Текст книги "Темное, кривое зеркало. Том 5 : Средь звезд, подобно гигантам.(ЛП)"

Автор книги: Гарэт Д. Уильямс

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Текущая страница: 28 (всего у книги 78 страниц)

Chapter 3

Whose face do you see in the mirror, Sheridan?

Whose face do you see in your mind's eye?

Who are you? They ask that question, over and over again. Who are you? Can you answer that question, Sheridan? Can you?

John J. Sheridan. Son of David Sheridan. Brother of Elizabeth. Husband of Anna. Lover of Delenn. General of the Alliance fleet.

Strip away the layers. Your father is gone. Your sister is gone. Your wife is gone. Your daughter is gone. All you have are Delenn and theDark Star s.

Delenn went away once. When she came back, she was.... changed. Is she truly the same person you once knew? Do you love her as much as you once did? Do you even love her at all any more?

Strip away theDark Star s and the Alliance. What are they anyway? The threat they were created to combat is gone, never to return. The little the Shadows left behind cannot trouble such as you. Why does the Alliance exist but to keep power in the hands of those who now possess it?

Does the Alliance mean anything to you? Does Delenn mean anything to you?

Do the Vorlons mean anything to you?

Can you answer a single one of these questions, Sheridan? Pick one. Any one. Answer me just one of these questions. Answer yourself just one of these questions.

Can you?

General John Sheridan awoke, panting, hot, wild-eyed.

"I don't know!" he cried.

Beside him, Delenn still slept. The night was quiet, and the questioning voice was gone.

* * *

The sound had died, the fury had subsided, the air was still. Dust and debris settled slowly on the rubble.

No one was sure what had caused the explosion. An accident was a possibility of course, but terrorist action more probable. The Neuadd still meant something as a symbol, even if its practical purpose was gone. A strike here, at the heart of Kazomi 7, was a message that would penetrate to all corners of the Alliance that even now, they were not safe. The war continued.

Yes, it would later be agreed, once the dead were sorted and the shock had faded, this was surely the work of one who hated the Alliance and all it stood for.

No one knew any better.

No one?

Ulkesh moved through the rubble with a cold, purposeful air. As his shadow fell over those searching for survivors, they trembled, as if something dark and cold had passed over their graves. Not an unusual reaction in the face of such devastation perhaps, but perhaps there was something else. Perhaps the Vorlon was....

.... angry.

No one asked how he had survived the explosion, which had surely happened near his quarters. No one believed he would answer them, anyway.

He moved with his usual purpose, meticulous and cold, searching for two things in particular, searching not only with his eyes, such as the mortals might understand the term, but with his mind's vision.

He found the body of the fabulist after a few hours of searching. He was dead, there was no doubt about that, and in such a way that his body would never be identified. To all who might wonder, Vejar had died in the explosion, just one more innocent victim.

Ulkesh was angry, very angry. The fabulist's soul was long gone. All that remained was a shell.

It took him much longer to find the node of the network that had been situated in his quarters. The biotechnological symbiotic node had been destroyed, but the vessel itself had survived. She looked still and peaceful, completely undamaged. The tendrils of the symbiont were still entwined around her body, but she was no longer screaming, no longer making any noise at all.

Ulkesh could not bear to look at her for long. There was.... pain there. The network was shaken and unstable. It would take a great deal of work to repair the damage, and the nearby nodes would be affected as well.

But he resisted the pain, he resisted the ghost-like images he could see, the souls of those absorbed into the network, and he forced himself to study the situation more closely. The fabulist had risked a great deal for the vessel. Why?

She had tried to escape him. Had she been going to join the Enemy? She had saved the Dark Starcaptain from killing himself just as Ulkesh had wanted. She had mated with him.

The fabulist had come here for her.

Why?

Ulkesh looked at her and understanding came. She was not dead. Her body still lived, but her soul was not here.

A great rage burned inside him and he let out a furious shout of anger. It was no sound any of the mortals could recognise, for their mortal ears could not hear it, but their mortal souls did, and they trembled.

The Lights Cardinal would have to be informed of this.

The vessel's soul had been freed. She was loose inside the network.

* * *

The room was dark and dingy, as it was no doubt meant to be. It was a place for secret meetings, for clandestine appointments. One of many, provided by enterprising entrepreneurs. It saddened G'Kar that there was a market for such a place on Narn.

