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| Volume 2: The Death of Flesh, the Death of Dreams | Part VII: The Death of Flesh, the Death of Dreams |
THE Minbari were an old race, and that age had given them wisdom, it had given them experience, and it had given them memories. The three together were joined as one in the city of Tuzanor, called the City of Sorrows. Built on a battlefield where a million Minbari had died in one day of war, it was forever to be a legacy of peace, of understanding, of wisdom....
Times change.
It was Tuzanor, a little less than a cycle ago, which saw the beginning of a bloody genocide that would tear apart Minbar. It was there that Hedronn, last Satai of the worker caste and one of only two alive who remembered the Grey Council of Dukhat's day, had fled. Why, few knew, but the records had become public - of Hedronn attacking and killing the Grey Council, four of the Satai falling before him. The madness in his eyes was plain.
Hedronn had come to Tuzanor and waited there before the great statue of Valen, tears pouring down his face, rasping out bitter, angry prayers to Valen, crying for redemption. He was still there when the warriors came for him. Led by Satai Kalain, Hedronn was taken from the holy ground of Tuzanor, killed, and his body left in the mountains surrounding the city. Not even Kalain would dare shed Minbari blood in Tuzanor - as he would anywhere and everywhere else - but that was enough for him.
It was an old saying that to dream in the City of Sorrows was to dream of a better future, a saying as old as the city itself. Many had fled there in recent months, hoping to dream of a better future and make that dream a reality.
The dream ended.
Their long history had earned the Minbari wisdom, experience and memory, yes, but it had also earned them enemies, and some of these enemies had returned, bearing weapons of death, fired in anger and hatred and fear.
The bombardment began when an asteroid, fired from space, struck the mountains close to Tuzanor. They shook with the force of the impact and collapsed around the city. The ground tore apart, the buildings crumbled, and the sky was filled with dust and the screams of the wounded and the dying.
The City of Sorrows was consumed in fire and death and destruction, the very earth swallowing it, tearing it apart and crushing it.
Tuzanor was just the beginning....
* * * * * * *
Captain John J. Sheridan, of the EAS Parmenion, the Starkiller himself, husband (widowed, although that was not something he liked to think about these days) of Anna, and father (when she was alive) of Elizabeth, felt the weight of all his many titles as he walked alone through the corridors of the Valentha, the ship which had housed the Grey Council.
He had been here twice before.... well, three times if you counted the dream that wasn't a dream.... The first time he had been a prisoner. The second time he had been a prisoner. Sort of. Times change, things happen, bad things happen to good people, good things happen to bad people, life stinks.
Good one, John. What rubbish are you thinking now?
He was alone. Ko'Dath and David and Major Krantz and even Lyta had objected, but the message had said to come alone, and so he did. He knew why he was here. There were, as always, a number of reasons. For himself, not to sit back and do nothing as he had when Earth was destroyed; for his people, to save them from becoming the monsters in the abyss; for Delenn, to save her world and her guilt.
Had he been less preoccupied, he would undoubtedly have noticed that the corridors of the ship were more crowded than they had been. He had noticed the unusual vessel which was also in orbit around this planet, the one which looked almost like a flying castle. He had noticed the Soul Hunters who were somewhere in attendance throughout the ship, but as he had never seen one before, he did not know the significance of their presence.
He knew what he was doing. Well, he sort of knew what he was doing. He would not let Minbar go the same way as Earth, simple as that. For some reason Sinoval was not defending his homeworld. Perhaps he had certain.... additional information.
The small box he was carrying suddenly felt very heavy.
Darkness enveloped him as he stepped into the Hall of the Grey Council. He drew in a sharp breath as the memories suddenly flooded back. This.... this was where it could all be said to have started, he supposed. He'd come a long way since then. Everyone had.
A column of light shone in the centre of the Hall and he walked towards it, more than just a little uneasily. A Minbari was standing there, resting against a long fighting pike. Sheridan had wielded one on a few occasions and he hadn't liked the weapon. He had however seen some Minbari hold the things as though they were part of their arms.
He recognised Sinoval easily enough. They'd met twice before, neither meeting pleasant.
Three columns suddenly flared into light behind Sinoval, revealing two more Minbari and another being who.... wasn't. Tall, cadaverous and skeletal-looking, he seemed.... out of place here.
"Starkiller," Sinoval said slowly. There was a pause. Sheridan stopped walking, about five steps from Sinoval. "I bid you welcome to our Hall."
Sheridan nodded briefly. Not exactly diplomatic protocol, but, well....
"Your message said you can help us," Sinoval continued. "I find that difficult to credit, first that you have the capability to do so, and second that you have the desire to do so. You owe us nothing, and we in turn owe you a great many things.... beginning with but not limited to your death.
"Why are you here?"
Sheridan took a deep breath. He had been composing this speech for a while, but most of it was now eluding him. "You destroyed my people and my home. Delenn's tried to explain the reasons behind it.... a little, anyway. You were selfish, childish and grief-stricken.... and you made a mistake. That's what I'm regarding it as, although every human living or dead would hate me for saying it. You made a mistake. I won't let us make the same mistake."
"Wise words," Sinoval noted. "And if I don't believe them?"
"Then you can sit here and let your planet get blown apart atom by atom. Or you can come with me, and help me stop it."
"Do you expect me to trust anything you say, Starkiller?" Sinoval's voice was perfectly level, not a word raised in anger, but the anger was there easily enough, bubbling just beneath the surface. The power he wielded, the influence he commanded.... they were what shaped him, moulded him, but the true person was there, always near to the top. Sheridan wondered if even Sinoval knew who the true person was.
"I came on to this ship alone. If that wasn't a gesture of trust, then maybe this is...."
Sheridan opened the box.
Flight-lieutenant Neeoma Connally's Drakh orb glowed in the light. Its colour seemed to change with the circumstances, but now it was perfectly clear, radiating a light entirely different from that of the columns. Sinoval seemed to shrink away from it, as if it were polluting him. The other two Minbari reacted similarly, but the fourth figure, the non-Minbari....
"Body and blood," he whispered, in a tone which could have been anything from pure horror to overwhelming exultation. "Where did you get this?"
"One of my soldiers took it from a Drakh."
