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

Автор книги: Гарэт Д. Уильямс

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Текущая страница: 41 (всего у книги 78 страниц)

She paused.

"And if a single one of you puts revenge above the overall plan, I'll personally skin him alive.

"Let's go."

* * *

You will obey us

* * *

Sinoval lifted his head and opened his eyes. Around him he could hear the screams, the waiting, anticipating

things

from elsewhere, from behind the barriers of hyperspace. The

things

the Vorlons had brought through.

The human was standing there, still, not breathing, a faint, satisfied smile on his face.

"You would be Sebastian," Sinoval whispered.

The journey through hyperspace had never felt like that before. The Aliens were nearer than he had suspected. He had seen their city in the dreamscape where Sheridan and he had been imprisoned, but that had not been entirely real, just the reflection of the night sky in a lake filled with the black blood of the dying.

The things that had reached out to him in hyperspace were real, terrifyingly real, and close to breaking through.

"I am. Inquisitor Sebastian of the Order of Seekers for Truth and Penitence, to allow myself my full title."

"Of course." Sinoval coughed, trying to remember how to breathe, trying to remember how to force his heart to keep beating. "Formality." He sat back on his heels. "Sinoval, once of the Wind Swords, Primarch Majestus et Conclavus, Lord of Cathedral."

"Formality indeed," Sebastian intoned. "It is always good to meet with politeness, with someone who recognises that manners are inherently necessary in a diplomatic meeting such as this. In the interests of formality, may I inform you that the Lights Cardinal of the Vorlon High Command have ordered you placed under arrest for various and sundry crimes against the natural order of the galaxy. You are to be transported to Their August Presence, alive if possible, but should you resist I am to take you to them dead. Do you understand me?"

"Perfectly," he breathed. His breath was coming more strongly now, and his body was beginning to feel more normal. His muscles were tense, ready for the explosion of motion that would begin this. His fingers slowly curled around Stormbringer's hilt.

"Those who have aided or assisted you in your crimes are also to be placed under arrest," Sebastian added. "I have already begun this process."

He stepped to one side, a single tap of his cane on the floor punctuating the motion.

Kats was there, lying still and unconscious on the floor.

She was not dead. Even weakened and confused, Sinoval could see that, but she was hurt. The sight of her fragile, gentle beauty touched him in a way he could not have anticipated. It had been two years or more since he had last seen her, before Golgotha, before Sheridan, before the black heart of night beating in the necropolis crafted by dreams.

It had been easy to push her out of his mind, but now she was here before him, vulnerable and wounded, and he had not been expecting her.

The Well tried to cry out a warning to him, but the voice was distant and he did not react as quickly as he should have done. He tried to move forward, but Sebastian was ready for him. The cane swung in a smooth, graceful semi–circle and smashed into the side of his head. He fell, reeling, stunned by the electricity crackling from the length of the cane.

"I am authorised, and indeed requested," Sebastian said, "to use whatever force I deem necessary in the pursuit of my duty."

He struck Sinoval again.

* * *

You will obey us

* * *

For Senator Dexter Smith, sleep was not something to be welcomed. Not now. It was not that he suffered from insomnia, in fact that would have been preferable. It was that when he slept he dreamed of the grave, of worms eating his flesh, of cold damp soil filling his mouth and his eyes, of skin cracking and rotting and becoming dust.

He had to will himself to wake, and then there was nothing to do but stare up at the ceiling, careful not to wake Talia. She was sleeping well, and he supposed he should envy her that, but he could not. He doubted he could envy anyone anything.

He could hardly bring himself to touch her. Her skin was cold and clammy, her hair smelled of mist in a graveyard, her heartbeat was the slow, dying thud of a drum whose drummer is losing strength.

Sometimes she felt warm, and at those times he let her stay with him and sleep beside him. They did nothing else. He could hardly bring himself to touch her, or anyone else. He could not bring himself to kiss her. It was only the gentle touch of her mind that made her presence bearable.

It was not that he had stopped feeling for her. He doubted he would ever do that, but he could see no point in anything. He could see only death in everything and everyone. Even in her.

