2-Armies of Light & Dark

  “What? I … I don’t understand.”

  And he had to strain to hear Kane say, “Good. I was … going for cryptic.” The faint smile remained on his face even as his head slumped to one side, and then he was gone.

  Vir let out a sigh. “You succeeded,” he said, as he reached over and closed Kane’s eyes.

  - CHAPTER 4 -

  They emerged from the jumpgate, spiraling at high speed into the surface of the planet designated K0643. Finian barely yanked the nose of the ship up in time to prevent it from slamming into the ground, and the ship suddenly went straight up like a surface-to-air missile. He called out, “Something’s wrong!”

  “Oh, now what?” said Vir, not sure how much more he could take. He kept trying to tear his gaze away from the fallen Kane. He saw that Gwynn was still crouched next to him, and she was gently caressing the curve of his jaw with the side of her hand.

  “It’s not us! It’s the gate!”

  Vir immediately saw what he was talking about. Energy was crackling all around it, but far more violently than before . The thing was trembling wildly, and fissures were appearing all through it. It began to splinter, to shudder under some sort of pressure that Vir could not even guess at, and then the arch began to crumble in upon itself. Within moments , gigantic chunks of it were tumbling to the ground Then with a roar, the gate collapsed completely.

  “Good riddance,” muttered Finian.

  “But what caused it to happen?” demanded Vir.

  “Not what. Who,” Finian said suddenly, getting the ship’s trajectory under control. “Look.” Apparently in order to illustrate his explanation, he keyed the monitor to zoom in on a lone individual standing on the uppermost outcropping of some rocks. It was wearing immediately recognizable long robes, a hood drawn over its head, and a telltale staff gripped solidly in its right hand. Its left hand was placed on its hip in a casual manner, as if this being was impatiently waiting for a late-arriving bus.

  “Is that who I think it is?” Gwynn asked.

  “I suspect so.”

  “Who? Who is it?” Vir wanted to know.

  They did not reply. For some depressing reason, that didn’t surprise him at all.

  Finian guided the vessel toward a convenient landing point at the outer edge of the excavation. Vir could see on the monitor screen that the cloaked figure was making its way down to meet them. Despite the rockiness of the terrain, the newcomer moved with self-assurance. Vir was certain, beyond any question, that it was a techno-mage.

  In truth, Vir was still having trouble believing any of this had happened. After the business with Elric back on Babylon 5, he had been pleasantly certain that he would never see a techno-mage again. The thought didn’t bother him a bit. Now he was ass-deep in them. He started to wonder grimly if perhaps he should just ask where the techno-mage recruitment office might be so that he could sign up and be done with it.

  As soon as the ship’s landing procedures had cycled through, Finian and Gwynn positioned themselves at the door. Gwynn laid Kane down gently and respectfully on the floor, and removed her own outer cloak to cover the fallen cloister with it. They stood before the door of the ship, waiting. Then it opened, and the hooded figure stepped through.

  He pushed back his hood and Vir saw a very curious-looking individual. He was completely bald, with a strong jaw and piercing gaze. There was a bleak twinkle in his eye, as if he knew the entire universe was based on some cosmic joke, with death as the great punch line.

  “Galen,” said Finian in acknowledgment, and he bowed. Gwynn followed suit.

  Galen took the entirety of the situation in with a glance, including the presence of Vir and the corpse of Kane. “Pity” he said. “He had potential. So,” he continued, as if that was to be the end of the mourning period, “would you care to tell me what the hell you three … I’m sorry, you two … thought you were doing.”

  “I did it, too,” said Vir tentatively.

  “Yes, but you don’t count. Don’t worry, though. You will eventually.”

  “Oh. Thank you. I guess.”

  In quick, broad strokes, Gwynn outlined for him what had happened. The one whom they addressed as Galen might have been carved from marble for all the expression or reaction he displayed. Every so often he would glance at Kane’s covered body as Gwynn continued her narrative. Most of it, of course, Vir already knew, but then Gwynn got to a point in her recitation that was news to Vir.

