Гэрет Уильямс - Темное, кривое зеркало. Том 3 : След на песке

"Oh?" Durano said, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, if the Gods don't exist, someone up there is out to get me."

Londo moved to the viewscreen in the other room, aware of Lennier standing protectively at the door, pointedly not looking at the viewscreen or making any attempt to listen. He was a good man…. for a Minbari. Londo looked at the viewscreen, at the face of his old friend, of the wise old advisor who had taken in a young, idealistic politician with delusions of grandeur.

"Malachi," he said, no hint of warmth in his voice. "What an unexpected surprise."

Malachi looked so tired. So old. Londo wondered if he looked the same. "Tell me, Londo. How would you like to come to the capital?"

She began to move, heading in the direction of what she hoped was a door. She had no idea of where she was, or, more importantly perhaps, where he was.

"It says you must die. It shows me where you are. You cannot run from me."

Kats grimaced in pain and tried to keep moving. Blood was pounding in her ears. The voice — his voice — was so loud.

"It says you must….

"…. beg for my forgiveness! You have done wrong. You have sinned and you will be punished."

Kalain's voice. Her outstretched arm came up against a wall and she paused, breathing harshly. For a moment she tried to be quiet, remaining still and motionless, but then she remembered Ashan's words. Whatever it was that was telling him to kill her, it was directing him. He knew where she was.

"I can see you. It can see you. I…. I don't want…. to do this. But it says I must. It says the good of my people depends on this. You followed him, you see. You didn't have to. Nobody made you. It was a mistake, the wrong decision, and now you must be punished for it. It says that it's all your fault."

He was near her now. She could hear his footsteps. She could smell him now as well. He smelled…. wrong, almost as if he were dead and decomposing. His words were flat and toneless.

Gulping in air, touching the wall for balance, she tried to move. A sharp pain burst in her shoulder and she stumbled. Something rolled beneath her foot and she fell.

A rough hand grabbed the collar of her robe, hauling her upwards. She let herself go limp, trying to remember the lessons Sinoval had tried to teach her. He had warned her that one day she would need to know how to fight, and how to kill. She had replied with a gentle smile that she had no intention of ever killing anyone.

She wished she had listened. All she could think of was Sinoval's face when he learned that she was dead.

The point of the knife came to rest at the bottom of her ribcage. Ashan pushed it slightly.

"It…. says that…. It says…. Minbari do not kill Minbari. It says that I must…. No. I am…. Minbari do not…. It…."

The pressure on the knife began to increase. Her robe became damp and warm, and she knew the knife had drawn blood. Ashan's grip on it had become weaker, however. He seemed to be arguing with himself.

"You are Minbari," she said, trying to force the words through the pain. "Minbari do not…." She cried out as the knife was jogged slightly, cutting a deep gouge across her skin.

"Silence…. You are a worker. You…. do not…. matter…. It says that you…. It…. says…."

She twisted her body and slid aside, crying out as the knife sliced across her ribcage and her side. She could feel Ashan losing his balance and hear him falling. Scrambling to her feet, she did not head blindly in any direction, but began clawing desperately for the knife. Her right hand found it, and as she awkwardly pulled it up through bleeding fingers she felt his hand slam down on top of her own.

"Workers…. die…. You…. must…."

He forced her hand up, crushing her fingers on to the hilt. His foot lashed out against her knee and she gave way, crashing backwards to the floor, but still she maintained her hold on the knife. She could feel him rising over her, bending the knife downwards.

"Minbari do not kill Minbari," she whispered, a great dizziness sweeping over her. "Listen to me, Ashan. Please…. fight it…."

"I can't. It says…. It…. says…."

"Listen to yourself. Minbari do not kill…."

The knife slid downwards a little further. "I…. can't…. I…. I…."

He suddenly jerked his hands, forcing the knife upwards. Kats, unable to free her hand from the hilt, added unwitting momentum.

She felt the knife slide into his chest and heard a slight gurgle. His fingers fell stiff and she was able to wrench her hand from the hilt, but not before his blood poured over her fingers.

She rolled aside just in time to prevent his body falling on her.

For a moment there was a still nothingness, and then the pain from her injuries hit home in one shocking burst and she cried out under the onslaught. The full horror of what she had done engulfed her. "Ashan," she whispered. "Ashan. Are you…?" It was useless. He was dead.

"Killed another fine Minbari, worker slut!" bellowed Kalain in her mind. " Beg forgiveness!"

"I'm sorry," she breathed. "I'm…." She closed her eyes and rolled over, climbing to her hands and knees. "No. You're not here. I know you're not here." She crawled forward, wincing from the pain of the wounds on her arm and body.

"Z'ondar!" Light filled the room as a door was thrown open and a figure stood silhouetted in the doorway. It moved forward with a gait she had never seen before. It raised a weapon that looked very much like a fighting pike.

It hissed out words in a twisted, sibilant language she did not recognise. "Z'ondar," it then said again. The word was Minbari, but one which she did not know. "Z'ondar."