The alien began to laugh. "For centuries I would have sold half my collection to acquire what is now before me.... I can see that the universe has been jesting with her son all this while. Here one is.... right before my eyes...."
"What is it?" Sinoval asked. Sheridan noticed that the other two Minbari seemed very uncomfortable around this new alien.
"Oh.... I don't think it has a name as such. Call it a Drakh orb if you like. Every Drakh has an orb of some kind.... how they make them I don't know. Perhaps they took the technology from the technomages. Anyway, different orbs have different powers. Some function merely as translating devices, others as weapons.... some as symbols of rank. All have one very unique purpose.
"The Drakh are immortal. Not immortal in the way you might imagine, they die as easily as any other being, but they record their souls within orbs like that. When new Drakh are born - from pods, I believe - they inherit an orb, and take on the souls of all who have held that orb before. That.... is the greatest treasure any of my kind could seek. Your bargain has proven quite beneficial for us, Primarch."
Sheridan was listening to this in silent incredulity. He knew the orb was connected to the Drakh in some way - he'd seen it work, and he'd read Connally's testimony of how she recovered it - but all that! "Which.... which type of orb is this, then?" he asked. "You said they served different purposes."
"That one.... that one is very special indeed. I cannot say for certain which purpose it serves, but I think I have a soul in my collection which would know. Perhaps if I could talk to this.... soldier of yours? There may be hope yet...."
Sheridan closed the box and looked up at Sinoval. "Well, do you believe me now?"
"I wish I could.... Debts of blood are older than any, Starkiller, and those of my people who have been slain will never stop crying to me for vengeance. But I have learned recently that nothing is preordained, nothing is determined, or fated, or destined. We are what we make ourselves. I believed I was preordained to kill you. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps I will kill you later, at a time and place of my own choosing....
"Perhaps....
"However, my world and my people are threatened. I saved those I could, but there are many I could not. If you are genuine, then I will return and fight to save my people. If you are not, and if more of my warriors are killed through your duplicity, then the consequences will not be pleasant."
"I'm genuine," came the reply.
"I hope so, for many sakes. Now, bring your soldier over here. We have a great deal to discuss. How much military strength can you muster?"
* * * * * * *
"So, this is the ship that led the assault against our enemies, hmm? This is the ship that led the reclaiming of Beta Durani, the capture of Rokugan and would have led the attack on Minbar."
"Yes, Mr. President, sir." Captain Dexter Smith was profoundly ill-at-ease. Yes, the Babylon had done all these things - and many more - but there was something about the President's tone....
Of course, his general unease could be put down to the current situation. One of his crew - his bridge crew no less - had sabotaged the ship, preventing it from being present at the final attack on Minbar. The Babylon had limped back to Proxima, where, rather than being able to give his crew the leave they so deserved, Captain Smith was forced to endure a visit by the President himself.
And not just the President. His entire entourage.
Obviously there were a number of security guards - seven just around the President, and at least another twenty-five on the ship, not counting Smith's own men. And the presence of the very unpleasant Mr. Welles was probably inevitable when it came to co-ordinating the security. The reason for former General Takashima's presence was a little less obvious, but then she had commanded the Babylon for a brief time after Sheridan's 'departure'. Maybe she wanted to see what her successor had done with the ship.
But the other two.... Ambassador Sheridan, outwardly genial-looking, fatherly, the epitome of the skilled diplomat he had once been, but there were.... hints.... of something darker. He walked around the ship as though it smelled bad. Of course, there were.... rumours about Sheridan, and the.... other Sheridan, he whose name must not be spoken....
And then, creepier and even more unpleasant than the other two, there was Bester. Short, patronising, dressed all in black and with a glint in his eyes which said quite clearly, You are scum, all of you - less than insects, less than amoebae. He talked incessantly, asking questions about this and that. Smith was not sure how to relate to him, but he had rank, and so, erring on the better part of common sense, he answered the questions.
"You and your crew deserve the utmost thanks," Clark continued. "You have all done splendidly. Yes.... Well, except for one particular member of course." He gave an odd little laugh, and Smith's posture tensed.
"Yes," spoke up Ambassador Sheridan, for almost the first time since he had arrived. "Where is Lieutenant Stoner?"
"I have turned her over to Mr. Welles, sir," Smith said, hoping that Sheridan would not look directly at him.
"She's back on Proxima," Welles said. He did not look very comfortable either, but then, according to what Smith had heard, he rarely did.
"Splendid," Clark said. "I'm sure I can trust you, Mr. Welles, to discover the reasons for her actions, hmm? I assume you do not know anything, Captain Smith?"
Smith stiffened to ramrod straight, looking directly ahead, resolutely keeping his gaze from meeting the eyes of Welles, Clark, Sheridan or Bester. As it happened, there was one thing.... Stoner was a telepath, Smith was sure of it. And if she was a telepath, then Bester would have known about it. Telepaths were not permitted to join the military, and the testing of the young for potential telepathic skills was even more rigorous now than it had been before the fall of Earth. Records could be falsified, of course, and Stoner might have slipped through the net but.... but Smith did not believe it.
"No, Mr. President," he said carefully. "Nothing at all."
"Oh well. You have done well. There will be a special victory ceremony in two days. You will be receiving the Silver Star for Valour then."
Smith only just managed to maintain his composure. "Th.... thank you, Mr. President."
"You and your whole crew are on leave until then. Enjoy yourself, Captain Smith."
"Yes, sir."
Clark nodded and made to leave, his security guards shadowing him closely. Sheridan and Bester followed, pointedly not looking at each other. Ambassador Sheridan looked squarely at Smith, seemingly measuring him - perhaps against his son.... After a few seconds he snorted audibly. "See that you command this ship better than your predecessor," he said shortly, before leaving.
As soon as he was out of earshot Smith exhaled loudly, almost falling back against the nearest wall. He was a soldier, just a soldier, nothing more. He was not involved in politics and did not want to be.
And now what to do? The President had given him two days leave.... what to do with it? Smith had never been one for relaxing. He supposed that supervising the repairs to the ship would be relaxing enough. The last thing he needed at the moment was more stress.
If he had known what was happening on the shuttle taking the President back to the Main Dome, his stress level would have shot through the roof.
* * * * * * *
Neeoma Connally drew in a deep breath and looked around at the others nearby. Her stomach fluttered for a moment.
