Out Of The Darkness

by Peter David

  she has been watching, waiting, and preparing for this her entire life, she has been dealing with the House heads, the remaining ministers... all of th em. They are surprisingly-even to themselves, I think-comfortable discussing such things as military, financial, and governmental matters with her. It's unusual, considering that women are held, if not in low esteem, at least in less-than-impressive regard in our society. Perhaps it is because she has been around for so long that many of them know her and feel at ease. Perhaps, as the daughter of Lord Refa, the ward of Londo Mollari, and the beloved-yes, I'm afraid it's that evident-of the next emperor, they see her as a connection to the far and near past and to the future. It would be premature, maybe even absurd, to think that she could one day hold a position of authority in our gov­ernment. Then again, this is a time of possibilities, and why shouldn't something such as that be possible? Such things do not happen overnight. Sheridan and Delerm have been remarkably supportive. At one point, Delenn looked me straight in the eye, and said, "Vir... you're a living symbol of every­thing that is positive about Centauri culture." Hard not to be flattered over some­thing like that. Sheridan has likewise been forthcoming with his help, support, and insight. I very much doubt whether I could have held matters together in the initial stages if his presence had not sent a very distinct message. Their son, David, on the other hand... well... that is another matter... chapter 29 David pulled once more against the restraints, his face twisted in fury. For Delenn, watching from the edge of the room, it took every amount of strength and self-control she possessed not to let her grief be displayed. Those monsters might be watching her at this very moment, peering through the hideous eye that sat un-blinkingly upon her son's shoulder, at the base of his neck. Nude from the waist up, David had absolutely no chance of tearing free of the straps that held him firmly to the chair. That did not, however, stop him from trying. The keeper remained inscrutable, but it was his actions they were viewing. Delenn was quite sure of that. A score of Minbari doctors and scientists had been through the medical facility, studying the situation from every possible angle. They were the best that the Minbari had to offer. Yet the man next to whom John Sheridan was now standing, the man who had just gotten done examining David-he was someone whose medical expertise Delenn trusted above all others, in­cluding that of her own kind. "What do you think, Stephen?" Sheridan asked. As dire as the situation was, Stephen Franklin would not be rushed. He put up a hand to quiet Sheridan as he finished study­ing readings he had taken. Delenn looked at her son once more, her heart aching for her inability to help him. She knew that if anyone could, it would be Dr. Stephen Franklin. David, after all, was a unique hybrid: mostly human, but with a few Minbari traits. And he had a crea­ture spawned from the black pit of Shadow and Drakh tech­nology bonded to him. Franklin's knowledge covered all the bases. He had been an expert on Minbari physiology at a time when the Minbari were

