The Centauri people had suffered greatly under their fair share of Emperors. Emperor Turhan had been reasonable, but aloof, and in the final years of his reign, weak. Emperor Marrit had been ineffectual, but protected by strong advisors. The troubles had seen much chaos and suffering.
But never before in living memory had an Emperor had to resort to alien assistance to maintain order among the people.
A crowd gathered soon enough. It had stopped raining, although the sky still seemed ominously dark, filled with thick clouds that appeared to be made of smoke.
The crowd moved towards the palace.
"The solution is clear," Morden said calmly.
"Yes, Mr. Morden," Londo said dryly. Sarcasm was his only weapon against the human. At least, the only weapon he dared to employ. "Perfectly clear. They are motivated by hunger and anger and a desire for reform. There are two options available to us. If, of course, you will permit me to outline how such a humble individual as myself might deal with this.... what is the word? Uprising? Revolution? Anarchy?"
"'Riot' will do just fine, Majesty, and of course I will listen to you."
"We can grant the reforms they seek. We can lower taxes, get more aid sent here, send away all those Inquisitors you are so fond of, and generally ensure that we still have a peasant class alive by this time next year."
"An interesting approach, Majesty. A touch.... radical, perhaps. What is your other idea?"
"Wait for it to start raining again. Then they will all go home."
"Neither really solves the underlying problem, though, Majesty. If we wait for them to go home, who is to say they will not be back tomorrow? And if we give them what they want, everyone will think you are weak, and that it is that easy to change official policy."
"Oh, then what do you suggest?"
"The oldest weapon of all. Fear. We send in the soldiers. Have them disperse the crowd. Kill a few, arrest the rest. Make it abundantly clear that we will not tolerate this sort of chaotic behaviour."
Londo stood up, his hearts beating loudly in his ears. "Great Maker, you are not serious."
"Very serious."
"All they want is food and safety."
"They are an anarchic and chaotic rabble. Their very presence is offensive. You do not protest against the decisions of your leaders. You accept that their decisions are made in your best interests, and you follow their orders as best as you are able."
"No. You will not do this."
"If we let them get away with this, it will set a bad precedent."
"To the Maker with bad precedent! I will not order the massacre of who knows how many of my people!"
"You will, Majesty. Or I will do it for you."
"No! They are my people!"
"Then make them realise that!"
Londo could hear Morden clearly, despite the roaring of his own blood in his ears. He could hear Malachi's last words, and see Timov's smile, and hear the Parliament at Selini accept him as their Governor, and hear Marrago call him Emperor and hear his own words exiling Marrago and his hearts seemed to be beating so fast, so very fast.
"No! I will not do.... I will not do this...."
"You will do this."
"No!" His knees were shaking, as if they could not bear his weight. He stumbled backwards and sat back down on his throne.
"You will." Morden's voice was so calm. How could it be so calm, when Londo himself felt like screaming?
"No!"
Everything seemed to go red. Was Kiro here again? Burning down his palace?
"You will."
"No...."
There was a shimmering behind Morden, and Cartagia was there, smiling. There was nothing else within sight. There was no floor, no walls, no windows, no guards, just himself and Morden and Cartagia and the taste of blood in his mouth and then he realised it was his own blood and he had bitten his tongue.
"No," he whispered again, unsure of whether he had actually said the words, or if he merely thought he had said them.
"A dream," he whispered, clutching his chest. His hearts were beating so fast. He hadn't imagined his own blood could taste so bitter. Surely it should taste of brivare after all these years? "You're dead, Cartagia."
Cartagia's smiled widened. "I've been waiting for you to join me, Mollari. I was right, wasn't I? And with a good few years to spare as well."
His hearts seemed to stop beating, the throne seemed to stop bearing his weight, Cartagia seemed to stop smiling and all of a sudden he couldn't hear anything any more.
Chapter 3
There are beings in the universe billions of years older than any of our races. Once, long ago, they walked among the stars like giants, vast and timeless. They taught the younger races, explored beyond the Rim, created vast empires. But to all things there is an end. Slowly, over a million years, the First Ones went away. Some passed beyond the stars, never to return. Some simply disappeared....
Not all the First Ones have gone away. A few remained, hidden or asleep, waiting for the day when they might be needed.
That day is now.
GOLDINGAY, D. G. (2295) Excerpt from an interview with Satai Lurna, in An
Ancient Curse. Chapter 3 of The Rise and Fall of the United Alliance, the
End of the Second Age and the Beginning of the Third, vol. 4, The
Dreaming Years. Ed: S. Barringer, G. Boshears, A. E. Clements,
D. G. Goldingay & M. G. Kerr.
He thinks he knows what he is hunting. He thinks he knows why his mission is so important. He thinks he is the only one capable of what he is doing.
He looks into the shadows and feels no fear, for he sees only light. Sometimes — not always, not even often, but sometimes — it fills his mind, and he knows what he must do. He knows what is important. At other times he cannot see clearly.
But now he is sure.
He is going out into the hidden places of the galaxy. He is seeking ships both ancient and powerful. He believes these to be either tools or allies of the Shadows, and thus a threat to the fragile peace he has helped to create.
But somewhere, at the back of his mind, beyond the light, beyond the smell and the touch and the smile of his true love, there is a tiny part of him that does not want peace, a part of him that knows he is a warrior and that he was born to fight. His entire adult life has been spent at war, and future decades of bureaucracy and diplomacy and politics would drive him insane.
So he is here, seeking a war to fight, somewhere, anywhere. Seeking an opponent to fight.
He cannot see the future. He is intuitive, but neither psychic nor an oracle, and so he does not know what awaits him at the end of his quest.
If he did, it is doubtful whether he would think himself the luckiest man alive, or the unluckiest.
He continues, content to wait, content to inhale the smell of her on his skin and his hair, content to close his eyes and see the light, and content to wait.
The shadows do not scare him.
It has been a long, long time since anyone called him by his first name. It has been so long he has almost forgotten it himself. He does not regard that as a tragedy. He does not care what people call him.
But sometimes he does feel regret that there is no one close enough for him to want to care. He wants people to talk to. He wants to tell people of the things he is doing, in the calm, casual way he would tell his wife about his day at work.