  “As we were departing,” she said, “I managed to capture a Drakh and ask him a few questions in a manner he could not ignore. They had intended to use the Death Clouds…”

  “Those massive planet killers,” said Galen, just for his personal confirmation.

  “Yes. Those were going to be the centerpiece of their new fleet. The Drakh have been rebuilding their vessels, preparing themselves, but the Death Clouds were intended to tilt the balance utterly in their favor.”

  “And to what end did they intend to employ them?”

  “The Drakh blame John Sheridan and his wife, Delenn, for the departure of the Shadows,” Gwynn told him.

  Galen nodded slowly. “That’s probably because Sheridan and Delenn told them to go away. In the end, you have to credit the Shadows with at least having the good taste to leave a party when asked to depart.” The words sounded flip, but Vir could tell there was very much an edge to them. Galen’s hatred for the Shadows was palpable, and Vir could only guess what sort of personal suffering Galen had known at their hands … or claws … or whatever. “Do you think the Drakh would be willing to follow suit? Leave if we ask them to?”

  “I doubt it,” said Gwynn.

  “So do I. Proceed, then. They blame Sheridan and Delenn…”

  “And because of that, it is their intention to punish the species that gave birth to them. Their plan is to use the Death Cloud on Earth. By this point, they will already have tested it on Daltron 7. If it operates as I suspect it will, there will be nothing left there. Not a being, not a bird, not a bug … nothing. That is the fate they have planned for Earth.”

  Upon hearing this, Vir’s spine froze, as did several of his major bodily organs. But Galen’s deadpan expression never wavered. Gwynn might just as easily have told him that the Drakh intended to orbit Earth, spew harsh language, and leave.

  “And what about Minbar?” he inquired.

  “A plague. They intend to annihilate the seat of the Interstellar Alliance with a plague.”

  For the first time, true darkness of worry passed over Galen’s face. It was as if he was confident that the Death Cloud could be handled, but germ warfare presented an insurmountable problem. “They have created a plague?”

  “No. They don’t know how to build or grow the virus. The Drakh aren’t that advanced. They are superb scavengers, and can manage machinery and construction adroitly enough. But replicating Shadow-created viruses is beyond them. However, they managed to salvage enough of the virus from Z’ha’dum to accomplish their aim.”

  “How much?”

  “Enough to wipe out an entire world.”

  To Vir’s astonishment, Galen actually let out a sigh of relief. “We’re most fortunate then.”

  He couldn’t believe it. “Fortunate! They’re planning to wipe out all of Minbar, and you call that fortunate!”

  “Well … not if you’re Minbari, certainly,” said Finian. Gwynn made an angry face at him that indicated it would be best if he kept his mouth shut.

  “Enough virus for only one world means that the situation is containable;’ said Galen. “Be grateful it’s not enough for a hundred worlds.”

  “And are you going to just let it happen?”

  “I will do what I can. All that I can.”

  “That may not be enough!”

  “And what will you do, Vir Cotto?” Galen demanded abruptly. “Will Centauri Prime reveal its duplicity in this matter? Inform the Alliance of its involvement with the locating of the gate that led the Drakh to the weapons they craved? Leave itself
open to charges of being accomplice to attempted mass murder? Will you do all that can be done, Vir Cotto … or will you simply do all that you can do?”

  Vir looked away then. Galen was simply saying things that had already occurred to Vir, but he was loath to admit it. With billions of lives on the line, Vir’s main concern still remained avoiding any threat to Centauri Prime and its largely innocent people.

  “I will take that as my answer,” Galen said icily. “Be aware, Ambassador … whatever hostility you may feel for the Shadows, their servants and their … technology … pales beside my own.”

  “I doubt that,” Vir told him.

  Galen smiled slightly. “Doubt is always to be preferred in all things. Very well, Vir Cotto. I will wave my magic wand, and goof! Centauri Prime will have no association with this business. I’ve already dispatched the unfortunate artifact your excavation uncovered. I’ve covered your tracks for you.”

