Текст книги "Темное, кривое зеркало. Том 3 : След на песке.(ЛП)"

Автор книги: Гарэт Д. Уильямс

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Текущая страница: 35 (всего у книги 38 страниц)

Chapter 2

It was almost ironic. She had been preparing for this moment for over thirteen years. During all that time she had imagined their darkness, their terror, their…. evil. Too many of her friends had given their lives in this cause: Lenonn, Draal, Neroon, Marcus….

And now that she was finally taking the war to the enemy, Delenn of Mir had never felt less ready for anything in her life.

Part of that had to do with the circumstances of this battle, which were less than ideal. The Drazi Government had been furious about the orders to hold and prepare and wait. They simply did not have the resources to defeat the Shadows themselves, but they had persisted in trying, and that only resulted in more deaths.

So the Alliance had had to force a showdown, to win some sort of victory, however small, just to prove it could be done. That meant utilising the greatest weapons they had; the Babylon, a ship modified by Shadow technology, and Lyta Alexander, the strongest telepath available.

Delenn had also insisted on coming herself. She was going to send people out to die for her after all. She needed to see it.

There were three Shadow ships. All three turned when the jump points opened. Delenn drew in a deep breath and waited for the battle to begin.

* * *

On another ship, a long way away, another person was sitting on the bridge, deep in thought. He had been preparing himself for this war for a long time, longer even than Delenn. Ever since he had been a young child he had dreamed of this moment. His war was nearly at an end, and then he could rest.

Warleader G'Sten of the Narn flagship Pride of the Kha'Rilooked around at the rest of his bridge crew. They all looked so young. They were probably older than he had been when he had begun this war against the Centauri.

They were nearly there. Centauri Prime, the dream he had been chasing for so long. He might have succeeded during the last war, but the attack on Gorash had been too bloody and had taken too much out of the fleet. G'Sten had never been more disappointed than when he had surveyed his fleet and realised they were not strong enough to go for the homeworld. He had turned his back and left, not wanting to see the planet and be unable to grasp it.

This time, this war, he was ready. Victory had followed victory, and he could total the number of worlds taken from the Centauri. It was a most pleasing figure. Gorash 7, Ragesh 3, Frallus 9…. And now Centauri Prime itself.

He was an old man now, and he could retire after this. He would have done his part for the future of his race. They would remember him, maybe even build a statue to him in G'Khamazad. He would like that.

"There's a message for you, Warleader," said his aide, and he looked up. "It's from the Kha'Ri."

"Come to congratulate us, eh?" he asked, smiling – but it was a false smile and false good humour. He had been delayed enough already in the course of this war. Without the unnecessary hesitations and hold-ups he could have taken Centauri Prime months ago. He would not let them deny him this chance again. He knew full well he would not get another one.

"Put them through," he continued. "Here."

"Warleader…. wouldn't you rather…. take it in private?" G'Sten frowned. The aide was new, brought in to replace his former assistant, G'Lorn. He had requested a chance to captain his own ship, and G'Sten had had to agree. He could not deny G'Lorn this chance for glory, a chance that would never come again.

"Anything they wish to say to me, they may say to my soldiers," he replied. The aide nodded, and began patching through the signal. G'Lorn would have known better than to ask that question. He had understood his Warleader well.

"Maybe I'm getting old," he muttered irritably to himself. There was no 'maybe' about it. He was old. He remembered when he had been in the Resistance, with old M'Sela. He had taunted the old man about going off to bed and leaving war to the younger men. He was now six years older than M'Sela had been when he had died, fighting six Imperial Guards at Na'Mirammar. Five of them had gone into death with him.

The viewscreen came on to reveal the face of H'Klo, one of the rising stars in the Kha'Ri. He was young, arrogant, and had actually served in the army, acting with distinction in the previous war. H'Klo had been decorated after Shi, he seemed to remember.

"What is your status, Warleader?" he asked.

"We will be at Centauri Prime by just after midday tomorrow," he replied. "Our probes are picking up details of their defences as we speak."

"Can you defeat them?"

"Yes," he replied simply. "It will in all likelihood be harder than we had anticipated. I think all available ships have been pulled from other postings to defend their homeworld. We outnumber them, though. I have confidence we will triumph."

"The people are expecting an easy victory," H'Klo warned.

