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A Most Unusual Day

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I would be the first to admit that I have been in some screwy situations - and I would go into some detail to give you the idea, but they aren't the sort of stories that you should really tell in mixed company so just use your own imaginations. But out of all of that, nothing has ever come close to what was happening right then. It was like waking up with the mother of all hangovers but without the actual hangover. I had been walking, mainly because I was too scared to stop, but finally brought my feet to a standstill and had me a good look around.

The best I can do is say that I was in a marketplace. There were stalls. There was produce on the stalls and it looked like said produce was not only up for sale, it was actually being bought. So far, so good. The customers were another story. Maybe they were gearing up for a fancy-dress shindig. Maybe it had become Hallowe'en and I hadn't noticed. There was no other reason that I kept walking past things that looked like they'd stepped out of the pages of a Marvel comic.

There were some other pretty wild things going on - like the fact that every now and then someone would march past me and greet me by name. Not that I minded much. They called me 'Mister Garibaldi' and sounded like they meant it. I had street cred without even trying and in my book that's a beaut. But I was also starting to get claustrophobic. There were endless repeating corridors and they all looked the same. And they all had that grubby-air smell that you get in police station houses and I'd spent plenty of years in those joints, so you can take my word for it.

So far, everything was a corridor - some big, some small - apart from when I'd taken yet another wrong turn (or maybe it was a right one, who knows?) and found myself looking at an expanse of grass that looked like someone had dropped Central Park down in the middle of a subway tunnel. The place had a fountain and a maze. Not that I was against somewhere nice and leafy and tree-like but we looked to be underground and grass doesn't belong underground. Whoever the city planner in charge of the place was needed a talking to.

So, I'd hoofed it out of there and landed back where I'd started in the middle of the marketplace and this time I noticed that it had a big neon sign stuck up that said, 'Zocalo'. The only one of them that I know of is in Mexico City and five would get you ten that where I was then was nowhere down old Mexico way. Which was pity because I could have done with a slug of tequila right about then. But when it comes to things like that a resourceful guy like me can usually find what he's looking for and in this particular case I was helped along by the fact that whatever else was up with this place, they had no shortage of bars. I took a look around and decided on one that looked about right for someone like me (not too fussy but no bum, either) and installed myself on a stool. The liquor in the bottles on the shelves came in every known colour in the world - and probably a few unknown ones, too. The girl behind the bar sidled over and beamed at me. She was a little blonde number with her hair all piled up and a few pieces loose around her face. Nice deep violet eyes of the sort a guy can go swimming in. I pushed my hat back on my head and grinned at her; she tilted her head and smiled back and I got that warm, fuzzy feeling all the way down to my toes.

'Mr Garibaldi! We don't see you here all that often.'

The warm fuzzy feeling turned a bit cooler and pointy.

'No, I, uh, guess not.'

She rested her hands on the bar and leant forward. I worried for the buttons on her blouse: they looked like they were under quite a lot of strain there; I would have suggested that she try leaving some of them undone but I make it a rule never to advise a woman on her dress sense until at least a five minute acquaintance.

'Yeah, Scotch with water - easy on the H-two-O.'

One eyebrow went up. 'Scotch? You sure?'

'Kitten, I've rarely been so sure of anything in my life. Set it up.'

She shrugged and one of her buttons squeaked in protest. 'Okay.' Her movements were deft and easy and she was pretty generous in her measurements (take that as you will), which are all good things in any barkeep. The glass got put in front of me and I hauled out my wallet and peeled off a couple of greenbacks. The girl looked at them, looked at me, then went back to the jack. She held them both up to the light.

'Where did you get these? They look like the real thing.'

'They are the real thing - what do you take me for? Some bootlegger passing funny-money?'

That got me a giggle and another raised eyebrow. She kept running her fingers over the notes. 'Forgot your credit chit, huh?'

'Uh-'

'Thought so.' Her lips pressed together. 'Okay, look: I'll put it on the slate for you, but just this once. And only because it's you.'

I grinned at her again; sometimes it pays to be a guy named Mike Garibaldi. 'You know you're my favourite girl?'

She pushed my arm a little. 'Oh, you...' The lettuce got slid across to me and I slid it back. 'Keep it.' Hell, she got a kick out of the stuff so why not? I downed my Scotch and it barely took the edge off; I wondered just how much of the stuff it would take to stop my nerves jangling but I didn't get to find out because I saw something that actually did me more good than any kicker.

