Текст книги "Темное, кривое зеркало. Том 5 : Средь звезд, подобно гигантам.(ЛП)"
Автор книги: Гарэт Д. Уильямс
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Текущая страница: 27 (всего у книги 78 страниц)
Talia kissed him harder and he marvelled at the thoughts in his mind. He could feel her passion, her determination, her love for her people and her conviction that what she was doing was right. He could feel the lessening of her sense of fear, her knowledge of the vast forces arrayed against them and her joy in knowing she had one ally, however insignificant.
Not that she thought he was insignificant.
I can feel you as well,she thought in his mind.
Is this what it is always like?he thought back.
No,she replied, and he caught the mental image of a sad, satisfied smile. I wish it were. Her hands curled around his back.
He could see her childhood, her daughter, old friends long since dead. Her entire life was laid open to him, and he felt his open to her. For a moment he felt a pang of anguish at that, that she could see all his secrets, all his shames, that one moment of a life ending behind a pair of green eyes.
And then he felt it, at the back of her mind. She was trying to hide it from him, but it was there.
Guilt. A tiny pang of guilt.
He pulled back, shaking. She tried to hold on to him, but he slid away from her embrace. Breathing harshly, he stepped off the bed and fell against the far wall.
"What?" she breathed. "Dexter, what...?"
"I'm sorry," he whispered, closing his eyes. He could not feel her any more. Her mind was closed to him. "I can't do this. You're married."
"I.... Dexter...."
"No.... Please don't." He sank down to a sitting position, his head in his hands. "My head feels awful. I think we drank too much."
She sat up, and he could hear her starting to button up her top. "Dexter...." She stopped, as if she had nothing else to add.
"You love him," he said, after a while. "The two of you have a daughter, and you love him." He looked up, staring at her. "You do love him, don't you?"
Tears welling in her eyes, she nodded. "Do you...." She hesitated. "Is it wrong for one woman to love two men at the same time?"
"No more than for one man and two women. Damn! I wish I'd got to you first." He stood up. "I do want to, Talia. You know that. You know how much you mean to me. I've been thinking about you ever since...." He breathed out slowly. "We'd both regret this."
She fell back on to the bed, exasperated, or perhaps just to hide her tears. "I really didn't think men like you existed any more."
"Maybe I'm just a fool. You have the bed. I'll sleep on the couch. We can talk in the morning."
"In the morning," she replied.
He scooped up his shirt from where it had been discarded on the floor and noticed the rip in his collar. Sighing, he walked from the room, his head pounding.
"Good night, Dexter," she called to him.
"Good night," he replied.
* * *
As he walked back to his quarters in the shabby, dirty ship that was now his entire fleet, Jorah Marrago was surprised to find his mind filled with tactics and planning. It was a good feeling, one he had missed.
For the last year, ever since he had joined forces with Sinoval, his mind had been on strategy, long-term goals and aims, thinking years in advance. That was depressing, a constant reminder of the future, speculation about a time he might not live to see.
But tactics, that was different. Creating a battle in his mind, the positioning, the opening movements, the hidden feints. In a strange, bizarre way it was almost beautiful – a game, a creation of skill, pitting general against general, battle-master against battle-master.
Only later would the true cost become clear. Only after the battle could one look around at the bodies of the dead, the mutilations of the injured and the anguished faces of the bereaved. Marrago remembered that. He always tried to remember the true cost of battle, but try as he might, he could not banish that sense of.... joy he felt at a grand plan coming together.
And this was a challenge. His army was a mish-mash of different peoples and races and personalities who would all rather be fighting each other. The true military might of this attack was a race of whose capacities and strength he had not the slightest conception. He was attacking the homeworld of one of the most technologically advanced races in civilised space, however socially self-destructive they might be.
Besides, by the Purple Throne, it felt good to be doing something at last.
Dasouri was waiting outside his door. He nodded his head.
"Is it true, General?" he asked.
Marrago did not have to ask what he was referring to. "Yes," he replied. "We're going to war."
Dasouri nodded, no trace of surprise or joy or fear or indeed any other emotion on his perfectly equable face. "Where?"
"Centauri Prime." Marrago was pleased with himself for the entirely flat way he said those two words.
Dasouri nodded again, still showing no emotion. "I will tell the others. They will be prepared."
