by Peter David
Vir had done so, but had come away from it understanding no more than he had when he’d begun. Soldiers who joined a demanding, even cruel organization in order to forget their past? A past usually haunted by beautiful but unattainable women who’d broken their hearts … at least according to the “romanticized” literature Londo had recommended. Vir had absolutely no idea how that could possibly apply to Lennier, and had said so. Londo had simply shrugged and said, “What do I know of such things?” and dropped the subject.
Londo.
He missed Londo. He missed the way things had been. Even when they were bad … at least Vir had had an idea of what was going on. Now here he was, in a position that supposedly offered him more power and authority, and yet feeling more confused and helpless than ever before. There he had been, speaking to Londo of the mysterious Rem Lanas and Emperor Kran, and he had no idea whatsoever what any of it had to do with anything.
Rem Lanas, a homeless Centauri who hid in Down Below. No criminal record, no nothing. The thought of roaming around Down Below under any circumstance wasn’t an attractive one to Vir, and he had delayed the prospect for as long as possible, while trying to determine if there was any particular reason he should seek out this individual. Londo had seemed of the opinion that he should, but really, who knew what was going through Londo’s head anymore? He seemed so erratic, so inwardly torn. Not for the first time, Vir found himself wondering if Londo hadn’t genuinely had some sort of mental collapse. It wasn’t a pleasant thought, but it certainly seemed to be a valid explanation.
And Emperor Kran? What was the point in discussing rulers long gone?
“Emperor Kran,” Vir said out loud.
Why had Londo been speaking of him? What was it that Londo had said, again?
Sometimes it is possible to agree on what is right and wrong. And we would not want the wrong things to happen again. Not to anyone. Not to anyone, Vir Do you hear me?
Just what had happened to Emperor Kran? Vir realized that he couldn’t recall all the details. He’d been killed, that much he remembered. Assassinated. Then again, so had a number of Centauri emperors, so on that basis alone he hadn’t really stood out.
Vir moved to his computer terminal and started checking records, pulling up history files. The difference between Kran and the others who had been assassinated, as Vir started to remember, was that unlike others -such as Cartagia -Kran hadn’t really been that bad. He’d had a good heart, good ideas, and a determination to try and bring the feuding houses of the Republic together. His interest hadn’t been self-aggrandizement or personal enrichment, but the betterment of all Centauri Prime.
After skimming some of the highlights of Kran’s life, Vir started reading over the details of Kran’s death.
It had been so stupid. A waste, a tragic waste. Kran had grown impatient with the noble houses of Centauri Prime, because he felt they had lost touch with the common people. The houses, after all, basically consisted of people of rank, of status, of title. A relatively small percentage of the planet’s population had held a staggeringly large percentage of the money and access to the world’s resources. Kran felt that the best way to remind the houses of where their obligations lay was to bring them down to the common folk and “reintroduce ” them.
Centauri Prime was like any other world: it had its seedier side. There were places where the poor went when they had nowhere else to go. Where people in need scraped together meager livings with whatever they could get their hands upon. And, as was always the case, those above knew where those below resided. But those above simply found a way to turn off that part of their mind that would have caused them to feel pity or empathy for those with nothing. “They got themselves into it,” was the most frequently heard comment, or “Let someone else handle it,” or similar sentiments.
Kran wasn’t about to stand for it. His intention was to realign the thinking of the houses’ heads in the same way that one trains an offending pet not to relieve himself inside the house. In the case of the pet, you are to shove the creature’s nose into his own waste product. It was Kran’s notion to do the same-metaphorically speaking-with the houses’ heads.
He amassed a “Great Expedition,” as it was dubbed. He brought together all the houses’ heads for a guided tour through the seamier side of Centauri Prime. His intention was twofold: to remind the household heads that there were those in desperate need of help, and to provide, by his physical presence, a symbol of hope to all those who were too indigent to share in the planet’s wealth.
His long-term goal had been to build a sort of global sense of patriotism. He sought to cause all of Centauri Prime to pull together as one, the great and the small, with the ultimate aim being a return to the greatness that had once marked the Republic . “One cannot build a palace on a foundation of mud,” he had written. “The mud must be treated, crafted into a foundation upon which greatness can be created.”
He had sought unity. He sought-ironically enough-an alliance. Vir couldn’t help but smile to himself in a sort of sad way. In some ways, Kran reminded him of Sheridan in that regard.
So there Kran had been, planning for magnificence, thinking about ways of elevating the whole of Centauri society. According to the history text Vir was reading, the procession of the Great Expedition had wended its way into the dark quarters of Centauri Prime, and had been quite a sight to see. All the richest Centauri, dressed in their finery, looking and probably feeling completely out of place as they gazed-many of them for the first time-upon the faces of need and want, of hunger and frustration. Their ignorance of the conditions of the poorer Centauri had led them to apathy, and Londo had once told Vir that ignorance and apathy were a lethal combination. Ignorance can be cured by education, apathy attended to by finding something, somehow that can stir the blood and move the soul to take action. But ignorance and apathy, entwined inseparably around each other, form a wall that is nearly insurmountable.
