"The Sharper" - 1/1
Remarks: This story is the result of a random prompt assignment I got while on a listserv group about a million years ago (okay, more like 11 years). The prompt was "Bester and Londo have a violent, non-consensual encounter in a transport tube." The list mom swears that the characters selected were drawn from a hat, which was amusing because it was well-known on the list that I was into Bester.
"The Sharper"
Characters: Bester/Londo
Rating: R (telepathic rape, no sex)
Genre: Babylon 5 (season 2?)
Original material copyright © 1996 A. Manley Haight
A Blast Furnace Production
ahaight@blastfurnace.org
Flames are welcome and are, in fact, encouraged for psychological study.
This story is not in any way intended to infringe on copyrights held by J. Michael Straczynski, Babylonian Productions Inc., or Time Warner Productions. This story may be distributed only with prior permission of the author, and may not be posted to any archive, ftp site, or web page without the written permission of the author. This story is distributed for the individual personal entertainment of persons of legal age for viewing sexually explicit material in areas where such viewing is legal, and is not subject to purchase or sale by anyone.
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sharper - n. 1. one who bests another (syn. "bester" [Slang, Eng.]), 2. a rogue.
"There are inherent problems with the left hand not knowing what the right hand is doing, especially in government conspiracies (and most especially when those conspiracies involve multiple governments). One of the most pernicious of these is the problem of powerful people who are not fully leashed when the can of worms gets opened. This is a problem of timing, and timing usually goes wrong at some point in even the best laid plans. It is at that moment that the most dangerous dogs of war are loosed -- men with power who are driven by justice...or revenge."
- Bartholomew Hubble's Complete and Unabridged History of the Second Shadow War, Volume VI, by Bartholomew Hubble, Esq., pp. 1212, Big Guns Publishing, 2369.
.................................................................
"Senator Beardwood."
"Yes...ah, please have a seat."
"No, thank you."
"I'd say that you must be wondering why I've asked you here, but you probably already know."
"Actually no. But I can speculate."
"You've heard about Musante, I trust."
"Not from you, but yes, I have."
"Obviously she was not adequate to her task. And frankly I find that very disturbing. She was top notch. One of the most Earth-loyal people I've ever had."
"And you want me to pick up the scent she dropped?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"I think you know what you have to do."
"Indeed I do, Senator. And you're right -- I'm an obvious choice if someone like Musante fails. The subtlety tactic isn't going to work."
"You always struck me as a very subtle man, in your own way. Even if you completely lack moral scruples."
"That's just it, Senator. I don't lack moral scruples at all. It's just that people like you are afraid of winding up on the wrong end of my scruples."
"Get out of here."
Laughter.
"For now, Senator. For now."
****
Her unconscious mind heard the door open -- station dragon's breath into her soul. Something came inside, a spectre, a monster, clean and black and edged. Musante rolled over, her sleep disturbed, and the bed groaned beneath the weight of the dragon's master at her side. She awoke with a gasp, a scream at the edge of her awareness, and a black gloved hand clamped down hard over her mouth. She tried to breathe, the presence in bed with her like a suffocating nightmare, close and deadly.
Her eyes focused after an instant of blind panic -- and she recognized the man who shared her bedroom, who leaned close over her, his thigh against her ribs, the smell of leather hot and musky in her nose. Even without the uniform, without the gold and silver badge, she knew who he was. Her panic became a need to shriek, and she whimpered softly.
"You are going to tell me," he whispered, "everything you know."
She waited for the qualification...everything she knew about x, y or z. Everything she knew about Vir, everything she knew about... And the truth registered finally.
Everything you know.
She tried to scream but nothing came out.
****
There was something about the way the station smelled that Bester liked. He had noticed the first time he came here more than two years ago. It was the smell of something waiting to burst forth from a prison, the scent of aggression, of power, the violence of a creature that knows it does not need to prove itself. Something waiting.
He shifted his elbow a little to nudge the PPG that lay beneath his cloak, inside his coat. It had been waiting for him when he came aboard the station. He knew where to go, whom to speak to, and the weapon had been handed over to him without comment -- professionally and efficiently. He suppressed a smile on thinking of Garibaldi's peculiar confidence that such a network did not exist on Babylon 5. The Corps had spent many months setting it in place, to be sure. But telepaths were difficult prey, especially if normals were doing the hunting. And where Bester was the dragon's master, not even the other predators hesitated to obey.
He paused at the edge of a shop in the Zocalo, drawing back into the shadows to watch silently as Captain Sheridan went by, completely oblivious to his presence. He was not here for Sheridan. But the time for that might come, as well.
The real quarry was a little more elusive, in point of fact. Bester had put everything in place. Another gentle inquiry into the Psi Corps network on the station had yielded a P9 who was an expert on the station's electronic security system, including all the securcams. But it was not the cameras that interested him. He had eventually bought the man's talents, and in the process bought himself a carefully arranged accident that was scheduled to occur about twelve minutes from now.
Bester saw his quarry walk by, right on schedule, taking a shortcut through the shopping zone on the way to a negotiation. He pulled the hood a little farther across his face, and followed casually.
****
Mollari grunted as someone bumped him in the process of squeezing out of the elevator. The man apologized in passing and Mollari waved him off. The door closed and the elevator hummed along again, still filled to bursting with passengers. The station seemed so crowded these days. He could hardly go anywhere without being poked or elbowed or backed into.
More people came and went, bustling, preoccupied, and Mollari himself was privately going over what he was going to say in his negotiations with the Uursa. Finally the elevator was empty, and he stood in the middle of the car, facing forward, sighing to himself and bouncing on his toes. The station was crowded. Crowded and sluggish.
The elevator went dark suddenly, jolting to a halt, and after a moment the emergency lights flickered on.
"Ahhhh," Mollari groaned peevishly. "Now what -- "
A blast of heat distortion and light flashed past him on his right side, and he flinched violently. The securcam and the communications panel were both neatly destroyed in two quick bursts, and Mollari spun around wildly.
He wasn't as alone as he had thought.
A gloved hand calmly put a weapon -- a PPG -- back under a black cloak. Mollari suddenly had an impression of a human legend; Death given form, walking the world to approach those whose time has come. The black gloved hand withdrew from the fold of the cloak, and Mollari could only watch, frozen, as the hand pushed back the cloak's hood. A human man stood before him, slightly built, with dark eyes that were as hard as smoked diamonds. There was a deadly resolution in the gaze, and Mollari knew he was looking into the face of Hur'aidon -- god of the Primal Urge, ruler of the Lake of Fire.
The man raised his hand, fingers spread, and the Lake consumed him. He screamed.
****
He was naked, kneeling in the grass, shivering in a slight breeze. He rubbed his shoulders forlornly.
