by Peter David
Chapter 14 Senna was becoming increasingly worried about the emperor. Naturally she had something personal at stake. In her nearly two years at the palace, she had become rather used to the comforts. Her continued residence there was contingent upon not only Londo's good graces, but his continued health. But it was more than just that. She had a feeling about him, a sense that in some way, he was truly aspiring to greatness . He wanted so much for his people. He loved Centauri Prime with a passion that she felt was unmatched by anyone else in the palace. That, of course, was no great measure, because Senna did not particularly like anyone else in the palace. Durla seemed to be omnipresent, watching her with those cold and deadly eyes, like a great animal waiting to spring upon unwary prey. Durla's preferred right-hand man, Castig Lione, was not much better. Then there was Kuto, Durla's newly chosen Minister of Information, although as near as Senna could tell, Kuto's major activities involved the suppression of genuine information ... or, at least, the free flow of ideas. From her vantage point in the social strata, Senna could watch clearly the slow disappearance of any persons who expressed opinions contrary to the directives the government foisted upon the people. The people. Great Maker help the people. A number of times during the many months she had 175 resided in the palace, Senna had made forays into the city. She had made certain to leave behind her richly stitched and elaborate dresses, and instead had favored simple, relatively unattractive garments. She had moved among places that Londo would most likely-and most unhappily-have disapproved of. And the things she heard were most disturbing to her. There was constant tal k of anger toward the Alliance, indicating emotional wounds that had never been healed. She remembered the child who was hobbling about with one leg gone at the knee, his lower leg having been crushed by falling debris and amputated; his parents hadn't had the money to pay for prosthetics to replace it. She recalled the woman who said she never slept anymore, that every small sound during the night awakened her as she believed that more bombs were about to be dropped upon her. From the woman's haunted visage, Senna could tell that the woman wasn't exaggerating her plight. Senna's hearts went out to her, and she wished once more that there was something she could do. Although their stories of horror and mental anguish were all different, their current sentiments seemed to be consistent . The resentment toward the Alliance still burned hotly, and even as Centauri Prime was being rebuilt, it appeared to Senna that it was being rebuilt for a reason. And that reason was the launching of some sort of attack against the Alliance. The specifics of it didn't seem clear to anyone. It was more a free-floating sense of anger, which permeated the social structure of Centauri Prime, from the top through to the very bottom. The truth was that Senna had no more love for the Alliance than anyone else. But some aspects of her education, including her all-too-short time with Telis Elaris-whom she continued to think of at least once a day, and always with a sense of grief and loss-had led her to conclude that the path upon which the Centauri Republic seemed determined to tread could not be the correct one. Indeed, it could very well lead to an even greater disaster. Centauri Prime had been pounded into the ground but, ultimately, most of the Republic 's citizens were at least still alive. They were being permitted to rebuild, and even the economy was showing signs-slow signs, but signs nonetheless-of beginning to recover. If the Republic, once it was rebuilt, resumed its old ways and came into conflict once more with the Interstellar Alliance, things might go far worse for them the next time. How apt, how poetically just would it be, if the illegal mass drivers-the ultimate in ground punishment, gathering in space debris and raining it down in concentrated form-were used against Centauri Prime, just as the Centauri had wrongfully used them against the Nam? By the time the Alliance got through with them, there might not be a single Centauri left alive. Rather than recapture the glory of republics past, the Centauri might find themselves extinct. Within a generation everything that the Centauri Republic had ever accomplished , for good or ill, would be dust and forgotten. Senna did not want to let that happen, but she didn't have the faintest idea how to go about preventing it. One female could not possibly prevent the Centauri Republic from committing mass suicide, which seemed the likeliest outcome if Centauri Prime continued on its present course. The only hope she could possibly discern lay with the emperor . He, however, seemed to be slipping farther and farther away with each passing day. Oh, there were the occasional good days. On those occasions , Londo would laugh or joke with her, tweak her cheek in an affectionate manner that could not possibly be considered anything other than paternal. Sometimes he would regale her with tales of the Republic in the past, or share with her some examples of his impressively extensive collection of slightly ribald jokes. In short, there was any number of times when the emperor was someone she genuinely wanted to be with. The rest of the time, however ... well, when