Темное, кривое зеркало. Том 5 : Средь звезд, подобно гигантам.

Chapter 1

There was pain, an agony of the souls screaming. Their memories, their lives, their whispers, their knowledge, all being stolen, all violated.

Sinoval could feel it. He was as much a part of the Well as the Well was of him. The Well of Souls, repository of the wisdom of millennia, stronghold of the last souls of races long since destroyed. A memory, and like all memories, with the potential for great joy or great anguish.

The pain ended, in time. The invader was driven away. He was not yet ready to attempt to conquer Cathedral itself. Despite his knowledge, he needed more time to prepare. That did not matter. He had done enough.

"We shall meet again, Primarch," said the voice in his mind. Calm, confident, clipped. The voice of one who has never known fear, never known doubt, never known anything but the absolute certainty of what he is doing. "Have no fear of that."

"I do not fear you," Sinoval hissed, knowing the invader could hear him.

"I know," Sebastian said as he departed. "But you will."

Sinoval did not know how long he lay there. He stirred, coming back to himself through a haze of red mist, to see Susan running towards him, two Praetors Tutelary at her side. He had sent them away, not that they could have done any good.

"What happened?" she asked. "Are we under attack?"

He accepted her hand, and rose awkwardly to his feet.

"I think we have much less time than we had hoped," he said gravely.

The drinking house was dark and noisy. He did not like either, but at least he could not hear his own mind with the noise here, which was something. The humans sometimes complained about loud noises by saying that it was too loud for them to think.

As far as he was concerned, that was a good thing.

His contact was late, but that could mean anything. Anything at all. He did not know the Narn's name, only that he was connected to certain individuals in the Kha'Ri, and that he had information. The silent, dark-clothed figure sitting in the corner of the bar knew the value of information.

It was why he was here, after all.

He raised his head slightly as he noticed a fight starting at the far corner of the room. Not surprising. There was a great deal of violence about on Narn these days. Most of it directed at aliens. There were fewer of them around than there had been.

There were no Centauri, obviously, but even some of the Narns' former allies, such as the Drazi and the Brakiri, were suffering. In the corner of the room, a Drazi was facing off against four Narns. The Drazi must have known this would happen, but then they had never been famous for their peaceful nature. With their world occupied and humiliating 'sanctions' imposed, they had to try to win somewhere.

The silent man remembered where he had been when he heard about the Drazi blockade and the war. Rather embarrassingly for someone in his position, he had heard it in drunken gossip, and had at first dismissed it as nothing more. Then he heard more confirmatory reports, enough to make him believe, despite how much he had wanted to deny it.

He supposed he should not care. He had few friends. Probably just the one, and he was not Drazi. Still, it raised the question, what had any of them been fighting for if not for the freedom to make one's own choices? The Drazi blockade and sanctions seemed to argue against that.

In the other corner, the Drazi had downed two of his assailants through strategic use of a chair. He could not however block the stone hurled from another table. It struck him squarely under the armpit and he fell, in obvious agony. Narns piled on top of him, kicking and stomping.

"Not an uncommon sight," said a voice, and the silent man looked up. A Narn was standing in front of him. He matched the description given, but that was not enough these days.

"The password?"

"You know who I work for. Don't make this any harder. I want this over with."

"The password."

"Odin. There. Happy now?"

"It will do." He reached out a hand, and the Narn sat down.

"Stupid password anyway," the Narn said. "What does it mean?"

"It is a human God, one very few of them believe in now. He gave up one of his eyes for wisdom, and he had two ravens called Thought and Memory who flew around the world observing things for him."

"Humans! They'll believe anything." The Narn was looking around nervously. Everyone seemed to be paying attention to the events in the corner.

"Were you followed?"

"I don't think so. I backtracked and double-tailed and went into several pubs and all sorts. If anyone can follow me through all that, then we're both already dead. I've got it."

"Good." Beneath the table, in two casual motions, a data crystal was passed over and hidden.

"That's all I could get, understand? But it is enough. It's everything you asked for."

"I shall commend your name to my master."

"Don't. Do not even mention me at all. You never saw me."

"Very well." He nodded, keeping a careful eye on the corner. Everyone seemed occupied with what was going on there, but the voice in his head had fallen very quiet. It was not simply that he could not hear it, but that it was not talking.

"I'm done," the Narn said, rising.

Another Narn appeared from nowhere to block his path. Female, slightly built and dressed in clothes long past their best, she did not look out of place, and yet.... His contact blanched and stumbled backwards.

"Thenta Ma'Kur," she whispered, reaching out with one hand. She caught his contact on the shoulder and he fell, not even having had a chance to scream.

Somewhere, in the part of his mind that was divorced from reality, the part that he had trained not to care, he admired the precision of the murder. No one had noticed but him, and the death would appear entirely natural, perhaps the result of too much alcohol, or some tragic medical condition. He did not know Narn physiology, but he recognised the nature of the attack, and he knew a nerve strike when he saw one.

"I apologise," the assassin whispered to him. "You have involved yourself in a matter that is not your concern."

"An unfortunate reason for death."

"Life is like that." She moved carefully around the table.

Both of them exploded into motion at the same instant, and again he admired her strategy. He could not fight this battle as stealthily as she could, and if he was seen getting into a fight, everyone else in the bar would turn on him and he would be beaten to death as surely as the Drazi was being. Most people would not pay any attention to his death, just another alien in the wrong part of town.

Still, life was made up of risks.

His denn'bok appeared instantly in his hands and extended upwards, smashing through the table, aiming for her heart. She was too good for that to be a surprise killing blow, and she stepped backwards and aside. Still, it did enough to keep her from completing her strike.

Leaping upwards, he vaulted over the ruined table just as the cries of anger erupted from the corner. The assassin pointed at him and shouted loudly. "An alien! He killed one of us!"

There was a rumble of anger and a mass of Narns charging in his direction. Taking care to sidestep the woman's attack — nowhere near as clumsy as she made it appear to the others — he sprinted for the door, long dark cloak trailing behind him. One of the Narns tried pushing a chair into his path, but he simply jumped over it.

The air was hot and dusty on his skin, but he had known worse, and he continued to run. He would lose most of them easily, he knew that, but the assassin was another matter.

It was fortunate that he had spent many months studying this district of G'Khamazad. It was always wise to know the land in which you might be called upon to fight. He knew all the paths to take to his intended meeting — the quickest, the most roundabout, the highest, the lowest, the most easily concealed.

He took a combination of them all, occasionally doubling back on himself, or moving at a tangent. He had lost the crowd, he knew that, but maybe not the assassin. Still, if he could make his rendezvous quickly and then move on, the information might get away safely and he could lead the assassin on a wild gok chase.

He was rounding a corner, still running at full pelt, when a Narn child walked directly into his path. She looked up at him, eyes wide with horror, frozen to the spot.

Acting on split-second reflexes he threw himself aside, landing awkwardly, bruising his shoulder and side. He quickly patted his pouch and was relieved to find the data crystal intact.

The girl had fallen over. Evidently he had merely clipped her. "Are you all right?" she asked nervously. Obviously she had seldom seen the likes of him before.

"I am fine, little one," he said, rising quickly and looking around for the assassin.

"I'm not little," she said, with a trace of indignation. "It's my naming ceremony soon."

"I am glad to hear it." There! A flicker of movement. He went from a standstill to sprint in one instant. The girl made to say something, but whatever it was, he did not hear. He was too busy running.

That had cost him far too long. He did not have much time, and the pain in his knee and shoulder was slowing him down. There was no other way. He had to make it to the rendezvous point as swiftly as possible and pass over the information.

Just when the abandoned house was in view, she swept down from the shadows, a long knife in her hand. She thrust it at him and he jumped back, drawing and extending his denn'bok. The longer reach would give him an advantage, but not enough.

Hopping backwards on to one foot, she hurled the dagger directly at his head. He only just parried it with his pike, and in that instant she moved forward, another knife in her hand. Frantically he kept her at bay, but at the cost of his balance. Stumbling backwards, he was forced into desperate defensive action.

Suddenly she spun to one side, her body instinctively dodging the PPG blast that came from nowhere. There was a smell of scorching flesh from the side of her arm and she fell, dropping the knife. A quick rush forward, and the end of his denn'bok connected with the underside of her jaw. There was a crack as her neck broke.

A final blow caved in the side of her head, and then he turned to his saviour.

It was a Narn — tall, a warrior, carrying a PPG in one hand and a sword in the other. A ragged leather eye-patch covered half of his face.

"Have you got it?" Ta'Lon asked.

Lennier handed over the data crystal, and then disappeared without a word.

Senator Dexter Smith did not know his apartment had been broken into until the door had closed behind him and locked.

There was no single sign. There was certainly nothing obvious. His home had not been ransacked. Everything seemed exactly as he had left it, from the jacket thrown casually over the chair the night before to the pack of cards by the side of the breakfast table — even the half-finished coffee (sadly artificial) from this morning.

But there was something else. A sensation. Others might have called it a function of his latent telepathic abilities, but he thought it was something more primaeval than that.

A sense of violation. The unrest that signals something strange and alien invading one's home, one's place of sanctuary. The outside world was not meant to come here.

Whoever this person was, he or she was good. His security system was by no means infallible, but it was among the best available. The Government budget did stretch to protecting its Senators, even in such an unfashionable area as the Pit.

And this person had breezed through it as if it wasn't even there.

He walked forward slowly, surprised by his reaction. He had learned to trust his instincts a long time ago, and they told him not to call Security.

There was a slight creak from the room to his left, and he frowned. His bedroom. Why would anyone be in there?

Inching towards the door, he moved as quietly and stealthily as he could. The door was slightly ajar. He tried to remember if he had closed it before leaving that morning, but the memory would not come. He thought he had.

He slowly reached out his hand and slid it open, keeping as far back as he could.

"About time," said a husky female voice.

Dexter stepped into the doorway.

Talia was lying on his bed, her shoes kicked off on to the floor, a half full bottle of whisky by her side. A half-full bottle of his whisky.

She threw it to him, and he caught it easily.

"Reunion drink?"

It was a feeling every soldier knew very well. The strange combination of boredom and fear that comes with the knowledge that a battle is near, but not imminent. The battle is an abstract concept, something that will not happen today or maybe even tomorrow, but soon nonetheless. It is hard to imagine the enemy, hard even to remember the reason for the fight, but the prospect of the battle fills every moment. There is nothing necessary left to do, and not enough time for pleasant, unnecessary things.

A strange feeling, and one that a soldier as experienced as Jorah Marrago knew well.

He was in a bad mood, and he knew it. His mercenaries knew it as well, and they were all taking care to stay away from him. Even Dasouri knew better than to trouble him at a time like this. He had been less than pleased with their close combat practice. He had even snapped at Senna following one of her sarcastic asides.

A new attack was in the offing. He could tell. Even his fellow 'captains' in the Brotherhood Without Banners could tell. The fruits of the raid on Gorash were long since consumed, and the Brotherhood had grown since then with Marrago's own addition, to say nothing of certain lesser mercenary companies. There had to be new, fresh ground somewhere.

But where? They had been arguing non-stop for over a week. Worlds and stations and bases had all been suggested and discarded and suggested again. Marrago wondered just how they had managed to attack Gorash at all. They would have trouble just agreeing on a seating order, let alone a battle plan.

Which of course made them a perfect target for him to take over eventually. He was the most experienced general among them — more experienced than most of them put together. He was also the newest, and the most distrusted, but still.... With time and luck and skill he would become their leader soon enough. A couple of good performances in a raid or two, and he would have them in the palm of his hand.

That had been his original plan, when he had followed up n'Grath's invitation and joined the Brotherhood. A couple of things had derailed it since then, but the basic plan held.

Well, three things in fact.

The first was the Narns. The captain, ostensibly, was G'Lorn, former aide to Warleader G'Sten, but it would have taken a much blinder man than Marrago not to recognise that it was the female who really wielded the power there. He had finally learned that her name was Mi'Ra, and that G'Lorn had brought her with him as his lover. He had not recognised her name, but he knew there was definitely more to her than appeared at first sight. Thenta Ma'Kur? The Narn assassin guild had come after him once or twice before, and their assassins had moved with the same easy grace she exhibited. He was determined to continue watching both of them.

The second was the Z'shailyl, the Shadowspawn. He held more power than any of the others, and he could have taken the leadership entirely if he had wanted to, if for no other reason than his Wykhheran monstrosities. That he had not done so suggested some deeper motive. Perhaps a simple strength-in-numbers philosophy. Perhaps he was testing the others just as Marrago was, biding his time, waiting for the moment.

The third was Senna, and he would not think about her. Not at the moment.

Sometimes he missed brivare. Or even jhala. He missed his old soldier friends. He missed Londo. He missed Urza. He missed Barrystan. Most especially, he missed Lyndisty.

You are getting old, he told himself bitterly.

But it was true. He was old. And bitter. And pained. Countless old wounds, countless old scars, countless dead friends.

He was thinking back to his encounter with Barrystan on the Day of the Dead more and more, and it was not helping.

He drifted around, angry and dark and bitter, dwelling on old melancholies, old loves, old friends, old things.

Waiting for something to happen, for the universe to let out its breath.

Delenn rolled over, coming quickly to full wakefulness as the strange noises roused her. She rarely slept well at the best of times — too many old ghosts haunted her at night — but lately her sleep had been even more fraught than usual.

And most of it was John's fault.

He was speaking now, again. He had done that almost every night since his return from the mission. It was a language she did not know. A language she could not even begin to recognise.

She could speak more languages than she could count, and she knew of many more, including dialects and sub-dialects. This was nothing she had ever heard before.

She had always planned to investigate, but the mystery seemed so trivial in the light of day, and her hours were always so busy, and there had never been time. For the hundredth time, she resolved to speak to someone in the morning. G'Kar, he might know something.

John suddenly convulsed, his arm flying out and smacking her across the face. She rolled backwards across the bed, raising her arms to block his flailing limbs. He was struggling against something, crying out, almost shouting.

"Na! Rwyti'nd we'udd w'rg. Na!"

"John," she whispered, reaching out gently. His hand shot up in her direction. She caught it deftly and pressed her hand against his palm. His skin was so cold. She had held her father's hand after he had died, while preparing the words to speak at his funeral, and she had thought that was as cold as skin could ever be, but now she was proved wrong.

"John," she said again.

He moaned, and his eyes fluttered open. His breathing was very heavy and he was staring at the ceiling.

"John?" she said again.

At times like this, she wished Lyta were here. Something was wrong with John, and he did not even seem to realise it. If only there was a telepath she trusted, who could scan his mind and find out....

No. She stopped. She could not do that to him. She could not violate him like that. She loved him, and she would have to help him deal with this himself. It could be nothing more than bad dreams. By anyone's standards, he had been through a great deal.

"John?"

"Delenn," he said, almost too softly for her to hear. "Was I.... dreaming again?"

"Yes," she said, looking up at him. The chill radiated from him like an aura. She wanted to touch him again, but she was afraid the ice would burn her. "Do you remember anything?" There was little point in asking. He never did.

"I was.... talking with someone, I think. I was walking through a room full of mirrors and someone was walking beside me, but I could only see him in the mirrors, and.... There was something else. I can almost....

"No, it's gone. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she whispered. She was not even sure if she believed him. Trust seemed to have disappeared, one slow piece at a time.

"What time is it?"

"Too early," she replied. "An hour or two before we have to get up."

He moaned. "Oh, yeah. I've got a meeting with.... with somebody I really don't want to be meeting."

"The Brakiri Merchants Guild," Delenn replied. "They're upset about so many of their ships being stopped and searched by Dark Stars."

"That's it. How is it you know my timetable better than I do?"

"I make it a point to know everything you do."

She said it with a smile, hoping to lighten the mood. He laughed awkwardly, like someone who doesn't understand the joke but responds out of false politeness. "And you do it very well, too." He paused again. "How long until we have to get up?"

"Perhaps an hour?" She touched his shoulder. "Hardly worth going back to sleep now, is it?"

"No," he said, sighing. Rubbing at his head, he got out of bed, casually discarding the covers. Delenn looked at him, and with a sigh of her own, gathered them around her. If she had hoped they would warm her, she was disappointed.

She rested her head back, looking at anywhere that was not him.

"That's it," he said suddenly.

"What?"

"The other thing in my dream. All those mirrors, a room full of them.

"And I didn't have a reflection. Not in any of them."

Asleep, hovering, trapped between life and death.

As he has been for weeks unending, Emperor Londo Mollari II is at rest, as still as the grave.

He has had few visitors. Few speak his name. Few even think of him. He is as forgotten as if he were dead. Power makes one few friends, few true friends, and he has made fewer still, for he had the illusion of power without the reality.

His personal physician, the finest in the Republic, attends his bedside often, monitoring his condition and his equipment and administering more and more expensive medicines.

His wife and Lady Consort and even — although do not say it to her face — Empress, the Lady Timov, visits every night, bringing a meal and a drink that is always removed in the morning untouched, and given to the servants.

And there is another. A human, the most hated man in the entire Republic.

He goes by the name of Mr. Morden, disdaining titles, because he knows he has power, and a title and rank mean nothing to one with that knowledge.

He says nothing. He never does. He simply watches this man he has known for many years, before ever he was Emperor.

And then he leaves, as silently as he entered. He returns to his room and sits and reads reports, or thinks, or does any one of a number of things.

Today is different.

Morden stepped back hurriedly, only just avoiding walking into the man standing directly outside the door. He was tall and pale, dressed elegantly and punctiliously in a style popular on Earth several hundred years ago. He never smiled. He never blinked. He never fidgeted, or tapped his feet, or checked his pockets.

He was the least human person Morden knew.

But power had to be respected, and Sebastian wielded more of it than he did.

"My apologies, Inquisitor," he said, bowing. "I take it your business in the Byzantine Mountains is concluded."

"It is," Sebastian acknowledged. "The technicians and labour I requested have been removed. Arrange appropriate compensation for their families."

"Of course. As you say. Is there anything else you require?"

"No. I am done here. I will consult with my fellow Inquisitors and we will leave in the morning. But first, one thing."

"Yes, Inquisitor?"

"Did you really think you could talk to my captive without my knowledge?"

Morden paused. He had seen a great many things in his life, more than any mortal human had a right to, and yet nothing he had ever seen scared him half as much as Sebastian did.

Still, he was a diplomat, and he knew better than to answer such a question in a hurry, or to show any sign of fear.

"I apologise, Inquisitor. There was something I had to ask him."

"My instructions were that no one was to see him."

"Yes, Inquisitor. I.... await your punishment."

"You are a loyal servant of the Vorlons. It is for Them to punish you for your transgressions, not I. Of what did you speak to my captive?"

"I asked him one thing. His.... kind can sense death. I needed to know if Emperor Mollari was going to die."

"Very well. My business here is concluded." He reached one hand to the brim of his hat and began to walk away.

"Do you not wish to know the answer, Inquisitor?"

"No. This insignificant world and its insignificant people do not interest me any longer. As I have said, my business here is done. Good day, Mr. Morden." He left, but Morden could still hear the tapping of his cane on the floor.

It was over an hour before he stopped shaking.

Since the dawn of empires and rulers, there has been only one currency worth trading in. It is not gold, or latinum, or carborundum, or paper notes, or any other mineral or money. It is information.

Most leaders merely manage to know what has happened in the past. A few manage to be aware of what is happening now. G'Kar liked to think that both types lacked imagination.

He had lost a lot of his resources since the destruction of the Great Machine, and in his subsequent depression and ill health he had let himself grow lax and uncaring. A conversation with Kulomani of all people had changed things. The new Commanding Officer of Babylon 5 had managed to convince him to return to his duty: the Rangers. As he sat alone in his meeting room, he cursed himself for being asleep for so long. If he had been able to act a little sooner, maybe.... maybe this whole mess could have been avoided, or at least ameliorated.

He turned the data crystal in his thick fingers, wishing he could avoid the urge to crush it to powder. Things had been so much easier when he had been willingly insensate, when he had simply not cared. Now it was time for him to start caring, and to start doing.

There was a knock at his door, polite and restrained but authoritative enough to confirm that here was a person of some power. G'Kar sighed. He knew G'Kael did not do it on purpose, but some things were simply too ingrained to erase. There was a chime of course, but G'Kael probably never even contemplated using it. It was just too.... impersonal.

