"I bow before your great wisdom, great lord," Forell said, suiting the action to the words. He shuffled into the darkness, and the voice of the Keeper in his mind was very satisfied.
* * *
The old man knew all about power. He knew everything there was to know about controlling people, nations, destinies. For years now he had been secretly running the human race. Oh, not their Government, or their industry or their economy. Those things he left to his subordinates, although he occasionally became involved when he had to.
No, he guided the fate of humanity. He watched everything happening, the onward push of history, and he moulded events slightly, subtly, according to the grand design. Sometimes he wondered if he was himself controlled by this design.
It did not matter. When he died - in truth this time, and not merely as an illusion to keep himself hidden - few people would know anything about his accomplishments, but they would be there. Humanity would be forever changed by his actions.
It was unfortunate that so many would have to die, and it was slightly out of keeping with his philosophy. If anything, the next stage of the grand design was more the sort of strategy that the Enemy might pursue.
That of course made it all the more attractive. Humanity had chosen wrongly, acting in error for selfish reasons, little knowing or caring what they had done when they willingly signed themselves over to the Shadows.
They had to be punished for that error. Any punishment had a number of purposes, of course. First, there was the reinforcement that what had been done was wrong - a lesson. And then there was the deterrent, ensuring that the error would never be repeated.
The lesson would be the deaths of so many; the deterrent the way the deaths would be explained away.
It was a shame, yes, but it was necessary. To bring humanity to Heaven, it must first know Hell. As Rameses had once said: 'Canaan is devastated, Ashkelon is fallen, Gezer is ruined, Yenoam is reduced to nothing, Israel is desolate and her seed is no more, and Palestine has become a widow for Egypt.
'All the countries are unified and pacified.'
"Who said that?" asked a familiar voice, and the old man turned. It was Morden, walking forward, his hand in his pocket as was his habit. "It had the feel of a quotation."
The old man shook his head, smiling slightly. Morden was not much of a historian, not of Earth history anyway. "An ancient king, long dead now."
"All the countries are unified and pacified," Morden repeated. "I don't like the sound of this. It's.... too much like what they might do, the Enemy."
"Yes, it is. But it is not them, it is us. The Enemy believe in chaos, disorder, anarchy. A struggle for supremacy, where everything succumbs to force, to technology, to the movement of armies. We.... Well, for us it is a slow, gentle, loving climb up. Our friends love all the races, even those who make mistakes. To err, is, after all, only human.
"However, no loving parent would spare the rod. To do so only spoils the child. Sometimes, my friend, it is sadly necessary to be cruel to be kind."
"I suppose so. Sacrifices are sometimes necessary." Morden looked up at the machine before them. The telepath, Byron, was still, motionless, his mouth open in a silent scream. "I thought I'd find you here."
"It is a marvel, is it not? A clear and precise image of just how far there is to go. We feel that because we can walk between the stars, conquer worlds and dominate races, we know all there is to know.
"We do not, and I for one hope we never will."
"The never–ending necessity for human achievement. I met a taxi driver a few months ago who was talking about the same thing. Anyway, there is a message for you. From our.... ah.... Lady Gwenhyfar."
Morden handed over the sheet and the old man grabbed it with uncharacteristic haste. 'Lady Gwenhyfar' was of no value in herself, but she was a representative of those who held themselves to be the secret masters of humanity. For centuries there had been those who had ruled by stealth, by secrecy, by the invisible knife in the dark. Names changed constantly, they meant little in the end. Bureau 13 had been the previous appellation, only to be replaced in recent years by the designation of an ancient age of chivalry - the Round Table.
And 'Gwenhyfar' was his eyes and ears there.
"'King Arthur' has called a meeting of his knights," the old man muttered, crumpling up the page. It was written in code of course, but still, no evidence should be kept of his involvement in this, not yet. Morden did not react. Both of them knew who 'King Arthur' was.
"It is the first time he has sought to convene a full meeting since his return from Z'ha'dum. I think he is close to making a move against the President."
"You're sure?"
"He must be. He's a cautious man, and patient, but time is running out and he knows it. This war with the Alliance, their new Dark Star ships.... everything's moving fast and Clark isn't taking enough action to stop it. The 'king' is going to have to do something, and he's bound to want the Round Table to support him."
"Will they?"
"I don't know. Some will. Maybe enough."
"So what are we going to do about it? We can't wake Mr. Byron here yet, can we?"
"No. That would reveal our hand to the Enemy far too soon. The network is powerful, yes, but if an Enemy ship decided to blow this whole building apart, there's precious little we could do about it. We can't activate Byron until the fleet is here." The old man paused. "We're going to have to accelerate the timetable. The sooner the Dark Star fleet gets here, the sooner we can activate our part of the network, the sooner we can administer the.... punishment, and the sooner we can free Proxima."
"Are we going to be ready this soon? Is the fleet going to be ready?"
"It'll have to be."
"Do you want me to contact Captain Sheridan?"
The old man shook his head. "No, he may know who you are. Sinoval's met you, and he definitely knows who you are, and who you work for. He and Sheridan are not very close, but he might have told somebody something. So might Mollari, for that matter. We'd be better off not revealing just who we're working for.
