Темное, кривое зеркало. Том 3 : След на песке

'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.

He considered calling a meeting with Malachi before this was all over. Tell the old man what he knew. No, let him suspect. Malachi had practically written the book on Courtly life after all. Better by far to let him suspect and wonder, than know.

Cartagia nodded and smiled at the nobles fawning at his feet. He spoke to each one briefly in turn. He accepted numerous offers from not entirely unattractive ladies, offers that he had no intention of following up. He made promises of promotion and recognition, and gave thanks for support.

And he waited patiently.

Elrisia was looking particularly beautiful. It must have taken her a great deal of effort. Not to mention time. And such a pity, it would all be wasted.

How was that Minbari doing? Cartagia hoped his timing had been accurate. It would be very embarrassing to have Lennier running around free before the festivities started.

Covered in blood, a guard half-ran, half-hobbled into view. 'We are under attack,' he gasped. 'The Palace is…. is under attack!'

There was pandemonium. Cartagia smiled. Ah. About time.

* * *

'People of Tarolin Two! Hear my words, and thank me for your lives!'

Sonovar stood in his column of light, a deliberate replication of the Hall of the Grey Council, now long since despoiled and desecrated. He knew this would be broadcast all over the planet. His words would be heard. Whether they were understood or not, heeded or not…. well…. not even Valen had been perfect.