by Peter David
Garibaldi took all this in; then he leaned forward until he was right in Durla’s face. When he spoke, it was so softly that Durla had to strain to hear. “If I find out,” he murmured, “that you, or someone who answers directly to you, had anything to do with this … then I swear to God, Minister, I will kill you myself.”
“I would not advise that,” said Durla calmly. “That would create an incident.”
“We’ve already got an incident,” Garibaldi said, indicating Welch. “And someone is going to pay for it.” His hands were opening and closing as if he was trying to find someone whose throat he could wrap them around.
And then a voice said sharply, “I don’t think threats are going to help.”
“Ambassador Cotto,” Durla said quickly. “Your timing could not be better.”
“Or worse, depending on your point of view,” said Vir. He crossed the morgue, looking around uncomfortably. “Chilly in here,” he said. Then he looked down in undisguised dismay at the body on the slab. That was one thing that Garibaldi genuinely liked about Vir. It was impossible for him to hide what he was thinking. Vir’s face could be read more easily than a data crystal.
At least, that’s what Garibaldi once would have thought. Now, though, he thought there was an air of inscrutability to Vir that hadn’t been there before. Vir had changed in the time since he’d last seen him, Garibaldi realized, and he didn’t think it was for the better.
Vir turned to the coroner, who was standing a few feet away. “Do we know the cause?” he asked.
It was Garibaldi who answered. “Yeah. The cause was that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and found out something he shouldn’t have, and was killed for it.”
“That’s a serious charge, Mr. Garibaldi.”
“Hey!” said Garibaldi. “It’s not like Lou was picked up for jaywalking! A man is dead! As crimes go, they don’t get much more serious than that. Serious crimes require serious charges-and serious punishment.”
It was G’Kar who spoke up. “At the moment, Mr. Garibaldi , the one who is being punished is you. You are not responsible for Mr. Welch’s death simply because you brought him here.”
“Whose side are you on?” Garibaldi said, with a sharp look to G’Kar.
“Yours and his,” G’Kar said promptly. “However, he is gone, and I don’t think you’ll be helping anyone with histrionics . There will be an investigation, but getting angry at the men in this room will not expedite it, nor will it create anything resembling the proper atmosphere for an investigation.”
“Thank you for understanding, Citizen G’Kar,” Durla said.
G’Kar fired him a look that froze the words of thanks in his throat. “I don’t want, or need, your appreciation, Minister. What I want is your cooperation … and yours, Mr. Ambassador . If you desire the continuation of anything remotely approaching normal relations between your people and the Alliance…”
“Normal relations?” At that, Vir laughed bitterly. “Look, G’Kar, I hate to remind you, but at the moment `normal’ translates as `We’re watched for the slightest hint of aggressive behavior, so that people like you can be sent down to monitor us … and have something like this happen as a result .’ ” With that he indicated Welch’s corpse.
G’Kar took a step toward Vir, studying him very carefully, as if dissecting him with his eye. “We are depending upon you to help us handle this matter, Ambassador. For what it is worth … I have always had a great deal of respect for you.”
More harshly than G’Kar or Garibaldi would have expected , Vir replied, “Let us be candid, Citizen. You dripped blood at my feet to symbolize dead Narn, as if it were my fault. No one in this galaxy ever made me feel smaller than you did at that moment. So you’ll excuse me when I tell you that your claim to have respect for me … well, that isn’t worth much at all.”
There didn’t seem anything that Garibaldi or G’Kar could say in response to that. Instead, Garibaldi looked down once more at Welch, then rested a hand on his cold shoulder, and whispered, “I’m sorry, Lou.” Then he and G’Kar left without a backward glance.
“Tragic,” said Durla, shaking his head sadly. “Most tragic.”
“Minister … I’d like to be left alone with him for a time.” Vir glanced at Durla, then at the coroner. “If you wouldn’t mind.”
“Alone? Why?” asked the coroner.
“I knew this man,” Vir said. “He was a friend, after a fashion. I’d … like to say some prayers. They’re personal. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course I do,” said Durla, who looked as if he didn’t, but wasn’t inclined to argue. “Will you be coming by the palace during your stay? Say hello to Mariel, perhaps?”
“Perhaps,” said Vir. “Thank you.”
The two Centauri exited the morgue, leaving Vir alone with Welch. He stared down at the dead man, shaking his head in silence.
“How did you get here so quickly?”
It was Finian who spoke, having practically materialized at Vir’s elbow. He was carrying a staff, which Vir hadn’t seen him doing before. Fortunately enough, by this stage in Vir’s life, it was becoming almost impossible to startle him. He merely stared at the techno-mage, and said, “Did the coroner see you enter?”
Finian gave him a look as if to say, Oh, please.
Deciding that pretty much served as an answer, Vir continued , “What do you mean, how did I get here so quickly?”
“I mean I sent a message to Babylon 5 only a short while ago, telling you what had happened. How did you manage to travel the distance so quickly?”
