Out Of The Darkness

  clear idea of where they've been. Based on that, you can deter­mine where they're most likely to go." "In the case of Londo and the Centauri," Garibaldi said grimly, "where they're going to go is anyplace they want to. Right now they're the six-hundred-pound gorilla." "The what?" David looked at him blankly. "The gorilla. It's an old joke. Where does a six-hundred-pound gorilla sit? Answer is, anywhere he wants. Get it?" "Kind of." David hesitated, then asked, "What's a gorilla?" Garibaldi opened his mouth to respond, then closed it and sighed. "Never mind." Easily turning his attention away from the joke that had left him puzzled, David said, "Londo ... the emperor . . . you think that's what he wants to do? Go everywhere . .. anywhere ... he wants?" "I don't know. I don't know the man anymore," Sheridan said. He looked to G'Kar. "What do you think, G'Kar? You haven't been saying all that much. What's your opinion on Londo's intentions?" "His intentions?" G'Kar shrugged. "I could not tell you for sure. But there is one thing I do know for certain: Londo Mollari is one of the most tragic individuals I've ever met." "Tragic?" Garibaldi snorted. "Look, G'Kar, I once liked the guy. And then he went power mad, and now he sits there on Cen­tauri Prime playing all sides against each other. And yeah, okay, I'll be honest... losing Lou Welch to those high-haired bastards didn't exactly endear me to the whole Centauri experience. I've heard them say, in their rhetoric, in their histories, that the em­peror is the living incarnation of Centauri Prime. If that's the case, I have some major issues with the incarnation, because it means he's the living symbol of a planet that's gone straight down the tubes. So I don't exactly see, G'Kar, why I'm supposed to shed a tear for him and think of him as a tragic figure." "Shed tears or not, as you see fit," G'Kar said with a shrug. "I know I shed none. Why should I? He was responsible for mass drivers being used against my people. For the deaths of millions of Narns. Do you know what would have happened if not for Londo Mollari?" There was a pause. "What?" inquired David. "Very likely the exact same thing," G'Kar told him. "It is my belief that Londo became swept up in circumstances that were beyond his control... perhaps even beyond his understanding. And by the time he did understand, it was too late. I believe he had hopes and dreams for his people, but only in the most ephemeral of terms ... and others transformed those hopes into a harsh reality that he never contemplated in his wildest dreams. "That, Mr. Garibaldi, is the tragedy of Londo Mollari: that he never had the opportunity to become that which he might have been had the vagaries of fate not caught him up. Do not misun­derstand," he added hastily. "As I said, I shed no tears for him. In many respects he brought it on himself, and there were times he might have been able to stop it. Then again, perhaps not. We will never know. But whether he is pitiable or not, whether he is someone with whom we empathize or not, is beside the point. He remains a tragic figure nonetheless." Sheridan was shaking his head and looking over at Garibaldi. "And here you said he wasn't talking much. See what happens? Now we can't shut him up." "I won't burden you with my opinions if it's a problem, Mr. President," G'Kar said archly. Sheridan waved him off. "So what do we do, John?" Delenn said. "We remain stymied." "We stay the course, that's all," Sheridan told her reluctantly. "I'm not going to unilaterally order the White Star fleet to attack Centauri Prime. I have to present an example for the Alliance, and what they do not need is an example of a leader who func­tions without giving a damn about the opinions and desires of his constituency. The Alliance refuses to pull the trigger. I can't go forward without them, so we remain together and stationary. And we hope that once the Alliance does come to its collective senses, it's not too late." "That certainly seems the only way to go," Garibaldi agreed reluctantly. G'Kar simply nodded noncommittally. Sheridan then gave Delenn a significant look, and she under­stood immediately what he wanted. "David," she said, "why don't we go for a walk?" "Dad wants to be able to talk without having me around, right." Despite the phrasing, it wasn't a question so much as an affirmation.