Well, Dad, you always said I'd see strange things, but I don't think even you imagined this.
The room was dark, lit only by a mass of tiny points of light, each coming from a small globe, each globe forming a part of the wall. Souls. That was what this place was built of. Souls.
"This particular soul was that of a technomage. Quite a find." That was the tall alien, the one dressed in flowing robes of red and black and gold and other colours her eyes could not quite make out, as if she was not meant to see them clearly. He was speaking English quite well, although with a very strange accent. He was also rabbiting on at about fifteen words a second. In a way he reminded her of her grandfather, a man who had served in the military for a while and had been present at the beginning of the French Revolt. She had spent a lot of time with her grandfather after her father had died, listening to his stories, and she saw him in this alien here: outwardly genial and full of tales from the past, but with an inner edge which showed he was not quite finished with the present yet.
"And I just.... sort of.... go inside there and talk to him?"
"Well.... more or less," admitted the alien. "There should be no problem as such. This soul's body died peacefully and quite content with himself. As I said, a rare find." A strained expression crossed the face of the Minbari leader, but only for a moment. "Are you ready?"
Connally looked at Captain Sheridan. He looked equally ill-at-ease here. There was no way she could want to do this, but still.... there was a reason. She hated the way the orb pulsed at her mind, probing her. She hated the way it spoke to her, whispered to her, called to her.
She drew a deep breath. She had sworn after her father died that she would change the world so that no one need ever be exploited and used as he had been. Events had transpired to cast her vow into insignificance, but she had never forgotten. Perhaps she would not be able to remake the world as she had envisaged, but small changes were often more important than large ones.
Perhaps.
Her mind entered the soul globe.
* * * * * * *
The Minbari who had remained on their homeworld were not sure what to expect. They had received little more than an order to evacuate - to leave the planet by any means they could. Some had ignored this message, others scoffed at it, some had not even heard it, many had chosen to stay behind - not afraid to die, but afraid to leave the world of their birth.
All the while, the sky rained death.
After the first few asteroids struck the surface, most of the ground was shaking and the air was filled with dust. There were few screams but many wounded.
As the bombing entered its third hour, many Minbari looked to the skies with fear and loathing. Warriors raged, crying out to the heavens to send their evil, they did not care. They were the chosen of Valen, they would triumph and prosper and survive. Oh yes, always survive.
The religious caste retired to their temples, convinced that such holy ground would be protected from the wrath of the heavens. They questioned the virtue of their neighbours, and tried to explain the bombings as Valen's punishment on his people, the ones who had doubted him. Their temples were destroyed as easily as any other building, but still they remained there, praying.
The workers.... they endured. They had suffered much recently, surviving the massacre and the destruction of Tuzanor. They helped as many as they could, they repaired what little they could, they did what little they could.
To the warrior and the religious castes, the workers were the reason for Valen's wrath. It had been their sin, it was claimed, so this was their fault. Once more workers were killed. Mercifully there were few left, most having been evacuated.
The beautiful lakes of Yedor were running red with blood. The Place Where Valen Waits - Turon'val'na lenn-veni - was witness to three workers hanged from the trees which grew on top of the hill.
The temple which housed the Starfire Wheel remained untouched. The Vorlon within the temple remained undisturbed.
Four hours after the bombing started, the secondary effects became apparent.
* * * * * * *
Londo was trying to sleep, without a great deal of success.
It was not just the unfamiliar bed. Given some of the places he had had to sleep in the last six months or so, the bed was perfect - the sort of thing he had dreamed about while spending yet another night next to a pile of débris on an occupied Kazomi 7.
It was not just the exertions of the day. Compared to out-running Drakh, out-talking technomages and out-anything Drazi, even the most exciting day in the Royal Court somehow lost its impact. Admittedly, the sight of Refa on the throne and the discovery that Malachi was the person who had put him there had been a surprise - to put it mildly - but he had managed to adjust very quickly. If he hadn't, he would never have got out of the throne room alive. And while his.... other exertions with Timov were.... tiring to say the least, he had lost none of his fabled endurance in that area.
It was not even his virtual imprisonment here. Refa and Malachi had insisted that he remain in the Palace, Refa 'fearing for his safety' if he returned to his estate. He had grown tired of waiting for the inevitable assassination attempt and had gone to bed, after ensuring that Timov had left the capital. Not that she had wanted to go, of course, but for the first time in forever she had actually heeded the part of her marriage vows which said something about obeying her husband. Good thing too.
It was everything. Londo's nerves were stretched tighter than a viol string. He hadn't even been able to contact Lennier and Marrago. They would be all right - Timov should be able to get to them. Better they both lie low for a while. Marrago had suspicions that certain members of the Centarum had arranged for him to 'lose' the colony in Quadrant 37. Londo would not be at all surprised if Refa had been behind that in some way.
And then there was Vir.... Now maybe his true allegiances were not the universe's best-kept secret, but Londo would hazard a guess that Refa for one did not know that his loyal and trusted aide was a member of G'Kar's Army of Light, and had in fact been placed in his position for precisely that reason. Vir had been conspicuous by his absence in the Royal Court, and Londo found himself wondering what had happened to him.
He sat up in bed and sighed. "You can come out now," he said, in a very tired tone of voice. This was not an assassin, he knew that because an assassin would not be so clumsy as to step on the bits of glass he had left by both door and window before going to sleep.
The lights came on and he was startled to see Malachi standing there. He looked.... almost contrite. "I would have come earlier," he said. "But I had to be with the Emperor until he.... fell asleep. He was entertaining himself with a number of unmarried ladies of the Court." His tone was clearly disapproving.
"Such is the Emperor's prerogative," Londo said slowly. "The Emperor may do as the Emperor wishes. The Emperor is always right. The Emperor has as much power as anyone who ever lived. And the Emperor is an evil-minded monster who would as soon sell us all to the Narns if it suited him."
Malachi sighed. "Londo, I can understand you would be angry, but...."
"Why would I be angry? Just because one of my oldest friends turned our entire people over to a monster?"
"That was not my intention at all. Damn you, Londo! What gives you the right to judge me? You fled from here, remember. You went out and hid for over a year, leaving us all to fend for ourselves. We were in chaos, anarchy. The rest of the galaxy is falling apart, and we needed order. That is why I came back...." Malachi stopped, realising he had gone too far, said too much.