"Then the people are fools!" G'Sten snapped back. "It would have been an easy victory six months ago. But I believe there has been a change in leadership among the Centauri. The positioning of their defences indicates that Marrago has regained influence and power. He is there."

"You are sure?"

"We have fought each other for over ten years, Councillor. I am sure."

"How does that change things?"

"Marrago has a habit of skilful escapes. This time however he has nowhere to escape to. I will defeat him."

"I have every confidence in you, Warleader. And…. for what it is worth, had I been able to, I would have ensured you were able to attack Centauri Prime six months ago. I assure you, Warleader, such bureaucratic delays will not happen again."

"I am glad to hear that," he replied. "But I assure you, Councillor. The war will end tomorrow."

"The entire people of Narn have faith in you, Warleader. H'Mari be with you."

G'Sten nodded, smiling slightly at H'Klo's choice of prophet. H'Mari had been a warrior in his day, several hundred years before G'Quan. Many soldiers had once adopted his worship, but it had fallen out of favour with the Occupation. It was good to see a resurgence in belief.

Or perhaps it was a bad omen.

Either way it spoke of the future, and the future he had always wanted for his people was but a day away.

* * *

There was something about a pub. Something warm and comforting, a place where someone could walk inside, leave behind all the cares and problems of life, and sit and be at peace, in company or not as the mood took them.

Whoever had written that particular homage had obviously never been inside the Pit Trap, but Dexter Smith, having examined all the other pubs in the area, had decided that it was the best place he had found. For one thing, the door wasn't boarded up and there were no 'Condemned' notices fixed to the wall, which was always a good sign.

He walked inside and was immediately struck by just how dark it was. Empty, too. There were only three other customers there and they were all seated alone. One of them was reading a newspaper from several months ago, while another was huddled shivering next to the heater.

The barman looked up, obviously surprised. "Uh…. my taxes are all paid up," he said. "And I'm a personal friend of Mr. Trace and Mr. Allan, so if you're after any…. trouble, then…."

Smith paused. "Is that the regional variant of 'We don't like strangers round 'ese parts'? I'm just here for a drink."

The barman sighed with relief. "Ah, well then. You're very welcome, sir. I was just…. er…. You can't be too careful in these troubled times."

"Troubled times?" he said, approaching the bar and taking a seat. "I thought things were going well."

"Oh, maybe for those that live up in the better sectors, maybe, but not much changes down here in three-o-one. So, what can I get you, stranger? Oh, where are my manners? Name's Bo."

"Dexter. Um…. what lager do you do? I don't see anything I recognise, but then it has been a while."

"Ah, we do the Pit Bull. A local drink, brewed not far away."

"Really? A bottle of that, then."

"Right you are. Where are you from, then? You don't look like you belong in three-o-one, no offence meant."

Smith took the bottle and sipped it slowly. As Bo had said, you couldn't be too careful, least of all with strange drinks. To his surprise, it wasn't too bad. "Ah, I've been away for the last couple of years. Business of a sort. I recently…. left my old job and decided to come back here."

"You came to three-o-one? That's a pretty unusual choice. Not that I mind, mind." He chuckled mirthlessly. "You know, you look a little familiar. Have I seen you before somewhere? Ah, probably have. Be forgetting my own head next."

"I used to live here, in three-o-one. When I was a child. Tell me, is the Emperor Bibulosstill open? It used to be around here somewhere. A Centauri theme pub. The landlord was a really old guy, grey hair."

"The Emperor? You have been away a long while. It was torn down in the Pit Riots of…. of…. ah when was it? The year after Orion fell, the same year my cat died…. Ah, well. You know when it was. The folks here were a little…. unhappy that winter, and a lot of blame went on the aliens. The Emperorwas a natural target, I guess, so they tore the place down, pretty much. Security restored order, in the end. They waited a bit, but then we're lucky they got here at all, is my way of looking at it. Fair few people up top like who didn't really care about us here in three-o-one."

Smith fell silent, looking at his drink. He'd never known that. Even when he heard about the Pit Riots, it had never sunk in. He had been serving on the Preacherfor a couple of years by that point, before the ship was destroyed at Orion. He'd been stuck in limbo afterwards, like so many Earthforce personnel. He had spent that winter in the barracks at Dome Seven, and news of the Pit Riots had gone straight past him. None of it had connected at all.

