Babylon 5 - To Dream In the City of Sorrows

Babylon5, To Dream In The

City OfSorrows

By Kathryn M. Drennan

FINAL COUNTDOWN

“Stay in formation! Hold the line. No one gets through, no matter what!”

“Alpha leader! You’ve got a Minbari fighter on your tail! I’m on him.”

“No! Mitchell! Stay in formation! It might be a-“

The shadow of the massive Minbari fighter fell across Sinclair’s Starfury. “Oh, my God. It’s a trap!”

“Mitchell! Break off! Break off!”

Too late. Starfury after Starfury blown to bits, exploding like miniature suns around him. Every ship of

his squadron gone. Every Earth ship in his field of view destroyed.

“Not like this! Not like this! If I’m going out, I’m taking you bastards with me. Target main cruiser. Set

for full-velocity ram. Afterburners on my mark... Mark!”

Sinclair was thrown back in his seat, his craft hurtling toward a collision with the Minbari cruiser. Ten,

nine, eight, seven...

Saleof this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been

reported to the publisher as “unsold or destroyed” and neither the author nor the publisher may have

received payment for it.

Babylon5: To Dream in the City ofSorrows is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are

products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

A Del Rey® Book

Published by The Random House Publishing Group

States by The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc.,New York , and

simultaneously inCanada by Random House of Canada Limited,Toronto .

Del Rey is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

www.delreydigital.com

ISBN 0-345-45219-4

Manufactured in theUnited States of America

First Ballantine Books Edition: August 2003

OPM 10 987654321

This book is dedicated with love

to Mom and Dad

INTRODUCTION

MISSING MOMENTS ANDMIDNIGHT THOUGHTS

J. Michael Straczynski

MY friend Harlan Ellison has, from time to time, engaged in a bit of performance art. He will sit in a

bookstore window and write a short story. As each page is finished, it’s taped to the window for people

to read. He can’t backtrack, can’t change it; it is what it is.

That trick is probably the closest available comparison to what has been done withBABYLON 5 over

the last four years.

BABYLON5 is a novel for television, with a definite beginning, middle, and end. It is also a work in

progress, with its fair share of sudden turns caused when the real world impinges upon the writing

process, or when better ideas are stumbled upon. Yes, one may plan to have Ivanova kick several Drazi

senseless and escape from the trap they’ve set for her . . . but if Claudia Christian breaks her foot the day

before you’re to shoot that sequence, you adjust.

You keep going, and you never look back. Because unlike a print novel, where after the first draft is

finished you can go back and smooth out the bumps in the road, you can’t change what went before. It’s

out there, transmitted into the ether at approximately the speed of light. You cannot go back, you can

only go forward, broadcasting episodes as they are finished like pages taped sequentially to a window,

for all the world to see. For the most part, this particular example of performance art-telling

theBABYLON 5 story in front of fifteen million viewers in theUnited States and countless millions more

in scores of other countries around the planet-has been very successful. Most of the bumps and subtle

adjustments are barely noticeable.

But they’re there. And over four years, with the real world a constant random factor in the making

ofBABYLON 5, there are a lot of them. Small, annoying, but there. They lurk in threads that fall by the

wayside, or are mentioned but not explained in as much detail as they should be, and can thus seem like

logical contradictions. It’s all pretty much there ... it just takes a very logical and precise mind to put the

pieces together and make sense of it all.

Which makes the book you hold in your hands all the more extraordinary.

Imagine someone coming to your house with a box containing eighty-eight jigsaw puzzles, all jumbled

together, and dumping the contents at your feet, saying “Here ... all the pieces are there, all you have to

do is make sense of it.” That is essentially the task undertaken by Kathryn Drennan in To Dream in the

City ofSorrows .

While all of the BABYLON 5 books operate, to one extent or another, within series continuity, this is

the first real attempt to stitch together massive amounts of continuity from the series itself into one book

... to pull together the pieces dropped here and there over eighty-eight episodes and four years, ironing

out the seeming discontinuities, explaining what was not explained previously, and tying together

seemingly unrelated threads into a beautifully defined tapestry, all the

while telling the one story that viewers have been asking for since the first season: “What happened to

Jeffrey Sinclair after he leftBabylon 5 and before he returned in War without End!”