  Surprised, Vir pointed at the fallen rubble that had once been the Shadow gate. “You did that?”

  “Of course I did.”

  “I thought techno-mages couldn’t use their abilities to destroy . That’s what they told me,” and he indicated Gwynn and Finian.

  “That is true … for them,” said Galen. “Then again, there are always … possibilities.”

  “And is saving the Earth and Minbar among those possibilities ?” The thought that the Homeworlds of Delenn or Sheridan, or both, might be annihilated was horrifying to Vir, and the knowledge of Centauri Prime’s culpability was almost too much to bear. At least, however, that would remain his burden and his alone, with any luck.

  Some luck.

  “It is … a possibility. A distinct one. And you, Vir Cotto … take solace in the awareness that, without your involvement, it could have been far, far worse. So much so that it would not have mattered whether Centauri Prime’s involvement became general knowledge or not. For truly, there would have been no worlds in the Alliance left to care.”

  Without another word, Galen turned away from him and started to walk off. Vir looked around, still unsure as to what was to happen next. Finian rested a hand on Vir’s shoulder then, and said, “Leave it in Galen’s hands. He will attend to it, if any can. None are more dedicated to eliminating Shadow technology than he. As for you, Vir…” and his lips thinned. “Nice disguise.”

  Vir realized that he was still wearing the mask that he’d been handed earlier. Feeling sheepish, he pulled it off his face. Galen shook his head with an imperious air, and then said, “Go home, Vir Cotto.”

  “Home.” Vir shook his head. “You don’t understand. I have no home. Centauri Prime will have no dealings with me, and Babylon 5… if I never see the place again…”

  “Then it would be a waste of possibilities,” Gwynn said.

  “What sort of possibilities?”

  “For starters,” Finian said, “there is still work to do. You may feel you are no longer welcome on Centauri Prime, and you are likely right. However, you remain Ambassador to Babylon 5. They are not likely to replace you; they consider the position a waste, and so will not bother to fritter away manpower. And the ambassador of Babylon 5 can still get things done. You have contacts from the past … and from the present, have you not?”

  Vir thought about Rem Lanas, and about Renegar, both of whom had certainly gained a degree of respect for Vir as a result of this debacle. He had warned them of what was to come. They would remember that. They would know to attend to what he said. They would know to trust him, as much as anyone trusted anyone these days.

  And there had been other allies, free-minded and freethinking Centauri many of them rather young-who had provided aid when Vir had sought to surreptitiously help the Nam during the war.

  Moments earlier, he had felt so alone, and yet he was starting to realize that such was not the case. It was just that he had tied so much of his belief in his power and influence to Londo. And when Londo had turned him away, why, that seemed to be that. But it wasn’t necessarily the case, as long as Vir didn’t allow it to be. Granted, his self-esteem and image among others in the Alliance had been dealt a vicious blow by his duplicitous lover, Mariel … but she could be overcome, as well. Perhaps even used in a manner that would be to his advantage.

  There were indeed possibilities, if he was willing to see them.

  “Yes,” Vir said slowly, his mind racing. “Yes, I have … contacts.”

  “We will be in touch, then.”

  Vir nodded, the words not fully registering at first. Then they did. He turned and said, “And when you’re in touch, what will you…”

  They were gone. Finian. Gwynn. The one called Galen. And the ship.

  The ship that had been his ride.

  “What am I supposed to do? Walk back to Babylon 5?” Vir demanded. But there was no one there to reply. Then, physically and mentally, he shrugged. The bottom line was that techno-mages, even cloister techno-mages, still bothered the hell out of him. He would find other means of getting back to Babylon 5 … and then, why, then the work would truly begin. The work that would lead him to…

  What? What would it lead him to?

  He had told Londo Mollari that he would remain his friend… even if he became his enemy. He had the disturbing feeling that his continued activities would lead him to that point sooner than he wanted, and he would find out whether the sentiment he had expressed was, in fact, true.

  And he had a further disturbing feeling that he wasn’t going to like what he found.

