The Long Night of Centauri Prime (2 page)

"No." Shiv'kala shook his head ever so slightly. Everything he did, he did with minimal effort. "Not every move. Simply keep in mind ... our goals."

"And your goals would be?"

"Our goals ... are your goals. That is all you need remember. You will address the populace. They will be angry. Focus that anger ... upon Sheridan. Upon the Alliance."

"Why? What purpose would that serve?"

Shiv'kala's skeletal smile widened ever so slightly.

"The Alliance ... is ... at it in anger ... so that they will be blind to the shadows around them."

As always, Shiv'kala spoke in a low, sibilant tone of voice. Then, ever so slightly, he bowed, and thought at Londo: "Good day to you ... Emperor Mollari".

Londo jumped slightly at that, clearly not expecting it. Reflexively he looked around, as if trying to figure out where the voice had come from, and then he looked at the Drakh. His lips drew back in anger, and he snarled: "Stay out of my head!"

But the Drakh shook his head and, with that same damnable smile, thought at Londo,
We will always be there.
Then he extended a hand to Mollari. He did so as a symbolic gesture, for he did not truly expect Londo to take it. And Londo did not. Instead he stared at the hand as if it were dried excrement. Shiv'kala then stepped back and allowed the shadows of the early evening to swallow him up. In a way, it felt as if he were returning home.

1
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When Londo saw the creature emerging from the chest of the Drakh, it was all he could do not to scream. A half dozen different ways of handling the situation tumbled through his mind. The first and foremost was to attack the Drakh, to grab a weapon – a sword, preferably – and step forward, the steel whipping through the air and striking home. In his mind's eye, he could see the monster's head tumbling free of its body, that hideous smile permanently frozen, perhaps even transformed into an expression of surprise. Then he would take the creature's head and slam it on a pole next to Morden's. He could stand side-by-side with Vir, and they would wave at them and laugh at the notion of anyone thinking that they could strong-arm or bully the leader of the great Centauri Republic.

Next he simply considered running from the room. That, in particular, seemed an attractive notion as he watched the one-eyed creature skitter across the floor toward him.

He thought of crying out for help.

He thought of trying to arrange some sort of bargain. He would ask the Drakh what else he could offer beside himself – there had to be some way to appease the wrath of these beings, other than allowing that terrifying one-eyed animal to attach its parasitic self to his body. He thought of begging, of pleading, of swearing eternal fealty to the Drakh or to the spirit of the Shadows. He thought of reminding the Drakh of all the times that he had been helpful to, and supportive of, their departed masters.

"What do you want?"

The question first had been posed to him by Morden, at a time that seemed eons ago. It was the question he was now tempted to hurl at the Drakh. What could he offer the Drakh that might suit them better than he himself? A terrifying array of possibilities came to him. He could offer them Sheridan or Delenn, the president and first lady ofthe Interstellar Alliance. Bring them to the Drakh, make them prisoners, or place keepers on them. Make them servants to the Drakh cause.

Or G'Kar! Great Maker, let them take G'Kar. Granted, he and the Narn had healed the wounds of their relationship, but there was still that vision he had had. The vision that one day G'Kar would be at his throat, primal fury boiling in his one true eye. Yes, he could turn G'Kar over to the Drakh and let him serve the collective Drakh will.

Or ... or ... He could ... he could offer them Vir Cotto. That was a possibility. A good one. A great one, in fact. Let Vir lose his free will and independence to the Drakh – he didn't have much use for it anyway. The hard truth was, Vir was at his best when someone else was telling him what to do. So really, there wouldn't be any substantial difference from what his life had been, and it might even show marked improvement.

As quickly as all those options occurred to him, he dismissed them all. These were his friends ... his allies ... or at least, they had been. Though in terms of Sheridan, in particular, a deep and abiding desire for vengeance still burned brightly. It was, after all, Sheridan's Alliance that had bombed Centauri Prime back to the Stone Age, leaving the glorious world in flaming ruins. And was not Sheridan himself always quick to condemn the Centauri, in general – and Londo, in particular – for every slight, real or imagined?

