A Dark, Distorted Mirror. Volume 5 : Among the Stars, like Giants. Part 3 : On the Edges of Perception addm-5

by Gareth D. Williams

  The third was Senna, and he would not think about her. Not at the moment.

  Sometimes he missed brivare. Or even jhala. He missed his old soldier friends. He missed Londo. He missed Urza. He missed Barrystan. Most especially, he missed Lyndisty.

  You are getting old, he told himself bitterly.

  But it was true. He was old. And bitter. And pained. Countless old wounds, countless old scars, countless dead friends.

  He was thinking back to his encounter with Barrystan on the Day of the Dead more and more, and it was not helping.

  He drifted around, angry and dark and bitter, dwelling on old melancholies, old loves, old friends, old things.

  Waiting for something to happen, for the universe to let out its breath.

  * * *

  Delenn rolled over, coming quickly to full wakefulness as the strange noises roused her. She rarely slept well at the best of times — too many old ghosts haunted her at night — but lately her sleep had been even more fraught than usual.

  And most of it was John's fault.

  He was speaking now, again. He had done that almost every night since his return from the mission. It was a language she did not know. A language she could not even begin to recognise.

  She could speak more languages than she could count, and she knew of many more, including dialects and sub-dialects. This was nothing she had ever heard before.

  She had always planned to investigate, but the mystery seemed so trivial in the light of day, and her hours were always so busy, and there had never been time. For the hundredth time, she resolved to speak to someone in the morning. G'Kar, he might know something.

  John suddenly convulsed, his arm flying out and smacking her across the face. She rolled backwards across the bed, raising her arms to block his flailing limbs. He was struggling against something, crying out, almost shouting.

  "Na! Rwyti'nd we'udd w'rg. Na!"

  "John," she whispered, reaching out gently. His hand shot up in her direction. She caught it deftly and pressed her hand against his palm. His skin was so cold. She had held her father's hand after he had died, while preparing the words to speak at his funeral, and she had thought that was as cold as skin could ever be, but now she was proved wrong.

  "John," she said again.

  He moaned, and his eyes fluttered open. His breathing was very heavy and he was staring at the ceiling.

  "John?" she said again.

  At times like this, she wished Lyta were here. Something was wrong with John, and he did not even seem to realise it. If only there was a telepath she trusted, who could scan his mind and find out....

  No. She stopped. She could not do that to him. She could not violate him like that. She loved him, and she would have to help him deal with this himself. It could be nothing more than bad dreams. By anyone's standards, he had been through a great deal.

  "John?"

  "Delenn," he said, almost too softly for her to hear. "Was I.... dreaming again?"

  "Yes," she said, looking up at him. The chill radiated from him like an aura. She wanted to touch him again, but she was afraid the ice would burn her. "Do you remember anything?" There was little point in asking. He never did.

  "I was.... talking with someone, I think. I was walking through a room full of mirrors and someone was walking beside me, but I could only see him in the mirrors, and.... There was something else. I can almost....

  "No, it's gone. I'm sorry."

  "Don't be," she whispered. She was not even sure if she believed him. Trust seemed to have disappeared, one slow piece at a time.

  "What time is it?"

  "Too early," she replied. "An hour or two before we have to get up."

  He moaned. "Oh, yeah. I've got a meeting with.... with somebody I really don't want to be meeting."

  "The Brakiri Merchants Guild," Delenn replied. "They're upset about so many of their ships being stopped and searched by Dark Stars."

  "That's it. How is it you know my timetable better than I do?"

  "I make it a point to know everything you do."

  She said it with a smile, hoping to lighten the mood. He laughed awkwardly, like someone who doesn't understand the joke but responds out of false politeness. "And you do it very well, too." He paused again. "How long until we have to get up?"

  "Perhaps an hour?" She touched his shoulder. "Hardly worth going back to sleep now, is it?"

