2-Armies of Light & Dark

by Peter David

  Still, Durla does what Durla will. He never misses one of Vallko’s services, of course. He likely reasons that it is wise to be seen there, and in that he is quite possibly correct. By being perceived as a regular constituent of Vallko’s, he allies himself-by extension-with the Supreme Being. It is and one that I can appreciate since it was the sort of thing I would once have done.

  After all, it was hardly long ago that I endeavored to make it appear as it I was receiving a blessing from the technomages. I did so to boost myself up the ladder of power. It is difficult for me to believe that I now look back upon those occasions as times of innocence.

  The news of the misfortune that befell Earth came during one of Vallko’s spiritual gatherings. By all accounts, the place went mad with joy. It took long moments for Vallko to calm the assemblage, and his next words were extremely canny and well chosen. What he said was this:

  “It is not fit, or meet, or responsible for Centauri to rejoice in the misfortunes of others. Throughout our history, we have dealt with other races with compassion, always with compassion. Granted, there have been races that did not see that compassion for what it was, and rebelled. The Nam, naturally, come to mind. In dealing with them, however-in dealing with any who operated in a manner contrary to the interests of the great Centauri Republic-we did exactly what we had to do. No more and no less.

  "And we never, under any circumstances, took joy in the destruction of lives or the annihilation of others. Pride, yes, we took pride, and that is natural and to be expected, for the Great Maker wishes us to take pride in our accomplishments . When we perform an act of greatness, we are doing so in his name and are honoring him.

  "But simply taking pleasure in the pain and suffering of others … that, my good friends, is not appropriate.

  "Instead … we shall pray. And the prayer should continue for days, as many days as we of Centauri Prime wish to pursue it. For you see, when they assaulted us, the Alliance transgressed against the chosen people of the Great Maker. They angered the Great Maker. Now they have paid the price. We cannot and must not, of course, ask the Great Maker to relent in his anger against them, for who are we to question his will? He does what he must, as do we all. So instead, my good, dear friends … we will pray that the Great Maker gives guidance to the poor souls of Earth. That he makes them, and their allies, realize the error of their ways. For if they do, then the Great Maker will spare them the suffering that they will otherwise have to endure. In fact, he will be happy to spare them, for ultimately the Great Maker is a being of kindness … as are we, for were we not made in his image?

  "Pray then, my friends. Pray in a loud and sustained manner. Raise your voices and make a joyful noise unto the Great Maker so that he will hear you and know that you are sincere.”

  It was brilliant, the way he handled it, truly. As repulsive as I find those who manipulate the words and spirit of the Great Maker for their own ends, I must admit that people like Vallko have a style and ingenuity that I can only envy.

  Centauri Prime wanted to rejoice over the misfortune of the Humans. But the Humans still have many friends and staunch allies, none of whom would take kindly to the good people of Centauri Prime throwing a very loud, very raucous, and very premature celebration over the demise of everyone who had the misfortune to be stuck on the planet Earth when the Drakh virus was unleashed.

  So instead Vallko found a way for the Centauri to vent their sentiments without bringing the ill feelings-and possibly the wrath-of other races down upon us. The celebration would commence at Vallko's direction, and it would be as boisterous as could be. However, for all intents and purposes it was being done, not out of a sense of celebration, but instead in the hopes that the Great Maker would provide succor to our former tormentors.

  Very crafty. Very devious. Very, very effective.

  There is, after all, a fine line that separates tragedy from debauchery. I should know. I have certainly crossed, and even erased, that line any number of times.

  Even now, I hear the “mourning” going on outside. The entire city is lit up and has been that way for days on end. I have no idea where the energy that my people display is coming from.

  Part of me wishes to wade into the revelry and tell them the truth.

