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.
* * *
I wish sometimes I could have known G'Kar as a young man. I have spoken to those who saw him then, who heard him speak, and I see the eyes of old men light up at the memory. They told me of a man who could have talked the rocks down from the mountains, who could have charmed fire from the earth and voice from the land itself.
I never heard him speak. Wait, let me correct myself. I spoke to him often during my apprenticeship by his side. I have read all of his speeches. But cold words are pale imitations of the passion and fury he must have had. I have tried to imagine the old man I knew as the young and fiery orator I have heard described to me. Sometimes, when I caught his glance in the dancing shadows of the firelight, I thought I saw something there, but only for an instant and then it was gone.
He had lost so much by that time. We all had, but he seemed to take it all personally. He spoke the names of people I had never met: Neroon, Michael Garibaldi, Alfred Bester, John Sheridan. He spoke of the Great Machine, of Babylon Four and of the technomages, and I almost wept at the thought of all those wonders lost forever from the galaxy.
During the course of the Wars of Light and Darkness, G'Kar changed, irrevocably and permanently. The turning point was probably the Battle of the Third Line, where he lost forever the Godlike power that had been at his fingertips, and saw his dreams for the future vanish a millennium into the past.
But that was only one event. There were countless others. The loss of his eye, the betrayal that was the Night of Blood, the Last Night of Shadow that both of us were fortunate to escape when so many others did not.
Still, there were brief moments of respite as well, tiny pinpoints of light in the darkness. One such occasion he recounted to me. It occurred at the Brakiri Day of the Dead….