"So this is your world," said a voice. Mollari looked up. The human was standing before him, looking up into the sky. They were on Centauri Prime, on the main lawn of the Centaurum Hall. It was a clear day, the sky deep autumn blue, just a hint of cooler winter on the edge of the wind that ruffled the grass around them. He wanted to cry, feeling his eyes sting at the living beauty of his planet, homesick, a desolate worry behind his eyes. The Republic had a great past, a glory that had faded even within his lifetime. He grasped at it through time, trying not to look at the future that waited at the edges, a creeping desert that would kill the souls of his people and leave their bodies to rot in the sun.
He knew the human's name suddenly -- Bester. Alfred Bester. "You have a great love for your world, for your people," Bester said, looking down at him. There were different clothes on the human now; a black uniform, gold and silver badge that almost blinded him in the open sun.
"Go away and leave me alone," Mollari muttered, looking down at the grass.
"You live with a burning shame that darkens this loving memory. Terrible." Bester's voice was unemotional. "But I will not leave until I have what I need."
"You're a telepath," Mollari rasped. "One of those they call psi cops. I have heard of this." He shivered again. "What do you want of me?"
From nowhere, from behind his back, Bester drew a long knife, blade shining. It made a smooth, metal whisper as he unsheathed it, and the psi cop came toward Londo.
"Everything. The easiest thing to do is to make a...hmmm...rent, for lack of a better word. A place for the information to come out, presumably more or less in order of secrecy and importance to you, since I intend to violate the part of you that is deliberately hiding from me right now. This may look messy and crude because of the way your mind is rendering it, but I assure you I know what I'm doing." Mollari stared up at him, horrified.
"You...what are you -- "
"I'm going to make you bleed, Londo Mollari. I'm going to rape your mind for what I need to understand." Bester knelt in front of him, eyes cold. Mollari flinched. "Don't move. You'll only make it worse if you move."
Bester held the knife up horizontally, blade flat, being very careful about the place he put the tip of it on Londo's flesh. Londo held his breath, fear quivering in his chest, his hearts pounding so hard he thought he would pass out. He tried to move, but couldn't -- wanted desperately to back away, to get up and flee, to attack the man who was tormenting him. But his muscles wouldn't obey, the psi cop's eyes like talons.
"Great Maker, please," he whispered. Bester chose a spot that seemed totally arbitrary to Londo; about two centimeters to the left of the middle of his chest. He settled the sharp tip, a tiny drop of blood welling at the contact point. Londo couldn't imagine what Bester hoped to gain at that particular spot. It wasn't a very vulnerable place on a Centauri. Bester smiled faintly, briefly flexing his grip on the knife handle to make certain he held it steady.
"Stop thinking of this in such material terms."
A savage, forceful and precise thrust, and the knife plunged deep. Mollari shrieked; it was like having his soul torn in half, ripping, terrible pain along the blade, the point of the weapon driving deep into his private self to cleave delicate, sensitive memories and gently held dreams.
Bester held the blade inside him for a few moments, pressed up against Mollari's body, his arm across the Centauri's chest. There was something intensely satisfying about this act, skillfully, deftly applying his talent in such a violent and controlled way. He lived with such force in his awareness, conscious of the broad and astonishing power that he was never allowed to use completely. A trained P12 was an utter terror, and only other P12's really knew it. But in this moment, and other moments like it, Bester could let that power go for just a breath, and ravage a soul, plunder it for whatever he wished, take that which was inviolate, destroy that which was sacred, defile that which was perfect.
Just as smoothly as he had entered, Bester pulled out, making no other disturbance in the surrounding tissue. Just that anguished, terrible breach that began to bleed in a river as the metal blade was removed. Londo felt tears on his face, weeping for the loss of the aloneness in his own mind that he had never realized he valued until now.
The knife vanished, and Bester pressed his gloved hand to Londo's chest, against the bright red blood that covered the pale skin. He drew his hand back carefully, studying the blood in his palm for a long moment intently, as if searching for something specific.
And then, a slight tensing of the muscles in Bester's face, eyes darkening, and the psi cop got to his feet suddenly.
"I want to know," he said, "what these are."
He gestured broadly, waving his hand back and up toward the vast sky, and Londo looked up to follow the motion. Big black ships filled the heavens suddenly, spiderlike, chilling him to his bones. Shadow ships, covered in blood. His blood. The blood in Bester's hand. The blood of millions. Londo closed his eyes.
"The evidence of my corruption," Londo said. He didn't realize until he said it what a primary truth it was. "The tool of my ambition. The unleashed lust for power made manifest to walk among the stars."
"Shadow ships," Bester muttered, looking up at them with the kind of distant appraisal one gives to a video recording. "Shadows." And then Bester was looking at him again, at the blood on his chest.
The hedge garden on Babylon 5:
"But you killed ten thousand Narns!"
"I didn't know you cared."
"Why don't you destroy the entire Narn homeworld while you're at it?"
"One thing at a time, Ambassador. One thing at a time."
The Centauri heavy destroyer Valerius:
The mass drivers are at work, a 3 million-ton ball of asteroid rock accelerated to a certain percentage of the speed of light. It goes hurtling toward the planet in a blinding marble of hellfire. It almost looks harmless, except that this marble is the size of a mountain, and the waves it makes when it hits break the planet's crust. The mantle groans and volcanoes rise up, flooding the impact sites with searing magma. Millions die in seconds.
"And here I was afraid I might have a legacy to live on after me," said a wry voice behind Londo, and he turned around with a gasp. Bester met his eyes coolly. The psi cop glanced out the window briefly, watching the mass driver bore fling another mountain at the Narn homeworld. "With competition like you, I'll be lucky if the history books even mention my name." Londo felt nauseous.
"Go away, damn you," Londo muttered.
"But you have so much to show me. I can feel it pressing to get out. You need a confessor. Well. Here I am."
"I am not proud of this," Londo whispered.
"Nor should you be, since you didn't really have anything to do with it. You merely condoned its occurrence, and took credit for it. They would have found someone else had you not been cooperative." Bester smirked. "I know all about good intentions paving the road to hell. Except in my case I was aware of where I was going from the first step. Frankly I think it would have been more honorable if you had taken credit for something you actually did. At least that would have been honest. I may not be the most noble man in the galaxy, Londo, but like you I am interested in the survival and prosperity of my people, and I have taken some very drastic steps in that pursuit."
"Then I suppose we should join our arms together as brothers damned," Londo said.
"Only if I decide I am going to sit idly by and watch," Bester said with a warning gleam in his eyes.
