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

Chapter 3

He thinks he knows what he is hunting. He thinks he knows why his mission is so important. He thinks he is the only one capable of what he is doing.

He looks into the shadows and feels no fear, for he sees only light. Sometimes — not always, not even often, but sometimes — it fills his mind, and he knows what he must do. He knows what is important. At other times he cannot see clearly.

But now he is sure.

He is going out into the hidden places of the galaxy. He is seeking ships both ancient and powerful. He believes these to be either tools or allies of the Shadows, and thus a threat to the fragile peace he has helped to create.

But somewhere, at the back of his mind, beyond the light, beyond the smell and the touch and the smile of his true love, there is a tiny part of him that does not want peace, a part of him that knows he is a warrior and that he was born to fight. His entire adult life has been spent at war, and future decades of bureaucracy and diplomacy and politics would drive him insane.

So he is here, seeking a war to fight, somewhere, anywhere. Seeking an opponent to fight.

He cannot see the future. He is intuitive, but neither psychic nor an oracle, and so he does not know what awaits him at the end of his quest.

If he did, it is doubtful whether he would think himself the luckiest man alive, or the unluckiest.

He continues, content to wait, content to inhale the smell of her on his skin and his hair, content to close his eyes and see the light, and content to wait.

The shadows do not scare him.

It has been a long, long time since anyone called him by his first name. It has been so long he has almost forgotten it himself. He does not regard that as a tragedy. He does not care what people call him.

But sometimes he does feel regret that there is no one close enough for him to want to care. He wants people to talk to. He wants to tell people of the things he is doing, in the calm, casual way he would tell his wife about his day at work.

But there is no one. He was never comfortable with people, and his wife and daughter are long gone. There is his boss, but they speak less often than he would like. Besides, his boss is a part of the same business as he is.

It is a pity, Morden thinks, as he watches hundreds of Centauri citizens being driven away by the City Guard. If only there was someone he could talk to and explain why he is doing this.

He paused, and looked back at the empty throne where, less than half an hour ago, Emperor Mollari II had suffered a heart attack. That was someone he supposed he could talk to. The Emperor was a complex man, driven by an unusual mixture of idealism and cynicism, genuine drive and ambition coupled with self-loathing and apathy.

That was someone Morden wished he could talk to, but Londo did not understand. He just could not see. Morden wondered sometimes if that was why he was here — to bring order not to an entire people, but to one man.

He certainly could not have expected, in that first glorious moment when the creature of light rose above him, that his destiny would lead him here — to the Centauri. But God moved in mysterious ways, as he had always heard. And there was no doubt that he — or someone like him — was needed here.

He looked out again at the scene before him, with eyes that were better than any human's ought to be at picking out minor details. He saw a guard repeatedly kicking a downed woman, raining blow after blow on her head.

Too much chaos. Too much disorder. There always was, everywhere, but Centauri Prime seemed worse than most. Morden knew full well the magnitude of the task he had been given here, but he also knew the honour that had been bestowed on him. He was determined not to fail, and nor would he.

He had had a year, and he had been working hard. The Inquisitors had taken away many of the suspected Shadow agents. Morden was ready to admit that some of the disappeared had not been working for the Enemy, but they had certainly been a part of the Centauri's 'Great Game of Houses' and that was chaotic enough to merit destruction. He had removed much of the old, corrupt and chaotic system.

Now, all he had to do was replace it with a better one.

A young child was screaming, pulling at the arm of a man, seemingly unaware that the man's head had been split open.

He had an idea of where to start. The Game of Houses was chaotic, yes, and it needed to be stopped, but it did tend to throw up certain types of people who could be used.... profitably. The enemy had taken advantage of it, and Morden intended to do the same.

He looked back at the throne. The Emperor had been overworking himself of course. When he recovered — if he recovered — he would have to reduce his workload. A dead Emperor and another civil uprising was in no one's interests at the moment. No, Morden would see to it that Londo got all the rest he needed. After everything he had already done, he deserved it.

If he recovered, of course. He was not a young man, and years of drink and food and carousing must have taken its toll, to say nothing of the stresses of recent years.

The rioting was breaking up now. People were running, scattering in all directions. Morden smiled. Londo had been a good man, and a compassionate ruler, but that only took one so far. Order and discipline were necessary. This protest should never have been allowed to happen.

Well, at least Morden had an opportunity to see that it was never repeated. He had a lot of work to do.

"I will not tolerate it!" the Centauri lordling was saying. "She was mine. Mine! I took her in conquest. I claimed her in battle! By all the laws we have forged, she was mine!"

Moreil listened patiently, looking at the lordling with a fixed, staring gaze. Many broke and trembled before that dark, silent stare, but not Rem Lanas. Moreil was not sure if that was a sign of great courage or great stupidity.

There was a thin mark down the Centauri's face, a slender red line. Moreil had a feeling he knew the weapon that had caused that cut.

"The laws of our order," he was continuing. "All of them support me on this! She was mine!"

Laws? The last refuge of the weak. They see someone taking things that are theirs, and they cry out - 'You can't do that! The law doesn't allow it!' - and the strong would laugh, of course. The weak never realised that the way to stop the strong oppressing them was not to appeal to some mythical 'law' but to become strong themselves.

Rem Lanas would never understand that.

But Moreil thought this Marrago did.

"What happened?" he asked at last. The Centauri looked at him, as if surprised that he was really there. The lordling might as well have been talking to a wall, and he probably thought he was.

"He took her. She was mine! Mine! And he took her! He thinks that because he is a noble he can take whatever he likes! Well, he can't! She was mine! The law says so."

If Moreil had needed further confirmation that Lanas was not the nobleman he pretended to be, that was more than enough. He did not care, though. He knew exactly why Lanas was here. He wanted a place where a new law would protect him, a place where he could be someone important, and all the time he never realised that the way to become important was to be important, or that the way to be protected was to be so strong that there was no need for protection.

Some people would never understand.

The light behind him seemed to fade as the Wykhheran appeared, and Lanas visibly paled. Moreil looked at him again.

May we feed, lord?

Not yet, Warrior. A time will come when you face one more worthy. This one would not taste well.

As you say, lord.

"What happened?" Moreil asked again. "Speak slowly and clearly."

Lanas bowed his head, shaking, and then he began to speak.

The girl was unconscious, her back a raw and ragged mass of flesh. His arms had tired from holding the whip for so long, but he did not set it down. He cradled it in his hands, feeling the knobs of flesh and blood that splattered the lash.

He grabbed her tail of hair and pulled her head back. Her long, soft, dark, beautiful hair. Her eyes were closed. He didn't like that. He wanted to see the anger in them, the defiance, the way she had cursed him, the way she looked down on him, thinking she was so much better than he was.

They always had. All of them. All the nobles. They'd all looked down on him. He'd seen them ride past in their fine clothes with their beautiful women and their big houses and they'd all looked down on him.

Well, this one wouldn't. Not forever. Eventually she'd beg him for mercy, and then after a bit longer she'd beg him for more. That was what he wanted. A fine noble's daughter begging him for things.

He chuckled and crossed to the other side of the room. There was a lot more here. A lot more. Books, jewellery, riches. He had taken a lot from Gorash. Not as much as he should have, though. The others had tricked him, taken his share. Just because they had the ships and the weapons and the soldiers and knew where to fence the items, that meant they thought they were better than he was. All of them, even that loathsome alien monster Moreil. Oh, he might have said he was taking nothing, might have said he was not interested in plunder, but Rem knew differently. Moreil was scamming him, taking what was rightfully his.

Wasn't he important enough to them? Hadn't he told them all about Gorash? He'd spent enough time there. He'd told them where the Governor's house was, where the nobles lived, where the museums and galleries and craftsmen's quarters were. What would they all have done without him to guide them?

