Out of the Darkness

chapter 2

Twenty years…

Delenn was very likely as aware of the passage of time as any other person alive. Always in the back of her mind lurked the knowledge that her beloved husband, her soul mate, John Sheridan, the man who had virtually reconfigured the way of the galaxy, had only twenty years to live. That had been the price of survival on Z’ha’dum. If she could go back in time, if she could prevent any one moment, it would be that one. An impressive priority, considering some of the horrific things she had witnessed in her time, some of the disasters that had occurred to those whom she loved.

Twenty years to live…

The enigmatic being named Lorien had brought John Sheridan back from the dead through means Delenn had never fully understood. What she had understood, though, was that the “fix” was only temporary. That after a mere two decades, Sheridan would simply shut off, like a light.

Twenty years to live…

That’s what she’d been told…

…fourteen years earlier.

Once upon a time, she had been able to put such considerations out of her mind, sometimes for days on end. Lately, though, not a day—sometimes, it seemed, not an hour—passed without her dwelling on it.

Despite her closeness with her husband, though, despite the deep bond they shared, she was able to keep her concerns from him. Occasionally he would notice that she seemed preoccupied, and would remark upon it. She would easily deflect his comments by saying that she was thinking about David, their son. At twelve years of age, he was growing into something that was an impressive combination of mother and father. Remarkably, David seemed to possess elements of both their personalities. He was fully capable of being a young hellion, tearing about their home on Minbar with a definitely Human enthusiasm and abandon, much to the chagrin of his mother, the amusement of his father, and the utter frustration of his teachers.

On the other hand, when faced with studies, David consistently rose to the occasion with such facility that his teachers wondered just how much he could accomplish if he applied himself fully.

Outwardly he appeared Human. The color of his hair had shifted over time. He had gone from being towheaded to dark-haired, and he tended to wear it long. This annoyed his father, whose old military instincts kicked in. Every so often, he would extol the virtues of a short haircut, but David seemed to pay such critiques no mind. Curiously, his eyebrows retained their light color, but the dark eyes beneath remained evocative of his mother.

He did, however, possess his father’s charisma. That much was unmistakable. Nor was his charisma limited to its effects on Humans; Minbari women—grown women—would do double takes when he passed, looking him up and down appreciatively while he winked at them or came up with some bon mot that always prompted gentle laughter or looks of amusement.

This tendency was something that drove his mother to distraction… particularly when David’s father would watch such exhibitions and grin approvingly. Only when he noticed Delenn’s silently annoyed gaze did John Sheridan quickly try to cover his paternally proud smile.

Six years to live…

That thought would come to her at times such as now, when Sheridan was openly agitated about something. She desperately wished that he would set aside his burden as president of the Alliance. She had pointed out on any number of occasions that “president” was an elected office, for a particular term, and that it might not be a bad idea if Sheridan considered pushing more strongly for an open election, to find a replacement. Sheridan did consider it, but every time he tried to follow through, the other member races saw it as some sort of desire on his part for a vote of confidence. Naturally they gave him that vote with gusto and enthusiasm, and inevitably some other disaster would occur that would keep John Sheridan firmly in office.

It was as if the Fates themselves were conspiring against them, making sure that they would never know a time of peace.

Six more years to live…

At night in their bed she would whisper to him, “Let’s run away,” and some nights he would actually seem to reflect on it. In the dead of night, he would speak of laying down his burden, of spending his remaining years in peace. And then the dawn would come, and the John Sheridan of the nighttime would disappear, replaced by John Sheridan, man of responsibility. Consequently, it pained her when so much as an hour, even a minute of his day caused him aggravation. But she had no control over it. All she could do was sympathize and be there for him, for counsel, for support… for sanity.

This was one of those times.

“They’re idiots!” Sheridan raged.

They were in his office, except he wasn’t in it so much as stalking it, like a caged animal. With them were the only two individuals in the entire galaxy he appeared to trust completely: Michael Garibaldi and Citizen G’Kar of Narn.

