“Doesn’t that sound sort of… unethical to you?”

“It’s what we have to do to survive. And hey, the Narns are better than the Minbari. Besides, I’m not a telepath, and I doubt any of the Narns will be wanting my DNA, so it doesn’t bother me.”

Corwin had absorbed this information and mentally shrugged. Assuming it was done with the consent of the telepaths in question, then surely it was fine. Besides, what was the price of survival?

“I don’t suppose the Boss told you how he knew where we were?” Corwin asked.

“I can’t tell you that. I’m not authorised for that sort of information, you see. The Boss trusts me to run this place, and the best way to run this place is to make sure everyone knows what they’re supposed to know, and that they all know they’re supposed to know it, and that they don’t know what they’re not supposed to know. So, if I’m not supposed to know something, I make sure I don’t know it. Does that make sense?”

“Ah, yes…” Corwin said, thinking it over for a while. “Sort of. So, what am I supposed to know?”

“I don’t know.”

Corwin blinked, and Garibaldi laughed. It was an infectious laugh, and Corwin found himself joining in. He still didn’t trust this Michael Garibaldi, but he couldn’t help but like him.

“Seriously,” Garibaldi said. “The Boss will want a meeting with you and the Cap later on, and he’ll tell you what it is he wants you to know.”

“And what he wants us to do?”

“Sure. This is a dangerous galaxy out there. He didn’t save you just for the fun of it. He obviously thinks you’re going to be an asset. Or he wants revenge or something. He doesn’t give me all the details, and I don’t ask.” There was a pause, and Corwin looked around. They had ended up in Garibaldi’s office. The office was clearly meant to be functional and efficient, but was in fact a mess. There were papers and flimsies scattered everywhere, some of them obviously star maps of some kind. There were a number of similar charts on the wall, most of which were crooked. Computer screens also shone out at him in every direction. Corwin also saw a picture on Garibaldi’s desk. It had clearly been given pride of place and was of a pretty, dark-haired woman.

“Kinda old-fashioned, I know,” he said, noticing Corwin’s interest in the picture. “It’s my wife, Lianna. She’s seven months pregnant at the moment.”

“Oh,” Corwin said. “Congratulations. Is it your first child?” Polite small talk, but Corwin was genuinely interested. It looked as though he would end up doing a lot of work with Mr. Garibaldi, and it would be beneficial to get to know the man.

“Yeah. I mean, we haven’t been married very long – just two years. We thought, do we really want to bring up a child into a world like this? But, well… we all need something to hope for, something to fight for, I suppose. You married?”

“Me? No.”

“But there is someone special?”

“There… was. She… died.” Not a lie. In a very real sense, the Susan Ivanova he had known was dead.

“Ah, yes. We’ve all lost a lot in this war. The Boss thinks we can make a difference, maybe even end everything, but… I dunno. Life kicks you in the teeth so often, you begin to wonder whether it’s ever worth getting up again, and then you find a reason and everything makes some sort of sense. All the pain, and the dying and the loss. It all works out in the end.”

“You think so?” Corwin asked, remembering the Captain repeating Anna’s name over and over again as he knelt beside her body, remembering his own grief when Susan was gone, remembering… “Yeah,” he said. “I suppose so.”

“So, what’s he like to work with? Captain Sheridan? The Starkiller?”

“He’s… I don’t know how to describe it. He believes we can make a difference. Well, he used to… I don’t know any more.”

Garibaldi shrugged. “We can make a difference. That’s why we’re here.”

“So why are we here? No one does things without a reason. What’s Bester’s?”

“Well, I guess you’ll have to ask him, won’t you? He’ll want to see you and Captain Sheridan later on. If you have a look around the place, and report back to Captain Sheridan, then come and find me whenever you’re ready.”

Garibaldi rose from his seat and offered his hand to Corwin. Corwin looked at Garibaldi for a moment, and then back at the picture of his wife. Slowly, he extended his hand to Garibaldi’s.

The first link had been forged.

Politicking was second nature to most Centauri. The nobles played games of power and influence and authority, gambling with lives and fortunes. Many of them, blinkered to everything but their own petty – and not so petty – interests, thought that they were the ones who had invented the Great Game, as some Centauri called it. To them it was all a game, albeit one with high stakes.

They were of course wrong. Nothing where lives hung in the balance could ever be called a game, at least not accurately. They were also not the ones to invent such a game. Billions of years ago a game had begun which was still going on, both players by now tired and far removed from the game’s original aim, but continuing anyway, as if by rote, each one responding automatically to the other’s moves. The Centauri were but pawns in this game, batted from side to side, and at this stage, largely ignored. There were more important and valuable pieces to be manoeuvred.

But even the pawns could make a difference, especially when they became queens. The Centauri would not remain pawns for long. Maybe their current war with the Narns would enable them to rise up and make a difference.

Or maybe it wouldn’t. Nothing is certain.

But while the Centauri nobility played a game of power within the circle of the Greater Game of power, there was a smaller game being played by the Centauri lesser classes. Ignored, scorned, and occasionally sacrificed, they could on occasion make a difference.

As one was now.

Timov, daughter of Alghul, first – and most scathing – wife of Minister Londo Mollari, sat back in her chair, digesting the information she had just received.

“I see,” she said primly. “Thank you. You have been most helpful.”

Her informant muttered something in reply and the comm link went down. Timov stared at it for a moment and sighed. None of this suited her. Politics belonged to Mariel and Daggair – the one using seduction, the other money. Timov really had no patience for this sort of thing.

But still, Centauri Prime was on the verge of exploding into chaos at any time, and she had to admit that her husband – drunken, overambitious and low-minded idiot that he was – represented some form of order. Timov liked order. It made sense, and it let her get on with her favourite pursuit, namely making her husband’s life hell.

It had begun when Timov had grown suspicious of her two companions to Londo’s matrimonial hand. Daggair was spending a lot of time lately with Lady Elrisia. Now, if Londo had been paying more attention to what his wives were doing and less attention to drinking, gambling and utterly awful Minbari poetry, he might have been a little annoyed at his wife spending such time with the only wife of his old enemy, Lord – sorry, she corrected herself – Ambassador Refa. But no, Londo noticed nothing. Presumably he was only too glad that Daggair was nowhere in sight – and who could blame him, Timov thought – but that was no excuse. Mariel, meanwhile, was always up to something, and so Timov had begun to track their movements.

She had very few contacts, but they were all valuable because none of them was nobility. Nobles, in their infinite wisdom, neglected the lower classes to such an extent that they could discover almost anything they wanted, and get away with it.

The latest report had come from a little thing named Adira, a maid in Elrisia’s household. Timov had taken enough time by now to digest it, and there was nothing else to do but tell Londo.