1-The Long Night of Centauri Prime Page 8

  She had been checking through libraries, through data bases. The writings of Telis Elaris were quietly being removed , disappearing one by one.

  She lay back on the grass, looked up at the clouds. She tried to conjure up images … and nothing suggested itself. They were just white collections of mist and vapors, and would soon go away, just as everything went away.

  Tears began to roll down her face, even though she made no noise.

  “Why?” she whispered.

  No answers came.

  The sleeper began to stir.

  He did not fully realize what was happening, not on any conscious level. He simply developed the oddest feeling that everything around him was … incidental. That it would soon cease to have any true relevance to his life.

  He went about his business, trying to ignore the faint buzzing that was becoming more pronounced in his head. When he could ignore it no longer, he went to the medical people, but their rather cursory examination found nothing. He didn’t fault them, for it, not really. He was having trouble explaining to them just what it was that he was feeling, so how could they know what to look for? He didn’t even understand it himself.

  So he pushed himself to go on with his life and not dwell on that which he did not understand. And when word trickled down that the president of the Interstellar Alliance was going to be doing a walk-through of Down Below …that he was, in fact, endeavoring to develop a program that would be of help to everyone there, why … that all sounded fine. Excellent, in fact. Down Below could use all the help it could get.

  He did not realize yet that he would be assassinating President Sheridan. Assassination was the furthest thing from his mind. He was just a normal guy, trying to get on with his normal life. Thoughts of murder and mayhem were far, far away.

  He didn’t understand that they were going to draw quite close.

  - chapter 6 -

  Vir hadn’t known what to expect when he arrived back on Centauri Prime.

  When he had departed, right after the inauguration, it had been under less-than-ideal circumstances. Cities had been reduced to smoldering ruins, and Londo had delivered a bizarre speech that sounded as if it was designed to fan the flames of hostility and rage against the Interstellar Alliance. What good could possibly come from getting the Centauri people even more worked up? Vir had wondered, mystified. They had to understand that it was a time of reconciliation. Of redemption.

  Yes … that was what was required, Vir thought as the transport ship that carried him the final leg to his destination drew within reach of the Centauri Prime main spaceport. Redemption. The Centauri had much for which they had to redeem themselves.

  The truth was that they had done great evil. They had attacked the Narns, they had provided aid to the most evil of evil races, the Shadows. As a race they had sinned mightily, and as a race they were being called upon to repent. Repenting for their sins, however, was not going to be easy if their ire was stirred and they were made to feel as if they-the poor, put-upon citizens of Centauri Prime-were the victims. Yes, there had been misunderstandings. Yes, there seemed to have been deliberate plots to vilify Centauri Prime in the eyes of other races. But wasn’t the truth that they, the Centauri people, had left themselves open for precisely that sort of under-the-table assault?

  If they had had a reputation for being peaceful, gentle, unaggressive … certainly no one could have manipulated them into a position where they were considered to be a threat. But the Centauri had, through their own actions and with their own blood-covered hands, made certain that everyone knew they were a dread force to be reckoned with.

  Well, the reckoning had come, hadn’t it. And look at what the result had been. Just look.

  “Just look to your right,” the pilot’s voice came over the speaker system of the transport, “and you’ll see the restoration of the entire north quarter of our glorious capital city. Work is continuing on the city’s other sections, under the building-relief programs created and overseen by our glorious emperor. In the meantime, increased Centauri industry has bolstered our economy, supporting not only our rebuilding efforts, but also paying off oftentimes m trade-the reparations that we have so generously agreed to pay the members of the ungrateful Interstellar Alliance.”

  Vir gulped. He did not like the sound of that at all. Furthermore , he had the feeling that the pilot was reading from a prepared text. He wondered just who had prepared it. He glanced around the shuttle at his fellow passengers. Everyone else in the shuttle was Centauri. He was curious to see that all of them were nodding their heads in unison over the comments about the emperor’s great works … and unsettled to note that they were shaking their heads together and scowling when there was mention of the Alliance.

  No, not good at all. He was definitely going to have to talk to Londo about it. The problem was, he had absolutely no idea what he was going to say.

  He had endeavored to remain in touch with Londo, as was his mandate while he served as the Centauri ambassador to Babylon 5. He hadn’t anticipated that it would become a problem. If nothing else, he had figured that the normally gregarious Londo would retain his interest in his associates back on the station. That he would be anxious to check in with Vir as often as possible, to learn who was up to what, catch up on all the latest gossip. Such had not been the case, however. Weeks, even months would go by without Vir being able to communicate with Londo at all. Instead he found more and more of his conversations being held with Durla, the minister of Internal Security. The last time that he had encountered someone that chilling it had been the notorious Mr. Morden, and there had certainly been no love lost in that relationship . Lives and heads lost, yes, but no love.

  “I will relay your concerns to the emperor. The emperor is busy at the moment. The emperor appreciates your communiques.” These and a litany of stock phrases had tripped off Durla’s lips so often that Vir knew them by hearts. And on those occasions when Vir somehow, miraculously, did get through to Londo, the emperor had always spoken with such care and judiciousness that Vir couldn’t help but get the feeling that all their conversations were being monitored somehow. The thought itself should have been absurd. Londo was, after all, the most powerful person on Centauri Prime. Theoretically, there should be no one and nothing who would have the temerity and the power to oversee his interests and activities. Who did Londo have to fear?