"Enter," he said.

The door opened and the Narn Regime's ambassador to the United Alliance entered. He clasped his hands together into fists and nodded his head briefly.

"You wanted to see me, Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar."

"Yes." G'Kar waved at a seat opposite him. "Please be seated." G'Kael did so. "Food? Drink? I have had some teree prepared, and there is a human drink here that Delenn has grown quite fond of and is trying to interest me in. It is called 'tea'."

"No thank you, Ha'Cormar'ah. I have only recently eaten."

"Ah. You are very.... careful about what you imbibe, are you not, G'Kael?"

The Ambassador smiled slightly. "People who are not do not survive very long in the circles in which we both move, Ha'Cormar'ah."

"Circles. Of course. We both move in very.... interesting circles, do we not?"

"I would suppose so."

G'Kar flicked the data crystal across the table, and G'Kael caught it easily. "We learned a great deal from the Centauri," G'Kar continued. "We learned about space. We learned about war. We learned about the galaxy, we learned how to fight, and we learned how to hate. All of those things are still with us to a greater or lesser degree, but most of all.... We learned how to play their games.

"We learned about intrigue and deception. The 'Great Game', they call it, and they have been playing it for all their recorded history. A game of intrigue and diplomacy and unseen alliances. We have taken it on board very well, as I remember from my time among the Kha'Ri. Assassins, backstabbing, lies.... I remember it well."

"Things do change, Ha'Cormar'ah."

"I am still speaking, G'Kael. Accord me the respect due my position, if nothing else."

G'Kael spread his arms wide and bowed his head. "Of course, Ha'Cormar'ah. My apologies."

G'Kar continued. "In the last few decades we have tried to acquire all the skill and sophistication the Centauri developed over millennia. We are not as good as they were, but we are working hard, are we not? We will never be able to rest until we have beaten them at everything, even the game they created." He paused, gesturing to G'Kael to allow him to speak.

"We and the Centauri are one brotherhood in the Alliance now. Our assistance during their recent troubles is proof of that," G'Kael stated.

"Yes. Our.... assistance. After vehement objections at first, we now offer as much aid as we can spare. Proof to all that we are not bound by old paths and old ways. The Centauri have requested our aid, and thus we grant it. Old wrongs are forgotten."

"As you say, Ha'Cormar'ah."

"Who are you, G'Kael?"

The ambassador looked at him squarely, and then at the shadows behind him. A tall, one-eyed Narn was standing there, a long sword strapped to his back. "You would not ask such a question," G'Kael began, "unless you knew the answer."

"I do know the answer," G'Kar said. "I merely wished to hear it from your mouth."

"I am the Ambassador to the United Alliance from the Narn Regime. I hold honorary rank in our navy, although I fear my military skills have corroded slightly in recent years. And I am the Kha'Ri's Spymaster in Chief."

"They sent you to spy on me."

"And on the Alliance. Both are legitimate causes for concern. Both merited watching, and they felt it important enough to warrant my personal attention."

"Na'Toth?"

"Her.... dealings with you became a little too obvious. She was sent here as my assistant in the hope that the two of you together would lead to others whose loyalty to you was greater than to our people."

"What have you told them?"

"Everything I have uncovered, naturally. You are fortunate that my mission involved merely watching and not actively interfering. They were most.... unhappy with your involvement during the end of the War, not to mention our fleet abandoning their position. I understand there has been something of a cull in the middle ranks of our military this last year."

"I have been asleep for far too long, G'Kael. Concerned by the past, by Shadows everywhere but on my doorstep. When I did turn my attention to home, it was only for a cursory glance. One speech and I deluded myself that everything was better again.

"I am going to tell you a story, G'Kael. Stop me if I am wrong in any part.

"The Centauri have been suffering a great deal since the war ended. One of their highly-placed military figures made a deal with the Shadows out of desperation and fear, the result of a war we could have ended a long time ago, but chose to allow to continue.

"This has been turned into a huge, people-wide acceptance of the Shadows. The Centauri are hated and castigated by the Alliance as a whole, punished beyond proportion for the crimes they have committed. Their Emperor, my oldest friend, is forced to accede to a humiliating treaty which does all but blame him personally. His representative has to come begging for aid to this Council.

"The Centauri people suffer from famines and inquisition and raids by hostile forces they cannot stop because the Alliance has commandeered their fleet out of paranoia and a desire for 'cohesion'. When they grovel to us for aid, our ships are sent to help defend their worlds. Our soldiers enforce martial law on their planets, under the guise of 'peacekeeping'. The Centauri are humiliated and broken, unable even to eat or drink without our permission, and we, the Narn Regime, only too happy to overlook past wrongs and injustices in this new age of co-operation, control a good number of their worlds and a large proportion of their economy.

"Who had the most influence in the drafting of the treaty allowing them entry into the Alliance? We did, as the party wronged by them on so many occasions. Who orchestrated the aid shipments and the military peacekeeping contingent to enforce them? We did.

"How many of these disasters have been our work? All of them? None?"

"A few," G'Kael replied after a long pause. "An intervention here and there. I do not truly know exactly where we are involved. I spy for the Kha'Ri, not on them."

"There is one thing I wish to know from you, and one thing only. This displays a degree of patience and forward thinking and innovation I doubt any in our current Kha'Ri are capable of. Who is behind this? Who created this idea?"

"You do not want the answer to that question, Ha'Cormar'ah."

"I would not have asked if I did not," G'Kar hissed. "Tell me!"

"As you wish. My.... sources tell me that you are right. There is one mind behind this scheme, although several of the Kha'Ri quite happily follow her lead and have added innovations of their own."

"Her?"

"I believe you know her quite well, Ha'Cormar'ah. Or used to, anyway.

"Her name is Da'Kal."

Less than an hour later, they were both drunk. An hour after that they were giggling at silly jokes. An hour after that they were kissing as if for the first time in their lives. A couple of hours after that, they were fighting for those selfsame lives.

Rewind a little.

Dexter had just finished telling a long and rambling story about one of his fellow Senators.

"I'm telling you, he's there, on the floor of the House, trying very hard to come up with an answer that will make any sense at all, to anyone. He's getting more and more flustered, and the Speaker is asking him to speak a little louder, and to answer the question, and he's sweating, and panicking, and oh God, are we heckling him?"

"Come on," Talia replied, interrupting him for the seventh time during this story. She was lying alongside him, her feet up on his lap, her arm pillowing his head. "It's not easy coming up with an explanation for that sort of thing, not even for a trained politician."

"I could come up with an explanation."

"You aren't a trained politician, dear."

"Oh, thank you."

"It was a compliment." She kissed his cheek. "Carry on, I'm listening."

"No, no, you're too busy interrupting, and insulting my political skills. I'm not finishing it now."

"I'm sorry. I won't interrupt again, I promise."

"You sure?"

"Absolutely."

"I'll go on if you kiss me again."

She did. He finished the story. They both laughed.

Vejar the technomage, the forgotten and abandoned, sat before his mirror, keeping his reflection clear and uppermost in his mind, and cast his soul upwards and outwards through the Neuadd.

He had named it that, in the days when the building had still meant something. When Kazomi 7 had still meant something. When the Alliance had existed to protect and shelter and unify.

He had given up his companions and his friends and all those who would understand him to remain here, to help and guide and protect, and now he was forgotten and abandoned.

Kazomi 7 was quiet these days. All the administration of the Alliance had been moved to Babylon 5. The Ambassadors and their staff had left. Most of the Governments kept a skeleton office here, with third- or fourth-rate diplomats who did little more than eat large dinners and try to stay out of trouble. The Shrine to the Unknown Warrior that Delenn had created to honour those who had died was now untended and unguarded.

And there, as always, at the summit of the tower that was the Neuadd, was the globe of light that formed the Vorlon's quarters. Ambassador Ulkesh was in. Alone of the ambassadors he had remained behind, a new Vorlon ambassador having been appointed to Babylon 5. Vejar did not know why he was here, and he did not want to know. He had tried, once, penetrating the globe that surrounded Ulkesh's quarters, and had been repelled in agony. Never again. Not for people who no longer cared if he even existed.

It was galling. He had been so much in demand before. Checking people for Keepers, providing wards and shields and holo-demons. With the war over and the Vorlons secure in their power base once again, there was no more need for him.

None whatsoever.

"Such is the gratitude of princes," said a voice.

Vejar returned slowly to his body, and stared deeply into the mirror. There was nothing behind him, exactly as he had expected. He raised one hand, and a ball of light formed inside his fist. Opening his fingers one at a time, he released the ball and it rose into the air.

The light shattered and became a mass of butterflies, a million different colours. Vejar caught one easily and lowered his hand.

In his fist was a feather.

"Hello, Galen," he sighed.

"Hello, Vejar," came the cheery reply. "I suppose you're wondering what I'm doing here."

"Who is Da'Kal?

"That is a question I find my heart is too heavy to answer, but answer it I must. What I do, I do alone. As mine was the omission, so is mine the responsibility to make restitution. But I know that I may fall, and someone else will have to take up my path, and to do that, you will need to know what I know.

"Da'Kal is a noblewoman of my people. Her father G'Nattach was a priest of G'Quan, a particularly wise and enlightened man. I learned a great deal from his teachings, and it grieves me more than I can say that I am acknowledged as a great messiah while men such as he are forgotten. He did what he could to help our people during the Centauri Occupation. He helped refugees flee beyond Centauri-controlled lands. He hid outlaws. He provided medicine and healing and holy words.

"I first met him the night after my father died. I had fled from the household where my family had been kept as servants, and I had killed one Centauri, the son of the noble family who owned us. I still remember his wide, terrified eyes as he died. One more sin to add to so many others. I believe this more as I grow older: we are all born pure, but with each passing day the weight of our actions burdens us more and more and stains us with their filth.

"Lost and confused and angry and afraid, I stumbled on G'Nattach's chapel and collapsed in the doorway. Da'Kal found me and took me in. She nursed me back to health. I still do not know why.

"I do not want to go into too much detail. My flight leaves soon and there is much to cover. I think, however, you can guess what happened next. She was beautiful and passionate and committed to our liberation. I was young and angry and determined to have my revenge. It was an.... unforgiving combination.

"We grew together, we grew apart. Our careers took us on different paths after the liberation. Mine to our military and then into politics. Hers into internal reorganisation and administration. Our lives were entwined as two pieces of yarn from two different spinners, and it was ultimately arranged that we were to be married.

"The passion of our original affair had subsided, but there was still something there and neither of us objected. In the politically-charged environment of the Kha'Ri any alliance was a good one, and the name of her father still carried a great deal of weight. By marrying her, I would be seen as the natural inheritor of his legacy.

"Then came my sighting of the Shadow ship and my epiphany under the choking grasp of Londo Mollari, and my life changed forever.

"I abandoned my post in the Kha'Ri, and set about creating the Rangers and preparing for the war that was to come. I told Da'Kal simply that she could not follow where I walked, and I left her. I have not seen her since.

"I learned something recently — several somethings. I learned that our Ambassador here, G'Kael, is the Kha'Ri's spymaster, sent to observe the Alliance and myself. I have learned that we have been dabbling in areas we should not have been dabbling in, working to wreak our revenge on the Centauri, and we have done it through intrigue and manipulation and deception.

"And I have learned that Da'Kal is the one behind this plan.

"I need to find her. I need to talk to her. I must either try to learn more or try to reason with her. I must at least do something. I am afraid. I loved her once, but that was many years ago. I was a different person then, and I am sure she is a different person now. She must be, to command the fear of one such as G'Kael.

"I am going to Narn to find her. I may not come back, and so I leave this message for you, explaining what I know and what I am hoping to do. I.... feel a strange foreboding about this journey.

"Some of my people call me a prophet. It is not a term I like. I do not see the future, I simply see the strands of fate that connect us all, and I see how they intertwine and shape each other. It is a skill, not a talent, and one I have honed and practised.

"Still, I feel an almost prophetic unease about this. I must go, there is no doubt about that, but I fear something.... Perhaps I am just starting at shadows, but perhaps there is more.

"If I do not return, use what I have told you. Do not trust any of my people, least of all G'Kael. We have become more devious than I had ever suspected, more than anyone could suspect, I think.

"Be careful, and good fortune.

"I wish you well, Delenn."

The laughter had stopped, replaced by the easy, casual intimacy of two people who have fought for their lives together. Talia's hand was in Dexter's and her head was resting on his shoulder.

"So?" he said at last.

There was a long pause.

It grew longer.

"'So' what?" she replied, eventually.

"Dare I ask what you've been up to? It's been almost two years."

"Thinking about you. Some of the time. For the rest of it, meeting old friends, seeing new places, fighting for my life. You know how it goes."

"Lucky you. Sometimes I think I'd trade everything to travel around the galaxy like that."

"You might still get your chance."

There was another long pause. Dexter was looking up at the ceiling, seeing the patterns formed by the cracks in the plaster. Little things he had never noticed before took on much greater significance now.

"Did you find him?" he asked eventually.

"Find who?"

"The man you were looking for. Your husband."

"Oh. No, I didn't. Well, sort of." She sighed. "It's complicated. I did find my daughter, though."

"How is she?"

"Older. A lot older. I've missed a lot."

"So why are you here?"

"I want to be with you."

"Flattered as I am, there's more to it, isn't there? You need my help with something."

"Yes."

"Good. I want to help you with it, whatever it is."

"Don't say that until you know what it is."

"It doesn't matter."

"No. I want you to be sure."

"So.... what is it?"

She snuggled up closer to him. "It can wait until the morning. Everything's spinning now."

"That's the alcohol."

"No. It's more than that."

"You could hold on tighter."

"I'm holding on as tight as I can."

"So I see."

That was when they started kissing.

The feeling of dread stopped the instant he stepped into the conference room. He was not quite the last to arrive, but he still felt his hearts skip a beat as he saw all those eyes looking at him.

Mi'Ra was not here. That was it. Marrago found himself looking at the only other real player here: Moreil. The Z'shailyl met his gaze calmly and dispassionately. Neither was quite sure of the other yet: friend or ally or tool or enemy. There was too much to be determined, too much still to be answered.

Marrago took his seat, not remotely worried about being alone. Some of the other captains had brought aides or assistants or bodyguards, but he had nothing to fear. He knew that should his true agenda ever be discovered then one or two bodyguards would do nothing but provide a half-second delay for Moreil's monsters. Plus, he wanted the other captains to recognise his confidence. They had to know he did not fear them, not even Moreil.

Not even Moreil's monsters.

The heat haze behind the Z'shailyl told him that the two Wykhheran were there, as ever. Since their last encounter, Marrago had studied the monsters as much as he could. He could now recognise the shimmering that revealed their presence. It was not easy, and his eyes were not as sharp as they had been.

Apart from Mi'Ra, the others did not matter. The Narn was playing some deeper game, and she would have to be watched. As for Rem Lanas and the Sniper and the Drazi, they were all easily led. When a power struggle for leadership finally emerged, it would be between him, Mi'Ra — probably working through G'Lorn — and Moreil.

Except that neither of the other two would want that. Both fancied themselves as the power behind the throne. If Moreil had wanted the leadership he could have had it by now. His Wykhheran gave him an advantage that the others could not match unless they all worked together, and Marrago doubted they were capable of that.

He sighed. The Brotherhood functioned only so long as they kept to their path of conquest. It had been too long since the assault on Gorash, and but for some minor raiding of shipping lanes they had not embarked on a military campaign in several months. They would have to act soon, or risk turning all their aggression and anger onto each other. He could see that. Moreil could surely see it as well, if he cared to.

And so could Mi'Ra.

She entered with G'Lorn while Marrago was still musing. Another alien was with them, one from a race Marrago did not recognise. He thought it was female, although it was incredibly thin. It wore no clothes as far as he could tell. At first he thought it was some sort of Narn animal, for it walked on four legs, but then it rose, muscles and joints shifting beneath its skin, and looked around at them. Marrago could see the careful intelligence in the creature's eyes, and silently rebuked himself for rash thinking.

As he looked closer, he was aware of something else there. Or rather, nothing else.

Not a thing. No conscience, no remorse, no mercy.

No soul.

"We have a new candidate for membership," G'Lorn announced. As ever, he spoke while Mi'Ra watched. "She provides resources greater than any of us thus far. An entire race of people, an entire planet to serve our goals.

"They wish to fight alongside us for a very.... specific goal, one that I am sure...." He looked at Marrago very closely as he said this. "One that I am sure none of us will object to pursuing. Her people have passion and resources, but they lack skilled generals, which they believe we can provide.

"I shall now let her introduce herself."

The alien stepped forward and looked around the circle. Marrago did not look at her, but at those she was looking at. The Sniper, the human, seemed uninterested. The Drazi snorted. Moreil.... Moreil sat forward in his chair, meeting her gaze. Something that might have been concern flickered across his alien features.

"Greeting to those who march without banners," the alien said in a harsh, staccato voice. Marrago frowned. The rhythm of her words was out of joint, out of synch. Even allowing for the fact that she was speaking a language not her own — the Trade dialect most people understood — there was no structure to her speech.

"I speak as noMir Ru, Silent One of the Songless. Some of you may know as us the Tuchanq."

Now Marrago knew who they were, and he sat up. The Tuchanq.... their world had been invaded by the Narn.... twenty years ago, at least. They had gained freedom of a sort and.... just dropped out of sight. With everything that was going on in the galaxy it was not hard to lose track of what was happening at the edges.

Or in the shadows.

"We go to war, to spread the silence of those who denied us our Song. We seek allies here, amongst those who are as lost as we are. All have pain. We will give pain to those who gave pain to us. We ask that you fight beside us, that we fight together.

"We are ready now. For long years have we been still. Now we move. Now we have order. Silence blankets our world, and we are ready.

"We will attack and have our revenge."

She looked at Marrago, and just for a moment he saw something deeper, something beyond the silence and the emptiness and the nothing. Something that could have been more, could have been greater, could have been beautiful.

But it had been perverted and corrupted and become something else.

He shifted his gaze to Moreil, and was troubled by what he saw in the Z'shailyl's face. Moreil seemed.... fascinated, as if he were watching one of the mysteries of the universe unfolding before his eyes.

And then Marrago looked at Mi'Ra. She could not disguise the triumph in her eyes.

"We attack Centauri Prime. We spread the silence through fire and pain. We attack those who brought us pain.

"We ask for aid from the bannerless, from the songless, from the pained.

"What say you?"

Chapter 2

Will you come to find me?

Sheridan sat up and looked around. His waking was not the start and scream of a nightmare. It was the slow, puzzled emergence of one who was never truly asleep to begin with. Some people could move straight from sleep to full wakefulness with no period of transition. John Sheridan was not that sort of person, at least not usually.

Beside him Delenn was still sleeping, silent and still and as beautiful as a statue touched by the sunrise. He brushed her hair with his fingers and was surprised by just how cold she was, like marble not yet warmed by the sun.

He rose from their bed and walked through to the bathroom. There was no sound at all. That was unusual. There was always.... something. There was no night on Babylon 5, not really. There was always someone up — security guards, the usually nocturnal Brakiri, the terminally insomniac.... someone.

He poured some water and splashed it on his face, hoping it would wake him up. It did no such thing. He rubbed at the stubble on the side of his face and sighed. Sometimes he hated shaving. It was hard enough managing enough co-ordination just to get dressed some mornings, without having to shave as well. Maybe he could forgo it for today. Would anyone really notice? He looked into the mirror to see how bad it was.

Nothing looked back at him.

He started and touched the cold surface. It was there. It was solid, and it was reflecting the rest of the room perfectly. Just not him. He looked around to make sure. Yes, everything was there. The corner of the shower screen, the towel rail on the opposite wall, the window.

The window?

Where had that come from?

He walked slowly over to it, the silence now uncomfortably oppressive. Some strange, primal urge came over him, an overwhelming compulsion to return to bed, to the warmth and safety that existed there and nowhere else, to pull the blanket over his head and hide from whatever was out here.

He hadn't felt this afraid since he had been a child and convinced that the scarecrows were coming to life and trying to get in his bedroom window.

He touched the curtains. They were solid. They were real. They had that texture of dampness and roughness that spoke of a most definite reality.

He could have sworn this room hadn't had a window before.

He threw the curtains open.

