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

Автор книги: Гарэт Д. Уильямс

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 39 (всего у книги 78 страниц)

Chapter 3

We are your saviours and your salvation. We are your Gods, your angels, and your dreams made flesh.

You are weak and imperfect. We understand this. It is your curse, the curse of individuality, the curse of fear, the curse of hope. We understand this. We do not hate you. Not even those of you who defy us. We hate none of you.

You are weak, and imperfect. We are strong, and we are perfect.

All we wish to do is to help you.

* * *

you

* * *

The garden was dark now, and still. The ever–moving plants cast shadows across her face and her soul. She could see them taunting her, mocking her.

There were no words. In any language ever spoken or thought or imagined, there were no words to describe what she felt.

"You killed my son."

The air spoke those words back to her. They echoed around her, each time in a different tone of voice. Anger and hatred and joy and release and cackling humour and sheer revulsion. None was worse than the first time.

Flat, calm, dispassionate. Not a whisper, not a question, not an accusation. A simple, straightforward statement of fact.

"I was going to ask you to marry me."

Everything laughed at her, all the faces from her past and her present.

She was alone.

Alone with the thirteen words that had destroyed her. Killed her more simply and more swiftly than any weapon ever could.

Alone.

One....

heart....

beat....

after....

another.

One....

word....

after....

another....

* * *

will

* * *

The Vorlon's encounter suit was white, bone–white, a sickly, nauseous pallor. G'Kar looked at it and felt its shadow fall over him.

In that instant he was transported back an entire lifetime. He was a child staring up at the sky, watching as a fleet of Centauri warships passed overhead. Darkness swamped him, and he felt so very, very cold. He had never seen a live Centauri, not in the flesh, and he had imagined them as monsters, lurking hidden in the corners of rooms, or just on the edge of his vision.

That sight had changed his mind, and imprinted itself in his childish memory. The Centauri were powerful and massive and colossal. They moved in the heavens and they did not care about the insects who withered and died in their shadow.

That belief had changed as he fought the Centauri, came to understand them, and even befriended one. But that one, single impression, that had remained with him.

He felt it again now.

Taan and Kulomani had reacted first of course, being trained warriors. Taan had reached for his PPG, Kulomani for his commlink. The Vorlon watched impassively as Taan fired the first bolt. The armour, that now seemed not so much the white of long–dead bones, but the brilliant, infinite, bottomless white of a new–born star, absorbed the impact with chilling ease.

The encounter suit began to open.

G'Kar did not bother to look round, in part because he knew he would not be able to tear himself away from that image, but also because there was nowhere to go. This room had only one exit, and the Vorlon was standing directly in it. Kulomani's commlink was not working, as G'Kar had suspected.

If he had thought he could say something, or do something, take any action, he would have done it, but he understood the futility of his position. This had to happen. By all rights he should be dead anyway.

His own words came back to haunt him.

We are all stronger together than we are apart.

Perhaps, if a better world can come of this for everyone, then those who died need not have died in vain. If we can all turn this loss to a greater good, as we did at Kazomi Seven, then we can create something greater than what was destroyed.

I hope for that with all I have, and it is all that sustains me.

But I doubt, truly, in my heart, that it will ever happen.

They were stronger together than they were apart, but that was still not enough.

Lethke moved forward, deliberately placing himself between the Vorlon and Taan Churok. The Drazi swore at him, but Lethke did not seem to notice. G'Kar doubted that his friend could hear anything, standing bathed in that light.

"Please," Lethke said. "Please...." The word was pitiful, a sob, an admission of utter powerlessness. Lethke, a diplomat, a nobleman, a Merchant–Prince of Brakir, was discovering what G'Kar had first learned that one day so many decades ago.

Just what it meant to be helpless.

"Let us try for peace," Lethke sobbed. "It's what I've always worked for...."

The Vorlon's terrible voice spoke, chill and final, although there was now not even the flashing of the eye stalk to give it some semblance of emotion.

The light filled the room, and Lethke's body was thrown backwards. G'Kar knew he was dead even before he left the floor. What struck the far wall was a charred, smoking corpse, a twitching heap of ash and blasted bones.

One of Lethke's dead eyes was looking directly at him, but G'Kar could not tell if it expressed pity or blame.

