He had wandered the city before arriving here, looking back at places of memory. Places where he had spoken, streets he had walked — first as a freedom fighter, then a soldier, then a member of the Kha'Ri and finally a Prophet. He saw houses and parks. He saw people. He saw soldiers, tall and proud. He saw children, running free and happy. He saw traders and merchants and craftsmen.
He should have been elated by the sight, but he was not. There was a darkness here on Narn, and it dwelt within the hearts of his people. Almost everyone he saw was interested in news of the outside galaxy, and especially in the poor situation of the Centauri. Many a toast was drunk in celebration of the Emperor's illness, and of the Inquisitors moving on Centauri worlds. There was much good cheer about Narn ships and Narn captains helping maintain order and defend Centauri worlds.
G'Kar knew he would have been recognised. He was not drawing any particular attention to himself, but neither was he going out of his way to hide. Few knew him personally, and most of the common people would not expect to see him here anyway.
But others, the Kha'Ri, the Thenta Ma'Kur, perhaps even the Inquisition, they would have seen him. Let them. Let them wonder. Let them be forced to act. Let them draw themselves into the open.
Besides, he was hardly alone.
"Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar," said a soft voice in flawless Narn.
"Lennier," G'Kar said, as his Ranger entered the room. "By G'Quan, it is good to see you."
"The feeling is likewise." Lennier did not step forward, instead remaining in the shadows. G'Kar noticed how well the shadows suited him. Ever since the massacre at Kazomi 7 Lennier had been different, scarred in more ways than one.
"I am grateful for all that you have done. There was no one else I could trust with this."
"It is my honour to serve, Ha'Cormar'ah."
"I need to see Da'Kal. Alone, and uninterrupted. I will also need to know the names of those who are working on this with her. She cannot be doing this alone."
"The names will be provided for you, Ha'Cormar'ah. As for the other, she has quarters in the main government building, but she also spends a great deal of time at a religious building outside the city. It appears to be a shrine of some sort."
"Her father's temple," G'Kar whispered. "I know where it is. It was destroyed by the Centauri, but a new temple was built over the ruins, a shrine to all the dead."
"There is more to it now than a mere shrine, Ha'Cormar'ah. There is something beneath it."
"Can you get me in there? Or at least find out what is underneath?"
"Ha'Cormar'ah.... I have not been wasting my time in your service here. If I may ask, where is Ranger Ta'Lon?"
"He is.... somewhere safe, with a ship prepared for my escape should that prove necessary. He is kept updated with what is happening here, and should I fail to maintain contact with him, he is to go to the Alliance with everything I have uncovered."
"As you say, Ha'Cormar'ah."
"It is strange. I have known many enemies in my life. The Centauri, the Shadows. But I never thought the greatest enemy I would ever know would be amongst my own people."
There was a saying Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar told me, something he had picked up from a human philosopher. He was very fond of quoting it to me, and I remember it still.
'Battle not with monsters, lest you yourself become a monster, and if you gaze into the abyss, remember the abyss gazes also into you.'
He did not tell me to give up fighting monsters, but he did tell me to make sure that I never became a monster in the process. That is the hardest task I have ever faced, and I am not sure it is one I will ever prove equal to.
L'Neer of Narn, Learning at the Prophet's Feet.
Greetings, brother.
He could never accurately describe that sensation, not even to Talia, whom he felt knew him even better than he did himself. However, if pressed, he would speak of insects crawling and skittering in his brain, covered in slime and vomit.
Dexter Smith reeled from the mental assault of the thing before him. One of the Hand of the Light, it called itself. A search-and-capture unit, like the old Psi Corps Bloodhounds, but working for someone else.
Do not fight us, brother. We have not come for you.
"You won't touch her," he whispered. "You won't...."
We will. She fights us. Our Masters have ordered her capture. She has a rare mind, talented and deceitful and truly treacherous. She will make a fine addition to our unit.
"You won't take her."
Join us, brother. Perhaps we will give her to you. She will do anything you like, anything at all.
Dexter looked at Talia. She was still as death. Only the painfully slow and shallow rise and fall of her chest showed that she was still alive. A faint glow of light still shone around her mouth and nose where the Bloodhound had tried to draw it from her.
What had it been attempting to do? What was that light? Her mind, her soul, what?
Both, and more. There is something that makes you human, that makes you weak, that makes you cry and question. Something that makes you unhappy. We will remove it from her, brother, and make her stronger as a result.
"Stronger, and.... more.... biddable?"
We will not deny that. Remove the need to question and what is left but glorious obedience?
Dexter slowly rose, the throbbing pain in his head becoming less. "You'll give her to me?"
Perhaps. That is not my decision to make.
"And she would do anything I ask. Anything at all?"
We do not know why you would want her to do.... that, brother, but ask and she would obey. She would have no choice. None of us would.
"And if I wanted her to argue with me, to fight, to disagree, to be awkward and different and maddening, to find fault with everything I did, to be contradictory and nonsensical?"
We do not understand.
Dexter looked at her, still unmoving, and smiled. "No, you really don't, do you?" He moved forward, trailing his hand along the edge of the bed. A plan was beginning to form in his mind, one shaped by instinct, not intelligence. He had no idea if this was going to work, and there was nothing to suggest that it would, but still.... there was a....
.... feeling.
A memory of that brief, sweet, blissful, complete communion of minds, and a sense of how she thought.
The Hand and Mr. Edgars would call it his telepathic powers, or empathy or whatever. He called it instinct.
"You can offer me all that? I must be really special to you," he said, still walking slowly forward.
The melting-wax features of the thing twitched into a grotesque parody of a smile. You have no idea how special, brother. You have a rare gift, truly rare, one that we can use.
"What will you take from me in exchange for this.... power?"
Nothing you will be sorry to lose, brother.
His hand brushed against her bare leg. A shock struck his fingers, almost like an electric current, or an unexpected flare of heat.
"What is it I have that you don't?"
Why brother, do you have to ask? Do you not just know? Can you not read me as you do those you beat at that infantile card game? The voice in his mind twisted, becoming a perfect replica of Zack's. So, explain that dealer chip again?
Dexter's hand touched Talia's. He curled his around hers. Her skin was so warm. He could feel it again, that one moment of communion. She was there. She was conscious, she was aware, she was just trapped behind a wall of pain and fear. All she needed....