Neither of them truly worked for Sheridan. Once upon a time, Garibaldi had been Sheridan’s chief of security. Those days were long past, and his responsibilities as a businessman occupied much of his time. His latest journey to Minbar was actually more of a stopover on his way to some other appointment. From the look on his face, Delenn suspected that he might very well be wondering whether the impromptu visit had been such a good idea.

G’Kar was another story altogether.

It was hard to believe that the tall, proud Narn had once been someone so insolent, so bellicose, that Delenn had literally had to bend him to her will via gravity rings. Since that time, G’Kar had become—there was no other way for her to say it—a creature of destiny. It was as if he knew that he had an important part to play in the grand scheme of things, and he was serenely and securely accepting of that role. Delenn couldn’t help but suppose that it did, in fact, show some consistency. If G’Kar was an enemy, he was implacable. If, however, he was an ally, there was none more devoted.

On one occasion, Sheridan had referred to G’Kar as “the king’s hand.” This was a reference that completely eluded Delenn, and she had said as much.

“Ancient kings had men known as their ‘hands,’” Sheridan had explained to her. “They would go out into the field and do the dirty work. The things that the king could not, or would not, get involved in. The hand was the most trustworthy and dependable of the knights.”

“That is interesting to know, Your Highness,” Delenn had said with open amusement, and bowed deeply. Sheridan had rolled his eyes, wondered out loud why he ever bothered to tell her anything, and taken the gentle ribbing in stride.

He wasn’t in stride at the moment, though. His frustration had reached a boiling point and nothing that either G’Kar or Garibaldi could say would calm him. Wisely, then, they chose to say nothing, and instead allowed Sheridan to vent.

And vent he did, his neatly trimmed grey beard bristling as if it had a life of its own.

“I thought this was going to be it. This was going to be the one. Was there any planet more benign, less threatening, than Mipas?” He didn’t give them time to answer. Instead he started ticking off responses on his fingers. “Bricarn 9. Shandukan. Harper’s World. The list goes on and on! All helpless. All useful to the Centauri war machine, either for positioning, or raw materials, or even just sending a message to the Alliance that the Centauri are a force to be reckoned with. A message that the Centauri themselves thrive upon, becoming bolder with each unanswered strike! But every damned world they go after is a border world, far out at the edge of their interests, and making no move against the Centauri!”

“They’re quite carefully selected, for maximum impact with minimal risk,” G’Kar squeezed in, as an opinion.

Sheridan nodded vehemently. “Exactly. And the risk remains minimal because certain factions in the Alliance keep refusing to go up against the Centauri! Every time the Centauri take an aggressive action and succeed with impunity, they’re that much more emboldened to keep to their course! A course that, over the past year, has brought us closer and closer to a costly, full-blown war!”

“‘Cost’ probably has a good deal to do with it,” a grim Garibaldi commented. “Not that I can prove it, you understand, but 1 suspect there’s some serious greasing of palms going on.”

“There are many who are happy to overlook long—term ramifi cations in return for short—term profits,” G’Kar said. “It’s been a pattern throughout history.”

“Is that how it works, then?” demanded Sheridan. “Through out history, the strong allow the weak to suffer so that they can obtain selfish goals?”

“Of course,” G’Kar said reasonably. “Where have you been hiding?”

“That was the past,” Sheridan insisted. “We’re supposed to have advanced. We’re supposed to have learned. Learned that you cannot allow thugs and monsters to have their way.” He stopped at the window and gazed out as if he were trying to look past the Minbari horizon. As if he could spot Centauri vessels cruising around in the depths of space, looking for new prey. He shook his head, and when he spoke again he sounded discouraged and frustrated. “You would think that if we’d learned anything from the Shadow War, it was that even the most benevolent of races can become despotic, if they’re allowed to exercise their might unchecked. Yet here we are again, facing an enemy who is building up strength, weaponry, and confidence, and the pacifists in the Alliance would have us do nothing.”

“They don’t think it affects them directly,” Delenn finally spoke up. “The problem, John, is that your efforts with the Alliance have been too successful in other areas. Through the treaties you’ve overseen, the crackdowns on trade piracy, the assorted economic models you’ve introduced… through all of that and more, you’ve helped bring about an unprecedented sense of prosperity and economic stability throughout the system. When people are satisfied with their financial situation, when they want for nothing… it is difficult to get them to leave their comfortable homes and hurl themselves into the depths of space to fight wars. They have so much, they are not willing to risk losing it.”

