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

Chapter 1

David....

He is dead....

My son. Our son.

David....

I can feel your heart beating.

Live, my son.

Please, live.

"Interesting," said the cold voice. "She's speaking in her own language, or rather.... some dialect of it. It is possible each caste has its own language, I suppose. And yet some things are in English. A recurrence of names, as well. John.... and David. I wonder about their significance. Perhaps...."

"Perhaps you did not hear me, Doctor," snapped another voice, an angry one. "I asked how she was doing, not for an in–depth analysis of linguistic patterns."

She knows these voices, somehow. One of them anyway. The second voice. The last time it spoke to her there had been the same.... anger. The other voice she recalls hearing dimly across a veil of sleep, of drugged anguish.

"Oh.... she's doing well. As well as can be expected anyway. We managed to stabilise her system after the blood loss, but we feel the major damage was to her.... was psychological. Something like that would be a tremendous shock to anyone, of course. It was worse in this case because of.... ah...."

"Because of what?"

"The anaesthetic.... It was not entirely effective. Something in her system we could not account for. Unfortunate, really. We believe she was partly conscious throughout the operation."

"Good God! You mean to tell me she was awake while you were killing her baby?"

"If you want to put it like that.... Unfortunate, really. Still, we could hardly expect...."

"You had all the time in the world to perform all the tests in the world to expect that very thing, Doctor! Did it escape your notice that she is a unique biological specimen? Did it also escape your notice that she is to stay alive.... at all costs?"

"Well.... no, of course. As I said earlier, most of the medical problems were easily resolved. The.... ah.... unusual thickness of the vascular layer of the endometrium caused the excessive haemorrhage, but we managed to compensate for that. A transplant would be difficult.... for obvious reasons, but we are well on the way to developing an adequate synthetic. As I said, the problems are mostly psychiatric. We believe she has willed herself into a catatonic trance."

"Listen to me, Doctor. Forget the jargon. You are a man of medicine. She is a sick patient. You will make her better, and if you do not I will personally have you killed, and your family, and your friends, and your family's friends, and in short, everyone you have ever met.

"Do not fail me in this, Doctor."

"We will do what we can, Mr. Welles."

Welles. She knows that name, but somehow....

.... it escapes her.

He speaks to her again, and this time the anger is gone from his voice, and there is only a terrible sadness. She wants to reach out and comfort him, but something prevents her.

"I am sorry," he says to her. "Oh, Delenn, I wish.... there could have been....

".... another way.

"I am sorry."

She wants to say something, but the words she reaches for are soon gone. A moment later her consciousness recedes, and she is again lost in a world where all she can hear is a heart beating, slower and slower each time.

There is another who cannot hear his heart beating, for it does not beat any longer. He is dead, and has been dead for a thousand years, lost and alone in his self–imposed prison of darkness and fire. There are others he could talk to, there is a vast land stretching out for miles in all directions had he but the courage to seek it out, but he does not, and so he stays, still, quiet, dead.

Alone.

For a thousand years he has been alone, living always with the ghosts of his past and the spectres of his future. He talks to those long dead, to those he loved, those he betrayed, and those he killed.

He walks deeper into caverns and catacombs, and stops, noticing something wrong about the scene before him. It takes a mere moment to realise what it is. With a sad smile he stretches out his hands, and something rises from the ground at his feet. It is a small shrine, and a candle. With a thought he lights it, and he looks at the words carved on the rock. He cannot remember exactly what he wrote there on that day a thousand years ago, the last day on which he was a warrior, but that hardly matters. He has used new words this time, and it is better. The result of a millennium more experience.

"You understand, don't you?" he says, speaking to someone who is not there. "You understood why it was necessary. I saw it in your eyes as I raised my pike for the final blow. You forgave me.

"You were a warrior. You understood.

"I wonder where you are now. Has your soul been reborn again? Many times over, perhaps. I remember.... something that prophetess said. You remember her, don't you? The woman we found... ah, where was it? Tai'Kondaroga? No, no.... Beiridein? No, not there.

"Delphis! That was it. She was in that temple at Delphis. I remember now. She said the two of us had.... a karmic link. Our souls would be bound to each other through countless lifetimes. You scoffed afterwards, and so did I. What matter past lives, or future ones? We were warriors. The present was all that mattered.

"I wonder, my friend.... Have you been alone in all the lifetimes since then? Lost, and damned? My soul is trapped here, while yours has been reborn. I remember what you said as you died.... You were wrong."

He pauses, and looks out past the shrine into the deeper cavern beyond. He knows what is there. The voice that spoke to him before. He fled from it. It will not be there now.... this is a world of his own making. Surely the immortal voice will not be there now....

Or maybe it will be. Shaking, for the dead can feel fear just as the living can, he turns and heads back the way he came. He is not afraid any longer, and as he thinks about the ancient wisdom in the remembered voice, he thinks again of Valen.

"What did you know?" he snaps. "I would have beaten you. You were a coward.... too cautious, too heedful of life. We are warriors! We are trained to kill, and to die. Death is.... should be.... nothing but the release from our obligations. Who said that? My tutor, Durhan. That was his name. Just as his trainer was Durhan, and his.

"Yes, Durhan said that. It was carved in the stones outside our temple. 'Death is nothing but the release from our obligations.' I wish it was a release for me.... but then I betrayed my obligations, didn't I? Perhaps I do not deserve peace.

"Damn you, Valen! You did not understand us. You betrayed us all a thousand times over before I ever turned against you. I was better than you in every way, all I had to do was prove it to you.

"If only Derannimer had known that."

Sorrowfully, he shakes his head and carries on. The lakes of fire are up ahead, so similar to the ones where he died. Wait! They are not in Z'ha'dum, they are.... somewhere else.

Oh, what does it matter? He will return to the fire, and be refreshed and reborn in the terror of his death.

He does not know it, but someone there is waiting for him.

"Why do I have to say this? Why exactly do I have to warn you to be careful? Why do I have to point out the risks of meeting strange people we don't know in a strange location after receiving an ambiguous message?

"Why do I even have to ask these questions?"

"Karma?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Maybe you did bad things in a past life? Maybe whatever you did was so bad as to merit being stuck with me."

"I don't believe in reincarnation. Hmm.... so what must you have done in a past life then? To end up here, I mean."

"Oh, probably nothing. I've done all the bad things in this life. I'm going to be reincarnated as a Pak'ma'ra or something."

"I've met a Pak'ma'ra. They're.... decent enough, I suppose, as aliens go. Just don't try reading their mind or watching them eat and you'll be fine."

"Well, in my experience of dealing with alien races I'll put messy eaters a long way below those who try to blow me into little tiny pieces."

"Yes, I suppose I can see the reasoning behind that. I can't of course see the reasoning behind this meeting."

"Oh, come on. You always try to read my mind."

"I'd really rather not take the risk. Besides, it is.... uncomfortable doing that at the moment."

"Yes? This has something to do with what happened in that compound, hasn't it? You could try talking to me about it."

"No.... that is.... not a good idea at the moment.... However, I could point out the unfairness between what happened to me and what happened to you."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh come on! I get.... well.... I have various nastiness happen to me and you get stuffed full of orange juice and offered a job."

"It wasn't quite like that. But yes, it was.... strange, which for the record is why I'm here. Whoever sent us the message promised us information, remember. I don't know about you, but I'm willing to take the risk. I'm tired of being led around by the nose."

"And I notice you didn't read the rest of the message."

"What rest of the message?"

"The part that says, 'P. S. This is a trap.' And our mysterious visitor is late. I hate people who don't show up on time."

She suddenly started, and straightened at the sound of movement just up ahead. "I'm sorry for being late," said a polite, if slightly strained voice. "Punctuality is a lost art these days. However, I was.... unavoidably detained."

"Yeah, you and the rest of the solar system. So, who are you?"

"My name is Welles. You have probably heard of me. You, sir, certainly have. I remember meeting you two years ago. I could of course have gone for the whole cloak–and–dagger business and done a 'Deep Throat', but frankly I don't have time.

"I'm come to put a deal to both of you. Normally I wouldn't take this risk, but I don't have time to play safe. I've been following you two for quite a while, and I'm fully aware of what you've been trying to do here. You more than anyone else might be willing and able to do what I need.

"So, Dexter Smith, former Earthforce Captain and current social crusader, and Talia Winters, telepathic saboteur and secret agent, otherwise known as Mrs. Tamara Winter, Lieutenant T. Stoner, Bridget O'Shaughnessy, Anne Elizabeth Clements, among others....

"I need you to do something for me."

"What?" asked Smith.

Welles smiled slightly. "Steal something. Or rather someone. An individual I am sure you have both heard of.

"Her name is Delenn."

"I was killed in fire, you know. It is said that is the worst way to die, slowly, in agony. I did not mind so much at the time. I wanted to die, in any way possible.... but there was a moment, as my skin was crisping, my clothes alight and only my will kept me conscious, that I changed my mind.

"I could still live. There was one moment of clarity just before I died, when I realised I could still live. I could do so much. I could seek forgiveness, seek redemption, return to the man I had been.

"But of course I could not. I died, and my last sight was of the figure standing watching me, humming softly and cradling a globe in his outstretched hands. I realised what he was, and I started to scream.

"Everyone should remember their death, don't you think?"

Marrain stood on his precipice, looking out at the sea of flames erupting all around him. He raised his arms, and the flames rose higher and higher. Sinoval stood watching him silently from a nearby rock ledge.

"I am not dead," he said softly, after a long pause.

"Oh? I was sure...." Marrain shook his head. "I forget. How much time has passed since you last spoke to me?"

"A few months. I have.... been busy."

"Ah. A few months?" He began to chuckle. "I was sure it was longer. A hundred years or more. I thought you must have died in the meantime and become a part of this.... soulscape in which we are all bound. The other souls do not come to visit me. I fear they do not like the place I have made my home." He bent down, and raised his hand just as another wave of flame arose. He caught it and examined it lovingly, as another man might a flower, or a bird.

"I cannot see why," Marrain continued. "I personally enjoy it here."

"Fire is a painful and traumatic death," Sinoval observed.

"Yes. It certainly is that.... until a moment before the end. Then you realise that nothing truly matters."

"The more painful the death, the less.... stable the soul is when collected. I am told you were.... less than sane even before you died."

"Insults? Here, in my own home?" Marrain shook his head, smiling. "I should be very unhappy, but.... what does it matter? You speak the truth. I suppose I was insane, made so through envy, and hatred, and.... love. Hah, now there is a thing to make anyone insane."

"I would guess so. I have never been in love myself."

"No? You are very lucky, or very unlucky. I am not sure which."

"Was it worth it? The moment of love you felt? Was it truly worth the cost of everything that resulted from it?"

"No.... but then she did not return my love. If she had, then.... perhaps. I do not know. What is your point?"

"As I was saying, you were taken in great pain and considerable madness. Thus it is possible you are fixated on the moment of your death. That has happened before with souls brought back to the world of flesh over and over again. They became obsessed with death and the manner of bringing it about."

"Yes." Marrain paused, deep in thought. Trickles of flame licked at his feet, but he seemed not to notice. "That does seem to make sense. Few.... think about death while they live. At least not properly. I was a warrior, thus I lived with it more than others, but not even I understood it.... No one can, who has not died.

"Hmm."

Something suddenly occurred to him and he turned, rounding on Sinoval, his eyes in a black fury. Fire rose up around him, a great wave cascading over his form. He paid it no heed, no more attention than Sinoval did to the rising surge lapping at his feet.

"Souls brought back to life?" Marrain cried. "That is possible?"

"Forbidden," Sinoval admitted. "But possible, yes."

"Why? Why did I not know of this before? By all the Gods of my fane, to live again.... to breathe, to raise a hand to the sky, to.... drink and eat and....

"To kill."

"And is that what you would do if you were brought back to life? You would kill?"

"I.... I was a warrior. It is what I did. What I still would do."

"No. Warriors fight. They do not kill, not unless it is necessary. I learned that lesson recently.... although it was not easy."

"Yes, you have changed. I can see it in you. You are one of them now."

"Tell me, Marrain.... would you like to live again?"

"You said it was forbidden."

"It is, but there is small risk in doing so only once. I will not give you immortality. I will not grant you life eternal, or a multitude of lives to squander. One lifetime. One more chance to live.... and breathe and rectify the mistakes you made in your last.

"For all of history mortal beings have wanted nothing so much as a second chance. I am offering you one, if you are willing to take it."

"I...." Marrain paused, and the flames died down, sinking deep into the ground. He looked at Sinoval, and his eyes betrayed the hope of one who has long since believed all hope lost.

"What must I do?"

Sinoval told him.

The history of the Centauri Republic is a long one, filled with moments of glory, moments of honour, of courage and of extraordinary sacrifice. There were also moments of horror, of tragedy, of incompetence and of needless death.

The Centauri are a proud and arrogant people, and they have over the centuries indulged in more than just a little re–writing and re–shaping of history. People who to one generation were heroes became villains to the next, and monsters of utter evil have become canonised with the passing of the days. The late and unlamented Prince Cartagia knew this all too well, and already even now there are whispers that things might have been so much better had he triumphed in his fateful duel with the current Emperor Londo Mollari.

Londo wondered idly how future generations would see him. Hero or villain? Saviour or destroyer? That would of course depend on whether there were any future generations at all.

Still, as he looked at his companion and friend, he pondered the workings of history.

There had been two Emperors from House Marrago in the history of the Centauri Republic, just as there were now two Emperors from House Mollari. And, in all probability like House Mollari, there would never be another Emperor from House Marrago. Not that the line would not continue, for it surely would, but as part of the oath of that House.

The first Emperor Marrago had raised arms against his Emperor, storming the Royal Palace, murdering the entire Imperial family and instituting a twelve–year reign of terror. That was how the history books had always portrayed that time. To some, to those who knew better, Emperor Marrago had deposed and executed a bloody tyrant who would surely have destroyed the Republic through madness and incompetence, and he had taken the throne only at the insistence of the entire Centarum.

Regardless of which version one believed in, the first Emperor Marrago was succeeded by his son, a weak man, incompetent according to some, grief–stricken and ill according to others. He had reigned four years before his assassination.

Since then, House Marrago had taken a sworn oath. It was their House promise, the words immortalised under their insignia.

We serve Emperors. We do not make them.

And yet Londo surely owed his ascension to his old friend. Had Marrago made him Emperor?

"Majesty?" said Marrago. "Majesty, are you.... well?"

"Yes," Londo replied. "I am.... fine. Why would I not be?"

"Because you have not heard a single word I have said for the past ten minutes. I swear, Londo, I think I would rather be with the Narns than here. At least they listen to what I have to say."

Londo chuckled. No one else dared to speak to the Centauri Emperor like that - apart from his beloved First Consort of course - but Marrago did so by imperial decree and by dint of a life–long friendship. The courtiers would be scandalised of course, but they were not here. This was after all a private and confidential meeting between the Emperor and his Lord–General. Not even the other Ministers were here, although Timov would doubtless be eavesdropping somewhere.

Apart from the two of them, the only other person present was Lennier, Londo's taciturn and near–silent Minbari bodyguard. He frightened the courtiers almost as much as the Lady Timov did, and as a result they tended to ignore all the multiple breaches of etiquette he unknowingly committed.

"You are right," Londo said with an exaggerated sigh. "Alas, I am an old man, and I have been without sleep a great deal recently. Affairs of state, you realise."

"Well, I am an even older man," Marrago said, "and...."

"Older by four days," Londo interrupted.

"I am an even older man, and if I have to stay awake, then so must you. Are you willing to listen, Majesty, or must I get Timov to fill you with some ghastly medicine?"

"Great Maker, no! Ah, you are an evil man. So, anyway.... what were you saying?"

"As I was saying.... it seems as if the Narns have a new commander. G'Sten has by all accounts resigned after his failed attack here several months ago. It is a pity, really. I admired him. And we old men should stick together. Anyway, the new commander is probably G'Sten's protegee Na'Tok. He is a little sharper and more prone to risk–taking, but his current strategy is both conservative and deeply flawed. He is trying to hold on to all their captured territories, probably by the order of the Kha'Ri again. His efforts to do so are admirable, but vulnerable.

"Especially at risk to our counterattack is Ragesh Three. Again. On the other hand, I am certain he will be expecting that, and until I know more about Warleader Na'Tok I am inclined to focus my attentions elsewhere.

"Tolonius Seven. My scouts inform me it is sparsely defended, and has recently been troubled by rioting and unrest. The Narn ground forces are severely stretched and by all accounts underprovisioned and undermanned.

"I think we can retake Tolonius Seven. Na'Tok and the Narns will soon find out that capturing territory is easy. Keeping it is much harder."

"So.... do you think I will be able to deliver a united Republic to my successors?"

"Londo...." Marrago sighed, and looked down. "I very much doubt we will be able to regain all our lost holdings within either of our lifetimes. We will be at war for as long as we both live, and probably for so long as our children live. The Republic is dying.... and all we can do is hold as much of it as we can, for as long as we can."

"What about peace? The Narns seemed to be.... open to some sort of negotiation. We will have a permanent embassy on Kazomi Seven within months, and then.... backed by the Alliance...."

"The Alliance is already at war, and I do not think the Narns want peace. Even if they do, can our two races ever be at peace? There is too much hatred, too much anger, too many memories. No, Londo, I do not think so. If I did, and if there was anyone I could pass this burden on to, I would have done as G'Sten did, and retire."

"Retire? Great Maker, Marrago, a peaceful life would bore you to tears!"

The Lord–General sadly shook his head. "No. No, Londo. I would like nothing more than to sit in my garden, to watch my daughter marry, to raise grandchildren and to watch them grow strong and wise in a better and finer Republic than I knew. A comfortable chair, a fine sunset and hope for the future, that is all I ask for."

"It sounds...." Londo sighed. "Ah, it sounds wonderful. I tell you what, Marrago. By the end of the year, by then, we will have peace with the Narns and all the wars will be over. You can go to your garden, and I will bring along a comfortable chair and join you there. I can flirt with your daughter, leer at women far too young for me, play too many card games and drink too much brivare. How does that sound?"

Marrago laughed. "Your tastes are a little.... different from mine, but it takes all sorts. You will be welcome in my garden, Londo, but flirt with my daughter and I am afraid I will have to challenge you to a duel."

"What?!" Londo cried in mock outrage. "You would challenge your own Emperor?"

"Not even the Emperor could insult the honour of my daughter and live."

"Very well, I accept your challenge. brivare bottles at twenty paces!"

Marrago let out a booming laugh. "Alas, then I concede. I could never best you with such weapons. You may flirt with my daughter all you like. Tell me, will you be bringing that chair with you?"

"This thing?" Londo patted the armrest of the Purple Throne. "Good Gods, no. A less comfortable chair I have never sat in. You will have to provide me with one."

Marrago nodded, smiling. "A fine image, Londo. By the end of the year I will give you as much of a free Republic as I can. Then.... we can grow old together."

"Yes. We shall."

Marrago bowed, and turned from the throne room. "Tolonius Seven shall be ours again within weeks, Majesty. I promise you that. I will not fail."

"I never supposed you would," Londo muttered as Marrago left. "I never for one moment believed you would."

David Corwin, Captain of the Dark Star 3, re–named the Agamemnon, hero of numerous battles he did not care to recall, walked into the room where his oldest friend, former Captain and greatest inspiration was sitting.

Captain John Sheridan was seated at his desk, perusing a report. He did not look up as his friend entered. Corwin looked at him, and noticed the several days' growth of beard on his chin and the dark, haunted look in his eyes. It did not seem as if he was eating well these days.

Of course, there were reasons for the Captain's depression. After spending several months in a coma, close to death, he had recovered, only to lose the woman he loved and find himself thrust into a bloody war against a powerful enemy.... Well, there were bound to be some.... mental and emotional problems. Stress–related, probably.

But Corwin couldn't shake his uneasy feeling as he walked further into the room.

"We were ambushed just on the edge of the Vega system," the Captain said, his voice scratchy and hoarse where once it had been commanding. "We lost Dark Stars Seven and Thirteen. Dark Star Eleven was badly damaged, perhaps it can't be recovered. They lost over half their crew."

He looked up suddenly, as if realising that Corwin was there. "Please tell me you've got good news, Captain," he said. "If it's bad news, then.... ah hell. If it's bad news give it to me anyway. Do we still control Kazomi Seven?"

"Last I heard."

John nodded, smiling. The smile seemed incongruous on his haunted features. "Good. Let's hear it then."

"We destroyed the observation post in Sector Forty–five. Dark Star Twenty–four was lost, and there were various damages and casualties, but the mission was a success."

The Captain breathed out and sat back in his chair. "Ah, that's good. They're now completely blind on that approach to the Vega system. Good. We'll need to prepare a small raiding party quickly to harry the military installations around Vega Twelve. Not a serious full–on attack, but.... Yes, we need to lure their forces away from the colony itself."

"Captain," Corwin said softly. "We're spreading ourselves too thinly. We're throwing the Dark Stars at everything we can, at countless different targets, and we're taking casualties. Sooner or later, we won't have any left."

"Hmm? Oh, there's no need to worry. There'll be a new fleet coming through. The Vorlons promised it by the end of the year, maybe sooner. We won't run out of ships."

"And what about people? Just how are we going to crew these ships? G'Kar only has so many Rangers, there are only so many experienced soldiers and.... we're taking too many heavy losses. Is there going to be anything left when we're done?"

"I know things are looking.... difficult. We just need to.... keep up the pressure, keep them off balance. We're hurting them as well. We'll be able to take the Vega system completely in a month or so - according to my reckoning - and from there to some of the outer mining colonies, Arisia for one. Proxima by the end of the year."

Corwin sighed and rubbed at his eyes. "Captain.... what about Delenn?"

"Dammit, David, we've had this conversation."

"G'Kar has some Rangers placed inside the Vega system. The news is still reporting that they have Delenn a prisoner."

"It's propaganda, David. You know that. Delenn's dead."

"Why would they lie about something like this? Surely they knew we would have to react. It's practically inviting war with the Alliance. They wouldn't do this unless they were telling the truth. Look, we could send a small group of Rangers into Proxima, try and find out the truth, try and rescue her...."

"No, we can't risk the Rangers on a pointless suicide mission. You said yourself there weren't enough of them."

"John, what do you think they're doing to her in there? They're going to be torturing her, trying to get her to confess to all sorts of things. The news said she was going to be put on trial for war crimes. They're going to execute her. John, listen to me!"

"Shut up!" the Captain roared suddenly, leaning forward and sweeping all the reports on the desk to the floor. "Shut up and listen to me! I am your superior officer and you will damn well listen to me!

"Delenn is dead. They killed her on Z'ha'dum, and I took the Babylon there on a stupid and foolhardy mission to try to get her back. Clark is lying when he says he has her. He's lying, and that's it. Don't you think if Delenn were still alive I'd do everything I could to try to help her? Do you think I could bear the thought of her suffering like that?

"But even if she is alive, there's nothing we can do about it. She wouldn't want us to risk any lives on futile rescue missions, you know that.

"There's nothing we can do. We'll get to Proxima when we get there, and not before."

"But John...."

"You are dismissed, Captain."

"What?"

"I said you are dismissed."

"Yes, sir!"

Corwin spun on his heel and stormed from the room, not looking back to see if the Captain was picking up the reports or not. His blood was boiling and his ears stung. Why wasn't Sheridan listening to him? What was wrong?

As he left the Captain's makeshift office he almost ran into someone. Stepping back, apologising hastily, he saw it was Lyta, and his eyes brightened. He spoke her name happily. "I haven't seen you since we got back from Z'ha'dum. I'd heard you'd recovered, but then you just disappeared. Are you feeling all...?"

Then he noticed the presence behind her. The Vorlon loomed over her, its eye piece twitching. There was the faint whisper of near–music that was its breath. It was not a Vorlon Corwin had seen before. Its encounter suit was blood–red, streaked with a dark, rusty brown. The eye stalk was sharp and curved.

"David," Lyta said, her voice flat. "It's good to see you. Yes, I'm fine, but I've been busy. I'm sorry."

said the Vorlon. There was a hissing vibration in its voice.

Corwin stepped aside, puzzled and angry. Lyta went into the room, the Vorlon following. The last sight Corwin had before the door shut behind them was the Captain rising from his seat, smiling broadly at the new arrivals.

Pride, it is said, is a sin. A deadly one at that. Welles had never really seen the rationale behind that. There was nothing wrong with pride so long as it did not lead to arrogance, overconfidence or stupidity.

There was little he was proud of these days, but his skill in reading people was one thing. He had been failing miserably in this area of late, what with being unable to register Clark as anything other than a complete blank, not to mention his complete loss of self–control at the sight of Delenn's green eyes.

These two, however, might as well have been an open book to him.

They were close, their body language said as much. A little more than friends, not quite lovers, although they probably would be soon. There were elements of light flirtation in their speech patterns and language tones. She was sceptical, probably by habit, but also rather shaken. Her self–confidence had been badly disturbed recently and she was not at her best. Welles was fully aware how good an infiltrator she must have been to hide under his nose on the Babylon all that time.

Smith was more of an idealist, evinced by his reasons for doing the things he was doing. Welles had dug up his background details a few months ago and found out all about his childhood in the Pit. He was the kind of person who always needed someone or something to fight, and he preferred it to be a straightforward case of black and white, good and evil.

Also, and this was a definite plus, he had met Delenn. His whole posture had changed at the mention of her name. That was good. Her green eyes had obviously worked their magic on him as well.

"More details, please," said Talia. Her scepticism was more evident than ever.

"Delenn of Mir, former Satai of the Grey Council and current leader of the United Alliance of Kazomi Seven. Somehow, and they aren't telling us the exact details, our associates and allies managed to abduct her and bring her here to us. She is to be put on trial for war crimes, the precise charges to be determined later.

"Currently she is residing in the Maximum Security Hospital at the military base in Sector Four–o–five. She is recovering from.... complications arising from a medical operation.

"She is well guarded there, but less so than she would be in the Main Dome Security Building. We have a small window of opportunity, and so it will be necessary to act soon."

"What do you want done with her?" asked Talia.

"Got out of there, taken somewhere safe, and as soon as is possible transferred off–world and back to Alliance space."

"Why?"

"I.... have my reasons. Please do not ask me for details. On the other hand, you are free to read my mind to determine if this is a trap. I have been fully trained in blocking telepathic scans, but you will note I am not doing so now. I am completely genuine in my wish to see her free."

Talia looked at Welles intently for a moment, and then she swayed. She was clearly weaker than he had thought. Whatever had shaken her it was telepathic in nature, possibly weakening her control over her power.

"He's telling the truth," she said finally to her companion. He nodded, clearly not having suspected anything else. Talia looked back at Welles. "What do we get out of this?"

"Information. I have been putting together a rather.... interesting dossier concerning IPX and their activities over the past few years. It is not exhaustive by any means, but it is something, and you will no doubt be able to make perfect use of it. I will also be able to arrange a flight off–Proxima for you.

"And as for you, Mr. Smith, I will organise a full–scale investigation into corruption and illicit activities in Sector Three–o–one. It will reveal enough information to take down both Mr. Trace and Mr. Allan, as well as a fair few others. I will also install a new Chief of Security for the area, and do what I can to make the sector a decent place to live. Oh, and I understand the murder charges against you personally have been dropped. I will see they are never raised again.

"Is that a fair offer?"

"Yes," Smith said. "We'll do it."

"We need time to think about it," Talia said hastily. "How can we contact you?"

"Don't. I will contact you. Have a decision for me by this time tomorrow. Remember, we do not have much time. Nor does Delenn.

"I was not here. This conversation never took place."

With that he left, suppressing a smile. They would do it.

Sonovar was a warrior caste Minbari, a warrior and a leader of warriors, and therefore he was one of the finest beings to walk this galaxy. No heathen alien, pathetic priestling or cringing worker could hope to be his equal, and of his fellow warriors very few were his match in anything.

There were few beings he liked, and fewer still he respected. He did not like the Tak'cha at all, but he did respect them. He admired their skill in battle, their willingness to die in a noble cause and their belief in Valen almost as much as he loathed their religious fanaticism, their incessant rituals and the prattling of their priests.

Still, he was willing to tolerate a great deal if it would bring him to his destiny as a hero. Putting up with alien customs was merely an inconvenience.

"Zaron'dar," said one of the Tak'cha, addressing him. It was the Alyt, the Ramde as they called the rank. Cozon, that was his name. There was another figure behind him, taller and more spindly. Unlike the soldier Tak'cha Sonovar was more familiar with, this new figure was blue–skinned, or at least he appeared to be. Upon closer examination he could see it was a dye of some sort. The newcomer also wore robes of a brilliant bright red and was carrying a long staff topped with a blade made up of three sharp edges. The whole ensemble was uncannily reminiscent of the formal dress of a Satai, although clearly designed by someone who had not understood what that meant.

"The Z'ondar guide your footfalls," Sonovar said formally, in the old dialect the Tak'cha used.

"And light your path to the future," replied Cozon, completing the greeting. He and Sonovar both bowed. "Zaron'dar, I have the honour to present the Light of the K'Tarr, the Bearer of the Tri–lahr and the Guardian of the Book of Atonement. This is Sah'thai Vhixarion, leader of the Tak'cha shipworlds."

Vhixarion nodded once, imperiously. Sonovar, trying not to show his amusement, bowed formally.

"You are the Zaron'dar, it is claimed," Vhixarion said. Sonovar bridled inwardly. The Sah'thai was using the same old dialect he and Cozon had, but he had used the familiar address, speaking to Sonovar as if he were a child. "You are the one who will guide us back to the Z'ondar, that we may atone."

"Such has been said of me," he replied, as respectfully as he could manage.

"And how are we to do this? By waging war on the False Satai, who makes alliances with the accursed Lords of the Dead? Tak'cha warriors are every day giving their lives for the good of the shipworlds that we may gain the lights of forgiveness, and yet.... and yet there is one question that touches me in my moments of meditation in my Grey Hall.

"Where is the Z'ondar?!"

Sonovar almost recoiled from the fury in Vhixarion's voice. He could see a light shining from the triple–bladed staff, and the Sah'thai's eyes glowed a fierce and bloody red.

"The Z'ondar has returned to us, we were told. He appeared in the Temple of the Old Ones on Minbar, and announced his return to us all. You told us of this, and told us that the False Satai had denied the presence of the Z'ondar.

"So where is the Z'ondar now? Why have we not rescued him from whatever captivity in which he is held?"

Sonovar coughed. He had no idea where Valen was now, all he knew was that he had vanished from Kazomi 7 almost a year ago. The priestlings there had jabbered on about him passing beyond in order to wage war against the Shadows, but Sonovar believed none of that. He was half inclined to agree with Sinoval that 'Valen' was a Vorlon imposter. Stating that to the Tak'cha would not be a wise idea, however.

"The Z'ondar is watching us all," he replied, aiming for a mix of simple faith and awe–inspired wonder. "His light guides our every action, and he watches as we all atone for sins past and present. We are still imperfect beings, and hence he still withholds himself from us."

"You know where he is?"

"He will give us a sign to show that he is still here. We are proceeding as he would wish."

"Then.... then we will wait for that sign. I am here, Zaron'dar, to witness the truth for myself and for my people, to gauge the wisdom of the alliance we have formed. If it be the Z'ondar's will that this alliance be forged, then he will give us the sign of which you speak."

"He will."

"Then let us pray to determine the nature of this sign, and to beg for his teaching."

Sonovar almost groaned at the thought of another interminable ritual, but he hardened his resolve. All he could see was himself being acclaimed as the great hero he had always known he was, being recorded in the tomes of history as a great leader, and plaques and statues erected in his honour.

With all those in mind, the ritual was not such an ordeal after all.

Elsewhere another ritual of sorts was being carried out, a ritual such as had not been performed in many thousands of years. A ritual now forbidden because of its consequences.

Sinoval, Primarch Majestus et Conclavus, it was once said, knows how to break the rules in a good cause. His cause here was just, or so he believed, and he had taken precautions. Restoring a soul to life was forbidden because it could lead to madness and obsession with death. If the procedure was performed only once, however, there was little danger of either.

Or so he hoped.

"What are you doing, my lord?" asked a voice. A voice normally soft and gentle, filled with compassion and mercy, but hard and stern when necessary. He turned to look at her.

"You should not be here, my lady," he told Kats. He was annoyed. He did not like her to watch some of the things he knew were necessary.

"Your Soul Hunters passed by as I walked. Your Primarch's Blades let me approach you. Please, my lord.... I know you are doing something you should not. What are you doing?"

"I am beginning that which will break Sonovar's power," he explained. "I am restoring a lost soul to the grace of life. I am offering him a single chance for redemption."

"What are you doing?"

"I will restore Marrain to the life of the flesh, that he may walk again."

She gasped, and her body shook. "He was a traitor," she whispered. "A madman. You told me he died insane and in agony. He betrayed Valen!"

"All of us deserve a single chance for redemption," he replied. "Including him. This is forbidden by the Well of Souls itself. You should not be here, my lady."

"I am here. My lord.... this is wrong. I failed to speak out once before when you were doing something that was wrong, and I lost my friend as a consequence. I am your conscience, and I tell you.... this is wrong."

He smiled. "My lady.... you do not understand him as I do. I have spoken to him, and explained what he must do. Have faith in me.... please."

She looked doubtful, but then bowed her head. "I will watch."

"You do not have to...."

"I will watch."

He chuckled mirthlessly, then turned from her. Marrain's soul globe hung suspended in the air above the body of a fallen Minbari warrior. He had died of an illness, and his family were all dead. He would no doubt feel honoured by being able to serve his lord, even in death.

Sinoval closed his eyes, stretched out his arms, and sought the knowledge of the Well of Souls. He was the Primarch Majestus et Conclavus now, and his mind was as that of Cathedral itself, was as old as the first race born to the universe. The knowledge and power of a legion of the dead were available to him.... as was the compunction to use it properly.

"I do not do this for pride," he whispered. "Nor for revenge, nor for hatred. I do this because it must be done, because all of us deserve a possibility for redemption, and because it will lead a lost soul to the grace of his people."

In his mind, he heard the voice of the Well of Souls. We know these things, Primarch. Do not forget them.

"You will let me do this?" he whispered.

These are different times, and his is a troubled soul. Free him.

He smiled, and felt a great wind rush through his mind. A great light surrounded the soul globe, and then he was lost in the memories of millennia.

It was thinking of the Dark Ones again, the Masters, the Lords of Chaos. Its people had many names for them, many terms of respect, but only one attitude: absolute obedience. But obedience could still be tempered with arrogance, servitude with pride.

They were the first among all those in the Great Compact. Of all the races who served the Dark Masters; the Zener, the Z'shailyl, the countless others, the Drakh were prime. Their fleets might have been destroyed, their orbs shattered, their magi left blinded and lost, but still they were foremost, still they served, walking in shadows, moving in darkness, preparing, readying, performing their Masters' will.

It had a name, but one it would not speak here, not in this place of aliens. There were some here who worshipped the Dark Masters, showing them what their foolish alien brains believed to be the proper reverence. There were others who sought to barter with the Masters, bidding for their services as though this were commerce or business, both concepts the Drakh understood but dimly.

It was here to appear to those who professed to worship and to discuss with him who claimed to bargain. There were certain lessons both sides had to learn, and in the name of the Lords of Chaos, they would learn them.... and well.

The door to the chamber opened and in walked the barterer, the merchant, he who traded life and death as beads on a table, as instruments in a market. Fool! He might be as blind as any newling, as weak as any outcast, but among these people he was held to be strong. The Dark Masters admired that and sought to use him, to employ him, to bind him slowly and unwittingly to their purposes.

The merchant stopped and spun on his feet, his blade in his hands in an instant. The Drakh was impressed. Skill, there was. Would he stand against a Warrior of the Dark Masters, one of the creations of their black vats at Thrakandar? Perhaps he could, after all. The Drakh reassessed its opinion of this merchant.

"I know you are here," he said, staring directly at the Drakh, for all the shadows that engulfed it. It moved into the light. "You should not be here," snapped Lord–General Marrago, of the great and glorious Centauri Republic. "I told you never to come here."

"Come here I did, at the will of the Lords of Chaos.... they whom we both serve. There is words they wish to be having with you.... Many words, indeed."

The merchant did not sheathe his sword.

It was the smallest of things that awoke in him first, the slightest itching of his fingers. He twitched them, and felt the leather in his glove flex. Its texture felt strangely welcome against his skin.

Then came a further awareness. He could feel the blood pulsing in his veins. He could hear the beating of his heart. He could feel his muscles expand and contract.

He could move.

It was his hand he moved first, lifting it so that he could see for himself. He clenched it into a fist.

Then he saw the small globe hovering, suspended above his chest by an unseen force. It was glowing, but the light from it was fading, a little at a time. He could see the last hints of a great flame arising within it, and then it died. The globe became dull and empty, and all that could be seen within it was a dark, smoky mist.

A hand plucked it from the air, and he turned his head. Feeling was coming to the rest of him, faster now. He could see. He could focus his sight.

He knew the figure standing before him. The two of them had spoken many times, but always that had been within the soul globe, in a world where he was master, and he alone. Now he could see Sinoval in the flesh, see his blood and his bones and his bearing.

He knew this was Sinoval, but the first thought that flashed into his mind was: Valen!

It was not Valen of course, he knew that, but there was something there. Sinoval possessed the same absolute mastery over his self that Valen had, and now they met in the flesh that was clear to see.

"Can you move?" Sinoval asked, his voice not unfriendly. He looked tired.

"Yes," came the reply. There was more gratitude in his voice than he had ever believed possible. "Yes, I can move. It is true.... I did not believe it.... It is true...."

Marrain swung his legs off the altar on which he lay and raised his new body upright, so that he stood.

"I live," he whispered, and then he repeated these two words, louder than before, and then again, shouting his joy to the heavens as a sign of his elation, and as a warning to the new universe within which he walked.

