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

by Gareth D. Williams

  "I don't know. I shouldn't, but...."

  "Emotions. Irrational little things, aren't they? Or so I'm told. You should have listened to the warning, but it was just one more door you closed behind you without really looking at what was beyond it. How many of those have there been?"

  "I don't know what you mean."

  "Who are you trying to convince? Me — or yourself?"

  "I don't even know who you are."

  "Do you even know who you are?"

  "I...."

  "Don't answer that. You can't. Ask yourself this, though. What other warnings have you ignored? What other doors have you slammed shut and lost the key for? What else have you forgotten or lost or simply not understood?"

  He looked down. There was a dagger in his hands. Blood was dripping from it.

  "We all sacrifice a great deal on the altar of victory. When does the time come when the sacrifice becomes more than the God is worth?"

  "I don't know."

  "No, you don't. Think on that, for a while."

  The man in the monk's robe was gone. The dagger was gone. The window was gone. The light was gone.

  John Sheridan reached one trembling hand to the mirror and looked at his reflection. It had returned, and for the first time in his life he seemed to be looking at a stranger staring back at him.

  * * *

  Galen was precisely an inch and a half taller than he was. That was such a tiny thing to harbour so much envy over, but there it was. Emotions were rarely rational, and jealousy even less so. Galen's magic came from the cold, the sterile, the scientific. Vejar's came from the imaginative, the fantastic, the spiritual.

  He didn't need to watch Galen perform more parlour tricks to know that his magic had grown stronger. Something had freed it, while he had been left to wither. Left here in the dark.

  "How are the others?" he asked bitterly, trying to make conversation, however futile or pointless. As if he really cared. The technomages had abandoned him just as much as Delenn and Lethke had.

  "That's not what I came here to talk about, cousin."

  A mission of some kind. Yet another tempting and honourable and glorious opportunity to be killed or mutilated or generally to suffer for the good of someone else.

  "I'm not listening," Vejar snapped. He turned back to his mirror and looked at himself. For now, the mirror was just that — a mirror. There was no magic in it, but then there never had been.

  Or that was what people would think. The first lesson Vejar had ever learned was that there was magic in everything. A sunrise, a morning breath, the touch of a lover, the opening and closing of a fist.

  Someone had once asked Elric if he could make the dead live. Elric had smiled that curious, thin smile of his and stretched out his hand, spreading his fingers wide and then clenching them together so tightly that the veins on his wrist bulged.

  "Life begins with death," he had intoned. "Just as all things are born, so do they die. All flesh is dead, and look!" He opened his fist again. "Dead flesh obeys my command. Yes, I can make the dead move."

  Vejar always remembered that. There was magic everywhere.

  And a mirror was one of the most magical artefacts ever forged. It destroyed illusions, saw through to the soul, pierced masks and glamours and enchantments. It was brutally honest and callously genuine.

  He did not like what he saw there. He saw a man old before his time, staring with deep-set eyes back at his own. A man with clammy skin and a sickly pallor.

  Behind him stood someone who seemed twenty years his junior, tall and vibrant and determined.

  "You have changed, cousin," the young man said to him.

  "So have you," Vejar replied bitterly. There was a month difference in their ages. "Have you fallen in love at last?"

  "No, although not for lack of trying. I have a mission, cousin. A purpose."

  "Good for you."

  The old man, whom Vejar could not in any way identify as himself, raised a hand and another ball of fire formed around it. He held it there for long seconds. There was no pain. There was not even any sensation. He could feel nothing.

  "You have changed," Galen said again. "I remember when you chose to remain behind. I remember seeing the fire in your eyes, the conviction that you were right and damn all the consequences." The young man looked at him sadly. "What has happened to you, cousin?"

  "I did not choose to stay. I was asked to stay. Elric.... he wanted me to observe her, to be ready when the time of her choice came, to ensure that she reached it."

