0-In the Beginning, Page 2

  I can see her take the opportunity to afford herself a glance out the window. She shudders at what she sees, and I cannot blame her. As for me, however, I have long since given up my shudders. I have seen and done too many horrible things to indulge in pointless displays of physical concern.

  But she has many shudders left, apparently, much as women seem to have an endless fount of tears available to them. She looks again, in the same manner that one keeps glancing at a rotting corpse. It is a terrible sight, and you are aware that you should not, but it carries with it a grim fascination. "If they find out you've been looking . . ." she says, her voice trailing off. After all, who knows what hideous punishment is reserved for the awful crime of seeing what one should not have to look at?

  The boy, Luc, is the first to stir, and he looks mildly impatient. Children do not suffer fools gladly, which is why there is a sizable shortage of child politicians. "Then why is the window here, if we're not supposed to look?"

  "This is the Emperor's window, Luc," Senna tells him, her voice a whisper, unaware that her every word is audible to me. "He's the only one who can look out of the palace. That's why we can't stay. We have to go, before-"

  Go. They prepare to go, and suddenly my lack of company weighs more heavily upon me than I can stand. "No," I say abruptly, "it is all right." I lean into the light, away from the throne.

  Senna's recognition, though her back is to me, comes in two stages. She stiffens, my voice hitting her even as she must be trying desperately to deny to herself the reality of what she hears. Slowly she turns, doubtlessly hoping that she will not see what she knows will greet her eyes. She stares at me with a somewhat frozen look. Ironically, it strikes me, I very likely cut an impressive figure. I am garbed in the traditional white. The white of light, the white of virtue. Truly, the irony is rather sickening. I feel the rumbling of the hacking cough in my chest, but I supress it. It is not right for the moment.

  Yes, an attractive woman, this Senna. Not a rich woman; she is merely a nanny, after all. But she clothes herself well. Were I a younger man, I might approach her with some suggestions. Of course, as Emperor, I could likewise approach her, and my merest intimation would immediately be interpreted as imperial decree. She would have to grit her teeth and submit with a smile plastered to her face. I hate myself for even contemplating the notion, and I hate my body for what it has become. But my body is the least of my problems.

  She bows slightly, her body frozen like a hinged stick figure. "Majesty ... I'm ... I'm sorry," she stammers. She gestures vaguely in the direction of the children, except she's not looking at them. Her eyes are riveted on me, though she is not looking into my eyes. She is likely too intimidated for that. She is staring instead at the gleaming golden breastplate that hangs about my neck, my symbol of office. I hope she finds the lustrous purity of it more to her liking than the withered, dying corpse-on-legs that it adorns. "They meant no harm, they're only children-"

  How kind of her to inform me. I thought perhaps they might be sentient vegetables. I laugh to myself with mild amusement. It is not much of a joke, but it is mine, and I shall cherish it for, oh, a second or two.

  "I know," I say softly. I pause, trying to recall the last occasion when peals of mirth rippled through the throne room. I believe it was when my late wife, Timov, came for a visit. She took one look at me, propped up on the throne, the imperial buffoon, fooling everyone-but not her. Never her. She chortled disdainfully, never saying a word, and she turned and walked out. I never learned what it was that she had come to accomplish, what the purpose of her visit had been. Perhaps that was all she intended to do: see me, laugh, and leave. Charming woman. Should have had her executed when I had the chance.

  The recollection passes through my mind in a moment. "It has been a long time since I have heard the sound of laughter in this room," I continue ruefully. "A very long time." The children are cowering behind Senna, although with that odd combination of fear and defiance that only children can master. I indicate them with a slight inclination of my head. "Let me see them."

  Senna's trembling increases. It may be that she believes some sort of punishment is imminent. That I am merely lulling them into a false sense of security. Perhaps she believes I will grab the children up and swallow them whole. Who knows what terrible stories about me are in circulation?

