The Other Half of my Soul addm-1

by Gareth D. Williams

  “It’s what we have to do to survive. And hey, the Narns are better than the Minbari. Besides, I’m not a telepath, and I doubt any of the Narns will be wanting my DNA, so it doesn’t bother me.”

  Corwin had absorbed this information and mentally shrugged. Assuming it was done with the consent of the telepaths in question, then surely it was fine. Besides, what was the price of survival?

  “I don’t suppose the Boss told you how he knew where we were?” Corwin asked.

  “I can’t tell you that. I’m not authorised for that sort of information, you see. The Boss trusts me to run this place, and the best way to run this place is to make sure everyone knows what they’re supposed to know, and that they all know they’re supposed to know it, and that they don’t know what they’re not supposed to know. So, if I’m not supposed to know something, I make sure I don’t know it. Does that make sense?”

  “Ah, yes…” Corwin said, thinking it over for a while. “Sort of. So, what am I supposed to know?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Corwin blinked, and Garibaldi laughed. It was an infectious laugh, and Corwin found himself joining in. He still didn’t trust this Michael Garibaldi, but he couldn’t help but like him.

  “Seriously,” Garibaldi said. “The Boss will want a meeting with you and the Cap later on, and he’ll tell you what it is he wants you to know.”

  “And what he wants us to do?”

  “Sure. This is a dangerous galaxy out there. He didn’t save you just for the fun of it. He obviously thinks you’re going to be an asset. Or he wants revenge or something. He doesn’t give me all the details, and I don’t ask.” There was a pause, and Corwin looked around. They had ended up in Garibaldi’s office. The office was clearly meant to be functional and efficient, but was in fact a mess. There were papers and flimsies scattered everywhere, some of them obviously star maps of some kind. There were a number of similar charts on the wall, most of which were crooked. Computer screens also shone out at him in every direction. Corwin also saw a picture on Garibaldi’s desk. It had clearly been given pride of place and was of a pretty, dark-haired woman.

  “Kinda old-fashioned, I know,” he said, noticing Corwin’s interest in the picture. “It’s my wife, Lianna. She’s seven months pregnant at the moment.”

  “Oh,” Corwin said. “Congratulations. Is it your first child?” Polite small talk, but Corwin was genuinely interested. It looked as though he would end up doing a lot of work with Mr. Garibaldi, and it would be beneficial to get to know the man.

  “Yeah. I mean, we haven’t been married very long – just two years. We thought, do we really want to bring up a child into a world like this? But, well… we all need something to hope for, something to fight for, I suppose. You married?”

  “Me? No.”

  “But there is someone special?”

  “There… was. She… died.” Not a lie. In a very real sense, the Susan Ivanova he had known was dead.

  “Ah, yes. We’ve all lost a lot in this war. The Boss thinks we can make a difference, maybe even end everything, but… I dunno. Life kicks you in the teeth so often, you begin to wonder whether it’s ever worth getting up again, and then you find a reason and everything makes some sort of sense. All the pain, and the dying and the loss. It all works out in the end.”

  “You think so?” Corwin asked, remembering the Captain repeating Anna’s name over and over again as he knelt beside her body, remembering his own grief when Susan was gone, remembering… “Yeah,” he said. “I suppose so.”

  “So, what’s he like to work with? Captain Sheridan? The Starkiller?”

  “He’s… I don’t know how to describe it. He believes we can make a difference. Well, he used to… I don’t know any more.”

  Garibaldi shrugged. “We can make a difference. That’s why we’re here.”

  “So why are we here? No one does things without a reason. What’s Bester’s?”

  “Well, I guess you’ll have to ask him, won’t you? He’ll want to see you and Captain Sheridan later on. If you have a look around the place, and report back to Captain Sheridan, then come and find me whenever you’re ready.”

  Garibaldi rose from his seat and offered his hand to Corwin. Corwin looked at Garibaldi for a moment, and then back at the picture of his wife. Slowly, he extended his hand to Garibaldi’s.

  The first link had been forged.

