"It was over a woman."
"Such arguments usually are," Timov smiled. "Although never over me, I recall."
"When he freed me, I told Mr. Morden what I wanted from him."
"Has he given it to you?"
"No, and I doubt he ever will, but then I doubt the same thing regarding you. Your husband, when he ruled, was weak and spineless. He did not listen. He did not care for my talents and he imprisoned me rather than allow me to redeem myself from whatever.... transgressions I might have committed. I want to see the Centauri race return to the stars, by our own destiny rather than at the whim of another. I have resigned myself to that never happening."
"Under my husband, no. It will not. But we have accepted that my husband is likely never to recover. For myself, I want a quiet retirement, and if he does recover, a place somewhere near the ocean where he can recuperate free from the burdens of his position. He has done enough for these people already.
"But most of all, I want those humans and their Inquisitors and everything to do with the Alliance gone from our space. We can work together to achieve that, and both of us will get what we want.
"How does Emperor Durla Antignano sound to you, hmm?"
* * *
"I have come home."
G'Kar looked up at the red sky as he set foot on his homeworld for the first time in over a year. It was nearly sunset. He remembered looking up at that sky hundreds of times, as a pouchling, as a warrior against the Centauri, as a prophet. He remembered thinking how fortunate he was to call such a world home.
Now it was polluted and scarred. There was a darkness at its heart, but then, as he thought about it, he realised there had always been a darkness here. Perhaps it had begun with the Centauri Occupation, perhaps earlier than that, but it had always been here.
The Centauri had taught them a lot, mostly unwittingly. Above all, they had taught the Narn how to hate.
And now they were reaping the harvest they had sown.
"If we cannot live together, we shall surely die apart," he whispered. No one listened. No one understood, and no one listened, and no one cared.
He felt as if his entire life had suddenly become incredibly pointless. If he had still been at the heart of the Great Machine he could have seen this coming, he could have worked to prevent it, he could....
No. No 'if onlys'. That way lay madness.
For so long the focus of his life had been to fight a war. It seemed he had always been at war, with one race or another. Then he had seen that black, terrible Shadow ship high in the night, and he had known his purpose.
But now that purpose was gone, evaporated into dust, and just how much of that victory had been down to him? How much had he really accomplished? Would he have been better off merely leaving everything alone and sitting back and letting the darkness come? Would the Narn and the Centauri have been better off without his prophecies?
He could not answer those questions, and the Prophet could not see far enough into the future to know what would come.
He knew only that he had to try.
* * *
G'Kar was a great man, and a true inspiration. It is sad that only with his death is it possible for this to be appreciated. During his life he was too often weighed down by thoughts of his mistakes, of his errors, of his lapses of judgement, of things that no one could possibly blame him for.
That, I think, was both his greatest failing and his greatest strength. He could not perceive himself as the inspiration he truly was.
For good or ill, and I cannot say, for I am no Prophet, he changed our people.
L'Neer of Narn, Learning at the Prophet's Feet.
* * *
There was heat and motion and energy and power. There was noise. There was the sound of her thoughts, echoing loudly in his mind. Dexter Smith had never wanted to be a true telepath, never asked for their sort of power, but now he wished he could have it. If this was what they felt all the time, this blessed, wondrous communion of thoughts and voices and souls, then he would gladly trade everything for that.
Talia kissed him harder and he marvelled at the thoughts in his mind. He could feel her passion, her determination, her love for her people and her conviction that what she was doing was right. He could feel the lessening of her sense of fear, her knowledge of the vast forces arrayed against them and her joy in knowing she had one ally, however insignificant.
Not that she thought he was insignificant.
I can feel you as well, she thought in his mind.
Is this what it is always like? he thought back.
No, she replied, and he caught the mental image of a sad, satisfied smile. I wish it were. Her hands curled around his back.
He could see her childhood, her daughter, old friends long since dead. Her entire life was laid open to him, and he felt his open to her. For a moment he felt a pang of anguish at that, that she could see all his secrets, all his shames, that one moment of a life ending behind a pair of green eyes.
And then he felt it, at the back of her mind. She was trying to hide it from him, but it was there.
Guilt. A tiny pang of guilt.
He pulled back, shaking. She tried to hold on to him, but he slid away from her embrace. Breathing harshly, he stepped off the bed and fell against the far wall.
"What?" she breathed. "Dexter, what...?"
"I'm sorry," he whispered, closing his eyes. He could not feel her any more. Her mind was closed to him. "I can't do this. You're married."
"I.... Dexter...."
"No.... Please don't." He sank down to a sitting position, his head in his hands. "My head feels awful. I think we drank too much."
She sat up, and he could hear her starting to button up her top. "Dexter...." She stopped, as if she had nothing else to add.
"You love him," he said, after a while. "The two of you have a daughter, and you love him." He looked up, staring at her. "You do love him, don't you?"
Tears welling in her eyes, she nodded. "Do you...." She hesitated. "Is it wrong for one woman to love two men at the same time?"
