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| Volume 3: A Line in the Sand | Part VI: Through Darkness and Fire |
IT was almost ironic. She had been preparing for this moment for over thirteen years. During all that time she had imagined their darkness, their terror, their.... evil. Too many of her friends had given their lives in this cause: Lenonn, Draal, Neroon, Marcus....
And now that she was finally taking the war to the enemy, Delenn of Mir had never felt less ready for anything in her life.
Part of that had to do with the circumstances of this battle, which were less than ideal. The Drazi Government had been furious about the orders to hold and prepare and wait. They simply did not have the resources to defeat the Shadows themselves, but they had persisted in trying, and that only resulted in more deaths.
So the Alliance had had to force a showdown, to win some sort of victory, however small, just to prove it could be done. That meant utilising the greatest weapons they had; the Babylon, a ship modified by Shadow technology, and Lyta Alexander, the strongest telepath available.
Delenn had also insisted on coming herself. She was going to send people out to die for her after all. She needed to see it.
There were three Shadow ships. All three turned when the jump points opened. Delenn drew in a deep breath and waited for the battle to begin.
* * * * * * *
On another ship, a long way away, another person was sitting on the bridge, deep in thought. He had been preparing himself for this war for a long time, longer even than Delenn. Ever since he had been a young child he had dreamed of this moment. His war was nearly at an end, and then he could rest.
Warleader G'Sten of the Narn flagship Pride of the Kha'Ri looked around at the rest of his bridge crew. They all looked so young. They were probably older than he had been when he had begun this war against the Centauri.
They were nearly there. Centauri Prime, the dream he had been chasing for so long. He might have succeeded during the last war, but the attack on Gorash had been too bloody and had taken too much out of the fleet. G'Sten had never been more disappointed than when he had surveyed his fleet and realised they were not strong enough to go for the homeworld. He had turned his back and left, not wanting to see the planet and be unable to grasp it.
This time, this war, he was ready. Victory had followed victory, and he could total the number of worlds taken from the Centauri. It was a most pleasing figure. Gorash 7, Ragesh 3, Frallus 9.... And now Centauri Prime itself.
He was an old man now, and he could retire after this. He would have done his part for the future of his race. They would remember him, maybe even build a statue to him in G'Khamazad. He would like that.
"There's a message for you, Warleader," said his aide, and he looked up. "It's from the Kha'Ri."
"Come to congratulate us, eh?" he asked, smiling - but it was a false smile and false good humour. He had been delayed enough already in the course of this war. Without the unnecessary hesitations and hold-ups he could have taken Centauri Prime months ago. He would not let them deny him this chance again. He knew full well he would not get another one.
"Put them through," he continued. "Here."
"Warleader.... wouldn't you rather.... take it in private?" G'Sten frowned. The aide was new, brought in to replace his former assistant, G'Lorn. He had requested a chance to captain his own ship, and G'Sten had had to agree. He could not deny G'Lorn this chance for glory, a chance that would never come again.
"Anything they wish to say to me, they may say to my soldiers," he replied. The aide nodded, and began patching through the signal. G'Lorn would have known better than to ask that question. He had understood his Warleader well.
"Maybe I'm getting old," he muttered irritably to himself. There was no 'maybe' about it. He was old. He remembered when he had been in the Resistance, with old M'Sela. He had taunted the old man about going off to bed and leaving war to the younger men. He was now six years older than M'Sela had been when he had died, fighting six Imperial Guards at Na'Mirammar. Five of them had gone into death with him.
The viewscreen came on to reveal the face of H'Klo, one of the rising stars in the Kha'Ri. He was young, arrogant, and had actually served in the army, acting with distinction in the previous war. H'Klo had been decorated after Shi, he seemed to remember.
"What is your status, Warleader?" he asked.
"We will be at Centauri Prime by just after midday tomorrow," he replied. "Our probes are picking up details of their defences as we speak."
"Can you defeat them?"
"Yes," he replied simply. "It will in all likelihood be harder than we had anticipated. I think all available ships have been pulled from other postings to defend their homeworld. We outnumber them, though. I have confidence we will triumph."
"The people are expecting an easy victory," H'Klo warned.
"Then the people are fools!" G'Sten snapped back. "It would have been an easy victory six months ago. But I believe there has been a change in leadership among the Centauri. The positioning of their defences indicates that Marrago has regained influence and power. He is there."
"You are sure?"
"We have fought each other for over ten years, Councillor. I am sure."
"How does that change things?"
"Marrago has a habit of skilful escapes. This time however he has nowhere to escape to. I will defeat him."
"I have every confidence in you, Warleader. And.... for what it is worth, had I been able to, I would have ensured you were able to attack Centauri Prime six months ago. I assure you, Warleader, such bureaucratic delays will not happen again."
"I am glad to hear that," he replied. "But I assure you, Councillor. The war will end tomorrow."
"The entire people of Narn have faith in you, Warleader. H'Mari be with you."
