Текст книги "Темное, кривое зеркало. Том 5 : Средь звезд, подобно гигантам.(ЛП)"
Автор книги: Гарэт Д. Уильямс
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Текущая страница: 40 (всего у книги 78 страниц)
"And yet, whatever we achieve, we are always less than we would wish."
"I seem to recall someone telling me of a race who believed the same thing."
"It is not uncommon."
"They realised they would always be less than their Gods, so they sought out their Gods and killed them, and thus they became more."
Sebastian smiled. He'd known that, of course. If she was testing him, she would have to do a great deal better than that. "That race of which you speak.... the Gods pursued them for their hubris and reduced their world to ashes and dust, as you did to my people's for their crime against you. As my people did to you in turn."
His smile grew broader – not wider, for his smile was never anything but a thin, razor line of faint colour against the pallor of his face – but longer. "Do not try to test me, Satai. Or should I call you 'my lady'?"
She twitched, once, involuntarily.
He reached forward and touched the necklace she wore. A sign of vanity. It did not matter how small or how personal, jewellery was a sign of vanity, and vanity was a sin and sins were to be punished. Her face was very close to his, and he was impressed to see fear openly expressed in her eyes. She did not try to hide it, did not try to lie, did not try to mask it with false bravado or anger.
"Have you found him yet?" she whispered.
"Your husband is long dead, Satai."
"You know of whom I am speaking."
"I know."
"He will kill you."
Sebastian's free hand caressed the silver top of his cane. His one excess, a small one, and necessary. His cane was the instrument by which he brought justice and purification. It had to look impressive to instil fear into the hearts of the unvirtuous.
"Then, Satai, you will have to wait and see. It is said that the poor hunter chases his prey. The wise hunter waits where he knows his prey will arrive. I have spent almost two years gathering information, learning his weaknesses and his vulnerabilities. He will come here, he will walk up to me, and I shall destroy him."
"He's defeated better than you."
"There are none better than me. Primarch Sinoval is coming here. I can feel the ship of the dead growing closer all the time. We know what he intends, and we will destroy him. I told you that I know all his weaknesses, Satai. All of them. It is a commendably short list."
Power crackled through his staff, and through him.
And through her.
She cried out and slumped to the floor, shaking. He tapped his cane against the floor and a wave of energy shot through the room. It poured into Tirivail before she could even move, and slammed her into the wall. She fell to the floor, unconscious and still.
Kats was still conscious, but shaking. He gently tapped his cane against the floor again and she cried out again.
"It was very convenient of you to come and find me, but I would have sent for you in any event. It will be.... oddly fitting that I destroy him here, beneath the gaze of my lords."
Kats looked up at him, and the fear in her eyes was more pronounced now.
"Weakness such as yours always leads to downfall in the end.
"Watch shortly, and I shall demonstrate."
* * *
YOU
* * *
Here we are, all of us.
There could be a worse group from which to assemble an army, but few spring to mind.
The Brotherhood Without Banners, raiders and ravagers and monsters. They sought profit and war, mercenaries and soldiers in a galaxy which, briefly, seemed to need neither. They look to me for inspiration and purpose.
The Tak'cha, over–zealous, dangerously fanatic. They are butchers who will scour the galaxy in their holy war if left unchecked, and the only leader I have given them is a man who has already betrayed more lords than I care to count.
My Soul Hunters. Not warriors, but scholars and custodians. Once they went to war and filled the whole galaxy with blood, spreading terror where they walked. Not even death was a safe haven from us. Is that the fate to which I am dooming the galaxy?
All that keeps these people together is me.
They call me a monster, they call me a heretic, a blasphemer, an abomination.
They can call me whatever they like. I do not care. Their words cannot hurt me, their anger cannot harm me, their hatred is not a weapon I fear.
Am I not still their saviour?
They call me Accursed, and they are right, but not in the way they believe.
I think they will find that every curse has a way to undo it. Nothing is written in stone, and even if it were, stones can be shattered.
I know no fear.
I feel no pain.
And I have business with you, Sebastian.
I could have hoped for more of us, but I will use what we have.
Sinoval stepped to the very edge of the precipice, staring into space. He closed his eyes.
"Susan," he said.
"Yes," came her reply. She was not here, not on the precipice, but she was inside Cathedral, and thus as near as if she stood in his own shadow.
