A Dark, Distorted Mirror. Volume 5 : Among the Stars, like Giants. Part 1 : Learning How to Live addm-5

by Gareth D. Williams

  They had tried to argue against him travelling alone, but he had come anyway, despite their protests. There was a price on his head from the Court, and there had already been three attempts at claiming it. He was still a recognisable figure and his refusal to cut his hair only made him the more recognisable.

  But still he came alone. This was something he had to do alone.

  As he walked beneath the night sky of Brakir, seeing the glow of the comet passing overhead, he spotted other outsiders, others here seeking.... perhaps the same things he was seeking.

  A Minbari woman was standing on a balcony above him. She was short, slender and pretty, and her bearing spoke of power. She was looking up into the sky, and toying absently with an amulet draped around her neck. A human, his clothes stained and muddy, was sitting in a corner of an alley, starting at shadows and whispering names under his breath. A Narn, one Marrago knew he recognised, walked into the doorway of a temple, where hundreds of Brakiri knelt in prayer and meditation.

  And a Brakiri, wearing the uniform of a captain in the Dark Star fleet, walked purposefully towards an abandoned building. He stopped before it, staring silently for a long, long time.

  Marrago moved past them all. They had their own stories, but so did he.

  He had rented a room in a quiet inn, not remotely surprised that the enterprising landlord had increased the rent tenfold for the Day of the Dead. He had paid. The funds he had gathered from various mercenary jobs were not inconsiderable, and what else did he have need to buy?

  He sat down, trying to remember what he had been told. 'The dead will come to you.'

  "Are you here?" he asked softly. "Lyndisty, are you here?"

  There was no answer. He was not sure if he had been expecting one. The whole concept of the Day of the Dead sounded strange to him, and he had been weaned on ghost stories, usually bloody and melodramatic. His father had disapproved, of course.

  But if there was even a chance, however slight, that he could see her again.... There were some things he had to say to her.

  Softly behind him there came gentle footsteps, whispered breaths of the dead. His breath became very cold in his mouth. And he turned.

  It was not Lyndisty.

  A man was standing before him, young and handsome, dressed in the uniform of a Centauri officer, a kutari at his side. For a moment Marrago did not know this man, but then he spoke, and there was understanding. "Jorah?" the man said. "Jorah, is that you?"

  Only one person had ever called him that. Even to Londo he had always been known as Marrago.

  "Barrystan," he whispered.

  "By the Great Maker," Barrystan said. "Look at you. You look old."

  "I am old," Marrago said. "Older than I look. Sometimes older than I feel. But you.... you look just like you did when you...." He stopped, not knowing how to say the word 'died'.

  "Has it been that long, then?" Barrystan sat down, as did Marrago. "How long has it been? Time doesn't seem to pass the same way there."

  "It must be.... twenty-five years. Perhaps even more. Yes, twenty-five years since Immolan."

  "Twenty-five years? Great Maker! That explains why you look so old." He suddenly straightened. "Lyndisty! How is she? She must be a young woman by now. Did you....? Is she...? Did you even hear me when I asked you to look after her? I don't remember."

  Marrago fell silent. He remembered hearing his old friend's last request to him. A young wife, a baby daughter. Could he look after them?

  How could he tell Lyndisty's father that she was dead?

  "I heard you," he said. "She is fine. A beautiful young woman."

  "Is she married yet?"

  "No, but there are several candidates. I think she enjoys the attention. She has.... a way of looking at the young men, a way of moving her eyes that draws them all in. She got that from your sister. Exactly the same tilt of the head."

  "And Drusilla?"

  Another pause, as Marrago thought of something to say. Drusilla had become selfish and spoiled and shrewish. The two of them spent as little time together as they could. She played the Game of Houses and took young lovers to her bed and enjoyed intrigues and gossip.

  But he remembered a time when he had danced with her at Barrystan's wedding, and watched her eyes sparkle with love for his friend, her new husband. He remembered as the light in her eyes died when he told her of his death. He had married her for honour, and she him for protection. There had never been love there. Her capacity for love had died when he had.

