1-The Long Night of Centauri Prime

by Peter David

  Then she had laughed and walked away, with a sway of slender hips under a stunningly sheer fabric. “Mariel!” he called after her. “Mariel, wait! Wait, I love you! If you only had any idea of what I did to be with you-“

  She didn’t, of course. That was likely fortunate, for if she had known, Durla would have wound up in prison … if his father and mother hadn’t killed him first. Instead, Mariel was shortly thereafter linked with the House Mollari. Her hand in marriage had been given …

  To him.

  To Londo Mollari.

  Durla had been present at their bonding. He had no idea why he had subjected himself to it … no. No, he did have an idea. It was more like a fantasy, actually. He fantasized that Mariel would suddenly come to her senses at the last moment . That she would throw over Mollari for him. That she would run from Mollari, realizing the hideous mistake that she was about to make, and call to Durla to rescue her.

  And then … then there would be a glorious battle. He would fight his way out, Mariel at his side singing his praises. He would battle through the crowd and then he and Mariel would run and keep running, leaving it all behind to start a new life.

  It was a very nice fantasy. Unfortunately it had no relation whatsoever to reality. The bonding ceremony had proceeded without interruption, and Mariel hadn’t so much as glanced in Durla’s direction.

  He stood in the back of the room, trembling with suppressed rage as the sight, the very thought, of Mollari sent him into barely contained spasms of fury. Mollari was an appalling specimen of Centauri manhood. He was too old for Mariel, he was too ugly for Mariel. Mollari was a respected house, true, but Londo wasn’t an especially promising member of that house. A third-level bottom feeder at best, that was Durla’s assessment of him. Everything about Londo had grated on Durla. The way he wore his hair, the scowl lines in his forehead, his deep, pronounced northern province accent, his tendency to declaim as if, even in casual conversation, he was speaking to people from a balcony. A thoroughly deplorable and unlikeable individual, that was Londo Mollari.

  And yet it would be his lips upon Mariel’s. It would be his hands caressing her, his tentacles that-

  It was all that Durla could do to remain there and see the ceremony through to its end. But he did, and when the crowds of well-wishers surrounded Londo and Mariel as they prepared to depart, Durla had made certain to hang far back. He kept waiting for Mariel, at the very least, to look around and see if she could spot him. She did not. Instead she never took her eyes from Londo. She seemed happy to be married to him, content with her lot in life.

  Inside, Durla was screaming.

  That had been many years earlier, of course. His interest in Marie] had been a blistering hot obsession forged in the fires of youthful interest, and nothing more. That was what he told himself. He was over her; she was part of his past … indeed, truth to tell, she had never really been a part of his life at all. Merely a fantasy.

  And yet, he had never married. Never even seriously pursued a romantic relationship.

  Instead he had focused all his energies upon his career. If he could not please himself, at least he could work on pleasing his parents, in general, and his father, in particular. In that regard, he attained a measure of success.

  To his father, it was Solla who remained the true jewel in the family crown. Even in death, Solla was thought of more highly. However Durla managed to work his way through the ranks by dint of sheer determination and hard work, and that sort of dedication had to count for something.

  In the meantime, he had kept tabs on Londo Mollari. It hadn’t been difficult. People generally spoke of him in very derisive tones, making no secret of their opinions. Mollari would talk longingly of times past and how he wanted the Centauri Republic to be what it once was. But anyone could speak of such things; it took a man of action and vision to actually bring them to fruition. Mollari was neither.

  If he had kept his mouth shut, it wouldn’t have been such a problem, but Mollari was renowned for getting himself liquored up and shouting at the top of his lungs about what the Republic could be and should be. When he had received the assignment of ambassador to Babylon 5, the word around the court was that, at last, Mollari would be sent someplace where even his bellowing tones would not be heard.

  Durla had loved it. He wanted nothing but to see Mollari spiral into hopeless disgrace.

  And who knew? Perhaps he would become so bored and fed up with his lot in life that he would do the honorable thing, throw himself on his sword and put an end to it all. Once that happened, Mariel would be available to him once again. And if Mollari waited to dispose of himself, giving Durla enough time to work himself up to a position of sufficient importance, why … perhaps Mariel might see him in a very different light.

  Some nights as he lay on his spartan, military cot, Durla would envision the shade of Mollari, screaming from the afterlife in helpless frustration as Durla bedded his widow in far greater fashion, and with greater potency, than Londo ever could have achieved.

  There might well have been people in the court who were more surprised than Durla, when word of Londo Mollari’s growing power base began to trickle back to the Homeworld. But no one could have been more horrified than he. The last thing he needed-or desired-was for Londo Mollari to make a success of himself, to turn his career around. Unfortunately , to Durla’s horror, that was precisely what happened.

  His horror turned to delight when Mollari unceremoniously tossed Mariel aside, divorcing her along with one of his other wives, Daggair. He had chosen to keep as his wife a diminutive, brittle shrew named Timov, and that decision had mystified a number of people who were familiar with all three wives, and who would have wagered their life’s fortunes that-if Mollari were to keep only one wife-it would be the stunningly beautiful Mariel. Ultimately, that had left the way clear for Durla once more, but his luck still had not improved.

