Out Of The Darkness

by Peter David

  David crouched closer,trying to make out what could possibly be causing it. And suddenly the urn cracked open. Reflexively David ducked back,but he was far too slow. From the small pile of debris that had once been an urn, something small and dark moved so quickly that he couldn't even begin to track it. It came right at him, and he batted at it helplessly swinging through the air and missing it. There was some sort of moistness at the base of his throat then, and he tried to pull at it. His fingers felt something disgusting and protoplasmic, and he yanked his hand away from it. A wave of nausea seized him It was as if some sort of huge tumor had sprung into existence on him. He felt something snaking down the front of his shirt, sliding across his chest,and he opened his mouth to scream.Even as he did so, he staggered about the room, knocking over books and furniture as he tried to shake the thing off. It s me. The cry for help died before it could be fully born. There was no hesitation for David; he recognized instantly just who and what was upon him now.It was as if David had found a piece of himself that had been missing for as long as he could remember "You?" he whispered. Yes. It's me, little sun. He felt as if his world were spinning out of control.He tried tell himself that he was, in fact, asleep. That none of this 1 happening. Do not deny it, little sun. I have come here to help you. You have been waiting for me all this time. David grabbed at the thing on his shoulder,and immediatly jolt of pain ran through him. He fell to his knees, gasping, trying to call out, but he felt his throat constricting. He couldn't get anything out, try as he might. Why do you fight me when I have come here to help you? The voice in his mind sounded hurt. / have spent so many years reaching out to you, becoming one with you. Why would you try to reject me now, when you and I have been together for so long? "What... are you?" David managed to get out. I am everything you have ever wanted. Far more so than your parents. Your father, with his rules and restrictions. Your mother, with her moral harping. They don't understand you. They don't know what you need. . . "I need you ... out of my head!" David grated. He made no futher move to pull the creature off his shoulder, however. He had learned better than that. His mind was racing, though, trying to summon the strength to call for help, trying to determine any course of action that would get this thing off him. You don't want to do that. You know you want my help. .. "I don't!" You do. You want your chance to see the galaxy. You want to be out exploring. You have the same desire to be apart of the great interstellar flow of life that your father had... except his father gave free rein to his desires, and yours won't. He stopped. On some level ... on every level ... the thing was making sense. He knew it to be true, and this thing knew it, too.What was more... the fact that it knew it was comforting to him somehow. He felt as if he was sharing with it-in a way that he wasn't able to with his parents. And then he tried to shout at himself-inwardly-that that was exactly what the creature wanted him to think. That he was falling into some sort of trap, as if this thing, this monstrosity on

  his shoulder, were his friend... I am not your friend. I am your soul mate. I know you better than your parents know you. I know you better than you know yourself. And I can give you what you want. . . I want you off me!" But for some reason he noticed that his voice sounded a little less heartfelt this time. You want off this world. What is there here for you? You have no friends. Minbari regard you with suspicion because of your lineage. You have private tutors, and in the rare instances where you have classes with other youths, you are far smarter, and they resent you for it. Your parents invited several guests to your birthday. They were all too "busy " or had other plans. Lies. They did not want to be with you. You are neither Human nor Minbari, fish nor fowl. There is no place for you on Minbar. You want to see other places, to ex­plore other worlds. To learn the truth about other races through firsthand experience. That is what you want. And I can provide you with that.

