War
Bride
Disclaimer and Introduction
======
Standard disclaimers. The background and jms characters belong to PTEN/jms; the
new characters belong to me. This story is written for entertainment purposes
only. This story was heavily influenced by jms & other net comment, circa
1996, about the EM War and the Black Star in particular. Therefore it
was plotted and mostly written before spoilers for "In the Beginning"
started appearing. That means that although this story was conceived as a
gapfiller it is now an AU going in a totally different direction. The president
of EA is a man named Auden, etc., and much other invented detail.
Most importantly, I have the Black Star incident happening at the end of
the war rather than near the beginning, with a different motivation for EA to
have spent "a considerable amount of time and effort making [Sheridan] a
hero in the public's eye" (IiRT). Statements in the dialog from
"Points of Departure" led me to this timeline conclusion. I quote
this dialog at the beginning of Chapter 7. jms later (in post-"In the
Beginning" net comment) stated the dialog details were, in effect, typos.
I still had fun treating them as the real thing. I hope you will, too.
At the start of my project I received much help from various friends. Many
thanks to Angel, Alison, Rebekah, Becky, Anne, Adele, Les, and Dave who made
comments on early drafts and/or answered questions about nuclear explosions in
a vacuum. Colonel Chee and the Boyington appear in chapter six by the
permission of Les McBride; another of her characters has an anonymous cameo in
chapter twelve. Thank also to Susan, who helped overcome my writers block, and
more recently to Ellen, Morag & especially Mary and Rose, who suggested
revisions which I believe helped my achieve intended mood much better. Thank
you all! Lastly, I want to acknowledge a debt of additional inspiration to
Becky, Building Bridges, and Rebekah, Home Fires Burning, for
helping me visualize ship life. Comments welcome.
======
War Bride
by Julie Watkins
julifolo@ux1.cso.uiuc.edu
Chapter 1. Date: 8 October 2245 (four months after Dukhat's death)
-*-
"Once during the war my fighter was disabled. I sat there -- radio out,
power out -- for eight hours which seemed like eight years. I didn't think I'd
ever see another living being. Well, I was rescued, obviously ... "
John Sheridan, There All Honor Lies
-*-
It was a white light that surrounded him, calling him to its unity, calling him
to the peace of the grave. All that he was drifted and blended into a single
resting pearl. All that might have been flew away in tatters.
Stars shone in a dark night, rain on the roof, a warm touch of fingers on his
neck. All blended into one as he released, a small spiraling regret escaped
behind him as he fell inward: Earth, teaming billions, hung on its fragile
thread.
Would it, had it fallen as he would, he had failed?
Time, too, fell away.
-*-
"REROUTE FAILED."
John cursed at the display. He was running out of options. His power was fast
bleeding away and the emergency backup had already been taken out. The beacon
was dead, the radio was out. Every other moment another screen went dead as the
power outage spread. As far as he could tell there was nothing intrinsically
wrong with the radio, except the screen had long since gone blank.
If he didn't get a signal out, he could only be found by direct search. Space
was filled with wreckage and he would look like another piece of dead metal to
the long-range scanners. He made one more attempt to power the radio and lost
probably more than half of what little he had left. He gave up at last, and put
all remaining external power into a final thruster burst. He got five percent,
and it only lasted four seconds.
It added a snail's difference, but it was at right angles to the direction of
attack of the Minbari ship. So now his drift was separating him from the
shrapnel surrounding him. Maybe it would be enough to register. If there was
anyone out there looking.
Then there was the waiting. His fighter was dead in space and all he had was
what was left in his suit. When fully charged it was three days worth of life
support, but -- if he could trust the meter on his arm -- a lot had escaped
when the emergency system had been hit. Maybe the failsafe would hold.
All he could do was wait and hope.
Arko'll come through, John told himself. But that was only if he still
survived. If the Captain was going to come through, he would have been rescued
by now. It was already over an hour since the attack.
