He did not know how long he lay there, shaking, lying in his own vomit. Patches of conversation reached his ears, but he dared not even try to hear with his mind.
"No! We need one of them alive."
"They won't tell us anything. The last ones certainly haven't." That was the man, the mundane with the scar. Chen felt he should know him, but he just could not think clearly enough.
"Then maybe this one will. We certainly won't find out anything if we kill him." That was a woman's voice, but he did not know who she was.
"Another one dead, though. Was this worth it? Look at him, throwing up like a student celebrating his birthday." Chen felt his contempt and there was a moment's anger within him. Who was this mundane to criticise him? Him! He was a telepath, one of the special few, not some mundane, ten-a-penny mouse.
"At least she died free, not in one of their machines. We're doing something here. Each step we take is a step closer to ending all this."
"If you say so," the mundane grunted. "I'll take your word for it."
Chen rolled over and looked up at them. The woman was shorter than the man, and despite signs of strength and conviction in her face, he looked so much stronger than her. Of course she was a telepath and he was a mundane, but it was odd to see him taking orders from her like that.
"You shouldn't have tried to do that," the woman said, noticing Chen's efforts to rise. "It's more than a little disorienting the first time. And the second, come to that. It'll get easier though, once you've communed with the artefact."
"Artefact?"
"You'll see. We'd better get out of here, quickly. We can explain later."
Chen looked at the mundane, and suddenly he remembered who he was. "You're Captain Ben Zayn," he said. "You work for Mr. Bester."
"I work for her now," he said, pointing at the woman. "And so do you. It's the least you can do in return for us saving your life."
"Who are you?" he said to her. "What were those things? What did they want with me?"
"Do you believe in evil?" she asked simply.
Chen blinked. "I…. I don't know. I've never really thought about it. Why?"
"Those things are evil. What they do with telepaths is evil. We'll tell you all about it, but you'll wish we hadn't once you know everything. You really will. You can call me Talia. I know who you are."
"How…?" Chen stopped. He believed her when she said there would be explanations later.
He also believed her when she said he would not like the answers.
* * *
Whispers from the Day of the Dead — IFor one night, and one night alone, Brakir belonged to the ghosts. Marrago could see them moving through the streets of their cities, costumes of flamboyant whites and golds, masks and banners and jewellery.
There were many strangers here this night, aliens come to witness an event that most would never see in their lifetimes again. The Day of the Dead. Some came merely to say they had been there. Some came seeking answers to what lay beyond. Some came hoping for one last word with a loved one, now passed away. Marrago had his reasons for being here, and they had little to do with his mission for Sinoval. For six months he had been scouring the galaxy seeking soldiers and mercenaries and sellswords. Now he had a force of nearly thirty, with at least two he trusted as lieutenants. He had given them command, and he had come here.
They had tried to argue against him travelling alone, but he had come anyway, despite their protests. There was a price on his head from the Court, and there had already been three attempts at claiming it. He was still a recognisable figure and his refusal to cut his hair only made him the more recognisable.
But still he came alone. This was something he had to do alone.
As he walked beneath the night sky of Brakir, seeing the glow of the comet passing overhead, he spotted other outsiders, others here seeking…. perhaps the same things he was seeking.
A Minbari woman was standing on a balcony above him. She was short, slender and pretty, and her bearing spoke of power. She was looking up into the sky, and toying absently with an amulet draped around her neck. A human, his clothes stained and muddy, was sitting in a corner of an alley, starting at shadows and whispering names under his breath. A Narn, one Marrago knew he recognised, walked into the doorway of a temple, where hundreds of Brakiri knelt in prayer and meditation.
And a Brakiri, wearing the uniform of a captain in the Dark Star fleet, walked purposefully towards an abandoned building. He stopped before it, staring silently for a long, long time.
Marrago moved past them all. They had their own stories, but so did he.