  Actually, come to think of it, I do. Vir Cotto, my onetime assistant and the inevitable heir to the throne, keeps me apprised. I don't know which are more disconcerting: the stories that are utter fabrication, or the stories that are true.

  She begins to back up, ushering the children toward the door. They peer out from around her skirts as she says, "We really should-"

  In as calm, as unthreatening a tone as I can muster, I tell her, "It's all right. Stay." It is comforting to know that I am still capable of assuaging fears when I truly put my mind to it. Her shuddering stops, and she ceases to hasten the children out the door. I address the next words to the children, as I say, "Let me see you."

  Slowly they move toward me. The girl appears sullen; the boy is trying to muster his bravery. He has pride, this one. Like his uncle. May it serve him well and, ideally, not quite as fatally. I know their names, of course. I heard Senna call out to them. But let's see how they handle directly addressing the Emperor of Centauri Prime.

  "And what are your names, hmm?"

  I am not surprised when it is the boy who answers. He draws himself up, squaring his shoulders. "Lucco Deradi," he says very carefully, very formally. Well trained, this one. He includes the girl with a glance as he says, 'This is my sister, Lyssa."

  Deradi. Yes ... yes, that was the married name of Urza's youngest sister. I wait a moment for the little girl to say something, but her reticence continues. She does not seem particularly afraid of me, however, now that her initial trepidation has passed. Still, it would seem she has no intention of opening her mouth.

  "Doesn't talk much, does she?" I ask Lucco.

  He shakes his head and seems a bit sad, as if I've touched on a difficult subject. "No. She's always quiet." He lowers his voice slightly, as if he is imparting confidential information that she couldn't possibly be overhearing. "We think maybe there's something wrong with her."

  I lean closer, sizing her up. She doesn't look away. Yes, definitely not afraid of me. I could use a planetful of females such as her. "Or something very right," I say, and although I am addressing the boy, I am looking at the girl. 'The quiet ones are the ones who change the universe, Luc Deradi. The loud ones only take the credit."

  I'm pleased to see that the familiar use of the informal "Luc" draws a smile of appreciation, if not outward surprise, from him. I'm about to speak again, but then the cough bubbles up in my chest once more and this time it will not be denied. It seizes control of my chest, racking me with a fit so profound that I feel as if I'm about to vomit up a lung. I reach out, bracing myself against the throne. Somehow it's appropriate that I draw strength from it, at least for a moment. Great Maker knows that the damned thing has drained away enough of it over the years.

  Slowly, achingly, it subsides, and I see Luc looking at me with outright skepticism. "Are you really the Emperor?" Luc asks. I cannot blame the lad. The Emperor should be something majestic. Impressive. Not a wretched old man. "I sometimes ask myself the same thing," I say, and then see the puzzled expression on the boy. I must make a mental note of that: Ironical comments are usually wasted on children. I nod and, throwing aside what passes for Mollari frivolity these days, I assure him, "Yes . . . I'm the Emperor. Here, you see . . . ?" I tap the breastplate. "This is the seal of the Centauri Republic. Only the Emperor can wear it. So either I am the Emperor, or I am in a great deal of trouble." My words ring in my ears a moment, and then I add, "Or both."

  The boy cannot take his eyes off it, having had it brought to his attention. And so I remove the breastplate. I waggle a finger at Luc and say, "Come here." Senna's eyes go wide as I drape it around Luc's neck, adjusting it as if
it's a perfect fit, though in truth it is hanging loosely about him. "For the next five minutes, you are the Emperor of what was once the vast Centauri Republic. You may give one order. Any order you desire. Make it a good one. What do you want?"

  Even as I ask the question, the irony of it is not lost upon me. What do you want?

  Years ago, more years ago than I can count, a man came to Babylon 5. People believe that evil automatically looks evil, but true evil is actually pleasant to see. His name was Morden, and he had a most charming air, like a salesman who knew he possessed a product that one simply had to have. And he said to me, "What do you want?"

  I told him.