Little things provoked strange memories within him. He thought about kissing her, and he remembered the first girl he had ever kissed, only now she was not full of life, with a shy glint in her eyes and shaking almost as hard as himself. Now she was a hollow skeleton, her lips blue with cold and skin that broke at his touch, revealing emptiness beneath.

Every other memory he had was the same. Everyone he remembered was dead, a skeleton, a revenant.

Was that what death was like, he wondered frequently, the slow and gradual corruption of all the good memories, until all that remained were the bad, and there was no reason to carry on?

Fortunately he had a reason. Those creatures, the things from elsewhere, had to be stopped. He had to stop them, because he had seen one, and without the training and discipline of the telepaths who had shared the experience, he had seen and experienced more. It had been driven back, back into the Apocalypse Box from which it had emerged, but it was still there, and he could feel it every time he looked at a living – or dying – being.

That was his goal, but there were things he had to do first.

"You're crazy," Talia said to him one day when he told her of his plan. They had spoken such words before, about one insane plan after another. The breaking into the hospital to rescue Delenn was yet another memory that had turned to ashes, for they had got there to find Delenn already dead and yet they had brought her out anyway, but this time the words were spoken without jest. No joking. No banter.

He supposed he was. No one could look upon that thing and remain sane. No one could look unprotected upon the infinity that was another universe and not see things differently.

He was a human being, and he was still alive. That was what he told himself when he doubted, as he did so very often.

"I have to do this," he had replied simply.

"At least take me with you."

"No."

"We should leave soon," said the Vindrizi. Dexter did not like to look at him. The body was human, but the force animating it was something entirely different. The human body was fallible and weak, and he could see the flaws running through it, tiny fault lines far beneath the surface. But that did not matter to the Vindrizi itself, a being with an existence of hundreds of millennia. It could wait and live on. It didn't matter to Dexter either. It didn't matter how long any lifespan was – all things died, and one day the Vindrizi would die too. And it would cease to exist with an even greater fear than that experienced by humans.

"I must do this," he had said again.

Neither of them understood. Or perhaps they had understood and he had not noticed. Regardless, he was convinced it was right that he do this. He was human, not a machine, not a walking corpse. He was human, and he would repay his debts.

That was why he found himself looking up at the impressively tall Edgars Building, home of Interplanetary Expeditions, looking at the cracks in the plexiglass and plasteel. That was why he found himself waiting outside the office of its secretive controller and conspirator, Mr. William Edgars.

He had wondered if an old man would be more obviously dying than the younger people he had seen. To his slight surprise, that was not the case. Everything was dying equally.

Death begins with life, after all.

* * *

You will obey us

* * *

And so the ships came through, bringing war to the place built to symbolise peace.

The Drazi, a race punished and sanctioned and enslaved.

The Tak'cha, a race of exiles, without home, without understanding, without atonement.

The Brotherhood Without Banners, raiders and outlaws and murderers and monsters.

The Soul Hunters.

The Vorlons were waiting for them, of course.

* * *

You will obey us

* * *

.... never need to change again.

The Vorlon's voice was seductive and soft, the voice of a kindly uncle comforting a young child who does not understand the way the world works. It was the voice of wisdom, of the understanding of a teacher or a friend.

General John Sheridan did not need a lesson in how the world worked. He was not a young child, and he did not need wisdom.

What he needed, what he understood he needed, beneath the raging anger and the howling emptiness, behind the legion of ghosts staring at him with blank, unforgiving eyes....

What he needed was answers.

the Vorlon continued.

General John Sheridan looked up at the Vorlon, past the patterns swirling and writhing on its bone–white suit, past the fluttering of distant wings, into the pale glow of its eye stalk.

"What do I say?" he asked.

He paused.

"I say....

"Cut the crap."

* * *

You will obey us

* * *

He was heavy, heavier than any living being should ever be no matter how large or muscular, and Kulomani was neither. He was weighed down with the burden of having seen death.

Fortunately for him, Delenn possessed the strength of one who has also seen death and does not fear it. She could not carry him, but she could drag him. His left arm rested across her shoulders and his right arm pushed against the walls, providing just enough pressure to keep his battered legs sliding across the floor.

