The Long Night of Centauri Prime (19 page)

"Well ... you do not have to kill Sheridan," Shiv'kala told him. "For the moment, we shall let him live. You see ... there is a relatively recent development that has come to our attention. Sheridan is going to become a father, you see."

Londo was slowly managing to draw breath into his chest, steadying his racing hearts. So it took a few moments for Shiv'kala's comment to fully register on him. He was still lying on the floor, but he managed to raise his head ever so slightly.

"Fa ... father?" he asked.

"That is correct," said Shiv'kala. "Your penance, actually, will be quite simple." Shiv'kala was moving then, and Londo could not take his gaze from him. He was heading toward the relics ... toward a shelf with several urns of varying purposes. He studied them thoughtfully, and then reached up and took one from the shelf. It was silver, with a burnished gold inlay. Londo knew the one he was taking. It had a very specific purpose m Centauri tradition, and he had no idea why Shiv'kala could possibly be interested in it. And then a slow, horrible thought began to dawn on him. He brushed it aside just as quickly, though, convinced that he could not possibly be correct. It was unthinkable, beyond the pale, even for the Drakh. They could not, they would not ... and certainly they could not think to make him a party to ... Then the Drakh opened the folds of his garment.

"No," whispered Londo. "No ... please ..." From the floor, he still could not move, but he began to beg, all thought of dignity long gone. "No..."

Shiv'kala did not even acknowledge that he had spoken. His chest was undulating in a most hideous fashion, as if it were alive with sentient cancer sores. He placed the vase on a nearby table and then unscrewed the base. He set it aside ... and then put his hand to his chest.

"You wouldn't..." Londo pleaded. Even though he knew that it was hopeless, he continued to implore Shiv'kala to reconsider. Once again, the Drakh made no response. Instead, ever so delicately, he pulled a creature from within a fold in his body. The creature was similar to the keeper, but smaller. Its eye was closed. As alien a being as it was, Londo could nevertheless tell that it was sleeping, perhaps even hibernating. Shiv'kala held the thing proudly in his palm for a moment. He ran a finger along the ridges of its body in a manner that appeared almost paternal. It was all Londo could do not to vomit. Then he placed the creature on the base and screwed it back onto the urn. Londo, at that point, couldn't even get a word out. He just shook his head helplessly.

"When Sheridan and Delenn go to Minbar ... you will go there as well. You will deliver," and he touched the vase with a long finger, "this gift. You will order the bottom sealed to discourage inspection by Sheridan. The keeper within will be able to escape when the time is right."

"A ... child?" Londo couldn't believe it. "A helpless child?"

"The son of Sheridan and Delenn ... yes, it will be a son ... but it will not always be a helpless child. When he is grown ... he will be of use to us. The keeper will see to his destiny. And you ... will see to the keeper."

"No." Londo, to his own astonishment, was managing to shake his head. "No ... an innocent child..."

"If you shirk your penance, Londo," Shiv'kala said calmly, as if he had been expecting Londo to protest, "you should consider the consequences for all the innocent children on Centauri Prime. But before any of them ... Senna will bear the brunt of our..." His lips twisted in that foul semblance of a smile. "... displeasure."

"Not... her..." Londo said.

"Emperor, you do not seem to realize how little say you have in the matter. Now ... will you cooperate?" Hating himself, hating life, hating a universe that would do this to him, Londo could only nod. Then his vision began to lose focus as one more wave of pain washed over him. He shut his eyes tightly, letting it pass, shuddering at the sensation. When he opened his eyes again, Shiv'kala was gone. Gone, having left Londo alone with his humiliation and pain and weakness. Londo, who would forever know that not only did he have a breaking point, but it had been reachable through means that seemed almost effortless. It made him wonder just how much more the Drakh could do to him. As horrifying a notion as the thought suggested, was it possible that – until now – the Drakh had actually been going easy on him? He wondered how much worse they could make it for him. He wondered why threats to Senna struck so closely to him. He wondered if he would ever know a time when he was actually, genuinely happy to be alive ... even if the feeling lasted for only a few moments. And then, as the brutalizing that his body had endured finally caught up with him, he wondered no more as he lapsed into merciful unconsciousness.

