"Sheridan is just one man," Durla reminded them, bringing the conversation back on track. "Let us not forget that he was involved with three great campaigns in his life: the Earth-Minbari War, the Shadow War, and his assault on his own Homeworld Let us also not forget how each of those disputes was ultimately settled," and he ticked them off on his fingers. "The Minbari surrendered; the Vorlons and Shadows voluntarily stood down and departed from known space; and his prime nemesis on Earth, the president, was considerate enough to commit suicide. Sheridan has never been in a position where he faced an enemy who would not back down. That is not the case here. Who here would back down from him? Which of you would tell me that-if faced with John Sheridan demanding your surrender-you would willingly do so?" It was Rhys who spoke immediately. "Death first." There were agreeing nods from around the table. "He will be facing a very different creature when the full might of the Centauri Republic is unleashed upon him," Durla said. "The people do not feel that way," Kuto said. Durla turned and gaped at him. "The people? The people do not?" "I am not saying they do not support you, Prime Minister," Kuto said quickly as the gazes of the others fell upon him. "But Minister Vallko is correct. The people rejoice in our achievements and call out their support publicly... but privately, my research says, they still fear Sheridan." "We cannot have that!" Durla replied. "This is an alarming comment on the state of the Centauri mind ... and it must be addressed at once. At once! Kuto-arrange for a public speaking display. Immediately, do you hear me! Lione, Vallko, assist him!" The other ministers were caught off guard by the sudden change of mood in the room, the abrupt way that Durla's attitude had shifted. But they hastened to obey his orders. Londo said nothing, and merely watched silently. Within moments, Durla and Londo were standing at a balcony on one of the lower floors of the Tower of Power. There were no windows in the Tower, which added to the mystique of the place. There was, however, the one balcony, which Durla had insisted upon for just such an occasion. The Tower had been well placed, 89 for there was always a crowd of people around the base, just going about their business. When Durla spoke, his voice boomed throughout the entire city, thanks to a multitude of hidden speakers. Not only that, but his oversize holographic image appeared throughout Centauri Prime, carrying his word far and wide. People on the other side of the world were jolted from their sleep by the unexpected intrusion of Prime Minister Durla. Londo, although at his side, was mysteriously absent from the projection. Only Durla's image loomed large, which he felt was as it should be. "It has been brought to my attention," Durla's voice echoed throughout the assemblage, all eyes below turning up toward him, "that as Centauri Prime returns to glory, there are many of you who fear reprisals from John Sheridan. Many who think that this man, who formed the Alliance, presents a threat to our world! That our recent, successful endeavors to expand our holdings will be met with resistance, and that we-as many others have-will surrender to President Sheridan, simply because he will ask us to! And why not? The Minbari surrendered. The Vorlons surrendered. The Shadows surrendered. Why not we?" And he received exactly the answer he was hoping for. Someone below shouted, "Because we are Centauri!" Immediately others took up the shout. "Yes! We are Centauri!" Durla announced, receiving a resounding cheer in return. "And in those instances when we choose to exercise our might, we will achieve nothing less than victory! Victory at all costs! Victory in spite of all terror! Victory, however long and hard the road may be, for without victory there is no survival!" "Victory!" the people in the street shouted. "We shall not flag or fail!" Durla continued. "We shall go on to the end. We shall fight in the void; we shall fight on planets; we shall fight in hyperspace; we shall fight on the Rim. We shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in space; we shall defend our Homeworld, whatever the cost may be. We shall fight in the asteroid fields; we shall fight in the nebulae; we shall fight among the stars-we shall never surrender!" The roar that went up was deafening, and seemed to go on forever. Durla drank it in, a virtual sponge for the adulation he was
