"Understood." They stopped in front of the main door to the flight deck, and he turned toward her. "It was good to see you again, Susan. I know you've got your own mission to worry about now, but you're always welcome to stop by whenever you're in the area."
"I know," she said. "It's just... I'm not sure I'm comfortable enough yet with what happened... what Marcus did ... to spend any time here. At least, not yet. I just ... need a little time, that's all."
"Of course," he said, his voice quiet. "Well, good luck with your ship, Susan. And remember, she has to go in for an oil change every forty thousand parsecs. And keep everyone the hell out of flight bay seven."
"I will," she said. "Thanks again, John. And don't worry, we'll run into each other again soon."
He smiled, and much to her surprise, gave her a hug. "I know we will," he said, then turned and entered the main bay.
On her way back to the command deck, Ivanova paused to contradict Sheridan's instructions long enough to peek into flight bay seven. The Vorlon ship was the only thing there, sitting quietly in the middle of the bay, thinking whatever Vorlon thoughts still hummed silently along its control systems.
Illogically, it seemed to her that it almost looked content.
He was right, I have to stay out of this place, she thought, and walked out again, closing the door with a command string that no one below her in rank could open. Then with a final glance back, she continued to the bridge of her ship.
Sheridan watched from the shuttle as the Titans pulled away from Babylon 5 and angled toward the jump gate. It was Ivanova's ship now, no one else's, no hidden agendas, no chance of compromising control. He knew it could come in handy someday, if whatever leftover shadowtech programs had been implanted in the Warlock class of warships was ever activated. lf that day came, he knew that there would be at least one ship free of that influence, that would not go along with the rest, that would be independent.
And it seemed utterly appropriate to him that it would be Ivanova's ship... because that was about as good a description of Ivanova herself as he could muster.
"Take us in," he told the pilot, casting a backward glance to Lyta, asleep in the back of the shuttle. "Take us home."
The Shadow of His Thoughts
by
J. Michael Straczynski
~August 20, 2262~
The dream was the same. It was always the same.
The chakat lay on the ground before him, its four legs bound by ropes, horns scratching the dry ground beneath its head. The sun was hot overhead.
A voice, always the same voice, whispered from behind Londo. You know what you have to do. What you have always done.
Londo stared at the creature, and its gaze met his own. The eyes that looked back at him were fierce, proud, unbowed. And somehow familiar. In the dream it said to him, soundlessly and wordlessly but with absolute clarity. It is duty. You cannot fight duty.
I can’t do it, Londo thought back, and looked down. The sword was in his hand.
Yes, you can, it thought at him, and it struggled to raise its head, exposing its throat. Waiting for the deathblow.
Sobbing, Londo brought down the sword, watched the life fade away in the creature’s eyes.
Tears fresh on his face, Londo awoke to the sound of bells. Bells that had tolled for one hour each morning every day for the last six days. Six days since he had taken on the role of emperor; six days since the bombardment of Centauri Prime had left vast tracts of the capital city devastated and in flames. All work stopped while the bells tolled, and the world was momentarily united in silence for those who had died in a conflict that should never have happened … a conflict that had been secretly engineered by that alien race known as the Drakh to produce rage and resentment in his people … emotions that he would have to nurture into something darker with the passing of years.
That was, after all, his job.
The title of emperor was just a cover, also arranged by the Drakh … a means to an end.
But I'm not supposed to think these things, he reminded himself as he felt the presence of the Keeper stirring at the juncture where his shoulder met alien flesh, where nerves and neural pathways merged so that his will was no longer entirely his own. He was able to shield only his most private thoughts; if he subvocalized or brought his thoughts to the surface, the Keeper could sense the shape of them, and relay them by telepathic link to the Drakh, working quietly in the recesses and ancient tunnels beneath the royal palace … building a future for his world whose shape he did not like to consider for too long. But at least it was a future, which is more than his people would have had if he had refused to accept the Keeper.
No one else could see the Keeper unless it allowed them to see it, which was usually a prelude to extermination. He, on the other hand, could see it all the time, but tried desperately not to let his gaze wander in that direction more than necessary.
Denial had always been one of his greatest strengths.
The bells stopped. Had it really been an hour already? He closed his eyes as he did when he was a child, against mornings that came too soon, hoping somehow that the day and his responsibilities would disappear, and he could be free. It was a fleeting hope and, like all hopes, daily crushed under the weight of the waking world.
He opened his eyes, the moment passed, and Emperor Mollari the Second rose to begin the seventh day of his rule.
Minister Vole was wringing his hands again, one over the other in a motion so tight that Londo couldn’t tell where one hand finished and the other began. “I’m sure His Excellency was informed —”
"If I had been informed, then I would know. Since I knew nothing of this until you mentioned it, then either I was not informed, or I have suddenly gone senile and should be taken out and shot. Which of those possibilities are you suggesting is the case here?”
