by Peter David
Eventually they cut him loose from his bonds, laid him more gently down upon the gurney. He stared up at them in bewilderment. It was almost as if they were treating him with . . .
. . . respect.
Reality and fantasy tumbled together for him, colliding in his mind, and it would take a great deal of time to sort it all out.
Time that, miraculously, had been given him. To him . . . and to all of Humanity.
~ chapter 17 ~
The Sheridan household had been in some disarray. This father and mother had madly scrambled to pack all that they could carry in preparation for the evacuation. And then, just as quickly and abruptly, the need had ceased. The Minbari had surrendered, for no reason that anyone could discern.
When John Sheridan ran into the living room, as if he had dashed all the way from the depths of space to his parents' front door, he found it in that state. Never had he found any clutter to be quite so beautiful. He embraced his father and mother, and his sister ran in from the next room and nearly bowled him over as she leapt into his arms.
"I have so many questions!" his father said, and his mother echoed the sentiment. No one knew or understood the reasons for the last-minute salvation of the Human race, and everyone was asking everyone else their opinions, theories, and details as to whatever gossip they might have heard.
"So do I," John replied. "I have just as many questions as anyone. I have-"
Then he stopped, for he heard a familiar footfall behind him. He turned and saw her: Anna, his beloved, standing in the doorway.
"But there's one question more important than any of the others," John said meaningfully as he looked at her. He held his arms open to her, and quickly she crossed the room and fell into his embrace as if she were meant to be there for all time.
And she whispered her answer: "Yes."
General Lefcourt could not quite believe that he was across his desk from a Minbari.
She stood there with a number of other Minbari surrounding her. She did not sit, and so Lefcourt stood, as well. He'd be damned if he'd take any chance of offending her. Now was not the time to put the collective nose of the Minbari out of joint.
To Lefcourt's right stood President Levy, looking an odd combination of pleasant and apprehensive. "General Lefcourt... Ambassador Delenn. You ... do prefer the title 'Ambassador'?"
"One of your titles is as another to us," Delenn said, sounding a bit arch. She surveyed them slowly.
"As I told all of you in yesterday's debriefing, General," the President continued, "Ambassador Delenn says that she and her people would like to make . . . reparations. Their surrender has been unconditional and I believe their offer of help is entirely sincere."
"I'm . . . most glad to hear that," Lefcourt said. But he couldn't quite take his eyes off Delenn's face. There was such an air of mystery about her, a sense that something was being hidden. "Ambassador, if you don't mind my asking ..."
"If this is about the surrender ... I do."
He put up his hands defensively. "Okay. Okay, fine. Not a problem for me."
"Do not," she said as much to Levy as to Lefcourt, "ask me again why we surrendered. Nor ask any of us. For some it is a sore point, and continued inquiries will only exacerbate it. Now, we have many plans. Plans that will enable us all to help each other," She glanced around. "May I ask, where is Jeffrey Sinclair?"
"He's being . . . debriefed," Lefcourt said carefully.
Delenn half smiled. She knew what that meant. She knew it meant at least a preliminary psi probe. Well, let them. They'd never find the truth of it, buried so deep within him that no TP would ever get at it.
"That will not be a problem," she said reasonably. She pictured his face and, yes, it was true ... saw Valen's. "I can always catch up with him later. I suspect, you see, that we will have plenty of time to do so. Now, let us get down to business."
President Beth Levy presented little resemblance to the haggard, dispirited woman who had previously addressed her people, when it seemed as if it would be the last time she would ever speak to them. Through the window of her office, the sun filtered as if making a point of welcoming a new day. "Today," she said, "the Senate has approved funding to begin construction on the Babylon station, located in neutral space between several major governments. Together, we stood on the eve of destruction, the result of a terrible, terrible mistake. We cannot afford to make that mistake again. The Babylon station will provide a place where we may work out our problems peacefully. It is, we believe, our last, best hope ... for peace."
But, like all good things, it took a while to work it out. The first three stations were destroyed while still under construction. The fourth . .. disappeared ... not long after it went online. Exasperated by all the difficulties, they decided to make one more attempt. The last of the Babylon stations. The name of the place . . .
. . . was Babylon 5.
~ epilogue ~
I have absolutely no idea how long I have been speaking.
The children . . . Luc, Lyssa . . . still stare up at me, entranced by the narrative. Even their nurse, Senna, is upon the floor looking up at me with childlike fascination. I am afraid to break the spell, but break it I must. For my throat is sore, my head aching. The sort of ache from which only a good, stiff drink can relieve me. I reach for my imperial seal, which Luc silently hands me.
"There," I say slowly. "You have had your story. You must go now. I have .. . things to do."