“If they can’t get off their asses to fight the Centauri, they’re sure as hell going to lose it,” Sheridan said flatly. He leaned against his desk and shook his head, looking more discouraged and frustrated than Delenn could recall seeing him in years. “They keep being ‘encouraged’ to look the other way. They believe that if they simply let Centauri Prime take this world or that world, that it will be enough to placate them. They think things are going to settle down. They don’t understand that it isn’t going to happen unless we make things settle down… and that won’t happen for as long as the Centauri think that they can walk all over us!”

Six more years. And this sort of irritation was all he had to look forward to, day in, day out? Delenn could not recall a time when she more despised Londo Mollari.

“I’ve spoken to the Brakiri. The Dubai. The Gaim. And on and on, a list almost as long as the list of worlds that have fallen to the Centauri,” Sheridan continued. “No one wants to get involved. They come up with reason after reason why it’s not a good idea, and you’re right, Delenn, it all boils down to the same thing: It’s not their problem.” He shook his head. “If we had simply waited around until the Shadows were ready to attack Babylon 5, it would be a seriously different galaxy out there. These damned pacifists…”

“Since when is peace bad?”

The youthful voice startled Sheridan out of his frustrated diatribe. They all turned toward the speaker, even though they all already knew who it was.

David Sheridan stood there, leaning against the door frame and smiling in that infinitely self—possessed manner that only adolescents could summon with facility.

“And here he comes… the great agitator,” Garibaldi said with the air of someone who had been down the same road any number of times.

“Hey, Uncle Mikey.”

Garibaldi emitted a pained howl, as if he’d just been stabbed through the heart. He staggered across the room, then suddenly lunged and snagged an arm around the back of David’s neck. David let out a howl of anything other than anguish, as Garibaldi yanked on his long hair and snarled, “No ‘Uncle Mikey’! I hate ‘Uncle Mikey’! You know I hate ‘Uncle Mikey’!”

“I’m sorry, Uncle Mikey!” David howled, choking on his own laughter.

“Punk kid. Get a haircut.” Garibaldi shoved him free, turned to John Sheridan, and chucked a thumb at the teen. “You got a punk kid there with no respect for his elders, including his beloved godfather.”

“Tell me about it,” Sheridan commiserated.

“David, I thought you were at your lessons with Master Vultan,” Delenn said.

“I was. Vultan decided it was time to take a break.”

“Meaning that he took his eyes off you for half a second and you were gone.”

David shrugged noncommittally.

Delenn let out a sigh that was a familiar combination of love and exasperation. “He’s your son,” she said to Sheridan.

“How reassuring,” G’Kar remarked. “There were those rumors…”

“Your sense of humor, as always, is not appreciated, G’Kar,” Sheridan said with mock severity.

“True comic visionaries rarely are during their lifetime.”

“A few more remarks like that, and I’ll solve the ‘lifetime’ problem for you,” Sheridan warned with that same feigned gravity.

“Sounds like you folks are all having a good time kidding around with each other,” David observed wryly. “Kind of interesting, considering that when I came in everything sounded pretty damned grave.”

“Language,” Delenn said reflexively.

“Sorry. Pretty goddamned grave.”

She looked heavenward for strength.

“You wouldn’t, by some chance, be trying to change the mood in here simply because I’m around?” inquired David.

The adults looked uncomfortably at each other.

“It’s all right,” he continued, clearly not interested in waiting for an answer. “I was actually standing outside the last few minutes.”

Garibaldi pointed at David and said to Sheridan, “That boy has a future in surveillance. Let me take him back to Mars and train him for a few years. You won’t recognize him.”

“If his hair gets much longer, I won’t recognize him in any event,” Sheridan commented.

“You didn’t answer my question, Dad,” David said, clearly not about to let his father off the hook. “You’re angry with the pacifist factions who don’t want to get into a full-blown war with the Centauri. What’s wrong with pacifism? I mean, look at the Earth-Minbari war. Thanks to the aggressiveness of the Humans who fired on the Minbari, killing Dukhat, and the Minbari responding with pure rage, there was a needless interstellar war that cost millions of lives.”