Kulomani reacted next, grabbing his PPG to join Taan. Both of them fired, neither afraid. Their blasts were merely absorbed by the flashing mass of light that the Vorlon had become. It was massive, truly huge, too big by far for the room. One tentacle struck a wall, which shattered with a crack and the smell of burning metal.

G'Kar shifted his gaze to G'Kael, who had also reacted quickly, dropping down under the table and rolling behind a makeshift barrier of chairs. He looked up at G'Kar and then at the hole in the wall. Above them lights danced and whirled as the Vorlon swam sinuously in the air.

G'Kar could see the muscles tense in G'Kael's body, and then, with careful timing, he sprang for the hole, scrabbling through it in one smooth motion schooled by years of careful preparation. G'Kar knew about life amongst the Kha'Ri, especially what it took to be their spymaster. G'Kael had always taken pains to be ready for just such a situation. He was as physically fit as it was possible to be.

A tentacle curled around his waist in mid–air and jerked him backwards. His head struck the ceiling with impossible speed and with the sick sound of bones crunching and veins exploding, his body dropped to the floor at G'Kar's feet, limp and all but decapitated.

Taan Churok had tried to run for the door as this was happening, continuing to fire as he ran. One part of the Vorlon's vast, serpentine bulk lowered itself on to him, and as it touched him bolts of lightning crackled through it, and through him. His PPG exploded, there was a burst of light and energy, and he fell to the floor, a blackened, smoking hole in his chest.

The table flew backwards into Kulomani, smashing him into the far wall. G'Kar heard the sound of fifty bones breaking in unison, and Kulomani slumped, his mouth filled with blood.

Durano remained, standing quietly a few paces back from where he had been sitting, his hands folded behind his back. With a complete absence of terror G'Kar did not know whether to admire or fear, he said calmly:

"May I remind you, sir, that I am a lawfully appointed Ambassador of my Government and am as such subject to all the rules regarding fair trial and due process."

The Vorlon's body continued to swirl and swim. The voice that came from it was almost screaming.

Two tentacles curled around Durano.

The Centauri blinked once, and then died.

G'Kar could feel the Vorlon looking at him.

One tentacle waved menacingly in front of his face. G'Kar could feel the heat of the energy radiating from it, the sparks of electricity shooting through the room.

* * *

obey

* * *

That is the nature of power.... to wield it necessitates abominable actions. You cannot think of the one, or even of the few. You have to think of the many, and if that means sending good people to die, then so be it. If that means letting bad people live, then so be it.

I am a leader, and that means I do what must be done.

I can see you there. Babylon Five, shining beacon in space. The hopes and dreams of so many billions of people....

A dream built on futility, on weakness, on death.

A dream built of paper and glue and hope.

And I am the torch.

And these are the tools I am to use.

Marrain. A warrior who betrayed his lord and his love. A warrior who let his enemies live for his own revenge and killed his greatest friend. A man driven by madness and a lust for war.

Marrago. A leader who betrayed his people for the sake of his people. A patriot who sold his world into slavery with the best of intentions. A man driven by the need to die.

Moreil. A monster and a murderer who venerates me as the saviour of his Dark Masters. He will obey me without thought and he will send millions to their deaths in my name.

I do not think we are so different after all, Valen. I know your mistakes just as surely as I know mine, and like you, I am forced to walk a dark road for the good of the many.

But you had Derannimer.... Even she betrayed you in the end, although I doubt if you ever knew it. Or maybe you did.

She was your muse, your inspiration, your greatest fear.... and your successor.

Susan, you are going to kill me for this. If we all survive, then you are welcome to try.

I am a leader, yes, but I am a leader such as existed of old. As the Wind Swords knew in the days when they were mighty, as Emperor Shingen knew, a leader must be cold and merciless. He must be seen to be invincible, mighty and indomitable and unstoppable, leading from the front, fearless and immortal.

This is a war for the hearts and minds as well as for the bodies. Our enemies are strong and powerful, seeming to us like Gods. I must be shown to be their equal, even their better.

Sinoval spread his arms wide and looked down at Babylon 5 beneath him. Around him, tucked into a fold of hyperspace, his armies gathered. The call had gone out and they were assembling. Not everyone was here yet, and he could wait.

It would hardly be a war until the other army appeared, after all.

* * *

us

* * *

It was the smell and the taste, thick and heavy and musty and dusty and so very, very wrong. There was no other word to describe it. The thing he had seen, the thing he still saw rising from the open gateway of the Box, was wrong.

