The skies were clear for the morning, only a few fleecy puffs overhead and a line of them marshaling themselves across the northern horizon, beyond the river. It was a long view; it usually needed a day and a half for the horizon clouds to come down to Babylon 4 base, and they planned to take advantage of that break, patching the washout which had cut them off from base four and all the further camps down the chain. It was, they hoped, the last of the storms of winter. The buds on the trees were swelling to bursting, and the grain sprouts, crowded by flood against the crossed-beam lattices in the fields; would soon want thinning and transplanting to their permanent beds. Main base would be the first to dry out; and then the bases downriver. The river was some bit lower today, so the report came in from the mill.821Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeXXJUlvD7c
Sergio saw the supply crawler off on its way down the muddy road downriver, and turned his back, walked the slow, well-trampled way toward higher ground and the domes sunk in the hills, domes which had gotten to be twice as numerous as before, not to mention those that had transferred down the road. Compressors thunked along out of rhythm, the unending pulse of humanity on Babylon 4. Pumps labored, adding to the thumping, belching out the water which had seeped into the domes despite their best efforts to waterproof the floors, more pumps working down by the mill dikes and over by the fields. They would not cease until the logs in the fields stood clear.
821Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMrL9O47hZL
Spring! Probably the air smelled delightful to a native. Humans had little impression of it, breathing in wet hisses and stops through the masks. Sergio found the sun pleasant on his back, enjoying that much of the day. Downers skipped about, carrying out their tasks with less address than exuberance, would rather make ten scurrying trips with a handful than one uncomfortable, laden passage to anywhere. They laughed, dropped what light loads they bore to play pranks on any excuse. He was frankly surprised that they were still at work with spring coming on so in earnest. The first clear night they had kept all the camp awake with their chatter, their happy pointing at the starry heavens and talking to the stars; the first clear dawn they had waved their arms to the rising sun and shouted and cheered for the coming light----but humans had gone about with a brighter mood that day too, with the first clear sign of winter's ending. Now it was markedly warmer. The females had turned smugly alluring and the males had turned giddy; there was a good deal of what might be Downer signing from the thickets and the budding trees on the hills, trills and chatter and whistles soft and sultry.
It was not as giddy as it would get when the trees sprang into full bloom. There would come a time that the narn would lose all interest in work, would set off on their wanderings, females first and solitary, and the males doggedly following, to places where humans did not intrude. A good number of the third-season females would spend the summer getting rounder and rounder----at least as round as the wiry narn became---to give birth in winter, snugged away in hillside tunnels, little mites all limbs and ruddy baby fur, who would be scampering about on their own in the next spring, what little humans saw of them.
He passed the narn games, walked up the crushed rock path way to Operations, the dome highest on the hill. His ears picked up a crunching on the rocks behind him, and he looked back to find Satin limping along in his wake, arms out for balance, bare feet on sharp stones and her imp's face screwed up in pain from the path designed for human boots. He grinned at the imitation of his strides. She stood and grinned at him, unusually splendid in soft pelts, beads and a red rag of synthetic cloth.
"Shuttle comes, Garibaldi-man."
It was so. There was a landing due on this clear day. He had promised her, despite good sense, despite axioms that world-synched pairs were unstable in the spring season, that she and her mate might work a term on-station. If there was a Downer who had staggered about under too-heavy loads, it was Satin. She had tried desperately to impress him----See, Garibaldi-man, I work good.
"Packed to go," he observed of her. She displayed the several small bags of no-knowing-what which she had hung about her person, patted them and grinned delightedly.
"I packed." And then her face went sad, and she held out her open arms. "come love you Garibaldi-man, you and you friend."
Wife. The narn had never figured out husband and wife. "Come in," he bade her, touched by such a gesture. Her eyes lit with pleasure. Downers were discouraged, even from the vicinity of the Operations dome. It was very rare that one was invited inside. He walked down the wooden steps, wiped his boots on the matting, held the door for her and waited for her to adjust her own breather from about her neck before he opened the inner seal.
A few working humans looked up and stared, some frowning at the presence, went back to their jobs. A number of the techs had offices in the dome, divided off by low wicker screens; the are he shared with Thihomer was farthest back, where the only solid wall in the great dome afforded him and Thihomer private residential space, a ten-foot section with a woven mat floor, sleeping quarters and office at once. He opened that door beside the lockers and Satin followed him in, staring about her as if she could not absorb the half of what she saw. Not used to roofs, he thought, imagining how great a change it was going to be for a Downer suddenly shipped to station. No winds, no sun, only steel about, poor Satin.
"Well," Thihomer exclaimed, looking up form the spread of charts on their bed.
"Love you," Satin said, and came with absolute confidence, embraced Thihomer, hugged her cheek-to-cheek around the obstacle of the breather.
"You're going away," said Thihomer.
"Go to you home," she said. "See Romero home." She hesitated, folded hands diffidently behind her, bobbed a little, looking fro one to the other of them. "Love Romero-man. See he home. Fill up eyes he home. Make warm, warm we eyes."
Sometimes Downer talk made little sense; sometimes meaning shot through the babble with amazing clarity. Sergio gazed on her with somewhat of guilt, that for as long as they had dealt with Downers, there was none of them who could manage more than a few of the chattering Downer words. Romero had been best at it.
The narn loved gifts. He thought of one, on the shelf by the bed, a shell he'd found by the riverside. He got it and gave it to her and her dark eyes shone. She flung her arms about him.
"Love you," she announced.
"Love you too," Satin," he told her. And he put his arms around her shoulder, walked her out through the outer offices to the lock, set her through. Beyond the plastic she opened the outer door, took her mask off and grinned at him, waved her hand.
"I go work," she told him. The shuttle was due. A human worker would not have been working on the day he was leaving assignment; but Satin headed away with a slam of the flimsy door and anxious enthusiasm, as if at this late date someone's mind could be changed.
Or maybe it was unfair to attach her to any human motives. Perhaps it was joy, or gratitude. Downers understood no wages; gifts, they said.
Cliff Romero had understood them. The Downers tended that grave. Laid shells there, perfect ones, skins, set up the strange knobby sculptures that meant something important to them.