He had said very little since they had left the charnel room, although every step had torn new cries of pain from him. For her part Delenn was content with the absence of words. She did not want to speak. She wanted to think.

Every building is created one stone at a time, one brick on top of another. So had it been with the original Alliance, and so it would be with the new Alliance. Currently there were Delenn and Kulomani, but G'Kar had survived, so there would be a third. That would have to be a start.

The journey to G'Kar's quarters was long, but mostly uneventful. There was no one in the corridors. A few security guards had been posted at the transport tubes to enforce the curfew she had not ordered. They backed aside wordlessly at the look in her eyes.

She could hear irregular, echoing clangs – the sound of a battle outside, debris hitting the hull. She did not know who was fighting, and it did not matter. Her concern was here.

The door to the Narn Ambassador's quarters was locked, as she had expected. She pressed the chime, and was not terribly surprised to find that it didn't work. Finally she resorted to knocking.

There was no reply.

She knocked again.

Still no reply.

"Someone is there," she whispered to herself. She could hear movement. Narns were seldom stealthy, with a few notable and terrifying exceptions. "G'Kar!" The sound of movement grew louder, and there seemed to be a scuffle.

"In nominus Primus," rasped Kulomani, struggling to lift his head. "Es su dest." His head slumped again, as if the effort of those six words had exhausted him.

The door opened and Na'Toth stood framed in the entrance.

"In nominus Primus, es su dest," she repeated. Kulomani nodded weakly, and she stepped aside.

Delenn led him in, mentally translating the words. They made some sort of sense to her. In the name of.... something, so is.... what is come. The future. In the name of something, so is the future.

Several things happened at once. Na'Toth closed the door, she laid Kulomani down on a stone table, she saw G'Kar slumped against a wall, a cut on his face and a Narn girl clutching at his side, and she realised what the word meant.

"Primarch," she whispered. "Primarch!"

"No," Na'Toth said acidly. "Not me, but someone I work for." She looked at Kulomani. "Someone we work for."

G'Kar moved forward. "Kulomani! I thought you were dead, but.... Sinoval!" He looked at Na'Toth. "Both of you. He is the one who introduced you...." He paused, and looked up at Delenn. "This has been a very confusing day," he said finally, with an air of exhaustion.

Delenn smiled sadly and sweetly, and stepped forward, her arms open. G'Kar was strong and warm and she held him tightly.

Their embrace lasted for a few moments and then she pulled back, her smile fading. Gently she reached up and touched the long scar across his eye. "A most confusing day, indeed."

He nodded. "Kulomani, how is...."

"He will live," Na'Toth said, from where she was standing beside him. "Or he will die. Most of us do in the end, but I doubt he will die today."

"I thought you were dead," G'Kar said. "I would never have...."

"So did I, Ha'Cormar'ah," the Brakiri said.

"Any others? If you survived, then...." Delenn shook her head, and G'Kar bowed his. "Then what now?" he asked.

"We survive," Delenn said firmly. "And we rebuild. We have survived, and we still care about the ideals of the Alliance. We must salvage what and whom we can, and rebuild."

G'Kar looked terribly sad. "I do not think that will be possible."

"But the four of us...."

"Peace is a delusion," Na'Toth said. "You do not seek to negotiate with your enemies. You destroy them."

"Sinoval," she whispered, comprehension dawning. G'Kar had said as much, but she had hardly heard. Only now did the words and the meaning sink in. "Both of you."

"Both.... of us," Kulomani said.

"And others," Na'Toth added.

Delenn looked helplessly at G'Kar, then staggered back against the wall, sinking helplessly to the floor, clutching her knees tight against her body. She wanted to think of something to do, but she was suddenly so tired.

What had Kulomani said? She was empty.

That was not true. She had her purpose. All she lacked was the next step.

She was suddenly aware of a presence next to her. Looking up, she saw the little Narn girl. She had been aware that G'Kar had returned with a child, but she had not enquired further.

"Is something wrong?" the girl asked solicitously.

"Yes," she said. "A great many things. I am sorry, little one. I have not told you my name. I am Delenn."

