A Call to Arms (14 page)

“We had nothing to do with this war of yours,” Dureena said angrily. “We were neutral. When other worlds near us were destroyed by the Shadows, we called to you for help. You did nothing.”

“There was nothing we
could
do,” Sheridan said. “Our forces were spread out all over the place. Other worlds were being threatened. We were barely holding on. We didn’t even get word about your planet until it was too late. By the time we got there---”

“You could have done something!” Dureena said.

“No,” Sheridan said. “For years after the war, I asked myself the same question: Could I have done more? Could we have saved more lives than we did? But the truth is, even if we had heard about it in time, we didn’t have anything that could stop a Shadow Planet Killer. We were outgunned.”

He peered earnestly into her face, then said, “Dureena, you’re angry with me because you see me as the symbol for what happened in your world. But I’m not responsible. The Shadows gave the orders. But they weren’t the ones who pulled the trigger.”

“What are you talking about?” Dureena asked.

“The Shadows had others working for them, who carried out the orders. They’re called Drakh... and the Drakh are still out there, Dureena.”

Dureena hesitated, this new data at war with old convictions. She saw Sheridan again as she had seen him in her dream. But this time his image shimmered and was replaced by a Drakh.

The conflict in her was evident. She seemed scarcely to notice when Sheridan untied her arms.

“You’re looking for a target,” Sheridan said, “a way to make someone pay for the death of your world. You picked me because you thought you couldn’t get to them. But you can. I can give you a chance to strike back at the people responsible for the death of your world... before they do the same to someone else.”

Dureena rubbed her wrists. Sheridan could almost see a new resolve growing in her. She said, “Then perhaps that is what the dream meant. I thought they were memories of what was... But perhaps they were warnings about what is yet to come.”

While she was thinking about this, Anderson began studying the drawings Sheridan had made, now spread out on the table.

“Mr. President... one thing. There are three of us in these drawings. Where’s the other one?”

“The Drazi?” Sheridan said. “I don’t know... And that worries me.”

“Should we wait for him to get here?”

“No,” Sheridan said firmly. “If Galen was right, and the Drakh are preparing to move, any delay could cost us dearly. We have to go, and hope he catches up with us later.”

Dureena had stood up and moved to the table. She was holding one of the drawings Sheridan had made. “It’s true,” she said. “This is me. But I don’t understand. Why us?”

“I don’t know,” Sheridan answered. “All I can assume is that we each bring something unique to the mission that will increase the odds of success.”

“Speaking of which,” Anderson said, “we’ve got a problem. The forces you’re talking about are beyond anything I’ve fought before. My ship can take us into the fight, but against odds like this, you’re going to need something a lot bigger and nastier than an Earth destroyer.”

Hearing this, Sheridan’s face lit up with an idea. He said, “I think I may have just the thing.”

Ni’im was feeling very depressed, and he was filled with self-doubt. This was unusual for a Drazi. Normally, members of his race remained rather simplistically enthusiastic, if rather single-minded.

He gazed out a dirty window and saw the low, gray-brown hills of Alquemar Point, the last place in the galaxy a being with any sense would want to be. The trading had gone well, as usual, but Ni’im had had little taste for it. The haggling over the consignment of machine tools had been tedious, interminable.

Now he stretched out on the bed in the squalid little boardinghouse he was using as his temporary headquarters on Alquemar. At last, he thought, he could get his first decent sleep in a long time, and then he’d be on his way.

He slept.

And dreamed.

He found himself in a gigantic cavern, a gloomy place with stone pillars rising to the low ceiling. In the distance he could see a light, a blue-white glow that seemed to beckon to him. He walked toward it, picking his way with care over the pebble-strewn, uneven ground. He was sure he had never been here before, but he also thought he knew the place well, or had known it once, or would know it someday.

As he moved toward the light, he saw, ahead of him, a circle of figures standing around a low stone altar. They were Drazis, but he had never seen them before, though at the same time he thought in some fashion he
did
know them. There were twelve of them; the youngest was old, and the oldest looked ancient beyond measure. They were chanting something in words he couldn’t make out. But they stopped when Ni’im approached.

