A Call to Arms (13 page)

“Captain. So you were drawn here, same as I was.”

“Yes, sir,” he answered. “It’s good to meet somebody who won’t think I’m crazy if I say `the man in my dreams told me to find you.’ “

“If you’re crazy,” Sheridan said, “then we’re both crazy.”

Just then the door opened and Dureena walked in, somewhat warily, but defiantly nonetheless.

Sheridan turned to her with a smile. “Ah, good. Dureena Nafeel, this is Captain Anderson. I’m President John Sheridan, and we--”

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Dureena dived for him with a wild yell. They both went down in a tumble of limbs. Anderson and the guards quickly jumped into the fray, helping peel her off Sheridan, who got to his feet.

“Let go! I said let go!” Anderson said to Dureena, who was still struggling, even as Sheridan got to his feet. “What’s the hell’s the matter with you?”

Dureena shouted at Sheridan, “My world is dead! My people, my family, they’re all dead... And it’s your fault!”

When you’re running one of the ten biggest corporations on Mars, you have a lot of paperwork with which to contend.

Michael Garibaldi didn’t like paperwork.

Lochley had given him an office on Babylon 5, and Garibaldi had papers strewn everywhere. Although he had only been using it briefly, the place was already a mess. There were papers in transparent folders stacked on the filing cabinet, and papers in colored cardboard folders covering his desk. There were stacks of memos marked URGENT--ANSWER IMMEDIATELY. There was a list of messages, all to be answered yesterday. There were more papers stacked on the floor. These were the slightly less urgent ones.

Garibaldi sat at a desk in the middle of it all, tapping a pencil against his teeth, seething. Usually he found it exhilarating, running Edgars Industries. He had taken over the position following William Edgars’ death. At about the same time, he had married Edgars’ widow, Lise, who had been Garibaldi’s own true love before the booze and misunderstandings had driven them apart.

He and Lise had a daughter now. Mary was six months old, and she was the light in Garibaldi’s eyes. And he had this pharmaceuticals company, to use not just for profit but as Edgars had used it, to further projects he considered important.
Unlike
Edgars, Garibaldi was partial to projects that yielded benefits to mankind.

Edgars had been funding a lot of black projects, shady investments that were often more trouble than the daily cutthroat operation of the company. They required a great deal of ongoing attention, as did many aspects of cleaning up the mess in which Edgars’ untimely death had left the company.

In spite of this, Garibaldi enjoyed what he was doing. Right now, however, his attention was scattered.

He got up and paced up and down the office. He looked at the papers again. No, he just couldn’t concentrate. There was something on his mind and he just had to get rid of it.

He buzzed an assistant on the intercom. “Where’s Lochley?”

“She’s in her office. I believe she’s very busy right about now.”

“No problem,” Garibaldi said. He strode purposefully out of his office, past the startled aide, and down the corridor. He came to Lochley’s office door. There was a guard outside, who started to say, “The captain is busy right now---“

“She’s about to become busier,” Garibaldi said, as he pushed past the man and went on in.

Sitting behind her desk, Lochley looked mildly startled when Garibaldi burst in. Then she realized who it was, and surprise was replaced by irritation.

“Don’t you ever announce yourself?”

“Not when I’m in a hurry,” he answered, barely registering her retort. “Look, I got something on my mind, and I gotta say it.”

She eyed him levelly. Arguing, of course, would be futile. “If you gotta say it, you gotta say it. Would you like a coffee?”

“I’m wired enough as it is.”

“Then what’s bothering you?”

“Sheridan. Do you think he’s losing it?”

“I don’t know,” Lochley said, serious now. “I mean, on the one hand, two of the pictures he gave us panned out. On the other hand, it could be random chance. The only thing I do know is that he’s not behaving rationally. It’s almost as if he’s acting under some kind of outside influence.”

“Could be,” Garibaldi said. “All this started after he got a signal that was supposedly from Delenn. The signal was a mess. I figured it got scrambled en route, but it
could
have been a coded message, downloaded directly into his brain somehow.”

“Well, there don’t seem to be a lot of choices,” Lochley said. “Either something really is happening, or someone is making him believe it is, in order to... what? Discredit him and the Alliance?”