"Yes. You accuse me of running away, but what about you? Marrit was counting on your advice and assistance. Without you, he would not have fallen apart nearly as badly as he did. You abandoned us first."
"I was.... tired. Turhan was a good man, the greatest Emperor we have had for a long time. When he died, I.... lost faith in our people. It was a time for younger men, for you and Refa and Jaddo. Was it my fault you all failed so badly?"
"You pretended to be dead! You faked a suicide!"
"I wanted peace! I wanted to be alone! My rôle in the Court ended when Turhan died. Or so I thought.... We were in anarchy. We needed a strong leader, someone to guide us. Oh, I will admit that Refa was not the ideal choice, but who else would have been better? Cartagia? Have you seen what a monster he has become? And if he was elected Emperor then Elrisia would effectively be ruling the Republic. Jarno is a nonentity, Valo a dried up soldier, you were supposed to be dead. Who was left? Refa has his faults, but he is strong, clever and full of conviction."
"He is a monster and a murderer, and he should have remained on Minbar. Still, you have made your decision, Malachi. I hope you can live with it."
"Forgive me, Londo. You were not meant to be involved in this. You were not part of my.... D'ah! It is pointless. Take my advice.... if you are wise, you will leave Centauri Prime. Tonight."
"I cannot do that."
"Well.... you were warned. I can do no more than that. Good night, Londo." Malachi left, switching off the lights as he did so. Londo stared out into the darkness for a while and then went back to trying to get to sleep.
A few hours later, the assassination attempt he had been expecting happened.
* * * * * * *
The fleets of the United Alliance had looked fairly impressive at Kazomi 7. Approaching Minbar they seemed distinctly less so. A mix-match patchwork collection of ships from the Non-Aligned Worlds; Drazi Sunhawks, a Hyach capital ship, a handful of Brakiri vessels, an Ipsha Battleglobe and even a Vree Saucer. The most visible sign of various races coming together in harmony and survival, and working together to help others.
Delenn, standing on the bridge of the Drazi Sunhawk Stra'Kath, pondered the situation. This expedition - risky and uncertain as it was - was undertaken in her name. Oh, there was a variety of political reasons - allowing the Alliance to establish itself as a force in the galaxy, showing the humans that the other races were not to be threatened in the same way as the Minbari had been, pursuing revenge against the Drakh.... but the fact remained that the Alliance fleet was only here, now, in this place, at this time, because of her.
She had not wanted to be here. Minbar was not her home any more. Sinoval had taken it and the Minbari from her. Let him accrue the benefits of his actions. She had her own Alliance now and could not jeopardise it.
And yet.... and yet she had insisted on being here. She was returning to her homeworld, the image of it as a devastated ruin fresh in her mind. She had seen the future - Yedor destroyed, the sky thick with fog and dust, herself.... changed - during her time on the doomed space station Babylon 4. And now it was all coming true. Had her change been predestined by this glimpse of the future, or had it simply hastened this future?
The jump points opened and the Alliance fleet swept out into the skies above Minbar.
The humans and Drakh - who had torn their way through the might of the Minbari fleet - were there.
Battle began in the skies of Minbar, for the second time in ten hours. And, just as on the first occasion, the outcome was never in doubt.
* * * * * * *
"There is a way, then?"
"Yes, sir. I.... think so, anyway."
"Are you ready for this?"
"I.... I don't know, sir. I will do what I can."
"I can't ask any more of you, Lieutenant. I think it's time, gentlemen."
"Indeed it is. I will owe you for this, Starkiller."
"Change your people enough and that will be sufficient payment."
"Ah. Of course. I make no promises, Starkiller."
"I wasn't expecting any."
* * * * * * *
President Clark staggered free from the shuttle's office, choking and spluttering. The voice in his mind - the one he usually heard only at night - was screaming at him. His life was in danger. He was the President of the Resistance Government of Humanity, and if his life was in danger, then humanity was in danger as well.
He pressed the button that sealed the door shut. The gas inside was quite obviously poisonous, and probably lethal. There were still three security guards in the room, but death was their reward for failing to protect their President.
It was supposed to have been a simple journey from the Babylon to the Main Dome - little more than an hour. The Presidential shuttle was far from opulent, but it was more than adequately equipped for him to work from during this time. Events were at a crucial juncture for humanity and their leader must not be away from his work for even so long as an hour.
The tour aboard the Babylon had gone well. Smith was a competent, if uninspiring officer. There was certainly no danger of rebellion from him. The crew had seemed pleased to see their President on board, and their leave would undoubtedly cheer them up.
Clark had not really wanted to make the tour - having the Babylon at Proxima was risky; it had already been sabotaged once, and who could say what Minbari operatives or sympathisers there might be on some of the less secure, newly-liberated worlds. Welles and Sheridan had recommended it however, speaking of the morale boost for the soldiers, and of the powerful symbol the Babylon was. Besides, General Ryan could conceivably continue bombarding Minbar for twelve or thirteen hours before any of the.... interesting side-effects became apparent. The planet might not surrender for days and a counterattack was unlikely at this time. Still.... Clark did not like being so far from the reports.
He had been checking in with Ryan when the voice in his mind screamed at him. An instant after that happened, he detected a strange odour and looked up. A light blue gas was filling the room, almost transparent. None of the security guards seemed to have noticed anything, and Clark doubted he would have either, were it not for certain.... enhancements he'd been given.
The gas might have been natural - an accident even - but Clark had not survived this long by being naïve. He had headed casually for the door. The first security guard made to join him, but had suddenly collapsed. Clark, feeling his eyes begin to water, darted out of the room and sealed it shut. Without the Presidential security code, the guards could not open the door. It was also airtight.
But that did not eliminate his concerns. There were supposed to be two guards on duty outside the door as well as the three inside. Neither was there. In fact, the entire corridor was empty.
Clark looked down at the link fixed to his hand. A terribly awkward device - it kept tearing all the hair from his skin. He was about to press it and call Security when Takashima came round the corner.
"Mr. President," she said, coming closer. "What's happened?"
"I'm.... not sure," he replied. "There was a.... gas leak. I don't know what caused it, but...." He took a deep breath. "The.... the Security.... they're...."