receiving. He stepped back in off the balcony to receive the congratulations from the other ministers. "Well done! Very well done!" burbled Kuto, and the others echoed the sentiments. Only Londo seemed to have any pause. "And tell me, Durla ... what do you think the reaction of Sheridan will be when he hears this speech of yours? How do you think he will react? Are you not concerned that he may be moved to strike first?" "No, Highness, I am not," Durla answered firmly. "If he and his precious Alliance have not attacked because of our deeds, they will certainly not attack because of words. They will perceive it as saber rattling, nothing more. But our people-our people will know it for what it is. They will know and remember, and when the time comes . .." "They will know that we will never surrender," Londo said. "That is exactly right, Highness." "Let us hope-for your sake, if nothing else-that President Sheridan sees it the same way," said Londo. The shouting continued, and Durla was only slightly soured to note that although many bellowed for him, the name of "Mollari" was being shouted with equal enthusiasm. But then he contented himself by recalling that the people in the square were truly only a fraction of the populace. Everywhere else it was Durla, and only Durla. And that was as it should be. Let the people call out for Mollari along with Durla, if it pleased them. Eventually they would come to realize who truly ran things. Once upon a time, Durla felt as if no one would ever recognize him for his own achievements and his intrinsic greatness. Those days, however, were long past. He could afford to be generous, to share the wealth of the people's adulation. For the moment. Mollari looked weaker with every passing day. Certainly he had his robust periods, but his cough was becoming more and more pronounced. It was indicative of something deeper, more damaging to the emperor's health. But for some reason, Mollari seemed disinclined to seek out medical attention. And Durla certainly was not going to push the matter. The shouting grew louder and louder. "Highness, they call for us," Durla said, bowing low in a gesture that was slightly mocking. "Shall we go back out and satisfy their worship?" "I have never had any desire to be worshipped, Prime Minister," Londo said with a touch of amusement. "But if it will please you ..." and he gestured that they should go back out onto the balcony. They stepped out and waved once more to the crowd. The people cried out almost as one, shouting their names, praising them to the skies so that the Great Maker himself would take note. And that was when the shot rang out. EXCERPTED FROM THE CHRONICLES OF LONDO MOLLARI Excerpt dated (approximate Earth date) September 24,2275. I did not hear it at first, because the shouts of the crowd were so deafening. In-stead what I felt, rather than saw, was a sharp sensation across my forehead. I put my hand up to it to see what it could be, and when my hand came away it was tinged pink with blood. Then there was a sound, that of a ricochet, or of so striking nearby, and then a second. I've been shot, I thought, and for a moment I felt-not concern or fear-but in-stead an almost giddy sense of accomplishment. So long had I been haunted by the image of G'Kar with his hands at my throat, I was almost resigned to it. If I was to die at the hand of an unknown assassin, then i had managed to thwart destiny.It was cold comfort to be sure, but given the comfort I had received of late, "cold" was almost a warming trend. Before I could think or feel anything else, I was being hauled backward by my personal guards. Durla was likewise being hurried away from the balcony, General Rhys himself ducking Durla's head for him to make certain he was not hit. Below, the people were still cheering; they had not yet figured out what was happening. "The emperor's been shot!" one of the guards cried out. And then Dunseny was standing directly in front of me. He was saying loudly and firmly, in that no-nonsense tone that only the very old can successfully carry off, "Step aside. Let me see him." Amazingly, the guards halted in their ushering me away, and Dunseny inspected my forehead with clinical expertise. "He hasn't been shot," he announced sourly, and it was hard to tell whether his tone of voice; was from annoyance at those who had pronounced me injured, or because he was aggrieved to discover it wa
sn't the case. He had a cloth out and was dabbing at the bleeding, which was already trickling off. "No burn marks," he said expertly. "It's a
A blast must have hit above or nearby him, chipped off a small piece of the building, and the flying debris cut across his head. See? It's stopping already." "I am not surprised," I growled. "Blood circulates up there for the brain, and I have not been making many demands upon it lately." General Rhys was already barking orders both to my guards and to his own se-curity people. Although his authority extended only to the latter, everyone was at-tending to every word he uttered. "Get down there! Find the shooter or shooters! The emperor and the prime minister will stay here until the area is secured!" "The crowd is huge, General, howwill we-" one of his security staff began. Rhys gave him a look that could have sliced him in half. "Move!"he bellowed with such force that his voice alone almost knocked the man off his feet. The next hour was very confused, with mixed and conflicting reports being fed to us every few minutes. Durla, the other ministers, and I returned to the room where the briefing had been held, and there was great speculation among all of them as to who or what was responsible for this atrocious assault upon my sacro-sanct person. The consensus seemed to be that the Alliance was behind it- sheridan in particular. I did not believe it for a moment, and said so. "Sheridan may many things," I told them flatly, "but an assassin is not