Темное, кривое зеркало. Том 4 : Будущее, рожденное в боли.

Chapter 1

Some words, once spoken, can never be taken back. Some thoughts, once given birth, are forever. Some plans, once set in motion, can never be undone.

Sinoval is the Primarch Nominus et Corpus of the Order of Soul Hunters. He thinks he knows what that means.

He is the leader of the Minbari Federation, or at least of the part of it that recognises his sovereignty. He thinks he knows what that will cost him.

He is called the Accursed. He does not care.

He is incapable of love, but he understands revenge all too well. Of friends, he has had precious few, but his enemies are almost without number. He is not afraid of any living thing.

He has never looked back with regret, or shame. Anger, yes, grief, yes.... but never has he said 'if only I had done that' or 'if only I had not done that'. Those words have no power over him. He is not a slave to the past.

Only to the future.

That is the greatest strength, and his greatest flaw.

Those who cannot learn from the past are doomed to repeat it.

He stands on the pinnacle of Cathedral, the highest point of the ancient structure that is home to the Order of Soul Hunters. He stares out across the infinity of space. His heart is filled with anger, and hatred, and determination.

The Vorlons have taken away one he admired, and they have tainted one he respected. People not as fitting to lead in war as he is, but people so much more destined to lead in peace. They are lost now, both of them.

He will not let their loss be in vain.

He begins to speak, and without knowing he dooms himself, and maybe his people. He was warned, by the technomage Vejar for one and the Primarch Majestus et Conclavus for another, but he chose not to heed, or maybe he has heeded, and simply decides it is worth the risk.

"Tell me, Primarch," he says....

"Tell me, Primarch, in all the history of your order, ever since the Well of Souls was first born, has any of your order ever taken a Vorlon soul?"

It would take a great deal to shock or surprise the Primarch Majestus et Conclavus, spiritual leader of the Order of Soul Hunters and their link to the mystical Well of Souls. Sinoval's question did not do either.

"No," said the voice, the ageless voice. It had been almost two years since Sinoval had first come to Cathedral and stood before the Primarch, making his offer. In that time the two had come to know and respect each other, perhaps even become friends, if such a thing was possible for either. The Primarch was not surprised by that question: Sinoval's obsession with the Vorlons was in no way a secret.

"No. Vorlons are long-lived beings, and very solitary. We are no more welcome in their worlds than we would have been in Valen's Temples on Minbar. Vorlons do not die easily, or commonly." He paused, deep in thought. "There was.... a legend, of one of our Order who achieved such a thing. It was deep in Vorlon space, and he managed to save one of their souls.

"Alas, he never returned here. We believe, if there was any truth to the story, that he was intercepted and destroyed by Vorlon ships before he could leave. Of course, that may be a mere legend. The Well of Souls would know."

"It is possible, then?" Sinoval said. "It.... can be done."

"In theory, of course. All living beings of the universe have souls, and all living beings of the universe must die, whether sooner or later. It is very difficult, however, to save the soul of a Vorlon. As I said, they are long-lived, and dislike intruders into their realms."

A slow, self-satisfied smile crossed Sinoval's face. "There is no need to worry, Primarch," he said. "Vorlons have a tendency to die when I am around."

"What are you saying?"

Sinoval raised his pike, an ill-fated weapon he called Stormbringer, a name of ill-omen. "This has hurt a Vorlon before. It can do so again. And if it can hurt a Vorlon, then it can kill one. A Vorlon is a living thing of course, and anything that lives....

".... can be killed."

"That is not our way," breathed the Primarch. Now, he was shocked. "We do not kill. We.... save the souls of those who pass on naturally. We do not kill. Such.... such an act would break the pacts we swore so long ago."

"You will not have to kill anything. I will do it. You merely have to take the Vorlon's soul as it dies."

"No! This cannot be done. We do not kill."

"This must be done! Do you not see? The Vorlons sent Delenn to her death! They corrupted and tainted the Starkiller! They are pushing all the races to war against the Shadows, and for what? To rule all! I will destroy each and every one of them.... To do that, I need information. I need knowledge. The Vindrizi have some, but not enough. The Well of Souls will not answer me when I put those questions to it.

"I need a Vorlon soul."

"Please.... my friend.... this is not the way."

"It is the way. It can be done. And may I remind you, you swore to obey all my commands.... for so long as I am alive."

"Go hunting the Vorlons, and that may not be for long."

Sinoval smiled. "Well, then. You will need to be there to save my soul when I die, no? And if I fail, you will be free of me, and can leave the affairs of mortal beings again."

"You do not understand."

"I understand all too well. You will do this, Primarch. I am your leader, and I command it."

The Primarch sighed softly, and then bowed. "Very well. I am ready. Do you have a plan, or are we just going to storm the Vorlon homeworld?"

"No.... I think that can wait. After all, we will need something to do tomorrow. And I do have a plan. Listen...."

The Primarch did, but his mind was on something else entirely.

His injuries still plagued him. Never a day passed when they did not. He was a warrior. His whole life was bound up with his fitness, his strength, his endurance. He had been brought up to the warriors' code. When a warrior could not stand, it was time for him to die.

Kozorr could still stand, even if his stance was twisted to compensate for his shattered leg. The break in the bones had never healed properly, nor had the damage to his spine.

He could also wield a weapon, although not with the skill he once had. His hand was torn and mutilated. He was unable to flex his fingers, to grip and relax, to touch or to grasp. He had forged a denn'bok he could use with only his one good hand. In the year and more since he had been injured, he had learned to adjust his entire fighting style to compensate.

He was a capable warrior now. Before, he had been so much better. Precious few had been able to match him. Kalain had been better, as their brief fight had proved so painfully. Sonovar, probably. Deeron, almost certainly. Sech Durhan, without a doubt.

Sinoval, of course.

But now.... he would never be as skilled with the pike as he had been, but he was still a warrior. He could still fight, and he would continue to do so while there was breath in his body.

He was a warrior. War was all he knew.

His opponent's pike parried his swift, thrusting blows, knocking them aside. He had to thrust more than was possible with a normal-sized pike, but his was now quicker and easier to handle than his old one. His opponent had to adjust her fighting style as well. So many of the techniques she knew were only for opponents wielding full-sized blades.

She lashed out with a sweeping blow aimed at his ribs. He caught it with his blade and turned the blow aside, down and away. A gentle push, and she was slightly off balance. Spiralling on his good leg, he spun into her side, thumping his elbow into her armpit. His weight forced her off balance, and she fell.

His weak leg gave way beneath him however, and he fell also. He maintained his grip on his pike and managed to keep it away from her as he fell, so that he did not accidentally injure her with it.

He could hear her sharp release of breath as he landed on top of her, and see her dark eyes widen with shock and pain. A moment later however, they were dancing.

"There's no need to throw yourself at me," she said. She was smiling.

"My apologies, my la.... My apologies, Tirivail," he said. He had been about to call her 'my lady'. He had only ever called one woman that, and she was not here.

"No need to apologise," she said, still smiling. "Unless you really want to, of course. Where did I go wrong?"

"You overextended your swing," came a soft voice from the side. Tirivail's smile faded, and she muttered something unpleasant under her breath. Kozorr allowed himself the luxury of a smile as he rolled away from her and forced himself awkwardly to his feet. His weak leg was paining him. He ignored it.

Rastenn stepped forward. "You left yourself too open to a swift thrust, or indeed a manouevre such as that performed by the Shai Alyt."

Kozorr grimaced when he heard that title. He had not used it since he had come to Sonovar, but some of the others here insisted on giving him it. He had of course been awarded the title by Kalain, so he supposed some of them here might still acknowledge it.

Tirivail jumped to her feet with such grace that Kozorr winced. He had been able to move like that, once.

"I'd like to see you take him on, Rastenn," she said sardonically. "You'd be surprised how different it is fighting against someone with.... ah.... such a small weapon." Kozorr smiled.

He and Tirivail had been training almost every day since his return from Cathedral and his failed mission to destroy the Well of Souls. She seemed to enjoy his company, and he did.... find some pleasure in hers. She had a ready wit, a determined dedication both to serve her people and learn from him, and she was.... not unattractive. She had made it clear to him more than once that she might wish to take matters a little further.

But she was not Kats, she was not the one he loved and dreamed of. It had been to help Kats that he had sustained his injuries in the first place, and he would gladly have done the same again, even knowing the price. He wanted nothing more than to tell Kats how he felt, what he wished more than anything else....

But he could not. Not yet. Not until he had proven himself better than Sinoval. Not until he had proven himself more worthy of her love than the Primarch.

"Shai Alyt Kozorr is a better blademaster than I could ever be," Rastenn said with a graceful bow. "With a normal-sized pike, or otherwise. We are fortunate he is willing to teach us what he knows."

"I was trained by Neroon and Branmer," Kozorr said, looking at the two of them. They had been two of the first to join Sonovar in his rebellion against Sinoval. They were the people Sonovar trusted most, apart from Tirivail's father Takier, and the loathsome, mutilated little priestling Forell. He could well see why Rastenn and Tirivail were so trusted. They were loyal, strong and brave. Neither Rastenn's youth and inexperience nor the treachery of Tirivail's sister Lanniel had altered that. Rastenn's youth belied a strong desire for glory and victory, almost as strong as that within Sonovar himself, and Tirivail had proved herself countless times over.

"And after them, by Sinoval the Traitor," added Rastenn. "A fine pedigree."

"Sinoval was not always so.... misguided," sighed Kozorr. "He believed in the good of our people, once."

"And now he has lost his way, corrupted by Shagh Toth and workers. A shame, to be sure."

"Yes," said Kozorr softly. He was thinking of workers again, or one worker in particular.

"Come on," said Tirivail, stepping forward and raising her pike again. "One more try. I won't be beaten so easily this time."

"We shall see," said Rastenn pessimistically.

Kozorr dared to smile, and raised his pike. "In the Name of the Betrayer," he said, formally. "So do we serve."

"So do we serve," added Tirivail.

They moved forward to spar once more.

Another fun-filled day of work in the Pit.

Zack Allan, the ever-busy and ever-popular Chief of Security for Sector 301, Proxima, returned to his apartment in the same mood he usually did: complete boredom with a side serving of depression and a dash of self-pity.

It had been an ordinary, run-of-the-mill sort of day. No murders (although not from lack of trying), a couple of assaults, assorted robberies, a number of drunk and disorderly, and further reports on the non-apprehension of Sector 301's most wanted.

So, after a productive day spent talking to Trace, watching the game and making a heady effort at demolishing his new supply of chocolate, Zack headed home, ready for a night of his usual. Pizza from the place around the corner, a couple of cans of something vaguely alcoholic and whatever drivel was on the vids.

Join the Security Forces. Serve your people. That's what the ads had said.

Yeah, right. This was just what he had had in mind when he joined up, serving his people. Running the biggest dirt pile anywhere this side of the Rim, taking money from big businessmen to turn a blind eye to whatever they were doing to his people, and generally trying to forget what a scummy life he had.

Well, it could be worse. He was alive, pretty well off as far as money went, he had a decent apartment, a couple of good friends.

His apartment had one of the best security systems available anywhere in Sector 301. Of course, that meant that anywhere else on Proxima it was the sort of thing you'd use to guard a dog kennel. It also meant that anyone with an iota of skill at electronic lock-breaking could get in and out easily. Not that he had anything worth stealing.

As he ambled through to his lounge, tossing the pizza box onto the nearby table, he didn't bother activating the lights. He only sighed softly and plonked himself down on the sofa. "All right," he said in a tired voice. "Who's there?"

"Lights," said a soft, female voice.

The lights came on, and he saw two people standing across the room from him at either side of the door. One, the man, was pointing a gun directly at him. The woman had no visible weapon, but then she didn't need one.

"Oh, look," he said. "Don't I recognise you two from somewhere? Oh, yes, you were on Crimewatch last night, weren't you?" He reached for the pizza.

"Drop it," said the man.

Zack sighed. "Pepperoni, anchovies and olives," he said, flipping the lid open. "Hardly a deadly weapon." He paused. "Well, not yet. You could wait until I've eaten it, and then let me breathe on you. Vid on, sports channel. You don't mind, do you? Only I missed the end of the game today. Someone went and got beaten up, and I had to go out and deal with it."

"Poor you," observed the woman.

"Yeah, what I can say? It's a tough job, but somebody's gotta do it. So," he said, taking a bite of the pizza and leaning back. "You do realise that breaking and entering with intent to threaten, or with intent to commit grievous bodily harm, carries a prison sentence under the.... oh, under some law somewhere. Of course, when we have a murderer here, I guess that's not too much to worry about. Hey, look at that, the Archers lost. That's good to hear."

"It was self defence," said the man.

Zack shrugged. "I'm not gonna say I agree with you, just in case you've got some sort of recording device there. You say it was self defence, witnesses say it was an unprovoked attack."

"Witnesses intimidated by Trace."

"Hey, Trace is a good man."

"You don't believe that."

"I don't believe much of anything." He took another bite of the pizza. "Do you want any? This is pretty good. They must be back to using real olives."

"What's Trace's deal with IPX?" asked the woman suddenly.

"I have no idea. I didn't know he had anything to do with them. And yeah, I know you're a telepath. There's probably something I could bring you in on, if I really put my mind to it."

"Tell us what we want to know, and we'll leave you alone."

"Oh, gee.... you mean you won't kill me? Here's a question, Mr. Big War Hero. Do you think I care? Take a look around. This is my life. This is it! Someone dumped me right here because I didn't fit in his beloved ship. This is all my life at the moment, and it's probably all my life's ever gonna be. Do you think this is what I had in mind as a kid? Do you think this is what I wanted?

"So go on, shoot me. No one's gonna care. And it ain't like another murder's gonna do too much to you. They can only mind-wipe you once."

"What do you know about Compass Deliveries?" asked the woman.

"Never heard of them."

"I didn't want you on the Babylon because I had doubts about your fitness to do your job, Allan. Looking at this, can you tell me I was wrong?" Zack looked at the man. "I mean.... for God's sake, look at yourself. I never thought you'd fall this far. You're abusing these people here, and you know it."

"Yeah? Quick lesson for you, Mr. Silver Star Man. No one cares! If anyone here's getting the short end of the stick.... well, hey! Tough! They shouldn't be here in the first place. You think there's gonna be anyone coming to pay respects to my name on the plaque when I'm dead? Hah! Yeah, right. Go ahead and shoot me. I'm not telling you anything, and I don't know anything anyway.

"And I'm certainly not gonna see the error of my ways and become a righteous social crusader for the poor, downtrodden masses.

"Well?"

The man turned to look at the woman. Neither of them said anything.

Zack's attention was suddenly drawn away by the voice from the viewscreen.

We interrupt the sports news with a very special announcement. President Clark formally announced today the apprehension and capture of the notorious war criminal and mass murderer Satai Delenn of the Minbari Grey Council, leader of the United Alliance of Kazomi Seven.

A further statement is expected to be forthcoming later tonight, but it is widely believed she will be put on trial as soon as possible.

We will return to this story as soon as there are any further developments. We repeat....

Zack sat back, smiling broadly. "Well, I'll be damned," he said.

The dream was the same. It was always the same. Every time.

The sky rained fire. She crawled out of her hiding place high in the mountains to look up, and saw the heavens begin to pour with flame. She could hear screams, and hasty prayers to Valen. She had not been sure there was anything to pray for.

And after the flames there had come the sickness. She saw them again every night in her dreams. Skin flaking away, eyes filled with blood and pus, muscles trembling, blood seeping from every pore. She had watched them die. For weeks she had watched them die, unable to go for help, not knowing if there was even anyone to get help from.

And then she had been the last one left. She had started to sicken herself. They had said it was the food, the water, the ground, even the air.

Then they had come. The light had filled her mind, and the voice had echoed in her ears.

With a scream, Sherann woke.

Again. Every night she dreamed about it. Kalain's genocidal purge. Hiding for so long.

And then.... the flames, the sickness, and the light.

Slowly she rose from her bed and walked to the little shrine in the corner of the room. Sitting before it, she tried to focus her will enough to meditate, but she could not. Whenever she closed her eyes, all she could see was the light.

There was a gentle chime from the door, and Sherann turned. "Yes?"

"Sherann? Are you well?"

She breathed out slowly. Kats. "Yes. Enter."

The door opened and Sherann's cousin walked in. She looked dignified and composed. It was still a marvel that a worker could walk about so free here, in a society ruled by a warrior. Sherann could never forget the months of the purging.

"I was worried that you slept so late," Kats said. "It is past noon."

"Really? I.... ah.... bad dreams."

Kats nodded, and sat down beside her. "The same ones?"

"Yes. Always.... the same.... ones."

"I used to dream as well. About.... Kalain, and the Council. It doesn't last forever." Sherann marvelled that her cousin could speak of this with such calmness. Kats had told her about what she had suffered during the purges. All those months of torture and humiliation.

"Do you still.... have the dreams?"

"Not those, no. Now I dream of someone.... something completely different." She looked down demurely. "You do not need to know."

Sherann smiled. It was almost as it had been in their childhood, talking happily about their dreams, goals, ambitions. Kats had wanted to serve, always. She had not wanted to lead.

"I had a message today," Kats said suddenly, breaking the mood. "It was from Sinoval."

"Is he coming back?" Sherann asked breathlessly. She had come here to find him, to find the legendary Primarch Sinoval, only to discover she had missed him by a matter of days. He had been on Kazomi Seven for weeks.

"Yes. He will be here tomorrow."

Sherann breathed out slowly and bowed her head, almost crying. "And he will help us?" she whispered. "He.... will.... help us?"

"I am sure he will. He is.... a good person at heart."

"You must know him well."

"I.... think I do, but he is warrior, and different from us. Different from most warriors, as well."

"What sort of person is he? I have only ever heard the rumours. The warriors here, the.... Primarch's.... Pikes?"

"The Primarch's Blades," Kats corrected.

"They seem to follow him unreservedly. I heard one of them swear an oath to die if the Primarch asked. What sort of person could make a warrior say something like that?"

Kats paused. "He is.... intense. He believes he can do anything he sets his mind to, and that obstacles are merely brief inconveniences. I sometimes feel he can do anything at all. When he is there.... everything else pales beside him. The air seems to crackle. And his eyes.... I am very, very thankful he considers me his friend....

"I would never wish to be his enemy."

"He does think you a friend?" Kats nodded. "I don't.... I really don't believe it. You have moved up in the world since.... before."

"Things have changed," she said softly. "Few of them for the better. Sinoval can be a force for great good, if he wishes to be. I.... took on my role to ensure that everything he does is for good.... I tried, but.... some.... things...."

"This would be the warrior? What was his name?"

"Kozorr. He is.... gone. Please.... do not...."

Sherann nodded, swallowing. "I understand." She was just grateful Kats had not asked about Inesval. She had seen his body, and the things the warriors had done to it.

"Sinoval will be here tomorrow. You can speak to him then."

"And he will listen to me?"

"Yes. He will listen."

"I don't believe it. I'll be damned. Guess the R'Gov finally did something useful."

Dexter Smith was not listening. He was still staring at the vidscreen. The sports results had resumed, but flashing at the bottom of the screen was the news report. .... war criminal Delenn captured by Resistance Government forces. For more information check....

"Turn that thing off," said Talia angrily.

Zack shrugged. "Off." Smith shook his head and turned back to the man on the sofa. Zack was still munching at his pizza. "You've met her, haven't you?" he remarked

"What do you mean?"

"You've met her. Delenn. I've seen her a couple of times. While I was on the Babylon, of course. She was completely Minbari for a while, and then she was.... really weird-looking. Sort of half-human, half-Minbari but not quite either. Freaked me out, it did. I guess she's perfected the process since then. Some of the guys down the station actually think she's kind of hot-looking." Zack shook his head. "Takes all kinds, huh?" He looked at Smith, and sighed. "Oh, yeah, you've met her."

"Once.... yes...."

Zack began to chuckle. "You thought she was pretty hot yourself, didn't you? Sheesh! What is it about alien women that affects some men? I mean me.... I'd much rather take a look at that pretty not bad piece beside you.... er.... no offence intended."

"Believe me," Talia said. "Of all the things I might take offence at about you, the fact that you find me attractive won't be one."

Zack thought about that for a moment. "So.... was that a compliment?"