Takashima was right next to him. "Mr. President, we...."
Clark lunged forward and drove his knife in underneath her ribs. She started, and sagged against him. Looking into her eyes, he drove the knife in harder, and she gasped sharply. Blood filled her mouth.
She was pressed against him, her body sagging, her knees giving way. He pulled the knife free and she slid down to the ground. Her eyes were wide, staring at him. Blood stained her mouth and her uniform. It also covered his knife. She was clearly trying to speak, but could not. She was only gurgling, her own blood filling her throat, choking her.
"Everyone thinks I'm an idiot," Clark said conversationally. "Who was it this time? Welles? Bester? Sheridan? Those morons who dress up in black and call themselves after the Round Table? Do you have any idea how many assassination attempts I've faced in the last six months alone? Of course you don't. No one does. Oh, Welles probably has an inkling about a few of them, but otherwise....
"Everyone thinks I'm a nonentity, a figurehead. Let them think that. I don't care. Let Bester and Welles and the MegaCorps and Sheridan and the Knights play their little games of power. I'm in control here. Me. Everyone else only thinks they are."
She was still gurgling. Clark sighed. "How am I going to pass this off? Most of the others I could cover up without trace. Some of them were pretty inept. I think the Knights only sent them to give themselves something to do. I let Welles find out about a few of them. After all, I can't let him think no one's trying, and he might even have sent some of them himself. You, on the other hand, are an important and still fairly public figure. Of course, there was that incident at the Second Line earlier this year.... Who was behind that? I'm inclined to say Bester, but I couldn't be certain.
"Stress, which led to madness. You planted that gas in my office, led me here and tried to kill me. An act of insanity, brought on by the stress of your experiences in the war. This knife here was your intended weapon." Clark bent down and prised open Takashima's hand, revealing a slender hypodermic needle. "This little device isn't going to be coming to light any time soon." He looked at it, holding the tube up to the light. "I wonder what's in here. Something to kill me fairly quickly, I suppose. Undetectable of course. Easy to pass it off as a heart attack, perhaps brought on by whatever that gas was." He slid the syringe very carefully into a pocket.
"You obviously fell on your own knife, or maybe I killed you accidentally. After all, the fat old man in the Presidency isn't supposed to be able to defend himself, is he?"
Takashima was still choking, unable to scream or even breathe. Just twitching on the floor. Clark sighed. Welles, Bester.... everyone.... they were all so transparent!
"Everyone thinks I'm a failure. Let them. I'm the President, they're not. They can think whatever they like. Besides, my greatest failure is still to come. Everyone will see it, and think I've been removed from the board. And then.... then I'll pull off my greatest move of all."
Clark looked down at Takashima. "Dead at last, eh?" He activated his link, and called Security.
Time to start lying.
* * * * * * *
The Drakh ships were graceful, fast, and deadly.... They soared through space, tearing into the heart of the Alliance fleet. The human ships did not even bother responding to the attack. They simply kept up their bombardment of Minbar, tearing it apart rock by rock, the world and its millennia of history. Statues, temples, battlefields, monuments, libraries.... all fell.
And slowly the land began to sicken, as the air became filled with clouds which choked and poisoned everything that breathed. Trees died, animals died.... the land died.
And still the bombardment continued. Above, in the heavens, people fought to stop it.
Fought and failed.
* * * * * * *
This group of uninvited guests was clever enough to avoid the traps Londo had set at the door and the window, but then these were far from the only warning devices he'd laid. Given that he was not sleeping anyway, he was not going to be surprised.
He was not exactly an expert in hand-to-hand combat, but this was hardly the first assassination attempt he'd faced, and, well.... after avoiding pots and jars thrown at him by Timov for over twenty years, he'd developed some agility. Rolling out of the bed, grabbing a typically ostentatious candelabra and hitting the first assailant in the stomach with it was hardly an easy task, but he managed it adequately enough.
The second came in wielding some sort of long knife. It looked vaguely Narn in design. His swing was clumsy and Londo ducked under it, bringing up the candelabra. It shattered his attacker's jaw and sent him falling back. He turned round....
.... and that was it. No one else, just these two lying on the floor, the one unconscious, the other gasping and trying desperately to draw breath. Inept was not even the word to describe it. So why....
Maybe Refa knew that Londo would be expecting an assassination attempt and had sent a deliberately incompetent one to lull him into a false sense of security, expecting him to be over-paranoid on his first night here. So perhaps another attempt was being planned for later tonight.
Or maybe this was a deliberate attempt organised by someone else, someone who couldn't afford to hire anyone competent. Londo could just see Lord Jarno behind something like this.
Or maybe....
Or maybe he should stop worrying about maybes. Someone had just tried to kill him - a distressingly common event these days, it seemed. It was time to see the Chief Guardsman here and get this reported. Perhaps he could actually do something.
Londo began to dress hurriedly, his mind still buzzing over with maybes and what ifs and the realisation that maybe Centauri politics had become a little too byzantine for their own good.
* * * * * * *
Chardhay looked up towards the skies, whispering prayers to Valen. He could still see the black clouds which were blotting out the heavens. So far Yedor had not been struck directly, but surely that couldn't last. As it was the city was falling down, the ground beneath their feet shaking, the grass turning black and dying, crumbling away within seconds, the water becoming dead and stagnant.
The Temple of Varenni still stood, intact and proud. Ulkesh stood there, in the heart of the temple, where Valen had once proclaimed the destiny of Minbar.
Chardhay had refused to flee. This was his home, his world, and if the warriors would not defend it, then he would at least do what he could. Kalain had once contemptuously told him to 'go and pray somewhere while we change the world'. Well, the warriors had changed Minbar, but not for the better.
"Valen said that in our darkest hour would come our greatest triumph. We must be strong. We must endure."
Some had come here to watch, to listen, simply to be in company. All religious caste of course. Chardhay spoke to them, of hope for the future, of Valen's words, of anything that would assuage their fear.
And his own.
* * * * * * *
Sinoval came home only eleven hours after leaving.
Cathedral swept into the skies above Minbar, the strangest of saviours. A dragon, dark and terrifying, breathing flame. A legend from centuries before Valen, of Valeria and the dragon of fire.