It did not belong here.

"There is danger," he moaned.

There was danger, a greater and more terrible shadow than he could have imagined. He had watched the Shadow ships soar over Proxima, he had stood on the bridge of an untested vessel to face down an invincible enemy, he had held a hot gun in his hands and contemplated the murder of a beautiful woman.

And he saw that thing rising from the Box, the monstrous birth of something evil, and utterly, terribly, inhuman.

"Remember," he whispered.

Voices came to him sometimes, real voices, not the fake ones he had heard from that other place. Voices he knew.

"He shouldn't be sleeping this long."

"He experienced something his mind wasn't fit to comprehend. You had help, not to mention years of training. All he had was some rudimentary empathy, which did him more harm than good."

"Tell me he will wake up."

"He will. There's a strong soul in this one. Most people would be irrevocably insane by now."

"You withstood it fine."

"I have.... certain gifts. The human mind isn't intended to remember hundreds of thousands of years worth of history. I was.... modified slightly."

He wanted to reach out, to find the owner of the female voice. He could see her sometimes, beyond the foulness and the fog and the mist. She seemed to shine, but however strong her light was, the darkness was stronger.

And the smell....

Always the smell.

"We are Death," he whispered to himself. "We are the Gods of All Creation. We were created first and all life that came after us was flawed and imperfect. Thus, all life that is not ours has to be destroyed."

The female voice sounded a little scared. "He's sounding like that.... thing."

The other voice sounded terrified. "Yes, he is."

He slipped back, the fog growing just too thick for him to cross.

"There is danger," he whispered. "Remember."

* * *

you

* * *

"Is it so wrong to believe.... to hope?"

Kats sat cross–legged on the floor, staring at the simple necklace she held in her hands. An unfinished, not particularly beautiful creation of a mediocre craftsman.

"Is it so wrong to want a better world? I know you, and I know people like Takier and Tirivail....

"And Sinoval.

"I do not hate any of you. I have come to understand you, at least a little, but I wish there was another way."

She was cold. Everything around and outside her was cold. She was no psychic, no prophet, but anyone could sense that something was very wrong here. Since her meeting with Delenn she had tried to contact the Grey Council to try again to reason with them, only to learn that all external communications were shut down. She could not even contact her ship, and no shuttles were permitted to leave Babylon 5.

None of the Ambassadors she had tried to contact were in. Not one. G'Kar had arrived, but no one seemed to know where he was. Lethke, Durano, G'Kael and Taan Churok were all unavailable. Commander Kulomani was indisposed.

Even Delenn had disappeared.

The Security forces seemed much more prevalent outside. The merchants had closed their stalls. There were more Dark Stars than usual.

Kats was not afraid. She did not think she was capable of feeling fear any longer. She had an uncomfortable feeling of helplessness, but it would pass. She had faith.

"I will be with you soon," she whispered. "Just keep waiting for me.... just a little longer."

There was a ritual some of the warriors had used in the days before Valen. Every day they awoke they prepared to die, and so when they prayed to their ancestors at dawn, they promised to join them soon.

There was just one person waiting for Kats, but she knew he would wait as long as necessary.

Kats....

She started, and looked around. The voice had been very faint. Nothing more than a whisper....

.... or an echo....

.... or a heartbeat.

Kats.

A voice from so far away.

Stay safe. Hide and stay safe.... Can you hear me?

"There is nothing for me to fear," she said. "But thank you, beloved."

Kats.... No.... my.... lady....

The voice faded, the sound of her name dying away into oblivion.

She kissed the necklace, surprised to find her tears wet on her face. "Thank you, beloved," she said. "Just wait for me a little longer."

"Talking to yourself?" barked a sudden, angry voice.

"Just to the dead, Tirivail," Kats said, rising slowly, re–fastening the necklace around her neck. Her friend was arming herself, taking her denn'bok from the case where Kats had insisted she keep it. It was not a good time for those not in the Rangers or Security to be wandering around the station armed. "Did you find anything?"

"A great deal," came the reply. "Everyone you asked me to find seems to be at some private meeting. No one's seen Delenn in hours. The Starkiller neither."

"What is it?" There was an urgency in Tirivail's actions, anger in her voice. "Tirivail?"