"No."

"Oh.... Oh well. Pity. Was beginning to think I was in there."

"Dexter, wake up!" Talia said sharply. Smith blinked, and then seemed more alert. "Glad you're still with us. You, Allan.... for the last time.... what is Trace up to with IPX?"

"I told you, I don't know. You could read my mind and find out, assuming you haven't already, I guess. Look.... it's like this. Mr. Trace is a good man. He's a businessman. He's brought a lot of money and jobs and even a little respect into this sector, and God knows how long it's been since we had any of the last one.

"Now, if from time to time, he, as a respected civic figure and member of the community, wants certain matters attended to by the Security Forces, who are after all paid for by his tax money, then it's my duty to help out in any way I can, right?

"However, I don't know a thing about IPX, telepaths, big large-scale conspiracies, or the grassy knoll. Any more questions?"

"Yes, here's one," said Talia. "What's to stop me shooting you right here and now?"

"Well, three answers to that one. First, that'd be first degree murder in cold blood of a Security officer, and I'm fairly sure the Wartime Emergency Provisions have that little one down in the death penalty section of the rules.

"Secondly, you're a pretty nice-looking lady, and I'm sure you wouldn't shoot someone in cold blood.

"And thirdly.... what was it thirdly...?"

Talia suddenly started, and looked around. She swore. "Too long! Come on!" There was the sound of footsteps outside the window.

"Oh yeah, thirdly.... the Security guys that have just surrounded the place are going to stop you. You see, on a scale of one to ten.... how thick do you think I am? Yeah, the security system on the apartment's patheticness personified, but there's enough high-tech camera stuff around here to alert the station if any undesirables come calling. They certainly took their time though."

Talia was still swearing. Smith looked at Zack. "Maybe.... but you're stuck in here with us."

"You think? Nah. You're stuck in here with me. I've done a few hostage situations, and believe me, if you want to try and stick this thing out, both of you are going out of here in a bag. Probably the same bag, you know how it is with budget cutbacks.

"On the other hand, give yourselves up now, and.... well.... you'll get a couple of days longer at least, and someone might even put in a good word for you. You never know.

"So." He finished off his pizza. "What d'you say?"

He has long ago forgotten the place or date of his birth. These are facts that hold no importance for him now. He may once have had a name, but if so it has been lost for millennia. He probably once had futile ambitions, but on the day he looked upon the Well of Souls he realised just how pointless they were.

He does not even know for sure exactly how old he is. He is not the oldest of the order, but he is close.

He has seen civilisations rise and fall, great empires, great wonders. He has saved politicians and warriors and poets and writers. From their dreams, which have become a part of his own, he has seen mysteries long gone, and lived among peoples dead for millennia.

The Primarch Majestus et Conclavus of the Order of Soul Hunters can feel change. He can feel it now. The whispers of the Well of Souls have told him that change is inevitable. The future he has seen will come to pass.

But the one lesson the Soul Hunters have remembered from their founders is that nothing is written in stone. A lesson their new Primarch Nominus et Corpus would have welcomed gladly.

Before Sinoval came he had not left Cathedral at all in a thousand years, not since he had met Valen on the shifting sands of the world the Minbari had called Iwojim. Since Sinoval's arrival he has seen more of the peoples of this day and age. He has seen the Great Machine, he has seen Minbar again, and other places, other worlds.

He will leave Cathedral again once more after this. And soon.

But for now, he is thinking of another. Sinoval, the one the Well of Souls has been speaking of for so long, is walking a dark road, a path that may consume him, and in doing so destroy the order, and Cathedral, and most importantly the Well of Souls. There is only one person who might be able to divert him from that path.

The Primarch stood alone on the pinnacle of Cathedral, looking out at the world beneath him. Tarolin 2, a minor, insignificant world that had become notorious and important only recently. He could feel her there. Her soul was intertwined with Sinoval's. She was the light to his dark, the calm to his anger, the conscience to his soul.

He closed his eyes and began to concentrate. He could feel her. A million souls on Tarolin 2, and he could see them all. Hers shone brightest.

He stepped forward and the pinnacle faded away. He did not fall, instead the air seemed to warp around him. He could hear voices whispering and crackling as he continued to walk. His eyes remained closed. Opening them would.... not be wise, even for one as experienced at this as he was. There were many dimensions that could be seen if one chose to look. Mortal beings looked at the realm they called hyperspace and thought they knew it all. They did not realise that space could be travelled in other ways.

And there were beings on the other side, straining to break through. Monsters, abominations, horrors, beings so filled with hatred that they wanted to wipe out everything on this world. He could feel them, but he was not afraid. The Vorlons would keep them back, and the Well of Souls would fight them if they came.

There. Here she was. The Primarch stopped and willed himself to slip between the worlds again. There was a rush of air and a burst of light. He opened his eyes and found himself in the corner of a room. He stepped forward into the light.

He could see her now, facing the door with her back to him. She was seated at a desk, writing something, flipping through papers, hard at work, buried in her responsibilities, hoping no doubt to be free of her suffering through her duties.

The Primarch sighed. She had had a hard life, and no doubt things would become no easier. Mortal beings had a terrible burden sometimes.

"My lady," he said formally.

She started, and turned. For a moment a flash of panic crossed her face, but then she saw who it was and her fear turned to surprise.

"You thought I was someone else," he said. "A face that haunts your dreams."

"Some faces that used to," she replied carefully. "How did you get in here? There are guards on the door, and no other way in or out."

"No other way accessible by mortal beings," he replied. "I have other ways, and I thought it wise not to let your guards know I am here. This meeting must not become known to Sinoval."

"I.... see." She rose from her desk and went to a nearby table. There was a small pitcher of a clear liquid there, and two glasses. She poured a glass for herself. "Do you wish something to drink?"

"The need for food and drink has long since passed me by. It has been so long since last I drank, I fear I have forgotten how."

She returned to her seat by the desk and turned the chair round. "You've come to talk about Sinoval, haven't you?"

"Very perceptive, my lady."

"I.... saw him when he returned. He wanted to see Sherann. He has.... a plan. Something's going to happen, isn't it? Something.... bad."

"He wishes to...."

"No!"

The Primarch paused, mildly surprised by the conviction in her voice.

"No. I don't want to know."

"You are his conscience."

"I was his conscience. Not any longer."

"What he is planning.... I will not say it is not laudable. It is a strategist's approach to things. The work of a master tactician. I have heard his plan, developed with the unknowing aid of your friend Sherann. It may well work.

"But the price.... He must not do this. It will damn him, and all of us with him. I have tried to explain, but his anger, his darkness is such that he will not listen. Too many betrayals recently, too many defeats.... he has lost too much.

"Only you, my lady. Only you can turn him aside from this path."

"No," she whispered. "No.... I cannot."

"My lady...."

"Don't call me that! I am tired. Tired of all this. I'm not a warrior. They are trained from birth to give up everything for the sake of our people. They will sacrifice their lives, their friends, their families.... their loves.... for the greater good, the good of our people. I'm not a warrior. They fight, they die!

"I build."

"Then build a better world. Talk to him! He will listen to you."

"No. I will not.... become involved.... in whatever he plans. He can go to war, he can shed innocent blood, he can do whatever he wishes. I will remain here, and build."

The Primarch breathed out slowly, and nodded. "I understand." She was his last hope. He knew what he had to do now. It would not be easy, he could feel that, but it would have to be done. "People will die, my lady. A great many people will die if Sinoval continues to walk the dark path he walks now."

"There are worse fates than death."

"Yes," he said, with complete understanding. "Yes, there are. You have suffered enough for one lifetime, my lady. I will leave you here.... to your building. Be at peace, and be happy."

He turned and left. It was time to return to Cathedral and prepare himself for what was to come.

There are worse fates than death.

A great man.

Am I a great man?

Sonovar stood alone on the bridge of the E'ibrek K'Tarr, lost in thought. Ramde Cozon was deep in discussion with the other Ramde of the fleet, and maybe even with their authorities. Sonovar knew very little about the social and governmental organisation of the Tak'cha, and he did not care. He knew their strength in battle, he knew their fanaticism, and he knew their never-ending desire to atone for their sin. That was enough for him.

"Am I a great man?" he whispered to himself, looking around at the empty room.

What is a great man? He had asked that question countless times, of himself, of his teachers, of Kats, of Kozorr.... What was the standard of greatness? What was it that made Valen or Nemain or Varmain great people? Was it even anything that could be measured?

He had to know.

For only if he knew the answer could he become great himself.

Forell had once come to him, appearing from nowhere in the slimy way he had, sidling up to him. He had remained there in silence for several minutes before asking a question. It had seemed simple enough, but it had taken Sonovar a very long time to formulate an answer.

"What do you want, great lord?"

"I want.... I want to be a hero. I want to be in all the books and lores and tales of history. I want my name to be written alongside that of Varmain, or Marrain, or Valen himself! I want to be great.

"I want to be great."

Forell had hesitated for a moment, and then smiled. "Then all this you shall have, great lord."

For as long as he could remember, Sonovar had wanted to be a hero. He had always believed in the right of the hierarchy, of the leaders of the Fanes and the clans, and ultimately of the Grey Council itself. He would ascend that ladder, in time.

And yet he had watched as others less able than himself had climbed. He had observed as workers and priestlings raised their cronies and blocked the true warriors from advancing. He had served the Grey Council all those years, and what had he to show for it?

It had taken two people, one his greatest idol and the other his greatest enemy, to show him his true mistake.

Kalain had raised him to the Grey Council, and had then proceeded to abuse and profane that sacred institution. He had tortured and violated Kats in that most holy of places, in a sickening display. Sonovar had watched, confused and puzzled and privately revolted, but he had done nothing, because he believed. Kalain was of the Grey Council. Therefore, surely anything he did was for the good of Minbar?

Only when Sinoval returned had the scales fallen from his eyes. Only then did he truly understand.

A great man did not humbly or meekly abide by the sanctions of society. A great man broke all chains binding him. A great man disregarded his destiny, ignored the words of others, and rose by his will alone. Valen had not acted according to convention when he had formed the Anla'Shok and created the Grey Council, and neither had Sinoval when he had shattered both.

"Am I a great man?" he asked again, and realised the sheer futility of that question.

He would never know. History would judge him, and the decision would not be made until long after his death. If he was fortunate, if the old Gods of war favoured him, he would be reborn into another body, another life, and then he would look back at history's judgment of his former life, and only then would he know.

There was the soft sound of footsteps at his side, and he turned, smiling when he saw who it was. Takier, clan leader of the Storm Dancers clan, was one of his greatest allies. He had been among the first to spurn Sinoval's leadership, and when Sonovar announced himself in opposition, Takier had brought his entire clan to his side.

Almost his entire clan.

Takier had been blessed with three children. His son had been killed in the assault on Minbar. He had two daughters. Tirivail had come with her father willingly, recognising the needs of Minbar and her duty to her clan.

Lanniel had gone elsewhere.

"They talk," said Takier, half dismissively. "They talk, they pray, they argue. It is strange, but they remind me a great deal of the priestlings debating a foolish point of law in Valen's prophecies."

Sonovar nodded in recognition. "True, but these priestlings have teeth. By all the old Gods, they can fight."

"Oh yes," Takier acknowledged. "They can fight."

"Do you think they will agree?"

"I think they will.... in due time. In fact, I believe you will have to hold them back from all-out war. They may well decide that intensifying the raids on Alliance ships is not enough, and a full assault is preferable. Kazomi Seven was after all the last known location of their Valen. He has not been seen in many months, or so I am told. Some of the Tak'cha believe he was murdered by the Alliance."

"And you, Takier? What do you believe?"

"Valen.... was a man, like any other. It is the doom of all men to die. He lived a thousand years ago, and he died then. Whoever this.... imposter is, he is not Valen, and whatever the Alliance have done to him is of the supremest irrelevance to me."

"All great men die," Sonovar mused to himself.

"Ah, but they live on in another way." Sonovar cocked his head and looked at his companion. "They live on in the eyes and hearts and souls of everyone who has ever wanted to be them. It is by the telling of tales of great men that we remind ourselves that we also may be great. We emulate them, maybe even surpass them, and so they live on.... forever."

"Immortality. Life eternal through song and poem and memory. Now there is something worth living for."

"Worth dying for."

"Worth dying for. Indeed."

Yes. I will be great, and thus will I live forever. What more can any warrior ask for?

Elsewhere another warrior was standing alone, but the pinnacle of Cathedral was a very different place from the bridge of the E'ibrek K'Tarr.

Sinoval was not thinking of greatness, or of Valen, or of the Alliance. He was thinking of the Vorlons, and of the plan he had been hatching for so long. It was ready now. It would work. His meeting with Kats' cousin had only served to tighten some of the possibilities.

"I survived. I hid. There were many of us who hid. From the purges, from Kalain and his warriors. We didn't know he had fallen. We saw the skies rain fire and the ground begin to sicken, and we did not know what had happened. We remained in hiding.

"At.... at first we were too afraid to come out, and after, we were too weak. We fell ill, so ill.... I saw more of us die. Not just workers. There were some religious caste as well. And even a warrior or two.... those who had chosen to stay behind, I suppose.

"Then they came. They found us. They sought us out, and they found us all. We were rounded up and taken to Yedor. They'd set up base there. Those of us who.... were not too sick, began to recover. They did something to us. They did something to the land. They purged the poisons, but.... I don't know. I don't know what they're capable of, but they left the damage to the atmosphere. They left the impact sites and all the dust everywhere....

"I heard one of them say something. It said.... they were correcting the influence of the Enemy, putting right what should not have been done. They seemed.... angry, somehow. They seemed angry about the poison and the sickness, but not about anything else.

"I didn't understand it.

"They set us to work, once we were able. Some of us were telepaths. They.... disappeared. The rest of us they set to work, rebuilding, trying to tend the fields, doing as much as possible to repair the damage. They didn't seem to recognise that we needed to eat.... and sleep. They worked us until we collapsed.

"I was lucky. I managed to steal a shuttle and escape. There are others there. Not many now.... but they're going to die. They're being worked to death. Please.... Kats said you would help. She promised that you would help them. Help us."

"How many Vorlons are on the planet? How many ships?"

"There were.... there were a lot. Most of them left. I saw one ship as I fled. I don't think it noticed my shuttle. There is one in Yedor that I know of.... and some others in the southern cities. Most of them left.

"Will you help us? Please."

"Yes. Yes, I will help."

He had had the basics of this set up a long time ago, in crude form, when he first joined the Soul Hunters. Sherann had only helped confirm certain details. She would help him still further, although she did not realise it yet.

I don't think it noticed my shuttle.

That was the one thing he had learned from her. They had noticed. They had let her escape. They were luring him to Minbar, to deal with him for good. Whether they actually wanted him dead or merely distracted he was not sure. A direct confrontation was not their way. It had never been their way. They were.... setting him up for something.

So be it. He was ready, and he had a trap all of his own to spring.

He raised his arms to the sky, Stormbringer above his head.

"I'm coming for you!" he roared. "Hide all you like! You can't hide from me!"

On Minbar, in the partially repaired ruins of the city of Yedor, a Vorlon standing alone looking at the Temple of Varenni stopped and twitched slightly, as if it had heard.

Its eye stalk shook momentarily, and a flash of light came forth.

It then resumed its journey.

Anyone who had seen that brief, momentary burst of light would have known without a shadow of a doubt what it was. Some things are clear between all races.

The Vorlon had smiled.

Chapter 2

Black against the blackness of night they came, screaming their cries of warning. Fear us, they cried. Fear us, for we were masters of all that was, before the stars themselves gave birth to light, before your races rose to ascend to the heavens.

Fear us, for we are the death of worlds, the death of flesh, the death of dreams. We are the death of all who stand against us.

We are death itself.

Space itself opened up, bright shining gateways into other worlds. The Shadow ships turned from their wanton destruction of the helpless Brakiri trading ships. They turned to face the fools who would dare oppose them.

The new ships were much smaller. They were fast and strong and powerful. The Shadows recognised within their form the timeless machinations of their ancient enemies.

We do not fear you. You should fear us.

The Shadows swept forward. A beam of energy lashed out and struck at the nearest of the new ships. It spun off course, tumbling and rolling. It should have been destroyed.

The other ships acted together, an invisible link between them. They cried out, and the Shadows heard the voices of their ancient enemies. They heard the single word, amplified through the minds of pawns and tools.

STOP!

And the Shadows did, held still and helpless, their ships paralysed. The living floor and walls around them trembled with something akin to fear. Deep in the heart of their ships, at the heart of their Machine, the sentient mind that gave them power was crumbling, assailed by the might of their enemies.

Then the new ships began to fire. The Shadows struggled to break free of the blockade, but to no avail.

We do not fear death.

You should fear us, came the reply.

Then the Shadows died.

Once Minbar had been the jewel of planets, a world of beauty, of culture, of cities millennia old, of shining rivers and glowing crystal, of high mountains and ancient libraries.

But it had changed, as all things must. Devastated by the wrath of a vengeful and arrogant enemy, Minbar had been reduced to rubble, the fine and ancient cities either destroyed utterly or reduced to abandoned ghost realms. The rivers had become polluted with dust and ash. The air had become thick with the poisons and toxins of the enemies. Bodies had been left to rot in the streets.

It had been over a year since Sinoval, Primarch Nominus et Corpus, still leader of the Minbari people and the man who was at least partially responsible for this devastation, had been on his homeworld. He remembered leaving it, seemingly forever. He had not looked back as Cathedral had departed from the dying world. He and Delenn had saved all those they could, all those they could find. Surely, if any still lived on the world, then starvation and disease would claim them soon enough.

Minbar had changed. It was not as clear and beautiful as it had been, and Sinoval knew it never would be again, but he could see that much was different now. The world lived again, the toxins erased. The air could be breathed, the water could be drunk, the ground could be sown. Never again would the planet be as it had been, but people could live here now.

Such power was beyond Minbari technology, beyond even that of the Soul Hunters. No, Sinoval knew who was responsible, and that made him distrust this seeming miracle. No Vorlon ever did anything without a reason, usually selfish.

He stood on the pinnacle of Cathedral, staring down at his world. But while he stood far above Minbar, he was also there. He could feel the heartbeat of the planet, stronger now than before. He could see the beings that lived there. His own people, those he had left behind.

And others. Vorlons. At least one, based in Yedor. He could sense something strange in the southern cities, areas he had thought destroyed utterly by the Earthers' bombardment.

"You will not reconsider this?" said a soft and ageless voice from behind him. Sinoval turned, not remotely surprised by the appearance of the Primarch Majestus et Conclavus, seemingly from nowhere.

"No," he said firmly.

"This is not our way. This has never been our way."

"It has never been the way of Minbari to deal with Shagh Toth either," Sinoval reminded his companion. "Laws and customs bind only weaker men. It is the great man who casts aside such things for the sake of what must be done."

"Examine your own motives," the Primarch warned him. "Do you do this because it must be done, or for your own private revenge?"

Sinoval raised his arm in anger, and suddenly his pike Stormbringer was in his hand. "We fight the Shadows. We fight the Darkness.... and maybe we will win, and maybe we will lose.... but what if we win, and find ourselves slaves to the Vorlons? What then? No, this must be done."

"As you say," said the Primarch softly. He did not seem at all afraid. "I told you once that you were only the second Primarch Nominus et Corpus, did I not? Only the second ever to bear that title."

"Yes, you did."

"The first was a mistake. He fell, consumed by the darkness of his own pride and his own convictions. His soul was saved by the first of our order, and preserved in a globe sealed in the gateway to Cathedral at the top of the highest archway. It was a reminder to all of us that no one is beyond temptation, no one cannot be corrupted, and there is darkness within us all."

Sinoval took in the message. "I saw no such globe when I came here," he mused. "I have never seen such a globe."

"It is still there, but now it cannot be seen. The light died the day you came here. The soul of the first Primarch Nominus et Corpus has escaped and gone.... somewhere. The Well of Souls told me only that the need for his presence here had passed."

"Was that a lesson, Primarch?"

"I don't know," he said softly. "Was it?"

"I do what must be done, and if it means I must sacrifice my own life, my own soul.... or the lives and souls of those who follow me, then so be it."

The Primarch sighed. "You do not understand."

