Ship after ship swarmed through jump gates into the space above the planet
The time for their vengeance had come. To most of them, insane and songless, it did not even matter on whom they wrought that vengeance. All that mattered was blood.
Oceans and oceans of it.
To the Brotherhood, all that mattered was plunder, and pain, and riches, and power, and revenge.
To the Centauri, all that mattered was survival. Again.
* * *
Marrago knew how the plan was supposed to go. After all, he had been responsible for devising it. The scouts' reports from Centauri airspace indicated that everything should go even more easily than he had dreamed. The defence grid was barely operational and the ships to defend his homeworld pitifully inadequate.
He had waited as long as he dared, hoping beyond hope for some communication from Sinoval. He had a plan. It was a good plan. It might work.
But Marrago needed to be sure everything was ready. There could be no room for any error, not in this.
He had not heard a thing. The Tuchanq had already begun their attack, heedless of any strategy, careless of any losses. He had seen it in noMir Ru's eyes. A madness that feared nothing, not even death.
Especially not death.
"Where are you, Sinoval?" he asked.
There was no reply.
Dasouri was trying to contact him. He knew that. They had to leave hyperspace and join the attack.
"Where are you, Sinoval?!"
Still no reply.
Marrago sighed and rose. He would have to go through with it and trust to his friend. Sinoval had created this plan. He would not abandon them.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a bloodstain on the floor, near the door to Senna's room. That was where he had hit her. The memory still shamed him. He could still feel the impact on his fist and he burned with the memory.
Had he drawn blood with the blow? He did not remember, but he did not think so. Maybe he had.
But blood that fresh?
His hearts beating so fast he could scarcely breathe, Marrago opened the door.
Senna's body fell out, a bloodstained knife hanging loosely in her fingers. Her eyes were open, but there was no sight there. Blood was everywhere, on her hands, her dress, her face, her hair, her mouth.
So much blood.
Almost an ocean of it.
Marrago stared in mute horror, unable to form even a conscious thought.
"Where are you, Sinoval?" he cried again after a long while. Tears were welling in his eyes.
Behind him, the Shadow Warrior waited.
* * *
Kulomani was half-expecting the message he received, but that did not make it any less disturbing. He had been expecting it ever since the Day of the Dead, ever since his conversation with the former Lord-General Jorah Marrago.
Kulomani was not stupid. He knew in whose service he had been recruited and he accepted that, knowing the stakes he fought for. To his mind there had been something wrong throughout the war with the Shadows, something he had only been able to conceptualise during the final battle at Z'ha'dum itself. There had been something wrong and now he had the feeling that he was on the side of right again.
He sat at his command post on the bridge of Babylon 5. What did the humans call it? C and C? At his fingertips rested the entire power of the whole station, and by extension all of the Alliance. Power was a truly terrifying thing sometimes.
He tried again to contact General Sheridan. Again there was no reply. The General was here, in his quarters. He had taken some time off to rest, claiming he had not been sleeping well. Kulomani did not really grasp the problem there, but he supposed none of his people could. Still, he could not deny that the General had not been looking well. There were dark smudges under his eyes and he spent a lot of time rubbing at his face and drinking that strange black drink he called coffee.
Still no reply. He ordered a Security squad to General Sheridan's quarters. It could be nothing, but he had a feeling there was something happening. The Alliance fleet at Frallus 12 was mobilising, as was the Dark Star Squadron 17, patrolling the outskirts of Centauri space. With one word from Kulomani they would rush to Centauri Prime and fire the first shots in a new and terrifying war.
Not Alliance against Shadows. Alliance torn apart against itself. The raiders were a symptom, the first bubble of poison rising from the bottom of the swamp. There would be more. But the war would begin there, on Centauri Prime.
The Security team reported back.
Kulomani breathed out and gave instructions for the Alliance fleets to move to Centauri Prime, top priority, and for a medical team to go to General Sheridan's quarters.
He gave them in that order.
* * *
"Sinoval! Where are you?"
Susan Ivanova called until her throat was hoarse. She ran through the neverending, always-winding pathways of Cathedral until her feet ached and her legs burned with pain.