Marrago watched the Drazi depart, wondering, not for the first time, what brought him here. Each and every one of those who followed him – or any captain in the Brotherhood – had their story. They each had their reasons. They were the people who had slipped through the net the Alliance had cast over the galaxy. They were the people who were not seen, not noticed, not missed.
They were the people for whom there was no place in the galaxy but the one they made themselves.
Thinking darkly about that, but still bolstered by his plans and schemes, Marrago opened the door to his chambers. He nodded absently to Senna, sitting calmly on her chair, and drifted over to his books. He had been able to bring a few with him into exile, and he had obtained a few more since. One of the many advantages of having a Thrakallan crimelord indebted to him.
"How could you?" Senna whispered.
He looked up at her, and saw for the first time the expression on her face, a combination of horror and disgust.
"How could I what?"
"You swore to defend the Purple Throne. You swore to defend Centauri Prime. You swore...."
"Shut up!" he shouted, his good mood evaporating instantly. "You were listening at the door!"
"How else am I to find out what is happening? You keep me locked up in here, you never allow me to leave. I am just as much your prisoner as I was.... his! And now you are going to lead an attack on our homeworld!"
"You do not understand," he said angrily.
"No," she rasped. "I don't. Why save me, and lead those.... monsters to do to others what was done to me? Why would you attack your own people, your own Emperor?"
"My Emperor cast me out!" he cried, stepping forward. She cowered back on her chair. "I spent my entire life in service to that Throne, and where did it get me? My daughter is dead, and I am now an exile. I am a lord of the Centauri Republic and I am forced to live with bandits and brigands and peasants!
"I have no people, and I have no home and I have no Emperor!"
Shaking, she rose slowly to her feet. She stared at him, fear evident in every part of her body but her eyes. They were filled with contempt and disgust, and he saw his own self-hatred staring back at him.
When she spoke, it was slowly and deliberately, with a determination that belied her years. "You are every bit as much a monster as they are," she said calmly.
He did not know why he did what he did, only that his body acted before his mind could prevent it. He struck out with all the force he could muster, a blow honed in a youth of bar fights and an adulthood of battlefields. He struck her squarely on her chin and felt the satisfying force on his fist as she crumpled beneath him. She fell back on to the chair and it gave way, shattering under the impact. She fell to the floor and looked up at him, shaking, tears glistening in her soft eyes.
Lyndisty would have struck back at him if he had done that to her.
But he had never hit Lyndisty.
Senna looked at him, as if expecting him to do more. Her hand slid over her breast, covering her hearts as she tried to breathe. Finally, unable to look at him any longer, she pulled herself up and half-ran, half-crawled away from the room, scurrying to her private quarters, slamming the door behind her.
Marrago realised he was shaking. He was turning to the cabinet to pour himself a glass of jhala when he realised Sinoval was standing directly in front of him.
He stepped back, his hearts pounding. "Please," he said, breathing hard. "A little warning next time."
"We have no time for warnings," Sinoval replied, his eyes dark. "We have no time for waiting or planning or preparing, not any longer. I am having to activate all my players at once, and hope that one or two of them are triumphant."
Marrago stepped back again, and moved quickly to the cabinet. His hands were shaking as he poured the jhala. "Don't judge me," he said, harshly. "Don't you dare judge me."
"I would not presume to," Sinoval replied. "I have done worse myself, and if that is the worst sin committed by any of those who follow me then I will find myself at the head of an army of saints. You will have to judge yourself, though.... in time."
"I know," Marrago whispered. "Gods, I never thought I would.... I never hit Lyndisty, not once. Nor Drusilla. I've never hit a woman, much less a girl, and now....
"Sometimes I think I want to stop this road you have dragged me on to. I do not like what it is making me become."
"I did not drag you anywhere, and the road is not changing you. You are changing yourself. In any event, that is not why I am here. The plan is going to have to change."
"Everything's going as it should. These.... Tuchanq are a new addition. Someone's pulling their strings, and I think I know who, but nothing else has changed. I'm still the best and most experienced general here. If anything, this is only accelerating matters. I'll lead this raid of theirs, and we'll win. It won't be easy, but I've exaggerated a few things for their benefit. We'll win, and burn half of Centauri Prime to the ground, and everyone here will know it was thanks to me. I'll be leader of them all by the end of the year.... at least, leader of those I don't have to kill.
"And then you'll have the nucleus of your army."
"Is this the army you think you can take to war for me? Are these the soldiers you want to lead?"
