Babylon 5 15 - Legions Of Fire 03 - Out Of The Darkness (David, Peter)

by Out Of The Darkness (David, Peter)

  the capital city was in flaming ruins. It was as bad as, if not worse than, when we had been attacked years earlier. A charnel smell wafted on the wind to me. The sky was already black with smoke, flames licking up toward the obscured clouds. I reached out, as if somehow I could scoop up my people in my hand, preserve them, save them, turn back the hands of time and make it not have happened. And I heard voices crying out to me, Londo, Londo, why have you forsaken us? could not tell if they were real or if they were imagined, but beyond question, they were my fault, my responsibility, on my head. I had gambled with their lives, and I had lost. "That," Shiv'kala said in a voice from beyond the grave, "was one third of the bombs we have planted. What you see here before you is merely representative of what has occurred throughout your world. Here is what you will do. Are you lis­tening, Londo?" "Yes,"! whispered. "You will bring Sheridan up here. You will show him the damage that was done, and you will make clear to him that these are crimes for which he and he alone bears responsibility... because he has been working in concert with the Legions of Fire." "You intend... for me to blame this destruction on Vir?" "Of course," said Shiv'kala. "He has already taken credit for destroying one monument. It is obvious that he will go to any lengths to satisfy his hatred of us, re­gardless of the cost. Next... are you listening, Londo?" I nodded. I tried to hold my breath against the smell of burning flesh, and when I was unable to, I dry-heaved. Shiv'kala did not appear to notice, or care. "After that, you will have Sheridan executed. Then you will have Delenn exe­cuted. I want the executions done separately, since I've no desire for people to see them drawing strength from each other in their last moments. Then you will find Vir Cotto, if he still lives, and execute him. And then you will inform the fleet that the assault against the Alliance is to be carried out. "You are right about one thing, however: If we remain, there will doubtless be a strike launched against Centauri Prime. So we will make a show of departing, to put the Alliance off its guard. But once the Alliance is in disarray, we will return, to make Centauri Prime the cornerstone of the new Drakh Entire." "Not Vir, "(whispered. He looked at me most oddly. "What?" "I will not execute Vir. Nor will you. I will not stand in the way of what the people do, but he will not die by my hand, nor at the hands of the Drakh." "Now you are the insane one, Londo." His voice rose. "Look at your city! Look at your world! It lies in ruins because you misjudged us, and you would still dictate terms?"

  "You will grant me this," I said tightly, "or Marie! and Durla wiil not be the only ones who die off a balcony this day." He seemed ready to argue it, but suddenly became impatient. "Very well," he said. "Do as you have been ordered, and Cotto will be spared. The odds are that he is dead anyway. And if he is not, well ... the people will attend to him soon enough." "Thank you," I said. "You see, Londo? Even under such extreme circumstances... you cannot say that the Drakh are totally without compassion." He said a few things more, but I was paying no attention. Instead my thoughts were elsewhere, nearly twenty years gone, to the words of the techno-mage, Elric. "I see a great hand reaching out of the stars. The hand is your hand. And I hear sounds... the sounds of billions of people calling your name." "My followers," I had whispered in awe. And in a voice like ice, he had replied, "Your victims." I had always thought-always assumed-that he had been referring to the Narn. I now realized that he had not. That it was my own people, here and now, crying out for aid from an emperor whose misjudgment had resulted in widespread slaughter. I did not plant the bombs... I did not trigger the bombs... but, Great Maker, I did not stop them, and my people have paid for it. I wanted to fly away. To be able to step to the balcony, change into a winged creature, and fly off to someplace where there was no death, no destruction. No voices calling my name, and no Drakh. I had waited sixteen years to feel fear and desperation from Shiv'kala, and I had managed it. But my people had paid a ter­rible, terrible price. I had never wanted to be with Mariel at any given time as much as I did at that moment.