"My name's L'Neer," said the child.

Delenn's resolve crumbled at the sound of the name. She looked up at G'Kar, who looked away rather than admit the truth she had now recognised.

Everywhere she looked, everyone she knew....

They were all dead.

She opened her arms and L'Neer came to her. She held the girl tight and wished she could cry, but, like G'Kar, she had no tears left.

* * *

You will obey us

* * *

"Do I look like a tactician?"

Susan could see everything from the pinnacle. At times like this she could understand Sinoval's eternal sense of superiority. Standing here, seemingly on top of the world, she could see them all. The ships seemed so close she almost felt she could reach out and touch them.

No wonder Sinoval acted as if he were a God. Standing here, he practically was.

The battle was going better than she had cause to expect, but that was still not particularly good. The Vorlons were too many, and too powerful. Not to mention the defences of the station itself. The fleet was disorganised, fighting in small units rather than one cohesive whole.

Still, she had to admit that those small units were fighting well, especially the Drazi. They were completely heedless of any sort of tactics or fear and were impossibly relentless. She had seen at least two damaged Sunhawks deliberately throw themselves into a Vorlon ship.

The Tak'cha were swarming their enemy, using very impressive hit–and–run tactics. Guerrilla warfare, almost. Someone had been training them.

The Brotherhood were chaotic and random, but that very randomness allowed them some leeway. Marrago had identified key targets, and the Brotherhood were taking them out. Most of the defence grid had already been shut down.

And the Soul Hunters and Cathedral.... they were fighting as one unit, directed by one guiding mind.

Susan would be the first to admit she was no tactician, but when her army had two expert generals and the combined knowledge of millennia guiding it, she did not have to be.

But even she could see that they would be lost if things carried on like this. They had managed to force a small breach in the station and she hoped a boarding party had made it on board, but she could not be entirely sure.

She wished she could see inside.

And with that thought, she could. The station seemed to rush towards her, and she almost jumped out of the way for fear of a collision, but the walls passed around her and suddenly she was inside.

"Well, this is.... interesting," she breathed.

Navigating the scene was far from easy, but she managed to move herself around. There was a boarding party, led by.... surprise, surprise, Marrain himself. He and the Tak'cha were fighting a group of Security officers, and doing well.

Now where the hell were the people they had to get out? Susan ran through the list. Delenn, Sheridan, G'Kar, Kulomani, Na'Toth, David, and she really hoped he was all right. It was just like him to get caught in a mess like this.

Where were they?

All of a sudden she could feel Sheridan's presence. Casting around, she tracked him down.

There was a room filled with light. Sheridan was looking at a Vorlon clad in pasty bone–white armour, mottled and spotted. The Vorlon seemed to be looking directly at her, but it evidently did not notice her. It was speaking to Sheridan.

"What do I say? I say....

"Cut the crap."

Susan took in the scene, and paused.

Then she knew what she had to do, and shouted out one word as loudly as she could.

"Lorien!"

* * *

You will obey us

* * *

I am a warrior. I am Minbari. I am of the Wind Swords.

We are cold, the cold of stone, the cold of winter. A hard people and a harsh land.

Sebastian struck him again, the power thundering through his body, pain crackling along his nerves.

We were feared because we knew no fear. We would use the bodies of our brothers as weapons if we had to, and know that they would use our bodies as weapons should we fall.

The stories he had told Susan, the stories of Marrain and the Wind Swords, surged within him. There were other stories as well, all living in one. Tales of Shingen, of Parlain.

They called our armies the coming of the cold, and they feared us, because we feared nothing.

Sebastian struck him again.

No loss, no grief, no sorrow, no pain could deflect us from our task.

And again.

The coming of the cold.

Sebastian brought his cane back for another blow.

I am Sinoval.

He pushed forward and caught the cane as it came forward. The sparkling blue lightning crackled along its length and burned into the skin of his palm. He could smell his flesh singe and burn, but he kept up the iron grip.

Sebastian displayed no emotion, assuming he ever did.

It was a pity, Sinoval thought. Sebastian would have made a fine Wind Sword.