But as Londo watched the one-eyed monster wrap itself around his leg and start to draw itself up his body, he came to the hideous understanding that he would not wish such a fate even on his worst enemy. That would most unquestionably not be Sheridan, and certainly not Delenn. No, despite their rapprochement, the title would likely still be held by G'Kar. Even on G'Kar, though, he would have no wish to see that ... that thing ... attach itself. No one deserved that. Including him.

It's not fair, he thought bleakly, it's not right. I have to stop it ... I can still pry it off me, throw it down, step on it, grind it beneath my boot... But if he did so, he knew what would happen next. The Drakh would pull out his detonator, as he had before, but this time nothing would stop his thumb from slamming home. And when he did, millions of Centauri would die, just like that. Fusion bombs hidden by the Drakh would detonate, and the victims would never even know what hit them. They would simply disappear in a massive burst of heat and flame, millions of lives terminated.

For a moment, just a moment, he considered it. After all, they would be dead and gone. Their torment would last a brief second or two at most, and then it would be over and done with. They would be placed within the safety of the grave. More accurately, their ashes would be scattered to the safety of the four winds, blowing the length and breadth of Centauri Prime. This, as opposed to Londo's living a life of continual punishment, the keeper monitoring his moves, sitting like a permanent, one-eyed pustule on his shoulder. Watching, monitoring, always there, never giving him a moment's ...

Peace. Well ... that was what it came down to, really, wasn't it. For when he pictured those millions of Centauri vanishing into the instant holocaust of the bombs, in his mind's eye they were battered and bewildered. Covered in soot and ash, clothes torn, looking to the sky in bewilderment and fear and wondering when the barrage would ever cease. They had no idea. No idea that Centauri Prime had been framed – made to appear warlike and aggressive. Framed by the Drakh, so that the galaxy would turn against them, and the Centauri would be left all alone in the darkness. No idea that he, Londo, was the cause for that deception. No idea that they would still be living in peace, if it were not for Londo. He had stretched forth his hand to lead his people back to the greatness he felt they deserved, as part of the great Centauri Republic, a term that had once prompted respect instead of snickering. Stretched forth his hand like a shepherd, but instead he had crushed his flock. His victims had cried out his name, and he had brought them to utter ruin. For if he had not desired to restore the Centauri Republic, then none of this would have happened. There would have been no Shadow involvement, there would have been no war upon the Narn. None of the heartache and grief that had permeated the last five years ever would have occurred. It was because of him, all because of him.

That's what this was, then. As the keeper poked and probed, as its tentacles swept across his bare skin and made him cringe inwardly, Londo realized that this was his punishment. A cosmic sentence of justice was being carried out. Because of who he was and the nature of what he had done, he could never be jailed. Instead, his jail would be his own mind and body. They were being taken from him, and he was going to be trapped within them while lease over them was given to the keeper. It was a prison sentence, and the sentence was life.

From where he stood, he could smell the smoking ruins of Centauri Prime. He so loved the world of his birth. All he had wanted to do was restore it to greatness. But he had made a horrible miscalculation. He hadn't realized that the very things that he so despised – the sickly peace that had permeated the society, the sense that its proudest days were behind it – that those things truly were great. Peace, prosperity, happiness ... what prizes those things were, what joys they brought with them.

Perhaps he had lost sight of the truth because of those with whom he had associated. He had spent so much time walking the halls of power, rubbing elbows with emperors, plotting and planning alongside such master schemers as the late Lord Refa. He had lost sight of the fact that they had been hedonistic, scheming, and self-centered. They had cared only for pleasure, and that was usually obtained over the dead bodies of others.

Londo had forgotten that these people represented only the smallest percentage of the Centauri people. That the vast, vast majority of Centauri Prime's citizens consisted of decent, simple, hardworking people who wanted nothing more from life than to live it as simply as possible. They were not decadent; they were not power seekers. They were just decent, ordinary folk, They were the ones whom Londo had let down the most. It was their homes burning, it was their screams he fancied he could hear echoing in his head.