John Sheridan was walking along and he looked like he meant business. I'd never been so glad to see anyone in my life; anymore grateful and I would have thrown myself on his neck, then got down on one knee and proposed marriage. I couldn't see Della with him but figured that she had to be close by; I slid off my stool and waved my arm like a nut.

'John! Hey, Johnny-boy!'

He stopped and turned. I jogged over to him.

'Buddy, am I glad to see you. And a heck of a time you chose to play dress-up. What's with the threads?' He had some black effort on with a nice line in grey piping on it. I decided to skip it - sometimes it's better not to try getting John, you just end up with a headache otherwise. 'Hey, have you any idea how we ended up in this cockeyed caravan? And how the hell do we get out?'

John looked me up and down, his eyes lingering on my neckwear. Okay, so I don't have the greatest taste in ties but this one wasn't that bad. He was about to say something then leant forward, sniffed at me and a tick in his jaw started up like it was doing the Mexican Hat Dance. 'Have you been drinking?'

'Are you kidding me? Of course I have - can you blame me? Hey,' I took hold of his elbow with one hand and jerked my thumb in the direction of my nice cosy bar where Kitten was still working her stuff. 'I've got me a slate going on over there - I say we take advantage of that before they wise-up to the fact that we're not supposed to be.'

John took his elbow out of my grasp. His nostrils were flaring. I'd never seen him that tightly wound before, unless you count the time Bester had been threatening his better half. 'What the hell- Michael. The last thing I need right now is you falling apart on me.'

I put my eyebrows up. 'Who's falling apart? Okay, so I'm feeling on the wrong side of hysterical right about now but can you honestly tell me that all this is jake with you?'

'Who's Jake?' He shook his head like there was a flea bothering him. 'Look-' John broke off again when there was a chime. He raised the back of his hand to his mouth, tapped some silver thing he'd stuck to it and said, 'Sheridan, go.'

And he thought I was going screwy?

I revised that opinion approximately one second later when a voice rose back up at him. If I'd known he was able to do that before, I would have taken him on the road and sold tickets - John Sheridan and His Amazing Talking Hand.

'Captain, we have an incoming message from Commander Ivanova.'

'Put her through.'

The voice was tinny but I knew it. Susan Ivanova. Commander Ivanova? I may have called her that in fun, once, because even though she's a sweet kid she's still bossy, but that was just fooling.

'Captain.'

'Is there a problem?' He looked like he had one and then looked at me like I was it.

'Uh... You could put it like that.'

His jaw was doing that tightening thing again and I hoped for his sake he had a real good dentist.

'Were you able to get in touch with the First Ones?'

'Not exactly. I guess you could say I got hold of some Old Ones. Look, there's ... there's someone here I'm bringing back up with me; I just wanted to give you a head's up.'

He scowled at The Hand. 'You're bringing- Who? Susan-'

'I'll explain when I get back there. Her name is Della. I think- I think I sort of pulled her out of the past. You might want to get a hold of Garibaldi. Ivanova out.'

There was silence then and my new companion had the strangest expression on his face I've ever seen in my life. I say 'new companion' because while he'd been having his chin-wag on the blower without using a blower, I'd taken a real good look at him and I had come to a conclusion. He looked like John Sheridan; he sounded like John Sheridan; if I tilted my head and squinted at him I could see John Sheridanness busting out all over. But I knew John Sheridan and this joker wasn't him. For one thing, this bird was a few years older and his hair was longer.

I would have made my excuses and split right then but there were two things that stopped me: one, the girl calling herself Commander Susan Ivanova had mentioned Della and I was guessing that she wasn't someone they knew which meant it was possible that the Della in question was one of my posse; and two, the ringer for my partner had taken hold of my arm and, brother, did he have a grip on him.

'Look, Michael, I don't know what is going on with you but we really don't have time for this. Do me a favour, will you, and pull yourself together? It's bad enough with Stephen; we don't need you going down the tubes as well.'

I tried to shrug him off which was harder than it sounds. I thought about my options and as I didn't get very far I decided to play it on the level. 'Okay, buddy, look. This will sound screwy - hell, it should do, it is screwy - but that doesn't mean that it isn't true. The thing is, I don't know you and you don't know me. You know some character named Michael Garibaldi - congratulations, that's a good name to be able to pull out of a hat when you're in a tight spot. But he ain't me. And I know a character called John Sheridan - he's not much to write home about but he's my partner and I'm used to him. He fills in one half of the office quite nicely and replaces the office bottle when necessary; he's a stand-up guy, strictly on the level. I'd like to find him if I can. And you're not him. So. How do you like them apples?'

