"Plus, there is the possibility of Alliance ships there. Centauri Prime still has some Centauri ships, but there may be other Alliance forces. I've heard about the Inquisitors moving around on the surface. They will have ships of their own in orbit. Plus, after the attack on Gorash, Londo will have asked the Alliance for greater protection. Count on it. You caught him flat-footed once before. I doubt you'll do so again.
"On the other hand, the homeworld will still be sorely weakened from the War. There were very few nobles of any status left alive, and the Houses will now be led by young and inexperienced nobles. They won't have much military understanding, but they will all be willing to fight hard to prove themselves.
"We need to know more about the situation on Centauri Prime before we do anything. The first rule of war is never to go in blind."
"No waiting," the Tuchanq said in its usual hollow, staccato voice. "No time for patience. Only revenge. Only blood. We will not wait."
Mi'Ra rose, and Marrago looked at her. She was almost…. feline in her movements. Narns were generally too thickset and heavy-boned for subtlety or grace of motion, but Mi'Ra seemed to manage it.
"The timing is perfect," she said, her red eyes looking directly at him. "It could not be more so. Emperor Mollari is sick, possibly on his deathbed. Those…. young, idealistic nobles you spoke of will be too busy manoeuvring themselves into positions of power to work together to hold off an attack."
Marrago felt a sickening lurch in his stomach. Londo? Ill? Dying? Then he hardened his hearts. Londo had accepted his role. Marrago would have to continue with his.
"If you say so. I think it is too early."
"No," the Tuchanq said. "Now."
"There is one more thing," Marrago said, looking around. "Alliance ships. There will be some there, particularly if those Inquisitors are still present. Open fire on an Alliance ship, and you are inviting war with them."
"Let them come," Moreil said, suddenly. "Let them all come."
Mi'Ra nodded. So did the Tuchanq.
Marrago spread his arms wide. "Very well. Someone fetch the maps. I'll start outlining weak points and strategic areas."
* * *
The servants moved aside as she passed, whispering about her when they thought she was out of earshot. She could hear them, of course. One of the things she had learned in her childhood was the necessity of very good hearing. She didn't let them know she could hear them, though. That would spoil all the fun.
It was interesting to find out what people were saying about her. Some called her mad, others cold. There were rumours that she was sleeping with any number of people — one chambermaid even claimed to have seen her in the bed of that strange human Morden. Some said she had poisoned her husband, or that she had used witchcraft to make him ill, or that she had gone to the technomages to have him kept alive but not conscious.
She was aware that she was not universally liked, but she contented herself with the thought that few people of worth were ever popular.
Not even her guards liked her. They had made the absolute minimum of protest when she had told them that she did not need them for today.
Lady Timov, daughter of Alghul and Lady Consort to Emperor Londo Mollari II, pushed the door open and swept majestically inside.
Durla Antignano stood to attention sharply. "My lady," the new Captain of the Guards said crisply.
Timov nodded at him as she closed the door, looking around. He had come alone, as she had requested. He could hardly insult the Lady Consort by bringing his guards to a private meeting now, could he? It was of course scandalous that the two of them were alone together, but Timov was content to let the scandalmongers have their fun. After all, if the worst they suspected about this meeting was an illicit liaison, both of them would have escaped lightly.
From the folds of her voluminous gown Timov pulled out a small, stylus-shaped device, with which she proceeded to comb the room. The light on the end of the tracker maintained a steady glow until she reached an elaborately decorated urn in one corner of the chamber. Timov recognised it as a grossly expensive gift to Emperor Turhan from the then-incumbent Lord Vole. A quick moment's investigation turned up the bugging device and she quickly clipped a device of her own around it. A study of the rest of the room found another similar device, which was treated the same way.
Satisfied, Timov folded up her tracker and returned it to her pocket. Taking the seat opposite Durla, she gestured to him to sit down.
"A few little things I picked up from some contacts of mine in the black market," she said by way of explanation. "Anyone listening will hear what I wish them to hear, and nothing else."
"And what will they be hearing, my lady?" Durla asked in his usual clipped, precisely enunciated tone.