"They took a great deal from us," he said, speaking to the shadowed walls. "They took our lives, they took our freedom, they took our dignity, but most of all, they took from us the one thing we can never regain.

"They took our innocence."

Had it always been this way? G'Kar could not remember. The Centauri had always been on Narn. His father might have known a different time, or have been told of one, but he was long dead. The Narns had no history any more. Oh, they knew the names and the deeds, but they did not know the life, and that was the greatest loss of all.

He had wandered the city before arriving here, looking back at places of memory. Places where he had spoken, streets he had walked – first as a freedom fighter, then a soldier, then a member of the Kha'Ri and finally a Prophet. He saw houses and parks. He saw people. He saw soldiers, tall and proud. He saw children, running free and happy. He saw traders and merchants and craftsmen.

He should have been elated by the sight, but he was not. There was a darkness here on Narn, and it dwelt within the hearts of his people. Almost everyone he saw was interested in news of the outside galaxy, and especially in the poor situation of the Centauri. Many a toast was drunk in celebration of the Emperor's illness, and of the Inquisitors moving on Centauri worlds. There was much good cheer about Narn ships and Narn captains helping maintain order and defend Centauri worlds.

G'Kar knew he would have been recognised. He was not drawing any particular attention to himself, but neither was he going out of his way to hide. Few knew him personally, and most of the common people would not expect to see him here anyway.

But others, the Kha'Ri, the Thenta Ma'Kur, perhaps even the Inquisition, they would have seen him. Let them. Let them wonder. Let them be forced to act. Let them draw themselves into the open.

Besides, he was hardly alone.

"Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar," said a soft voice in flawless Narn.

"Lennier," G'Kar said, as his Ranger entered the room. "By G'Quan, it is good to see you."

"The feeling is likewise." Lennier did not step forward, instead remaining in the shadows. G'Kar noticed how well the shadows suited him. Ever since the massacre at Kazomi 7 Lennier had been different, scarred in more ways than one.

"I am grateful for all that you have done. There was no one else I could trust with this."

"It is my honour to serve, Ha'Cormar'ah."

"I need to see Da'Kal. Alone, and uninterrupted. I will also need to know the names of those who are working on this with her. She cannot be doing this alone."

"The names will be provided for you, Ha'Cormar'ah. As for the other, she has quarters in the main government building, but she also spends a great deal of time at a religious building outside the city. It appears to be a shrine of some sort."

"Her father's temple," G'Kar whispered. "I know where it is. It was destroyed by the Centauri, but a new temple was built over the ruins, a shrine to all the dead."

"There is more to it now than a mere shrine, Ha'Cormar'ah. There is something beneath it."

"Can you get me in there? Or at least find out what is underneath?"

"Ha'Cormar'ah.... I have not been wasting my time in your service here. If I may ask, where is Ranger Ta'Lon?"

"He is.... somewhere safe, with a ship prepared for my escape should that prove necessary. He is kept updated with what is happening here, and should I fail to maintain contact with him, he is to go to the Alliance with everything I have uncovered."

"As you say, Ha'Cormar'ah."

"It is strange. I have known many enemies in my life. The Centauri, the Shadows. But I never thought the greatest enemy I would ever know would be amongst my own people."

* * *

There was a saying Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar told me, something he had picked up from a human philosopher. He was very fond of quoting it to me, and I remember it still.

'Battle not with monsters, lest you yourself become a monster, and if you gaze into the abyss, remember the abyss gazes also into you.'

He did not tell me to give up fighting monsters, but he did tell me to make sure that I never became a monster in the process. That is the hardest task I have ever faced, and I am not sure it is one I will ever prove equal to.

L'Neer of Narn, Learning at the Prophet's Feet.

* * *

Greetings, brother.

He could never accurately describe that sensation, not even to Talia, whom he felt knew him even better than he did himself. However, if pressed, he would speak of insects crawling and skittering in his brain, covered in slime and vomit.

Dexter Smith reeled from the mental assault of the thing before him. One of the Hand of the Light, it called itself. A search-and-capture unit, like the old Psi Corps Bloodhounds, but working for someone else.

Do not fight us, brother. We have not come for you.

"You won't touch her," he whispered. "You won't...."