Delenn flinched inwardly. David would have had to bring that up. The fact was that it was Delenn herself who had made the fateful decision to attack the Humans, even as she had cradled the still—warm corpse of Dukhat. They ‘re animals! The words, screamed in an agonized voice barely recognizable as her own, still rang in her head. But David had never learned that. It was a secret that she kept buried deep in her, a moment that she could never forget, no matter how much she wanted to.

“And then,” continued David, unaware of his mother’s inner turmoil, “the entire Human Homeworld would have been wiped out if the Minbari hadn’t suddenly surrendered. The reasons were complicated, but the result was the same: a peace movement. So obviously, those who seek peace are right some of the time. When do you decide it’s the right time for peace… and when it is time to go to war?”

“It’s not an easy question,” Sheridan admitted.

“Well, actually, it is an easy question. The answer’s the tough part.”

Sheridan glanced at Garibaldi, who had just spoken, and responded wryly, “Thank you, Michael, for that reassuring clarification.”

“No problem.”

Delenn stepped forward, and resting a hand on her son’s shoulder, said, “It depends whether one is in a situation where a movement of peace is viewed as a benefit for all concerned… or merely a sign of weakness.”

Sheridan nodded in confirmation. “There are some who use peace, not as a tool, but as a weapon. Something to distract or forestall opponents while they move forward with their plans for conquest.”

“And how do you know when that’s the case?”

“You have to look at the whole picture,” Sheridan said. “You don’t examine one action, or even a couple of actions. You look at everything they’ve done throughout their history, and get a clear idea of where they’ve been. Based on that, you can determine where they’re most likely to go.”

“In the case of Londo and the Centauri,” Garibaldi said grimly, “where they’re going to go is anyplace they want to. Right now they’re the six—hundred—pound gorilla.”

“The what?” David looked at him blankly.

“The gorilla. It’s an old joke. Where does a six-hundred-pound gorilla sit? Answer is, anywhere he wants. Get it?”

“Kind of.” David hesitated, then asked, “What’s a gorilla?”

Garibaldi opened his mouth to respond, then closed it and sighed. “Never mind.”

Easily turning his attention away from the joke that had left him puzzled, David said, “Londo… the emperor… you think that’s what he wants to do? Go everywhere… anywhere… he wants?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know the man anymore,” Sheridan said. He looked to G’Kar. “What do you think, G’Kar? You haven’t been saying all that much. What’s your opinion on Londo’s intentions?”

“His intentions?” G’Kar shrugged. “I could not tell you for sure. But there is one thing I do know for certain: Londo Mollari is one of the most tragic individuals I’ve ever met.”

“Tragic?” Garibaldi snorted. “Look, G’Kar, I once liked the guy. And then he went power mad, and now he sits there on Centauri Prime playing all sides against each other. And yeah, okay, I’ll be honest… losing Lou Welch to those high—haired bastards didn’t exactly endear me to the whole Centauri experience. I’ve heard them say, in their rhetoric, in their histories, that the emperor is the living incarnation of Centauri Prime. If that’s the case, I have some major issues with the incarnation, because it means he’s the living symbol of a planet that’s gone straight down the tubes. So I don’t exactly see, G’Kar, why I’m supposed to shed a tear for him and think of him as a tragic figure.”

“Shed tears or not, as you see fit,” G’Kar said with a shrug. “I know I shed none. Why should I? He was responsible for mass drivers being used against my people. For the deaths of millions of Narns. Do you know what would have happened if not for Londo Mollari?”

There was a pause. “What?” inquired David.

“Very likely the exact same thing,” G’Kar told him. “It is my belief that Londo became swept up in circumstances that were beyond his control… perhaps even beyond his understanding. And by the time he did understand, it was too late. I believe he had hopes and dreams for his people, but only in the most ephemeral of terms… and others transformed those hopes into a harsh reality that he never contemplated in his wildest dreams.