"We are ready. Wait to a count of five hundred, and take the fleet in.
"I have faith in you."
"What...?"
It was too late.
Sinoval jumped.
* * *
WILL
* * *
Looking back at my life, it seems that until this point it was merely long, quiet years of boredom followed by a few quick and terrifying weeks in which people seemed to want to kill me.
That is not quite right, of course. My childhood years were neither long, nor, truly, boring. I had friends. I had the usual childish activities and concerns. I had family. And those few terrifying weeks were not filled with people trying to kill me. I was incidental, little more than a bystander. Of all the great players on that stage, only G'Kar knew I even existed, and his thoughts were doubtless far from me. To the rest of them – General Sheridan, Primarch Sinoval, Delenn – I was just another in a series of numbers.
Some of these great people I would meet later. Some I would not, but that does not change my point at all. Every one of those numbers is a real person, with their own lives and their own dreams. Every sentient life destroyed is a dream never to be known again. Primarch Sinoval once said that the greatest leaders are those who can look at the numbers and see just numbers and not people, or so I was told.
I cannot do that, because I remember when I was just a number. Afraid, alone, missing my home and my family so very badly, encountering death for the first time.
It is a frightening thing, to be a number.
L'Neer of Narn, Learning at the Prophet's Feet.
G'Kar ran as fast as he could from that dark and bloody charnel room, trying to force the sight of all those bodies out of his mind. He had things to do, and quickly. He could feel all his achievements and dreams running through his fingers like sand. He could see all those who had died in his quest watching him, disappointed in his failure.
There was no one out in the corridors of Babylon 5, only the security guards who stood back as he ran, looking as lost and confused as he was. There were no leaders here, and without them the station had become a drifting, rudderless thing, each person retreating into their own concerns.
Precisely as he was.
That was a frightening thought. Could something as large and noble as the Alliance really collapse from the loss of a mere handful of people? Could others really not think and act for themselves? What would happen when he and those like him died?
Had they really built utopia for a single generation?
He reached Na'Toth's office and stopped by the door, pressing the chime frantically. His heart was pounding in his chest, and he could smell again those charred bodies. He could see Narn erupting in flames, and the image merged into G'Kael's head caving in with the impact of the ceiling, then to Durano being torn apart.
The door opened, and Na'Toth admitted him. "Welcome, Ha'Cormar'ah," she said bitterly. He entered and the door closed.
The room seemed very dark, at least compared to the brightness of the corridors outside. He actually had to take a few moments to let his eyes adjust.
"I suppose that you have not heard the announcement," Na'Toth said calmly. "We are all to remain in our quarters. No ships are to enter or leave. The jump gate has been closed. The entire station, in fact the entire Alliance, is under martial law."
"The Vorlons?" he breathed.
"The Vorlons." She nodded. "Apparently there are spies of Sinoval's here, as well as numerous other traitors, and they are to be rooted out."
"Lies," he whispered, despairing. "All lies. We said things they did not like, we thought things they did not like, and...."
"That may well be true, but it is not all lies. Primarch Sinoval does have agents here."
G'Kar looked up. "You?"
She nodded.
That revelation hurt him more than he could have thought possible, more in some ways than the deaths he had just witnessed. He had trusted her.
Was there anyone who was not hiding something from him?
"How long?" he asked.
"Not long," she replied. "Less than a year. I was never.... satisfied with the Alliance, not really. Certainly not with the response to the Drazi's declaration of independence. My dislike reached certain ears and someone approached me."
"Who?"
"That's for me to know, Ha'Cormar'ah."
"What did you know?"
"If you mean about G'Kael, I did not know. If you mean certain problems with the homeworld, then yes, I did know. I knew we were supporting a group of raiders in an attack on Centauri space, but not that we had Shadow help."
"You could have...!" G'Kar paused. "No, there is no point in recriminations. I am as much to blame as anyone. Do you have a plan?"
"Indeed I do." She walked to the table and picked up a blaster and a long knife.
"You can't fight them all off on your own."
"I won't have to."
G'Kar's eyes widened.
"Yes, Ha'Cormar'ah, he is on his way here."
"You're going to turn this station into your battlefield. No, you can't do this!"