  His calls to Mariel went unanswered. Gifts he sent her remained unacknowledged. The silence was an obvious response : he had not sufficiently acquitted himself in the grand scheme of things to have placed himself on Mariel’s horizon.

  And with Mollari maneuvering himself, positioning himself to be the next emperor, Durla became certain he had to build his own power base within the government. Such a power base would have to consist of friends and allies who were his and his alone. But Durla, as yet only the captain of the guards, had no power of his own, no means of bringing in his people. Once Mollari became emperor, naturally he would bring in his own flunkies, and Durla would be frozen out.

  As much as it galled him to do so, Durla had embarked upon the only strategy he could devise: he decided he would be the perfect captain of the guards. He would get as close to Londo as possible, with an eye toward obtaining a position of power and, once he had done that, building from there. He figured the entire process would take a number of years, and hoped that nothing would dramatically change Mariel’s marital status in the meantime.

  To Durla’s astonishment, however, his timetable was thrown completely out of whack when Londo -defying all predictions of the court pundits-promoted him to the key position of minister of Internal Security. Mollari had proven himself a bizarre study in contradictions. For Durla had had the distinct and unshakeable impression that the emperor really couldn’t stand him. That somehow Mollari had sensed, on a very basic level, that Durla despised him, hungered for power, and wouldn’t rest until he himself was wearing the white.

  But for reasons that surpassed understanding-call it stupidity, call it a death wish, call it whatever one desired Mollari had not only entrusted Durla with formidable responsibility , but offered no resistance whatever to Durla’s placing loyal associates in key positions of power.

  Durla didn’t know why Mollari was doing it. He had theories . One he found the most plausible was that Mollari was, for some reason, experiencing massive guilt over the war he had engineered, and so was setting himself up to fail. It not only made the most sense, it was just
about the only one that made any sense at all.

  On this particular evening, he had been dwelling on the curious chain of events that had brought him to his present state when he had fallen asleep. Probably because everything was so fresh on his mind, faces flittered past him as his consciousness hovered in the grey area between sleep and wakefulness . His parents, his brother, other soldiers, Mollari, and looming above them all, Mariel, with her perfect teeth and her eyes sparkling …

  “Durla,” she whispered to him.

  She was holding out her hand, and the dream was most curious , for it didn’t seem as insubstantial as dreams normally are. “Durla.” She called him once more, and this time she beckoned to him. A miasma of color was swirling about her.

  Durla saw himself through his mind’s eye, stepping toward her. He took her hand. No, he mused, this is definitely not like other dreams. Usually dreams simply provide a feast for the visual memory. But when he took her hand, it felt firm and warm and alive.

  “Come,” she said, and she tugged on his hand slightly, but just to test the situation Durla resisted. Instead of moving, he pulled her toward him, gripped her shoulders, and kissed her roughly. She didn’t resist; her body seemed to melt against his. Warmth flooded over him, and then she was no longer in his arms, but instead a few feet away, gesturing coquettishly for him to follow. “Time enough for that later, my love,” she said teasingly.

  He followed her then, unreality swirling around them. Clouds of red and purple seemed to pulse with an energy all their own, and Durla realized they were in hyperspace, moving effortlessly through that light-speed bridge. They didn’t appear to need a space vessel; they were above such petty needs, beyond them, outside them.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “You’ll see,” she replied.

  Hyperspace dissolved around them, and a world materialized far below Durla’s feet. Then there was a sudden flash of light, and Durla found Mariel and himself standing on the planet’s surface. The sky hung in an orangy haze, and the dirt beneath their feet was kicking up in clouds of dust.

  “Where are we?” Durla asked. “What is this place?”

  “A fringe world. It’s designated K0643,” Mariel said. She squeezed his hand affectionately and added, “Walk with me.”

  He did so. And as they walked, he realized he had never known such happiness, such bliss. He was afraid to speak anymore for fear of shattering the moment and sending himself spiraling back to wakefulness.

  “The Centauri Republic must expand,” she said.

  “I know. We must show the allied worlds that we are to be feared, to be-“

  But Mariel shook her head. She didn’t seem the least annoyed with him; indeed, her evident fondness for him only appeared to be growing. “You speak of conquest. That is not your immediate concern.”

  “It’s not?”

  “No, my love.”

  He thought he was going to cry out with joy, and was barely able to contain his euphoria. My love! She called me “My love! “

  “You must look for that which no one else knows about. There are other worlds, worlds in which the Alliance has no interest. Remote worlds such as this one. You must mount archaeological investigations. You must dig. You must locate. While you do this, the Interstellar Alliance will laugh at you. They will sneer and say, `Look at the once-great Centauri Republic , rooting around on barren worlds and scraping about in the dirt like the basest of creatures.’ Let them say these things. Let them lull themselves into a false sense of security.

  “It will not last, and they will discover the error of their ways … but by then, it will be too late. Look outside Centauri Prime, Durla. There, and only there, will you find your true greatness.”