"I used to go in there when I was a child," he said. "For the warmth and the company, and to listen to the customers. They told the silliest stories…. I liked all the Centauri decor as well. At the time I thought it was like visiting another world." He shook his head. "Nothing lasts forever."

"Just what I say," added Bo. "You can't take it with you, so why not make the best of it while you can?" There was the sound of the door opening. Smith didn't notice it; he was still staring into his drink, lost in a world twenty years gone. Bo certainly did, though.

"Nelson, my friend. A pleasure to see you again. Your usual, is it? On the house, of course." Bo disappeared behind the bar.

Smith felt the weight of a hand on his shoulder and turned round. A man was there, tall and well-dressed. Next to Smith himself he was probably the best-dressed person in the whole sector. It was a fairly old-fashioned suit, but it was clearly chosen to accentuate his sense of menace. He didn't need it. He looked quite menacing enough as it was.

"A new customer," he said jovially. "How about that, Bo? Your advertising must have worked. Where did you come from, stranger?"

"Here and there," came the reply. Smith found he really did not like this person.

"A comedian. We could do with some entertainment in here. The most we normally get is throwing small change at Jinxo over here and watching him scramble around trying to pick it up. Bo, are you fermenting that drink yourself?"

"Coming right up, Mr. Nelson sir," came the reply from the back of the bar.

Nelson chuckled. "That's our Bo, all right. A decent enough sort, but he ain't exactly the fastest barman this side of the Proxima Hilton. Now, stranger, your name, if you don't mind?"

"Dexter. And you are?"

Another laugh. "Very funny. You mean you don't know me?" Smith shook his head. "I'm Nelson Drake. I work for Mr. Trace. You'll have heard of him, of course."

"I can't say I have."

Nelson reached out and grabbed the lapel of Smith's shirt, pulling him up from the chair. "Listen to me, you worthless lump of garbage," he hissed. "Trace owns this sector, and if you want to live a long and happy life here, you'll remember that. Cross me or Mr. Trace, and your life will be anything but long and happy." He pushed Smith back into his chair and smoothed his shirt.

"That's free advice I'm giving you. Think of it as an introductory offer." Bo slowly raised his head from behind the bar, and handed over a small glass containing a drink that seemed to be glowing. Nelson took it from him, never lifting his eyes from Smith, and drained it in one go. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he handed the empty glass back to Bo.

"You know," Nelson said, "I'm sure I've seen you before. Any idea why that could be, smart man?"

"Couldn't say."

"No, I guess you couldn't. Well, I'd better be off. Places to go, people to see, you know how it is." He shifted his gaze to the barman. "See you tonight, Bo. Me and Mr. Trace and the others are looking forward to your hospitality, same as always."

He turned and left the pub.

Smith waited until he was gone, and then looked back at Bo. There were times when he just got strange hunches, mysterious ideas he couldn't explain properly. He had one of them now. "Who was that?" he asked.

"Oh…. that's Nelson Drake. He's a…. bodyguard of some sort for Mr. Trace."

"And this Trace is…?"

"A good man. Oh yes, a really fine man. He really cares for us here in three-o-one. He looks after us, makes sure no one's causing any trouble…. you…. you know how it is."

"Protection rackets." Smith sighed. "Why don't Security do anything?"

"Security? Hah…. They don't care about us here. Mr. Trace…. he…. he cares. He looks out for us."

"Based on what I've just seen, I don't think I'd want to be looked after by people like him. I think it's time to take a trip to see someone. Which way is it to the local Security Headquarters?"

* * *

The Shadow ship stopped dead in space, paralysed and helpless, held there as if by a giant hand from heaven.

"Now!" roared Corwin. "Hit it!"

Forward cannons blazed into life and rammed into the body of the vessel. It trembled slightly.

The other two ships bore down on the Babylon, seeking to free their companion. A Drazi Sunhawk darted forward, striking at the nearest of the ships. The Sunhawk's blows slid off the black, living surface, but the ship turned, momentarily distracted.

Brakiri ships moved forward, the telepaths on board straining to hold back the Shadows. The remaining ship bearing down on the Babylonstopped, struggling to move forward. The other ship turned and fired, and the Brakiri ship died in a silent explosion.

The forward cannons on the Babylonstopped their assault on the trapped vessel. It collapsed and disintegrated before their eyes, dead.

The Babylonturned and moved to protect its allies.