  "No," he said, sighing. Rubbing at his head, he got out of bed, casually discarding the covers. Delenn looked at him, and with a sigh of her own, gathered them around her. If she had hoped they would warm her, she was disappointed.

  She rested her head back, looking at anywhere that was not him.

  "That's it," he said suddenly.

  "What?"

  "The other thing in my dream. All those mirrors, a room full of them.

  "And I didn't have a reflection. Not in any of them."

  * * *

  Asleep, hovering, trapped between life and death.

  As he has been for weeks unending, Emperor Londo Mollari II is at rest, as still as the grave.

  He has had few visitors. Few speak his name. Few even think of him. He is as forgotten as if he were dead. Power makes one few friends, few true friends, and he has made fewer still, for he had the illusion of power without the reality.

  His personal physician, the finest in the Republic, attends his bedside often, monitoring his condition and his equipment and administering more and more expensive medicines.

  His wife and Lady Consort and even — although do not say it to her face — Empress, the Lady Timov, visits every night, bringing a meal and a drink that is always removed in the morning untouched, and given to the servants.

  And there is another. A human, the most hated man in the entire Republic.

  He goes by the name of Mr. Morden, disdaining titles, because he knows he has power, and a title and rank mean nothing to one with that knowledge.

  He says nothing. He never does. He simply watches this man he has known for many years, before ever he was Emperor.

  And then he leaves, as silently as he entered. He returns to his room and sits and reads reports, or thinks, or does any one of a number of things.

  Today is different.

  Morden stepped back hurriedly, only just avoiding walking into the man standing directly outside the door. He was tall and pale, dressed elegantly and punctiliously in a style popular on Earth several hundred years ago. He never smiled. He never blinked. He never fidgeted, or tapped his feet, or checked his pockets.

  He was the least human person Morden knew.

  But power had to be respected, and Sebastian wielded more of it than he did.

  "My apologies, Inquisitor," he said, bowing. "I take it your business in the Byzantine Mountains is concluded."

  "It is," Sebastian acknowledged. "The technicians and labour I requested have been removed. Arrange appropriate compensation for their families."

  "Of course. As you say. Is there anything else you require?"

  "No. I am done here. I will consult with my fellow Inquisitors and we will leave in the morning. But first, one thing."

  "Yes, Inquisitor?"

  "Did you really think you could talk to my captive without my knowledge?"

  Morden paused. He had seen a great many things in his life, more than any mortal human had a right to, and yet nothing he had ever seen scared him half as much as Sebastian did.

  Still, he was a diplomat, and he knew better than to answer such a question in a hurry, or to show any sign of fear.

  "I apologise, Inquisitor. There was something I had to ask him."

  "My instructions were that no one was to see him."

  "Yes, Inquisitor. I.... await your punishment."

  "You are a loyal servant of the Vorlons. It is for Them to punish you for your transgressions, not I. Of what did you speak to my captive?"

  "I asked him one thing. His.... kind can sense death. I needed to know if Emperor Mollari was going to die.
"

  "Very well. My business here is concluded." He reached one hand to the brim of his hat and began to walk away.

  "Do you not wish to know the answer, Inquisitor?"

  "No. This insignificant world and its insignificant people do not interest me any longer. As I have said, my business here is done. Good day, Mr. Morden." He left, but Morden could still hear the tapping of his cane on the floor.

  It was over an hour before he stopped shaking.

  * * *

  Since the dawn of empires and rulers, there has been only one currency worth trading in. It is not gold, or latinum, or carborundum, or paper notes, or any other mineral or money. It is information.

  Most leaders merely manage to know what has happened in the past. A few manage to be aware of what is happening now. G'Kar liked to think that both types lacked imagination.

  He had lost a lot of his resources since the destruction of the Great Machine, and in his subsequent depression and ill health he had let himself grow lax and uncaring. A conversation with Kulomani of all people had changed things. The new Commanding Officer of Babylon 5 had managed to convince him to return to his duty: the Rangers. As he sat alone in his meeting room, he cursed himself for being asleep for so long. If he had been able to act a little sooner, maybe.... maybe this whole mess could have been avoided, or at least ameliorated.

