L'Neer of Narn,
There was heat and motion and energy and power. There was noise. There was the sound of her thoughts, echoing loudly in his mind. Dexter Smith had never wanted to be a true telepath, never asked for their sort of power, but now he wished he could have it. If this was what they felt all the time, this blessed, wondrous communion of thoughts and voices and souls, then he would gladly trade everything for that.
Talia kissed him harder and he marvelled at the thoughts in his mind. He could feel her passion, her determination, her love for her people and her conviction that what she was doing was right. He could feel the lessening of her sense of fear, her knowledge of the vast forces arrayed against them and her joy in knowing she had one ally, however insignificant.
Not that she thought he was insignificant.
He could see her childhood, her daughter, old friends long since dead. Her entire life was laid open to him, and he felt his open to her. For a moment he felt a pang of anguish at that, that she could see all his secrets, all his shames, that one moment of a life ending behind a pair of green eyes.
And then he felt it, at the back of her mind. She was trying to hide it from him, but it was there.
Guilt. A tiny pang of guilt.
He pulled back, shaking. She tried to hold on to him, but he slid away from her embrace. Breathing harshly, he stepped off the bed and fell against the far wall.
'What?' she breathed. 'Dexter, what...?'
'I'm sorry,' he whispered, closing his eyes. He could not feel her any more. Her mind was closed to him. 'I can't do this. You're married.'
'I.... Dexter....'
'No.... Please don't.' He sank down to a sitting position, his head in his hands. 'My head feels awful. I think we drank too much.'
She sat up, and he could hear her starting to button up her top. 'Dexter....' She stopped, as if she had nothing else to add.
'You love him,' he said, after a while. 'The two of you have a daughter, and you love him.' He looked up, staring at her. 'You do love him, don't you?'
Tears welling in her eyes, she nodded. 'Do you....' She hesitated. 'Is it wrong for one woman to love two men at the same time?'
'No more than for one man and two women. Damn! I wish I'd got to you first.' He stood up. 'I do want to, Talia. You know that. You know how much you mean to me. I've been thinking about you ever since....' He breathed out slowly. 'We'd both regret this.'
She fell back on to the bed, exasperated, or perhaps just to hide her tears. 'I really didn't think men like you existed any more.'
'Maybe I'm just a fool. You have the bed. I'll sleep on the couch. We can talk in the morning.'
'In the morning,' she replied.
He scooped up his shirt from where it had been discarded on the floor and noticed the rip in his collar. Sighing, he walked from the room, his head pounding.
'Good night, Dexter,' she called to him.
'Good night,' he replied.
As he walked back to his quarters in the shabby, dirty ship that was now his entire fleet, Jorah Marrago was surprised to find his mind filled with tactics and planning. It was a good feeling, one he had missed.
For the last year, ever since he had joined forces with Sinoval, his mind had been on strategy, long-term goals and aims, thinking years in advance. That was depressing, a constant reminder of the future, speculation about a time he might not live to see.
But tactics, that was different. Creating a battle in his mind, the positioning, the opening movements, the hidden feints. In a strange, bizarre way it was almost beautiful — a game, a creation of skill, pitting general against general, battle-master against battle-master.
Only later would the true cost become clear. Only after the battle could one look around at the bodies of the dead, the mutilations of the injured and the anguished faces of the bereaved. Marrago remembered that. He always tried to remember the true cost of battle, but try as he might, he could not banish that sense of.... joy he felt at a grand plan coming together.
And this was a challenge. His army was a mish-mash of different peoples and races and personalities who would all rather be fighting each other. The true military might of this attack was a race of whose capacities and strength he had not the slightest conception. He was attacking the homeworld of one of the most technologically advanced races in civilised space, however socially self-destructive they might be.
Besides, by the Purple Throne, it felt good to be doing something at last.
Dasouri was waiting outside his door. He nodded his head.
'Is it true, General?' he asked.
Marrago did not have to ask what he was referring to. 'Yes,' he replied. 'We're going to war.'
Dasouri nodded, no trace of surprise or joy or fear or indeed any other emotion on his perfectly equable face. 'Where?'
'Centauri Prime.' Marrago was pleased with himself for the entirely flat way he said those two words.
Dasouri nodded again, still showing no emotion. 'I will tell the others. They will be prepared.'
Marrago watched the Drazi depart, wondering, not for the first time, what brought him here. Each and every one of those who followed him — or any captain in the Brotherhood — had their story. They each had their reasons. They were the people who had slipped through the net the Alliance had cast over the galaxy. They were the people who were not seen, not noticed, not missed.
They were the people for whom there was no place in the galaxy but the one they made themselves.
Thinking darkly about that, but still bolstered by his plans and schemes, Marrago opened the door to his chambers. He nodded absently to Senna, sitting calmly on her chair, and drifted over to his books. He had been able to bring a few with him into exile, and he had obtained a few more since. One of the many advantages of having a Thrakallan crimelord indebted to him.
'How could you?' Senna whispered.
He looked up at her, and saw for the first time the expression on her face, a combination of horror and disgust.
'How could I what?'
'You swore to defend the Purple Throne. You swore to defend Centauri Prime. You swore....'
'Shut up!' he shouted, his good mood evaporating instantly. 'You were listening at the door!'
'How else am I to find out what is happening? You keep me locked up in here, you never allow me to leave. I am just as much your prisoner as I was.... his! And now you are going to lead an attack on our homeworld!'
'You do not understand,' he said angrily.
'No,' she rasped. 'I don't. Why save me, and lead those.... monsters to do to others what was done to me? Why would you attack your own people, your own Emperor?'
'My Emperor cast me out!' he cried, stepping forward. She cowered back on her chair. 'I spent my entire life in service to that Throne, and where did it get me? My daughter is dead, and I am now an exile. I am a lord of the Centauri Republic and I am forced to live with bandits and brigands and peasants!
'I have no people, and I have no home and I have no Emperor!'
Shaking, she rose slowly to her feet. She stared at him, fear evident in every part of her body but her eyes. They were filled with contempt and disgust, and he saw his own self-hatred staring back at him.
When she spoke, it was slowly and deliberately, with a determination that belied her years. 'You are every bit as much a monster as they are,' she said calmly.
