He told her of the sudden attack from nowhere, of the sheer agony that had engulfed every telepath on the station, of the creatures that had attacked them all, indestructible, awesome, terrifying.
He told her how the others had been taken. All of them. Jason Ironheart, Harriman Grey, Matt Stoner, all the others. Even Alfred. He told her of Alfred's last instructions to him, a whisper in his mind that he could not forget.
And then he asked her what they were going to do.
Talia thought about this for a few seconds, and then looked up. "We're going to get them all back. We're going to bring that network crashing down around their heads and free everyone trapped in it, and then we're going to destroy every single one of them."
Ari Ben Zayn did not hesitate. "Good," he said simply.
It was a place where the damned went to die, where the lost gathered to start at shadows, where the friendless, the alone, the forgotten.... where all of them could be found.
It was full now. There were many lost after the wars, the deaths, the pointless, constant killing. Criminals, refugees, bounty hunters, the just plain unlucky.... they were all here.
There was an inn, of course. Oh, different races might call it different things, but it was a place where the friendless went to drink themselves into blissful oblivion. The owner was a huge, one–eyed Drazi whose only words were the price of each drink, and who heard nothing but the orders.
The inn had no name. The world had no name. Most of the patrons had no names. It was that sort of place.
In the corner, in an area every bit as shadowed as the rest of the building, a man sat, drinking painful memories along with his lukewarm brivare. The vintage was surprisingly good, the memories still painful.
Her blood had been so bright, her eyes so dull. He would never hear her speak again, never hear her laugh, never stand at her wedding or watch his grandchildren play. There was so much he had never told her, and so much he never would.
He couldn't even go to her grave, to stand there and talk to her spirit. His Emperor, his best friend, the man to whom he had sworn his life.... had exiled him forever from his home.
Once he had been Lord–General Marrago, in charge of one of the mightiest war fleets in the galaxy. Now he was no one, one of the lost. No title, no name, no House, no family, no friends.
No one.
He wondered idly whom the Emperor had made the new Lord–General. He hoped it would be Carn. He was young, but he had talent and conviction and a certainty of what was right and what was wrong. He would be a good Lord–General.
On the other hand, the Emperor could have picked anyone, anyone at all, if he was even still alive. If Carn was still alive, for that matter.
It would not be difficult to find out. Information, along with alcohol, was the thing most commonly available here, for the right price, and the simple name of the Centauri Republic's new Lord–General would not be difficult, confidential or even hard to discover.
It was just that he did not want to. That life was behind him now. Let his successor have all the luck in the galaxy. He would need it.
He looked up sharply as three people arrived at once. Groups were rare here, and usually meant trouble. Anyone with friends was not the sort of person likely to end up here.
Two Narns and a Drazi. Neither a race likely to feel any affection for him. He had after all been responsible for leading the war effort against the Narns for three years, enlisting Shadow aid to do so, and in his younger days he had led assaults on the Drazi more than once.
It could be nothing. It could be absolutely nothing. Or they could be after someone else. Ninety percent of the entire planet's population must have a price on their head (or other appendage) for some reason or another. Bounty hunters were hardly unexpected, and they received little help here. Today's informer could be tomorrow's information, after all.
But there were always some too far gone to see that.
Slowly, trying not to attract undue attention, Marrago rose from his seat and shuffled towards the back exit. Naturally there was a back door probably six or seven, but he only knew of the one. He made a point of walking slowly, trying to hide his usual arrogant stride a legacy of the Court, that. He also hunched himself over, his cloak over his head. Look like no one. Attract no attention. You are no one. No one at all.
He reached the back door, stepped outside into a cold, dark alley, and walked directly into a tall, finely dressed Centauri. For a moment their eyes met, and the Centauri smiled.
"It is you. My my, how the mighty have fallen, yes. From Lord–General to.... this."
"Durla," Marrago whispered. A former Palace Guardsman, dismissed years ago by the late Emperor Turhan after some scandal or another. His was a face Marrago had always remembered, a man consumed by ambition, a man he had always expected to see again one day.
Just not like this.
"The Emperor has put a price on your head, old man," Durla said. "A large price, for crimes against the Republic. As a dutiful servant of the Republic and the Emperor, I am honoured to be able to serve him in this matter."
"I'm gone and forgotten, Durla," Marrago whispered. "Leave me be and let me die."
"Funny, those are almost exactly the Emperor's orders.... except I was to hasten the death. He wants your body cold at his feet."
That was not Londo. Marrago knew that much. That was the Vorlons. Them and their human puppet. Londo had risked a lot getting Marrago off Centauri Prime. He had given him a head start, that was all.
"I found three individuals most agreeable to a deal," Durla continued. "None of them likes me very much, but they like you even less. Besides, they will have all the price on your head between them. I am not working for money, but for the good of the Republic."
Durla leaned in close. "I heard your daughter was killed. A pity. She was always very pretty. Did she look so pretty when she was dead, I wonder, her body cut apart? You know what they say in the capital, on the homeworld?"
"What?" Marrago whispered. His breath was hard and cold in his chest. Lyndisty.
"That you killed her."
Marrago moved, his spirit commanding what his aged muscles were willing to do. He grabbed Durla's throat and squeezed, hauling the former Guard into the air. Durla choked, but reacted quickly, kicking out. His boots caught Marrago's knees and ribs, and pain flared in his body, but he did not let go.
Something exploded in his back and he stumbled forward, his grip slackening. A second blow crashed onto the back of his skull, and he fell to his knees.
Looking up, he could see the Drazi and the Narns standing above him. They looked even larger from this perspective.
"The friends I told you about," Durla said. "They will be paid very well for this, but that is only secondary. They hate you. A lot. Much more than I do. You are nothing, old man. Nothing and no one, and we'll drag your body back to the homeworld and toss it into the lime pits next to your whore of a daughter. And I.... shall be recognised in my Emperor's sight again."
A boot crashed into Marrago's rib cage. Another one came down, but he reached up and caught it, pushing the Narn backwards. His strength was ebbing, sapped away.... but he could not die here. He could not.
Lyndisty, I'm sorry. I should have protected you better.
He was suddenly aware of someone else nearby, a cold presence and a stark, painful smell. Marrago had been on hundreds of battlefields and he knew that smell intimately.
It was death.
His attackers had sensed the arrival as well, and they turned. Taking this advantage, Marrago rolled to his feet, his body protesting, but his will, as ever, pre–eminent.