Gareth Williams - A Dark, Distorted Mirror. Volume 5 - Among the Stars, like Giants. Part 1 - Learning How to Live

"I am sorry," he said, looking down.

"Why? You didn't whip me senseless all these days and nights."

"I should have been here sooner."

She laughed again, a sound entirely devoid of any humour. "Why? Do you expect me to believe you are some sort of hero? That your only motivation is pure altruism? Rescuing the captive princess from the evil monster? I'm not a princess." She made to add something, but stopped. "There was something else there. If you didn't want me for yourself, then you wanted me for something."

"You are right," he said. This was not how he had imagined this conversation going. Couldn't she be more like...? "I have.... had a daughter. She would not have been a great deal older than you are."

"I am not her," she spat. "And whatever happened to her, you will not be able to bring her back through me."

"Why are you so cynical?" he shouted at last, unable to contain himself any longer. He saw her shrink back. "I know you are not her. That does not mean I would have let that go on happening to you. There was no ulterior motive, no dark plan. Nothing but some sense that there is still right and wrong."

"There isn't," she whispered. "There's no such thing."

"How can there be such cynicism in one so young?" he mused, mostly to himself. He was not expecting a reply, and there wasn't one. "Anyone would think you had no dreams at all."

"I don't," she said firmly.

He looked at her, and saw that she was telling the truth. She wanted to hurt him, yes, but her reply had been truthful. He sighed. "I think that is the saddest thing I have ever heard," he whispered. "When I was your age, oh, what dreams I had! What dreams we all had! We would shake heaven and earth and leave behind nothing but smiles and wit and a reputation all men would envy.

"They did not come true, and most of the men who dreamed are gone now. Yes, we failed, but that failure was the fault of the dreamers, not of the dream.

"And you say you have no dreams at all. Not a single one." He sighed again. "Go to sleep. Food and drink will be brought for you when you require them, and you have my word, if that means a single thing to you, that no one will try to harm you here. Not while I live."

"I...." She was shaking. "I am sorry."

"Go to sleep," he said, as he left.

Dasouri was not where Marrago had expected him to be, where the others were training. His little group of mercenaries and outcasts had grown a fair bit, and they needed to learn cohesiveness. There were many different races here, with many different fighting styles, and they needed to learn each others' strengths and weaknesses. They needed to learn to trust each other.

He found Dasouri in the antechamber, arguing with a newcomer. It was an alien, the one who had been at the council. He looked at Marrago with his strange, almost infinite, alien eyes, and behind him Marrago could see the shimmering heat-haze of a monster.

"This is Moreil," Dasouri said. "He wishes to talk with you. I did say she would be nothing but trouble."

Ambassador Durano put down the missive and looked up at the wall. For a moment he felt physically sick. Not just because the Centarum had waited so long to inform him of the situation, not even out of concern for the Emperor's health, not even because the missive was signed by a human called Morden.

No, it was the instructions that nauseated him so much.

Durano was a rational man, painstakingly so. He thought clearly before each action. He carefully weighed the consequences of his every move. He took time to think and debate and argue with himself. Those traits made him invaluable to his people, and also a very fine chess player. He had played the game a lot since he was introduced to it by the humans, and he was acknowledged a master.

He knew how to separate sentiment from practicality. There were things which, while unpleasant, were still necessary. That was a part of life, and only a fool disagreed with it.

But this?

He had argued against the sending of Narn peacekeeping troops to Gorash, knowing that such a move would both inflame public opinion among his people and, worse, send a dangerous message that the Republic was weak. The Republic was weak of course, fatally so, but it was hardly wise to let this fact be advertised. However, his cautious mind had ultimately decided that Narn aid was better than none, and so he had assented.

The reasons for appointing a Narn as leader of the peacekeeping force were many, and for the most part well thought out. Commander N'Rothak knew the Gorash system well, having led the invasion force into the system. He was by all accounts a fine leader, and a more than fair man. Ambassador G'Kael had made a powerful speech advocating N'Rothak. The Narns were closer than any other race, knew the area better than any other race, and there was a great propaganda opportunity for the Alliance as well. What better way to show that the wars were over than to have the Narns offering aid and protection to their ancient enemies? A symbol of a new and enlightened future, where old differences were forgotten and all were one brotherhood against the Darkness. G'Kael quoted the Prophet G'Kar several times. It was a powerful and moving speech. Durano did not dispute that.

But G'Kael did not believe one word of it. The Narn was every bit as intelligent and cautious as Durano himself, and both of them knew it. That speech came directly from the Kha'Ri, as did the subtle menacing undertones that giving the task to someone less.... suited, might be construed as a deliberate insult to the Narn people.

Durano found himself almost admiring the Kha'Ri. They had learned from the Republic, oh yes. They had learned a great deal. Had it not been for Marrago's alliance with the Shadows they would have won the war, working together while the Republic self-destructed. The Narns had understood the truth of the Great Game. The lessons of intrigue and diplomacy and deception were to be used against a common enemy, not against each other.

One line from a noble centuries dead echoed in Durano's mind. 'What better way to defeat your enemy than to make him think you are his friend?'

He wondered who in the Kha'Ri had read and understood that.

But there was nothing he could do. There was no way to escape this. He looked at the missive again. It was couched in flowery language, with much talk of 'aid between brothers in alliance' and 'temporary need', 'poor weather conditions', 'union to lend much-needed aid to the starving'. The points however were clear to anyone with the eyes to see.

The Emperor had had a heart attack. He was in a coma, and unlikely ever to recover.

There was no heir. Too many of the noble Houses had valid claims to the Purple Throne. No doubt some of them were already moving into position. Some people never learned. The Game had consumed and spat out better people than they. Elrisia, Jarno, Malachi, Marrago, Dugari. All of them had thought they could play the Game, only to fall.

There was social unrest on Centauri Prime, which would inevitably spread to other worlds. There was famine and disease and starvation. There had already been one riot in the streets of the capital. There would probably be more.

The Republic was unable to handle all of these problems, especially with so much of the Centauri fleet away performing babysitting duties for the Alliance.

Would the Alliance please send help? A permanent garrison of soldiers, Rangers and Dark Star s would do nicely.

The request was not for Centauri ships and soldiers to be returned to do what they should be doing, guarding Centauri worlds and cities. No, that would not be granted. That would set a dangerous precedent and provoke fears of a renewed build-up. No, the Centarum wanted Alliance ships and Alliance soldiers, and it did not take a genius to work out who these would be.