Then he remembered Kats lying still, and that lent him new resolve. He fought back, hauling himself up, straining, his feet digging into the floor. Still grasping firmly to the glowing shaft of Sebastian's cane he let himself weaken just a little, just a small step back. Then, as Sebastian fell, he pushed harder, releasing the cane.

Sebastian crashed hard against the far wall, the impact obviously jarring him. Sinoval grabbed Stormbringer from where it had fallen. The hilt was cold against the charred flesh of his hands, but that did not trouble him.

He was the cold.

The coming of the cold.

Sebastian moved forward, more swiftly than Sinoval had anticipated. The human's face was expressionless, but his dark eyes revealed his anger.

"There is nothing," Sebastian said simply, "that can save either you or your fleet. You do understand that?"

"I do not fear," Sinoval rasped. "I am a warrior of the Wind Swords. Mine is the cold, the stone, the throne of rock studded with spikes as a reminder that the life of a warrior is pain. Mine is the huge hall of the chill air."

"Shirohida," Sebastian said, carefully. "A thousand years dead and gone, nothing but a burned–out wreck even before your world died."

"No," came the reply. "It lives.... here, within me."

"Interesting. So what are you then? Minbari, or Soul Hunter? Warleader, or Primarch?"

"I cannot be both?"

"For as a mortal man hath but one soul, so hath he but one purpose, and that purpose is to serve. And no man may serve more than one master. You are divided, and division is a flaw. I see we had little need to pursue you. Left to your own devices you would have collapsed in pieces. You are no conciliator, no unifier, no melder of broken peoples. You are trying to be too many things. Where is the real Sinoval?"

Sinoval did not reply. With each moment his breath grew easier, his muscles harder, his body stronger. With each moment the pain was less. Let him talk.

"Buried beneath so many words, like a cheap doll covered in countless layers of paint. One person saw the real Sinoval, did she not, and where is your precious Deeron now? She fled from your bed, and died at your hand. There is no one alive who knows you, who can see anything but illusion upon disguise. No one...."

Sebastian stopped, and a sly smile of triumph spread across his face.

"I do apologise," he said. "It appears I was mistaken."

Behind him Kats began to stir, then she rose to her feet.

* * *

You will obey us

* * *

"Senator Smith, always a pleasure. I had almost thought you had gone into hibernation, hmm?"

That was a joke. He did not find it funny. Hibernation was a long sleep, and sleep was just a death from which you awoke. Or was it the other way around – that death was a sleep from which you never awoke?

"Mr. Edgars," he said. "Good morning."

The old man looked at him. The dying old man looked at him. Smith thought he had built up some resistance to this sort of thing by now, but he had not. The sight of the grinning skull beneath Edgars' permanently machiavellian expression unnerved him.

Edgars tapped the commpanel on his desk, deep in thought. "Miss Hampton," he said.

"Yes, sir."

"I believe I have an appointment with Mr. Zento later this morning."

"Yes, sir. In two hours."

"Inform him that something has come up unexpectedly and I will be unavailable. In fact, I will be unavailable all day."

"Yes, sir."

Edgars sat back, fingers steepled in front of his face, masking his expression. Smith liked that. Skeletal fingers were preferable by far to the sight of that grinning skull.

"You've changed," Edgars said. "I've seen that expression in people before, some young men, some very old. I was a little younger than you when I first saw it on myself in a mirror."

Smith said nothing, content to let him talk.

"You've seen something, or done, or felt, or experienced something. Whatever it is, it's completely changed your entire world–view, hasn't it? When we are young, we have such clear ideals, such a precise understanding of the world and our place in it, and then occasionally something happens to shatter all that. Where once there was certainty, now there is only doubt.

"I saw it in myself when I first spoke to a telepath. I had seen them before of course, and I had always known of their existence, but it was the first time I had spoken to one.... I could sense her superiority beneath the surface. Despite the uniform and the badge and the gloves, she still behaved as if she was better than us."

He sat forward.

"And do you know what? She was right. They are better than us. They have a power that I cannot comprehend. Oh, I can imagine it, but I can never know for certain. That revelation, that I was a second–class citizen because of something missing in my mind, in my DNA.... well, that changed me. I saw everything differently from that moment.