"I live!"

Press conferences were as a rule dull and boring things, little more than a chance to put across highly sanitised and well–screened pap. Clark, however, loved them. He relished the battle of wits with the reporters and, while he accepted that it was sometimes sadly necessary to restrict their remit, now he was having the time of his life with them.

The freedom of the press had been heavily restricted by the Wartime Emergency Provisions, and for the long war years very few papers had been active, all official Government agencies. That had been one of the first of the provisions to be relaxed and then repealed in the last few years, and new papers and magazines and news reports had sprung up from nowhere. There were some criticisms of Clark and the Government of course, but he let them slide. In truth he did not care, he was playing for bigger stakes than anyone here could possibly imagine.

Word of the Beta Durani attack had been out for some time now, but this was the first official response to the crisis other than the formal declaration of war with the Alliance. It was also the first confirmation that the colony had been lost.

"Believe me," Clark said to the listening journalists, "I remember all too well the long years of war, the fear of looking up at the sky each night, afraid of what might come into view. I chose to believe that those days were over. I, like all of you, wanted to believe they were over.

"But as a great man once said, the price of freedom is eternal vigilance. We have lapsed in this duty, and we have lost one of our worlds. I give you my word, Beta Durani will be ours once more, and we will lose no more ground to the alien invaders. We are not alone this time. We have our allies, and they will protect us."

A fine speech, and one he had written himself. Macabee had been in apoplexy at the very thought of course, but he was an inconsequence. Clark was more than adept at manipulating the public.

Besides, he meant almost every word he said.

"Mr. President," said a journalist, one he did not recognise. "Do you have any confirmed casualty lists from Beta Durani?"

"We have set up an emergency hotline for those with friends or family on the colony. I can also report that the Marten was destroyed in the engagement, with the presumed loss of all hands. The families of those killed have already been notified, and they will of course qualify for war bereavement pensions. The loss of Captain Walker Smith is a grave one. He was a truly great man, and an inspiration to all those serving in Earthforce."

"Has there been any response from the Alliance?" asked another voice.

"No," Clark replied. "Not even a formal acknowledgement of our declaration of war. But then that is not surprising, as they have made it clear they do not wish to talk or engage in any form of peaceful negotiation. However, word has come from the Kha'Ri that they do not support this action. They are fully in support of humanity in our stance against the Alliance, and any Narn ships involved in the attacks are renegades and outlaws."

"What about Delenn?" asked another. Her, Clark recognised. Mary Ann Cramer, of the left–wing paper Proxima.

"What about her?" he replied blandly.

"Is she aware of this attack, and how has she responded?"

"Delenn is unaware of what is happening, Miss Cramer. She is currently being held in a secure hospital facility, recovering from an attempted suicide. Security protocols around her have been tightened, and medical tests are being carried out to ensure her fitness."

"What is the progress of the war crimes tribunal?" asked another voice.

"The day before word reached us of the attack on Beta Durani, I personally spoke with former Chief Justice Wellington. He has agreed to come out of retirement to chair the tribunal himself. He is in the progress of assembling lawyers and judges to sit with him on the panel. The exact charge list is still being compiled as evidence is still being gathered, but it will be made public once it is finalised."

"What about representation for Delenn?"

"She will of course have the right to choose her own representation. As yet she has refused to do so, and has declined to have a representative present as she is being questioned. A Government advocate will be appointed to defend her if she does not make a choice for herself. It will be a full and fair trial, I promise you that."

"Mr. President," said Cramer again. "Do you think word of the arrest and detainment of Delenn caused the attack on Beta Durani?"

There was a low hush, and Clark smiled. "Miss Cramer.... there is much you do not understand about warfare. I have spoken with General Ryan and the other high–ranking military leaders. They assure me that the attack on Beta Durani must have been planned for months. The Alliance assembled a significant fleet for the engagement, which could not have been done in a few days.

"No, this was a deliberate and unprovoked attack. I do not believe Delenn to be an issue here. I would have been perfectly willing to inform the Alliance of her arrest, and for them to send a delegation to observe the trial and see that the necessary formalities are adhered to, but that is no longer possible."

There were a few more questions, but they were mostly petty, mundane things, and Clark left, feeling vaguely pleased with himself. He actually found himself liking Miss Cramer. Press conferences were no fun at all without a little challenge, and these days he was up for almost any challenge imaginable. He could not recall the last time he had felt this fit and ready for action.

He returned to his office and found a copy of Humanity magazine sitting on his desk. There was a note from Macabee on top of it, which he did not bother to read. He found that he was on the cover, and it was not even a bad picture. He usually hated having his picture taken.

Flicking inside the magazine, he soon found the relevant article. Humanity had taken a poll among its readers as to the greatest elected leaders of all time. He smiled at the revelation that he had come fourth, behind only Churchill, Lincoln and Mandela, and just edging out Kenshuro. Of course, Clark had never actually been elected, but that was just a technicality.

He set it down, honestly pleased and surprised by the honour. "Distinguished company," he said to himself, and then he chuckled. Soon he began to whistle, and then sing. His voice was crackly and his rhythm appalling, but he didn't care.

"Oh, what a beau–ti–ful mor–ning....

"Oh, what a beau–ti–ful day....

"I've got a won–der–ful fee–ling...."

He was laughing so much he could barely get the last line out.

"Ev–ery–thing's go–ing my way."

Chapter 2

Somewhere, in a part of space far from the trade routes, distant from the centres of power and away from the deeds shaping the future of the galaxy, there lies the last refuge of a thousand–year–old war. Like an old warrior sitting in his garden watching the world pass by, Babylon 4 is now retired.

For nine centuries it has been resting, ever since the day that the One Who Was passed beyond. With the end of the first Shadow War Babylon 4 became unnecessary, an anachronism. Enemies of Valen, the same who drove his children from Minbar, sought to downplay his role and his actions, and Babylon 4 was a living memory of the man and his deeds.

It is the doom of mortal beings to forget.

And so they forgot Babylon 4. It was taken away from the known worlds and left, abandoned and forsaken. As Valen passed into legend, so did the miracle he had brought with him.

But time is a cycle, nothing truly dies and nothing is ever truly forgotten. Some still live who knew Valen, and who walked the steps of Babylon 4 a thousand years ago. There are some who revere and worship those who did.

Things have changed, the workings of destiny move once more, and slowly the whispers of the past become the present, and the future, as the station that was built by a Narn, threatened by the Shadows and used in battle by the Minbari, becomes once more a focal point in the destinies of empires.

Sinoval looked at the space station, and he did not smile.

"You know what must be done?"

There was no verbal reply of course, but the motion of the alien's head was enough. Ambassador Sheridan felt sudden relief, as well as an inexplicable concern that he was doing the wrong thing.

That did not matter. There were times when any action, even the wrong one, was preferable to inaction, and this was one of them. Events were rising to a climax, and now more than ever he and the Shadows needed to be in control of Proxima. He was their representative here, and they had spoken to him, expressed their.... plans.

Clark was crucial. Somehow he had slipped the leash of his Keeper once. That leash had to be re–tightened, but it had to be done properly. None of them could afford another failure. The implantation of a Keeper was usually a simple enough process, the Keeper was after all alive, and did most of the work itself.

This time, however, greater care was necessary. There could be no more mistakes, and so Sheridan had arranged.... assistance.

He knew a little about the Zener. Genetically, they were distantly related to the Vree and the Streib, although some disaster many thousands of years ago had split the three groups apart. The Zener had always been master scientists, particularly adept in the field of genetic engineering, and a scientocracy had arisen where matters of morals and ethics fell far behind the continued pursuit of knowledge.

The Streib had desired to gain this knowledge, and with little of the military might of their genetic cousins it seemed as if the Zener would be conquered, and easily, but then the Shadows arrived, and circumstances changed drastically. The Zener became a part of the Great Compact, swearing to serve the Shadows and their allies, providing all the knowledge at their disposal in exchange for protection.

The Shadows were technologically much more advanced than any of their vassal races, but they had been happy to use the Zener's technology rather than their own. The Zener worked particularly well with the Drakh and together they had achieved a number of advances. The bio–plague that had devastated Minbar was one of these.

None, save perhaps the Shadows themselves, knew better than the Zener how to implant a Keeper. It was they who, wherever possible, carried out the medical examinations prior to implantation and oversaw any problems following the process.

A Drakh stood behind the Zener, watching silently. If he did not know better, Sheridan would have assumed the Drakh to be the scientist's bodyguard. In fact the situation was very different. The Drakh placed all other races into three groups: their Dark Masters; their enemies; and their weapons to serve the first and destroy the second. The Zener were in the third category.

"This is vital," Sheridan repeated. "It must be done as soon as possible, and this must not fail. Do you understand?"

"Understanding," hissed the Drakh. "We shall not fail...."

"Good," Sheridan said. He closed his eyes and saw Clark, and a moment later, he saw his son. John would be coming for Proxima soon, and he would be bringing the Vorlons with him. It was essential that they all do what was necessary to stop this. Clark had to be theirs.

He had to be.

"Then go."

"The Dark Masters will watch us," the Drakh said. "By their will...."

"By their will," Sheridan repeated. Sometimes the Drakh terrified him. Sometimes a great many things terrified him.

"What will you need?"

"ID to get into the hospital building, and out again. Preferably an ambulance driver's ID. That will be for Dexter."

"I can get you that. Anything else?"

"A lapse in security around Delenn's ward. Lasting for as long as possible without arousing suspicion."

"I can manage that. I can't remove all the Security presence, as shift changes are staggered. You have the map of the hospital facility?"

"Yes."

"The guards stationed at positions A, C and F are changed at nineteen hundred hours each night. I will be able to arrange for their replacements to be a little late, although fifteen minutes is all. That will leave the guards at B, D, E and G."

"I can get past the ones at B and E, and D is likely to be too far away. That will just leave the two at G, Delenn's bedside. I will deal with them."

"Don't kill them! Not unless you absolutely have to. They're good men, and they're just doing their job."

"Obeying orders? Yes, I've heard that before. Don't worry. I don't like killing people. I have.... ways of making them fall asleep. Totally harmless."

"Good. You're going in tonight?"

"Can we leave it another day?"

"No. Delenn's condition is improving.... slightly. She's now conscious and aware for longer and longer periods of time. Clark's on at me to get her back to the interrogation chamber. It has to be tonight. I'll see you get the relevant IDs and computer codes as soon as possible."

"Good. You won't need to contact us to find out if this has worked. You'll know. Get in touch again this time tomorrow, if it does. You can then take her off our hands and arrange the payment."

"Will do. Good luck."

"We shouldn't need luck."

Welles had completed the first part of his promise at least. ID codes confirming Talia as a physician's assistant and Dexter as an ambulance driver arrived by some unknown courier less than an hour after the message had concluded. Also included were details of all the pass codes and computer codes necessary.

Talia had made her share of false IDs in her time, and these certainly looked as if they would work.

As to whether Welles had been successful in delaying the security changes, that would have to wait. She had taken care to memorise the map of the hospital complex, and she and Dexter had gone over the plan until he could recite it in his sleep. She was still sceptical about this whole endeavour, but Welles had been telling the truth, and Dexter had talked her into it.

Besides, the reward offered was certainly worthwhile.

And now they had accepted the mission, she devoted her every effort to completing it.

She checked her watch. 18:52. Perfect. The shifts at point C would be changing soon. She could get past them on the way in, assuming Welles' ID worked, and she should have enough time to get herself and Delenn out before the changeover occurred.

One of the guards stepped forward to her. "ID?" She passed the card over to him, and he ran it through his security device. The other guard looked at her closely. She was breathing quietly and standing naturally, as though this were a routine she had gone through a hundred times before.

"Checks out," said the guard, handing her back the card.

"I don't recognise you," said the other.

"I normally work at the Ellison Building in Sector Two–o–nine," she replied glibly. "They're short–handed over here tonight, so I was called in to help out."

The guard looked a little suspicious, but then nodded. "In you go."

Talia passed through the first checkpoint, into the hospital complex itself. She kept her breathing under control, reliving the map of the layout in her mind. She could see every corridor, every turn and corner and room. Every security checkpoint.

And she could see her final destination. The room where Delenn herself lay.

Full of determination, Talia headed on her way.

Sinoval had seen many wonders in his life, images that would stay with him forever. The huge archway that led to the Well of Souls; the sight of Earth beneath his feet, lost and helpless; the vision of Valen in the Dreaming as Varmain had died.

All of these paled before the simple wonder on the face of a madman and a betrayer.

Marrain walked slowly through the hallway, his eyes alight. As Sinoval looked around, he saw nothing but a decaying and barren relic of an ancient war, left in a forsaken place to die. He remembered the last time he had been here, seeing a tiny ray of hope in this place. It had changed greatly since then. Although only a year or so had passed for him, an entire millennium had gone by for this station.

He saw nothing but rust and decay and the erosion of a once–mighty fortress, but then he supposed he had no romance in his soul.

For Marrain, it was something else.

"It was here," he whispered, looking around. "Here, we met Valen.... and just over there a Shadow Warrior attacked us. It had got on board somehow and Parlonn and I.... we fought it back to back. It slashed my chest open, and left a scar...."

He paused. There would be no scar, of course. Not on this body. It was not his after all. It was a dead body, infused with a soul departed more than nine centuries.

"They are dead now. Everyone. Valen, Derannimer, Parlonn, Nukenn.... Even Nemain and Mannamann. They were both so young then. Dead for centuries now.

"All dead.... save the two of us." He looked into the shadows. "I, the Betrayer, and Anla'Verenn–veni. The Place Of Restored Dreams. That was what we called it. A priestling name of course, but.... an apt one.... even for a hardened warrior like myself."

He closed his eyes, his body shaking. "Where are your dreams now, Anla'Verenn–veni? Where are your glories, your triumphs, your holy places? Lost and gone to the three winds, all of them. Dead, dead, dead....

"All is dead. All lives and all dies, and all decays and withers."

His eyes opened, and a fierce darkness burned from within him. He pointed at Sinoval. "You will die." And then at Kats. "And you.... I can see it in you, past the facade of your beauty, beyond the mask you create for yourself, beneath the illusions and the masquerades....

"There is only death.

"But not for me," he added plaintively. "All die, but Marrain, the Betrayer."

"All die," Sinoval said firmly, looking at Kats. She was shaken, but firm. He heard her whispering a soft prayer under her breath, and he suddenly realised why. For an instant, in Marrain's rant, she would have seen Kalain, her torturer. He reached out a hand to steady her, but she pulled away. Her eyes flashed a brief thanks to him.

"We all die, even Marrain, the Betrayer. Do as we have spoken, and your death shall be an honourable one."

"What is honour to the dead? Do you think Parlonn cares that I gave my honour to save his? No, he is dead, his body and bones dust in a distant world. Do you think Derannimer's dead carcass cared that I loved her? No, she is gone.

"All are gone."

"But there are those who live now, Marrain. The now is all we have, all you have. You have been given another chance at life, an opportunity to undo the mistakes you made before.

"Are you ready to grasp that chance, Marrain? Because if you are not, then there is nothing here for you, and you might as well become the dead bones you speak of."

"No," Marrain whispered after a time. "I live, and I will do as you have asked of me. It will be.... interesting to see them again. I wonder how much they have changed, how much they remember, how much they have forgotten."

"Apparently they are much the same as they were in your day, but we shall see."

"Why this place?" Marrain asked suddenly. "Why.... bring us all back here? This does not belong in this age. It is a part of the past, the legends of long ago."

"It is the one place I can be sure they will recognise and come to. It is as holy a place for them as it is for us, and they cannot deny its call. Besides, you will be stronger here, in this place where you once walked.... before."

"Yes. I walked here once. Come.... their shrine was.... this way. I think. I remember the day Zarwin built it. It was the last day he was here, the day they were banished."

Marrain looked at the corridors before him, and began to walk. Slowly Sinoval followed him, Kats a few steps behind. Around them all, hidden in the shadows but still there, were the guards. The two Praetors Tutelary, who guarded their Primarch with their lives, and nine of the Primarch's Blades, led by Lanniel. They were sworn to protect Sinoval and, although unknown to her, Kats as well.

Sinoval looked at her, wishing not for the first time that he had been able to persuade her to remain behind on Tarolin 2.

"I will go with you." She had said those words calmly and dispassionately, yet he understood the strength behind them.

"You should remain here. It will be.... dangerous."

"I have faced danger before."

"I did not say you had not, my lady, but this.... will not be easy, not even for me. Marrain is strong and dedicated, but he is also insane. I can hope only to appeal to whatever remains of the man he was before love and hatred drove him mad. He is unpredictable and may take it upon himself to hurt you."

"If he is so dangerous, then why include him in this?"

"Because if he does remember who he was, then he and he alone will be able to do what I require of him. I will not be able to do that, nor will you, nor Lanniel, nor Durhan, nor any Soul Hunter or Vindrizi. Only he.

"Besides, all of us, no matter how heinous our crimes, deserve one single chance for redemption."

"Does that include Kozorr?"

"My lady.... I promised I would do all I could to restore him to you, yes.... but that may not be easy, or even possible."

"You brought Marrain here because only he could do what you need. Only I can bring Kozorr back. You cannot, and you know that. Nor can Marrain, or Lanniel, or anyone else. He loves me, and it was because of that he turned to them."

"My lady...."

"I love him! If he comes to the trap you have set, as we both know he will.... then I will be able to talk to him, to.... show him what he has done, to explain to him.... He must know, he must be made to understand. Only I can do that."

"He is luckier than he knows, my lady. I do not doubt your courage, I do not even doubt your love. I doubt only my ability to protect you."

"Please.... do not doubt my ability to protect myself."

"We are here," said Marrain, snapping Sinoval back to the present. He looked at the room before him, trying to remember if he had been here during his last stay on Babylon 4. He did not think so, but then he had been there for only a few days.

This room must have been a storage chamber of some kind, but it had been changed from that purpose to another. A shrine. Sinoval looked at the makeshift altar, and the markings just above it. They spelled out letters in a very old dialect he was largely unfamiliar with, but this one word he could recognise.

"Z'ondar," he whispered softly.

"Zarwin built this. He crafted it himself, intending to make this place the holiest of all for his people. Valen cast him and his people aside the same day, fighting the remainder of the war without them.

"Is it any wonder they fell into darkness?"

"And now we will bring them back to the light," Sinoval said softly. "All we need do is let them know where we are, and wait for them to come to us."

"Oh, they will come," Marrain said, his eyes sparkling. "They will come to reclaim their holy place, and then....

"There will be death. Death, death and only death until there is nothing but the soft, light footfalls of the slain.

"Death...."

"I told you never to come here!"

Lord–General Marrago, of the great and glorious Centauri Republic, was renowned for many things. One of these things was his calm and peace of mind. Not for him the ranting and raving and furiously shouted orders of some leaders. In battle he was always marked by calm and equilibrium. 'A general who plans in anger will lead his men only to their deaths,' he had once commented.

He was angry now, his initial shock having faded in an admirably short time.

"What if someone had seen you?"

"Your guards.... are blind and stupid," the Drakh hissed, stepping forward into the light. "They did not see me."

"I still told you never to come here. I would contact you, remember? Not the other way around."

"Arrogant are you.... to think you can control the Dark Masters. They control you, and I am here to remind you of that."

"No one controls me. We had a deal. One battle, that was it. They would help us for one battle. We need them no longer."

"Price there was for that one battle."

"And as I said, I will pay it. But how can I do that when the.... artefact has not been delivered to me?"

"It has been delivered to another. She received it today.... She will perform this task for us."

A chill swept through the Lord–General, as he knew of whom the Drakh spoke. His kutari raised, he darted forward, and the Drakh met him impassively.

"Of little worth is my life. Honour it is to die serving the Masters."

"You will leave my daughter alone! She was not a part of any of this."

"Now she is. Sought to protect her you did, but no one and nothing can be hidden well enough from Masters. Remember that. She returns here now.... to fulfill your side of the deal."

"No! She is not part of this."

"Yes.... The Masters willed it so."

"Then we are done. Lyndisty will deliver this.... package to the place you specified, and then we are done. We will never meet again."

"If the Masters will it, we shall meet again." The Drakh gently placed an object on the table. It was black and shining, a million tiny sparkles of light coming from deep beneath the surface. It was an orb. "When you need them.... touch this and think the words. They will come.

"And another price there will be paid."

"I told you. One battle, one favour. That is all."

"We know truth. We know necessity. Masters know all. Consider values greatly, soldier. Lives of those you lead.... against bargain with Masters." The Drakh walked forward and pushed past Marrago. He made no effort to stop it leaving.

"If I see any of your kind here again," the Lord–General snapped, "I'll kill you all."

"Honour to die serving the Masters it is. Proud to die in their cause would I be. Not afraid of death am I. Your daughter.... she would be, yes?"

The Drakh then left, and Marrago looked at the black orb resting on his table. He wanted to destroy it, to hurl it against the wall and watch it shatter into a million pieces.

He put it in a drawer, and went to contact Lyndisty.

Talia was not afraid. She had been thoroughly trained in defeating fear. It was a survival instinct, that was all, a hangover from the days when humans were little better than animals. She was not an animal, she was not even a normal human. She could face her fear, face it and conquer it.

There were mind–calming techniques she had been learning ever since the age of five. As she walked through the sterile, colourless corridors of the hospital facility, she ran them over and over in her mind. Her breathing was calm and natural. Her walk was normal. Her bearing spoke of routine duties, as if she had done this a thousand times. What was necessary was not to look out of place.

She had memorised the map Welles had provided, studied the timetable of the shift changes, the routine day–to–day business of the hospital. She passed through the security checkpoints with no problems. The replacements were delayed as Welles had promised.

Finally she arrived in Delenn's room. It was a normal, private ward room. Normal, that was, save for the two Security officers and the still figure in the bed, surrounded by machinery. Delenn was asleep.

This was the first glimpse Talia had had of Delenn, and she was mildly surprised. She had not been sure what she had been expecting, but it was not this fragile, strangely beautiful mix of human and Minbari. Welles had not told her about what had happened to put Delenn in this place, but she could sense a terrible, terrible sadness in the alien woman's slumber.

Of course it was interrupted by the sight of one of the security guards stepping forward. "ID?" he asked.

Talia handed it over, taking care to make the action as nonchalant as possible. This was a routine inspection, that was all. Purely routine.

"I don't recognise you," said the other one. She risked a quick surface scan. He was suspicious. He was the sort who was naturally suspicious. Slowly, casually, Talia placed her hand behind her back and slid a small device from her sleeve. An electronic jammer, a device that would paralyse the surveillance equipment in here if a fight should prove necessary. Not one of Welles' toys, something she had been able to pick up on the black market.

It was remarkable what could be found if you looked hard enough.

"I'm a transfer from the Ellison Building in two–o–nine," she said, repeating her story. Changing cover stories always led to trouble. "One of the nurses is sick and can't come in." That was true enough. Talia had been able to find a nurse and induce a severe headache.

"ID checks out."

"She's early. The next check isn't for another twenty minutes."

"Just being efficient," Talia replied. "I could come back if you want me to...."

"No," said the second guard, the suspicious one. "I'd better call this Ellison Building. Who's in charge there?"

"A Dr. Welles," Talia replied, flicking the switch on the jammer. A quick telepathic suggestion fogged the first guard's perceptions just enough. A syringe slipped from the sheath in her left sleeve and, moving with reflexes that would put a Minbari dancer to shame, she slid it into the second guard's neck. The tranquilliser took effect immediately, and he went down.

The other guard moved to react, but he was still trying to shake off the multiple Talias he was seeing. His first instinct was to reach for his link, unaware that communications would be blanked. Talia delivered a swift elbow to his neck and he fell.

Now that she had acted, Talia knew she did not have much time. Going to the bed, she quickly studied the wires and tubes, wondering which ones were safe to pull. She had studied Delenn's medical records, which stated most of them were merely to build her strength and aid nutrition. Hopefully none of them was too essential, but Delenn could certainly not be left here.

Besides, Talia thought with a mental shrug, what did she care if anything happened to Delenn? She was a tool, nothing more.

Delenn's eyes suddenly blinked open and Talia found herself looking deeply into them. "Who.... are...?"

Talia was slightly taken aback by the.... tragedy evident in those two words. There was just a hint there of the suffering Delenn must have endured. It was easy to think of her as an alien monster, or as a playing piece on a giant chess board. To see her as a real person....

It reminded Talia of waking up on an operating table, and seeing her people trapped. Their voices had been quiet in her mind lately.

"I'm a friend. We don't have much time. Can you walk?"

"Yes."

"Good." Moving quickly, Talia began disengaging the wires and drips. Delenn even helped. Gently, Talia helped Delenn from the bed, and took the brunt of her weight as she sagged against her. "There's a friend waiting outside, but we have got to hurry."

"I will.... move as fast as I can."

That journey felt like one of the longest of Talia's life, although it took only a few minutes. She knew where the Security patrols were, she trusted Welles' promise to have the necessary points unmanned, she knew fear was pointless, but still every step seemed to take forever, every corridor seemed a marathon.

Finally, she and Delenn slipped out of a side door, to see an ambulance waiting for them. "Inside," Talia whispered.

"Thought you weren't coming," Dexter replied, as he saw the two of them slip into the back of the vehicle. "I was sure they could hear my heart beating from the other side of the planet."

"Stay calm, and we'll get out of this yet. Just go up to the exit, show them your ID, and remain calm. Remember, this is all routine."

"If you say so."

Talia looked down at Delenn, who was breathing heavily, her hair hanging damp across her face. The juxtaposition of such rich dark hair next to an alien face struck Talia as faintly amusing. "Are you all right?"

"No," came the reply. "But I will be. Why.... why did you do this? I came here to die."

"Well, I came here to rescue you. Don't worry, I'm getting paid."

"Who?"

There was a long silence, as Talia debated whether to tell her or not. Welles had said nothing about keeping his name a secret from her, and yet she was trained in secrets. Finally, she decided to share the information.

"Ah," Delenn said softly. "Ah." That was all.

No one said anything more until they were well clear of the compound and moving quickly. Arrangements had been made to dump the vehicle and move on somewhere safe. Unfortunately, and irritatingly, Talia did not know where to. Dexter had arranged the safe house.

"So?" she said at last. "Where are we going?"

"A safe place," he replied. Then, with a boyish smile. "You'll see."

The Tak'cha race possessed a long and fascinating history, but one that Sonovar had no interest in studying. He did not care that they had once believed so passionately in superior beings who had created them that they named themselves the 'Created' in their own language. Nor did he care that this passionate devotion had turned to jealousy, envy and hatred, such that the 'Created' had sought their Gods and had slain one of them. Nor did he care that the Gods had wreaked their bloody vengeance with a ship that blotted out the stars and turned the 'Created's' homeworld to a pile of rock and rubble.

Had Sonovar cared, he would have learned of centuries of wandering and anarchy, and a desperate search for forgiveness and penance. These had ended only when the Blessed Zarwin, the first Sah'thai, had found the Z'ondar, an emissary of the Tak'cha Gods themselves, and had pledged himself to their side. For a brief time they had known true penance and had thrown themselves into this new role with a passionate and furious zeal, eager to rid themselves of the mistakes of past generations.

With Zarwin's exile, the Tak'cha had merely gained another array of sins for which to atone. Rank in their society was achieved by atoning for a long list of sins. The Sah'thai - their leader - had atoned for all but one, and that was the forgotten sin, the sin not even Zarwin had properly understood.

Sonovar knew none of this, not caring to find out. His mind was always on the future and so, sometimes, he neglected the past. It was a small sin of the many he possessed, and yet history would judge him for it.

He was in practice with Takier when Cozon and Vhixarion came to see him. At first he was irritated, not liking one of his few moments of peace to be interrupted, but when he saw the excitement in Vhixarion's bearing and tone, his irritation faded rapidly. Something important had surely happened.

"You were correct, Zaron'dar," said Vhixarion, his alien voice marked with a clear Minbari tone: awe. "The sign we have asked you for has come."

Sonovar of course had no idea what this sign was, but he also knew he could not admit that. One of the great things about the cretinously religious was that a good many things could be interpreted in various ways so as to manipulate and control them. Sonovar lived according to his wits, his strength and his conviction. The universe favoured such as him.

"It has been found again. That which was lost. Ende X'ton. We have found it."

Still Sonovar was silent. There was something coming. He could feel it.

"But...." Vhixarion said, enthusiasm replaced by a righteous anger. "Our enemy has found it first. We received a message, a challenge, contempt for us, the Z'ondar's chosen."

Sonovar's eyes darkened. He had been wondering for some time now when Sinoval would emerge again. Had he not been so concerned with the Alliance he might have hunted him down, but Forell had so accurately predicted that Sinoval would surface soon enough, and how much more of a challenge and how much greater the victory to best him on his own ground.

"We will mass the war fleets of the Tak'cha," Vhixarion said. "We will assemble our warriors and our priests and our chosen and our forgiven, and we will go to reclaim Ende X'ton from the accursed one and his Lords of Death. And at our side.... will ride with us the Zaron'dar."

There was no sign on Sonovar's carefully masked visage, but something within him rankled. He, ride with them? He was master here, he the lord, he the visionary and the hero to be.

But that could wait. Something else mattered. Sinoval. He was there. On this.... lost station. He had issued a challenge all right, but not to the Tak'cha.... to Sonovar himself.

"I will ready myself," he said. "Takier.... prepare your ships. Talk to your captains. Sah'thai...." One day I will destroy you. "Sah'thai.... I give you my word, we will reclaim your holy place." A place he could not pronounce if he had a year to practise. "And we will defeat the accursed one and his Lords of Death."

Yes.... Sinoval. They would defeat him, break him utterly. And in the end, Sinoval would acknowledge him Master.

Before he died.

Sonovar barked out a few more orders, although there was little point. Takier knew what to do, and Vhixarion would not listen. They all rushed away, and Sonovar stood in his practice chamber for a moment, alone and basking in the glory of this moment.

"Great lord," said a familiar voice, and Forell moved into view.

"Go away, Forell," Sonovar snapped. "This is a time for warriors, not weaklings. Stay here and pray for all our souls."

"You will not go to Anla'Verenn–veni, great lord."

"What? You.... dare command me?" Sonovar raised his pike. "You dare command me, little worm?" He took a step forward and Forell met his gaze evenly.

"I think only of your best interests, great lord."

Sonovar lowered his pike. "Yes," he said softly. "I suppose you do. Then I will let you explain yourself, Forell. Why am I not to go?"

"This is clearly a trap, great lord, a ploy to draw you in. Sinoval is cunning. Meet him on your terms, great lord, not his. Others are more capable of such a task. Why dirty your own hands with such.... a mundane and tedious purpose?"

"Hah! Of course. I am Sonovar. This is beneath me. Let the Tak'cha have their dead and dusty temples. I will.... guide them from here. Kozorr and Tirivail can handle this in my stead. Yes.... Yes, I know best. Forell! Go to Kozorr and Tirivail and see they are told what to do. Yes.... I will stay here and co–ordinate matters."

"I bow before your great wisdom, great lord," Forell said, suiting the action to the words. He shuffled into the darkness, and the voice of the Keeper in his mind was very satisfied.

The old man knew all about power. He knew everything there was to know about controlling people, nations, destinies. For years now he had been secretly running the human race. Oh, not their Government, or their industry or their economy. Those things he left to his subordinates, although he occasionally became involved when he had to.

No, he guided the fate of humanity. He watched everything happening, the onward push of history, and he moulded events slightly, subtly, according to the grand design. Sometimes he wondered if he was himself controlled by this design.

It did not matter. When he died - in truth this time, and not merely as an illusion to keep himself hidden - few people would know anything about his accomplishments, but they would be there. Humanity would be forever changed by his actions.

It was unfortunate that so many would have to die, and it was slightly out of keeping with his philosophy. If anything, the next stage of the grand design was more the sort of strategy that the Enemy might pursue.

That of course made it all the more attractive. Humanity had chosen wrongly, acting in error for selfish reasons, little knowing or caring what they had done when they willingly signed themselves over to the Shadows.

They had to be punished for that error. Any punishment had a number of purposes, of course. First, there was the reinforcement that what had been done was wrong - a lesson. And then there was the deterrent, ensuring that the error would never be repeated.

The lesson would be the deaths of so many; the deterrent the way the deaths would be explained away.

It was a shame, yes, but it was necessary. To bring humanity to Heaven, it must first know Hell. As Rameses had once said: 'Canaan is devastated, Ashkelon is fallen, Gezer is ruined, Yenoam is reduced to nothing, Israel is desolate and her seed is no more, and Palestine has become a widow for Egypt.

'All the countries are unified and pacified.'

"Who said that?" asked a familiar voice, and the old man turned. It was Morden, walking forward, his hand in his pocket as was his habit. "It had the feel of a quotation."

The old man shook his head, smiling slightly. Morden was not much of a historian, not of Earth history anyway. "An ancient king, long dead now."

"All the countries are unified and pacified," Morden repeated. "I don't like the sound of this. It's.... too much like what they might do, the Enemy."

"Yes, it is. But it is not them, it is us. The Enemy believe in chaos, disorder, anarchy. A struggle for supremacy, where everything succumbs to force, to technology, to the movement of armies. We.... Well, for us it is a slow, gentle, loving climb up. Our friends love all the races, even those who make mistakes. To err, is, after all, only human.

"However, no loving parent would spare the rod. To do so only spoils the child. Sometimes, my friend, it is sadly necessary to be cruel to be kind."

"I suppose so. Sacrifices are sometimes necessary." Morden looked up at the machine before them. The telepath, Byron, was still, motionless, his mouth open in a silent scream. "I thought I'd find you here."

"It is a marvel, is it not? A clear and precise image of just how far there is to go. We feel that because we can walk between the stars, conquer worlds and dominate races, we know all there is to know.

"We do not, and I for one hope we never will."

"The never–ending necessity for human achievement. I met a taxi driver a few months ago who was talking about the same thing. Anyway, there is a message for you. From our.... ah.... Lady Gwenhyfar."

Morden handed over the sheet and the old man grabbed it with uncharacteristic haste. 'Lady Gwenhyfar' was of no value in herself, but she was a representative of those who held themselves to be the secret masters of humanity. For centuries there had been those who had ruled by stealth, by secrecy, by the invisible knife in the dark. Names changed constantly, they meant little in the end. Bureau 13 had been the previous appellation, only to be replaced in recent years by the designation of an ancient age of chivalry - the Round Table.

And 'Gwenhyfar' was his eyes and ears there.

"'King Arthur' has called a meeting of his knights," the old man muttered, crumpling up the page. It was written in code of course, but still, no evidence should be kept of his involvement in this, not yet. Morden did not react. Both of them knew who 'King Arthur' was.

"It is the first time he has sought to convene a full meeting since his return from Z'ha'dum. I think he is close to making a move against the President."

"You're sure?"

"He must be. He's a cautious man, and patient, but time is running out and he knows it. This war with the Alliance, their new Dark Star ships.... everything's moving fast and Clark isn't taking enough action to stop it. The 'king' is going to have to do something, and he's bound to want the Round Table to support him."

"Will they?"

"I don't know. Some will. Maybe enough."

"So what are we going to do about it? We can't wake Mr. Byron here yet, can we?"

"No. That would reveal our hand to the Enemy far too soon. The network is powerful, yes, but if an Enemy ship decided to blow this whole building apart, there's precious little we could do about it. We can't activate Byron until the fleet is here." The old man paused. "We're going to have to accelerate the timetable. The sooner the Dark Star fleet gets here, the sooner we can activate our part of the network, the sooner we can administer the.... punishment, and the sooner we can free Proxima."

"Are we going to be ready this soon? Is the fleet going to be ready?"

"It'll have to be."

"Do you want me to contact Captain Sheridan?"

The old man shook his head. "No, he may know who you are. Sinoval's met you, and he definitely knows who you are, and who you work for. He and Sheridan are not very close, but he might have told somebody something. So might Mollari, for that matter. We'd be better off not revealing just who we're working for.

"So.... I think I'll have to do this myself. Hmm.... I've always wanted to talk to Captain Sheridan. I think he's a man who will.... understand our situation here."

"Let's hope so," Morden muttered. "Let's hope so."

They thought he was a fool, all of them. For all these years they had thought him an incompetent, a blind man, able to be pushed this way and that, manipulated to fulfill their desired ends. Welles, Sheridan, the Round Table, the MegaCorps, Bester.... all of them.

Well, William Morgan Clark was no fool. He was President of Humanity, and to the masses that meant he was the most powerful person in all the human worlds. Oh, there were some conspiracy theorists who believed in all sorts of things like the Round Table, but recent years had more or less put an end to their credibility. Clark was popular and successful, as Humanity's recent poll had proved.

But to those in the inner circle so to speak, he was a nothing, a figurehead, a nonentity. He went along with all their plans, making futile attempts to direct the course of human affairs, but really all he had to do was sit and watch Welles, Sheridan and Ryan sorting things out. From time to time it amused him and others to insist on certain courses of action, such as concentrating on Sinoval. That was necessary, but also amusing.

It had been fun watching them all wonder if they had underestimated him, or whether another faction had simply got to him first. Sheridan wondering if Welles or Ryan were so concerned about Sinoval, Welles and Bester making plans for the future of the Great Machine....

He was perfectly happy to watch, and direct things according to a grand design.

Let them think he was a nonentity. Let all of them think that. He did not care. His - and humanity's - greatest defeat was coming, greater even than the loss of Earth. Everyone would see it happen, and no one would suspect that their greatest defeat was his greatest victory. Humanity's too, although they would probably never realise that.

He thought again about the new defence grid. It had been improved after the Battle of the Second Line, and tweaked and honed and perfected ever since then. It now represented the pinnacle of modern technology. It was perfect, absolutely flawless.

Save, of course, for the fact that the President had complete access to the keycards and pass codes.

