"What's their status?" he asked Franklin. Franklin had been on this ship longer than Smith himself had. He had been here in the days of Sheridan, whose ghost hovered even nearer than it had before.
"They're not attacking. The Parmenion is approaching slowly with gun ports open, but they do not seem to be powering up. The other ships are holding back. There's no sign of any further activity from the planet."
Smith nodded, sitting back. Sheridan then. Fitting enough that he'd want to end this.
"A message is coming through, Captain," said Franklin. "It's…. it's from Captain Sheridan."
Smith's mouth felt very dry. "Put…. put him on." He closed his eyes, and pressed his hands together as if in prayer.
"This is Captain Sheridan of the EAS Parmenion, to the Babylon and its captain. You are alone and outnumbered. Surrender now, and we will spare you."
"This is Captain Dexter Smith of the Babylon. I demand an amnesty for my crew." It seemed so easy to say it now. It was simply what had to be done. He had got his crew into this, and now he would have to get them out. "A complete amnesty and the right to return to Proxima Three unharmed."
"You're in no position to make any demands at all, Captain."
"Nevertheless, those are my conditions. Such an amnesty would not extend to myself of course. I…. I will agree to stand trial and submit to whatever fate you see fit so long as my crew are permitted to leave."
"Captain!" breathed Franklin, but Smith silenced him. There really was no other option.
"I see," said Sheridan. "Well then, Captain, I cannot promise to accept your offer, but I will speak on your behalf to others. You have my word on that."
"Well then. It seems that is all I can ask for. The Babylon stands down."
"Prepare to be boarded, and we will escort you to Babylon Four."
Smith nodded and began to give the necessary orders. His bridge crew carried them out in stunned silence. He did not look at them as they did so. He could not bear to see their faces, knowing his fate to come.
* * *
Some words, once spoken, can never be taken back. Some offers, once made, can never be withdrawn. Michael Garibaldi, staring at the scenes of carnage before him, knew that he had made just such an offer.
"You want someone to go in that thing? I'll do it."
There was silence as he looked at the few people still alive and conscious in the room. G'Kar, the Narn who had previously occupied the Heart of the Great Machine, was leaning heavily against his servant Ta'Lon, who was himself covered with blood. The mass of torn tissue around Ta'Lon's eye seemed a mark of his inner strength. Dr. Kirkish, her face pale, was swallowing harshly, trying to speak perhaps, but unable to do so.
The first to speak was in fact none of those, but a strange, clicking voice just out of sight. "Yes. Good good. Enter. Hurry. We be having very little of time. Well, what Zathras mean to say is that time is, infinite of course. Hah yes, infinite. Everyone knows that. Zathras knows that. But…. ah…. Zathras forget what he be saying. Ah, cannot have been important."
"Zathras," G'Kar breathed. "I thought that she…. We…. thought…." He coughed.
"You be thinking Zathras being dead. Ah no. Zathras not as easy to kill as some think. Zathras is hiding. Zathras be hiding himself when nasty telepath woman was distracted, yes. Zathras very smart. Yes. Well, no. Ah, does not matter. Zathras know just what to do."
"Where are you?" G'Kar asked.
There was a motion from within the cryogenic storage box that had brought Susan Ivanova down to the planet. The box was shaking a little, and there was a sound of banging from within. Finally the lid slid back and a small, rodent-like alien scurried free. Garibaldi had met Zathras before, several times, always assuming this was the same Zathras of course.
"See. Zathras know when hide. Is why Zathras still alive." He looked up at the empty Heart, and then at the body on the floor next to it. "Yes. Is not good to leave Machine empty for too long. Bad things happen then. Very bad things. Much badness. Great deal of badness will happen."
"Yeah, yeah," Garibaldi said. "We get the idea. Look, G'Kar, you can't get in there at the moment, right."
The Narn tried to rise, but was quite unable to get to his feet. "No, he cannot," said Ta'Lon. "The Machine requires…. great strength, which unfortunately neither the Ha'Cormar'ah nor I can manage at the moment."
"So let me do it. Look, someone's got to take over that thing, and we've no idea what things are like up on the station."
"But…. Michael," Mary said at last. "What about Lianna? What would she say if she were here?"
"Oh, look, it's not going to be forever. I'll…. do what I have to for the moment, wait for G'Kar to get better, and then I'll hand it back to him. No problem. Besides…. sometimes, I've just…. got to do what's right. I hope my son understands that one day. You've got to do what's right.
"Anyway, there's nothing to worry about. I won't need to be in there forever. You'll be able to take it back later, won't you, G'Kar?"
The Narn bowed his head. "Yes," he said softly.
"Good. Is decided. Hurry hurry."
Garibaldi nodded and stepped forward, looking down at Donne's body uncomfortably. "Uh…. it won't do to me what it did to her, will it?"
"No no," Zathras said. "She…. very bad person. Use Machine wrongly. Machine not like that. You use Machine well, Machine like you."