The children seem reluctant, and they look to their governess for guidance. Clearly they feel that, if she offers some sort of protest-asks to stay a time longer-I will relent. And who knows? Perhaps they are right. But instead she has already gotten to her feet, and she bows slightly. "I hope they were not an inconvenience, Majesty."
"No," I tell her sincerely. "Thank you for allowing me to see joy one more time, before it gets too dark to see anything anymore."
I do not tell her, of course, the resolution I've made. The thing that I know I must do. I do not tell her that I know the darkness is not far off, an hour or two at most. And yet she seems to sense it, sense what's on my mind. Sense that I do not expect to be upon this planet-this planet which I have so bitterly disappointed-much longer. As she senses it, she feels a need within her, a need to somehow . . . connect to this pathetic shell of a man that I have become. A once-great man, who has taken on too much of a burden in this life, and is ready to lay it down.
She reaches out, and gently touches my arm.
What do you want?
That question comes back to me. Comes back to haunt me as it has so many times in the past years.
My thoughts turn once again to Morden, on whom I dwelt earlier. Morden, who asked an assortment of key people on Babylon 5 that very question: What do you want?
I have been searching, even as I spoke to the children, to recall my exact response, word for word. I believe I have it now.
There I was on Babylon 5, in a post that was generally considered to be a dead-end joke. I drank, I gambled, I debauched, and I thought I watched my career wither away. I felt as if I were the living incarnation of everything that the Centauri empire might have been, and no longer was. And when Mr. Morden asked me what I wanted, I replied:
"Do you really want to know what I want? Do you really want to know the truth? I want my people to reclaim their rightful place in the galaxy. I want to see the Centauri stretch forth their hands again and command the stars. I want a rebirth of glory-a renaissance of power. I want to stop running through my life like a man late for an appointment, afraid to look back or look forward. I want us to be what we used to be. I want... I want it all back the way it was. Does that answer your question?"
It did. It answered his question, and sealed not only my fate, but the fate of all of Centauri Prime. For the Shadows whom Mr. Morden represented exploited my hopes, my dreams and desires, and used us to launch a chaotic war that almost brought the galaxy down around us.
The Humans have a saying: Be careful
of what you wish for. You may get it.
Great Maker, I got it.
I wanted so much ... so much . .. and I. ..
... I never truly understood . . . what was important. . . never .. . I. . .
I look at the lady Senna, and in a low voice, a voice that might once have been alluring when spoken by a young and handsome man, I say to her, "Dear lady ... I would love to walk with you on a beach . . . somewhere. For just five minutes." I feel tears welling in my eyes, and I fight them back. It is the single greatest battle of my life. "How strange, to have come this far, and to want so little."
I turn away from her, for I do not know how much longer I can keep my eyes dry. A dear, sweet woman. Two lovely children. They could have been mine. They are the life I turned away from, the life of a different man ... a lucky man.
"Children." My voice is low and hoarse. "Will you remember this story? Will you remember me?"
"All my life, Majesty," Luc says in wonderment.
I nod. It will have to suffice. "Then go."
But Luc suddenly seems less than willing to depart. "What happened to Sheridan and Delenn?" he asks. "What about the end of the story?"
"Sheridan," I say slowly, "became the president of a great alliance, Delenn ever at his side. And the story . . . is not over yet. The story is never over. Now go."
Senna takes one child in each hand, and she starts to head out of the room.
And Lyssa, the child who never spoke, turns and suddenly utters what is possibly the longest sentence that Senna has ever heard from her. It is, of course, the age-old question, even more fundamental than "What do you want?" Indeed, I should have anticipated it.
"Did they live happily ever after?" she inquires.
"Lyssa!" Senna says in surprise.
The child seems determinedly oblivious of the effect she had on her nurse. Instead she repeats, insistently, "Did they live happily ever after?"
"That. . . remains to be seen," I say after a moment.
The last Centauri woman I will ever see ushers the children, and herself, from my presence.
I am alone once more. Alone with the empty room. With the emptiness of my own soul.
I pick up a small control device and aim it at a hidden screen. The view flares to life, and suddenly I have, floating before me, an image of two people in a cell.
Sheridan and Delenn. She is embracing him furiously, looking for all the world as if she would break him in half. She is speaking to him in a hurried, desperate half whisper.
"They're allowing us one last moment together before ..." She stops, unable to say the words, and then she switches thoughts. She smiles, nods with a bravery that I can only admire. "It's all right, John. I accepted this fate a long time ago. They cannot touch me. They cannot harm me. I'm not afraid. Not if you are with me. Our son is safe. That's all that matters. John ... I love you." She embraces him with a passion born of a sense of doom.
Yes . . . their son was safe. At least. .. safe from me.
I pick up a bell and ring it. Moments later I say to the guard standing there in response to it, "I need another bottle. I will need several more bottles. Then wait one hour . . . and bring the prisoners here."
Then I am alone once more.