“Maybe,” Garibaldi said. “All we can do for now is keep an eye on him. If he’s right, we need to be there to help him. If he’s wrong, we may have to intervene before someone gets hurt.” He turned and left as abruptly as he had arrived.

An idea had occurred to him, one he didn’t feel he could share, not even with Lochley. He knew somebody he could talk to about this--someone who might be able to make some sense out of it all.

Shortly thereafter, Garibaldi seated himself in Dr. Irwin Meyer’s study in Babylon 5’s infirmary and tried to look as if he weren’t worried.

He hated sick bays, hospitals, dentists’ waiting rooms, and everything else connected with disease and dysfunction. He distrusted doctors on general principle, and he
really
distrusted psychologists, psychiatrists, psychoanalysts, psychotherapists, and anyone in the shrink profession, no matter what name they went by.

His distrust of psychologists stemmed in part from his drinking years, when they had always had something to say that made a man feel small, that had made him feel as though he had given in to some great weakness. The fact that he was here to consult one of those people didn’t make him happy, but what else was there for him to do? The matter had gotten serious, and he was in need of an expert opinion, or what passed for one on Babylon 5.

A student nurse opened the door and looked in. “Dr. Meyer will be with you in just a moment.”

“Swell,” Garibaldi said, hating her bright, perky face. He looked at his fingernails and glowered at them. Right now, not even his fingernails looked normal. Somehow they appeared--neurotic.

The door opened again and a large, balding, round-faced man with a bristling salt-and-pepper mustache came in. Dr. Meyer was wearing a white coat, and his necktie was pulled loose. He gave an appearance of slightly vague erudition. Garibaldi hated him on sight.

“Mr. Garibaldi! Sorry to keep you waiting. Just had an appointment to clear up.”

“Nothing serious, I hope,” Garibaldi said politely.

“Just paranoid delusions. Run-of-the-mill sort of thing around here. I gave him a shot of triparafane and told him to get a good night’s sleep. Now then, what can I do for you, Mr. Garibaldi?”

“For me? Nothing,” Garibaldi said. “I’m fine, just fine. I came to see you about someone else.”

“And who might that be?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“I see,” Dr. Meyer said, making a notation on a little pad. “And could this person in question not come himself? “

“He isn’t aware that he has a problem,” Garibaldi said. “In fact, I’m not completely sure he has one, either. That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

“I see,” Meyer said, and he hummed under his breath as he made another note. “Might this person under discussion be an employee of yours?”

“He might,” Garibaldi said. “And he might not.”

“Might he be someone in a position superior to you?”

“That’s also a possibility.”

“Hmm “ By this time he was writing furiously. “You don’t give me a lot to go on.”

Meyer continued writing until he found that he couldn’t move his fountain pen. That was because one of Garibaldi’s hands had closed gently but firmly over it. Meyer looked up, startled.

Garibaldi said, in a gentle, carefully modulated voice, “Dr. Meyer, when you asked Edgars Industries to sponsor your application to Babylon 5 so you could conduct psychological studies here, did you happen to notice the signature of the person who approved you?”

Meyer blinked. “No. I can’t say that I did.”

“It was mine,” Garibaldi said.

Meyer blinked again. “That was very good of you. These studies of people in space, under unusual forms of stress, are of great importance to the body of psychological knowledge.”

“And even more important to the career of a certain Dr. Irwin Meyer,” Garibaldi said. “Or am I wrong about that, Doc?”

“No,” Meyer said slowly, reading the tension in Garibaldi’s voice and reacting to it cautiously. “These studies, no matter what their result, will serve to enhance my professional standing. But there’s nothing wrong in that, is there?”

“Nothing at all,” Garibaldi said. “So we
could
say that it would do you no particular good if your study was prematurely terminated, like, by the middle of next week, and you were sent back home with your tail between your legs. Psychologically speaking, of course.”

This time Meyer just stared at him.

“But of course,” Garibaldi said, “for all I know, it wouldn’t mean anything to you.”