And what did he have to show for it? A few pathetic baubles and one girl. He deserved more than that.

No, patience, he thought to himself. His time would come. He could wait and all things would come to him eventually. He wasn't going to fence his treasure. He didn't want money. He didn't want mercenaries or liquor or any of the things the others bought. He wanted treasure. And he would have it all.

He turned, and started as he saw someone in his room. In his room! In his private sanctum! It was the Centauri. The former Lord-General. He was standing next to the girl, touching her cheek and looking into her eyes. He was touching Rem's property! Just like a nobleman. He thought he could take anything he wanted just because he had had a title. Well not here! His title didn't mean anything here! The laws of the order promised him a fair and equal share. Oh, the others had tried to trick him out of that, and they'd pay for it later, but no one was going to take something that was rightfully his from his own sanctum.

And now he was cutting her down! How dare he? How dare he!

"Leave her alone!" he shouted, moving across the room. "She's mine."

Marrago looked at him and he drew back for a moment. It was not fear, no. He was not afraid of the man at all. He was just like any nobleman. Too weak and too reliant on his servants to stand up to a real man. No, Rem was just.... taking his stance, not being too eager and overconfident.

"She belongs to herself," Marrago was saying. "No one else."

"She's mine!"

He finished cutting through her bonds and she fell limply to the floor. He caught her effortlessly and gently lowered her. He then removed his coat and wrapped it around her.

"She's mine!" Rem moved slowly sideways and picked up the kutari beside the wall. One of his little treasures from Gorash. He'd never been allowed one of these before. He remembered touching a nobleman's sword once as a child and being flogged for it, but now he had his own sword. It was his!

Just like the girl was, and this nobleman wasn't going to take either of them from him.

He charged forward, holding up the sword and screaming. He would defend what was his. He was entitled to defend what was his.

The nobleman must have tricked him. Yes, it was a trick. Nothing else could explain how he had moved so fast, knocking the sword out of his hands. It was all a trick. Rem felt the cold touch of Marrago's kutari against his face, and the warmth of his blood trickling down his cheek.

"She's mine," he said.

"I should kill you for what you've done to her, and elsewhere. But this is a different place, and different rules apply.

"But come near her again, and I will kill you, and to hell with the consequences."

It was not fear that made Rem stammer like that. Not fear at all. It was.... a bluff. He was lulling Marrago into a false sense of security. That was it. Let the nobleman think he was helpless, and then....

It was a testament to his acting skills that he was still trembling a long time after Marrago had left with the girl.

Rem Lanas finished his garbled story and Moreil looked at him. "She's mine!" he said again. "You've got to help me get her back."

Moreil had no further time or patience for the fool. "Go," he said.

"But she's mine! You have to get her back for me!"

"I said go! Recover her yourself if you are strong enough, but trouble me no longer."

Moreil did not watch him flee. The lordling was of no concern to him any more, but this Marrago was.

It was past time the two of them had a little talk.

"You aren't dead."

"No. I am not."

"Is the sun coming up, then? I can't see. Everyone I've seen tonight is dead. Everyone. I didn't realise I'd killed so many people, but I suppose I have."

"You don't look like a warrior."

"No. I'm nobody. Not any longer. I used to be a soldier, but.... after a while I just couldn't take any more. All of them.... At first, I thought it was.... justified. It was for defence and protection, but then it became revenge, and then it was a new war and it was for defence again and then.... and then...."

"You just did not know how to stop."

"How do you know that?"

"We were the same. I heard.... pieces from the Grey Council. It started in anger and continued in pride, because we were too stubborn to admit we were wrong."

"It wasn't stubbornness. It was just.... we didn't know anything else. Good God, have all those people died for something so pathetic?"

"No. They died for understanding. We know each other better now. We understand each other."

"Are you sure you aren't dead?"

"I am not dead. It feels as if I am sometimes, but no, I am not dead."

"I came here because.... I'd heard the dead came back, and they would answer questions. I hoped they would tell me some things, tell me what I needed to know, but all they've done is haunt me. All they've done. There are so many of them, and....

"You're the only person who's said anything to me all night. The others just looked."

"That is why you came here. For understanding."

"No. For forgiveness. Why did you come here?"

"There was one whom.... I loved very much. I hoped to see him here, to tell him everything I should have said while he was alive. To share one last night with him."

"Did you?"

"Yes."

"There was one woman I was hoping to see. I think I loved her, but I was never sure. I used to wonder if it wasn't more the idea of love than love itself I had with her. I wanted someone who would want to be with me, someone who could care for me, someone who could provide a focus, an understanding of what I was fighting for. Was that love? Shouldn't love be less.... selfish?"

"Perhaps. I don't know. I know only that I wanted to spend every minute with him, every second of every minute. Was that selfish of me? I do not know."

"Nor do I. I wish I'd seen her here. Or maybe I did and she was just a face in the crowd."

"Where are you going now?"

"I don't know. Somewhere they stop talking to me, I hope. Anywhere they stop talking to me."

"You were a soldier?"

"Yes. I was."

"My.... husband was a warrior. Like you, he had fought too much and seen too much and grown tired of it. He found peace at the end of his life, as a worker. He built and he created and he gave up destruction. If you want to, you can come home with me. There is a lot to be done there. I cannot guarantee you will find peace, but it is a place to look."

"It was me who destroyed your home, did you know that? Me, and people like me."

"I do not believe you, but it does not matter. Whatever guilt you carry, justly or unjustly, you can try to work it away. Do you wish to come with me?"

"Yes, please.

"Yes, I think I would like that. Maybe then they will stop talking to me."

It had taken Dexter Smith several hours to stop shaking. In spite of what he had told Julia and Zack his first port of call was not the Edgars Building, but his apartment. Once there he had vomited everything he had eaten that day, drunk several large glasses of Narn liquor, and then vomited again.

A shower, a change and a shave later, he felt a little better, but not much. He could still feel that thing crawling around in his mind.

He'd had few dealings with telepaths. His mother had sometimes spoken to him inside his mind, and he had felt touches occasionally from Talia, testing and probing, but nothing like that. Nothing like that....

.... thing.

A human. Once a human. It had called him 'brother'. It had spoken to him. It had invited him to join it.

'It'. It was an 'it'. Not a 'he', 'it'.

He had known fear before. He had grown up in a nightmare of crime and pain and despair. He had stood in battle. He had faced down an angry mob intending to kill Delenn and he had looked into her green eyes as he killed her himself. He had even looked at a hundred expectant faces as he prepared to deliver his first speech before the new Senate.

He had never felt anything like this. Never this kind of revulsion. The sense of something so.... so Other.

He looked at the mass of papers on his desk. They had to be studied and some signed and others likewise dealt with. The Senate was to debate the new Tax Bill on Monday, with important discussions on the Alliance Treaties following. The Alliance had invited the Proxima Government to submit candidates for the position of Babylon 5's Commanding Officer. There were two new members to welcome formally, meetings of the Reconstruction Committee and the Wellington Corruption Tribunal, not to mention a great many letters to get through. Smith did not particularly want a secretary, but it was growing more and more likely that he would need one.

He had taken the night off for 'Poker Night', and he should be getting back to them by now. Instead he turned away from the mass of paperwork and left the apartment.

He was able to catch a taxi not far away and instructed the driver to take him to the Edgars Building. The driver quite happily talked about films, his wife, the state of humanity today, the Minbari and why trusting them was not a good idea, some businessman he had taken for a drive a few years ago and was now some bigwig on Centauri Prime of all places, and hey aren't you Senator Smith may I get your autograph for my wife please only she's a big fan of yours has all your interviews and everything even the one way back when you were made captain of that ship oh what was it called again be forgetting my own head next the Babble-on no silly that's not it the Babylon yes that's the one here you are by the way sir won't my wife be impressed when she hears about this.