1
3.

The lady Mariel was busy writing a suicide note when the knock at the door interrupted her. Her task was not one that she had undertaken lightly, or spontaneously. Indeed, she had been laboring over it for some time. She had worked over the word choice, selected one, and then discarded it, wanting everything to read properly. It hadn't been an easy business, this writing notion. She would choose a word, then pace the length of her villa – which was hideously small, a gift from her father when she reached her age of ascension and, at this point, the only piece of property remaining to her, sufficiently secluded off in the forest so that it had been spared the bombings of Centauri Prime – only to return to her work and cross out the word.

"How do writers do it?" she asked at one point, although there was no one there to answer. No one there. Once upon a time, there had always been someone there. But not anymore. Thanks to Londo ... they were gone. All the suitors. All gone. Fortunes, gone. Life, gone. She wasn't entirely certain that she was actually going to go through with the suicide. Granted, she was depressed, but the more overwhelming concern for her was that she was bored. She lived this pointless existence, filling days, killing time, and accomplishing nothing. Society was closed to her, doors slammed shut ... again, thanks to Londo Mollari.

When his holographic image had loomed over all of Centauri Prime, she had stood there at the window of her villa and screamed imprecations for the entire time that the figure had stood upon the horizon. Right after that, she had started the suicide note, deciding that a world where Londo Mollari was emperor was one in which she simply did not want to exist anymore. But since the suicide note was going to be her last act of record, she wanted it to be just right. And since she was not a writer by nature or by craft, well ... it was taking a while. Still, she was quite close to finishing a useable draft, and then – that would be that. The only thing remaining would be selecting the means, and she was sure that she would probably go with poison.

Certainly she knew enough about different types, and what would be both effective and painless. Her mother had taught her well in that regard, possessing rather extensive knowledge on that topic. Her father had also been well aware of her mother's erudition along those lines. It had served nicely to keep him in line, and he was quite candid in stating that his wife's mastery of terminal ingestion was the secret to the length and relative calm of their marriage.

When the knock came at the door, Mariel put down her work and called "Yes?" while making no attempt to hide the irritation in her voice over being interrupted.

"A thousand pardons, milady," came the reply from the other side of the door. The speaker sounded rather youthful. "But your presence is requested at the Development office."

"The what?" Having been forcibly removed from the life of politics and the court, Mariel paid very little attention these days to the government or the way in which it was set up.

"The Office of Development, overseen by Chancellor Lione."

It wasn't a name that meant anything to Mariel. She began to wonder if this was some sort of elaborate prank. Or worse, a ploy to get her to open the door so that some sort of assassination attempt might be carried out. After all, Londo was emperor now. If he carried within him a need for revenge against her, certainly he would have the resources to dispatch someone to attend to it. Then again, she was preparing to kill herself anyway. If someone was going to show up and do the job for her, certainly it wasn't that much different. Still, protocol had to be observed.

"Just a moment," she said. She was wearing the sheerest of nightgowns. She had little need to get dressed these days, since she was on her own and no one came to visit her. Even the fellow who delivered food to her once a week simply left the supplies outside the door. Indeed, that had been one of the considerations that had sent her thoughts toward suicide. It wasn't just the humiliation and the ennui, it was also a matter of practicality. Soon what meager savings she had would run out. The delivery fellow had intimated that an "arrangement" might be able to be worked out, and he had suggested it with an unmistakeably lascivious grin. The thought of falling so far that she was actually considering the "arrangement" had been what had finally propelled Mariel's thoughts down the road of embarking upon final festivities. It had also resulted in the supplies being left outside the door. For the sake of propriety, she tossed on a robe over her gown – a sheer robe nonetheless – and answered the door.

There was a very serious-faced young man standing there. She noted his discipline; his gaze did not so much as flicker over the lines of her body. If her beauty had an effect on him, he did not let it show.