He turned, walked back through the operations center, to his own quarters and Thihomer. He took off his jacket, hung it on the peg, his breather still about his neck, an ornament they all wore from the time clothing went on in the morning till it went off at night.
"Got the weather report from station," Thihomer said. "We're going to catch it again in a day or so after the next one hits us. There's a big storm brewing out to sea."
He swore; so much for the hopes of spring. She made a place for him among the charts on the bed and he sat down and looked at the damages she had red-penciled, flood areas stations was able to show them, down the long chains of beads which were the camps they had established, along unpaved, hand-hacked roads.
"Oh, it's going to get worse," Thihomer said, showing him the topographical chart. "Comp projects enough rain with this one to get us flood in the blue zones again. Right up to base two's doorstep. But for most of the roadbed should he above the floodline."
Sergio scowled, expelled a soft breath. "We'll hope." The road was the important thing; the fields would flood for weeks more without harm except to their schedules. Local grains thrived on the water, depended on it in the initial stages of their natural cycles. The lattices kept young plants from going downriver. It was human machinery and human tempers which suffered most. "Downers have the right idea," he said. "Give up during the winter rains, wander off when the trees bloom, make love, nest high and wait for the grain to ripen."
Thihomer grinned, still making her charts.
He sighed, unregarded, pulled over the slab of plastic which served him as a writing desk and started making out personnel assignments, rearranging priorities with the equipment. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps if he pleaded with the Downers, arranged some special gifts, they would hang on a little longer before their seasonal desertion. He regretted losing Satin and Wii; the pair of them had been of enormous help, persuading their fellows in outright argument when it came to something their Garibaldi-man wanted very badly. But that went both ways: Satin and Wii wanted to go; They wanted something now in his power to give, and it was their time to have their way, before their spring came on them and they passed all self-control.
They were dispersing old hands and trainees and Q assignees down the road to each of the new bases, trying to keep proportions which would not leave staff vulnerable to riot; trying to make the Q folk into workers, against their belief that they were being used; tried to work with morale---it was the willing ones they moved out, and the surliest main base had to keep, in that one huge dome, many times enlarged and patched onto until dome was a misnomer----it spread irregularly over the next hill, a constant difficulty to them. Human workers occupied the several domes next; choice ones, comfortable ones---they were always reluctant to be transferred out to more primitive conditions at the wells or the new camps, alone with the forest and the floods and Q and strange narn.
Communication was always the problem. They were linked by com; but it was still lonely out there. Ideally they wanted aircraft links; but the one flimsy aircraft they had built some years ago had crashed on the landing field two years ago.....light aircraft and Babylon 4's storms didn't agree. Hacking a landing site for shuttles---that was on the schedule, at least for Base 3, but the cutting of trees had to be worked out with the Downers, and that was touchy. With the tech level they managed onworld, crawlers were still the most efficient way of getting around, patient and slow, just like the pace of life had always been on Babylon 4. Petrol and grains, wood and winter vegetables, dried fish, an experiment in domesticating the knee-high veski, which Downers hunted....(You bad, Downers had declared in the matter, make they warm in you camp and you eat, no good this thing. But Downers at base one had become herders, and they had all learned to eat domestic meat. Allen had ordered it, and this was one Allen project that had worked well.) Humans on Babylon 4 fared well enough equipped and fed and themselves and station, even with the influx they'd gotten. That was no small task. The manufacturies up on station and the manufacturies here on Babylon4 were working round the clock. Self-sufficiency, to duplicate every item they normally imported, to fill every quota not alone for themselves but for the overburdened station, and to stockpile what they could----it was all failing into their laps here on Babylon 4, the excess population, the burden of station-bred people, their own and refugees, who had never set food on a world. They could no longer depend on the trade which had once woven Mariner and Voyager, Pan-Venice, Athens 12, and Aeon Terminal and Asgard and others into a Great Circle of their own, supplying each others' needs. None of the other stations could have gone it alone; none had the living world it took---a living world and hands to manage it. There were plans on the drawing board now, the first crews moved to go for the onworld mining they'd long delayed, duplicating materials already available in Babylon system at large-----just in case things got worse than anyone wanted to think. They would got massive new programs underway this summer, when Downers were receptive to approach again; get it well moving in fall, when the Downers hit their working season, when cool winds made them think of winter again and they seemed never to rest, working for humans and working to carry soft mosses into their tunnels in the wooded hills.
Babylon 4 was due to change. Its human population had quadrupled. He mourned it: Thihomer did. They'd gridded off areas already----Thihomer's ever-present charts---places where no human had any business being, the beautiful places, the sites they knew for holy and the places vital to the cycles of narn and wild things alike.
Ram it through council in their own generation, even this year, before the pressures mounted. Set up protections for the things which had to endure. The pressure was already with them. Scars were already upon the land, the smoke of the mill, the stumps of trees, the ugly domes and fields imposed on the riverside and being hacked out all along the muddy roads. They had wanted to beautify it as they went, make gardens, camouflage roads and domes----and that chance was gone.
They would not, he and Thihomer were resolved together, would not let more damage happen. They loved Babylon 4, the best and the worst of it, the maddening narn and the violence of the storms. There was always the station for human refuge; antiseptic corridors and soft furniture were always waiting. But Thihomer thrived here as he did; they made pleasant love at night with the rain pattering away on the plastic dome, with the compressors thumping away in the dark and Babylon 4's night creatures singing madly just outside. They enjoyed the changes the sky made hour by hour, and the sound of the wind in the grass and the forest about them, laughed at Downer pranks and ruled the whole world, with power to solve everything but the weather.
They missed home, missed family and that different, wider world; but they talked otherwise---had talked even of building a dome to themselves, in their spare time, in years to come, when homes could be built here, a hope which had been closer a year or so ago, when the Babylon 4 establishment had been quiet and easy, before Winters and the others had come, before Q.
Now they just figured out to survive at the level at which they were living. Moved population about under guard for fear of what that population might try to do. Opened new bases at the most primitive level, ill-prepared. Tried to care for the land and the Downers at once, and to pretend that nothing was wrong on the station.
