Peter David - Out of the Darkness

“Saving your life?” G’Kar was merely amused. I was not surprised. After all that G’Kar had endured in his life, it took far more than the ire of a Centauri politician—even a highly placed one—to give him pause. “Execution might not be such a terrible fate,” he continued, sounding philosophical. “The fact that it took me as long as it did to dispatch this… person,” and he indicated Yson with a nod, “is a bit embarrassing. I can only attribute it to the deleterious effects caused by extended use of a changeling net. Don’t worry. Given time to recover, I’m certain that I will be sufficiently strong to take on anyone in this room if so inclined.”

“I will have you executed,” Durla said, reining himself in, “for trespassing on Centauri Prime. Alien races are forbidden… or had you forgotten?”

“I forgot completely,” G’Kar replied.” I wore the disguise only because I wanted to have hair. Tall hair.” Great Maker, I’d missed him. “You wore the disguise to spy on us! You are a trespasser and a spy! For that alone, your life is forfeit.”

“But it is not that alone, Durla,” I said. I rose from my chair. My legs felt slightly unsteady, and I took a moment until I was certain that I could endure the simple act of standing. “That must be factored in with the debt that is owed him by you… and by me. Perhaps Yson’s intent was to dispense with you, but I could just as easily have fallen within his target. Correct, Yson?”

Yson looked at me with utter scorn. “Durla is power mad. He has nothing but contempt for the Houses. For the traditions of Centauri Prime. But you… you are worse. For there is nothing worse than a weak emperor.”

Slowly I nodded. Then, in one motion, I turned and pulled on the ceremonial sword that General Rhys had in his scabbard. I admired the hissing noise it made as it slid out. Yson’s expression of disdain was still on his face as I turned and swung my arm as fast as I could. The blade was as sharp as it sounded, and I was pleased to see that my arm still had some strength in it. Yson’s sneer was frozen even as his head slid from his shoulders and thudded to the floor.

No one said a word.

I pointed the sword at G’Kar. His one eye glittered at me.

“Are you free for dinner?” I asked.

David Sheridan could see the eye, looking at him, and it seemed far less fearsome than when it had first appeared.

He still could remember exactly the first time that he had noticed it. He had just turned twelve, and had fallen asleep after a long day of celebration. In his dreams, he had been running, just running, across a great Minbari plain. He wasn’t doing so out of fear, or pursuit. He was running simply for the pure joy of running, of feeling the youthful energy channeling through him, feeding him as if there was an endless supply that would carry him through an eternity of sprinting.

Finally he had stopped. It wasn’t out of a need to catch his breath, but because he felt as if he should stop, because he was supposed to catch his breath. Then again, this was a dream, after all, and he was the one who set the parameters.

And then, for no reason he could discern, the world around him started to go dim. It was as if a total eclipse had suddenly and inexplicably sprung into existence. He looked up at the Minbari sun that had provided warmth and comfort for as long as he could remember.

The sun looked back down at him. A single great eye had taken up the entirety of it, and it was peering at him in silence.

He stared at it, transfixed. It blinked once, then again, and then it addressed him.

Hello, little sun, it said.

The scream had begun within the dream, but reached its completion when David sat up in bed. Unfortunately Minbari beds were upright slabs, and as a result David fell forward and hit the floor. He lay there, gasping, clutching the cool tiles, soaked with sweat and looking around as if afraid that the eye might still be upon him. Even though he knew that it made no sense, he ran to the window and looked to the moon, but found no eye peeking back.

Nevertheless he did not go back to sleep. He stayed there at the window, unmoving, waiting to watch the sun rise so that he could make sure for himself that the sun was as it usually was. He wasn’t disappointed, for the sun shone that morning in all its normalcy, washing away the last dregs of that heart—stopping dream.

But he had not forgotten it. That would have been impossible… because every so often, the eye returned. Not very I often; just from time to time, as if it was checking on him. As terrifying as he had found it that first time, it became less so with each subsequent exposure. The eye never did anything harmful or threatening. It just watched him, occasionally saying a couple of well—chosen, non—intimidating words. He asked one of his teachers about it and was told that it undoubtedly represented either his mother or his father, or perhaps both. It was, they said, a subconscious desire to know that—when he was at his most vulnerable—his parents were watching over him and keeping him from harm. From then on, David gradually relaxed to its presence, seeing it not as a threatening image, but as a symbol that all was right with the world. This particular night, the eye had returned, after an absence of many months. It did so, however, in a very odd way. David was dreaming that he was having dinner with himself. The “self ” seated on the other side of the dining table appeared a few years older, and he possessed a look of quiet confidence. What was particularly odd was that he had a hair crest that was evocative of the Centauri. David couldn’t for the life of him figure out why his older self looked like that. “Do you like it?” the older David asked. “I’m not sure if it’s me or not. What do you think?” Young David shrugged.

“Good. No opinion. Not thinking,” older David said. “Not thinking is what you’ll want to do.” And then his forehead blinked.

David stared more closely, having at first accepted the unreality of the moment without question. But now he was struck by the oddness of the fact that the elder David had a third eye. It was nestled serenely smack in the middle of his forehead, and it was staring at him. He recognized it instantly.

“That’s my eye,” he said.

There was a sudden rush of wings, and David jumped slightly. A bird, a crow of some kind, perched atop the elder David’s head. He didn’t seem to notice the weight.

“Does it offend you? If so, it can be plucked out,” said the elder David. And then the crow stabbed its beak down and snatched out the eye from his forehead. David gasped as the orb was swallowed up effortlessly, and then the crow, or raven, or whatever it was, flapped its wings and took off.

“Are you all right?” he asked urgently.

More plates of food materialized in front of the older David. “Fine,” he said. “See?” He pointed… and the eye was back. “It will always be there,” he said. “Always. Waiting. Loving you.”

The eye stared at him, stared through him, and David felt vaguely uncomfortable, but he couldn’t quite determine why.

“Dammit!”

It was his father’s voice, explosive and angry, and it was enough to snap David to full wakefulness. He blinked against the darkness, but saw that there was light filtering through the window. It was early morning.

His father had stormed past David’s room, and for a moment David thought that his father was angry with him. But he continued walking, and behind him David heard his mother moving, as well. She said in a soft but rushed voice, “John, hush! You’ll wake David!”

“That’s the least of my concerns, Delenn,” he retorted, but he lowered his voice nevertheless. They continued to speak, and G’Kar was mentioned, but he couldn’t make out what they were talking about.