He is dead.
She had given up trying to meditate. The necessary peace of mind just would not come. All she could think of were Kozorr's last words. He had said he loved her. Somehow she had always known that, but she had never dared to speak. He had already risked so much for her: his hand, his health, his position…. and now his life.
The sound of footsteps outside her room roused her, but she did not turn. It would be either Sonovar or Forell, and she wished to see neither. She had tried to warn Sonovar about Forell's corruption, but he had not listened. Was he corrupted as well? Obviously. He acted…. he seemed insane. Or was that nothing more than ranting warrior caste honour? She could easily see Sinoval behaving the way Sonovar had if he felt he needed to, and that scared her more than anything else she could think of.
"He died well." It was Sonovar, with an almost…. accusing tone to his voice. "A noble death. He did not flinch, or cry out, or beg for mercy. He did try to say something as he died. I believe it was your name. I couldn't be sure, though." He was inside her room now, his footsteps approaching directly behind her.
"Yes, a fine and noble death, indeed. A warrior's death." There was a flurry of movement, and his pike thudded into the ground less than an inch from her side. She cried out in shock, and recoiled, noticing that it was stained with blood.
He grabbed the collars of her robe and hauled her roughly to her feet. Some of the fabric tore, but she did not notice as she looked into his eyes. They were blazing with a powerful fury.
"A true warrior's death. A better one than you deserve, you worker coward!"
In desperation, and a considerable portion of terror, she reached out and slapped him across the face. Another blow was aimed at his gut, but he blocked that one and tossed her back.
"You said you would let me go!" she snapped.
He smiled, a surprisingly warm and friendly smile. "Indeed I did, and I will keep my word. I am a warrior, and my word is my life. Warriors…. do not lie. A shuttle will take you to the surface now. A few Tak'cha will accompany you. We have…. a message to leave for Primarch Sinoval when he arrives."
"No more killing!" she cried. "Haven't you…?"
He slapped her across the face and she reeled, falling back. "I am not a murderer! I killed only those who had knowingly, and willingly…. betrayed their people by allying with Sinoval. The common people of Tarolin Two were innocent of that particular crime. They will live."
"And the people at the shelter? What were they guilty of? You're not making any sense…. not to anyone." A sudden realisation struck her. "What has happened to you? Is it…. is it…. Oh, Valen."
"That sounds very much as if you are accusing me of something, worker whore. What?" His voice was icy cold, and he advanced on her. "There was a time when any worker who spoke as you did to a warrior would have been executed. Kalain sought to bring that time back again, and it was only through the treachery of those he trusted that he failed to do so. I…. will not fail. What did you say to me?"
"Nothing…. Nothing."
"Answer me!" He raised his pike high above his head.
"Kalain was a monster and a madman, and you have become just like him! I saw your face while Kalain was…. hurting me. You knew it was wrong, and yet you stayed there. You watched and watched, and you knew…. You…. knew!"
"Kalain was a great man, a true visionary. He…. fell into over-excess, perhaps, but I will not condemn a great man because of one…. minor…. flaw." He lowered his pike and compressed it, fixing it back to his belt. "Come, my lady. Your shuttle back to freedom awaits."
Without saying another word, he turned and stalked from the room.
* * *
"Impressive, isn't it?"
"Yes, my Lord."
Valo looked out at the assembled soldiers. Impressive wasn't quite the word for it. Magnificent would be more appropriate. He had been told there were not enough resources for the war. He had been told the army did not have enough men. He had been told a great many things.
But here he was, having assembled a force like this in mere weeks. Former soldiers, disaffected Guards, mercenaries…. What could be accomplished if the Republic was led by someone with the will and the strength to do what was necessary? The Court was populated by the weak, the foolish, the selfish, the mad, and combinations of all four. There was no Emperor, and there never would be if matters continued like this. And the only man all of them could look up to…. Malachi was a traitor who would sell his entire race out to the Narns.
Better by far that a strong Emperor took over. Take the throne by force, hold it by strength and will. And then he could work on the Narns. Drive them back to their homeworld and blast it into oblivion. And then perhaps the humans…. Or…. well. Time for that later.
A good soldier always knew how to prioritise.
"Are we ready, Mollari?"
"Yes, my Lord. Our agents indicate that Lady Elrisia has called together a meeting of the full Court, near enough. Lord Jarno is not likely to be in attendance, nor First Minister Malachi, but everyone else should be there."
"Good," Valo grunted. Jarno, eh? Who'd have thought a runt like that would have demonstrated such backbone? He might have to give the weakling a place on his staff if he was capable of repeating what he'd done to Lord Kiro.
"Good. Catch them all at once, eh Mollari?"
"Indeed, my Lord. Do we have your orders?"