one of them." They ac-cepted my opinion with polite attention, but I suspected that they believed they knew far better than I about such matters, Dunseny, meantime, expertly bandaged the wound on my head, although it was such a pathetic thing, really, that he needn't have bothered. I can only assume that he foundnd that activity preferable to simply standing there and letting me bleed. General Rhys disappeared, presumably to oversee the search-and-destroy mission personally. When he returned, he did not simply enter the room. Instead he virtually exploded into it, pushing the sliding doors aside since, apparently, they did not move quickly enough to suit him. "We have him," Rhys said without any preamble, and then added, "A more bizarre set of circumstances we have never seen." He turned, and shouted," Bring them in!" When I saw who was being led into the room, I was stunned. Brought in side by side were Yson of House Yson, and another individual. son, burly and taciturn as always, was glaring. But no one was noticing; it was the yson beside him who garnered all the attention. "G'Kar?" I barely recognized my own voice. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "G'Kar?" I said again. "The emperor remembers my name. I am flattered," he said. Kuto was immediately on his feet. "Immediately," though, may be too generous a term. It took him long moments to thrust himself to standing as his bulk fought gravity and won, but just barely. "What a magnificent day!" Kuto called out, apparently creating the release for the press even as he spoke. "Yson, one of our own nobles, fought to stop a vicious, bloodthirsty Narn from shooting and killing our beloved emperor!" "No." It was a young voice that had spoken, and then I saw that a number of the Prime Candidates had crowded in at the door. Clearly they had been in the midst of a struggle. Their hair was disheveled, and some of them had torn clothing. In the forefront was one I thought I recognized. But I could not remember his name if someone had put a gun to my head. I knew because, after all, someone practically had just done so, and his name still was not forthcoming. "What do you mean, Caso?" asked Lione, graciously supplying the missing piece of information for me. Caso pointed at Yson. "He was the one who was shooting. The Narn was trying to stop him." "What?" Durla sounded horrified. "A Narn saved our emperor? And... this Narn?" The notion that a Narn might have had a hand in preserving my life must have seemed for him to go against the natural order. Imagine, then, his even great astonishment when Yson himself spoke up. "Not him," Yson said with great annoyance. "I wasn't shooting at the emperor. I was shooting at you, Durla." One of the guards stepped forward. He was carrying a phased plasma ( "Yson used this, Highness," he said, proffering it to me, as a hunter would c atrophy. "I... I don't understand," Durla said. To my delight, he was stammering. It was a joy seeing him coming so close to losing his composure completely. "Caso... you claim that you saw it alI?" "Not all, Prime Minister," said Caso. For some reason, the others seemed! tossing him unkind looks, but Caso did not let it perturb him. Or if it did f him, he did not let it show. "We were close enough to hear the first shot, despite tin] din of the crowd around us. We fought our way through, and there discovered!] Yson was struggling with his weapon, a red-haired Centauri in the proo. trying to yank it from his hands." "A red-haired Centauri? But then how did the Narn-" "He has a name, Durla," I interjected, sounding far calmer than I actually was "Considering you apparently owe him your life, you could at least do him the cour-tesy of using it." Durla looked ready to argue the point, but apparently decided it was not worth it. "How did... Citizen G'Kar... become involved? And where did he come from?" "He... was the Centauri. It was apparently a holographic disguise of some sort. Whatever device was generating it was broken during the struggle, disguise dissipated." Durla's eyes went wide. "A changeling net," he whispered. "They are illegal!" "Arrest me," said G'Kar. Slowly Durla rose from his seat. He was trembling with barely contained rage. Oh, I will do more than arrest you! I will have you executed for... for..." "Saving your life?" G'Kar was merely amused. I was not surprised. After all that G'Kar had endured in his life, it took far more than the ire of a Centauri politician- even a highly placed one-to give him pause. "Execution might not be such a ter-rible fate," he continued, sounding philosophical. "The fact that it took me as long as it did to dispatch this... person," and he indicated Yson with a nod, "is a bit embarrassing. I can only attribute it to the deleterious effects caused by extended use of a changeling net. Don't worry. Given time to recover, I'm certain that I will be sufficiently strong to take on anyone in this room if so inclined." "I will have you executed," Durla said, reining himself in, "for trespassing on Centauri Prime. Al ien races are forbidden... or had you forgotten?" "I forgot completely," G'Kar replied." I wore the disguise only because I wanted to have hair. Tall