G'Sten nodded, smiling slightly at H'Klo's choice of prophet. H'Mari had been a warrior in his day, several hundred years before G'Quan. Many soldiers had once adopted his worship, but it had fallen out of favour with the Occupation. It was good to see a resurgence in belief.
Or perhaps it was a bad omen.
Either way it spoke of the future, and the future he had always wanted for his people was but a day away.
* * * * * * *
There was something about a pub. Something warm and comforting, a place where someone could walk inside, leave behind all the cares and problems of life, and sit and be at peace, in company or not as the mood took them.
Whoever had written that particular homage had obviously never been inside the Pit Trap, but Dexter Smith, having examined all the other pubs in the area, had decided that it was the best place he had found. For one thing, the door wasn't boarded up and there were no 'Condemned' notices fixed to the wall, which was always a good sign.
He walked inside and was immediately struck by just how dark it was. Empty, too. There were only three other customers there and they were all seated alone. One of them was reading a newspaper from several months ago, while another was huddled shivering next to the heater.
The barman looked up, obviously surprised. "Uh.... my taxes are all paid up," he said. "And I'm a personal friend of Mr. Trace and Mr. Allan, so if you're after any.... trouble, then...."
Smith paused. "Is that the regional variant of 'We don't like strangers round 'ese parts'? I'm just here for a drink."
The barman sighed with relief. "Ah, well then. You're very welcome, sir. I was just.... er.... You can't be too careful in these troubled times."
"Troubled times?" he said, approaching the bar and taking a seat. "I thought things were going well."
"Oh, maybe for those that live up in the better sectors, maybe, but not much changes down here in three-o-one. So, what can I get you, stranger? Oh, where are my manners? Name's Bo."
"Dexter. Um.... what lager do you do? I don't see anything I recognise, but then it has been a while."
"Ah, we do the Pit Bull. A local drink, brewed not far away."
"Really? A bottle of that, then."
"Right you are. Where are you from, then? You don't look like you belong in three-o-one, no offence meant."
Smith took the bottle and sipped it slowly. As Bo had said, you couldn't be too careful, least of all with strange drinks. To his surprise, it wasn't too bad. "Ah, I've been away for the last couple of years. Business of a sort. I recently.... left my old job and decided to come back here."
"You came to three-o-one? That's a pretty unusual choice. Not that I mind, mind." He chuckled mirthlessly. "You know, you look a little familiar. Have I seen you before somewhere? Ah, probably have. Be forgetting my own head next."
"I used to live here, in three-o-one. When I was a child. Tell me, is the Emperor Bibulos still open? It used to be around here somewhere. A Centauri theme pub. The landlord was a really old guy, grey hair."
"The Emperor? You have been away a long while. It was torn down in the Pit Riots of.... of.... ah when was it? The year after Orion fell, the same year my cat died.... Ah, well. You know when it was. The folks here were a little.... unhappy that winter, and a lot of blame went on the aliens. The Emperor was a natural target, I guess, so they tore the place down, pretty much. Security restored order, in the end. They waited a bit, but then we're lucky they got here at all, is my way of looking at it. Fair few people up top like who didn't really care about us here in three-o-one."
Smith fell silent, looking at his drink. He'd never known that. Even when he heard about the Pit Riots, it had never sunk in. He had been serving on the Preacher for a couple of years by that point, before the ship was destroyed at Orion. He'd been stuck in limbo afterwards, like so many Earthforce personnel. He had spent that winter in the barracks at Dome Seven, and news of the Pit Riots had gone straight past him. None of it had connected at all.
"I used to go in there when I was a child," he said. "For the warmth and the company, and to listen to the customers. They told the silliest stories.... I liked all the Centauri decor as well. At the time I thought it was like visiting another world." He shook his head. "Nothing lasts forever."
"Just what I say," added Bo. "You can't take it with you, so why not make the best of it while you can?" There was the sound of the door opening. Smith didn't notice it; he was still staring into his drink, lost in a world twenty years gone. Bo certainly did, though.
"Nelson, my friend. A pleasure to see you again. Your usual, is it? On the house, of course." Bo disappeared behind the bar.
Smith felt the weight of a hand on his shoulder and turned round. A man was there, tall and well-dressed. Next to Smith himself he was probably the best-dressed person in the whole sector. It was a fairly old-fashioned suit, but it was clearly chosen to accentuate his sense of menace. He didn't need it. He looked quite menacing enough as it was.
"A new customer," he said jovially. "How about that, Bo? Your advertising must have worked. Where did you come from, stranger?"
"Here and there," came the reply. Smith found he really did not like this person.
"A comedian. We could do with some entertainment in here. The most we normally get is throwing small change at Jinxo over here and watching him scramble around trying to pick it up. Bo, are you fermenting that drink yourself?"
"Coming right up, Mr. Nelson sir," came the reply from the back of the bar.
Nelson chuckled. "That's our Bo, all right. A decent enough sort, but he ain't exactly the fastest barman this side of the Proxima Hilton. Now, stranger, your name, if you don't mind?"
"Dexter. And you are?"