Centauri Prime, on the lawn of the Centaurum Hall:
"Julie Musante is a traitor through and through," Bester mused, pacing on the grass slowly. Londo sat and watched, shivering, humiliated. He was utterly powerless to make the human leave his mind, even though it was _his_ mind. He was exposed, completely open to be read like a book or a video log. There was a puddle of red between his knees, being absorbed into the earth beneath. His tir'ai'su were tightly retracted into his body, flaps trembling. Bester lifted his head to the sky, which was clear again. "I know why she did it, but knowledge of the Shadows did not participate in that decision."
"She's in love with Vir," Londo muttered. "The poor girl. She wanted to stay on the station with him so she left your government." Bester laughed quietly.
"That girl," he said, "was once one of Earthgov's most ruthless and determined counteragents." Londo stared at him. "She betrayed Earth for Vir. I think you can grasp the absurdity of that. What you don't grasp is the real absurdity about Musante -- her blind prejudice, and the fact that it was the woman's damnable horniness that allowed that facade to be destroyed. I always knew that would be a weakness and not a strength."
"I'm still bleeding," Londo whispered.
"Yes," Bester said. "And not in the right place anymore, either, I'm afraid." His mouth flattened into a line. "I chose a good starting place to wound you, I see. But there is another aspect more closely related to what concerns me."
"Gods, please, no," Londo breathed softly, knowing that protestations would make no difference to this man, and that mercy was not involved in any of this.
Bester came toward him with the gleaming blade again. The psi cop paused, standing easily, arrogantly, and used the flat tip to lift Londo's chin up to look at him. Bester set his jaw and pushed firmly, cleanly sinking the steel into Londo's neck, soaking it in the blood of the damned.
Londo's mind would not accept this cruelty in any kind of conscious way -- the Lake of Fire waited for him. He was falling at a terrible speed in which everything seemed to stand still, his entire life, past and future, held together in a fist that made his present a suffocating prison. He didn't scream. He discovered he didn't want to. It was grief that overwhelmed him, mourning for things annihilated. The Lake took him, his tears splashing the fire to steam.
The Babylon station, almost two years in the past:
Lord Kiro paused in the open doorway, looking back to Londo with desolation and defeat in his eyes.
"Where did it go wrong, Mollari? Where did we lose it all?"
"I don't know," Londo said, trying to force a lightness he didn't feel. The question was so horribly important -- and so pointless. "I don't know."
The corridor:
"Ambassador, I was authorized to speak to you -- "
"Yes, yes," Mollari said irritably. "Look, what do you want?"
"That's what I was going to ask you!" Morden said, delighted.
"You," Mollari said pointedly, "are a lunatic. Go away." He stepped into the elevator when the doors opened. Morden followed him eagerly. "Bay 12." Mollari looked at his new companion, who stood very close to him. "You are a very persistent young man."
"I have to be. I'm not allowed to leave here until you've answered my question." His voice became more intent, emphasizing the words gently, seriously. "What do you want?"
"This is a silly conversation."
"Yes it is," Morden agreed, deadpan. "What do you want?"
"To be left alone." The elevator doors opened, and Mollari exited quickly. Morden stopped in the doorway, watching Mollari go down the hall.
"Is that it?" Morden demanded, his voice strangely vehement. Not angry...just forceful. "Is that really all, Ambassador?"
Mollari stopped in the hall. He really should be going. He was late to meet Lord Kiro. But the question pulled at him, bringing to the surface every bitterness and rage he had felt over the past decades. Was it all, indeed? He turned around to face the human.
"All right," he said, exasperated. "Fine. You really want to know what I want? You really want to know the truth? I want my people to reclaim their rightful place in the galaxy. I want to see the Centauri stretch forth their hand again, and command the stars. I want a rebirth of glory, a renaissance of power. I want to stop running through my life like a man late for an appointment -- afraid to look back, or to look forward. I want us to be what we used to be! I want...I want it all back, the way that it was. Does that answer your question?"
He left before the human could answer him.
Lady Ladira, the seeress of Lord Kiro's house, knows more than he realizes.
"The Shadows have come for Lord Kiro," she said, grasping Londo's coat. "The Shadows have come for us all!"
The Centaurum Hall lawn:
"Just kill me, damn you, and go away."
"I'm not trying to kill you," Bester said plainly. "There are plenty of people lower down on the food chain who would make a perfectly adequate assassin for the Centauri Ambassador. Killing is the common brute's solution. Ours...mine...is not so wasteful nor so wanton."
Londo spat on the ground at Bester's feet.
"You think I can't feel it?" he demanded scornfully. "You think I can't feel how much you enjoy this, human? You're as wanton as a whore, trading in brutality instead of sex. Or is it sex to you, too?"
Bester only smiled coldly, not responding with the outburst or denial that Londo had expected. He shivered at the expression on the psi cop's face. It was the look of Hur'aidon again -- this time the Primal Urge.
Londo's quarters:
Kiro is dead. The Eye is gone. He feels the loss in his heart, a terrible weight. The door again. It's that annoying man, Mr. Morden. He tries to shoo the man away, and Morden is about to oblige.
"Oh, before I go..." He holds out the rectangular, cloth-draped box he is holding. "A gift, from friends you don't know you have."
Mollari takes the thing and puts it on the table. Opens it.
"The Eye! How?" He turns, but Morden is already gone. Londo rushes to the doorway, looking out in the hall, but the corridor is empty. "Where did you go, eh? Let me buy you a drink! Let me buy you an entire fleet of drinks! How can I ever find you to thank you?"
And Morden's voice comes back to him from down the hall.
"We will find you, Ambassador. We will find you."
Bester looked up to watch another Shadow cruiser in the sky. It flew low over the lawn, blotting out the Centauri sun and most of the blue heavens. The ship cast another sort of shadow on the ground, and Bester watched, even though he could have made it vanish.
It was not fear that Bester felt. Not exactly. It was more a sense of clarity. Everything had leapt into place, Londo's memories eerily parallel to some of his own.
They had found a strange looking alien ship buried under the surface of Mars. They had studied it, and gone inside and explored the thing, but what the hell it was and where it had come from was a total mystery. Then one day another ship just like it had shown up and activated the buried ship. They had both left together and that was the end of it. A dead end.
And then that transmission from a starfury pilot in hyperspace -- the one that had been plastered all over ISN before they had been able to get it pulled. What the fucking hell was going on? And Morden..?
Morden was a contact point. Bester had seen him before, though had never directly met him. Now that Bester thought about it, it seemed curious that Morden had always seemed to manage to avoid such meetings -- seemingly through coincidence but now Bester wasn't so sure. Was the man wary of a strong telepath precisely because of what he was?
And that was...what, exactly? A contact point. A voice into the ears of some in Earthgov. He was the eyes and ears of this alien race, a whispering spokesman whose own betrayals went far deeper than mere treason. Londo had shown Bester what Morden and his associates had done -- were doing -- to the Centauri Republic. And Earth could only be next.
