the decision of what to do with her hair as the grey had set in, but she had finally decided to let the color go the way that nature dictated. Ultimately it was a wise choice, for the contrast between her grey-streaked black hair and her very youthful figure was quite a striking one.
"There he is, Mister Mysterious," she said as his strong arms folded around her. She kissed him lightly on the cheek.
He stepped back, held her at arm's length, and said, "Look at you! You look sensational!"
"I know. Five miles every day, I walk." She affectionately slapped the paunch that was building around his middle. "You could stand to put in some exercise yourself, Al."
"I prefer walking the road of intellectual pursuits," he replied archly.
She laughed, and he realized he'd forgotten what a terrific laugh she had. He slipped an arm around her waist, graciously sliding her bag off her shoulder and hefting it onto his own. To his surprise he lurched slightly under the weight. "Oh, good, you remembered to bring your anvil," he commented.
"Told you you needed to work out. So, Al... what's all the mystery? Why did you want to see me? And why here?" and she looked around at Babylon 5 in confusion and concern. "Do you have any idea of the reputation this place has? If I were still on Earth, I couldn't get here, period. Fortunately, my colony on Epsilon 3 is beyond the embargo line that President Clark has set up." She lowered her voice in concern. "Has this ... this Sheridan done something to you? Is he threatening you or something?"
Alex tried not to laugh. "Sheridan? I haven't even seen him. As if a busy man like him has time to waste with a pisher like me. Why would he threaten me?" "I don't know. No one knows why he does anything he does. They say he's crazy and that Minbari are controlling his..."
She paused a moment as a Minbari walked by. He had a gentle, pleasant face, and he nodded to her in acknowledgment. She looked away from him very quickly. Lennier sensed her fear and didn't quite understand the reason for it, but he allowed it to roll off him. If there was one thing that he had learned in his time on Babylon 5, serving as aide to Delenn, it was that he should not dwell overlong on some of the more unusual Human reactions he saw.
"That Minbari are controlling his mind," she finished in a whisper.
"And how are they doing that?" Al asked with amusement. He'd forgotten how charmingly gullible Sheila could be.
"Those things they have on their head," and she made a gesture that was supposed to be evocative of the bone crest which encircled the back of a Minbari's skull. "Those little projections from the top are where the telepathic beams come out..." And he laughed, unable to contain it anymore. "Ahhh, Sheila, I've missed you."
"What... you think it's not true?"
"I think I'm not going to worry about it, is what I think," Alex replied. "This business will work itself out in some way or another, as these things always do."
She knew better than to argue with him. "So what's the big mystery you wanted to see me about? You said it was important."
"It is. But not here. Come on." He slid his arm through hers and, within a few minutes, guided her to the temporary quarters he'd rented. He hadn't been intending to hang around on B5 any longer than necessary, but once he'd made the decision to stay, he'd found himself some reasonably small, fairly inexpensive quarters. He was relieved that he'd done so when he had; with the barrage of IPX people rolling in, in seemingly endless numbers, he thought that space would wind up being at a premium on the station.
She sat on the edge of the bed, and he pulled over the one chair in the room and sat opposite her. He took her hand in his and said without preamble, "It's Leo."
"What's Leo?" she said blankly.
"He's..." There was no way to say it but straight out. "He's dying."
There was no hint of hesitation in her voice. "So?" said Sheila.
"So?" He couldn't quite believe what he'd heard. "Sheila... he was your husband...."
"He was three husbands ago, Al."
"How can you not care?"
She released her hand and stared at him with all the deep passion of a dead fish. "Al... he was my first, and he would have been my only. When I married him, I believed in forever, you know? I believed in every single thing that the vows said, Till death do us part' ... everything. And he ruined that for me. He destroyed my love for him, Al, and that took a hell of a lot of doing on his part. But that wasn't the only thing he destroyed. After him ... I never believed in 'forever' again. He took that away from me, Al. The two times I got married after that, I stood there and said, Till death do us part,' but I didn't mean it. Not really, not deep down. My marriages were doomed going in because of him. He wrecked my life, and now you sit there and tell me he's dying and I'm supposed to feel ... what? Sorry for him? Remorse? Dwell on what might have been?" She shook her head. "What's the point?"
