* * *
Fear. It should not have been able to touch Morden. Not him. Not the man who had watched all those he loved die. Not the man who had died himself. Not the man who had pledged himself to the side of the Lords of Light.
But still, as he took those long, dark steps into the bowels of the earth deep beneath the Royal Palace, Morden felt fear.
He did not like this place. He had not liked it when he had been imprisoned here — twice — and he liked it even less now. The Inquisitors had taken over the dungeons for their own purposes. There were plenty of Shadow agents or spies or conspirators to be questioned and interrogated. Some were perfectly innocent of course, and were released. Some were not, and were not seen again.
Even those who had been freed were.... changed by the experience. Morden saw some of them from time to time, servants moving in the corridors of the palace, nobles meeting in the Court. Their eyes were always downcast, their voices hushed. They never laughed, never told jokes, never seemed to take pleasure in anything.
The Inquisitors were an evil, yes, but a necessary one. The Shadows had hidden for a thousand years after it had been thought they were defeated. Valen and his allies had stormed the gates of Z'ha'dum itself and put to flight all those they found there. Shadow worlds had been occupied, Shadow bases destroyed.
But still they had lived on, hiding, waiting. And those who followed them hid and waited also, moving in silence, keeping to their faith.
This time they had to be sure. There could be no room for doubt. None at all.
No, Morden did not like the Inquisitors. In an ideal world they would not be needed, but then this was very far from an ideal world.
But there was one even the Inquisitors feared. He held no rank — the Inquisitors did not seem to have ranks as such — but he was their leader, the one they all bowed to in acceptance. He had both age and experience, and a fanatical will. Something shone in his eyes.... not madness, not even zeal, but.... necessity.
Morden supposed he could have sent a courier or a servant to deliver this message, but he was the representative of the Vorlons. He was the liaison of the Inquisitors. He would do it himself.
He stopped at the door, the furthest, bottom-most one, naturally. Also the darkest, but strangely, the cleanest. There were no guards. What would be the point? Besides, there could have been Shadow agents amongst the guards anyway. Where better for them to hide?
He knocked at the door, firmly. He would not show this one his fear. There came a crisp, precisely accented, "Enter!" He opened the door and walked in.
"Mr. Morden," Sebastian said, not turning. "What manner of business brings you here?"
The Soul Hunter was hanging suspended by his wrists from a beam at the centre of the room. His eyes were closed, but the strange jewel in his forehead was glowing dully. Morden thought he saw his own reflection within it. Sebastian was not reflected there, obviously.
"We have found his ship," Morden replied. "It has not been boarded, as you ordered, and there are six guards on permanent duty. We have a further twenty-four in the surrounding area and access roads."
"Ah," Sebastian said. "Excellent. Double the number of guards. I will go and visit this ship shortly, but it must be done carefully. If the ship contains what I expect to find there, then we must be absolutely meticulous. Do you not agree?"
"Thoroughness is always important," Morden replied.
"Well said. I have need of a few more hours here, and then will visit this ship. Ensure no one, and I sincerely mean no one, enters the vessel. Anyone but myself who tries is to be executed instantly. Do you understand?"
"Perfectly."
"Good. Then go."
Morden bowed, and turned to leave. It took an awesome amount of willpower to resist the urge to sprint out of the room. In one last gesture of defiance he looked up at the Soul Hunter again. He had opened his eyes now, and there was a clear indication of fear there.
Shaking slightly, Morden left. No sounds came from that room. Not one.
* * *
Sometimes G'Kar felt he could just reach out his hand and touch the far side of the galaxy. He felt he could grasp stars in his hand and shut out suns with a thought. He could walk through time itself. There was no secret in creation that was not known to him, no mystery he could not unravel.
Waking came slowly, as always. This world and the next, the one of dream and memory, were growing nearer and nearer with every passing day. He could still hear the hum of the Great Machine in his mind, still regretted the passing of the power he had learned to wield so well.
He had always mistrusted those with power. The Centauri had had power over him and his people, and they had misused it. The Kha'Ri had power, and they used it to play their little games of intrigue and deception.
That, he supposed, was why he had sought power himself. His words had fired the hearts of his people. His speeches had spread thought and wonder wherever they were heard. He could have toppled continents with a word.
Who better to wield power than one who did not want it?
But now.... now he wanted it again. He dreamed of the Machine. He imagined he was there again, and all the years in between had been nothing but an illusion, a dream.
The war was over. The Shadows had gone. What place in this new galaxy for such as him? A leader of soldiers with no enemy to fight. A prophet of doom with no prophecies to utter.
He was not needed, and he knew it. He was not wanted. He was.... a difficulty, a problem.
An obstacle.
He brought his mind back to the discussion at hand. He was still a member of the Alliance Council after all. The number of meetings he attended was few these days, but this was important, and he had made an effort to be here.
Today they would finally choose a Commanding Officer for Babylon 5.
There had been a number of officers acting in that position during its construction and the early weeks. Some had acted with honour and dignity, others.... less so. But there was need for a permanent CO now, and there were a great many candidates. Each name was raised, and each name dismissed for one reason or another.
