The Long Night of Centauri Prime (3 page)

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 Narn Homeworld. The Centauri had smashed the Narns 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 ...

"Madness," he said to no one. "I am driving myself to madness." He gave the matter a moment's blackly humorous thought. "Maybe that is their ultimate goal. An interesting thought. Reducing Centauri Prime to rubble just for the dubious purpose of sending me into insanity. Such overkill. If that was what they desired, they could just have locked me in a room with my ex-wives for a week. That would cause anyone to snap."

To his surprise, a voice responded. "Pardon, Majesty?"

He half turned in his chair and saw a man standing just inside the doorway, regarding Londo with polite curiosity. He was quite thin, with carefully cultivated hair that wasn't particularly high. That was a direct flouting of Centauri standard fashion, for usually the height of hair was meant to be indicative of the rank in society that one had achieved. There was, however, a fringe fashion element that had taken its cue from Emperor Turhan, who had publicly disdained tradition by wearing his hair shorter than the lowest of the lowborn. Some believed that Emperor Cartagia had done so as a way of showing that he wished to maintain a connection to the common man. Others felt he had just done it to annoy people. Either way, the precedent had been set, and some chose to follow it.

Though in the case of this particular Centauri, the one who had interrupted Londo's musings, it wasn't his hair that caught Londo's attention. Nor was it the starched and pressed military uniform he wore so smartly. No, it was his general attitude. He had an eagerness about him ... but it wasn't a healthy sort of eagerness. Vir, for example, had been cloaked in eagerness from the moment he had set foot on Babylon 5. That had been an eagerness to please, one of Vir's more charming features. But this individual ... he had the attitude of a carrion-eating bird perched on a branch, watching a dying man and mentally urging him to hurry up and get on with it.

"Durla ... isn't it?" Londo asked after a moment.

"Yes, Majesty. Your captain of the guards, as appointed by the late regent–" He bowed slightly. "–and continuing to serve at your good humor, Majesty."

"My humor is less than good at the moment, Captain Durla. I do not appreciate interruptions into my privacy."

"With all respect, Majesty, I did not realize you were alone. I heard you speaking and thought you were deep in conversation with someone. Since your schedule does not call for you to have anyone in this room with you at this time of night ... I thought I would make sure that you were not being subjected to any threat. I apologize most profusely if I, in some way, have intruded or made you uncomfortable."

He had all the right words and expressed them perfectly, and yet Londo, still reacting on a gut level, didn't like him. Perhaps ... perhaps it was because, in addition to having the right words, it seemed to Londo as if Durla knew they were the right words. He wasn't expressing his sentiments, whatever those might be. Instead he was saying precisely what he thought Londo wanted to hear.

Another possibility Londo had to admit, was that he was becoming so suspicious jumping at shadows; seeing plots, plans, and duplicity everywhere – that even the most casual meeting brought sinister overtones with it. He was beginning to view the world entirely in subtext, searching out that which was not said, forsaking that which was spoken. It was no way to live. Then again ... that wasn't really a serious consideration for him these days, was it? Not on this, the last day of his life.

Durla hadn't moved. Apparently he was waiting for Londo to dismiss him. Londo promptly obliged him.

"I won't be needing you this evening, Durla. As for your continuing to serve, well ... we shall see how my humor transforms with the passage of time."

"Very well, Majesty. I will make certain that guards remain at all exits."

Londo was not enthused at that particular prospect. If he did decide to do himself in – as was looking more likely by the moment – the last thing he needed was for a couple of guards to hear his body thud to the floor. If they came running in to save him and somehow, against all hope, succeeded ... the embarrassment and humiliation would be overwhelming. And what if he decided to depart the palace grounds, to commit the deed somewhere more remote? Then again, he was the emperor.

"That will not be necessary," he said firmly. "I believe the manpower may be better deployed elsewhere."

"Better?" Durla cocked an eyebrow. "Better than maintaining the safety of our emperor? With all respect, Majesty, I do not think so."

"I do not recall asking your opinion on the matter," Londo informed him. "They will leave, as will you."

"Majesty, with all respect–"

"Stop telling me how much you respect me!" Londo said with obvious irritation. "If I were a young virgin girl and you were endeavoring to seduce me, you might understandably offer repeated protests of how much you respect me. I feel safe in assuming that this is not your intent though, yes?"

"Yes, Your Majesty, you would be quite safe with that assumption." A hint of a smile briefly tugged at the edges of Durla's mouth. Then he grew serious again. "However, not only is your safety my primary concern, it is part of my job description. Of course, you could always release me from my job, but it would be unfortunate if I were to be fired simply because I was doing my duty. It has been my understanding that you, Emperor Mollari, are the fairest-minded individual to come into a position of power on Centauri Prime in quite a while. Is that not the case?"

Oh yes, very facile. Very good with words. Londo wasn't fooled for even a moment by his comments. Still ... It didn't matter. Not really. All Londo had to do was wait until he retired for the night. Then, lying in his bed, he could quietly put an end to himself. Since he would be lying flat, he wouldn't need to worry about "thumps" alerting guards. That was it. That was all he had to do. Bid Durla good night, retire for the evening ... and then retire permanently. That was it. Dismiss Durla and be done with it.

Durla waited expectantly. Londo didn't like him. He had no idea why he was operating on such a visceral level. Part of him actually rejoiced in the notion that, soon, Durla would be someone else's problem. But another part of him wondered just what Durla was up to. He was ... a loose end. Londo hated loose ends. He particularly hated the knowledge that this loose end might unravel after he was gone.