Vole’s hands moved faster, “I meant no offense, Excellency, because certainly Your Excellency’s memory is in perfect condition, the whole world is confident in Your Excellency’s magnificent abilities and —”
"Vole?"
The carriage had been made twelve hundred years earlier, during the reign of Emperor Morell, as a gift for his wife Celina. Not long thereafter, she went mad and hanged herself from the highest of the palace’s four towers. Londo wondered if there was a cause-and-effect relationship there, given the garish bad taste that had gone into the design of the carriage, the almost grotesque indulgence of encrusting it end to end with every gemstone to be found on Centauri Prime.
If I had to ride in this thing every day, I’d probably kill myself, too.
"Is this really necessary?" Londo asked resignedly, already suspecting the answer.
Minister Vole nodded. Londo stared at the minister’s hands. Vole whipped them behind his back and continued nodding. “It’s tradition, Your Excellency.”
"I know the tradition," Londo said, and sighed. He wondered absently which of the four towers in the palace was, in fact, the highest.
One never knew when that sort of information could come in handy.
He knew the tradition. And the story. He had grown up with both. And now he was about to enter into the tradition himself.
So it came to pass that in the third year of his reign, Emperor Morell was returning to the royal palace with his soldiers, after winning the Battle of Scoria Plains against those who would rend the people of the land in two. He stopped by the river Tuwain to water his dromes and rest his soldiers after the long march from the sea.
There he found the woman Malia, who the villagers said was a prophetess. For twenty and four years she had lived in a cave at the mouth of the Tuwain, surviving on the kindness of those in the village. She was brought before the emperor and asked to foretell the story of his rule. Malia prophesied that a great danger lay ahead of Emperor Morell, that a dagger would strike to his heart from near his heart, and that his life would be forfeit unless he heeded her warning. When the emperor asked how he could avoid this death, Mali
a spoke only of the crescent moon hidden in darkness. Asked to put a price on her prophecy, she asked for nothing save the emperor’s good wishes, for she was his loyal and steadfast servant. Upon his return to the royal palace, a great dinner was held in honor of Emperor Morell. There his family gathered, including his nephew Elfeni, whose name was dear to him. As Elfeni rose to toast the health of his uncle, the emperor cried out and the Imperial Guard seized Elfeni, stopping him as he drew back a blade to strike down the emperor. Elfeni later confessed to a secret alliance with those who had attempted to bring about a civil war in which he would be made emperor.
His life saved by prophecy, the emperor returned to Tuwain, where he gave the prophetess Malia a tenth share of his fortune. He pledged that for as long as an emperor sat upon the throne of Centauri Prime, there would always be a prophetess in Tuwain, that she would ever be in royal favor, her needs and wants attended to, her name revered.
And so it was that over the years, with the passing of each prophetess, another came to take her place in Tuwain. On that day, each emperor would travel by the same carriage and the same road taken by Morell to Tuwain, to personally oversee her enshrinement as prophetess supreme.
The last prophetess in the line that began with Malia had died in the bombardment; another now had to take her place, and Londo had to be there for the ceremony.
He could not justify it. There was work to be done, temples to be rebuilt, wounded to heal—
—grudges to nourish, rage to fuel—
—so that he could hardly justify being away from the royal palace for that long.
And yet…
And yet what was the purpose of rebuilding if it was not part of the process of healing the wounds that his people had suffered? And was not part of that process restoring a sense of stability?
That was the purpose of tradition, to give people something to hold onto in times of trouble.
And was there any trouble greater than the bombardment and savaging of Centauri Prime…and the other trouble that Londo knew was biding its time beneath the royal palace?
Londo sighed again, knowing his decision was inescapable, as most of his decisions lately had been.
He would go to Tuwain.
As was required, they set out before dawn, the royal carriage in the middle of a long procession of other ceremonial carriages and drome-pulls. Crowds lined the streets and waved as they passed, faces lined with worry and the dirt of rebuilding momentarily eclipsed by smiles. Londo nodded back at them through the open window, even more sure now that his decision was the proper one.
Once outside the capitol city, they turned to the old roads, which were now overgrown and little used. The crowds grew smaller and appeared less often, until they disappeared altogether. From time to time Londo glimpsed a lone traveler walking along the road who looked on, astonished, at the passing parade. The rest of the time he was left alone with his thoughts, and he little cared for the company. He did best when the business of rebuilding left him no time to dwell on his situation, or the choices that had brought him to this point. But alone in the carriage, with only the bumps in the road and the silent forests on either side to keep him company, he was left only with his thoughts, his doubts, his recriminations—
—and the occasional whisper from the Keeper residing invisibly on his shoulder, reminding him of the things they needed him to do upon his return to the palace. He wanted a drink desperately, but since his gradual discovery that alcohol was the one thing that could buy him a moment’s privacy from the Keeper (don’t think it too loud, don’t let them know you’ve figured that part out yet, it’s the only tool you have), he saved that for moments when it could be used to his advantage.
