Chapter 2: The Losses of Yesteryear
Michael Garibaldi awoke in the cell, feeling...strangely refreshed. He almost always felt tired, but not now. He sat up in the bed and looked around the cell walls, and not finding a clock saw small slits of light filtering in from opening cut near the ceiling of the cell which faced...somewhere.
A door opened and light from the outside corridor flooded the room. He blinked as in stepped a person and he stood within the doorway, light spilling from either side.
"Mr. Garibaldi," a man's voice said, and he raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah?"
"How are you feeling?"
"Refreshed," he admitted, "And...a little confused. What happened the other night?"
A silence.
"You remember nothing?"
Faces in a room. Orange-yellow blasts from a PPG. The Mutai-Do. Body hitting the ground. Black night. Screams. Man hanging from a light. Minbari head rolling through the street, bone torn off.
"I don't know," he finally said, "It's all a jumble. I think I killed some people. I don't know."
"There were a lot of deaths Christmas," the man said, his voice bored, "It seems the whole of Epsilon 3 went insane. We're just lucky there were a few that kept cool heads."
What had happened the other night? Nothing made any sense. Garibaldi's head hurt even thinking about thinking about it.
"You are free to go," the man said, turning his back on Garibaldi and leaving him alone in the room.
The announcement of the Emperor's death had come like a thunderbolt on the Centauri people. There had been much weeping and wailing on Centauri Prime by the main populace. Turhan had been loved. Sure, he was not known for his wars or grand projects. But, he had been able to communicate to the masses on the most basic level and made them feel they were not overlooked. Poets who had not written poems in years spent time to write layes in his honor.
But on the other hand, many took it as a signal to launch their maneuvers to take the throne. Few wanted Prince Cartagia on the throne, despite his rightful claim. So, Houses sent their troops against one another. The plains surrounding the Capitol City were awash in blood and flames. The grand mansions of the nobility were ransacked by rivals and those lords not killed but did not triumph fled into hiding to await the outcome.
Lord Reefa had been awaiting this chance. The chance to take the throne. Despite his banishment to the Human protectorate colonies, he was prepared. And had taken the chance. Two medium sized Vorchan-Class cruisers and twenty thousand soldiers. He hadn't gone for the rivaling Houses. No, he had plunged straight for the Royal Court.
As the Palace Guards fought to keep back the assault forces that assailed them, Reefa stood at the base of the stairs that led to the doors of the Palace and breathed in deeply. The smell of fire from Tromo pistols and rifles was sweet to him. He closed his eyes and allowed the sounds of war and change envelope him in its arms.
Malachi looked out at the troops rushing the Palace and saw Reefa basking in the glory of his pride and conquest. No, he could not kill Cartagia. Cartagia might not be king's material. But, he was the rightful heir to the throne.
"Time to go Your Majesty," he said, turning to the young man.
Cartagia looked disinterested as the sounds of his death came closer and closer. He had a look of complete detachment to all the doings and saying of this mortal life. As if he was willing to die. Four assassins had already tried their luck against the young prince but had all found him a worthier opponent than they had ever suspected.
"There is no need to fear Malachi," he said slowly, turning away from the painting on the wall, "You are no longer a member of this court. You haven't been for years since you went into retirement."
"Your Majesty-"
"You must not worry about me," Cartagia said with a shrug, sitting on the chair, "I am a living God after all. But go Malachi. There is no reason for you to stay here."
Malachi looked with befuddlement at the Prince, but did not wait. Whatever insanity that affected the Prince had not contaminated his own sensibilities. He turned and fled from the room, barely dodging a random stray blast of plasma that flew through the air.
Garibaldi rode on the hover taxi down the streets of New Geneva. Signs of the terrors of that night nearly a week before still showed, despite the efforts to cleanup. Religious buildings that had been burned down by their pastors stood next to stores with broken windows. Nothing had been stolen from them, but the sake of breaking windows. Trees that had lined the streets laid flat on the ground, cut down in panic by the terrorized people.
The Markab taxi driver shook him when they pulled up to Garibaldi's house. Garibaldi looked up, and saw the windows shattered and the door broken open. Fear gripped his heart and without waiting to pay the driver pushed the door open and ran up the stairs.
"Lisa!" he shouted, dashing from room to room, "Lisa! Kassie! Baby, answer me!"
He rushed up the stairs, the railing broken. He rushed into his bedroom, and found his wife there, her skull cracked open against the bedpost, her skin cold and waxy. He stopped there, looking down at his dead wife and nearly collapsed. Kassie...
He ran into her bedroom and throwing open the closet door couldn't find her. He turned and dashed into the bathroom, and there she was. Her head was thrust into the filled up bathtub, where she had drowned. It was then he collapsed on the ground and sobbed fiercely. He hadn't noticed the Markab driver who had not to be deterred by his patrons breaking for it but had followed him. But, as he watched Garibaldi bend over and sob into the sleeves of his shirt, he quietly backed away and left the home of sorrow, no longer concerned about being paid.