"So.... I think I'll have to do this myself. Hmm.... I've always wanted to talk to Captain Sheridan. I think he's a man who will.... understand our situation here."
"Let's hope so," Morden muttered. "Let's hope so."
* * *
They thought he was a fool, all of them. For all these years they had thought him an incompetent, a blind man, able to be pushed this way and that, manipulated to fulfill their desired ends. Welles, Sheridan, the Round Table, the MegaCorps, Bester.... all of them.
Well, William Morgan Clark was no fool. He was President of Humanity, and to the masses that meant he was the most powerful person in all the human worlds. Oh, there were some conspiracy theorists who believed in all sorts of things like the Round Table, but recent years had more or less put an end to their credibility. Clark was popular and successful, as Humanity's recent poll had proved.
But to those in the inner circle so to speak, he was a nothing, a figurehead, a nonentity. He went along with all their plans, making futile attempts to direct the course of human affairs, but really all he had to do was sit and watch Welles, Sheridan and Ryan sorting things out. From time to time it amused him and others to insist on certain courses of action, such as concentrating on Sinoval. That was necessary, but also amusing.
It had been fun watching them all wonder if they had underestimated him, or whether another faction had simply got to him first. Sheridan wondering if Welles or Ryan were so concerned about Sinoval, Welles and Bester making plans for the future of the Great Machine....
He was perfectly happy to watch, and direct things according to a grand design.
Let them think he was a nonentity. Let all of them think that. He did not care. His - and humanity's - greatest defeat was coming, greater even than the loss of Earth. Everyone would see it happen, and no one would suspect that their greatest defeat was his greatest victory. Humanity's too, although they would probably neve
r realise that.
He thought again about the new defence grid. It had been improved after the Battle of the Second Line, and tweaked and honed and perfected ever since then. It now represented the pinnacle of modern technology. It was perfect, absolutely flawless.
Save, of course, for the fact that the President had complete access to the keycards and pass codes.
"What happens if I get drunk and wander down here?" he had asked the technician, smiling. The tech had not replied, his face showing clear doubt as to whether Clark was joking with him, or joking at him.
Clark smiled at the memory as he sat back in his chair, looking at the thing in his hand. It was still now, its single eye closed. A particularly revolting creature, although it could be useful in certain circumstances. Clark wished he had time to play with it a little, but unfortunately events were moving too fast. He hadn't had time to play with his previous Keeper after it had been blasted from his body.
He shifted his gaze to the dead bodies on the floor. The Zener's face still bore the expression of the recognition it had experienced in its last, dying moment. Not enough was left of the Drakh for its face to be seen.
The Keeper's eye twitched open, and it trembled with fear. There are some beings who see beyond the mere physical.
Clark closed his fist around it, and began to whistle as he disposed of the remains and washed his hands.
* * *
Peace was a rarity in a warrior's life. In an existence dedicated to war, to the service of their lord and their people, to the constant search for perfection of body, mind and soul, there was little room for peace. Even rituals of meditation were dedicated to loyalty and service and sacrifice.
Kozorr could count on one hand the number of times he had known true peace in his life. Most of them had featured Kats in one way or another.
He dimly reflected that he would now have to be able to move the fingers of his broken hand enough to begin counting on them too.
He was not sure about his feelings for Tirivail. Her feelings for him she had made quite clear. He admired her, both for her beauty and for her skill in battle, as well as her dedicated loyalty to her father Takier, and to Sonovar. She was many things a true warrior should be, and she reminded him in some ways of Deeron.
But however much time he spent with Tirivail, however many times she hinted or implied or said flat out she would like to take matters further, however much respect he felt for her, he could always hear Kats' voice, see her smile and the gentleness in her eyes.
He sat back, resting against the wall. He did not like sitting down, it was not a position a warrior should ever adopt, but his leg had been paining him after several hours of training and exercise.
"The Osen has been found," Tirivail said. She was standing, as a warrior should, and pacing slowly up and down. "It was destroyed by those new ships the Alliance controls - the Dark Stars. All the crew were killed in the engagement."
"We should never have been raiding Alliance shipping in the first place," Kozorr muttered. "Our war is not with them. It never has been."
"It has weakened relations between the Alliance and Sinoval," she replied. "But you are right. We should not be making war upon civilians and merchants. Leave trade wars for the Narn and the Centauri."
"Has the Alliance discovered who it was behind the attacks?"
"Lord Sonovar does not think so. Or rather, his pathetic little worm of an advisor does not think so. The Alliance is too busy with its war against the humans to bother with us. I do not think they will attack us unless we attack them."
"Then let us hope we don't. We cannot fight a war on two fronts."
"We are warriors," she replied, her eyes gleaming. "We will fight as many foes as we wish."
"And then we will all die, and what will we have achieved? We have lost the Osen. How many ships do we have left? Your Storm Dancers clan and the Tak'cha form the bulk of our military strength now. We do not have the resources for two wars."
"Then we will have a glorious death. Besides, Sinoval has been.... quiet. He has made no attempt to counterattack."