  * * * * * * *

  Politicking was second nature to most Centauri. The nobles played games of power and influence and authority, gambling with lives and fortunes. Many of them, blinkered to everything but their own petty – and not so petty – interests, thought that they were the ones who had invented the Great Game, as some Centauri called it. To them it was all a game, albeit one with high stakes.

  They were of course wrong. Nothing where lives hung in the balance could ever be called a game, at least not accurately. They were also not the ones to invent such a game. Billions of years ago a game had begun which was still going on, both players by now tired and far removed from the game’s original aim, but continuing anyway, as if by rote, each one responding automatically to the other’s moves. The Centauri were but pawns in this game, batted from side to side, and at this stage, largely ignored. There were more important and valuable pieces to be manoeuvred.

  But even the pawns could make a difference, especially when they became queens. The Centauri would not remain pawns for long. Maybe their current war with the Narns would enable them to rise up and make a difference.

  Or maybe it wouldn’t. Nothing is certain.

  But while the Centauri nobility played a game of power within the circle of the Greater Game of power, there was a smaller game being played by the Centauri lesser classes. Ignored, scorned, and occasionally sacrificed, they could on occasion make a difference.

  As one was now.

  Timov, daughter of Alghul, first – and most scathing – wife of Minister Londo Mollari, sat back in her chair, digesting the information she had just received.

  “I see,” she said primly. “Thank you. You have been most helpful.”

  Her informant muttered something in reply and the comm link went down. Timov stared at it for a moment and sighed. None of this suited her. Politics belonged to Mariel and Daggair – the one using seduction, the other money. Timov really had no patience for this sort of thing.

  But still, Centauri Prime was on the verge of exploding into chaos at any time, and she had to admit that her husband – drunken, overambitious and low-minded idiot that he was – represented some form of order. Timov liked order. It made sense, and it let her get on with her favourite pursuit, namely making her husband’s life hell.

  It had begun when Timov had grown suspicious of her two companions to Londo’s matrimonial hand. Daggair was spending a lot of time lately with Lady Elrisia. Now, if Londo had been paying more attention to what his wives were doing and less attention to drinking, gambling and utterly awful Minbari poetry, he might have been a little annoyed at his wife spending such time with the only wife of his old enemy, Lord – sorry, she corrected herself – Ambassador Refa. But no, Londo noticed nothing. Presumably he was only too glad that Daggair was nowhere in sight – and who could blame him, Timov thought – but that was no excuse. Mariel, meanwhile, was always up to something, and so Timov had begun to track their movements.

  She had very few contacts, but they were all valuable because none of them was nobility. Nobles, in their infinite wisdom, neglected the lower classes to such an extent that they could discover almost anything they wanted, and get away with it.

  The latest report had come from a little thing named Adira, a maid in Elrisia’s household. Timov had taken enough time by now to digest it, and there was nothing else to do but tell Londo.

  Timov really hated politicking. It was all such a waste of energy.

  She found her husband in his study, as usual. Surprisingly he was not drunk – at least, he didn’t look drunk. He was working on various pap
ers, and muttering angrily under his breath. Timov slowly crept up behind him, making as little movement as she could. Londo really should learn to watch his ba…

  Londo spun around, holding a marrago sword. He stopped himself in time, but it was still held closely at her throat. She looked at him carefully.

  “You can put that away, Londo,” she said, manufacturing a tone of weariness, but secretly enjoying this. Annoying Londo was so much more fun than politics.

  “Bah! Timov, never do that again,” he spat.

  “Getting a little paranoid, are we? A little… nervous?”

  “No. Why should I be?”

  Timov thought about bringing up the matter a few weeks ago of the poisoned gas in his carriage, but she decided against it. That was not something she was supposed to know.

  “Oh, no reason. A real assassin would have struck from a distance, though, Londo. That… paperknife of yours would have been little defence.”

  “It is a marrago, wielded by one of the Cora Predo – the Proud Knives. It was given to me by my good friend – my good, dead friend, Urza Jaddo – when he became First Minister, Timov. Treat it with respect, the same respect you consistently fail to display to me.”