"No more than for one man and two women. Damn! I wish I'd got to you first." He stood up. "I do want to, Talia. You know that. You know how much you mean to me. I've been thinking about you ever since...." He breathed out slowly. "We'd both regret this."
She fell back on to the bed, exasperated, or perhaps just to hide her tears. "I really didn't think men like you existed any more."
"Maybe I'm just a fool. You have the bed. I'll sleep on the couch. We can talk in the morning."
"In the morning," she replied.
He scooped up his shirt from where it had been discarded on the floor and noticed the rip in his collar. Sighing, he walked from the room, his head pounding.
"Good night, Dexter," she called to him.
"Good night," he replied.
* * *
As he walked back to his quarters in the shabby, dirty ship that was now his entire fleet, Jorah Marrago was surprised to find his mind filled with tactics and planning. It was a good feeling, one he had missed.
For the last year, ever since he had joined forces with Sinoval, his mind had been on strategy, long-term goals and aims, thinking years in advance. That was depressing, a constant reminder of the future, speculation about a time he might not live to see.
But tactics, that was different. Creating a battle in his mind, the positioning, the opening movements, the hidden feints. In a strange, bizarre way it was almost beautiful — a game, a creation of skill, pitting general against general, battle-master against battle-master.
Only later would the true cost become clear. Only after the battle could one look around at the bodies of the dead, the mutilations of the injured and the anguished faces of the bereaved. Marrago remembered that. He always tried to remember the true cost of battle, but try as he might, he could not banish that sense of.... joy he felt at a grand plan coming together.
And this was a challenge. His army was a mish-mash of differe
nt peoples and races and personalities who would all rather be fighting each other. The true military might of this attack was a race of whose capacities and strength he had not the slightest conception. He was attacking the homeworld of one of the most technologically advanced races in civilised space, however socially self-destructive they might be.
Besides, by the Purple Throne, it felt good to be doing something at last.
Dasouri was waiting outside his door. He nodded his head.
"Is it true, General?" he asked.
Marrago did not have to ask what he was referring to. "Yes," he replied. "We're going to war."
Dasouri nodded, no trace of surprise or joy or fear or indeed any other emotion on his perfectly equable face. "Where?"
"Centauri Prime." Marrago was pleased with himself for the entirely flat way he said those two words.
Dasouri nodded again, still showing no emotion. "I will tell the others. They will be prepared."
Marrago watched the Drazi depart, wondering, not for the first time, what brought him here. Each and every one of those who followed him — or any captain in the Brotherhood — had their story. They each had their reasons. They were the people who had slipped through the net the Alliance had cast over the galaxy. They were the people who were not seen, not noticed, not missed.
They were the people for whom there was no place in the galaxy but the one they made themselves.
Thinking darkly about that, but still bolstered by his plans and schemes, Marrago opened the door to his chambers. He nodded absently to Senna, sitting calmly on her chair, and drifted over to his books. He had been able to bring a few with him into exile, and he had obtained a few more since. One of the many advantages of having a Thrakallan crimelord indebted to him.
"How could you?" Senna whispered.
He looked up at her, and saw for the first time the expression on her face, a combination of horror and disgust.
"How could I what?"
"You swore to defend the Purple Throne. You swore to defend Centauri Prime. You swore...."
"Shut up!" he shouted, his good mood evaporating instantly. "You were listening at the door!"
"How else am I to find out what is happening? You keep me locked up in here, you never allow me to leave. I am just as much your prisoner as I was.... his! And now you are going to lead an attack on our homeworld!"
"You do not understand," he said angrily.
"No," she rasped. "I don't. Why save me, and lead those.... monsters to do to others what was done to me? Why would you attack your own people, your own Emperor?"
"My Emperor cast me out!" he cried, stepping forward. She cowered back on her chair. "I spent my entire life in service to that Throne, and where did it get me? My daughter is dead, and I am now an exile. I am a lord of the Centauri Republic and I am forced to live with bandits and brigands and peasants!
"I have no people, and I have no home and I have no Emperor!"
Shaking, she rose slowly to her feet. She stared at him, fear evident in every part of her body but her eyes. They were filled with contempt and disgust, and he saw his own self-hatred staring back at him.
When she spoke, it was slowly and deliberately, with a determination that belied her years. "You are every bit as much a monster as they are," she said calmly.
He did not know why he did what he did, only that his body acted before his mind could prevent it. He struck out with all the force he could muster, a blow honed in a youth of bar fights and an adulthood of battlefields. He struck her squarely on her chin and felt the satisfying force on his fist as she crumpled beneath him. She fell back on to the chair and it gave way, shattering under the impact. She fell to the floor and looked up at him, shaking, tears glistening in her soft eyes.
Lyndisty would have struck back at him if he had done that to her.
But he had never hit Lyndisty.
Senna looked at him, as if expecting him to do more. Her hand slid over her breast, covering her hearts as she tried to breathe. Finally, unable to look at him any longer, she pulled herself up and half-ran, half-crawled away from the room, scurrying to her private quarters, slamming the door behind her.