He had rented a room in a quiet inn, not remotely surprised that the enterprising landlord had increased the rent tenfold for the Day of the Dead. He had paid. The funds he had gathered from various mercenary jobs were not inconsiderable, and what else did he have need to buy?
He sat down, trying to remember what he had been told. 'The dead will come to you.'
"Are you here?" he asked softly. "Lyndisty, are you here?"
There was no answer. He was not sure if he had been expecting one. The whole concept of the Day of the Dead sounded strange to him, and he had been weaned on ghost stories, usually bloody and melodramatic. His father had disapproved, of course.
But if there was even a chance, however slight, that he could see her again…. There were some things he had to say to her.
Softly behind him there came gentle footsteps, whispered breaths of the dead. His breath became very cold in his mouth. And he turned.
It was not Lyndisty.
A man was standing before him, young and handsome, dressed in the uniform of a Centauri officer, a kutari at his side. For a moment Marrago did not know this man, but then he spoke, and there was understanding. "Jorah?" the man said. "Jorah, is that you?"
Only one person had ever called him that. Even to Londo he had always been known as Marrago.
"Barrystan," he whispered.
"By the Great Maker," Barrystan said. "Look at you. You look old."
"I am old," Marrago said. "Older than I look. Sometimes older than I feel. But you…. you look just like you did when you…." He stopped, not knowing how to say the word 'died'.
"Has it been that long, then?" Barrystan sat down, as did Marrago. "How long has it been? Time doesn't seem to pass the same way there."
"It must be…. twenty-five years. Perhaps even more. Yes, twenty-five years since Immolan."
"Twenty-five years? Great Maker! That explains why you look so old." He suddenly straightened. "Lyndisty! How is she? She must be a young woman by now. Did you….? Is she…? Did you even hear me when I asked you to look after her? I don't remember."
Marrago fell silent. He remembered hearing his old friend's last request to him. A young wife, a baby daughter. Could he look after them?
How could he tell Lyndisty's father that she was dead?
"I heard you," he said. "She is fine. A beautiful young woman."
"Is she married yet?"
"No, but there are several candidates. I think she enjoys the attention. She has…. a way of looking at the young men, a way of moving her eyes that draws them all in. She got that from your sister. Exactly the same tilt of the head."
"And Drusilla?"
Another pause, as Marrago thought of something to say. Drusilla had become selfish and spoiled and shrewish. The two of them spent as little time together as they could. She played the Game of Houses and took young lovers to her bed and enjoyed intrigues and gossip.
But he remembered a time when he had danced with her at Barrystan's wedding, and watched her eyes sparkle with love for his friend, her new husband. He remembered as the light in her eyes died when he told her of his death. He had married her for honour, and she him for protection. There had never been love there. Her capacity for love had died when he had.
"She is well," he said simply.
"You did it, then?" Barrystan said. "Thank you, Jorah. Many would not have…. Thank you." Marrago did not say anything. There was very little to say. He had come here hoping, praying, for a chance to talk with Lyndisty one last time, to tell her he loved her one last time, to tell her that she had been the light illuminating his world.
He had never expected that he would have to tell the truth to one of his oldest friends twenty-five years after he had died.
"I cannot believe how old you look," Barrystan said again.
"I am old. I have been old for a very long time."
"Still playing at war? Are you Lord-General now?"
"I was. I…. serve the Republic in another way now. One better suited to my talents."
"What fool of an Emperor let you go from being Lord-General? Who is Emperor now, anyway? Turhan cannot still be alive?"
"He's been dead for a while. No…. a…. you won't believe this. Londo Mollari. Emperor Mollari II."
"Mollari? Never! Well…. he got it after all. The thing he wanted most in all the world."
"The thing he wanted most as a young man. I think now he only sits on that throne because there is no one else. Age…. is an…. uncomfortable thing, Barrystan. I am not sure if I would not have preferred to have died like you, a young man, still with all my hopes and aspirations and dreams."