"Ha'Cormar'ah, I have the greatest of respect for everything you have achieved, but you were blind in more than one eye long before you went to Narn. Perhaps this could have been resolved peacefully, but not now. I have sent out a call to certain of our allies. Their ships will be here soon. If the Vorlons think they can take this place, they will have to fight for it."
"It will be a massacre!"
"I would rather die than live as a slave, Ha'Cormar'ah. I am sure you sympathise." She raised the knife, and G'Kar felt as though he had been transported back in time, and was watching the young and beautiful Da'Kal performing the same action.
He reeled backwards and slumped against the wall, staring at his hands. They seemed to be covered in blood. By G'Quan, was there no one he could trust, no one who would not betray him?
He glanced to one side. L'Neer was huddled in the corner of the room, rocking slowly back and forth. She looked up and met his eye, and he saw the sheer fear in hers.
He crawled over and put his arms around her. She sank into his embrace with a wail. G'Kar wished he could weep – for Lennier, for Lethke, for Da'Kal, for the Alliance, for all those who would die today. But he could not.
His one eye would not let him.
* * *
OBEY
* * *
The air was thick and heavy, the red duller and darker, the voices....
whispering
and screaming
and seductively soft and
enticing
as death
itself.
They were there, near the edge, too near, tendrils lapping over on to the world of
mortals.
They wrapped around him.
Stupid, so
stupid....
He'd known they were here. He'd been to
Golgotha
He'd seen the ruins of the
Enaid Accord
He knew they were nearby
worshipped
feared
monsters
Gods
Monsters worshipped by Gods.
You will obey us.
That was their cry, the cry of the Lords of Order
But even they obeyed someone else
The beings that waited beyond this universe, beyond the gates, beyond the
doors
Worshipped by a few
cult
conspiracy
The Lords of Order sought
changelessness
....
but even they
changed.
New rulers
New Governments
Secret members who worshipped secret Gods
Bewitched by a war millennia old
the war that had destroyed
Golgotha
and the
Enaid Accord.
Sinoval could feel himself
screaming
lost
Stupid.
A warrior
a leader
leads from the
front.
They were here
waiting
close to the edge.
He did not
fear
them
But he knew what they were and he
feared
for others
For those who did know
fear.
These creatures were fear.
Ancient
terrible
death incarnate
black hearts beating in the mausoleums of stars.
So near
whispering to him
No.
Not yet.
He was Primarch
He was Sinoval
the Accursed
the Saviour.
He had the
responsibility
the
duty
the
....
the
....
the
power!
He called out his
name
and
hyperspace parted.
The door opened and
closed
behind him.
* * *
US
* * *
Sinoval the Accursed, Primarch Majestus et Conclavus, stumbled back to real space, reeling and nauseous. He fell to his knees, the welcome weight of Stormbringer at his side. Around him power crackled, burning and forceful and pounding.
He looked up, his head almost too heavy to lift.
"Primarch Sinoval, I presume?"
* * *
YOU WILL
* * *
Susan ran as fast as she could, until she thought her lungs were going to burst into flames and her legs collapse into jelly. Never in her life had she moved with more urgency.
Each step leading to the precipice seemed steeper and higher than the last.
The Well had been angry, dark whispers resounding in her mind. It wasn't as if she wanted to hear that gibberish. Death, lots of warnings about death.
And danger.
There is danger. Remember.
Of course there was danger. They were about to besiege a space station housing the most important people in the Alliance and guarded by a massive Vorlon fleet. Of course there was danger.
And where was Sinoval?
She thought she knew, but she prayed she was wrong.
There was a figure standing on the precipice, but it wasn't Sinoval.
Moreil turned sinuously to face her.
"The Chaos–Bringer is not here," he hissed, his ugly, rasping voice hitting her like fingernails on slate.
"No," she whispered, trying to get her breath back.
"He has gone ahead of us, to bring the war to the enemy."
"Yes," she breathed.
Yes, gone ahead to take on the Vorlons in single combat, presumably. God save her from all this death–or–glory rubbish.
"Then we must follow him, and spread the fire with our footsteps."
She looked at the alien, the Shadow–spawned alien, and she saw the fanatical zeal and passion in his twisted, wrong eyes. She knew why Sinoval had spared his life, and she knew he could be used, but she didn't like it, and she didn't like associating with him.