He paid the driver, gave him an autograph and probably an over-large tip, then walked up the steps to the imposing Edgars Building. It seemed to loom above him. Even after the damage done during the Battle of Proxima, when by all accounts President Clark had ordered the building itself bombarded from orbit, the Edgars Building was still impressive. It had already been fully repaired, and Smith was not surprised. The old man had enough in his personal account to pay for it all himself without troubling insurers or the Wartime Compensation Board. The repairs were probably even tax-deductible.

Smith was not surprised to be ushered through the lower levels and directed to the old man's private offices on the top floor. He was even less surprised to reach the new reception area, looking an awful lot like the old one, and find the secretary Lise Hampton there, still working despite the time of night.

He was not surprised in the slightest when she said, "Good evening, Senator Smith. Go right in. Mr. Edgars is expecting you."

The most powerful man in the galaxy closed his eyes and imagined the rain falling on the roof above his head. The gentle pitter-patter sound existed only in his mind, a reminder of long years gone and a life now consigned only to memory.

He was having trouble sleeping. That happened quite often these days, whenever he was apart from Delenn. With her beside him he felt safe and happy and content and reassured that everything he was doing was right. When she was far away, all the old doubts came creeping back.

And he was very far away from her. He was in a part of the galaxy he had never even seen before, following a trail of whispers and rumours and hearsay. He might as well have been seeking King Solomon's Mines, or the source of the Nile, or the Holy Grail.

That was what had first attracted him to space — the sheer vast emptiness of it, the feel that there could be anything out there, anything at all. Uncharted systems, ancient worlds, wonders never seen by human eyes, and he could be a part of it all.

This mission should have been perfect for him. Travelling distant and uncharted courses in search of ships of immense power glimpsed only in shadows and flickers and dead men's eyes.

But something nagged at him, something he could not explain. It was not just the potential risk of one lone ship seeking what might well turn out to be a legacy of the Shadows. It was not even the pain of being apart from Delenn.

It was just that it all seemed so easy.

The rumours had been circulating for years of powerful, ancient ships out there somewhere. The words formed capital letters in his mind. Out There. Not here, not somewhere safe and understood and predictable, no. Out There. In the wilderness, past the frontier, in unexplored territory.

There had always been rumours, but over the last year they had grown. So much so that he had elected to send Dark Stars to investigate. Most had come back with nothing. Some had not come back at all. There was nothing particularly unusual in that. Space was full of dangers after all, both mundane and rare.

But instinct was warning him of something, and his instinct was rarely wrong. Once it had been terribly wrong and he had never trusted it as much since then, but still....

This all seemed too easy. He had taken his ship to some of the most recent recorded sightings and scanned for anything out of the ordinary. At about the third location they had detected a rare radiation trace which led into hyperspace, and they had followed it. The trace remained strong enough to follow even through the swirling eddies and currents of hyperspace, and although it led them far from the beacons the Dark Star could navigate easily enough. It was a ship built almost entirely by the Vorlons after all, and there was little they did not know about hyperspace.

But still, this all seemed too easy. Why had the other captains not seen this? It was tempting to think that they were not as skilled as he was. He was the Shadowkiller after all. He had been the first human captain to destroy a Minbari warship in open battle. He had done more in one lifetime than most could do in three or four.

But he was careful not to believe that. Those whom the Gods would destroy, they first make proud.

He supposed it could be that he had a bond with his ship. Many Dark Star captains disliked spending too much time on their ships, but he was quite the opposite. He had spent so much time here he felt he knew it almost as well as he had known the Babylon. Sometimes he even thought the ship was alive.

Pure conceit of course. Humans had always ascribed human feelings to their vessels, going back to the earliest boats of wood and twine. Their ship was the greatest protection the old explorers had had against the elements, and so they spoke to it, named it, saw it as a shield and even as a friend. Time and technology had changed many things, but not that. If his ship failed him, a man was just as dead in the vacuum of space as he would be in the middle of the Atlantic.

But sometimes he thought there was more than that. A real presence here, a voice, almost a spirit.

"Are you here?" he asked the silence of his room. There was no reply. There never was. But still he wondered.

David had certainly seemed to think so. His reaction when he learned that the Dark Star 3 had had to be scuttled was almost as if he had lost a friend.

He paused. Why the need to scuttle it? It had seemed obvious at the time, but now he couldn't remember. Surely it could have been repaired?

He frowned. There must have been a good reason.

"General Sheridan?" came a voice through his link, and he sat up, opening his eyes.

"Yes?"

"We've found something. You're going to want to have a look at this."

He was alive. She had always known that, somehow, but to have it confirmed like that.... It was as if a shining light had fallen on her, refreshing and enlightening and lifting her spirits. Talia wrapped herself tightly as a barrier against the cold and lost herself within her thoughts.

He was alive. She had seen him, spoken to him. She had always known it, but now....

They had not been able to talk for very long, although time meant little within the network. The constant roaring and rushing and screaming still haunted her. That was what truly horrified her about the network — the constant noise.

She was used to noise, used to the voices. She was a telepath and lived always with a perpetual conversation going on in the next room, but the network was not just a muted conversation nearby. It was a million voices all yammering away in terror and anguish. So many people taking and no one listening.

He did not know where he was, where he had been imprisoned. Talia did not think he was inside a Dark Star. From what she had learned the less powerful telepaths were placed in external nodes like the Dark Stars, or relay points, funnels to the more powerful nodes. A psychic as trained and disciplined as Al would be in one of the central nodes, funnelling countless messages through himself to the rest of the network.

She wondered how long it would take for his escape to be noticed. There was so much she did not know about the network, but she did know it was patrolled. The Vorlons scanned it constantly, knowing that so much of their power was based in there. She had been lucky in skipping past them so far, but luck would not carry her forever. Nor would the artefact.

A sudden burst of pain twinged in her mind and she winced. The headaches were lasting longer these days, and usually when she was away from the artefact. She supposed she had been using it too much, but what other choice did she have? She had to use every weapon she had.

And that was why she was travelling hidden in the freezing cargo hold of this ship. There was a weapon — and if she was being honest to herself, a little more than just a weapon — she had not used. She had not wanted to use.

But things were getting desperate, time was growing short, and she did not dare let personal concerns distract her from her mission.

The shuttle continued towards Proxima 3.

I wonder how Dexter is doing these days? she thought to herself, and felt a tiny pang of guilt when her heart fluttered slightly at the thought of his name.

His wrists were covered in sores from the manacles. The muscles in his legs had wasted away from lack of use. The bright light hurt and burned at his eyes from long hours spent in the darkness. His hair was lank and greasy from too long in the dank cell.

But Durla was still a Centauri, and he was still a noble, and so he remembered how many days he has been kept in this cell — one hundred and fifteen — and he did not cower as the door opened and an unfamiliar person stood before him.

His eyes adjusted slowly, ever so slowly, but he refused to avert them, refused to show any weakness to this intruder. He took in all he could. Not a Centauri. A human. Finely dressed. Carrying no visible weapon. Alone. Power in his bearing. Durla knew of no human like that. But then he had been away from home for far too long, and of the one hundred and sixteen days since his return to Centauri Prime, he had spent one hundred and fifteen of them here.

"Durla," said the human, in a flawless accent. "Second son of Lord-Captain Sollaris of House Antignano. Younger brother to Solla Antignano, who died of poison a good many years ago, murdered by a jealous suitor over a woman."

Durla said nothing. These were simply words. Words are air, nothing more.