Delenn and I had come to an arrangement, you see. I went to her earlier, when she was alone in her cell. My interrogators had been after her for a while to give us certain information with which she was not forthcoming. When she laid eyes upon me, looking exhausted and worn, she had the appearance of a hunted animal. Hunted and haunted.
"I want information, Delenn," I told her.
"Go to hell, Londo," she shot back.
"You have picked up some intriguing phrases from your husband," I said approvingly. "I will go to hell soon enough. I do not want any information that will endanger your future, Delenn. I want only to know of... the past."
She was clearly suspicious, since my associates had brought her there with much darker objectives, but I convinced her that my agenda at that moment was different from my ministers'. I desired simply to possess certain pieces of knowledge. Certain scenarios to which I was not privy in the past, which were known only to Delenn. The information I needed in order to understand and assemble the history which I have just recounted to Luc and Lyssa.
In exchange for providing me with what were, to her, useless and outdated facts, I swore to her that her son would never suffer harm at the hands of myself or the House Mollari. That he would, in fact, be under the protection of my House, for now and ever . . . presuming anything was left of it. She doubted me at first. Who could blame her? But I indicated to her that I had promised G'Kar, under different circumstances, that I would free his homeworld from Centauri domination if he cooperated with me. He did, and I did. So how could I be less honest with Delenn?
So she told me. Filled in the pieces for me. My interrogators she told nothing. Me, she offered what were, to her, details concerning matters of no consequence. But they meant everything to me, for now I know.
You see, just like anyone else ... I desire to know ... the entire story. Know it, and pass it on to those who are interested. Deserving. For a story is only as good as the audience that desires it.
I raise my glass in a toast, the last of my drink, and I say, "To the future ... my old friends." And I drain the contents.
Footsteps can be heard, returning briskly. I recognize the stride. How could I not? After all these years, it is impossible for me not to. I look up and there he is, holding several bottles on a tray. I waggle my fingers and say, "Come here."
Vir approaches, his hair streaked with gray.
Nearly two decades ago, it was predicted by a noted seer, the Lady Morella, that-of Vir and myself-one of us would become emperor upon the death of the other.
My death, I believe, is not far off. Not if I handle matters correctly. And Vir is looking hale and hearty. So I think it fairly obvious how that prophecy is going to turn out.
"You will drink with me, Vir?" I ask.
"No, if it's all the same to you," he says. I think of the old days, when his voice always seemed to have a slight tremor to it. No more. Now he speaks with confidence ... and just a hint of perpetual sadness. He waits, desiring to know how he can serve me, just the same as always.
"I have decided to work on a history, Vir," I tell him. "And I have decided that you will write it with me."
He appears surprised. Clearly he did not know what to expect, but it was not that. "I will?" he asks.
"Oh, yes. It will be quite comprehensive. Unfortunately I do not think I will have overmuch time to complete it. I would like your help in achieving that. You were there for most of it. I think you are fit to do the job. If you wish," and I made a magnanimous gesture, "you may put your name first in the credits. For I strongly suspect, you see, that it will be published posthumously."
"I see," he says.
"I shall spend the next hour," I tell him, as I proceed to pour a drink, "giving you some details . . . some highlights ... for I have been discussing it at length recently, and it is all fresh in my mind. You may record it however you wish. Expand upon it, put it into chronological order at your convenience. Then you will leave me, for I will meet with Sheridan and Delenn."
"Are you ... are you . . ." He could not even frame the words.
I shake my head. "I.. . do not wish to discuss it, Vir, for reasons I cannot explain at the moment. For I am watched, you see, all the time ... even here. So let us instead discuss matters of scholarship ... and let the rest sort itself out.
"And Vir... you will let the people know. Let them know there was to be more than a world in flames. That there was supposed to be ... should have been ... greatness. With all the sacrifices, with all the people who have died, you would think we were entitled to that.
"You will carry on for me, Vir. It will be among the last orders I give. You will carry on and tell the story to others. It will be uplifting ... or a warning ... or simply a rather Byzantine adventure,
depending upon how it's told and who is listening, I would imagine. And in this way, the story will never end. You will do this thing for me, Vir?"
With true tragedy in his voice, he replies, "Of course I will."
"Thank you," I say. "Thank you, my old friend." I pat him on the hand and lean back, feeling the warmth of the liquor already beginning to fill me.
I shall drink myself into oblivion . . . and shortly thereafter, my soul will follow.
Vir waits for me to speak, a recording device in his hand. "Where ... where do you wish to start?" he asks.
Where to start?
Where else, of course? In the beginning . . .
I look out upon the burning remains of Centauri Prime, steady my hand so that I can permit the liquid to cascade down my throat. . .
.. . and I begin to speak. "I was there, at the dawn of the third age of mankind."
I had such dreams. Such dreams . . .