had other stuff on Excalibur to show to Sheridan, and he knew the president was eager to see it all. So what was he doing, staying in there so long? This wasn’t like Sheridan at all. He had never been a man to waste time on personal communications during an official transmission. Not even with Delenn. Why was this changing now?
He looked again at his watch. Sheridan had been in there for twenty minutes easy, maybe longer. It was unthinkable for Garibaldi to interrupt, but he suspected that something was going wrong. It was his habit to follow his suspicions. But still he hung back.
When nearly half an hour had passed, Garibaldi was at last convinced enough that something was going on. He defied the rules of privacy, opened the door, and poked his head in.
“Mr. President, are you okay?”
Sheridan, seated in a relaxed posture in front of the console, looked up with a smile. “Why shouldn’t I be okay?” he asked.
“Because you’ve been in there almost half an hour.”
“That’s not possible,” Sheridan said. He shook his head, though, as if to clear out the cobwebs. “I just got here. The message was scrambled. Gibberish. Drake hasn’t installed new software, has he?”
Garibaldi shook his head.
“Then it must be some kind of interference.”
“You stayed looking at gibberish for twenty minutes ? Hell, if you’re gonna do that, you might as well come by my place sometime, and I’ll show you some twentieth-century television.”
Sheridan didn’t seem to find the remark funny. At least, he didn’t smile. The president had looked fine before the transmission. But now Garibaldi saw that he suddenly seemed tired, played out. There were lines of strain around his eyes, a tension to his lips.
Seeing this, Garibaldi decided the rest of the tour could wait.
“Listen,” Garibaldi said, “Drake still has a few bugs to work out. Nothing serious, but it’ll take a while. Get some rest, we’ll finish the tour later.”
“Fine,” Sheridan said. “Good idea. Guess I’m more tired than I thought.”
Garibaldi left the conference room and shut the door gently. Drake had come up from the bridge and was looking uneasy.
“Is something wrong?” he asked. “Is the president all right? I certainly hope there’s nothing--“
“The president is fine,” Garibaldi said flatly. “There’s someone else you should be worrying about.”
“Who?”
“That’s you,” Garibaldi said. “Now we’re gonna figure out a way to move this thing.” His glance took in the ship. “Or you’re going to go outside and push.”
“I’ll get right on it!” Drake hurried away.
Garibaldi nodded at the retreating figure, and mused to himself, “Things were so much easier on Babylon 5.”
Chapter 8
On Babylon 5 at this point in time, a line of new arrivals had reached customs and was moving slowly through the scanners. Zack Allan was standing a little ways back at his station, watching them. He saw that it was the usual ragtag bunch that drifted into Babylon 5 from all over the galaxy. There were Humans and aliens from a dozen different worlds. They were not a well-dressed bunch, although most of them were wearing what passed for their best back where they came from. Their clothing looked more than a little odd here. As usual, there were some from worlds Zack couldn’t identify.
As security chief, one of Zack’s prime areas of interest was this customs line. When trouble came to Babylon 5, this was its typical entry point, among these people seeking work or fun or trouble or adventure on this smallest of civilized worlds.
Babylon 5 was a self-sustaining civilization just over five miles long and holding roughly 250,000 persons. It was a place of commerce and peace in a neutral territory and, as such, had become a focal point for most of the intelligent races of the galaxy. Some of those who were entering now were on their way to somewhere else, but those who were staying always managed to keep things
He looked again at his watch. Sheridan had been in there for twenty minutes easy, maybe longer. It was unthinkable for Garibaldi to interrupt, but he suspected that something was going wrong. It was his habit to follow his suspicions. But still he hung back.
When nearly half an hour had passed, Garibaldi was at last convinced enough that something was going on. He defied the rules of privacy, opened the door, and poked his head in.
“Mr. President, are you okay?”
Sheridan, seated in a relaxed posture in front of the console, looked up with a smile. “Why shouldn’t I be okay?” he asked.
“Because you’ve been in there almost half an hour.”
“That’s not possible,” Sheridan said. He shook his head, though, as if to clear out the cobwebs. “I just got here. The message was scrambled. Gibberish. Drake hasn’t installed new software, has he?”
Garibaldi shook his head.
“Then it must be some kind of interference.”
“You stayed looking at gibberish for twenty minutes ? Hell, if you’re gonna do that, you might as well come by my place sometime, and I’ll show you some twentieth-century television.”
Sheridan didn’t seem to find the remark funny. At least, he didn’t smile. The president had looked fine before the transmission. But now Garibaldi saw that he suddenly seemed tired, played out. There were lines of strain around his eyes, a tension to his lips.
Seeing this, Garibaldi decided the rest of the tour could wait.
“Listen,” Garibaldi said, “Drake still has a few bugs to work out. Nothing serious, but it’ll take a while. Get some rest, we’ll finish the tour later.”
“Fine,” Sheridan said. “Good idea. Guess I’m more tired than I thought.”
Garibaldi left the conference room and shut the door gently. Drake had come up from the bridge and was looking uneasy.
“Is something wrong?” he asked. “Is the president all right? I certainly hope there’s nothing--“
“The president is fine,” Garibaldi said flatly. “There’s someone else you should be worrying about.”
“Who?”
“That’s you,” Garibaldi said. “Now we’re gonna figure out a way to move this thing.” His glance took in the ship. “Or you’re going to go outside and push.”
“I’ll get right on it!” Drake hurried away.
Garibaldi nodded at the retreating figure, and mused to himself, “Things were so much easier on Babylon 5.”
Chapter 8
On Babylon 5 at this point in time, a line of new arrivals had reached customs and was moving slowly through the scanners. Zack Allan was standing a little ways back at his station, watching them. He saw that it was the usual ragtag bunch that drifted into Babylon 5 from all over the galaxy. There were Humans and aliens from a dozen different worlds. They were not a well-dressed bunch, although most of them were wearing what passed for their best back where they came from. Their clothing looked more than a little odd here. As usual, there were some from worlds Zack couldn’t identify.
As security chief, one of Zack’s prime areas of interest was this customs line. When trouble came to Babylon 5, this was its typical entry point, among these people seeking work or fun or trouble or adventure on this smallest of civilized worlds.
Babylon 5 was a self-sustaining civilization just over five miles long and holding roughly 250,000 persons. It was a place of commerce and peace in a neutral territory and, as such, had become a focal point for most of the intelligent races of the galaxy. Some of those who were entering now were on their way to somewhere else, but those who were staying always managed to keep things
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