The Shadow cruiser drifted over the distant mountaintops, leaving the sky clear again, white clouds lazily sliding in the other direction on the high jetstream winds.
"Thank you," Bester said to Londo seriously. Londo would never have been able to explain to anyone what the tone of voice was like...he could feel anticipation, a sense of readiness, poised strength, conviction -- even love -- in the psi cop's thoughts.
"You love your people, too, don't you?" Londo said quietly. Bester drew a deep breath. This was what he had been born to do. Not the tiny spying and weaseling and minutiae that Earthgov used him for. Bester had been born with a much greater power, a power he was never allowed to use. Now was his moment. A larger war. A life that would test his soul and his blood. A chance to fight for something meaningful.
"As much as you love yours," Bester murmured. "And I will not hesitate where you have faltered. My own redemption may be at hand, but it is not my desire." He looked down at his gloved hand, dark and wet with Londo's blood. In a moment the stain vanished, soaked into the ground at his feet invisibly. Bester walked over to Londo slowly. He took off his glove and laid his hand against Londo's throat.
Londo gasped, his blood aflame again, this time with healing, gentleness. The human's touch trailed down to his chest, brushing fingers and the wound there closed, blood disappearing as if it had never been. "Time for me to leave," Bester said.
****
There was a terrible grinding noise. It had a mechanical sound to it, and in another breath, Londo was back in the elevator, clothed in his fine Ambassadorial coat and neckerchief and shirt, his pressed pants and boots. Bester stood before him, cloaked, the Psi Corps badge that Londo remembered so vividly -- absent. Londo reflexively touched his throat, seeking the gashing wound that the human had symbolically inflicted. He felt nothing but unbroken skin, dry and warm. The human lowered his gloved hand and held Londo's eyes.
They looked at each other for a long moment.
Then the elevator lurched again and began to move slowly.
"They're going to pry us out of here soon," Bester said in a low voice. He leaned back against the wall and folded his arms, managing to look supremely bored. It was a polished act, Londo knew. "How do you want to play this to security?"
Londo closed his mouth after realizing it was open. How long had they been in here? But the question Bester had asked him... The station was independent from the Earth Alliance now. There was only Sheridan's rule, and not the rule of Earth Alliance law. Londo could press charges if he wanted to, claim the rape Bester had just performed on him, claim a violation of his privacy...
But he remembered the scent of Bester's mind upon watching the mass drivers, the taste of being on a precipice. Becoming aware of the pit into which he was about to fall. And Bester was poised to become an avatar for his people, as Londo had failed to be for his own. Yes, Londo could press charges. But to what end? What would it accomplish? What would it gain? Nothing, for no one. It would not undo what had been done, would grant no peace, would involve no real justice of any sort. And then Bester would not have the chance he needed.
And Londo remembered a moment of kindness, the human's hand on his throat, easing the wound he had so cruelly inflicted, undoing the pain...and there had been an apology hovering at the edges of it. This human was not so unlike him, and that was chilling for so many reasons.
"We had...a little chat," Londo said finally, reclaiming a gentle dignity and standing straight. "Nothing more. Nothing to concern them." He turned to look at the destroyed comm panel and camera. "That will be hard to explain." Bester shook his head.
"Don't worry about that."
The elevator stopped suddenly and the doors were manually pried open by two burly security guards. Two more guards beyond the opening pointed rifles into the car, and Bester sighed. Londo immediately flapped his arms frustratedly.
"What took you so long, eh?" he demanded peevishly. "I am already late for my meeting!"
"Sorry, Ambassador," came Garibaldi's voice from beyond the shoulders of the armed guards. He touched them and they lowered their weapons. "But we had to assume the worst when we detected the car stopped and then we -- " He caught sight of who was leaning against the far elevator wall, cloaked and indifferent. "You," Garibaldi said in an accusing voice, low and lethal.
"What the hell's going on?" It was Sheridan's voice, getting closer with each word.
"Captain, it's -- " Garibaldi began.
"That man," Londo said to Sheridan, pointing to Bester, "is a maniac. I don't know how you humans managed to ever invent the wheel, much less colonize space. If you will excuse me, I'm late for a meeting -- " Sheridan's hand stopped him, but the Captain had eyes for Bester.
"How did you get on the station?" he demanded. "And what did you do to Ambassador Mollari?"
"Oh, we had a silly little chat," Londo said, waving his hand.
"A little chat," Sheridan repeated, looking at Bester, who said nothing. He looked at the comm panel and the securcam, which were a blackened ruin. "Search him," Sheridan ordered, jerking his chin.
Garibaldi obeyed all too eagerly, grabbing Bester roughly and turning him around to frisk him under the cloak. The Security Chief was a little more invasive than he really needed to be, a little more aggressive than necessary with his hands, and Bester glared at him. He finally produced the PPG Bester was carrying, and handed it over to Sheridan.
"If you test it you'll find it's been fired in the last hour," Bester said calmly, turning around to lean his back against the wall again. Sheridan stared at him.
"You're admitting you did this?" he said, indicating the damaged elevator. Bester snorted.
"If I could think of a lie you would believe, I'd use it," he said flatly. Garibaldi grunted.
"Ambassador," Sheridan said, turning back to Londo, "I assure you we will resolve this matter to your satisfaction. We can hold him and press charges at your discretion." God only knew what Bester had done to Londo while they were trapped in there, especially with that look in the psi cop's eyes. Sheridan fought down a shiver.
"What matter?" Londo replied. "We had a silly little chat. Nothing more. I don't have any charges to press, Captain. Now if you will please excuse me, I am late for my meeting." Londo squeezed past him and hurried on down the corridor, looking quite indeed like a man late for something.
Sheridan and Garibaldi turned back to Bester.
"Well?" Sheridan demanded.
"Well what?" Bester replied. "Ambassador Mollari is difficult to get a hold of and I wanted his undivided attention."
"And?"
"And we talked," Bester said, mildly annoyed. "I don't think it's any of your business."
"I still want to know how you got on the station," Garibaldi said. "And how you got a PPG."
"I don't think that's really material," Bester said.
"Did you scan Londo?" Sheridan asked him point-blank. Bester looked at him balefully.
"Why would I do that? The Centauri Republic is the last government I want to annoy right now."
"I think you'd do anything if you thought you had a good reason."
"You're right," Bester said. He stepped away from the wall and Sheridan tensed. The security guards raised their weapons cautiously. "Captain Sheridan, the Earth government is corrupt. You know it, and I know it. It doesn't end with Earth, either. How would you like to have a psi cop working for you?"