"You've seen something as well, haven't you? What is it? I assume that's what you came here to tell me?"

Smith nodded and walked forward, one hand still in the pocket of his trousers. He pulled the PPG out and laid it on the desk. Edgars leaned back again, looking up at him.

"I've seen Death," he said simply.

* * *

You will obey us

* * *

The whole thing took no more than a second:

Ah, child. You have called for me. How are things progressing?

Badly. You did know you were sending me to a death–or–glory bloodhound with delusions of Godhood, didn't you?

I knew he was flawed, yes. Were he perfect there would be little need of your intervention. How is his training progressing?

It's weird. Sometimes I think I've got somewhere, but then he goes and does something totally alien, or stupid, or incomprehensible, or all three, like now for instance. He's gone off alone and dumped all this on me.

Perhaps he sees you as his successor.

Once, I can accept. Last time, it wasn't really as if he had a choice – but he's the leader here, not me!

Ah, a battle. I see.

Anyway, I can moan about him later, if there is a later. You said I could call on you once, and you'd help me, right? Whatever it was.

I did, although my power to intervene is perhaps not as overwhelming as you may think.

Whatever. I don't know quite how this seeing thing works, but I can see John. He's talking with one of the Vorlons.

Yes, so he is.

I.... you can see it?

Through your eyes, yes.

Oh.... good. I want everyone to see it. Hear it, too. Everyone on the station, in the fleet, the lot.

That may risk revealing my involvement to the Vorlons.

Then risk it.

Do you believe this is so important?

I wouldn't ask if I didn't. What he's saying, it's something everyone has to hear. That's what you kept telling me, that this isn't just a war about armies or territory, it's about ideology and belief and philosophy and them trying to dictate what's best for all of us.

Yes.

Well, I think John's about to tell them all that their ideology stinks, and it's something everyone should hear. There are too many people who think the Vorlons are a necessary evil, even after what they did to Narn. We can't afford to let any more planets be destroyed before people finally get up and do something. The more people who hear this conversation, the more people will act now. Do you get me?

Perfectly.

You did promise. Any one thing, and you'd do it.

I did. Very well. It is perhaps a little too late for me to continue to hide, and time I should 'get up and do something'.

That's not what I meant.

No, it is. I will do as you ask.

The whole conversation took less than a second.

* * *

You will obey us!

* * *

His breath was as fire from his lungs, his eyes were as cold as the halls that had given him birth, his blade was as black as blood at midnight.

Any lesser man would have been intimidated, but Sebastian was not a lesser man. He was a man who had stared at infinity and survived with both purpose and sanity.

Kats looked at the tableau as she rose, coughing and shaking, and she could feel the power crackling in the air between them. Sebastian was talking, but the words hardly registered. Sinoval said nothing, or if he did speak, she could not hear the words.

And then Sebastian paused, and she had the impression that he was smiling.

"I do apologise," he said. "It appears I was mistaken."

He turned and looked at her. She saw in him then the eyes of a murderer, the eyes of a monster who knows too much and understands too little. She had faced madmen before, and she knew then that Sebastian was not mad.

He was coldly, chillingly sane, the kind of sanity that cannot tolerate any madness at all, no matter how insignificant.

"My lady," he said, and the words cut her to the quick. He was holding his cane in one hand, tapping the silver top in the palm of the other. "It is so nice of you to join us. We were having a spirited discussion. Perhaps you can help us. What, in your opinion, is Primarch Sinoval?"

She did not look at Sinoval, keeping her eyes fixed on Sebastian despite the gorge rising in her throat. Her hand clutched her necklace so tightly that it drew blood.

"What does that matter?" she asked.

"He seems to be under the delusion that he is a hero. What do you think of that?"

"I don't know."

"Really. How disappointing. I know that you do not know who you are, but I had hoped at least that you knew who he was."

"He's a good man," she said, breathing slowly. "He has done bad things, and he is capable of doing horrible things. To be honest, I am more scared of him sometimes than of anyone else I have ever known.

"Including you.