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| Volume 4: A Future, Born in Pain | Part V: The First Footsteps on the Road to Babylon |
THERE was pain, but then he had expected that. They had not gone easy on him, and why should they? The guards had been understandably angry. He had, after all, arranged the escape of a war criminal, a mass murderer and the orchestrator of the destruction of Earth.
All in all he had got off fairly lightly, although they were not done with him yet.
Welles wondered what the public statement would be. Macabee would probably be having heart failure over how to present this to the public. It would probably remain secret for quite some time. Clark would obviously be hoping to recapture Delenn and pretend none of it had ever happened.
He shifted on the cold floor of his cell and winced at the pain in his side. Maybe not broken ribs, but bruised certainly. He knew all about the uses of pain and isolation when it came to interrogations. He would be left alone for a while now, a few days at least, to increase fear, to bring about a sense of solitude and loneliness.
He knew all about interrogation techniques. He had used them all in his time, but he had never imagined he would be subject to them.
His fingers throbbed. He wondered if they were broken, or if there was tendon damage or something. Vicky could have told at a glance of course, but he could only make an educated guess. He had learned a great deal in seven years married to a doctor, and his near-perfect memory helped him recall a lot, but alas, he did not know everything.
"What would you think of me, I wonder?" he whispered, imagining her here. He had not done that for years, it was too painful. He had mentioned her to Bester a few years ago, and that had been the first time he had even thought about her since her death. Now that he had acknowledged her, however, it was impossible to deny her.
"Oh, Vicky," he whispered. "I'm sorry....
"I'm so sorry."
He listened very hard for a reply, but there was none.
* * * * * * *
Alone, lost, damned, she floated in a world of her own, where the only sound was her son's heart beating, the only word she knew, his name.
David....
She did not know where she was. She knew there were people around. This was a different place from where David had been killed. These were different people. They seemed.... kinder. Wary, yes, but kinder, a mix of revulsion and caring, hatred and sympathy.
One of them she thought she knew, but comprehension eluded her.
He was dead. David was dead. Her son. His heart had stopped beating. He had been changed from her son into a mass of dead cells and sucked from her body. She had felt his heart stop beating.
She didn't know who had done that to him. To her. She didn't know their names, what they looked like, who they were. Did they have children?
A vital point of understanding almost touched her, but then the sound of the heartbeat grew louder, and she slipped away, lost in a dream.
A dream, or a memory.
It was on Z'ha'dum. She and.... two other people.... She thought she knew them, but their names escaped her. She had loved one of them once, loved him very much. She had hated the other. Or maybe not hate, but.... something.
There had been caverns all around them, hot rocks and masses of rubble. Somewhere along the journey she had come upon shiny, reflective surfaces, almost like mirrors. One of her companions.... the one she had once not quite hated.... had paused, trying to think.
Something in the - mirror, if that was what it was - attracted her, and she stepped forward to look at it. She saw a reflection that was herself, and not herself. There was something in the eyes, a wealth of experiences that were not her own. This.... different her had known love, and fear, and joy, and loss, just as she had.... but different.
It had been there for only a moment, and then it had vanished.
Who was this other self? Someone who had made a different choice, days, or weeks, or years ago? Someone for whom things had gone better, or worse?
Could she have done things differently, and become that other self? Would David still be alive if she had done that? Would he even have been conceived?
She did not know. Too many questions she just could not answer. David's heartbeat was growing stronger, and for just one minute she thought she could see the people around her, thought she could name one of them.
But it slipped away, and her eyes closed.
* * * * * * *
He could not remember when he had last slept. His last meal was a far-distant memory. His last drink was.... an illusion. Simple luxuries now escaped him. A conversation about nothing. A moment with a friend. The touch of one he loved.
Captain John Sheridan remembered all these things, but had put them all aside, not without some regret. It was necessary. The fate of humanity was at stake.
There were times when he dreamed, and he recalled each and every dream with crystal clarity in the morning. He dreamed he had awakened from a deep sleep, and been unable to move. Arms, legs, fingers, neck.... all were sealed shut. He could not breathe, could not move, could not scream for help.
He had lain like that for hours, maybe years, until someone came. It was Delenn, and the smile his mouth could not give expression to showed in his eyes. She was dressed in white and gold, and she had never looked more beautiful. She gently laid her finger on his forehead, and he could move again. He could reach up and touch her.
And then he always awoke, unshed tears in his eyes.
He remembered very little of what had happened after that last, terrible moment on the bridge of the Parmenion. He remembered the burst of light as his world exploded, and he remembered waking in a hospital on Kazomi 7, unable to move. Something had happened in between, he knew, but he could not recall what. A soft whisper, a voice speaking words he could not understand.
The months after that had been a blur. Delenn had been there, and David, but he could not remember much of what they had said or done. He seemed to recall meeting his father, although whether that had been true or just a dream he did not know. Delenn had told him it was a dream.
Then he had been awakened and been able to move, and he had known what to do. Some things became.... unimportant, while others filled his vision entirely. Delenn had been at the forefront of his mind always, but she had died on a distant, dead world, callously murdered, and he had been left with nothing but revenge.
He had to free his people from the taint of the Shadows, and he had to avenge Delenn's death. He had to end this whole war, and destroy the Shadows altogether. Over three years since the Second Line. That was long enough.
But other things seemed so.... unimportant now.
"Captain," said one of his techs. He could not remember her name, if he had ever known it. "There's a message for you. It's on a top secret, coded channel, and audio-only."
"Oh? Put it through to my private channel." On an Earthforce ship he would have used an earphone and perhaps a sub-vocal microphone to keep this conversation secret. On a Dark Star, that was all unnecessary. Somehow the conversation was held entirely telepathically. He had no idea how, and nor did he care. That was one of the things that was unimportant.
--- This is Sheridan. ---
--- Good morning, or afternoon, or whatever it is where you are. --- Sheridan had a feeling this was the true voice of whoever was talking to him. Theoretically he could hear a conversation in any voice the other person chose, from a Yorkshire accent to American Deep South, but there was something natural about the formal, polite tone that made him think this was genuine.
