He did not know where he was, where he had been imprisoned. Talia did not think he was inside a Dark Star. From what she had learned the less powerful telepaths were placed in external nodes like the Dark Stars, or relay points, funnels to the more powerful nodes. A psychic as trained and disciplined as Al would be in one of the central nodes, funnelling countless messages through himself to the rest of the network.
She wondered how long it would take for his escape to be noticed. There was so much she did not know about the network, but she did know it was patrolled. The Vorlons scanned it constantly, knowing that so much of their power was based in there. She had been lucky in skipping past them so far, but luck would not carry her forever. Nor would the artefact.
A sudden burst of pain twinged in her mind and she winced. The headaches were lasting longer these days, and usually when she was away from the artefact. She supposed she had been using it too much, but what other choice did she have? She had to use every weapon she had.
And that was why she was travelling hidden in the freezing cargo hold of this ship. There was a weapon — and if she was being honest to herself, a little more than just a weapon — she had not used. She had not wanted to use.
But things were getting desperate, time was growing short, and she did not dare let personal concerns distract her from her mission.
The shuttle continued towards Proxima 3.
I wonder how Dexter is doing these days? she thought to herself, and felt a tiny pang of guilt when her heart fluttered slightly at the thought of his name.
His wrists were covered in sores from the manacles. The muscles in his legs had wasted away from lack of use. The bright light hurt and burned at his eyes from long hours spent in the darkness. His hair was lank and greasy from too long in the dank cell.
But Durla was still a Centauri, and he was still a noble, and so he remembered how many days he has been kept in this cell — one hundred and fifteen — and he did not cower as the door opened and an unfamiliar person stood before him.
His eyes adjusted slowly, ever so slowly, but he refused to avert them, refused to show any weakness to this intruder. He took in all he could. Not a Centauri. A human. Finely dressed. Carrying no visible weapon. Alone. Power in his bearing. Durla knew of no human like that. But then he had been away from home for far too long, and of the one hundred and sixteen days since his return to Centauri Prime, he had spent one hundred and fifteen of them here.
"Durla," said the human, in a flawless accent. "Second son of Lord-Captain Sollaris of House Antignano. Younger brother to Solla Antignano, who died of poison a good many years ago, murdered by a jealous suitor over a woman."
Durla said nothing. These were simply words. Words are air, nothing more.
"In fact the poison came not from a jealous suitor but from yourself. You poisoned yourself as well to maintain the illusion and later attempted to court the lady in question yourself, only to be rejected. Following this, you served in the Palace Guards for several years, never marrying, until the truth of the incident came to light some eight years ago following an investigation launched by First Minister Urza Jaddo. You were stripped of your title and banished from Centauri space. Then you returned four months ago, and were promptly arrested and sent here, where you have been detained ever since."
Durla remained silent. The human was trying to intimidate him with his knowledge. That was all.
"Tell me, Durla Antignano. Who are you?"
"No," he said.
The human paused. Durla's eyes were still adjusting to the sudden influx of light, but he thought he could see a look of surprise on the human's face. Or was it self-satisfaction?
"Who are you?" the human repeated.
"No," Durla said again. "Who are you?"
"I am the man with the key to free you permanently from this cell, to restore you to high office and to give you anything you want."
"That is not what I asked, and I will not play games with anyone. If you will not tell me who you are, then at least tell me what you want and why you are here."
"I am here to see if you are the sort of person who can be trusted with the task of guiding the Republic through difficult times. If you wish to remain here until you die, you have only to say so."
"I wish to serve my Republic. I wish to serve my Emperor. I wish my voice to be heard by those people who never cared whether I lived or died. I came with information for the Emperor, and he repaid me by locking me up. I want an Emperor who will care about his subjects and a Republic that is worthy of my time and attention.
"If those things do not exist, then yes, I wish to be left alone in this cell until I die. I am tired of exile."
"I think we can arrange for your freedom, Guards-Captain Durla. My name is Morden. I am Emperor Mollari's…. personal advisor."
"I do not think I care what your name is, or your title."
The human smiled to himself. Durla could see that very clearly. The light in his cell suddenly seemed just a tiny bit brighter.
"A glass of orange juice?"
"No, thank you."
Smith sat down and looked at the man opposite him. William Edgars shrugged and poured himself a glass. He held it up to the light and smiled.
"A legacy of my childhood," he said. "No matter how much things change, we can never escape our childhoods, can we? Something always remains, whether on the surface or hidden deep down below. Something is always there. Don't you agree, Senator?"
Smith did not reply.
"In my case, it is a love of orange juice. Something so insignificant. In yours, it's a little more…. obvious. My congratulations by the way. You have done wonders with Sector Three-o-one. Truly."
"Thank you," Smith replied. "Now, I'd like to leave you alone there, and see how you fare."
"Really? After all the help we have offered you already, as well. Some might see that as ingratitude, Senator. Who was it, after all, who…. arranged for a generous proportion of the Reconstruction Fund to go to Sector Three-o-one? Who was it who arranged for the…. disgrace of Senator Voudreau after her very vocal plans to have Sector Three-o-one completely demolished and rebuilt as a military complex?"
"Both of them were you, and I'm sure so were a lot of the other mysterious events that have helped me. You know full well that I was aware of your involvement."
Edgars sat down, sipping at his orange juice. "I did tell you we would be keeping a close eye on your career. You are a man of great promise."
"You obviously control half the Senate…."
"A little more than half, actually, but please continue."
"You've seeded it with people in your pocket one way or another. So what do you need me for? Why not have me replaced by someone guaranteed to do as they're told?"
"Ah, to be fair, some did feel that would be appropriate. Not me, however. I like you, Senator Smith. I admire your courage and your resolve. I feel there is a lot of potential within you. Thus far, you have been proving me correct." He smiled, as if at a private joke. "I do enjoy it when my faith in human nature is confirmed. It makes me feel…. content."
"That thing was yours, wasn't it?"
"That…? Oh, you mean the Hand of the Light. Yes, in a sense he was mine. More accurately, he was attached to another division and I merely provided local assistance, but your assumption is correct. A part of the telepath underground in Sector Three-o-one is still operating and a few telepaths are still fleeing there. Some of my…. associates felt it prudent to take steps to shut it down now that it has served its purpose. And with Mr. Trace gone, an agent of the Hand of the Light was sent in."