It had been an attack, not a battle. The Minbari war cruiser had appeared
without warning. The Eagle was still deploying fighters when the
shooting began.
He remembered what he saw of the firefight, out of the corner of his eye. The
ship was hit bad. It would have been a sitting duck for the next pass. John's
starfury had been hit in the same barrage and it had taken him long minutes to
regain control. He might have blacked out for a time. While in the tumble it
was impossible to understand anything happening outside. He made regular glances
for fear of collision. The lights of battle had been far away, and soon ceased.
When he finally slowed the tumble to a tolerable level, he was unable to see
much against the starfield.
They're dead. It was a dull pain pulling him toward despair. They're probably
all dead. That leaves me, alone in the night.
Rescue would be nice. He couldn't count on it, though.
His situation was helpless. All he had left to do was wait for the improbable
chance of someone else finding him and pulling his ass out of the fire. All he
had left to do was try to live as long a possible to better his chances. The
odds were he was going to die.
He fought back against the adrenaline rush. Panic would do nothing but use up
oxygen. He tried to force himself to calm. Still, his instinct resisted. There
must be something he could do -- but there wasn't. All he could do was wait.
Oh, right. Smile and do the Buddha bit. Doesn't that sound fun?
He clamped his mouth shut, tight, against his racing heart and tried to relax
his fisted hands.
I'm not dead yet, he told himself. I am not going to die screaming.
A cartoon picture presented itself to his imagination. St. Peter at the Pearly
Gates. "Lieutenant John Sheridan," the bearded man said in a serious
tone. "What do you have to say for your life?"
All the cliches, all the fears, all the warnings. He had chosen this life,
sought it out. He could have been a diplomat, like Dad. There weren't any other
military in the family.
-*-
So, hot shot pilot, what do you have to say for yourself?
Live hard, die young.
My body's whole, that's something. The ID will be positive ... if there's
anyone to find me. Mom will want a gravestone for the family plot even though
they'll send the coffin into a star.
JOHN JOSEPH SHERIDAN
27 March 2216 - 8 October 2245
I'd rather my soul stay there, he thought, under the oaks. He could feel
the cool breeze again in his memory. This wasn't what I expected when I
joined Earth Force nine years ago. Back then, there had been nothing in the
future but bright promise. We had helped defeat the Dilgar, Earth Alliance was
expanding and the military was the fastest route to the top of the hill. Or six
feet under (metaphorically speaking).
Oh, damn, he complained. It's not fair. Where did this war come from?
Arko didn't, doesn't know. The way he acted at the briefings seemed to be
"don't know," not "can't say".
-*-
John looked again at the time display on his forearm. Faint red numbers glowed
in the dark. Fifteen minutes less air than the last time he checked. The power
that ran the clock wasn't exactly a waste of resource: The battery was small.
There was no way to translate the electricity to more air.
Playing "how long can I hold off until the next time I look?" was a
bad waste of mind time, and an invitation to make his heart race. He reviewed
the configuration. Wires led back to the oxygen supply, but there was nothing
vital underneath, and it would crush rather than break. There would be no sharp
edges capable of puncturing his suit. With the tips of his gloves he pressed
down on the display panel until he felt it give way. The display froze: some
line segments dropped out, it spelled something meaningless. He lay his head
and arms back, relaxed his muscles, closed his eyes and tried to breathe
shallow.
-*-
He was proud of himself.
He hadn't hit anything yet. (How long a time was "yet"? He had no way
to tell.) His hands were relaxed. His eyes were closed ... most of the time.
The fear was still there. He needed a happy place to wait in.
He let his mind wander, searching through his memory, panic following behind.
The flutter-fall was slowed by the sensation of fingers on his skin. He clung
to the memory, defined it. His breathing slowed and went shallow as he let it
enfold him.
Love. Yes. Why hadn't he seen it? Why couldn't he admit to it? Where had
all his ambition gotten him except here, to die in the dark? What was the worth
of all the plans when war would come and shatter everything?