But as she raised her head and looked at the fleet arrayed in hyperspace around Cathedral, waiting for the order, and as she remembered her purpose, she made the decision that Sinoval had always known she would have to make.
Sinoval, if we both survive this, I'm going to....
She never completed that thought. Instead she looked at Moreil.
"Yes," she said.
* * *
OBEY US
* * *
No one troubled him.
No one stopped him.
No one interfered or even looked at him
Anyone who passed him by ducked to one side, pressing themselves tightly against the corridor rather than meet his gaze.
John Sheridan had acquired a reputation amongst the Minbari when he was younger. He was the Starkiller, and more than one Minbari child had woken from nightmare visions of his face in the dark. The John Sheridan who walked through the corridors of Babylon 5 was more terrible by far than all of those dream images put together.
He reached the door he wanted, a door that was unguarded, for who would want to break in here?
It opened at his touch, and closed behind him.
From here, he could see everything around him – the Vorlon ships massed and ready, the myriad jump points opening to admit the invading fleet. He should be there to defend his station from the invaders, but he was not needed.
He paused, and looked around at the beginning of the battle.
"I'm here now ," he said at last.
* * *
It is acceptable for you to hate us. It is even right that you do so.
You hate us because we are perfect, and that perfection merely reveals your own flaws. By hating us you see this, and you accept it.
Accepting your own weakness is merely the first step towards your apotheosis. You hate us, and hatred is merely a form of envy. You hate us because you wish to be us, and that hatred will be your first step along the path to becoming us.
To becoming perfect.
Chapter 4
We have never wished you harm, never wished to hurt you, or destroy you. You are our children, and we are your parents. All parents want only the best for their children, to see them grow and learn and become strong.
But as children grow they must be forced to become other than that which they were. Children are selfish and self–centred and greedy. An adult must be different.
The very act of growth is one of change, becoming different from that which you were. So it is with the growth of your race. We shall change you, that you may grow and become something better.
And then you will never need to change again.
* * *
He liked to think he did not feel, this creature of Order, of cold and passionless regimen and duty. That was what he had been told before he was.... changed, that he would never feel again.
And certainly, that was mostly true. He had felt no fear since the day he had been reborn. He had felt no doubt. Uncertainty and grief were now just words to him, or tools with which to manipulate others.
But there were emotions there. He sometimes thought of these as wrong, but at other times he recognised them for what they were.
Pride: in himself for acknowledging his own strength and conviction.
Satisfaction: on witnessing the effect of his existence.
Joy: in the aftermath of a task well done.
Gratitude: to his Lords for enabling him to be their tool.
Hatred: for those who would seek to oppose his great and holy work.
He felt all five at once as he stared down at the prone figures of his opponents. Satai Kats, the liar, the whore, the conspirator. Tirivail, the traitress, and the traitor's daughter.
And Sinoval.
The arrogant, the Accursed, the one who could not see where his duty lay. Sebastian had seen many like him over his long years of service. Petty little men, who sought to raise their heads above the herd and cry out, a piglet bleating to its mother to show it more attention than the others, a cog in the machine that thought itself more than the machine.
Vanity and vainglory, that was all it was. Some people simply could not accept that they were a tiny part of a greater whole, and they sought to become the whole, or worse, to create an entirely new whole built around their own selfish concerns and desires.
Some of those had seen sense, had repented and recanted and returned to their positions chastened and chastised. The others had been removed, smoothly excised like the cancerous cells they were. There would be a brief and localised illness, but the whole would soon recover.
This Sinoval would be no different. He had power, yes, and, unusually, he had power both spiritual and temporal, and he wielded authority among too many. He was intelligent and quick, and possessed of devious cunning.
But he was playing games with those who had been masters of the game since time immemorial, and eventually he would lose. He was mortal after all, and mortality carried within it a flaw as basic as the need for breath or nourishment or love.
Some were flawed in many different ways, or by many different means, but all possessed at least one flaw. Some few – the blessed, or the fortunate, or the particularly virtuous – were permitted to transcend, and that flaw was removed. Some few were made perfect.
Sebastian had knelt, glorying in the holiness of the Lights Cardinal, and he had heard Their plans to render the entire galaxy perfect, as he had been rendered perfect, and he had wept with joy and exultation at such an existence.
But first, there was one matter to deal with. One little matter, and that was all he was. No matter how great or noble or heroic he thought himself, Sinoval was only a small concern in the grand scheme of things.