“I didn’t get your message,” Vir replied. “I…” Before he spoke more, he reflexively glanced around to see if anyone was listening. Then he continued, albeit in a lower voice, “I had already left Babylon 5. Mariel contacted me privately the moment she learned that G’Kar and Garibaldi were here. She felt it would be best if I was here while they were here. I think she was right, although I doubt she was expecting anything like this.” He looked up at Finian. “So what happened? You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t have some idea.”
“He had been using Shadow technology.”
“Shadow technology?” Vir could scarcely comprehend it. “Where would he get that?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Finian. “Might have been happenstance . Most likely it was. He used a transparency web. It gave him limited invisibility. The use of it in the city drew me to him, and I arrived in time to see his body being hauled out of a building. I followed the people who were dumping him.”
“What building? Can you take me to it?”
“Yes,” Finian said distractedly. “It appeared to be a stronghold for those charming lads you refer to as the Prime Candidates.”
Vir moaned. That was not news he had wanted to hear. The Prime Candidates-the servants of Durla, the pets of Lione. This was not going to be easy. “He found out something, didn’t he.”
“I expect that he did.”
“I wish we could find out what it was.”
Finian was silent for a moment, and then he said, “There… is a way.”
“What? What way?”
Finian turned to him and said slowly, “The brain … is one of the greatest technological marvels of nature. Still, in the the final analysis, it is simply a computer. And data can be downloaded from any computer… even one which has crashed.”
“You can … you can extract that information from him? Even though he’s gone?”
“In theory, yes. I’ve never done such a thing myself… but I know the technique. I simply … wish I didn’t have to. Gwynn or Galen could do this with much greater equanimity than I could. But Galen has his own problems involving Captain Gideon, and Gwynn is attending to other business. So I’m afraid that I am it”
“Is it difficult?”
“A bit. I did bring a bit of help,” he said, gripping the staff a bit more tightly.
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Yes. Keep the c
oroner out of here.”
“Of course,” Vir said matter-of-factly.
“This will take a few minutes. I don’t need him in here.”
“All right.”
“Oh, and before you go, hand me that cutting tool, if you would.”
Vir did as he was asked, then headed out to the coroner. The coroner, for his part, seemed perfectly inclined to head back into the morgue, and Vir did the fast thing that occurred to him: he broke down in sobs.
“Great Maker … were you close with that fellow?” asked the coroner.
“I love him like a brother!” Vir cried out. He didn’t even bother with the nearby chair; he simply sank down onto the floor, weeping piteously. Finding a source of tears wasn’t all that difficult for him. All he had to draw upon was everything that had happened to him, and everything that he had done in the past several years, and the misery welled up effortlessly. Summoning tears was not a problem; for Vir, it was restraining them on a day-to-day basis that had been the challenge.
Consequently, Vir managed to keep the coroner occupied with finding a sedative that would calm Vir’s nerves. The fellow finally located something and handed it to Vir, who popped it in his mouth gratefully and lodged it securely in his cheek so that he wouldn’t swallow it. When the coroner turned away from him for a moment, Vir spat it into his hand and stashed it in his pocket.
“Are you feeling better?” the coroner asked him at last.
Vir nodded, but he still had that air of tragedy draped around him.
“I am so sorry you have to endure this,” said the coroner. “You, Ambassador, are a soul in pain.”
“Yes. I know,” Vir said with utter sincerity.
“You need a drink. Come … I’ll close early today, and we will go out and speak of happier things.” At which point, the coroner rose and started to head into the examination room.
“No, wait!” Vir called out. “Uhm … stay here, just a few minutes, until the medicine kicks in!”
“You’ll be fine, Ambassador. I’ll just be a moment. I’ve already left the body out too long.”
“But if you’d just …”
However, the coroner had already walked away. Vir felt his stomach lurching into his mouth. Finally, in a last ditch attempt to alert Finian that someone was coming, he called out as loudly as he could, “But do you have to go back into the exam room? Do you really have to?”
The next thing he knew, he heard an alarmed yelp from the coroner, and was certain that Finian had been spotted. He scrambled to his feet and ran into the examining room, not sure what he could possibly say or do, but determined that he had to do something.
When he got there, he found the room empty save for Welch’s corpse and the coroner-who was white as a sheet. He didn’t seem sickened; certainly he had seen far too much in his life for that. But his attitude was one of barely contained rage. “Who did this?” he demanded. “Who did this?”
“Did what?” said a confused Vir, and then he saw it.
The top of Lou Welch’s head had been neatly removed. Sections of his brain had been meticulously and precisely removed and put into a pan nearby, and -Vir was positive that it was his imagination just for a moment, they seemed to be pulsing as if with a life of their own.
Then whatever movement he saw, real or imagined, ceased, and he was left with his stomach wrenching itself around in fits of uncontrollable nausea. He knew he wasn’t going to be able to contain himself. The best he could do was lurch to a nearby garbage can and thrust his head into it as everything that he had eaten in the past twelve hours made its violent return engagement.
