Thirdspace, p.1
Thirdspace, page 1
Thirdspace
By
Peter David
Based on the screenplay
By
J. Michael Straczynski
Prologue
The beginning was eons ago... an era not to be spoken of during the waking hours of any sentient being. And so we may not speak of it now, nor is it truly necessary, for it is a time that we all remember even though we think we do not. A time which flitters about in our primal memory, in the memory of all races on all worlds. A time that has been seared into our collective unconsciousness. But every so often, in the deepest of sleep, it reveals itself ever so slightly, pulling back the curtain behind which it hides, peering out at us with its many eyes as if to say, I will always be with you, you can never lose me, and sooner or later, I will come back to you, for I have all the time in the universe. I am my own beginning and my own end, and you who have pretensions to greatness will quail and quake before true greatness. You will gasp in horror and amazement, be simultaneously drawn and repulsed, and will know my puissance and glory, and it will be the last thing you ever know. And we awake, covered with sweat, shaking, and its during those moments that we look around our bedrooms and see the shadows creeping about. And for an instant the shadows seem alive. We turn on the light and the shadows evaporate, and the world seems safe once more.
We believe that there is truth in the light. We lie to ourselves in order to preserve our sanity, for the truth is that sometimes there is more truth in darkness than in light. For what lurks there is not afraid of the light: It simply will not reveal itself to us until it can do so on its own terms, in its own time.
And the time will come. A very specific time, at a very specific place.
And the name of the place will be Babylon 5...
It was many months before the incident that would spell the end to all life in the galaxy.
She did not know of that, of course. Babylon 5 was a part of her past, not her future, and the incident would occur there. The incident, which would result in chaos, death, and potentially the end of everything that is, would be sparked by curiosity- a trait whose legendary effects on felines would be overlooked in favor of the sort of progressive scientific curiosity which unleashed upon the human race such niceties as pollution, nuclear holocaust, and germ warfare. But that incident would be of little interest to her, regardless. What was of far more interest was the fact that she was running out of air, that the chill of space seemed to be working its way into her bones, and her consciousness was hovering on the brink of extinction.
Lyta Alexander could sense her body dying.
She felt the slowing of her heart, the freezing beginning to set in, despite the life pod. She floated in space, stars all around her. They did not twinkle, as they would when viewed from the sort of planetary surface that she was convinced she would never tread again. Instead they simply hung there, hovering, judging her. A million eyes, studying her, assessing her, and finding her unworthy. Unworthy.
The telepath tried to lick her cracked lips, an exercise in futility since her tongue was swollen and useless. She was breathing in the poison of her own carbon dioxide. The life pod's power was diminishing, the systems shutting down. She could not feel her fingers or toes, and she drifted in and out of consciousness.
She had used a net to tie down her fine, strawberry blonde hair. Somehow the net had slipped off. Her hair floated about her in the nongravity of her survival pod, giving her a vaguely Medu-san appearance as if she sported a nest of spitting serpents on her head. The area within her pod was cramped, and her breath- in addition to killing her slowly with mounting CO2 levels-was misting up the front viewport. Feebly, she wiped the port clear with her sleeve and looked out at the stars once more.
She didn't see stars anymore. She saw Vorlons. Every single star was a Vorlon, still judging her, still finding her wanting. They are embodiments of light. She had known this ever since she scanned the Vorlon known as Kosh, in the aftermath of an attempt on his life at the space station, Babylon 5. Since that time, she had tried to look away.
She could not.
She had tried to ignore the light.
She could not.
She was drawn to the light, seeking the truth, not yet aware of the truth that lies in darkness. Nor did she consider the fate of the moth that is lured towards enticing flame-any more than scientists will factor curiosity into their own considerations many months later on that selfsame Babylon 5. She simply knew what she had to do; indeed, she had known ever since her first connection with the Vorlon. She had spent the intervening time simply denying it until she could deny it no longer, and now she had gone to her fate.
Gone to her death.
She felt the coldness creeping through her, and this time when the window misted over once more, she did not have the strength to raise her arm and clean it. She called to the Vorlons, as she had been steadily doing for the past seventy-two hours.
She sensed the complete, final shutting down of her body. She had sought the light, and instead she became aware that the darkness was waiting for her, eager to claim her. And she heard voices within her head. Whether they were born of her imagination or were real, she could not say. The voices called to her, and they said, You have sought the Vorlons. You have sought the bearers of the light. They will not come to you. They will not embrace you, for they do not love you, and they do not possess the truth. And they fear that if they come to you, you will know that. You will sense that. They do not want you to have this knowledge, for knowledge is power, and they desire the power all to themselves.
We, however, love you, the voices crooned. We reach out to you from the place of hiding. We, and all those like us. Those whom you cannot imagine, whom you dare not imagine. We will love you and take you to us, and we will consume you utterly. And you will know joy such as you can never have imagined; the joy of full and complete truth, the joy of knowing what truly lurks within the dark. For light is simple and stark, and is opposed to the imagination. Only in the darkness can the truth of untruth thrive.