  He turned the data crystal in his thick fingers, wishing he could avoid the urge to crush it to powder. Things had been so much easier when he had been willingly insensate, when he had simply not cared. Now it was time for him to start caring, and to start doing.

  There was a knock at his door, polite and restrained but authoritative enough to confirm that here was a person of some power. G'Kar sighed. He knew G'Kael did not do it on purpose, but some things were simply too ingrained to erase. There was a chime of course, but G'Kael probably never even contemplated using it. It was just too.... impersonal.

  "Enter," he said.

  The door opened and the Narn Regime's ambassador to the United Alliance entered. He clasped his hands together into fists and nodded his head briefly.

  "You wanted to see me, Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar."

  "Yes." G'Kar waved at a seat opposite him. "Please be seated." G'Kael did so. "Food? Drink? I have had some teree prepared, and there is a human drink here that Delenn has grown quite fond of and is trying to interest me in. It is called 'tea'."

  "No thank you, Ha'Cormar'ah. I have only recently eaten."

  "Ah. You are very.... careful about what you imbibe, are you not, G'Kael?"

  The Ambassador smiled slightly. "People who are not do not survive very long in the circles in which we both move, Ha'Cormar'ah."

  "Circles. Of course. We both move in very.... interesting circles, do we not?"

  "I would suppose so."

  G'Kar flicked the data crystal across the table, and G'Kael caught it easily. "We learned a great deal from the Centauri," G'Kar continued. "We learned about space. We learned about war. We learned about the galaxy, we learned how to fight, and we learned how to hate. All of those things are still with us to a greater or lesser degree, but most of all.... We learned how to play their games.

  "We learned about intrigue and deception. The 'Great Game', they call it, and they have been playing it for all their recorded history. A game of intrigue and diplomacy and unseen alliances. We have taken it on board very well, as I remember from my time among the Kha'Ri. Assassins, backstabbing, lies.... I remember it well."

  "Things do change, Ha'Cormar'ah."

  "I am still speaking, G'Kael. Accord me the respect due my position, if nothing else."

  G'Kael spread his arms wide and bowed his head. "Of course, Ha'Cormar'ah. My apologies."

  G'Kar continued. "In the last few decades we have tried to acquire all the skill and sophistication the Centauri developed over millennia. We are not as good as they were, but we are working hard, are we not? We will never be able to rest until we have beaten them at everything, even the game they created." He paused, gesturing to G'Kael to allow him to speak.

  "We and the Centauri are one brotherhood in the Alliance now. Our assistance during their recent troubles is proof of that," G'Kael stated.

  "Yes. Our.... assistance. After vehement objections at first, we now offer as much aid as we can spare. Proof to all that we are not bound by old paths and old ways. The Centauri have requested our aid, and thus we grant it. Old wrongs are forgotten."

  "As you say, Ha'Cormar'ah."

  "Who are you, G'Kael?"

  The ambassador looked at him squarely, and then at the shadows behind him. A tall, one-eyed Narn was standing there, a long sword strapped to his back. "You would not ask such a question," G'Kael began, "unless you knew the answer."

  "I do know the answer," G'Kar said. "I merely wished to hear it from your mouth."

  "I am the Ambassador to the United Alliance from the Narn Regime. I hold honorary rank in our navy, although I fear my military skills have corroded slightly in recent years. And I am the Kha'Ri's Spymaster in Chief."

  "They sent you to spy on me."

  "And on the Alliance. Both are legitimate causes for concern. Both merited watching, and they felt it important enough to warrant my personal attention."

  "Na'Toth?"

  "Her.... dealings with you became a little too obvious. She was sent here as my assistant in the hope that the two of you together would lead to others whose loyalty to you was greater than to our people."