"Oh, that we are sleeping together. Don't look so shocked, Durla. You are a fine figure of a young man, and with my husband…. ill, I have certain needs." The expression on Durla's face was wonderful to behold, a strange combination of shock and revulsion, purest horror and desperation. Timov laughed. "A joke," she said. "I cannot speak for my husband, but my marriage vows mean something to me. Besides, you are a little young for me. I wanted to speak of something else and it would be better if anyone listening thought this more…. mundane."
"Are you not worried that those…. listeners might use this incorrect information against you, my lady?"
"Tish! When has adultery ever been a cause for concern in these circles? My fidelity has usually been something of a joke."
Durla smiled, and rested his elbows on the table. "Not for you, my lady, no. But my position is a little more precarious than yours. I could very easily find myself back in those cells. My guards bear me little love, and if you were to complain about any…. undue pressure I was putting on you, I would rapidly lose the limited freedom I have at present."
"Really?" Timov said, eyes widening. "I had not considered that possibility. How dreadfully remiss of me. You must accept my utmost apologies."
Durla reached into the pocket of his uniform coat and laid something on the table. Timov smiled, recognising it. A signal jammer. "Believe me, my lady. No one is hearing anything in this room."
"I had hoped to avoid making people paranoid, but yes, we are both very clever. We have played this Game too long. I did not come here to blackmail you, Durla, nor to sleep with you. I came to offer you an alliance."
"I am as ever, my lady's to command."
"Then you would be the first," she drawled. "I have a hard enough time commanding my serving maids. When my husband was…. well, I had some little authority. He has been in a coma for several months now, and my little power wanes every day. I have accustomed myself to the realisation that he may never awake. I cannot simply wait for something that may never happen. If I am to save our people, I will have to act now."
"Do our people need saving, my lady?"
"Durla…. I know you are neither blind nor stupid. Please do not pretend to be either. Can you say you are truly happy with the way things are? Have you seen those…. Inquisitors moving around? Is there no one close to you whom they have taken away? Do you truly wish to serve a human standing beside the Purple Throne?"
"If you mean Mr. Morden, he freed me from my imprisonment."
"He did so because he wanted a tame pet on a leash, someone he could set on those who defied him. Are you happy being a human's lapdog?"
"I am a Centauri. My family is ancient and proud. Some say I dishonoured that memory."
"I know your past," Timov interrupted. "You were exiled when it was discovered you murdered your brother."
"It was over a woman."
"Such arguments usually are," Timov smiled. "Although never over me, I recall."
"When he freed me, I told Mr. Morden what I wanted from him."
"Has he given it to you?"
"No, and I doubt he ever will, but then I doubt the same thing regarding you. Your husband, when he ruled, was weak and spineless. He did not listen. He did not care for my talents and he imprisoned me rather than allow me to redeem myself from whatever…. transgressions I might have committed. I want to see the Centauri race return to the stars, by our own destiny rather than at the whim of another. I have resigned myself to that never happening."
"Under my husband, no. It will not. But we have accepted that my husband is likely never to recover. For myself, I want a quiet retirement, and if he does recover, a place somewhere near the ocean where he can recuperate free from the burdens of his position. He has done enough for these people already.
"But most of all, I want those humans and their Inquisitors and everything to do with the Alliance gone from our space. We can work together to achieve that, and both of us will get what we want.
"How does Emperor Durla Antignano sound to you, hmm?"
* * *
"I have come home."
G'Kar looked up at the red sky as he set foot on his homeworld for the first time in over a year. It was nearly sunset. He remembered looking up at that sky hundreds of times, as a pouchling, as a warrior against the Centauri, as a prophet. He remembered thinking how fortunate he was to call such a world home.
Now it was polluted and scarred. There was a darkness at its heart, but then, as he thought about it, he realised there had always been a darkness here. Perhaps it had begun with the Centauri Occupation, perhaps earlier than that, but it had always been here.
The Centauri had taught them a lot, mostly unwittingly. Above all, they had taught the Narn how to hate.
And now they were reaping the harvest they had sown.
"If we cannot live together, we shall surely die apart," he whispered. No one listened. No one understood, and no one listened, and no one cared.