"No, but they're what we have, and that will have to be enough. They have no place in this world any more. Peace? What good is that? They're all creatures of war and chaos and they haven't known enough of the blessings of peace to appreciate it. They're natural warriors, and they'll be the best soldiers we can get. Trust me on this."
"I do, but as I said.... we will have to move more quickly. The.... Enemy is pursuing me, and they are closer than I would like to think. Some of my little spiders are going to fall. Everything will come out into the open sooner than either side will like, and we will have to be ready when it does.
"We are going to have to accelerate matters regarding this army of yours."
Marrago took a long sip. "What did you have in mind?"
"When you arrive at Centauri Prime, I will be there waiting."
Sinoval's dark eyes blazed.
"And so will the Alliance."
* * *
There was no fear. Vejar honestly could not remember what fear felt like any more. He tried to think back to the Drakh, and their brutal, callous invasion of Kazomi 7, but he could remember nothing. Everything was cold and calm, as if those who had died or been mutilated and scarred had been nothing but illusions.
His power had always come from the imagination, and now he could imagine nothing.
We need to find someone, cousin, and we think you know where she might be.
He could not do this in ghost form, not as a spirit. This would have to be real. Nevertheless, he could walk through the wide corridors cloaked in mirrors. Anyone who looked at him would see a lowly cleaner, and surveillance would not see him at all.
It had been a very long time since he had left his underground sanctum and he was surprised by what the years had done to the Neuadd. He had seen it in his astral wanderings many times, but that was different from seeing it for real. He could not pretend this was an illusion or a dream. This was reality.
The building was practically empty. He had seen only three people in the four floors he had traversed thus far. Security checkpoints were unmanned. He doubted there were enough security officers left in the building to man them all. Or even left on the planet, come to that.
Who is this person?
He remembered the day he had named this building. Neuadd. An ancient word, from an ancient and beautiful Earth language. It meant so many things, but so few people understood them.
I think you know her name, cousin.
He moved up another flight of stairs, his muscles burning with the unaccustomed exercise. He could not risk the elevators. Any one of a number of things might go wrong.
So how do I find her?
He could feel the tingle on his skin that spoke of the magic Galen was performing elsewhere in the city. Illusionary Drakh or Shadows, or even dragons if he had been listening to Alwyn too much lately. Anything that would draw attention away from this building. Not the guards, for they were next to nothing and there were hardly any here anyway.
She will be in the network somewhere. You can access it from the Vorlon's quarters, if you need to. We need to find her.
He moved up even further. Another couple of floors and he was near the top of the building. The Vorlon, Ambassador Ulkesh, had take over the top three floors when he had arrived here. He had remained, despite all the other Ambassadors relocating to Babylon 5. They had all kept offices here, a skeleton staff for the sake of appearance and tradition and respect for the memory of Kazomi 7, but for the most part it was an empty gesture. Ulkesh was the only one actually to remain here.
So why me? Why not do this yourself?
Vejar reached the doors to the Vorlon's chambers. They were unguarded, of course. Usually anyone penetrating so far up the Neuadd would have passed several stringent security checks. It didn't matter, anyway. No one would be stupid enough to try to break into a Vorlon's private rooms.
He breathed out slowly and reached for the door. Light formed around his hand.
You have been here for years, cousin. Do not try to tell me you have not identified the Vorlon's wards. Do not try to tell me you have not learned how to bypass his security. Do not try to tell me you cannot pierce his veil and enter his chambers. I would be caught. You may escape.
The door remained closed, but Vejar, who could see things that others could not, breathed a slow sigh of relief and passed through it as if it were no more than a reflection.
Once inside he knew he had to act quickly. The Vorlon's attention would be distracted by Galen's light show, but time would be limited. Fortunately there was no need for a scrying spell or a search incantation. He could feel her pain, feel the light and the screams and the rush of power and energy and knowledge that encompassed the network. He could feel it slightly even on the other side of the wards, but here....
The difference was as between looking at a picture of a waterfall and standing beneath it.
He headed quickly in the direction of the network, dropping his disguise. There was no point maintaining it here. If the Vorlon caught him, it really would not matter.
He entered the room and stopped. There it was, Kazomi 7's node of the network. A greater node, funnelling the power and authority of the Vorlons from here to all the Dark Starships in orbit or in the area, and to any one of hundreds of other places. Just one of countless millions of links including Babylon 5, Centauri Prime, Proxima 3 and worlds unnoticed and unnamed by humanity.
You truly expect me to succeed in this? You truly expect me to find her?