We will. She fights us. Our Masters have ordered her capture. She has a rare mind, talented and deceitful and truly treacherous. She will make a fine addition to our unit.

"You won't take her."

Join us, brother. Perhaps we will give her to you. She will do anything you like, anything at all.

Dexter looked at Talia. She was still as death. Only the painfully slow and shallow rise and fall of her chest showed that she was still alive. A faint glow of light still shone around her mouth and nose where the Bloodhound had tried to draw it from her.

What had it been attempting to do? What was that light? Her mind, her soul, what?

Both, and more. There is something that makes you human, that makes you weak, that makes you cry and question. Something that makes you unhappy. We will remove it from her, brother, and make her stronger as a result.

"Stronger, and.... more.... biddable?"

We will not deny that. Remove the need to question and what is left but glorious obedience?

Dexter slowly rose, the throbbing pain in his head becoming less. "You'll give her to me?"

Perhaps. That is not my decision to make.

"And she would do anything I ask. Anything at all?"

We do not know why you would want her to do.... that, brother, but ask and she would obey. She would have no choice. None of us would.

"And if I wanted her to argue with me, to fight, to disagree, to be awkward and different and maddening, to find fault with everything I did, to be contradictory and nonsensical?"

We do not understand.

Dexter looked at her, still unmoving, and smiled. "No, you really don't, do you?" He moved forward, trailing his hand along the edge of the bed. A plan was beginning to form in his mind, one shaped by instinct, not intelligence. He had no idea if this was going to work, and there was nothing to suggest that it would, but still.... there was a....

.... feeling.

A memory of that brief, sweet, blissful, complete communion of minds, and a sense of how she thought.

The Hand and Mr. Edgars would call it his telepathic powers, or empathy or whatever. He called it instinct.

"You can offer me all that? I must be really special to you," he said, still walking slowly forward.

The melting-wax features of the thing twitched into a grotesque parody of a smile. Y ou have no idea how special, brother. You have a rare gift, truly rare, one that we can use.

"What will you take from me in exchange for this.... power?"

Nothing you will be sorry to lose, brother.

His hand brushed against her bare leg. A shock struck his fingers, almost like an electric current, or an unexpected flare of heat.

"What is it I have that you don't?"

Why brother, do you have to ask? Do you not just know? Can you not read me as you do those you beat at that infantile card game? The voice in his mind twisted, becoming a perfect replica of Zack's. S o, explain that dealer chip again?

Dexter's hand touched Talia's. He curled his around hers. Her skin was so warm. He could feel it again, that one moment of communion. She was there. She was conscious, she was aware, she was just trapped behind a wall of pain and fear. All she needed....

"Well, Chet," he said. "First you...."

.... was a key.

Her eyes opened.

The creature hissed and moved back, but Talia was already awake.

"Now, I'm annoyed," she said.

* * *

The plan was a strange combination of genius and insanity, as all the best plans are. Marrago was more than a little discomfited by it, not least because it meant the complete derailing of all his carefully laid schemes. He had come to dislike strategy lately, but he had not lost his grasp of it. As things currently stood, he would be leader of the Brotherhood Without Banners in less than a year. Within two, he would have an army for Sinoval.

But time and fate and the machinations of others had a habit of interfering with even the best laid plans of Centauri and men.

One battle, one throw of the dice, one opportunity.

Marrago breathed out slowly. He had never liked gambling, although he recognised its occasional necessity in war. He had always left real gambling to Londo.

He was still shaking and he could still feel the impact on his fist, even up to his shoulder. He could still see the look in her eyes.

Sometimes he tried to remember the last time he had felt any self-respect at all. Where had it all gone? There had been a time he had been proud of himself, proud of what he represented. He had done.... things he was not proud of, but they could all be rationalised. Dealing with the Shadows, blackmailing Lord Valo into a politically convenient suicide, lying to Londo and Durano.

But now, now there was nothing, an emptiness at his core. He was not even sure why he was here, what he was doing. He had failed to protect Lyndisty, his dealings had led to his people becoming slaves to the Alliance, and now he had hit a woman. No, a girl.

"You made a poor choice, my friend," he said, not sure if Sinoval would be watching or not. "You should have chosen a much younger man, a much better man."

But who else was there?

He thought over Sinoval's plan again, considering himself very fortunate he did not have to think the way the Minbari did. It was risky and dangerous and quite probably suicidal, but it could work. And at this stage of the game, both of them had to take risks.