This time the dragon had allies.
The Starkiller was there also, riding in a unique dragon of his own. Sinoval had hated Sheridan for years, and still did, but the human was going up against his own people, just as Sinoval had gone against his. Sheridan obviously had his reasons, but could even this outweigh the debt of blood on his soul?
Time to worry about that later.
There were already ships at Minbar, ships from the lesser races - the Non-Aligned Worlds. Why they should be here Sinoval did not know. What interest they could have in Minbar he could not guess. Perhaps they were little more than scavengers, come to loot a dying world.
He would not retreat this time, but he would not die here either. He stood on top of the pillar, with all the beauty of space surrounding him. He could feel the battle bursting around him, but there was no exultation, no joy. He was fighting because he had to. Nothing more.
Cathedral swept towards the human ships, the Parmenion beside it.
* * * * * * *
Delenn looked up, feeling the Stra'Kath shake under her. The battle had not been going well. The Drakh were strong, and the humans were still destroying her world, blowing it apart, choking it, killing it. Now it seemed as though they would destroy the military might of her Alliance as well.
And then the new arrivals appeared. She could see them on the displays of the Stra'Kath. She knew who was there, who had come to help her.
"John," she whispered.
* * * * * * *
You.... are.... ours....
Go away.
You.... are.... ours....
No!
You.... are.... ours....
The orb was singing to her. Singing, whispering, calling, haunting her. If it wasn't for the fact that Neeoma Connally was planning to use it to destroy the Drakh fleets, then she might have been a little stressed out.
Yeah, right.
Her memory flipped back to the conversation she had had a few hours ago, inside that weird globe thing with the soul of someone who'd been dead for several hundred years. Not a common event, even in this crazy time.
He'd been a strange sort of person, in a number of ways.... well, apart from being dead. He wasn't even human, but a member of some race she knew to be long extinct. She'd never seen a Dilgar before, and hadn't been all that sure what to expect....
Certainly not a genial old man sitting in a study of some sort. He seemed quite pleased to see her - well, if she were imprisoned in a small ball for all of eternity then she'd be glad of some company as well. They spoke for a while, about not very much, and then she broached the subject of the orb.
There followed a lot she did not understand, about Drakh and magic which was science but wasn't, about central nervous systems and some sort of energy linkage and mystic abilities. What it came down to was that Connally had got her hands on the orb of one of the Drakh leaders. Drakh sort of.... plugged themselves into their ships, more or less, so gaining greater control over them. The ships worked using partially-organic technology and Drakh leaders often functioned as the brain, using an orb exactly like hers as a sort of interface. So....
So Neeoma Connally found herself in a boarding pod with quite a number of Narns making for the Drakh mothership. The Narns called themselves the Bat Squad and they seemed to be quite looking forward to hand-to-hand combat with the Drakh. Connally wasn't. Not at all. They still haunted her dreams, plagued her waking moments.
You.... are.... ours....
Go to hell!
You.... are.... ours....
No, I'm not!
You.... are.... ours....
* * * * * * *
The ships whirled and soared, spewing fire at each other. What would they look like to anyone on the planet below, who might just be able to see the lights which marked the battle to save or destroy their world?
Cathedral, an immense castle, crafted by technology unknown and home to their greatest foes, fighting for the one who claimed lordship and dominion over all Minbari.
The Parmenion, led by the fabled Starkiller, fighting against his own people to save those of an enemy.
The fleets of the United Alliance, including the Stra'Kath, bringing home one who had been away for far too long and who had seen her world and her people decay in her absence.
The Drakh, filled with the lust for death, ordered by their masters to kill and destroy, and only too happy to oblige.
The Morningstar, representing both hope for the rising of the dawn, and despair, in that Minbar would never see another.
The Corinthian, raining blow after blow upon an already weakened, battered and almost broken world.
And one little, almost insignificant boarding pod.... locking on to the hull of the Drakh mothership, disgorging its crew....
* * * * * * *
Kalain staggered out into the open, at last able to bear being outside in the day, because there was no sunlight. The sky was little more than water filled with black oil, spreading and polluting all it touched. The clouds were dark and full.
He threw his arms up towards the sky and cried out for Valen to send some signal.
It began to rain.
Kalain laughed as the rain burned away his clothing, boiling away the skin of his hands and face and head. For the first time in months, the itching stopped. Each raindrop on his dry, parched skin burned. Nearby he could see a young child, screaming and screaming. The rain was burning away his skin, revealing bone and membrane. He was staring at the heavens with sightless vision.
Kalain began to laugh once more.
He had his signal.
* * * * * * *
Delenn brought the Stra'Kath back around, ready to help defend Taan Churok and his ship. She could see the vessels attacking Minbar - her home - but she could not reach them. The Drakh were in front of her, a screen. She could also see John. He had no reason to be here, save for her.
"Thank you, John," she whispered. The Drakh came forward, and Delenn readied herself to meet them.
* * * * * * *
The Drakh came forward and Connally readied herself to meet them. Just in front of her she could see Ko'Dath and G'Dan, wielding swords. Screaming out something that probably made sense in the Narn language, they charged. The Drakh raised their orbs.
Connally raised hers, and focussed her mind through it. She could feel the Drakh taint in her mind, hear their voice....
You.... are.... ours....
The Drakh approaching her stopped, befuddled, confused, almost hypnotised. Ko'Dath drove her katok blade through the chest of the first one, while G'Dan decapitated the second. The other members of the Bat Squad charged forward, deeper into the heart of the mothership. Connally followed, but slowly. She could hear it, inside her brain, like an insect buzzing against her skull.
You.... are.... ours....
* * * * * * *
Ulkesh stood at the heart of the temple where he had stood nine centuries before, watching silently in the shadows as Valen had struck down the threat to his leadership. Mysterious thoughts swirled through his ancient, alien mind.
Above him, the skies were raining death. Beneath him, the ground was shaking. Around him, people were screaming and weeping and dying.
Ulkesh stood in the heart of death and he thought of the future. And of the past. And of both together.
* * * * * * *
Sinoval perched on the edge of the pinnacle, almost suspended in space. He guided Cathedral forward, feeling it respond to his unspoken mental orders. The smaller Soul Hunter ships clustered around him.