He looked up at the still, silent form of Lyta Alexander. Bonded to the wall by the growth of greenery around her body, crucified on a giant, monstrous cross. Veins and tendrils and nerve sheaths ran from her mouth, her eyes, her heart, all over her body. Her eyes were open, and he could see within them the awareness that lurked there. She was conscious, aware of what was being done to her.
I have faith in you, cousin.
Vejar tried to force himself to care. He did not know her. She meant nothing to him. She was just one of billions who had suffered at the hands of the Vorlons. What made her special? What made her so deserving as to merit his being sent on this mission?
And if the Vorlon catches me?
He raised his hand, now glowing with red light, tiny bolts of electricity shooting from it.
Why are you always so negative, cousin? Think of the good that will come from this when you succeed.
He took a step forward.
Ulkesh glided into view.
I am, Galen. I am thinking that the Vorlon might find me....
Ulkesh's eye blazed bright red.
.... and that he might just kill me.
* * *
There is nothing the Dark Masters send us that is not a challenge. Through adversity there is strength. Through defeat there is experience. Through experience there is understanding. Through understanding there is strength.
I fulfill their will. I bring blessed chaos to the galaxy. I rain death upon the weak and the complacent. I bring fear and pain to those who do not understand. The weak will be defeated and die in misery. The strong will learn and grow and become stronger.
They will evolve.
I will evolve. The Dark Masters have sent me a challenge in this Marrago. The others here are nothing, chattels and fools. They will break before the onslaught, but he....
He is my challenge. Through him I shall become stronger. We shall make each other stronger. We shall war upon each other. There is no growth in fighting the weak. Those whom I do not destroy I shall make stronger, but they shall not make me stronger. The weak are no challenge.
Marrago will be a challenge.
My Warriors think he looks like a Master, and he does.
My Warriors think he acts as a Master, and he does.
My Warriors fear him.
Thank you for sending him to me, Masters. I understand now. He is the gateway to my destiny. He is the next step on my road of evolution. He may break me, or I may break him, but, should we both be worthy, both of us will become stronger.
I do not fear – not death, not weakness, not failure.
I must test him and prove his strength and his lack of fear.
I must bring him back to me as an enemy.
Moreil opened his eyes and looked up at the Wykhheran. They stood around him, still and statuesque, awaiting his command. Legends of his people said that the Masters had carved the Wykhheran from the heart of the Holy World and given them life through the heat of the forges at Thrakandar. Moreil could well believe it.
He looked at the biggest, and spoke to it. It stirred, opening its great eyes, the light there filled with devotion and service.
Warrior, do you love me?
Yes, lord.
Warrior, do you fear me?
Yes, lord.
Warrior, would you die for me?
Yes, lord.
Warrior, soon we will go to war. We attack the home of the Sin-tahri. We bring death and holy chaos to them, we cast our shadow over their land. There will be much destruction. When we ride there, I have a task for you.
Yes, lord.
Find the Sin-tahri called Marrago, and kill him.
Yes, lord.
* * *
Dexter could not sleep, and for once it was not a combination of too much alcohol and too many worries. Nor was it even the thought of a beautiful woman lying in the next room. It was not even the difference in relative comfort between the couch and his bed.
It was something preying at the back of his mind. He was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, drawing patterns with his eyes as he had done before. He could feel that moment of communion between them, and he yearned for it again. That was special – not her kisses, not her touch. He could truly say it was her mind he desired more than any other part of her.
He chuckled at the thought, wondering if she would believe him were he to tell her.
After several hours of staring upwards, he rose from the couch and went to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water. He devoured it greedily, spilling a great deal on the floor in the process. It alleviated his thirst, but not his headache. As he walked back to his impromptu bed, he could not resist looking in at her through the slightly ajar bedroom door.
She looked to be having every bit as much trouble sleeping as he did. The sheets were twisted around her legs as she tossed and turned. She had found one of his T-shirts to wear, an old Proxima Swashbucklersone.
Dexter looked at her for a long time and then returned to his couch, silently cursing his over-developed moral sense.
He had only just lain down, when he sat bolt upright again.
He looked around, not sure what had caused him to react like that. He had.... felt something. Something terrifyingly alien and yet at the same time slightly....
.... familiar.
There was nothing in sight, nothing that had not been there three seconds ago.
But he was sure he had felt something.