"Primarch Sinoval, I presume?" Sebastian said, standing over the body of his opponent.
* * *
you will obey us
* * *
Delenn did not like Babylon 5. It was not that she did not like the Alliance, or even most of the people involved in it; but she did not like the station itself. The first time she had set foot in it she had suddenly become very cold, a great fear assailing her as if from nowhere. The emotion had soon passed, and for a long time she had kept it to herself.
She had told G'Kar though, not long before he had left for Narn. He had looked surprised, and then confessed he had felt exactly the same way.
And, in common with G'Kar, she regretted the lack of a past here. Kazomi 7 reminded them all with every step what the Alliance was for. No one could look at these stones bathed in blood and not be chastened and touched. Kazomi 7 was built on the blood of the innocent and the memories of the survivors.
Babylon 5 was new, far away from Kazomi 7 – in a central position at the heart of numerous trade routes, but still far from the people the Alliance was meant to represent. Perhaps if it had existed sooner, if it had known battle and fear and death and glorious defiance as Kazomi 7 had done, then maybe it could have been the emotional centre it so desired to be.
If the station survived this onslaught, perhaps it might yet become that, and the Alliance might be strengthened by it, but Delenn doubted that very much.
The Alliance was dying, perhaps even dead. The thin, hairline cracks she had seen during the past few years had grown into mammoth fissures. Any attempt to heal them could be no more than plasters to a man missing all his limbs.
But she was a healer. She had discovered that for herself. She was a healer, and she would heal.
She would at least try.
Fortunately there were others who felt as she did. G'Kar, Lethke, Kats, David.... she tried to think of other names but faltered. Surely there were others, or had the entire Alliance become filled with warriors or cynics or opportunists? Had the good men and women become so filled with bitterness that they no longer saw even the possibility of victory without bloodshed?
She missed Lyta – but Lyta was gone, defected to join Sinoval, or so it was said. Delenn could not even find the mind of the woman who had been her closest friend.
She missed Londo, but he was close to death, burdened by his own problems and his own ill–health. She could have acted sooner to help him, to save him, but she had preferred the good of the whole Alliance over the good of one friend, or one friend's people. Just another paper–thin crack that had become a chasm.
She missed John, but he was dead, had in fact been dead for years. She should never have brought him back from the ruins of Epsilon 3. She should have left him there to live always in her memories rather than become the man who had broken her.
No, that wasn't fair, but she was hardly fit to think of him now.
She was not a wife, she was not a mother, she was not a leader.
She was a healer.
There were few, precious few who could help her, but the Alliance had been born from only a few, and perhaps it could be re–born. Lethke would have needed a great deal more stealth to have hidden his meeting from her eyes, although she had not discovered his plan until after she had returned from the garden, limping and hobbling.
These were good people, people who desired peace and tranquillity, and if they worked together....
The smell of the room hit her while she was still in the corridor. At first she hoped it was just an illusion, or a memory, but as she came closer she realised that it was real. She kept hoping, daring to believe it might be something else, right until the moment she reached the still–open door.
These were not bodies, at least not the ones she could see. They were lumps of flesh, ruptured and torn and mutilated. One piece of flesh bore a fragment of Durano's red coat. The blackened Drazi corpse could only be Taan Churok. She wept at the sight of Lethke's body.
Her heart almost stopped when she saw the all–but–headless body of a Narn, but as she looked at it closely, with the cold, dispassionate glance that can only arise from the purest fear, she saw that it was not G'Kar. The clothing and build were different, and this had to be G'Kael.
She could not see G'Kar at all, and there was only one Narn body. Perhaps he had never arrived. Perhaps he still lived. Perhaps....
"G'Kar," she whispered, holding on to that one thought. She did not know how these people had been killed, although she could suspect, but if G'Kar still lived, then maybe their lives' works would still endure.
"He.... lives," rasped a broken voice, and she turned. There was a movement behind a table which had clearly been hurled into the wall with tremendous force. It took Delenn a long moment to recognise the voice.
She moved forward cautiously, lifting the hem of her skirt and picking a slow trail across the mass of flesh. As she got close enough to look behind the table, she saw Kulomani, blood sprayed across his chest and still dripping from numerous wounds.