"I understand more than you think. You know the plan."

"Yes."

"And you will perform your part.... you and those who are needed. I can kill the Vorlon, but this entire exercise is useless unless you take its soul. Will you do that?"

"I will do.... that which is required of me."

Sinoval nodded. "Good." He looked down at the planet for a long minute. "It knows we are here. It is waiting for us. I think it is trying to set a trap for us."

"I believe the same."

"It is welcome to try." Sinoval's eyes, always dark, seemed to become deep pits of blackness. The Primarch looked into them and felt a moment's fear in his near-immortal soul.

"Yes.... they are all welcome to try."

Mr. Welles was more than willing to admit that he possessed a number of character flaws. He was perfectly willing to accept the many things he had done in the name of a greater good, all the sins he had committed that would no doubt damn him forever. He might have lapsed now, but he had been a religious man in his youth and he knew full well the cost of the things he had done: torture of innocents, brutal suppression of dissidence, sending good people to die, turning a blind eye to murderers and sadists.

All in the name of humanity. All for the greater good. Not that these were excuses, merely what was.

He could feel everything beginning to collapse around him, and as he looked at the two men before him he could see the architects, willing or not, of that collapse.

"It is a pleasure to have you back with us, Ambassador," said President Clark. He looked happy, as well he should. He had just been presented with a considerable victory. Humanity's worst enemy was now safely imprisoned and helpless. Clark was one of the most popular Presidents of all time, and no doubt his name would go down forever in the history books.

"We've missed you."

Ambassador David Sheridan nodded in acknowledgement. His expression was one of happiness and satisfaction, but then that meant nothing at all. He was a career diplomat, and disguising his true emotions was one of the first things he had learned as part of that duty. Welles was perfectly aware just how little regard the two had for each other.

"I have missed this place," Sheridan said. "My work elsewhere was necessary, but there is no place at all like home, is there?"

"Indeed not," laughed Clark. "And you come bearing gifts as well. Delenn is.... safe, is she not?"

"She is securely placed in one of our waiting rooms," Welles said. "The room and surrounding corridors are under complete surveillance, there are two guards within the room, two directly outside and a further four just down the corridor. She was thoroughly checked for weapons, passkeys or lockpick devices and any form of listening or communications machinery. She is not going anywhere."

"Good," said Clark. "See that that remains the case. We do not want a repeat of what happened last time, do we?"

"That was due to the treachery of Miss Alexander, as you well know, Mr. President."

"Yes, yes," said Clark irritably. "It really does not matter. What does matter is that she does not escape. Ambassador Sheridan here has given us one of the greatest opportunities we have had in a long time. Delenn is going to go on the stand before a war crimes tribunal, once one can be assembled of course. There is no hurry, however. It is vital that when she is put on trial she says and does the right things.

"That, Mr. Welles, is your responsibility. She is now your top priority concern, taking precedence over anything and everything else. Delegate other matters if you have to. When Delenn goes on trial, she is going to plead guilty to numerous counts of genocide, torture, murder of civilians, use of illegal weaponry and.... well, we can draw up a complete list later. You get the gist, though."

"I will.... see that she is fully prepared," Welles said, choosing his words carefully. "How long will I have?"

"As long as you need. Take your time. There is really no hurry. Better that it be done properly than immediately. Ah.... but first.... we will need to run an extensive battery of medical tests. Her physiology is.... ah.... unique. We must know her limits and her weaknesses. The last thing we need is her dropping dead of a.... 'weak heart' during some of your more rigorous.... 'preparations', is it not?"

"Indeed," said Welles obediently. "But.... word of this will get out. Her capture has been made public, against my advice, need I remind you? The Alliance will find out about this and...."

"The Alliance will not be a threat," said Ambassador Sheridan firmly. "Our allies are more than capable of dealing with them, should the need arise."

"Merely covering all the bases," said Welles. "With your permission, Mr. President, I will go and attend to matters immediately."

"Of course. You may go." Welles turned to the door. As he reached it, Clark said. "Oh, Mr. Welles."

"Yes."

"We have every confidence in you. You will see that we are not mistaken, won't you?"

"Of course, Mr. President." He left. "Of course."

David Corwin, Commander no longer but now Captain, sat down in the Captain's chair on the bridge of his new ship and ran his hand across the armrest. There seemed to be a slight warmth under his fingers as they brushed the leathery texture. A faint hum sounded in his ears.

He had often dreamed of having his own ship. For so long that dream had been an impossibility. The Babylon had been the only ship the Resistance Government possessed, and it could not afford to build any more. He had served on that ship, as he had on the Parmenion.

But then, after the destruction of the Parmenion and the near-fatal injuries of Captain Sheridan at the Battle of the Third Line, Corwin had known command, and he had not liked it. He had understood the loneliness, the responsibility, the hardships of waging a war against an almost invincible enemy.

Then the Captain had recovered miraculously, and the balance of the war had tilted drastically. These ships were to thank for that, the ships provided by the Vorlons, built with their own strange technology, and called Dark Stars.

There was a fleet of them, enough to wage this war. And Corwin had been one of the first to be given command of one.

"Captain Corwin," he said, trying the conjunction. "Captain David Corwin." It sounded suitably.... impressive, he supposed. Not that it really meant anything. He wasn't a part of Earthforce any more. He wasn't being paid by the Alliance, and his new rank had no greater benefits in terms of accommodation or supplies.

But it was still important to him. He was a Captain now.

He sat back in his chair. It wasn't as comfortable as it looked. Still, it would do.

He had had pretty much the pick of the former bridge crew from the Parmenion. The Captain had taken a few for his ship, naturally the flagship of the Dark Star fleet, but most of them, the more experienced members, he had left for Corwin. Dark Stars were smaller than EAS capital ships and needed less crew. Those who had taken the ships out for the first few engagements had reported back that they seemed to fly themselves.

Corwin shivered at the thought. He had heard plenty of strange stories about Vorlon tech.

His thoughts, however, were on much more serious matters. A question of great importance had been weighing on his mind for some days now, and he was still no nearer answering it than he had been at the start. Ideas had come to him at various times but had been rejected, and he was growing irritated.

He turned suddenly, his reverie interrupted. Someone had come on to the bridge. He hadn't heard them at all, or seen them. He'd just.... known.

"Captain now, I see," said a familiar voice, and he smiled. "Good to see you again, sir."

Neeoma Connally, Starfury pilot aboard the Babylon for years, and on the Parmenion after that. She had been spending the last few months helping train the Drazi and Brakiri one-man fighters in cohesive techniques. She had more experience of fighting the small Shadow flyers than almost anyone else here.

"Dared to surface again, hmm?" Corwin said, still smiling. "How are you?"

"Just about ready for some real work," she replied. "Trying to teach the Drazi anything is not my idea of a good time. When I heard about the fleet, I thought I'd come and see if you needed any Starfury support here."

"Well, we're still trying to assess the full technical capabilities of these things. There don't seem to be any fighter bays for one thing, but I doubt we'll be taking the Dark Stars into combat alone. I'm sure we'll need backup from the Babylon and some of the Drazi and Brakiri capital ships, to say nothing of the Narn cruisers G'Kar's on about providing. Starfuries will be as useful as ever."

"Thought so. I'm ready to start running training drills whenever you are."

"Glad to hear it. The more we know about these things the better." He smiled again. "And you came to me first. I'm flattered."

Her expression darkened. "Ah.... no, I'm afraid not. I went to the Captain first. Or at least I'd planned to. I saw one of his new aides, who told me that Captain Sheridan didn't need fighter assistance and I should come here."

Corwin frowned. "He hasn't been himself lately. He's.... been through a lot."

Neeoma shrugged. "I guess." She winced and rubbed at her eyes. "Another blasted headache," she moaned. "I've had one for hours, and it gets worse every time I come aboard. I guess I'm just meant to be in a 'Fury."

"Well, before you head back out, any chance of helping me with something? I've had a problem I've been trying to sort out for some time now. It's been worrying me."

"If I can," she replied. "What is it?"

"This ship needs a name."

"I thought it had a name?"

"Yes, Dark Star Three, and what sort of name is that for a ship? It sounds like a bad B movie sequel."

Neeoma chuckled. "I see your point. And you want me to help you think of a proper name?"

"Well, there was the Babylon, of course, but I thought the Captain might want that for his own ship. And I've thought about the Victory, the Endeavour, the Bounty, the Revenge.... The Resistance Government has already nicked most of my ideas or I'd have used the Morningstar."

"Hmm.... I see. What about the.... No, not that.... Um.... the Spartan, no that's not quite right. The Heracles, no I'm sure someone's used that.... I like Greek history," she said, to Corwin's bemused expression. "Something of a hobby of mine." She smiled. "The Agamemnon. How's that?"

"The Agamemnon," he mused. "I like it." He tapped the armrest of his chair. "I guess you're the Agamemnon now."

Neeoma set her hand on the armrest as well. "The Agamemnon," she said.

Corwin was not entirely sure what happened next. A shock seemed to strike his arm, and a voice cried out into his mind. A flash of bright light burst in front of his eyes. Tainted! roared the voice. Corrupted!

He shielded his eyes, and saw Neeoma on the floor. Her eyes were rolled up into her skull, and she was shaking. He leapt from the chair and reached out to touch her. As he touched her wrist she started and blinked, looking at him blankly.

"Are you all right?"

"For a moment, I thought.... I could hear something and I...." She trembled. "No offence, but I'm getting off this ship now."

"What do you think it was? An electric shock?" He was breathing more heavily, trying to still the frantic pounding of his heart. "Some sort of.... loose wiring?"

"I.... don't know. Anyway, I'm going. There's something about these ships.... Let me know when you want to begin the training. I'll see you later...." She left the bridge as fast as she could, without looking back.

Corwin watched her go, and then sat back down gingerly. He touched the armrest, but there was no shock, no flash of light. He could feel the faint warmth again, and a gentle throbbing beneath his palm. Almost like.... a heartbeat.

"Did I hear you?" he asked softly. "Is there someone there?"

There was no reply.

"Do you know what you have to do?"

"Yes. Yes, I do."

"Are you afraid?"

"I don't know. Should I be?"

"Everyone feels fear, my lady. That is nothing to be ashamed of. It is a sign of a great warrior that he does what must be done in spite of his fear. Everyone has known fear."

"Then.... yes.... I think I am afraid. But.... But I will do as you ask anyway."

"Good. Kats has not overstated your virtues then. Do this for me, my lady.... and then you will be safe. I promise you that much."

"I believe you, my lord. Kats believes in you."

"She.... does?"

"Yes, my lord."

"I see. Very well, my lady. Go.... and fortune favour you."

"Yes, my lord."

"All will be well. The souls of history are watching us. All.... will be well."

Of late G'Kar had begun to wonder if there had ever been a time when he had been able to sleep for more than a few minutes together without being awoken by some important news, or message, or meeting. While his body was a part of the Great Machine of course he had had no need for sleep. Now, he did.

Everything had changed so fast, faster it seemed than he could keep up with. He had formed his Rangers following Neroon's guidelines. They were to be agents, saboteurs, gatherers of information and warriors. They would be the leaders of his crusade against the Enemy.

The events of the past half a year had thrown many of his plans into disarray. The greatest loss had been the Machine itself. With it, G'Kar could contact all his agents across the galaxy. Now many of them were cut off and abandoned, lost, with no way to get to them. He felt blinded.

Not that that meant no information was coming to him. On the contrary, he was receiving far too much information, and none of it was good.

The war between his people and the Centauri had dissolved into a series of short skirmishes. The Kha'Ri was trying to hold every world it had taken during the course of this war, and it was spreading its forces too thinly. Lord-General Marrago had retaken a number of lost Centauri colonies and military bases with highly skilled and successful punches, risking almost his entire fleet on one engagement.

There should be peace, of course, but neither side could agree on terms. The Kha'Ri was stubbornly insisting on retaining all the worlds it had taken, in spite of the obvious evidence that it had not the resources to do this. The Centarum was advocating nothing less than the return of all lost worlds, and that was just the members who were even talking peace. Many were declaring they should take the war all the way to the Narn homeworld.

And, if that weren't enough, the two races had nowhere to negotiate a deal. For obvious reasons neither Government wanted to send an emissary to the territories controlled by the other, and Kazomi 7 was the only place both parties would accept as a neutral venue.

But G'Kael was finding he had less and less power here. The Kha'Ri rarely listened to him and refused to support his actions regarding other matters, most notably the war with the Enemy. Since he could not promise any official Narn military aid, the Council was growing steadily more displeased with him.

Mollari on the other hand did not even have a representative here yet. If G'Kar had been a gambling man he would have laid a large pile of money that there was no one Mollari trusted enough to be sent here who was not too valuable to be spared from the homeworld.

And then.... there was the Enemy. There was progress there, which would at least be something to smile about, if the seeds of suspicion Sinoval had planted were not growing into something much larger. The Dark Star fleet was proving to be almost a match for the Shadow battleships, and with sufficient numerical superiority they would, and were, winning engagements. Just skirmishes at present, but they had proven the efficacy of the ships. At the Council meeting Captain Sheridan was once more going to present a plan for taking the war to the Enemy.

There. Now G'Kar could put his finger on what was troubling him. Sheridan. He seemed.... different since his return from Z'ha'dum. He rarely spoke to anyone, even his closest friends. He spent almost all his time on the Dark Star flagship. He seemed.... distant.

Of course, grief could do these things, not to mention those long months paralysed and helpless, but.... there seemed to be something.... more....

Or was Sinoval's paranoia just affecting G'Kar more than he liked to admit? He had been wondering about the Vorlons recently. His attempts to meet with Ambassador Ulkesh had largely met with failure, and when the Vorlon attended the Council meetings he said even less than was normal. He simply.... watched everyone. Something in his cold glare troubled G'Kar.

But then, did it matter if the Vorlons were playing their own game? They were still offering help, and that help was sorely needed. Without the Dark Star fleet, then.... this would all be for nothing.

What was the price of our lives, he pondered to himself.

He set down the report. Details of the power struggles going on in the Kha'Ri. Kha'Mak was losing favour fast, and H'Klo ascending. Neither was particularly receptive to G'Kar. With Na'Toth's dismissal he had lost his eyes, ears and voice on the Kha'Ri.

He looked up at the timepiece on the wall, and started. The Council meeting was about to begin. How long had he been daydreaming?

With muttered imprecations he began gathering up his papers. He dared not be late.

The old man was thinking about his childhood again. Thinking about a time when he had not been a man of destiny, not had the burden of the future of humanity on his shoulders, not had all the responsibilities and duties he bore now, was not buried by all these secrets.

There were precious few people he could confide in, even fewer he could talk to as a friend. Zento meant well, but he could not understand. He saw all of this as a sort of game, a simple pattern of the movement of pieces on a board, with profit just the means of keeping score.

The old man sighed. Zento did not understand, but he was necessary where he was. He was the public face of IPX, the representation of all the things the company was meant to stand for. He provided a convenient cover for the.... true face of the corporation.

Very few people did fully understand. Morden was one of them. The old man supposed that was one of the reasons he enjoyed Morden's company. He was a good friend, and a useful sounding board. He also understood clearly the true stakes of this game.

Morden entered the room, smiling in his usual fashion. "Good morning," said the old man. "I trust you slept well."

"Like a baby, thank you."

"Good, good. Help yourself to some orange juice." A little legacy of his childhood, one he was vainly trying to recreate. Morden poured himself a glass. "I suppose you saw the news last night."

"Which piece of news were you referring to?"

"I think you know."

Morden sipped at his drink, sitting down. "Yes. I was under the impression Delenn was not to be our concern any longer."

"You and me both, but no.... it seems we were mistaken about her, or about the Enemy perhaps. Everything we knew about her indicated that she would take some sort of suicide device with her when she went to Z'ha'dum. She had a meeting with the technomage before she left, so we assumed all would go as planned. Ah...." The old man sighed again. Nothing seemed to be going right any more. "Either we were wrong, or the Enemy discovered her plan."

"So what do we do now? I take it we can't let out the truth about her journey to Z'ha'dum."

"Not at all. Word is definitely going to get out that she is still alive. Well, that will only accelerate the timetable a bit. If the Alliance needs any more reason for war than that we're holding their leader here on war crimes charges, then I don't know what else will do it."

"Are we ready for that?"

"A few more months would be nice, but we'll have time before the Alliance gets here. In fact, with a little.... careful timing we might be able to arrange things just right.... We need to keep Delenn alive just long enough for the Alliance to think they might be able to rescue her, but ensure she dies just as they get here. Anyway, we're working on delaying the trial for the foreseeable future, so that's something."

"Is the Alliance going to.... co-operate?"

"They must. Sheridan will be able to push them in this direction even if they don't already have enough of an incentive. The Enemy has let itself be drawn into an all-or-nothing now, and a war between humanity and the Alliance is in their best interests anyway."

"And Byron?"

"May well find himself awoken a little sooner than we had planned. Ah well, the best-laid plans of mice and men, so to speak.... How long will you be staying? Have you received any orders yet?"

"No, not yet. There was talk that I might be needed on Minbar, but conditions there are.... a little hazardous at the moment. The...." Morden smiled. "The Sinoval Project is all set to go ahead, and it might not be a good idea to hang around when everything hits the fan. I might need to go in later and help clean up. And the Centauri of course.... they're going to have to do without me for the time being.

"So," he set aside his empty glass. "For the moment, I'm all yours."

"Good. It's.... nice having someone to talk to. Like old times, almost." He suddenly looked up, an instant before his interior commchannel activated. Audio only, of course.

"Sir, you wanted to know when the guest awoke."

"Ah, yes," said the old man, smiling. "Thank you, Lise. See that he is given food and drink and whatever else he might require, then send him to the interview room."

"Yes, sir." The commchannel went dead, and the old man smiled. "The best secretary I've ever had."

"Pretty too," Morden noted dryly. "So who's the guest?"

"Someone who.... might be useful. In a long-term capacity. Do you want to sit in on the interview?"

"I don't have anything else to do. I'd love to."

The old man smiled. It was strange, he thought, how a glass of orange juice and a moment's conversation with an old friend could ease a troubled mind. He was feeling much more confident now, so much the better to deal with life's trials and tribulations.

He stretched, and began mentally to prepare himself for the 'interview'.

"I am a warrior.

"I ride amongst the stars. My sword clashes in the winds. I dance at the height of the storm. The moon is my shield. My wings are of fire.

"I am a warrior. I shall not fall. I shall not let an enemy pass from my sight. I will walk in the dark places and I shall know no fear.

"On death, my soul shall ascend to be judged by my ancestors and those who have come before. If found worthy...." Kozorr's rendition faltered as he stumbled over the words. He took a deep breath and continued. "If found worthy I shall be reborn, with no memories of my past life, but with the knowledge that I am a warrior in more lives than this."

He paused, and drew in another breath. The traditional meditation ritual of the warrior, spoken three times — once in darkness, with his pike in his hands; once in light and in motion, in the thrill of battle; and finally seated, at peace, in repose, the pike before him.

He had performed the ritual countless times in his life, but never more often than in recent months. Ever since his return from his failed mission to destroy Cathedral, his mind had been filled with disquieting thoughts and dark obsessions. Whenever he closed his eyes he saw Kats weeping, he saw Sinoval standing tall and proud and whole and unharmed.

He heard the booming voice of the Well of Souls, condemning him for his treason.

"I am a warrior," he said wearily. Meditation brought him no peace these days. Sleep brought no rest, only dark dreams.

He leant forward and picked up his pike. He looked at it. Reforging it had been difficult. Many held that a fighting pike was a holy, sacred thing, not to be touched once the perfection had left the bladesmith's soul and immortalised itself in metal. He had had no choice. A denn'bok was a two-handed weapon, and he had only one.

He raised his ruined, crippled right hand and tried to move his broken fingers. He could not, of course. The skin had been burned, the muscle flayed away, the bones shattered beyond all hope of repair. To a casual observer there might appear to be nothing wrong. His hand and fingers were wrapped tightly in thick bandages and covered with a warrior's glove, much as he wore on his left hand. He had the semblance at least of full strength.

Until he tried to move it.