He finished the assignments, walked out and handed them to the dispatcher. Anton, who was also accountant and comp man---they all did a multitude of jobs. he walked back again into his bedroom office, surveyed Thihomer and her lapful of charts. "You want lunch?" he asked. He reckoned on going to the mill in the afternoon, hoped now for a quiet cup of coffee and first access to the microwave which was the dome's other luxury of rank----time to sit and relax.
"I'm almost done," she said.
A bell rang, three sharp pulses, disarranging the day. The shuttle was coming in early; he had assumed for the evening slot. He shook his head. "There's still time for lunch," he said.
The shuttle was down before they were done. Everyone in Operations had come to the same conclusion, and the dispatcher, Anton, directed things between bites of sandwich. It was a hard day for everyone.
Sergio swallowed the last bite, drank the last of his coffee and gathered up his jacket. Thihomer was putting hers on.
"We got us some more Q types," Brett Anton said from the dispatch desk; and a moment later, loudly enough to carry through all the dome: "Two hundred of them. They've got 'em jammed in that frigging hold like sardines. Shuttle, what are we supposed to do then?"
The answer crackled back, garble and a few intelligible words. Sergio shook his head in exasperation and walked over to lean above Brett Anton. "Advise Q dome they're going to have to accept some crowding until we can make some more transfers down the road."
"Most of Q is home at lunch," Anton reminded him. As policy, they avoided announcements when all of Q was gathered. They were inclined to irrational hysteria. "Do it," he told Anton, and Anton relayed the information.
Sergio pulled the breather up and started out, Thihomer close behind him.
* * * * * *
The biggest shuttle had come down, disgorging the few items of supply they had requested from station. Most of the goods flowed in the opposite direction, canisters of Babylon 4 products waiting in the warehouse domes to be loaded and taken up to Babylon 5.
The first of the passengers descended down the ramp as they reached the landing circle beyond the hill, crushed-looking in coveralls, who had been frightened to death in transfer, jammed into a cargo hold in greater number than should have been---certainly in greater number than they needed on Babylon 4 all at one time. There were a few more prosperous-looking volunteers---losers in the lottery process; they walked aside. But guards off the shuttle waited with rifles to herd the Q assignees into a group. There were old people with them, and a dozen young children at least, families and fragments of families, if it held to form, all such folk as did not survive well in stationed quarantine. Humanitarian transfer. People like this took up space and used a compressor, and by their classification could not be trusted near the lighter jobs, those tasks involving critical machinery. They had to be assigned manual labor, such of it as they could bear. And the kids----at least there were none too young to work, or too young to understand about wearing the breathers or how to change a breather cylinder in a hurry.
"So many fragile ones," Thihomer said. "What does your father think we are down here?"
He shrugged. "Better than Q Upabove. I suppose. Easier. I hope these new compressors are in the load; and the plastic sheeting."
"I'll bet they're not," Thihomer said dourly.
There was a shrieking from over the hill towards base and the domes. Downer screeches, not an uncommon thing; he looked over his shoulder and saw nothing, and paid it no mind. The disembarking refugees had stopped at the sound. Staff moved them on.
The shrieking kept up. That wasn't normal. He turned, and Thihomer did. "Stay here," he said, "and keep a hand on matters."
He started running up the path over the hill, dizzy at once with the breather's limitations. He crested the rise and the domes came into sight, and there was in front of the huge Q dome, what had the look of a fight, a ring of Downers enclosing a human disturbance, more and more Q folk boiling out of the dome. He sucked air and ran all out, and one of the Downers broke from the group below, came running with all-out haste.....Satin's Wii; he knew the fellow by the color of him, which was uncommonly red-brown for an adult. "Allen-man," Wii hissed, falling in by him as he ran, bobbing and dancing in his anxiety. "Allen-mans all mad."
That took no translation. He knew the game when he saw the guards there-----Gavin Johnson and crew, the field supervisors; there was a knot of shouting Q folk and the guards had guns leveled. Johnson and his men had gotten one youth away from the group, ripped his breather off so that he was choking, would stop breathing if it kept up. They held the fainting boy among them as hostage, a gun on him, holding rifles on the others, and the Q folk and the Downers on the edges were screaming.
"Stop that!" Sergio shouted. "Break it up!" No one regarded him, and he waded in alone, Wii hanging back from him. He pushed men with rifles and had to push more than once, realizing all at once that he had no gun, that he was bare-handed and alone and that there were no witnesses but Downers and Q.
They gave ground. He snatched the boy from those who held him and the boy collapsed to the ground; he knelt down, feeling his own back naked, picked up the breather that lay there and got it over the boy's face, pressed it there. Some of the Q folk tried to close in and one of Johnson's men fired at their feet.
"No more of that!" Sergio shouted. He stood up, shaking in every muscle, staring at the several score Q workers outside, at others still jammed by their own numbers within the dome. At ten armed men who had rifles leveled. He was shaking in every muscle, thinking of riot, of Thihomer just over the hill, of having them close in on him. "Back up," he yelled at Q. "Ease off!" And rounded on Gavin Johnson----young, sullen and insolent. "What happened here?"
"Tried to escape," Johnson said. "Mask fell off in the fight. Tried to get a gun."
"That's a lie!" the Q folk shouted in a babble of variants, and tried to drown Johnson's voice.
"Truth," Johnson said. "They don't want more refugees in their dome. A fight started this and this troublemaker tried to bolt. We caught him."
There was a chorus of protest from the Q folk. A woman in the fore was crying.
Sergio looked about him, having difficulty with his own breathing. At his feet the boy had seemed to come to, writing and coughing. The Downers clustered together, their dark eyes solemn.
"Wii," he said, "what happened?"
Wii's eyes shifted to Gavin Johnson's man. No more than that.
"Me eyes see," said another voice. Satin strode through, braced herself with several bobs of distress. Her voice was high-pitched, brittle. "Johnson push he friend, hard with gun. Bad push she."
There were shouts from Johnson's side, derision; shouts from the Q side. He yelled for quiet. It was not a lie. He knew Downers and he knew Johnson. It wasn't a lie. "They took his breather?"