"The point is... he's realized he was wrong." As quickly as he could, he laid out for her what had happened with the meeting that Lyta Alexander had overseen. As he described it, he watched her face for any hint of what was going through her mind. He would have killed to have the telepath back, screening Sheila's mind and telling him, Alex, what Sheila was thinking. Of course he knew that no Teep would act in such a way, but even so, he could dream. And he certainly wasn't picking up anything from Sheila by himself. She was positively stony faced, without the slightest crack in her demeanor.
"So now he's realized he's thrown away his life," Sheila said when Alex had finished, "and he's trying to make amends for it?"
"All I know is, I know he'd like to see you. To try and make things right." "There are plenty of things he could do to make things right, but unfortunately, all of them require a time machine."
"Sheila," and he shook his head, "this isn't you. So unforgiving, so bitter."
"I made myself over, Al," she told him. "Made myself into someone who could live with Mr. Leo Rosen. Who could survive his accusations, his bad-mouthing, his distrust, and not feel like there was something wrong with her. That person, the one you're talking to right now, doesn't have much room in her for forgiveness. She's too busy surviving. If this is what you brought me out here for, Al, then you've made a big mistake, and you wasted my time. And I wasted my money, booking passage out here."
"Send me the bill," Alex shot back, and for the first time he started to feel anger and impatience building in him. " 'Survival,' Sheila? Is that what it's all about? Is that the only thing that matters? Survival is the fundamental instinct of all living things, Sheila. It doesn't take any great thinker, any deep philosopher, just to survive. Cockroaches, they're survivors. Scientists say the cockroaches will outlast us all. Good for them. They'll still be around when we're long-forgotten piles of dust, but you know what? They'll still be cockroaches. You want to be a cockroach, Sheila? Fine."
"I came out here on your say-so, Al," Sheila countered sharply. "Came out here, without asking questions, because you asked me to. I'd like to think that, for that show of faith at least, I deserve a little better than to be insulted."
"Yeah, you do," he agreed. "You know what else? Tons of people deserve better than they wind up getting. And believe it or not, at this particular point in time, I happen to think that Leo Rosen falls into that category. He was a weak and unhappy man, Sheila. He thought that marrying you, he'd be happy. But his own basic unhappiness as a person made that impossible. I'm sorry that you had to suffer for it..."
"As did you."
"As did I," he admitted. "But we both know that was a long time ago, and maybe, just maybe, it's time to forgive. And maybe-again, just maybe-you're capable of providing that forgiveness."
"And what am I supposed to do?" she said in exasperation. "Fall in love with him again? Marry him? Hold him when he dies?"
"I don't know!" said the frustrated Alex. "Maybe, first of all, you get together with him! That's all! Just get together with him, and see where it goes from there! It might go nowhere, and that's fine. It might go somewhere, and that's even better.
But if you turn around and leave, then it really was just a waste of time and money, and what's the point of that?"
"Why do you care, Al?" she asked after a moment's thought.
He shrugged. "He's my brother."
"No," she said, shaking her head. "There has to be more to it than that."
"You know what?" he told her. "Sometimes ... there isn't."
She seemed about to reply, but thought better of it. She rose from the edge of the bed and stood in the center of the room. Alex waited patiently, his hands folded in his lap. He realized that he'd pretty much said all there was to say. Now it was just a matter of waiting for her response.
A short time passed, and Alex began to wonder if she was ever going to speak again. Finally, she said, "So?"
"So ... what?"
She turned to face him. "So are you going to tell me where he is, or are you going to make me search the station for him?"
Immediately Alex was on his feet, grinning broadly, "I'll take you to him."
"Wipe that smile off your face," she told him, although she didn't sound particularly annoyed about it. "I'm not promising anything."