He lay back down, his head spinning. The alcohol. That was it. Or perhaps some aftereffect of.... earlier. Maybe he was picking up Talia's nightmares. He couldn't help but grin. If she was having any more pleasant dreams, that might be fun.
Talia!
He leapt up in an instant and ran for her room. Not him, he knew that. Not him.
Her!
She was lying still on the bed, her head thrown back. Standing over her was a tall man he did not recognise, but then he could not see the intruder's face. His head was bent low over Talia's, and he seemed to be.... breathing in her air. Only it wasn't air, it was light.
Dexter ran forward, the instincts of a thousand youthful street fights surging in his body. The figure began to turn, but he was not quick enough to dodge Dexter's punch. He had been in countless fist fights in his life, and he knew he would be in a good many more, but he had never thrown a punch like that before, and he doubted he ever would again.
The man fell, collapsing in a heap. Dexter did not even look at him, but turned instantly to Talia. She was motionless, her eyes open but staring fixedly ahead. He put his hand over her mouth and was relieved to feel her breath on his palm.
Then an explosion of pain burst in his mind and he reeled, stumbling back against the wall. Looking up through eyes blurred with agony, he saw the intruder rising. For the first time he could clearly see its face.
It was oddly misshapen, as if made of wax that had started to melt in the noonday sun. Light poured from its eyes and mouth.
Greetings, brother,it said.
* * *
The Vorlon's voice was a chill, cold thing. Vejar knew that Vorlon speech was entirely telepathic in nature. They had no tongue, no vocal cords, no lungs, nothing but energy, and their voices came entirely from their thoughts. They could appear to speak in whatever tone or language they wished.
Ulkesh chose to speak with the voice of the dead, the voice of a cold wind through an autumn graveyard, the voice of ghosts buried and forgotten.
Vejar said nothing. D amn you, Galen,he thought. W hat have you got me into? Thoughts of passion and fury began to take shape in his mind as he started to prepare himself for conjuring, truly conjuring, for the first time in years.
Vejar took a careful step backwards, flicking his gaze from Ulkesh to Lyta. Neither was moving, and he could not tell which of the two looked less alive.
Well, Galen. Congratulations. You could not have chosen someone else for this suicide mission?
Finding his voice, and his courage, he looked up squarely into the Vorlon's eye stalk. "I am to be killed, just for having come here?" he asked.
"Well, I see. There is a human saying you might not be familiar with. It has something to do with the relative nature of punishments for varying crimes." Vejar's mind was racing. He could feel his skin crawl with the rush of power.
"You might as well be hung for a sheep...."
His eyes blazed furiously. Fire crackled from his fingertips.
"As a lamb!"
He hurled the fireball forward, instantly forming another conjuration. He watched as the Vorlon's encounter suit became an inferno, flames licking over every inch of it. Behind him a circle of ruins and flames and darkness formed. Something emerged from it, something black and crackling with electricity. It moved with an arachnid grace, its many eyes blazing with fiery light.
Through the flames engulfing it, Ulkesh's eye stalk turned.
Vejar reeled before the voice in his mind. Blood filled his eyes and mouth and he had to steady himself against the wall, pouring all his concentration into controlling and animating the construction he had summoned. It was not a true Shadow of course, just a manifestation of his will, but it would be enough for a short time.
The animated Shadow moved forward, spiked limbs flailing at the Vorlon's encounter suit. The Shadow seemed not to feel the heat as it rained blow after blow on the Vorlon's chest. Vejar reached out his arm, guiding his creation, his other arm supporting him against the wall.
A crack appeared in the encounter suit, and then another. A brilliant light began to pour through, so bright Vejar could see it even with his eyes closed. He reeled before the psychic onslaught, and fell, feeling his Shadow collapse.
Opening his eyes, he saw the Vorlon before him. It had abandoned illusions and appeared as it truly was, light and energy and malevolence, crackling with power and fury. Vejar felt its presence in his mind, and screamed.
"I'm not afraid of you," Vejar spat. He looked up in defiance. "I'm not afraid of you."
Once, over two years ago, Delenn had come to him, seeking an explosive device, something powerful enough to tear open the guts of a planet. Vejar had told her that such a thing was within his power to create, and so it was. What he had given her was something very different, but that did not mean he could not create such a weapon.
Or something similar, but less powerful.
"Damn you, Galen," he whispered.
He looked up at Lyta, past the swirling mass of the Vorlon. He wondered if she was worth all this.
Then he created the explosion that tore apart the top half of the building.
