The Long Night of Centauri Prime (14 page)

"The problem is ... I find myself in a bit of an uncomfortable situation," Sheridan admitted. "The simple fact is that several members of the Alliance looked over the list of invited attendees, saw that your name was on it, and became rather ... incensed."

"Incensed?"

"Understand, Vir, it's nothing personal," Sheridan said quickly. "I know you to be a fine, upstanding, and highly moral individual. But the others, they don't know you, and just assume you to be a..."

"Typical Centauri?" He saw Sheridan's discomfiture and sighed sadly. "It's all right, you can say it. I know my people's conduct hasn't won us a large number of allies. We've raped what we've sown; isn't that how you Humans would put it?"

"Actually, wed say `reaped,' but considering what was done to some worlds by the Centauri ..."

"Then he shook it off."

"No. No reason for rehashing the past. The bottom line, Vir, is that several key members' races have stated that they don't want you – that is to say, any representative of Centauri Prime – along on the tour. There's still a good deal of anger and bruised feelings, not only over the Republic's past actions, but in response to the current attitude that's being displayed on Centauri Prime – toward the Alliance. Everything from Londo's speech to the publication of Verity, the new Centauri official newspaper."

"Oh yes. Verity." Now that was indeed something with which Vir was quite familiar. Since the restoration had begun, the various independent publications available on Centauri Prime had dwindled very nearly to nonexistence. But then, out of nowhere, Verity had appeared, billing itself as the "Voice of the Centauri People." It purported to be an utterly independent publication, but the rumor was that it was simply the mouthpiece of certain government factions. Now that Vir had been back to Centauri Prime, he would have bet that Minister Durla's hand was somewhere deep into Verity's pockets, controlling everything that went on with the publication. There was no way to prove it, though, and there was certainly no reason to raise the issue with Sheridan. It wasn't as if he could do anything, or should even if he could. Verity took every opportunity to besmirch the name, honor, and intentions of the Interstellar Alliance. The publication advocated a return to Centauri greatness ... although Vir couldn't help but notice that precisely how they might return to greatness was always left rather vague. It was as if the publication was content to stir nationalistic fires among the readership without actually giving them a tangible goal. Or at least, not just yet.

"So you're saying that you don't want me to attend," Vir said.

"No. No, I'm not saying that at all. The Alliance has to understand that the best way to work toward a future is to do so with as many allies as possible. And that includes the Centauri. I'm letting you know about the hostility, though, because it's very likely that there will be some who will do everything they can to make you feel uncomfortable. Rest assured, though, that I will do everything within my power..."

"That ... won't be necessary," said Vir quietly. "I have no desire to put you in a difficult position."

"Vir–" Sheridan had to laugh. "–I'm president of the Interstellar Alliance. Being in difficult positions comes with the job description."

"Yes, I know that. Nevertheless, that doesn't mean that I have to make the job any more difficult than it already is, right? The simple truth, Mr. President, is that I don't want to be somewhere that I'm not especially wanted. Trust me on this: I've had a lot of experience with not being wanted in various places. So I've got a fairly thick skin when it comes to this kind of thing."

"Vir–"

Vir got to his feet.

"I very much appreciate the opportunity to have this talk, Mr. President. I'm glad we did. I'm glad I know where I ... where we, that is to say, the Centauri Republic ... stand."

"Vir, didn't you hear what I said?" Sheridan said, in obvious exasperation. "I'm not about to let the Alliance push me around. I was just giving you a sort of `heads up' over a potentially difficult situation, but that doesn't mean..."

"Actually, Mr. President ... it does. It does mean ... precisely what you think it does. I have to go now." Vir headed for the door. Sheridan came around his desk, looking rather concerned.

"Vir..." he started to say.

Vir turned to face him, squared his shoulders and said, "I think ... I think it'd be better if you called me `Ambassador Cotto' for the time being." And with that, he walked out of Sheridan's office.

