The Long Night of Centauri Prime (18 page)

"And you have told me this ... why?"

"He was your friend. I wished to let you know of his impending fate ... so that if you desired to say your goodbyes ... you would have the opportunity."

A test. No ... not just a test. A trap. Londo had known it, had been positive of it. The Drakh could just as easily have said, "Sheridan is to die soon. Drop him a nice note," and been done with it.

No, he had told Londo everything there was to know because he wanted Londo to have that knowledge ... in order to see what he would do with it.

Londo had not slept. For two days, he did not sleep. He had gone back and forth in his head, envisioning Sheridan as his great enemy, as the leader of an Alliance that had mercilessly assaulted his beloved Centauri Prime. Someone who had turned his back on them. And Delenn, his wife ... she had a way of looking at Londo in the most insultingly pitying way. But try as he might, he had not been able to erase from his memory all the times when Sheridan had been of service to him. Those years on Babylon 5 had been the best years of his life. He had not realized it at the time; it had merely seemed a period of slow, steady descent into darkness. But the fact was, Sheridan and Delenn had indeed been there for him on a number of occasions. Not only that, but he was positive that in their own way, they had been pulling for him, hoping that everything would turn out all right for him. The fact that everything had developed so abysmally – that he had become the single most powerful, and weakest, man in the Centauri Republic – was certainly not their doing, not at all. He had brought his fate solidly upon himself.

He had tried to sleep, but had managed only moments of rest, at most, before he would drift back to consciousness. During that time, he had felt the keeper shifting in mild confusion. Obviously the creature itself needed to rest as well, and had synchronized itself with Londo's own sleep period. So when Londo became mentally distressed, the keeper likewise experienced discomfort. The thought gave Londo some degree of satisfaction. Finally he had not been able to take it anymore. But he had known that he would have to be crafty. He could not simply mount an obvious rescue mission, or inform Sheridan. Such an effort would probably be prevented by the keeper. In the event that the keeper could not stop him, certainly it would inform the Drakh, who might in turn change their plan ... and let their displeasure with Londo be known in a most direct and unpleasant manner.

Londo desired to save Sheridan, but not at the price of his own skin. Londo was not that generous. So he had summoned Vir. The timing had been perfect, for the celebration in the palace had actually been Durla's idea. Durla had sponsored it, naturally, as a means of gathering all his allies and supporters and showing them his elevated position in the court. Since the idea had originated with Durla – Durla, the puppet of the Drakh who probably didn't even know who truly pulled the strings – the Drakh in turn would not question it or suspect some sort of duplicity on Londo's part. An invitation to Vir would be the most natural thing in the world. So he had brought his old associate, his old friend – possibly his only friend in the galaxy, really – to visit. The invitation had attracted no attention whatsoever, as Londo had hoped.

Then had come the next step: Londo had started drinking almost as soon as the festivities had begun. The problem was, he had needed to walk a fine line. The challenge was to consume enough alcohol to render the keeper insensate, as he had found he was capable of doing. By accomplishing that, he would be able to speak to Vir more or less freely, without the keeper – and by extension, the Drakh – becoming aware of what he was doing. The problem was, if he imbibed too much, he would become so incoherently drunk that he wouldn't be of any use to Vir, to Sheridan, or even to himself. So Vir had come, as invited, and Londo had taken him aside, fighting to remain on his feet while the liquor swirled around his brain, leaving a pleasant fog hanging over him.

But Londo had proceeded with caution nevertheless, and it had been most fortunate that he had. For as he had begun to bring Vir current with the situation, as he had begun to unfold the plan in small bits ... he had felt the keeper stirring to wakefulness. He had sent the creature into inebriated insensibility, but it had fought itself back to moderate sobriety with a speed that was both alarming and annoying. Apparently it was starting to build up some degree of tolerance to alcohol. Londo would have to reassess the amount of liquor it was going to require from now on to render the keeper unawares. Londo dealt with the setback as best he could. He had tried to cue Vir to the danger presented to Sheridan by seeking historical precedent.