"Nothing." The warrior extended the denn'bok, testing the balance, stretching her muscles.

"Tirivail!"

Her friend turned to look at her, and Kats saw fury in her dark eyes.

"I heard that someone else is here. A human."

A cold chill settled on Kats' body.

"Tall, pale skin. Archaic clothing. A tall black hat."

"A staff," Kats whispered.

Tirivail nodded.

"Sebastian," she said again.

"The same. The head of the Vorlon Inquisition." Tirivail snapped the denn'bok closed and fixed it to her belt. "I am going to find him."

"No."

"Do not try to...."

"No!" Tirivail took a slow step back. Kats continued without a pause. "You are a warrior sworn in service to the Grey Council. I am Satai sworn and oath–bound. I have stood in the circle and the column. I have stood between the candle and the star.

"You owe me service and obeisance."

Tirivail's dark eyes flashed. "He loved you," she whispered. "That is why I serve you."

"Then that will have to be enough. Where is Sebastian? You will take me to him."

"No."

"You will take me to him. I am not afraid."

Tirivail moved angrily to the door, then looked back, waiting for Kats to follow.

"I am," she said harshly.

* * *

will

* * *

"I am not afraid," G'Kar said, with soft, despairing finality.

"I am not afraid to die. I have done many things of which I could feel ashamed, but I have always believed that my actions would lead to a better world. I have striven for so long for peace.

"I have served you as well as I was able. I will admit to having made mistakes. I am not perfect, and the more I learn, the more I realise just how truly imperfect I am, but I have tried.

"I have tried to build and to create and to make the world better.

"I formed the Rangers to fight the Shadow that G'Quan had prophesied would return. I led them, and I sent many of them to their deaths. I believed then that it was a just and righteous cause, and I still do.

"I let one of you inhabit me, and I do not regret that.

"I have seen so many things, some terrible and some wonderful. I have seen the wonder in a young child's eyes as she learns she is to live, and I have seen the terror in a man's eyes as he knows he is to die.

"I am old, and I am tired, and I am no traitor.

"Kill me if you wish."

The Vorlon remained there, drifting lazily and majestically in the air above him. The tip of the tentacle reached down to within a fraction of an inch of his good eye. Another slid around his back.

He heard its voice, the voice of the authority, of the magistrate, of the judgment, of the executioner.

The light seemed to recede, rushing backwards into the encounter suit in one swift, smooth motion. The suit closed and the headpiece turned, the eye stalk glowing brightly.

it said again.

"I will," G'Kar said, hollowly. "Believe me in that. I will."

The Vorlon turned and left, leaving the smoking charnel house where five powerful and influential people had just discovered the true nature of power.

G'Kar waited until he could be sure the Vorlon was gone, and then he began to run.

* * *

obey

* * *

The anger he felt was so great as to overwhelm all rational thought. He had passed beyond grief and loss and sorrow, and all General John Sheridan felt now was a fury that could destroy stars themselves.

He found David in his office, frantically trying to use the commpanel.

David looked up as he entered. "Where have you been?" he asked. "The internal sensors are going crazy. Someone's been throwing around colossal amounts of energy in Blue Sector. No one can find Kulomani, or G'Kar, or any of the Ambassadors. The jump gate is closed. Delenn's just vanished off...."

"Delenn doesn't matter," he said sharply, the tiniest manifestation of the rage within him.

"What? John, what...?" He watched as David's eyes narrowed, darkening. "Oh," he said simply. "I see. Was this all just a joke then? Did you come all that way and drag me back here just to go through all this again?"

"Everything's a joke. If you haven't worked that out yet, you should just get back to building mud huts on Minbar."

"God's sake.... look at the mess you've made. No, we've all made it, but I've had enough of it." David walked towards the door, brushing past him angrily, pushing him aside. At the door he turned back. "Everything's going to hell in a handbasket, as a former friend of mine would say. It's a pity he isn't here. At least he'd be trying to fix this."

"Get out."

He did.

General John J. Sheridan sat down at his desk, looking at the energy readouts. He recognised what David had not, that the sheer amount of energy could only have been generated by a Vorlon. Someone very stupid had annoyed one of them.

"To hell with all of you," he whispered.

Something was rubbing at the back of his skull, an itch he could not scratch. He had a name for that, though.

Somehow he was not surprised.