He had been a fool. Not in sustaining the injuries. He still heard Kats' agonised screams and he would willingly have suffered such wounds again to free her, a thousand times over. No, he had been a fool to think she could love him, a cripple, a weakling. He had hesitated for too long in acting against Kalain, and when he had acted he had failed miserably. He was not worthy of her, not fitting to stand beside her, to protect her. She deserved a true warrior.

Someone like Sinoval.

He scowled, and bit back that thought. Sinoval was a great warrior, yes, but he had betrayed the Minbari people. He had brought great enemies down upon all their heads, he had abandoned the homeworld....

But he was a true warrior, not a cripple.

"I am a warrior!" Kozorr cried.

"Of course you are," said a soft voice. He looked up, realising at last that he was not alone. He knew who was there even as she came into the flickering light cast by his candle. "We all know that," said Tirivail, as she sat down opposite him. "It is only you who seems to need convincing."

"I will make you poor company," he said.

"I would rather be the judge of that. In fact, I think you will make very good company indeed."

"Go away, my lady. I am in the mood for solitude."

"No, I do not think you are. I can sense your.... division. You are a fine warrior, no one questions your bravery, or your skill.... no one save yourself, anyway. Why are you here?"

"To meditate."

She shook her head in mock exasperation. "No, why are you here? Why have you joined with Sonovar in this crusade of his? I came because my father did, and it is not the place of a warrior to refuse to obey the head of her clan. Why did you come here?"

"Because.... I do not wish to talk about this."

"And that is why you must."

He sighed. "To prove myself worthy of her. To prove myself better than him.... at anything. To prove to myself that I was more than just a cripple lackey who followed at his heels and obeyed his every word. To.... prove something to myself."

"Sinoval.... and your little worker?"

"Yes."

"I am sure she thinks you are worthy of her. And as for.... him.... well, I am equally sure he appreciated your worth. Sonovar does." Softer: "I do."

He cast his eyes down. "My lady Tirivail.... I am a cripple. I have betrayed one to whom I swore fealty. I have had my doom pronounced to me. I am not worthy of your.... affections, any more than I am of hers."

Tirivail sighed. "You do not understand at all. If you are the coward and oath-breaker you claim to be, then surely your.... true face will show that to me. When you sleep."

He looked up and caught her eyes clearly. They were deep, and filled with sincerity. He said her name softly. "I wish to be alone."

She nodded, and rose angrily to her feet. "You do not see yourself as you truly are. What will it take to show your true soul to you?"

"My judgement.... at the day of my death."

She shook her head and left, not saying another word. Her anger was all too evident, just as her sincerity had been. She believed he was more than he was, and that hurt. Why did people keep holding him up as a hero? He was a coward, an oath-breaker and a traitor.

He hefted his pike in his good hand, and blew out the candle. In complete darkness, with only his demons and his voices for company, Kozorr, coward, cripple, oath-breaker and warrior, began the ritual again.

They looked so lost.

G'Kar cast his red eyes around the table at those who were sitting in on this meeting of the United Alliance Council of Kazomi 7, and that was all he could think of.

They looked so lost.

Of course, without Delenn, they were lost. Each person here brought unique skills of their own to the table, but only Delenn had been able to weld those skills into a cohesive whole. Without her, they were simply individuals.

Sheridan was here today, for the first time in weeks. He had been out testing the efficacy of the Dark Star fleet against the Shadows. His report had been delivered to all the members a few days before. G'Kar had read his copy, and he had to admit the results were encouraging. The Dark Stars could fight and beat Shadow ships without needing the incredibly rare telepaths. Of course support from heavier ships with telepaths would be needed as well, but now at least they had the nucleus of an effective response team.

All they needed now was a strategy, and that was what Sheridan was going to present to the Council.

He walked in a few minutes after the full meeting had convened. He had not missed much, just some worried chatter among the members. G'Kar had been asking hurried questions of G'Kael, about his latest communications with the Kha'Ri. They had not been welcoming.

All conversation stopped as Sheridan entered. G'Kar looked at him with a critical eye, and he did not like what he saw. Sheridan's eyes seemed hollow and deep-set. There was several days' worth of unshaved fur on his face. G'Kar admittedly had little experience with the human habit of 'shaving', but he did recognise it as a symptom that Sheridan had been taking very little care of himself.

G'Kar then switched his gaze to Comm.... Captain Corwin. He knew Sheridan better than anyone else here. He looked every bit as concerned as G'Kar felt.

Sheridan stopped by the computer console at the head of the room and turned to face the Council. His eyes touched briefly on Delenn's empty chair, and then he looked behind them all to the figure at the far end of the room. Ulkesh was standing there, silent and still.

"Thank you all for coming," Sheridan said. His voice at least showed no sign of fatigue or grief. It was as firm and authoritative as always. "You've all had a chance by now to read my reports on the new Dark Star fleet. As you have seen, they are a match for the Shadow capital ships, in sufficient numbers and with adequate support. According to Ambassador Ulkesh a second wave of ships will be available to us by the end of the year, but it is my belief we need to act decisively before then.

"For too long now we have been reacting to the Shadows, not acting. That was necessary at a time when we had no adequate means of opposing them save by entrusting to luck and miracles. These have got us this far, yes, but at great cost. We cannot afford to keep going on luck. Believe me, I found that out against the Minbari. There comes a time when we must stop reacting, and start acting."

He paused, and drew in a deep breath. Turning to the computer console, he called up a map of the human sector of space.

"G'Kar and his Rangers have managed to discover the location of many of the Shadow bases. A great many of course are near their stronghold at the Rim, Z'ha'dum. I have been there, and I know it is well fortified. However, it is my belief that we can take Z'ha'dum.... eventually. I know it seems impossible now, but I assure you it can be done. They are not Gods, and they are not legends. They can be beaten, their ships can be destroyed, and they have been suffering losses since the start of this war just as we have. Eventually they will run out of resources.

"I'm not saying it will be easy, and I'm certainly not saying we can take Z'ha'dum straight away. First, we have to deprive them of their bases and outposts between here and there. It's the oldest military rule in the book: never leave a live and ready enemy behind you.

"Most of their outposts are on uninhabited or low-tech worlds. Staging points, mostly, at convenient locations for assaults on shipping lanes and so forth. We plan to drive them off these, but G'Kar and his Rangers have only been able to discover so many. There will be more we haven't found, so.... that will not be our major priority. If we have to destroy an outpost on the way to our immediate concerns we will, but I am not going to spend all my energy on a game of hide-and-seek.

"The Shadows have one significant base this side of Z'ha'dum." He called up an image of Proxima 3 on the screen. "The Resistance Government has made a deal with the Shadows, allowing them a complete and permanent presence within human space. Much of this is on the border of Narn territory, in areas formally controlled by the Narns. Other than installing a few perfunctory fortifications along these borders, the Narns have made no effort to guard against the Shadows.

"Do you know why that is, Ambassador G'Kael?"

The Ambassador shifted in his seat. "We have not been attacked by these Shadows. Also, we are on good terms with the Resistance Government."

"That will end, as of today. I do not expect the Kha'Ri to participate fully in our war with the Shadows, but they will not be their allies. Whatever deals you have brokered with them.... they end."

G'Kael started. "Are you suggesting we have allied ourselves with the Shadows?"

"The only Narn ships that have been attacked are those loyal to Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar. I do not know why your trade routes and shipping lanes have been left safe, and I do not care. If any Narn ship comes to defend any area of human space, we will destroy it. The Kha'Ri can choose to be our ally, or it can choose to be neutral and pursue its own private war with the Centauri. It will not be our enemy."

G'Kael's eyes darkened. "I will tell them so."

"See that you do. If they do not officially agree to lend solid military aid in this campaign, then you will no longer be welcome at military meetings. You are free of course to attend regarding domestic matters and issues of foreign policy, but if you are not our ally, I will not tell you anything you can use to inform the Shadows. Leave, now! Go and speak to your Government and tell them what I have just told you. When you come back with solid promises of aid, military or support-based, then you will be able to resume your position."

G'Kael's anger was clear in his face, but he said nothing. He simply rose to his feet and left the room.

"Perhaps I should leave as well, Captain," said G'Kar softly. All eyes turned to him.

Sheridan actually laughed, although it was a patently false chuckle. "You, G'Kar? Of course not. You've been fighting the Shadows longer than any of us. I trust you."

"But not my Government?"

"I have spoken to your Government, remember? There are snakes I would trust more. No offence, but until they come down firmly on one side or another I don't want to be within a million miles of any of them. They're going to have to choose what's more important to them; their personal vendetta with the Centauri, or the struggle to protect all civilised life in this galaxy.

"Anyway.... to return to what I was saying before. The Shadows' only major bases are the ones in human-controlled space. Proxima of course, but they also have a large military presence at the colonies of Beta Durani and the ruined Orion Seven. We're going to take them, starting as soon as possible. I have prepared a list of support ships, which has been presented to your aides. I will understand if your Governments cannot provide them all, but we will need every ship we can muster.

"The Shadows have tainted my people for their own purposes. A corrupt, power-hungry Government has embroiled the whole of humanity in this war. They are my people, and I am the one who brought them to this fate.

"I will not have it! Humanity will be free, and the Shadows will lose their major stronghold this side of the Rim. Then.... we will make for Z'ha'dum.

"Any questions?"

There was a brief moment's silence, and then a flurry of voices. G'Kar stayed silent, not because he had no questions to ask, but because he was afraid of the answers he would receive.

Sinoval walked through the ruined streets of his city. He showed neither remorse nor pain over what had happened here. True, it had been his decision to abandon Minbar and leave her open and vulnerable to the Earther fleet, but the planet had been indefensible by that time. Had he stayed, he would have lost both himself and the few ships under his command.

It had been over a year since last he had trodden here. He remembered it as it had been, broken, devastated, filled with the bodies of the dying and the dead. A humbling reminder that nothing was eternal, nothing was so strong it could not be broken, nothing so well built it could not be torn down.

There were no bodies here now, and some effort had been made to clear the rubble from the streets. He paused, deep in thought. Sherann had spoken of survivors being herded here by the Vorlons. He and Delenn had believed they had rescued everyone. And if they had not, then Sinoval's practicality had won out over Delenn's soft heart. Any who remained would die from the poisons in the skies and water, or from simple starvation, probably before they could be found.

But it appeared they had both been wrong. The Vorlons had worked their usual miracles here. The air was clean of poisons, if not of dust. The water was dull and muddy, but not acidic.

Sinoval could not work out why they would want to do such a thing. What purpose could they have for Minbar? Perhaps they intended to bring the Minbari back here, to bask in the glory of their victory.

He looked up and saw his destination, in gleaming domes and spires. The Temple of Varenni. One of the few buildings completely untouched by the bombing, thanks, so the people believed, to the benevolent presence of the Vorlon saviour within its walls. Sinoval put it down to strong foundations, and the safeguards incorporated there by its builders, many thousands of years ago. The power of the Starfire Wheel too was not something to be taken lightly.

He had spoken to the Vindrizi in Durhan's care, as well as to the Soul Hunters. No one knew the truth behind the Starfire Wheel or the Temple of Varenni. The Grey Council records indicated it was at least as old as the city, and probably older. It was even possible that Yedor had been built around the temple.

In the days before Valen, it was said, the leaders of warring clans had come to settle their disputes in the Starfire Wheel, each one willing to give his life that his clan be victorious. They had surely not invented the Starfire Wheel, merely harnessed its power.

And it had considerable power. No one knew exactly how it worked, but it somehow managed to amplify the radiation from Minbar's sun and focus it into one, powerful burst capable of destroying utterly anything that stood within it. Except, of course, those clever enough to provide shielding of their own. Sinoval gently patted the pike that hung at his side. Stormbringer had saved him before, with a few minor modifications. It would do so again, channelling its own energy to create a shield, so that the radiation slid past him.

He continued walking. The sound of his footsteps was the only thing that could be heard. Yedor was to all intents and purposes utterly dead. He wondered idly where the other survivors were, but then concluded that it did not matter. They were hiding no doubt, or imprisoned somewhere by the Vorlon. Sherann would find them if she could, and tell them that their deliverance was approaching.

Then she would do one other thing, one very important thing.

She would bring the Vorlon to its doom.

Sinoval did not know exactly where the Vorlon was, but he knew it was not in the Temple. Not yet, anyway. He had dispatched Soul Hunters there, to.... prepare matters. The Primarch was there also. A Vorlon soul was a rare and powerful thing. It would probably take someone with the power of the Primarch Majestus et Conclavus to capture one.

Sinoval reached the Temple and stopped, looking at the vast doorway before him. There was a symbol engraved at the top of the archway. He looked at it, and started. He had seen that symbol many times before and not known what it meant, but now he knew. He had spoken to the Vindrizi about the Temple, and one of them had been here in a Minbari host, many thousands of years before.

It was a word in the Vorlon language. It was the symbol for a tomb.

Sinoval smiled, and then began to chuckle. How very appropriate.

He walked up the steps and entered the Temple, making for the Inner Sanctum and the Starfire Wheel. He touched Stormbringer, and felt through it the hum of the Well of Souls.

Today was a day that would be long remembered.

Dexter Smith's head ached. He knew that he was covered in bruises, and there was a sharp, stabbing pain in his side whenever he tried to breathe. Lights flickered in front of his eyes.

He could.... remember.... Pain, that was it, for the most part. And there was someone else, wasn't there? A woman. Where.... was she?"

He had woken up in a dark room, his whole body aching. He had called out for someone, anyone, and a few moments later someone — he thought it was a doctor — had come in and looked at him. The doctor had seemed reasonably satisfied, but he had given him an injection. He had not said a single word throughout the examination. At least the lights that had come on with his arrival remained on after he had left.

And after him, someone had arrived bearing food. He recognised nutri-glop when he saw it, but it had been a while since his last meal and he had eaten it quickly, albeit with a certain lack of enthusiasm.

And not long after that security guards had arrived, although he knew instantly that these were not the official Proxima Security Forces. Their uniforms were darker, and they were much too professional for Sector 301, or most other sectors come to that. He had also recognised the high-tech trank guns at their sides. They were the newest model, and bordering on the illegal.

They had led him to another room and left him there. Neither of them had said a word.

He winced at the pain in his side and sat down, looking around him. Flashes were beginning to come back to him now. He and Talia had tried to escape from Allan's apartment, but Security had caught them. There had been a fight and.... He sighed and rubbed at his head. This was all so pointless. Why even bother fighting? They weren't going to win.

He looked around, a dark mood settling over him. He did not know where this was, but it was not a Security holding cell or an interrogation room. It looked more like a private living room, albeit one carefully cleared of everything apart from the most basic furniture.

"Feel free to make yourself comfortable, Mr. Smith," said a voice from nowhere, and he started. Looking up, he saw the commconsole high in the wall, and sighed. The screen was blank and the voice electronically distorted. "My doctors have assured me you will recover well. Nothing is broken beyond repair. I apologise for the.... over-zealousness of the security guards who arrested you."

"Who are you?" he asked. "This doesn't look like a Security cell."

"It isn't. I am.... merely a private citizen with a certain influence in various parts of the Government. My name, I fear, must remain a secret for the time being, although a time may come when that will change. Feel free to make yourself at home."

Smith sat back. "So, what's this all about then? What do you want with me?"

"A dangerous question, Mr. Smith, but to answer.... I merely wish to talk. There are certain matters to be negotiated concerning the long-term future of our race. You may have a vital part to play in such a future."

"Yes? Where's my friend?"

"You mean Miss Winters? Or whatever name she happens to be going by at present. There is no reason to worry, Mr. Smith. She is perfectly safe, and in good hands. I felt it better that this be a private discussion, at first anyway.

"So.... let us talk...."

Talia's eyes flickered open, and her first instinct was to try to move. She could not. Her arms and legs were secured. She looked down and saw green vines holding her body in place. She pulled at them, and a sudden shock tore through her body.

"Where am I?" she asked, not so much expecting an answer, but more to discover if there was anyone around to hear her. There was no audible reply, not even the sound of breathing. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, reaching out with her mind.

Something burst open, and in an instant all her psi blocks and walls collapsed. A brilliant flash of light filled her mind, and all her thoughts and memories were laid bare.

said a voice.

There was an agonising burst of pain, and she shook with the intimacy of the violation. An instant before she passed out she did something she could not recall ever having done before.

She screamed.

Chapter 3

The city of Yedor had been renowned for many things before its devastation. It was of course the capital of the Minbari Federation, and while the elusive and mysterious Grey Council was not based in the city, many of the Government buildings were.

Even apart from its political significance, Yedor had had much to attract visitors. One of the oldest cities in any civilised world, it was home to many wonders. Libraries, Halls of Records, cathedrals, temples. Monuments, shrines, artificers with skill in the shaping of crystal and stone and metal.

But one of the most beautiful buildings in the city was the Temple of Varenni. It was not the largest temple in Yedor, but it possessed an indefinable beauty and mystery. It was also home to the Starfire Wheel, an ancient weapon few understood. It was there, a thousand years ago, that Valen had been proved worthy in his trial by fire. He had remained in the Starfire Wheel past the point when he should have died, and thus the universe had signalled he had a great destiny to fulfill.

No one knew the exact reason for the construction of the Temple, and few suspected there was anything unusual about it. Of those who did, none grasped the truth, not even Primarch Sinoval the Accursed, who had accomplished the same miracle here as Valen had. Sinoval had access to all the sources of knowledge that could have told him the secrets behind the Temple, but he did not care to look, and he would not have heeded if he had.

Deep within the surface of the earth, in catacombs no Minbari had entered in hundreds of years, there lay a tomb. A Vorlon had been buried there, many centuries ago. A holy figure, even a prophet. The Vorlons had never failed to honour and venerate this spot, and when Minbar had been attacked they had come to ensure it survived.

And now they intended to bring an end to one of their greatest enemies, trusting to the holiness of this place to bring them success.

It is an ancient law, so old it is almost forgotten. It concerns innocent blood, and the shedding of it on holy ground.

There is a Vorlon in Yedor, a young one by the standards of its race. It is to be both the bait, and the trap itself. It knows what is expected of it. It knows that it is sometimes necessary to die for the sake of a worthy cause. It hears the words of the innocent, telling it that he is here. The Accursed One. He is here, and is desecrating their holiest place.

Another might be angry at being expected to walk into such an obvious trap, but the Vorlon does not care, does not heed. The Accursed One is dangerous, yes, and can hurt its kind. But this battle will be fought on holy ground. How can it fail?

The Vorlon pauses as it nears the door to the Temple of Varenni, and something within its ageless soul shivers. The damage to the temple has been repaired. The prophet of old buried here will surely smile upon its children.

She speaks again, urging it on. It moves, and senses the Accursed One within this holy place. It is ready. It is ready to die, and it will do so for the good of its people.

The holy warmth of the Temple of Varenni welcomed the Vorlon.

Primarch Sinoval the Accursed did likewise.

Talia Winters has known she was a telepath since she was a child. Since the explosion of her abilities she had been taught how to construct walls, how to guard against the thoughts of mundanes, how to block their dirty, ugly, foul minds.

Still there were voices, but little more than background chatter. She could ignore them, with sufficient concentration. She had been taught very well how to concentrate.

The walls had only ever come down when she was with Al. She did not mind their absence then. She could feel the warm glow of his love for her, for all their people. She could sense his concerns and his fears for the future, but that was what came with leadership. More than once she had wished she were stronger than a mere P5, and better able to help him.

He had smiled at these thoughts. "You are perfect the way you are," he had said, sweetly and sadly.

So she had learned to compensate for her limited abilities. Skill in infiltration, in disguise, in assassination. But she was a telepath first and foremost. She had learned to use her abilities for the benefit of all her people, setting aside ethics and morality for the greater good.

But the walls were always there.

Not any more.

She wasn't sure if she was still screaming, or if the noise was only in her mind. She was being invaded, a brilliant, blinding light piercing her mind, shattering her barriers completely. Her every thought was there for the reading.

Help us!

Then there were the voices. These were not the little voices of mundanes, but the anguished cries of her own people. She could hear them coming from barred cages. She could feel the fear and the panic within them all. They were bound together, joined by a network of.... of gateways.

They were her people, and they were trapped, able to sense each other, but not to talk. Their bodies were wasting away, but their minds.... they were being harnessed.

Help us!

