What can you not forgive, Sheridan?
No answer, not for me.... not for yourself. No answer....
"I.... I can't.... I can't forgive any of...." Sheridan looked up. The mirror was empty. He reached forward to touch it and it shattered at his touch. Behind it lay a small walking stick, topped with silver. He made to pick it up, but it was impossibly hot to his touch.
"Where are you?" he called. "Where are you?"
There was no answer.
Senna lay quietly on the bed, staring up at the grey ceiling. The pain in her back had lessened, but it had never really gone away. She doubted it ever would. Still, sometimes she was glad of it. The pain there was physical, easily attributable to something clear and obvious. The other types of pain she was feeling were not so easy to forget.
They were travelling through hyperspace now. The entire fleet. A group of monsters and traitors and cowards. They were going to attack Centauri Prime.
Her homeworld.
Her home.
And they were being led by the man who should have been defending her people against them.
Her cheek still stung, her lip was red and bleeding. The blow had taken her completely by surprise, and it had been a very long time before she had stopped shaking. She had not thought he would....
The sheer anger in his eyes blazed in her mind again and she closed her eyes tightly. If she could not see it, it was not there. That was what her nurse had told her.
She had lied.
They were all here now, in the dark. She could feel Rem Lanas' fingers sliding over her skin, hear his voice in his ear. She could feel again the impact of Marrago's fist on her jaw. She could see again those colossal monsters ripping apart her bodyguard with their bare hands and rending the carcass between their teeth. She could see again their master calmly watching, as though they were no more than animals squabbling over a meal.
And now all the monsters would be free to do it again. More people would be killed, more children left orphaned, more rapes, more torture, more death. More and more. It would never end.
She could still feel Rem Lanas' hands on her. She had never screamed for him, not once. She had wanted to. The pain in her throat from holding back had built and built until she felt as if she were inhaling fire with every breath.
She opened her eyes, realising that she was sobbing, her body shaking uncontrollably.
She rose from the bed and walked to the door, making to open it, but then jumped back as if the handle were red hot. He might be there. He had struck her once. She had thought he was a good man, but he was just like all the others.
A monster.
He was leading them to attack Centauri Prime.
Her homeworld.
Her home.
Still sobbing, she threw herself against the door and slid down to the floor. Something caught her eye on the floor and she picked it up slowly.
It was a knife.
She rested her head against the door, still sobbing, and placed the knife against the soft skin of her arm.
It did not hurt. None of the cuts did. Not even when all the blood began to flow from her shoulder, from her stomach, none of it hurt.
That was good. She had had enough pain in her life already.
It was possible that they all had some presentment of what was to come. Emperor Londo Mollari in his silent slumber. The Lady Consort Timov in her meditations and prayer for her husband's life. Mr. Morden in his quiet writing. The Inquisitors in their never-ending duties.
Susan Ivanova waiting and whistling on the pinnacle of Cathedral.
It began with the Tuchanq, armed with their stolen technology, fuelled by hatred directed at a blameless target. Already battered and torn and destroyed from wars without end, Centauri Prime would fall before their vengeance,
Ship after ship swarmed through jump gates into the space above the planet
The time for their vengeance had come. To most of them, insane and songless, it did not even matter on whom they wrought that vengeance. All that mattered was blood.
Oceans and oceans of it.
To the Brotherhood, all that mattered was plunder, and pain, and riches, and power, and revenge.
To the Centauri, all that mattered was survival. Again.
Marrago knew how the plan was supposed to go. After all, he had been responsible for devising it. The scouts' reports from Centauri airspace indicated that everything should go even more easily than he had dreamed. The defence grid was barely operational and the ships to defend his homeworld pitifully inadequate.
He had waited as long as he dared, hoping beyond hope for some communication from Sinoval. He had a plan. It was a good plan. It might work.
But Marrago needed to be sure everything was ready. There could be no room for any error, not in this.
He had not heard a thing. The Tuchanq had already begun their attack, heedless of any strategy, careless of any losses. He had seen it in noMir Ru's eyes. A madness that feared nothing, not even death.
Especially not death.
"Where are you, Sinoval?" he asked.
There was no reply.
Dasouri was trying to contact him. He knew that. They had to leave hyperspace and join the attack.
"Where are you, Sinoval?!"
Still no reply.
Marrago sighed and rose. He would have to go through with it and trust to his friend. Sinoval had created this plan. He would not abandon them.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a bloodstain on the floor, near the door to Senna's room. That was where he had hit her. The memory still shamed him. He could still feel the impact on his fist and he burned with the memory.
Had he drawn blood with the blow? He did not remember, but he did not think so. Maybe he had.
But blood that fresh?
His hearts beating so fast he could scarcely breathe, Marrago opened the door.
Senna's body fell out, a bloodstained knife hanging loosely in her fingers. Her eyes were open, but there was no sight there. Blood was everywhere, on her hands, her dress, her face, her hair, her mouth.
So much blood.
Almost an ocean of it.
Marrago stared in mute horror, unable to form even a conscious thought.
"Where are you, Sinoval?" he cried again after a long while. Tears were welling in his eyes.
Behind him, the Shadow Warrior waited.
Kulomani was half-expecting the message he received, but that did not make it any less disturbing. He had been expecting it ever since the Day of the Dead, ever since his conversation with the former Lord-General Jorah Marrago.
Kulomani was not stupid. He knew in whose service he had been recruited and he accepted that, knowing the stakes he fought for. To his mind there had been something wrong throughout the war with the Shadows, something he had only been able to conceptualise during the final battle at Z'ha'dum itself. There had been something wrong and now he had the feeling that he was on the side of right again.
He sat at his command post on the bridge of Babylon 5. What did the humans call it? C and C? At his fingertips rested the entire power of the whole station, and by extension all of the Alliance. Power was a truly terrifying thing sometimes.
He tried again to contact General Sheridan. Again there was no reply. The General was here, in his quarters. He had taken some time off to rest, claiming he had not been sleeping well. Kulomani did not really grasp the problem there, but he supposed none of his people could. Still, he could not deny that the General had not been looking well. There were dark smudges under his eyes and he spent a lot of time rubbing at his face and drinking that strange black drink he called coffee.