"In fact the poison came not from a jealous suitor but from yourself. You poisoned yourself as well to maintain the illusion and later attempted to court the lady in question yourself, only to be rejected. Following this, you served in the Palace Guards for several years, never marrying, until the truth of the incident came to light some eight years ago following an investigation launched by First Minister Urza Jaddo. You were stripped of your title and banished from Centauri space. Then you returned four months ago, and were promptly arrested and sent here, where you have been detained ever since."

Durla remained silent. The human was trying to intimidate him with his knowledge. That was all.

"Tell me, Durla Antignano. Who are you?"

"No," he said.

The human paused. Durla's eyes were still adjusting to the sudden influx of light, but he thought he could see a look of surprise on the human's face. Or was it self-satisfaction?

"Who are you?" the human repeated.

"No," Durla said again. "Who are you?"

"I am the man with the key to free you permanently from this cell, to restore you to high office and to give you anything you want."

"That is not what I asked, and I will not play games with anyone. If you will not tell me who you are, then at least tell me what you want and why you are here."

"I am here to see if you are the sort of person who can be trusted with the task of guiding the Republic through difficult times. If you wish to remain here until you die, you have only to say so."

"I wish to serve my Republic. I wish to serve my Emperor. I wish my voice to be heard by those people who never cared whether I lived or died. I came with information for the Emperor, and he repaid me by locking me up. I want an Emperor who will care about his subjects and a Republic that is worthy of my time and attention.

"If those things do not exist, then yes, I wish to be left alone in this cell until I die. I am tired of exile."

"I think we can arrange for your freedom, Guards-Captain Durla. My name is Morden. I am Emperor Mollari's.... personal advisor."

"I do not think I care what your name is, or your title."

The human smiled to himself. Durla could see that very clearly. The light in his cell suddenly seemed just a tiny bit brighter.

"A glass of orange juice?"

"No, thank you."

Smith sat down and looked at the man opposite him. William Edgars shrugged and poured himself a glass. He held it up to the light and smiled.

"A legacy of my childhood," he said. "No matter how much things change, we can never escape our childhoods, can we? Something always remains, whether on the surface or hidden deep down below. Something is always there. Don't you agree, Senator?"

Smith did not reply.

"In my case, it is a love of orange juice. Something so insignificant. In yours, it's a little more.... obvious. My congratulations by the way. You have done wonders with Sector Three-o-one. Truly."

"Thank you," Smith replied. "Now, I'd like to leave you alone there, and see how you fare."

"Really? After all the help we have offered you already, as well. Some might see that as ingratitude, Senator. Who was it, after all, who.... arranged for a generous proportion of the Reconstruction Fund to go to Sector Three-o-one? Who was it who arranged for the.... disgrace of Senator Voudreau after her very vocal plans to have Sector Three-o-one completely demolished and rebuilt as a military complex?"

"Both of them were you, and I'm sure so were a lot of the other mysterious events that have helped me. You know full well that I was aware of your involvement."

Edgars sat down, sipping at his orange juice. "I did tell you we would be keeping a close eye on your career. You are a man of great promise."

"You obviously control half the Senate...."

"A little more than half, actually, but please continue."

"You've seeded it with people in your pocket one way or another. So what do you need me for? Why not have me replaced by someone guaranteed to do as they're told?"

"Ah, to be fair, some did feel that would be appropriate. Not me, however. I like you, Senator Smith. I admire your courage and your resolve. I feel there is a lot of potential within you. Thus far, you have been proving me correct." He smiled, as if at a private joke. "I do enjoy it when my faith in human nature is confirmed. It makes me feel.... content."

"That thing was yours, wasn't it?"

"That...? Oh, you mean the Hand of the Light. Yes, in a sense he was mine. More accurately, he was attached to another division and I merely provided local assistance, but your assumption is correct. A part of the telepath underground in Sector Three-o-one is still operating and a few telepaths are still fleeing there. Some of my.... associates felt it prudent to take steps to shut it down now that it has served its purpose. And with Mr. Trace gone, an agent of the Hand of the Light was sent in."

"The Hand of the Light? A very melodramatic name."

"You might not think so, but some of my associates are quite poetic at times."

"We've arrested it."

"I was aware of that. I would appreciate his release as soon as possible."

"The law in three-o-one is not for sale any more."

"I was not saying it was. However, it is my experience that anything anywhere is for sale at the right price. I would not think of bribing you, though. I would merely remind you that we have an amicable working relationship, you and I, and it is undoubtedly in the best interests of both of us for that relationship to remain amicable. This naturally involves performing certain services for each other. Think of this as a deed done in good faith for a good ally."

"The law in three-o-one is not for sale. That thing is going to be charged and put on trial."

"I do have access to several lawyers who will be able to have him released from all charges and set free within days. That would bring a great deal of the affair into the public eye, though, and neither of us would like that."

"Hire all the lawyers you like. It's going on trial, and so are any more of those things we find in three-o-one. The Pit is off limits to you, and your.... Hand of the Light and your Inquisitors and whatever other agents or creatures or abominations you dredge up out of God knows where."

"The Hand serves a valuable purpose. They do, after all, only hunt down telepaths. We both share a concern over their power. You are perfectly safe from them, of course. I have made sure you are placed off-limits."

"Was that meant to be a threat?"

"Of course not. I do not make threats, Senator Smith."

"Well, I do. Keep them out of three-o-one. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a poker game to get back to." He rose and made for the door.

"Of course. Good fortune, by the way, although I doubt you will need it. You strike me as a particularly fine card player. Oh, have you heard from Miss Winters recently?"

Dexter stopped and turned.

Edgars simply raised an eyebrow. "Mere curiosity, I assure you. Have a safe trip home."

Dexter left. It was only after he had gone and the feeling returned, that he realised that when he had been with Edgars he had not been able to feel the thing's mind crawling around within his. He returned to his apartment with a splitting headache.

"You have changed greatly, Ha'Cormar'ah."

"Have I really? So much?"

"Your eyes. They do not burn as they once did. Your breath is tired. Your gestures are slow and heavy. Yes, Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar, you have changed."

"I did not think it was so clear. Yes, I have changed. I am tired and weary. I have fought enough, and when I think it is over, there is still more."

"The war is over then?"

"The war we fought is over, yes. But I fear there is a greater war on the horizon, just beyond our perception. You once said that I see more than others do, that I look at the world with different eyes, that I remove all the blinkers others have raised about themselves."

"I remember."

"I wish I did not. I wish I were blind like everyone else."

"Truthfully?"

"No. Not truthfully. But sometimes, yes. No one listens any more. No one has been listening for a very long time."

"Then make them listen."

"I try. I speak and they listen, but when I turn my eyes away they carry on as before. Is that all I am to them? Is that all I will ever be? A stern teacher who is followed only when I am there, and ignored when I am not?"

"You were never that to me."

"Then why do they not understand? They are blinded by old hatreds. I thought.... I convinced them to end the war. The fleets went to help the Centauri. They actually fought and died to defend Centauri Prime. Who could have believed such a thing was possible?

"But now? Now they continue as before. They plot and they plan and they think I do not notice. We have assimilated too many things from the Centauri, but their 'Great Game' was the worst of them. The worst by far.

"We will destroy them in the end, or we will destroy ourselves, and why? Because they cannot see beyond the past! They cannot look to the future.

"No one listens."

"What do you expect me to say? I am dead, remember. I understood only at the very end. I betrayed you and everything you stood for. Before that I betrayed my people and my lord. And after that, I betrayed my new masters. Three betrayals, and only after the third did I truly understand.

"That did not help anyone else of course, but it helped me."

"Is that it? Will they only understand when they are dead?"

"I do not know. I truly do not."