  “And you? If I do these things, I will have you?”

  She laughed, and nodded, but then added warningly, “Do not seek me out. As tempted as you may be, do not do so. If you chase me, I will find you contemptible. I must come to you. You must know that by now. I must be drawn to you, and only then will you truly be able to call me your own.”

  “And this planet offers the way?”

  “This, and others like it. You have the resources. Organize the diggers. Organize the crews. Assign the manpower. You can do it, Durla. I believe in you. And you can believe in me.”

  She gripped both of his hands, kissed him gently on the knuckles, and then released him. They did not drop to his sides but remained there, in midair, and he looked at them as if they were appendages belonging to someone else. She backed away, gliding, almost floating. He tried to move toward her, but she easily kept the same distance between them, even as her arms stretched out toward him m mute pleading.

  Durla twisted in his bed, his arms flailing about in the real world as he tried to touch Mariel in the dream sphere.

  And then he stopped thrashing, as a small, spidery creature descended from his right temple and scuttled across the floor. The last few feet to its destination, it did not even bother to walk, but instead vaulted the distance. The dreamweaver landed on Shiv’kala’s abdomen and nestled there securely.

  “Well done,” Shiv’kala said softly.

  He will not take action due to this one vision, warned the dreamweaver, a special offshoot breed of the keeper.

  “Yes. I know. It will take several instances of this ‘recurring dream’ for him to truly embrace it. But once he does…’”

  He did not need to finish the sentence.

  He heard footfalls. Durla had cried out once or twice during the session, and apparently night guards were coming by to ascertain whether or not he was all right.

  The guards opened the door and peered in, but Durla had calmed. He was sound asleep, his chest rising and falling steadily. They performed a scan of the room that was so subtle Durla didn’t even stir. The scan accomplished nothing.

  And so they moved off, never seeing the Drakh as he stood quietly in the shadows and planned.

  The sleeper was completely awake. Within him resided the rill and the means to accomplish that which he had been deigned to accomplish.

  The procession was moving toward him, and the sleeper moved himself into position … and waited…

  Soon … soon the reason for his existence would be carried out. Soon, very soon… Sheridan would be dead. It was only a matter of moments.

  - chapter 10 -

  Vir sat in his quarters, staring at the wall and wondering whether there was any point in his continuing to remain at Babylon 5. He had spent a sleepless night pondering the question and was no closer to an answer now than he’d been before.

  As an ambassador, he felt his talents were questionable at best. And even if he were the greatest, most skilled diplomat in the history of the galaxy … what good would it do if no one was interested in speaking with him?

  He felt it more and more, every time he would walk around the station. The eyes upon him that seemed to regard him with barely concealed contempt. Or scorn. Or anger.

  Once upon a time, Babylon 5 had seemed a very intimidating place to him. Secrets lurked behind every corner, and he had always felt as if he were watching helplessly while Londo descended into darkness. At the time that it was happening , he would have thought it insane if someone suggested to him that he would become nostalgic for those days.

  But indeed, that was exactly the case. As complex as his life was, as terrifying as that slow downward spiral into war and even murder had been … those were, in fact, the good old days. At least people had liked him then. He had had friends.

  Garibaldi had certainly liked him well enough, because obviously he had never considered Vir any sort of threat to B5 security. Now, however, the Centauri were considered a perpetual problem, a race not to be trusted, not to be left to their own devices. A race who would leave you with a dagger quivering in your back if you let down your guard. And Garibaldi, whose responsibilities included anticipating and neutralizing any potential security problems for the entirety of the Interstellar Alliance, had come t
o regard Vir with suspicion at all times.

  Sheridan …

  He had considered Sheridan a friend. A bit distant, what with all his responsibilities as captain of Babylon 5, but a friend nonetheless. Someone to whom he could unburden himself. But the truth now was that Sheridan didn’t dare be friendly with him. It might cause too many negative ramifications for him with the rest of the Alliance. Not that Sheridan would admit to such a thing; he was too much the individualist to let public sentiment sway him from following a particular path. Vir, though, couldn’t find it within himself to risk putting Sheridan into that position. The stakes were too high, the Alliance too important in the long run, to risk upsetting member races just because Vir felt lonely.

  Lennier … of all of them, he missed Lennier the most. When they had both been mere attaches serving their respective diplomatic leaders/mentors, they had met regularly to unburden themselves to one another. Of all of them, Lennier had probably best understood what it was that Vir was going through at any given time.

  But Lennier had joined the Rangers, for reasons Vir had to admit eluded him completely. Lennier was deeply religious, thoughtful, a pacifist. What business did he have traipsing about the galaxy as a man-at-arms? When Vir had mused out loud to Londo about that, Londo had looked thoughtful for a time. He seemed to be running through his mind everything he knew about Lennier, reaching some conclusions. Then he had said to Vir, “There is an old Earth organization-very much romanticized-whose history might provide you with some answers, if what I suspect is correct. Read up on the French Foreign Legion.”