  For a long moment, David said nothing. And then he spokef one word. "How?" His mind, however briefly, however momentarily, was opent the possibility. From then on, it was only a matter of time. John Sheridan couldn't sleep. That bothered him a good deal. He usually had no trou sleeping. In fact, it was one of the few things he wasn't trouble doing these days. Lately he had been feeling the ac and pains more sharply than he wanted to admit. His reactions had slowed, his physical prowess was diminished. He felt as if his very thought processes were slowing down. As if there were a vague haze slowly descending. He had the disturbing feeling he knew exactly why. The of Lorien echoed more and more in his mind these days, as he felt certain aspects of himself starting to ... to dim. knew that Delenn had to be thinking about it. Twenty Lorien had said. At one point, a year or so earlier, Sheridan had joked that they should move to the Drazi Homeworld. Since a Drazi year was equal to 1.2 Earth years, Sheridan had jokingly reasoned that it seemed a quick way to pick up an additional four years of life. Delenn hadn't smiled when he'd said it; instead she'd immedi­ately gone off to be by herself. He knew from then on not to at­tempt to deal with the subject by making light of it. In fact, since that time he hadn't dealt with it at all, at least not where Delenn was concerned. They had both known that Lorien wasn't speaking in exact numbers, but rather in rough approximations. In the final analysis, they really could only guess how much time Sheridan had left. Well... that was as it should be, wasn't it? Everyone had a fi­nite time, when you came down to it. If one was going to look at it from a morbid point of view, birth wasn't the beginning of life; it was the beginning of a slow, protracted death. So Sheridan- unlike others-had a general idea of how much longer he had. That wasn't really such a bad thing, was it? "Yeah. It is," he said to no one in particular. Restless, he walked down a hall, without really having a desti-ition in mind. It was a surprisingly chilly night for Minbar, and had his robe tightly drawn around him. Maybe it wasn't so illy at that. Maybe he was just feeling the cold more. "Stop it. Stop feeling sorry for yourself," he scolded. For the longest time, he had thought the thing he was going to it the most was not having the chance to grow old with De-. But he had come to realize that he was wrong about that. least he'd had the chance to grow older, to experience that lual, easy comfort that two life mates have with one another. might not have had the chance to consume an entire meal... !but at least he'd had a taste of it. Losing out on the chance to see David grow up, however, was ireally going to be hard to take. His son was sixteen, barely on the age of manhood. There was so much Sheridan could do for so many ways he could try to provide guidance. But he puldn't be there to do it. And grandchildren; he would never have grandchildren. He luld never have the chance to bounce a small continuation his bloodline on his knee, one that would still be growing up when the next century turned. And perhaps feel his own fa­ther's voice in the back of his head, saying, "Well done, Johnny. Well done." He would just have to be satisfied with what the cards had dealt him. After all, if Lorien had simply left him there to die, then David would never have been born. Yes... he would just have to be satisfied. Unfortunately, being satisfied had never been Sheridan's strong suit. He stopped in his tracks. The light was dim in the hall, but still he saw someone at the other end. At first he was sure it was an in­truder, but then he realized that it was David. Sheridan had been thrown for a second; something about David seemed a little odd. His body posture, the way he was carrying himself, was subtly different. Sheridan couldn't begin to imagine why. "David?" he said cautiously. "Are you all right? You're up late." With a touch of levity that sounded horrendously forced, he added, "Still flushed with excitement from your birthday parry?" David said nothing. He walked slowly toward his father, and