"At least.... I think so," he said, gasping for breath. Horrible sounds came from his chest, the grinding of countless broken bones, a grisly rasp against the faint drumbeat of his heart. "Heard voices.... from the.... other side of the.... world."
"What happened?" she asked, leaning over to touch him. He shook at the lightest caress on his chest.
"Vorlon," he said, his eyelids fluttering. "Treason.... it said." He sighed. "Can't.... feel my legs." He looked up at her, his eyes filled with sincerity and conviction. "Kill me."
"No," she said firmly, tracing the outline of the table. It was hard to tell where it ended and Kulomani began, but she managed it eventually. Both his legs were broken, probably completely shattered.
"Dying anyway."
"No," she said again, biting her lip and trying to think of some way to move the table gently. Then she looked at the mangled ruin of his lower body, and reached out to touch his upper thigh. "Can you feel that?"
"Feel.... what? You.... have to...."
"No," she said again, her decision made. It might be that he would die anyway, but she would not let him die, and she would not kill him here. "We have seen too many die," she said angrily, her hands exploring the table for a hold. "This Alliance was built after far too many deaths, and it was built to celebrate life. We have all forgotten that, myself included, but it is time to remember. I will not let you die." She found a grip and dug her fingers in sharply.
"I am a healer, you see."
She forced the table up with all her strength. Kulomani let out a loud cry and his head flopped backwards, but she managed to get the table clear, pushing it away to one side.
His legs looked even more ruined from here, but as she looked closer she saw it might not be as bad as she had initially feared. The bones were smashed, but no limb was severed, and she knew Brakiri bones to be very supple. With time and rest they would probably knit. He might even walk again – or he might not.
"Commander Kulomani," she said, looking down at him. He did not reply, and she wondered if the blood loss or shock had finally killed him, but his eyelids fluttered. "Commander Kulomani."
"Empty," he whispered. "You.... are empty."
She took his hand and pulled him up so that he swayed against her, barely upright.
"I am filled with my purpose," she said firmly. "What else do I need?"
His head bobbed, and he seemed to be nodding. "What.... else.... indeed?"
* * *
You will obey us
* * *
She took a deep breath. She should be angry. No one could fault her for being angry. In fact, no one could fault her for being absolutely bloody furious. And she was.
But she was also ready. Unlike last time, she understood the need for this. Sinoval could not be everywhere, and his mystique drew on his personal power and force of will as much on legend. He had to be seen. Besides, he obviously had things to do which were more important than leading his bloody fleet.
She knew the objectives, and the reasoning behind it. Babylon 5 was the centre of the Alliance, an important symbol. It was also the current location of a lot of important people who would have to be rescued.
Susan had a very uncomfortable feeling she would have to destroy the station in order to save it.
She looked out at her fleet, trying to breathe slowly. Sinoval thought her capable of this. He must have done, or he would not have gone on ahead. He certainly wouldn't have jeopardised everything just for a single blaze–of–glory mission, would he?
She gritted her teeth, and began to speak.
"Is everyone ready?"
Her voice would go out across her fleet. All of them could hear her, and she could hear all of them.
"We are ready," replied the cold, dead, emotionless voice of Marrago, leader of the ragtag army formed from the remains of the Brotherhood Without Banners.
"To war we go, with no fear or doubt," said another. "May our ancestors watch over us." Susan had no doubt that Marrain and the Tak'cha were ready and fearless.
"Yes," came a simple reply, spoken no doubt through teeth as gritted as her own. Vizhak had watched his homeworld fall under the grip of the Vorlons, only barely managing to escape himself. He had been another of Sinoval's private projects, but he had worked to gather as many of his people as he could. Hungry and angry and filled with desire for revenge.
The Soul Hunters did not reply, but Susan could feel their acceptance vibrating through the Well. They would go through anything for their Primarch.
What a mess this was. In one way or another the three commanders of the fleet were all dead men, trapped and lost in grief. They were the renegades and the monsters and the bandits and the dispossessed.
They were an army of freaks.
Susan touched the pattern of scars on her face and felt the whisper of her mother's touch in the back of her mind.
She was a freak as well.
"You all know the plans," she said. "Hold the Vorlons back from the station, assemble a boarding party. If we can drive the whole fleet away, so much the better, but that's secondary. There's a list of people we have to get off the station before the really heavy fighting begins."