Kran had taken it upon himself to crack through that wall and, by all accounts, the initial moments of the Great Expedition began to do just that. The heads of the households were transfixed, unable to turn away from the sight of such need. It was said that some of them were even moved to tears.
That was when it had all fallen apart.
The man’s name was Tuk Maroth. He had been born poor, raised poor, and had viewed the nobility and the greatness of the Centauri upper echelon only from a distance his entire life. He sat in the gutter, watched the approaching procession through eyes filled with hate and envy. He told people later that all he could see was the sun glinting off the gilt and trimming of the greatcoats of the nobility. And the emperor … “He seemed to shine, to glow,” Maroth had said, “as if powered by all the souls of those who had died with nothing, so that he might have everything.” Apparently the thing that had sent Maroth completely over the edge was the shining imperial crest which hung around Kran’s neck.
Maroth later claimed it had been a purely spontaneous act, and that he had no idea what came over him. This was widely thought to be some sort of appeal for leniency, as if a temporary madness that drove him to regicide was somehow more acceptable.
Kran never even saw the shot coming. One moment he was smiling, waving, nodding. There was a great deal of noise from the crowd; he probably didn’t hear the shot. But the next thing he knew, he was looking down in astonishment at the vast stain of red that was spreading across his chest. His legs sagged and his dumbfounded guards, who had not been expecting any such assault during such a well-meaning and philanthropic mission, caught him. Maroth turned and fled, disappearing into the back alleys of the district. Kran was rushed directly to the hospital, but it was far too late. He was dead by the time he got there. Indeed, there were some who said that he was dead before the guards even caught him.
The incident touched off waves of recriminations, including one particularly massive riot in which the nobles sent the military to storm the poorest quarters of the city, demanding the assassin, de
manding justice, and generally taking the opportunity to vilify the poor in their own minds by condemning them all for the actions of one. By doing that, they basically absolved themselves from any sense of responsibility for helping the needy. An entire section of the city went up in flames before Maroth was turned in, by his grief-stricken mother as it turned out. The poor woman subsequently took her own life by stabbing herself, cutting out the womb that had once housed the child who had grown up to commit such a heinous act.
However it was the power brokers of Centauri who got to write the history. The power brokers who had stormed the poor and later sought to excuse their actions. So when history referred to Kran in later years, it portrayed him as a fool who had misplaced his priorities. The poor, it was decided, had brought their lack of fortune upon themselves, deserved whatever happened to them; and any ruler who felt any sympathy for them likewise had coming to him whatever tragedy should occur.
Vir set aside the reading material and shook his head in dismay. Poor Londo. Obviously what he’d been telling Vir was that he, Londo, was doomed to fail. That history was going to judge him a fool.
Or worse, Londo was concerned that he was going to die at the hands of some demented assassin. Or …
Or …
“I’m an idiot! ” Vir shouted as he leaped to his feet so violently that he slammed his knee on the underside of the table.
He didn’t take time to note the pain. His mind raced, trying to figure out what to do. Then quickly he went to his closet and found old clothes. It wasn’t difficult. Vir had lost a considerable amount of weight in the past months, but he had kept the clothes that no longer fit him properly because he wasn’t the type to waste anything. To say nothing of the fact that, should he wind up gaining the weight back, as had happened to him from time to time, he wanted to have something he could fit into.
He hauled out one of his old suits, a mismatched shirt, vest, and pants and threw them on. The unfortunate combination and the fact that they hung loosely on him combined for a generally satisfactory air of shabbiness.
He returned to his terminal and hastily printed out a photo. Then he hauled out his cloak. He rarely wore it; it had been a going-away gift from his mother, which he had never quite understood. It was a hooded, all-weather garment, which made no sense as a gift for going to Babylon 5-how much weather variation was there going to be on a space station? It wasn’t as if there were days he needed to bundle up because it looked cloudy with a chance of rain.
But he drew it about himself now as if a major thunderhead were rolling in, and drew the hood up over his head to conceal his features. Thus outfitted, he made his way to Down Below, and prayed he would be in time.
Perhaps the prospect of descending to Down Below had been anathema to Vir, but he knew he had no choice. Again he weighed all the options, and this seemed unfortunately to be the only viable one.
It was the smell that hit him first. The atmospheric filters in Down Below weren’t as efficient as they were in other sections of the station. To some degree, that was understandable. The designers of Babylon 5 had never intended that anyone would actually live in the service corridors and excess storage area that constituted Down Below, and consequently they had not provided for the same amount of ventilation and the number of ducts there were throughout the rest of the place. Add to that the severe lack of proper sanitation facilities , and it combined to make Down Below someplace one avoided if one could at all help it.
At least no one was staring at Vir here. In that respect, as ironic as it sounded, it almost made Down Below preferable to up above. Every so often, someone would glance in Vir’s direction, but only in terms of assessing whether or not he appeared to present some sort of danger. On those occasions, if Vir caught their glance, he would peer out from beneath his hood and flash a sickly little smile that practically cried out that he was no threat whatsoever. The mute questioner would then go on about whatever unseemly business he needed to attend to.