"Take," Satin said, and clamped her mouth firmly shut. Her eyes showed fear.
"All right." Sergio sucked in a deep breath, looked directly at Gavin Johnson's hard face. "We'd better continue this discussion in my office."
"We talk right here," Johnson said. He had his crowd about him. His advantage, Sergio matched him stare for stare; it was all he could do, with no weapons and no forces to back him. "Downer's word," Johnson said, "isn't testimony. You don't insult me on any Downer's word, Mr. Garibaldi, no sir."
He could walk away, back down. Surely Operations and the regular workers could see what was going on. Maybe they had looked out from their domes and preferred not to see. Accidents could happen, in this place, even to a Garibaldi. For a long time the authority on Babylon 4 had been Zack Allen and his hand-picked men. He could walk away, maybe reach Operations, call help for himself from the shuttle, if Johnson, call help for himself from the shuttle, if Johnson let him; and it would be told for the rest of his life how Sergio Garibaldi handled threats. "You pack," he said softly, "and you be on that shuttle when it leaves. All of you!"
"On a Downer bitch's word?" Johnson lost his dignity, chose to shout. He could afford to. Some of the rifles turned his way.
"Get out," Sergio said, "on my word. Be on that shuttle. Your tour here is over."
He saw Johnson's tension, the shift of eyes. Someone did move. A rifle went off, sizzled into the mud. One of the Q men had struck it down. There was a second when it looked like riot.
"Out!" Sergio repeated. Suddenly the balance of power was shifted. Young workers were to the fore of Q, and their own gang boss, Nuri. Johnson shifted eyes left and right, remeasured things, finally gave a curt nod to his companions. They moved out. Sergio stood watching them in their swaggering retreat to the common barracks, even yet not believing that trouble was over. Beside him, Wii let out a long hiss, and Satin made a spitting sound. His own muscles were quivering with the fight that had not happened. He heard a sigh of air, the dome sagging as the rest of Q surged out, all three hundred of them, breaching their lock wide open. He looked at them, breaching their lock wide open. He looked at them, alone with them. "You take those new transfers into your dome and you take them in without bickering and without argument. We'll make new diggings; you will and they will, quick as possible. You want them to sleep in the open? Don't you give me any crap about it."
"Yes, sir," Nuri answered after a moment. The woman who'd been crying edged forward. Sergio stepped back and she bent down to help the stricken boy, who was struggling to sit up: mother, he reckoned. Others came and helped the boy up. There was a good deal of commotion about it.
Sergio grasped the youth's arm. "Want you in for a medical," he said. "Two of you take him over to Operations."
They hesitated. Guards were supposed to escort them. There were no guards, he realized in that instant. He had just ordered all the security forces in the main base offworld.
"Go on inside," he said to the rest. "Get that dome normalized; I'll talk to you about it later." And while he had their attention: "Look around you. There's all of a world here, blast you all. Give us help. Talk to me if there's some complaint. I'll see you get access. We're all crowded here. All of us. Come look at my quarters if you disagree; I'll give some of you the tour if you won't take my word for it. We live like this because we're building. Help us build, and it can be good here, for all us."
Frightened eyes stared back at him----no belief. They had come in on overcrowded, dying ships; had been in Q on-station; lived here, in mud and close quarters, moved about under guns. He let go his breath and his anger.
"Go on," he said. "Break it the hell up. Get about your business. Make room for these poor people."
They moved, the boy and a couple of the young men towards Operations, the rest back into their dome. The flimsy doors closed in sequence this time, locking them through, group after group, until all were gone, and the deflated dome crest began to lose some of its wrinkles as the air compressor thumped away.
There was a soft chattering, a bobbing of bodies. The Downers were still with him. He put out has hand and touched Wii. The Downer touched his hand in turn, a calloused brush of flesh, bobbed several times in the residue of excitement. At his other side stood Satin, arms clenched about her, her dark eyes darker still, and wide.
All about him, Downers, with that same disturbed look. Human quarrel, violence, alien to them. Downers would strike in a moment's anger, but only to sting. He'd never seen them quarrel in groups, had never seen weapons----their knives were only tools and hunting implements. They killed only game. What did they think, he wondered, what did they imagine at such a sight, humans turning guns on each other.
"We go Upabove," Satin said.
"Yes," he agreed. "You still go. It was good, Satin, Wii, all of you, it was good you came to tell me."
There was a general bobbing, expressions of relief among all the narn, as if they had not been sure. The thought occurred to him that he had ordered Johnson and his men off on that same shuttle----that human spite might still make things uncomfortable.
"I'll talk to the man in charge of that ship," he told them. "You and Johnson will be in different sections of the ship. No trouble for you, I promise.
"Good-good-good," Satin breathed, and hugged him. He stroked her shoulder, turned and received an embrace from Wii as well, patted his rougher pelt. He left them and started toward the crest of the hill, on the track to the landing site, and stopped at the sight of several figures standing there.
Thihomer. Two others. All had rifles. He felt a sudden surge of relief to think he had someone at his back after all. He waved his hand that it was okay, hastened toward them. Thihomer came quickest, and he hugged her. Thihomer's two companions caught up, two guards off the shuttle. "I'm sending some personnel with you," he said to them. "Discharged, and I'm filing charges. I don't want them around. I'm also sending up some Downers, and I don't want the two groups near one another, not at any time."
"Yes, sir." The two guards were blank of comment, objecting to nothing.
"You can go back," he said. "Start moving the assignees this way; it's all right."
They went about their orders. Thihomer kept the rifle she'd borrowed of someone, stood against his side, her arm tight about him, his about her.
"Johnson's lot," he said. "I'm packing them all off."
"That leaves us without guards."
"Q wasn't the trouble. I'm calling station about this one." His stomach tightened, reaction beginning to settle on him. "I guess they saw you on the ridge. Maybe that changed their minds."
"Station's got a crisis alert. I thought sure it was Q. Shuttle called station central."
"Better get to Operations then cancel it." He drew her about; they walked down the slope in the direction of the dome. His knees were like water.
"I wasn't up there," she said.
"Where?"