"What happens if I get drunk and wander down here?" he had asked the technician, smiling. The tech had not replied, his face showing clear doubt as to whether Clark was joking with him, or joking at him.

Clark smiled at the memory as he sat back in his chair, looking at the thing in his hand. It was still now, its single eye closed. A particularly revolting creature, although it could be useful in certain circumstances. Clark wished he had time to play with it a little, but unfortunately events were moving too fast. He hadn't had time to play with his previous Keeper after it had been blasted from his body.

He shifted his gaze to the dead bodies on the floor. The Zener's face still bore the expression of the recognition it had experienced in its last, dying moment. Not enough was left of the Drakh for its face to be seen.

The Keeper's eye twitched open, and it trembled with fear. There are some beings who see beyond the mere physical.

Clark closed his fist around it, and began to whistle as he disposed of the remains and washed his hands.

Peace was a rarity in a warrior's life. In an existence dedicated to war, to the service of their lord and their people, to the constant search for perfection of body, mind and soul, there was little room for peace. Even rituals of meditation were dedicated to loyalty and service and sacrifice.

Kozorr could count on one hand the number of times he had known true peace in his life. Most of them had featured Kats in one way or another.

He dimly reflected that he would now have to be able to move the fingers of his broken hand enough to begin counting on them too.

He was not sure about his feelings for Tirivail. Her feelings for him she had made quite clear. He admired her, both for her beauty and for her skill in battle, as well as her dedicated loyalty to her father Takier, and to Sonovar. She was many things a true warrior should be, and she reminded him in some ways of Deeron.

But however much time he spent with Tirivail, however many times she hinted or implied or said flat out she would like to take matters further, however much respect he felt for her, he could always hear Kats' voice, see her smile and the gentleness in her eyes.

He sat back, resting against the wall. He did not like sitting down, it was not a position a warrior should ever adopt, but his leg had been paining him after several hours of training and exercise.

"The Osen has been found," Tirivail said. She was standing, as a warrior should, and pacing slowly up and down. "It was destroyed by those new ships the Alliance controls - the Dark Stars. All the crew were killed in the engagement."

"We should never have been raiding Alliance shipping in the first place," Kozorr muttered. "Our war is not with them. It never has been."

"It has weakened relations between the Alliance and Sinoval," she replied. "But you are right. We should not be making war upon civilians and merchants. Leave trade wars for the Narn and the Centauri."

"Has the Alliance discovered who it was behind the attacks?"

"Lord Sonovar does not think so. Or rather, his pathetic little worm of an advisor does not think so. The Alliance is too busy with its war against the humans to bother with us. I do not think they will attack us unless we attack them."

"Then let us hope we don't. We cannot fight a war on two fronts."

"We are warriors," she replied, her eyes gleaming. "We will fight as many foes as we wish."

"And then we will all die, and what will we have achieved? We have lost the Osen. How many ships do we have left? Your Storm Dancers clan and the Tak'cha form the bulk of our military strength now. We do not have the resources for two wars."

"Then we will have a glorious death. Besides, Sinoval has been.... quiet. He has made no attempt to counterattack."

"That," said Kozorr firmly, "is what worries me. Beware a quiet enemy. But, practical considerations aside, the reason we should not fight the Alliance is because we have no reason to, and nothing to gain if we did. At least with the war against Sinoval there is an objective."

"There is?"

"Of course. We are fighting for the future of our people. Well, Sonovar is. Me, I'm...."

"You're fighting for your pretty little worker." She shook her head. "I do not understand you sometimes. She must have bewitched you. How can you have such feelings for a worker?"

"Have you ever been in love, Tirivail?"

"Love?" she snorted. "A delusion crafted by poets and dreamers and priestlings. I have love only for battle." She smiled, studying him closely for his reaction. "Of course, physical attraction and respect I do understand, but that is not love."

"No, it is not, and until you have felt what I feel, you will never understand."

"A worker? In the Name of the Betrayer, Kozorr! They are weak, pathetic, bloodless wretches! Necessary, yes.... and useful, but they are little better than animals."

"Kats is not weak or pathetic. She endured a torture that would have crippled and broken anyone else. I have seen the fire in her soul."

"If it is fire you want, then I will be happy to burn you." Kozorr did not react, and she shrugged. "A waste. Such a waste, but maybe there is still time. And hope. At least she is not a priestling."

"I have never met a priestling worth the respect Kats deserves." Tirivail smiled sweetly. "But then I have met few warriors worth that respect either." The smile faded.

"Am I one of those warriors?"

He paused, and she studied him intently. He could feel the force of her gaze. He was about to reply when the door opened.

It was the smell Kozorr was aware of first, a black stench that made him reel. For one brief moment he thought of Kalain, but then he knew the difference. Kalain's was the smell of death. This was the smell of one who has not bothered with his ablutions for months.

It was Forell of course, Sonovar's rotten little worm of an advisor. The clothes were literally rotting from his back and many of the deep wounds visible on his face and hands were weeping foul–smelling pus. He was carrying a tray and two goblets, which were the cleanest things about him.

"The Great Lord sends these to his two finest warriors with his regards," Forell hissed. His voice seemed clear and precise, although with hints of hoarseness. Before his.... mutilation and torture he had been an adequate orator, and he still tended towards verbosity and sycophancy.

Tirivail grabbed one of the goblets and stepped back cautiously. She did not like Forell, but then few did. Even Takier was prone to wondering just why Sonovar kept him around. He was the only priestling here; even Gysiner and Chardhay had left to go to one of the refugee worlds.

Kozorr rose awkwardly to his feet. The pain in his leg was less now, replaced by a dull thud, but he still knew to be careful not to stumble and fall. He had not noticed before how thirsty he was, and the strong aroma of the elixir almost overrode Forell's filthy odour.

He seized the goblet with unseemly haste and raised it to his lips. The thick red liquid burned his throat as it went down, but he was soon filled with a soft and pleasant warmth. He looked at Tirivail, who was swilling the dregs at the bottom of her goblet thoughtfully. She noticed him looking, and drained the rest.

"And now that you are refreshed, noble warriors," Forell continued, "the Great Lord requests your presence immediately. He needs the strong and the brave to serve him in an.... important matter."

"A mission for us?" Tirivail asked. Her eyes were shining.

"A mission? Yes. An important mission."

A chill ran down Kozorr's spine. There was something lurking just behind Forell's eyes, something that aroused considerable suspicion. He did not like the sound of this.

But then he was a warrior, and, like or dislike, he was sworn to obey his lord.

Unto death.

Another routine day at the pub. The usual assortment of the drunk, the lost, the alone, the damned and the corrupt. There were times when Bo struggled to remember why he had opened this bar in the first place.

But then he did remember, his mind returning to the old days as a child, when his father had taken him into the bars. That had been in a small mining village on Vega. Every Sunday afternoon they had gone, as had all Bo's father's friends. They had sat around the same table, drinking patiently, playing cards, telling the same old jokes, laughing, complaining about their jobs and their wives, but all in good humour.

Bo had just sat and listened to them, answering their questions whenever they turned to him, running to fetch their drinks, advising his father on his hand of cards. But mostly, whenever he was tired, he curled up next to the fire - a real, genuine fire - and soaked in the warmth, the atmosphere, the conversation. He had known then that that was what he wanted to do: run a place just like that.

Oh, he had done all sorts of jobs after his father had died. Mining, cleaning, routine maintenance, all the usual shlub work that needed doing but that no one could be bothered doing. But he had done it, working hard, saving his money, and finally he had been able to buy this place.

Somehow, it wasn't how he had wanted it to be. The pub of his childhood had never had to deal with fights every night, never had to slip credits to corrupt Security officers, or pay off the local gangsters. The fire there had been warm and inviting, not a false front like this one. There had been no pathetic losers there, sobbing into their drinks or throwing up on the floor or smashing their glasses.

He wiped the table, lost in a reverie of the past, sighing softly. There was little hope of anything better now. He was too old to seek anything new. No, he was stuck here, but maybe.... just maybe.... he could fix things. He might be able to turn the place around, attract a good local crowd, have things just the way he remembered.

Then he sighed again. He had been having those dreams for years now.

There was movement by the front door, and he tried to remember if he had locked it or not. His mind quickly ran through anyone who might be coming to see him at this time of night. Mr. Trace and his men? - but they had visited the day before. He was fully paid up until the middle of next month, and he couldn't remember doing anything to annoy Mr. Trace. There was the typical drunken or drugged–up thief, but he remembered what had happened to the last person who had tried to rob a business 'protected' by Mr. Trace. Bits of him were still showing up in back alleys.

Security weren't out and about at this time. So who?

He mumbled something angrily to himself. Probably Jinxo or someone like him throwing up in his doorway, or settling down to sleep, or both. Or expecting him to still be open, and just looking for somewhere warm.

"Oh, go away!" he cried to the door. "I'm closed."

He turned back to the bar, and heard the rattling again. As he looked up, he saw three people walking towards him. He recognised the one in front, but the name didn't come straight away. The other two were women, and one of them looked quite ill. She was leaning heavily on the other.

"I locked that door," he said. "Didn't I?"

"You did," said the conscious woman. "You could do with a better lock."

"We need your help, Bo," said the man.

"Dexter!" he said, recalling the name at last. "Wh.... what are you doing here? Security are still after you."

"Well, they're going to be after me a whole lot more now. Where's the Pit clinic?"

"The.... the.... the.... what? I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do, Bo. Before I went.... underground, I listened to things. Lots of things. You know everything there is to know about Sector Three–o–one, Bo. There's a clinic around here, somewhere, run for people who haven't got anywhere else to go. They'll look after people wanted by Security. And you know where it is."

"I'm a law–abiding citizen. I don't know...."

"Bo, there's someone here who needs your help. Badly. This is a chance for you to do something good, something right. No more pandering to Trace, or Allan, or anyone else. A chance to do something good for yourself. For all of us."

"I.... might know something. Who is she anyway?"

The two women stepped forward, and Bo caught a look at the sick one for the first time. Her head was drooping and there was a misty look in her eyes, but he didn't register any of that at first.

"Holy Mother of Gandhi," he whispered. "That's.... that's.... that's...."

"Yes," said Dexter. "It is. But she's also someone who needs your help. Can you give it?"

"I.... might know.... something," he whispered. "Maybe."

Dexter smiled. "Thanks, Bo. You're doing the right thing."

"Oh, I hope so. I hope so."

Dear Victoria,

Well, I've done it now. She's free. I heard the report on the emergency frequency less than an hour ago. Naturally, I was appropriately angry. I took all the right actions, ordering full Security sweeps, a search for those responsible.... all that. It doesn't matter. They won't be found. I'm sure of it.

But I will be. I slipped up. Oh, it wasn't anything specific. I did everything as well as I could. The false IDs would have worked fine. But.... it'll be traced back to me. It's obvious even to a blind man that this couldn't have been done without help from inside, from someone very highly placed. They'll find me.

What matters is that they don't find Delenn. Maybe they won't trace things to me for a while. You never know, I might even have time to start that investigation into Sector 301 I promised Smith. Winters has the data crystal I promised, so she'll be happy.

All this is strange. I had plans at the beginning, when I got word of her capture. I could get her help, make a deal with her. It was necessary for the future of humanity. Clark's throwing us into more and more wars that aren't our concern. What do we care about the Alliance? Why did we get involved with Epsilon 3?

Delenn could have helped us. She could have spoken to the Alliance Council, forged some sort of treaty, tried to warn them, anything. With her testimony and with me in the Government here, then.... we could still salvage something from this mess. We could still save humanity.

But look at us now. I don't think we deserve to be saved.

I ordered the murder of an unborn baby for political reasons. I didn't hate him, he had never done anything to wrong me. He just had the wrong mother, and he became life at the wrong moment. That's it.

Hate me if you like, Vicky. You can't hate me worse than I hate myself now. No.... you probably wouldn't hate me. You'd sit there looking at me with those soft, deep brown eyes of yours and you'd understand. You'd understand everything and you'd forgive me, and that just makes it so much worse.

I don't want to be forgiven! I did something terrible, and I don't want to be told I had my reasons, that it was understandable, that it was all right, that I'm forgiven.

We don't deserve to be saved, none of us.

I miss you, Vicky. I've missed you every single day for the past eight years and I'll never stop missing you.

Why did you have to die?

There's no one to blame either. Oh, I could try blaming the Minbari, but what good would that do? That will only lead to more hate. There's probably a Minbari sitting out there somewhere thinking about his lost love and blaming it on us.

We have to stop this somehow, but I've no idea how. I don't think we can. The people don't want it to stop.

As I said, we don't deserve to be saved.

Ah.... they're coming for me. Give Clark credit, he's good. Much cleverer than any of us have seen, even Sheridan. He's planning something. I don't know what, and I don't care, but I do know he's been sitting there pretending to be an idiot while the rest of us have been sniping at each other.

I've got to go. They'll find this letter, of course. Let them. I've said what needed to be said, and it's not as if you're here to read it. I think I just needed to talk to you one last time.

Goodbye, Vicky. I love you.

Welles set down his pen and looked up at the door. They were pounding on the other side of it. Men would even now be taking up positions at the back door, the windows and all possible points of escape. All unnecessary, of course. He had no intention of trying to escape.

He wondered what he would be charged with. Treason against the duly authorised Government, under section 2(1) of the Wartime Emergency Provisions 2247. That was a certainty. Aiding and abetting an enemy of the people. Perverting the course of justice.

Oh, he would be charged with whatever they liked. He would be charged, convicted and sentenced to death. Probably several times over.

He didn't mind. In fact he was quite looking forward to it. It would all be over. All of it. The guilt, the fear, the pain, the loss. All gone.

The door burst open and in rushed the Security officers. His men. His own men. He knew all their names, their spouses' names, their children's names and how many pets they all had.

He slowly rose to his feet.

Chapter 3

There was pain, but then he had expected that. They had not gone easy on him, and why should they? The guards had been understandably angry. He had, after all, arranged the escape of a war criminal, a mass murderer and the orchestrator of the destruction of Earth.

All in all he had got off fairly lightly, although they were not done with him yet.

Welles wondered what the public statement would be. Macabee would probably be having heart failure over how to present this to the public. It would probably remain secret for quite some time. Clark would obviously be hoping to recapture Delenn and pretend none of it had ever happened.

He shifted on the cold floor of his cell and winced at the pain in his side. Maybe not broken ribs, but bruised certainly. He knew all about the uses of pain and isolation when it came to interrogations. He would be left alone for a while now, a few days at least, to increase fear, to bring about a sense of solitude and loneliness.

He knew all about interrogation techniques. He had used them all in his time, but he had never imagined he would be subject to them.

His fingers throbbed. He wondered if they were broken, or if there was tendon damage or something. Vicky could have told at a glance of course, but he could only make an educated guess. He had learned a great deal in seven years married to a doctor, and his near–perfect memory helped him recall a lot, but alas, he did not know everything.

"What would you think of me, I wonder?" he whispered, imagining her here. He had not done that for years, it was too painful. He had mentioned her to Bester a few years ago, and that had been the first time he had even thought about her since her death. Now that he had acknowledged her, however, it was impossible to deny her.

"Oh, Vicky," he whispered. "I'm sorry....

"I'm so sorry."

He listened very hard for a reply, but there was none.

Alone, lost, damned, she floated in a world of her own, where the only sound was her son's heart beating, the only word she knew, his name.

David....

She did not know where she was. She knew there were people around. This was a different place from where David had been killed. These were different people. They seemed.... kinder. Wary, yes, but kinder, a mix of revulsion and caring, hatred and sympathy.

One of them she thought she knew, but comprehension eluded her.

He was dead. David was dead. Her son. His heart had stopped beating. He had been changed from her son into a mass of dead cells and sucked from her body. She had felt his heart stop beating.

She didn't know who had done that to him. To her. She didn't know their names, what they looked like, who they were. Did they have children?

A vital point of understanding almost touched her, but then the sound of the heartbeat grew louder, and she slipped away, lost in a dream.

A dream, or a memory.

It was on Z'ha'dum. She and.... two other people.... She thought she knew them, but their names escaped her. She had loved one of them once, loved him very much. She had hated the other. Or maybe not hate, but.... something.

There had been caverns all around them, hot rocks and masses of rubble. Somewhere along the journey she had come upon shiny, reflective surfaces, almost like mirrors. One of her companions.... the one she had once not quite hated.... had paused, trying to think.

Something in the - mirror, if that was what it was - attracted her, and she stepped forward to look at it. She saw a reflection that was herself, and not herself. There was something in the eyes, a wealth of experiences that were not her own. This.... different her had known love, and fear, and joy, and loss, just as she had.... but different.

It had been there for only a moment, and then it had vanished.

Who was this other self? Someone who had made a different choice, days, or weeks, or years ago? Someone for whom things had gone better, or worse?

Could she have done things differently, and become that other self? Would David still be alive if she had done that? Would he even have been conceived?

She did not know. Too many questions she just could not answer. David's heartbeat was growing stronger, and for just one minute she thought she could see the people around her, thought she could name one of them.

But it slipped away, and her eyes closed.

He could not remember when he had last slept. His last meal was a far–distant memory. His last drink was.... an illusion. Simple luxuries now escaped him. A conversation about nothing. A moment with a friend. The touch of one he loved.

Captain John Sheridan remembered all these things, but had put them all aside, not without some regret. It was necessary. The fate of humanity was at stake.

There were times when he dreamed, and he recalled each and every dream with crystal clarity in the morning. He dreamed he had awakened from a deep sleep, and been unable to move. Arms, legs, fingers, neck.... all were sealed shut. He could not breathe, could not move, could not scream for help.

He had lain like that for hours, maybe years, until someone came. It was Delenn, and the smile his mouth could not give expression to showed in his eyes. She was dressed in white and gold, and she had never looked more beautiful. She gently laid her finger on his forehead, and he could move again. He could reach up and touch her.

And then he always awoke, unshed tears in his eyes.

He remembered very little of what had happened after that last, terrible moment on the bridge of the Parmenion. He remembered the burst of light as his world exploded, and he remembered waking in a hospital on Kazomi 7, unable to move. Something had happened in between, he knew, but he could not recall what. A soft whisper, a voice speaking words he could not understand.

The months after that had been a blur. Delenn had been there, and David, but he could not remember much of what they had said or done. He seemed to recall meeting his father, although whether that had been true or just a dream he did not know. Delenn had told him it was a dream.

Then he had been awakened and been able to move, and he had known what to do. Some things became.... unimportant, while others filled his vision entirely. Delenn had been at the forefront of his mind always, but she had died on a distant, dead world, callously murdered, and he had been left with nothing but revenge.

He had to free his people from the taint of the Shadows, and he had to avenge Delenn's death. He had to end this whole war, and destroy the Shadows altogether. Over three years since the Second Line. That was long enough.

But other things seemed so.... unimportant now.

"Captain," said one of his techs. He could not remember her name, if he had ever known it. "There's a message for you. It's on a top secret, coded channel, and audio–only."

"Oh? Put it through to my private channel." On an Earthforce ship he would have used an earphone and perhaps a sub–vocal microphone to keep this conversation secret. On a Dark Star, that was all unnecessary. Somehow the conversation was held entirely telepathically. He had no idea how, and nor did he care. That was one of the things that was unimportant.

--- This is Sheridan. ---

--- Good morning, or afternoon, or whatever it is where you are. --- Sheridan had a feeling this was the true voice of whoever was talking to him. Theoretically he could hear a conversation in any voice the other person chose, from a Yorkshire accent to American Deep South, but there was something natural about the formal, polite tone that made him think this was genuine.

--- Do I know you? ---

--- You probably know of me. Suffice it to say, I am a friend. ---

--- Oh? And I'm expected to believe that? --- There was a distant crackling noise, one he couldn't quite identify.

--- It is a wise man who is suspicious in times of trouble. It is a fool who disbelieves everything he is told. I am your friend. We share similar.... associates, you and I. ---

--- Where are you contacting me from? ---

--- I am on Proxima. I.... represent a group of people dissatisfied with the present administration there. We will be ready to act when your ships arrive. We may be of some assistance to you in your present campaign. ---

--- And my.... associates will support this? ---

--- Indeed they will. We have been preparing for some time. --- There was another voice speaking, trying to get his attention. He couldn't hear exact words. --- However, events here are running away with us, and we may not have much time. It may be advisable for you to conduct your assault on Proxima a little earlier than you had originally planned. ---

--- And I'm expected to trust you? For all I know this could be a trap. I don't even know your name. ---

Sheridan started. The voice had broken their conversation, burning with sheer terror. He could feel the desperation there, and something.... reached deep inside him.

--- What was that? ---

--- Nothing. Mere.... background interference. Allow me to.... adjust certain settings. There, that should fix it. --- It did. The whispers, the crackling, the voice.... all were gone. --- Now.... what was I saying? ---

--- You were about to give me your name. ---

--- I was? Ah, very well. I am William Edgars. Tell me, Captain, are you ready to listen to me now? ---

Sheridan sat bolt upright in his chair. --- You have my undivided attention, Mr. Edgars. ---

The conversation lasted another few minutes, with the Captain listening far more than he spoke. When it was done, he sat back in his chair, thinking for a few minutes. Then he turned to the tech. "Contact Captain Corwin. Tell him I need to see him at once."

"I have a bad feeling about this."

Having said this, and not for the first time, Kozorr fell into a deep silence. The holographic image of their destination loomed above them, an ancient warrior, retired, strength brought low by age but still carrying the power of experience and the memories of lost battles.

Babylon 4, as some called it. Anla'Verenn–veni. Lost for over nine centuries and now found again, by Sinoval. Kozorr remembered briefly the Well of Souls and the Vindrizi, and was in little doubt as to how Sinoval had located this last resting place.

But what was he planning? That was the question. There were no ships waiting for them as they bore down on Babylon 4. Of course it would take a sizeable fleet to oppose all the Tak'cha ships, and all of them had come here.

What had he once told Tirivail? Their military might consisted almost entirely of the Storm Dancers clan and the Tak'cha. Over two–thirds of Sonovar's military capability was here, wide open for a trap, and leaving their base of operations fatally vulnerable. Of course Sonovar and Takier had remained behind, but somehow that only added to Kozorr's worries. He smelled Forell's touch behind this.

Where was Sinoval? Just what was he planning? This was a perfect place for a trap.

"We should not be here," he said. "This is.... madness."

"Hardly madness," drawled a soft voice from his side.

"Look at us, Tirivail. Do you think Sinoval told the Tak'cha about this place out of the goodness of his heart? No, he has lured us all here. And why? This is a trap."

"Then it is a trap," she replied, unconcerned. "We will die as warriors, fighting to preserve this holy place. Besides, the Tak'cha will fight almost as hard. If this is a trap, then Sinoval may well find he has bitten off more than he can handle."

"He'd know that, though. That's why I have such a bad feeling.... Any pitched battle here would leave too many dead...."

"We are warriors. We are expected to die for our people."

"Yes, but for Sinoval.... I don't think this is the real war. He wouldn't throw away so many of our lives for this. He will have plans far beyond us. I think he may be going to attack Sonovar, but.... again.... I don't know."

Now doubt marked her face. "Lord Sonovar is not as protected as he should be.... But still, he has my father and our clan. We will defend him."

Kozorr sighed. "It is like trying to find a path through a maze in the midst of a hurricane. The answer is there somewhere, but I cannot find it." He hefted his pike. "Well.... I suppose it is too late to do anything about it now. There is only battle left, and duty."

Tirivail smiled, and her smile lit up the room. "There is only ever battle and duty," she said. "We are warriors. We fight, and we die."

And Babylon 4 came closer. Anla'Verenn–veni. The Place of Restored Dreams.

There was an old saying among tacticians and strategists of the Centauri, one they usually quoted with despair and considerable annoyance. 'Any battle plan lasts only as long as it takes for the first soldier to move.'

This was held to be a general truth about the futility of in–depth planning, and over the centuries a number of great military thinkers and leaders had tried to find ways around it. Strategists hated the idea of not being able to direct the entire course of the battle. The whole thing became too.... untidy and awkward and difficult.

Lord–General Marrago was held to be the foremost military tactician of his day. It had in fact been one of his distant ancestors who had first coined the saying. He disliked the truth of it as well, but for a very different reason.

He knew his soldiers. He knew their names, their families, the names of their children. He also knew the pointlessness of most wars. He fought them anyway, because he had a duty to the Republic, but what he wanted most, what all soldiers wanted most.... was to sit and rest, to eat fine food, to drink fine wine, and to be at peace.

With that aim in mind, he planned and fought every battle.

Tolonius 7 was an old world, one of the central colony worlds of the Republic. It was a sizeable and well–populated planet, the centre of several vital trade routes and an industrial base. The Narns had known all this when they had taken it in a bloody ground war.

If they had operated according to their usual tactics, the nobles captured would have been put to death, the land strip–mined, and its resources and minerals exported. The Centauri people there would be little more than slaves.

Of course, had the Centauri taken a Narn world, there would have been little difference. That was why Marrago did not hate his enemy. All in all, both races were the same. The Centarum and the Kha'Ri, the Lord–General and the Warleader, Centauri soldiers of the Republic and Narn warriors of vengeance.

Marrago did not hate the Narns, but Tolonius 7 was a world of the Republic, its people were children of the Republic, and he had sworn to serve his Emperor to the best of his abilities.

He sat back in his chair in the war room of the flagship, the Aubec. He was alone, save for the two guards at the door. From here he would be able to direct the whole course of the battle, without ever becoming involved in it. He would have liked to fight in it himself, but the fleet could be led admirably by Captain Mollari and his Valerius. Despite his age, Carn had more combat experience than most generals.

Marrago shifted his gaze to a drawer just in front of him. In there, hidden from view, was the black orb the Shadow emissary had given him. He had wanted to destroy it, but his soldier's brain had told him clearly not to destroy anything which might later become an asset. He prayed he would never have to use it.

He sat forward to study the schematics of his fleet. This would be a difficult engagement, but it could be won. He was sure of it.

He directed the first wave of ships to leave hyperspace and begin the assault.

"I see," said Corwin softly, after the Captain had finished speaking. "May I know the.... reasoning behind this change of plans?"

"Information has reached me from allies on Proxima," Sheridan said. "They will be willing to provide assistance in removing the Shadows and their influence, but only if we act quickly. They fear discovery."

"Who are these allies?"

"I can't tell you that."

"Are they trustworthy?"

"Yes."

"You're sure of this?"

"I told you, yes! I realise you had a free run while I was.... ill.... but you can't have fallen into the habit of questioning orders from superior officers! Now I have given you your orders. You are to obey them!"

Corwin took a step back, but then he straightened. "I will obey them.... but first, a warning. We do not have the time to prepare for a full assault on Proxima, not on the timetable you have given us. Least of all if we are to continue attacking listening posts and stations in the Vega system to draw away the Shadows."

"That will no longer be necessary. We are to recall the entire Dark Star fleet, save only those ships necessary to safeguard Kazomi Seven itself. Any other support vessels the Council can provide us with will be welcome as well. We are to make directly for Proxima, with no side tracks or detours."

"What? Captain.... they'll know we're coming. We'll trigger all sorts of early warning systems, the listening posts will pick us up from light years out. You know what the defences are like around Proxima. Hell, you put most of them up yourself! We'll have to get through minefields, the defence grid, the entire Earthforce fleet.... not to mention the Shadows."

"None of these will be a problem, not if we are at Proxima on time. You have your orders, Captain. See to it they are followed."

"Yes, sir!" Corwin snapped, turning on his heel and walking away. Sheridan turned back to his reports, not even watching him leave.

"We shouldn't be here."

Talia sighed softly, knowing her companion had not even heard her. She leaned back against the wall, holding the data crystal up to the light and watching it sparkle. Everything she had come here to discover was on there, everything Byron had.... died (maybe?) to recover.

She hadn't examined the information in full - that would take far too long - but she had studied it enough to be sure it was what Welles had claimed it to be. She'd have time to study it fully when she met up with Al. If Sanctuary was no longer safe, then she would have to head elsewhere. She knew the beacon frequencies of the secret Psi Corps mother ships, as well as numerous other hidden bases. She could find him.

So why was she still here?

Byron? It was possible he was dead, or if he wasn't, then he had become part of whatever it was IPX were doing to the telepaths they had captured. From time to time, in her dreams, she had heard what she thought was his voice, mingled in with a cacophony of others. There was nothing she could do for him now, and her first priority was the good of the Corps, to get this information back to Al.

No, she was very much afraid the reason she was staying was sitting in front of her, looking at the sleeping figure on the bed. He was even holding her hand.

Talia reached down and touched Dexter's shoulder. He turned, and she saw the lack of sleep in his eyes. He must have been here ever since they had got to this place. Over a day now.

"We shouldn't be here," she said. "We have what we did this for. Let's go."

"Go? Go where?"

"Off Proxima. There are.... places we can go, places where we'll be safe."

"I can't leave her."

"What is she to you? She's the enemy, in case you've forgotten that! We have what we came for, so let's go. Al can.... use someone like you. You're one of us, remember? Besides, I've.... got used to having you around."

"I can't go. I have to stay with her, at least until she wakes up. Besides.... Welles promised to clean up Sector Three–o–one. I have to make sure he keeps his promise."

"For God's sake, Dexter! This is a pointless battle. There is a war going on all around us, a war that's set to tear this whole planet apart. She's at the centre of it all. No one cares about Sector Three–o–one. It doesn't matter. It's not important."

"If you don't win the little battles, how can you win the big ones?"

She sighed, and shook her head. "I'll be leaving tonight. I can smuggle myself aboard a ship, get off–world, buy or rent a shuttle. Two can go as easily as one. Are you sure you won't come?"

"I can't."

"A waste," she said, kneeling down. He turned to look at her, silently begging her to stay, or at least to understand. Gently, she touched her lips to his.

"Why did you do that?" he asked, puzzled, but smiling.

"Because I know you wanted me to, and I knew you wouldn't do it yourself. I'm a telepath, remember. And so are you." She rose to her feet and began to walk away. "If you want to come to us, just think about me hard enough. I might pick it up and find you."

"Does dreaming count?" he whispered, but she was gone, and did not hear him.

It was at that precise moment that the figure on the bed stirred and moaned. He turned to her and saw her eyes flicker open. "Where.... where.... am I?" she breathed.

Smith smiled. "A safe place. Run by friends. How are you feeling? Do you want anything?"

"Weak," she whispered. "But.... I will be better.... Something to drink?"

"I'll get you something now." He stood up and turned to the nearby sink. As he poured a glass of water he looked up and thought he saw Talia watching him, but it was just a whisper in his mind, and then it was gone completely.

But he had a strange feeling he would see her again, before the end.

Ritual was important. Ritual, ceremony, pomp, pageantry. It was a mark of tradition, and tradition was little else than ruling simply because you and yours had always ruled. Ritual confirmed all these things. Without it.... what was the point in ruling?

They had gone by different names at different times, these secret masters of humanity, a conspiracy of information and knowledge, which were power both in and of themselves. They were a guiding hand upon the human race, controlling politics and destinies, shaping the future. Few suspected that they had been responsible for what little salvation there was from the Minbari War, or the part they had played in winning allegiances from alien races in its aftermath. The scientists who had studied Minbari technology and worked on the new Earthforce Shadow destroyers did so with their blessing.

Those who did anything without their blessing tended to.... disappear.

They worked not for Vorlon or Shadow, not for good or evil, order or chaos. They worked for humanity. Or so they thought.

They had gone by many names. In the recent past they had been called Bureau 13. Now, they were the Round Table.

A matter of ritual again.

Ambassador Sheridan, who had managed to manipulate even these master manipulators, had become their 'King Arthur', their prime among peers, the first among equals. Subtly, slightly, he had nudged their course to suit that of his allies.

But he has been away for too long, and the power focus has moved.

Names do not matter. All those present have names of their own, as well as the names they take for purposes of ritual. Knowing either can be dangerous. Knowing both can be fatal.

"They are coming."

"The Alliance ships have abandoned their progress into the Vega system and they are gathering together. The Dark Star ships, the Drazi and Brakiri fleets, and various support vessels of the other races. Our sources on Kazomi Seven and among the fleets indicate they are coming here. Our outer probes will pick up their arrival soon."

"What is their purpose? Need we begin an evacuation?"

"Their purpose is to deal with Clark and the Shadows. They do not intend the destruction of civilian or economic targets. It is likely, judging by their actions on Beta Durani, that they will institute a brief period of martial law during which a purge of all members of the Government involved with the Shadows will be carried out. A new, provisional Government will be formed, with free elections likely to follow, probably by the end of the year."

"Are we in danger?"

"We can hide from any purge. Our friend is willing to help hide those of us who are more visible." Few would have anything to worry about. Ambassador Sheridan was the only one here who could be recognised. Invisibility is the greatest defence of all. The greatest trick the devil pulled on the world was convincing it he did not exist. For the Round Table, it is the same.

"We will also be able to achieve sufficient control over the new order. Estimates indicate, if the Alliance is victorious, an eight percent loss of operational efficiency for the next six months. If the Alliance fails then there are many other variables to consider, particularly the fact that they will try again. At present the statistics are officially sixty to seventy percent chance of victory for Clark. Unofficially, based on our.... select information, assuming the network operates as planned, Alliance victory is eighty–six percent likely."

'King Arthur' sat forward. "We will take action to alter these odds," he said quickly. The network? What the hell was that?

"No. The alliance with the Shadows and the support of Clark's Government has served us well enough, but it is now time to abandon them both. We will take no action."

Sheridan sat back, eyes burning behind his mask. There would be no changing the strategy of these people. It could not be done. Yet. For now, he had bigger concerns. Deal with Clark, deal with the Alliance fleets and then....

Then he would come back and destroy this Round Table once and for all. His membership had served him well enough.

But it was now time to abandon them.

The meeting ended a few minutes later, and Sheridan left in a hurry.

The room was a near–identical copy of the Hall of the Grey Council. Sinoval's face was dark as he walked around it, watching the ten columns of light emerge from the darkness. A minor footnote of history, all but forgotten by Minbari historians, but not by one who could talk to those alive a thousand years ago.

"I will meet Sonovar here," he said, his eyes closed. For a moment time faded, and he was a year in the past, the first time he had set foot on Babylon 4. He had moved forward and time had.... paused.

And he took the step into the column of light. He knew where he was, in the Hall of the Grey Council. He was alone, but he was carrying Stormbringer. One by one the columns around him lit up, and each one contained a figure. Minbari, some he knew, some he did not. All were armed.

As the last column lit up, he found himself looking at Sonovar. A body lay slumped at his feet. It was Kats. She was quite still.

Sinoval whispered her name softly, knowing he would never speak it again.

"It is over," said Sonovar, no malice in his voice, just a finality. "You will not leave this place, traitor. Your allies have fled, your servants are dead, and now I.... I will take our people on the path we were always meant to tread."

"No," was the only reply.

Sonovar raised his pike, and Sinoval could see it clearly. Durhan's blade, the one he had wielded all his life. Sonovar charged. The other eight charged. Sinoval raised Stormbringer....

.... and the central column of light went out.

Sinoval's hand reached down to caress Stormbringer. Something within it, some part of himself he had passed into the blade in its forging, hummed at his touch. "Yes.... you, my brother of blood and war.... you will be beside me in this."

He had remembered that vision, but he had also remembered something else. An essential truth, one he had always embraced, one Sonovar also recognised.

Great men make their own destiny. Nothing is written in stone.

And so he had manoeuvred things subtly, hoping to make such changes as were necessary. He would meet Sonovar and his allies here, not in the Hall of the Grey Council. Maybe this was as it had always been meant to be: he did not know.... but he did know that he would do his best to beat them, to beat all those who opposed him.

But he would not best Sonovar with weapons.

He stepped into the central column of light, wishing Kats were here. He understood why she was not. She found the Hall of the Grey Council uncomfortable, and replicas of it just as much so. She was elsewhere, waiting for Kozorr to arrive, as he surely would.

But she was not alone. Lanniel was with her, and two others of the Primarch's Blades. He had spoken to them earlier.

"Guard her as you would me."

Each had sworn this, but still Sinoval was afraid for her. If he could keep her alive, keep her from her part in the vision he had seen, maybe she could keep Kozorr away from this place.

"I remember," said the memory of a soft voice. Marrain had shown him where this place was. "I once stood in one of these columns of light. I watched as Valen spoke to the first nine of us to ally ourselves with him. He said there would be nine to guide and lead his people, and one over them."

Sinoval's eyes were still dark as he looked around at the nine pillars of light, and began to name them. The first Grey Council had been convened here, although few had called it by that name. As far as the official histories were concerned, the Grey Council had been founded at the war's end, on Minbar itself, not here, not in this place.

"Marrain," he said, looking at one of the columns. "Parlonn. Rashok. Nukenn. Nemain." He continued to name the first nine, names now long forgotten and lost to history. Only Nemain, then a young man filled with awe and a righteous conviction, and Rashok and Nukenn, and of course Derannimer had joined the first official Grey Council at Minbar. The others.... were dead, or traitors.

"I will know you all," he said to the empty room. "I will honour all your memories, and praise all your names."

Then he willed all the lights to extinguish, and he was alone in darkness.

Alone and waiting.

The package was small, neatly wrapped, and showed no indication of what it might contain. Lyndisty had a sufficient sense of curiosity to want to open it, but then she also possessed enough propriety to know not to do that. She was a little confused about this whole endeavour, but she knew enough not to question her father.

He was gone now, gone to war, to defend the Republic and fight in its name. She was pleased he had taken time from his busy schedule to come to her. She loved her father with a passion that bordered on the fierce, and she trusted him totally. No one was as strong as him, no one as powerful, as mighty, as capable of defending the Republic.

Which was why his words had worried her a little, almost scared her in fact.

"Lyndisty.... you do know that I love you, don't you?"

"Of course, father."

"You also know.... to be careful. The Republic has many enemies. I have many enemies, people who would not hesitate to strike at me or at the Republic, through you."

