A Call to Arms (3 page)

The view had come up quickly. Now Sheridan could see a huge construction dock floating in space. It stretched out for hundreds of miles, longer than the average asteroid, its shiny metal painted a matte black. It was made of a heavy-gauge superalloy steel. You couldn’t have built a dry dock this size on a planet with a normal gravity. The problems of inner bracing, needed to compensate for gravitational stress, would have been prohibitive.

The dock was an imposing sight with its gantries and cranes, its tractor-equipped working vehicles crawling like ants across its great spread of surface. It was a fit mark of imperial ambitions, the sort of thing men could do because they dared to do it. It was a thrilling sight. Sheridan watched eagerly as the
White Star
closed slowly toward the monolithic structure.

He couldn’t make out too many details yet, but he could see the banners and bunting that Drake had ordered put up to mark the occasion. They looked a little strange in the vacuum of space, but at least they were there. And there was no mistaking the two finished ships moored alongside the dock.

The dock was huge, nearly a mile and a half long, and the two ships moored on either side of it were big, too. Bigger than most spacecraft Sheridan had worked with before. They were identical, and every inch bespoke power, making them seem as large as any manmade things found in space.

He sucked in his breath as he focused on them. The new ships were bold and startling in their sweeping lines and strange curves, with long, narrow bodies and sweeping fins-four on each ship-that reminded him of an eagle’s wings. It was evident at a glance that they combined elements of Minbari and Human technology. There was even a touch of techno-organic Vorlon design. Each prototype was several times the size of a White Star. Their newly burnished hulls glittered in the construction lights lining either side of the huge dry dock. The two ships appeared to be identical in every way.

“The one on the left is
Excalibur
,” Garibaldi said. “The other one is the
Victory
.”

How do you fall in love with one of a set of twins? Sheridan’s response was irrational and immediate. “I like the
Excalibur
,” he said, looking at the ships. He couldn’t say why he had chosen that one. Something about the name, perhaps, but also something that hinted that he might have found a new love.

“I thought you would,” Garibaldi said, a smile playing across his face. “Let’s go down and check her out.”

There was a brief delay while the launch was taken out of storage where some fool had stowed her, then was set up on the launching platform. At last they were able to get aboard and aim for the
Excalibur
.

While a bosun maneuvered for a landing, they saw the small ‘bots circling
Excalibur
, spotlighting it and finishing bits of cleanup work. Several tugs hovered above the big ships, like Lilliputians around twin Gullivers. On the dock, there were workers in white EVA suits cleaning up the final bits of debris from the dry dock’s deck.

As they approached, Sheridan was even more impressed with
Excalibur’s
size. At a distance, it had been a marvel. Up close, it was overwhelming. But it was something more than that. It was also a dream come true, his long-held dream of a ship large enough and powerful enough to handle anything that came its way.

They came in through the main entry port. Within
Excalibur
, there was the sharp smell of a new spaceship. There were new corridors to travel down, new detailing to admire, the whole sense of a new ship to take in.

John Sheridan was in his element. It was a throwback to the boy in him that nothing pleased him as much as a bright, complicated new toy. And if that toy, at a mile and a quarter in length, was longer than New York’s World Trade Center back on Earth was high, all the better.

In a brightly lit corridor on their way to the bridge, Drake was waiting for them, with a Ranger honor guard lined up at attention. Sheridan’s first impression was of a young man not quite sure of himself and trying to hide that fact by presenting a brave front.

Drake was not a bad-looking man, with a regular face and a high forehead. If a fault could be found, perhaps it was that his eyes didn’t seem to quite focus on you. Perhaps because of this, his features seemed to betray a certain inner irresolution. Still, that might be no more than an unfortunate first impression. Sheridan had advised himself more than once not to rely too heavily on first impressions. Still...

“Mr. President, I’m Samuel Drake. It’s an honor to meet you.” His gaze took in Garibaldi. “Mr. Garibaldi, it’s... good to see you again.”

“I can tell,” Garibaldi responded with more than a note of sarcasm.