  Timov sighed. It was a large knife, that was all. Why did men set such store by lumps of metal? All that talk about honour and duty and duelling societies… all foolishness.

  “Did you come by for a reason, Timov? Or were you just planning on annoying me again?”

  “Well actually I did have some information that Emperor Marrit is going to announce his engagement to Lady Elrisia within a few days, but if you’d prefer that I kept it to myself… Why, Londo – are you all right? You look quite… upset.”

  “Upset!” he roared. “What is that idiot up to now?”

  “He is the Emperor you know. He deserves some respect, at least.”

  “Then what is His Idiotic Majesty up to now?! He cannot marry her. She is already married, for one thing.”

  “The Emperor can dissolve a marriage at any time, Londo. You should know that. You’ve threatened me with it often enough.”

  “It’s insane, is what it is.”

  “The Emperor is always right, Londo. Is that not so?”

  “That… is our tradition, yes. Ah, Great Maker! What have I done to deserve this?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Timov replied. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to call a doctor…?”

  “Quite sure, Timov. Now go away and leave me to contemplate this… insanity.”

  “Of course, Londo dear. It would be my pleasure.” Timov glided towards the door, slyly watching as Londo rose from his seat and made an immediate beeline for the drinks cabinet. Picking out a bottle of brivare, he poured himself a glass.

  “Oh, by the way, Londo,” Timov said. “I also received a message from the Royal Court. They would have told you, but I knew you were far too busy. Lady Morella will be coming here tomorrow. She wishes an audience with you. Londo? Are you sure you’re all right?”

  Londo dropped his drink.

  * * * * * * *

  Almost as long as he could remember, Boggs had wanted to serve Earth. It was the one thing he had to believe in. He certainly couldn’t believe in his mother – an enigma from birth. Not even a name to remember her by. Not that he ever wanted to. He couldn’t believe in his father, either. A failure, never achieving the dreams he wanted, and wallowing in his own self-pity for not trying. Boggs had lived a quiet childhood and, as soon as he was old enough, he joined Earthforce.

  He had joined as a Gropo – a Marine, a Ground Pounder. He had obeyed their rules, followed their advice, made all the right choices. He had something to believe in. He believed in Earth. He believed he was doing the right thing. He believed he could make a difference.

  And then had come the Minbari.

  He had fought them in a number of engagements in the early stages of the war, but none was very serious. Mostly it was a space war, with little ground combat. And mostly, Earth was getting its butt kicked, and hard.

  He had been stationed on Io when Earth had been destroyed. He couldn’t leave, as all available ships were being thrown up in a ring around Earth, and so he was left kicking his heels around the spaceport while every living thing on Earth was torn from existence.

  He had similarly missed the Battle of Mars. Humanity’s first colony had also been destroyed, but the Minbari had taken some damage, thanks mainly to the heroic – some said suicidal – actions of Captain John Sheridan. Boggs had idolised Sheridan. He was a hero. He fought and killed for Earth. He gave hope to humanity.

  Not enough hope, as it turned out.

  Io had fallen in a matter of hours, but the colony and spaceport had not been destroyed, but occupied. Why, he didn’t know. Who could fathom the Minbari out? He certainly didn’t know about the discovery of a Shadow vessel under the ground of Mars, or about a similar discovery on Ganymede, and he wouldn’t have cared if he had.

  He had fought a holding action in the occupied colony for months, giving ground where he had to, holding it where he could. There were a few of them, all the others Gropos like him. They had all died, only Boggs had managed to escape.

  He had made his way, in pain, in grief and in anger, to Orion, and from there to Proxima 3. His knowledge of the Minbari made him valuable to the Resistance Government, but his experiences on Io had made it impossible for him to fight again. He remembered their black robes, and their long metal sticks and their contemptuous, superior gazes… He remembered them all when he woke screaming in the middle of the night.