"There must be more. There must be something."

"Why did you come here? I do not believe for an instant that you were simply passing through."

"Ah.... no. I had heard the rumours. I was afraid, and sceptical, but if there was the slightest chance...."

"Was I the one you wanted to talk to?"

"Truthfully?"

"Of course. You cannot hurt my feelings. I am dead, after all."

"I do not know. I do not know who I wanted to talk to. My father. My mother. Any one of a hundred friends from my days in the resistance, or the Kha'Ri, or the Rangers. There are so very many of them."

"That is it, isn't it? You came to feed your guilt. You live when so many others are dead, and you came here to remind yourself of them all. You came here to feel guilty and to flagellate yourself. I know you too well."

"...."

"Well, if you will not talk, then I will. This is not an opportunity I will have again for a very long time, and by then I doubt that anyone will care. How is she?"

"Well."

"Is she happy?"

"I believe so."

"Does she love him?"

"Yes. There is no doubt."

"Ah. I am.... glad she is happy. Do they.... have children?"

"No."

"Ah. A pity. She would make a fine mother."

"In a sense, she is mother to all of us."

"In a sense, you are father to all of us. You brought the Rangers together. You gave us purpose. You cannot understand that, but that does not make it false. Believe it or not as you will, Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar. Ta'Lon, what of him?"

"He is the same. He speaks little, and does much."

"Tell him it falls to him to look after you now."

"He already knows."

"I do not doubt that."

"The sun is rising."

"I know."

"Do you.... do you have a message for Delenn?"

"No. Please do not tell her that you met me. If she is happy with him, then so much the better for her. That is enough for me."

"I am glad I could speak with you again."

"As am I. I am honoured. Did my words provide any comfort? Ah, probably not. I was never good with words."

"You are better than you think."

"You do not see yourself as the inspiration you are. That is your greatest weakness, G'Kar. Look past that and see yourself as we do. There, my last piece of advice. Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Neroon."

And then the room was silent.

Sheridan looked at the image the screen was showing him, and found it hard to believe. Even in a life such as the one he had led, some things were almost incomprehensible.

"It looks like a space station," he said.

It did look like a space station, albeit one designed by no race he had ever seen. The bulk of it seemed to be an asteroid, and if he looked at it only briefly, he might have remained convinced that that was all it was.

But on closer inspection what might have been mere rifts and folds in the rock were clearly buildings and constructs. As he studied it further, Sheridan was sure there was a docking bay, or an observation post. It was as if the very fabric of the asteroid itself had been carved to the form its creators had desired.

"Any life signs?" he asked.

"No. I don't think so," the tech replied. "There's some very strange shielding around it."

"What about power? Does it even have any?"

"Yes. Although it uses some sort of energy we can't pick up on. There have been traces of energy usage recently though. Someone's been there in the last couple of days minimum.

"Can you tell what race?"

"No idea. Sorry, sir."

"Hmm." He stood back, still looking at the image. Without that particular piece of information he would just have chalked this up as a strange piece of hyperspace debris. There was enough of it, especially this far from the main beacon routes.

However, the unusual radiation trail had led them directly here, and there were signs that someone else had been here recently. No one lived in hyperspace. At least, there were no confirmed reports. Sheridan found it hard to accept that anyone could live here.

So what, then? A completely new alien race? A group of very powerful and very lucky smugglers using this as a base? Perhaps the renegade group who had attacked Gorash 7?

Or perhaps someone else entirely. That was where his instinct was going. Whoever these powerful alien ships belonged to, they had to have a base somewhere. Why not in hyperspace? The asteroid seemed big enough for either an impressive force or very big aliens.

"Someone's in there," he whispered to himself, not caring how he knew that, or remarking on the strange warmth of the armrest of his chair.

"All right," he said at last. "Prepare space suits. Muster a few security men. I'm going in there. I need a look around."

The techs did not rush to disagree with him. Perhaps because they were curious, too. Or perhaps they did not wish to contradict the fearsome Shadowkiller himself.

Sheridan did not care either way.

There was something about him that chilled the blood, even to one as inured to fear as Morden. He had faced death, faced fear. He had seen Gods and fought Gods. He had been imprisoned — more than once — and he had seen a million rays of light rise in the face of a trapped man.

But he had never seen anything like this. Never.

It had been three days since the Emperor had collapsed and the rioting had been dispersed. Londo was still comatose. Hopes for his recovery were.... slim. Morden hoped he would recover. Partially this was due to an affection of sorts for Londo as a person, but there was also a pragmatic concern. He had not had enough time to build an effective power base of his own here yet. If Londo died there would be chaos, and no one wanted that.

Durla snapped to attention. He was doing well, Morden had to admit that. He had chosen well in appointing Durla Captain of the Guard. He had spent over a hundred days chained up in a cell and yet he had been ready to perform his new duties within hours of being released.

He was also the only person unaffected by the human at his side.

Morden had heard the name of course, but he had never seen him before. Very few had, not even the old man. He walked in the shadows, moving as the Vorlons dictated. He was their personal agent, assigned their most delicate tasks.

It was no wonder that he had been given this task.

Unlike the other Inquisitors Morden had met, this one did not wear the insignia. In fact he did not even wear the traditional robes. Instead he wore a very fine quality suit, of a style centuries old. The top hat had come back into fashion briefly when Morden was a child, and his father had owned a few, but no one he had known wore one as naturally as this individual. A small cane was held casually in his left hand, where immaculate gloves also rested.

"I trust this is important," he said, his voice precise, dwelling on every syllable. It was a voice that commanded the attention of everyone who heard it. "My time is too precious to be called away for every little problem."

"Of course, sir." Morden had settled on that as the appropriate form of address, and he had not been contradicted. The man did not have a title, but Morden knew he was ranked too far above him for first name terms to be acceptable. "This is exactly within your purview."

"Yes?"

"There is someone within our cells here you will wish to meet. We captured a Soul Hunter yesterday. He was found travelling outside the capital."

"Ah." Sebastian smiled, a chilling sight. "You were entirely correct to call me. Lead on."

"Yes, sir. This way."

There were few things more magnificent to his eyes than an alien sunset falling across an alien city.

Yedor was thriving again at last, growing and rebuilding. Corwin looked at the parts of it he had had a hand in, and felt pride for the first time in many months.

When he was not working he liked to take long walks, to look at the sky, at the ground, at some of the buildings that had survived the bombardment. Sometimes guilt overwhelmed him on these walks as he was hit by yet another reminder of the things he had destroyed, but mostly they brought him happiness and wonder.

He had been here almost a year now, since Kats had found him during the Day of the Dead and convinced him to come with her. They had spoken much during the return journey, and she still sought him out sometimes. She was often busy of course, with her duties to the Grey Council and her travels to other worlds. She spent some time on Kazomi 7 and the new Babylon 5 station. Corwin did not ask her how things were there, and she did not tell him. He did not want to know.

Mostly they talked about each other. She spoke of her childhood and her parents, and in simple, loving terms, of her dead husband. When she did so, she unconsciously toyed with the beautiful necklace she always wore.

For his part, he told her about his family, about what it had been like growing up, about his dreams for the future. He spoke of Mary a lot. Kats listened, watched in silence as he cried, and said the right things in response — about immortality, and new chances.

There was something her husband had said to her once, that she repeated to Corwin. He had hoped the two of them would meet up again in a new life in a new world, ready to live another lifetime together free from the mistakes and hardships of this one.

Corwin noticed the way her eyes shone when she said this, and he knew that she believed it was possible. He doubted if it would come true for him, however. He was not even sure if he loved Mary the way Kats had loved her Kozorr. If he did, surely he would have tried harder to stop her leaving, or gone after her, or something.