****
"Senator Beardwood, I'll be brief. I'm not coming back to Earth. In fact, as of this moment I am no longer in the employ of Psi Corps, Earthgov, or the Earth Alliance in any official or unofficial capacity. I am rescinding my own citizenship on the Earth and am now an expatriate. I recommend that you look closely to your own affairs, Senator. Something wicked this way comes."
Keith Beardwood leaned back in his chair, his office silent except for the distant tick tick tick of an antique wall clock across the room.
"What the hell?" he muttered.
The End
"The Sharper"
Characters: Bester/Londo
Rating: R (telepathic rape, no sex)
Genre: Babylon 5 (season 2?)
Original material copyright © 1996 A. Manley Haight
A Blast Furnace Production
ahaight@blastfurnace.org
Flames are welcome and are, in fact, encouraged for psychological study.
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sharper - n. 1. one who bests another (syn. "bester" [Slang, Eng.]), 2. a rogue.
"There are inherent problems with the left hand not knowing what the right hand is doing, especially in government conspiracies (and most especially when those conspiracies involve multiple governments). One of the most pernicious of these is the problem of powerful people who are not fully leashed when the can of worms gets opened. This is a problem of timing, and timing usually goes wrong at some point in even the best laid plans. It is at that moment that the most dangerous dogs of war are loosed -- men with power who are driven by justice...or revenge."
- Bartholomew Hubble's Complete and Unabridged History of the Second Shadow War, Volume VI, by Bartholomew Hubble, Esq., pp. 1212, Big Guns Publishing, 2369.
.................................................................
"Senator Beardwood."
"Yes...ah, please have a seat."
"No, thank you."
"I'd say that you must be wondering why I've asked you here, but you probably already know."
"Actually no. But I can speculate."
"You've heard about Musante, I trust."
"Not from you, but yes, I have."
"Obviously she was not adequate to her task. And frankly I find that very disturbing. She was top notch. One of the most Earth-loyal people I've ever had."
"And you want me to pick up the scent she dropped?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"I think you know what you have to do."
"Indeed I do, Senator. And you're right -- I'm an obvious choice if someone like Musante fails. The subtlety tactic isn't going to work."
"You always struck me as a very subtle man, in your own way. Even if you completely lack moral scruples."
"That's just it, Senator. I don't lack moral scruples at all. It's just that people like you are afraid of winding up on the wrong end of my scruples."
"Get out of here."
Laughter.
"For now, Senator. For now."
****
Her unconscious mind heard the door open -- station dragon's breath into her soul. Something came inside, a spectre, a monster, clean and black and edged. Musante rolled over, her sleep disturbed, and the bed groaned beneath the weight of the dragon's master at her side. She awoke with a gasp, a scream at the edge of her awareness, and a black gloved hand clamped down hard over her mouth. She tried to breathe, the presence in bed with her like a suffocating nightmare, close and deadly.
Her eyes focused after an instant of blind panic -- and she recognized the man who shared her bedroom, who leaned close over her, his thigh against her ribs, the smell of leather hot and musky in her nose. Even without the uniform, without the gold and silver badge, she knew who he was. Her panic became a need to shriek, and she whimpered softly.
"You are going to tell me," he whispered, "everything you know."
She waited for the qualification...everything she knew about x, y or z. Everything she knew about Vir, everything she knew about... And the truth registered finally.
Everything you know.
She tried to scream but nothing came out.
****
There was something about the way the station smelled that Bester liked. He had noticed the first time he came here more than two years ago. It was the smell of something waiting to burst forth from a prison, the scent of aggression, of power, the violence of a creature that knows it does not need to prove itself. Something waiting.
He shifted his elbow a little to nudge the PPG that lay beneath his cloak, inside his coat. It had been waiting for him when he came aboard the station. He knew where to go, whom to speak to, and the weapon had been handed over to him without comment -- professionally and efficiently. He suppressed a smile on thinking of Garibaldi's peculiar confidence that such a network did not exist on Babylon 5. The Corps had spent many months setting it in place, to be sure. But telepaths were difficult prey, especially if normals were doing the hunting. And where Bester was the dragon's master, not even the other predators hesitated to obey.
He paused at the edge of a shop in the Zocalo, drawing back into the shadows to watch silently as Captain Sheridan went by, completely oblivious to his presence. He was not here for Sheridan. But the time for that might come, as well.
The real quarry was a little more elusive, in point of fact. Bester had put everything in place. Another gentle inquiry into the Psi Corps network on the station had yielded a P9 who was an expert on the station's electronic security system, including all the securcams. But it was not the cameras that interested him. He had eventually bought the man's talents, and in the process bought himself a carefully arranged accident that was scheduled to occur about twelve minutes from now.
Bester saw his quarry walk by, right on schedule, taking a shortcut through the shopping zone on the way to a negotiation. He pulled the hood a little farther across his face, and followed casually.
****
Mollari grunted as someone bumped him in the process of squeezing out of the elevator. The man apologized in passing and Mollari waved him off. The door closed and the elevator hummed along again, still filled to bursting with passengers. The station seemed so crowded these days. He could hardly go anywhere without being poked or elbowed or backed into.
More people came and went, bustling, preoccupied, and Mollari himself was privately going over what he was going to say in his negotiations with the Uursa. Finally the elevator was empty, and he stood in the middle of the car, facing forward, sighing to himself and bouncing on his toes. The station was crowded. Crowded and sluggish.
The elevator went dark suddenly, jolting to a halt, and after a moment the emergency lights flickered on.
"Ahhhh," Mollari groaned peevishly. "Now what -- "
A blast of heat distortion and light flashed past him on his right side, and he flinched violently. The securcam and the communications panel were both neatly destroyed in two quick bursts, and Mollari spun around wildly.
He wasn't as alone as he had thought.
A gloved hand calmly put a weapon -- a PPG -- back under a black cloak. Mollari suddenly had an impression of a human legend; Death given form, walking the world to approach those whose time has come. The black gloved hand withdrew from the fold of the cloak, and Mollari could only watch, frozen, as the hand pushed back the cloak's hood. A human man stood before him, slightly built, with dark eyes that were as hard as smoked diamonds. There was a deadly resolution in the gaze, and Mollari knew he was looking into the face of Hur'aidon -- god of the Primal Urge, ruler of the Lake of Fire.
The man raised his hand, fingers spread, and the Lake consumed him. He screamed.
****
He was naked, kneeling in the grass, shivering in a slight breeze. He rubbed his shoulders forlornly.
"So this is your world," said a voice. Mollari looked up. The human was standing before him, looking up into the sky. They were on Centauri Prime, on the main lawn of the Centaurum Hall. It was a clear day, the sky deep autumn blue, just a hint of cooler winter on the edge of the wind that ruffled the grass around them. He wanted to cry, feeling his eyes sting at the living beauty of his planet, homesick, a desolate worry behind his eyes. The Republic had a great past, a glory that had faded even within his lifetime. He grasped at it through time, trying not to look at the future that waited at the edges, a creeping desert that would kill the souls of his people and leave their bodies to rot in the sun.
