Babylon 5 15 - Legions Of Fire 03 - Out Of The Darkness (David, Peter)

by Out Of The Darkness (David, Peter)

  brain were shouting at him to pull himself together, and match what was being said with what had happened. "Yes, of course. There's only so much protection even the most dedicated guards can offer in the face of such ..." He shook his head. "Very likely, it was the work of the rebels and saboteurs. They were endeavoring to discredit the Centaurum, and such actions are taken to reflect poorly upon this govern­ment in the eyes of others. In any event, it is pointless to dwell upon it. My guards dispatched the madman. Justice was done, and it's important that we pu t the whole unfortunate business be­hind us." "You ordered it!" Vidkun was trying to rally. "You ordered the assault! The mob! You!" "Mob!" Lione sounded shocked. "I saw no mob. Nor, I would suggest, did you." Then he smiled and reached into his pocket. Vidkun automatically flinched, bracing himself for some sort of weapon to be drawn, but Lione instead simply pulled out what appeared to be a credit chip and extended it to Vidkun. Vidkun took it, looking at it blankly. "What is this ... ?" "Access to a private account that Luddig set up. He thought we did not have right of entry to it. Luddig apparently thought a number of things that were in error." He shrugged. "It was where he was siphoning payments from the various worlds..." "Worlds?" "You don't seriously think that Mipas was unique, do you?" The very notion appeared laughable to him. "No, no ... Luddig had a number of 'clients.' There are quite a few worlds out there in which the Drazi maintain interests. Interests that stem from tradition . . . and from profit. "Everyone is interested in protecting his or her interests, Vidkun. Luddig, unfortunately, is no longer capable of protecting his. You are. His interests ... have become your interests. And very likely his position . . . presuming you are canny enough, ju­dicious enough, and..." He cleared his throat and indicated the credit chip with a nod. "... generous enough to make things happen. If, that is, you are interested in doing so." He stopped talking for a moment, and it seemed to Vidkun as if he was waiting for Vidkun to say something. But the Drazi did not speak. Something warned him that it would be wiser not to. Lione's lips thinned into a death's-head smile.

  "You could, of course, take a more aggressive stance," he acknowledged. "Try to rally the Alliance against us. Endeavor to prove your case. Anger a good number of people; upset a number of agreements that are understood amidst more people than you would truly believe possible. You could do all that. I have to admit I would not advise it. But it is a way you might go." Vidkun found the nerve to speak. "And if I indicate that is what I am going to do ... then I, too, would suffer an accident." Slowly Lione shook his head. "That would be a foolish posi­tion for me to take. You could agree to anything I say ... then once you are off-world, safely beyond concerns for your own life and limb, you might say and do anything you wish. Threats are extremely unreliable. What 1 am endeavoring to point out is that cooperation is far more to your advantage. It will benefit you. It will serve your needs. You do have needs, I assume. You are still quite young. There are things you want to accomplish, goals you wish to achieve. A quiet understanding will get a great deal that rabble-rousing and accusations will not." "And in the meantime, you will attack more worlds, as you did Mipas..." "Mipas was a threat. If you believe nothing else I tell you, be­lieve that. We acted in self-defense, nothing more. You seem a reasonable person. How can any reasonable person condemn us for that? That is indeed the entire point of the barter system which Luddig so deftly oversaw. The moneys paid are an act of good faith. We do not ask for it; it is offered freely. Even if we were not paid, we would still not attack. Assorted worlds have these arrangements with us at their behest, not ours. They mis­understand the Centauri mind-set. We are not out to destroy others, no. No, not at all. Our intention is simply to make certain that no one ever attacks us again. We are not bullies. We just desire to show that we are strong. You do see the difference, do you not?" "Yes. Yes, I do," Vidkun said slowly. "That is good to know, considering that Luddig apparently did not see the difference. We do not take well to threats. But co­operation . . . that is different. And there are many who are most anxious to cooperate with Centauri Prime." He sat forward and, in doing so, almost seemed capable of bending from the hip and leaning over the entire desk. "I am hoping.. . that you are one of

  those. For your sake. For ours. For the sake of the continued in­terests of the Drazi Homeworld. To all of that, Vidkun ... I'm sorry.. . acting Ambassador Vidkun ... you hold the key." Vidkun nodded slowly in acknowledgment. "The prime minister would still like to meet with you to­morrow," Lione told him. "Are you amenable to that?" Once more Vidkun nodded. He thought about Luddig, beaten to death by the crowd. And he thought about the contempt with which Luddig had addressed him, the way that Luddig had made him feel. "I believe I am," Vidkun said. "And I believe ... I should in­form my government of the tragic circumstance that led to Luddig's passing. It is ... commendable how quickly you were able to dispose of his assailant." Lione inclined his head in acknowledgment of the compli­ment. "We of Centauri Prime are only concerned with doing what is right."

