Peter David - Out of the Darkness

Mariel, for those who have trouble keeping track of all the many players in these diaries, is my former wife. She is also the current wife of our inimitable—thank the Great Maker, for if he were capable of being imitated, I think I would have gone mad sooner—prime minister, the noble Durla. It has never surprised me that Mariel attached herself to him. She has that way about her. Mariel attaches herself to individuals of power in the way that the remora affixes itself to the shark.

For a time she was with Vir Cotto, my former attaché and current ambassador to Babylon 5 . Fortunately enough for him, he lost her in a game of cards. I was shocked at the time. Now, in looking back, I can only wonder why I thought of it as anything less than Vir’s good fortune.

More recently, I was walking past the rather elaborate quarters Durla keeps for himself in the palace these days. (Back when he was simply Minister Durla, the minister of Internal Security, he maintained his own residence elsewhere. Since being made prime minister, he has relocated to the palace itself. This is an option open to whoever holds the rank, but most have not chosen to avail themselves of it. Durla, however, is not like most others. He immediately took up residence in the palace and, in doing so, sent me a very clear message, that I shall never be rid of him. That he has, in fact, set himself a goal that is no less than that of becoming emperor.

Not that he would admit it, of course. There are moments when he directly challenges me, but he always does so subtly, then backs off as rapidly as he can. For someone with such power and dominance, he is really quite craven. It sickens me. I wonder why it sickens me. I should be thanking what I foolishly refer to as my lucky stars, for if he had a core of genuine mettle inspiring him, then he would be unstoppable. Durla, however, remains a bully even to this day, and bullies are cowards. He may have gone quite far in our society, but no matter how far one goes, one cannot avoid bringing oneself along. So…

I was walking past Durla’s quarters, and I heard what seemed like choked sobbing emanating from within. Ironic that after all this time, I still carry within me some vague aspect of the gallant. There were guards on either side of me, as there so often are. My aide, Dunseny, was also walking with me. Dunseny, the aging-and-yet-ageless retainer of the House Mollari, used to be quite a bit taller than I was, but he had become slightly stooped with age, as if his body felt obliged to make some concession to the passing years. He actually noticed the sound a heartsbeat before I did. It was the slowing of his pace that drew my attention to it.

“There seems to be a problem,” I observed, hearing the sounds of lamentation. “Do you think it requires my attention?”

“I do not know, Highness,” he said, but fie did so in a way that basically carried with it the word “Yes.”

“We can attend to it, Highness,” one of two guards who stood at Durla’s door offered.

“You?” I said skeptically. “You attend to things by shooting them. That is not a criticism, but merely an observation, so please take no offense. Far be it from me to offend someone who shoots things. However, I believe I can handle this on my own.”

“On your own, Highness?” the other guard asked. “Yes. On my own. The way I used to do things before others did them for me.” Offering no further comment, I entered without knocking or ringing a chime.

Passing through the entryway, I found myself in an elaborately decorated sitting room, filled with statuary. Durla had acquired a taste for it. I felt more as if I were walking through a museum than a place where people actually dwelt. On the far side of the sitting room there was a high balcony that offered a spectacular view of the city. I had a not dissimilar view from my own throne room.

Standing on the balcony, leaning against the rail, and looking for one moment as if she intended to vault it, was Mariel. Normally her face was made up quite exquisitely, but in this instance her mascara was running copiously. The smeared makeup left trickling splotches of blue and red on her cheeks that gave her entire face the appearance of a stormy sky at daybreak.

Upon seeing me, she gasped and made a vague effort to try to clean herself up. All she did was make it worse, smearing the makeup so grotesquely that she looked like some sort of painted harridan from a stage drama. “I’m… I’m sorry, Highness,” she said desperately, her efforts to pull herself together failing miserably. “Did we have… I wasn’t expecting a visit from…”

“Calm yourself, Mariel,” I said. I pulled a cloth from the inside of my gleaming white jacket and handed it to her. As an aside, I cannot tell you how much I despise the traditional white of the emperor’s garb. Michael Garibaldi, my erstwhile associate on Babylon 5 , once referred to it as an “ice cream suit.” I do not know exactly what he meant by that, but I doubt it was flattering. I could not blame him, though; there is little about it that I find commendable. “Calm yourself,” I said again. “We had no appointment. I was simply passing by and heard someone in distress. There are so many distressed individuals out there,” and I gestured toward the cityscape. “I cannot attend to all of them. But at the very least, I can help those who are within these four walls, yes?”

“That’s very kind of you, Highness.”

“Leave us,” I said to my guards. Dunseny, ever the soul of proper behavior, good tact, and common sense, had waited in the corridor. “Leave you, Highness?” They appeared uncertain and even suspicious. “Yes.”

“Our orders from Prime Minister Durla are that we are to remain by your side at all times,” one of them said. I would record here any distinguishing characteristics he exhibited, for the sake of reference, but I cannot. My guardsmen were something of a homogenous lot. The aforementioned Mr. Garibaldi called them the “Long Jockey Brigade,” I believe. I am no more conversant with the term “long jockey” than I am with “ice cream suit,” but I will say this: Mr. Garibaldi certainly had a colorful way of expressing himself. “Your adherence to orders is commendable,” I said. “Thank you, Highness.”

“However, you overlook two things. Prime Minister Durla is not here. And I am. Now get out, before I command you to arrest yourselves.”

The guards glanced at each other nervously for a moment, then wisely hastened into the hallway. I turned my attention back to Mariel. To my surprise, she actually seemed to be smiling slightly. Even laughing softly. “‘Arrest yourselves.’ Very droll, Highness.”

“With all that has passed between us, Mariel, I believe ‘Londo’ will suffice.”

“No, Highness,” she said simply. “I believe it necessary always to remember your station and mine.”

A remarkable attitude. “Very well. Whatever makes you more comfortable.” I took a few steps around the room, arms draped behind my back as if I were on an inspection tour. “So… do you wish to tell me precisely why you are so upset?”

“I see little point, Highness. It’s nothing. A passing mood.”

“Has Durla been abusive to you in any way?”

“Durla?” The thought seemed to amuse her even more than my passing comment had, moments earlier. “No, no. Durla, in point of fact, is not really here enough to be considered abusive. He is busy these days. Very busy.” She looked down, apparently having suddenly taken great interest in her hands. “I do not begrudge him that. There is a great deal for him to do.”

“Yes, yes. Destabilizing the region and sending our world spiraling toward certain destruction can be very time-consuming, I should think.”