A dazzling light seared his eyes and he stumbled backwards, raising his arms instinctively, but knowing it was too late. It had blinded him, the light was tearing him apart, filling his mind and his soul and covering everything it found there, like a layer of oil over the surface of an ocean.

Will you come to find me?

The voice came with the light, repeating the question over and over again.

Will you come to find me?

He reeled away from the window, falling backwards. He reached out frantically, seeking anything to stabilise himself. A firm, stone hand caught him and helped him steady himself. Slowly, awkwardly, he pulled his hand away from his face.

There was a grey robe in front of him, almost like a monk's. He could see no face inside it, in fact there was no sign of anything inside it, anything at all.

"Will you come to find me?" said a voice from the robe. "You have been asked that already. Someone tried to warn you. You did not listen, did you?"

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Babylon Four. Before the fire, before the fury, the calm before the storm. Someone tried to warn you of what would come, dressing up the warning in dreams and whispers and premonitions. You did not listen. Will you come to find me?"

Understanding dawned. "I did go to find her. I went to Z'ha'dum. I...."

"Left her there? How can you blame her for what happened?"

"I don't know. I shouldn't, but...."

"Emotions. Irrational little things, aren't they? Or so I'm told. You should have listened to the warning, but it was just one more door you closed behind you without really looking at what was beyond it. How many of those have there been?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Who are you trying to convince? Me — or yourself?"

"I don't even know who you are."

"Do you even know who you are?"

"I...."

"Don't answer that. You can't. Ask yourself this, though. What other warnings have you ignored? What other doors have you slammed shut and lost the key for? What else have you forgotten or lost or simply not understood?"

He looked down. There was a dagger in his hands. Blood was dripping from it.

"We all sacrifice a great deal on the altar of victory. When does the time come when the sacrifice becomes more than the God is worth?"

"I don't know."

"No, you don't. Think on that, for a while."

The man in the monk's robe was gone. The dagger was gone. The window was gone. The light was gone.

John Sheridan reached one trembling hand to the mirror and looked at his reflection. It had returned, and for the first time in his life he seemed to be looking at a stranger staring back at him.

Galen was precisely an inch and a half taller than he was. That was such a tiny thing to harbour so much envy over, but there it was. Emotions were rarely rational, and jealousy even less so. Galen's magic came from the cold, the sterile, the scientific. Vejar's came from the imaginative, the fantastic, the spiritual.

He didn't need to watch Galen perform more parlour tricks to know that his magic had grown stronger. Something had freed it, while he had been left to wither. Left here in the dark.

"How are the others?" he asked bitterly, trying to make conversation, however futile or pointless. As if he really cared. The technomages had abandoned him just as much as Delenn and Lethke had.

"That's not what I came here to talk about, cousin."

A mission of some kind. Yet another tempting and honourable and glorious opportunity to be killed or mutilated or generally to suffer for the good of someone else.

"I'm not listening," Vejar snapped. He turned back to his mirror and looked at himself. For now, the mirror was just that — a mirror. There was no magic in it, but then there never had been.

Or that was what people would think. The first lesson Vejar had ever learned was that there was magic in everything. A sunrise, a morning breath, the touch of a lover, the opening and closing of a fist.

Someone had once asked Elric if he could make the dead live. Elric had smiled that curious, thin smile of his and stretched out his hand, spreading his fingers wide and then clenching them together so tightly that the veins on his wrist bulged.

"Life begins with death," he had intoned. "Just as all things are born, so do they die. All flesh is dead, and look!" He opened his fist again. "Dead flesh obeys my command. Yes, I can make the dead move."

Vejar always remembered that. There was magic everywhere.

And a mirror was one of the most magical artefacts ever forged. It destroyed illusions, saw through to the soul, pierced masks and glamours and enchantments. It was brutally honest and callously genuine.

He did not like what he saw there. He saw a man old before his time, staring with deep-set eyes back at his own. A man with clammy skin and a sickly pallor.

Behind him stood someone who seemed twenty years his junior, tall and vibrant and determined.

"You have changed, cousin," the young man said to him.

"So have you," Vejar replied bitterly. There was a month difference in their ages. "Have you fallen in love at last?"

"No, although not for lack of trying. I have a mission, cousin. A purpose."

"Good for you."

The old man, whom Vejar could not in any way identify as himself, raised a hand and another ball of fire formed around it. He held it there for long seconds. There was no pain. There was not even any sensation. He could feel nothing.

"You have changed," Galen said again. "I remember when you chose to remain behind. I remember seeing the fire in your eyes, the conviction that you were right and damn all the consequences." The young man looked at him sadly. "What has happened to you, cousin?"

"I did not choose to stay. I was asked to stay. Elric.... he wanted me to observe her, to be ready when the time of her choice came, to ensure that she reached it."

"Ah," Galen replied, a faint smile playing over his face. "That explains a lot. I assume all went according to plan?"

"You know the answer to that. She chose. It damned her and me and it cost her more than either of us can imagine, but she chose."

"She was the salvation of an entire race. In a hundred years, will it matter what it cost her?"

Vejar rose slowly. "How dare you?" he hissed, still looking at the mirror. He could see a flame beginning to rise in the old man's sunken eyes, a flame to match the one in his fist. "How dare you? What do either of us care what will happen in a hundred years?"

"Why did you not go to Babylon Five?"

"What.... What do you mean?"

"I cannot believe you were not invited."

"You know why."

"Assume I do not. Tell me."

Vejar closed his eyes, not wanting to see either person looking at him. He saw the vision, as he had so many times before. "Death," he whispered. "Death will come to Babylon Five. Everyone there will die. Everyone! He will spare no one, not a single soul."

"You could try to warn them."

"And would they listen?" The rage in his voice surprised him, and for a moment he thought someone else had spoken. "That station is cursed, and has been since the idea was conceived. It will bring nothing but pain and destruction and death, and they all know it! I've done enough for these people. I won't be a part of their doom!"

"No," Galen said quietly. "But you can be a part of their salvation. There is something I need your help with."

"I have helped you enough already. I knew once that you would get me killed. Are you trying to prove me right?"

"You can remain here until the end of time while the galaxy collapses around your ears and not raise a single finger to stop it, if you like. Or you can do something. You can help. You can raise arms against a sea of troubles and scream defiance at the tempest."

"How did you get here?"

"I'm sorry?"

"How did you get here? We are some way from the.... sanctuary, are we not?"

"By ship, of course. Did you think I would grow wings and fly?"

"They know." Vejar sighed. "They know. You have as good as told them you have come. The Vorlons know. You have forced my hand in this. There is no choice."

"There is always a...."

Vejar opened his eyes and, without thought, without motion, without equation, he hurled the ball of fire directly at the mirror. There was a single moment when he thought he could have stopped it, but he did not want to.

The mirror exploded, his image shattering into a million pieces. Shards of glass flew into the centre of the room. One of them was aimed directly at his heart.

It would be so easy to let it pierce him, to let himself die here. He would be at rest, at peace, free from the memories of what he had done to Delenn, free from Galen's conscience.

He looked down, and saw the shard caught in his right hand. He did not even remember trying to catch it. Blood was welling between his fingers.

He turned around and looked at Galen. His friend was completely unscathed.

"Choice," Galen said, slowly and deliberately.

"What do you want me to do?" Vejar replied.

Centauri Prime.

His home. The home of his ancestors, of his friends, of his wife. The place where his daughter's ashes lay, at one with the soaring winds. The place where his garden could be found, derelict and abandoned and unloved.

Centauri Prime. Where his friend ruled as Emperor. Where stood the throne his family had sworn for centuries to protect and serve.

His home.

Words reached his ears. A conversation more than a year old. On Brakir, in the fading shadows of the Day of the Dead.

These.... outlaws. If you do join them, what if they begin to raid Centauri shipping, even attack Centauri worlds? Would you really attack your own people?

And his reply.

I've thought about that. A lot. But.... what can I do? The raids and the attacks will happen anyway. If I join, then.... eventually I hope to be able to change that.

But I will do what I have to do. If I must kill my people, even my friends, then I will. That is a soldier's job, after all. To kill.

All eyes were on him. The captains of the Brotherhood Without Banners and the representative of the Tuchanq.

Jorah Marrago stood up.

"It won't be easy," he said.

The Drazi snorted. "As we thought. Coward."

Marrago looked at him with the stare that had caused more than one raw recruit to fall silent and start shaking. "That is not what I said. I said it will not be easy, not that I was afraid of it. There is a wide difference between caution and cowardice, but if you do not believe me, that is your privilege. All the riches in the galaxy will do you no good if you are dead.

"Now will you listen to me, or are you merely going to toss around sarcastic remarks?"

The Drazi fell silent, anger in his gaze.

Everyone in the room was quiet.

"Continue," Moreil said at last. "We listen."

Marrago swallowed, trying to stoke up the anger he always felt. He had hated the Great Game, the foolish waste of it. He thought of the loyal soldiers who had died because of political machinations. He thought of Lyndisty bleeding her life away in the throne room. He thought of Londo banishing him. He thought of Drusilla, cold and calculating. He thought of weak nobles and foolish courtiers and sybaritic hedonists. He thought of everything he had ever hated about his world and his people.

And he turned that anger into a cold, determined conviction. He had taken this step. He had always known this day would come.

He would do what he must.

"It will not be easy," he continued. "Our.... their fleet might not be what it once was, but it is still impressive. Technologically the Centauri fleet outdoes anything we can match. The planetary defence system in particular is outstanding. After the attack two-and-a-half years ago I laid down specifications for new improved mechanics. They were half-way to completion when I was.... banished. It's safe to assume the new grid is finished now.

"Plus, there is the possibility of Alliance ships there. Centauri Prime still has some Centauri ships, but there may be other Alliance forces. I've heard about the Inquisitors moving around on the surface. They will have ships of their own in orbit. Plus, after the attack on Gorash, Londo will have asked the Alliance for greater protection. Count on it. You caught him flat-footed once before. I doubt you'll do so again.

"On the other hand, the homeworld will still be sorely weakened from the War. There were very few nobles of any status left alive, and the Houses will now be led by young and inexperienced nobles. They won't have much military understanding, but they will all be willing to fight hard to prove themselves.

"We need to know more about the situation on Centauri Prime before we do anything. The first rule of war is never to go in blind."

"No waiting," the Tuchanq said in its usual hollow, staccato voice. "No time for patience. Only revenge. Only blood. We will not wait."

Mi'Ra rose, and Marrago looked at her. She was almost.... feline in her movements. Narns were generally too thickset and heavy-boned for subtlety or grace of motion, but Mi'Ra seemed to manage it.

"The timing is perfect," she said, her red eyes looking directly at him. "It could not be more so. Emperor Mollari is sick, possibly on his deathbed. Those.... young, idealistic nobles you spoke of will be too busy manoeuvring themselves into positions of power to work together to hold off an attack."

Marrago felt a sickening lurch in his stomach. Londo? Ill? Dying? Then he hardened his hearts. Londo had accepted his role. Marrago would have to continue with his.

"If you say so. I think it is too early."

"No," the Tuchanq said. "Now."

"There is one more thing," Marrago said, looking around. "Alliance ships. There will be some there, particularly if those Inquisitors are still present. Open fire on an Alliance ship, and you are inviting war with them."

"Let them come," Moreil said, suddenly. "Let them all come."

Mi'Ra nodded. So did the Tuchanq.

Marrago spread his arms wide. "Very well. Someone fetch the maps. I'll start outlining weak points and strategic areas."

The servants moved aside as she passed, whispering about her when they thought she was out of earshot. She could hear them, of course. One of the things she had learned in her childhood was the necessity of very good hearing. She didn't let them know she could hear them, though. That would spoil all the fun.

It was interesting to find out what people were saying about her. Some called her mad, others cold. There were rumours that she was sleeping with any number of people — one chambermaid even claimed to have seen her in the bed of that strange human Morden. Some said she had poisoned her husband, or that she had used witchcraft to make him ill, or that she had gone to the technomages to have him kept alive but not conscious.

She was aware that she was not universally liked, but she contented herself with the thought that few people of worth were ever popular.

Not even her guards liked her. They had made the absolute minimum of protest when she had told them that she did not need them for today.

Lady Timov, daughter of Alghul and Lady Consort to Emperor Londo Mollari II, pushed the door open and swept majestically inside.

Durla Antignano stood to attention sharply. "My lady," the new Captain of the Guards said crisply.

Timov nodded at him as she closed the door, looking around. He had come alone, as she had requested. He could hardly insult the Lady Consort by bringing his guards to a private meeting now, could he? It was of course scandalous that the two of them were alone together, but Timov was content to let the scandalmongers have their fun. After all, if the worst they suspected about this meeting was an illicit liaison, both of them would have escaped lightly.

From the folds of her voluminous gown Timov pulled out a small, stylus-shaped device, with which she proceeded to comb the room. The light on the end of the tracker maintained a steady glow until she reached an elaborately decorated urn in one corner of the chamber. Timov recognised it as a grossly expensive gift to Emperor Turhan from the then-incumbent Lord Vole. A quick moment's investigation turned up the bugging device and she quickly clipped a device of her own around it. A study of the rest of the room found another similar device, which was treated the same way.

Satisfied, Timov folded up her tracker and returned it to her pocket. Taking the seat opposite Durla, she gestured to him to sit down.

"A few little things I picked up from some contacts of mine in the black market," she said by way of explanation. "Anyone listening will hear what I wish them to hear, and nothing else."

"And what will they be hearing, my lady?" Durla asked in his usual clipped, precisely enunciated tone.

"Oh, that we are sleeping together. Don't look so shocked, Durla. You are a fine figure of a young man, and with my husband.... ill, I have certain needs." The expression on Durla's face was wonderful to behold, a strange combination of shock and revulsion, purest horror and desperation. Timov laughed. "A joke," she said. "I cannot speak for my husband, but my marriage vows mean something to me. Besides, you are a little young for me. I wanted to speak of something else and it would be better if anyone listening thought this more.... mundane."

"Are you not worried that those.... listeners might use this incorrect information against you, my lady?"

"Tish! When has adultery ever been a cause for concern in these circles? My fidelity has usually been something of a joke."

Durla smiled, and rested his elbows on the table. "Not for you, my lady, no. But my position is a little more precarious than yours. I could very easily find myself back in those cells. My guards bear me little love, and if you were to complain about any.... undue pressure I was putting on you, I would rapidly lose the limited freedom I have at present."

"Really?" Timov said, eyes widening. "I had not considered that possibility. How dreadfully remiss of me. You must accept my utmost apologies."

Durla reached into the pocket of his uniform coat and laid something on the table. Timov smiled, recognising it. A signal jammer. "Believe me, my lady. No one is hearing anything in this room."

"I had hoped to avoid making people paranoid, but yes, we are both very clever. We have played this Game too long. I did not come here to blackmail you, Durla, nor to sleep with you. I came to offer you an alliance."

"I am as ever, my lady's to command."

"Then you would be the first," she drawled. "I have a hard enough time commanding my serving maids. When my husband was.... well, I had some little authority. He has been in a coma for several months now, and my little power wanes every day. I have accustomed myself to the realisation that he may never awake. I cannot simply wait for something that may never happen. If I am to save our people, I will have to act now."

"Do our people need saving, my lady?"

"Durla.... I know you are neither blind nor stupid. Please do not pretend to be either. Can you say you are truly happy with the way things are? Have you seen those.... Inquisitors moving around? Is there no one close to you whom they have taken away? Do you truly wish to serve a human standing beside the Purple Throne?"

"If you mean Mr. Morden, he freed me from my imprisonment."

"He did so because he wanted a tame pet on a leash, someone he could set on those who defied him. Are you happy being a human's lapdog?"

"I am a Centauri. My family is ancient and proud. Some say I dishonoured that memory."

"I know your past," Timov interrupted. "You were exiled when it was discovered you murdered your brother."

"It was over a woman."

"Such arguments usually are," Timov smiled. "Although never over me, I recall."

"When he freed me, I told Mr. Morden what I wanted from him."

"Has he given it to you?"

"No, and I doubt he ever will, but then I doubt the same thing regarding you. Your husband, when he ruled, was weak and spineless. He did not listen. He did not care for my talents and he imprisoned me rather than allow me to redeem myself from whatever.... transgressions I might have committed. I want to see the Centauri race return to the stars, by our own destiny rather than at the whim of another. I have resigned myself to that never happening."

"Under my husband, no. It will not. But we have accepted that my husband is likely never to recover. For myself, I want a quiet retirement, and if he does recover, a place somewhere near the ocean where he can recuperate free from the burdens of his position. He has done enough for these people already.

"But most of all, I want those humans and their Inquisitors and everything to do with the Alliance gone from our space. We can work together to achieve that, and both of us will get what we want.

"How does Emperor Durla Antignano sound to you, hmm?"

"I have come home."

G'Kar looked up at the red sky as he set foot on his homeworld for the first time in over a year. It was nearly sunset. He remembered looking up at that sky hundreds of times, as a pouchling, as a warrior against the Centauri, as a prophet. He remembered thinking how fortunate he was to call such a world home.

Now it was polluted and scarred. There was a darkness at its heart, but then, as he thought about it, he realised there had always been a darkness here. Perhaps it had begun with the Centauri Occupation, perhaps earlier than that, but it had always been here.

The Centauri had taught them a lot, mostly unwittingly. Above all, they had taught the Narn how to hate.

And now they were reaping the harvest they had sown.

"If we cannot live together, we shall surely die apart," he whispered. No one listened. No one understood, and no one listened, and no one cared.

He felt as if his entire life had suddenly become incredibly pointless. If he had still been at the heart of the Great Machine he could have seen this coming, he could have worked to prevent it, he could....

No. No 'if onlys'. That way lay madness.

For so long the focus of his life had been to fight a war. It seemed he had always been at war, with one race or another. Then he had seen that black, terrible Shadow ship high in the night, and he had known his purpose.

But now that purpose was gone, evaporated into dust, and just how much of that victory had been down to him? How much had he really accomplished? Would he have been better off merely leaving everything alone and sitting back and letting the darkness come? Would the Narn and the Centauri have been better off without his prophecies?

He could not answer those questions, and the Prophet could not see far enough into the future to know what would come.

He knew only that he had to try.

There was heat and motion and energy and power. There was noise. There was the sound of her thoughts, echoing loudly in his mind. Dexter Smith had never wanted to be a true telepath, never asked for their sort of power, but now he wished he could have it. If this was what they felt all the time, this blessed, wondrous communion of thoughts and voices and souls, then he would gladly trade everything for that.

Talia kissed him harder and he marvelled at the thoughts in his mind. He could feel her passion, her determination, her love for her people and her conviction that what she was doing was right. He could feel the lessening of her sense of fear, her knowledge of the vast forces arrayed against them and her joy in knowing she had one ally, however insignificant.

Not that she thought he was insignificant.

I can feel you as well, she thought in his mind.

Is this what it is always like? he thought back.

No, she replied, and he caught the mental image of a sad, satisfied smile. I wish it were. Her hands curled around his back.

He could see her childhood, her daughter, old friends long since dead. Her entire life was laid open to him, and he felt his open to her. For a moment he felt a pang of anguish at that, that she could see all his secrets, all his shames, that one moment of a life ending behind a pair of green eyes.

And then he felt it, at the back of her mind. She was trying to hide it from him, but it was there.

Guilt. A tiny pang of guilt.

He pulled back, shaking. She tried to hold on to him, but he slid away from her embrace. Breathing harshly, he stepped off the bed and fell against the far wall.

"What?" she breathed. "Dexter, what...?"

"I'm sorry," he whispered, closing his eyes. He could not feel her any more. Her mind was closed to him. "I can't do this. You're married."

"I.... Dexter...."

"No.... Please don't." He sank down to a sitting position, his head in his hands. "My head feels awful. I think we drank too much."

She sat up, and he could hear her starting to button up her top. "Dexter...." She stopped, as if she had nothing else to add.

"You love him," he said, after a while. "The two of you have a daughter, and you love him." He looked up, staring at her. "You do love him, don't you?"

Tears welling in her eyes, she nodded. "Do you...." She hesitated. "Is it wrong for one woman to love two men at the same time?"

"No more than for one man and two women. Damn! I wish I'd got to you first." He stood up. "I do want to, Talia. You know that. You know how much you mean to me. I've been thinking about you ever since...." He breathed out slowly. "We'd both regret this."