“That, Mr. Garibaldi, is the tragedy of Londo Mollari: that he never had the opportunity to become that which he might have been had the vagaries of fate not caught him up. Do not misunderstand,” he added hastily. “As I said, I shed no tears for him. In many respects he brought it on himself, and there were times he might have been able to stop it. Then again, perhaps not. We will never know. But whether he is pitiable or not, whether he is someone with whom we empathize or not, is beside the point. He remains a tragic figure nonetheless.”

Sheridan was shaking his head and looking over at Garibaldi. “And here you said he wasn’t talking much. See what happens? Now we can’t shut him up.”

“I won’t burden you with my opinions if it’s a problem, Mr. President,” G’Kar said archly.

Sheridan waved him off.

“So what do we do, John?” Delenn said. “We remain stymied.”

“We stay the course, that’s all,” Sheridan told her reluctantly. “I’m not going to unilaterally order the White Star fleet to attack Centauri Prime. I have to present an example for the Alliance, and what they do not need is an example of a leader who functions without giving a damn about the opinions and desires of his constituency. The Alliance refuses to pull the trigger. I can’t go forward without them, so we remain together and stationary. And we hope that once the Alliance does come to its collective senses, it’s not too late.”

“That certainly seems the only way to go,” Garibaldi agreed reluctantly. G’Kar simply nodded noncommittally.

Sheridan then gave Delenn a significant look, and she understood immediately what he wanted. “David,” she said, “why don’t we go for a walk?”

“Dad wants to be able to talk without having me around, right.” Despite the phrasing, it wasn’t a question so much as an affirmation.

“Nothing gets past you.” Sheridan chuckled, but there was edginess in the laugh.

“Fine.” David shrugged with feigned indifference and allowed Delenn to lead him out.

“He’s a sharp boy, and he’s growing up fast,” said Garibaldi. “We probably could have kept talking in front of him.”

“Let’s let him be just a kid, at least for a while longer.”

“I wouldn’t say he’s ever been ‘just a kid,’ Mr. President,” G’Kar said.

“That’s probably true.” Sheridan seated himself back behind his desk. The back-and-forth with David had taken some of the ire out of his voice, but he was still clearly not happy with the situation. “The thing I find most disturbing about this is the business with the Drazi. One of their own people was murdered, and they simply let it go.”

“The word on ISN was that it was a lone nut acting without the government’s knowledge or consent,” Garibaldi said. “They’re even suggesting that it’s a private group of saboteurs who’re working to bring down the Centauri government by staging acts of violence designed to foster war with the Alliance. The new Drazi ambassador backed it up. Not that I necessarily believed it for a second…”

“You were wise not to,” G’Kar said. “It was, in fact, the organized actions of a mob, performed with the full cooperation of the local authorities and Minister Lione’s pet troops, the Prime Candidates. They tore the poor devil apart. His assistant was hurried away. I saw his picture on the same ISN broadcast that Mr. Garibaldi saw; he’s the new Drazi ambassador. It seems his predecessor’s misfortune was his own good luck.”

Garibaldi looked at him suspiciously. “You’re acting like you saw this as an eyewitness.”

G’Kar said nothing.

Garibaldi looked from G’Kar to Sheridan. “Someone want to tell me what’s going on? I mean, there’s no way G’Kar could have seen it. A Narn on Centauri Prime? Impossible. They’ve banned all off—worlders… and even when off—worlders were welcome, Narns never were.”

“I have ways,” G’Kar said with great mystery.

“Mind telling me what they are?”

“I cannot, in good conscience, do so,” G’Kar informed him.

“And you?” He turned expectantly to Sheridan.

But Sheridan shook his head. “I don’t know, either. G’Kar hasn’t told me.”

“And you find this acceptable?” Garibaldi was openly incredulous.

“I’m learning to deal with it,” Sheridan said.

“He is John’s foot,” Delenn, who had just reentered, said.

“His what?”

“Hand,” Sheridan corrected her. “It’s an old title…”

“Look, I don’t care if he’s your hand, your foot, or your lower intestine,” Garibaldi said. “I don’t like secrets being kept. Not among us. Not after everything we’ve been through together. Because secrecy under such circumstances leads to sloppiness, and the next thing you know, someone decides they’re going to be a hero and they get themselves killed.”