The early evening air shored up Vir as he stood outside the building, leaning against the wall, his legs quivering. He had made his excuses to the coroner, which had not been a difficult accomplishment. The coroner, considering the circumstances , seemed disinclined to go anywhere, and he promised Vir a full investigation into the outrageous circumstances surrounding Lou Welch’s mutilation.
“Vir.”
He realized that his name had just been said several times, and it was only around … ceased, and the fourth or fifth time that he really, truly heard it. He turned and saw Finian standing just inside an alley, gesturing that Vir should join him. Fired by a cold fury, Vir immediately headed toward the techno-mage, joining him in the relative dimness of the alley. “How could you?” he whispered furiously, with such intensity that his voice came out gravelly.
But Finian was, at that point, totally without the casual calm that techno-mages so often affected. Indeed, he looked as shaken as Vir, and when he held up his hands they were specked with blood. “Are you remotely under the impression that was fun for me?” he demanded. “You had the luxury of becoming ill! I didn’t. At least… not until I got out here.” He leaned against the alley wall, looking shaken, and it was only then that Vir caught a whiff coming off Finian’s breath. The techno-mage had been violently ill recently, as well. Nastily, Vir couldn’t help but think that that was something he would have liked to see.
“There had to be some other way,” Vir insisted.
“Oh, you know that, do you?” snapped Finian. “Your many years worth of training as a techno-mage has given you that insight, has it? I’m not a ghoul, Cotto. I don’t derive any sort of sick pleasure from carving up the bodies of the dead. I did what had to be done. We’ve all done what we’ve had to do. Some of us are just less sanctimonious about it than others.”
“I just …” Vir steadied himself. “I just wish you had warned me.”
“Believe me, you would not have wanted to know.”
Vir knew that Finian was right about that. If, during the time that he’d been working to distract the coroner, he had been thinking about what Finian was up to in the next room over, his ghastly imaginings likely would have hampered his ability to do his part of the job. Seeing that there was no point to pursuing or discussing the matter further, Vir sighed, “All right, so … so did you find what we needed?”
“Throk.”
“Throk.” Vir didn’t follow at first, but then he realized. “Throk? Of the Prime Candidates? He’s the one who killed Lou Welch?”
Finian nodded. “With his bare hands.”
“Great Maker,” Vir whispered. “I know him. He’s … he’s just a boy …”
“He’s a young man whom I would not care to cross,” Finian said.
“But why did he kill him?”
As quickly and efficiently as he could, Finian laid it out for him. Told him of the Centauri buildup, told him of the border worlds on which it was occurring, told him of the secret agenda that was being supported by the Centaurum. Throughout the recitation, Vir simply stood there, shaking his head … not in denial, but in overwhelming disbelief that all this could be happening to the world of his birth.
“My guess,” Finian added, “is that there was a Drakh involved in the murder, as well. I can’t say for sure, because if there was, the creature didn’t reveal itself while Welch was alive. But that would be the only reasonable explanation for Welch’s technology having failed him when it did.”
“So … what do we do now? We have to tell-“
“Tell who?” Finian asked quietly. “Tell what? There is no one in authority you can truly trust, and even if you do find someone … you have nothing you can really tell them. What would you say? `A techno-mage extracted information from Lou Welch’s brain and told me that Throk was responsible.’ You have no proof, and the only verification that the Prime Candidates are likely to provide is that they’ll make sure your corpse winds up next to Lou Welch’s.”
Vir nodded slowly. Once again, there was no point in denying anything that Finian was saying. He turned and paced for a moment, then paused.
“All right, then,” he said finally. “My main job is to prevent this from getting any worse than it already is. And there’s only one way to do that. But here’s what I need you to do…”
He turned back to Finian and knew, even before he looked, that the t
echno-mage was gone.
“If he doesn’t stop doing that, I’ll kill him myself,” muttered Vir.
Vir made certain to have Garibaldi and G’Kar at a safe distance from the palace when he told them. As it so happened, he had chosen the spot where Senna had, once upon a time, spent days studying with one of her teachers, gazing at clouds and wondering about the future of Centauri Prime. Vir didn’t know that, of course, although the future of Centauri Prime happened to be uppermost in his mind, as well.
His more immediate concern, though, was that he needed to avoid having the outraged shouting of Garibaldi echoing up and down the corridors. Such an incident certainly would contribute very little to the cause of trying to make things right.
He needn’t have worried. When Michael Garibaldi became as angry as he was at that moment, he tended to speak in a very low, whispered voice. “First,” Garibaldi said, very slowly and very dangerously, “I want to know what you haven’t told me.”
Vir had to give Garibaldi credit. The fact was, Vir hadn’t told him everything. He had said that the Prime Candidates had been responsible for Lou’s death, but hadn’t specified which one. He had told them about how Lou had died, but hadn’t mentioned the possible involvement of the Drakh. And he had told them of the military buildup, but not how he had managed to find out about it.
“I’ve told you everything I can.”
“Vir … “
“All right, fine,” Vir said in exasperation. “A techno-mage sliced open your friend’s brain and extracted the information that way. Happy?”