He knew the human's name suddenly -- Bester. Alfred Bester. "You have a great love for your world, for your people," Bester said, looking down at him. There were different clothes on the human now; a black uniform, gold and silver badge that almost blinded him in the open sun.
"Go away and leave me alone," Mollari muttered, looking down at the grass.
"You live with a burning shame that darkens this loving memory. Terrible." Bester's voice was unemotional. "But I will not leave until I have what I need."
"You're a telepath," Mollari rasped. "One of those they call psi cops. I have heard of this." He shivered again. "What do you want of me?"
From nowhere, from behind his back, Bester drew a long knife, blade shining. It made a smooth, metal whisper as he unsheathed it, and the psi cop came toward Londo.
"Everything. The easiest thing to do is to make a...hmmm...rent, for lack of a better word. A place for the information to come out, presumably more or less in order of secrecy and importance to you, since I intend to violate the part of you that is deliberately hiding from me right now. This may look messy and crude because of the way your mind is rendering it, but I assure you I know what I'm doing." Mollari stared up at him, horrified.
"You...what are you -- "
"I'm going to make you bleed, Londo Mollari. I'm going to rape your mind for what I need to understand." Bester knelt in front of him, eyes cold. Mollari flinched. "Don't move. You'll only make it worse if you move."
Bester held the knife up horizontally, blade flat, being very careful about the place he put the tip of it on Londo's flesh. Londo held his breath, fear quivering in his chest, his hearts pounding so hard he thought he would pass out. He tried to move, but couldn't -- wanted desperately to back away, to get up and flee, to attack the man who was tormenting him. But his muscles wouldn't obey, the psi cop's eyes like talons.
"Great Maker, please," he whispered. Bester chose a spot that seemed totally arbitrary to Londo; about two centimeters to the left of the middle of his chest. He settled the sharp tip, a tiny drop of blood welling at the contact point. Londo couldn't imagine what Bester hoped to gain at that particular spot. It wasn't a very vulnerable place on a Centauri. Bester smiled faintly, briefly flexing his grip on the knife handle to make certain he held it steady.
"Stop thinking of this in such material terms."
A savage, forceful and precise thrust, and the knife plunged deep. Mollari shrieked; it was like having his soul torn in half, ripping, terrible pain along the blade, the point of the weapon driving deep into his private self to cleave delicate, sensitive memories and gently held dreams.
Bester held the blade inside him for a few moments, pressed up against Mollari's body, his arm across the Centauri's chest. There was something intensely satisfying about this act, skillfully, deftly applying his talent in such a violent and controlled way. He lived with such force in his awareness, conscious of the broad and astonishing power that he was never allowed to use completely. A trained P12 was an utter terror, and only other P12's really knew it. But in this moment, and other moments like it, Bester could let that power go for just a breath, and ravage a soul, plunder it for whatever he wished, take that which was inviolate, destroy that which was sacred, defile that which was perfect.
Just as smoothly as he had entered, Bester pulled out, making no other disturbance in the surrounding tissue. Just that anguished, terrible breach that began to bleed in a river as the metal blade was removed. Londo felt tears on his face, weeping for the loss of the aloneness in his own mind that he had never realized he valued until now.
The knife vanished, and Bester pressed his gloved hand to Londo's chest, against the bright red blood that covered the pale skin. He drew his hand back carefully, studying the blood in his palm for a long moment intently, as if searching for something specific.
And then, a slight tensing of the muscles in Bester's face, eyes darkening, and the psi cop got to his feet suddenly.
"I want to know," he said, "what these are."
He gestured broadly, waving his hand back and up toward the vast sky, and Londo looked up to follow the motion. Big black ships filled the heavens suddenly, spiderlike, chilling him to his bones. Shadow ships, covered in blood. His blood. The blood in Bester's hand. The blood of millions. Londo closed his eyes.
"The evidence of my corruption," Londo said. He didn't realize until he said it what a primary truth it was. "The tool of my ambition. The unleashed lust for power made manifest to walk among the stars."
"Shadow ships," Bester muttered, looking up at them with the kind of distant appraisal one gives to a video recording. "Shadows." And then Bester was looking at him again, at the blood on his chest.
The hedge garden on Babylon 5:
"But you killed ten thousand Narns!"
"I didn't know you cared."
"Why don't you destroy the entire Narn homeworld while you're at it?"
"One thing at a time, Ambassador. One thing at a time."
The Centauri heavy destroyer Valerius:
The mass drivers are at work, a 3 million-ton ball of asteroid rock accelerated to a certain percentage of the speed of light. It goes hurtling toward the planet in a blinding marble of hellfire. It almost looks harmless, except that this marble is the size of a mountain, and the waves it makes when it hits break the planet's crust. The mantle groans and volcanoes rise up, flooding the impact sites with searing magma. Millions die in seconds.
"And here I was afraid I might have a legacy to live on after me," said a wry voice behind Londo, and he turned around with a gasp. Bester met his eyes coolly. The psi cop glanced out the window briefly, watching the mass driver bore fling another mountain at the Narn homeworld. "With competition like you, I'll be lucky if the history books even mention my name." Londo felt nauseous.
"Go away, damn you," Londo muttered.
"But you have so much to show me. I can feel it pressing to get out. You need a confessor. Well. Here I am."
"I am not proud of this," Londo whispered.
"Nor should you be, since you didn't really have anything to do with it. You merely condoned its occurrence, and took credit for it. They would have found someone else had you not been cooperative." Bester smirked. "I know all about good intentions paving the road to hell. Except in my case I was aware of where I was going from the first step. Frankly I think it would have been more honorable if you had taken credit for something you actually did. At least that would have been honest. I may not be the most noble man in the galaxy, Londo, but like you I am interested in the survival and prosperity of my people, and I have taken some very drastic steps in that pursuit."
"Then I suppose we should join our arms together as brothers damned," Londo said.
"Only if I decide I am going to sit idly by and watch," Bester said with a warning gleam in his eyes.
Centauri Prime, on the lawn of the Centaurum Hall:
"Julie Musante is a traitor through and through," Bester mused, pacing on the grass slowly. Londo sat and watched, shivering, humiliated. He was utterly powerless to make the human leave his mind, even though it was _his_ mind. He was exposed, completely open to be read like a book or a video log. There was a puddle of red between his knees, being absorbed into the earth beneath. His tir'ai'su were tightly retracted into his body, flaps trembling. Bester lifted his head to the sky, which was clear again. "I know why she did it, but knowledge of the Shadows did not participate in that decision."