She fell back on to the bed, exasperated, or perhaps just to hide her tears. "I really didn't think men like you existed any more."

"Maybe I'm just a fool. You have the bed. I'll sleep on the couch. We can talk in the morning."

"In the morning," she replied.

He scooped up his shirt from where it had been discarded on the floor and noticed the rip in his collar. Sighing, he walked from the room, his head pounding.

"Good night, Dexter," she called to him.

"Good night," he replied.

As he walked back to his quarters in the shabby, dirty ship that was now his entire fleet, Jorah Marrago was surprised to find his mind filled with tactics and planning. It was a good feeling, one he had missed.

For the last year, ever since he had joined forces with Sinoval, his mind had been on strategy, long-term goals and aims, thinking years in advance. That was depressing, a constant reminder of the future, speculation about a time he might not live to see.

But tactics, that was different. Creating a battle in his mind, the positioning, the opening movements, the hidden feints. In a strange, bizarre way it was almost beautiful — a game, a creation of skill, pitting general against general, battle-master against battle-master.

Only later would the true cost become clear. Only after the battle could one look around at the bodies of the dead, the mutilations of the injured and the anguished faces of the bereaved. Marrago remembered that. He always tried to remember the true cost of battle, but try as he might, he could not banish that sense of.... joy he felt at a grand plan coming together.

And this was a challenge. His army was a mish-mash of different peoples and races and personalities who would all rather be fighting each other. The true military might of this attack was a race of whose capacities and strength he had not the slightest conception. He was attacking the homeworld of one of the most technologically advanced races in civilised space, however socially self-destructive they might be.

Besides, by the Purple Throne, it felt good to be doing something at last.

Dasouri was waiting outside his door. He nodded his head.

"Is it true, General?" he asked.

Marrago did not have to ask what he was referring to. "Yes," he replied. "We're going to war."

Dasouri nodded, no trace of surprise or joy or fear or indeed any other emotion on his perfectly equable face. "Where?"

"Centauri Prime." Marrago was pleased with himself for the entirely flat way he said those two words.

Dasouri nodded again, still showing no emotion. "I will tell the others. They will be prepared."

Marrago watched the Drazi depart, wondering, not for the first time, what brought him here. Each and every one of those who followed him — or any captain in the Brotherhood — had their story. They each had their reasons. They were the people who had slipped through the net the Alliance had cast over the galaxy. They were the people who were not seen, not noticed, not missed.

They were the people for whom there was no place in the galaxy but the one they made themselves.

Thinking darkly about that, but still bolstered by his plans and schemes, Marrago opened the door to his chambers. He nodded absently to Senna, sitting calmly on her chair, and drifted over to his books. He had been able to bring a few with him into exile, and he had obtained a few more since. One of the many advantages of having a Thrakallan crimelord indebted to him.

"How could you?" Senna whispered.

He looked up at her, and saw for the first time the expression on her face, a combination of horror and disgust.

"How could I what?"

"You swore to defend the Purple Throne. You swore to defend Centauri Prime. You swore...."

"Shut up!" he shouted, his good mood evaporating instantly. "You were listening at the door!"

"How else am I to find out what is happening? You keep me locked up in here, you never allow me to leave. I am just as much your prisoner as I was.... his! And now you are going to lead an attack on our homeworld!"

"You do not understand," he said angrily.

"No," she rasped. "I don't. Why save me, and lead those.... monsters to do to others what was done to me? Why would you attack your own people, your own Emperor?"

"My Emperor cast me out!" he cried, stepping forward. She cowered back on her chair. "I spent my entire life in service to that Throne, and where did it get me? My daughter is dead, and I am now an exile. I am a lord of the Centauri Republic and I am forced to live with bandits and brigands and peasants!

"I have no people, and I have no home and I have no Emperor!"

Shaking, she rose slowly to her feet. She stared at him, fear evident in every part of her body but her eyes. They were filled with contempt and disgust, and he saw his own self-hatred staring back at him.

When she spoke, it was slowly and deliberately, with a determination that belied her years. "You are every bit as much a monster as they are," she said calmly.

He did not know why he did what he did, only that his body acted before his mind could prevent it. He struck out with all the force he could muster, a blow honed in a youth of bar fights and an adulthood of battlefields. He struck her squarely on her chin and felt the satisfying force on his fist as she crumpled beneath him. She fell back on to the chair and it gave way, shattering under the impact. She fell to the floor and looked up at him, shaking, tears glistening in her soft eyes.

Lyndisty would have struck back at him if he had done that to her.

But he had never hit Lyndisty.

Senna looked at him, as if expecting him to do more. Her hand slid over her breast, covering her hearts as she tried to breathe. Finally, unable to look at him any longer, she pulled herself up and half-ran, half-crawled away from the room, scurrying to her private quarters, slamming the door behind her.

Marrago realised he was shaking. He was turning to the cabinet to pour himself a glass of jhala when he realised Sinoval was standing directly in front of him.

He stepped back, his hearts pounding. "Please," he said, breathing hard. "A little warning next time."

"We have no time for warnings," Sinoval replied, his eyes dark. "We have no time for waiting or planning or preparing, not any longer. I am having to activate all my players at once, and hope that one or two of them are triumphant."

Marrago stepped back again, and moved quickly to the cabinet. His hands were shaking as he poured the jhala. "Don't judge me," he said, harshly. "Don't you dare judge me."

"I would not presume to," Sinoval replied. "I have done worse myself, and if that is the worst sin committed by any of those who follow me then I will find myself at the head of an army of saints. You will have to judge yourself, though.... in time."

"I know," Marrago whispered. "Gods, I never thought I would.... I never hit Lyndisty, not once. Nor Drusilla. I've never hit a woman, much less a girl, and now....

"Sometimes I think I want to stop this road you have dragged me on to. I do not like what it is making me become."

"I did not drag you anywhere, and the road is not changing you. You are changing yourself. In any event, that is not why I am here. The plan is going to have to change."

"Everything's going as it should. These.... Tuchanq are a new addition. Someone's pulling their strings, and I think I know who, but nothing else has changed. I'm still the best and most experienced general here. If anything, this is only accelerating matters. I'll lead this raid of theirs, and we'll win. It won't be easy, but I've exaggerated a few things for their benefit. We'll win, and burn half of Centauri Prime to the ground, and everyone here will know it was thanks to me. I'll be leader of them all by the end of the year.... at least, leader of those I don't have to kill.

"And then you'll have the nucleus of your army."

"Is this the army you think you can take to war for me? Are these the soldiers you want to lead?"

"No, but they're what we have, and that will have to be enough. They have no place in this world any more. Peace? What good is that? They're all creatures of war and chaos and they haven't known enough of the blessings of peace to appreciate it. They're natural warriors, and they'll be the best soldiers we can get. Trust me on this."

"I do, but as I said.... we will have to move more quickly. The.... Enemy is pursuing me, and they are closer than I would like to think. Some of my little spiders are going to fall. Everything will come out into the open sooner than either side will like, and we will have to be ready when it does.

"We are going to have to accelerate matters regarding this army of yours."

Marrago took a long sip. "What did you have in mind?"

"When you arrive at Centauri Prime, I will be there waiting."

Sinoval's dark eyes blazed.

"And so will the Alliance."

There was no fear. Vejar honestly could not remember what fear felt like any more. He tried to think back to the Drakh, and their brutal, callous invasion of Kazomi 7, but he could remember nothing. Everything was cold and calm, as if those who had died or been mutilated and scarred had been nothing but illusions.

His power had always come from the imagination, and now he could imagine nothing.

We need to find someone, cousin, and we think you know where she might be.

He could not do this in ghost form, not as a spirit. This would have to be real. Nevertheless, he could walk through the wide corridors cloaked in mirrors. Anyone who looked at him would see a lowly cleaner, and surveillance would not see him at all.

It had been a very long time since he had left his underground sanctum and he was surprised by what the years had done to the Neuadd. He had seen it in his astral wanderings many times, but that was different from seeing it for real. He could not pretend this was an illusion or a dream. This was reality.

The building was practically empty. He had seen only three people in the four floors he had traversed thus far. Security checkpoints were unmanned. He doubted there were enough security officers left in the building to man them all. Or even left on the planet, come to that.

Who is this person?

He remembered the day he had named this building. Neuadd. An ancient word, from an ancient and beautiful Earth language. It meant so many things, but so few people understood them.

I think you know her name, cousin.

He moved up another flight of stairs, his muscles burning with the unaccustomed exercise. He could not risk the elevators. Any one of a number of things might go wrong.

So how do I find her?

He could feel the tingle on his skin that spoke of the magic Galen was performing elsewhere in the city. Illusionary Drakh or Shadows, or even dragons if he had been listening to Alwyn too much lately. Anything that would draw attention away from this building. Not the guards, for they were next to nothing and there were hardly any here anyway.

She will be in the network somewhere. You can access it from the Vorlon's quarters, if you need to. We need to find her.

He moved up even further. Another couple of floors and he was near the top of the building. The Vorlon, Ambassador Ulkesh, had take over the top three floors when he had arrived here. He had remained, despite all the other Ambassadors relocating to Babylon 5. They had all kept offices here, a skeleton staff for the sake of appearance and tradition and respect for the memory of Kazomi 7, but for the most part it was an empty gesture. Ulkesh was the only one actually to remain here.

So why me? Why not do this yourself?

Vejar reached the doors to the Vorlon's chambers. They were unguarded, of course. Usually anyone penetrating so far up the Neuadd would have passed several stringent security checks. It didn't matter, anyway. No one would be stupid enough to try to break into a Vorlon's private rooms.

He breathed out slowly and reached for the door. Light formed around his hand.

You have been here for years, cousin. Do not try to tell me you have not identified the Vorlon's wards. Do not try to tell me you have not learned how to bypass his security. Do not try to tell me you cannot pierce his veil and enter his chambers. I would be caught. You may escape.

The door remained closed, but Vejar, who could see things that others could not, breathed a slow sigh of relief and passed through it as if it were no more than a reflection.

Once inside he knew he had to act quickly. The Vorlon's attention would be distracted by Galen's light show, but time would be limited. Fortunately there was no need for a scrying spell or a search incantation. He could feel her pain, feel the light and the screams and the rush of power and energy and knowledge that encompassed the network. He could feel it slightly even on the other side of the wards, but here....

The difference was as between looking at a picture of a waterfall and standing beneath it.

He headed quickly in the direction of the network, dropping his disguise. There was no point maintaining it here. If the Vorlon caught him, it really would not matter.

He entered the room and stopped. There it was, Kazomi 7's node of the network. A greater node, funnelling the power and authority of the Vorlons from here to all the Dark Star ships in orbit or in the area, and to any one of hundreds of other places. Just one of countless millions of links including Babylon 5, Centauri Prime, Proxima 3 and worlds unnoticed and unnamed by humanity.

You truly expect me to succeed in this? You truly expect me to find her?

He looked up at the still, silent form of Lyta Alexander. Bonded to the wall by the growth of greenery around her body, crucified on a giant, monstrous cross. Veins and tendrils and nerve sheaths ran from her mouth, her eyes, her heart, all over her body. Her eyes were open, and he could see within them the awareness that lurked there. She was conscious, aware of what was being done to her.

I have faith in you, cousin.

Vejar tried to force himself to care. He did not know her. She meant nothing to him. She was just one of billions who had suffered at the hands of the Vorlons. What made her special? What made her so deserving as to merit his being sent on this mission?

And if the Vorlon catches me?

He raised his hand, now glowing with red light, tiny bolts of electricity shooting from it.

Why are you always so negative, cousin? Think of the good that will come from this when you succeed.

He took a step forward.

Ulkesh glided into view.

I am, Galen. I am thinking that the Vorlon might find me....

Ulkesh's eye blazed bright red.

.... and that he might just kill me.

There is nothing the Dark Masters send us that is not a challenge. Through adversity there is strength. Through defeat there is experience. Through experience there is understanding. Through understanding there is strength.

I fulfill their will. I bring blessed chaos to the galaxy. I rain death upon the weak and the complacent. I bring fear and pain to those who do not understand. The weak will be defeated and die in misery. The strong will learn and grow and become stronger.

They will evolve.

I will evolve. The Dark Masters have sent me a challenge in this Marrago. The others here are nothing, chattels and fools. They will break before the onslaught, but he....

He is my challenge. Through him I shall become stronger. We shall make each other stronger. We shall war upon each other. There is no growth in fighting the weak. Those whom I do not destroy I shall make stronger, but they shall not make me stronger. The weak are no challenge.

Marrago will be a challenge.

My Warriors think he looks like a Master, and he does.

My Warriors think he acts as a Master, and he does.

My Warriors fear him.

Thank you for sending him to me, Masters. I understand now. He is the gateway to my destiny. He is the next step on my road of evolution. He may break me, or I may break him, but, should we both be worthy, both of us will become stronger.

I do not fear — not death, not weakness, not failure.

I must test him and prove his strength and his lack of fear.

I must bring him back to me as an enemy.

Moreil opened his eyes and looked up at the Wykhheran. They stood around him, still and statuesque, awaiting his command. Legends of his people said that the Masters had carved the Wykhheran from the heart of the Holy World and given them life through the heat of the forges at Thrakandar. Moreil could well believe it.

He looked at the biggest, and spoke to it. It stirred, opening its great eyes, the light there filled with devotion and service.

Warrior, do you love me?

Yes, lord.

Warrior, do you fear me?

Yes, lord.

Warrior, would you die for me?

Yes, lord.

Warrior, soon we will go to war. We attack the home of the Sin-tahri. We bring death and holy chaos to them, we cast our shadow over their land. There will be much destruction. When we ride there, I have a task for you.

Yes, lord.

Find the Sin-tahri called Marrago, and kill him.

Yes, lord.

Dexter could not sleep, and for once it was not a combination of too much alcohol and too many worries. Nor was it even the thought of a beautiful woman lying in the next room. It was not even the difference in relative comfort between the couch and his bed.

It was something preying at the back of his mind. He was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, drawing patterns with his eyes as he had done before. He could feel that moment of communion between them, and he yearned for it again. That was special — not her kisses, not her touch. He could truly say it was her mind he desired more than any other part of her.

He chuckled at the thought, wondering if she would believe him were he to tell her.

After several hours of staring upwards, he rose from the couch and went to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water. He devoured it greedily, spilling a great deal on the floor in the process. It alleviated his thirst, but not his headache. As he walked back to his impromptu bed, he could not resist looking in at her through the slightly ajar bedroom door.

She looked to be having every bit as much trouble sleeping as he did. The sheets were twisted around her legs as she tossed and turned. She had found one of his T-shirts to wear, an old Proxima Swashbucklers one.

Dexter looked at her for a long time and then returned to his couch, silently cursing his over-developed moral sense.

He had only just lain down, when he sat bolt upright again.

He looked around, not sure what had caused him to react like that. He had.... felt something. Something terrifyingly alien and yet at the same time slightly....

.... familiar.

There was nothing in sight, nothing that had not been there three seconds ago.

But he was sure he had felt something.

He lay back down, his head spinning. The alcohol. That was it. Or perhaps some aftereffect of.... earlier. Maybe he was picking up Talia's nightmares. He couldn't help but grin. If she was having any more pleasant dreams, that might be fun.

Talia!

He leapt up in an instant and ran for her room. Not him, he knew that. Not him.

Her!

She was lying still on the bed, her head thrown back. Standing over her was a tall man he did not recognise, but then he could not see the intruder's face. His head was bent low over Talia's, and he seemed to be.... breathing in her air. Only it wasn't air, it was light.

Dexter ran forward, the instincts of a thousand youthful street fights surging in his body. The figure began to turn, but he was not quick enough to dodge Dexter's punch. He had been in countless fist fights in his life, and he knew he would be in a good many more, but he had never thrown a punch like that before, and he doubted he ever would again.

The man fell, collapsing in a heap. Dexter did not even look at him, but turned instantly to Talia. She was motionless, her eyes open but staring fixedly ahead. He put his hand over her mouth and was relieved to feel her breath on his palm.

Then an explosion of pain burst in his mind and he reeled, stumbling back against the wall. Looking up through eyes blurred with agony, he saw the intruder rising. For the first time he could clearly see its face.

It was oddly misshapen, as if made of wax that had started to melt in the noonday sun. Light poured from its eyes and mouth.

Greetings, brother, it said.

The Vorlon's voice was a chill, cold thing. Vejar knew that Vorlon speech was entirely telepathic in nature. They had no tongue, no vocal cords, no lungs, nothing but energy, and their voices came entirely from their thoughts. They could appear to speak in whatever tone or language they wished.

Ulkesh chose to speak with the voice of the dead, the voice of a cold wind through an autumn graveyard, the voice of ghosts buried and forgotten.

Vejar said nothing. Damn you, Galen, he thought. What have you got me into? Thoughts of passion and fury began to take shape in his mind as he started to prepare himself for conjuring, truly conjuring, for the first time in years.

Vejar took a careful step backwards, flicking his gaze from Ulkesh to Lyta. Neither was moving, and he could not tell which of the two looked less alive.

Well, Galen. Congratulations. You could not have chosen someone else for this suicide mission?

Finding his voice, and his courage, he looked up squarely into the Vorlon's eye stalk. "I am to be killed, just for having come here?" he asked.

"Well, I see. There is a human saying you might not be familiar with. It has something to do with the relative nature of punishments for varying crimes." Vejar's mind was racing. He could feel his skin crawl with the rush of power.

"You might as well be hung for a sheep...."

His eyes blazed furiously. Fire crackled from his fingertips.

"As a lamb!"

He hurled the fireball forward, instantly forming another conjuration. He watched as the Vorlon's encounter suit became an inferno, flames licking over every inch of it. Behind him a circle of ruins and flames and darkness formed. Something emerged from it, something black and crackling with electricity. It moved with an arachnid grace, its many eyes blazing with fiery light.

Through the flames engulfing it, Ulkesh's eye stalk turned.

Vejar reeled before the voice in his mind. Blood filled his eyes and mouth and he had to steady himself against the wall, pouring all his concentration into controlling and animating the construction he had summoned. It was not a true Shadow of course, just a manifestation of his will, but it would be enough for a short time.

The animated Shadow moved forward, spiked limbs flailing at the Vorlon's encounter suit. The Shadow seemed not to feel the heat as it rained blow after blow on the Vorlon's chest. Vejar reached out his arm, guiding his creation, his other arm supporting him against the wall.

the Vorlon cried again, and Vejar slumped. The Shadow faded for a moment, but Vejar closed his eyes and concentrated harder and it reformed.

A crack appeared in the encounter suit, and then another. A brilliant light began to pour through, so bright Vejar could see it even with his eyes closed. He reeled before the psychic onslaught, and fell, feeling his Shadow collapse.

Opening his eyes, he saw the Vorlon before him. It had abandoned illusions and appeared as it truly was, light and energy and malevolence, crackling with power and fury. Vejar felt its presence in his mind, and screamed.

"I'm not afraid of you," Vejar spat. He looked up in defiance. "I'm not afraid of you."

Once, over two years ago, Delenn had come to him, seeking an explosive device, something powerful enough to tear open the guts of a planet. Vejar had told her that such a thing was within his power to create, and so it was. What he had given her was something very different, but that did not mean he could not create such a weapon.

Or something similar, but less powerful.

"Damn you, Galen," he whispered.

He looked up at Lyta, past the swirling mass of the Vorlon. He wondered if she was worth all this.

Then he created the explosion that tore apart the top half of the building.

Chapter 3

Whose face do you see in the mirror, Sheridan?

Whose face do you see in your mind's eye?

Who are you? They ask that question, over and over again. Who are you? Can you answer that question, Sheridan? Can you?

John J. Sheridan. Son of David Sheridan. Brother of Elizabeth. Husband of Anna. Lover of Delenn. General of the Alliance fleet.

Strip away the layers. Your father is gone. Your sister is gone. Your wife is gone. Your daughter is gone. All you have are Delenn and the Dark Stars.

Delenn went away once. When she came back, she was.... changed. Is she truly the same person you once knew? Do you love her as much as you once did? Do you even love her at all any more?

Strip away the Dark Stars and the Alliance. What are they anyway? The threat they were created to combat is gone, never to return. The little the Shadows left behind cannot trouble such as you. Why does the Alliance exist but to keep power in the hands of those who now possess it?