  "Nothing gets past you." Sheridan chuckled, but there was edginess in the laugh. "Fine." David shrugged with feigned indifference and al­lowed Delenn to lead him out. "He's a sharp boy, and he's growing up fast," said Garibaldi. "We probably could have kept talking in front of him." "Let's let him be just a kid, at least for a while longer." "I wouldn't say he's ever been 'just a kid,' Mr. President," G'Kar said. "That's probably true." Sheridan seated himself back behind his desk. The back-and-forth with David had taken some of the ire out of his voice, but he was still clearly not happy with the situation. "The thing I find most disturbing about this is the busi­ness with the Drazi. One of their own people was murdered, and they simply let it go." "The word on ISN was that it was a lone nut acting with­out the government's knowledge or consent," Garibaldi said. "They're even suggesting that it's a private group of saboteurs who're working to bring down the Centauri government by staging acts of violence designed to foster war with the Alliance. The new Drazi ambassador backed it up. Not that I necessarily believed it for a second..." "You were wise not to," G'Kar said. "It was, in fact, the orga­nized actions of a mob, performed with the full cooperation of the local authorities and Minister Lione's pet troops, the Prime Candidates. They tore the poor devil apart. His assistant was hurried away. I saw his picture on the same ISN broadcast that Mr. Garibaldi saw; he's the new Drazi ambassador. It seems his predecessor's misfortune was his own good luck." Garibaldi looked at him suspiciously. "You're acting like you saw this as an eyewitness." G'Kar said nothing. Garibaldi looked from G'Kar to Sheridan. "Someone want to tell me what's going on? I mean, there's no way G'Kar could have seen it. A Narn on Centauri Prime? Impossible. They've banned all off-worlders ... and even when off-worlders were welcome, Narns never were." "I have ways," G'Kar said with great mystery. "Mind telling me what they are?" "I cannot, in good conscience, do so," G'Kar informed him. "And you?" He turned expectantly to Sheridan. But Sheridan shook his head. "I don't know, either. G'Kar hasn't told me." "And you find this acceptable?" Garibaldi was openly incredulous. "I'm learning to deal with it," Sheridan said. "He is John's foot," Delenn, who had just reentered, said. "His what?" "Hand," Sheridan corrected her. "It's an old title..." "Look, I don't care if he's your hand, your foot, or your lower intestine," Garibaldi said. "I don't like secrets being kept. Not among us. Not after everything we've been through together. Because secrecy under such circumstances leads to sloppiness, and the next thing you know, someone decides they're going to be a hero and they get themselves killed." "That," G'Kar said, sounding not a little regretful, "is an oc­cupational hazard for being a hero." "And for being a martyr," Garibaldi reminded him, "I hope you're not aiming for that status for yourself." "Why, Mr. Garibaldi ... I didn't know you cared." He sounded more amused than anything else. Sheridan turned to Delenn. "David squared away?" "He's back with his teachers. He said he still doesn't under­stand who decides when peace is the right thing to do." "What did you tell him?" "I looked him right in the eye and said, 'I decide. And if I'm not around, your father decides.' " "Really. And what did he say to that?" "He said, 'As long as Uncle Mikey doesn't.' " "I'll kill him," said Garibaldi. This generated a booming laugh from Sheridan. Delenn loved hearing him laugh, because he did it so infrequently. With all his responsibilities, all the stress upon him, she wished that he could laugh more often. He needed to desperately. And she needed it, too. Six more years. . . Some days it seemed as if it was going to pass in an eyeblink. Other days. . . Other days it felt as if it was going to be an eternity.