He ran the names through in his mind. Major Krantz, human, a capable enough officer, if uninspiring, but his ties to Bester still placed him under suspicion, even with Bester missing for all these years. G'Kar remembered his betrayal all too well.
Captain Tikopai, another human. She was competent and painstaking. She did not want the position, however. An underlying sense of cynicism and a daughter on Proxima 3 ensured that.
Carn Mollari, Centauri Lord-General. A fine leader, much admired by his soldiers, and of course highly connected in the byzantine corridors of the Centauri Government. But his race automatically excluded him from the position. The Kha'Ri would not stand for any Centauri in such a position, and nor would many of the other races.
Daro and Taan Churok and the other Drazi would all refuse the position, even in the unlikely event of them being offered it. G'Kar had heard tales of what was happening in the Drazi worlds since the Conflict. Any Drazi who took such a position within the Alliance would be an outcast at home.
The Kha'Ri, surprisingly enough, had not put forward any candidates. The statement given by G'Kael stated they did not feel they had any officers with appropriate experience. G'Kar, who could name at least three, was puzzled, but this was merely one more puzzle. The Kha'Ri had learned too much from the Centauri. Where once he would have understood their little games, and even controlled them to a certain extent, now he was reduced to merely standing by and watching.
Captain Corwin's name came up more than once. He was known to be the personal choice of General Sheridan, but he was not here. In fact no one knew where he was. He had not been seen in over a year. Some thought he was dead.
There were no Minbari candidates. The religious caste was too weak, the worker caste did not desire the role and the warrior caste was too much mistrusted. The spectres of the civil war and of Sinoval's disappearance hung heavy
over them all. The Minbari had not even formally appointed an Ambassador here yet. They had always been a private people, and for all the Grey Council's words of opening up their worlds, they were still apart from the other races.
The Vorlons, naturally, said nothing, did nothing, and did not seem to care anyway.
The other races put forward candidates. Llort, Abbai, Vree, Hyach, but none of them had a representative with the appropriate experience, or desire, or the support necessary. This was a highly political appointment, very high-profile. In many ways this person would be the public face of the Alliance.
Delenn was too busy of course, as was Sheridan, as was every other member of this body, even G'Kar himself.
There was one name left, and after countless hours of argument it always came back to him. His lobby was powerful, and his Ambassador carried a great deal of weight. His experience during the Shadow War spoke volumes, and his loyalty was beyond doubt. He had governed Babylon 5 for a few months during the construction and had performed flawlessly.
It was in many ways an obvious choice, if he wanted the post. Which was perhaps why it had taken so long for a final decision to be made.
"Do you want this position?" Delenn asked him finally. There had been many hours of debate, but in the end the Alliance Council was agreed.
"No," Captain Kulomani replied. "I do not, but if there is no one else, if this is how I may best serve the Alliance, if this.... if this is my fate....
"Then so be it. Do you all wish me to command Babylon Five?
"Then very well. I will be your Commander. I will serve as best as I can."
"That is all we ask," Delenn said, smiling. "That is all we ask."
G'Kar flicked a glance at the silent Vorlon in the corner of the room, its bone-white encounter suit seeming to absorb all the light that passed near it. A faint glow came from its eye stalk.
The Vorlon seemed not unpleased with the choice.
G'Kar shivered. It was not cold.
* * *
He was quiet, unusually so, even for him. It was strange. He did not seem angry, he did not seem anything at all. He sat in silence in his chair and stared into nothing.
He did not blink once during the entire journey.
If anyone in his crew wondered why they were returning to Babylon 5 without having found what they were looking for, none of them asked. If anyone wondered at the ease with which they were moving through hyperspace, finding their path back to the beacons, no one mentioned it aloud.
If anyone noticed anything.... different about their captain, none of them said a thing.
They merely carried on with their duties, but they moved a little more quietly than usual, a little more carefully, a little more precisely. They spoke in hushed voices, casting the occasional fearful glance in his direction.
He was different, and not in any way they liked.
General John Sheridan did not seem to notice the fear in the eyes of his crew. He did not seem to notice anything at all. In fact, he spent the whole journey back to Babylon 5 staring at the bridge of his ship.
But there were a few, those who had known him longest, people like Ko'Dath and G'Dan, who would swear blind he was not staring at nothing. They thought, in some way they could not truly express, that he was looking at something.
Something none of them could see, and something none of them would probably want to.
But no one spoke about it.
Not a single word.
* * *
He could have been sleeping. He could have been resting quietly in his bed, enjoying the peace that comes with old age.
But he was not sleeping. This was not his bed.
And he was most definitely not at peace.
As she did every night, Timov walked into the room slowly and with perfect elegance. In one hand she was carrying a glass of jhala, in the other a glowing light globe.
As she did every night, Timov set the globe on the table beside her husband's bed. Next to it, she placed the glass of jhala. If he did not wake up tonight, one of the servants or medics would come and remove it in the morning, and doubtless drink it themselves.