Does the Alliance mean anything to you? Does Delenn mean anything to you?

Do the Vorlons mean anything to you?

Can you answer a single one of these questions, Sheridan? Pick one. Any one. Answer me just one of these questions. Answer yourself just one of these questions.

Can you?

General John Sheridan awoke, panting, hot, wild-eyed.

"I don't know!" he cried.

Beside him, Delenn still slept. The night was quiet, and the questioning voice was gone.

The sound had died, the fury had subsided, the air was still. Dust and debris settled slowly on the rubble.

No one was sure what had caused the explosion. An accident was a possibility of course, but terrorist action more probable. The Neuadd still meant something as a symbol, even if its practical purpose was gone. A strike here, at the heart of Kazomi 7, was a message that would penetrate to all corners of the Alliance that even now, they were not safe. The war continued.

Yes, it would later be agreed, once the dead were sorted and the shock had faded, this was surely the work of one who hated the Alliance and all it stood for.

No one knew any better.

No one?

Ulkesh moved through the rubble with a cold, purposeful air. As his shadow fell over those searching for survivors, they trembled, as if something dark and cold had passed over their graves. Not an unusual reaction in the face of such devastation perhaps, but perhaps there was something else. Perhaps the Vorlon was....

.... angry.

No one asked how he had survived the explosion, which had surely happened near his quarters. No one believed he would answer them, anyway.

He moved with his usual purpose, meticulous and cold, searching for two things in particular, searching not only with his eyes, such as the mortals might understand the term, but with his mind's vision.

He found the body of the fabulist after a few hours of searching. He was dead, there was no doubt about that, and in such a way that his body would never be identified. To all who might wonder, Vejar had died in the explosion, just one more innocent victim.

Ulkesh was angry, very angry. The fabulist's soul was long gone. All that remained was a shell.

It took him much longer to find the node of the network that had been situated in his quarters. The biotechnological symbiotic node had been destroyed, but the vessel itself had survived. She looked still and peaceful, completely undamaged. The tendrils of the symbiont were still entwined around her body, but she was no longer screaming, no longer making any noise at all.

Ulkesh could not bear to look at her for long. There was.... pain there. The network was shaken and unstable. It would take a great deal of work to repair the damage, and the nearby nodes would be affected as well.

But he resisted the pain, he resisted the ghost-like images he could see, the souls of those absorbed into the network, and he forced himself to study the situation more closely. The fabulist had risked a great deal for the vessel. Why?

She had tried to escape him. Had she been going to join the Enemy? She had saved the Dark Star captain from killing himself just as Ulkesh had wanted. She had mated with him.

The fabulist had come here for her.

Why?

Ulkesh looked at her and understanding came. She was not dead. Her body still lived, but her soul was not here.

A great rage burned inside him and he let out a furious shout of anger. It was no sound any of the mortals could recognise, for their mortal ears could not hear it, but their mortal souls did, and they trembled.

The Lights Cardinal would have to be informed of this.

The vessel's soul had been freed. She was loose inside the network.

The room was dark and dingy, as it was no doubt meant to be. It was a place for secret meetings, for clandestine appointments. One of many, provided by enterprising entrepreneurs. It saddened G'Kar that there was a market for such a place on Narn.

"They took a great deal from us," he said, speaking to the shadowed walls. "They took our lives, they took our freedom, they took our dignity, but most of all, they took from us the one thing we can never regain.

"They took our innocence."

Had it always been this way? G'Kar could not remember. The Centauri had always been on Narn. His father might have known a different time, or have been told of one, but he was long dead. The Narns had no history any more. Oh, they knew the names and the deeds, but they did not know the life, and that was the greatest loss of all.

He had wandered the city before arriving here, looking back at places of memory. Places where he had spoken, streets he had walked — first as a freedom fighter, then a soldier, then a member of the Kha'Ri and finally a Prophet. He saw houses and parks. He saw people. He saw soldiers, tall and proud. He saw children, running free and happy. He saw traders and merchants and craftsmen.

He should have been elated by the sight, but he was not. There was a darkness here on Narn, and it dwelt within the hearts of his people. Almost everyone he saw was interested in news of the outside galaxy, and especially in the poor situation of the Centauri. Many a toast was drunk in celebration of the Emperor's illness, and of the Inquisitors moving on Centauri worlds. There was much good cheer about Narn ships and Narn captains helping maintain order and defend Centauri worlds.

G'Kar knew he would have been recognised. He was not drawing any particular attention to himself, but neither was he going out of his way to hide. Few knew him personally, and most of the common people would not expect to see him here anyway.

But others, the Kha'Ri, the Thenta Ma'Kur, perhaps even the Inquisition, they would have seen him. Let them. Let them wonder. Let them be forced to act. Let them draw themselves into the open.

Besides, he was hardly alone.

"Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar," said a soft voice in flawless Narn.

"Lennier," G'Kar said, as his Ranger entered the room. "By G'Quan, it is good to see you."

"The feeling is likewise." Lennier did not step forward, instead remaining in the shadows. G'Kar noticed how well the shadows suited him. Ever since the massacre at Kazomi 7 Lennier had been different, scarred in more ways than one.

"I am grateful for all that you have done. There was no one else I could trust with this."

"It is my honour to serve, Ha'Cormar'ah."

"I need to see Da'Kal. Alone, and uninterrupted. I will also need to know the names of those who are working on this with her. She cannot be doing this alone."

"The names will be provided for you, Ha'Cormar'ah. As for the other, she has quarters in the main government building, but she also spends a great deal of time at a religious building outside the city. It appears to be a shrine of some sort."

"Her father's temple," G'Kar whispered. "I know where it is. It was destroyed by the Centauri, but a new temple was built over the ruins, a shrine to all the dead."

"There is more to it now than a mere shrine, Ha'Cormar'ah. There is something beneath it."

"Can you get me in there? Or at least find out what is underneath?"

"Ha'Cormar'ah.... I have not been wasting my time in your service here. If I may ask, where is Ranger Ta'Lon?"

"He is.... somewhere safe, with a ship prepared for my escape should that prove necessary. He is kept updated with what is happening here, and should I fail to maintain contact with him, he is to go to the Alliance with everything I have uncovered."

"As you say, Ha'Cormar'ah."

"It is strange. I have known many enemies in my life. The Centauri, the Shadows. But I never thought the greatest enemy I would ever know would be amongst my own people."

Greetings, brother.

He could never accurately describe that sensation, not even to Talia, whom he felt knew him even better than he did himself. However, if pressed, he would speak of insects crawling and skittering in his brain, covered in slime and vomit.

Dexter Smith reeled from the mental assault of the thing before him. One of the Hand of the Light, it called itself. A search-and-capture unit, like the old Psi Corps Bloodhounds, but working for someone else.

Do not fight us, brother. We have not come for you.

"You won't touch her," he whispered. "You won't...."

We will. She fights us. Our Masters have ordered her capture. She has a rare mind, talented and deceitful and truly treacherous. She will make a fine addition to our unit.

"You won't take her."

Join us, brother. Perhaps we will give her to you. She will do anything you like, anything at all.

Dexter looked at Talia. She was still as death. Only the painfully slow and shallow rise and fall of her chest showed that she was still alive. A faint glow of light still shone around her mouth and nose where the Bloodhound had tried to draw it from her.

What had it been attempting to do? What was that light? Her mind, her soul, what?

Both, and more. There is something that makes you human, that makes you weak, that makes you cry and question. Something that makes you unhappy. We will remove it from her, brother, and make her stronger as a result.

"Stronger, and.... more.... biddable?"

We will not deny that. Remove the need to question and what is left but glorious obedience?

Dexter slowly rose, the throbbing pain in his head becoming less. "You'll give her to me?"

Perhaps. That is not my decision to make.

"And she would do anything I ask. Anything at all?"

We do not know why you would want her to do.... that, brother, but ask and she would obey. She would have no choice. None of us would.

"And if I wanted her to argue with me, to fight, to disagree, to be awkward and different and maddening, to find fault with everything I did, to be contradictory and nonsensical?"

We do not understand.

Dexter looked at her, still unmoving, and smiled. "No, you really don't, do you?" He moved forward, trailing his hand along the edge of the bed. A plan was beginning to form in his mind, one shaped by instinct, not intelligence. He had no idea if this was going to work, and there was nothing to suggest that it would, but still.... there was a....

.... feeling.

A memory of that brief, sweet, blissful, complete communion of minds, and a sense of how she thought.

The Hand and Mr. Edgars would call it his telepathic powers, or empathy or whatever. He called it instinct.

"You can offer me all that? I must be really special to you," he said, still walking slowly forward.

The melting-wax features of the thing twitched into a grotesque parody of a smile. You have no idea how special, brother. You have a rare gift, truly rare, one that we can use.

"What will you take from me in exchange for this.... power?"

Nothing you will be sorry to lose, brother.

His hand brushed against her bare leg. A shock struck his fingers, almost like an electric current, or an unexpected flare of heat.

"What is it I have that you don't?"

Why brother, do you have to ask? Do you not just know? Can you not read me as you do those you beat at that infantile card game? The voice in his mind twisted, becoming a perfect replica of Zack's. So, explain that dealer chip again?

Dexter's hand touched Talia's. He curled his around hers. Her skin was so warm. He could feel it again, that one moment of communion. She was there. She was conscious, she was aware, she was just trapped behind a wall of pain and fear. All she needed....

"Well, Chet," he said. "First you...."

.... was a key.

Her eyes opened.

The creature hissed and moved back, but Talia was already awake.

"Now, I'm annoyed," she said.

The plan was a strange combination of genius and insanity, as all the best plans are. Marrago was more than a little discomfited by it, not least because it meant the complete derailing of all his carefully laid schemes. He had come to dislike strategy lately, but he had not lost his grasp of it. As things currently stood, he would be leader of the Brotherhood Without Banners in less than a year. Within two, he would have an army for Sinoval.

But time and fate and the machinations of others had a habit of interfering with even the best laid plans of Centauri and men.

One battle, one throw of the dice, one opportunity.

Marrago breathed out slowly. He had never liked gambling, although he recognised its occasional necessity in war. He had always left real gambling to Londo.

He was still shaking and he could still feel the impact on his fist, even up to his shoulder. He could still see the look in her eyes.

Sometimes he tried to remember the last time he had felt any self-respect at all. Where had it all gone? There had been a time he had been proud of himself, proud of what he represented. He had done.... things he was not proud of, but they could all be rationalised. Dealing with the Shadows, blackmailing Lord Valo into a politically convenient suicide, lying to Londo and Durano.

But now, now there was nothing, an emptiness at his core. He was not even sure why he was here, what he was doing. He had failed to protect Lyndisty, his dealings had led to his people becoming slaves to the Alliance, and now he had hit a woman. No, a girl.

"You made a poor choice, my friend," he said, not sure if Sinoval would be watching or not. "You should have chosen a much younger man, a much better man."

But who else was there?

He thought over Sinoval's plan again, considering himself very fortunate he did not have to think the way the Minbari did. It was risky and dangerous and quite probably suicidal, but it could work. And at this stage of the game, both of them had to take risks.

He looked up at the commscreen as the image appeared there. About time. There was a need for security systems and screening processes, but sometimes he thought his associate took things a little too far.

No, there was no such thing as too much security.

"Greetings, friend," said the twisted, alien voice. Even over a distance of countless light years n'Grath still managed to convey that aura of sheer otherness, along with a very simple malevolence. "Are you in need of more work? There is business to be done if you wish it."

"No, thank you," Marrago replied. "I've got some information for you, and I want some information in turn."

"Yes? This is of interest to this one. Let us hear your information and it shall be seen what the worth of it might be."

"No," Marrago replied calmly. He knew the secret of a good bargain. Always act as if you were on top. "You first. I want to find out everything you know about someone. And I mean everything."

"Who might this person be?"

"Her name is Mi'Ra. She is a Narn. I'm sending a picture to you now."

"Ah, yes. This can be done. Time it will take, but there is no one with secrets from this one. What can you offer in turn?"

"I know where the Brotherhood Without Banners is going to attack next. And this will be no simple raid. We are talking about a full scale attack. A great deal of disruption, chaos, anarchy. There could be a fair bit of money to be made for someone with an eye for that sort of thing."

"This is of interest, yes. Where?"

"When you have the information I need. Not before."

"This one will wait. You will be contacted when all is known. We will speak later, friend."

"Later."

It took Marrago several minutes to stop shaking after the communication finished. Then he needed several cups of jhala to wash the foul taste out of his mouth.

"Ugly-looking planet," Susan Ivanova muttered. "And is it just me, or is that the same small group of ships passing overhead all the time?"

"It's not just you," Sinoval replied, not looking up from his meditation. "The Centauri do not have much of a fleet left, so they seem to have learned how to make it look as though they have far more ships than they really do."

"Weren't there supposed to be Alliance ships here as well? I thought that was what you said was happening — Alliance ships guarding Centauri worlds."

Sinoval rose, sighing, and walked around the circumference of the pinnacle. Sometimes it seemed so small and yet sometimes it was massive. Not for the first time he felt he was standing on the top of the galaxy, looking down at world upon world laid out for his inspection.

Except he had to share this vision with Susan, as always, and this was just one world. Centauri Prime to be exact.

"Yes," he said. "There were meant to be. The Alliance have dispatched some of their fleets to guard and protect Centauri worlds, not to mention maintaining order on the surface." He paused, looking around at the spectacle before him. "No, none here. It would not surprise me if the Narn captains of those ships have quarrelled with some functionary or another and simply stayed away, aggrieved at their help being so rudely rebuffed. That would make what is going to happen all the more truly tragic, of course. A sign of what will happen unless the Centauri accept their place in the new galactic order."

He paused, still looking. "When I was much younger, I saw a performer in the streets of Yedor. A former member of the warrior caste, exiled for some crime or another. He survived by performing tricks for passing crowds, for travellers and so on.

"He was balancing small spinning balls on his denn'bok, throwing them up into the air and catching them on the edge, always keeping them spinning and dancing. He must have been holding.... almost fifteen in the air at one point, and he never let one drop."

Susan looked at him. It was not usual for him to be talking so much, but after his collapse following his tales of Valen, he had actively sought her company more. He would speak to her more often, reveal more of his plans, his intentions, his dreams, even trivial little stories like this.

She was not quite sure what this meant. Either she was succeeding in her purpose and he was actually seeing people as people, not just chess pieces. He could be opening up to her, letting himself be human.... or Minbari, or whatever. Alive. Letting himself be alive.

Or there was another, darker possibility.

He was sharing his plans so that if anything happened to him someone would be able to continue when he was gone.

"I feel like that warrior, balancing all those globes in the air, except these are not just spinning balls, but people, and if any fall then we lose more than just a toy.

"Vejar has failed, and it cost him his life. Galen is lost now, trapped by the Vorlons, and there is no way to get him out. Marrago is on his own and I have to advance his careful plans myself, risking everything he has worked for these past two years.

"And Sheridan....

"Sheridan....

"Without the telepath, I have to do this myself. It would be so much easier with her, but I fear there is little choice, and I certainly do not have the time to do this slowly. I have to rush, and what if I mis-step or make a wrong move? What if he sees me or rejects me?

"Ah, Valen, curse you. Destined for greatness, indeed!"

He made for the steps leading downwards. "I have to commune with Sheridan again. I am.... making breakthroughs with him, slowly but surely, but I will have to move more quickly. Someone has to lead if anything happens to me, and without the Vorlon touch there would be no one better than him.

"If I can make him see!"

"Sinoval!" Susan called out. He stopped and looked back at her. "Don't do anything stupid. We can't do this without you, and if you die and leave me to do it myself, I swear to God I'll find your soul wherever it's gone and kick the living crapola out of you." He looked at her, and she looked down, annoyed at the outburst. "You got that?"

He was beside her in an instant. How does he move so fast? she had time to think. Gently, he touched her hair and kissed her forehead.

"Susan," he said. "If I had to leave, I would trust you with all of this. Remember that."

Then he was gone, and she was left to wait.

Hidden. Above Centauri Prime.

Waiting for the raiders to come.

Waiting.

After a while she began to whistle.

Da'Kal took a long, slow sip of the bitter jhala. It tasted foul in her throat and she could not understand why the Centauri drank it. It was too hot and too bitter and it scalded the roof of her mouth.

But, however foul the taste, it reminded her of victory.

"It was him," H'Klo said, standing in the doorway. "Again." The Councillor of the Kha'Ri was normally unflappable, but now he actually sounded.... worried. H'Klo knew no fear, she knew that much. When he was nothing but a pouchling, he had been working with the Resistance. The Centauri had captured and tortured him, and he had said nothing even as they had peeled the skin from his back with red-hot pincers, one strip at a time. Da'Kal had looked at those scars, touched them, even kissed them.

H'Klo feared neither Centauri, nor Shadow, nor Vorlon, nor Narn. He had sworn to defend her in her quest, and she had no doubt he would. When a Thenta Ma'Kur assassin had attacked her in her bedchamber one night, H'Klo had faced him bare-handed and broken his back, despite being wounded five times in the process.

No, he feared nothing. Save one thing alone.

One person.

A prophet.

Da'Kal said nothing, but merely looked out across G'Khamazad. The city was so far beneath her, she could see the comings and goings of her people, free for the first time in their lives. Free from the Centauri. Free even from the fear of the Centauri. Now it was time for the Centauri to learn fear themselves.

She sipped at the jhala again. It was thick and cloying. She hated the smell. When she was young, before her name day, she had worked in the household of a Centauri noble, washing his clothes and cooking his food and pouring endless cups of jhala for him and his fat, vain wife and his spoiled, brattish children.

She remembered his face after the Resistance had taken his manor. G'Kar had killed his captain of guards in single combat and had made her lady of the manor. She had made the lord serve her jhala, and she had drained the drink in one gulp. Nothing had ever tasted sweeter, not even the taste of G'Kar's kisses that night.

"He will know," H'Klo said. "He will find us."

"There is no need to be concerned," she replied, still looking down on the city. One of the many things she had learned from the Centauri. Build high, and look down upon those you rule.

"I am concerned," he snapped. "Ask me to fight for you and I will. Ask me to kill for you and I will. But do not ask me to go against him, Da'Kal. He is.... our Prophet. He has something I have never seen in anyone else, not even you. He...." H'Klo paused, obviously struggling to find the words. "He is special."

"Yes," Da'Kal replied, irritated. "The mighty Prophet G'Kar. The wise, the bountiful, the saviour of our people."

"Is he not everything you have said?"

She took more jhala. "Yes," she replied bitterly. "Yes, he is."

"He will find us."

"Let him. Do not worry, H'Klo. You will not have to fight him."

"The Thenta Ma'Kur?"

"No. I am not sure I can trust them anyway. For all their boasts of loyalty only to money they can be.... sentimental. Besides, I have enquired secretly about their price for him." She paused, holding herself tight with her right arm, staring into the mirror of memory.

"And?"

"Over eight million Narn ducats."

"We do not have that sort of money."

"No one does. That is the point. Do not worry, H'Klo. There are.... other ways."

"He will not understand."

"No," she whispered sadly. "He does not. In a strange way I admire him. I even love him still, almost as much as I hate him. He was the bravest man I ever met. But the man he has become....

"He has forgiven them. After everything they did to him, to his father, to his mother, to me.... after all these things he has forgiven them. He even urges us to do the same. Do you know what bravery like that is? I wish I had a tenth of it." She finished her jhala and held the cup gently, rolling it between two fingers.

"But if everyone was capable of that kind of forgiveness, we would not be Narns, we would be angels."

She threw the cup far out into the air and turned away from the balcony to avoid seeing it land.

"There are no angels, and by his very existence he reminds us of our imperfections.

"Have no fear, H'Klo. Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar will be dealt with."

We were defeated because we had not thought. We were conquered because we did not see. Yes, we have won a victory now, but unless we learn, the victory will be hollow and empty, nothing but the ashes of the funeral pyres.

Blind rage will not serve us. Unthinking lust for revenge will gain us nothing. This is a new world for us now, for all of us. Unless we think, unless we see, unless we learn, then we might as well never have picked up a single weapon to fight the Centauri in the first place.

Mi'Ra ran those words through her mind as she went to her meeting. The Prophet's speech at the Square of Ashes in G'Khamazad. She had been there with her father, and a chill had swept through her as she watched G'Kar speak. Her father had not understood, but he was dead now. Mi'Ra had understood, and those words had stayed with her always.

