by Peter David
He wanted to do something to prevent Sheridan meeting a gruesome death at the scaly hands of the Drakh, but the simple fact was that he wasn’t especially inclined to sacrifice himself to that endeavor. He still valued his own skin above Sheridan’s.
After Vir had left, Londo had monitored the news broadcasts carefully. The keeper had thought nothing of Londo’s watching the news. He was, after all, the emperor. It was only appropriate that he should be keeping himself abreast of current events. And when the news had carried the item about Sheridan’s leading a highly publicized tour of officials into Down Below at Babylon 5, Londo’s spirit had soared. It had been everything he could do to prevent himself from shouting out with joy.
Then his enthusiasm had dissipated. He could almost feel a dark cloud radiating from the keeper, and it was at that moment-even as he saw news footage of the obviously unharmed Sheridan leading the tour-that he had it confirmed for him that, yes indeed, this had been a test. A test that he had failed, because he knew that they knew. He wasn’t quite sure how he was aware of it. Maybe the telepathic bond was becoming two-way. But he did, in fact, know, and now all that remained was waiting for the retaliation to descend upon him.
“Was it worth it?”
Londo was sitting in the private library that had traditionally been the province of the emperor. The Centauri set great store by it. The emperor was considered to be something akin to a living repository of Centauri history, and it was intended that he carry within his head all the great deeds of his predecessors , and the many magnificent accomplishments of the Republic. Because that duty was so respected and sacred, the highest priority was given to providing the emperor with a secluded and well-guarded place where he could indulge his historical interests to his hearts’ content. Indeed, there might not have been a more secure room in the entire palace. There were many books there, and many assorted relics from the illustrious past.
So it was that when Shiv’kala’s voice emerged from the darkness and asked “Was it worth it?” Londo jumped, so violently startled that he nearly knocked over the reading table. He got to his feet, trying to maintain some degree of dignity in the face of such a clumsy response. The light was quite dim in the library; he couldn’t see Shiv’kala at all. “Are you here?” he asked, wondering for a moment if perhaps Shiv’kala was only speaking in his mind but was, in fact, elsewhere entirely.
“Yes. I am here.” Upon hearing the voice again, Londo could indeed tell that Shiv’kala was physically in the room. But his voice seemed to be floating from everywhere. “And you are here. How nice.”
“Nice,” Londo said tersely, “is not the word I would have used. What do you want?"
“'Want' is not the word I would have used," countered Shiv’kala. “I do not `want’ to do what I must. What we must.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Do you not?”
Londo started to feel something, and braced himself. It was the beginning of … the pain. Except it was different somehow. They’d hit him with pain in the past, but he sensed that this was not going to be like the other times. Rather than hitting him suddenly and violently, this time around the pain was starting from a much lower baseline. It gave him cause to think that perhaps he was developing a tolerance for the psychic and physical torment they were inflicting upon him. For that matter … perhaps it was totally unrelated to the Drakh at all.
“Are you doing that?” demanded Londo, putting a hand to his temple.
“You have done it, Londo,” replied Shiv’kala. There was that familiar resignation in his tone. “You … and you alone.”
“I do not know-” The ache was increasing now, reaching the previous levels and growing greater. Londo was finding it hard to breathe, and it seemed as if his hearts were pumping only with effort.
“Oh, you know,” and any trace of sympathy or sadness was suddenly gone from the Drakh’s voice. There was only hardness , and cruelty. “You have made a fool of me, Londo.”
“I? I …” And suddenly Londo staggered. He tripped over the chair in which he’d been sitting and crashed to the floor, because he had been wrong. What he was feeling this time was far worse than anything he had ever endured before at the hands of the Drakh. Perhaps it was worse than anything he had felt in his entire life. He realized belatedly that the agony had started off slowly to put him off guard, to make him think that perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. He had been wrong.
His body began to spasm as the pain rolled over him in waves. He tried to distance himself mentally, tried to shut down his mind, but there was no possibility because the pain was everywhere, in every crevice and fold of his brain, in every sensory neuron of his body. He opened his mouth to try and scream, but he couldn’t even do that because his throat was paralyzed. All he was able to muster was inarticulate gurgling noises.
