The farmers were beaten savagely, their feeble attempts to fight back easily disposed of. Some members of the City Guard dragged them away and they joined the ranks of the disappeared.
Word spread quickly. More than one customer had overheard the drunken boasts of the farmers that they would make the Emperor see sense on taxes and levies. Before long, almost everyone in the city outside the palace had heard that the Emperor had personally sent in one of his Inquisitors — and an alien at that! — to have them murdered.
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.
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.
But there is no one. He was never comfortable with people, and his wife and daughter are long gone. There is his boss, but they speak less often than he would like. Besides, his boss is a part of the same business as he is.
It is a pity, Morden thinks, as he watches hundreds of Centauri citizens being driven away by the City Guard. If only there was someone he could talk to and explain why he is doing this.
He paused, and looked back at the empty throne where, less than half an hour ago, Emperor Mollari II had suffered a heart attack. That was someone he supposed he could talk to. The Emperor was a complex man, driven by an unusual mixture of idealism and cynicism, genuine drive and ambition coupled with self-loathing and apathy.
That was someone Morden wished he could talk to, but Londo did not understand. He just could not see. Morden wondered sometimes if that was why he was here — to bring order not to an entire people, but to one man.
He certainly could not have expected, in that first glorious moment when the creature of light rose above him, that his destiny would lead him here — to the Centauri. But God moved in mysterious ways, as he had always heard. And there was no doubt that he — or someone like him — was needed here.
He looked out again at the scene before him, with eyes that were better than any human's ought to be at picking out minor details. He saw a guard repeatedly kicking a downed woman, raining blow after blow on her head.
Too much chaos. Too much disorder. There always was, everywhere, but Centauri Prime seemed worse than most. Morden knew full well the magnitude of the task he had been given here, but he also knew the honour that had been bestowed on him. He was determined not to fail, and nor would he.
He had had a year, and he had been working hard. The Inquisitors had taken away many of the suspected Shadow agents. Morden was ready to admit that some of the disappeared had not been working for the Enemy, but they had certainly been a part of the Centauri's 'Great Game of Houses' and that was chaotic enough to merit destruction. He had removed much of the old, corrupt and chaotic system.
Now, all he had to do was replace it with a better one.
A young child was screaming, pulling at the arm of a man, seemingly unaware that the man's head had been split open.
He had an idea of where to start. The Game of Houses was chaotic, yes, and it needed to be stopped, but it did tend to throw up certain types of people who could be used…. profitably. The enemy had taken advantage of it, and Morden intended to do the same.
He looked back at the throne. The Emperor had been overworking himself of course. When he recovered — if he recovered — he would have to reduce his workload. A dead Emperor and another civil uprising was in no one's interests at the moment. No, Morden would see to it that Londo got all the rest he needed. After everything he had already done, he deserved it.
If he recovered, of course. He was not a young man, and years of drink and food and carousing must have taken its toll, to say nothing of the stresses of recent years.
The rioting was breaking up now. People were running, scattering in all directions. Morden smiled. Londo had been a good man, and a compassionate ruler, but that only took one so far. Order and discipline were necessary. This protest should never have been allowed to happen.
Well, at least Morden had an opportunity to see that it was never repeated. He had a lot of work to do.
* * *
"I will not tolerate it!" the Centauri lordling was saying. "She was mine. Mine! I took her in conquest. I claimed her in battle! By all the laws we have forged, she was mine!"
Moreil listened patiently, looking at the lordling with a fixed, staring gaze. Many broke and trembled before that dark, silent stare, but not Rem Lanas. Moreil was not sure if that was a sign of great courage or great stupidity.
There was a thin mark down the Centauri's face, a slender red line. Moreil had a feeling he knew the weapon that had caused that cut.
"The laws of our order," he was continuing. "All of them support me on this! She was mine!"
Laws? The last refuge of the weak. They see someone taking things that are theirs, and they cry out — 'You can't do that! The law doesn't allow it!' — and the strong would laugh, of course. The weak never realised that the way to stop the strong oppressing them was not to appeal to some mythical 'law' but to become strong themselves.
Rem Lanas would never understand that.
But Moreil thought this Marrago did.
"What happened?" he asked at last. The Centauri looked at him, as if surprised that he was really there. The lordling might as well have been talking to a wall, and he probably thought he was.
"He took her. She was mine! Mine! And he took her! He thinks that because he is a noble he can take whatever he likes! Well, he can't! She was mine! The law says so."
If Moreil had needed further confirmation that Lanas was not the nobleman he pretended to be, that was more than enough. He did not care, though. He knew exactly why Lanas was here. He wanted a place where a new law would protect him, a place where he could be someone important, and all the time he never realised that the way to become important was to be important, or that the way to be protected was to be so strong that there was no need for protection.
Some people would never understand.
The light behind him seemed to fade as the Wykhheran appeared, and Lanas visibly paled. Moreil looked at him again.
May we feed, lord?
Not yet, Warrior. A time will come when you face one more worthy. This one would not taste well.
As you say, lord.
"What happened?" Moreil asked again. "Speak slowly and clearly."
Lanas bowed his head, shaking, and then he began to speak.
* * *
The girl was unconscious, her back a raw and ragged mass of flesh. His arms had tired from holding the whip for so long, but he did not set it down. He cradled it in his hands, feeling the knobs of flesh and blood that splattered the lash.
He grabbed her tail of hair and pulled her head back. Her long, soft, dark, beautiful hair. Her eyes were closed. He didn't like that. He wanted to see the anger in them, the defiance, the way she had cursed him, the way she looked down on him, thinking she was so much better than he was.
They always had. All of them. All the nobles. They'd all looked down on him. He'd seen them ride past in their fine clothes with their beautiful women and their big houses and they'd all looked down on him.
Well, this one wouldn't. Not forever. Eventually she'd beg him for mercy, and then after a bit longer she'd beg him for more. That was what he wanted. A fine noble's daughter begging him for things.