Valo smiled, imagining himself as Emperor. Strength, willpower, courage. That was what an Emperor needed.
"Yes."
By the end of the day he would be Emperor. He had a feeling for these things.
* * *
Like a black cloud they come, blotting out the stars. They shimmer, and scream, and kill.
And they are met by a pitiful handful of ships, an alliance of races working together in harmony, once sworn enemies now fighting side by side.
On the bridge of the Parmenion, Lyta Alexander screams in agony as she hears their whispers to her. She fights them as best she can, holding them off, paralysing their ships with her power, but it is hard now. So very hard. Kosh is gone. He is going to die. She knows it, and yet, somehow, from somewhere, she hears his soft words of encouragement, and she perseveres. Despite the sweat pouring from her brow, despite the ache in her muscles and bones, despite the churning in her belly…. she holds them off.
Beside her Captain Sheridan directs the ship forward, targeting the paralysed Shadow vessels and damaging them, forcing them to retreat or pull back. Some are caught in a massive co-ordinated attack with other ships and are blown apart. But taking the entire battle into account, it is plain that the Alliance ships are losing and cannot hold out much longer. But all they have to do is to allow the station to reach its ultimate destination.
John Sheridan is not thinking about Babylon 4. He is thinking about his love, and that he will never see her again. He knows what he must do, what all of them have to do. He thinks about his crew, and he hopes there will be a way for them to escape.
Captain Dexter Smith, on the bridge of the Babylon, holds his ship back. He made a bargain for the safety of his crew, and he is not willing to render that bargain useless by a meaningless death. He does not know the truth about Babylon 4, or Valen, or their destiny in the past. He only knows that he is fighting those who should be his allies, alongside those who should be his enemies.
But he remembers the man who occupied this chair before him, and he knows just how far a foolish ambition can take him. He will survive this battle, both he and his crew. He will protect the planet that houses the Great Machine, because he knows it is right.
And to his surprise, his ship is quite capable of taking on the horrific creatures that swoop and scream and destroy.
And in the Heart of the Great Machine, Michael Garibaldi is screaming….
* * *
Concentrate!
His heart is pounding, his head spinning. He can see many things, but none of them with his eyes. He watches as Babylon 4 passes into the temporal rift. He can see the brilliance of the colours, the sheer force of the energy that can tear a tunnel back a thousand years.
And the only thing keeping that tunnel open is his willpower.
Come on, Garibaldi. Don't foul up here. Everyone's depending on you. Everything's down to you.
But it is hard. So hard. He remembers what this Machine did to Donne.
Somehow, through many distant layers of senses, he feels something wet trickle down his cheek. He can taste a coppery warmth in his mouth.
He does not want to think what either of those things are.
"I…. I…. can't…."
And the rift slowly, ever so slowly, begins to slip away from him.
* * *
Lyta Alexander screams and falls to the floor. Her strength is gone. Her will is gone. She can hear Kosh imploring her to continue, but she cannot move.
The Shadow ships come forward now….
* * *
They came to the Court, called by one they hated, or feared, or wanted to be close to. There had been a great deal of speculation on who would be the next Emperor, but the matter was by now resolved, at least in most minds. All the other viable candidates had been removed from contention.
Malachi was rumoured to be very ill, and in any case he had refused the honour when it was offered. He had done a magnificent job of holding everything together through such difficult times, and he would no doubt have a place in the new Government, but he was old and ill. Younger blood was called for. Jarno, a former First Minister, had overplayed his hand. In attacking the estate of a fellow noble he had become too dangerous for the Court. He was currently in hiding, evading charges of treason. Kiro, a popular choice among such of the old guard as had supported Refa, was dead. Marrago and Valo were both dead, or disgraced, or missing, or combinations of the three. Londo Mollari was a traitor and a regicide.
That left only one, and of course he had been the natural choice, everyone muttered to themselves. I've always said so. The blood of the old Emperor in him. Young blood. Enthusiastic. Just the type we need. Oh, those rumours are clearly false, base accusations. A young, vibrant leader, yes, just what we need to lead us into the next century (some eight years away, by the Centauri calender).
Cartagia listened to all this, and smiled knowingly. He knew perfectly well that they believed him to be a madman, and they were all secretly planning how to advance their own ambitions around him. Elrisia was receiving all manner of gifts, promises and favours.
Cartagia watched this little dance, and smiled to himself. Let Elrisia do as she wished, he did not care any more. There might have been a time he would have liked her at his side, but his plans had…. changed recently. Knowledge is power, as the Centauri say, and so Cartagia was the most powerful man in the Republic.
He even had a faint idea of what the old man Malachi had been up to. It hadn't taken too much working out, either. Everyone knew the one little detail they needed to work it out, they just…. pretended not to know. People did not apply themselves properly, that was the problem.