  Great Maker, I told him and got precisely what I asked for. And the torched world outside is the result.

  I think on my words to Morden, but quickly pull myself away. Instead I focus on the boy. I must prioritize. Time enough to dwell on Morden later. At least, I hope that there will be time enough.

  Luc considers the moment with a gravity that I would have thought impossible for a child his age to acquire. Would that I had given the same question as much thought, decades ago. And then he says in earnestness, 'Tell me a story."

  The request catches me completely by surprise. I am not at all sure what I was expecting in my impulsive little game. A request for riches, or toys, or fame. Some bit of silliness or frivolity which would catch the fancy of a child. But... a story?

  It was as if the child's entire history was laid out for me with that simple request. A day-to-day existence of neglect or lack of attention by his parents. A desire to have his imagination engaged by someone, anyone . . . even an old, washed-out man who happened to be his emperor.

  Senna looks mortified by it all. Clearly feeling it has all gone too far, she gestures for the boy to be quiet. "Luc-" she begins.

  But I wave her off. Imperial privilege, after all, even though the power is nominally in the hands of a child. In a way, I wonder if the power has not been in the hands of a child ever since I assumed the throne. "No, no, it's all right," I assure her. "He did far better with that question than I did." I study the boy thoughtfully a moment. "And what kind of story would you like to hear?"

  To my surprise-to say nothing of my amusement-the girl whispers in his ear. She does so with great urgency and seriousness, and the lad seems most annoyed that she has chosen this moment to make her wishes known. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly, and I'm not entirely certain if he's addressing me or her as he says, "I want a story about great battles, wars and bravery and heroes and villains."

  I go on the assumption that he's talking to me as I nod gravely. "I see. And what does your sister want?"

  With that unique dissembling manner that only a child can produce, he says, "Nothing." This less-than-honest reply garners him a sharp elbow to the ribs. A blessedly silent female his sister may be (a trait that I am quite certain will evaporate once she reaches an age where males would prefer a little quiet), but shy in making her feelings known she most definitely is not. He sighs with exasperation. "She says she wants to hear a true story."

  I understand his annoyance. To him, "true" is to be equated with a history lesson, and there is little that is more boring to a child than history. Flights of fancy are far preferable to that which is grounded in reality.

  The poor, unknowing lad. He has no way of grasping that the truth can be far more horrifying, far more exciting, and far more tragic than anything that the most inventive of fiction writers could possibly produce.

  And then I realize. I, the would-be historian, am having the way pointed out to me by children. Perhaps the Great Maker himself is desirous that I lay out history for generations to come. But now, here, staring into the face of my potential audience, I realize the folly of my earlier intention. I had intended to begin the story at Babylon 5. But if I simply toss the children into the middle of the labyrinth of politics, deceit, alliances, agendas, and schemes which laced that ill-fated space station, they will never be able to understand it. It will be far too complex to untangle. I said the lad would be emperor for five minutes. Five minutes? To explain everything that occurred on Babylon 5, it would take me five years.

  No, no. If I am to produce a history of the events which helped to form a galaxy -by nearly shattering it first -there is only one reasonable place for me to begin. And that is, of course ... in the beginning.

  "Very well, then," I tell them. "I will give you both what you want." This announcement piques the interest of both children, who-from their expressions-clearly believe that such an endeavor is impossible. "A story about great deeds. About armies of light and soldiers of darkness, about the places where they lived and fought and loved and died. About great empires and terrible mistakes." I pause, momentarily displaying that old Londo Mollari flair for the dramatic. "A true story."

  For the moment, at any rate, I have their attention. Even Senna looks intrigued, momentarily putting aside her trepidation as her natural female curiosity gets the better of her. A female as a spellbound audience. Yes, that brings back fond memories as well,

  "You see," I tell them, warming to my subject, "I was there, at the dawn of the Third Age. It began with the Humans, you know. They are the quiet ones I mentioned before. They changed the universe. But in doing so, they paid a terrible price. It began thirty-five of their years ago..."