  chapter 2 Twenty years. . . Delenn was very likely as aware of the passage of time as any other person alive. Always in the back of her mind lurked the knowledge that her beloved husband, her soul mate, John Sheridan, the man who had virtually reconfigured the way of the galaxy, had only twenty years to live. That had been the price of survival on Z'ha'dum. If she could go back in time, if she could prevent any one moment, it would be that one. An impressive priority, considering some of the horrific things she had wit­nessed in her time, some of the disasters that had occurred to those whom she loved. Twenty years to live. . . The enigmatic being named Lorien had brought John Sheridan back from the dead through means Delenn had never fully understood. What she had understood, though, was that the "fix" was only temporary. That after a mere two decades, Sheridan would simply shut off, like a light. Twenty years to live. . . That's what she'd been told. .. ... fourteen years earlier. Once upon a time, she had been able to put such considera­tions out of her mind, sometimes for days on end. Lately, though, not a day-sometimes, it seemed, not an hour-passed without her dwelling on it. Despite her closeness with her husband, though, despite the deep bond they shared, she was able to keep her concerns from him. Occasionally he would notice that she seemed preoccupied, and would remark upon it. She would easily deflect his com­ments by saying that she was thinking about David, their son. At twelve years of age, he was growing into something that was an

  impressive combination of mother and father. Remarkably, David seemed to possess elements of both their personalities. He was fully capable of being a young hellion, tearing about their home on Minbar with a definitely Human enthusiasm and abandon, much to the chagrin of his mother, the amusement of his father, and the utter frustration of his teachers. On the other hand, when faced with studies, David consis­tently rose to the occasion with such facility that his teachers wondered just how much he could accomplish if he applied him­self fully. Outwardly he appeared Human. The color of his hair had shifted over time. He had gone from being towheaded to dark-haired, and he tended to wear it long. This annoyed his father, whose old military instincts kicked in. Every so often, he would extol the virtues of a short haircut, but David seemed to pay such critiques no mind. Curiously, his eyebrows retained their light color, but the dark eyes beneath remained evocative of his mother. He did, however, possess his father's charisma. That much was unmistakable. Nor was his charisma limited to its effects on Humans; Minbari women-grown women-would do double takes when he passed, looking him up and down appreciatively while he winked at them or came up with some bon mot that always prompted gentle laughter or looks of amusement. This tendency was something that drove his mother to distrac­tion ... particularly when David's father would watch such exhi­bitions and grin approvingly. Only when he noticed Delenn's silently annoyed gaze did John Sheridan quickly try to cover his paternally proud smile. Six years to live. . . That thought would come to her at times such as now, when Sheridan was openly agitated about something. She desperately wished that he would set asi
de his burden as president of the Alliance. She had pointed out on any number of occasions that "president" was an elected office, for a particular term, and that it might not be a bad idea if Sheridan considered pushing more strongly for an open election, to find a replacement. Sheridan did consider it, but every time he tried to follow through, the other member races saw it as some sort of desire on his part for a vote of confidence. Naturally they gave him that vote with gusto

  and enthusiasm, and inevitably some other disaster would occur that would keep John Sheridan firmly in office. It was as if the Fates themselves were conspiring against them, making sure that they would never know a time of peace. Six more years to live. . . At night in their bed she would whisper to him, "Let's run away," and some nights he would actually seem to reflect on it. In the dead of night, he would speak of laying down his burden, of spending his remaining years in peace. And then the dawn would come, and the John Sheridan of the nighttime would dis­appear, replaced by John Sheridan, man of responsibility. Con­sequently, it pained her when so much as an hour, even a minute of his day caused him aggravation. But she had no control over it. All she could do was sympathize and be there for him, for counsel, for support... for sanity. This was one of those times. "They're idiotsl" Sheridan raged. They were in his office, except he wasn't in it so much as stalking it, like a caged animal. With them were the only two in­dividuals in the entire galaxy he appeared to trust completely: Michael Garibaldi and Citiz en G'Kar of Narn. Neither of them truly worked for Sheridan. Once upon a time, Garibaldi had been Sheridan's chief of security. Those days were long past, and his responsibilities as a businessman occupied much of his time. His latest journey to Minbar was actually more of a stopover on his way to some other appointment. From the look on his face, Delenn suspected that he might very well be won­dering whether the impromptu visit had been such a good idea. G'Kar was another story altogether. It was hard to believe that the tall, proud Narn had once been someone so insolent, so bellicose, that Delenn had literally had to bend him to her will via gravity rings. Since that time, G'Kar had become-there was no other way for her to say it-a crea­ture of destiny. It was as if he knew that he had an important part to play in the grand scheme of things, and he was serenely and securely accepting of that role. Delenn couldn't help but sup­pose that it did, in fact, show some consistency. If G'Kar was an enemy, he was implacable. If, however, he was an ally, there was none more devoted. On one occasion, Sheridan had referred to G'Kar as "the

