by Peter David
Chapter 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 113 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 bond ing ceremony had proceeded without interruption, and Mariel hadn't so much as glanced in Durla's direction. He stood m 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 Marie] 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 desiredMollari 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 mly a matter of moments.