There was no answer for a moment. His hands were at his sides flexing loosely and I didn't like the look of that. When he spoke his voice was low and dangerous. 'What the hell are you talking about? If this is some kind of joke it's getting real old real fast.'

I held up my hands. 'This is no joke. And I'm talking about the fact that I don't belong here. I don't even know where here is. All I do know is that one moment I was in the office with John and his wife - and she may be the Della that your girl Ivanova is delivering here. If so, I'd like to see her.'

He frowned. He was a man with questions. The one he asked wasn't the one I expected. 'How did you know they got married?'

'What? Who?'

He hesitated for a moment. 'This ... John Sheridan. The detective. And Della. How did you know? I didn't tell you that; I didn't tell anyone about that.'

It was my turn to be stood on my head and I took it. 'What's for you to tell? You don't know 'em. Do you? Anyhow, they sent me a telegram. They sent Susan a telegram. If you want accuracy, it was really just the one telegram that they sent to both of us. The society pages went nuts when they heard. They've been calling themselves Mr and Mrs Sheridan all over town for a year - it isn't exactly a secret.'

The man pretending to be John Sheridan shook his head like his invisible flea was back. 'That- That isn't possible.'

I fished out my ID card. 'Look - Michael Garibaldi. It's got my description, profession, the works.'

He held it between his fingers like he didn't trust it, examined it and then examined me. It was a bit like being X-rayed; I thought that at least one of us should be wearing a lead apron. He still had hold of the card and then, very slowly and still keeping his eyes on me, he gave The Hand an encore.

'Sheridan to Garibaldi.'

There was a pause and then I heard a very thin-voiced me answer him.

'Captain.'

'Where are you?'

'Brown Sector - why, you need something?'

'No. No, it's- I- When can you get up here?'

'Uh, I don't know. Soon. There are some things I need to take care of down here first.'

'Okay. Let me know when you're done. Sheridan out.'

I got my card handed back to me. Sheridan leaned against the wall; he'd dialled down the Superman X-ray stare a notch and looked like he could do with a drink but as he hadn't seemed too struck by my suggestion of Kitten setting us up with a round, I kept my mouth shut.

'Okay,' he said and ran his hand through his hair, 'okay. You're coming with me.'

I got jerked by the arm.

'Fine,' I told him, 'but quit dancing with me, will ya? I can walk just fine on my own; I've been putting one foot in front of the other all by myself for a long time now.'

He let go. 'I'm sorry, it's just...' He actually laughed a little, a breath of a thing but it made his face look a lot less like somebody had carved it out of granite and a lot more like my partner's. And I'll be damned but if that didn't make me miss the big lug. Sheridan put his eyes all over my face and looked like someone had let all of the air out of him. He let out a deep breath. 'People popping up out of the past doesn't happen everyday - even here.'

'Uh-huh.' Popping up out of the past? I can't say that I liked the sound of that. I also wondered that if someone who wasn't a John Sheridan had said that to me if I would have wrestled them to the floor and then waited for the white-coat boys to come along and do their stuff. 'Where is here?'

'This is... It's called Babylon Five. We're a port.'

'Port, huh? You building your ports underground these days?'

There was a pause. 'Not exactly.'

He wasn't trying to beat me over the head and drag me off anymore, just steering me helpfully through corridors.

'Okay, bud, while you're in a question-answering mood - where are we headed?'

His eyes kept darting about while we walked and talked - not paranoid, just watchful and I wondered if he was always like this or if it was something I'd said. 'The main office. It will be easier to talk there - see if we can figure out what the hell is going on.'

I stopped. 'Hey, no, look- You can stop with all the taking-me-to-your-leader, see? I don't need to cosy up with the head honcho, you'll do just fine.'

He looked at me and one eyebrow flickered. 'You're already talking to the head honcho.'

I squinted at him. 'You?'

'Yes, me.' There was a note of pride in his voice you would have heard clear across Times Square during rush hour on a Friday afternoon.

'Whoa. This whole damn place, the lot, is a port?'

'Yes.'

'And you're telling me that you're in charge of it? All of it? No fooling?'

He was starting to get annoyed. 'No!'

'No you're not, or no you're not fooling?'

This time his lips pressed out and in and then he took in a deep breath. 'Look. I'm Captain John J. Sheridan; I'm the commander of Babylon Five. Okay?'

I laughed and put a friendly hand on his shoulder. It took me a minute before I could get enough air in to say, 'Okay, brother, spill: what dirt did you have on who to get given this gig?'

I could see the headache building behind one eye and I grinned at him.

TBC