"She's in love with Vir," Londo muttered. "The poor girl. She wanted to stay on the station with him so she left your government." Bester laughed quietly.
"That girl," he said, "was once one of Earthgov's most ruthless and determined counteragents." Londo stared at him. "She betrayed Earth for Vir. I think you can grasp the absurdity of that. What you don't grasp is the real absurdity about Musante -- her blind prejudice, and the fact that it was the woman's damnable horniness that allowed that facade to be destroyed. I always knew that would be a weakness and not a strength."
"I'm still bleeding," Londo whispered.
"Yes," Bester said. "And not in the right place anymore, either, I'm afraid." His mouth flattened into a line. "I chose a good starting place to wound you, I see. But there is another aspect more closely related to what concerns me."
"Gods, please, no," Londo breathed softly, knowing that protestations would make no difference to this man, and that mercy was not involved in any of this.
Bester came toward him with the gleaming blade again. The psi cop paused, standing easily, arrogantly, and used the flat tip to lift Londo's chin up to look at him. Bester set his jaw and pushed firmly, cleanly sinking the steel into Londo's neck, soaking it in the blood of the damned.
Londo's mind would not accept this cruelty in any kind of conscious way -- the Lake of Fire waited for him. He was falling at a terrible speed in which everything seemed to stand still, his entire life, past and future, held together in a fist that made his present a suffocating prison. He didn't scream. He discovered he didn't want to. It was grief that overwhelmed him, mourning for things annihilated. The Lake took him, his tears splashing the fire to steam.
The Babylon station, almost two years in the past:
Lord Kiro paused in the open doorway, looking back to Londo with desolation and defeat in his eyes.
"Where did it go wrong, Mollari? Where did we lose it all?"
"I don't know," Londo said, trying to force a lightness he didn't feel. The question was so horribly important -- and so pointless. "I don't know."
The corridor:
"Ambassador, I was authorized to speak to you -- "
"Yes, yes," Mollari said irritably. "Look, what do you want?"
"That's what I was going to ask you!" Morden said, delighted.
"You," Mollari said pointedly, "are a lunatic. Go away." He stepped into the elevator when the doors opened. Morden followed him eagerly. "Bay 12." Mollari looked at his new companion, who stood very close to him. "You are a very persistent young man."
"I have to be. I'm not allowed to leave here until you've answered my question." His voice became more intent, emphasizing the words gently, seriously. "What do you want?"
"This is a silly conversation."
"Yes it is," Morden agreed, deadpan. "What do you want?"
"To be left alone." The elevator doors opened, and Mollari exited quickly. Morden stopped in the doorway, watching Mollari go down the hall.
"Is that it?" Morden demanded, his voice strangely vehement. Not angry...just forceful. "Is that really all, Ambassador?"
Mollari stopped in the hall. He really should be going. He was late to meet Lord Kiro. But the question pulled at him, bringing to the surface every bitterness and rage he had felt over the past decades. Was it all, indeed? He turned around to face the human.
"All right," he said, exasperated. "Fine. You really want to know what I want? You really want to know the truth? I want my people to reclaim their rightful place in the galaxy. I want to see the Centauri stretch forth their hand again, and command the stars. I want a rebirth of glory, a renaissance of power. I want to stop running through my life like a man late for an appointment -- afraid to look back, or to look forward. I want us to be what we used to be! I want...I want it all back, the way that it was. Does that answer your question?"
He left before the human could answer him.
Lady Ladira, the seeress of Lord Kiro's house, knows more than he realizes.
"The Shadows have come for Lord Kiro," she said, grasping Londo's coat. "The Shadows have come for us all!"
The Centaurum Hall lawn:
"Just kill me, damn you, and go away."
"I'm not trying to kill you," Bester said plainly. "There are plenty of people lower down on the food chain who would make a perfectly adequate assassin for the Centauri Ambassador. Killing is the common brute's solution. Ours...mine...is not so wasteful nor so wanton."
Londo spat on the ground at Bester's feet.
"You think I can't feel it?" he demanded scornfully. "You think I can't feel how much you enjoy this, human? You're as wanton as a whore, trading in brutality instead of sex. Or is it sex to you, too?"
Bester only smiled coldly, not responding with the outburst or denial that Londo had expected. He shivered at the expression on the psi cop's face. It was the look of Hur'aidon again -- this time the Primal Urge.
Londo's quarters:
Kiro is dead. The Eye is gone. He feels the loss in his heart, a terrible weight. The door again. It's that annoying man, Mr. Morden. He tries to shoo the man away, and Morden is about to oblige.
"Oh, before I go..." He holds out the rectangular, cloth-draped box he is holding. "A gift, from friends you don't know you have."
Mollari takes the thing and puts it on the table. Opens it.
"The Eye! How?" He turns, but Morden is already gone. Londo rushes to the doorway, looking out in the hall, but the corridor is empty. "Where did you go, eh? Let me buy you a drink! Let me buy you an entire fleet of drinks! How can I ever find you to thank you?"
And Morden's voice comes back to him from down the hall.
"We will find you, Ambassador. We will find you."
Bester looked up to watch another Shadow cruiser in the sky. It flew low over the lawn, blotting out the Centauri sun and most of the blue heavens. The ship cast another sort of shadow on the ground, and Bester watched, even though he could have made it vanish.
It was not fear that Bester felt. Not exactly. It was more a sense of clarity. Everything had leapt into place, Londo's memories eerily parallel to some of his own.
They had found a strange looking alien ship buried under the surface of Mars. They had studied it, and gone inside and explored the thing, but what the hell it was and where it had come from was a total mystery. Then one day another ship just like it had shown up and activated the buried ship. They had both left together and that was the end of it. A dead end.
And then that transmission from a starfury pilot in hyperspace -- the one that had been plastered all over ISN before they had been able to get it pulled. What the fucking hell was going on? And Morden..?
Morden was a contact point. Bester had seen him before, though had never directly met him. Now that Bester thought about it, it seemed curious that Morden had always seemed to manage to avoid such meetings -- seemingly through coincidence but now Bester wasn't so sure. Was the man wary of a strong telepath precisely because of what he was?
And that was...what, exactly? A contact point. A voice into the ears of some in Earthgov. He was the eyes and ears of this alien race, a whispering spokesman whose own betrayals went far deeper than mere treason. Londo had shown Bester what Morden and his associates had done -- were doing -- to the Centauri Republic. And Earth could only be next.
The Shadow cruiser drifted over the distant mountaintops, leaving the sky clear again, white clouds lazily sliding in the other direction on the high jetstream winds.
"Thank you," Bester said to Londo seriously. Londo would never have been able to explain to anyone what the tone of voice was like...he could feel anticipation, a sense of readiness, poised strength, conviction -- even love -- in the psi cop's thoughts.