* * *

Valen had walked into darkness many times. Kozorr knew most of the tales about Valen, but the one he kept thinking of was the descent into the pit at Z'ha'dum, to rescue Derannimer and confront the traitor, Parlonn.

Had he known fear as he walked alone into the darkness? He must have done. Above him there was fire and bloodshed, as the Vorlons and the Minbari fleet led by Marrain attacked the Shadows' homeworld. It had been one of the last battles of the Shadow War.

Kozorr didn't like to think about how it had ended. Derannimer had been saved, Parlonn defeated, but the cost…. had been so high.

He had not spent much time in Cathedral. The place…. unnerved him in some way. He had been content to lead from the Valentha, or from the other capital ships. Cathedral had always seemed a dark place, more like a stronghold of the Enemy than a focus of leadership for the Minbari. Sinoval was happy there, but then he had been bewitched by the Shagh Toth.

Kozorr had not actually seen many of them in his journey down into the bowels of Cathedral. Those he had seen had been further up, in the towers and turrets and vast, measureless halls. He supposed the engines must be down here somewhere, but something else would be here as well.

The corridor was getting smaller and narrower. He was having to duck to get through it, but he was certain this was the way. There were lights embedded in the walls, so he could see. Small globes. He thought he could hear soft whispers of conversation from them.

Finally the corridor ended at a door. It was vast, much larger than the corridor had been. Puzzled, he turned round, and saw an impossibly wide and tall hall stretching back into darkness. He had just come down there…. it had not been so huge before.

Who comes? asked a voice from nowhere. W ho seeks answers in the Well of Souls?

The Well of Souls. This was the right place then. According to Sonovar's alien allies, Valen had once come here, a thousand years ago. That story had not been known to Kozorr, or indeed to any Minbari. The Tak'cha claimed to have been there however.

They had also told him what to say to gain admittance.

"I am one who comes in the memory of Valen's bargain, and in acceptance of his sacrifice."

There was a moment's silence, and then in an instant every light around him went out, leaving him in utter darkness. He did not show any surprise or fear, although he felt both. He was a Minbari warrior, after all. Valen had come to his place and gained entry. He would do no less.

You may enter, Child of Valen, Child of Twilight, Child of Fire. Enter, but leave behind that which is required, in acceptance of his sacrifice.

He knew what that meant. In all honesty he had no intention of leaving anything behind, but the gift that was necessary had been brought with him, just in case. The Tak'cha had advised him that forgetting it would not be a good idea.

The door did not open. There did not seem to be any hinges, or any mechanism for opening. It was simply that one minute it was there, and the next minute it wasn't. Breathing deeply, Kozorr crossed the threshold and stepped into the Well of Souls.

All the breath left his body at his first sight of that ancient place. He could not feel anything, smell anything, hear anything. It was as if all his normal senses had shut down, and new ones had sprung up in their place.

There was one thing he did know, one thing he had learned from the Tak'cha. This was a place where the dead did not rest. It was a place where they lived.

It was a vast chamber, impossibly vast, larger than the Temple of Varenni which housed the Starfire Wheel, larger even it seemed than the library at Yedor, or the Temple of Remembrance at Tuzanor.

It seemed to be made out of stone, but a type he had never seen before. Dotted everywhere in the walls were tiny specks of light. There were millions of them. Each one, he knew, was a captured soul. He also knew that they were speaking somehow, although not by words or sounds or telepathy…. but by…. something else.

He walked forward, lost in a dream. He dared to look up, and found himself staring into space. The stars were above him, but none he recognised. No constellations he knew could be seen, nothing familiar. Were they even stars, or just more souls?

He was snapped back to something resembling reality when he found himself in front of a small shrine. It was a pathetically humble thing, but he knew what it represented, what made it one of the holiest places in Minbari history.

A small altar of stone, marked by two words, and a small white flower, perfectly preserved despite the hundreds of years it had been there. Valen himself had laid it there, speaking the words that were now marked on the shrine. He had come here to this very spot, a thousand years before. The histories did not speak of that moment at all, and of those who knew of it – the Shagh Toth themselves, the Tak'cha – none of them would say why.

He pulled the small flower from his belt. The offering to this place. Struck dumb by the sheer majesty of his surroundings, Kozorr laid the flower on the altar, next to Valen's.

The offering has been made, said the voice. S eek your wisdom.