Another laugh. "Very funny. You mean you don't know me?" Smith shook his head. "I'm Nelson Drake. I work for Mr. Trace. You'll have heard of him, of course."
"I can't say I have."
Nelson reached out and grabbed the lapel of Smith's shirt, pulling him up from the chair. "Listen to me, you worthless lump of garbage," he hissed. "Trace owns this sector, and if you want to live a long and happy life here, you'll remember that. Cross me or Mr. Trace, and your life will be anything but long and happy." He pushed Smith back into his chair and smoothed his shirt.
"That's free advice I'm giving you. Think of it as an introductory offer." Bo slowly raised his head from behind the bar, and handed over a small glass containing a drink that seemed to be glowing. Nelson took it from him, never lifting his eyes from Smith, and drained it in one go. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he handed the empty glass back to Bo.
"You know," Nelson said, "I'm sure I've seen you before. Any idea why that could be, smart man?"
"Couldn't say."
"No, I guess you couldn't. Well, I'd better be off. Places to go, people to see, you know how it is." He shifted his gaze to the barman. "See you tonight, Bo. Me and Mr. Trace and the others are looking forward to your hospitality, same as always."
He turned and left the pub.
Smith waited until he was gone, and then looked back at Bo. There were times when he just got strange hunches, mysterious ideas he couldn't explain properly. He had one of them now. "Who was that?" he asked.
"Oh.... that's Nelson Drake. He's a.... bodyguard of some sort for Mr. Trace."
"And this Trace is...?"
"A good man. Oh yes, a really fine man. He really cares for us here in three-o-one. He looks after us, makes sure no one's causing any trouble.... you.... you know how it is."
"Protection rackets." Smith sighed. "Why don't Security do anything?"
"Security? Hah.... They don't care about us here. Mr. Trace.... he.... he cares. He looks out for us."
"Based on what I've just seen, I don't think I'd want to be looked after by people like him. I think it's time to take a trip to see someone. Which way is it to the local Security Headquarters?"
* * * * * * *
The Shadow ship stopped dead in space, paralysed and helpless, held there as if by a giant hand from heaven.
"Now!" roared Corwin. "Hit it!"
Forward cannons blazed into life and rammed into the body of the vessel. It trembled slightly.
The other two ships bore down on the Babylon, seeking to free their companion. A Drazi Sunhawk darted forward, striking at the nearest of the ships. The Sunhawk's blows slid off the black, living surface, but the ship turned, momentarily distracted.
Brakiri ships moved forward, the telepaths on board straining to hold back the Shadows. The remaining ship bearing down on the Babylon stopped, struggling to move forward. The other ship turned and fired, and the Brakiri ship died in a silent explosion.
The forward cannons on the Babylon stopped their assault on the trapped vessel. It collapsed and disintegrated before their eyes, dead.
The Babylon turned and moved to protect its allies.
* * * * * * *
Valen had walked into darkness many times. Kozorr knew most of the tales about Valen, but the one he kept thinking of was the descent into the pit at Z'ha'dum, to rescue Derannimer and confront the traitor, Parlonn.
Had he known fear as he walked alone into the darkness? He must have done. Above him there was fire and bloodshed, as the Vorlons and the Minbari fleet led by Marrain attacked the Shadows' homeworld. It had been one of the last battles of the Shadow War.
Kozorr didn't like to think about how it had ended. Derannimer had been saved, Parlonn defeated, but the cost.... had been so high.
He had not spent much time in Cathedral. The place.... unnerved him in some way. He had been content to lead from the Valentha, or from the other capital ships. Cathedral had always seemed a dark place, more like a stronghold of the Enemy than a focus of leadership for the Minbari. Sinoval was happy there, but then he had been bewitched by the Shagh Toth.
Kozorr had not actually seen many of them in his journey down into the bowels of Cathedral. Those he had seen had been further up, in the towers and turrets and vast, measureless halls. He supposed the engines must be down here somewhere, but something else would be here as well.
The corridor was getting smaller and narrower. He was having to duck to get through it, but he was certain this was the way. There were lights embedded in the walls, so he could see. Small globes. He thought he could hear soft whispers of conversation from them.
Finally the corridor ended at a door. It was vast, much larger than the corridor had been. Puzzled, he turned round, and saw an impossibly wide and tall hall stretching back into darkness. He had just come down there.... it had not been so huge before.
Who comes? asked a voice from nowhere. Who seeks answers in the Well of Souls?
The Well of Souls. This was the right place then. According to Sonovar's alien allies, Valen had once come here, a thousand years ago. That story had not been known to Kozorr, or indeed to any Minbari. The Tak'cha claimed to have been there however.
They had also told him what to say to gain admittance.
"I am one who comes in the memory of Valen's bargain, and in acceptance of his sacrifice."
There was a moment's silence, and then in an instant every light around him went out, leaving him in utter darkness. He did not show any surprise or fear, although he felt both. He was a Minbari warrior, after all. Valen had come to his place and gained entry. He would do no less.