He felt as if his entire life had suddenly become incredibly pointless. If he had still been at the heart of the Great Machine he could have seen this coming, he could have worked to prevent it, he could….
No. No 'if onlys'. That way lay madness.
For so long the focus of his life had been to fight a war. It seemed he had always been at war, with one race or another. Then he had seen that black, terrible Shadow ship high in the night, and he had known his purpose.
But now that purpose was gone, evaporated into dust, and just how much of that victory had been down to him? How much had he really accomplished? Would he have been better off merely leaving everything alone and sitting back and letting the darkness come? Would the Narn and the Centauri have been better off without his prophecies?
He could not answer those questions, and the Prophet could not see far enough into the future to know what would come.
He knew only that he had to try.
* * *
G'Kar was a great man, and a true inspiration. It is sad that only with his death is it possible for this to be appreciated. During his life he was too often weighed down by thoughts of his mistakes, of his errors, of his lapses of judgement, of things that no one could possibly blame him for.
That, I think, was both his greatest failing and his greatest strength. He could not perceive himself as the inspiration he truly was.
For good or ill, and I cannot say, for I am no Prophet, he changed our people.
L'Neer of Narn, Learning at the Prophet's Feet.
* * *
There was heat and motion and energy and power. There was noise. There was the sound of her thoughts, echoing loudly in his mind. Dexter Smith had never wanted to be a true telepath, never asked for their sort of power, but now he wished he could have it. If this was what they felt all the time, this blessed, wondrous communion of thoughts and voices and souls, then he would gladly trade everything for that.
Talia kissed him harder and he marvelled at the thoughts in his mind. He could feel her passion, her determination, her love for her people and her conviction that what she was doing was right. He could feel the lessening of her sense of fear, her knowledge of the vast forces arrayed against them and her joy in knowing she had one ally, however insignificant.
Not that she thought he was insignificant.
I can feel you as well, she thought in his mind.
Is this what it is always like? he thought back.
No, she replied, and he caught the mental image of a sad, satisfied smile. I wish it were. Her hands curled around his back.
He could see her childhood, her daughter, old friends long since dead. Her entire life was laid open to him, and he felt his open to her. For a moment he felt a pang of anguish at that, that she could see all his secrets, all his shames, that one moment of a life ending behind a pair of green eyes.
And then he felt it, at the back of her mind. She was trying to hide it from him, but it was there.
Guilt. A tiny pang of guilt.
He pulled back, shaking. She tried to hold on to him, but he slid away from her embrace. Breathing harshly, he stepped off the bed and fell against the far wall.
"What?" she breathed. "Dexter, what…?"
"I'm sorry," he whispered, closing his eyes. He could not feel her any more. Her mind was closed to him. "I can't do this. You're married."
"I…. Dexter…."
"No…. Please don't." He sank down to a sitting position, his head in his hands. "My head feels awful. I think we drank too much."
She sat up, and he could hear her starting to button up her top. "Dexter…." She stopped, as if she had nothing else to add.
"You love him," he said, after a while. "The two of you have a daughter, and you love him." He looked up, staring at her. "You do love him, don't you?"
Tears welling in her eyes, she nodded. "Do you…." She hesitated. "Is it wrong for one woman to love two men at the same time?"
"No more than for one man and two women. Damn! I wish I'd got to you first." He stood up. "I do want to, Talia. You know that. You know how much you mean to me. I've been thinking about you ever since…." He breathed out slowly. "We'd both regret this."
She fell back on to the bed, exasperated, or perhaps just to hide her tears. "I really didn't think men like you existed any more."
"Maybe I'm just a fool. You have the bed. I'll sleep on the couch. We can talk in the morning."
"In the morning," she replied.
He scooped up his shirt from where it had been discarded on the floor and noticed the rip in his collar. Sighing, he walked from the room, his head pounding.
"Good night, Dexter," she called to him.
"Good night," he replied.
* * *
As he walked back to his quarters in the shabby, dirty ship that was now his entire fleet, Jorah Marrago was surprised to find his mind filled with tactics and planning. It was a good feeling, one he had missed.