"That," said Kozorr firmly, "is what worries me. Beware a quiet enemy. But, practical considerations aside, the reason we should not fight the Alliance is because we have no reason to, and nothing to gain if we did. At least with the war against Sinoval there is an objective."
"There is?"
"Of course. We are fighting for the future of our people. Well, Sonovar is. Me, I'm...."
"You're fighting for your pretty little worker." She shook her head. "I do not understand you sometimes. She must have bewitched you. How can you have such feelings for a worker?"
"Have you ever been in love, Tirivail?"
"Love?" she snorted. "A delusion crafted by poets and dreamers and priestlings. I have love only for battle." She smiled, studying him closely for his reaction. "Of course, physical attraction and respect I do understand, but that is not love."
"No, it is not, and until you have felt what I feel, you will never understand."
"A worker? In the Name of the Betrayer, Kozorr! They are weak, pathetic, bloodless wretches! Necessary, yes.... and useful, but they are little better than animals."
"Kats is not weak or pathetic. She endured a torture that would have crippled and broken anyone else. I have seen the fire in her soul."
"If it is fire you want, then I will be happy to burn you." Kozorr did not react, and she shrugged. "A waste. Such a waste, but maybe there is still time. And hope. At least she is not a priestling."
"I have never met a priestling worth the respect Kats deserves." Tirivail smiled sweetly. "But then I have met few warriors worth that respect either." The smile faded.
"Am I one of those warriors?"
He paused, and she studied him intently. He could feel the force of her gaze. He was about to reply when the door opened.
It was the smell Kozorr was aware of first, a black stench that made him reel. For one brief moment he thought of Kalain, but then he knew the difference. Kalain's was the smell of death. This was the smell of one who has not bothered with his ablutions for months.
It was Forell of course, Sonovar's rotten little worm of an advisor. The clothes were literally rotting from his back and many of the deep wounds visible on his face and hands were weeping foul–smelling pus. He was carrying a tray and two goblets, which were the cleanest things about him.
"The Great Lord sends these to his two finest warriors with his regards," Forell hissed. His voice seemed clear and precise, although with hints of hoarseness. Before his.... mutilation and torture he had been an adequate orator, and he still tended towards verbosity and sycophancy.
Tirivail grabbed one of the goblets and stepped back cautiously. She did not like Forell, but then few did. Even Takier was prone to wondering just why Sonovar kept him around. He was the only priestling here; even Gysiner and Chardhay had left to go to one of the refugee worlds.
Kozorr rose awkwardly to his feet. The pain in his leg was less now, replaced by a dull thud, but he still knew to be careful not to stumble and fall. He had not noticed before how thirsty he was, and the strong aroma of the elixir almost overrode Forell's filthy odour.
He seized the goblet with unseemly haste and raised it to his lips. The thick red liquid burned his throat as it went down, but he was soon filled with a soft and pleasant warmth. He looked at Tirivail, who was swilling the dregs at the bottom of her goblet thoughtfully. She noticed him looking, and drained the rest.
"And now that you are refreshed, noble warriors," Forell continued, "the Great Lord requests your presence immediately. He needs the strong and the brave to serve him in an.... important matter."
"A mission for us?" Tirivail asked. Her eyes were shining.
"A mission? Yes. An important mission."
A chill ran down Kozorr's spine. There was something lurking just behind Forell's eyes, something that aroused considerable suspicion. He did not like the sound of this.
But then he was
a warrior, and, like or dislike, he was sworn to obey his lord.
Unto death.
* * *
Another routine day at the pub. The usual assortment of the drunk, the lost, the alone, the damned and the corrupt. There were times when Bo struggled to remember why he had opened this bar in the first place.
But then he did remember, his mind returning to the old days as a child, when his father had taken him into the bars. That had been in a small mining village on Vega. Every Sunday afternoon they had gone, as had all Bo's father's friends. They had sat around the same table, drinking patiently, playing cards, telling the same old jokes, laughing, complaining about their jobs and their wives, but all in good humour.
Bo had just sat and listened to them, answering their questions whenever they turned to him, running to fetch their drinks, advising his father on his hand of cards. But mostly, whenever he was tired, he curled up next to the fire - a real, genuine fire - and soaked in the warmth, the atmosphere, the conversation. He had known then that that was what he wanted to do: run a place just like that.
Oh, he had done all sorts of jobs after his father had died. Mining, cleaning, routine maintenance, all the usual shlub work that needed doing but that no one could be bothered doing. But he had done it, working hard, saving his money, and finally he had been able to buy this place.
Somehow, it wasn't how he had wanted it to be. The pub of his childhood had never had to deal with fights every night, never had to slip credits to corrupt Security officers, or pay off the local gangsters. The fire there had been warm and inviting, not a false front like this one. There had been no pathetic losers there, sobbing into their drinks or throwing up on the floor or smashing their glasses.
He wiped the table, lost in a reverie of the past, sighing softly. There was little hope of anything better now. He was too old to seek anything new. No, he was stuck here, but maybe.... just maybe.... he could fix things. He might be able to turn the place around, attract a good local crowd, have things just the way he remembered.
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