"Who are you?" he asked, tentatively.

We are Cathedral. We are the Hunters, the Preservers, the Past and the Future. We are Cathedral.

"How long…? How old…?"

Since before time had meaning. When there was but one race born of the galaxy, created in the shifting sands and timeless seas. Since the creation of death itself, we have been here.

"You have always been here?"

Always has no meaning for us.

"What do you know?" he asked, another idea suddenly coming to him. "Can you answer my questions?" This was not why he had come here, but then he had never believed he would see this place. He had never believed….

We know every answer to every riddle that has ever been asked since the galaxy was born. Every question, save one.

"Will she ever love me?"

There was no answer. The pricks of light seemed to be mocking him with their very presence.

"Answer me. Will she ever love me?"

Leave this place, traitor knight. That question is not for us to answer, or for you to know.

"Damn you. Damn you all!" He drew his pike and extended it, the full memory of why he had come returning to him.

He had come here to destroy this place, to destroy the Well of Souls and every soul trapped within it and this whole ship of fools.

And then Sinoval would be free of their enchantments, and Kats would be free to love him.

And he would be damned.

* * *

The Centauri were by nature a race inclined to gossip. Rumour and innuendo were meat and drink to the nobles of the Court, and it was a foolish courtier indeed who did not pay attention to whispers and suspicions. Most of them even had their own private networks of 'eyes and ears' to provide them with information.

Accurate information had been very scarce in the months since the massacre in the Court and the ascension of Emperor Mollari. It was known that he had been in rebellion against his Government for many months beforehand, had been wanted – falsely, as it was now believed – for the assassination of Emperor Refa, and had been believed dead for over a year before that.

It was known that he had a small group of trusted advisors and councillors. Foremost amongst these was Lord-General Marrago, which was no surprise to anyone who remembered that the two had been good friends many years before. Minister Durano was also a trusted aide, as his skill, intellect and – most valuable of all – discretion were well known. He was too valuable an ally for anyone to ignore. Minister Virini was understood to be respected by the Emperor, in spite of his reputation for clumsiness and general uselessness. Vir Cotto was frequently seen in negotiations with the Emperor, as were certain lower class individuals from Selini.

After that, matters became a little vague. Some believed that the Emperor took counsel not only from his near-invisible Minbari bodyguard, but from his wife Timov as well. This was patently absurd, as no Emperor would ever give a woman such a position of authority, but the rumours persisted.

About one person however, all the rumours were silent. Despite his very public assistance in saving the Emperor from an assassination attempt, and his frequent presence at Court, Mr. Morden had managed to pass virtually unnoticed by the cream of Centauri society. Everyone seemed just to…. forget he was there, and if reminded they replied with something like, "Oh yes, that human fellow," and then absently changed the subject.

The true extent of the influence wielded by Mr. Morden was known to absolutely no one.

"Have you had a chance to consider my offer, Majesty?" he asked.

Londo looked harassed and tired. Unsurprising, as he had hardly slept in days. The Narns were coming. They could be driven off and Centauri Prime saved, but at a truly terrible cost. More bloodshed, more death, and could it be avoided?

Had there been another way? Could he have acted sooner, done a little more? Done anything that could have averted this battle?

"Mr. Morden," he said slowly. "I have spoken with my advisors. Some argue to accept your offer, some to refuse, others to wait. Their arguments are all valid. We cannot go to races on bended knees, binding ourselves to agreements that may cripple us later. We should be wary of accepting offers from races we hardly know. Can we trust you? Do we even need your help?

"I have heard them all, Mr. Morden, and there was not one word spoken in that chamber that I disagreed with."

Morden began to speak, but Londo raised his hand and the human fell silent.

"But today, I wandered around the barracks of the soldiers who will be defending this world from the Narns. I spoke with the captains of the ships in orbit above us now. I even visited some of their families.

"Mr. Morden, if your allies can help save the lives of my people, then yes, I accept your offer."

Londo noticed the slightly guilty look on the human's face.

"I'm very glad to hear that, Majesty, but I'm afraid matters are a little more complicated than I had first believed. You know, of course of the race called the Shadows?" Londo nodded, a puzzled expression spreading across his face. "The Vorlons have opposed the Shadows for centuries, trying to destroy their evil. Somehow, the Shadows have influenced people here…. these Shadow Criers are touched by the Darkness."