he would look at her, it was as if he was staring at her from the bottom of a very deep pit. His were the eyes of a man who somehow, in some manner that she could not begin to comprehend, had seen his own future. And it was apparently not something that was going to be pretty or desirable. Now, as she approached the emperor's study, Senna hoped that perhaps she would encounter Londo during one of his more convivial moods. Because if he were in that sort of state, then she might actually be able to share with him her concerns over the future of the Republic. Certainly there was no one else in the palace with whom she could speak on any sort of open basis. Everyone else had the misfortune of being male, or the sort of political in-fighter who wouldn't hesitate to use anything that Senna said against her. She had no desire to provide any potential enemy with that sort of ammunition. But the emperor ... The emperor, for some reason, she was not afraid of. If anything, she was afraid for him. She peered in through the study, and saw him slumped at his desk. For the briefest of moments, she thought he was dead. That was until she heard the snoring, however; at which point she knew that Londo was still among the living ... although barely so, it seemed. And then she thought morbidly, A shame he's not dead. He d stay well preserved for some time if he were. As soon as the notion went through her head, she chided herself for it. What a horrible thing to think, particularly when it was obvious that the emperor was hurting emotionally. She studied him thoughtfully and wished that there was some way that she could reach directly into his mind. Sense his thoughts, ease the pain. Do something, anything possible to help this basically good man, or at the very least have some idea of what it was that was eating away at him. Then she noticed that he had been working on something. His hand was resting on it. She dared not touch him in order to move his hand and see better, but then-as if he were unconsciously urging her to look-he moved his arm. In his slumber, it slid off the desk and hung limply at his side. She looked more closely and saw that it was a book. A book that he was apparently writing by hand. How very, very quaint. Most people, it seemed to her, preferred data crystals and such. She could only guess why he might want to work in what some would consider an archaic fashion. Perhaps he felt it added a sort of personal touch. Or maybe he was inspired by the numerous books of history, many of them handwritten by past emperors, which were said to line the walls of the private library. By continuing in that tradition, he was making himself a sort of living link to the past. From a purely pragmatic point of view, by confining his writings to one book that he carried with him, it also meant that his thoughts and musings would be kept in his possession at all times. The moment anything was put onto a computer, even as a private file, there was always the danger that someone, somewhere would be able to carve their way into the system and access it. She toyed with the notion of picking up the book, examining it. Certainly there was nothing to stop her from doing so, with the sole exception of her conscience. Obviously this was a work in progress, and it was unlikely that Londo would want anyone perusing it before he felt it was ready. Even so ... Well ... if she didn't actually turn the pages, that wouldn't be so invasive, would it? After all, she was simply looking down at the open ones. Why ... who could fault he
r for that? It wasn't as if she had been seeking it out. Besides, certainly Londo meant for it to be read sooner or later. What point was there in writing a history if no one was going to see it. And it was a history, she was quite sure of that. Because she had just kind of, sort of, well ... just happened to lift the title page ever so slightly and spotted the word, carefully delineated in Londo's own script. Then, ever so delicately, she laid the book flat again so that she could see just what Londo was writing about at that particular moment. The book appeared already to be half full. Apparently Londo had been quite busy. She started to read, although she wasn't touching the book at that point. But when she saw just what it was that she was reading, her eyes went wide with surprise. Minbar! The emperor had been on Minbar! She remembered when he had disappeared from Centauri Prime, some five months before. His departure had been unannounced and rather unexpected. Durla had tried to act as if he had been expecting it, but even he had seemed a bit caught off guard. Londo had been gone for three weeks, and there had been a bit of confusion and nervousness bandied about, although Durla had done an excellent job of staying atop all the problems that had cropped up. And then, after a time, the emperor had returned. Senna realized that it was from that point on that she had really noticed the change in him. He seemed ... smaller than he had before. Diminished somehow. It was nothing she could truly put her finger on, but she was certain that she wasn't imagining it. Something very bad had happened, and she now knew that whatever it was that had happened to so dispirit the emperor, it must have occurred on Minbar. Despite her better judgment, Senna set aside all pretense to the contrary and started reading what Londo had written. She still