She shuddered, recognising that voice. It was Matt, Matthew Stoner. Her husband. The two of them had been married by the Corps some years ago in the hope of producing powerful children, until a radiation accident had made him sterile. He had disappeared last year, his ship having gone missing.

She had thought him dead. This was worse.

Help us!

All the voices suddenly died, caught in a choking scream. The light was there now, all of it, washing them out, cutting her off from them.

said a voice, firm and booming, secure in complete mastery.

She opened her eyes, her mind returning to her body. She felt sick. She was shaking. Desperately she tried to stretch her head to see where she was. Vines held her body down. They seemed to be.... growing around her. She could feel a soft throbbing where they touched her bare skin, almost like a pulse.

She tried to look around her. She was lying down, tightly bound. The rest of the room seemed.... cold, sterile. A laboratory of some kind. She did not know where....

Someone came into view. She could hear the sound of his footsteps. She strained still further to see who it was, but then a vine slid around her neck and pulled her back. Gasping for air, nearly choking, she sank back. Dots flashed in front of her eyes, and all she could see was a man wearing gloves and a white coat and.... some sort of mask....

A syringe. Her body tensed, but to her surprise the scientist did not inject it into her, but into the vines around her. They seemed to relax, and then a slow drowsiness spread through Talia's body. She blinked, and tried to reach out with her mind to touch the scientist.

No voices. No sound at all.

She....

.... tried to keep....

.... her eyes....

.... open....

She closed her eyes, and blackness and dark dreams and the anguished voices of her people, trapped and bound, awaited her.

Primarch Sinoval the Accursed reached down to touch his pike. Something within its cold metal grew warm at his touch, enough even for him to feel it through his glove. With a flash of insight he could see the Well of Souls, the countless sparks of light stretching outwards into infinity. He could feel the intelligence there, guiding him.... to the creation of Stormbringer.

And perhaps to here.

Destiny. He had never believed in it. He made his own destiny. But he could feel the endless patience of the Well of Souls. He could sense the.... feelings of.... inevitability.... For so long the Well had been waiting. For him, for a Primarch Nominus et Corpus. There had been one before, one who had come to an ill-fated end.

For one brief moment, Sinoval felt the first spark of self-doubt in his entire life. Maybe.... maybe all the warnings should be heeded. Maybe he should listen to the Primarch, go to the Well and seek its counsel. Maybe he should talk to Kats. He had never heard her give him any advice that was less than perfect.

Then he saw the Vorlon enter the vast chamber of the Starfire Wheel, and his resolve hardened. These creatures had killed Delenn, they had tainted Sheridan, they had enslaved his people here.

It would die, and from its soul he would learn all he needed to know.

It was tall, its encounter suit jet black, the light seeming to slide from it. Its eye stalk was long and slender, a tiny, gleaming, golden light at its heart. Beneath the dark suit Sinoval could.... feel something. He could see its soul, a precious thing. He could feel the Well of Souls looking at the Vorlon through his eyes.

Just beside the Vorlon stood Sherann. She had stopped, hesitating as it crossed the boundary. Her eyes betrayed her concern, but she did not move. Sinoval almost smiled. There was true bravery there.

He walked forward, making each step as firm and proud as he could. He was a warrior and a leader of warriors. This was his world, and these his people. He slid his pike from his belt and extended it, in one smooth motion.

He was not afraid. He was a warrior.

He stopped, standing directly in front of the Starfire Wheel. It was not open yet; it would not open until all was ready. He could feel the Soul Hunters here, hidden deep in the shadows. They had prepared well. They had had ample time to prepare. The Primarch was here as well. To him fell the most important task, that of capturing the Vorlon's soul.

The Vorlon hesitated, and then, with a twitch of its eye stalk and a brief, mocking gleam of light, it stepped forward. Sherann followed it hesitantly. It crossed a faint, undrawn line as it moved. It did not notice, nor did Sherann, but Sinoval did.

"I welcome you to this place," said Sinoval, his voice commanding. "I am the leader here."

There was a hiss of contemptuous breath from the Vorlon, and a sound like that of dead men's bones beating on shields of stone. came the voice.

Sinoval smiled, and raised Stormbringer. A near-imperceptible signal was sent.

There was a flurry of motion, and the floor became alive with power. A part of the power that guided Cathedral, the very power of the Well of Souls focussed on one being. The floor around the Vorlon crackled and blazed. There was the sound of rending and ripping as its encounter suit began to crack.

Sinoval could feel the Well of Souls watching intently. There was no sound, no warning, nothing but a still silence. Not even the breathing of the dead could be heard.

Sinoval darted forward, Stormbringer raised. In a practised, skilful motion, he hammered the end of his pike into the Vorlon's chest. There was a crack as of bones shattering, and the Vorlon stumbled back. Its eye stalk rose and began to fill with light, the same light now pouring from holes in the armour. It was bright, so bright as to be almost blinding.

boomed the voice of the Vorlon, as Sinoval felt a blast of sheer, focussed anger tear into him. He brought Stormbringer down in time, but still he was thrown backwards, stumbling and nearly falling over a step. As he struggled to right himself he saw the Vorlon's encounter suit opening. It was riddled with holes and rents, and light could be seen blazing from each one.

it said again, as the light began to coalesce into one form. Sinoval staggered, clutching Stormbringer as a drowning man clutches a float. He straightened his stance, and made to step forward.

Something within the light turned, mists and colour formed a head, a face, a torso. It was a Minbari, robed in smoke, with eyes of mirrors. It looked at Sinoval, and in its eyes he saw himself.

it said, although the words came not from its mouth but from the air itself.

The light was continuing to coalesce. Great wings emerged from the figure's back, long and fiery, the air crackling around them.

An arm formed, and then another.

One of the hands clenched into a fist, and a long, curved sword appeared in it.

The encounter suit, now empty and dead, crumpled in pieces on the ground.

Sinoval took another step forward. His ribs hurt and his breath came in short gasps, but his eyes were as cold and hard as they had ever been. He saw himself reflected in the Vorlon image's own eyes, and he saw there a true warrior, one who has never feared death, one who has never thought of relinquishing the bridge to let his enemies pass, one who has never known fear of the dark places.

He took another step forward.

Like most people, Captain Walker Smith of the EAS Marten had a dream. In his case, the dream was to be the World Boxing Champion, a dream nurtured since the day his father had taken him to a fight and he had seen the legendary 'Baron' Boshears take the title for the first time. Smith had looked at his father with all the complete sincerity a five-year-old could muster and said he would hold that belt some day.

He'd never managed it, of course. Sporting events had been pretty much terminated during the Minbari War, and it was only in the last few years that they had got started again, a baseball season first, then some athletic tournaments. They were working on bringing boxing back, but it didn't matter. Smith was an entirely different person now, and in his own way he was fighting just as hard as he would have in the ring, but against a completely different opponent.

He rubbed at his eyes. He hadn't slept well last night. Actually, he could count on the fingers of one hand the number of decent nights' sleep he'd ever had on this ship. Oh, the Marten was a damned fine battleship, fast, strong, packing a hell of a punch, but it was a nice place to visit, not to live in.

Something about the ship bugged him. Something just felt.... wrong. Still, he supposed he was lucky he was actually in charge of something like this. The Marten had been cutting-edge until the Dark Thunder and the De'Molay had rolled off the production lines. He remembered drunkenly teasing Captain Barns about his new promotion, while Barns was still sitting around flying a desk. Barns had simply shrugged, and said he could wait. Looked like it had been worth the wait for him as well.

Smith did not envy him. Reports had it that the Dark Thunder contained more Shadowtech than the Marten, the Corinthian and the Morningstar put together. He did not want to imagine what it would be like inside such a ship.

"Captain," said one of the techs, interrupting his reverie. This was just a routine patrol, and nothing interesting had happened for days. It was a political thing really, help to protect Beta Durani as a visible sign to the colonists there that R'Gov hadn't forgotten them, and that the area was perfectly safe for more industry and businesses et cetera et cetera.

The Marten was far from the only protection Beta Durani had. A Shadow squadron could be here in less than ten seconds if anything hostile showed up. Okay, make that twenty seconds. But the Marten was a visible presence to reassure people, and it was crewed by humans, brave soldiers giving their lives for others and so on....

"Yeah? What is it?"

"One of our hyperspace probes has just been destroyed. No, make that two."

"What? Collision with debris, you think?"

"No.... I don't think so. One of them managed to get a partial signal out before it was hit. On screen now."

The silhouette was less than clear, but it seemed to be of a ship, a medium-class vessel about a quarter of the size of the Marten, perhaps a little smaller. It was a shape Smith didn't recognise.

"Not very clear," he said, shifting the angle of the image.

"No," admitted the tech. "Maybe it is debris after all."

"No. Which Starfury squadron is out at the moment?"

"Alpha."

"Good. Better prep squadrons Omega and Lambda as well. We might need them." He sat back in his seat, pondering to himself. Then the tech spoke up again.

"Captain, jump points opening. Lots of them!"

Smith breathed out slowly. Just like being in the ring. The same rules applied. Keep your guard up, hit him when he wasn't looking, in places he wasn't blocking. Bide your time, and don't make any stupid mistakes.

The only difference here was all the other lives he held in his hand.

"Battle stations," he said.

The roar of beating wings filled his ears. The brilliance of its light seared his eyes. The fury in its voice cried at him.

There was a rush of air as the Vorlon seraph swept down on Sinoval. He held Stormbringer ready, and managed to duck just as it passed him. With an effortless motion the Vorlon's sword of air and light drew a bloody line across his arm. Then, glorying in its triumph, it soared up into the heights of the room, wings beating slowly, mirror eyes gazing on everything it saw.

It knew the Soul Hunters were here. It could not fail to know that, but in its arrogance it assumed they were no threat to him.

And they were not, at least not in any way it could foresee. Their purpose here was three-fold; to channel the energy from Cathedral that had shattered the encounter suit, to further manipulate that energy to prevent the Vorlon escaping, and to seize its soul when it died.

Slowly at first, but gathering more speed and power, the Vorlon angel, the Vorlon seraph, ducked and began to dive down. Sinoval threw himself aside, wincing as the hard stone floor bruised his flesh. He rolled and leapt to his feet, moving nearer and nearer to the Starfire Wheel.

Once more the Vorlon soared towards the ceiling. It hovered there, radiating its glory on those beneath it.

Sinoval wondered idly if the Soul Hunters saw something different in its facade. To him it had taken the form of one of the ancient Gods of war, from the time many thousands of years before Valen. The warriors had called upon the aid of the Seraphim against their enemies, and sometimes that aid had come.

A greater anger burned within Sinoval. How long had they been manipulating his people? For just how long had they been Gods and angels and heroes to the Minbari? They claimed to have ascended to the galaxy when the Minbari were still crawling beneath rocks.

The Vorlon plummeted, the air rushing around its form. This was the time. Sinoval braced himself, looking directly into the mirror eyes of the angel. He could see himself there, a warrior standing firm against the assault of his enemies.

The Vorlon's sword pierced his shoulder at the same moment Stormbringer tore into its arm. Sinoval felt an agonising pain and he stumbled, crying out as the sword was pulled out of his flesh, spilling his own burning blood with it. The Vorlon itself seemed to be unharmed.

Sinoval knew better. This was not their natural form, and it could not maintain it for long. This was not their natural environment, and with the encounter suit destroyed it would have no way to replenish the energy expended in this facade. The angel might be a mere creation of light and air and mirrors, but somewhere beneath it there was a real, living, breathing creature. Anything that lived could be killed.

Once more the Vorlon rose to the ceiling, readying itself for another charge. It seemed to be flying a little slower than before. Was it hurt? Tired? Drained? Stormbringer was forged with Sinoval's soul, augmented by the subtle influences of the Well of Souls. It could hurt the Vorlon.

There. The Vorlon's wingspan had encroached on the area of the Starfire Wheel. Sinoval smiled, and willed it to open.

The green light crackled in the air as it appeared. There was a sound of burning and a smell such as Sinoval had never encountered before. The Vorlon fell, its wing beginning to collapse. The wings were only constructs of light and air, but the real creature.... was it growing too tired to maintain them?

The Vorlon twisted as it fell, its sword seeming to grow longer and sharper. Sinoval tried to bring Stormbringer up, but he was too late, and only managed to slow the thrust.

The sword ripped into his side, tearing flesh and muscle. Sinoval stumbled, nearly falling. His blood was boiling, burning his flesh, searing his clothes. The Vorlon's sword was burning him, his flesh, his blood, his soul.

He struggled to rise, and as he did so he saw the Vorlon reach out one arm, stretching out the fingers and clenching a fist.

There was a rush of air and an explosion of psionic energy. Sinoval was not a telepath, but even he winced as the backlash tore through him. He felt blood drip from his eyes. He wiped it away and looked up to see what the Vorlon had used its telekinesis for.

The force shield the Soul Hunters had erected, and were now pushing slowly inwards to encircle the Starfire Wheel, had been designed to keep the Vorlon inside, not to keep anyone or anything out.

The Vorlon had reached through the shield and pulled Sherann in. She lay limp, pressed against the angel, held close to it. Its sword, now thick and curved, lay against her throat.

It looked at Sinoval, and in its eyes he could see himself.

it said.

Dexter Smith crossed his arms and sat back, wincing at the pain in his side. "So.... what are we going to talk about? Last night's game? The lottery numbers? The latest film news?"

"That's hardly a very co-operative attitude, Mr. Smith."

"Yeah, well, maybe I'm not being very co-operative. You see, being beaten up and locked in a room with only a disembodied voice for company does that to me."

"Ah. I do apologise for the over-zealousness of the guards. That really did have nothing to do with me. And you are not locked in anywhere. You are free to leave at any time. I do not advise it, but I certainly do not compel you to stay."

"Where's Talia?"

"A safe place."

"Answer me! Where is she?"

"Being examined by my doctors. She is quite safe, I assure you."

"I want to see her."

"That is not possible at present. You seem.... forgive me.... rather attached to her. Are the two of you.... romantically involved?"

"What? No!"

"Ah, forgive my lack of manners. Sometimes the only way to gain pertinent information is to ask impertinent questions. A sad necessity of modern life I am afraid, and I like it no more than you do. However, it is necessary. Would you like there to be a romantic involvement with Miss Winters?"

"She's with someone. They have a kid."

"Ah, yes. Mr. Bester. A rather.... special collection of telepaths he has there. Do you think he plans on adding to it?"

"What do you mean?"

"You have telepathic DNA, do you not? Your mother was a telepath? Your young niece has recently been found to be a P four."

"I don't have...." He paused. He supposed he might have a niece. He hadn't spoken to his sister in years. He'd thought she was dead. "What of it? I'm probably not even a P one."

"Something in that region.... but your children might well be telepaths, especially if the mother was a telepath herself, such as Miss Winters for example."

"What is this? Some sort of telepath breeding programme you're running here?"

"Oh, no. Quite the opposite. I have spent my entire life working against telepaths. They have a.... natural, innate advantage over the rest of us. A quite unfair advantage, wouldn't you say? How can we hide our secrets any longer? We are all vulnerable to telepaths, each and every one of us. Maybe the Corps controlled them, although personally I do not believe that. But now the Corps as we knew it is gone, sacrificed on the altar of necessity. These are desperate times, Mr. Smith, and they breed desperate men. Can you imagine the damage that can be done by a desperate telepath?

"No, order is necessary in the midst of all this chaos. Telepaths are uniquely chaotic beings, but with appropriate order they can be.... controlled, harnessed for the greater good. My humble operation here has been aimed at doing just that."

"How do you control them?"

"Ah, that would be telling. I am afraid I am not at liberty to divulge that information. They are.... safe, I will say that, and no threat to any of us."

"So why are you telling me all this?"

"Oh, a number of reasons. Partly to try to convince you to call off your little crusade against my organisation. We are not the enemy, we are merely people trying to do what we can to benefit humanity."

"And is letting Sector Three-o-one become a sink of corruption benefiting humanity?"

"Sector Three-o-one has always been a place filled with corruption, Mr. Smith. You of all people should know that. It is a sad and lamentable fact of human nature that the weaker will always be shoved aside. Sector Three-o-one is the sort of place they are shoved to. If we cleaned up the place, the corruption there would only move elsewhere. Sad, yes, but the truth."

"What Trace and Allan are doing is wrong.... and you're letting them do it."

"Is not a little wrong permitted in the name of a greater good? Is not.... for example, the breaking of a promise, of a trust, permissible if the purpose is worthwhile?" Smith scowled. "I know your history, Mr. Smith. You have interested me for a long time. I did actually try to contact you after your return from Earthforce, but alas I was unable to do so.

"I would like to offer you a place in my organisation."

Smith laughed. "You're not serious. You've just spent half an hour telling me telepaths are evil and that I'm one of them, and now you want me to join you?"

"You are a telepath, yes, but you cannot read minds, you cannot ferret out thoughts and secrets. You are merely very intuitive, a skill that many 'normal' people are perfectly capable of learning."

"I'm also a wanted murderer, or did you forget about that?"

"Oh, you needn't join my organisation in any public capacity. I was hoping for quite the reverse, in fact. Anyway, I will speak to some people and have the charges against you dropped. And against Miss Winters, if you like. There, you see.... corruption can be a good thing, if used wisely."

"I've yet to be convinced of that. What if I say no?"

"I will be disappointed of course, but you will be free to leave. The charges against you will still be dropped, and you will be at perfect liberty to change your mind at any point."

"And if I choose to keep fighting Trace and Allan?"

"That would be.... unfortunate, for both of us."

"If.... If I agree to join you...."

"Yes."

"Will you let Talia go? And stop Trace from hurting the people of Sector Three-o-one?"

"Mr. Trace is his own man. He is not really a member of my organisation, merely a.... freelance agent. As for Miss Winters.... if it will convince you of my sincerity she may go, but.... one thing first. Are you absolutely certain she does not use her abilities.... wrongly? Give me your word that she will not misuse her telepathic powers."

"I give it."

"Ah.... well then. I will.... allow you a chance to change your mind. Miss Winters will be kept safe here. She will be treated well, I assure you, and I will detain her only for so long as is necessary to verify your claims. If I find them to be true, she will be released. Are these terms.... acceptable to you?"

"No, but it looks like they're all I have."

"They are."

"Well then, I am free to go?"

"Then you will not join me?"

"Show me that Talia is safe, and I will."

"Ah.... then you are free to go. When I release Miss Winters, if of course I do, then I will contact you so that we may discuss the terms of your.... employment. The guards outside will escort you safely and secretly out of this sector. As I said, all charges against you will be dropped, and you may return to your old apartment if you wish.

"Good day, Mr. Smith. Please do not take too long making up your mind. Events are bearing down heavily on us all, and we may not have much time."

Sherann twitched, and a soft moan escaped her as she recovered from the shock of her telekinetic flight across the chamber. She opened her eyes, and then the realisation of her situation seemed to hit her.

Sinoval looked at her, and then up at the Vorlon. The illusion of its form was beginning to fade. It had not bothered to regrow its damaged wing, and it had dissolved the other. Its legs were ill-formed, and it now seemed to be floating on a cloud of glowing light. Its sword was still held tightly at Sherann's throat.

Sinoval drew in a deep breath and clenched his grip on Stormbringer. His body was burning, the wounds in his shoulder and side eating away at him. He took a slow, faltering step forward, wincing at each breath. His grip on his pike tightened.

The Starfire Wheel was still open. He could feel the warmth of its radiation. The Vorlon was not within its radius, having fallen just outside it. There were minutes yet before it reached its full, deadly potential.

He looked at Sherann again. Her eyes were flat, expectant, unafraid.

"I can see her soul," Sinoval whispered, looking up to the Vorlon. "It is a beautiful thing, a creation of wonder and hope and love. I envy you, my lady.

"I can see her soul.... and I can see yours. I can taste your fear, Vorlon. I can feel your hatred, and I am not afraid of either. I would drown this world in blood if it meant destroying you and all your kind. There is nothing I would not do, no one I would not kill, nothing I would not forsake or betray or abandon...."

He grasped Stormbringer tightly. It seemed to tremble.

He looked at Sherann, and saw the faintest trace of an unshed tear in her eye. "I am sorry, my lady," he said, his voice thick. "This world was never meant for one such as you."