--- Do I know you? ---
--- You probably know of me. Suffice it to say, I am a friend. ---
--- Oh? And I'm expected to believe that? --- There was a distant crackling noise, one he couldn't quite identify.
--- It is a wise man who is suspicious in times of trouble. It is a fool who disbelieves everything he is told. I am your friend. We share similar.... associates, you and I. ---
--- Where are you contacting me from? ---
--- I am on Proxima. I.... represent a group of people dissatisfied with the present administration there. We will be ready to act when your ships arrive. We may be of some assistance to you in your present campaign. ---
--- And my.... associates will support this? ---
--- Indeed they will. We have been preparing for some time. --- There was another voice speaking, trying to get his attention. He couldn't hear exact words. --- However, events here are running away with us, and we may not have much time. It may be advisable for you to conduct your assault on Proxima a little earlier than you had originally planned. ---
--- And I'm expected to trust you? For all I know this could be a trap. I don't even know your name. ---
<Help us!> Sheridan started. The voice had broken their conversation, burning with sheer terror. He could feel the desperation there, and something.... reached deep inside him.
--- What was that? ---
--- Nothing. Mere.... background interference. Allow me to.... adjust certain settings. There, that should fix it. --- It did. The whispers, the crackling, the voice.... all were gone. --- Now.... what was I saying? ---
--- You were about to give me your name. ---
--- I was? Ah, very well. I am William Edgars. Tell me, Captain, are you ready to listen to me now? ---
Sheridan sat bolt upright in his chair. --- You have my undivided attention, Mr. Edgars. ---
The conversation lasted another few minutes, with the Captain listening far more than he spoke. When it was done, he sat back in his chair, thinking for a few minutes. Then he turned to the tech. "Contact Captain Corwin. Tell him I need to see him at once."
* * * * * * *
"I have a bad feeling about this."
Having said this, and not for the first time, Kozorr fell into a deep silence. The holographic image of their destination loomed above them, an ancient warrior, retired, strength brought low by age but still carrying the power of experience and the memories of lost battles.
Babylon 4, as some called it. Anla'Verenn-veni. Lost for over nine centuries and now found again, by Sinoval. Kozorr remembered briefly the Well of Souls and the Vindrizi, and was in little doubt as to how Sinoval had located this last resting place.
But what was he planning? That was the question. There were no ships waiting for them as they bore down on Babylon 4. Of course it would take a sizeable fleet to oppose all the Tak'cha ships, and all of them had come here.
What had he once told Tirivail? Their military might consisted almost entirely of the Storm Dancers clan and the Tak'cha. Over two-thirds of Sonovar's military capability was here, wide open for a trap, and leaving their base of operations fatally vulnerable. Of course Sonovar and Takier had remained behind, but somehow that only added to Kozorr's worries. He smelled Forell's touch behind this.
Where was Sinoval? Just what was he planning? This was a perfect place for a trap.
"We should not be here," he said. "This is.... madness."
"Hardly madness," drawled a soft voice from his side.
"Look at us, Tirivail. Do you think Sinoval told the Tak'cha about this place out of the goodness of his heart? No, he has lured us all here. And why? This is a trap."
"Then it is a trap," she replied, unconcerned. "We will die as warriors, fighting to preserve this holy place. Besides, the Tak'cha will fight almost as hard. If this is a trap, then Sinoval may well find he has bitten off more than he can handle."
"He'd know that, though. That's why I have such a bad feeling.... Any pitched battle here would leave too many dead...."
"We are warriors. We are expected to die for our people."
"Yes, but for Sinoval.... I don't think this is the real war. He wouldn't throw away so many of our lives for this. He will have plans far beyond us. I think he may be going to attack Sonovar, but.... again.... I don't know."
Now doubt marked her face. "Lord Sonovar is not as protected as he should be.... But still, he has my father and our clan. We will defend him."
Kozorr sighed. "It is like trying to find a path through a maze in the midst of a hurricane. The answer is there somewhere, but I cannot find it." He hefted his pike. "Well.... I suppose it is too late to do anything about it now. There is only battle left, and duty."
Tirivail smiled, and her smile lit up the room. "There is only ever battle and duty," she said. "We are warriors. We fight, and we die."
And Babylon 4 came closer. Anla'Verenn-veni. The Place of Restored Dreams.
* * * * * * *
There was an old saying among tacticians and strategists of the Centauri, one they usually quoted with despair and considerable annoyance. 'Any battle plan lasts only as long as it takes for the first soldier to move.'
This was held to be a general truth about the futility of in-depth planning, and over the centuries a number of great military thinkers and leaders had tried to find ways around it. Strategists hated the idea of not being able to direct the entire course of the battle. The whole thing became too.... untidy and awkward and difficult.
Lord-General Marrago was held to be the foremost military tactician of his day. It had in fact been one of his distant ancestors who had first coined the saying. He disliked the truth of it as well, but for a very different reason.
He knew his soldiers. He knew their names, their families, the names of their children. He also knew the pointlessness of most wars. He fought them anyway, because he had a duty to the Republic, but what he wanted most, what all soldiers wanted most.... was to sit and rest, to eat fine food, to drink fine wine, and to be at peace.
With that aim in mind, he planned and fought every battle.
Tolonius 7 was an old world, one of the central colony worlds of the Republic. It was a sizeable and well-populated planet, the centre of several vital trade routes and an industrial base. The Narns had known all this when they had taken it in a bloody ground war.
If they had operated according to their usual tactics, the nobles captured would have been put to death, the land strip-mined, and its resources and minerals exported. The Centauri people there would be little more than slaves.
Of course, had the Centauri taken a Narn world, there would have been little difference. That was why Marrago did not hate his enemy. All in all, both races were the same. The Centarum and the Kha'Ri, the Lord-General and the Warleader, Centauri soldiers of the Republic and Narn warriors of vengeance.
Marrago did not hate the Narns, but Tolonius 7 was a world of the Republic, its people were children of the Republic, and he had sworn to serve his Emperor to the best of his abilities.
