Servalan had never believed in fate, just as she had never believed in a lot of things. Truth was that there was little she did believe in other than herself, and order, and preferably order as arranged by her.
But here, in this bunker on an unfriendly frontier world, as autumn unsheathed the first spears of the coming winter, fate seemed to believe in her.
More than anything in her life she wished it didn't.
Thirty years ago, almost to the day, a man had died here, shedding his blood at spot not far from where she sat. On that same day another man had disappeared, vanished from this very room never to be seen again. Two men, men whose lives had been linked together, and to her own, by events none could ever have forseen. Men who had once stood against an invader, who had bought humanity the time to survive, though not, in the end, to prosper. Bought her the time to claim power.
She had lost it again thanks to those same two men, and though she had reclaimed it after that day nearly thirty years ago the world they left behind, the world she claimed and ruled was weak and vulnerable. More vulnerable than she had ever realised it seemed.
Thirty years ago, and in this very room, a die was cast, or so it seemed. Why else was it here, why else was it now? As she watched the screen, searching for the signs she dreaded, Servalan wished those years undone, rolled back, so that those two men might stand again, might buy her time again.
Thirty five years ago almost to the day those men with names that were never mentioned in public, had faced the enemy.
Thirty five years almost to the day that enemy was back.