  Sheridan realized that his son was fully dressed, in a loose-fitting shirt and slacks. He was wearing the new boots Sheridan had given him for his birthday. "Are you going somewhere, David?" A hint of caution en-tered Sheridan's tone. He was becoming more concerned th something was awry. "David?" David drew to within a foot of him, and Sheridan put a on his son's shoulder. He started to say, "David, what's wrong?"| Then he felt a lump under David's shirt. David's spine s
tiffened, his eyes going wide, as if Sheridan had just stuck a finger directly into his nervous system. "What! the hell?" Sheridan said, and even as David tried to take a step, back, Sheridan yanked at the neck of the shirt, pulling it aside. An eye glared balefully out at him. Sheridan froze in place, his jaw dropping. He had no idea what he was looking at, but the surreal horror of it paralyzed him for just an instant. It was at that moment that David's fist swung, and there was no doubting just whose son he was. It was a pow-erful right cross, and even if Sheridan had been prepared for it, it would have done him damage. As it was, Sheridan wasn't ready for it at all, and he hit the ground like a bag of wet cement. David stood over him, staring down at his father's insensate form with utter dispassion. He wasn't even fully aware that he. was responsible for his father's current unconsciousness, and even if he had been aware, he wouldn't have cared. He knew who it was who was lying on the floor, of course. But for all practical purposes, he might as well have been looking at a stranger. He turned and headed toward the nearest landing port. Therej was a private port not far away at all. That, of course, was to ac-commodate all the various dignitaries who came and went, vis- iting his father. There were several shuttles kept ready at all times, in the event that the mighty president of the Alliance had to get somewhere quickly. David approached the port and slowed when he found another Minbari approaching him. He was a member of the warrior caste, and David could see that he was a guard. It was clear from the Minbari warrior's calm demeanor that he wasn't expecting any trouble. He didn't even have his hands near his weapon. He obviously considered this detail more for show than anything else. Who, after all, could really sneak in through the port? "Young Sheridan," the guard said. "Odd hour for you to be out and about. May I help you with something?" "Yes. You may put your hands over your head." And as he said that, the "PPG" given him by Garibaldi was in his hands. The guard had no way of knowing that it wasn't real. It was possible, of course, that the guard might drop and pull his own weapon fast enough that he could shoot down David Sheridan, The positive aspect of that was that he would have done his job. The negative-and it was a si/able one-was that he would have just shot and killed the only son of John Sheridan and Delenn. It

  wasn't an option he was particularly happy about. Slowly the guard did as he was told. "Lie down. Flat," David continued mildly. He projected nothing but utter confidence. "Don't move, if you want to keep breathing." He kept his "weapon" leveled on the guard even as he walked up to him. He placed it against the base of the guard's skull and pulled the guard's own weapon from his belt. For a moment he considered using the fake PPG to try to club the guard into unconsciousness, but he quickly dismissed the idea; it would be much too difficult, thanks to the guard's Minbari bone crest. Shoot him. Kill him, the voice from his shoulder said. David held the newly acquired genuine gun firmly and aimed it squarely at the Minbari's back. His finger twitched on the trigger. But that was all. David. . . "No," he said firmly. The voice seemed to laugh in understanding. Very well, then. Render him helpless, if you are more comfortable with that. Within minutes, David had bound and gagged the guard using strips of cloth torn from the guard's clothes. With that attended to, he walked quickly over to one of the shuttles and climbed in. He looked over the control board. He actually had a good deal of practical flying time. His father had seen to that part of his education, at least. He remembered the first time he had taken a vessel into orbit, his father sitting proudly at his side,