  chapter 22 Vir gazed in horror at the smoking ruins of the city. A number of his followers stood at his side, likewise stunned by what they were seeing. They had emerged from the far end of the catacombs, using as an exit the place where Renegar had first discovered the tunnels so many years ago, several hundred members of the Legions of Fire, looking ragged, exhausted, but also grimly triumphant. They had left a sizable number of dead Drakh below them, and with any luck those few that remained would wander hopelessly, lost in the maze. But any satisfaction the rebels might have taken from their tri­umphs paled next to the aftermath they were seeing now. "The Drakh," he whispered. "They must have done this. It could only have been them. .." "It certainly redefines the concept of 'sore losers,' " Renegar said. "There may be more bombs," Finian said grimly. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go find them." "Now? Now you're going to find them?" an incredulous Vir asked. "Why didn't you find them earlier, before this damage was done?" "We'd always been seeking out Shadow technology. As near as I can tell, these explosives were of a more mundane nature. Even I cannot locate that which I do not know exists," Finian told him. "Leave it to me now." "But-" "I said leave it to me," he repeated firmly. And with that, he walked away. "There may be bombs planted all over Centauri Prime," Renegar said. "How can he get to all of them . . ." 202 "He's a techno-mage," Gwynn said airily. "He may be a supremely annoying one, but he is a mage nonetheless. Don't underestimate us." Vir stared off into the distance, and said, "Gwynn ... I'm heading into the palace. You've got to get me in there." A chorus of "What? " came from all around him. "I have to see Londo. Have to speak to him. Make sure he's all right." "Your concern for his safety is laudable," Gwynn said, "but ill-timed." "No, it's the perfect time. Renegar, you'll be with me, too. You'll coordinate with Dunseny and help get David Sheridan the hell out of there. The rest of you," and he turned to his followers, "get to the city. Help where you can. Mount rescue operations, tend to the wounded, bury the dead. Gwynn .. . you're going to help us get inside." "How?" "You're a techno-mage. I don't underestimate you." She smiled, but it looked more like a pained grimace. The door to the cell opened, and the guards came in for Sheridan. He quickly got to his feet, and demanded, "What's going on out there? It sounds like a damned war zone!" His only response was a quick club to the head, which caused him to sag in their grip. G'Kar took a step toward them threaten­ingly, but half a dozen shock prods suddenly formed a barrier between him and the guards. "Try it, Narn. Just try it," one of them said. G'Kar didn't take him up on it, as Sheridan was dragged out of the cell. But while the door was open, just before it slammed, G'Kar could smell something wafting down the corridor, very faintly. It was the distant aroma of burning flesh. It was a smell he knew all too well. It had hung in the air around Narn for months after the Centauri had attacked them with mass drivers. "Do unto others," he said softly. EXCERPTED FROM THE CHRONICLES OF LONDO MOLLARI. Excerpt dated (approximate Earth date) January 2,2278. I had such dreams. Such dreams. I dreamt of power and glory and followers. I dreamt of protecting my Home-world from dark invaders. I dreamt of restoring my great republic to its former glory. I dreamt of a noble death in battle, with my hands at the throat of my greatest enemy. I dreamt of love and I dreamt of redemption. Such dreams. Such dreams. Sheridan looked as if he were in a dream when they brought him before me some hours ago. I have known John Sheridan for longer than I would have thought possible... and never have I seen him with such an air of confusion. The guards held him in front of me, bracing him firmly. He was shaking his head, as if he was uncertain of where he was. I looked to one of the guards and, my face a question, mimed a blow to the head to ask them if they had somehow beaten him severely, possibly concussing him. The Human skull is such a fragile thing. But the guard shook his head that he had not, and I had no reason to doubt him. I am, after all, such an infinitely trusting soul. He looked up at me then and seemed quite surprised. I do not suppose that I can blame him. I have, of course, seen better days. Still, such a look of shock on his face. One would think he had not seen me for twenty year
s. The room was fairly dark, the only lighting provided mostly by the flames of my city dancing like ghouls outside. "... Londo? What... am I doing here... where..." I smiled at him grimly. "Welcome back from the abyss, Sheridan. Just in time to die. Your timing, as always, is quite exceptional." I did not think any single being could be as perplexed as that man. Then again, the Human capacity for bewilderment seems a virtually bottomless fountain.

  "Londo... what am I doing here..." he said again." What're you..." It was necessary to be as forceful as possible. I needed everyone... and every­thing ... to know of the certainty of my forthcoming actions. "What I'm doing is what someone should have done a long time ago," I told him. "Putting you out of my misery." I coughed slightly, mildly amused at my equally mild attempt at humor, and then growled, "Fitting punishment for your crimes." Wide-eyed, he said, "What crimes? I don't-" The man was beginning to annoy me. Naturally I understood his desire to avoid any sort of blame. Why not? I, who have been blamed throughout my life, whether justified or not, could easily comprehend a desire to avoid once, just once, recrim­inations being heaped upon me unjustly. Nevertheless, I could not let such disingenuousness pass. I nodded to my men, and one of the guards punched Sheridan hard in the solar plexus. Sheridan went down on one knee, gasping. I stooped and looked into his eyes. I spoke as if I were playing to an audience, and in a way, I was... but it was none of the people in this room. "The crime of neglect," I told him. "The crime of convenience. During your little war, you drove the Shadows away, oh yes, but you did not think to clean up your mess. If a few of their minions, their dark servants, came to Centauri Prime, well, where is the harm in that, yes? Hmm?" He stared at me blankly. He seemed to have no idea what I was talking about. I began to comprehend just how this man, in becoming president of the Alliance, had formed himself into the most successful politician in the history of his race. Apparently his capability for self-denial knew no bounds. If I did not know better, I would think he had never heard of the Drakh, was unaware of the outcome of the Shadow War... that, indeed, everything I was saying was news to him. And here I thought I was the foremost practitioner of self-delusion of our age. "You want to see the harm? Do you?" I asked. Not waiting for an answer, I indi­cated to the guards that they should bring him to one of the widows. It used to be that I never had the curtains drawn. That I could not get enough of the view of the city that my station had afforded me. Now, of course, heavy drapes blocked the view. Drapes that the guards pushed aside so that Sheridan could see for himself the damage that had been wrought. He stared in astonishment at the remains of Centauri Prime that flickered through the long, dark night. Ruined spires half thrown down, smoke rising from distant fires. Overhead a vehicle passed, dark and sinister, bristling with needlelike points. A Drakh escape ship; the last of their kind, one could only hope, making their way off the world that they had secretly run for so many years. "There is the legacy of your war, the price we paid when you abandoned us to