As she did every night, Timov settled herself into the chair next to the bed and took his cold, cold hands in hers. She looked up at the clock on the far side of the room, not at the harsh machines keeping her husband's body alive.
And as she did every night, she spoke the three words, not to her husband, not to a servant or a guard or a doctor. Not even to herself. They were spoken to a man she hardly knew, had seldom talked to and had not seen in over a year.
As she did every night, she looked into the shadows at the corner of the room, hoping, almost praying that there would be the slightest sign of movement there, the faintest trace. She could not see him, but she knew from experience that that did not mean he was not there.
"Where are you?"
As it had been every night, there was no reply, no twitch of the shadows, no hint of motion, no sound of breath.
There was nothing.
And as she did every night, Timov sat forward in her chair, holding her husband's cold, cold hands, and looking into her husband's still, cold face, and she waited for him to wake up. It would not do for him to wake up to a lonely and empty room.
And as she did every morning, she turned and left the room, with her husband's motionless body still there, still alive, still trapped, still silent, still not showing the slightest indication that she had been there.
But as she did every morning, she walked from the room with pride and determination that belied her lack of sleep. She was Timov, daughter of Alghul, wife of Emperor Mollari II.
And she had work to do.
* * *
The apartment seemed darker than usual as he entered. There seemed to be things moving in the corners, just on the edge of his perception. As soon as he looked directly at them, they were still.
He dropped his coat casually on the chair, stepped over the pile of yesterday's newspapers on the floor, looked at the even larger pile of paperwork on the desk and sighed, going over to the commscreen.
"You have two audio messages," it said, and he activated them.
"Dexter," came the first. "It's Bethany. I was just wondering if you wanted to have dinner some time next week. I got a bottle of wine today and it'd be a shame to drink it alone. Let me know."
He sighed. That was not something he wanted to consider just now. He played the second message.
"Greetings, brother." He froze. It was the voice of the.... thing they had captured. That was impossible. He checked the time of the message, and his eyes widened. More than two hours after it had.... died, or dissolved, or committed suicide or whatever. He played the rest of the message.
"We cannot be got rid of so easily. Think on what we have said, brother. It will be so much easier if you join us of your own free will. We are the fortunate ones. There are many worse places to be.
"Think on it for a moment, brother. We will be watching you."
The message ended, and Dexter slowly looked around at the shadows of his room, one by one. "I don't scare that easily," he said, lying.
He went to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of beer. Drinking it slowly and kicking off his shoes, he went over to the table and looked at the pile of paperwork there.
"Nope," he said. "A problem for another day." He set down the bottle and picked up the pack of playing cards hidden beneath the financial budget documents. There were all sorts of silly cards available these days, even ones with Sheridan as the King of Spades and Delenn as the Queen of Hearts and other nonsense. But these were simple, normal, traditional cards.
He began to shuffle them idly, cutting and reshuffling. "So," he said, to no one in particular. "Explain that dealer chip again?"
A handful of cards caught on his finger and fell to the table. Muttering angrily, he set down the rest of the pack and picked them up.
The King of Clubs. The King of Spades. The Eight of Clubs. The Eight o
f Spades.
"You have got to be kidding me," he said, as he picked up the fifth card.
The Jack of Diamonds.
Dead Man's Hand.
Sighing, he threw all the cards over his shoulder. He could pick them up tomorrow. Things would feel a little better tomorrow. He'd come up with a reply to Bethany's invitation, finish off his speech to the Senate on Section 31(3) of the Wartime Emergency Provisions, and not jump at things that weren't there.
Everything would be better tomorrow.
He went to bed.
* * *
He was surrounded by darkness and only darkness. He worked the forms as assiduously as he ever had when he was a student. He danced with unseen opponents, recognising their moves and countering them with his own. Stormbringer seemed to flow in his hands, as much a part of him as ever. He had heard legends of warriors whose blades changed to match them, becoming a part of their soul, even. Well, Stormbringer was a part of his soul. It had been forged as such — a mirror to the darkness within him.
"But less of a darkness now, hmm, brother?" Sinoval said. He stopped his dance, and inclined his head in a gesture of respect to his imaginary opponents. "You see, Sech Durhan," he said. "I have not forgotten your teachings."
He then sat down to meditate. He did not sleep any more, and it was surprising how much more time was available without the need for slumber. There were countless affairs that needed his attention, however, and all his time was still taken up twice over.
There was another lesson he had learned from Durhan all those years ago. Make time for rest. Make time for nothingness. Make time to clear thoughts and mind and remember in that time precisely who and what you are.
"I know who I am," he said to the darkness. "I know what I am. I am not afraid, not of myself, and not of my enemies." He breathed out slowly. He no longer needed to breathe these days either, but it was a refreshingly normal action.
He sensed her arrival a few moments before she entered. He had tried to warn her about entering his donjon, but naturally she did not listen. He was fortunate she had heeded his advice about not entering the Well of Souls itself.
A Dark, Distorted Mirror. Volume 5 : Among the Stars, like Giants. Part 1 : Learning How to Live addm-5 Page 16