He sat back in his chair in the war room of the flagship, the Aubec. He was alone, save for the two guards at the door. From here he would be able to direct the whole course of the battle, without ever becoming involved in it. He would have liked to fight in it himself, but the fleet could be led admirably by Captain Mollari and his Valerius. Despite his age, Carn had more combat experience than most generals.
Marrago shifted his gaze to a drawer just in front of him. In there, hidden from view, was the black orb the Shadow emissary had given him. He had wanted to destroy it, but his soldier's brain had told him clearly not to destroy anything which might later become an asset. He prayed he would never have to use it.
He sat forward to study the schematics of his fleet. This would be a difficult engagement, but it could be won. He was sure of it.
He directed the first wave of ships to leave hyperspace and begin the assault.
* * * * * * *
"I see," said Corwin softly, after the Captain had finished speaking. "May I know the.... reasoning behind this change of plans?"
"Information has reached me from allies on Proxima," Sheridan said. "They will be willing to provide assistance in removing the Shadows and their influence, but only if we act quickly. They fear discovery."
"Who are these allies?"
"I can't tell you that."
"Are they trustworthy?"
"Yes."
"You're sure of this?"
"I told you, yes! I realise you had a free run while I was.... ill.... but you can't have fallen into the habit of questioning orders from superior officers! Now I have given you your orders. You are to obey them!"
Corwin took a step back, but then he straightened. "I will obey them.... but first, a warning. We do not have the time to prepare for a full assault on Proxima, not on the timetable you have given us. Least of all if we are to continue attacking listening posts and stations in the Vega system to draw away the Shadows."
"That will no longer be necessary. We are to recall the entire Dark Star fleet, save only those ships necessary to safeguard Kazomi Seven itself. Any other support vessels the Council can provide us with will be welcome as well. We are to make directly for Proxima, with no side tracks or detours."
"What? Captain.... they'll know we're coming. We'll trigger all sorts of early warning systems, the listening posts will pick us up from light years out. You know what the defences are like around Proxima. Hell, you put most of them up yourself! We'll have to get through minefields, the defence grid, the entire Earthforce fleet.... not to mention the Shadows."
"None of these will be a problem, not if we are at Proxima on time. You have your orders, Captain. See to it they are followed."
"Yes, sir!" Corwin snapped, turning on his heel and walking away. Sheridan turned back to his reports, not even watching him leave.
* * * * * * *
"We shouldn't be here."
Talia sighed softly, knowing her companion had not even heard her. She leaned back against the wall, holding the data crystal up to the light and watching it sparkle. Everything she had come here to discover was on there, everything Byron had.... died (maybe?) to recover.
She hadn't examined the information in full - that would take far too long - but she had studied it enough to be sure it was what Welles had claimed it to be. She'd have time to study it fully when she met up with Al. If Sanctuary was no longer safe, then she would have to head elsewhere. She knew the beacon frequencies of the secret Psi Corps mother ships, as well as numerous other hidden bases. She could find him.
So why was she still here?
Byron? It was possible he was dead, or if he wasn't, then he had become part of whatever it was IPX were doing to the telepaths they had captured. From time to time, in her dreams, she had heard what she thought was his voice, mingled in with a cacophony of others. There was nothing she could do for him now, and her first priority was the good of the Corps, to get this information back to Al.
No, she was very much afraid the reason she was staying was sitting in front of her, looking at the sleeping figure on the bed. He was even holding her hand.
Talia reached down and touched Dexter's shoulder. He turned, and she saw the lack of sleep in his eyes. He must have been here ever since they had got to this place. Over a day now.
"We shouldn't be here," she said. "We have what we did this for. Let's go."
"Go? Go where?"
"Off Proxima. There are.... places we can go, places where we'll be safe."
"I can't leave her."
"What is she to you? She's the enemy, in case you've forgotten that! We have what we came for, so let's go. Al can.... use someone like you. You're one of us, remember? Besides, I've.... got used to having you around."
"I can't go. I have to stay with her, at least until she wakes up. Besides.... Welles promised to clean up Sector Three-o-one. I have to make sure he keeps his promise."
"For God's sake, Dexter! This is a pointless battle. There is a war going on all around us, a war that's set to tear this whole planet apart. She's at the centre of it all. No one cares about Sector Three-o-one. It doesn't matter. It's not important."
"If you don't win the little battles, how can you win the big ones?"
She sighed, and shook her head. "I'll be leaving tonight. I can smuggle myself aboard a ship, get off-world, buy or rent a shuttle. Two can go as easily as one. Are you sure you won't come?"
"I can't."
"A waste," she said, kneeling down. He turned to look at her, silently begging her to stay, or at least to understand. Gently, she touched her lips to his.
"Why did you do that?" he asked, puzzled, but smiling.
"Because I know you wanted me to, and I knew you wouldn't do it yourself. I'm a telepath, remember. And so are you." She rose to her feet and began to walk away. "If you want to come to us, just think about me hard enough. I might pick it up and find you."
"Does dreaming count?" he whispered, but she was gone, and did not hear him.
It was at that precise moment that the figure on the bed stirred and moaned. He turned to her and saw her eyes flicker open. "Where.... where.... am I?" she breathed.
Smith smiled. "A safe place. Run by friends. How are you feeling? Do you want anything?"
"Weak," she whispered. "But.... I will be better.... Something to drink?"
"I'll get you something now." He stood up and turned to the nearby sink. As he poured a glass of water he looked up and thought he saw Talia watching him, but it was just a whisper in his mind, and then it was gone completely.
But he had a strange feeling he would see her again, before the end.
* * * * * * *
Ritual was important. Ritual, ceremony, pomp, pageantry. It was a mark of tradition, and tradition was little else than ruling simply because you and yours had always ruled. Ritual confirmed all these things. Without it.... what was the point in ruling?