Lyta heard all this and did not pretend to understand it. She did not want to. For with the darkness came the cold, and it frightened her, shaking her to her soul. And something was tasting her soul, caressing it with limbs supple and wet and terrifying.
She found the strength one last time and wiped clean the window. She would die now, but she would die looking to the light.
It called to her again. Look at all the darkness. Look at how much more there is, compared to the light. Have you never heard that the majority rules? The darkness is in the majority, by far. The darkness rules. Be ours. Be ours.
She opened her mouth once more, but she could not speak. She replied instead with her mind, to what may indeed have been her own mind.
I will be mine... and theirs... not yours... never yours....
The stars began to grow larger, prepared to engulf her. No... not all of the stars ... just some of them...
... A handful...
They were approaching her, the light coming to her even as the life light within her flickered on the brink of being extinguished.
Her eyes went wide. They are perfect... so perfect....
... And she realized that she had not simply sought warmth, and knowledge, and a need to know more of that which she had only begun to experience. She had sought perfection.
I've found it, she said to herself, as the light converged upon her, and there was music everywhere. And in a giddy, exhilarated state of mind, she thought, I've died and gone to heaven. And I have found perfection.
Then the darkness retreated before the light, and the last thing she heard within her was ...
. . . You could not be more wrong. And you will come to understand that. . . .
. . . And we will be waiting there when you do. . . .
Chapter 1
Eighteen months later...
In some ways, it was a shame that Captain John Sheridan, commander of Babylon 5, was unaware that all life in the galaxy-and possibly the universe-shortly would be facing complete and utter annihilation. It might have enabled him to put the concerns of the League of Non-Aligned Worlds into their proper perspective.
As it was, he stood in front of a group of representatives, clean-shaven and crisp in his black uniform, trying to quell their fears and only being partly successful. He couldn't blame them entirely. They were frightened, but none of them wished to admit it. So they covered the fear with blustering, boasting, and outright impertinence. They not only wanted to know what he was going to do about their concerns, but what he was going to do right that very second.
It was the middle of the Earth year 2261. The year between wars, and the beginning of a new age. The Shadow War was over, but there was still a darkness waiting back on Earth. Babylon 5 had broken away from Earth, and in retaliation President Clark had quarantined them, trying to strangle B5's supply lines. Those aboard the station were becoming desperate and couldn't afford to lose even a single supply ship. And that desperation was reflected in the faces of the League representatives.
"What are we supposed to tell our people?" one of them demanded. "Every day there's new rumors that key supplies won't be coming in!"
"We know what you want of us, Sheridan," said another. "You want us to put on positive faces when we report back to our people! But we're tired of trying to sell goodwill on your say-so alone!" Next to Sheridan stood Delenn, the ambassador from Min-bar, wearing the loose-flowing dress customary to her people. Sheridan had no closer, or more intimate, ally than she. The more fanciful of B5's residents tended to view all that they had been through in recent months as some sort of grand romantic saga, with Sheridan and Delenn-and the obvious love which bound them-as key ingredients in that story. Today, though, Sheridan was beginning to bristle at the tone of the representatives' words, and ever so slightly Delenn placed a gently restraining hand on his forearm. She knew precisely what was going through his mind, as she so often did.
It had been Sheridan who had organized the battle against hopeless odds in the conflict that had been known as the Shadow War. Sheridan who had literally come back from the dead, Sheridan who had organized a determined, albeit hopelessly overmatched, alliance, and ultimately Sheridan-with Delenn's help-who had faced down not only the Shadows, but the Vor-lons as well, and had put an end to a war that could have racked up death tolls in the billions.
But now he was faced with the oldest and most pointed question in the galaxy: What have you done for me lately?
He allowed his annoyance to pass, soothed by Delenn's touch and taking a mental step back from the challenging tones.
"People," he said slowly, his voice gravelly. Lately he felt as if he'd been talking nonstop, to anyone and everyone who would listen to him, and he wondered if his vocal cords would ever reach a point where they didn't feel exhausted. "With all respect, you're acting as if what's going on out there is some sort of... of inconvenience that's been cooked up in order to make your lives that much more difficult. Allow me to remind you of a few key points"-and he proceeded to count them off on his fingers. "It's been a year and a half since we broke away from Earth and became an independent state. President Santiago has been assassinated, and his successor, President Clark, has turned Earth into a prison camp."
He stepped away from Delenn and began to circle the League representatives. "Babylon Five began life as a diplomatic station," he continued. "We're now transformed, by necessity, into the first line of defense against Clark, Raiders, the Shadows, and the constant threat of war. A quarter million people cut off, isolated, trying to create a better life, trying to survive, all alone in the night. Our job is to create the peace. If we fall, one hundred worlds fall with us. Failure is not an option." "What are you saying?" asked the Drazi rep.
"I'm saying," Sheridan told them firmly, "that we are not going to fail. I am saying that we have plans, even now, that will ensure our supply lines will not be subject to attack from Raiders."
"What about from Clark?" the Brakiri representative inquired. "And from the Shadows?"