He just did not know, and mostly he preferred not to think about it.

When Kats was away, as she was now, he went for walks. He had few other friends among the Minbari. Many of the workers knew him by sight, but none of them were close. They bowed to him as he passed and he nodded back, and that was largely it. Most of the warriors hated him, that was plain, and they muttered darkly in their own tongue whenever they saw him.

He heard things on his walks. He spoke most of the Minbari dialects well enough, and little rumours reached his ears. Many, particularly the warriors, spoke about Sinoval. Some seemed in favour of him, others not. There were whispers of 'Inquisitors', feared aliens who were seeking out those who had bargained with the Shadows. One of them had come here, it was said, but only one.

Aliens were regarded suspiciously during these conversations. The new Grey Council was trying to attract other races to their homeworld, and the number of aliens was growing slowly. However, some of them had been attacked and beaten by warriors, possibly on suspicion of being these Inquisitors. No one dared to touch Corwin, though. His strange friendship with Kats was common knowledge, and the warriors all seemed in awe of her, either because of her marriage to a warrior or through the respect accorded her by one of the Satai, Tirivail.

Regardless, Corwin let life outside pass him by. He buried himself in simple labour, and was content to live one day to the next, repairing some of the things he had done and taking satisfaction from that.

His walk took him past the Temple of Varenni and he looked up at the ancient building in wonder, as he always did. It was there, he knew, that Valen had returned to the Minbari. Some of the religious caste argued that Valen had left them again as punishment for their sins, and that he would return when they had atoned. Corwin, knowing full well that would not happen, passed on.

And then he stopped, looking back. The front gates of the temple were open, as they always were. There were people moving about inside, praying silently, lighting candles in memory of loved ones gone, talking quietly with one another. Most of them were Minbari, but there was also a pair of Narns wearing the Ranger sunburst symbol, a Brakiri, two Abbai....

.... and a human. Corwin frowned, not knowing that any other humans were here, certainly not in this part of Yedor. He stood on the steps of the temple, still staring in. It was a woman, wearing a long grey hooded cloak. It was pulled far enough forward that most people would not have been able to tell her race, but from the way she was moving, the way she was sitting, everything indicated to Corwin that she was human.

She was also oddly familiar.

She was talking in hushed tones to a Minbari warrior, which was also strange. The warriors hated humanity and barely tolerated even Corwin.

Slowly, drawn by something he could not understand, Corwin began to walk up the steps. He caught a glimpse of black hair beneath the hood, framing a firm jaw. He knew he recognised her now, but who could he know who would be here?

Suddenly he caught a glimpse of one grey eye and the name came to him in a thunderbolt. He took a step backwards and nearly fell. It was impossible! But he watched her again, holding onto the balustrade for support.

Impossible or not, it was true. He could see a faint pattern of scars across the other side of her face.

Susan!

She was still asleep. She had been asleep for hours. Marrago had spent much of that time watching her. She had hardly moved.

He had done what he could to patch up the girl's wounds, although he was no medic. The damage that had been done to her appalled him. He was a soldier, and had been all his life. The notion of deliberately wounding an enemy was hardly anathema to him, but this.... The deliberate and callous torture of a young girl. What could anyone possibly gain from this?

Her sleep showed no sign of the horrors she must have endured. He listened closely for any dream-cries or screams, but there were none. There was no sign of any dreams at all, bad or otherwise.

She was pretty, and her torture had done nothing to mar that. Her face and arms and front were untouched. Her torturer had clearly not wanted to spoil her beauty.

"Was she worth it?" asked a familiar voice. Dasouri spoke Centauri perfectly, with only a slight trace of his Drazi accent. That was an unusual talent in itself. Most of Marrago's mercenaries spoke only their native languages and the common Trade-speak. Very few of them spoke his tongue, but then Dasouri was unusual in more ways than one. It was no wonder that he had become Marrago's second.

"What do you mean?"

"This will cause trouble. The ways of these mercenaries are.... not complex. The Centauri took her, therefore she belonged to him. He could do with her whatever he wished. By taking her, you have broken that law. There may be trouble."

"What else should I have done?"

"Was she worth risking all this for? You have seen the operation of these people just as I have. You could lead them all in a sixmonth. Within twice that, you could have a force of outcasts big enough to take on the Alliance itself. Why risk that for one girl?"

"Ambition is a powerful thing," Marrago admitted. "And yes, you are right. This may risk everything, even our lives. But I will not stand by and watch a young girl tortured and beaten. If that risks my life, then so be it."

"You are a noble no longer. Remember that. Now you are an outcast like the rest of us. Have you ever thought that your old ways may not match your new life?"

"All the time. But some things are right, and some things are wrong, and what was done to her was wrong. There is no doubt about it."

"Ah. As I expected. Well, I leave you to your lady. The others need training."

Marrago nodded as Dasouri left, feeling both bolstered and weakened by what the Drazi had said. Every word was correct, every argument justified. Marrago had risked a lot by this action. It was not the work of a tactician, or a strategist, but it was simply right.

It was not as if she even looked like Lyndisty. Her hair was darker, her eyes a different shade. She was a little taller, a little younger.

She stirred, and sat up in one instant, her eyes darting around. She had awakened immediately, without weariness or confusion or disorientation.

She looked at him, and pulled the cloth around her like a shield. He thought she was trembling a little.

"Who are you?" she said at last, after a long pause.

"My name is Jorah Marrago," he said, his first name feeling strange in his mouth. Jorah was the name of a stranger, a young and ambitious man. He had not used that name since his father had died. "Once I was Lord-General. Now.... I am just an outcast."

"I've heard of you," she said slowly, pulling the sheet tighter around her. She said nothing more, merely continuing to stare. He was impressed. There was no fear there, no silent pleas, just a grim determination. You will not break me, the stare said. You may do whatever you wish to me, but you will not break me. She had learned pain, and a great deal of it.

"Might I have the honour of knowing your name?" he said at last.

She looked a little surprised. "My name is.... I am Senna. I used to be a lot of things, but now I'm just Senna."

He nodded. "It is an honour to meet you."

"You.... rescued me?"

"Yes."

"Did you kill him?"

"No."

"Why?"

"I have killed too much. I am tired of it. I will kill if I must, but not otherwise. Your.... captor was a weak man. He was no threat to me, and I have made sure he will not bother you again."

"No," she said firmly. "Why did you rescue me? What do you hope to gain from me? There will be no ransom."

"I do not want ransom," he said flatly.

"Then what? Revenge? Or perhaps.... a little.... something for night-time?"

"Neither," he said, his words hard. "That man. Did he...." A simmering anger was burning within him, but he fought to keep it down. He was not even sure who he was angry with. He was just angry. "Did he...?"

"Rape me?" she finished, in a harsh, sardonic half-laugh. "Would you have wanted him to? Would that give you an excuse to go to him and beat him to a bloody pulp? Would you have liked to watch?" He was silent. There was no reply he could give, and she seemed to sense this, instantly regretting her sarcasm. "No, he didn't," she said finally. "He thought it would be.... more fun for me to beg him to touch me."

"I am sorry," he said, looking down.

"Why? You didn't whip me senseless all these days and nights."

"I should have been here sooner."

She laughed again, a sound entirely devoid of any humour. "Why? Do you expect me to believe you are some sort of hero? That your only motivation is pure altruism? Rescuing the captive princess from the evil monster? I'm not a princess." She made to add something, but stopped. "There was something else there. If you didn't want me for yourself, then you wanted me for something."

"You are right," he said. This was not how he had imagined this conversation going. Couldn't she be more like...? "I have.... had a daughter. She would not have been a great deal older than you are."

"I am not her," she spat. "And whatever happened to her, you will not be able to bring her back through me."

