The last they saw of G'Kar was when his wife came to claim and protect him, but G'Kar didn't seem to need Da'Kal's protection, even in his weakened state. When he explained the sorry chain of events, he came off sounding like a hero. He shoved his faked death to the background while he concentrated on the noble goal of rehabilitating Du'Rog's reputation and the status of his family. He made it sound as if he had been on some kind of undercover mission to find out the truth about the arms deal with General Balashar. His unique contacts among the Centauri made it all possible, and now he was only too happy to set the record straight. Ivanova had to admit, G'Kar was an expert on spin control and disinformation.
Now she was alone for the first time since her mineral bath the night before, which seemed like an eternity in hell ago. Like Dante, they had sunk deeper and deeper into the descending levels of Narn society, not stopping until they reached the underworld. And they had met Pluto down there, wearing the guise of a little boy.
Ivanova lay back in her cramped bunk on the Castlebrae, a second-class Terran freighter that also had a few passenger berths. Yes, the mineral bath in the Hekbanar Inn had been the high point of the trip, hands down. Killing people was the low point, hands down. That was another good reason, she decided, for whisking her and Garibaldi away as soon as possible. She tried to assure herself that it was really over. Two days of hyper-space, and she would be back in C-and-C, on familiar turf, filling out an expense report.
The human thought about the array of Narns she had met on this journey, from the Inner Circle to the outer circles and beyond; Captain Vin'Tok and his crew, G'Kar's wife, priests, doctors, servants, rangers, and refined social butterflies such as Ra'Pak and R'Mon, all the way down to thugs who would kill you for a shiny stone.
Where would Mi'Ra fit into this stratified social order? What would happen to her? Maybe the stars were her destiny, thought Ivanova. If that much energy and determination could be harnessed to constructive use, it would light up the universe. But who could control it? Maybe Al Vernon. Maybe Al would end up marrying the daughter of Du'Rog.
Ivanova chuckled at that conclusion to the story, finally feeling a wave of giddy relief. Two days on an old tramp freighter stood before her, she reflected, with nothing whatsoever to do. Suddenly the narrow bunk didn't feel too bad, and her aching bruises and muscles settled in gratefully to the mattress. Three days with nothing to do but sleep, eat, and check in with the ship's doctor. Yeah, she could handle that.
Susan went to sleep and dreamt that her mother was rocking her in the old hammock in the backyard, while fireflies danced in the night sky.
G'Kar gritted his teeth. This was the confrontation he had been dreading the most since his return from the dead. It almost made him want to go back to the dark hold of the K'sha Na'vas. He halted and took a deep breath outside the quarters of Ambassador Londo Mollari. Straightening to attention, he pressed the door chime.
G'Kar heard laughter inside, and he knew it had to be at his expense. Probably Mollari and his stooge, Vir, chortling over the way they had extricated him from his own arrogance and stupidity. He wanted to turn and run down the corridor, but he owed the Centauri this social call. He probably even deserved their laughter. An enemy always knew you best, he thought ruefully.
He tried to remind himself of the Holy Books and the lessons he had learned from them. They were lessons from a simpler time when Narns moved with the seasons and tides of their planet. The books often said that life was a learning experience not a conquering experience. The elders looked for learning in every cloud, in every rock, in every person and animal that crossed their path. There was no good or bad to the experience, only the learning derived. The price for the teaching was different with everyone.
G'Kar knew this was his price.
The doorway slid back, and Londo beamed at him in his portly, snaggletoothed way. He was wearing his ambassadorial finery—shiny brocade, epaulets, medals, buttons—and his hair reared above his head like a tidal wave.
"My dear, G'Kar," he said with a smirk, "you are looking well for a zombie. Do you know what a zombie is? It's something from the Terran culture, a creature who comes back from the dead—to serve the master who brought him back to life. Apparently, there is some scientific basis for the belief in zombies. Mr. Garibaldi was just telling me about it, and here you are!"
G'Kar peered past the obnoxious Centauri to see Garibaldi lurking around a plate of food. The security chief waved sheepishly, but G'Kar was relieved to see him. He didn't think he could face Mollari alone.
"I just wanted to make sure you got back all right," explained Garibaldi. He picked up another hors-d'oeuvre and stuffed it into his mouth.
G'Kar strode into the room. "Yes, I am well for a dead man. I can tell you one thing: I never want to be dead again."
The Narn turned to face Londo, and he bowed curtly. "Thank you, Ambassador. Your agent saved my life, with information you furnished him. You did bring me back to life, although I can't imagine why."
The Centauri chuckled. "Faking one's death is a famous literary device in Centauri drama, with dozens of different versions in all media. It is viewed as the ultimate ruse, a fantasy for husbands who have too many wives. The Terran writer, Mark Twain, also appreciated the terrific irony of the situation. Once we connected the Du'Rog family with General Balashar, your mysterious death began to make sense. You reacted deviously, as a Centauri might."
"Please," muttered G'Kar, "it was cowardly, I admit, but don't be insulting. Isn't it enough that I am in your debt?"
"Actually," said Londo, "Al Vernon must take the credit for saving your life. I told him to do so only if it was convenient. I owed Mr. Vernon a favor, and I was repaying him with this information. He knew its potential value. By the way, I made a wonderful speech at your memorial service. It was the talk of the station."
"I'm sorry I missed it," G'Kar answered dryly.
The Centauri grinned. "Tell me, what is it like to be dead?"
"Terrifying," answered G'Kar. "I felt like a ghost, even among people who knew the truth. But it did make me review my life, and my conduct. It was good to be reminded that there are repercussions to everything we do in life. You cannot outrun your responsibilities."
Garibaldi cleared his throat. "That reminds me, I've got to get back to duty. Before I go, how is Al doing?"
G'Kar managed a smile. "Last I heard, he had sold his services to a travel agency on Homeworld with the idea of bringing in more off-world tourists."
"And Mi'Ra?"
The Narn's massive brow furrowed in thought. "It hasn't been long enough to heal. She is behaving herself, and her family is happy—but you know how she is, Mr. Garibaldi. She is like a reactor about to suffer meltdown."
"We won't ever let Mi'Ra on the station," said the chief. "It would be too dangerous. I'll see you later, gentlemen." He nodded to both ambassadors and hurried out the door, leaving G'Kar alone with the gleeful Centauri.
Londo's smile faded. "To see you murdered in some foolish family quarrel—that would bring me no cheer. To see you humbled, to see you embarrassed, to see you beholden to me, and live to tell about it—this is much better!"
"Good to see you, too," answered G'Kar on his way out the door.