  busy trying to exterminate Humans altogether. He had been squarely in the middle of the Shadow War, and his detailed re­search into Drakh capability during the time of the Great Plague gave him insight into the bio-organics that that insidious race was capable of. "If anyone can help, he can." The hushed voice next to her, verbalizing the words in her head, startled her. She turned and let out an automatic sigh of re­lief when she saw Michael Garibaldi standing beside her. He had barely slept since David's return. If he had not been con­soling or giving moral support to Delenn and Sheridan, he had been by David's side, trying to reach the boy, help him, as if he could get the teen to rid himself of the Drakh influence by willpower alone. He had been awake for so long that Sheridan had personally threatened to knock him cold just to make sure he got some sleep. Reluctantly, Garibaldi had gone off to bed, promising he'd sleep until he felt rested. That had been forty-seven minutes ago, yet she couldn't find it in her to scold him. "I know," she said softly, patting him on the cheek. His three days' growth of beard was scratchy. Sheridan started to say "Well?" again, almost out of reflex, and then stopped himself with visible effort and waited. As for David, he said nothing, as he hadn't for some time. It was as if the creature had some sort of lock on his speech center. In a way, Delenn was grateful for that. What if the keeper had so subsumed his personality that he began spitting out curses and defiance, like some demon-possessed shell? Or worse ... what if his own personality held sway, and he was crying out for her help? The prospect of standing there, listening to his cries, knowing she could not aid him ... it would have been beyond excruciating. Franklin finally looked up and indicated with a gesture of his head that they should reconvene outside the room. They walked out, Delenn bringing up the rear and casting one last, sad look at her son. It was hard to tell whether he was even aware of it. "Look," Franklin said slowly, "I have to admit, my ego, if nothing else, would love to be able to come in here, take one look at the situation, and say that there's some simple answer that everyone else has overlooked. But there's not. That thing is like... it's like a parasite that's literally eaten into him on a neu- rological basis. It didn't happen overnight, either. The ... keeper, you said it's called?" Sheridan nodded. "The keeper, as near as I can tell, has been establishing a psychic bond with him for a number of years now. It had the opportunity to intertwine itself with him on a far more comprehensive and profound basis than it could have with an adult, because it connected with him at such a young age. For all I know, it's been influencing him on a low-level basis of some kind since birth." Delenn let out a choked sob but managed to pull herself to­gether quickly. Coming apart now wasn't going to benefit any­thing. Instead she let the cold, burning fury that she felt for the monsters that had done this come to the fore. "The creature's tendrils have wrapped themselves around David on a basic neurological level," Franklin continued. "If we tried to remove the thing by force, it would be the equivalent of tearing out his central nervous system with a chain saw." "We can put it to sleep," Delenn suggested. "Londo told us that alcohol numbed its awareness." "It's awareness, yes, but not its influence. If its life is threat­ened, no matter how incapacitated it is, it will fight back, and David will likely be the battleground. The chances are that, even if David manages to live, there will be nerve and brain damage so extensive that whatever is left won't really be David anymore." "There has to be a way." Franklin took a deep breath. "As near as I can tell-based on brain-wave readings I've gotten off the keeper-it draws a sort of strength from its point of origin." "Point of origin?" Garibaldi sounded confused. But Delenn understood instantly. "The Drakh that made it." "Made it, nourished it, sustained it... however you want to describe it," Franklin agreed. "That Drakh, whoever and wher­ever it is, is the keeper's foundation. As with any house, remove the foundation, and the structure collapses." "Is there a way to generate some sort of scrambling field so it can't communicate with the Drakh?" Sheridan asked. Franklin shook his head. "Even if we could manage it, it would just trigger the keeper's self-defense mechanisms, and David would suffer for it. The only thing I can suggest is finding a way to terminate the signal from the other end, as it were."

  "You're saying we have to find the Drakh who did this.. . and kill it," Sheridan said grimly. "In essence . .. yes." "How in Valen's name can we possibly do that?" Delenn demanded. "I wish I had an answer for you... but I don't." Slowly, Garibaldi walked toward David. His determination to struggle against his bonds seemed endless. During every waking hour he kept it up; only when he slept did he cease his struggles, and he only slept because he had exhausted himself so thor­oughly that he couldn't move anymore. Garibaldi focused all his attention on the keeper, staring straight into that hideous eye. "Whoever. .. wherever you are," he said intently, "if you're seeing me ... sensing me, what­ever ... I'm telling you right now: I will find you. And when I do, the only thing that's going to be on your side is that you'll die quick and easy. Trust me: I'd rather prolong it. Make you feel every second of agony, for as long as possible. But I don't want you influencing this boy for an instant longer than necessary. You got that, you dise
ase-ridden piece of filth? I ... am com­ing ... for you." The keeper didn't seem especially perturbed by the prospect. Dinner that evening was a less-than-festive affair. Vir and Senna had joined Delenn, Sheridan, Franklin, and Garibaldi around a table that had more than enough food to accommodate everyone. Unfortunately, much of it was left uneaten, since no one seemed particularly hungry. Franklin, in short order, brought the two Centauri up to speed with what he had already told the others. Vir didn't seem espe­cially shocked to hear it. "I can't say I'm surprised," he told them. "You know of how I found G'Kar and Londo..." "With their hands at each other's throats," Sheridan said grimly. "There was no way ... wo way ... Londo was trying to fight G'Kar off on his own. He wanted to make certain that the two of you escaped, and he was willing to sacrifice his life to make sure that happened. Any resistance given to that end was entirely at the keeper's control."