"Lady Mariel?" It was intended as an interrogative, although there was very little question in his tone.

"Yes."

"I am Throk of the Prime Candidates. Chancellor Castig Lione wishes to see you."

"Does he now?" She arched one curved brow. "And he has sent you to fetch me?"

"Yes, milady."

"And if I do not choose to go?" She said it with a slightly toying tone. She had not played with a young male in some time. Pleasantly, she found that it still amused her. "Will you take me by force? Will you sling me over your shoulder as I struggle and plead for mercy?"

"No, milady."

"Then what will you do?"

"I will wait until you choose to go."

"Then that is what you will have to do."

With that, she closed the door. It was getting late in the evening. She prepared herself a meager and carefully rationed dinner, ate it slowly and sparingly, worked on her suicide note, read a bit, then went to bed. When she awoke the following morning, she glanced out her front window and was dumbfounded to see Throk standing exactly where he had been the previous afternoon. As near as she could tell, he hadn't moved from the spot. He was covered with morning dew, and a passing bird had seen fit to relieve itself on his shoulder. She opened the door and stared at him.

"My, my. You're quite determined, aren't you."

"No, milady. I simply have my orders. Returning without you would not be following my orders. I was told to treat you with all courtesy. That, in fact, to treat you with discourtesy would result in my answering directly to Minister Durla."

"Who?"

"Minister Durla. The minister of internal security."

"Oh." She frowned. The name was vaguely familiar, but she couldn't place it. No matter. It probably was not important. "And so you have chosen to wait."

"One choice is no choice, milady."

"A good point. Come in."

"I will wait here, milady, if that is acceptable."

The edges of her mouth crinkled.

"And if it is not acceptable?"

"I will still wait here. I was informed you could be quite seductive and was explicitly told not to enter your domicile for fear of being distracted from my mission."

"Ooo. `Quite seductive.' I like the sound of that" She laughed lightly then. This was the most amusement she'd had in ages. "Very well, Throk. Remain there. I will attire myself in something more suitable and then go with you to speak with this chancellor of yours. Oh ... and Throk..."

"Yes, milady."

"A pity you didn't come in. I was going to let you watch me change." She winked one eye lazily as she noted a telltale movement under Throk's shirt while the youth fought to keep an impassive face. She slid shut the door, then leaned against it and laughed some more, her shoulders trembling in silent mirth. She'd forgotten what it was like to entertain herself in that manner.

The day was getting off to quite a start. The Office of Development was more than just an office. It was an entirely new building, tall and gleaming, part of the renovations that had been going on across Centauri Prime. Most impressive, she had to admit. Castig Lione's office was on the top floor, which, for some reason, didn't surprise Mariel in the slightest. Lione rose from behind his desk as Throk ushered her in.

"Milady Mariel," he said, the picture of graciousness. "Young Throk left to fetch you yesterday. We were beginning to lose hope."

"Your noble officer was delayed in rendering assistance to me. He is to be commended," Mariel said smoothly. Just to see Throk's expression, she cupped him under the chin and tickled him behind the ear. Nonetheless, he remained impressively impassive.

"Well done, Throk," Lione said. "You may leave us, now."

"Yes, sir," Throk said in a voice that sounded faintly strangled. He bowed quickly to Mariel and got out of there as quickly as he could.

"My congratulations, milady," said Lione, as he gestured for her to take a seat, which she promptly did. "You have managed the formidable feat of causing Throk to be disconcerted. I thought no one was capable of that."

"I am not no one," Mariel said.

"True. Quite true." He seemed to contemplate her for a moment, and suddenly said, "I have been remiss. Something to drink?"

"No, thank you."

He nodded, then pulled a bottle from his desk drawer, poured himself a glass, and downed it.

"You are doubtlessly wondering why I desired to see you."

"No."

"You're not?" She gave a small shrug of her shapely shoulders. "The world and the events that transpire within it are altogether too insane for my tastes. I prefer to simply allow them to unfold, rather than try to anticipate anything."