The Drakh line had not been broken, but it had been dented. Minbar was at last within reach. The two Earther ships stopped their bombardment and turned, the skin of each rippling in the darkness.
Sinoval did not hate them, but neither did he fear them.
He was a warrior, and a leader. Minbar was his world and the Minbari were his people. Dictator, leader, prophet.... he did not care what he was. He had done what he could and he would bring salvation to his people. He would change them forever, bringing in a new order just as Valen had done.
And if his people would not change, and would not bend, then they would shatter, and he would forge them anew from the pieces.
Cathedral soared forward.
* * * * * * *
The buzzing in her skull had become louder and higher, tearing apart her mind, ripping her memories and thoughts and feelings to shreds, so that it was all she could hear and all she could feel.
This.... this was the heart of the Drakh fleet. She held up the orb and willed her power through it, shocking and stunning the Drakh who guarded the nerve centre. They hesitated, torn between obeying the one who held the orb which would command them, and defending the heart of their fleet. It was only a brief hesitation, but it was enough for G'Dan and Ko'Dath to cut them down.
There was only one Drakh remaining now, one much taller than the others. He.... she.... it.... was seated on what looked like a throne, arms spread out and head tilted back. It was naked and Connally could see the warped and twisted bones rising from its skin, swirling around, moving, breaking, tearing.
She stepped forward, holding the orb, looking into its depths. Its colour kept changing, but now it was a brilliant, burnished gold. The voice in her mind stopped and then rose again, as one complete cadence, an entire cacophony of cries melded into one.
Surrender unto us, become what you know you are, become what you know you must be, surrender unto us and know our secrets, our wisdom, let the weak die and rot and let the strong prosper, we are the strong, we are the mighty, you owe no allegiance to the weak, no loyalty to the dying, surrender unto us, become one of us and live.
The Drakh on the throne began to move, rising up to face her. It twitched and seemed to.... blink. Then its eyes fell on hers. They were the same gold as the orb.
The air seemed to turn to glass around her. She could not move, could not breathe.
Ko'Dath darted forward, her katok swinging. The Drakh turned, but too late. The blade sliced through its neck and it fell, its body decomposing in seconds.
The voice in Connally's mind stopped, and the air became air again.
"What now?" asked G'Dan.
"The.... the soul said...." Connally blinked. Think, for God's sake! "He said, I had to.... sit on this chair, and.... put the orb in the headpiece.... or something. Then, I'd have control of.... of the fleet."
G'Dan looked at the throne, and grimaced. "Rather you than me."
Connally stepped forward, not wanting to move, not even wanting to live here. Oh, Dad. I miss you. She sat down and looked up. The orb began to float upwards, so that it was hovering over her chest.
It was now jet black.
You.... are.... ours....
Connally's eyes turned black. "Yes," she whispered, not seeing, not understanding, not doing, just.... knowing. "Yes.... I am yours."
* * * * * * *
The Drakh ships froze for a moment, becoming statues motionless in space.
But only for a moment.
When they moved again, and fought again, they did so more furiously than they had before. Far more furiously.
* * * * * * *
"Oh, dear," Corwin muttered. "This is not good. Very not good."
"We keep trying, Mr. Corwin," replied the Captain.
"So.... doesn't look like Lieutenant Connally managed it then?"
"Worry about that later."
"Yeah, right. Yeesh.... someone needs some perspective around here."
"Were you saying something, Commander?"
"Me? No.... not at all. Mmmm, no. Definitely not."
* * * * * * *
You are ours ours body flesh and soul ours to rule ours to command ours to be surrender yourself unto us and reveal unto us your heart and soul and innermost secrets reveal yourself unto us you are ours ours
Neeoma Connally was torn between worlds, trapped between the memory of herself as a human and the image of herself as a Drakh. Visions swarmed through her mind: of a young girl sitting on her father's knee listening to his stories, of walking into a dark tunnel to receive the boon of her Dark Masters, of refusing to cry at her father's death and swearing that there must be a better way, of touching an orb with long cadaverous fingers that were and yet were not her own.
I am.... yours.... I.... am....
Secrets still you hold secrets what do you want what do you want surrender to us surrender to the Machine what do you want?
I.... I want....
Yes.
I.... want....
Her father my father I want my father I want....
No, not like this. My father's dead. Let him be dead.
I want nothing. Nothing from you.
You.... are.... ours.... You.... are....
Her world exploded. With an agonised cry, she shot back through the layers of her mind, past thoughts and memories she did not even know she had, her very essence tearing through years of her life, finally to surface, in one instant of absolute and perfect clarity, in the upper reaches of her consciousness.
She moved at last, twitching her fingers, turning her head, blinking her eyes. Slowly, she began to rise from the throne.
"What...?" she whispered.
"Told you," G'Dan said, in a somewhat smug tone. Ko'Dath did not look happy.
"Told.... told her what?"
"You weren't coming out. You looked paralysed, and that orb thing was keeping you there. So...."
"So.... you smashed it?"
"Worked, didn't it?"
Connally pondered that for a moment. "Yes.... I think it did. The fleet...." She exhaled sharply and smiled. "The fleet's paralysed, broken. I don't know how it worked but.... it did. Somehow."
"Good," grunted Ko'Dath. "We leave. Now."
Connally did not feel like arguing.
* * * * * * *
General Ryan looked up from his tactical displays, trying to think about everything dispassionately - as figures and numbers and tactics and strategies and not as people who were being bombed into oblivion. The signal was from Captain Philby on the Corinthian, who had pulled back from the bombardment to help meet the attacking ships which had outflanked the Drakh.
"General," he said. "We have a problem."
* * * * * * *
"They're leaving." As Corwin told Sheridan, as Taan Churok told Delenn, as Sinoval saw for himself, as Connally and Ko'Dath and G'Dan observed.... the humans were leaving.
"It's over." The Morningstar and the Corinthian fled, their ultimate mission unfulfilled. The Drakh fleet was paralysed, their deadly ships trapped motionless in space. In time they began destroying themselves, consumed from within by a force that no one could fully comprehend.
"It's finished."
For those still on Minbar it would never be finished, never be over.
Never.
* * * * * * *
The palace was empty. Not just slightly empty, but completely and utterly uninhabited. There were no guards in sight, no servants, no nobles, nothing.