"Of course, father. I can protect myself. My trainer says I am improving."

"Yes.... I know. I spoke to him yesterday, and he merely gave me another reason to be proud of you, as if I needed any more. I know you can look after yourself. I know you are intelligent and able. I know you ran our estate for a while when I was.... away, and your mother was ill. I know you can do many things you should not have to do as a lady of the Court.

"But.... I have enemies, powerful enemies, and sometimes it is better to run and hide than to fight. That is why I made sure you were safely on Immolan during the.... troubles last year. You do understand that? There is no shame in running."

"I understand. Father.... is.... something wrong?"

"I do not know. I wish I did. I think.... I may have done something I should not have done, but it is too early to tell. Maybe nothing will come of it."

"What can you have done wrong, father? You cannot have done anything to hurt the Republic, or to hurt me."

"Ah.... sometimes an act done with the best of intentions can have the worst of outcomes. I will be going shortly. You will be well guarded while I am gone, you and your mother.... but.... there is something you must do. Something you must do alone."

"Of course, father. I will do whatever you want of me."

"Some day, Lyndisty, you will not be so trusting. A package has been delivered to you. There is a place you must take it. Someone will be waiting to receive it. Give it to them, and leave. Do not look inside the package, do not try to find the identity of the person you give it to. Hurry back to safety once this is done. Do you understand?"

"Of course, father."

"Lyndisty, this is important! If you never listen to another word I say, heed me on this. Be careful, and tell no one about this. No one!"

"Father.... what is wrong?"

"I don't know.... and that troubles me. I love you, Lyndisty."

He was gone now, gone to Tolonius, fighting in the name of the Republic. The battle would probably have started by now, Lyndisty thought. She, meanwhile, was doing her part. She did not understand the need for secrecy, or the significance of the package, or why her father could not do this himself, but none of that mattered. She would do as he wished.

She followed the directions she had been given exactly, and was not pleased that they led her into a disreputable area of the capital, the warehouse district, a part of the city almost gutted by the rioting of last year. It had not been a pleasant area even before that, and her mother would no doubt have an apoplexy at the thought of Lyndisty walking here, least of all alone.

She became aware of the sound of footsteps behind her, and she quickened her pace. She was not unarmed - her long maurestii blade was a reassuringly heavy weight hidden in the folds of her dress - but she did not know how many there were following her, and it was always better to avoid combat if at all possible.

Her quick ears picked up the sound of movement in front of her, and she slowed her pace, still moving forward, but looking for a place to hide if necessary. It was possible the people were harmless, but that was not something she wished to test.

An alley came into view to one side, and she made for it. She was not sure if it led to a place of safety or not, but she could tell she was surrounded.

"So," said a harsh voice, "what's a lady doing in this part of town?"

She skidded to a halt, and backed slowly up against the wall. She could rush for the alley, but her pursuers had chosen to make themselves known, so it was best if she acknowledged that. There were four that she could see; two behind her, two in front. There could be others, of course. The one who had spoken was clearly the leader, and he was in front. There was a mocking leer on his face.

"I am a lady of the Court," she said, in as haughty a tone as she could manage. She shifted the package so that she was holding it in only one hand, and her other slid into her dress, grasping the cold hilt of her maurestii. "I am here on Court business, and I would thank you not to obstruct me in this. If you report to my estate, I will be happy to provide you with small coin for your gracious service."

"Small coin?" said the leader. She could see that his right arm ended in a stump just above the elbow. The other held a long knife. "Which estate is that, then? Not that it matters. You're all the same, each and every one of you. Parasites. Oh, you noticed this, did you?" he said, raising as much of the stump as he could. "The gracious whim of the fair Lady Elrisia. She said I touched her, she did, so she chopped off the hand that did it, and most of the arm as well. She would have taken out my eyes for looking at her too, but she decided to be merciful."

"The Lady Elrisia is dead," Lyndisty said. Her charred corpse had been recovered not long after the end of the troubles.

"Yeah, so we heard. Wasn't us, more's the pity, but.... what does it matter? You're all the same, all of you. I used to be a craftsman, a sculptor. There's actually one of my statues in Mollari's estate, him that's now the Emperor. You'll note he didn't try to save me from Elrisia, did he? Nobles always look after their own. Do you know him? The Emperor?"

"My father does," she said, trying to keep her breath even and short. Her body was tense.

"Who's your father?"

"The Lord–General Marrago."

The crippled craftsman laughed. "Well, I'll be damned. Reckon he'll pay a pretty ducat to get you back safe. Just think what could happen to a noble lady in the hands - pardon the expression - of thugs like us. All sorts of nastiness."

"As I said, report to my estate, and you will be paid for your service. But I should tell you, I am a high–placed virgin of the Court, and if you dare touch me then your punishment will not be light."

"Oh? What? Will they chop my other hand off? I'm a walking dead man anyway. We all are, and as they say.... might as well be beheaded for a ducat as a duck." He moved forward, touching the cold blade of the knife to Lyndisty's neck. It slid lower and began to cut the soft silk of her dress, exposing her bodice.

"Stop that," she said firmly, her hand clenched tight on the hilt of her knife. "This is your last chance."

"I'm not afraid," he hissed. "I'm not afraid of anything any more."

"I'm sorry," she said, and she meant it. She pulled out her hand and the knife, and in one smooth motion, before he had time to react, a red line was drawn across his throat and he fell, his long knife spinning to the ground with a clatter.

There was a moment of surprise as the other three stared at the man who had been their leader. These were probably simply common criminals who had joined with one who exuded charisma and a feeling of wronged determination. It took a moment before any sense of action presented itself.

Lyndisty took advantage of this, turning and darting down the alley. They began to follow her, but there was no room for two to run abreast, and so their numbers were negated. She managed to spin on her feet, and taking care to keep a tight grasp of the package, not knowing if its contents were breakable or not, she thrust the maurestii out firmly. The leading criminal ran squarely on to it, his hearts pierced. She withdrew the blade from his body, and he fell.

The other two were more careful now, moving more slowly, their own weapons to hand. Lyndisty did not dare take her eyes off them, and moved backwards slowly, wishing for a moment that her dress was not quite so long. Still, she had been trained to fight in all manner of regalia. As her father had said, you were very lucky if you got to choose when and where to fight.

Something struck the side of her head, and she stumbled. The second assailant lifted another rock, and this one struck her side. Wincing, she almost dropped the package, and the first took advantage, lunging forward. Her maurestii caught him in the side and she drew it upwards, piercing his lungs and left heart, but as he fell the knife was torn from her grasp.

His body fell into her, and she had to stagger back. The folds of her dress caught under her foot, and she fell. She kept hold of the package only with difficulty. The final attacker advanced on her, a wicked grin on his face. Desperately she tried to kick out the folds of her dress and rise to her feet, but the cloth was too thick.

There was a sudden light behind her, and the crackle of flames. She could not see who or what it was, but she could see the look of pure terror on her assailant's face. He took a step backwards and then turned and ran frantically for the exit of the alley. Another figure stood there, seemingly holding a flame in his hand. The outlaw let out a strangled cry and continued running. The fire moved, and struck him directly in the face. He screamed, and in an instant all his clothing was alight.

Lyndisty winced and turned her head. Slowly, she managed to disentangle herself from her dress and rise to her feet. She picked up her maurestii and turned to face the man behind her.

"You should not be here," he said. She could not see his face, only the tall brand he held, blazing brightly.

"I have a package to deliver."

"Then give it to me, and I shall see it is taken to its destination."

"I cannot do that. I must take it there myself."

"How do you know I am not the person for whom it is intended?"

"I was told to say this. 'There are whispers in the darkness.' The person who will receive this will know what else to say." It meant nothing to her, but evidently it meant something to this man.

"'But in the light, there is nothing but silence,'" he said softly. "I think that is mine."

"I think it is," she said quietly, handing it over to him. "I have discharged my duty, sir.... and now I will leave."

"Wait!" he said. There was something in the tone of voice. This man was a nobleman, or had been once. He was used to commanding others. "What is your name, that I may know whom to thank for this?"

"I am Lyndisty, of House Marrago," she said simply. She then wiped the blood from her blade and walked away.

"Lyndisty," he said, putting down the brand. "Yes.... I know you now." He looked at the package, and something dark grew within him. "Yes. I know you now."

They were coming. Clark could feel them, like songs just in the next room, whispered conversations, pinpricks of light just off the horizon.

It was coming. Humanity's greatest defeat, and their greatest victory. He would personally see that humanity was saved from Hell. Alas, he doubted he would be able to see her led towards Heaven.

He wondered sometimes, in the dead of night, if there could have been another way, but he always knew there was not. At heart, people were stupid. They were petty, pathetic, venal, selfish and self–absorbed. That was the first true lesson any politician learned. People were stupid.

Oh, when Clark had started out, years ago, he had had all sorts of grand designs, great dreams. He would change the world, make Earth a better place. He would bring his beliefs and his dreams. All he needed was power, one single chance, and then everything would be so much better.

Time and experience had hardened him. People did not want change. They never did. Oh, they said they wanted improvements. Ban this, legalise that, lower this, raise that, change this.... reforms, new legislation....

But what they really wanted was for tomorrow to be just the same as today.

Humanity needed to change. They had made an error in allying themselves with the Shadows. It was not just the work of the leaders, the politicians, the diplomats. No, they had all done it. Everyone out there had accepted this alliance. Their reasons were understandable, really. They didn't know what they were doing. A.... minor slip. These things happened.

But that had been three years ago, and they had made no effort to correct their mistake. Change was necessary, just this once, but did they want to do that? No, of course not.

Force was the only approach any of them understood. The same was true of most races to a certain extent, but none more than humanity.

Ah. Clark smiled. He was coming. Sheridan. He should have done this sooner, but he was a diplomat, and always too cautious. A commendable trait, most of the time. But not now.

Clark tried to calculate how long it would be before the Dark Star fleet arrived. A few hours, perhaps. There was time enough.

"Ambassador Sheridan is here to see you, Mr. President," said his secretary.

"Send him in. Oh, and take an early lunch. Send away all the Security in this area of the building as well."

"Are you sure, sir?"

"Of course I am. There is no danger from Ambassador Sheridan now, is there?" It probably wouldn't have mattered if the security guards had stayed. Most of them were new, brought in from off–world in the aftermath of Welles' arrest. That was something Clark had not been pleased about. Who would have thought he would have acquired enough backbone to do something like that? Clark thought he would have learned after the whole Takashima business.

It was annoying. He wished he could have had Delenn killed long ago. She should have died on Z'ha'dum of course, but this had seemed.... a blessing in disguise. A chance to lure the Alliance here, all in due time of course, and then kill her before Captain Sheridan's eyes. That would give him more than enough cause to hate the Shadows.

But no, she had to go and escape. Oh, well.... things might still work out. She would be unlikely to see past the next day or so. There would be a lot of.... civilian casualties and 'collateral damage' coming soon. Delenn might well die in the process.

After all, the Alliance would be perfectly willing to equate a scorched earth policy with the Shadows, wouldn't they?

Ambassador Sheridan walked into the room. Clark rose to meet him. "Mr. President," he said. "There are some things we should discuss."

"Indeed there are. Tell your.... associates to show themselves."

The space around Sheridan shimmered, and three Shadows came into view. Clark smiled. His eyes began to glow.

"We are two dead men now, my friend," he said, leaning on his desk. "Two dead men, and nothing more."

It was dark. That was fine by Kozorr. He liked the dark, at least he liked it here, in this place.

It was a place of heroes, of great deeds, a place where legends had once walked, where stories had been inspired. He had grown up hearing the tales of Derannimer and Nemain, and all those who had walked the corridors he walked now. He could feel them. Their touch was everywhere, their breath still hanging in the air, their whispers echoing just beyond hearing.

They were all mocking him, deriding him. He did not deserve to be here. He was a traitor, an oath–breaker, and he did not deserve to be here.

But then Marrain and Parlonn had been traitors, and they too had walked these halls. Maybe Parlonn's ghost still did, if he had been denied reincarnation. It had been he and Marrain who had discovered this station after all.

He was not alone. That would be foolish in such a potentially dangerous environment, but he could tell that the other warriors were feeling as he was. The Tak'cha had been filled with excitement at the first step into Anla'Verenn–veni, which they called Ende X'ton. Only a very few had even come aboard, most preferring to stay on their ships and protect their holy place.

And there were only a handful of Minbari here as well. Five in total. He himself, Tirivail, Rastenn and two others, both long–time followers of Sonovar. They were here to complete their mission. Or they would be, if any of them had any clue as to what their mission was.

None of them had been ordered here by Sonovar himself. All their orders had come directly from Forell. Oh, he had to be acting by Sonovar's will of course, he would not dare do otherwise, but still....

"You are to escort our noble and enlightened allies to the place they seek, you are to protect them on the way there and help them safeguard their holy and sacred heritage from any who might seek to harm it. We seek, as always, to help those who help us. Such is the mutual benefit of an alliance."

Fine and noble words, coming from a diplomat, but they said nothing. What were they expected to do? Protect the Tak'cha.... but only protect them on the way here. Kozorr straightened, suddenly realising something. There had been no mention of the return journey. Were they even expected to return at all?

He shook his head, not liking the implications of that train of thought. Either Forell was acting on his own, or Sonovar was sending them here to die.

Or, of course, he was too shaken up by his surroundings.

The Tak'cha should be arriving at their shrine by now. Kozorr had no interest in such a place. He had always been fascinated by another legend here, by another story, and it was for that goal he was aiming. Tirivail and Rastenn had come with him, but as he turned back to speak to them he found they were nowhere in sight.

It was dark here. Too dark.

The Tak'cha had made it very clear they would not tolerate any outsiders present at their sacred shrine. Kozorr was free to follow his dreams, or his nightmares.

The door was already open and he stepped inside, his eyes looking around at the shadowed room before him. It was not how he had imagined it, but the mark of reality hung over the chamber and he knew this was what he had sought.

He stepped forward and saw the altar at the far side of the room. A curiously un–Minbari design, but the markings on the black stone were clearly those of mourning. There was no body there of course, but there never had been. Parlonn's body had never been recovered from Z'ha'dum, where he had fallen in mortal combat with his friend and blade–brother Marrain.

Still, it was here, in this room, that an effigy of Parlonn had been placed, and Valen had spoken words about his former friend and bitter enemy. A quiet funeral ceremony had been held here, the last time Marrain had stood beside Valen as a friend and ally.

Kozorr limped to the altar itself and touched the black stone. He knew what it represented, and when he closed his eyes he could see Valen standing behind him, Marrain at his side. Valen's speech at Parlonn's funeral had been erased from all the histories, as had nearly happened to the records of the event itself. There were many in the religious caste who found Valen's eulogy to one who had betrayed him a betrayal in itself. They of course had missed the point entirely.

"All of us can find redemption, yes?" Kozorr whispered as he looked at the black altar. "You forgave one who had wronged you, and so you eased the pain of his betrayal."

He picked out his pike and extended it slowly. Parlonn's pike had been recovered and had lain here with the effigy. What had happened to it after that.... no one was entirely sure.

He blinked slowly, and for one moment he could see himself there, Valen standing before him, a crowd of mourners assembled, each one remembering not Parlonn, but others who had fallen in this war. He could see them, Derannimer, Nemain, Nukenn, Rashok....

And Marrain himself, furious eyes staring at each and every one there and judging them, and to each one his eyes said 'you are not worthy of his legacy'.

Valen started to speak, but as the first word left his mouth he turned his head, and he seemed to be looking directly at Kozorr.

Kozorr blinked again, and took a slow step backwards. The image of the past faded and all was dead and shadows again. He trembled at the.... the reality of what he had seen, and as he took another step back his weak leg betrayed him and he fell, body striking the ground hard and his pike rolling from his grasp.

There was a soft clatter as it hit the ground and rolled away. Three seconds later, it stopped. Someone bent down and picked it up.

Tears of frustration and pain in his eyes, Kozorr managed to make it to his knees. He looked up, and his eyes widened.

Kats held his pike out towards him.

Marrago had acquired many skills throughout his long years as a soldier, and one of these was how to read a battle. It was a skill all good generals sought to cultivate, but it was one that was impossible to learn, in his estimation. It was a matter of instinct.

As he watched the formations of the Narn defences around Tolonius 7, and his own attacking positions, he knew how it would go. Battles were by their very nature chaotic affairs, but there were patterns that could be seen if you only cared to look hard enough.

Marrago was thinking about his soldiers. He was thinking about their wives and families and children. He was thinking about all the dead that would follow this battle if matters continued as they were now.

And he turned his gaze to the drawer wherein lay the Shadow orb. He remembered the Drakh's words. "When you need them.... touch this and think the words. They will come."

He had seen the military might of the Shadows. He had seen their strength and power first–hand. They were a match for the Narns, for whatever defences they hoped to erect.

But the cost of their bargain. Another 'favour' owed to the Drakh's dark masters. The first had not yet been paid. He did not like to think what payment might be required this time.

He saw one of his warships destroyed, blazing in flames under an onslaught of Narn ships.

These were his people. This was his army. Tolonius 7 was a world he had been charged to protect. There were almost a billion Centauri lives on that world, a world ruled by their most hated enemy.

Was the cost of a favour from the Shadows really so high?

He shook the thought from his head and sat forward, barking orders to his captains. A gap had opened in their lines, a gap the Narns were seeking to exploit. It had to be closed. Carn heard the orders and brought his Valerius around to block it. Marrago smiled. Carn was a fine soldier. Londo should be proud of him.

The Valerius came under heavy fire. Marrago could see the Narn were focussing their efforts on that weak spot in the lines. It was an old technique, first used by one of his ancestors at the invasion of the Beta system. In other circumstances, Marrago might have been flattered at its adoption by the Narns.

The Valerius was fighting back, supported by two other capital ships. For a moment they seemed to be holding the line.

Then another Narn cruiser appeared, striking out at the Valerius' forward weapon systems. It staggered back, and blows rained down upon it from all sides. The other ships had seen the danger and were moving forward to help protect the flagship, but the Narns were capitalising on its weakness.

Carn was a good soldier. He was the nephew of Marrago's oldest friend. He read Minbari poetry, liked to paint landscapes and was madly infatuated with a young noblewoman of the Court.

Marrago leapt to his feet and ran to the drawer. Pulling it open he picked up the Shadow orb. It seemed to become warmer in his hands, as if it had been expecting him.

"I need you," he whispered. "Come!"

The very instant he said those words, space shimmered and the Shadows were there.

After that, the battle was a foregone conclusion.

They were here, coming near. Zarwin and....

No, not Zarwin. Zarwin was dead, wasn't he? He must be.

"Death," Marrain whispered, standing in the shrine to the Z'ondar. He remembered the last time he had been here, just after Zarwin had been banished.

"Death," he said again.

That was all. That was the meaning of life, the point, the focus. Ever and only death.

And only he understood. No, that was not true. Sinoval understood. He trusted him. Trust.... that was a rare feeling. Foolishness, of course, but welcoming as well.

There was the sound of footsteps outside. Marrain was alone, waiting for the visitors. Sinoval had wanted to leave some of his guards here, but Marrain had refused. A handful of guards would not help if all the Tak'cha chose to attack, and more than that could not be spared from protecting Sinoval's pretty worker.

Besides, guards might get in the way of the glorious death that was coming.

Or was it? Where was glory in death without a glorious life behind it? Sinoval had said something along those lines, but for a moment Marrain was a thousand years in the past, in the middle of a debate between Parlonn and Valen.

"There is no glory save to die in the name of your lord!" Parlonn had cried.

"Ah, but dying is easy, Parlonn. Living in the name of your lord is so much harder. And so much more worthwhile."

Valen had been a fool, or had he? A thousand years on and he was still remembered, still revered, still worshipped. While what of Parlonn, what of Marrain? Traitors both. Betrayers and oath–breakers.

"Here," said a voice. "Here is our shrine."

Marrain straightened and was ready as the first Tak'cha guards entered the shrine. Behind them came a figure who was obviously their leader. He carried a long staff, crafted in homage - or was it mockery? - of Valen's fabled Grey Staff.

"Welcome," Marrain said softly. He stepped forward. "It has been a long time."

It was an impressive sight, there was no doubt about it. Whatever else might be said about the Dark Star ships, they looked suitably awesome.

And they were not alone. Supported by Narn cruisers, Brakiri ships, Drazi Sunhawks, vessels from the Llort, the Vree, the Abbai, a true alliance of races, gathered together to save one of their own from their own leaders.

There had been no speech to mark the beginning of the journey to Proxima. Corwin had passed the instructions on to the various captains. Most had objected, pointing out the sudden change of plan, the dangers involved, the fact that it would be impossible to hide their intentions, and that they would surely be expected.

Corwin knew all this, and he shared every one of their concerns, but somehow he managed to fill them with a false sense of confidence. The Captain knew what he was doing. Corwin supposed Sheridan was not the Captain any more. He was the General now.

He remembered an old tradition of John's. When he had taken on command of a new vessel, he had given a speech to his new crew. He had not done that on taking command of the Dark Star 1. Corwin had not done that either when he had been made Captain of the Dark Star 3, the Agamemnon.

But now as he looked around at his crew, many of whom he knew well, many of whom had served with him on the Parmenion, he felt the need to say something. The Dark Stars had a mix of races as their crews, formed from the armies of the League worlds and G'Kar's Rangers. The Dark Star 3, however, was almost all human, refugees from Clark, those who had been on the Parmenion and chosen to stay behind after its destruction. They were his people, his crew, and he felt he should say something.

"What we are going to do.... will be dangerous," he said, choosing his words carefully. He hated speaking in public. "This is not Earthforce. This is not as it was in the days before the war. We are not fighting to defend Earth, for Earth is long gone.

"We are fighting for our people. Humanity's leaders have made a destructive and a fatal bargain. They have acted out of fear, and ambition, and they will bring all humanity down with them when they fall. It is up to us to prevent that, to save us all from that bargain.

"The fight will not be easy, but nothing worthwhile ever is. I cannot promise you victory. I cannot promise riches or happiness or salvation. What I can promise you is this:

"After today, we will never be exiles again. We will retake Proxima. We will reclaim our Government. We will reclaim our people. We will reclaim our home.

"We will never again be lost and alone.

"We are going home. For good."

And with those words the Agamemnon joined the rest of the Dark Star fleet, heading for Proxima.

Chapter 4

Where are they, the players in the great game of kings and destinies and nations? Where are they all as the forces of destiny converge on Proxima 3? Once, over two years ago, a fleet descended on this world, this last bastion of hope, intent on destruction, on annihilation, on genocide. They were defeated, cast back, driven away.

Now a fleet comes once more, and once more they will be met on the outskirts of the system. And once more, as before, the fates of entire peoples will be in the balance.

The leader of humanity, President William Morgan Clark, stands still and ready in his private office. For years he has been planning this, moving with the approval of the alien that shares his body and his soul. He has been preparing for his greatest defeat, and humanity's greatest victory.

Ambassador David Sheridan is with him, realising at last things he has suspected, but never been able to prove. There is a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, the awareness of experience that tells him his opponent has a hidden card up his sleeve, and not knowing if it is an ace or a joker.

There is one person who could have stopped this, one who has been playing his own game, working for the survival of humanity. But he is not there. He is lying in one of his own cells, his body beaten and battered by his own security guards. Mr. Welles feels the end coming, and he despairs.

In an old building, a centre for business and commerce, two men walk into an area few people know exist. That which they have been planning for so long is coming to pass, and they must be ready. They must also be secure. They know about the firestorm that will soon engulf Proxima, and they also know that they must be made safe from it. Humanity must be guided past this flashpoint, into the future.

Byron feels something stir in his mind, something beginning to wake and rouse.

In a hospital for the poor, the lost, the abandoned and the damned, one who is none of these things half–sleeps, half–wakes, talking to someone she hardly knows. Delenn thinks she can hear a heart beating, slowly, softly, quietly, echoing off the dark walls of this place that is a haven of light in a sea of darkness. Her companion knows this, but he thinks they are safe there.

Somewhere else in Sector 301, a man sits at his desk and thinks about the future. He is dreaming of power, of ultimate power. He is dreaming of crushing his enemies, for what else is power for?

Janice Rosen is having a crisis of conscience. She is a doctor, taught and trained to give healing and succour to all who require it. But she is also a human who has seen her race devastated and terrified by the woman who lies in one of her beds. For hours Janice Rosen struggles with her conscience, until she finally decides on a course of action.

General Edward Ryan is heading for a meeting with people he knows he will have to send to their deaths.

General Edward Ryan was a soldier. He was also a member of the Resistance Government of Humanity, a position he had inherited after his predecessor, General William Hague, had put a PPG in his mouth. There were times when Ryan felt like doing the same.

He had found a way round this, but he sometimes wondered if the price of keeping going was worse than if he just stopped going altogether.

He ignored everything. He forgot about the things he had seen in the Government; the dirty dealings, the alliances signed with alien races who made his flesh creep. He ignored the increasing number of soldiers suffering from psychiatric illness as a result of being on the new ships. He tried to blank out the dreams and whispers he knew followed him whenever he was on the Morningstar. He forgot the names and faces of those he had buried or lost. Philby, lost in some foolish attack at Epsilon 3; Walker Smith, killed at Beta Durani; Dexter Smith, unable to bear the constant stress; General Hague. And these were only in the last three years. There were over fifteen years worth of dead faces he tried to ignore.

All he could see was his duty. He was a soldier. It was his duty to obey the orders of his President. That was it. Nothing else.

He looked at the three other people in this room, the three people who represented the greatest hope for the protection of the human race. He wondered how they coped with the things they had seen. What drove them forward?

Captain Francis Xavier DeClercq of the Saint–Germain was sitting quietly, elbows resting on the table, fingers steepled in front of his face. Ryan had a fairly good idea what drove him. For years he had fought against accusations of cowardice. At a time when experienced officers had been as rare and as valuable as gold dust, DeClercq had been overlooked again and again. Ryan's struggle to get him appointed captain of the Saint–Germain had been the hardest he had fought since the Minbari.

But his faith had been rewarded. The Saint–Germain had been a great success. Unlike the other ships in the fleet, it was a scouting and exploration vessel. It had carried out hidden sorties into Minbari space. It had found abandoned worlds and brought back vital technology.

But now it was needed here. All the ships were. DeClercq did not seem angry or worried by his recall to defend Proxima. He looked.... strangely at peace, with the world and with himself.

Ryan shifted his gaze to the figure next to him. Captain Bethany Tikopai was toying with the end of her long black braid, seemingly deep in thought. Ryan also thought he knew what motivated her. She had a daughter, a teenager now, born around the time that Earth was dying.

Ryan sometimes wished he had children. They were something to fight for. Simple, unequivocal. They were the new generation, the future. They had to be protected, and that was that.

The De'Molay had only recently come off the production lines, and Tikopai had only just finished assembling her crew. Both ship and crew were untested in full combat, but they should be fine. The De'Molay represented the height of Shadow technology, much more so than the Morningstar. It was said by the designers and technicians to be all but invincible.

Ryan was glad he was on the Morningstar.

The third person present was not sitting. Captain Jerry Barns was standing just behind his chair, arms folded high over his chest. He was a tall man, with an impassive, alert expression. Ryan could not read him at all, but his skill in battle was well known. His Dark Thunder had been operational for some months now, and had been tested in numerous skirmishes with raiders. Barns radiated a calm demeanour that offset the more.... swashbuckling tendencies of his first officer, Commander Ramirez. The two of them worked well together.

Ryan sat forward and laid his reports on the desk. Three pairs of eyes turned to look at him.

"Proxima needs us," he said simply. It was all that needed to be said.

The battle was over, leaving behind only three things.

First, there was the debris of the Narn ships, floating in space. Almost the entire fleet had been destroyed, blown out of the sky. The Centauri ships had taken some of course, but most of them had fallen to the Shadows, the strange aliens who appeared from nowhere and killed in a near–instant. One of the Shadow ships had been damaged, but nothing more. They had disappeared just as the final Narn ships fled.

Second, there was the prospect of the ground war still to come. That would be won, Lord–General Marrago knew, but only at great cost in life. The Narns had occupied the colony for months, and would still have substantial numbers of soldiers based there. The Centauri would be able to mount an uprising, and they had already won air control, but it would still take time before the colony was completely theirs again.

Third, there were the emotions of victory. Relief and euphoria of those who still lived, coupled with sadness and loss for those who did not. There was the pain of the injured, the hope of the survivors.

Their commander, victorious again, felt none of these things. He felt only fear. Fear for the future he had helped to create.

This was the second time he had called upon the Shadows for aid. A second favour he now owed them. This deal had been secret so far, although only just. Word would surely reach the Kha'Ri now, maybe even with proof. Once might be held to be coincidence.... twice....

That was for the future. For now, there was only the present. The reclamation of Tolonius 7.

His commscreen chimed, and he answered it. He was relieved to see the face of Captain Carn Mollari looking at him. "Captain," he said. "What is the state of the Valerius?" Carn's ship had taken heavy damage.

"Badly damaged, but it can be repaired, Lord–General. Engines are still functioning well. We have begun to ship our soldiers down to the surface as per your orders."

"Good, Captain." There was a pause. "Is there anything else?"

"Those ships, Lord–General.... the ones that came to our aid. I have seen those ships before. I thought I saw them when the Narns attacked our home, but now I am certain.

"Why would Shadow ships help us, Lord–General?" His voice carried a faint hint of accusation, as if he knew.

"It is not our place to question," he replied, wishing he could have phrased it better. He was a soldier, not a silvery–tongued courtier, and yet he wished he could come up with some excuse, some explanation. Anything. There were a million lies he could have crafted to disguise the truth of this deal, but he could not think of any.

All he could think of was the truth.

They offered to help me. They asked for nothing in return but a simple favour. That was all. Narn ships were going to attack our homeworld. Maybe we would win, and maybe they would, but either way, people would die. Good people, with families, with children.

This way, we would live, and only the Narns would die. They are our enemies. They attacked our home. They attacked and invaded our colonies.

I will bear the burden of this deal I have made. I, and no other.

Carn paused, and then nodded. "As you say, Lord–General. I will report again when word reaches me of the status on the ground."

"Do so." The screen went blank and Marrago sat back. He felt tired. He wanted to sit and rest, to feel the warmth of the sun on his face, and to sip brivare until the sun set.

Instead he rose to his feet and began to co–ordinate the ground offensive.

"Take it."

Kozorr said nothing, merely looking. Kats could see the emotions flashing through his eyes. She had thought about this moment for months, ever since she had learned of his betrayal, after his failed attempt to destroy the Well of Souls. She had thought about and planned for this moment, but now that it was here, she had no idea what to say.

"Take it," she said again, trying to maintain the dignity and conviction in her tone and bearing. "It is your weapon. Take it."

"No," he said at last. "NO! Why did he bring you here?"

"He did not. I came myself, knowing you would be here."

"You should not be here."

A light sparkled in one of her eyes, briefly, and then it was gone. "That is exactly what he said."

"Then we can agree on something. You should not be here, my.... Whatever Sinoval is planning, he should not have included you."

"I am capable of looking after myself," she said flatly. "Besides, I have my protectors. Sinoval did not send me here alone." She stepped back, and held the pike against her side. "If you do not want this, then I shall keep it."

"No, I.... I never meant to.... I...."

"Why? Was it always a lie? All of it? Did you mean even a single word of that oath you swore to him?"

"Yes! I did.... then. But.... look at me, my lady. I am a pathetic cripple who cannot even stand unaided. Sinoval should have left me to die in the Hall, and then I would at least be reborn as a warrior, not forced to live on as.... as this! Look at me!

"How can you love such a one as this?"

Kats trembled slightly. In her darkest thoughts she had suspected that she might be to blame for his treachery. After all, had she not been captured by Sonovar and his Tak'cha allies, Kozorr would never have been taken trying to rescue her, would never have offered his life for hers, and never turned.

"How could you love such a one as this? Compared to Sinoval, how could you love me? I had to prove myself worthy of you, my lady. I had to prove myself better than him, at anything, or at everything.... and the only way to do that was to defeat him."

She shook her head, trying to find the words. "You never...." she began, but then she coughed. "You never needed to...."

She suddenly blinked, and everything was gone. Kozorr, the altar, the room, the darkness. Everything was gone, save only her.

There was a column of light and a room of darkness. A soft shuffling noise could be heard, and the harsh rasping of hoarse breath. Her heart caught in her chest, and she let out an involuntary cry. She knew where she was.

"Forgiveness is a fine virtue, is it not?" whispered the hated voice she had heard every night in her dreams for years. "To forgive those who have wronged you, betrayed you."

"No," she whispered to herself, sinking to her knees and curling into a ball. "This is not real. You are dead. You are gone. You are...."

"I am always here. Whenever you close your eyes, whenever you dare to feel yourself safe.... I will be there, traitress. In the eyes of another, in the movements of one you love, or one you hate. You will look at others, and I will be in each and every one of them.

"And when you are alone.... look into the shadows. I will be there. I will never let you rest.... You have not yet learned my lesson, bitch.... and you will not be free of me until you have."

"No...." she whispered again. "What lesson? What did you teach me.... apart from pain and humiliation? What could you teach me?"

"What else?" he said. "You do not understand. I forgave you."

"No.... you didn't. If you did then.... then...." Enlightenment dawned. She opened her eyes and rose slowly. He was out there somewhere, shuffling in the darkness. "You did not forgive me, Kalain. You never did. You used the word as a weapon, bludgeoning me into a mass of pity and sorrow. You taught me how not to forgive someone, how to say the word but keep the bitterness and the hatred inside."

"You are learning. Maybe there is some intelligence inside that weak, less–than–animal brain of yours."

"I have been dreaming about you for two years, Kalain, and I have been hating you all that time. No longer. I forgive you, Kalain. Whatever your reasons, whatever your pain, it is over and done. I forgive you. Maybe that is nothing but a word, but I know this. I will never dream about you again."

"I think you will."

"No. You are wrong, but I do not hate you for it. I pity you. I am sorry for you. Goodbye."

Her pain faded, and she was where she had been. Kozorr was still kneeling on the floor in front of her, his head bowed. Gently, Kats held his pike out to him again. "Take it," she said softly. "It is yours."

He looked up, unshed tears in his eyes. "I am sorry," he said.

"I forgi...."

There was a burst of pain in her back and she fell with an anguished cry. Kozorr's pike slipped from her fingers as she fell.

"You should be more careful," said Tirivail, as she looked at Kozorr. "But then so should she."

There was a strange feeling in the air. Trace did not like it. He could not be sure exactly what was going to happen, but he could feel that things were changing. Something big was going down.

He didn't like that. In his younger days he had liked the feel of Change sweeping the world. It had provided plenty of opportunities for someone with the will and the ambition. Now.... he was content, for the time being. It was a time for consolidation, gradually strengthening his empire, and setting things in motion for the future. Change would disrupt that.

He had been in a bad mood all day, unable to shake this feeling. His patron had not been in touch with him for days. Allan had sent word that someone had arranged for the murder charges against Smith to be dropped. That would take a lot of influence. Maybe even as far as Welles himself.

Actually, that did not bother Trace so much. He had been using corruption as a weapon for so long it would be a little hypocritical to complain when it was used against him. Besides, Smith had just.... put off the inevitable. Nothing more. He had swapped an easy and comfortable twenty years or so in jail for a very difficult and uncomfortable few days in a dark room and an unmarked grave in a construction site.

Well, that was, as soon as he showed up. Smith was in hiding at the moment, but that wouldn't last forever. Trace had men out looking for him. Smith had killed Nelson, and that wasn't the sort of thing that could be forgiven.

And of course, where Smith was, you would find that knock–out telepath hanging around with him. She was worth a fortune all by herself.

Trace rose to his feet and walked to the window. The air inside the dome seemed to be crackling. He could see people milling about on the streets, uncertain and nervous. They could sense something was going to happen as well. Even the ignorant, blind, stupid sheep who inhabited Sector 301 could feel that something was wrong.

There was a knock at his door. "Go away!" he snapped irritably. He didn't feel like company.

Instead, the door opened. Trace turned angrily. It was Roberts, who was jostling to take Nelson's place as right–hand man. Based on his natural skills and charisma, he had a long way to go.

"I told you to go away."

"There's someone wants to have a word," Roberts replied. "She said it was important."

"Well, it can wait."

"Beggin' pardon, boss. You'll want to hear this."

Trace sighed, and then pondered for a moment. Something was going to happen. This could be it. "Send her in. Oh, and Roberts.... if I didn't want to hear this, I'll expect your kneecaps in the post tomorrow, understand?"

"You'll want to hear this, boss. Believe me."

Roberts stepped back and let a young woman through. Trace looked at her, returning to his chair and sitting down. She looked familiar, but he was damned if he could place her. She was attractive enough, he guessed, if nothing special. "What can I do for you, Miss...?"

"Rosen," she said, sitting down opposite him. "Janice Rosen."

Now he remembered her. She ran some sort of clinic somewhere, looking after the poor and ill. A pathetic, bleeding–heart, failed doctor who didn't know when to let the terminally worthless die in the gutter where they belonged. However, she paid her protection money on time, and so Trace didn't really care what she did.

"So, what can I do for you, Miss Rosen?"

"Someone came to our clinic two nights ago. A man and a woman. They were bringing someone in, someone quite ill."

"So? That happens in medical clinics, doesn't it?"

"We don't get people like this in. I didn't recognise the woman, but I'd seen the man on the vids. He was that war hero, the one who retired. Dexter Smith was the name, although he didn't use it." Trace sat forward. Now he was interested.

"Anyway, I didn't see the person they brought in, not for a while anyway. I wondered at first why they didn't go to a regular hospital up–sector somewhere. Then I saw who it was they brought in.

"It was her. Delenn."

"Delenn is locked up in some military hospital," Trace snorted.

"It was her, I'm sure of it. It's got to be her. She had a mild fever and was in quite deep shock. But it was her. She had the.... the headbone and everything."