  Oh, yes. Yes, I know the truth, for Shiv’kala has told me. That it was our workers, our excavators, who uncovered the the gate that, in turn, led the Drakh to the planet destroyer. Without that weapon at their disposal, they never would have made their attack upon the Earth. We, the proud Centauri, are responsible for the attempted destruction of the Humans. It was a retaliation, commenced because of the Drakh need for revenge—the Drakh wished to strike back at the Humans because of the outcome of the Shadow War. Yet the Shadows brought the darkness to Centauri Prime, a darkness that continues to this day, long after the last of the Shadows has gone If anything, we should be kissing the Humans ‘ feet and striving to find a way to help them in their search for a cure.

  Instead we hypocritically rejoice while pretending to be praying for their betterment and survival.

  Why Shiv’kala speaks to me of such things, I do not know. Perhaps he revels in my helplessness, wishing to drive home to me just how ineffective I am at such times. Perhaps he is simply a sadist. Perhaps it is another test.

  I tire of the of the tests.

  I tire of a great many things. Yet my fate, it I am to believe the dream that has me dying at the hands of of G’Kar, is at least another ten years away. I cannot go through that much time fatigued. I must find something to do.

  Senna still represents an interesting project. And Vir …

  Vir … I must find a way to bring him back. Of that, I am quite certain. Granted, his last time here was a disaster, but I think he knows enough to keep his mouth shut and make no mention of Shiv’kala again. But how would I convince my captors that Vir should be allowed to return?

  And Timov. What of her?

  I have wondered from time to time in the past weeks whether I would hear from her again. A part of me hoped that she would somehow see through the charade. That she would realize the trumped-up charges were for her own good, and that I was desperate to get her off this world for her own safety.

  How foolish that sounds, as I write it here. How infinite is one’s capacity for self-delusion. Timov has no reason to assume that my little endeavor was anything other than what it appeared on the surface. I am never going to see her again.

  Well … it is probably for the best.

  Yes. Yes, it is.

  Two of my wives if I never see them again, that will be more than satisfactory . But Timov, I will miss. She, I should think, will likely not miss me, and for this I will not blame her.

  The celebrations-my pardon, the “prayers” -continue loudly and raucously outside. There appears to be no end to them. I shall not participate. I must remain aloof, above it all. I suppose, of course, that I could go to some insulated room, shut off from the boisterous sounds. But I cannot bring myself to do that. You see … I still like the Human race, despite all that has happened. I believe that they will rise above this. In fact, I think they will surpass us. I see where the Centauri Republic is, and where the Humans are, and I see them as a star that is only just now beginning to truly burn. Our star, on the other hand … is fading. Not that any of my people believe it, of course. Why should they? I do not want to believe it myself. I have a sense of it, though, perhaps because I see myself as the incarnation of the Centauri spirit… . and I can feel my own star, deep within me, beginning its own steady burnout.

  And still the the celebration continues.

  Would that I could walk among them and tell them that they are very likely extinct, that they simply do not yet know it. I cannot say this to them, however, for they will not wish to hear it and, truth to telI, I do not wish to believe it. I hold out hope for my people, all the same, although I hold out even more hope for the Humans.

  - CHAPTER 5 -

  Londo had discovered, over th
e years, that one gets into certain habits, particularly when one is emperor. So it came as something of a shock to him when his habitual pattern was rudely disrupted one morning when he discovered the abrupt absence of Dunseny.

  Dunseny had had the great honor of being Londo’s personal servant, valet, and majordomo. He had been a retainer at the house of Mollari since the days of old, and had been with the family for as long as Londo could remember. He had first joined House Mollari when, of all things, Londo’s father had won him in a rather fortunate hand of cards. They had not expected much of Dunseny, arriving in their service in such an odd and backhanded manner, but Londo’s father had been pleasantly surprised. Dunseny, in fairly short order, had proven himself to be efficient, attentive, and completely trustworthy.