How difficult a task was this? Job would’ve packed it in, Hercules would’ve retired, and Orpheus

would’ve decided that his days spent in Hades weren’t really that bad after all.

We’re talking here late-night conversations, too many to number, that began with, “Okay, now when

you wrote this in season one, what did you really mean and how the heck does that tie into what

happened over here in season four? You spent four years talking about the Minbari warrior and religious

castes but you hardly even mention the worker caste, how do they tie in? And how the hell was an entire

Minbari fleet able to sneak up on Sinclair’s squadron at theBattle of the Line right out in open space?!”

Kathryn is not just rigorously logical, she is relentlessly logical. Things have to make sense, and there

can’t be any loose threads lying around. But there were a number of loose threads surrounding the story

of Sinclair’s development into Entil’Zha, the head of the Rangers . . . Marcus’s months being trained for

his own duties as a Ranger ... the fate of Sinclair’s fiancee Catherine Sakai. . . and the ceremonies that

prepared Sinclair to take up the role of Valen, one of Minbar’s greatest leaders, a Minbari not born of

Minbari.

All those threads have now been tied up in this one book.

And I’m just as astonished by this as you are.

It’s a remarkable achievement. A breathtaking accomplishment, if for no other reason than we both

somehow came through the experience without killing each other.

Relentless. Trust me on this one. Re-fragging-lentless.

To Dream in the City ofSorrows is not simply a licensed book set in theBABYLON 5 universe. While

most of the Dell books to date have contained some elements that are considered canon, this is the very

first one that is considered canonical in every small detail.

What you hold in your hand is an official, authorized chapter in theBABYLON 5 story line. This is the

definitive answer to the Sinclair question, and should be considered as authentic as any episode in the

regular series. This, you should also know, is Kathryn Drennan’s first novel, though she’s a Clarion

graduate who has been published in Twilight Zone magazine and many other fine magazines. She has also

written for several television series, includingBABYLON 5, for which she penned the excellent episode

“By Any Means Necessary.” This novel marks the first time an originalBABYLON 5 novel has been

written by someone who has actually written for the series itself. Trust me. You’ll love it. Would this face

lie?

J. Michael Straczynski Executive Producer/CreatorBABYLON 5

19 February 1997

PROLOGUE

MARCUS Cole still walked with a limp, a fact that did not go unnoticed by the young Minbari acolyte

as Marcus entered the small temple. Marcus didn’t recognize the rather chubby Minbari and briefly

wondered where Sech Turval was, but as he was not in the mood for conversation, he simply made a

note to seek out the venerable Minbari teacher at a later time.

This had always been his favorite place at the Ranger compound, filled with the strange melodic

chittering of the temshwee, the odd little Minbari birdlike animals that nested in the upper arches of most

Minbari temples, and the gentle clinking of the wind chimes that moved in the now cool autumn breeze

that swirled through the open archways. Warm sunlight streamed through the wide crystalline windows

that ringed the top portion of the temple dome, creating multicolored ribbons of light. All he wanted to do

now was sit and think.

Sitting, however, was not as easy right now as it used to be. Every muscle, every bone, every inch of his

body still ached from the beating he had sustained six days ago, and as he gingerly lowered himself onto

one of the hard, marble benches just below the larger-than-life statue of Valen that dominated the temple,

he knew the acolyte was watching him. Had he heard the story?

Probably. It seemed to be common knowledge at the Ranger compound that Marcus had been thrashed

to within an inch of his life by the Minbari warrior Neroon while defending the life and honor of the new

Entil’Zha against Neroon’s murderous intentions.

In her gratitude, Delenn had arranged for Marcus to make this brief pilgrimage, as he thought of it, back

to the Minbari city known as Tuzanor, the City of Sorrows, back to the Ranger training compound, back

to the beginning of it all, to finish his recuperation and to reflect-on the past and on the future, on life and

on dreams, on friends and on legends.