Londo was beginning to feel that maybe there was something deeper behind his attempted assassination after all.
Well, the palace was empty until he arrived at the throne room itself. There was someone there.
Refa was still and motionless, pinned to the throne by a long kutari sword through his chest. His mouth was open, as if his last emotion had been surprise that anyone had dared to kill him. The three guards who were always in attendance here were not. Londo could not see their bodies anywhere. The Emperor's personal guards were supposed to be incorruptible, but Londo more than anyone knew that there was no such thing. Everyone had a price.
"You should not have come back, Londo."
Everyone.
Malachi walked out of the shadows. There were traces of blood on his hands. "You should not have come back."
"On the contrary," Londo replied. "I should have come back earlier. Why, Malachi? Why? Regicide was something I would never have expected from you."
"Plans within plans, everything leading around to everything else. Look at me, Londo. I'm as much a noble now as any who were born to the purple. Go away, Londo. Leave Centauri Prime. Take Timov with you and go somewhere far, far away. I promise not to pursue you, but only if you leave now and never return."
"I can't do that, Malachi. You should know that."
He sighed, and looked down. "Ah. I loved Turhan, did you know? He was the greatest of us all. In his hands.... we could have done so much. But no, he died a lonely old man, his life given away to that throne, nine tenths of his potential unfulfilled.
"In a few minutes the Chief Guardsman will arrive. He will find the Emperor murdered, and the Prime Minister sorely wounded trying to protect his Emperor. He will also find Londo Mollari, a noted enemy of the Emperor, fled, with the bodies of two guardsmen in his room.
"Go away, Londo. Go away and do not come back."
"Why? Great Maker, Malachi, why?!"
"Go away."
Londo took one look at his former friend and then at the body on the throne. For one day at least Refa had achieved what he had always wanted. And for that one day he was the happiest man who had ever lived.
"This isn't over," Londo said, as he turned to leave. Within moments he was gone from the room.
"No," Malachi sighed behind him. "No, it never is."
* * * * * * *
Bester was ready to leave Proxima 3 when Ambassador Sheridan came to pay him a visit. "Ah, Ambassador, what a pleasant surprise. We haven't talked as much as I would have liked."
"Be silent for a minute. Someone tried to kill the President earlier, did you know that?"
"Yes, I had heard. General Takashima, was it not? Such a shame, really. A promising soldier.... fallen into madness. A tragedy."
"Madness? Perhaps. Or perhaps something else. Why did you wait so long, Bester? If you'd had Clark killed earlier you might have saved Minbar. That was G'Kar's plan, wasn't it?"
Bester turned to look at Sheridan. The ambassador was completely unreadable, a closed book.
To any ordinary person, that is.
"G'Kar has his own plans. What is Minbar to me? Let it be blown up, I don't care." Bester was careful to keep his tone conversational, maintaining an air of calm while attempting to scan the ambassador.
"Then what do you care about?"
"My people. The future. We will not be slaves any more, Ambassador." The shields around Sheridan's mind were.... formidable. Bester could sense a faint buzzing noise playing at the edges of his consciousness.
"Humanity will not be slaves any more. On the contrary, we will be the masters. Not just of Proxima, and Beta Durani, and Minbar, but of everything. G'Kar is standing in our way, and soon enough we will be coming for him. In force. Now, you can stand beside a Narn idealist you owe nothing to, or you can help us, and be a victor. You owe G'Kar nothing. Surely your true loyalties lie with your own race?"
"Should they?" The buzzing sound was growing louder and louder. Bester strained past Sheridan's shields and for a moment the man became a silhouette, a black hole pulling all light into himself. The buzzing grew louder and louder, bombarding Bester's mind. The air behind Sheridan shimmered....
.... and Bester saw a Shadow for the first time.
The images faded and he stepped back, shaking. He raised his hand to his head.
"Yes, they should," Sheridan said. "Think about my proposal. If you should change your mind at all, contact me, but do it soon. As I said, we will be coming for G'Kar before long."
He left.
Bester drew in a deep breath. "Well.... that was.... interesting. I will have to think about that for a while. What do you think, dear?"
At the far end of the room, hidden in the shadows, there was a movement. "You took a risk assuming this thing would work."
"Of course it works. It's a black light cloak. A scientist here was working on the development and I got the late, lamented General Takashima to acquire a few for me before her.... untimely demise. It won't work while you're moving, of course, but that's what the Changeling Net is for. I told you I wouldn't leave you behind. We've been apart for too long."
She smiled. "Are you actually saying you missed me?"
He sighed. "Every minute of every day. You did well. I'm proud of you. Very proud." He paused for a moment, and then shook his head. "You had no problems getting away?"
"No. It's strange. There was hardly any security around a dangerous saboteur and traitor like myself."
"Ah, that will be Mr. Welles. A good man.... in his own way. A useful ally as well. I think Sheridan suspects.... This place is becoming just like the Centauri court. Everyone suspects everyone else."
Talia Stoner crossed the room, and stopped beside her lover. She kissed him gently. "Come on, Alfred," she said. "Let's go home."
* * * * * * *
Sinoval was the first to set foot back on Minbar itself. He had not expected ever to return here, and as he took his first steps into Yedor he wished he had not.
The city was in ruins, with only the Temple of Varenni still standing proudly above a desolate horizon. The crystal lake was filled with mud and silt and something worse. The bridges were destroyed, the libraries mere piles of rock, the temples now monuments only of death.
And the sky.... the sky was black. There was no rain now, but the clouds that hovered overhead promised it soon. They were clouds of dust and débris and.... something worse.
Sinoval walked forward a few paces and stopped at what had once been a library. He knelt down and picked up a small piece of crystal which had once formed part of the building's wall. It was now black where once it had been clear and sparkling. It crumbled to dust in his hand.
He rose to his feet, hardly aware of the Soul Hunters behind him. "I will build a new Minbar," he said softly. "A new people, a new world, a proud and noble world to live in, a strong and loving world to die in. We will spread to the skies and turn to the universe for succour."
He paused and looked around the ruined cityscape. He could hear the cries of the wounded and the trapped, the weeping of the grieving, the rantings of the lost.
"We will rise again," he said firmly, nodding his head for emphasis.
He then set about his work.