He moved forward, a motion he had practised and performed countless times. The Vorlon made no effort to stop him, it could not have done so even had it wanted to. The pike struck Sherann, her eyes filled with blood, and her dead body crumpled.

The Vorlon dropped her to the ground and said two simple words, a reminder of a warning Sinoval had been given, but had forgotten.

At last, he realised. He had doomed himself. He had shed the blood of an innocent on sanctified ground. There could be only one fate for him now.

And the Vorlon had known this. It had known how he would react. It had planned this all along. If it could not destroy him by force of arms or by physical strength or by skill or valour in combat, it would use guile. It would force Sinoval to destroy himself. It would make him kill one of his own.

With a roar filled with fury and passion and anger and hatred, Sinoval threw himself forward. Stormbringer crashed into the face of the Vorlon, knocking it back. A second blow thudded into the midriff of the angel, but it made no effort to block it.

The Vorlon was beginning to drop its image now. It had no need of one, and the illusion was evidently becoming too onerous to support. It was becoming a mass of light and energy, flailing tentacles reaching out.

Sinoval followed the Vorlon into the confines of the Starfire Wheel, and the Soul Hunters, acting on his instructions, not fully realising what had just happened, closed the force shield behind them. Neither of them could leave the Starfire Wheel now, not until the energies of the Wheel had been dissipated. Oh, the Vorlon could have broken down the barrier with enough force and effort, but it had no need to. Sinoval had doomed himself. He would die here. He would never leave the holy ground he had desecrated with the blood of an innocent.

Still, he paid no heed to that. The air around him was crackling with the radiation of the Wheel and the thrashing of the Vorlon. There was pain, but Sinoval did not care. He had felt pain before. He kept hammering Stormbringer into the form of the Vorlon, striking out at the mass of light.

Then the Vorlon seemed to turn, whipping round. It had no face any longer, but Sinoval could tell it was looking at him. One tentacle lashed out and smashed his body against the force shield. A second took his arm and pulled Stormbringer out of his grasp, hurling it away. The force wall parted as it flew into the shadows in the corner of the chamber.

The Starfire Wheel continued to slide open. Sinoval could feel himself beginning to burn. Another blow pounded into the side of his head and he slumped to his knees, blood pouring from his eyes and ears and mouth.

The Wheel slid open another notch.

The Marten was alone in space against a sizeable Dark Star fleet for all of a few minutes. In those few minutes, Captain Smith had hastily alerted the Beta Durani defence grid, which was still fairly new, and warned the civilian authorities.

The Starfury squadrons were launched, the weapons crews prepared, and the ship set in a defensive position, waiting.

They did not have to wait long.

--- Beta Durani, this is the Dark Star fleet, from the United Alliance of Kazomi Seven. You are to surrender to the Alliance, stand down all military forces, and submit to Alliance officials regarding preparations for a war crimes tribunal. If you fail to do this we will respond with deadly force. ---

"Cocky, aren't they?" muttered Walker to himself.

"There are a lot of them, sir," said the tech. "Much more than there are of us."

"Not for long," he said, smiling. "Did the Governor get the message?"

"Yes, she's.... instructing you to hold them off for as long as possible."

"I could have thought of that."

--- Beta Durani, failure to reply within two minutes will be construed as a refusal. ---

Walker rolled his eyes. "Any chance of them getting a move on?" The ships, the Dark Stars, were coming closer. He glanced at the specs the Shadowtech computers had been able to analyse. For some reason the computer was taking great exception to them, and a large amount of stuff was coming out really weird. What he could see did not fill him with confidence, though.

--- Beta Durani, you have one minute. ---

"Come on. Are the Starfuries launched?"

"Squadron Omega is launched, Squadron Lambda launching now. Squadron Gamma preparing to launch. Should we give the order to fire?"

"Nope. For the moment, we wait.... and hope our friends weren't exaggerating when they said how fast they can get here."

--- Beta Durani, your time is up. ---

The Marten seemed to come alive, something twinkling in its instruments and surfaces. Walker smiled, as all around it Shadow battleships shimmered into view.

"A little more even, now. Give the order to fire."

"Yes, sir."

Somewhere in the shadows, an ancient being was watching the final stages of the fight play themselves out. He saw Sinoval's body strike the force shield, saw it slump and fall, saw the fire that had always burned so brightly begin to burn out.

The Primarch Majestus et Conclavus of the Order of the Soul Hunters stepped into the light. He flicked a glance at another of his order, who straightened at his gaze. "You know what to do?"

The Fhedayar Primus Adjunct Secundus nodded. He was one of the finest hunters in the Order, but even the lowest neophyte could have performed this task. First One or child, the procedure was the same. The soul was the same, a burst of life, an animation of the prison of flesh and bone, a sentience that would otherwise be lost forever to the cold grasp of death.

The Primarch walked forward, feeling the weight of his untold millennia of life. He had known this moment would come. The Well of Souls had spoken to him. He had tried to warn Sinoval, but of course the warning had not been heeded.

No one could fight his destiny. The older one was, the more inevitable it became.

He reached the boundary of the Starfire Wheel. Even through the shield he could feel the crackling heat in the air. He raised his hands, and the wall fell.

Sinoval's body, now with nothing to support it, slumped and rolled to the floor. The Vorlon, its energy form now equally unrestrained, began to thrash and ascend, rising towards the ceiling, spreading its tentacles of light and energy.

The Primarch took a moment to ensure that Sinoval's body was clear of the circumference of the Starfire Wheel. It was wider now than it had been. He could feel the air burning, tiny bolts of lightning filling the void around his body of flesh.

The Vorlon swished, and turned to face the Primarch. It said two words.

"I know the law," said the Primarch softly. "But I know other laws as well, older laws. The doom of innocent blood can be averted, if one who is also innocent accepts the death that is the price of the doom."

The Vorlon paused, its energy-body hesitating.

it said, understanding coming at last. It made to flee the circle of the Wheel.

But too late.

The Primarch stepped forward, into the Wheel. His hands crackling with power, he turned the Well of Souls on the Vorlon. A billion voices overwhelmed it, the voices of its ancestors, the voices of the ancestors of the entire galaxy.

The Primarch dropped his shell of mortal flesh, and became what he had been ever since he had taken custody of Cathedral and the awesome burden and responsibility it bore. He became the physical focus of the sentience that was the Well of Souls.

The Starfire Wheel slid open its final notch. There was a blaze of energy, the Vorlon cried out....

And Cathedral welcomed home its Primarch, allowing him to rest at last.

Mr. Welles was a man who understood all too well the ways and means of manipulating people. He could do this on a large scale, to a crowd, or a mob, or even the entire public; and he could do it to a small group, or individuals. He was not especially proud of these skills, but they had served humanity well enough in the past. He had served a necessary purpose in the Resistance Government, and there had been a time — he could not remember when, but surely there had been such a time — when he had been working towards some goal that could be considered 'good'.

Not any more. He had watched his Government fall apart. He had never had many friends. He had no children. The number of people who had ever understood him was limited, and most of these were gone.

He preferred to remain in his office as much as possible. He didn't like his apartment. It wasn't that it was too small, or too dingy or poorly furnished. Indeed not, he was eligible for free accommodation in some of the best areas on Proxima.

It was just that when he was at home, he was not at his job. He was a real person at home, and he could feel the eyes of his dead wife on him whenever he was there. He had burned every picture he had of her, but still he could feel her there.

But when he was at work, she could not find him. He was a different person when he was at work, and so she could not see him. As a result he made a point of spending as much time at work as possible. His staff interpreted that as workaholism, and he made no attempt to correct the assumption.

For the last few days, ever since he had received the message from Ambassador Sheridan, he had felt the eyes of another always upon him, and she could find him wherever he was. He could not burn everything he had of hers. He could not try to forget her, because she was not a part of his personal life, she was a part of his job, and he could no longer keep them separate.

He walked down the corridor, trying to steel himself for this. He habitually spent a great deal of time preparing each interview and meeting. Initial interviews were always important, and he devoted even more time to them. He never went to a meeting without all the facts and information he would need. Whether he was meeting the leader of the human race or an alien war criminal, this never changed.

This time, he could not prepare. Anything he did would be washed away by the first sight of her. For the first time he could remember, he went to a meeting completely cold. And this was in all probability the most important meeting he would ever attend. The future of the human race might depend upon it.

He reached the door, and breathed out slowly. Morishi was on guard there. A good man. Efficient.

"She is waiting for you, sir."

"Good. As soon as the door is closed, deactivate all recording equipment, visual and audio. Employ full precautions against listening devices. No one is to enter that room until I leave, for any reason. No one is to try to contact me while I am in that room, for any reason. Not even the President."

Morishi looked troubled. These precautions were not unheard of, but they were rare.

"She will not be able to hurt me," Welles said, in what he hoped was a reassuring voice. "She is secured to her chair?"

"Yes, sir."

"There, you see. She cannot move, and she would be too weak to put up a fight even if she could."

"Yes, sir. Your instructions will be followed."

"Good." Welles turned to the door, and breathed out again. He raised his palm to the scanner and typed in a quick six-digit code. Few people knew it was his wife's date of birth.

The door opened and he stepped inside. The door closed immediately behind him, but he did not notice. As soon as he stepped into the room, Delenn of Mir looked up, and the instant her deep green eyes hit him, he could see nothing else.

Consciousness and rational thought returned to Sinoval the instant he heard the Vorlon's cry of one single word.

Ignoring the pain of his multitude of injuries he leapt to his feet, momentarily surprised to see himself outside the Starfire Wheel. He looked into it, and saw the Primarch's form change. One moment he was the same tall, old, dignified and wise humanoid being he had always been. A heartbeat later, he was.... many things. He was knowledge, and power, and wisdom, and sorrow, and regret and.... memory.

The Starfire Wheel slid open its final notch, and there was a blaze of light and heat. There was a scream that ended suddenly, and then there was nothing.

There was stillness. The Wheel was closed. Of the Vorlon and the Primarch, there was no sign.

Reeling with what he had just seen, Sinoval turned to the Soul Hunters emerging from the shadows. "Did you catch it?" he asked. The Primarch was.... gone. Sherann was.... dead. This had to have been for something.

"Did you save it?"

One of them, one who looked older than the others, held up a glowing, golden orb. Sinoval could clearly see the thrashing form of the Vorlon within it.

He closed his eyes and sank wearily to the floor, not from the pain of his wounds, but from the realisation of what he had done and what it had cost. He raised his hand and clenched it into a fist, trembling slightly.

Then he opened his eyes and rose, walking to the place where Sherann's body lay. He looked at the terrible wound in her chest, and sighed softly. Her eyes, filled with blood, seemed to be accusing him. He closed them gently, not wishing to see them any longer.

He then turned, and found that all the Soul Hunters, including his guards and the one with the Vorlon's soul....

All of them were kneeling.

"What are you doing?" he asked. Some sort of mourning ritual?

"We are swearing fealty," said the one with the soul globe. "We are swearing fealty to our new Primarch Majestus et Conclavus."

Chapter 4

"It has been a while."

Welles' tone was as casual as he could make it. He could have been talking to an old friend he had not seen for years. He was not.

Slowly he approached the table at the centre of the room and sat down, not taking his eyes away from the woman before him. She was seated in a chair very similar to his, but there were strong clasps fixing her wrists and ankles to it. Neither seat was very comfortable.

"Still," he said, continuing. "It is good to have you back. I hope your accommodation is.... satisfactory."

Delenn nodded slowly. "There is no need for the.... small talk, Mr. Welles," she said in her beautifully accented voice. "We can proceed to business whenever you wish. I am.... ready."

He did not reply immediately, choosing instead to look at her. She was very different from before. When he had first seen her three years ago she had been fully Minbari, an alien to him, filled with her own mannerisms and habits. The little signs that he could read in humans had not been there in her, and it had bothered him, but not unduly. He had adapted.

And then she had changed. He remembered the last time he had seen her, a twisted hybrid of human and Minbari, her wide headbone split open to reveal a tail of hair, her features distorted. He had never been entirely sure of the details of what she had gone through, but he knew that it had been.... interrupted somehow.

Looking at her now, he realised that the transformation had been completed. She was now the best of both human and Minbari. Her eyes shone with wisdom and compassion and pity.

He sat forward, resting his elbows on the table and steepling his fingers as was his habit. He seemed to be drowning in those green eyes, but they were not critical or accusatory as he had expected. They were.... patient, resigned. She expected her fate.

"Do you know what is to happen to you?" he asked at last. She blinked, once.

"I was led to believe I would not be told. Ignorance is.... a potent weapon, I believe."

"True, in some cases. On the other hand, that is not an issue here. You are an intelligent person. I am sure you have been able to work out what will happen to you."

"I will be.... killed, or maybe put on trial. Probably tortured."

"The second. A trial for war crimes. The exact charges haven't been worked out yet, but they will be. The President was throwing around various ideas. Mass murder of noncombatants, torture of prisoners, use of illegal technology."

"The Minbari never signed any treaties regarding the use of technology," she said flatly. Welles sighed.

"True, in a legal sense, but it sounds more impressive when you list these things in threes, and the President could only think of two. It doesn't matter anyway. By the time you take the stand you'll confess to anything we want you to. You'll admit to mass murder, torture, sedition, treason, anything we care to name."

"Mr. Welles, I will tell the truth. I will admit the things I have done, but I will not lie. I did not come here to lie."

Come here? Implying a degree of free choice? Welles shook his head. "You have no idea what I have been told to do to you. I.... am more than capable of torturing people, both physically and psychologically. It is not something I am proud of, but it is a necessity in the service of my people, and like all things I do I endeavour to do it well."

"I.... am not.... afraid."

"Oh? I am." He rose to his feet. "Please do not lie to me. I really do not like it, and I am in a situation where I really need to hear the truth. I have been ordered to torture you, to break you, to.... No, you do not want to know.

"For the past two years I have been trying to stop the madness that is claiming us all. I have tried, and I have failed. I don't know what Clark is planning, but between him and those.... Shadows, I am afraid there won't be another human being left alive in this galaxy by the end of the century. We made the alliance with the Shadows initially to safeguard our holdings, and to protect our people."

Softly: "I know."

"But then it became a matter of taking back what was ours, taking the war to the enemy, preventing ourselves from being threatened again." He began to walk around the room, his hands behind his back. "And now it's.... what? I don't know. We're being pushed into war again, against someone we have no reason to fight, for an aim that's not even ours. Humanity is finally safe again, for the first time since we met you, and that madman up there is planning to plunge us into another bloody war!

"I.... cannot act alone in this. I do not know whether Clark is mad, a megalomaniac, a puppet or what, but he must be stopped, and I cannot do that alone." He stopped next to Delenn and knelt down beside her. "How do I contact G'Kar?"

"What?"

"Please. He knows more about the Shadows than almost anyone else. He has the power structure to help me. He can help me, I am sure of it. Where is he?"

"Kazomi Seven," she replied. "He and the Rangers are working with the Alliance."

Welles bowed his head. "Damn.... Well, that makes him the enemy.... Hah! And I really thought...."

"He is not your enemy."

"He's with the Alliance, and Clark's pushing us to war with them. That makes him my enemy. No offence, but we've spent too long at war with aliens to believe in any chance of.... peaceful negotiations during wartime. Damn." He shook his head.

"Mr. Welles," she said, softly. He looked up. "I came here willingly. I could have gone elsewhere. I could have returned to Kazomi Seven, to my friends, to.... I chose to come here. Fifteen years ago I made a mistake, and I helped create the evil in your society that you hope to fight. I came here to try to undo that."

"How? By becoming a martyr?" The blood drained from his face. "That's it? You were going to become a martyr.... You were willing to give your life.... why?"

"I will be given a trial, yes? It will be in public, to display your.... 'victory' over me. I will have the chance there to say.... to say sorry."

He rose to his feet again, and continued walking. "Yes, you will be.... but not for a while. Clark wants me to take my time. Medical tests first, and so on. He's given me complete authority to look after you. Maybe.... maybe there is still hope.

"Help me! Help me depose Clark, help me get rid of the Shadows and talk to the Alliance. Someone there must be willing to see sense and talk to me."

"What do you plan to do?"

"I don't know. If.... no, when.... there is war with the Alliance, I'll need someone to speak up for us to them. I don't know your military might, but we have the Shadows. With them.... maybe we can win. Without them, we don't have a chance. If I get rid of the Shadows somehow.... then I'll need someone to speak to the Alliance and convince them that humanity isn't the enemy, Clark is.

"I'll need you."

"I came to try to.... do something to purge the darkness within humanity, the darkness I put there."

"It was always there, Delenn. Do not blame yourself for merely bringing to the fore what was already present."

"If I can do anything to purge that, anything to help.... then I shall."

"Good." He sat down, almost giddy. "I need to talk to some people, find out certain things, have a look at some reports. You've got to go for medical tests first anyway. I'll make sure they.... take a while. There isn't war yet. We have time."

"Anything I can do to help.... I will. I believe in you, Mr. Welles. You are not an evil man."

"You have no idea.... Anyway, there's no such thing as good or evil, there's just us. We're all evil. I must go. I'll come back later. Are you comfortable? Do you need anything?"

"I have not eaten or drunk anything for days, but I will endure."

"Right. Try to sleep, if you can. I would undo those straps, but.... Be strong, Delenn. I think you will have an unpleasant few weeks."

"I will endure. I will have to."

"Good." He nodded, as he left. "Good."

Minbari do not kill Minbari.

An old law, a thousand years old. Valen had instituted it. He had said it was necessary for the war, and for its aftermath. Minbari should fight the Enemy, not each other.

Minbari do not kill Minbari.

Sinoval stood alone on the pinnacle of Cathedral, a glittering array of stars laid out around him, above and below. He felt he could take a step forward and throw himself into space. It would not work like that, of course. This was an image, no more real than the holographic imaging devices used in his warships.

Stormbringer lay in his hands. It looked still now, no more than a simple weapon. Sherann's blood was slowly drying across the silvery blackness of its blade. He had not been able to clean it.

Minbari do not kill Minbari. Sinoval was a warrior, he had always known he would have to kill, but he would do so for his people. He was their defender, their protector.

He had killed two of his people, not in the heat of conflict, but in cold-blooded murder. Shakiri's death had been.... necessary. He was leading the Minbari down a dark and perilous road, and he had to be stopped. Sinoval had killed him as he lay in his bed, recovering from injuries. Shakiri's eyes had opened, and in a split second he had realised what was going to happen.

"Proud of you," he had whispered.

Sinoval had killed him, and not thought about the matter for years.

He would not be able to forget Sherann so easily. His blood had been boiling with rage and fury and pain and the heat of battle, but he had made that decision entirely in cold blood. He had damned himself. It had been the Vorlon's trap, but Sinoval had sprung it upon himself, walking into it willingly.

It had cost the Primarch his life. Apparently Cathedral was now Sinoval's, and for the first time in his life he had no idea what to do.

"Maudlin thoughts, my friend," said a voice, and he turned. A figure ascended the final step to the top of the pinnacle, and the summit seemed to widen, allowing enough space for the two of them. The newcomer pushed back his hood and the ancient, wise gaze of the Primarch Majestus et Conclavus looked at him.

"You are dead," Sinoval whispered softly. "I saw the Starfire Wheel take you."

"I am dead, yes. My flesh is dead, my soul.... has gone elsewhere."

"You do not save the souls of your own."

"No, such is our punishment. The gift of immortality that we provide to others is denied us. Save for me. Such is my punishment. I am.... of Cathedral now. I am as much a part of it as its stones and towers and turrets and battlements. Cathedral has allowed me.... a little longer to explain matters to you. We will not speak again after this."

Sinoval reached forward to touch his companion. His hand passed straight through the figure before him. "A ghost."

"Not a ghost. A revenant. A memory, perhaps. This form would be.... easier for you. Cathedral could choose others."

"You speak as if Cathedral is alive."

"It is, in a sense. Is your body alive? Of course it is, and yet what is it that gives your body life? What is it that animates a wall of flesh and bone and blood? Your soul. Cathedral is the body which protects and feeds the Well of Souls. In every way that counts, Cathedral is alive."

"Then why has Cathedral let you come back?"

"To explain matters to you. There are things you must know now that you were not ready to know before. You must know of our oath, our sacred and binding duty. You must know our secrets, for you will guide us now. You will carry on my role."