They had gone by different names at different times, these secret masters of humanity, a conspiracy of information and knowledge, which were power both in and of themselves. They were a guiding hand upon the human race, controlling politics and destinies, shaping the future. Few suspected that they had been responsible for what little salvation there was from the Minbari War, or the part they had played in winning allegiances from alien races in its aftermath. The scientists who had studied Minbari technology and worked on the new Earthforce Shadow destroyers did so with their blessing.
Those who did anything without their blessing tended to.... disappear.
They worked not for Vorlon or Shadow, not for good or evil, order or chaos. They worked for humanity. Or so they thought.
They had gone by many names. In the recent past they had been called Bureau 13. Now, they were the Round Table.
A matter of ritual again.
Ambassador Sheridan, who had managed to manipulate even these master manipulators, had become their 'King Arthur', their prime among peers, the first among equals. Subtly, slightly, he had nudged their course to suit that of his allies.
But he has been away for too long, and the power focus has moved.
Names do not matter. All those present have names of their own, as well as the names they take for purposes of ritual. Knowing either can be dangerous. Knowing both can be fatal.
"They are coming."
"The Alliance ships have abandoned their progress into the Vega system and they are gathering together. The Dark Star ships, the Drazi and Brakiri fleets, and various support vessels of the other races. Our sources on Kazomi Seven and among the fleets indicate they are coming here. Our outer probes will pick up their arrival soon."
"What is their purpose? Need we begin an evacuation?"
"Their purpose is to deal with Clark and the Shadows. They do not intend the destruction of civilian or economic targets. It is likely, judging by their actions on Beta Durani, that they will institute a brief period of martial law during which a purge of all members of the Government involved with the Shadows will be carried out. A new, provisional Government will be formed, with free elections likely to follow, probably by the end of the year."
"Are we in danger?"
"We can hide from any purge. Our friend is willing to help hide those of us who are more visible." Few would have anything to worry about. Ambassador Sheridan was the only one here who could be recognised. Invisibility is the greatest defence of all. The greatest trick the devil pulled on the world was convincing it he did not exist. For the Round Table, it is the same.
"We will also be able to achieve sufficient control over the new order. Estimates indicate, if the Alliance is victorious, an eight percent loss of operational efficiency for the next six months. If the Alliance fails then there are many other variables to consider, particularly the fact that they will try again. At present the statistics are officially sixty to seventy percent chance of victory for Clark. Unofficially, based on our.... select information, assuming the network operates as planned, Alliance victory is eighty-six percent likely."
'King Arthur' sat forward. "We will take action to alter these odds," he said quickly. The network? What the hell was that?
"No. The alliance with the Shadows and the support of Clark's Government has served us well enough, but it is now time to abandon them both. We will take no action."
Sheridan sat back, eyes burning behind his mask. There would be no changing the strategy of these people. It could not be done. Yet. For now, he had bigger concerns. Deal with Clark, deal with the Alliance fleets and then....
Then he would come back and destroy this Round Table once and for all. His membership had served him well enough.
But it was now time to abandon them.
The meeting ended a few minutes later, and Sheridan left in a hurry.
* * * * * * *
The room was a near-identical copy of the Hall of the Grey Council. Sinoval's face was dark as he walked around it, watching the ten columns of light emerge from the darkness. A minor footnote of history, all but forgotten by Minbari historians, but not by one who could talk to those alive a thousand years ago.
"I will meet Sonovar here," he said, his eyes closed. For a moment time faded, and he was a year in the past, the first time he had set foot on Babylon 4. He had moved forward and time had.... paused.
And he took the step into the column of light. He knew where he was, in the Hall of the Grey Council. He was alone, but he was carrying Stormbringer. One by one the columns around him lit up, and each one contained a figure. Minbari, some he knew, some he did not. All were armed.
As the last column lit up, he found himself looking at Sonovar. A body lay slumped at his feet. It was Kats. She was quite still.
Sinoval whispered her name softly, knowing he would never speak it again.
"It is over," said Sonovar, no malice in his voice, just a finality. "You will not leave this place, traitor. Your allies have fled, your servants are dead, and now I.... I will take our people on the path we were always meant to tread."
"No," was the only reply.
Sonovar raised his pike, and Sinoval could see it clearly. Durhan's blade, the one he had wielded all his life. Sonovar charged. The other eight charged. Sinoval raised Stormbringer....
.... and the central column of light went out.
Sinoval's hand reached down to caress Stormbringer. Something within it, some part of himself he had passed into the blade in its forging, hummed at his touch. "Yes.... you, my brother of blood and war.... you will be beside me in this."
He had remembered that vision, but he had also remembered something else. An essential truth, one he had always embraced, one Sonovar also recognised.
Great men make their own destiny. Nothing is written in stone.
And so he had manoeuvred things subtly, hoping to make such changes as were necessary. He would meet Sonovar and his allies here, not in the Hall of the Grey Council. Maybe this was as it had always been meant to be: he did not know.... but he did know that he would do his best to beat them, to beat all those who opposed him.
But he would not best Sonovar with weapons.
He stepped into the central column of light, wishing Kats were here. He understood why she was not. She found the Hall of the Grey Council uncomfortable, and replicas of it just as much so. She was elsewhere, waiting for Kozorr to arrive, as he surely would.
But she was not alone. Lanniel was with her, and two others of the Primarch's Blades. He had spoken to them earlier.
"Guard her as you would me."
Each had sworn this, but still Sinoval was afraid for her. If he could keep her alive, keep her from her part in the vision he had seen, maybe she could keep Kozorr away from this place.
"I remember," said the memory of a soft voice. Marrain had shown him where this place was. "I once stood in one of these columns of light. I watched as Valen spoke to the first nine of us to ally ourselves with him. He said there would be nine to guide and lead his people, and one over them."
Sinoval's eyes were still dark as he looked around at the nine pillars of light, and began to name them. The first Grey Council had been convened here, although few had called it by that name. As far as the official histories were concerned, the Grey Council had been founded at the war's end, on Minbar itself, not here, not in this place.
"Marrain," he said, looking at one of the columns. "Parlonn. Rashok. Nukenn. Nemain." He continued to name the first nine, names now long forgotten and lost to history. Only Nemain, then a young man filled with awe and a righteous conviction, and Rashok and Nukenn, and of course Derannimer had joined the first official Grey Council at Minbar. The others.... were dead, or traitors.
