A Call to Arms Read Free

no one was going to force him to drink it.
    He saw that the others at the bar had downed their shots. They looked relieved, like they’d done what was necessary and were now safe.
    His was the only full shot glass on the bar.
    “You got any problem drinking with me?” the scar-faced man asked.
    “Nope,” Garibaldi said, deciding this wasn’t the time to try to explain, not with a blued-steel automatic picking up winks of light as it waved in his face. He raised the shot glass and downed the contents, and a feeling of pleasure, of relief, flooded him. He was drinking because he had to, to save his life! No one could blame him for that...
    And then he woke up.
     

Chapter 3
     
    A half hour later, Garibaldi came to the bridge of the White Star feeling grumpy and out of sorts--a typical mood for him. He was dressed in dark, shapeless clothing. It went with his mood.
    Once, in a circus back on Earth, many years ago when he had been a youngster, he had visited a sideshow. There had been an old gypsy woman, her head covered in a glittering kerchief, her eyes deep and hidden from the light.
    “Can you read my palm?” Garibaldi had asked, with a wise-guy smirk, holding out his hand.
    “I don’t need to,” the gypsy said. “I can see your fortune in your face.”
    “Yeah? And what does it tell you?”
    “That you won’t be happy as you go through life, especially with your truculent temperament, but you will have interesting adventures, and you’ll get a lot of the best lines.”
    “Hey, that’s good enough for me,” Garibaldi had said, and he had gone off whistling, hands in his pockets.
    Had that really happened? Or had he dreamed it?
    He shrugged off the thought and went to the window. He saw a dot detach itself from the Minbari cruiser and start toward the White Star . It was the shuttle with Sheridan aboard, moving slowly toward them, its rear jets a stabbing red plume. Sheridan was right on time.
    Garibaldi glanced around the White Star’s bridge. Everything seemed to be in order. There was a soft hum of purposeful activity. Human and Minbari Rangers were working at their consoles; data was flowing across the readout screens. Everybody seemed to know just what to do. Garibaldi wished he could say the same for himself. In his experience, life was one long improvisation broken up by unaccountable interludes.
    “That’s him,” Garibaldi remarked to the Human Ranger standing by and awaiting his orders. “Move us away as soon as he’s aboard. And tell ‘em to have dinner ready. It’s been a long trip, and he’s bound to be hungry. And even if he’s not, I am.”
    Fifteen minutes later, John Sheridan was aboard. Garibaldi greeted him with barely concealed warmth. Sheridan was one of his favorite people. It was not always easy for Garibaldi to put on his usual gruff face: his admiration for the man made that difficult. Still, he did his best. He led Sheridan inside and brought him to a booth in the dining room. There was no delay. The kitchen staff had been waiting for this. The first course seemed to be miniature enchiladas in a simple white sauce. Garibaldi ate his with good appetite, but noticed that Sheridan was toying with his. Garibaldi liked Minbari food, but suspected it might not agree with the president, not even when it had been cleared through xeno-cuisine substitutes.
    Now, putting down his fork, Sheridan said, “Michael, it’s good to see you. How are things going on Mars?”
    “Couldn’t be better,” Garibaldi said. “Never figured myself for the corporate type. I mean, me, running one of the ten biggest corporations on Mars? But I’m having a ball.”
    “Well,” Sheridan said, “I appreciate you getting into this, Michael. I haven’t been able to stay as involved with the construction on the new ships as I’d’ve liked.”
    “Hey, c’mon, you’ve got a galactic empire to run... Leave the nuts and bolts to the other guys. Kicking butt is what I do for a living.”
    “Then