"On the ridge. By the time we arrived up there, there were just Downers, and Q."
He swore, marveling then that he had won that bluff. "We're well rid of Gavin Johnson," he said.
They reached the trough among the hills, walked the bridge over the water houses and up again, across to Operations. Inside, the boy was submitting to the medic's attention and a pair of techs was standing armed with pistols, keeping a nervous watch on the Q folk who had brought him in. Sergio motioned a negative to them. They cautiously put them away, looked unhappily with the whole situation.
Carefully neutral, Sergio thought. They would have gone with any winner of the quarrel out there, no help to him. He wasn't angry for it, just disappointed.
"You all right, sir?" Brett Anton asked.
He nodded, stood, watching, with Thihomer beside him, "Call station," he said after a moment. "Report it settled."
They nestled in together, in the dark space humans had found for them, in the great empty belly of the ship, a place which echoed fearfully with machinery. They had to use the breathers, first of what might be many discomforts. They tied themselves to the handholds, as humans had warned them they must, to be safe, and Satin hugged Wii-G'Kar, hating the feel of the place and the cold and the discomfort of the breathers and most of all fearing because they were told that they must tie themselves for safety. She had not thought of ships in terms of wall, and roofs, which frightened her. Never had she imagined the flight of the ships as something so violent they might be dashed to death, but as something free as the soaring birds, grand and delirious. She shivered with her back against the cushions humans had given them, shivered and tried to cease, felt Wii shiver too.
"We could go back," he said, for this was not of his choosing.
She said nothing, clamped her jaw against the urge to cry that yes, they should, that they should call the humans and tell them that two very small, very unhappy Downers had changed their minds.
Then there was the sound of the engines. She knew what that was----had heard it often. Felt it now, a terror to her bones.
"We will see great Sun," she said, now that it was irrevocable. "We will see Romero's home."
Wii held her tighter. "Romero," he repeated, a name which comforted them both. Romero Cliff."
"We will see the spirit-image of the Upabove," she said.
"We will see the Sun." There was a great weight on them, a sense of moving, of being crushed at once. His grip hurt her; she held to him no less tightly. The thought came to her that they might be crushed unnoticed by the great power which humans endured; that maybe humans forgotten them here in the deep dark of the ship. But no. Downers can and went; narn survived this great force and flew, and saw all the wonders which inhabited the Upabove, walked where they might look down on the stars and looked into the face of the great Sun, filled their eyes with good things.
This waited for them. It was now the spring, and the heat had begun in her and in him; and she had chosen the Journey she would make, longer than all journeys, and the high place higher than all high places, where she would spend her first spring.
The pressure eased; they still held to each other, still feeling motion. It was a very far flight, they had been warned so: they must not loose themselves until a man came and told them. The Garibaldis had told them what to do and they'd surely be safe. Satin felt so with a faith that increased as the force grew less and she knew that they'd lived. They were on their way. They flew!
She clutched the shell which Garibaldi had given her, the gift which marked this Time for her, and about her was the red cloth which was her special treasure, the best thing, the honor that Romero himself had given her a name. She felt the more secure for these things, and for Wii, for whom she felt an increasing fondness, true affection, not the springtime heat of mating. He was not the biggest and far from the handsomest, but he was clever and clear-headed.
Not wholly. He dug in one of the pouches he carried, brought out a small bit of twig, upon which the buds had burst----moved his breather to smell it, offered it to her. It brought with them the world, the riverside, and promises.
She felt a flood of heat that turned her sweating despite the chill. It was unnatural, being so close to him and not having the freedom of the land, places to run, the restlessness which would lead her further and further into the lonely lands where only the images stood. They were traveling, in a strange and different way, in a way that great Sun looked down upon all the same, and so she needed do nothing. She accepted Wii's attentions, nervously at first, and then with increasing easiness, for it was right. The games they would have played on the face of the land, until he was the last male determined enough to follow where she led.....were not needed. He was the one who had come farthest, and he was here, and it was very right.
The motion of the ship changed; they held each other a moment in fear, but this men had warned them of, and they had heard that there was a time of great strangeness. They laughed, and joined, and ceased, giddy and delirious. They marveled at the bit of blossoming twig which floated by them in the air, which moved when they batted at it by turns. She reached carefully and plucked it from the air, and laughed again, setting it free.
"This is where Sun lives," Wii surmised. She thought that it must be so, imagined Sun drifting majestically through the light of his power, and themselves swimming in it, toward the Upabove, the metal home of humans, which held out arms for them. They joined, and joined again, in spasms of joy.
After long and long came another change, little stresses at the bindings, very gentle, and by and by they began to feel heavy again.
"We are coming down," Satin thought aloud. But they stayed quiet, remembering what they had been told, that they must wait on a man to tell them it was safe.
And there was a series of jolts and horrible noises, so that their arms clenched about each other; but the ground was solid under them now. The speaker overhead rang with human voices giving instructions and none of them sounded frightened, rather as humans usually sounded, in a hurry and humorless. "I think we're all right," Wii said.
"We must stay still," she reminded him.
"They will forget us."
"They will not," she said, but she had doubts herself, so dark the place was and so desolate, just a little light where they were, above them.
There was a terrible clash of metal. The door through which they had come in opened, and there was no view of hills and forest now, but of a ribbed throatlike passage which blasted cold air at them.
A man came up it, dressed in brown, carrying one of the handspeakers. "Come on," he told them, and they made haste to untie themselves. Satin stood up and found her legs shaking; she leaned on Wii and he staggered too.
The man gave them gifts, silver cords to wear. "Your numbers," he said. "Always wear them." He took their names and gestured out the passage. "Come with me. We'll get you checked in."
They followed, down the frightening passage, out into a place like the ship belly where they had been, metal and cold, but very, very huge. Satin stared about her, shivering. "We are in a bigger ship," she said. "This is a ship, too." And to the human: "Man, we in Upabove?"
"This is the station," the human said.
A hint of cold settled on Satin's heart. She had hoped for sights, for the warmth of Sun. She chided herself to patience, that these things would come, that it would yet be beautiful.