Love. He drank of it. Who?
It was a trick question. Mr. Hot-Shot Pilot, Cocky and ambitious, he had had
his pick of women and had often done so.
So who?
Or was it illusion? Was he only grasping for some sort of meaning?
He felt the embrace again, felt the comfort filling his soul. It was real, he
told himself, just unknown.
The touch was familiar. Not one of the one night stands. If it was then he was
kidding himself.
It was a light touch, most times, though it also could be strong and demanding.
It was something joyful as well as need and release. Laughter. Laughter was a
lot of it. Oh, God --
He knew.
Long brown hair, laughing eyes, broad mouth. Feet running down the hall,
laughter following. "Stop bothering me," he would call. "I'm
trying to study." And he would try to ignore the knowledge that she and
Lizzy were talking about him behind his back.
Oh, God, Anna. He laughed, laughed happily, forgetting the darkness
outside. His eyes were closed and he floated outside of all. Mom was right.
Mom was always right.
Anna Mathieson. Lizzy's best friend, and the bane of his existence.
It was Anna. Anna who had been playing the same futile game that he had been
playing. What they both craved was power and excitement, no time for
commitment. What other motive could have drawn him into such a dangerous life?
(Life hadn't seemed dangerous when he enlisted.) What other motive could have
drawn her in as well, stalking lovers among soldiers?
The first time had started at Luna's, in San Francisco, an officer's
haunt. He hadn't recognized her; the bar was dark and he wasn't expecting
anyone from home to be there. He was looking for a pickup. She had responded
with interest, arms around his neck. A sensual touch.
Then she whispered a teasing giggle "Now, Johnny. What would Mom
say?" and he knew her. He suddenly straightened as if it had been Liz he'd
found there, ... and had overheard some other hot shot delivering his same
line. But his protectiveness soon dissipated. She was legal, he calculated,
though not by much. It was also soon clear that she was experienced. Within the
hour he had had her leaned up against the wall and they were kissing hungrily.
Soon after that they left for his hotel room and played long into the night.
The next time he visited home she entered the house first, his hand on her
back. Mom and Dad figured it out (this wasn't the first girl he'd brought
home), and there had been some nervous laughter amid the teasing. They left to
go dancing and it wasn't a surprise that they didn't show up again until the
next morning for brunch.
Mom shook her head and was tolerant. Next visit she kept her mouth tightly shut
and John tried not to notice. He had brought someone else.
Since then ... well, they both had ambitions. Since her skills were in
archeology it was too soon to enlist (she needed to finish her degrees), and
she might go further in the civilian sector. The expedition companies were
beginning to expand. So they made no plans and continued their casual habits
and other lovers. But when they did wind up in the same town they were always
happy with each other's company. Maybe he didn't want to admit how much he
looked forward to those rendezvous.
Not until it was too late.
-*-
How long has it been? It felt like years. He kept his eyes closed. There
was nothing to see but stars processing through the weird epicycles of his
residual tumble.
The odds weren't good.
Soon, now.
Anna, can you help me with this? (I'm sorry you're never know.) Anna, love,
could you help me to die?
It was a white light that covered him, smothered him, his burial shroud.
Fingers pulled at the threads that had been floating outwards, and they began
to tangle and weave.
-*-
The white light ... moved. That seemed odd. Slowly the meditative trance fell
apart. It was not one light within, but several outside. He could feel (feel!)
the fighter being pulled by a grappler. Someone trying to get his attention;
his radio still dead. How is your air supply? He could see hand signals
through the window, suited crew outside, caught in the spotlights of the rescue
tug. They were far from the nearest star, so there was no general light. The
markings he could see were ambiguous. Earth Force, but he didn't know who.
Did you need the medic now? How much air?
He looked down at the broken display. Am I going to get in trouble for
willful damage? he almost giggled. His air didn't seem to be stale. He
motioned a "fine, maybe." They'll be able to tell me when I get in
how close I cut it.
=== end chapter one ===