  Then Vir considered the fate of previous Centauri emperors , and filled in the answer to that: Everyone.

  But Londo wasn’t like other emperors. Certainly he was nothing like Cartagia, the madman. And he was nothing like the regent, who had brought their world to the brink of ruin. Londo was a good man, a decent man. That had to count for something, didn’t it?

  Didn’t it?

  Unfortunately, even in his own mind, he could not divine an answer for that.

  Fortunately for everyone aboard the transport, Vir’s concentration wasn’t necessary for the transport to land safely. So his thoughts were able to ramble about all manner of concerns while the craft settled safely onto its landing spot in the main spaceport.

  * * *

  “Ambassador Vir!”

  Vir’s first impulse was still to look over his shoulder, to see if someone else was being hailed. Hearing the designation “ambassador” in front of his name was still something of a jolt to him, and he always felt slightly guilty-as if he were an imposter. Or perhaps a mistake had simply been made and another Vir was being summoned …

  In this instance, however, he managed to fight the impulse and look instead toward whomever it was that was endeavoring to get his attention.

  There was a rather tall individual standing there. He was somewhat pale in complexion, with sunken eyes and a voice that seemed to originate from somewhere around his ankles. When he walked it was with a slight hunch, as if he perpetually had to lean forward to hear what you had to say. His medium-high hair was quite light, as pale in its way as his skin tone. Standing next to him was a young boy who could
n’t have been more than thirteen. Curiously, although the tall man was dressed in the sort of finery that Vir had come to associate with the imperial court, the boy was sporting some some sort of uniform, such as Vir had never seen before. It was mostly black, which gave Vir eerie flashbacks to the Psi Corps, but it was broken up by a bloodred sash draped across his chest.

  “Ambassador Vir,” said the tall man. “I am Castig Lione, chancellor of Development, attached to Minister Durla’s office. It is an honor to meet you. Throk, take the gentleman’s bags.”

  “Oh, that’s quite all right,” Vir started to say, but he spoke too slowly. The teen, Throk, was already at his side and was gripping firmly the bags that Vir held m either hand. Vir took one look into the boy’s eyes, and promptly released the bags. The boy wielded them easily … actually, with a great deal more ease than Vir had carried them. Vir told himself that it was just because he was tired from the trip. “I … wasn’t expecting anyone to pick me up, actually. I just figured I’d make my way to the palace on my own. I didn’t mean to put anyone out.”

  Lione smiled. When he did so, however, it looked as if he were in some sort of vague pain. Just as quickly as it appeared , the smile vanished. “You are everything that I have heard. Humble and self-effacing, as if you still do not appreciate your importance.”

  “Well … once upon a time, you have to understand … … being ambassador to Babylon 5 not only wasn’t especially important … it was actually sort of a well …” He lowered his voice as if he was concerned about offending Londo, who was nowhere in sight. “… a joke. A position that no one took particularly seriously.”

  “Times change,” said Lione.

  “Yes, they certainly do. And who is this young man? Throk, I believe you said his name was?” Vir smiled broadly at him and was greeted with an unflinching, sullen face, and eyes that somehow gave him a free-floating sense of anxiety. “Is there some significance to the uniform?”

  “Throk is one of the first members of the Centauri youth group. We call them the Prime Candidates. And indeed, they are excellent candidates to be the next generation of leaders of our world.”

  “Oh, a play on words! That’s very cute,” said Vir.

  Throk gave him a look that, Vir realized, could have brought on a new ice age if there were a way to harness it. “We are not cute,” he said succinctly.

  “Throk…” chided Lione warningly.

  “Sir,” amended Throk stiffly. “We are not cute, sir.”

  “I … stand corrected,” said Vir, who was already feeling more and more creepy about the entire business.

  “Chapters of the Prime Candidates are opening across Centauri Prime. The young are the hope of the future, Ambassador , as is always the case. So it was felt that one of the best things that could be done for the morale and spirit of our citizenry was for them to see the energies and enthusiasm of our youth harnessed in a positive manner.”

  “And what do the Prime Candidates do, exactly?” Vir asked Throk.

  Throk did not hesitate. “Whatever Chancellor Lione tells us to.”

  “Oh.”

  “They do public works, public services. Clean-up campaigns , running public information offices … that sort of thing,” Lione explained.

  “That all sounds wonderful. And this was the emperor’s idea?”

  “Minister Durla’s, actually, but the emperor embraced it immediately. I was then brought in by Minister Durla to oversee the program … and also explore other means of lifting morale throughout Centauri Prime.”

  They climbed into a waiting transport that immediately hurtled in the direction of the palace.

  “You know … I have a thought on that.”

  “On what, Ambassador?”

  “On boosting morale. There’s this remarkable Earth game I was introduced to on Babylon 5 by Capt-by President Sheridan. If we could organize teams to play it, that might do wonders.”