“I would prefer to stay,” Meyer said slowly. “I would very much prefer to stay. Mr. Garibaldi, if I have offended you in some way---”

“Now we’re getting down to it,” Garibaldi said. “No, Dr. Meyer, you haven’t offended me. Not yet. And I hope that, as our little conversation continues, you will continue to not offend me with a bunch of stupid questions that have nothing to do with what I’ve come here to find out from you.” Meyer might have been a touch pompous, but he was not stupid. He said, “Let’s start over again. How may I help you, Mr. Garibaldi?”

“That’s more like it,” Garibaldi responded, almost cheerfully. “I’m here to get your opinion on someone I know. Someone whose sanity I have reason to question. This someone’s name, rank, and serial number must remain strictly confidential, and will not be revealed, even to you. Just hear what I have to say and let me have your best guess. Okay?”

“Perfectly satisfactory,” Meyer said. “Hypothetical surmises are not outside the province of the psychological sciences.”

“I’m sure glad to hear that,” Garibaldi said. “That takes a load off my mind.

“This individual I’m talking about has been having a series of weird dreams. He doesn’t want to talk about them, but at least he’s let me know he’s having them. Doctor, there’s no need for you to write this down.”

“Oh, sorry,” Meyer said, quickly capping his fountain pen. “Dreams, eh? Psychology still has a way to go to be able to claim a complete understanding of dreams---”

“No kiddin’,” Garibaldi said. “Okay, look, this guy can dream whatever he wants, as far as I’m concerned. Dreams are a man’s own business, right? But what bothers me is when this guy starts making decisions based on those dreams.”

Meyer nodded. “In the ancient world, dreams were frequently considered portents, and acted on---”

“I’m talking about here and now,” Garibaldi interrupted. “So kindly save the historical survey for your students. This officer--I guess it’s okay if you know it’s an officer--has recently made a decision affecting--Christ, you’ve got me talking like you--this officer has recently sent an expensive piece of machinery on an unauthorized and incomprehensible mission involving a lot of people to a place he had no intention of visiting before he had the dream. He’s using up valuable time having people search for other people he’s seen only in his dreams. He has a real sense of urgency about all this, acts like the sky will fall down if everything he says isn’t acted on faster than quickly.

“What I’m worried about is, he’s apt to make more decisions based on data he alone knows, because it came to him in dreams. That’s the situation, or as much of it as I can reveal to you at present. Hell, that’s all I know.”

“I see,” Meyer said. “And your question?”

Garibaldi stared at Meyer for a long time. Meyer fidgeted, uncomfortable under that baleful gaze.

After a while, Garibaldi said, “You know, it can be good to talk to someone about your problems sometimes. I didn’t know what my question even was until you asked me. I thought I was going to ask you something completely different. Now I know what I really want to ask.”

“And that is?”

“Do you think there’s some chance that this man, whose hunches have so often proven correct in the past, might be on to something, despite the craziness of his behavior?”

“Hmm,” Meyer said

“You can say that again,” Garibaldi responded, getting to his feet. “The question is, `What do
you
think, Mr. Garibaldi?’ And my answer to that is, `I think that, in terms of his record and his years of service to the great causes of mankind, this guy ought to be given a chance to prove himself”‘

“That’s your considered opinion, is it, Mr. Garibaldi?”

“It is, and thanks a lot, Doc, for making it clear to me.”

Garibaldi stood up, shook the doctor’s hand. “Needless to say, this conversation is not to be repeated to anyone, and certainly not to be written down in any form, not even in your diary--if you keep one. Understood?”

“Understood,” Meyer said.

“Then I’ll be on my way,” Garibaldi said, “and thanks again. Maybe you psychological types aren’t as weird as people say. You’ve got a lot of common sense, despite your somewhat unfortunate manners.”

Meyer sat at his desk for several minutes after Garibaldi left. At last he said, to no one in particular, “And you military types have more psychology than I for one would have credited.”

Then he got up and went back to his scientific studies, having given enough advice to the perplexed for one day.

Dureena was seated now, and quiet, though it had required two guards to tie her arms to the chair. Sheridan pulled over a chair and sat down in front of her as the guards left. The only other person in the room, Anderson, remained standing.

“I don’t understand,” Sheridan said to her. “Why did you say I killed your world? There was a war, and both sides---”