  "Is that supposed to make us feel better about the guy?" Garibaldi demanded. "Michael..." Sheridan tried to rein him in. But Garibaldi wasn't listening. He put down the fork that he hadn't used to pick up any food for twenty minutes, and leaned forward. "You're sitting here telling me that, after he was re­sponsible for the deaths of millions, all long before the Drakh got their hooks into him, we're all now supposed to feel sorry for Londo Mollari and take pride in him because he sacrificed him­self to save three people? Granted, three people whom I myself would crawl through hell over broken glass to help, but three people nevertheless? Is that somehow supposed to balance the scales?" "No," Vir answered softly. "Then don't try to make him out to be some sort of grand hero, at least not while I'm around." Once upon a time, Delenn thought, Vir would have been in­timidated by the ferocity and intensity of Garibaldi's outburst. Instead he just looked a bit tired, and said, "You know, Mr. Garibaldi . .. Londo was endlessly fascinated by Earth and its inhabitants. He stepped in whenever he could to help you. Did things behind the scenes, positive things, which your people never knew anything about. He read over Earth culture end­lessly, always researching, always trying to understand. I asked him occasionally why he was so intrigued by all of you, and he never really managed to give me any sort of satisfactory answer. But you know what? I think I've figured it out. I think that, in many ways ... he was far closer spiritually to any of you than he was to any of us. He had a clear vision of what he wanted, a vi­sion that exceeded his grasp at every level, but he never stopped reaching, despite the inherent character flaws that pulled him down. Londo Mollari was not a hero, Mr. Garibaldi. What he was... was all too Human." There was a long moment of silence, and then Sheridan turned to Vir. "Well spoken," he said. Garibaldi rolled his eyes. "Sometimes I don't get any of you people." "That's quite all right, sir," Senna spoke up. "I don't 'get' any of you, either. And I'm speaking largely as an outsider. But what I do see," and she looked around the table and actually smiled,

  "is a group of people who would very much prefer to like each other ... but have been through so much, they don't know if they can." "This is quite a perceptive young woman you have here, Vir," Delenn remarked. "You would do well not to let her get too far." "Thank you," Vir said. "I'll see that she doesn't. Oh ... Senna. Do you have the drawings?" "Drawings?" Sheridan asked. "Senna's been busy," Vir said, by way of explanation. "She has untapped talents." Senna had unrolled several large sheets of paper, and she handed them to Garibaldi. He endeavored to maintain his surly attitude, but in spite of himself, he raised an eyebrow upon seeing the illustrations. "Fairly decent likenesses of Londo and G'Kar," he said. "I like the way they're standing there, with their backs to each other. Seems symbolic." "It's quite rough," she said. "What's this area between them?" "That's the city. I told you it was rough." "The city?" Then he understood. "These are statues. Designs for statues. My God, they're huge." "Statues?" Sheridan leaned over, as did Delenn. Franklin got up and came around the table to get a better look. "You're thinking about building statues to Londo and G'Kar." Vir nodded. "At either gate of the main city. Part of the re­building of Centauri Prime." He shook his head. "Hard to be­lieve. It seems that just yesterday we had to rebuild from the Alliance attack. Now we're looking to the Alliance to help us re­cover again." "The Alliance will be there to help," Sheridan assured him. "That much I can promise you. And this ..." He shook his head and tapped the drawings. "If you'd told me twenty years ago that there would be a statue of G'Kar ... of any Narn, for that matter... built right on the edge of the city ..." "It is a most remarkable concept," Delenn said. She tapped the paper. "I am curious, though. Why are they both faced away from the city? It almost seems to say that they have turned their backs on the Centauri people." "No, Delenn, not at all," Garibaldi told her. "Takes an old se-

  curity warhorse to understand: they're standing guard. You can't stand guard if your back is to your enemies." "That's exactly right," Senna said. "Although it's also more than that. Londo . .." She seemed to know what she wanted to say, but had trouble putting it into words. Vir stepped in. "We have Londo facing away from the capital that he inhabited for so long ... obsessed over for so long ... that it was all he could see. He didn't look to the long-range re­sults of his decisions, because he was so blinded by his poor decisions." "So instead," Senna said, "we're positioning him the way I think he would have wished he had been. He's looking away from the city and, instead, to the horizon." "Very nice," Sheridan said. "And something tells me that G'Kar would have appreciated the irony of protecting the capital city of what were once his enemies." Garibaldi commented, "And the way that you have them posi­tioned .. .they're really watching each other's backs." "As they did in life," Delenn said. "It has a symmetry to it. Well done, Vir and Senna... very well done." "I just wish they could have lived to see it," Sheridan said. She put her arm through his, linking them. "You know, John... I think, in a way that we'll never understand... they did." EXCERPTED FROM THE CHRONICLES OF VIR COTTO. Excerpt dated (approximate Earth date) January 20,2278. Senna and I returned to Centauri Prime today. The reception was muted, which is to be expected. We are still burying our dead, and naturally it's a little difficult to get all worked up over the arrival of the man who has been promised to be the next emperor. The fires have long been put out, but the damage remains. The smell of burned flesh still hangs in the air; if i take a deep breath, my gag reflex kicks in. Upon my arrival, the first thing I did was walk through the streets of Centauri Prime, sur­veying the damage. It was as if I were wandering through a ghost town, except the ghosts were out and about. People looked at me with haunted, almost vacant ex­pressions. Despite my brief holographic appearance, they likely didn't know who I was. I have not yet taken to wearing the white. I don't know when I will. I think there's a long way for our world, our people, to go before we start assuming the outward vestments of the past. The palace, of course, remains untouched. Naturally. For the Drakh, it was a symbolic stronghold of their influence, second only to the Tower of Power they en­gineered. Sheridan showed me a picture of a tower on an Earth desert, constructed by insects and swarming with them. That's what the Tower of Power was: an infes­tation. We exterminated that infestation. But, like any number of insects, the inhab­itants of the Tower turned around and stung us. It will take us a long time to recover from such a severe stinging. On the shuttle from Minbar to here, I brought some acquisitions that Sheridan and Delenn were generous enough to give me. Books and some assorted pieces of furniture, including several tables, chairs, and a large wardrobe. All very old and Grafted in the Minbari style. Their generosity is amazing. I have had initial discussions with my ministers. I intend to make General Rhys