  king's hand." This was a reference that completely eluded De­lenn, and she had said as much. "Ancient kings had men known as their 'hands,' " Sheridan had explained to her. "They would go out into the field and do the dirty work. The things that the king could not, or would not, get involved in. The hand was the most trustworthy and dependable of the knights." "That is interesting to know, Your Highness," Delenn had said with open amusement, and bowed deeply. Sheridan had rolled his eyes, wondered out loud why he ever bothered to tell her any­thing, and taken the gentle ribbing in stride. He wasn't in stride at the moment, though. His frustration had reached a boiling point and nothing that either G'Kar or Garibaldi could say would calm him. Wisely, then, they chose to say nothing, and instead allowed Sheridan to vent. And vent he did, his neatly trimmed grey beard bristling as if it had a life of its own. "I thought this was going to be it. This was going to be the one. Was there any planet more benign, less threatening, than Mipas?" He didn't give them time to answer. Instead he started ticking off responses on his fingers. "Bricarn 9. Shandukan. Harper's World. The list goes on and on! All helpless. All use­ful to the Centauri war machine, either for positioning, or raw materials, or even just sending a message to the Alliance that the Centauri are a force to be reckoned with. A message that the Centauri themselves thrive upon, becoming bolder with each unanswered strike! But every damned world they go after is a border world, far out at the edge of their interests, and making no move against the Centauri!" "They're quite carefully selected, for maximum impact with minimal risk," G'Kar squeezed in, as an opinion. Sheridan nodded vehemently. "Exactly. And the risk remains minimal because certain factions in the Alliance keep refus­ing to go up against the Centauri! Every time the Centauri take an aggressive action and succeed with impunity, they're that much more emboldened to keep to their course! A course that, over the past year, has brought us closer and closer to a costly, full-blown war!" " 'Cost' probably has a good deal to do with it," a grim

  Garibaldi commented. "Not that I can prove it, you understand, but 1 suspect there's some serious greasing of palms going on." "There are many who are happy to overlook long-term ramifi­cations in return for short-term profits," G'Kar said. "It's been a pattern throughout history." "Is that how it works, then?" demanded Sheridan. "Through­out history, the strong allow the weak to suffer so that they can obtain selfish goals?" "Of course," G'Kar said reasonably. "Where have you been hiding?" "That was the past," Sheridan insisted. "We're supposed to have advanced. We're supposed to have learned. Learned that you cannot allow thugs and monsters to have their way." He stopped at the window and gazed out as if he were trying to look past the Minbari horizon. As if he could spot Centauri vessels cruising around in the depths of space, looking for new prey. He shook his head, and when he spoke again he sounded discour­aged and frustrated. "You would think that if we'd learned any­thing from the Shadow War, it was that even the most benevolent of races can become despotic, if they're allowed to exercise their might unchecked. Yet here we are again, facing an enemy who is building up strength, weaponry, and confidence, and the paci­fists in the Alliance would have us do nothing." "They don't think it affects them directly," Delenn finally spoke up. "The problem, John, is that your efforts with the Al­liance have been too successful in other areas. Through the treaties you've overseen, the crackdowns on trade piracy, the assorted economic models you've introduced ... through all of that and more, you've helped bring about an unprecedented sense of prosperity and economic stability throughout the system. When people are satisfied with their financial situation, when they want for nothing ... it is difficult to get them to leave their comfortable homes and hurl themselves into the depths of space to fight wars. They have so much, they are not willing to risk losing it." "If they can't get off their asses to fight the Centauri, they're sure as hell going to lose it," Sheridan said flatly. He leaned against his desk and shook his head, looking more discouraged and frustrated than Delenn could recall seeing him in years. "They keep being 'encouraged' to look the other way. They be- lieve that if they simply let Centauri Prime take this world or that world, that it will be enough to placate them. They think things are going to settle down. They don't understand that it isn't going to happen unless we make things settle down .. . and that won't happen for as long as the Centauri think that they can walk all over us!" Six more years. And this sort of irritation was all he had to look forward to, day in, day out? Delenn could not recall a time when she more despised Londo Mollari. "I've spoken to the Brakiri. The Dubai. The Gaim. And on and on, a list almost as long as the list of worlds that have fallen to the Centauri," Sheridan continued. "No one wants to get in­volved. They come up with reason after reason why it's not a good idea, and you're right, Delenn, it all boils down to the same thing: It's not their problem." He shook his head. "If we had simply waited around until the Shadows were ready to attack Babylon 5, it would be a seriously different galaxy out there. These damned pacifists. .." "Since when is peace bad?" The youthful voice startled Sheridan out of his frustrated dia­tribe. They all turned toward the speaker, even though they all al­ready knew who it was. David Sheridan stood there, leaning against the door frame and smiling in that infinitely self-possessed manner that only adolescents could summon with facility. "And here he comes ... the great agitator," Garibaldi said with the air of someone who had been down the same road any number of times. "Hey, Uncle Mikey." Garibaldi emitted a pained howl, as if he'd just been stabbed through the heart. He staggered across the room, then suddenly l
unged and snagged an arm around the back of David's neck. David let out a howl of anything other than anguish, as Garibaldi yanked on his long hair and snarled, "No 'Uncle Mikey'! I hate 'Uncle Mikey'! You know I hate 'Uncle Mikey'!" "I'm sorry, Uncle Mikey!" David howled, choking on his own laughter. "Punk kid. Get a haircut." Garibaldi shoved him free, turned to John Sheridan, and