In his hand, Vir clutched the picture he had printed out. It was the last known image of Rem Lanas. Vir had stared at it for so long that he felt as if every curve of the man’s face was permanently emblazoned in his mind.
He scanned the throng that was perpetually milling about, trying to spot some sign of his quarry. It didn’t seem a particularly promising means of accomplishing what he needed to do, but he could see no other way. He tried not to draw any attention to himself, and that wasn’t especially difficult. No one seemed to care about him … or, indeed, about anything.
He looked sadly at the assortment of makeshift tents and homes that had been erected hodgepodge throughout Down Below. He saw several people, a family by the look of it, grouped around an open flame and cooking something that seemed to have once been some sort of vermin. The very sight of it was enough to cause Vir’s stomach to buck. In a way, it helped put his life in perspective for him. Here he had been so miserable over his personal situation, not liking the way that representatives from the Alliance had been looking at him. Looking at him. That should be his biggest problem. At least he had clothes, food, and shelter. At least he had all the amenities and wanted for nothing save companionship. But companionship was a very small thing compared to everything that these poor, needy people required.
He spent several hours wandering around, even becoming so bold as to start asking random people if they had seen Rem Lanas, holding up a picture to jog their memory. Most times he simply got blank stares. It might have been that they didn’t know, although it was just as likely that they didn’t care. First of all, Rem Lanas wasn’t their problem. And second, this odd Centauri who was asking around was obviously an outsider, despite his ill-fitting clothes, possibly even operating undercover for some organization. Why should they cooperate with him? When had anyone cooperated with them, after all.
It was a rationale that Vir could easily understand, although he would probably have been even more forgiving if lives had not been potentially on the line.
Presuming, of course, that he was right, and hadn’t simply conjured the entire thing out of some crack-brained misinterpretation of purposefully cryptic remarks made by Londo.
That was when he heard noises.
The sound came from a distance away. It was an assortment of voices, several of them trying to talk at once, but there was one louder than the others. Whereas the others were speaking with high emotion, the most commanding one came across as firm and reasonable. It was a voice that Vir knew almost as well as his own or Londo’s. It was Sheridan’s voice.
The tour was coming through. The “reclamation” project of which Sheridan had spoken.
Vir looked around, trying to see if there was any sign of Rem Lanas. There was nothing. Perhaps he had missed him, or perhaps Lanas had come in behind him, circled around somehow.
As he stood there, the residents of Down Below began to look around at one another in confusion, unable to figure out just what the commotion was all about. Clearly some of them thought they were being rousted, as had happened before during periodic security sweeps. However, there wasn’t any sound of scuffling or of weapons being fired in warning. Everything certainly seemed peaceful enough.
There were side passages that extended off in a variety of directions. Maybe Lanas was lurking down one of those, Vir reasoned. It was still a long shot, though, and he was beginning to feel that he was handling this situation completely wrong. That, despite his assorted concerns, he should have gone to security. He should have trusted this business to anyone except himself.
He started to turn in one direction …
… and a flash of light caught his eye.
He was momentarily confused. He wasn’t sure where it had come from or what had caused it. All he knew was that the flash drew his attention to another corridor-one he hadn’t noticed before. Then he gasped in astonishment, unable to believe his luck.
It was Rem Lanas. He was around Vir’s height, but thinner, with long arms and narrow shoulders. Vir was
dumbfounded. Despite his memorization of Rem’s features, he glanced at the printout nevertheless. Lanas looked a bit more dishevelled than he appeared in the picture, but it most definitely was him.
He was standing in a narrow alleyway, just around the corner from the main corridor, his hand resting against the corner of the wall. He was clearly listening for something. Listening, and glancing around the corner every so often, as if to try and determine just how quickly Sheridan and the others were approaching.
And now Vir could see Sheridan and the others, far down the corridor. Lanas was positioned in such a way that he could walk only a few steps and easily intersect the group’s path. Sheridan and the others were ringed by guards, with Zack at the forefront. Vir could see Zack scanning the crowd, scrutinizing anyone who came within range, glancing at their hands…
Their hands. Of course. To see if they were holding weapons.
Vir did likewise, staring at Lanas across the way. Lanas’ hands were empty. He didn’t seem to have a weapon on him. Nonetheless, there was something about him that practically screamed “threat.”
As quickly, as unobtrusively as he could, Vir began to move toward him. Drawing within range presented no immediate difficulty; Lanas was paying no attention to him whatsoever. His concerns seemed entirely focused elsewhere.
Let me get there, Vir was intoning to himself. Let me get there. The problem was, he had nothing concrete upon which to base his actions. But somehow he felt driven nonetheless, as if he were caught up in forces that were compelling him to behave in a certain manner. It wasn’t the first time he had felt that way, certainly. But all the other times that feeling had come over him, it had always been Londo who had been piloting the ship, so to speak. This time it was up to Vir … presuming the “it” was what he thought it was. There was still always the possibility that he had totally misinterpreted everything, that this was all the result of his fevered imagination working overtime.