Marcus became aware of the young Minbari acolyte hovering just at the edge of his vision, apparently

uncertain if he should leave or offer his assistance to this important Ranger. Marcus closed his eyes, took

a few deep breaths and assumed the Minbari meditative pose as he had been taught such a short time

and such a long time ago. After a moment, he heard the acolyte leave quietly. Marcus opened his eyes

again with a silent apology to Sech Turval for not continuing the meditation the old Minbari had worked

so hard to teach him, but this wasn’t the time for formal meditation. He just wanted to sit here-in what he

and most of the other Human Rangers affectionately thought of as The Chapel-and see if in this peaceful

place he could come to a better understanding of what had been lost and what had been gained since his

life had intersected with the Rangers. And he wanted to visit one more time with a friend he knew he

might never see again.

Marcus looked up at the imposing statue of the great Minbari military and spiritual leader Valen, studied

the stern but deliberately ambiguous features of the chiseled face, and wondered once again, could that

really be his friend and mentor, the very human Jeffrey Sinclair?

It had not been that many weeks since Sinclair-former Earthforce commander ofBabylon 5, former

ambassador from Earth to Minbar, and former Entil’Zha of the Rangers-had takenBabylon 4 on a

journey through time to live out a life he had already studied as history here on Minbar: the life of the

mysterious and legendary Valen. A journey taken to save lives-in both the past and future-as was always

Sinclair’s primary concern. But Marcus knew it was also a journey taken for the most personal of

reasons. Marcus understood those reasons far better than those who had sent Sinclair on his journey. But

there was still so much he didn’t know, didn’t understand.

He wasn’t sure he’d find the answers he was looking for by studying the life of Valen. Valen, this figure

of myth that towered over him here in the temple, was a stranger to Marcus. The leader, teacher, and

friend he had known and had come here to Minbar to revisit in memory was a man-a remarkable man to

be sure-but very Human nonetheless. It was the life of Jeffrey Sinclair he wanted to reflect on. And as his

friend, it had come to seem very important to Marcus that the man not be obscured by the myth . . .

CHAPTER 1

ALPHA 7 to Alpha Leader, I’m hit!” Static swallowed the rest of the frantic words. Even as he shouted

his reply, Earthforce Lieutenant Jeffrey Sinclair saw Quinton Orozco’s Starfury flash past overhead,

trailing smoke and flames, shadowed by a Minbari fighter, “Pull out! Pull out! Alpha 7!”

“He’s gone.”

That was Bill Mitchell’s voice in the earpiece of his helmet. Sinclair checked the scope on his instrument

panel, then did a quick visual check through the cockpit windshield and canopy. How many of his

squadron were left against the Minbari onslaught? How many Human ships were left at all?

“Stay in formation,” Sinclair ordered as he brought his Starfury around, turning away from the sun to

face what seemed to be the greater concentration of Minbari fighters. “Hold the line. No one gets

through, no matter what!”

“Understood,” came Mitchell’s voice again, then a burst of static and “Alpha Leader! You’ve got a

Minbari on your tail!”

But Sinclair had already seen it, and was about to initiate a defensive response within the formation when

he saw Mitchell’s Starfury break formation to loop up

and back, over Sinclair’s head and toward his pursuing attacker. Other members of the squadron

followed Mitchell’s lead.

“I’m on him.”

“No! Mitchell! Stay in formation! It might be a-“

Sinclair’s instrument panel indicated a massive jump point opening behind him, right out of the blinding

glare of the sun. “Oh my God. It’s a trap!”

It shouldn’t have been possible. Assurances had been made that a widespread pattern of vortex

frequency interference would be broadcast continuously, making it impossible for the enemy to open

jump points within the Line. But a shadow fell across Sinclair’s ship as a massive Minbari cruiser, larger

than any he’d seen before, came out of a jump point behind him. The only chance for escape was to

outrun it and regroup, but what was left of his squadron had been lured into heading full speed right at the

cruiser.

“Mitchell! Break off! Break off!”

It was too late. He saw Bill Mitchell’s ship blown to bits. Devorah Eisenstadt’s Starfury cut in two. Jake

Owasaka’s ship sent tumbling wildly to smash into Alo Makya’s Starfury, destroying both. Within a few

seconds, every ship of his squadron and all the ships around him were destroyed.

