Susan looked at him. It was not usual for him to be talking so much, but after his collapse following his tales of Valen, he had actively sought her company more. He would speak to her more often, reveal more of his plans, his intentions, his dreams, even trivial little stories like this.
She was not quite sure what this meant. Either she was succeeding in her purpose and he was actually seeing people as people, not just chess pieces. He could be opening up to her, letting himself be human…. or Minbari, or whatever. Alive. Letting himself be alive.
Or there was another, darker possibility.
He was sharing his plans so that if anything happened to him someone would be able to continue when he was gone.
"I feel like that warrior, balancing all those globes in the air, except these are not just spinning balls, but people, and if any fall then we lose more than just a toy.
"Vejar has failed, and it cost him his life. Galen is lost now, trapped by the Vorlons, and there is no way to get him out. Marrago is on his own and I have to advance his careful plans myself, risking everything he has worked for these past two years.
"And Sheridan….
"Sheridan….
"Without the telepath, I have to do this myself. It would be so much easier with her, but I fear there is little choice, and I certainly do not have the time to do this slowly. I have to rush, and what if I mis-step or make a wrong move? What if he sees me or rejects me?
"Ah, Valen, curse you. Destined for greatness, indeed!"
He made for the steps leading downwards. "I have to commune with Sheridan again. I am…. making breakthroughs with him, slowly but surely, but I will have to move more quickly. Someone has to lead if anything happens to me, and without the Vorlon touch there would be no one better than him.
"If I can make him see!"
"Sinoval!" Susan called out. He stopped and looked back at her. "Don't do anything stupid. We can't do this without you, and if you die and leave me to do it myself, I swear to God I'll find your soul wherever it's gone and kick the living crapola out of you." He looked at her, and she looked down, annoyed at the outburst. "You got that?"
He was beside her in an instant. How does he move so fast? she had time to think. Gently, he touched her hair and kissed her forehead.
"Susan," he said. "If I had to leave, I would trust you with all of this. Remember that."
Then he was gone, and she was left to wait.
Hidden. Above Centauri Prime.
Waiting for the raiders to come.
Waiting.
After a while she began to whistle.
* * *
Da'Kal took a long, slow sip of the bitter jhala. It tasted foul in her throat and she could not understand why the Centauri drank it. It was too hot and too bitter and it scalded the roof of her mouth.
But, however foul the taste, it reminded her of victory.
"It was him," H'Klo said, standing in the doorway. "Again." The Councillor of the Kha'Ri was normally unflappable, but now he actually sounded…. worried. H'Klo knew no fear, she knew that much. When he was nothing but a pouchling, he had been working with the Resistance. The Centauri had captured and tortured him, and he had said nothing even as they had peeled the skin from his back with red-hot pincers, one strip at a time. Da'Kal had looked at those scars, touched them, even kissed them.
H'Klo feared neither Centauri, nor Shadow, nor Vorlon, nor Narn. He had sworn to defend her in her quest, and she had no doubt he would. When a Thenta Ma'Kur assassin had attacked her in her bedchamber one night, H'Klo had faced him bare-handed and broken his back, despite being wounded five times in the process.
No, he feared nothing. Save one thing alone.
One person.
A prophet.
Da'Kal said nothing, but merely looked out across G'Khamazad. The city was so far beneath her, she could see the comings and goings of her people, free for the first time in their lives. Free from the Centauri. Free even from the fear of the Centauri. Now it was time for the Centauri to learn fear themselves.
She sipped at the jhala again. It was thick and cloying. She hated the smell. When she was young, before her name day, she had worked in the household of a Centauri noble, washing his clothes and cooking his food and pouring endless cups of jhala for him and his fat, vain wife and his spoiled, brattish children.
She remembered his face after the Resistance had taken his manor. G'Kar had killed his captain of guards in single combat and had made her lady of the manor. She had made the lord serve her jhala, and she had drained the drink in one gulp. Nothing had ever tasted sweeter, not even the taste of G'Kar's kisses that night.
"He will know," H'Klo said. "He will find us."
"There is no need to be concerned," she replied, still looking down on the city. One of the many things she had learned from the Centauri. Build high, and look down upon those you rule.