In his normal waking mode, and even in his sleep, Ni’im would have reacted to this with suspicion. But for some reason, while it was actually happening, this all seemed very natural to him, in the way that many dreams, no matter how bizarre, seem perfectly natural as they run their course.

“I really don’t know what I’m doing here,” Ni’im told them. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“Not at all,” the oldest said. “We were waiting for you, and passing the time by singing a hymn to the beauty of life in twelve-part harmony.”

This, too, was very strange, but not unprecedented. In the extensive folklore of the Drazi, there were stories of ancestors who appeared and offered good advice to their descendants. “Please continue singing,” Ni’im said. “There’s no time for that now,” the old Drazi replied. “We’re here to advise you.”

“And what do you advise?”

“That you continue on the path of the dream you have received.”

“But why?”

“Because this is a matter of racial survival. We are your ancestors. Twelve of us have been chosen to manifest at this time, but there are countless others. The Drazi race extends deep into the past.”

Ni’im had never heard this before, but strangely caught up in the spirit of the dream, he accepted it without comment or hesitation.

“I’m flattered,” he said.

“This is a matter involving the future of your own race. It will be dangerous for you. But we, your progenitors, care nothing about individual danger. Each and every Drazi will die eventually. From our point of view, all that is of importance is the survival of the race.”

“You’re saying the Drazi race might die out if I don’t follow the dictates of the dream?”

“Precisely. But this is your choice. Choose well, Ni’im. Control your impetuous nature and you should come out of this safely, and acquit yourself with honor.”

The figures started to waver and turn transparent. Ni’im cried, “Wait! I’ve many things I want to ask you! There are matters you haven’t explained---”

“You have all the necessary information,” the elder said. “The rest is up to you.

“Farewell.”

The figures faded out. After a moment, the cavern faded out.

And Ni’im awoke in his room on Alquemar, more than a little perplexed. Had he really dreamed of his ancestors?

And, of course, his earlier question, as to whether dreams could lie, still remained unanswered.

The thought occurred to him that maybe the dream hadn’t come from his ancestors at all. Maybe somebody had faked it, pretending to be his ancestors.

Maybe Galen sent it. Maybe it was all part of a scheme to confuse Ni’im, turn him into a traitor.

And maybe it wasn’t.

There was no certainty. He was just going to have to make a choice--and hope for the best.

He could only wait for Galen to return. Ancestors or not, he needed to check this one out.

Meanwhile he had work to do and more stops to make.

The arachnids of Chloris 5 weren’t on anyone’s list for intelligent species of the year. Maybe that was because it took three of them to carry on a conversation about the weather, and at least five to conduct a simple business transaction.

Still, once they got it together and got coordinated, they could haggle away with the best of them.

That, at least, had been Ni’im’s experience. The Drazi had been buying silk from the arachnids for several years. He always came away satisfied with the result, but he always had to watch his step. The arachnids were old hands at fobbing off second-rate goods in place of the good stuff.

Five Chlorisian arachnids were lined up in front of him in the mouth of their cave, their hairy arms waving this way and that. Four of them were talking at the same time, arachnid style, with a lot of high-pitched squealing. The fifth was producing silk, spilling it out of his mouth by way of his special glands. Number one was saying, “Look at the texture! The color! The sheen!”

Two was saying, “O, the tensile strength, so remarkable.”

Three was saying, “Unique! And priceless!”

And four was saying, “A steal at four credits an erst!”

It was the usual sales pitch. Every line, repeated endlessly, until the buyer gave in, often out of sheer frustration, or the sellers got hungry and lowered the price.

Ni’im had already evaluated the arachnid’s production. This batch wasn’t really very good. Maybe he was suffering from tired glands. Ni’im could still make a profit on the stuff, but not at four credits an erst.

The arachnids yammered in their shrill voices. Ni’im shook his head and made the arachnid sign of refusal--an L shape drawn in the air with an emphatic hand--and he wondered, not for the first time, what he was doing here, so far from his home planet, trading in this shadowy cave with a race that required five members just to cheat one Drazi.