  "Ah," Galen replied, a faint smile playing over his face. "That explains a lot. I assume all went according to plan?"

  "You know the answer to that. She chose. It damned her and me and it cost her more than either of us can imagine, but she chose."

  "She was the salvation of an entire race. In a hundred years, will it matter what it cost her?"

  Vejar rose slowly. "How dare you?" he hissed, still looking at the mirror. He could see a flame beginning to rise in the old man's sunken eyes, a flame to match the one in his fist. "How dare you? What do either of us care what will happen in a hundred years?"

  "Why did you not go to Babylon Five?"

  "What.... What do you mean?"

  "I cannot believe you were not invited."

  "You know why."

  "Assume I do not. Tell me."

  Vejar closed his eyes, not wanting to see either person looking at him. He saw the vision, as he had so many times before. "Death," he whispered. "Death will come to Babylon Five. Everyone there will die. Everyone! He will spare no one, not a single soul."

  "You could try to warn them."

  "And would they listen?" The rage in his voice surprised him, and for a moment he thought someone else had spoken. "That station is cursed, and has been since the idea was conceived. It will bring nothing but pain and destruction and death, and they all know it! I've done enough for these people. I won't be a part of their doom!"

  "No," Galen said quietly. "But you can be a part of their salvation. There is something I need your help with."

  "I have helped you enough already. I knew once that you would get me killed. Are you trying to prove me right?"

  "You can remain here until the end of time while the galaxy collapses around your ears and not raise a single finger to stop it, if you like. Or you can do something. You can help. You can raise arms against a sea of troubles and scream defiance at the tempest."

  "How did you get here?"

  "I'm sorry?"

  "How did you get here? We are some way from the.... sanctuary, are we not?"

  "By ship, of course. Did you think I would grow wings and fly?"

  "They know." Vejar sighed. "They know. You have as good as told them you have come. The Vorlons know. You have forced my hand in this. There is no choice."

  "There is always a...."

  Vejar opened his eyes and, without thought, without motion, without equation, he hurled the ball of fire directly at the mirror. There was a single moment when he thought he could have stopped it, but he did not want to.

  The mirror exploded, his image shattering into a million pieces. Shards of glass flew into the centre of the room. One of them was aimed directly at his heart.

  It would be so easy to let it pierce him, to let himself die here. He would be at rest, at peace, free from the memories of what he had done to Delenn, free from Galen's conscience.

  He looked down, and saw the shard caught in his right hand. He did not even remember trying to catch it. Blood was welling between his fingers.

  He turned around and looked at Galen. His friend was completely unscathed.

  "Choice," Galen said, slowly and deliberately.

  "What do you want me to do?" Vejar replied.

  * * *

  Centauri Prime.

  His home. The home of his ancestors, of his friends, of his wife. The place where his daughter's ashes lay, at one with the soaring winds. The place where his garden could be found, derelict and aban
doned and unloved.

  Centauri Prime. Where his friend ruled as Emperor. Where stood the throne his family had sworn for centuries to protect and serve.

  His home.

  Words reached his ears. A conversation more than a year old. On Brakir, in the fading shadows of the Day of the Dead.

  These.... outlaws. If you do join them, what if they begin to raid Centauri shipping, even attack Centauri worlds? Would you really attack your own people?

  And his reply.

  I've thought about that. A lot. But.... what can I do? The raids and the attacks will happen anyway. If I join, then.... eventually I hope to be able to change that.

  But I will do what I have to do. If I must kill my people, even my friends, then I will. That is a soldier's job, after all. To kill.

  All eyes were on him. The captains of the Brotherhood Without Banners and the representative of the Tuchanq.

  Jorah Marrago stood up.

  "It won't be easy," he said.

  The Drazi snorted. "As we thought. Coward."

  Marrago looked at him with the stare that had caused more than one raw recruit to fall silent and start shaking. "That is not what I said. I said it will not be easy, not that I was afraid of it. There is a wide difference between caution and cowardice, but if you do not believe me, that is your privilege. All the riches in the galaxy will do you no good if you are dead.