An energy beam from the Minbari cruiser sliced through the skin of Sinclair’s upper starboard engine,

spinning his craft out of control. His computer gave him the bad news as he fought to regain control of his

ship.

“Aft stabilizers hit. Weapons systems at zero. Defensive grid at zero. Power plant near critical mass.

Minbari weapons systems locking on.”

Sinclair reestablished control of his Starfury and turned it back toward the looming Minbari warship.

“Not like this! Not like this!” he shouted, not caring

that they didn’t hear him. “If I’m going out, I’m taking you bastards with me. Target main cruiser. Set for

fullvelocity ram. Afterburners on my mark . . . Mark!”

Sinclair was thrown back in his seat as every last bit of fuel in his craft ignited to send him hurtling on a

collision course toward the Minbari cruiser. Ten, nine, eight, seven . . .

But something was wrong, even more terribly wrong than it had been just a moment before. The Minbari

cruiser was changing, undulating like a living creature, morphing before his eyes. Long tendrils grew

outward from the ship, and a powerful energy surge crackled along the tendrils gathering to a sphere of

destructive energy at their tips. Suddenly it wasn’t a Minbari cruiser at all. It was a Vorlon warship. And

there were hundreds more of them, all converging onBabylon 5, intent on destroying his space station.

But what was that just beyond the outermost Vorlon ship, moving back and forth between the lights of

the distant stars? Shadowy shapes, dark and spindly, difficult to see or even focus on. What was

happening?

Before Sinclair could react, a blinding flash obliterated the scene-

Metal fiber ropes bit into Sinclair’s wrists and legs, held him motionless, suspending him at the center of

a darkened, cavernous room where one bright beam of light shone down on him. Just beyond the rim of

light, he could see shadowy figures, humanoid, robed. The torture he had endured at the hands of those

creatures for-what? hours? days?-had been so intense that he was now moving beyond the pain that

racked his body. His consciousness seemed to be floating above the scene. One of the hooded figures

approached, stood before

him, held up a small triangular object that seemed to be wire and metal shaped into a triangle with a

stone suspended at the center. A Triluminary. The stone began to glow.

“Who are you?” Sinclair managed to force the words out through his pain. “Why are you doing this?”

He tried to look at the face under the hood-it was Minbari, clearly, but who? For a moment it could have

been Neroon, but then it might be Rathenn, or perhaps it was Jenimer, the Chosen One, or-Delenn?

“We claim your soul,” said the voice from under the hooded robes, “as our own.”

“No!” Sinclair shouted. He struggled against the binding ropes, felt them bite into his flesh, felt the blood

running down his arms and legs. “NO!”

Sinclair woke up shouting, and with a violent motion wrenched himself upright in the bed. Drenched in

sweat, his heart pounding furiously, he shivered uncontrollably from the intensity of the dream. At the

same time, for a short, disorienting moment, he could not figure out where he was. These were not his

quarters onBabylon 5.

Slowly, he began to calm down and regain his bearings. He looked around at the small bedchamber

which was dimly illuminated from one corner of the room by a small brazier filled with some type of

glowing stones rather than coals. There were two doors, both shut, and no windows; the walls were

unadorned, and the only furnishings were the hard, narrow bed he was sitting up on, a single low bench

on which some clothes were carefully laid out, and a large metal chest, inlaid with a delicate triangular

pattern of gems.

Minbar. He was on the homeworld of the Minbari Federation, former deadly enemies of the Human

species, and now their most powerful ally. He was in the

capital city Yedor. He was in his quarters in the exclusive residential area set aside for off-world visitors

and residents such as himself. He was Earth’s first ambassador to Minbar.

Sinclair realized he was now shivering more from the cold temperature in the room than the dream. He

swung his legs over the side of the bed and let the feeling of the cold, stone floor against his feet wake

him further, also knowing that motion would signal the automatic sensors to turn up the heat.

He wasn’t in the midst of his enemies. He wasn’t on Minbar as a prisoner. He had agreed to come here.