  chucked a thumb at the teen. "You got a punk kid there with no respect for his elders, including his beloved godfather." "Tell me about it," Sheridan commiserated. "David, I thought you were at your lessons with Master Vultan," Delenn said. "I was. Vultan decided it was time to take a break." "Meaning that he took his eyes off you for half a second and you were gone." David shrugged noncommittally. Delenn let out a sigh that was a familiar combination of love and exasperation. "He's your son," she said to Sheridan. "How reassuring," G'Kar remarked. "There were those rumors..." "Your sense of humor, as always, is not appreciated, G'Kar," Sheridan said with mock severity. "True comic visionaries rarely are during their lifetime." "A few more remarks like that, and I'll solve the 'lifetime' problem for you," Sheridan warned with that same feigned gravity. "Sounds like you folks are all having a good time kidding around with each other," David observed wryly. "Kind of inter­esting, considering that when I came in everything sounded pretty damned grave." "Language," Delenn said reflexively. "Sorry. Pretty goddamned grave." She looked heavenward for strength. "You wouldn't, by some chance, be trying to change the mood in here simply because I'm around?" inquired David. The adults looked uncomfortably at each other. "It's all right," he continued, clearly not interested in wait­ing for an answer. "I was actually standing outside the last few minutes." Garibaldi pointed at David and said to Sheridan, "That boy has a future in surveillance. Let me take him back to Mars and train him for a few years. You won't recognize him." "If his hair gets much longer, I won't recognize him in any event," Sheridan commented. "You didn't answer my question, Dad," David said, clearly not about to let his father off the hook. "You're angry with the paci­fist factions who don't want to get into a full-blown war with the Centauri. What's wrong with pacifism? I mean, look at the Earth-Minbari war. Thanks to the aggressiveness of the Humans who fired on the Minbari, killing Dukhat, and the Minbari re­sponding with pure rage, there was a needless interstellar war that cost millions of lives." Delenn flinched inwardly. David would have had to bring that up. The fact was that it was Delenn herself who had made the fateful decision to attack the Humans, even as she had cradled the still-warm corpse of Dukhat. They 're animals! The words, screamed in an agonized voice barely recognizable as her own, still rang in her head. But David had never learned that. It was a secret that she kept buried deep in her, a moment that she could never forget, no matter how much she wanted to. "And then," continued David, unaware of his mother's inner turmoil, "the entire Human Homeworld would have been wiped out if the Minbari hadn't suddenly surrendered. The reasons were complicated, but the result was the same: a peace move­ment. So obviously, those who seek peace are right some of the time. When do you decide it's the right time for peace ... and when it is time to go to war?" "It's not an easy question," Sheridan admitted. "Well, actually, it is an easy question. The answer's the tough part." Sheridan glanced at Garibaldi, who had just spoken, and responded wryly, "Thank you, Michael, for that reassuring clarification." "No problem." Delenn stepped forward, and resting a hand on her son's shoulder, said, "It depends whether one is in a situation where a movement of peace is viewed as a benefit for all concerned ... or merely a sign of weakness." Sheridan nodded in confirmation. "There are some who use peace, not as a tool, but as a weapon. Something to distract or forestall opponents while they move forward with their plans for conquest." "And how do you know when that's the case?" "You have to look at the whole picture," Sheridan said. "You don't examine one action, or even a couple of actions. You look at everything they've done throughout their history, and get a