Peter David - Out of the Darkness

“Yeah. It is,” he said to no one in particular.

Restless, he walked down a hall, without really having a destination 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 miss the most was not having the chance to grow old with De— But he had come to realize that he was wrong about that.

At least he’d had the chance to grow older, to experience that lull, 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 really 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 wouldn’t be there to do it.

And grandchildren; he would never have grandchildren. He would never have the chance to bounce a small continuation his bloodline on his knee, one that would still be growingup 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 thereto 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 entered Sheridan’s tone. He was becoming more concerned that 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 stiffened, 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 powerful 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. There was a private port not far away at all. That, of course, was to accommodate all the various dignitaries who came and went, visiting 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 sizable 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 remember 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.