  EXCERPTED FROM THE CHRONICLES OF LONDO MOLLARL Excerpt dated (approximate Earth date) March 30,2275. My concern about my memory grows. Things that happened many years ago... these are clear to me. I can remember-every word that was spoken, every nuance of every moment from ten, twenty, thirty years past. I can remember exactly what it felt like to run as a child, to fall and skin my knee. The twinge of the pain can be re-created in my mind with utter clarity. I cannot remember what I had for dinner last night. I have had to drink rather heavily in order lo maintain some of the more sensi­tive entries in this
journal, because I have not wanted my... associate... to be aware of some of the things I write. The problem is that I think it's starting to take its toll upon me. That and age... ... and the mirror. I look in the mirror and I see reflections of a man I do not recognize... and yet, unfortunately, do. The image of me in my dreams... My dreams... Durla and/7/sdreams. Now there is a subject... It takes a great deal of effort for me to recall what happened at a ministry meeting yesterday. Durla was there, that I recall. He was in one of his wild-eyed moods, speaking once more about dreams that had come to him, images in those dreams, and he was presenting blueprints and descriptions of new and greater weapons. The others looked upon his work and marveled at Durla the Visionary. That is what they call him: the Visionary. One of the greatest seers in the history of Centauri Prime. When he was elevated to the office of prime minister, he started claiming that he had been guided by his dreams for years. When he was a mere member of my personal guard, such statements would have garnered laughter. Now ... now the others make appreciative noises and exclamations of amaze-

  ment, and speak of the exciting time in which we live, that such a prophet walks among us. It is ridiculous. Nonsense. Except... those things that we produce tend to work. Or at least our scientists are able to make them work. The Centauri Republic is being crafted in Durla's image. Odd. It gives me a strange feeling of nostalgia. I see his designs for weapons, for ships... and I get the same chill I did when I saw the Shadow ships crossing the skies over Centauri Prime. Black and fearsome things they were, and to look at them was like staring into the very heart of madness. I wonder about these dreams, and their origins, but it is pointless to inquire. Durla would not understand, nor would he care. No, two things occupy Durla's thoughts: his endeavors to build up our military might, and his desire to bring down the saboteurs who continue to frustrate and thwart him. They have done so in small ways and have not been able to truly stop the progress. For every munition factory they manage to destroy, there are five others. They can no more stem the tide than a coral reef can impede the ocean. But they are a presence and an irritant nonetheless, and Durla continues to be angered by their activities. These matters will come to a head sooner rather than later, I fear. I do not like to think about whose head they may come to. My memory... I saw a lovely young woman walking the corridors the other day. I spoke to her, smiled at her, feeling for a moment like the Londo of old. Then I realized that she was Senna, the young woman whom I took as my ward some years ago. I had not seen her in quite some time. She remains without husband, and without interest in acquiring one. Instead she occupies herself by acting as an occasional nursemaid for some of the children of Centauri ministers and such. She is quite popular with them, so I understand. Dinnerl Dinner the other night was with Vir. I recall now. I do not remember what we had... but he was there. Senna was there, too. They spoke quite gregariously with one another, I seem to remember. One would have almost thought I was not there at all. Sometimes I think I am not. chapter 3 Milifa, of the house of Milifa, burst into Durla's office, unable to contain his excitement. "Is it true?" he asked before Durla could open his mouth. "Is what I've heard true?" Durla leaned back and smiled. Milifa was a man who virtually radiated strength. Remarkably charismatic, powerfully built, he was the head of one of the most influential houses in all the Cen-taurum. Even his excitement was carefully channeled, his dark eyes crackling with intensity as he said again, "Is it true?" "Are you going to give me breathing space to tell you, my friend? Or will you simply keep asking?" Milifa took a step back and a deep breath. "Do not toy with me on this, Durla. I warn you." Virtually any other person who spoke the words "I warn you" to Durla would have been subject to harsh treatment. But from Milifa, Durla was willing to take it. "Yes. It is true," he responded. Milifa sagged with visible relief. Durla had never seen the robust aristocrat so