"I will know you all," he said to the empty room. "I will honour all your memories, and praise all your names."
Then he willed all the lights to extinguish, and he was alone in darkness.
Alone and waiting.
* * * * * * *
The package was small, neatly wrapped, and showed no indication of what it might contain. Lyndisty had a sufficient sense of curiosity to want to open it, but then she also possessed enough propriety to know not to do that. She was a little confused about this whole endeavour, but she knew enough not to question her father.
He was gone now, gone to war, to defend the Republic and fight in its name. She was pleased he had taken time from his busy schedule to come to her. She loved her father with a passion that bordered on the fierce, and she trusted him totally. No one was as strong as him, no one as powerful, as mighty, as capable of defending the Republic.
Which was why his words had worried her a little, almost scared her in fact.
"Lyndisty.... you do know that I love you, don't you?"
"Of course, father."
"You also know.... to be careful. The Republic has many enemies. I have many enemies, people who would not hesitate to strike at me or at the Republic, through you."
"Of course, father. I can protect myself. My trainer says I am improving."
"Yes.... I know. I spoke to him yesterday, and he merely gave me another reason to be proud of you, as if I needed any more. I know you can look after yourself. I know you are intelligent and able. I know you ran our estate for a while when I was.... away, and your mother was ill. I know you can do many things you should not have to do as a lady of the Court.
"But.... I have enemies, powerful enemies, and sometimes it is better to run and hide than to fight. That is why I made sure you were safely on Immolan during the.... troubles last year. You do understand that? There is no shame in running."
"I understand. Father.... is.... something wrong?"
"I do not know. I wish I did. I think.... I may have done something I should not have done, but it is too early to tell. Maybe nothing will come of it."
"What can you have done wrong, father? You cannot have done anything to hurt the Republic, or to hurt me."
"Ah.... sometimes an act done with the best of intentions can have the worst of outcomes. I will be going shortly. You will be well guarded while I am gone, you and your mother.... but.... there is something you must do. Something you must do alone."
"Of course, father. I will do whatever you want of me."
"Some day, Lyndisty, you will not be so trusting. A package has been delivered to you. There is a place you must take it. Someone will be waiting to receive it. Give it to them, and leave. Do not look inside the package, do not try to find the identity of the person you give it to. Hurry back to safety once this is done. Do you understand?"
"Of course, father."
"Lyndisty, this is important! If you never listen to another word I say, heed me on this. Be careful, and tell no one about this. No one!"
"Father.... what is wrong?"
"I don't know.... and that troubles me. I love you, Lyndisty."
He was gone now, gone to Tolonius, fighting in the name of the Republic. The battle would probably have started by now, Lyndisty thought. She, meanwhile, was doing her part. She did not understand the need for secrecy, or the significance of the package, or why her father could not do this himself, but none of that mattered. She would do as he wished.
She followed the directions she had been given exactly, and was not pleased that they led her into a disreputable area of the capital, the warehouse district, a part of the city almost gutted by the rioting of last year. It had not been a pleasant area even before that, and her mother would no doubt have an apoplexy at the thought of Lyndisty walking here, least of all alone.
She became aware of the sound of footsteps behind her, and she quickened her pace. She was not unarmed - her long maurestii blade was a reassuringly heavy weight hidden in the folds of her dress - but she did not know how many there were following her, and it was always better to avoid combat if at all possible.
Her quick ears picked up the sound of movement in front of her, and she slowed her pace, still moving forward, but looking for a place to hide if necessary. It was possible the people were harmless, but that was not something she wished to test.
An alley came into view to one side, and she made for it. She was not sure if it led to a place of safety or not, but she could tell she was surrounded.
"So," said a harsh voice, "what's a lady doing in this part of town?"
She skidded to a halt, and backed slowly up against the wall. She could rush for the alley, but her pursuers had chosen to make themselves known, so it was best if she acknowledged that. There were four that she could see; two behind her, two in front. There could be others, of course. The one who had spoken was clearly the leader, and he was in front. There was a mocking leer on his face.
"I am a lady of the Court," she said, in as haughty a tone as she could manage. She shifted the package so that she was holding it in only one hand, and her other slid into her dress, grasping the cold hilt of her maurestii. "I am here on Court business, and I would thank you not to obstruct me in this. If you report to my estate, I will be happy to provide you with small coin for your gracious service."
"Small coin?" said the leader. She could see that his right arm ended in a stump just above the elbow. The other held a long knife. "Which estate is that, then? Not that it matters. You're all the same, each and every one of you. Parasites. Oh, you noticed this, did you?" he said, raising as much of the stump as he could. "The gracious whim of the fair Lady Elrisia. She said I touched her, she did, so she chopped off the hand that did it, and most of the arm as well. She would have taken out my eyes for looking at her too, but she decided to be merciful."
"The Lady Elrisia is dead," Lyndisty said. Her charred corpse had been recovered not long after the end of the troubles.
"Yeah, so we heard. Wasn't us, more's the pity, but.... what does it matter? You're all the same, all of you. I used to be a craftsman, a sculptor. There's actually one of my statues in Mollari's estate, him that's now the Emperor. You'll note he didn't try to save me from Elrisia, did he? Nobles always look after their own. Do you know him? The Emperor?"
"My father does," she said, trying to keep her breath even and short. Her body was tense.
"Who's your father?"
"The Lord-General Marrago."
The crippled craftsman laughed. "Well, I'll be damned. Reckon he'll pay a pretty ducat to get you back safe. Just think what could happen to a noble lady in the hands - pardon the expression - of thugs like us. All sorts of nastiness."
"As I said, report to my estate, and you will be paid for your service. But I should tell you, I am a high-placed virgin of the Court, and if you dare touch me then your punishment will not be light."