Sinclair wondered what time it was, then laughed at himself a little; he was always wondering what time it

was. The Minbari day was twenty hours and forty-seven minutes long. Ever since arriving on Minbar a

little under three Earth standard weeks ago, his just-under-twenty-five-hour Human body clock had been

precessing through the shorter Minbari days, leaving him with what felt like a permanent case of jet lag.

With a sigh, he rose and went over to the bench where he had left his watch. It was set to count off the

Minbari hours, and indicated he still had another half hour of sleep coming to him. He turned off the

alarm. All he wanted now was a shower to clear his head and some time to himself before his assigned

Minbari helpers showed up to bring him breakfast, straighten up the room-not that he had much for them

to straighten-and scurry around and bow to him.

Sinclair shook his head as he crossed the room to the bathroom door. He could not get the Minbari

helpers to look him in the eyes, or to stop bowing to him. If it were just polite social bowing, common in

some cultures, it wouldn’t have bothered him so much. But this too often became the bowing and

scraping that he’d only

seen in movies when the all-powerful ruler of some exotic, ancient land entered a room. It got to be a

little embarrassing at times.

When he opened the door to the bathroom, the bright light from the early morning sun streaming through

the skylights momentarily blinded him. Bedrooms did not have windows, but the bathroom was open to

the sky. He checked the clothes he had washed the previous evening in the rock pool and miniature

waterfall, which served as bathtub and shower and which were even now splashing cheerfully in a

continuous recycling of water. It always reminded Sinclair of a hotel room in New Vegas, but somehow

more spiritual.

Good, the clothes were dry. He wanted them folded and put away before his “helpers” arrived. He

knew his Minbari hosts thought it odd for an ambassador to be washing his own clothes, but he had left

Babylon 5 for Earth and then Earth for Minbar so abruptly he had only brought a couple of changes of

clothing with him, and now that he had no idea when he might get more sent out to him, he was guarding

what he did have carefully, not wanting his clothes to disappear into the helpful hands of the Minbari staff,

perhaps never to reappear again.

Sinclair carried the clothes over to the metal chest and opened the heavy lid. Inside were most of the few

possessions he had been able to bring along with him on the sudden, rushed transfer from Babylon 5 to

Earth and then to Minbar: his few clothes; a couple of AV data crystals containing a selection of music,

text, readings, and movies; two real books: The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius and a specially printed

collection of his favorite poetry, which was a long-ago gift from his fiancee, Catherine Sakai; one bottle

of the finest, most expensive, aged whiskey, a more recent gift from Catherine;

a small case that contained his badges of military rank and some of his medals; and a small framed photo

of Catherine.

Sinclair stacked the clothes neatly away, then picked up the photo to say a silent good morning to the

woman he had vowed to marry days before events had separated them again. Where was she now? Had

she heard about his transfer? Did she know where he was? He would try again today, as he had done

every day since coming to Minbar, to get an answer to those questions. Those and many other questions.

When Sinclair finished his shower and emerged from the bathroom dressed and ready to begin another

day, he found the Minbari crew had already entered his quarters. He could see one of them setting out

his breakfast in the sitting room. The other two had quickly and discreetly removed the towel he had

wedged into the mechanism of the bed the night before to keep it horizontal instead of tilted at the

forty-five-degree angle the Minbari preferred.

As Sinclair approached, they bowed expectantly, looking always down, awaiting his orders.

‘ ‘I don’t wish to be rude, but I’ve asked you not to do that. It takes a great deal of effort to get that

wedged in there just right so that the bed will remain horizontal. Please, in the future, leave it that way.”

“Yes, Ambassador,” they said in unison. But that was what they said every morning. It was pretty much

all they ever said to him. They seemed to be devoted to his every need, but not to doing what he asked

them to do.

“You do speak English, don’t you?” It was not the first time he had asked.

“Yes, Ambassador,” they said in unison and then quickly scurried out to the sitting room where they and

their companion then hurried out of Sinclair’s quarters.