  "She is well," he said simply.

  "You did it, then?" Barrystan said. "Thank you, Jorah. Many would not have.... Thank you." Marrago did not say anything. There was very little to say. He had come here hoping, praying, for a chance to talk with Lyndisty one last time, to tell her he loved her one last time, to tell her that she had been the light illuminating his world.

  He had never expected that he would have to tell the truth to one of his oldest friends twenty-five years after he had died.

  "I cannot believe how old you look," Barrystan said again.

  "I am old. I have been old for a very long time."

  "Still playing at war? Are you Lord-General now?"

  "I was. I.... serve the Republic in another way now. One better suited to my talents."

  "What fool of an Emperor let you go from being Lord-General? Who is Emperor now, anyway? Turhan cannot still be alive?"

  "He's been dead for a while. No.... a.... you won't believe this. Londo Mollari. Emperor Mollari II."

  "Mollari? Never! Well.... he got it after all. The thing he wanted most in all the world."

  "The thing he wanted most as a young man. I think now he only sits on that throne because there is no one else. Age.... is an.... uncomfortable thing, Barrystan. I am not sure if I would not have preferred to have died like you, a young man, still with all my hopes and aspirations and dreams."

  "You saw my daughter grow up. You made love to my wife while my ashes were floating in the night winds. You could breathe clean air. You could drink warm brivare and eat fine foods. You are alive, Jorah. Death is a cold place, sometimes. Enjoy life while you have it."

  What could he say? That he had watched Lyndisty die, that he had seen Drusilla shun his every gentle touch, that he had breathed air filled with the ashes of his people, that he had tasted only blood and bones?

  Life was a cold place sometimes as well.

  "Did we ever listen when we were young men, Barrystan? Some things do not change with age."

  "No, I suppose they don't. Well, Jorah. Since you've awoken me from whatever it was I was doing, at least try to listen to me. You aren't that old, and whatever has happened to you, you are still alive, and it can always be made better. There is no going back when you are dead. There is nothing."

  "Really?" Marrago whispered. He did not want to believe that. He did not want to believe Lyndisty had an eternity of nothing stretched out before her. "There must be something? Heaven, Hell? The infinite pleasure palaces of Emperor Creoso?"

  "Whatever there is, I have not found it. You are alive, Jorah. So live!"

  "Which of us is older now, friend?" he said.

  "You, by at least three years, but that does not mean wisdom, does it?"

  "Probably not."

  "Be sure to tell Lyndisty I love her. I wish I could have seen her one last time. And Drusilla. I never loved anyone as much as I loved her."

  "I will tell them," Marrago breathed, trying to hold back the tears filling his eyes.

  "And remember." The voice seemed to be coming from a very long way away. "You're alive, Jorah. Don't ever forget that."

  "I won't.

  "I won't."

  * * *

  The Centauri were one of the oldest of the younger races, and certainly one of the proudest. The Shadow War had seen their ancient civilisation totter and almost fall, but a combination of luck, outside assistance and the dedicated leadership of Emperor Mollari II ensured its safety.

  But as the Centauri w
ere soon to learn, victory sometimes costs more than defeat. The enforced treaty by which the Republic joined the Alliance would soon cripple them. The cost of building Babylon 5 hit them no harder than it did many others, but the extent of military aid demanded for the Alliance fleet meant leaving many worlds undefended, a fact of which numerous raiders were more than willing to take advantage.

  The Republic was also to bear the brunt of the feared Inquisitors, dispatched by the Vorlons to seek out any who had aided the Shadows during the war. Before this period the Inquisitors had been no more than legend. The first confirmed sighting was in 2259, with the testing of Delenn and John Sheridan, the second in 2262, when Satai Kats was interrogated by the most feared of them all, the human known as Sebastian.

  Until now, they had only been seen singly. That soon changed.