"I'm not the Primarch Majestus et Conclavus. Surely there is someone in your order who can be promoted?"

"It is not a matter of 'promotion'. Cathedral has chosen you. It chose you the instant you came here. Before then, even."

Sinoval sighed. "I am not worthy. Choose another."

"You are worthy, and there is no need to choose another. I must tell you so much, so that you may understand. Your predecessor, the first Primarch Nominus et Corpus.... he thought he understood, but he did not. He thought he could abide by our vows, but he did not. He fell, thousands of years ago. We were too eager to interpret our part in our prophecies. We were determined to wait, and not to make the same mistakes as in the past."

"Who are you?"

"We are the lost, we are the damned, the oath-breakers.

"At the beginning of time there was one race born of the universe, the first race, the first of the First Ones. The first of these were born naturally immortal. The wheel of time did not touch them, they lived and did not grow old. Oh, injury or sickness could claim them, but not time.

"Then something changed, and later generations began to die. They had been caught by time, and been bound within it. No one knew why this was so, and in panic they went to the first and asked him why they were dying. He said.... he said that it was the universe's way. To appreciate life, it must be finite. There must be borders, and limitations.

"There must be mortality.

"We did not accept that, and we began to research ways to live on. Time passed, and each new generation of scientists and philosophers and magi and scholars grew filled with terror at the thought of passing beyond, of dying. All the while, the first watched us disapprovingly. He warned us that what we were trying to do was wrong. We thought he did not want to share his immortality with us, and so we pressed on the harder. We became obsessed with death.

"Finally, we managed to isolate the soul. It was the body which grew old and died. The soul would not, not while there was a body to support it. We began to capture the souls of the dying, placing them in globes to keep them alive and conscious while we worked at stopping the process of time. We thought.... there would come a time when we could recreate the bodies of the flesh, and implant in them the souls we had saved.

"Our knowledge became vast. We lived a long time, by the standards of your race, and this took many millennia. We had all the knowledge of the past to call upon, and so we continued to work. Immortality was drawing closer to us now. Oh, we had eternal life of a sort, the souls preserved within the globes and laid within vast walls, that they might commune in death as they had in life.

"Finally we found the way to return the soul to the body, and we recreated the prison of flesh, restoring to life our oldest and greatest leader. We watched as his new form trembled and arose, as light came to his eyes. Our wonder.... We had triumphed. We had turned back death.

"The first came to us that night, with all those who were left. There were still a few of those who had been born immortal, and with the passage of time many had turned their backs on this quest and accepted their mortality. They urged us to stop this. We were not meant to be immortal. We were never meant to defy death.

"We refused, and continued to bring back the souls we had saved, creating new bodies for them. These new bodies would decay over time of course, but what matter? We would simply create new ones, over and over again, an eternal placing of the soul in new constructs of flesh.

"To die once is one thing, and a simple matter, but we began to die over and over again, many times, watching each prison of flesh collapse and wither. It seemed we were dying.... faster and faster with each new body. Again the first came to us, and warned us against this path. We scorned him, and our leader, one of the greatest of us, the first to be revived.... he told us that the first and his allies planned to destroy our work.

"We believed this, and gathered our forces, fortifying our laboratories and libraries. We built a mighty fortress around them, and used our powers to create a ship, a place that could travel between the stars and thus never be in danger of destruction. A stationary base is a target, an ever-moving one is not.

"We built Cathedral, and took to the stars in flight. There were many other races in the galaxy then, countless peoples, among them those you now call Shadows, and Vorlons, and others you know as First Ones. They were young then, and were being greeted and taught by the first and those who followed him. Carefully they were aided, assisted, given knowledge and wisdom, and raised to the stars.

"But there were many races, and the first could not find them all. We found some, hidden in dark places, where the first could not find them. We spoke to them, and promised them immortality if they would follow us. We told them how we could preserve their souls, and grant them new life in new bodies. We taught them how to do this.

"Many races accepted us, and swore fealty to us. Each race sent some of their number to come here and learn the ways of preserving souls. These became the first true members of the Order of Soul Hunters. Our leader, the first to be revived, named one the Primarch Nominus et Corpus, and to him fell the role of ruling the Soul Hunters. They would go out into the galaxy to find the great and the powerful at the point of death and preserve their souls, bringing them back to us that we might help them live again.

"Alas, we fell into darkness. Our leader, and all those who were continually returned to life were.... changed by their experiences. They had died hundreds, thousands of times, and each time they were reborn into the flesh, a part of their soul was missing. Our leader became mad. He became convinced that the first was gathering armies to destroy us, and deny to all the knowledge of immortality.

"Fleets were mustered, great ships that blotted out the stars, and we went to war. We killed billions, and we took their souls. Armies were raised against us. We landed on primitive worlds and subjugated their people to our whim. We landed on your world, before your first flight into space, and we hunted you in the night. It is small wonder that your people now fear us so much.

"Our Primarch believed in everything our leader said, utterly. He shared in our leader's madness. It was a terrifying time. We destroyed, and took those who did not wish to be preserved. We broke oaths sworn by our Order. We plunged the galaxy into horror.

"But there were some of us, some who still remembered. We knew there was a way to stop this, and so we began to act. We gathered together the souls of those we had taken, willingly or unwillingly. Leaders, thinkers, poets, dreamers, blessed lunatics. We brought them here to Cathedral, to the centre of the laboratory where we had first learned to stop death. We sealed the area and began to speak to them. These souls.... they were alive. We had placed them in bodies to make them immortal, but we had no need to. They were immortal, preserved in their soul globes. They could speak to each other, talk, dream....

"We began to bind these souls together, creating a.... sentience composed of them all. A unity, one single mind made up of a billion souls. We felt a sense of wonder as we heard this force speak to us. We had created the Well of Souls, a union of a billion lives. We let the Well of Souls judge us. The voices spoke to each other for long months, years even, as they reasoned. Finally, there was a consensus.

"By this time both our leader and the Primarch Nominus et Corpus had fallen in battle, and their soul globes were brought back to Cathedral to be given new form that they might continue the war. The Well of Souls refused to do that. The soul globe of the Primarch was implanted in the arch that marked the gateway into Cathedral. The soul of our leader.... was released, passing beyond the wall of death, never to return.

"The war was now over, and certain promises were forced from us by the Well of Souls. We were only to take the souls of the dying. We were never again to kill and then harvest. We would be preservers, not warriors. We would cease giving the souls bodies of flesh. They would instead be placed in wells of their own. Some here in Cathedral, others in small wells within our personal ships. Some we hid in places of sanctuary throughout the galaxy, where they would not be found.

"And above all, we were not to preserve the souls of our own Order. We were to die, to pass beyond. It had been our determination for immortality that had doomed us all, and so we would be denied what we gifted to others.

"Those who serve you now are the descendants of the Order of Soul Hunters first assembled by the second generation of the first race born to the universe. We live many lifespans, many thousands of years, but still we die."

"You did not."

"Ah, but I am not mortal as they are. I was once a mortal being, a mortal being who fought in that terrible war. I was born of the first race of the universe, and I was the first to swear my loyalty to the leader who cast us into damnation. I stood beside him in all things. When his soul globe was broken, I was still alive. I feared I would be killed, but another fate had been reserved for me.

"I became the conduit for the Well of Souls. I was the voice through which it spoke to our Order. I was a part of it, and hence a part of Cathedral. What you have seen and spoken to and called friend these last two years was merely a shell. My body is Cathedral, and now that you will take on my role I can return to it, my soul becoming one part of many."

"Wait! Why me?"

"You were.... known to us for many years, almost from your birth. You remember at the climax of your assault on Earth, you were attacked and wounded and killed?"

"I remember."

"One of our Fhedayar sensed your departure, and hurried to find you. He came upon your form and saw that a part of your soul remained, a tenuous connection to the body, a link formed by your anger and your determination to live. It was passing, though, and your soul finally departing.

"But I spoke to him. The Well of Souls spoke to him, and instead of preserving your soul as it fled, he helped guide it back into your body, renewing your life to fulfill a greater destiny.

"You are now our Primarch Majestus et Conclavus. The Well of Souls now speaks through you. Although it is everywhere within Cathedral, you should visit its chamber. The link will grow stronger with time."

"Then.... I will become a Soul Hunter?"

"You always have been. You simply have not realised it."

"I was.... the second Primarch Nominus et Corpus. The first was not of your race either. Who was he?"

"His soul globe died the day you came to us. His soul passed beyond, given rest at last. Among his own people he was a mighty warrior and a skilled diplomat, a poet even. His race was the one you now call.... Shadow."

"Have I done any better than he did? I broke your sacred law."

"All things change. Nothing can escape time. The Well of Souls has chosen you, in part because you can break laws in a noble aim.

"I must go now. Good fortune, Primarch. We will meet again I trust, a million years from now, when you too join Cathedral." The image of the Primarch shimmered, and he stepped forward, walking off the edge of the pinnacle. Sinoval rushed forward and looked over. There was no sign of him, only the darkness of space.

He sat down and closed his eyes. He could feel the Well of Souls, he could identify the billion voices within it, he could even name them all. This knowledge came to him, and something within the spirits of Cathedral smiled.

He opened his eyes, and began to clean Stormbringer.

Consciousness returned slowly. That was not a mercy, not with the voices returning with it.

Help us! Help us!

Some of them Talia thought she recognised. Friends, comrades, old lovers, whispers of forgotten pasts. Flashes of a life she had thought had passed her by.

Because of her disoriented state it took her a while to realise she was not secured. Twitching, she found the energy to raise her arm. It was not bound, nor the other one, nor her legs.

She had been laid on a small bed, a normal-looking hospital bed this time. She looked up at the ceiling, trying to focus her gaze on something, anything. It glared at her, a cold, sterile, barren sight. She looked around, and slowly, awkwardly, moving as if she were drunk, or as if her body were suddenly four times its age, she swung her legs over the bed and lowered herself awkwardly to the ground.

Her legs almost gave way. Leaning against the bed, she managed to hold herself steady. For the first time she noticed the foul taste in her mouth, and grimaced. She had been drugged. Some sort of tranquillising agent. A second booster injection probably, meant merely to keep her unconscious and prevent any earlier injections from losing their effect.

She forced a weak smile. Whoever these people were — IPX was the most likely candidate, but she had long ago learned never to make such blanket assumptions — they were not to know that she had been thoroughly inoculated against most drugs, poisons and tranquillisers. Not sleepers, unfortunately. Her system metabolised drugs much more quickly than normal.

That was not as pleasant as might be supposed.

Still, she knew she had an advantage now, and she had to get out of here. She might not have much time. Whatever was being done here, being done to her people, she would not let it be done to her. She knew something now. She — Help us! — had to get back to Al. She knew enough to know she could not do all this herself.

She swallowed the foul taste in her mouth and looked around. There was only one door in this room. It was a small room, pretty much dominated by the bed she had been lying on. There was some sort of equipment at the far corner, and as she hobbled towards it her clouded mind recognised it as a cryogenic storage case. It was empty, but it had been activated. It was 'warming up' now.

She felt a momentary flash of anger, and that only made the voices stronger. Her knees almost buckled, and it took a moment's concentration to force the voices back, swearing at her own stupidity. Strong emotions always made it more difficult for her to block the voices, well, the normal ones anyway. She had a feeling these would be even harder.

Beware! screamed one of them suddenly, louder than the others, and she sensed someone arriving. As fast as he could, she threw herself hard against the wall beside the door. It opened, and a figure stepped through. He was wearing a long white doctor's coat, and his head was bent over a datapad. She tried to skim his thoughts gently, but she could hear nothing over the cries of terror in her mind. This man had hurt her people. He had done all these things to them.

He raised his head and looked at the bed. He had a moment to register it was empty, before Talia lashed out with an elbow to the back of his neck. With a correctly-aimed blow, that should be enough to put most people down. Her aim was slightly out, but he fell anyway, dropping his datapad.

She was at his side, pressing her knee against his chest and her hands to his neck. Her movements were slower and more sluggish than she was comfortable with, but she would be fast enough to deal with him.

His eyes widened with pain at the pressure on his neck.

"Who are you?" she hissed at him. Her people were crying to her, some telling her to flee, others to kill him. She tried to shut them out enough to read his mind, but they were too loud for her.

"Dr. Vance Hendricks," he replied, wincing as she inadvertently increased the pressure on his neck. "How did you...?"

"What is happening here?"

"We.... we prep telepaths. We...." He coughed. Her vision was too blurred to notice the specks of blood at his mouth. "We.... we check their.... cryogenic tubes. We...." He coughed again. His mind was shielded somehow, she could sense that now, but still she persevered. "We.... add the machinery.... linking them.... to.... the.... the...."

She could feel the shields weakening. Her head was beginning to pound. "Linking them to the what?"

"The.... net.... work...." For the first time she noticed the blood trickling from his mouth. "The...." He coughed once more, and then he noticed the blood as well. "You've...." And then the strangest thing happened. He began to laugh. Blood-drenched spittle flew from his mouth as he continued his laughter.

Run! screamed one of the voices. Run!

They all fell silent, every voice in one instant. She felt a sudden terror emanating from them all. Hendricks blinked, and his eyes were suddenly glowing orbs of light. The same light began to pour from his mouth.

he said, in a voice not his own. She could hear her people screaming.

His body suddenly exploded, torn apart from within. Talia instinctively dropped backwards and covered her eyes with her arms. A great wind seemed to be blowing through his mind, and she could feel something of Hendricks passing.... beyond, into a great tunnel. There was a light at the end of it, and something there waiting for him.

He looked at her, and his eyes showed his terror. "Help me," he whispered, but she could do nothing.

He chose wrongly, said the voice that had come from his mouth. You all chose wrongly, and soon you will pay for your choice.

The voice faded, the wind died down, and Talia managed to struggle to her feet. She looked at the gobbets of flesh and meat and bone that had once been the body of Dr. Vance Hendricks, and fought the urge to vomit.

All the voices of her people were telling her to flee, to find Al and get help. They were her people, they were telepaths, and they deserved the protection of the Corps. The Corps was mother, the Corps was father, and her children needed her help.

Talia decided to heed that advice.

Of all the many battles in the four-year period that would later be described as the Shadow War, the second Battle of Beta Durani was one of the bloodiest. The first had been two years before, in 2259, when the forces of Proxima 3's Resistance Government, led by the Babylon and the Morningstar and assisted by the Drakh war fleet, had liberated the colony from its Minbari occupiers. It had been an easy victory for a humanity filled with righteous anger and opposed by an enemy weak, divided, leaderless and distracted.

The second battle was nowhere near as easy. This time, unlike before, the Shadows themselves were actively involved. They had set up a garrison near Beta Durani, ready to defend the world on behalf of their human allies. The Shadowtech capital ship, the Marten, was also present, and the planetary defence systems had been hastily rebuilt and repaired after the liberation of the colony.

Opposing them were the forces of the United Alliance of Kazomi 7, consisting of the first major deployment of the new Dark Star fleet, with support from Drazi, Brakiri and such Narn vessels as had been commandeered by Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar.

In terms of military death toll, the battle was matched only by the Third Line at the Great Machine, and by the bloody exchange that marked the end of the long month known as the Death of Hope, long after the end of the war.

The Dark Star ships had already proved their competence in numerous minor skirmishes, but this was a full-scale deployment of nearly the entire fleet, and while the ships were almost a match for the Shadow vessels, too many of them did not have adequately trained captains. It was widely held that were it not for the near-suicidal courage of Captain John Sheridan and the newly-promoted Captain David Corwin, the battle would have been lost.

However, the jamming technology of the Dark Stars served to paralyse the Shadow vessels, and also to destroy certain vital systems within the Marten. The human ship found its power supplies drained and its weapons systems rendered inoperable, and was easily destroyed. Its captain, Walker Smith, was posthumously awarded the Silver Star for Valour.

The Shadow ships themselves were considerably harder to defeat, but finally they withdrew, heavily outnumbered, but satisfied with the casualties they had inflicted upon their enemies. There would be other battles, and the Dark Star fleet had not been unharmed.

Captain Sheridan's actions on Beta Durani were swift, and meticulously planned. Governor Young and her staff were promptly arrested and detained. A new provisional Government was formed, answerable to the Alliance Council. Martial law was instituted on the colony.

It did not take long for the news to reach President William Morgan Clark on Proxima. His immediate reaction is perhaps rather better imagined than witnessed.

It is said by some that knowledge is power. Sinoval had always held that to be a quaint and amusing statement. Power was power, and nothing else. Oh, knowledge was a useful tool, and often essential, but without the will to do what others would not, without the determination, without the vision, or the dream, or the inner fire....

Without those things, knowledge was nothing but dusty words in dusty books in long-forgotten rooms.

He stood at the vast archway that led to the Well of Souls. It seemed different from the last time he had been here, although he could not place the difference. It was merely that his perceptions of it seemed.... askew somehow. Whereas before he had seen stone and mortar, now he saw a million sparkling lights, and he could hear the voices within. He could close his eyes and pick out the individual souls that had been joined so long ago into one form. He could recognise members of long-dead races, the ancestors of those who now walked among the stars.

He stepped through the archway, and let the calm of the Well of Souls wash over him. He was the Primarch Majestus et Conclavus now, or so he had been told. He was the voice, the conduit, the link between these souls and the world of the living.

He was beginning to understand what that meant. Every time he closed his eyes, he could feel his essence drawn here. He had to come, to confront the sentience here.

We welcome you, Primarch, said the ancient voice of the Well. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, and that was because it did. The sentience here was not within the infinity of tiny, twinkling soul globes, nor focussed on the altar, nor in the vast orb floating in the centre of the room, nor in the eternal white flower laid out on the altar.

The sentience that was the Well of Souls was the room. It was the air, the stones, the light and the shadow.

"I am the Primarch Majestus et Conclavus, then?"

Did you disbelieve that which you were told?

"I am.... a cynic by nature."

That is known to us. Yes, you are our voice now. It was said, long ago, that another would come, and he would erase the wrongs of long years past, and bring us to our next age. We knew not when he would come, whether now, or in a thousand years, or a million. But now you are here, ready to fulfill your destiny.

"I do not believe in destiny."

Destiny believes in you.

Sinoval bowed his head, feeling the power wash over him. He could not but be awed by this place. He had watched the expressions on the faces of G'Kar and Mollari as they had come here. No one could help but be awed. No one.

Sinoval was awed, but he did the only thing that was possible in the circumstances. He threw back his head and laughed.

"I came here," he said, still laughing. "Full of arrogance and power and belief in my own mastery of all. The deal I made.... my soul for leadership of this Order.... I meant nothing by it. I intended to find a way around it, for the short-term goal of finding Valen.

"And now.... and now you have my soul, don't you? I can no more run from this than I could run from my own soul. You knew. You knew."

We knew you might be the one for whom we had waited. We were prepared for failure, it has happened before, many times. But this was no failure.... You are the one we foresaw.... in this place, in this time. You were told, this is a time for warriors, not healers. Hence fate pulled you forward, and brought you here to us.

Sinoval shook his head. "What will happen to me now? What must I do to.... fulfill this destiny of yours?"

You will become one with us. You will become one of us. You will lead us beyond the world we know. We will take the knowledge we have here, and the legacy we have assembled. We will be the protectors, the guardians.... until such time as we are no longer needed, such time as the younger races can protect themselves. Then.... you will lead us beyond.

"I will become a Soul Hunter. I, a Minbari, will become a Shagh Toth!"

You will become Primarch.

"Well.... I made a deal, but I never thought...." He shook his head. "He knew, you knew. I never thought...." He raised his head. "You know the answers to every question ever asked, yes?"

Save only one, that is true.

"Then answer me this. What must I do.... to save my people? What must I do to reunite them, and end this war amongst ourselves?"

You know the answer to that question.

"Tell me!"

He heard the answer, and his body shook, trembling with the realisation of just where his choices had brought him. Slowly he sank to his knees, touching his hands to the stone floor beneath him. The warmth of Cathedral flooded through him, as if welcoming him home.

"Is...." He bit back his fear of the answer he knew he was about to receive. "Is.... there any other way? Anything at all?"

No.

He wept.