"Is she still there?"

"Yes. She's recovering, and she's awake most of the time now, but I told Captain Smith she wouldn't be able to move for another couple of days.

"He doesn't suspect anything, and no one else knows she's there. Well, no one apart from Bo. He runs that pub. He's the one who sent them to the clinic. As soon as I saw who she was, I knew I had to do something. I couldn't go to Security. That would mean they'd find out about my clinic and shut us down. You were the only person I could think of."

"What about that oath of yours? The one to treat all patients the same?"

"I'll treat everyone who needs it, yes. I don't ask who my patients are, and I think everyone deserves a second chance. I'll look after people wanted by Security, the lost, the alone, criminals, anyone. Everyone deserves medical care. Everyone deserves to be looked after.

"But she's killed billions of people. She killed my mother. I just.... I just had to do something. I had to tell someone. You'll.... be able to handle it, right?"

"I will indeed," Trace said with a smile. "You did the right thing. Go back to your clinic and pretend that nothing happened. I'll.... get things sorted out. Don't worry about anything."

"Thank you," she said, smiling. "I knew you would take care of things."

She left, and Trace waited for a few moments after the door closed before he began to laugh. This was what he had been feeling. This was what was going to happen.

This was his chance to get rid of Smith, to get his hands on that telepath, and to do a major service to the public at the same time. Delenn was the bad guy after all, wasn't she? R'Gov might say all kinds of things about a fair trial, but Delenn didn't deserve one of those. Pit justice would be more than enough to deal with her.

Roberts entered. "She's gone, boss."

"I know. Roberts...." Trace paused, thinking about the people outside. Poor, pathetic, deluded sheep, the lot of them. Brainless and worthless, easily led.

"There's something the people of Sector Three–o–one should know. Something I want you to tell them...."

Captain Francis Xavier DeClercq knew his reputation full well. For almost fifteen years it had been with him. A coward. A coward who had run while better men than him had stayed to fight the Minbari, and had died doing so. He still lived while better men then him had been dead for fifteen years.

He wanted to explain, to justify what he had done, but these days he could not, not even to himself.

Besides, it hardly mattered. The only people who might have understood were dead. All dead. Not just those who fell at Vega 7, but those who had fallen since. General Franklin, Captain Maynard, Captain Hiroshi, countless others, all their faces and names blurring into one.

All dead, and he still lived. He was still standing on the bridge of a ship that some people said he had no right to command.

His crew had been a little sceptical when they heard who was to be their commanding officer. A good number of them had requested a transfer, but some had stayed. Either they did not believe the stories, or they did not care. In either case they had served him, the Saint–Germain and Earthforce well in the months the ship had been operational. They had undertaken numerous missions, and succeeded.

Never once had they run.

And nor would they run now.

General Ryan had told them all what was happening. Long–distance probes had picked up the approach of the Alliance ships. For some reason known only to themselves they had abandoned their inroads towards the Vega system and were making directly for Proxima. There seemed little sense in this. Their approach would be clearly seen for hours before they could arrive. Defences, preparations, everything would be set up. There was the possibility that enemies might be brought around behind them. They had abandoned their victories in Vega.

It was seemingly the work of a madman, but DeClercq knew Sheridan's reputation. He was no madman.

The Saint–Germain had been sent ahead to scout out the numbers and deployment of the Alliance fleets. The hyperspace probes, tethered to the beacon signals, had given vague details, but the Saint–Germain had sensor arrays centuries in advance of anything humanity could come up with. Their allies, the Shadows, had lent their sensor technology to the Saint–Germain just as they had lent their weapons and defences to the De'Molay and the Dark Thunder.

They had been able to track the oncoming fleet without ever being noticed by them. Or so they had thought. DeClercq remembered with a moment's panic how Ensign Morgan had turned to him and said, "They know we're here."

It was impossible. No ships could sense the Saint–Germain from this far away, in hyperspace. Not human ships, nor Narn, nor Drazi, nor Minbari.

But these ships were not human ones, nor Narn, nor Drazi, nor Minbari. They were the new ships, the ones that had fought at Beta Durani and proved so deadly there.

The Saint–Germain had managed to escape, slipping into eddies and pockets of hyperspace, moving far from the beacon paths. Another ship would have got lost, but their navigational systems were able to negotiate the dark formlessness of hyperspace with stunning ease.

The border between dimensions opened, and the Saint–Germain slipped out into normal space. The De'Molay, the Dark Thunder and the Morningstar were waiting. DeClercq had dispatched the information he had gathered. The fleet approaching was huge, almost every Alliance ship available. This was against all tactical logic, and it troubled him. Sheridan was reckless, yes, but never foolish.

There was something all of them were missing, but in spite of voicing his concerns to Ryan, Tikopai and Barns, and in spite of pondering it for the hours they were waiting, he still could not see it.

The nearby probes had picked up the Alliance fleet. They were making no effort at all to hide their approach.

DeClercq sat forward. He would not run. Not this time. Proxima was not Earth, but it was their home, and he would not abandon it.

A million jump gates opened, and the war fleet of the United Alliance appeared in the skies above Proxima 3. Space shimmered, and the Shadows were there to meet them.

We do not understand where we have failed the Z'ondar. We acted in what we believed to be his best interests. But we must accept his words, even if we do not comprehend them.... and we will hope that some day.... we will be able to make amends for the sin we do not understand.

And that in some way.... we will be able to serve him again.

Marrain stepped forward, falling silent. He remembered those words, to the exact letter. He had been present when they were spoken, Zarwin's last words to the Minbari as he went into exile. The Tak'cha carrying the staff stiffened. He clearly recognised the words as well.

"Who are you?" asked the Tak'cha, barely–restrained anger in his voice. He spoke Minbari fluently. "Who are you to desecrate this shrine?"

"Desecration? Hardly. I was here when this shrine was built. I spoke to Zarwin as he left here. He once told me that I would always be friend to the Tak'cha.... to the Unatoned."

"Who are you?"

"I am Marrain."

There were murmurs of anger at this revelation. They would think it a lie. They would have to. Everyone knew that Marrain must be dead by now. But did they know how he had died? Did they know how he had betrayed their precious Z'ondar?

"I am Sah'thai Vhixarion of the Unatoned," said the leader. "And you are a liar. Marrain, our friend and ally, is dead."

"And yet I stand here. Alive." Dead. He was dead. They were dead. Everyone was dead. "I was there at the first meeting with Zarwin. I guarded the Z'ondar at Mount H'leya. I fought alongside him."

"Then how do you live? How do you stand here?"

"The Z'ondar disappeared into the chariot of ages, did he not? He did not die, no more than did I. Death and life are the same, one circle. One unity. One life. One death."

"Why are you here?"

"To help you. To help you atone." Something at the back of his mind was burning. He could feel it. Who was he talking to? Vhixarion, or Zarwin? "As the Z'ondar would have wished." Fire. There was fire everywhere. "To prepare for his return."

Vhixarion looked at him, his wide dark eyes exploring him. He made to speak, and then stopped.

Those who will not follow you into fire, into darkness, into death.... they do not deserve to follow you. And so, instead, they must precede you.

The words came from nowhere, from in front of them, from around them. Suddenly, in an eerie shimmering, there appeared two figures, transparent as glass, but clearly defined as a reflection in a still pond. Everyone knew who they were.

How.... could you? Have you no compassion? Have you no care for the helpless?

There was a whispered hush among the Tak'cha and they all slowly sank to their knees, heads bowed. Only Vhixarion dared to keep looking at the ghosts before him.

We care only to glorify your name, Valen.... We must be true to ourselves above all else, and as we see fit, we will....

Get out!

The Tak'cha shook at the force of Valen's words. Some stumbled backwards, making to leave, imagining their great Z'ondar to be addressing them directly.

I will not have innocent beings slaughtered in my name.

But.... you need us as allies.

We will manage without you. Now leave.

"Our sin," whispered Vhixarion. He turned to Marrain. "What was our sin? The Yolu would not ally themselves with the Z'ondar. They would not pledge themselves to his holy crusade. We were right to chastise them. They would not follow him into fire, into darkness, into death. They should therefore precede him.

"We do not understand. The great Zarwin, the first Sah'thai - he did not understand, and we have not a tenth of his wisdom. The Z'ondar has surely sent you to us for enlightenment, Marrain. Tell us....

"What was our sin?"

Marrain's eyes were dark. He could see flames licking around him. He could see another ghost. His own, standing here, facing Valen after Zarwin's exile. Words had been exchanged. A weapon raised.

Marrain began to laugh, although whether in the present or the past, he could not be sure.

Two dead men.

The air was thick and heavy, hot. It seemed to crackle. At David Sheridan's side, two Shadows bristled with anger at the sight of their oldest enemy before them.

"How long have you been here?" he asked.

"We have always been here," Clark said, in a voice that was not his own. "Always. We were content to wait, and watch. When you came to try to bend this man to your will, we waited until we were ready, until you were obscured by your own concerns, and then we moved. We blasted your symbiont from his body and took it for our own."

"How long have you been controlling him?"

"We do not control him. Everything he has done, he has done himself."

hissed the Shadow at Sheridan's side.

"They have always been ours," said Clark, light pouring from his eyes. He took a step backwards, keeping his desk between him and the Shadows. "We have always been here."

"Yes," Clark said with a smile. "We have lost."

Sheridan took another step forward. Something about this made no sense. Clark looked so confident, as if everything was going according to some plan. The Alliance fleet would be here soon, but they were expected. The Shadow ships were also here. The fight would be difficult, yes, but the Alliance would be outnumbered, by the Earthforce fleet, the Shadows, the planetary defence grid....

No, he did not like the feel of this at all.

Clark took another step back. He was against the wall now. Sheridan came forward slowly, moving around the desk. The Shadows followed him, their anger evident in the dark song of their movements.

Clark's face smiled again. "We have lost," he said. "And in that, we have won. Soon you will understand." The light faded from his eyes, and he was himself once again. "They are happy to let me say one last thing to you, Ambassador," he said in his own voice.

"I never liked you."

His arm darted out and he tapped something on the wall. The lights suddenly went out and there was a sliding noise. Sheridan tried to move forward, but he could not see, and the edge of the desk struck against his hip. There was the sound of a scuffle, and a furious shriek from one of the Shadows. A moment later there was the sound of a door slamming shut.

He managed to scramble to his feet, knowing that the backup lighting would come on in a few moments. When it did he saw that Clark had vanished. There was a splatter of blood on the wall, and one of the Shadows lay broken and dead on the floor. The other was furiously hacking at the wall.

"Secret passage," Sheridan spat. "No! We don't have time for that. They have some sort of plan. We have to find out what it is. What exactly is going on?"

There was the sudden sound of klaxons, and he looked up. He could almost see the Alliance ships coming into view, all those miles above. He could almost feel his son on board one of them.

Time was short....

G'Kael had never been a particularly religious man. He had always been concerned with practicality over theory, and had seldom bothered with prayer. More recently, however, he was finding faith a suitable and interesting thing to have. It helped greatly when it came to looking at the future.

And the present.

He looked at the woman who was, in name at least, his attach? here on Kazomi 7. Na'Toth had been in the inner circle of the Kha'Ri, only to be deposed in a particularly machiavellian power game. Now she was here, out of the way, in a powerless and humiliating position. Or so her enemies thought. She, G'Kael and G'Kar all knew better.

"The Kha'Ri is not happy," G'Kael noted.

"No," said Na'Toth. "I would guess not. I suppose the evidence is actually reliable?"

"It certainly seems so," G'Kael replied. "I have not actually spoken with the captain who recorded it, but the Kha'Ri seem convinced that it is genuine. Of course, that does not mean a great deal."

"And if it is true, what then?"

"I have instructions from Councillor H'Klo. He wants the Alliance to intervene on our behalf in the war with the Centauri. His exact words were, 'This is no longer a private matter. Our war is now their war.'"

"Will the Council see it that way?"

"It is possible. Captain Sheridan did after all order us out of the Council until we chose to involve ourselves in their war. This way, they will have to involve themselves in our war. The Ha'Cormar'ah will know better than I do, of course."

"When he arrives."

"He is a busy man. The affairs of his position here weigh heavily upon him. Also, there is the matter of the war with the humans to contend with. However, Councillor H'Klo instructed me to bring this matter before the Alliance Council as soon as possible, no matter how busy they are."

"Councillor H'Klo will just have to wait." snapped Na'Toth. He had been among the foremost of those who had stripped her of her position in the inner circle.

A few minutes later the door opened and in walked the Ha'Cormar'ah. G'Kar, head of the Rangers, prophet and leader, both of warriors and of the faithful.

"There is something you should see, Ha'Cormar'ah," said G'Kael softly.

G'Kar watched the video footage in silence. His face was grim. It would be hard, G'Kael knew, for him to watch scenes of Narn soldiers and Narn ships being destroyed. Even harder to watch this happen at the hands of the Shadows, seemingly allied with the Centauri, who were led by G'Kar's oldest friend.

"Is that genuine?" G'Kar asked, when it was finished.

"It seems so," replied G'Kael. "Our preliminary tests have not been able to determine any obvious flaws in the recording. It will be examined in more detail, of course."

"Londo would never ally himself with the Shadows," G'Kar said angrily. "He has been fighting them almost as long as I have. He was one of the first to join my mission."

"That was our thought," said Na'Toth. "But are you sure he would not do that? Not even for the good of his people?"

"No, he would not. He was here, remember. He was here when the Drakh invaded Kazomi Seven. He has seen the chaos the Shadows cause. He would not make such an alliance, no matter what the ultimate aim. This is a trick of some kind."

"Whatever it is," G'Kael said, "my instructions are to take this piece of footage before the Council and demand that the Centauri embassy here be refused recognition, their provisional ambassador exiled, and our embassy restored to its rightful status. I am also to request that the Alliance join our war against the Centauri."

"Londo would never give his people over to the Shadows," said G'Kar thoughtfully. "This is a trick, I am sure of it. By the Shadows or...."

He hesitated, and G'Kael caught the belief he could not give voice to. The position of Narn Ambassador here had been denied recognition by the Council and G'Kael himself dismissed from war meetings, until, as Sheridan had put it, the Narns chose where their allegiance lay. That position would be reinstated if the Narns committed themselves to war with the Shadows. The Kha'Ri had been furious to hear this.

But now, mere weeks later, by a stunning coincidence, 'evidence' had appeared of a Centauri deal with the Shadows. G'Kar would not like to think that the Kha'Ri had manufactured such evidence, but it was a possibility that could not be far from his mind. Both G'Kael and Na'Toth had considered that, although not aloud.

"A trick," G'Kael said at last. "But we cannot prove that, and I have no time to do it. My first duty, Ha'Cormar'ah, is to my people, as you know."

"Yes, I know. Very well, G'Kael. Approach the Council. I will try to.... dissuade them from committing to war with the Centauri. We do not have the resources to fight such a war yet anyway, not while we still fight the humans. But I fear we can only buy a little time.

"The Shadows have done this to force precisely this sort of action, G'Kael. We must do what we can to ensure their success is limited."

Time was short.

Ambassador Sheridan moved as fast as he could, rifling through the papers on Clark's desk, desperately trying to get into the files. Nothing was any help. The computer console had been purged from within, all the files destroyed. All the papers had been shredded, except one.

It was a simple white page, with two words written in Clark's scribbled hand.

Scorched Earth.

Scorched Earth.

The words filled Sheridan with fear. What was Clark going to do here? Where had that secret passage taken him? This whole building was filled with emergency escape tunnels - he could have gone anywhere.

And he had sent away his secretary and all the Security from this part of the building. It would take time to recall them. Everything would take time, time he did not have.

The Shadow was by the window. It seemed to be staring up into the sky.

Fortunately there was one person who could help, if he got here fast enough. If he wanted to help.

The door chimed, and Sheridan looked up. At last! "Come in!" he barked. The door opened, and in walked two security guards. Between them walked Welles. His face was covered in bruises and he limped slightly, but his eyes were as aware and as alert as always.

"You may leave," Sheridan told the security guards.

"We apologise, sir," said one of them. "We are not to leave this one alone anywhere other than in his cell. Direct orders from the President himself, sir. That may only be countermanded by his own word."

"The President is.... indisposed at present. You have my instructions to leave."

"That is impossible, sir."

Sheridan sighed. They did not have time for this. Fortunately another realised this as well, and was more than capable of taking action.

The Shadow moved with a speed neither guard could anticipate. Space folded around it as it shimmered into invisibility. There was a blur of movement, a spray of blood and an anguished cry, and moments later both guards were dead.

"You didn't have to do that," Welles said softly.

"Yes, I did," said Sheridan. "We don't have time. None of us has any time at all."

"What's happened here?" Welles' cool gaze took in the bloodstains on the wall, the pile of shredded paper and the broken body of the dead Shadow.

"This," Sheridan said, thrusting the piece of paper into Welles' hand. He took it awkwardly in broken fingers. "Clark's planning something. Clark and the Vorlons. They're controlling him, and they're up to.... I don't know what, but it is going to be very bad. He's vanished through one of his secret passages. He's gone somewhere.

"What I need to know is where he's gone, and just where on this whole planet the Vorlons have been hiding all this time!"

"I thought you knew everything."

"Clark was damned good at keeping secrets, even from me. But no one can keep secrets from you. That's what you do, isn't it?

"So where is he, and where are the Vorlons?"

"Why should I tell you?"

"Because if you don't, then God alone knows what's going to happen! Scorched Earth?"

"Let him do what he likes. We don't deserve to be saved."

"What?" Sheridan breathed. He stumbled back. "How can you say that?"

"You're talking to someone who had an unborn baby murdered less than three weeks ago. I've studied humanity all my life, and I'm telling you we do not deserve to be saved."

"How can you...? Listen to me! I don't know why you went into this job, but I know why I did. I wanted to help people. I wanted to do what was right. It took us all centuries to build a society based on freedom and rights, but the thing about freedom is that it brings responsibility. That's the point! We have to give some things back to the society that raised us. I tried to teach that to my children, and I'd teach it to my grandchildren.

"I can't just sit back and watch people die if there's anything I can do to prevent it."

"You just killed two people," Welles noted.

"And if it saves millions, then was it worth it? Dammit, Welles! Help me!"

Welles closed his eyes and sighed. A soft tremor shook his body, and he said one word. "Vicky." Then he opened them again. "What would these Vorlons need? What resources, what sort of environment, what?"

"They took over Clark. That implies they'd be with someone or somewhere he was involved with a lot. They'd prefer to be as near the top of the scale as possible. Maybe not the Government itself, but close. Someone powerful, but a behind–the–scenes player. I'd take a guess at someone behind a member of the Round Table."

"Ah, yes. Them. Someone Clark would visit regularly?"

"He'd have to. The control must have been very slight to prevent me noticing. They'd have to reinforce it at regular intervals."

"IPX," Welles said slowly. "He's been having secret, private meetings with someone there for months, maybe longer. He's always gone alone. What was happening there.... I was never able to find out, but they've got a huge complex, a lot of illegal weapons and other research, and a good number of off–world holdings and interests."

"IPX," Sheridan said. "Yes, that makes sense. So is that where Clark's going to be?"

"Possible," Welles admitted. "There are secret passageways from here to there. That's.... ah, that's how he disappeared. Have you tried finding the doorway from here?"

"No. There wouldn't be time."

"Very wise of you. There's a time–coded lock on the other side. Once he's activated it, you can't open the door from this side. It's a security measure to stop anyone trying to follow him."

"Well, that doesn't matter. If he's in the IPX headquarters, even underground, then he's a dead man. Him and all his Vorlon friends."

Welles started. "What are you going to do?"

"We don't have time for a ground assault, to send Security in, break out the army, anything like that. They're obviously ready to move, and we've got the Alliance over our heads right now.

"So.... we'll go for an air assault."

"Air assault.... but the dome...." Realisation dawned in Welles' eyes. "Oh my God."

"You have to sacrifice the few to save the many," Sheridan whispered.

"Then how does that make you different from Clark?"

"I'm on the side of the angels."

"Funny," said Welles, his eyes dark. "I'll bet that's just what he's saying."

Tirivail of the Storm Dancers clan could hear the sound of battle, and for one instant she wondered if it was the sound of her companions fighting Sinoval's treacherous soldiers or the sound of a combat a thousand years old.

She could feel the power in this place. It was a holy place, not just to the Tak'cha but to her people as well, a place where the ancestors had walked, where legends had stood. She could hear their words, feel their inner strength, witness their ancient struggles.

It had been she who had noticed that Kozorr had wandered off, and also she who had worked out where he would have gone. Gripped by a strange, dark feeling she could not explain, she had gathered Rastenn and the others and gone to find him, moving quickly.

They had found family and friends, kith and kin, wearing bands that proclaimed their allegiance, and standing guard with pikes raised. There had been a moment's hesitation, and then battle had been joined, Minbari against Minbari, warrior against warrior, all set upon strength and skill and prowess and will.

As it had been in the old days.

Tirivail had caught a brief glimpse of Kozorr inside the room, and had seized an opportunity to dart into the chamber. A figure was standing over him, pike raised. For a moment time shifted slightly, and she was sure she saw a tall warrior, bearing the mark of a clan long dead. Without thought, she struck, and as her pike connected, she saw who it was.

"You should be more careful," she said to Kozorr, a faint smile on her face. "But then...." She turned to look at Kats. The strike had not been a harsh one, not a killing blow. "So should she."

"No," Kozorr whispered, trying to rise, but his crippled body would not permit him. It was a tragedy, such a vibrant will imprisoned by a weakened and injured body. She did not love him any the less for his deformity, but he could not believe that, of course.

"Come," she said, bending over to take his hand. "There is battle outside. You will be needed."

"No," said another voice, a surprisingly forceful one. Tirivail turned to see the little worker rising to her feet. She still held Kozorr's pike. "We should not be fighting each other," she said, holding the weapon inexpertly.

"Silence, traitor. Lord Sonovar should have killed you when he was able."

"I am no traitor, not to the Minbari, not to the Grey Council, not to anyone." Tirivail saw Kozorr flinch. "But this is not the way. We should not be fighting each other."

"We did for thousands of years before Valen came. We will do so again."

"And where will that take us? Our world is dead, our people scattered to the three winds, our cities rubble and our shrines empty ruins. We should be working together to rebuild, not merely creating more dead bodies."

"Spoken like a true worker. Go back to your little den and build walls and bridges. Let us rule, as we were always meant to."

"Always? You do not see, do you? We have been three working as one. You fight, we build, they pray. And together, our people are strengthened. Apart, we wither and die." Kats paused. "Ask Kozorr."

"He is a warrior! He knows the way the galaxy is."

Kats turned instinctively to look at Kozorr. Tirivail could see him out of the corner of her eye. His head was bowed, his body shaken by racking coughs. His weak leg was twisted.

Tirivail's heart wept to see him like this, but she was a warrior, and she knew the value of action over sentimentality.

She darted forward, aiming for a paralysing blow rather than a killing one. Her last strike had been weakened due to her mis–perception of what she was striking. This one would not be. She was a trained warrior, Kats just a worker holding a pike even a master could not wield well.

Kozorr's pike seemed to move in Kats' hands. There was a flick of her wrist, and the pike knocked aside Tirivail's thrust. The warrior stepped back, eyes darkening.

"I am only a mere worker," Kats said softly, "but a warrior I knew once, and loved always, told me that it has been said that weapons can.... over time.... become moulded by their owners, guided by the spirits of those who bore the pike in times past." She smiled sadly. "A silly superstition, is it not?"

Tirivail paled. She was a warrior. A thousand years had passed since the great days of the warriors, the days of duels and glorious deaths and immortalisation in poetry. A thousand years of peace were shouting at her.... but she still believed. The old ways spoke to her, and in the depths of her heart she truly believed that her ancestors watched her always, that ghosts protected holy places.... and that weapons could be guided by the spirits of their former owners.

But Kozorr had wielded that pike less than two years. She had never heard, even in the darkest legends, of any pike becoming a spirit blade in such a short time.

She launched forward in another attack. Kats parried it. Tirivail spun on the balls of her feet and darted past Kats' guard, dancing effortlessly in a pattern of attack her clan's Sechs had developed. Kats moved slowly to match her.

Tirivail rained blows down on Kats, and each one was blocked, although with difficulty. There were.... weaknesses in Kats' defence. Tirivail could not explain this, any more than she could explain how Kats could wield the weapon at all. The guidance of Kozorr's spirit was the only possibility.

But that meant....

It meant that Kozorr did truly love this worker after all. It meant that the bravest, strongest, most noble warrior Tirivail had ever known loved a worker rather than her.

Screaming with fury, she continued to attack. Time and space continued to shift, and she was on Minbar once again, on her family's training ground, practising with the denn'bok while her father watched.

Lanniel was defending, crafting an effortless wall of movement and parry, draining every attack. Every advance broke on her wall, and finally Tirivail slumped to the ground, defeated.

No! Not this time!

Her attack smashed Kozorr's pike from Kats' hands and the force of the impact drove the worker to the floor. Eyes blind with rage, not knowing where or when she was, Tirivail lunged in for the kill.

There was a distant cry from someone she ought to know, but did not, and a blur of motion. In one terrible instant she realised what was happening and tried to reverse her attack, but instinct was too finely ingrained. Generation after generation of warrior training in her blood worked against her.

Kozorr's crippled body could move at last. He formed another shield, one Tirivail could destroy all too easily. The edge of her pike tore into his body.

There was a rush of blood, an anguished cry, and then.... silence.

She dropped her pike and sank to her knees, head bowed. She knew Kats was saying something, but she did not hear it. The words were not meant for her, after all, but for the one they both loved, the one she had just killed.

"Is he dead?" she whispered at last. It was a killing blow, she knew that. He might still live, if his will held. It might not be fatal.... yet. But she knew with a sick certainty that it would kill him eventually.

"No," came the soft reply.

"You were right. We should not be fighting each other."

There was noise and movement from the other side of the room. "Tirivail!" came a cry. It was Rastenn, the euphoria of victory in his voice. "We have prisoners, two of them."

"Let them go," she said hollowly.

"What?"

"Let them go!"

"Sinoval is waiting for you," said Kats softly. "He is in the Grey Council Hall. He is alone."

"I know where that is." Tirivail rose to her feet and picked up her pike. "We will end this, and when it is.... done.... I will come back. Kozorr, can you.... hear me?"

"I think he can."

"You.... were right. Take your pretty little worker, be with her." Her eyes shifted to meet Kats'. "I...." She tried to say something, but no words would come.

"I know," Kats whispered, tears in her eyes.

Tirivail could not hold that gaze for long. She broke away and turned to Rastenn. He had seen Kozorr's body, and his face paled. He had idolised Kozorr, dreamed of modelling himself in his pattern.

"We will find Sinoval," she said to him, and he looked at her. "We will end this."

"Yes," said Rastenn, a dark hatred in his voice. "We will end this."

There was a lesson Corwin remembered the Captain teaching him once. It was about fear, and something he claimed to have picked up from one of his earliest commanding officers.

Fear has no place during a battle. Before, yes. And after sometimes. But never during. There are two types of soldiers: the one who wants to win, and the one who is afraid to lose. Both can be good. Damned good. But in a match between the two, there's no doubt who'll win.

Don't be afraid during a battle. Think about what is. Think about what you have to return to, not about what you might lose.

The Captain had taught him a great many things, and most of them he had learned to heed. Not this one. He was afraid, but not of dying. He was afraid of living. Afraid of what was going to come out of all this.

It was not just him. There was a palpable sense of fear over the whole bridge. He could see some of the crew shaking. It wasn't just fear of battle. These were experienced soldiers, who'd been fighting almost constantly as far back as they could remember. There was something.... expectant in the air, a feeling that something very, very bad was going to happen.

Even the ship seemed to feel it. From time to time while he had been on the Agamemnon he had felt something that seemed like a heartbeat, thudding through the armrest of his chair. It could be just his imagination, but it seemed to be beating faster now.

"Are you there?" he thought to himself. "Is anyone there, or am I really losing my mind?" He had felt so many strange things about this ship, and he was not the only one. Neeoma flat out refused to come on board any more, and several members of other crews had resigned, or moved to the normal support ships. There had even been a handful of suicides.

What had those Vorlons done here? What were they willing to do for all this?

In fact, the only person who seemed unaffected by these Dark Stars was the Captain himself, but then he had changed so much in recent months anyway.

Are you there? Corwin thought to himself again as the gap in space opened and the Agamemnon swept into normal space with the rest of the fleet.

Help me!

He started, sitting forward. Had someone said something? He looked around, but none of the bridge crew was looking at him. He was sure he had heard something, but it wasn't a voice he recognised.

He shook his head, trembling. There were a million explanations. Radio interference, perhaps. Strange things happened in hyperspace. Or maybe simple stress.

Whatever it was, rational thought fled as he found himself staring at the fleet ready to oppose him. Human ships, crewed by his contemporaries, people he knew, people he had met, liked, befriended.

And next to them, the Shadow ships.

Destroy them! cried a voice, one he could not identify, and just beneath that, a soft echo came. Help me.

There were no words that needed to be spoken, no orders that needed to be given. It was as if the ships knew what they were doing and the crews were merely along for the ride.

The Dark Stars swept forward, and battle was joined.

He watched and listened as she talked, happy to let her do so. He knew something of the trauma she had recently been through. The doctors here might not be well provisioned or well paid or well supplied, but they were thorough and they knew their job. For most of them it was a calling.

She showed little sign of her grief. Although her words lacked the conviction of their previous conversation, her genuine sincerity remained.

Dexter Smith was still unable to explain, even to himself, why he was risking so much to help Delenn. A little voice in his mind, Talia's voice, said he owed Delenn nothing. She was the enemy. They had undertaken a mission to rescue her, and they had been paid for it, and that was that. Mission accomplished, job done, go home.

But another part of him pointed out that Delenn was not the enemy. She was someone who had been terribly, terribly hurt, and needed help, needed company, needed someone.

"We have talked before," she said hesitantly, after a while. "I know you...."

"Dexter Smith. Formerly Captain in Earthforce. I arrested you on Babylon Four."

She smiled in recognition. "Yes, I remember now. What happened? Why are you not with your army any more?"

"Ah.... I was asked to explain some.... things about that whole incident I really couldn't explain. I resigned to avoid a scandal, with an honourable discharge due to 'ill health'. To be honest, I just couldn't do it any more. When I joined Earthforce it was to get away from here. Then later it was a simple matter of good and evil. We were good, you were evil, and that was that.

"I saw just a bit too much and...." He sighed. "I didn't know where I was going, what I was doing.... what. So I decided to wind down a notch, come back here and try to work things out."

"Ah," she said, nodding. "A soul quest, yes. Some of our people have been known to do similar things, when they realise they are known only by their positions, by what they are, rather than who they are.

"Tell me, Captain Smith, do you know who you are now?"

"I'm getting there," he admitted. "And it's plain old Mr. Smith these days. Or Dexter even. Just not Dex."

"I apologise," she said. She made to smile, but then a look of pain crossed her face, and she began to cough. Flecks of blood stained her mouth.

"Are you all right?" said Smith, starting. "Let me get a doctor."

"No," she whispered weakly. "It is.... only to be expected.... after what has happened. I can...." She closed her eyes. "I can still hear his heart beating...." She began coughing again.

"I'm going to get a doctor," he said again, rising from his chair by her side. She tried to say something, but clearly could not. He moved quickly from her room to the adjacent corridor. To his surprise there was no one there. He took a glance in the nearest room. It was empty. And then the next one.

That was empty too.

In fact, there was no one around.

He might have retired from Earthforce but he had been a soldier for a long time, and some instincts remained. They were all screaming at him. There was the sound of movement outside, and he began to panic. Racing back to Delenn's room, he scooped up the PPG he had laid next to the chair.

"What is it?" Delenn whispered.

"Trouble," he replied softly. "Can you walk?"

"If I must."

"Trust me, you must. I think someone's discovered you're here. Come on." He reached for her and gently helped her out of the bed. She swayed against him and almost fell. "Just move as quickly as you can," he said. "We've got to get out of here."

"Where?"

"I don't know." Slowly, he began to guide her towards the back door. "I would have said Bo's, but I went to him before. Maybe he...." He shook his head. "No, I can't believe Bo would do that. But.... Damn, we've been much too careless. Doctors, helpers, anyone could have found out you're here."

"We don't know.... they.... know...."

A window exploded as a rock came flying through it. Smith started as it landed at his feet. There was the sound of angry voices outside. He could not identify words, and he did not want to.

"Oh, they know all right. There must be another way out of here."

"Why...?" She coughed again. "Why are you helping me?"

"Someone has to."

"No," she said seriously. "No one has to. I would not blame you if you chose to leave me here. I have done much to deserve that."

"Well, what can I say? I always wanted to be a hero. Look, someone has to be the good guy, and it might as well be me. In the grand scale of things my life doesn't mean much. Yours does. Now come on, we have to get out the back."

"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you."

"Hey, don't thank me until we're out of this."

Slowly, they moved on. More windows broke, but they were all front–facing ones. Maybe they had not got round the back. Smith was thinking of places to go, places to hide. There was an alley not far away that led out to another abandoned building. They could hide there for a while. It would be hard to conceal Delenn, of course. Even apart from her headbone she was pretty conspicuous in her white hospital gown.

Still, all they had to do was get away from here. They could try to get in touch with Welles. He would be able to do something.

Smith pushed open the back door, and swore loudly.

There was a crowd waiting for them. Several people were carrying weapons, and dark glares were burning in their eyes. There were angry cries.

And standing in the front row, a look of triumph on his face, arms folded across his chest, was Trace.

He was smiling.

Klaxons continued to blare across Proxima. Wherever they were heard they aroused panic and terror. People had long memories. Some scrambled into underground blast shelters, families huddled together, reliving days they had thought were long gone. Others stumbled outside, looking up into the sky, waiting for the first sight of the alien ships descending on their world.

If anyone in the business sector had done that they would indeed have seen an alien ship descending on their world, but this was not a Minbari warship, not a Dark Star, or a Narn cruiser, or a Drazi Sunhawk, or any other Alliance ship.

It was a Shadow vessel. A ship belonging to humanity's allies, their saviours, their guardians against all the things that threatened the human race.

The dome shattered as it crashed through the glittering surface, shards raining down upon the buildings and people below. It turned and bore down on the Edgars Building, the headquarters of Interplanetary Expeditions.

It fired. Windows shattered. Walls exploded. The building began to collapse.

Somewhere beneath the building, in a hidden, reinforced underground complex, two men stood before another one. The room was shaking around them.

"How strong is this place?" asked the younger. "Can that thing blow us up?"

"Eventually, yes. There were limits to just how strong we could make this complex without alerting the Enemy. It will however take time.... and that is on our side."

"Is it ready?"

A thin smile stretched across his features. "Yes, the network is ready. The Dark Stars are here, and unknowingly they bring our salvation with them. All we have to do is open this link."

Mr. Edgars stepped forward, looking up at the still form of Byron. There was a low humming noise, which had been growing louder and louder. Lights began to sparkle around the wall, illuminating Byron's body. His eyes flicked open, and from deep within them came a brighter and brighter–glowing light.

"Mr. Byron," said Edgars, stepping back and breathing in sharply. "This is your wake–up call."

Above them all, the Shadow ship continued to fire.

Smith moved first, instincts honed by back–alley brawls and Earthforce training. He darted in front of Delenn as the first rock was thrown. She stumbled as he pushed her back, but the rock missed her.

"It is her!" cried one voice.

"I told you so," said Trace. "It's her. He's the one that hid her here."

Some of the crowd moved forward, and Smith gently tried to push Delenn back into the doorway. She would not move.

"Stop this!" Smith cried. "This isn't...."

"Oh, but it is!" snapped Trace. "She's Minbari. She's Delenn herself. We all know who she is, what she's done! You're trying to protect her!" He turned to face the crowd. "The big war hero here would rather protect the Minbari than fight them!"

There was another forward surge, and another projectile was thrown. It struck Smith on the shoulder, and he grunted. "Go," he said to Delenn. "I'll try and hold them off.... as much as I can."

"No," she said softly.

"What? They'll kill you, for God's sake. Just go!"

"I know," she said. Gently she pushed him aside, and he stumbled. She walked forward and stood to face the crowd. They stopped, puzzled. "I am sorry," she said to them simply. "I am sorry."

"Sorry?" cried one. "Sorry?" said another. "That ain't enough!" "Not by half!"

"I know," she said again. "Words can never undo what has been done. They cannot restore the dead to your side, nor erase all the years of grief. The past can never be changed.

"But the future can be healed. The past can be remembered, and honoured, and still we can look to the future. I came here to this world, to say this. To say I am sorry."

There was a stunned silence. Smith turned to look at Trace, and saw confusion in the man's eyes. For a moment, all was still. For one moment the entire crowd paused, and history took a breath.

And then God blinked.

Someone threw a stone. It hit Delenn squarely on the leg, and she stumbled. With that, another projectile was launched, a bottle, rocks, cans, rubbish. Smith tried to intervene, but he could do nothing. Delenn fell to the ground as more and more was hurled at her. Countless cuts bled.

"Wait a minute!" Trace said at last, and the people stopped. Slowly, Delenn tried to rise. Smith went to her and offered her his arm. She leant on him, and for one moment looked into his eyes. Then she bowed her head.

"Wait a minute," said Trace again. "The Government were going to give her a trial, so they said. Do things proper and by the book, and so should we.

"But our justice isn't their justice. They've got lawyers, and fancy defences, and diplomatic concerns. We've got none of that here. We've got three–o–one justice, and we'll do this fairly.... but we'll do it our way. Anyone here want to, say, put the evidence for the prosecution, as it were?"

There was a pause, and Delenn was visibly shaking against Smith. He tried to shepherd her back towards the door, but she would not move.

"I'll say some things," said someone. The crowd parted, and an old man hobbled forward. Trace's eyes narrowed. Smith turned to look at the emerging figure and made to say something, but the words failed.