"Oh? What? Will they chop my other hand off? I'm a walking dead man anyway. We all are, and as they say.... might as well be beheaded for a ducat as a duck." He moved forward, touching the cold blade of the knife to Lyndisty's neck. It slid lower and began to cut the soft silk of her dress, exposing her bodice.
"Stop that," she said firmly, her hand clenched tight on the hilt of her knife. "This is your last chance."
"I'm not afraid," he hissed. "I'm not afraid of anything any more."
"I'm sorry," she said, and she meant it. She pulled out her hand and the knife, and in one smooth motion, before he had time to react, a red line was drawn across his throat and he fell, his long knife spinning to the ground with a clatter.
There was a moment of surprise as the other three stared at the man who had been their leader. These were probably simply common criminals who had joined with one who exuded charisma and a feeling of wronged determination. It took a moment before any sense of action presented itself.
Lyndisty took advantage of this, turning and darting down the alley. They began to follow her, but there was no room for two to run abreast, and so their numbers were negated. She managed to spin on her feet, and taking care to keep a tight grasp of the package, not knowing if its contents were breakable or not, she thrust the maurestii out firmly. The leading criminal ran squarely on to it, his hearts pierced. She withdrew the blade from his body, and he fell.
The other two were more careful now, moving more slowly, their own weapons to hand. Lyndisty did not dare take her eyes off them, and moved backwards slowly, wishing for a moment that her dress was not quite so long. Still, she had been trained to fight in all manner of regalia. As her father had said, you were very lucky if you got to choose when and where to fight.
Something struck the side of her head, and she stumbled. The second assailant lifted another rock, and this one struck her side. Wincing, she almost dropped the package, and the first took advantage, lunging forward. Her maurestii caught him in the side and she drew it upwards, piercing his lungs and left heart, but as he fell the knife was torn from her grasp.
His body fell into her, and she had to stagger back. The folds of her dress caught under her foot, and she fell. She kept hold of the package only with difficulty. The final attacker advanced on her, a wicked grin on his face. Desperately she tried to kick out the folds of her dress and rise to her feet, but the cloth was too thick.
There was a sudden light behind her, and the crackle of flames. She could not see who or what it was, but she could see the look of pure terror on her assailant's face. He took a step backwards and then turned and ran frantically for the exit of the alley. Another figure stood there, seemingly holding a flame in his hand. The outlaw let out a strangled cry and continued running. The fire moved, and struck him directly in the face. He screamed, and in an instant all his clothing was alight.
Lyndisty winced and turned her head. Slowly, she managed to disentangle herself from her dress and rise to her feet. She picked up her maurestii and turned to face the man behind her.
"You should not be here," he said. She could not see his face, only the tall brand he held, blazing brightly.
"I have a package to deliver."
"Then give it to me, and I shall see it is taken to its destination."
"I cannot do that. I must take it there myself."
"How do you know I am not the person for whom it is intended?"
"I was told to say this. 'There are whispers in the darkness.' The person who will receive this will know what else to say." It meant nothing to her, but evidently it meant something to this man.
"'But in the light, there is nothing but silence,'" he said softly. "I think that is mine."
"I think it is," she said quietly, handing it over to him. "I have discharged my duty, sir.... and now I will leave."
"Wait!" he said. There was something in the tone of voice. This man was a nobleman, or had been once. He was used to commanding others. "What is your name, that I may know whom to thank for this?"
"I am Lyndisty, of House Marrago," she said simply. She then wiped the blood from her blade and walked away.
"Lyndisty," he said, putting down the brand. "Yes.... I know you now." He looked at the package, and something dark grew within him. "Yes. I know you now."
* * * * * * *
They were coming. Clark could feel them, like songs just in the next room, whispered conversations, pinpricks of light just off the horizon.
It was coming. Humanity's greatest defeat, and their greatest victory. He would personally see that humanity was saved from Hell. Alas, he doubted he would be able to see her led towards Heaven.
He wondered sometimes, in the dead of night, if there could have been another way, but he always knew there was not. At heart, people were stupid. They were petty, pathetic, venal, selfish and self-absorbed. That was the first true lesson any politician learned. People were stupid.
Oh, when Clark had started out, years ago, he had had all sorts of grand designs, great dreams. He would change the world, make Earth a better place. He would bring his beliefs and his dreams. All he needed was power, one single chance, and then everything would be so much better.
Time and experience had hardened him. People did not want change. They never did. Oh, they said they wanted improvements. Ban this, legalise that, lower this, raise that, change this.... reforms, new legislation....
But what they really wanted was for tomorrow to be just the same as today.
Humanity needed to change. They had made an error in allying themselves with the Shadows. It was not just the work of the leaders, the politicians, the diplomats. No, they had all done it. Everyone out there had accepted this alliance. Their reasons were understandable, really. They didn't know what they were doing. A.... minor slip. These things happened.
But that had been three years ago, and they had made no effort to correct their mistake. Change was necessary, just this once, but did they want to do that? No, of course not.
Force was the only approach any of them understood. The same was true of most races to a certain extent, but none more than humanity.
Ah. Clark smiled. He was coming. Sheridan. He should have done this sooner, but he was a diplomat, and always too cautious. A commendable trait, most of the time. But not now.
Clark tried to calculate how long it would be before the Dark Star fleet arrived. A few hours, perhaps. There was time enough.
"Ambassador Sheridan is here to see you, Mr. President," said his secretary.
"Send him in. Oh, and take an early lunch. Send away all the Security in this area of the building as well."
"Are you sure, sir?"
"Of course I am. There is no danger from Ambassador Sheridan now, is there?" It probably wouldn't have mattered if the security guards had stayed. Most of them were new, brought in from off-world in the aftermath of Welles' arrest. That was something Clark had not been pleased about. Who would have thought he would have acquired enough backbone to do something like that? Clark thought he would have learned after the whole Takashima business.
It was annoying. He wished he could have had Delenn killed long ago. She should have died on Z'ha'dum of course, but this had seemed.... a blessing in disguise. A chance to lure the Alliance here, all in due time of course, and then kill her before Captain Sheridan's eyes. That would give him more than enough cause to hate the Shadows.