Babylon 5: blue sector five: 10/3/63
The apartment was tidied, the odds and ends tucked into hampers. Michael shrugged into his jacket, straightened his collar. Lise was still dressing, fussing at a waistline that (perhaps) bound a little. It was the second suit she'd tried. She looked frustrated with this one too. He walked up behind her and gave her a gentle hug about the middle, met her eyes in the mirror. "You look fine. So what if it shows a little?"
She studied them both in the mirror, put her hand on his. "It looks more like I'm putting on weight."
"You look marvelous," he said, expecting a smile. Her mirrored face stayed anxious. He lingered a moment, held her because she seemed to want that. "Is that all right?" he asked. She had, maybe, overdone, had gone out of her way to look right, had gotten special items from commissary----was nervous about the whole evening, he thought. Therefore the effort. Therefore the fretting about small things. "Does having Sheridan come here bother you?"
Her fingers traced his slowly. "I don't think it does. But I'm not sure I know what to say to him. I've never entertained an Alliancer."
He dropped his arms, looked her in the eyes when she turned about. The exhausting preparations----all the anxiety to please. It was not enthusiasm. He had feared so. "You suggested it; I asked if you were sure. Lise, if you felt in the least awkward in it..."
"He's ridden your conscience for over three days. Forget my qualms. I'm curious; shouldn't I be?"
He suspected things----a more-than-willingness to accommodate him, that balance sheet Lise kept; gratitude, maybe; or her way of trying to tell him she cared. He remembered the long evenings, Lise brooding on her side of the table, he on his, her burden New Orleans and his----the lives he handled. He had talked about Sheridan a certain night he ended up listening to her instead; and when the chance came---such gestures were like Lise: he cold not remember bringing her another problem but that. So she took it, tried to solve it, however hard it was. Alliancer. He had now way of knowing what she felt under those circumstances. He'd thought he knew.
"Don't look that way," she said. "I'm curious, I said. But it's the social situation. What do you say? Talk over the old times? Have we possibly met before, Mr. Sheridan? Exchanged fire, maybe? Or maybe we talk over family-----How's yours, Mr. Sheridan? Or maybe we talk about the hospital. How have you enjoyed your stay on Babylon 5, Mr. Sheridan?"
"Lise...."
"Well, you did ask."
"I wish I'd known how you felt about it."
"How do you feel about it----honestly?"
"Awkward," he confessed, leaned against the counter. "But, Lise...."
"If you want to know what I feel about it----I'm uneasy, just uneasy. He's coming here, and he'll be here for us to entertain, and frankly, I don't know what we're going to do with him." She turned to the mirror and tugged at the waistline. "All of which is what I think. I'm hoping he'll be at ease and we'll all have a pleasant evening."
He could see it otherwise----long silences. "I've got to go get him," he said. "He'll be waiting." And then with a happier thought. "Why don't we go up to the concourse? Never mind the things here; it might make things easier all round, neither of us having to play host."
Her eyes lightened. "Meet you there? I'll get a table. There's nothing that can't go in the freeze."
"Do it." He kissed her on the ear, all that was available, and gave her a pat, headed out in haste to make up the time.
The security desk sent a call back for Sheridan and he was quick in coming down the hall-----a new suit, everything new. Michael met him and held out his hand. Sheridan's face took on a different smile as he took it, quickly faded.
"You're already checked out," Michael told him, and gathered up a small plastic wallet from the desk, gave it to him. "When you check in again, this makes it all automatic. Those are your ID papers and your credit card, and a chit with your comp number. You memorize the comp number and destroy the chit."
Sheridan looked at the papers within, visibly moved. "I'm discharged?" Evidently staff had not gotten around to telling him. His hands trembled, slender fingers shaking in their course over the fine printed words. He stared at them, taking time to absorb the matter, until Michael touched his sleeve, drew him from the desk and down the corridor.
"You look well," Michael said. It was so. Their images reflected back from the transport doors ahead, dark and light, his own solid, aquiline darkness and Sheridan's pallor like illusions. Of a sudden he thought of Lise, felt the least insecurity in Sheridan's presence, the comparison in which he felt all his faults----not alone the look of him, but the look from inside, that stared at him guiltless.....which had always been guiltless.
What do I say to him? He echoed Lise's hideous questions. Sorry? Sorry I never got around to reading your folder? Sorry I executed you----we were pressed for time? Forgive me----usually we do better?
He opened the door and Sheridan met his eyes in passing through. No accusations, no bitterness. He doesn't remember. He can't!
"Your pass," Michael said as they walked toward the turbolift, is what's called white-tagged. See the colored circles by the door there? There's a white one, too. Your card is a key; so's your comp number. If you see a white circle you have access by card or number. The computer will accept it. Don't try anything where there's no white. You'll have alarms sounding and security running in a hurry. You know such systems, don't you?"
"I understand."
"You recall your comp skills?"
A few spaces of silence. "Armscomp is specialized. But I recall some theory."
"Much of it?"
"If I sat in front of a board----probably I would remember."
"Do you remember me?"
They had reached the turbolift. Michael punched the buttons for private call, privilege of his security clearance: he wanted no crowd. He turned, met Sheridan's too-open gaze. Normal adults flinched, moved the eyes, glanced this way and that, focused on one detail, and then the other. Sheridan's stare lacked such movements, like a madman's, or a child's, or a graven god's.
"I remember you asking that before," Sheridan said. "You're one of the Garibaldis. You own Babylon 5, don't you?"
"Not own. But we've been here a long time."
"I haven't, have I?"
An undertone of worry. What is it , Michael wondered with a crawling of his own skin, what is it to know bits of your mind are gone? How can anything make sense? "We met when you came here. You ought to know---I'm the one who agreed to the Adjustment. Legal Affairs office. I signed the commitment papers."
There was then a little flinching. The car arrived; Michael put his hand inside to hold the door. "You gave me the papers," Sheridan said. He stepped inside, and Michael followed, let the door close. The car started moving to the green he'd coded. "You kept coming to see me. You were the one who was there so often---weren't you?"
Michael shrugged. "I didn't want what happened; I didn't think it was right. You understand that."
"Do you want something of me?" Willingness was implicit in the tone....at least acquiescence---in all things, anyway.
