Peter David - Out of the Darkness

“And then there is your own presence. Knowing that you are here, at the very least the Humans will come for you all. Even as we speak, they may well be assembling a fleet for an assault. After all, you did introduce a plague into their Homeworld. The surviving Humans are not gently disposed toward you. And if you think that they will be worried about the prospect of some Centauri dying during an assault on a Drakh—held world, then you’d be well—advised to think again.”

He actually looked away. He was unable to hold my gaze. I sounded conciliatory—an impressive feat—as I said, “You have always struck me as a race who does what needs to be done, but no more. You are not bloodthirsty. You are not barbarians. You have a purpose to serve, and you serve it. Annihilating my people simply out of a fit of pique, in the face of a hopeless cause… it makes no sense. It goes against the grain of the Drakh.”

And he looked back at me with grim amusement in his eyes. “After all this time,” he sighed, “how little you know us.”

It was at that horrific moment, a moment that will always be frozen in time for me, that I knew I had badly miscalculated.

I was not even aware of the explosion when it actually occurred. All I knew was that one moment I was standing, and the next, I was on the floor. There was a ringing in my ears, and even though my eyes were wide open, all I saw was whiteness. I was flash—blinded.

Then a wave of heat swept over me, blasting in through my balcony, and wind so furious that it knocked everything off my walls and pushed me halfway across the floor.

I staggered to my feet, reaching out, trying to find something to hold on to so that I could get my bearings. A hand grasped mine. It was gray and scaly and cold to the touch, and I yanked it away quickly. I heard a low laugh, and I knew it was Shiv’kala’s.

“You… you bastards…” I whispered.

My vision was starting to clear, and what I saw was beyond horrific. Fully half of the capital city was in flaming ruins. It was as bad as, if not worse than, when we had been attacked years earlier. A charnel smell wafted on the wind to me. The sky was already black with smoke, flames licking up toward the obscured clouds.

I reached out, as if somehow I could scoop up my people in my hand, preserve them, save them, turn back the hands of time and make it not have happened. And I heard voices crying out to me, Londo, Londo, why have you forsaken us? I could not tell if they were real or if they were imagined, but beyond question, they were my fault, my responsibility, on my head.

I had gambled with their lives, and I had lost.

“That,” Shiv’kala said in a voice from beyond the grave, “was one third of the bombs we have planted. What you see here before you is merely representative of what has occurred throughout your world. Here is what you will do. Are you listening, Londo?”

“Yes,”— whispered.

“You will bring Sheridan up here. You will show him the damage that was done, and you will make clear to him that these are crimes for which he and he alone bears responsibility… because he has been working in concert with the Legions of Fire.”

“You intend… for me to blame this destruction on Vir?”

“Of course,” said Shiv’kala. “He has already taken credit for destroying one monument. It is obvious that he will go to any lengths to satisfy his hatred of us, regardless of the cost. Next… are you listening, Londo?”

I nodded. I tried to hold my breath against the smell of burning flesh, and when I was unable to, I dry—heaved. Shiv’kala did not appear to notice, or care.

“After that, you will have Sheridan executed. Then you will have Delenn executed. I want the executions done separately, since I’ve no desire for people to see them drawing strength from each other in their last moments. Then you will find Vir Cotto, if he still lives, and execute him. And then you will inform the fleet that the assault against the Alliance is to be carried out.

“You are right about one thing, however: If we remain, there will doubtless be a strike launched against Centauri Prime. So we will make a show of departing, to put the Alliance off its guard. But once the Alliance is in disarray, we will return, to make Centauri Prime the cornerstone of the new Drakh Entire.”

“Not Vir, I whispered.

He looked at me most oddly. “What?”

“I will not execute Vir. Nor will you. I will not stand in the way of what the people do, but he will not die by my hand, nor at the hands of the Drakh.”

“Now you are the insane one, Londo.” His voice rose. “Look at your city! Look at your world! It lies in ruins because you misjudged us, and you would still dictate terms?”

“You will grant me this,” I said tightly, “or Marie! and Durla wiil not be the only ones who die off a balcony this day.”

He seemed ready to argue it, but suddenly became impatient. “Very well,” he said. “Do as you have been ordered, and Cotto will be spared. The odds are that he is dead anyway. And if he is not, well… the people will attend to him soon enough.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“You see, Londo? Even under such extreme circumstances… you cannot say that the Drakh are totally without compassion.”

He said a few things more, but I was paying no attention. Instead my thoughts were elsewhere, nearly twenty years gone, to the words of the technomage, Elric. “I see a great hand reaching out of the stars. The hand is your hand. And I hear sounds… the sounds of billions of people calling your name.”

“My followers,” I had whispered in awe.

And in a voice like ice, he had replied, “Your victims.”

I had always thought—always assumed—that he had been referring to the Narn. I now realized that he had not. That it was my own people, here and now, crying out for aid from an emperor whose misjudgment had resulted in widespread slaughter. I did not plant the bombs… I did not trigger the bombs… but, Great Maker, I did not stop them, and my people have paid for it.

I wanted to fly away. To be able to step to the balcony, change into a winged creature, and fly off to someplace where there was no death, no destruction. No voices calling my name, and no Drakh. I had waited sixteen years to feel fear and desperation from Shiv’kala, and I had managed it. But my people had paid a terrible, terrible price.

I had never wanted to be with Mariel at any given time as much as I did at that moment.

Vir gazed in horror at the smoking ruins of the city. A number of his followers stood at his side, likewise stunned by what they were seeing.

They had emerged from the far end of the catacombs, using as an exit the place where Renegar had first discovered the tunnels so many years ago, several hundred members of the Legions of Fire, looking ragged, exhausted, but also grimly triumphant. They had left a sizable number of dead Drakh below them, and with any luck those few that remained would wander hopelessly, lost in the maze.

But any satisfaction the rebels might have taken from their triumphs paled next to the aftermath they were seeing now.

“The Drakh,” he whispered. “They must have done this. It could only have been them…”

“It certainly redefines the concept of ‘sore losers,’” Renegar said.

“There may be more bombs,” Finian said grimly. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go find them.”

“Now? Now you’re going to find them?” an incredulous Vir asked. “Why didn’t you find them earlier, before this damage was done?”

“We’d always been seeking out Shadow technology. As near as I can tell, these explosives were of a more mundane nature. Even I cannot locate that which I do not know exists,” Finian told him. “Leave it to me now.”