  "Now will you listen to me, or are you merely going to toss around sarcastic remarks?"

  The Drazi fell silent, anger in his gaze.

  Everyone in the room was quiet.

  "Continue," Moreil said at last. "We listen."

  Marrago swallowed, trying to stoke up the anger he always felt. He had hated the Great Game, the foolish waste of it. He thought of the loyal soldiers who had died because of political machinations. He thought of Lyndisty bleeding her life away in the throne room. He thought of Londo banishing him. He thought of Drusilla, cold and calculating. He thought of weak nobles and foolish courtiers and sybaritic hedonists. He thought of everything he had ever hated about his world and his people.

  And he turned that anger into a cold, determined conviction. He had taken this step. He had always known this day would come.

  He would do what he must.

  "It will not be easy," he continued. "Our.... their fleet might not be what it once was, but it is still impressive. Technologically the Centauri fleet outdoes anything we can match. The planetary defence system in particular is outstanding. After the attack two-and-a-half years ago I laid down specifications for new improved mechanics. They were half-way to completion when I was.... banished. It's safe to assume the new grid is finished now.

  "Plus, there is the possibility of Alliance ships there. Centauri Prime still has some Centauri ships, but there may be other Alliance forces. I've heard about the Inquisitors moving around on the surface. They will have ships of their own in orbit. Plus, after the attack on Gorash, Londo will have asked the Alliance for greater protection. Count on it. You caught him flat-footed once before. I doubt you'll do so again.

  "On the other hand, the homeworld will still be sorely weakened from the War. There were very few nobles of any status left alive, and the Houses will now be led by young and inexperienced nobles. They won't have much military understanding, but they will all be willing to fight hard to prove themselves.

  "We need to know more about the situation on Centauri Prime before we do anything. The first rule of war is never to go in blind."

  "No waiting," the Tuchanq said in its usual hollow, staccato voice. "No time for patience. Only revenge. Only blood. We will not wait."

  Mi'Ra rose, and Marrago looked at her. She was almost.... feline in her movements. Narns were generally too thickset and heavy-boned for subtlety or grace of motion, but Mi'Ra seemed to manage it.

  "The timing is perfect," she said, her red eyes looking directly at him. "It could not be more so. Emperor Mollari is sick, possibly on his deathbed. Those.... young, idealistic nobles you spoke of will be too busy manoeuvring themselves into positions of power to work together to hold off an attack."

  Marrago felt a sickening lurch in his stomach. Londo? Ill? Dying? Then he hardened his hearts. Londo had accepted his role. Marrago would have to continue with his.

  "If you say so. I think it is too early."

  "No," the Tuchanq said. "Now."

  "There is one more thing," Marrago said, looking around. "Alliance ships. There will be some there, particularly if those Inquisitors are still present. Open fire on an Alliance ship, and you are inviting war with them."

  "Let them come," Moreil said, suddenly. "Let them all come."

  Mi'Ra nodded. So did the Tuchanq.

  Marrago spread his arms wide. "Very well. Someone fetch the maps. I'll start outlining weak points and strategic areas."

  * * *

  The servants moved aside as she passed, whispering about her when they thought she was out of earshot. She could hear them, of course. One of the things she had learned in her childhood was the necessity of very good hearing. She didn't let them know she could hear them, though. That would spoil all the fun.

  It was interesting to find out what people were saying about her. Some called her mad, others cold. There were rumours that she was sleeping with any number of people — one chambermaid even claimed to have seen her in the bed of that strange human Morden. Some said she had poisoned her husband, or that she had used witchcraft to make him ill, or that she had gone to the technomages to have him kept alive but not conscious.

  She was aware that she was not universally liked, but she contented herself with the thought that few people of worth were ever popular.

  Not even her guards liked her. They had made the absolute minimum of protest when she had told them that she did not need them for today.