  EXCERPTED FROM

  THE CHRONICLES OF LONDO MOLLARI.

  Excerpt dated (approximate Earth date)

  January 9, 2268.

  I believe the expression my former friend, Mr.Garibaldi, once used was “It has been some kind of party.” That, I can assure you, it very much has been.

  The festivities have been progressing on a nonstop fashion. Naturally, I cannot participate in them. In fact, officially I must scorn and condemn them, and such public rejection has prompted some reactions of outright hostility from my beloved people. After all, they expect uniform support from their emperor. How dare I imply that their rejoicing over the misfortune of others might somehow be inappropriate, or in a bad taste or - dare I say it - shortsighted.

  People have very little patience with that which they do not wish to hear.

  Then again, considering the number of individuals who endeavored to sway me from the course that brought me to this cursed throne, I am certainly the last person who has any right to make such observations, eh?

  As of this writing, it has been one Earth week, or perhaps two, since the unleashing of the Drakh plague upon the hapless Earth. I am not certain precisely how long it has been, since I have spent much of the time in an alcoholic haze. As always, this is partly motivated by the presence of my little friend and his intolerance for liquor. But it also represents my nominal participation in the fever of celebration that has gripped Centauri Prime and has plunged it into an orgy of rejoicing. Such actions are always risky, for they have an unfortunate habit of attracting the notice of Fate and her damnable sisters, Poetic Justice and Irony.

  For years now, Centauri Prime has grown more and more isolationist. We have spun a cocoon around ourselves, posted large metaphorical signs that have instructed others to keep away from us. If the Interstellar Alliance has desired to have no congress with us, we have had equally as much antipathy for them. As is always the case when a people draw inward, we have examined ourselves spiritually, as well as politically. We have sought answers, tried to determine just how and why such an unfortunate and vile fate as being bombed to the edge of oblivion had been visited upon us. There were some who said rather loudly, and quite frequently, that our willingness to consort with “lesser’ races had brought the wrath of the Great Maker upon us. We had allowed ourselves to become weak, our purpose to become diluted. The fact that no one could quite agree on just what that purpose might be did not seem to deter the philosophy. The Alliance had assaulted us be
cause it was the Great Makers will. What an odd combination of paranoia and spiritual resignation that was.

  But there was another side to that reasoning. A side that said that, tt we were willing to rededicate ourselves to the worship of the Great Maker, the rebuilding of Centauri Prime, and an understanding that the only friend of Centauri could be other Centauri, why … then it was possible that the Great Maker might smile upon us once more. In doing so, he might very well lead us to renewed greatness. Most importantly, he would smite our enemies with his wrath and with his mighty hand.

  It was partly to that end that Minister Durla installed his former teacher of religion, one Vallko by name, into the newly created position of minister of spirituality. It was a ludicrous concept for a post, I thought, and I was quite sure that there would be an outcry.

  I was correct. I am always correct. It is a curse I live under. Well … one of many.

  Unfortunately, the outcry was one of uniform approval, and many were certain that a new and definitively positive step had been taken toward improving the lot of the poor, beleaguered residents of Centauri Prime. Minister Durla was perfectly willing to support Vallko’s tenure by making attendance at spiritual meetings mandatory for the citizenry. But it was not necessary. Vallko’s services are invariably packed, the temples creaking at the doors, or at least I am told that it is so. I have not attended any.

  Minister Durla scolds me for this. Let him. My response to him is that, If the Great Maker is everywhere, why is he any more at Minister Vallko's temple than in the throne room? Indeed, he has more reason to be in the throne room, for that is where the true power of Centauri Prime resides, and it is there that the Great Maker can and should have the most influence.

  It may be, however, that I say this with less forcefulness than I would like, probably because we both know it to be nonsense. The power lies elsewhere. Durla, of course, thinks that it lies with him, and I’m certain he thinks I am foolish enough to believe that it resides in my hands. It is, in fact, Durla who is the fool, but I am disinclined to inform him of his … misapprehension.