didn't pick up the book, as if not touching it would somehow negate any invasion of privacy or breaking of trust. Instead she leaned with her knuckles on the table and read in earnest. Apparently Londo had gone to Minbar to meet with Delenn and Sheridan. Delenn was with child, and at the point in the narrative where the page began, Londo was recording an encounter with the president of the Interstellar Alliance and his "lovely wife," as Londo put it. Senna continued to read: It was clear to me that they were to be somewhat guarded in my presence. I could see it in Sheridan's eyes, feel it even when he wasn't looking at me. He was suspicious and unsure. I suppose I could not blame them, truly. They were not expecting me simply to show up on Minbar. Now that I was here, they had no clue as to what to anticipate. It had to be especially perplexing for Sheridan, since he believed himself a superb stra tegist, and my appearance on Minbar did not fit any proscribed pattern he could anticipate. As for me . . . I had my own difficulties to deal with, my own "secrets" to attend to. So not only was I a bit more boisterous than I normally would have been, left to my own devices, but certainly more effervescent than the moment called for. No doubt that increased the level of their suspicions. We were seated in the dining room which, I must admit, was not particularly lavish. These days it seems to me that the palace on Centauri Prime is more of a prison than a home. Nonetheless, at least it is a decorative prison. The food, as far as I was concerned, was mostly inedible; even the most elaborate Minbari delicacies are, at best, bland. But I smiled through it as we chatted-once more-about how surprised Sheridan and Delenn were to see me. Surprised . . . and even a bit disconcerted. When I commented on it, they promptly denied it, of course. They wished to be polite. Considering the purpose of my being there, it seemed almost quaint that such was their concern. Our conversation broadened to surprising people in general. "Another of the benefits of being emperor . . ." and then I added, almost as an afterthought, "or president in your case . . . is not so much the people who are pleased to see you in office. It's the people who are furious that you're even alive, let alone holding a position of power. Knowing that every day you succeed they die a little inside . . . makes the endeavor eminently satisfying." Sheridan cast an uncomfortable glance at Delenn and then forced a polite smile. "I hadn't really thought of it in those terms," he said. I thought of the looks I get from my ministers, and the scheming eyes that watch my back as I pass, thinking of how delightful my spine would look with a dagger protruding from it. "Oh, you will. You will," I assured him. There was an uncomfortable silence-one of many in the evening-and then Delenn said, "If you don't mind my saying so, Emperor Mollari-" I waved a scolding finger. "Londo, please." "You told me to call you Emperor Mollari," said Sheridan. Indicating Delenn's ensemble, I replied, "You don't look as good m that outfit as she does." This actually prompted the first genuine smile of the evening. "Go on, Delenn." "I was just going to say that your attitude toward us is. . ." She paused, searching for the right words. ". . . quite improved over the last time. When we were all on Centauri Prime, you said some ... unkind things." I waved dismissively. "Playing to the audience, Delenn, nothing more. I need to get my people fired up in order to begin the long and difficult process of rebuilding. There's politics," and then I looked significantly at them, "and there's friendship. And when I learned that you were with child, and that you were finally coming here to stay ... how could I not come and convey my personal best wishes." When she read that, Senna's hearts leapt. So grim Londo had been as of late, so sullen. Was it possible that he indeed presented one face to his people and advisors, and another to those he truly considered his friends? For some reason, it made Senna want to know the real Londo even more. The one who genuinely cared about reconciliation. Already she could see that it made sense, although she wasn't entirely sure that she agreed with the tactic. She understood it, though. Saying whatever was necessary to get the people stirred up. Yes. Yes, it did make sense. After the battering, the bombings ... their spirit was at a low ebb. First and foremost, he had to get them to care about something, to manufacture some sort of passion and energy. And if it was directed at first in a negative manner, well ... at least it was there. Once it was present, he could then steer it whichever way he wanted it to go. She looked back at the book and continued to read ... Delenn and Sheridan looked at each other, and I could tell what was going through their minds. They were hoping that what I said was the truth ... but they were not certain. I suppose I could not blame them. I have been living so many lies for so long, even I am not certain what the truth is anymore. Senna's face fell when she read that. It certainly wasn't the sentiment she was hoping he'd express. "Living so many lies?" What did that mean? As Sheridan and Delenn tried to make up their minds, my own thoughts began to race as to possibilities under which we might ... chat in an open manner. I had, after all, certain considerations