Michael returned the stare. "Forgiveness, maybe," he said, cynical.
"That's easy."
"Is it?"
"That's why you came? That's why you came to see me? Why you asked me to come with you now?"
"What'd you think?"
The wide-field stare clouded a bit, seemed to focus. "I have no way to know. It's kind of you to come."
"Did you think it might not be kind?"
"I don't know how much memory I've got. I know there're gaps. I could've known you before. I could remember things that aren't so. It's all the same. You did nothing to me, did you?"
"I could've stopped it."
"I asked for Adjustment---didn't I? I thought that I asked."
"Yes, you did."
"Then I remember something right. Or they told me. I don't know. Shall I go on with you? Or is that all you wanted?"
"You'd rather not go?"
A series of blinks. "I thought---when I wasn't so well---that I might have known you. I had no memory at all then. I was glad you came. It was someone----outside the walls. And the books---thank you for the books. I was very glad to have them."
"Look at me."
Sheridan did so, an instant centering, a touch of apprehension.
"I want you to come. I'd like you to come. That's all."
"To where you said? To meet your wife?"
"To meet Lise. And to see Babylon 5. The better side of it."
"All right." Sheridan's regard stayed with him. The drifting, he thought----that was defense; retreat. The direct gaze trusted. From a man with gaps in his memory, trust was all-encompassing.
"I know you," Michael said. I've read the hospital proceedings. I know things about you I don't know about my own brother. I think it's fair to tell you that."
"Everyone's read them."
"Who---everyone?"
"Everyone I know. The doctors----all of them in the center."
He thought that over. Hated the thought that anyone should submit to that much intrusion. "The transcripts will be erased."
"Like me." The ghost of a smile quirked Sheridan's mouth, sadness.
"It wasn't a total restrict," Michael said. "Do you understand that?"
"I know as much as they told me."
The car was coming slowly to rest in green one. The doors opened on one of the busiest corridors in Babylon 5. Other passengers wanted in; Michael took Sheridan's arm, shepherded him through. Some few heads turned at their presence in the crowd, the sight of a stranger of unusual aspect, or the face of a Garibaldi----mild curiosity. Voices babbled, undisturbed. Music drifted from the concourse, thin, sweet notes. A few of the Downer workers were in the corridor, tending the plants which grew there. He and Sheridan walked with the general flow of traffic, anonymous within it.
The hall opened onto the concourse, a darkness, the only light in it coming from the huge projection screens which were its walls: views of stars, of Babylon 4's crescent, of the blaze of the filtered sun, the docks viewed from outside cameras. The music was leisurely, an enchantment of electronics and chimes and sometime quiver of bass, balanced moment by moment to the soft tenor of conversation at the tables which filled the center of the curving hall. The screens changed with ceaseless spin of Babylon 5 itself, and images switched in time from one to another to the screens which extended from floor to lofty ceiling. The floor and the tiny human figures and the tables alone were dark.
"Gwent-Garibaldi," he said to the young woman at the counter by the entry. A waiter at once moved to guide them to the reserved table.
But Sheridan had stopped. Michael looked back, found him staring about at the screens with a heart-open look on his face. "John," Michael said, and when he did not react, gently took his arm. "This way." Balance deserted some newcomers to the concourse, difficulty with the slow spin of the images that dwarfed the tables. He kept the grip all the way to the table, a prime one on the margin, with unimpeded view of the screens.
Lise rose at their arrival. "John Sheridan," Michael said. "Lise Quen, my wife."
Lise blinked. Most reacted to Sheridan. Slowly she extended her hand, which he took. "John, is it? Lise." She settled back to her chair and they took theirs. The waiter stood expectantly. "Another," she said.
"Special," Michael said, looked at Sheridan. "Any preference? Or trust me."
Sheridan shrugged, looking uncomfortable.
"Two," Michael said, and the waiter vanished. He looked at Lise. "Crowded, this evening."
"Not many residents go to the dockside lately," Lise said. It was true; the beached merchant kings had staked out two of the bars exclusively, a running problem with security.
"They serve dinner here," Michael said, looking at Sheridan. "Sandwiches, at least."
"I've eaten," he said in a remote tone, fit to stop any conversation.
"Have you," Lise asked, "spent much time on stations?"
Micheal reached for her hand under the table, but Sheridan shook his head quite undisturbed.
"Only Aeon Terminal."
"Babylon 5 is the best of them." She slid past that pit without looking at it. One shot declined, Michael thought, wondering if Lise meant what she did. "Nothing like this at the others."
"Gwent....is a merchant king name."
"Was. They were destroyed at Voyager."
Michael clenched his hand on hers in his lap. Sheridan stared at her stricken. "I'm sorry."
Lise shook her head. "Not your fault, I'm sure. Merchant kings get it from both sides. Bad luck, that's all."
"He can't remember," Michael said.
"Can you?" Lise asked.
Sheridan shook his head slightly.
"So," Lise said, "It's neither here nor there. I'm glad you could come. The Further spat you out; only a stationer'd dice with you?"
Michael remained perplexed, but Sheridan smiled wanly, some remote joke he seemed to comprehend.
"I suppose so."
"Luck and luck," Lise said, glanced aside at him and tightened her hand. "You can dice and win on dockside, but old Further loads his. Carry a man like that for luck. Touch him for it. Here's to survivors, John Sheridan."
Bitter irony? Or an effort at welcome. It was merchant kings' humor, impenetrable as another language. Sheridan seemed relaxed by it. Michael drew back his hand and settled back. "Did they discuss the matter of a job, John?"
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"You are discharged. If you can't work, station will carry you for a while. But I did arrange something tentatively, that you can go to of mornings, work as long as you feel able, go back home by noon, maindays. Would that appeal to you?"821Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2l1BuT4bFG
Sheridan said nothing, but the look on his face, half-lit in the sun's image----it was nearest now, in the slow rotation----wanted it, hung on it. Michael leaned his arms on the table, embarrassed now to give the little that he had arranged. A disappointment , maybe. You have higher qualifications. Small machine salvage, a job, at least----on your way to something else. And I've found a room for you, in the old merchant king's central hospice, bath but no kitchen----things are horrendously tight. Your job credit is guaranteed by station law to cover basic food and lodging. Since you don't have a kitchen, your card's good in any restaurant up to a certain limit. There are things you have to pay for above that----but there's always a schedule in comp to list volunteer service jobs, that you can apply for to get extras. Eventually station will demand a full day's work for room and board, but not till you're certified able. Is that all right with you?"821Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAhb2a7SyF9
"I'm free?"821Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNm46Ptxwvi
"For all reasonable purposes, yes." The drinks arrived. Michael picked up his frothy concoction of summer fruit and alcohol, watched with interest as Sheridan sampled one of the delicacies of Babylon 5 and reacted with pleasure. He sipped at his own.821Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1JbD91h3BY
"You're no stationer," Lise observed after some silence. Sheridan was gazing beyond them, to the walls, the slow ballet of stars. You don't get much view on a ship, Lise had said once, trying to explain to him. Not what you'd think. It's the being there; the working of it; the feel of moving through what could surprise you at any moment. It's being a dust speck in that scale and pushing your way through all that Void on your own terms, that no world can do and nothing spinning around one. It's doing that, and knowing all the time old goblin Further is just the other side of the metal you're leaning on. You stationers like your illusions, and world folk, blueskiers, don't even know what real is.
He felt a chill suddenly, felt apart, with Lise and a stranger across the table making a set of two. His wife and the god-image that was Sheridan. It was not jealousy. It was a sense of panic. He drank slowly. Watched Sheridan, who looked at his screens as no stationer did. Like a man remembered breathing.
Forget station, he'd heard in Lise's voice. You'll never be content here. As if she and Sheridan spoke a language he didn't, even using the same words. As if a merchant-king who had lost her ship to Alliance could pity an Alliancer who had lost his, belched, like her. Michael reached out beneath the table, sought Lise's hand, closed it in his. "Maybe I can't give you what you most want," he said to Sheridan, resisting hurt, deliberately courteous, "Babylon 5 won't hold you forever now, and if you can find some merchant king to take you on after your papers are entirely clear----that's open too someday in the future. But take my word for it, plan for a long stay here. Things aren't settled and the merchant kings are moving nowhere but to the mines and back.
"The long-haulers are drinking themselves blind on dockside," Lise muttered. "We'll run out of liquor before we run out of bread on Babylon 5. No, not for a while. Things'll get better. God help us, we can't contain what we've swallowed forever."
"Lise."
"Isn't he on Babylon 5, too?" she asked. "And aren't we all? His living is tied up with it."
"I wouldn't," Sheridan said, "harm Babylon 5." His hand moved on the table, a slight tic. It was one of the few implants, that aversion. Michael kept his mouth shut on the knowledge of the psych block; it was no less real for being deep-taught. Sheridan was intelligent; possibly even he could figure eventually what had been done to him.
"I....." Sheridan made another random motion of his hand, "don't know this place. I need help. Sometimes I'm not sure how I got into this. Do you know? Did I know?"
Bizarre collection of data. Michael stared at him disquietedly, for a moment afraid that Sheridan was lapsing into some embarrassing kind of hysteria, not sure what he was going to do with him in this public place.
"I have the records," he answered Sheridan's question. "That's all the knowledge I've got of it."
"Am I your enemy?"
"I don't think so."
"I remember Centauri Prime."
"You're making connections I'm not following, John."
Lips trembled. "I don't follow them either."
"You said you needed help. In what, John?"
"Here. The station. You won't stop coming by...."
"You mean visiting you. You won't be in the hospital anymore." Suddenly the sense of it dawned on him, that Sheridan knew that. "You mean do I set you up with a job and cut you loose on your own? No. I'll call you next week, depend on it."
"I was going to suggest," Lise said smoothly, "that you give John comp clearance to get a call through to the apartment. Troubles don't keep office hours and one or the other of us would be able to untangle situations. We are, legally, your sponsors. If you can't get hold of Michael, call my office."
Sheridan accepted that with a nod of his head. The shifting screens kept their dizzying course. They did not say much for a long time, listened to the music and nursed that round of drinks into a second.
"It'd be nice," Lise said finally, "if you'd come to dinner at the end of the week----chance my cooking. Have a game of cards. You play cards, surely."
Sheridan's eyes shifted subtly in his direction, as if to ask approval. "IT's a long-standing card night," Michael said. "Once a month my brother and his wife would cross shifts with ours. They were on alterday....transferred to Babylon 5 since the crisis. John does play," he said to Lise.
"Good."
"Not superstitious," Sheridan said.
"We won't bet," Lise said.
"I'll come."
"Fine," she said; and a moment later John's eyes half-lidded. He was fighting it, came around in an instant. All the tension was out of him.
"John," Michael said, "you think you can walk out of here?"
"I'm not sure," he said, distressed.
Michael rose, and Lise did; very carefully Sheridan pushed back from the table and navigated between them----not the two drinks, Michael thought, which had been mild, but the screens and exhaustion. Sheridan steadied once in the corridor and seemed to catch his breath in the light and stability out there. A trio of Downers stared at them round-eyed above the masks.
They both walked him to the lift and rode with him back to the facility in red, returned him through the glass doors and into the custody of the security desk. They were into alterday now and the guard on duty was one of the Bibbers.
"See he gets settled all right," Michael said. Beyond the desk, Sheridan paused, looked back at them with curious intensity, until the guard came back and drew him down the corridor.
Michael put his arm about Lise and they started their own walk home. "It was a good thought to ask him," he said.
"He's awkward," Lise said, "but who wouldn't be?" She followed him through the doors into the corridor, walked hand in hand with him down the hall. "The war has nasty causalities," she said. "If any Gwents could've come through Voyager----it would be that, just the other side of the mirror, wouldn't it?----for one of my own. So, God help us, help him. He could as well be one of ours."
She'd drunk rather more than he---grew morose whenever she did so. He thought of the baby; but it wasn't the moment to say anything hard with her. He gave her hand a squeeze, ruffled her hair, and they headed home.821Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1cJKOiBb9s
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