Londo could sense that the keeper was suspicious of the conversation. It sensed that something was going on, but it wasn't entirely certain just what that might be. No pain was inflicted, no forcible commands were relayed into Londo's skull. But the creature had been most wary indeed, and so Londo had needed to be wary as well. It had been tremendously frustrating for him. Part of him had simply wanted to drop the carefully chosen phrases, the historical allusions, and simply tell Vir what was going on. But he knew there would be immediate action of some sort taken by the keeper.

Who knew the full powers of the monstrosity perched upon his shoulders? He knew it inflicted pain, and that it monitored his actions, but he had no reason to believe he had seen the outer limit of its capabilities. Perhaps it could blow out his brain stem with but the merest mental effort. Maybe it could send him into seizures, or stop his hearts, or ... anything. He wanted to do something to prevent Sheridan meeting a gruesome death at the scaly hands of the Drakh, but the simple fact was that he wasn't especially inclined to sacrifice himself to that endeavor. He still valued his own skin above Sheridan's.

After Vir had left, Londo had monitored the news broadcasts carefully. The keeper had thought nothing of Londo's watching the news. He was, after all, the emperor. It was only appropriate that he should be keeping himself abreast of current events. And when the news had carried the item about Sheridan's leading a highly publicized tour of officials into Down Below at Babylon 5, Londo's spirit had soared. It had been everything he could do to prevent himself from shouting out with joy.

Then his enthusiasm had dissipated. He could almost feel a dark cloud radiating from the keeper, and it was at that moment – even as he saw news footage of the obviously unharmed Sheridan leading the tour – that he had it confirmed for him that, yes indeed, this had been a test. A test that he had failed, because he knew that they knew. He wasn't quite sure how he was aware of it. Maybe the telepathic bond was becoming two-way. But he did, in fact, know, and now all that remained was waiting for the retaliation to descend upon him.

"Was it worth it?" Londo was sitting in the private library that had traditionally been the province of the emperor. The Centauri set great store by it. The emperor was considered to be something akin to a living repository of Centauri history, and it was intended that he carry within his head all the great deeds of his predecessors, and the many magnificent accomplishments of the Republic. Because that duty was so respected and sacred, the highest priority was given to providing the emperor with a secluded and well-guarded place where he could indulge his historical interests to his hearts' content. Indeed, there might not have been a more secure room in the entire palace. There were many books there, and many assorted relics from the illustrious past. So it was that when Shiv'kala's voice emerged from the darkness and asked "Was it worth it?" Londo jumped, so violently startled that he nearly knocked over the reading table. He got to his feet, trying to maintain some degree of dignity in the face of such a clumsy response. The light was quite dim in the library; he couldn't see Shiv'kala at all.

"Are you here?" he asked, wondering for a moment if perhaps Shiv'kala was only speaking in his mind but was, in fact, elsewhere entirely.

"Yes. I am here." Upon hearing the voice again, Londo could indeed tell that Shiv'kala was physically in the room. But his voice seemed to be floating from everywhere. "And you are here. How nice."

"Nice," Londo said tersely, "is not the word I would have used."

"What do used," countered Shiv'kala. "I do not `want' to do what I must. What we must."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Do you not?"

Londo started to feel something, and braced himself. It was the beginning of ... the pain. Except it was different somehow. They'd hit him with pain in the past, but he sensed that this was not going to be like the other times. Rather than hitting him suddenly and violently, this time around the pain was starting from a much lower baseline. It gave him cause to think that perhaps he was developing a tolerance for the psychic and physical torment they were inflicting upon him. For that matter ... perhaps it was totally unrelated to the Drakh at all.

"Are you doing that?" demanded Londo, putting a hand to his temple.

"You have done it, Londo," replied Shiv'kala. There was that familiar resignation in his tone. "You ... and you alone."

"I do not know–" The ache was increasing now, reaching the previous levels and growing greater. Londo was finding it hard to breathe, and it seemed as if his hearts were pumping only with effort.

"Oh, you know," and any trace of sympathy or sadness was suddenly gone from the Drakh's voice. There was only hardness, and cruelty. "You have made a fool of me, Londo."