His gait was twisted, one leg dragging along, withered and bent. There were dark burn marks down the side of his face, and one eye was a mass of black scar tissue.

"You don't know who I am, do you?" he said to Delenn. She said nothing in reply. "Name's Duncan," he said after a while. "Wasn't a soldier, wasn't a scientist or a big fancy diplomat. Just a man who carved things and sold them in the market.

"Was on a passenger ship, me, my wife, my daughter. Wasn't military or nothing. Your people attacked us, blew it up good and then left us floating in space. Me.... I was lucky, maybe. I got out alive, after all. Only three of us did. Wife and daughter.... well.... That was nine years ago. Been living here ever since, just.... I don't know. Just remembering.

"Don't hate you or nothing. Just.... wanted to know. Why? Why did you do it all?"

"It...." Delenn breathed out. "It was a...." She shook. "It was a mistake."

"Ah," said Duncan. He nodded, and then turned and hobbled back towards the crowd.

"See!" said Trace. "A mistake? What kind of justification is that? Is that any way to explain all the dead, all the injured, all the lives lost? That's no excuse in my book." He looked at Smith, and the dark light of triumph burned in his eyes.

"Now, not that I see the point, but these things must be done fairly, I suppose. Does anyone want to speak for her?"

Smith moved, but Delenn reached out to touch his chest, and he fell back. "I will speak," she coughed. She stepped forward. "I.... am sorry. For everything. For those who died, for those who were hurt, for those who lost their lives and their loves and their souls.

"And I am sorry for all of you, for all those who have been lost, for those who have walked through the last sixteen years alone and afraid and in darkness.

"What we did was wrong, and I am sorry. But our people have known loss and grief and darkness just as yours have. They have learned to hate, just like you. This cycle cannot continue. Unless it is ended, both our races will be destroyed. And if it takes one more death to end this.... then that is what must be paid."

She stepped forward and spread her arms wide. "I came here for many reasons. To explain, to say I was sorry.... but most importantly to end this cycle, to set aside finally the ways of hate and death that have engulfed us all for sixteen years. And if I must die to do that.... then I will die."

"No!" cried Smith.

"Then I will die," she said again.

There was a whispered hush over the crowd. Some shook their heads, some spoke in soft tones to their friends. Some moved forward, brandishing weapons.

It was Trace who was the first to speak aloud. "Yeah," he said. "You'll die. That's what you deserve, after all. What all your kind deserve."

"Me, perhaps," she replied. "But not all Minbari. If any of you learn anything from today, learn this. The sins of the one do not carry through to the many."

"I think we should kill her now," he said. "Just so we don't have to listen to any more Minbari philosophy." There was nervous laughter. Smith moved forward. "And there's just the person to do it," Trace said. "Our executioner, so kindly come forward. Well.... you are going to accept this offer, aren't you? Or are you going to take her part over that of your own people?"

"No!" Smith cried. "This isn't right."

"It is right," Delenn said. "I came here to touch people. Maybe I have reached you.... If so, then my death will not be a waste. If just one person takes something good away from this...."

"I can't do it."

"You must.... or they will kill you as well, and then my death will not mean anything. You cannot protect me from everything. You have done more than enough for me already, and I thank you for it.... but this you must do."

"I...."

"I do not blame you."

"I'm.... I'm.... sorry."

"And so am I."

"Here you are," said Trace, tossing over a PPG. "That'll do it nicely. A bit quick, but then I forgot to bring the nails for a crucifixion, so this will have to do."

"Damn you," he hissed.

"Never gonna happen. Why? I'm the good guy, remember. After everything she's done, I can't help but be the good guy. That's a nice feeling. I'll have to be the good guy again."

"Do it!" cried someone from the crowd. There was half–hearted encouragement, but the fury seemed to have gone out of them.

"Yes," Trace said, sensing this. "Do it."

"Go on," Delenn said. "I am not afraid. If you see John.... No. He knows. I will meet him again."

"Do it!" cried Trace again.

Smith raised the weapon.

Delenn closed her eyes.

"Do it!"

He fired.

Delenn's body fell.

Chapter 5

In almost a hundred and fifty years, since telepathy was discovered amongst humans, a wide range of tests had been carried out to determine the extent of the powers, skills and abilities telepaths could possess. The first human encounter with aliens and the discovery that they had telepaths too only heightened the urgency.

One early theory was that a network of telepaths could be set up to provide completely secret, near–instant communication between any number of strategic locations. Experiments were marginally successful, but the limitation of most telepaths to line–of–sight range ultimately proved too problematic. Similar ideas were later broached regarding telepathic communication in space, when it was discovered that hyperspace extended telepathic range. Here, however, it was lack of knowledge regarding hyperspace itself that caused the problems.

There were secret reports filed in certain places speculating that certain alien races might be able to utilise telepaths in this fashion. Psi Corps managed to obtain most of these reports.

William Edgars was no scientist, but he had always possessed a quick mind and a willingness to accept ideas that others would regard as.... unusual, or even impossible. He was also more than willing to listen when it was explained exactly what would be needed of him.

Telepathic signals did travel better through hyperspace due to the strange properties of that other universe, properties not even the Vorlons understood well. The Vorlons did understand telepaths, however, very well indeed. They understood enough for their purposes.

All that was needed was a powerful telepath, of any race, at certain key locations in the galaxy, bound to a machine. Vorlon technology was organic, and so better able to siphon and direct telepathic powers than the cold harshness of machinery. Then hyperspace corridors were created, linking these nodes to each other, direct links from one to another, focussed in little pockets. Human technology could not do this, nor could most other races.

But the Vorlons had the knowledge, the power and the cold–hearted will to do whatever was necessary. They had created telepaths as weapons, and it was as weapons they would be used.

The effect of this network was to allow telepaths to draw on the powers of other telepaths, building exponentially, the whole far greater than the sum of its parts. With a little proper direction.... the effects could be devastating. Much of Vorlon space had been protected in this manner, but never before had the network been extended outside Vorlon territory.

Never until now.

Byron's eyes opened. Light filled him, filled his mind. He had no consciousness now, save a little voice that might once have been his, screaming, a tiny echo in a mass of other screams.

His body shook as the hyperspace conduit opened behind him, in front of him, all around him. He was the gateway between the two worlds, the minds of a billion telepaths forming the telekinetic shield that protected against the gravity distortion.

His every muscle burned, stretched beyond breaking–point. His bones shook and were shattered by the stress. His blood boiled. None of that mattered. His mind was all that was important, his body was just a vessel, and now that he had been welcomed into the network, the network itself would be a ready vessel.

Edgars and Morden watched this, the older man smiling, the younger marvelling.

"You know what to do," Edgars said.

Byron did not, but the network did.

A scream left his mouth, one too high for the humans to hear. But the Vorlons heard it. The Shadows heard it.

And the Shadows began to die.

It was the Shadow ship that had shattered the dome that felt the wave first. The Shadows had known about their vulnerability to telepaths for a long time and had tried various strategies to counteract this weakness. They had had limited success with some forms of shielding, but they had decided by far the best approach was caution and stealth, and to use force only when absolutely necessary.

The destruction of the Edgars Building had been absolutely necessary, but unfortunately for the Shadows, and indeed for all humanity, the shields and fortifications had held just long enough.

The Shadow ship screamed as the full force of the telepathic network tore through it. Its organic shielding was shattered before the sheer power of a million telepathic minds working as one. Every living thing on the ship was driven mad in one terrifying instant, and it fell from the sky.

Buildings were smashed to mere piles of rubble as the Shadow ship crashed through them. The Edgars Building was already all but destroyed, and as the ship crashed through it the remains were utterly ruined. Again, however, the bunkers held.

And the telepathic power expanded outwards, tearing up through the skies of Proxima, sensing and targeting the other vessels of the hated Enemy. Byron might have been the focal point for the network in this area, but there were a good number of lesser nodes, points of focus and direction.

The wave swept onwards, enhanced and directed and shaped.

And with it came madness and chaos and destruction....

.... and death.

Captain Bethany Tikopai of the De'Molay caught the feeling that something was very wrong the instant before her ship began to fall apart. There was a brief flicker of light flashing before her eyes, and she blinked, a nagging itch suddenly developing inside her brain.

She opened her mouth to say something, but was not sure what.

Then everything collapsed about her. There was a scream, coming from the walls around her, from the floor beneath her feet, from the ceiling above her head. It tore through her mind and her soul and she recoiled from the sheer pain carried within it.

A terminal mere feet from her exploded, throwing the technician backwards. His body was burned and charred by the time it hit the floor. The lights on the bridge shattered one by one, as more and more terminals tore apart. In the weapons bay all the crew died in one instant of shock, not even realising what was happening as the targeting systems exploded around them and the hull was ripped open as though it were paper.

The engines were blown apart. The transport tubes collapsed around each other. The navigation systems were filled with white noise and a golden light.

Captain Tikopai was thrown forward as the ship rocked beneath her. Her head struck the floor and she heard the ship screaming once more before she blacked out.

The De'Molay hung dead in space.

Her eyes were closed. She might have been sleeping, but it was clear to everyone that she wasn't. She was dead, she must be. Human or Minbari, no one could take a PPG shot at point–blank range to the chest and survive.

For a moment everyone was still and silent. This was not what any of them had expected. They had come here for revenge on the monster who had killed their families, their friends, their homeworld. They had found a woman who had spoken earnestly of forgiveness and peace and sorrow, and who had gone to her death willingly.

Smith looked up from Delenn's body, and the only thing he could see was Trace. He was standing back, his arms folded high on his chest, a smug smile on his face. He had won. He had proved his power. He had ended a life that meant nothing to him, and destroyed that of a person he hated.

"It's good being the hero, i'n't it?" he said. "This must be how you felt, before you threw it all over and decided to become the champion of the down–and–outs."

"Shut up," Smith hissed. "You don't know anything."

"No? I know more than you think. I know about power, and about pain, and how anyone will do anything you want of them, if you just push them right. They all wanted her dead, all these people here, and I'm the one who helped them with that.

"I'm their hero."

"Oh?" said Smith. "I don't think you know them as well as you think."

Trace prepared to say something, but then he stopped and looked up. There were no warning systems here in the Pit. Why should there be, when no one cared who lived or died here?

But there were certain instincts, ancient and primaeval, that spoke within all humanity - ancient genetic memories. They spoke of danger.

"Oh hell," Trace said softly, all the colour draining from his face.

A good many things happened at once. There were cries of terror from the crowd, angry panic from Trace, and a desperate scuffle to escape, to get away from here, away from the invaders who would surely seek revenge on those who had murdered their leader. There were pleas for forgiveness, prayers to Gods worshipped and Gods ignored.

The crowd surged forward, trying to move somewhere, anywhere. Smith threw himself on Delenn's body, desperate to protect her now as he had not before. A sharp pain exploded in his leg as someone trod on it. He tried to raise his arms to protect his head, but a foot slammed into the side of his skull, and he was thrown into a world where all he knew was his nightmares.

The Dark Stars had always been slightly.... unusual ships. They were of Vorlon design and manufacture of course, with their systems crafted to be useable by many of the younger races. There were some who were uncomfortable being in them, and some, such as Flight–lieutenant Neeoma Connally, who refused to set foot on one unless absolutely necessary.

Many however, were beginning to find an odd sense of peace on board a Dark Star. Captain John Sheridan hardly left his flagship at all these days.

A probable cause of this was the sheer effectiveness of the Dark Stars in combat against the previously superior Shadow ships. Advanced jamming and shielding techniques coupled with powerful weapons systems made the fight much more even.

But the Dark Stars still held mysteries, and they had certainly never done this before.

"What the hell?" whispered Corwin.

For one instant, a mere handful of seconds after Byron began to scream, a brilliant light filled every room of the Dark Star 3 - the Agamemnon. The entire ship was bathed in a pure and perfect rejection of the darkness, and somewhere, in a lost and forgotten place, another scream was added, a slight and almost imperceptible echo of Byron's own. And then another, and then another. But no one heard them.

The light soon faded, but Corwin's attention was quickly drawn away from the unusual phenomenon, as he mentally filed it at the top of a very long list of unusual phenomena.

"Captain," said the tech. "Something.... something's happened."

"What?"

"The Earthforce ships.... they've.... stopped."

"Stopped what?"

"No, Captain. Just stopped dead. They're not moving, not powering weapons. Nothing. The De'Molay and the Dark Thunder might as well be floating hulks. The Morningstar is just turning in circles, and the Saint–Germain looks to be operating at about quarter–strength."

"What about the Shadow ships?"

"Some are paralysed, a few others are moving sluggishly. Some of them are still advancing."

"He knew this would be too easy," muttered Corwin. "Whatever's happened.... he knew about it."

"Sorry, Captain? What are your orders?"

"Hit the Shadow ships that are still moving. Do not fire on Earthforce ships unless they pose a threat to us."

"Aye, sir."

Corwin sat back, feeling something throbbing beneath him, above him, all around him. He did not know what had happened, but he had a very uncomfortable and unpleasant feeling.

For one brief instant he thought he heard a scream, coming from somewhere far, far away.

In a place far from the fates of men and nations being decided at Proxima, Sinoval, Primarch Majestus et Conclavus, was talking to people who had been dead for ten centuries.

"I wonder if he understood," he was saying, walking slowly around the first Hall of the Grey Council. Memories of the terrible bloodshed and torture that had occurred in the second Hall still touched him, as did the vision of his death in this place. He was thinking about Kats, and her part in his vision.

He was thinking about Sonovar.

"I wonder if he understood why they betrayed him. I would think not. Marrain and Parlonn were warriors, raised in a different culture, a different world from him. I have no idea what the Vorlons put into his mind, but hypnosis, subliminal influence, years of lessons.... all of these are no match for a lifetime of training. Marrain and Parlonn were born warriors, in the days when the word meant something, when you served your lord unto death, to the last breath, to the last whisper.

"Whatever else Valen was, he could not be a warrior like that. The histories show it. He abolished the Morr'dechai, elevated the workers, ended the rite of denn'cha. His coming was a hurricane of change. And still.... I wonder if he truly understood why they betrayed him. I certainly did not know why I was betrayed.

"Until now, anyway.

"Love is a strange thing, would you not agree? I have never understood it myself, but then I am told that those who have experienced it themselves rarely understand it either. Hatred is something I do understand, all too well. That is where Valen mis–stepped. He understood love, but not hatred.... and it doomed him. It also doomed Marrain and Parlonn."

Stormbringer tapped slowly against the side of his leg as he walked around the circle. "How many of you understood? How many of my Grey Council would understand? The religious caste have always made a show of not understanding, and claiming that they are wiser in doing so than are we who claim to comprehend. It is possible they are right, although this is the first time I have ever accepted that as a possibility."

Slowly, he walked into the centre of the circle. The ghosts of nine Councillors watched him with silent eyes.

And one moment later, one of the columns was no longer occupied by a ghost of the past, but by a harbinger of the future. And then another. And another. And another.

And that was all.

Eyes darkening, Sinoval glanced quickly around the circle. Four. Only four. He could not see Kats' body, and that was welcome. Maybe Lanniel and the others had managed to save her. He hoped so.

But then he could not see Sonovar either. Or Kozorr.

He did not like this. He had seen the future, and known it for what it was. Had his careful manipulations come to nothing, or was this just a simple.... flux?

"I was expecting more of you," he said softly.

"We will be enough," said the first warrior. He recognised her, although by reputation only. Lanniel's sister, the daughter of Takier of the Storm Dancers clan. Tirivail, that was her name. Takier had been the most influential surviving lord to ally with Sonovar. He was not here either.

"Where is Sonovar?"

"Lord Sonovar thought this beneath his attention."

Now Sinoval was confused. His careful efforts to force the truth of his vision did not seem to have worked. Or maybe they had been about to.... and someone, or something else had interfered.

"And Kozorr?" he asked, casually.

Tirivail extended her pike. "No more words," she said.

They charged forward. The columns of light went out.

"Scorched Earth." Welles laughed, a sound entirely devoid of humour. "Scorched Earth, but who's going to do the scorching, hmm? Him, or you?"

David Sheridan did not reply. He was still holding the piece of paper in his hand, looking at it, trying to think. The Vorlons were based in the IPX headquarters. If the building could be destroyed, then so would they. And Clark if he was there.

But what was their plan? They couldn't do this directly. They would want to blame the Shadows for this. For one terrible moment, Sheridan wondered if he had not done exactly what Clark had wanted. The destruction of an entire dome at the hands of the Shadows would be a powerful tool.

But then he calmed himself. No. Clark had said humanity needed to be taught a lesson, as a punishment for choosing the wrong side. There had been something in his words that had implied.... more....

Much more.

"Scorched Earth," Welles said again.

"Will you stop staying that?" snapped Sheridan. "Do you have any idea what it means, or are you just trying to drive me crazy?"

"It's.... I don't know. It's a bit familiar. Clark's.... what is Clark up to?"

"He and the Vorlons want to punish humanity. They want to teach us all a lesson for choosing the Shadows instead of them."

"I wasn't aware we had a choice."

"Then you try explaining that to them. The Vorlons don't care about fair. They only care about what's right.... what's right by their twisted logic anyway. Anyway, they were going to punish humanity, and try to blame it on us."

"How long do you think they have had control of Clark?"

"A few years at least. I've been noticing.... unusual behaviour in him for a while, things that weren't connected to.... what we were doing to him. He was obsessed with Sinoval, if you remember, and eager to push for war with the Alliance, to bring things to this point."

"The Alliance, yes. This timing can't be a coincidence. The attack on Proxima was rushed. He wanted it to happen now. Just when he was ready. The attack is a distraction, something to draw all the Shadow ships away, all our ships away.

"Why?

"Because what he's doing is going to be public, and not instantaneous. There would be time for someone to stop it, if they weren't distracted." Sheridan started, and Welles smiled. "Clark isn't going to lay the blame on the Shadows. You're an abstract. This isn't about you, or me, or the Alliance. It's about the man in the street, and to him the Shadows are just our alien protectors, powerful, but distant. How many of them have even seen a Shadow?

"But Clark.... He's real. He's known, and he's our leader, someone who's been behind the alliance with the Shadows from day one. He's going to take all the blame on himself, and he's left that note as proof.

"He's going to turn the defence grid inwards. To the planet."

"They wouldn't," Sheridan breathed.

"If what you've told me is true.... then they definitely would. They...." Welles stopped, and paused.

There was a sudden shriek, and the air around them shimmered. The remaining Shadow flickered into view, screaming alien sounds, its alien body thrashing. Sheridan stumbled, moaning, pain tearing through his mind. He shrank to his knees as the Shadow fell, bone and joint torn apart.

Welles went to Sheridan's side and helped him up.

"I think we'd better hurry," he said, his voice deadly serious.

To His Most August Majesty Emperor Mollari II of the Centauri Republic, Keeper of the Four Gates of the Temple, Master of the Starless Sky, Bearer of the Purple Shroud;

From the Council of the United Alliance of Kazomi Seven, authorised by Ministers Lethke zum Bartrando, Kullenbrok, Taan Churok, Vizhak, Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar, and, in absentia, Captain John Sheridan.

Evidence has reached this Council of an alliance between the military forces of the Centauri Republic and the race of First Ones called the Shadows, with whom we are currently at war. We have studied this evidence in some detail and found it to be entirely convincing. We therefore have no hesitation in dismissing your application for a Centauri embassy on Kazomi Seven.

In addition, all ambassadorial staff on Kazomi Seven have been exiled. No Centauri trading vessels, military ships or diplomatic envoys will be permitted to pass through space controlled by the Alliance or any of our races. Any ships that break this blockade will be fired upon.

Furthermore, should the Centauri Republic employ the assistance of the Shadows in any further engagements with the Narn Regime, we will come instantly to the defence of the Narn Regime and assist them against you in any way possible. Any Centauri assault on Alliance ships, stations or territories will be considered an act of war.

If you can provide conclusive proof before this body that your alliance with the Shadows is over and permit such observations and investigations as are necessary to confirm this, and agree to a substantial Alliance military presence in Centauri space and certain restrictions on the size and use of the Centauri military, we will end the blockade and exile and resume diplomatic relations.

Signed and authorised this day by the members of the Council of the United Alliance of Kazomi Seven.

The more Londo read the contents of the message, the less he believed them. What were they thinking? He looked at the names at the top of the page and found it impossible to credit that any of them could have written that. By the Maker, he had helped rebuild Kazomi 7 after the Drakh invasion. He had promised any assistance they might require as soon as he was in a position to give it. He had been one of their most loyal supporters.

And now this. Lethke, Vizhak, G'Kar! That they would believe.... this! That he would make a deal with....

He had been one of the first of G'Kar's Rangers. His bodyguard was one of G'Kar's Rangers.

He had known anger in his life. He had known sorrow and loss and determination to do what must be done. He had never known all four simultaneously, as he did now.

Lethke's face appeared on the viewscreen. Finally.

"Emperor Mollari," the Brakiri said. "This is.... not a good moment."

"Not a good moment?" Londo replied. "Not a good moment?" He held up the message, the contents of the diplomatic pouch. "Tell me, Lethke, when would be a good moment for all my friends to turn on me?"

"Emperor Mollari, we have seen...."

"You have seen? Oh well, then everything is all right! Yes, you have seen some pathetic amateur forgery created by the people we are at war with, and that is enough to convince you to turn against me! How long have we known each other, Lethke? How long have G'Kar and I been working together against the Shadows?

"By the Great Maker, do you honestly think I would authorise something like this?"

"The evidence is.... irrefutable, Emperor Mollari," Lethke replied uncomfortably. "It is not a fake, not a forgery. The Shadows assisted your ships in a battle against the Narns."

"It is a lie!"

"It is no lie."

"I saw what their servants did at Kazomi Seven. Do you think I would...?"

"What I think does not matter. I am one voice among many. We are at war with the Shadows, and that war will continue until they are destroyed and gone. By whatever Gods you worship, please.... don't make us go to war with you as well."

"War? Why not, Lethke? Join with your good friends the Narns and come and invade us. We have the homeworld left, you know. And maybe Immolan. Perhaps a few other worlds you can divide up between yourself and the Narns."

"That is unjustified."

"And this is not?! We are a free and sovereign race. We have made no deals with the Shadows, and any evidence that says otherwise is a lie. If any Alliance ships come into our space, we will not hesitate to deal with them, understand? We have fought the Narns for long enough. We will fight you as well if we have to."

"You know our conditions, Emperor Mollari. Do not talk to me again unless you are willing to agree to them." The screen went blank and Londo let out a great roar of anger and fury. He staggered away from it and hurled the diplomatic pouch into the far corner of the room. Moving swiftly, a shadow emerging from the darkness, Lennier stepped into view and caught it effortlessly.

Londo frequently forgot his bodyguard was there. Lennier was developing a habit of not being noticed.

"You heard all that?" Lennier nodded. "Once word gets out, and it will.... it may not be.... safe for you to be here. Perhaps you should go back to Kazomi Seven. I will have to expel all Alliance personnel from our space anyway. I can do no less in view of their actions. I would rather you left.... voluntarily."

Slowly, silently, Lennier removed his sunburst badge and laid it on a table. "I am your bodyguard," he said with absolute conviction. "I would not be doing my duty if I abandoned you in a moment of difficulty."

"Then you believe me? I swear I did not do what they think I did."

"I believe you."

Londo smiled. "I thank the Maker someone does! When is Marrago due back from Tolonius? I would not be surprised if you were present when he contacted me."

"I believe he said.... before nineteen hundred hours tonight. He was going to be leaving your nephew in charge of the area and returning here to provide a full briefing."

"Good. I will have to contact him and let him know I am calling a full meeting of the Government. I do not like the way this is developing. Someone.... someone is playing a very large trick on us, and when I find out who...."

Londo suddenly stopped, and looked at his companion. "Do you know, I have not heard you speak so much in months?"

Lennier smiled and bowed his head. Londo laughed, but it was one laugh, and no more.

Trace was not sure of the exact moment he realised everything was truly over, the instant he discovered at last that his mysterious patron had his own agenda. It did not really matter. He had risen this far not through the efforts of others, but by his own will.

"There is one thing that makes us winners," he said slowly. "It isn't talent. It isn't strength, or intelligence, or guts. It's the willpower to do what the other guys won't."

He was not sure exactly who he was speaking to. There was no one here who was not dead or unconscious. The crowd had fled as soon as news had come of the attack. How it had got here Trace did not know, but he was willing to believe in primaeval instincts of survival. He had always trusted his instincts.

Plus, of course, everyone had fled to escape from the place where Delenn had died. Their guilt and horror had been clear in all their eyes, even the eyes of people Trace had thought he could have trusted. They had come here hoping to execute an alien freak war criminal and murderess and instead they had found.... something else.

Trace looked at Delenn's still body. There was.... peace there. Her dying expression had been one of acceptance. He chuckled. She could be as peaceful and accepting as she liked. She was still dead. He spat on her and walked slowly over to the far wall, leaning against it, arms folded.

People didn't understand. They just didn't understand anything. People were stupid, that was their problem. They saw what they wanted to see, and when they were confronted with the truth their minds became a little.... dazed. They had always thought of Delenn as one thing, but then they had seen her as something else, and they weren't sure which was true. The attack had distracted them from thinking about this, but in the next few days a consensus of sorts would be reached. Delenn would either be a murderous war criminal justly killed by a righteous population or a near–saint murdered by callous, unfeeling monsters.

Trace chuckled again. The final decision would be reached by following the lead from above, and for these people, that meant him. Assuming he survived all this, and he had every confidence in Earthforce's ships, he would ensure which judgement prevailed.

It wasn't as if he even cared about Delenn one way or the other. She was a political tool of the leaders, and a woman mildly pretty in an alien sort of way, and that was that. He had only got involved with this to prove a point, to justify his own beliefs about humanity.

Oh, yes.... and for one other reason.

He looked over at Smith. He was still out. Trace really hoped he would wake up soon. Smith had interfered in his business, broken into his property, killed Nelson. Now Nelson had been a true friend. He would never have run away to some antiquated shelter to hide from the sky, like these idiots Trace had working for him these days.

But more than that, Smith believed there was something good and selfless in humanity. Trace had just proven him wrong, and himself right, and if there was one thing Mr. Trace wanted, it was always to be right.

Smith moved and coughed, turning over. He had taken a nasty blow to the head, painful yes, but nowhere near fatal.

Yet. Trace moved forward and waited until Smith raised himself to his knees. His foot came down hard on Smith's back. Smith fell and rolled over, looking up with gummed–up eyes, seeing through a maze of stars and dots and memories.

"Howdy," said Trace. "I think we have some unfinished business."

You are a fool.

This is not the time for this.

No, this is the time.

The flames were licking around him, scalding his skin, blackening and burning his soul. Marrain could feel himself burning, hear his own dying screams, remember the sheer.... relief.

It was over. Thank everything that moved and breathed, it was over!

But it wasn't. He would burn forever. He was still burning now, a thousand years on. He was still burning.

They murdered innocents! The Yolu would not support us, it was true. And why? Did you think about that? Did they think about that?

The Yolu are cowards!

No! They are afraid. Fear and cowardice are not the same. I am afraid. Every single day, I am afraid. There is no shame in fear.

You are not a warrior.

The warrior's code. We fear only failure. That was the code. Marrain had felt fear, and not of failure. He had never feared death, never once, but at the end, as the flames of his own creation consumed him, he had feared life.

The Yolu are not as powerful as we are. They are not as strong, they have less military might. And no, they are not as brave as we are. They are not to be hated for that. They are not to be reviled! Do you not see, Marrain? For what do we fight, if not to protect those who cannot protect themselves? What is the point of the strong, if they do not protect the weak? We should defend the Yolu, not attack them.

Zarwin did not understand that.

And do you? If you do.... then this will all have been worthwhile. He will understand in time, whether today, or in a thousand years. But do you understand today, Marrain?

There had been a moment.... one single moment's pause, when something had touched him, something had touched his mind, some hint of.... comprehension.

But it was there for only a moment, and then it was gone, and all the old ways returned.

He had seen his eyes reflected in Valen's own, and there had been a great darkness in them. As a child, he had once dreamed about being pursued by a horrible monster, a creature so much taller and stronger than him. The instant before he woke he had looked into that monster's eyes.... and now he saw that sight again, an adult, not a child. He saw his own eyes, reflected in those of a friend, a mentor, a leader.... a friend.

No. I do not understand.

And Valen had turned away.

The flames died, and Marrain sank to the floor. A dull, echoing noise ceased, and he realised it had been his own laughter. He looked up, and thought for a moment he saw Zarwin, across the ages, but then he realised it was Vhixarion.

"We have seen the Z'ondar," Vhixarion said. "We have seen him and Zarwin, the first Sah'thai.... He who Atoned. Zarwin did not understand...."

"Valen said he would," Marrain whispered. How wise had he been? Just how much had he known?

"We have not a tenth of Zarwin's wisdom. We have not a hundredth of the Z'ondar's wisdom. You knew them both. You are he who stood at the right hand of the Z'ondar, returned to us through the chariot of ages.

"Tell us.... Help us to understand."

"I do not understand," Marrain whispered. "I am not a God, not a prophet. I am just a man. I do not understand." He met the alien's eyes, and saw Zarwin in him once again. There had been one moment when Zarwin had teetered on the edge of comprehension.... just one moment. It had faded quickly, but it had been there.

"But together.... perhaps.... we can."

He held out his hand.

It is a strange habit of many races to want to name and record battles. The reasons for this vary. The Narns grimly remember those who died and speak their names with vengeance and dark determination, recalling often their ancestors or family or friends who fell at this battle, or at that siege. The Centauri constantly recount vainglorious tales of long–distant glories and great deeds of the past, distancing themselves from the smell of blood, the pitiful cries of the dying and the grieving relatives.

The humans.... they like history. They like to study it, record it, remember it. To study anything it must be recorded, and so the battles need names, dates, generals.

Humans like history, but they very rarely learn anything from it.

Immediately after the battle some scholars suggested the title of the Third Line, echoing of course the First Line at Earth and the Second Line at Proxima. That name fell out of use in a few years, when it became apparent that the Alliance used the name 'Third Line' to refer to an engagement at Epsilon 3 the year before.

A rival school preferred the Siege of Proxima, but that never gained widespread acceptance. Some pro–Alliance historians suggested the Battle to Reclaim Humanity, but for too many that title was too ironic and painful.

Finally, after some fifty years or so, the Battle of Proxima was accepted, giving rise to considerable disappointment at such a boring name for such an eventful occasion. But that was fifty years in the future.

And this is the present.

Most of the Dark Stars were puzzled by the sudden near–collapse of the enemy ships, but their captains reacted swiftly enough to the sight of a few Shadow ships still operating. Captain Sheridan was the first, leading from the front as always, but Captains Corwin, Daro and Kulomani were also quick to move.

The engagement was still difficult, but much less so than if the Shadows had been at full strength. Without the support of their Earthforce allies they were unable to hold the gateway to the Proxima system, and mounted a cautious retreat. The Alliance ships moved nearer and nearer to Proxima 3 itself, knowing the defence grid was waiting for them.

Of the four capital Earthforce ships, the Saint–Germain possessed limited capabilities and the Morningstar was struggling to regain some sort of combat readiness. For the Dark Thunder and the De'Molay , however, the damage was much more comprehensive.

The captain of the De'Molay could hear a million voices screaming as one, coming from a far–distant place. Beneath them she could dimly detect the hissing agony that came from around her.

And above them all, behind the screams, were the triumphant whispers of an ancient race she had never met.

Then all she could hear was her name.

Her eyes opened and she stirred, wincing at the pain in her head and side. Her second, Commander Paul Telleride, was beside her, shaking her gently.

"It's all right," she whispered, blinking past the pain and looking up at him. There was a long deep crimson gash across his forehead. "I'm awake. What the hell happened to us?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," he replied, stepping back and awkwardly helping her up. "We're floating here. Jaiena in Engineering is doing what she can, but...."

"Damn." Bethany activated her link, patching in the signal. "Engineering," she said. "Jaiena, can you hear me?"

The familiar voice of the Chief Engineer answered a moment later, through a confused and patchwork signal. "Captain.... Engi... ing.... here."

"What's our status, Jaiena? Please tell me we can do something!"

"Ship–to–sh.... comm.... active.... Engines are.... dead. Weapons.... dead. Navigation.... We're working on...."

"Ship–to–ship comm is active?" Bethany looked up at Paul, who was bent over one of the panels, frantically working at something. "Do what you can, Jaiena. Tikopai out." She hobbled over to her second, wincing with every step. Her bridge was in complete chaos, covered in debris, small fires still burning, smoke filling the air.

And with each step, the ship itself seemed to cry with its suffering.

"Can we get through to any of the others? Are they in any better condition than we are?"

"I'm trying," muttered Paul. "Our last sensor reading was of the Dark Thunder practically falling apart, but as for the others, we.... Hallelujah!"

"Didn't know you were a religious man," she observed, and then her humour faded as she heard a clipped, precise voice.

"Saint–Germain to De'Molay. Anyone there, De'Molay?"

"This is De'Molay. What is your status, Saint–Germain?"

"Good to hear from you, Captain. We are changing coding signals every three seconds, so keep up."

"If we can."

"We are operational. Whatever hit us seems to have affected the Saint–Germain less than the rest of you. However, our enhanced jump engines, superior sensor array and all the other engine enhancements are inoperational. Our targeting systems and hull integrity are also not good. Our weapons systems are completely off–line."

Tikopai stood back, trying to think. The Saint–Germain's weapons systems had never been over–powerful in any case. It was a sign of desperation that the ship was here at all. What weapons they had were special Shadowtech dispersion fire, designed to distract and hinder pursuing forces while the ship fled. It was a scouting and reconnaissance vessel after all....

Tikopai paused, a dark thought rising.

A scouting vessel, designed with enhancements to the normal jump engines enabling it to enter hyperspace much more quickly and efficiently than normal Earthforce ships. With a superior Shadowtech sensor array, aimed to scan at much greater distances. With considerable Shadowtech engine enhancements designed for greater speed and manoeuverability.

"Good God," she whispered. "It's the Shadowtech. Whatever they hit us with has paralysed all the Shadowtech in our ships."

"How on earth...?" asked Paul.

"I've no idea. DeClercq, did you hear that?"

"Confirmed."

"Can you get through to Ryan and the Morningstar?"

"Negative."

"Damn! What are the Alliance up to? We're sitting blind over here."

"As far as we can tell from normal sensor functions, the Shadows are beginning to pull back. Some of the Alliance ships are heading for Proxima itself. Our normal jump engines should be on–line again soon according to the engineers. We will follow them."

"And what are you going to do when you get there? The defence grid should still be operational. It was only enhanced with Shadowtech, like the Saint–Germain, not completely built from it as we were. Oh God, let's just hope it holds. Keep trying to get through to the Morningstar and the Dark Thunder. We're going to get as much back on–line as we can. De'Molay out."

Bethany stepped back and activated her link.

"Yes?" came Jaiena's voice.

"You'd better hurry down there. I think we're going to have even less time than we thought."

Captain David Corwin had been fighting the Shadows for over two years, starting with their first appearance here, defending the Proxima system from the Minbari attackers. Now he had returned, and once again the Shadows were defending Proxima, but this time he was in the attacking force.

And this time the Shadows were being defeated.

He didn't know how or why this was happening, and that annoyed him. He had a very unpleasant feeling about all this, but he knew his duty. Whatever had hit the Shadows, seemingly focussed through the Dark Star ships, had not paralysed them completely as it had the Earthforce ships. They were still moving sluggishly; weakened, but still deadly. The Shadows were ancient and fell, their lives dedicated to warfare.

But, slowly, they were being beaten back. Clearly they were less willing to relinquish Proxima than they had been to concede other defeats, but inexorably they were being forced back.

And the Dark Stars followed them.

Corwin turned to the viewscreen and saw the face of the Brakiri there, Kulomani. "Captain," Corwin said, puzzled as to why the captain of the Dark Star 4 should contact him.

"Captain Corwin. Our battle plan has.... as Captain Daro put it, fallen completely apart. Are we to move on Proxima Three itself as originally planned?"

"Why haven't you asked Captain Sheridan about this?"

"We have.... or to be more precise, we have tried. There is no response from Dark Star One."

Corwin swore to himself. Captain Sheridan was his oldest and dearest friend, but he had changed in recent months, and not for the better. If he wanted to ignore his allies, then so be it. They had a mission here, and that was to save humanity from the consequences of their bargains.

Just why the other captains had elected him as the one to turn to, he had no idea.

"Yes, we move on Proxima Three, as per the original plan. Destroy any Shadow ships there, disable any further Earthforce ships, take out the defence grid, and then.... hopefully by then, Captain Sheridan will be able to proceed."

"And what about these four Earthforce ships here?"

"Leave them. They are disabled and dead. God alone knows what happened to them, but they're no threat to us. Proxima Three is our target, Captain. Let's go for it."

And the Dark Stars moved closer to Proxima 3.

Power in the Centauri Royal Court was a fragile and temporary thing at best. With an advancement system heavily and unofficially based on dead men's purple boots, assassination, blackmail, poison, bribery and so forth were all common. During the brief reign of Emperor Refa I and the following months, the Court had been in a state of near civil war. For almost a year, things had been quiet.

Oh, there were still the usual manoeuvrings, a few notable disappearances and various minor power struggles, but the first year of the reign of Emperor Mollari II had been marked more by struggles against alien threats than internal ones.

A false sense of security had settled over the Court. All it took was one message to revive the sense of paranoia and mistrust that had gripped them for years.

Lord–General Marrago was the last to arrive at the meeting of the Emperor's Government Council, and no one could deny he was an imposing figure. For centuries his family had protected the Centarum and the Throne. Few families boasted such an honourable and eventful past, and Marrago's own career had been distinguished in plenty.