Something... perverse must have compelled him to come to Chloris 5.

Finally they arrived at a mutually agreeable price. As Ni’im was preparing to leave, he asked--almost as an afterthought, “You guys haven’t seen a Human-looking guy with a cowl around here by any chance, have you?”

The five conferred, then called in three others who happened to be passing outside the cave. The conference was animated, and finally, one of them said, “You must mean the wizard.”

“That may be the one I seek. Perhaps he said his name was Galen?” Ni’im said, eagerly now.

“Yes. That’s the one. He was by this way a few days ago. He’s on an important mission, you know.”

“Do you know where I can find him?” Ni’im asked.

“Alas, he left no forwarding address.”

Ni’im had to be satisfied with that. Downcast, he left the arachnids, returned to his ship, and began to set the controls for his next jump. Then he sat a moment, to catch his breath.

And suddenly, he wasn’t there anymore. It happened so suddenly he had no time in which to be startled. Simply, he was standing on a dark plain, with fires burning in the distance, and the silhouette of a ruined city in the background.

“Hello, Ni’im,” a voice behind him said.

Ni’im whirled. There was Galen, his face half-concealed by a cowl.

“I was looking for you,” Ni’im said. When Galen didn’t respond, he continued. “I talked with my ancestors recently.”

“It was an enlightening discussion, I hope.”

“Quite so,” Ni’im replied. “Look, what is it you want of me? Why are you haunting my dreams?”

“You have a destiny, a very important one. But before I explain myself, please, look around.”

Ni’im looked around. He was, indeed, back on the dark plain that Galen had shown him earlier. But this time he noticed that it was pocked with numerous craters. Some force of incalculable destruction had hammered this place. Looking more closely, he saw that the plain was strewn with chunks of concrete, twisted pieces of steel, shattered glass, and a lot of other things he couldn’t identify. It was as if some giant had brought the debris of a great city to this place and dumped it. It was either that, or---

“Is it possible,” he asked in a low voice, “that a city once stood upon this site?”

Galen nodded. “This was once Teknead, foremost of the cities of Daltron 7.”

“And someone destroyed it?”

“Along with everything else on the planet.”

“But who could have done this? And what am I doing here?”

“You are not here,” Galen said. “You are on your ship, and you are having a dream. As for who could have perpetrated this atrocity--you must go in person to Daltron 7 and find out.”

“But what do I need to find out?”

“You must learn when the Dark Ones will return. And you must give that information to the others. But you must be very careful. Once you have what you need, you must get away fast, at the very first sign of danger.”

“And then?”

“Then you will seek out the others.” Galen stooped and, picking up a stick, sketched three circles in the rubble. As Ni’im watched, faces filled the circles. There was a bearded, light-skinned Earther; a dark-skinned Earther; and a savage-looking, black-haired woman of a species unknown to him.

“And what happens after I find them?”

“They will know what to do,” Galen said.

He made a sudden pass with his hand. Ni’im’s vision grew dim. When he recovered, he was back on his ship.

In her office on Babylon 5, Captain Lochley was having morning coffee at her desk. Garibaldi walked in, looking rumpled and grumpy. Lochley barely looked up.

“Good morning, Captain,” Garibaldi said. He sat down near her and poured himself a coffee from the carafe.

“Mr. Garibaldi,” Lochley said. “Sleep well?”

“Yeah,” Garibaldi said. “Needed it, too. So where’s the president?”

Lochley stared at him. “I thought he was with you.”

“No,” Garibaldi said. “When he didn’t call, I figured he was gonna meet me here.”

“That’s odd,” Lochley said.

She toggled her link. Lieutenant Corwin answered, “On-line.”

“Did you send President Sheridan a message reminding him about our meeting this morning?”

“Yes, ma’am. But he’s been working and hasn’t checked in.”

“If you know he hasn’t checked in, how do you know he’s working?” she asked, suspicion growing in her voice.