  No, Boggs couldn’t fight again, but there were other jobs, things he could do. None of them felt right. None of them was as important to him as being a Gropo, but at least in the Security Forces he could do something. Mr. Welles seemed to trust him, occasionally giving him important tasks.

  One such important task had been the breaking of Satai Delenn. Her resistance to Welles’ questioning and Miss Alexander’s telepathic scans had been too strong, and so Welles had wanted her… hurt a little. Not much, and certainly not fatally, but a little.

  He had enjoyed that, but he was always careful not to take it too far. Cutter had done little, and said little, but Boggs remembered every punch and every kick and every voice in his mind that screamed at him to kill her.

  And then Satai Delenn had escaped, mysteriously changed – twisted into some perverse semblance of humanity. And even worse… Captain Sheridan had helped her. Boggs had felt his dreams turn to ashes. No one was perfect. Not even a hero like Sheridan. Underneath, everyone was scum.

  He had a task to do now. It wasn’t important, and it wasn’t especially enjoyable. Cutter would have enjoyed this. Cutter would really have enjoyed this.

  But Cutter was dead, and so Boggs was doing this for him.

  He raised his fist and drove it hard into the woman’s stomach. She gasped and fell back against the wall. She was bruised and marked and scratched, and she lay there huddled, trying not to cry, trying simply to breathe.

  Sheridan had betrayed him and countless more like him. Sheridan was not here, but Lyta Alexander was. In a similar way, Lyta Alexander had betrayed him as well.

  She had been given sleeper drugs to restrain her telepathic powers. It surprised him. He had always seen telepaths in a strange light – half freaks of nature, half mystical gods. It was strange. All it took was a simple injection and they were just normal people. Just scum like everyone else.

  She tried to rise, but he kicked her feet out from under her. She fell hard.

  “Where…?” she breathed. “Where’s… Marcus?”

  Boggs knew about Marcus Cole. Another traitor. Just another traitor on top of so many others, selling out humanity.

  “I’ll tell you this,” he rasped. “He’s probably wishing he was where you are right now, that he is.”

  Lyta’s eyes widened. He was lying – he did not know where Marcus was – but without her powers, she could not sense much. Just a normal person.
Without her power, she was just a normal person.

  His next kick broke two ribs.

  * * * * * * *

  Marcus bowed his head. “Where is she?” he asked again. “Where is she?!”

  Susan Ivanova, Shadow agent, Ambassador, humanity’s last, best hope, and Marcus’ captor, simply smiled.

  And kissed him again.

  * * * * * * *

  Corwin walked back to the docking bays of the Babylon in a pensive mood. Very pensive.

  After his meeting with Garibaldi, he had wandered around the complex for a while. He had found himself surprised by the number of people there. Most were human, but many were Narns. Since somewhere like this could not remain secret for long with regular visitors coming in and out, they had to live here, which meant they worked for Bester. Scientists, perhaps, working to create Narn telepaths?

  He had been hoping for a meeting with Captain Ben Zayn, but he learned from Garibaldi that Ben Zayn and Harriman Gray had gone out on the Ozymandias. Garibaldi would not say why, and he had decided not to ask why a valuable P10 telepath was being sent out on a heavy destroyer class cruiser.

  And then he had been linked by Garibaldi. Bester wanted to see him and the Captain in three hours. He had cursed silently and then said they would be there. He just wished he could have more time to talk to the Captain. He hadn’t seen him in almost a day, but he doubted Sheridan would be in any mood for company. When the euphoria of battle ended, he was usually withdrawn and sullen. Combine that with the fact that he had recently killed his wife, and the Captain would not be in the mood for conversation.

  Anna had been given a simple funeral. Sheridan hadn’t attended, and hadn’t even mentioned her to Corwin, save for a curt, “Do what you think is best,” when Corwin had brought up the subject.

  Lieutenant Stephen Franklin was waiting for him in the docking bays, as he had requested. He greeted the lieutenant with a nod, and then went straight to business. “Did you see him?”

  “I tried, sir.”

  “And?”

  “He asked who I was, and when I told him he said nothing.”