"You saw my daughter grow up. You made love to my wife while my ashes were floating in the night winds. You could breathe clean air. You could drink warm brivare and eat fine foods. You are alive, Jorah. Death is a cold place, sometimes. Enjoy life while you have it."
What could he say? That he had watched Lyndisty die, that he had seen Drusilla shun his every gentle touch, that he had breathed air filled with the ashes of his people, that he had tasted only blood and bones?
Life was a cold place sometimes as well.
"Did we ever listen when we were young men, Barrystan? Some things do not change with age."
"No, I suppose they don't. Well, Jorah. Since you've awoken me from whatever it was I was doing, at least try to listen to me. You aren't that old, and whatever has happened to you, you are still alive, and it can always be made better. There is no going back when you are dead. There is nothing."
"Really?" Marrago whispered. He did not want to believe that. He did not want to believe Lyndisty had an eternity of nothing stretched out before her. "There must be something? Heaven, Hell? The infinite pleasure palaces of Emperor Creoso?"
"Whatever there is, I have not found it. You are alive, Jorah. So live!"
"Which of us is older now, friend?" he said.
"You, by at least three years, but that does not mean wisdom, does it?"
"Probably not."
"Be sure to tell Lyndisty I love her. I wish I could have seen her one last time. And Drusilla. I never loved anyone as much as I loved her."
"I will tell them," Marrago breathed, trying to hold back the tears filling his eyes.
"And remember." The voice seemed to be coming from a very long way away. "You're alive, Jorah. Don't ever forget that."
"I won't.
"I won't."
* * *
The Centauri were one of the oldest of the younger races, and certainly one of the proudest. The Shadow War had seen their ancient civilisation totter and almost fall, but a combination of luck, outside assistance and the dedicated leadership of Emperor Mollari II ensured its safety.
But as the Centauri were soon to learn, victory sometimes costs more than defeat. The enforced treaty by which the Republic joined the Alliance would soon cripple them. The cost of building Babylon 5 hit them no harder than it did many others, but the extent of military aid demanded for the Alliance fleet meant leaving many worlds undefended, a fact of which numerous raiders were more than willing to take advantage.
The Republic was also to bear the brunt of the feared Inquisitors, dispatched by the Vorlons to seek out any who had aided the Shadows during the war. Before this period the Inquisitors had been no more than legend. The first confirmed sighting was in 2259, with the testing of Delenn and John Sheridan, the second in 2262, when Satai Kats was interrogated by the most feared of them all, the human known as Sebastian.
Until now, they had only been seen singly. That soon changed.
And they were not even the greatest of Emperor Mollari's problems.
SANDERS, G. (2295) Prime Among Peers: A Study of Emperor Mollari II and the
Centauri Republic he Led. Chapter 2 of The Rise and Fall of the United
Alliance, the End of the Second Age and the Beginning of the Third, vol. 4,
The Dreaming Years. Ed: S. Barringer, G. Boshears, A. E. Clements,
D. G. Goldingay & M. G. Kerr.
* * *
Our Dark Masters protect us. Our Dark Masters shelter us. In your Shadow are we guided, by your Shadow are we shielded. By your grace do we thrive. By your wisdom do we live.
Our Dark Masters protect us. Our Dark Masters shelter us.
Moreil continued the rite, speaking the words by rote as he had every day since the Dark Masters had gone Beyond. He had spoken them before battle, before trial, before food, before rest. He had spoken them the day the Priests of Midnight had exiled him from the worlds of the Z'shailyl and denied him the comforting presence of the Dark Masters' shadow.
He had never stopped believing, and he had never hated the Priests of Midnight for their sentence. It was an honour to serve the Dark Masters, an honour to draw each breath in their name. There had been too many failures during the bleak days that marked the end of the Dark Crusade. There had been too many defeats, and some had had to pay for those failures. Moreil had been but one among many, and he had deserved his punishment.