"Yes, we had guessed this. Some sort of psychic influence, we supposed."

"Indeed. Your people are highly susceptible to certain telepathic impressions. Your Seeresses for example…. but I am digressing. I have discovered recently that their influence reaches higher than we had thought. Someone in this Court has been communicating with Z'ha'dum."

"What? Are you accusing…?"

"I am merely saying what we know to be true," he interrupted. "My associates are reluctant to come to the aid of people who may be working with the Enemy. You can…. understand their doubts, of course."

"Of course, but…. Mr. Morden, are you telling me the Vorlons will not come to our aid when the Narns attack?"

"I am afraid my associates will only aid you if you purge this evil from your Government, Majesty. If you can find this…. infiltrator before the Narns arrive, then…."

"We have hours at most, Mr. Morden."

"I am sorry, Majesty. I merely relay my instructions from my associates."

"I will find this…. Shadow agent, Mr. Morden, and I will purge him, as you put it, but for every Centauri life laid down to protect our homeworld I will hold your masters to account. We share the same enemy, and when I find their agent I will take action, but for our sake, not yours.

"Good day, Mr. Morden," he hissed. The Emperor turned and stormed from the room.

The Narn fleets were getting closer.

* * *

The Sunhawk exploded in one terrifying instant of destruction as its telepath failed, allowing the Shadow ship to fire. Its supporting ships fell back before the onslaught, but the Babylonkept moving forward. On board, Lyta Alexander strained to hold them still.

The Babylonfired broadsides at the nearest ship. The single remaining Brakiri warship concentrated its fire on the same area, and one of the Shadow vessel's spidery limbs was blown away. The ship screamed in pain and loss, and everyone on board the Babylonbriefly heard their ship scream too, as if in sympathy for the pain it was meting out.

The second ship swooped down to aid its wounded comrade, but Sunhawks dived in to block it, raining ineffectual blows upon its skin, seeking only to force it backwards, away from its brother ship.

The Babylonand the Brakiri continued their barrage of blows, striking at limbs and body. The trapped ship was screaming as it withered before the attack. It began to spin aimlessly, its limbs severed.

The second ship swatted aside the irritating insects that were the Drazi and tried to free its brother, but it was too late. The wounded ship was torn apart, too badly damaged to survive.

The remaining ship rose briefly above the Babylon. Lyta tried to reach out with her mind to trap it, but she was too drained. It was all she could do to remain standing.

The ship spoke in her mind, and a brilliant light filled her soul. She collapsed unconscious.

The Shadow ship shimmered into hyperspace and disappeared.

"I think we did it," muttered Corwin, looking up from his instruments and turning towards the shivering Lyta.

"Yes," said Delenn softly, cradling her friend's head gently. Lyta's eyes were rolled up into her head, and soft tears of blood were trickling down her face. "Yes, we did it…. but at what cost, Commander Corwin?"

He could not answer. In his mind's eye he could see the destroyed ships and the bodies of the dead, and he just could not answer.

* * *

The post of Security Chief for Sector 301 in the Main Dome of Proxima 3 was generally regarded as being a career death sentence. The task was impossible, and everyone knew it. The only security officers assigned there were the corrupt, the embarrassing or the terminally inept. Crime was so ingrained into the whole area that trying to fight it was as futile as trying to hold back the sun. It was widely speculated that two-thirds of the force was corrupt.

It was not that the Government in Main Dome hadn't tried. During the early 2240s two of the youngest, keenest and best Security officers were posted as Chiefs of Sector 301 to sort the area out, clean it up and purge corruption in the security forces. One was assassinated three weeks into the post, the other was shot and killed during a routine operation when her PPG inexplicably failed. It was discovered later that the weapons issued to the security forces in 301 were of sub-standard, inferior quality, the better weapons having been sold to the mob bosses by corrupt quartermasters.

Main Dome had been determined to keep on trying, but then the war had come, and suddenly Sector 301 wasn't very important any more. It became much more important after the fall of Orion, when the bulk of the refugees swarming to Proxima from Orion and the rest of the devastated Belt Alliance settled there. A few months after that the area was thick with the starving, the sick and the dying, and any hope of redeeming the sector had evaporated.

The early years of the Clark regime had seen some hope for the renovation of the area, but these had faded once it became clear that the new President had his eye on wider fields than his own back yard.