that needed to be attended to. "I would raise a toast to you, but there doesn't seem to be anything at hand. Do you have a little Brivari, Mr. President? Some of that excellent Earth whiskey tucked away in a box somewhere?" "No," said Sheridan. "Since alcohol is dangerous for Minbari, I decided to leave all that stuff at Babylon 5." Immediately I remembered, and could have kicked myself for the oversight. Lennier had told me that alcohol engendered murderous rages in Minbari. Foolishness. Foolishness of me to forget that. For now there was no way I would be able to ... relax sufficiently, to be able to truly open up. With flickering hope, I asked, "Surely there must be a little. . ." "Not a drop," Sheridan said firmly. "I'm surprised that you didn't bring your own supplies." I glanced at my shoulder and felt a slight twinge of warning. "My associates do not allow me such pleasures anymore. I suppose they feel I am dangerous enough sober. No reason to make things worse." We continued to eat in silence once more, and then I felt a slight qualm in my mind, through that damnable connection . But this time it was not a warning that came from within, but from without. I glanced up and immediately saw the problem. Delenn was looking at me, her eyes narrowed, as if she was perceiving that which she could not ... indeed, must not ... be allowed to see. And yet I was Senna stopped reading, thoroughly confused. What could Londo possibly be talking about? What was Delenn "perceiving " that she should not? The only thing Senna could guess was that Delenn was intuiting something about Londo's state of mind. He wanted to retain his privacy, keep his purposes and thoughts obscure. After all,
he had spoken of "living lies," a comment that bothered Senna greatly. Obviously, Londo was worried about letting anyone get too close to him emotionally. Although the comment about "that damnable connection" still mystified her. And yet I was almost tempted to do nothing. Perhaps ... perhaps if she perceived, if she knew and understood ... then they would be able to take the proper action, know the precautions that they should employ. That was when a little voice in my head urged me to stop stalling. It wasn't words that I heard so much, but a sense that I should get on with it ... lest there be dire consequences for all concerned. And I knew that I had no choice. No choice at all. His conscience. He was wrestling with his conscience over some sort of decision, probably having to do with whether he could trust Sheridan and Delenn. Senna felt herself utterly caught up in the drama of the moment. "So, Delenn," I said quickly. That startled her from her concentration and she muttered an apology. "You haven't asked me about my gift." "What gift?" Delenn responded. She still seemed a bit befuddled by her long gaze into the dark places of my life, and she turned to Sheridan. Sheridan, ever the diplomat-and, of course, eager to distance himself from the great Centauri Republic and its even greater emperor-said, "We really can't. . ." "Oh, it's not for you," I quickly assured them. Then I clapped my hands, and one of my retainers entered with the urn. It was draped with a white cloth, so naturally it drew some degree of curiosity, particularly from Delenn. At least there are some aspects of females that cross all races, and inquisitiveness appears to be a universal womanly trait. Sheridan just looked suspicious. Of course, he had long practice at it. The retainer set the vase down and left, and I removed the cloth with just a bit of a flourish. I have to admit, it was a rather impressive looking bit of pottery ... at least, from the outside. Sheridan picked it up, and it was everything I could do to repress a shudder. Instead, sounding remarkably sanguine about it, if I do say so myself, I said, "It is a Centauri tradition to give this to the heir to the throne when he or she comes of age. It is very old." "It's beautiful," Delenn said. "But we cannot possibly accept." Naturally, I would have been more than happy to oblige them. Instead I had to say, "I insist." "Won't they miss it back home?" asked Sheridan. They were asking so many questions, so many damned questions. It was an annoying trait. They never accepted anything at face value, never took the word of others. They had to keep asking and probing until they themselves were satisfied. "The tradition is not well known outside the palace," I said. "Besides, I have no heirs and, when I am gone, I suspect the Centaurum will do all it can to eliminate the position of emperor. If I am going to be obsolete, and that is going to be obsolete, then I may as well make sure it goes someplace where it will be appreciated." Lies intermingled with truth. I was becoming quite facile with it. Truthfully, I did not think there was any chance whatsoever that the position of emperor would be eliminated . There are far too many people who crave the ultimate power of that office. The very people who would be in a position to do away with the office of emperor would be the very same people most eager to don the white themselves . Little good may it do them. And besides ... I knew of the prophecy. I knew I was ordained to be followed by an emperor ... by at least one ... This revelation stunned Senna for a moment. A prophecy? She had read assorted books of Centauri prophecy. Certainly there were women who were quite legitimate