  complimenting him on his handling of the craft and telling him that it seemed as if he was born to do this. And Sheridan had been right. David was born to do this. By Sheridan's own admission, it was David's birthright, and his fa­ther and his mother had denied it to him. Of what use was it to live his entire life on one solitary planet, when the stars called out to him? He brought the systems on-line, powering up the shuttle. For the briefest of moments, he wondered just where he was going to go. But then he knew-without having to consider it any further. He was going to Centauri Prime. That was where he belonged, He didn't know why he belonged there, but he knew he did. Sheridan felt himself being hauled to his feet before he had fully recovered consciousness. He blinked in confusion against the light that was streaming in through the skylight overhead. It was early morning, and Sheridan couldn't for the life of him re-member why he was lying on the floor in a hallway. "John! John, what happened?" someone was shouting at him. No, not shouting-just speaking forcefully, and with great urgency. Garibaldi was staring at him, extremely concerned, support-ing him by holding his arms up. "Happened?" Sheridan aged to get out thickly. "I don't-" Then it came back to him with the force of a hammer blow, and Sheridan shook off the confusion in an instant. "David! Something happened to David! There was this... this thing!" "John!" It was the alarmed voice of Delenn this time, she was barreling down the hallway, followed by a Minbari whom Sheridan recognized as the sentry from the port. "John, David was at the port last night! He attacked this man and stole a shuttle!" "It wasn't David," Sheridan said. When he saw the perplexed expressions of the others, he quickly clarified, "It wasn't David in control. It was something else ... this . . . this thing on his shoulder, I've never seen anything like it. It looked like a lump of clay, but with an eye. It was controlling him. It had to be." They ran quickly to David's room. Sheridan cursed himself for honoring his son's request for privacy by having his room set far apart from that of his parents. If he'd been nearby, he might have heard something earlier on, and been able to intervene be­fore matters got out of hand. Sheridan and the others looked in dismay at the wreckage. Whatever clues they might have found seemed hopelessly lost. Everything was smashed to pieces. Sheridan leaned against the wall, sorting through everything he had seen. "Where could it have come from?" "If it's as small as you say it was, it could have snuck in through any part of the house," Garibaldi said. He looked around. "David didn't go without a struggle, I'll tell ya. He tried to fight that thing off." Delenn suppressed a shudder as she picked up the pieces of the Centauri urn, which had apparently been shattered along with other objects in the room. "We've got to find him," Sheridan said furiously. "I want word sent out to all the members of the Alliance ..." "That might not be wise," Garibaldi told him. Sheridan looked at him incredulously. "How could it not be wise?" "Because it's everything you've ever feared," Garibaldi said. "if you advertise to everyone that your son's disappeared, two things are going to happen. First, knowing that he's off Minbar, every bounty hunter, every crackpot, every nutcase is going to turn out in force looking for him. They'll want to snatch him and use him to exert pressure on you. And second, any nut and his brother can claim that they have him and start making demands. Sure, they won't be able to prove that they have him, but you won't be able to prove they don't. You go wide with this, I guar­antee you'll solve nothing, and create a thousand headaches you can't even begin to imagine." "What would you suggest, then?" Sheridan asked icily. "Where would we start looking?" "Centauri Prime," Delenn answered. They looked at her. "What?" Sheridan said. She was holding up pieces of the urn, pieces from the lower half of it. "Londo said that this held water from a sacred river? It's dry. There's no sign of its ever having been wet, not the slightest aroma of mildew or any smell that would accompany stagnant water. There's no moisture on the cabinet that it was on when it broke, none on the floor."

  "It could have evaporated," Garibaldi offered uncertainly. "It could have. But I don't think so. I think that thing John saw was hidden inside here, in some sort of hibernation. Waiting, all these years, for us to give it to David." It made sense. It made horrific sense. "He said we would always be friends. Do you remember, De-lenn?" Sheridan said. His jaw constricted with mounting fury. "Remember what he said the day he gave it to us? That that day in our company meant so much to him. Well, now we know ex­actly what it meant, the bastard." "What do we do?" Delenn asked. "We go to Centauri Prime," Sheridan said without hesitation. But Garibaldi shook his head. "You do no such thing. You don't know for sure that it was Londo." "Are you defend
ing him now, Michael?" "No, I'm trying to make sure you don't rush into something half-cocked," Garibaldi said. "I'm as furious about it as you, but I've got more practice than you do keeping myself wrapped up. If David was taken from here, it was for one of two reasons: ei­ther they're just going to kill him as a means of revenge, or they've got plans for him. If it's the former, you can't help him. If it's the latter, those plans will certainly involve you, and you have to sit tight until you find out what their next move will be. His kidnappers will contact you. At that point, you'll know for sure that it's Londo, or whoever, and that s when you c an plan your strategy." "My strategy is already planned," Sheridan said tightly. "It starts with killing Londo Mollari. After that, I'll improvise." EXCERPT FROM THE CHRONICLES OF LONDO MOLLARI. Excerpt dated (approximate Earth date) November 29,2277. I cannot remember the last time I ran. Not just ran. Sprinted. My personal guards actually had to run to keep up with me, and everyone we dashed past gaped at us. At me. And why should they not? My office is all about ceremony and posturing and maintaining dignity. The sight of the emperor charging down a corridor as if the hordes of hell itself were on his heels, well... I would have gaped as well.