1-The Long Night of Centauri Prime, Page 2

  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 Nam. 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 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.

  Servants were quietly boxing up his belongings, preparing to move them to the royal suite. The sword was the only thing that he had not given over to them. Londo was simply standing there, staring at it, examining the glistening blade and wondering how it would feel sliding gently across his throat. He envisioned his blood pouring from the cut, turning crimson the white uniform of his office. A remarkable color scheme, that. Most aesthetic.

  And when the Drakh found his body-somehow he knew it would be the Drakh -would the creature be smug over Londo’s premature demise, feeling that the death of the Shadows had been repaid? Or would the Drakh be angry, or annoyed that Londo’s usefulness had not been fully exploited? That … was indeed a pleasing notion. The thought of the Drakh being frustrated, knowing that he and his hideous ilk could hurt Londo no longer. Would the Drakh retaliate, by detonating the bombs and annihilating his people? No. No, probably not. The Drakh Entire didn’t especially care about the people of Centauri Prime. To the Drakh, they existed merely to act as playing pieces, to keep Londo in line. If Londo were gone, the game was over. With the king fallen, what point would there be in knocking over the pawns?

  It would be the coward’s way out, yes. There was still so much that needed to be done, and if he killed himself, there would never be any chance to try and make good on all that he had done …

  Make good?

  The blade gleamed so brilliantly that he was able to see his reflection in it, and it reminded him of his reflection in the window of the Centauri war vessel as it had orbited the Nam Homeworld. The Centauri had smashed the Nams into near-oblivion, using the outlawed weaponry known as mass drivers. Make good? Make reparations? Balance the scales? What sort of nonsensical conceit was that, anyway? How could he possibly make good on what he had done? Millions … Great Maker … billions had died because of him. And he was supposed to set that right somehow? It was impossible, simply impossible. If he had a hundred lifetimes in which to do it, it would still be a hopeless task.

  Perhaps … perhaps suicide wouldn’t be the coward’s way out at that. Perhaps suicide was simply the wise man’s way of knowing when it was polite to leave. To keep his now-wretched existence going on this war-torn world, in the deluded belief that somehow he could make things better or atone for his sins…

  Who was he fooling? In the final analysis, who was he fooling?

  He became aware once more of the keeper on his shoulder. He wondered if, given enough time, he would become less aware of it. If he might become so used to it being there that he gave it no thought at all. If that circumstance did come about, he wasn’t altogether sure whether it would be a good thing or a bad thing.

  He placed the sword down.

  It was time.

  Time to see the farce through. As for the rest, well, if it came to that, there would be time enough. Or perhaps the notion would go away on its own. His emotions were too raw, and he couldn’t trust himself to make a proper decision. He had to allow himself time to figure out what would be the best thing to do.

  The notion, however, did not go away.

  He made his speech to the Centauri people, as they huddled in their homes, cowering in the burned-out shells of buildings that represented the burned-out shells their lives had become. The mental picture of the sword remained in his head even as his own holographic image loomed in the skies of Centauri Prime. What he truly wanted to do was apologize … humble himself to his people, let them know that it was he, and he alone, who was responsible for this hideous pass to which they had come.

  But such a speech, honest as it might have been, wouldn’t be in the best interests of the Drakh. They had their own agenda, and Londo was merely required to play his part. They had made that quite clear. Do as he was told. Be a good puppet. Speak the speeches as were required, and do not for a moment anger them.

  “I will walk alone to my inauguration,” he announced. “Take on the burden of emperor in silence. The bells of our temple will sound all day and all night, once for each of our people killed in the bombings. We are alone. Alone in the universe . But we are united in our pain.”

  But that wasn’t true. It was as much a sham as everything else about him. His pain was his own, and could never be shared or revealed. His pain was the creature on his shoulder. His pain took the form of nightmares that came to him in his sleep, that tormented him.

  “We fought alone,” he told his people, “and we will rebuild alone.” But was there anyone on Centauri who was more alone than he? And … perverse aspect of it was that he wasn’t alone, not really. The keeper was there, watching him, studying him, surveying him, never allowing him a moment’s peace. It served as a constant reminder of his sin. Via the keeper, the Drakh were with him as well.

  And more.

  There were the voices. The voices of his victims, crying out to him, protesting their fates. These were the people who had gone to their deaths screaming and sobbing and not remotely comprehending why this was happening to them. They were there, too, remotely comprehending why this was happening to them. They were there, too, making their presence known.

  It was entirely possible that, of everyone on Centauri Prime, Londo was the least-alone individual on the planet. But that didn’t mitigate the circumstances of his situation at all. For there was no one, no one, whom he could tell about his predicament. To do so would have spelled death for that person, of that he was quite certain. He existed, and others maintained a presence near him, but he could allow no one to be close to him. He had to drive away those who once had known him as no others did.

  The worst would be Vir. Vir, who had stood by his side every hideous step of the way, who had warned Londo against the descent he was taking into blackness. Londo hadn’t listened , and Vir had been right. Perhaps that was why Londo hadn’t listened: because he had known that Vir was right, and he didn’t want to hear it.

  And Delenn. After the speech, when they took their leave of him, Delenn stepped forward and looked at him in such a way that he flinched inwardly, wondering if somehow she was able to see the evil dropping on his shoulder. “I can no longer see the road you’re on, Londo,” she said. “There is a darkness around you. I can only pray that, in time, you will find
your way out of it.”

  When she said that, the image of the sword presented itself to him once again, even more keenly than it had before. Light glinting off the blade, pure and true, calling to him. It was the way out … if he chose to take it.

  He walked to the temple, as he had said. Alone … but not alone.

  He took on the ornaments and responsibilities of emperor, and he could practically feel the sword across his throat now. He could almost hear the death rattle, feel the pure joy of the release. He would be free of it, free of the responsibility, free of everything. By the time he began the long walk back to the palace, the sun was starting to set. And he knew, in his hearts, that it was the last sunset he would ever see. His resolve was stronger than it had ever been, the certainty of his decision absolute.

  It felt right. It felt good. He had done the best that he could and his best had not been remotely good enough. It was time to remove himself from the game.

  He sat in the throne room that night, the darkness encroaching upon him. Its opulence, with its gleaming marbled floors, lush curtains, and largely decorative-but still impressive-columns, carried whispers of Centauri Prime’s past greatness . Despite the ghastly shades of times past that always hovered there, he felt strangely at peace. He felt the keeper stirring upon his shoulder. Perhaps the creature knew that something was in the offing, but wasn’t entirely sure what.

  The shadows around him seemed to be moving. Londo looked right and left, tried to discern whether the Drakh was standing nearby, watching him. But there was nothing. At least, he thought there was nothing. He could have been wrong …