hair." Great Maker, I'd missed him. "You wore the disguise to spy on us! You are a trespasser and a spy! For that alone, your life is forfeit." "But it is not that alone, Durla," I said. I rose from my chair. My legs felt slightly unsteady, and I took a moment until I was certain that I could endure the simple act of standing. "That must be factored in with the debt that is owed him by you... and by me. Perhaps Yson's intent was to dispense with you, but I could just as easily have fallen within his target. Correct, Yson?" Yson looked at me with utter scorn. "Durla is power mad. He has nothing but contempt for the Houses. For the traditions of Centauri Prime. But you... you are worse. For there is nothing worse than a weak emperor." Slowly I nodded. Then, in one motion, I turned and pulled on the ceremonial sword that General Rhys had in his scabbard. I admired the hissing noise it made as it slid out. Yson's expression of disdain was still on his face as I turned and swung my arm as fast as I could. The blade was as sharp as it sounded, and I was pleased to see that my arm still had some strength in it. Yson's sneer was frozen even as his head slid from his shoulders and thudded to the floor. No one said a word. I pointed the sword at G'Kar. His one eye glittered at me. "Are you free for dinner?" I asked. chapter 8 David Sheridan could see the eye, looking at him, and it seemed far less fearsome than when it had first appeared. He still could remember exactly the first time that he had no-ticed it. He had just turned twelve, and had fallen asleep after a long day of celebration. In his dreams, he had been running, just running, across a great Minbari plain. He wasn't doing so out of fear, or pursuit. He was running simply for the pure joy of run-ning, of feeling the youthful energy channeling through him, feeding him as if there was an endless supply that would carry him through an eternity of sprinting. Finally he had stopped. It wasn't out of a need to catch his breath, but because he felt as if he should stop, because he was supposed to catch his breath. Then again, this was a dream, after all, and he was the one who set the parameters. And then, for no reason he could discern, the world around him started to go dim.
It was as if a total eclipse had suddely and inexplicably sprung into existence. He looked up at the Min-bari sun that had provided warmth and comfort for as long as he could remember. The sun looked back down at him. A single great eye had taken up the entirety of it, and it was peering at him in silence. He stared at it, transfixed. It blinked once, then again, and then it addressed him. Hello, little sun, it said. The scream had begun within the dream, but reached its com-pletion when David sat up in bed. Unfortunately Minbari beds were upright slabs, and as a result David fell forward and hit the floor. He lay there, gasping, clutching the cool tiles, soaked with sweat and looking around as if afraid that the eye might still be upon him. Even though he knew that it made no sense, he|
ran to the window and looked to the moon, but found no eye peeking back. Nevertheless he did not go back to sleep. He stayed there at the window, unmoving, waiting to watch the sun rise so that he could make sure for himself that the sun was as it usually was. He wasn't disappointed, for the sun shone that morning in all its normalcy, washing away the last dregs of that heart-stopping . dream. But he had not forgotten it. That would have been impossible . . . because every so often, the eye returned. Not very I often; just from time to time, as if it was checking on him. As terrifying as he had found it that first time, it became less so with each subsequent exposure. The eye never did anything harmful or threatening. It just watched him, occasionally saying a couple of well-chosen, nonintimidating words. He asked one of his teachers about it and was told that it undoubtedly repre-sented either his mother or his father, or perhaps both. It was, they said, a subconscious desire to know that-when he was at his most vulnerable-his parents were watching over him and keeping him from harm. From then on, David gradually relaxed to its presence, seeing it not as a threatening image, but as a symbol that all was right with the world. This particular night, the eye had returned, after an absence of many months. It did so, however, in a very odd way. Davi d was dreaming that he was having dinner with himself. The "self " seated on the other side of the dining table appeared a few years older, and he possessed a look of quiet confidence. What was particularly odd was that he had a hair crest that was evocative of the Centauri. David couldn't for the life of him figure out why his older self looked like that. "Do you like it?" the older David asked. "I'm not sure if it's me or not. What do you think?" Young David shrugged. "Good. No opinion. Not thinking," older David said. "Not thinking is what you'll want to do." And then his forehead blinked. David stared more closely, having at first accepted the unreality of the moment without question. But now he was struck by the oddness of the fact that the elder David had a third eye. It was