"Truthfully, I don't think the Shadows will be presenting much more of a threat," Sheridan assured them, "and as for Clark... we'll handle him as well when the time comes." He put up his hands to forestall the barrage of questions that he knew was going to be forthcoming. "People, please!" he called over their raised voices. "Please trust me on this. I'd like to think I've earned that much, at least."
"How are you going to deal with the Raiders, then?" asked the Drazi.
Sheridan shook his head. "I'm sorry, I'd rather not say. If I go into detail, that could backfire if it leaks out." The Brakiri waved dismissively. "There is no plan!" he said in annoyance. "Just... more illusions! More promises!"
Sheridan took a step forward and looked squarely into the Brakiri's eye. "Name a promise," he said in a low and clearly angry voice, "that I have not kept."
The Brakiri's mouth opened for a moment and then closed as he looked to the others for some sort of comment or support. None was immediately forthcoming. There seemed to be a sort of group shrug.
"All right then," Sheridan said tightly. "And I will continue to keep my promises, and my word. Now if you'll excuse me, there are matters that require my immediate attention."
"But we have..."
"Other considerations, I know. And I'm quite certain that Ambassador Delenn," and he rested a hand on her shoulder, "will be more than happy to address them. Good day to you."
Delenn fired a look at him that fairly shouted, Oh, you are going to regret that little maneuver, John Sheridan. But she kept her mouth frozen in a smile as she said, "By all means, Captain. I will be happy to attend to the concerns of the League."
"I knew I could count on you," Sheridan said briskly, knowing full well that he had very likely bought himself a heaping helping of trouble for later on. But he was prepared to deal with only one crisis at a time. And at that moment, there was another brewing that he had to get to as quickly as possible...
Vir Cotto was not having a good day.
He sat in his quarters, peering bleary-eyed into the mirror and trying to figure out the identity of the ghastly looking individual who had usurped his reflection. His hair, to his horror, was somehow actually lying flat on his head. This was simply an unacceptable situation, for the height of one's hair indicated the rank and status of a Centauri male-which Vir had the vague feeling that he was, although the way his head was swimming, he might even have been in error about that. He muttered a low curse as he pushed at the uncooperative shafts, poking and prodding them back to their customary altitude. Then he put an unsteady hand on his forehead and leaned forward, moaning softly. He had woken up with a remarkable headache, hungover from the previous night when he had been entertaining several newly arrived diplomats who had come to Babylon 5 expecting to be "meeted and greeted" by the formidable Londo Mol-lari. Londo, however, was on Centauri Prime, endeavoring to help sort out the disarray which had threatened to grip the Centauri home world ever since the recent death of the Emperor....
Recent death.
Vir laughed to himself in a deeply embittered manner. Even in the privacy of his quarters, even to himself, he could not deal with the truth. Could not deal with the fact that he, and he alone, had actually killed the demented Emperor Cartagia. Granted it had been as much accident as intentional act, but still, it had been Vir's hand on the syringe holding the poison injection. Vir who had personally ended Cartagia's reign of terror. And Vir who carried the guilt, despite Londo's assurances that-had Cartagia lived-every man, woman, and child on Centauri Prime would have ended up smoldering cinders, as sacrifices to Carta-gia's growing insanity. Even so, he drew only a little comfort from that. And it did nothing to make the haunted look in his eyes go away.
With that thought, Vir pulled down the lower lid of his right eye and stared more closely. Maybe that haunted look was partly derived from the excessive drinking in which he'd indulged the night before. The legend of Londo Mollari's partying abilities was a hard one to live up to, and Vir was now paying the price for his attempts to act as Londo's proxy.
And it wasn't as if the day was going to get any easier. He had paperwork piled up everywhere, it seemed. Day-to-day matters that piled up faster than he could deal with them. It seemed that everyone wanted a piece of him. On any given day, he had fifty things on his "to do" list, and he only ever got down to number nineteen or twenty.
Somewhere deep, deep within, there was part of him that would have given anything to get away from all the constant nonsense which plagued him. To go far away, to another place, where he would simply be pampered and loved and cared for, where sultry women who found him endlessly fascinating and desirable would caress him, coo his name in low tones of love, and make his life something that he anticipated and enjoyed rather than something he dreaded.
A pipe dream, that's all it was. He knew it. But sometimes it was all he had that kept him going.
A chime exploded in the room.
At least, it seemed to explode. What was far more likely, he quickly realized-and indeed, this was the truth of it-was that the standard door chime simply seemed magnified due to the presence of his wretched and overpowering headache. "Yes," said a voice that sounded, in a vague manner, somewhat akin to Vir's own. But it couldn't really be Vir's voice. It rang inside his head in a rather sepulchral manner. On automatic pilot, the voice continued, "Come in," and damned if it wasn't Vir's voice after all. It was then he realized that the lower half of his face was numb; he wasn't fully aware that his mouth was moving.
The door slid open and he saw the group of representatives from the League of Non-Aligned Worlds. They bustled into the room and all began to speak at once. It was everything that Vir could do to shush them into relative silence, for he felt as if his head was going to explode if he didn't take immediate action to stop the din. "What is it?" asked Vir with impatience. "Do you have any idea what time it is?" "Thirteen hundred hours," said the Brakiri.