“I told the Drakh Entire,” continued Shiv’kala, as if Londo were not writhing like a skewered beast, “that you could be trusted. That you knew your place. They requested a test. I provided it. You failed it. That, Londo, is unacceptable.”
Londo completely lost control. Every bit of waste fluid in his body evacuated, something that hadn’t happened since he was two years of age. The sensation was humiliating, the stench was repugnant, and then both of those spiraled away as the agony continued to build. His soul, blackened and battered as it already was, cried out for release. He remembered how he had wanted to die all those months ago, how he had been ready to end it, but he realized that he had been a fool, because he had never wanted to die the way that he did now. At that moment, he would have given anything for the release of death. He would kill his friends and loved ones, he would annihilate a hundred, a thousand innocent Centauri. He would do anything at all just for a cessation of the agony that was hammering through him.
And then it got worse.
He felt himself being torn apart, he felt every single organ in his body liquefying, and he knew, he just knew, that his brain was dissolving and flooding out his ears, he could practically feel it, and the pain was frying his eyes and his teeth were spiking through his gums, his tongue had swollen and was blocking his windpipe, there was burning in every joint that made the slightest movement pure agony, and so he tried to stay still, but the pain prodded him to move and then there was more anguish and it just kept building until it reached the point where he forgot what it was like not to hurt.
And then it stopped.
Just like that, all at once, and he couldn’t move because he was lying there numb and foul-smelling, and he felt as if he would never be able to present himself with dignity ever again, he would never feel safe again, he never wanted another soul to look upon him because he was hideous and disgusting and had been reduced to a quivering, gibbering wreck of a man. The very thought was revolting to him, and yet he couldn’t help it; he was so relieved that the pain had abated, for however short a time, that he cried copious tears, his body shuddering convulsively.
“Do you know how long you endured that?” Shiv’kala asked quietly. Londo tried to shake his head, but if he had been able to answer, he would have said it had been hours. Perhaps days. “Nine seconds,” Shiv’kala continued, apparently knowing that Londo was not going to be in any sort of shape to reply. “You felt that way for precisely nine seconds. Would you like to endure that for twenty or thirty seconds? Or even better … twenty or thirty minutes? Or hours, or days?”
“No … no…” Londo’s voice was barely recognizable as his own. It sounded more like the guttural grunt of a dying creature.
“I did not think so. I doubt that you would survive it. Even if you did, I likewise doubt you’d like what you became as a consequence.”
Londo didn’t reply. None seemed necessary, and he doubted he could have strung a coherent sentence together anyway.
Apparently not caring about Londo’s newly discovered reticence , Shiv’kala said, “That was your punishment, Londo. Punishment, however, will not be enough. You must do
penance. Do you understand? Do you hear what I am saying?”
He managed to nod.
“Good.” Shiv’kala had moved from the shadows and was now standing directly in front of Londo. He tilted his head and regarded the emperor with curiosity. “Tell me, Londo … would you kill Sheridan yourself … if the alternative was more punishment?”
For all the world, Londo wanted to shake his head. He wanted to spit at the Drakh, he wanted to cry out defiance. He wanted to stumble to his feet and fasten his hands around the scaly throat of that grey-skinned monstrosity. At that point, he didn’t care anymore if hidden bombs blew his people to bits. He didn’t care if he died in attempting to strangle Shiv’kala. All he desired at that moment was the opportunity to try and, even more, the will.
Instead he simply nodded. For he knew it to be true; at that moment, he would do anything. Kill Sheridan, kill Delenn, kill Vir, kill Timov … anything, anyone, whatever it took, if it meant not getting another taste of that agonizing “punishment .” Even though his body wasn’t presently being subjected to pain, the memory was still fresh within him. He needed no reminder of what he had just been through; if nothing else, the stench floating from him made it very difficult to forget.
“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 in 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.
- chapter 13 -
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.