He closed his eyes and wished that he could clap his hands over his ears and, in so doing, shut out the cries that would not leave him. And the keeper was there. He felt it sinking its consciousness into his, attaching and intertwining their interests. Then he became aware of the Drakh, watching him – from without, and from within. It was as if the keeper had given the Drakh a viewport into his very soul. It was invasive, it was nauseating, it was ..... . it was just what he deserved. Despite all the turmoil that roiled through his mind, he never once allowed it to show. They could rob him of his freedom, his independence, his future, his very soul, but they could not remove from him his pride, and the way he carried himself. Whatever else happened, he was still Londo Mollari of the great Centauri Republic. That was why he had not blubbered or begged.

He only sighed with inward relief that he had not given in to his momentary weakness and started offering up others to take his place, to be enslaved. For if he had done so, he didn't think he could have lived with himself. Live with himself.

Suicide. It was an option that doubtless remained to him still. If it came down to a contest of raw will and the keeper tried to dissuade him from that course, he was reasonably sure that he could still overcome its influence at least long enough to do the deed. But where there was life, there was hope. As long as he lived, there might still be a way of ridding himself of the damnable creature. If he was dead, he had no fallback. If he was alive ... anything could happen.

He might still wind up waggling his fingers at the Drakh's head on a pike. That thought led to one, and then another and another, and he couldn't understand it. It was as if every thought that he'd ever had was suddenly tumbling one over the other in his head. A veritable avalanche of notions and recollections ... or perhaps ... it was an overview. Perhaps the Drakh, even at this moment, was seeing ... With tremendous effort, Londo shoved away the intrusion, although he couldn't be sure whether it had been real or imagined. He found he could barely stand. He put one hand to his forehead and let out an unsteady sigh.

And then the Drakh said the most curious thing. He said, "You will be all right." What an odd thing for him to have said. The Drakh were uniformly heartless, evil creatures – Londo knew this beyond a certainty. What point was there in one of their number pretending that he would be "all right."

"No," he growled, aware of the presence of the ... the thing on his shoulder. "I will never be all right again." The Drakh babbled some other meaningless phrases at him, and Londo barely paid attention, giving responses off the top of his head that had little meaning, that he didn't even remember moments later. All he could think about was that eye, perched so close, watching him.

The Shadows ... the terror that they had spread had come in the form of their vast and powerful ships. The only personal contact he'd ever had with them had been through Morden, and he had merely been their voice. Now, however, the enemy had a face, in the person of this Drakh who was, even as they spoke, gliding back into the shadows that had vomited him up. And the enemy had established an eternal, vigilant presence in the form of the keeper, which was settling was settling in, part of him now until he died.

Until he died. That was the point at which he began toying with the idea. He held the sword, caressed it almost lovingly. It had been quite some time since he had been able to look at it. It was an elegant blade – the one he had used to kill his friend, the companion of his childhood, Urza Jaddo. Urza, who had come to Babylon 5 seeking Londo's aid in a political game that was going to leave his family name in ruins. Urza, who had obtained that aid ... by choreographing a duel during which he had died at Londo's hands so that his – Urza's – family would henceforth be protected by the house of Mollari. The protection of the house of Mollari. What a ghastly joke. The Mollari name had certainly afforded Londo a good deal of protection, hadn't it.

Londo's brain hadn't stopped working from the moment the keeper had become attached to him. He had picked up on the fact that the creature did not, could not read every thought that crossed his mind. It would report his actions to the Drakh and they, in turn, might intervene, but it had to be actions, actions that ran contrary to the Drakh interest. Londo had taken no action as yet, but he was strongly considering it. Wouldn't it be appropriate. Wouldn't it be just.

If the universe were really interested in the order of things, then what would be more just than for Londo to die by a thrust of the same sword that had killed Urza. Something within Londo had died that day. If he used the same sword, brought an end to the suffering that his life was to become, then perhaps he would wind up where Urza was. They would be young together, young and free, and their existence would lie ahead of them once again. They would spar, they would laugh, and it would be good.