Peter David - Out of the Darkness

“But—”

“I said leave it to me,” he repeated firmly. And with that, he walked away.

“There may be bombs planted all over Centauri Prime,” Renegar said. “How can he get to all of them…”

“He’s a technomage,” Gwynn said airily. “He may be a supremely annoying one, but he is a mage nonetheless. Don’t underestimate us.”

Vir stared off into the distance, and said, “Gwynn… I’m heading into the palace. You’ve got to get me in there.”

A chorus of “What? ” came from all around him.

“I have to see Londo. Have to speak to him. Make sure he’s all right.”

“Your concern for his safety is laudable,” Gwynn said, “but ill-timed.”

“No, it’s the perfect time. Renegar, you’ll be with me, too. You’ll coordinate with Dunseny and help get David Sheridan the hell out of there. The rest of you,” and he turned to his followers, “get to the city. Help where you can. Mount rescue operations, tend to the wounded, bury the dead. Gwynn… you’re going to help us get inside.”

“How?”

“You’re a technomage. I don’t underestimate you.”

She smiled, but it looked more like a pained grimace.

The door to the cell opened, and the guards came in for Sheridan. He quickly got to his feet, and demanded, “What’s going on out there? It sounds like a damned war zone!”

His only response was a quick club to the head, which caused him to sag in their grip. G’Kar took a step toward them threateningly, but half a dozen shock prods suddenly formed a barrier between him and the guards.

“Try it, Narn. Just try it,” one of them said.

G’Kar didn’t take him up on it, as Sheridan was dragged out of the cell. But while the door was open, just before it slammed, G’Kar could smell something wafting down the corridor, very faintly.

It was the distant aroma of burning flesh. It was a smell he knew all too well. It had hung in the air around Narn for months after the Centauri had attacked them with mass drivers.

“Do unto others,” he said softly.

I had such dreams. Such dreams.

I dreamt of power and glory and followers. I dreamt of protecting my Homeworld from dark invaders. I dreamt of restoring my great republic to its former glory. I dreamt of a noble death in battle, with my hands at the throat of my greatest enemy. I dreamt of love and I dreamt of redemption.

Such dreams. Such dreams.

Sheridan looked as if he were in a dream when they brought him before me some hours ago. I have known John Sheridan for longer than I would have thought possible… and never have I seen him with such an air of confusion.

The guards held him in front of me, bracing him firmly. He was shaking his head, as if he was uncertain of where he was. I looked to one of the guards and, my face a question, mimed a blow to the head to ask them if they had somehow beaten him severely, possibly concussing him. The Human skull is such a fragile thing. But the guard shook his head that he had not, and I had no reason to doubt him. I am, after all, such an infinitely trusting soul.

He looked up at me then and seemed quite surprised. I do not suppose that I can blame him. I have, of course, seen better days. Still, such a look of shock on his face. One would think he had not seen me for twenty years. The room was fairly dark, the only lighting provided mostly by the flames of my city dancing like ghouls outside.

“…Londo? What… am I doing here… where…”

I smiled at him grimly. “Welcome back from the abyss, Sheridan. Just in time to die. Your timing, as always, is quite exceptional.”

I did not think any single being could be as perplexed as that man. Then again, the Human capacity for bewilderment seems a virtually bottomless fountain.

“Londo… what am I doing here…” he said again. “What’re you…”

It was necessary to be as forceful as possible. I needed everyone… and everything… to know of the certainty of my forthcoming actions. “What I’m doing is what someone should have done a long time ago,” I told him. “Putting you out of my misery.” I coughed slightly, mildly amused at my equally mild attempt at humor, and then growled, “Fitting punishment for your crimes.”

Wide-eyed, he said, “What crimes? I don’t—”

The man was beginning to annoy me. Naturally I understood his desire to avoid any sort of blame. Why not? I, who have been blamed throughout my life, whether justified or not, could easily comprehend a desire to avoid once, just once, recriminations being heaped upon me unjustly.

Nevertheless, I could not let such disingenuousness pass. I nodded to my men, and one of the guards punched Sheridan hard in the solar plexus. Sheridan went down on one knee, gasping. I stooped and looked into his eyes. I spoke as if I were playing to an audience, and in a way, I was… but it was none of the people in this room.

“The crime of neglect,” I told him. “The crime of convenience. During your little war, you drove the Shadows away, oh yes, but you did not think to clean up your mess. If a few of their minions, their dark servants, came to Centauri Prime, well, where is the harm in that, yes? Hmm?”

He stared at me blankly. He seemed to have no idea what I was talking about. I began to comprehend just how this man, in becoming president of the Alliance, had formed himself into the most successful politician in the history of his race. Apparently his capability for self-denial knew no bounds. If I did not know better, I would think he had never heard of the Drakh, was unaware of the outcome of the Shadow War… that, indeed, everything I was saying was news to him.

And here I thought I was the foremost practitioner of self-delusion of our age.

“You want to see the harm? Do you?” I asked. Not waiting for an answer, I indicated to the guards that they should bring him to one of the widows. It used to be that I never had the curtains drawn. That I could not get enough of the view of the city that my station had afforded me. Now, of course, heavy drapes blocked the view. Drapes that the guards pushed aside so that Sheridan could see for himself the damage that had been wrought.

He stared in astonishment at the remains of Centauri Prime that flickered through the long, dark night. Ruined spires half thrown down, smoke rising from distant fires. Overhead a vehicle passed, dark and sinister, bristling with needle-like points. A Drakh escape ship; the last of their kind, one could only hope, making their way off the world that they had secretly run for so many years.

“There is the legacy of your war, the price we paid when you abandoned us to the enemies you managed to escape,” I told him. “Forgive me if I do not share the view… I have seen it enough.”

Sheridan was pulled back in front of me.

And he began to babble.

“But this couldn’t happen, not in this amount of time… the time stabilizer… it was hit… what year is this?”

I stared at him incredulously. If he was trying to pretend that he had some sort of amnesia, then he was failing miserably.” It is the last year and the last day and the last hour of your life. Seventeen years since you began your great crusade… seventeen years since…”

And I faded.

My mind goes in and out. The moments of confusion, of depression, of total loss of where I am and what I am doing, become more and more frequent.

“I’m tired,” I said. “Take him back to his cell.” I fixed Sheridan with a glare, and said, “Make your peace with whatever gods you worship; you will meet them the next time I send for you. I cannot change what is… cannot recall my world from what it has become… but I can thank you… properly… for your role in it.”