He nodded briefly at the few of the Council he was on good terms with and then took his seat at the left hand of the Emperor. The others were of course already here, and Marrago cast his gaze across at them. First, there were those Londo trusted implicitly: the First Consort Lady Timov, Minister of Resource Procurement; Vir Cotto, Minister of Foreign Policy; Durano, Minister of Intelligence. Somewhere at the back of the room was Lennier, the Imperial Bodyguard. And there was Marrago himself, the Lord–General and Minister of War.

Then there were the others, men Marrago neither liked nor respected, but who were here by the demands of politics. He despised men of politics, and the feeling was largely mutual. No one ever forgot, or allowed him to forget, that it had been a member of his family who had murdered and deposed an Emperor.

"I take it," said Minister Vitari slowly, "that the occupation of Tolonius is proceeding as planned?" He was a precise man, of few words, and always carefully chosen. News of the victory there had come through already.

"It is," said the Emperor quickly, not allowing his Lord–General time to speak. "Lord–General Marrago and I have spoken and I have received his full report. However there is a more urgent matter to discuss. A few hours ago I received a message from the United Alliance Council, and communicated with Minister Lethke of that body.

"Our emissaries have been expelled from Kazomi Seven, our embassy is rejected, all our ships and personnel are ordered to leave Alliance space and we are not to enter their territory. There are various other matters, but the fact is, the Alliance and this Republic are now no longer allies. They may even join with the Narns in their war with us."

There was pandemonium among the lesser Ministers, but Vitari managed to break in. "If such an event occurs, can we defeat both the Narns and the Alliance?"

"No," said Marrago simply, his face shrouded with concern. "As it stands, our war with the Narns is far from a sure thing. They are currently over–extended, and weakened as a result, and this is allowing us to punch holes in their lines and reclaim our captured colonies. However, with the support of the Alliance behind them, they will be able to hold the lines and advance on the homeworld once more. I have also heard some things about the Alliance Dark Star ships. I am convinced they are more than a match for an equal number of our capital warships."

"The Narns were beaten back easily enough when they attacked here," boasted one of the junior Ministers. "We can surely defeat them again, and the Alliance with them."

"The Narns were beaten because they underestimated us," Marrago replied smoothly. "They did not bring enough ships, thinking no doubt we were still in the state of chaos we were in some months earlier, before Emperor Mollari's ascension. They underestimated us and overextended their own resources. They will not make such mistakes again."

"What reasons has the Alliance given for breaking off diplomatic relations?" asked Durano, a thoughtful expression on his face. The Minister of Intelligence was known for being coolly calculating, with a kutari–sharp mind. He was also renowned for being politically impartial, which was why he had survived the troubles.

"The Kha'Ri have fabricated evidence to suggest we are allied with the Shadows. The Alliance Council is convinced of the truth of this." Emperor Mollari shook his head. "As the Alliance is at war with the Shadows at present, they obviously cannot maintain relations with someone allied with their enemies.

"But of course we are not. I have made no deal with the Shadows, and I am convinced that no one here would do such a thing. This is a lie by the Kha'Ri, or a trick by the Shadows to cast doubt on us."

"Lord–General," said Durano, looking directly at Marrago. "Is there any truth that the Shadows assisted your forces at Tolonius?"

The Lord–General shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "There were some.... anomalous forces present. Some Narn ships were destroyed in.... unusual circumstances. Whatever these forces were, our scanners could not accurately detect them. It is possible they were Shadow vessels."

"And you did not try to ascertain what these.... 'anomalous forces' were?"

"Enough, Durano!" snapped the Emperor. "The Lord–General is not under interrogation here. The Shadows have rarely acted openly, if this is indeed them. They are many thousands of years in advance of us. When a few of our ships fought them at the Battle of the Second Line, there were scanning problems then."

"Well then," said Durano, enunciating clearly and obviously deep in thought. "There are three options. Firstly, this evidence concerning the Shadow involvement is a forgery by the Kha'Ri or others, and this may or may not be known to the Alliance. They may be taken in by the forgery, or they may be in league with the forgers.

"Secondly, the Shadows may be intervening here, not to assist us in any way, but to sow discord and mistrust between ourselves and the Alliance.

"And thirdly, someone has made such an alliance with the Shadows, without the knowledge or consent of this body. This alliance may have been made as part of a personal quest for power, possibly a legacy of the Shadow Criers, or may be for purely altruistic reasons, a genuine desire to help our people."

"Have we been able to examine this evidence?" asked the Empress Timov in her clipped tones. There were several who looked at her uncomfortably. No woman had sat in government for centuries, and she had a most unpleasant habit of saying exactly what she thought.

"The Alliance have.... ah.... refused to forward us a copy," said Foreign Minister Vir Cotto. "I hope to be able to discuss matters with Ha'Corarm'ah G'Kar and other members of the Council, with the aim of obtaining one."

"Are they willing to help us uncover the truth behind this?" asked Vitari. "We have been closely linked with them since your ascension, Majesty. Surely there are some there who trust you."

"There are some there, I believe, who trust me. However, reasons of politics prevent them from working with us except under certain conditions. They desire a military presence in Centauri space, observation teams and various other means of assuring no such alliance exists. I will not under any circumstances compromise our security or our sovereignty, even to people who are meant to be our allies."

"Then what do you recommend, Majesty?" asked Durano.

The Emperor looked directly at him. "Durano.... find the truth here. Do whatever you must, talk to whomever you wish. Uncover the truth behind this. Marrago, our plans for further expansion into Narn–held territories will have to be curtailed. The homeworld, Tolonius and Immolan must be defended. Vir, you will have to try to talk some sense into the Alliance.... and Timov, my dear.... trade will be vastly diminished by this. We will have to find another way to provide the necessary income."

"No problem, Londo darling," she said airily. "Maybe I can sell my internal organs on the black market?"

He did not laugh. "This meeting is over. These matters are our highest priority. The Centauri people need us all.

"We must not fail them."

Marrago's eyes were dark.

"We should have brought some Security along."

"And told them what?" Welles snapped. It was dark here. It was meant to be, of course. This way it was less likely that anyone would be able to follow Clark's trail. "'Hi, remember me? I'm the one who was arrested a week or so ago for breaking Delenn out of prison. We're going to find the President who's trying to blow up half the planet.' Besides, none of the guards here are my men any longer. Clark will have had a purge, no doubt. And...." He paused.

"And what?"

"I've seen how careless you are with other people's lives. The fewer people you have a chance to send to their deaths, the better."

"You actually believe that, don't you? You're just a child. I don't believe it! Behind all that darkened cynicism, you're a political child. You have no idea how the universe works."

"Oh, I understand how the universe works all too well. I've just got tired of playing along. Everything's falling apart here quite nicely without my help."

"Then why are you helping me?"

"Because.... what Clark's doing is based on a lie. I don't like lies."

"There's something else, isn't there?"

"You could say that. There are.... two people who would want me to do something."

Ambassador Sheridan made as if to say something, but then fell silent. None of this really mattered. It was an intellectual exercise that was irrelevant at the moment. In a way, Welles represented the Shadows' viewpoint - he faced trials and ordeals and emerged strengthened as a result. He would be stronger still if he survived this. He might even recognise the irony in that.

The darkened corridors continued to loom around him, and he wondered at the manufacture of these escape tunnels. He had never even known of their existence, yet Welles navigated through them with clear precision, despite not being able to see where they were going.

He felt very alone. For the first time he could recall, he was without his Shadow companions. Clark and his pet Vorlon had killed one, and the other had been destroyed by whatever weapon the Vorlons had unleashed. Even now, Sheridan's head was still pounding with the telepathic scream that rang in his ears. He wondered what they had done, but realised this was not the time for questions. He trusted and believed in his alien allies, and this was how he served them.

"Here we are," Welles said, stopping by a part of the wall that looked to Sheridan in the dim light to be exactly like the rest of it.

"How are you so sure?"

"One of the many wonders of a near–perfect memory. As Security chief I had access to all these maps and studied them very carefully. Unfortunately I don't have the access codes to deactivate the defence grid, although I may be able to delay it for a bit." He paused again, thinking. "Clark knows all this of course. I wouldn't be surprised if he was expecting me to show up."

Welles touched a small pad and a doorway swung open. A dead body fell out to meet him. The Security officer's face was filled with blood, and a million things crunched inside his body.

"Of course I've been expecting you," said a voice from inside the room. It was light in there, and as Welles and Sheridan stepped through, Clark was visible, sitting comfortably on the one chair in the room. A mass of bodies decorated the floor. Every one had been cut apart.

"Was all that necessary?" Welles snarled as he stepped inside.

"Well, it wouldn't have been if they had agreed to my doing what I have to do. For some reason they were.... not receptive. The security guard even tried drawing a weapon on me.... his President. They all became casualties of war I'm afraid, but it won't matter. Shortly no one will even notice."

"So.... when were you planning on activating the defence grid?" Welles asked, stepping forward to confront Clark. Sheridan sidled slowly into the corner.

Clark laughed. "How stupid do you think I am? Do you think I would just be sitting here if there were things still undone? I activated everything seven minutes ago. Oh, I understand you may still be able to delay it, maybe get word to the Alliance ships who will arrive just in time to watch the last act of a falling dictator, turning weapons of destruction on his helpless people. They might even be able to do something, but they'll be too late for anything significant."

Clark rose to his feet and walked around the desk. "I am a dead man, a walking corpse. Once the Alliance got hold of me.... but no. I have to die here. My new friends have promised me that it will be for a good cause, and I even agree with them. I just wish I could stay behind to watch what all this will achieve. I really would like to see the aftermath of this, but.... ah.... such is life, I suppose.

"There is just one more thing I have to do." Clark stopped directly in front of Welles. Sheridan began to move slowly towards him.

"And that is?" asked Welles.

"Say goodbye."

There was a sound like a million hearts beating as one, and then a blaze of light. Clark's body literally exploded, and Sheridan heard a million voices shouting in his mind. It took him a moment to realise that they were all Clark screaming. A gust of air strong enough to shatter empires tore into his body and threw him back against the wall. A million things inside his body shattered, and his last sight before unconsciousness was of Welles being similarly broken.

And in his mind as darkness took him was the mocking, triumphant voice of the Vorlon.

Death. There was a time when Sinoval would have liked nothing better than to die in battle, surrounded by an army of his enemies, his weapon raised high, his ancestors watching. He had believed he had been born into the wrong time. He belonged in the old days, the days before Valen. He could have been a warlord, a general, a hero. Instead, he tried to restore something of the old days to the new days.

And now he realised just how wrong that was.

He swivelled on the balls of his feet and darted back out of reach of a thrust. One of his attackers was trying to creep up behind him, another to flank his other side, while the other two, including Tirivail, came at him from the front. They were all good, all well–trained and skilled.

Had there been nine, as he had foreseen, he would probably have fallen, and that had been his plan. This whole fight did not matter. He was nothing but a distraction. He had intended to draw Sonovar and his allies away to let Marrain talk to the Tak'cha. Then Sonovar's military might would collapse, and this would be as it always should have been: Minbari against Minbari.

Stormbringer moved with a sentience of its own, a weapon crafted to reflect its bearer, a personification of the dark side of Sinoval's own personality. His dark side now isolated and drawn apart, Stormbringer moved fluidly and smoothly.

One of his attackers went down, his pike smashed aside. He was not dead. Sinoval would not kill his own. Not again.

Minbari did things in threes. Sinoval had killed his own kind twice: Shakiri and Sherann. He would not do so a third time.

There was a burst of pain in his side, and he shifted his bearing to confront the one who had flanked him. In the darkness neither of them could see the other, but Sinoval had a lifetime's instinct moving him. There were noises and smells and.... a sense of where his attackers were. Two blows and the warrior fell. Spinning and leaping back, Sinoval narrowly dodged a clever thrust by one of the remaining attackers. Not Tirivail - it was the young warrior, Rastenn.

As part of his training, Sinoval had been blindfolded and forced to fight against foes he could not see. Minbari had notoriously poor dark vision, but warriors were trained to compensate. They should not fear the dark after all, for they had sworn to follow Valen into it.

Stormbringer parried Rastenn's attack and Sinoval darted in on the offensive. A savage blow against the middle of Rastenn's pike was followed by another, and another. The third tore it from Rastenn's hands, and the follow–up sent him down.

There was an explosion in the small of Sinoval's back and he fell. Tirivail's foot descended on his hand, and he lost his grasp on his blade. Stormbringer was kicked clear.

There was a column of light, and Tirivail became visible above him. The bodies of Rastenn and the other two could be seen also. None of them was dead.

Tirivail rested her pike on Sinoval's throat. His eyes met hers.

President William Morgan Clark is dead, his body torn apart by the explosive emergence of the alien that has lived within him for over two years. For two years he has been guided, helped and protected by the Vorlons, fulfilling their work under the noses of his Government.

His last work is done. Now he can rest, although his dying wish was to be able to observe the aftermath of his actions. Not enough is left of his head to be sure, but there had been a smile on his face as he died.

They all thought him a nonentity, a nothing. Now they would know otherwise. All their plans had been sent tumbling down around their ears.

There were a number of bodies in the room with him. There was also a large hole where one body should be. Of Ambassador David Sheridan, there was no sign.

But from one of the bodies there was a hint of movement. Welles' fingers twitched briefly, and his eyes opened.

Far above his head the satellites of the Proxima 3 defence grid began to turn slowly and inexorably towards the planet they had been created to defend, and towards all the helpless people cowering there.

Somewhere, in whatever realm his soul has ascended to, President William Morgan Clark is laughing.

The Agamemnon, the Dark Star 3, under Captain David Corwin, moved forward, pursuing the withdrawing Shadow ships.

He moved nearer and nearer to Proxima 3.

The unwitting lives of millions of humans moved with him.

Chapter 6

Humanity is doomed. The sins of the past have caught up with the present as once again alien ships appear in the skies above the world of humanity. There are still many who remember the fate of Earth, still many who fear.

That fear is justified, but misplaced.

The alien ships in the skies above Proxima are humanity's saviours, or they would be. And those who have doomed humanity are those they had trusted, even loved. A coalition of human and alien has moved, acting silently, behind shadows, for years.

And now their plans are realised. In a secure bunker beneath the ruined remains of the Edgars Building, two men wait, safe in the knowledge that they will survive the firestorm soon to engulf Proxima 3. There is another man there, a man whose mind has been filled with a great, unholy light. All he can do is scream.

There is another secret room where lies the torn body of the man who initiated this holocaust. President William Clark died with a smile on his face.

But where are humanity's saviours, the cry arises. They are here, hidden perhaps, in unlikely places, but they are here.

There is a man standing silently on the bridge of his dead ship, paralysed by an unknown force, a scream that has torn many of the Saint–Germain's systems to shreds. For years he has been reviled as a coward, even as a traitor.

"Captain!" cried a voice. "We've got word. Engines are back on line."

"What about the others?"

"We still can't get through to the Dark Thunder. Damage to the De'Molay seems almost total, but they're working hard on the Morningstar."

"It's just us, then."

"Yes.... looks that way."

"What about weapons?"

"That's a no. Well, not yet anyway."

"Where are the attacking ships?"

"Some are still here, but most have moved on to Proxima. Our allies are pulling back."

"Get us to the planet, as fast as possible."

"But, Captain...." The Saint–Germain has no weapons, the hull integrity is almost nothing, the enhanced engines are out of commission. It was designed for scouting and reconnaissance, not as a battleship.

"I know, but Proxima Three has nothing between the Alliance fleet and all those people but the defence grid. And us. We're going."

Such is the nature of heroism. The man who has been called a coward for over a decade, Captain Francis Xavier DeClercq, brings his ship to the defence of his world.

Another ship is already there. Captain David Corwin looks at the defence grid beginning to activate, beginning to turn inwards, and his eyes widen.

And in a room with the dead body of the former President, Mr. Welles opens his eyes, and realisation comes to him instantly.

There are things moving inside him that definitely should not be moving. He is not a doctor, but he was married to one for seven years, and he has always had a good memory. With enough time to sit and think he could probably diagnose what is broken. The force that threw him against the wall was awesome.

But he does not have time. Humanity does not have time.

All the comm systems in the defence grid operating room are dead of course, destroyed by Clark. Whether that was before or after he killed all the crew there, Welles does not know. He can see their bodies in his mind's eye, and he can also see a great many more.

He cannot walk. His left knee is twisted almost one hundred and eighty degrees, and the bone in his left shin is little more than shards. So he crawls, dragging himself along the smooth floor, leaving a long, sinuous trail of blood behind him, tacky and dark. His right arm is more or less all right, and his left is pressed in close against his chest, feeling his pulse desperately. It seems so fast. It feels so loud.

He tries to remember which way to take. There is a labyrinth of passages here, none of them known to the public. He thinks he knows the way, but there is so much he cannot recall now. When he tries, all he can see is Clark's body exploding, and the light throwing him against the wall.

Finally he falls outwards and finds himself in a room. He does not know where. There are people there, starting at the sight of him. They recognise him of course. He supposes he is underground somewhere, buried in the deep, dark heart of the Government building.

And he can see a commpanel.

He keeps his eyes open, and spits out a gobbet of blood.

There is no time.

"I think we have some unfinished business."

The words came to former Earthforce Captain Dexter Smith from the middle of a haze of darkness and stars. He remembered hearing a voice talking to him, a softly accented alien voice, a woman who was telling him to kill her, as well as saying she forgave him.

Then there came pain, and an awakening. And then more pain, and another voice. One that spoke not just in his dreams, but in reality.

"Look at you now," said Trace's voice. "The big hero. Lying in the dirt and the mud. You came from here, didn't you? Sure you did, just like I did. We've both moved on since we emerged from the dirt, but here we are.... back here."

There was a sharp kick to his side, and the sound of something cracking.

"But that's where the difference is. I'll be leaving here, moving up and out. I won't be in Sector Three–o–one forever, you know. I think my backers up–sector just had a little.... crisis of conscience, but ah, what the hell! Nothing lasts forever. I used my money wisely. I've got friends up there, more friends than you know. I know where too many bodies are buried, you see. I'm moving up in the world."

"Alli.... ance." The words would not come easily. Even thinking them gave Smith a headache. He needed time to think, time to catch his wind. He knew full well that Trace intended to kill him, and this time Talia was not going to materialise to help.

"Them? Heh, they aren't going to win. We've got those Shadows on our side, not to mention the defence grid and the new Earthforce ships. Nah, Proxima's safe enough. In any case, even if they do win, they aren't going to slag the planet. They're going to want their precious Delenn back, and that'll take time.... time I can use getting away from here. I've got friends all over this galaxy."

"Del.... enn."

"I didn't hear that. Were you saying something?" More pain.

"Killed her. You.... killed.... her."

"No, not me. That was you, in case you've forgotten. Wonderful thing, i'n't it? Anyone can do anything at all, with just the right motivation. You killed her, not me. I won't shed any tears. What do I care about some alien bitch? But you did."

Everything seemed to move around him, and Smith realised Trace had seized his collar and pulled him up. There was a hard slam against the wall, and his body shook.

"You killed her. You shot and killed an unarmed woman you cared about. See? You're just like all the rest of us. That means I've won. You're nothing now. Nothing but a dead man." Smith's vision focussed on something mere inches from his eye. A PPG. "Hey, maybe I'll go looking for that telepath of yours. My backers might not be after her kind any more, but I'm sure there's a use for her somewhere. I hear telepaths are great in the sack."

"Kill.... you...."

"No. No, I don't think you will." Trace smiled. "Say goodbye to the...."

"Freeze!" barked a voice from nowhere. All Smith could see was the weapon just in front of his face. The voice echoed in his mind. Small wonder he couldn't recognise it. "Security!"

"What the...?" barked Trace. He pulled back his weapon and stepped away from the wall. Smith slid down and felt the impact on the ground. "Allan! For God's sake, it's me. What are you doing here? Thought you'd be hiding under your desk or something." Trace was chuckling. "Anyway, gimme a moment and then you and I can go somewhere safe and ride out this attack."

"Drop your weapon."

"What?"

"I said drop your weapon."

"Allan.... that is you? Not some alien shapeshifter or something in disguise? It's me, remember, the guy paying you a fortune to keep off his back."

"I can't let you kill someone in cold blood, Trace. You know that."

"Then turn round. It'll only take a moment."

"No. Drop your weapon and leave the area."

"Oh, for the love of.... Why did you wait until now to develop a social conscience? You never had one before."

"Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe I just remembered what this uniform and this badge used to mean. Now drop the weapon."

"Allan, believe it or not, you're something of a friend, so I'll say something to you that I wouldn't say to anyone else. This attack is obviously rattling you. So, head over to my club, get yourself a few drinks on the house. I'll join you shortly, we'll play some cards and everything'll be back to normal, right?"

"No. I've had enough of being a joke. Drop your weapon. I won't say that again."

"Dammit, Allan. I tell you what. I'll make sure you get a real nice headstone, okay?"

There was a blur of movement, the sound of a PPG firing, and then of a body falling to the ground. Smith shook his head and opened his eyes. Zack Allan looked directly at him.

"Yeah?" he said. "What? Have I got something on my nose?" He shook his head. "Damn, I don't believe I just did that. Holy...."

"Why.... did.... you?"

"We got a report in about the Alliance attack. We were ordered here to keep things quiet, get people off the streets and so on. Yeah, so we didn't do a very good job, what the hell do you expect? Most of the other guys stayed at the base drinking themselves silly."

"Why.... you.... here?"

"Ah, this is nuts. I had a dream, okay! A bloody dream! She was in it, and I don't know.... I just knew I had to come here and something.... good would happen. Like I bloody deserve anything good happening to me at the moment. Ah, come on, get up."

Leaning on Allan, Smith managed to rise slowly. There was pain all over his body, his head was pounding and his vision was blurred, but he could stand, and he would not fall.

"Trace?" he asked.

"Dead. Drawing a weapon on a Security officer of Proxima Three. Damn, he shoulda listened to me. What about.... you know.... her?"

Smith turned to look at Delenn. Her face was so.... calm. He saw a gobbet of spittle on her cheek, and anger flared within him. Limping heavily, he managed to move over to her side and knelt down, wincing. Gently, he reached out and wiped the spittle from her face.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm...."

Her eyes opened.

There was no breath, no sound, no thought. Nothing disturbed the silent, still power of the tableau. Sinoval had not seen this in his vision, but then the whole series of events had run contrary to what he had seen.

So he was forced to.... improvise.

"You can kill me easily enough," he observed, his dark eyes peering directly up at Tirivail.

"Minbari do not kill Minbari," she said, an automatic reflex.

"That is a priestling concept. We did kill each other. In the old days it was all we ever did, a test of courage and skill. That was all our lives were. In the days before Valen. The days, no doubt, Sonovar is trying to restore."

"I am a warrior. I serve my lord."

"And if your lord is wrong?"

"That is not for me to say."

"It was for Sonovar. I was his lord, and he betrayed me. He thought I was wrong."

"You betrayed us! You were one of us, a warrior, and you made alliances with the enemy, with the Shagh Toth. You abandoned Minbar, you...."

"I followed the path I set for myself, nothing more. I was wrong, Tirivail daughter of Takier, and I admit that. But the past cannot be altered. It simply is. We guide the future."

"Lord Sonovar said...." She paused.

"What did he say?"

"A great many things," she whispered, the words hollow. "He said a great many things."

"Where is Kozorr?"

"Dead," she whispered. "Or dying. I.... I killed him. He would rather I killed him than his worker. I don't.... what sort of warrior is he? What sort of warrior would give his life to save a worker?"

"You don't understand."

"No. No, of course I don't. How can I?"

"Well? Are you going to kill me?"

She stepped back. "No," she said bitterly, replacing her pike by her side. "I don't know what my future demands of me, but I will not kill my own people."

Sinoval smiled and rose slowly to his feet. "You have chosen well." He paused. "Do you know.... I had a vision, a year ago. I saw myself here, in this place, surrounded by nine of my enemies. I knew I would probably die here.... but someone else told me I would not. I have another destiny."

"But still you came."

"Yes. You see.... I like to clean up my own messes. Are you going to return to Sonovar?"

"He is my lord. I have to obey him."

"When you do, tell him this from me. If he is willing to talk, then I am ready to listen. Minbari should not be fighting Minbari."

"And that is why you came here?"

"No, at least not wholly. I hoped Sonovar would be here, and we could.... settle things. As it is, the resolution will have to wait. But remember to tell him. I am willing to listen."

"I will do so."

"Then all is not lost. Go, daughter of Takier, take your companions and leave." So saying, he picked up Stormbringer and departed from the place of his death.

"What the hell is happening?"

Captain David Corwin had seen some strange and inexplicable things in his life, and a sense of paranoia had built up as a result. He could not believe this was really happening. There was a trick here. This was some sort of deception, some subtle plan, something.

That conviction was part paranoia, but more than that it sprang from the core of idealism he still cherished in his heart even after all he had seen. Who could possibly turn the defence grid on humanity? These mysterious allies of Captain Sheridan's.... they wouldn't do this, surely.

"There's no doubt about it, sir. The defence grid is turning on Proxima and preparing to fire."

"No, that.... that doesn't make any sense. That...."

"Captain, we're picking up a message. It's going out to all frequencies."

"Put it on."

This is an emergency message....

.... to any ships in Proxima space. I don't care if you are human or alien or whatever. The defence grid has been turned inwards, towards Proxima. President Clark is dead, but before he died he turned the grid inwards. This was all.... all a.... plot.

Whoever's out there. Do something. For God's sake, do something!

Welles coughed. He did not know how long things would take. He had wasted time trying to convince the staff here of the situation. Too much time.

He hunched up nearer the commpanel, biting back the pain. He had no time to hurt.

This is an emergency message to.... to....

He coughed again. There was more blood.

This is an emergency message to....

He had no time to pass out.

Welles had had more success than he might have envisaged. Not only had Corwin heard his desperate warning, listening with greater and greater incredulity with every word, but others had received it as well. On the Saint–Germain, Captain DeClercq listened with horror and tried to wring even more speed from a near–crippled ship. General Ryan caught a few words only, and raged in his helplessness. Captains Tikopai and Barnes could not hear it, which was probably just as well.

The Agamemnon was the first of the Dark Star ships to arrive within reach of Proxima 3 itself, but only just. Captains Daro and Kulomani were right behind.

"Captain Corwin," said Kulomani. "We have received this message. It could be a trick."

"No, I don't.... think so. He sounded genuine, but.... Where's Captain Sheridan?"

"Chasing down the few remaining Enemy ships." Kulomani was scornful. "He is not here, and we cannot contact him. What are your orders, Captain?"

In other circumstances Corwin might have wondered just why everyone was coming to him, but he did not have time to wonder.

"Destroy the defence grid. Take it apart. Completely."

"As you say."

Corwin turned to his bridge crew. "Well, you have your orders," he snapped. "Target and destroy the defence grid."

One of the techs looked up. "Uh, Captain.... we have a problem."

In all his life Lord–General Marrago had known true love for only two things: the Republic, and his daughter, by adoption if not by blood. Lyndisty was the only living being he loved, and the only living being he had been able to bring himself to love. A poet had written once that the only true love was that between parent and child, and Marrago had understood that since the first moment he had held Lyndisty in his arms.

He found himself thinking about her true father, dead these past two and a half decades. A good friend, a fine soldier, whose untimely death had left behind a wife and young child. Marrago had promised to take care of them, and had promptly married Drusella and adopted Lyndisty. He had never truly come to care for Drusella, perhaps because his heart had been lost at his first sight of his daughter.

And now he had possibly doomed them both.

He looked around him, noticing the minor blooms of colour in the dark ravages of his garden. The consequences of too many years without being cared for could not be erased by a few hours work here and there. He had had many dreams of a rich, bright, shining garden, of sitting at peace and growing old and watching his grandchildren grow.

But he knew he could never do that. His first love, the Republic, was a demanding mistress, consuming all his time and energy. And now it would perhaps consume his daughter.

He smelled the soft vapour of her perfume and heard the gentle sound of her footfall. He smiled. She was trying to sneak up on him. She was improving, too. Evidently she had taken his lessons to heart.

"I know you are there," he said softly, smiling.

"I've been watching you for ten minutes," she said, walking round into view and kneeling down on the dull grass in front of him. She was smiling, and he couldn't help smiling as well. Something about it was contagious.

"Ah." He truly hadn't noticed her standing there for that long. He told her so.

"You are joking, surely? You must have known I was there all the time. You are the best."

"I wish that were so. I'm getting old." He looked at her, drinking in her radiant beauty. He would do anything for her, anything at all. Then he noticed something, and sat forward. There was a lump and a bruise on the side of her head. "What happened?"

"Oh? This?" She reached a hand to the bruise. "It is nothing, Father. It...."

"Lyndisty! What happened?"

"I was struck by a rock. I was attacked by some ruffians while delivering your package."

A slow fear gripped him. So, the first part of his bargain with the Shadows had been paid. How dare they endanger his daughter like this! It was he who had made the bargain with them, not Lyndisty. They had no business involving her.

"Are.... are you all right?"

"Yes, father. I killed two, and the person the package was meant for came and helped me with the others. I gave it to him, and left. Your.... friend was waiting for me when I got back. He was.... strange. I didn't like him."

"He's not my friend, Lyndisty. He's just an.... associate. Our business is now done." He knew that for a lie the instant he said it, and regretted the necessity. He had never lied to Lyndisty before. But she had to believe this. She must have nothing more to do with the Drakh and their Dark Masters. "Have nothing more to do with him."

"Are you all right, father? You sound.... worried."

"I am fine. I.... was just upset to hear you were hurt. How is your mother?" As a feeble attempt to change the subject it would not have fooled the greenest courtier, but then Marrago had never been a courtier, and nor was Lyndisty.

"She is well. She sent me a list of eligible men a few days ago. I am far too old to remain unmarried."

Marrago laughed. "How many names were on this list?"

"Sixty–three, although I have managed to whittle away some thirty or so. As for the others.... some further study may be necessary."

She smiled, and Marrago laughed again. Drusella was a true creature of the Court and she had made repeated efforts to drag Lyndisty into that life, ignoring the fact that she preferred to follow the lifestyle of her father. No true daughter of the Court would rather spend her time on spaceships surrounded by soldiers, or training with kutari and maurestii.

"Follow your heart," he said softly. "Marry for love, not because anyone tells you to."

"A strange idea. Have you ever been in love, father?"

"Not in the way you mean. But I have known happiness in my life, and I will know greater for seeing you wed to a fine man who will love you and look after you."

"Or me look after him."

"Or that. Always follow your heart, Lyndisty." He paused, and then smiled. "But do it quickly, or I'll be too old to spoil my grandchildren properly."

"Oh, father. You'll still be fit and healthy to spoil my grandchildren."

"Oh–hoh. Are you planning any then? Do any of those thirty or so young men catch your eye?"

"Well, Minister Cotto is attractive enough.... in a very shy sort of way. And he is gaining power and influence. He might be a good match."

"I know Vir.... a little. A good man. You could do much worse. He...." Lyndisty's head suddenly snapped up as she looked over his shoulder. Marrago strained to listen and he heard the soft footsteps of his chief servant. He hadn't heard them at first. He sighed. He truly was getting old.

"Your pardon, Lord–General, Lady. Minister Durano is here to see you, Lord–General."

"Ah. Send him to my private study. See that he was a glass of water, lightly chilled." Durano did not drink brivare. He always said he preferred his mind clear and unmuddled. "I will be with him shortly."

"Yes, Lord–General."

Lyndisty waited until the butler had gone, and then her eyes began to sparkle. "Secret matters of state?" she said. "You will tell me what he's here for, won't you, father?"

"If it is not too secret," he said. It was however very difficult to keep secrets from Lyndisty.

"Actually, Minister Durano was also on the list mother sent me."

"What? He's twenty years too old for you. At least."

"Ah, but he's not married. He hasn't taken even one wife. And he has a large estate, and a high–ranking post with a lot of influence. And he's very rich. Maybe a little.... unexciting."

Marrago shook his head, smiling, and rose to his feet. An old knee injury pulled at him and he winced. "Do as you wish, Lyndisty. I will always support you. Do you want to come inside? I think it is getting a little cold out here."

"It's not cold. Besides, I like it out here."

"So do I. I will not be long, I hope." He turned to begin the walk back to his house. It was usually a short walk, but today it felt very long.

Durano was known for many things, among them his complete political neutrality. He was also fearless, keen–minded and fully capable of obeying Londo's orders.

Marrago hoped he would not have to kill him.

"We just.... can't target any of the satellites."

Corwin had long ago all but stopped breathing. His head was pounding, blood rushing in his ears. He could see the millions of people on Proxima, and he could see the defence grid. He could see a million deaths.

And he could see himself, sitting here, unable to stop it.

"What do you mean? Is it some sort of stealth tech, like the Minbari had?" That was a stretch, certainly. For years the Minbari ships could not be targeted by Earthforce vessels due to vastly superior technology. But the Dark Stars were not Earthforce ships, they had been crafted by one of the oldest races alive. Could humanity, even aided by the Shadows and their servants, produce a defence grid that the Vorlons could not target?

"No, sir. We can.... we can sense them. We know where they are. We can set the automatic targetting for the weapon systems, but.... I don't get it! If I didn't know better, I'd say the ship doesn't want to attack the grid."

Corwin closed his eyes. The ship didn't want to. "Get me through to Kulomani, to Daro, to anyone." He had a feeling this was no mere malfunction.

Vorlons had organic technology. Everyone knew that.

The Dark Stars were.... strange.

At times he had heard strange sounds. His crew had unusual dreams. There were distant screams. There had been that blaze of light.

The ship did not want to target the defence grid.

The Dark Star was alive. Was it so far–fetched for it to be sentient, even intelligent?

"They're having the same problem, sir."

The Dark Stars remained still, watching, as Proxima 3 came closer to annihilation.

He was dying, his blood leaching away slowly, one drop at a time. He could hear the sound of her tears, feel the waves of her sorrow. He wanted to reach out to her, but he could not seem to find the energy.

He wanted to tell her he loved her, and he was sorry.... but he could not do that either.

And then he became aware of another presence, and anger filled him. No! Not like this! Sinoval should not see him die like this. He should not.... He wanted to stand, to die as a warrior should, but he could not move. Not even to bid his love farewell.

He had regrets, too many. There were so many things he wished he could do, he wished he could have done.

He wished he could have told her.

There was a conversation, quick and urgent. He couldn't hear the words, but he could sense the voices. He could feel the presence of those nearby. There were three of them.... three, appropriate. Love, friend, enemy.

He could feel the rising anger of his love, hear the soft wind chimes of her voice. He could feel Kats curse the universe for this.

He could feel the regrets voiced by his former lord, hear the intense emotion in his voice. He could feel Sinoval choose to defy the universe for this.

And.... standing alone and silent, watching.... there was the calm grief of his friend. Tirivail was watching a warrior die a death no warrior should endure. He wished he could tell her not to grieve for him, not to seek revenge. He had a feeling Kats would speak of such things.

And then something hot and burning splashed onto his eyes. His blurred vision was filled with searing crimson, a scalding flood of pain and memories and loss and.... and life.

The universe seemed to turn around him. He could hear souls cry out, see once again the awe–inspiring majesty of the Well of Souls, the billion voices in one calling him the Traitor Knight. And he heard the voices again.

Yes. We will permit this.

His eyes opened and he blinked away the remains of Sinoval's blood. He could move. He could see.

The first thing he saw was Kats. And the first words he heard were Sinoval's.

"I have been told there are other ways to do that. But I am not a First One, and blood, it seems, is the only language a warrior understands."

"I.... feel...." He did not know what to say. It was strange. A mere instant before, he had been willing to give anything for a last chance to talk to Kats, to Tirivail.... and now that he could talk, he did not know what to say. "Am I going to die?"

"We are all going to die," Sinoval replied. "But in your case.... not today. It is a.... trick the Soul Hunters have, a power derived from their ancestors, and one it seems I have inherited. A little transfer of life from the Well of Souls, through me, to you. You will live."

"Why did you do this?" he asked. "I betrayed you. I betrayed...."

"I have learned something recently. Everyone deserves a second chance. And in some cases a third. I suggest you think quickly as to what you plan to do with yours." He left, moving with the silence of a shadow on glass, and the determination of a man who knows his future.

Kozorr turned to Tirivail. She looked at him, then bowed her head. She too left.

And then he turned to Kats. "Well?" she said. "You have your second chance at life. What are you to do with it?"

"What can I do?" he said harshly. "I.... swore to serve Sonovar. I have betrayed one lord already.... for what I knew.... what I thought.... was right. I cannot betray another."

"You do not see it, do you? There is only one person you can ever betray, and it is not Sinoval, it is not Sonovar. It is not me.

"It is yourself. What does your heart tell you to do?"

He turned to look at her, and bowed his head, weeping unashamedly. "I love you, my lady," he whispered through his tears.

She knelt beside him, placed her arms around him, and kissed him once, gently. Then she laid her head on his chest.

"And I love you, Kozorr."

"Listen to me! Dammit, listen!

"I don't know if there's anyone there. I don't know if you've got a personality, a mind.... anything. Oh, God, I must be mad. I'm talking to my chair.

"But if there is anyone here, anything at all.... will you at least listen to me? Whatever's stopping you targeting the defence grid.... we have to do it. There are people on Proxima. A lot of people. They are going to die.

"Can you hear me?"

There was nothing, and Corwin bowed his head, sinking to his knees. He did not know if there was anyone in the Agamemnon, but the screams, the whispers, the cries.... they had to come from something.

A long shot at best. What did he know about Vorlon technology? For all he knew he had imagined everything. Maybe he was mad. He had been shouting at his chair, after all. The crew weren't looking at him. He knew what they were thinking.

He sat back down. "Is the defence grid still readying itself?"

"Yes, sir. We estimate four minutes only before it fires."

"And it's still targeting the planet?"

"Yes."

"And we still can't fire on it?"