  “Indeed.” Castig Lione once again made that slightly winced smile. Throk sat in the seat just ahead of them and stared resolutely forward. “What might that be?”

  “It’s called `baseball.’ “

  “Indeed,” Lione said once more.

  “How is it played?”

  “Well,” said Vir, warming to the topic, “you have nine men on each side. And one man, he stands in the middle of the field, on an elevated pile of dirt, and he has a ball, about this big.” He shaped the imaginary spheroid in his hands. “And there’s a man from the other team, and he stands a distance away holding a stick.”

  “A stick.”

  “Well, a large stick. And the man on the dirt throws the ball at the man with the stick.”

  “Endeavoring to injure or kill him?” Castig Lione’s interest seemed piqued.

  “Oh, no. No, he tries to throw it past him. And the man with the stick tries to hit it. If he misses it, he gets two more attempts to try and hit it. If he hits it, he runs to a base-“

  “A military base?”

  “No, it’s a square, about so big. He tries to run to the base before one of the other men on the field gets the ball there ahead of him.”

  “And if he accomplishes this … what happens?” Lione didn’t seem to be quite as intrigued as he had been when he had thought the object was to concuss the man with the stick.

  “If he doesn’t make it, he’s out.”

  “Of the game?”

  “Oh, no, no he can try later when it’s his turn again. But if he does make it to the base, then he has a chance to try and get to another base.”

  “That seems rather pointless. Why doesn’t he just stay on the one he’s on?”

  “Because if he gets to a second base, then he gets to try for …”

  “A third base?” Lione’s interest was definitely flagging. “Is there a point to all this somewhere?”

  “Oh, yes! After he gets to the third base, he gets to to go home.”

  “Home? You mean he leaves the game?”

  “No, it’s called home base. If he gets to home base, then his team scores a run. And they do this back and forth, getting runs or outs, until there’s three outs from each side, and that’s called an `inning.’ And the game goes until nine innings, unless it’s tied in which case it can go on forever, or it rains or everyone just gets sick of it.”

  Castig Lione stared at Vir, then asked, “And this is a popular game on Earth?”

  “Humans love it,” said Vir.

  And Throk said dourly, “No wonder the Minbari tried to wipe them out.”

  - chapter 7 -

  “Vir! Viiiiir!”

  Londo’s greeting of him was big and boisterous and not at all what Vir had expected. Then again, there was a large party going on, and in that sort of environment Londo was most definitely in his element.

  It was all quite exciting for Vir. Certainly he had attended enough parties, particularly in Londo’s presence. The Londo of old was something of a magnet for such festivities. Many were the revelries that he was able to recall on Babylon 5, although admittedly his memory of some of them was recalled through a bit of a haze. A pleasant haze, but a haze nonetheless.

  But this … this was a party in the court!

  For all that Vir had been through-for all of the secret plots, and his own hideous involvement in such dire schemes as assassinations-he had never truly left behind the relatively innocent individual that he once had been. And that individual was the fool of the Cotto clan, the embarrassment, the one who was never going to amount to anything. When he had been shunted away to Babylon 5, to serve as aide to the equally despised Londo Mollari, it had simply been the latest insult in a life laden with insults.

  To be part of the court, to rub elbows with the movers and shakers of Centauri rank and society … inwardly he still felt a sort of disbelief over how everything had turned out. This was not how it was supposed to go for Vir Cotto. He was supposed to eke out an existence, and try not to get into anyone’s way. That had been the entirety of his aspirations.
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  So to be arriving in court, to be able to hold his head high … he still felt as if he had to pinch himself to make certain that he wasn’t dreaming it all. That was how he felt, even though he knew that the dream had its dark, nightmarish side. Yes, he knew that all too well.

  The grand reception hall was alive with activity. There was song and dance and merriment. A scantily clad dancing girl bumped up against Vir and smiled … at him … in a most sultry manner before pirouetting of thin veils trailing from her hands. Waiters bearing an assortment of gourmet tidbits converged on him from all sides, almost stumbling over one another to serve him. People were dressed in the most glorious finery, chatting and laughing and acting as if they had not a care in the world.

  “Vir!” Londo shouted once more and began to make his way through the crowd. When one is the emperor, such an action is far less taxing than it would be for others. The crowd magically melted before him to make way, closing itself behind him as he passed. It gave him the appearance of being a great ship moving through the ocean. The ship of state, Vir told himself.

  Londo was holding a drink. He passed one nobleman and, without hesitation, plucked the drink from the man’s hand and bore it toward Vir. It took a moment for it to register on the nobleman, but when he realized who it was who had absconded with his drink, he simply gestured toward one of the wandering waiters and signaled that another would be required.

  “Vir! I must tell you a riddle!” Londo said as he thrust the glass into Vir’s hand.

  Several things were tumbling about in Vir’s head: to thank Londo for the drink; to tell him he didn’t need it; to tell Londo that he, Londo, was looking quite well; to tell him that he was pleased that he had been invited to this get-together. All of this occurred to him, but was promptly washed away by the unexpected declaration. “A … riddle?”