By night they camped by the side of the road, where he could at last contact the royal palace by viewer and receive updates on the state of his people. Then a few hours of fitful sleep, and back on the road again.
On the third day out, another procession caught up with his own. The carriages were white, lined with white veils, and drawn by pure white dromes. Londo recognized the markings and knew that they contained the new prophetess of Tuwain.
He emerged and went to meet them. As he drew closer, the doors of the main white carriage opened, and amid a shower of white flower petals, the prophetess emerged with her entourage. She was dressed all in white, her face veiled; even so, Londo could see her well enough, and took a breath in astonishment.
She was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.
And she could not have been more than sixteen seasons.
This can’t be right, Londo thought. She’s too young by far.
As he stopped before them, an older woman—the young girl’s escort, he supposed—bowed deeply.
“Your Majesty,” she said. “I am Delasi Miro of House Miro. It is my honor to present to your Shiri Dei of House Dei, whom I am honored to serve as guardian.”
"It is an honor, good lady," Londo said, his curiosity piqued even further. Under Centauri law, to be guardian was to speak on all matters of importance for someone too young to speak for himself or herself. Anyone wishing to benefit from Shiri’s prophecies would have to go through Delasi first. Interesting, he thought.
"Are you the child’s mother?"
"No, Highness, her mother died in childbirth. She has been raised by her father."
"Ah. And where is he?"
"He did not come. His … . business does not allow him to be away for long periods, and it was decided that she would do better on her own."
Londo smiled. It was decided almost always meant I decided it would be to my best advantage, but I don’t want to say that. He looked now to the young girl. “Is this what you wanted, child?”
She spoke without looking up. “I am my emperor’s servant, and I gladly honor him with my utmost obedience.”
"A fine answer," he said, and glanced sharply at the older woman. "Also well rehearsed."
Delasi smiled and nodded. “She takes instruction well, and wishes only to be of service.”
"Of course," Londo said. "Perhaps the two of you would care to ride with me in the royal carriage. We could talk further."
The girl glanced up for a moment, and looked almost frightened. Delasi only nodded. “We would be most honored, Your Majesty.”
"And how long have you been a prophetess?” Londo asked. The countryside passed slowly outside the carriage.
"She has been able to see since she was barely a child of three seasons,” Delasi said.
“An advanced case, to be sure,” Londo said. “You would almost think that a child who could see at three could be allowed to speak at sixteen.”
Delasi’s lips pursed in a way Londo found most satisfying. Any further, and he was sure her face would disappear entirely into her head. It was a trick he would actually pay to see. With her silence won, for the moment at least, he looked back to Shiri. “What can you tell me of my future, child?” he asked.
For the first time, she met his gaze. Her eyes were windows onto an old soul, framed with resignation and a sorrow that should never have been allowed into one so young. Her gaze seemed to pass right through him, to a place somewhere behind his head. Then she looked away again. “Perhaps His Majesty would prefer to hear of other things,” she said.
"The emperor asked you a question," Delasi said. "Answer truthfully."
Shiri considered her words carefully. “I see little joy, and much sorrow,” she said at last. “I see fire and death and pain. I see you betrayed by almost everyone you have ever trusted.”
“Almost everyone?”
“Your greatest enemy is also your greatest friend, and the trust you place in him is rewarded at the end of days. He is your freedom, and you are his. And in the end…” She hesitated, then forced herself to continue. “In the end, you die in the arms of your friend, and he dies in yours, that a world might live.”
For a moment, Londo felt the world slide out from under him. The image she described was a dream that had alw
ays been with him, the dream of his own death, in which he and G’Kar of Narn ended their long and strange relationship by strangling one another to death. It was a relationship born in mutual hatred, the kind of rage that only a conquered people can have against those who have enslaved them, as Centauri Prime and enslaved Narn. G’Kar had grown from a resistance fighter to a leader among his people following their liberation, and had finally been assigned as ambassador to Babylon 5, as Londo had in his earlier days. There they had fought, and squabbled, and gradually carved out a mutual respect that had, impossibly, grown into something approaching friendship.
Until this moment, he had always believed that the dream pointed to a final act of vengeance by one against the other.
But now, in her words, the first time he allowed himself the possibility of hope. That a world might live, she had said. But which world? Narn or Centauri Prime?
Babylon5: The Short Stories Page 3