  minister of Internal Security. He told me he didn't want the job. That's more than enough reason to give it to him. When I arrived at the palace, Dunseny was waiting for me, as were Caso and Renegar. Renegar handed me a crystal that, when I played it, revealed a communi­cation from Gwynn and Finian on it. Both of them looked... tired. As if the events that had transpired had taken a lot out of them. I couldn't really blame them, I guess. I think we all felt that way. But t
he fact that they were techno-mages should have... I don't know... protected them somehow. "It's over, Vir," Finian told me. "But it's also just started. And Gwynn and I both want you to know... that if an emergency ever presents itself... if there is ever some catastrophe facing you as you proceed on your path as emperor of Centauri Prime, trying to pull together the shattered remains of your republic... in short, if there's ever a situation in which the talents of the techno-mages are required... then both Gwynn and I want you to know..." "That you can forget it," Gwynn completed. I actually laughed out loud at that as the picture blinked out. One had to credit them: techno-mages habitually spoke in a manner so oblique, so indecipherable, that it was a pleasure to see that they could say exactly what they meant when they put their minds to it. As the day drew to a close, I held Senna close to me and watched the sun turning red on the horizon. So much to do. So many things that needed attending to. And I found my thoughts turning to Timov, the former wife of Londo. Word had reached us that she had passed away quietly, of illness. Apparently she had hung on for far longer than the doctors had believed possible. She died on the exact same day that Londo did. On the one hand, there is certainly no reasonable way she could have known. On the other hand, considering the formidable woman she was, it might be that she was simply so stubborn that she felt she had to outlast Londo, no matter what. And naturally, thoughts of Timov turned me to Mariel. We all carry our sins upon us. Mariel will always be mine. I was working to save a people... and in doing it, destroyed one woman. I can justify it as much as I want. I can make myself believe that she had it coming. That it was necessary. That it was any one of a hundred things. But what I keep coming back around to is that it was wrong, and it's something that I can never, ever fix. Not ever. I felt a frost upon my spine, feeling as if a shadow had touched me, and held Senna closer as the night chill began to fill the air. chapter 30 "Do you want me to sleep with you tonight?" Senna asked. Vir considered it a mo ment, but then shook his head. "The time. . . isn't right." He sighed. "I don't... I can't... I..." She put a finger to his lips and hushed him. "When the time is right, then." Her lips brushed lightly against his. "Good night then, Vir." "Good night." He went to his quarters then. He had selected something simple for himself, nothing ostentatious. He couldn't bring him­self to take over the private quarters that had once belonged to Londo. Too many ghosts that had not been laid to rest, and quite possibly never would be. As the door slid shut behind him, he glanced around the room approvingly. The things he'd transported from Minbar had been brought there and set up just as he had specified. There was the desk, and the chairs. And the wardrobe, polished and ornate, big as a man and twice as wide. It was late; he'd had a long day, and he had a series of meetings scheduled for tomorrow that were going to be pivotal in his deci­sions as to what direction Centauri Prime should go. Yet with all that, he could not bring himself to sleep. Instead he sat down at a computer and recorded another entry in his chronicles. There were many ways in which he had no intention of follow­ing Londo's example, but the concept of keeping a journal was a good idea. For an emperor owed it to more than himself to try to keep his thoughts orderly, try to maintain a record of his achievements, or lack thereof. An emperor owed it to whoever followed him in the office. A blueprint, a template, for what to do right... and what to avoid. "I felt a frost upon my spine, feeling as if a shadow had