Sheridan saw that there was no love lost between these two. Drake seemed a pleasant enough individual. Garibaldi was his usual surly self. Was there a reason behind his animosity toward Drake? Sheridan knew he’d find out soon enough.

Meanwhile, trying to inspire at least a fragile peace between these two, Sheridan said, “So let’s begin the tour, shall we?” Setting the example, he led the way down the corridor.

Drake talked as they went along. His speech was somewhat hurried, and gave further evidence of his desire to please.

He led them from one part of the ship to another, past the mess hall, the neat but cramped living quarters, the flight bay for landing ships, a recreation room with a large vaulted ceiling. It was all neat, obviously in pristine working order, ready for use. Drake commented all of the way, and he seemed less interested in pointing out the ship’s good qualities than in complaining about everything that had gone wrong, all of it someone else’s fault.

“So far, we’ve only been able to get the gravitetic propulsion system to provide a workable gravity of slightly less than one G. After three months of trying, we’ve decided to declare victory and leave it there.”

“Probably better for everyone than a full G anyway,” Sheridan said.

“I agree,” Drake said. He seemed pleased and a little surprised that Sheridan was siding with him. Sheridan’s continuing diagnosis was that Drake was suffering from too much exposure to Mr. Garibaldi. During one part of the tour, Drake stopped, and in a somewhat formal manner said, “Incidentally, sir, I want to thank you for bringing me aboard. It’s not easy for Mars-born citizens to get work on major Earth contracts.”

“Not a problem,” Sheridan said. “I don’t have much patience with that kind of bias. Under the Alliance, Mars-born and Earth naturals are entitled to equal opportunities. Besides, you came highly recommended.”

Garibaldi’s expression said, “I could tell you a thing or two about people who come highly recommended.” But he didn’t say anything. Not then.

They moved into the area of the bridge, passing side offices and compartments. The ship was very spacious, with an amount of room previously unknown in Earth spaceship design. There were ladders and elevators at many locations. Sheridan knew he’d have to familiarize himself with the entire layout soon. And he was going to love every minute of it.

The bridge was different from what Sheridan had been expecting, and he commented on this to Drake.

Drake explained, “We decided on a nonstandard bridge configuration, based on the submarine model. Linear instead of circular. From the captain’s chair it’s a straight throw back and across to the other compartments.”

There were several workers on the bridge. Final touches were still being put in place. Some workers were laying cable. Others were fitting some of the final paneling.

Drake ticked off what they were seeing. “Map room... conference room... navigation and helm controls... com system... weapons. We designed the controls along EarthForce lines to make them easier for us to deal with. The system’s very intuitive; you can run it almost like any other ship. It’s what’s inside that matters.”

“How does she handle?” Sheridan asked.

He could tell by Garibaldi’s expression that he had stumbled, innocently enough, onto a sore spot.

“We... don’t actually know,” Drake said. “We wanted to wait until you got here and she was completely fitted out.”

Sheridan frowned. “Mr. Drake, don’t you think you should find out... whether or not she could go anywhere before you spend a lot of time polishing the chrome? What if this new propulsion system doesn’t work?”

“All the tests have indicated--”

Just then, Drake’s wrist link
bleeped
. He touched it. “Yes?” They could all hear an officer’s voice saying, “Message for President Sheridan on StellarCom. It’s from Delenn.”

Drake turned his attention to Sheridan and said, “You can take it in the conference room, Mr. President.” Sheridan nodded. “I think I know the way.” He left the bridge.

As he did so, Garibaldi found a chair and sat down. His movements were slow, purposeful, contained. He fixed Drake with a baleful eye. “Drake, did I, or did I not, tell you to take this thing out at least once before we got here? Did I, or did I not, introduce you to the theory of `it doesn’t have to be perfect, let’s just see if it works’?”

“Yes, but--“

“Then perhaps it’s time I introduced you to a new theory. It’s called `shut up and do what I tell you.’ Now ease her out of spacedock.”

Drake looked like he had another excuse to make. But one glance at Garibaldi’s compressed lips and slitted eyes changed his mind.

“Yes, sir.”

Garibaldi said to Drake, “Do it.”

Drake turned to the Ranger at the navigation controls. “Cast off ties, prepare to ease her away from spacedock.”