You may enter, Child of Valen, Child of Twilight, Child of Fire. Enter, but leave behind that which is required, in acceptance of his sacrifice.
He knew what that meant. In all honesty he had no intention of leaving anything behind, but the gift that was necessary had been brought with him, just in case. The Tak'cha had advised him that forgetting it would not be a good idea.
The door did not open. There did not seem to be any hinges, or any mechanism for opening. It was simply that one minute it was there, and the next minute it wasn't. Breathing deeply, Kozorr crossed the threshold and stepped into the Well of Souls.
All the breath left his body at his first sight of that ancient place. He could not feel anything, smell anything, hear anything. It was as if all his normal senses had shut down, and new ones had sprung up in their place.
There was one thing he did know, one thing he had learned from the Tak'cha. This was a place where the dead did not rest. It was a place where they lived.
It was a vast chamber, impossibly vast, larger than the Temple of Varenni which housed the Starfire Wheel, larger even it seemed than the library at Yedor, or the Temple of Remembrance at Tuzanor.
It seemed to be made out of stone, but a type he had never seen before. Dotted everywhere in the walls were tiny specks of light. There were millions of them. Each one, he knew, was a captured soul. He also knew that they were speaking somehow, although not by words or sounds or telepathy.... but by.... something else.
He walked forward, lost in a dream. He dared to look up, and found himself staring into space. The stars were above him, but none he recognised. No constellations he knew could be seen, nothing familiar. Were they even stars, or just more souls?
He was snapped back to something resembling reality when he found himself in front of a small shrine. It was a pathetically humble thing, but he knew what it represented, what made it one of the holiest places in Minbari history.
A small altar of stone, marked by two words, and a small white flower, perfectly preserved despite the hundreds of years it had been there. Valen himself had laid it there, speaking the words that were now marked on the shrine. He had come here to this very spot, a thousand years before. The histories did not speak of that moment at all, and of those who knew of it - the Shagh Toth themselves, the Tak'cha - none of them would say why.
He pulled the small flower from his belt. The offering to this place. Struck dumb by the sheer majesty of his surroundings, Kozorr laid the flower on the altar, next to Valen's.
The offering has been made, said the voice. Seek your wisdom.
"Who are you?" he asked, tentatively.
We are Cathedral. We are the Hunters, the Preservers, the Past and the Future. We are Cathedral.
"How long...? How old...?"
Since before time had meaning. When there was but one race born of the galaxy, created in the shifting sands and timeless seas. Since the creation of death itself, we have been here.
"You have always been here?"
Always has no meaning for us.
"What do you know?" he asked, another idea suddenly coming to him. "Can you answer my questions?" This was not why he had come here, but then he had never believed he would see this place. He had never believed....
We know every answer to every riddle that has ever been asked since the galaxy was born. Every question, save one.
"Will she ever love me?"
There was no answer. The pricks of light seemed to be mocking him with their very presence.
"Answer me. Will she ever love me?"
Leave this place, traitor knight. That question is not for us to answer, or for you to know.
"Damn you. Damn you all!" He drew his pike and extended it, the full memory of why he had come returning to him.
He had come here to destroy this place, to destroy the Well of Souls and every soul trapped within it and this whole ship of fools.
And then Sinoval would be free of their enchantments, and Kats would be free to love him.
And he would be damned.
* * * * * * *
The Centauri were by nature a race inclined to gossip. Rumour and innuendo were meat and drink to the nobles of the Court, and it was a foolish courtier indeed who did not pay attention to whispers and suspicions. Most of them even had their own private networks of 'eyes and ears' to provide them with information.
Accurate information had been very scarce in the months since the massacre in the Court and the ascension of Emperor Mollari. It was known that he had been in rebellion against his Government for many months beforehand, had been wanted - falsely, as it was now believed - for the assassination of Emperor Refa, and had been believed dead for over a year before that.
It was known that he had a small group of trusted advisors and councillors. Foremost amongst these was Lord-General Marrago, which was no surprise to anyone who remembered that the two had been good friends many years before. Minister Durano was also a trusted aide, as his skill, intellect and - most valuable of all - discretion were well known. He was too valuable an ally for anyone to ignore. Minister Virini was understood to be respected by the Emperor, in spite of his reputation for clumsiness and general uselessness. Vir Cotto was frequently seen in negotiations with the Emperor, as were certain lower class individuals from Selini.
After that, matters became a little vague. Some believed that the Emperor took counsel not only from his near-invisible Minbari bodyguard, but from his wife Timov as well. This was patently absurd, as no Emperor would ever give a woman such a position of authority, but the rumours persisted.
About one person however, all the rumours were silent. Despite his very public assistance in saving the Emperor from an assassination attempt, and his frequent presence at Court, Mr. Morden had managed to pass virtually unnoticed by the cream of Centauri society. Everyone seemed just to.... forget he was there, and if reminded they replied with something like, "Oh yes, that human fellow," and then absently changed the subject.
The true extent of the influence wielded by Mr. Morden was known to absolutely no one.
"Have you had a chance to consider my offer, Majesty?" he asked.