"Why are you so cynical?" he shouted at last, unable to contain himself any longer. He saw her shrink back. "I know you are not her. That does not mean I would have let that go on happening to you. There was no ulterior motive, no dark plan. Nothing but some sense that there is still right and wrong."

"There isn't," she whispered. "There's no such thing."

"How can there be such cynicism in one so young?" he mused, mostly to himself. He was not expecting a reply, and there wasn't one. "Anyone would think you had no dreams at all."

"I don't," she said firmly.

He looked at her, and saw that she was telling the truth. She wanted to hurt him, yes, but her reply had been truthful. He sighed. "I think that is the saddest thing I have ever heard," he whispered. "When I was your age, oh, what dreams I had! What dreams we all had! We would shake heaven and earth and leave behind nothing but smiles and wit and a reputation all men would envy.

"They did not come true, and most of the men who dreamed are gone now. Yes, we failed, but that failure was the fault of the dreamers, not of the dream.

"And you say you have no dreams at all. Not a single one." He sighed again. "Go to sleep. Food and drink will be brought for you when you require them, and you have my word, if that means a single thing to you, that no one will try to harm you here. Not while I live."

"I...." She was shaking. "I am sorry."

"Go to sleep," he said, as he left.

Dasouri was not where Marrago had expected him to be, where the others were training. His little group of mercenaries and outcasts had grown a fair bit, and they needed to learn cohesiveness. There were many different races here, with many different fighting styles, and they needed to learn each others' strengths and weaknesses. They needed to learn to trust each other.

He found Dasouri in the antechamber, arguing with a newcomer. It was an alien, the one who had been at the council. He looked at Marrago with his strange, almost infinite, alien eyes, and behind him Marrago could see the shimmering heat-haze of a monster.

"This is Moreil," Dasouri said. "He wishes to talk with you. I did say she would be nothing but trouble."

Ambassador Durano put down the missive and looked up at the wall. For a moment he felt physically sick. Not just because the Centarum had waited so long to inform him of the situation, not even out of concern for the Emperor's health, not even because the missive was signed by a human called Morden.

No, it was the instructions that nauseated him so much.

Durano was a rational man, painstakingly so. He thought clearly before each action. He carefully weighed the consequences of his every move. He took time to think and debate and argue with himself. Those traits made him invaluable to his people, and also a very fine chess player. He had played the game a lot since he was introduced to it by the humans, and he was acknowledged a master.

He knew how to separate sentiment from practicality. There were things which, while unpleasant, were still necessary. That was a part of life, and only a fool disagreed with it.

But this?

He had argued against the sending of Narn peacekeeping troops to Gorash, knowing that such a move would both inflame public opinion among his people and, worse, send a dangerous message that the Republic was weak. The Republic was weak of course, fatally so, but it was hardly wise to let this fact be advertised. However, his cautious mind had ultimately decided that Narn aid was better than none, and so he had assented.

The reasons for appointing a Narn as leader of the peacekeeping force were many, and for the most part well thought out. Commander N'Rothak knew the Gorash system well, having led the invasion force into the system. He was by all accounts a fine leader, and a more than fair man. Ambassador G'Kael had made a powerful speech advocating N'Rothak. The Narns were closer than any other race, knew the area better than any other race, and there was a great propaganda opportunity for the Alliance as well. What better way to show that the wars were over than to have the Narns offering aid and protection to their ancient enemies? A symbol of a new and enlightened future, where old differences were forgotten and all were one brotherhood against the Darkness. G'Kael quoted the Prophet G'Kar several times. It was a powerful and moving speech. Durano did not dispute that.

But G'Kael did not believe one word of it. The Narn was every bit as intelligent and cautious as Durano himself, and both of them knew it. That speech came directly from the Kha'Ri, as did the subtle menacing undertones that giving the task to someone less.... suited, might be construed as a deliberate insult to the Narn people.

Durano found himself almost admiring the Kha'Ri. They had learned from the Republic, oh yes. They had learned a great deal. Had it not been for Marrago's alliance with the Shadows they would have won the war, working together while the Republic self-destructed. The Narns had understood the truth of the Great Game. The lessons of intrigue and diplomacy and deception were to be used against a common enemy, not against each other.

One line from a noble centuries dead echoed in Durano's mind. 'What better way to defeat your enemy than to make him think you are his friend?'

He wondered who in the Kha'Ri had read and understood that.

But there was nothing he could do. There was no way to escape this. He looked at the missive again. It was couched in flowery language, with much talk of 'aid between brothers in alliance' and 'temporary need', 'poor weather conditions', 'union to lend much-needed aid to the starving'. The points however were clear to anyone with the eyes to see.

The Emperor had had a heart attack. He was in a coma, and unlikely ever to recover.

There was no heir. Too many of the noble Houses had valid claims to the Purple Throne. No doubt some of them were already moving into position. Some people never learned. The Game had consumed and spat out better people than they. Elrisia, Jarno, Malachi, Marrago, Dugari. All of them had thought they could play the Game, only to fall.

There was social unrest on Centauri Prime, which would inevitably spread to other worlds. There was famine and disease and starvation. There had already been one riot in the streets of the capital. There would probably be more.

The Republic was unable to handle all of these problems, especially with so much of the Centauri fleet away performing babysitting duties for the Alliance.

Would the Alliance please send help? A permanent garrison of soldiers, Rangers and Dark Stars would do nicely.

The request was not for Centauri ships and soldiers to be returned to do what they should be doing, guarding Centauri worlds and cities. No, that would not be granted. That would set a dangerous precedent and provoke fears of a renewed build-up. No, the Centarum wanted Alliance ships and Alliance soldiers, and it did not take a genius to work out who these would be.

Over fifty percent of the Rangers were Narns, although that number was falling. The Narn were the most powerful of the major races in the Alliance, and the most willing to assist in this matter. The humans were still under suspicion over their dealings with the Shadows. The Minbari were occupied with repairs to their own worlds. The Brakiri were busy observing the Drazi for any signs of renewed rebellion. The other races did not have either the power or the inclination.

Oh, there would be support from the other races, Durano had no doubt of that. Maybe the overall commander would not be a Narn, but the bulk of the forces provided would be Narns, and it would be a Narn hand pulling the strings.

But what other choice was there?

Durano was left with a grudging admiration for whoever in the Kha'Ri had orchestrated all this. They were hardly responsible for the lunacies going on on Centauri Prime. They could have had no part in the Inquisitors, the rioting, the starvation, the raids, or even the Emperor's illness. These were all a combination of weakness, stupidity and a stubborn refusal by the Alliance to realise that the Shadow contact in the Republic had been just one man, not some elaborate conspiracy.

Damn you, Marrago. Wherever you are.

No, the Kha'Ri had not been responsible for this, but they had used it all well. Very well. And Durano doubted anyone else would be able to see it.

He stood up, and began rehearsing his speech. The Council would be meeting in less than an hour and he would have to plead with them for help to give complete control of his home to an alien race.

The words were ashes in his mouth, but he continued. What choice did he have?

Talia awoke to feel a cold hand grip her heart. It took a moment for her to remember where she was. This was the cargo hold of the ship she had half-smuggled and half-bribed herself aboard. She was not.... there.

In truth, she found it hard to remember where 'there' was. She only knew that it had appeared in her dreams, a vast wilderness, a cold blackness where only the dead walked. The world was an alien one, the sky not one she knew, the sun dead and cold.

She knew there had been creatures there. There had been life there once, but it had all ended. Something had descended and destroyed that world, just as they had destroyed everything else in that galaxy.

She trembled, and not just from the cold. How much longer could it take to get to Proxima? She knew this was a trading ship and so was bound to visit several different places first, but still....