Shaking, she managed to climb to her feet. "Who are you?" she asked softly. "I am Kats, of the worker caste of the Minbari. I…. I mean you no harm."

It began clicking and a strange expression passed over its alien face. "Do you…. revere the Z'ondar?" it asked haltingly, in an erratic worker caste dialect. "Do you remember…. his ways?"

"Who is the Z'ondar?"

It hissed something in its own language and darted forward, raising its weapon. It looked angry, very angry. Kats tried to avoid its attack, but she was too weak. She fell backwards, landing on Ashan's body.

Something beneath her hissed.

The alien's charge suddenly stopped and it dropped its weapon. Black ichor spilling from its eyes, it fell face forward on to the ground, a sharp knife sticking from its back.

"My lady?" asked a voice from the door. "Are you all right? I…. I can't see you."

"Kozorr," she whispered. "I am here." She hoped she sounded stronger than she felt.

"My lady." He moved forward awkwardly, and his shape was soon lost in the darkness. "Talk to me, Kats."

"I am here. I…." She coughed. "What has happened? What is…?" She could hear once again the hissing sound from beneath her. A strange warmth began to rise beneath her neck. Breathing out sharply, she rolled aside, and was stopped by strong hands.

Kozorr helped her rise. "I heard that Ashan had brought you here, my lady. Some of the…. survivors managed to direct me."

"Survivors?" she said, clinging to him tightly. She did not feel capable of standing on her own. "What happened? I…. remember meeting with Callenn and Ashan and then…. something fell on me and I…. I woke up here. He said he was going to kill me."

"He is dead. It was a fine blow. Worthy of a warrior."

"I'm not a warrior, though! I never want to be one. That…. that was the first time I've ever killed anyone."

"You have a strong heart, Kats," he said, his voice almost breaking. "Come…. see what has happened."

He helped her out of the room, and she looked at the utter devastation around her.

She felt like weeping.

Ta'Lon felt for the presence of his sword, as he would check on the security of an old friend. This whole place felt wrong to him, and he was experiencing a growing fear for the life of the one man he had sworn to follow unto death.

He had been a soldier during the occupation. The sight of the casual torture and murder of his family and mate had driven him into a peculiar form of insanity and he had dedicated his life to the destruction of the Centauri. Disdaining any long-range or high-technology weapons, he had taken the katok his grandfather had forged and sworn to use it as his instrument of vengeance. He had fought for almost the entirety of his adult life with only his sword. It was both weapon and constant companion: his only friend.

When the Centauri had withdrawn he had been bereft of purpose, wandering idly, picking fights, seeking mercenary employment. Some of the tasks he had been commissioned for had been neither ethical nor legal, but he had done them anyway, neither caring nor knowing anything else.

And then he had met Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar. He had been hired to assassinate the prophet by one who preferred to avoid the expense or the rules of the Thenta Ma'Kur. G'Kar had awoken to see the assassin standing over him, sword held ready. He had spoken nine brief words:

"Is this the purpose that sword was made for?"

Ta'Lon had broken down in tears and the two had talked all night. G'Kar's wisdom had awed him, and by dawn he had sworn himself to the prophet's side. He was not the first Ranger, but perhaps he was the first true Narn Ranger.

From that day to this he had always known he would give his life for G'Kar, but now he was accepting the revelation that he might have to do more than just die for the prophet. He might have to live for him.

Satisfied that the sword was still there, he turned to look at his companions. Six Narn Rangers, all men he had chosen and trained personally. He knew he could count on them. There were two humans present as well, neither of whom he was entirely sure of: Garibaldi, who worked for G'Kar's old ally Bester, a man he had been suspicious of from the beginning and still doubted today; and Dr. Kirkish, who had been studying the Machine in detail, again for Bester.

Something was definitely wrong. They should have been met by guards by now. Where were they?

"Be careful," he warned his Narns. He was speaking in his native tongue, one he had always felt proud of. The Centauri had not been able to eradicate it, and joy at its salvation led him to use it wherever possible. "Watch out for the humans. I am not sure I trust them."

"As you say," came the reply. He smiled. Good men.

The Heart of the Machine was before them now, almost. Ta'Lon reached to draw his sword, and then he stopped. Once drawn, it could not be sheathed without shedding blood, and he would not dishonour this place with a weapon unless he had to. He had enough time.

He rounded a corner and entered the hall wherein lay the Heart of the Machine. He stepped forward, and smiled to see his mentor and leader safely within. He stepped further inside and walked up to the Heart itself, stopping some paces from it, and kneeling.

"Forgive me, Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar," he said formally. "We feared for your safety. No one from the station has been able to contact you."

"There is no need to worry," said the voice of his leader. "No need at all. Everything is going fine." Behind her mask of light and mirrors, Donne smiled.

"I'm…. going."

"Go, then."

"Somebody has to, don't you see that? Somebody has to try to save the world!"

"And it's always got to be you. 'To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.' I don't believe you! We could still try to get away. Some of the colonies are intact. We could…. Oh, why am I bothering? You don't want to get away. You want to stay and fight."