  And they were not even the greatest of Emperor Mollari's problems.

  SANDERS, G. (2295) Prime Among Peers: A Study of Emperor Mollari II and the

  Centauri Republic he Led. Chapter 2 of The Rise and Fall of the United

  Alliance, the End of the Second Age and the Beginning of the Third, vol. 4,

  The Dreaming Years. Ed: S. Barringer, G. Boshears, A. E. Clements,

  D. G. Goldingay & M. G. Kerr.

  * * *

  Our Dark Masters protect us. Our Dark Masters shelter us. In your Shadow are we guided, by your Shadow are we shielded. By your grace do we thrive. By your wisdom do we live.

  Our Dark Masters protect us. Our Dark Masters shelter us.

  Moreil continued the rite, speaking the words by rote as he had every day since the Dark Masters had gone Beyond. He had spoken them before battle, before trial, before food, before rest. He had spoken them the day the Priests of Midnight had exiled him from the worlds of the Z'shailyl and denied him the comforting presence of the Dark Masters' shadow.

  He had never stopped believing, and he had never hated the Priests of Midnight for their sentence. It was an honour to serve the Dark Masters, an honour to draw each breath in their name. There had been too many failures during the bleak days that marked the end of the Dark Crusade. There had been too many defeats, and some had had to pay for those failures. Moreil had been but one among many, and he had deserved his punishment.

  But still he lived, and still he served the Dark Masters with every movement. That was why he was here, commanding a Drakh starship, working with aliens, working with pirates and bandits and scum. They sought only glory and profit and power. Moreil sought only chaos, to serve the Dark Masters' memory.

  They had many names, this motley little group of theirs. The Narn captain referred to them as the 'Brotherhood Without Banners', in reference to some group of heroes from his past. To the Drazi they were the 'Sword of Droshalla'. A strange human called them the 'Order of the Wolf'. The outcast Centauri lordling used the name 'Assassins'. Most, including Moreil himself, did not care. They all knew what they were.

  They were the lost, the damned, the forgotten. The Dark Crusade, that some called the Shadow War, had left the galaxy in turmoil and chaos. Many had been displaced. Some, guilty of what would in more ordered days have been called 'crimes', had escaped and fled.

  And people like that eventually came here.

  There were many like them. Bandits. Outcasts. Raiders. Most of them had been destroyed by the Alliance. Only the Brotherhood Without Banners (or whatever you called them) had survived, and they had done that by hiding and building and gaining strength. Between them they had criminal contacts across the galaxy. Between them they had enough ships to comprise a small army. Between them they were capable of carving a small empire out of the galaxy.

  And once they had done so, Moreil knew, they would descend on each other like the wolves the human had named them to be, and destroy whatever they had built. Such was the nature of chaos.

  They did not even have a leader, although there was a loose council of sorts. Moreil attended its meetings when he could be bothered. Most of them feared him. There were a few other members of the vassal races here, but no other Z'shailyl. A Zener scientist and a few of his staff, easily cowed. A flight of Zarqheba, howling their mindless cries into the silent sky, easily directed when there were beings to kill and warm flesh to eat. A group of Wykhheran, who formed Moreil's personal honour guard.

  To all of them, he was as a Dark Master. He had gathered them all and brought them here. They might be exiles, they might be masterless, they might be outcasts.

  But they would bring chaos.

  The Alliance would catch them eventually, of course. Moreil had no illusions about that. They and their Vorlon masters had bested the Dark Masters, so they would catch the Brotherhood sooner or later. The only challenge was to spread as much chaos as they could before that happened.

  He turned, his long wings rising as he heard the Wykhheran shimmer into view, whispering darkly. Most lesser beings could see only faint outlines of the dread Shadow Warriors, but Moreil could see them in all their terrible glory. Forged in the black pits at Thrakandar, now forever silent, the Wykhheran were perhaps the Dark Masters' most awesome creation.