"You love your people, too, don't you?" Londo said quietly. Bester drew a deep breath. This was what he had been born to do. Not the tiny spying and weaseling and minutiae that Earthgov used him for. Bester had been born with a much greater power, a power he was never allowed to use. Now was his moment. A larger war. A life that would test his soul and his blood. A chance to fight for something meaningful.
"As much as you love yours," Bester murmured. "And I will not hesitate where you have faltered. My own redemption may be at hand, but it is not my desire." He looked down at his gloved hand, dark and wet with Londo's blood. In a moment the stain vanished, soaked into the ground at his feet invisibly. Bester walked over to Londo slowly. He took off his glove and laid his hand against Londo's throat.
Londo gasped, his blood aflame again, this time with healing, gentleness. The human's touch trailed down to his chest, brushing fingers and the wound there closed, blood disappearing as if it had never been. "Time for me to leave," Bester said.
****
There was a terrible grinding noise. It had a mechanical sound to it, and in another breath, Londo was back in the elevator, clothed in his fine Ambassadorial coat and neckerchief and shirt, his pressed pants and boots. Bester stood before him, cloaked, the Psi Corps badge that Londo remembered so vividly -- absent. Londo reflexively touched his throat, seeking the gashing wound that the human had symbolically inflicted. He felt nothing but unbroken skin, dry and warm. The human lowered his gloved hand and held Londo's eyes.
They looked at each other for a long moment.
Then the elevator lurched again and began to move slowly.
"They're going to pry us out of here soon," Bester said in a low voice. He leaned back against the wall and folded his arms, managing to look supremely bored. It was a polished act, Londo knew. "How do you want to play this to security?"
Londo closed his mouth after realizing it was open. How long had they been in here? But the question Bester had asked him... The station was independent from the Earth Alliance now. There was only Sheridan's rule, and not the rule of Earth Alliance law. Londo could press charges if he wanted to, claim the rape Bester had just performed on him, claim a violation of his privacy...
But he remembered the scent of Bester's mind upon watching the mass drivers, the taste of being on a precipice. Becoming aware of the pit into which he was about to fall. And Bester was poised to become an avatar for his people, as Londo had failed to be for his own. Yes, Londo could press charges. But to what end? What would it accomplish? What would it gain? Nothing, for no one. It would not undo what had been done, would grant no peace, would involve no real justice of any sort. And then Bester would not have the chance he needed.
And Londo remembered a moment of kindness, the human's hand on his throat, easing the wound he had so cruelly inflicted, undoing the pain...and there had been an apology hovering at the edges of it. This human was not so unlike him, and that was chilling for so many reasons.
"We had...a little chat," Londo said finally, reclaiming a gentle dignity and standing straight. "Nothing more. Nothing to concern them." He turned to look at the destroyed comm panel and camera. "That will be hard to explain." Bester shook his head.
"Don't worry about that."
The elevator stopped suddenly and the doors were manually pried open by two burly security guards. Two more guards beyond the opening pointed rifles into the car, and Bester sighed. Londo immediately flapped his arms frustratedly.
"What took you so long, eh?" he demanded peevishly. "I am already late for my meeting!"
"Sorry, Ambassador," came Garibaldi's voice from beyond the shoulders of the armed guards. He touched them and they lowered their weapons. "But we had to assume the worst when we detected the car stopped and then we -- " He caught sight of who was leaning against the far elevator wall, cloaked and indifferent. "You," Garibaldi said in an accusing voice, low and lethal.
"What the hell's going on?" It was Sheridan's voice, getting closer with each word.
"Captain, it's -- " Garibaldi began.
"That man," Londo said to Sheridan, pointing to Bester, "is a maniac. I don't know how you humans managed to ever invent the wheel, much less colonize space. If you will excuse me, I'm late for a meeting -- " Sheridan's hand stopped him, but the Captain had eyes for Bester.
"How did you get on the station?" he demanded. "And what did you do to Ambassador Mollari?"
"Oh, we had a silly little chat," Londo said, waving his hand.
"A little chat," Sheridan repeated, looking at Bester, who said nothing. He looked at the comm panel and the securcam, which were a blackened ruin. "Search him," Sheridan ordered, jerking his chin.
Garibaldi obeyed all too eagerly, grabbing Bester roughly and turning him around to frisk him under the cloak. The Security Chief was a little more invasive than he really needed to be, a little more aggressive than necessary with his hands, and Bester glared at him. He finally produced the PPG Bester was carrying, and handed it over to Sheridan.
"If you test it you'll find it's been fired in the last hour," Bester said calmly, turning around to lean his back against the wall again. Sheridan stared at him.
"You're admitting you did this?" he said, indicating the damaged elevator. Bester snorted.
"If I could think of a lie you would believe, I'd use it," he said flatly. Garibaldi grunted.
"Ambassador," Sheridan said, turning back to Londo, "I assure you we will resolve this matter to your satisfaction. We can hold him and press charges at your discretion." God only knew what Bester had done to Londo while they were trapped in there, especially with that look in the psi cop's eyes. Sheridan fought down a shiver.
"What matter?" Londo replied. "We had a silly little chat. Nothing more. I don't have any charges to press, Captain. Now if you will please excuse me, I am late for my meeting." Londo squeezed past him and hurried on down the corridor, looking quite indeed like a man late for something.
Sheridan and Garibaldi turned back to Bester.
"Well?" Sheridan demanded.
"Well what?" Bester replied. "Ambassador Mollari is difficult to get a hold of and I wanted his undivided attention."
"And?"
"And we talked," Bester said, mildly annoyed. "I don't think it's any of your business."
"I still want to know how you got on the station," Garibaldi said. "And how you got a PPG."
"I don't think that's really material," Bester said.
"Did you scan Londo?" Sheridan asked him point-blank. Bester looked at him balefully.
"Why would I do that? The Centauri Republic is the last government I want to annoy right now."
"I think you'd do anything if you thought you had a good reason."
"You're right," Bester said. He stepped away from the wall and Sheridan tensed. The security guards raised their weapons cautiously. "Captain Sheridan, the Earth government is corrupt. You know it, and I know it. It doesn't end with Earth, either. How would you like to have a psi cop working for you?"
****
"Senator Beardwood, I'll be brief. I'm not coming back to Earth. In fact, as of this moment I am no longer in the employ of Psi Corps, Earthgov, or the Earth Alliance in any official or unofficial capacity. I am rescinding my own citizenship on the Earth and am now an expatriate. I recommend that you look closely to your own affairs, Senator. Something wicked this way comes."
Keith Beardwood leaned back in his chair, his office silent except for the distant tick tick tick of an antique wall clock across the room.
"What the hell?" he muttered.
The End