But no, she had to go and escape. Oh, well.... things might still work out. She would be unlikely to see past the next day or so. There would be a lot of.... civilian casualties and 'collateral damage' coming soon. Delenn might well die in the process.
After all, the Alliance would be perfectly willing to equate a scorched earth policy with the Shadows, wouldn't they?
Ambassador Sheridan walked into the room. Clark rose to meet him. "Mr. President," he said. "There are some things we should discuss."
"Indeed there are. Tell your.... associates to show themselves."
The space around Sheridan shimmered, and three Shadows came into view. Clark smiled. His eyes began to glow.
"We are two dead men now, my friend," he said, leaning on his desk. "Two dead men, and nothing more."
* * * * * * *
It was dark. That was fine by Kozorr. He liked the dark, at least he liked it here, in this place.
It was a place of heroes, of great deeds, a place where legends had once walked, where stories had been inspired. He had grown up hearing the tales of Derannimer and Nemain, and all those who had walked the corridors he walked now. He could feel them. Their touch was everywhere, their breath still hanging in the air, their whispers echoing just beyond hearing.
They were all mocking him, deriding him. He did not deserve to be here. He was a traitor, an oath-breaker, and he did not deserve to be here.
But then Marrain and Parlonn had been traitors, and they too had walked these halls. Maybe Parlonn's ghost still did, if he had been denied reincarnation. It had been he and Marrain who had discovered this station after all.
He was not alone. That would be foolish in such a potentially dangerous environment, but he could tell that the other warriors were feeling as he was. The Tak'cha had been filled with excitement at the first step into Anla'Verenn-veni, which they called Ende X'ton. Only a very few had even come aboard, most preferring to stay on their ships and protect their holy place.
And there were only a handful of Minbari here as well. Five in total. He himself, Tirivail, Rastenn and two others, both long-time followers of Sonovar. They were here to complete their mission. Or they would be, if any of them had any clue as to what their mission was.
None of them had been ordered here by Sonovar himself. All their orders had come directly from Forell. Oh, he had to be acting by Sonovar's will of course, he would not dare do otherwise, but still....
"You are to escort our noble and enlightened allies to the place they seek, you are to protect them on the way there and help them safeguard their holy and sacred heritage from any who might seek to harm it. We seek, as always, to help those who help us. Such is the mutual benefit of an alliance."
Fine and noble words, coming from a diplomat, but they said nothing. What were they expected to do? Protect the Tak'cha.... but only protect them on the way here. Kozorr straightened, suddenly realising something. There had been no mention of the return journey. Were they even expected to return at all?
He shook his head, not liking the implications of that train of thought. Either Forell was acting on his own, or Sonovar was sending them here to die.
Or, of course, he was too shaken up by his surroundings.
The Tak'cha should be arriving at their shrine by now. Kozorr had no interest in such a place. He had always been fascinated by another legend here, by another story, and it was for that goal he was aiming. Tirivail and Rastenn had come with him, but as he turned back to speak to them he found they were nowhere in sight.
It was dark here. Too dark.
The Tak'cha had made it very clear they would not tolerate any outsiders present at their sacred shrine. Kozorr was free to follow his dreams, or his nightmares.
The door was already open and he stepped inside, his eyes looking around at the shadowed room before him. It was not how he had imagined it, but the mark of reality hung over the chamber and he knew this was what he had sought.
He stepped forward and saw the altar at the far side of the room. A curiously un-Minbari design, but the markings on the black stone were clearly those of mourning. There was no body there of course, but there never had been. Parlonn's body had never been recovered from Z'ha'dum, where he had fallen in mortal combat with his friend and blade-brother Marrain.
Still, it was here, in this room, that an effigy of Parlonn had been placed, and Valen had spoken words about his former friend and bitter enemy. A quiet funeral ceremony had been held here, the last time Marrain had stood beside Valen as a friend and ally.
Kozorr limped to the altar itself and touched the black stone. He knew what it represented, and when he closed his eyes he could see Valen standing behind him, Marrain at his side. Valen's speech at Parlonn's funeral had been erased from all the histories, as had nearly happened to the records of the event itself. There were many in the religious caste who found Valen's eulogy to one who had betrayed him a betrayal in itself. They of course had missed the point entirely.
"All of us can find redemption, yes?" Kozorr whispered as he looked at the black altar. "You forgave one who had wronged you, and so you eased the pain of his betrayal."
He picked out his pike and extended it slowly. Parlonn's pike had been recovered and had lain here with the effigy. What had happened to it after that.... no one was entirely sure.
He blinked slowly, and for one moment he could see himself there, Valen standing before him, a crowd of mourners assembled, each one remembering not Parlonn, but others who had fallen in this war. He could see them, Derannimer, Nemain, Nukenn, Rashok....
And Marrain himself, furious eyes staring at each and every one there and judging them, and to each one his eyes said 'you are not worthy of his legacy'.
Valen started to speak, but as the first word left his mouth he turned his head, and he seemed to be looking directly at Kozorr.
Kozorr blinked again, and took a slow step backwards. The image of the past faded and all was dead and shadows again. He trembled at the.... the reality of what he had seen, and as he took another step back his weak leg betrayed him and he fell, body striking the ground hard and his pike rolling from his grasp.
There was a soft clatter as it hit the ground and rolled away. Three seconds later, it stopped. Someone bent down and picked it up.
Tears of frustration and pain in his eyes, Kozorr managed to make it to his knees. He looked up, and his eyes widened.
Kats held his pike out towards him.
* * * * * * *
Marrago had acquired many skills throughout his long years as a soldier, and one of these was how to read a battle. It was a skill all good generals sought to cultivate, but it was one that was impossible to learn, in his estimation. It was a matter of instinct.
As he watched the formations of the Narn defences around Tolonius 7, and his own attacking positions, he knew how it would go. Battles were by their very nature chaotic affairs, but there were patterns that could be seen if you only cared to look hard enough.
Marrago was thinking about his soldiers. He was thinking about their wives and families and children. He was thinking about all the dead that would follow this battle if matters continued as they were now.