"Okay…. what do I do?"
"Step…. inside," G'Kar coughed. "Open your mind to it…. let it…. instruct you."
"Uh…. all right." He stepped inside and felt a great warmth embrace him. He reached up with his arms and tried to open his mind, as G'Kar had instructed. As he did so, he caught Mary's eyes. They were angry and accusing, but above all, resigned.
"Are you sure it's working? Nothing seems to be…." His mind filled with light.
"Whoa!"
* * *
Londo Mollari took little satisfaction in his current situation, but the one small ray of hope he could find was the knowledge that his campaign would not fall with him. Between them Marrago, Durano, Virini and dear Timov could continue, and somehow bring this planet and their race back from the brink of disaster.
That was one small gleam of optimism. It was not much, but in a situation like this a man took whatever he could get.
He wondered how long he had been imprisoned. There was no light in his cell, and no way to measure the passage of time accurately. That was part of the point of course. He tried to remember the hour it had been when he had left Selini, but working from there left him with only an approximate guess.
The only objective sign of the passage of time was the ranting from the next cell down, or wherever it was coming from. A Shadow Crier no doubt, or a plain simple madman. Durano's agents had reported that some of them had tried to attack the Court and that a couple had been arrested. They had not gone easily, many preferring death to capture. Londo could entirely understand the feeling.
"The Darkness is coming!"
He had little idea of who the Shadow Criers were, or what purpose they claimed to serve. The best Durano's agents and Dugari had been able to discover was that they were a group of madmen, probably all either seers or psi-sensitives. Other than that, and their disturbing propensity for burning themselves alive in public, nothing was known about them. Not a thing.
At some point during the night — if it was still night — the madman stopped shouting. Londo could not remember if that was before or after he had gone to sleep, or even if he had gone to sleep at all. It was hard to tell.
He remembered dreaming about Timov, or…. thinking about her? He did not know. Probably both. Maybe. He missed her, very much. Strange really, considering all the years they had spent apart. He also found himself wondering where Mariel and Daggair were. The last reports had them trying to wrap themselves around Lord Jarno, with varying degrees of success.
The door opened and a dull, muted light filled the room. Londo moaned softly as he shielded his eyes, mumbling curses to himself. Two silhouettes stood framed before him, and two rough arms seized him and hauled him to his feet, propelling him forward.
The corridor was lit, although not well. Still, it caused Londo's eyes some pain before he managed to adjust enough to see the two guards beside him, pushing and prodding him in one direction. Deeper into the prison, he noticed, not away from it. Any hopes of Malachi putting in a word for him evaporated.
But then why would Malachi want to? It was he who had got Londo into this mess in the first place, by framing him for Refa's murder. And it was because he had trusted his old friend that Londo had returned to the capital, and wound up imprisoned instead. He supposed it was his own fault, but he would far rather be guilty of trusting someone too much than of trusting no one at all. Trust was a commodity he had only recently rediscovered, and he found himself rather enjoying it.
He was taken down some winding steps which were even less well lit than the upper corridor. He stumbled and would have fallen, had the guard not roughly grabbed his shoulder, keeping him upright. He was not bound or restrained in any way, but escape was clearly impossible. Even should he somehow manage to get past two guards half his age, he would have to face countless more before getting outside. He should know, he was one of the few nobles ever to have taken an interest in the prison and how it worked.
There was one room at the bottom of these stairs, and he knew full well what it was. He tried to breathe, but the air seemed so thick here. This had always been a possibility, but he had tried not to believe in it.
At the bottom of the stairs there was the door, a massive, dark, imposing gateway to what could very well be another world. There was a faint light just above it, and the flickering shadows only seemed to heighten his sense of despair.
I am not a hero. I just tried to do what was right, what I knew to be right. I'm not a hero. Damn you, Malachi, what have you done?
The guards stopped and one of them opened the door. There was no creak as it swung open, no sound at all in fact. Londo was pushed inside and the guards followed him, closing the door behind them.
Just over the threshold, Londo took in the scene. He had never been in here before, but he could surmise what would happen. He had tried to have this place closed down, but to no avail. It had been used only rarely in recent years, and had generally been reserved for the truly special cases. The False Prophet had allegedly died in considerable agony in this room.
In the middle of the room, suspended from the ceiling by chains and hooks and rope, was a man Londo did not recognise. But then, looking at the state of his mutilation, he doubted the man's own sweetheart would have recognised him now. From the rags of clothing he wore he seemed to be a commoner, but there was really not enough evidence remaining to be certain.
Just behind the hanging man was another man. An innocuous figure, dressed plainly, looking so average and normal he would not be out of place on any street…. the high torturer of the Court. By tradition a younger member of the Imperial Family was appointed to the position, more often than not against their will. All who served the Emperor had to be willing to do anything for him, the saying went, and that applied to the infliction of pain just as much it did to the killing of enemies.