It was happening. The Brotherhood had launched their attack. The Centauri ships were being outmatched and overcome. Brotherhood shuttles were already heading for the planet's surface. Centauri Prime was teetering on the brink of one disaster too many.
And where the hell was Sinoval?
"Damn you, Sinoval!" Ivanova called out to the empty darkness. She could not even see any of the Soul Hunters, not even the Praetors Tutelary who were always near Sinoval. It was as if Cathedral had died in a split second and she just had not been told yet.
"Sinoval, if you make me do this by myself, I swear by almighty God I'll…."
She ran into the training ground without even realising it. He was there, sitting cross-legged as if in meditation, Stormbringer on the floor in front of him. He was staring into nothingness.
"Damn you!" she cried out. "Didn't you hear me? It's starting!"
There was no reply.
She ran up to him and shook him roughly. He did not move. "Sinoval, don't you…." She shook him again. His skin was cold, unbelievably cold. "Sinoval!" She pushed him.
He fell backwards. His eyes continued to stare up into the darkness.
There are no secrets under the sun.
There are no hiding places for the shadows.
There is no time for one last request.
Those who would betray the light will fall and die, destroyed by their own darkness. Shadows flee when even a single ray of light is cast upon them. One glimpse of the sun and they are gone.
Turned to dust.
And soon there is no memory that they ever existed.
Let those who oppose the light know this: by opposing us, you align yourselves with the shadow.
Let those who align themselves with the shadow know this:
There are no secrets under the sun.
We will find you.
In a hall of endless mirrors, a place of shadows and light, one voice ringing out from all corners, John Sheridan moved, searching eternally for a way out.
* * *
Blood and darkness and wine.
The feast was continuing in the shadow of his mind. Never-ending joy and merriment and wine and women and, yes, even song.
No pain. No grief. No loss.
But as he drank it, he saw for the first time that the wine was not wine, but blood, and the food was not the flesh of animals, but the flesh of his people, and the song was not of rapturous celebration but a dirge for the dead and the dying.
Go back, the voices said.
Go back, the song said.
Go back, the singers said.
"No," replied Emperor Londo Mollari II. "I am happy here."
* * *
If only his people were so happy….
The Tuchanq attacked with a savage, careless, heedless frenzy. They suicide-rammed the few defence grid satellites still working. They hurled their ships into buildings and lakes. The earth rose and fell.
They brought their song to the land.
They sang as they died.
And where were the others? Where were the defenders of Centauri Prime?
The First Image:Morden closed his eyes in a gesture that might have been prayer or might simply have been a refusal to accept what was happening. There was no fear. Why would he be afraid?
He was safe in a fortified bunker half a mile under the ground.
He had been woken up in the middle of the night by an Inquisitor at his bedside. He had been afraid then, for a single moment. The Drazi Inquisitor's ice-cold eyes stared at him, as if looking directly into his soul. Morden knew he had done nothing for which he should be afraid, but the fear was there regardless. He said nothing.
The Drazi nodded. "Come."
They had taken him to this place, a secret place they had constructed in quiet, in silence. It was a place of torture, of screams, of agonies born in nightmares. It was also, for now, a place of sanctuary.
Morden wanted to do something, anything. The Inquisitors had their ships. Surely they were more than a match for any bandit raiders? A message had been sent to the Alliance, but surely there was something to do now?
"No," the Inquisitor had said, when he had dared broach the subject. "He is here. We must draw him out into the light."
"He?" Morden had a sickening feeling he knew who. Only one person could inspire that much hatred in an Inquisitor.
"The Accursed."
"Sinoval?"
The Inquisitor's hand had suddenly been at his throat, squeezing tightly. Morden felt all the breath leave his body a second after all the warmth left his soul.
The Drazi spoke slowly, flawlessly, dwelling on every syllable.
"You will never speak that name again."
He had not.
And so all he had to do was wait.