9

Everything seemed so clear to Durla, although rarely more so than when he was sleeping. When he was awake, he knew what it was that he wanted for Centauri Prime. But there was so much to deal with, so many details to attend to. People clamoring for his attention, this chancellor wanting something, that minister requiring five minutes of his time. It was always five minutes, at least in theory. Naturally, once he was in any given meeting, five minutes became fifteen, or twenty, or half an hour, and the next thing he knew his entire schedule was simply shot. It was just so easy to get distracted by everything. But when he was asleep, why, there was when he saw the future – his future – with glorious clarity. He saw himself standing hundreds of feet tall in the air, a giant holographic projection that could be seen for miles. That, indeed, could be seen all over the world. He saw himself addressing the people, leading them, rallying them, and they were shouting his name over and over, praising him, begging him to let them share in his glorious and great vision. He spoke to them of the magnificence that was Centaurs Prime's destiny, of all that the great republic was going to accomplish under his leadership. Once more they shouted his name, and over and over again. It was quite exhilarating, really. He had always aspired to greatness, ever since he had been told that it was something he would never be able to accomplish.

His father was a military man, and very demanding. He had produced two sons, within a year of each other, and it had taken very little time in their development to realize who was the favored son. It wasn't Durla. No, it was his older brother, Solla. It had been difficult for Durla to hate Solla. In addition to being a great scholar and a brilliant soldier, Solla had also possessed a kind heart. As fearsome as he could be in times of combat, he was equally compassionate when dealing with his younger brother. Only a year separated them, true, but it might as well have been a chasm. Durla had had to work for everything that he achieved, whereas for Solla it seemed to come easily. He made it all appear effortless. He rarely seemed to study, and yet he scored higher grades than Durla. Durla never saw him practicing, and yet Solla's blade was easily the deadliest in the city. Everyone knew that Solla was going far. That was why Durla had to kill him.

The final straw had been Solla's woman. She had been incredibly beautiful, amazingly exotic, the daughter of a highborn noble. And young Durla, just turning his twentieth year, had seen her during one of their infrequent trips to the emperor's court. Unfortunately for Durla, the woman had seen Solla, and become instantly smitten with him. Solla was likewise taken with her, and who could blame him? Luminous eyes, a long, red, plaited braid that hung alluringly off the side of her head, a body so firm and sculpted that when she walked the sinew of her muscle played gloriously just beneath her bronzed skin. Every time Durla saw her, his body ached for her.

As it turned out, he wasn't alone. There was another Centauri as well, who served in the imperial troops alongside Durla and Solla. His name was Riva, and his passion for the woman – Mariel – was so great that he and Solla came to blows over her. A vicious battle it had been, and Solla had won because, well, Solla always won. Riva, however, had loudly vowed vengeance, declaring that his conflict with Solla was not over by a longshot. This was all the opening that Durla had needed. Smitten with the woman, resentful over his brother's greatness and the way that his parents had always treated Solla with the respect and idolization Durla had felt he was entitled to, Durla had required no further incentive. He had poisoned Solla ... and himself.

That had been the trickiest aspect of it. He had ingested the same poison that he had placed in Sollas food. It was the most effective means of avoiding suspicion. What he'd had to do was be certain to eat enough to show genuine signs of illness, but too little to prove fatal to him. He had succeeded, and no sooner had Solla breathed his last, the venomous poison having consumed his body, than Riva had been accused of perpetrating the deed. Riva's fellow squad mates had gone to arrest him. Unfortunately – or fortunately, depending upon one's point of view – Riva hadn't surrendered quietly. Ultimately, he didn't surrender at all, but instead resisted arrest, which was always a foolish notion when those who are trying to arrest you, a, outnumber you and, b, are already incensed with you because they believe – however mistakenly – that you are responsible for the death of their friend. As a result, by the end of the arrest, pieces of Riva wound up littering the immediate area. This had all been tremendously beneficial for Durla, as was to be expected.

His grief-stricken parents had lavished their attention on him, partly out of guilt, but mostly because he was their only remaining son and they knew that he was their only chance for vicarious success. As for the girl ... Durla had gone to her with his medals on his breast and his heart on his sleeve. He had gone to her and, while acting the tragedy-struck younger brother, also made it clear to her that he adored her, and hopefully no longer from afar.

She had looked at him with a mixture of amusement and pity.

"Pathetic boy," she had said archly, although it was a curious choice of words since she was, in fact, several years younger than he. "My house has greater plans for me than being tied to you. Your brother was going places: Places of strength. Places of power. But you ... you will only see such places from a distance. At least, that is what my father says, and he is usually quite intuitive when it comes to such things. He thought highly of Solla as husband potential ... Riva slightly less so, but viable. You, though? You will always be the younger brother of the noble Solla, who was cut down in his prime. You, I am afraid, don't matter very much at all." 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 Mariel 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.