"I? I..." And suddenly Londo staggered. He tripped over the chair in which he'd been sitting and crashed to the floor, because he had been wrong. What he was feeling this time was far worse than anything he had ever endured before at the hands of the Drakh. Perhaps it was worse than anything he had felt in his entire life. He realized belatedly that the agony had started off slowly to put him off guard, to make him think that perhaps it wouldn't be so bad. He had been wrong. His body began to spasm as the pain rolled over him in waves. He tried to distance himself mentally, tried to shut down his mind, but there was no possibility because the pain was everywhere, in every crevice and fold of his brain, in every sensory neuron of his body. He opened his mouth to try and scream, but he couldn't even do that because his throat was paralyzed. All he was able to muster was inarticulate gurgling noises.

"I told the Drakh Entire," continued Shiv'kala, as if Londo were not writhing like a skewered beast, "that you could be trusted. That you knew your place. They requested a test. I provided it. You failed it. That, Londo, is unacceptable."

Londo completely lost control. Every bit of waste fluid in his body evacuated, something that hadn't happened since he was two years of age. The sensation was humiliating, the stench was repugnant, and then both of those spiraled away as the agony continued to build. His soul, blackened and battered as it already was, cried out for release. He remembered how he had wanted to die all those months ago, how he had been ready to end it, but he realized that he had been a fool, because he had never wanted to die the way that he did now. At that moment, he would have given anything for the release of death. He would kill his friends and loved ones, he would annihilate a hundred, a thousand innocent Centauri. He would do anything at all just for a cessation of the agony that was hammering through him.

And then it got worse. He felt himself being torn apart, he felt every single organ in his body liquefying, and he knew, he just knew, that his brain was dissolving and flooding out his ears, he could practically feel it, and the pain was frying his eyes and his teeth were spiking through his gums, his tongue had swollen and was blocking his windpipe, there was burning in every joint that made the slightest movement pure agony, and so he tried to stay still, but the pain prodded him to move and then there was more anguish and it just kept building until it reached the point where he forgot what it was like not to hurt.

And then it stopped. Just like that, all at once, and he couldn't move because he was lying there numb and foul-smelling, and he felt as if he would never be able to present himself with dignity ever again, he would never feel safe again, he never wanted another soul to look upon him because he was hideous and disgusting and had been reduced to a quivering, gibbering wreck of a man. The very thought was revolting to him, and yet he couldn't help it; he was so relieved that the pain had abated, for however short a time, that he cried copious tears, his body shuddering convulsively.

"Do you know how long you endured that?" Shiv'kala asked quietly.

Londo tried to shake his head, but if he had been able to answer, he would have said it had been hours. Perhaps days.

"Nine seconds," Shiv'kala continued, apparently knowing that Londo was not going to be in any sort of shape to reply. "You felt that way for precisely nine seconds. Would you like to endure that for twenty or thirty seconds? Or even better ... twenty or thirty minutes? Or hours, or days?"

"No ... no..." Londo's voice was barely recognizable as his own. It sounded more like the guttural grunt of a dying creature.

"I did not think so. I doubt that you would survive it. Even if you did, I likewise doubt you'd like what you became as a consequence." Londo didn't reply. None seemed necessary, and he doubted he could have strung a coherent sentence together anyway. Apparently not caring about Londo's newly discovered reticence, Shiv'kala said, "That was your punishment, Londo. Punishment, however, will not be enough. You must do penance. Do you understand? Do you hear what I am saying?" He managed to nod. "Good." Shiv'kala had moved from the shadows and was now standing directly in front of Londo. He tilted his head and regarded the emperor with curiosity. "Tell me, Londo ... would you kill Sheridan yourself ... if the alternative was more punishment?"

For all the world, Londo wanted to shake his head. He wanted to spit at the Drakh, he wanted to cry out defiance. He wanted to stumble to his feet and fasten his hands around the scaly throat of that grey-skinned monstrosity. At that point, he didn't care anymore if hidden bombs blew his people to bits. He didn't care if he died in attempting to strangle Shiv'kala. All he desired at that moment was the opportunity to try and, even more, the will. Instead he simply nodded. For he knew it to be true; at that moment, he would do anything. Kill Sheridan, kill Delenn, kill Vir, kill Timov ... anything, anyone, whatever it took, if it meant not getting another taste of that agonizing "punishment". Even though his body wasn't presently being subjected to pain, the memory was still fresh within him. He needed no reminder of what he had just been through; if nothing else, the stench floating from him made it very difficult to forget.