The Second Image:Durla at her side, Timov looked at the cold, uncomfortable chair in front of her. Durla had been assigned to watch her, although many people might have wondered whether it was for her safety or their own. Few of them, few of the players in the Great Game, would imagine she was equally capable of watching him back.
Besides, for now, they had…. an understanding of sorts.
Londo's bedchamber was well guarded, as many guards as they could spare, but Timov herself had to be here. This was no time to hide. Power had to be wielded and be seen to be wielded, and she could do more here. The Ministers and lords and nobility had fled, some to hide or defend their estates, others to take the fight to the enemy. Timov was alone.
"They will make for the palace, lady," Durla said. She looked at him. "If they plan to invade and occupy they will need to secure the palace. If they merely desire plunder they will get more of that here than anywhere else. If they desire destruction, what better place to destroy?"
"I know," Timov said.
"And you are still here because…?"
"Someone has to be."
She looked around. The guards were here. Her men, and Durla's. Anyone Durla had chosen to be here now was obviously very deep in their respective conspiracy. Either that or very skilled.
"Do you want to be ready for them when they arrive?" she asked, indicating the throne.
"No, lady," he replied. "Your husband still lives and has not yet abdicated. I am not yet Emperor."
"It must gall you, Durla. You seek more than anything else to restore us to an era of glory, and merely a handful of days after we set each other on that path, we are attacked and threatened."
It was one of the very rare occasions she had ever seen true emotion in Durla's face. His eyes sparkled. "My lady," he said simply. "The lower we are, the greater the journey to the top. The greater the challenge, the greater the victory."
Timov nodded, a chill passing through her. This was a man with no understanding of Centauri life, no knowledge of or care for those who would fall.
A problem for another day.
"Well, then," she said primly. "It falls to me."
She ascended the steps and took the throne. All either of them had to do now was wait.
The Third Image:Moreil spread his arms wide, basking in the joy of righteous chaos.
"Masters, be pleased!" he cried.
"He is a threat," said the ever-present Narn voice at his side. "By G'Quan, listen to me, Moreil!"
He turned from the sight of the battle to look at Mi'Ra. For a moment he was mildly irritated, but then he quashed the emotion. Nothing could destroy this feeling of rapture. The spreading of chaos, the winnowing of the weak. This was what he lived for.
"He knows who I am. He must know of our…. understanding. Moreil! Listen to me, damn you! The Wykhheran fear him!"
"The Wykhheran know no fear in battle, but battle is all they understand. It is all they were created for." Moreil's eyes closed in near ecstasy. "The glories of battle."
"Listen, I don't care how good he is. The danger is in what he knows. Send a Faceless after him and it will be over in seconds. No one can withstand a Faceless."
Moreil smiled. "You may be proved wrong, but no. The Faceless were created to destroy the cowards, those who wield the reins of power in secret, behind the masks of illusion. Marrago is not one of those. He is a warrior. He will be dealt with as a warrior."
"You're being too complacent. Where's his ship? Why haven't they joined us yet?"
"Perhaps he is dead."
"If this fails, Moreil…."
"Then it will fail because we were too weak, and the failure will make us stronger. What else is this about, if not the strengthening and the purifying of the weak?"
"Vengeance," she hissed. "It is about vengeance, and if all you care about is battle, why aren't you down there taking part in it, instead of just watching up here?"
"Ah." Moreil smiled again. "I am Z'shailyl, and mine is the power to read the ebb and flow of war. I can sense great warriors and great deeds. Somewhere hidden from mortal eyes, hidden even from the eyes of the Faceless, but not from the eyes of the Z'shailyl….
"Hidden somewhere is…."
His eyes gleamed.
"Death."
* * *
G'Kar spoke to me often, of a great many things. His love for his people, his dreams for the future, his friends and allies. One topic he rarely touched upon was his involvement in the early wars with the Centauri, of the occupation and rebellion where he first rose to prominence as a soldier, not a prophet.
Many years ago I asked him about those times, and his face grew dark. He would not talk about it then, nor for many years to come, but eventually he did, and I knew then just how much those years weighed upon his mind. Not merely for the friends and family he lost. Not even because they reminded him of Da'Kal.