"No."

"Nor can the other ships?"

"No."

"And there are no support ships near enough?"

"No."

Corwin sat back down on the chair he had been shouting at. There was no one he could talk to, nothing he could do now. He had nothing left to give save one thing only.

He knew what to do.

"Target the nearest satellite. Ram it." Maybe there would be enough of the ship left afterwards to attack another satellite, although he wasn't sure. He had no idea how durable the Vorlon ship could be.

"Yes, sir."

David.

The voice came from nowhere, from inside his mind, and he started. "Lyta?" he whispered. "Guerra, belay that."

There is someone here, David. I can help you talk to her.

"Where is she?"

And then there was only darkness.

The Saint–Germain was moving slowly, too slowly for DeClercq's comfort. He could hear once again the message of doom for humanity. He had met President Clark only twice, but he was not surprised by what Clark had now done. There had been something glinting at the back of the President's eyes.

"What are we going to do when we get there?" asked Ensign Morgan. "We still haven't got the weapons on–line."

"We will do.... what we have to," DeClercq replied. "What we have to."

They were nowhere. A void, a black and lonely place. At first Corwin was alone, but then there was a shimmering light and Lyta stood beside him, light flashing around her, embracing, protecting her.

"Where are we?" he asked. "How did you...?"

"Your body is still where it was. Our minds.... we are inside the Agamemnon, inside its dark heart. She is here."

"Who? Lyta, we don't have much time. Who are you talking about?"

"You can't see her yet. Are you sure you wish to do this? It will.... not be easy."

"Yes, I'm sure."

Gently, Lyta took his hand. She was surprisingly warm to the touch.

A great light appeared before them, wings of fire flickering and dancing. At the centre of the ever–changing pattern was a woman, her mouth open in a silent scream, the flames crackling around her body. She was trapped in an orb, no, a column, a lantern.... an infinity of shapes, each one trapping and binding her.

And elsewhere, all around them, above, below, in front, behind, there were tiny pin–pricks of light. Corwin could dimly see others, some near, some impossibly far.

"Who is she?" he asked, Proxima momentarily forgotten beside the majesty and terror of the scene before him.

"She is the power source of your ship. There is one like her in every ship in the Dark Star fleet, and others spread throughout the galaxy. There is one on Proxima. I can.... feel him. All telepaths, every one of them. This is.... the network, as we see it.

"Her name is Carolyn. Carolyn Sanderson."

"Can she hear me?"

"Yes."

"Carolyn," he said, softly at first, but he repeated the name more loudly. She turned, and in her eyes he saw a reflection of the scene around him, an infinite pool with a million sparkling lights. And a million reflected screams. "Can you hear me, Carolyn?"

"Keep saying her name," Lyta whispered, the words hoarse and pained. "She must remember who she was."

--Help.... me--

"What do you want me to do, Carolyn?"

--Free.... us--

"We will try," said Lyta. "We.... will.... try. But, first.... we need your help."

"The Proxima defence grid is being trained on the planet. There are millions of people there. They are going to die. We have to destroy the defence grid, but we can't...."

--Cannot.... Light will not.... let.... us--

"Light?" Corwin whispered. Then came understanding. "The Vorlons. They want this to happen."

"A tragedy," Lyta said. "A disaster they plan to spin and weave, creating a world of dead souls to cry out in revenge and set all worlds against the Enemy. Hurry, David.... I can't.... maintain this.... much longer. They will.... find.... me."

"Carolyn. Please. Help me here, and I promise. I will free you. All of you. I give you my word."

--Free.... us? - -

"Yes."

--We can.... give you.... time.... little... - -

Corwin's heart leapt. "It'll be enough. Thank you, Carolyn."

--Light.... strong--

"I will help you," said Lyta. "David, come and see me afterwards. You must. Don't let anyone stop you."

"I promise."

Lyta stepped forward and reached out her hand. Carolyn turned to face her and stretched out one arm. Lyta's hand passed through the flames of light and an expression of great pain crossed her features. Then she touched Carolyn, and the pain ceased.

The flames died down. Lyta turned back to Corwin. "Remember.... come and see me...."

"I will," he replied. Lyta's hand slipped from his, and the void faded.

Corwin sat bolt upright in his chair. "Captain. We can...."

"I know," he said. "Take the grid out. As fast as we can."

Was there enough time? Proxima held its breath.

Somewhere on Proxima, in a hidden, underground world, a trapped telepath's screams grew less for a moment, and his head bowed.

"Dare I ask?" said Morden.

"It seems the network is being disrupted," said the old man pensively. "Temporarily, only, I am sure, but.... I do not like this."

On a passenger freighter somewhere away from Proxima, Mrs. Tamara Winter woke from a troubled sleep, holding the blanket tight around her. For long minutes she trembled, hearing once again the voices speaking to her, begging her for help. This time, however, there seemed to be a hint of hope in them.

Her sleep was troubled.

Marrago felt the reassuring weight of the maurestii in a secret pouch by his leg. Many scorned the maurestii as a weapon for women and children, but it had certain advantages over the kutari, not least that it was much easier to conceal. Of course many courtiers would not dream of hiding their noble weapons, but then they tended to be the sort who visited taverns and waved their unbloodied blades around to gain mock renown. True soldiers knew that survival was always better than honour.

Besides, Durano would notice a kutari. He might not notice a maurestii.

The Minister for Intelligence was standing quite still in the corner of the study. Marrago had to admire his patience. Another man might have feigned interest in a painting, or a book, or a statue, but not Durano. His glass of water was on the table before him, completely untouched.

"It is not poisoned, you know," Marrago observed, gesturing at the drink.

"I never thought it was," replied Durano in his natural, dry monotone. "Poison is not your way. However, it is more that I am not thirsty."

"Ah. Well, welcome to my estate. I do not think you have been here before."

"I did not think I would be welcome."

"All friends of the Republic are welcome here."

"I have always been a loyal servant of the Republic."

"As am I."

Durano sighed. "Lord–General.... let us eschew this banter. We both know why I am here. You have left a trail a blind man could follow, would he dare but look."

"What are you referring to?"

"Please, Lord–General, do not insult my intelligence. You remember the meeting with the Emperor and his Council. You remember, I am sure, the situation with the alien Shadows. I am equally sure you remember the three possibilities we discussed. The documentation given to us by the United Alliance is a forgery; the Shadows are involving themselves in our affairs with the Narns for the purpose of spreading dissent; or someone has requested their aid."

"I remember."

"As I said, Lord–General, you have left a trail a blind man could follow. It is fortunate for you, perhaps, and unfortunate for many others, that our Court is filled with blind men these days, the Emperor among them. Who would be better able to co–ordinate our battle plans and to arrange for the assistance of these Shadows than our Lord–General? I have spoken with your captains, reviewed evidence about the Narn assault here last year....

"In short, you are the one who made this alliance. Am I correct?"

"It is.... a theory." Marrago's hand clenched in his pocket, feeling the cold hilt of his knife.

"We both know it is more than that."

"Well, what are you going to do now?"

"The Emperor demanded that I uncover the truth of this. Now I have done so, I should report to him. However.... you are his friend, and have been a longtime servant of the Republic. Also, I know you did not do this for personal gain, for power or pride. Your motives were altruistic I am sure, but as you see, the consequences of your deeds are more far–reaching than we could have envisaged.

"The Emperor must know of this, but who will tell him? I, or you?"

"You spoke to my captains, you said?"

"Yes. I think most of them suspected, but none said as much aloud. You have a most loyal...."

"Did you look into their eyes?"

"Their eyes?"

"I know the names of every crew member on every ship in my command. I try to talk to as many of them as possible whenever we go into battle. I look into their eyes when I do so, and in each and every one I see fear. And when the battle is over, I talk to them again, and look into their eyes once more, and I see joy, relief.... triumph.

"All of those men have things to live for. They have wives, lovers, children, parents, hopes, aspirations, dreams. We could have fought the Narns alone.... and maybe they would have won, and maybe we would have won, but either way, so many of those soldiers, those hopes, those aspirations, those dreams.... they would all be floating dead in space, lifeless husks.

"But because of my actions, they are alive. There are people here, on this world, who are still alive, who still have their loved ones.

"So go back and talk to my captains, Durano. And talk to their crew and their families. Look into all those eyes....

"And then come back and dare to tell me that what I did was wrong!"

Durano took a momentary step back, but then he recovered, his mask slipping only for an instant. "You have forgotten something," he said harshly. "It is not my place to say what is right and what is wrong. I serve the Emperor, and I do as he bids."

"Ah.... well, there is the difference between us. You serve the Emperor. I serve the Republic."

"I see. I will not go to him directly. I leave the matter in your hands, Lord–General. You may tell him yourself, or you may, if you wish, choose another route. The same route taken by Lord Valo."

Durano moved forward, his eyes directly meeting Marrago's. He brushed past the Lord–General and went to the door. Then he turned, and Marrago turned to meet him.

"You were wrong. I did look into all their eyes, and I saw all the things you said. But I also look into the eyes of everyone I meet, including those here, those not soldiers.

"And I saw almost three billion dead bodies if the Alliance turns against us and joins the Narns.

"Think about that, Lord–General.... but do not take too long."

It was unprecedented, unheard of. Never before in the long history of the Vorlon race had a part of their network broken away and become severed. It was fortunate perhaps that the Shadow ships had fled Proxima, abandoning their allies, and the few that remained were being chased down and attacked by a handful of the Dark Star fleet.

As it was, the Vorlons noticed this, and were curious. And they were angry.

The Dark Stars were little more than mobile nodes of the network, controlled by it, but also controlling the minds and powers of the telepaths sealed within them. Somehow, through unknown means, the telepath bound within the Dark Star 3 had broken free of the network, and the shock of that had caused the transient severing of the links with the nearest permanent node, Byron. Thus the links to the remainder of the Dark Star fleet were severed. All this was only temporary, and as the battle had already been won, it would not be fatal.

It was however a great inconvenience. It was unlikely the planned and long–awaited punishment of Proxima would now go ahead. It was also possible, though unlikely, that their part in all this would be detected. Clark was dead, Ambassador Sheridan missing and Welles could be dealt with. Clark had turned the defence grid inwards, the final act of a cowardly loser, preferring death to defeat. It was doubtful if the true architects would be discovered.

However, it was still an inconvenience. It would take some time for the Vorlons to trace the exact cause of the disruption to the network, the exact point at which it originated.

When they did, their anger would be manifest, although perhaps not immediately.

Unlike wizards or technomages, Vorlons are seldom quick to anger, but like both they are subtle, and once angered the results are terrible.

Freed from the strange impediment preventing their actions, the Dark Star ships now launched themselves on the defence grid. Captain Corwin in particular was filled with both a great fury and a determination to triumph here. He had been to Proxima, spent many years there. It was not his home, but it was a place he knew. He would not let it be destroyed.

The others, the aliens, acted perhaps a little more slowly. Proxima was their enemies' world. What matter if one of their enemies chose to exact revenge on his own people? However, there were some who still remembered the horror that had engulfed Kazomi 7, and had resolved not to let the same thing happen to another world, even to an enemy.

But there were many satellites, and the Dark Star ships were limited.

One satellite, far away from the others, far away from the ships, prepared to fire. It was nothing but a soulless piece of machinery. It did not care that it had been designed to protect those same people it would now be destroying. It had no heart, no susceptibility to pleas for mercy, to compassion, to forgiveness.

A minute before it was ready Corwin saw it, and made a desperate effort to get within range, knowing he could not. The Agamemnon was too far away. It had all been for nothing.

But then a ship came into view.

DeClercq had been following the situation as much as he could with the limited sensors available on the Saint–Germain. Something unusual had happened only a few minutes earlier, and a hurried consultation with Engineering had revealed that whatever had been paralysing the ship was now gone. It would, however, still take time to repair the damage.

"Any word on the weapons?" he asked again. His heart was beating so fast, he felt it might tear itself from his chest. He knew what had to be done. He had received the message warning them all of what was going to happen to Proxima. He had not expected the Alliance fleet to do anything about it, and was pleasantly surprised to see that they were.

However, he too had seen the one isolated satellite, ready to fire.

"Weapons still inoperational," said Morgan.

It hardly mattered anyway. The Saint–Germain's weapons systems were little better than standard for an Earthforce capital ship. Her purpose had been to flee rather than go into battle.

It was a task perfectly suited for Francis Xavier DeClercq, the coward.

"Uh, Captain?" said Ensign Morgan. "The satellite's about to fire."

"I know," he said with perfect equanimity. Even had the Saint–Germain's weapons been operational, they would not have been able to destroy the defence satellite soon enough. The Dark Stars were ships of war, designed for this sort of thing. The Saint–Germain was not.

"What are your orders, Captain?"

"Ram it," said Francis Xavier DeClercq, the coward.

"Oh, boy. Setting ramming speed. Uh, Captain.... what if we ram too fast? I mean, is there meant to be a proper speed for this sort of thing? They didn't really let us carry out trials on this in training."

DeClercq did not answer. The joke was Morgan's way of facing the end. DeClercq wished he could find relief in humour, but as it was he closed his eyes and saw the Minbari sweeping forward, devils from the dark skies, lightning from the clouds of heaven. He saw himself fleeing from them, and his friends and colleagues dying in the cold vastness of space, a million miles from home.

"I will not fail again," he had promised himself on taking command of the Saint–Germain.

And he had not.

He did not open his eyes.

The final satellite was destroyed. The entire defence grid was destroyed. Proxima lived a little longer.

Her eyes were green, an endless pool shining and whirling, countless stars burning within, the knowledge and memories of a lifetime enshrined there. In them Dexter Smith could see his own soul, his own deeds, the longing of the past, the promise of the future.

Delenn blinked, and the image was shattered, but the memory would stay with him always.

"You're alive," he whispered. In a clearer mindset he would admit that was not the most profound observation he had ever made. Her eyes were open, she was breathing, she was moving, her soft skin was warm. Of course she was alive. He had never known anyone more alive.

"But I.... I saw you...."

She shook her head weakly, resting close to him. He gently took her hand and felt for a pulse, wondering belatedly if she even had a pulse any more. She did, strong and vital. The wound of the PPG blast had faded, as if it had never been there.

"I thought she was dead," Allan said.

"She.... she was."

Yes, said a voice, an alien voice, one filled with the wisdom of the ages. She was dead.

Still resting close to Smith, Delenn looked up, over his shoulder. He followed her gaze and saw the ghostly shadow of an alien, a member of a race he had never seen before. He was tall and aristocratic, great wisdom and understanding in his eyes.

"Lorien," Delenn whispered. "You.... said...."

I told you of the two paths before you. I told of the darkness through which you would walk, and the terrible sadness you would encounter.

"Yes, you did."

And because of your sacrifice.... good has been done. A tiny feather on the scales at the moment, but it will grow until it weighs more than all the grief and loss in the galaxy.

"She was dead?" Smith said. "I.... I killed her...."

She was dead, but her soul had not fully passed beyond. Something kept it here, grief and great loss. The Soul Hunters know the potential in such things. I cannot create life, that is the prerogative of the universe alone, but sometimes the universe rewards those who deserve it.

Your life is your own once more, Delenn of Mir. The struggle is not yet over, and none of us can see the ending of it.... but today there has been a small victory.

And for you, Dexter Smith, and you, Zack Allan, remember what you have seen this day. Remember, understand and learn. Your lives also begin anew this day.

The alien smiled and nodded once, briefly. Then he was gone, as if he had never been there.

"Was it just me," Zack asked, "or did no one understand a word of that?"

"I think we've been given a second chance," said Smith slowly. "We should go somewhere safe. Delenn, can you walk?" She nodded. Gently, tenderly, he helped her to her feet. "Where can we go?"

"Well," Zack said, "there's a few places around here she might be safe. We've got Security patrolling the sector after all. I think I know somewhere. Come on."

"Thank you," Delenn said, looking at both of them. Once more Smith was lost in her eyes. He nodded once, smiling sadly. Then, unable to think of anything to say, he followed Zack towards the safe place. And it was the safer for them being there together.

This is General Edward Ryan, of the Resistance Government of Humanity.

President Clark is confirmed dead. Ambassador David Sheridan has fled. Security Chief Welles is injured and detained in hospital. For the moment, Proxima is under my control.

We surrender to the forces of the United Alliance of Kazomi Seven. We stand down all ships, all arms and all military forces. I have issued this order.

We surrender.

A victory of sorts. Sinoval stood around, staring out into the depths of space. He could see a million stars, and it brought home to him in considerable measure his own insignificance. He understood Valen had come here often, to this.... observation post. He could understand why.

"What do you see?" he asked his companion thoughtfully. She had been silent all this time.

"Stars," Tirivail said. She sounded.... preoccupied, as if she had been deep in thought. "A lot of stars."

"Stars, yes. But there is something else. It is the entire universe. Everything is out there. Everything. We are nothing but a tiny part, a cosmic insignificance, all of us. We are nothing. We live, we die.... all unnoticed by the universe itself."

"That is.... not exactly what the religious caste tell us."

"I have been seeing things with a new perspective recently. Mortal lives are.... short. Cherish them while they are here. Make mistakes certainly, for that is a part of life.... but grasp every chance of redemption that comes your way. Some will have the courage to do so.... others will not.

"Which are you, daughter of Takier? Which do you think is Sonovar?"

"Kozorr.... he will live?"

"He will live."

"Then surely death is not the end. You brought him back to life. You saved him. You can do that to everyone, over and over again, surely...."

"I never said death was the end. I also never said there would be no price for his return.... but that is not your concern for the moment. Do you often think about death?"

"I.... sometimes."

"I used to think about it all the time. I used to dream of an honourable and glorious death.... last survivor on the battlefield, surrounded by my enemies, my blade held high, running, roaring to the path of my noble end." He shook his head sadly. "We rarely get that which we desire most.... which is why it should be grasped all the more tightly when the chance comes."

"Does he love her?"

"Kats? I believe so. She certainly loves him."

"How? How can he love a worker?"

"You have seen her for yourself. Maybe you can answer your own question. As for me.... I cannot. Love is beyond my knowledge, for it is beyond my experience. But I doubt that even he could answer you to your satisfaction. You do not understand him?"

"No."

"How well can any of us understand another? You will be returning to Sonovar?"

"He is my lord. I swore to serve him. Something in my life must make sense. If not my duties, then what?"

"What, indeed? Tell him what I have told you.... and good fortune follow you. I think.... I think you are destined for great things. And if you are not.... then do great things anyway. Destiny can be rewritten."

"I thought I would find you here." Sinoval recognised the voice, and he turned, a soft smile on his face. Tirivail did not, and she reached for her pike. Her eyes darkened at the sight of the unfamiliar warrior. "Valen came here often. He said he liked the...." He noticed Tirivail, and his eyes widened. "Berevain," he whispered. "No...." he said a moment later. "But the likeness.... you have her eyes."

Tirivail looked shocked. "How do you...? Who...?"

"I am Marrain, my lady. You saved my life once, remember? At Ashinagachi. I never repaid you."

Tirivail stumbled back. "You are dead. You...." She turned to Sinoval. "I will give Lord Sonovar your message." Then she left the room, her movements swift, but uncertain.

"I think more has survived than you may have thought," Sinoval observed. "How did...?"

"We will be leaving. I will not be returning to Cathedral, and the Tak'cha will not be going back to Sonovar. We have.... some.... understandings to reach."

"Good fortune. Then the Tak'cha will leave this war?" Marrain nodded. "Then it will just be Minbari against Minbari.... as it should be. Or so I hope."

"What are you saying?"

"I had a vision. There should have been nine warriors here to fight me, Sonovar amongst them. But there were only four. Sonovar did not come. Someone, or something stopped him. I do not know why.... and I do not like mysteries."

"Valen told me something once. The universe will resolve all mysteries for us before the end."

"But will we like the answers? It does not matter. The answers will come whether we like them or not." He fell silent, and stared out into space.

"I assume the temporal devices have been switched off again?" Marrain added conversationally.

"Yes, I.... How did you know about them?"

"Valen had them all deactivated soon after his arrival. Some of them had been.... malfunctioning, and some of us were seeing ghosts, and flashes.... images. He showed Parlonn and me where they all were."

"There is no temporal rift here, so the station cannot travel through time, but perhaps time can travel through it. The devices were built into the station by its architect. I merely.... modified them for my own purposes. Were the visions.... instructive?"

"Very."

"Then they served their purpose."

"Then all went as you planned? Apart from the mysterious involvement of some.... others?"

"All? No. Kozorr was badly wounded, almost to death. I healed him, through the Well of Souls. But nothing comes free. I cannot create life. It can merely be extended, suitably. A similar ritual was used on me once.... and my soul and the Well are now as one. I live by its sufferance. While it lives, so shall I. That was not possible for Kozorr. He received merely enough for a brief resurgence. Soon it will expire, and so will he."

"How soon?"

"Months.... less than a year."

"I see. Will you tell him about this? Or his pretty worker?"

Sinoval gazed deep into space and then turned, heading for the door. As he reached it he looked back at Marrain, and spoke a single word before leaving.

"No."

There were moments, brief and golden, when Lyta Alexander could close her eyes and see a brilliant light, warm and inviting, that tingled in her mind and whispered gentle wind chimes in her ears. It is a saying that nothing is truly appreciated until it is gone, and Lyta had not truly appreciated the being who had shared her soul for two years, not until he was gone and another lay in his place.

But somewhere, a part of Kosh still lived. The memory of his actions, his words, his wisdom still existed. Soft, fragile, but meaningful threads linked her to others Kosh had touched. Her bond to Delenn had been almost severed, plunging her into near despair, but now it was renewed, stronger than ever. She could feel a terrible sadness in her friend, perhaps her only friend, but she could also sense hope.

And somewhere also, although trapped and muddied and dank, there was a thread to Captain Sheridan, one she could sense but not use. She had tried to talk to him as she had to Delenn, to sense his feelings.... but she had failed. This connection had been a shimmering mirage at the edge of her perception since the Third Line, but by the time she had tracked down its source the thread was too murky to use. Something corrupted the golden beauty. Something inside Sheridan twisted the bond.

But there were other bonds than those of the soul. With Delenn and Sheridan both unavailable to her, she had been forced to find others, and to her surprise one had appeared.

There was a chime at the door and she gently probed outwards. She knew almost instantly who it was. He had come after all, although a little late. She had managed to hide herself briefly from Ulkesh, and for the moment the Vorlon had other concerns, but she did not know when he would turn back to her.

"Come in." It was Corwin, a haunted look in his eyes. A telepath far less powerful than Lyta would have had no problem recognising the chaos in his soul, the conflicting loyalties and tormented convictions. There was a brief flash of light when he saw her, but it soon faded.

"I'm sorry I'm a little late," he said. "I came as soon as I could, but.... we were clearing up some of the mess. We found Clark's body.... or what was left of it.... God, he was.... torn apart. The Shadows must have killed him, but...." He shook his head. "And what happened to Captain DeClercq...."

"Did you know him?" Lyta had heard about the last act of the Coward of Vega 7.

"No, not really. I knew of him of course, but we'd never met. It's just.... Anyway. I think you promised me some answers."

"Yes, I did. What do you want to know?"

"Well, for starters, what on earth happened? You know a bit more about this than you're saying."

"I wish I didn't, but yes, you're right. It wasn't the Shadows who turned the defence grid on Proxima. It wasn't even Clark, at least not really. It was the Vorlons, a faction of them, working through Clark."

"Okay.... why?"

"Any number of reasons. A beaten, battered humanity would be less likely to ally with the Shadows again, especially if they were the ones who caused all that carnage. It would be easier to force them into the Alliance, to rule from the ashes. But mostly I think it was a punishment."

"Punishment. What for?"

"Choosing the wrong side. The Shadows."

"Then.... Oh God. Then this is all our fault. We're the ones who set the Government up with the Shadows. We...."

"No!" she snapped firmly. "A deal would have been made eventually, if not through you and Captain Sheridan, then others. Humanity couldn't stay out of this war forever. Unfortunately they were brought into it on the.... wrong side. So they had to be punished."

"But it's not as if we even knew...."

"It doesn't matter. Not to the Vorlons. To them this isn't a war of weapons, it isn't about military strength. It's about being right, about ideology. Humanity chose the wrong ideology, and that's why they must be punished."

"But the Vorlons failed."

"Thanks to you."

"And you. And Captain DeClercq. And.... others. Are they going to try again?"

"I think the punishment is going to be more subtle, more long–term. They can't really use the Shadows as scapegoats again."

"Oh God, this is crazy. I just don't believe it.... It's as if everything's just turned around and muddled up so it makes no sense whatsoever. Shadows, Vorlons, ideology.... And then there's Carolyn."

"Ah."

"Yes. I can still see her when I close my eyes. Lyta, who was she? Was she real, just an illusion, what?"

"She was real, alive. Somewhere in the heart of your Dark Star is a chamber, a sort of living instrument. She's trapped there, her mind fused with every part of the ship. Every Dark Star has one. Some of them are human, others alien."

"The Vorlons did that? That's monstrous!"

"Yes," she said. "It is. Kosh.... never liked it. It was originally used as a defence network around parts of Vorlon space. It was.... necessary. There were too many secrets the other races must not be allowed to uncover, and the network was.... one of the best ways of keeping them out. It.... didn't have to destroy people, you see. It could be used to misdirect and confuse. It was never designed for outright destruction."

"Until now."

"Yes. Until now."

"Fine. Where is this chamber exactly? There's a lot of space in the Dark Stars that we haven't been told anything about, other than not to go there. Engineering stuff. I'll find this chamber and...."

"And what? Destroy it? Break her free?"

"Yes! Of course. God, I can't leave her in there any longer, after what they're doing to her."

"You can't do that. Oh, you can free her body, yes.... but her mind is attuned to every part of the ship. Take her body away from the chamber and all you do is sever the link between body and mind. There'll be nowhere for her mind to return to if we ever could free her totally."

"Can you.... undo this link?" She shook her head. "Then how long is she going to stay there?"

"If the ship is not destroyed.... forever. There are certain.... rejuvenation effects in the technology holding her. Her body will not decay, her systems will not break down. She will live forever."

"We have to stop this!"

"Yes, we do.... but we cannot do it yet. The Vorlons have been preparing for this for millennia. They are going to destroy the Shadows once and for all, not merely defeat them but humiliate them utterly, break them apart and drive them from this galaxy."

"Then what can we do?"

"Watch, learn, wait. For now, the Vorlons want to use this to defeat the Shadows. They are our enemy too. So.... is the enemy of my enemy my friend?"

"Not when they're doing stuff like this! The Shadows weren't our friends just because we were both enemies of the Minbari, and the Vorlons certainly aren't our friends now.... not when they're doing things like this. It's.... God, I've never seen anything more wrong!"

"Nor have I, but David, listen to me. What can we do at the moment? We must try to defeat them in their own way."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Captain Sheridan is important to them. They've been trying to mould him to be their perfect general, their instrument of order. They think they need to purge him of anything else that might influence him, anything or anyone to whom he will listen other than them. You are his oldest friend, and they are trying to drive the two of you apart. Stay close to him, remain his friend, and make him find Delenn."

"Delenn? She is still alive?"

"Yes. I can.... feel her. I don't know where, but...."

"It doesn't matter. I'll find her. I knew it! I knew she was still alive!"

"Keep an eye on her. They may try to kill her.... and you."

"Don't worry. Now I know what's going on, I'm not going to let them win. Wait! What about Carolyn? Is there anything I can do for her?"

"Talk to her. Speak her name as often as you can. Remind her that she is still alive, still a person. Perhaps later we will be able to free her, and she will need still to be sane when that happens. Apart from that.... there is nothing."

He shook his head. "What about you? Won't you get in trouble for telling me all this?"

"For now they need me. Besides, I can.... obscure my involvement in this.... for a while at least. Afterwards.... I have no illusions about what they are going to do to me."

"No!" he said, his eyes flashing. "I won't let them put you in one of those ships."

"We may not have a choice. But I'm not planning on staying around. After the war is over I'm going to leave and find Sinoval. He can fight them, if anyone can. Don't worry." She reached out and gently took his hand. "I'm going to be fine."

"If you say so. Who.... who else here knows about this?"

"No one. There's no one else here I can trust. When I'm gone, it'll be up to you to tell someone you can trust. Not Captain Sheridan. They've touched him too strongly. And not Delenn. She's too connected to him. But anyone else."

She took back her hand. "You have to go now. We shouldn't be seen together. The less reason they have to be suspicious of you the better."

"I understand." He made for the door, and then turned. "Can we beat them?"

"I don't know," she said honestly. "I really don't know."

It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life. He had not been sure exactly what he had been expecting it to look like, but never in his dreams had he imagined it would be like this.

It was a flower, a shimmering, starry, living jewel of silky darkness and velvet shadows. There was a bright red bulb beneath the delicate, slender petals. It was hard, and yet transparent. There was something inside it, a tiny spark of life, curled up tightly.

Lord Kiro knew what the flower was, and what it did, and how to use it. He had seen it in his dreams for the last two weeks. He had seen an ancient civilisation, proud and wise, possessed of wings that had carried them across the stars, until they finally settled on an isolated, idyllic world. He had seen the passing comet that had left behind a spoor, and the flowers that had grown from that seed. He had seen the madness spreading as the flowers bloomed, and the massacres that came when the things inside them broke free.

And then he had seen the dark ships in the sky, the Dark Masters that came to claim the last, devolved, shattered refuse of the once proud race.

The thing within the flower was not ready to live yet. It would need to be nourished, and fed. But soon, weeks, maybe months. What did it matter? It would come soon enough.

"Here it is," he said, looking directly at the emissary of the Dark Masters. He did not care about the others who would hear. They were all his. They had all drunk deeply of the enlightenment that had swept Centauri Prime the last time these flowers had seeded. Tiny spores had settled in their minds, and their eyes had been opened.

"As you promised, but I have one question. Why did you not give it to me yourself? Why involve the noblewoman in this? She is not one of us." Kiro no longer thought of himself as a nobleman. Nobility, merchants, peasants, it did not matter any more. There were simply those enlightened, and those not, and former titles meant nothing.

"She is.... special."

"Ah," said Kiro. "Yes. She will be mine, yes? She will be the womb from which comes...."

"The future."

"Yes. Yes, the future. The fire."

"Yes."

He looked at the flower once again. The thing inside it looked so small. It would grow, but for that, it needed something else. "Mariel!" he called, and was rewarded by the slow shuffling that announced her presence.

She had been many things. She had been the wife of the man who was now Emperor, the lover of the man who had been First Minister. She had been one of those who had broken into Kiro's estate, and tortured and mutilated him.

None of that mattered now. Now she was his, a Shadow Crier, a servant of the Dark Masters. Everything that had been hers was now his, for the greater glory of the Dark Masters.

She held out her left arm, her right hanging limply at her side. Kiro could still smell the cooking of her flesh as she had bathed in the purifying flames. He could still hear her screams.

Once she had been beautiful, but what was beauty compared to devotion to the Dark Masters? The trial had been necessary to prove her loyalty to them. The flame had purified her, burned away all that had been her past.

Kiro took her hand roughly, pulling her forward. Her one remaining eye showed reluctance and fear. Could she not see this was serving the Dark Masters? Perhaps the flame had not purged enough of her former self. She would have to be chastised further.

He drew his knife and held it up for the emissary to examine. There was a brief pause, and then a nod. The blade was satisfactory. It was his own, consecrated in the name of his new crusade.

Mariel's blood began to drip on to the flower, running towards the bulb in the centre. The thing there began to stir. Mariel did not scream as the knife cut deeper and deeper into her arm.

Kiro looked up at the emissary, and the Drakh nodded again, obviously pleased.

All wounds heal. With time. Some wounds take longer than others.

It soon became clear that Proxima's wounds would take longer to heal than anyone had foreseen. The news of Clark's betrayal and the Shadows' flight was badly received by the people, who decried the lies and propaganda of the invading aliens and the traitors. There were riots, which were savagely put down by the ground troops of the Alliance. General Ryan tried to plead for calm, but he was largely ignored. He was a coward after all, the one who had issued the order to surrender.

Captains Tikopai and Barns managed to repair enough of the damage to their ships to escape in the confusion following the battle. Sheridan ordered Dark Stars to hunt them down, but it was a low priority. They were only two ships. They were little threat.

Prominent politicians, scientists and diplomats accused of involvement with the Shadows were arrested and questioned. Many were released without charge. A few had known about and helped to arrange Clark's 'scorched Earth' plan, and were to be put on trial. The subtle hand of William Edgars behind this was not detected.

Welles was found and placed in a secure military hospital. He survived the first few weeks, and looked to be recovering some of his strength. He was not yet fit to be questioned, however.

A provisional Government was formed from a handful of politicians. The Earth Senate was restored, and democratic elections were promised. Few people believed they would happen. The Alliance remained, as always, above Proxima, above humanity, aliens come not to destroy, but to enslave.

Sector 301 was peaceful. A shrine appeared in a quiet corner, a place people went to pray, to seek guidance from the one who had died and lived again, the one who had spoken of peace and died for her words.

News of the miracle soon travelled, and not just within the Pit.

Corwin had wanted to wait until he was sure, and now he was. There was only one more thing that needed to be done, and while he could do that alone, it was hardly right that he did. Someone else should be there.

"The General will see you now."

The General. So Sheridan was the General now. The Alliance Council had officially ratified his position as leader of the Dark Star fleet for the duration of the Shadow War, and as long after that as the fleet might be necessary. Corwin had not liked the sound of that.

He still dreamed about Carolyn, trapped in her globe of light. When he was on the ship he tried to speak to her as much as possible, with no idea whether she could hear him. He had not spoken to Lyta since their last meeting.

The Capt.... the General was sitting at a desk in an office that had clearly once been Ryan's. Ryan had been arrested, but then exonerated of any wrongdoing. He had resigned afterwards, and disappeared.

"Hmm? Oh, Captain," said the General. He looked terrible, as if he had not slept in months. He probably hadn't. "I'm sorry. I didn't hear you come in. I've just been.... reading the reports from some of Clark's former Ministers. I guess time ran away from me."

"Aren't there people to do those sort of things?"

"Well.... yes. But you know me. I like to keep my hand in. So, what is your business, Captain? I was told it was urgent."

"Yes, it is. Captain.... General...." A pause. "John.... I've found Delenn."

Something flared in the back of Sheridan's eyes and he looked down quickly at the notes. "Captain Corwin, I'm very busy. I don't have time for wild goose chases or shaggy dog stories. Delenn is...."

"Alive."

"Dead! Delenn is dead! Accept that, and stop chasing her down!"

"John, I am telling you...."

"You are dismissed, Captain."

"I spoke to Welles. I've spoken to a few others. I've...."

"Mr. Welles is in secure confinement."

"I managed to see him. He was very.... talkative. Listen, John.... I know how to find her. Welles had her broken out of prison here. His agents took her to Sector Three–o–one. He thinks he knows where. Now we can go in.... we can find her and get her out."

"Delenn is dead! Now get out of here!"

Corwin sighed, and walked up to the desk. "I'm sorry. I don't know you any more. I know you've been through a lot. I don't know how I'd cope in such circumstances, but this isn't just about you any more. Delenn needs you. I know she does. Who do you think should be there when she's found? Me - or you?"

"You are dismissed, Captain!" Sheridan leapt to his feet, eyes flashing. "Now get out of here, or I'll have you court–martialled!"

Corwin shook his head. "I didn't want to do this. I'm sorry."

The punch took Sheridan completely by surprise, throwing him backwards across the desk. Corwin immediately followed up with another, which knocked the older man down. Grabbing the General's shirt, he pulled him up and slammed him hard against the wall.

"If this is the only way I can get you to see sense, then this is what I'll do," he snapped, his face inches from Sheridan's own. "So, go ahead. Court–martial me! Do whatever you damned well like, but for God's sake.... go and get Delenn!"

"You don't.... You don't...." Corwin let go of his friend. He had never heard so much despair in Sheridan's voice. The General sank to the floor, tears and blood streaming down his face. "You don't understand," he whispered, his voice hoarse and racked.

"She has to be dead. She has to be.... If she isn't.... if she's still alive, then I left her there.... I left her on Z'ha'dum.... with them. I was so sure they'd killed her. It was instinct.... I've acted on instinct a hundred times. A thousand. I was never wrong before.

"I was so sure. So sure.

"If she's not dead.... how could she bear to look at me, if I left her there? She has to be dead, because.... Oh God, she has to be dead."

"She isn't," Corwin said softly. "She's alive, and she needs you. I know she is. You made a mistake. It's in the past.... and this is now.

"Come on.... let's go get her."

The door opened and a security guard rushed in, weapon raised. He took in Sheridan's bleeding face and Corwin's bruised knuckles. "General.... is everything all right?"

"Yes," Sheridan whispered. He smiled. "Everything's fine now. Everything's going to be fine...."

There were three words, short and simple. They were lit by a faint whisper of candlelight. It was not clear who had placed the candles there, or the flowers that covered the floor. It was not clear who had written the words.

The Blessed Delenn.

"What happened here?" Sheridan whispered. "What happened...?"

"Some people realised a lot of things," Corwin said. Smith's directions had been perfect. He should be here soon.

"She's dead. This is a.... shrine."

"She's not dead. I've been telling you that for a while."

"But this place?"

"If what I've been told is correct.... and I don't pretend to understand a word of it, you know.... she died here.... and then got better."

"But...."

He fell silent and looked behind Corwin at the figure who came slowly into view, a mirage, an illusion, a creation of light and mirrors. She walked slowly, her eyes filled with life, a soft, gentle smile on her face. Sheridan swayed, and almost fell against the wall.

"Told you," Corwin said, but his words were not heard.

Sheridan moved towards her, still unable to believe what his eyes told him. Only when his fingers touched hers did he realise at last that she was here. She was alive.

Then he wrapped his arms around her tightly, in the sure and certain knowledge that he would never let her go again.