N
The screams were always with her, apart from when she used the artefact, but they were louder now, and one louder still. They could not have arrived at Proxima yet. By her reckoning there was another day or so at least.
She reached out with her mind, then pulled back sharply. There was a presence here, nearby. That concept was relative out in space of course, but a node of the network was close. That could only mean one thing.
Gently, slowly, with exquisite care, she sent her mind out, concentrating on the ship this time, not seeking to expand beyond it yet. It was terrifying to realise how much her powers had developed, that she could approach that as a rational possibility.
The artefact. It all came down to the artefact. One day she would have to do something about it.
But that was a problem for another day.
The message was simple and straightforward and terrifying. She heard it with her mind easily enough. No efforts were being made to keep it coded or secret. She sensed the captain's fear. It had been him who had hidden her on board. There were no doubt other minor bits of contraband here as well, but she was the main concern. Her discovery would lead not just to a fine or the revocation of his shipping licence, but to something far, far worse.
Marrago had known it from the instant he had set foot inside the council room. Of all of them — Rem Lanas, the nameless human, the Narns, the Drazi — this Moreil was the true power here. It was not just the two monsters that never seemed to leave his side, visible or not. It was that Moreil had a quiet force, one that said he did not care about the dreams or ambitions of the others.
Marrago had taken time to study his fellow captains in the Brotherhood Without Banners, and all but Moreil he understood. The human was simply insane. He lived for torture and murder and commanded a crew of other humans just as insane as he was, binding them together by force of personality and lunatic whims. Revenge, that was all they wanted. Revenge on anybody and anything.
The Drazi were seeking revenge too, for the perceived betrayal of their race by the Alliance. They knew how to fight, and that was all. No doubt the survivors would be plotting some sort of comeback for Marrago or Moreil. Whatever that was, it would not be subtle. Drazi schemes rarely were.
Rem Lanas was a pathetic little man who merely wished to be someone important, and exaggerated his own significance in a bid to appear so. He had no authority, no power, no soldiers. All he had was a little knowledge, and a lot of pretensions. He would no doubt be planning some form of elaborate revenge as well, but Marrago did not fear him.
The Narns.... they were unusual. There was something about them that puzzled him. The male was G'Lorn, a Narn Marrago recognised, although it had taken him a few days to remember where from. He had been an aide to Warleader G'Sten. What he was doing here was a mystery, but the Kha'Ri were often even more unforgiving than the Royal Court. It was possible G'Lorn had been a casualty following G'Sten's failed attack on Centauri Prime and subsequent retirement.
He was not in charge, of course. The female was. Marrago did not know her, but she moved with the easy grace of one used to power, and trained in it from a young age. There was something in the way G'Lorn looked to her sometimes, as if seeking her approval. Marrago did not know if they were married, lovers, siblings or what, but she held the power. That was clear to anyone with eyes to see. What they wanted.... judging by the first major target of the Brotherhood, revenge on the Centauri was not an impossible notion. Marrago would have to be careful around those two as well.
And then there was Moreil.
The two of them were standing in an observation post, the vastness of space stretching out before them. Moreil's sentries were not visible, but Marrago knew better than to assume that meant they were not there. The alien was looking at him slowly, and Marrago met his gaze. He had nothing to fear, not any more.
'I was expecting some sort of visit eventually,' he said, never taking his eyes from Moreil's. The otherness of them disturbed him, but he still did not shift his gaze. Sooner or later, in there, he would uncover all he needed to about the alien. 'Have I broken some law or another in taking the girl? I thought the only law of this order was that strength is all.'
'Many laws there are,' Moreil hissed. 'But that is the one truth of them. Laws are for the weak. The strong make their own. The girl is of no importance to this one. Take her. Keep her. Fight those who would take her from you. In strength there is rightness, yes?'
'Yes,' Marrago agreed, the lie burning his tongue. He thought of Senna, weak before her torturer, or Lyndisty, weak before her murderer. He suddenly hated this alien. 'If not that, then why did you want to talk with me?'
'Introductions must be made, yes?' Moreil replied. 'This one is Moreil, former Takita'talan of the Z'shailyl war fleet, fourth in standing to the Warmaster himself.'
'I know who you are,' Marrago said. 'You know who I am.'
'Indeed I do. You are once Warmaster of the Centauri, once noble of the Centauri, once right hand of the Emperor of the Centauri. Now you are here, outcast, abandoned, lost.'
'I have already told you why I am here.'
'That is not what was questioned. This one knows of you, once-Warmaster. This one knows you bargained with the Drakh, with the Dark Masters, sought their boon in your war. This one knows much of your bargainings.'
'That is no secret. Why do you think I was exiled? Why do you think both the Alliance and my Emperor are hunting me?'
'Lesson there is that was learned from the Dark Masters. There is never what is on the surface alone. Always something is there hidden, below the skies. No mere exile, you. No. Perhaps you are agent. Perhaps you seek something other than you have said.
'After all, why exile you, then place bounty on you for return?
'There is much hidden within you, once-Warmaster.'
Marrago took a slow step back, his hand reaching for the hilt of his kutari. Moreil's two monstrous guardians shimmered into view.
'And this one will discover your secrets.
'Or you will die.'
He walks through darkened corridors and tunnels and caverns without care, without heed, without danger. He walks as if in a trance, guided by footsteps and echoes not his own. Ghosts walk beside him, ghosts of a race long gone, long dead, now ashes in the wind, mere whispers on the tides of space.
He leaves behind those sent to guard him, and this he neither notices, nor cares. He is drawn in some way he cannot explain, pulled by some force he does not seek to understand. With eyes not his and a understanding altogether alien, he sees beings as old and immeasurable as any he knows.
They are dying before his eyes, raising glowing faces to the heavens, awaiting a mercy that will never be given, a sign that will never come, peace that will never reign.
This place is a monument to war, and on some level he understands that. This place is a graveyard, a floating cemetery to a long-dead people.
He does not see what is killing them. He knows somehow that he should, but all he can see are masks and smoke and mirrors and angels with bright and bloody swords raised, glorying in their power and their bloodlust and the terror of their opponents, and the light that shines on them from heaven.
Names and faces flash before him and he does not care. He sees a beautiful woman caught between two worlds, looking at him with bright green eyes, and he presses on. He sees a father, a mother, a friend, a lover, a sister, a daughter, and a son.
Seeing the last he stops, briefly, slowly, and pauses — and then he stumbles on, not knowing or caring what draws him, knowing only that he must keep moving.
He walks into the depths of the earth and the ghosts grow louder and louder and more and more plentiful.