seers, and their forecasts were well known. But s he didn't recall any published prophecy that specifically mentioned Londo. Or that cited when or if done away with. Was it some sort of private reading that had been done just for him? She hoped that his next words would spell out what the prophecy was, or where he had divined it from. Instead, as she read on in eager anticipation, she felt a flicker of disappointment ... At that moment, a Minbari entered and whispered something into Delenn's ear. I suspect that he was of the same "caste" as Lennier, for he had that same, quiet manner as the star-crossed Ranger. Delenn nodded and rose. "Something has just come up," she said. "If you will excuse me." For a moment I thought that perhaps somehow, through some miracle, she had figured it out. That she actually knew. But then she walked out of the room without so much as a backward glance, and that was how I knew she remained blissfully oblivious. Sheridan then faced me, and I hoped that he was going to continue to try and dissuade me from presenting him with the gift. Instead he picked that horrendous moment to allow me to be magnanimous. "Well, if I can't talk you out of this," he said, ". . . well, thank you. When should I ... T' The words I was about to speak felt as if I was allowing poison to drip from my mouth. "When your child male or female, turns sixteen years, then you hand it over." "I notice the bottom part is sealed." Great Maker, nothing slipped past the man. I kept my expression bland, though, as I fabricated on the spot, "Yes. I'm told that it contains water taken from the river that flowed past the first palace, two thousand years ago." He actually looked intrigued as he gently set the vase down. We chatted for a bit more, but with every passing moment I became less and less enthused, more and more anxious to simply get out of there. I felt as if the walls were closing in. My breath was heavy in my chest. I tried to tell myself that it was simply the different atmosphere on Minbar, but I could not ignore the fact that I was likely suffering from some sort of attack of anxiety. Suddenly I knew that if I did not get out of the dining room, if I did not get away from the urn, I would go mad right there, right on that very spot. They would mark the floor as a historical site, the place where the great Emperor Londo Mollari lost his mind and collapsed from the strain of a tormented conscience. I began to make my excuses to Sheridan, talking about how I was needed back on Centauri Prime. How they could not function without me. I tried to make it sound like a great trial and task. I laughed about it, shared with him how daunting such awesome responsibility could be. And all during that time, I wanted to do nothing more than flee the room. But I tend to think that, had I done so, such an action might well have piqued his curiosity and sent him off in directions that it would be best not to go. Mercifully, Delenn returned before too long. She seemed distracted, saddened. Her smile was a forced thing, her luminous spirit momentarily diminished, but she did her best to try and bring herself back up to her normal levels of cheerful and thoughtful social interaction. Then I was in the midst of saying my good-byes as we walked down the corridor toward the exit. "Are you sure you can't stay a little longer?" asked Sheridan. I was not entirely certain how serious he was. I think, in a perversely ironic way, he actually meant it because he was moved by my magnanimous "gift." "No, the affairs of state weigh on me just as they do on you," I said. "Besides, I'm sure you would like to settle in and get down to creating the greatest empire in history, yes?" It was a good exit line. Nice, noncommittal, even a tacit acknowledgement of the inevitable greatness of the Interstellar Alliance. I could depart their lives with a smile and the knowledge that, at the last, I was the same charming and amusing Londo as in the earliest days of Babylon 5, rather than this dark and forbidding presence that I have become. I wanted to turn away, to say nothing more ... but I could not help myself. There was so much more that needed to be said, that should have been said and never would be. I felt a gentle stirring, a mild warning, a rebuke m advance that seemed to say, Keep your distance. You have done your duty, your penance, now leave. Simply ... leave. That, more than anything, spurred my next words as 1 said to them with terrible earnestness, "One thing I want you to know, to understand and to hold in your thoughts in the years to come ... I want you to know that you are my friends, and you will always be my friends, no matter what may happen. And I want you to know that this day ... this day in your company means more to me than you will ever know." Then I sensed their presence. Durla's guards, two of his closer and more dedicated followers, hovering there. Obviously Durla had a sense of how long I should be spending with Sheridan and Delenn, a mental approximation that I can only assume was provided for him by means he does not truly understand himself. He had imparted those time limits to the guards, and they were coming in search of me, their presence a gentle but firm reminder of just who was watc