He looked up at the commscreen as the image appeared there. About time. There was a need for security systems and screening processes, but sometimes he thought his associate took things a little too far.

No, there was no such thing as too much security.

"Greetings, friend," said the twisted, alien voice. Even over a distance of countless light years n'Grath still managed to convey that aura of sheer otherness, along with a very simple malevolence. "Are you in need of more work? There is business to be done if you wish it."

"No, thank you," Marrago replied. "I've got some information for you, and I want some information in turn."

"Yes? This is of interest to this one. Let us hear your information and it shall be seen what the worth of it might be."

"No," Marrago replied calmly. He knew the secret of a good bargain. Always act as if you were on top. "You first. I want to find out everything you know about someone. And I mean everything."

"Who might this person be?"

"Her name is Mi'Ra. She is a Narn. I'm sending a picture to you now."

"Ah, yes. This can be done. Time it will take, but there is no one with secrets from this one. What can you offer in turn?"

"I know where the Brotherhood Without Banners is going to attack next. And this will be no simple raid. We are talking about a full scale attack. A great deal of disruption, chaos, anarchy. There could be a fair bit of money to be made for someone with an eye for that sort of thing."

"This is of interest, yes. Where?"

"When you have the information I need. Not before."

"This one will wait. You will be contacted when all is known. We will speak later, friend."

"Later."

It took Marrago several minutes to stop shaking after the communication finished. Then he needed several cups of jhala to wash the foul taste out of his mouth.

* * *

"Ugly-looking planet," Susan Ivanova muttered. "And is it just me, or is that the same small group of ships passing overhead all the time?"

"It's not just you," Sinoval replied, not looking up from his meditation. "The Centauri do not have much of a fleet left, so they seem to have learned how to make it look as though they have far more ships than they really do."

"Weren't there supposed to be Alliance ships here as well? I thought that was what you said was happening – Alliance ships guarding Centauri worlds."

Sinoval rose, sighing, and walked around the circumference of the pinnacle. Sometimes it seemed so small and yet sometimes it was massive. Not for the first time he felt he was standing on the top of the galaxy, looking down at world upon world laid out for his inspection.

Except he had to share this vision with Susan, as always, and this was just one world. Centauri Prime to be exact.

"Yes," he said. "There were meant to be. The Alliance have dispatched some of their fleets to guard and protect Centauri worlds, not to mention maintaining order on the surface." He paused, looking around at the spectacle before him. "No, none here. It would not surprise me if the Narn captains of those ships have quarrelled with some functionary or another and simply stayed away, aggrieved at their help being so rudely rebuffed. That would make what is going to happen all the more truly tragic, of course. A sign of what will happen unless the Centauri accept their place in the new galactic order."

He paused, still looking. "When I was much younger, I saw a performer in the streets of Yedor. A former member of the warrior caste, exiled for some crime or another. He survived by performing tricks for passing crowds, for travellers and so on.

"He was balancing small spinning balls on his denn'bok, throwing them up into the air and catching them on the edge, always keeping them spinning and dancing. He must have been holding.... almost fifteen in the air at one point, and he never let one drop."

Susan looked at him. It was not usual for him to be talking so much, but after his collapse following his tales of Valen, he had actively sought her company more. He would speak to her more often, reveal more of his plans, his intentions, his dreams, even trivial little stories like this.

She was not quite sure what this meant. Either she was succeeding in her purpose and he was actually seeing people as people, not just chess pieces. He could be opening up to her, letting himself be human.... or Minbari, or whatever. Alive. Letting himself be alive.

Or there was another, darker possibility.

He was sharing his plans so that if anything happened to him someone would be able to continue when he was gone.

"I feel like that warrior, balancing all those globes in the air, except these are not just spinning balls, but people, and if any fall then we lose more than just a toy.

"Vejar has failed, and it cost him his life. Galen is lost now, trapped by the Vorlons, and there is no way to get him out. Marrago is on his own and I have to advance his careful plans myself, risking everything he has worked for these past two years.

"And Sheridan....

"Sheridan....

"Without the telepath, I have to do this myself. It would be so much easier with her, but I fear there is little choice, and I certainly do not have the time to do this slowly. I have to rush, and what if I mis-step or make a wrong move? What if he sees me or rejects me?