  the enemies you managed to escape," I told him. "Forgive me if I do not share the view... I have seen it enough." Sheridan was pulled back in front of me. And he began to babble. "But this couldn't happen,not in this amount oftime.. .the time stabilizer.. .it was hit.. .what year is this?" I stared at him incredulously. If he was trying to pretend that he had some sort of amnesia, then he was failing miserably." It is the last year and the last day and the last hour of your life. Seventeen years since you began your great crusade... seventeen years since..." And I faded. My mind goes in and out. The moments of confusion, of depression, of total loss of where I am and what I am doing, become more and more frequent. "I'm tired," I said. "Take him back to his cell." I fixed Sheridan with a glare, and said, "Make your peace with whatever gods you worship; you will meet them the next time I send for you. I cannot change what is... cannot recall my world from what it has become.. .but I can thank you.. .properly.. .for your role in it." The guards pulled Sheridan out, half-dragging him as they went. For me, his presence was already a part of a distant past that I was anxious to forget, and would likely do so all too quickly. I walked back to my throne, touched it... not with pride, or possessiveness... but disdain. For this thing, this thing to which I would never have thought I could aspire, was something that had been tied around my neck, long ago, and was now crushing the life out of me. I walked over to the window, glanced out in spite of myself. Then I drew the drapes closed. I hear laughter as I write this... laughter from nearby. Who could laugh at such destruction? Children. Yes, of course, children. At least two. I hear their rapid footsteps, their gleeful chortling, as they are running through the halls of the palace. And then I hear an adult voice, a woman. She is calling with extreme urgency, "Luc? Lyssa! Where are you?" The voice-musical, softly accented-is unfa­miliar to me. .. No... wait... I know... yes. Senta, was it? No... Senna, I think her name is. She is... a nurse or child attendant around here, I think. Or perhaps... yes... a retainer to one of our Houses... I drink in the sound of their laughter, a man parched of emotion, with a soul as dry and shriveled as my skin. I hear them clattering about in the very next room. Perhaps they will come in here. If they do, I will talk to them. I will tell them of how Centauri Prime used to be, of the greatness to which we aspired... in the beginning... And then... then I will say my good-byes. To Sheridan and Delenn, to Vir and Londo... Shiv'kala. He is the one to whom I would most want to say farewell. To be rid of him, quit of his influence, has been my fantasy for nearly fifteen years now. I sus­pect, however, it is not going to happen. Not only that, but his ego is so great that I fear-no matter what-that Centauri Prime will never rid itself of him or his influ­ence. He fancies himself something more than a simple minion, a creature of dark­ness serving masters long-gone. He thinks himself a philosopher, a student of behavior. He thinks he is so much more than he is. Here, at the last... I pity him in a way. For he will never truly understand or know himself for the pathetic mon­strosity that he is. Because of that, he is very predictable. Whereas I know myself as that all too well. There is something to be said for self-awareness. It strips away your illusions and makes you unpredictable. That is the one great weakness that the Drakh have, and I am going to exploit it for all that I can... chapter 23 Delenn sat in the dank cell, her legs curled up under her chin, rocking back and forth while softly chanting a prayer, and cer­tain that she would never see her husband alive again. "We're bringing him down," a guard had growled. "We know how much you'd like to have a last moment with him." From the tone of his voice, it seemed to suggest that there was some cruel surprise in store for her, and she was sure she suspected what it was. When the door was yanked open, she was positive they were coming for her. That first they were going to bring in John's corpse as part of their perversity, allowing them "one last moment." Or perhaps they would present her with his head or some other identifiable body part--just so they could see her reaction. Perhaps they hoped that she would break down crying, sobbing, into a hopeless mess, wailing Sheridan's name and cursing her captors. If that was their plan, then they would be sorely disappointed. Then, to her astonishment, Sheridan was thrown in, and the door slammed shut behind him. At first she could scarcely be­lieve it was he. The fact that it was hard to see did not simplify matters, for the only illumination in the cell was a pale light coming in from a grated high window. Sheridan looked around as a man befuddled, leaning against the wall for support. Then he squinted into the darkness, and said, "Who ... who's there?" She could hardly speak. She was almost afraid that, if she said something, her own voice might break the spell of the moment. "John?" she managed to say. She emerged from the shadows, and Sheridan turned and looked at her. Every year she had dwelled on the dwindling time available to