  ~ chapter 1 ~

  Earth is situated in a fairly uninteresting part of the galaxy. We'd never bothered much with that area before. It had little strategic or military value. Still, as a culture grows decadent, it becomes more intrigued by art, by trinkets . . . by eccentricity. And the Humans had art, and trinkets, and eccentricity to spare. But it was none of those traits that would cause so much death and pain. They have an expression: Pride goeth before a fall. And their pride was their undoing. I know. I was there.

  The center of the Humans' government is in a place called Earthdome, which is in a place called Geneva, Switzerland. Switzerland is an interesting country on Earth, noted for- not necessarily in order of importance-neutrality, chocolate, curious timepieces, and cheese. I am not entirely certain which of these traits prompted them to locate Earthdome there, although if I had to bet on any one, it would most likely be the cheese.

  Earthdome was one of the Humans' more impressive structures. The exterior seemed to shimmer in sunlight and reflected the stars at night. Vast and, they probably fancied, impervious to attack, Earthdome was exactly what it sounded like: a mighty dome that covered a virtual labyrinth of office buildings and governmental bodies. All major policies and issues were siphoned through Earthdome, which may have explained the frequent disarray in which the Humans often found themselves.

  I still remember the first time I saw the place.

  We Centauri were the first spacegoing race that the Humans encountered. It was considered a major opportunity for both sides. For them, it was a means of expanding technology and getting a leg up on their own ambitions. And for us it was . . . amusement. A means of staving off the boredom that had set in upon us as a race. Although we interacted with the Humans with great pomp and posturing, the fact is that they were little more to us than a distraction.

  Oh, they didn't recognize that, of course. They thought themselves valuable allies, and believed that we hung on their every word. It was as if there were a massive joke being shared, and they did not understand that they were the butt of the joke. As it turned out, there was indeed a joke going on-a joke of cosmic proportions. But it was the Centauri who would bear the brunt of the final punch line. But that was all to come many, many years later, and is not really germane to the story at hand.

  I was first sent to Earth as diplomatic liaison to the Centauri legation several years after others of my people had made the initial contacts. We had determined the Humans to be a fairly inconsequential race. As a result, the post I had acquired was likewise inconsequential, for at the time I had very little power or influence in the royal court. I was an individual whose desire, I thought,
far outstripped my knack for playing the sort of political games required for true advancement. In short, I was a disappointment to my family and my house. Considering my eventual fate, you should let that be a lesson to you, although what sort of lesson, I could not begin to say.

  The aggravating thing, of course, was that the Humans had no idea that my assignment there was in truth little more than busywork given me by the Emperor. Whenever my presence was required, they would greet me with much enthusiasm and respect. Had I been a far wiser person than I was back then, I would have derived some comfort and enjoyment from that. Or at least amusement. Instead, every time they looked at me with deference, each time they hung on my every word ... it galled me. Galled me because they treated me with the sort of regard that my peers never afforded me. As I mentioned, there was a sort of "joke" mentality when it came to how the Centauri viewed the Humans. Unfortunately, I was made to feel as if-rather than being on the outside laughing-I was on the inside being laughed at.

  But I could not let that show, of course. So every day, at every meeting, I would swathe myself in elaborate clothing-purple, usually, since the Humans considered that a sign of royalty-and stride into their presence as if my being there were an important matter rather than a source of amusement to those on Centauri Prime.

  I have decided that I will start at the beginning, and so I will. It began one day, thirty-five years ago, at the aforementioned Earthdome. I had only recently returned to Earth, having spent a fairly futile time on Centauri Prime, pleading with the Emperor to be relieved of my assignment. I considered the position-envoy to a race that we did not take very seriously-to be a dead end. By extension, such an envoy is not held in especially high esteem. But the Emperor felt that I was doing a good job, and it is most difficult to turn down an imperial compliment, no matter how galling. So I hid my frustration behind a veneer of civility and returned to the seat of Earth government.