He resolved to try it again that evening in the dialect of the Minbari religious caste, which he had been

studying intensively since arriving on Minbar. He had begun a study of the Minbari language after the war,

but had until now focused mostly on the dialect of the military caste. The religious-caste dialect was far

more difficult, with a demanding and intricate set of grammatical rules that changed from situation to

situation, depending on who you were speaking to and about what. It was far too easy to say the wrong

thing to the wrong person in the wrong grammatical way in the religious-caste dialect, and thereby

commit a faux pas or an interstellar incident. He much preferred the straightforward, more vigorous

approach of the military-caste dialect, or even the simple, unadorned style of the worker caste. But come

the evening, he was resolved to try just one sentence in his best religious-caste Minbari. “Leave the bed

in a horizontal position, please.” Eight words in English, twenty-seven words in the most polite, precise

Minbari he could muster.

Sinclair went over to the table where his breakfast had been set out. He knew there would be no bacon

and eggs under that ornate, gold alloy cover. No pancakes. No toast with butter. No breakfast steak.

Oh, how he had been longing recently for just one well-cooked steak. But the meat that the military and

worker castes ate on Minbar was unfit for Human consumption, and the religious caste was, in the main,

vegetarian. His breakfast was what it always was, for the religious caste prized order and continuity: a

custard made from the eggs of the temshwee, which in flavor and texture in no way resembled chicken

eggs; a poredge made from local grains and fruits; spring water. It was nutritious. It was even palatable.

But it was also more or less what he would get for lunch and for dinner just in different forms, such as in

cakes or casse’oies And it was beginning to drive him to an obsession with food, something he had never

before experienced in his life. Until now, food had been mostly a necessity

to him, to be enjoyed but not overly concerned with, even when faced with shortages during the war, or

when certain foods weren’t available during the early months on Babylon 5.

But on Minbar where Human food was almost impossible to obtain, he found himself longing for coffee.

And steak. And maybe just a piece of chocolate cake.

Sinclair looked at the breakfast and realized he wasn’t hungry, was in fact feeling a little uneasy. The

nightmare, as vivid as any he had experienced since coming to Minbar, had upset him more than he

wanted to admit.

The sitting room, as spartan as the bedroom, was furnished on one side with one table and three chairs,

and on the other with a small Minbari altar and a meditation pillow. Sinclair threw the pillow down in the

center of the room. He had a long day ahead of him, even with the shorter Minbari day, and needed to

be focused and calm. He sat down, closed his eyes, and began counting backward from four with each

breath.

He hadn’t finished the first set of four, when the door to his quarters opened. The Minbari had different

notions of privacy, and admittedly he had not locked the door. He opened his eyes to find Rathenn

looking at him with an expression that was somehow both apologetic and pleased.

“Forgive me, Ambassador, for disturbing your meditation.

I was just informed you had risen a little early this morning.”

“Not a problem,” said Sinclair. He stood and kicked the pillow back to the other side of the room. “Just

a habit I picked up in my youth. Helps me focus.”

“We Minbari firmly believe in the profound benefit of daily meditation. You say you picked it up in your

youth? Would that have been at the religious-caste school you spoke of yesterday, or was it part of your

military training?”

Sinclair laughed. “At school, most definitely. Our military class, for the most part, isn’t as sold on the

benefits of meditation as yours is.”

“But truly you were blessed to receive training in becoming both a priest and a warrior. We Minbari

have always considered that the mark of the exceptional person, a goal to strive for. For instance, the

great hero Branmer-“

Sinclair did not mean to tense at the name of the general who had led the Minbari forces against

Humanity at the Battle of the Line, but clearly he had, for Rathenn looked stricken with the realization he

had said the wrong thing.

“Well,” Sinclair said hurriedly, trying to spare Rathenn further embarrassment, “I didn’t exactly get

instruction on becoming a priest. I went to a Jesuit high school, yes, but among my people you don’t have

to want to be a priest to attend. It was never my intention to join the religious life. All I ever wanted was

to be a fighter pilot, like my dad.”

There was an awkward pause; Rathenn seemed to be still recovering from his faux pas, and Sinclair

realized he no longer wanted to talk about this, not with Rathenn, a member of the Grey Council, not still

Babylon 5 - To Dream In the City of Sorrows

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: