A Call to Arms (9 page)

He couldn’t get a work record without working. So he did a lot of hanging out. He might have gone the way of a lot of kids. You saw them hanging out in the inner cities. Hustling, stealing, robbing stores, but mostly just hanging out. Waiting. Waiting for nothing.

But then he got his first lucky break--a job as a roustabout and beast of labor on the old
City of Birmingham
, one of the first spaceships on the Earth-lo-Europa run. All that was required was ceaseless and unremitting slave labor.

Back in those days, the roustabout was needed to do all the physical stuff, because the various skilled-labor unions didn’t permit their pilots, navigators, or even their cooks to so much as lift a garbage can if that wasn’t called for in their job descriptions.

That was all very well for the union members, but who was to do the grunt work, all the lifting and heaving, the carrying of wastes to the disposal unit, the endless stowing and restowing of the cargo? All the chores it didn’t pay to automate.

That was Anderson’s work, and one of the unwritten but very real requirements for the job was that the holder of the job be grateful for the opportunity to kill himself with overwork in only a couple of years.

Anderson didn’t like the attitudes of the people for whom he labored, but he forced himself to do what was necessary, and even to do it with enthusiasm. He earned a lifetime of experience in that job, learning to motivate himself. He lived through it, and his sheer dogged determination proved instrumental in enabling him to move up the ladder, to become a steward.

In this new position he served a lot of pilots who thought they were hotshots. He served their stuffed-shirt friends. And he waited on politicians.

William Jeshke, a senator from Kentucky, was touring to and Europa on some sort of junket. Leonard couldn’t see any valid reason for the senator to be spending so many taxpayer dollars; to him it seemed like a colossal waste.

But Jeshke must have seen something he liked in the young man, because he enjoyed expounding his views to Anderson late into the evenings, over a bottle of Kentucky corn whiskey.

Anderson stayed away from booze, figuring he had enough working against him already. And listening to Jeshke, Anderson became even more cynical. Men like Jeshke made ideals sound cheap, reduced them to tools that they used to ingratiate themselves with a gullible public.

“Son, I wish I could pour you a drink,” Jeshke said one such evening, lounging on his cot in the little stateroom that had been assigned to him aboard the
City of Birmingham
. “But booze is allowed only to passengers, not crew. Sorry about that.”

Anderson shrugged, and looked at the man curiously. Jeshke was a big, florid man with beautiful white hair and benevolent features. His face and his general bearing, calm and dignified, had gotten him into office. They had gotten him this freebie trip. They
hadn’t
earned him Anderson’s respect, however. The young steward had developed a built-in aversion to this kind of smooth operator. He knew enough to keep his opinions to himself, but his skill at dissembling hadn’t been enough to keep Jeshke from noting the undercurrent and calling him on it.

“You don’t like me, do you, son? I understand you’re in no position to talk about it, but I hereby grant you permission to say whatever’s on your mind. You will not be the loser for it.”

“I have nothing on my mind, sir,” Anderson replied, remaining stoic all the while.

“Son, I can also understand your being cautious; a man in your position has to be. But when you’ve been expressly asked to say what you think, and you refuse to do so--I don’t mean to be harsh, but that smacks to me of cowardice.”

“I’ve got a lot to lose,” Anderson noted candidly. “That’s a pretty good reason not to speak out.”

“Pure coward mentality, loud and clear, son,” Jeshke baited.

Anderson’s hands balled into fists. “Are you calling me a slave?”

“No, I’m saying you’ve got a coward mentality,” Jeshke replied without wavering. “It’s a very different thing.”

Anderson took a step forward. He looked dangerous at that moment. Though young, he was large, with a musculature that had been well-developed by endless hours of manual labor.

“I hope you ain’t thinking of striking me, son. That’s a liberty I don’t permit. But I’m still interested in your opinion of me.”

Anderson hadn’t really been planning to attack the man. He had taken the step toward Jeshke in the heat of the moment. As that anger had passed, he found it replaced by... curiosity.

“Why do you want to know what I think of you?”

“First you answer my question, then we’ll get to yours. And sit down, you look tense standing there.”

“You seem to think you know a lot about me.”

“You’re a lot like I was at your age. You think you have the whole world pegged. But you don’t, really. For example, what do you think you can tell me about people like me?”

“You’re hypocrites,” Anderson said. He had made up his mind and was rushing his words now, so they wouldn’t trip in his throat. “People like you talk about patriotism, but you’re really just looking out for number one. You claim to be serving the people, but you take handouts for trips other people can’t afford. A lot your state of Kentucky cares about what goes on on Io or Europa!”

“You got a lot of assumptions running there, son,” Jeshke said. “What makes you think any of them are true?”

“Stands to reason,” Anderson said. “Everyone knows---”

Jeshke held up a hand and interrupted him. “Saying `everyone knows’ is the same as saying no one knows. Or don’t you think so?”

Anderson wanted to argue, but he was too bright, and too honest with himself, not to realize that his generalization about Jeshke would be just as unreliable as any generalization Jeshke might make about him.

“So why
did
you come out here?” Anderson asked instead.

“To learn something and to do something.”

“What do you think you’ll learn?”

“I have to learn what it’s like out here. And I have to do this for the sake of my constituents. The people of Kentucky may not build many spaceships or even train any pilots, but they’re just as much a part of the Human race as anyone else, and if the future of mankind is out in the stars, they need to know about it, too.”

“I don’t see why.”

“You don’t have to build spaceships to have a stake in where they go and what they do once they get there.”

“But you already know all that! The television and the papers are always going on about space.”

“They still haven’t come up with a substitute for a man finding out for himself, and going back to report on what he found to his neighbors.”

Anderson discovered he had no answer for that one. After a while he said, “And what is it you’re going to do?”

“That will remain my business until I’ve done it. Unlike many politicians, I believe I know when to remain silent. Good night, son, and... thanks for stopping by. It’s been nice talking to you... Leonard Anderson?” He read the name badge on Anderson’s lapel. “I won’t forget that.”

Anderson never spoke to Jeshke again. Throughout the run to Europa, Anderson kept expecting something to happen to him. As they landed he even wondered if Jeshke might have him arrested on some trumped-up charge. After all, Jeshke had made a point of noting his name. That had to mean something. But nothing happened. Not then. Not until eight months later, when the
City of Birmingham
returned to Spaceport Newark on Earth. Soon after the ship docked, the purser gave Anderson a message. He was to report to the local military commander, whose office was located in the old castle above the heights of Fort Newark. The purser claimed he had no idea what it was about, but he indicated Anderson had better move along. And while he was at it, he might as well take along his gear.

Anderson reported as ordered, certain he was in for it now. And he was, but not as he’d imagined.

The port commander revealed that Congressman Jeshke had established a scholarship for him. If he accepted, Anderson was to report at once to the space cadet training center at Dartmouth in New Hampshire. It was like a dream and a prophecy come true. Service in EarthForce involved travel to distant worlds, worlds that all too often needed someone to save them from destruction. In those cases, someone was standing in for the diabolical Dutch boy--sometimes aliens, sometimes Humans.

Thinking about it now, he realized that the planet in need of saving was Earth. The diabolical Dutch boy had become a Drakh--and the red paint enveloping the Earth was almost certainly a legacy of death left behind by the Shadows.

That much had been revealed in his dreams, by the strange, hooded being who had contacted him. The being who called himself Galen. The being on whose word he was proceeding--against orders--to Babylon 5 and a situation he couldn’t yet truly imagine.

Ni’im the Drazi was on the second day of his visit to the small planet that circled Hennesey’s Star. He was carrying a load of rewired miniature motors to sell to the small colony there.

The colonists were a dull-eyed, apathetic bunch and suspicious of strangers. They hated buying from Ni’im on general principles. But they needed his small motors for their many farming projects. Ni’im did a good business.

He was really tired, and he needed a good night’s sleep. Getting to Hennesey’s Planet had been no piece of cake. It had been a slow, difficult, tedious job, navigating through the dense asteroid belt that surrounded Hennesey’s Star and its single planet. He got a good price for the motors. But it all made him very tired.

Ni’im went to sleep in his rented quarters and woke up on a desolate plain, with fires burning across the broken landscape. He knew at once it was a dream, but he wasn’t surprised by it. He’d been having a lot of weird and upsetting dreams of late. He was ready for this one.

“Look at it, Ni’im” Galen said, gesturing toward the ruined land. “And ponder its meaning.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Galen.”

“I know the meaning of this dream,” Ni’im said, a note of defiance in his voice.

“And that is?”

“You’re warning me to do what you tell me--or I’ll wind up in a place like this.”

“That’s an odd sort of reaction,” Galen said.

“I’ve been waiting to tell it to your face.”

“But I’ve never met you before,” Galen noted.

“Not directly, no. But you’re the one who’s been sending me the nightmares. And now you think you’ve softened me up so you can make me do what you want.”

Galen was genuinely surprised. This was not at all what he had expected. It hadn’t gone this way with the others.

Galen said, “I don’t think I’m getting through to you.”

“You’re getting through just fine,” Ni’im said. “That’s a cute trick, transporting me here. This is a dream, isn’t it? I suppose you’ve manipulated my astral body. Is that how it’s done?”

“Something like that,” Galen answered.

“It’ll do you no good. I’m on to your tricks.”

“My tricks? Who do you think I am?”

“You’re one of them.”

“One of who?”

“The enemy.”

“What enemy are you referring to?”

“The Drakh, that’s who. The only real enemy.”

“This is preposterous,” Galen said. “Look at me. Do I look like a Drakh?”

“Of course not. What would be the point of that?”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“A Drakh trying to get me to do something would of course disguise himself. For whatever reason, you’ve chosen to appear as an Earther. Though frankly, you haven’t done a very good job of it.”

“Where have I gone wrong?” Galen asked.

“The features. No Earther ever looked like you look.”

“First I ever heard of it. I don’t look like a Drakh, though, do I?”

“You look like someone trying to disguise himself in a dream as an Earther. But essence will out. I know what Earthers look like, and you’re not one of them. Lucky you didn’t try to disguise yourself as Drazi. You’d really have botched that!”

“This is crazy,” Galen said. “What could the Drakh possibly want from you?”

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Ni’im said. Galen looked disgusted. “I’ll get back to you later.”

“Take your time,” Ni’im said. “You won’t get anything out of me.”

Galen broke off the contact and sat very still for a while, frowning. He was alone in his darkened room, sitting cross-legged on the floor, illuminated by the light of a single powerglobe. He was disturbed.

His plan called for contacting four people. That was the minimum number he needed to make it work. He had selected them with care, had found just the ones he needed. His order had been aware of Sheridan ever since Galen’s teacher, Elric, had encountered him years earlier. His will made him a perfect choice.

Success seemed to be within his reach. His only problems had seemed to lie entirely with his fellow techno-mages, their reluctances, their timidity.

He hadn’t counted on difficulties among the four he needed to contact. Initial skepticism, yes. Downright refusal, no.

But he should have known that visions of the sort he dealt in inspired different reactions in different people. And the reactions of non-Humans could be more problematic still. Something to do with their internal wiring, perhaps.

The Humans hadn’t been too difficult to manipulate.

Ni’im the Drazi was something else.

Ni’im was suspicious even for a Drazi. Paranoid might be a better word for it.

Galen realized that he should have picked someone else. But now there was no time. Ni’im was essential to his plan. But how to get him to cooperate?

The
White Star
came out of the jumpgate and took up position near Babylon 5. Standing by was Captain Elizabeth Lochley, the officer in charge of Babylon 5. She was dark-haired and serious-looking, with dark, piercing eyes. Her no-nonsense appearance could not hide the fact, however, that she was a beautiful woman, though she seemed more than a little uncomfortable with that.

She had come to Bay 17 in response to the message from the
White Star
, announcing the arrival of President Sheridan and Mr. Garibaldi. They were requesting an urgent meeting.