Ambassador David Sheridan waited patiently for the President. Patience was a skill he had been forced to develop of course, but it came easier some days than others. Now it was coming with great difficulty. He had a feeling Clark was deliberately making him wait.

He was thinking about the future. Not, as was usual, about the distant future. No, he was not pondering the beginnings of empires, the large-scale construction of political blocs, alliances and treaties. He had the next fifty to a hundred years planned out in his mind, knowing full well he would not live to see it all come to pass. Another would carry on.

But he was not thinking about that now. He was thinking about Clark, and about how it might become.... necessary to fix that problem. Another Keeper was a possibility, but the first one had inexplicably failed. There was no guarantee a second would fare any better.

He had spent over two years wondering just what had happened to cause this, and he had formulated and discarded a number of theories. Ivanova could simply have botched the initial implantation, but she had remained adamant that she had acted as instructed. Well, she had dropped off the face of the galaxy now, and was of no more importance to anyone.

Could Clark have found a way to destroy the Keeper? No, impossible. Nothing short of suicide would do that. Besides, only alcohol could break the Keeper's control for long enough to manage that, and Clark was noted for his abstinence.

A rare genetic condition? That had happened, and Clark was keeping his medical records very secret.

"The President will see you now, Ambassador," said the secretary, and he looked up from his musings. Nodding to himself, he picked up his briefcase and wandered through the door and past the security guards, who saluted as he passed. He paid them no attention.

When he entered the cabinet chamber he was very irked to find that everyone else was already there. Well, he noted as he cast his gaze over those present, not quite everyone. Taro Isogi, who showed up infrequently as the voice of small business, was absent, as were the representatives from IPX and a few of the other leading MegaCorps.

In fact, he noted as he sat down, this looked very much like a council of war. He should have been happy, but he was not. He was suspicious.

His eyes met Welles' as he sat back in his chair. The Spymaster had his elbows resting on the table and his fingers steepled to form a mask of his face, as was his habit. Sheridan recognised Welles' desire to hide as much of himself as possible. He was suited to walk in the shadows, that one.

"Gentlemen," said Clark soberly. "I regret to report that the colony at Beta Durani was attacked and captured some hours ago. The early reports from our Shadow allies indicate that the garrison there has been destroyed, including the Marten. There is no word of Governor Young, and no one, civilian or military, has been yet able to escape from the area."

This was news to precisely nobody. Sheridan himself had been notified almost before Clark.

"The attacking ships are of unknown configuration, but the Shadows have informed us that they were composed of Vorlon technology. Also, they were supported by Drazi, Brakiri and Narn ships. It seems clear that this was the work of the United Alliance, perhaps in retaliation for our capture of their leader, perhaps simply the beginning of a war of aggression.

"Either way there is no time for diplomacy, and I doubt they would listen. I personally tried to speak with a member of the Alliance Council earlier today, only to be rebuffed.

"Where words will fail, force must be employed. We will retake Beta Durani, and push this war to Kazomi Seven itself if we have to. General Ryan, how long before we can launch a mission to liberate Beta Durani?"

The general shifted awkwardly in his seat. He was wearing his uniform of course, Sheridan had never seen him in anything else. He seemed to have lost weight recently. The uniform looked particularly ill-fitting, and his skin was acquiring a cadaverous hue. He bore all the signs of little sleep.

"It will not be easy, Mr. President. Even with the De'Molay and the Dark Thunder, our forces are limited. Of our capital ships, we now have only the Morningstar of the veterans of the Minbari War. We lost the Corinthian and the Babylon at Epsilon Three, and now the Marten. The Saint-Germain of course was designed purely as an exploratory vessel, and while she has greater combat capabilities than many of our pre-war ships, she is.... largely untested. And.... there is the matter of her captain.

"To launch such an offensive we will need heavy support from the Shadows, and a good number of Gropo units. A ground battle may be necessary.

"To be honest, Mr. President, I recommend strengthening security around Proxima and our other key colonies. Yes, we have been victorious in recent years, but we have still not fully recovered from the loss of Earth, and I doubt we will do that for many decades. We should...."

"We have skulked here in Proxima for too long!" Clark snapped. "We will not hide in the dark with our heads buried beneath a pillow. The Alliance has invaded our territory, attacked our ships, and killed our people! We defeated the Minbari, we will defeat them. Anyone who attacks us, we will destroy.

"The official declaration of war with the Alliance was sent to Kazomi Seven some minutes ago."

Sheridan knew he should be excited. This was what had been inevitable since the alliance with the Shadows. This was what the Shadows had wanted, a war, survival of the fittest, strength through conflict and growth through chaos.

But something in Clark's bearing made him ill-at-ease. And openly attacking Beta Durani! Ryan was right, they were not ready. Not yet. Warfare and chaos, yes, but not to the point of insanity and ruin. Sheridan planned to make humanity the dominant force in the galaxy, and that would not be accomplished with a madman as President.

"What about Sinoval?" asked Ryan suddenly, and Clark looked at him sharply. "Our previous standing orders were to ready our forces for a full assault on his base, believed to be somewhere in the vicinity of Tarolin Two. I assume those orders are rescinded?"

"They are not. Has the Saint-Germain any accurate star charts of the Tarolin Two area?"

"Not yet. They have reported some sort of conflict there, but details are scarce, and they are having to move secretly and stealthily."

"Well, if there is a war of some sort there, then we should capitalise on it." Clark smiled again. "General Ryan, we will have enough time to go bowling, and destroy the Alliance and Sinoval too."

Sheridan frowned. A war on two fronts. Even he knew how insane that was. Any minute now Clark was likely to suggest they invade the Centauri or something, although God only knew why anyone would want to.

"Mr. President," spoke up Pierce Macabee, the recently promoted Minister of Information, known locally as Dr. Spin. "How would you like this reported on ISN? I was thinking, maybe a posthumous medal for the captain of the Marten? What was his name?"

"Smith," said Ryan. "Captain Walker Smith."

"Smith?" Macabee sighed. "How very.... uninspired. No wonder I forgot it. Oh well, a posthumous.... Silver Star perhaps?"

"Yes, yes. Do whatever you see fit," snapped Clark. "Welles, what word on Delenn?"

Welles looked up, as if he had suddenly realised where he was. "She is.... currently undergoing the medical tests you ordered, sir," he said, slowly and cautiously. "The medical staff seem to think it will take a while. They are trying to be very careful and record as much information as they can."

"There is no hurry." Clark smiled. "We have all the time in the world, after all.

"Yes, we have all the time in the world."

His smile, thought Sheridan, was like that of someone who has just got the joke that no one else could understand.

Drugged, sluggish, deafened and half-maddened as she was, Talia still managed to make her way slowly out of the laboratories in which she found herself. Skills of evasion, concealment and disguise that she had been forced to learn over long years of training served to save her life now. Instinct took over as she navigated her way through laboratories, past chambers filled with cryogenic storage units and regular patrols of security guards in black, wearing no insignia.

It was the cryogenic units that concerned her most. The majority of them were occupied, and she knew that every person within them was a telepath. Strangely, not all of them were human. She knew that most of the other races had telepaths — except for the Narns, and Al had been working to see that the telepath gene was reintroduced into their race — and she even had some idea of their relative strengths and the training carried out by the other races.

She had no idea what these alien telepaths were doing here. Were they a part of this network as well?

Such thoughts would have to wait for later. For now, she had to escape from here. She had to find.... Dexter. For the first time since their capture she thought about him. Was he all right? Was he even alive? He was wanted on a charge of murder, she remembered.

Then another thought struck her. He was a telepath, albeit a weak one. Had he been made a part of this network as well? A momentary pang of fear struck her, and that made the voices all the louder. With a considerable effort of will she forced them out, and concentrated on the mission at hand. If Dexter could not be saved, then he would have to be avenged. She had to get to Al. He had to know about this.

After some time, her subconscious skills navigating her through the complex, she came to realise she was underground. That made sense, Proxima was filled with tunnels and caverns, a legacy from its old days as a mining colony. There was room down here to hide.... an army?

It was also much more likely that there would be an unguarded way out here than through the surface. There would be a respectable surface building above this, possibly even the Edgars Building itself. But underground.... there would be a secret way out. All she had to do was find it.

And so Talia, unseen by guards, unnoticed by any alarm, her fogged mind unable properly to realise the strangeness of all this, disappeared deeper and deeper into dark catacombs. Guards passed infrequently, letting her know she was still heading in vaguely the right direction. Some of them even seemed to be looking for her, although their thoughts made it clear they thought it was a fool's errand; surely she could not have got this far underground?

The sound of movement ahead caused her to duck down into the shadows, hiding herself from the guards she had been following at a safe distance. Probably just another patrol.

"Who's there?" said a sharp voice, loudly. It was a member of the patrol she had been surreptitiously tailing. "Give the pass.... Oh." He paused. "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't know it was you. You were expected earlier."

The reply was much softer and quieter, and as much as Talia strained to hear, only a smattering of words reached her ears. ".... detained.... emergency.... state...."

"Yes, sir, of course. Come this way, we'll provide an escort into the complex."

Talia pressed herself even harder into the shadows, her eyes following the flickering light source as the patrol turned about and headed back towards her. A man was following them. He was wearing a long black cloak with a hood which hid his face. She tried to reach out and gently skim his mind, but she could not even find it. It was as if a curtain had been drawn across his thoughts, not just shielding them, but hiding them completely.

The voices were still, a terrified whispering passing among them.

The man stopped suddenly, and began looking around. Talia restrained a gasp. It was almost as if he was looking directly at her. Could he see her in the shadows? Surely she was well enough hidden. She tensed her muscles, ready to move.

"Something wrong, sir?" asked the guard.

"No," said the man. "I just thought.... I saw a rat down there."

The guard nodded. He looked a little nervous, and very overawed. "Possible, sir. Would you like us to check and make sure?"

The man shook his head. "No, forgive me. A little nervousness, that is all. Come, I do not want to be any more late than I am already."

"Of course, sir."

Talia did not breathe again until she could no longer see the light source. The voices began to return, but she closed them out.

Not long afterwards she found a way out of the catacombs. The exit was not guarded, but it was very well concealed. Still, she managed to stumble free, and the light of the sun on her face awoke her slightly. Looking around, she knew where she was, in one of the old mining domes, long since abandoned with the mineral resources all but played out.

Breathing slowly, she closed her eyes and thought of Al.

I have returned, in a sense. In another sense, the man who left this world has gone forever and an imposter come back in his place. An imposter with the blood of an innocent on his hands, a Minbari no longer, a warrior always but now also a priest.

There has never been any self-doubt in my life. I was master of my own destiny, lord of my own demesne. Let the priestlings babble about the divine will, and the placings of the universe. I was a warrior. I lived, I fought, I killed. I felt each breath in my body, each beat of my heart, and I knew I was alive!

Now.... I am not sure. I know what must be done. The Well of Souls told me some, but the rest I worked out for myself. I know what I must do. It will not be easy, but it is necessary, and I have never shirked from what must be done simply because it will be hard.

I have time. Enough time to.... prepare matters, to finalise certain things, to.... deal with certain situations that must be dealt with.

There will be those I leave behind. They must be ready.

Tarolin Two is a dead place for me now. I see my people around me, those who have called themselves my guards, those who have pledged themselves to my side. I wonder what they would say, if they only knew.

I admire many of these people. They have fought a war every bit as great as mine. They have rebuilt from devastation, they have forged new lives where I forged weapons, they have fought hunger and despair and suffering where I have fought the humans, and the Vorlons, and Sonovar.

Yes, I admire many of them, but for only one person here is there anything more in my heart than mere admiration or respect. She is the bravest, wisest, kindest person I have ever met. I know she will forgive me, her beautiful soul will not let her do anything else, but I wish more than anything else this were not necessary.

I look into her eyes, feeling the fear there. She has avoided me for many months, since Kozorr's.... betrayal. I do not blame her.

I tell her about what I have done, and she begins to cry. I want to hold her and comfort her, but I cannot. If I could feel love for any living being it would be for her, but I do not have that capacity. Another does, and it will be he who must share her life.

"This is my fault," she whispers, her head bowed. "He came to me.... The Primarch.... and he told me.... he tried.... to warn me...."

"You are not to blame, my lady. Her blood is on my hands."

"I said I would be your conscience! I said I would.... guard your soul. I failed you."

"No, I failed you, but that is past. I promise you, my lady.... I will make a better future, but I cannot do so alone. I need you at my side, my lady. I need you."

She nods. "Whatever you need me to do, I will do. My life is yours."

"Your life belongs to no one but yourself. I have.... been distracted recently. I have broken one of the simplest rules of warfare: never fight a war on more than one front. Sonovar, the Vorlons, the Enemy, I thought I could destroy them all.

"Perhaps I can, but I will do so one at a time, my lady. First, I must deal with Sonovar. It was I who created him, I who ravaged this world every bit as much as he did. I will end this, and re-unite our people."

Her eyes look at me with renewed hope. I smile to see it.

"And, my lady.... I will return Kozorr to you. That, I promise you."

I am many things, few of them complimentary, but I have never been an oath-breaker.

I have many skills, and one of them is mastery of war. I know what to do to deal with Sonovar, and I swear by those who once swore to me.... I will do all I can to finish this.

The old man poured two glasses of orange juice and passed one over to his guest, who took it gratefully. He sat down and began to sip at it. Yes, it was definitely better. Whatever new processes had been applied to it, the taste was definitely improved. He preferred the all-natural flavour of course, but that was sadly impossible these days.

"I'm sorry I'm late," said his guest, also sitting down. "There was.... pressing business."

"Yes, I heard. Has the declaration of war reached the Alliance yet?"

The guest made no sign of surprise at the information the old man possessed. He had got used to it by this time. "Not yet. There are lawyers framing the exact terms and so forth. Media reasons and legal sophistry, you know how it is."

"Oh, exactly. The timing is.... not bad, all told. I think we've more or less sucked Sector Three-o-one dry by now. Our little social crusaders have thrown up a few too many problems, and the underground telepath railroad running through there is going to fall apart very quickly, I fear. Ah well, we've done well enough out of the area.

"A pity though, I actually almost liked Mr. Trace. Such.... naked ambition, and complete lack of morals. On the other hand, all men need some moral centre, don't you think?" He took another sip of the orange juice. "We all have a purpose we work towards, the greater good of the race." The old man looked at his guest, who was still and unmoving. He sighed softly.

"Telepaths," the old man said again. "They're the key. Every war has.... some great strategic weapon, something that will turn the tide, and the side that gets that advantage is sure to win. It could be.... control of a trade route, an important river, perhaps a mine, or a piece of powerful technology.

"In this war it is telepaths, and whoever controls the most telepaths will win. It is that simple." He finished his drink and placed the glass on the table. Rising, he stretched, and began to pace up and down.

"Miss Winters will no doubt have escaped by now. Let her escape, let her go running to Mr. Bester, and we will follow. We will find him wherever he has holed up and...."

The door opened and the old man turned, breathing a soft sigh of relief when he saw who it was. "Mr. Morden, always a pleasure."

"Likewise," he said. "I heard you had company, so I thought I'd.... make myself available."

"Indeed. Well, Mr. Morden, I would like to introduce you to...."

The guest began to speak. "Call me Wi.... Oh, that might be a little confusing, mightn't it?"

"A fine name," the old man said with a soft smile. "Well, you know who he is, anyway. This is Mr. Morden, a longstanding and valued employee and.... agent of mine."

"A pleasure to meet you at last," Morden said, smiling.

"Likewise," said the guest. They shook hands.

It was victory of a sort, although as Captain David Corwin thought about the death toll and pondered the faces of those who greeted the victorious liberators of Beta Durani, he wondered whether this victory might not have been worth the winning.

He could see fear on their faces. Some cried out insults and hurled projectiles, but most merely watched, horrified, numb. Children were shaking and crying.

For so long humanity had been terrified of an invasion by all-powerful aliens they could not hope to defeat. For a few brief years they had thought they were free of that fear, only for the hope to be torn from their grasp and shattered.

That is the way of things. Hope is ephemeral. Fear is eternal.

The Captain was not here. He preferred to remain on the Dark Star flagship, ready for any attempted counterattack. Corwin had been given the task of securing the colony itself, although there was very little to do. Governor Young had tried to flee, only to be caught and arrested easily. Her fate was still undecided.

Corwin sat in her office, thinking about victory. Would this war ever be over? Would there ever be a time he could sit, and rest, and raise children in a world free from harm?

"It's just as well you left, Mary," he said idly. "You wouldn't like what's happening here."

He wished he'd kept the ring he'd bought for her. He had thrown it away.

Sighing, he reached for some of the papers on the desk. The Captain had asked him to look for any important points relating to military matters in Governor Young's office. She had been a favoured protegee of President Clark, and had been reckoned for swift promotion. She was likely to have been involved in a number of matters the Alliance should know about.

Her desk, however, was a mess. There were obvious signs that she had tried to grab as much as she could before she fled, and she had understandably not bothered about tidying up after herself. Routine maintenance reports were mixed with census records and private letters. Corwin buried himself in the work, anxious for anything to take his mind away from the dark thoughts that were plaguing him.

As he dug into a mound of reports, he found a newspaper and pulled it free. A copy of Proxima Today, dated a few days ago. He made to throw it on a rubbish pile, when he caught the headline, and started.

"Oh, my God," he whispered, unsure whether to laugh or cry. He swiftly activated his link. "Get me Captain Sheridan," he said in a hurry. "This is urgent."

He looked back down at the front page.

DELENN CAPTURED. WAR CRIMES TRIAL PREPARED.

Mr. Welles was a man of iron will, not given to showing his emotions lightly. The truth was that he was an intensely guarded and private person, unable to show his inner self for fear of rejection. Only his wife had ever glimpsed his true self, and with her death there was no one who could claim to know him properly at all.

As a result of this intense privacy many people interpreted him as cold and emotionless. This was not true, it was merely that he kept his emotions firmly under control for fear of revealing his true anger and grief, for fear of letting his true self-loathing manifest itself in horror at the things he had done over the years in the name of a good cause.

Displays of rage were very rare. When she heard the sound of crashing and breaking, his secretary initially thought he was being attacked, or had possibly suffered a heart attack. Rushing to see what was wrong, she was horror-struck at the sight of Welles tearing down pictures and books from the walls of his office and hurling them around, seemingly in a drunken rage. He turned to look at her, and she recoiled from the fury of his gaze. Whatever was wrong with him, she knew he was as sober as any man ever born. She retreated, in need of something to drink herself.

His rage sated, Welles sank slowly to the floor, bitter tears running down his face. This was crazy. He knew he should keep his emotions private, but he could not. Clark would find out, Sheridan would find out.

He didn't care.

He had done many horrible things in his life. He had tortured, he had lied and deceived, he had destroyed lives and reputations, he had broken hearts and minds.

But it was all in a good cause, all for the good of humanity, all for the greater good, so that was all right.

He had done many horrible things, but this....

He could not do it. No, he had to. Too many lives were.... He could not! He had to!

He stood up and swayed over to his desk. Papers had become strewn across it in his rage, but as he sat down it was easy enough to find the one he was looking for. Preliminary medical report on Satai Delenn.

Please let the words not be there. Please let them not be there. Let this be a dream, an illusion, a joke, anything!

They were there. Black against the page, unassuming, innocuous, innocent.

He leapt to his feet and smashed his chair against the wall. Then he slumped to the floor and began to sob.

Why had she not told him? For God's sake, why? If he had had some warning, then maybe.... maybe he could have done something. Now it was too late. A copy of this report had been sent to Clark at exactly the same time he had received it. Sheridan would find out not long after, and he would take great delight in watching Welles do what he would have to do. Ambassador Sheridan hated Delenn.

Welles was not sure if he hated her, or loved her.... or what? He simply knew that she did not deserve this.

He looked back at the report. The words were still there. They had not disappeared, or faded away, or changed in any way.

Five simple words. That was all, but they were enough to damn him, to damn whatever pitiful speck remained of his soul.

His eyes skipped over the first four and settled on the last. He half-cried, half-laughed. He wanted so much for that word to not be there, for there to be a mistake, something, anything.

Eight little letters, a word many reacted to with joy. A word he had longed to hear all these years ago from the mouth of the woman he loved more than life itself. A word he was hearing now, and one he could not bring himself to accept.

One little word.

Pregnant.