“Aye, sir,” the navigation officer said.

“Fire up!” Drake said.

The navigation officer worked quickly with his controls. On the dry dock, a series of flashing lights warned the workers to get under cover--just in case. The
Excalibur
slowly drifted away from the steel side of the dry dock, moving with the sleepwalking pace of a dormant giant. There was a deep roar as the engines fired up... followed almost immediately by a whine as they powered down. The next sound was that of a
pooph
, as though the engines were laughing at them. Finally, a loud clank like a hundred-yard-long wrench hitting the floor of the ship’s hull.

Garibaldi had elected not to explode with anger at the moment, though you could see it was difficult for him. In a rigidly controlled voice, he said, “Drake, was that a problem?”

Drake, tight-lipped with mortification, muttered, “So it would seem. Sir!”

Mr. Garibaldi’s expression was not a pleasant one to behold.

After Garibaldi left, Drake gave the necessary orders and returned to the personal quarters he had allotted to himself on the spacedock. There he threw himself into the worn swivel chair that served him for an armchair. He wore an expression of petulance. That ass, Garibaldi! What gave him the right? Then his expression turned to one of concern. Every delay might lead to a closer examination of the work--of
his
work. That could spell disaster...

The room was spartan, like all the living quarters on that colossal structure, but Drake had fixed it up with a few personal touches. On the wall above his computer was his framed diploma from MUT, the Martian University of Technology. It was a place he had cordially detested, not least for its pretensions to elitism--as if anything on Mars could be considered elite!

And what was good on Mars counted for next to nothing on Earth. Drake had graduated third in his class of 475. On Mars, that was superb. On Earth, his degree was considered the equivalent of a barely passing grade at a not very good community college.

On the table, beside his computer, was a set of old dice, yellowed, their edges rounded. They had belonged to his father. Morton G. Drake had gambled with them, and with dice very much like them, in all the gambling halls and casinos of Mars. There were few libraries on Mars, but there were a surprising number of casinos. His father had been in and out of every one of them, and had converted his construction engineer’s salary into debts that had mounted astronomically as he had kept trying to get even. Until he finally blew his brains out one especially disastrous night. He had been forty-three years old.

Drake had inherited one thing from his father--his passion. But in Drake’s case, that passion was for precision,
not
for risk-taking. Drake never gambled, never took chances. And now, here was Mr. High-and-Mighty Garibaldi, reaming him out for not going out on a limb with the biggest ship in creation. Calling him Pussyfoot and other, much worse names. It was as though Garibaldi was telling him he could use a few of his father’s gambler’s genes.

So Garibaldi thought Drake wasn’t a gambler, eh? Well, Garibaldi would be surprised to learn that Drake could, indeed, take a risk when the odds were big enough. He was taking a chance. A big one. And Mr. Garibaldi soon would learn of it, to his regret.

Near the dice sat a framed photograph of his mother, a nice-looking, faded woman with short, dark hair. She had survived Drake’s father by only three years. Silicosis had taken her away--the dubious gift of the air outlet tubes that blew dust from the mine where she had worked for twenty years as a bookkeeper. Not that he could ever prove the connection. Not that the company would ever admit to even a part of the responsibility. Drake sighed and wished he had something to drink. His nerves were frayed from Garibaldi’s abrasive tirade. Then he noticed his computer was blinking and realized that he had E-mail. His expression brightened. He called it up at once.

It was from Cora. Who else would write to him?

“Dear Samuel,” she wrote, “I’ve been able to do it at last! I’m coming to your famous dry dock on the next ship leaving Babylon 5. They want me to look into the oxygen-regenerating plant array we’ve set up there. I’m so excited! Imagine it, me, a Holyoke girl with a minor degree in extraterrestrial biology, getting a chance on a big job like this! Oh, my work won’t be much more than checking numbers off a clipboard--no great skill required!--but it’s a beginning!

“It will be so nice to see you again. I was greatly impressed by our talk, that time you visited B5. And your views on Earth-Martian politics and the unfairness shown by Earth people toward the Martian-born gave me a lot to think about.