Think, see, learn. That mantra had been with her throughout her life. It had seen her abandon the path her father had set, a life in the Kha'Ri as he had chosen, and she had instead chosen to go out into the galaxy. She had seen such wonderful things, such beautiful things. She had learned from what she had seen, and most of all she had learned to think.

The Prophet had been right, of course. Blind rage and unthinking vengeance would gain them nothing. What was needed was focussed rage and structured vengeance.

Centauri Prime. Home of the enemy. Her father had used to dream of taking the war there, but he had died before he could realise that dream. Just another victim of the games the Kha'Ri played, struck down by a well-concealed poison.

And now she would be a part of the destruction of the Centauri homeworld. Any one of her people would pay everything they owned for a part in this, however small, and her part was far from small.

She entered the meeting room, her guards with her, those visible and those.... not. G'Lorn was beside her as always. Loyal and trusting. He had not thought or seen or learned anything before, but now he was growing. It was the military mindset. Serve, obey and ask no questions. She was slowly breaking him of that, but she had to admit that it was useful at times.

Marrago was waiting for her, sitting patiently at the far side of the table. He had no guards with him, but then he did not need any. This was a man who had truly taken on board the Prophet's words, whether he realised it or not.

She sat down, G'Lorn beside her. "Should we not be preparing for the battle?" she asked. "Or have you more strategies to debate with me?"

"No," he replied coolly. "I have.... discovered something recently. Part of a bargain. Like for like. Information for information. Do you know what I have learned?"

Mi'Ra had a feeling she did. She had always agreed with Moreil. Marrago was by far the most dangerous man here.

"I have learned of a Councillor in the Kha'Ri by name of Du'Rog." Mi'Ra did not let her expression slip once. "He was very much in favour of renewed attacks on my people. He died some years ago of a convenient illness. It is strange, but there are many in my Court who have died of convenient illnesses at convenient times.

"But Du'Rog had adherents and they followed his ways. There were similar types amongst my people, and so there was war. It ended, as wars tend to do, and there was peace. Narn and Centauri, all one in an Alliance, working together for peace and prosperity — but for a few renegades and outlaws like ourselves of course.

"I have no doubt there are many among my people who do not like the idea of peace with yours. I am equally sure there are some among yours who like the idea even less. My people are too.... restricted to do anything about it, but yours.... the brave and forgiving Narn.... they are trusted and liked and respected.

"Du'Rog had a daughter. She left her home very young to travel the galaxy. She returned briefly, and then disappeared again. Do you know her name?"

Mi'Ra sat back. Moreil was right. This one was more dangerous than the others. They were useful tools and instruments, but this one.... He thought. He saw. He learned.

He was strong.

Do you wish us to kill him, lady? hissed the alien voice in her mind. She could call the Faceless to her in a heartbeat.

No, she replied. She was not telepathic, of course. Apart for a few failed experiments conducted by the Prophet, none of her people were, but she wondered sometimes if this communion was what it meant to be a telepath. The ritual she had undergone had given her a world of new sensations. This was only the smallest. Moreil has his own plans for this one.

He is dangerous. The Wykhheran fear him. But speak the word and he shall die.

No, she repeated. The Faceless were the ultimate assassins, greater by far even than the Thenta Ma'Kur, but they needed to serve. They did not think beyond the kill. Their creators had not designed them that way.

"And that little girl, what did she find on her travels? What did she bring back to her homeworld with her?"

Mi'Ra smiled, and rose to her feet. "An interesting story, but your time would be better spent on other things, Captain. Remember. We go to war."

He looked at her. "I am a soldier," he said, in a voice as deep as thunder. "I am always at war."

She was never far from the screams. They were there when she closed her eyes at night, and there when she opened them in the morning. The trapped, the lost, the prisoners. The countless slaves to the Vorlon network. Some she knew, some she didn't. Many weren't even human. That didn't matter. They were telepaths, like her — one kind, like her, one people, like her.

Talia opened her eyes and they were screaming even more loudly. One of them was standing before her. One of the abominations, one of those who actually liked their new role.

The Hand of the Light. The Bloodhounds. Countless different names for the same basic function.

Hunters.

The creature hissed and moved back. Talia looked at it.

"Now, I'm annoyed," she said.

Darkness crackled from her fingertips and she pointed at the abomination. It screamed as bolts of raw shadow struck at it. Light formed around it as a shield, but anger gave her thoughts power and she shattered it with a thought.

These things hunted her people, consigning them to an eternity of pain. They did it willingly, voluntarily.

They enjoyed it.

They would take her if they could, maybe even make her one of them. They had taken Al. They would take Abby. They would take Dexter. They would take all of her people.

Join us, it hissed at her. Living or dead, willing or not, you will join us.

She glanced at Dexter. His glance was flicking from her to the abomination. She was not sure which repelled him more.

"No," she said, loud enough for him to hear. She would not share her thoughts with this creature. That was for her people, for her lovers, for her loved ones. Al, Abby, Dexter.

She found herself thinking of the soul trapped within the Dark Star she had encountered on the way here. A pitiful thing, still dreaming of the protective blanket that had kept him safe from imaginary monsters as a child.

Well, she was a child no longer, and the hardest lesson Talia had ever learned as an adult was that not all monsters are imaginary, and there is no blanket to hide beneath.

There was only her.

Waves of shadow flowed from her hands, enveloping the abomination. Tiny sparks of light tried to shine through the dark cloud, but they were soon swallowed up. Talia concentrated harder, forcing the tendrils into its throat, its eyes, its nose.

It fell, still trying to summon the light, still trying to invade her mind. It was failing, naturally. Its power worked on fear, and she was not afraid of them.

Help me, came the pitiful psychic cry. It fell to the ground, head tilted back, choking sounds coming from its shaking body. It reached out one hand to Dexter.

Help me, brother.

Talia looked at him, trembling. He was looking back at her, his gaze stern. She caught a glimpse of horror in his expression. It had been almost two years. She had changed. He would have to understand that.

He would understand that, wouldn't he?

The abomination tried to crawl towards him. Help me, brother, it said again, reaching out to touch him.

Dexter kicked its hand away. "No," he said softly.

It shrank up into a ball, now completely consumed by the shadow. Little moans came from it, but they were becoming quieter and quieter. The shaking grew less and less. The shadow became smaller and smaller and finally faded away, leaving nothing behind.

Talia looked up at Dexter. He was motionless, staring at her.

"Don't judge me," she whispered. "Don't dare judge me."

"You've changed," he said.

"I'm at war. Of course I've changed."

He walked over to the bed and sat down next to her. "I've changed too," he whispered.

She leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close.

"That's what you came to talk to me about, isn't it?" he asked. She nodded wordlessly. "They know you're here?" Another nod. "Will there be more of them?" Another nod.

"So," he said at last. "You need my help?"

"Yes," she said, pulling back and looking up at him. "They're here. They have a base here. IPX is still capturing telepaths and turning us into.... them. They're just going a little further afield."

"They won a contract from the Government some time last year. It involves going out amongst the destroyed colonies, looking for salvage. Lots of big ships. A long time away from Proxima, or anywhere civilised. Lots of scope for.... anything."

"I'm here to fight them," she said softly. "Want to help?"

"You mean, do I want to give up a cushy Senator's job and go back to the glory days of waging a suicidal guerilla war against all-powerful opponents?" He stopped, thinking about it. "Sure, why not? What's the first stage, other than both of us getting out of here?"

She kissed him. His lips were very warm. His head was pounding — she could feel the pain in the back of his skull. Too much alcohol. Not her, though. She was remarkably clear-headed.

"Thank you," she said.

"Anything for a lady."

"The first thing we need is a little help to get a few people inside Proxima without strictly legal passports. And there's an item we need brought in as well. You'll have to see it. It will explain a lot, not least.... how I've changed."

"I can do that. What's this item do?"

"A great many things. It's called the Apocalypse Box."

G'Kar looked at the shrine for a long time, his eyes half-closed, seeing half of what was and half what of had been and half of what he dreamed it could be.

No one ever saw what was there. They saw what they wished to be there.

Or what they feared was there.

Or some combination of both.

People passed by, no one seeming to notice the building in front of them. A holy place, dedicated to the lost and the fallen, and no one seemed to care. He saw a young human stare at it for a long time, a wide-eyed sense of wonder in his face, and then walk on. He saw a Narn girl humming to herself as she looked at it. He saw an elderly Narn soldier, walking with a heavy limp and missing an arm, stare at the memory of the building with misty eyes.

But the adults, those who held the power or supported those who held the power. The current generation of the Narn people. His generation, those who had survived the Occupation and the War and been able to realise the better world they had always told themselves was possible.

They saw nothing.

"So much is forgotten, so much is lost."

He was waiting for Lennier or Ta'Lon to get back to him. Both were investigating secret things, digging into buried mysteries. He was doing the same, but in his own way. Lennier and Ta'Lon were investigating conspiracies and secrets.

He was investigating the hearts and the souls of his people.

"Ha'Cormar'ah," said a voice quietly to him. He turned to see someone looking at him. He had made no attempt at disguise, but neither had he made any effort to draw attention to himself. No one had spared him a second glance. He was sure the agents and the eyes of the Kha'Ri would have noticed him, but to his people, he was no one.

"Yes?" he said.

The Narn nodded, and then seemed to shimmer.

G'Kar realised what it was almost instantly, memories left over from his sojourn in the Great Machine rising in his mind. But he was paralysed by a sheer lack of comprehension.

Not here! He had expected many things. Thenta Ma'Kur, alien mercenaries, common street thugs, but not this.

The thing that was not a Narn moved too quickly for him to react. One blow staggered him and the second felled him.

He stared up into the sun with unblinking eyes.

Not a Faceless. He had never expected a Shadowspawn here.

No one noticed as the body of Ha'Cormar'ah G'Kar was removed.

In less than a minute it was as if he had never been there at all.

John J. Sheridan. Saviour of the galaxy. Defender of the true and the virtuous.

You can hide no secrets from me, Sheridan.

All was dark, save for the light of the tiny candle at the foot of the mirror. The mirror was vast, towering up as far as the eye could see, but all he could see in it was himself, staring back at him, speaking with a voice not his own.

"Is this a dream?" he asked himself.

That depends. Are you a man dreaming you are a ghost, or a ghost dreaming you are a man? Is anything real? Is Delenn real, or is her touch only an illusion? Am I real?

"Who are you?"

Who are you?

We have been over this, Sheridan. You don't know who you are. Look, we have stripped everything away, you and I. All that remains is the darkness, a tiny light, the mirror, and yourself. Shorn of all encumbrances and burdens and duties. Here of all places you can surely know who you are.

"How can any of us answer that question?"

Very well, then. Another question. A different one. Who do you want to be?

"My father," he replied instantly. "I want to be my father."

The one who joined the Shadows, who allied with them, fought for them, sent countless millions to their deaths in their cause?

"No. That man was not my father. That man was someone who once had been my father. I want to be my father as he was when I was a child."

Both men are one and the same, surely. The man you remember became the man who served the Shadows. The man who served the Shadows still had some of the man who poured water on to your roof at night to help you sleep. Which man was real, and which the illusion?

"They were both real, and whatever he did, he was still my father. I forgave him, at the end."

After all he did, you still forgive him?

"Yes."

You believe in redemption, then? You believe that a man might be forgiven his sins, his errors, whether intentional or not — they can all be forgiven and atoned for? Any man can seek redemption?

Or any woman?

"I...."

Can you be forgiven, Sheridan? The things you did, is there absolution for them?

"I...."

You forgave your father. Why not yourself? What is it you have done that you cannot forgive, Sheridan? You killed Minbari, a great many of them, but that was war. You sent people to die in your war, but that was for a greater cause, was it not? You took up arms against your own people, but it was for their own good. You killed your wife on the deck of your own ship, but that was just a misunderstanding. Not your fault at all. You left Delenn and your unborn child on Z'ha'dum, but your instincts told you she was dead, and you did not know she was pregnant, so what blame there?

What can you not forgive, Sheridan?

No answer, not for me.... not for yourself. No answer....

"I.... I can't.... I can't forgive any of...." Sheridan looked up. The mirror was empty. He reached forward to touch it and it shattered at his touch. Behind it lay a small walking stick, topped with silver. He made to pick it up, but it was impossibly hot to his touch.

"Where are you?" he called. "Where are you?"

There was no answer.

Senna lay quietly on the bed, staring up at the grey ceiling. The pain in her back had lessened, but it had never really gone away. She doubted it ever would. Still, sometimes she was glad of it. The pain there was physical, easily attributable to something clear and obvious. The other types of pain she was feeling were not so easy to forget.

They were travelling through hyperspace now. The entire fleet. A group of monsters and traitors and cowards. They were going to attack Centauri Prime.

Her homeworld.

Her home.

And they were being led by the man who should have been defending her people against them.

Her cheek still stung, her lip was red and bleeding. The blow had taken her completely by surprise, and it had been a very long time before she had stopped shaking. She had not thought he would....

The sheer anger in his eyes blazed in her mind again and she closed her eyes tightly. If she could not see it, it was not there. That was what her nurse had told her.

She had lied.

They were all here now, in the dark. She could feel Rem Lanas' fingers sliding over her skin, hear his voice in his ear. She could feel again the impact of Marrago's fist on her jaw. She could see again those colossal monsters ripping apart her bodyguard with their bare hands and rending the carcass between their teeth. She could see again their master calmly watching, as though they were no more than animals squabbling over a meal.

And now all the monsters would be free to do it again. More people would be killed, more children left orphaned, more rapes, more torture, more death. More and more. It would never end.

She could still feel Rem Lanas' hands on her. She had never screamed for him, not once. She had wanted to. The pain in her throat from holding back had built and built until she felt as if she were inhaling fire with every breath.

She opened her eyes, realising that she was sobbing, her body shaking uncontrollably.

She rose from the bed and walked to the door, making to open it, but then jumped back as if the handle were red hot. He might be there. He had struck her once. She had thought he was a good man, but he was just like all the others.

A monster.

He was leading them to attack Centauri Prime.

Her homeworld.

Her home.

Still sobbing, she threw herself against the door and slid down to the floor. Something caught her eye on the floor and she picked it up slowly.

It was a knife.

She rested her head against the door, still sobbing, and placed the knife against the soft skin of her arm.

It did not hurt. None of the cuts did. Not even when all the blood began to flow from her shoulder, from her stomach, none of it hurt.

That was good. She had had enough pain in her life already.

It was possible that they all had some presentment of what was to come. Emperor Londo Mollari in his silent slumber. The Lady Consort Timov in her meditations and prayer for her husband's life. Mr. Morden in his quiet writing. The Inquisitors in their never-ending duties.

Susan Ivanova waiting and whistling on the pinnacle of Cathedral.

It began with the Tuchanq, armed with their stolen technology, fuelled by hatred directed at a blameless target. Already battered and torn and destroyed from wars without end, Centauri Prime would fall before their vengeance,

Ship after ship swarmed through jump gates into the space above the planet

The time for their vengeance had come. To most of them, insane and songless, it did not even matter on whom they wrought that vengeance. All that mattered was blood.

Oceans and oceans of it.

To the Brotherhood, all that mattered was plunder, and pain, and riches, and power, and revenge.

To the Centauri, all that mattered was survival. Again.

Marrago knew how the plan was supposed to go. After all, he had been responsible for devising it. The scouts' reports from Centauri airspace indicated that everything should go even more easily than he had dreamed. The defence grid was barely operational and the ships to defend his homeworld pitifully inadequate.

He had waited as long as he dared, hoping beyond hope for some communication from Sinoval. He had a plan. It was a good plan. It might work.

But Marrago needed to be sure everything was ready. There could be no room for any error, not in this.

He had not heard a thing. The Tuchanq had already begun their attack, heedless of any strategy, careless of any losses. He had seen it in noMir Ru's eyes. A madness that feared nothing, not even death.

Especially not death.

"Where are you, Sinoval?" he asked.

There was no reply.

Dasouri was trying to contact him. He knew that. They had to leave hyperspace and join the attack.

"Where are you, Sinoval?!"

Still no reply.

Marrago sighed and rose. He would have to go through with it and trust to his friend. Sinoval had created this plan. He would not abandon them.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a bloodstain on the floor, near the door to Senna's room. That was where he had hit her. The memory still shamed him. He could still feel the impact on his fist and he burned with the memory.

Had he drawn blood with the blow? He did not remember, but he did not think so. Maybe he had.

But blood that fresh?

His hearts beating so fast he could scarcely breathe, Marrago opened the door.

Senna's body fell out, a bloodstained knife hanging loosely in her fingers. Her eyes were open, but there was no sight there. Blood was everywhere, on her hands, her dress, her face, her hair, her mouth.

So much blood.

Almost an ocean of it.

Marrago stared in mute horror, unable to form even a conscious thought.

"Where are you, Sinoval?" he cried again after a long while. Tears were welling in his eyes.

Behind him, the Shadow Warrior waited.

Kulomani was half-expecting the message he received, but that did not make it any less disturbing. He had been expecting it ever since the Day of the Dead, ever since his conversation with the former Lord-General Jorah Marrago.

Kulomani was not stupid. He knew in whose service he had been recruited and he accepted that, knowing the stakes he fought for. To his mind there had been something wrong throughout the war with the Shadows, something he had only been able to conceptualise during the final battle at Z'ha'dum itself. There had been something wrong and now he had the feeling that he was on the side of right again.

He sat at his command post on the bridge of Babylon 5. What did the humans call it? C and C? At his fingertips rested the entire power of the whole station, and by extension all of the Alliance. Power was a truly terrifying thing sometimes.

He tried again to contact General Sheridan. Again there was no reply. The General was here, in his quarters. He had taken some time off to rest, claiming he had not been sleeping well. Kulomani did not really grasp the problem there, but he supposed none of his people could. Still, he could not deny that the General had not been looking well. There were dark smudges under his eyes and he spent a lot of time rubbing at his face and drinking that strange black drink he called coffee.

Still no reply. He ordered a Security squad to General Sheridan's quarters. It could be nothing, but he had a feeling there was something happening. The Alliance fleet at Frallus 12 was mobilising, as was the Dark Star Squadron 17, patrolling the outskirts of Centauri space. With one word from Kulomani they would rush to Centauri Prime and fire the first shots in a new and terrifying war.

Not Alliance against Shadows. Alliance torn apart against itself. The raiders were a symptom, the first bubble of poison rising from the bottom of the swamp. There would be more. But the war would begin there, on Centauri Prime.

The Security team reported back.

Kulomani breathed out and gave instructions for the Alliance fleets to move to Centauri Prime, top priority, and for a medical team to go to General Sheridan's quarters.

He gave them in that order.

"Sinoval! Where are you?"

Susan Ivanova called until her throat was hoarse. She ran through the neverending, always-winding pathways of Cathedral until her feet ached and her legs burned with pain.

It was happening. The Brotherhood had launched their attack. The Centauri ships were being outmatched and overcome. Brotherhood shuttles were already heading for the planet's surface. Centauri Prime was teetering on the brink of one disaster too many.

And where the hell was Sinoval?

"Damn you, Sinoval!" Ivanova called out to the empty darkness. She could not even see any of the Soul Hunters, not even the Praetors Tutelary who were always near Sinoval. It was as if Cathedral had died in a split second and she just had not been told yet.

"Sinoval, if you make me do this by myself, I swear by almighty God I'll...."

She ran into the training ground without even realising it. He was there, sitting cross-legged as if in meditation, Stormbringer on the floor in front of him. He was staring into nothingness.

"Damn you!" she cried out. "Didn't you hear me? It's starting!"

There was no reply.

She ran up to him and shook him roughly. He did not move. "Sinoval, don't you...." She shook him again. His skin was cold, unbelievably cold. "Sinoval!" She pushed him.

He fell backwards. His eyes continued to stare up into the darkness.

Chapter 4

There are no secrets under the sun.

There are no hiding places for the shadows.

There is no time for one last request.

Those who would betray the light will fall and die, destroyed by their own darkness. Shadows flee when even a single ray of light is cast upon them. One glimpse of the sun and they are gone.

Turned to dust.

And soon there is no memory that they ever existed.

Let those who oppose the light know this: by opposing us, you align yourselves with the shadow.