  "What have you told them?"

  "Everything I have uncovered, naturally. You are fortunate that my mission involved merely watching and not actively interfering. They were most.... unhappy with your involvement during the end of the War, not to mention our fleet abandoning their position. I understand there has been something of a cull in the middle ranks of our military this last year."

  "I have been asleep for far too long, G'Kael. Concerned by the past, by Shadows everywhere but on my doorstep. When I did turn my attention to home, it was only for a cursory glance. One speech and I deluded myself that everything was better again.

  "I am going to tell you a story, G'Kael. Stop me if I am wrong in any part.

  "The Centauri have been suffering a great deal since the war ended. One of their highly-placed military figures made a deal with the Shadows out of desperation and fear, the result of a war we could have ended a long time ago, but chose to allow to continue.

  "This has been turned into a huge, people-wide acceptance of the Shadows. The Centauri are hated and castigated by the Alliance as a whole, punished beyond proportion for the crimes they have committed. Their Emperor, my oldest friend, is forced to accede to a humiliating treaty which does all but blame him personally. His representative has to come begging for aid to this Council.

  "The Centauri people suffer from famines and inquisition and raids by hostile forces they cannot stop because the Alliance has commandeered their fleet out of paranoia and a desire for 'cohesion'. When they grovel to us for aid, our ships are sent to help defend their worlds. Our soldiers enforce martial law on their planets, under the guise of 'peacekeeping'. The Centauri are humiliated and broken, unable even to eat or drink without our permission, and we, the Narn Regime, only too happy to overlook past wrongs and injustices in this new age of co-operation, control a good number of their worlds and a large proportion of their economy.

  "Who had the most influence in the drafting of the treaty allowing them entry into the Alliance? We did, as the party wronged by them on so many occasions. Who orchestrated the aid shipments and the military peacekeeping contingent to enforce them? We did.

  "How many of these disasters have been our work? All of them? None?"

  "A few," G'Kael replied after a long pause. "An intervention here and there. I do not truly know exactly where we are involved. I spy for the Kha'Ri, not on them."

  "There is one thing I wish to know from you, and one thing only. This displays a degree of patience and forward thinking and innovation I doub
t any in our current Kha'Ri are capable of. Who is behind this? Who created this idea?"

  "You do not want the answer to that question, Ha'Cormar'ah."

  "I would not have asked if I did not," G'Kar hissed. "Tell me!"

  "As you wish. My.... sources tell me that you are right. There is one mind behind this scheme, although several of the Kha'Ri quite happily follow her lead and have added innovations of their own."

  "Her?"

  "I believe you know her quite well, Ha'Cormar'ah. Or used to, anyway.

  "Her name is Da'Kal."

  * * *

  Less than an hour later, they were both drunk. An hour after that they were giggling at silly jokes. An hour after that they were kissing as if for the first time in their lives. A couple of hours after that, they were fighting for those selfsame lives.

  Rewind a little.

  Dexter had just finished telling a long and rambling story about one of his fellow Senators.

  "I'm telling you, he's there, on the floor of the House, trying very hard to come up with an answer that will make any sense at all, to anyone. He's getting more and more flustered, and the Speaker is asking him to speak a little louder, and to answer the question, and he's sweating, and panicking, and oh God, are we heckling him?"

  "Come on," Talia replied, interrupting him for the seventh time during this story. She was lying alongside him, her feet up on his lap, her arm pillowing his head. "It's not easy coming up with an explanation for that sort of thing, not even for a trained politician."

  "I could come up with an explanation."

  "You aren't a trained politician, dear."

  "Oh, thank you."

  "It was a compliment." She kissed his cheek. "Carry on, I'm listening."

  "No, no, you're too busy interrupting, and insulting my political skills. I'm not finishing it now."

  "I'm sorry. I won't interrupt again, I promise."

  "You sure?"

  "Absolutely."