Londo looked harassed and tired. Unsurprising, as he had hardly slept in days. The Narns were coming. They could be driven off and Centauri Prime saved, but at a truly terrible cost. More bloodshed, more death, and could it be avoided?
Had there been another way? Could he have acted sooner, done a little more? Done anything that could have averted this battle?
"Mr. Morden," he said slowly. "I have spoken with my advisors. Some argue to accept your offer, some to refuse, others to wait. Their arguments are all valid. We cannot go to races on bended knees, binding ourselves to agreements that may cripple us later. We should be wary of accepting offers from races we hardly know. Can we trust you? Do we even need your help?
"I have heard them all, Mr. Morden, and there was not one word spoken in that chamber that I disagreed with."
Morden began to speak, but Londo raised his hand and the human fell silent.
"But today, I wandered around the barracks of the soldiers who will be defending this world from the Narns. I spoke with the captains of the ships in orbit above us now. I even visited some of their families.
"Mr. Morden, if your allies can help save the lives of my people, then yes, I accept your offer."
Londo noticed the slightly guilty look on the human's face.
"I'm very glad to hear that, Majesty, but I'm afraid matters are a little more complicated than I had first believed. You know, of course of the race called the Shadows?" Londo nodded, a puzzled expression spreading across his face. "The Vorlons have opposed the Shadows for centuries, trying to destroy their evil. Somehow, the Shadows have influenced people here.... these Shadow Criers are touched by the Darkness."
"Yes, we had guessed this. Some sort of psychic influence, we supposed."
"Indeed. Your people are highly susceptible to certain telepathic impressions. Your Seeresses for example.... but I am digressing. I have discovered recently that their influence reaches higher than we had thought. Someone in this Court has been communicating with Z'ha'dum."
"What? Are you accusing...?"
"I am merely saying what we know to be true," he interrupted. "My associates are reluctant to come to the aid of people who may be working with the Enemy. You can.... understand their doubts, of course."
"Of course, but.... Mr. Morden, are you telling me the Vorlons will not come to our aid when the Narns attack?"
"I am afraid my associates will only aid you if you purge this evil from your Government, Majesty. If you can find this.... infiltrator before the Narns arrive, then...."
"We have hours at most, Mr. Morden."
"I am sorry, Majesty. I merely relay my instructions from my associates."
"I will find this.... Shadow agent, Mr. Morden, and I will purge him, as you put it, but for every Centauri life laid down to protect our homeworld I will hold your masters to account. We share the same enemy, and when I find their agent I will take action, but for our sake, not yours.
"Good day, Mr. Morden," he hissed. The Emperor turned and stormed from the room.
The Narn fleets were getting closer.
* * * * * * *
The Sunhawk exploded in one terrifying instant of destruction as its telepath failed, allowing the Shadow ship to fire. Its supporting ships fell back before the onslaught, but the Babylon kept moving forward. On board, Lyta Alexander strained to hold them still.
The Babylon fired broadsides at the nearest ship. The single remaining Brakiri warship concentrated its fire on the same area, and one of the Shadow vessel's spidery limbs was blown away. The ship screamed in pain and loss, and everyone on board the Babylon briefly heard their ship scream too, as if in sympathy for the pain it was meting out.
The second ship swooped down to aid its wounded comrade, but Sunhawks dived in to block it, raining ineffectual blows upon its skin, seeking only to force it backwards, away from its brother ship.
The Babylon and the Brakiri continued their barrage of blows, striking at limbs and body. The trapped ship was screaming as it withered before the attack. It began to spin aimlessly, its limbs severed.
The second ship swatted aside the irritating insects that were the Drazi and tried to free its brother, but it was too late. The wounded ship was torn apart, too badly damaged to survive.
The remaining ship rose briefly above the Babylon. Lyta tried to reach out with her mind to trap it, but she was too drained. It was all she could do to remain standing.
The ship spoke in her mind, and a brilliant light filled her soul. She collapsed unconscious.
The Shadow ship shimmered into hyperspace and disappeared.
"I think we did it," muttered Corwin, looking up from his instruments and turning towards the shivering Lyta.
"Yes," said Delenn softly, cradling her friend's head gently. Lyta's eyes were rolled up into her head, and soft tears of blood were trickling down her face. "Yes, we did it.... but at what cost, Commander Corwin?"
He could not answer. In his mind's eye he could see the destroyed ships and the bodies of the dead, and he just could not answer.
* * * * * * *
The post of Security Chief for Sector 301 in the Main Dome of Proxima 3 was generally regarded as being a career death sentence. The task was impossible, and everyone knew it. The only security officers assigned there were the corrupt, the embarrassing or the terminally inept. Crime was so ingrained into the whole area that trying to fight it was as futile as trying to hold back the sun. It was widely speculated that two-thirds of the force was corrupt.