"I am concerned," he snapped. "Ask me to fight for you and I will. Ask me to kill for you and I will. But do not ask me to go against him, Da'Kal. He is…. our Prophet. He has something I have never seen in anyone else, not even you. He…." H'Klo paused, obviously struggling to find the words. "He is special."
"Yes," Da'Kal replied, irritated. "The mighty Prophet G'Kar. The wise, the bountiful, the saviour of our people."
"Is he not everything you have said?"
She took more jhala. "Yes," she replied bitterly. "Yes, he is."
"He will find us."
"Let him. Do not worry, H'Klo. You will not have to fight him."
"The Thenta Ma'Kur?"
"No. I am not sure I can trust them anyway. For all their boasts of loyalty only to money they can be…. sentimental. Besides, I have enquired secretly about their price for him." She paused, holding herself tight with her right arm, staring into the mirror of memory.
"And?"
"Over eight million Narn ducats."
"We do not have that sort of money."
"No one does. That is the point. Do not worry, H'Klo. There are…. other ways."
"He will not understand."
"No," she whispered sadly. "He does not. In a strange way I admire him. I even love him still, almost as much as I hate him. He was the bravest man I ever met. But the man he has become….
"He has forgiven them. After everything they did to him, to his father, to his mother, to me…. after all these things he has forgiven them. He even urges us to do the same. Do you know what bravery like that is? I wish I had a tenth of it." She finished her jhala and held the cup gently, rolling it between two fingers.
"But if everyone was capable of that kind of forgiveness, we would not be Narns, we would be angels."
She threw the cup far out into the air and turned away from the balcony to avoid seeing it land.
"There are no angels, and by his very existence he reminds us of our imperfections.
"Have no fear, H'Klo. Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar will be dealt with."
* * *
We were defeated because we had not thought. We were conquered because we did not see. Yes, we have won a victory now, but unless we learn, the victory will be hollow and empty, nothing but the ashes of the funeral pyres.
Blind rage will not serve us. Unthinking lust for revenge will gain us nothing. This is a new world for us now, for all of us. Unless we think, unless we see, unless we learn, then we might as well never have picked up a single weapon to fight the Centauri in the first place.
Mi'Ra ran those words through her mind as she went to her meeting. The Prophet's speech at the Square of Ashes in G'Khamazad. She had been there with her father, and a chill had swept through her as she watched G'Kar speak. Her father had not understood, but he was dead now. Mi'Ra had understood, and those words had stayed with her always.
Think, see, learn. That mantra had been with her throughout her life. It had seen her abandon the path her father had set, a life in the Kha'Ri as he had chosen, and she had instead chosen to go out into the galaxy. She had seen such wonderful things, such beautiful things. She had learned from what she had seen, and most of all she had learned to think.
The Prophet had been right, of course. Blind rage and unthinking vengeance would gain them nothing. What was needed was focussed rage and structured vengeance.
Centauri Prime. Home of the enemy. Her father had used to dream of taking the war there, but he had died before he could realise that dream. Just another victim of the games the Kha'Ri played, struck down by a well-concealed poison.
And now she would be a part of the destruction of the Centauri homeworld. Any one of her people would pay everything they owned for a part in this, however small, and her part was far from small.
She entered the meeting room, her guards with her, those visible and those…. not. G'Lorn was beside her as always. Loyal and trusting. He had not thought or seen or learned anything before, but now he was growing. It was the military mindset. Serve, obey and ask no questions. She was slowly breaking him of that, but she had to admit that it was useful at times.
Marrago was waiting for her, sitting patiently at the far side of the table. He had no guards with him, but then he did not need any. This was a man who had truly taken on board the Prophet's words, whether he realised it or not.
She sat down, G'Lorn beside her. "Should we not be preparing for the battle?" she asked. "Or have you more strategies to debate with me?"
"No," he replied coolly. "I have…. discovered something recently. Part of a bargain. Like for like. Information for information. Do you know what I have learned?"
Mi'Ra had a feeling she did. She had always agreed with Moreil. Marrago was by far the most dangerous man here.