  It was the Centauri, the one who styled himself a lord. That, to Moreil, was foolishness. They were all exiles here, what matter a meaningless title in front of your name? But to Rem Lanas, titles did matter. His clothes were shabby and torn. His face was scarred and ugly. His voice was raspy and hoarse.

  But as long as he could call himself a lord, he was content.

  Moreil did not understand, but he could at least tolerate it.

  "Call off your hounds," Lanas said. "We are there."

  "This I know," Moreil replied. He had studied this place carefully. Gorash 7. The agricultural centre of the Centauri Republic. One of their richest worlds. The Narns had almost taken it during their first war, and it had fallen during the second following a wave of peasant uprisings. It had been returned to the Centauri in the Kazomi Treaty that had ended the second war. Emperor Mollari II had worked hard at restoring the planet to its former glory. Centauri Prime was in ashes, and there was rumoured to be famine and starvation. The Republic desperately needed its breadbasket.

  What better place to attack? Emperor Mollari had sent many of his most prominent officials here to oversee the restoration of the world. There would be fine ransoms to be had. There were Alliance officers here as well. There would not be riches, but there would be some plunder. The Republic was also the weakest of the major powers. It was not even capable of defending its own worlds.

  A perfect place to begin the spreading of chaos.

  Lanas looked eager to begin. He did not like the Drakh starship that Moreil had appropriated for his own purposes, he did not like the Zarqheba, the Zener, or the Wykhheran, and he did not even seem to like Moreil himself. It was a mystery, then, why the lordling insisted on this ship. He was no combatant, but his knowledge of Centauri power structures made him invaluable.

  Moreil did not know why Lanas was with them at all. He did not know why Lanas was so willing to be a part of the sacking of one of his own race's worlds. He did not know why Lanas insisted on serving on this ship.

  He did not care. None of that mattered.

  All that mattered was the spreading of chaos, and the service of the Dark Masters.

  * * *

  The sun was rising. Once it had brought with it light and beauty, a million rays of colour shining from crystal statues and mirror-clear lakes. Now there was only mud and dirt, and the sky was a dull brown.

  That was me. I did this.

  David Corwin, once captain of the Dark Star 3, the Agamemnon, watched the sun rise over the horizon outside the city of Yedor, and he thought the same thoughts he had every morning he had been here.

  I did this.

  He had not really bothered keeping track of time since he had left Kazomi 7, but he supposed it must have been at least a year by now. No matter how many different worlds and different systems he travelled to, he still always based time on the old Earth Standard, and
he reckoned by that token it would have been more or less a year.

  He had left Kazomi 7 in the second week of 2262, twenty days exactly after the Agamemnon had been destroyed.

  He did not know exactly what date it was, but he supposed it must have been at least a year. When had New Year's Eve been? Whenever it had been, he must surely have spent it here, on Minbar. He had been here for several months now and every day he woke up to watch the dawn, and every day he tried to forget the dreams that echoed in his memory, and every day he thought the same thoughts.

  I did this.

  He wished he could have seen Minbar before the bombardment. He had overheard some of the Minbari talking about it, and the wonder in their voices. He had heard the exact same tone among his own people as adults explained to their children what Earth had been like.

  He could speak Minbari fluently, of course. Or two dialects of it anyway. He had learnt the warrior caste dialect during the war, to be better able to communicate with prisoners. The worker caste dialect he had picked up here. It was not all that difficult.

  He turned away from the risen sun and walked down towards the city. Yedor, the Minbari called it, the capital of their civilisation. It was a city older than any on Earth, a city built when humans had still not even fully comprehended their own world, let alone the mastery of space, a city of wonder and intrigue and ancient mystery.

  And the human and Drakh fleets had all but annihilated it in a single day.

  Not all of the city, admittedly. The Temple of Varenni had survived, and a few other buildings.

  And now there were more.

  Someone had built Yedor after all, those countless years ago. Who was to say they were not rebuilding over the ruins of an even older city? Everything had to begin somewhere.