  Londo had been quite young when Dunseny first came aboard, and at the time Dunseny had seemed quite ancient to him. He was tall, soft-spoken, with piercing eyes that seemed to take in everything so that he could attend to whatever was needed as quickly and efficiently as possible. His hair, cut to a always wore a always wore a suit of black, buttoned all the way to the collar, with no other adornment . The emperor suspected that, were he able to step back in time, he would see that the Dunseny of those bygone years had actually been considerably younger than he recalled. Nevertheless, the illusion to Londo was that Dunseny had never aged. That, indeed, he bordered on the immortal. He had come into this world old, and would remain that way… well … forever.

  For the first years of his reign, Londo had been content to let Dunseny remain at House Mollari, but every so often he had found himself requiring Dunseny’s services as valet. He had come to realize that he trusted no one but the faithful retainer to attend to such things. Londo’s requests, and thereafter demands, became so regular that Dunseny began-politely, but firmly-to complain. He pointed out that, despite appearances to the contrary, he was not getting any younger, and the running about between House Mollan and the royal palace was wearing on him somewhat.

  “Finally! A problem presented to me that is easily solved!” Londo slapped his hands together briskly as if he were about to deal out a deck of cards. Then he declared, “I shall bring you on as my full-time personal valet. You and your family will be given superb quarters here in the palace, and no strenuous commute will ever bother you again, yes? This is satisfactory? Or do you need to discuss it with your wife and children?”

  “My wife passed away of the Lung Blight that swept our city three years ago, Highness,” said Dunseny calmly. “And my only son was killed during the assault on Centauri Prime by the Alliance.”

  “Oh,” Londo said faintly. He felt terrible, although for the life of him he couldn’t quite figure out why. Perhaps it was because, in all this time, he had never even thought to ask Dunseny something as simple and polite as “How is your family?” Certainly, he had assumed, Dunseny would have told him. Instead he had carried on in his duties at the family house, and for Londo as needed.

  Londo cleared his throat and straightened his coat, although it hardly needed straightening. “That is … a pity. You certainly have my regrets, Dunseny.”

  “That means a good deal, Highness,” Dunseny said with a carefully detached expression. It was impossible for Londo to tell whether Dunseny was being sarcastic. He decided to give the old man the benefit of the doubt.

  “So it is settled, then?” asked Londo.

  Dunseny bowed slightly. “How can I refuse he who wears the white?”

  And so Dunseny had come into Londo’s full-time service, while Londo hired certain others, handpicked by the reliable Dunseny himself, to run the family estate. When Londo awoke each morning, Dunseny was there to awaken him. He was there to lay out Londo’s clothes, to prepare his bath, to handle his manicure, to oversee the tasting of the royal food-not that Dunseny handled that himself; that questionable honor went to another, a perpetually nervous individual named Frit.

  As time passed, Dunseny’s responsibilities expanded until he was keeping the royal calendar and attending to the comings and goings of those who wished to see Londo at any given time of the day. Soon it became well known that, in order to see Londo, one had to go through Dunseny first. It wasn’t as if Dunseny endeavored to limit access to Londo. Far from it. He simply organized the time of all petitioners, deciding who would take priority and determining what it was that Londo would find most important and worthy of being dealt with first. Invariably, Dunseny’s judgment was right on target.

  It even caused a miniscandal when, on one or two occasions , Londo had actually turned to the old valet and asked him what he thought of a particular situation that had come before the throne. It would likely have engendered an even greater reaction had Dunseny not offered advice or observations that were accurate, just, and proper. It was difficult for anyone to become upset with him, and indeed Dunseny’s popularity within some circles only served to benefit the emperor.

  So it was little wonder that Londo let out a most unemperorlike scream one morning when he was awakened by a gentle touch on his shoulder, but opened his eyes to see someone other than his faithful retainer.

  It was a young man, around seventeen or eighteen years of age. He wore black clothing, broken by a red sash, and his eyes glittered, unblinking, like some animal peering out appraisingly at him from the jungle.

  “Who are you!” Londo shouted. He half sat up in bed, a bit chagrined at the yelp he had emitted, but still determined to muster some of the dignity his high office afforded him. “What are you doing here?”