  Lady Timov, daughter of Alghul and Lady Consort to Emperor Londo Mollari II, pushed the door open and swept majestically inside.

  Durla Antignano stood to attention sharply. "My lady," the new Captain of the Guards said crisply.

  Timov nodded at him as she closed the door, looking around. He had come alone, as she had requested. He could hardly insult the Lady Consort by bringing his guards to a private meeting now, could he? It was of course scandalous that the two of them were alone together, but Timov was content to let the scandalmongers have their fun. After all, if the worst they suspected about this meeting was an illicit liaison, both of them would have escaped lightly.

  From the folds of her voluminous gown Timov pulled out a small, stylus-shaped device, with which she proceeded to comb the room. The light on the end of the tracker maintained a steady glow until she reached an elaborately decorated urn in one corner of the chamber. Timov recognised it as a grossly expensive gift to Emperor Turhan from the then-incumbent Lord Vole. A quick moment's investigation turned up the bugging device and she quickly clipped a device of her own around it. A study of the rest of the room found another similar device, which was treated the same way.

  Satisfied, Timov folded up her tracker and returned it to her pocket. Taking the seat opposite Durla, she gestured to him to sit down.

  "A few little things I picked up from some contacts of mine in the black market," she said by way of explanation. "Anyone listening will hear what I wish them to hear, and nothing else."

  "And what will they be hearing, my lady?" Durla asked in his usual clipped, precisely enunciated tone.

  "Oh, that we are sleeping together. Don't look so shocked, Durla. You are a fine figure of a young man, and with my husband.... ill, I have certain needs." The expression on Durla's face was wonderful to behold, a strange combination of shock and revulsion, purest horror and desperation. Timov laughed. "A joke," she said. "I cannot speak for my husband, but my marriage vows mean something to me. Besides, you are a little young for me. I wanted to speak of something else and it would be better if anyone listening thought this more.... mundane."

  "Are you not worried that those.... listeners mig
ht use this incorrect information against you, my lady?"

  "Tish! When has adultery ever been a cause for concern in these circles? My fidelity has usually been something of a joke."

  Durla smiled, and rested his elbows on the table. "Not for you, my lady, no. But my position is a little more precarious than yours. I could very easily find myself back in those cells. My guards bear me little love, and if you were to complain about any.... undue pressure I was putting on you, I would rapidly lose the limited freedom I have at present."

  "Really?" Timov said, eyes widening. "I had not considered that possibility. How dreadfully remiss of me. You must accept my utmost apologies."

  Durla reached into the pocket of his uniform coat and laid something on the table. Timov smiled, recognising it. A signal jammer. "Believe me, my lady. No one is hearing anything in this room."

  "I had hoped to avoid making people paranoid, but yes, we are both very clever. We have played this Game too long. I did not come here to blackmail you, Durla, nor to sleep with you. I came to offer you an alliance."

  "I am as ever, my lady's to command."

  "Then you would be the first," she drawled. "I have a hard enough time commanding my serving maids. When my husband was.... well, I had some little authority. He has been in a coma for several months now, and my little power wanes every day. I have accustomed myself to the realisation that he may never awake. I cannot simply wait for something that may never happen. If I am to save our people, I will have to act now."

  "Do our people need saving, my lady?"

  "Durla.... I know you are neither blind nor stupid. Please do not pretend to be either. Can you say you are truly happy with the way things are? Have you seen those.... Inquisitors moving around? Is there no one close to you whom they have taken away? Do you truly wish to serve a human standing beside the Purple Throne?"

  "If you mean Mr. Morden, he freed me from my imprisonment."

  "He did so because he wanted a tame pet on a leash, someone he could set on those who defied him. Are you happy being a human's lapdog?"

  "I am a Centauri. My family is ancient and proud. Some say I dishonoured that memory."

  "I know your past," Timov interrupted. "You were exiled when it was discovered you murdered your brother."