It was not that the Government in Main Dome hadn't tried. During the early 2240s two of the youngest, keenest and best Security officers were posted as Chiefs of Sector 301 to sort the area out, clean it up and purge corruption in the security forces. One was assassinated three weeks into the post, the other was shot and killed during a routine operation when her PPG inexplicably failed. It was discovered later that the weapons issued to the security forces in 301 were of sub-standard, inferior quality, the better weapons having been sold to the mob bosses by corrupt quartermasters.
Main Dome had been determined to keep on trying, but then the war had come, and suddenly Sector 301 wasn't very important any more. It became much more important after the fall of Orion, when the bulk of the refugees swarming to Proxima from Orion and the rest of the devastated Belt Alliance settled there. A few months after that the area was thick with the starving, the sick and the dying, and any hope of redeeming the sector had evaporated.
The early years of the Clark régime had seen some hope for the renovation of the area, but these had faded once it became clear that the new President had his eye on wider fields than his own back yard.
And so Sector 301 just slid deeper and deeper into corruption and depravity and depression. That suited its current Security Chief just fine. It fitted his mood.
Zack Allan leant back on his chair and tried flicking a small piece of chocolate up into his mouth. He had balanced it on his thumb carefully, lined it up to perfection, had his mouth open as wide as he could.... and he flicked.
The chocolate bounced off his cheek and fell on the floor. He swore angrily, and decided against rummaging around underneath his desk to look for it. There were probably entire ecosystems down there he was not aware of. Possibly even Governments.
And that had been his last piece as well. Damn!
Chocolate was expensive these days on Proxima. Very expensive. Oh, there was some Narn substitute stuff, but that tasted like wet cardboard. Only the very rich could afford proper honest-to-God milk chocolate in these times, and while Zack's official salary didn't come anywhere close, there were a number of very rich people interested in him turning a blind eye to certain activities they were up to in 301. They were also willing to double his wage for the privilege, so he wasn't going to ask any questions.
He yawned, stretched and switched on the vidscreen. The next game in the 2260/61 baseball season was on, the first new season since the war. The teams were all different of course, but it was still proper sport. The Proxima Swashbucklers had a game on against their nearest competitors, the Orion Archers (based somewhere in Beta Durani). Zack had fifty credits riding on the game.
His link beeped and he muttered something angrily. He could have sworn he'd switched the thing off. "Yeah, what is it?" he asked.
"Someone's here to see you, Chief."
That made him sit bolt upright. Nobody came to the office of the Chief of Security in 301 unless they were asking to be beaten up by all their neighbours. "Is it any of the.... uh.... usual suspects?" Careful phrasing was necessary. He was not supposed to know the names of most of the people he.... 'dealt' with, and while it was unusual for any of them to turn up in person to his office, it wasn't unheard of.
"Ah, no, Chief. Just some guy."
"Jack, don't do that to me! Sheesh! Look, the big game's starting any minute now, so tell him to go away and take it up with Central Office."
"He.... he wants to see you personally, Chief. Says his name is Dexter Smith. It rings sort of a bell. He looks a bit familiar, too. Like he should be wearing a uniform or something."
"Dexter Smith. Dexter Smith.... I've heard that name before. Um...." His eyes widened. "Captain Dexter Smith? The Babylon. The guy who got the Silver Star for Valour last year some time."
"That's the guy! Damn! I knew I'd seen him somewhere before. Hey, my daughter's got a picture of him up on her wall. Wonder if I can get his autograph for her?"
"Leave that for later, Jack. You'd better send him in. I know Captain Smith. We're old, old friends, we are."
"Right you are, Chief. Yeesh, she's going to be so excited when I tell her who I saw. She might even start respecting me a little...."
"In your dreams, Jack."
The conversation ended, and a moment later, a figure came through the door. It took a moment for Zack to recognise this person as the Captain Smith he had known two years ago. The loss of a uniform did do a lot.
"Well, Captain," he said smiling, leaning back in his chair. "How are you these days? Bit of a come-down in the world, isn't it? Rubbing shoulders with the President one minute, the next slumming it down in the Pit. Well, easy come, easy go, right?"
Smith's eyes narrowed. "Ah. Zack Allan. I didn't know you were Security Chief here."
"Well, it didn't match up to my former standard of Security Chief on humanity's flagship, but you've got to take what you can get. My CV was pretty impressive, but the new boss wasn't too impressed."
"That is an old argument, Mr. Allan. I gave you my reasons when I took over the Babylon. May I sit down?"
"Yeah, sure. Watch out though, I think there's some left-over pizza on that chair there." Smith looked at it, frowned, and then decided to remain standing. "So, Mr. Smith, what brings you to my little corner of the universe? You haven't come to get me fired from another job, have you? Oh, wait.... I forgot. You can't. You're not in Earthforce any more."
"I was honourably discharged."
"Oh, go tell that to mummy!"
Smith leant forward and slammed his hands down on the edge of the desk. It shook, and several papers precariously suspended there fell off. Zack looked at them and shrugged. They couldn't have been important. "Mr. Allan, I had you removed from your post as Chief Security Officer on the Babylon when I took over because I didn't think you were right for the job. Not only did you betray my predecessor, but there were gross lapses in your performance and duties. What I see now only confirms that I was right."