"Ah, Valen, curse you. Destined for greatness, indeed!"

He made for the steps leading downwards. "I have to commune with Sheridan again. I am.... making breakthroughs with him, slowly but surely, but I will have to move more quickly. Someone has to lead if anything happens to me, and without the Vorlon touch there would be no one better than him.

"If I can make him see!"

"Sinoval!" Susan called out. He stopped and looked back at her. "Don't do anything stupid. We can't do this without you, and if you die and leave me to do it myself, I swear to God I'll find your soul wherever it's gone and kick the living crapola out of you." He looked at her, and she looked down, annoyed at the outburst. "You got that?"

He was beside her in an instant. H ow does he move so fast?she had time to think. Gently, he touched her hair and kissed her forehead.

"Susan," he said. "If I had to leave, I would trust you with all of this. Remember that."

Then he was gone, and she was left to wait.

Hidden. Above Centauri Prime.

Waiting for the raiders to come.

Waiting.

After a while she began to whistle.

* * *

Da'Kal took a long, slow sip of the bitter jhala. It tasted foul in her throat and she could not understand why the Centauri drank it. It was too hot and too bitter and it scalded the roof of her mouth.

But, however foul the taste, it reminded her of victory.

"It was him," H'Klo said, standing in the doorway. "Again." The Councillor of the Kha'Ri was normally unflappable, but now he actually sounded.... worried. H'Klo knew no fear, she knew that much. When he was nothing but a pouchling, he had been working with the Resistance. The Centauri had captured and tortured him, and he had said nothing even as they had peeled the skin from his back with red-hot pincers, one strip at a time. Da'Kal had looked at those scars, touched them, even kissed them.

H'Klo feared neither Centauri, nor Shadow, nor Vorlon, nor Narn. He had sworn to defend her in her quest, and she had no doubt he would. When a Thenta Ma'Kur assassin had attacked her in her bedchamber one night, H'Klo had faced him bare-handed and broken his back, despite being wounded five times in the process.

No, he feared nothing. Save one thing alone.

One person.

A prophet.

Da'Kal said nothing, but merely looked out across G'Khamazad. The city was so far beneath her, she could see the comings and goings of her people, free for the first time in their lives. Free from the Centauri. Free even from the fear of the Centauri. Now it was time for the Centauri to learn fear themselves.

She sipped at the jhala again. It was thick and cloying. She hated the smell. When she was young, before her name day, she had worked in the household of a Centauri noble, washing his clothes and cooking his food and pouring endless cups of jhala for him and his fat, vain wife and his spoiled, brattish children.

She remembered his face after the Resistance had taken his manor. G'Kar had killed his captain of guards in single combat and had made her lady of the manor. She had made the lord serve her jhala, and she had drained the drink in one gulp. Nothing had ever tasted sweeter, not even the taste of G'Kar's kisses that night.

"He will know," H'Klo said. "He will find us."

"There is no need to be concerned," she replied, still looking down on the city. One of the many things she had learned from the Centauri. Build high, and look down upon those you rule.

"I am concerned," he snapped. "Ask me to fight for you and I will. Ask me to kill for you and I will. But do not ask me to go against him, Da'Kal. He is.... our Prophet. He has something I have never seen in anyone else, not even you. He...." H'Klo paused, obviously struggling to find the words. "He is special."

"Yes," Da'Kal replied, irritated. "The mighty Prophet G'Kar. The wise, the bountiful, the saviour of our people."

"Is he not everything you have said?"

She took more jhala. "Yes," she replied bitterly. "Yes, he is."

"He will find us."

"Let him. Do not worry, H'Klo. You will not have to fight him."

"The Thenta Ma'Kur?"

"No. I am not sure I can trust them anyway. For all their boasts of loyalty only to money they can be.... sentimental. Besides, I have enquired secretly about their price for him." She paused, holding herself tight with her right arm, staring into the mirror of memory.

"And?"

"Over eight million Narn ducats."

"We do not have that sort of money."

"No one does. That is the point. Do not worry, H'Klo. There are.... other ways."

"He will not understand."

"No," she whispered sadly. "He does not. In a strange way I admire him. I even love him still, almost as much as I hate him. He was the bravest man I ever met. But the man he has become....