She was about to settle down to sleep again when something sounded in her mind and she sat bolt upright. No. No, not here.

The screams were always with her, apart from when she used the artefact, but they were louder now, and one louder still. They could not have arrived at Proxima yet. By her reckoning there was another day or so at least.

She reached out with her mind, then pulled back sharply. There was a presence here, nearby. That concept was relative out in space of course, but a node of the network was close. That could only mean one thing.

Gently, slowly, with exquisite care, she sent her mind out, concentrating on the ship this time, not seeking to expand beyond it yet. It was terrifying to realise how much her powers had developed, that she could approach that as a rational possibility.

The artefact. It all came down to the artefact. One day she would have to do something about it.

But that was a problem for another day.

The message was simple and straightforward and terrifying. She heard it with her mind easily enough. No efforts were being made to keep it coded or secret. She sensed the captain's fear. It had been him who had hidden her on board. There were no doubt other minor bits of contraband here as well, but she was the main concern. Her discovery would lead not just to a fine or the revocation of his shipping licence, but to something far, far worse.

This is the Dark Star Fifteen. We repeat again. You are requested to stand down and prepare to be boarded. If you refuse, deadly force will be authorised.

You have thirty seconds to comply.

Marrago had known it from the instant he had set foot inside the council room. Of all of them — Rem Lanas, the nameless human, the Narns, the Drazi — this Moreil was the true power here. It was not just the two monsters that never seemed to leave his side, visible or not. It was that Moreil had a quiet force, one that said he did not care about the dreams or ambitions of the others.

Marrago had taken time to study his fellow captains in the Brotherhood Without Banners, and all but Moreil he understood. The human was simply insane. He lived for torture and murder and commanded a crew of other humans just as insane as he was, binding them together by force of personality and lunatic whims. Revenge, that was all they wanted. Revenge on anybody and anything.

The Drazi were seeking revenge too, for the perceived betrayal of their race by the Alliance. They knew how to fight, and that was all. No doubt the survivors would be plotting some sort of comeback for Marrago or Moreil. Whatever that was, it would not be subtle. Drazi schemes rarely were.

Rem Lanas was a pathetic little man who merely wished to be someone important, and exaggerated his own significance in a bid to appear so. He had no authority, no power, no soldiers. All he had was a little knowledge, and a lot of pretensions. He would no doubt be planning some form of elaborate revenge as well, but Marrago did not fear him.

The Narns.... they were unusual. There was something about them that puzzled him. The male was G'Lorn, a Narn Marrago recognised, although it had taken him a few days to remember where from. He had been an aide to Warleader G'Sten. What he was doing here was a mystery, but the Kha'Ri were often even more unforgiving than the Royal Court. It was possible G'Lorn had been a casualty following G'Sten's failed attack on Centauri Prime and subsequent retirement.

He was not in charge, of course. The female was. Marrago did not know her, but she moved with the easy grace of one used to power, and trained in it from a young age. There was something in the way G'Lorn looked to her sometimes, as if seeking her approval. Marrago did not know if they were married, lovers, siblings or what, but she held the power. That was clear to anyone with eyes to see. What they wanted.... judging by the first major target of the Brotherhood, revenge on the Centauri was not an impossible notion. Marrago would have to be careful around those two as well.

And then there was Moreil.

The two of them were standing in an observation post, the vastness of space stretching out before them. Moreil's sentries were not visible, but Marrago knew better than to assume that meant they were not there. The alien was looking at him slowly, and Marrago met his gaze. He had nothing to fear, not any more.

"I was expecting some sort of visit eventually," he said, never taking his eyes from Moreil's. The otherness of them disturbed him, but he still did not shift his gaze. Sooner or later, in there, he would uncover all he needed to about the alien. "Have I broken some law or another in taking the girl? I thought the only law of this order was that strength is all."

"Many laws there are," Moreil hissed. "But that is the one truth of them. Laws are for the weak. The strong make their own. The girl is of no importance to this one. Take her. Keep her. Fight those who would take her from you. In strength there is rightness, yes?"

"Yes," Marrago agreed, the lie burning his tongue. He thought of Senna, weak before her torturer, or Lyndisty, weak before her murderer. He suddenly hated this alien. "If not that, then why did you want to talk with me?"

"Introductions must be made, yes?" Moreil replied. "This one is Moreil, former Takita'talan of the Z'shailyl war fleet, fourth in standing to the Warmaster himself."

"I know who you are," Marrago said. "You know who I am."

"Indeed I do. You are once Warmaster of the Centauri, once noble of the Centauri, once right hand of the Emperor of the Centauri. Now you are here, outcast, abandoned, lost."

"I have already told you why I am here."

"That is not what was questioned. This one knows of you, once-Warmaster. This one knows you bargained with the Drakh, with the Dark Masters, sought their boon in your war. This one knows much of your bargainings."

"That is no secret. Why do you think I was exiled? Why do you think both the Alliance and my Emperor are hunting me?"

"Lesson there is that was learned from the Dark Masters. There is never what is on the surface alone. Always something is there hidden, below the skies. No mere exile, you. No. Perhaps you are agent. Perhaps you seek something other than you have said.

"After all, why exile you, then place bounty on you for return?

"There is much hidden within you, once-Warmaster."

Marrago took a slow step back, his hand reaching for the hilt of his kutari. Moreil's two monstrous guardians shimmered into view.

"And this one will discover your secrets.

"Or you will die."

He walks through darkened corridors and tunnels and caverns without care, without heed, without danger. He walks as if in a trance, guided by footsteps and echoes not his own. Ghosts walk beside him, ghosts of a race long gone, long dead, now ashes in the wind, mere whispers on the tides of space.

He leaves behind those sent to guard him, and this he neither notices, nor cares. He is drawn in some way he cannot explain, pulled by some force he does not seek to understand. With eyes not his and a understanding altogether alien, he sees beings as old and immeasurable as any he knows.

They are dying before his eyes, raising glowing faces to the heavens, awaiting a mercy that will never be given, a sign that will never come, peace that will never reign.

This place is a monument to war, and on some level he understands that. This place is a graveyard, a floating cemetery to a long-dead people.

He does not see what is killing them. He knows somehow that he should, but all he can see are masks and smoke and mirrors and angels with bright and bloody swords raised, glorying in their power and their bloodlust and the terror of their opponents, and the light that shines on them from heaven.

Names and faces flash before him and he does not care. He sees a beautiful woman caught between two worlds, looking at him with bright green eyes, and he presses on. He sees a father, a mother, a friend, a lover, a sister, a daughter, and a son.

Seeing the last he stops, briefly, slowly, and pauses — and then he stumbles on, not knowing or caring what draws him, knowing only that he must keep moving.

He walks into the depths of the earth and the ghosts grow louder and louder and more and more plentiful. There are so many of them. So many dead. He should grieve, he knows. He should cry out and weep and collapse to his knees in anguish at the misery around him, but he does not.

All he does is walk forward.

And after several lifetimes he emerges into a dark, shadow-haunted chamber. It stretches far above his head, a vast cathedral of rock and misery and torment. He moves forward, approaching the far wall, and with each step an alien voice cries out an alien name and an alien message, whether of hope or curse or misery he does not know.

He merely continues to walk forward, until the shadows fall over him and embrace him, almost as friend, almost as lover, almost as saviour.

"Sheridan."

The voice is old, and the first one he has been able to understand. He stops, and turns. It is ancient, that voice, and filled with wisdom and anger and power and a terrifying familiarity.

He knows that voice, and as it speaks to him, memory returns. Understanding returns.

Anger returns.

"Sheridan," the voice says again, the terrifyingly familiar voice says again.

"Always a pleasure."