"You as well," he muttered. "Well, Sinoval, come on in and join the party, everyone else has."

He looked the commpanel and sent out a quick signal. This line he knew would be working. If everything else on the station collapsed, this would still be working.

"I know you're there," he said. "I think we need to talk."

– We are always ready for you, – came the Vorlon's voice.

"I'll be there in a minute. We should do this face to face, as it were. Oh, I suppose you know that Sinoval's on his way."

– We were aware. We are prepared. This is our stronghold. We will not allow it to be breached by such as him. –

"How soon we forget," he muttered. "Don't you lot always have a plan."

* * *

us

* * *

The jump gate was closed, barred and sealed against the travellers, the common wanderers, the pilgrims and the seekers. The station was protected, charmed and blessed by the Dark Stars and the Alliance vessels and the very presence of the Vorlons themselves.

But that was not always enough.

A jump point opened, and then another, and another. Ships emerged through them, ships crafted of living flesh, linked to the souls of their owners.

The Vorlon fleet was a beautiful thing, but it was the beauty of a star exploding in the night: wondrous from a distance, terrifying up close.

The voice that spoke was audible to every being on the station.

We are your masters.

We are your protectors.

This place is ours.

You will obey us.

* * *

you

* * *

Audible to every person except one....

* * *

will

* * *

What am I?

At that moment, Delenn felt an intense, powerful hatred. Of John, for abandoning her; of herself, for abandoning him; and most of all of Sinoval.

What am I?

He had always been so sure, so confident. She could have managed that, once. Before the weight of her mistakes, both real and imagined, had weighed down on her so heavily. He did not seem to care about the mistakes he made, simply forgetting them and carrying on his way.

What am I?

Not who. She had been asked that question once before, and had not answered it, not properly, not in any way that could be called an answer, because the point of the question was that there was no answer, none that could be expressed to another.

What am I?

But that was a question she could answer, if only by a list of what she was not.

I am not a mother.

Her son had died in her body, his fading heartbeat echoing in her ears.

I am not a wife.

The man she loved had left her, abandoning her to this place of dust and memory and haunting echoes.

I am not a warrior.

She hated to kill, to fight. She had seen too much of that.

I am not a leader.

She had tried, and failed, so many times. This world did not need her leadership. She had betrayed and doomed her people and now it seemed she had doomed the Alliance as well.

I am a healer.

She paused, and dared to raise her head. It seemed so heavy.

I am a healer.

Everything was wounded. Her people, the Alliance, the galaxy. Everywhere she looked, she saw symptoms of the sickness. All she had been able to do was wipe flecks of blood from the mouth of the galaxy.

I am a healer.

She was.

Breathing out harshly, Delenn slowly pulled herself to her feet. Her injured ankle throbbed at her, but she ignored it.

I am a healer.

"I am a healer," she said aloud, and the words seemed to invigorate her. The shadows trembled and fled before her newfound resolve.

"I am a healer," she said, more loudly.

The paths of the garden, that had seemed so dark and twisted, were now open and clear.

She set off, walking firmly, with no hint of any of the wounds that pained her.

* * *

obey

* * *

He woke up, cold, and with no idea of where he was.

Or even who he was.

He lay there, staring up at the ceiling, trying to force his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He had a feeling that he had been staring at a deeper darkness, one that was far more than the simple absence of light.

A heart beating, that was it. The dying heartbeat in the sky.

Black.

It was black.

There is danger. Remember.

"Dexter Smith," he said, aloud. "My name is Dexter Smith."

He heard a movement by his side, and strained to look. His every muscle protested, but he managed it. There was a woman sitting on a chair, her long legs tucked up underneath her. She was waking from sleep.

He looked at her and looked again, not sure of what he was seeing. She was pretty, tall and slender, with shoulder–length blonde hair and delicate hands. And she was dying. He could see glimpses of a skeleton under the surface, the skin rotting and decaying, the smell of the grave rising from her.

He blinked and concentrated, trying to force himself to see what was really there. The images of death faded as he looked at her again, although the miasma was still apparent.

She stood up, unfolding carefully and delicately, a watchful eye on him. "Who am I?" she asked him, slowly and precisely.

He closed his eyes again and breathed out. T here is danger. Remember. My name is Dexter Smith. I am a Senator of Proxima Three. I am a war hero. I am a poker player. I am a Taurus. I am....