  “I am Throk,” said the teen. “I serve Minister Lione as one of-“

  “Of the Prime Candidates, yes, yes.” Londo gave an impatient wave. He was more than aware of who and what the Prime Candidates were. They were a youth group, in operation for five years now, answering to Chancellor Castig Lione and serving Centauri Prime in a variety of ways, a number of which served to make Londo quite a bit nervous.

  Then he rewound something through his head. His eyebrows knit in puzzlement. “Minister Lione? I thought he was Chancellor Lione. This is the same Lione, yes? Chancellor of development?”

  “The same,” said Throk.

  “Since when did he a minister?”

  “Minister Durla oversaw his appointment. Were you not consulted, Your Highness?”

  “No, Your Highness was not consulted.”

  “Is there a problem with the appointment, Your Highness?”

  The question immediately set off an alarm in Londo’s head.

  He did not know what Throk was doing there. He did not know where Dunseny was. He felt as if he was being pelted with information and being challenged to keep up. But the one thing he did know for certain was that he most definitely did not want to say precisely what was on his mind in the presence of this individual. This “Throk,” this Prime Candidate, might as well have had Durla’s head on his left shoulder and Lione’s head on the right.

  “The only problem I have with it is one of protocol,” Londo said coolly. “At the very least, I should be informed of such matters in an orderly fashion, so I am not left open to the possibility of committing some minor gaffe. How would it be if I addressed Minister Lione as Chancellor? Certainly that could make for a potentially embarrassing situation, yes?”

  “Yes. Absolutely, Your Highness.” Throk’s face remained utterly inscrutable. Londo reminded himself never to play cards with this young man. Then he further reminded himself that he had absolutely no idea what the young man was doing in his private chambers.

  “Where is Dunseny?” Londo asked.

  The slightest flickering of puzzlement danced across Throk’s face. Londo couldn’t tell whether what he saw, however briefly, in the teen’s expression was a momentary loss of control, or else a carefully permitted “slip” so as to somehow ingratiate himself with the emperor. “I thought you knew, Your Highness.”

  “Of course I know,” Londo said. “I simply have this odd quirk. I enjoy having people tell me about matters with which I am alread
y familiar. Again: Where is Dunseny?”

  “Dunseny informed Minister Durla that he wished to retire . That he was feeling his age and desired to slow down. Minister Durla consulted with Minister Lione and it was felt that from a security point of view, if nothing else-appointing a Prime Candidate as your new valet would be the best fit. I had the honor of being selected. Shall I draw your bath for you, Your Highness?”

  “I do not care,” Londo said, “whether you draw a bath or draw a breath. Dunseny said nothing to me of retiring.”

  Throk shrugged slightly. “Perhaps he was concerned that he would be letting you down, and could not bring himself to face you, Your Highness.”

  “Perhaps.” Londo, however, did not bother to speculate out loud on the other, more likely, “perhaps.” Specifically, that “perhaps” Dunseny had been forced out for some reason. If that were the case, then Londo had every intention of doing something about it.

  He rose from the bed and said in a firm, commanding voice, “You may leave me, Throk.”

  “Sir, if I have failed to satisfy you in some way as your valet…”

  “You have neither failed nor succeeded, for you have not been given the opportunity. There will be no decision in the matter until I have spoken with Dunseny.”

  “But, Highness, Minister Lione was quite specific in his orders that–”

  “Ahhhh,” said Londo as he belted his robe tightly around him. “What a fast-rising individual Lione is. Who would have thought that, in such a brief time, he would have ascended from chancellor to the ministry … and now, who would have thought it possible! Castig Lione is now the emperor!”

  Throk looked puzzled once more, and this time it was clearly genuine. “No, Highness, you are the emperor,” he said slowly, as if worried that Londo might have forgotten that.

  “You don’t say!” said Londo, voice dripping with sarcasm. “For a moment I thought there was some confusion on the matter, what with your giving his orders priority over mine. Or perhaps you were simply confused over the matter, Throk? Could that be it?”