And he turned his gaze to the drawer wherein lay the Shadow orb. He remembered the Drakh's words. "When you need them.... touch this and think the words. They will come."
He had seen the military might of the Shadows. He had seen their strength and power first-hand. They were a match for the Narns, for whatever defences they hoped to erect.
But the cost of their bargain. Another 'favour' owed to the Drakh's dark masters. The first had not yet been paid. He did not like to think what payment might be required this time.
He saw one of his warships destroyed, blazing in flames under an onslaught of Narn ships.
These were his people. This was his army. Tolonius 7 was a world he had been charged to protect. There were almost a billion Centauri lives on that world, a world ruled by their most hated enemy.
Was the cost of a favour from the Shadows really so high?
He shook the thought from his head and sat forward, barking orders to his captains. A gap had opened in their lines, a gap the Narns were seeking to exploit. It had to be closed. Carn heard the orders and brought his Valerius around to block it. Marrago smiled. Carn was a fine soldier. Londo should be proud of him.
The Valerius came under heavy fire. Marrago could see the Narn were focussing their efforts on that weak spot in the lines. It was an old technique, first used by one of his ancestors at the invasion of the Beta system. In other circumstances, Marrago might have been flattered at its adoption by the Narns.
The Valerius was fighting back, supported by two other capital ships. For a moment they seemed to be holding the line.
Then another Narn cruiser appeared, striking out at the Valerius' forward weapon systems. It staggered back, and blows rained down upon it from all sides. The other ships had seen the danger and were moving forward to help protect the flagship, but the Narns were capitalising on its weakness.
Carn was a good soldier. He was the nephew of Marrago's oldest friend. He read Minbari poetry, liked to paint landscapes and was madly infatuated with a young noblewoman of the Court.
Marrago leapt to his feet and ran to the drawer. Pulling it open he picked up the Shadow orb. It seemed to become warmer in his hands, as if it had been expecting him.
"I need you," he whispered. "Come!"
The very instant he said those words, space shimmered and the Shadows were there.
After that, the battle was a foregone conclusion.
* * * * * * *
They were here, coming near. Zarwin and....
No, not Zarwin. Zarwin was dead, wasn't he? He must be.
"Death," Marrain whispered, standing in the shrine to the Z'ondar. He remembered the last time he had been here, just after Zarwin had been banished.
"Death," he said again.
That was all. That was the meaning of life, the point, the focus. Ever and only death.
And only he understood. No, that was not true. Sinoval understood. He trusted him. Trust.... that was a rare feeling. Foolishness, of course, but welcoming as well.
There was the sound of footsteps outside. Marrain was alone, waiting for the visitors. Sinoval had wanted to leave some of his guards here, but Marrain had refused. A handful of guards would not help if all the Tak'cha chose to attack, and more than that could not be spared from protecting Sinoval's pretty worker.
Besides, guards might get in the way of the glorious death that was coming.
Or was it? Where was glory in death without a glorious life behind it? Sinoval had said something along those lines, but for a moment Marrain was a thousand years in the past, in the middle of a debate between Parlonn and Valen.
"There is no glory save to die in the name of your lord!" Parlonn had cried.
"Ah, but dying is easy, Parlonn. Living in the name of your lord is so much harder. And so much more worthwhile."
Valen had been a fool, or had he? A thousand years on and he was still remembered, still revered, still worshipped. While what of Parlonn, what of Marrain? Traitors both. Betrayers and oath-breakers.
"Here," said a voice. "Here is our shrine."
Marrain straightened and was ready as the first Tak'cha guards entered the shrine. Behind them came a figure who was obviously their leader. He carried a long staff, crafted in homage - or was it mockery? - of Valen's fabled Grey Staff.
"Welcome," Marrain said softly. He stepped forward. "It has been a long time."
* * * * * * *
It was an impressive sight, there was no doubt about it. Whatever else might be said about the Dark Star ships, they looked suitably awesome.
And they were not alone. Supported by Narn cruisers, Brakiri ships, Drazi Sunhawks, vessels from the Llort, the Vree, the Abbai, a true alliance of races, gathered together to save one of their own from their own leaders.
There had been no speech to mark the beginning of the journey to Proxima. Corwin had passed the instructions on to the various captains. Most had objected, pointing out the sudden change of plan, the dangers involved, the fact that it would be impossible to hide their intentions, and that they would surely be expected.
Corwin knew all this, and he shared every one of their concerns, but somehow he managed to fill them with a false sense of confidence. The Captain knew what he was doing. Corwin supposed Sheridan was not the Captain any more. He was the General now.
He remembered an old tradition of John's. When he had taken on command of a new vessel, he had given a speech to his new crew. He had not done that on taking command of the Dark Star 1. Corwin had not done that either when he had been made Captain of the Dark Star 3, the Agamemnon.
But now as he looked around at his crew, many of whom he knew well, many of whom had served with him on the Parmenion, he felt the need to say something. The Dark Stars had a mix of races as their crews, formed from the armies of the League worlds and G'Kar's Rangers. The Dark Star 3, however, was almost all human, refugees from Clark, those who had been on the Parmenion and chosen to stay behind after its destruction. They were his people, his crew, and he felt he should say something.
"What we are going to do.... will be dangerous," he said, choosing his words carefully. He hated speaking in public. "This is not Earthforce. This is not as it was in the days before the war. We are not fighting to defend Earth, for Earth is long gone.
"We are fighting for our people. Humanity's leaders have made a destructive and a fatal bargain. They have acted out of fear, and ambition, and they will bring all humanity down with them when they fall. It is up to us to prevent that, to save us all from that bargain.
"The fight will not be easy, but nothing worthwhile ever is. I cannot promise you victory. I cannot promise riches or happiness or salvation. What I can promise you is this:
"After today, we will never be exiles again. We will retake Proxima. We will reclaim our Government. We will reclaim our people. We will reclaim our home.
"We will never again be lost and alone.
"We are going home. For good."
And with those words the Agamemnon joined the rest of the Dark Star fleet, heading for Proxima.