Let those who align themselves with the shadow know this:

There are no secrets under the sun.

We will find you.

In a hall of endless mirrors, a place of shadows and light, one voice ringing out from all corners, John Sheridan moved, searching eternally for a way out.

Blood and darkness and wine.

The feast was continuing in the shadow of his mind. Never-ending joy and merriment and wine and women and, yes, even song.

No pain. No grief. No loss.

But as he drank it, he saw for the first time that the wine was not wine, but blood, and the food was not the flesh of animals, but the flesh of his people, and the song was not of rapturous celebration but a dirge for the dead and the dying.

Go back, the voices said.

Go back, the song said.

Go back, the singers said.

"No," replied Emperor Londo Mollari II. "I am happy here."

If only his people were so happy....

The Tuchanq attacked with a savage, careless, heedless frenzy. They suicide-rammed the few defence grid satellites still working. They hurled their ships into buildings and lakes. The earth rose and fell.

They brought their song to the land.

They sang as they died.

And where were the others? Where were the defenders of Centauri Prime?

Morden closed his eyes in a gesture that might have been prayer or might simply have been a refusal to accept what was happening. There was no fear. Why would he be afraid?

He was safe in a fortified bunker half a mile under the ground.

He had been woken up in the middle of the night by an Inquisitor at his bedside. He had been afraid then, for a single moment. The Drazi Inquisitor's ice-cold eyes stared at him, as if looking directly into his soul. Morden knew he had done nothing for which he should be afraid, but the fear was there regardless. He said nothing.

The Drazi nodded. "Come."

They had taken him to this place, a secret place they had constructed in quiet, in silence. It was a place of torture, of screams, of agonies born in nightmares. It was also, for now, a place of sanctuary.

Morden wanted to do something, anything. The Inquisitors had their ships. Surely they were more than a match for any bandit raiders? A message had been sent to the Alliance, but surely there was something to do now?

"No," the Inquisitor had said, when he had dared broach the subject. "He is here. We must draw him out into the light."

"He?" Morden had a sickening feeling he knew who. Only one person could inspire that much hatred in an Inquisitor.

"The Accursed."

"Sinoval?"

The Inquisitor's hand had suddenly been at his throat, squeezing tightly. Morden felt all the breath leave his body a second after all the warmth left his soul.

The Drazi spoke slowly, flawlessly, dwelling on every syllable.

"You will never speak that name again."

He had not.

And so all he had to do was wait.

Durla at her side, Timov looked at the cold, uncomfortable chair in front of her. Durla had been assigned to watch her, although many people might have wondered whether it was for her safety or their own. Few of them, few of the players in the Great Game, would imagine she was equally capable of watching him back.

Besides, for now, they had.... an understanding of sorts.

Londo's bedchamber was well guarded, as many guards as they could spare, but Timov herself had to be here. This was no time to hide. Power had to be wielded and be seen to be wielded, and she could do more here. The Ministers and lords and nobility had fled, some to hide or defend their estates, others to take the fight to the enemy. Timov was alone.

"They will make for the palace, lady," Durla said. She looked at him. "If they plan to invade and occupy they will need to secure the palace. If they merely desire plunder they will get more of that here than anywhere else. If they desire destruction, what better place to destroy?"

"I know," Timov said.

"And you are still here because...?"

"Someone has to be."

She looked around. The guards were here. Her men, and Durla's. Anyone Durla had chosen to be here now was obviously very deep in their respective conspiracy. Either that or very skilled.

"Do you want to be ready for them when they arrive?" she asked, indicating the throne.

"No, lady," he replied. "Your husband still lives and has not yet abdicated. I am not yet Emperor."

"It must gall you, Durla. You seek more than anything else to restore us to an era of glory, and merely a handful of days after we set each other on that path, we are attacked and threatened."

It was one of the very rare occasions she had ever seen true emotion in Durla's face. His eyes sparkled. "My lady," he said simply. "The lower we are, the greater the journey to the top. The greater the challenge, the greater the victory."

Timov nodded, a chill passing through her. This was a man with no understanding of Centauri life, no knowledge of or care for those who would fall.

A problem for another day.

"Well, then," she said primly. "It falls to me."

She ascended the steps and took the throne. All either of them had to do now was wait.

Moreil spread his arms wide, basking in the joy of righteous chaos.

"Masters, be pleased!" he cried.

"He is a threat," said the ever-present Narn voice at his side. "By G'Quan, listen to me, Moreil!"

He turned from the sight of the battle to look at Mi'Ra. For a moment he was mildly irritated, but then he quashed the emotion. Nothing could destroy this feeling of rapture. The spreading of chaos, the winnowing of the weak. This was what he lived for.

"He knows who I am. He must know of our.... understanding. Moreil! Listen to me, damn you! The Wykhheran fear him!"

"The Wykhheran know no fear in battle, but battle is all they understand. It is all they were created for." Moreil's eyes closed in near ecstasy. "The glories of battle."

"Listen, I don't care how good he is. The danger is in what he knows. Send a Faceless after him and it will be over in seconds. No one can withstand a Faceless."

Moreil smiled. "You may be proved wrong, but no. The Faceless were created to destroy the cowards, those who wield the reins of power in secret, behind the masks of illusion. Marrago is not one of those. He is a warrior. He will be dealt with as a warrior."

"You're being too complacent. Where's his ship? Why haven't they joined us yet?"

"Perhaps he is dead."

"If this fails, Moreil...."

"Then it will fail because we were too weak, and the failure will make us stronger. What else is this about, if not the strengthening and the purifying of the weak?"

"Vengeance," she hissed. "It is about vengeance, and if all you care about is battle, why aren't you down there taking part in it, instead of just watching up here?"

"Ah." Moreil smiled again. "I am Z'shailyl, and mine is the power to read the ebb and flow of war. I can sense great warriors and great deeds. Somewhere hidden from mortal eyes, hidden even from the eyes of the Faceless, but not from the eyes of the Z'shailyl....

"Hidden somewhere is...."

His eyes gleamed.

"Death."

He could hear the screams and smell the smoke in the air. Around him hundreds of his people huddled close together, united by fear. Above them, Centauri ships were tearing the city apart. Na'Killamars had been suspected — albeit justly — of harbouring a resistance cell, and the Centauri had tired of fighting the resistance on their own terms.

Da'Kal held herself close to him, and he could smell her fear. He knew as well as she did that this bunker would not hold forever. Once the softening-up of the surface was complete, the Centauri would send in their ground troops and they would find this place. Once they did....

Da'Kal kissed him, powerfully and forcefully. "Never leave me," she whispered with a fierce passion. "We will always be together."

G'Kar kissed her back. "Always," he replied, his eyes blazing. The Centauri would come, and he would be ready for them. He would fight them. No longer would he be their slave.

And nor would Da'Kal.

The bombing stopped, and a heavy, thick silence fell over the dark room. Then a Narn coughed and the silence was broken, but for that one moment it had seemed infinitely oppressive and commanding.

The Centauri had stopped. Had they given up and gone home?

Another blast ripped through the air and the wall of the bunker shuddered.

Or had they found what they were looking for?

G'Kar rose to his feet as the wall was forced inwards. Chinks of sunlight appeared. Silhouetted there was a tall figure, holding a plasma weapon in his hands.

A tall figure.... but she was not holding anything. And the light was a door opening, not the bunker wall being ripped apart.

And he was alone.

And he was older.

And he did not have a sword.

G'Kar blinked against the tide of memory and shielded his face from the light. The present returned to bury the past, but he had a feeling it was still the past, merely made-over and redecorated in new colours.

"G'Kar," said a voice, filled with passion and pathos and sorrow. "G'Kar."

"Da'Kal," he sighed. "Oh, Da'Kal, what have you done?"

Sinoval knew the histories, of course. The Well had made sure of that. The old secrets, the ancient memories. The ancient war. The evil the Vorlons had unleashed upon the galaxy in their moment of hubris. The evil that destroyed the Enaid Accord, that shattered Golgotha, that engulfed the galaxy in war.

The voices in the shadow of hyperspace.

The voices from another universe.

He stood in the gateway, staring at the flickering light that was a million stars slowly being devoured, one at a time, by an evil that had destroyed an entire universe.

Beneath him the city throbbed with dark life, a city and a tower coated in blood.

Sheridan was nowhere to be found. The mirror was shattered, the orb that Sinoval had used to steal the mirror of Sheridan's soul was gone. Without it he had no way to control this soulscape. Somehow he had lost control of the world he had created to purge the Vorlon influence from Sheridan's mind.

The evil was moving in the city below him. The evil seeking always for more worlds to destroy, for more stars to devour.

The ancient evil the Well of Souls was charged with defeating.

"You have done this," he said.

Beside him there came the soft, gentle tapping of metal hitting stone. "We had to match the power of the Well of Souls one way or another," said a clipped, precise, meticulously pronounced voice. "The collective consciousness of a million dead races would take more to defeat than we can spare at present."

Sinoval looked at him. The human, dressed in an ancient style, dead in his eyes, dead in his soul. A cold, harsh, calculating man, renowned for murder. Not the murder of millions or thousands or even hundreds. Before he had been made an Inquisitor he had killed five people, and only five. A small number even by the standards of human murderers — but he was special.

He had stared into infinity, into the centre of the universe. Somehow, during that last taking of life, he had seen something that had changed him forever.

He had seen into a new universe.

"Sebastian," he said. "Your name is Sebastian."

The human nodded, touching the brim of his hat. "We have not yet met in the flesh, and we are not doing so now, so you will have to forgo the formality of an introduction. When you are brought to our worlds to face judgment, then there will be time for politeness."

"You have a bizarre understanding of etiquette."

The man nodded. "I do what is required of me. Look upon this place, Sinoval. Look, and wonder how it is you will escape, for that will never happen. This is what awaits you."

Sinoval looked at him. "You are playing a game you do not understand."

"On the contrary, sir, we understand it very well. Good day, Primarch."

With that, the Inquisitor was gone.

Leaving Sinoval alone.

Susan stood before the massive doors, the single jewel shining down upon her. Its light was dull and faint. She had explored large areas of Cathedral during her time with Sinoval and she had found a great deal to surprise her, but she had not returned here since her arrival.

That did not mean she had been scared to.

The door was clearly meant to inspire awe and terror. Susan was neither awed nor terrified. She was mildly impressed, and in a very bad mood.

"We haven't got time for ritual," she snapped. "Open up now or I'll kick the door in."

The door opened, and she stepped inside.

In another situation she would have been astounded by the size and majesty of the room that greeted her. She might have asked how such a room, whose borders seemed to stretch into infinity, could fit inside a place even as massive as Cathedral. She might have wondered at the millions of twinkling stars that lined the walls.

She did not.

She stormed up to the altar, sparing only a passing glance for the flower that still rested there, looking as perfect and alive as the day it had been plucked.

"You know who I am," she snapped. "Talk to me, dammit!"

We know you, Emissary, came the voice. It was strange. She had expected something.... bigger. The voice sounded almost ill. But the Well could not be ill, surely. This was the Well of Souls. This was where Lorien had sent her. Lorien had told her all about the Well, all about Sinoval and his mission and what she had to do to help him.

"What the hell is going on? And answers today, please!"

Weak.... Our voice is.... trapped.... Imprisoned in a place we dare not.... go.

"Sinoval? Where is he?"

His.... soul.... taken elsewhere. The Vorlons have.... linked with him.... weakening us.... weakening him. Allied with.... others.

"Who? What others?"

Evil.

"The Vorlons are evil."

The Vorlons are.... ambition.... pride.... arrogance. They are wrong, but they are not evil. This evil.... has consumed stars.... fed upon the life.... the souls.... of a universe.... Everywhere they walked.... begat a charnel house.... They worshipped death.... they fed off death.... they became death. The soul.... the cycle.... rebirth.... nothing to them.... Evil.

Susan shivered. "Boy, you guys don't go in for small enemies. How do we get Sinoval back?"

He must.... return.... himself.... We cannot go there.... Enaid.... Golgotha.... old wounds.... old memories.... Our voice must.... speak once more.... be free.... himself.

"Your timing sucks. We've got a full scale war going on outside and Sinoval's grand plan is falling down around our ears, or whatever you have instead of ears. We need to get Cathedral out there and doing something."

Our voice.... trapped.... weak.

"Fine, if you need a job doing, do it yourself. Have we got any power here?"

A little.... Go to.... the pinnacle.... We will give what we have.... Emissary.

"Yeah, whatever." Susan left, running. She had a feeling even flying might not be fast enough.

There were no words, no whispers, no sound. There was the still, hollow silence of regret and sorrow and terror.

Marrago was motionless, paralysed, a sick feeling at the base of his stomach. He had not felt this since his banishment from the only home he had ever known, since he had learned his daughter was dead.

He looked at Senna's prone body, and he could not move.

"Captain," came Dasouri's voice across the comm channel. "Captain, we are ready to go." He ignored it.

"Captain." The voice came again, with greater urgency than before.

Marrago finally found the energy to move. He took a slow step forward and bent down over Senna's body. His throat dry, his hearts pounding, he reached out to touch her, remembering all the while the impact of his fist on her jaw.

He touched her arm, where blood pooled, sticky and warm.

Warm.

He touched her mouth and felt the slow, faltering gasp of breath.

Still alive.

Still alive.

"You're not dead," he whispered. "Lyndisty, you're not dead."

His thoughts began to race. He was a soldier. He knew all about injuries sustained on the battlefield. He had been trained in bandaging wounds, preventing blood loss. It was not too late. He had been too late before. She had been dead then, but she was alive now. There was a chance to save her.

He began ripping away the edges of her dress. The cloth would be capable of staunching the blood loss. She would need air blown into her lungs, and her hearts would need to be massaged. Old lessons more than four decades gone returned to him and his body began to move with the smooth motions of an automaton. He had been too late before, too slow and too old and too weak, but now he would be in time.

Old soldier's instincts kicked in. He heard the noise of the creature behind him swinging into the attack. He smelled its odour of death and hatred. His legs threw him out of the way. His arms reached for his kutari and his hands held the hilt tightly.

The Wykhheran appeared before him.

Lyndisty's blood continued to pool on to the floor.

Dasouri's voice continued to call for him over the comm channel.

Marrago felt twenty years younger. Thirty even.

"She will not die," he told the creature. "I will not let her die. Not again!"

The creature moved to attack.

"I have been thinking," he said softly, hoarsely, the remembered dust and smoke of twenty years ago clogging his lungs. "Thinking of the past."

"Really?" Da'Kal remarked, as she stepped inside and closed the door of the cell behind her. For a moment there was darkness, and then the light globe in her hand burst into life and the shadows flickered on the wall. In the half-light she looked ghostly, almost spiritual. He was not entirely sure she was even real. She had lived in his memories and dreams for so long, and yet he had never dared talk of her, talk to her, acknowledge her reality. She belonged to the old days.

"All I think of is the future."

G'Kar looked at her, feeling his mouth twist into a semblance of a smile. "You could never lie to me," he whispered.

"I am not. I think of the future all the time. But the future is shaped by the past. You told me that once, me and a thousand others."

"G'Khorazhar."

"I was just one of many. A pilgrim, a traveller, come to hear the words of the prophet, the preacher of the future of our people." She shook her head. "I suppose that even after all that had passed between us, I wanted to be near to you."

"You always were," he said, although the words were so soft he could not be sure he had actually spoken them aloud.

She carried on without reacting, as if they had been nothing more than thoughts. "Your words touched me. It was as if you were speaking only to me. I remembered our long conversations at night, beneath the stars, and the voice was the same as the one I knew.

"I later found out that every other person there felt the same way.

"You have a remarkable gift, G'Kar. You always did. I went away and I thought about your words. I thought about what you had said, looking for something there, for some wisdom and insight."

She paused, shaking. When she looked up again, her eyes were filled with anger. They looked demonic by the light of the globe. "I found it. I saw your words of forgiveness and unity and understanding and I shook with rage. I had hoped before that your message was misrepresented, or that it was an imposter pretending to be you, or that the Centauri had brainwashed you, or any one of a number of things.

"I had never wanted to think that you were actually advocating an alliance with the Centauri."

"I told you of my feelings when we parted," he whispered. "When I returned your armlet."

"I remember. I had hoped they were.... fleeting. You were a warrior, G'Kar! A leader. You could be leading the Kha'Ri by now! You could be ruling half the galaxy! Our people would follow you into fire and darkness without a second thought. With just a few words you managed to derail the entire course of the war with the Centauri. Think about what you could have done.

"And you spend all that power on peace.

"Have you forgotten what they did to me? Have you forgotten what they did to your father, to my sister, to G'Quan knows how many friends and allies?"

"No," he whispered.

"Have you forgotten what they did to my father? Do you remember what was left of Ha'Fili when we found him? I swear I will never forget that.... mass of flesh, sightless and limbless, screaming over and over again for mercy. Do you remember?"

"I remember," G'Kar whispered, seeing again the knife in his hand that had plunged into Ha'Fili's heart.

"Do you remember your uncle, carrying back his only daughter's body?"

"I remember."

"Do you remember...?

"Do you remember...?

"Do you remember...?

"Have you forgotten...?

"Have you forgotten...?

"Do you remember...?"

It continued, an endless litany of friends dead and mutilated, of family tortured and butchered, of villages destroyed and burned, of memories lost and eradicated. His reply to each was the same.

"I remember."

"I remember."

"I remember."

"You hated them once. I remember that hatred. Do you remember what you told me the night we buried my sister? You said that you wished you could kill every one of them, and then bring them back to life so you could kill them again."

"I remember."

Gently she unhooked the top of her tunic, pulling it open. G'Kar could not look away from the sight of the deep scar running from her neck almost to her waist. A Centauri torturer had done that with a garden fork, forcing him to watch.

"I remember."

"Do you still hate them?" she asked. "The people who did this to me, who did all those things to you?"

"No," he replied. "I pity them."

She looked at him. "I never stopped hating them. I pity them as well, but I still hate them.

"Now I hate you, too. But I pity you as well.

"What do you say to that?"

"I pity you, Da'Kal.

"And I am sorry."

Sinoval looked out across the dying city, his eyes dark and angry. Elsewhere he knew that a battle was beginning, just one move in a long strategy, just one tactic towards an ultimate goal.

And he was here.

Not trapped, not now that he had time to think and reason. He could see the avenues and warrens of hyperspace opening up around him. He could find a way back. This exercise was not aimed at trapping him forever. It was a warning.

A warning of what the Vorlons would do to the galaxy if he did not surrender to them.

And somewhere down there was Sheridan, as lost and trapped in this soulscape as he was. His body still lay asleep on Babylon 5, vulnerable to whatever the Vorlons wanted to do to him. If his soul was to be saved, it would have to be now, before anything more could be done to his body.

He sighed. The greatest battle plan in history did not survive first contact with the enemy.

There. A spark of life running through a labyrinth of mirrors. The creatures of this place loved mirrors, knowing the portals that could be crafted through them.

Sinoval stepped forward and floated down into the city. He had to be quick. There was very little time to waste.

"My congratulations on your composure, my lady. You are remarkably brave."

Timov shifted slightly in her seat. This throne was incredibly uncomfortable. How exactly had Londo managed it for so long? "Once you have survived a lifetime with Londo," she told Durla, "you will find little to unnerve you. Certainly not an alien invasion."

"Regardless, I have seen trained soldiers less brave, my lady."

"And do you assume that it is only men who are capable of being brave, Durla?"

"Not any more."

Reports were sketchy, but what little they had been able to discover had not been welcome. The defence grid was down, the raiders inside the atmosphere. Soldiers had landed on the outskirts of the city. There was no Alliance help anywhere, and Mr. Morden and his Inquisitors had vanished completely. The Palace Guard was dangerously overstretched, and Timov had only Durla to protect her.

There was little to do but wait, little to hope for but a miracle.

Still, Timov kept her dignity. She always had throughout her long years married to Londo. She had promised him a hundred times that she would deliver his Republic to him safe and secure, and she would not let him wake up to find she had not kept her promise.

The door opened with a burst of force and energy, to admit a tall, naked alien with what looked to Timov like far too many joints. Two more followed her.

"Greetings," Timov said. The aliens walked like rulers. They were clearly arrogant and convinced of their own power, but madness gleamed in their eyes. "I am Timov, Lady Consort of Emperor Londo Mollari II. I take it you have come here to surrender?"