"He has forgiven them. After everything they did to him, to his father, to his mother, to me.... after all these things he has forgiven them. He even urges us to do the same. Do you know what bravery like that is? I wish I had a tenth of it." She finished her jhala and held the cup gently, rolling it between two fingers.

"But if everyone was capable of that kind of forgiveness, we would not be Narns, we would be angels."

She threw the cup far out into the air and turned away from the balcony to avoid seeing it land.

"There are no angels, and by his very existence he reminds us of our imperfections.

"Have no fear, H'Klo. Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar will be dealt with."

* * *

We were defeated because we had not thought. We were conquered because we did not see. Yes, we have won a victory now, but unless we learn, the victory will be hollow and empty, nothing but the ashes of the funeral pyres.

Blind rage will not serve us. Unthinking lust for revenge will gain us nothing. This is a new world for us now, for all of us. Unless we think, unless we see, unless we learn, then we might as well never have picked up a single weapon to fight the Centauri in the first place.

Mi'Ra ran those words through her mind as she went to her meeting. The Prophet's speech at the Square of Ashes in G'Khamazad. She had been there with her father, and a chill had swept through her as she watched G'Kar speak. Her father had not understood, but he was dead now. Mi'Ra had understood, and those words had stayed with her always.

Think, see, learn. That mantra had been with her throughout her life. It had seen her abandon the path her father had set, a life in the Kha'Ri as he had chosen, and she had instead chosen to go out into the galaxy. She had seen such wonderful things, such beautiful things. She had learned from what she had seen, and most of all she had learned to think.

The Prophet had been right, of course. Blind rage and unthinking vengeance would gain them nothing. What was needed was focussed rage and structured vengeance.

Centauri Prime. Home of the enemy. Her father had used to dream of taking the war there, but he had died before he could realise that dream. Just another victim of the games the Kha'Ri played, struck down by a well-concealed poison.

And now she would be a part of the destruction of the Centauri homeworld. Any one of her people would pay everything they owned for a part in this, however small, and her part was far from small.

She entered the meeting room, her guards with her, those visible and those.... not. G'Lorn was beside her as always. Loyal and trusting. He had not thought or seen or learned anything before, but now he was growing. It was the military mindset. Serve, obey and ask no questions. She was slowly breaking him of that, but she had to admit that it was useful at times.

Marrago was waiting for her, sitting patiently at the far side of the table. He had no guards with him, but then he did not need any. This was a man who had truly taken on board the Prophet's words, whether he realised it or not.

She sat down, G'Lorn beside her. "Should we not be preparing for the battle?" she asked. "Or have you more strategies to debate with me?"

"No," he replied coolly. "I have.... discovered something recently. Part of a bargain. Like for like. Information for information. Do you know what I have learned?"

Mi'Ra had a feeling she did. She had always agreed with Moreil. Marrago was by far the most dangerous man here.

"I have learned of a Councillor in the Kha'Ri by name of Du'Rog." Mi'Ra did not let her expression slip once. "He was very much in favour of renewed attacks on my people. He died some years ago of a convenient illness. It is strange, but there are many in my Court who have died of convenient illnesses at convenient times.

"But Du'Rog had adherents and they followed his ways. There were similar types amongst my people, and so there was war. It ended, as wars tend to do, and there was peace. Narn and Centauri, all one in an Alliance, working together for peace and prosperity – but for a few renegades and outlaws like ourselves of course.

"I have no doubt there are many among my people who do not like the idea of peace with yours. I am equally sure there are some among yours who like the idea even less. My people are too.... restricted to do anything about it, but yours.... the brave and forgiving Narn.... they are trusted and liked and respected.

"Du'Rog had a daughter. She left her home very young to travel the galaxy. She returned briefly, and then disappeared again. Do you know her name?"

Mi'Ra sat back. Moreil was right. This one was more dangerous than the others. They were useful tools and instruments, but this one.... He thought. He saw. He learned.

He was strong.

Do you wish us to kill him, lady?hissed the alien voice in her mind. She could call the Faceless to her in a heartbeat.

No,she replied. She was not telepathic, of course. Apart for a few failed experiments conducted by the Prophet, none of her people were, but she wondered sometimes if this communion was what it meant to be a telepath. The ritual she had undergone had given her a world of new sensations. This was only the smallest. M oreil has his own plans for this one.