"I have learned of a Councillor in the Kha'Ri by name of Du'Rog." Mi'Ra did not let her expression slip once. "He was very much in favour of renewed attacks on my people. He died some years ago of a convenient illness. It is strange, but there are many in my Court who have died of convenient illnesses at convenient times.
"But Du'Rog had adherents and they followed his ways. There were similar types amongst my people, and so there was war. It ended, as wars tend to do, and there was peace. Narn and Centauri, all one in an Alliance, working together for peace and prosperity — but for a few renegades and outlaws like ourselves of course.
"I have no doubt there are many among my people who do not like the idea of peace with yours. I am equally sure there are some among yours who like the idea even less. My people are too…. restricted to do anything about it, but yours…. the brave and forgiving Narn…. they are trusted and liked and respected.
"Du'Rog had a daughter. She left her home very young to travel the galaxy. She returned briefly, and then disappeared again. Do you know her name?"
Mi'Ra sat back. Moreil was right. This one was more dangerous than the others. They were useful tools and instruments, but this one…. He thought. He saw. He learned.
He was strong.
Do you wish us to kill him, lady? hissed the alien voice in her mind. She could call the Faceless to her in a heartbeat.
No, she replied. She was not telepathic, of course. Apart for a few failed experiments conducted by the Prophet, none of her people were, but she wondered sometimes if this communion was what it meant to be a telepath. The ritual she had undergone had given her a world of new sensations. This was only the smallest. Moreil has his own plans for this one.
He is dangerous. The Wykhheran fear him. But speak the word and he shall die.
No, she repeated. The Faceless were the ultimate assassins, greater by far even than the Thenta Ma'Kur, but they needed to serve. They did not think beyond the kill. Their creators had not designed them that way.
"And that little girl, what did she find on her travels? What did she bring back to her homeworld with her?"
Mi'Ra smiled, and rose to her feet. "An interesting story, but your time would be better spent on other things, Captain. Remember. We go to war."
He looked at her. "I am a soldier," he said, in a voice as deep as thunder. "I am always at war."
* * *
She was never far from the screams. They were there when she closed her eyes at night, and there when she opened them in the morning. The trapped, the lost, the prisoners. The countless slaves to the Vorlon network. Some she knew, some she didn't. Many weren't even human. That didn't matter. They were telepaths, like her — one kind, like her, one people, like her.
Talia opened her eyes and they were screaming even more loudly. One of them was standing before her. One of the abominations, one of those who actually liked their new role.
The Hand of the Light. The Bloodhounds. Countless different names for the same basic function.
Hunters.
The creature hissed and moved back. Talia looked at it.
"Now, I'm annoyed," she said.
Darkness crackled from her fingertips and she pointed at the abomination. It screamed as bolts of raw shadow struck at it. Light formed around it as a shield, but anger gave her thoughts power and she shattered it with a thought.
These things hunted her people, consigning them to an eternity of pain. They did it willingly, voluntarily.
They enjoyed it.
They would take her if they could, maybe even make her one of them. They had taken Al. They would take Abby. They would take Dexter. They would take all of her people.
Join us, it hissed at her. Living or dead, willing or not, you will join us.
She glanced at Dexter. His glance was flicking from her to the abomination. She was not sure which repelled him more.
"No," she said, loud enough for him to hear. She would not share her thoughts with this creature. That was for her people, for her lovers, for her loved ones. Al, Abby, Dexter.
She found herself thinking of the soul trapped within the Dark Star she had encountered on the way here. A pitiful thing, still dreaming of the protective blanket that had kept him safe from imaginary monsters as a child.
Well, she was a child no longer, and the hardest lesson Talia had ever learned as an adult was that not all monsters are imaginary, and there is no blanket to hide beneath.
There was only her.
Waves of shadow flowed from her hands, enveloping the abomination. Tiny sparks of light tried to shine through the dark cloud, but they were soon swallowed up. Talia concentrated harder, forcing the tendrils into its throat, its eyes, its nose.
It fell, still trying to summon the light, still trying to invade her mind. It was failing, naturally. Its power worked on fear, and she was not afraid of them.
Help me, came the pitiful psychic cry. It fell to the ground, head tilted back, choking sounds coming from its shaking body. It reached out one hand to Dexter.