The alien inclined her head slightly. "This one is noMir Ru, Songless One. We have come here in revenge for wrongs committed and songs taken. We have come to destroy, not to surrender."

"Yes, yes. Most.... impressive," Timov said. "Tuchanq, yes. I recognise you now. Although what grudge you have against us, I do not know, but then.... I do not truly believe that matters, does it?"

"Songs taken from us, the Land raped and burned and rendered dead. The air turned to smog and dust. No songs sung, no melodies crafted."

"Ah," she said. "And this will undo all that?"

"This will bring revenge and pain to those who hurt us."

"We never hurt you, but that hardly matters to you, I suppose. And if you wanted to do to us whatever someone else did to you, you should have come here several years ago. Fire and shadow over Centauri Prime has become a bit pass?, I'm afraid. Still," she rose to her feet, sparing not a glance for Durla. "If you wish to accept my official surrender, feel free. Come this way."

noMir Ru stepped forward imperiously, walking towards the throne. Her two assistants followed.

As soon as she set foot on one particular flagstone the floor disappeared beneath her. Durla fired instantly from the concealed gun in his bracelet and shot down one of the accompanying Tuchanq. The other raised her long energy weapon, only for the hidden Guardsman to shoot her down from behind the wall.

Timov walked forward to the pit where noMir Ru's body now lay, pierced and impaled by numerous spikes. An old legacy from the reigns of less stable Emperors, the pit trap had been blocked up many years ago. Timov had had it unblocked.

noMir Ru was crying piteously, trying to sing. Her voice was cracked and soft, barely audible. Her blood was thick and there was a great deal of it in the pit.

"How sad," Timov said, returning to the throne. "Still, as my father used to say, 'if you cannot play the Game properly, you should not play it at all.'"

Moreil was still and motionless. Something in his passion seemed to have subsided, to Mi'Ra's mind. The battle was almost won. The defence grid had been destroyed, the Centauri defenders driven back. The cities were being attacked. The Tuchanq had even landed in the capital.

Yet given his elation of earlier, now he seemed almost.... depressed.

"Where are you?" he asked. "Where are you, Death?"

"Maybe you are wrong," Mi'Ra suggested.

"I can feel his presence. The Masters touched him, blessed him, named him their voice and their spirit in this galaxy once they were gone. All of us knew this. He fought against us once, but now he is our hope, and he is here.

"I know it!"

Mi'Ra took a slow step back. "If Sino.... if he is here, then I for one am glad he has not yet appeared."

"No, there is.... something. He is here. Where?"

Moreil noticed it first. Jump points opening, many of them. Initially Mi'Ra could only stare in mute horror, expecting the nightmare sight of Cathedral itself appearing, but her fears were assuaged, slightly, by the image of Alliance ships.

"No," Moreil said. "That is not Death."

"I have to go," Mi'Ra said. "We have to call our forces up from the surface. I have to warn G'Lorn. There are too many of them."

"You will remain. Death is still here."

"I have to contact...."

"Those of your people you expected to aid you. I see none of yours here. That was not what was expected, no? Plot and plan all you wish, but I serve only the Dark Masters and the Blessed Chaos. You will remain, and watch, and wait for Death."

"You are insane."

"I serve the Dark Masters."

"Something's gone wrong." The Alliance ships were opening fire on the Brotherhood. "This isn't what we planned."

"This one shared no part in your plans. We will watch."

"Moreil, damn you!" She turned to leave, but the Wykhheran shimmered into view in front of her.

"You will remain."

Faceless, kill them.

There was no reply.

Faceless!

We can raise no arms against our own, the alien voice hissed in her mind. Not the creations of Thrakandar and not the Z'shailyl.

Trapped, Mi'Ra tuned back to Moreil. "Please!" she cried. "It's going wrong."

Moreil did not seem to hear her. He was still looking, searching for what he alone could see.

"They took a great deal from us."

Da'Kal looked at him. She had not said anything for a long time, looking at him with a pitying, haunting gaze. G'Kar could not permit himself to look at her, but he had to. The dim light accentuated the fire in her eyes. Her shadow seemed to be almost a thing of its own.

"Of course they did," she replied.

"They gave us a great deal as well."

She looked confused, and then she nodded. "Yes," she said simply. "They gave us pain and suffering and mourning."

"They gave us strength," he corrected her. "They showed us horror and pain, and they took away our weaknesses. We became stronger as a result. We were willing to give everything we had to destroy them. We lived for years in fear and it never broke us.

"They gave us strength."

"Yes," she nodded. "They did. And we will use it against them."

"They gave us their Game. Intrigue, subtlety, assassination. They gave us the Thenta Ma'Kur, the Kha'Ri, the politics. They gave us all that."

"I know that tone of voice," she drawled. "You are reaching a point somewhere, G'Kar. I am listening."

"You are going to destroy them using their own methods. You are using lies and deception and trickery. Do you think I am blind, Da'Kal?"

"For someone so perceptive, you might as well be blind in one eye sometimes. You see, but you do not see."

"You have encouraged the raiders to assault Centauri worlds. You have deepened their involvement with the Shadows. You have sent in 'peacekeeping' Alliance forces. The Centauri have lost their freedom, and not a single Narn has died in the process. Within a handful of years every Centauri planet will be commanded by a Narn 'peacekeeper', yes?"

She nodded. "It was you who convinced me of that plan. I heard your words to the Kha'Ri the last time you were here. Military power alone will not do it. Your words have reached too many people. Too many believe you. They accept peace and unity and togetherness.

"So how better than to use peace and togetherness to achieve our ultimate goals? Yes, we have an agent among those raiders, and yes, we have encouraged them to attack Centauri worlds. We have sent agents into Tuchanq space, to stir up feelings against the Centauri. They are a remarkably gullible people. You would be proud of us, G'Kar. There was a civil war going on. A rebel called noMir Ru was at war with the Government. We stepped in and brought things to a peaceful conclusion. All it took was a finger pointed at the Centauri."

G'Kar bowed his head, remembering a mission he had sent to the Tuchanq. noMir Ru had been one of the delegates his emissaries had met. There had been an incident and she had been knocked unconscious, driven mad by the breaking of her link with the Song. The Tuchanq Government had told him they had the situation under control. There had been a million other things to do, and he had forgotten about them.

"Also in the spirit of togetherness, we reached out to a few other alien races, ones lost and homeless. We offered them a purpose."

Something flickered behind Da'Kal, something in her shadow. G'Kar had earlier thought it had been moving of its own will and volition, but now.... there was something there, something humanoid, but ghostly, something formless and....

.... faceless.

Understanding came in an instant. The force that had stunned him at the memorial. Rumours of Shadow monstrosities fighting with the Raiders. The mysterious deaths of those who had opposed Da'Kal's plans.

"Shadowspawn," he whispered.

"A Faceless," Da'Kal corrected him. "Their Masters are gone now. They are no threat to anyone. Not the Faceless or the Wykhheran or the Z'shailyl or any of them. All they need is a home and someone to protect them. We were happy to oblige. See, G'Kar, we have followed your lessons. Help the weak.

"They are no danger to us."

G'Kar's eyes were wide and horrified. "No! Oh, Da'Kal, what have you done?"

"What do you mean?"

"I thought.... hatred and fear, yes. A lack of forgiveness, a lust for revenge, but not this!

"Not the Shadowspawn."

"What is it, G'Kar? How dare you criticise the way I have...?"

"You don't understand. Oh, Da'Kal.... you have killed us all. Every last one of us.

"Both of us have."

It appeared, a still, black monument to ancient power and terror. Motionless against the night, it remained, casting a long black shadow across the battle.

Both sides pulled back, hesitant to cross the line that shadow created.

A voice began to speak, a voice heard in all languages, on all ships.

"This ends now."

Moreil looked at Cathedral with a mixture of longing and terror.

"Death," he whispered as he heard the voice. "You see," he said, to the trapped Mi'Ra. "It is Death come at last."

She looked at him. "You are mad," she said simply, and turned to flee.

The Wykhheran tore her apart with one blow.

"Death," Moreil said again, with more than a hint of satisfaction.

Everywhere he went, everywhere he ran, there were mirrors. Endless people running alongside him, away from him, towards him. All the same person, and yet a little different.

John Sheridan stopped and saw someone staring back at him, a man he did not know. A man who had been able to save his daughter from Orion, to see her grow up. A man who still loved Anna, who had never captured Delenn.

He turned, reeling, and stumbled into another man. A man who had never become a soldier, but a farmer. He had looked up one night to see the sky raining fire.

Staggering, he saw countless images of himself — in a white robe, an Earthforce uniform different from any he knew, a Minbari warrior's outfit, a uniform that seemed part-Earthforce part-Minbari with a strange badge on the shoulder. He saw himself sorrowful, hateful, a murderer, a peacemaker, a leader, a servant, a killer.

Finally he stumbled to a halt, collapsing to his knees. Above him the sky beat like a black heart and clouds of lightning split the darkness. There was a smell he had never noticed before — the smell of an abattoir.

A figure approached him and he looked up, half-afraid of what permutation of his life he would see now.

The mirrors shattered and a familiar figure stood in front of him.

"We do not have time for mirrors any longer," Sinoval said.

"You," Sheridan whispered, understanding dawning at last. "What is this? Some sort of trap. You.... oh, God. You did something to me on that space station. You.... took something, or gave me something. All those dreams.... those mirrors, the voice, the questions....

"All of that was you."

Sinoval nodded.

"So what is it then? Are you trying to drive me mad? Am I a drooling wreck wherever my body is now, staring at bright lights and pretty colours? Is this all just a plan for revenge?"

"Do you truly think so little of me, Sheridan? Do you truly think I would be that petty?"

Sheridan paused, and bowed his head. "No, I don't." He looked up. "But if it served your goals, you would drive me insane in a second, wouldn't you?"

Sinoval seemed to consider that. "It would take longer than a second, but yes, I would. Fortunately for you, that was not my goal. We do not have a great deal of time, Sheridan. I have had to advance things a lot more quickly than I would have liked, but such is war, hmm?

"Every question I asked you. You could not answer a single one of them, could you?"

"What do you...? I don't have to answer any questions, least of all from you!"

"Damn it, Sheridan! Listen to me! I cannot do this alone. I inspire fear, perhaps awe. You inspire respect. They will follow me out of fear, but they will follow you out of love, and which do you think is stronger? But they will only follow you if your mind is clear.

"Yes, I took something from you. A tiny part of your soul. No more than droplets of water from the surface of a lake, but enough to give me a link. Into your dreams, into your fantasies, into your mind. I created a soulscape to force you to confront what you have become. There were.... other plans, but they failed, and I was forced to rely on what I had. Unfortunately they have found this out, and set a trap.

"To be honest, I think this was just a warning, a hint to me of what they are capable of. They actually fear me, do you realise that? They must, to threaten.... this.

"But that is my problem. I can free us, Sheridan, take you back to your body, but there will not be another chance. I will not be able to do this again. They know what I am doing, and I cannot do this alone.

"Sheridan. Who are you?"

"I don't have to answer your...!"

"Sheridan! Look at yourself in the mirror! Look at Delenn. Think about what you have become. Where are your friends, Sheridan? Where are those you love? Your precious Alliance, what has it become? Are you really who you want to be?

"Are you who Delenn wants you to be?"

"I...." Sheridan bowed his head, shaking. "What.... what did they do to me?"

"Nothing you were not willing to do to yourself. That is the tragedy of it. They healed you, yes, body and soul, but they did it by breaking you and putting the pieces back together. Some.... pieces just became set too far back. Occasionally they would reach out and intervene directly, but for the most part that was not necessary. They made you susceptible to their plans, to their desires, but the truth is, they did not have to do very much, did they? You have always been a creature of order, Sheridan."

"What of it? Is that such a bad thing?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. My inclinations have always been towards chaos. A raised blade, a battlefield, the carrion scavengers circling in the sky. That is my world, but I will not force it upon others who do not accept it. The life I live is my choice, no one else's. Look at your life, Sheridan. Look at what you have become."

"The.... the things they did to me. Can you undo them?"

"No. Another could have, perhaps, but she is lost to me. You can undo it yourself. Just think about who you are and who you want to be. That is all. It is not about me. It is about you."

"I can do this all myself?"

"If you want to enough. If you think the road you are about to walk down is not the path you desire. Delenn made her choice once. I made mine. This is yours. You have made mistakes in the past, but now is your chance to undo them.

"Sheridan, who are you?"

He stood up. "Not who I want to be. Take me back."

"We will not meet again," Sinoval said, holding up his hand and tracing patterns in the air.

Sheridan looked at him, and in the split second before they both disappeared, he said one word.

"Good."

"You will not die!" Marrago screamed into the uncaring air.

Beneath his feet he could feel the ship leaving hyperspace. Dasouri had taken them into the battle at last, not caring to wait any longer for orders.

"You will not die!"

The Shadow creature raged at him, striking and lashing out. One claw carved a blood-red line across his arm, but he hardly noticed. All was blood, one drop onto another. His blood, her blood, all was one.

"I will not let you die!"

He struck out with his kutari, not even conscious of its being in his hand. The forms, the attack, the defence, all were subconscious. Years of training had taken over, a soldier's training.

"I will not lose you!"

He was sobbing, hardly able even to see the creature through the flood of tears in his eyes. He could not feel the pain in his arm, or his back, or anywhere else he was wounded. The pain he felt was deeper and more potent and hurt him everywhere.

"Lyndisty! I won't let you die!"

The Wykhheran was puzzled, but then it knew it did not have to understand. His lord had bade him kill this one, this Sin-tahri who acted as a Master. And yet the Sin-tahri was acting strangely now. It was making loud noises, the same loud noises over and over again. There was water in its eyes. It seemed to be in grief, and the Wykhheran had never known a Master behave in grief.

The smaller Sin-tahri female on the floor was dying slowly. Was that why the one who acted like a Master grieved? What was she to this one? The Wykhheran did not know. Perhaps his lord would tell him later.

The fight was hard, but then the Wykhheran had expected it to be. Despite its size and age, the Sin-tahri would fight hard and well, a sharp tooth of metal in its hand, one wielded as if it were a claw. The claw struck quickly, but hard, and it caused pain.

Pain was nothing. The Wykhheran had been forged to feel no pain.

The Sin-tahri staggered back, standing over the fallen female. It would not take another step back, guarding her body. Was she special? She was smaller and weaker, but she could be a priest, some Sin-tahri equivalent to the Priests of Fallen Midnight?

But she did not look like a Master. The Wykhheran had seen her through his lord's eyes. She was weak and afraid. Her wounds had come from herself and that was surely a sign of weakness.

The Wykhheran did not understand these Sin-tahri. They were too strange.

It lashed out and the Sin-tahri fell back over the body of the female. Tasting blood in its mouth, the Wykhheran moved forward, and then the voice spoke.

This ends now.

The voice of the Chaos-Bringer, last legacy of the Masters. His voice. The one spoken of, whispered in moonlight and midnight and madness. Known among the Faceless, the Z'shailyl, the Wykhheran, even the Zarqheba.

Sinoval. The Chaos-Bringer. Enemy of the Light. Wielder of Darkness.

The Chaos-Bringer had spoken and the Wykhheran obeyed. The Masters had charged them all, speaking through the spark created at Thrakandar. They would serve the Chaos-Bringer. They would obey his words.

This ends now.

The Wykhheran stopped, ever eager to obey. Even when the Sin-tahri drove its tooth into it, the Wykhheran did nothing. It remained still and peaceful as the Sintahri hacked it apart, even to the point of ultimate death.

It died as it had lived. Ever obedient to the Masters.

Later, when the battle was over, Dasouri sent some of his crew to find their captain. They found him in his quarters, beside the dead body of a mighty and horrific beast. He was kneeling on top of Senna's body, furiously trying to beat life into her hearts, tying bandages around the wounds on her arms and legs and body that no longer flowed with blood, vainly crying out the name of a different woman altogether and heedless of the fact that she too was quite dead.

G'Kar spoke hollowly, the deaths of millions now weighing on his soul.

"I knew," he began. "I knew there was a plan here, some ploy for revenge against the Centauri. I knew you were involved. I knew that you would be watching me if I came, and that you would move. I hoped.... no, I knew you, Da'Kal. You would not have me killed from a distance. You would want to bring me to you, perhaps even recruit me.

"There is a transmitting device hidden in one of my teeth. It is one of the newest pieces of Alliance technology, undetectable and capable of bypassing any known scanning device. I ordered its creation from information I acquired from the Great Machine.

"Every word of our conversation has been heard by my Rangers here. Every word has been heard by my Rangers at Babylon 5.

"Every word will have been heard by the Vorlons.

"How could you, Da'Kal? How could you turn to the Shadows?"

"The Shadows are dead and gone!" she cried. "All that is left are those who followed them, and why should we not enlist their aid? Who is to tell us what we may or may not do with our freedom?"

"The Vorlons will," G'Kar said sadly.

"We have done nothing wrong. I have done nothing of which a Narn should be ashamed."

"The Vorlons think otherwise. Ah, Da'Kal, I have seen them these past years. Once they were friends and allies, benevolent protectors, but what they have become.... I have seen it with the Centauri and the Drazi. They will send in the Inquisitors and the Dark Stars, and they will make slaves of us all, those they do not kill.

"Do you see what your lust for revenge has brought, Da'Kal?"

"Let them come! We will fight their Inquisitors and their Dark Stars and whatever else they throw at us. We will never be slaves again!"

"Then we will be dead."

"Do you hear me, Vorlons? I am Da'Kal of Narn and I do not fear you! Send whatever force you like, and we will destroy it."

"You have doomed us all, Da'Kal."

She looked at him, the light globe held before her like a talisman.

"No, you have killed us all, G'Kar. You speak of peace and unity when what we need is war and revenge. We will never be safe while the Centauri live. We will destroy them, and if the Alliance try to enslave us we will destroy them as well.

"If you had been stronger, G'Kar, you would have seen this for yourself."

"If you had been wiser, you would have seen for yourself how wrong that is."

She cried out, a wordless scream of anger and frustration and betrayal. She hurled the light globe towards him and it shattered against the side of his face. Blood filled his vision and he slumped back, now staring only at darkness.

Darkness everywhere.

Only the sound of the door opening and closing told him that she had left.

The battle was still; a silent, frozen image. On one side, the raiders of the Brotherhood Without Banners and their Tuchanq allies. On the other, the Dark Stars of the United Alliance.

And in the middle, the Emissary of Death. Cathedral.

For a long time there was silence. Moreil, watching from the observation point of his ship, could not say a word, simply staring at the unmoving vessel. His Wykhheran could not speak or move, impulses they did not understand filling their minds. Mi'Ra's body cooled on the floor.

Then a sound reached all their ears, Alliance and raider and Tuchanq and Centauri alike. It reached the planet and it reached space.

It was music, a song.

To Moreil it was hideously ugly, and he winced, raising his hands to cover his ears, slumping to the ground in pain.

To the telepaths trapped within the Dark Stars it was a thousand different songs — nursery rhymes, concert arias, hymns — it was something different to each one of them. Each one heard a tiny part of their life and the first piece of their past touched them.

Lord-General Marrago did not hear it. Not so much as a single note.

The Tuchanq heard it, all those on the ships and all those on the world below, and they fell to the ground in joy. Some of them cried, some shouted out their gladness to the heavens, most joined in.

The Song of the Land was being sung again.

And then, once the song was finished, the voice spoke to them again, the voice of Death that came from Cathedral.

This ends now. If anything thinks I am joking, just try it.

And it did end.

But in a sense, it began as well.

There was light and darkness and a mirror shattering, and a voice and a million questions he could not answer. There was hatred and love and a great and terrible anger, and there were mirrors, hundreds of mirrors, all showing him different things.

All showing him what he had been, or could have been, or still might be.

His eyes opened and General John J. Sheridan sat up in his hospital bed.

There is disturbing news, Light Cardinal.

Reveal it.... Yes, this is now known.

We must send the Inquisitors. The world must be purified.

No. The darkness runs deep and long. Three races already have felt the touch of the Inquisitors and still more turn to the Darkness. A greater lesson is needed, one that will fill all their eyes with light and leave no shadows in their minds; no doubt or questioning, only fear and obedience.

We await your command, Light Cardinal.

Awake the Death of Worlds.