“That,” G’Kar said, sounding not a little regretful, “is an occupational hazard for being a hero.”

“And for being a martyr,” Garibaldi reminded him, “I hope you’re not aiming for that status for yourself.”

“Why, Mr. Garibaldi… I didn’t know you cared.” Hesounded more amused than anything else.

Sheridan turned to Delenn. “David squared away?”

“He’s back with his teachers. He said he still doesn’t understand who decides when peace is the right thing to do.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I looked him right in the eye and said, ‘I decide. And if I’m not around, your father decides.’”

“Really. And what did he say to that?”

“He said, ‘As long as Uncle Mikey doesn’t.’”

“I’ll kill him,” said Garibaldi.

This generated a booming laugh from Sheridan. Delenn loved hearing him laugh, because he did it so infrequently. With all his responsibilities, all the stress upon him, she wished that he could laugh more often. He needed to desperately. And she needed it, too.

Six more years…

Some days it seemed as if it was going to pass in an eyeblink. Other days…

Other days it felt as if it was going to be an eternity.

My concern about my memory grows.

Things that happened many years ago… these are clear to me. I can remember—every word that was spoken, every nuance of every moment from ten, twenty, thirty years past. I can remember exactly what it felt like to run as a child, to fall and skin my knee. The twinge of the pain can be recreated in my mind with utter clarity.

I cannot remember what I had for dinner last night.

I have had to drink rather heavily in order to maintain some of the more sensitive entries in this journal, because I have not wanted my… associate… to be aware of some of the things I write. The problem is that I think it’s starting to take its toll upon me. That and age…

…and the mirror.

I look in the mirror and I see reflections of a man I do not recognize… and yet, unfortunately, do. The image of me in my dreams…

My dreams…

Durla and… dreams. Now there is a subject…

It takes a great deal of effort for me to recall what happened at a ministry meeting yesterday. Durla was there, that I recall. He was in one of his wild—eyed moods, speaking once more about dreams that had come to him, images in those dreams, and he was presenting blueprints and descriptions of new and greater weapons.

The others looked upon his work and marveled at Durla the Visionary. That is what they call him: the Visionary. One of the greatest seers in the history of Centauri Prime. When he was elevated to the office of prime minister, he started claiming that he had been guided by his dreams for years. When he was a mere member of my personal guard, such statements would have garnered laughter. Now… now the others make appreciative noises and exclamations of amazement, and speak of the exciting time in which we live, that such a prophet walks among us.

It is ridiculous. Nonsense.

Except… those things that we produce tend to work. Or at least our scientists are able to make them work. The Centauri Republic is being crafted in Durla’s image. Odd. It gives me a strange feeling of nostalgia. I see his designs for weapons, for ships… and I get the same chill I did when I saw the Shadow ships crossing the skies over Centauri Prime. Black and fearsome things they were, and to look at them was like staring into the very heart of madness. I wonder about these dreams, and their origins, but it is pointless to inquire. Durla would not understand, nor would he care.

No, two things occupy Durla’s thoughts: his endeavors to build up our military might, and his desire to bring down the saboteurs who continue to frustrate and thwart him. They have done so in small ways and have not been able to truly stop the progress. For every munition factory they manage to destroy, there are five others. They can no more stem the tide than a coral reef can impede the ocean. But they are a presence and an irritant nonetheless, and Durla continues to be angered by their activities.

These matters will come to a head sooner rather than later, I fear. I do not like to think about whose head they may come to.

My memory…

I saw a lovely young woman walking the corridors the other day. I spoke to her, smiled at her, feeling for a moment like the Londo of old. Then I realized that she was Senna, the young woman whom I took as my ward some years ago. I had not seen her in quite some time. She remains without husband, and without interest in acquiring one. Instead she occupies herself by acting as an occasional nursemaid for some of the children of Centauri ministers and such. She is quite popular with them, so I understand.

Dinner.

Dinner the other night was with Vir. I recall now. I do not remember what we had… but he was there. Senna was there, too. They spoke quite gregariously with one another, I seem to remember. One would have almost thought I was not there at all.

Sometimes I think I am not.