hing whom. The word Go filtered through my brain, and I did not even have to bother to look in the direction of my watchers to know that they were there. "It appears I must go now." "I know," said Sheridan. Of course, the fact was that he did not know. He thought he did, thought he comprehended , but he understood nothing. Not really. The odds are that he never would. And his lack of comprehension was underscored by the last words he would ever speak to me on the surface of Minbar. Because if we were to face each other again, I knew it was likely going to be across the interstellar plain of battle, perhaps snarling at one another via view screens. Or else we might, just might, meet as keeper and prisoner, should Sheridan's fates turn against him and he wind up a prisoner on Centauri Prime. Of course, in my own situation , the concepts of prisoner and keeper are extremely fluid, and I constantly find myself occupying both positions at the same time. I am he who holds the fate of millions , and I am he whose fate is held by other keepers. And I know that the situation will never be reversed. I will never face Sheridan with myself as a prisoner, for were it to come to that, I will be dead before such an encounter took place. They will certainly attend to that. So Sheridan spoke his last, unknowingly sardonic words to me then as we stood for the last time as peaceful equals: "You're always welcome to come back, Londo." "More than welcome," echoed Delenn. They were good people, I knew that. They deserved better than what was coming to them, better than what I had done to them. Then again ... so did 1. Except my living hell was of my own making, whereas their future living hell . . . was also of my making. Is there any more blackened and stained soul in existence than mine? I could hardly get out any words. I managed to say, "Thank you ... good-bye..." And then I was gone, my guards walking on either side of me, escorting me back to my ship. I thought I overheard Sheridan and Delenn discussing Lennier just before I was out of earshot, and I wished I could have heard more. He was a good lad, Lennier. I spent some time with him. In retrospect, he may be the only individual who ever spent extended time in my presence without becoming tainted in some manner. A good and pure soul is his. I envy him that. Through the glass of my cruiser, I watched Minbar receding, and then, naturally, I heard an all-too-expected voice. The voice that said You "You! Youl What are you doing? " Senna jumped back, completely startled, her hand jumping and knocking the book off the table. Londo had awoken, and he was looking up at her with pain-filled and bloodshot eyes that were seething with anger. "What are you doing! How much did you read? What did you readl ?" Senna's mouth opened, but no words emerged. Londo was on his feet, and he had risen with such fury that he knocked aside the writing table, sending it crashing to the floor. He sounded more than just angry. He sounded terrified. "I ... I . . ." Senna finally managed to get out. Londo grabbed up the book, slammed it shut. "This was private! You had no right ... no right!" "I ... I thought-" "You didn't think! Not for a minute! What did you read here! Tell me! I will know if you are lying, tell me!" She remembered how just a short time before, she had been thinking how she had never been afraid of Londo. That sentiment was gone. She had never been more terrified, not just of Londo, but of anyone, as she was at that moment. "About ... you and Sheridan and Delenn. You gave them the urn. "And then?" He grabbed her by either shoulder, shook her, and there was such tumult in his eyes ... she remembered being a very small child, looking to the skies as her father, Refa, held her tightly, and there were storm fronts rolling in. And those darksome clouds had been the single most frightening thing she had ever seen ... until this moment, when she looked into the eyes of Londo Mollari. 'And then?!" 'And then you left, never to come back, and I'm leaving too, all right, all right?! " Senna cried. And she tore away from him, sobbing and choking so hard that she couldn't even catch her breath. She thought she was going to be ill. She ran then, ran as fast and as hard as she could, ran from the room and almost crashed into Durla. His eyes widened as he took 11 in Senna's agitated state, and the condition of both the furniture and the emperor. "It's your fault, it's all your fault!" she howled in his face. ... "Young lady. . ." Durla began, but he got no further as her hand flew, almost on its own accord, to smack against his face and leave a huge flaming red area the size of her palm on his cheek. Durla staggered from the pain of the impact, but Senna didn't stay aro und to see the results of her action. Instead she ran down the hallway, her arms pumping, her breasts heaving. In her room, she tore away the fine dress she was wearing. The cloth, the beautiful, gilt-edged, shimmering cloth made a most satisfying ripping sound as she shredded it. Naked, she yanked together some assorted articles of clothing, tossed them on in a hodge-podge manner, and threw a cloak around her shoulders. She heard a crack of thunder from outside. The skies were opening up and rain was starting to hammer down. She didn't care. She couldn't stay in the palace a second longer, not when she knew what she knew. And as she ran out into the rain, she realized that the most frustrating thing was that she knew what she knew ... was nothing. And it was the nothing that she feared more than anything.