"Yeah, well, I'd hate to cut this fascinating conversation short, but I'm afraid the game's about to start, so...."
"What do you know about a Mr. Trace?"
Zack started, and then coughed falsely, trying to cover his tracks. Had Smith noticed his surprise? Probably. Damn the man. "He's a.... local businessman. An entrepreneur. Just the type Sector Three-o-one needs to improve the local economy."
"Ah. How much is he paying you, Mr. Allan?"
"I really hope you aren't accusing a Security Officer of this fair world of ours of taking bribes. I believe that's slander, defamation of a public figure with a view to harm planetary security.... I could have you arrested for that."
"That won't be necessary, Mr. Allan. I'll be leaving now."
"Good." He flicked his gaze to the vidscreen. "Aw, great. I missed the first plays."
"Mr. Allan." Zack did not turn around. "I never liked you, or your methods, but I never wanted you to fall this far. If I were you, I'd take a look in the mirror and start to question where your choices have brought you."
"Yeah, yeah."
Smith left.
Once he was sure Smith had gone, Zack reluctantly tore himself away from the game and went to his commscreen. He sent through a signal and was pleased when it was received almost instantly. "Yeah?" said the face on the screen. "There a problem, Allan?"
"There might be, Mr. Trace. I just got a visit from someone poking his nose into your business. Thought you ought to know."
"Indeed I do. Who was it?"
"You've probably heard of him. Dexter Smith, used to be captain of the Babylon."
"Him again? Yeah, I've heard of him. Thanks for the warning, Allan. By the way, if you're watching the game, my money's on the Swashbucklers."
Zack smiled. "You know, that's exactly what I was thinking."
* * * * * * *
Sinoval had a headache. He couldn't explain it and he certainly didn't like it, but he knew somehow that something was wrong, and his headache was a symptom of that.
He had not been feeling well since Kozorr had returned. Truthfully, he had not been well since Kozorr had 'died'. Kats had hardly spoken to him in all that time. She had been working herself almost to exhaustion, her guilt driving her to the abyss, and perhaps beyond.
And now Kozorr had returned from the dead, with a story of capture and escape. It was not implausible. Sonovar had not been the type to take risks with his prisoners before, but then he had never been the type to attack his own people before either.
Kozorr had been the first to swear fealty to Sinoval, the first to accept his rule and the changes that would come with it.
So why did Sinoval feel so strongly that something was wrong?
He had left his own quarters on Cathedral; dark, gloomy, majestic surroundings that they were, and was momentarily surprised by just how much he had got used to them. When had Cathedral started to become home? None of his people could stomach being on the place longer than absolutely necessary, but he had adapted to it easily.
He had wandered through corridors and rooms abstractly for some time, until he found himself at the pinnacle, the control centre of the ship. As he climbed up the many steps to the summit, he noticed his headache getting worse. By the time he reached the top and looked out at the vast spread of space below and above and all around him, his skull felt as though it was about to crack open.
"What is happening?" he asked slowly, knowing there was no one around to answer.
"A terrible thing," came a reply. He turned to see the Primarch Majestus et Conclavus take the final step to the pinnacle. The summit of the tower seemed to widen with the arrival of the newcomer. Before it had been large enough only for Sinoval, but it could now fit both of them comfortably. Sinoval had a feeling it could accommodate an army if it had to.
"The Well of Souls has been violated," the Primarch said.
"What is this.... Well of Souls?"
"The source of Cathedral's power, the source of our power, and our purpose. We have guarded it since time immemorial."
"You seem very.... calm, if someone has infiltrated it."
"I am. The Well will not permit itself to be damaged in any way. But I am still Primarch, and the Well is a part of me, just as I am a part of it. And you are also a part of it."
"Me?"
"All who dwell in Cathedral belong to the Well."
"So what's happening to it? Someone has.... tried to damage the Well of Souls. Who would do.... oh, Valen, no."
"It is of no account. The Well will deal with the intruder in its own fashion. You will merely feel a little ill until it is done. Some have tried to harm the Well before, and none has succeeded."
"You don't understand. How do I get to the Well? Where is it?"
"At the heart of Cathedral. To a large extent Cathedral was built around it."
"I must get there. Now!" He made for the steps, but the Primarch placed a hand on his shoulder.
"There is an easier way." He pointed to the depths of space all around them. "Jump from the pinnacle. Wish yourself there.... and you will be. The pinnacle is.... everywhere, after all. And everything."
"I.... jump?"
The Primarch nodded.
Sinoval drew Stormbringer, his dark blade, and rushed forward, throwing himself into space. Darkness swallowed him, and he was lost from view.
* * * * * * *
There was no victory procession as the Babylon and the few surviving Drazi and Brakiri ships returned to Kazomi 7. There was no parade through the streets, no crowds waving banners and singing praises.
There was just the solemn acceptance that a war was under way, a terrible war that would have awful consequences for all of them. The Alliance had been born from the horrors of war, and more than any other power in the galaxy, it did not want to have to relive them.
