Out of the Darkness (14 page)

"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. Instead 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 instead 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 wasn'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 security people. Although his authority extended only to the latter, everyone was attending 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, how will 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 accepted 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 found 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.

Yson, burly and taciturn as always, was glaring. But no one was noticing; it was the person 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 a trophy.

"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 all?"

"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 the 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 courtesy 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 terrible 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. Alien 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.

C
HAPTER 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 noticed 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 running, 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 Minbari 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 completion 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 represented 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.