emotionally vulnerable. Even on the day that Milifa's son, Throk, had been killed, Milifa had managed to keep his rawest emotions in careful check. "Four ... years," he said incredulously. "Four years since the safe house of the Prime Candidates was destroyed. Four years since my son and his friends died at the hands of those ... those ..." He trembled with barely contained fury. "I cannot apologize enough, old friend," said Durla, "for the length of time it has taken us to apprehend one of these subver­sives. It is, frankly, an embarrassment. I do not know any other way to put it." "An embarrassment, yes. Perhaps," Milifa said sourly, "your duties as prime minister have atrophied the skills you so adroitly displayed when you were minister of Internal Security." "That is neither here nor there," Durla told him. He rose from behind his desk and came around it, clapping Milifa on the back. "He is being questioned even as we speak. Do you wish to come and see?" "Absolutely," Milifa said. "After waiting four years to see the face of one of these bastards, I have no intention of waiting a moment longer." Durla was pleased to see that the questioning was already under way. He was not, however, pleased to witness its lack of success. The subject was strapped into an oversize chair, his feet dangling a few inches above the floor. He was rail thin, narrow-shouldered, and unlike most other Centauri of Durla's acquain­tance, his hair was something of a mess. His head was lolling from one side to the other, as if attached to his shoulders by only the slimmest of supports. Several members of the Prime Candidates were there, as well, looking particularly grim. Durla recognized one of them as Caso, a close friend of Throk's. Caso had suffered, to some de­gree, from survivor's guilt. A lung illness had kept him home in bed the day that the other Prime Candidates died in the explo­sion; had Caso not been bedridden, he would have died with the others. "What is the vermin's name?" Milifa asked, standing just be­hind Durla. "Lanas. Rem Lanas," Durla told him grimly. "He was found tres­passing in one of our..." He paused, and then said,"... medical fa­cilities, on Tumbor 2. He had counterfeit clearance identification on him. Quite well crafted, I might add. He was in the midst of endeav­oring to rewire certain circuits that... if left unchecked... would have caused the facility to blow up. Fortunately, all he managed to do was trip an alarm. Our security systems have become increas­ingly sophisticated over the years." "That is a fortunate state of affairs," Milifa said, "considering the alternative is leaving yourself open to being continually preyed upon by slime like... like this." His voice dropped lower on the last several words. He stepped forward and practically

  stuck his face into Lanas'. "Are you the one, slime? Are you the one who was responsible for killing my son?" Lanas looked up at him without really seeing him. "What's wrong with him?" demanded Milifa. "Truth drugs, no doubt. Sometimes they take a while to reach full effect." Durla looked to Caso for confirmation. Caso, over the years, had apprenticed with some of the best interrogators in the Centaurum and had become quite skilled. He had person­ ally requested the opportunity to handle the questioning of this latest subject, in the name of his departed friend. "How much longer, Caso?" But Caso looked surprisingly uncomfortable. "Actually, Prime Minister, they should be at full effect by now. Before now, in fact. But he has been resisting all of our initial questions." "Resisting?" Durla was astonished. "Are you certain you have administered them properly?" "Positive, Prime Minister," Caso answered stiffly. "And yet he resists? Increase the dosage." "That may not be wise..." Durla, feeling the quiet smoldering of Milifa next to him, said tightly, "On my authority. Do it." Caso bowed deeply and put together another dosage. Mo­ments later there was enough truth drug pumping through Lanas' veins to send a dozen Centauri pouring out every secret they'd ever held, all the way back to childhood. Rem Lanas' eyes remained glazed. It was as if he was with­drawing completely into himself. "I checked the records on this man," Caso said. "He was a worker on K0643." "Was he now," Durla said. The excavation on K0643 had proven to be one of Durla's only unqualified disasters. He had been certain that there was some great source of weaponry there, but the entire excavation had been destroyed. There were wild rumors that techno-mages had somehow been involved. . . fleet­ing glimpses of them, but accounts of their numbers ranged from three t
o thirty. No one seemed sure of anything. He won­dered if Lanas had been one of the workers who had been ques­tioned. He leaned forward, and said, "What is your name?" "Lanas. Rem Lanas." His voice was thick and distant. "An d are you part of an organization?"