"Talia," he said, with a slow sigh. "You're Talia, surname variable most of the time."

"First name, too," she breathed. He looked at her for a third time and noticed the gun in her hand. She placed it on the table beside her, then walked forward and knelt by the side of the bed, taking his hand in her own. There was a flicker of electricity at the contact, and he almost jumped back. Her skin was cold and clammy, beaded with the moisture of the grave.

"I'm glad you're back," she said. "I was worried."

"There is danger," he said. "Remember."

"Yes. That's what saved us. Vindrizi kept saying it, over and over again. It.... did something. You'll have to ask him what."

"Where am I?"

"A safe haven."

"Are you alive?"

She blinked, once. "Yes," she said, pressing her hand against the side of his face. "Don't I feel alive?"

She didn't. He shivered at the touch of her skin. He could feel the bones beneath, shifting and cracking, a thousand tiny weaknesses and flaws spreading by the minute.

"I don't know," he replied. "Am I alive?"

"Yes," she breathed. "You're alive, Dexter."

"Good." He paused, biting at his lower lip. "Good."

"We'll be leaving tomorrow, as soon as you're ready to move. The others wanted to leave long ago, and most of them did, but Vindrizi said you couldn't be moved. It might be dangerous. Even taking you away from.... the warehouse might have been too dangerous."

"Death."

"He said you could do worse than die. We're leaving tomorrow, going somewhere safe."

"No such place." He looked at her and, concentrating, he could see the natural, ephemeral beauty of her face. "Where?"

"Vindrizi says there's someone who'll be able to help. I'm not sure how much of it you remember, but I'll fill you in on everything later. We're going to see Sinoval."

"Oh." He hesitated, and closed his eyes for the final time that night. He could see it again, rising from the Box.

"Good," he said finally.

* * *

us

* * *

Sebastian could hear her footsteps from the other side of the station, even the other side of the galaxy. He could close his eyes and feel the warmth of her breath and smell the scent of her fear. He had touched her once, studied her soul and her spirit, and once he had done that to someone, to anyone, he would forevermore feel them in the back of his mind, particularly when they thought of him. More than once he had dreamed their nightmares, smiling with self–satisfaction at the aftereffects of his work.

He was a man who took great pride in his job.

Still, he gave no indication that he knew of her approach, not until she was directly behind him. She had brought her companion, the one so filled with anger and hatred and barely–suppressed fear. The companion remained several feet behind, too afraid to step into the circumference of his shadow.

There had been no one to stop them, no guards. What would be the point? Nothing and no one could harm him, not while he was engaged in his holy work.

He waited for precisely two and a half seconds, to let that scent of anticipation rise from her, and then he spoke.

"A good day to you, Satai Kats," he said simply.

Another man might have expected an angry response, bitter sarcasm or the like. But not him, and not from her. He knew her. He knew her soul. She was afraid, but she had a particular kind of iron resolve. She would never mask her fear with anger, not like her companion.

Sebastian almost admired that.

"And to you, Mr. Sebastian," she replied, a cold formality in her voice.

"A marvellous view, is it not?" He gestured to the vista from the observatory. "It never ceases to remind me just how small and insignificant we are. We mortals, beneath the shadow of space, with the light from the stars so faint, so far away, and yet so beautiful. Very few are truly capable of staring into the infinite, even fewer from my home. We are a rare breed, those of us who can do that and remain unchanged."

"It is a truly an impressive sight," she acknowledged. "But tell me, to what precisely are you referring? Space, or the Vorlon fleet?"

Outside, surrounding the station, the Vorlon ships swam lazily, beautiful and terrible, with a constant air of menace. Sebastian knew she was trying to decide whether to think of them as birds or fish, flying or floating, and he scorned the triviality of her mind. She saw more than most, but she was still so.... small.

So filled with sin.

They had all been. So many of them, filled with sin and licentiousness and small dreams. They had to be purified, for the salvation of their immortal souls. He had opened them to the heavens and prayed to his Gods, prayed for the salvation of humanity. And as he had stared into the infinite in the body of the last whore, his Gods had come to him.

"Both, of course," he said simply. "It is a useful lesson to remember, for all of us. It matters not what we think we know, or what we imagine we can do. We can bestride space like a colossus, or split existence down to the smallest essence. We can walk among dead worlds and we can cross the stars.