The wounded were taken to hospital, the dead to the morgues. Delenn went to see her beloved, and Lyta Alexander.... she went to rest alone in her quarters. As soon as she arrived there however, she discovered she was not alone.
You were not permitted to go, shouted the Vorlon's voice in her mind. Ulkesh moved slowly into view.
"I had to," Lyta whispered. "They're my friends, and they asked for my help. I had to help them."
<You will obey us in all things.>
She turned on the Vorlon, her eyes flashing angrily. "Why didn't you tell me?" she asked. "There was.... a moment in the battle when the.... the Shadow ship.... tried to talk to me. There's someone alive in there, in all of them! A human!"
<It was not for you to know.>
"Then you did know! Why didn't you tell me?"
<You will obey us in all things. You will know that which we permit you to know. You will not defy us. You may rest now.>
"I'm not your property, or your servant!"
Ulkesh's eye stalk flared angrily. She was thrown backwards, her body striking the wall hard. <You are both.>
Then he left.
* * * * * * *
Warleader G'Sten of the triumphant Narn Régime and Lord-General Marrago of the glorious Centauri Republic had known of each other for many years. They had only met in person twice; once where G'Sten had been cornered at the battle of Dros, and again when Marrago had been captured when the base in Quadrant 37 had been retaken.
Each of them had closely followed the career and fortunes of the other however, taking a great interest in where his rival was, what he was doing, how he was progressing. This was true even in the years of peacetime.
There was a sort of mutual respect between the two soldiers and leaders of soldiers, a respect that neither held for the majority of those commanding them. Sometimes, your closest companion can be your worst enemy.
As the jump points filled the skies above Centauri Prime and the Narn fleets came into view, each of them was aware that this would be the final time they would meet in battle. G'Sten aboard his Pride of the Kha'Ri, Marrago on the Valerius. Each of them looked up and smiled once, in memories of old battles fought and won and lost.
G'Sten gave the order, and the Narn fleet moved forward. Marrago sat back, sure that his defences would hold.
All around them space shimmered and twisted, and the mind of every being on every ship was filled with screams.
The Shadows had arrived.
* * * * * * *
Delenn sat alone by the shrine, looking up at it and sighing softly. Her wish, her one wish now, was that John could have seen it built and completed. He would have appreciated it.
He never would, now.
Immediately after her return from the battle - the victory, she had to keep reminding herself - she had gone to see him. She had taken the familiar walk down the hospital corridors, past all the turnings and doors she had seen countless times on this journey in the past few months.
This time was different. John's bed had been empty. All the machines had been switched off. The chair where she had slept so often had been removed.
Her heart pounding, she had run in search of a doctor, of anyone she could find. She received the answers from the physician who had been treating John all along.
"I'm sorry, Delenn," the doctor had said. "We'd been monitoring his condition closely, but his heart suddenly failed. It had nothing to do with the infection.... We think it might be a hereditary blood-related condition exacerbated by the recent.... trauma. We managed to re-start his heart, but he slipped into a coma. We had to move him into quarantine, and he's now on full life support. I'm sorry, Delenn.... but he's not going to wake up."
"There.... there must be hope," she had protested.
"We can pray for a miracle.... but short of that.... nothing. I'm so sorry."
Delenn had gone to see him anyway, against the doctor's advice. It hurt so much to look at him from behind layers and layers of glass and plastics, look at him lying still, his body kept alive only by machines, his soul trapped forever in an unmoving prison of flesh and bone.
His soul.... She thought of Sinoval and his Soul Hunters. Sinoval had told her of how the Soul Hunters had saved him from death at the Battle of the Line. Perhaps.... No. She shook her head. Better that John's soul should go on, to be reborn again, and live again, and love again. Better that than to be trapped forever.
She was suddenly aware of a shadow cast over her, and over the forecourt of the monument. She looked up, and heard the sound of music in her mind. The Vorlon was there, Ambassador Ulkesh Naranek. This was the first time she had seen him since his arrival. He had refused all invitations to attend the Council meetings.
She did not know why - nor why he was here, by the shrine he seemed to abhor.
<He is dying.>
Not a question. A simple statement. Ulkesh knew that.
"Yes," she whispered. "He has been dying for months."
<We can save him.>
"What?" She leapt to her feet. "You can help him?"
<Yes. We can cure wounds to body and spirit. He will walk again. He will move again. He will be purged of his infection. He will live again.>
"Oh, Valen," she breathed. "Then do it, please! Heal him!"
<There is a price.>
She gasped, and staggered back. "What price?" she breathed.
<You. Leave here. Leave this place. Do not return. Go.>
"What?" She could not believe it. How could...? "Why? I have always followed you. I was Dukhat's heir. I let one of you share my soul. I.... Why? Why must I go?"
<There will be no answers. You must leave this place and go to the Darkness at the edge of the galaxy.>
That she understood, and a cold darkness washed over her. She straightened. "You want me to go to Z'ha'dum?"
<Yes.>
"Why? What must I do there?"
<Die.>