Marrago realised he was shaking. He was turning to the cabinet to pour himself a glass of jhala when he realised Sinoval was standing directly in front of him.
He stepped back, his hearts pounding. "Please," he said, breathing hard. "A little warning next time."
"We have no time for warnings," Sinoval replied, his eyes dark. "We have no time for waiting or planning or preparing, not any longer. I am having to activate all my players at once, and hope that one or two of them are triumphant."
Marrago stepped back again, and moved quickly to the cabinet. His hands were shaking as he poured the jhala. "Don't judge me," he said, harshly. "Don't you dare judge me."
"I would not presume to," Sinoval replied. "I have done worse myself, and if that is the worst sin committed by any of those who follow me then I will find myself at the head of an army of saints. You will have to judge yourself, though.... in time."
"I know," Marrago whispered. "Gods, I never thought I would.... I never hit Lyndisty, not once. Nor Drusilla. I've never hit a woman, much less a girl, and now....
"Sometimes I think I want to stop this road you have dragged me on to. I do not like what it is making me become."
"I did not drag you anywhere, and the road is not changing you. You are changing yourself. In any event, that is not why I am here. The plan is going to have to change."
"Everything's going as it should. These.... Tuchanq are a new addition. Someone's pulling their strings, and I think I know who, but nothing else has changed. I'm still the best and most experienced general here. If anything, this is only accelerating matters. I'll lead this raid of theirs, and we'll win. It won't be easy, but I've exaggerated a few things for their benefit. We'll win, and burn half of Centauri Prime to the ground, and everyone here will know it was thanks to me. I'll be leader of them all by the end of the year.... at least, leader of those I don't have to kill.
"And then you'll have the nucleus of your army."
"Is this the army you think you can take to war for me? Are these the soldiers you want to lead?"
"No, but they're what we have, and that will have to be enough. They have no place in this world any more. Peace? What good is that? They're all creatures of war and chaos and they haven't known enough of the blessings of peace to appreciate it. They're natural warriors, and they'll be the best soldiers we can get. Trust me on this."
"I do, but as I said.... we will have to move more quickly. The.... Enemy is pursuing me, and they are closer than I would like to think. Some of my little spiders are going to fall. Everything will come out into the open sooner than either side will like, and we will have to be ready when it does.
"We are going to have to accelerate matters regarding this army of yours."
Marrago took a long sip. "What did you have in mind?"
"When you arrive at Centauri Prime, I will be there waiting."
Sinoval's dark eyes blazed.
"And so will the Alliance."
* * *
There was no fear. Vejar honestly could not remember what fear felt like any more. He tried to think back to the Drakh, and their brutal, callous invasion of Kazomi 7, but he could remember nothing. Everything was cold and calm, as if those who had died or been mutilated and scarred had been nothing but illusions.
His power had always come from the imagination, and now he could imagine nothing.
We need to find someone, cousin, and we think you know where she might be.
He could not do this in ghost form, not as a spirit. This would have to be real. Nevertheless, he could walk through the wide corridors cloaked in mirrors. Anyone who looked at him would see a lowly cleaner, and surveillance would not see him at all.
It had been a very long time since he had left his underground sanctum and he was surprised by what the years had done to the Neuadd. He had seen it
in his astral wanderings many times, but that was different from seeing it for real. He could not pretend this was an illusion or a dream. This was reality.
The building was practically empty. He had seen only three people in the four floors he had traversed thus far. Security checkpoints were unmanned. He doubted there were enough security officers left in the building to man them all. Or even left on the planet, come to that.
Who is this person?
He remembered the day he had named this building. Neuadd. An ancient word, from an ancient and beautiful Earth language. It meant so many things, but so few people understood them.
I think you know her name, cousin.
He moved up another flight of stairs, his muscles burning with the unaccustomed exercise. He could not risk the elevators. Any one of a number of things might go wrong.
So how do I find her?
He could feel the tingle on his skin that spoke of the magic Galen was performing elsewhere in the city. Illusionary Drakh or Shadows, or even dragons if he had been listening to Alwyn too much lately. Anything that would draw attention away from this building. Not the guards, for they were next to nothing and there were hardly any here anyway.
She will be in the network somewhere. You can access it from the Vorlon's quarters, if you need to. We need to find her.
He moved up even further. Another couple of floors and he was near the top of the building. The Vorlon, Ambassador Ulkesh, had take over the top three floors when he had arrived here. He had remained, despite all the other Ambassadors relocating to Babylon 5. They had all kept offices here, a skeleton staff for the sake of appearance and tradition and respect for the memory of Kazomi 7, but for the most part it was an empty gesture. Ulkesh was the only one actually to remain here.
So why me? Why not do this yourself?
Vejar reached the doors to the Vorlon's chambers. They were unguarded, of course. Usually anyone penetrating so far up the Neuadd would have passed several stringent security checks. It didn't matter, anyway. No one would be stupid enough to try to break into a Vorlon's private rooms.
A Dark, Distorted Mirror. Volume 5 : Among the Stars, like Giants. Part 3 : On the Edges of Perception addm-5 Page 5